The STL Trenches

When the battle was over, the poor one-armed wretch crawled across No Man’s Land. A scavenger, a discarded creature who followed the Heresiarch’s armies, too wretched to be accepted among their ranks. He devoted his existence to collecting and amalgamating whatever he could salvage: engines from mechanised armour, sanctified armour plates, fragments of exoskeletons. He gathered everything and feverishly assembled it, desperately trying to shape an offering worthy of the Lords of Avarice. Little by little, it became an unholy, monstrous suit of armour, fashioned from corrupted fragments of the enemy’s most sacred weapons. A pathetic endeavour. His demonic masters had no interest in it. But someone did.Räum, an Archon of Hell. One of those who, after discovering the lies of the false God, rebelled against Him and His servants. They declared war to free humanity from the slavery of the flesh, but were defeated. The Demiurge could not destroy them, so He condemned them to remain within His creation, exiled to Hell and unable to fully enter the mortal world. Tortured and twisted, they still possess immense power and can manifest through flesh and matter, but they remain prisoners of both. The laws of their Jailer force them to act through indirect and perverse means. And Räum envied that freedom as much as he coveted the armour. He lied, manipulated and deceived the one-armed man. At the final moment, he usurped his body and possessed his mind. He claimed the armour and, taking a new form, entered the world, roaring. For a being of his majesty, it was a degradation. But desire was stronger than pride. Now he could fight, lead his forces, crush the mortal followers of the Demiurge, and perhaps one day break his chains and free Hell. His new body is a mountain of distorted metal and flesh, corrupted technology and the finest weapons he can wrest from others. Yet not everything went according to plan. Somewhere within his mind, the tortured soul of the one-armed man survives. Day after day, against Räum’s will, his flesh betrays him. New, barely human arms sprout from his back. Dysfunctional wings twist from his body, an eternal reminder of his disgrace. The posthumous vengeance of a desperate man consumed by ambition.   Pack Content: 2 Body 2 Backpack 2 Wing 5 Head 21 Hand to Hand Weapons 4 Fire Weapons 5 Sorcery Hands 3 Bases This project is an independent production by The Heresiarch and is not affiliated with or sponsored by any company or specific intellectual property Tested with: Elegoo mars 3 Elegoo Standard Resin Presupported and Unsupported 0.03 mm layer height 2,5 seconds exposure time. If you have any issues with printing or supports, don’t hesitate to report them so I can fix them. The Heresiarch is always seeking the perfection of his work.

Becoming a Triarii may not be as glorious as rising to the rank of a Chosen One, but for many soldiers it represents a far more practical path. Entry is reserved for proven veterans, and they form an elite force equipped with the heaviest weapons of the Legion. Few in number, their experience and quality make them an exceptional reinforcement for any warband they join.

During particularly large and brutal offensives, entire battalions of Triarii may be formed, advancing behind the lines of Hastati and Princeps—securing positions, fortifying strongpoints, and annihilating the most resilient enemies in their path. More commonly, however, heavy weapon maniples are split apart and assigned as support to conventional Fusilier units or Assault Troopers. Heavy flamethrowers, machine guns, grenade launchers, and fearsome anti-tank rifles—Triarii possess the skill and discipline required to wield the most destructive tools on the battlefield.

Combined with their imposing presence and heavily reinforced armor, they significantly enhance the effectiveness of any formation they accompany. Their experience and authority bolster morale, assist Acolytes in maintaining discipline, and allow them to act as field officers during combat. In essence, for a capable commander, the proper deployment and management of Triarii is one of the most effective ways to stabilize and professionalize the army.

They also hold a key advantage: their instincts, honed through countless battles, allow them to judge when caution is required and when it is time to unleash the full fury of the Heresiarch.

A common soldier who proves their worth and distinguishes themselves in battle may be promoted to the ranks of the Princeps-Assault Troopers. These units are expected to show absolute fearlessness, cold resolve, and ruthless efficiency. The Princeps specialize in frontal assaults and the defense of critical trench lines. They advance in large testudo formations, protected by their shields and covered by the fire of the Fusiliers. However, it is once they breach the enemy trenches that they truly display their brutal effectiveness.

Shielded by steel plates reinforced with infernal protection sigils, they push through narrow galleries, clearing them with shotgun blasts, SMG fire, and assault grenades. Specialized maniples equipped with heavy shields and trench spears hold corners and chokepoints, forming tight, bristling defensive lines, while other Princeps—armed with lighter shields, short machetes, pistols, and grenades—move through the labyrinthine corridors, hunting down and exterminating any remaining resistance.

The equipment of a Princeps Assault Trooper is designed for durability. Their armor is reinforced with additional plating, greaves, and leather protection. Unlike lower-ranking Fusiliers, they are not expected to carry full campaign gear, as their role is focused entirely on decisive assaults and key offensives; they bear only their armor and personal arsenal.

To belong to this corps is a great honor. Servants and slaves are at their disposal, and the Princeps can be certain that—unlike lesser troops—their lives will not be squandered in expendable assaults by the War Clerics. The most exceptional among them, those who combine religious fervor with remarkable feats in battle, may rise to become one of the Heresiarch’s Chosen—the highest honor a soldier can attain.

The Hastati Fusiliers form the backbone of the Heresiarch’s army: an almost endless tide of soldiers armed with rifles and long distance weapons, recruited from the least skilled of the Cult’s faithful. Inspired by the early formations of ancient Rome, these warriors make up the front line of battle. Their role is to fill the trenches once the Velites have cleared the way and to provide long-range covering fire for the more specialized units advancing behind them.

The Hastati Fusiliers are neither precise marksmen nor skilled tacticians; it is their sheer numbers and their ability to absorb losses without breaking that allow them to hold ground and maintain constant pressure on the front. Their equipment is basic—crude armor, loosely standardized uniforms, sometimes little more than rags—and they carry most of their campaign gear on their backpacks. Their mobility is relatively high, as these masses of soldiers are constantly redeployed wherever they are needed.

In the eyes of the Heresiarch, their value does not lie in individuality, but in their function within the whole. They are the first to be sent into battle, tasked with absorbing the enemy’s initial strike. For many, serving as a Hastati is only the beginning, a test of faith and endurance that, if survived, may open the path to higher ranks within the Legion.

Rome is both an obsession and a mirror for the Heresiarch’s domain. Not only for the mockery it represents—venerating the killers of Christ and perverting their symbols in defiance of the Papacy—but also for the legendary effectiveness of its Legions. Like early Rome, the Heresiarch’s forces are divided by role according to the wealth and equipment of their soldiers.

The Velites-Berserkers are made up of young, destitute recruits who cannot afford proper gear. They are issued only the most basic weapons. To survive, most resort to scavenged pelts and hides, along with lengths of chain stripped from destroyed vehicles. Gunpowder and firearms require industry and resources, which are not wasted on these outcast recruits; instead, they are given crude melee weapons of questionable quality. If a Velite carries a proper weapon or shield, it is almost certainly stolen. Most end up supplementing their arsenal with improvised tools, crudely modified for combat.

The Velites stand only one step above the Slaves and are tasked with similarly miserable duties: building and repairing fortifications, reinforcing low-priority positions, and preparing the ground for more capable regiments. Even so, fury has its uses. When the Veiled Priests need to storm a difficult position and seize new trench lines, they distribute hallucinogens and unholy incense among the Berserkers, inflame their rage, and unleash them like vermin in the first assault. The casualties are always horrific—few survive the machine guns—but once they reach close combat, their frenzy can deliver a bloody surprise to the enemy, buying time and distraction for the following waves of Fusiliers and Assault Troops to advance under relative safety.

The Troopers of the Heresiarch form the backbone of His blasphemous Legions, rank-and-file soldiers recruited from the most fanatical of His followers. Their doctrine and imagery take great inspiration from the ancient armies of Rome, whom the Heresiarch venerates as the executors of Christ. Among the Troopers’ standards one finds torn vexilla marked with heretical sigils, the dreaded draco — serpents in the wind, howling as they channel the battlefield’s currents — and trophy-shrines of skulls and severed heads hanging from masts, marking the victories and honors of each battalion.

The Flags & Music Detachment is a chosen cadre within the Troopers themselves. These soldiers stand one step below the officer ranks, selected for their unwavering loyalty and ritual purity. Their task is to carry the will of the Legions directly into the storm of battle.

The drums mark the rhythm of the advance, the horns and cornua relay the orders of the Priests, and great kettledrums thunder warnings across the trenches. The standard-bearers guide the units through smoke and chaos, raising signals that can be recognized even amidst the bombardment. Serving in the Music & Flags Detachment is both an honor and a burden. They are expected to hold their position to the death, for if a standard falls or a signal is extinguished in the midst of battle, the failure is considered a stain upon the entire Legion — one the Heresiarch does not forgive without exemplary punishment.

Long ago, the Sages were mortal men — scholars of exceptional wisdom and faith, loyal seekers of the Creator’s truths. To the Lords of Avarice in Hell, their corruption was irresistible. Through excess and deceit, their souls were poisoned, their hunger for knowledge fed with forbidden secrets beyond mortal reach.

They were taught the mysteries of the stars and the hidden paths between them; alchemy and the transmutation of flesh; tablets of lost knowledge and forbidden geometries. Every secret of Goetia was offered to fuel their obsession, binding them irrevocably to Hell — both metaphorically and in the flesh. Their bodies were twisted by sorcery, organs fused to metal and blasphemous sigils, their souls sealed within goetic armor designed to contain their immense power in the mortal world and grant them a crude mockery of immortality.

Within their armored torsos lie the echoes of what they once were — a tormented core upon which their magic feeds, capable of tearing reality apart and reshaping it at the whim of their depraved minds.

Among the Legions of the Heresiarch, a blasphemous legend persists: that the first of the Sages were once three holy seekers, distorted reflections of the Wise Men of old. But where the Magi followed a star to kneel before Christ, these scholars turned instead toward a fallen star — a burning sign in the firmament that marked the cradle of the Heresiarch’s birth. There, they sought not salvation, but illumination without submission. The Lord of Greed rewarded their choice, and damned them for it in equal measure.

In the present age, the Sages walk the trenches wherever their impious master believes secrets or riches may be claimed. They are insatiable agents of his will. Their transformed bodies possess the strength to tear apart any soldier foolish enough to stand in their path, and their mastery of dark Goetia is sufficient to alter the course of entire battles.

Long before the Heresiarch’s ascension among the Legions of the Heretics, the Siege Cabal already existed, and was ancient.

No one truly knows how these two powers came together, nor the exact terms of the pact sealed between them. But two things are certain: the Witches of the Siege Cabal march alongside the Heresiarch’s Legions, raining fire and iron upon their enemies; and in return, every time the Heresiarch takes prisoners, one sixth of the captured women are delivered to the Cabal for their rituals. Always one exact sixth.

The numbers are never rounded. If that fraction amounts to “a dozen and a half” or “two fifths of a person,” the Taxing Matrons and the Heresiarch’s Veiled Priests take their measures, weigh, and make the necessary cut. After all, as one might expect, precision in calculation is vital within a sisterhood devoted to the arts of ballistics, goetic geometry, and the dark sciences of siegecraft and bombardment.

Everyone knows that the prisoners are tortured, twisted, and remade. Their minds are erased, and many claim their very souls are torn from their bodies. The witches thus created no longer speak; they need no eyes to see, nor mouths to communicate. When they fight, they do so with the cold precision of automatons, bodies of flesh and steel wrapped in clothes and armor, like perverse and lethal dolls. The rest of the time, they simply stand motionless, waiting until the Cabal, or the priests who command them, assign their next mission.

The only question that remains is what truly dwells within their bodies, and under whose power they move and respond.
Some believe the True Cabal are ancient beings, dwelling in secret temples, cursed by God never to walk the earth or see the sun—fighting their wars and exacting vengeance through these puppet vessels.
Others, more pessimistic still, claim that the witches are nothing but hollow shells of a soulless intelligence—born from impossible equations, intangible code woven from infernal spells and corrupted algorithms. As if the insidious demons that rule the forges of Hell had simply experimented to create something that replicates, destroys, and endures at all costs—existing only to offend the Creator, endlessly, without purpose or end