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DW: Campaign - Head Hunted (IC Thread)

FFG RPG Roleplaying Deathwatch In-Character

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#76
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

The three heavily set men turn, but the one you tapped on the shoulder spins, ready to grapple.

 

"Who the hell do you-" he stops, goes pale and immediately assumes the posture of attention, he is almost ramrod straight and with a quick elbow, his comrades affect the same posture.  "My apologies, milord," he slurs.  "A petty thief, just teaching him what's what on the Captain's ship."

 

Behind them the bundle lies twitching, his robes are the red-black quartered of a crew serf who serves with the Techwrights.  He peers from the folds of his cowl as you tower above his assailants, the glass in his left bionic eye is cracked, seeping emerald light.  The whirrs and clicks of a broken mechanism are muted by the blood and oil on his face.

 

A closer study of the ringleader, as you rightly perceive him, shows duelling scars crossing his nose and chin.  A recent, livid cut runs from above his left eye, down to his left jowl.  It s clear this was earned within the last 24 hours.

 

"With your permission sir, I'll arrest this...thing," he points at the human heap on the floor, "and put him in the brig."

 

The stink of amasec is quite pronounced off all three of them.

 

Olafsson:

 

You have remained a spectre, prowling like the wolf worn on your shoulder, marching back and forth among the bridge and the wardrooms, picking at the platters and grimacing at anyone who dares peer up at you.  The night watch has taken over on the bridge and they seem to know their business.  The quiet industry of the crew reminds you of the silent expectation from those aboard Hengvist, sailing the sea of stars with an undercurrent of poised readiness.  The sparring cages seem like they will provide more interaction for you, but as you are about to leave the command deck, an alert tone spears your sharp ears and an amber light flashes on one of the consoles.

 

Since I'm working off the last information I have, feel free to give me more detail about what you may want to do if I have misunderstood.

 

Ains:

 

The Armsmen and serfs who are not on duty, throng the duelling cages.  Inside them two humans are warming up.  Stripped to the waist, both are obviously veterans of many combats and several duels, the tapestry of their fights woven into their skins.  One wears the trews of a Naval officer, he is young, but his blue eyes are old.  His blonde hair is swept back, already damp with perspiration from warming up.  He holds a sabre of common type, although it appears finely balanced.

 

The other man is grim and looks like nothing.  He makes no flashy shows, nor does he even appear exerted.  His blade is long and slim, a rapier, with an intricate basket hilt.  In his other fist, a dagger is loosely held, but it is not so ornate as the sword, it is a plain, brutal thing of dark metal with the top of the grip wrapped in twine around what is likely a bare tang.  His skin is dark, from a place other than a ship, where the sun is punishing and the earth is dry.

 

A burly Armsman steps forward, his bulk almost rivalling that of an Astartes, and takes a huge breath.

 

"Does anyone challenge our prizemen?"


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#77
Trokair

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Increasing the volume of his helmets vox Brynjarr replied “Permission denied.”

 

“While your Master may have authority over the Captain, you have no authority here. If you intend to lodge a formal report of theft, then armsmen form ship security and the Commissar can be summoned.”

 

Looking at all three of them in turn he continued. “Though they may have a few questions for yourselfers.”

 

Stepping in close and taking oh his helmet Brynarr took an exaggerated sniff. “Assault of ship personal, and while drunk on top of that, how many lashes do you think that is under ship disciplinary mandate?”

 

Moving to the left Brynnar makes to stand between the three and Hennricks.

 

“I wonder, what else they may ask you,” Gesturing at the leaders face, “That looks rather raw, dueling and gambling, or just the former?”

 

Briefly crouching down, but always keeping the other tree in his sight, he the hood of the fallen serf and took a closer look at the damage, he would need both medical attention and repairs to the bionics. There was also swelling on the lower arm, broken by the kick or something else?

 

“So, what is to be, shall we call the rightful authority for the four of you, or would you turn in to your barracks to sleep of your regrets, perhaps you two can ensure your friend here calls in at the medical station on the way.” 

 

 

 

 

 

I assume from the description of the injury that it has not had medical attention, and furthermore that if it had been any form of official duel he would have received it. As such Brynjarr assumes illegal dulling and betting. If I misinterpreted I can edit to suite.


Edited by Trokair, 14 February 2021 - 01:17 PM.

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You know the game is in trouble when your GM says things like this:

Can somebody tell me what the hell is happening with this game?


#78
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

The antics here have not deceived you.  One does not spend time aboard voidcraft without realising the quirks and dark humours to be found therein.  After all, the discipline of a vessel finds outlets in things sometimes of the basest nature.

 

"Er, no sir," the head brute's head twitches uncomfortably, his tone quickly moving into something akin to acceptance of great wisdom. "Wouldn't need to involve regulations, sir," he gestures to the two with him and they pick up Hendricks carefully, but it becomes clear they are all supporting each other in their drunkenness.  "Misunderstanding milord."

 

They all carry themselves off down the corridor, taking the stink of blood, unguents and cheap alcohol with them.  You watch the leader twitch and stagger down the passageway for some time following his men, all heading in the correct direction for the Apothecarion.  The only evidence of the altercation are a few spots of red and black on the floor, along with a sliver of a green crystal lens.

 

You stop to listen, but no more sounds of violence ring out above the humming deck of Kerberos.


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Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#79
Trokair

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The first morning bell echos round the corridors of the ship, and with it the tide that was shift change. In his cell Brynjar awoke from the brief rest of an Astartes and listened to the life of the ship around him. He can hear moment form the nearby cells as those of his brothers that had also rested started up on their respective routines. Fragments of prayers, the rustle of cloths of someone doing an exercise routine, a clunk of cremate plates.

 

This was the second day aboard the Kerberos, and later today, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how accurate Captain Fraykes estimate as to their journey time was, as the flow of the immaterium was never a sure thing, they would arrive back in the real and be dropped on Baraban.

 

With that thought in mind Brynjarr spent more time then he might otherwise going over his armour and equipment, making sure each part was in perfect condition and ready. Once finished he put the boltgun, pistol and chainsword back in weapons locker of his cell.

 

Exiting his cell he found the corridor empty and silent, the others must have already headed out, whether to the armory, training cages or elsewhere. A huge of memory prayed on the edge of his consciousness, surely he was no outcast to these new brothers, shunned and avoided as had been the case on the Dawnbreaker, after all it has been less than three full days since he met them. It was just happenstance. Dismissing these thoughts Brynjarr took a short meal in the refractory.

 

As the mid morning bell counted out the hours Brynjarr stood before the Bridge, two armsmen stood on duty, but did not bar his way. Inside crew and office worked in silence, while they were in the subreal there was little they could do other then monitor the ship and systems. The Navigator in his sanctum was in charge, and aside from the occasional relayed order would be guiding the ship directly from the controls there.

 

Standing just inside door Brynjarr waited until the duty officer had seen him and acknowledged his presence. Once that was done he moved to one side and talked to the junior steersman, not wanting to interrupt the senior officer while he was concentration on the screens in front of him. Some minutes later the two swapped places and the senior steersman approached.

 

“What can I do for you Astartes?” The tone was reserved, almost resentful and Brynjar could imagine the officers thought, what business did one such as he have with one such as him. Using what he hoped would be the right formal Naval terminology Brynjarr requested access to the navigational date of the Greyhell Front.

 

The Officer grumbeled under his breath but proceeded to show Brynjarr what the cogitator banks had in their stores for this region of space. Brynjarr followed as best he could, feeling that the Officer was being more technical then was necessary, but he picked up enough to ask a few choice question showing that he comprehended the charts and data to at least an extend.  By the end the Officers tone had softhead a little. Having learned enough to quell his Voidborn inherited curiosity for such matter thanked both the officer and his junior aid. Catching the duty officer’s eye once more he nodded in thanks and left the bridge.

 

Passing back through section Blue Four Brynjarr paused at his cell, there was something slightly off. Entering he spotted at once that the weapons locker was ajar. His bolt pistol and newly acquired Deathwatch chainsword where there, but an empty space confounded him where his Boltgun should have been. For long Seconds Brynjarr just stared at the absence. Reviewing his memories of that morning he confirmed, as he knew it would with absolute certainty, that he had stored and locked the boltgun away correctly.

 

Outrage boiled at the back at his mind, but he would not let it cloud his actions. Arming himself and retrieving the rest of his gear, possessions and ammunition form the thankfully locked stores he had left them in.  He then headed out to the arming station, on that minute chance that another brother such as Ains or even one of the serf had take it for some valid reason. It would still be a slight against him, but as he thundered down the corridor and his mind raced some valid reasons did present themselves, not least that he had been briefly out of vox reach when he had taken his helmet off on the bridge. The armoury was empty however.

 

Taking a moment to compose himself he thought through his options, he should report his failure to keep his gear secure to his Superiors, which would be Kill Team Leader Silkbeard. However, a suspicion was growing in his mind, and the inquisitorial stromtooper barracks was on the way to the bridge from here as he had passed it just a few minutes ago. If he could retrieve it then his failure would be lessened.  

 

Entering the stormtrooper quarters he saw several about, some playing cards, another striping and reassembling gear. The helmet olfactory sensors detected various foods, incense, alcohol, human stench and lho-stick residue.

 

As the closest men started to turn towards the door in response to the ruckus of Brynjarrs entrance he set his helmet amplifiers to the max and bellowed. “Who is in charge here.”


Edited by Trokair, 14 February 2021 - 09:10 PM.

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My Assorted Projects
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You know the game is in trouble when your GM says things like this:

Can somebody tell me what the hell is happening with this game?


#80
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

At some point during the day in the coming and going to and from your cell, you will notice your Bolter is missing.  You may make this discovery at any point as you please.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#81
grailkeeper

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"Helmsman, report. What is that tocsin?"


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#82
Mazer Rackham

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Olafsson:

 

The bridge convulses as the shock of the lamp plays across it.  The crew rush to stations, servitors hardwired to cogitators and databanks work faster.  The intensity of the crew goes up a notch as the Officer of The Watch sits bolt upright.  With a lick of her lips, she gathers her long blond hair at her nape and braces in the command throne.

 

"Steady!  Steady there Smyth, for Throne's Sake!"

 

The deck pitches to starboard by three degrees, enough to send a porcelain cup of recaf across the console of one of the flight officers.

 

The helmsman you addressed looks up with wild eyes as his whole body shakes.  "It is the emergency translation alarm lord!  Our Navigator must have triggered it!"

 

As if to demonstrate his point the whole deck shudders and the protective screens across the bridge windows rattle.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#83
grailkeeper

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"Warn all Stations."

 

Olafsson stands upright, aided in part by his mag locked boots. He touches his hand to his throat activating the squad vox.

 

"Silkbeard, to Kill-Team Hellebore. Prepare for emergency warp translation."

 

He readies his boltgun and prepares to dispense the Emperor's justice to his enemies, or peace to his subjects. Whichever may be needed. Turning again to Officer of the Watch

 

""Geller fields to maximum. Have ships pursers ready to dispense discipline or purification as needed. May the Allfather have mercy on our souls"".


Edited by grailkeeper, 14 February 2021 - 05:29 PM.

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#84
Mazer Rackham

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Olafsson:

 

It is a mark of how well drilled the crew is that they immediately follow your orders.  With your gravel-voice and calm preparedness, the machinery of reaction falls into motion.

 

"Aye Lord!" rumbles from half-a-dozen stations in unison.

 

The Kerberos shudders as she rights, and screeds of data plough into the consoles across the room.  More officers and crew spill onto the deck and lastly, as the superstructure trembles under the crash-dive out of warp, Fraykes enters and takes his seat.  His eyes see everything, absorbing the scene and the orders you have given.  He does not belay or interrupt them.

 

"My compliments, Master Olafsson - and well done Yen," he addresses the Officer.  "Steady as she goes - and hold onto your teeth!"

 

The Kerberos falls, dropping into nothing over and over.  The sensation of tripping forward head over heels permeates every mind and stomach, as what sounds like massive nails claw along the hull, and you can only imagine the sparks streaking in the neverwhere environment of the warp.

 

"There be Dragons," Yen grimaces as she clamps onto the command throne's shoulders.  A howling gale erupts on the bridge, impossible that it should exist, but it does.

 

The torment ends and the Kerberos jerks forwards under the thrust of being ejected from the warp.

 

"All stop!  Throne!  All stop!" Fraykes barks, his voice an iron lash.

 

The ship does, grinding slowly to a halt.  The shutters begin to retract, and there in front of the ship, a leviathan of steel and stone.

 

"Crash translation successful," reports someone in the front helm pulpit.  It echoes flatly into the stunned silence of the bridge.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#85
grailkeeper

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"What the Throne was that?"

 

 

"Silkbeard to Killteam Hellebore. We appear to have reached our destination. Call in any emergencies. Otherwise meet me at the hanger for deployment to the surface. We have Xenos to kill".


Edited by grailkeeper, 14 February 2021 - 06:21 PM.

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#86
Mazer Rackham

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"What the Throne was that?"

 

Olafsson's words grind into the silence, although haunted tales of such things are told by many skalds around the hearth fires.  Kilometres of wreck and rock sail past the viewing screens and bridge windows as Kerberos banks away to starboard to avoid the celestial conglomeration.

 

Laymen would term it a s Space Hulk.

 

"I think we know why our Navigator pulled us from warp," Fraykes muses.

 

The grey and brown slab continues to tumble past, the outlines of ancient derelicts encrusting the jumble of spars and lumps of asteroid rock pulled into the hulk's gravity well.  A ripple of power stirs the augurs probing it, and crimson warnings read on the hololithic interface, showing fluctuating warp engines buried within the monstrosity.  Kerbeors navigates the wake of the metal whale, no doubt groaning and grinding from the myriad of jostling bones buried within.

 

As the corvette clears the gas and debris field surrounding the hulk, the worlds of the Greyhell Front are magnified at Fraykes' command.  He singles out an emerald jewel hanging in the darkness.  Diagrams spring up around the planet now turning in the middle of the bridge.

 

"We are two hours away, Master Olafsson," he turns to Yen. "Get us online with Imperial Flash Traffic.  Get me the situation over Baraban."

 

As his orders are obeyed, he looks up at you. "Please summon your Kill Team to the bridge."


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#87
grailkeeper

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"Silkbeard to Kill-Team Hellebore. Scratch that. It appear to be some form of minor space hulk. Report to the Bridge."

 

"Fraykes. Mission dictates we land at Baraban as soon as possible. Is this obstacle likely to delay us?"


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#88
Dosjetka

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#89
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

The Stormtroopers look dumbstruck for a second, wondering why one of the noble Astartes should visit them - at least that's what you read in most of their eyes.  One of them, with a broken nose and a lho stick hanging out of his mouth looks incredibly nervous.  His brown eyes try not to meet yours, try not to shift across to another Stormtrooper with his back to you.  You at least recognise the first.

 

Before any of them can speak, there is an odd noise coming up the passageway, click-click-whirr-clank-click.  Warily, you cant your head so you can see the room, and the source of the noise.  It appears to be a Techpriest Enginseer, but he is heavily modified.  Over his back sit several mechanical arms, with mechadendrites waving to-and-fro.  Hs robes are thick, of exceptional quality, and albeit stained with oil, the gold thread representing the Opus Mechanicum is intricately woven above his chest.

 

The augmetics under his cowl hide all flesh, but the most remarkable thing about the figure is that he floating several inches above the floor.  His speech, when it blares through his vocaliser unit buried in his face, is obviously not used to the inefficient manner of organics.  Green lenses twist and focus on you.

 

+[Exload: Query] Brynjarr, of Voidborn Clade [Query Tone]+

 

Olafsson:

 

Fraykes is completely unperturbed by the revelation of the hulk, and is equally smooth in his reply to your demand.  "No, it will not.  I am however getting datafeeds that may cause us some irritation.  However, I have never failed the Deathwatch, nor its servants.  We shall deliver you.  My oath upon it."

 

He taps his control consoles embedded into his throne, and the hololithic image begins to fill out, the rarely unbroken green-blue of Baraban's forests and mountains zooming in.  At once red and green triangles are superimposed above orbit.  The green shapes are in rigid Imperial battle formation, whilst the red spectres dance, coming on to the attack and fading back out of reach.  They do not move like Eldar ships. and the streaks of ordnance are easy interpreted.

 

Lots of ordnance.

 

"I had hoped to bring your team up to speed on the Tau fleet formation," he smiles thinly, his tight moustache hardly moving, "but it looks like we will just have to throw you into the eye of the storm."

 

He taps a glowing red rune under his thumb.  "All hands, this is the Captain.  Battle Stations, repeat, Battle Stations."  This time, when the klaxon sounds, you are far more accustomed to it.  Warfare is after all, in your blood.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#90
Trokair

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Brynjarr was nonplussed by the arrival of the Martian Priests arrival. Stilling his mind, the battle mind state, which had been rising to the fore just moments before, receded. With it his stance relaxed as well and he calmly turned further towards the door he had just come through and towards the Tech-Priest, but no so far that he could not keep an eye on the nervous trooper, whose Lho stick tumbled to the floor.

 

Lowering the vox to normal level he replied. “Confirmed, though of the Deathwatch now.”


My Assorted Projects
Facing the Unknown , Facing the Unknown II
 
You know the game is in trouble when your GM says things like this:

Can somebody tell me what the hell is happening with this game?


#91
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

The priest ignores your threat-posture, either not perceiving it, or not fazed by the potential carnage an angry Astartes could elicit.  He hefts his Deck Wrench, a massive tool used for the repair and building of starships.  You have seen many, and this one, whilst primarily a tool, would be a noteworthy weapon in the augmented arms that carry it.  The stains on it suggest that maybe instead of crunching wayward rivets, the jaws may well have pinched the odd skull in their time.

 

He regards you for a few moments before a buzzing noise occurs behind his vox-grille.  He seems to recollect that you are using lips.

 

+[Exload: Irritation] I have attempted to unite our locus all day.  Why do you not remain stationary [Query Tone]+

 

+[Exload: Information] I am Magos Hyron Ducat.  Enginseer Maximal of this vessel. [Pride Tone]+

 

+[Exload: Supplication] Pursue my path.  I must demonstrate an exhibit. [Uncomfortable Tone]+

 

He sets off at a fair pace, leaving you half-staring at the Stormtroopers, half-wondering what is keeping him aloft.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#92
TechCaptain

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#93
Trokair

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Turning back to the room Brynjarr spoke with ice cold venom in his tone. “Three of you have been lacking in honour and discipline, if I find that you have had anything to do with this latest ‘incident’ you will take a walk with me.” Starting straight at the nervous man he added. “On the outside of the hull.”

 

Quickening his pace to catch up with the departing Magos, Brynjarr had his vox run a channel scan and when it had found what appeared to be the Magos’s vox he spoke.

 

+++ Greetings Magos Hyron Ducat, and thank you for using low gothic, I am not versed in binary cant.+++

 

+++ What exhibit, and why is my presence required?+++  


Edited by Trokair, 14 February 2021 - 11:05 PM.

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You know the game is in trouble when your GM says things like this:

Can somebody tell me what the hell is happening with this game?


#94
Mazer Rackham

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Brynjarr:

 

The Magos does not speak at once, but begins humming - quite literally - in binary cant, the language you have advised you do not speak.  It is the same duration as before, possibly a prelude to a repetition of a phrase, but with the servants of the Cog, who could guess?  He continues to lead you deeper into the bowels of the engine decks, the lighting is dimmer here, more akin to the soft light used by the ancient crews of ships who ventured into a different void - the depths of a Terran sea.

 

You know it is still used today, amongst many primitive vessels hastily cobbled together as inter-fleet craft in your own spacefaring host.

 

+[Exload: Appeasement] Common communion is logical. [Approving Tone]+

 

Finally you arrive at the Engineer Armourium, and there, upon a plinth of darkest ebonite, and bathed in a pool of cold white light, sits your Naval Bolter.

 

It does not look like the roaring beast you are used to.  The paint ahs been refinished, and it reeks of oils and solvents.

 

Next to it stands the serf, his bionic eye haphazardly replaced with what appears to be a temporary part.  His head is bowed and his hands are tucked into the folds of his robe's sleeves, the quarter-black and red fabric just as you saw it the night before.  A crackle comes from the vox of the Magos as his Deck Wrench gestures at the serf.

 

+[Exload: Advisory] Adept H3/N-Rating/Kappa appropriated the weapon to balance his liability to you.  His logic was abandoned. [Maximum Reproachful Tone]+

 

+[Exload: Supplicatory] The menial is of my Clade.  I wish consensus, not division.  The deficient flesh has been punished. [Embarrassed Subroutine Active]+

 

+[Exload: Devotional] Even a small cog - [Interrupt/Ultimate Admonition/Increase Vox Decibels 0.97] improperly formed [Normal Syntax Resumed] - is of worth to the Omnissiah.  The Omnissiah observes all.  The Omnissiah gives fair exchange. [Reassuring Tone]+

 

A vicious burst of Binharic Cant fires across at the serf.

 

Spoiler

 

He gestures for you to retrieve your weapon.

 

The application of machine unguents and the correct ritual of cleansing for machine spirits is well known across the Imperium.  This firearm now counts as having Sacred Unguents applied to it, which will render the weapon immune to jams for a number of shots equivalent to Clip size (so for your whole first magazine, basically).

 

It is at this point the Captain signals for battle stations and Olafsson's communication comes through.


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Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#95
Trokair

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Brynjarr rushed towards his weapon, half reaching out to take it, but stops, conflicted in thought. Relief at having it back, the sting of shame and failure at having ‘lost’ it, the appreciation of the Magos work, the logical understanding of the Adept H3/N-Rating/Kappa misguided good intentions, the outrage at anybody having take his weapon, without his permission, and further more to have worked on it.

 

His instinct was to strip it then and there, to check every part was still in order, to verify that it was still reliable. Instead he held back, to do so would be an affront to the Magos, who had sought to make good his serfs mistake, a mistake born out of honest intention to repay a debt Brynjarr had not even perceived or intended.

 

Formally bowing to the Magos he voxed.

 

+++Thank you for your kind attention Magos, I am honored by the gift of your skill and time.+++

 

Nodding, still respectfully, but less formally to Adept H3/N-Rating/Kappa he switched over to external speakers again.

 

“No debt was owed, no debt is owed, and I appreciate your honest intentions, thank you, but your actions, let’s leave it at ‘unwise’, learn from your Masters wisdom, and maybe find a more ‘pious’ pastime.”

 

Finally he picked up his bolter from the sanctified stand. A cursory check, enough to satisfy his need to know that all was in order, he could always check it more thoroughly later, but brief and light enough, yet thorough, so as to show appreciation of the Magos’s work without going so far as to convey doubt or mistrust. Reaching to his belt Brynjarr retrieved three clips and loaded his boltgun, offering up the appropriate incantation while doing so, more precisely and devoutly then he would otherwise, for the benefit of the Magos.

 

He had barley completed this when instinct caused him to engage the mag-lock in his boots. The deck tilted, the Magos was unaffected but the adept staggered slightly.

 

+++ Silkbeard, to Kill-Team Hellebore. Prepare for emergency warp translation.+++ The vox crackled in Brynjars ear.

 

Instinctively Brynjarr yelled. “Brace!” The translocation hit, every fiber of his being shook in the eternal seconds, yet no time at all as the Kerberos fought the immaterium and embraced the real. That had been rough.

 

+++Silkbeard to Killteam Hellebore. We appear to have reached our destination. Call in any emergencies. Otherwise meet me at the hanger for deployment to the surface. We have Xenos to kill.+++

 

Brynjarr surveyed the Tech-Priest's Domain, all appeared in order here, and no doubt the Magos would have a better idea if there was anything amiss. No localized alarms rang out.

 

Taking his leave Brynjarr departed, The Magos did not reply, no doubt occupied by noospehric reports dealing with the emergency transition. The closer he got to the hanger bay the busier the corridors got with rushing crew, a hive of activity.

 

+++ "Silkbeard to Kill-Team Hellebore. Scratch that. It appear to be some form of minor space hulk. Report to the Bridge.+++

 

Changing course midstride Brynjarr shook his head at the though. ‘Minor space hulk, what a ludicrous concept, all hulks where a major danger.’  


Edited by Trokair, 15 February 2021 - 08:30 AM.

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My Assorted Projects
Facing the Unknown , Facing the Unknown II
 
You know the game is in trouble when your GM says things like this:

Can somebody tell me what the hell is happening with this game?


#96
Mazer Rackham

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Captain Fraykes meets your assembled team on the bridge as Kerberos lurches forward into the immediate battlespace.  His deck officers are fully engaged in co-ordination with the Imperial Flotilla attempting to repel the tau vessels pummelling them and landing more troops on Baraban.

 

You can see the Imperial Navy is making withdrawal, hopefully a temporary one.

 

"Well gentlemen, this is the situation.  I will cover your transport craft as long as possible, but will have to retire.  My oath is to deliver you, but I am bound to other oaths that make the survival of this ship a priority," his words are underlined by the thud-thud-thud-thud of macrocannon firing.  A blinding flash is dimmed by the photoreceptive glass surrounding the bridge as Kerberos fires her lance batteries.  The beam continues for some time, much longer than a ship of her displacement should manage.

 

"Enemy vessel destroyed!" one of the crew shouts.

 

Fraykes examines the holosphere depicting the battle.  "A minnow Jenkins, don't get cocky," he looks up at you.  "It's going to be a hot drop.  In the name of the Emperor and Deathwatch, I wish you success."

 

++++++++++

 

In a rush of movement only the Astartes can manage, you assemble at the Blackstar, awaiting the release of fuel lines and the clearing of all magnetic moorings.  Torin Ironbreaker is already in the pilot throne and his voice cuts across the vox.

 

+Multiple enemy contacts in low orbit.  I will need someone to operate the stations.+

 

As he speaks, a slender shape leans from the starboard assault ramp at the front of the craft.  Suited in void helmet and armoured bodyglove, Racel Galleus waves for you to board.

 

This Corvus Blackstar is a marvel of the engineering and strange ken of the Deathwatch.  It is an assault craft first and gunship second, and yet it is equipped with several mechanisms with which to confound the enemy.  There are six stations which may be used.  Tactical, EWEAPS, Damage Control and Comms.  The controls are of such intuitive design that you require no special skills to use them and will be able to act using your full characteristic.

 

Tactical Station: Operates flare and chaff decoys as well as forward facing hurricane bolters (BS)

EWEAPS: Sensoria Jamming and ghost doppler fragmentation (Int)

Damage Control: Fire suppression, auto-repair systems and internal pressure control (Ag)

Comms:  Co-ordinating with Kerberos as you descend, may-day beacons, black box flight recorders and Failsafe detonator in the event of capture (Int)

Co-Pilot: Assist with routine and mundane tasks leaving Torin free to execute manoeuvres. (Ag)

Observation and Augur Array:  May call targets for evasion or attack, either for Torin or for the Tactical Station: (Per)

 

Be advised that once you launch you will have covering fire, but will otherwise be on your own.  Kerberos has no fighter craft and cannot linger.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#97
grailkeeper

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Silkbeard strides in to the BlackStar.

 

"Apothecaries, I want you on damage control, and augur array. Dark Hunter- take Comms."

 

He muscles his way up to the front  and squeezes his thick frame into the co-pilots seat. When he finally manages to fit in and get his suit linked to the ship he mag locks his helmet under the seat.

 

"I see you are destined to become an Iron Priest some day Blood Claw. Want me to let you into a secret? Want to know why I always keep my helmet under my seat?

 

-

 

It stops your pungkåller  getting shot off by ground-fire."

 

 

For the first time since the mission has begun, a ghost of a smile crosses Silkbeard's face.


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#98
Mazer Rackham

Mazer Rackham

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Olafsson:

 

+Ha!+ comes the reply from slightly above and before you, +you will need them, veiðr for this drop would test even the Great Wolf.+ You can see his left arm flick out and snap long switches from red to green, the cockpit lighting up with a riot of different colour.  He repeats the motion with buttons above his head.  The whole craft thunders into life, vibrating and humming with power - yet it is a completely different sensation from a Stormwolf, as the targeting holos and integrated augur-picts drop into your retina.  There is something less hunter and more killer in this bird.

 

+I am no Iron Priest,+ Ironbreaker continues, perhaps sensing some form of kinship in the hour of combat, +just a Skyclaw with too much ambition.+

 

He brings the craft into alignment with the guides for launch, the amber lamps flashing in sequence.  A solid bump makes the vessel shudder and then holds it still.  A small panel display shows the craft is now maglocked to the ram-catapult in the docking bay.

 

+All stations, confirm,+ Ironbreaker warns across the squad vox, +ten seconds...+

 

All players should now call in to advise which station they are at, sharing any banter or reactions you wish.


Indexes: IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins

 

You see, it all started with an Only War game I played long ago. I was heavy weapons guy.  I wanted an Autocannon, and by bargaining, trading etc, I managed to get in the neighbourhood of 5% chance, and guess what? I got it! I howled and cheered and professed my luck as an insult to Tzeentch.

 

And ever since, I swear that begrudging clown has had it in for me. Not two missions later, I was charged by a cannon-proof Ork, brutalized, and forced to burn fate. Many other cases of ill luck have befallen me in other games, but I can at least take solace in the fact that I have someone to blame...

 


#99
Boyadventurer

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Once the Kill Team boards the cruiser and the formalities are over with, Carde finds a secluded area where he will be undisturbed. He pores over the tactical information for the mission ahead, as well as contemplates what he has learned of this Xenos threat during the psycho indoctrination. He is not the most intelligent of Astartes, but his studious nature still helps him to size up his opponent and grasp the situation at hand. His agitation has been slowly dissipating as he knows he will soon be released into battle.

 

(I'll throw in some edits if anything happens to Carde during that time)

 

He feels the ship shudder, even in the deep bowels of it where he took his solitude.

 

"Silkbeard, to Kill-Team Hellebore. Prepare for emergency warp translation."

 

"Hmm, what is this now?" he asks himself. He collects his things, thinking to make his way to the command bridge where he assumes the rest of his Kill Team has been.

 

"Silkbeard to Killteam Hellebore. We appear to have reached our destination. Call in any emergencies. Otherwise meet me at the hanger for deployment to the surface. We have Xenos to kill".

This gets him going. "Hmm, yes!" his pace quickens, constantly checking his auto sensors and the ship's wayfinding system to get himself out of this maze of corridors.

"Silkbeard to Kill-Team Hellebore. Scratch that. It appear to be some form of minor space hulk. Report to the Bridge."

 

"That is what I'm doing wolf," he says to himself. "Affirmitive," he voxes back to his leader.

 

 

 


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#100
TechCaptain

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