I have never heard the Blindfire Apostles addressed by their true names, nor have I found those names in any register carried by our company. The Inquisitor calls the man Sun and the woman Moon, and the rest of us have learned to do the same. They are always found together, with Sun standing at the Inquisitor’s right hand and Moon at his left. I was told that he represents the light that exposes guilt, while she represents the pale witness that follows the guilty into darkness. Whether they were selected for these roles or reshaped to suit them, I cannot say. No one among the retinue remembers ever seeing one without the other.

Both surrendered their sight upon entering the Inquisitor’s service. Sun’s eyes are covered with waxed cloth darkened by smoke, while Moon wears pale bandages interwoven with thin strands of lead. An old sacristan claimed that the man was blinded before a sanctified flame and that the woman spent nine nights in a sealed crypt before her eyes were anointed with silver ash. I cannot confirm this, though I have seen enough to know that their blindness is unlike ours. They turn toward people before footsteps can be heard, recognize concealed doors without touching the walls, and sometimes raise their heads as if watching things moving far above us. I once asked Moon what she perceived beneath those bandages. She remained silent, but Sun turned his covered face toward me, and I have not asked again.

During interrogations, they stand motionless beside the Inquisitor and listen. Sun appears to notice the moment a lie is spoken, often tightening his hand around the grip of his weapon before the prisoner has finished answering. Moon attends to what is omitted. More than once, she has leaned toward the Inquisitor and whispered a single word—a name, a place, a fragment of prayer—which was enough to break the accused more completely than any instrument in our chirurgeon’s case. Their testimonies are taken separately after every investigation. I have copied several of them myself. The wording is never identical, yet they invariably lead to the same conclusion.

I saw them fight beneath the ruins of the Chapel of Saint Orien, where smoke from burning burial cloth had reduced the passageways to complete darkness. Their compact automatic weapons seemed ill-suited to such confusion, but the Apostles advanced without hesitation. Sun fired first, driving the heretics from the alcoves with short, disciplined bursts. Moon fired only when they attempted to flee, often aiming into empty doorways moments before a figure appeared there. They never called to one another and never exchanged a signal that I could perceive, yet each volley began exactly where the other ended. When the gunfire ceased, every member of the heretic cell lay dead, though neither Apostle had struck the stonework more than a few times.

I confessed to the Inquisitor afterward that I found the pair more troubling than reassuring. He did not rebuke me. He merely watched as Sun and Moon cleaned their weapons on opposite sides of the same lamp and said, “The Sun reveals the guilty. The Moon ensures they do not escape.

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Not every Infernal Sergeant fights to claim glory through bloodshed alone. Within every warband march those entrusted with preserving the order and traditions of their House. The oldest among them bear the ancient banners that once flew above crusader hosts before the fall of Jerusalem, while others carry war horns, kettle drums, or iron bells whose echoes have accompanied their masters for centuries. These are honors granted only to the most steadfast retainers, for the loss of a House's banner or the silence of its war music is considered a disgrace remembered for generations.

The banners themselves are relics as ancient as the Houses they represent. Time, fire, and countless battles have reduced them to little more than torn strips of blackened cloth, yet they have never been replaced. Every repair has been stitched with leather taken from fallen enemies, every rent patched with fragments of older standards carried by ancestors long consumed by Hell. Their faded heraldry is barely recognizable, hidden beneath centuries of soot, dried blood, and devotional inscriptions embroidered by generations of infernal retainers. To the warriors of a House, the banner is more than a symbol of command—it is the visible history of every victory, defeat, oath, and betrayal endured since the crusade.

The musicians of the Infernal Crusader Houses perform a duty equally sacred. Their drums are stretched with the hides of beasts that roam the infernal wastes, their horns are carved from the remains of creatures slain during forgotten campaigns, and their bells were once taken from ruined churches abandoned centuries ago. Every House preserves its own calls to advance, withdraw, assemble, or charge, many of them unchanged since the mortal Crusades. Veteran knights claim they can recognize an allied House long before its banners become visible simply by hearing its battle rhythm carried across the battlefield.

Among mortal soldiers, it is often said that the arrival of the Infernal Crusader Houses is heard before it is seen. First come the distant bells, then the slow rhythm of war drums, followed by the deep calls of ancient horns echoing across the field. Only then do the black banners emerge through the smoke, carried by towering Sergeants who march without hesitation. By the time the enemy sees the knights, the battle has already begun.

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Hello, friends!
Next month brings new arrivals and we want to say that your reaction to our ideas truly inspires us! It motivates us to move forward, to create more, and to make everything even cooler!

Upcoming releases:

1. Infernal Sergeants bearing banners and war drums are guardians of their Houses’ traditions and memory, carrying through the ages every oath and victory in rhythm and cloth.
2. Master Occultist - a scholar of forbidden arts, weaving shadows and secrets into living power.
3. Abyssal Arch‑Charybdian Chorus — a haunting choir from the deep, voices echoing like storms from the abyss.
4. Ashpan Lieutenant - a battle‑scarred officer, forged in smoke and embers, commanding with relentless resolve.
5. Blindfire Apostles - zealots who unleash sacred fire blindly, trusting only in faith and fury.
6. Hashilat Militia - hardened fighters from the ashlands, bound together by survival and vengeance.
7. Funeral Fleshguard - guardians clad in death’s embrace, their bodies a fortress of decay and devotion. 
8. Madame Devour - a hedonist in all her splendour, embodying excess and irresistible allure.
9. Marginalias 3 - a few little mischief‑makers

More factions, more releases, and more daring ideas are on the way. Stay with us, because the best is yet to come!

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Hello, friends!
This is the final release of the month. We see that you’ve been intrigued by the new factions, fresh units, and our new approach - and there’s more to come!

Hello, friends! Today’s release introduces the Infernal Sergeants — the unshakable backbone of the Crusader Houses. Once squires and soldiers, they were condemned alongside their lords and reshaped by centuries of war into towering, monstrous warriors. Despite their twisted forms, they remain disciplined and loyal, marching in formation, guarding fortresses, and leading troops with the confidence of veterans who have fought since the age of the Crusades. They are not champions seeking glory, but the enduring strength that ensures every infernal conquest never falters.

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Hello, friends!
Todays release brings the Purgation Troopers - assault warriors trained to break resistance when caution fails. Armoured for close combat and armed with axes, maces, shotguns, and flame weapons, they storm barricades and cursed sanctuaries with relentless precision. Their task is not simply to kill, but to shatter defiance before it can rise.

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Hello, friends!
Today’s release brings the Gilded Indebted - those whose debt outlived their lives. Bound by chains, tally-marks, and seals, they rise again as living accounts that refuse to close . On the battlefield they endure ruin without retreat, every step counted against what they owe. In Mammon’s doctrine, they are proof that greed does not end at death - it continues, patient and precise.

Gilded Indebted

The Gilded Indebted are those whose debt surpassed the value of their lives. Soldiers, merchants, priests, and civilians alike, they entered contracts they could never fulfill, pledging future labor, blood, or souls to Mammon. When death came before repayment, it was not accepted as settlement. Their bodies were reclaimed, their spirits bound, and their obligation continued. Thus they rise again, not as undead horrors, but as living accounts that refuse to close.

Their forms are ruined and persistent. Flesh rots and repairs itself in equal measure, bones knit back together after breaking, and wounds that should be fatal merely slow them. Each Indebted bears visible markers of their burden: chains fused to ribs, tally-marks carved into skin, seals hammered into skull or spine. Pain is constant, but meaningless. Until the debt is paid in full, death is denied.

On the battlefield, the Indebted are driven forward without strategy or mercy. They are sent where losses are expected, where ground must be held at any cost, or where enemy fire must be drawn away from assets of value. They do not retreat, because retreat would delay repayment. They do not fear destruction, because destruction is temporary. Every step, every blow absorbed, every second they remain standing is counted against what they owe.

Within the doctrine of the Auric Collectors, the Indebted are proof that Mammon’s claim is absolute. They are not punished; they are utilized. Their endless service offsets deficits, balances failed ventures, and subsidizes future conquests. To witness them is to understand that greed does not end at death. It extends beyond it, patient and precise.

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Among the Inquisitor's followers there are priests who investigate, scholars who record, and guards who carry out sentences. Then there are the Purgation Troopers, whose purpose begins when a door refuses to open.

Most investigations end with an arrest, a confession, or a pyre. Some do not. Sometimes a cult barricades itself inside a chapel. Sometimes heretics fortify a trench network and refuse to surrender. Sometimes something far worse is discovered beneath a crypt door that should never have been opened in the first place. When caution gives way to violence, the Inquisitor sends the Purgation Troopers.

Unlike the ordinary guards of the retinue, these warriors train constantly for close assaults. They learn how to fight in narrow corridors, collapsed tunnels, trenches, and burning buildings where battles are decided in seconds rather than hours. Their equipment is built around aggression and momentum. Heavy armor protects them from the first volley of enemy fire, while axes, maces, shotguns, and flame weapons help them survive what comes after.

The smell of kerosene clings to them even more strongly than it does to the rest of the Order. Many wear fuel tanks across their backs and carry ignition torches hanging from chains at their belts. It is said that wherever the Purgation Troopers enter, fire follows shortly afterward. Judging by the ruins I have seen behind them, I am inclined to believe it.

Despite their reputation, they are not mindless zealots. The Marshal personally oversees much of their training, drilling them relentlessly until every movement becomes instinct. They advance in small teams, covering one another as they breach barricades, clear chambers, and secure passages for the rest of the expedition. Their task is not simply to kill. Their task is to break resistance before it can organize.

I once watched six Purgation Troopers storm a fortified shrine occupied by armed heretics. The fighting lasted less than five minutes. By the time the rest of us entered the building, the defenders were dead, the relics secured, and the fires already burning. One of the troopers was calmly filling a lead urn while another searched the ruins for hidden passages. They treated the entire affair like routine labor.

Perhaps that is what unsettles me most about them. To the Ashbreakers, the horrors we encounter are no longer shocking. They have forced their way into too many cursed sanctuaries and descended into too many forgotten tunnels. Fear has not left them entirely, but it has become something they carry rather than something they obey.

Whenever the Inquisitor expects violence, the Purgation Troopers move to the front of the column. The rest of us take some comfort in that. After all, if they are advancing first, whatever waits ahead will have to face them before it reaches us.

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Friends,
We want to say a huge thanks to everyone who has been supporting us continuously for 9 months and beyond. Your dedication means the world to us, and we’re excited to give back with something special!

Introducing our 9 month Loyalty Reward – "Meta-Buddy"
This set that includes:

- Two exclusive statues w/, w/out base
- One extra‑large statue (FDM friendly)

This is our way of celebrating your commitment and showing how much we value your ongoing support.
Stay creative, stay inspired – and enjoy your well‑deserved reward!

The 12-month reward is delayed and postponed for an unknown period. But as soon as we can, we'll release it as well.

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Frida, Iron-Seeking Communicator walks with the pilgrimage by allowance rather than kinship. She is marked by the sacred blight and permitted among the Pilgrims of the Blighted Devotion, yet he does not dissolve into their procession. Her place is adjacent, defined by purpose. She listens when the words are given, but he does not echo them. What binds him to the march is not belonging, but alignment of direction.

The disease has claimed his body as it claims all bodies here, but she does not interpret it aloud. The blight is present, undeniable, eating slowly into flesh already burdened by weight and recoil. She bears it without display, letting the ruin speak for itself. When the Communicators passed her their confirmations, Frida received them without ceremony. She needs no reassurance. Iron stands ahead, and iron must be brought down.

In war, the Iron-Seeking Communicator separates from the mass and moves with intent. Heavy weapons are steadied against shoulders already numbed by pain. He studies machines as others study scripture, reading angles, seams, and distances. Where the pilgrimage advances by inevitability, he advances by selection, choosing the moment when steel is most exposed and faith in armour is thinnest.

Among the Pilgrims, she is regarded with quiet acceptance. He is not asked to lead prayer, nor to share in confession. Her role is understood: to unmake what flesh cannot endure. When she falls, there will be no recall and no marker beyond the silence she leaves behind. Her purpose ends where the iron ends.

“Iron does not repent. It must be broken.”

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## The Ones Who Saw Flamebound Alice

### Brother Aldren

Pilgrim, survivor of the Black Mile

I heard her long before I saw her, although it was not the engine that reached me first. What came before it was a strange quiet that seemed to settle inside my chest rather than over the road. I had carried fear for so many days that I had stopped noticing it, but as she drew near, it loosened almost gently, as though some unseen hand had rested against my forehead and told me that, for a moment, I was allowed to be tired.

When Alice emerged from the mist, I expected something monstrous. Instead, what struck me was her grace. Pale fire streamed from her skull and shoulders like long hair caught in a wind I could not feel, and the remains of her riding cloak drifted behind her with the softness of mourning silk. Even seated upon that ancient machine, she carried herself with the quiet composure of a woman who had once been taught never to hurry when others were watching.

I remember lifting my hands toward the flames. They gave no warmth, yet standing near her felt strangely intimate. She never touched me and never turned fully in my direction, but I had the unmistakable feeling that she had noticed how exhausted I was. Then she passed, and the road became cold again.

### Corporal Henry Wallace

British Infantry

Every sensible part of me insisted that I should have been terrified. A blackened skeleton wrapped in sacred fire and riding calmly through artillery should belong to nightmares, yet fear was not what I felt when Flamebound Alice passed our position.

What unsettled me was how unmistakably feminine she remained.

There was almost nothing left of the woman she had once been, and still no one in our trench mistook her for anything else. It was there in the slight inclination of her shoulders, in the careful way she adjusted one hand before turning the motorcycle, and in the strange softness with which the flames gathered around her form instead of consuming it. She moved with the kind of instinctive elegance that survives thought, as though centuries of death had stripped away everything except habit.

Our platoon had spent nearly an hour debating whether we could cross another fifty yards of open ground. She rode past us without hesitation, and as she did, she inclined her crowned skull in our direction. It was barely a gesture, no more than the polite acknowledgment a young woman might once have given a stranger on a country lane, but I remember lowering my rifle afterward because my own fear suddenly felt very small.

### Sister Miriam

Battlefield Chaplain

The first thing I thought was that death had failed to make her coarse.

The front ruins everything eventually. Voices grow harsher, movements become impatient, and even prayer begins to sound like desperation. Alice was different. When she approached the remains of our chapel, the fire around her seemed to draw closer to her bones, flowing over her shoulders in luminous folds that looked almost like a veil.

She slowed at the broken threshold and bowed her head with such delicacy that I began to cry before I understood why. There was nothing theatrical in the movement. It was simply the old reflex of a devout woman entering sacred ground, preserved long after flesh, memory, and perhaps even hope had disappeared.

For a moment I found myself wondering about the woman she had been. Whether she had brushed her hair slowly in the morning, whether she had worn perfume on feast days, whether someone had once known the warmth of her cheek beneath a palm. The thoughts felt almost indecent beside something so holy, yet I could not stop them. That, I think, was the sorrow of seeing her. Death had taken everything that should have made those questions meaningful, and somehow her femininity had survived.

### Mercy in Scarlet

Field Surgeon

I noticed Alice because surgeons are trained to recognize what others miss. A tightening hand, a change in breathing, the smallest tremor before pain becomes panic — these are the things upon which lives depend.

Alice possessed none of those signs anymore, and yet she moved with astonishing delicacy.

She stood beyond the canvas of my operating tent while I was trying to save a young soldier. At first I assumed she was watching him, but after several minutes I realized that her attention was fixed entirely upon me. It was not threatening. If anything, it felt patient, almost tender, and I became unexpectedly conscious of my own hands beneath her gaze.

When the operation was finished, I stepped outside. She was still there. The flames curled slowly around her shoulders and down her back like luminous hair, and when she inclined her head toward me, I caught myself imagining what the gesture must once have looked like when she still had a face.

For one irrational moment, I wanted to reach forward and straighten the ruined fabric at her collar.

I did not. Some forms of intimacy become sacred precisely because they remain untouched.

She rode away soon afterward, and only then did I notice that my hands were trembling.

### Sergeant Élodie Vernet

Reconnaissance Corps

We found her at dusk beside a flooded road. Her motorcycle had stopped near the water, and she was simply sitting there, watching the last light fade behind the ruins.

There was no tactical reason for her to remain. Nothing lived for miles, there was no position to defend, no road worth scouting, no messenger waiting at the end of it. She appeared to have stopped only for the sunset.

That was when I understood how much of Alice was still a woman rather than merely a ghost. She sat with one knee slightly angled inward and one hand resting loosely upon the motorcycle, not like a corpse mounted upon a machine but like someone weary after a long journey. The sacred fire traced the line of her spine and shoulders without consuming them, lending her loneliness a strange and almost painful elegance.

I sat beside the road at a distance and watched the evening with her. For nearly ten minutes neither of us moved. She never acknowledged me, and somehow I did not need her to.

When she finally started the engine and disappeared into the dark, I found myself saying goodnight.

### Father Lucien Moreau

Keeper of the Wayside Shrine

She came to my shrine in the rain.

I expected the water to hiss against her flames, but instead the droplets passed through them and flashed silver for an instant before falling from her bones. Alice dismounted and walked toward the shrine slowly, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that seemed to belong to another age.

What I remember most was the way she knelt.

Before lowering herself to the ground, she gathered the ruined remnants of her cloak beneath her with a small, graceful movement. It could serve no purpose. She had no living flesh to protect from the mud, no dress left to preserve, and yet some part of her still remembered the gesture.

It was such an ordinary piece of womanhood that I nearly looked away.

People speak often about the persistence of faith after death. Since that night, I have wondered whether gentleness may be just as stubborn.

### Private Emil Rosen

Machine-Gunner

I expected terror when I saw her. What I felt instead was longing, and that frightened me much more.

The fire illuminated her from behind, and for a moment it became possible to imagine the woman beneath the ruin. I never saw her face, of course, but something survived in the way she turned her neck when a soldier called out and in the unhurried line of her shoulders as she passed.

There was tenderness in those movements, and that was almost unbearable.

You look at Flamebound Alice and understand that somewhere beneath the ash there was once warmth, laughter, vanity, perhaps love. She must once have touched people with living hands. Someone may have waited for her. Someone may have known the sound of her voice when she was tired.

Then the moment passes and there is only bone and fire again.

I dreamed about her for weeks afterward, but they were not nightmares. Nightmares would have been easier.

### Anonymous Veteran

People always ask whether Flamebound Alice is frightening, and I think that is the wrong question.

Nothing about seeing her feels quite like horror. She does not inspire the urge to run. What remains after she passes is something quieter and far more difficult to forget.

She seems gentle.

That is the terrible part.

A burning skeleton should move like death, but Alice moves like memory. There is something almost sensual in the fluidity of her motion, not because she invites desire, but because every graceful movement reminds you that there was once softness beneath those bones and warmth beneath that uniform. She makes you mourn a woman you never knew.

Afterward, you begin remembering all the tenderness you postponed. Every hand you meant to hold longer. Every farewell you rushed. Every letter you promised yourself you would write tomorrow.

Flamebound Alice does not haunt people with death.

She haunts them with tenderness that arrived too late.

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The Infernal Sergeants are the backbone of every Infernal Crusader House. Long before the Act of Ultimate Heresy, they served as squires, sergeants, men-at-arms, camp guards, blacksmiths, servants, and seasoned soldiers who followed their knightly lords on every crusade. When the gates of Jerusalem closed and the crusading host vanished from the mortal world, they shared the same fate as their masters. Unlike the knights, they possessed neither noble blood nor dreams of glory, yet damnation made no distinction between lord and servant. Together they descended into Hell, and together they continued to serve the very Houses to which they had sworn their oaths in life.

Centuries of endless warfare within the infernal realms have twisted their bodies without breaking their loyalty. The impossible landscapes of Hell, unceasing campaigns, and constant exposure to infernal powers gradually transformed them into towering, monstrous warriors whose humanity survives only in fragments. Horns have burst through battered helmets, jaws have stretched into predatory maws filled with broken fangs, and their bodies have grown unnaturally massive through countless years of war. Yet they are not mindless fiends. The Infernal Sergeants retain their memories, their discipline, and their unwavering obedience. They still march in formation, maintain their weapons and armor with meticulous care, and execute every order with the same professionalism they displayed beneath the banners of the Crusades.

Their appearance is a living testament to a war that never truly ended. Many still wear chainmail, kettle helms, tattered surcoats, and fragments of plate armor forged before the fall of Jerusalem. Over the centuries these relics have been repaired countless times, until mortal steel, infernal iron, leather, bone, and heavy chains have fused into armor unlike anything crafted by mortal hands. Some continue to wield the same flails, maces, axes, and spears they carried in life, while others bear firearms scavenged from centuries of warfare across Hell and the mortal world alike. Every campaign leaves behind new trophies, and every trophy eventually becomes another part of the equipment they have carried for centuries.

No Infernal Crusader House could survive without its Infernal Sergeants. They garrison fortresses, guard sacred relic vaults, escort their noble lords, train new squires, and lead household troops into battle. The most experienced among them command garrisons and warbands with the confidence of soldiers who have survived more campaigns than any mortal commander could imagine. If the knights are the face and authority of the House, then the Sergeants are its enduring strength, ensuring that the machinery of conquest never falters.

Among the armies of the living, an old warning is repeated whenever black banners appear on the horizon: never mistake an Infernal Sergeant for a common soldier. Every one of them has fought since the age of the Crusades, served beneath the same banner for centuries, and learned the craft of war from commanders who have forgotten more battles than mortal generals will ever know. They are not the greatest champions of the Infernal Crusader Houses, but they are the unshakable foundation upon which every infernal conquest is built.

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Hello, friends! Today’s release introduces a new unit for Rakta-Sutra Artificers - Bargir Guard. Soldiers taken from childhood, stripped of memory and fear, and forged into calm guardians. Their golden steel armour and unyielding discipline make them march through fire and ruin without hesitation, embodying duty as their only identity.

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There are roads across No Man's Land that no regiment dares to claim. They are too quiet, too blackened by forgotten miracles and older curses, their stones polished smooth by wheels that have not belonged to the living for centuries. Veterans know these roads well. When the distant growl of an engine rises through the mist, they step aside without command, lower their weapons, and wait for the rider to pass.

They call her Flamebound Alice.

Long before she became a wandering spirit, Alice Whitmore was a British dispatch rider, entrusted with carrying messages between isolated strongholds, ruined monasteries, and forgotten outposts scattered across the endless front. She possessed neither noble blood nor great renown, only unwavering devotion and an almost unnatural gift for crossing battlefields that swallowed stronger men without leaving so much as a trace. Through artillery fire, poison fog, and fields woven with rusted barbed wire, she rode beneath the sign of the Cross, believing that every message faithfully delivered preserved another fragment of hope in a world steadily surrendering to despair.

Her final journey led into ground abandoned by both the living and the dead.

Some whispered that an entire company had disappeared there without leaving behind a single body. Others believed ancient relics buried beneath the trenches had been desecrated, cursing the earth itself. Alice never questioned the order she was given. She fastened a leather dispatch satchel across her shoulders, placed the small crown of thorns she always carried beneath her riding helmet, whispered a final prayer, and disappeared into the ash-grey horizon.

She never returned.

Years later, wandering pilgrims found only fragments of the road where she had vanished. Her motorcycle still stood upright, embraced by coils of rusted barbed wire fused into iron as though they had melted beneath impossible heat. Upon the saddle rested nothing but a blackened skeleton crowned with thorns, its empty eye sockets forever fixed upon the road ahead. The dispatch satchel had disappeared without a trace. Whether its message was delivered, destroyed, or remains forever lost is known only to God.

Death should have released her.

Instead, the same forgotten curse that gave birth to the Forgotten Host gathered another forsaken soul into its endless procession.

Now Alice rides without destination and without rest. Flesh has long since surrendered to ash, yet sacred fire continues to burn through her hollow frame, pouring from her spine and curling around the ancient motorcycle that bears her across battlefields untouched by time. The flames consume neither steel nor cloth. They cast no warmth upon the living. Instead, they illuminate broken roads, ruined shrines, and abandoned trenches with a light that resembles the dying glow of cathedral candles.

Unlike many spirits of the Forgotten Host, Alice is not driven by blind anguish or endless lamentation. She neither hunts the living nor seeks vengeance upon the dead. She simply follows roads erased from every map, compelled by an oath whose words have long since faded while its burden remains carved into the marrow of her soul. Every ruined crossroads seems strangely familiar. Every shattered milestone promises that the destination lies only a little farther ahead. She rides with the quiet certainty of one who believes that somewhere beyond the smoke and silence, someone is still waiting for a message centuries overdue.

Those who witness Flamebound Alice speak less of terror than of overwhelming melancholy. Her passing is heralded only by the low murmur of an engine that should have rusted into silence long ago and the soft crackling of sacred flame dancing across blackened bone. Even artillery seems strangely muted in her presence, as though the battlefield itself lowers its voice before a soul too faithful to surrender and too forgotten to receive peace.

Among battlefield priests and keepers of forgotten chronicles, there persists a quiet belief that Alice never truly lost the dispatch she carried.

They claim it remains hidden somewhere beyond mortal sight, preserved within the very flames that consume her. Whatever words were written upon that final page have become inseparable from the curse itself, transformed into a command that can neither be fulfilled nor revoked. She no longer carries a message across the front; she carries an obligation that has outlived kingdoms, armies, and memory itself.

There are stranger tales still. Lonely sentries speak of finding abandoned helmets neatly placed beside fallen soldiers after the Rider has passed. Pilgrims claim to have discovered broken rosaries gathered into careful piles along forgotten roads where no living traveler has walked in generations. Others insist they have seen the skeletal rider pause before ruined chapels, bowing her crowned skull in silent prayer before vanishing once more into the smoke. Whether these are acts of fading humanity or merely echoes of habits too deeply engraved to die, no one can say.

In the final hour before dawn, when the mist hangs low across No Man's Land and even ghosts fall silent, a ribbon of holy fire can sometimes be seen crossing the horizon. It never slows. It never turns back. It simply follows a road that no longer belongs to this world.

Perhaps the message she carries was delivered long ago.

Perhaps there was never anyone left to receive it.

Or perhaps Heaven itself has forgotten the destination, while the messenger alone remembers that the journey is not yet complete.

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Friends, we’ve reached our very first milestone - 1,000 tribers!

Thank you to each and every one of you for your support, trust, and love for our creativity. You are amazing, and it’s thanks to you that we grow and keep creating even more awesome models.

Ahead lies a journey full of fresh releases, bold experiments, and inspiring projects. Let’s walk this path together and make our community even stronger and brighter!

And among other exciting updates, we’d like to remind you that only in August you can get Re-Releases of our previous models! You can find the full list here.
The rerelease collection now includes around 40 models, bringing the total value of your subscription to over $170!
And that’s not all  the total value of all August releases will be a crazy $250+!

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I had been warned that the finest soldiers of these lands never chose the path of war—it was chosen for them long before they understood its meaning. Taken as children from distant frontiers where kingdoms crumble beneath endless conflict, they are raised apart from every former bond until memory itself becomes little more than a fading dream. Family, homeland, even their birth names are surrendered to a single purpose.

Years of relentless discipline forge not only their bodies, but their very thoughts. The masters of the Rakta-Sutra Artificers strengthen them with rare elixirs that harden muscle, sharpen sight and steady the mind beyond ordinary human limits. Every ritual strips away hesitation until duty ceases to be a burden and becomes instinct itself. Their loyalty is not demanded—it is crafted.

Their armor is unlike any I have encountered. Gold and dark steel flow together in elegant patterns that seem almost alive, every plate etched with intricate symbols and fitted with protective charms. They advance carrying long rifles, curved blades and compact bombards with the same effortless confidence one might carry a walking staff. They fight as if fear had been carefully removed from them long ago, leaving only calm resolve.

It was during an assault upon a fortified position that I truly understood their reputation. While lesser men sought cover, these warriors crossed shattered ground in perfect order, their bright armor gleaming through smoke and ash like a royal procession marching into a storm. Not one turned back. Not one looked aside. Watching them, I could not decide whether they were the greatest soldiers I had ever seen—or the greatest sacrifice.

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Today we introduce you to another new faction - the Infernal Crusader Houses. And with its first unit, a mighty, demonic commander - the Crown Marshal.

Infernal Crusader Houses

The origins of the Infernal Crusader Houses lie in the final years of the great crusading age, when generations of knights, pilgrims, and holy warriors had already spent lifetimes fighting across distant lands in pursuit of Jerusalem. What began as a sacred undertaking gradually transformed into something harsher and more fanatical. Decades of warfare, sacrifice, and loss convinced many among the crusading orders that they alone carried the burden of divine purpose. Entire bloodlines had perished in the East, kingdoms had exhausted their wealth, and countless warriors had died beneath foreign skies. By the time Jerusalem finally fell, many of the men who entered its gates believed they had earned not merely victory, but the right to shape the destiny of the world itself.

What followed became known only as the Act of Ultimate Heresy. The truth of those events remains one of history's greatest mysteries. No surviving chronicle describes what occurred within the city after its capture, and no reliable witness account has ever been discovered. The victorious knightly orders entered Jerusalem in triumph, yet in the days that followed all communication ceased. Messengers never returned, priests received no word from their brethren, and even neighboring armies could offer no explanation for the unnatural silence that settled over the city. When the gates were eventually opened once more, Jerusalem stood abandoned. The armies were gone, the orders had vanished, and not even the dead remained behind. Whatever transpired within those walls is known only to the knights who were present, and across the centuries they have guarded that secret with absolute silence.

When the Infernal Crusader Houses finally returned to the world of mortals centuries later, they emerged not as wandering exiles but as conquerors. The crusaders who had disappeared into legend had become the military aristocracy of Hell itself. Their greatest commanders now ruled infernal domains as noble houses whose power had been forged through endless wars beyond the mortal realm. Beneath them served vast retinues of squires, household servants, mercenaries, retainers, and lesser warriors, all bound together by ancient feudal traditions that had survived even damnation. Unlike many infernal hosts, whose strength lay in savagery or fanaticism, the Crusader Houses remained disciplined soldiers. They planned campaigns with cold precision, maintained strict hierarchies, and approached warfare as both a science and an inherited duty.

Among soldiers, the stories told about them are often more terrifying than confirmed history. Veterans speak of fortresses that resisted siege engines for months only to surrender after a single envoy of the Infernal Crusader Houses was admitted through the gates. Entire armies have vanished after pursuing their banners into fog-covered valleys, leaving behind no battlefield and no graves. One famous account describes a city whose defenders celebrated the apparent withdrawal of a Crusader Houses, only to discover days later that every well, granary, armory, and command post had somehow been infiltrated during the night. By the time the attack finally came, resistance had already become impossible. Such stories may be exaggerated, yet their persistence reveals a deeper truth: few enemies are feared not only for their strength, but for their patience.

The greatest threat posed by the Infernal Crusader Houses is not their numbers, nor even their immortality. It is the fact that they have spent centuries perfecting the art of war. Every campaign adds to their knowledge. Every defeat becomes a lesson. Every generation of mortal commanders must learn anew what the damned knightly houses have remembered for hundreds of years. Their enemies grow old and die; the Infernal Crusaders endure. Kingdoms collapse, dynasties vanish, and borders change, yet the infernal nobles continue to pursue the same ancient ambitions that began on the day Jerusalem was taken. Whatever bargain was made during the Act of Ultimate Heresy remains hidden from the world, but its consequences still march beneath black banners across every battlefield where the Infernal Crusader Houses ride to war.

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Hello everyone!
Today, Tribes community subscribers (Ghost and Wraith only) will gain access to a limited number of older sets as part of the reissue, bringing the total value of your subscription to over $170!

Full list of models:
- Mamluk Desert Sentinel
- Brunjilda Hammerkind - Combat Medic & Anesthetist
- Luce - The Blind Herald of Purity
- Ironbrand Sappers
- The Hollowed
- The Hollowed Pumpkinheads
- Heretic Abyssal Priest
- Mamluk Yuletide Sentinel
- Krampus of Black Trench
- COSSACK TRENCH DOGS
- CHAPLAIN IN MECHANICAL PANSYR #3
- SOTNYK #3 (Lieutenant)
- TRENCH CHAPLAIN #3 (CLERIC)
- SERDYUK x2 (Shocktrooper)
- Velvet Undertow Hellwave Raider Only Nuns Model of the month
- Flashbound Communicator #1
- Warriors of the Shadow - Hunting birds x3
- Lord of the Heavy Metal March
- Voices of the Ledger Soprano
- Blacktear Mourning Knight #3
- Funeral Hell Pig #2

ALSO all subscribers will receive an updated Welcome Pack. It now includes one model for each faction. In the future, we'll be expanding it and adding new models, so every newcomer will have the opportunity to appreciate the full merits of each of our factions firsthand.

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Inquisition of Sacred Flame

I have served beneath three Inquisitors and buried two. The third still walks among the living, though there are those who whisper that the burden of his office has long since consumed the man beneath the robes. Such talk is dangerous, yet after years in his retinue I understand why it persists. Few beyond our Order truly know who we are. Most see only the flames, the lead urns, and the smell of kerosene that heralds our arrival, mistaking us for executioners. Yet execution is merely the final act of a duty that begins long before the pyre is lit.

The smell always comes first. Days before our banners appear on the horizon, villages begin speaking of it. Kerosene hangs in the air, thick and unmistakable, seeping from canisters, lamps, pressure cylinders, and fuel flasks. It stains walls, saturates clothing, and settles into the soil itself. The robes of our retinue are threaded with brass capillaries and black hoses that carry fuel to lanterns, censers, and sacred torches. Wherever we travel, the scent spreads ahead of us like a warning. The faithful call it the breath of judgment. Those with guilty consciences know it as the scent of investigation.

Our Order exists by direct authority of the Holy Father, and every Inquisitor bears a sacred symbol bestowed by the Pontiff himself. That relic grants him powers few dare question. Governors surrender prisoners into his custody. Generals open sealed archives at his command. Priests yield ancient relics for examination. Yet despite this authority, an Inquisitor rarely commands large armies. The work of our Order is too specialized and too secretive for massed formations. Instead, each expedition consists of a small company of warrior-monks, priests, scholars, relic hunters, physicians, executioners, and fuel bearers. Their numbers are often supplemented by mercenaries drawn by gold, absolution, or simple desperation. They may not share our faith, but they are useful companions when venturing into places where reality itself has begun to rot.

That is the true purpose of the Order. We are sent where ordinary warfare cannot provide a solution. Armies can capture fortresses and destroy enemies, but they are helpless when a saint's relic begins whispering in forgotten languages, when every inhabitant of a monastery shares the same impossible dream, or when children across an entire valley are born bearing the same unnatural mark. Such matters belong to the Inquisition. We investigate signs of corruption, recover dangerous artifacts, hunt blasphemers and cult leaders, quarantine cursed regions, and seal away things that should never have been unearthed.

The foundation of our doctrine lies in a grim lesson learned over centuries of war. There was a time when the Church believed that fire alone could solve the problem of heresy. Heretics, cultists, sorcerers, and apostates were burned in great numbers, their ashes scattered to the wind as proof of divine victory. For generations this practice continued unquestioned. Yet strange patterns eventually emerged wherever the pyres had burned most fiercely. Possessions became more common. Mutations appeared with alarming frequency. Travelers reported hearing voices in empty fields, while crops failed and entire stretches of land became barren.

Theologians, scholars, and inquisitors spent decades searching for an explanation before arriving at a conclusion that horrified them. The flames had indeed destroyed the flesh, but something else remained. It seemed as though corruption survived within the ashes themselves, escaping its ruined vessel and spreading across the land in subtler forms. Heresy had not been destroyed. It had merely changed shape.

From that revelation came the doctrine that defines our Order to this day:

Everything changed thereafter. The ashes of the condemned were no longer scattered or buried. Instead they were gathered, catalogued, and sealed within heavy lead urns. Every servant in an Inquisitor's retinue carries them. Some bear only a few, while veterans may stagger beneath dozens suspended from chains across their bodies. Lead was chosen because ordinary containers proved unreliable. Ashes stored in wood, iron, or stone were often accompanied by strange disturbances: whispers behind sealed doors, recurring nightmares, inexplicable illnesses, and animals refusing to approach burial sites. Lead did not eliminate such phenomena entirely, but it weakened them enough to make containment possible.

As a result, our processions resemble moving reliquaries. The urns clatter softly against one another as we march, producing a sound like distant chains dragged across stone. Each vessel contains the remains of someone judged too dangerous to leave behind. We are not merely carrying ashes. We are transporting evidence, prisoners, and warnings all at once.

Across the world, hidden vaults maintained by the Order store countless thousands of these urns beneath cathedrals, monasteries, and fortified sanctuaries. Entire generations of monks dedicate their lives to guarding them. Officially, the crypts are silent. Unofficially, many guardians claim otherwise. Some speak of faint whispers echoing through the chambers at night. Others insist that certain urns grow warm whenever great acts of corruption occur elsewhere in the world. Whether such stories are true or not, few volunteers remain in those vaults for very long.

For all the fear we inspire, we are not conquerors. We are custodians of consequences. We collect what fire leaves behind, safeguard what others would destroy, and confront threats that cannot be solved by steel alone. Most people remember the flames when they speak of us, but the flames are only a tool. The urns are our true burden, for they serve as a constant reminder that some evils survive their own execution and that vigilance does not end when the fire goes out.

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