Wyrd Miniatures: Bishop

Intuition Intertwined Part II

Inspired by the works of Wyrd Miniatures


The slow, unnerving drips of water orchestrated an eerie symphony across the empty chamber, beating in unison like a failing pulse. He hung above the ground as thick chains kept him in suspension. Rats scurried about the cobblestone flooring, pestering over the scattered bits of crumbs and other leftovers. The room reeked of soured blood and decadent flesh. Luckily, he was unconscious to feel all this.

Strands of unruly emerald hair masked the half of his beaten face. Cuts and bruises ran across his mug, a few drops of fresh red trickling down from his brow. He was stripped of the clothing on his upper body, revealing the multitude of lacerations and scars that studded his castigated hide. Those who would see him in such a state would wonder what he could have done to deserve such inhuman punishment.

Although forced into a frozen slumber, his mind did not wander far. He, the stranger bound in chains, dwelled in stagnant anger as he pondered on how he had befallen to such a gruesome state. He never did anything unlawful. He made sure was with the rules. He could not find the logic in his situation. He remembered back in the days, when all was still quiet. He remembered…

He had a name, a label, similar to that of ones in clergy. Was it Priest? Cardinal? It was kind of hard to remember, being beaten on the head like that. The memories were blurred. He could hardly make out any more details. The pain was so unbearable that he was uncertain of who he was at that time. He was sure of one thing, though: he was furious.

Suddenly, the man’s fingers twitched and flexed. His unconsciousness was starting to break. At last, the memories were slowly creeping back.

His muscles were aching. The flow of endorphins was coming to a halt, and the pangs intensified. He struggled against the drowsiness caused by massive blood loss as his fighting spirit raged inside him. As the past flashed its vivid images, he had become much more of the situation at hand.

Half-asleep. He was finally coming to. Now he remembered how he got into this hellhole. It was some seven nights ago when some self-proclaimed Marshals barged into their tavern, demanding the whereabouts of some escaped arcanist. They didn’t know anything about it, in all honesty. But those ruffian law enforcers would have none of it. Instead, they rounded them up and interrogated them mercilessly despite their cries of pleas of innocence.

He was never a fighter to start with. Sure, he had a bit of knowledge on how to keep his own in a brawl and a few weapon crafts and enchantments up his sleeve, but that didn’t really mean he was a “threat”. He remembered how he and his companions were butchered like animals. The more he thought about it, the more the image clarified. The remnants of the retentions that haunted him were finally falling into place.

He held out on the punishment, refusing to admit something he was not part of. So in turn, they killed off his friends one by one. He passed out a few days back after his stamina finally collapsed. That explains it. And now, he was next in line for the guillotine.

Blearily, the bound man grit his teeth as he tried to pull himself free from the contraptions that rooted him. As he ascended to full awareness, his sleepy yanks soon turned into maddened tugs until the pillars that secured the chains cracked and exploded into fragments of rubble and dust. After one more vicious pull the iron links flew off the stone and flailed in opposite directions. He crumbled down to the stale floor, the icy chill piercing his battered skin. He clambered to his feet, but his legs felt like rotting wood. The deprivation of blood circulation demanded him time for rehabilitation. He had been abused for days without food, drink, nor rest, and his body was all but in condition. After taking a deep breath and a moment of contemplation, he was finally awake.

Someone was already fidgeting on the doorknob. Probably coming to finish him off. He could hear drunken laughter and carousing. They were unstable. Good. He could make his escape.

“Time to put the last of them dogs to sleep.” One of the grunts chuckled as the door creaked open. But to their surprise, their captive was no longer there. The torture chamber was now blanketed in shadows, causing them to have trouble moving about. “The son of bitch is gone!” the other guard howled with panic as he fumbled to light one of the torches.

From behind twin sharp eyes shot open, glaring at the unaware sentries with animalistic rage. His warpath of vengeance begins here.

“I have a name, kind sir.” A faint grim smile spread across his lips. The bevvied lookouts slowly turned in horror to see a pair of chains shoot out from the pitch black darkness and wrap around their skulls, constricting with such force that the mounds of iron soon loosened after a burst of blood and grey matter.

He threw their lifeless bodies down and dragged his feet towards the entrance. He tightened his grip on what used to be his binds. He had just taken lives, and his stomach churned with disbelief and disgust. But he could not let the thought hinder him. Drenching his fingertips with the blood of his victims, he scribbled his first and final warning on the wall, a sign for those who owe him blood. And he was hell-bent on collecting.

One word. It was enough admonition to all those who had done him wrong, all those who shed the blood his friends in the disgraceful grime of injustice and malevolence. One word:

“Bishop”

Wyrd Miniatures: Lady Justice

Intuition Intertwined

Inspired by the works of Wyrd Miniatures


Huff. Huff. Huff.

T’was all the man could do. He had been running for three days straight now. No rest, no quarter. He had just robbed a bystander on the street and ended up shooting five people in the process. Even though there were fugitives about who had worse charges than him, he knew that he would not be spared. For breaking the law had its grim consequences. The people called for Justice. It had to be carried out. The bounty was already on his head.

He kept on running. No time to stop. He had to shake his pursuer off his tail. Pure reliance on nothing but adrenalin and instinct led the weary man to a small clearing inside the dead forest. Quickly scanning the surroundings, everything was silent. A deep breath brought relief to his parched lungs.

But the thought of finally managing to escape quickly dissipated as a bullet barely missed his forehead, the speeding bit of metal grazing his skull. Thrashing about in confusion, the mercenary aimed his gun about wildly, panting in an untamed fashion.
A rustling behind some bushes kicked off his self-referent response of firing his first shot. The sound of a dull stop indicated a wasted shell. But he was too nervous to even care counting.

He tried pouring all of his attention to his senses, blocking out the rest of the world just to pick up nearby signs of life. The moment he heard a twig breaking just behind him, he immediately blinded himself with fear as he unleashed two more rounds, only to blast away at nothing but thin air. The mind games and faulty surprises were starting to annoy him.

The gunman then faced about, stoically striding the deadwoods as he copped himself up frantically searching for additional ammo. To his upset, he realized he had been shooting much, leaving him with only three quick-draws available. He rubbed his rugged chin, his brow growing heavy as the brim of his hat was starting to weigh down on him. Darkness loomed over the sky, and the moon soon pitched out, its faint glow giving an eerie chill to his bones. It was signaling him to rest, and the nearby tree stump was a very welcoming sight.

The gunslinger reclined and slowly let himself drift off into sleep, until another thundering blast of gunfire rocked him awake as he felt another sharp sting run across his skin, this time on the leg. He scrambled to his feet, the same sense of dread coursing over him once more. It takes a great amount of skill to be able to shoot like that. And the fact that his assailant could be of a great distance away from him instilled greater fear in him.

The feint sound of giggling turned his sights west. He could make out the image of a woman from under the weak luminance of moonlight.

“Who’s there?” he asked aloud as he cocked his pistol. But he received no reply. “Who’s there, dammit!” he growled as his patience grew less. But she remained silent as she came closer. “Wench!” he barked as he let go another round. His jaw dropped with angry shock. He had passable marksmanship skills, and he was quite sure he landed his mark. But did she just *sway* out of the bullet’s trail? Impossible. Curious he may be, but he sure as hell wouldn’t stick around to find out.

Finally, the stranger came to light: an attractive woman wearing leather overall. Strangely, she had a band of cloth tied over her eyes. How could she manage to move about just fine? And most importantly: how could she have managed to dodge his shot?
He readied for another firing, but she just raised her index finger and wiggled sideways, teasingly asking him to just stop. You gotta be kidding me, he thought as he paid no heed to her signs. In brash persistence, he unloaded one more bullet. To his amazement, she countered with gunfire of her own, shooting his slug off in mid-air, where the splattered metal jacket landed right before him.

The escaped gunman gritted his teeth as the blindfolded woman successfully dodged his fifth shot. He only had one bullet left in the chamber, and he knew well enough that a struggle would do him no good. The convict knew he was dead.

The mysterious lady with long, silken brown hair drew her guns and aimed at the panicked criminal. After a few waking moments of dead silence and a trickle of sweat, she then started playing with her firearms as she coolly placed them back in her holsters, the sharp clicking of iron unnerving the dumbfounded murderer. In an enticing and cruel manner, the leather-clad woman pointed a finger at him, then at the side of her head, mimicking the motion of fired pistol. He was being given an option, and he knew flatly what the vixen meant.

Unwilling to take his own life, the man desperately tried to land his last shot as he aimed for her head. He didn’t to go down with a scuffle. With finely tuned reflexes the marshal drew her sword and struck the bullet away, immediately following up with a thrust that tore the escapee’s chest wide open. As pints of crimson sprayed out of the gaping wound, she calmly turned around and swiped the blood that drenched her wicked weapon. Not a word, not a sound, silent as death was justice delivered. As late as fruition comes that in pain he realized that his opponent was well deserving of her famed title.

Lady Justice hardly spoke, letting her reputation, beauty, and weapons do all talking.

Ultraforge Demon Lord: The Pleasuredemon

One Night Stand

“Come again.”

She bid her customer goodbye with a lustful purr. Another hungry night and her luxuria was mounting again. She got up and stretched, yawning with the tiredness of physical pleasure and satisfaction. She picked up her silken robe and clothed herself as she set aside her earnings. The numerous, jingling bags of gold coins were littered about the small desk. Scented candles perfumed the chambers, invigorating the senses of whoever was to spend time inside the pleasure room. As she sat before her mirror and combed her long, chestnut brown hair, the door behind her hissed a slow creak. She pressed her clothes together as she got up to greet her next client.

“And what business do you happen to have here?” she welcomed her guest with a voluptuous gesture, flirting, grinding her hips and pressing her full chest forward. Her cloak, now barely closed, was a provocative and revealing display, baring her midsection. The vixen was an inviting treat waiting to be tasted.

“I don’t know.” The newcomer answered teasingly, his voice a bit baritone and wholesomely charming. He took off his shoulder pack and put it on the side near the door. “What exactly do you do here?”

“Oh…” the seductress chuckled in playful surprise, drawing closer to her prey. “I’ll show you.”

She kissed the man full on the lips, cradling him with her graceful arms as she pressed forward, locking herself onto him in sensual unison. Her erotic feel, the intimate connection, her senses jolted as they engaged in steaming copulation. Her only surprise, though, was that he only stood there, letting her caress his manly features to her heart’s desire. But despite the unexpected display of “indifference”, his entertainer did not mind. She found amusement in the lust as she took her partner’s hands, placing them on her bosoms, gasping and moaning piercing the room’s silence as the maiden’s pleasure escalated. She wanted more. She needed it.

She grasped him by the collar, dragging him down to the mattress where she let him rest on top. The temptress slowly removed the man’s top clothing, letting the fine silken tunic run across her dainty fingers. Clutching him by his fine brunette locks, she wanted him to run his lips across her bare flesh.

“So what does a handsome sort like you do for a living? A merchant? A businessman?” she asked with a moan of pleasure.

“No.” he answered grimly as her face ran with shock and horror. “Demon Hunter.”

He immediately took out a small crucifix from his pocket and rammed it in between her chest, a point among a fiend’s weaknesses. As her unholy flesh burned with hellfire, her rasps of ecstasy turned into shrieks of agony. Her unearthly complexion was now scarred, and that was not good for the business.

She had no idea how she could have been tracked, but she sure didn’t like thought of her “passion” spree ending that abruptly.

Burning with annoyance and hatred, she kicked him off of her, sending the man flying across the room and smashing against the wall. As he slowly regained composure, she stood in front of him and disrobed fully, displaying her once flawless but still enticing frame in attempts to distract him. But the devil killer would have none of it. Instead, she received a throwing knife to the forehead as a response.

She growled as she pulled out the foot of steel lodged in her skull. Blood trickled down her youthful face, drenching from brow to chin. “Pathetic.” she hissed as she licked off some of the crimson that kissed her lips.

Spreading her arms in defiant glory she levitated a few feet off the ground and assumed a fetal position in mid-air. Eerie blue light veiled the young woman as she underwent a… bizarre transformation. In an explosion of ghostly flames, she emerged out of the choking ash as a towering daemonette, now ready to eat him up in a much more literal fashion. “Fool!” the infernal wench lashed out as the she leaned closer in an effort to unnerve the unfeeling paladin. “Do you seriously have any idea about what you’re trying to do?”

“Yeah, I do.” The hunter answered confidently as he stood up and headed for his stashed belongings. Taking out his sword concealed by the pile of clothes, he grinned wryly as he pointed his blade at her. “I’m ridding this land of Venus's curse.”

**editor's note: "Venus's Curse in an old term for herpes ^_^

Magnificent Egos: Isabella, The Iron Maiden

The Tale of the Iron Maiden

Story inspired by the works of ‘Magnificent Egos’

With a furious swipe, she crashed against the shield wall erected before her in an explosion of splinters, limbs, and shattered steel. The delicate figure danced around the disoriented rank of troops, picking off the unfortunate straggler in methodical killing.

The militia trembled as she casually walked towards their direction with saber in hand and a shield on the other. Blood trickled down the steel as she gradually took each step, intimidating the unnerved troops and driving them towards the edge. A few daring but foolish souls rushed blindly to meet her, but she easily dispatched them with single, well-placed strokes. She calmly strode the isle, swinging side to side, bathing under the rain of blood she called forth with her weapon. They watched in horror as the lone vixen reduced their forces to ruin. No one understood why she was there, or what her agenda was. All that they knew was that she was a vagabond, scouring one battlefield to another, patiently contemplating for the next fight the moment opportunity presented itself.

There was something about her that ticked them off their psyche. She was slender, with brown short hair, and a face so innocent that you wouldn’t even expect she would fight this good. In short: she was the truest epitome of deadly beauty. There was a dead stillness in her eyes as she watched her prey with dark hunger.

Her blitz created a temporary glade of corpses in the middle of the field, leaving a horrid litter of eviscerated bodies in her trail. Reinforcements arrived, their march chanting a chorus of thundering footsteps and clattering of metal plates. The men fumbled and scrambled aback as they nervously readied their arms.

She was just one person. How could she be that much of a threat to hundreds, or even thousands of trained individuals bred for warfare? Surely if they swarmed up on her she would not have a chance to counterattack their maneuver. But it was a tactic easier said and thought than done. They formed phalanxes, raising their spears at shoulder level and resting them on their shields, cautiously trudging forward to confine her in a shell of iron. Their horned fortifications closed in like a dragon’s barbellate maw.

The shouting of their superiors, their captains, it sounded like a helpless melody of dying souls as they desperately filed in to subdue their oppressor. As they braced themselves for the offensive, she just stood their motionless and unfeeling. She just looked at them with cold curiosity as they drew nearer.

From one place of the guillotine to the other, it was the same. Crying, screaming, fear, and death. The feeling stayed with her like bloodstains on her sword. Fighting was the only thing she was good at. A prisoner of death, hell-bent on finding release from the cruel incarceration that is purposeless living.

A faint smile spread across her tender cherry lips as she clutched her weapon and lunged into the fray once more.

Custom Made Minis: Vampire Countess

Kiss of Darkness

A Poem Inspired By The Works Of 'Custom Made Minis'

Skin as pale as winter,

And Beauty as ageless as time,

You look at me with contempt

But one day you will be mine

Grace no mortal can ever match,

And youth as flawless as the moon.

Deny me as much as you want,

But I will claim your soul soon

I twist and turn with lust,

As these thoughts rage in my head.

To caress you is a must

For me to taste that precious red.

I want to hold you in my arms,

No pleasure goes unchecked.

To lie with and cradle you gently,

And run my lips across your neck.

Won’t you share my company

Of unending, everlasting bliss?

To dwell in eternal happiness

As we share this immortal kiss?

Come and take me by the hand

There is no need for fright.

I will alleviate your misery,

For all it takes is but one bite.

Ultraforge Dragon

Burning Skies

“War… war is forever. We live upon the age of darkness, and tread in the shadow of fear, chaos, and destruction. We feed on the desolation, the seeds of strife we sow amongst ourselves. Iniquity is power, and bedlam is might. That is our way, from the past to the present. It always has, and always will be.

But war… war has shifted…

Now, we fight no longer for honor, valor, nor faith. No more is battle a matter of philosophy or ideals, ethnicity or race. Fighting has become a core necessity, a primal instinct. Children dream of becoming soldiers, easily absorbed by the wargames they so love to play. Before they know it, they’re already on the field holding real weapons. These souls end up fighting mock battles that have nothing to do with their own lives. They think it’s amazing to be fighting like this. They think combat is existence. There is no need for a reason to fight. After all, for them, it’s nothing but a game.

It is blind belief that has guided them to their own undoing. They think their death in this pointless struggle is sacrifice, and that the bloodshed they wrought honor and glory. Warfare has become nothing more but a morbid routine, an unending cycle forever damned to chain mortals to their doom. It only knows beginning, and never an end. I have lived long enough to bring my account to just testimony.

That is your sole weakness, human. The greed, the hunger, the insatiable drive to bite off more than you can chew. Your arrogance and selfish desires… they are the frame of your downfall…

… And I will be there when the time comes that you burn in the flames of disgrace…

Remember that, child. I will be watching...”

Lightning broke across the stillness of the skies as the heat of the onslaught escalated. From the spires no one has ever dared to traverse, rose the magnificent beast that has instilled fear in the hearts of many for centuries, breaking free from its eternal slumber and fueled to set the world aflame once again. It spreads its wings to herald the dawn of a new age of pandemonium. Heeding the summons of blood and carnage, it has awoken to bring the world under its claw once more.

Now, all shall feel the fury of the great Wyrm… the Ultra of all Dragons!

Ultraforge Demon Lord: The Lord of Pestilence

The Consuming Blight

“Foolish mortal.” A voice boomed across the broken temple. “Thank you for freeing me from my cage.”

Terror scarred the man’s face. He was pretty sure he had the right incantations, but he must have miscalculated. He was confident that he could throw the beast down unto submission and issue it under his command to use as a warmachine, but he was wrong. Nobody even dared of *thinking* about enslaving daemons such as the one whom he had just liberated. It was a mistake he would pay for eternally in the deepest recesses of Hell.

Finally able walk freely once more, the malevolent force displayed its first feat of dark might by blasting the defiled synagogue into ruin, leaving a foul cloud of rancidity and deterioration in its wake.

The cultist who summoned him scrambled away, but didn’t manage to get far as he succumbed to the repulsive sickness that lingered within the fiend’s presence, which was also the root cause of the daemon’s horror. His flesh started to dissolve into an unsavory ooze of gore, where puss and blood frothed from his wounds. He cried out in agony as worms suddenly nested and festered on his rotting hide, a searing pain ripping him apart from the inside.

This was the first and only sign needed to herald the infernal epidemic that was yet to arise. This was the coming of the first among the unholiest hours. The decay had begun.

From the crumbling structure, an indiscernible figure materialized amidst the pillar of choking dust. It plodded towards the deteriorating shell of its first victim in a thundering manner, and impaled the dying wretch with its gruesome blade in unerring amusement. The abomination scanned the area from its view deck atop the hill where the house of worship used to stand.

With a grim bellow, the hulking monstrosity had forecasted its demonic omen:

“Let my name be feared once more, fleshlings, as the pestilence that has ravaged you before will roam the surface again!”