Serpents of the Sea

As 2024 comes to a close, there is one more project ive started. Old World Wolves of the Sea.

Originally, I planned to start an Orcs & Goblins army this year, but when the new Chaos Journal dropped, showcasing an evocative and characterful take on Chaos warbands, I knew it was time to dust off the chaos miniatures I’d hoarded for years. And what a hoard it was—a treasure trove of kits and bits, patiently waiting for their moment to shine.

This project is a chance to return to the roots of my inspirations: Conan the Barbarian movie, the art of Frank Frazetta, and some classic Warhammer Chaos stuff. What excites me most is how the new Chaos lore takes a more grounded approach—this isn’t yet a fully corrupted daemonic force, but rather mortal warlords driven by ambition, glory, and the mysterious powers they bargain with.

Visually, I’ve decided on snow bases for this force. The icy tundra complements the furs and rugged designs of the miniatures perfectly, giving me a chance to experiment with a new basing style while reinforcing the harsh northern origins of the army.

This time, I’m embracing a narrative-driven approach—a goal I’ve often aimed for in my hobby projects but never fully committed to. With Wolves of the Sea, I’m diving headfirst into storytelling, weaving a saga around my warlord, Ssarathan Thul, known to his tribe as Jarl Doom. Let me tell you of the times of high adventure!

For every great invasion, there is a vanguard—a spearhead of riders who herald the coming storm. Fangs of the Windwyrm are relentless hunters, striking deep into the so-called civilized lands to search for weaknesses and treasures worth claiming. Their name is whispered in dread, for where the Fangs strike, the serpent follows, bringing ruin in its wake.

The Fangs of the Windwyrm are drawn from Thul’s original tribe, a brotherhood of horsemen who seek to prove their worth to their Jarl and the gods. Each carries the mark of the serpent—on their weapons, their armor, and their flesh. Their loyalty to Ssarathan Thul is unwavering, for he is both their chieftain and their prophet, a man who walks the line between mortal ambition and the whispers of otherworldly powers.

Snow and ash swirl in their wake as they ride, their movements as silent as shadows, their strikes as venomous as the serpents they revere. These outriders are more than mere scouts—they are harbingers of doom, the first fangs of a serpent poised to strike.


The Frostborn

„The strong take what they want. If a man has a finer blade than you, kill him and take it. If a warrior wears a richer pelt, strip it from his corpse. What is wealth, if not stolen?”

The Frostborn are the raiders and thieves. Unlike the other tribes, they have no true homeland—they live and die by the longship, taking what they need from those too weak to defend it. Before Jarl Doom rose to power, they were feared coastal raiders, striking at rival clans and southern settlements alike, leaving only burning ruins and frozen corpses in their wake.

They joined Ssarathan not out of loyalty, but because his path promised endless war—and war means plunder. These warriors do not care for gods or honor; they fight because battle is profitable, because it is better to kill than to toil, better to steal than to build. Their warriors wear stolen armor, wield looted weapons, and decorate themselves with golden rings, foreign silks, and the bones of southern warriors.

But something has begun to change. Their spoils have taken on a strange quality—shields that seem too heavy, weapons that feel warm to the touch, trophies that whisper in the night. The Frostborn ignore these omens, believing themselves too clever to fall into any god’s trap. Yet, when the war-drums beat, their eyes gleam with something more than greed, their thirst for conquest growing darker, hungrier… and something unseen watches from the deep places of the world.

The Coldfangs
„We were hunters before we were warriors. The world is a beast, and we are its teeth.”

Most come from same tribe as Jarl Doom himself. The Coldfangs do not fight in ordered ranks, nor do they march to war beneath heavy armor. They are hunters first, warriors second, their weapons honed not for massed battle but for the silent kill, the careful stalk, the patient strike. Wearing the furs of creatures that roam the tundra, they are as much beast as man, their eyes gleaming in the torchlight like those of predators lurking beyond the fire’s glow.

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