Ok, so it's been a while and I haven't posted any updates. You know how it is: Life, work etc etc. So what have I been up to? Well, shortly after swearing off any new hobby projects and committing to painting the models I already own, I went totally nuts and started putting together a 1000 point Night Lords Legion army for the Horus Heresy. Building and painting has begun in earnest and I'm thrilled with how the VIIIth legion are turning out so far.
I've also begun a small build-and-paint escalation campaign against Berserkerbro's Salamanders. Here's a little mid-battle photo of my Sergeant getting mown down by a bunch of scouts.
 |
| Sergeant Bathinko's last moments.... |
Here's a very short piece of fiction I wrote to accompany the photo and commemorate his defeat.
Sergeant Bathinko screamed as he bore down on the crouching
scout. The vox caster built into his ornate helm amplified his screams into an
inhuman roar. The Salamander reacted instantly, turning on the spot and
unleashing hail of mass-reactive bolts. Most of the shots went wide, the few
that struck home detonated harmlessly against Bathinko’s armour. As the scout
drew his combat blade, Bathinko raised his chainglaive, the teeth of the brutal
weapon whining as they cut empty air. His first stroke was a massive downward
cut with both hands that would have cut an Astartes warrior clean in half had
it struck home. The scout had anticipated his move however and stepped inside
his guard jabbing viciously at the exposed cabling of Bathinko’s midriff with
his blade. Bathinko’s retinal display lit up as his armour sustained damage to
its power feeds and with another scream he swung the haft of his chainglaive
outwards, knocking his opponent into the dirt. The Salamander reacted
instantly, rolling to his knees and firing his bolter one handed. The single
shot smashed into Bathinko’s faceplate scrambling his vision and severing one
of the crests from his helm. Blinded and enraged, Bathinko swung the
chainglaive downwards with all his strength. The pitiless chewing teeth sawed
through the stock of the upraised bolter and into the torso of the kneeling scout.
As his retinal display
recalibrated, Bathinko’s sight returned. He looked down upon the savaged body
of the Salamanders scout lying prone before him. His audio receptors picked up
the distinctive sound of a boltgun slide being racked. Bathinko had just enough
time to look up at the remaining two scouts aiming down at him from the gantry
above. In the time it took him to draw breath he was bracketed by their
co-ordinated fire; the barrage of shells shredding the grisly trophies attached
to his armour and splintering the ceramite plating. One shoulder guard was
completely torn away by the torrent; he tried to turn, to protect his head with
the other shoulder guard only to be knocked to the ground, sustaining damage
faster than his auto senses could track. Bleeding profusely from several
serious wounds Bathinko used the last of his strength to draw breath and
screamed.
