The tall host of Zhurem-Zhalkazinulbar marched out with heavy steps, hate and greed writ upon their bearded faces and devotional mysticism evident in their dark voices as they sang their hymns and dirges and recited their mantras and mouthed their fervent prayers.

The omens had been good, and due sacrifice in blood had been offered up to the altar fires. The fickle gods were now all on their side, and this true knowledge made every man beam with haughty pride and cruel confidence. Their demeanour was that of conquerors, and they wore their hammers and axes, their shields and blunderbusses, as a race of born rulers. All did so, except for the shamed warriors of the death's mask. Pariahs and shunned outcasts, they were nought but slaves, and they made for a grim appearance on the battlefield as the great army deployed in deep formations.

On the other side stood the enemy, all filthy, lowly and inferior, a tribe of savages to be trampled underfoot. The warriors of the tall host knew this, for they relished in the slaughter to come.

And they raised their battlecry, with a roar alike thunder on high:

“Hat or die!”

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These 15mm models are out now! Order your Tjublings here: Also on Etsy and on Blogspot. Priced upon release at €2,5 per each kit of 4 Tjublings (or 3 command models), they are also available in a Maniple bundle of 20 rank and file plus 3 command models for €13. Sculpted by Tobias Torstensson (tjub) and spincast in metal by Hysterical Games. Sold unpainted and unassembled.

Remember that miniatures in smaller scales than 28mm are perfect material for adorning your luxurious monumental architecture.

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Admiralty Miniatures

"O great Overlord, the enemy host still defy our hats."

"Then kill it with fire!"

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These 15mm models are out now! Order your Tjublings here: Also on Etsy and on Blogspot. Fiery rank and file reinforcements have arrived to bolster the Tjubling forces with a hard core of elite regiments. Priced upon release at €2,5 per each kit of 4 Tjublings (or 2 command models), they are also available in a Maniple bundle of 20 rank and file plus 2 command models for €1,3. Likewise, Skull Mask Command (3 models) is out now for the rank and file, and is available as part of the usual Maniple deal. A couple of new Blunderbuss variants are also out. And last but not least, we're happy to present a flamethrower team for €2,8!

Sculpted by Tobias Torstensson (tjub) and spincast in metal by Hysterical Games. Sold unpainted and unassembled.

Remember that miniatures in smaller scales than 28mm are perfect material for adorning your luxurious monumental architecture.

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Admiralty Miniatures

The winds howled and whipped ashen clouds before them. Vultures flocked in the sky as the Third Great Army of Tjubba-Tjur deployed on a ridge to meet the onslaught of barbarian Orcs and Goblins. Such frothing maniacs and ravening hordes! That description was equally true for both sides in this conflict.

The leaders of Tjubba-Tjur watched haughtily as their infantry maniples deployed, shieldwalls and deadly blunderbusses promising steadfast resistance and shredding death to all comers. Their standard bearers and musicians signalled in ways too sophisticated for the dumb enemy brutes to fathom, and now yet deadlier forces marched up to take up position on the flanks.

Some of the youngest, yet most ambitious Tjubling leaders serving in the Temple Stud of the great city would take command of the combined arms at the flanks: Packs of whipped warhounds to halt foes and bog them down in a sea of fangs. Mobile Thunderhammer medium rocketry to blast apart enemy ranks and rattle their wits with the shriek of rockets whirling about, howling death. And the small but imposing squadrons of Tjubbutaurs, pride of the Temple Stud, fathers of thousands and bane of nations. For the Tjubbutaurs possessed power unrivalled in the eyes of devout Tjublings. Sacred creatures, they were. Their stampeding charge and ferocious swinging of great weapons would crush all under their cloven hooves.

Bazarku, ancient Great One and most revered of Tjubbutaurs, snorted and galloped to the fore of the right flank force. He trotted before his multitude of progeny, all strong and blessed by the Bull God, and silenced the yapping of the hounds with a voice thundering from out of the pits of hell:

"Today we crush bones! Today we maim bodies! Today we bring all the foes you see before us to the pyres as screaming offerings to Tjubshut! Slay! Let not a single craven escape our fuming wrath! Make them fall like the hat of Kebaznutjubbuk! Rrrraaaagh!"

At this signal, the packmasters unleashed their dogs. The rocketeers opened fire. And Bazarku the Lord of Skulls charged ahead of his numerous offspring, rapidly clearing the distance between himself and the enemy hordes with a drawn-out bellowing roar which seemed to rise from the depths of the earth and shake the heart of everyone who heard it.

He struck the enemy line alone, and all hell broke loose.

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These miniatures are out now! Order your Tjublings here: Also on Etsy. Sculpted by Tobias Torstensson (tjub) and spincast in whitemetal by Hysterical Games. Sold unpainted and unassembled.

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Admiralty Miniatures

There is much, oh so much that the lesser races fear in this world.

They fear loss.

They fear death.

They fear pain.

They fear deprivation.

They fear tyranny.

They fear hell.

This is well, oh so well, for it allows us to forge all these fears into one potent symbol and strike it searing forever into the hearts of mortals.

For they will know true fear at last.

Fear of the big hat!

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These 15mm conversion bits are out now! Order your big hats on Etsy. Sculpted by Tobias Torstensson (tjub) and spincast in whitemetal by Hysterical Games. Sold unpainted and unassembled.

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Admiralty Miniatures

Far away and yonder east, a wind lashed the foothills of titanic mountains. The wind came whistling through sparse trees, rustling bushes and swaying grass. It was a northerly wind, frigid by the touch of cruel spirits in the distant lands of frozen earth. The wind struck out across ridges and whipped down in the shallow valleys between foothills. It was a cold wind that had howled among reindeer and enigmatic Elves clad in fur and skins, whirling up snow as the sky children danced high above in the north heavens. The wind now hurled itself against the towering mountainside, clawing and reaching for purchase, yet the steep walls defied it.

The wind tugged at the horned felt cap of Dun-Khan, Lord of the Storm, as he and his picked Tjubgob warband lay low behind the crests of two foothills, awaiting the signal to strike from their scouts. On the other side of the hills marched a gathering of sturdy Humans from the mountain realm of Zhiptyak. The Tjubgob interlopers had been bold indeed to ride, wander and sneak this far east, to the very toes of the mountains. This close to that soaring range, they were deep inside enemy territory, for the Zhiptyak were warlike and had their own designs on the trade routes and walled settlements on the eastern steppe. iIn other words, the Humans had scarce reason for caution as they marched straight into an ambush.

The cue to attack came in the form of skillfully faked birdsong, mimicking the calls of the honeylark, and warlord Dun-Khan stood up on one knee, beckoning to his fickle shaman ally with the bloodthirsty mace, Stormbringer.

"Smoke 'em out! Fulfill your end of the deal, and you will have their raw thumb-muscles for stew, just as we agreed upon. Get on it!" Dun-Khan spat to the gnarled Volsnik Smokebreath, maverick shaman and erratic madman.

Volsnik did not reply. Instead the shunned Tjubgob tie loose the string of a pouch tied to his hooked staff, and breathed in its powdered content in slow, deep gulps. These inhalations grew faster and frantic, as the shaman worked himself into a trance. Eventually, Volsnik Smokebreath turned from the open pouch and produced a squirming mountain vole from inside his tunic. Dun-Khan wondered to himself how the old crazybag had managed to snuck the rodent inside his garb without it escaping, and much less endured its panicked scratching on his skin.

The stinking mouth and running eyes of Volsnik were wide open as the shaman tilted his head backward and drew a deep breath. Then he bit the mountain vole in half, blood and guts hanging down his lower lip. After a disconcerting moment of dumb staring and drool dripping from his mouth, Volsnik hiccuped, then belched. Smokebreath proved true to his name, as thick, dark smoke billowed forth from his wide-open maw. It was an endless stream of smoke, pouring forth in great, dark clouds. The wind carried it quickly over the crest of the foothill, down into the little valley below.

"We strike. Leave none alive!" Dun-Khan roared, swinging Stormbringer. His hornblower stood up and let out a long bellow. Every single Tjubgob behind the two hills sprang into action, screaming a shrill warcry. Archers rushed forth, nocking arrows to recurved composite bows, and let loose, then drew arrows again. Spearmen and Tjubgobs armed with scimitars charged down the sides of the hills, right into the flanks of the surprised Zhiptyak Humans, while backstabbers ran hunched-over, taking a longer route in order to catch the Zhiptyak in the rear.

Blades flashed and banners waved as gleeful Tjubgobs charged downhill, their green faces split by sadistic grins. Volleys of arrows struck against the Human warriors, who were all stunned for the moment. And all around, the smoke spread and thickened, shrouding the ambushers.

Dun-Khan ran along and made sure to stay a little back from his underlings, to not risk himself at first impact. That was what lessers were for, after all. Filthy fodder for spears, yet nevertheless useful fodder who would feed his own soaring star. The warlord cackled like a possessed maniac and rushed into the combat, droplets of blood filling the air as he heaved with Stormbringer again and again, lightning crackling from his weapon. He revelled in the killing and maiming.

Everything smelled of blood, smoke and terror.

The true slaughter began.

And the wind swallowed the shrieks.
















15mm Tjubgob infantry out now! Sculpted by Tobias "Tjub" Torstensson.

Size comparison:

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Admiralty Miniatures

A cacophony of sound rolled across the ashen plains and the rocky hills. Guffaws and shouting was heard across a landscape studded with stacked brickwork ruins; where centuries upon centuries worth of habitation had formed layers of foundations and rubble from destruction, built over again and again until settlement eventually ceased and the exposed outer bricks eroded to dust. The loss of ancient towns were of no matter, for the dwellers of cities ever founded new urban homes and outlying villages in good times.

A din of rowdy crowds and thundering hooves rolled across the dreary rivulets and tar lakes. Frantic screaming from many tusked mouths was heard over the branching irrigation canals and swaying fields of barley and rye; all property of the estates of the Temple-Stables of Tjubba-Tjur. Long ago these lands had been covered with lush wheat fields that produced bushels of golden grain to feed uncounted legions, yet the soil had turned white and grown a salty crust in places, and starvation had ravaged the people. The loss of ancient wheat produce was of no matter, for the tillers of the earth ever switched crops when fertility faltered, and barley could stand the salt well enough.

A throaty noise of drunken communal singing rolled across the groves of date palms and reedy marshes. Bacchanalic hymns were heard among the clusters of hardy greenery; all as much a part of the Temple-Stables' harvest dues as were the barley of the fields and bitumen of the lakes. Reeds were cut with sickles of metal or burnt clay, and bound into huts and mats and boats and siege shields. You could live on the sweet dates alone, although you would outlive your teeth in the attempt. Many years saw the palms cut down by ravaging enemies from rival cities or savage tribes. The loss of date groves were of no matter, for the trees would spring up from hidden roots again and again.

In fact, few worldly troubles mattered at all during the tri-annual Feast of the Rampaging Bull, when the proud Tjublings of Tjubba-Tjur celebrated the virility and raw power of their sacred animal. Theirs was a city given over to the stabling and worship of bulls of all kinds. Theirs was a city dedicated to exalt, feed and serve these noble bovines, whether they were but mere beasts, mystic Tjubbutaurs or winged creatures of terrible mythic ancestry. Theirs was a city obsessed with the muscled body and cloven hooves of such strong beings, and the thundering hosts of Tjubba-Tjur sported the finest heavy cavalry and chariotry in all the lands between the mountains.

Vast herds of branded she-cattle grazed the ashen plains, stirred into running or lowing as groups of snorting bulls rushed past. Bulls gored each other, rammed heads and rumbled with dark voices. Bulls fought, rampaged through rickety fences and mounted cows in a frenzy, all the while cheered on by tens of thousands of intoxicated Tjublings from Tjubba-Tjur. It was a grand celebration of the might of all bull-kin, and the thick beer of many tankards were tipped out on the ground when the people witnessed firsthand the bouts of headbutting and rutting of the sacred Tjubbutaurs. Half-Bull, Half-Tjubling they were, and they were revered and tended to as the offspring of the gods by all righteous folk across all the lands between the mountains.

The drunken feast saw obscene amounts of strong brews swilled by thirsty Tjublings and Tjubbutaurs alike, and hundreds of Tjublings had already passed out across the fields on this, the second day of the festival. They were left lying where they fell, for it was up to the gods on high to decide whether fainted folk were to be left untouched by bovines, or crushed underhoof by the cavorting herds. No Tjubbutaur had yet passed out drunk, of course. They were made of sturdier stock, and no one had ever heard of a Tjubbutaur blacking out before the fourth day.

A traditional sideshow of alchemical and sorcerous showmanship took place a rather safe distance away from the main din and press. As per the ancient pact, Tjubgobs of the Crooked Knife tribe attended the Feast of the Rampaging Bull off to the side. The Crooked Knife had long been a favoured Tjubgob ally of Tjubba-Tjur, for they patrolled those parts of the vast Smoglands which bordered on the great city, fending off raiders and alerting the Tjubling overlords to signs of danger. As such thousands of Crooked Knife Tjubgobs had amassed in a tent-strewn camp, and were swilling far less potent brews than their allies did. Intoxication and lunacy would instead be achieved by powdered roots, herbs and mushrooms mixed into the drinks.

The Tjubgob sideshow consisted of a contest with a score picked young sorcerors and alchemists from Tjubba-Tjur, and the shamans of the tribe sported with the magicians of the city in the arts of spirit conjuration and illusions. The eldest member of the picked sorcerors rose into thin air, borne aloft on a smoke cloud, while a haggard old Tjubgob witch breathed out Storm Demons of roiling shadow and flinging fists.

The displays of trickery and magic drew a large crowd of Tjubgobs and Tjublings alike, and the number of passed-out feast attendees was particularly high among the spectators. Stinking vomit littered the grass, and parasitic Snotgobs darted in and out among the rowdy crowds, grabbing at any leftovers and spilled gut contets for a chance at filthy nourishment. If they got too close and got noticed, then these annoying mites found themselves chased off by those sober or bothered enough to make an effort. Occassionally bands of sadistic Tjubgob younglings would hound swarms of Snotgobs far away from the festivities, into a hillside of broken statues infested with a mother and litter of predatory Grubbs. There, the leering Tjubgob children would throw stones and scare the dumber Snotgobs into fleeing among the broken statuary, scrabbling uphill in panic before being gulped down whole by hungry Grubbs.

And so all found merriment and joy during the Feast of the Rampaging Bull, from the highest priests to the lowliest of (Oooh, naughty word), and all the people still conscious rejoiced in the displays of muscular energy, cruelty and lifegiving which took place all around them.

And thus all was well among the people of Tjubba-Tjur, the red-blooded City of the Bull.















New 15mm miniatures are out now! Sculpted by Tobias "Tjub" Torstensson.

Size comparisons:

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Admiralty Miniatures

Tjubgob Outrider Partatua Marrowsucker jounced upon the back of Chickenwing, his tall Bak-Kak-Ku mount. The giant avian ate the distance in long leaps. Mount and rider darted over a dusty hillock strewn with bushes and cedar trees. Cedar forests flourished this close to the coast down south. The scrawny Tjubgob gleefully noted that the south end of the hillock had been the place of a slave logging camp before enemies had struck, burning and slaying. Mangled corpses of shackled Humans and Goblins lay strewn about the swirling ashes and lingering smoke.

Fate and foe had been less kind to their Tjubgob overseers, for someone had apparently hacked them into little pieces and tossed the mutilated body parts on a dung heap. The grizzled Outrider did not doubt for a second that the Tjubgob slavedrivers had been alive and screaming as mobs of Orcish enemies pressed them down and tore them apart. Sunshine gleamed off golden tusks as Partatua fired off a sadistic grin at the tought of the overseers' demise. Such exquisite cruelty! Such overpowering force and shrieking panic! Such violation! The chopped-up slavedrivers were not even his own kin. Probably tribesmen from the Crooked Cap or Stormcloud tribe, so why should he care for such fellow Tjubgobs' fate? Frankly, he did noteven care for his own tribesmen.

A massive roar from five thousand brutish throats rose behind him, rising from the constant din of stomping feet and galloping cloven hooves. The Orc marauders of the Limbtearer tribe were in hot pursuit, but Partatua Marrowsucker did not fear. His Bak-Kak-Ku strider, Chickenwing, could outpace anyone in the horde behind him. Instead, Partatua's thoughts were cold and cunning, spinning out a devious plan of treachery. He filled his lungs and yelled at his eight fellow Outriders:

"Halt, you maggots! Stay your birds on this crest or I will rip your tongues out and feed them to wolves!"

Bewildered, his underling scouts tugged on the neck wrinkles of their Bak-Kak-Ku mounts, slapping their sides, kicking their heels in and hissing obscenities to their running avians. A wild dance ensued as Bak-Kak-Ku striders grudgingly obeyed and terminated their fast run, trying to toss off their riders, shrieking and stomping about on the spot in a cloud of dust.

"Hell boss! Hell! Why?" One-Eyed Scyles shouted back to Partatua.

"We must remain in sight of the Orcs on this crest, and on the crest of the next hill," explained Partatua. "We must not leave them all in the dust so they lose the trail. We must let them keep hot on our heels. Wait until the Orcs reach the logging camp behind us, and then sprint on to the next hill. Halt your Bak-Kak-Kus there. Do not let the Orcs lose sight of us! Got it?"

"Yeah, Marrowsucker, but why?!"

"We're all about to be rich, you dog. Now, bloody well do as I tell you, or we're all dead meat..."

The wind-bitten Tjubgob Outriders listened intently. Red eyes glittered with malice and greed. They nodded in agreement, and proceeded to lead on their pursuers, stopping when necessary to let the frothing Orcs catch up.

A while later, the gaggle of Tjubgob Outriders burst over the crest of yet another cedar-strewn hill. They spurred on their avian mounts at full speed down the sides of the hillock, babbling and screaming in apparent fright, as they rushed down to the column of friendly warriors, slaves and pack mules that snaked its way along the dusty road between two long hills.

Seven hundred armed Tjublings and two thousand Tjubgob warriors were making their way home toward the great port city of Tjubba-Tjubdansk, accompanied by untold thousands of chained slaves and pack animals in the baggage train. The little army's campaign yonder east into the Black Bog had been a success, thanks to scouts on Bak-Kak-Ku striders and oxen pulling pontoon bridges. The returning host was laden with booty and swamp Goblin slaves, and the mood had been jubilant. Now, uncounted heads turned right to stare at the frantic Outriders.

"Danger! Danger! Enemy in hot pursuit! Thousands of Orcs! Ooorcs! Ooooorcs!" screamed Partatua Marrowsucker at the top of his lungs. And the army heard him.

Tjubling Leaders of Fifty and Tjubgob mob leaders bellowed at their underlings to form ranks. The long lines of marching warriors started scurrying into formation in a mass of fervent activity. Wolf riders darted out to form the horns of the army, ready to harass and envelop the enemy at the flanks. Lumbering artillery pieces were hastily unlimbered and readied by startled crews and hauler slaves, and all eyes turned northwards. Chain gangs of porter slaves were violently herded about behind the slowly forming battleline, whipped and kicked by dozens of Tjubgob slavedrivers and a handful of terrifying Tjubling overseers.

The entire army was a mass of beating hearts and feet, hoarse cries and curses. The entire host was a massive din of thundering paws and cloven hooves, trundling wagon wheels and clattering arms and armour. The entire slaving expediton was a stressful hot knot of voices, drums, horns and roaring orders, all set to a background cacophony of wailing and whining Goblin slaves. Warband standards were raised high, a forest of icons and banner tops shaped as skulls, anvils, stormclouds and braziers. The whole sight was one of chaos, yet it was magnificient all the same. A thousand voices seemed to scream all at once:

"Ooorcs!"

"Form ranks!"

"Speargobs move over there! No, there! Leave a bloody gap for the Tjubbutaur Crushers!"

"Orcs! Orcs!"

"Get me the shaman! We need his Greater Shadow Demon right now!"

"Out of the way! Damn it! Damn it!"

"Black Hammer Rockets ready to fire!"

"Get the blasted Doom Hammers off the carts! Quick! Quick!"

"Hurry! They're pouring over the crest! Look!"

"Orcs! Orcs!"

"Oooorcs!"

The army's Tjubling warlord, Bazkerak Skullcrusher, darted along the front of his frantic battleline, roaring out orders and invoking the gods on high to stay by their side. He promised them a mighty pyre of sacrificed enemies in exchange for divine and unholy favour here and now. Unusually enough, the bearded Bazkerak had learnt how to ride a Bak-Kak-Ku strider, and he had used it to great effect out in the swamps. Untold thousands of Goblin marsh dwellers had found themselves overwhelmed by his unorthodox tactics, yet the bloodthirsty horde which now rushed downhill toward his army was an altogether different foe. A much more lethal foe.

Partatua Marrowsucker veered off to the side of the frantic army, leading his Outriders in a curve behind the host. Partatua cackled loudly at the sight of the onrushing Orcish tribe. Loud explosions erupted among the disordered Orc ranks as rocketry hit home, leaving blackened corpses and shrieking wounded behind. Yet the bloodlust had gripped the taunted Orcs to the hilt, and the hulking brutes charged the Tjublings and Tjubgobs head on, roaring a fearsome warcry.

The plan worked. Partatua Marrowsucker and his fellow scouts had managed to drag the Orcs along closely behind them like a child would a kite. Instead of giving the Tjubling army ample warning, or distracting the Orcs away from the column, the Outriders had led the savage horde right into the side of the marching host.

Partatua did not care to see if the army of Bazkerak Skullcrusher withstood the overwhelming rush of Orc warriors. The outcome was all the same to him. As all of the defenders' eyes were fully concentrated on the primitive barbarians assaulting them from the front, Partatua Marrowsucker led his cunning Outriders behind Bazkerak's lines. They did not go for the masses of Goblin slaves, for they would have been nigh impossible to herd along and feed. Likewise, the oxen and wagons were too cumbersome to bother with.

Instead, the Outriders couched their lances, spurred on their Bak-Kak-Ku striders and charged the few Tjubgob kinsmen who had been left to guard the pack mules of the baggage train. The Tjubgobs on foot cried out in surprise as the Outriders lanced them through their chests, tossing their corpses aside like ragdolls. The dastardly villains proceeded to herd away all the hundreds of pack mules of the army, laden with a fortune's worth of weapons, food, textiles, money and other equipment. The mules were strong, and could easily cope with the hilly terrain which Partatua planned to traverse.

Partatua Marrowsucker lifted his felt cap in mockery toward the embattled Tjubling army behind him, and shouted his wry thanks to ears which could not hear anything but the savage warcry of the hacking and slashing Orcs right in front of them. Sink or swin, the host of Bazkerak Skullcrusher would find half of their entire baggage train gone by the time this ferocious battle was over. It would be a challenge for the runaway Tjubgobs to escape with their booty far away from the domains of Tjubba-Tjubdansk, but they would be able to live like underworld kings if they could pull it off. Partatua grinned at his Outriders, and his co-thieves grinned back. The heist was on!

















New 15mm miniatures out now! Sculpted by Tobias "Tjub" Torstensson. Pack mules sculpted by Mathias Rizell.

Please note that one leg of the Tjubgob Bak-Kak-Ku rider was broken off and faultily re-attached by the caster. This should be easily fixed for experienced hobbyists.

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Admiralty Miniatures

Dun-Khan, Lord of the Storm, drew back his cracked lips to reveal a grin of yellow teeth and foul fangs. His eyes glittered with malice as he stood tall on a crumbling tell, surrounded by thousands of Tjubgob warriors on foot from his Storm horde. Below the tell swarmed an entire Orc tribe, daubed in ochre and roaring its savage battlecries while stomping toward the high ground occupied by the treacherous Tjubgobs. The Orcish foe's attention was completely fixed upon the rowdy ranks of Tjubgob infantry on top of the ruin hill, drawn there by feints and taunts by outriders. That was well.

Dun-Khan smirked as he mused for himself. His cunning plan had worked to perfection, after all. He could see the mirror reflexes blinking from the dry ridge on the other side of the narrow field. The artillery train had moved into position following an entire night of hauling it around the Orc camp in a wide arc. They had gone undetected up until now, thanks in no small part to his outrider's noisy and harassing distraction of the Orcish scum throughout the night. It was time, then.


"Signal for the ridge to deploy on crest. Fire at will!" barked the Lord of the Storm.

Nearby, a gaggle of standard bearers began waving their tattered rags in the patterns of the pre-determined flag signal. Drummers began to hammer their goatskin drums, their loud music signals carrying over the din of the Orcs below. In response, tiny figures appeared at the top of the ridge on the other side of the field, dragging dozens upon dozens of bolt throwers, Storm Dancer cannons and humongous curved Thunderhorns. The giant horns blew, as distant Tjubgobs heaved with all the force of their wretched lungs at the instruments. A titanic blare drowned out all other sound, startling the advancing Orcs. Their surge up the tell slowed down, as bewildered savages looked around. Their confusion only grew as lead balls and spear-sized bolts shot into the closely packed tribe, skewering and felling up toward a hundred Orcs with each salvo.

The artillery crew would work frenetically to deliver all fire they could muster. Their lives depended on slaughtering the Orcish enemy as fast as they could reload, although the lives of the Storm Dancer crew was forfeit due to that weapon's crushing recoil anyway. Storm Demon take them! After all, Dun-Khan had sent with the artillery only a small token guard force of backstabbers, to encourage diligence and fear of their overlord. No matter, he had victory in his grasp. The warlord waved his ensorcelled Stormbringer mace and yelled at his infantry between the blasts of Thunderhorns.

"Storm! Attack! Storm! Kill them all!"

A gleeful high-pitched warcry erupted from the horde on the tell. The tjubgobs surged forward, feet pumping against a slope of eroding mud bricks, all eager for an unfair fight. Their enemy was trapped and perplexed. This was the moment to strike. This was the moment to slay them wholesale.

Chaos ensued, as the dusty field ran red with Orcish blood.









New 15mm miniatures are out now! Sculped by Tobias "Tjub" Torstensson.

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Admiralty Miniatures