The final die is cast. The table falls silent.
Dusty has completed the sadistic, profane ritual. The nuclear warhead, the train it was residing on, and all inside — including his nurgling companion — warp out of existence, the force of which rattles the ribcages of everyone within range.
As the dust settles and the Inquisition strike team tries to make sense of what’s just happened, a realisation dawns: Jenkins — the Inquisitorial High Priest — is missing. His last known location pings from inside the train, now lost to the warp.
Fade out.
The table erupts — laughing, yelling, “Why oh why?!” “What actually just happened…”
The story is now splintering. Our team’s path is forking in different directions.
For over a year now, Wednesday nights have been sacred.
In late May of 2024, I stumbled — rather aimlessly — into a local Warhammer store that had just opened five minutes from my house. In truth, I was seeking guidance to sell a half-built and painted army. I’d fallen out of love with the hobby.
On the 1st of January, 2023, I painted my first mini and immediately felt the gratification of building and painting something that didn’t look totally shit. I’d done this as a kid. The motions were familiar. I’d once tried painting Lord of the Rings pewter-cast minis with childhood friends (Nick knows what’s up — we used literal house paint and acrylic art paint, and could never figure out why Legolas and Aragorn never looked like they did in the movies).
From 2023 to 2024 I’d amassed a solid army. I’d figured out a scheme, chapter, backstory, and a process to paint as well as I possibly could. But something was always missing from the process.
People to share them with.
It’s fine posting to Reddit or Facebook pages, but there’s something about face-to-face interaction in a hobby this tactile — it’s almost a requirement.
I’d been to every shop in SEQ within a two-hour drive of the Gold Coast. Most were good. Staff were lovely. But finding a group that would take on someone who knew nothing outside of painting was impossible. I was over it. Tired of trying to find a place in a hobby that felt like it didn’t want me. So I decided to sell everything and move on.
So one day in late May 2024, I walked into the shop hoping to move everything for a bargain-basement price. That’s when I met Andy — one of the owners of Gamers Village.
I explained the situation:
“Can’t find a group. Don’t know shit outside of painting. I wanna sell it all for pennies on the dollar.”
To say he was disgusted was an understatement — but he understood the feeling. Andy told me to come back on Saturday morning. A group of guys had started a little community. He said, “Hang out with them for a day, and if you still want to sell everything, I’ll cash you out and use your gear for a store army.”
Saturday rolls around…
Pt 2 incoming
Notes along the way. 