The Silent Host: Forgefiend - Taharqa, Baring Fangs

The Forgefiend Taharqa is a fearsome sight. Jaws locked open in a constant grimace, fearsome autocannon scything down enemy troops, immolating tanks with jets of ectoplasmic energy vomited from its internal furnace, Taharqa stalks catlike across the battlefield. Woe unto the mouse.

I didn't take in-progress pictures for this model, as I'm trying a different approach. Additionally, I'd like to note the recurrence of my color philosophy. Black is a color reserved for units which were present at the Burning of Prospero. All Forgefiends postdate the Horus Heresy, and thus, Taharqa does not wear black.

The Silent Host: Contemptor Dreadnought - Heraclitus the Red-Handed

Interred within the mighty walking tomb of a Contemptor-class Dreadnought chassis, the warrior once known as Heraclitus the Red-Handed rages against the dying of the light. Unleashing simmering resentment at being denied the peace of death upon those who oppose the Silent Host, Heraclitus is a force to be reckoned with. Here's how I painted him.

The Silent Host - New Warhammer 40K Project

This is a bit of a prelude to a new project I'm going to be working on. I'm about 1/3 through painting a Thousand Sons army for Warhammer 40,000 and decided I'd like to chronicle the painting process. What's below is the overall background of the army, which informed my color choices, as well as the theory behind those colors.

For context, the Thousand Sons were a legion of soldier-sorcerers who fell to Chaos (the baddies) and now wander the galaxy fighting all manner of aliens, as well as the Imperium (the less-baddies). 

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: "Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all." 

Why So Serious?

Life’s a joke,

A nasty brutish

Buildup to a cosmic punchline:

Us.

POEM: Back-Country Prophecy

I see my life

In the broken-down, sway-back farmhouses

Of the Minnesota backcountry,

Out where no one travels

And only ghosts reside,

Murmuring might-have-beens. 

Poem: Like a Coastal Shelf

Knives as long as memory
And just as sinful sharp.
We kill our dreams
And waste our lives
Longing for them back.
The blood is dark upon our hands
And gnaws upon our soul.
Our fitful dreams
And fevered days
Remind us what we lack.
Until at last we find a hole
And hide there with a mate.
Strip a child of their dreams
And give them ours instead:
Reassembled memories with glue upon the cracks.

Poem: Caoineadh

The earth cries out beneath your feet,
It weeps to see you pass.
And while I wandered in the street,
You danced upon the grass.

I heard your laughter in the air,
It burned my soul like fire.
The sunset shone upon your hair
Like blood upon the lyre.

You passed on into shadowlands,
And left behind your light.
I wrung my crimsoned hands
For I lost you in the night.