02-20-2015, 03:24 PM
(Who am I?)
Mechanically / Warlike.
Sympathetic German jedi padawan.
I am a Space Marine of the Iron Hands Chapter. I am blonde, with blue eyes, and am in training to become a Librarian. I am forty Terran years old--near juvenile for an Astartes, and my visage suggests a man in his late twenties rather than twice that.
(Where am I?)
Battle-scarred hideout.
Most mortals would be afraid, hearing the bark of autoguns and the scream of lasrounds peppering the walls of this old, crumbling bunker, but I know no fear.
(Opposition?)
Arachnid warrior.
The citizens...no, the _heretics_, have allied themselves with strange, spider-like xenos. Vile heresy. They willingly submit to their rule in exchange for freedom from the Imperium...they will pay with their lives for their betrayal.
(Are there any items here?)
Holo-projector.
(Who appears on the holo-projector?)
Rational magister who is as strong as you and whose motivation is to aid servitude, strive wrath, and suggest slavery; who speaks of inquisitive obscurity and is focused on your superiors.
I flick on the holo-projector I hold in my power-gauntleted palm and a flickering image of the planetary Administratum governor appears, floating in the air. Some would say like magic, but I have no such romanticized illusions about the difference between witchcraft and technology.
(What is the gist of his message?)
Rudely / Strong.
As the governor speaks, I have to grudgingly give him credit--most of the Administratum personnel here fled in panic, committed suicide, or at least would be frightened out of their mortal wits by the chaos engulfing their homeworld. He speaks clearly and strong, although his somewhat nasally, sneering voice is quite irritating to my enhanced senses.
"Well, what do we do now, my Lord?" he asks, putting an ironic twist on the last two words. I ignore the barb, although for sure any other Marine, especially, for example, a Son of Russ, would've ripped his pathetic arm off for his insolence.
(Does he have anyone with him, and if so, how many people?)
3 = 3[d6]
"How many of your staff are still alive, Governor?" I demand, keeping my voice steady.
"Only three, Lord."
(Are any of them armed?)
No, and...
(Injury)
Minor Damage: Largely superficial; degrades performance, but not disabling.
"No, Lord, and one of them is wounded. He suffered a las shot to the shoulder. He is, however, expected to pull through...if the traitors don't get to us first.”
"I will deal with them. Where am I needed most?"
(What should I do now?)
Search for weapons of mass destruction at the research facility.
(How far away is the research facility?)
7 = 7[d20]
"There is a Mechanicus research facility seven kilometers to the southeast of your position, my Lord. Overrun by the rebels, I'm afraid."
(Does the governor know the significance and nature of the facility’s contents?)
Yes.
(Does he tell me as much?)
Yes.
"The magos, Krixalin, hinted at there being an experimental weapons system under development there. The specifics, he did not speak of."
"Understood, Governor. I will aid you once I have secured the facility. Brother-Lexicanium Tobias out."
I sever the connection before he can respond with a slashing gesture of my hand.
And what would you like to do?
(Find transportation.)
Harm / Tactics.
(Guessing I’ll have to fight my way there strategically…)
I peer out the window, not with my eyes, but with my mind. Shadowy forms of mortal souls flicker and waver in the streets, the dull light of lasblasts and gunfire flicking between them. Were I to walk out there, the hail of fire would overwhelm even the mighty ceramite and adamantium plating of my blue power armor and I would be slain. I won't survive without cover.
(Do I find any items that can help me?)
Smoke canister.
I scan the room, having only given it the most cursory of inspections upon entering and sealing the doorway.
A small cylinder-shaped object glints in the light. A smoke grenade, forgotten here by the PDF troopers who left their blood spattered liberally across these walls. I grasp it, feeling its weight and getting a feel for its characteristics as I stand up. In my other hand I draw my force axe, which I have named Bulwark, for it is my protection against the living nightmares of the Dark Millennium, and countless foes, heretical, daemonic, and alien alike have met their end on its blade.
Well, it's now or never, I suppose, I think to myself.
(How many enemies are in my immediate area in the streets?)
1 = 1[d10]
(Well...that was unexpected.)
I quickly scan the streets and see only one foe. There's no time to think about where the others could have gone and I hurl the smoke canister.
(Does the canister work?)
No, but…
I curse sharply as the canister fails to activate, but its propellant ignites with a loud BANG and it distracts the sole enemy, who I now see is wearing improvised armor and wielding an autogun. While he's distracted I draw my bolt pistol in a blur and put two shots in his head, which explodes half a heartbeat later in a shower of blood and gore.
(Does the noise of the pistol attract more enemies?)
No.
(Is there anything useful in the beheaded corpses’ possession that would help me on my journey?)
Yes, and…
Fight / A plan.
(Schematics of the Mechanicus facility, and detailed description of its defenses.)
I turn his corpse over with my boot and snatch up the scroll tucked in his belt. I move to a more secure position and peruse it briefly, a grim smile playing across my hardened features as I understand that it is schematics to the facility I'm headed to, including an in-depth summary of the active defenses.
(Do I encounter any other enemies on my trip to the facility?)
Yes, but…
Antagonise / Fears.
(They’re scared of me?)
(How many enemies?)
7 = 7[d10]
A noise causes me to start briefly--Seven hostiles, and when they see me they start spraying caseless shot all over the street, as well as a few lasbolts. I notice their accuracy is even poorer than is the norm for most mortals--I see fear in their eyes. That explains it. I may as well play off of it.
(Rolling for bolt pistol shots damage)
Killed.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
I let out a roar, lowering my cowled head to charge, snapping off a few pistol shots as I go, killing one and wounding two more.
(Do I get hit while I run at them?)
No.
More shots spray around me, failing to hit me.
(Are any of them armed for close quarters combat?)
Yes.
(How many?)
1 = 1[d7]
One of them drops his emptied lasgun and whips out a shock maul--I snarl as Bulwark smashes against it, sending sparks flying.
(Does he best me?)
No.
(How much damage do I sustain in the combat?)
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
In the rather one-sided combat that ensues, I suffer no damage, beyond scratches to the paint of my armor.
(Do I dispatch the rest of them without incident?)
Yes.
(Do I make it to the facility without further encounters?)
No.
(Are there enemies?)
No, and...
(One of them has a bolter.)
(How many enemies?)
6 = 6[d7]
(How many do I hit with my pistol before charging into close combat?)
3 = 3[d4]
(Roling for injury severity)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
(Do I reach close combat without getting hit?)
No, and...
(Injury)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
(Am I able to reach close combat?)
Yes.
(Rolling for damage)
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
I freeze--six more contacts, and one has a bolter. I open fire with my bolt pistol, knocking three of them to the ground, wounded, and I charge again...Only to be knocked back by a spray of bolter rounds that thud against my armor and explode, shrapnel cutting a bloody gash across my face. I bellow and whirl Bulwark in an arc, splitting the offending heretic's skull open down the middle. I rip the axe from the head, covered in blood and brains, and I whirl around to strike to my left.
(Rolling for damage)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
(Rolling for follow-through damage)
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Sadly, I only nick him, but it’s enough that he drops his weapon with a yelp, making him easy prey for my follow-through strike, ripping a jagged slash through his chest.
(Do I take fire from the other heretics?)
Yes.
More point-blank shots spray at me and I shout, “FOR THE GLORY OF FERRUS MANUS! FOR THE EMPEROR!”
(Am I injured by their shots?)
No.
(Do I dispatch the rest of them without further event?)
No.
(Well, then am I injured by any of them in melee combat?)
Yes.
(How badly?)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
The shots glance harmlessly off my armored form, poorly aimed, but while I’m focused on dispatching one of them, a mighty, clubbing blow from a rifle butt knocks me down. I growl in frustration and roll to the side with surprising agility belying the bulk of my muscular, seven-foot, genetically enhanced and power armored frame, sweeping upward with Bulwark.
(Rolling for damage by my blow)
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
The blow cuts the heretic’s leg through to the bone just below the knee and I rip my axe out of him, levelling my bolt pistol in my other hand and firing.
(Does the volley kill him?)
Yes, and...
The blast shreds him and fragments of bone fly in all directions--I throw up an arm to shield my face as the shards of his skull embed themselves in his nearby allies, who cry out in pain and disgust as they’re spattered with his innards, the shockwave of the bolt rounds’ detonation knocking them to the ground, allowing me to unleash killings from my pistol.
(Rolling for damge--D20+9 (Modifier for immobile targets))
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Killed.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
One of my foes is slain when the bolt round takes him through the neck and blows his head apart, while of the two remaining targets, one takes a hit through the side and quickly blacks out from pain and blood loss, making him an easy victim for Bulwark’s keen edge. The final enemy, however, rolls as I fire and takes the bolt round to the foot, and it detonates after passing through him, burning him but not killing him. He screams in agony, grabbing at his scorched, blasted leg like a child.
(Does he manage to fight through the pain to strike back at me?)
No.
(Rolling for damage for two more shots, +10 modifier for prone/immobile/shocked target)
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Killed.
My two shots finish him easily and I continue on my way.
(Traveling to the Facility...Do I find anyone on the way?)
Yes, but...
(Rolling for friendly NPC and their injury. as well as skills and personality)
Juvenile female telepath.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Alertness.
Guide.
I pause, my other-sense tingling momentarily. I know what it means--there’s a psyker nearby. I cast my othersight outward…
(Do I detect her soul and identify her?)
Yes.
Strange. The presence I detect is not Astartes, nor Inquisitor, nor Astropath, or even a sorceror or daemon...but a young mortal, possibly female...a psyker. Like me.
(I should proceed with caution.)
(Does she detect me as well?)
Yes, but...
(She blocks her mind from me, thinking me to be a daemon…)
Suddenly a scream of “NO! GET AWAY!” echoes in my head and I feel my presence being hurled away like a stone found in the sole of a foot. I bring my considerable willpower to bear and the crystalline arrays embedded in my psychic hood glow a pale cyan, but to no avail and I am wrenched back to reality, and the sensation of blood trickling gently from my nose.
I wipe the blood off absentmindedly and proceed on my way, pushing this strange encounter to the back of my mind.
(Is she at the facility?)
Yes.
I arrive at the facility several minutes later, standing before the massive, Gothic-styled gates.
(Can I open the doors from the outside?)
No, but...
I run an eye over the doors again. They’re locked, but they look fairly corroded and unstable. A few good bolter shots should breach them.
(Rolling for damage from four bolt pistol shots.)
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
Minor Damage: Largely superficial; degrades performance, but not disabling.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Dent.
My shots strike home but fail to breach the door--I holster my pistol and wield my force axe in both hands now, focusing…
(Am I able to focus enough to charge the axe with psychic energy?)
Yes.
(Is that energy sufficient to breach the door?)
Yes, but...
I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, they blaze with eldritch energy, the runes of my psychic hood crackling with power, as is Bulwark’s blade, runes engraved in its head igniting as lightning plays along its length, but not shocking me. I set my jaw and with a mighty two-handed swing I smite the gates, which give a resounding CLANG and crumple like tinfoil, smoke rising from them as they lay on the ground, broken. I tread heavily over them, entering the facility...But little do I know that I am not alone.
(Rolling for opposition)
Giant spider.
A sudden movement attracts my keen eyesight to the archways above. “By the Emperor,” I breathe...It’s hideous.
As the arachnid warriors allied with this world’s populace are to Terran spiders, so this creature is to those xenos. A massive eight-legged monstrosity, with numberless milky-white eyes and a foul, sagging abdomen, poison dripping from every orifice. With speed belying its grotesque bulk, it drops down from its webs in the ceiling archways, leaving me little time to prepare myself or even begin to contemplate possible courses of action.
(Am I able to shoot it out of the air, or strike it down at all before it lands?)
No.
(Am I able to evade it before it lands?)
No, and...
It lands directly on me, its bulk crushing me between its vile form and the stone floor, and with a sickening crunch my ankle breaks. I drag myself out from under the spider before it can bring its fangs to bear and I roll over, wincing in pain as agony flares up from my foot. After a moment, a cocktail of painkillers flows through my Black Carapace implant--the one that allows me to interface directly with my armor--and I breathe normally again, my ankle already healing rapidly. I fire three more pistol shots, and while they fail to penetrate the creature’s hard, chitinous hide, the loud crash-BANG crash-BANG crash-BANG and the flashes of detonation stun it momentarily--clearly this beast is more accustomed to the dank gloom of underground lairs and the dusky dimness of a nocturnal lifestyle.
(Am I able to immediately slay the beast with my axe?)
No.
(Does it recover before I can strike again?)
No, but...
As it flails wildly with its long, angular legs, I’m knocked back against an ancient pillar marked with the holy aquila of the Imperium, rattling my teeth.
(Am I injured on impact?)
Yes.
(Rolling for impact damage.)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
I wince as the impact jars my skull and I’m dazed for a moment.
(Does the beast recover before I regain my footing?)
Yes, and...
The thing charges at me, screeching ferally, and I yell in pain and surprise as it bites down on my leg. I feel toxins running through my veins and the wound quickly scabs over, but goes a sickly green color.
(Not good.)
(Are my toxin-filtering implants able to nullify the poison?)
Yes.
After a moment, my skin goes its ordinary pale color and I feel the poison purged from my blood. A feral grin spreads across my features as the creature now has its back turned, leaving me for dead.
Its foolishness will be its downfall.
I rise to my feet, retrieving Bulwark from where it lies at my side.
(Is the creature able to detect my movement as I approach?)
No, and...
The beast seems to be in its own world, and is taken completely off guard as I suddenly bellow at the top of my lungs and fling myself at it. Indeed, I’m able to crawl up onto its back and pull myself up to the top of its head. With a roar of “THE FLESH IS WEAK!”, I bring down my great axe.
(Is my axe able to penetrate the plating that protects its head?)
Yes, and...
As I bring down the axe, I feel the strength of Ferrus Manus flowing in my veins. For am I not crafted of his own flesh? Do I not carry his power within my veins? As Bulwark’s flickering edge sunders my foe’s ghastly head from crown to pincers, spattering gore across my armored form and slaying it outright in a flash of power discharge, I think with grim satisfaction that our mighty Primarch would’ve deemed it a worthy blow. I leap quickly from the dying creature’s body and land in a crouch, my cloak slowly settling around my pauldroned shoulders like a spectral after-image of my passage.
(Are there any more impediments to my proceeding further into the facility?)
Yes.
(What is the nature of this impediment?)
Adjourn / Technology.
(Servitor guards…*growls*)
As the beast’s dying howls echo hauntingly through the massive antechamber, I spot several pairs of glowing light in the dark. Servitors, I presume. Surely they’ll recognize me as a fellow servant of the Emperor…
A squeal of binary code emits, and I instantly interpret its meaning: Unidentified contact. Investigating. They limp into the light towards me, dragging cobwebs and sparking. “Halt!” I order in High Gothic. “Stand down, servitors.” They ignore me and another scrap of binary gurgles from one of their vox-grilles. Engaging hostile target. They level bulky weaponry at me and lock on, a small pinging noise alerting me to that fact. Their eye-lenses change color to green and I hurl myself aside as their weapons begin their thunderous bark, so loud in the confines of the antechamber that my autosenses momentarily mute the sound to protect my hearing.
(Am I able to evade their fire?)
Yes, and...
The heavy bolter rounds thud through the floor after me, sending up puffs of gritty smoke; I roll out of the way and dart behind one of the servitors, so that the hapless construct is caught in the crossfire and is torn asunder in a shower of oil and stale blood. As it crumples to the floor, I leap forward and sweep Bulwark out at the nearest servitor’s neck.
(How many of them are there anyway, not counting the one I killed?)
1 = 2[d6]-1
(Rolling for damage.)
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
That servitor is indeed the only one remaining, I realize, as my blow strikes home and rips its arm off at the shoulder, sparks and hot oil spraying everywhere. I press the attack and strike again after parrying a feeble swipe from its remaining hand.
(Rolling for damage.)
Critical Damage: Requires immediate attention; clearly disabling if not immediately destructive.
My axe-strike bisects the servitor at the chest and it falls to the floor smoking, twitching feebly a few times, then its eyes flicker and dim for all time.
(Do I detect the girl I found before again now that it’s quiet in here?)
No.
(Very well.)
I cast my mind outward, searching for the presence I detected out on the streets, but I find nothing.
(Is the door to the interior of the facility possible to open?)
No, but...
I walk up to the door and one solid kick causes it to collapse, and I walk into the facility unassailed.
(Is it bright enough to see with the naked eye in here?)
No, but...
The power is down; it’s too dark for any mortal to see, but I’m able to use my othersight to work my way through the corridor, keeping one palm on the wall just in case.
(How many passages does this corridor split off into?)
8 = 8[d20]
There’s eight different corridors that this pathway splits off into. I doubt I have time to explore them all. I choose one at random and enter it.
(Do I find my objective in this room?)
Yes.
(Yaaaay!)
(Is there anyone defending it?)
Yes, and...
(Rolling for opposition four times.)
Religious fanatic.
Arachnid warrior.
Terrorist cell.
Angry mob.
As I enter the room, I’m nearly blinded as torches and braziers ignite all along the walls. This room is most definitely occupied, by the spider-like xenos that occupy this world, their heretical allies...and, I realize with a snarl, Chaos cultists. Clearly something far more insidious than a mere rebellion is at work here.
(Am I able to signal the governor or the fleet by vox to inform them of my findings?)
No.
I activate my voxcaster in an attempt to contact the governor. It fails; I’m too far underground. I attempt then to reach the orbiting Iron Hands fleet from whence I came, or any friendly unit, and am met with similar failures each time.
(During this am I detected by the room’s occupants?)
Yes.
(What are they doing anyhow?)
Take / Randomness.
(Sacrificing themselves to Tzeentch…)
I realize that I’ve been detected--the spider-xenos turn around ponderously. This is my first time actually seeing them and they’re hideous--bastards of mankind and arachnid anatomy, like a mythical Terran centaur, but with a spider’s legs and abdomen where a centaur’s would be, according to legend, that of a horse. Their faces have many eyes, short, bristly hair, and ooze-dripping pincers for mouths. The beasts hiss at me and begin to scuttle my way, chittering to each other as they go, leveling autoguns and primitive curve-bladed spears at me.
Meanwhile, the cultists are chanting sonorously, their arcane speech rising and falling like the waves of the sea in rhythm and tone, lying prostrate before an eight-pointed star of Chaos in the center of the room, arrayed in a circle around it, naked but for loincloths and tattooed glyphs and runes declaring their devotion to the most blasphemous of powers. Bloodstains are everywhere and it disgusts me to see a temple of the Mechanicus defiled in such a way. I draw Bulwark out from where it is slung around my back and ignite the blade so it flickers with power. While the xenos creatures are clearly a threat, I feel Warp energies gathering in the back of my skull and my psychic hood’s runes glow and flicker erratically, and know in the core of my being that this foul ritual must be ended before it proceeds any further. Unfortunately, the many-legged xenos beings are blocking my path.
(Do I have time to fire my bolt pistol at the approaching beasts?)
Yes, and...
I open fire, my pistol thundering and barking in my hand ferociously, its shots killing outright or at least severely wounding several of the xenos.
(How many xenos are there anyway?)
19 = 19[d20]
(Rolling for seven pistol shots.)
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Two bolts strike home, causing my foes to be shredded from the inside out in a shower of guts and slime, while two more are only nicked by my pistol shots. Another takes a bolt round to the chest but the shot passes through before it can detonate, leaving the beast bleeding profusely but still staggering towards me. A sixth beast’s head is blown partly away by the force of the massive bolt’s impact, but the bolt again passes through before detonation, exploding a few feet behind the xenos’ back and knocking it over onto its front, scuttling helplessly. The seventh has one of its many legs shot off but seems to suffer no ill effect other than a howl of pain as it lurches my way.
To stay will be to die. I hurl myself out of the path of their charge, swiping at that last beast with Bulwark as I pass.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
The blow unfortunately merely cuts a gash through its flank rather than slaying it outright; I curse in frustration and dodge to the side as it lunges at me.
(Is there any way to get off the floor?)
No, but...
There’s an altar in the corner, with shattered icons of the Mechanicus strewn about. I leap over the spider-being’s head and spring up onto the altar, standing at the top of the stairs ready to defend myself.
(Are the stairs narrow enough so I can face them one at a time?)
No.
(Very well.)
I set my bolt pistol to full-auto and open fire, the shots slamming home through the ranks of the xenos.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise
My shots have little effect, but I continue to fire as they draw closer…
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Two of them are merely grazed by the bolts, while another takes a bolt round to the stomach and goes down for the count. One more takes a shot to the hand and drops its weapon with a hiss. The final shot takes one in the shoulder
They’re upon me now and my axe rises and falls like a pendulum of death.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
I slash four times with my axeblade and knock two of them aside, gashing a third and nearly bisecting a fourth, but the last one leaps aside just in time to avoid a swift, painful death.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
I take only two significant wounds, bleeding profusely from my chest and back. I’ll need a few minutes before my wounds heal...I grit my teeth and struggle through the pain, swinging my axe again.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
One more spider-beast is slain and two more lose limbs for their trouble. Green-black ichor gushes everywhere, spattering my robes. A few of them in the distance fire autoguns at me…
(Do any of them hit through the melee?)
No, and...
The shots glance wildly about, failing to do anything but sow confusion and discord into the crowd. A few ricochets hit the still-chanting cultists and the sphere of light that had been building in the center of the circle flickers out momentarily.
(To be continued...)
Mechanically / Warlike.
Sympathetic German jedi padawan.
I am a Space Marine of the Iron Hands Chapter. I am blonde, with blue eyes, and am in training to become a Librarian. I am forty Terran years old--near juvenile for an Astartes, and my visage suggests a man in his late twenties rather than twice that.
(Where am I?)
Battle-scarred hideout.
Most mortals would be afraid, hearing the bark of autoguns and the scream of lasrounds peppering the walls of this old, crumbling bunker, but I know no fear.
(Opposition?)
Arachnid warrior.
The citizens...no, the _heretics_, have allied themselves with strange, spider-like xenos. Vile heresy. They willingly submit to their rule in exchange for freedom from the Imperium...they will pay with their lives for their betrayal.
(Are there any items here?)
Holo-projector.
(Who appears on the holo-projector?)
Rational magister who is as strong as you and whose motivation is to aid servitude, strive wrath, and suggest slavery; who speaks of inquisitive obscurity and is focused on your superiors.
I flick on the holo-projector I hold in my power-gauntleted palm and a flickering image of the planetary Administratum governor appears, floating in the air. Some would say like magic, but I have no such romanticized illusions about the difference between witchcraft and technology.
(What is the gist of his message?)
Rudely / Strong.
As the governor speaks, I have to grudgingly give him credit--most of the Administratum personnel here fled in panic, committed suicide, or at least would be frightened out of their mortal wits by the chaos engulfing their homeworld. He speaks clearly and strong, although his somewhat nasally, sneering voice is quite irritating to my enhanced senses.
"Well, what do we do now, my Lord?" he asks, putting an ironic twist on the last two words. I ignore the barb, although for sure any other Marine, especially, for example, a Son of Russ, would've ripped his pathetic arm off for his insolence.
(Does he have anyone with him, and if so, how many people?)
3 = 3[d6]
"How many of your staff are still alive, Governor?" I demand, keeping my voice steady.
"Only three, Lord."
(Are any of them armed?)
No, and...
(Injury)
Minor Damage: Largely superficial; degrades performance, but not disabling.
"No, Lord, and one of them is wounded. He suffered a las shot to the shoulder. He is, however, expected to pull through...if the traitors don't get to us first.”
"I will deal with them. Where am I needed most?"
(What should I do now?)
Search for weapons of mass destruction at the research facility.
(How far away is the research facility?)
7 = 7[d20]
"There is a Mechanicus research facility seven kilometers to the southeast of your position, my Lord. Overrun by the rebels, I'm afraid."
(Does the governor know the significance and nature of the facility’s contents?)
Yes.
(Does he tell me as much?)
Yes.
"The magos, Krixalin, hinted at there being an experimental weapons system under development there. The specifics, he did not speak of."
"Understood, Governor. I will aid you once I have secured the facility. Brother-Lexicanium Tobias out."
I sever the connection before he can respond with a slashing gesture of my hand.
And what would you like to do?
(Find transportation.)
Harm / Tactics.
(Guessing I’ll have to fight my way there strategically…)
I peer out the window, not with my eyes, but with my mind. Shadowy forms of mortal souls flicker and waver in the streets, the dull light of lasblasts and gunfire flicking between them. Were I to walk out there, the hail of fire would overwhelm even the mighty ceramite and adamantium plating of my blue power armor and I would be slain. I won't survive without cover.
(Do I find any items that can help me?)
Smoke canister.
I scan the room, having only given it the most cursory of inspections upon entering and sealing the doorway.
A small cylinder-shaped object glints in the light. A smoke grenade, forgotten here by the PDF troopers who left their blood spattered liberally across these walls. I grasp it, feeling its weight and getting a feel for its characteristics as I stand up. In my other hand I draw my force axe, which I have named Bulwark, for it is my protection against the living nightmares of the Dark Millennium, and countless foes, heretical, daemonic, and alien alike have met their end on its blade.
Well, it's now or never, I suppose, I think to myself.
(How many enemies are in my immediate area in the streets?)
1 = 1[d10]
(Well...that was unexpected.)
I quickly scan the streets and see only one foe. There's no time to think about where the others could have gone and I hurl the smoke canister.
(Does the canister work?)
No, but…
I curse sharply as the canister fails to activate, but its propellant ignites with a loud BANG and it distracts the sole enemy, who I now see is wearing improvised armor and wielding an autogun. While he's distracted I draw my bolt pistol in a blur and put two shots in his head, which explodes half a heartbeat later in a shower of blood and gore.
(Does the noise of the pistol attract more enemies?)
No.
(Is there anything useful in the beheaded corpses’ possession that would help me on my journey?)
Yes, and…
Fight / A plan.
(Schematics of the Mechanicus facility, and detailed description of its defenses.)
I turn his corpse over with my boot and snatch up the scroll tucked in his belt. I move to a more secure position and peruse it briefly, a grim smile playing across my hardened features as I understand that it is schematics to the facility I'm headed to, including an in-depth summary of the active defenses.
(Do I encounter any other enemies on my trip to the facility?)
Yes, but…
Antagonise / Fears.
(They’re scared of me?)
(How many enemies?)
7 = 7[d10]
A noise causes me to start briefly--Seven hostiles, and when they see me they start spraying caseless shot all over the street, as well as a few lasbolts. I notice their accuracy is even poorer than is the norm for most mortals--I see fear in their eyes. That explains it. I may as well play off of it.
(Rolling for bolt pistol shots damage)
Killed.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
I let out a roar, lowering my cowled head to charge, snapping off a few pistol shots as I go, killing one and wounding two more.
(Do I get hit while I run at them?)
No.
More shots spray around me, failing to hit me.
(Are any of them armed for close quarters combat?)
Yes.
(How many?)
1 = 1[d7]
One of them drops his emptied lasgun and whips out a shock maul--I snarl as Bulwark smashes against it, sending sparks flying.
(Does he best me?)
No.
(How much damage do I sustain in the combat?)
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
In the rather one-sided combat that ensues, I suffer no damage, beyond scratches to the paint of my armor.
(Do I dispatch the rest of them without incident?)
Yes.
(Do I make it to the facility without further encounters?)
No.
(Are there enemies?)
No, and...
(One of them has a bolter.)
(How many enemies?)
6 = 6[d7]
(How many do I hit with my pistol before charging into close combat?)
3 = 3[d4]
(Roling for injury severity)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
(Do I reach close combat without getting hit?)
No, and...
(Injury)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
(Am I able to reach close combat?)
Yes.
(Rolling for damage)
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
I freeze--six more contacts, and one has a bolter. I open fire with my bolt pistol, knocking three of them to the ground, wounded, and I charge again...Only to be knocked back by a spray of bolter rounds that thud against my armor and explode, shrapnel cutting a bloody gash across my face. I bellow and whirl Bulwark in an arc, splitting the offending heretic's skull open down the middle. I rip the axe from the head, covered in blood and brains, and I whirl around to strike to my left.
(Rolling for damage)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
(Rolling for follow-through damage)
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Sadly, I only nick him, but it’s enough that he drops his weapon with a yelp, making him easy prey for my follow-through strike, ripping a jagged slash through his chest.
(Do I take fire from the other heretics?)
Yes.
More point-blank shots spray at me and I shout, “FOR THE GLORY OF FERRUS MANUS! FOR THE EMPEROR!”
(Am I injured by their shots?)
No.
(Do I dispatch the rest of them without further event?)
No.
(Well, then am I injured by any of them in melee combat?)
Yes.
(How badly?)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
The shots glance harmlessly off my armored form, poorly aimed, but while I’m focused on dispatching one of them, a mighty, clubbing blow from a rifle butt knocks me down. I growl in frustration and roll to the side with surprising agility belying the bulk of my muscular, seven-foot, genetically enhanced and power armored frame, sweeping upward with Bulwark.
(Rolling for damage by my blow)
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
The blow cuts the heretic’s leg through to the bone just below the knee and I rip my axe out of him, levelling my bolt pistol in my other hand and firing.
(Does the volley kill him?)
Yes, and...
The blast shreds him and fragments of bone fly in all directions--I throw up an arm to shield my face as the shards of his skull embed themselves in his nearby allies, who cry out in pain and disgust as they’re spattered with his innards, the shockwave of the bolt rounds’ detonation knocking them to the ground, allowing me to unleash killings from my pistol.
(Rolling for damge--D20+9 (Modifier for immobile targets))
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Killed.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
One of my foes is slain when the bolt round takes him through the neck and blows his head apart, while of the two remaining targets, one takes a hit through the side and quickly blacks out from pain and blood loss, making him an easy victim for Bulwark’s keen edge. The final enemy, however, rolls as I fire and takes the bolt round to the foot, and it detonates after passing through him, burning him but not killing him. He screams in agony, grabbing at his scorched, blasted leg like a child.
(Does he manage to fight through the pain to strike back at me?)
No.
(Rolling for damage for two more shots, +10 modifier for prone/immobile/shocked target)
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Killed.
My two shots finish him easily and I continue on my way.
(Traveling to the Facility...Do I find anyone on the way?)
Yes, but...
(Rolling for friendly NPC and their injury. as well as skills and personality)
Juvenile female telepath.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Alertness.
Guide.
I pause, my other-sense tingling momentarily. I know what it means--there’s a psyker nearby. I cast my othersight outward…
(Do I detect her soul and identify her?)
Yes.
Strange. The presence I detect is not Astartes, nor Inquisitor, nor Astropath, or even a sorceror or daemon...but a young mortal, possibly female...a psyker. Like me.
(I should proceed with caution.)
(Does she detect me as well?)
Yes, but...
(She blocks her mind from me, thinking me to be a daemon…)
Suddenly a scream of “NO! GET AWAY!” echoes in my head and I feel my presence being hurled away like a stone found in the sole of a foot. I bring my considerable willpower to bear and the crystalline arrays embedded in my psychic hood glow a pale cyan, but to no avail and I am wrenched back to reality, and the sensation of blood trickling gently from my nose.
I wipe the blood off absentmindedly and proceed on my way, pushing this strange encounter to the back of my mind.
(Is she at the facility?)
Yes.
I arrive at the facility several minutes later, standing before the massive, Gothic-styled gates.
(Can I open the doors from the outside?)
No, but...
I run an eye over the doors again. They’re locked, but they look fairly corroded and unstable. A few good bolter shots should breach them.
(Rolling for damage from four bolt pistol shots.)
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
Minor Damage: Largely superficial; degrades performance, but not disabling.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Dent.
My shots strike home but fail to breach the door--I holster my pistol and wield my force axe in both hands now, focusing…
(Am I able to focus enough to charge the axe with psychic energy?)
Yes.
(Is that energy sufficient to breach the door?)
Yes, but...
I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, they blaze with eldritch energy, the runes of my psychic hood crackling with power, as is Bulwark’s blade, runes engraved in its head igniting as lightning plays along its length, but not shocking me. I set my jaw and with a mighty two-handed swing I smite the gates, which give a resounding CLANG and crumple like tinfoil, smoke rising from them as they lay on the ground, broken. I tread heavily over them, entering the facility...But little do I know that I am not alone.
(Rolling for opposition)
Giant spider.
A sudden movement attracts my keen eyesight to the archways above. “By the Emperor,” I breathe...It’s hideous.
As the arachnid warriors allied with this world’s populace are to Terran spiders, so this creature is to those xenos. A massive eight-legged monstrosity, with numberless milky-white eyes and a foul, sagging abdomen, poison dripping from every orifice. With speed belying its grotesque bulk, it drops down from its webs in the ceiling archways, leaving me little time to prepare myself or even begin to contemplate possible courses of action.
(Am I able to shoot it out of the air, or strike it down at all before it lands?)
No.
(Am I able to evade it before it lands?)
No, and...
It lands directly on me, its bulk crushing me between its vile form and the stone floor, and with a sickening crunch my ankle breaks. I drag myself out from under the spider before it can bring its fangs to bear and I roll over, wincing in pain as agony flares up from my foot. After a moment, a cocktail of painkillers flows through my Black Carapace implant--the one that allows me to interface directly with my armor--and I breathe normally again, my ankle already healing rapidly. I fire three more pistol shots, and while they fail to penetrate the creature’s hard, chitinous hide, the loud crash-BANG crash-BANG crash-BANG and the flashes of detonation stun it momentarily--clearly this beast is more accustomed to the dank gloom of underground lairs and the dusky dimness of a nocturnal lifestyle.
(Am I able to immediately slay the beast with my axe?)
No.
(Does it recover before I can strike again?)
No, but...
As it flails wildly with its long, angular legs, I’m knocked back against an ancient pillar marked with the holy aquila of the Imperium, rattling my teeth.
(Am I injured on impact?)
Yes.
(Rolling for impact damage.)
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
I wince as the impact jars my skull and I’m dazed for a moment.
(Does the beast recover before I regain my footing?)
Yes, and...
The thing charges at me, screeching ferally, and I yell in pain and surprise as it bites down on my leg. I feel toxins running through my veins and the wound quickly scabs over, but goes a sickly green color.
(Not good.)
(Are my toxin-filtering implants able to nullify the poison?)
Yes.
After a moment, my skin goes its ordinary pale color and I feel the poison purged from my blood. A feral grin spreads across my features as the creature now has its back turned, leaving me for dead.
Its foolishness will be its downfall.
I rise to my feet, retrieving Bulwark from where it lies at my side.
(Is the creature able to detect my movement as I approach?)
No, and...
The beast seems to be in its own world, and is taken completely off guard as I suddenly bellow at the top of my lungs and fling myself at it. Indeed, I’m able to crawl up onto its back and pull myself up to the top of its head. With a roar of “THE FLESH IS WEAK!”, I bring down my great axe.
(Is my axe able to penetrate the plating that protects its head?)
Yes, and...
As I bring down the axe, I feel the strength of Ferrus Manus flowing in my veins. For am I not crafted of his own flesh? Do I not carry his power within my veins? As Bulwark’s flickering edge sunders my foe’s ghastly head from crown to pincers, spattering gore across my armored form and slaying it outright in a flash of power discharge, I think with grim satisfaction that our mighty Primarch would’ve deemed it a worthy blow. I leap quickly from the dying creature’s body and land in a crouch, my cloak slowly settling around my pauldroned shoulders like a spectral after-image of my passage.
(Are there any more impediments to my proceeding further into the facility?)
Yes.
(What is the nature of this impediment?)
Adjourn / Technology.
(Servitor guards…*growls*)
As the beast’s dying howls echo hauntingly through the massive antechamber, I spot several pairs of glowing light in the dark. Servitors, I presume. Surely they’ll recognize me as a fellow servant of the Emperor…
A squeal of binary code emits, and I instantly interpret its meaning: Unidentified contact. Investigating. They limp into the light towards me, dragging cobwebs and sparking. “Halt!” I order in High Gothic. “Stand down, servitors.” They ignore me and another scrap of binary gurgles from one of their vox-grilles. Engaging hostile target. They level bulky weaponry at me and lock on, a small pinging noise alerting me to that fact. Their eye-lenses change color to green and I hurl myself aside as their weapons begin their thunderous bark, so loud in the confines of the antechamber that my autosenses momentarily mute the sound to protect my hearing.
(Am I able to evade their fire?)
Yes, and...
The heavy bolter rounds thud through the floor after me, sending up puffs of gritty smoke; I roll out of the way and dart behind one of the servitors, so that the hapless construct is caught in the crossfire and is torn asunder in a shower of oil and stale blood. As it crumples to the floor, I leap forward and sweep Bulwark out at the nearest servitor’s neck.
(How many of them are there anyway, not counting the one I killed?)
1 = 2[d6]-1
(Rolling for damage.)
Severe Damage: Incapacitating and may become Critical if not addressed.
That servitor is indeed the only one remaining, I realize, as my blow strikes home and rips its arm off at the shoulder, sparks and hot oil spraying everywhere. I press the attack and strike again after parrying a feeble swipe from its remaining hand.
(Rolling for damage.)
Critical Damage: Requires immediate attention; clearly disabling if not immediately destructive.
My axe-strike bisects the servitor at the chest and it falls to the floor smoking, twitching feebly a few times, then its eyes flicker and dim for all time.
(Do I detect the girl I found before again now that it’s quiet in here?)
No.
(Very well.)
I cast my mind outward, searching for the presence I detected out on the streets, but I find nothing.
(Is the door to the interior of the facility possible to open?)
No, but...
I walk up to the door and one solid kick causes it to collapse, and I walk into the facility unassailed.
(Is it bright enough to see with the naked eye in here?)
No, but...
The power is down; it’s too dark for any mortal to see, but I’m able to use my othersight to work my way through the corridor, keeping one palm on the wall just in case.
(How many passages does this corridor split off into?)
8 = 8[d20]
There’s eight different corridors that this pathway splits off into. I doubt I have time to explore them all. I choose one at random and enter it.
(Do I find my objective in this room?)
Yes.
(Yaaaay!)
(Is there anyone defending it?)
Yes, and...
(Rolling for opposition four times.)
Religious fanatic.
Arachnid warrior.
Terrorist cell.
Angry mob.
As I enter the room, I’m nearly blinded as torches and braziers ignite all along the walls. This room is most definitely occupied, by the spider-like xenos that occupy this world, their heretical allies...and, I realize with a snarl, Chaos cultists. Clearly something far more insidious than a mere rebellion is at work here.
(Am I able to signal the governor or the fleet by vox to inform them of my findings?)
No.
I activate my voxcaster in an attempt to contact the governor. It fails; I’m too far underground. I attempt then to reach the orbiting Iron Hands fleet from whence I came, or any friendly unit, and am met with similar failures each time.
(During this am I detected by the room’s occupants?)
Yes.
(What are they doing anyhow?)
Take / Randomness.
(Sacrificing themselves to Tzeentch…)
I realize that I’ve been detected--the spider-xenos turn around ponderously. This is my first time actually seeing them and they’re hideous--bastards of mankind and arachnid anatomy, like a mythical Terran centaur, but with a spider’s legs and abdomen where a centaur’s would be, according to legend, that of a horse. Their faces have many eyes, short, bristly hair, and ooze-dripping pincers for mouths. The beasts hiss at me and begin to scuttle my way, chittering to each other as they go, leveling autoguns and primitive curve-bladed spears at me.
Meanwhile, the cultists are chanting sonorously, their arcane speech rising and falling like the waves of the sea in rhythm and tone, lying prostrate before an eight-pointed star of Chaos in the center of the room, arrayed in a circle around it, naked but for loincloths and tattooed glyphs and runes declaring their devotion to the most blasphemous of powers. Bloodstains are everywhere and it disgusts me to see a temple of the Mechanicus defiled in such a way. I draw Bulwark out from where it is slung around my back and ignite the blade so it flickers with power. While the xenos creatures are clearly a threat, I feel Warp energies gathering in the back of my skull and my psychic hood’s runes glow and flicker erratically, and know in the core of my being that this foul ritual must be ended before it proceeds any further. Unfortunately, the many-legged xenos beings are blocking my path.
(Do I have time to fire my bolt pistol at the approaching beasts?)
Yes, and...
I open fire, my pistol thundering and barking in my hand ferociously, its shots killing outright or at least severely wounding several of the xenos.
(How many xenos are there anyway?)
19 = 19[d20]
(Rolling for seven pistol shots.)
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Two bolts strike home, causing my foes to be shredded from the inside out in a shower of guts and slime, while two more are only nicked by my pistol shots. Another takes a bolt round to the chest but the shot passes through before it can detonate, leaving the beast bleeding profusely but still staggering towards me. A sixth beast’s head is blown partly away by the force of the massive bolt’s impact, but the bolt again passes through before detonation, exploding a few feet behind the xenos’ back and knocking it over onto its front, scuttling helplessly. The seventh has one of its many legs shot off but seems to suffer no ill effect other than a howl of pain as it lurches my way.
To stay will be to die. I hurl myself out of the path of their charge, swiping at that last beast with Bulwark as I pass.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
The blow unfortunately merely cuts a gash through its flank rather than slaying it outright; I curse in frustration and dodge to the side as it lunges at me.
(Is there any way to get off the floor?)
No, but...
There’s an altar in the corner, with shattered icons of the Mechanicus strewn about. I leap over the spider-being’s head and spring up onto the altar, standing at the top of the stairs ready to defend myself.
(Are the stairs narrow enough so I can face them one at a time?)
No.
(Very well.)
I set my bolt pistol to full-auto and open fire, the shots slamming home through the ranks of the xenos.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise
My shots have little effect, but I continue to fire as they draw closer…
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Two of them are merely grazed by the bolts, while another takes a bolt round to the stomach and goes down for the count. One more takes a shot to the hand and drops its weapon with a hiss. The final shot takes one in the shoulder
They’re upon me now and my axe rises and falls like a pendulum of death.
Minor Injury: Largely superficial; painful and distracting, but not life threatening.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
I slash four times with my axeblade and knock two of them aside, gashing a third and nearly bisecting a fourth, but the last one leaps aside just in time to avoid a swift, painful death.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Negligible: Nick/Scratch/Bruise.
Severe Injury: Incapacitating and may become Critical if untreated.
I take only two significant wounds, bleeding profusely from my chest and back. I’ll need a few minutes before my wounds heal...I grit my teeth and struggle through the pain, swinging my axe again.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
Critical Injury: Requires immediate attention; clearly life-threatening if not immediately deadly.
Moderate Injury: Hampers action significantly; will require first aid/medical attention.
One more spider-beast is slain and two more lose limbs for their trouble. Green-black ichor gushes everywhere, spattering my robes. A few of them in the distance fire autoguns at me…
(Do any of them hit through the melee?)
No, and...
The shots glance wildly about, failing to do anything but sow confusion and discord into the crowd. A few ricochets hit the still-chanting cultists and the sphere of light that had been building in the center of the circle flickers out momentarily.
(To be continued...)