In the Stars: (Lovecraftish short story)

While I try to work out the ending of 'A Grim Tapestry' here is an alternate Short that i finished that had been gestating for a while. 

 I used to love the stars.

Not that I'm any kind of Astronomer you understand, nor would I even say that I am an avid enthusiast on matters celestial or even particularly well read upon the subject. Nonetheless, I used to love the stars in a very real and romantic way. 

Often I would gaze into the night sky, wondering about those myriad pinpricks of light. Mysterious and unfathomable, all encompassing yet so, so far away. What wonders might they hold? Were they looking back at us? Some lifeform millions of years ago staring up at the cosmos much as I was?  Of course due to the phenomenal distances involved they were most likely long dead (though I would not presume to guess at the longevity of an extraterrestrial, an existence of multiple millenia seemed at the time unlikely in the extreme) but this minor issue never stopped me from romanticising the night sky. 

Now? Now I look at the stars with a cold dread. Now I know what looks back, looks back with a malign gaze, waiting. It has waited for those millennia, it’s malevolence unchecked. It waits for its time, for its summoning, its escape. 

Would that I had remained blissfully, wistfully, ignorant. 

It all started in the most innocuous of ways, a rogue email of all things. I worked at the time as an accountant for a small finance company, the kind of mundane 9-5 (at best) that you dread describing to relatives when they ask that obligatory question regarding your profession at family get-togethers. This wayward communication came from a sender unknown to me that disconcertingly did not accept replies, and was but a single enigmatic line. 

Howard, It is time. 2:AM 20/11 St Leonard’s Bridge, ia ia! Praise Nyarlathotep!

My name is James Phillips and I had no inkling of what Nyarlathotep might be, though I found the structure of the word (etymology had always been an interest of mine) most intriguing, almost certainly of Egyptian origin. but St Leonard’s Bridge was no great distance away.  I resolved to attend, clandestinely. My curiosity was piqued. 

I failed to remember at the time that curiosity killed the cat. 

So it was that I found myself crouching and shivering (why, oh why had I not dressed appropriately for November) in the shadows at the foot of the bridge on the north bank of the River Maloun shortly before 2am. Of course there was always the chance that the mysterious meeting was taking place on the south bank (I dismissed the possibility that they might be converging atop the bridge as even at this ungodly early hour there was traffic) but i considered a 50/50 chance of sating my curiosity worthy of my attendance, even in this winter chill. 

The first attendee appeared at two minutes to the hour. Dressed remarkably formally (and to my chagrin much more sensibly than myself) he stood at one side of the foot of the bridge. He lit a cigarette, no, a cigar if the acrid smoke was anything to go by, no more than nine feet from my hiding place in the shadows. He was joined swiftly by two fellows, each approaching separately. They acknowledged each other with a fluid hand movement, fingers unfurling and folding as they moved their hands in a pattern I could not easily distinguish. The gesture was accompanied by a greeting and again I caught the word Nyarlothotep, the noun (for I had deduced it as such) sounding alien yet sonorous, though the rest of the uttered phrase was completely indistinguishable and in some forgeign guttural tongue. 

A minute later they were joined by a well-to-do woman, dressed in an exquisite fur lined coat. The strange greeting was exchanged once again and once more when another woman and man turned up half a minute later. 

I judged the hour of the meeting had come, indeed from the muffled conversation that was taking place it seemed that they were awaiting attendees yet. One of these would likely be the intended recipient for the missive I had intercepted. I had no way of knowing if Howard had received instruction of the rendezvous by any other means or if he would indeed be absent from proceedings. 

There was one late attendee, chastised by the cigar puffing man who I judged to be the senior member of the group. The latecomer was younger and I established from the exchange that followed that this was not the intended recipient of the email. I strained my ears to hear what was being said. 

“...short, we’ll have to proceed without. He had best be here next time though, our patron awaits, and he grows impatient. The appointed time approaches”

He took something from a wallet and stubbed the cigar out. Object and stump fell to the ground, and the man reached into his winter coat, withdrawing a small ornate dagger which gleamed despite the gloom, it seemed to glow unnaturally, as if the blade itself were a source of illumination. Moments later the luminescence dulled, and the group walked out of sight under the bridge, there was a flash and a low screeching howl like tortured wind rushing. Then silence. 

I waited a moment and then stepped from the culvert in which I crouched. I cautiously stepped around, under the bridge… 

Nothing. 

I looked around, trying to find any clue of what had happened to the group. The waters were still, they had not been disturbed, the ground was soft but the footprints were indistinct and hard to see. The brickwork foot of the bridge was unblemished, there was no door, no hole, just bricks and mortar. No, there was something. Like glittering gossamer, lines spread across the surface, there was something on the wall. I stepped forward, traced the lines, they were warm. With a growing sense of trepidation I pressed against the brickwork with my palm. To my horror my hand disappeared into the brickwork. My path seemed clear. Ahead, through this portal, assuming a portal it was and I would not become subsumed by the brickwork, or retreat, abandon the quest, return to my job and try to forget. 

The latter seemed impossible, but would that i had remembered the adage about the meddlesome moggy’s mortality I would have tried anyway.

I steeled myself and pushed my body through. 

I wish that I could describe the sensation of my passage. I remember it vividly yet I lack the words to adequately describe it. The tactile sense was one of cloying molasses that I had to claw myself through, presumably my quarry had not experienced this? It seemed a most inconvenient form of ingress. No, I suspected that perhaps the way was becoming impassable, the material reasserting itself into its solid state even as I tried to force my way through. 

But the sensation. That i cannot describe, not to any degree of accuracy. 

I felt I was being squashed and stretched at the same time, intense hunger and thirst gripped me with the most tremendous headache and burden of suffocation. Yet even this description does no justice to the horror of the feeling I experienced. I knew at this moment that I had made the most grievous of mistakes. 

Then I was through. I fell to my knees as reality asserted itself once more, gasping for air. Looking shakily behind me I could see only stone, though it was dark green of hue and rippled strangely. Hesitantly i reached out to touch it but it was indeed, just stone. Unyielding rock. There was a burning sensation in my pocket and I pulled out my phone only to drop it almost immediately. It was hot to the touch, and quite dead. After prodding at it a few times it became clear that the device would never function again, so I left it where it lay. 

I got to my feet and turned back to the path ahead of me. My mind reeled as bizarre alien geometry assaulted my senses. The view ahead of me was almost impossible to assimilate. Monolithic edifices clashed with an eerie violet sky across which lurid green lightning lashed incessantly. There was no thunder though, Which was all the more disconcerting given that my ears were now bombarded by the most hideous screeching. The wail of a non present wind, banshees screaming and howling. I brought my hands up to my ears but it made no difference. Was this horrifying din being projected straight into my mind, into my very soul? 

The path led downward, rough carved steps in the earth (though I was utterly convinced that I was no longer actually on Earth) that disappeared into the ground some twenty feet below me. As I proceeded down the steps I looked back at from whence I had come. I could now see a foreboding temple, hewn from the very rock face, again in that strange dark green stone that seemed to absorb all light.

Was it the very temple that was screaming? It was so hard to tell. 

Shuddering, I turned around once more and continued down the steps, into the hole in the ground. Suddenly I was in absolute darkness, for although I could see light some distance below me, the surrounding stone reflected nothing. It was like being surrounded by pure void. At least that abominable howling had ceased.

I stumbled through the unearthly blackness as quickly as I could, practically falling through the portal in the floor, except It seemed that the black hole now existed below and behind me, not above. The disorientation was compounded by the stillness in fact everything was absolutely and horribly silent, such that I thought I had gone deaf till I heard my own involuntary gasp. The sky was a pale grey, deathly pallid and featureless. Stark and foreboding. It hurt my eyes and I felt my gorge rise. 

Fighting the nausea, ahead of me, I could see the group that I pursued. They were some hundreds of metres away moving slowly to yet another colossal temple set in a rock face that seemed to cover the entire horizon, in fact, as i scanned the gargantuan cliff before me i saw that it didn’t actually end, instead it blended into the pale sky as if through a gradient. I averted my eyes from the psyche shattering sight and focussed instead on where I needed to go. 

The traversal across the foreboding plain to the temple was blessedly uneventful, if relentlessly oppressive to the extreme. The unnatural stillness was most discomforting, and I found myself almost wishing for the ungodly screaming to come back, anything to break the smothering deathly stillness. Nonetheless I doggedly continued, step after step, one foot in front of the other again and again till finally, I was at the entrance to the temple. Hopefully this was my final destination, I surely couldn’t handle another journey like the one I had just undertaken. Without pausing for a moment, I entered the temple. 

Unlike the previous passageway I had traversed, this one was practically luminous. Strange, carvings and shapes writhed and coiled on the walls, all emitting an unearthly light that seemed to be of no colour yet all colours. They hurt my eyes.. My footsteps seemed deafening in the corridor, and I adopted a crouch lest I be detected. Another doorway loomed ahead, massive and thankfully open. I stopped at the threshold. Below me in a large arena, stood the assembly. 

They stood in a circle, each facing outwards. The ornate dagger was passed round the group and as each took the weapon they slashed across their palm before passing the blade on. Presently all seven present had bled themselves, clenching their cut hands into fists. Without another word they all opened and threw their hands into the air, blood showering above them, but rather than obeying the laws of gravity and falling, the blood kept travelling up, up, till it was beyond my sight in the darkness of the roof of the arena. 

Then there was a cracking as of the unending of the world. 

Suddenly there were stars visible. Our stars, though they were out strangely out of position, the constellations were nonetheless visible, familiar, reassuring. 

There was nothing reassuring about what happened next. 

First came the chanting, low and subdued before rising in both volume and intensity. 

Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn.. Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn.. Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn..Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn..Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn..Ia Ia, Nyarlathotep fhtagn..!!!!

Then, to my absolute and total horror, the stars started to go out. A darkness spread across the starscape in the ceiling, snuffing out the light. The light from the passageway behind me also failed, till all around was cloying darkness. In pure terror i gazed, rapt, at where the stars had once been. Something was coalescing, becoming form in the darkness, though I could barely differentiate between it and the void. Writhing tentacles snaked down from that ungodly abyss. They seemed insubstantial, almost as if made of smoke. That smoke coiled and hissed, its tips entering the circle of cultists, (for what other label could i apply to them?) a tendril penetrating each of their chests. Upon contact each member of the conclave ceased their chants and arched backwards, throwing their heads back, their eyes blazing a cerulean inferno. I barely noticed this peripherally, as my own gaze was fixed above. Three malevolent eyes appeared in the middle of the shape that had blotted out the very stars. A malign intelligence glittered within, utterly unhuman but identifiably self aware. A horrible unknowable sentience, as unfathomable as the very cosmos itself. 

Then it spoke.

Though I did not comprehend its speech, I nonetheless felt its intent in my mind. I felt my sanity unravel at its words and screwed my eyes shut. The words echoed in my brain regardless. Not just the horrific entity's speech but the response from the assembly. It was not sound though, not really. It was an atmosphere, a sensation of understanding through feeling rather than comprehension through any other sense. At the same time I became aware of a very low but insistent keening in the back of my mind. 

It was impatient, I sensed, it had been trapped for too long, at the edge of space. It yearned to escape, to be set free upon the Earth, the descendants of those that had imprisoned it. It desired madness, chaos, bedlam. The cultists were but a fraction of a multitude, all over the earth. All sowing discord, dissension, division. They controlled the media, the governments, the tech giants, it was all part of some great incredible plan. Pandemic, panic and pandemonium would be the shattering of it’s chains.  Unknowable, unfathomable, indeterminable, it was aeons old, and its time was nigh. It was… inevitable. 

Even worse, it knew I was there. I felt it. 

I ran, I fled headlong back through the now dark tunnel, back across the pale plain, down into the black void that somehow became an ascent to a screaming purple sky. All the time, my mind continued to fracture, the keening in my mind grew louder and louder till the two sounds were a crescendo in duet. I babbled inanely, insanely, incessantly, though there were none around to hear me. I was about half way up the steps back to the starting temple when I mercifully lost consciousness, the screaming still echoing in my ears. 

I awoke bedraggled, drenched on the bank of the Maloun. I was taken into care, my mind in ruins, unable to say anything but “the stars”. My torment was internal, eternal. My mind reeled with all I had experienced, a kaleidoscopic slideshow of cosmic horror playing over and over again. But I was unable to express any of it. I couldn’t write it, I couldn't say it. Only “the stars” over and over. I could hear, cogitate, comprehend, but my body was a shell and I was trapped in it. 

So it was in a cruel twist of fate that after the evening pills are shoved down my throat I am wheeled by well meaning orderlies out under the starry skies. There to stare, in wide eyed horror at the unkind cosmos till slumber takes me and my dreams are ravaged by thoughts of that horrific monstrosity that awaits out there to consume us all. 

In the stars that I used to love.  

A Grim Tapestry: Chapter III

The path was long and winding and they were tested several times more as they ventured into the depths. Each time, the monsters were beaten back at minimal cost, the torches holding the foes at bay even as each force increased in number. Vasilya in particular, proved instrumental in their success, conjuring walls of flame to repel the attackers. Still, every encounter took its toll and the fire wall became less potent with every assault as her power waned. 

It was Vasilya that was the first to fall. Just as, after what seemed an interminable succession of chambers and passageways in the depths, the path began to ascend. Half way up a mighty set of steps seemingly carved into the very walls, they took her. 

From darkened alcoves they sprang, leaping onto the mage and the mage alone. Her screams faded and then halted abruptly as she fell from the steps and plunged into the depths. Though the remaining constructs were swiftly dispatched by the remainder of the company there was no sign of Vasilya amongst the twisted and crumpled forms at the bottom of the shaft. A brief search was conducted but they found no trace of the young mage, and returned to their original path. Yarlae had wanted to expand the search for Vasilya but Wulf wished not to tarry any longer and said as much. No one argued with Wulf. They abandoned the mage and continued. 

After a long and perturbingly eventless ascent Wulf judged that they were at around ground level once more. Still they ascended, with no way to leave the winding upward procession of steps and passageways, till finally the path levelled off. Ahead stretched another short corridor, lined once again with tapestries and hangings leading to another exterior door. Once outside, it became apparent that they were on the opposite side of the courtyard, atop the far side of the walls they had gained entry by. Yarlae’s keen eyes could see the barred gate in the gloom some distance away. She could also see a door leading to the Tower, invisible before, hidden behind a rising parapet. She communicated this information to the group before checking the outside of the wall. A sheer drop greeted her. Even her enhanced visual acuity could not detect anything below. There was to be no escape there. She returned to the group;

Wulf was silent, deep in thought, weighing up the options. They had already lost one of their number and he was greatly perturbed by the exactness of the enemy's strike. They had purposely targeted and eliminated the company's strongest defensive asset, suggesting a tactical acumen far beyond that of mindless monsters. He ruminated, resting on his Warhammer, running one hand through his beard whilst his eyes continued to monitor vigilantly for threats. 

“Bugger this for a fool's errand” Markas snarled. He hurled his burning torch into the courtyard. It fell to the ground, still ablaze, the light betraying no sign of activity, triggering no response. It was a drop of about two dozen feet, far from impossible but not without risk of injury.

“I’ll get that gate unbarred, let’s get out of here. Yarlae, cover me just in case”. He had the grace to look at Wulf, who paused a moment before assenting with a grim nod, Without another word Markas went over the edge. Hanging onto the wall and bracing himself he leapt away, tucking himself into a roll to mitigate the impact. Nonetheless he landed awkwardly, gingerly getting to his feet before retrieving the torch. He drew his sword and moved off toward the gate unsteadily. 

He took perhaps a dozen steps. 

They erupted from the ground, seizing him on all sides. He screamed and struck out with both brand and blade but they were swiftly knocked from his grasp and he was overwhelmed in moments. He disappeared under a mound of monstrous forms and was dragged into the shadows, his cries fading into the gloom. 

Yarlae lowered her bow. She had not even had time to loose an arrow. 

Nor did they have time to process. The door behind them burst open, a horde of abominations spilling out, grasping and clawing. 

Yarlae recoiled in horror; she bought her bow back up and fired an arrow almost point blank through the eye of one of the constructs. Wulf roared and swung his warhammer one handed, best as he could, the other brandishing the torch, waving the flame in front of them to try to keep the horde at bay. 

 With no other recourse, they fell back, inexorably, along the wall towards the tower. 

“We’re being herded!” Yarlae realised.

“Aye” Wulf shouted back “dark forces are at work here child. Still, we have no other choice. “

At pace, they retreated along the wall, falling back towards the tower. Pressed by the horde. The door looked sturdy but the key at Wulf’s belt performed it’s promised purpose and they hurriedly made to bolt and bar the door behind them. Within moments, however, the door started to shake and rock on its hinges as monstrous bodies slammed against it. 

“That’ll not hold long. We need to move” Wulf said. “Come, this way”

The only way was up. 

Gundam? Gundamn! Or: How I learned to stop Warhammering and love the Gunpla

 Following on from my last article on GW’s pricing, I actually had a hankering to get on with some painting. Though I might be somewhat disenfranchised with GW's wargames at large, the models are still great and that Underworlds Vampire set have been begging to have some paint slapped on them. 

Then I went and broke my hand. It was a fight with Nazis you see, ten, no TWENTY of them. 

Oh alright, the truth is I fell on the stairs and smashed my hand on the bannister, a nice big splintered diagonal break on my fifth metacarpal.  Six weeks to two months to heal

Yeaaaah, that's not meant to look like that. 

Bollocks, there goes any painting. Kinda hard to hold a model when your hand is in plaster. 

Thankfully I had a backup. 

A few weeks ago, I had (fortuitously) ordered a Gundam model. 

This one in fact: Foresight, or mere coincidence?

I’d always known about Gundam, in fact I'd got Lee one for Christmas a few years back as he was into making them. But I'd never given it much more thought than that, hardly requiring yet ANOTHER hobby. But, I finally checked out the series as Lee had been urging me to do for ages and found out i REALLY liked the Samaurai-esque design from that series. 

Well i say series, it was only the first of many. Gundam is an antiwar anime franchise that has been going for over 40 years now and has a LOT of entries across many timelines. In fact it’s the same age as me, having started in 1979. By watching the series and ordering my first kit I had entered into the world of Gunpla. 

My collection thus far: All from the original series. 

So: what is Gunpla? 

Put simply Gunpla is short for Gundam ‘Plastic Model’ they are kits of the many, MANY suits from the myriad series that, due to some spectacular engineering require no glue to assemble. Exclusively made by Bandai they come on sprues (known as runners in the hobby) of different colour plastics so that painting is not required to complete the model, though there are certainly many that do paint and customise their figures. 

So essentially, it’s a mech action figure that you assemble yourself. They have full articulation just like a normal action figure and come in various sizes depending on which ‘grade’ of figure you pick up (more on those in a second). 

The amazing technology that Bandai uses means that different colours and even different TYPES of plastic can be on the same sprue (sorry i don’t use runners, call it 27 years of habit). I was blown away by the rubbery plastic that was on one corner of the sprue that was flexible so the parts could be bent. Incredible. 

See those hoses top right? Softer than the rest of the Sprue, MIND. BLOWN

And that’s to say nothing of the engineering of the kits themselves. It's a real marvel how these things go together. The chest sections reminded me of the engineering in Lego, where you build it up in layers for a strong core. The instructions are excellent. Despite being in Japanese, I have never had an issue assembling one of these models. I have now built four and the High Grade models that I have been building normally take a couple hours each. A couple of very enjoyable hours that results in a really cool posable figure. I have a Real Grade Gundam that will be a more complex job, that one is being saved for now. 

So let’s go through those grades quickly. 

First Grade: These are generally remakes of the first kits that were released back in the 80's. They are dirt cheap and moulded all in one colour so I'm not sure they really count as true Gunpla. They usually need gluing together too. The first kit I built was actually one of these but I replaced it with a vastly  superior High Grade. I do have a Guntank that is FG that turned out ok. 

This was thankfully big enough to stay still and be airbrushed.  

Entry Grade: Like it sounds these are the most basic versions you can pick up aside from the 30MM (Thirty Minute Missions) that I don't really consider real Gunpla. Entry Grade have minimal colour separation, meaning that areas that would be different colours on more advanced kits will be one piece here, allowing for easier assembly. They are made of less parts than more advanced grades and though basic, can look surprisingly close to high grade models though they often have slightly reduced articulation.  

High Grade: This is your bread and butter kit, and the majority of the Gunpla that I own are High Grade (when i broke my hand I ordered a bundle of kits). Like the previous two they are 1/144 scale so they stand about 5” high. They will usually come with more colour separation and a small sticker sheet. On average I've found they take a couple of hours to assemble if you want to do a decent job. 

A HG Zaku. about £16

Real Grade: These were designed to be a step up from the High Grade while staying at the same scale. They tend to be designed as a core skeleton that you then bolt the armour on to, making for a much more accurate and authentic build. These kits also tend to come with the transfer sheets for detailing your Gundam, there are not as many of them available as they are a relatively new concept (2010) but I think that often they are the better choice if you have a few High Grades under your belt. 

RX 78 Mk II. Real Grade, real detail. Soon

Master Grade: This is where we start getting serious. Firstly they are bigger, 1/100 or roughly 7.5” tall. Secondly they are FAR more detailed with loads more parts to the assembly (the instruction manuals are books as opposed to leaflets. They also have room for LEDs and working pistons that move as you articulate the figure. A big advancement from the other kits, i might get one one day (maybe when i go to Japan later this year) but it's a much more intense investment. 

Perfect Grade: This is it. The best you can get. They are 1/60 so absolutely huge. Obscenely detailed and complicated with many hundreds of parts, you are looking at dozens and dozens of hours to assemble one. The articulation is beyond compare, with even the fingers being movable, the colour separation is perfect, and there are myriad moving panels and parts, you can even remove the pilot. They are invariably lit by LEDs and cost hundreds of pounds. A bit too much for me to take on I think, (I mean some pieces even need screwing together) but they are undeniably impressive. 

So that’s all the different Gundam (well, not all, as there are variants of each Grade, but most). So, assuming you are still reading, what’s involved?

First Grade at the front (painted) the HG updgrade at the back. 

Well, thankfully, not much. This is what you'll need

A GOOD pair of clippers, the ones you use for Warhammer will most likely not 'cut it' (sorry). You will need clippers that give as fine and clean a cut as possible. I grabbed a pair of Japanese ones for 12 quid that seem to do the job just fine. The main reason for this is stress marks. If you use cheap clippers you will most likely end up with marks from the sheared plastic, if not at first then when they inevitably blunt. 

A SHARP knife. OK, the knife doesn’t matter too much but you need a sharp blade as you clean up the last bits of burr or ‘nubs’ as they are known in Gunpla. Once you have the plastic flush you can often even out the colour with a fingernail BUT…. 

So satisfying and simple to construct.

Polishing/sanding sticks. These are the best way to get the plastic back to the original colour, work down from a 600 to a 5000 grit and you’ll get a lovely smooth unblemished finish. 

Then OPTIONAL:

Gundam Markers, these are markers that are used to cover up marks and sometimes to line panels but honestly, if you are reading this you likely have a range of paints that will do the job just as well. When I have two working hands again I'll likely panel line with thinned down paints be they acrylic or oil. 

Come on now, that's not bad for a tenner. 

Honestly, if you have any experience with plastic miniature kits you’ll likely find Gundam a breeze. I have encountered no difficulties thus far and I have REALLY enjoyed it. 

But the BEST thing about Gundam? The price. 

My first kit, the classic RX 78 which was a high grade kit cost me £9.95 from Chaos Cards. That’s right, a tenner. Though this was the first kit i bought, it was not the first i assembled. But i WOULD say it's probably my favourite thus far. NO glue needed, no paint needed. Although you really should get the stuff I mentioned above which will cost a bit, you could get a cheap pair of clippers for a couple of quid and put that bad boy together there and then (after all there are people who inexplicably do NOT clean up their minis).  

Two hours work while watching TV. With one hand. 

That’s a lot cheaper than Warhammer. A LOT. And it results in a nice big poseable model. It’s frankly a bit of a bargain. 

Now, we do need to qualify this. Gundam kits are mass produced in China so they are very cheap to produce, but I would argue that they are AT LEAST as well engineered and designed as Citadel’s miniatures (if not better). A good chunk of what you pay with GW is the fact that it is produced in Britain.

And yes, Gundam can be pricey. HG Kits will be between £10 and £25. Real Grade, £25-£35 and Master Grade frequently £50 and above. Perfect Grade? Well over £100, sometimes as much as £200. But you are talking DOZENS of sprues. GW kits frequently hit £100 for three or four sprues. Honestly, Gundam seems much better bang for your buck, even with the above caveats. It’s also worth mentioning that they are even CHEAPER in Japan (man I'm gonna need a big suitcase). Yeah Bandai have been doing this a lot longer than GW but they also seem to do it a lot better. 

This is a Gouf. Some of the names are a bit weird. 

Anyway, I'm not going to be dropping GW. I’m too invested. 27 years in, I can't drop it just like that, even if I am leaning away from armies and more into skirmish games where I only have to paint half a dozen models rather than masses of models that will just be deleted en’masse. But Gunpla was a nice experiment, a nice distraction, and while there are hundreds to choose from, most are frankly a bit OTT for me looks wise as they start having wings and armour on top of armour so they look a bit toy like and lean away from the mechanical samurai look that i like. That said, there are a few more that i want (I’m currently watching Gundam ZZ) so I’m sure the six that i have accumulated over the last three weeks will be added to, after all, I'm still looking at another few weeks before i can use my left hand properly. 

Anyway, I'll shut up now, this has taken a while to write with one hand in plaster. I urge you to check out the world of Gunpla, whether you merely dip in a toe or jump right in. It’s fun, it’s easy and it’s cheap.

Gunpla? Qapla! 

A Grim Tapestry: Chapter II

Gaining access had been as easy as Yarlae had indicated. Scaling the wall with the aid of Markas’ hook and rope they soon found themselves atop the outer wall standing by the door that Yarlae had spied. Her keen eyes could make out another door on the opposite wall that was closer to the tower. Surprisingly there was no apparent access to the tower from the ground level, a barren courtyard littered with debris but no doors that could be seen, no way of gaining access to the manse proper. Only this door and its twin on the other side. With few other options and no apparent path they proceeded. The door was no match for Wulf’s warhammer, stoved in after a few mighty swings. Silence and darkness lay on the other side. It was growing darker outside too, the sun dipping behind the mountains. They stepped inside and Vasilya muttered an incantation. A sconce nearby sparked into flame from which Markas lit an oil soaked torch. 

The passageway ahead was empty save a few hangings and an empty weapons rack, presumably for defending the fort. For a fort it seemed to be, no mere domicile. A chill wind whistled past and the hanging banners fluttered even as the burning torch sputtered. Markas moved the torch in front of him, shielding it from the elements as they moved deeper inside Manse De Poulain. 

They proceeded down the corridor cautiously. Wulf and Markas at the fore, Yarlae and Vasilya behind. Presently they came to a staircase descending, it appeared that the path to the tower would be anything but straightforward. 

Descending the winding staircase they still encountered no resistance. No horrors launched themselves at the company, there was no apparent threat. Everything was still, even the wind had died down, though the torch still sputtered occasionally as though the very darkness was trying to smother the flame. Only their breathing belied any life at all. At the bottom of the stairs was an unlocked door to a room beyond which another short passage led to another set of descending steps. Wulf stopped, raising his hand in a fist out of habit. 

“This isn't right, he growled. If we go down again we will be under the fort. We shall turn back, retrace our steps. See if we can find another path to the tower”. There was no argument, there never was with Wulf. They turned around and retrod their path. However, at the door to the previous staircase a magical barrier fizzed and sparked. 

“I knew it”, Markas hissed. “A trap!”

He was not wrong, it was then that they struck. 

Over a dozen in number, they emerged from the shadows, ambushing the company from behind. Yet the quartet were not unprepared. They had been on guard since entering the Manse and whirled to meet the horrors head on. Their attackers were fast, blurs of cloth and flesh that struck at a blinding speed in the gloom. Markas fended one off with his torch scorching its flesh and setting its garb alight. It howled as it burned, becoming fully alight unnaturally quickly, ablaze like dry tinder. A flailing flaming figure that illuminated the rest of its brethren. 

They were abominations, patchwork monstrosities, deformed and mangled and grotesque. But for all that, they were horribly, identifiably, human. They were amalgamations of several individuals sewn and melded together into new monstrous forms by some unseen twisted architect. Yet they WERE human, men and women, and although their forms were monstrous their faces still carried a very obvious fear. They were scared of the fire. The wretch on the floor had stopped screaming and flailing. The flame was guttering, dying out and turning a mysterious violet as it waned. Soon the only light was again Markas' torch. Emboldened once more by the darkness the horrors attacked again. 

In the gloom the company fought for their lives. Markas loosed a trio of throwing knives, yet, although all struck true, none of his targets fell. Within moments they were on him and though he tried to strike them with the torch he was overwhelmed, the brand was struck from his hand and fell to the floor, still burning. He grappled with two of the constructs, managing to gain space enough to draw his short sword. 

Wulf bellowed as he swung his warhammer in wide irresistible arcs, caving in the head of one foe and crushing the chest of another. Though they fell, they rose once more, mangled face and concave torso closing in on the mighty warrior as he retreated, all the while still swinging his weapon. Though they looked human, they recovered from what would normally be mortal wounds, their ravaged forms continuing to attack. They could be slowed but only the most destructive of blows could stop them. He lashed out once more and fairly split the abomination in two such was the force of his strike. The creature spasmed on the floor, broken limbs trying to gain purchase and rise. These things did not bleed, he noticed. Instead their wounds drew forth a viscous tar-like ichor. 

Markas had gained the upper hand. For all his brutishness and lack of charm he was a formidable warrior and he hewed and chopped with his blade, striking limbs from bodies and cleaving his foes apart. More than once though, his blade would lodge in the torso of an enemy, the thick sludge preventing clean strikes. 

Yarlae also fared well, innate and honed fighting skills coming to the fore. Graceful compared to Markas’ direct approach she fended off foes with her gilded short bow even as she dispatched others with a curved elvish long dagger, it had belonged to her mother and she had lost count of the lives it had ended in her hands. The blade flashed and flickered in the gloom as she sliced and slashed, her half elven eyes affording her superior eyesight in the dark. Yet, for all her prowess and elan, the foes she struck down rose once more. The weapon unsuited to the brutal dismemberment that this enemy required. 

Vasilya desperately defended herself against no less than four of the patchwork horrors. Pressed into a corner, she had thrown up a kinetic barrier to protect herself but the strain on her face made it apparent that she had no power spare to mount any kind of attack. Thankfully Markas soon came to her aid, decapitating two of the foe with heavy swings before running the other two through and bisecting them. Wulf, having obliterated his opponents, moved over to assist Yarlae, crushing her opponents with mighty overhead swings. 

Presently all of the monstrosities were down, smashed or cut to pieces, hacked apart and torn asunder. Bodies and limbs lay all around. Markas picked up the sputtering torch, carefully coaxing the lambent flame back to life. 

“What the hell was that?” he scowled, holding the torch low and peering at the vanquished adversaries. He screwed his face up in distaste and spat on the piles of flesh. He tried to clear his sword of the sticky tar like ichor but it clung to the blade, stubbornly refusing to wipe clean. He used the torch to burn the residue off instead, grunting with satisfaction as the blade flared brightly with that strange violet hue. Whatever these horrors had in place of blood, it was highly combustible. 

“Monsters” Vasilya whispered, visibly shaken by the experience. “But they had human faces, were these… people?”

Wulf prodded one with his warhammer. “Maybe once, not now. Look, stitched, these things were made, not born” He turned, his face set. 

“They seemed to be afraid of fire. We should make more torches lest we encounter more. Their blood burns well enough, we’ll take their wrappings and soak them in it. Find staves for the torches. To it, now!” He barked at Yarlae and Markas. Without another word the half-elf and brigand set to their grim task. Wulf turned his attention to the young mage;

“Vasilya” She turned, a haunted look in her eyes.

“Can you do anything about this door? I’d just as soon not venture further into the depths.” She shut her eyes and held a hand to the door. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The seal on the door grew brighter and thrummed but after a moment she dropped her hand. 

“It is beyond me”, she replied, shakily. “Even were I at full power I suspect that these magicks would be too much for me to overcome. Whoever set these wards is mightier than me by far.” She shuddered as the effort took its toll. 

“So be it,” muttered Wulf. “Deeper then, into the trap.”

A Grim Tapestry: Chapter I

“Careful you fool” Yarlae hissed. She took a step back from the precipice from which she had very nearly just tumbled, trying not to show the panic that was coursing through her. Far below, wicked, jagged rocks jutted out from the river Tryn’s cold dark waters, a fall would mean certain death. 

Thankfully that had not been her fate, her elven born agility and poise saving her. She shot Markas a look of pure venom, masking the flush of fear. In her mind she felt like she was actually falling. Were her tremors borne of terror or anger? Likely both, she realised. 

For his part Markas shot her a half apologetic look and a shrug. Markas Weiss was a boorish man of few words which suited her just fine. The man was a dullard anyway and they were here for money not conversation. 

The company consisted of her, Markas, a mercurial old warrior who had only ever been known as Wulf and at the rear of the group, Vasilya, a young quiet mage dressed in flowing robes that were entirely impractical for their current endeavour. 

And that endeavour was treasure. Responding to a tip from one of Wulf’s many dubious associates, they now found themselves in North Arbora traversing the gully that lead to the Manse de Poulian. The manse was now long abandoned and decrepit but if their source was  to be believed, it was also the resting place of a hidden sizable cache of valuables, the ill gotten gains of a band of brigands who’s despicable deeds had finally caught up with them in a very terminal way. She only hoped that the information was worth the price they had paid, their last two leads had been less than lucrative. 

****

“It was Burgetts lots base you see” the scrawny individual who had only identified himself as ‘Red’ had explained, between swigs of Golden Best. Of course anything served in the Tattered Fox was far from the best of anything but it did taste slightly better than the urine it so strongly resembled. That night the inn was full of heady aromas and bawdy banter, all the better to conduct clandestine conversations. The attendees of this impromptu meeting were well used to tuning out the background activities of the Tattered Fox and Wulf bade ‘Red’ continue with a curt gesture. 

“Yep, Burgetts lot” the informant continued, his reddish mop hung lank and filthy round his temples, framing what seemed to be a permanent scowl. Every now and then his head jerked involuntarily, doubtless the mark of some substance abuse. The tic sent drops of sweat flying with every motion and Yarlae surreptitiously covered her drink with her hand. 

“They had quite the stash from what I understand, ‘course that lot committed many a misdeed over the years as you well know”, he shot a knowing look at Wulf and drained his pint. Wulf grunted noncommittally and gestured for a serving wench to bring another round. 

“And then of course they were bought low at Halgen’s Hill, the whole sorry lot of them, and all that loot has been just waiting there, at their hideout. Hidden away I've no doubt but I imagine it’s well worth a look at any rate. Just so happens I have the key to the tower where it’s held, taken off Burgett’s very corpse no less! Yours for the right price, if you’re interested that is'', he added, with a sly look. He spasmed again, thankfully before accepting his drink from the maid. He took a long draught from the stein, spilling ale down his front as he jerked uncontrollably once again. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand and waited expectantly. 

Markas stopped picking his teeth with a dirk, planting the blade point down in the dark oak table before sneering unpleasantly. 

“An’ why you not gone after this great prize yourself eh?” his rasping voice low and spiteful. “Seems just too good to be true, lest you trying to trick us? Eh?” He jerked the dirk from the table top, waving it accusingly. 

Red lowered his half empty stein to the table and raised his hands placatingly. He was missing half his ring finger on his left hand Yarlae noticed. No doubt there was some grim story to be told there, she idly mused. 

“Do I look like an adventurer, friend?” he retorted. “I’m not like to go off into the mountains on my own, treasure or no treasure. I’m no warrior, as you can plainly see, I'd not last a minute in a fight. No, no I'm not capable of this task, you mark my words, but you lot…” He lowered his hands, reaching for his drink again. “Besides” he added, with a sideways glance, “I only came into possession of the key and the location of the hideout recently didn’t I?”

Something about the way that he said ‘possession’ jolted Yarlae from her half-reverie. A warrior he most certainly was not but she could imagine him quite capable of a cowardly murder, skulking in the shadows. For her part she believed the man's tale, Wulf wasn’t the kind of man you deceived, not unless you had a death wish. 

Negotiations had been made, more alcohol quaffed and coin parted with. The unkempt informant had stuffed his gains into a torn and stained jerkin before slinking off into the night, a wretch returning to his natural habitat. 

Now Wulf stood, his face impassive, the key hanging from his belt, his warhammer slung over one shoulder. A two handed weapon, Wulf swung it with a disciplined, practised, ease such that Yarlae suspected him to be a Knight of the Realm. Still, they didn't talk of such things. They didn't really talk at all, strictly business, always. 

It had taken a week to reach Blackvale. The nearest town to Manse De Poulain, Blackvale was nearly desolate, not uncommon in Arbora where predation from ghouls and worse could ravage populations. The people who were still there were sullen, drawn, but they had been able to provide some accommodation and supplies. When pressed about the nearby Manse they had only said it was a place of horrors. Monsters dwelled within, they said. No one went near the place. Yarlae had been glad to leave the bleak location, though the road ahead was no less inhospitable. Rising above the dark forests of Arbora, their winding path took them into the hills. Through treacherous crags and climbs they had journeyed and now the more dangerous terrain lay behind them. There was now but a short ascent before them to the manse above. They would be there soon. 

“Take point” Wulf said to Yarlae, with the natural authority that had made him de facto leader of the company and once again belied his probable military background. Much about him fit that assumption Yarlae realised, from his neat grey beard to the immaculate condition of his armour and weapon. She moved swiftly to the head of the group, shooting Markas a dirty look as she passed. She received a nasty sneer in return though she didn’t see it. Unslinging her bow, she adopted a low crouch and drew an arrow. 

“Use those half elven eyes of yours” Wulf instructed. “Scout ahead, thirty feet, we’ll follow. Come back once you have checked the path ahead and the gate.” He held up a hand, signalling those behind him. The brigand and mage drew to a halt. Vasilya looked around nervously whilst Markas took the opportunity to scrape filth from his boots with his blade, proceeding to wipe the blade clean on his trousers. 

Yarlae moved off quickly, even crouched; she moved almost as fast as her normal gait; there was a smoothness and elegance to her motion, a boon of her mongrel heritage, as were her preternatural senses. She was the company’s scout, seeing dangers and foes long before her cohorts. She had never known her father. He had been absent at her birth and ever since. Her mother had refused to speak of him, and the look on her face, the rare occasion that Yarlae might broach the subject combined with the scars that marked her, suggested that her conception had been far from a loving affair. Yarlae soon learned to stop asking. 

Her mother was taken from her on her 13th Birthday. A simple black fletched arrow through her throat, a simple and swift death that went unnoticed and unremarked. Yarlae had been on her own ever since and had ever since been doing whatever she needed to survive, no matter how unpleasant. 

She caught herself again. She had a tendency to drift, often at inopportune times.  Sometimes she even fancied she could see things that hadn’t happened yet, Though she couldn’t do it on command. It came unbidden, uncalled, premonitions through daydreams. They didn’t always come true, but often she would find her mind slipping, imagining future events that would then sometimes come to pass. Always minor, and often dismissable as coincidence. Was it just a personality trait? Or another mark of her mixed blood? Either way, it irritated her, almost as much as her ears, too misshapen to be human yet lacking the natural elegance and point of the fey folk.

Still, those ears had their advantages and she strained them now to hear any activity ahead as she neared the outer walls of the Manse. Nothing. Her acute vision also betrayed no presence. Stayed for a moment, scanning the building, picking out points of interest and checking for any sounds or movement, but there was only silence. Happy enough that she was alone she carried out a quick but thorough close inspection of the gate and wall, noting a possible point of ingress. She looked back behind her, true to his word Wulf and the remainder of the company were about thirty feet behind. They would be hidden to most but Yarlae picked them out with little difficulty. She made her way back down the slope, rejoining them;

“Nothing, '' she confirmed. “It’s quiet as the grave up there. The main gate is barred but there is a small door higher up above the wall that we should be able to reach with that.” she pointed at the coiled rope at Markas’s waist. The main tower seems to be at the back of the complex, I couldn't see if it was easily reachable from outside. I imagine we’ll be able to determine that from the top of the wall.”

Wulf nodded. “Let's get to it then”.