Dear Geraldine,

I write to you in a state of quiet despair and moderate outrage.

For the first time in recorded history, Welston and Lanston wargamers have agreed to join forces. A noble endeavour, you might think. A show of unity. A triumph of cooperation over rivalry.

Alas, it is not to be.

I have been collaborating with a Lanston man, Phillip Germond, on a set of 28mm Spartans for an upcoming battle fought during the Peloponnesian War. These are finely detailed figures, Geraldine. Days—days—have been spent carefully building up highlights and shadows to give each soldier depth and realism.

Imagine, then, my horror when Phillip took it upon himself to apply a coat of gloss varnish to the infantry.

Gloss!

The result is an army that gleams like a phalanx of boiled sweets. Every carefully painted detail now obscured beneath a reflective sheen. Yes, varnish protects. Yes, gloss is robust. But at what cost? What is the point of artistry if it is to be entombed beneath a layer of shine?

We are due to field this army together against opponents from outside the county. Yet how can we stand united when we cannot even agree on varnish?

I fear this may spell the end of Welston–Lanston détente before the first spear is thrown.

Yours, in mounting frustration,

Arnold Stevens

Dear Arnold,

History is littered with conflicts that began over matters of principle and ended, rather inconveniently, in total collapse over matters of ego. Yours, I’m pleased to say, is neither new nor particularly fatal—though I appreciate it may feel like both when one’s Boeotians shine like seaside rock.

Let us begin with a difficult truth: Phillip has not ruined your work. He has simply revealed that you and he are fighting two different wars. You are engaged in the pursuit of beauty. He, it seems, is engaged in the pursuit of durability. Both are valid. Neither requires the other’s surrender.

Your mistake—if I may be so bold—is assuming that agreement must precede cooperation. It needn’t.

Armies throughout history have marched under mismatched banners, with varying armour, and still managed to defeat a common enemy. Your Spartans will not falter because one unit catches the light more enthusiastically than another. If anything, the enemy may be so distracted by the gleam that they miss your flanking manoeuvre entirely.

Now, to the practical matter.

Do not attempt to convert Phillip. Painters, like generals, rarely change doctrine mid-campaign. Instead, agree on boundaries. You paint your units as you see fit. He varnishes his as he insists. If there are shared pieces, decide in advancewhose philosophy applies—preferably over a cup of tea rather than a pot of varnish.

And if it still troubles you, a light coat of matte varnish over gloss can dull the shine without undoing the protection. Consider it diplomacy in a bottle.

The real danger here is not gloss versus matte. It is pride versus purpose. You are not preparing a gallery exhibition; you are preparing for battle. Keep your eye on the larger prize: defeating those out-of-county interlopers.

Win the battle first, Arnold. You can argue about varnish in the victory tent.

Yours,

Geraldine