Hello War Gamers, 

This week we hit a major milestone. Over 30k views and over 1k downloads. I'm really humbled by all the support you have provided me and I'm deeply grateful. 

The story is really coming together, and I'm excited to weave more and more of it into the gameplay. 

The best place to get the latest lore updates is the Discord Server, though I will continue to progressively post updates here as well. 

Attached you will find:

1. Version 0.60 of the rules. I've made some updates to Spotting based on gameplay feedback, clarified how several of the mechanics work, and also added some more Advanced Rules for you all to play with.  This time, it's Critical Hits, abilities that different units have to wreak havoc upon their foes. 
2. Updated model instructions - quite a bit of thought went into these models and it occurred to me that some might not appreciate that the Tank turrets rotate, that the Brassbounders are very posable, and that the Utility Trucks are actually designed to carry a Squad on their back. I hope that's more clear with the current instructions. 

And lastly, the Lore drop. To help you frame yourself in the larger universe, the story below takes place around 20 years before the Adamantine Dawn. As with much of the Lore for this universe, this comes from the mind of R. Ellison from our development team. 

Enjoy,

Bro Dad Brick Works

Excerpt from the Field Log of Lt. Vasily Dragunov, 3rd Special Containment Battalion, Russian Forward operations in [REDACTED], Forward Encampment | 03:10 Local Time 

The sky above the this place never settles. It ripples and shifts, the colors wrong, like oil across water, bleeding hues that shouldn’t exist. The air is thick, heavy with pressure that doesn’t belong here. It feels alive. 

The scouts, Petrova and Novak, ghost ahead into the trees. They’re good—better than good. We’d all be dead ten times over if they weren’t. They slip through the warped forest without so much as a whisper of their cloaks. The ground beneath our boots is unstable, softened by something that seeps from the fractures in the earth. We are close.

 I raise my hand, and the unit stops as one. No words, no unnecessary sound. We learned long ago that noise is death. We were sent here to contain the infestation—to clean up the mess of something that should never have been—but no one told us how to do that. No one warned us what it would feel like to stand before things that don’t belong in this world. 

From the ridge, the village is visible. Or what remains of it. Structures still stand but are stripped bare, covered in the hard, resinous remnants of Jötunn infestation. No signs of life, only the remnants of those who were caught in the wrong place when the creatures came through. Blackened craters mark the landscape where the ground has been burned clean, but nothing stays purged for long in this infernal place. 

The rest of us hold position at the ridge. The land here is wrong; warped. The trees grow in spirals, bark cracked and peeling in ways that defy nature. The ground is uneven, pockmarked with blackened craters where nothing grows. And at the center of it all—just visible beyond the haze of the Tear’s glow—they move. Jötunns.

I press my field glass to my eye, scanning the ruins of what was once a village. Now, a husk. The buildings still stand, but they’re hollowed out, stripped clean, covered in the chitinous residue that clings to everything they touch. 

Towering, segmented shapes that move with unsettling precision, hulking constructs of layered chitin and rigid plating. Their shells are dull black, segmented, and ridged like the carapace of some great beetle. They walk on thick, spined limbs that click against the stones, and their forelimbs end in massive, hooked claws, capable of shearing a man in half. The closest one I can see moves methodically, clawed forelimbs shearing through debris as it sifts through what remains. Its gait is unnervingly smooth, as if it weighs nothing, despite standing nearly three men tall. 

They make no noise. Not at first. They simply exist, moving with a slow, deliberate patience. 

Then the swarm follows. 

Smaller things, faster things. Carapaced, many-limbed creatures that move in a constant, pulsing rhythm. Their legs are thin and pointed, their heads featureless except for ridges of sensory pits that taste the air in pulses. They cling to walls, scuttling in and out of the husks of buildings, always searching. Unlike their larger kin, these things never stop moving. They do not communicate in ways we understand, but the clicking is ceaseless. A vibration that gnaws at the skull, worming beneath the skin and scratching at the base of my skull like nails against bone. 

Novak returns first, crouched low. He reports in a voice that is barely a breath of air that they are picking through what’s left of the bodies. Same as before. They don’t eat, not like we do. But they take. They extract something else. We have seen the remains. Bodies left dry and hollow, bones lined with crystalline residue. Whatever they take, it is not something we can yet define.

Their task is nearly complete. Soon, they will move. If they reach the tree line, we will lose them, and they will spread further. The strategy is the same—suppressing fire from the ridge, targeted rounds at the unarmored joints, fire where we can place it. The Molotov teams prepare, waiting for the signal. 

The largest Jötunn stops. Its featureless head tilts, reacting to something unseen. A pause. A shift in tension.

They know we are here. 

No more waiting. The order is given. The valley ignites in fire and thunder. --Entry Ends--

—

2/22/25, 10:47 PM Excerpt from the Field Log of Lt. Vasily Dragunov, 3rd Special Containment Battalion, Russian Forward operations in [REDACTED], Forward Encampment | 19:40 Local Time 

The valley still smolders. Fires burn low, choked by the unnatural damp that lingers after the Jötunns fall. Their carcasses do not rot. They simply remain, structures of hardened chitin and interwoven plates, bodies twisted in their final moments. Some lie where they were gunned down, joints shattered by armor-piercing rounds, while others, the larger ones, were finally felled by fire. Even now, some pieces twitch—nervous impulses still active in severed limbs. 

We paid dearly for the victory. Nearly half the unit is gone. Those who survived are exhausted, their bodies and minds both frayed. The dead lie in rows at the camp’s edge, wrapped in canvas until we can bury them. No graves in the valley. Not here. We will not risk what lingers in the soil. 

The scientists are already at work. They came in shortly after the last Jötunn fell, stepping over what was left of us with their instruments and measuring devices. They are careful, precise, uninterested in the carnage except for what it might reveal. 

They carve into the remains with hand saws and chisels, collecting samples of the dense, resinous plating. Their main interest, however, lies in the crystalline residue found in the hollowed bones of the village dead. They examine it under magnifying lenses, their voices hushed but urgent. They suspect it is not merely a byproduct of the Jötunn’s feeding process. It is something else entirely. 

I watched as one of them, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, took a fragment of the crystal and held it up to the firelight. His pupils dilated immediately. He staggered back as if struck, breathing hard, muttering something in Polish I didn’t understand. He dropped the sample. No one else touched it after that.

Another group is dissecting one of the smaller Jötunns, peeling back layers of chitin, exposing intricate networks of sinew and hardened cartilage. No recognizable organs. No stomach, no heart. A body that functions without familiar systems. One of the researchers notes that the creatures should not be able to move so fluidly without muscles. Another points out that they do not appear to breathe. 

A third scientist, an older woman with streaks of white in her hair, crouches near the head of a large specimen. She is tracing the patterns along its hardened crest, murmuring about symmetry. She has noticed something strange—etched into the plating, beneath the grime and soot, are ridges and patterns that resemble pathways of... something. 

No one knows what it means. But one thing is certain: the Jötunns are not mindless. 

I step away from the work. The others do the same. We are soldiers, not scholars. We fought. We survived. That is enough. 

The researchers will stay until morning, cataloging their findings before the bodies are burned. Some of them argue against it, saying we are destroying invaluable knowledge. But they do not have to sleep beside these things. They do not hear the distant clicking that still echoes, even though the valley should be silent. 

We leave at first light. No one will look back.

--Entry Ends--