Painting Progress: Terrans

Newborns don't allow a lot of painting time, but in two and a half months I've managed to complete a few core squadrons for my "opposing force" that is the Terran Satellite Charter.

Say hello to the new hulls to join the 46th Assault Fleet, the Ardan "Seigebreakers."

Of Firestorm Armada and Star Wars: Armada-- and the anxieties therein

A friend of mine ribs me every chance he can get lately—it goes something like this:

“Firestorm Armada at Adepticon eh? That’s a long way to drive to play in a tournament. Shame they won’t be around next year after Star Wars Armada is released.”

This guy (let’s call him “Derp”) can’t help it. He thinks Star Wars Armada is the best thing since sliced bantha. His divinatory skills have bestowed upon him a vision of Fantasy Flight’s latest product and how it will cut a swath of destruction across our rather niche but beloved genre of miniature space games.

Like a snake in the grass, Derp works it into every hobby-focused conversation. I told him he was beating a dead horse, and that I was likely to steal his words and explain just why he’s wrong. Derp even went so far as to say:

“It might get more than 5 views - I'd be sunk!” and “I'd never be able to get an internet cred again . . .”

So why I am not worried about Firestorm Armada at the hands of a behemoth like Fantasy Flight Games?

Well, we’re comparing apples to oranges.

Short Story: Scrupulosity

"Groundless prejudices and weaknesses of conscience, instead of tenderness, mislead too many others, too many, otherwise good men."

  Thomas Sprat. 

New Zagreb, Planet Arda III, Arda System

It was an early, warm and still morning—beautiful in every respect with shimmering leaves reflecting the sunlight of a cloudless sky.  Soren rolled in his bed and opened bleary eyes towards the sounds of birds chirping beyond the slats in the small garden beyond his bedroom window. Stretching an arm he reached for his wristwatch and checked the time: 7:45 AM. With an exasperated sigh he flipped his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his undershirt on the floor beside the nightstand. In the automatic fashion of routine he worked his arms through its sleeves, slipped his feet into a tired looking pair of sandals then stood to open the wooden shutters in his bedroom to the garden beyond. Whereas the sun struggled through to the room before, Soren welcomed the rich kiss of its warmth and the accompanied birdsong as the busy sounds of New Zagreb filled the room behind him. The hint of a breeze tickled his face and he stretched his arms out wide in a stretch as the last eddies of sleep slipped free from his mind.

Slack-jawed he turned and looked at the disarray of his bedroom, the result of weeks solely spent in the grind of 16 hour shifts, 7 days a week treating those in the armed services flooding into Grmek Memorial Hospital.

“And weeks longer at this rate,” he mused out loud to himself.