Abandoned In Place

In lieu of hobby progress (Damned leg is still on the fritz, and an altered diagnosis is sending me to physical therapy), I thought I'd a share a bit of terrain, and world-building inspiration.

From his upcoming book, Abandoned in Place, Roland Miller is photographing abandoned space and military facilities around the U.S.

Caught in various stages of decay and industrial-death, Miller has captured some fantastic images that are easy reference for any table-building project for the hobbyist of the 41st Millennium.

Thank you obsolescence -  you've made my toys better.

WIP - Servo Magos 2

Done with the building phase, now it's on to basing and paint.

I have to say, this model came together quickly and easily, where all of the design decisions just seemed to flow. Very little second guessing on parts, and everything just seemed to fit. Aside from the Cairn Wraith's robes, and a couple of bits from the Skitarii box (the Omnispex face and some hoses from a backpack), most of this was cannibalized from the Tech Priest Dominus model - an expensive figure to chop up, but considering the utility I got out of it, the sacrifice was well worth it.

WIP - Servo Magos

Just a quick WIP of one of my latest projects.

Started life as part of the Ready Your Retinue challenge at the Ammobunker, but I'm developing his background to send over to the guys at Iron Sleet for possible inclusion into their massive Pilgrym project.

I'm envisioning a small retinue of ramshackle servo skulls, serving the Magos, who at this point has gone a bit mad in his research.

More to come...

Almost Home

The move from Los Angeles to Indianapolis is almost complete.

Since April, I’ve kept my head down deep in the planning, logistics, budgeting, packing, shipping, and moving my home and family from the West Coast to my childhood home in the Midwest, and although I’ve technically been here a month already, I’m about another month from the journey coming to a proper end when we move into our new home. Obviously, during that time there was little to no room for hobby, and I won’t be able to do anything on that front again until it all gets unpacked from deep storage.

It’s a surreal feeling being back here. Moving from the drought-stricken concrete and steel of the LA area, to the rain-flooded, tree-lined streets of Indy has been a real culture shock. Even though I grew up here, I had a real claustrophobic panic attack on my first day back when the familiar tree-canopied street I was driving on became a vision of a verdant throat of old-growth greenery swallowing me up into the belly of the city that I had once gotten away from. It was a genuinely terrifying experience that marked the point when I realized that I was here, once again, for good.

I think one of the strangest things about the move has been the objectivity that comes with relocating to a new place, or, of returning to a familiar place after a long absence. Fourteen years in California gave me a certain distance from the psyche of the city, and the ability to look at it with that kind of fresh-eyed separation has been interesting. Unexpectedly, there are many elements of my writing, and my current style and content that I’ve found the roots of reflected in the area, much more than I had realized had been an influence on me, and had never had the ability to recognize before now—not the least of which is the house I grew up in.

Originally a 1920’s orchard farmhouse before the city absorbed the area, the building has become a ramshackle Frankenstein’s monster of a home, having been expanded and built out numerous times by different owners over the years, but still leaving behind hidden architectural anomalies giving the house dark and strange corners that was the stuff of my childhood nightmares.

The original bones of the house groan against the newer structures during storms as if threatening to tear itself apart, and the plaster walls are cracked and buckled in places.

The basement walls constantly weep, and there’s a set of old stairs there that lead up to and stop dead at the first floor boards where an old cellar door was built over. This frightened me terribly for some reason as a child, but what was more unnerving looking back now as an adult, was a fixation I had (but was too scared to do) with wanting to draw a door on the wood of that sub-flooring at the stairs top.

The real door at the top, is in your mind

The attic leaks when it rains, and there is a strange room built into the supports of the roof whose existence we have never really been able to find a satisfactory answer for. This part of the house is especially horrifying because (and I kid you not) it’s essentially a 3’x3’x4’ standalone room of plain boards, with a small shelf and wooden bench, and a door that locks from the outside.

I'll be good, I'll be good!

My father says that it was probably a room for canned storage, but why would you ever put preserved food into an uninsulated attic space that can get up to 120 degrees in the summer, when there’s a better suited cellar for just such a thing? Chances are he’s right, but still…as a child your mind races to what naughty boys and girls were locked in that dark attic room when a lesson was needed to be taught. And worse yet, how many of them never made it out?

With a coyote den in the woods behind the house, bats in the loft of the old barn, and the entire property being uniquely isolated from the rest of the surrounding city by a high, thick treeline, the house is incredibly creepy at times, and embodies the spirit (though certainly not the architecture) of Gothic romanticism as-seen through a Midwest sensibility. Although it scared me to death when I was younger, I love this house, and it’s no wonder to me now that my tastes for art and literature have steered towards the horror, Gothic, grotesque, and weird fiction genres because of that early upbringing of forever dreading the nighttime in that house.

As if that wasn’t enough, I uncovered another precursor to my darker leanings in the form of one of my favorite childhood books waiting for me in my old bedroom.

Originally billed as “Gothic Children’s Fiction”, The Eyes of the Killer Robot, was one of my favorite books as a boy, and I’m sure the thing laid the groundwork for a lot of my current writings. Written by John Bellairs, TEOTKR was one book in a series, following the strange adventures of his Johnny Dixon character. Think 1950’s boy’s adventure stories, mixed with black magic, pseudo-science, and surprisingly graphic horror imagery for a children’s book—a wailing ghost with emptied bloody eye sockets, and a recipe for turning said missing eyes into talismans for the use of arcane magic. Also, kidnapping with a genuine threat of very cold-blooded murder regardless of ransom payoff.

A very strange and dark book, made even stranger because of the juxtaposition of child-friendly reading level and not-child-friendly content. It would probably fall under the younger spectrum of Young Adult fiction these days, probably somewhere at or just below a Harry Potter reading equivalent. An easy read for an adult, but a gloriously weird book that has lead me to start reading the others in the series.

Hopefully soon back on track with hobby stuff.

Torpor - The Hammer Hall

The transition between realities has been compared to the space between the waking world and sleep. Lost and confused, the Pilgrim is simply carried along by the will of the Saint, and their own will to find her. In this twilight state, a Pilgrim seeking the Saint’s Path will find one more hurdle to overcome before they are granted entry into the city of Torpor.

On walking through the Parallax Door, the Pilgrim will find themselves in what has been named by those who’ve survived, as the Hammer Hall. If the Parallax Door judges a person’s inner purpose, this anteroom to the Saint’s path will act as their judge, jury, and executioner to determine whether the pilgrim has the strength and ability to even survive the long and dangerous journey to its end.

In their stupor, the Pilgrim will have no choice but be led by waiting attendants, gently and with reverence, to the middle of the long stone hall where they will stand over a large sluicing grate set into the floor beneath them. To their left, a rough chute has been dug into the joining of wall and floor, sloping sharply down and away from the hall into blackness. To their right, on a raised platform stands a third attendant who, like his fellows, wears a long leather apron and faceless burlap hood. Despite its ominous appearance, the mask still manages to convey some sense of mournful apology to the Pilgrim, as if they too are helpless victims to the intent of the hall.

These are the Knackermen. Appointed by the Saint herself, the Knackermen deliver the final test to the hopeful.

Brandishing a large stone hammer hewn from the fossilized excrement of the Living Altar which sits at the center of Torpor, the Knackerman commanding the platform will take a single swing at the Pilgrim. The hammer’s stone head resonates in synch with the soul of the Saint, and should the Pilgrim be truly worthy to walk her path, the hammer will stop upon the moment of impact, merely kissing the Pilgrim’s forehead, gifting them with the Saint’s blessing.

Those found lacking will have their skull swept from the floor, and deposited along with their body down the stone chute at their side, to be rendered down into their constituent parts - parts that no one in the city is sure exactly how they are used, but to err on the side of caution, many of the survivors have since become vegetarians.

Torpor - The Parallax Door

Inspired by elements of grimdark, the kernel of an unused story idea, and the recent fever-dreams of a low-grade flu, Torpor is a writing exercise in world building where the narrative will be told through a series of vignettes that focus on the world around the story, rather than directly on the plot itself.

For lack of a better term, I’m calling the process Artifacting. Like digging up a long forgotten relic from out of the earth, the reader will uncover the narrative bit by bit from the surrounding fiction that the story is buried in - an Artifact waiting to be discovered.

Part historical reference, part adventurer’s journal, part religious text, I want Torpor to feel like someplace lived-in, where to the newcomer, every answer unlocks new questions about the people and places that they discover.

As I’m usually prone to overwriting, and rewriting ad nauseam until I feel like I’ve gotten a piece right (and how many stories have I thrown away because it’s never felt good enough?), for this exercise series I’m writing the vignettes as quickly and off-the-cuff as I can stomach with almost no editing. As much an exercise in automatic writing as anything to maybe free up some of the old and rusty head-gubbins. If this turns into anything I’m mildly pleased with, I might go back and collect and polish them into something larger. For now, just an experiment.

We’ll see how it works. Frankly, it might not, but it should be interesting.

Here, I present the first part of this series I am calling, Torpor.

TRUE-TrueScale Bolt Pistol Prop

Just because it's fun, here's a step-by-step build log for a scratch-built Bolt Pistol, from one of my favorite prop makers, Volpin Props.

The weight is off, but as for the size, I believe for a Bolt Pistol this is about as properly real-life true scale as you can get.