Part Three of Stories of the 42nd

Continued from Part Two

Lt. Revkin peered over the lip of the trench in a vain search for the hidden snipers. He'd heard of them before from his men. "Always deadly, never seen," had been the words of the Angel Company quartermaster he had been grifting over a game of tarok. The fat bastard was right. I can't get a bead on them. How do you kill an enemy you can't tell apart from the trees... Then it hit him. Ducking down into the trench, he tapped his combead to link him to his driver.

"Chimera 1, Chimera 1, come in! We need those woods torched. Enemy snipers ahead. Repeat, Enemy snipers ahead. Relay word to the 57th, and tell them we need Colossus fire 50 yards forward of your position". The driver's acknowledgment was almost drowned out by the roar of promethium from the Chimera's flamer. "Dyalov, we're moving out to rejoin the others. Keep to the trench." Out of the corner of his eye, Revkin though he caught movement, but when he turned, all he saw was more mud and brambles, lit by the purifying light of the flamer. Making the sign of the Aquila as a protection against evil, he moved on.

************

Precious good that's gonna do you here, iceboy, thought the collection of brambles. Of course, it's just that kind of blasphemy that got me here in the first place. The smoke from the forest fire began to itch his throat as much as the explosive collar he wore itched his neck. The voice of Penal Sgt. Killgore called out over the combeads he and his fellow Legionnaires wore. "Time to earn your penance, squad. Rejoice in His Mercy. Let's move up and find those snipers." The blasphemer knew that to remind the Sgt. that there was artillery fire coming in would be meaningless. The Sgt. was as dedicated as any Commissar, and merciless as an Ork warboss. Just about as bright, too. Whoever assigned a Catachan Penal Sgt. to a Valhallan regiment must have been one cruel son of a bitch.

The eight of them, the ones that survived the infiltration into the woods, moved cautiously forward. As they advnaced, they gave each other mutual cover, leap-frogging between whatever pieces of rock and stump the forest provided. Their orange jumpsuits and ill-fitting flack vests were covered in mud, giving lifesaving concealment to those that deserved none. They moved with collar-enforced discipline through the undergrowth, seeking out the xenos who might stall the 42nd's advance. The woman ahead of him, charged with murdering a superior officer over a card game, scanned the forest from behind a tree stump. Not well enough. he thought, as the rapist behind him was taken down. Just as well, no one liked him anyway. The murderer popped off a few shots at random, and was just as surprised as anyone was when she heard an answering scream. Killgore pointed unerringly in its direction. "Maybe 20 yards ahead! GO! GO! GO!"

And there was no argument. The seven sprinted forward, firing at random, hoping to hit another ghost hiding in front of them. Grenades, why don't they give us grenades! Killgore, the murderer and he were the first to break their way into the clearing. The sudden brightness and stillness stunned them all. After months in on this gray sump of a planet, the sudden riot of color they saw was almost too much to take. An arch of bleach white bone dominated the clearing, glowing and pulsing. Surrounding that were a council of the xenos witches, their attentions focused on the arch. Eldar troops walked beneath the arch, only to disappear. The murderer broke the silence. "They're retreating." Killgore tapped his combead, relaying their position to command.

Killgore turned to the seven penitents. "We have a clear duty. We must kill the witches before they all can escape. For the Emperor..." was all he could get out before a trickle of blood appeared on his lips. The trickle became a torrent, as an Eldar they had not seen appeared behind him. Clad in a riot of color, shifting and whirling, the Eldar disposed of Killgore's corpse in the manner reminiscent of a dance step, that is if your partner was a broken doll. The dancing Eldar turned to the shocked penitents just as they had begun to raise their weapons. A quartet of Eldar, similarly clad and masked, appeared around the six remaining humans. The dancers slapped the weapons from human's hands, and as they did, the penitents heard a familiar sound echo from the leader's mask. It was the scream that lead them into the trap. It ended in a mocking note as the five xenos fell upon them. It was the last sound they ever heard.

The Stories of the 42nd, Part Two

When we last left Captain Sorin, his assault on the Eldar stronghold in the woods was at a critical point. Angel Company had been mauled on the left, but Chain Company was gaining ground on the right flank. It was up to Faith Company to hold the center, and support Chain's assault.

Lt. Revnik's heart sank as he watched the xenos beam carve its way through Katya's hull. The jouncing of his Chimera's hull made it hard to focus his periscope on the stricken vehicle, a Chimera that had been with the regiment since it's inception. There is no way that anyone could have survived that! Then, he saw the Company's banner unfurl. Though, all things are possible through Faith! Heartened, he turned to his men. "Boys, get your flamers ready! We have xenos to burn!" The red light of the cabin washed over the mud-streaked faces of his squad. The pilot lights of their flamers flickered as they bounced their way across the rutted no-man's land, tiny devotional candles to the Emperor.

The xenos weapons tried to make their mark in the Chimera's hull, but found no purchase. The tank's gunner fired its weapons haphazardly, doing little more than keeping the Eldar heads down. Revnik ordered the driver to press into the woods. The driver's reply was terse. Revnik heard the questioning and fearful tone even through his combead, but knew that his order would be followed. The beast was likely to be bogged down inside the tree line, but it would bring the squad's flamers to bear that much sooner. Anything to confound the enemy and take pressure off the assault. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a fist sized hole being bored into the turret. The gunner (or what was left of him) fell back down into the hull. Cauterized, he though dully. No, cooked. Putting his flamer aside, Pvt. Dyalov alone had the presence of mind to quickly get a blanket to cover the tanker's body. With the boy covered, Revnik snapped out of his shock.He was from the motor pool. I didn't even know his name.

The driver, ever professional, warned the squad that they had ten seconds to the tree line, and that they should brace themselves. The Chimera roared over the embankment that hid the Eldar, and pressed into the woods. Its heavy flamer was a font of vengeance for the fallen men of Valhalla, its flames a benediction for the men behind the Revnik's squad advancing into the Eldar guns. The rear gate slammed down, and Revnik's men poured forth. The xenos, armored blue and yellow, turned their strange weaponry toward the squad, but the Emperor's wrath would have its say. A fan of flame poured forth from the squad. Revnik added his laspistol to the assault. They even die gracefully. Aiming for one alien's chest, he watched as it danced its way out of fatal wound, the lasbolt hitting it in the arm. It was spun, a dervish now sans an arm. You can't outrun light, though. He put an other lasbolt right in the thing's chest for good measure. By now, the Eldar's infernal disc throwers were sending stray shots the squad's way.

Heedless of the danger, Revnik charged the line of Xenos in the trenches. Gurov took an unlucky hit to the fuel line. His promethium tank went next, and the spark from the Eldar weapons ignited the remaining gel and Gurov with it. His screams did not slow the remaining men. Wielding their flamers like clubs, they savaged the remaining xenos near them. The Eldar seemed frail, but proved quick and strong enough to leave Kozmin lying on the forest floor, his large frame bleeding from a dozen delicate cuts. What Revkin and his men lacked in finesse, they more than made up for with their zeal. The Lieutenant's chainsword carved into the peaked helmet of one of the Eldar citizen-soldiers. A foe had stabbed through Dyalov's greatcoat, only to have his alien blade turned aside by the hidden flack vest. Dyalov responded in kind, but with better luck. Maisky overbore his opponent, toppling the alien, and made he short work of it. The remaining Eldar seemed hesitant to engage such savages, and that hesitation cost them their lives. The Demolisher shell hit the far end of the trench, followed quickly by the atomic bright flash of plasma. The alien menace had been vanquished by the superior fire power of the Imperial Guard. Not a single enemy stood in sight. Ears ringing, Revkin was shocked into speechlessness for the second time in five minutes. And then he began to laugh. It was the laughter of a man who assumed himself dead a second earlier, and found himself given a reprieve. Dyalov and Maisky soon joined him, the laughter sounding madly through the smoke and flame of the wood. They laughed till it hurt.

That was, until Maisky's head took a round and exploded. "SNIPERS!" shouted Dyalov, as he tackled his Lieutenant into the trench...

Theme: How do you tie it all together?

You have models, and you have a list in mind.

How do you make these models work together? Often, the models from the same army are similar in nature. Imperial Marines of all flavors are a fine example of this. But what happens when you're playing imperial guard and you're tired of painting just Cadians? Or you play daemons? The Gods of Chaos favor certain color schemes, and you are left with a plan to make what seems like an explosion in a paint factory.

What do you do? The key is a proper selection of colors.

My guard army contains many elements. I have Tallarn, Valhallans, Cadians and even a Mordian sergeant thrown in for good measure. With a casual glance, you'd never notice it, due to the army's unified color scheme. Let me show you:









Even though the models have different colors, poses, and body styles, they all reference the main color: olive drab. It allows for differences amongst the models to blend into a cohesive whole. The same goes for any other guard army, and any other color choice. Imagine an army of Tallarn in white tunics with black turbans. Pair them with Sisters of Battle from the Order of the Sacred Rose. Though the armies are different, their cohesive color scheme will make them a stunning army to field or face.

But what about the daemon army? Slaanesh loves his/her/its pinks and purples, Khorne, his reds, etcetera. How do you blend them? We turn to fashion advice for this. For maximum impact, one mixes vivid colors and neutrals together. The colors should be an accent to the larger neutral palette. What is a neutral color? A neutral color is one not found on the color wheel: black, white, grays, beige and other earth-tones.



How does that knowledge help us bring those disparate elements together?

Model by Ferix on DakkaDakka:


The skin on this daemonette is a neutral shade, leaning toward a white/beige, with the blue accents becoming the accent.

You could easily pair that deamonette with the following bloodletter, if one tweaked the colors.

Model by Catpeeler on DakkaDakka:


Another example of a neutral fleshtone comes from my own daemon army, the Host of Hope's Demise. Though it would not fit with the above two examples, I would have no trouble painting a daemonette's flesh in the same earthy flesh tones.



The neutral flesh you choose for your army will help it blend, while each squad will show the colors of it's patrons, giving both players a quick visual shorthand to each unit's nature.

I just won Chaos in the Old World!

It was a limerick contest, and my winning entry was:

There once was a man of the Reik,
Who oft found a girl to his like,
He fondled their tresses,
Said ten "Hail Slaaneshes!"
And was gutted by Witchhunter Mike!

And so I am getting the game shipped to me! WOOT!

Team Tournament Backstory

So, back about two years ago, my friend Simon and I went and played in the Adepticus Orlandicus Team Tourney held (oddly enough) in Orlando, FL. We, as Team Bloody and Broody (Flesh Tearers/Dark Angels) took third overall, and won for the Head Hunter's Prize (prize for killing the most HQ's/Keeping the most HQ's alive). Go us. Fluff was taken into account for the team's scoring, so no Dark Angel/Dark Eldar pairings. In mind of that, I wrote a little short story explaining how our two forces met, and how we began to cooperate.

But first some back story on my back story. My Flesh Tearers are charged with finding the Eight Artifacts of Angaron (a non-canon idea, but inspired by the Blood Quest comics), and bringing them back to Creticia so that they may be destroyed, killing or weakening Angaron. Simon's Dark Angels are doing what they do best, hunting for a Fallen.

Sgt. Thracius watched his bolter round enter the renegade’s eye. With grim satisfaction, he watched the World Eater’s head explode like a rotten gourd. The gore-soaked giant collapsed, crushing some of the rebel factory workers underneath his bulk.

Sgt. Thracius turned to face his next foe, as the battle raged around him. Blood stained the robes that marked him as member of the Inner Circle. His Dark Angel Brethren had traveled to this factory to hunt down one of the Fallen Angels, and had instead fallen into his trap. The approach to the factory showed the glorious icons of Imperial industry had been torn down or smashed asunder, and had been replaced with runes which burned the eye to look at them. The skull rune of the Blood God had been carved into the head of the Immortal Emperor, incensing the patrol as their rhinos approached the twisted ruins of the factory. Thracius urged caution, and spoke of signs of the enemy in the rubble. The cultists they saw were twisted, stunted parodies of men, clothed in the skin of those who had remained loyal to the Emperor. Bearing an assortment of autoguns, las pistols and crude hand to hand weapons, they were easy prey for the even this small patrol of Astartes. But even this small coven could lead to information regarding this renegade leader, known only as “The Angel of Slaughter”. They could not risk this possible Fallen to escape.

All had gone as planned. Small arms fire pinged off the Rhino’s hide on the approach, representing very little threat. A cultist bearing a grenade launcher, seemingly the heaviest weapon amongst their force, was picked off at range by the more accurate fire of the second squad. The Rhinos gained entry to the compound virtually unopposed. Sgt. Thracius and his battle brothers poured forth from the Rhinos, bolters spitting death. The cultists charged unheeding into the massed fire power, but gained no ground. All seemed to be going their way until Sgt. Thracius heard the throaty roar of chain weapons starting. From concealed positions, eight crimson armored forms rose to join battle. Cleaving through their own followers to better get at the Dark Angels, the World Eaters made their way to join the combat.

All was bedlam for several minutes. The swirl and rush of combat overtook them. Sgt. Thracius’s close encounter made him realize that their positions were untenable. The World Eaters were pressing too hard, and the cultists were cutting off any chance of escape. The Unending Duty, high in orbit, could not be reached, and neither could their Ravenwing patrol. All would be lost if they did not fall back soon.

It was then that Thracius heard the clap of thunder. “Three drop pods on an approach vector, Brother-Sgt.” That brief message confirmed the worst of Thracius’s suspicions. More of the Enemy were coming. He made the only order which made sense.

“Return to the Rhinos, Brothers! We must fall back! Grab your fallen Brothers! No one is left behind!”

At that moment the drop pods slammed home, sending a shock wave through the battle. All was silent for a split second. Then the explosive bolts holding the drop pod doors fired. Red-armored marines poured forth from the pods, armed for close combat, and all seemed lost.

That was until the newcomers fired into the cultists. A scream of “Blood! Blood in His Name!” carried over the din of battle as the newcomers launched themselves into the cultists. Ten of them were armored in white, covered in saltaires of crimson. Those armored so seemed unstoppable, taking fire that would level a grox. As a force, they moved through the foe like a scythe.

“I don’t know who they are, Brothers, but kill the rebels!” The Dark Angels redoubled their fire, slaughtering the cultists. They watched in mute horror as the newcomers rent and tore the foe with chain-axe, combat knives, and even bare hands. Soon, even the Berserkers fell to the warriors in white. What few cultists remained fled to the hills when they saw their benefactors fall. The white armored marines turned to follow them, breaking spines, crushing skulls and rending limbs in a display of unmatched savagery.

The Dark Angels stood, bolters at the ready, and watched the newcomers. A black armored form marched forward, a skull mask marking him as a chaplain. Is this some trick of the Fallen?, thought Sgt Thracius. His Crozius is more of a cudgel than a symbol of devotion. The chaplain raised his hands in salute, and reached up to break the air-seals of his helm.

“Well met, Brothers of the Dark Angels! I am sorry for the lack of warning, but you did not seem to be on the standard frequencies. And there is the matter of the jamming that seems to be taking place.” He seemed normal, a bit pale and gaunt perhaps, but free of taint. “I am Brother-Chaplain Lucius, of the 4th Company of the Fleshtearers. I would speak to your commander, if possible. We may have common cause.”

Why now? These blasted interlopers will ruin the hunt! But Sgt. Thracius could not refuse without drawing suspicion. “I am Brother-Sgt. Thracius, 4th company, 2nd squad, leader of this patrol. Brother-Epistolatory Praxilus is not here. I will vox him to let him know of your desire to meet. But we have little time for conferances. These covens demand to be purged. If a meeting can be done, he will let me know.”

“That is all I can ask.”

______________________________

The Sgt. watched as Brother Librarian Praxilus strode away from the meeting with the Fleshtearer command. Suspicious eyes watched as the battle-scarred craft closed its ramps and began to lift skyward.

The robes of his fellow Inner Circle members moved in the winds created from the other chapter’s Thunderhawk lifting into the sky. “Brothers, I need not tell you that this is a critical moment” began Praxilus. “I have spoken with this Chaplain Lucius. And he targets the same renegade that we do, for reasons unrelated to our quest. Indeed, he is of the mind that this “Angel of Slaughter” is a renegade from his own Chapter, or of his parent Chapter. He does not know anything of the Fallen, and that should remain so if we remain vigilant. Indeed, the Emperor’s Tarot predicted a great challenge ahead of us; forces gather the likes of which we have never seen. Ordinarily, I would not do this, but our casualties have been great. The Enemy was prepared, and though we could find the Fallen, we would not be able to guarantee our success. With them, we can prevail. Without them... who can say?”

With this, Sgt. Thracius grinned. “Better to have hounds to flush our prey. Should they learn too much, who will doubt us when we say they went mad, and had to be put down? Their reputation is our leash, and our weapon.”

______________________________

“Brother Lucius! We have left the atmosphere. Docking with the Righteous Fury in 30.”

“Well done as always, Brother Gregor. Keep scanning for anything unusual.”

“Ave, Brother…” A pause. And then the question, “Brother, these Dark Angels, what do you make of them? Do you trust them?”

“I do not trust them, Gregor. But I trust I know what they will do. They seek our fallen Brother for some reason, I dare not ask what. As long as this ‘Angel’ has the axe we seek; I care not. Just be on guard. I don’t wish to be lost in an ‘accident’ if we step on our Brother’s robes once too often. The Sons of el’Johnson were ever peevish regarding their secrets. In fact, we should probably sensor sweep this Thunderhawk as soon as we return. Still, we need them as much as they need us…”

The stories of the 42nd

Katya’s hull rang with the impact of energy bolts that clawed at the outer hull, desperate to pierce it. Sorin’s face was lit a garish green in the light of the tactical display. He could feel the sightless eyes of Walker boring into him, and it was disturbing him. He didn’t even know Walker’s first name yet, as the Astropath had been assigned to them just this morning. He was another of Commissar Price’s “suggested” innovations, and as disturbing as Walker was, he was already proving his worth.

“Are the penal legions in position?”

“Yes, Captain. They have advanced past the broken lines of Angel Company. It seems either that they have not been spotted, or that they have been dismissed as a minor threat by the Eldar in comparison.”

“More likely the second. Still, have them proceed with their mission. Forgiveness is theirs to be had, even if it’s found while wearing a martyr’s collar.” More impacts hit the hull, one of them causing the hull to glow an intriguing cherry red to the captain’s right. “And see if we can have the 57th do something about this insistent knocking.”

“Ave, Captain.”

Seconds later, a roar that was felt as much as heard filled the cabin with insistent drum beats. The artillery pieces had been concealed in the hills behind the battle-lines of the 42nd Valhallans. The patter of the Eldar’s energy weapons stopped. “Finally! I can get some Mark 1’s on this situation! Pop the top.”

Katya’s top hatches were thrown back. Grabbing his field glasses, Captain Sorin cautiously raised his helmeted head into the grey light of Quentin III. The sight of a war-torn charnel house was his reward. High command had triangulated this area as the center of the Eldar raids, and had postulated that this heavily wooded area was either their base camp or an area of interest to them. Resistance had been heavy in their push to take the woods. Sorin saw the smooth hulls of multiple Eldar tanks burning in the killing fields between the rocky hills they were trapped in and the woods the enemy held. Sorin saw his men, the men of Faith Company, were huddled behind the rocky outcroppings approaching their objective. Borisova’s Angel Company had been mauled on the left, but at least Katzev’s Chain Company was pressing on the right. No matter how well Katzev's boys are doing now, they will falter without support. Faith Company had to press or else the assault would stall and fail. He could hear Commissar Price’s voice exhorting the men to advance, but if the men advanced now, they'd be cut down. It was reaching a point of no return.

“Vox a message to the 57th. Let them fire danger close on those wooded positions ahead of us. Dead of our own shells or dead of xenos weaponry… It makes no difference if we can’t advance. Vox the sergeants leading the assault as well. Tell them they better be 30 seconds behind the shells, or Price will be the least of their worries. And bring those ipaccing Demolishers forward. We need their hulls to cover the assault!”

Captain Sorin, paused, weighing the odds. It was now or never.

"And we need to button up. Order Lt. Revnik to bring his Chimera up to support the Demolishers. We need his flamers to burn the those bastard Eldar out. We're going, too."

That last bit of news made the vox operator look stricken. Sorin resisted the urge to slap him. Corporal Nikitin was new to the 42nd, brought to the front to replace his his old vox-op who had taken a sniper round in the shoulder. His hands were more used to grinding coffee than digging fox-holes, and the fear showed in his eyes. "Pull yourself together, Miska! Did you think you'd see war from a comfy seat here in Katya's hull? You're a son of Valhalla, boy! Time to earn that greatcoat!" Nitkin didn't seem so sure, but prepped his lasgun anyway.

Katya rumbled forward, progressing slowly over the rocks ahead of them. The roar of the 57th's guns firing was eclipsed by the sound of their shells hitting home 100 yards ahead of them. The demolisher's cannons added their shells to the roar, and their heavy bolters spat death into the half-seen Eldar holding in the woods. Sorin checked the workings of his chainsword, pushing down the fear he felt with practiced ease. The eyes of the company would be on him, and he had to keep their fighting spirits high.

Suddenly, Katya lurched to a halt. The cabin's heat rose perceptibly. Sorin sensed danger, yelling "Hit the deck!" not a moment too soon. A beam of pure light cut through the transport compartment at gut height. Petrachkov grabbed the company standard and threw it to the deck, and was caught by the beam. It cut into him, the heat from the beam caused him to explode. Nitkin wretched, but had the common courtesy not to soil the company banner any further than Petrachkov had. "It looks like we need a new banner bearer, Nitkin, and it looks like you've just volunteered. Get that banner unfurled! Hold it high, for the Company's sake! Walker, stay here and hide. Katya's down, but she will protect you from stray shots. Men of the 42nd, we go the rest of the way on foot!" With that, Sorin kicked the broken ramp down. He drew his chainsword and strode forth, touching Katya's aquilla icon for luck. He hoped to the Emperor his men were following him.

To be continued...

Valhallans

My Valhallans are going through a change, as I noted before. A newer (cheaper) commander was promoted to Captain, with the Colonel moving up in the ranks through field promotions. Penal Legion are being added, as are a Psyker battle squad and a new commissar.

Captain Sorin rested his aching back against the interior of Katya’s hull. His overcoat hung open, and his view out Katya’s open ramp was painted in shades of grey. The weak light of Quentin III’s sun struggled manfully to break the cloud cover, but it was wasted effort. Not even the mud on this sump hole has color. Sorin fumbled for his lho sticks, finding them stowed in his dry inner pocket. He began to pull them out, unthinking. Light discipline! I can’t smoke these. He shoved them back, disgusted.

“Pardon me saying so, Captain, but you’re better off quitting those things.” The voice was only a mild rebuke, but it startled the newly minted Captain just the same. He turned to face the company’s Commissar, who was rounding the bend, an easy smile on a face framed by a crisp salute.

A relieved smile lit up Sorin’s eyes, glad for the distraction. He stepped out of his chimera’s hull, his hand brushing the worn aquilla just inside Katya’s entrance.“Actually, Commissar Price, I was reaching for my pistol to shoot you myself. I thought it a mercy to relieve you from this tropical nightmare that we’ve landed ourselves in. It must be at least ten degrees above freezing. Walk with me, I’d like to hear your morale report.”

Price nodded, his smile still in place. “I’d hardly call ten degrees above freezing ‘tropical’, Captain.” Price fell in with Sorin, and they toured the company’s section of the line, noting the men’s dug-in defenses. “The men are ready for the Eldar’s next push. Casualties were light, mostly from sniper fire. They have been at prayer, and they seem in good spirits.”

“I wish I shared their optimism. These Eldar have been like ghosts. I keep feeling like we’ve got them, and then they melt away like salted snow. It’s been two months of hunting on this hell pit, and we’re still no closer to pinning them down. At least winter is coming. I might actually have to buckle my coat.”

Price could see the strain on Sorin’s face. “The men are up to the task, Captain. I begin to wonder if the Captain is ready for it.” Sorin turned as if he had been slapped. “What the ipac are you talking about, Commissar?”

“My lapels, Sorin. You’re wrinkling them.” Sorin looked down; his hands had grasped the Commissar’s own greatcoat unbidden. Sorin released the other man swiftly, as if he was a scalding pipe. The men who had turned to watch them found sudden interest in their prayers and cleansing rituals for their lasguns.

Price seemed unflustered despite his wrinkled clothing. “Let me repeat, Captain. If there is a problem with this regiment, it is you. The men respect you, General Zedowsky certainly had faith in you.” Price stepped in close, closer than was comfortable for Sorin. “You’re afraid of losing a single one of them, Captain. And for that, you might lose all of them. It’s the peril of raising one from inside the ranks. You’re too connected to the idea of the 42nd as they were under the General’s command. Losses will occur, Sorin. There’s nothing fair about it, and it will come to rest unquietly on your shoulders. But rest assured that High Command, and thus the Commissariat, is unconcerned with your mental health.”

“I can’t just send them into the meat grinder again and again. To do so is a waste of the Emperor’s resources”

“And yet you must. If it means victory, you must be ready to sacrifice them to the man. Not heedlessly, certainly, but blood shed in His Name is the ink that writes the accounts of our victory. But don’t worry, Sorin. I did secure something for the company that might help you overcome your problem.”

Only then did Sorin note the truck pulling up. Full of men in filthy orange jump fatigues, it could mean one thing.

“Penal legions?”

“Yes, Captain. Think of them as training wheels…”

The Valhallan conundrum

I'm having trouble finding a compelling hook for the back story of my Valhallans.

There was once a time that I had the Valhallan 42nd Mountaineers, a regiment mostly of foot troops, led by the zealous Colonel Zedowsky. Over time, my regiment changed in its nature. Elements of support came from the 135th Krieg and some Irregulars that the regiment adopted from their time on Utica IV, a desert planet that had some of the most vicious mountain warfare.

Now, it is lead by a different model, one Captain Sorin (as Colonel Z had some wargear that was costly for a model unlikely to survive actual combat...). Captain Sorin doesn't believe in front line fighting, and is much more likely to be poring over a data-slate and directing his men from his Chimera Katya than being on the front line.

The nature of the regiment changed even more. The 135th didn't make as many appearances. The Irregular's veteran duties fell back on the 42nd, who enjoyed their new Valkyrie. The Mordant 57th Penal Legion was attached to them for mine clearing duty, and the received the support of an Astropath and of a Squad of Psykers. Medusas and Leman Russ Demolishers started making more appearances. The question I have for myself is if they are still the Valhallan 42nd any more? Do I see it as the same regiment with changes, or as an entirely new body?

Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time writing for them, unlike my other armies. Of course, I haven't written anything for my Flesh Tearers. Stelek (of YTTH infamy) first suggested my army list to me, and I feel like they're kind of soulless. I haven't played them as much for that reason.

You should write a bit each day.

Hemingway did it, and so should you. I’m not talking about drinking to excess or going on safari. I’m talking about writing.

Of course, our writing can take many forms. Like writing short stories, army lists, novels, and of course, what I call the theme side bar. Think of it as a scene, a vignette that reveals the flavor of your army. Better yet, think of it as a written trailer for your army. You, of course, have read dozens, if not more of these shorter than short stories. Some of them are highly memorable, others less so. They're all in those text boxes in the sides of your codices and rule books.

The one that I love is simple, and it sets the image of the 40k universe so well. Turn to your chaos codex, current edition.

There is the story of the desperate struggle of an imperial guard regiment under attack by the Red Corsairs. The Guardsmen cower in a bunker, and attempt to call in artillery on their coordinates, when a Land Raider rolls over their position, making a mockery of their resistance. The guardsman's death is an inexorable as a drowning man's. The Red Corsairs, finding him damaged and of no use, toss him aside contemptuously.

What elements does this need to make it work?

1. Brevity - the shorter you can make it the better.

2. Clearly defined conflict - the classics work best here, Man Vs. Man, Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Self

3. A satisfying resolution? - Obviously, you want your side to win. You're writing it, so you get to define the ending. Of course, this being a just a scene, you can build in a cliffhanger. Describe only a tiny slice of the victory.

Your hive fleet's lictor slaughters a few guards, but moves on into the night. Does it complete its mission? That's for the game and dice to decide.

You might a Dark Eldar Wych leaping into the fray against a tactical squad, performing a deadly dance with the marine sergeant. Have that fight end with the wych planting a poison kiss, and having it end with her asking who is next.