Lidless Eye Hobbies: Giants!
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By Lidless Eye
Round 3 of finished minis from Bones V.
These were the cheating ones, picked because they didn't need a lot of different colors.
"For the Wizard who prefers a classical flair."
"Relax, it's just a statue...hey did those gemstones blink?"
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"It's all fun and games until the animatronics stab you 32 times."
"Are you ready to rock?"
"For the traditional Golem afficianado, the Clay Golem."
"Gettin' twiggy with it"
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By Lidless Eye
Here's a collection of the second batch of finished minis I have from Bones V.
Party like a Barty.
Yoho, a Pirate's unlife for me:
Draugr...I mean, Rune Wights.
They're not sure why they've been typecast as Thieves:
"What do your Elven eyes see?"
Kobolds, the only thing as dangerous as a Giant Rat in a starter dungeon.
Under the Sea.
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By Rigel
Painted up a number of sailors and fishpeople, as many of you know--but I'm always looking to expand the diversity of my human crew and the grotesquerie of my Innsmouth cadre.
So here are Tyrell and Yarmouth, out on a crab-fishing trip. Both are from Crooked Dice.
More angles on our anglers here.
The folk from Innsmouth town know where the fishing is good!
There's some as say they can call the biggest catches to their boats!
Subduing the catch though--that's a different matter. Fortunately, Yarmouth is a burly customer.
Break out the butter sauce, lads! Tyrell definitely looks weirded out, and correctly so, but there's going to be time enough to worry about horrible cult secrets after the crab-steaming. And if weird eldritch stuff starts going down, anything that can crack that shell is a good weapon to have at hand.
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By Rigel
It would be nice to think about cyberpunk utopias, but somehow those just don't grip the popular imagination. Instead it's always overcast or raining, the sky is brocced, corporations own everything and everyone and surveillance is ubiquitous. There's money to be had, but barely enough to buy noodles unless you're connected...or willing to ignore corporate law.
Devo Ranks eats the *fancy* noodles every day. They have Skillz.
Click for more angles.
Hacking into a Public Service Panopticon? CHILD'S PLAY.
If you need muscle? Devo Knows A Guy. Or lady, really.
Don't worry, Dez! Those cameras are showing nothing but innocuous looped footage now.
No one pays the cleaners enough in the cyberpunk dystopian future.
I won't pretend to understand what kind of cyber-heist these three are conducting.
But you can be sure they have made Powerful Enemies, as well as enough credits to afford the FANCY noodles for the rest of the year!
Devo is a fun one. Gender-ambiguous and tech-savvy. Because cyberpunk is inextricable from the late 80s and early 90s, I gave Devo the most day-glo Nickelodeon counterculture wardrobe I could think of. Dez from Bombshell we have seen before, in the post-apocalyptic Radlands, as well as the little sniper from Crooked Dice.
The Public Service Panopticonnouncer was made from SD card placeholders and chunks of expired credit card, along with I think a vape component. The text, like much of the signage on the building, comes from a beer can label artfully chopped into pieces and rearranged into vaguely menacing advertisements. Also some sprue and all the camera-looking Bitz and Gunz in my Bitz Box.
I don't have any cyberpunk setting or games planned, but I can feel the itch growing. C&C welcome.
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By Rigel
More agricultural laborers, these ones more suited to the early modern and modern era.
Here is a Midlam Halfling Farmer in a cider orchard, accompanied by a faithful pig (from 77567, Pig and Cart).
"Aye, that do be true what they say, one bad apple WILL spoil the whole barrel, right enough. You soon get an eye for the bad ones, and a nose too. But that's what the pig's for."
"Spoil the whole barrel. aye, but a bad apple do nowt to a pig save make 'em better eating. Apple's a good food for pork, and the apple wood's good for the bacon in the smokehouse."
"Apples within and apple without, as you might say, and then a glass of cider to wash the pork down. That's a good meal of a cold night."
Another Midlam farmer, this one human. (This fellow is 28mm scale or so, not heroic scale). Those farming togs could fit in anywhere across three centuries or so.
"Been working this land, man and boy, like my father and his father and his father before 'im, as long back as folks these parts can remember. And there's one thing I can tell you..."
"...One thing, aye, that'll keep the crops bearing and the well full, and that's keeping on good terms with the Gentry. Nay, not Lord Bastard as lives up in the manor, I mean the Gentry.
Them as live under the hill."
"Oh, a sharp sickle and manure on the fields, and driving the furrows right, can't do without those, but that's just work as needs doing. No, there's no amount of work will make good if the Old Ways aren't held up. That's why I've called on Brigit here. She'll walk the rows, sing to the soil and the water and the seeds. That's how the Gentry like it."
"And then, o' course, stand up Mister Mangel to oversee the work and keep away the crow. New clothes now and then, and new stuffing or a pole now and then, but old Mangel has been here as long as we have. I fancy the Gentry have come to see him as part o'the family, like. They wouldn't be pleased if he weren't out in the field. Not pleased at all."
"Aye, Mangel will see to it no harm come to the rows nor the field nor the fences. Always looking out, he."
More angles:
Bridgit here is one of the May Queens from Crooked Dice. I tried to give her a sheer shift but could probably push it a little more. Tips and advice welcome.
Mister Mangel is also from Crooked Dice, and there's a wonderfully sinister aspect to him. Now, I'm a fan of scarecrows, but this here, without bone claws or a face, just has such latent menace. You know that while that sickle is rusted, the edge is still shiny-sharp. And I tell a lie there; you can make out a face pushing out of those rags and tatters, or in the gauze of that veil. And you can imagine the squeak of old twine-bound timber and the soft thudding hopping sounds tap-tapping behind you on a windy night, tap, tap, tap, the sound of rags flapping, the breeze whistling off that sickle's edge, closer and closer, now almost upon you, TAP-TAP-TAP as wheeling crows in impossible numbers fill the air with dark wings and blot out the moonlight, cawing and flapping so no one will hear your screaming if you dare harm the wheat in the fields before harvest time.
Which you wouldn't do, of course. But not because you believe such things.
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