So, I want to proxy monster cavalry with riders instead of BCs… been thinking about the nature of Chaos Dwarfs; their demonsmithing and constructs in particular and whether or not this idea fits in with the fluff at all.
If there are sects within Chaos Dwarf society that operate outside the bounds of Hashut and the Sorcerer Priest in their ziggurats, then why would Bull Centaurs be amongst the Frurndar? I think instead they would use some variety of monstrous constructs… as BCs were a mutation gifted to the Bull God’s devout, functioning as the elite muscle of the temple. So, how does the idea of a monstrous calvary with a sort of bio-machine rider used in an industrial themed CD army strike you? Understanding that its more of a Clan Molder thing to tinker with aberrations of life… anyway I’d appreciate your brain storming or impressions on this, not 100% sure on the idea for a conversion
Prehaps Im too much of a purist, but if you want monstrous BC. Try pulling out the ol’ tenderiser. My local club lets me use em as a chariot unit, similar to TK. I also have a steam and demon version for BC chars. (the BC char cant have magic items, bearing the honor of the Pulverisor)
Your idea holds merit within our theme, so go for it and lets see pics.
Prehaps Im too much of a purist, but if you want monstrous BC. Try pulling out the ol' tenderiser. My local club lets me use em as a chariot unit, similar to TK. I also have a steam and demon version for BC chars. (the BC char cant have magic items, bearing the honor of the Pulverisor)
Your idea holds merit within our theme, so go for it and lets see pics.
Thank you for this most constructive reply :D I've found some ral partha manticores for a bargain that I like the look of
and they fit on cavalry bases perfectly. I'll begin working on this soon.
Edit: after posting this reply I began writing some background fluff for this proposed conversion and decided to add it here. Its a lot of text but check it out if you've got nothing better to do and let me know what you think :hat off
Bruk Ironhand sat brooding, unable even to enjoy the seclusion of his private sanctum. Faced with the burdensome decision that would either end in his wielding a boon of untold, profane power through engorging himself on a demon's essence or ensure his damnation to a realm of misery and torment from which he could not hope to escape. Bruk slid from the silver throne upon which he had reclined, his fingers unconsciously tracing the runic reliefs upon the armrest and dwelling upon the cool, smooth surface of one of many fist-sized ruby orbs inset there. He trod heavily, every boot step echoing loudly as he strode down the center of the massive enclave.
Drawing closer to the heart of the sanctum where a colossal fire pit, enclosed within an open hearth of obsidian on all sides had been erected opposite his throne. Bruk battled to remain cognizant against the oppressive weariness of the ordeal, the spritely ballet of embers flickering in the fire before him was lulling him to sleep. He patted down his flowing, ebony beard and fondled a small iron skull fetish that had long ago been grafted within these unkept strands along with many other such trinkets - each serving to empower his foul art. He stood dazed, unintentionally peering about the enclave and its many shelves of moldering tomes with verdigris eaten clasp, ornate urns packed with musty scrolls and hastily stockpiled gears, cranks, cogs and other curious mechanisms.
This space he had fashioned far below the massive donjon that is the core of Zugg-Ghamuk, in ages past it had been used a tomb as attested by the many sepulchers to which the sanctum serves as a central hub. The thick stone portals of these were inlaid with silvery runes that would of shone brightly with the firelight's reflection were it not for the blanket of dust and grime that obscured their luster. The honored dead of the ancestral Dawi which did build this keep in distant ages past, before the Dark Gods began to hold sway over them completely.
"Aye, Bruk you have mastered the rites of death... crafted hulks of unfeeling, demon-infused iron that live to extinguish life and beckon to your summons alone... but at what cost, Old Fool?" he spoke without audience... ripping the iron skull from his beard and tossing it into the fire. Peering up at the shadow filled recesses of the vaulted dome ceiling he began to softly whisper an incantation of dark magic, in response the fire leapt and crackled with each spent breath until a sulfurous cloud began to issue forth within which the outline of a squat armored form took shape. The tendrils of sickly yellow smog slid off its pitch black carapace as the thing advanced towards Bruk in a jagged, awkward stride. "Long has the coming of this hour haunted me..." grumbled Bruk drowsily as he turned towards a pedestal of twisted iron fashioned in the likeness of the gnarled claws of some demonic fiend grasping a small chest of hammered brass. He spat a singular command in some strange tongue and the lid of the chest shot forth and clattered loudly upon the floor behind him.
"You are the first of my... children, are you not?" Bruk wistfully inquired of his servant. "I am." replied the armored thing in a deep ichor-garbled voice that smacked wetly as it spoke. Bruk nodded his approval and reached into the chest, hoisting up the thick cord from which an amulet dangled. He studied the flawless blood red gem encased in braided gold, each strand of cord painstakingly etched with sigils of ancient, terrible potency. "The power of the original enchantment still clings to the relic and I believe I have altered it sufficiently..." Bruk murmured as he placed the amulet carefully in the outstretched gauntleted hand of his [child]. "You are to safeguard this... and await my command" Bruk rubbed his eyes "I must rest now..." he whispered as he moved, nearly stumbling back to the silver throne which he hefted himself onto. "I await... your merest whim is my unwavering oath" croaked the armored thing as it shambled off into the murk of shadows.
Towering above the sanctum, within the donjon of the keep dwells a thrall of mongrels bearing only a fraction of their true Dawi forms, among the most hideously tainted by fell magic is he who bears a mass of writhing serpents where a beard should rest and pale grotesque tentacles to grasp with. Still, each abomination would defend the keep until the last breath of its dismal life. Earlier that night, a wayward monger of some sort with strange green eyes and dark, sun-scorched skin had the fatal misfortune of being discovered and was brained on sight and brought to the keep. The pathetic manling was mauled within an inch of his life and then left to recover enough to be made sport of. The iron child that left Bruk in his sanctum was now among the mutants who huddled together to take in the spectacle, each slunk away from the armored thing's approach but most were too enraptured to be distracted.
Their prey was suspended by a foul barb that hung from the network of rusted iron chains and hooks that lined the uppermost reaches of the tower. The ruddy skinned human coughed up blood, heaving in obvious pain and shouted what could of been pleas in his unfamiliar tongue. The leonine form of a manticore upon which was crowned the bearded face of a Dawi stalked below the manling, thick gobs of drool slopped from its fang lined maw... all around this beast a mass of the Tainted shouted insults and jeered. A rag covered form raised up clawed hand bearing a blackpowder pistol and leveled it to the chain supporting the wretch which floundered helplessly in the air, with a flash and the ringing crack of gunfire the chain was struck and the manling spun to the hearty guffaws of the crowd... the link had been bent but not destroyed.
The iron child pushed its way to the fore of the scene, standing beside the manticore that thrashed in gleeful expectation. Its plate armor was of blackest iron decorated with leering, demonic faces... tubes ran from its chest and helmeted face and a thick, tar-like substance oozed from every joint. Its white beard was dry and each strand stirred at the most subtle breeze like dead winter grass. "I have need of you, creature." it bellowed in sickly globs that were a mockery of speech. The manticore howled and bore its long, dagger-like fangs in defiance, its carapace hardened sting leered up above its head... "I have yet to feast. You deny me this?" it hissed.
The iron child look upward to the manling and taking a moment to seemingly study the stern expressions of the fiends that encircled him, "Feed quickly... or I will journey on foot and there will be two carcasses upon the slab." Then in an abrupt, upward toss of an arm in which a double-bladed axe was let slip into a whirling ascent toward the nearly broken chain... after plummeting noisomely the captive was descended upon and tore into