On Warhammer

By Awilla the Hun

Part I: Choosing an Army

When starting out on warhammer (one of the greatest joys this world has to offer), one of the first things you shouldn't do is ask the assistance of your local hobby store. This is for several reasons, all of which bring about one of the least enjoyable times this world has to offer.

"So," says the blue shirted, dorito munching manager, "what do you want to squander two hundred pounds and thousands of man hours on?" Well, actually, he doesn't say that; I just made that up. But one can sense that it isn't far from his mind.

You inform him that you have succumbed to the temptation of choosing Space Marines. This immediately sets the manager off on a frenzy of suggestions, which even distracts him from his eating.

"Well, you are in luck," he says with a broad, red tinged smile. "You see, there's just been a new release." (There always has just been a new release, you know. No one knows why; it's the natural law of things in Games Workshop.) "A pack of marvellous new Rear-Guard Marines," he explains. "Beautifully sculpted-as you can see from our expensive new box art, there's one of them standing on the skull of a fallen Daemonette, with his bolter poised to fire between his legs. And that guy there's pointing his bolt pistol-well, actually, a master crafted bolt pistol, that's why we've put all the gubbins on- vertically upwards. The heavy weapons trooper's on one knee, offering his lascannon-I'm sorry, only lascannons come with this boxed set for heavy weapons, you must get everything else in metal that costs exponentially more than this- up to the Emperor for a blessing."

You express your interest, and then realise that you will be giving away your pension, kidney, family's kidneys, and probably your body to science, just to get five models. "They count as tactical squad marines, of course," the manager goes on, still smiling, "but they're worth every penny!"

You nod, and look up at the codex- it's another new one (the Space Marines, the manager explains, get them every six months), and this time features a large man in Terminator Armour with an extremely belligerent expression on his face. "It will only cost you your house, of course," the manager explains as you fork out the cash. (Well, not in those words, but in intent.) "But it's worth every penny!"

So, presuming that you have spent your every penny on twenty exquisitely sculpted marines, five terminators, a Librarian, some bikers, and so on, the manager asks you with exquisite politeness about how you want to paint them.

"Well," you say, gasping slightly from the pain of having to sell your soul in order to buy the terminators, "I was considering Ultramarines."

This sets off a chorus of advice from all the previously sinisterly silent painting table a few metres away.

"Well, you see," starts a guy who appears to have considered Big Bertha an ideal date, and who was sizing up accordingly, "one thing you won't be using is Ultramarines Blue."

"Why not?" you ask.

"Because it's six octaves down."

"But it says Ultramarines Blue."

"Well," says Big Bertha's hubbie to be with a worldly chuckle, "those labels are just advisory."

"Doesn't the word 'Ultramarines' imply something to do with the Ultramarines Chapter?"

The painters all look at you blankly.

"So," says the aforementioned Big Bertha fan, "you'll need four pots of Enhanced Blue, two of Darkened Blue, one of Irksome Brown, Four point five eight layers of Skull Black, another pi layers of Doused Red, one Imperial Litre of Primer, and an HB Paintbrush. Is that understood?" You look up from your smoking pad of notepaper and nod.

"That's just the undercoat," someone pipes up cheerily (usually whilst wearing a "Thrashmetal 4EVER" leather jacket and a haircut that is only naturally seen on anime characters.) "The overcoat, of course, requires wool. And the middle coat needs the juices from taking Dave's mom."

Dave (a guy wearing a wildly optimistic "Sex God 2010" T Shirt) seems to take offense at this, but is shunted aside by yet more suggestions.

Now, trust me, the worst thing you can do is actually take heed to any of them. This is because you will find that the list goes through every colour of visible light, as well as quite a distance off the electromagnetic spectrum, and will involve at least eighteen different types of flock, most of which are only going to be of the slightest use if your army is fighting through-let us say- a lake of custard like that man off Braniac. (And, just so you know: they're normally going to be shooting through Osgiliath-"all the tables have been used up, but there's a Rings one out back"-, a Stalingrad impersonation society entry, or a grassy plain, two hills, a tree, and a largish ruin.) The best response is normally to just say, with an understanding nod-"So this is why you're getting through the recession." This usually renders the staff speechless for a sufficient length of time so as you can pay at the till and run away without getting any more suggestions.

Of course, then you get to deciding on the background. You return to the shop, army painted, and start naming officers. This of course attracts some considerable attention.

"Well," you explain, "I'm doing the Ultramarines Fourth Company. Like in the Codex."

"Right," says an uninterested adolescent with arrestingly large glasses (and I mean truly arrestingly large: the Hubble Telescope crew would have needed them.) "Well, I'm collecting Space Marines too."

"Oh good."

"Well, you see, I'm doing my own chapter. They're called the Shit Kickers, led by Master Leeroy Jenkins." He looks around for amusement, finds none, and returns to his story. "Anyway, their colour scheme is dark brown, and they're originated from the great Angry Marines Chapter."

One person (whose jumper makes him look like a nineteen thirties homosexual) bursts out laughing for no accountable reason.

"Well," says someone else, "I'm doing the Angels of Anarcho-Capitalism. They're Anarcho-Capitalist Marines," he adds significantly, "and they believe in the teachings of their chapter master the great Heffingtunbob Smygley. To give you a brief overview, it goes like this."

And they leave you to shuffle out in silent despair.

Of course, the only worse thing you could do is going onto the Internet for advice.

"OMG! Another Smurf Noob Rhino Rusher! LOLOLOLOLOLOL I WILL PWN YOU BEOTCH!" someone says amiably on a forum that I will call (for the sake of anonymity) LibraTauSeer dot com.

"Remember teh sepulchre," says someone else, with a symbol that you never knew existed appearing on a post.

Girlygamer (a rare breed, you think to yourself, and after carefully scrutinising her avatar of a Dark EldarWych in a state of undress, reconsider her sex or sexuality altogether) points out that, alas, an Eldar Craftworld has a population of about eight point five quadrillion, so they will unleash unutterable devestation. "And they will never lose, because their farseers CAN SEE THE FUTURE!"

This prompts a half dozen responses from some called Darth Wong saying that, actually, the Galactic Empire is several factors of HAXXORNESS above the Imperium. "And all its alien buddies," he adds. "So STFU 40K NOOBS."

In this spirit, the forum continues.