Born from the wreckage of a downed Explorator vessel on an untamed feudal world, the "Omnissiah’s Dirge" is a terrifying war host forged from brutal pragmatism. To ensure their survival, Archmagos Zarkon and his stranded Mechanicum elites enslaved the planet's native tribes, reshaping proud warriors into heavily augmented, techno-barbarian shock troops. Now, the cold, ancient discipline of surviving Secutarii and Sicarian Infiltrators fights alongside Feral Cyberzerkers and Volt-Snipers - tragic fusions of ruined flesh, crude cybernetics, and unstable radiation weaponry. Clad in tattered ceremonial crimson and rusting iron, this savage horde marches under the sickly glow of scavenged reactor cores, a grim and tragic testament to the relentless, conquering logic of the Machine God.

Mechanicum Explorator Forces

Archmagos Zarkon, Forge-Warden of the Crash-Born Horde and his retinue of Secutarii that wield shields and gun-spears.
Infiltrator Princeps Ferrok and his squad of Sicarian Infiltrators.

The feudal barbarian forces enslaved and modified by the stranded Mechanicus

Brute-Lord Xygor, wielding a massive chainglaive and mounted atop a cybernetically enhanced local predator: a Dread-Rig Beast with two sponson-mounted weapons; a twin gatling boltgun and radiation-based flamethrower.
Warshaman Gritjaw and his close combat specialists, the Feral Cyberzerkers. They wield short range, radiation-based blasters and each have one arm grafted with a melee power weapon.
Warshaman Grulvak and his ranged combat specialists, the Volt-Snipers. They wield long range, radiation-based beam weapons.

Secutarii

A sentinel of iron and dogma, the Secutarii stands its ground, a bastion of the Archmagos’s will made manifest. This is no savage conscript or skulking assassin, but a disciplined protector, a living shield wall forged in the high temples of a Forge World now lost to the stars. Its heavy, robed form is anchored to the blighted earth, suggesting an unyielding resolve, a stark contrast to the predatory restlessness of the lesser troops.

Its entire being is oriented around defence and retribution. A large, kite-shaped shield, its surface pitted and scored from countless impacts, is held foremost. The deep crimson paint is worn away in places, revealing the dark iron beneath, while a simple, hand-painted symbol of the Cog Mechanicum adorns its centre - a defiant declaration of faith in a god-machine half a galaxy away.

From behind the shield, the long haft of an arc-lance extends, its gleaming tip promising a swift, shocking end to any who breach the perimeter. Yet this is no simple spear; integrated seamlessly into its structure is a radium fusil, its arcane workings glowing with the same sickly, familiar light as the army's other weapons. This duality of purpose - the ancient spear form married to hyper-advanced radiation weaponry - is the very essence of the Secutarii's deadly art.

The warrior itself is almost entirely encased in the crimson robes and bronze-hued armour of its order. Its head, a complex array of sensors and vocalisers beneath a heavy helmet, is fixed forward, the single glowing optic lens scanning its assigned sector with tireless vigilance. A complex power pack, its machinery exposed and whirring softly, rises from its back, feeding energy to both its augmented body and the deadly weapon it wields.

This soldier is a living fossil from before the crash, a remnant of a more glorious, orderly time. Unlike the techno-barbarians born of desperation, the Secutarii embodies cold, unwavering duty. It is a silent, immovable testament to the Archmagos's authority, its presence a constant, ominous reminder that even stranded and diminished, the true power of the Omnissiah still endures.

Infiltrators

An unnerving figure of crimson and steel, the Sicarian Infiltrator stalks through the undergrowth, a relic of the advanced force that crashed and fell. Unlike the crude fusions of flesh and scrap that form the bulk of the war host, this creature is a pure and terrible product of Mars, its every line speaking of engineered death. Its lithe, multi-jointed legs, wrought from pitted and corroded metal, allow it to move with an insectile grace, each step placed with silent, calculated precision upon the alien soil.

The Infiltrator's torso and head are encased in the deep crimson armour of the Mechanicum, the colour of dried blood under a dying sun. Its face is an emotionless mask of brass and iron, dominated by a cluster of optical lenses that glow with a faint, yellow-green light - the same sickly hue as the weapons of its conscripted servants. A complex rebreather apparatus covers where a mouth would be, filtering the hostile atmosphere through whirring purifiers while emitting a low, unsettling hum.

Its left arm terminates not in a hand, but in a long, needle-like taser goad, its tip crackling with barely-suppressed energy. The right arm has been replaced entirely by a wicked, three-pronged claw, each talon sharpened to a monomolecular edge, poised and ready to rip through armour and flesh alike. There is no wasted component, no vestige of humanity to be seen; it is a being distilled to its function as a terror-weapon and assassin.

This is not a conscripted native or a desperate survivor. This is one of the original hunters from the crashed vessel, a ghost of the Mechanicum's full might. It moves with a chilling purpose that the brutish Cyberzerkers can only mimic, a high-tech predator now forced to stalk a primitive world, its very presence a grim reminder of the power that was lost and the cold, relentless logic that endured.

Cyberzerkers

A brutal effigy of steel and flesh, the Feral Cyberzerker lurches forward, its form a testament to battlefield desperation. The once-proud torso of a tribal warrior - covered in the faded green of old bruises and the raised scars of clan markings - is now a canvas for the Mechanicum's grim artistry. Burn-etched cog-tooth sigils have been seared over tribal tattoos, brutally overwriting culture with dogma, while pneumatic tubing breaches the skin not with surgical precision, but as if the machine-spirit itself has violently erupted from within.

Its head is locked within a spiked, reinforced helm, its shape more akin to a captured beast's snarling visage than a soldier's helmet. From this twisted half-mask, two sickly yellow lenses glare with malevolent intensity, a mimicry of life above a flensed jawline where flesh has been stripped back to make way for a vox-grille that emits only static-laced growls.

The left arm is a monstrous tool of slaughter, a blocky servo-fist forged from the stripped-down components of a wrecked power-harness. You can spot the crude, blackened welds where ceramite plates and spike-like fenders have been fused directly to bone. Thick, greasy cables bypass atrophied muscle, feeding electromotive power straight into the marrow - a perversion of anatomy designed for one purpose: to crush and to kill.

Its right hand grips a radiation-blaster, a short-ranged terror weapon whose power cell hums with an unstable, sickly green glow that pulses in time with the creature's ragged breathing. The weapon’s casing is a crude shell, suggesting it was cobbled together from the lander’s damaged reactor shielding.

Cracked crimson cloth, the last remnant of a warrior’s ceremonial garb, hangs in oil-splattered shreds from its waist. It is a final, pathetic nod to the feudal world now shackled to the Mechanicum’s will. This is the tragic symbiosis of the Omnissiah's Dirge in its most raw form: a fallen tribesman not merely augmented, but transfigured into a techno-barbarian horror, each detail speaking of a world where ambition and survival have forged something monstrous and new.

Volt-Snipers

A hunched, predatory silhouette, the Volt-Sniper remains utterly still, a grim fusion of tribal huntsman and arcane machine. Its posture is not that of a disciplined soldier, but of a patient stalker, its organic frame twisted to better serve the long-range rifle that has become its new purpose.

Its head is encased in a scavenged helm resembling the bleached skull of some native predator, now retrofitted with dull, bronze-coloured plating. A single, multi-lensed optical array glows with a faint, sickly green light, replacing whatever eye was once beneath. This isn't merely a sight; it is the sniper's world, a constant stream of targeting data and radiation-flux readings fed directly into its modified brain.

The rifle itself is a masterwork of battlefield salvage and brutal ingenuity. A gnarled wooden stock, perhaps from a primitive feudal crossbow, is bolted crudely to the central housing of an unstable radiation core. This core, the source of the weapon's power, pulses with a contained, yellowish-green energy, visible through a reinforced crystalline plate. The long, pitted iron barrel ends in a complex series of focusing coils and a cruel-looking bayonet, a final argument for when its nest is compromised.

The creature’s right arm and shoulder have been almost entirely subsumed by the weapon's bulk, with thick cables snaking from the rifle's power cell and plunging directly into its flesh, sutured into place with thick, dark wire. Its armour is piecemeal - a single pauldron fashioned from rusted metal and what looks like the chitin of a local beast protects one shoulder, while its scabrous, pale skin is visible elsewhere, criss-crossed with surgical scars and weeping nutrient fluid from leaky bio-ports.

Vestiges of its former life cling to it like ghosts. Tattered leather straps, etched with forgotten tribal runes, now serve to hold ammunition cells and power packs in place, their original meaning lost to the cold logic of the Machine God.

Overall, this figure is a perversion of the hunter's instinct. The patient cunning of the feudal native has been hollowed out and refilled with the cold, calculating hunger of the Omnissiah. Every component - from the skull-faced helm to the radiation-scarred flesh - is a testament to the Mechanicum's brutal pragmatism, a living weapon forged from the ruins of a broken world and a shattered culture.