Thechosenone

I'm working on a Mcmourning crew and I have a theme in mind, I want lots of steampunk ish looking undead. Cyborg, flesh golem, kinda stuff. My bete noir will probably be this:http://www.maelstromgames.co.uk/index.php?act=pro&pre=tab_edn_isc_drn_161_000 But i'm hoping you guys have suggestions. Specifically for Rogue Necromancy too. Thanks in advance.

10 points to gryffindor

Thanks sir. Splatter has been my favorite thing to do since I first started playing with it way back when I did that executioner in my first paint log.

You have a real knack for doing very straight neat striping. Any advice you can offer?

Those are all pretty nifty ones. Hammerstrike plus a grave spirit is all sorts of beatass

A Mcmourning paint log. I started with the basic box plus a cat. And I'm going from there. I went with snow bases mostly because I haven't done snow for any Malifaux crew yet. Comments and critique are always appreciated. Crew Shot Nurses Cat(undead chihuahua) [h=1] [/h] Sebastian Flesh Construct Douglas McMourning

So i'm usually a fan of non-conventional lists and McMourning is my next project. I'm hoping you can help me out here. As far as ressers, of all factions I have the least models but below is a list of what I have or am willing to grab Mcmourning's totem Rogue Nec 3 canine remains Bete 2 nurses Sebastian Flesh Construct Night Terrors Guild Autopsies Bells Necro punks I would really like to run Von Schill along with Mcmourning, maybe sue? Can anyone give me some hints at building a decent list with this? Or what a good synergy of models would be?

Is there any limit to how many +'s a flip can have? How many positives can it get to?

(Regular reads you know the drill, everything is Malifaux inspired but very divergent from the malifaux material. Please please read, enjoy and comment. We love the comments.) The Show Girls Collette Cassandra Two Coryphee Performer and Mannequin Convict Gunslinger Schemes: Bodyguard and Sabotage (Announced) Strategy: Contain Power The Nephilim Lillith Coppelius Three Terror Tots Two Desperate Mercenaries Cherub Arcane Effigy Doppelganger Schemes: Kill Protégé and Stake a Claim (announced) Strategy: Claim Jump Pre-game She remembers this place before all the cement, bricks and mortar. She remembers groves of trees, soft grass and even a pond where animals would drink and her kind would hunt. But mostly she remembers the butterflies. They crawled to the trees here and cast off their grubby forms while in a chrysalis slumber and would take to the air as a fluttering rainbow of colors. It was beautiful. “What is that?” She asks, her tone filled with equal curiosity and contempt. At her feet a whimpering rag wrapped man weeps into the pavement. His body aches from a thousand tiny claw marks all over his body. By human standards he’s old. By her’s… he’s lived as long as it takes a flash of lightening to fade from the sky. “And our attention is up here now…” She says, kneeling down to lift his face to meet hers. She tilts his chin in the direction she desires and asks again “What is that?” The man looks at a chipped weather worn fountain in the middle of Lucern and Requim Road. He’s lived long enough to remember when this place was new and that fountain was the color of a fresh cloud and the stone angel that stood at its center was a thing of beautify. Now the headless angel looks over an aelge stained basin who’s rock is the color of freshly flayed bone. Stagnant water stands deathly still at its lip while vermin buzz over it. “It… a fountain. It was… ma’am. It’s broke now.” She lets his head drop back to the pavement. “It just a decoration than? Beneath that ugly stone lump there was a pond once. It was fed by pure waters from beneath the earth. And you humans… in all your infinite wisdom… thought it would be a good idea to cap it. Bury it. And put this on top. And then forget about it?” She says. The creatures lurking near in the dark of night can swear they hear a pang of sadness in her tone. “Sorry. We’re so sorry.” He begs and cries. Somewhere terribly near by the weeping man can hear a scream, one born of equal parts pain and madness. He cries harder. Across the square past the many bloody shadows a creature stands before one of the abandoned store fronts on Requiem Road. What it once was is lost to time. It’s just a building now with dust fogged glass and forgotten purpose. The creature is the color of porcelain and her body as pliable as clay. She has no features other than the shape of a human and her eyes. Deep black glass eyes that are as empty as the store she stands before. Even her identification as a ’her’ is just preference. There would be no way to it by looking. Spindly and soft, she stands transfixed by a poster in the window. Like the building it belongs to the poster is faded and it’s message is lost but the images are clear enough. Beautiful women in bright costumes all dancing on a stage with a seated crowd before them. Her hand, slow and cautious, reaches out and runs over the glass that separates her from the poster. One image in particular holds her attention. A beautiful blond woman standing center stage. She has the most of everything. The most colorful dress, the most perfect hair and perfect curves and she has the most attention from the crowds. The creature’s fingertip quivers at first. The soft white flesh turns the color of healthy skin and reshapes into a petite little digit. The change cascades across her entire body until the monster is gone and the woman from the poster stares into the dulled glass of the old building. She smiles at the perfection of the change. Her hands run over the lovely new face, the shape of the body and across the soft new bosom she has. Satisfied, she makes another brief change. Her left hand warps into a fleshy mallet that she bashes the window with destroying the poster and any evidence of her plagiarized beauty, before restoring her hand back to what it was. Lillith walks to the edge of the fountain, her own face staring back at her with the entropic stain of the brackish water. Her whole world might look like this fountain now, locked away in bonds of man made stone and forgotten decorations. She dips her hand into the water and immediately the corruption stings. She can feel the pain of the water and wicked hungers of the man made diseases living there. But the stains die. Her touch strengthens the water, feeds it with life and banishes the taint. First the water is clear, then the algae on the basin dies. Then the water flows. It bubbles over the lip and begins spilling all across the plaza. It’s cool wetness earning a fresh set of whimpers from the old man. “Most glorious one…” A whisper spoke by the empty dread all around them but Lillith knows which direction to turn. She sees her aid, her advisor and most loyal retainer standing beside the old man, his long fingers crawling slowly around his head. “Coppelius.” “We should take this place, for you. I can see it’s special to you. Isn’t it?” “It is.” She nods. “It really is. I used to come here all the time to…” Her statement is cut off by her own brief panicked scream. From the nothingness around her a blobby little shape flaps out and hovers near. The bruise colored flesh and grave stricken wings of the ugly purple baby are shocking to see as are the depthless glowing yellow eyes. The strange unknowing babble it constantly chatters makes her soul crawl as the does the mystery of the beast. “Seriously! It’s not one of mine! What is this thing!” She shoves it away, runs a hand through her and breathes deeply to calm her nerves. “Anyway. Yes. I want it back.” Coppelius‘ talons trace around the old man‘s eye socket while his tendrils writhe in anticipation“ And so you shall have it.” Turn One and Two Coppelius stands over the old man and another of the human germs they found in the slums. Seething around them are the grub like Nephilim pupae all held in check only by the will of Coppelius. “You two gentlemen are about to be the catalyst for a brave new world you know that? Your place in this endeavor is both crucial and appreciated.” He reaches down to pluck an eye from each of their faces. He stuffs the orbs into his pockets before the shock of the action can catch up with their brains. “Thank you gentlemen.” And with that the mental restrains hold the grubs back vanishes. They launch onto the men ripping them apart and growing fat on blood. They collect their feedings and then skitter down the street looking for more to feed on. “Cassie.” Collette calls from the windowsill of an old printer’s building on Lucern. Cassandra doesn’t even hear her call. She and the duet are carefully working on an explosive. Another of Doctor Ramos’ Soul Stone bombs meant to spread fires and draw Guild attention. “Cassie!” Cassandra flinches at the shrill beckoning “Collette… this is a bomb. You know that right?” “You can set the Doc’s bombs in your sleep. I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing he ever asks us to do is drop bombs.” Collette blows off her protégé. “Now come here, look” Knowing that Collette won’t be ignored Cassandra heads over to the window to see what she’s talking about. And there it is, a trio of fat grubs the size of large dogs leaving a bloody train through the plaza. “Um… neat?” She shrugs. Then something else, a winged doll crackling with arcane energies swoops into the plaza, a woman follows behind it. She’s beautiful. More beautiful than any woman Cassandra has ever worked with. Collette included, as much as it pains her to admit. There’s a purity to her, a perfect sensual mixture of desire and innocence. Her raven hair blows gently in the night breeze, her every step is without caution or care, only grace. Rocks and debris that would hamper her path seem to roll out of the way. Pot holes fill. Puddles of water drain off. “We should….” Cassandra pauses, trying to figure out what to say. “We should get that bomb in place now and not die probably.” Collette fills in. “Yeah.” Collette claps her hands together and smiles. “Alright everybody! Time to start the show!” The rest of her crew is all staring out the windows now, consumed by the strange scene outside. “Plans the same. We just have an audience now. We blow the building on Requiem Road and go through that classless whore if we have to.” Cassandra draws her saber and gestures to the duet to begin their scissoring dance and follow her. “Let’s see if we can’t do something very violent about her.” Cassandra and the Duet leave their hide out and dance across the street smoke bombs bursting and their positions constantly changing. After a series of feints and fades Cassandra ends up into the building, the bomb set in place. She turns to face the sound of heels clicking on stone and wonders which of her girls made it this far already. And then she sees herself. A perfect version of her walking through the dark building with a sickeningly excited grin. “What in all god’s green….” The copy’s smile widens even further. Inhumanly wide. Her arms become widen blades and her speed increases . She launches at Cassandra trying to decapitate her with sharpened skin. Turn Three and Four Cassandra ducks the blades and furious stabs while her duplicate grins. The wall parts way like an mouth slowly yawning. The woman with the raven hair enters and swings her tiny wooden scepter. The glowing amber at the tip erases the stone walls and mortar into dust where they touch but Cassandra still manages to evade before using more stage magic to slip from the building. The duplicate sighs. “Oh… my beautiful girl…” Lillith caresses the false Cassandra’s face and draws her near. “I won’t tell. And besides, you look more perfect than the original. I’ll kill her for you. Then you’ll be the original.” The demon glee returns to the duplicate’s face. Bullets rip across the bridge that crests over the plaza. One of Collette’s girls looses round after round from her pistols while another beckons to the little grubs luring them into a kill zone. “Ladies… behave.” Coppelius wicked formal tone drips from the air around them. The squid faced gentlemen walks down invisible stairs to stand on the bridge between them. His darting finger plucks at the eye of girl with the guns ripping it from her socket. He pops the little white blister and the pus pools on the stone. A tiny mewling demon thing crawls the mess while the grubs press their attack. “Oh this is too much!” Coppellius sings with excitement “Tonight has it all! Buildings exploding, human drama, a feast…” He says while ripping at the eyes of those desperately trying to escape him. Blind and dying, the grubs swarm. “And good friends to share it all with.” One of the grubs starts to quiver, gorged and satisfied. It’s body stiffens and breaks open. A wholly different and nightmarish thing crawls forth covered in the drippings of its former self. Lanky and muscled with flapping vestigial wings. It snarls into the night announcing its birth. Coppelius looks on. “Oooooh…. That’s just icky.” He says before sucking down a freshly liberated snack. The Coryphee, wounded by the strange smothering magicks of the creatures summoned by Coppelius’ sacrifice of eyes, seek cover behind the walls of the printers’ building. They wait for instructions while their creaking damaged limbs slowly repair themselves. They don’t get far. The wall yawns and a blade stabs through scattering their pieces across the dusty floors. Lillith steps through. Collette and Cassandra back away toward the door but the exit is consumed. The floor explodes and a grove of trees rises up blocking the doors. Lillith shakes her head. “No no no. Stay right here.” “Who are you?” Cassandra steps in front of Collette ready to defend her boss. “You,” Lillith snarls “hurt my friends feelings. I don’t like that, not at …” She shrieks again, the flying purple baby settling down next to her and mumbling its unintelligible rant. Collette and Cassandra scream as well. Everyone shares a long moment of collected disgust. “What IS that?” Collect covers her mouth. “I have no idea, it’s not mine it just… follows me.” Lillith swats at the thing. “It’s terrible!” Cassandra says trying to back away with Collette. “I know it is…” Lillith rolls her eyes. “remember… I screamed too?” Turn Five and Six Cassandra lays bleeding on the printers’ floor from Lillith‘s scepter. Her vision fades to black while she stares up into her own smiling face. Her duplicate waves goodbye as her eyes shut. Collette stumbles and falls, Lilith stands over her with scepter in hand and the amber stone glowing hungry for a death blow. “Wait wait wait WAIT!” Collette screams. “What?” Lillith couldn’t be more agitated by the interruption. “What if I did…… THIS?” Collette flourishes a deck of cards that flutter around the room with a mystical life all their own. They clog up everything with their flapping and scattering. Lillith smiles. It reminds her of butterflies. Post Game “Terribly sorry you didn’t get to kill them my goddess.” Coppellius stands erect and proud, his feet anchored to the ceiling of the printers building, his tentacles sucking down another eye. “It’s not that big of a deal.” She says. One of the cards perches on her fingertip and flexes its edges like a butterfly testing its wings. “Really.” She smiles and walks away. The duplicate stares at the blood stained spot on the floor where Cassandra’s body should be. But it’s not. Her face shows a lunatic joy but it’s the only express she’s mastered. Beneath it is rage. Jealous, hateful disappointed rage. Outcome Showgirls- 2 for sabotage 0 for bodyguard and 0 for contain power Nephilim- 4 for Claim Jump, 2 for kill protégé and 2 for stake a claim

this is a really helpful thread. nice stuff

When do I need it? Charges? Spells with the ranged icon? What about any other spells or effects? If something just says target do I need Line of Sight (I.E. Rigor Mortis teleporting with show girls?) What else am I missing?

Irken Doom is one of the worst people I know. I shall beat him once again tonight and then remind him of his worst person status. Here's a photo with the White Speaker next to some GW mini's I found

got weird here. Im out!

Sue is a nice combo with the nurses. You can shrug off the death effect.

Many thanks mastermind and welcome to the board. Please take a look at more of my stuff as long as you enjoyed this.

Because they don't seem that serious at all? Exhaustion just specifies "One or more alps" which doesn't sound different from the original "one inch of this model" Cause that model is an alp. everything else is specifying one or more alps as opposed to this model. Again, 'this model' was an alp already? Smother seems most effected?

(So I'll start doing some write ups for my Zoraida crew. This being the first one for it. It introduces Bad Juju and and Zoraida. Please remember to any that haven't read my stuff, its very divergent from most of Malifaux's canon. Thanks for the read and please do comment. It makes the writing even more worth it when you drop a line to the author) “Sorry Collin.” “Sorry about your loss” “Stay strong for Lucy and William.” Collin Lloyd nods to each and every mourner. The more familiar faces get a word or two of thanks and a handshake or a hug. Their words all start to blend together into one solemn tone that hums through his head. He watches as the casket is lowered into the ground by the drab gravehands of Morningside Cemetery, his mind only half here. The other half is sedate and distant. Aubrey’s in there. It’s a shocking thought. His wife and the mother of his children is in an expensive pine box being lowered into a cold hole in the earth while he and their children watch. Collin looks back to the rows of seats and sees his two children, not twelve years of life between them. They look sad and force tears but they don’t really understand yet. They’re just miming the faces around them. But they’ll understand it soon. When Aubrey isn’t at home tonight and when she isn’t there to make their meals or dress them for school. They’ll understand it soon. The rumbling gray sky over Morningside threatens an early afternoon storm. A light mist falls slowly and forces the well wishers and spectacle seekers from the gravesite early. Collin asks his sister-in-law Judith to take the kids with them. He opts to stay a while; sitting underneath the black canopy set up by the cemetery and see his wife off. Aubrey’s in there. The sky speaks louder, warning of a downpour. But he ignores it. His thoughts are filled with such mundane concerns. Who’ll watch the kids while on patrol for the Guildcorp? Who will get the groceries from the market? Banal things, simple petty trite concerns and he hates them all. He wants his mind to focus on tender memories like the first time they met, like the tender moments they spent alone together and the days their children were born. But right now all he can think about is the cupboard. Aubrey is the only one that can find anything in there without tearing the thing apart. She knows where everything in their home is. Aubrey's in there The gravehands start shoveling topsoil into the hole. They occasionally glance back at him with their thick brows and tiny eyes. He’s not sure why? Maybe they’re waiting for him to break down just like everyone else is. But he’ll disappoint them too. There’s too much to be done and too many people are depending on him to be strong. He’s shaken from his mundane thoughts by a loud shriek. It comes from the tall headstone over his wife’s plot. A raven is perched at the cross; its glassy eyes locked right with his. It calls a second time and he can’t help but think of the bird as rude for interrupting this quiet moment. Collin breaks with the bird’s glare and gasps. Another mourner sits beneath the canopy and he can’t say exactly when she got here or who she is. Her outfit is black and conservatively cut though it fits her a little too well. A few lengths of her tree bark hair hang out from beneath the black bonnet she’s wearing. Her face is hidden behind a mourner’s veil but her skin, clear to see, is pale and almost entirely without a blemish or mark on it. Almost as flawless as Aubrey’s was. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you there. I hope you don’t think I’m rude.” Collin apologizes with a sincere diplomatic tone but inside he’s agitated. This is his and Aubrey’s moment. No one else’s. “No need to apologize to me Mr. Lloyd. I’m the one who’s sorry for you.” She speaks very softly and with such succor. He can’t help but warm to the voice. It’s the only truly sympathetic one he’s heard all day. “Everyone’s been saying that today. But I don’t even know what that really means? Sorry for what? It’s not their fault. They didn’t murder Aubrey and dump her body along Wax Road? What are they sorry for?” He’s surprised by the anger in him. He didn’t know it was there or how poorly he was handling all of this and now he worries that he’s made a fool of himself in front of this woman. Maybe a friend of Aubrey, maybe a well wisher from Pinnacle? Either way he chastises himself for the outburst. She uncrosses and crosses her legs. He notices them and he notices her small black handbag as well. He can’t help but notice a lot of things about her and it sours his mind with further distractions from the moment he’s dedicated himself to. “They’re pretending to be sorry for their loss Mr. Lloyd but their worlds go on as usual tomorrow. Today was an unwanted distraction for them. They had to change their little routines around to accommodate your wife’s murder. They all had things they’d rather be doing. They’re sorry they won’t be around much to help you after today. They’re apologizing for how worthless their company is to you now. You’d of rather gone through this day alone I’m sure rather than parade your sorrow in front of these strangers. None of them are apologizing for that though, for interrupting your grieving. They all feel entitled to a piece of that.” Collin takes it all in and as much as he wants to disagree, to find faults and to redeem all the mourners he can’t. She’s right. “I’ve been to a lot of funerals Mr. Lloyd. Forgive my frankness. I’m just here to pay my respects” She says, still never turning to look at him. Still hidden behind her veil despite all the hard truths she revealed about everyone else. A long moment passes between the two of them. Just the rumble in the sky and the sound of dirt hitting Aubrey’s casket. Finally “Were you a friend of Aubrey’s?” “I never met her, no” The visitor answers back kindly. “Are you here from Pinnacle then?” She shakes her head “No hearts there with a drop of care Mr. Lloyd.” “I work for the Guildcorp you know?” She nods again. “I do.” He turns now to face her completely and with more than a little bit of a demanding tone to his voice. “If you’re not here from employers or here as one of Audrey’s friends why are you here?” “I’m your friend Mr. Lloyd.” She turns, only slightly now to face him. He can see some of the outline of her face beneath the veil. He can see more of her shape too. She’s a remarkable beauty. “Something you are in dire need of right now. Someone who understands your hurt and wants to help. I’m your friend.” He’s about to ask more, to demand more, but she doesn’t give him time. She stands, opening her handbag and pulling out a small envelope with a black wax seal. She hands it to him and walks back into the rain. She deploys an umbrella that he doesn’t remember seeing her carry either but he dismisses the incongruent kernel of knowledge to instead focus on the envelope. Collin watches her vanish into the rain as it renews its downpour and then looks back down at the seal. He breaks the small brittle wax piece off and opens the envelope. The first thing he notices is a smell, some kind of exotic tobacco aroma coupled with a sweetness of some kind. He plucks on a folded sheet of thick parchment and unfolds it. Elegant pen strokes written with a ruddy red ink come together in a brief letter. No amount of condolence will ever satisfy your heart Mr. Lloyd. I know what you want and I can give it to you. The men who took your wife from you go unpunished. Justice is callous and slow. What I offer is quick and born of the heart. Come to Miller’s Break. I’ll tell you what it is you want and how to get it. Z- Collin wishes he could say none of that makes sense, that the words in the letter were untrue and easily ignored. But they aren’t. The men who took his wife are guilty as all sin and they walk the streets as free me. They’re young men, barely old enough to called adults and each one of them sons, cousins or friends of powerful men. Powerful men who serve the Guild as he does. But there’s no justice for Audrey. They kidnapped her as she walked home at night from the market. They assaulted her, defiled her and guttered her. They left his wife to bleed in the streets. After their arrest evidence went missing, witnesses went silent and the solicitors turned their interest from the case. He watched them walk from the Pinnacle’s courthouse as free men. Collin sought out the Grand Solicitor Luthor Stannish and made demands to the lawyer that no man in his right mind would dare make. He remembers the look that Stannish’s bloodshot eys gave through their cracked little white mask. Apathy. Complete and utter apathy. Their identities run through his head now as they do every day. Herman Andrew, the long faced nephew of Malifaux’s wealthiest banker Thorton Andrew. Giovani Sturzo the thuggish fourth son of the Anthony Sturzo the Merchant Baron of Silken Row. And Michael Creedy, the New Yorker and little brother to the Guild Corp’s captain Bennet Creedy. He sees them all over and over, their smiling faces and their smug excitement as the charges were dropped; the indignant way they walked across the street to one of the bars in Ram’s Rule to celebrate. Collin knows these boys as he knows the evidence against them. Resserectionist body thieves, that’s what they were. Looking for a quick path to power and to money so they killed who they pleased and sold the bodies to the highest bidders for script and for seedlings of necromantic lore. Jackals, to the core. Each one of them a murderous scavenger preying on the weak. He grabs his own umbrella from beneath the seat and leaves the canopy for the storm. He can hear the raven call into the winds before flying overhead but he doesn’t bother to look. He has a long journey ahead of him to Miller’s Break. --------------- Dusk in Malifaux is a strange time of day. There are suns beyond the clouds. He’s never seen them personally but they’ve been recorded with heliographs. He’s seen the pictures of the tiny dead looking stars. Dull as they are the rays still illuminate the clouds and haze over Malifaux with strange a witchfire glow that creeps eerily through the sky. Miller’s Break. The facts of the place run through Collin’s mind. In the most mundane sense Miller’s break is a dramatic curve in Ram’s River where the currents are deadly strong due to the severe directional shift of the waters. The break is found rather deep in the heart of the Bayou outside the city limits where few are willing to go and fewer still ever come back from. But that’s just the cold facts. The rumors are worse. The Bayou is a place for monsters. Creatures of legend, three headed beasts, winged dragons and dangerous gamin are said to dwell there but worse still are the whispers of witches. The beast king Marcus is said to travel with an entourage of animals who serve as loyal soldiers. Some say the sorcerer is an ally of the Arcanist terrorists. Others say he’s a bastard half-breed of a Neverborn. Many have hunted him. None have returned alive to talk of it. But that’s just the obvious rumor, the one everyone talks about. There’s another one, one that focuses on Miller’s Break. It was named after Reverend Justice Miller who led his small congregation of followers out of Malifaux eighteen years ago. He said that the city wasn’t just infested with evil but that it was a wicked living corpse and everyone there was akin to wiggling maggots infesting dead flesh. He and his faithful left to establish a parish elsewhere. They chose a hilltop along Ram’s River to build their church. No one heard from Reverend Miller again nor a single one of his followers. Hunting parties came across the half built ruin of a church some years later. Surveyors named that part of the river after him to honor his bravery. Simpler men just avoid that place. The rumor has it Reverend Miller crossed paths with a witch out there in the woods. Collin met a man one time, a swamp tracker named McTavish, who told him the story over drinks in Ram’s Rule. He said that Miller was an indignant man. As evil as Miller said Malifaux was the Reverend was just as bad. He heard about a witch out there in the depths of the Bayou and so he led his men out to verify and to burn. They lit her house on fire and burned it down to the mud. He said there were a lot of twists to the story too. Some versions say that the witch’s son died in the fire, others say that it’s was a sister. Some too claim that the witch didn’t lose kin but lost her relics. But McTavish always believed the simplest version. That it was just a house. The witch came to collect her due and what she wanted was the children of the congregation. McTavish said that Miller didn’t bite on that offer. So the witch took more than she asked for. She took the whole lot from their church and into the deep bog. Not a trace left behind, not a drop of blood, fragment of bone or footprint to be found. McTavish said she ate her fill and fed the rest to the swamp. Collin exits the coach that brought him this far and pays the driver the generous sum. Bog Edge is as far as the coachman was willing to ride. The swamp is thinnest here and a few shantytown fragments of civilizations do sometimes pop up along Bog Edge. At the moment though the tin box homes are empty and dark. He’s alone and with a long walk ahead. He pulls his gear bag from the coach before the rider speeds away. The return trip, should he be fortunate enough to have to deal with that, is his responsibility. He takes his first few steps into the twilight of the swamp, hacking through what obstacles he must with a Guild blade. He keeps his pistol on his hip, loaded, with a surplus of ammo in his survival sack. He has to remind himself repeatedly why he’s doing this. Rare as the stories about Reverend Miller are, rarer still are the stories about how she fixes things. People seek her out and sometimes they get what they want. Sometimes the bog just takes them. Collin’s trip isn’t easy. The wet earth grabs at his feet and the swamp insects bite and buzz. The twilight glow of dusk vanishes quickly, swallowed by the moonless night. “Follow the river.” He reminds himself. It’s the best way to navigate the swamp. He wonders how men like McTavish do it? Everything looks the same. The rush of the river drowns out most of the other swamp noises and the chaotic drift of dead material down the waters entertains his eyes. He follows one particular ripple with interest. Especially the way it turns from the current and toward him. Collin slowly pulls his blade and draws his pistol. He doesn’t want to fire, not if he can help it. A noise like that will be heard across the entire Bayou by all sorts of hungry beasts. He doesn’t have that kind of ammo. The ripple vanishes only a moment before the water erupts. Even without a drop of light Collin can see the creature land on the soft earth and skid a few inches from its own momentum. Mud cakes up between the webbed toes of the beast’s feet. Its long arms covered in tight muscled skin clutch the earth as well while it holds its crouched posed. A heavy tail slaps the dirt while claws rake. A long fishy sail reaches from its back and stretches from the tip of its tail to the rear of the skull. The face is completely fish like except for its rows of needle teeth. Its whiskers curl and twist as the creature shrieks. Collin backs up as the fish stands, its full height several heads taller than him. Collin’s heard of these creatures. They attack Guild tugs on river and have occasionally ambushed trains that pass near the bayou. He’s never seen one in person. The only thing he can think to do is swing. The blade catches in the creature’s arm but is pushes forward and slaps its claws against his chest. Skin tears and flesh bruises. Collin falls to wet earth and scrambles back as the creature closes in. His sword is lodged in the mud, lost as he fell. He has no choice, as the beast prepares to pounce he fires. The round catching the creature in its overlarge skull. Its head snaps back and the beast slumps over squealing softly for a moment before it stills. The echo of the shot still rings through the night. He picks himself up, the wetness of the swamp sticking to him and his chest aching from the blow. Collin plucks up his sword and shakes off the filth. His chest hurts when as he does so. He flinches to even sheath his blade. The pistol stays out now. The night knows he’s here. Hours pass, how many he can’t say with certainty. But the swamp leaves him alone. Maybe it’s the stink of the dead creature on him that convinces the other predators to seek a meal elsewhere. Maybe the swamps just well fed tonight. Either way he’s thankful for it. But that happiness fades as the river breaks and the hill comes into view. There, amid the tangle of trees and vines the hilltop rises. He can pick out the broken frames, piles of molded supplies and the skeleton of the church. The cross on the face of Miller’s Church looms over him and the entire swamp. Stained and vine strangled, it stares down accusing any who pass beneath it of faithless sin. Few in Malifaux follow the ways of the church. The lives they lead, the means by which they survive, there’s no room for the luxury of piety. But there, up on the hill he can see a light as well. The dull flicker is the dance of fire. He crawls up the hill, the steps built having long since been devoured by mud. He feels like a rotter crawling out of his own grave. Finally his hands land on a solid surface and he pulls himself up. He stands among Miller’s ruins. Everything he worked for is slowly being consumed by the swamp. But like the rumors said, there’s no sign of life ever having been here. He follows the fire flicker through the walls of the church. Inside its confines he can see rotted pews. The half carved stone alter and a statue of Christ. The face looks like it has been sandblasted away. He wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen the face of Jesus. He owns a bible, most do. But opened it? He can’t recall when was the last time or why it’s been that long? “Is anyone here?” He calls. There’s no reason to tread lightly anymore. “Anyone?” Finally he exits the open rear of the church and back into the mud. But there’s something else there too, a small hut built of swamp filth and church supplies. A glow comes from its open windows and reflects off the many crucifixes that are built into the walls of the hut, all them turned oddly or broken. Still, with so many icons of his faith before him not one possesses a clear face to look at. The light comes from a fire burning outside the hut in a shallow earthen pit. Debris and tall overgrowth are everywhere and smoke billows from the hearth. Collin presses on through the obscuration. It smells like tobacco and burning sugar. “Hello?” Finally a voice answers. “Come closer Mr. Lloyd. I’m here.” The voice is like gravel, barely humans. Through the smoke he finds the fire. A cauldron boils on a pile of swamp filth while a figure tends to it. Hunched and low, heavy furs matted with water and mud cover her back though he can see enough exposed old flesh to identify her as a woman, once… long ago. A mess of silver hair hangs wet over her head and to her chest. His eyes wander up her wrinkled arms and bony fingers. They clutch a long cudgel she uses to stir the pot. “Come closer!” She swings her head to face his and his eyes will focus on is her ghost white stare. But he obeys and steps closer when everything in his heart tells him to run. Her demand, spoken by gritty lips and a sandpaper throat, cannot be ignored. “I’m Collin Lloyd. You sent me a letter.” He manages with no conviction at all. “I know Mr. Lloyd who ya are. And I know what ya want.” “What do you know about me?” He suspects the answer to that is too much to hear but he asks anyway. She smiles showing blackened gums with few teeth to speak of. Shattered yellow nubs are all that remain. “I know ya think ya want justice Mr. Lloyd but there ain’t none of that to be had in Malifaux. What you really want is a primal urge to be satisfied. You want what animals want. No convoluted trials for you. No justice for you. Revenge!” She hisses. “You want revenge. You want them to suffer as you suffered. You want them to fear like You fear. You want them to hurt like you hurt.” “No.” He shakes his head. “Yes ya DO!” She pierces him with her dead eyes again before turning back to the pot. A quiet moment passes between the two. “Yes you do Mr. Lloyd. I can give it to you. All you have to do is ask.” Collin looks around. His eyes search the night for a way out of this. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he hates that he’s here. He’s a man of the law. He upholds civility, justice and he sets the peace. But none of that was given back to him when he and his children needed it most. He hates that he’s here and yet, here he is. Willingly. Hungry to be here and hungrier still to answer. “How? You’re old and you’re far from Malifaux. What can you do that I couldn’t?” “Lots. Lots I can do.” She laughs quietly while stirring. “So much I can do. But you don’t really want ta know do ya Mr. Lloyd? You just want it done. So ask fer it. Ask. Ask me to get ya want ya want?” “And what’s the price? Hmm. What will it cost me to do this? If I do this?” “Nothin” She says, stirring slowly. “Price has already been paid by them boys that took her from you. Nature cries out for a balance. Something lives so something dies. It’s the way. These boys killed your wife but they had no cause. There was no reason for it. Nature was crossed. A death but for no gain. The price has been paid. Now you just have to ask for it. Ask for what you want Mr. Lloyd. ASK!” “I want them dead!” He screams back, surprised how good it felt to finally let it out. “I want them dead and I want it to be the worst kind of death.” She nods, chuckling to herself. “Good. Good. She pulls out a long filthy pin from her furs gestures for him to come near. Her hand grabs his. It feels like wet toad skin. She jams the needle straight through his palm and out the other side leaving the instrument there. “Hold your hand over the cauldron. Let your blood speak. Let it wake the forest.” His hand trembles as he holds its over the head. Drops of blood run down the needle and into the smoke filled pot one by one. “Say what you want Mr. Lloyd! Say it! SAY IT!” “I… I want them all dead! I want them to suffer! I want them to scream! And I want their families to weep like mine does!” Suddenly he can feel his head spin and a sickness fill his gut. He doubles over with cramping pain and falls into the mud. He screams out into the night as pain takes him but his scream mixes with another. His is pain; the other is the sound of a furious awakening. His eyes water but through it he sees something else that his mind can’t process. The swamp rises up and takes shape, like bestial man made of the earth. Looming and terrible with eyes of flame. The creature marches off into the night while he lays there clutching himself. “It’s done Mr. Lloyd. It’s done.” He can’t help but weep. None of this is what he wanted. Now that it’s out, now that it’s been said what he wanted to say. Now he knows it’s wrong. It’s not what he wanted. Not at all. He wanted his wife back.

Thanks for the reply Edonil. Comments have dried up here in the writing forum so it feels wonderful get a comment of any kind. As far as the paragraphs I don't think I have a set formula. Sometimes I separate a single sentence because It's something I think carries the weight that deserves its own paragraph. I think that I'm guilty of not sitting on my work longer enough. I give it one final read through for easy edits at the end and then I release it. Really I should hold onto it longer and than I do. I definitely want to do better. And I will But as I said, so glad for the comments. Thanks to all you readers but do the writer a solid and drop a comment. It helps us all.

Good work sir. There's a brief part involving the description of a military hospital. It was just a really interesting and compelling treat of a sentence. As always, great flow and structure. Thanks for the share.

(So one of my new crews is Ramos and here follows my introduction piece into him. As always, if youre not familiar with my writing I'd say its only Malifaux inspired. Its very divergent from the canon. I'd suggest reading the Carl Hoffmann guild piece I worte just so you have some idea about the characters mentioned here. Otherwise please read and please comment. Writers love nothing more than feedback and acknowledgement) “Thank you again for your time Mr. Ramos.” “Viktor, please.” The brief scratch of pencil to paper mixes with the crackle of fire. Jarred Morrissey leans forward, his spine not taking advantage of the soft cushioned back of the chair. Morrissey’s a young man, everything about him shows it. His baby face is clean shaven, it has to be. Facial hair would look out of place for him. His clothes are impeccable and at the same time naïve. The sizes are too big, the fabric bunches at his waist and the shoulder seam hangs too low. The brashness of youth makes a young man believe he can do no wrong. “Of course sir. Very kind of you to be so familiar.” Morrissey says but what he thinks is much different. In his mind the thinks it’s an obvious gesture. The article he’s writing for the Chronicle will bring attention to Chemaux Industries. And good press means good business. Just like the glass of Absinthe Ramos offered earlier, this little gesture is an obligation that Morrissey feels he has to fake sincerity for. Viktor Ramos nods and offers up a polite smile. He sits fully reclined in his throne of a chair beside the fireplace in his office. His chair, framed by the wall of windows that overlooks the Chemaux Industrial district, is only a few paces from Morrissey’s. A more eloquent writer than Jarred would describe the distance as intimate. Ramos, owl like in his features, sits very still across from the reporter. He watches him through the blackish veneer of his smoked goggles. They make his eyes look wide and empty. “So down to business Viktor. Chemaux is the largest business in Malifaux not controlled by the Guild. It must have been a hard decision to cross the breech and set up shop here knowing the level of competition?” Ramos considers the man a moment. His mind is unlike Morrissey’s. His thoughts travel along circuit and current. His eyes observe with a level of scrutiny that mortal orbits never could. He feels the heat of the nearby fire not with warm anecdotal insights but with sterile awareness. He has to remind himself to breathe from time to time for the benefit of Mr. Morrisey. “No not at all. It was an obvious decision. The engineering needs of Malifaux are the most complex and thought provoking issues of our time. Competition breeds ingenuity and dynamism. If Chemaux was to remain the industry leader in its field than you can see the deliberate nature of our decision.” Ramos watches the man scribble down his answer. Morrissey speaks without looking up from his notes “Can you tell the readers a little bit about what the company was doing before crossing the Breech?” Ramos begins reciting practiced facts. His mouth related anecdotes and pleasant polished bits of information about Chemaux’s rise to prominence from a humble construction incorporation founded in London to becoming a the largest supplier of constructs and labor back Earthside. Morrissey uses the term “Global Power” when he describes the company that Ramos sits at the head of. It would impress others. Ramos is unmoved. While the simple part of his mind continues to share basic information and palatable lies the rest of Ramos wanders off in deeper contemplation. He remembers his early days working for the company as nothing more than a project lead in a small division of the research and development arm. At the time the company was putting its weight behind the development of constructs and the harnessing of Soul Stone energy. But Viktor and his team were following alternative paths. He knew of other means to exert influence other than steel and stone. He hunted the arcane with his old friends from the university. Carl, Camille, Roland and Nicodemus. His sciences taught him of other sources of energy than Soul Stone. There was power to be found everywhere, power from the vacuum, power from stars, power to be pulled from magick fonts and power to be taken from alternate places. The Breech proved that other realities existed. But Viktor knew that was just the tip of the iceberg. Thanks to Carl and Nicodemus he also knew that many of the alternate realities and dimensions housed beings of apocalyptic might and utterly alien minds. Their might was such that they carries with them their own set of physics. The universe was theirs to stretch, rip and tear. But if the Breech’s technology could be used to take you to other places he theorized it could be used as well to open paths to other whens. Every other dimension was a hellscape of infinite screaming horrors but he rationalizes an alternative. Why not explore our own material realm but look further into time and pluck the secrets of distant new future rather than an antediluvian past filled with unspeakable horrors. “And you Viktor?” Morrissey asks, his eyes finally leaving the paper and meeting with Ramos’ goggles. “I got my start with company fresh out of university. Exciting times those were. We were on the cusp of the Construct Revolution and Soul Stone energy was still fresh and new. It was undiscovered territory.” Ramos continues on with all the blasé talking points of his early days with Chemaux. They are the smallest fractions of truths but the records exist to back up his statements. Dozens of other reports and fact checkers have been given this speech. Its always the same. His conscious thoughts drift. He remembers the first time he held Soul Stone. It was one of the first pieces brought through the Breech decades ago before he joined Chemaux. When he, Carl and the others served as self appointed purifiers of the night and protectors of the living. Nicodemus was the first one to speak as they all stared at the sickly glowing stone. He warned of it, calling it the bile drippings of entities so wicked and alien that labeling them evil was a dangerous disservice to their true threat. Everyone else disagreed. Everyone else was enthralled. Viktor considers what life would have been like for them all if they listened to Nicodemus. Would Camille still be alive? Would Carl have fallen into the service of nameless living hungers? Would Nicodemus have kept his leg and his sanity? Would Roland have ever crossed the line between hero and murderer? Would he himself still be human? “What about before Chemaux?” “Hmm?” Viktor’s thoughts stumble. “What about you before you were employed by Chemaux? The basics but what was life like for you as a younger man? A lot of the readers don’t remember a time before Soul Stone and before the Guild. Can you tell us what life was life for you before all that?” It’s not a question he expected and certainly not one he has preprogrammed into his mental functions. Without preparation Viktor Ramos is anything but eloquent. “They were… darker days. We were ignorant, blind and foolish. Now that the Guild exists and Soul Stone is part of our lives we have a much clearer perspective on reality.” Morrissey nods and records. “Viktor, can you tell the readers what are some of the most defining moments in your life? You’re a remarkable man and remarkable men are forged in the heat of the moment. What made Viktor Ramos the man he is today?” Ramos hates this little man more and more with each new question asked. He smiles anyway “A very excellent question Mr. Morrissey. It was the day the first Ethernauts returned with news from the other side. I shared the same excitement the rest of the world did…” he rattles on a convincing impromptu speech about his first memories of hearing about Malifaux and how the unknown called to him. This is the first time he’s fed the reporter a complete lie. He felt the same way Carl and the others felt. Terrified. Two worlds separated by a merciful barrier of impossibility were suddenly knitted together into a blasphemous union. Nicodemus described it best that day when he said the nameless hungers have just been reminded of the bountiful morsels they left out before taking their nap and the plate’s still hot. He takes a moment while his mouth carries on with the deception to wonder how he would actually answer this question? He knows there can be no ambiguity in the true answer. It’s an obvious one. That day in Chemaux’s lab. It was long after his friends had disbanded. Long after what happened in Egypt. It was the day the Oculos was completed. Nine rings, each smaller than the last and each one built into the enclosure of a ring one size larger. Even the smallest would accommodate a horse carriage to pass through. They were made of obsidian and brass and built into vast metal slab connected to wire and cable that fed the machine Soul Stone energy. They always laughed about how they’d use Soul Stone to activate the machine that would make Soul Stone obsolete. His lab assistants all stood by watching as he threw the switch and funneled power into the device. A moment before that and each of their faces held such anticipation. But it all melted away into such dread apprehension after the switch was turned. Nine rings spun within each other and sang a song of grinding stone and metallic shearing. First they filled with the hideous spark of contained soul energy intensified a thousand fold by the machine. The only face that kept it’s smile was Roland. He helped built the device and was happy to bask in it’s perverse functionality. Ramos’ hands fidget uncharacteristically as he recalls the moment of sundering. The barrier was shattered and a pulsing grey nothingness took the place of the blinding arcs of energy. Each ring locked into place forming a perfect circle. The doorway not to a new world, but to one that didn’t yet exist. The future. One thousand years into time. He intended to go forward and find the means to make Malifaux redundant. There would be no need to cross the Breech anymore because he’d find science that made Soul Stone seem akin to stone wheels compared to steam powered locomotives. The winds of a wound in reality buffeted him as he walked toward the barrier. Every calculation was done and each one predicted his safe passage. Viktor Ramos entered the Oculos. His researchers waited and stared at each other. They prepared for his eventual return and wondered what secrets would be brought back. They didn’t expect him to return seven seconds after his departure. Viktor remembers walking back, his body a skeleton made of rivet, cruelty and Iridium stomped down the metal walkway denting the plank with his weight. He remembers seeing his world again for the first time in over three hundred centuries with red glints instead of flesh organs. Ramos had explored the otherside, he found what had become of man and the brief battle it endured against the nameless hungers. Man wasn’t the survivor but the predations of the ancient ones wasn’t complete either. Machines survived to carry on the fight for survival. Callous, empty machines. Ramos joined with them and his own genius and spark of sentient thought helped to further innovate a mechanical species that had forgotten the concept of free will. He remembers the strange pang of disappointment upon returning. Everything was as he left it yet nothing felt that way. The world was experienced through a filter of data, calculations and predictions. “The future is now gentlemen. We have work to do if the world is to be set on new course.” His first words to the terrified staff came as a hollow metallic echo barely recognizable as his old voice. Only Roland remained smiling. One of the lab guards raised a pistol, his horror had taken over his rationality. Ramos remembers the first mortal life he took with his new body. His Iridium hand raised and released an electrical fire that burnt the man to ash and charred bone fragments all within the span of a single screaming second. “Some of you may choose not to venture with us down this bold new course. Please see me if you have any concerns about your future with the company.” And then he remembers the moment he covered himself for the first time. Tiny machines living within a machine scurrying across his form like spiders down their webbing. They covered him in a liquid visage that wrapped into the portrait of the Ramos his staff remembered. That, he settles on, is the most defining moment of his life. The day Viktor Ramos died and Chairman Ramos was born. He answers the rest of Morrissey’s questions with a machine like efficiency before hurrying him out. He has a future to forge. ---------- Post added at 01:53 PM ---------- Previous post was at 01:48 PM ---------- (I'm putting this one here too just because I happen to have it ready so why not? Same as before, please read and comment.) Forge the Future II: Roland Tower The ash is starting to fall again. He reaches out with a gloved hand allowing several flakes to settle in his palm. Each one is scrutinized through the filter of smoked goggles. The fragments crumble into dust and carry off into the chill wind, higher and higher, till they rejoin the clouds above. The Construct Quarry has a pattern of weather all to itself. There are electric arcs filling the choking clouds of ash are lightening; the fall of the silo-sized pistons take the place of thunder. Surges of static trail along weathervanes and skip between the rooftops. Huge humming generators positioned all along the Quarry’s borders collect much of the drifting detritus using their static charge but they’re buried by debris and barely able to keep up. And the rain falls here as pitch and burning embers. The man looks up to the storm clouds, each flash of industrial lightening reflects off his goggles and reveals small brief details. His face is wrinkled and pale with a sharp nose, all of it caressed by falling chaff. The storm brightens the dark emerald frock and gray slacks he wears. It sheds a small fraction of light on his red bag, hidden by the shadows cast from his flank. He watches closely. The dark sheen of his goggles glints with a dim red glow. Through the toxic haze a volcanic rumble and hellish ruby flare yawns into existence. Plumes of fire reach through the clouds, geysers of molten metal join them in the sky creating an abyssal horizon, which the man stares into unfailingly. The flourish of a black canopy finally separates him from the Quarry’s inferno. He opens his umbrella, tucked previously in the shadows with his bag, and blocks the fall of ash and continues his walk down Grandwork Avenue through the Iron Twist district. Grandwork is largest street in Malifaux, made so because of the massive traffic it sees. It cuts through several districts carrying supplies from Earthside to their destination. From Iron Twist to Nihil Fenn. It passes through Miter Plaza and Dodger’s Bend too. Both areas devastated by the Quarry’s malfunction six months ago. One of the piston chains kinked and snapped, the titanic hammer fell off target and sent its shuttering vibrations through part of Iron Twist. Dodger’s Bend crumbled in on itself. Miter Plaza just fell into the earth. There was a loud crashing noise. Some screams. And then it was gone. The man walks the lonely lengths of Grandwork. The streets in Iron Twist die after a certain hour. Once the train traffic stalls so does life in this district. His eyes keep turning back to the Construct Quarry’s furious activity. To Hoffmann’s work. What are you up to old friend? The man’s thoughts are taken back to a different time. He remembers days long gone. When he and Carl worked side by side mastering the technological and the arcane. He remembers the others too. Nicodemus Rose. He was so tall, stern and noble. Nicodem they called him. He sought the secrets of mortality hoping to use them to quell the restless dead and banish the wicked. He honed his arts with the Death Seekers back Earthside, a coven of warrior monks who hunted the undead and answered the call of the innocent. He remembers Professor Roland Towers, the instructor at the Royal Polytechnic and a serendipitous genius when it came to the mechanical sciences. Roland was a gentleman, suave and confident. And always armed with some new pistol. He hunted creatures that inhabited the night alongside the others but for Towers it was always a game. Wealth, women and prestige were his stock and store. The Gunsmith is the only one from the old days he still has contact with. Time has not been kind to many of his old friends but for Roland, rather than ravage his good looks and deep pockets it has taken a toll on his personality. Debonair as ever but also an unrepentant murderer. Time has been equally unkind to Viktor Ramos as well. For never in his early years before all this darkness did he believe he’d willing accept the kind of man that Roland Towers has become into his employment. And then there was Carl and Camille. Camille Lisson was the youngest of their cadre and the most hopeful of any of them. She couldn’t help but see the potential in every living thing for good. Ramos’ lip comes close to a smile when he recalls her reputation among them for frequently needing rescue from her pet projects. But she wasn’t beyond helpless. She was sagely when it came to the occult and to matters of the soul. And Carl Hoffmann. Viktor attended Polytechnic with Carl and Camille. It’s where they discovered each others’ talents and where their little coven was born. He envied Carl’s gifts. Where all the others had to perfect their skills and learn their art Hoffmann was born with an aberrant ability. He had some kind of instinctual resonance with metal, a deep elemental connection that was more primal than any alchemical rote. With only a thought he could turn the hands of a watch back. With a gesture of his finger he could cause a carriage to rise off the ground. And he could assemble machines with the finesse of a clockmaker without so much as laying hand to tool. Ramos remembers clearly the tuning fork chime Hoffmann’s talents made when called upon. But Viktor and Carl were more than just compatriots in a secret organization. They were best friends. Brothers bound by a cause. But that was a long time ago. Viktor turns off Grandwork and down Nail Road. Things become murkier off the main strip. The patina of the buildings shows deeper, the neglect and debris of the streets gather unchecked. The view of Construct Quarry is blissfully blocked from view by one of the water towers though the hellish glow still fills the sky. He ignores the radiance and focuses on his destination, the Nail Street Title and Loan. It’s an indiscriminant little concrete box with brick façade that hides from the intersection three store fronts down. Its ruddy red sign catches the pale light of a street lamp from the sidewalk. Underneath the street lamp a murderer waits for Viktor Ramos. A coat the color of dried grass flitters in the night winds. The brim of a man’s hat is pulled down concealing his identity from anyone daft enough not to mind their own business. All that shows is his beard, groomed to perfection and hanging chest length. It’s the color of a storm cloud. Ramos watches the gloved hands bring the mouthpiece of a tobacco pipe to the man’s lips and a long moment later he’s wreathed in brief haze of smoke that carries into the night. “Roland.” Viktor greets the man beneath the lamp. “Viktor. Ugly night eh? Quarry’s kicking up quiet the storm.” Roland Towers never looks at Ramos. Whatever his line of sight is locked on the shadows under his hat obscures it. He brushes accumulating ash from his coat. “We’re not concerned about Carl’s business tonight. Stay focused.” Ramos instructs as he collapses his umbrella and stashes it back with the bag. “I am focused.” Roland’s tone is spoken with dark intensity. The Englishman gestures for Ramos to lead the way and he follows closely behind. The Gunsmith starts humming the tune to Son of the Desert am I as Viktor opens the door to the Title and Loan. The moment in time is frozen for all eternity to stare down at and scrutinize. The chief teller and his two accountants stare at the pair. Ramos and Towers stand as petrified statues with stone cold stares that pierce the soul of the employees and the two customers collecting their earnings. Ramos watches script passing into the hands of a dusty looking gentleman from those of the head teller. One of the many side businesses operated out of the Title and Loan has to do with gambling. People will take the chance to bet on just about anything if money can be made. It’s anyone’s guess what the winner earned his payout on. But it’s money that isn’t being properly taxed. A cut of it belongs to Ramos. That was the agreement the Title and Loan made when it asked for his protection against the Guildcorp. “Mr Ramos?” The head teller stumbles. Viktor can tell the man’s fumbling around with his thoughts just as his hands are fumbling beneath the counter now. The teller, Lukas Martin, is trying to decide what his next words should be. Vikor wonders if they’ll be an innocent lie? Will Lukas pretend not to know about the mark he put on Ramos’ head? Will he curse him for not being killed by the Resserectionist hit team? Will he beg forgiveness and promise a proper working arrangement from now on? Towers throws open his coat letting the night breeze reveal his intentions. Guns. Countless holstered guns and straps of experimental ammunitions. Martin answers Ramos’ curiosity, not with words but with an action. His hands jerk up with shot gun aimed and fingers primed. Time lets go of its stranglehold of the scene. Martin’s chest breaks before he can fire, two rounds from Towers’ pistol cut through him and bite into the office walls beyond. Martin’s arm flies wide and his hand spasms as he falls. His shotgun discharged into the flank of his customer knocking the man flat. He bleeds out onto the office floor with little more than a final gasp to mark his passing. One of the tellers, an age withered woman, draws a peacebringer from under her desk and pulls the trigger on Ramos. The bullet strikes true hitting the old man dead on. It breeches clothes and skin but it’s ruinous intention stops there. It strikes muscles made of metal chords and bones of iron. Victor holds a gloved hand toward her, his finger curled into a claw like gesture. Pricks of light flicker from each digit before a cascade of electricity leaps from his grip and engulfs the woman. Unlike Martin and his customer, her final moments are neither quick nor quiet. The door to the back office of the Title and Loan crashes open and adds two more players to the chaotic stage. Both dark men, faces taunt and hard, big hands gripping big guns. The remaining teller draws on Towers but the Gunsmith is already leaping the counter before any kind of aim can be taken. The teller’s shot veers wide clipping a chair and shattering the shop window. Towers’ pistol handle swings like a club loosing teeth and blood from the teller’s mouth before a bullet breaks his skull completely. Ramos doesn’t feel pain in the same way he used to. It’s all data now, facts and figures, failings and compensations. His body warns him of the bullets striking it. The two men who joined the scene made their presence know by blanketing Ramos in bullets. Viktor’s strange mechanical organs fixate on a point in space between the two men. His many internal components all work together with the same terrible precision as when a warlock’s brain endeavors to cast a spell. They rip and tear at the space with unseen hands made of exotic matter till reality parts leaving a pulsing glow behind. From that tear an unnamable something drifts out. Sparks and flickers of light course of the mechanical jellyfish while its bell rumbles with energy. The men are burnt by its proximity and then spattered across the walls as the entity’s form breaks, loosing its destructive life force in a final impressive display. Shards of the wooden floor and cheaply made walls shower the office. Lights are blown out and windows shattered. The second customer is left as a charcoal black corpse, his involvement in all this will never be known and based on his burns neither will identity. And then it’s quiet. Ramos leaves his stationary spot and marches on. Towers follows. The pair weaves through the wreckage and into the back office. A meek figure stands against the hallway wall. He’s another teller and barely an adult. “Please sir…” He whimpers. Ramos passes by the man as if he wasn’t there but Towers slows his step. His arm flicks up briefly and with a jerk of his finger the hallway echoes and the whimpering ends. The teller crumples to the floor, most of his face an unrecognizable char. The pair stops at one of the doors in the hall. Martin had asked Ramos for help in keeping them safe from the other greedy hands in Malifaux. They became another pair of greedy hands. Viktor stops at the door and stares at it. The red glint behind his goggles returns. Roland wonders what its like to see with those eyes and what the world must be like to Viktor Ramos. The Gunsmith watches as Ramos flashes a gesture to him. There are five men inside and all likely armed. Ramos’ hand breaks off the knob on the locked door and shoves it open. He and Towers duck around the frame of the entry as pistol rounds eat into the walls. They can hear disorganized voices inside and the click of a safe door opening. Roland offers a questioning nod to Viktor. The room has a lot of bodies in it and getting inside will be costly. There’s no cover, no room to maneuver, no hope to avoid taking a bullet. Ramos reaches into his coat and draws out a shining metal sphere about the size of an orange and pitches the orb in before pulling out three more to add to the room. First there is gunfire, and then the sound of gears unlocking, tiny metal tapping on the wooden floor follows. Then screams. And then only the tapping. Viktor enters the room with Roland following. The opposition is smeared across the floor, the tiny orbs having sprouted spider limbs and cutting blades. The arachnids march about hacking at warm dead flesh and shining their tiny red eyes about looking for more targets to dismember. Other than machines and corpses there are safes. One small and open already, its content already plunked out by these men and loaded into the blood stained sack. The other safe is built into the wall, a dark metal masterwork whose workings are made of clockwork, iron and magnetics. These men could have lived but greed got the better of them. “One of yours, yes?” Roland gestures to the safe door with his pistol. Ramos nods. “Yes, Chemaux’s best as a matter of fact and further modified by me personally. This cost Martin a great deal of script and future favors.” “Should have just paid his bills. Poor idiot would still be alive.” Towers says while watching the arachnids dissect the dead piece by piece. He often wonders what compels the little machines to be so bloodthirsty. There’s no logic in. Ramos runs his hands over the locks and the dials while his hidden eyes analyze the door. “No pity for Mr. Martin. Idiocy is an easily countered character flaw. Its cure is a simple dose of obedience.” “Can you open it? Towers changes the subject. Ramos has lectured him before on the importance of obedience and the price paid for failure. It gets grim rather quickly. “No. Not with the time I have. Martin’s eyes on the street are already spoiling our visit. Every crook in Malifaux will fall on this place soon to pick over anything left. I do not intend on leaving much for the buzzards to feed on.” “So you have this taken care of?” Ramos kneels down on the floor before the vault. His hand pulses with electrical light and a deep baritone thump beats from his fist in methodic machine fashion. The sparks of energy catch in his smoked goggles. The gentle beats vibrate through the floor and up Roland’s spine. He steps back from Ramos as the soft pounding is joined by a constant growing tremor from beneath their feet. Vikor stands and moves back as well. He joins Roland at the rear of the room. The gunsmith notes the smell of ozone and leather, Ramos’ usual odor. He can see the wounds left by Martin’s men. They reveal blood and broken flesh but there’s more. Eyes familiar with fresh death know the differences. Roland can see the skin and the blood both rip and bleed strangely. The blood is too runny and the skin tears so evenly. Beneath the wound, barely exposed, is Ramos’ true nature. He can see metal, gears and more complicated workings than any steam work master crafter could manage. Ramos is something else entirely. Roland’s known it for a long time. He remembers the day that Ramos completed the Oculos and stepped in. He wonders all the time if Vikor ever really returned. What came back was certainly a changed man. The floorboards heave. The vibrations shudder through the Title and Loan, probably outside on the streets too. Finally the floor buckles and splits open. The noise that shrieks out of the earth is grating to the ears as it is to the soul. Roland plugs his ears but Viktor stands undisturbed. He watches lengths of serpentine steel slither out of the ground, each coil the thickness of an ancient tree. Its tail terminates in a tiny mechanical eye that bleeds beams of red into the dark. The head is a hungry cone of buzzing teeth, whirling gears and stone breaking grinders that all sing with a high pitched hiss. Roland shields himself from the pebbles and dirt kicked up by the entrance of the nightmare. Ramos merely points with a single gloved finger. The machine rears back like a wyrm ready to strike at its prey. If the door could cower or shriek it would. If it could run and hide it would. There’s no courage in its stoic defiance. The killing head screams. Its death song sickens Roland with its volume and pitch. The screech echoes out of the Title and Loan and into Malifaux’s night and then it rips into the door. Sparks and shards bleed from the door as it’s penetrated. Moments later the door is dead and the machine’s song trails off into a quiet hymn. The mining machine slithers back. Ramos walks into the fatal wound left by the drill bit followed by his arachnid attendants. Once inside he drops his bag but before it hits the floor it sprouts brass legs and tiny arms. A mobile toolkit that walks, bird like, behind its master with hatch open and ready to receive the goods. Roland watches as Viktor fills the mobile toolkit with stacks of script and small caches of soul stone. “You know something Viktor, you’re the only man I know that could have his hands on this much wealth and yet still look so damn dower about it.” “I’m sure Carl could edge me out as far as sullen expressions go.” “Maybe so.” Roland considers. “But now that you mention him… we can’t ignore the Construct Quarry forever. At some point you and him are going to cross paths. We should get the jump on him. Better the meeting on our terms than his yes?” Ramos ignores the chirped complaint of the toolkit as the weight of script pushes heavily on it. He’s been thinking a lot about Carl and Camille recently. He hadn’t even noticed till Roland pointed out that he brought the Architect up. He leaves the vault to his machines. As he exits he directs the miner in as well. Its drill bit face opens like the segmented maw of a night crawler. It starts filling itself with scoops of valuables and the splinters of the shelves they rest on. “Carl is no more a threat than Nicodem. The undertaker attacked us a few nights ago and you have your sights set on Hoffmann?” Ramos isn’t sure why he feels so passionately about this. He rarely feels anything but right now he does. A half forgotten emotion that hasn’t burned in his heart for a very long time. He can’t quiet name it but its something he used to pride himself on possessing. Roland laughs quietly. “As you wish Chairman Ramos.” “You disagree?” “Yes, as long as you’re asking. Nicodem’s easy to plan for. He’s no different now than he was back than. The man will do anything for little scraps of arcane chaff. He gives a nice esoteric rant about higher powers and evolution through death but at the end of the day he’s a mercenary with mercenary motivations. I know mercenary. So I know how to deal with him. Carl. Carl’s different. Carl’s after revenge. He’s out there to get even for what happened in Egypt Viktor. Remember Egypt?” Beneath his goggles Ramos’ eyes narrow to a hateful squint. He’s unprepared for all the emotions that are crawling back to the surface. “Of course I do. How could I forget?” “Good.” Roland says dryly. “Then you know why he’s more dangerous than Nicodem. He blames you and rightfully so wouldn’t you say?” “Carl was weak when he needed to be strong! What happened is not my fault!” Ramos snarls. He steps forward and grabs Towers by his coat pulling him close. Roland can smell the sparks and metal again. And he can see real honest anger. It’s comforting. Roland swats at Viktor’s grip and he knows that Ramos lets his hand fall willingly. His iron fist wouldn’t fall any other way. Towers steps back and his usual predatory smile returns. “That’s my boy! Just wanted to make sure you were still inside there.” Ramos is about to say something but he’s as unsure of what his next words are going to be as Roland is. His arachnids relieve him of having to say anything at all. They swarm out along with his tool kit and the monstrous miner. “We’re done tonight Roland. They’ll be more work soon. Be available when I call. Until then” Ramos reaches into the open hatch of his toolkit and pulls out a stack of script and tosses it to Towers “stay occupied.” “I can do that.” Roland tips his hat and excuses himself from the room. “I’ll show myself out. Thank Mr. Martin for a lovely evening won’t you.”

Thanks all.

Genius reading on that one marshimartin. I'd of never thought about that.

Von Schill, in my opinion, rocks the face of most resser crews. The range, speed and Von Schill super sauce is too much for this generally slow faction to keep up with. Seamus best power, in my opinion, is Undead Psychosis and that's pointless against a ranged crew. The clumping nature of resser crews makes the specialist rather deadly and with no "obey" type power the specialist is safe from blowing his own tanks. The regular corpsmen are way more fighty than a bell. Its going to be hard to deliver Bete without canine remains because the corpsmen will be dropping models at range where possible. Von schill needs no totem by the way. I mean, student is cool but just save the stones and buy another trapper or something. Ressers are a hard faction.

Thanks for the responses. That means Zoraida one this game. My friend calls major shennanigens on Bad Juju but frankly the guy ends up costing you like a total of twelve stones a game and he can't be obeyed so I'm thinking its a fair model.

The point of contention was over the mention in eternal that he counts as killed for vp purposes. I said that does not remove his position on the board for holdout. He said it a vp issue and killed models dont count