A Brief Pause


Just a quick note to say I’ll be a bit scarce for the next month or so, both here and on social media. As some of you may be aware, my wife and I are expecting our first child in early September, which means I’ll be fairly busy for the next few…years?

Anyway, I won’t be gone forever, but this is your three minute warning that the blog might be fairly quiet for the next few weeks (or months). In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy some free fiction or consider checking out my Patreon.

You could also pick up a copy of my latest novel, Soul WarsIt’s a great jumping on point, if you’re interested in learning about Games Workshop’s Age of Sigmar setting.

Cast the Bones

People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.

-Harlan Ellison (1934-2018)

Station Identification


For me, the first day of a new year always brings with it the scent of new possibilities and potential. It’s a day to clean up the office, and tidy my work space. To finish up the last of the previous year’s obligations, and make room for the ones to come.

It’s also the perfect day to remind new readers and old of who I am, and what this site is all about. So. My name is Josh Reynolds, and I’m a writer, occasional editor and semi-professional monster movie enthusiast.

I have been a professional author since 2007, and have had over twenty novels published in that time, as well as a wealth of shorter fiction pieces, including short stories, novellas and the occasional audio script. An up-to-date list of my published work, including licensed fiction for Games Workshop’s Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40,000 lines, can be found on this site.

I grew up in South Carolina,  a place where hoodoo is still regularly practised. Where vampire-trees are marked with witch-sign and where soul-bottles are hung from branches. Where people paint their houses blue to keep out hungry ghosts and never burn wood from a tree where someone’s been hanged. In retrospect, my chosen vocation is, perhaps, unsurprising.

While this site is mostly a place to promote my work, and update readers on new releases, appearances and the like, it is also what I like to call a ‘secondary creative outlet’. Less pretentiously, it’s a place where I occasionally talk about my writing and what goes into it, as well as various other things that attract my interest. Mostly monster movies, and neat bits of ephemera I collect or produce.

I have all the requisite social media – Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr – and you can also ask me questions about my writing via and this site. Occasionally, I might even answer.

Should you wish to sample my work before you purchase it, I encourage you to have a look at my free fiction page. There are short stories, serials and even a few audios. If you feel like risking a dollar, you could also check out some of the short stories on my Patreon page.

There. Now we’re all caught up. On with the show.

Hounds of Pleasure

Tzekmek, Great Changer of the Barrowflock, shrilled curses as a pervasive, sugar-sweet scent permeated the air of the fens. With the guardians of the dead in disarray, and the Wickenmotte in flames, the magics of the marsh barrows had been theirs for the taking.

But even as the Tzaangor warflock had moved to plunder the ancient ruins, their celebrations were interrupted by the skirl of strange pipes and joyful, inhuman shrieks. The air had taken on an oily sheen the shaman recognised all too well…the veil was drawn thin, and something had issued forth from the realms beyond sensation. 

Now, gaunt, glistening shapes loped through the mists and hunched trees, their abominable laughter tainting the very air. Daemons, but not those loyal to the Feathered Lords. Rather, these served the Great Schemer’s lost sibling, Slaanesh. And with the way so generously cleared of opposition by the Tzaangor, they had come to claim the magics of the barrows for themselves.

Perhaps they thought the charnel grounds held some secret which would return their lost god to them. Perhaps they were simply scavengers. Either way, they could not be allowed to plunder Tzekmek’s hard-won spoils of war.

Not without a fight.  (more…)

Drums of the Tzaanwar

Strange trilling calls echoed through the fenlands. Lean forms, clad in jade and gold, splashed swiftly through the dark waters. The scent of death-magic was strong on the night wind, even as the Unseen had promised. The mortal had offered his Tzaangor allies first pickings – if they could break through the dead, now massing at the ruined watchtower known as the Wickenmotte. A test of their loyalties and strength, both. 

Tzekmek, Great Changer of the Barrowflock, had accepted that challenge, and gladly. There was strong magic in those ruins, and with it, he might raise a flux-cairn capable of warping the turgid landscape of the Ghost Bat Bog into something more pleasing to Tzeentch’s gaze. 

He hissed in anticipation of the feast to come as he crouched low on the pulsating Disc of Tzeentch he rode. He sped just above the marsh’s tangled canopy, followed by his bodyguard of chattering Enlightened. The babbling warriors hunched atop their own discs, a fug of broken memories swirling about them. Nearby, ever-silent Skyfires kept pace, their keen gazes sweeping the murk below, arrows ready to be loosed should the enemy show themselves. 

Beneath the trees, lesser Tzaangors loped through the gloom, screeching eagerly. They too could smell the dead, and the magic that animated them. And soon enough, that magic would belong to the changekin… (more…)

Cry of the Cockatrice

By the light of the flux-fires, the acolytes waited and murmured uneasily among themselves. In the hellish glow of the great bonfires, daemon-shapes murmured softly, eagerly, in a tongue that none save the adepts, in their feathered war-masks , could understand. 

Abruptly, the flux-fires blazed up, clawing at the stars above, as if to wrench them from the firmament. For a moment, the flames wavered and split, as if parted by monstrous hands, and beyond them, a howling void of endless colour and light spun in a lunatic pattern. 

A moment later, a tall, masked figure stepped forth from within the shimmering flux-flames, staff in hand. The acolytes stiffened attentively, as the newcomer began to speak. Perhaps it was time, at last, for the Cockatrice Conclave to go to war…  (more…)