Sacred Scouts: The Last Flight

A Diorama of Doom, Dust, and Silent Ends

There are builds that come to life slowly—brick by brick, stroke by stroke—and then there are those that are dragged into existence, forged in a fever of glue, grit, and absolute creative obsession.

This was the latter.

After four unbroken days at the bench—fueled by equal parts adrenaline and dark inspiration—I’m proud to reveal our submission to the Trench Crusade Miniature Painting Competition, hosted by MyMiniFactory.

" Sacred Scouts: The Last Flight" is a grim snapshot set in a decaying trench and bunker system, long forgotten… and for good reason.

The Scene

The diorama captures a single, silent moment.A young Aviarist, clad in ritual armor and clutching his relic birdcage, steps cautiously into the broken silence. Beside him, a Sniper Priest—wreathed in iconography and bristling with rusted weaponry—covers the approach with cold, measured resolve.

They’ve been sent to investigate why communications ceased weeks ago.

They won’t be sending a reply.

This scene—frozen in miniature—marks the final heartbeat of both men. You don’t see their death. You see their breath… the moment before fate howls through the cracks of the earth.

It is a portrait of anticipation, dread, and the eerie quiet of a battlefield long gone still.

The Build

There was no time to document the process.This build wasn’t made in chapters—it was carved out in a single act of war-fueled madness. Four straight days of cutting foam, smashing pigments, tweaking poses, weathering rust, and breathing life into lifeless plastic.

I worked under the deadline like a trench rat chased by angels—glancing at the clock only to watch it bleed.

And when it was done… I sat in silence with it, much like the outpost it represents.

The Story Behind the Scene

Below is the accompanying short narrative submitted with the piece—intended to be read as you view the diorama:

Sacred Scouts: The Last Flight

The wind howled down the trench corridor, a low and guttural scream that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Chaplain Joah knelt in the wet mud, his rifle resting steady across a shattered plank. His empty eyes stared forward, hollow sockets calling outward. The priest had blinded himself years ago in the rites of the Order — an act of devotion to God, trusting only in faith to strike the enemies of the Church.

During the Siege of St. Lux, stories told of a sniper priest who killed a target three miles away. Joah carried that legend in whispers behind his name.

"Father," whispered James, the boy of about 13, behind him. The aviarist's trembling hands clutched the straps of his carrier. Young pigeons, sleek and grey, shifted uneasily within. "Something's wrong."

"Everything's wrong," Joah muttered, adjusting the sights. His fingers moved with the precision of prayer, counting each notch in the rifle's scope as he calibrated distance and wind. "We were sent to confirm that."

The trench had fallen weeks ago — but no one reclaimed the bodies, where were they? Command needed word of what stirred in the abandoned earthworks. Joah had seen enough war to know what corpses became when left too long in the cold. A shape moved beyond the ruin. He sensed it — breath steadying as he felt the subtle shift of wind down the trench. A human figure, pale and twisted, dragging itself along on splintered limbs. Joah exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked like thunder, and the figure collapsed into the mud. It twitched — and then began to rise again.

"Pigeons. Now." Joah barked.

James hurried to whisper a coded message into the pigeon’s ear. The first bird fluttered skyward, winging toward safer skies, but was abruptly shot down by someone unseen. From the trench beyond came a sound like dry leaves rattling in a skull. Figures emerged — crawling, shambling, twitching. These were no mere corpses — they were the Wretched. The unfortunate souls who possessed not a drop of demon blood. Disposable shock troops or subjects of torture to power the Goetic magic of sorcerers and other dark arts. Scarred by the horrors of damnation, their minds were broken. Willing to do anything to escape their fate a million times worse than death, they clung to twisted, desperate purpose. Faces pale and slack, wounds gaping like grins. Joah fired again, and again. Each shot crushed bone and tore through brittle flesh, but the Wretched did not stop.

"Second bird," Joah growled.

James worked frantically, but the boy's hands shook. The second pigeon leapt skyward, but too late — a pale figure burst from the trench wall like a spider from a web, snatching the bird mid-flight. It tore into the pigeon, red mist blooming in the air.

"Saints preserve us..." Joah whispered. "The third bird. Go!" Joah swung his rifle around to slam the buttstock into the nearest Wretched's skull, caving it in like wet clay.

James cackled out a frantic message to the pigeon but couldn't get it to the bird in time. He was stumbling, and scared.

"Go! Go! Go!" Joah shouted, dragging James toward a break in the trench. The boy stumbled and fell. Joah turned to haul him upright — and felt ice spread through his gut. A hand — grey, cracked, and cold — clutched Joah's wrist. The Wretched's dead eyes locked where his used to be. They held no rage, no purpose. Only hunger.

"Run!" Joah roared, shoving James away.

The boy staggered back as the priest drove his knife into the Wretched's throat. The trench swarmed with the damned. James scrambled up a steep incline, ignoring Joah's screams as the figures closed in, and found enough space and time to release his third and last pigeon, a sole beacon of news for Command.

Above the gore, the pigeon sailed through the cold air, wings beating furiously against the dark. The last message soared homeward — bloodied, but whole.

View the Entry

Each miniature was painted with an emphasis on mood and muted tones—letting rust, ash, and grime tell the story. The terrain was built from layered foam, latex, LED circuitry, weathered plastic, cardboard, real dirt, and a whisper of madness.

Final Thoughts

This piece was born fast, but it was not careless. Every detail, every scratch, every droop of ash on concrete was placed with intention. It’s not just a submission—it’s a memorial. A moment frozen before annihilation.

This is the kind of story Brass & Bone exists to tell—where narrative, atmosphere, and making all collide in tragic, beautiful ruin.

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