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Topics - Colonel Blood
For an adventuring band life has certainly proved dull over the last few weeks. From the stories it always seemed like as soon as you pronounced yourself up for an adventure that danger and glory would just jump out from behind every spiny bush or twisted tree bole. Not so. Since your little band of outcasts and oddballs formed a few months ago you've approached the notice board in four separate settlements, hearts full of hope, and ended up building a dry wall, escorting an old lady to see her niece, herding some lost sheep and clearing a field of rocks. The most action you've seen was killing some rats in wine cellar but it didn't earn you any gold and you don't think you benefited much in terms of experience either. The old warrior with the eye-patch and the missing fingers assured you you'd be knee deep with three legged goblins in no time but it appears his stories were merely tall tales.
That's why you're now in the ass end of the Empire, rural Wissenland, a few days upriver from Wissenburg and closing in on a small settlement called Mittleresdorf. It's a thin lead but at the moment even that seems promising. A few weeks ago a letter caught up with Symon, the shifty eyed, paranoid woodsman of the group, purporting to be from an old ruffian friend of his called Rudiger Kaltblut. Rudiger pronounced he had happy news to share and also suggested he was doing quite well for himself and perhaps Symon might like to share in the bounty. With precious little else on the horizon the group decided to follow it up and now here you are.
Symon is in the lead, bow in hand, fingers always twitching toward his arrows as he scans the undergrowth around. Alessandro follows up, thumbs hitched in his belt, seemingly without much of a care as his little dog Silvio snuffles at trails. Third in line is Arnulf the dwarf. He stops occasionally to make notes in a little pad when he sees a flower or lichen he likes the look of. In the rear comes Wolfgang, his well-used crossbow cradled in his arm. He turns occasionally to watch the rear, keenly aware that it is better to find adventure yourself rather than have it creep up behind you and fasten on your leg teeth first.
« on: March 26, 2016, 01:54:51 PM »
The Digger's character
« on: March 26, 2016, 01:52:36 PM »
Fire of Retribution's character
« on: March 19, 2016, 10:27:58 AM »
I know the site's in a slump and I haven't posted in a while but I just wanted to check and say merry Christmas to whoever is still around.
This place and you all are still important to me. I love you and it for all the fun times and crazy adventures over the last 10 years.
Volg Reclaimator (Scum)
"You think because you are inquisition you know what lives in the dark? On Volg there is no light but what creeps from the machines kept running by the blood and sweat of the indentured. There is no air but the air recycled for centuries, so thick you have yourself breathed it a thousand times or more. No water but that you have drunk and pissed out and washed in and been drenched by time and time again. Nothing enters Volg and nothing leaves.
"We ask for nothing and we get nothing. We produce nothing but chemical slurry so other worlds can be pure, and clean and live in the light of a blue sky. So we reclaim. We reuse. Everything we are is recycled, made anew to be used again. Even our nightmares.
"If an air filtrator does not work do we let an entire hab die while we await the servants of the Omnissiah? The credo says yes. Turn the bodies into nutri slurry to feed the survivors. The cycle goes on and the machine spirits are placated. But that waste is akin to an equal heresy in the eyes of the reclamaitor. No. We find the problem and we fix it, we bend the machine to our will and the flesh of Volg lives to strive another day. Damn the spirits a million times before they tell a Volg man when he will breathe his last.
"If the pale men creep up from the depths, black knives snicker snackering, do we cower Behind a bulkhead? Babble and shriek for the adepta to save us while they peel the flesh from our babbies? No. We forge a meat hammer from off-cut pipe, cordite and rusty nails and we go hunting.
"If the chief overseer herds our families into Cold Trade ships to feed the Beast Pits of off-world degenerates, and thus line his own pockets, do we say that the strong will always make sport of the weak and await our turn as deemed by cosmic chance of birth? No. We splice his chalice with sump acid and watch his guts slide down his thighs and turn back to our duties.
"If the Holy Ordos come and tell us we should not have done these things do we wail and plead mercy and throw ourselves into cleansing fire? We say no. We recycle, we reuse, we bend the man to fit the task.
"As sure as my skin is cracked, yellowed and festering you must have a task of me or we would not be talking at all. So tell me what tool must I make of myself in order to better serve him on Terra... And live another day?"
Divination: The only true fear is dying with your duty undone. (Gain +2 wounds)
Bs 43 (100xp)
Ag 36 (100xP)
Fate Points 3
Accustomed to crowds - Hivers grow up surrounded by immense herds of humanity. They are used to weaving through even the densest mob with ease. Benefit: Crowds do not count as Difficult Terrain for hivers, and when Running or Charging through a dense crowd hivers take no penalty to the Agility Test to keep their feet.
Caves of Steel - To a hiver, surrounded at all times by metal, machinery and industry, the arcane mysteries of technology are not so strange. Benefit: Hivers treat the tech use skill as a Basic Skill.
Hivebound - Hivers seldom endure the horrors of the open sky or the indignity of the great outdoors. (Penalty Hivers take a -10 penalty to all Survival (Int) tests, and while out of "proper hab" (e.g places without manufactyred goods, solid ceilings and electrical power) the hiver takes a -5 penalty on Int tests.
Born Survivor - Anyone who has survived to reach adulthood in a place like Volg has learned how to think fast, deal with horror and save their own skin - if they hadn't, they'd have wound up dead in a chemical pit already. (Begin play with Jaded, Light Sleeper and Melee Weapon Training (Primitive)
Grim - Volgites are tight lipped and dour survivors with a mean streak as wide as a Titan's stride and a certain tendency to psychosis (Swap starting Fellowship and Toughness bonuses. Begin the game with 1d10 Insanity Points)
Awareness (Per 32)
Common Lore (Imperium) (Int 37)
Deceive (Fel 26)
Dodge + 10 (Ag 46) (100xp)
Drive Ground Vehicle (Ag 37) (100xp)
Intimidate (Str 31)
Speak Language (Low Gothic)
Speak Language (Volg Hive Dialect)
Tech Use (200xp) (Int 37)
Ambidextrous - Use either hand equally well
Basic Weapon (SP)
Jaded - Never gain gain Insanity Points from ordinary horrors
Light Sleeper - Count as awake even when asleep
Melee Weapon (Primitive)
Melee Weapon (Primitive)
Pistol Training (SP)
Volg meat hammer + 12 shells
Autopistol + 1 clip
Beast Furs (AP 2 body)
Picture in your mind's eye the decayed majesty of the Askellon Sector. It has existed at the edges of Imperial space since before the Emperor ascended the Golden Throne. It has seen great heroes rise and even greater armies sweep across its domains to chase out the foul xenos who one made their home there. It has raised vast manufactorums to feed and arm the holy legions of mankind and with them the huge spire cities to contain their indentured work forces, hordes of administratum staff to support their work and storied generations of nobility to oversee them. But it is in trouble.
Picture the cold expanses of the Halo Stars, the sector's galactic neighbours, swimming with ancient an unknowable alien enemies, perched like predatory raptors just waiting to leap on any weakness and regain their former territories. Picture the swirling maelstrom of the Pandaemonium, a vast warp storm whose destructive energies only seem to grow with time, forcing all but the most desperate navigator houses to flee the system leaving it increasingly isolated and vulnerable.
Go closer. Picture one world among many: Desoleum. Three hundred billion souls labour on its radiation-blasted surface producing las charges for the weapons of the mighty Imperial soldiery and nutri slurry to fill their bellies and strengthen their arms. Three hundred billion men and women crammed into three hive cities which are surrounded by deserts of grit and glass, the creation of an ancient devastation that took it from the clawed grip of its ancient inheritors. Savage techno barbarians battle for every meagre scrap among this wasteland, many unaware of the insidious xenos artifacts which lay waiting to be discovered beneath their boots.
Go closer. Picture one hive city in particular: Hive Desoleum Primus stretches three kilometres tall, its spire scraping the upper atmosphere. It is a technological marvel of humankind, raised high thanks to the prayers of its cardinals, the ingenuity of its tech priests, the vision of its Consortium leaders and the sweat of its serfs. Here each person knows their place and is held in it by bonds of servitude which stretch from spire to sump. But where there are men there is corruption. Who knows how many recidivists, cultists, mutants, witches and free thinkers make their homes here, burrowing their way into the rotting flesh of the great beast, eating it from the inside?
Go closer. Past the airy spire mansions basking in real sun light, past the nanotech trees and the filligreed archeotech hover carriages, past the endless grey hab blocks of the manufactorum workers, past the stalls selling suspicious meat and under the table weapons, down through the lava tubes running like veins through the ancient edifice, past the security check points of the Sanctionary Bondsmen, through the dens of gangers smoking obscura and playing the knife game in abandoned warehouses, past the wretched hovels of mutants twisted away from their perfect human form by industrial run off or the even more horrifying warping effects of the Ruinous Powers.
To a sector of the hive called The Canyons. Picture the rotting cliff face of an ancient housing project: dozens of stories tall and perched precariously at the sagging edge of a collapsed hive level. This was once where true servants of the Imperium lived and worked but very few now remain. A disaster generations ago saw half of the sub level collapse into a pit hundreds of feet below. After the carnage came the vacuum and into the vacuum came the scum. Criminals, cultists, oath breakers, those too poor or poorly connected to get the proper papers for decent habitation zones. It is a place of sudden death and whispers of ghosts and worse haunting its empty streets. Picture a colony of wild caryatids, gene engineered cherubs, who make their nests on the sheer surface of The Canyons, flying out over the black precipice hunting for foods and returning to the shit-smeared, man made cliffs to nest.
Picture one grimy window among many. Go inside. Picture an Inquisitor's Warband, newly assembled from disparate worlds across the sub sector. Brought here to administer the Emperor's justice, or whatever semblance of its they can purchase with their blood and toil. Strangers to each other at the end of a long journey, and the beginning of a new one. Summoned here by a mysterious coded signal to meet in this dusty, cold, abandoned place, a plasteel manufactorum echoing with faded desperation. What are they saying to each other?