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Karak Norn Clansman

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  1. Wall Relief Plates of Ancient Times Released

    Wall Relief Plates of Ancient Times: Four Reliefs and Triumph & Thralldom (sold separately) Four Reliefs Triumph & Thralldom These two different terrain decorations are out now! Order your wall reliefs here. Also on Warseer. Triumph & Thralldom, and Four Reliefs respectively, are two separate 28mm resin kits of 1 plate with wall reliefs. Both variants are upon release priced at £8 / €9 + plus postage, with bunch savings in place. Picture of miniatures (painted by me, Carcearion and Fuggit Khan respectively) are included for size comparison purposes only. The fine resin casting, by Zealot Miniatures, carries detail well, but the thinness of the plates made it necessary to drill holes through undetailed areas for mould support. These holes are easily filled in with modelling putty. It should be noted that these wall relief plates were very much sculpted with a ruler, but being an amateur I have not achieved perfectly straight lines. Customers might want to file and scrape away at the edges to make the plates fit whatever purposes they have in mind. Once cleaned, just glue these wall plates on to some block and adorn your terrain pieces! Size comparison: Four Reliefs Triumph & Thralldom Four Reliefs + Triumph & Thralldom (sold separately) __________________________________ Hunger gnawed in his gut, and his eyes were dry like desert sand, yet still Hamukk bore a smile on his hollow-cheeked face. He had done it! He had outsmarted the stunted masters with their log-thick arms and coiled beards. He had outran their stumped feet and cruel hands. He had hid, and he had sneaked. He had covered his tracks and kept one step ahead of their vicious lackeys all of the time. The jackals! The dogs! All outwitted. His long plight of labour and hardship was at long last over. Freedom would be his, and slavery but a rotten memory with which to scare his future grandchildren. Praise the gods! Hamukk, son of Bernu and Ishya, of the Human tribe Lakash, ran a calloused hand through his dirty, straight black hair. That hand had only three and a half fingers left. He shivered at the thought, yet smirked triumphantly at the certain knowledge that his captors would never set their brands and blades and tongs to him again. The thrill ran through him, blood rushing in his veins and feeding his hopes. And all thanks to a chance overhearing! That sun-scorched day would stay with him forever. That moment, when he stood chest-deep in the muddy river waters and harvested reeds with a burnt clay sickle, and the priestly acolytes walked past slothfully. Their conversation had for some reason raised his interest from the very start, and he had memorized every word of theirs. They had talked of a labyrinth, a place of darkness through which no man not chosen by the gods or anointed in blood by demons could pass. They had named the location, and it was not far off. Most importantly, they discussed rumours of long maze tunnels leading out to hostile tribal grounds with gates wide open and undefended. Thereupon the short, bulky acolytes had reaffirmed their faith in their foul gods by praising the deities for watching over the labyrinth. A labyrinth! He had trekked through mountain ravines all his life before being caught by the devious blockbeards from the lowlands, and he would take his chances with a mere handmade maze any day. The trick was to not walk in circles, he had decided. Hamukk had then and there determined that this was a sign from his people's gods, and had acted quickly, stealing provisions and torches in the night, running off into the windy wastelands, zigzagging through nigh-on lifeless terrain and walking in a long crescent toward the spot mentioned by the acolytes. It was indeed undefended, except for by some scorpions just inside the entrance. They had nearly been the end of him, but he had glimpsed them in the ruddy light and brought his flaming torch down upon the venomous critters, scaring off the scorpions and clearing the way. Fire truly was a stolen gift from the gods. It gave man power over beast, and man power over darkness. With his torches he had already made it through most of the maze, he was sure. There were costly relief carvings everywhere on the walls, painted in gaudy colours and covered with figures. The relief carvings seldom repeated and thus he had good reason to think that he had not gone in small circles more than thrice. In the light of his flame he could spot the accursed Dwarfs' conception of gods, goddesses, demons and myths. He spotted historical scenes of slavery, warfare and hardship, as well as great works undertaken, sorcery and above all atrocities. There was flaying and maiming and crushing, done by malevolent Dwarfs, usually against Humans and Goblins. They did indeed like to brag about their cruelties, didn't they? But those scenes no longer concerned him. He was no longer part of their malice and torture. His trusty torches would carry him through, like a beacon of the gods. Yet there was only one torch left now, and still there was no end in sight of the maze... The cocky smile vanished. Hamukk swallowed, and moved faster, more rashly than before. He stopped memorizing relief scenes for the sake of speed. The exit must be here somewhere! As the flames burned out their oily fuel, he ripped off his bandages, his headband, his loincloth and even loose hair to feed the fire. He could get other clothes later, but not another life. Steps clattered and echoed through the cool labyrinth, faster and faster. He blowed as much air as he dared into the dying embers, blowing up small flame tongues anew. Hamukk saw less and less of the richly carved stone walls around him, and relied ever more on his hands to guide him along the walls. The darkness was closing in. Damn...! The torch went out with a sputter and sizzle. Hamukk blinked at the coloured lights dancing across his retina. When they were gone, nothing remained. There was not even moonlight reflected in the corridor. Everything went solid black. Teeth clattered as the escaped slave fought a wild panic welling up from within. He began scrambling down corridors, hands shaking on walls to his left and right as he sought guidance. He slid past corners in a stumbling jog, panting and whining. He fell and rose, unseen bruises already aching on all limbs. He had to get out! He ran for it, ran hard, and crashed into a stone wall. The violent impact stole away his breath and senses, for how long he did not know. Hamukk eventually woke up on the smooth floor, or was he perhaps still asleep? It was impossible to tell the difference. His eyes gave the same report whether they were shut or open. Blackness, and nothing more. The man's head was strangely numb yet at the same time beset with sharp pangs of pain. Hamukk suspected that his headlong collision with the wall had damaged his mind. His nose was broken, and he had lost two of his teeth, worn by millstone flakes as they were. He prayed to three gods and seven goddesses, yet heard no response. Was he already in the netherworld? Was this the place of dust and darkness that all men feared to enter? How would the other spirits react to a living man among themselves? Or was he even still alive? Hamukk had no way to tell. For untold hours he sat on his haunches while his head spinned worse and worse. His thoughts turned into a maelstrom of confusion. At last, he reached the bewildered conclusion that demons were stealing away his mind. He rose up and swore heinously at them, uttering such foul words that men would have killed him for the insult. Yes. Demons! It was the demons! The former slave fell silent for a while. Then he whispered: "Reveal yourselves." And in the darkness, the eyes of all the relief figures on the walls lit up, like a nightsky of red embers. Watching him, uncaring. It was as if all the gods had convened to judge his soul, and found him a subject unworthy to even assemble court for. They stared at him. Forever. It was the final straw. Hamukk fell hard to his knees, warm blood trickling across the cold obsidian floor. He clawed at his eyes in madness. And screamed until his lungs burst.
  2. CDO Presents: Scribe's Contest I

    Scribe's Contest X: The True Nature of the Father of Darkness It's a-go! Prize from Admiralty Miniatures is one Four Reliefs wall plate:
  3. Elf Heavy Archers of Ancient Times Released

    Elf Heavy Archers of Ancient Times Painted by Cultofkhaine. ___________________________________________________ These miniatures are now released! Order your archers here. Also on Warseer, T9A, Chaos Dwarfs Online, and Blogspot. These 32mm scale whitemetal miniatures are monopose clones of the same sculpt, mastercast-cloned in resin by Zealot Miniatures then production cast in whitemetal by Griffin Moulds JJP. See price list below for various deals on larger orders. 20mm bases included. Unpainted & unassembled. Note that if you find their size too large for living Elves, then statue duty always exist in terrain and unit fillers. Fancy a marble painting challenge? Scale shot: Possible flaws: Apart from scale, a few scattered air bubbles exist on the lower cloaks of some of the cast miniatures, as do an odd miscast on the inside of the cloak below the tunic, once again on some (not all) of the Elf archers. The air bubbles are simple to fill out or turn into cloak wear and tear, while the cloak miscast is hardly visible due to its hidden location, particularly in a ranked unit, and is possible to carve away or fill out with sculpting putty. These mentioned mouldmaking flaws must be expected to show up on some Elf archers in every order, and will not be treated as product faults requiring replacement or recompensation. Likewise, please do not ask me to pick out flawless miniatures only for your particular order: Also, some few bows might come out a tad bent, down by the hand after casting, storage and/or shipment. This is easily fixed by bending them back in position, and in case of rare cracks or even broken-off bows, the bows were sculpted thick enough to drill into and pin back into place on the hand. There are, in some places, double mould lines resulting from various master moulds and production mould on a few of the Elf archers; this is easily cleaned off with a modelling file or hobby knife. Ranking-up: These cloaked Elves would be difficult to rank up on ordinary slottabases with flat tabs under their feet. Therefore, these miniatures are instead made with a simple tap under their right foot. Simply drill a hole through the base, enlargen with a hobby knife and glue the tap into the hole and the feet onto the base. Note that smooth ranking-up is something of a challenge, which is however easily overcome by some careful testing and planning, as in the picture below: Stringing: The blog Massive Voodoo have a fine tutorial on hand if you wish to string the bows, although thread or fishing line could be used instead of human hair. I always apply super glue to the bowstring and arrows, to keep the string's drawn rigidity and make sculpting details and painting simpler on the arrow. This does thicken the string, however. Arrows are easily made from thin needles, positively given a slim arrow head and steering feathers with green stuff. Tip: Make sure the arrow's length matches that of the quiver's. Note that the Elf heavy archers' bows were sculpted with a detail ring at both ends to aid any bowstrings glued around the bows. Sculpt shot for detail coverage: _____________________________________ In ancient times, the Elven composite bow held sway over vast tracts of land and struck fear and silvern steel into the heart of Orcs and Menfolk. Its reach was long and strong, and the shafts of its arrows marked the end of warbands, armies, cities and tribes alike. It was likened unto lightning, for it was death upon steppe and highlands; plains and mountains; swamps and deserts; forests and seas alike. This ranged weapon was the favourite tool of death for the multitude of Elven tribes, realms and city-states which dominated such vast regions. By composite bow and spear and blade did the dreaded Elves crush any resistance from lesser races underheel within their bloodied spheres of influence, and wherever their cohorts and legions marched, mortals trembled and turned to their gods in fear. In ancient times, death came all too often at the sharp steel end of an Elven arrow, and often the victims had little clue as to why they must die, for the needs and wants, desires and reasons for action of the haughty elder tribes remained locked behind arrogance and veils of mystery. The true secrets of the Elven composite bows' manufacture remained likewise ever locked within Elven minds and appears to have never truly spread unto other races except for in heroic legends. The composite bows of the Elves were fabled not only for their sheer power and rumoured enchantments, for they were known far and wide for their intricate and demanding making, which went to excesses that corresponding Human bowyers would never dare imagine. Whatever magic and munande craftskills went into the creation of these deadly weapons, the results were composite bows and strings able to withstand wet and cold and salt without slacking, which enabled Elven archers to roam in any clime, at any altitude, without their shots weakening. Thus were laid the foundations of carnage without end nor limit. In ancient times, mortals lived violent lives filled with hardships and trials, and the landscapes of the world were awash in blood and feuding. Yet for all the savagery of the nomadic hordes and barbaric settled peoples, few calamities were as feared as the wars of Elven tribes, whether against each other or against lesser races. Raids and invasions alike saw the deaths of Men, Orcs, Goblins and many more races. None were spared this terror. In great numbers did nomads and savages drop dead under the hail of Elven arrows. Great and terrible wars were fought between Elves and Dwarfs, as the strongest civilizations beneath the skies grasped for vengeance, power and territory. Uncounted masses of younger mortals, enslaved or free, were constantly caught up in the maelstrom of conflict, and the bones of the perished ones littered the ground from sea to sea, arrows protruding from skulls and ribcages. For this was an age of empires, and their wars ravaged the world as greatly as their monuments and achievements soared. And in the midst of this swirling chaos, the power of the bow endured for millennia. Elven archery came in many forms whether with worldly or otherworldly arrows, whether magically touched or poisoned or flaming, or merely a rain of silvern arrowheads glinting deadly in the light cast by sun, moon or torches as it fell upon the foe. Elven archery came in the form of ambushes, and it came in the form of assassinations. Likewise Elven archery came in the form of sharpshooters clearing the skies or battlements of besieged walls, and it came in the form of mounted bowmen terrorizing the steppe lands and beyond. Yet most iconic of all the shapes it took in ancient times were the disciplined bowline, with ranks upon ranks of heavily armoured Elven composite archers standing tall in rigid lines born out of endless drills, drawing, nocking and loosing their arrows as if all the hundreds of bowmen were one and the same being. Along with the lockstep advance of Elven phalanxes, they were the very image of order on the battlefield, and their regimented display alone awed foes and unnerved lesser mortals to whom such firmness and exactitude were otherworldly in the midst of carnage. The bewildering manoeuvers and feats of shooting pulled off by such line companies of Elven archers were the stuff of sagas and fear among the feral tribes of many races, and even the tough Dwarfs acknowledged their value as warriors, however grudgingly. These were ages of fire and bloodshed, of primal fear, ruthless greed and titanic ambitions. The hunger for power was fed at the point of blades and arrows, and great deeds of glory and infamy alike lived on in legend long after all characters involved had turned to ash and dust. One of the Elf archer companies which won eternal fame were prince Draecarion's Longbows, who pioneered the next level ranged weapon of Elven armies and reaped bloody and fantastic achievements upon the battlefield, including shooting the black dragon Maeranichas clear from the sky at Ivory Rock; out-shooting the malignant Dwarf handgunners at Hierlan Ford; and massacring the elite human foot soldiers of emperor Mignusian III's Jackal Guard despite their closed ranks of tower shields and fine heavy armour. Some heavy Elven archers who knew renown were mercenaries, like the Teal Cloaks of Jaendrath Bloodeye, the Swan Feathers or the Hundred For Hire of disinherited prince Maelgor, famous for singlehandedly suppressing the legions of defenders upon the great city walls of Toraxaslan with a withering shower of arrows, which allowed swordsmen to climb the walls by ladder, virtually unchallenged during their long and perilous ascent. Other Elven heavy archers of note were uncannily accurate and could shoot into the eyes of quick and nimble small birds in the sky, such as the Goldbow company were known to do, or hunting schools of flying fish across the wavy sea's surface in the manner of the Kraken Patrol of the island city-state of Finalgon. Whatever their feats and glory in war, Elven archery skills by far surpassed those of Dwarfs and Men and Goblins, and the ease with which the Elves handled their silvern bows seemed to deny the inacurracy inherent in such weapons. Massed Elven archery backed by ballistae, sorcery, hunting eagles and javelins were likened unto a symphony of death from afar, yet one need not look to such sophisticated musical pieces to glimpse the capabilities of Elf archers, nor to face the scorn with which they viewed the prey of their arrows: "Out on field of fair Roenalloth, a foul horde roamed in stink and sloth, fed old on bark and young on broth, red lice in hair, kilts torn by moth, out-hollowed cheeks and rabid froth, black pelts of rats sewn into cloth, these filthy Men met Elves in wroth. A princeling son of Mannish chief, came forth an' 'splayed muscles like beef, in gurgled tongue he blamed Elves thief, for stealing his kin's coast and reef, wishing back his tribe's lost fief, and kept with body his speech brief, showed his arse, not worn a leaf, so we shot him there to father's grief. Sent Menfolk Ogre, their hardest hitter, yet Elves stood fast in ranks aglitter, drew strings taut to skylarks' twitter, aim notched sharp while Men askitter, ahooting 'long their foul maids' titter, Ogre roared scum Elf throatslitter, then arrows sang toward fat critter, impaled in rain to death so bitter. Then Elven bows turned upward still, and voice of Men fell mute, lack-will, the Elves drew strings as one by drill, the hearts of Menfolk gripped by chill, thoughts all turned from ale and swill, our arrow's feathers not for quill, their silvern points now blood to spill, archers sensing huntsman's thrill, red banelust thirsting for its fill, as Seaking's greyhawk yelled out shrill, we loosed the arrows for the kill. The mortal Men their death did sign, when arrowproof they thought 'selves fine, for each Elf on field the Men were nine, wished to in tent of Seaking dine, a plan to hang Elf-heads in pine, yet arrows fell, Man-whelps did whine, bravehearts fleeing, losing spine, us Elves stood fast in firing line, slaughtered Menfolk raw like swine, and Mannish blood ran red like wine. Cheers!" - Alguin wine drinking song
  4. A Summary of the Silmarillion in Pictures

    Silmarillion is a great book, though quite biblically ponderous and sadly clinically free from humour. Skilled script writers could make several outstanding movies, or even a TV-series based on its many episodic stories. It's black and white (though the Fëanoreans are more greyscale characters) and all about big cosmic clashes. No funny little stories there, but epic battles and doomsday at the end of two ages, with vast swathes of lands drowned under the sea. Greed reigns supreme and trusts are broken. The Silmarillion is dark, and basically everything goes to hell for the mortals. Anyone reading it will recognize many themes used in Lotr and Hobbit. In short, the Hobbit and the Lotr trilogy are the kinder child's version of Tolkien's fantasy, where good wins the day and saves the world. In Silmarillion, the world is flawed since creation, and though good may win the day, the world certainly isn't much saved... The equivalent of Pelennor's Fields or Aragorn's march to the Black Gates end with a massive slaughter of Elves and their allies, with Orcs overrunning much of Beleriand (westernmost Middle Earth, sunk beneath the waves in 2nd-3rd ages) and several legendary story arcs kicking off amid this world falling apart into the abyss, with despair and darkness drowning out beacon after beacon of hope until only one light remains in the darkness. Tip A: Fëanor (one of two characters who serves as the basis for WHFB's Aenarion) is the best character in the book. Well-developed, flawed in person though masterful in crafts, fiery in temper and the only one to slam his door in Morgoth's face. The one exception to the rule of no humour in the Silmarillion: "Get off my lawn, Dark Lord!" Tip B: The best Tolkien battle scenes are to be found in Fall of Gondolin. Written very early in the 1920s and showing signs of this several times, it is nevertheless splendid and not too surprisingly JRR never prioritized a rewrite update. It's worth reading, though it's not in the Silmarillion, but rather in the Unfinished Tales if one can dig it out among many of the other half-finished stories and early manuscripts found there. Seek it out. The Silmarillion deserves to be filmed, and treated as well as possible (true to the spirit of the stories therein, but polished with some inserted humour where appropriate). Ultimately, the work is Tolkien's unfinished magnus opus, which he worked on from the late first world war (started writing when wounded at a war hospital) right up to the end of his life, polishing and adding to. His son Christopher (who worked together with an acclaimed fantasy author to compil and edited the Silmarillion together following his father's death) will not release the rights for filming. His father did for the Hobbit and Lotr trilogy in 1960s for tax inheritance reasons, which is why we had any Jackson movies at all, yet Christopher (for all his good work) is flawed in his outlook to deny the wider world access to his father's life work outside of the book itself. We'll see what happens in the Tolkien estate upon Christopher Tolkien's passing away, but until then, we can only dream. In the meanwhile, here are some images trawled from across the web compiled in an album, for a look at some fans' visions of the story and first age world (much remains to be added into the album). Also, listen to Blind Guardian's Nightfall in Middle-Earth album for an audio take on the Silmarillion. A few highlights. All the cosmic creator clash stuff is neat on its own and original in places, but the doings of mortals are what makes this the good story that it is: The world is sung forth into existence by godly beings The mightiest of the gods to settle in the world, Melkot Morgoth Bauglir, rages as a chaotic force of nature for untold ages, acquiring followers and shaping the world in his violent struggle with the orderly gods. Morgoth causes untold damage and shatters all the works of his enemies. Morgoth starts out with an icy base up at the north pole, Utumno, where monsters are bred. As the coming of Elves first, then Humans, draw closer, the Valar (gods of order) decides to strike. They lay waste to Utumno and drag Morgoth chained from its depths. A large part of the Elven tribes are led to Valinor (paradise home of the gods) to dwell among the gods. Morgoth broods chained and shackled for millenia, but seems to repent and work for good. He is granted some freedom, and teaches the Elves crafts. In particular, he teaches the strongest Elven tribe, the Noldor to forge weapons. He also sows dissent and plants seeds of mistrust, rivalry, greed, hunger for power and destruction in the seemingly calm paradise. [/URL Fëanor, heir to the craftsfolk Noldor Elves, creates the Silmarils, gemstones of utter power and brilliance, envy of the very gods. Fëanor never trusts Morgoth, yet is ultimately more influenced by the Dark Lord than anyone else. For the first time in peaceful paradise, someone draw sword, and at his own brother (Fingolfin) at that. "Look, half-brother, this blade is sharper than your tongue": As the Elven drama unfolds, Morgoth and Ungoliant (ancestor of Shelob) drains the twin Trees of Valinor, odd wooden predecessors of sun & moon Having killed the Noldor king Finwë, stolen precious magical gemstones and cast Valinor into chaos, Melkor Morgoth and Ungoliant escapes. In safety, Ungoliant demands her share, draining jewels in large numbers. She grows enormously powerful. She demands the last gems which Morgoth hides, the Silmarils, which he refuses her. Ungoliant turns on Morgoth, who gives up a giant roar of anguish and deepest terror (etches itself into the landscape where it took place), and is only saved by his host of Balrogs. He is now safely back in his new stronghold, Angband, marshalling new hosts and breeding monsters and Orcs. Meanwhile back in Valinor, all hell break loose as simmering conflicts unravel among the Noldor nobility. The gods sits in silent council while Fëanor, firstborn of the slain king Finwë, makes his seven sons swear a holy oath to retrieve the stolen Silmarils from the hands of whosoever holds it. Agitation among the Noldor results in an exodus back to Middle Earth. Another Elven tribe, the seafaring Teleri, refuses to lend the Noldor their ships. Bloodshed ensues in the first kinslaying, as the Noldor claim their ships by force. The Noldor gets cursed by the gods to die by the sword, to see all their efforts fail and to never return to Valinor, yet their only hope lies west across the sea. The Noldor split apart due to royal family conflict. Without enough ships to transport all the emigrees across the sea at once, the elder son Fëanor takes his followers across first. Rather than sending the ships back as promised, he burns the ships, forcing his half-brother Fingolfin to either walk back in shame to Valinor, or lead his people across the grinding ice to the north. These Elves press on, embittered. Fëanor leads his armed followers straight to Angband, intent on revenge and Silmarils. However, in his frenzy he charges ahead with only a few friends, leaving his vast army behind him. Seeing his chance, Morgoth sends out all his Balrogs in force to destroy this mighty mortal. It does not happen easily. The feuding Noldor factions barely manages to overcome their differences, settling in separate realms, encountering Wood Elves, Dwarves, Men and more, striking alliances where possible and building great kingdoms. Much happens. Morgoth's fortress of Beleriand is put under lengthy siege by the Noldor Elves for 400 years, who fights several large battles against Orcs. Eventually, however, the treachery of Men and the strength of Melkor results in the wholesale slaughter of the Elven hosts. Before this final damning defeat, however, the warlord Fingolfin challenges Morgoth to a duel in darkest despair, wounding the Dark Lord before dying. The Dwarves of Belegost play their part in the large final battle as well, falling upon the first revealed (wingless) dragon with their weapons and wounding it severely before marching off from the battlefield, singing dire dirges as they carry their slain king with no army present daring to stop their departure: The Dark Lord stands triumphant, erecting a huge hill of the slain and overrunning much of Middle-Earth. Most of the Silmarillion from now on deals with sagas of this slide into hell in a handbasket. Basically, it is a collection of legends on Morgoth's mopping-up of the defeated free peoples, and their last desperate grasping for hope and salvation. A few bits follow. The last Noldor stronghold remaining is the hidden city of Gondolin, who falls thanks to jealous treachery from within its own royal family. The fall of Gondolin is an epic battle, taking many Balrogs down with the doomed city. After much intrigue, the Wood Elf princess Luthien and her human lover Beren (Tolkien calls himself and his wife Beren & Luthien on his own tombstone) tricks Sauron and sneaks into the depths of Angband under a powerful spell. At the court of Morgoth, their cover is blown, but Luthien dances in enchanting sorcerous beauty, and the court falls asleep as Morgoth ponders vilating the fair maiden. They manage to free one Silmaril out of three from Morgoth's crown before Angband starts waking up, and flees in panic. Morgoth, however, bides his time and does not pursue the lost jewel, for he know it will doom the remaining free Elves. As the agreed (impossible) prize for his daughter Luthien's hand, the Wood Elf king Thingol receives the Silmaril, and contracts the most skilled Dwarf craftsmen to fashion a necklace for him. Quarrel ensues, however, and the Dwarves' greed for the invaluable Silmaril is awoken. They march with an army into the Wood Elf Kingdom Doriath, slaying many, killing Thingol and stealing the Silmaril. Beren and some Elven rangers ambushes the returning Dwarves, however, and captures the Silmaril. The release of one of the Silmarils back into the hands of mortals sets off a spiral of destruction. As word reaches the ears of the seven sons of Fëanor, they act upon their dark oath, and marches first into Doriath, sacking the capital and slaying many of the remaining populace, despite much diminished Fëanorean numbers. Following another lead, the Fëanoreans marches to the strong Dwarf city Nogrod, breaching its gates and sacking it as well, yet still no Silmaril has been found. Finally, the clues present themselves. The Fëanoreans descend upon the very last safe haven remaining in Beleriand, crushing the Elven refugees hiding there, yet failing to capture the Silmaril. Elf slays Elf. Dark deeds while Orcish hordes rampage across the fallen kingdoms. A half-Elf named Eärendil seizes the free Silmaril, embarking on a world-spanning odyssey, eventually landing in Valinor despite the cursed charms surrounding the realm of the gods. The Silmaril's powers makes him win through and lift the curse upon the doomed Noldor tribe. There, Eärendil rallies the Valar gods and their remaining Elves, who march to Middle-Earth and casts down Morgoth's titanic power and armies in the ruinous War of Wrath, which makes Beleriand shatter and eventually sink beneath the waves. Morgoth is defeated and cast out into outer space, though his creations and lieutnants remain, hiding and biding their time to rise again. The hunt for the Silmarils is not over, however. The last two surviving sons of Fëanor sneaks into the Valinor army's camp by night, killing guards to steal their Silmarils. However, they are caught. The Valinor generals, despite everything, gives them their precious jewels. The evil deeds committed in the hunt for the Silmarils have however darkened the Fëanoreans' souls completely, causing the pure Silmarils to scorch them. One son, Maglor, throws his gem into the sea to wander the earth singing sorrowful songs about the Elves of lost Beleriand forever. The other, Maedhros the oldest son, casts himself and his Silmaril into a yawning chasm, swallowed by fire. The Elves made a mess of the First Age. It is up to the Human Númenoreans to do likewise in the Second Age, and the cycle begins anew...
  5. Taming of the Wildman of Ancient Times

    Gallery update, with Taming of the Wildman painted by Enjoysrandom:
  6. CDO Presents: Scribe's Contest I

    Scribes Contest IX: Farflung Strongholds - Distance in the Chaos Dwarf Empire is up! Share your vision of the vastness of the Chaos Dwarf empire and get a chance to win some Dungeon Clutter from Zealot Miniatures:
  7. Oldhammer Miniatures by Andrew Taylor

    The below olschool models are all sculpted and sold (or to be sold) by Andrew Taylor, whose Facebook page you can visit here. Contact him there for more details. Orc Heavy War Chariot Funded by Kickstarter, to be released: Zoats Spellcaster: Warrior: Snotling in Mushroom Thicket Chaos Dwarf Asscannon & Crew Chaos Dwarf Petard & Crew Chaos Dwarf Axeman Chaos Dwarf Crossbowman, Standing Chaos Dwarf Crossbowman, Reloading The two middle ones in peak caps, drawing their crossbow strings:
  8. On Dark Tides: Smallscale Evil Dwarf Ships

    Gallery update, painted by Harry Howells:
  9. New Dungeon Clutter from Zealot Miniatures

    Dungeon Oddities - Dungeon Clutter £3.99 at release. You can find some odd things in a long-forgotten dungeon! This set expands the range of trinkets and dungeon clutter, bringing more life to your underground stone lair.
  10. New Dungeon Clutter from Zealot Miniatures

    Zealot Miniatures has released some new dungeon clutter resin kits, the three below of which are sculpted by me: Unusual Goblins Impaling based on this ancient Assyrian relief. Ancient Idols Including primeval idol based on Venus of Willendorf and stele based on the Law Code of Hammurabi one. Wizard's Study Including cat and globe. Land masses are thin and easy to scrape away. More of the same may follow should these kits prove popular.
  11. Taming of the Wildman of Ancient Times

    (As before, once again a depiction of a horrid reality of warfare and enslavement, a fact of life for thousands of years in human societies. Nothing more, nothing less.) Taming of the Wildman of Ancient Times Painted by Enjoysrandom. Painted by Carcearion. These miniatures are out now! Order your sacrificial scene here. Also on Warseer. This kit of 4 miniatures and 4 extras is priced at £13,5 / €17 + plus postage. Bases are not included. The resin casting, by Zealot Miniatures, carries detail well, but is afflicted by the usual mould lines and stray air bubbles found on many resin miniatures. ___________________________________________________________________________________ Among the tribal Dwarfs, black of heart, was told in ancient times the myth of the taming of the Wildman. It is a tale without heroes, and a saga bereft of soothing power, for it is a story of fell deeds and dark fate, a legend all too familiar from real life experience for the numberless hordes of slaves toiling beneath the whips of these malignant Dwarfs. Once upon a time, the city of Zhurninnuk prospered and grew, and its wealth was increased every year by its artisans and traders, and the offerings of its priests grew ever more rich. Its scribes were many, its slaves legions, its farmers and herdsmen almost beyond counting. It was a mighty city, a place of power, where high lorded it over low, and order lorded it over chaos. And thus it was that Zhurninnuk ever grasped for more and more land, more and more water, of everything more and more. Its woodsmen hewed down strong oaks and cedars with axes of bronze. Its peasants dredged marches, built thick banks around the river Harrnuk and tamed the floods for their fields in their irrigation canals. Its hunters felled lion, gazelle and ibis alike, its gatherers plundered the nests of birds, and its fishers caught the life of the waters. Long and strong was the reach of great Zhurninnuk of the three walls and twelve ziggurats, and in strength the city-state conquered the wild and sought to extinguish its flame, just as it waged war against enemy cities and tribes. Yet the wild responded in violence, and caused the mighty Wildman to come forth, and forth he came, naked and horned, strong of limb and covered in fur, walking on two cloven hooves yet possessing hands with which to strangle, tear and destroy. And destroy he did. The Wildman ravaged the livestock and bred bastard races of Satyrs and Minotaurs upon the flocks of the cowherds and goatherds. Soon his offspring roamed the wilds, and they laid waste to many a village, yet none of his children surpassed their raw father in might and deeds. The harrowed shepherds brought complaints to the city of Zhurninnuk, bringing word of a Wildman who deprived them food and slept under the sky, knowing neither father nor gods and breeding in full sight of sun and stars like a lowly beast. In response, the city elders drew from their wisdom a cunning plan, and sent out the Temple Harlot Zhamshet to lure the Wildman into the tamed lands. Lust overtook the rage in the heart of the Wildman upon sighting Zhamshet, for she seduced him and was mounted by him for twelve days and twelve nights, thereby teaching him the ways of men and women. After this, Zhamshet weakened the Wildman with food and drink, and taught him to eat bread and drink beer in the manner of men and women. Exhausted after all his labours, Zhamshet then taught the Wildman to sleep under covered roof and blanket in the manner of men and women. Thus drained of primal strength, the once-ferocious Wildman was taken to the city, where the Temple Harlot promised to marry him in sight of the divine idols, yet the Wildman was met by blades not incense at the temple, his trust in her promises repaid by treachery not truth, by lies not love. At the foot of the ziggurat stairs, the High Priestess and the Stricken Dwarf stood awaiting, the latter struck by the lightning and thunder of the gods for his sins, now serving the temple alone and heeding no other mistress. The High Priestess uttered but one command, and the strong warrior fell upon the Wildman in full armour. Long did they battle, yet in the end hoof and fist and fang and horn proved no match for axe and shield and ironshod boot, and the Wildman was kicked to the ground, bearing scars from his combat. On his knees, the ferocious half-beast was subdued by the Stricken Dwarf, who shackled him and left the Wildman kneeling before the altar, exposed and helpless, with neither friends nor kin to save him. At the sight of her lover's defeat, the Temple Harlot sipped beer through a straw after her exhaustive work, while the Stricken Dwarf taunted the Wildman. Then, the High Priestess drew her sharp knife, numbering the various offenses of the Wildman and recalling his forbidden breeding with the livestock of men and women, and she raised the blade high, about to sacrifice the offending member of the Wildman to the gods...
  12. Animated Dwarf Statue of Ancient Times Released

    This lecture with pictures could possibly be helpful as an inspiration, should anyone dream of making a statue look painted and with metal inlays. Gallery update, showcasing finished Animated Dwarf Statues by various folks: Petterwass Zanko Bloodbeard
  13. Animated Dwarf Statue of Ancient Times Released

    Animated Dwarf Statue of Ancient Times At long last, this miniature is released! Order your statue on Warseer or Chaos Dwarfs Online. Priced at €8,5 plus postage, this whitemetal model is the work of a green amateur sculptor. As such, details are not very sharp and the size of the statue is larger than for a normal dwarf in the 28mm range. Some casts may have a yellow tint. There is a slight mould mismatch on one side of the hat requiring cleaning. I found it simple to fix with a hobby knife: This multi-part kit contains one 25 mm square base, and one miniature of an animated Dwarf statue, allowing you to equip the statue with fire, or having him maim and strangle a lowly Goblin: Scale shot: Now how difficult and fun could a statue be to paint? Is it just drybrush 'n' done? It could be, but it's really as complex as you want to make it! To name but a few possibilities, one could... * paint it plain grey, or strike out for granite, diorite, obsidian, marble, sandstone, jade, crystal... * paint golden details and possibly other areas as metal. * paint glowing eyes to give the statue more life. * go to town with off-source lightning effects for the firebull variant. * give the impression of an old paint-layer flaking off (based on how statues were generally painted in historical antiquity) * paint it as a living Dwarf afflicted by sorcerous fiery cracks. * paint spots of moss growth and stains from bird droppings, as found on most statues. * or do something else entirely! Up in the rocky hills, a tiny creature climbed a steep cliff with his bare hands and feet, and nothing else to aid him. Whirling dust and the heat of the sun dried out Grozlob's throat and pinched his sore eyeballs, yet still the Goblin pressed on. "Scumlock!" he swore as his feet dislodged yet another crumbling sun-dried brick and sent it tumbling down the precipice with resounding thwacks. He kicked out with his feet and somehow found a foothold in the cliff face. If he hadn't, that falling brick could as well have been him. Bricks! Why were there bricks in the cliff face? The whole hill looked like it was made up of packed dirt and layers upon layers of bricks, as though they had amassed on top of one another throughout many centuries. Was the whole hill a ruin? Or had the bricks been piled high in the wilderness by demons stealing away building materials from the mortal folk when they didn't set their charms correctly? Grozlob had been but a lowly slave all his life, knowing neither father nor mother nor tribe. He wasn't blessed with a surname, and he sure as hell wasn't blessed with cleverness. Grozlob didn't care. "Gotcha," he panted as he clambered over the top of the cliff face, rolling onto the flat top of the hill to gather his breath while he stared into the sky. Up there, gods dwelt. The Goblin slave couldn't tell one omen from another, yet he decided that the cloudless sky was a favourable portent. Grozlob got on his feet and started searching amid scattered bones and the brick piles of toppled walls, searching for that thing his master had told him to fetch. Damn it. Where was it...? There! "Hi, buddy!" he cheered at the statue which still stood up amid the rubble. The stone Dwarf didn't answer. It was cracked and weather-beaten. It looked like a priest, with a high hat and curly beard. And with a stone staff in one hand, the staff which Grozlob's master Urzhalik, son of Harrnippur, wanted for himself. It looked expensive. "Care to lend me a hand?" Grozlob said to the statue, and drew his rusty tools. He then started to saw and hammer off the thick hand holding the staff, whistling as he went. It was tough work, but still the Goblin enjoyed it. When else would he have a chance to cut off the hand of a Dwarf master? A hand which had beaten slaves like him countless times. A hand which had held whips and blades. Time for some payback. Grozlob attacked the granite hand with renewed vigour. He hadn't done more than chip it in all this time, but it was fine. He could stand out here all day, away from his cruel owner. He had even found a rat to eat. Life couldn't be much better. The Goblin lifted his tunic and relieved himself on the Dwarf after a couple of hours' labour. He grinned and aimed for the beard. Served 'em right, the fat swines! At least here was a blockbeard who couldn't defend himself... The statue creaked as a thick stone hand gripped Grozlob by his right arm and ripped it from his feeble body in one brutal motion. What the hell! Pain flared up in the Goblin's head. Blood gushed from the severed limb. He screamed and fell to the ground. The stone dwarf proceeded to bow down and break the slave's left foot with a crunching sound. The pain! The unbearable pain! Grozlob howled, and could do nothing when the statue twisted his foot and tore it from the leg with unbelievable strength. "Aaah! Nyeeh... Gods!" screamed the Goblin. His mind was on feverish fire and throbbed all over with acute pain. He was bleeding dry fast. He could feel his lifeblood flowing away into the sand. No... The stone fist seized Grozlob by his scrawny throat and lifted him up into the air. The slave's remaining foot pumped without finding ground. He beat the thick stone arm weakly with his only hand. It didn't help at all. It was like punching granite. "I will break your bones and curse your soul," said a gravelly voice. The statue's voice, Grozlob realized through the agony. He stared into the glowing eyes of a stone demon. "I will throttle you dead and bar the gate into the afterlife. I will tear your corpse asunder and cast the pieces into the river, and even vultures will spurn you." There was no mercy in those eyes. The fist of stone squeezed harder, and Grozlob shook. The Goblin slave tried to protest, tried to writhe out of the stranglehold, tried to scream. To no avail. He couldn't breathe... He couldn't breathe! He couldn't brea- Darkness seized him. And the statue fulfilled its promise.
  14. New Asscannon out now!

    An English sculptor has recently released a brand new take on the old asscannon, that unreleased monster of yore going for silly sums on Ebay. True to the original, with some advantages over it such as bulging veins, rear leg manacles and other details. Check it out here!
  15. CDO Presents: Golden Hat XXIV painting contest!

    Chaos Dwarfs Online is launching its 24th Golden Hat painting competition: Open theme! As long as it's Chaos Dwarf or Hobgoblin-related, painted, and miniature or terrain, anything goes. Prize will be one squadron of evil Dwarf escort vessels: http://i999.photobucket.com/albums/af111/Master_Admiral/WHFB/Commercial%20pictures/Evil%20Dwarf%20Navy/Casts%2001_zpsihqlxwye.jpg Want to join the fun? Come 'n' do it!
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