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My entry is an abandoned farm house, fallen into disrepair. This entry was created with recycled card stock (from cereal boxes), recycled index cards, PVA glue, and acrylic paint. The roof shingles were textured with baking soda. Each "plank" was placed and glued individually, in order to create the impression of weathered wood that had been left exposed for many years and warped by the elements. I left spaces in between some of the planks to further emphasize the general state of disrepair of the house, and cut others to inconsistent lengths to show how rotten boards had been replaced over time by the family that used to live in the house.

Fluff:
"I was driving down this back country road one afternoon when I spied a structure in the distance. It was an old, abandoned farmhouse. As I drew closer, I could see that it had not been lived in for many years. Indeed, it looked to have been abandoned decades ago, perhaps during the great Dust Bowl in the 1930's. The structure was in terrible disrepair; all paint had been stripped from the warped wooden planks, the roof was collapsing, and every window was dark. There was no door on the front entrance, which was both surprising and unnerving; had it been ripped off by vandals, or a tornado? As I drove past the sad structure, my heart felt sorrow for the land, abandoned by the family that used to live here. Had their crops failed? Had the bank foreclosed? Had some other tragedy occurred here, and the family, in their sorrow, moved away? Only the house knew, but it stood alone in the field, a mute testimony to what once was."

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The only source of safe water for the village, the well is well tended and maintained. Every day the villagers draw water from this source and every day they take turns tending to the grounds around it and the general repair of the well. They believe that with their devotion to the well, that the gods give their blessings and ensure that there is a steady supply of water even in the driest of times.

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My entry is a bridge over a swamp. I'm slowly working on a swamp board so I decided what I really needed was a swampy piece with lots of nice bushy bits and then the idea for the bridge came up. I used sprue, incised with an xacto knife to make the "wood grain", to make the planks of the bridge. The posts are balsa wood cut to length and painted to look more like logs. The water effect is one I've been trying to perfect as I live in Georgia, where there are a lot of swamps with quite interesting algae growing in them. This was the inspiration for the water.

The minis are a small resin frog, resin water lilies, a rat from the plague monks set and the mushrooms are wooden buttons (from a crafting store). The birch tree I should note, however, is bought. All the other bushes etc are made by me (from the usual terrain stuffs, lichen, moss, flocks).
As for "fluff" I don't really know how to add that here, for this bit of terrain. I just get a giggle at the idea of armies reforming to go over the bridge, especially my clanrats, when they could just walk around it So I guess it'd be a stereotypical Skaven trap...

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You will see that the rock is wood and what looks like wood is plastic.

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Hailing from the Hades system, the Hadian 501st have a pragmatic outlook and are not known for extravagant worship. Even to the Emperor they keep their prayers simple and direct, the only exception is a single shrine.

In the early days of the Macharian Conquests the 501st was assigned to take a small, unnamed moon from an Ork tribe, soon after landing however it became clear that the Ork presence had been underestimated. Within hours the situation was hopeless and an evacuation began even as the Orks began to overrun the Hadian's perimeter when Colour Sergent Xavier Rytoff took his stand. Though he fell to the tide, his sacrifice bought enough time for the regiment time to escape. In the end the moon was purged with a through virus bombing but the sacrifice of Sergent Rytoff resonated with both his comrades and the population of the Hadian system, sparking a small crusade on the periphery of the Macharian Conquests and leading to his elevation to sainthood.

To this day the 501st guards the recovered relics of Rytoff's service wherever the regiment does battle, for they are a symbol of the highest service a mere human can offer his Emperor.

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All Along the Watchtower...
"For the record Jimi Hendrix's version of the song was much better than Bob Dylan's, even though Dylan wrote the song." Quoted for the truth... my son sad that bob dylan sounded in a video i watched like spongebob....

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It is the second night of the eighth moon, and Star-Blood stands before the last warherd. The rest have fallen, broken and beaten, on every moon past. Their whelps bear our banners, and fight in our horde. Their warriors fill our bellies, each herd a feast for our gor. We surround them with our banners held high and our war calls filling the night. Our numbers are beyond count: a field of axes, horns, and banners. The yellow glint of our eyes are everywhere in the night: a thousand thousand nightmares waiting for the feast. Half-Horn and Red-Maw lead the warcries with braying shouts and wild swings of their axes. They stir us to blood-hunger, but we are not to descend yet. We wait.

The prey warherd's chieftain stands defiantly by their fire: a wizened old beastlord with too much gray on his snout to cow before any other herd. He is a giant among gor, and has kept his warherd strong with the strength of his horns and the might of his axe. They alone stand apart from our horde, and Star-Blood will not lead us against the hornless men before he has tamed all the gor of the eastern plains.

Star-Blood appears at the edge of the camp, surrounded by his bestigor and the droning of warhorns. He is no towering beast, nor does he drag a greataxe behind him. His yellow eyes are steady, hungry, with a predator's blood-hunger just below. He does not clad himself in thick armor, but wraps his form in the hide of a broken beast from the north. His right arm lies bare, the fur waving in the night's air, and all can see what he brings to this challenge.

In his hand lies God-Fang. Its short, bladed edge gleams in the light. The sacred metal of its length lies unblemished despite its host of kills. Its teeth thirst for the blood of those who dare its bearer. Star-Blood raises it to the dark skies, and brays his legend for all to hear. It is a roar of triumph, rage, and blood. It is a roar that challenges the world itself to stop him.

The chieftain leaps, his axe raised high, and all the warcries are silenced. The old bull has strength in him still, and his charge carries the strength of a mad giant.

God-Fang sings through the air, and the last warherd becomes ours.

* * * *

It is the third night of the fourth moon, and Star-Blood stands before the bestigor herd. The warhorde is not yet large, and we dare not roam onto the eastern plains without more strength. The bestigor's axes are heavy, and their warcries are mighty, but they will not follow a young beastlord without a challenge. We have come tonight to give them challenge.

God-Fang lies in Star-Blood's hand, without blemish or mark to honor the fight. A length of horn, battered by many moons of war and challenges, sinks slowly into the mud beside him. It has been split as if by a shaman's wrath, and the echo of that crack still echoes through the glade.

The bestigor gouge-horn before him slowly falls to his knees, blinking away the shock and horror of his own horn cut from his head. His name is Fire-Spitter, but we will not call him that after this day. He kneels, pressing his snout deep into the mud at Star-Blood's feet, and swears a new blood-name: Half-Horn. His bestigor shout, not in rage, but in awe. Their cries echo the worship-chants of the shamans as they gaze upon the cold blade of God-Fang.

We are ready to step from the woods.

* * * *

It is the fifth night of the second moon, and Star-Blood is but a nameless gor in Stone-Eater's warherd. Stone-Eater tasted defeat at the hands of hornless men that dawn, and there will be challengers tonight. The bestigor have left the warherd, and none now protect the beastlord save his own hands.

The warm rains tear through our herd, but we stand, each waiting with hunger as Stone-Eater breaks one gor after another. Six challengers lie bloodied and dead on the earth, their blood-names fading into the mud in shame. The herd is restless, but cowed by Stone-Eater's strength. The challengers will be eaten, and none will dare strike until Stone-Eater fails again.

Star-Blood steps forward, with God-Fang clutched tight in his hand. He brays his chosen blood-name to us, and we laugh. We laugh because we do not know God-Fang. Stone-Eater laughs because he sees a whelp with a knife, nothing more.

Stone-Eater's armor was torn from a hornless man on a horse, and tied with leather and rope to fit the gor's brawn. It shone bright once, but no longer, and the strange cup carved into it has long been scratched away. The armor has turned away tooth and horn, fang and claw, and none tonight have broken it.

God-Fang tears it in two without stop, and spills Stone-Eater's steaming blood to the ground. There is no more laughter.

Star-Blood names us his warhorde, and says we will rise until we have buried the hornless men under a world-shake of horns and axes.

We believe him.

* * * *

It is the first night of the first moon, and God-Fang lies in the hand of another: a towering beast of a man, clad in midnight and blood. He stands on the edge of a broken city in the sky, drifting above our meaningless world. His fingers, drenched in red rivers, grip God-Fang's hilt and hold it aloft. His bone-white mask reveals no fear, only defiance.

His challengers come: giants clad in grey stone, with great blades and masks of their own. They clash, but there is no sound. God-Fang glitters in the starlight, cast away from the broken sky-city, and begins to fall.

Far below, a young whelp stands with his eyes to the dark skies. He has no herd, and no blood-name. Not yet.

God-Fang smokes with the fury of the skies as it lands at his feet, and Star-Blood is born.