A back-room workshop on the edge of the Frontier — stocked, fettled and lit for the painted and the painted-curious. Seven years of shop talk, square deals and a saddlebag of paint tips with every order.
We’ve stocked seven winters now. Every army we’ve carried we’ve also built. Every paint pot we’ve sold we’ve had open on our own bench at some point — usually at midnight, usually with a half-cold mug nearby. The shop never started as a shop. It started as a habit we couldn’t shake: kit-bashing a Termagant’s arm onto a Tyranid Warrior at one a.m. on a Tuesday because the pose was three degrees off and it was bugging us.
One of those nights, a friend asked where she could get a starter set she wouldn’t feel daft opening. The nearest specialist was a four-hour ride. The next nearest didn’t answer the phone. By the following spring we had the lease on the back room, a single shelf of Combat Patrols, and a hand-painted sign that said War Dungeon — The Workbench of Warriors. The sign’s still up. It’s got two more coats of varnish on it now.
“Stock what you’d open yourself. Ship it like you’d want it to arrive. Talk to the customer like you’d talk across the paint bench. That’s the whole Frontier code.”
We’ve shipped to every county in the Kingdom and a fair few homesteads beyond it. We’ve mailed paint pots to mid-skill enthusiasts who needed a Contrast Black-Templar fix on a Sunday; sent army-builder rosters to tournament players who needed a 2,000-point list audited before Friday; packed Combat Patrols for first-timers who’d never held a clipper. Same shop. Same bench. Same long ride home with the lights on late.
The Frontier hasn’t got tamer. The hobby’s only got bigger. We’ve grown the storeroom, taken on a dispatch corner, and put a display cabinet near the door so visitors can see what a Combat Patrol turns into when you give it twelve evenings and a steady hand. The bench in the back is still the bench in the back. That’s where this all started. That’s where the next seven years start, too.
Howdy. I started this shop because I wanted to be in the room when the games got better — when a first-timer cracked their first Combat Patrol open and asked what a primer was. There’s nothing in retail that beats the look on a person’s face when the clipper clicks and the sprue falls clean.
The workshop is what we built so that look could happen every day. Every paint pot on the shelf has been on my bench at least once. Every army on the floor I can talk you through in person, in writing, or by daft little voice note if it’d help. We’re not the biggest specialist in the Kingdom. We don’t want to be. We want to be the one you remember.
If you write in, I read it. If you order, we pack it. If you visit, the kettle’s on. That’s the Frontier shake.
The benches that built the shop.
Browse the storeroom or sign up with the crew. Both trails lead back to the bench.
On every order over £75.
No fuss, no formalities.
40K · AoS · Old World · D&D.
Cross-brand loyalty.