The STL Trenches

Lord of Leeches – once a devoted battlefield healer, known for using leeches to cleanse wounds and draw sickness from dying soldiers. He walked among the fallen as a symbol of fragile hope, saving lives where others saw only death.

But over time, surrounded by endless suffering and despair, he began to crave more than simple healing. Dark whispers offered him power—the ability not just to cure, but to control life itself. He gave in, and his methods became something far more sinister.

His leeches no longer fed on disease, but on strength, vitality, and the very soul. The wounded he once saved became his victims, drained slowly as he stole their last remnants of life.

At the heart of his corruption lies a single monstrous leech that burrowed into his body and never left. With every life he drains, it grows larger, twisting and tearing him from within. His body decays and stretches under its presence, yet he continues to feed, bound to the hunger he created.

Now, he wanders the battlefield as a cursed figure—no longer a healer, but a living parasite, feared by all who still cling to life.

Note: Physical Model

Two Gluttons, cursed together to wander the earth, filled with insatiable hunger. One, mutated beyond recognition of the mortal it once was, feels the constant need to consume but is no longer able to swallow things it hopes to devour.  No matter what it tries, it cannot eat, but still grows in size. Blessed by foul plague demons, new, putrid apendages and growths sprout from it's disgusting mass. The maddening process causes agonising pain as it is driven to greater acts of despiration to satiate it's hunger. This being, is known only as feast, though it may never do so.  The Second, s husk of what once was, is destined to wither no matter how much it consumes. Carried in the mouth of it's companion, it's body is mangled and tortured with every attempt to eat that it's disgusting ally makes. This rotten husk is the being known as Famine.  Neither are able to die, no wound can permanently kill them, nor can their foul gluttony claim them.  Both are cursed to wander the earth, mangled and mutated by dark blessings from gluttonous masters and driven by a hunger that neither will ever be freed from. One grows grotesque despite it's inability to consume, while the other withers and rots as if in the midst of a desperate famine, despite never stopping it's consumption.  Now arising as a singular entity, their gluttonous needs have driven them mad. As their hunger grows more desperate by the day, it was inevitable that human flesh would become their vile craving. Now they wander the battlefield, consuming who and what they will, and leaving nought but devestation in their wake.  Fear the comming of the servants of gluttony, fear the cursed creation known as Feast and Famine.   

Hello and welcome to the first minature created to support the Feelnopaint youtube channel. Over the five years i've been back in the hobby i've always tried to use the platform that i have to do some good for those around me and give back to my community.   

So, every purchase of this minature will donate 10% of the proceeds to a charity of my subscribers choice for every 20 of these STLS's that are sold.  the rest is split between myself and the STL's creator, so that i can hopefully bring you more grim and gritty minatures for you table top needs.  For now though, feast your eyes on feast and Famine, and if you'd like to check out my channel that covers the lore of games like 1490 doom, Trench crusade and Konflikt47, then head to the link below: https://www.youtube.com/@FeelNoPaintStudios   or find me on instagram at: https://www.instagram.com/charityminipainter/   Thank you all for coming, and i'll see you all soon.    -Duke (Feel No paint)

No description

Nobody knows where the Lord of the Heavy Metal comes from. Some say he was once a knight of the Lament of Black Tears who went mad after hearing the funeral songs of a dead plague-lord for too many years. Others claim he crawled from a crater in No Man’s Land with a burning amplifier chained to his back and a guitar-axe clutched in his hands, already playing. The oldest stories insist he was not born at all, but summoned by noise, by grief, and by the endless need of the march to turn suffering into something loud enough to shake the sky. He does not lead armies. He appears. One night the battlefield is silent except for distant shellfire, and the next there is a low growl rolling through the trenches like thunder beneath the earth. Then comes the music. Heavy, distorted, impossibly loud. Soldiers hear the first riff long before they see him. By the time he finally emerges through the smoke, standing atop a burning tank or a pile of corpses, it is already too late to mistake him for anything mortal. The Lord of the Heavy Metal wears rusted plate covered in spikes, chains, funeral bells, and strips of black leather. In his hands he carries the instrument that made him a legend: a colossal guitar-axe forged from coffin wood, rusted iron, and sharpened steel. One edge is lined with brutal blades, the other with strings made from braided nerve and barbed wire. He can split a man from shoulder to waist with it, then drag the same edge across the strings to unleash a scream of feedback that rattles windows, bursts eardrums, and sends entire lines into panic. The Funeral-Bound Serfs believe he appears wherever the battle is most hopeless. They say the wounded rise to follow him, that the Chorus of the Fly circles overhead like shrieking backup singers, and that even the guns of the enemy begin to fire in rhythm with his riffs. There are stories of him challenging enemy commanders to face him alone atop shattered bunkers, promising them that if they can outplay him, he will let them live. Nobody ever wins. The music only gets louder, the solos only grow longer, and by the end the battlefield belongs to him. To the Lament of Black Tears, he is not a commander or a saint. He is a legend. A wandering avatar of noise, destruction, and impossible confidence. He arrives without warning, turns massacres into concerts, and vanishes before the smoke clears, leaving behind only broken bodies, ringing ears, and whispers that somewhere, far away, the next song has already begun. “Now raise your horns. This is the last song the world will ever hear.” 🖨️ Perfect for resin printing 🎨 A dream for painters and grimdark collectors   One model – “Lord of the Funeral March”, designed by Wargames Crew   Total size 53mm Base size is 32mm These files were professionally supported and test printed by Anycubic M7.

Lord of the Funeral March The Lord of the Funeral March stands alone at the head of the procession, a towering mass of bloated flesh and iron whose presence dominates the battlefield even through smoke and ruin. His body carries the full stigma of the Lament: sagging, pallid skin split by old sores, heavy swine-like features locked in a permanent snarl, and eyes that endlessly weep thick black blood. A tattered mantle hangs from his shoulders like a parody of a knightly cloak, while in his grasp rests a colossal cleaver, chipped and rusted, lifted not in ceremony but by long, exhausted habit. Once a high-ranking knight and battlefield commander, he is now the sole remaining leader of the Lament of Black Tears. When their former plague-lord was destroyed, every chain of command collapsed into grief and chaos. The Lord of the Funeral March endured not because he was the strongest, but because his will broke last. In the aftermath, he gathered the remnants of the band and bound them together through punishment, ritual executions, and shared misery. Titles have lost their meaning, yet all others follow him instinctively, sensing in him the final echo of lost authority. Now he serves the Antipope, hollowed of hope but sharpened into purpose. To him, obedience is enforced through death, and execution has become a sacred act meant to remind his followers that only suffering remains constant. In war he leads from the front, advancing slowly and without hesitation, drawing fire, hatred, and despair alike. His presence steadies the Lament not through inspiration, but through inevitability; where he walks, retreat is no longer conceivable. The Lord of the Funeral March is neither prophet nor savior, but a living sentence carried out upon the world. He exists to ensure that the Lament of Black Tears never disperses, never forgets, and never finds rest. As long as he draws breath, the procession will continue, step by step, execution by execution, until the world itself answers for what it has taken. 🖨️ Perfect for resin printing 🎨 A dream for painters and grimdark collectors   One model – “Lord of the Funeral March”, designed by Wargames Crew The set includes: Three head options (a human head with a crown, a pig head with a hat, and a pig head without a hat) Putrid shotgun Two-handed sword Mace Shield Censer Two belly options Total size 75mm Base size is 32mm These files were professionally supported and test printed by Anycubic M7.

a Malignant lord of Tumours includes 3 sexy servants ready to print

Trench Bugs - мiniature Series based on art by @possumxking

Spawned from the rot of endless wars, these insectoid prophets carry the gifts of decay, spreading pestilence and faith alike through the trenches. Their shells ooze corruption, their wings hum with disease, and their eyes gleam with feverish devotion to the plague that birthed them.

bases not included

The set contains 10 models :

squash bug (60mm base)

hound (30x60 mm base)

zombie bug х3 (25 mm base)

knight bug  (32 mm base)

fly (40 mm base)

bug defender х2 (32 mm base)

blister bug (40 mm base)

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