When I first began exploring the art of miniature painting, I had only a limited understanding of the techniques that more experienced painters often took for granted, and it was through projects like the Frostgrave cultists that I found myself experimenting with methods that pushed me outside my comfort zone. The decision to start with Zenithal Highlights was not something that came from mastery but rather from curiosity, and the moment I held the airbrush in my hand to apply that first primer layer, I realized that this was going to change the way I approached painting forever. Zenithal highlighting, at its core, is about capturing the natural way light falls on a figure by layering lighter tones over darker ones, creating a subtle gradient that guides the painter and adds depth to the finished miniature. For someone who had never worked with it before, this felt both daunting and exciting, as it presented an opportunity to blend technical skill with artistic instinct. The Frostgrave cultists became my canvas for this learning, a chance to explore how shadows and light interact on small forms, and although I knew there would be mistakes along the way, the process itself felt like an initiation into a new level of painting.
What struck me most during those early moments was how transformative the priming stage alone could be. Normally, priming had always seemed like a necessary but unremarkable step, something to simply prepare the miniature for color, but with Zenithal the primer itself became a tool for defining character. Watching the soft transitions from black to grey to white appear across the folds of the robes on the cultists gave me a sense that the figures were already beginning to come alive, even before any paint touched them. It was at this point that I began to appreciate how much miniature painting is not simply about applying color but about understanding light, about imagining the environment that the figures inhabit and how it shapes their presence. The cultists, with their hoods and sinister stances, seemed perfectly suited to this method, and as the primer layers built up, I could see them taking on a sense of depth that would guide every decision I made afterward.
Of course, excitement and reality do not always align perfectly, and as I worked through those first attempts I quickly discovered how critical small details were. My flow aid ratios, for example, were far from precise, and I often found myself fighting with consistency in the paint. The washes I tried to apply sometimes pooled too heavily in the recesses, sometimes too lightly on the edges, and it was only after several mistakes that I learned how delicate the balance needed to be. Following Les’ Dirty Wash recipe gave me a framework, but the practice of applying it forced me to pay attention in ways I had never done before. The cultists became a classroom, every error a lesson, and though I sometimes grew frustrated with uneven highlights or over-darkened shadows, I realized that this was the process by which painters truly learn: not by getting everything right the first time but by refining through failure. I began to notice where my technique faltered, where brush control needed improvement, and where patience was the most important tool of all.
The greatest breakthrough came when I started to embrace color as more than an afterthought layered over the primer but as an extension of the mood created by the Zenithal work. For the cultists, purple and red felt like natural choices, evoking the imagery of otherworldly cults steeped in eldritch horror, but applying these tones over the gradients already present created a richness I had not anticipated. The folds of the robes seemed to carry weight and dimension, the highlights glowing subtly where the airbrush had left its touch, the shadows deepening in the recesses in a way that added menace. This blending of technique and theme was where I truly began to understand the potential of Zenithal highlighting. It was no longer just a mechanical step; it was a storytelling tool, shaping the atmosphere of the figures in ways that connected them to the narratives of games like Rangers of Shadow Deep or Frostgrave itself. For the first time, I felt like I was not simply painting miniatures but breathing a kind of life into them.
Even with all of the excitement, there was a lingering sense of humility in realizing how much I had yet to learn. Each cultist I finished carried the evidence of experimentation, from brushstrokes that wandered where they should not have, to color transitions that did not quite align with the imagined light source. Yet despite these flaws, the figures marked a milestone in my journey. They represented not just a new set of skills but a shift in perspective, from seeing painting as a task to viewing it as an art form. What made this experience even more meaningful was how it connected to gaming itself. These cultists were not destined to remain static displays on a shelf but would become part of living stories on the tabletop, where dice rolls and player choices would animate them further. The imperfections mattered less when seen in the context of play, and instead of critiquing every mistake, I began to appreciate the figures as companions in storytelling, imperfect yet full of personality. That realization, more than any technical advance, was what solidified my passion for the hobby, convincing me that every experiment, every highlight, every wash was worth the effort because it contributed to something larger than the miniature alone.
The Journey into Miniature Painting and First Attempts with Zenithal Highlights
When I first decided to purchase the Frostgrave cultists from Northstar, I had no idea how much they would come to represent a turning point in my miniature painting journey. They were meant to be simple gaming pieces to prepare for Rangers of Shadow Deep: Temple of Madness, nothing more than functional models on the table, but the moment I primed them, they became much more than that. For the first time, I decided to experiment with Zenithal Highlights, a technique that had fascinated me from the distance but seemed almost too advanced for someone still learning the fundamentals. The idea of applying black, grey, and white primers in layers to mimic the way light falls from above made sense in theory, but I had never tried it myself. Holding the airbrush and making those first passes over the dark base felt like an initiation into a deeper layer of the hobby. I had painted before, but never with this kind of attention to light, depth, and form. The cultists became my classroom, my first attempt at integrating technique with artistry, and even though mistakes were inevitable, there was excitement in every step.
As the layers built up, I began to see how much of a difference the primer itself could make. Normally, priming had been a perfunctory task for me, a way to prepare the figure so that paint would adhere, but with Zenithal the priming was the first brushstroke of a larger canvas. The folds of the cultists’ robes seemed to gain life as light grey crept over the black, and the final touches of white along the raised areas gave me a preview of how the finished models might catch the eye. It was a revelation to see that before any color had been applied, the figures already carried depth and contrast. For a long time I had thought of miniature painting as a process of layering paint until the right look emerged, but here I discovered that the foundation mattered just as much as the final coat. It was humbling to realize that many painters I admired had likely mastered this years ago, but for me it was like opening a door to a new room in a familiar house.
Of course, with new techniques come new frustrations, and I quickly ran into challenges that tested both my patience and my willingness to learn. My flow aid ratios were inconsistent, leading to washes that sometimes spread too thinly and at other times pooled so heavily that they obscured the highlights I had worked to establish. I leaned on Les’ Dirty Wash recipe as a guide, but the execution was another story. The cultists bore the evidence of my trial and error, with some areas looking muddy where I had been careless and others shining too brightly where I had been too timid. At first, I was disappointed, feeling that I had wasted the opportunity, but over time I came to understand that mistakes were part of the practice. Each uneven stroke and each misplaced wash became a reminder of the importance of control, patience, and the subtlety required to let the Zenithal base do its work. The cultists may not have been perfect, but they taught me lessons I could not have learned without diving in and trying.
Once the frustrations began to settle, I found myself captivated by the effect of layering color over the Zenithal foundation. I had chosen purples and reds for their robes, shades that carried the eerie atmosphere of cultists steeped in otherworldly devotion, reminiscent of figures drawn from tales of cosmic horror. As I applied the paint, I noticed how the tones behaved differently depending on whether they fell over darker or lighter primer, creating natural gradients without the painstaking blending I had once thought necessary. The purples deepened in the shadows, while the reds glowed softly on the highlights, giving the robes a texture and dimension that exceeded my expectations. For the first time, I felt like I was not just painting for function but painting to evoke a mood, to bring a story into the figures. These cultists no longer looked like mere plastic; they looked like characters stepping out of a narrative, their sinister presence enhanced by the interplay of light and color.
Despite the breakthroughs, I still wrestled with self-consciousness during the process. At PAX Unplugged, when I first saw prototypes of POG Throne, I had been struck by how liberating it was to throw objects without worrying about appearances. Yet when it came to painting, I still carried the burden of being a “serious” hobbyist who should be striving for flawless technique. This tension made me hesitant, holding back when I might have pushed further with bold highlights or deeper shadows. Looking back, I regret not leaning more fully into that freedom, not allowing myself to paint with the same abandon that POG Throne encouraged in play. But even this awareness was valuable, because it revealed how much of painting is psychological as well as technical. To truly improve, I needed not only better control of my brushes but also a willingness to let go of fear and embrace the imperfections that make the process personal.
As the cultists neared completion, I found myself reflecting on how much this one set of figures had already taught me. They were far from my best work, but they represented a bridge between who I was as a painter and who I wanted to become. The Zenithal technique had opened my eyes to the importance of light and shadow, the washes had forced me to confront my weaknesses in paint handling, and the colors had shown me how atmosphere could be built from the ground up. More than that, the act of painting them had rekindled a joy in the hobby that sometimes got lost in the rush to finish figures for gaming. Instead of worrying about deadlines or comparing myself to others, I was able to focus on the journey itself, the quiet satisfaction of watching cultists emerge layer by layer into something unique.
In the end, these Frostgrave cultists were not just practice figures but markers of growth. They carried the evidence of mistakes and triumphs alike, reminders that improvement is not linear but built through cycles of effort, error, and discovery. Looking at them on the table, I could see not only the sinister faces of game-ready enemies but also the story of my own progress as a painter. They became more than gaming pieces; they became symbols of resilience, creativity, and the willingness to learn. And as I looked forward to bringing them into games of Rangers of Shadow Deep, I realized that the real victory was not in the perfect highlight or flawless wash but in the fact that I had dared to try, to step into the unknown, and to find joy in the process itself.
As the layers built up, I began to see how much of a difference the primer itself could make. Normally, priming had been a perfunctory task for me, a way to prepare the figure so that paint would adhere, but with Zenithal the priming was the first brushstroke of a larger canvas. The folds of the cultists’ robes seemed to gain life as light grey crept over the black, and the final touches of white along the raised areas gave me a preview of how the finished models might catch the eye. It was a revelation to see that before any color had been applied, the figures already carried depth and contrast. For a long time I had thought of miniature painting as a process of layering paint until the right look emerged, but here I discovered that the foundation mattered just as much as the final coat. It was humbling to realize that many painters I admired had likely mastered this years ago, but for me it was like opening a door to a new room in a familiar house. That moment shifted my outlook: suddenly, priming wasn’t just preparation, it was storytelling through shadow and light.
Of course, with new techniques come new frustrations, and I quickly ran into challenges that tested both my patience and my willingness to learn. My flow aid ratios were inconsistent, leading to washes that sometimes spread too thinly and at other times pooled so heavily that they obscured the highlights I had worked to establish. I leaned on Les’ Dirty Wash recipe as a guide, but the execution was another story. The cultists bore the evidence of my trial and error, with some areas looking muddy where I had been careless and others shining too brightly where I had been too timid. At first, I was disappointed, feeling that I had wasted the opportunity, but over time I came to understand that mistakes were part of the practice. Each uneven stroke and each misplaced wash became a reminder of the importance of control, patience, and the subtlety required to let the Zenithal base do its work. The cultists may not have been perfect, but they taught me lessons I could not have learned without diving in and trying. With every misstep, I became more comfortable admitting to myself that painting was not about flawless execution but about continuous improvement.
Once the frustrations began to settle, I found myself captivated by the effect of layering color over the Zenithal foundation. I had chosen purples and reds for their robes, shades that carried the eerie atmosphere of cultists steeped in otherworldly devotion, reminiscent of figures drawn from tales of cosmic horror. As I applied the paint, I noticed how the tones behaved differently depending on whether they fell over darker or lighter primer, creating natural gradients without the painstaking blending I had once thought necessary. The purples deepened in the shadows, while the reds glowed softly on the highlights, giving the robes a texture and dimension that exceeded my expectations. For the first time, I felt like I was not just painting for function but painting to evoke a mood, to bring a story into the figures. These cultists no longer looked like mere plastic; they looked like characters stepping out of a narrative, their sinister presence enhanced by the interplay of light and color. Painting had shifted from a mechanical act to a creative act, where choices about shade and placement could evoke fear, mystery, or menace.
The Process of Painting Frostgrave Cultists and Experimenting with Colors
Once I had laid the foundation of Zenithal Highlights on the Frostgrave cultists, I moved into the next stage of painting with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. The decision to use purple and red tones for their robes was not random but rooted in a desire to capture a sense of menace, mystery, and occult devotion. I wanted them to resemble cultists in service to some forgotten god or eldritch master, and those colors seemed to fit perfectly with that vision. As I layered the first thin coats over the gradients created by the primer, I realized just how transformative this stage could be. The Zenithal base guided the paint in unexpected ways: purple over black created deep shadows that seemed to recede into the folds of the robes, while the same purple over grey or white took on a lighter, more vibrant hue. Red, too, seemed to blaze on the highlighted areas while darkening in the shadows, and the combination of these tones created a contrast that felt alive. For the first time, I felt I was not simply painting miniatures but painting characters whose story was being told through color.
As I worked, I experimented with how much layering was enough. Too many coats of paint dulled the Zenithal effect, while too few left the surface uneven or patchy. It was a delicate balance, and it forced me to think about paint not as a uniform application but as a series of glazes, each layer altering the tone beneath without completely erasing it. This taught me to respect transparency, to see paint not just as a color but as a filter that interacts with what lies below. On the cultists’ robes, I applied red over purple in some areas to create depth, and in others, I allowed the primer to shine through more prominently. Every stroke became a decision about atmosphere and mood, and the figures gradually took on a look that matched the sinister aura I had imagined for them. This was one of the first times I felt that my choices were not random but intentional, each brushstroke aimed at reinforcing a vision of who these cultists were within the world of the game.
It was not only the robes that challenged me but also the details that completed the figures. Faces, hands, belts, and small trinkets on the cultists offered opportunities to push myself further. For their skin, I wanted a pallid look that reflected the unnatural life of a shadowy devotee, so I mixed lighter tones with muted undertones to achieve a balance between realism and fantasy. Painting faces at this scale is never easy, and I had to remind myself repeatedly that even small imperfections would vanish when viewed at tabletop distance. Still, I pushed to define eyes, noses, and mouths in subtle ways, giving each cultist a distinct identity despite being drawn from the same sprue. Belts and straps were painted in earthy browns to ground the figures, while metallics were used sparingly to suggest weapons or small adornments that hinted at their grim purpose. It was through these details that I realized how much character could be conveyed in even the smallest of elements, and how important it was not to neglect them even when the larger surfaces took most of my attention.
The experimentation with washes and highlights continued as I moved deeper into the process. While my earlier frustrations with flow aid ratios had left me cautious, I began to find a rhythm, learning how to dilute just enough to create shading without overpowering the base tones. Les’ Dirty Wash recipe gave me a structure to work within, but I modified it slightly to suit the cultists’ robes, mixing in touches of red or purple so that the shadows did not look disconnected from the primary colors. These washes seeped into the folds and creases, darkening the recesses and amplifying the highlights above. To accentuate the raised areas, I returned with lighter mixes of the base colors, drybrushing sparingly to catch edges and add subtle contrast. The process was both frustrating and rewarding, like walking a tightrope where balance was everything. When it worked, the cultists seemed to glow with eerie energy; when it did not, they looked flat or muddied. But each misstep was a chance to adjust, and I grew more confident as I corrected errors and refined techniques.
Alongside the technical aspects, there was also a personal dimension to the painting experience. My wife, who enjoys tabletop games with me, had expressed a fondness for blue, and this led me to experiment with those tones on the archers that accompanied the cultists. Though blue was not part of the initial plan, incorporating it became a way of sharing the hobby with her, of creating figures that she would enjoy using in our games. The cool tones of blue contrasted sharply with the fiery reds and purples of the cultists, creating a visual divide between opposing forces. More than that, it reminded me that painting was not a solitary pursuit but something that could bring people together, sparking conversations and creating connections around the figures we would later field on the table. The archers themselves may not have turned out as well as the cultists in terms of technique, but they carried a special meaning because of this personal connection. Every stroke of blue felt like a bridge between my own journey and hers, making the miniatures more than just gaming pieces.
The process of painting these figures also revealed how much basing could transform them from simple models into immersive characters. Using Vallejo Brown Earth texture paste combined with model train rocks and static grass, I built foundations that looked like the crumbled ruins of forgotten temples or desolate wilderness paths. Drybrushing greys and whites over the rocks brought them to life, while multiple layers of PVA and varnish held everything in place, creating durability as well as realism. Adding flock and desert rocks to the archers’ bases gave them a different feel, suggesting a varied environment within the same campaign world. As I finished the basing, I realized that these small details were not afterthoughts but essential components of storytelling, grounding the cultists and archers in a world that extended beyond the plastic sprues they came from. The figures now seemed to belong somewhere, their presence on the table enhanced by the environment beneath their feet.
By the time I completed this stage of the painting, I felt that I had not only improved my technical skills but also deepened my appreciation for what miniature painting could achieve. The cultists, with their eerie robes and sinister faces, embodied the menace of eldritch servants; the archers, with their blue tones and natural basing, carried the charm of heroes standing against the darkness. Together, they told a story of conflict, devotion, and resistance, all conveyed through color, texture, and detail. The process had been slow, imperfect, and often frustrating, but it was also profoundly rewarding. I had discovered new techniques, made personal connections, and begun to see painting not merely as preparation for play but as a creative act in itself. These miniatures were not just tools for a game but artifacts of a journey, symbols of how experimentation, persistence, and imagination could combine to transform simple figures into something far greater.
Developing Skills through Experimentation and the Role of Speed Painting
As I moved deeper into painting Frostgrave cultists and archers, I began to notice how much of my growth was tied to experimentation rather than strict adherence to guides or rules. Each miniature became a canvas for trial and error, a place where I could test techniques I had only read about or seen demonstrated by others. Zenithal highlighting, washes, layering, and drybrushing were no longer abstract concepts but lived experiences that revealed their strengths and weaknesses in practice. For example, using too much wash on a robe created blotches that dulled the effect of the highlights, while applying too little left the figure looking unfinished. Adjusting flow aid ratios taught me patience and restraint, as rushing often led to mistakes that required repainting. Through this process, I came to understand that miniature painting is not a straight path of mastery but a spiral, where one revisits the same techniques with greater understanding each time. The cultists in particular became milestones in this spiral, their sinister robes and haunting faces carrying the marks of both my missteps and my breakthroughs.
One of the most significant discoveries during this time was the value of speed painting. Initially, I thought of speed painting as a compromise, a way of cutting corners in exchange for quantity over quality. Yet the reality was far more nuanced. Working quickly forced me to focus on what truly mattered in conveying the character of a miniature. I learned that broad contrasts, clean colors, and coherent basing often mattered more than perfect highlights or precise details when viewed at tabletop distance. This was liberating, as it allowed me to paint more figures in less time while still feeling proud of the results. The cultists, painted largely with speed in mind, looked menacing and atmospheric despite the shortcuts I took. The archers, though less polished, still had charm and utility. Speed painting also taught me efficiency: how to line up colors for multiple figures, how to maximize drying time by working across batches, and how to simplify palettes without sacrificing variety. What began as an experiment soon became a cornerstone of my approach, showing me that speed and quality were not mutually exclusive but could be balanced with practice.
The influence of speed painting extended beyond technique to mindset. When painting a single figure over many hours, it is easy to become lost in perfectionism, chasing minor details that no one else will notice. This often leads to frustration and burnout, making the hobby feel like a chore rather than a joy. By contrast, speed painting shifted my perspective toward progress and play. Every finished batch of cultists or archers brought a sense of accomplishment and momentum, fueling my desire to paint more rather than less. I began to see painting not as a burden but as a flow of creativity, where each completed miniature was a step forward in a larger journey. The imperfections became part of the story rather than blemishes, reminders that growth is measured in practice rather than flawless results. This mindset not only improved my output but also made the hobby more sustainable, ensuring that I could continue painting without the pressure of unattainable standards weighing me down.
Equally important was the realization that every miniature carries meaning beyond its surface. The cultists and archers were not just models but representations of characters who would take part in future campaigns. They were servants of dark gods, rangers in distant lands, or members of warbands fighting for survival. Painting them brought these possibilities to life, giving them personality before they even hit the table. This narrative element gave purpose to the speed painting approach, as it reminded me that what mattered most was their role in the story rather than their perfection as display pieces. My wife’s excitement over the blue-clad archers highlighted this point further: her connection to those miniatures was not about the technical quality of the paint but about the personal meaning attached to them. This taught me that painting is both technical and emotional, a blend of craft and storytelling that deepens the gaming experience. Every figure, no matter how quickly painted, could become a beloved character in the shared tales of tabletop adventures.
The basing work, which had already surprised me with its impact, also tied into this understanding of narrative. Using Woodland Scenics flock, desert rocks, and Vallejo Earth paste was not just about aesthetics but about situating the miniatures in a believable world. A cultist standing on cracked earth surrounded by desolate stone suggests an environment of decay and ruin, while an archer poised on a grassy patch hints at life and resilience. These visual cues add layers to the gaming experience, making the table feel like a stage where drama unfolds. They also helped me appreciate the importance of context: a miniature without a base feels incomplete, while one with thoughtful basing becomes part of a living world. The effort I put into these details, even while speed painting, was rewarded every time I placed the miniatures on the table and saw how much more immersive they appeared. The realization that basing could be achieved with simple, affordable materials also encouraged me to keep experimenting without fear of wasting expensive supplies.
What tied all of these lessons together was the role of the airbrush. At first, it seemed like an intimidating tool, reserved for advanced painters with years of experience. Yet in practice, it became a game-changer for my workflow, particularly in priming and Zenithal highlights. It allowed me to achieve smooth gradients that would have been nearly impossible with a brush, and it sped up the preparation process dramatically. The airbrush also gave me confidence to try new techniques, such as glazing and subtle color transitions, that added depth to the miniatures without requiring excessive time. While there were still challenges—cleaning, maintenance, and mastering control—the benefits far outweighed the frustrations. I could not imagine going back to brush-only priming after experiencing the efficiency and quality of the airbrush. It transformed not only my results but also my attitude, making me more willing to attempt ambitious projects because the first step was no longer a hurdle.
By the time I finished painting this batch of cultists and archers, I realized how far I had come in a relatively short time. A few months earlier, the idea of painting entire groups with highlights, washes, and basing would have felt overwhelming. Now, it was not only possible but enjoyable. I had learned to balance speed and detail, to value narrative as much as technique, and to embrace experimentation as the engine of growth. The figures themselves, though imperfect, carried all of these lessons within them. They stood as proof that progress is visible, that each miniature painted is a marker of improvement. More than that, they reminded me why I started this hobby in the first place: to create, to play, and to share stories through tiny worlds brought to life with color and imagination. The journey was far from over, but with each batch, I grew more excited for the next, knowing that every stroke of paint would bring me closer to the painter I aspired to be.
Speed painting, though often seen as a shortcut, revealed itself to be an important philosophy within this balance. It was not about painting carelessly or cutting corners but about emphasizing what mattered most. For the cultists, this meant enhancing the aura of dread through bold colors and dramatic shadows, while for the archers, it meant creating bright, identifiable figures that could serve their purpose on the battlefield. Learning to prioritize in this way helped me recognize that not every detail needed the same attention, and that efficiency could actually enhance the final product. By completing figures more quickly, I was able to experiment more often, and each experiment taught me something new. Over time, these lessons compounded, leading to steady improvement. In this way, speed painting became not just a method but a practice in discipline, teaching me to let go of unnecessary perfectionism and focus on what truly brought the miniatures to life.
One of the most rewarding outcomes of this approach was the sense of progression it created. Looking back at my earliest attempts compared to the cultists and archers, the improvement was undeniable. Where once my miniatures had looked flat and unfinished, these now carried depth, contrast, and a sense of narrative. My wife’s comments about noticing my improvement confirmed that it was not just my imagination—others could see the progress as well. This was deeply motivating, as it showed that every hour spent experimenting, every mistake corrected, and every batch completed was contributing to a visible trajectory of growth. It also reinforced the idea that improvement in miniature painting is not about sudden leaps but about consistent practice. Just as one learns a musical instrument or a language through repetition and refinement, so too does painting evolve through constant engagement. The cultists and archers were not endpoints but stepping stones, each pointing toward the next project with renewed enthusiasm.
Conclusion
Looking back on the experience of painting the Frostgrave cultists and archers, I can see clearly that what began as a simple preparation for a game became something much greater. The process transformed from a task into a journey, from a hobby into a practice of creativity, patience, and discovery. Each stage taught me something new, from learning to work with Zenithal highlights and washes to experimenting with speed painting and basing. The figures themselves became milestones, each bearing the marks of my progress, my mistakes, and my growth. More than just gaming pieces, they turned into symbols of what can be achieved through persistence, experimentation, and an openness to learning. They reminded me that progress does not come all at once but accumulates slowly, miniature by miniature, brushstroke by brushstroke.
The cultists in their red and purple robes carried with them the sinister aura I had hoped to achieve, but they also carried with them my first steps into new techniques. Their robes, shaded with washes and accented with highlights, spoke of the hours I had spent wrestling with flow aid ratios and testing different recipes, slowly finding my way toward a balance that worked. The archers, painted with blue tones for my wife, were not just another set of models but figures infused with personal meaning. They demonstrated that painting is not just about aesthetics but about connection, about creating pieces that matter because of the stories and people tied to them. In this way, the miniatures bridged the gap between craft and community, embodying both technical progress and shared enjoyment.
Basing, which I once saw as a finishing touch, became one of the most transformative aspects of the journey. Rocks, flock, paste, and grass combined to create environments that grounded the figures in a believable world. What could have been overlooked as minor details instead became essential to the storytelling power of the miniatures. Standing on their rocky or grassy foundations, the cultists and archers no longer looked like painted plastic but like characters poised within living worlds. This realization deepened my respect for every part of the hobby, teaching me that nothing is secondary if the goal is immersion. From the smallest trinket on a cultist’s belt to the texture of the ground beneath their feet, every element matters in bringing the vision to life.
The airbrush also deserves its place in this reflection, for it fundamentally changed the way I approached painting. What once seemed like an advanced tool beyond my reach became an invaluable partner in priming and highlighting. It opened doors to techniques I would never have attempted with a brush alone, saving time while improving quality. More than its technical benefits, the airbrush gave me confidence. It made ambitious projects feel possible, and it turned preparation into anticipation rather than dread. Just as the cultists and archers represented my growth in brush techniques, so too did they represent my willingness to embrace new tools and expand what I thought I could do.
Perhaps the most important lesson, however, was the shift in perspective that speed painting brought. Learning to value progress over perfection, to focus on contrasts and storytelling rather than chasing flawless detail, freed me from the trap of frustration. It made painting sustainable and joyful, turning each finished batch into a victory rather than a burden. The cultists and archers showed me that imperfection is not failure but part of the process, that every figure contributes to growth regardless of its polish. This mindset transformed the hobby from a test of skill into a celebration of creativity, where each completed miniature was both an accomplishment and a stepping stone toward the next.
In the end, these miniatures are more than cultists and archers destined for a tabletop battle. They are markers of a journey that continues to unfold, each one reminding me of the joy found in creating, experimenting, and sharing. They stand as proof that with patience and persistence, progress is always possible, and that the real reward lies not in the perfection of the final product but in the process of bringing it to life. Whether painted quickly or carefully, with advanced tools or simple brushes, every miniature tells a story—not only within the world of the game but within the life of the painter. For me, these stories will always include the memory of my first Zenithal highlights, my experiments with washes, my discoveries in basing, and the shared excitement of painting figures that would later walk the tabletop alongside those I care about. That, more than anything else, is the true heart of the hobby: not just painted miniatures, but living connections, growth, and the quiet joy of creating something lasting with my own hands.