Everything you have been told is a lie!
With that one sentence everything changed hobby wise. I felt liberated, inspired and energized. The Inquisitor rulebook changed the entire hobby for me. Dan Abnett's Eisenhorn trilogy followed - there was no escape anymore. Finally between the noble heros and darkest horros there was utter grey, humanity and total warhammer gothic. An intense labor of love was initiated and many warbands and inquisitors followed, culminating with Rosethorn Now, my own take on Eisenhorns status quo.
After trying the demons and deciding that it really wasn't for me. Or at least I don't need another one, I felt another wave of liberation. I could basically do what I please and study the subject matter and techniques in a manner that please me. I for example decided, that I like art where I sense feel and texture and vision more than the pursuit of technical perfection.
A thought occurred, a three part study to that greyness and it's extents and extremes, and hopefully surprising results and selections. =I=munda, a game merging =I=nquisitorial narratives, roleplaying and Necromunda mechanics, was born and much much gaming fun was had. At Dakka a whole movement was born from our adventures after the Jade Vessel fame. Following those has been the best reward of any hobby project I've been involved with.
So started the trilogy. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
I started with the Ugly, represented here as part one of the trilogy. Called "Shaddes offe Greye" as nod of respect to Grand Master Blanche - the master mind behind Games Workshop Imagery.
As the day before, and those before it, a deep, mustard hued mist hung around the endless rusty hacks of the east end. A huge bulky twist galloped towards the epicenter of this excuse of a Hive Sector. After him came two others, inhumanely thin, twisted even for twists sort of twists. And a Twist with a long pointy hat and no left arm. Then a group of four, or rather three carrying something that looked like a fourth.
Fething feth - where are they all going? He knew of course, but why? Gevlan cursed his deformed back that ached after the long stalk, and then slipped into the night, moving with stealth and swiftness totally unexpected of his appearance.
The old Theatrum was a huge, rotting carcass of armaplas and steel gridwork, punctured by a massive support structure of the hive above. There was something organic about the place, something that reminded Gevlan of Magidor Gamma, and the Endoskel Forests. What a campaign that had been.
He could see the dribble of twists feed the mammoth building through the gateways that appeared well guarded. He didn’t need them of course, he knew all the ways in and out, like he did everywhere within day march of the old barracks that he still considered his home, post... home.
Inside the sense of scale was disorienting. Particularly when surveyed from the western audit balcorium, full 70 yards higher than the floor beneath. The place was packed with twist. Gevlan made a passing snorting sound, that made for laughter, a place packed full of twists always made for twisted viewing. He started walking down the memory lane again, the Hubberian Twist wars ... a quick hush in the crowd brought him back to present with a pause a lone, skeletal figure appeared on stage, moving with other worldly grace. He was glad in gleaming black metallic armor and a long dark grey cape of nothingness hung from his gaunt shoulder guards to form a stark contrast to his pallid white, skull of a face. Teal pipes and tubes fluttered where his chin and ears should have been. Gevlan decided the skull face was the most twisted of the twists, even if he wasn’t really a twist.
A tiny twist with a head three times too big appeared behind the shadowy cape, seemingly adamant to gain certain distance from mr. Master Twist . Then Skullface spoke. Or Gevlan heard him speak, for there was no way to tell if his mouth was moving. Or if he had a mouth. It occurred to him he shouldn’t hear him anyway from the distance.
He was a master orator, as the total silence of the twist audience underlined. Gevlan could feel his heart beating as the message started to sink in. His beardy mouth started to form a smile, but that smile died on his lips and his heart missed a beat. A cold metal ring was pressed dead centre against his spine - dozens of simultanious thoughts jarred his brain - a Thor, or Mars Pattern assault shotgun, or possibly a compact boltgun; how did someone, something ambush the scout chief like this, who had a piece like that in the twist lands... After what felt like all of his utterly dull last week, with his nightmares imposed on, he could feel the pressure lighten, then detach. Gevlan turned slowly, keeping his lascarbin pointed on the floor. The twist looked bad. Tall with sinewy muscularity, grey skin with pointy metal dispensers poking out and a crudely painted white face - Gevlan couldn’t tell in the loom, but it looked like the feth had stiched his mouth shut with something thick and caked in crimson. And the Thrice Damned Feth wore yellow rain boots. This was death incarnate. In yellow boots.
A Second figure peeked from the door of the shadowy balcorium, she was a goddes - and announced matter of factly that the boss wants a word. Gevlanhad a pretty good idea who that Boss might be. He slowly made for the door, somewhat comforted by the presence of the young lady and the fact they let him keep all of his weapons. Passing the door he dared a quick glance at the lady again, but to his horror this side of her face was a lump of burned scar tissue, and a sickly yellow lidless eye that emitted light and made the scar tissue glow horridly in a mustard hue.
The models came out looking like this: