New Arrivals — Minis, Bits & Vehicles

Meet the Miniatures the Official Range Forgot

Your Pile of Shame Just Got 2,000 New Enablers

We didn't add two thousand kits because anyone needs that many choices to paralyze decision making. We added them because sooner or later every warband, campaign, and table needs the one thing the official range was never going to sell you. Whether you play sci-fi, fantasy, trench warfare, tabletop RPGs, or just like painting weird little nightmares, there’s something here for you.

You have a pile of shame. Everyone does. Half a squad primed since March, a box you bought because it was 20% off and you had a feeling, the centerpiece you swore you'd finish before the tournament that already happened.

We just gave it two thousand new reasons to get worse.

Not because you need two thousand of anything. We added them because sooner or later every warband, campaign, and table needs one thing — weird monsters, a better villain, the random piece of junk-tech held together by rust and a prayer — and the official range was never going to make it. They're selling you a faction. We're selling you the miniatures the faction forgot.

Something Is Wrong Here

You don't build dread with a stat block. You build it by putting a miniature on the table and watching the room go quiet.

Yuan-Ti in the tall grass, scales instead of skin, standing a little too ceremonially for comfort — that's the classic hidden-cult reveal in D&D, but it works just as hard as a jungle expedition in Pathfinder, a dungeon faction in Shadowdark or DCC, or a serpent cult you drag into Call of Cthulhu because nobody said reskinning was cheating. Temple guards, boss entourage, "why is the whole village praying to something" — the model doesn't care which system rolls the dice.

It's also a legitimately good painting scheme. Jade and turquoise scales, verdigris bronze, glowing green eyes if you're feeling generous, albino white if you're feeling wrong. Swamp base or jungle base, either one says 'do not touch.'

Then you drop what they were guarding.

Mother of Chaos isn't big. She doesn't need to be — big is easy, memorable is hard. She's the witch queen, the plague mother, the ancient evil your campaign's been building toward for eight sessions, and she's the miniature your players are still talking about at the next table over, months later, when someone asks "what's the worst boss fight you've ever survived?"

She's also where you get to actually paint OSL under the robes, sickly pale flesh, blood effects that don't look like ketchup, corrupted gold trim catching a green warp glow. This is a painting-competition entry that happens to also ruin a session.

Snake cult on the way in. A far worse creature waiting at the altar. That's not a random encounter. It's the campaign your players remember you for.

Mud, Rust, and Impossible Wars

Not every table wants dread. Some tables want grief — the slow kind where nobody's won anything in three years and everybody's stopped pretending they ever will.

If your warband already lives in the mud — post-apoc skirmish, grimdark trench lines that haven't moved since the campaign started — you know this look on sight. You don't need us to tell you it's good. You already screenshotted it for your painting reference folder before you finished reading this sentence.

Rust over ash over mud, chipped paint that tells you exactly which parts get handled and which parts don't, barbed wire bases doing half the storytelling for you. Weathering pigments — actual pigment, actual grime, the difference your painting group can spot from across the room. Not shiny. Nothing that looks issued this decade.

The Thing That Makes Players Stop Talking

Every table has one moment where the side conversations die and everyone actually looks at what you just put down.

This is that model.

A living abattoir. A sewer horror crept up from the muck and onto the table. The lab experiment that ate the notes about how to stop it. Drop it in a dungeon, a sewer crawl, a Mörk Borg one-shot where everyone already expects to die badly — it doesn't need a system-specific justification, it needs a floor to sit on and a party dumb enough to open that door.

And on the bench, this is where you get to be absolutely disgusting. Yeah, we know what lives in the heart of your rotting, meat corpse and that very specific wash on your paint rack. Wet blending, dried blood layered over gloss so it actually reads wet, rust weeping down old metal, rot and slime that make the varnish do real work instead of just being shiny for the sake of it. It's a technique wearing jump-scare as a costume.

Put it on the table. Watch the table go quiet... the good kind of quiet.

Someone Who Shouldn't Be Trusted With Tools

Every warband has a guy. You know the guy. The one who built the thing that's obviously going to explode, knows it's going to explode, and is still standing next to it grinning.

Greenskin tinkerers are the easiest impulse grab in this whole pile because the joke's already loaded — you see the models, you get it, done. And they're not locked to one faction or one game. Any grimdark skirmish warband or post-apoc scrap-crew needs somebody whose repair method is 'hit it harder.' Hazard stripes over oily metal, checkerboard panels, red or yellow paint gone to rust at the edges, glowing welds like the last repair job is still cooling.

If your bits box already looks like a scrapyard, you already own the guy who'd build this. Now go paint him.

What Do I Buy Next?

If none of the above hit the mark, that's fine — the pile's two thousand deep, and you don't need our permission to go dig through it yourself. Here's where to start looking, sorted by what you actually want.

Two thousand new products. One extremely predictable outcome for that pile of shame.

Now go start a NEW PROJECT.