Two armies painted by hand — the pale carapace of a hive fleet and the rusted rot of the Death Guard. Shot one model at a time, on black.



Every creature in the fleet uses the same three values of bone and the same violet base. Only the accent moves — teal here, pink there — so a shelf of them still reads as one organism.
Black background, one light. Everything the paint does has nowhere to hide.


The bases are half the picture: frozen violet grit, spent eggs, torn plating. They tell you where the fleet has already been without adding a single word.
The opposite discipline: dirty, oxidised armour against a poisonous acid-green ground, so the eye is pulled down to the feet and back up through the copper.



Eyes, edges and the two square millimetres of freehand are what people actually remember. Everything before them is preparation.







