The STL Trenches

** Note: The Files have been updated to be on a 50mm base.The Wings and barbed wire have been combined in the 50mm versions to be a single piece.** Consider the weight of failure, if you will—not as mortal men know it in their fleeting wars and withering loves—but as it festers in the belly of Hell, where time forgets and punishment does not.  Malam walked the endless iron throat of Dis, burdened by this ancient certainty. A Praetor of Famine, a unique abomination among his peers, he had stood at the lip of apotheosis. One task—one divine theft from the grasp of a rival Duke—and he would have risen, remade among the Black Court of Hell, to whisper counsel into the ears of Arch-Dukes and shake the vaults of Pandemonium itself. Failure had chained him instead. Now the corridors pulled him forward to reckoning. Within the splintered vaults of his mind, voices stirred, restless and unaligned. One murmured, sleek and soothing: “Praise him. Let us sing. Let us swell his pride. He loves the scent of submission.” Another, sour and cracked, whispered: “Words will not save us. He summoned us in silence, without theatre or jest. Judgment is passed. Offer betrayal or perish.” A third, lush and laughing: “Why fear? Hunger stirs all things. A glance, a breath—even Dukes crave mortal flesh.” The voices did not cease. They coiled in the hollow of his mind, threading doubt and hunger through every crack of thought. Each pulled against the other—treacherous, pleading, seducing—until sense itself began to fray. But the corridor gave no answer. Dis sighed, leaking heat and oily smoke from its ancient wounds. The great doors uncoiled—massive and corroded—spilling their sweetness: the stench of honey rotted black. The Throne Room swelled vast and wrong. Columns twisted like melting wax; walls breathed as if belonging to some forgotten beast. Too many angles where there should be none. Before him sat the Arch-Duke, a satyrine fiend, his hide a prison of faces and limbs straining silently beneath translucent skin. Under a scared sigil, his great yellow eyes opened and flickered like a sun long dead. “Malam...” Soundless. The name formed without voice or breath. Malam knew it only in the wet chambers of his being, where thought dissolved into primal dread. They communed then. Memories traded like flesh. Desires turned inside out. No bargains. No mercy. Only the vast, patient certainty of the Arch-Duke’s will. “Your shape offends. Your failure is known. Scour the lands of the False Redeemer YHWH, and we will see you rewarded generously.” No flame. Not at first. Only pressure—unbearable, inward. Bone folding, meat twisting, pride stripped nerve by nerve. Three voices shrieked, cursed, begged—then blurred and became one, then ashes. Ashen wings burst from his back, and his mouth split - the voices now given flesh. They screamed in unison, and he found his own voice silenced. His punishment complete, Malam retreated from the chamber to earn his penance.  Malam, the Prince of FaminePraetor of the Hollow Maw and Lord of the Withering Host “He does not march with an army. He starves the world until he builds one.” There is no throne for Famine in the Iron City of Dis. No seat among the Seven Serpent Heads bears its mark, and yet Malam moves unopposed through the black smoke of the Court, and even the archdevils fall silent in his presence. He is not Gluttony, but he is its reckoning. The stillness after the feast, the ash where the field once bloomed. Where the lords of excess gorge themselves on the world, Malam leaves nothing behind.  The theologians of New Antioch burned every record of his origin. Some claim he was an angel of mercy sent to feed the starving, who watched them die and was unmade by their hunger. Others believe he was born directly from the Third Mouth of Hell - a miscarriage of divine silence and endless want. Whatever the truth, Malam no longer speaks with his own voice. Instead, he opens his body. From the torn cavity of his chest gapes a vertical, tooth-ringed maw, impossibly deep and ever-writhing. Inside squirm the souls of failed preachers - those who offered false hope to the hungry, who called down blessings on empty plates. Their mouths still move. Their sermons still echo, mangled into endless shrieking. Their suffering is Malam’s breath. His form is cadaverous - tall, lean, carved with sigils that pulse like dying stars. His limbs are too long, his skin is tight as drumhide. His wings are laced with abandoned tormentor chains and split sinew, dragging behind him like banners of starvation. He wears no symbols, no armor, no crown. His authority is carved into his very flesh. Malam is followed by the Withering Host—a procession of starving yoke fiends, decaying hell knights, gaunt beasts, and silent Wretched who believe that by suffering in his shadow, they might be last to starve. His presence does not simply break armies, but rather unthreads civilization itself. Fields spoil, wells curdle, and mothers cannot feed their young.  Though denied a seat at the Court of the Seven-Headed Serpent, none dare contest him. Mammon courts him. Beelzebub mocks him. Malam answers neither. He walks alone through battlefields of christendom, untouched, unseen until it is too late. When he passes, the wounded do not scream - they beggar themselves before him and plead for mercy. And there is none. (Writing by Taylor Holloway, Simon Sung, and Aiden O'Brien)This miniature includes Malam - Prince of Famine, in both supported and unsupported formats (LYS and STL), and a premium 50mm base. There are several variations of the same model in this kit, including a gun option, sword option, and a NSFW option.

Shaal-Muzar stood in the shadows of the corridor that led to the great throneroom of the court of demons. Within, the thrones of the lawsayers waited, ready to annihilate anyone who tried to sit in them without authority. He could feel their call, a whisper skittering across his mind, a gentle singing in his heart, a curiosity as to how the stone, bronze, and crystallized blood might feel beneath him. Like everything in Dis, they longed to kill, but Shaal-Muzar had no ambition for thrones. He knew he could not do his work while an army of demons sought to displace him, so he stood where he always stood and allowed the shadows to gather around him like a cloak.  Through the doorway at the other end of the corridor, a figure strode, an impossible collection of limbs and thorax, heads and mandibles that almost defied comprehension. Its many faces were a convoluted mess of features, the true face constantly shifting and hidden in the tangle. In its hands was a book, bound in dull red leather from the skin of a child cut away by a willing father, held tight as one would a newborn. Shaal-Muzar had learned, centuries before, that it was easier for most beings to be near the creature when they just avoided looking at it altogether. The ebb and flow of the flesh proved too sickening, even for the demons of the abyss to follow.  So that is what he himself had done. Shadow was not just an absence of light, after all; it was an absence of the unusual. It was the easy flow of patterns and behaviors that had previously established themselves as normal.  “Belberith…” Shaal-Muzar’s thirteen mouths uttered the name in perfect unison as he stepped from the shadows. The belt of skulls at his waist, the remnants of former lords of men, rattled as he moved. The ring of his armored feet against the cold basalt of the floor was a portent of a coming death. As a man, he had walked gently, his footsteps little more than the slithering of a serpent, his whispers arriving in the ears and nestling in the minds of the very kings whose skulls now hung around his waist. As he was now, in this moment, revealing himself, he allowed himself the joy of honesty, the rare elegance of truth. His mouths, always lying, had uttered the true name. His footsteps had echoed against the walls. He was unveiled, his intent burning within him, and he knew the creature before him finally saw him for what he was, the same way he saw the reality of his foe. Prey and predator in perfect understanding. He stared into Belberith’s true face and saw the horror there. It had been millennia since anyone had looked Belberith in the eyes, had plucked from its rotten, abused, and complex form the real face. Shaal-Muzar had managed to stare past the affectation and illusion to what was beneath and looked deep into its soul, and what he saw there was pathetic and weak, as he knew it would be. He felt the disgust rise up in him that such a thing had been allowed to climb so high. Before Belberith could say a word, frozen in shock and horror at its undoing, the claws lashed out. The cuniform etched into them burned, and they slid past the false reality that Belberith wove about itself, crashing into the frail form within, the left claw crushing the skull with one deft strike, the right closing around the too-thin chest, snapping ribs and crushing the black, tar-filled pustule that acted as a heart.  Belberith collapsed without a word, the dull thump of the fleshy construction it had built around itself sounding hollow and small now that the majesty of it had been revealed to be a lie. The body was a puppet and a portal, a means to another reality that nothing should have been able to pass, but Shaal-Muzar had long ago learned how to slip through it and had waited so very long to cut these strings. The book tumbled out of its hands, and he leaned down to pick it up. Within would be all the names he needed, for Belberith, ever the studious researcher, would have done all the work for him.  He flicked through the book, the crushing claws surprisingly deft and gentle at the task, and tore from it the pages he needed. He had little desire to keep Belberith's secrets for him now that the creature was dead. Let everyone see him for what he was. A liar and conniver who was not equal to his task. A weakling and a worm who had survived only as long as his betters had allowed him to. A pathetic blight who thought himself above his station.  But the names he would keep for himself. Each one was a demon who had sought to change the Lords who sat upon the thrones. Each one willing to play the required role to make that happen. Such names would be useful, and they would be as lost as ships amongst the storm now that Belberith was dead. Shaal-Muzar had no longing for the thrones, but his masters had no longing for change, either. Belberith had plotted, thinking to take steps out of the shadows and earn a seat for himself. He had been a fool, and let the rest see what happened to fools. As he left the hall, the crumpled mess of what was once Belberith behind him, he allowed himself the memory of the shock upon his enemy's face as the web of lies came so easily undone. No, this was not a game for fools, and those who would let their greed dull their vision. Shaal-Muzar thought of his own dreams and the things he wanted for himself. His mind turned to the pages, the names written in blood, hidden now among the folds of his robes.  He had no desire for thrones. For now, at least. --- Shaal-Muzar, The Dirge of Nineveh “I whispered into the ears of kings, and they mistook my voice for their own ambition.” Before Dis raised its banners, before the blood-gates of Jerusalem were torn open, there was Nineveh - the jewel of the Assyrian empire.It fell not to war or famine, but to a single figure cloaked in incense and shadow: Shaal-Muzar, whose name has been stricken from every surviving record - save the flesh of those who remember. Shaal-Muzar was once the advisor to the kings of Assyria, a priest-scholar and astronomer who claimed to read the will of the gods in the entrails of beasts and the weeping of captives. In truth, he served no god of man. He had already cast his soul into the black fires of Dis, becoming the first one to broker a deal between Assyria’s worldly might and Hell’s eternal hunger. Under his counsel, Nineveh reached its apex. And then, when the moment was right, he opened its gates to damnation. It is said that half of a million souls were taken with one specific act. The ziggurats were blackened from within. The streets choked with ash. And atop the crumbling Temple of Ishtar, Shaal-Muzar carved the first Hell-sigil into a royal corpse. While the Babylonians were laying siege to the vast city, it was Shaal-Mazur who planted the seed in King Sin-Shar-Ishkun to open the gates and allow his soldiers to swarm the enemy from within. It was a foolish thing to do, but Shaal-Mazur knew the bloodshed afterwards would secure him power among hell’s chosen.  Shaal-Muzar is a priest of ritual, not spectacle. Even in Dis, he practices the unclean rite of drawing hermetic circles, using them to orchestrate the suffering of the Wretched. His true strength is in his goetic dominion, and in the ancient laws of infernal pacts which he alone remembers. When brought to the battlefield to bring war to the faithful, he prefers to engage his foes head on. His arms terminate in great, ossified claws, etched with prayers in reversed cuneiform - a demonic relic and gift for his great service to The Court. His blows tear through body and blessing alike. The blood he spills does not stain the ground, but rather it seeps towards the heavens, vanishing into runes drawn in the air. His mask is forged of hell-metal, and has been constructed to allow his thirteen lying mouths to each screech and curse the traitor-god YHWH as he spills more blood for his masters. Beneath his robes, skulls of Assyrian royalty clatter with every step, bound in rusted chains. He wears no insignia, and he claims no throne -  yet among the servants of Dis, Shaal-Muzar is revered. He is the architect of the first great blasphemy. The priest who laid a city down like a lamb and led it into the mouth of Hell. Where he walks, the ground remembers Nineveh. And it weeps. Shaal-Mazur is not regarded as a conqueror, but rather a sermon - and his gospel is the destruction of all Christendom.  The Procession of Ashur's Doom“He does not ride to war. He is carried on the shoulders of the condemned.” The cult of Shaal-Muzar is known as The Procession of Ashur’s Doom. It is not a warband in the conventional sense, but a slow and deliberate ritual to fuel the hate-engine that is the City of Dis - a living sacrament of ash, pain, and prophecy. These followers are not warriors, but implements of blasphemy - each one chosen, altered, or bred for sacrificial function. Their procession is a mobile temple, reenacting the fall of Nineveh wherever they pass. The Blood-Scribes are emaciated priests whose mouths have been sewn shut with gold wire. They inscribe Shaal-Muzar’s commands on their own flesh, using hooked styluses dipped in sacrificial ichor. Some have replaced their eyes with polished obsidian disks, seeing only the visions granted through pain and ritual. The hollowed-out slaves who carry censers filled with the sacred ash scraped from Nineveh’s ruins are known as Ash-Bearers. Their backs bear the brands of Dis, and their lungs are thick with burnt offerings. Smoke clings to them like a curse, and no prayer spoken near them is ever heard. A cluster of acolytes with vocal cords replaced by bronze reeds and flutes known as the Flayed Choir bring up the rear of this procession. They chant in broken, ancient Assyrian, harmonizing through breath pumped by bellows sewn into their chests. Their songs cause nausea and vertigo, and many of the faithful vomit blood in their presence.  The Mummified kings and generals of old Assyria, disinterred and reanimated by Shaal-Muzar's rites, are wrapped in crimson linens and bound in chains to great crucifixes. They are symbols of the folly of men, and their empty sockets leak wax and myrrh while they beg for forgiveness for their ancient sins. Each is a corpse-standard, bearing the shame of a fallen empire. Among this unholy throng are the still-living captives, restrained in spiked iron frames and ritually mutilated. Their screams are siphoned through bone flutes; their blood is channeled into hermetic geometry carved into the battlefield. These glyphs empower Shaal-Muzar’s ancient goetic rites. They are both fuel and part of an altar. The cult assembles, forms its shape, and dies by design. They are not meant to win battles, they are meant to prepare them for Shaal-Muzar’s arrival, and for whatever fresh hell comes after.  (Writing by Taylor Holloway and Aiden O'Brien) This miniature includes Shaal Muzar - Dirge of Nineveh, in both supported and unsupported formats (LYS and STL), and a premium 40mm base. There are two variations of the same model in this kit.

“A cathedral of flesh and ruin, the Horror of Saint-Écorché drags its broken liturgy across the earth with each lumbering step.” The Horror of Saint-Écorché is one of the most haunting centrepieces ever brought to the tabletop - a towering mass of sanctified bone, fused flesh, and corrupted devotion sculpted with breathtaking detail.  This model captures the solemn, processional dread of a creature that moves like a broken liturgy across the battlefield. Every limb, relic, and tortured visage is rendered with obsessive craftsmanship, rising into a horrific silhouette of twisted faith. Whether you paint for display or play, this miniature stands as a showpiece guaranteed to dominate both shelf and table. Available in both supported and unsupported formats for LYS and STL, the Horror is supplied with an exquisitely sculpted 60mm base that grounds the creature in the devastated ruins of its origin.

Works well for Silahdar and is nice version of the Yuzbasi without a titty bird.

The Great War has left the Levant a wasteland of trenches, minefields, and shattered cities. Over the Iron Wall, where the armies of Those Who Believe clash endlessly with the Heretics and the Legions of Shaytan, a thousand nameless deeds vanish into the dry desert air. Yet some whispers persist - tales of men who walk in two places at once, who strike from the dark and vanish before a man can cry for help. They speak of Al-Sayf al-Khafi, the Hidden Blade, a cadre of assassins born from the Iron Sultanate’s most secret traditions.

The Yoke Fiends of the Covenant Coil are demons of lust, bred not for desire of flesh, but for desire. To them, suffering is intimacy. Control is affection. Blood is the language through which they experience pleasure.

On the battlefield, Yoke Fiends drive slaves and captives forward with obsessive attention, punishing hesitation and rewarding endurance with further torment. They wade into enemy ranks not to end lives quickly, but to turn the field into a theatre of prolonged domination. Their weapons—hooks, bars, and chains—are chosen to control bodies, to pull foes back into reach, to deny release. A Yoke Fiend wants to feel resistance give way slowly.

To the Covenant Coil, Yoke Fiends are expressions of ownership and appetite, living proof that lust need not be beautiful to be absolute. To everyone else, they are nightmares made flesh—creatures who do not tire, and do not stop.

This set includes four Yoke Fiends of the Covenant Coil, each supplied with a 32mm premium sculpted base. The models are provided in both pre-supported and unsupported STL and LYS formats, optimized for high-quality resin printing.