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Thread: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

  1. #261
    Commander
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    No words. Amazing.

  2. #262
    Chapter Master Urgat's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    So much goodness. Though someone should return the "favour", your chaos dwarfs deserve some heavy payback

  3. #263

    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    This thread is depressing, mainly for seeing someone investing so much time and love into his hobby only for GW to blow it all up. I have to admit your passion for the hobby eclipses mine, even though I invest quite a bit of time myself. Originally I was going to put my everything into it, but time constraints and purchase of large number of models for End Times purposes necessitate mass taking prcedence over class. These days I pride myself inmy ability to mass-paint huge chunks of models to a very respectable standard in record time, which is an art unto itself.

    I too have bought the Fire Myrmidon, but with the plan of running him as my K'daai destroyer. However the model seems just that tiny bit too small for the excessive base size. I guess I'll have to do something special with the base to fill it up. I'm thinking of the Myrmidon leaving a blazing trail of fire behind it...

  4. #264
    Chapter Master Karak Norn Clansman's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    @El Antiguo Guardián: Thank you kindly!

    @Urgat: Thanks! Hehe, right enough they do! They're nasty toward Goblins in particular, and shouldn't expect anything better in return.

    @Ultimate Life Form: No worries, mate! I was momentarily disturbed by the End Times when I realized that GW really had to end the historically-modelled fantasy setting we all know and love, but it quickly passed. GW won me over into Warhammer with exquisite output, but I only buy into it as long as the output is of a high quality and/or agreeable. So when I don't agree, such as with mechanical Empire horses or ending the setting, I just ignore it and carry on as before. Plus now I'm making models of my own, so the hobby side of life has never been happier.

    Mass-painting models to a good standard quickly is indeed an art form. One which I've never come close to master, lest of all unravel peripherally. My few armies are all shoddily basecoated over a mass of conversions, and look like garbage in painting with the exception of a few actually finished models. Could manage a warband, but not an army. But I play army wargames, so there you have it.

    Best of luck sprucing the Fire Myrmidon up! May I suggest that you consider using those new Brimstone Horrors from GW among the flames for a wee bit of Daemonic life and fun?


    Elf Slave of Ancient Times

    A quick little retinue sculpt for the admiral/pirate captain. Having just finished quick-salvaging and uploading a huge load of pictures of others' Chaos Dwarf hobby work (prolonged and concentrated waking-to-sleeping desktop work), I've gone physically exhausted like rarely before, in a way which hard labour hasn't managed to produce. Tired through the day no matter what one do. Ah well, some rest and relaxation and juice should be up again. Still, managed to put in some finishing touches on this slave victim.

    From his neck iron, a lock and a metal slave plate dangles. The unlucky Elf have met a grisly fate almost on par with the Orc slaves. Maimed, partially flayed, branded and cut and cut again, he has some blood drops flowing down his left arm. They've barely touched his face, because Elven ears and eyes are seen as very valuable alchemical and sorcerous ingredients. Perhaps Elven hair is, too? In that case, that proud mane has already been harvested. The Elf is scalped, and his exposed skull is cracked from blunt violence. Yet this is no lowly Human who would cave in to deepest despair in the face of such utter misery. His facial expression is pained, but an iron will and burning desire to avenge his wrongs ("I'll strangle you with your own beard, foul Dwarf!") leaves a determined glare as he bites back a wail, or at least that was the theory behind the sculpt.

    The pose of this miniature made photography a challenge. It was hard to get any good angles at all of the sculpt, and areas such as the eyes kept losing all details on camera. So to compensate, a lot of pictures were taken instead, with contrast turned up in Imgur to aid dodgy focus in areas:





    A WIP matron in the grand admiral's retinue. Ideas are welcome, but frontal shots will not be taken until the sculpt is finished.



    __________________________________________________ ______

    The Kuthuvud of Skintaxmountain did evolve during last SM tournament. Managed some shoulder pad sculpting during the evening. Its owner, C.W, has started to arm it.



    __________________________________________________ ______

    Harbour Skulker of Ancient Times

    Since a slave, a lord and a lady will be in the same kit, better include a middling sort of scum as well. This one was done mostly as a quicker exercise in posing and anatomy. I am sure the pose came out clumsy, but cast it will be regardless. Likewise, the knives came out thicker, broader and shorter than intended. Will try and get longer, sleeker and more curved blades for similar sculpts in the future. It's a tad big. Aside from that, does anything look awry?

    Equipped with a boar's tusk helmet, this lice-ridden bastard sneaks and stabs with glee, slitting purse strings and throats alike. The helmet is certainly a luxurious trophy from a previous victim of higher standing. Small chains wrap around one of his wrists. A warty scourge of the rowdy port and an unsavoury fellow on any vessel, this Hobgoblin still has his uses in boarding actions, particularly if he can sneak upon the enemy captain and deprive his crew of leadership in the midst of critical combat. The intended pose is tiptoeing forward, torso bent back, sneaky-like. However, it seem simple enough to tilt the model on a slottabase to achieve a different impression.

    "Just one more cut..."



    Dress inspired by Robbie McSweeney's depiction of Akkadian warriors:


  5. #265
    Chapter Master Karak Norn Clansman's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    Matron of Ancient Times

    Dressed modestly in multi-layered fringed cloth draped diagonally around her pregnant body, this horned matron is no breaker of custom, as her decently chainmail-veiled face profess (bared flesh in public is the lot of concubines, temple harlots and women captured as war booty, and finally priestesses - held in awe - whose mysterious female powers are expressed through an assertive sensuality in their manners and appearance alike). Rings in the ears and around the fingers of the matron add a glitter to her rotund person, while a towering hat underscores her married status. Her prestigious position as a fertile mother is visible in the nine pteruges hanging from the backside of her hat, and indeed a similar triangular end decoration as on the family pteruges is strung on a necklace hanging from the throat of each of her children who has not yet passed into adulthood as per the ancestral rites. Note the childhood hat of her son, and the beard which is uncoiled since it is a privilege of adults only to curl their hair and whiskers.

    The headgear of the matron is large, yet its form is different from male hats, and likewise unlike the masculine (and priestess) counterparts the feminine headgear is not proudly erect, standing straight up on the head, but is instead softer, backbending and receptive in shape. Her hat sports zigzag decor and pearlwork alike, and flanked by lightning bolts striking the ground rise a stylized palm ornament, in flames. This bears connotations of fertility, growth and plenty, but also of destruction, ashes and power.

    The frontside of her hat is starkly adorned by a cracked skull, a constant reminder of both mortality, the work that needs to be done and the children that needs to be bred and raised. The cranial ornament upon the head of this lady is likewise a symbolic reminder for all men of the importance of defending one's tribe and precious womenfolk. It is also a mark of warning to any slave who would think of assaulting her. Behind the skull rise a a metal plate, inscribed with incantations, frequently replaced with different bronze plates bearing script as the seasonal ceremonies require. Above the runic plate sits the flat face of a potent demon of myth, bound to her will and facing the sky in order to ward off fell spirits and criminal hat-snatchers alike. The crenellated wall sitting above the demonic visage is not accidentally placed that way, for it is in fact an invocation in images for any assailant of the city walls to perish, a baleful curse upon both attackers outside the fortifications and revolting slaves within. The stretch of miniature walls and towers is likewise a proclamation of her kin's strength and endurance, as well as an announcement of the harshness needed for order to keep out chaos if civilized life is to survive.

    And last but not least the crowning fortifications act as a reminder for all menfolk that should the towers be toppled and the walls fall like a downstruck hat, then their wives and concubines will become nothing but spoil for the conqueror, and their mothers and daughters will also be ravished, as is the way of mortals since time immemorial.

    "You hit them hard over their heads like this, little Kralbuknezhur."

    "Yes, ma'!"





  6. #266
    Chapter Master Urgat's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    The headress is impressive. I'm not too convinced by the kid though. I kind of get what you were trying to do, but the fact he just doesn't look like a kid at all just makes him look like a weird freak puppet-thing midget.

  7. #267
    Chapter Master Karak Norn Clansman's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    @Urgat: Thank you. Ah, no, I assure you that is how Dwarf kids would look. Rough and tumble as they come. None of these puffy cheeks and slender Elf-builds for faeries. But you can tell how childish he is, just measure his beard!




    Slave Orc Heads of Ancient Times



    Hobgoblin Slavedrivers of Ancient Times




    __________________________________________

    Scarred feet trundled across the ashen wastes to the constant rattle of chains. Many of those feet had less then their usual number of toes. On high, the sun glared hot and dry, its blistering gaze only interrupted by billowing volcanic plumes from a distant stretch of young mountains. The land was ruthless, and so were its inhabitants. A whip coiled through the dusty air and lashed, yet again, hard across lumbering green backs that quickly were becoming flayed to the bone. Hardly a whimper escaped from the captives. Skylxys Wartface was not content with the response, so he struck once more, but this time aimed the whip at a single bastard Orc. The iron tip of the long, braided lash bit into the raw, crimson mass which was all that was left of the sod's muscles that covered his exposed scapulae. Bloody droplets flew from the impact and the eternal cloud of flies scattered from the sudden violence.

    This time, the lashing action got its deserved reply, and the hulking wretch stumbled to his knees and yelped in agony, grunting and panting. The hands of the Orc lost grip of his shovel and instead flew out sideways to cover his pained back, yet the shackles which bound the thrall's wrists together arrested the hands pathetically in mid-air. The sight bemused the grizzled Hobgoblin slavdriver, and Skylxus drank in the sight with all the glee that a weaker creature can muster at the utter subjugation of someone greater and stronger than himself.

    “My, my. Me knees be damned if it isn't Qurluk the great himself who grovels in the dust,” snarled Skylxus with a leer that twisted his kife-cut face. He reeled in the whip and nonchalantly juggled with a fat knife in one hand, tossing and spinning it with disregard for his own fingers' health.

    “Noo! Uh! NO!” wailed the slave Orc in protest. The high pitch was unbefitting for such a mighty creature, whose dark and gruff tones usually were the dread of settlers, nomads and beasts alike. Though the wretch's hands and feet between them only had enough digits for one full hand and one full foot, he scrambled to rise, knowing where such special attention from the overseers would land him.

    A savage kick in the small of his back sent the large Orc grabbling to the ground, flying flat on his starved belly. That violence was sweet to Skylxus, and he wanted no one to miss his moment of supremacy.

    “HALT! Hold yer steps you maggots, or I'll gut yer lousy skinbags and strangle you all with yer own intestines!” roared the Hobgoblin and planted his sandalled foot on Qurluk's messy back, pinning the brute more by fear than by weight.

    The slavedriver's few colleagues dealt out strikes, prods, pinches, kicks and lashes and yelled at their slave flock to turn about and face the head whipper. As always, the sight of the measly gang of Hobgoblins with spears and whips lording it over the many more and much stronger Orcs was an offense to the order of things as set down by the gods who had shaped the world. The situation was surreal and unthinkable, had not those devil tribes of Ashen Dwarfs figured out ways to make the most unbending, proud and wild berzerkers in all of the inhabited world yield under their yoke. Of course, to break the spirit of something as strong and independent as an Orc required a degree of crushing brutality and cruel finesse that very nearly broke the body unto death, but the lardy stunted ones had figured out just the right balance, as was evident in the enslaved Orcs' starved, shackled, torn and mutilated bodies...

    The miserable view of the slave Orc throng herded by the gangly Hobgoblins made Skylxus Wartface cackle with hoarse and rasping laughter. The imbecilles! Just look at their wretchedness!

    “As I said, if ye had the sense to listen, this here on the ground is THE great Manstomper heeself,” spat the slavedriver and performed a theatrical mock bow to his audience. “Ladeez and gentle-Orcs, may I present to you the mighty warlord, the fear of Humans and Orcs alike and the thunder of the steppes? The cleaver of two thousand skulls and the ripper of tents. The drinker of blood, oh my! The puller of monster claws and the crusher of families, the one and only Orc king Qurluk!”

    The other Hobgoblins sniggered and grinned between themselves. The watching Orcs stood dumb and lost in their shackles staring at the world from a little corner of their minds which their essence had retreated into when cruel oppressors wrecked their pride, their sanity and sense of self. Some drooled, some had jaws hanging slack from excessive blows, while some few sported no jaws at all after some punishment or capricious whim. Such a pathetic gaggle of broken ones hardly cared to see one of their own, and a leader at that, sprawled on the sand and gravel like a heap of filth. For filth he was, and so were they, and they wished nothing but to be left alone, caring not for others and being still alive only because the gods had made the will for life strong indeed in all mortals. Oh, the degradation on display was sweet like honey to Skylxus' red eyes.
    “But is he truly your king?” asked the slavedriver harshly. The whistling of the wind, the snickering of Hobgoblins and the clink of chain links was the only answer. Skylxus set his whip and knife in his belt, bowed down and picked up a huge tool, holding it with trembling arms over his hat-crowned head.

    “No! He is Shovel the slave, property of the Temple of Kardrunnak in Zuppar and part of canal-digging gang Fifty-Four! and this dungfly has dropped his tool. Bloody useless! Mayhap he has pretensions of royalty to distract himself? Could that be why Shovel forgets himself? How can you be Shovel without yer shovel?”

    Upon raising this question, Skylxyus flicked the heavy tool down onto the head of once-Qurluk. The Orcish skull cracked audibly at the impact, and his head collapsed feebly to the ground.

    “But let's be understanding for once, shall we? The mistake is easy to make. For Shovel do look like Qurluk the great, but this cannot be! Shovel is Shovel, and no more than a tool.”

    The band of slave Orcs stood limply with hanging arms, blinking at the bewildering speech. The Hobgoblin slavedrivers, on the other hand, started to cackle among themselves. They were more clever than some dumb Orcs and caught that drift all right. All of them stepped forth, surrounding the lying slave on the ground, grabbing hold of him and turning him over so that all in attendance could see properly.

    “Since Shovel's face is such a source of trouble, let us relieve the poor fellow,” barked Skylxus Wartface harshly and drew his thick knife with impatience. His companions tightened their grips on Shovel and produced his head for ease of reach. And then, in that savage act of flaying, did the stark utter cruelty on public display finally reach through the apathy of Qurluk's kinsfolk, and a glimmer of primal fear and recognition of their own brutish treatment struck a chord in the jaded hearts of broken slave Orcs. And they cringed and bayed and whimpered, not daring to move a foot unless they, too, would receive a similar treatment.

    Yet the show was not over yet. When the slavedriver had finished carving into the weakly struggling head of Shovel, he grabbed hold of the skin and drew it off with both hands, planting a sandalled foot on the Orc's shoulder to brace himself. Blood glistened on the Hobgoblin as he raised the slack hide of Shovel's face to the skies and kicked the victim on his newly exposed face musculature.

    “Haha! And now he'll eat it!” cackled the slavedriver, and forced once-warlord Qurluk to devour his own visage and so become one of the faceless mass of slaves who laboured under the cruel dominion of the Ashen Dwarfs and their sadistic middlemen. Life was short and unforgiving and you had to enjoy what triumphs you could before someone ended you.

    Then the march went on as if nothing had happened.

    And that night, near the site of overlord Hashdrubael's newly started irrigation canal, Skylxus Wartface slept very well indeed under his ragged blankets by the crackling campfire.


    _____________________________


    “Chop-chop,
    chop-fed!
    Drop-drop,
    drop-dead!
    Lop-lop-lop,
    lop off his head!

    We've cut off the heads of a thousand mountain Ogres,
    and the heads of a thousand-thousand sea Elves!

    We now want the heads of a thousand-thousand-thousand hillmen,
    and then the heads of a thousand-thousand-thousand-thousand steppe Orcs!

    One man has cut off the heads of a thousand-thousand-thousand-thousand-thousand marsh Goblins,
    for no man has ever drank so much wine as this man has of blood poured out!

    Chop-chop,
    chop-fed!
    Drop-drop,
    drop-dead!
    Lop-lop-lop,
    lop off his head!”

    - The Beheading Song, a marching song also popular among Ashen Dwarf children.



    ____________________________________________


    Also, got an entry in for Artisan's Contest XXII purely by accident. Had been painting Orc heads and Hobgoblins for display pictures, and while being bitten by the painting bug I took the opportunity to finish a couple of promised emissaries, a bull-masked one to Fuggit Khan (because he's had enough hats in his hands to last three lifetimes) and a fire rune fellow to Carcearion. Both were quick-sculpted conversions over a Warhammer plastic Dwarf:




  8. #268
    Brother Sergeant Muette's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    I LOVE the squared flame spell. Great sculpting!

  9. #269
    Chaplain Demortu's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    Wow!
    I really love the effect on the spell, really catches the eye and truly looks like it's floating! Attempting the effect with some of my flying troops in the future... albeit thus far with mixed results

  10. #270

  11. #271
    Chapter Master Karak Norn Clansman's Avatar
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    Re: -= The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar =-

    @Muette: Thank you kindly!

    @Demortu: Wow, I'd love to see pictures. Got a link?

    @Morglum Necksnapper: Thanks!


    I've not gotten anything more sculpted on 28mm evil dwarfs since the matron. Exhaustion from lots of work (not least emergency courtesy of Photobucket) and a need to rest set in, and I merely doodled some instead. Steam is building up again, and it'll be time for a long promised non-fantasy project to launch, updates soon I hope. As such, better post the current state of the admiral sculpt, since it may be many months before work on him is resumed and the character kit is finished:


    Also, as can be seen here in greater detail, the Kuthuvud of Skintaxmountain (will serve as a Chaos slave giant in an Infernal Dwarf army) is now finished as a conversion. Its proud owner has finished it by making a mechanical arm, a whip and some bandages. I helped him with this project by quick-sculpting bits during tournaments and when driving home from tournaments this year. The weirdest bits (the ones first thought to be jokes) were done to the specifications of him and a friend of his:


    In due time, updates will resume here, have no fear.

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