At last, the ranks of my Black Knights have swollen to their full, ominous strength. Five riders once rode alone, but now - joined by fresh reinforcements - the unit musters twelve undead horsemen, ready to thunder across the night-shrouded fields. As before, their allegiance is bound to the cursed kingdom of Mousillon, that blighted corner of Bretonnia where glory curdled into despair. Its banners once shone bright with chivalric pride, but famine, plague, and treachery opened the door to darker powers. It is a land where the dead do not rest - and where the living dare not linger.

The models hail from Dark Art Studios, their forms echoing the skeletal cavalry of Dark Omen - grim silhouettes clad in tattered grandeur. I remain utterly captivated by the sculpted horse barding and sweeping plumes. Each mount bears the fleur-de-lis, not as a symbol of nobility, but as a relic of lost honor. On their caparisons the motifs are cracked, mud-stained, and eroded by ages - perfectly befitting Mousillon’s tragic heraldry. Their colors, black and sickly yellow, recall banners left too long in the rain, still clinging stubbornly to memory.

My earlier conversion of the unit’s champion set the tone, and this time I turned my attention to the musician. He now brandishes a Bretonnian trumpet, yet the visor of his helm is raised to reveal the grinning skull beneath - an unholy mockery of the fanfares once sounded on Bretonnian tourneys.

The standard bearer rides beneath a haunting banner gifted to me by my partner: a fleur-de-lis encircled by shrieking spirits, their forms twisting like smoke around the ancient symbol. On the reverse side rests a winged skull, a venerable emblem that whispers of early Vampire Counts armies and forgotten wars.

The unit’s guiding force is a Vampire Thrall on horseback, another conversion merging Bretonnian bloodline with undead corruption. The body is built upon the champion from the same company as the rest of the models, but the head - taken from a Bretonnian Knight of the Realm - binds him irrevocably to Mousillon’s fallen heritage. I reshaped the cloak and set the horse rearing, lending the Thrall a sense of urgency and predatory grace. He looms above his retinue, not as a lord, but as a relentless, commanding predator of the night.

Seeing all twelve riders assembled - armor tarnished by death, their tattered crests trailing like ghostly vapors, eyes burning with cold hunger - fills me with the kind of satisfaction that only Warhammer’s dark grandeur can convey.

The Black Knights of Mousillon ride again, their hoofbeats echoing like funeral drums across a kingdom long abandoned by the living.