The great dinosaur downsizing programme has finally reached its conclusion. After much painting, tiny terrain construction and the slightly disturbing experience of watching enormous prehistoric monsters shrink before my eyes, the tiny dinosaur collection is now complete. Appropriately, the final three take us into the Late Cretaceous, with Tyrannosaurus rex, Triceratops and Ankylosaurus joining their earlier Jurassic relatives.
First comes Tyrannosaurus rex, because no respectable dinosaur collection can possibly finish without one. Normally the undisputed star of the Late Cretaceous, this miniature version still possesses the teeth, the attitude and the ridiculously small arms, although at this scale he looks rather less like the tyrant king of the dinosaurs and more like a very angry lizard demanding to speak to whoever approved the downsizing programme. He may be considerably smaller, but I suspect nobody has had the courage to tell him.
Facing him is Triceratops, carrying three horns, a massive frill and the expression of an animal that has already decided everybody else is wrong. In life this was several tonnes of herbivore capable of making even a large predator reconsider its lunch arrangements. The miniature version retains all the menace, although being small enough to disappear behind a modest piece of terrain does take something away from the intimidation factor.
Finally there is Ankylosaurus, essentially the Late Cretaceous answer to an armoured vehicle. Heavy armour across the body, a club on the tail and apparently designed on the principle that anything worth protecting was worth overprotecting. Even reduced to tiny scale it looks wonderfully solid, although its mighty tail club is now probably more dangerous to neighbouring miniatures in the storage box than to a hungry T-Rex.
And with that, the tiny dinosaur collection is completed. Allosaurus, Stegosaurus and Apatosaurus have been joined by their Late Cretaceous successors, the terrain has been shrunk, the dinosaurs have been shrunk, and an entire prehistoric world now occupies a fraction of the space once required by my larger models.
The age of the dinosaurs may have ended 66 million years ago, but this particular extinction event was caused by something far more powerful than an asteroid.
Preparations for Victorious 26 are almost complete, and for once I seem to be approaching a convention without discovering at the last minute that something essential is still sitting unpainted on the workbench.
The Tiny Dinosaurs are finished, their equally tiny prehistoric world is complete, and everything is ready for some suitably small scale mayhem. The big dinosaurs may have fallen victim to convention table shrinkflation this year, but their miniature replacements are painted, based and looking considerably more enthusiastic about Victorious than creatures that have been extinct for 66 million years really ought to be.
The Guru’s Publications stock is packed and ready for sale, including the convention specials. All five Australian Frontier Wars books and rules will be available as a bundle for AU$80, rather than the combined recommended retail price of AU$108.26, a saving of more than 25%. A Wargamer’s Guide to Writing Rules, all 378 pages of advice, probability, playtesting and accumulated gaming wisdom, will also be available for AU$20, down from its RRP of AU$32.94, a saving of around 40%.
The point of sale “stuff” is packed as well, which covers all those mysterious boxes, signs, bags, change, displays and miscellaneous objects without which apparently no convention trader can function. Everything is now sitting there waiting patiently, which is more than can be said for me.
So the dinosaurs are ready, the terrain is ready, the books are ready, the bargains are ready and the Guru is rearing to go.
Last night saw another game of End of Reign using Dux Bellorum, this time with my Romans facing Wayne’s Sea Raiders. The Romans lined up with their usual mixture of legionaries, auxiliaries and noble cavalry, while across the field stood the considerably less civilised Sea Raiders, apparently confident that enthusiasm, large weapons and questionable personal hygiene would once again be enough to see off Rome. It was time to demonstrate the benefits of discipline, organisation and having an empire behind you.
The key move came from my Roman noble cavalry, who swept around the flank of the Sea Raider warrior line and suddenly found themselves in the rather attractive position of being able to threaten Wayne’s chieftain. Here was surely the moment for the great Sea Raider leader to stand proudly before his men, raise his weapon to the heavens and prepare for a heroic confrontation worthy of the sagas. Instead, in what is becoming typical style, the chieftain took one look at the approaching Roman cavalry and decided that discretion was not merely the better part of valour, but considerably preferable to being trampled by a horse.
So off he went.
Unfortunately for the Sea Raider warriors, their leader’s sudden interest in exploring safer portions of the battlefield did nothing to improve their own situation. My Roman legions and auxiliaries went to work on the warrior line, steadily battering it apart while the noble cavalry continued trying to get around the flank and catch the rapidly disappearing chieftain. The Sea Raiders fought hard, but Roman discipline began to tell, and one group after another found itself on the receiving end of the sort of organised violence that had made Rome rather unpopular across much of the known world.
For a while it appeared that the game might finish in the most satisfying manner possible, with the Sea Raider army collapsing and its chieftain finally being cornered by the Roman cavalry. Sadly, Wayne’s warriors proved slightly too considerate toward their leader. They collapsed before the noble cavalry could catch him, saving the chieftain from the glorious demise that everyone except the chieftain himself was eagerly anticipating. Once again he had managed to survive a battle largely through the ingenious tactical method of ensuring somebody else was fighting it.
And so it ended in an ignominious draw for the Sea raiders. The Roman legions and auxiliaries had smashed the Sea Raider warriors, the noble cavalry had sent their chieftain scurrying for safety, yet the slippery fellow somehow escaped before Rome could administer the appropriate conclusion. No doubt Wayne’s chieftain will return for the next battle claiming that it was all part of a cunning plan. His surviving warriors may have a slightly different version of events, although judging by the number left standing, there may not be enough of them to contradict him.
The first victims of the Great Dinosaur Downsizing Program have now emerged from the painting table, and I am pleased to report that an Allosaurus, Stegosaurus and Apatosaurus have successfully survived the process. They are considerably smaller than their predecessors, although I suspect none of them are particularly happy about it. Millions of years of evolution spent becoming enormous, terrifying and generally inconvenient, only to be reduced to something that can hide behind a 25mm hex.
Apatosaurus
The photograph rather cruelly demonstrates just how far the mighty have fallen. Beside the new tiny dinosaurs are some of their considerably larger ancestors from my original games, including one of the dead dinosaurs. Nothing demonstrates progress quite like placing a freshly painted miniature beside the enormous corpse of its predecessor.
The little Allosaurus appears to be contemplating whether this represents its own future, while the Stegosaurus seems to have decided that keeping quiet and looking heavily armoured is probably the safest option. The Apatosaurus, meanwhile, has the expression of a dinosaur that has just discovered someone has reduced not only the terrain but also the catering budget.
Allosaurus
The difference in scale is quite remarkable. The old dinosaurs inhabited a world of 100mm hexes where they could thunder majestically across the table, scatter explorers and consume the occasional unfortunate human. Their tiny descendants must now accomplish exactly the same things on 25mm hexes while attempting to retain some degree of prehistoric dignity. This is less Jurassic Park and more Jurassic Parking Space.
Stegosaurus
Still, the experiment is working. Three dinosaurs are now ready to terrorise the new miniature landscape, and more are on the way.
There cannot be a winner without a loser or eight of them to be exact (important for game play).
The age of the giant dinosaur may be over, at least temporarily, but the age of the tiny angry dinosaur has begun. Looking at the size comparison, I am increasingly convinced that they are not merely smaller.They are annoyed.
After finishing my Church of Dagon posse, I have finally started work on my second Dracula’s America faction, the Dark Confederacy.
In my last post on the Dark Confederacy posse I mentioned that I had picked up the Dark Confederacy posse, along with a couple of extra blister packs and Quantrill’s Raiders, all from North Star Miniatures. Once I spread everything across the painting table and looked through the rules, it became obvious that I had more than enough miniatures to build a very flexible posse.
Quantrill, Necromancer and Bloody Bill
Rather than painting figures as I feel like it, I decided to work out a roster that should cover virtually every Dark Confederacy force I am likely to field. The current painting list is:
Quantrill
Sergeant Bloody Bill
Necromancer
Four Zombies (the maximum allowed in a posse, although I have another ten waiting in reserve)
Two Ragged Veterans with rifles
Two Ragged Veterans with shotguns
Four Ragged Veterans with pistols
Four Dark Confederate Zombies.
That should provide plenty of options for different scenarios and campaigns without having to keep returning to the painting desk every time I want to try a different combination.
Two Ragged Confederates with rifles
Two Ragged Confederates with shotguns
Four Ragged Confederates with pistols
I also have two excellent Hired Guns ready to join the collection: the Stitch Doctor and the Gravedigger. Both fit the Dark Confederacy theme perfectly and add far more than just visual appeal.
The Stitch Doctor is exactly the sort of unsettling character you would expect to find travelling with an army that has embraced dark powers. Rather than relying solely on conventional medicine, the Stitch Doctor keeps fighters in the game through grisly battlefield surgery, patching up wounds that should probably have proved fatal. He provides valuable support by helping injured members of the posse survive long enough to continue the fight, making him an attractive addition to forces that expect to get into prolonged firefights.
The Stitch Doctor
The Gravedigger is equally thematic. Accustomed to spending his life among the dead, he is right at home in the supernatural horrors of Dracula’s America. His abilities revolve around corpses and the restless dead, making him an excellent companion for the Dark Confederacy, particularly when paired with a Necromancer and Zombies. Whether helping create opportunities for the undead or simply proving to be far tougher than his humble profession suggests, he looks as though he belongs with the posse.
The Gravedigger
One of the things I am really enjoying about collecting for Dracula’s America is that the game rewards variety. A posse is relatively small, but having a selection of leaders, specialists, Hired Guns and different weapon combinations means no two games have to be exactly the same. It also provides plenty of opportunities to paint characterful miniatures, and North Star have certainly delivered on that front.
The painting desk is now officially occupied by another collection of ragged Confederates, shambling zombies, and thoroughly unpleasant individuals. If all goes according to plan, it should not be too long before the Dark Confederacy is ready to take the field and show that, in Dracula’s America, some causes really do refuse to stay buried.
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.
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.
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.
