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| Fault and Fracture. |
Over the last few years, we have been interested in the miniature skirmish game Trench Crusade. We wrote about our first impressions with the ruleset and how we used the system to play games in our Vastarian setting. Despite this, we have yet to create a warband for the game, and we realized our pace at creating models is so slow that it might behoove us to commission someone to create one. Immediately, we thought of our good friend Eli (Redwetskeleton). He has the ability to make some of the most stunningly grotesque miniatures imaginable, ones that truly make your skin crawl (in the best way), as evidenced by his recent contribution to the Godling art show. His style is very befitting of the Trench Crusade setting, so we asked if he would be interested in creating a Trench Pilgrim warband, following his own internal muses. We are thrilled that he said yes and are excited to share photos of the first model from the group, a gruesome Communicant!
She had a name once, long before she ever touched a blade, before the blessings of the Third, before the Order of Saintly Benevolence embraced her as kin-in-kind. She had a name once, of this she was almost certain. This had been running through her mind, in her brief moments of respite, for some time now. This, however, was the first time it had entered her mind while she was killing.
The heavy rain destroyed what little visibility remained in the mud-blind hell. However, to her, living beings burned like little wildfires. Little wildfires, cowered among the remains of their trenchline. Each little flame desperately cried out to her, pleading to be extinguished. They longed for her to grant them oblivion, for that was her purpose.
She crossed the space between their trench lines before they heard, much less saw her. She was already stepping out of the accordioned ruin of their comrade’s abdominal cavity when the glimmer of recognition briefly lit their dead eyes. The impact of blunt force from her great hammer reduced the first to little more than an explosion of gore. She turned to see the third and final little flame, hoping to hide itself away within the wreckage amongst the rubble.
She had a name once, of this she was certain. The round took her in the chest. The crack of the cannon drowned all sound, its bright flash illuminated even her world. The force of the impact would have killed Ademar within the confines of his dormitory (her fortified shield of rebar and razorwire), had he not already bled out three days prior. Her left breast was gone, her left pauldron in ruins, her face burned hot and angry. She dropped to one knee for the first time in many years. Her precious heavy blood mixed with the greedy earth beneath her.
What she mistook for wreckage was yet another scavenged corpse of the prior offensive. The small tank’s engine attempted a bestial roar into life but mustered only to belch black smoke from its jalopic form. Had she been mortal, that would have been her end, but she had not been for quite some time. Stepping forth, she clenched the activating lever of her beloved hammer. She felt the firing pin set echo through her bones, she smelled the blessed promethium filling her nostrils, she heard the hymns of the primer call out their blessings unto her.
She had not been mistaken; it truly was just wreckage after all.
In the respite of the violence, her flock ventured forth from the downpour of rain. Her mouth struggled to form words now. She knew she needed to steel their souls for the journey ahead. There was still so far to go. The southern nail of her facial cross slid once more between her jaw, and she tasted the metal in her mouth again. She had such words to speak, such hope to give to the faithful.
The bestial roar cut its way through the sounds of no man's land, where it was echoed among the canyons until distance proved too great to carry it back to them.
“To Avignon”
She had a name once, but now they just call her
The Saint
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| The Saint sprinting through the muddy ruins of the Trench Crusade setting. |
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| The Saint, a bestial Communicant. |
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| The Saint’s shield houses a monk named Ademar. Held in place with shackles on his hands and feet. His entire life devoted to god. His prayers were uplifting to all. On the first day, he took shrapnel to the stomach. On the second day, his prayers were but a whisper. This is the fifth day, and there is not much left of Ademar—his prayers are much less, and his presence is not uplifting. |
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| She wields a massive hammer of savage metal, barbed and brutal. |
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| The Saint was built with all manner of incredible details, including a multitude of tiny crosses fluttering in her wake. |
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| Eli also made some amazing pieces of terrain that the Saint is on, filled with breaking wheels and muddy trenchworks. |
- Eric Wier
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