Cultist Chan Boomhammer

It was a Gift.

The Power that feeds on sensation made it by hand for his favorite commander, the one who led the Noise Choirs, the one who taught an entire host that a battlefield is only an instrument nobody has bothered to play properly. A hammer that was also an amplifier. Perfectly weighted. Obscenely loud. Tuned so that every skull it opened would break on the correct note. There has never been a more beautiful object made for a worse reason.

Then the ship carrying it slipped out of reality, and the relic spent a very long age in the dark: unswung, unheard, holy, and waiting for a hand that deserved it.

It found one. Technically.

If you have not met her before, this is Cultist Chan. She is small, she is filthy, she has no armor, no training and no rank that anybody can produce paperwork for. Every one of the Dark Powers has marked her and not one of Them has ever explained the decision. She smells permanently and inexplicably of cooked breakfast. She charges armored vehicles on foot, unprompted, while smiling. And she is currently in possession of the single most refined artifact the God of Excess has ever produced, which she found, picked up, shook, and immediately figured out how to make louder.

Champions have come for it. Naturally. Anointed duelists, perfumed and surgically perfected, arriving with escorts, formal claims and, on one occasion, a Noise Orchestra. Every one of them has put both hands on that haft and pulled. Every one of them has learned that the relic has weighed them, priced them and found them boring. It does not move. Not a hair. It threw two of them across a courtyard for trying a second time.

She carries it on one shoulder. While eating.

Three formal requests have been submitted for its return. The first was diplomatic. The most recent one was a siege. The hammer's position has not changed, and the hammer, unfortunately for everyone involved, is the one holding the vote.

So here is what a divine masterpiece sounds like in the wrong hands. The first boom is structural. The second one is the relic doing exactly what it was built to do, taking the impact, savoring it and handing it back to the entire district at a volume a god designed to be unbearable, now operated by someone who considers the dial a personal challenge.

Setting one: percussion. Setting two: percussion, audible from orbit.
There is no setting three, but she keeps asking.

Put her on the table first. Everything you deploy afterwards is going to look like it is trying too hard.

And for the naturists in the audience: the fully nude version arrives a bit later. Same sculpt, same grin, same relic, minus the wardrobe. For painters who want the skin and mucosa tones practice, for converters who want a clean canvas, and for anyone in the congregation who maintains that clothing is simply another form of doubt.

You can buy printed models here:

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