The air carried the breath of decomposition, doubtlessly rising from the squalid pools of stinking bodily fluids coalescing around the roots of the sallow giants. The trees were the colour of bone, the forest like the sun bleached remains of some great beast. Sticky clouds of fumes moved through the undergrowth and coated the ground with a thick layer of grey condensation. Deep within the fog small rotten creatures scurried, and things that used to be birds hung awkwardly in the sky.
And within this forest, among the fumes and the bones and the trees there was a clearing; And in that clearing, a woman. A lone woman with a bandaged face, a delicate mechanical pincer grafted messily unto her left arm. She was an Ostium Guide, a Siren, Charon. One of the few fabled individuals that know the true whereabouts of The Chapel.
She was as experienced as the forest and nearly as old. Duty had faded to monotony. Many groups had come to her for guidance: desperate treasure hunters, mechanical seekers, devout pilgrims, but they all left the same way; Screaming alone in the putrid bowels of some forgotten hall in The Chapel. So she waited in the clearing for the next group of hopefuls, knowing the end to their journey before it had even started.
And yet again, they came. But this group were different. Mindless fools paying worship to an ancient bulbous-headed mutant. Dressed in thick heavy cloth stained with ichor, dirty faces leering dumbly from behind unkempt hair. Their crude garments punctuated by rattling icons and artifacts. One stood hunched, a vial of clean blood drip-fed directly to his ticking heart. In his one gloved hand was a staff to which was tied a solid open tome, too dirty to read. Another was barely even a man, little more than the upper half of some freakish cadaver grafted to an anti-grav engine and bedecked in the same hefty robes worn by the rest of the group. It’s purpose she couldn’t guess, nor did she want to try.
Among the rabble a figure loomed high above the rest, a hardened shell supported by groaning mechanical legs. It’s strained spongy head peered out over a dirty clerical collar as it desperately struggled to hold itself upright; A stiff flame-pike used as an elderly man would use a cane. As it gazed at her with it’s ink-blot eyes she heard a thousand whispered voices;
“Take us to the Chapel”.
Right, this is taking a little longer than I thought. I had no idea painting a full squad was so hard to do! I’m really trying to push myself with these to make them the best I can.
The work everybody has been putting out for this project has done a great job of keeping me motivated, so thanks for that!
Let me know what you think of these so far.