A Circle of Stone, A Circle of Ideas

With the inevitable return to work now looming on the horizon, A-Level results due to be published this week and all the various preparations for the new academic year beginning to make their presence felt, I was keen to squeeze in one more post before the balance of time inevitably shifts back towards work.  For this offering in the 'Season of Scenery', I thought I would share one of the more unusual pieces of terrain I have built for The Silver Bayonet; unusual not so much because of what it is, but because of how it came about.

A little explanation is required here.  There has been much discussion in schools recently about the use of Artificial Intelligence, and I have been sufficiently intrigued by the possibilities to wonder whether it might have a place in my own creative process. Rather than asking it to write a lesson plan or mark a set of essays, I thought I would try something considerably more interesting.  I opened ChatGPT and asked,

 

“I am currently playing Joseph A. McCullough's The Silver Bayonet and I need to design some terrain. I am looking for ideas for spooky rock formations or other related items that I could build. Can you help?”

What followed was, to my surprise, a genuinely exciting creative exchange.  Ideas were thrown backwards and forwards; some were mine, some were suggested by the machine and quite a few of the more extravagant proposals were quietly ushered towards the door.  There was a certain amount of discussion about what would actually work on a gaming table, what could realistically be built and, importantly, what might still look as though it had come from Awdry Towers rather than a computer.

Eventually we settled upon the idea of an ancient stone circle; tall, weathered stones, cracked and fallen in places, with a liberal sprinkling of Gothic horror and enough sinister detail to suggest that perhaps this was not somewhere sensible people should be wandering around after dark.  And then I had a thought.  Could we take these ideas and turn them into something that could actually be 3D printed?

I have been experimenting with a Bambu Lab A1 for about a year now and have enjoyed some modest success; I am still very much in the foothills of the learning curve, but the possibility of taking an idea from a conversation and eventually producing something physical was rather appealing.  So I asked another question, 

"Could ChatGPT help me create some spooky terrain STLs?"  

The initial answer was encouraging.  There was a brief misunderstanding which resulted in links to existing stone circle files, but eventually the conversation moved towards creating something from scratch.  Suggestions became more detailed, the design evolved and, eventually, I was presented with what appeared to be the next stage of the process; code that I could supposedly use to generate the STL files.  This, best beloved, is where matters became somewhat less straightforward.  What I had envisaged as ancient, vine covered rocks with deep fissures and an appropriately sinister appearance initially emerged as six rather immaculate columns; something, clearly, had gone rather awry.

There followed a reassuring exchange about design modifications and adjustments; I was encouraged to leave the process to do its work and return later when my wonderfully detailed STL files would, presumably, be ready.  I returned, nothing.  More questions were asked, more code was produced, more increasingly elaborate solutions were suggested.  Before long I found myself being led rather further into the depths of my laptop than I had originally intended, altering settings and contemplating processes that were beginning to feel suspiciously like actual computer programming.  I was becoming increasingly sceptical, but more importantly, I was becoming increasingly nervous.  Eventually I drew a line under the experiment and asked the question which, in retrospect, I probably should have asked considerably earlier, 

“Is it possible that you are unable to do this?”

There was, I confess, a certain amount of face saving, but ultimately the answer was yes. The parameters of what was possible within the process meant that it could not actually produce the object I had been imagining and yet, somewhat unexpectedly, I didn't feel that the experiment had failed.  By this point I had invested quite a bit of time in the conversation and, perhaps more importantly, there had been a genuinely creative exchange of ideas.  So I changed tack and simply asked for a visualisation of some of the things we had discussed.  The result was a wonderfully Gothic image which immediately gave me something far more useful than another piece of computer code, it gave me an idea I could build.

And so, somewhat inevitably, I returned to the painting table.  The construction itself was wonderfully straightforward. Great chunks of offcut blue foam were hewn to shape and arranged upon an MDF base; the base itself was deliberately cut to an organic outline and its edges bevelled to help it disappear into the tabletop.

I had seen people use crumpled aluminium foil to create convincing rock textures and thought I would give it a try.  It works remarkably well, although I discovered that achieving the desired texture requires rather more force than one might initially expect.  The foam was then carved, battered and textured until the smooth manufactured surface had been persuaded to look considerably more geological.

The stones themselves became the main focus. Cracks and fissures were cut into them and I added a selection of mysterious sigils and devices, not so much to explain what had happened here as to encourage wonder as to what might have happened.

The whole piece was conceived as blocking line of sight, but with access provided by some foam steps could also act as a vantage point.  A simple flagstone area echoed the original visualisation, but I wanted it to feel like a place that had been used for some purpose long before our intrepid troops arrived; somewhere that had accumulated offerings, rituals and perhaps the occasional unfortunate visitor.  Naturally this meant another raid on the bits box.  Weapons, tools, skulls and assorted other detritus were scattered around the stones; little offerings left behind as some form of tribute to whatever gods, spirits or other malign entities might have been worshipped here.

There was also an opportunity to return to an old favourite; hairy wool.  Carefully teased out and attached around the bases of the stones, the fibres make surprisingly convincing roots and creeping vegetation.  Once painted and combined with clump foliage, they help to tie the stones into the surrounding landscape and give the whole thing the appearance of having been sitting here, undisturbed, for considerably longer than is probably healthy.

Painting was, as usual, a mixture of familiar colours and experimentation; browns for the earth, greys for the stones, because, obviously, all rocks are grey.  It was at this point that the rather stark shapes began to disappear and the individual elements started to become a single piece of terrain. Weathering, scattered vegetation, stones, fragments and the occasional unsettling artefact all helped to tell the story.

And there it is.  A piece of terrain which began as a conversation, became a slightly alarming experiment in computer generated geometry, wandered briefly into the mysterious world of code and file generation, and eventually found its way back to where such things belong; on the painting table, surrounded by scraps of foam, bits from the box and a rather unhealthy enthusiasm for Gothic horror.

This wasn't quite what I had in mind when I started thinking about using AI to assist with creativity, but I rather like it.  The machine provided the conversation and, eventually, the image; the rest was left to me.

Show Boat

One of the unexpected pleasures of Dave Stone's ‘Season of Scenery’ has been rediscovering all those curious little projects that have been quietly gathering dust whilst patiently waiting for their turn upon the painting table. Some are sensible, some are practical, but this, I'm afraid, is neither.  Indeed, for my next contribution I present what can only be described as a complete show boat in every sense of the phrase.

One of the scenarios in The Silver Bayonet, Troll Bridge, requires a boat to be stranded across the river complete with a swivel gun that suitably qualified members of your patrol may attempt to operate. Quite why someone thought mounting artillery aboard a half wrecked boat was an excellent military decision is perhaps a question best left to the author, but this being The Silver Bayonet, where absurdity and Gothic horror have always enjoyed being rather comfortable bedfellows, naturally, I found myself wondering just how theatrical such a piece of scenery could become?

My starting point was a 'Sarissa Precision' excellent MDF Boat Wreck. I had originally purchased the kit whilst entertaining vague ambitions of one day staging a Dracula Comes to Hastings scenario, but alas the project never progressed beyond idle daydreaming.  Happily, the abandoned boat proved to be exactly what this build required.  The kit itself is rather lovely; a weather beaten and decaying fishing boat with exposed ribs, shattered planking and its own scenic base.  It already possessed that wonderfully Gothic atmosphere which The Silver Bayonet seems to thrive upon, the only slight complication was the small matter of mounting the swivel gun.

As the boat lists dramatically to one side, simply placing a cannon inside looked rather precarious. Instead, somewhere during an evening's quiet contemplation or perhaps mild delirium given the stifling heat, the notion occurred to construct a crude firing platform from rough timber planking spanning the damaged hull.  It is, by any objective military standard, utterly preposterous, which naturally meant I had to build it.  The gun itself came from ‘Actual Size Miniatures’, a delightful little resin print that deserved something rather more substantial than simply being glued to the floorboards.  A framework of scored plastic strip became a rough wooden carriage before strips of balsa completed the makeshift deck.  Once that central idea had taken hold, the rest almost seemed to build itself.

Resin barrels were cut it half and sunk into the muddy riverbank. Loose cannonballs and broken planks suggested a hasty abandonment, whilst yet more skulls and debris quietly hinted that the previous crew had met with an end that was less than entirely voluntary.  One of my favourite little additions was the creeping vegetation.  Returning to a favourite technique, I used hairy wool teased apart strand by strand to produce climbing vines before adding clump foliage to create patches of moss clinging to the damp timber. It's a surprisingly simple technique but one that works remarkably well once painted.

There was even an opportunity to revisit my old friend, UV resin.  This time, perhaps mindful of previous adventures, I approached the process with rather more caution, using it sparingly to create puddles, damp patches and little pools trapped amongst the wreckage. A quick flash from the UV torch and suddenly the whole scene acquired that permanently wet appearance that one imagines accompanies anything left beside a gloomy river for too long.

As a finished piece it is gloriously impractical and I suspect it will spend far more time being admired than actually influencing the outcome of a game, but I rather like that and look forward to seeing it on the table.

French Leave

Today's contribution to Dave's ‘Season of Scenery’ is a modest affair, though perhaps no less useful for that; this time a wrecked French baggage wagon. Before building this little wagon I confess I knew remarkably little about French military transport. Like so many things connected with Napoleon's armies, however, it turns out there was rather more thought behind it than first appears. The Gribeauval system is usually remembered for revolutionising French artillery, introducing standardised guns, limbers and equipment that were lighter, more mobile and considerably easier to maintain in the field. Less celebrated, though no less important, was the influence this standardisation had upon the army's wagons and logistics. Uniform dimensions, interchangeable parts and carefully organised transport meant Napoleon's armies could often march further and faster than their opponents; a rather useful quality when one has ambitions of conquering Europe!

This offering began life as 'Warbases' excellent French Baggage Wagon No. 2, found amongst their Napoleonic carts and limbers range. Rather than building it as intended, I fancied turning it into something a little more theatrical; an abandoned wagon that might serve equally well as an objective marker, an encounter piece or simply a little storytelling vignette on the tabletop.

The conversion itself was thankfully straightforward. A couple of broken wheels, the wagon deliberately canted over at an awkward angle and the unfortunate accident of a shattered tongue, which I quietly replaced with plastic strip before pretending it had always been part of the plan, immediately suggested a vehicle abandoned in considerable haste. Mounted upon one of 'Warbases' scenic pond bases, together with scattered crates, discarded equipment and just enough skulls and opportunistic crows to remind everyone that this is The Silver Bayonet, the whole thing came together rather more quickly than expected.

Looking at it now, I rather like to imagine the story behind it. Was it abandoned by fleeing soldiers? Did the horses bolt? Or did something emerge from the surrounding woods that persuaded the escort to leave everything exactly where it lay? Happily, the answer can change with every game.  This also goes someway to explaining just how remarkably clean it is too.  A fun little piece to do, great value for money and  useful objective marker to have in the game.

A Scene of Utter Carnage

Having finally reached that most anticipated juncture in the academic year, the long summer holiday, my thoughts naturally turn to slowing the pace a little. There are, of course, the inevitable jobs left upon one's bureau by the Saintly Mrs. Awdry, friends and family to catch up with, and, if fortune smiles kindly, the occasional pint of properly cloudy English cider to enjoy in a shady corner of the garden. For me though, the summer has always meant something else; it is a chance to disappear into my lair for a few uninterrupted hours and indulge in this most wholesome of hobbies.

Quite unexpectedly, I have found myself drawn back towards the Crimean War.  Half finished regiments of Foot Guards have emerged blinking from their storage boxes, Heavy Cavalry have begun assembling in earnest and, rather alarmingly, Horse Artillery has started unlimbering on the painting desk. Yes, best beloved, it would seem that Awdry Towers has returned to the Crimea of 1853.  I suspect this particular diversion deserves a post entirely of its own, chiefly so that I may publicly lay responsibility at the polished boots of one Paul O'Grady Esq., whose recent exploits have proved far too persuasive for a chap whose willpower has never been especially robust, but that tale can wait.  Suffice it to say, the painting table presently resembles the Ordnance Wharf at Balaklava and, whilst progress is steady, there are only so many photographs of scarlet clad infantry one can reasonably inflict upon polite society.

Instead, I found myself thinking back to June.  One of the unexpected pleasures of the Forgotten Heroes month was not simply building Captain Caveman and his increasingly improbable entourage, but reconnecting with so many old friends around the blogging community. There was something rather comforting about checking in each morning to discover what everyone else had been creating; it seemed a terrible waste to let that momentum disappear.

Fortunately, Dave Stone over at 'Wargames Terrain Workshop' has launched another 'Season of Scenery', and that proved exactly the excuse I needed.  Terrain has always held a particular fascination for me.  Miniatures may tell the story, but scenery provides the stage upon which that story unfolds. It allows one to scratch that creative itch in a rather different way, adding little details that perhaps only the builder ever notices but which somehow breathe life into the tabletop.  With The Silver Bayonet featuring heavily in my summer gaming plans, I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to revisit a few long neglected projects.

Now, in the interests of complete honesty, I should probably confess that several of the pieces I intend to share have been languishing on the shelf of shame for rather longer than Dave perhaps envisaged when he announced the challenge. I have therefore interpreted the rules with all the flexibility of a Victorian politician, adding the odd tuft of static grass here and there before confidently declaring the project 'finished'.*

*I trust you will keep this confession strictly between ourselves.

The first pieces are a ruined encampment together with a handful of corpse tokens.  One of the things I love most about The Silver Bayonet is its wonderfully Gothic atmosphere. I wanted players to feel that their patrol was venturing ever deeper into hostile territory in search of a missing unit, only to stumble across unmistakable evidence that something unspeakable had already passed this way.  

The tents became the heart of the project and rather than sculpting them, I opted for wet-strength tissue, laminated together before stitching actual seams into the material. Tiny punched paper discs became eyelets for the guy ropes, cocktail sticks served as tent poles, paperclips transformed into tent pegs and ordinary thread completed the illusion. 

Once pitched exactly like a full sized canvas tent, they were carefully collapsed and the whole assembly received an airbrushed canvas basecoat before slowly being weathered and detailed.  Look closely and you'll notice deliberate tears slashed through the fabric.  Those, naturally, received rather more attention with the blood effects than was truly necessary, but this is Gothic Horror after all. 

The accompanying corpse tokens came together from little more than a raid on the bits box with plastic skeletons, discarded Napoleonic British sprues, Green Stuff, and a somewhat unhealthy amount of artistic licence. 

Torn uniforms, exposed ribs and the occasional protruding intestine hint at a grisly fate, whilst a few opportunistic crows from North Star have already begun claiming the battlefield as their own.  They're decidedly unpleasant little vignettes, which is, I suppose, entirely the point.  Hopefully they'll add just the right amount of foreboding before the first shots are fired.

In one final acknowledgement, I should add that the bases are from the ever reliable 'Warbases' and are listed as Terrain, Objective and MacGuffin bases.  These are the 2mm thick options and work perfectly for these little flights of fancy. 

Five Million Page Views!

At some point last week, 28mm Victorian Warfare passed the rather astonishing milestone of 5,000,000 page views.  Now, if I'm entirely honest, page views don't quite carry the significance they once did. There was a time when I would check the counter with almost comical regularity, convinced that every refresh somehow validated my latest ramblings.  Inevitably, I suspect I contributed rather more to the total than was strictly necessary!  Nowadays, with bots happily trawling the internet and mysterious visitors appearing from every corner of the globe, the number itself is perhaps a rather blunt instrument; even so... five million is still five million.

More importantly, though, this cozy corner of the Blogosphere has never really been about statistics. It has always been somewhere to record projects, celebrate successes, confess failures, more recently involving superglue or Milliput, and occasionally persuade perfectly sensible people that peanuts are a legitimate modelling material.  What continues to amaze me is the company it has kept.

Over the years I've had the privilege of corresponding with hobbyists from all over the world. Many have become familiar names in the comments, several have become genuine friends and all have helped make this hobby richer, kinder and considerably more enjoyable than it would ever have been sat alone at the painting table.

The recent Forgotten Heroes challenge reminded me of exactly that. Whilst I was delighted with how Captain Caveman eventually emerged from his peanut shell, the real joy came from the conversations it sparked and the encouragement shared throughout the month. It reminded me that blogs still have something rather special to offer in an age of fleeting social media posts.

So whether you've been following along since my earlier Victorian campaigns first marched onto the table, discovered the blog through a fondness for obscure cartoons, or simply dropped in looking for scenery ideas before deciding to stay awhile, thank you.

Five million views is a pleasing statistic, but the friendships are the part that truly matters.  Here's to whatever absurdity finds its way onto the workbench next.

Every Journey Needs Somewhere to End

Season 10, Episode 7

If I am entirely honest, I was not at all sure that this final post was going to happen. June has rather galloped past in the manner of an escaped cavalry charger and whilst Forgotten Heroes itself draws to a close, work, travel and the general business of real life have conspired to leave precious little time at the hobby desk. The irony, of course, is that this has been one of the most enjoyable hobby months I have experienced in many years. There have been peanuts, there has been sculpting, there has been resin and there has even been language that would certainly have caused my late Grandmother to raise an eyebrow. Most importantly, however, there has been friendship.

One of the genuine pleasures of taking part in Forgotten Heroes has been reconnecting with old friends, discovering new projects and being reminded exactly why this particularly cosy corner of the blogosphere is so special. To Jez and Roger, whose continued enthusiasm keeps this splendid enterprise alive year after year, I owe a considerable debt of thanks. Without their efforts I rather suspect Captain Caveman would still be little more than an optimistic peanut sitting on a supermarket shelf.

Yet there remained one final task.  Captain Caveman himself had yet to make his formal appearance and no self-respecting prehistoric superhero can simply be left standing alone upon a gaming table; he requires a home and naturally that home sits atop the roof of a van.  The Teen Angels, as readers of a certain age will doubtless remember, travelled in a somewhat distinctive vehicle which served much the same purpose as the Mystery Machine, Mystery Incorporated's trusty van. This presented an obvious opportunity, namely the construction of Cavey's rooftop cave.  What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a lot, as it happens.  After a little searching I discovered a suitable STL file on the Crooked Dice website which appeared promising enough. At £6 it seemed worth the risk and after all, what is Forgotten Heroes if not an opportunity to make questionable purchasing decisions? Or is that just me?  Unfortunately the model appeared rather more suited to resin printing than my own somewhat agricultural FDM printer and the initial attempts were, to be charitable, deeply disappointing.

At this point I once again sought the wisdom of the estimable Simon Moore, who very kindly pointed out the entirely obvious solution, "turn it upside down."  One occasionally encounters moments in life when another person says something so self-evident that one immediately wonders why one had not thought of it oneself. This was one such occasion and of course, the next print proved vastly more successful.

Knowing that the roof would ultimately disappear beneath Cavey's cave, I was not overly concerned by minor imperfections and so attention turned towards constructing the rocky summit itself. A sheet of plasticard provided the foundation and a quantity of leftover epoxy sculpt was spread across the surface and encouraged into something vaguely resembling the cave seen in the original cartoons.  Rocks were added, texture appeared and optimism returned.

A little textured paste introduced some variation and before long the whole thing began to take on a distinctly prehistoric appearance. At this point the bits box once again came to the rescue. Buried deep amongst decades of accumulated treasures I discovered some forgotten prehistoric trees from Steve Barber Models which, much like Captain Caveman himself, had apparently been waiting patiently for their moment to shine.

The cave itself proved an absolute joy to paint and for a brief and entirely unfamiliar period everything proceeded exactly as planned.  This naturally made me suspicious.  There remained, however, one final detail.  No cave upon the roof of a van can reasonably be accessed by conventional means and so a ladder was required. Two coffee stirrers, split and sanded, provided the uprights whilst small plastic bones were lashed into place with wire and secured with superglue.  It is, I freely admit, completely ridiculous, which is probably why it has become my favourite detail.

As I write this final dispatch the model is still not entirely as completed as far as I would have liked. There remain details to finish, logos to paint and the cave to permanently fix to the wagon.  Yet perhaps there is something rather fitting about that.  Forgotten Heroes has never really been about finishing. It has been about beginning. About rediscovering forgotten characters, rediscovering old enthusiasms and, in my particular case, rediscovering the pleasure of writing and sharing my experiences with this most wholesome of hobbies with friends.

So before the final credits roll, I should like to offer again my sincere thanks to Jez and Roger for once again organising this splendid annual lunacy, and to all those who have taken the time to read, comment and encourage throughout the month.  Your responses to this slightly absurd prehistoric adventure have meant far more than I can properly express.  But what of Cavey, I hear some ask  Surely he must now make his grand entrance. After all, one suspects he has been lurking somewhere in the background all month, glaring through his whiskers and waiting for precisely the right moment to shout:

Captain CAAAAAAAAAVEMAAAAAAAN!