Other work by Admiral:
Chaos Dwarf Stories & Background (everything marked Admiral)
Greetings! This log will contain all non-evil dwarf related commercial sculpts of mine.
First out, a few of the storage vessels etc. I sculpted for Zealot Miniatures to be cast for dungeon detail kits. They picked and chose suitable sculpts at their leisure.
Zealot Miniature Kits
Dungeon Oddities
Ancient Idols
Wizard’s Study
Unusual Goblins
These excess bits and bobs went off to casting, just because. Two different kits, or maybe three. The round marker is the skeletal corpse remains of a decaying Goblin. Old sculpt indeed, but it was requested to be cast on The One Ring:
Ceramics & Household Vessels & Dessicated Corpse of Ancient Times
Dust whirled in the stale air as footsteps rang down the winding cave tunnels. Tap. Tap. Tap. They were careful steps, yet fired with a haste born out of panic and despair. Pale mice and blind lizards scuttled away under rocks and hid in crags as the heavy darkness that had been their entire world flared up with a ruddy light. Torches crackled and sizzled, several of them bobbing their way forward in a row. The moving torchlight gasped and cast pivoting shadows from stalactites and stalagmites alike, painting the dripping cavern walls with shifting shadows like a mouth full of fangs… or prison bars.
They could not get out. Treading the way back home had revealed an exit collapsed by a massive rockfall, or perhaps felled by sabotage. They could not tell which ill stalked them; misfortune or malevolence. The former was enough to doom them. The latter haunted their every waking moment and rendered their dreams into nightmares. But if someone truly was stalking them and setting them up, they had not caught a glimpse of the would-be murderer.
Murder…
As if slaying that Cockatrice had been a misdeed! As if snapping the necks of its young brood had been a mistake! As if ending the suffering of its sick yet roosting mate had been a crime! As if taking their precious eggs had been a sin!
Murder…
No more would those sharp avian eyes turn men and beasts to stone. No more! They had done the right thing, and entered the jaws of hell undauntingly. They had packed up and wandered the subterranean maze for what must have been days, and they had dared death a dozen times over only to get to the monster. And then they had entered the lair, like true heroes, and their leader’s silvern shield had shone brilliantly in the orange torchlight as he swung his sword and hacked the foul devil down! Such glory they had reaped! Such glory…
Murder…
The brave adventurers had packed up well with torches and rags soaked in olive oil, and for this sake their flaming light would outlast their water. And their food. And their sanity. The jaws of hell had closed around them.
Already their supplies had been wolfed down, and already they had cracked open the beheaded trophy’s skull to devour its brain and facial muscles. And worst of all, they could not even retrace their steps back to the Cockatrice lair where decaying corpses still lay strewn on the rocky floor. They could not find it again, no matter how hard they tried. They could have sworn the caverns had changed course. And they would soon fight each other for mortal flesh unless some sustenance could be found, for intact Cockatrice eggs could buy you a fief.
They could see it in each others’ eyes. They could see it clearly. Their greed would outlast their honour and comradeship. Tense silence reigned in their once so jovial company, and they watched each other from out of the corners of their eyes, as if searching for the gleam of the dagger about to strike from behind.
Suddenly, the lead adventurer shouted out for the first time in hours, or maybe days. She had found vessels! Pots and sacks, baskets and flasks. A stash of supplies! Someone’s hidden store. Just like that, they were all saved from hunger. Laughter bubbled up out of parched throats, and their hands clapped each other’s backs. That dreaded starvation would not get them, oh no! With so many pounds of grain and wine they would refresh their steps and find a way out, even if it took weeks more. Such branching caverns surely could not have only one exit.
“At it, lads! Raid the pantry!” the forward scout cheered, and they rushed to her side, opening lids and pulling out corks. A few signs of mice, and smaller critters still, were evident, but no major plague of vermin. The foodstuff smelled fresh enough. Some estate-owner or farming clan would lose their winter reserves, but luck was tough and so were they. They would not let this chance pass!
And so the intrepid adventurers guzzled down unwatered wine and chewed wheat biscuits and raw grain to sate their worst hunger pangs, looking at each other with joy and refound hope in their eyes. The gods willed it! They would not starve!
Nay, they would not starve. Some filled sacks and bags with foodstuff, and refilled empty bottles in their backpacks. One started crushing grain with pestle and mortar to mix with wine and herbs. Others continued the simple feast, until their grasping hands reached the false wooden bottoms that lay rather deep beneath the top layer of grain in the baskets and sacks. Bewildered, they dug up the wooden lids, and found salted meat beneath. No, not meat. Flesh. There were still fingers and ears left in the salty red mass. Someone’s dead eye stared back at them.
Gasps and and the sound of vomiting echoed in the low cavern. It was then that they discovered the corpse. A dessicated cadaver from some run-away Goblin slave. Strange to find him dead here, so close to the food store… Stray grain was still visible around the corpse. And why would some farmer dare to store his supplies in a Cockatrice cave? They stared at the dried-out husk of the Goblin corpse.
First then did the pain and convulsions begin. Their visions swam, and they toppled on weak knees, growling about poison. Groaning and cries whimpered away as throats swelled and lungs heaved for less and less air. Fingers clawed desperately on wet rock, and bodies flung themselves frantically about on the hard cavern floor, flailing in animal terror and agony.
And first then did they receive an answer to the question that had been gnawing at the back of their minds for so long:
Yes. It was not misfortune, but malice.
For someone was out to get them.
Elf Heavy Archer of Ancient Times
Painted by Cultofkhaine.
Painted by Harry Howells.
In ancient times, the Elven composite bow held sway over vast tracts of land and struck fear and silvern steel into the heart of Orcs and Menfolk. Its reach was long and strong, and the shafts of its arrows marked the end of warbands, armies, cities and tribes alike. It was likened unto lightning, for it was death upon steppe and highlands; plains and mountains; swamps and deserts; forests and seas alike. This ranged weapon was the favourite tool of death for the multitude of Elven tribes, realms and city-states which dominated such vast regions. By composite bow and spear and blade did the dreaded Elves crush any resistance from lesser races underheel within their bloodied spheres of influence, and wherever their cohorts and legions marched, mortals trembled and turned to their gods in fear.
In ancient times, death came all too often at the sharp steel end of an Elven arrow, and often the victims had little clue as to why they must die, for the needs and wants, desires and reasons for action of the haughty elder tribes remained locked behind arrogance and veils of mystery. The true secrets of the Elven composite bows’ manufacture remained likewise ever locked within Elven minds and appears to have never truly spread unto other races except for in heroic legends. The composite bows of the Elves were fabled not only for their sheer power and rumoured enchantments, for they were known far and wide for their intricate and demanding making, which went to excesses that corresponding Human bowyers would never dare imagine. Whatever magic and munande craftskills went into the creation of these deadly weapons, the results were composite bows and strings able to withstand wet and cold and salt without slacking, which enabled Elven archers to roam in any clime, at any altitude, without their shots weakening. Thus were laid the foundations of carnage without end nor limit.
In ancient times, mortals lived violent lives filled with hardships and trials, and the landscapes of the world were awash in blood and feuding. Yet for all the savagery of the nomadic hordes and barbaric settled peoples, few calamities were as feared as the wars of Elven tribes, whether against each other or against lesser races. Raids and invasions alike saw the deaths of Men, Orcs, Goblins and many more races. None were spared this terror. In great numbers did nomads and savages drop dead under the hail of Elven arrows. Great and terrible wars were fought between Elves and Dwarfs, as the strongest civilizations beneath the skies grasped for vengeance, power and territory. Uncounted masses of younger mortals, enslaved or free, were constantly caught up in the maelstrom of conflict, and the bones of the perished ones littered the ground from sea to sea, arrows protruding from skulls and ribcages. For this was an age of empires, and their wars ravaged the world as greatly as their monuments and achievements soared.
And in the midst of this swirling chaos, the power of the bow endured for millennia.
Elven archery came in many forms whether with worldly or otherworldly arrows, whether magically touched or poisoned or flaming, or merely a rain of silvern arrowheads glinting deadly in the light cast by sun, moon or torches as it fell upon the foe. Elven archery came in the form of ambushes, and it came in the form of assassinations. Likewise Elven archery came in the form of sharpshooters clearing the skies or battlements of besieged walls, and it came in the form of mounted bowmen terrorizing the steppe lands and beyond. Yet most iconic of all the shapes it took in ancient times were the disciplined bowline, with ranks upon ranks of heavily armoured Elven composite archers standing tall in rigid lines born out of endless drills, drawing, nocking and loosing their arrows as if all the hundreds of bowmen were one and the same being. Along with the lockstep advance of Elven phalanxes, they were the very image of order on the battlefield, and their regimented display alone awed foes and unnerved lesser mortals to whom such firmness and exactitude were otherworldly in the midst of carnage. The bewildering manoeuvers and feats of shooting pulled off by such line companies of Elven archers were the stuff of sagas and fear among the feral tribes of many races, and even the tough Dwarfs acknowledged their value as warriors, however grudgingly.
These were ages of fire and bloodshed, of primal fear, ruthless greed and titanic ambitions. The hunger for power was fed at the point of blades and arrows, and great deeds of glory and infamy alike lived on in legend long after all characters involved had turned to ash and dust. One of the Elf archer companies which won eternal fame were prince Draecarion’s Longbows, who pioneered the next level ranged weapon of Elven armies and reaped bloody and fantastic achievements upon the battlefield, including shooting the black dragon Maeranichas clear from the sky at Ivory Rock; out-shooting the malignant Dwarf handgunners at Hierlan Ford; and massacring the elite human foot soldiers of emperor Mignusian III’s Jackal Guard despite their closed ranks of tower shields and fine heavy armour. Some heavy Elven archers who knew renown were mercenaries, like the Teal Cloaks of Jaendrath Bloodeye, the Swan Feathers or the Hundred For Hire of disinherited prince Maelgor, famous for singlehandedly suppressing the legions of defenders upon the great city walls of Toraxaslan with a withering shower of arrows, which allowed swordsmen to climb the walls by ladder, virtually unchallenged during their long and perilous ascent. Other Elven heavy archers of note were uncannily accurate and could shoot into the eyes of quick and nimble small birds in the sky, such as the Goldbow company were known to do, or hunting schools of flying fish across the wavy sea’s surface in the manner of the Kraken Patrol of the island city-state of Finalgon.
Whatever their feats and glory in war, Elven archery skills by far surpassed those of Dwarfs and Men and Goblins, and the ease with which the Elves handled their silvern bows seemed to deny the inacurracy inherent in such weapons. Massed Elven archery backed by ballistae, sorcery, hunting eagles and javelins were likened unto a symphony of death from afar, yet one need not look to such sophisticated musical pieces to glimpse the capabilities of Elf archers, nor to face the scorn with which they viewed the prey of their arrows:
"Out on field of fair Roenalloth,
a foul horde roamed in stink and sloth,
fed old on bark and young on broth,
red lice in hair, kilts torn by moth,
out-hollowed cheeks and rabid froth,
black pelts of rats sewn into cloth,
these filthy Men met Elves in wroth.
A princeling son of Mannish chief,
came forth an’ 'splayed muscles like beef,
in gurgled tongue he blamed Elves thief,
for stealing his kin’s coast and reef,
wishing back his tribe’s lost fief,
and kept with body his speech brief,
showed his arse, not worn a leaf,
so we shot him there to father’s grief.
Sent Menfolk Ogre, their hardest hitter,
yet Elves stood fast in ranks aglitter,
drew strings taut to skylarks’ twitter,
aim notched sharp while Men askitter,
ahooting ‘long their foul maids’ titter,
Ogre roared scum Elf throatslitter,
then arrows sang toward fat critter,
impaled in rain to death so bitter.
Then Elven bows turned upward still,
and voice of Men fell mute, lack-will,
the Elves drew strings as one by drill,
the hearts of Menfolk gripped by chill,
thoughts all turned from ale and swill,
our arrow’s feathers not for quill,
their silvern points now blood to spill,
archers sensing huntsman’s thrill,
red banelust thirsting for its fill,
as Seaking’s greyhawk yelled out shrill,
we loosed the arrows for the kill.
The mortal Men their death did sign,
when arrowproof they thought 'selves fine,
for each Elf on field the Men were nine,
wished to in tent of Seaking dine,
a plan to hang Elf-heads in pine,
yet arrows fell, Man-whelps did whine,
bravehearts fleeing, losing spine,
us Elves stood fast in firing line,
slaughtered Menfolk raw like swine,
and Mannish blood ran red like wine.
Cheers!"
- Alguin wine drinking song
A flail Dwarf for Rotten Factory:
A Stompa head for some local lads:
Sculpted for Veil of the Ages:
Painted by Andrea Febo.
The infamous stock-market shark was alerted by the approach of the bounty hunter within his cavernous office room, first by various sensor alerts, then by his own ears, which had been artificially grown in vats after that filthy whore bit them off with two nasty bites.
He tapped a tiny touchplate on his armrest, and slowly his large padded chair swivelled around to greet the newcomer. It wasn’t a pretty sight which lay back in the chair. Extensive synthetic skinplants and cosmetic operations had been carried out to make an old human appear as a young virile stud of man. It had looked genuine the first decade, but since then decay had caught up, and no amount of continuous treatment could any longer mask the faked impression of the skinplants and artificial hair mane.
This pretension at style was exquisitely draped. Expensively clothed, but not clothed with style. The entire appearance of the mogul radiated a garish lack of taste. The old money laughed behind his back, and his lack of sophistication and culture made him the open ridicule of high society. Yet the Shark lacked the insight to catch any of this, and did not even understand that he was the one being scoffed and mocked in a thousand and one subtle ways. The loud-mouthed center of cocktail parties and skyglide cruises alike, he was more at home in his office making money with grubby sods than in the feasting places of the ruling elite. And he was more at home in brothels, vapour nests and drinking dens than anywhere else. This time, he received guests clothed, at least, so no one should complain.
That wealthy wretch of a man drew a long pull off his smogstick, and took great pleasure in activating the facial microcanals that allowed the lilac smoke to be puffed out of his ears.”Well?” he bayed with an arrogant tone which he himself had never been aware of, but which all in his surroundings were at pains to endure.
The long trenchcoat whirled as the the tall bounty hunter snapped to attention. Ceramic-clad highboots clanked together, pistol holsters moved and a long sniper rifle swayed on his back as he pulled off a mock salute under his broad-brimmed leather hat.
“Goods. Delivery. As requested,” he growled in a soft, threatening manner which had made the bounty hunter the amorous attraction of girls across seven sectors, and the object of husbandly hatred across just as many.
“Well, which one?” barked the stock-market shark impatiently. He had ordered a whole string of expensive heads served on a plate, and was not used to his underlings being so shy with words. It would take years to hunt down all his rivals, defectors and one-time business anchors in alien societies. So, which one of them was it that the bounty hunter had come to deliver?
The tall whip of a man stood theatrically still for several moments, building tension and making his client’s forehead throb with angry impatience. It had been several seconds already! Then, the bounty hunter opened his spacious trenchcoat and presented his goods hanging from hooks on the inside of the cardio-ferratic fake leather fabric. There were all seven of them.
“Take your pick.”
Halfling Adventurer of Ancient Times
Bubby “Gutso” Lardbairn had always been a good shot. And a hearty eater, by all accounts. And so his belly hadn’t sunk thin when he got wandering feet and started trekking all across the wide, weird lands out there beyond his lush little home.
No, instead his rotund body had swelled further still, for Bubby had mastered the art of foraging and cooking while roughing it in the wilds. It had started modestly, with some eggs stolen from nests here, and some small animals poached there. At first it had taken effort and concentration, but after a while Bubby “Gutso” found that he had a true knack for this kind of thing. And so his stubby limbs went through the motions without thinking about it: Spotting and sneaking and stalking. Climbing and reaching and grabbing. Flinging and flaying and flensing. Bundling and binding and bagging.
And above all, eating all the time.
There were meals, of course. Many meals in a short day. A decent fellow couldn’t miss out on a meal now, could he? And then there were those belly rumblings in between meals, so there had to be snacks as well. Rumour had it that the ravenous Halfling had pushed more than one company of fellow travellers to starvation as their provisions vanished down his gullet. Indeed, nasty rumours even claimed that some of jolly Bubby’s companions had disappeared down his little cooking pot…
Yet he couldn’t care less about the waggling tongues of others. Not when his own was about to taste a ripe peach! And apparently also a fowl soon enough, for his eyes detected the bird and his slinging arm went into a spin all of its own while he licked the stolen fruit. For Bubby “Gutso” Lardbairn had mastered the art of eating and hunting at the same time, and he couldn’t enjoy life more than he already did on this sunny day!
Vermin Guard Centurion of fallen Avras, leading his soldiers onward against the barbaric foe. Note the ridged kite shield with plumbata darts and AVRAS sign on its inside. Note also the Mediaeval Roman lamellar armour, paramerion scimitar, pugio dagger, the spear’s sauroter spike counterweight as well as the ruined Roman brickwork.
Sculpted at the very end of 2019 AD as a practice model for posing, shield and spear sculpting. To be released in the future.
You can find tutorials for how to sculpt lamellar armour, skull, string bow knot, pteruges and much more here.
A dodgy slimeball of a civil official, all sleeze and falsehoods. Note the late antique Roman pillbox hat and Byzantine lorum, as well as the Gladius gripped treacherously behind his back, the small rat nasting on his right elbow, and the bribe-pouch hanging from his tail.
To be released in the future.
