hewasneverborn

There seems to have been a missing PM from the vendor, he assures me that he has sent out the items. Hopefully that puts this one to bed.

Same issue here. I was told the cards were missing, and that they would be supplied after the models when they received the order from Wyrd. I replied, and despite the user having logged in since I replied, there has been no response.

Very nice models, excellent story, and slightly different scenario type focus from the other big games out there. Thats what does it for me.

PM sent.

Any more information on rules for this event?

I picked up her crew on a whim. I knew that she wasn't considered very good in general, but that only made my interest greater. I plan to try to do well with her, only using her as a master. Not great results straight away - had a narrow loss versus Hoffman in my first game. I shall not be forgetting his dampening field again, I tell thee. Running a bunch of shatter troops up to him didn't prove all that useful in the end...

Thats a real shame. A number of us were very interested in this. Thanks anyway.

I know it probably is of no concern to you, but I'd like to register my dissapointment that you are disregarding the opinions of members of the playerbase you are supposed to represent. Regardless of what you say, you have now created a two-tier system in what is still a small community. I for one will not be attending any ranked events. Perhaps I will be alone in this, but I somehow doubt it. For those who share my opinions, the best I can offer is that my club will run some non-ranked events down south.

I'm not sure how this can still be a purely theoretical discussion where people question how it can happen. It has and does already happen. These same discussions happened before the WHFB rankings and the end result is a preponderance of those lists which are recognised to be superior, and a great many games where you are playing versus a position on a ladder, not an opponent. There is a very real example that has been in play for a number of years now. To assume that people that play malifaux are somehow magically above developing the overly-competative urges as other games systems have suffered from seems to be somewhat naive. I question why rankings is necessary in the first place Everyone that has joined the game has done so for the game, they enjoy the models, the mechanics, the fluff. We can all agree on liking the game. Just the discussion of rankings has shown there to be a deep division in opinion, so rather than making the community more cohesive it adds divisions where there were none. I do not want to have to register my discontent with rankings at each event I go to, sounding like the broken record, so I'd choose not to go to them, and opt for the more relaxed options. The only issue with this that some people seem to be missing is that organisers want the maximum people to attend. They know from current trends that ranked events always draw more attendance. Non ranked events are usually ignored by people in search of their three perfect scores or whatever benchmark has been set. As an objector to the fait accompli, I will have a more limited range to attend. Its easy to say that there will be a plethora of such events now, but who is to run them? The same arguments were used for Warhammer, and now I should think there are few established events that don't hand over results to RHQ. WM/H does not have individual rankings and yet the game is the fastest growing one I have seen for many years. To suggest that having individual rankings would help this game cannot yet be proven, but the evidence is there for all to see for a game that does not have them. WM/H lists events on RHQ, and has a list of the top factions by wins, and casters within those factions. That is interesting data I have no issue with, and would happily see Malifaux receive the same treatment. This is an argument for the middle ground only. The very competative types that already exist will do what they have to whatever happens, as people say. The people who like to paint and muck around, the same. This isn't about them, and to harp on about this point is a bit of a straw man. Its about the middle ground, people who may well be tempted to score those three perfect events as put forward in the first post. The assumption is they will score them quickly and then revert to a more fun list. This assumption in itself implicitly recognises that the three perfect scores are less fun. A worrying belief when mentioned alongside the benefits of such a system. What happens if through lack of familiarity, luck or skill, such a person turns up to events and somehow doesnt get a score they are happy with? Will such people still take those 3 results, or will they persist bringing the powerful list until such time as skill/luck gives them something they are happier with? Thats the real issue, and the thing that kills fantasy as a competative game. The middling sort keep on coming back with the same min-maxed lists, and in ever greater number. Each persobn that gets whacked by the shannigans has a breaking point - how long before they too decide that they don't want to fork out cash to come to these events to get beaten horribly? Or worse, that they will fight fire with fire? I haven't had the opportunity to come to many events yet, but the ones I have attended have had a decent mix of masters. I don't want to see ones skewed towards the Hamelins, Pandoras etc. I fully recognise that people are doing this for good reasons, they want to help the game. I have nothing personal against such efforts, in fact I applaud the hard work and thought that goes into the - I just believe that they will do more harm than good. I have made my thoughts clear enough over two posts, so I doubt I will be chiming in again. If anyone wants to discuss this further with me, you can message me, though I expect you will already know my opinion.

I support the use of RHQ for event tracking and higher level statistics; but in terms of individual rankings, I cannot stress my concern highly enough. Of course, nothing more has been said so it may be that you have chosen the former rather than the latter. If this is the case, then I thank you for that choice and your efforts. If the latter, then I suppose this counts as an objection. Warhammer fantasy took a real nosedive in quality at events as soon as the rankings came in to force. Now there may be some who think the game wasn't terribly balanced before this occurred, and while that is true the effect was exacerbated many times over by all the people rushing to show how 'great' they were at warhammer. The effect was so pronounced that when Warmachine and Hordes was given the opportunity to join it was decided that individual rankings would not be used in case the same happened. Keep Malifaux the fun and sportsman-friendly game it is now, that's my 2-penneth.

Would you post to the UK? They are great!

He affects how the game is played too much. Handing out insignificant disables too many schemes and strategies. Other masters work within the framework of the game - a kill to remove a model from scoring potential. While death has additional benefits in as much as the dead usually cannot strike back, the regenerative element to hamelin's force mitigates the fact that an opponent is left alive after being hit by the spell. Hamelin is pretty safe from them and outside the difficult to kill nix, you actually want the rest to get killed. As you say, he is no more problematic in a time-constraint fashion than many other masters, but that's an issue with the complexity of the game, not any individual master (though some exacerbate it). Some factions need more time than others to go for their points, and in a limited time format, the master than can prevent those points being accrued at range is going to do well. I own him and find him a bit too good, and having seen him played by others I find nothing to alter my opinion.

Apologies - the items have now sold.

Hi all. I'm doing another "faction re-shuffle" and I will be getting rid of my gremlin horde. Most models are built and on wyrd bayou bases (and some bases have bayou accessories on them to add some differences to similar models), but a few piglets and bayou gremlins are unbuilt. Nothing is base coated or painted. I have: So'mer Ophelia Pere Rami Raphael 3 x Giant Mosquito 12 x Bayou Gremlin Gremlin Taxidermist 2 Slop Haulers 6 Stuffed Piglets 3 Piglets Hats and Guns of Malifaux All cards have been laminated and are included. I'm based in the UK. PM/reply with offers - around 1/2 rrp for the items (including cost of bases) should do the trick.

I hope to be able to send Vincent's and my own list to you this evening.

Player found - hopefully no more drop outs after this...

Hi one of my London clubs, the Clapham Wargamers http://www.claphamwargamers.org.uk/Forum/showthread.php?tid=534 is holding a story driven mini-league (35 SS, 4 games with 1 every 2 weeks), with the first round of games starting next thursday (31st). I'm putting out a call for a player who thinks they can meet this reasonably casual commitment (see thread on Clapham board for more details) as we have had a recent dropout and need to replace him quickly. Further details are accessible via the link (and associated threads on the other forum) or by posting questions here for me to answer. Here's Hoping! Des

I will be calling the shop later to book at least a couple of places. I'm trying to rustle up more interest at my local club.

I have yet to use Nino, but based on what I have seen from the executioner, automatic kills at range with Crows could be very nasty.

Thanks to everyone who read the first part. For your reading pleasure (?), here is part two... The past, old Malifaux… He couldn’t be kept waiting. No, that wouldn’t do at all. One didn’t survive long if he kept the Master waiting. The vassal moved swiftly through the silent courtyard. The living guardsmen stood to attention, but watched him closely as he passed. These would be the last living entities he would see before his audience, saving the Master. His Master no longer permitted the living to guard him at close proximity. From here on, only the undead guards were permitted to hold vigil. He entered the Master’s personal chambers via the secret door hidden behind a statue in the arboretum. The Master’s paranoia had reached extreme levels and no vassal worth his position dared use a normal entrance on the estate any more. Each door had been rigged with traps, causing the demise of many of the Master’s newer slaves. As he entered the lofty antechamber he heard the familiar droning sound of the esoteric machines as they whirred and clicked to an unfathomable purpose. Once, when the Master had been more tolerant of others, he had told him of their true purpose, but the vassal had never been one for high minded science. They aided the Master’s plan, and that was enough for him. Rotting sentinels in the gallery above gazed at him with unseeing eyes as he quickly made his way to the next room. The vassal hit the hidden switch behind the largest machine and the second secret door opened. He was free to enter the inner sanctum. The stuffy confines of the room were a testament to the prevailing mood of his lord. The Master was a powerful individual, wealthy beyond measure, and well versed in science and arcane lore. Yet he was wholly and utterly overtaken with paranoia. He was truly one of the great minds of the age, unfortunately laid low by petty concerns that forced him to hide away like a caged animal. The smell of his undead guardsmen was magnified tenfold in such an environment. The vassal proceeded up to the dais his lord occupied, and waited silently to be noticed. The Master was seated in front of his scrying machine as usual, and it took a few moments for him to register the presence. “Why have you entered my chambers, servant? Have you come here to kill me?” The Master’s voice was wavering and feverish. He was visibly unkempt and had clearly not slept in days. “No Master,” the vassal responded automatically “I come with news of your enemies as you requested.” The Tyrant studied the face of his retainer carefully. His enemies were poised to strike, this he already knew. It was more than possible that one of them had corrupted his servant into their employ. He required more evidence. “If that is so, I require a sacrifice that confirms your allegiance, slave. Cut off your hand to prove your loyalty.” The vassal’s heart sank. This request could not be refused, or his life and those of his family would be forfeit. He produced his blade of office from within his robe and sank to his knees. He placed his weaker fist on the ground in front of him, and took a sharp intake of breath. Then he began sawing. When it was done, he could barely prevent himself from screaming. “Good, my servant. I will hear your report now.” The voice of the Master regained some authority and composure which allayed the growing fears of his servant. “Your rival has completed a device at Kythera my lord. Your spies report it will open the gateway as was predicted.” “Damn him!” Spat the Tyrant. “His plans have been accelerated! Kill my spies for not reporting this already. Such an undertaking should have taken him more time. My plans are yet incomplete!” The vassal bowed before his lord, partially to obey his request and partially through loss of blood. “I will see to it my Lord. Have you any other instructions?” The Tyrant sat thoughtfully for a moment. “Yes I do vassal. I am not yet convinced of your loyalty. I require more sacrifice. You will kill yourself now, and thus I will know your final allegiance.” The vassal’s head slumped as his worst fears were confirmed. He looked up one final time at the uncaring eyes of his master, and then obeyed the request without further delay. Present Day, Northern Mountains… At the sight of the giant soulstone before him, Captain Bridger dropped to his knees, speechless in shock. As he gazed upon the stone, the world around him began to recede into insignificance. Such a prize would make him a king back on Earth! He gingerly reached out to touch the milky-white surface, so flawless and beautiful…He dimly registered his hand was batted away from the stone. Denton Jenks howled in anger and launched himself at the Captain. “Don’t you touch him!” Jenks bellowed in a mixture of rage and anguish, “he speaks only to me!” The Captain barely dodged out of the way as the frenzied Jenks hurled toward him; though a trailing boot caught him on the shoulder, knocking him to the floor. The Captain was well trained and within the blink of an eye he was on his feet and drawing his peace bringer. At the sound of the trigger being cocked, Jenks sprang up and flew into the darkness with the swiftness of a gazelle. Captain Bridger took aim and fired, but the shot rang out against a stone wall in the darkness. He took aim for another shot but he saw that Jenks had disappeared. Bridger turned to the guards and roared “I want that lunatic apprehended at once! Ten stones to the man who brings him to me, dead or alive.” A few on the men nodded and drew their pistols before heading in the last known direction of the fugitive. As they left, the Captain ordered the remainder of the guards set up work crews and assign prisoners to each detail. No further delay in the mining schedule would be permitted by him. Even the guards knew they were expendable when the matter was a late shipment of soulstone. The Captain quickly had the large soulstone cordoned off from the prisoners. He would not permit anyone to come close to the stone; he didn’t want anyone harming the sale value of the item. Also, not that he would have admitted it to anyone; it held a certain charm for him beyond mere finance. He began to understand why Jenks would have risked his life fighting over it. Jenks’ attachment to the stone was the real reason Bridger wanted him dead – he had dared lay hands on it. The Convict had watched the recent events unfold with some interest. Even with his mind focussed completely on escape, the soulstones were clouding his thoughts with dreams of wealth. His crimes had never been about greed, but he certainly felt the pull when he looked at the huge stone in the ground before him. He had been amused to see Jenks floor the Captain, but had been more surprised at the manner of his escape. What the others could not see (and yet the Convict still didn’t understand why he could) was the ‘shadows’ helping Jenks to avoid Bridger’s shot. The blackness had extended itself outwards and just plucked him of out the way. The others had no idea what was going on, but whatever these black shapes were, they infested this mine and for some reason had sided with a lunatic. This did not bode well. The Convict determined to offer himself up for the hardest jobs if it meant being out of this place. Within a few days, the search for Denton Jenks had been exhausted of all the manpower Captain Bridger could afford to use on it. The crazy bastard was presumed dead, although the supplies were watched carefully in case he tried to sustain himself when they were sleeping. The mining operation was now in full swing, the torchlight system and track needed to haul up the soulstones were in place and the first stones had been brought up to the surface. The large stone was the first to be brought to the surface, and it now remained under armed guard at all times. Bridger had also assigned guards to watch the other guards; he didn’t want one of the men to abscond in the night with a king’s ransom. The prisoners had taken to the work with little trouble. There were some malcontents, certainly, but a few executions had brought the others into line. Captain Bridger had also tempered the rod with the gift of extra rations. As the prisoners were terribly malnourished, the extra food was more important than the need to rebel. The prisoners thought they would continue to receive extra rations if they performed well. What they did not know is that supplies were already low, and the accident at the river had taken more of the food than they realised. Bridger had secretly dispatched a rider to requisition more supplies, but it would be many days before the wagons arrived. While the mood was somewhat balanced, he chose to not be too conservative with his rationing policy, but he knew the camp would be almost impossible to manage once the situation was known. The Convict had managed to wrangle his way into the hauling detail. It was back breaking labour, but it meant a lot of time away from the mining area which was precisely what he wanted. The convicts and guards that spent the most time down there were starting to act strangely. Others dismissed it as cabin fever, what with being cooped up in that space underground, but the Convict knew the truth. He may have been as far away as he could manage, but he still heard the voices that emanated from the mine. Faint voices that he did not recognise as coming from any member of the party he knew. Voices that carried up through rock as softly and sweetly as if whispered by a loved one in your ear. Voices that people only heard in their minds. The voices from the mine began on the second day, so feint at first, but they were building in intensity. At first it had been impossible to understand, spoken in a garbled language he was unfamiliar with. But the more he listened the more they started to make sense. Whatever was down there in the shadows was exhorting the men to stand up for themselves, to watch out for the others around them. The words were sweet as honey yet full of venom for men, and it was clear to the Convict that its aim was to drive the men mad, though to what end he did not know. Matters got worse for the Convict when the large stone was brought up to the camp. Unlike the other men, he had developed an aversion to being near it. He was sure it was evil – it was the subject of every conversation, every desire in the camp. He shared his opinions with no one; in fact, he spoke with no one other than to answer questions the guards asked of him, and to defend his share any time it was questioned by another prisoner. If people knew he could see and hear things, they would make him out to be another Jenks, and he would likely be killed before he had time to open his mouth. The proximity of the stone made the voices clearer to the Convict, and he often had to stop himself from replying to them. With the added clarity came a general feeling of malice and mistrust that was beginning to impact on everyone at the camp. The Captain had been able to quiet the weaker willed ones down with more food, but the voice kept working at them, telling them they needed to look out for themselves only. Everyone else wasn’t worth a thought. The Convict saw less of the Captain each day. Bridger had taken to staying in his tent, where he had located the large stone for ‘safekeeping’. The guards clearly resented this slight on their professionalism and so had taken to mocking him in front of the prisoners when he was absent. They reported all kinds of foolish stories about how he was dressing the thing up as his wife and declaring his love to it. The prisoners laughed cruelly when they heard this, they had no love for any Guildsman, especially if he had the power of life and death over them. Although it was not just that which coloured their thoughts. The ownership of the soulstone, and all the others, was foremost in the minds of each man there, except the Convict. At the end of the first week, the camp was close to boiling point. Some of the guards chose not to take up their posts at times during the day, and if it wasn’t for the increased brutality of those that did, the prisoners would have taken over already. The Captain had not been seen in some time, and none one cared to check on his wellbeing. A number of men on the mining detail had died in various accidents, caused by a lack of care shown by the guards who were supervising their work, or by unexplained ‘accidents’. The Convict had been a witness to one of these accidents. Young Jeb Saunders had been throttled to death out of sight of the main crew by one of the guards. It was at this point the Convict knew he had to disappear. He waited for the next ration to be delivered to him and although it was small, he didn’t eat any of it. Instead, he wrapped it in a cloth to be eaten later. He continued working normally, guiding the cart down the mine to the cavern and waiting for a load of stones to be delivered. While the cart was being loaded he took his chance. “What is Collins up to over there? Did you see him pocket that stone?” The convict pointed over at Riley Collins, a thuggish rogue who had been harassing him for food. The guard squinted off into the gloom, uncertain of what he was seeing. “How in the hell can you see that clearly down here, you maggot?” The Guard continued squinting, so his interest had certainly been piqued. “That bastard has collected quite a haul already, sir. I’ll get my throat cut for telling you this tonight no doubt, but he’s working with some of the others to steal stones for themselves. They wouldn’t cut me in, so screw them.” The Convict played up his annoyance at being kept out of the fictitious deal. No guard would believe he was telling on another prisoner for good reasons. He had to play the role they expected. “I’ll kill that rat bastard! You had better give me the names of his accomplices or you’ll hang too!” The Guard grabbed the Convict buy his grubby shirt, shaking him as though to draw out the names like apples from a tree. The Convict reeled off a list of other prisoners that had tried to take food from him. “Payback time” he thought. The guard told him to wait where he was, and then dashed over to the scene of the supposed crime. Without wasting a moment, the Convict turned on his heel to run down one of the deeper tunnels. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he grabbed a small soulstone as he left. He didn’t suppose it would make his punishment any worse than it was going to be, and if felt so appealing at the time. With that, he ran into the gloom, leaving the men to what he knew would be an unpleasant fate. The past, old Malifaux… “HE knows my name!” The Tyrant lifted a large device from his desk and launched it across the room. It impacted against a wall sending fragments showering over his guest. The Tyrant slumped back into a chair, sobbing quietly. “He… he knows my name.” The visitor reined in his desire to laugh. It was astounding that he stood before one of the most powerful individuals in Malifaux, yet this individual was a wreck mentally and physically. He wondered if he had picked the wrong patron for his ambitions. “My lord, I will see to it that he ‘forgets’ any information he has on you. And as usual, I will be thorough in case the information has been imparted on his household.” The Tyrant stopped sobbing, and managed a weak smile. He pushed himself up out of his chair and approached his chosen assassin. He grabbed him by the shoulders weakly and leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “None can survive. If they know who I am, they will know where they must come to stop me.” The assassin nodded and made a small bow before leaving. The Tyrant regained a little of his composure and returned to his desk. He pointed at the mess on the floor and an undead servitor appeared from a hidden alcove and began to clean the mess. Although these creatures had no higher mental faculties, they now represented the only things the Tyrant could confide in. “He does not understand the situation, number three. He is clever but not wise, and does not see all as clearly as he believes. I find him useful for now, but… we shall see.” The servant turned around with some basic recollection that its Master was addressing it. The Tyrant smiled warmly back at its ruined face. “Ah number three, you are my favourite. Clean up now, clean well and then return to your post.” The zombie moaned loudly and resumed its task. The Tyrant returned to studying the schematics for the device he was planning to build. A machine that would end the world. The assassin dropped to the floor from a support beam. Despite his size, he made no sound as he hit the floor. He was a master of his trade, at the peak of his abilities. Unlike others, his profession allowed no recommendations of quality. The fact that no one would ever know his part was all the recommendation he and his patron needed. The assassin’s skills made him the last living retainer of the Tyrant. He was often concerned how much longer that state would be maintained. The mind of the Master was great indeed, but fickle. As much as he would be rewarded for continued success, he dreaded what came with failure. He found the Master’s zombies distasteful and was reluctant to join their ranks. As long as he continued to be of use he knew he would continue living. His target was a wealthy merchant, rich enough to come by the knowledge that was going to cause his death. The Master would not permit anyone to learn his true identity, nor live should they already know it. The assassin had killed everyone from the Tyrant’s life, anyone close to him, or that had even met once in the dimly remembered past. His own ignorance about who the Tyrant was meant that he could be fairly certain as long as he never learned it, he would be one of the last to die, and hopefully, the first to be reborn. The merchant was cautious, although everyone had to be in such times. The secret war the tyrants had begun was fracturing society and now there were no safe enclaves. Whether you fell to the blade of a Tyrant, the excesses of a pleasure cult, or to the noose of the rebellion was the only choice left to many. The merchant had surrounded himself with hired protection, but they were poorly trained and failed to spot the assassin entering the compound. Using his peerless skills, he had already dispatched three of them and hidden the corpses. Now his route to the target was open. Still the night was young and there was enjoyment to be had in the chase – there was no need to rush. Soon he would have another soul to add to his collection. A soul bound to him in service by the black magic of his master. When he was sure no guards were around, he crossed the hallway and ascended to the landing containing his target’s personal chambers. He knocked four times, in the manner he had observed the servants doing on one of his earlier scouting visits. The door unlocked and opened slowly, and the fat face of the merchant peeked out. Surprise and fear registered on his face, and he tried to close the door, but the assassin was too fast. He kicked the door back into the target; the door connecting with his skull and knocking him unconscious. When the merchant awoke, the assassin was sitting on his chest, with a hand over his mouth. “If you call out, I will hurt you very badly.” The assassin displayed his cruel looking blade, the sight of which drew a look of unparalleled terror from the merchant. “Good” said the assassin. “I can tell you will be sensible, so I will allow you the luxury of speech.” He released his hand from the merchant’s mouth. “P-please, I can pay a great deal” the merchant spluttered. “I don’t need to know anything, just take the payment; it’s in a chest under my bed, and then leave. I won’t know who you are and you have no fear of reprisals…” A blade in his gut stopped the bargaining. “No, my fat friend, you life is now forfeit. This cannot be averted. What I offer you instead is a continued existence, bound to me in service. Surely this is better than oblivion?” The assassin removed his hood. He smiled predatorily at the wounded man. “All I ask in return is that you write down what you know about the scientist in the old quarter and then seal it.” The merchant was crying openly now, for he understood his life was almost over. For all his possessions in the world, nothing now came close the value of a few more moments of life. The assassin wrenched him off the floor with a little difficulty, and as he rose, stabbed him again. The merchant cried out again from the pain. “You will do as I asked now,” the assassin spat “you have little time left for me to complete the ritual. Otherwise your soul will float in the ether as the plaything of a Tyrant for all eternity.” The door thudded with the impact of heavy hands. From outside the heavy oaken door a voice called out “Sir, are you well?” The assassin walked over and opened the door, surprising the guards with his boldness. As they entered the room with their swords drawn he rushed at them head on. They were strong, but not fast, so he easily avoided their clumsy blows. Each strike they attempted was a miss, and as they had overextended, they received a wound from his wicked blade. A few such blows and both of the men lay dead at his feet. He turned to the merchant, who looked glumly at his hired guards. “Do as I command!” The merchant finished writing on the parchment, and then sealed the paper with a wax seal. With leaden movements he rose and turned to face his tormentor. “I am ready for death now, assassin. May whoever sent me this accursed knowledge burn in eternal torment!” The assassin smiled cruelly. “Oh no, my fat servant. I was not lying about your fate. I’m really going to give you eternal life! Well, to an extent …” With a few inaudible words of power, the incantation was cast; and with one powerful thrust of his dagger he found the heart of his victim. Cold black flame exploded around the hilt of the weapon and the merchant exploded in a shower of black dust. A curious dark vapour lingered in the place where the merchant has stood a moment before. The assassin smiled in triumph and took a deep breath, drawing in the noxious vapour as though it were the most delicate of wines. “Welcome to my service, little one.” The assassin cleaned his blade on the bed and put the sealed parchment under his robe. The binding had been successful; even now he could hear the cries of his victim in the back of his mind. He exited the merchant’s compound, and made his way through the empty thoroughfares of the City, sticking to the shadows where he could. The dim oil lamps situated at regular intervals occasionally landed a beam on his person and at such times a remarkable transformation seemed to occur. Where one man had passed, it seemed as though many were there, one in the foreground and others clamouring in his shadow. When he arrived at his intended location, an opulent looking townhouse bearing the crest of a noble family, he rapped loudly on the courtyard gates. A grill opened in the gate and a harsh voice enquired from within: “What business do you have, knocking at this time of night?” The assassin produced the parchment from under his robe and proffered it through the grill. “I offer this to your master. I’m sure he will find it very enlightening…” With that he turned and left, fading away from the light of the building, becoming one with his shadow. To be continued…

Hi, just a bit of an intro before I get into it. I used to write stories about Confrontation as I really loved the world Rackham created, but when the game died, my interest in writing about the world died too. Recently Malifaux has rekindled my desire to come up with stories about this crazy new land - primarily the areas that the sanctioned stories barely delve into. There is a lot of blank space between events in the books that I can play around with. Its an open frontier just like the one in the story, and hopefully will be just as unknown and exciting a journey of discovery for us all... The Darkest Shadow Part One: With a grinding screech the train came to a halt. The force of the breaking train threw the ‘guests’ of carriage seven to the floor. A few of the men became tangled in the long chains that held each of them to the central post of the prison car. Those prisoners nearest the small barred windows scrambled the get a first glimpse at their new home, pressing their dirty and worn faces close to the grimy carriage walls in order to get the best view. The prisoners closer to the centre of the carriage pulled on the chains of those by the windows to try and stop them blocking their view, which caused fights to break out. The general tension in the carriage had finally boiled over. One prisoner sat alone, silently waiting by the door of the car. From just outside he heard the sounds of Guild warders loading their weapons. As this sound became audible to the other prisoners they stopped their fighting; suddenly becoming united against a much more implacable foe. They shot furtive looks at one another – looking for a leader who would bring them salvation at the last gasp, but found no eyes that held the resolve. From the platform outside they heard the loud call of the Station Guard, calling out an infamous greeting: “Last stop – Malifaux. Welcome through the breach Ladies and Gentlemen!” The train’s steam whistle blew a couple of times to rouse the slumbering regular passengers, that was, any passengers calm enough to take the journey through the breach on their backs. The Convict could hear the doors opening and the regular passengers emerge. The bustle of the station could be heard now that the train’s engine had fallen silent. The Convict cocked his ear to the noise outside. The sounds of every day life had been denied to him for so long now, and so he closed his eyes for a moment, pretending that he was one of those people, those lucky free souls not ten feet from his current position. He pressed his head back against the cold metal-reinforced walls of the carriage and took a moment to reflect on the journey. The Breach was unlike anything he had ever felt; for a brief moment he had been more aware than he had previously though possible, and had experienced vivid waking dreams. Since that moment he felt different somehow, refreshed and clarified, like being a bath in a saloon after days of travel. The other prisoners had been going crazy as they passed through. Some had gnashed their teeth and flailed their arms like they were in an imaginary bar fight, while others rocked back and forth weeping, crying out apologies to people long since gone. The worst one was Denton Jenks - who had been as quiet as a church mouse up until that point, and had giggled insanely ever since. So that was it then, the Convict thought, I’m now in Malifaux. He had never been particularly fearful about anything in his life, but this was different. He was a long way from his kin, from anyone who gave a damn whether he lived or died. He concern at being here was for good reason. It was a well established fact that prisoners rarely made it back from Malifaux. They came to work in the mines on their knees, or in the whorehouse on their backs – and he knew he wasn’t pretty enough for the latter. Working on a chain gang out in the wilds would be the sure death of him, whether through endless toil or through something a lot worse. The papers Earthside were teeming with lurid reports of all kinds of terrible monsters that could rip a man to shreds in a heartbeat - or worse. Being the mindless slave to some Rezzer bastard for all eternity was hardly what he had in mind for his ‘retirement years’. His thoughts were interrupted by the carriage door being unlocked. It swung forcefully inwards, hitting the wall with a clatter. The Guild guards entered the compartment, rifles first, and the lead warder called out to the prisoners “Convicts will comply or be shot.” At this, the prisoners stood as one - they knew that there wasn’t a person in the world that would blink an eye if a warder dropped them there and then. The Guild had paid for them, and could act how they wanted, especially here in Malifaux, where the Guild operated with its own mandate. They prisoners stood mute as they were chained to each other and marched from the carriage onto the platform and from there to holding pens deep within the station. Within those pens, with no natural light and no outside company, the Convict lost track of the time. He thought they had been in that hole for at least a couple of days, with not enough bread or water to sustain them for the duration. Men had fought, and a couple had been beaten to death for the few scraps they had managed to claim. Didn’t matter to those Guild bastards though, they left a collection of spent soul stones nearby just to ensure the dead men would still have a use: powering all their infernal contraptions. The Convict had managed to claim a decent enough share of the food, though a few prisoners had challenged him for it, he could hold his own in a fight, and most of the dangerous ones knew this so left him alone. There was plenty of easy prey in here to keep them busy until the guards came for them again. Around what he thought to be the third day, the prisoners were finally collected and put into Guild wagons for the journey north. Almost no care or attention was given to keeping them safe from the elements, well fed, or watered. The Guild rationale was that if they survived long enough to work, then they would get something to keep them doing that - weak men made bad miners. The Convict intended to hunker down and stay alive for as long as possible; giving him time to formulate and execute an escape plan. It would not be easy, as unlike Earthside one could not count on coming across homesteads or easy food sources. The local animals here were more likely to take a bite out of you than the other way round. Unfortunately the alternative was a slow painful death, and so he would have to risk the wilds and whatever else he encountered. Of all the prisoners, the Convict was the most guarded and watchful, and this made the Guild guards pay him close attention. They deemed him to be the running type, and so a number of them had made up their minds to put him into situations where he was unlikely to survive and let fate take him off their hands. The leader of the Guild contingent was a stern yet youthful Captain named R. Ryan Bridger, who was as shrewd as he was ruthless. He forbade his guards from killing any prisoners that did not present an immediate problem. Losing useful paid labour before they had done a lick of work made for bad business, and if the shipments were light, then it would be his head on the block. What happened to men after the endless toil had taken its toll, well, that was out of his hands… He had personally overseen three years worth of chain gangs out in the middle of nowhere, all with the aim of furthering his career. Bringing home a great deal of soulstone was a sure way of gaining the advances necessary to live a comfortable life, and his youthful command was a testament to this. Captain Bridger had recently acquired the rights to mine a new area of the northern territories, one somewhat distant from the current troubles involving the Arcanist Witch. This claim had initially been difficult to attain, but fortune had smiled upon him with the sudden and unexplained death of the previous owner. The Death Marshals had been called in over the crime, and had performed a thorough investigation clearing Bridger of any impropriety. R. Ryan Bridger had not questioned his good luck; he merely stumped up the scrip necessary to bribe the zoning official and now was well on course to be a powerful and wealthy man. The prisoners were supplied to at great cost him by his paymasters in the Guild and completed the final, costly, element of his plan. Earthside governments paid the Guild to take them away, transport them, and then the Guild worked them to death providing soulstone which was sold back to those governments for a princely sum. Due to the exorbitant costs of the men, he paid a small amount for the bare minimum nutrients to keep most of them alive, and for the extra hands to keep them all in line. Opportunities like this were only possible in this land – Bridger had been born into a poor claiming family on Earth, yet was living it up like a king here. Soon he would have enough to move back to his hometown and lord it up for all to see. He didn’t think enough of Malfaux to want to stay much longer. Even in the few years he had been here, he had seen too many strange sights to be comfortable. The whole place was just too odd; it seemed to want to be rid of men. Bridger wasn’t a big enough fool to think as some did that Malifaux and the surrounding lands could be tamed. This last trip would hopefully be his last. The journey to the prospect site lasted a week and was plagued with all kinds of problems. The weather, which was usually so stable in proximity to the Breach, ranged from extreme heat in the badlands to torrential rain in the foothills. The expedition wasn’t prepared for this, as they had rarely encountered inclement weather. Some supplies and equipment were lost in what was reported to have been a gentle creek on the last survey map, but when the expedition reached it they found a raging river that was barely fordable. The prisoners muttered about “bad omens” and the crazy talk began to unsettle the guards. Then there was the matter of Denton Jenks. None of the other prisoners would tolerate being within ten feet of him, and none of the guards had the balls to shoot the crazy bastard. Jenks had begun to talk to himself, quietly at first, but with ever increasing animation and clarity. His endless chatter with his ‘friends’ was keeping eyes off the Convict though, and in that Jenks was doing a great job. The Convict didn’t hold as much stock in omens and the talk of the deranged as the others did. He just kept his head low, and did as he was told. The prospect site was little more than a small hole in the side of a mountain. Some ancient equipment sat rusting outside, the age of it seemed to suggest that it had been worked long before men had crossed the Breach. The site was isolated from the surrounding areas by way of being on an oblique bluff, and without the map the party may have gone straight past it without being aware it was there. It was eerie and quiet, devoid of even a single soaring bird that had been quite common in the foothills. It had a pervasive sense of foreboding, and after an ill starred journey, it was making the men even more restless. The guards quickly set the prisoners to work, building a rudimentary camp, preparing a sluice for the mountain stream adjacent to the mine entrance, and shoring up the framework to protect against any rock movements that may have occurred since the last time it had been worked. As it was late in the day by the time the tasks were complete, the tents were pitched and campfires created. The prisoners were permitted some food, and as a reward for their services (and a bribe against trouble) were given a tot of rum per man. All the convicts welcomed it gladly – this place gave them the creeps. None of those men would ever dare admit it but none of them wanted to go into that mine. It wasn’t just the fact that they anticipated being worked to death in there; the mine gave them an odd sensation whenever any of them strayed too close, like someone had just walked over their grave. It didn’t help either that the horses would not bear being within 30 feet of the entrance. In fact, the only soul who seemed to not be bothered by the mind was Denton Jenks. He had to be restrained from running down into the mine any chance he got. When sleep was finally permitted, every man experienced a restless night and had dreams filled with demented visions. Each of these mad scenes concerned the mine. It was as if every means the subconscious had was being deployed to try and prevent the dreamer from entering that place. The Convict got as much sleep as he could, though in his heart he knew something bad lay waiting for him down that mine shaft. Whatever the Breach had done to him seemed to be having peculiar effects. From time to time, odd shapes and figures were visible to him out the corner of his eye. But when he looked over toward the mine, they became perfectly visible. Just beyond the darkness he could see things that made his skin crawl. Swirling dark shapes flowing between those of crooked men and things altogether less human. On every level he knew that he shouldn’t go into the mine, but what choice did he have? It was the only chance of salvation too. Before dawn, the guards roused those prisoners that had managed to grab more than a couple of hours of sleep, and then fed the men with a horrid-tasting gruel. After they had finished, Captain Bridger had the men corralled in front of the mine and then mounted his horse, to better address the gathered men. “Work is freedom. Work is salvation. This is all any of you men here should concern yourselves with. You have been abandoned by those Earthside. To them you are nothing. You all had your chances and you squandered them with thievery, whoring, and killing. This place is a chance to wipe the slate clean and pay your due. The Guild values you. The Guild will keep you. But… you must earn these two things, and the work will not be easy or enjoyable. Anyone who tries to escape will be shot. Anyone who tries to undermine my authority will be shot. There is no court of peers here – I’m the judge and the executioner and I assure you gentlemen, I enjoy all my jobs. Now get to work!” The guards set the men into action with a few well placed blows, and with that, the mining operation began. Despite their fears and reservations, the convicts could not refuse the order to enter the mine. The loaded and cocked rifles of the Guildsmen were a more immediate threat. Free of his restraints, Denton Jenks made a beeline into the darkness, whooping with joy. Needless to say, this only heightened the anxiety of the others entering with him, prisoners and guards alike. The Convict was one of the first into the mine, and so had been given a lamp to help guide the other prisoners down into the shaft. The walls were oddly smooth, unlike any mine he had seen back home. He suspected that in some time past the stream outside had swelled and caused the mine to fill, though the layers of dust and dry dirt in the chamber gave him some comfort that such an event had been some time ago. The stone was jet black and dimly reflective, and as the light hit it he could see dim images of himself and those nearest to him. It reminded him of a hall of mirrors he’d once visited with his wife and child back Earthside. The sudden thoughts of his previous life caused him great pain. He had tried hard to forget them, but his mind kept torturing him with small glimpses of a happier time, before the bad times came…He forced his mind into the present. The imminent threat was real. The frightful shapes were still there before him, just beyond the light of the lamp. They leered at him and beckoned him further into the mine. The deeper he got, the more animated the shapes became. The Convict wasn’t sure whether this place was haunted or if his mind was just trying to punish him again, but it didn’t matter. The deeper he went, the worse he felt, and he could sense the others felt it too. Whatever was wrong with this place was not his doing. He just didn’t want it to be his undoing. Deeper and deeper the party went, expecting to see signs of mining, but it soon became apparent that whatever work had occurred here had been at a greater depth than they expected. A number of forks in the pathway had been met, and at each one a few guards and a few prisoners had let the main group so that a more comprehensive search for the soulstone cache could be found. Captain Bridger was directing the main group, albeit from a secure position near the rear of the party. He felt the unease of the men, and his own personal disquiet too. He’d been in this land long enough to understand that a corrupt power had infested it. Earthside, he might have dismissed all these signs as mere superstition, but here, it was foolish to dismiss anything. When he had first arrived, he had laughed at the fanciful reports of monsters and the like as the scaremongering of the Guilds’ propaganda. His first glimpse behind the veil of sanity came out of the blue. He had been assigned to guard a wagon train bearing soulstone back to the city when they had been waylaid by what he first though as bandits. It was only when he saw that their attackers weren’t just men, they were very dead men, that he realised that all the stories were true. In the back of his mind, R. Ryan Bridger began to wonder how he had managed to come across this claim so ‘easily’. His doubts were suddenly interrupted by shouts up ahead. Further down into the darkness the cries of Denton Jenks were now audible to all. He was crying with joy, and calling out to them to “Come and see!” To say it was having the opposite effect was an understatement. The prisoners had to be forced at the point of a rifle to continue toward the sounds. Within moments the narrow tunnel walls opened up into a vast cavern, its limits not full visible with the limited light the party carried. Below on the cavern floor they could just make out the frenzied activity of Jenks – he was running around in circles like a mad march hare. As they came closer, they could see he was running around something large, clapping his hands with joy and calling out to them to “come and see where my friend is hiding!” Captain Bridger ordered the soulstone generator deployed and the prisoners got to work hooking it up to a lamp stand. The dull throbbing of the device reverberated off the walls and caused an uncomfortable sound. The lamp slowly came to life, the light thin and sickly at first, but soon becoming stronger as the generator kicked into gear. Gasps of amazement broke out among the crew. All around them, embedded in the rocks and roof of the now apparent and huge cavern, were huge clumps of soulstone, just waiting to be harvested. Captain Bridger whistled loudly before exclaiming “Looks like you got your work cut out boys!” Bridger could barely contain his delight. He has stumbled into possession of one of the largest soulstone deposits he had ever seen! All the previous doubts were banished from his mind by a powerful and uncontrollable greed. “Get the mining equipment, and start excavations immediately!” he bellowed. Yet no one made a move to do anything at his command. Bridger saw that the majority of the group had collected around something a little way off. He barged his way through guards and convicts to get a look at what they were gawping at. In the centre, he froze completely in utter awe. Denton Jenks was on his knees, his arms outstretched, hugging what appeared to be a soulstone of immense size and clarity. Jenks looked up at Bridger, and with tears of joy in his eyes proclaimed loudly “We have found him!” To be continued…

Thanks for all the replies. I'm going to try out the following today (and various versions based on suggestions above over the next few games): Lady J Peacekeeper Executioner 2 Marshals Fransisco On paper it seems to have decent ranged support at shortish range, but with exceptional melee clout. Will post back on findings after I play.

Hi all I'm new to the Guild, but I have a little Malifaux experience in the Neverborn. I wanted a different style of crew, one that has a viable ranged ability as well as some combat punch. I played a 30ss game the other day using: Lady justice Judge Peacekeeper 2 Marshals Austringer It was mainly an excercise to figure out what I was doing, but even in this first game, I felt that the Judge was not offering me anything fresh. I'm thinking of taking out the Judge and replacing him. I have a limited model range available for the Guild, but I have these options availble: Nino Ortega (straight swap) Executioner (straight swap) Fransisco Ortega and Scales of Justice (straight swap) Nino offers very decent ranged abilities, and can help take down control cards or difficult models. The executioner is much the same, though is a pretty tough fighter . The latter option provides me with more activations, and flexibility of activations, but is less able to deal with some of the tougher models out there. I'd like to hear what more experienced Guild players would choose in this case. I have not used any of these models before, and sometimes on paper something looks better/worse than it tends to be in the game so a bit of real world information would be helpful. hwnb

Cheers for the reply. I must admit I'm keeping an eye on some auctions, but either factoring in shipping or looking at bid increments, they will all end at around or over the amount I offered. If I'm to pay through the nose, I'd prefer to have it done and dusted as quickly as possible!