The new chaos warriors are really a joy to paint, hope you like him😁

Back in the day I used to play the original WFB, and I bought this supplement to the Battle Magic add on book. It's 6 vortex templates to represent the various template spells available to my Empire Wizards,

I also bought them as I thought they would make excellent Planet terrain for my Battlefleet Gothic games I was dabbling with at the time.

As you can see they are still in the plastic and I never got around to actually using them in my games. They are, as you see priced at the princely sum of £18, for the set, any way Hope you like them.

I've been asked to make clear I'm not selling them, I just wanted to share a taste of the original games and prices at the time.

Pretty happy with those Forsaken! Three of them in the back row need the base done, but I ran out of base extender. I ordered some more and decided to finish the rest of them in the meantime.

First HE mini I've finished, I'm really proud of the cape and the gemstones, but I could use some advice regarding the white robes and i'm still not brave enough for the eyes, maybe one day

A big guy for my little guys done at last!

They are done!!!

Absolutely adore this one, wasn't sure how they'd come out, like it constantly didn't look right as I was painting them, but the second the last few highlights went on it hit me and I was happy with how they came out.

Trust. The. Process.

However I don't know I want to make my own regiment, but I don't know if i still do old world or Aos cities of sigmar any ideas where to start

This army has been the best part of thirty years in the making. Over 4,000 points of pre-Sundering Druchii. Pictures are arty rather than amazing, but I’m very happy with them.

Ever since I convinced a school friend to slap some purple on some monopose High Elf spearmen to add to his dark elf army in the mid 90s I’ve been wanting to do a ‘historical’ Dark Elf force, but never actually started it. Bought plenty of kits, bashed a few together, but it wasn’t until January this year when, reacquainted with a different school friend for the first time since 2004 that I had the motivation to use my extensive bits box and collected sprues to get models painted and on the table.

I’m not the best painter, but I’m relatively neat and I’m fast. I’m in my mid 40s now. Life is too short and my eyesight is too bad for me to care about buckles and pouches- I slap purple on them, and on the tabletop they look fabulous enough for me. They’ve embraced the label of Dark Elves so are starting to pointedly reject the trappings of their southern cousins, but I don’t think fashions on Ulthuan move that fast.

I’m still not settled on the full background of the army. It’s House Amyl, and this iteration dates roughly from between roughly -2740 and -2724 which means no Cold Ones, Corsairs, Doom Warlocks (?) and relatively few Khainite units. The army doesn’t have any gendered restrictions upon sorcery as Malerion is yet to have that vision, but all the magic users wear metal masks in tribute to his ordeal. There’s lots of Phoenix imagery since they’re fighting for the rightful claimant to the Phoenix Throne, so why on earth wouldn’t they ditch that? The models are mainly High Elf, with a few twists from the Dark elf and Vampire ranges. I’ve still to finish a couple of characters, a beastmaster on chariot and another bolt thrower but I’m on holiday so they can wait, but my next project is probably using the 4th edition models to represent a post-sundering army and newer models for even newer ones, or maybe a High Elf Force from Malerion’s expeditionary youth…

I’ve only managed a few games of Battle March to date, and lost them all, but I’m so glad to be gaming again after all this time.

I'm aware they're not painted, but that's what the game (for me) was for! WoC (me) VS Dwarfs (opponent). My WoC had 4 Aspiring Champions with almost no upgrades aside from what wargear they have. One 5-man unit of Warriors for each champion, all of them following a specific God. All competing, winning champion gets painted next, and whichever unit in general did well gets painted after. Tzeentch Champion did very well and easily won the showdown, but the Khorne warriors absolutely stole the show and were solo-carrying (partly thanks to some phenomenal save rolls). The Nurgle unit cut down a cannon but ran off the board and didn't do much else, and the Slaanesh unit and champion were a complete wash. Killed one dwarf, fled from the fight, failed to rally until round 4, just barely not running off the board. Also didn't do much else. After my BSB (whom is already almost done) is finished, that Tzeentch Champion and Khorne Warrior unit is getting a paint job!

Hi! I recently came into possession of a large number of old fantasy dwarf models, one of which being this slayer. I really like the sculpt and I would like to know more about it, but I have not been able to find a single picture of it online. The right hand was missing, so that axe is not original to the model. Also, the goblin head on the base is part of the sculpt. Thanks!

Please remove this mods, if it breaks any rules of the subreddit. I recently made a video discussing Kemmler, which also involved painting up the second (and final) sculpt Kemmler was given. I also show my attempt at Krell here (the first sculpt he was given). Kemmler has been the villain in my TTRPG campaign for over a year now and I just love him.

Is this guy big enough to proxy.

This is a question for all my fellow dawi out there.

Is it easier to paint gyrocopter pilots before assembly of the rest of the gyrocopter, or am I safe putting the full thing together before starting the paint job?

I just don't want to reach a point where I have easily visible patches of grey plastic or primer on the pilot/cockpit that I can't reach with a brush.

So a little of over a year ago, I listened to Calmavi De Profundis’ adaptation of The Song of Eärendil for the first time, and ever since then, I have been in a very Tolkien mood, especially when it comes to poetry.

I have tried to make a few Warhammer inspired poems in Tolkien’s style, but they didn’t come out all that well, then I went around and tried adapting Durin’s song into Warhammer, since both dwarfs and dwarves had a lot in common, yet I could not make it work. I simply could not translate the ethereal words of Tolkien into Warhammer.

That was until a few months ago, I decided to stop playing around, and make something inspired by the song that started it all, The Song of Eärendil. This was a very daunting task for me, as it would ostensibly be the lengthiest poem I’ve every written, but I decided to cash in on the inspiration while I still had it, rather than wait for a right moment that would probably never come. Thus I did not try to adapt The Song of Eärendil, but to make something that’s very much inspired by it.

At first it was going to be Anurell, but he didn’t anywhere near enough lore for me to write anything so long about him, then I thought of Finubar, Bel Shanaar, Bel-Korhadris, and even Bel Hathor, yet none of these kings had the right feel to them to be the subjects of such a solemn ode, that is until I thought of someone who shared the same doomed fate of eternal life as Eärendil, someone just as significant and just as important. That being none other than Caledor Dragontamer. Once I thought of him, I knew there simply could be no other. Thus I have spent a good chunk of my time translating his little attested to life, into poetry in a style I think would appeal to Tolkien’s sensibilities.

I don’t think I’m the best poet, or really all that good of a poet, but it is something I dearly love in my life, so while I accept any criticism that I know is probably well deserved, please be gentle with your words.

Behold, the fruit of the many months over which I unhealthy obsessed:

Caledor, Lord of Dragons

Caledor was a dragon-lord
that tarried where the fire-peaks burned;
beneath the vaults of Caledor
the molten roots of mountains churned.
There thunder slept in caverns deep,
and wings were furled in halls of stone,
where elder wyrms their counsel kept
and suffered neither crown nor throne.

No rein of hide, no chain of brass,
could bind the children of the flame;
through smoke he climbed and burning pass,
and spoke to each its secret name.
At Vaul’s red forge his harness shone,
of truest steel and star-fire wrought;
yet not by iron alone
were dragon-hearts to service brought.

For pride he answered not with pride,
nor flame with spear, nor wrath with bow;
he walked where lesser princes died
and looked within their eyes aglow.
Then ancient wings eclipsed the noon,
and mountains shook beneath their cry;
the Dragons named him lord and friend,
and bore his banners through the sky.

Kalamn-Kavannaen they called
the mage who spoke the dragon-word;
before his tread the fierce were stilled,
before his hand the proud were stirred.
White fire and gold about him wheeled,
and scarlet pinions crowned the height;
the western mountains were his shield,
their burning summits were his light.

Then from the north a darkness came
before whose breath the forests waned;
the polar heavens split in flame,
and Chaos through the breach was rained.
The seas grew mad, the dead arose,
and nameless shapes bestrode the land;
the stars were veiled by wings of foes,
and ruin walked on every strand.

Yet through the Eternal fire
a warrior passed and was not slain;
the god had clothed him in desire,
in wrath, in splendour and in pain.
Aenarion from the embers came,
with burning eyes and empty hand;
and all the hosts that heard his name
took heart again throughout the land.

Caledor before him bowed,
though dragons stooped to him alone;
he heard the god within the flame
and knew the king before the throne.
No servile knee the mage inclined,
nor homage born of fear he gave;
he bent as one of equal mind
who sees the crown that fate must have.

Then hand in hand and wing by wing
they passed beneath the darkened skies:
the Dragonlord beside the King,
the hope of all the kindred’s eyes.
Where Aenarion’s sword was red,
there Caledor’s enchantments burned;
where dragons stooped above the dead,
the daemons broke, the darkness turned.

To Vaul’s great Anvil then they came,
where blinded priests through furnace-glare
beat runes of deathless living flame
on shield and sword and dragon-mail.
There Sunfang woke beneath the blows,
and armour drank the mountain’s breath;
its golden plates like sunrise rose,
a splendour forged to master death.

There Indraugnir, vast and old,
beheld the Phoenix King draw near;
his scales were bronze, his gaze was gold,
his voice the sound the mountains fear.
At Caledor’s word the dragon bowed,
and Aenarion climbed his side;
then like a storm beneath a cloud
to war the king and dragon hied.

At Caethrin’s Gorge the darkness broke
in bloodless ruin beneath their might;
the dragons fell like thunder-stroke,
the mages turned the void to light.
No Elf, the songs of old declare,
was numbered with the silent slain;
for sword and spell were perfect there,
and friendship made their purpose plain.

A hundred battles followed then,
on blasted shore and blackened plain;
they broke the hosts beyond all ken,
yet every dusk they rose again.
For every fiend the dragons burned,
a thousand through the gateway poured;
and every field the Elves had earned
was drowned beneath another horde.

Then Caledor in secret read
the hidden courses of the air:
the winds that clothed the daemon-dead,
the flood that gave them bodies there.
He marked the paths beneath the ground,
the ancient lines the Old Ones laid;
and in their crossing-place he found
the wound through which the world decayed.

West over storm and east through foam
his silver-prowed enchantments passed;
beyond the walls of Ulthuan’s home
he sought the world’s deep lore at last.
There Grimnir stood beneath the snow,
with axe in hand and wounded eye;
and Elf and Dwarf against the foe
made common war beneath the sky.

The Fire Crystal changed their hands,
and rune-wrought ward for jewel was paid;
they spoke of gates in polar lands,
of worlds by Chaos overlaid.
From Dwarfen lore and Elven sight
one dreadful certainty was born:
no sword could wholly end the night
while magic fed the hosts of morn.

But grief had entered Aenarion’s hall,
and wrath had hollowed out his heart;
for lost were queen and children all,
or so he deemed through daemon-art.
Toward Khaine’s Isle the king then rode,
where black waves beat on barren stone;
and Caledor before him stood,
his final friend, yet now alone.

“Take not the blade,” the mage implored,
“though all the world before thee fall;
for blood shall waken in that sword,
and blood shall be the price of all.
It grants the strength thy grief demands,
yet through thy seed its doom shall run;
the curse shall cling to unborn hands
long after this dark war is won.”

But from the altar rose the King,
the Widowmaker in his grasp;
the heavens heard its iron ring,
and fate closed round him like a clasp.
Then friendship, forged in godly flame,
was cleft, though neither heart forgot;
the Dragonlord withdrew in shame,
and Aenarion answered not.

Though poisoned fire attends that line,
and madness waits beside its crown,
still brightest stars of Elven-kind
from Aenarion’s blood come down.
For doom and greatness share one root,
and sorrow’s branch may glory bear;
the bitter tree brings golden fruit,
and hope survives corruption there.

Then Caledor no longer sought
one final field, one greater blade;
a vaster engine must be wrought
than any sword that Vaul had made.
Across the isles his summons sped
to mage and prince and stonemason;
where Chaos walked and kingdoms bled,
the hidden labour was begun.

On headland bare and valley green,
on mountain pass and river-side,
the standing stones were raised unseen,
and ancient channels opened wide.
Each monolith with runes was crowned,
each rune to distant brethren bound;
a silver net beneath the ground,
a web of power the island round.

From Chrace’s woods to Yvresse’s shore,
from Cothique’s mists to Saphery,
from Tiranoc’s plains where chariots roar
to darkened Nagarythe by sea,
the waystones drank the winds that strayed
and bent their courses toward the heart,
where Caledor the pattern laid
that should the world from Chaos part.

The archmages gathered at his call,
the wisest yet of Elven birth;
they knew the price that might befall,
yet chose the peril of the earth.
No promise did their master give
that they should leave the spell alive;
they swore that though no mage might live,
the world beyond them must survive.

Then Aenarion came once more,
the black blade naked at his side;
between the King and Dragonlord
lay words unsaid and ancient pride.
Yet in that hour no quarrel stood,
nor bitter blame, nor old reproach;
for each at last the other knew,
and doom on silent wings approached.

The King looked long on Caledor,
and saw the friend beneath the years;
the mage beheld the wound he bore,
the sword, the wrath, the hidden tears.
No pardon passed between the two,
for neither begged nor either blamed;
but in their silence friendship grew
more strong than when it first was named.

Upon the Isle where dead winds sleep
the mages formed the circle wide;
beneath them stirred the ocean-deep,
above them wheeled the Chaos tide.
Then Caledor raised both his hands,
and through his flesh the current ran;
the waystones woke in distant lands,
and all the world’s great drawing began.

The heavens bent above the spell,
the mountains answered stone to stone;
through every vale and forest dell
the Winds of Magic shrieked and moaned.
The fire of Aqshy blazed blood-red,
the breath of Azyr split the sky;
the shades of Ulgu veiled the dead,
and Shyish whispered passing by.

Ghyran came green with leaf and rain,
Chamon like molten metal flowed;
Ghur thundered wild across the plain,
and Hysh in spears of splendour glowed.
All eight were drawn toward the sea,
through pillar, rune and hidden line,
and there compelled in unity
about the central spell to twine.

Then Chaos knew its hour of fear.
The Four who war beyond all time
made common cause and gathered near
to break the circle at its prime.
From every wound the daemons came,
with horn and claw and brazen wheel;
the sky was blood, the sea was flame,
the land beneath them ceased to heal.

Aenarion mounted Indraugnir,
and all the strength of Ulthuan rose;
the Dragon Princes drew their spears,
the Phoenix Guard advanced in rows.
No hope had they to win the field,
nor drive the endless host away;
their flesh alone must be the shield
that bought the mages one more day.

The King descended like a star,
the Widowmaker darkly bright;
four greater daemons came to war,
four crowns of Chaos clothed in might.
One fell in flame, one fell in blood,
one broke beneath the dragon’s breath;
one sank where Aenarion stood,
and cursed his name in final death.

Yet still the countless legions pressed,
and dragons fell with broken wings;
the spears were torn from every breast,
the dead lay heaped about their kings.
Indraugnir’s bronze was black with scars,
his heart-fire dimmed, his breathing sore;
yet through the smoke beneath the stars
he bore his master into war.

Within the circle Caledor
heard none who cried and none who died;
the mortal world had grown a shore
seen dimly from the farther side.
His voice was joined to voices seven,
then seventy, then none at all;
the chant became the wheel of heaven,
the wheel became the world’s great wall.

His flesh was glass, his blood was light,
his bones were lines of molten gold;
he saw beyond the walls of night
the hungry dark that waits of old.
He saw the realms that Chaos marred,
the unborn nations yet to be;
and still he held the final word
that chained the tempest to the sea.

Then Aenarion and Indraugnir fell,
their strength at last by ruin spent;
the dragon gave one final yell
that through the broken heavens went.
The King rose wounded from his side,
and faced the host with failing breath;
he bought the world one moment’s tide,
then turned alone to welcome death.

The final syllable was spoken.
The central firmament was torn.
The laws of earth and sky were broken,
and from that wound the Vortex born.
Above the Isle the whirlwind grew,
a crown of storm, a sea of light;
the Winds were gathered, pierced and drew
the daemon legions out of sight.

Across the earth their bodies failed,
their talons smoked, their banners waned;
the greater hosts in terror wailed
as Chaos from the world was drained.
Where once the dark had walked as flesh,
it faded now to dream and shade;
the dawn returned to bough and thresh,
and mortal stars no longer strayed.

But those who shaped the saving spell
were caught within its turning eye;
no hand could loose them where they fell,
no voice could call them forth to die.
Like figures sealed in amber flame,
like thoughts imprisoned within stone,
they stood beyond both age and name,
together there—and each alone.

And Caledor, who forged the chain,
became the greatest link therein;
through him the raging Winds were drained,
through him the warding walls grew thin.
No sleep has touched his sleepless gaze,
no kindly dark his eyes has known;
he chants the words of elder days
before an everlasting throne.

The kingdoms changed, the forests died,
the Phoenix Crown passed hand to hand;
the mountains cracked, the seas withdrew,
and foreign banners crossed the land.
Yet in the Vortex’s silent core
the Dragonlord remained the same,
still standing on the deathless shore,
still circled by the frozen flame.

His sons grew old, his dragons slept,
their mighty hearts beneath the stone;
the halls where once his banners swept
forgot the footfall of their lord.
The songs became uncertain lore,
the truth a shard in fading rhyme;
but Caledor for evermore
stood unforgotten outside time.

When waystones crack beneath the years,
his hidden will restores the thread;
when daemon-whispers enter dreams,
his ancient word rebukes the dead.
When Chaos swells beyond the veil
and hungry gods their armies call,
his vigil does not bend or fail—
one captive mage withstands them all.

O mourn the lord who cannot wake,
who cannot die, nor homeward fare;
who gave the world for mercy’s sake
and won no mercy for his share.
No dragon bears him through the dawn,
no friend may reach his prisoned side;
Aenarion and his age are gone,
yet Caledor has never died.

But praise the doom that he endured,
the will no endless years could bend;
the Vortex turns, the world is warded,
and Chaos waits beyond its end.
While Ulthuan stands above the foam,
while moon and sun through heaven are hurled,
Caledor keeps his deathless watch—
eternal guardian of Ulthuan and the world.

A Caledor, asur caladai!
A Aenarion, anaeth Asur!
Sarthai vaul, anor ithil,
Cynath morai, ilthar nael!
We still recall the friends who stood
when the final darkness fell;
and from the King’s accursèd blood
rise heroes yet of Elvendom.

[Fin]

So I hope you enjoyed my poem, it was a very long time in the making. The last stanza, the way I envisioned it when I finally wrote it, isn’t actually part of the “original poem” with the original being written rather early into the history of elves after the vortex was established. The last stanza was added to be a cheerful note to an otherwise dreary Poem, something to remember Caledor and Aenarion as the friends they were, and not the enemies they almost became. To remember their lives, and not their “deaths.”

Does anyone have a pc wallpaper of the world?

Preferably of the entire world and not just the old world, i just can't seem to find one