Kilted Marines

[TheDeinonychus]

I was just going to have it the black stag on the golden shoulder pad. Yes, the white lines dont look too straight, but hopefuly with the black wash they wont stand out as much. A bit of info on the claymore, the blade alone is almost as tall as the marine, and was made by cutting a strip of thick plasticard and shaveing the sides down with a hobby knife to get the edge. Crossguard was made with plastic rod and greenstuff, and the handle was made from greenstuff, with the pommel a slice of thicker plastic rod and the power cable made from braided speaker wire. If you intend to pose one of your marines like mine I'd advize useing some blue tac (bee wax or CleanClay works good as well) to stick the arms onto your mini so you can figure out where you need to cut the blade and it helps for when you're glueing it all together. I dont have any extra skulls or else he'd have one hanging off of his backpack or belt.

[Beornling 3.1415]

Don't forget the toothpicks and greenstuff for the standard bearer's "pipes"

[Barret]

Avast.

 

The McGregors are going to Conflict Vancouver, with my Iron Hands, to smite some bad guys. There's a tenative army list here in the Army List forum.

 

Oh, and how'd you do the beard on the one guy, there? I was trying to do it for a good half hour, but just ended up frustrated. He always looked like he had a giant slug on his face, and as for the cigar, fugghedaboutit.

[TheDeinonychus]

Heh, alright, depending on the kind of beard you want, here's how to do it. Firslty, what I did was take a ball of gs, and roll the ends of it so that it's kinda football shaped. Next press it against the chin of your mini and smooth it against it. You want to pull the ends up along the jawline, and smooth the rest of it down over the chest. Once you have the shape done, you take a putty knife or hobby knife and start scratching lines into it, try and get them to be all going down in more or less the same direction. As for the mustach, roll out a thin length of GS and press it up under the nose, bend the ends around the sides of the mouth to connect with the beard. Then just use the hobby knife to add small lines to it like you did with the beard.

 

Oh, and for the cigar, just roll out a little bit of greenstuff with a tapered end. Let it cure, then cut off one end, about as long as you want the cigar to be and glue the tapered end to the corner of his mouth. Paint it brown with alittle bit of red and grey at the other end for ash and flame.

[lord calgar]

Please for the love of chaos never model kilt wearing marines to taunt!!! :blush: :P :ph34r:

[TheDeinonychus]

*gets his evil plotting look on*

[lord calgar]

NO NO no no no no no no no no no NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Barret]

Here he is, the first of my Sons of Dagda. In honour of his sacrifice to being an unpracticed paintjob, I'll shall name him...Brother Seamus. Yeah, that works.

 

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y36/ElcidBarret/Sons%20of%20Dagda/TestDude.jpg

[TheDeinonychus]

Just need the backpack and base on mine... I hate painting backpacks..

[ironloki]

Fluff sounds good guys. Sheesh you yanks (im guessing your both from across the river - If not sorry :P ) are more into and know more about scottish stuff than I do. I wish I was Greek myself however sometimes the scots can be inspirational.

 

Also what was the shield generally called? All I remember was the claymore and the small dirk but not done scottish history since primary except going to a few scottish history classes in uni when i've nothing to do :blush:

 

Ps yous should make some kind of group together for fellow minded people wanting to do a scottish chapter - like the baadab project :ph34r:

 

Also one further question what inspired you's to do a DIY chapter like this?

[TheDeinonychus]

Well, firstly, the scottish shield is called the targ. Bascily it's a small round wooden shield covered in leather that's held in place by many metal studs, and usualy has a metal plate in the center to which a long spike it mounted. It's as much a weapon as it is protection.

 

As to what motivated me to do this, well, I have had the idea in my head for a while now, but I think what realy got me motivated to do it was going to the local Highland Games this year. Im scottish on my dad's side and I've always loved scottish lore and such.

 

Hmm.. A group could be interesting.. Might also be a good way to get clans for the other companies. What do you think, Barret?

[Barret]

Sure, sounds like an excellent idea to me! But no Campbells! Filthy Campbells! Everyone else is fine.

 

...

 

Sorry.

 

 

I'm of Scots descent on both parent's side, if somewhat distantly on my father's. Mother's side is McGregor (we had a Clan-Chief a couple generations back) and Cowen/Colquhoun on my father's. I'm a bit of an armchair historian and a nut for Scots history. I'm not a Yank, but I am another damned dirty colonial, namely Canadian. :P

 

I'd been kicking an idea like this around for a while, but this is the first organized stab at it. I had kilted Orks (don't ask) and plans for a Napoleonic-era-style British IG regiment with a Highlander component, but that kinda fell through when I contemplated painting 100+ little guys who all look exactly the same. :blush: It took TheDeinonychus's posting it up here for me to take it seriously...

[ironloki]

Ahh cool. Yeah sometimes you need something or someone to spark you into action.

 

Hmm it must be a trend as my American cousins are into Scottish history a lot and know more about my family tree and heritage than me :P .

 

Nice to see both your projects progressing so rapidy :blush:

[Barret]

It's actually a recorded and fairly common phenomenon here in North America, especially with people tracing their lineage back to the British Isles, Italy, Germany and most of the rest of western Europe, really.

 

I think it's because here in NA, we've got so little history to be proud of, and we're all bleedin' immigrants with no local heritage to look back on, so we look back a few generations to where there's centuries of history. I mean, I've been in pubs in England that have been around longer my entire freakin' country has been. Not only that, but if you're interested in military history, like myself and lots of others, there's like, three wars involving Europeans in North America. In Europe and Asia? Lots more. :P

 

 

+edit+

 

Hey, TheDeinonychus, maybe we should advertise in AA, see if we can't snag a few more Scots-enthusiast (or even the real thing :ph34r: ) into joining the Chapter?

 

++edit++

 

Hey, another thought. For the house rules for lochaber axes, what about just making them have the same effect as Khornate Chainaxes or Ork Choppas? They seem like Heavy Close Combat Weapons to me. That or functioning like Great Weapons in the Chaos Codex...

 

+++edit+++

 

I'm about halfway through kilting the first squad, or at least all the specialists and a few standards. Anyways, after much swearing and fiddling, I decided that my Clan-Chief has had a shave recently, and now has that most cool of facial hair, the fu-manchu. ;) Also, one of my Vet.Sarges has dreads. Sorta. They worked better on that White Scars bike Chaplain I did for a friend. :blush:

[TheDeinonychus]

I aint a Yank either. Im a Hillbilly :blush:

[Beornling 3.1415]

yarr!

 

me too, actually pirate/bandit turned depression era migrant hillbilly Californian stock here. Also why I am generally caucasion, but a "bit of everything"

[Barret]

Yo.

 

Posted pics of a bunch of WIP kilted lads. The topic is meant to be in the PCA, but I accidentally posted it, y'know, here in the Liber. *sigh*

 

But, yeah, so you know those pics are in existantance. I'll add a link here once the topic gets moved.

[Beornling 3.1415]

now if them Roma chapters start showing off their segmenta skirts, I'll be really impressed.

[jequirity]

Concerning the pics posted earlier, how about adding knives to the legs to represent skian dhus?

[Barret]

I was thinking about that earlier, just for the sake of giving the lads another weapon with which to stab people. ;) I've got lots of combat knives from the SW, Tac and CSM sprues...

[TheDeinonychus]

Finished my Veteran Sergeant finaly. Pic to be found here or in my gallery.

[Barret]

Have some fluff, just 'cause I'm bored. :tu:

 

 

Brother-Sergeant Adronicus of the Ultramarines Fifth Company was not having a good day. As the Rhino rattled over yet another rut in the heavily-shelled remains of the road, nearly bouncing his head off the ceiling, he reflected sourly that after his centuries of service, he really didn't deserve his current assignment. He immedeatly assigned himself a day's fasting and prayer in the 5th Company's make-shift Chapel behind the battle lines, but continued to grouse internally.

 

The Fifth Company had been fighting on this useless, Emperor-cursed planet for six Terran weeks now, trying to purge it of a Chaos infestation in the wake of the 13th Black Crusade. A group of Black Legionnaires had landed on the planet, which was just beyond the slowly-dissolving battlezone that was the Cadian sector, with a multitude of mutants, traitors and assorted scum and were busily summoning daemons and putting the populus to the sword. While the world was of little tactical importance, Marneus Calgar had sent the Fifth Company to contain and eradicate the infestation lest the world fall and become a staging point for furth Chaos incursions towards more vital systems like Armaggedon or even Holy Terra. To the Fifth Company's suprise and initial gratitude, they discovered another Company of Marines had already landed on the planet and begun fighting the tides of Chaos. Their gratitude did not last long.

 

Andronicus bit back a curse as the Rhino hit a particularly bad patch in the road, and his bolter was dislodged from its mounting and struck him on the back of the head as it fell. Muttering imprecations against his current assignment, the hot-shot Rhino driver and the universe in general, he replaced the bolter in its mounting and glanced around at his slightly understrength squad. Brother Brutus was asleep, somehow, cradling his missile launcher in his arms like a child's favoured toy. Brother Titus was muttering something to himself, likely a ritual prayer or the like. The others were largely in the same state, meditating or cleaning out their weapons or, in the luckless Brother Gaius's case, attempting to make field repairs to his battered armour. Reassured about his squad, Andronicus returned to his grousing.

 

The Ultramarines' unexpected and now largely unwanted allies were about as far from the holy teachings of the Codex as you could get, and seemingly cheerful about it. Andronicus, like many of the Fifth Company, had at first taken them to be Sons of Russ, but that impression had faded quickly. Adronicus and his squad had been ordered to seek out their allies' basecamp and inform them of some disturbing new intelligence the Scouts assigned to 5th had reported about enemy movements. Andronicus was not looking forward to dealing with his 'brother' Marines, and having to do so was the source of his current foul mood.

 

The Rhino abruptly ground to a halt, inertia jostling Andronicus and his squad around, causing muttered complaints and imprecations. Brutus merely murmured something in his sleep and shifted slightly. Andronicus reflected for a moment on the man's amazing ability to sleep anywhere, through anything, then popped open the Rhino's top hatch and climbed up, gratefully breathing deep of the relatively fresh air, which smelled of smoke and fresh blood, and that strange, unique scent of burning flesh.

 

"Brother-Sergeant," the Rhino driver said, his head and shoulders in their conspicuous red armour appearing through the gunner's hatch, "I think you should see this." He handed Andronicus a set of macrobinoculars and pointed off to the north, where Andronicus could see several fires blazing merrily in the gathering dusk. He placed the 'binocs over his eyes and focused in on the fires. A large number of indistinct figures were gathered around the fires, accompanied by several vehicles and numerous piles of what appeared to be battlefield debris. At first, Andronicus took them to be the enemy, until he spotted the banner waving proudly from atop one of the debris piles. He sighed, then handed the 'binocs back to the driver.

 

"That's who we're looking for, Brother. Looks like less than half a kilometer, we'll walk from here," he added hastily as the driver prepared to get back behind the wheel, "So keep the engine running, we won't be long." He dropped back down into the Rhino and barked, "We're moving out, so wake up Brutus and form up outside."

 

There was a moment of activity, armour clanking together in the tight confines of the Rhino, before the squad was assembled and ready to move, seven of the Emperor's and Ultramar's finest, ready to smite the enemies of the Imperium. Sadly, Andronicus thought, that potential was largely wasted tonight.

 

They moved out at a brisk jog, covering the ground in battle-formation and long, easy strides. Andronicus took point, his chainsword in hand, if not activated. They covered the distance towards the camp in minutes, the smog-darkened sky had grown only slightly dimmer before Andronicus raised a hand and the squad proceeded at a cautious walk, bolters at the ready.

 

"Stand and be recognized!" called a voice from the gloom, startling Andronicus. The voice was the deep and resontant voice of a Space Marine, though the Imperial Gothic was heavily accented with the thick brogue characteristic of this Chapter, the Sons of Dagda Andronicus finally recalled. From out of the gloom to the squad's immedeate left loomed a giant figure, the biggest Space Marine Andronicus had ever seen. The man easily surpassed eight feet, and in one hand he carried an absolutely massive axe, and, as he came closer into the light, Andronicus saw he wore a metal-studded buckler on one arm, to which was crudely strapped the aged, yellow jawbone of what looked to be a fearsome predator. "I repeat," the strange Marine boomed, "stand and be recognized!" Andronicus was now aware of several more figures in the gloom, their weapons at the ready and covering the Ultramarines.

 

"Brother-Sergeant Andronicus," he growled, refusing to be intimidated by this giant, "of the Ultramarines Fifth Company. I've been sent to consult with your commander by my Captain."

 

The giant Marine seemed to consider this for a moment, then shrugged and gestured for his fellows to stand down, and they melted away into darkness. "Alright, follow me. I'll take you to the Clan-Chief himself." With that, he turned and strode away towards the blazing bonfires.

 

Andronicus and his squad had to hurry to keep up with the giant's strides, and they quickly entered into the make-shift camp. With the bonfires' illuminating things, Andronicus was able to get a better look at his surroundings. In the centre of the camp, their guns at ease, three pitted and muddied Razorbacks flanked a beaten Rhino that looked like it had been converted for use as a communications and supply carrier. Around them burned the great bonfires, and a large number of Marines, easily the number of Ultramarines on the planet, were evident. There was a horrible noise coming from somewhere, a wailing howl that set Andronicus' teeth on edge, though given the reactions of the Marines nearby, it was evidently some kind of barbaric music. They were all wearing some kind of cloth knee-length wrap decorated with an odd two-colour grid pattern that had little meaning to Andronicus. He assumed it was these Marines' crude method of denoting Company allegience. Discipline was clearly lacking here, most of the Marines were lying or sitting about in dissarray, eating and drinking with great joy. Scuffles and minor unarmed fights broke out occassionally, though they seemed more a matter of amusement than anger. It was, Andronicus decided, one Holy Inquistorial investigation away from being declared sinful and hereticul.

 

The giant lead them around the edge of the encampment. He stopped abruptly and pointed them at a solitary Marine sitting on something indistinct and leaning up against one of the debris piles. A giant sword, taller than a Marine, was thrust point-down into the earth beside him. Without another word, the taciturn giant walked away, returning to the gloom outside the encampment.

 

With a sigh, Andronicus approached the lounging figure and stopped a few paces away. "I am Brother-Sergeant Andronicus, Ultramarines Fifth Company, ordered to make contact with the commander of this..." He struggled against saying something tactless, "...company."

 

The relaxing Marine ignored him for a moment, taking a deep drink from the mug he carried in one hand, draining it in a single gulp. He hurled it at a nearby group of Marines, clocking one over the head, which ellicited shouts and apparently good-natured curses. Still not acknowledging Andronicus, the Marine hauled himself to his feet with a sigh. In the flickering firelight, Andronicus saw the man was disgustingly unkempt, with wild hair standing out everywhere and a shaggy beard clotted with what Andronicus could only assume was food or, worse, battlefield gore. "Alright," the Marine said, finally looking at Andronicus, "Whaddya ye want wit' me?" His accent was, if anything, even thicker and harder to dicipher than the giant's.

 

A bit taken aback at this rude greeting, Andronicus said again, "I'm Brother-Sergeant Andronicus, Ultram--"

 

"Yeah, yeah, I heard ye the firs' time, laddie." He looked Andronicus hard in the eye, then sighed and leaned on his sword. "A'right, a'right. I be Captain Malcolm McGregor, Clan McGregor 'r Third Comp'ny o' t'e Sons o' Dagda. There, ye happy now? So, whadda ye want wit' me?"

 

Andronicus, his faint hopes that his horrible man was not, in fact, in commander of this ragged group of Marines dashed, said, "I was ordered by my commander to contact you to inform you of some new reports of enemy movements we've discovered. We tried," Andronicus added, trying to keep the reproach out of his voice, "To contact you via the comm, but had no success. Is your comm gear damaged?"

 

"Naw, we jes' turned the damn thing off since we're all here." He grinned madly at Andronicus' increasingly strenuous attempts to keep his temper under control. "So, what's this aboot enemy movements, eh?"

 

"Our Scout patrols spotted a large collumn of the enemy moving in this direction. We believe they are preparing for a large counter-offensive against our lines, and my commander want to insure you were informed, and to coordinate our battle-lines."

 

The beared Captain scratched his jaw. "Bunch o' bad guys, in this area, eh?" He grinned again at Andronicus' infuriated nod. "Tell me, boy-o..." He leaned down, scooped up what he had been sitting on and with an easy flick of his wrist, hurled it at Andronicus' feet. "...were they dressed like that?"

 

Andronicus looked to his feet and realized it was the savaged corpse of a man, wearing the defiled and corrupted uniform of one of the traitorous Imperial Guard regiments active on the planet. With growing horror, he realized that what he had thought to be debris piles were actually great stacks of the dead, and that the burning flesh he'd scented earlier were actually being produced by the blazing bonfires. He couldn't help but eye the great slabs of meat the Sons were enthusiastically consuming.

 

McGregor caught this and laughed loudly, slapping his thigh. "Whadda ye take us fer, Blood Angels? We're no eatin' 'em, laddie! Just a coupla beasties we spotted runnin' 'round the campsite. 'sides, them Chaos boys 'er just too stringy fer good steak." He laughed all the louder at Andronicus' horrified reaction. "So, listen, boy-o, ye just run on back to yer chief, an' tell 'im that if 'e's actually wants te get in on tha fightin' sometime soon, he'll meet us at 0300 'bout seventeen klicks nor-west ta join us in puttin' paid ta tha Black Legion bastards settin' up camp there, right? Good, off ye go!" With that, he made hideously patronizing shoo-ing guestures at Andronicus, and walked away, yanking his sword out of the ground and draping it casually over his shoulder. He sang, loudly and tunelessly, to the horrible screeching 'music' in some fluid and undoubtedly heathen language that Andronicus didn't recognize as he walked away, rousing cheers from his fellows.

 

Shaking his head in disgust, Andronicus lead his squad away with great haste, wanting nothing more than to get back to HQ and inform his commander of what he'd seen and been told here so he could spend some time in the Chapel to cleanse himself of the taint of these disgraces to Guilliman's memory.

 

 

 

Somewhere high above, the second sun, a tiny blue star, was making a feeble attempt to shine through the near-permanent haze that now blackened the planet's sky, and only enhanced the thick fog that had risen up during the night.

 

The fog was the least of the things bringing a smirk to Clan-Chief Malcolm 'Wolfman' McGregor's face this morning. He and the rest of his Clan were crouched in the muck and craters outside the enemy encampment, eagerly awaiting the signal to charge. The Devastator Squads and their Razorbacks had taken up positions on a nearby hill, and were only awaiting targeting data from the McGregor Scouts spotting for them. Malcolm's comlink clicked once, then again. All was in readiness. He looked over to his friend and Clan Champion. "Oi, David, what's the time?"

 

The grim giant stilled for a moment as he checked his helmet HUD. He pulled off his helmet and looked over to Wolfman as he clipped the helmet to his belt. "Just past 0100. The Ultras won't be here for another two hours, at least."

 

"Excellent, laddie, just bloody excellent. Means we've got two hours to deal with this lot and get comfortable ta give 'em a right proper welcome. Cannae have 'em think we actually had trouble wit' a buncha rejects like these lads. Come on, give the signal."

 

David reached inside his helmet and tapped his comlink twice, sending out the ready signal.

 

Silently and carefully, like so many ghosts in the fog, the Sons of Dagda rose from their concealment and began to creep up on the silent Chaos camp, readying axe and chainsword, flamer and bolt pistol. They paused just beyond the edge of the camp, a muffled thump of truncated whimper all the evidence of the death of the inattentive sentries. Then, with a series of whooshes and the roar of heavy bolters, all hell broke loose. Twelve great explosions ripped apart the peace of the early morning, sending shrapnel and debris scything through walls and flesh.

 

With a great roar, the Sons charged forth, screaming out their battlecry, Malcolm McGregor loudest of all. "WE BRING YOU DEATH!"

 

And so they did, many of the traitors and scum dying before aware of their attackers.

 

Malcolm was the first Marine to draw blood, his great sword cleaving two traitor Guardsmen in twain before they could fire a burst from their defiled lasguns. David and the rest were close behind, the impact of their charge on the hurridely assembled Chaos defensive line crushing bone and sending grown men flying. Wolfman blazed away with his bolt pistol, the mass-reactive rounds blowing men apart in a gory spectacle. Roaring with laughter, he hurled his spend pistol overhand at an approaching Black Legionnaire, causing the Traitor to duck and giving Malcolm time to leap over the pile of corpses at his feet and deal the Chaos Marine a two-handed blow with his great power claymore that split his foe from shoulder to groin. Placing one foot on the fallen Traitor's ruined chest, he began laying about him with his sword, sending limbs and torsos flying and filling the air with blood. He lurched forward suddenly, attacked from behind. He span about to see a Guardsmen with a broken bayonet staring up at him light a terrified prey animal realizing it has angered a predator. Malcolm gave the man a moment to savour the realization that he was about to die before crushing his skull with one fist, splattering his armour with blood and brain matter.

 

To his left, a great burst of promethium told him that Brother Bradhadair had brought his flamer into play, clearing out a great space before him and sowing terror and chaos into the Chaos lines. Burning men went screaming to their deaths, terrifying their comrades and leaving a gap in the lines that more Sons leaped into, hewing bodies with their chainswords. To Wolfman's right, he saw a trio of Black Legionnaires charge forward and strike down a Son, a powersword skewering him through the chest and a chainsword cleaving another's arm off at the elbow. Roaring with rage and hate, David charged forward, driving his shoulder hard into the fore Legionnaire, knocking the Traitor from his feet. He jumped forward, one great booted foot crushing the fallen Legionnaire's skull and a swing of his massive axe cleaving another into two pieces, legs and torso going their seperate ways. The great Marine weaved aside with suprising agility, a Chaos powersword carving a chunk off of his buckler. He punched out, striking the Traitor in the breastplate and driving him backwards, just in time for a blazing plasma blast to incinterate the Traitor. David turned to salute his thanks, but only saw the plasma pistol explode in a great blue blast, sending its erstwhile wielding spinning away, his arm and breastplate a smoking ruin.

 

Another series of explosions hammered the Chaos lines, and heavy bolter fire made ragged scraps of flesh from Chaos scum. Suddenly, a great screaming rent the air from behind the Chaos lines, and Malcolm saw a hideous tide of wretched mutants issue forth from a great pit in the ground, ghastly things with tentacles and great talons flailing widly. Suddenly, they all made great leaps through the air, landing on the suprised Sons. Malcolm caught one in the air, bisecting the foul thing as it came at him, and showering himself in sulfur-tasting black blood. He saw Brother Hamish dragged down in a tide of grasping tentacles and stabbing talons. "Flamers to the fore," Malcolm yelled above the din, "Cleanse the abominations! For Culchain and Dagda, CHAAARGE!"

 

With his words stiffening the Sons morale, Malcolm and David lead the counter-charge, all pretense at martial accumen replaced by frenzied hacking and slashing, the ground growing slick and muddy with blood and gore. Malcolm nearly tripped and fell as his foot tangled in someone's intestines and was nearly gutted by a vicious mutant as he attempted to free himself.

 

Suddenly, from his left, Malcolm heard a great chattering roar, and the frenzied mutants began to dissolve. A great, heartfelt roar came from the Sons on that end as the massive forms of the two McGregor Dreadnoughts charged out the fog, their assault cannons reducing mutants to bloody vapour, and their great heavy flamers reducing men to ash in an eyeblink. Their crackling hammers were already slick with mutant blood, their armour already awash with gore.

 

With the unstoppable power of two Dreadnoughts added to the Sons assault, the mutants and heretics were quickly obliterated, driven to flight and quickly run down and slaughtered on the spot. Any pleas for surrender were laughed at and met with an unpleasant death.

 

The enemy either slaughtered or put to flight, Wolfman drove his sword into the earth at the centre of the camp and let loose a great, joyful bellow of victory. The Sons answered with a great cry of their own, and broke into a rousing song of victory in the native tongue of Dagda.

 

Malcolm quickly gave orders to have the Chaos encampment razed to the ground, and great mounds made of the enemy dead. The geneseed and wargear was collected from the slain Sons, and they were given a field burial with the heavy flamers of the dreadnoughts.

 

"David, tell me," Malcolm said jauntily as he light himself a cigar, "Think we're done for the day?"

 

The giant Marine shook his head. "No, I think the men could fight some more today." He was making a futile attempt at wiping the swiftly drying gore from his axe with the remains of a traitor Guardsman's uniform.

 

"Right then, we'll jes leave this message fer tha Ultras, let 'em know they shoulda been a little quicker offa tha mark, and we'll go we what we ken do aboot that captured fort off to tha sou-west, eh?" He drew in a great, deep breath, savouring the smell of death and fire. "It's gonna be a good day, says I."

[TheDeinonychus]

Ooo! Fluffy goodness. Nice work! I'll have to include than when I get around to putting together a campaign book.

 

BTW, I've gone against my word and started work on 'Bloody' McKenzie already. Right now he's just a leg and a pelvis standing ontop a pile of rocks.

[TheDeinonychus]

Alright all, here's a WIP shot of George 'Bloody' McKenzie. No kilt yet, right now Im just working on the reconstruction part. Once I get that out of the way, it'll be kilt time, then painting. Gonna be adding a beared and some hair to him too.

 

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v356/TheDeinonychus/BloodyWIP1.jpg

[TheDeinonychus]

Reconstruction complete, sans greenstuff. That'll take a while since I've got to fill in all the joings, add a beard and some hair, add the kilt, and add a bearskin for his adamantium mantle. It's gonna be a long project..

 

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v356/TheDeinonychus/BloodyWIP2.jpg