There are places along the coast where sensible men do not linger after sunset.

The fishermen know them. They know the coves where the water remains strangely still even when the wind is blowing, the beaches where footprints emerge from the sea but none return, and the lonely settlements where church bells sometimes sound beneath the water.

One such place is Innsmouth Landing.

There is no Innsmouth Landing on any respectable map. The stage does not stop there, the telegraph line passes several miles inland, and travellers who ask directions are generally advised to continue on their way. Yet a collection of weathered buildings stands beside the black water, dominated by a small wooden chapel whose steeple carries neither cross nor bell. Above its door hangs the crude carving of a fish. The people of Innsmouth Landing call themselves the Church of Dagon. Outsiders have other names for them. Most are not repeated after dark.

Reverend Obadiah Marsh: The First Preacher

Reverend Obadiah Marsh speaks quietly because he has never needed to raise his voice, for there is something in his measured words that causes even the doubtful to lean closer, as though listening for another voice hidden beneath his own. He tells his congregation that mankind did not rise from the dust but crawled long ago from the primordial sea, abandoning an older inheritance that still waits in the lightless places beneath the waves, where vast cities stand untouched by sun or human hand. His sermons promise neither forgiveness nor salvation in any Christian sense, but speak instead of transformation, immortality and a glorious return to the waters from which all life first emerged. Those who hear Marsh preach often dream afterwards of impossible towers beneath a black ocean, and some awaken with salt upon their lips and the fading memory of something enormous calling their name from far below.

Brother Ezekiel Waite: The Second Preacher

Where Marsh offers the faithful promises of what they might become, Brother Ezekiel Waite tells them what will happen to those who refuse the summons, travelling between isolated settlements in the clothing of an ordinary frontier preacher and carrying beneath his arm a battered Bible whose original pages have long since been replaced by brittle sheets covered in symbols belonging to no language known among living men. Waite preaches that the ancient Flood was not divine punishment but the last occasion upon which the inhabitants of the deep attempted to reclaim the lands that had once belonged to them, and he warns that the waters will rise again when the stars, tides and moon stand in their appointed places. He has looked upon something beneath the sea that left his hair white and his sleep forever troubled, yet whatever horror he witnessed did not destroy his faith, for it gave him one instead, and every sermon he delivers is merely another attempt to prepare mankind for the day when his terrible revelation rises from the ocean.

Abigail Gilman: The Emissary of Dagon

Nobody in Innsmouth Landing can remember when Abigail Gilman first appeared among them, although the oldest inhabitants tell contradictory stories of a pale child found upon the beach after a storm, while others insist that she walked fully grown from the sea beneath a moonless sky and has remained unchanged through decades that have bent and aged everyone around her. Even Reverend Marsh lowers his head when Abigail enters the chapel, for she is not merely another servant of Dagon but something approaching an intermediary between the congregation and those ancient intelligences that dwell beneath the ocean. She sometimes disappears into the water and remains gone for nights at a time, returning without explanation and with no sign that the cold or darkness has troubled her, while those who stand close enough notice the faint odour of salt and strange flowers clinging to her clothing. Abigail claims that voices speak to her from beneath the waves, although whether she serves the beings that send those messages or shares some darker kinship with them is a question that even the faithful have learned not to ask.

Silas Pritchard: The First Scaly Hybrid

Silas Pritchard was once known as the finest fisherman along that miserable stretch of coast, a broad shouldered man who could read the weather from the colour of the horizon and find shoals where other boats returned empty, although in recent years he has ceased taking his vessel beyond the harbour and instead spends long hours standing waist deep in the water while staring towards something no other man can see. His eyes have become large and glassy, the skin around his neck has thickened into folds that move strangely when he breathes, and patches of coarse scales have spread slowly across his chest and shoulders despite every attempt to conceal them beneath heavy clothing. Silas understands perfectly well what is happening to his body and regards the fear of others with quiet amusement, for Reverend Marsh has taught him that his transformation is not a disease but an awakening. He speaks increasingly of the sea as though it were home, and sometimes remarks that the day is approaching when he will walk into the water for the final time and discover that he has no reason to return.

Amos Pritchard: The Second Scaly Hybrid

Amos Pritchard has travelled considerably further along the path that his brother Silas has only begun to follow, and there is now little remaining in his appearance that could pass unnoticed among ordinary men, for his skin has become coarse and grey, his eyes protrude beneath a heavy brow, and his movements upon dry ground possess the awkward rhythm of a creature whose body increasingly belongs somewhere else. His breathing becomes a wet rasp when he is excited and his voice sometimes catches upon sounds that no human throat should comfortably produce, yet the most disturbing thing about Amos is that his mind remains entirely intact. He remembers old friends, laughs at familiar jokes and can sit beside a fire discussing cattle, weather or the price of ammunition while his enormous eyes reflect the flames without blinking. Amos does not believe that he is becoming a monster, because from his perspective it is humanity that represents the temporary and imperfect condition, while the thing emerging beneath his changing flesh is older, stronger and infinitely closer to what mankind was always intended to become.

Josiah Peabody: The First Tentacled One

Nobody has ever obtained a satisfactory explanation for what happened to Josiah Peabody during the three winter nights he spent alone inside the chapel, for he entered as an entirely ordinary member of the congregation and emerged with his face pale, his clothing torn and unmistakable movements stirring beneath his coat where no human limbs should have existed. Since that night his transformation has continued, with strange appendages emerging from his body and moving with an independence that sometimes suggests they possess senses and intentions of their own, although Josiah himself insists that nothing unfortunate has occurred. He regards the changes with the serene acceptance of a man who believes himself chosen for some extraordinary purpose, and when strangers recoil from the things curling around his body he merely smiles and reminds them that the workings of the divine have always been beyond mortal understanding. The congregation accepts his explanation without question, although even some among the faithful have noticed that Josiah occasionally falls silent in the middle of conversation and appears to listen while his tentacles slowly turn towards the distant sea.

Mercy Keziah: The Second Tentacled One

Mercy Keziah makes no effort to conceal what the congregation calls her blessing, for she displays the unnatural appendages that have emerged from her changing body with the serene pride another woman might reserve for expensive jewellery, and she seems genuinely puzzled by the terror her appearance inspires among outsiders. She was once regarded as a quiet and rather unremarkable woman, but since receiving what Reverend Marsh describes as the touch of the deep she has become one of the most fervent members of the Church, spending long hours beside Abigail Gilman and joining her in prayers spoken in a language that causes dogs to howl and horses to pull desperately against their reins. Children at Innsmouth Landing are taught that Mercy has been specially favoured and that one day the most faithful among them might receive similar gifts, although children from elsewhere generally react with considerably less enthusiasm. Mercy never appears offended by their screams, because she knows that fear is merely ignorance confronting revelation, and she believes that when the sea finally claims the land those same children will understand what she has already become. She merely smiles.

Hiram Cole: Cultist with Pistol

Hiram Cole operates the general store at Innsmouth Landing and appears at first glance to be the most ordinary member of the congregation, a circumstance that makes him considerably more dangerous than those whose mutations announce their allegiance before they have spoken a word. He sells flour, lamp oil, tobacco and ammunition to travellers while listening carefully to everything they say, particularly when conversation turns towards their destination, their companions or whether anyone elsewhere knows precisely where they are. Beneath the counter rests a well maintained revolver beside a knife whose curved blade bears stains that no amount of polishing has entirely removed, although Hiram rarely requires either because his friendly manner usually encourages strangers to reveal more than they intended. He knows every road leading into Innsmouth Landing and every person who travels along them, while Reverend Marsh knows everything that Hiram hears, which means that unfortunate visitors sometimes discover that the congregation has been expecting them long before they realised there was anything in the town worth fearing.

Caleb Ward: Cultist with Pistol

Caleb Ward once drove cattle across three territories and possessed a reputation for drinking, fighting and sleeping comfortably beneath any sky, until a winter storm drove him into a cave overlooking the coast where he encountered something that he has refused to describe ever since. He emerged the following morning without his horse, his hat or any memory he has been willing to share, then walked directly to Reverend Marsh and asked to join the Church without ever having attended one of its sermons. Caleb no longer drinks because alcohol brings back fragments of whatever he witnessed in that cave, and he rarely sleeps for more than an hour because his dreams return him to a vast chamber beneath the ocean where something impossibly large waits behind a door covered in carvings older than mankind. His pistol never leaves his side, although nobody knows whether he carries it against enemies of the congregation, against whatever might one day emerge from his dreams, or against himself should he finally remember everything that happened on the night his old life ended.

Ephraim Black: Cultist with Pistol

Ephraim Black serves as the congregation’s collector, negotiator and occasional instrument of persuasion, visiting those who owe the Church money, supplies, loyalty or silence and explaining their obligations with such impeccable courtesy that the pistol beneath his coat almost seems unnecessary. He never threatens anyone directly and appears genuinely distressed when conversations become unpleasant, yet people who refuse his requests have an unfortunate tendency to vanish soon afterwards, sometimes leaving behind homes in perfect order except for trails of wet footprints leading from their beds towards the nearest water. Ephraim always expresses sincere concern when informed of these disappearances and frequently volunteers to help search for the missing, although his searches invariably begin at the shoreline and end before the tide retreats. There are whispers that Ephraim knows far more about the deep places than his ordinary appearance suggests, because he has been seen standing beside Abigail Gilman during ceremonies reserved for the most trusted members of the congregation, and on such nights his shadow upon the chapel wall does not always resemble the shape of the man casting it.

Jedediah Cook: Cultist with Pistol

Jedediah Cook laughs far too often and at moments when no sane man could discover anything amusing, chuckling during sermons, grinning during sacrifices and occasionally collapsing into helpless laughter while sitting alone beside a silent campfire. The congregation has become accustomed to this behaviour and generally ignores it, although newcomers find his amusement particularly unsettling because Jedediah sometimes appears to be responding to jokes that nobody else can hear. When asked about this he once explained that there are voices beneath the earth as well as beneath the sea, and that some of them have watched mankind for so long that human existence has become an endless source of entertainment. Whether Jedediah truly hears these voices or simply lost his reason after joining the Church remains uncertain, but animals refuse to approach him and his laughter occasionally stops at the exact moment that something unseen moves beneath the ground. His revolver is never far from his hand, and when violence begins his amusement only grows louder, as though every death confirms some cosmic joke whose meaning has been denied to everyone except him.

Thomas Pickman: Cultist with Pistol

Thomas Pickman is the newest member of the congregation and still retains enough of his former life to recognise that something profoundly wrong inhabits Innsmouth Landing, although each passing week makes that understanding less important to him. He avoids looking directly at Mercy Keziah, becomes visibly uncomfortable when Amos Pritchard sits beside him and has never willingly accompanied Abigail Gilman to the shore after midnight, yet every evening he returns to the chapel and chooses a seat slightly closer to Reverend Marsh. Thomas tells himself that he remains because he wants answers, but lately he has begun dreaming of vast stone streets descending beneath green water and hearing choirs singing from impossible depths where no human lungs could draw breath. He now wakes each morning with sand between his toes despite locking his door before sleeping, and last week Hiram Cole noticed the first small patch of scales beneath Thomas’s collar, although nobody in the congregation has yet found it necessary to tell him.

Asa Whateley: Cultist with Rifle

Asa Whateley watches the road into Innsmouth Landing from the barren hills overlooking the settlement, remaining motionless for hours with his rifle across his knees while travellers unknowingly pass beneath his gaze. His duty is not to prevent strangers from entering because Reverend Marsh welcomes visitors and believes that every new arrival represents either a possible convert or something useful to offer the powers below, but leaving is an entirely different matter. Asa is an excellent marksman and possesses the patience of a man who believes that death is merely a temporary inconvenience before the greater transformation promised by the sea, which allows him to wait without movement until his target reaches precisely the place from which escape becomes impossible. Those who notice the distant glint of his rifle sometimes mistake him for a hunter or shepherd, although by the time they discover that the hills contain no sheep and that Asa has been watching them rather than the road, Innsmouth Landing has usually closed behind them.

Lemuel Carter: Cultist with Rifle

Lemuel Carter watches the sea with the same relentless attention that Asa Whateley gives the road, climbing each evening to a black ridge overlooking the harbour and remaining there until dawn with his rifle resting across his knees and his eyes fixed upon the horizon. Nobody has ever discovered what he expects to see, and Lemuel refuses to explain why a weapon designed to kill men would be useful against whatever might emerge from those immeasurable depths, although on moonless nights he has occasionally been heard speaking softly towards the water as if reporting to someone beyond the reach of human sight. Fishermen claim that strange lights sometimes answer him from beneath the waves, moving slowly through depths where no vessel could travel, while Lemuel merely smiles when confronted with such stories and reminds them that the ocean contains many things that have never required names. Someone once asked what he intended to do when the thing he had spent so many years watching for finally arrived, and Lemuel looked towards the darkening sea with an expression approaching religious joy before explaining that when that blessed hour came, he would have no further need of the rifle.

The Church of Dagon

Together they appear almost laughably insignificant: two preachers, two Scaly Hybrids, two Tentacled Ones, five cultists with pistols, two riflemen and the Emissary. Fourteen souls in all. Hardly an army, but Reverend Marsh says armies belong to men, and mankind’s time is passing.

At night the congregation gathers inside the little chapel at Innsmouth Landing. The lamps are extinguished. Strange words are spoken. Abigail Gilman stands before the altar while something moves in the darkness beyond the windows. Then the congregation walks down to the shore.

Fourteen figures enter the water. Sometimes only thirteen return.Yet when the congregation gathers again there are always fourteen.

And lately, there have been footprints on the beach ……………..belonging to something else.

Thanks to Chatgpt for help with the pics.

And that is the Church of Dagon posse for Dracula’s America finished.

Every miniature is painted, based and ready to take its place on the tabletop, which is probably more than can be said for the sanity of anyone unfortunate enough to encounter them.

Of all the posses in Dracula’s America, the Church of Dagon has to be one of the most entertaining visually. Cowboys, gunfighters and assorted undead horrors are all very well, but there is something particularly satisfying about turning up to a gunfight with a collection of people who appear to have spent rather too much time staring into deep water.

At the centre of the whole unpleasant congregation is the Emissary of Dagon.

She is the obvious spiritual leader of the group and looks suitably capable of convincing otherwise sensible people that worshipping ancient things beneath the sea is a perfectly reasonable lifestyle choice. On the tabletop she provides the supernatural heart of the posse, which is important because the Church of Dagon is not really about standing politely in the street and exchanging revolver fire at twenty paces.

That sort of behaviour is far too conventional.

The Emissary is backed up by the Scaly Hybrids, who demonstrate rather neatly what happens when membership of the congregation becomes a long term commitment. They are no longer quite human, although presumably the Church newsletter describes this as spiritual advancement.

I have two of them, and they are among my favourite figures in the posse. They have just enough humanity remaining to make them disturbing rather than simply monstrous. You can still see what they once were, which somehow makes the scales, claws and other aquatic improvements considerably worse.

There are also the two lay preachers that keep the congregation on the straight an narrow……………well you know what I mean.

Then there are the cultists.

Every sinister organisation needs ordinary members, and the Church of Dagon is no exception. These are the people who presumably put out the chairs, organise the sacrificial knives and make certain there are enough refreshments after the ceremony.

Some are armed conventionally, including the extra rifleman I added to give the posse a little more flexibility. He is perhaps the most sensible member of the entire organisation. While everyone else is developing gills, tentacles and an unhealthy interest in ancient sea gods, he has apparently decided that a rifle remains a perfectly adequate solution to most problems.

It is difficult to argue with that.

Others have progressed somewhat further along the Church’s career development programme.

The tentacled hybrid cultists are particularly fine examples.

At some point the normal induction process has clearly gone badly wrong, or extremely well depending upon your perspective. Tentacles have appeared where tentacles generally should not appear, and the distinction between worshipper and worshipped has become increasingly difficult to determine.

They are exactly the sort of miniatures that make the Church of Dagon such an enjoyable posse to paint. Individually they are strange. Put them together and they begin to tell a story.

This is not simply a gang of gunfighters who happen to share the same colour scheme. They look like a congregation undergoing a gradual transformation.

At one end are the relatively normal human followers carrying firearms. Move along the line and things begin becoming questionable. Skin becomes scaly. Faces become less human. Tentacles begin making an appearance. Eventually you reach the point where asking whether somebody is still technically human seems unnecessarily pedantic.

And standing behind the whole lot is the Emissary, presumably assuring everyone that this is all completely normal.

That visual progression is probably what I like most about the finished posse.

They look like they belong together without all looking the same.

There are gunmen for those moments when traditional Western diplomacy is required, supernatural followers when things need to become considerably stranger, and enough aquatic mutations scattered through the group to make any respectable frontier town reconsider the wisdom of building near water.

They should also make a very entertaining posse to actually play.

The Church of Dagon is not something I intend to use as a straightforward shooting gang. Where is the fun in that? The attraction is in using the stranger abilities and creatures available to the faction, getting close enough for the hybrids to become thoroughly unpleasant and generally making the opposing player wonder why the saloon suddenly smells of low tide.

Most importantly, they look exactly as I hoped they would when I started the project.

Individually there are some lovely miniatures in the range, but together they become something much better: a wonderfully bizarre mixture of the Wild West, Lovecraftian horror and people who really should have listened when their mothers told them not to swim immediately after eating.

So the Church of Dagon is complete.

The Emissary is ready.

The Scaly Hybrids are ready.

The cultists are ready.

The tentacles are definitely ready.

All that remains now is to find some unfortunate frontier settlement, preferably one with a suspiciously deep well, and introduce the locals to the benefits of Church membership.

Now one cannot have a posse for a themed narrative game without a backstory. Stay tuned. a post should arrive shortly.

The last lot. Another preacher in case there is ever a need to run two posses, and two more standard cultists.

A final review of the whole posse tomorrow.

Water/river hexes.

Having already committed the unthinkable act of downsizing the dinosaurs, it quickly became apparent that the landscape would have to suffer the same indignity. There was little point having tiny dinosaurs wandering around enormous rivers, hiding behind trees the size of office blocks, or climbing hills that would require oxygen and a base camp. So the terrain department was ordered to begin its own programme of prehistoric shrinkflation.

River with hills added

First came the river hexes, followed by hills and suitably undersized trees, all designed to convince the tiny dinosaurs that nothing unusual had happened and this was, in fact, how large they had always been. I suspect they remain unconvinced. Still, once everything is on the table the effect works rather well, and what was once a sprawling Lost World has become a remarkably compact Lost World, presumably after intervention by a particularly ruthless team of Jurassic property developers.

Trees added

Of course, no respectable dinosaur landscape can survive without a volcano, so a suitably tiny one has appeared along with a lava flow. The volcano may be smaller, but I see no reason why it should be any less troublesome. Indeed, there is something especially satisfying about watching a miniature prehistoric catastrophe unfold across a handful of hexes while several tiny dinosaurs discover that downsizing has done absolutely nothing to improve workplace health and safety.

Volcano about to erupt.

So the rivers are flowing, the hills are rising, the trees are growing and the volcano is preparing to misbehave.

Volcano erupting (a fun game mechanic)

All that remains is to unleash the tiny dinosaurs upon their tiny world and hope they appreciate the effort. Somehow I doubt it.

The bases are 32mm size hexes from back2base-ix with the hills and trees on 6mm thick hexes and the water and dino’s on 2mm thick hexes. All hexes are individuals so to achieve the combinations of different shaped hills they were glued on thick card.

The dinos are next! Roar, roar, roar, roar (apologies to Kate Perry)!

Not every servant of Dagon remains recognisably human. Some answer the call of the deep for too long, allowing the old blood to reshape flesh into something that belongs neither on land nor beneath the waves. The Tentacled Hybrid is one such creature.

Where a cultist fights through fanaticism, the Hybrid fights through instinct. Thick, writhing tentacles lash out with unnerving speed, seizing, striking, and dragging down anyone foolish enough to come within reach. Bullets and blades may slow it, but the creature advances with the relentless certainty of the tide.

Among the faithful it is regarded as a blessing, living proof that devotion to Father Dagon brings transformation rather than death. To everyone else it is simply a nightmare given physical form, a glimpse of humanity’s fate should the old gods finally reclaim the world.

On the tabletop the Tentacled Hybrid excels at close quarters, where its terrifying appearance and brutal attacks can quickly turn a fight in the Church of Dagon’s favour. Supported by cultists and the Priest, it becomes the spearhead of the congregation’s advance, spreading panic as readily as casualties.

Another unsettling addition to my growing Church of Dagon posse for Dracula’s America. The congregation is slowly emerging from the depths, and they look increasingly less human with every new recruit.

One last lot tomorrow.

Michael Caulfield’s War Behind the Wire is an engaging account of the Australian prisoner of war experience that places the emphasis firmly on the men and women who endured captivity rather than on the military campaigns that led to their capture. Drawing heavily on veterans’ recollections, the book succeeds in conveying the hardships of imprisonment, the importance of comradeship, and the resilience that enabled many prisoners to survive under extraordinarily difficult conditions.

The book’s greatest strength lies in its accessibility. Caulfield has assembled a broad range of personal experiences and presents them in a narrative that is easy to follow and emotionally engaging. The accounts are varied enough to demonstrate that captivity was not a single, uniform experience, with conditions differing significantly between Japanese, German, and Italian camps. By allowing individual stories to drive the narrative, the author reminds readers that the prisoner of war experience cannot be understood simply through statistics or official reports.

The breadth of coverage is also commendable. Rather than focusing exclusively on the notorious camps of the Asia Pacific theatre, Caulfield examines Australian prisoners captured in Europe, North Africa, and later conflicts. This wider perspective helps place the Australian experience into a broader historical context and challenges the common tendency to associate Australian prisoners of war solely with Changi or the Burma Thailand Railway.

Despite these strengths, the book is less successful as a work of historical analysis. The emphasis on personal testimony inevitably comes at the expense of deeper examination of the wider strategic, political, and administrative issues surrounding prisoner of war policy. Topics such as the differing treatment of prisoners under various international conventions, the organisation of prison camp systems, or comparisons between Allied and Axis captivity receive relatively limited discussion. Readers looking for a comprehensive scholarly study may therefore find the analysis somewhat thin.

The reliance on oral history also presents occasional limitations. Personal memories provide powerful insight into individual experiences, but they are inherently subjective and sometimes reflect events recalled decades after they occurred. While Caulfield generally provides sufficient context, there are times when greater comparison with official records or more detailed discussion of differing interpretations would have strengthened the historical analysis.

The narrative style is straightforward and highly readable, although the book occasionally moves quickly between individual accounts without developing broader themes in greater depth. Some readers may wish for more discussion of how the experiences described fit within the larger history of Australia’s wartime prisoner of war system and the long term physical and psychological effects of captivity after repatriation.

Overall, War Behind the Wire succeeds admirably as a collection of Australian prisoner of war experiences and as an introduction to the human dimension of captivity. It is not intended to be the definitive academic study of the subject, and it should not be judged on that basis. Instead, it provides an important record of individual endurance and sacrifice that complements more specialised historical works. For readers seeking an engaging overview supported by compelling personal accounts, it is well worth reading, although those wanting a deeper analytical treatment will need to supplement it with more scholarly studies.

The Dagon posse continues to grow.

This time I have added two Scaly Hybrids and an extra Rifleman, giving the gang a little more staying power when the shooting starts. Every cult needs its loyal followers, and these three certainly look as though they have answered a call that came from somewhere no map has ever recorded.

The Scaly Hybrids are wonderfully unsettling figures. They still wear the rough shape of humanity, but only just. Their skin has taken on that damp, unnatural texture that suggests too many generations spent honouring ancient bargains beneath black water. Their eyes seem to watch from the wrong angle, and there is something about the way they stand that hints they are listening to voices carried on tides that no one else can hear.

They are not merely bodyguards. They are the faithful. They have seen what waits below the surface and accepted the bargain without hesitation. When the Emissary speaks, they do not question. They obey with the quiet certainty of those who know that Dagon’s kingdom is older than any frontier town and will still endure long after the last church bell has fallen silent.

The Rifleman provides a little more practical support. Even an ancient sea god appreciates accurate firepower, and while the Hybrids advance with grim determination, someone still has to keep nervous lawmen and overconfident bounty hunters pinned behind cover. Not every servant of Dagon relies upon claws and ancient whispers. Some simply know how to use a good rifle.

I am really enjoying putting this gang together. There is something wonderfully sinister about watching what begins as an ordinary collection of frontier figures slowly transform into a congregation devoted to things best left sleeping beneath dark waters. The Old West has always had its share of strange preachers. This one simply has a much older congregation waiting offshore.

The latest addition to my Dracula’s America collection is an Emissary of Dagon, one of those characters that immediately catches the eye and promises all sorts of mischief on the tabletop.

Unlike a straightforward gunfighter, she is not there to win duels or charge into the thick of every fight. Her real strength lies in what she brings to those around her. As a devoted servant of the Deep Ones, she spreads the influence of Dagon, supporting cultists, unsettling opponents, and creating opportunities for darker forces to emerge. Used well, she becomes the centre of a gang rather than its strongest fighter.

On the table she is at her best lurking behind tougher followers, directing the action while using her strange powers to tip events in her favour. Opponents quickly discover that the greatest threat is not always the figure carrying the biggest weapon but the one quietly pulling the strings from the shadows. Ignore her, and your gang may find itself facing unnatural horrors. Concentrate too much on stopping her, and the rest of the cult can close in.

From a hobby perspective she was also great fun to paint. There is plenty of scope for weathered robes, sea stained colours, strange relics, and just enough fishlike detail to hint that perhaps she has spent rather too much time in places where no sensible person should go. She looks every bit the mysterious prophetess, inspiring loyalty among the faithful while spreading quiet unease among everyone else.

I am looking forward to seeing what sort of trouble she can cause in the next game. Every frontier town has its preacher. Mine just happens to be preaching the gospel of Dagon, and I have a feeling that before the game is over, a few more converts will be answering the call from the depths.

Tomorrow some more of Dagon’s congregation.

Some sacrifices have to be made in the name of progress. This year, thanks to the eternal battle for table space at Victorious on 15 August at Box Hill Town Hall, my magnificent giant dinosaurs have been evicted.

Yes, evicted.

For years they thundered across the table on glorious 100 mm hexes, terrifying explorers, flattening expeditions, and generally reminding everyone why humans should never have invented time travel.

Now? They’ve been replaced by their much smaller cousins on 25 mm hexes.

The down-sized dinosaurs based for painting.

The dinosaurs are not impressed. There have been complaints. I suspect a union meeting. There are also rumours they have hired a consultant to investigate unfair resizing practices.

The change has meant making an entirely new table, building fresh terrain, painting an alarming number of tiny plastic dinosaurs, and discovering that painting eyes on something smaller than your thumbnail is an excellent test of patience and eyesight.

Hills ready for painting and flocking

Of course, the experts tell me this is not downsizing. It is “optimising table efficiency.” That sounds suspiciously like the sort of thing the managers at Jurassic Park would have said just before everything escaped.

Tree hexes well on the way

If you are coming to Victorious, come and see whether the smaller dinosaurs are any less dangerous. Personally, I think they are simply better at sneaking up on unsuspecting explorers. After all, nobody ever said prehistoric predators had to be large to ruin your day.

Volcano ready for painting

Apparently even dinosaurs are not immune to shrinkflation. They may have lost three quarters of their table space, but they still have exactly the same attitude. Also never fear the Dinosaur rulebook is still the same size and at a great show discount as well!

David and Charles, who were the inspiration for the rules, will be on hand to guide you through your own Jurassic/Cretaceous adventure.

Today with the review of James Alexander’s “Battle of Britain” I published my 2,500th post on this WordPress site.

What began as a place to share research, ideas, and the occasional wargaming project has grown into a substantial archive covering military history, Australian frontier conflict, World War II campaigns, tabletop wargame design, book reviews, writing, and the many subjects that continue to spark my curiosity.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read an article, leave a comment, ask a question, or simply stop by. Your interest and encouragement have made the journey worthwhile.

There is still plenty more to come, with new books, rules, historical research, and articles already in the works.

Here’s to the next 2,500 posts.