And so it begins….

Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, the Lead Mountain Widow, destined to wear the be-jewelled battle-crown of playing second fiddle to a pile of little lead men upon a troubled brow. It is I, her chronicler, who alone can tell thee of her saga. Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!

To brave the lair of the widow, we must first understand what it is we are dealing with.

The Lead Mountain Widow does not care for timeless classic movies like Aliens or Excalibur. She prefers her celluloid eye-fodder to involve people who drink coffee and deal with day-to-day issues in quirky ways, unless it’s got Tom Hardy in it.

The Widow does not wear armour, or wield a sword +1, or Sabatons of Running. She likes socks. Lots of socks.

Not for her the glowering broody anti-heroes and battle-thong-clad shieldmaidens of Frazetta, or the cyclopean eroticism of Giger. Rather, amusing depictions of cats, or witticism-based memes using turn of the century advertising imagery, and the occasional Post-Impressionist potted plant.

And the gently forgettable beige tones of Sheeran and that other guy I can’t remember  echo sleepily through the halls and delvings of the Lead Mountain.

She thinks old stuff is dusty and boring, and has no time for the Ciceros and Platos, only Nandos.

So what is a humble chronicler to do? Write a blog on socks and coffee and David Tennant, seasoned with recipes and a complete filmography of Tom Hardy? Exhaust quill and ink on cat-memography? Review Ed Sheeran albums? Or hold high the mirror that flatters not, and instead scribe rock-hard on all the stuff the widow barely tolerates, hand-waves off with a dismissive ‘yes dear’, or secretly actually rather likes, but won’t let on? Drive her to distraction with blogposts about unnumbered hordes of toy soldiers? Categorically the latter, dear reader.

The Mirror Which Flatters Not
The scribe has this on a t-shirt. He didn’t realise it was written backwards because he only ever saw it in reflections…

For this humble wordsmith has seen that when the random-number-generation cubes are down, and inch-high dragonspawn battle steam-powered ambulatory land ironclads, the Widow is a lean mean dicing machine with no mercy. Savage and predatory, she’s a mean X-Wing pilot too.

There is a (probably unfounded) rumour that she used to play World of Warcraft, not as a sexy Night-Elf, (which any good player knows is what women usually choose to play, and they are definitely not all guys) but as a Gnome who probably drank coffee and collected socks,  Arduous research amongst dusty scrolls of yore suggest that there WAS a night elf, and she was definitely wearing a bejewelled battle-thong and combat heels, and she definitely got her mosh on to Dio and the metal stylings of  Machinehead and Strapping Young Lad and decorates her lair with Gigeresque landscapes, spikes, leather and the skulls of her enemies.

night elf

Dare you join us on this perilous journey deep into the Lead Mountain, to brave the lair of the Widow lurking at its centre like a peevish crystal spider?  I don’t care if you do, I’m gonna do it anyway.

TLDR: It’s a blog about miniatures and related stuff.

I want to start an army based around purging heretics and killing degenerates.

Where might I find such an army?


If you enjoy the content I generate, feel free to show your appreciation using the link below. It’s not actually coffee, but it might end up being. (Or I can upgrade WordPress and make this whole show more shiny.)

One thought on “And so it begins….

  1. Olly

    Love the humour, looking forward to following the blog. Roll well and may the Nights watch hold the river Isen from the Batiri goblins of the chult jungle, for many years to come.


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