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    Default Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rumble

    It is the grim darkness of the 41st millenium. For over 10,000 years, the vast Imperium of Man has dominated the galaxy and it’s mighty armies have purged the xenos filth that invest it’s fringes, all while battling corruption and heresy from within. Guided by the light of the Astronomican, humanity has colonized over a million worlds in the name of the glorious God-Emperor. These span from fertile agri-worlds, to hostile ice worlds, to the bustling hive worlds; towering planet-wide arcologies, stretching from deep into the polluted soil, far below bedrock, to brush the sky. Home to hundreds of billions of humans, and countless gangs, mobs, and cults.

    One such world is known as Space New York City.

    For the centuries since its colonization, Space NYC has been mostly safe from outside attack, despite it’s location near the Imperium’s border. The planet never had any worthwhile resources, and made too intimidating a target for little raiding parties of heretics or xenos.

    Thus, when a not-so-small fleet of Chaos came knocking, Space NYC was woefully underprepared.

    It would be months before relief could arrive, and there wouldn’t be much of it. The Guard, Navy, and most certainly the Astartes, had bigger fish to fry, so Space NYC would have to see to defending itself. A single force stood between countless billions of innocents and the bloodthirsty jaws of Chaos - Space New York City’s first and last line of defense. Courageous, devout, and tireless, they were Space NYC’s elite shock troops, and would not falter until every last foe had been driven from their home planet.

    They were the NYPDF.

    Spoiler: Our Heroes
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    Spoiler: Alfredo “Fred” “Pineapple Pizza” Linguine
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    Cool as ice. The driver. A man of few words.


    Spoiler: Antonio “Tony” “Big Nose” Malone
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    Never parted from his lucky scarf. Has a totally average nose. A man of many words.


    Spoiler: Deployment
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    Our tale begins on one of Space NYC’s continents - Space Brooklyn, where the Chaos invaders made planetfall, in an isolated section of Upper Hive apartment blocks still under Imperial control. Once a relatively peaceful district of offices and manufactories, the residents have all been killed or driven out. Only a few hundred NYPDF soldiers remain, holding out in the faint hope of reinforcements. Supplies are running out, and starvation seems more likely with each passing day.

    A lone Chimera cruises down an abandoned avenue, crushing rubble, garbage and the occasional corpse. It’s our heroes’ first real deployment - a foray into enemy territory to gather supplies, while icing any heretics they happen to come across. Tony, lucky scarf around his neck, hunches over in the main turret - a heavy bolter - while the others lounge in the crew compartment. By “the others,” I mean Fred, his brother Quin, and Veche, an offworlder and the squad’s only officer. Those last two won’t be talking too much, for the present. A trio of heretics interrupt the pleasant drive by popping up from behind an old car and opening fire with lasguns. Please. Fred spins the wheel like a sharp Parmigiano-Reggiano and initiates the Drift of the Century while - wait, can a tracked vehicle drift? After some discussion, we conclude that we don’t care, so Fred performs the Drift of the Century, and ends up facing directly at the unfortunate heretics. Both heavy bolters - the turret and hull weapon - roar to life, shredding the heretics as they attempt to charge the Chimera with knives. One gets away, as no-one can be bothered to pursue him, but not before he manages to hit the turret with a frag grenade, leaving Tony in rough shape.

    Fred keeps driving, and it’s not long before our heroes hear the familiar crack of lasfire ahead. It appears a squad of ragamuffin-ish cultists are exchanging fire with a band of mysterious-someones holed-up in an large garage. As the cultists greatly outnumber our heroes, they naturally follow their training and cautiously approach the battle, watching for signs of ambush hit the gas and bowl right into the heart of the battle, while the heavy bolter opens up on the cultists in a major way. A storm of bolter rounds rips through the unfortunate heretics, including one carrying a pack of grenades. A large explosion takes out three of the buggers. Realizing their lasguns are ineffective against the Chimera’s armour, the surviving cultists draw knives or cudgels and charge across the desolate street towards the Chimera, in the faint hope of boarding it. One man in battered flak armour, wildly waving a combat knife, leads the charge.

    Thus begins the saga of Knife-Boy the Cultist, Last of his Name, Champion of Chaos.


    Spoiler: The Saga of Knife-Boy
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    While his companions are eviscerated, maimed, annihilated, Knife-Boy resolutely charges toward the NYPDF Chimera, a warcry on his lips and a knife clutched firmly in his hand, leaping over rubble, makeshift fortifications, abandoned cars, and the bodies of his dead and dying comrades. The roar of the bolters are not enough to drown the screams of his friends, but Knife-Boy is steadfast, bold, unswerving. A lasbolt misses his head by inches, but he continues unfazed. The thigh of his childhood friend, Vlokr the Bloodthirsty, veteran of a dozen battles, explodes in a cloud of gore. His head follows suit moments after. Knife-Boy is alone, charging across a field of death and destruction, his feet pounding the cracked pavement, never slowing. The bolter rounds seem to curve around him, or deflect off timely placed rubble. Nothing can touch the valiant Chaos Champion. He alone clambers up the Chimera, knife in teeth, never flinching from the oncoming fire. The bolter turret swings towards the lone Champion, ensuring death at nearly point blank range. But the brave Knife-Boy leaps forward, landing atop the hot, shaking turret barrel. A frightened man in an NYPDF uniform bursts forth from the hatch, swinging a piece of pipe at Knife-Boy’s knees. The young champion flows around the blow like water, dodging, weaving, never taking so much as a scratch.

    The attacking Guardsman is persistent, but Knife-Boy cannot be defeated. He effortlessly dances around the poor sod, striking only when an opening presents itself, wearing down the opposition with grazing wounds. Still the bolter roars, slaughtering the remaining cultists, and making Knife-Boy’s footing unsteady at best. Such trivialities are no obstacle to the finest warrior on the planet. The foolish soldier of the corpse-emperor is bleeding from half a dozen cuts and his breath comes in ragged pants as he curses under his breath, desperately trying to defend himself against Knife-Boy’s ferocity. Victory seems assured, but the bolter’s fire ceases, the Chimera’s passenger door flies open, and two Guardsman leap out - a young man wearing a scarf and another with the insignia of a corporal. Both lower lasguns and fire at the courageous Knife-Boy, with a cry of “For the Emperor!” Looking death in the face, Knife-Boy screams in anger, a zealous roar of unbridled rage and murderous passion to do a Khorne Berzerker proud. Moving faster than any mortal should be capable of - those rare few who survived an encounter with Knife-Boy have speculated that he had ascended beyond mortality, become the incarnate of the very will of Chaos - the young champion dodges the bullets. Moving with serpent-like grace and impossible speed, Knife-Boy dedicates himself to the destruction of his foes. He is outnumbered, facing great odds, but before the Warp takes him, he will taste the blood of his foes. Annihilate them, rend them, burn them, dance to the sweet harmony of their screams. The pitiful Guardsman cannot hope to stand before this whirlwind of violence. He would have been struck down on the spot, had it not been for the craftsmanship of the Adeptus Mechanicus. His armour holds true, protecting him from the worst of the assault. Nevertheless, his screams and curses are a cacophony, as Knife-Boy’s knife cuts deep into his flesh, spilling the salty, red nectar within. The two cowards on the ground fire their lasguns ineffectually. Knife-Boy is a blurring spectre of blood, and does not succumb to the half-hearted assault of milksops. The NYPDF trooper’s resolve is breaking against the onslaught, their already weak faith shaken. How could they ever hope to triumph over such a force? Knife-Boy is a thing of death and war, his simple combat knife the catalyst for a hundred thousand murders. Even should they strike him down, countless others will follow his example, precipitating the long-overdue fall of the corpse-god’s miserable empire. Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the-

    A crushing blow from the Guardsman’s pipe takes Knife-Boy in the gut, sending him toppling off the Chimera to the pavement below, at the feet of the two with lasguns. Before they can react or take advantage of Knife-Boy’s weakness, he is back on his feet, knife swinging. The troopers hardly have time to draw truncheons. They attempt to flank Knife-Boy, stop his frenzied aggression. The wounded Guardsman, pipe in clutched in a blood-soaked hand, charges down the Chimera. Knife-Boy does not relent, nor contemplate retreat. All that exists within his world is violence, death, the desire to inflict pain. Never has an unmodified human known such bloodlust. Lost in the glory, the indescribable joy, Knife-Boy’s vision is crimson, his brain functions reduced to incoherent screaming in a perpetual orgasm of fury. The man with the scarf goes down with a gaping wound in his leg and countless others peppering his body, his life blood leaking onto the pavement. Knife-Boy gyrates wildly, the sheer bliss of taking a life coursing through his body, and redoubles his attack. Something jerks Knife-Boy out of his reverie. The whine and rumble of a starting engine. The corporal, his face a rictus of fear, clutches a whirring chainsword into both hands. A challenge, perhaps. The two troopers close in on Knife-Boy, pipe and chainsword swung in unison. A quickly-executed backflip moves Knife-Boy to safety. Not that he remains there long - he barrels into the hapless Guardsmen with the force of three men, his knife cutting hands, legs, arms. Knife-Boy is overwhelming the opposition. His movements are unpredictable, impossibly swift, and infused with the power of Chaos. He flows around a clumsy swing of the chainsword and turns to bury his knife into the Guardsman’s shoulder, rending the armour and coaxing out a dribble of blood. The trooper’s movements are growing slow from fatigue and pain. They will soon be dead, and then Knife-Boy can destroy those fools in the garage. This is only the beginning of his conquests. He steps over a corpse - one of his friends, or that of the dead trooper, he cannot tell - and easily parries a jab from the pipe. The man’s neck is exposed, and he is unbalanced. Finally. Knife-Boy thrusts his combat knife upward, the tip tantalizingly close to piercing the Guardsman’s neck. Knife-Boy feels a small prick in his chest, just below his ribs. The chainsword is poking through him, it’s teeth choked with the remnants of his spine and digestive tract. Knife-Boy drops his eponymous weapon, falling to his knees, blood leaking down his legs onto the street. As his vision goes dark and his soul becomes one with the warp, Knife-Boy cannot help but smile. He can hear, faintly but growing louder, the voices of millions of his comrades-in-arms singing his praises.


    Spoiler: SEGWAY
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    I suppose this is a good a time as any to introduce the new PC - the late Tony’s former comrade, Corporal Veche. He’s an offworlder - from the slums of an Imperial World in the Calixis Sector. Formerly an armsman on a rogue trader’s ship, he was sent to recruit for his employer just before the Chaos fleet arrived a few months, and was quickly conscripted by the NYPDF while the rogue trader high-tailed it out of the system.


    Spoiler: In the Garage
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    After the unfortunate death of Tony at the hands of the crazed cultist and the rout of the remaining heretics, our heroes go to investigate those hiding in the old garage. Quin is left to guard the Chimera, while Fred and Veche approach (gasp) cautiously. They’re met by a band of grubby Administratum drones and even grubbier engineers, most toting lasguns clearly stolen off dead soldiers. See, this is where things get awkward. The squad was given very specific orders to attack anyone they encounter outside friendly territory. After all, you can’t take chances with the temptations of Chaos. However our heroes are - of course - loose cannons who don’t play by the rules, so they try to bargain with the citizens, who’ve apparently been surviving out here for weeks, defending themselves as best they can. The hope is that they can direct our heroes to the location of a nearby supply cache - or, that failing, some heretics who can be killed then subsequently looted. Unfortunately, one of the civis, a large, angry man, is being less than welcoming. Worse, several seem to share his sentiment. Quite understandably, he doesn’t like the idea of admitting a group of heavily armed trained killers into what passes for his home. Veche tries to reason with them - after all, the civis are in their debt, as it seems unlikely they could have fought off a 100% Completely Genuine Chaos Champion on their own. The civis aren’t so sure about this but, as Veche assures them, an officer of the NYPDF would never lie. Eventually he manages to assuage the large man’s concerns and strike a deal with them - our heroes will be let into the garage and given some information, but the civis get to keep the dead cultist’s gear. They hurry inside as the civis shift aside their ramshackle barrier, and are met by a strangely domestic scene. There must be 40 or 50 people sheltering in the garage, including a number of families. Dirty urchins run between barrels and crates poking each other with sticks. Despite the horrors just outside, these people are just trying to live their lives. One of the former office workers explains that supplies in the garage are getting dangerously low, and the heretics just keep coming. It seems our heroes won’t find any aid here unless they’re willing to give something in return. It’s a good thing our heroes are so accommodating. The office worker directs them to the workshop of the man in charge - an engineer known colloquially as Old Harry. On their way over there, our heroes notice a weasley man hiding behind a forklift. He motions them over with a mischievous grin, and introduces himself as a man of business. In fact, he recently acquired a hot-shot lasgun that he might be willing to part ways with. Intrigued, Veche offers him the late Tony’s flamer, foolishly mentioning that they don’t need it anymore. The man catches on and demands something more - he suggests we pry the storm bolter off the Chimera and trade that as well. Our heroes agree, as they are currently incapable of manning all the weapons at once. The exchange is made, and the man bids them farewell. Pleasure doing business with y- wait, what was that? Nurgle who? Eh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Safe in the knowledge that they totally didn’t just give two very destructive weapons to someone with acute knowledge of the Chaos God, our heroes continue on to Old Harry’s workshop, where we find him giving orders to some lackeys. He appears to be fairly young. Harry isn’t too happy to have a couple of heavily-armed strangers wander into his workshop but, when they ask, is eager to give our heroes something to do. You see, at the rear of the garage there are a series of maintenance tunnels and workshops that delve deep into the city, but they’ve been overrun by cultists, gangers and worse. Assuming it hasn’t already been salvaged, there’s a large supply depot - food, medicine, ammunition - back there, along with the generator for the garage’s automated defenses. Funny how those are always located outside the area they’re supposed to defend. Old Harry wants them to retrieve the supplies - they’ll split them 50/50 - and reactivate the generator. Not only that, but he’s not so confident in Fred’s ability to repair the generator on his own, so our heroes will be getting some NPC companions.

    Harry tells our Fred and Veche to come back in, like, an hour as he needs to find volunteers to accompany them. So, naturally, our heroes try to schmooze with the townsfolk, and end up with with a bunch of sidequests. Lovely. As Fred is talking to a man with a rapidly-shifting accent who claims to be a merchant, he is approached by a young boy. The kid’s father worked at the generator, before the invasion, and the boy asks Fred to rescue him. Or failing that (since the dad is almost certainly toast) retrieve his distinctive medallion. Fred is needlessly stand-offish and intimidating, but says he’ll take the medallion if he sees it. Veche buys a “meat” kebab from a nice old lady who somehow knows about the expedition. As he chows down, she requests that he bring back an arm he’ll undoubtedly find on the mission. It’s not just any arm, apparently. He’ll know it when he sees it. Veche is surprisingly quick to agree, and receives another kebab as an advance. The “meat” is fresh.

    It’s time to set out. Our heroes say farewell to the cast of stock quirky characters and meet with their companions - 5 thugs with lasguns and one of Old Harry’s peons, a man named Urkle. Some of the civis remove the barricade blocking the door to the maintenance tunnels, the group forms up into rows of three, and they enter the shadowy tunnels. Enough of the emergency lights are functioning for our heroes to make out what’s ahead of them, but Fred is in the middle of the pack, keeping a close eye on the readings from his auspex. Veche is leading from the front, chainsword at the ready. As the group approaches a corner, those catch sight of a large pile of corpses which, according to Fred’s auspex contains life signs. Most of the bodies seem to be civis or gangers with pink mohawks - and not sophisticated, cultured mobsters like Fred. Just petty goons who spray mud on old ladies and listen to loud music. Veche pokes the pile with his chainsword, and it explodes in a rain of meat and refuse as a hideous, twisted mutant leaps from it’s hiding spot. The thing was once human, that much is apparent, but it fell from the Emperor’s grace long ago. It’s chest is covered by grey chitin, it’s head a pitch-black spiral, and it’s right arm a massive, too-flexible claw that would put an ork warboss to shame. The mutant lashes out at Veche, who is beginning to regret his decision to lead, leaving a bloody gash along his chest. A volley of lasfire puts the thing out of it’s misery, but leaves the group uneasy. What powers could create such a creature? This feeling is not helped by Veche hacking the mutant’s claw off and stowing it in his rucksack.

    Continuing down the tunnel, our heroes begin to hear the crack of lasfire and the bangs of stub guns. Not wanting to get involved, they wait for a while. The gunfire, now intermixed with screams, gets further and further away, before vanishing completely. The group keeps going. Ahead of them, an entire section of wall has been peeled away, leaving a gaping hole wider than the tunnel itself. Bodies litter the floor like discarded waste. The thugs are in favour of turning back, but Veche hammers some sense into them. The generator is just up ahead, and whatever killed those gangers has mostly likely left. They keep going, more quickly this time. Fred’s auspex beeps, indicating several lifeforms ahead. And they’re getting closer. Out of the darkness, four mutants charge down the tunnel, roaring in anger. These do not have the same oversized claw, but are bulkier. Our heroes form the thugs into a neat musket line - two rows of the three, those in the front crouching - and the fight begins.

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    This has the makings of something great.

    (Maybe a few more paragraph breaks.)
    Quote Originally Posted by Psyren View Post
    You... you're evil!
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    WolfInSheepsClothing

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    So what system is this in?

    Spoiler: Journal spoiler
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    Psh, rogue traders don't hightail it. They go on their way to more profitable endeavours.

    Furthermore, did they just give away a heavy bolter? A. Heavy. Bolter.
    Let me try that again, did they just trade away a Heavy Bolter for something that isn't the equivalent of a full-automatic grenade launcher of death?
    For a bit of a funky lasgun, the primary gun of the imperial guard, known to be strong only when there's a thousand of them? Has anyone told them that you could probably buy three lasguns with the flamer alone? A couple of hundred with the heavy bolter. Let me verify that, yeesh.

    Alright, I'm back. Checked the Dark Heresy 1e armoury.

    You could get 3 lasguns and 6 hotshot ammo packs for one flamer without flamer ammo. The ammo is pretty cheap though.
    You could get 17 lasguns, each with 1 normal ammo pack and 2 hotshot ammo packs for a heavy bolter without bolter ammo.
    Two full clips of heavy bolter ammo gets you another 15 lasguns with the same ammo because bolter ammo comes per bolt and is rarer than hotshot charge packs. Keep in mind charge packs can be recharged quite easily.

    Any guardsman would know at least the rough basics of such costs, even if the players didn't. Ah well, mistakes happen.


    Interested to see the continuation.
    Last edited by Sneak Dog; 2017-02-26 at 08:42 AM.

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by SilverLeaf167 View Post
    This has the makings of something great.

    (Maybe a few more paragraph breaks.)
    Thank you, I'll probably have the next session up tomorrow! (and yes)

    Quote Originally Posted by Sneak Dog View Post
    So what system is this in?

    Spoiler: Journal spoiler
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    Psh, rogue traders don't hightail it. They go on their way to more profitable endeavours.

    Furthermore, did they just give away a heavy bolter? A. Heavy. Bolter.
    Let me try that again, did they just trade away a Heavy Bolter for something that isn't the equivalent of a full-automatic grenade launcher of death?
    For a bit of a funky lasgun, the primary gun of the imperial guard, known to be strong only when there's a thousand of them? Has anyone told them that you could probably buy three lasguns with the flamer alone? A couple of hundred with the heavy bolter. Let me verify that, yeesh.

    Alright, I'm back. Checked the Dark Heresy 1e armoury.

    You could get 3 lasguns and 6 hotshot ammo packs for one flamer without flamer ammo. The ammo is pretty cheap though.
    You could get 17 lasguns, each with 1 normal ammo pack and 2 hotshot ammo packs for a heavy bolter without bolter ammo.
    Two full clips of heavy bolter ammo gets you another 15 lasguns with the same ammo because bolter ammo comes per bolt and is rarer than hotshot charge packs. Keep in mind charge packs can be recharged quite easily.

    Any guardsman would know at least the rough basics of such costs, even if the players didn't. Ah well, mistakes happen.


    Interested to see the continuation.
    We're playing Only War - it's mostly compatible with Dark Heresy but, obviously, based around members of the Guard.
    Spoiler
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    You're totally right, we made a mistake with that deal, but it's not quite as bad as you might think. We only traded the storm bolter, which we can't use most of the time as our squad only contains 2 actual PCs.

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by YossarianLives View Post
    Thank you, I'll probably have the next session up tomorrow! (and yes)


    We're playing Only War - it's mostly compatible with Dark Heresy but, obviously, based around members of the Guard.
    Spoiler
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    You're totally right, we made a mistake with that deal, but it's not quite as bad as you might think. We only traded the storm bolter, which we can't use most of the time as our squad only contains 2 actual PCs.
    Ah, Only War. Heard about it, but suspected it'd be too focused on combat for our groups liking. Truely a good thing to follow this thread :D.

    Spoiler: Campaign spoiler continuation
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    Also, in Only War, the hot-shot lasgun is a nickname for a different gun. A hellgun. (Or is that a nickname for HEL-gun?) Your deal wasn't quite so bad then. A hellgun packs a pretty solid punch with ammo that is far more affordable.

    Wait a second... Did you just say storm bolter?!
    Last edited by Sneak Dog; 2017-02-26 at 04:43 PM.

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Oh my ****in **** this is my favourite type of premise ever like you wouldn't believe. Not the specific premise, the type of premise.
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by Fri View Post
    Oh my ****in **** this is my favourite type of premise ever like you wouldn't believe. Not the specific premise, the type of premise.
    I'm glad you like it. It's definitely very silly, but I hoped some people would appreciate something like this.


    Session #2! It's a bit shorter this time, as we spent over an hour reminiscing over people we dislike.

    Spoiler: Kill the Mutant
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    As the mutants charge toward our heroes’ firing-formation, stunted limbs flailing, they’re met by a wave of lasfire. The mutants screech under the burning rain, their chitin melting, dribbling to the floor, but they press on, occasionally losing a digit or a layer of flesh. Veche lobs a frag grenade into their midst, pasting one onto the steel floor like a jar of strawberry preserves, but the survivors close to melee range.

    Making use of their claws, fists and feet, the mutants lay into our heroes and the rather unheroic thugs. The line buckles under the mutant’s assault, those in the front all obtaining nasty cuts and bruises. Veche hefts his chainsword and tries to push back, reducing a mutant’s neck to Certified Emperor’s Choice Brand ground beef, while shouting encouragement at the thugs. Only one has enough gumption to stay in the fight, standing his ground against a burly mutant despite a large wound in his side, dodging around the thing’s blows with remarkable alacrity.

    Fred and the others fall back a few paces and renew the volley of lasfire. Fred’s face is an emotionless mask as his shiny new gun punches through the mutant’s armoured shells like literally every weapon invented within the past 38,000 years through flak armour. Encouraged by his example, the other thugs lower their weapons and open fire. Their aim is almost as poor as that of the average stormtrooper (y’know, the ones from Star Wars. The ones in the 40k universe usually have pretty good aim.) but when you have six people firing lasguns in a narrow hallway, at what may as well be close range, people end up dead.

    It’s not long before the last mutant falls with a wretched moan, and our heroes assess the party’s condition. Two of the thugs are seriously wounded - one took a head wound in the initial charge, and the other who helped Veche to hold the line, who is seriously beaten up and losing a lot of blood. Veche assures them that their wounds really aren’t all that bad, but Mr. “I’m going to bleed to death” Thug and his friend won’t quit complaining. Those two insist on heading back to the garage and just won’t listen to reason, so our heroes press on, their party now only six strong.


    Spoiler: Reunion
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    Walking down the darkened hallway, our heroes once again hear the distinctive sound of gunfire in the distance, along with something else. Two pairs of footsteps. As the footsteps get closer weapons are readied, another musket line formed. The seconds seem to stretch by, as our heroes crouch in the semi-darkness. Eventually two familiar figures step forward from the gloom. One wears tattered sanctioned psyker robes, the other is a scarred NYPDF trooper. Malachi and Harmon, respectively, these two were deployed on a scavenging mission almost a week ago, and were presumed dead when they failed to return. Both look uneasy - perhaps because six lasguns are pointed their way - but the psyker, Malachi, calls out a nervous greeting. Our heroes lower their weapons, and cautiously approach the newcomers. It’s difficult to get a conversation started with the new arrivals. Harmon was always far from sociable, and you’d have to be mad to seek a conversation with a psyker, but something is clearly troubling these two. After a few awkward minutes of questioning, our heroes to able to ascertain that Malachi and Harmon are the only survivors of their squad, and that they’ve been hiding out in these tunnels for several days.

    Seeing all your friends die horribly is a pretty good reason to be nervous, so our heroes determine that it’s probably safe to join forces. Psykers may be terrifying, but they’re said to pack a real punch. The thugs are, to put it lightly, uncomfortable with this decision, but don’t seem angry enough to consider a mutiny. The lives of everyone back at the garage could be resting on our heroes’ success. The party, now returned to it’s original size, moves on, and it’s not long before they come to an intersection. One, considerably narrower, path is shrouded in total darkness and leads to the supply cache, while the other leads to the generator room and the gunfire - which, now that our heroes have drawn closer, is supplemented by the occasional scream. Hoping to keep the thugs happy, our heroes elect to head for the generator first.

    More walking ensues. Steam begins to rise from ducts in the floor, obscuring visibility even further, but not before our heroes glimpse a bright light at the corridor’s end. Between the steam and faltering lights, nothing can be seen further than two metres away. Our heroes keep their ears alert, hoping to detect any ambushers, but the sounds of battle ahead smother nearly everything. The crack of lasfire can now be distinguished from the bang of stubbers, intermingled with disparate screams and battle cries, with the constant drone of an automatic weapon underneath. Malachi is muttering something about “Space Long Island” - which doesn’t exist, I’ll have you know - Veche is waving his chainsword around at swirls of steam, Harmon keeps falling behind, forcing everyone to wait for him, and the thugs are on the threshold of panic. Fred strides forward confidently, totally unfazed. Mercifully, it’s not long before the steam subsides to the point where our heroes are able to identify their surroundings. Just ahead, a large industrial door has been torn open by… something. The hole is just large enough for one person to squeeze through. Creeping forward, our heroes peer through the hole onto a scene of utter Chaos and disorder.


    Spoiler: On the Defensive
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    From the twisting maze of catwalks and beams that spans the warehouse-like machine room, somewhere in the vicinity of 100 cultists and gangers are blasting away at each other. The gangers - with their pink mohawks and leather jackets - have managed to set up three autocannons on the upper catwalk, and are tearing through the cultists with glee. Makeshift explosives are flying through the air, occasionally maiming or killing someone, more often ruining one of the complex-looking control panels that are scattered around the room, or collapsing a section of the catwalk. More cultists with body armour and lasguns are pouring into the room from a side door, all while cherubs zip around the room harassing the gangers. Normally the sight of a hideous-flying-zombie-baby would be routine, even reassuring. That’s when they don’t have tentacles and eye stalks sprouting from their chest and skull. All in all, both sides are slaughtering each other with a reckless disregard for personal safety or anything resembling tactics. The noise is deafening.

    But what really draws the eye is the twisted tower of cables, flashing lights, buttons and levers that dominates the centre of the room. It’s sparking, grinding, oozing - somehow - and has a number of unintended holes, but this is undoubtedly the generator our heroes came for. The thing looks nearly functional, too. Our heroes just need to give Urkle a few minutes to tinker with it, and the generator should be working splendidly. Easy. The only obstacle - a speed bump, really - is the small army of psychopaths murdering everything they can lay their grubby hands on.

    After a brief huddle, our heroes conclude that it’s probably best to send the thugs in first to, uh... lead the charge. Yeah. It’s the best position, honest. The thugs, however, being the milksops that they are, firmly rebuke this plan and back off, telling the four NYPDF soldiers to deal with the problem themselves. Veche responds by insulting the thugs’ devotion to the Emperor, but is interrupted as a burst of lasfire streaks through the hole in the door. It seems our heroes have been spotted by a small pack of cultists, who are now charging the door with abandon. Many of them have dropped their guns and are waving knives or hatchets. Two pairs split off to drop behind cover - a control panel and a pile of corpses, respectively - and provide covering fire for their more enthusiastic comrades. The metal door’s thick plating is enough to protect our heroes from harm, but they’re unable to take more than a few inaccurate potshots as the heretics approach.

    The thugs have backed off to a safe distance, giving a few hollow words of encouragement. Veche takes up a position by the door, ready to chainsword the first fool to stick their head through, while Fred, Malachi and Harmon train their lasguns on the entrance. If all goes well, the heretics will get mowed down as they come through one at a time.

    Not surprisingly, this does not happen.

    The first cultist leaps through the door, a look of joy on his face, rolls under Veche’s swing and the other’s lasfire, and pivots to face the unfortunate corporal with a cry of “I am for you!”, his knife already heading toward Veche’s throat. Half a dozen more heretics clamber through the shattered door, a few taking grazing hits from the lasguns. The cultists split up into pairs, and it’s not long before our heroes find themselves desperately squaring-off with two or three cultists each. Fred thoroughly perforates the first cultist to reach him, but another takes his place with a jovial “I am for you!” Between the steam rising intermittently from the ducts and the cramped confines of the passageway, the melee soon loses any remaining semblance of order or strategy. It’s a massacre, where the only option is to kill or be killed. The thugs try to get in a few shots but, to their credit, they seem to be attempting to avoid friendly-fire, and the hallway is far too crowded to them to safely shoot into the melee. Fred dispassionately blasts away with his hellgun, felling another heretic, but our heroes are quickly being crushed by the cultists’ ferocity. Malachi and Harmon are fending off the largest group with desperate swings of their lead pipes, but the cultists are faster, stronger. Veche is bleeding from multiple knife wounds, his opponent dancing easily around his clumsy strikes. The heretics know they’re winning, and it shows. Their knife-work becomes elaborate showmanship, (nothing to rival Knife-Boy of, course) their yells of “I am for you!” more frequent. Veche hardly notices when something small and dark sails through the door and lands beneath the feet of the cultist who is for him. His eyes widen when they momentarily sneak a look at the frag grenade lying on the ground.

    After the smoke and shrapnel clear, the gunfire begins anew. On the bright side, two of the cultists are very dead; on the not-so-bright side, Veche isn’t far behind them. Pushing himself erect and grabbing his trusty chainsword, he charges a dazed cultist with a cry of “For the Emperor!” on his lips. And misses spectacularly. Between the two of them, Malachi and Harmon have about a dozen small pieces of metal embedded in their flesh, but they push back against the surviving cultists, managing to land a few solid blows. Malachi is well rewarded by the sound of snapping bone as his pipe collides with a heretic’s pelvis. Fred, who was protected from the grenade by a wall of meat, slides another charge pack in his hellgun and keeps on resolutely firing.

    The fight drags on for what seems like hours, though no more than a minute could have passed since the cultist’s initial charge. Fred scorches off most of a heretic’s face. The bastard keeps fighting, apparently unhindered, until Malachi cracks his neck with a well-placed blow. The last two cultists fight back to back, their respective knife and hatchet a whirlwind, searching for any weakness in their opponents. The heretics seem to realize their death is imminent, but are determined to bring someone down with them. Veche musters his failing strength and messily decapitates a heretic. The last cultist leaps at Fred, his knife a shard of darkness in the shadowy hallway, with a perfunctory cry of “I am for you.” Fred’s hellgun roars, and the cultist hits the ground with a dull thump.

  8. - Top - End - #8
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Daemon

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Wow, this is really good. Keep going.
    Proud avatar of Neutral Evil

    You guys are playing make believe wrong.

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    78% of DMs started their first campaign in a tavern. If you're one of the 22% that didn't, copy and paste this into your signature.
    My first adventure started as a continuation of another's person's adventure. The party stepped into a room that was trapped with some gates which teleported them into another plane.

  9. - Top - End - #9
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    What a cliffhanger. Will Verche join the unfortunate Tony whose interesting and heartwrenching backstory of his nickname got cut short before it begins, or will he survive? I'm at the edge of my seat here.
    You got Magic Mech in My Police Procedural!
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    The OTP in the playground.
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  10. - Top - End - #10
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by FocusWolf413 View Post
    Wow, this is really good. Keep going.
    Awesome, it's great to hear that people are enjoying it. I should have the next post up sometime in the next 7 days.
    Quote Originally Posted by Fri View Post
    What a cliffhanger. Will Verche join the unfortunate Tony whose interesting and heartwrenching backstory of his nickname got cut short before it begins, or will he survive? I'm at the edge of my seat here.
    Find out next week, same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel...

  11. - Top - End - #11
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Ehhhh, we're back.

    Sorry for the delay, everyone. The group wasn't able to meet for a couple weeks, and I was too preoccupied to finish this chapter up in a timely manner. Hopefully this doesn't set a trend.

    Spoiler: Skirmishes
    Show
    Crouching behind the metal door, amidst the corpses and rising steam, our heroes turn their thoughts to the survivors of the cultist squad, who are taking cover outside, behind a pile of corpses and a dilapidated control panel. The heretics are really hunkered down, and a few volleys of lasfire leaves them unaffected. The thugs are still resolutely maintaining their cowardice, and flatly refuse to help our heroes. Things are looking grim. Neither us or the cultists can relocate without being thoroughly perforated, and both of our defenses are strong enough to protect us from harm. Meanwhile the battle is still raging in the generator-room. The tide of cultists seems to have been stoppered, but the heretical cherubs are still pouring in from ventilation ducts and windows, harrying the gangers with their tentacles and mechanical-implants. Even should the gangers win, it seems doubtful they’ll be much help in securing the generator.

    That leaves our heroes with only one, very unattractive, option: ask the psyker to do something. Now, as far as anyone in the regiment knows, Malachi is on the weak end of psychic power. This has led to everyone being a little more comfortable around him - it’s easier to chill with someone when there’s a reasonably low chance of them tearing a hole in reality or doing their best Emperor Palpatine impression - but on the fields of battle, any sane soldier would take a prancing madman calling fireballs from the sky over an inscrutable egghead ranting about omens and the Emperor’s Tarot.

    Oh well. Hard times call for desperate measures. Malachi, crouched just inside the industrial door, begins gyrating, spittle running down his stubble-darkened cheek. Our heroes’ lasguns swing toward the cultist’s of their own accord, then begin firing wildly. It’s all Fred and Veche can do to hold onto their rebellious lasguns. The bolts of energy fly over the cultist’s heads, then do a hairpin turn and slam right into the unsuspecting heretics, toasting their flesh. The cultists try to retaliate, but a couple more volleys of homing-lasers finish them off.

    Malachi stops shaking, and our heroes momentarily rejoice. Then Fred’s auspex, lying forgotten on the ground, begins beeping. Loudly. It seems there is a single, very large lifesign quickly approaching from the other side of the generator-room. An immense roar silences the constant gunfire.

    After a brief council, Veche concludes that our heroes have to act, overwhelm the cultists before what they dub “the dinosaur” arrives to rip the noble soldiers of the NYPDF a new one. They seize on a nearby band of heretic troopers who are firing on one of the ganger’s autogun emplacements. Fred, Malachi, Veche and Harmon form up around the door, lower their lasguns, and at Veche’s command, open fire.

    Spoiler: Casaulties
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    Our heroes manage to surprise the heretics, but that’s about the best you can say. Fred and his hellgun manage to wound a cultist, but the others charge the door without hesitation, hip-firing in an inaccurate spray of molten fire. Our heroes are returning fire, but the running cultists make for difficult targets, and they hardly react even when hit. The leading heretic shouts “I am for you!” and hucks a frag grenade through the broken door.

    The explosive detonates right in the centre of our heroes’ squad, sending them flying and ruining any defensive formation they may have had. Intent on firing as he is, Harmon doesn’t even notice, and is Chunky Salsa’d before he has the chance to scream. Veche’s flak armour saves him from immediate grisly death, but he ends up spread-eagled a couple metres from where he started, bleeding profusely, his helmet gone and replaced by a concussion. Fred ends up lying face down in a pile of rubble, unconscious, his guts on the ground. Malachi jumped for cover and is pretty much fine, aside from a few scratches.

    Meanwhile, the thugs look on sheepishly, making absolutely no effort to help. The bastards.

    Malachi picks himself up from ground, ears ringing, fumbles for his lasgun - it’s undamaged, thank the Emperor - and mows down the first cultist to leap through the door. They keep coming, pelting the steamy corridor with lasfire, and this time Malachi responds with a well-placed frag grenade, shredding two cultists. The heretics respond in kind, and another grenade soars through the door. The rain of shrapnel gives the valiant NYPDF troopers some minors cuts, and pastes Harmon’s remains across the floor. Malachi keeps blind firing at the door’s entrance, creating sufficient suppression to cause even the suicidal cultists to think twice before attempting a charge.

    As Veche comes to his senses after the initial blast, he is greeted by the now-familiar drone of gunfire, along with the occasional explosion and the babel of many screams, yells, and battle cries. A roar - somewhere between a lion and a bird - splits the air, echoing around the steel hallway. Veche, groaning in pain, crawls across the floor toward the wounded Fred. Only a metre away Malachi is kneeling on the ground, firing his lasgun with abandon, his once-pristine psyker robes stained with blood. Veche tenderly flips over Fred, trying not to lose any of his organs, and staunches the blood with the undershirt of a dead heretic. I’m sure he’ll be fine.

    Malachi’s reckless shooting has consequences: it isn’t long before his clip runs dry, and the three remaining cultists leap triumphantly through the shattered door, waving knives.

    Malachi, who obviously played Space-Baseball in school, chucks another grenade at their feet, dismembering the cultists, whose corpses join the thick layer of meat carpeting the floor.

    After a brief pause to catch their breath, Malachi and Veche take stock of the situation. Veche has managed to stop his and Fred’s bleeding, but neither could be described as “healthy”, or even “mostly alive.” Fred may yet perish from his wounds. Poor Harmon is very dead. Ammunition is running low. Veche has some choice words with the thugs, carefully explaining the exact nature of their faults, but they refuse to give any help, aside from standing guard over the unconscious Fred. On the bright side, a quick peek out of the door reveals the dinosaur’s rampage has come to an end, though at a cost. Two of the ganger’s fortified gun emplacements have been crushed by what looks like thrown control panels, ripped from the floor, rivets and all, by a creature of immense strength. The dinosaur’s corpse is nowhere to be seen, hidden by the generator as it is, but Fred’s auspex is no longer picking up the huge lifesign.

    After some discussion, our heroes are forced to accept that only one option remains, if they wish to successfully capture the generator. Our heroes strip the dead cultists, Fred, and the thugs of any grenades, bombs, and explosives they may have, give the thugs instructions to retreat should the plan go poorly, and charge through the broken door into the Chaos of the generator-room.

    Spoiler: Running With Hand Grenades
    Show
    Ragnok Doomhand the Gore-Drenched, Bannerman of the Chaos Armies, braces his lasgun and fires at the frantic melee below. The pink-mohawked head of a ganger explodes, coating the other combatants in red and gray goo. The warriors around him - all brave men and women, unswervingly devoted to Chaos - cheer in victory as the fighters below break through the ganger’s line, cutting the filth down with knives and hatchets. Perhaps victory can achieved, after all. Thus far, the gangers’ sandbags and barbed wire have been proven effective against the valour of Ragnok’s comrades, but the bold warriors of Chaos possess something that petty criminals cannot dream of: faith. Each and every one of Ragnok’s soldiers understands that what they fight for is more important than one polluted, overpopulated stellar backwater. The war that they and untold billions of others fight is one for the fate of the galaxy itself. The gangers are cowards, seeking only to survive another day in the perpetual dark of the horrid Space New York City. Ragnok clutches the bone talisman around his neck - given to him by a sacred marine of the Iron Warriors, after Ragnok’s victory on Kazron III - and murmurs a prayer to the forces of the Warp, asking for strength in the ongoing battle. One of the last surviving cherubs circles over Ragnok’s head, apparently without direction.

    Surveying the battle from his perch - early in the combat, Ragnok and his retinue seized one of the many catwalks criss-crossing the generator-room, allowing them to ascertain the condition of every battle line while also firing on the gangers below - it seems evident to Ragnok that the last autogun emplacement will be the tipping point for the battle’s outcome. If the Chaos warriors can successfully storm that, all that remains will be to mop up the dregs. Ragnok’s troops will almost certainly suffer heavy casualties in the process, but the butcher’s bill must be paid.

    A shout of “For the Emperor!” catches Ragnok’s attention.

    A lone trooper of the local constabulary - the NYPDF? - bursts from a torn-open maintenance door, helmetless and marked with a dozen small cuts, burns and bruises, he dashes past the mounds of corpses and rubble, a frag grenade clutched firmly in both hands. The man wears two grenade-filled bandoliers.

    Ragnok lets out a booming laugh, which is clearly audible over the rhythm of war. Have the followers of the false Corpse-God already begun resorting to suicide bombers? Waving over four of his lasgun totting retinue, he draws a bead on the charging trooper. Though unlikely to succeed, the NYPDF trooper could cause considerable damage if left unattended. Though his younger self would have disagreed, Ragnok knows all too well that chances should not be taken in the thick of war. Five sets of fingers compress on lasgun triggers and… nothing happens.

    The guns of Ragnok and two others click ominously, sparks flying from their charge packs. The last three fire wildy, one hitting the ceiling, another almost dropping her gun. Cursing, Ragnok drops behind the catwalk railing, trying to pry the melted charge pack out of his lasgun’s chamber. The NYPDF trooper keeps running, ignoring the sprays of lasfire missing him by millimetres or ricocheting off his armour. His eyes are those of a man who has embraced death, and is resolved to sell his life dearly. Ragnok has seen that expression before, but seldom on the face of an Imperial Guardsman. A frag grenade flies from the soldier’s hand, landing on the catwalk with a clatter. Two Chaos warriors are knocked prone by the force of the explosion, and the catwalk creaks, it’s already damaged supports pressed to their limits. Ragnok stands up, lasgun at the ready, just in time to see the suicidal trooper hurl another grenade, which bounces off the railing millimetres from Ragnok’s chest, and falls to the ground at the unfortunate trooper’s feet. Ragnok places an arm over his eyes to protect them from shrapnel, a grim smile forcing itself upon his lips. He should have known better than to feel threatened by a half-trained civilian with a death-wish.

    Ragnok’s jaw falls open when he uncovers his eyes to see the trooper prepping another grenade, unharmed save for a brand new collection of superficial wounds, his flak armour torn nearly in half by a wave of metal shards. Something surfaces in Ragnok’s mind, a faint recollection from the days of his infancy, whispered by fearful, subservient parents. The Emperor Protects.

    Ragnok’s head whips around at the sound of a scream, just in time to see a beam of amber energy punch a hole through the chest of Fthaki, his long-time subordinate and trusted ally.

    A young man in the tattered robes of an Imperial Sanctioned Psyker stands just below the catwalk, only a metre from the first trooper, the gray bulk of a smoking hellgun clutched in both hands. Casting about for how the youthful psyker managed to sneak up on his squad, Ragnok falls back on a well-practiced, almost instinctual, skill: firing his lasgun. His barrage strikes the newcomer’s unprotected head with a satisfying sizzle, reducing the psyker’s ear to a twisted hunk of cooked cartilage, but the man only stumbles before chucking a grenade at the catwalk. In Ragnok’s periphery, a severed leg flies through the air. Yet another grenade from the first trooper misses the catwalk completely, ruining a section of the floor.

    What’s left of Ragnok’s squad is in shambles - another warrior’s gun jams, while one nearly slips on Fthaki’s corpse. A volley of lasfire comes from further down the catwalk, burning the psyker’s leg to a useless log of char. With the likely presence of reinforcements, Ragnok rallies. He cannot let this mission be spoiled by two jumped-up civilians! Ragnok leans over the railing, pointing his lasgun directly at the first trooper’s head just as he raises another grenade. Closer up, the insignia of a corporal is evident on his uniform. Their eyes meet.

    Ragnok’s burst of energy removes half the corporal’s head just he throws the grenade. It soars through the air, rotating gracefully, bounces off the catwalk and falls at the dead man’s feet.

    What happens next transpires so quickly that Ragnok only has time for three thoughts - emotions, really, at their simplest iteration. All primal feelings that date back to the earliest humans: triumph, surprise, fear.

    As the corporal’s grenade detonates, it begins a chain reaction. The explosive’s force activates the trooper’s many unused grenades, creating a fireball of prodigious size with spreads to the warriors atop the catwalk and the maimed psyker lying on the ground, firing his hellgun futilely. The young psyker’s stockpile goes up in much the same manner, engulfing the catwalk, the nearby warriors of Chaos and the gangers, many of whom were carrying explosives of some sort. A wide variety of grenades, bombs, landmines, detpacks, and the ammunition of nearly everyone in the room, living or dead, explodes with a roar that shakes the entire hab-block. The generator-room is bathed in fire as dozens of people are immolated in an instant, their screams mingling to create a morbid tune that would chill the most ancient denizens of the Warp.

  12. - Top - End - #12
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    PaladinGuy

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    Post Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Well. That happened.
    What will the players do now, I wonder.
    Thank you for updating the story.
    It was certainly an interesting read.
    Horrified interest, of course.
    Also, thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!
    By Shoreward.

    Spoiler: My RPG title, somehow.
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    {]GNU Terry Pratchett.[}

  13. - Top - End - #13
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by IntelectPaladin View Post
    Well. That happened.
    What will the players do now, I wonder.
    Thank you for updating the story.
    It was certainly an interesting read.
    Horrified interest, of course.
    Also, thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!
    It certainly did happen. This campaign has an (un?)fortunate tendency to leave the entire group paralyzed with laughter for upwards of 10 minutes.

    Also thank you :3

  14. - Top - End - #14
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    And we're back! This weeks entry is a bit longer than usual, so things were a bit delayed.

    Spoiler: Debriefing
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    Two days later, after what seems like an eternity of uneasy sleep, Fred awakens in a dimly lit room filled with heterogeneous pallets and shelves of cardboard boxes. Urkle, Old Harry’s assistant, is bending over him, poking Fred’s face with a damp Q-tip. Malachi is lying comatose a couple metres away, missing a foot, an ear and most of his skin, but not his life.

    Once Fred has properly woken up and wolfed down some field rations, the startled technician gives him the rundown. After the explosive chain-reaction, which destroyed the generator-room and pretty much everyone in it, the thugs, wounded Fred in tow, retreated to the storage room which they had previously passed by. Once Fred was stable, they returned to the generator-room, euthanized the surviving gangers, and rescued Malachi from under a pile of rubble. How he survived the detonation of 14 grenades on his person is a mystery best left in the realm of speculation. It’s probably a psyker thing. There was no sign of Veche aside from an abnormally large crater. Since then they’ve been waiting to see if Fred wakes up before returning to the garage.

    So, while the generator is irreparably damaged, the thugs will be able to salvage the storage room in it’s entirety and some of the squad survived, which is better than anyone anticipated.

    A messenger is dispatched to Old Harry at the garage while Fred kicks back, smokes a lho stick with the thugs, and tries not to die from infection. Looking through the supply room - which holds enough to keep the NYPDF going for another week or more - Fred manages to find a small silver aquilla, tied with string to make a necklace. The father of the young boy back at the garage is nowhere to be seen, but this is surely the medallion Fred was asked to retrieve.

    Eventually, Old Harry shows up with a team of grunts and accompanied by Fred’s brother, who, uh, well… This is a little awkward. I had previously introduced Fred’s brother as “Quin,” but I’ve been informed he now prefers to go by Bolognese “Hawaiian” Linguine. Sorry about that, pal.

    Anyway, the last time our heroes saw Bolognese, they had left him to guard the Chimera. Over two days ago. He understandably got bored, went looking for his squadmates, and got roped into helping with the garage’s wounded - in hindsight, our heroes really shouldn’t have left the squad’s medic behind.

    While the thugs and Bolognese drag back the supplies and Malachi, respectively, Fred bargains with Old Harry. As our heroes failed to secure the generator - quite the opposite, in fact - the engineer is reluctant to evenly split the supplies, as they had agreed upon, but the man’s objections are little more than grumbling. They soon come to an agreement, shake hands, and part ways on good terms, Harry wishing our heroes luck and Fred promising not to reveal the thug’s existence to his superiors, who would certainly loot the garage and cleanse it’s inhabitants. You can’t take chances with the corruption of Chaos.

    Within hours our heroes share of supplies have been loaded into the Chimera’s cargo bay, along with Malachi’s unconscious body, which has been laid down on an impromptu bed made of ammo crates. Fred, leaning on his brother for support, pays a visit to the kid, gives him his father’s necklace, and receives a pack of lho sticks, along with a warm fuzzy feeling, in return. The boy takes his father’s fate stoically, thanking Fred sincerely.

    Fred at the wheel, Bolognese in the turret, our heroes drive off. Occasionally they catch sight of a cultist or two, but most flee at the sight of an NYPDF transport. For those bold enough to attack, their lasguns are far too weak to penetrate the Chimera’s chassis.

    When the walls of the NYPDF-controlled hab block, manned by soldiers in blue and white, come into view, our heroes rejoice. Fred sends his credentials over the Chimera’s vox unit, and the gate slides open. Inside, the streets are packed with soldiers and the many support staff that go along with any Guard regiment - tech-priests, munitorum scribes, cooks, laborers and a few frightened civilians. Emergency bridges have been built between every building and controlled charges were used to breach the walls between separate properties, allowing for the easy transport of materials and improved defenses should the outer walls be overrun.

    When the Linguine brothers climb out of the driver’s door, they are met by one Lieutenant Aubrey clutching a clipboard. Among the enlisted men, the junior officer is known for his casual attitude and joviality, but that doesn’t mean our heroes won’t be in hot water if anyone discovers their fraternization with possible heretics. He also wants to know how our heroes lost half the squad on a standard supply-run. Fred does the talking, making it seem as if they just stumbled upon a supply depot, killed its heretic guards, taking casualties in the process, and came back after licking their wounds. The lieutenant buys this at first, but when he takes a look in the cargo bay, a number of queries are raised. Namely, “Why is there a mutilated psyker lying on the floor?”

    Golly, I guess he should’ve been tied down or something.

    Fred tries to cover up, but the poor guy is rather flustered. I mean, he did suffer a near-fatal wound two days ago. He tries to tell Aubrey that they just ran into Malachi by happenstance (which is true) but the officer just isn’t buying it. It’s looking like our heroes’ reward for a job well-done is going to be two weeks of the dreaded latrine duty, but Bolognese steps in at the last minute. He spouts some guff about the duress of combat, the evils of Chaos, and Veche’s heroic sacrifice. It doesn’t make much sense, and contradicts Fred’s story multiple times, but it makes the lieutenant happy enough.

    That out of the way, our heroes are congratulated on a successful mission. Not only did they kill a bunch of heretics and retrieve more supplies than any squad has in weeks, they saved one of the NYPDF’s only psykers. Fred and Malachi get carted off to the infirmary, and Bolognese follows soon after to help with the numerous wounded troopers.

    Chilling in the infirmary for a couple weeks allows our heroes to recover, both physically and mentally. The day after returning, one of the regiment’s chaplains comes over to give them “counselling,” which involves the distribution of blessings and round of firm questions concerning the Emperor’s many virtues. Malachi wakes up soon after. His spirits are far from high - the NYPDF’s supply of prosthetics are running low, so he’ll be walking with a peg-leg from now on - but duty isn’t exactly picky. The forces of Chaos won’t be driven from Space NYC without a bit of good, reliable, old-fashioned suffering. After a couple days, the nurses start receiving requests from Malachi’s neighbours, asking to be moved away from his incessant whinging about never being able to dance again.

    But these days of peace and contentment cannot last forever. As soon as Fred and Malachi can walk, they are discharged and told to report to Lieutenant Aubrey on the morn. Our heroes are also introduced to their squads new additions, a trio of green recruits: Lok, who has the endearing and deeply tragic personality trait of never, ever bathing, Hobb, a genuine thrill-seeker, and the obligatory “Private Parts”. In recognition of their prior success, the squad is also given half a dozen detpacks - used by experienced NYPDF troopers to breach walls and lay ambushes in the endless city of Space NYC. These are immediately handed over to Fred who is, well, if not exactly trained, then at least been allowed to touch the interior of a machine before.

    After stowing the detpacks in the Chimera, Malachi goes to meet the new squad members, Bolognese packs some “field ration sandwiches,” and Fred tries to pawn off some of his gear for more explosives - he eventually swaps the garage boy’s lho sticks for a grenade belonging to a guardswoman suffering major withdrawal. That evening, everyone sleeps like a rock. Rocks anticipating the imminent destruction of all they cherish, but rocks nonetheless.


    Spoiler: Bureaucracy
    Show
    After a frugal breakfast of re-hydrated grains, Malachi and Bolognese report to Lieutenant Aubrey’s office while Fred and the boys double then triple check the Chimera.

    That morning the lieutenant is not at all his usual self; he grumbles, moans, and keeps making scathing comments about the falling standards in recruitment. Malachi is allowed to take a seat, on account of his missing foot, but he soon comes to regret it, as this places him in an optimal position to receive a full blast of smoke from Aubrey’s enormous cigar. In between the complaints, the lieutenant manages to impart a terse brief on the mission. It goes something like this:

    The NYPDF is running out of supplies, soldiers, and hope. They might hold out for weeks, months, but defeat is inevitable. Roped in on all sides by the heretics, and unable to contact friendlies due to prevalent long-range vox malfunctions, the only chance at survival is to muster the forces and punch a hole through the Chaos line. The entire level is firmly in the grip of heresy, but it’s rumoured that the NYPDF on the upper floors are making a good fight of it, pushing the invaders back. A nearby complex contains a lift to the upper levels, but is held firmly by Chaos; specifically, a cabal of Chaos Sorcerers.

    The NYPDF will be allocating its largest force to a frontal assault which, thank the Emperor, our heroes will be exempt from. No, instead they’ll be rigging up a bomb to breach the complex’s outer walls, allowing a much smaller flanking force to, hopefully, enter and hit the heretics from behind. They also have only three hours to get ready, pick up the bomb from Munitorum HQ and leave, or they won’t reach the staging area in time and the whole operation will go down the toilet.

    With this in mind, Malachi and Bolognese rush over to the dilapidated department store that serves as the Departmento Munitorum main office. Outside, what seems like half the regiment is stretched out in a line that goes for several blocks and features several switchbacks. Citizens are passing up and down, trying to sell trinkets, narcotics and roasted chunks of Space NYC’s native tunnel-raccoon. Our heroes manage to shove their way into the Munitorum office just as a brawl of considerable size breaks out amongst those waiting outside - they hear someone ranting about tech-heresy just before the screaming starts - only to find the other half of the regiment, plus a few extra platoons, inside. A maze of stanchions has corralled the petulant throng into a line of dubious efficiency, but only a semblance of order is displayed. For every satisfied trooper who leaves with their commission filled, three more leave empty-handed or with a lifetime supply of toothbrushes. Half a dozen minor scuffles are threatening to break out, and only the remonstrations of a few Munitorum executives prevent the line from becoming a bloodbath. As our heroes observe this scene of stupendous disorganization, a scribe tumbles from a hole in the ceiling, landing on a filing cabinet with the crack of snapping bone.

    Malachi tries to persuade the disgruntled scribes to let him skip the line, emphasizing the import of his mission, but is met with a rude rebuke. No-one in the Munitorum gets paid enough to care. Our heroes are persistent in their complaints, but this proves futile. Seeing the looming catastrophe, it becomes clear that only one option remains to our heroes. They leave the crowded department store and return 10 minutes later, Bolognese carrying the sheets from his bunk in a bundle.

    In a nearby alley, Bolognese kneels over, allowing Malachi to mount his shoulders. The sheet is draped over both men, concealing everything from the psyker’s neck to the medic’s knees. Bolognese’s elbows form clearly visible lumps beneath the fabric. Striding awkwardly from the alley, the ‘giant’ passes the line outside, who momentarily stop their fight to stare in confusion. As they enter the Munitorum office, Malachi, his head barely clearing the door, embraces the power of the Warp. He does not exert his will to guide or shape it, nor does he restrain its might. Unbridled Chaos flows through him, making the very air crackle and glow. He sweats, suddenly overcome by a surge of prenatural heat. Heads swivel, their eyes drawn by something they cannot quite explain, and a few people scream or draw weapons. Malachi, appearing at first glance nearly 3 metres tall, speaks in a booming voice which echoes around the office accompanied by a choir of incoherent whispers from nowhere.

    “I am the Dread Pirate Roberts! There will be no survivors! The Dread Pirate Roberts is here for your souls!”

    Then every piece - every. Single. Piece - of glass in the room explodes violently. Countless records are lost as dataslates crack and shatter. Of those unfortunate enough to be wearing glasses, three are permanently blinded. Minor flooding ensues from the remnant of a particularly large water cooler. Hundreds of minor cuts and buried shards, along with more serious injuries, are enough to keep the medicae busy for days. A lot of people start screaming, some in pain, others in terror, quite a few vocalizing their supplication to the Emperor. More still perceive the psyker - not inaccurately - as an attacker. A trio of priests begin shoving their way through the press, waving flamers and chainswords, shouting about heresy and damnation, before being trampled by a fleeing squad of opportunistic troopers, the sergeant screaming into his com bead for backup. One poor sod can’t take the pressure and begins discharging his laspistol at random, blowing out the brains of a young scribe trying to offer first aid to a trooper with an eye-full of broken glass. Others just take in the havoc, faint amusement creeping onto their faces.

    Trying to ignore the destruction around them, our “heroes” stride past the now-deserted stanchions and up to the front desk, where an apoplectic executive is gripping the fake-wood counter with white knuckles, and politely ask for the high-explosive they need to deliver.

    Five minutes later they walk sheepishly out of the department store - just as an NYPDF ambulance pulls up out front - with no bomb, Bolognese carrying the bundled sheet under his arm, and bereft of their laspistols.

    That fiasco behind them, our heroes prepare to leave, hoping that Fred’s detpacks will be enough to make the breach. The lives of everyone in the regiment is depending on it. Fred at the wheel, Malachi nestled in the turret, and the rest on the cargo hold’s benches in a varying degree of manspread. They receive clearance to leave, and the gate slides open, welcoming them to the tenebrous warzone that Lower Space NYC has become.


    Spoiler: Ramming Speed
    Show
    For about two hours, the Chimera rumbles through the desolate ruins of the no-man’s land. Occasionally our heroes catch sight of a small band of heretics, or the morbid signs of their occupation - corpses impaled on spikes, blasphemous graffiti written in blood - but their journey is uneventful until they near their destination: a towering pillar of immense size, situated in the centre of a yawning gorge the size of a large city. Built to support the upper levels and provide ease of access, it has faded into a bastion of Chaos and degeneracy.

    As our heroes brood on their mission and the extreme danger involved, a shout of alarm comes from Malachi. A Sentinel, one of the NYPDF’s ungainly scouting walkers, stomps around the next corner. Defaced by the forces of Chaos, it has been sloppily painted red and black, with a heretical banner depicting the eight-pointed wheel hanging between its legs and a number of spikes added for good measure. A hail of bullets shoots from its autocannon, barely missing the Chimera. Malachi returns fire with the heavy bolter while Fred, thinking fast, seeks to take advantage of the walker’s spindly legs and hits the gas. Anticipating the ram, the Sentinel’s driver tries to dodge but is too slow. The Chimera’s bulk slams into the walker’s left leg, sending it flying onto the Chimera’s roof, the autocannon still spraying slugs ineffectually against the Chimera’s armour. From the turret’s viewport, Malachi can see the pilot struggling vainly with the controls, trying to dislodge the Sentinel. A point-blank volley of heavy bolt shells reduces the walker’s cockpit to a bloody wreck, which slides to the asphalt in heap of scrap.

    Moving on, those near a viewport are treated to a majestic view of the pillar, its vile interior unapparent at this distance, and the many bridges which span the gap, some simple catwalks, while others are cities in their own right, with the sides, pillars and buttresses lined with buildings of all description. Following the directions of the Lieutenant, Fred turns onto one such bridge which spans the 35km gap between solid ground and the pillar. Travelling along the enormous bridge, you might not even realize you are on one. Before the invasion, many people lived their entire lives on this bridge, never possessing awareness of a larger world.

    Half away across the bridge, our heroes catch sight of a cultist encampment up ahead - a ramshackle collection of barricades, shacks and sandbags - along with two more corrupted Sentinels, who have definitely noticed the NYPDF presence. A handful of awkward minutes are spent as the vehicles roar and stomp down the bridge towards each other, trying to enter the range of their weaponry. Without warning, a bolt of energy streaks from a walker’s lascannon, melting the Chimera’s flank like wax. The damage is mostly superficial, but much clenching of teeth occurs as another bolt of energy misses the bolter turret by metres.

    Soon, our heroes draw close enough to see the armaments of the second walker - another autocannon, along with an oversized chainsword and robotic arm that has seemingly been welded on. This ridiculous attachment, almost larger than the main chassis, might be comical, if it wasn’t for the two dozen heads strung out on chains along the limb.

    The bolter and autocannon roar in unison, inflicting minor damage on both fronts. His usual stony expression in place, Fred steers toward the chainsword-walker’s legs while everyone else finds something to hold onto. A moment later, the Sentinel is bowled over just as it devotes all its strength to a swing. The result of this is the walker landing atop the Chimera, with its sword chewing into the APC’s rear, giving it additional grip. Malachi tries to retaliate with the bolter, but the turret’s limited rotation makes this impossible. Over the screech of ripping metal, the pilot’s screams of ecstasy are just audible. Another bolt from the lascannon misses, leaving green streaks in Fred’s vision.

    Seeing no other option, Bolognese grabs his lasgun and squeezes past Malachi through the turret, shoving open the hatch and climbing onto the roof of the moving Chimera. A preemptive frag grenade, aimed for the cockpit, bounces off the walker and lands a couple metres from the medic’s feet. Hanging onto the roof by his fingertips, Bolognese is pelted by shrapnel.

    Seeing this as an advantage, the pilot grabs a knife and leaps at Bolognese with a cry of “I am of for you!”

    And slips, ending up in a worse situation than his foe, with his legs dangling off the Chimera. Bolognese takes this opportunity to crawl back to safety, closing the hatch behind him. When the APC collides with the second Sentinel moments later, the struggling pilot is sent flying along with his craft.

    This time, unfortunately, the walker’s pilot has more finesse, and manages to keep the Sentinel erect. Fred turns the Chimera around, coming at the walker from behind, and opens up with the frontal heavy bolter in conjunction with Malachi on the main turret, hitting the corrupted machine’s inferior rear armour. Before the pilot can turn the lascannon and retaliate, a bolt shell strikes some vital artery of the walker, causing it to go up in a ball of fire, leaving only a smoking pair of legs.

    Celebrating their (mostly) smooth victory, our heroes drive toward the cultist encampment.

  15. - Top - End - #15
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Ehhhhhhh.

    Spoiler: Woof.
    Show
    As our heroes’ Chimera approaches the cultist encampment, heavy bolter roaring, the heretics flee into the nearby buildings. A few are killed in the scramble, but it really won’t be worth the trouble to hunt the survivors down. Satisfied with the successful dispersal, our heroes move on.

    At the end of the bridge, Fred parks the Chimera a good distance from the door they need to breach - a secondary entrance into the tower, only just wide enough to drive through - then disembarks with Hobb to plant the squad’s supply of detpacks on the door. Malachi and Lok follow them, looking around the platform for anything of interest.

    Now, Fred doesn’t really know anything about explosives. At all. But he is pretty knowledgable about cars - about as much as a non-tech-priest can know without being turned into a servitor. That seems to be enough, and he manages to craft the detpacks into a contraption, activated by a hand-held detonator.

    Then, out of nowhere, a pair of hounds leap from the shadows, covered in strange spines, their limbs unnaturally long and exaggerated. These beasts are nothing like the local mutants or the pestilential tunnel-raccoons. Not liking their chances, Fred and Hobb run for the Chimera, the detonator still clenched in one of the driver’s hands, the dogs biting at their heels.

    At the same time, another dog leaps from between two buildings and assails Malachi. The psyker hefts his pipe and squares off with the dog, assisted by Lok. Bolognese, hearing the barks and shouts from outside, comes running. He briefly considers manning the turret, but the combatants are too close together for him to reliably avoid friendly-fire. Instead, he rallies Pvt. Parts and joins the melee. Together, the four troopers manage to batter the lone dog into submission, but not before Fred and Hobb arrive, pursued by two more dogs, throwing everything into Chaos.

    Fred clambers up the Chimera’s partially-melted front, going for the hatch, but one of the dogs’ jaws clamp down on his abdomen, tearing it open. Fred soldiers on, climbing with one hand, holding his guts in with the other, leaving a trail of blood on the white-and-blue Chimera. He manages to push the hatch open and falls down the ladder, barely conscious and bleeding a river.

    The others try to engage the dogs, but it soon becomes apparent they cannot win. The dogs are too fast, and seem to shrug off all but the most grievous wounds. Fighting them with the standard-issue NYPDF pipes is hopeless. Bolognese calls for a retreat, but the dogs are merciless, hounding the fleeing Guardsmen. Lok is hamstrung, and goes down screaming, devoured by the wretched dogs. Our heroes don’t look back. Just as Malachi is closing the APC’s door, a dog tries to force it’s way through, snapping at the psyker’s arm, ripping off a large swath of flesh, muscle and bone, from the shoulder to the wrist. Through the pain he manages to kick the dog away and force the door shut, muffling the barks and ensuring safety.

    In the relative safety of the Chimera, our heroes regroup. Bolognese patches up Malachi and Fred, ensuring they won’t die within the next few hours, then our heroes break out the rations and awkwardly wait, while the dogs howl and rock the Chimera. The rations for Lok and Fred (who doesn’t want to risk eating, considering the massive trauma his digestive-tract has just endured) sit on a bench as an uncomfortable reminder of the dangers prowling just outside.


    Spoiler: The Cavalry
    Show
    After almost an hour of waiting for reinforcements, listening to Malachi moan in pain, Bolognese can’t take it any longer. If they’re on schedule the flanking force should be over an hour away, and recently something - no-one knows what - has been jamming long-distance vox communication. Fred fiddles with the dials, occasionally giving the vox-unit a good kick, but only manages to find a single working channel, and something is off. It doesn’t correspond with the frequencies used by any locals, and is much more stable than any of the NYPDF’s channels - somehow, even the feedback sounds different from anything they’ve heard before. Bolognese sends out a general message, warning about roving packs of dogs and asking for assistance. There’s a long silence, then he is answered by a high-pitched, avian shrieking, followed immediately by the connection’s termination.

    All other options exhausted, our heroes wait. Attempts to sleep are made, but they are soon interrupted by the dogs’ shenanigans.

    Eventually, after what seems like far more than an hour, our heroes are roused by the sound of lasfire and rumbling engines. Reinforcements - some 80 NYPDF troopers and 12 Chimeras - have arrived, and dispatched two of the dogs, though the last one seems to have escaped. Will the wretched beast return to haunt our heroes, or has it fled, tail between its legs, never to be seen again? Only time will tell, and until then sleep will doubtless evade our intrepid heroes, for even a noble soldier of the NYPDF could not sleep, knowing that a diabolical dog could materialize at any moment.

    In any case, the time for rumination is far off. Our heroes answer the knocks of a grizzled sergeant on the door, and briefly chat with the non-com. Bolognese is eager for news from the main assault, but the sergeant has little to say. Long-range vox-communication is still unreliable at best, and time is ticking away. Fred is ordered to activate the detonator and does so immediately, startling the poor sergeant half to death. Fortunately, no-one was in the blast radius.

    What’s more, Fred’s breached the door, rather than the wall, meaning the soldiers are going to be marched down a gauntlet of death, withering under fire from the cultists. The sergeant is none too pleased at this, but doesn’t have time to give our heroes a proper chewing-out. He orders them to the rearguard, along with two other squads, and runs off to assist in the assault.

    Sitting in their Chimera, Bolognese in the turret, Fred at the wheel, Malachi sitting on a bench in the hold, they are serenaded by the sounds of their comrades fighting and dying. Gunfire, screams, and battle cries all blend together into a homogenous drone. Our heroes try to initiate some com-chatter with the other squad cars, but are only answered with curt suggestions to stay on task.

    Suddenly, something bursts through the window of a nearby residence. Once a man, it is now only a mindless brute towering nearly 3 metres, a hulk of fat, sinew and bulging muscles. It bellows, exposing a mouth filled with yellowing teeth of abnormal magnitude, and charges the Chimera, going down on all-fours in a primitive display of devolution.

    The heavy bolter roars to life, punching a hole through the mutant’s breast, but it keeps going, shrugging off shell after shell, until it collapses only millimetres from the Chimera, oozing greenish-blood onto the rockrete.

    A wave of relief washes over our heroes as they subside, pleased with an easy kill. Bolognese is complimented on his shooting, and Fred voxes the other squad cars to ask if they’re okay.

    Then eight more mutants, each one more muscular than the last, barrel out of an alley, enormous fists pounding the earth. It’s a textbook flanking maneuver, and if they aren’t stopped the mutants will hit the vulnerable infantry from behind, giving them nowhere to run but into the cultists’ lasfire.

    Stoic and valourous as always, our heroes cannot let the mission be jeopardized. Fred puts the pedal to the metal, heading right for the pack of mutants at ramming speed.

  16. - Top - End - #16
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Ooh, the reason I wasn't commenitng is because I didn't notice this thread is updated! Should've subscribed. In fact, that's what I'm doing now, since I can't read freely at this moment.
    You got Magic Mech in My Police Procedural!
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    The OTP in the playground.
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  17. - Top - End - #17
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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by Fri View Post
    Ooh, the reason I wasn't commenitng is because I didn't notice this thread is updated! Should've subscribed. In fact, that's what I'm doing now, since I can't read freely at this moment.
    Glad you're enjoying it! It's good to know we have an audience.

    Spoiler: Holding the Line
    Show
    The Chimera slams into the colloquially dubbed “meat men” with all the force you’d expect from a tank moving at 100 kph, thoroughly pasting two of them. Bits of contaminated gore and a severed arm go flying. The meat men hammer on the APC with the fists, but Fred kicks it into reverse, while Bolognese mans the bolter, shredding a mutant as our heroes make their escape. Infuriated, the meat men charge, and are again bowled over as Fred goes in for another ram.

    The process is slow, but the meat men are none too bright. Our heroes are able to outmaneuver them, slowly whittling down the abominations. Fred rolls the Chimera back into formation, enduring the beratement of the other squads. Bolognese observes the battle in the breach from atop the turret, yelling down narration to the others. The NYPDF is dying in swathes - as is their duty - but progress is undoubtedly being made. It is only minutes before the last cultists are subdued and a beachhead established. A garbled comm signal comes fights its way through the interference, and our heroes form a convoy with the other Chimeras, blessedly near the rear.

    As they drive into the tower, our heroes are beset by the scale of the structure. The vaulted ceiling, crisscrossed by countless walkways, supports and pipes, is obscured by the creeping gloom. Corpses of all description litter the ground, and the sounds of battle can be faintly heard. News on the situation is sparse at best.

    Another vox message comes through, ordering our heroes and two other squads to defend an uninhabited avenue on the army’s flank. They peel off from the other soldiers marching grimly to the front, and are greeted by momentary peace and quiet. The avenue seems deserted, and is completely free of corpses. Delightful.

    Fortune only extends so far, of course. When they arrive it is discovered the three Chimeras have insufficient width to block the street while still retaining mobility - they would have to squeeze in horizontally, eliminating any chance of a timely retreat. Instead, a number of soldiers disembark from the other Chimeras to set up sandbags and barbed wire. Our heroes flatly refuse to budge from the safety of their own vehicle.

    For some time, it seems our heroes have escaped combat altogether. The fortifications are nearly complete when a burst of white energy flies out of the darkness, bursting a trooper’s head like a rotten orange. Screams and shouts go up from the soldiers as the air is filled with a rain of white-fire. The bolter turrets roar in response, but without a definitive target the bolt shells are wasted. A few more soldiers go down, while the rest scramble to safety in the Chimeras or maintenance tunnels that honeycomb the complex.

    As the last guardsmen leaps into cover, the barrage ceases. There is a moment of silence as the soldiers collect themselves.

    Then, with the screech of tearing metal, a large section of the wall is ripped open as an enormous creature - a cross between a bird of prey and a monstrous gorilla - leaps onto our heroes’ Chimera, roaring with all the bestial glee of a predator on the hunt.

    Bolognese spins the turret and pulls the trigger, spraying a wave of explosive shells. The monster takes them right to the chest and is not much worse for it. Fred grabs a sack of hand grenades, hustles up the ladder, pushes open the hatch and starts tossing explosives at the beast only a scant few metres from his position. Malachi squats on the floor of the cargo bay muttering about dogs.

    The first grenade detonates at the monster’s feet, who retaliates with a swipe at Fred. He ducks down the hatch, the monstrous claw barely missing, then pops back up to hurl another grenade. Bolognese and the adjacent Chimera continue to spew bolt shells at the monster, miraculously missing Fred. As the monster rears up, its beak snapping, ready to chew the impudent grenadier, the third explosive detonates in mid-air, spraying the beast’s back with shrapnel. It makes one last, agonized swipe - which Fred nimbly avoids - before rolling to the ground, dead. Just as our heroes rejoice, commending Fred’s bravery, a bolt of energy misses his head by inches. He quickly ducks back into the Chimera, closing the hatch behind him, but the message is clear: the unseen assailants are very much still there, and don’t intend to let anyone move.

    Most of the squad is actually reasonably happy with this arrangement. Their orders were to Hold the Line and, technically, they’re doing just that. Whoever the attackers are, apparently the defeat of their bird-monster was enough to scare them off. Our heroes just have to sit tight, gun down anything that moves, and wait for reinforcements.

    But, of course, someone had to go and be a hero. Several of the troopers who were hit by the energy bolts are still alive, but wounded and immobile. Poor, altruistic Bolognese Linguine cannot sit by while his comrades bleed out. He and the reluctant Pvt. Parts dash out of the Chimera, hunched over and terrified, and are immediately greeted by a renewed barrage of energy. The two soldiers reach the downed trooper unharmed and try to lift him by the legs. He is very heavy. Panicking and still under fire, they try to each grab one end. He is still heavy. A blast of energy grazes Bolognese’s helmet, nearly knocking him over. Desperate, the two men grab one leg each and pull with all their strength, managing to move a couple metres. The wounded soldier is groaning incoherently. A bolt of energy, coming from behind the fortifications - in an area our heroes thought was secure - punches through ‘Part’s chest, leaving a circular hole the size of a small child. Bolognese heaves on the wounded soldier’s leg, gaining a couple metres. The oncoming fire is intensifying. He’s almost reached the Chimera when another bolt of energy hits the medic in the right shoulder, instantly incinerating the arm. Bolognese screams in agony as his vision goes dark, and he collapses onto the soldier he sought to save.

    Inside the Chimera, the mood is tense. Fred would like to save his brother - or at least retrieve his corpse - but, quite frankly, it isn’t worth the risk. Should Bolognese perish, Fred will be the last scion of the great Linguine dynasty. Besides, dying horribly is generally something to be avoided. Hobb, however, is made of sterner stuff. He didn’t join up with the NYPDF to sit around like a coward while his friends die! (Cause, y’know, he didn’t technically “join up.” Nearly everyone was drafted.) Nonetheless, Hobb brandishes his lasgun and confidently leaps out of the Chimera.

    And is immediately shot in the head. Twice.


    Spoiler: Retreat
    Show
    There is a moment of silence, before Fred creeps forward to close the door after Hobb’s abrupt departure. He leaves Malachi huddled on the floor, and sinks into the driver’s seat, where he contacts the other two Chimera’s over the vox. His suggestion of retreat is met with trepidation and accusations of heresy, respectively. He attempts to contact the main force and request backup, but long-distance comms are still suffering major interference. He manages to send out a call for aid, along with his identification codes, but the only response is staticky, incomprehensible mumbling. The line is terminated soon after.

    Time passes. No less than an hour, but no more than three. There has been no sign of the unseen snipers. The avenue, the corpses and the Chimeras are illuminated by two sets of headlights. A pair of NYPDF Chimeras roll into view, send a brief greeting over the vox, then take up defensive positions behind the others. Ignoring Fred’s warnings, the reinforcements disembark and… are fine, actually. The mysterious snipers seem to have moved on. Or, perhaps, successfully infiltrated the NYPDF’s lines.

    Fred runs out, flips over Hobb’s corpse, and drags the half-conscious Bolognese inside. He’s in a bad way, even before the missing arm, but chances are he’ll live. Our heroes grill the new arrivals for information on the battle, but they’ve been kept in the dark just as much as anyone else. Soldiers don’t need to know why they fight.

    With the immediate threat gone, several furtive soldiers emerge from the side passages where they had taken shelter, and rejoin their comrades in the Chimeras. Five of them merge with our heroes’ squad to compensate their losses, giving Fred and Bolognese - who is now conscious, though he would prefer not to be - the chance to pair up with new comrades. Jet, a battle-scarred Guardswoman who takes absolutely zero ***** from anyone, was impressed by Bolognese’s suicidal rescue and joins up with him. Yekaterina, a rich girl from the upper hive, decides that Fred looks the least insane and pairs up with him. She quickly regrets this decision when he flat-out refuses to include the “Ye” in her name, and starts loudly complaining about tiny breaches of protocol and poorly-maintained equipment. Another Guardsman - an old geezer named Kannock - replaces the crippled Bolognese in the turret. Now all that can be done is wait. And wait. More than hour passes, interrupted only by the muted chatter of the troopers.

    Then, just as our heroes and their new-found squadmates begin to relax, the vox blares to life, startling Fred out of his chair. The message, which has been broadcast on an open NYPDF channel, is garbled, but coherent. It seems the main force has managed to secure the lift, and all squads are being recalled. The lift leaves in four hours, and will be delayed for no one.

    Simple enough. Or it would be, if anyone knew where the lift is. A brief meeting is held, then a plan of action decided upon. The reinforcements passed an abandoned Mechanicus station on their way over, and it’s likely their primary cogitator will contain a map of the complex. With any luck, Fred should be able to access the terminal and download it into his dataslate.

    Within a minute, the Chimeras have been turned around and are rumbling down the avenue in a line. In the flickering light cast by the dying street lamps, each Chimera appears as a colourless blob. The only noise is that from the rumbling engines. Soon, the line stops beside a heavy metal gate painted with the robo-skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Fred and Bolognese - Malachi stays behind to guard the Chimera - their new companions, and another squad climb reluctantly form the safety of their Chimeras and approach the gate, only to find it locked, and only operable via a small control panel. It’s in the tech-priest’s indecipherable binary-cant, but Fred manages to interface using his standard-issue mind impulse unit and overrides the security. The gate swings open, revealing a shadowy maze of shelves and eldritch machinery.

    Both squads split up, Fred, Bolognese, Yekaterina and Jet going down one of the many hallways, the other group going down another. Bolognese borrows Jet’s laspistol and takes point while Fred stays in the middle of the pack, scanning with his auspex. The central cogitator should be somewhere near the station’s centre, but getting there won’t be easy. The station was clearly designed for those able to download a map of the blueprints into their brain. Fortunately, working together the Linguine brothers are able to make good progress. Though confusing to any sane being, there is method to the labyrinth of machinery.

    Then the screaming starts. Fred watches in alarm as another lifesign, previously unnoticed, rapidly approaches the squad, whose lifesigns are disappearing one at time.

    Pausing only to wish the others luck, Bolognese runs down a side passage toward the source of the screaming. Jet eagerly follows, leaving Fred to find the cogitator with only the assistance of the random Guardswoman he met today, and kind of hates him.

  18. - Top - End - #18
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    Default Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rumble

    Part 7 coming at you.

    Spoiler: In The Station
    Show
    Bolognese’s boots drum rhythmically on the metal floor of the Mechanicus station as he charges recklessly toward the sounds of battle, laspistol clutched in the fingers of his remaining arm. Ahead, there is a drawn-out, gurgling scream. A wet thump.

    Bolognese whips around a corner, arriving just too late. Two dismembered corpses in flak armour lie in pools of their blood. Three more are hardly recognizable as human. One more trooper is propped up against the wall, breathing heavily, oozing blood from a dozen lacerations. The remains of the other squad.

    Rushing to the wounded soldier, Bolognese takes out his first aid kit. The swift application of bandages staunches the blood. The soldier is able to walk, but is confused and incoherent, rambling about the monster that killed his squadmates. Some sort of avian menace, though it moved far too quickly for him to get a close look. They set out, hoping to reunite with Fred before the creature returns.

    Five minutes later, Fred strides out of the station’s control room, a detailed map of the complex downloaded onto his dataslate, just in time to hear screams, lasfire, and feral squawks echoing through the metallic hallway. He tries to run after the clamour, but soon becomes lost in the labyrinth of technology. Slowing to a jog, he and Yekaterina are haunted by Bologneses’ cries. Impatience will get them nowhere. They come across a mangled corpse, vaguely recognizably as a member of the other squad, covered with what look like bite marks. A number of his less recent wounds seem to have been bandaged. Nearby, a section of the wall has been knocked over, spilling a sea of cables onto the ground. Ahead, there is the screech of tearing metal, the distinctive crack of a lasgun, and a faint cry of “For the Emperor!” Breaking into a dash only gets Fred disorientated. Time is ticking away. Under pressure, the layout of the station seems as obfusticating as the technology within.

    Eventually, the Linguine brothers nearly run into each other as Bolognese and Jet barrel around a corner, their eyes wild. There is no time for conversation and, reunited, our heroes make tracks for the exit. Working together, they manage to locate it in good time, and without further interference from the bird-thing. Only trouble is, the way to the exit is a long, narrow hallway with countless side passages. The perfect spot for an ambush. According to Bolognese, the creature seems to have a craving for the diseased, malnourished flesh of hive worlders.

    Bolognese takes point, a krak grenade clutched in his sweaty palm. Right on schedule, the creature leaps out of a hole in the ceiling, claws slashing at Bolognese’s throat. Yellow-green, slender and taller than a man, it’s beaked head boasts a mop of thick quills. Bolognese dodges out of the way, while the others soak the creature in lasfire. Wounded, but alive, it takes a final swipe at Bolognese’ chest and retreats down one of the passages.


    Spoiler: Aqueduct
    Show
    Relieved, our heroes tromp back to the five Chimeras, start the engines, and roll out. According to Fred’s map, they can make it to the lift with time to spare, assuming there are no significant delays. A brief stop is made to pick up a couple squads of marooned troopers by the road - only after they identify themselves as natives of Space NYC by naming its most famous landmark, the Imperium Space Building - but the next hour of driving passes in relative peace. The Chimeras, even damaged as they are, are easily able to traverse the shattered streets, piles of rubble and fields of corpses. Evidently, the main force of the NYPDF passed through there not long ago, leaving countless dead on both sides. There is little chatter amongst the soldiers, save for the occasional moan of pain. The new arrivals are in rough shape.

    The lead vehicle stops suddenly, almost causing a collision with those behind. The reason soon becomes apparent, as an enormous wall of rubble looms ahead, making the road totally impassable. The walls and ceiling seem to have caved in completed.

    The vox blares to life as the driver of each vehicle struggles to make their opinion heard. The heavy casualties have destroyed any semblance of the command structure. Fred, as the only one with a reliable map of the complex, coolly explains the only option available to them - a detour through a nearby aqueduct. With considerable trepidation, the others agree.

    The aqueduct itself - a precarious rockrete shelf barely wide enough for the Chimeras - hugs the side of a massive cistern built to hydrate billions. The amber maintenance lights provide only minor illumination, and the Chimeras headlights are not much better. Minutes pass. Even with this delay, there is time to spare. But not much.

    A ball of white energy arcs from the shadows, melting the lead Chimera’s side armour to molten slag. The hull of our heroes’ Chimera - squad car 420 - is pelted with a spray of bullets as a living weapons platform bursts out of a maintenance door. Clearly kin to the bird-gorilla-monster that assualted our heroes earlier, this creature is angrier, bulkier and has some manner of primitive autocannon strapped to it’s back. One of the humanoid creatures our heroes encountered in the Mechanicus station, sans claws, is jockeying to keep its seat aboard the monster, while unleashing a spray of bullets in every direction. Another ball of energy takes ‘420 in the side, shaking its passengers around like a pack of lho sticks, throwing Fred from the driver’s seat. More projectiles fly from the shadows, assailing the convoy from every side.

    The heavy bolters roar in response, but they can’t locate a clear target. The creatures are elusive - while our heroes had assumed they were children of the Warp’s corruption, it is quickly becoming clear they are some foreign species of xenos. Raiders, perhaps, looking to capitalize on Space NYC’s vulnerability.

    Bolognese scrambles up the ladder, crawls past Kannock in the turret, pokes his head out of the hatch and hurls a frag grenade. The xeno gunner does not notice him - at least until it is nearly dismounted by the subsequent explosion. Bolognese ducks just in time to avoid the volley of bullets which cripples the turret, leaving it stuck pointing slightly to the right. An explosion from up ahead briefly illuminates the battlefield, revealing dozens of the xenos, and the Chimeras resume movement. The gorrilla attempts pursuit, still hurling slugs, but it and its rider are soon left behind. Quiet returns.


    Spoiler: Lifts
    Show
    Another hour is spent driving through the tenebrous avenues of the complex. The Chimeras are in rough shape, the soldiers not much better. Another roadblock is just ahead: a secondary service lift, only large enough to carry two vehicles at a time. It will carry our heroes to the centre of the complex, where the primary access lift can evacuate the entire regiment to the upper hive. The secondary lift doesn’t have restricted access, so our heroes should be able to operate it without complications. The key word being should. When Fred disembarks to activate the control panel, he finds it damaged beyond use. While everyone else starts to panic, Fred calmly consults the map on his dataslate. It seems there is backup control room in a nearby building. Without delay, he grabs his younger brother, Yekaterina, and Jet, then dashes toward the building with only a momentary pause to explain.

    Nine flights of stairs later, our heroes arrive at the control, winded. Bolognese kicks down the down and rushes in, a krak grenade clutched tightly in his hand. The others follow more cautiously. Once the lack of hostiles is confirmed, Fred begins fiddling with the many buttons and levers, praying to find the right one. The two Guardswomen keep watch, and Bolognese investigates a side door. It’s a little thing - steel with some plastic, and slightly smaller than normal. The knob has been torn off, and it hangs ajar. Bolognese pokes his head through first, and is greeted by a horribly familiar sight, one he’d hoped never to see again. Ideally, the very memory of that monstrosity would be purged from his brain. It’s mere presence is the crawling tendril of heresy.

    Not three metres from Bolognese, gorging itself on a long-dead civilian, is a dog. In that instant, Bolognese is certain of two things: that this was the same dog that assaulted his Chimera, the same dog that slew one of his companions, and nearly enacted that same fate upon Malachi and his brother. And Bolognese knew that, should he fail to destroy - utterly annihilate - that fearful canine, he would not live to see another day.

    Pulling the pin from his krak grenade, he charges the dog, drops the grenade at its feet, and leaps away as the vile dog is consumed by the explosion. Bolognese swaggers out of the small door, a grin splitting his face, leaving only a red stain behind.

    Soon, Fred is able to locate the correct control panel, and the lift rumbles into action. Our heroes’ Chimera, along with another, are the second onboard. The main lift will be leaving in 15 minutes. When they reach the top, Fred hits the gas, pulling out ahead of the other APC. He has no intention of being left behind. 10 minutes remaining. Just ahead, the walls have collapsed again, carpeting the road with rubble and rendering it less than traversable. The final stretch. Only a shrewd or lucky driver could hope to navigate it, but Fred is both of those things.

    Despite the battle damage, darkness, and terrible conditions, he does it. Squad car 420 weaves through the mountains of splintered rockrete, around the chasms and unsteady ground, races past a sump where the two leading Chimeras are trapped, their squads struggling to dig themselves out. Fred ignores their pleas for assistance over the vox. 5 minutes, and still some ways to go.

    The main lift is in sight, the remnants of the NYPDF aboard, fending off thousands of cultists, mutants and lesser demons. The air is thick with corrupted cherubs. Even as our heroes watch, the lift begins to slowly rise. Spotting a gap in the Chaos army, Fred gives the Chimera everything he can. Lasfire bounces off the armour at every turn. A writhing, tentacled beast slobbers after the lone Chimera. Meat Men hurl their bodies at it.

    But Fred avoids it all, spinning the wheel wildly, his face utterly expressionless, and with a final burst of speed, he attains the lift as it gradually rises above the forces of Chaos.

  19. - Top - End - #19
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Jan 2014
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    Vancouver, Canada

    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Aaaaaaaand we're back. Sorry for the extensive hiatus. It's been like a month. I'm a failure.

    Spoiler: Recovery
    Show
    As the lift rises, squeaking and clanking away from the Chaos horde, our heroes breathe a sigh of relief. Stepping out of the Chimera, they survey what is left of the glorious NYPDF. 98 troopers, many wounded or crippled, ten Chimeras, and a handful of unarmed transport trucks. Only a day before, they had numbered well over 800. The only surviving officer of high rank is Captain Haddon, a grouchy man used more to combat than leadership.

    By order of the new captain, Fred helps the remaining operators to halt the elevator halfway up the shaft, giving the regiment time to recover before their foray into the mid-hive. There are repairs to be made, wounds to be tended. Not to mention the catastrophic state of morale. The troopers welcome rest, both physical and mental.

    Bolognese approaches Haddon shortly after arriving and warns him of the potential xeno threat, but is shot down. It seems reports of similar creatures came in from across the front. Disgruntled, Bolognese stalks off to the patch of ground being used as an infirmary. His medical ability has been dampened by the loss of an arm, but he tries his best. Fortunately, His Best is actually pretty good. Aside from the Boiling Field-Rations Incident, his contribution is overwhelmingly positive.

    Fred, on the other hand, decides that altruism is for nerds. For the next seven cycles, he hardly leaves Squad Car 420, doing so only to use the privy or attempt repairs on its ravaged chassis. This is probably heresy, but only his comrade - Yekaterina - gives a damn. They left all the tech-priests behind at the compound.

    No one is really sure what Malachi gets up to. Occasionally, one of his squadmates will spot him chatting or playing cards with the other soldiers but, for the most part, he makes himself scarce.

    Too soon, the period of recuperation comes to an end. The mood is tense as Captain Haddon orders the lift restarted. They haven’t the slightest clue what lies at the top of the shaft. The valiant soldiers of the NYPDF, battle-scarred and demoralized but unbroken, gear up and pile into their Chimeras. The lift’s engine kicks into motion with a tremendous, sputtering roar. Before long, a faint light appears at the top of the shaft.

    Once the others have got themselves settled, Bolognese takes his brother aside for a talk. The medic is deadweight, a cripple. Fighting over the ensuing days is sure to be heavy and Bolognese doesn’t expect to survive. But Fred is strong, healthy and intelligent. It falls on his shoulders to propagate the Linguine line, a dynasty of crime lords that stretches back generations. He must not fall. Fred is hardly encouraged, but reluctantly nods. The only other Linguine's are long dead.

    Eventually, the lift grinds to a halt and the Chimeras roll out into a maze of streets choked with rubble, corpses and abandoned vehicles, all washed in dull amber light from the dying streetlights. Far above, glimpsed through the web of bridges, pipes, buttresses and burgeoning skyscrapers, there is the faintest hint of natural light. There is no sign of life, only abandoned buildings and silence.

    With no other option available, the NYPDF form their vehicles into a convoy and move out. If they drive long enough, they’ll eventually find friendly territory. Assuming they don’t run out of food. Or fuel. Or get ganked by cultists. Supplies are already running dangerously low.

    Our heroes drive through the streets for over eight hours without a single sign of the Enemy. Night falls, though hardly anyone notices, and Captain Haddon orders a halt. The ten Chimeras form a rudimentary wagon fort, and the troopers pile out to begin setting up tents and barricades while others light barrel fires. A few people break out ration packets. But rest is not yet on the menu. The Captain strides out of his tent, climbs onto an empty crate, and addresses the regiment in a booming voice. The NYPDF cannot afford to waste time; supplies are running out, and every minute spent in the no-man's land of Space New York City risks an encounter with overwhelming enemy forces. While everyone else rests, a reconnaissance mission will be sent deep into unscouted territory. Any volunteers?

    There is a moment of silence, a cough, then Bolognese slowly raises his hand.


    Spoiler: Scouting
    Show
    Eventually, our heroes and their comrades are shoved into an impromptu squad with seven others, to be led by one of the few surviving sergeants, and are issued a mostly-undamaged Chimera. Malachi’s request to accompany them is denied - a psyker cannot be wagered on a scouting mission. They depart into the darkened city a quarter of an hour later, and immediately encounter tensions within the new squadron. Fred tries to assume his usual role as “the guy who drives,” but finds it already taken by a callow lickspit. He petitions the sergeant for a reversal of roles, but is rebuffed. He settles on sitting just behind the driver’s seat, constantly giving passive-aggressive “advice.”

    Bolognese, crammed into the hold, fares no better. Several of his new squadmates are surly and irritable, while others are just straight up obnoxious. One chap by the name of Casmirre takes up two seats with his lascannon, then another two by himself. The trip is not fun.

    Some hours later, just as everyone’s patience nears the breaking point, the sergeant orders a halt at the foot of a tower reaching far above to an aerial highway, overlooking the region. Leaving behind the milksop driver and one Guardsman to man the heavy bolter, the squad piles out of the Chimera, weapons at the ready. After establishing that there are no enemies in the vicinity, Fred and Bolognese are sent ahead to scout the tower and make use of its vantage point. A short jog later, they arrive at the top, gasping for breath. Laspistol in one hand, a grenade in the other, Bolognese charges through the door onto the highway - and instantly recoils, stifling a scream of terror.

    Right in the middle of the highway, surrounded by wrecked cars, is a tangled pyramid of bones, metal and rotting flesh, topped with a skull barely recognizable as human. The dimensions are all wrong - the brow too wide, one eye socket larger than the other, the three rows of jagged teeth sharpened. The wretched altar pulses with the unholy energy of the Ruinous Powers, radiating an aura of despair, clouding Bolognese’s vision with red. He staggers back, whimpering, just as three men in the rags of Chaos invaders walk out from behind a truck, dragging an unconscious civilian by the elbows. The two groups set eyes on the other. A second later, five pairs of feet are hammering towards each other.

    Fred stops about halfway to the first cultist, kneels, and starts firing his lasgun with minimal effect; the heretic is taking a real beating, but is so eager to reach melee that he doesn’t give a damn. Bolognese takes cover behind a small car and starts trading fire with the second cultist, using his laspistol with even fewer results. The third cultist makes a dash for the altar, still dragging their captive. By the time he reaches his destination, Fred is engaged in a close-quarters duel with the manic cultist, ducking and dodging, firing his lasgun wildly. Bolognese, deciding to take decisive action, leaps over the car and sprints towards the opposing heretic, a krak grenade in his hand. A laser blast grazes his shoulder. The heretic throws his gun to the ground, draws a hatchet - only for a small metal ball to land at his feet, knocking him off his feet. Bolognese delivers half a dozen las rounds into the traitor’s skull, setting the corpse ablaze.

    Fred sustains a few cuts from the cultist’s knife, but eventually manages to pump a solid burst of lasfire into the heretic’s gut. The two brothers turn to the last cultist, now prostrated in front of the altar, chanting. Intent on interrupting the ritual, they charge, hip firing their weapons and missing horribly. The cultist’s incantation comes to a climax, and with a shout of ecstasy, a flash of bright light, he plunges a knife into his own throat. Confused, the brothers slow to a jog. They approach the corpse cautiously. Then, without warning, it leaps up, arms flailing, eyes glowing red, holding a knife soaked in it’s own blood, and charges Fred, screeching. It only goes three or four steps before a grenade lands at it’s feet. Missing most of it’s legs, bleeding from a dozen grievous wounds, it staggers forward, knife held high. Bolognese hurls another grenade, thoroughly mincing it.

    The enemy defeated, our heroes momentarily relax. While Bolognese takes up the ever-important task of looting the dead, finding a handful of grenades, Fred walks to the edge of the highway and looks over, trying to spot signs of habitation in the maze of Space NYC. The scale is immense, buildings kilometres wide stretching to the horizon and beyond. But there is no sign of movement. Fred spends a moment in contemplation, idly speculating on the scale of the slaughter that would have taken place for the city to be emptied so thoroughly. Then, perhaps ten kilometres away, there is a blazing flash of crimson light that hangs in the air, then fades. A flare. Leaving Bolognese to keep an eye on the rescued civilian, Fred dashes down the stairs to report.

    The sergeant is understandably intrigued, and sends Fred running back up the stairs to fetch his brother while the rest of the squad packs up.

    When he reaches the top of the stairs, he finds Bolognese running full-tilt for the door, dragging the unconscious civilian with his remaining hand, while pursued by hundreds of corrupted cherubim - tentacles bursting from their chests, heretical runes branded on their skin, tumours bulging forth from every region of their little bodies. Fred lays down a volley of covering fire with his lasgun, blasting a handful of the creatures apart, but there are just too many of them, slashing at Bolognese’s feet and legs with knifes, tool and sharpened rocks. The medic reaches the door, hauls the civilian in behind him, and slams it shut. Our heroes take a moment to catch their breath, then start down the stairs as the door begins to bend inwards.

    Almost an hour later, the Chimera rolls into the square where our heroes think the flare came from, only to find the remnants of a battlefield. Once the site of a monument to some hero or another, the square is practically carpeted with corpses - cultists, NYPDF, a humanoid fighting force in unfamiliar uniforms, and a handful of women in power armour. Just as the sergeant gives the order to disembark and investigate, a round of bolt shells riddles the front of the Chimera. After the driver gets up off the floor and the damage proves to be superficial, Bolognese takes off his belt of grenades and prepares to surrender himself, ignoring the sergeant’s orders to the contrary. Clearly, Imperial Forces in the vicinity, and the NYPDF need their help. Wisely, Fred decides to remain in the safety of his metal box on treads.

    Hand(s) in the air, Bolognese and Jet walk cautiously out of the Chimera, painfully aware that their death could arrive at any second. In his loudest voice, the medic shouts that they come in peace, are not heretics, and require assistance.

    Almost five minutes pass with no reply, and our heroes are beginning to get uneasy. Then, the doors of a nearby building fly open to make way for a woman in power armour, covered in sigils and purity seals, carrying a bolter the size of a child. She calmly strides up to the two dirty, wounded and terrified troopers and asks what they need help with.

  20. - Top - End - #20
    Orc in the Playground
     
    Daemon

    Join Date
    Mar 2012
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    The Frozen North
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    Male

    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Your game sounds like an absolute blast!

    Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition.
    The Romanov Incident A 3.5 campaign journal, complete. Magic! Mystery! Mind control! Murderous Demon Apes!

    The Curse of Artaith A 3.5 campaign journal, ongoing. Heavily influenced by the Dark Souls and Bloodborne games. Featuring lots and lots of death, player (character) and otherwise!

  21. - Top - End - #21
    Orc in the Playground
     
    DwarfFighterGuy

    Join Date
    Dec 2014

    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Loving the campaign so far! Reminds me of All Guardsmen Party, and I mean that as high praise.

    Couple quick questions:
    Who were the mysterious snipers? Tau?

    Where is the game you've played in relation to the game you've posted? Are we up to date, behind by 20 sessions?

    Hope the Linguine family survives this roaring dumpster fire of a war!

    P.S. is Space NYC known "The Big Ploin"?

  22. - Top - End - #22
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Default Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rumble

    Quote Originally Posted by curious-puzzle View Post
    Your game sounds like an absolute blast!

    Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition.
    Why, thank you very much. That's an honour coming from you.
    Quote Originally Posted by NRSASD View Post
    Loving the campaign so far! Reminds me of All Guardsmen Party, and I mean that as high praise.
    Thank you, NRSASD! The AGP was definitely an influence for the GM and my writing style. It feels very good to be compared to it.
    Quote Originally Posted by NRSASD View Post
    Couple quick questions:
    Who were the mysterious snipers? Tau?
    We're actually not sure yet, both IC and OOC. It would make sense, though, considering the other xenos we encountered.
    Quote Originally Posted by NRSASD View Post
    Where is the game you've played in relation to the game you've posted? Are we up to date, behind by 20 sessions?
    The journal is currently two sessions behind.
    Quote Originally Posted by NRSASD View Post
    Hope the Linguine family survives this roaring dumpster fire of a war!

    P.S. is Space NYC known "The Big Ploin"?
    Heh, I love it. I might just have to use that.

  23. - Top - End - #23
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Session #9! Again, sorry for the delayed release. I really need to step up my game.
    Spoiler: Discomfort
    Show
    The ride back to camp, accompanied by a Sister of Battle, is not fun. The troopers stop bickering. Bolognese sheepish removes his bandoliers of salvaged grenades. Fred has the grace to cease complaining. Only Casmirre - the lascannon-toting rogue - is stupid enough to flagrantly break regulations while in the company of a soldier of the Ecclesiarchy. You know. The guys who see more heresy than a Puritan Inquisitor hyped up on recaff. He loudly flirts with the Guardswomen, takes up three seats and deliberately discards pieces of important equipment.

    To her credit, the Sister takes these shenanigans stoically. She just sits there, bolter across her lap, staring directly forward. This does nothing to soothe the squad. Casmirre starts boasting about all the heretics he’s killed. Tempers rise. It’s only a matter of time before someone cracks. It’s almost enough to make everyone forget they’re driving through a Chaos-infested ruin, the threat of violent death and damnation lurking around every corner. Then, without warning, one of the troopers snaps, socking Casmirre right in the jaw. Within seconds, both men are tussling on the ground, yelling and cursing. Bolognese tries to break it up, but there’s only so much the poor amputee can do. He manages to talk some sense into them, eventually, but any dignity they may have had is lost. For the remainder of the excruciating journey, silence holds court.

    When our heroes return, they find the camp decimated - the bodies of Guardsmen, cultists and mutants lay everywhere, nearly all the Chimeras have been irreparably damaged, fires burn throughout the battlefield, cries of the wounded going unanswered. A twisted mass of limbs and tentacles lies near the centre of the camp, scored by hundreds of las blasts, the few survivors giving it a wide breadth. Bolognese is first out of the Chimera, rushing to the wounded with medikit in hand. Fred is second, anxious to check on the old workhorse, Squad Car 420 - it’s no worse than when he left, though the same cannot be said for it’s defenders. The Sister, totally unfazed, strides wordlessly up to Captain Haddon. They converse, and five minutes later Haddon gives the order to move out. As the sun begins to rise, 40 battered troopers of the NYPDF roll out of camp in trucks and Chimeras, following the Sister’s directions to a nearby safehouse.


    Spoiler: The Last Leg
    Show
    The vehicles rumble through the city, putting on a brave display despite the dirt, blood and battle-damage. Disparate groups of mutants and heretics crouch behind rubble or lean out of windows, occasionally taking a potshot. Any foolish enough to reveal themselves soon become the target for a salvo of bolts. For severals hours, our heroes travel without serious interference. The shock of the Chaos assault begins to fade, a few soldiers strike up tentative conversation. Then the lead vehicle explodes.

    The captain’s voice blares through the vox-unit, frantically ordering an immediate halt. A moment later, the command comes through to disembark and screen the path ahead for landmines. Joy.

    Not liking the idea of stumbling around a minefield, Bolognese asks to borrow the squad’s standard-issue pipes, then screws them together to create a stick some three metres long. This in hand, he steps cautiously out of the Chimera and begins poking the ground. Fred follows at a safe distance while the others hang back. Farther down the road, the other troopers employ a similar strategy, with mixed success. It’s not long before another explosion rocks the narrow street. Then, Bolognese’s pipe hits something metallic. There is a click, but no explosion. After a tense moment, the two brothers exchange a look and Fred hurries forward to defuse the mine. He soon deactivates the crude landmine, pocketing the krak grenade that was used in it’s construction. They move on, repeating the same procedure. Once, Bolognese flubs and gets his poking-stick blown up, but is able to replace it with more of the squad’s weapons. They draw closer to the captain’s Chimera, where the two other surviving operators are trying to clear a safe path.

    Just as Fred crouches down to disarm the last mine between them, an avian screech splits the air. One of the green, bird-like xenos leaps from the empty window of a second-floor building and charges Bolognese, waving a poleaxe above it’s head. The trooper draws his laspistol and cracks off a couple of wild shots, but in moments the savage alien is upon him. Bolognese ducks the first swing, the second is deflected by his helmet and the third grazes his calf. He tries to beat back the xeno with his pipe-staff, but the creature deftly maneuvers around his clumsy blows, almost tripping him up. Fred, caught halfway through disabling the mine, cannot spare a glance for his embattled brother. A few Guardsmen from across the minefield open fire at the xeno, but the shots go wide. Bolognese decides to take matters into his own hands. Narrowly dodging another strike from the thing’s polearm, he yanks a krak grenade from his belt, pulls the pin, and throws it at the xenos’ feet. The blast is enough to send it back to whatever Emperor-forsaken planet it came from in a matchbox. Just as the first alien falls, another leaps from the same perch. This time Bolognese is prepared; he meets it with another grenade. With a snap, the landmine pulls apart in Fred’s hands and the brothers continue on.

    The two other sappers welcome Fred’s expertise and, for a time, they make good progress. Bolognese minesweeping technique is rapidly improving, and a clear path across the minefield has nearly been completed. Another explosion sends pieces of pavement flying. Bolognese drops his pipe and rushes over, but there’s not really much he can do. The first sapper has his chest caved in and the other has completely lost his head. Literally. As Fred disables the last mine, grumbling about incompetence all the while, the poor soldier henceforth known as “chest cavity man” is gently led to a Chimera and given a place to lie down. A few minutes later, the convoy resumes its journey, leaving the corpses and ruined truck behind.


    Spoiler: Into the Jaws of Hell
    Show
    A little under an hour passes before the convoy leaves the thicket of buildings and come out onto a bridge, bringing the safehouse, our heroes’ destination, into view. Towering high above, dwarfing the city with its splendour, is a vast temple to Him, safeguarded by the Adeptus Sororitas of the Order of Our Martyred Lady. It is truly enormous - easily the largest structure the Linguine brothers have ever laid eyes on, and all of it decorated with stained glass, gilt and statues of heroes from a long past aeon. Encircling it is a vile host numbering in the tens of thousands. Cultists - both off worlders and locals - mutants, traitorous Guardsmen, ramshackle warmachines, reality-bending daemons. A constant flow of bullets, lasers and bolts are exchanged between the Chaos army and the temple’s defenders, at this distance only little black dots peering out from behind crenellations and murder-holes. Occasionally a psychic bolt of green lightning or a blast of fire will illuminate the sky and distort the air around it, beckoning in the screaming denizens of the Warp. The besiegers hurl themselves futilely against the temple walls, determined to defile it by whatever means necessary. The noise, even at great distance, is indescribable; a constant roar of battle cries, clashing weapons, explosions, and gunshots.

    Captain Haddon calls another halt. Those troopers still riding in trucks are chivied out, carrying only their wargear, and loaded into the Chimeras. If they are to get past the Enemy battle lines, they will need speed and resilience - the civilian trucks have neither. Everything nonessential must be abandoned. The Chimeras, now so crowded only a Krieger could find them comfortable, begin the descent. They wind down switchbacks, each corner bringing the Chaos host into view, and strain the brakes on precipitous slopes. Fred, in his element, sits comfortably at the wheel. The ground begins to flatten out. Haddon’s voice crackles through the vox unit. Orders are to hit the heretics from behind, break through their lines, and make a run for the temple. Our heroes will be the vanguard, responsible for entering the temple through a side door and convincing someone to open the gates. The captain’s transmission cuts off. There is do time to waste. Everyone does a last check on their gear and Fred hits the gas.

    Moments later, our heroes are engulfed by the Chaos of war. The bolter roars, cutting down rows of cultists, but another always stands to replace the fallen. Countless more are smashed on the Chimera’s hull as they hurl themselves in it’s way. The treads soon become clogged with gore. Lasers, slugs, and primitive projectiles deflects off the Chimera’s armour. The two other Chimeras maintain a fair distance behind, enjoying the gap made by our heroes’ rampage. The heretics surge forward to overwhelm the NYPDF forces, but they lack the coordination to get the job done. Seeing the utter failure of a couple hundred of their comrades, the cultists begin to lose morale and scatter. Then, when our heroes are only a stone’s throw from the temple, a shadow falls over Squad Car 420. Standing in their path is a being of amaranthine horror, a gigantic mass of molten flesh dripping blood and ooze from pulsing pustules and open wounds. As it crawls across the cracked pavement on a multitude of half-formed limbs, crushing tardy cultists beneath it’s bulk, it opens ten thousand mouths and unleashes a scream that assaults every sense. It is beyond loud or quiet, light or dark, even the sensation of touch; it is a screech of agony, the colour of dried blood, the stench of rot, the itch of crawling insects, the final despairing thought of every soul who has been slain by the Chaos purge of Space New York. It is the essence of mankind’s weakness, his corruption.

    But it is not infallible. Bolts streak from the turret, the hull cannon, tearing the monstrosity’s flesh to rags. But it does not die. The thing lumbers forward, scream persisting, tentacles flailing hungrily toward the Chimera. Inside, Bolognese falls to his knees, blood streaming from his nose, and starts discharging his laspistol at random. Jet takes a grazing shot to the arm before Casmirre is able to wrestle the gun from Bolognese’s hand. Several of the other troopers begin retching violently. Ignoring the commotion, Fred and the soldier in the turret pour round after round of bolts into the monstrosity, hardly slowing it. Then, finally, something strikes home - the creature quivers, contracts, then explodes outwards in a spray of gore and puss. Fred drives nonchalantly past it’s already decomposing remains and pulls up to the temple’s gates. The massive door of gold and ceramite is firmly closed, but a side door hangs off it’s hinges. According to the sister’s instructions, that should lead to the gatehouse. Our heroes wait for the other two Chimeras to arrive, laying down suppressive fire on the heretics, then disembark with the rest of their squad. The Sister of Battle joins them and they enter the temple, ready to cleanse it’s hallways of intruders. Outside, the heretics begin to regain confidence. They realize the NYPDF is trapped.

    At first, there are few signs of conflict within the temple. Our heroes are able to traverse the halls unmolested, searching for the defenders. Then they catch sight of the yellow glow spilling from a brightly-lit room and the green burst of lasfire within. No cue is required - Sister at the front, they lower their weapons and charge. Our heroes fly into the room with the fury of a tempest, spitting gunfire and grenades. Within, two disparate forces are exchanging fire. Some thirty cultists against ten loyalists, a smattering of NYPDF, civilians, and the soldiers from an unknown regiment of the Imperial Guard. The heretics are taken completely unawares. A third of their number lie dead before they can react. A slender man with a staff turns, cackles, and launches an orb of swirling silver toward Bolognese - he dodges, and a moment later the rogue psyker is reduced to a pile of cinders by Casmirre’s lascannon. The orb hits a wall, melting a hole the size of a child. The custodians capitalize on the attack, meeting the cultists in a pincer attack. Seconds later, the battle is over. The Sister’s presence and their timely arrival is more than enough to convince the guards of their trustworthiness, and they promise to open to the gates.

    Our heroes hurry back to the gates just in time to see it swing open. The heretics are swarming the two Chimeras, one of which has been punctured by some manner of explosive. It’s brave crew lie dead. From atop the walls comes relief. Our heroes open fire, giving the captain and his Chimera enough time to disengage. In a rare moment of generosity, his Chimera reaches the gateway, turns, and does the same as our heroes scramble into their Chimera. Leaving a mound of dead heretics behind, the last scraps of the 69th NYPDF drive into the temple, the gates swinging shut behind them.

  24. - Top - End - #24
    Pixie in the Playground
     
    Imp

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Your description of events is a lot better than what I gave you guys at the table. I'm really looking forward to these updates, even though I already know what's going to happen. You should write up the Dennys incident too if you can remember enough of it.

  25. - Top - End - #25
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    It's me. I'm back. I haven't died.

    Yeah, so, it's been ages since the last update. I'm so sorry. My shame is beyond words. I hope to get the next two sessions (the final ones! Maybe.) up fairly quickly, I'll aim for one a week.
    Spoiler: Recuperation
    Show
    The Temple’s gate slams shut beyond Squad Car 420, sealing the heretic forces out. Our heroes breathe a sigh of relief, safe for the first time in months. Their celebration is soon cut short as the Sister of Battle stands up and, without a word, strides out of the Chimera. A few confused looks are exchanged, before the last remaining dregs of the 69th NYPDF gather their equipment and follow her into the light of Emperor. A vast chamber stretches around them, bigger than an entire hab block, the frescos on its ceiling barely visible. Warm, gentle light, it’s source unclear, streams in through stained glass windows. Every inch of granite and marble is bedecked with statues, aquilas, and skulls. The booming of artillery can only be heard faintly over the drone of chatter, the buzz of hovering servo skulls, and the groans of the wounded. Thousands of people from every walk of the Imperium fill the grand hall - wretched underhivers and pompous nobles, pontifical priests and nervous acolytes, wide-eyed recruits and bitter veterans. The stalwart agents of the Adepta Sororitas are omnipresent, projecting a spark of hope onto those they pass.

    While most of the platoon stumble off in search of food and bedding, Fred attends to his precious Chimera, making what minor repairs are possible. Bolognese offers his medical skills to a harried-looking Hospitaller and is quickly put to work in the bloody charnel house of the operating room. After hours of exposure to the worst kinds of injuries imaginable, he is rotated to assisting those no longer in critical condition. While spoon-feeding a Guardsman missing most of his left arm, Bolognese’s eyes drift to the man’s unusual uniform: a striped red and white jacket, a wide-brimmed hat, pantaloons and high-heeled boots. Noticing several others in similar attire, he inquires about the regiment’s homeworld and receives only a cryptic response. The maimed Guardsman opens one eye and, in a hoarse voice, mutters “Yar, matey, we do come from the Big Blue.”

    Our heroes’ stay in the Temple is cut short. Next morning the battered NYPDF, now numbering only twenty Guardsmen and two Chimeras, are loaded onto an enormous lift, beginning the long ascent to the upper hives. They will remain there two weeks while the tech-priests repair their damaged transports, before plunging into battle once more. When they arrive, the Adeptus Mechanicus sanctum is far from welcoming - the tech-priests treat the flesh bags with disdain at best and outright disgust at worst, the quarters are cramped and uncomfortable, and the food barely edible. But it is safe, and while the repairs are made our heroes have the chance to upgrade and resupply: Malachi and Bolognese pick up an augmetic leg and arm, respectively, while the medic has been reassigned as one of the NYPDF’s anti-armour troopers. One of the Guardsmen privileged to carry a meltagun into battle was slain during the last engagement, but his weapon was recovered; it would be a shame to let such a mighty weapon go unused. Bolognese spends the duration of his stay with the tech-priests acclimating to his new limb and combat role. Fred takes the opportunity to tinker with some of his equipment, fortifying his flak armour with added layers of ‘borrowed’ carbon-fibre, confident, for once, that the Chimera is in capable hands. Malachi would rather live life to the fullest and spends every spare moment guzzling cheap amasec. Strangely, his voice seems to have completely changed from shrill and slimy, to deep, self-assured, and full of bravado.

    All too soon, their relaxation comes to an end. The mood in the barracks is grim when Captain Haddon sends out the call to arms. An hour later, our heroes and their comrades assemble in one of the loading bays, where the two Chimeras, almost good as new, sit ready for deployment. Haddon explains the situation in simple terms: the battle for the upper hives of Space Brooklyn, while less intense, are vital if the planet is to be reclaimed. Those who control it, control the starports, astropathic relays, and vox-towers. To this end, what’s left of the 69th NYPDF will be executing a number of strikes on key locations, hoping to capture and hold them until reinforcements can arrive. His status as a psyker granting Malachi the position of second-in-command, he will be leading one these missions - after a brief consultation with the captain, he decides on a mission to capture the region’s communication tower, which is suspected to be the source of the lingering vox interference. Malachi quickly selects a team which includes the Linguini brothers, their comrades Yekaterina and Jet, Casmirre, chest cavity man - who has made a full recovery - the regiment’s other melta-trooper, and two more Guardsmen. They do a final equipment check before piling into the Chimera once more.


    Spoiler: The Upper Hives
    Show
    Fred at the wheel once more, the sanctum’s metal gates slide open, bathing our heroes in the first sunlight of their lives. As the Chimera rolls out onto the streets of the upper hive, the troopers take turns hanging out of the hatch, caution thrown to the wind, basking in the glorious warmth. The bridges and avenues, snaking between the gothic spires, are like nothing our heroes have seen - even the lamp posts are worth more money than they’ve had in their entire, miserable lives. Casmirre and Yekaterina, both noble born, regard their fellow’s wonder with derision.

    The novelty soon fades, the gravity of the situation returning. Heretic snipers could be lurking behind any corner. Anxiety is replaced by boredom as the hours stretch by, the sun sinking behind the buildings. Then, Fred slams on the brakes, just as Malachi falls to the floor clutching his head. The narrow bridge ahead seems to radiate discomfort, though that could just be the carpet of butchered human corpses. As the squad arm themselves, Fred inches the Chimera forward, Bolognese manning the turret. The entire vehicle shakes as something tears along its side, rending the outer armour, as Malachi, screaming and sobbing, crawls into the corner. Hefting his meltagun, Bolognese bursts out of the hatch, ready to confront whatever threat assails them. He emerges face to hideous face with a creature only the Warp’s devious imagination could spawn. Seven feet tall, with cloven hooves, a triangular head, and scarlet skin. A fiery greatsword is clutched in the daemon’s claws. A battlecry on his lips, Bolognese lowers the meltagun and lets loose. There is a hiss, a roar, a flash of light, and the creature staggers back, smouldering but alive and very angry. It raises its sword, ready to smite the pathetic Guardsman, when there is a crash and shout from the Chimera’s rear. Casmirre, clutching his lascannon, leaps from the transport, rolls, and lands upright. His finger compresses on the trigger. There is a blinding flash of green light, when our heroes’ vision returns all that remains of the daemon is a pool of smoking ectoplasm.

    Our heroes compose themselves, and resume the journey, Fred following a map on his dataslate. Hours pass, afternoon fading to evening, to dusk. Nighttime presents just as much mystery for our heroes as the day did. Not wanting to waste time, driving overnight is done in shifts. Dawn finds Fred at the wheel again, the rising sun’s glowing beams penetrating the thick smog. The vox-unit crackles, it’s message distorted beyond comprehension. Fred adjusts the dials, just in time to catch the end of what he realizes is a distress call.

    “-repeat, we are requesting assistance in the Aphex Building. They’ve got us holed up in the armoury. We won’t last much longer, please send help.”

    Fred starts to respond, but the channel goes dead. Five minutes later, a meeting is held in the Chimera’s hold. Malachi, Bolognese, and the others are in favour helping, while Fred and Casmirre are opposed. They don’t have time to go saving everyone who gets themselves into trouble. The psyker overrules their objections, though it occurs to him that the distress signal hadn’t been identified as loyalist. Grumbling, Fred returns to his rightful place at the driver’s seat and corrects their course towards a towering monolith of glass, gilt, and marble. When they arrive, the main gate has been blasted completely open, belching smoke from its fried circuits. Fred activates the headlights and cruises into the darkness. The Aphex Building, which they guess to be a sort of resort for Space Brooklyn’s upper crust, is truly enormous, perhaps even bigger than the complex which delivered them from the underhive - it is nearly half an hour before they are able to the parking lot’s exit. Leaving Fred and Yekaterina behind to watch the Chimera, Malachi gathers the others and leads an expedition into the building’s core, hoping to find the source of the message. Or just a map.

    For what seems like hours, our heroes creep through the semi darkness, trying their best to ignore the flickering lights and occasional corpse. They pass elegant statues, paintings, lounges and at least one bar, befouling the fine carpets with their boots. Thus, when the corridor comes to an end with a heavy metal door, the change of pace comes as a relief. Our heroes take up position around the door, ready for whatever lurks beyond. Bolognese leads the charge, bashes it open with his shiny metal shoulder, and almost goes flying over the railing of a narrow balcony. They seem to have arrived in some sort of transport hub - the large, rectangular room is ringed by a balcony, with a dozen elevators located on each level, each ranging in structural integrity from “exploded, collapsed, then burnt,” to “mostly fine.” The opposite side of the room is taken up completely by a gigantic gate, one side of which is slightly ajar. A knee-deep layer of corpses covers the main floor. Our heroes are hit with the smell of rot, combined with something fouler. Wrinkling their noses, they fan out, searching the room for anything useful - only Bolognese has the fortitude to search the sea of bodies. His efforts are rewarded with a single anti-plant grenade.

    Meanwhile, Malachi investigates the elevators. Though many are superficially intact, it seems that only one remains operable. He presses the button and waits. Several minutes pass with no apparent change. The psyker turns to leave, when he hears something. He presses his remaining ear against the elevator door, straining to pick up the sound - a metallic rattling - again. It is growing louder, closer. Soon, the others can hear it to, and they gather curiously around the door. Interest shifts to alarm as the noise grows louder and louder, a furious clanking and banging, the rush of wind. Our heroes retreat, sheltering behind the meagre cover that is available, and ready their weapons, ready to pulverize whatever horror emerges from the shaft. The minutes tick by, the noise now a crescendo that echoes around every corner of the room, the floor itself beginning to shake. Just as they are sure the sound can get no louder, there is a screech of ripping metal, a bang, and the sound begins to fade. It occurs to our heroes that there was probably just a broken lift.

    With no other way forward, they put it behind them and turn to the gate. No one can quite place it, but they all get the distinct impression that hard times are in the near future. A gentle breeze blows forth from the gate, bringing the fetid odours of decay and mold.

  26. - Top - End - #26
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Well, I did better than last time. It hasn't even been two months!

    Spoiler: Pushing
    Show
    When our heroes creep cautiously through the gate, they are met with a scene of great splendour, and decay. A vast hall* stretches around them, lined with tables, booths, stages, and dry fountains. From the balcony they stand on, our heroes can see dozens of snaking platforms, skywalks, and bridges, each one more bedecked than the last. Chandeliers larger than the Chimera hang from the ceiling, illuminating the great hall with dim electric light. Blasphemous graffiti covers the walls and furniture, with decomposing corpses hung proudly from railings and banisters. But all that is nothing to the sinister ritual unfolding across the balcony.

    Around 15 metres away, past several rows of tables, is a crude altar made of bones, garbage, and rotting meat. Chained to a rod protruding from its peak is a putrid effigy, a barely-humanoid amalgamation of flesh, bone, and metal, with a large brass bell where its head should be. Seven prostrate cultists surround the altar, their boils, cursed tattoos, and stolen weapons leaving no doubt as to their identity. Standing before them, surveying his followers, is a human who stretches the definition of that word to its limits. Seven feet tall, grotesquely fat, with skin turned green and black by rot and disease. Worms and insects slither between gaps in the man’s skin, and from under the visor of his primitive helmet. An autocannon is clutched in his sausage-like fingers, and a large warhammer hangs from his belt. As the stench wafts towards them, our heroes sincerely wish they’d been issued respirators. For a moment the two forces take each other in, surprised, before battle is joined. While the cultists and their master advance, unleashing an erratic spray of bullets, our heroes take cover behind the door and return fire.

    One cultist goes down to concentrated lasfire, but the others are quickly closing the gap. Then the monstrous man lowers his autocannon, a deep, rumbling chuckle emanating from within his helm. A storm of bullets pelts our heroes’ position like hail, inflicting minor wounds as they scramble behind the door. For a handful of tense moments, the guardsmen crouch in the door’s shelter, listening to the pounding footfalls of the charging heretics, powerless to halt them. What seem like distant memories of the melee outside the generator room drift back to Malachi, and he shudders. Darkness, blood, explosions, death and dying. The NYPDF will not be broken so easily. His lasgun slipping from his fingers, Malachi extends his mind outwards, sensing the lurking madness of the Warp, feeling the oceans of fire wash over his mind, knowing that even a slight lapse in concentration will drag him screaming into a daemon’s grasp. And as the howls of a thousand tortured souls echo in his ears, Malachi opens himself to that Chaotic hellscape, drawing in its power, letting it overwhelm his frail body. Power, more power than he had ever dared to command, and as he stands, arms outstretched, eyes flashing with unnatural light, Malachi knows that he will not leave this encounter unchanged. Red and blue lightning bursts from his hands, and as it arcs through the air, time seems to slow to a crawl. The bolt strikes the leading cultist, lifting him into the air as a continuous stream of energy incinerates his flesh layer by layer, until only a scorched skeleton remains. Before the bones can hit the ground, Malachi has shifted his attention.

    The next cultist is line falls to his knees, screaming, as his arteries bulge and pop, the blood within literally boiling. The lights seems to dim, an arctic wind blowing from every direction at once. Bullets fly toward Malachi, deflecting off his flak armour or scratching him, but he does not notice. For the psyker, there is nothing save the throbbing power that seeks to flay his soul. Then, as the unfortunate cultist coughs up a lung and goes still, there is a tearing sound unlike anything they have heard before, as the very air above their heads is ripped open. Our heroes are given only a brief glimpse of the realm that lies beyond the rift, but it is enough. Bolognese and Casmirre can only cower on the floor, soaking themselves in their own vomit, while two other guardsmen flee blindly back the way they came. Malachi does not take notice, directing his focus onto the next foe, turning the charging heretic into a human torch as his blood ignites. Stained red by the rift’s glow, his comrades hurl themselves forward, minds full of unholy promises. Then, with an inhuman shriek that fades to nothing, the portal snaps shut. A tight smile spreading across his scarred face, Malachi puts the flaming cultist out of his misery, squashing his head like a ration bar. Wind buffeting his robes, the psyker prepares to unleash another wave of destruction, drawing yet more power. As he raises his hand, sparks darting along his fingers, he feels something - a presence in the Warp, approaching fast. Then, before his eyes, something finally earns his attention: a blood-red claw poking out of a tiny rift in space. Another claw follows, and as Malachi opens his mouth to shout a warning, they seize the portal’s edges and rip it wide open.

    A terrible creature steps forth, the twin of that they fought back on the bridge: over two metres tall, cloven hooves, horns, and a horribly elongated head. It’s fiery eyes meet Malachi’s, and in that moment he knows that it will not stop until it has claimed his skull. Casmirre starts to vomit again. With movements like a sped-up recording, the daemon leaps at Malachi, blazing sword raised above its head. Feeling his first twinge of fear, Malachi gathers his power to counterattack, but fumbles, releasing an uncontrolled blast of energy - blood oozes from the walls, lights flicker, a thin sheet of frost covers the floor - and Malachi? As the bubble of Chaotic essence engulfs him, the psyker feels the ground slip away from him, as the colours are reversed. Gaining speed at an alarming rate, he sails upwards, carried by some invisible force. He can feel the daemon’s claw gripping his ankle, its cries mocking him, as the ceiling grows closer. Below, his friends that are still in control of their faculties watch in horror as their leader hurtles towards his doom. Then, mere moments from being turned to paste - he and the daemon vanish into thin air. There is little time to ponder whether, perhaps, they will be better off without him, before the cultists come crashing into their lines.

    *Our GM informs us that the hall is even bigger than Hogwarts. Who would have thought?


    Spoiler: Warp Time
    Show
    Bolognese scrambles around on all four, searching for his meltagun - just as the first heretic comes through the door, he spins around, clutching the weapon. A second later, there is a flash of light, and the cultist has been erased from existence. Driven onwards by the roars of their diseased overlord, the others throw themselves at the NYPDF, drawing dagger and howling sacrilegious oaths. Before Bolognese can hope to prepare another shot, a cultist has him pinned to the ground and is stabbing a knife in the general direction of his throat. Swiping the blow aside with his bionic arm, he draws his own combat knife and retaliates. For several heart-pounding seconds, the two men duel in a primal struggle for survival, the shouts of the other combatants falling on defeat ears. Then, just as Bolognese raises his weapon for the killing blow, a shadow looms over him, and an overpowering stench of decay assaults his nostrils. Whirling around, he comes face to neck with the towering mutant, just as he swings his warhammer - it strikes Bolognese in the shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards. He draws his laspistol and fires it into the bulk of rotting meat before him, with no result. In a second the monstrous man has closed the gap between them. Taking a hit to the knee drops the medic like a bag of bricks, and through the cloud of pain, he sees the hammer raised for the killing blow. He tries to squirm out of the way, but there is no time, his sluggish body will not move quickly enough. The man laughs, and starts to swing his hammer, then stops, the weapon caught on the door frame. He roars in fury as Bolognese slithers away across the floor and starts to give chase. A flash of light in the corner of his eyes stops him.

    Malachi stands in the doorway, slightly singed, his eyes burning with grim resolve. He slowly raises a hand, and as he does so, reality decides to take an unannounced leave of absence. The chilling wind intensifies, bringing with it whispering voices, begging, threatening, promising. The walls and floor seem to shift and swirl, and thin streamers of colour dance through the air. Starting with the flies buzzing around the mutant’s head and moving to the maggots infesting his body, the insects begun to explode, one after another. Malachi grimaces as he draws more power from the warp, and the man’s fetid blood begins to boil. The warhammer slipping from his fingers, he begins to scream.

    Then Malachi bursts into flame.

    Screaming as loud as his victim, Malachi sinks to the ground as the conflagration turns his clothes to ash and sears his skin. The psychic phenomenon winks out of existence, leaving no trace. Forcing himself up, Bolognese grabs his meltagun and blasts the mutant’s head off, then rushes to the dying psyker’s side. He pulls off the burning robes, but his work is not done - somehow, the fire seems to have caught on Malachi’s skin. Just as he sets about patting the flames out, a stray bullet hits the side of his helmet. He falls to the ground yet again, watching helplessly as his fellow Guardsmen retreat, suppressing the cultists with lasfire. The last thing he feels before the darkness takes him, is a pair hands firmly gripping his ankles.


    Next time on "Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos," the thrilling climax!

  27. - Top - End - #27
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

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    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    This is it, the thrilling climax. Will our heroes triumph, or will they fail in their duty to the Emperor? Read to find out.

    Spoiler: Besieging
    Show
    When Malachi and Bolognese drift back to consciousness, they find themselves lying in some sort of restaurant, surrounded by their squadmates. As they come to their senses, Casmirre fills them in - after they were both knocked out, more cultists arrived, forcing a retreat. Leaving behind some of Bolognese’s explosives to cover them, the troopers dragged our heroes to an abandoned bar they had passed earlier, and patched them up as best they could. Neither of them sustained any debilitating injuries, though what little of Malachi’s skin wasn’t covered in horrible burn scars now is. Miraculously, no one from the NYPDF was killed.

    After ransacking the bar - Bolognese finds an antique bottle of M41.932 “Guilliman’s Own” - our heroes begin the trek back to the Chimera. Whoever sent out the call for help is likely long dead, and the NYPDF have a more important task: reclaiming the vox-tower in the Emperor’s name. The journey back is uneventful, and they soon meetup with Fred and Yekaterina. Glad for some company, the former leaps into the driver’s seat and they roll out. Soon, the towering Aphex building is behind them, replaced by the winding bridges and avenues of the Upper Hive. For nearly two days, the Chimera speeds along uninterrupted. With the only signs of the Chaos invasion being damaged buildings and the occasional corpse, our heroes catch themselves starting to relax. Bolognese tends to the wounded, helping himself and the others towards a speedy recovery, Fred lounges at the wheel, content to do what he does best, and Malachi sits muttering to myself - no one can quite make out his words, but earlobes seem to be a recurring theme. The peace does not last for long. Near the end of the second day, the vox-tower soon comes into view. From a distance, it resembles a needle reaching toward the stars. As the Chimera draws closer, its details are illuminated by the light of the setting sun: its surface is covered with cables, cogitators, and antennae. Curiously, a smoking hole has been punched in the tower’s side four or five levels up, out of which protrudes some sort of green, pear-shaped aircraft. Evidently our heroes are not the first ones here. Dozens of bridges connect it to the surrounding buildings and streets. Fred picks one at random, and before long our heroes are nearing a gate in the tower’s side.

    All they need is to park the Chimera, find a lift to the top level, and deactivate whatever is jamming communications. Of course, it won’t be that easy. A barricade taller than a human, made of broken cars, garbage, and pieces of scrap, blocks the road. Perhaps a dozen heretics in makeshift armour crouch behind it, backed by a, shall we say, “modified,” Scout Sentinel. In addition to the standard-issue multi-laser, a heavy bolter and an enormous chainsaw have been strapped to its side, both seemingly constructed from spare parts. A crude throne has been constructed on top of the cockpit to seat a hunched figure in black robes. As the heavy bolter roars to life at Bolognese’s behest, Fred hits the gas and aims right for the barricade’s centre.

    As the Chimera’s bolter rips a cultist to pieces, they rush to return fire, their lasguns pinging uselessly off the armour plating. The sentinel is far more potent. The combined bolts and lasfire wrack the Chimera, each missile leaving a fresh dent. Fred is undaunted. The transport slams into the barricade, sending rubble and bits of a cultist flying in every direction. Bolognese blasts away with everything he has, barely scratching the Sentinel’s paint. Stewing in the hold, Malachi feels a disturbance in the Warp - the presence of another psyker. He scrambles for the hatch and pushes it open, just in time to see the robed figure raised one, pallid hand. Before Malachi can hope to prepare a counter, lightning arcs from each finger, burning a line of black marks on the Chimera’s roof, but not slowing its advance. It is about this time that the pilot realizes Fred has no intention of braking. Or turning. Only a last minute reaction allows the Sentinel to stay on its feet, and leaves our heroes nowhere to go but directly into the tower wall. There is a crunch that throws passengers from their seats, before Fred shifts into reverse. The Chimera scoots back the way it came, heavy bolter still blasting ineffectually, squishes another cultist, and rolls over the hole it made in the barricade. Still hanging out of the pivoting turret, Malachi summons all his strength - within reason, for once - and shoots a bolt of concentrated electricity straight at the Sentinel, only to have it deftly sidestep once more.

    With gunfire from the Sentinel still pounding its hull, the Chimera comes to a halt on the bridge’s slope, just within sight of the barricade and its defenders. For once, a frontal assault may be suboptimal approach. Malachi thinks hard for a moment, then ushers everyone out of the Chimera and explains his plan.

    With all the zest of Brave Imperial Guardsmen, our heroes and their squadmates march forward in a neat line, present lasguns, and let loose a wild spray of lasfire. Though they do not lose more than a few eyebrows, the cultists duck behind cover, quite happy to let the Sentinel polish off the Loyalists for them. It strides forward, guns blaring, the psyker gyrating in his chair. Whatever compelled our heroes to disembark from the transport, it will surely be their doom. But the heretics have missed something: Casmirre’s bespectacled head pokes out of the Chimera’s hatch, followed by his lascannon. He braces his weapon against the rim, takes aim, and launches a bolt of searing energy in the Sentinel’s direction. But the pilot is too quick, dodging to the side, while continuing to fire. The laser detonates against the tower, sending chunks of rockrete to the platform below. Cursing the pilot’s skill, Casmirre takes aim again. A burst from the walker’s multi-laser misses Fred’s head by millimetres, but he does not flinch. With a crack like lightning, a bolt shoots from the lascannon and hits the corrupted Sentinel straight in the side, annihilating engine, throne, psyker and most of the leg’s in an instant. As the rest goes down in an inferno, our heroes get a glimpse of the pilot leaping gracefully from the wreckage. Whooping in victory, they remount the Chimera and charge the barricade but, upon arrival, find him and his heretics-in-arms gone, doubtless fled to one of the countless tunnels and sewers that honeycomb Space Brooklyn. They will be back.


    Spoiler: Ascent
    Show
    But, for now, our heroes have more pressing concerns. After Fred briefly tussles with the control panel, the gate slowly rises to admit them into a small cargo bay, now filled with all manner of junk. They park the Chimera, gather their gear, and enter the nearest staircase. Bolognese, melta at the ready, takes point, closely followed by Jet - the others are far more cautious, perfectly happy to lurk in the rear.

    For almost an hour, our heroes creep through the tower’s snaking tunnels in silence, slowly ascending upwards. No one staircase goes further than a few levels - out of the tower’s almost nine-hundred - and the few lifts are irrevocably damaged. The place was designed to slow and obfusticate invaders, and it is clear the defenders went down fighting. The floor is covered in a knee-high carpet of corpses, perhaps a week old by the smell. NYPDF troopers lie along civilians, tattooed cultists alongside Navy officials. They even spot a few of the green, bird-like xenos. Trying not to slip on the blood and bodies, our heroes press onwards, until finally they come to some sort of elevator hub. The only obstacle of entry being a malfunctioning gate, rapidly opening and closing, showering the vicinity with sparks. A man in ripped clothing lies nearby, missing a leg and most of his skin. It isn’t until Bolognese has dragged him to safety that he sees the Chaos Star branded on the dying man’s forearm. Backing away in disgust, the medic draws his laspistol and presses it to the man’s head, offering the Emperor’s Peace for information.

    Unfortunately, that never works as well as it does in the holovids. After a brief but heated exchange, the heretic expires without giving a scrap of intelligence. Meanwhile, Fred has pried a panel off the wall and manually deactivated the door. Our heroes march onwards, into the dilapidated hub. Rubble and corpses litter the floor, the lights flicker, and part of the wall seems to be on fire, but several of the lifts still function. Everyone and their wargear is just able to squeeze into a single cab and Yekaterina, the only one fluent in High Gothic, keys in their destination: the top floor. For nearly an hour, they stand in the semi-darkness, listening to the rattling lift and wondering what awaits them above. On a handful of heart-stopping occasions, the cab is plunged into total darkness as it grinds to a halt, before power returns. Eventually, though, the lift doors open, bathing them in bright light. Weapons raised, they fan out, searching the room, which appears to be some sort of central processing chamber. The iconic Cog Mechanicum is proudly displayed, and cogitators, vox-units and other, more esoteric machines, line the walls. But our heroes’ eyes are immediately drawn to one thing alone.

    Right at the room’s centre is a monolith of cogitators, whirling machines, and buzzing wires, its purpose indecipherable to all but a tech-priest. Near the top, tangled in cables and bent metal, are two figures, locked in a grapple. The first stands over two metres in height, clad in gleaming, green power armour, broader than two regular humans. The head of some primeval reptile is painted on his left shoulder. A Space Marine, one of the Emperor’s Finest, his body ravaged by brutal claw wounds. The second is a hideous brass beast, a hybrid of hound and warmachine. Both are still, in death. For a moment, our heroes are frozen, overwhelmed by a mixture of sadness and horror. If what lies ahead can fell a mighty Space Marine, their chances seem virtually nill. But they cannot back down, not now, not with if their actions can help liberate Space New York. They press on, Bolognese stopping to briefly murmur a prayer for the fallen demigod. Up a flight of wide stairs, into the orange glow of dusk.


    Spoiler: For the Emperor!
    Show
    They emerge onto the roof, surrounded by rockrete pillars reaching even further into the sky, supporting a communications array the size of a hab block. Right at the tower’s centre, in front of a control panel large enough to dwarf the Chimera, kneels a Space Marine with the same heraldry. A bolter lies discarded on the ground, along with his severed right arm. Another Astartes looms over him, clad in armour the deep crimson of blood, and defiled with Chaotic runes. A Chaos Marine, greatest of the Ruinous Power’s mortal servants, and the most despised of traitors. A swift chop from his enormous chainsword and the wounded Marine’s head rolls to the floor. Then, casually, the Chaos Space Marine turns to face the Guardsmen, a low, rumbling laugh, grating through his helmet’s respirator. Then, without a word, he raises the chainsword above his head and charges.

    Not stopping to think, our heroes scatter, taking cover in two shallow crevices in the roof, Fred, Malachi, Bolognese, Casmirre and their comrades together. The Chaos Marine keeps coming, booted feet thundering across the floor, his laugh a slow, growl of condescension. A bolt from Casmirre’s lascannon flies over his head, lasfire bounces uselessly off his defiled power armour, and then he is upon the first group of Guardsmen. The melta-trooper is cleaved in half, the others flee screaming. Ignoring them, the Traitor Astartes turns his gaze to our heroes, taking in the psyker’s robes, bionic limbs, special weapons, and defiant looks. He laughs and charges again, kicking aside the trooper’s corpse like a piece of trash. Malachi draws upon the Warp, and unleashes a stream of crackling lightning in the Marine’s direction - it hits his armour and fizzles out of existence. Another lascannon shot goes wide, crumbling a distant pillar. Muttering a prayer to the Emperor, Bolognese checks his meltagun. One cannister left, enough for six blasts. The Marine is getting closer, the clank of his armour, the sputtering chainsword. Taking his weapon in both hands, Bolognese Linguine stands to face certain doom. His latch onto the red ball of death hurtling towards him, and something deep down snaps. Despite his training, despite his faith, despite the horrors he has survived, Bolognese knows that he will die this day. His vision goes dark.

    The next thing our heroes see is Bolognese turning to his friends, face twisted into an inhuman rictus, half illuminated by the lightning’s glow, and raise his meltagun in Casmirre’s direction. He notices just as a blast of superheated steam explodes from the meltagun, and in that last second, his unswervingly cool demeanour is shattered. The second turns to hours, turns to days, as the lascannon drops to the floor, his hands covering his face in a futile, yet instinctual gesture, fear plain even behind the sunglasses. A scream starts to escape his lips. And then he is gone, leaving behind only a puff of smoke, his signature weapon and a pair of dark glasses, missing a lense. Bolognese’s eyes snap open, a gasp of horror escaping his lips as he realizes what he has done. And then the Chaos Space Marine is upon them, removing chest cavity man’s head with an offhand swing.

    Malachi grabs the lascannon and scrambles out of the trench, while Bolognese turns to meet the giant. Fred and the others pour lasfire into the Marine, not even managing to distract him. But Bolognese ducks the first blow, then the second. The Marine laughs, “at last, a worthy opponent,” then rams his blade into Bolognese’s side, cutting through the flak armour like paper. The Guardsman squirms away, leaking gore, and fires his meltagun directly into the Marine’s breastplate. For the briefest second, the heretic recoils, his armour warped but melted, our heroes’ hopes soar - then immediately dashed by another contemptuous chuckle. The Marine charges forward, effortlessly dodges a clumsy lascannon blast from Malachi, shrugs off another shot from the meltagun, and opens Bolognese’s leg down the middle with a single swing of his chainsword. Another melta blast turns his pauldron to goo, but he kicks the wielder to the ground and knocks the weapon from his hand. The lascannon jams in Malachi’s untrained hands, its power pack malfunctioning. Wracked by pain, disarmed and at the Chaos Marine’s mercy, Bolognese’s eyes meet with the emotionless lenses of his murderer’s helmet. One hand slips down to his belt, seizing his last krak grenade with a cry of "For the Emperor!" It soars through the air as the Space Marine’s chainsword is raised for the killing blow, and lands within the traitor’s gorget. The heretic Astartes looks down at the deadly explosive, back up, before the grenade engulfs him with fiery death.

    When the spots fade from our heroes’ eyes, they creep tentatively forward. Fred pokes the twisted hunk of ceramite with his foot and shrugs, then starts towards the control panel. Whatever virus is interfering with vox-communications must be stopped - or the sacrifice of their comrades will be for naught. Spirit heavy, Bolognese peers into what remains of the Chaos Marine’s armour, then hurls himself away as the traitor’s own krak grenades overheat and explode. When he crawls tentatively back to the trench, he sits for a moment contemplating his actions. Eventually, he sees his brother returning and stands, clutching two mementos: Casmirre’s sunglasses, the largest part remaining of the Chaos Marine’s armour - a little finger. A reminder of the price of failure, and a token of his triumphs.

    Fred meets his brother’s eye and nods. Their mission is complete. Space New York will stand. The Linguine siblings awkwardly shake hands in the golden light, as dozens of green drop pods break through the clouds.


    To everyone who stuck around this long, I can only thank you for your patience. There have been too many delays, but I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. Will we ever return to Space Brooklyn, and the steadfast NYPDF? Perhaps, but no promises.

  28. - Top - End - #28
    Orc in the Playground
     
    DwarfFighterGuy

    Join Date
    Dec 2014

    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Don't thank us for our patience, thank you for completing this journal! It was a blast to read and wonderful time. Thank you for taking the time to write this saga up and sharing it with the rest of us.

    Farewell NYPDF- Fidelis ad mortem

  29. - Top - End - #29
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    YossarianLives's Avatar

    Join Date
    Jan 2014
    Location
    Vancouver, Canada

    Default Re: Space Brooklyn vs. The Forces of Chaos - 40K Campaign Journal + Intense Royal Rum

    Quote Originally Posted by NRSASD View Post
    Don't thank us for our patience, thank you for completing this journal! It was a blast to read and wonderful time. Thank you for taking the time to write this saga up and sharing it with the rest of us.

    Farewell NYPDF- Fidelis ad mortem
    Thank you for the kind words, I'm just glad someone enjoyed it! It's been a long journey.

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