So, this goes under the “D’oh” file. A while ago, I entered the Astronomican painting/modeling and lore contest. Needless to say, I didn’t win, but it was a damn fun contest to jogg my nerdy mind .
I recently re-discovered my love for the drunken brawlers of the Beastmen army; the Centigors. Note, this is not saying that the other beasts are any less drunk, or less inclined to cave your face in with a blunt object, but these guys take the cake.
…er….bloody carcass, i suppose.
Here are some of the photos of the converted and painted Centigors as well as the horribly grammatically incorrect ‘lore’ piece I did.
It begins with silence, silence ripe with hate and anticipation.
Violating the silence is my heartbeat, reverberating inside my skull. Each dull impact of my heart drowns out the fleeting sounds around me. The snorting of my fellow centigors, stamping of clawed and hooved feet, slow jingle of armor and spear; all is lost to me. The pounding in my skull consumes my senses.
A command is muttered behind me. Thump. My heart beats and head thunders. The warherd moves through the woods and up to the tree line. Thump. The sound of cannon. My pride of centigors moves to our position. I can see the human battle line sprawled across the field. The cannons lay quiet. Thump. I snort with disdain. All around me, the warherd pushes forward. Each horned figure, eager to spill blood. Eager to exact their revenge on the trespassers. Thump. Why did we drink every last drop of the cheap Tilean wine? Centuries ago, this tamed and cultivated land was once home to a foul and repugnant herdstone. This was a place of our worship. Our gods were called and they answered. Thump. Though I’ve checked it many times, I look again and my wineskin is empty, still. When man came, they drove our ancestors out by fire, by cannon, by blade, by fickle and weak gods. Thump. The herd that lived here must have been weak. They were driven out and man stole their land. The land of the beasts. Our land. Thump. My land. Thump. Only a vague and instinctual memory exists of this place, too many years removed from any beast alive. Rest assured, today we drive out the invaders.
There’s no thump.
A quiet buzzing replaces the thumping in my head. My lungs freeze and hairs stand straight; Magic. Looking over my shoulder, I spy the warherd part ways. A trio of shaman, each covered in blood stained tatters of clothing and vile icons, make their way to the front. All eyes are on them as they leech the winds of magic and call upon the dark gods. In unison, three mouths open. Blackened teeth and pox covered tongues bleat their prayers:
Blood spilt Flesh Split We call on thee Out of gore Out of ruin Heed our call Shadow consume man Death swallow souls Grant us your might Herd of Locusts Bane of civilization Cast down their walls Raise up your weapons Lift high your horns Destruction is yours The die has been cast The bones have been read Man shall fall.
As if mocking their unison, every mouth and throat of the warherd opens up and cries with them; “Man shall fall!” I had no control, but the ruinous powers guide my voice. If they guide my voice, then they surely guide my hand. They guide my blade. They drive my hate to be their weapon.
We are the swift. We are the true children of chaos. It is our claws and hooves that will be the undoing of man. It is by our speed that the warherd shall feast on the bones and marrow of man. We were chosen, by the great Beast Lord, V’grakt the Unbreakable, to split mankind’s backbone. To destroy their only hope, to do what the herd must do; smash the works of man into the ground. We are to race through the fight and take out the artillery placements.
“Man shall fall!” In one last war cry, the warherd surges forward, out of the woods and into the field of battle. We are greeted by cannon shot and volleys of arrow. Gors and ungors fall to the withering iron rain of man, but my pride of centigors cannot be stopped.
Splitting the air, war machines disgorge their lead and fire on the battle. The weak flesh of mankind cannot stop the fury and hate of the warherd. Pent up, in our spiteful minds, we harbor a hate of ages and a primal fury that makes the simplest gor a wrecking ball on the battlefield. Mankind hides behind the range of their guns and volleys of rifles.
Ground breaks around me. Centigors are pulverized by flying stone and lead shot. Not me, I carry the will of V’Grakt the Unbreakable. Heedless of the danger, I sprint through fire and spears to my target. Weak and feeble infantry are driven before our pride as we thunder to our victims. The few that don’t run at our sight have their skulls cracked by our hooves and hides skewered by spears.
The battle rages behind us. Cannon fire and black smoke erupts ahead of us.
“MAN SHALL FALL!”
Bounding over pikes and token emplacements, the pride has found its’ victim. Arrogant in its superiority, the artillery is unprotected. Far removed from the battle, the men never expected our charge. Only a few were fast enough to run, base instincts getting the best of them. The rest were caught unaware and could only stare with horror as we drove upon them. Like a wolf among newborn calves. Like a beast into its prey.
In a frenzy of slaughter and reckless violence, the cannons are forever silenced. The only weapon that separates man from the beasts now lies in the mud, strewn amongst the dead crew.
The die has been cast. The bones have been read…I hear in my soul; “Mankind shall fall.”
Not the best thing I’ve ever written. Infact, I was working on another conversion for the contest, but work got in the way, so I went with the Centigors and did this piece the night of the contest due date.
So, the conversions:
- Horse body: Marauder Horsemen Horses
- Torsos: Orc Boar Boyz (new ones)
- Heads: Gors
Here’s the pic dump.