Part 2. The Story of the Adventures of Roi; a pleasant yet introverted, middle-aged Dwarf who is not intrepid but who has to overcome his fears to begin an unwanted life as an Adventurer.

Part 2. The Story of the Adventures of Roi; a pleasant yet introverted, middle-aged Dwarf who is not intrepid but who has to overcome his fears to begin an unwanted life as an Adventurer.

Having almost turned back, his sudden fearlessness evaporating as he crossed the town's edge bridge, Roi steeled himself once more to go out and adventure. He thought of the death of his family and those faceless green beasts that had murdered them in their sleep. Again, it wasn't a hatred towards them, more of a mild curiosity. Could they be reasoned with? What were their motives? Having thought about the retaliatory raids conducted by the Town Guard, Roi wondered whether there really was much of a difference between his ilk and theirs anyway. It was with these thoughts, absorbing Roi's attentions as he walked past the stone bridge and into the darkening valley, that he was suddenly aware of a high-pitched chittering noise.

At first he dismissed it as some wild animal snuffling around in the bushes, but soon the same sound was in stereo. He paused and felt the weight of his mace in his right hand and brought his shield to bear forward in his left. The chittering escalated to a kind of squealing, not a frightening noise in itself but more so when replicated. It felt like the creatures making the noise were almost building themselves into a frenzy, trying to reach a crescendo. All of a sudden the noise stopped. The silence oppressive. Roi was motionless. Then from amongst the gorse Roi spotted the glinting red eyes, pointy ears of a little greenskinned creature. It emerged, tentatively, with a rusty spear lowered in his direction and started to make some guttural noises interspersed with a weak, hacking cough. Roi turned fractionally towards it and both stood facing each other, now in silence. From his left side he heard twigs cracking and out emerged another one of these goblins, a rusted club held in two hands. Again the pause from the creature, it didn't want to come too close. Roi felt slightly emboldened, not brave, his knees were shaking and he was tempted to start to walk backwards towards the safety of the other side of the bridge. But he was rooted to the spot. Perhaps this was mistaken for steadfast bravery by the little green, pointy eared creatures. Just as Roi was starting to think about approaching the goblin with the club (he was slightly nearer and seemed more timid) the whistling sound of an arrow flew behind him, not particularly close. Keeping an eye on the two goblins already in front of him, Roi slowly turned his head to his right to see another scrawny goblin fiddling with his short bow, reloading again but making a hash of it, all fingers and thumbs. Roi felt a complete abstraction of the scene and was amazed the he had not run, screamed or pissed himself. Yet. The goblin with the spear took two steps towards Roi, who lowered his weapon, as if to invite him on further. He could hear the deep, jagged breaths of the goblin and the slimy mucus travelling up between it's throat and mouth. He was desperate for the goblin to spit it out. His senses seemed alive, he felt alert and for the first time, perhaps ever, Roi smiled a smile that emanated from deep inside his being.

At that very moment, the loudest "bang" Roi had ever heard, broke the tableau and shattered his moment of clarity. A smouldering mess remained from where the spear armed goblin had once stood and Roi was quick to notice that scuttering feet and wailing screams broke from where the two other greenskins had once stood. A familiar, affable chortle sounded from behind him and Roi needed not to turn to face the laugh, knowing full well that his friend Kharmur was there, blunderbuss in his hands. When Roi did turn he watched Kharmur's smile dissipate. Perhaps his friend was expecting a warmer welcome from Roi, or perhaps Kharmur noticed a slight change in Roi's demeanour; he was after all slightly upset that the moment had been taken from him. Roi quickly gathered himself and approached his old friend with an embrace and a thanks, but that moment between them had been real and would not be discussed. They spoke now as normally as they could, Roi thanking his friend and Kharmur murmuring there being no need.

It was again unspoken that Roi now had a companion; he knew that no matter what he said, Kharmur was here for the journey.

Part 1. The Story of the Adventures of Roi; a pleasant yet introverted, middle-aged Dwarf who is not intrepid but who has to overcome his fears to begin an unwanted life as an Adventurer.

Part 1. The Story of the Adventures of Roi; a pleasant yet introverted, middle-aged Dwarf who is not intrepid but who has to overcome his fears to begin an unwanted life as an Adventurer.

As his world crumbled around him, Roi experienced familiar emotions that previously he had only a suppressed acquaintance with; fear, loneliness and impotence.

His family murdered in their sleep by a raiding party of Orcs, Roi survived only because he had been at his local tavern, the Stumbling Inn, having his usual one tankard of ale whilst dinner was being prepared. Sitting there nursing his drink, he had been one of the last to respond to the growing commotion outside, relishing his ale after a familiarly easy day in the gem store he worked at. He became intrigued and looked outside and witnessed an unfamiliar energy and noise outside; from the shouting of multiple voices he could pick out the different tones denoting panic and or indicating orders being given. Amongst this the quick shuffle of feet as the local town guard sauntered down the alley, southbound towards his plot of land. He was torn between finishing the last quarter of his ale in the deserted tavern, or go and investigate. He was normally neither curious or inquisitive, those traits only caused trouble and he would usually let others deal with problems. But the crowd were moving away, southbound and that was where he lived.

His house was aflame and initially he thought that Thelma had had an accident whilst cooking and was wondering whether he should berate her about this, or whether she would need comforting. Confrontation was not a strength of his, so he decided to approach his house, through the crowds and find and comfort his wife and two children, Thogran and Thalgrim, who would undoubtedly be inconsolable and in tears. Emotions he didn't want to deal with. But as he approached and the crowds saw him he was stopped by their faces. Anger and pity were etched in their expressions, why did he suddenly feel guilty? He adjusted his hearing as brethren were addressing him; "I'm so sorry". "Fucking cowardly, shitty greenskins". Alternating tones between pity and anger and it then hit him smack in the stomach; his family were no more, the fire was the remains of his life, taken in his absence.

After weeks of moping (Roi figured he was allowed to be self-indulgent over this) his friends visited him less and less and he was left alone with his thoughts. They were divided between memories of the past and concerns for the future but neither were particularly practical. Apparently the Guard had smashed a few greenskin settlements in the nearby mountains in retaliation and as a warning to not approach again, but there was little else anyone could do for Roi now. He was living in the annex to his burnt out home and some local craftsman had begun making some repairs, initially with enthusiasm and vigour but now with a more detached air and and less dedicated commitment. Time passed slowly. Roi understood why. He felt like he should have some sort of grudge to bear to his family's murderers, but they were just faceless, angry and vicious monsters to him. Certainly that's how he pictured them in his terrifying dreams.

The fear, loneliness and impotence which had always been there in his life, just stifled, were now oppressive, overwhelming feelings; baggage that burdened him with every thought and movement, every plan or desire. He was sitting in a donated chair (how he missed his old one), famished but with no motivation to feed himself from anything in his larder. How did all that food get there? When was the last time he gathered his own food? When did he last show any kind of initiative or intent? Why was he festering here, the town-folk completely accepting of his detachment and malaise? Was this it for him now?

He shot up, put on his leather boots, rummaged for his old leather satchel and filled it with provisions from his larder. He went out to the old barn where an old wooden shield hung on the outside doors and snuck around to Kharmur's neighbouring house. Kharmur was asleep snoring in his rocking chair on the porch, so Roi tiptoed past and into his house. There above his fireplace was the shiny mace that was his pride and joy, from when Kharmur had been captain of the Guard. A brief moment of indecision from Roi, after all it was stealing, but somehow he thought that Kharmur would understand. He lifted the mace off it's fixings and marvelled at it's weight, lighter than expected but satisfyingly heavy. And off Roi walked, past Kharmur, whose eyes were now slightly open and whose mouth was slightly wider with a grin and towards the bridge that marked the edge of the town.

Roi, setting off on his adventure.

Roi, having second thoughts...

After a little chat with himself, he sets off once again, determined to be intrepid.

And some closer-up photos showing Roi posing in the photography studio:

Layers of character

When I'm sitting at my allocated hobby space, about to start painting an individual character miniature (as opposed to batch painting) I realise that in my head, as I look at the piece of sculpted lead, I contemplate bringing it to life with some sort of colour scheme. I'm sure I'm not alone in having this internal monologue about how I am going to make this mass consumed model, unique and interesting to paint; in other words flesh him or her out by creating a backstory and therefore an individual character. This all happens before and sometimes whilst painting. One of the joys of older Citadel miniatures from the 80s is that they are so very characterful and individual and when I look at the details or the expressions, or clothing or weapons I can easily imagine a backstory to the character and I like to think the original sculptor would have done the same as he was mixing the green-stuff. The dwarf adventurer range is a prime example. These aren't well equipped, beefy mono-pose  soldiers but rather that wonderful pathetic aesthetic from this era; the flawed, ill-equipped, even scared or wary looking models from a bygone era. I challenge you to not find these quirky, bearded stunties interesting and characterful!

So once I've chosen which of these models to buy (I now only buy models that have character and that I want to paint, otherwise it has to be converted) I start the painting process and it hit home as I was about to paint this dwarf adventurer, that I was having an unusually long internal chat with myself (perhaps even with the model) to find out who he is and how that will determine my painting approach. Here he is with some base coats on, the decisions behind each is outlined below:

Now this fella is to be the hero of my tale as I narrate and build a dwarf warband around him. I needed to make decisions about how to paint him and this depended on such questions as to whether, for example, he is  young or old, wealthy or poor. In more depth, his age determines the colour of his beard, his wealth determines the condition of his weapons, armour and attire, his wealth is determined by his success as an adventurer etc, etc.

So I decided he was to be old, poor and not very well equipped (more on the backstory when he's finished). I then gathered a few images to help me paint in these realistically and tried to colour match them with the paints I would use to recreate them:

 Balor brown and Dawnstone

Mournfang brown and baneblade brown (lighter areas with Balor brown or dry pigment)

Doombull brown and black. Scratches with Balor brown.

Baneblade Brown and Dawnstone 

So with the model now nearly finished, the decisions I made in my colour palette and the choices I made in his appearance have helped me make my own unique miniature, especially when I write about his backstory in my next post. I see these two elements of the hobby as intrinsically linked and (in my book) there should be no random approach to painting or collecting miniatures! Choose a characterful model (or convert one) and create your own character out of that characterful model!