Holy $#!t this is such nice work. As always, I’m just blown away by your fantastic GS work. I’ll just go back to quietly admiring all of the excellent stuff you’re contributing now 
~N
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@Fuggit_Khan : Vivat Habsurg! In the name of Blessed Charles! For sublime Conrad and Holy Terra! Marvellous reference picture, thanks a lot. Mayhap some future conversions will get flowered up?
@Nicodemus : Thank you most kindly, Forgefather! But noisily instead of quietly would be preferred. 
Yog of the Bay of Cranes - Collaboration with Deviatecod
Harken! The sanctioned pyromaniac psyker Yog of the Bay of Cranes underwent a religious epiphany in the company of the Ratling Gitshnik and the Rogue Trader Stofilus Malidiktus. Working themselves up into a religious frenzy, the three zealots fell upon the hated deviants and heretics with rabid fanaticism, ignoring their false claims of loyalty to the God-Emperor. Killing and maiming and burning as they drew blood for the Imperator and collected skulls for the Golden Throne, these holy crusaders took on great dangers in the name of His Divine Majesty on the hallowed Throneworld.
Alas, for all their pious hero-deeds, the sacred warriors were hunted by witches and traitors through the Empyrean itself, protected by the Emperor’s hand. As the trio dashed through an open portal to the Materium, Stofilus Malidiktus the zealot of the holy sole broke his neck as he dived headfirst down a three meter precipice, only to be drowned in a dune of sand. Gitshnik the thief, also known as the Emperor’s Finger-Nails, degenerated into a swarm of vermin in that hellish realm of heinous sorcery, and this mass of rats carried the painterly looted icon through the portal and landed softly on the sandy corpse of Rogue Trader Malidiktus. Only Yog of the Bay of Cranes made it through the portal alive and human, as he witnessed the portrait of the Angel of Death change colours, from red ceramite to an armour of blue and teal with scales.
Alas, the saintly warriors’ gateway of seeming salvation from the miasma of the Warp turned out to be a cruel joke, as Yog found himself hopelessly trapped inside an abandoned transit stop for omnibus passengers. The armoured glass and rockrete wall proved far beyond his ability to tear down, and no passers by ever paid the shouting lunatic any heed. Likewise, the door proved to be blocked by an immense weight of debris and trash on the outside. Despondent and exhausted from his godly ordeals, Yog accepted his lot and whiled away his days in isolation, eking out a meagre living from growing fruit-bearing plants and hunting rats. As below, so on high. Thus Yog embraced humility after his fury and bloodthirsty sacred massacre of the infidels. For man shall live lowly, and suffer much in the prison of woes that we call this mortal coil and world of ashes.
And we must repent, for we deserve to be scourged and lashed and flayed alive for our sins. Only He can save us. Repent!
Ave Imperator.
This slow burn of a modelling project has been three years in the making. A Christmas present for our friend JAB, much delayed, this is the fruit of mine and Deviatecod’s labours. Almost all of the ideas are those of Deviatecod’s, for we followed his vision slavishly without deviation. A short little fun build stretched out over many workshop days, as we added layers upon layers of new plans, until it finally all came together. The trash build and the paintjob is as much the result of Deviatecod’s work as it is my work, though I stood for all the sculpted parts. Many new hobby techniques were tested, some of which may become tutorials in the future.
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Ridiculous, hilarious in it’s absurdity, and it is utterly in line with the satire of 40k to be rewarded for zealous crimes by accidental imprisonment in an abandoned transit station, scraping through the motions of life inches from salvation, on visible display to an audience that doesn’t really see, or even think to care as they are also just scraping through the motions of life on a different side of the glass. Mad genius of a concept, and beautifully realized in incredible detail. Very well done!
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Beautiful work and excellent writing, most esteemed @Admiral! Love the officer and his lady, they really capture the essence of the proud Astro-Ungarian armed forces. 
Also, motion to ban Admiral from referring to wonderful output like this as “quicksculpted” 
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Hello there! I am the JAB our dear Admiral has mentioned. I decided to join this fine community today, coincidentaly the day Chaos Dwarfs take their rightful due of everything in the Total Warhammer world.
I want to chip in and say that this fine artillery piece will represent Field Ordnance Batteries. I was originally not going to include them but the photo you provided has made me reconsider. Thank you!
Also a great many thanks to Admiral for all his work. I have had a great many laughs at the wondrous absurdity of it all. 100 % in line with the best of 40k. I will start painting them this weekend and I hope the paintjobs live up to Admirals work.
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Welcome Sir! Very much looking forward to seeing the painted versions!
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Admiral has yet to mention the most hilarious part of this background: Admiral, his brother “the Eel”, Deviatecod and I played that out as a one-shot RPG adventure over the course of an afternoon and early evening.
Museum galleries were burned, clerks with stubguns were put down in the name of He on Terra, servitors were dismantled and humiliation was had at the three-fingered hands of an Administratum-class Penitent Secretary Engine. Who did not even deign to fight us, occupied as it was with it’s work at an organ… Printer.
All to kill a chemically hibernating Jokaero and steal a portrait that turned out to be of Alpharius. Which some horrible psyker and it’s Dark Angel goons saw fit to chase us into the Empyrean for.
I must also point out I had no idea that they had planned this out, nor did I know about the diorama.
At the end of the adventure they pulled the fantastic diorama out of a cupboard and so I spent the next hour enchanted by the details and listened to their walkthrough of how they made it. Genius, all of it.
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Ha! Absolutely brilliant, and makes the diorama just that much better!
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@Jackswift : Thank you most kindly, sir! Exquisitely well described there. Haha, we had a blast handing over his present.
@Antenor : Thanks a lot! Haha, motion passed. 
@Jaberoo : Welcome aboard, matey! Great to see you here. And thank you kindly for describing the cunning handing over ceremony, all concocted by Deviatecod with some few ideas from me. I was so drained from all the fun and work to finish your Astro-Ungarians and diorama in time, that words dwindled unusually sparse in my last post.
I’ve copied and spread your above description and reaction to receiving the diorama to all sister threads of this one over on other forums. People have been curious about it. Yarr!
As a bonus, here is @Jaberoo 's Khornequila symbol. As our zealous bloodthirst grew for the Emperor, we incidentally slid closer to Khorne:
Moonkin Hatchling, Cat and Tiny Sporebat I
This Warcraft sculpt is a gift for my little brother EEJR, sculpted after his birthday this year. He got to pick something I would make for him. While the sculpt is a success in some ways (such as the sporebat), the model does not depict three relaxing and cosily sleepy pet friends. Thus, a new version will be sculpted from the ground up, and it should turn out better than this the first version in many ways since I’ve learnt things I’d do different next time. For instance, the Moonkin Hatchling’s feathers will be less rugged in texture, and its head and eyes will be larger next time. I will also have the opportunity to build their poses better from the start. Watch this space!
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Astro-Ungarian Medicae Superiocrata
Tremble in fear, o naïve Imperial subjects! Bow low and heed these words about the nurse in your midst:
Aemmalia “Apothecaria” Embla-Lazic is officially known as a gifted member of the Officio Medicae, bearing the rank of Medicae Superiocrata.
Unofficially, she is a heinously cruel drug-ganglady hailing from Necromunda, wanted in four Sectors and currently operating under the disorganized aegis of Astro-Ungarian Imperial Guard regiments, where she commit baleful experiments and unspeakable organ theft in the field.
It was not difficult for such an infamous organized crime leader to infiltrate the Imperial and Royal host of von Dorfenhötz. Even following the Ljubljeburg disaster, when a freight ship smuggling Aemmalia’s nefarious narcotics crashed into Hive Ljubjeburg and took the lives of two billion people, since the helmsman had gotten high on his own supply.
In Astro-Ungarian service, the undercover narco-queen has kidnapped the nobleman Arvid von Kvinnesamme-Jusic. Arvid was made into Aemmalia’s consort at gunpoint, and has since become her aristocratic front figure and plaything.
To come under Aemmalia’s syringe and scalpel without witnesses present, is to enter the nether circles of hell itself. Many a wounded brave warrior of Astro-Ungaria has ended his days cursing the day that he was born.
For Astro-Ungaria and Holy Terra! In Nomine Imperator!
This sculpt is a parody version of a friend, who is the girlfriend of another friend. In reality, she is of lean build, but the twisted thick wires used for this sculpt accidentally turned the miniature stocky. As any Dwarf player worth his salt knows, stocky equals mighty, so that is appropriate. She is meant to be paired with her boyfriend on horseback.
The miniature could be used as a Regimental Enginseer in the Astra Militarum army of @Jaberoo , or perhaps as a medic in a secondary command group.
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Negotiations were off to a bad start, and had only taken a turn for the worse. Neither the haughty Asur nor the cruel and arrogant Dawi Zharr were renowned for their humility. The semi-barbaric Chracian highlanders were least of all suited for diplomacy, out of all the scheming kingdoms of Ulthuan. The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar had likewise not fostered a reputation for subtlety and restraint through its bloodied history of legendary insults and baleful atrocity. Bards would sing of the ensuing tongue-waggling for centuries to come, as both sides sparred with words as if aiming for the heart. The conversation grew ever more heated, and winged words leapt back and forth in a flurry of repartee and barely veiled threats.
At last, the High Elf princeling had enough of it. No laws of hospitality could hold him back from exacting revenge upon the insulting intruder. A shameful shaving of the coiled beard would not do.
Laiontides Fairbraid pulled sword and held it a mere inch before the stunted diplomat’s nose, right between his surprised eyes, akin to glowing coals. The princeling’s bodyguards moved in on the craven Hobgoblin entourage of the foreigner, great axes raised and ready to strike.
“Look, Dwarf. This blade is sharper than your cloven tongue.”
“No man threatens a messenger!” cried the Chaos Dwarf. “Blasphemy! This is crazy!”
For a moment, the Elf seemed to relent. The short blade sank to his side. Then, wrath engulfed Laiontides’ visage.
“This. Is. Chrace!”
It was a low blow. The Elf kicked him in the hat.
Sturdy chinstraps ensured that the force of the kick threw the entire heavy Chaos Dwarf along with the hat into the well. The last thing that Ambassador Zharkanek the Sly knew, as darkness suffocated him, was a primal sense of sinking into earth and water.
This diorama was quicksculpted for my brother EEJR over 3½ days in preparation for a Ninth Age Tournament where he was meant to field 300 High Elf spearmen. The reference to the famous Thermopylae vanguard action by the 300 Spartans, 700 Thespians and 400 Thebans was an afterthought, and not the intent behind the army list. Our first jokes were about Soviet hordes swarming out of revolutionary Lothern, not Leonidas at the Hot Gates. Thanks to @Eisenhans for making that connection.
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Ahaha love it! I know these are one-offs but I just need to say how much would like to see some of these ‘quick sculpts’ scanned at some point.
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It’s a great sculpt, I laughed and laughed when I saw it…even though the depravity of getting kicked in the Hat is worse than getting kicked in the balls.
Filthy elf.
Well done, both for the attention to small details, and the heretical laugh 
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@Anzu : Thank you most kindly! That may very well happen. I’ll sort through and send off a bunch of stuff to @MichaelX in September or at latest October. Too busy summer to dive into it. And I hope to have the diorama scanned as well.
@Fuggit_Khan : Thank you very much, o Khan of Khans. Depraved indeed.
What a dirty mind conceived of this travesty?
And nothing remained but silence.
Pray they do not take you alive.
Sisters of Silence Anathema Psykana Rhino
The sculpted ornaments on this Sisters of Silence Rhino APC were sculpted during one full workshop day’s toil for a most noble and Countly friend’s Adeptus Custodes army in Warhammer 40’000.
Note the shush Sister on the side panel, based on the famous Soviet propaganda poster. Likewise, note the resting Emperor on the back ramp, for He likewise gives the silencing finger.
A man and woman of the pure human form is found on the other side panel (sculpted upside-down, but peeling away and super-gluing them back in place will solve that issue). While a captured psyker is strapped on top of the vehicle.
Ave Imperator!
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Amazing work! Top notch
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@Jasko : Thank you kindly! Painted pictures will be shared later, once the friend has finished the Rhino.
Luck has. Need keeps. Toil earns.
Rock holds.
Rock and stone!
Paraphernalia quicksculpts done for @Jaberoo during a week of mountain hiking and boardgame playing.
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Flag-Lieutenant Matteus Ripanus is a fleet officer attached to the Astro-Ungarian Imperial Guard host of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz. In the noble company of these Duarchal crustlubbers, this energetic voidborn man has seen his swashbuckling skills go to waste amid an endless line of balls, parties and cardgame sessions. Since the general staff of von Dorfenhötz tend to spend its time muddling through plans and hosting festivities down in heavily fortified bunkers, the only chance for Ripanus to swing his cutlass or draw his laslock pistol has been in sparring matches and comradely training duels against Astro-Ungarian officers. As a rule, Imperial Navy officer Matteus has found the Astro-Ungarian officer caste to be more adept at drinking and socializing than they are at swordmanship and other combat skills.
Worse still than their deficit in martial prowess among the fighting officers of the Duarch, is the apparent lack of strategic acumen, grasp of logistics and stringent organization. As the Naval attaché to von Dorfenhötz’ staff, Flag-Lieutenant Matteus Ripanus has discovered a myriad of unexpected shortcomings, and the list of observed unprofessional flaws in Astro-Ungarian staffwork grows with every passing cycle, to his horrified fascination.
For instance, Naval advisor Ripanus has arranged for dozens of orbital bombardments at the request of the Astro-Ungarians. Each time communication on his end has followed strict protocol, and he has promptly fed orbiting officers time and coordinates, provided to him by the Astra Militarum staff officers of von Dorfenhötz. Such coordination has often fallen short of their real targets, and Lance strikes and Macro cannon shells have struck into masses of Astro-Ungarian troopers with alarming regularity. On closer inspection, such events of mass self-inflicted casualties will often have been the result of sloppy schlamperei handling on the Astro-Ungarians’ part. Mixing up various lines of enemy and friendly defences alike is a common occurence, as is handing out faulty timestamps, or not counting with the time needed for friendly forces to advance from one point to another under enemy fire. The mistakes are as endless as they are surprising and born out of petty mediocrity.
It is all a maddening carousel of errors, which no amount of triple-checking and vox-calling frontline officers for confirmation seem to be able to halt. Even when the Naval attaché has managed to catch two or three errors by going out of his way to make sure everything is in order ahead of bombardment, some new mistake will pop up and go all the way up the chain of communication to result in wasted bombardments and horrendous friendly fire incidents.
The resulting cost in human lives and even materiel is of little concern to Imperial commanders, but the lack of bite in coordinated orbital bombardments has blackened Matteus’ record and seriously hampered his career. Other dark spots in his professional record has appeared as regard coordinating starship deliveries of supplies to von Dorfenhötz, for logistics remain a weak spot indeed among Astro-Ungarians, and to be saddled with them for a Naval officer is to be thrown into a dead-end of ingratitude and constant mess. As such, Ripanus’ superiors have unofficially punished the Flag-Lieutenant by keeping him attached as an advisor to von Dorfenhötz indefinitely.
After many Terran months without being rotated away from the hard-drinking crustlubbers, the realization that he would have to suffer the misbegotten planning of Astro-Ungaria at war, finally broke down Matteus Ripanus’ steely self-discipline. Thus he became shackled to a corpse. Embracing the easygoing and endless socializing of these aristocratic worldlings, Ripanus has turned from a grim glare of a man hidden away all tense in a corner, to becoming the life of the party. If the Emperor wills it, then duty will rest and jovial fun will be had. And so a voidborn workhorse who used to live for precision in his craft has turned native, and has adapted to Astro-Ungarian ways by relaxing and mastering quips and jokes where once he poured his hours into charts, firing tables and orbital calculations.
For the Duarchy!
This Fleet officer sculpt is a self-portrait, for the army of @Jaberoo .
Guillaume Electricsson of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica is a much-abused Astropath attached to the general staff of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz, an Astra Militarum commander cooking up fanciful sweeping plans of strategic maneouvers which his underfunded host of valiant but sloppy Astro-Ungarians are chronically incapable of realizing.
On top of the nerve-wrecking lurking horror and the extreme strains of delivering telepathic messages through the Empyrean, Astropath Electricsson has had to hone his bodily balance in the company of Astro-Ungarian officers. The reason for these demands on his sense of balance comes down to sloppy thinking on the part of the Astro-Ungarian general staff:
After all, since the signal sometimes seems to be weak in their customary bunker, so the officers will have the chained Astropath mounted on a marble pedestal in superstitious imitation of the lengthening of antennae for wireless vox communications. That ought to improve the signal!
Much of the time, the non-seeing Guillaume is utilized as much for keeping up with the newest scandals and highlights of courtly gossip at home on dear Astro-Ungaria, as he is used for sending and receiving military messages. It is strange, but true, that many valuable psykers ritually blinded on Holy Terra by the searing light of the Master of Mankind Himself will often be used to send trivial messages of no value for the running of an interstellar empire. Mediocrity reigns supreme in the Imperium of Man.
As is common among Astropaths, the bodily functions of Guillaume Electricsson will often cease to work properly during particularly strenuous mental rites of relaying messages. For this reason, Guillaume is equipped with hoses connected to pump machinery and liquid tanks. At least he has been spared the indignity of a drool cup screwed onto his chin. Likewise, an arcane encryption engine will be plugged into the Astropath’s skull prior to message rites.
On rare occasions, blind Guillaume has been known to catch strange messages not meant for him. It is not known if these crazed messages are encrypted signal traffic from the Inquisition or similar shady organizations, or if they represent the deranged ramblings of fell spirits. During the latest such occasion, Guillaume in his trance entered a state of ecstasy, and rambled uncontrollably for fourteen Terran minutes straight. The garbled phrases spat out by the strained Astropath included such mysterious combinations of words as “of course dragons shed their skin”, “eat its heart to become it” and “no, they are mine!”
While this dangerous psykic spasm played out, Astro-Ungarian officers and their hangers-on eagerly flocked around the wyrd Astropath to bet on how long his babbling would continue, or even bet on him dropping dead, succumbing to madness or suffering a worse yet fate. For some reason, the laughing and jesting ladies and noblemen did not seem to consider the stark risk of Daemonic possession or Warp implosion which could have engulfed them all in its hellish claws. Yet the lucky one need no wits, and so their disregard for the perils of the Warp cost them nothing.
Although the shackled Guillaume Electricsson cannot see the bemused ridicule heaped upon him during staff parties, he can sense and hear it all too well. It is not the refined cruelty of sadists, but the low background noise of everyday human spite, conceived with little cunning and little effort. The uncaring petty malice of so many staff personnel and their spouses and mistresses and servants claws at Guillaume’s heightened psyche like nails on a chalkboard, and their nonchalant enjoyment of each others’ company while at the same time only having the social refuse Astropath present for jokes, spit and japes, has submitted Electricsson’s mental resilience to a daily grind. A grind which will eventually reduce the enslaved witch Guillaume to a broken wretch, fit only for the Emperor’s mercy to end it all.
Is there anyone so lonely as the outcast in the midst of unwelcoming jolly company?
Ave Imperator!
This sculpt is a parody of a friend of @Jaberoo. The miserable background do not reflect the jolly nature of said friend, but the bleak lives of Astropaths in the darkest of futures.
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Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets of the 331st Vostroyan Firstborn Astra Militarum regiment is of noble stock, hailing from the quarrelsome aristocratic House Ryabets on Vostroya. The Ryabets high-born clan own giant hab-blocks in the Smoglands and are thus hated slumlords among the low-born manufactoria workers of Vostroya’s 4th Managed Zone, an odium which their lavish patronage of the Grey Lady’s Cathedral of blessed Saint Nadalya has not managed to wash away. The Ryabets family likewise owns vast mining complexes on Vostroya’s only moon, Turtolsky, and their Highest Elder hold some influence within the homeworld’s oligarchical ruling council known as the Techtriarchy.
As a child, the sporting and impressionable Evgeny grew up on abundant rote learning of Vostroyan patron Saint Nadalya’s sacred text, the Treatis Elatii, which helped turn him into a fierce adherent of the orthodoxies of the Imperial Creed. As an eager juve not afraid of bruises and beatings, Evgeny managed to learn as many as 11 out of 37 forms of the martial arts ossbohk-vyar before coming of age, a remarkable feat. Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets started out his military career as a Shiny rough rider, and rose steadily through the ranks through hardy campaigning and social influence. The grizzled man has especially marked himself out as an expert on mountain warfare, and is preternaturally skilled at skiing. Major Evgeny is known as a jolly fellow to his social peers, but is a stern disciplinarian to the low-born zadniks under his command.
Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets was chosen to become a Vostroyan military attaché to General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz’ general staff, as a reward for his dutiful service. With his home regiment, Major Evgeny was known as a hard-fighting and hard-working officer, as diligent in his craft as he was skilled in the saddle. In the chevek company of the jovial and waltzing Astro-Ungarians, the swashbuckling son of House Ryabets has turned into a hard-drinking party animal, all loud and rough while he swills amasec, vlod and more luxurious hard liqours. His favourite drink remains the famous rahzvod, a strong alcoholic beverage distributed as common rations among Firstborn soldiers and Vostroyan labourers alike.
The Vostroyan attaché is an expert gambler, and has won many piles of Throne Gelt from his Astro-Ungarian colleagues over cards and various other games of hazard and chance. Nowhere is the famous life-long luck of Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets more evident than in his ample use of an heirloom plasma gun. After all, it takes just one overheating shot to finish off the daring liasion officer, yet so far his trusted weapon has always served him well. Unbeknownst to this fortunate son of Vostroya, there exist several standing bets among Astro-Ungarian officers on how long it will take before Major Evgeny’s beloved plasma gun become the bane of its possessor.
A favourite pastime in von Dorfenhötz’ command bunker is to bet on how many rounds a very drunk and hard-swearing Major Evgeny will manage to make on the iron-shod rockrete floor while eeling about and flailing around on skis meant for snow. Sometimes, the hangers-on of the Astro-Ungarian officers will arrange sofas, carpet rolls and other furniture into bumpy slopes and obstacle courses to add spice to the khekking spectacle. Much merriment and alcohol-fuelled laughter has been had thanks to their offworlder guest’s antics, and popular applause will inevitably be roused once a frustrated Major Evgeny yells out his eccentric warcry to the floor: “I will Vostroy you!”
While the courage and martial skills of Major Evgeny has never been in doubt, his time as a liasion officer to the Astro-Ungarian host of Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz has seen a cultivation of the festive sides of the Ryabets character, one which has seen untold kinsfolk drink themselves to death back home on frigid Vostroya. At the very least, the comradely socializing among Astro-Ungarian officers has never seen anyone remind Major Evgeny Stroganof Ryabets of his homeworld’s ancient shame, or of the Vostroyans’ duty to expunge this stain upon their honour and reputation through constant toil. Easy-going Astro-Ungarian aristocrats are not too concerned about shame or toil, after all.
In Nomine Imperator!
This sculpt is a parody of my little brother, known as EEJR online. He excells at play-acting Vostroyans. The skis are a reference to his inherent mastery of skating on ice-crusty snow.
Primaris Psyker
The quiet and mysterious man known as Sebastokrator Venäläinen is a Primaris Psyker in the sworn service of the Adeptus Terra. This powerful sanctioned psyker is an aloof soul, battling titanic Empyreic forces within his mind every day without even betraying the inner struggle by a single twitch of muscle. Many wyrds and psykers are known as crazy wrecks of nerves in thin human skin, yet the strong Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator Venäläinen seems to bear his psionic burdens with a stoic resilience that has impressed many an experienced Inquisitor through the years.
Still, such self-control and silent mastery of the arcane does not spare the Primaris Psyker from the ever-present fear, hatred and loathing that human cultures all across the Imperium has in store for witches of every kind, be they sanctioned or destined for the pyre. This, too, is borne with silent toughness by Sebastokrator.
As a shackled juve dragged from the Black Ships, the Scholastica Psykana of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica put the captive Sebastokrator Venäläinen through arduous trials. He endured grinding mental endurance regimes and had his mind probed by high level telepaths, who searched for any weakness in the promising thrall Sebastokrator’s mental armour. Other tests involved forced duels against cadres of battle-psykers, with supervisors constantly watching how resilient the psyker’s mind was against the perils of the Warp. At long last, the enslaved Sebastokrator Venäläinen was deemed to be a psyker of the highest quality, endowed with a stability of mind that made him fit to be elevated to the rank of a Primaris Psyker.
The final steps of the Primaris Sanctioning Rites involved deep mental conditioning and the engraving of protective wards and runes into Sebastokrator’s skull. For solar weeks on end was he subjected to these intrusions, while being submerged in a dream-like state and being goaded with pain and pleasure stimuli. At the end of these dangerous proceedings emerged a sanctioned psyker worthy of the title Primaris, and so Sebastokrator Venäläinen tooks his place as an approved servant of the Emperor, with all the perks and independence that his lofty rank granted him. Ever since, the Primaris Psyker has gone about his assigned duties and carried out an unknown number of top-secret missions for the sake of the cosmic dominion of the Golden Throne on Holy Terra. And all the horror and corpses left behind in his wake has so far not left a single visible scar upon the calm visage of Venäläinen.
For the moment, Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator is attached to the Imperial and Royal host of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz. Yet even the steely self-discipline of Sebastokrator Venäläinen has been dented in the company of Astro-Ungarians, as evidenced by the Primaris Psyker taking up drink for the first time in his life. The combination of alcohol and psychic powers is a potent and lethal one, but it has never crossed the minds of the officers of the Duarchy that it is a combination to be avoided. After all, the uncharismatic Primaris Psyker might be a shunned recluse, but it makes things easier when he, too, is imbibed with fine spirits. How else are they to endure his presence? Drink makes everyone run smoothly, according to an old Astro-Ungarian piece of wisdom.
When in the company of von Dorfenhötz’ general staff, Sebastokrator Venäläinen will usually stand back and listen in silence, his large nose jutting forth from the shadows like the beak of some predatory avian creature. Occasionally the unassuming Primaris Psyker will offer his opinion and advice on some matter of planning, which will often startle nearby staffers who had forgotten that the damnable wyrdling was present. At such occasions, hands and fingers will dart up in warding gestures to deny the witch, before the ladies and gentlemen catch themselves and pretend as if nothing was wrong and they had not just acted out of instinctive revulsion.
Needless to say, Primaris Psyker Sebastokrator will not attend the bunkered general staff in the midst of battle, but will be sent out on important missions, to roam and wreak havoc as the battle-psyker himself deems best for the interests of the Imperium. Oftentimes, the field officer which Sebastokrator Venäläinen is attached to will treat the arrangement as mere a formality, and instead of directing this powerful Imperial psychic asset, the officer in the field will usually allow the silent Primaris Psyker to go about his business undirected by military professionals, guided only by the invisible hand of the Emperor, as it were.
This freedom of action is granted not only because the general staff of von Dorfenhötz would rather not keep the weird Primaris Psyker in their company down in their command bunker, but also because most Astro-Ungarian officers have little idea of what use they could even get out of the strange psyker. Best just to let the witch wander about of his own volition and do as he please, until he rotates out to his next assigned duty or is found dead in some crater.
Ave Humanae Imperium!
This sculpt is a parody of my friend Deviatecod’s little brother, known as Sinistrus online. A good chap. He would have been a Gnoblar in Warhammer Fantasy. Made for @Jaberoo
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Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann is the Count of Grevéberg, Honorary Pfamp of the Golden Order of Saint Günther and the legitimate contender to the disputed title of Arch-Earl of Spritzenhaufen. A fun-loving Astro-Ungarian servant of the Emperor, von Böhbenmann has found his soulmate in Gräfin Liběna Mila Moroznich von Lamberg, to whom he is engaged. This couple can always be relied upon to be the life of the party. Ding-dong! Touch the tralalalala!
Graf András is the favourite drinking buddy of Herzog Victorianus Friederererenrich “Gamen” Neumann, and their drunken orations are infamous across three continents at home for their meandering speech and overblown arrogance. When drunk on amasec, ale, imported machpagne or the finest of wine, the two noble friends will frequently begin spitting on the underclass, both figuratively and literally. Indeed, their liveried bodyguards and junior staff members have often had to work hard to prevent a mob lynching of the two jolly drunkards after their esteemed saliva has landed upon the heads of lowborn scum.
The drunken escapades of von Böhbenmann do not stop there, for indeed they have become legendary far and wide upon fair Astro-Ungaria and beyond. Even distant voidholmers close to the Ghoul Stars have heard of how the Drunken Count smashed out his teeth while riding wildly on a dirtbike through the streets of Pfraag-Schlossburg, which led to Graf András installing a most golden garniture of false teeth and exotic ivory for that shining smile under the festive lumens.
Drunk like a lord, many other anecdotes can be told about the joy and merrymaking of Count von Böhbenmann and Countess von Lamberg. Tales are told by high and low alike of the times when the Drunk Count danced on palatial roofs, hunted by his retainers and bodyguards, who had to jump from gargoyles to buttresses as they chased the singing nobleman across domes and gable roofs. The stories about von Böhbenmann are legion in number. For instance, the blue-blooded party animals of Astro-Ungaria will often joke about that one time when an intoxicated Graf András tried to eat five cheese-dripping grox sandwiches by chewing around the hidden location of a slice of salty cucumber laced with a mild poison. For each sandwich, this cherished suicide cucumber managed to show up in new locations every time, and every bite into the toxic vegetable slice sent the good Count into a fit of vomiting. Much amusement was thus had in highborn company, as the Emperor intended.
The high spirits of civilian festivities has translated well to military service, for the easy-going aristocrats that make up the officer class of loyal Astro-Ungaria would rather waltz than brood. The sloppy schlamperei culture of the Astro-Ungarian armed forces leave plenty of time for fun and games, and so Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann has found that the hardships of starship travel and campaigning out in the field on strange worlds has been compensated by the merry atmosphere and generous drink that is to be found in the staff of General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz.
Graf András carries an artificier-crafted dagger and prized plasma pistol while in uniform, both of which he won at card games. The pompous Count von Böhbenmann’s heirloom power fist carries the ancient mark of the Moon Wolf, symbol of Astro-Ungaria’s patron saint the Divine Horus, who according to the fair world’s legends faced down the Devil Lorgar side-by-side with the Emperor Himself. For some reason this treasured ur-myth of the Astro-Ungarians meet with frowning disapproval or much worse from offworlders such as Ecclesiarchal priests or members of the Imperial Inquisition. Yet somehow this quaint belief of Astro-Ungaria has so far managed to escape a bloodthirsty purging and suppression, probably because the critical orders got lost in Astropathic transmission or disappeared due to some misfiling by an Administratum clerk. And so the sclerotic mess of the inept Imperium ensures that heretical beliefs of yore survive in pockets across the Milky Way galaxy, akin to a sprinkle of living time capsules.
To Astro-Ungaria’s noble castes, life is often a party, and Graf András has warmly embraced this jovial spirit. Occasionally, Colonel von Böhbenmann will even do some proper commanding of his regiment, the Astro-Ungarian 1993rd Infantry Regiment of His Divine Majesty’s Imperial Guard. He has carved out a reputation for himself as a sterling drillmaster of the Astra Militarum, making his Guardsmen perfect the art of marching for parade. Under von Böhbenmann’s command, the smell of freshly polished boots, picked flowers, frothing amasec and newly starched uniforms will never leave the unit while on garrison duty or when resting behind the lines. For all their glorious appearance, however, the soldiers of the Drunken Count’s Own regiment tend to be slaughtered like cattle once out on the frontline, as a bloody reminder that gallantry and offensive spirit do not make up for a lack of competent command and murderous firepower.
Fortunately, such a baleful fate has so far eluded von Böhbenmann, who prefers to stay one inch away from battle, since he believes there is a fifty percent chance to be killed in the field. For Colonel Graf András and his retinue is securely locked away inside a fortified command bunker. Here, the staff of General von Dorfenhötz will plot their overly ambitious plans and uphold their homeplanet’s finest traditions of revelry, as befit their highborn status. The Astro-Ungarian army has taken it to heart that alcohol best grease the wheels of Imperial high command, and no titled soldier is better suited to make other officers feel at ease than Colonel Graf András Petr von Böhbenmann, the Count of Grevéberg, Honorary Pfamp of the Golden Order of Saint Günther and the legitimate contender to the disputed title of Arch-Earl of Spritzenhaufen.
And so the Astro-Ungarians at war party on, to the clinking of crystal glasses and the frantic vox-calls of frontline units screaming for reinforcements and the urgent correction of friendly artillery fire landing in their own trenches. Cheers!
Ave Imperator.
This sculpt is a parody of a friend and his girlfriend. Cheers!
Astro-Ungarian Master of Ordnance
Master of Ordnance Boldizsár Vilim Sándor von Heinrichi-Andortopf is a Duarchal artillery officer and member of the lower nobility on Astro-Ungaria. A professional artilleryman married to exactitude and precision, Sándor is on paper an expert in his craft.
Just as his superior, General Hanz-Konrad von Dorfenhötz, is in theory a strategic mastermind excelling at aggressively breaking through the lines and surrounding the enemy with sweeping maneouvres. Just the same, Master of Ordnance Sándor is in theory an expert at synchronizing a rolling curtain of creeping barrages with infantry advancing close behind. In practice, however, both officers fall short of their brilliance on paper, and both have produced mountains of corpses to prove it.
It is not so much material flaws that hamper the performance of Astro-Ungarian artillery directed by the Master of Ordnance, for the gigantic Szköda works on the fair homeworld produce excellent artillery pieces, even when the preserved technology level is of low stature. The quality is brilliant. Indeed, von Dorfenhötz is rumoured to have commented: The army of Astro-Ungaria have ninetynine problems. Artillery is not one of them.
Instead, it is lacking communications and faulty doctrine that so often drags down the efficiency of Astro-Ungarian artillery, making it merely decent where it is well possible for the artillery to rise and be superb if optimized. For instance, Astro-Ungarian artillery is often placed as close to the front as possible to increase its range. This makes its capture by the enemy an easy feat during grand offensives of the vile foes of the Emperor, and especially so since Astro-Ungarian Guardsmen would rather make their shelters comfortable and homely with flowers and planking inside, than toil away at digging multiple lines of trenches for a strong defence in depth.
Other doctrinal and communication dysfunctionalities haunt the Astro-Ungarian forces when on the offensive. While a rafale, or storm of steel, is easy to execute by merely pouring in shells onto enemy lines for days on end in a hammering, dumb fashion, it is not a winning artillery technique, since most of the foe will survive the initial bombardment and take cover, while the shrapnel that so tears flesh is useless in destroying enemy fortfications and razorwire.
More advanced, a simultaneous barrage against the enemy trenches and against a line further back has the potential to both suppress the foe and prevent the frontline troops from emerging from cover, while also hindering reinforcements from approaching. It is not a brilliant technique, although creeping barrages moving in a shredding curtain ahead of advancing friendly infantry do hold some promise. Likewise, leaping barrages have some utility, for they jump between bombarding enemy trenches, to shelling targets further back, to once again pouring ordnance on the trenches.
Master of Ordnance Sándor is a master of the creeping barrage, but the artillerymen under his command is not always so skilled. Often, the creeping barrage will go too fast and rush ahead of the advancing infantry, allowing enemy survivors to pop out of cover and gun down the Astro-Ungarians in no-man’s land. Othertimes, the creeping barrage that should roll at marching speed ahead of friendly infantry, may go too slowly, and rip apart one’s own line of advancing foot soldiers. Othertimes, precision is lacking, or too many of the shells are hastily produced duds, some of which explode akin to landmines when friendly Guardsmen step on the duds.
Still, for all its failures, the Imperial and Royal artillery under Sándor’s command has achieved some notable success. The cannonstorm on Bucharia IX caught the cream of the separatist forces at their most vulnerable moment, as they amassed outside maglev stations for their offensive, and Sándor won a Bronze Orb of Ordnance as he directed dispersed clusters of artillery batteries to fire on the same location without warning. Thus a purple medal was won by turning seventythousand enemy assault infantry into mincemeat by a surprise bombardment, and von Dorfenhötz’ optimistic overconfidence in his Duarchal army’s combat power swelled further still.
One major dampener of the Astro-Ungarian artillery’s potential is a weakness in communications. All too often, it becomes impossible for units to contact each other or command staff once battle rages. Cables get torn by shelling, and wireless vox signals may likewise be disturbed, especially so by means of electromagnetic pulse kit. And if contact can be established at all, the messages will often be patchy and tinny, since the vox equipment and sonic membranes of the Duarchal forces of Astro-Ungaria is of a very shoddy quality, yet another victim of the deterioration of human technology in the Age of Imperium. Evidence of this poor state of tech can be found on the Master of Ordnance’s personal gilded vox-caster, which is equipped with a hand crank. This crank has frequently to be turned by sweating underlings to provide any signal whatsoever for the haughty artillery officer while Sándor commands the batteries from down in von Dorfenhötz’ fortified bunker.
Even if messages do come through without any important parts missing, the information itself will often be flawed, since artillery spotters with their rudimentary equipment and lackluste training will often provide faulty coordinates. One eternal problem that plagues the artillery forces of Astro-Ungaria is its primitive technology and doctrine of forward deployment to maximize range. This has resulted in high casualties among artillerymen and forward observers, which has prevented a virtuous cycle of accumulating experience from breeding better expertise in an upward spiral of improvement. After all, with so many trained veterans dead, Astro-Ungarian Astra Militarum forces must rely on freshly trained personnel to plug the gaps and do as best as they can, and often corners must be cut in training due to underfunding or for the sake of stressful front emergencies shouting for more men at once.
As to friendly fire casualties among infantry and armoured forces from ordnance, it is of no matter. For Sándor, it is obvious: The sky on Astro-Ungaria is blue. Gravity pulls you down to the ground. The air can be breathed. And you bomb your own men in war. It is nothing to fret about. Just reload and fire again.
And so, a grinding war there will be, wherever Sándor puts his foot down. Embrace the gruelling war of attrition, and let war be decided by logistics and industrial output. Let the shells be rationed and stored up, and then rained down like hellfire from the skies. Artillery is the king of battle, the great slayer of warriors, and its roar will never turn silent as long as Master of Ordnance Boldizsár Vilim Sándor von Heinrichi-Andortopf directs the big guns of the Duarchy on distant worlds and voidholms alike.
Ave Humanae Imperium!
This sculpt is a parody of a friend of @Jaberoo , one well versed in military history.
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Imperial Commissar Juan Anendersh “le Petit” Berschren is a political officer of the Officio Prefectus, known for his brutality and heavyhanded meddling in military matters. Originally hailing from the mining world of Avesta Rex, the orphaned Juan experienced a harsh upbringing in the parochial and claustrophobic Hive Hernendahl, where ignorance and anti-intellectual attitudes reigns harder still than what is the norm elsewhere in the Imperium of Man. Juan strangled other juves to death in his struggle for survival inside the decrepit confines of Hive Hernendahl. He was forcefully inducted into the Schola Progenium after the tattooed indentured barcode at the back of his neck was discovered, marking him as a parentless offspring of Imperial servants.
The raw life on the streets of Hive Hernendahl and the rigorous discipline of the Scholam left Juan Anendersh Berschren traumatized and half insane, and as cherry on top of the cream he was also endlessly heckled as “le Petit”, even though his stature was but a couple of inches below average. Indeed, average height in the Scholam was nothing impressive, due to lack of nutrition. As salt in open wounds, much shorter juves taunted Juan for his diminutive stature, until his sudden outbursts of violence scared them silent.
Schola Progenium branded the personality of Juan, by instilling in him an overly fanatical zeal, and a will to skip to the most violent solution at hand. In other words, Progena Berschren would prove to be an exemplary pupil. And so Juan received both curt praise and bruising blows from Drill Abbots. His single-minded pursuit of goals and his ruthless excesses served him well during the drawn-out tortuous training as a Cadet within the Officio Prefectus. Training courses in heavy carapace armour were heaped upon endless rote learning of the Tactica Imperium and the holy scriptures of the Imperial Creed.
The sore and battered mind of the hardy Juan was in a perfect condition when he unwittingly was sent to undergo his Trial of Compliance. Upon receiving the order to locate a comrade which he had shared many trials and tribulations with over the years, Juan almost rushed for the chance to finally take out his revenge over all the petty spite that he had endured. The command to shoot his dear colleague through the head was executed with savage glee, and Cadet Juan was seen grinning as he emerged from his victim’s cell, swinging his pistol playfully and seeming to fully enjoy himself for the first time since being enslaved by the Imperium’s brainwashing institution.
And so Commissar Juan Anendersh “le Petit” Berschren was awarded his rank and sash within the Officio Prefectus, and entered the Astra Militarum like a vulture looking for prime meat to feast upon. Travelling the stars from one regiment to the next, the circulating Commissar Juan lost his right arm in the line of duty. His bionic replacement arm is specially designed for maximal Schadendursch, namely a Hernendahlian custom of striking some subordinate on the shoulder or on the back in order to punish laziness, carelessness or some other fault, whether imagined or not.
After many years of unwavering service, Imperial Commissar Juan was sent to the planet of Astro-Ungaria in order to investigate, assess, punish and rectify the Duarchal army’s field performance. Juan set about his task, and the following months saw much scrutiny and many bruises on the shoulders of the Imperial and Royal general staff. At last, he reached the unmistakable conclusion that the problems in the field were due to logistical issues, and due to communication issues and an incompetent general staff. And so Commissar Juan filed a report about the matter.
The efforts of Commissar Juan Anendersh “le Petit” Berschren were, however, doomed to fall through the cracks of Imperial power. By now, Primarch Guilliman had returned to Ultramar, and Juan thus dared to hope that this would lead to improvements in governance. Then the attack of Mortarion turned an already bad situation worse. When Astro-Ungaria stubbornly obstructed Roboute Guilliman’s reforms, the Tetrarchy of the Realm of Ultramar was already being reimplemented, and when Astro-Ungaria was forced to comply with the Primarch’s will at gunpoint, the hopes of Commissar Juan were crushed.
The answer was short, when an Astropathically relayed reply to the Commissar’s report finally arrived from his superiors: A repetition of the order to investigate, assess, punish and rectify the Astro-Ungarian army’s lacklustre performance in the field. This curt reply was accompanied with a punishment assigment, in the form of Commissar Juan being indefinitely attached to Astro-Ungarian regiments. And so it seemed that the abyss of the corset army swallowed the brutalized political officer of the Officio Prefectus.
This administrative slap in the face saw Commissar Juan fall back on familiar methods to make it through the Schola Progenium: The Imperial Commissar would take a shortcut to the most violent solution within the framework of his given task. Nowadays, the traces of broken shoulders and pulverized self-esteem - followed by a blown-out skull via bolt shot - shows that Commissar Juan, who could have been a genuine problem-solver and a dutiful Imperial servant, today is nothing more than a spiteful ruffian with a fancy cap and a sash, a brute who spreads misery all around himself and who mistakes his own violent whims for pragmatism. And all around him, the tattered soldiers of the Duarch resent his presence, but so far no amount of fragging have borne fruit, and sinspeech whisper jokes have begun to spread that nowadays even the grenades of the Imperium are faulty - just look at “le Petit” still drawing breath as he glares malevolently at the Astro-Ungarian soldiery.
Thus is the faith of the devout tested. For the lash of the master is meant to teach you your assigned place, and the pain of the punishment will purge you of weakness. Rejoice in the suffering! Let us greet the hardship as an old friend! For the world of the living shall be a valley of sorrows, where trials shall bring mortals down to ash and tears. So speaks the Lectitio Divinitatus. Only thus may humanity repent of its abominable sins, committed by wayward ancestors in forgotten eons past. Embrace the trials and tribulations. Hail the nightmare. Hail Terra!
As He wills it.
Ave Imperatore Dei.
This sculpt is a parody of Jaberoo, for whom I am sculpting and converting this Astro-Ungarian army. After sculpting @Jaberoo 's face, he had one objection: The gut is too small! And so I had to add a hefty stomach in green stuff to complete the impression. The model is painted by Jaberoo.
"Men in Weltsturm regiments their service gave,
who everyone knows is very brave,
whenever in the forward line,
would hope and pray to Emp’ror divine,
that the enemy would not appear,
on their horizon, far or near.
All in His name. Glory be unto the Golden Throne. Hail Terra!"
- Self-ironic trench poem penned by Astro-Ungarian private Szilovic Kovacs during the siege of Castrum Lombergia on Leithania Supremus, the Commissarial discovery of which resulted in its author being publicly flayed alive, and then cut into little pieces by chainswords from the toes up to his neck while lambasted by regimental preachers to repent from his abominable sins
Portrait of an Astro-Ungarian Lieutenant Colonel
Depicted here is Lieutenant Colonel Arpad Heinz Josef Milan von Badenschtoss, a noble officer of the Imperial and Royal armed forces of Astro-Ungaria. Sworn to serve the Duarch and the Emperor, von Badenschtoss is an honest-to-Chorus Ringestrasse soldier, an upstanding exemplar of his dear homeworld’s corset army, according to serpent-tongued detractors. A hard-drinking man fond of gambling, dancing at balls and other forms of highborn socializing, Lieutenant Colonel Arpad cannot be expected to attend to his military duties with the utmost zeal. Standards must be maintained, after all!
And so, a sloppy schlamperei conduct of operations in the field follows wherever von Badenschtoss leads. Yes, the logistics and worn-out uniforms of the men might be in shambles, but at least the bravery, infantry marksmanship and artillery is in fine shape. Too bad about the costly butcher’s bill, but that is a problem for General von Dorfenhötz to solve by shovelling in more reinforcements. It is just the way of things, better not think too much about it. Death must be Ljietranese, after all. It is better instead to drink up and be merry!
A toast for the splendid homeworld! A toast for the Duarch! A toast for the divine Chorus! And a toast for the God-Emperor of Holy Terra!
To waltz! Now let us swagger about and drink like good Loyalists should. Last one to finish their drink is feed for the moon wolves. Cheers!
Ave Imperatore Dei.
Christmas present made for my friend Jaberoo.
Note the suspicious symbols and purity seal writ on the Astro-Ungarian officer. Astro-Ungaria has somehow managed to retain the Divine Chorus (also known as Saint Horus) as not only a revered figure from its past, but as its patron saint. Clearly, the Imperial Cult must have already been festering on Compliant Astro-Ungaria when its star system became isolated by Warp storms at the onset of the Horus Heresy. This background twist serve twofold purposes:
First, it showcases the confused mess of the Imperium of Man in comedic fashion (just imagine the parade of random shenanigans through the ages that has made Loyalist Astro-Ungaria escape great purges for its unwitting heresy). Second, this ancient reverence for the Luna Wolves of yore is a reference to the Austro-Hungarian soldiers that were eaten by wolves in the Carpathian mountains in 1915, during Franz Konrad von Hötzendorf’s threefold offensive to relieve the besieged fortress city of Przemyśl.
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