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The Farm Malbrathia-3 In a Cage Yurik continued his violent thrashing and swearing as he yanked and the bars of the cage with all his average scrunty strength to no avail, pale skin turning an unhealthy red with exertion. Then he noticed one of the scrunts that had come to investigate the shed pulling out a wicked looking contraption that might, if you squinted, have qualified as a knife of some sort. The knife-like object began vibrating menacingly, as did the scrunt. Yurik's eyes widened and he recoiled from the bars, attempting to stand only to bang his head on the side of the toppled cage. "You stay away!," he shouted, scrabbling back as far as he could like a cornered rat, hissing like an asthmatic vent pipe. "I din't not get my jeeblets stole by a jeebstealer just so I could get'em scooped out by some buzzin', barfin' barnstormer like you! Git! GIT!" The scrunt lunged towards the cage and Yurik let out a horrible, cracking scream...and then the cage door swung open as the knife(?) did something horrible and irreparable to the lock's innards. For a long, wordless moment no one moved. Yurik glanced between the still-vibrating scrunt and the open door, then launched himself outward with a strangled cry, bowling the other scrunt over and making a beeline for the horrible, hosed up stick that was leaning against the wall of the shed. Thinkin' stick once again in hand, Yurik felt much more like his old self in that he now had something to savagely beat anyone with who looked at him funny. Also he was no longer locked up in a cage which helped matters tremendously. Harrumphing, he straightened his robes out and drew himself up to his full height (unimpressive, even for a scrunt), then turned both burning red eyes towards the milling scrunts staring back at him with incomprehension. "Right then. Now that that's all settled, who the fack are you lot then?" Finally out of that goddamn cage.
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Jan 27, 2015 22:30
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Scurrilous Scruntson Finally. For the first time in his life Scurrilous' dream has come true. He finally has his own workshop, his own acolytes, his own opportunity to mold his fevered prayers to the Omniscrunt into reality through steel and oil and blood. Preferably not his blood, he'd bled enough in the but someone was bound to have an accident. But that didn't matter. The little technoscrunt had a domain all his own, and a tiny amount of authority that was just begging to be abused. "Roight! Listen up ya feck-heads! Yer all part of me own flock now, ken, an' we's a family united under tha Omniscrunt! Our work shall transformerate these machines into rolling, smoking, roaring temples to his greatness! Aye! They shall be symbols of tha' Omniscrunts promised land! Machines worthy of rolling in tha' Slam Sector!! An' we're gonna do this roight, we are![/b]" He preaches to the few scrunts who had willingly followed him into the workshop and the few others who had either wandered in or been shanghaid. "An doin' it roight means ya' little scab-spooners got's ta be in the roight frame o' mind, ya ken? So I's wills teach ya's how ta achieve tha..." He trails off for a second, rolling his wrist in the air as he searches for the words, "oneness! Ya, that sounds good enough. Tha' oneness wit' the Omniscrunt 'imself! SCR! With a chirp the robot rolls out from under a pile of scrap that had been hastily piled over top of him. Scurr begins to drop mysterious things like nondescript bags and oily rags into his creation's gigantic exhaust pipe. "SCR, make yer' holy huffin' fumes." He demands as he drops in one last item. With an electronic wail the robot kicks it's engine into triple-overdrive, producing a great gushing gout of flame to spurt out of it's exhaust pipe followed by a roiling plume of tar-like smoke. With a smile splitting his pock-marked face he plunges his head into the smoke and takes several deep breathes before falling backwards, coughing and retching his lungs out. "Aye, tha's tha stuff. Good poo poo. Now all ye take hits too." He manages to choke out without vomitting as one pupil contracts while the other dilates. It really doesn't matter If anyone else willingly takes a hit or not, though, because the poor ventilation doesn't give the smoke much place to go other than into scrunty lungs. Several hours later, after the spacemens leave, SCR-417 opens one of the large bay doors to let in some fresh air and let out a billowing cloud of death out into the starry night. As the haze clears other scrunts can see a group of passed out tiny hosed up mutants, machines that may or may not have once been an APC and some limos, and Scurrilous hastily scrawling out diagrams, schematics, and profanity on any surface he can reach with any material he can find. Soon enough he'll pass out, and later in the morning there will be much work to do. But for now there is only feverish writing. _________ I'll decide on a confirmed work plan in my next post. In the meantime if any needs to speak to Scurr in character just grab him. Who What Now fucked around with this message at 20:47 on Feb 1, 2015 |
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Jan 27, 2015 23:32
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Murdelia Skurvy Cold and wet Murdelia opens her eyes and sees nothing. This is not because it is night time, or because she is blind, or having a traumatic dream-within-a-dream-where-nothing-makes-sense-but-is-extremely-frightening, but because she is lurking underground in a large drain. A cunning hiding spot, even though it was unclear what exactly they were all hiding from. Murdelia is, like most scrunts, highly suggestible at times. Actually, sitting waist-deep in cold stormwater isn't all that bad. The matted refuse helps soften the rough rockcrete sides, and the stench is nice as well. With all the exciting events today, Murdelia is almost all scrunted out. And it's not even dark yet! Probably? Running and shooting and prepping for surgery does that. A forlorn scrunt[1] slips past her lips as she recalls the big, juicy, unseen brain lurking in that big, juicy unautopsied thing. It had looked so cool, but the loot was better, right? The loot? The loot! Erupting from the storm water drain like the pile of rotting leaves and agricultural runoff she resembled, Murdelia and Arnika 'run' to where the scrunts are picking over the rapidly diminishing pile of bits and gubbins. Some drinking liquids, some eating solids, others licking or making horrible, horrible love to their new acquisitions. Murdelia barrels through them, slapping them out of the way with the flat of her bonesaw, catching a few with the sharp edge. The newest bit of loot, according to the voice, is a webber and a homer! She has a very vague understanding of what that is, but it is sure to be valuable and complicated and worth a passed-up autopsy. And it was her autopsy that was passed up so obviously it belongs to her! She leaps for the gleaming crate and nests atop it, hissing at nearby scrunts. Another unmolested crate catches her eye next, and from atop her command tower she barks an order to her henchscrunt, who scurries over and drags it back. It's full of skin! Somebody had sucked the innards out of four humans and tanned the skin to resemble tough combat weave! Disturbing, but potentially useful. A bit big for a scrunt, though... she tries to envision the important bits and the flexy-bits and non-flexy bits on a scrunt. Cutting and sewing synskin is the same as cutting and sewing skinskin, right? The still-twitching bundle of brains in her reverse-fanny-pack catches her eye, that fucker Urok had given them to her. What was his angle? Trying to bribe her? Seduction? Reparations? A threat? Nobody threatens Murdelia Skurvy like that! she thinks angrily, unconsciously punching the bag with a wet thump, "Oi'll rip out yer gibbons and use 'em fer garders!" she snarls suddenly, causing a nearby looter to back away. "ARNIKA!" she bellows, "We's work t'do!" before flipping off the weapon crate, flipping that over her head, and carrying it off to her Operationin' Room. For safekeeping. Back in the pleasingly bloody workspace, she sets about repurposing the skin suits to scrunty dimensions. This is much easier than most projects, it doesn't bleed out or fight back. Leaving Arnika to close up the stitches, she moves on to the real surgery: the brains. More an expert on scrunt biology rather than human, the doughty mediscrunt still suspects something is different about these brains. They are probably supposed to stop moving after body death, and shouldn't have tentacles. Probably? She needs a control subject to be sure. Murdelia frowns and heads off for the prisoners, noticing that Arnika is triumphantly brandishing a sack of rhinestones for the synskin suits. Where did those come from? Urok is guarding the prisoners. That fucker. Getting one out will take all her wits and diplomatic ability. "You err, guard! Oi need a 'uman for things!" she yells as soon as one of his eyes swivels to focus on her, "Med'cal things you canna compr'hend! Stop starin' at me you fucker!" [1] an abrupt, high-pitched sound. ____________________ Murdelia wishes to claim the web gun, homing device and synskin suits. Beginning autopsy on the hybrid brains, but will also need a regular human brain to compare it with. 18 on autopsy roll, no idea what modifiers apply to picking apart tyranid organs. Oh, that intact hybrid corpse is probably good to poke at too. Scrunts can still come and get healed.
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Jan 28, 2015 11:11
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Urok The Farm After the hummies leave Urok exits the chapel, gripping his new Axe and hosed up chainsword tightly. He works his way through the scrunt crowd, passing dank drafts of smoke and noxious chemicals as he makes his way toward the workshop. He finds Scurrilous bent over diagrams and schematics, hard at work. With great respect, Urok waits as Scurrilous performs his complicated labors, only occasionally muttering under his breath. Finally, Scurrilous turns toward him "Brother, Please, help" Urok says as bumps the broken chainblade and his shock gloves together, like a child trying to fit together play pieces Urok looks sad for a moment, as if wondering why the chainblade and gloves wont mesh together and than reverently lays them at Scurrilous's feet. He crawls under the table to sleep,one eye on his weapons, leaving them in Scurrilous's care and pokes his head out before passing out from that dank smoke "Please"
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Jan 28, 2015 22:20
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Grumb Slanger, the barn Grumb balks at the audacity of this newfound prisoner, demanding introductions as it is from a group of mighty jeebstealer killers such as ourselves. Granted, he's never heard of a jeebstealer before, but there was no question what the wizened old shrimp was referring to. That 'orrendous beast. Deep down he can still feel its piercing gaze, hungrily eying his... jeebs. Grumb shudders at the thought of his jeebs being taken by that hideous smooth-talking four armed whipfucker. No, Grumb had no intention of taking one of those things alive. It was a monster, and it deserved what it got. Grumb may not be the most savory character in the galaxy - he's been known to steal and to curse, and even on occasion to fabricate primitive lies. He's a stone-cold killer with a rude, lewd attitude and a police record that bordered on the incomprehensible. But he ain't never hosed a machine without its consent. A scrunt's gotta have standards. "We're the SLAM SECTOR!" Grumb bellows at Yurik. After a pregnant pause, a scabby confused little scruntling taps Grumb on the elbow. He leans up on his tiptoes, and whispers into Grumb's ear. "RIGHT! We're a Bunch of Scrunts! An we're LOOKING FOR THE SLAM SECTOR!" Grumb proudly decrees, puffing up his chest. "Right? Yeah. No, that soun'right. WE CAN'T FIND IT! THERE'S, uh... "There's done been a little ...un..clarity." For a moment, embarrassment flashes over Grumb's face as he realizes that he really doesn't have the best idea of who they were or what they were doing right now. "See, we were gonna do, like, a convoy? And we all was gon' drive there. I think the... sarge knows where it is? Right? No." He looks around at his fellow scrunts, and an air of confused shame passes over the group. No one speaks up. Grumb grows antsy, and decides to change the subject. "Well, who're YOU then? Huh!? Yer a Scrunt, th'sno hiding that! But I don' remember seeing you 'ntha Dropbox!" Grumb looks Yurik up and down suspiciously. "Nawmsayin' 'nuffa bout us, dangol... what're you doin' ere?"
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Jan 28, 2015 23:18
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Yurik Scragagger The Farm Malbrathia-3 No Longer In a Cage "The Slam Sector?," Yurik said, his red, beady eyes widening. "The Slam Sector? You're lookin' for the Slam Sector!?" Then he burst into laughter, loud phlegmy cackles that doubled him over and left his disturbingly pale face blotchy with exertion. "Did ya' hear that!?," he hooted, slapping a random scrunt on the back with his thinkin' stick, laying them out and leaving them mildly concussed. "They're lookin' for the Slam Sector! Hah! Oh aye, o' course you're lookin' for the facken' Slam Sector. An' you must be the brains of the operation, am I right?" he said to Grumb amidst wheezy chuckles. Once the fit of mirth had subsided Yurik hocked and spat (onto the scrunt he'd previously knocked over), then drew himself back upright once more. "Heh, Slam Sector...right, right, well as for who I am sonny-Jimbo, m'name's Yurik, Yurik Scraglagger. An' you are fortunate enough to be feastin' your eyeballs upon a jan-u-wine, bone-a-feyed, no-facken'-about loremaster." Yurik raised his thinkin' stick in what might, if one were exceedingly generous and also incredibly drunk, constitute an impressive and awe inspiring pose. An awkward silence fell over the barn for several moments before he lowered his stick again, grumbling. "Yeah yeah, don't nobody trip over'emselves rushin' to be all impressed-like, no one ever bloody is. Anyways, how I got down to this piss-poor excuse for a planet is probably similar to how you lot got down I'd reckon...a bunch of facken' humies," he said, spitting upon the unfortunate scrunt once more, "packed us all up into a box an' shot us out into the cold, dark, uncarin' void of space like so much canned shite. Then WHAMMO!," he shouted, slamming the head of his thinkin' stick down onto the prone scrunt's midsection and adding another layer of horrible retching sounds to the general scrunty ambiance, "'ere we be." Reaching up and adjusting his ungainly "thinkin' cap," Yurik glanced around the barn where various other scrunts were milling around gormlessly or being herded back into the barn by other scrunts who seemed to be excited about something. "An' so you boys are startin' up a convoy, hmm?," he asked, stroking his scraggly beard thoughtfully, cracked and jagged gears turning inside his head. "Well it sounds like you lot have had a more productive go of things than bein' shoved in a shack, waitin' to be a jeebstealer's bit o' rumpy-pumpy. Sounds like I should go an' have meself a little chat with this 'Sarge' of yours. And find out what thievin' bastard nicked all my stuff while I'm there," he harrumphed, slamming the butt of his thinkin' stick onto the writhing, retching, much maligned scrunt's throat for emphasis.
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Jan 29, 2015 07:11
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Grumb Slanger, the barn Grumb squints at Yurik, gears visibly grinding as he slowly comes to the realization that he's been maligned. His swarthy-yet-jaundiced complexion begins to grow rosy as he clenches his teeth and fumes through the rest of Yurik's introduction. This one's a talker, Grumb could already tell. He had said something about being a lord master, but none of the other scrunts seem to be paying him any special deference. And what kind of lord would be found locked up in a barn? A cruddy one, no doubt. "I know wht'chou are," Grumb thought. "Yer a feckin' dweeb. One-a them poindocster types." Grumb had been a bully all his life, and he was pretty sure by now that he knew a dweeb when he saw one. All the signs were there: the weedy shoulders, the ten dollar words, and - was that a harrumph? This guy's a real piece of work. Grumb lays his autocannon down on the ground slowly, and takes a step toward Yurik. He leans forward, smoldering, and wordlessly grabs the colander from atop Yurik's head. "Grumb" He hocks a long, slow loogie up his throat, and expectorates it into the newcomer's hat. "Slanger." Grumb plops the thinking cap back on Yurik's dweeby head, and turns to the door. "I shoot th' big guns." He grabs the autocannon and drags it behind him as pushes his way back through the crowd of scrunts. "Barry! Barry! Le's go fine tha Sarge. Then maybe we c'n try out our new toy." Barry grabs Barrius by the neckline and yanks him away, gleefully envisioning the carnage a gun that size could wreak. Barrius pales considerably. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 09:02 on Jan 31, 2015 |
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Jan 31, 2015 08:59
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Downtime The Farm Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-s9LdQPXF4 Removed from immediate danger now that the humans have vanished and the previous occupying force has been annihilated, most of the newly discovered scrunts disperse. They mill around aimlessly, squabbling amongst themselves, fighting, peering at things, spreading feculence around what was once a perfectly pleasant farm, and eventually passing out, huddled in groups under the stars or draped over the shattered remains of beds in the dormitory. More enterprising scrunts head upstairs to the first floor of the farm-chapel, claiming the beds and personal possessions of the executed farmhand day shift. As is traditional, not a single scrunty gently caress is given regarding plans for the future, for sustenance, for long-term plans, or for doing anything but reacting to current events and gawking at things. The new scrunts happily commingle with the existing group; absolutely no curiosity is shown as to where all these new faces came from, or why silent aliens were killing or converting all the previous occupants of the farm, or if anything else with massive powerful tank-busting digging claws is going to come slithering up the tunnel that undermined the southern walls of the farm complex, and the groups seem to merge quite happily. Humans would doubtless burn the farm to the ground before spending the night in such a cursed, xenos-tainted place; scrunts have no such qualms. An uneventful, restful couple of days pass for the majority of the scrunts. New diseases are swapped, crude moonshine is brewed, and that's about as much excitement as most of them manage. There are exceptions, of course. Scurrilous works like a creature possessed, and his impromptu work-gang of technicians work with him. Sawing and hammering and welding and screaming can be heard from the hotboxed workshop on casual inspection, and the screeching of metal harmonises nicely with the screeching of scrunts. It is as yet unknown what exactly Scurrilous is working on; if it's large-scale metalworking then presumably some sort of mobile forge like the one languishing untended at the original dropsite would help him work faster, but maybe he's just tinkering. Once the scrunt-off between Yurik and Grumb is resolved, the gunner claims the empty execution barn, once all the corpses have been transferred to the kitchen by gaggles of scrunts. The captive farmers pale in horror as they see their day-shift colleagues, but that's nothing to how they react once the noises of food preparation begin. They are strangely unwilling to accept the subsequent proffered stew. Grumb sets up a couple of targets - ruined PDF helmets on scarecrows, heaps of compost, that sort of thing - and passes his spare time merrily blazing away in this makeshift gun range. He is joined by a good number of the more adventurous scrunts, who claim discarded autoguns and wrecked lasguns and try their luck. Some of them even get the gun the right way round. The scrunts with most promise are those who have been hanging around with the main gang, and consequently have some degree of combat experience - at the end of the two days of very, very basic training, Barry, Plek, Pilk, Arnika and all the little scrunty comrades might now actually be of some use in combat. Murdelia prepares to spend a busy few hours rummaging around brains. As a warm-up, she practices her stitching on the weird tanned human skin suits that came down with the supply drop. It's long, thirsty work, but the fact that she doesn't have to break off to subdue her subjects every few minutes means it's also some of her best work. It takes her an entire morning, but by the end of it she has four high-quality, rhinestone-encrusted skintight combat suits, sized for scrunts, that protect all the vulnerable bits and look pretty snazzy while doing so.  Firstly, she has a look at a normal human brain. The bodies in the barn aren't using theirs, so she rescues one from the cookpot and drags it through to her ward - halfway through, she realises she just needs the head, so she ditches the excess. The captive farmers react as expected. She pokes around. This regular humie brain's still in quite good nick, even though it's been sitting out at room temperature for a few hours - there's really nothing special that she can determine about it. It's got all the grey wrinkly bits and white gooey bits she's come to expect; it's considerably bigger than a scrunt brain, of course, but she scornfully dismisses that as inefficiency. Double-checking against an even fresher one, much to the captive farmer's dismay, she establishes a baseline to compare to the infected farmhands, and the hybrid. It's lucky she did - an infected brain is practically unrecognisable. It's got an inverted structure, its cortex is where the frontal lobes should be, and it's got the spinal connection on the top- oh, right, it's upside down. Maybe Urok should have left it in the head. Once it squelches back up the right way around, it's a bit easier to handle. Murdelia can see strands of strange, fibrous yellow material infiltrating throughout the entire cranium of her infected farmhand subject, which trace back to a horrible looking snake-like growth wrapped around the upper cortex and spine. Tipping back the head to look down the throat, she realises what the alien had been doing - the entry vector for these snake-things is brutally simple. It gnaws through the back of a victim's throat and infiltrates the spine that way. It looks like once it's in place it starts flooding the host with endorphins, but until it lodges, they feel everything. There's a big yellowed nodule near what would be the snake-growth's head, but it's entirely out of her experience. Perhaps an expert in xenology could take a look. The hybrid brain really is unrecognisable. She checks and re-checks, but it's definitely the right way up. The sensory cortices are enormous, and although there's no snakey growth in there, there is a corresponding yellowed nodule right in the centre. It looks like the hypothalamus has been kicked into overdrive, too - this hybrid probably has a surprising amount of control over its metabolism. Unsurprisingly, Murdelia also finds poison-secreting glands in the throat and armpits; she finds this out the hard way as an orderly scrunt keels over, but at least this gives her a scrunt brain to compare. Regardless, these poison glands seem underdeveloped - it's not unreasonable to think a more advanced hybrid might be able to spit or hurl venom, instead of simply injecting it. --------------------------- In the middle of the second night there is a crash and a lot of shouting. This is not particularly unusual in a building full of scrunts, but this shouting is different! More coherent! Dazed civilian scrunts lie around in front of the chapel altar next to a conspicuously empty, broken bench. The captives have escaped! They can't have gotten far! --------------------------- brains Right, there's been some very good roleplaying and posting that I'm very happy with, but apart from that you've mostly all done gently caress all so far. So I have had civilian scrunts act accordingly. Shout if you want to do other stuff because otherwise the next update is going to be quite short. "The scrunts continued to do gently caress all, then drove off". Mind you, no-one has actually said "hey let's go for the fuel" so, y'know, after the two-day deadline you could just be hanging around this farm until you all starve to death or get wiped out by a passing plane squadron. If you have poo poo you would like to do, e.g. fortification, fiddling around on the radio, poring over the maps, now is the time to say something. Be adventurous. Scurrilous is yet to produce a statement of works; that's fine, we've really got until the next combat for that as it can be bunged in retroactively. Murdelia has dissected, and learned some horrible truths that would result in insanity were she not Jaded. She is out of her comfort zone though and needs specialist advice on what the nodules and poo poo are; this isn't the biology she's used to. Shout if you want me to translate medical findings into actual mechanical rule stuff, by the way, but that will come after someone else has had a look. Skinsuits have been adapted; they're all Good quality now, Murdelia got a 2 on her armouring. Normally this is a specialist skill but there's wiggle room because medic, stitching, and all that. Any scrunts wishing to dress in synskin will need an hour spent being measured and generally molested. Optionally, your suit can let you take +10 to Charm rolls when dealing with easily-impressed-by-shiny-things people, rather than +10 to Stealth rolls when avoiding detection by scanners. Crash-site scrunts need collecting; if you get the forge it will speed up large metalworking projects a little. Captive farmers have reached their limit and have escaped. You going to do anything about that? It's the middle of the second night, you can be literally anywhere in the camp if you want. This isn't combat. Regarding the new scrunts in the barn, I don't have some magic combination of keywords you need to hit for me to tell you why they're there. It's up to Kai Tave if anyone asks; I have no idea why they're in there. They just are. Inexplicable Humblebrag fucked around with this message at 16:33 on Jan 31, 2015 |
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Jan 31, 2015 16:30
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Grimply, the farm The first part of my post is back in time, but nothing should influence what already happened. Grimply sinks back down below the window, after the space humies disapeared again. They must have some mighty magic, when they can just come and go as they please. Well, maybe it's for the best that they took the demon, because they looked like they could handle it. Come to think of it, those humies looked a lot more dangerous then other humies Grimply knows. He ponders this for a moment, but then gets disrupted by another humie matter that's actually very close to him. "Are they gone? We are safe now right? Please let us go!" one of the humies pleads. Grimply slowly turns around on the spot and gives the humie a silent stare before answering. "Well, yer lads did roight, tha's for sure." he falls silent again, and makes some absent minded stabbing motions with his knife. It seems like he doesn't even realize this, while he thinks about what to do with the humies. The scruntfather would probably like to see them dead, but currently Grimply does not hear anything from him. He's probably busy in the Slam Sector. "Roight! Lemme...uhh...Lemme go an' talk to me sarge, 'e'll sort this out don't yer worry. FLET!" "Yes mastah!" the excited scrunt answers and pops out of a cardboard box in the corner of the room. "drat it, lad! Stop crawling inta things all tha time. Wait..wa's that in yer hand?" "Some shiny 'umie thing! I found it. It's mine. It was in tha box. Tha's where I found it. It's mine. I found a shiny 'umie thing. In tha box." "Right, lad. Tha's nice for yer but now I need yer to focus on what I'm saying! I'll need ta go and talk to tha sarge, so yer gonna keep yer eye on tha 'umies till I'm back, right?" "Keep me eye on them! Right!" Flet replies. He turns to the captives, puts the shiny humie thing(which actually turns out to be an old monocular) to his face and yells "I got me eye on yer, 'umie!" Grimply sighs, and then waddles off towards the barn where the sarge went to. On his way, he passes by some aimless scrunts, and gives out a few blessings and encouraging words about the Slam Sector. Two of the smaller scruntlings seem to quarrel over a small case, and Grimply decides to check what's up with that. "Oi, lads! Wha's going on 'ere then?" "That facker wans ta steal me case!" "No! Yer tha facker and tha's me case!" The two scruntlings get into a scuffle, and the case falls to the ground and pops open. Grimply immediately spots the scope and rifle parts and grabs the case himself. "Stop yer fackin'! This be much ta dangerous for little scruntlings like yer. I...uhm...I just will 'old on ta this fer now." The two scruntlings look very disapointed, but Grimply speaks to the scruntfather so they respect him and obey. Though, a keen ear can pick up a quiet "Yer facker" on the wind while Grimply walks away. Eventually he reaches the barn, and opens the door. "Oi lads, what we're gonna...." What he sees makes him stop mid-sentence and can only be described as odd, even by scrunt standards. Gumbo and Grumb stand around, while a horde of scrunts peer at Grimply from inside the barn. Kreb is also there, with a knife drawn, standing in front of a puddle of sizzling puke on the ground and a fruity looking scrunt in a cage. Grimply takes exactly ten seconds to evaluate the scene, and then slowly walks backwards out of the barn. "I don't even wanna know what tha fack that was." Well, the humie problem still stands, but then again it's getting late and Grimply kinda has seen enough poo poo for one day. The humie problem can be dealt with tomorrow he figures. All he really wants now, is to get some grub and then take a nap. So he waddles off to make that happen. ----------------------------- Aight, and now we join our current time line again ---------------------------- Grimply opens his eyes and finds that the sky above him seems to have changed. It's not blue like before, but colored in a pretty yellow and dotted with black smoke clouds. The ground below him also isn't gross and green anymore, but muddy and covered in trash, scrap and slimey mushrooms. Why, there even is a plump rat skittering around. Grimply wonders what happened, and rubs his head in confusion. Then a booming voice calls out to him. "GRIMPLY. LOOK UPON ME AND LISTAN ME FAITHFULL SERVANT."  Grimply is overwhelmed when he sees the scruntfather appear in the sky. Tears of joy run from his beady eyes. Finally, his time to ascend has come! "NO ME SON, YER TIME HAS NOT COME YET. I COME TA WARN YER ABOUT GREAT DANGER. YER SERVANT NEEDS YER 'ELP. YER NEED TA WAKE UP NOW." "But me father...I...I don't understand...I.." "YER WILL ME SON. AND NOW YER NEED TA GO." "No! Please! I want ta.." but before Grimply can finish his sentence the world around him turns dark and he falls through a black void. With a loud scream he wakes up and finds himself in the cozy pile of rags he picked as his bed. It's still dark, and Grimply battles the confusion about what just happened to him. The father, yes. He wanted to warn him about something. Grimply doesn't need to ponder this for long, because there are yelling scrunts and general commotion around him. He gets up, straightens himself and grabs one of the yelling scrunts by the collar. "What's all tha ruckus about then!?" "Tha 'umies took off! They knocked out some of us and fleed!" "What?! Those damned fackers I knew they can't be trusted! Where is Flet?" "Err, who's that?" "Tha scrunt I left with tha 'umies. Small lad. Always 'appy and very stupid. 'as a shiny 'umie trinket." "Oh yer mean tha scrunt that they took with em?" "THA WHAT!?" -------------------------------------------------- 31 vs 53 perception to track the humies and go on a short side adventure to save Flet and kill them all
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Jan 31, 2015 21:35
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Pernicious Kreb, Up to No Good Kreb is feeling strange, which is worrying. Kreb's normal is so far from normal that his strange is well... really very strange. Usually his little scrunty mind works on a fairly simple basis, as shown in this helpful flowchart:  However, for the past few hours he has been beset by strange new urges. The angels and demons of his nature have been shouted down by a new, spookier voice. CONSUME BIOMASS AND REPRODUCE Consuming biomass is, admittedly, one of Kreb's specialities, but he's not even sure how to reproduce. He doesn't even know that he was reproduced. Most of the other scrunts he knew growing up tended to think he came into being fully formed, congealed from the filth of the underhive. Kreb felt this a likely option, given that his first memory was indeed being fully formed and waking up in a pile of trash. But then again he has had a lot of head injuries over the years, being mostly made of head. So he decides to work on what he knows: consuming biomass. Murdelia had a nice set of brains that she was poking at. Surely brains constitute biomass? But perhaps she will be guarding them? Perhaps she intends to consume them? Kreb will need to be prepared for that, and this time just murdering someone isn't an option. Fortunately, among the pile of recently licked loot, is a strange needle pistol, that Kreb gathers is perhaps for not killing people. There are also some strange leg-robot-things. They could help with speed, right? Kreb wiggles into them, and sends Pelt off to be a distraction. Some time later, as Pelt is repeatedly asking Murdelia "Ey, ey, got any drigs?", a tactic often used to irritate and confuse, Kreb comes charging out of the shadows, robotic legs completely out of control, brandishing a pistol and screaming. He crashes into just about everything in the ward, upending tables, knocking over those weird kidney-shaped special surgical dishes, sending instruments flying everywhere. When he finally falls over, he rolls about on the floor, trying desperately to cram the assorted brains into his mouth as his leg-calipers continue to attempt to run. They carry him round in a circle on the floor, his arms flailing, trying to grasp the delicious, delicious brains. Kreb wants to eat some infected brains. The leg calipers have gone horribly wrong.
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Feb 1, 2015 04:18
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Yurik Scragagger The Farm Malbrathia-3 In a Shed Yurik's eyes widened slightly as Grumb approached him, the other scrunt being half a head taller than him if you didn't count his hat. A lifetime of being put upon, pushed around, and generally maligned had given Yurik a keen set of fight or flight instincts (mostly flight, though cautionary tales about cornered sump-rats applied equally to scrunts), and he was about to put his favored "flight" response to good use (a swift knee between the legs followed by a hasty escape) when Grumb did the unconscionable and hocked a loogie into his hat before turning and walking away. Yurik's eyes narrowed dangerously, his whole body trembling with a seething rage that overruled any thoughts of flight. "Yyyyyyyyyyou facker." The temperature in the shed dropped ten degrees as red eyes shot ineffectual daggers into Grumb's back. "Mark my words, you're gonna rue the day you made an enemy out o' Yurik Scraglagger!," Yurik shouted behind him as slimy phlegm oozed down the side of his face, literally hopping mad as he shook his fist in the air. "I hope a jeebstealer makes the beast with five backs in your brainpan you canker-faced ratsucker! That's right, you better fackin' run!" Down on the ground the scrunt that Yurik had unknowingly assaulted and battered clutched at his ankle weakly, gazing upwards in a wordless plea for help. Yurik glanced down, then proceeded to take out his frustrations in the time-honored scrunt tradition of kicking the hell out of something weak and helpless. *** Sometime later, after his anger had abated and his thinkin' cap had been thoroughly cleaned, Yurik made his way out of the shed and, for the sake of narrative convenience, introduced himself offscreen to the other group of scrunts at large, whether they wanted to meet him or not. The matter of names and occupations taken care of, he then proceeded to relate to them the tale of how he and the other scrunts had wound up locked in a shed while jeebstealers cavorted about. According to Yurik it had been a thrilling journey of action, adventure, and thrilling heroism (mostly on his part). Like the newly arrived groups of scrunts, it began when they were all lured into a box by promises of the fabled Slam Sector, then launched planetside by a bunch of (in Yurik's words) devious and treacherous humies where they had landed somewhere to the north of the farm. However their landing hadn't been as soft as the other scrunts' had been and half the passengers inside Yurik's dropbox had been reduced to a foul-smelling slurry on impact. Fortunately that slurry happened to be an excellent shock absorber which is how the other half managed to survive, crawling out of the crumpled container none the worse for wear if you ignored the fact that they were all coated in a fragrant layer of liquified scrunt. Yurik wasted no time taking charge of the situation, using his prodigious knowledge to blaze a trail through the hostile and alien world they had been callously deposited on. Upon reaching the farm they were ambushed by something he called a "Jeebstealer Cult," the result of xenos monsters doing unspeakable and x-rated things to a bunch of humies' brains and turning them even more devious and treacherous than usual. Though they slew a score of the foul beasts (whose bodies, conveniently enough, were nowhere to be found) they were ultimately overwhelmed and forced to surrender. Rather than kill them all the jeebstealer ordered its minions to lock them in the shed, no doubt planning all sorts of unspeakable and deviant depredations for them once it was finished with the humies. It locked him in the cage, so he claimed, because even its foul, alien mind could tell that he was the most dangerous scrunt of the lot and took precautions accordingly. That was the story as Yurik told it. The truth of the matter was slightly different. Everything up to the landing happened more or less as he told it. Along with the liquidization of half the container's scrunts most of their equipment and supplies had been banged up or broken as well. After a brief period of aimless milling about and general scrunting, Yurik had taken charge (sort of), picked a direction at random, and set out looking for something more useful than a stinking, smoldering hole in the ground. Upon finding the farm, they hastily cobbled together a plan to rush the place, kill everyone there, and seize it for themselves. The plan failed miserably and instead they were captured by the farmers, who weren't quite sure what to make of a sudden infestation of foul-smelling, belligerent abhumans. One of the farmers suggested that they press them into slavery as a means to help make up the labor shortages that the war with the Imperium had brought on, and this suggestion was enthusiastically seconded. Yurik had been locked in a cage because of his distressing tendency to bite whenever any of the humies drew near. Then the jeebstealer came, and locked away in a shed ironically proved to be one of the safest places to be judging by all the screaming. Yurik cautioned the other scrunts (those who hadn't grown tired of listening to him by now) not to trust the remaining humies. He claimed they were in league with the jeebstealer and given the chance they'd all go running to get reinforcements, bringing a horde of alien horrors down upon them. Better to kill them all now, he said sagely. The humies protested this of course, those that weren't still gagged that is, but what else would you expect a bunch of duplicitous jeebstealer cultists like them to say? But nooooo. The other scunts, they wanted to talk to the humies. They wanted to ask them questions. They wanted to make friends. Fine then, let them find out for themselves what happened when you gave humies like that an inch. He'd be keeping a nice, big told-you-so warm for when they inevitably escaped and no doubt took some poor, hapless scrunt with them to be a sacrificial offering to their alien overlords. In the meantime, he had other matters to attend to. Important matters. Thinkin' matters. --- First off, everybody can consider Yurik to have been introduced to your scrunt offscreen if you don't feel like going through individual introductions one after the other. Feel free to come up with your own disparaging opinions of him! Anyone who actually wants to scrunt one on one with him are of course welcome to do so as Ignite Memories has helpfully demonstrated. Also now you know what another bunch of scrunts is doing here. With Schlong's approval, somewhere to the north of the farm is another dropsite maybe containing some wreckage, a bunch of dead scrunts, and maybe other stuff. Maybe more humans came to investigate, maybe a bunch of scrunts fell in the woods and nobody cared. And now for actual scrunting stuff. While everyone else is With Foresight for a +10 bonus I'm rolling at TN 53 and I get a 10 for 4 DoS I believe. Off to a good start. In addition to this I am calling dibs on the CONTENTS WILL SELF DESTRUCT box and Yurik will be spending some of his free time puzzling it over trying to figure out A). what it is and B). how to open in without destructing its contents. Schlong, please tell me what (if any) skills are relevant to this. If Security is needed then I'm going to hang onto the box until my next helping of XP.
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Feb 1, 2015 07:40
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Scurrilous Scruntson In between inhaling copious amounts of disgusting fumes, eating piles of unknown substances and pills squirreled away in his robes, and a few After another brief "Up an' attam ya anal fondlers! We got's work ta do today ta glorify tha Omniscrunt, ya ken?" He screams in between kicks. "We's got's work ta do, an here's what's gonna happen. Listen close, twat-dobblers;" He says before he explains everyone's jobs for the day. It was going to be a long, hard two days, but there was much to get done. ___________ Ok, here's what I personally want to get done. In order of most to least important. I'm going to take ten minutes to study every action before attemtpting so that'll be included in my check (including a possible -10 for failing my first test for working extra hours for the second day's work). But because of the many checks to be made I'll let you make them. For Scurrilous to do: 1) Repair the Chimera, 6 Hours (repair time halved due to SCR's new Servo-Arm); Tech-Use vs 80 2) Install Search Light, Instant; Tech-Use vs 90 3) Install Pintle Gun-Shield, 8 Hours; Tech-Use vs 70 4) Install Camo-Netting, 2 Hours; Tech-Us vs 70 END DAY ONE; Toughness vs 34 5) Attach chain-upgrade to Uroks gloves, 4 Hours; Trade: Armourer vs 70(60) 6)Create and Install Smoke Launches, 6 Hours; Tech-Use vs 60(50) 7) Create and Istall Frag Defenders, 6 Hours; Tech-Use vs 50(40) END DAY TWO; Toughness vs 34(24) END DAY TWO For my underlings I want them to perform as such: 1) Overhaul limos, distribute fuel around, scruntify limos, Instant; +20 Command 2) Sunroof-mounted pintle storm autoguns, 6 Hours; +0 Command Test 3) Enhanced Motive Systems, 10 Hours; -20 Command Test END DAY ONE 4) Finish Enhanced Motive Systems, 14 Hours; -20(-30?) Command Test Again, values in parenthesis are if I fail my Toughness test for the extra four hours work. And I'm willing to take the full two levels if I fail both days. I also realize this doesn't leave me any time to get healed by Murdelia. So unless that takes a narratively insignificant amount of time or she does it while I'm resting I'm ok with not getting healed (Murdelia pleased heal Scurrilous while he is passed out from exhaustion TIA). If I fail any check I want to retry it until each item is completed in order as time permits. I also realize that if I fail multiple times I wont get all/most of this done. That's ok. And if I understand I cannot both command scrunts and work, plus I don't have Command trained. So if anyone who *DOES* have that skill trained that wants to yell at my scrunts while I do my poo poo that'd be great. Otherwise... I don't think that stuff'll get done. Who What Now fucked around with this message at 22:00 on Feb 1, 2015 |
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Feb 1, 2015 21:57
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The Night Of The Scrunt Day 2 of 2 The Farm And Immediate Surroundings Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-IjaOryWaU im really sorry about the anime but the song is good Grimply might be a horrible insane little dwarf, but you don't live off the land of a hostile planet on your own without picking up a few things about fieldcraft and tracking. You also don't go hunting down eight hostile creatures twice your size without backup, so before chasing the abused, fleeing, possibly-completely-insane farmers, he casts around desperately for assistance. Unfortunately, all of the other passably competent scrunts are nowhere to be seen. Grimply turns, and- aaaagh!  At his shoulder, and now extremely close to Grimply's face, Urok appears ready to follow. The two scrunts disappear into the night, hot on the trail of the escapees... -------- Meanwhile, Murdelia dozes. She's been bashing the brains around all day, and dozens of other scrunts have wandered over to have a poke around, a rummage, a taste, or simply a gawk. She hasn't gotten rid of them yet though, and they're starting to pulse faintly when no-one's looking. Soon, once she is fully asleep, they will make their way towards her and co-opt her higher functions, dedicating her life to serving thoLY poo poo WHAT IS THA- Kreb bursts in. He feasts. -------- Yurik revels in his freedom by doing what scrunts do best; a detailed and comprehensive survey of all available cartographic information. Erm, hang on. Well, however the aberrant scrunt chooses to spend his time is entirely his choice, and you shouldn't judge him for it. He lays out all eighty square metres of map on the top floor of the chapel-complex, and cajoles a small group of scrunts, including his much-abused punching bag, into making sure no other scrunts get in his way while he's mapreading. Plenty of scrunts get in his way while he's mapreading. Still, it's actually a blessing in disguise - as he chases away a curious scruntlet from the corner of the map and approaches the rendezvous point from an unfamilar angle, several map features come to mind that the scrunts could use in their assault. These maps are very up to date... --------- Scurrilous works like a dog. And not just any dog - a highly motivated dog, with a worrying knack for bodge jobs. He pushes himself to the limit, inhaling more fumes and metal filings than even a scrunt should handle, unless it's a special occasion, like a Tuesday. His works lie before him... Who What Now posted:1) Repair the Chimera, 6 Hours (repair time halved due to SCR's new Servo-Arm); 83 vs 80 - MARGINAL FAILURE, job takes 1hr longer! Now, let's see how those scrunty underlings have performed... ------------------------ curses Grimply and Urok are stalking men through the woods, as is their way. Urok has his new gloves on. They're p snazzy. Murdelia and Kreb are having a Moment. Both scrunts are unaware that Murdelia has been saved from the predatory brains. Kreb is engaging the brains in hand-to-mouth combat, but there's been time for others to look at them if they want to point stuff out. Kreb continues to change into a scruntanid, although with no real effect as of yet. Yurik has, uh. Well, he's got Total Recall. He's pretty much memorised the map. He can't actually navigate, but he can give +30 to any Navigate: Surface checks that get made. He also got like an 8 on his Scholastic Lore: Tactics roll; consequently, when it comes to assaulting the fuel convoy, you guys get to pick three beneficial terrain features. It can be cover, it can be a fallen tree, it can be whatever you want within reason. The maps are really up to date - like, two days old now - so it can easily be something that's just happened. Scurrilous did distressingly well on his tech rolls, as per usual. Hssss. The only botch was the frag defenders. He gets another 4 hours, if the forge is forthcoming. The mechaniscrunts ain't done poo poo yet, as no-one's commanded them and no-one's supervising them.
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Feb 2, 2015 21:54
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Gumbo Bulge, very suspicious. Gumbo watches the newcomer with suspicion, his tiny eyes narrowed into tiny slits. He doesn't trust this strange scrunt with his obvious education and entirely plausible stories of Scrunty heroism. Then he notices what Yurik is doing, forgets what he was thinkg and waddles over excitedly. "Maps!" He exclaims "I luv maps". He stamps about on them for a few seconds, pretending to be a giant, then crouches down and traces the route the fuel convoy will be rolling along with a stubby finger, whistling at the impressive detail. "Good maps" he says, scratching at his beard and discovering a small piece of viscera, which he tosses aside. "Us lot crashed some'ere ova..." he picks a crossroads at random and prods at it confidently "ere". He pauses, stares into the middle distance for a while, then snaps his head to stare at Yurik. "Bollocks!" he exclaims. "Da Uvvers. We forgot em. Bollocks." without explanation, he waddles out of the chapel and yells across the yard at Pirk, currently trying to explain to some larger Scrunts that he does not have any cash, and that if he did it wouldn't be of use, since there is nothing to buy, and furthermore, how did any of them even know what cash was. "PIRK! Ge us one uv them cars. A shiny one! We goin back to da crash! I jus got one thin to do first!" He heads toward the barn with all the swearing and clanging, or the one with the most at least, but bumps into Grumb on the way. "Awrigh mate." He says, patting his friend on the shoulder, which is easy, since Grumb is almost 50% shoulder. "Ahm off fer a bit. Can ya keep an eye on tha odd feller while ahm gone? Ees in dere" he motions to the chapel. "I dun trust him. Ee knows a lot of stuff." He says, confident that any other Scrunt would be as suspicious of such a trait as he is. Inside the barn, he approaches Scurrilous - currently busy affixing things to other, bigger, things - with a chainsword in each hand. "Ere, Scurr, m'headin back to fetch dose uvvers" he says, and Scurrilous stares blankly in response "from tha crash - we left em - ah whutever. Can ya help me out wif summin? I needs dis-" he points at the tox injector on his battered old chainsword "da goop squirtin thin'- on dis" he says, and reverentially places his shiny new chainsword on a nearby crate. Scurrilous puts down what Gumbo assumes is a tool and scampers over to investigate it for a few seconds, before returning to his work. "When ya get rawn to it mate." He says, and quietly shuffles away. Pirk meets him outside with a sheepish expression and a fresh bruise on his chin, and Gumbo sighs and rolls his eyes. He throws a door to the storage shed open and punches the first mechaniscrunt he sees as payback. He spots Groin lying face down surrounded by loose iso leaves. "Oi! Groin! We takin one of dese cars. Get dese useless idiots inner sum sore of order", he finds himself slightly aroused by the last word, and shoves another mechaniscrunt, who falls face first into a barrel. "Jus do summin. Fix tha gate, work on tha cars... See if Scurr needs anythin. You lot," he gestures to the lazy Scrunts "do whateva Groin tells ya, ees in charge of ya." He then waddles over to the hydroponic iso and grabs a small handful. "An ahm havin sum o this". Sitting in the back of the car as it trundles out of the farm he carefully slices up a cigar, and stuffs it full of iso. He takes a long drag there'll be no trouble - without his chainswords all he has is pistols, and even then... He takes out his laspistol, hitherto unused and therefore the only part of his gear not covered in a thin crust and peers down at it. "May as well av a go" he mutters, removes the plastic wrapping with his teeth and starts pushing at protruding parts at random, huffing on the blunt. In the front seat, Pirk gibbers nervously and tries to make himself as small a target as possible. Gumbo is off to fetch the other scrunts and also learning how laspistols work. Not sure if Scurrilous is too busy to swap the injector since he put out all the actions already, maybe a technoscrunt can do the work. I'm not sure if I can actually command the mechaniscrunts to follow someone elses commands, but maybe it will give a boost to command tests moola makes? Fellowship 43 Command +10 anyway
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Feb 2, 2015 23:29
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Groin Sklunger The Farm, Taking a dirt nap Groin slowly lifts his face out of the mud, painfully wrenching his one real eye open. His gross little head throbs like a swollen haemorrhoid, and he both smells and tastes vomit. So probably a good night he reckons, despite not remembering anything since claiming his new shotgun. He sits up and cradles his head between his knees, and begins to relax himself by attempting pass gas from as many orifices as possible. Groin vaguely remembers Gumbo asking him to do something. No it was worse than that, it was an order. No it was even worse than that; he's been put in charge of something, given a task! Responsibility! The R word! Groin leans his head back and sighs loudly. "Aghhhhhhh, do ah haaaaff'too?!?!?!" he moans to the universe. Groin's favourite past time is to procrastinate; the lazy old scrunt has made an art form out of avoiding work, putting off tasks and generally contributing nothing to what passes as society among scrunts. He proceeds to clench his teeth and roll around in the mud in a giant silent temper tantrum for a few minutes. The mechaniscrunts, a few other civvies and Jekk begin to crowd around him and watch intently. Some of the more enthusiastic scrunts begin copying him and roll around the mud too. Eventually Groin gives in and stops, his face frowning like a hosed up grumpy toddler. "Fiiiiiiine..." he sulks, realizing there is no way to avoid completely getting out of work. His devious little brain begins to calculate the job which will require the least amount of effort on his part. Working on the cars sounds like a LOT of effort, so he immediately discounts that, Scurr will probably want lots of help, so that's out too. That leaves fixing the gate, which probably just means making it go from fallen down to standing up right? Perfect! Groin stands up, dusts himself off and turns to the scrunts in his charge. "Rite listen up ya'll! Remmer that gate we done busted down on tha way in?! Well we need it unbusted ASAP! poo poo ain't secure ya hear?!!? Ol beasties could juzz run in ere and snapp up tha lil scruntlings like THAT!!" he yells, emphasising his point by clapping his hands together loudly. "So errrr... lezz fix that gate... Errr... Company... MARCH!" he orders half-heartedly, and begins awkwardly marching toward the gate. Jekk smiles a toothy grin and begins marching behind him, shortly followed by the rest of the confused mechaniscrunts. _________________ Groin is going to supervise Jekk and the mechaniscrunts to prop the gate back up and repair it. Yes.
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Feb 3, 2015 00:41
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Urok Outside the Farm Drifting unconscious under the table, loud clanging and shouting draw Urok from blessed oblivion. This was surprising given the amount of narcotics he had flooded his body with the night before, celebrating the ending of a hunt and finding of new weapons. Dank space weed, some type of alcohol distilled from fuel, livestock tranquilizer and a host of various liquids and solids ingested, scents and smokes snorted wrapped him in the deepest coils of a chemical coma. He twitches, as his brain glacially connects one neuron to another, dragging itself reluctantly from a black abyss. Bloodshot eyes creak open, rolling across a floor busy with feet. Tiny pupils stroll out across a busy workshop before coming back to fix on a beautifully machined axe. The swept blade depicts an ornately carved Cog Urok had last seen on the massive drills buried in the mines of his home planet. Bloody fingers reach out and close around a soft, cushioned grip, staining it red for the first time. A massive fart erupts from under the table as he rises. His gaze settles on his gloves, a nasty new chain with spikes affixed to them. He slides his hands lovingly into them, and then twirls the axe in his right. He feels good, ready to test these instruments. Failing to find Scur , Urok leaves the workshop, vowing to offer his next kill in thanks. As he wanders, the pounding in his head comes back. He has been still for too long. Thoughts of baptizing his beautiful axe in farmers blood take his feet to an empty building. He stares before beginning to shake, his offerings missing.  He notices Groin doing some scrunty tracking poo poo, and decides to follow.
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Feb 3, 2015 04:01
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Grumb Slanger, smoke break earlier Grumb and Barry stand outside the workshop, sharing a scliff and reminiscing about the good old days back on Fenksworld. Barry had begun to grow anxious amidst all the open space and fresh air, and Grumb was trying to calm his nerves with some quality lho. Grumb was certainly enthusiastic about the freedom and possibility of their exciting new world, but he couldn't deny that he missed his old haunt as well. There was something comforting about he grimy sprawl of a proper hive. A scrunt could just blend in to the wretched masses and disappear there. A scrunt didn't need to worry about the consequences of his actions - no matter what went down, there was always a disgusting crevice to squirm into. Another dank crawlspace to descend into. Out here it was different - there was something subtly terrifying about the open sky above him. How many of those twinkling bits were stars, and how many were starstations? Grumb couldn't tell. But still he knew those voyeuristic stoners hung ominously up there somewhere, peering down at them from behind the moon. It was an unsettling thought. They had some pretty good herb, though. A figure emerges from the chapel-complex, and strides over to the pair confidently. It's Sgt. Gumbo! Grumb salutes him enthusiastically, passing the blunt to Barry discretely behind his back. His face lights up as Gumbo pats him on the shoulder, but then it begins to sink as his sarge tells him he wants to keep an eye on the shrimp in the metal hat. Ever the professional, he grits his teeth and accepts his superior's mission with a grim nod. He keeps a stoic face until Gumbo proceeds past them into the warehouse, whereupon Grumb spits dejectedly into the dirt. "Well, les' get to it, then!" Grumb barks. "Din'ya hear the Sarge? We gotta keep some eyes on tha brain." He stares over at the yellow light issuing from the chapel window, chewing the inside of his cheek. Barry issues a low whine, and Grumb meets his gaze with sympathy. "Naw, i feel ya. I'm there with ya, nawmean, I dun wanna spend any more time wif'm than you do! 'Fonly there was anovvur way... "That's it! Barry, you still got mah nockulars? I've got n'idear." severan hours later Grumb is shaken to consciousness by his cousin, shivering and grumpy. "Grumb, it gettin' so late! I'm real tired, Grumb. I'm gon' fall asleepy soon." The two of them lay on a patchy old blanket atop the roof of the workshop, having perilously made their way to the top by ascending [and severely denting] some kind of air-conditioning unit that ran its way up the side of the building. Following their climb the unit had begun intermittently emitting clunky wheezing noises, which mingled with the bangs and dings of the mechaniscrunts beneath and the distant chorus of the crasshoppers in the fields. Grumb had been having a really annoying dream, but like most states of being it was still preferable to consciousness. "Dammit Barry, why'dja have to wake me?" "Sorry Grumb," Barry says, passing a worn pair of binoculars to him. "Well, 'ows about Yurik, is 'e looking at his maps agin?" "No, Grumb, I been watching 'im real good, Grumb. He's still pretend'n like he's asleep, but 'e won't fool us. Tik-tok! We ain't gon' be out-smarted by the likes-a him no sir." "Thatta boy. Dangol, keep up th'good work." Grumb closes his eyes and lays his head down, and his cousin pokes him in the ribs. "Grumb, you said you'd take watch after me!" Barry whines, rubbing his eyes. "I'm going back to sleep. Tell Barry to look after 'im." "I am Barry." "No, tell the uvver one. The weedy little big one. Y'know, New Barry. Tell him to take watch." "Oh, okay." . . . "Grumb?" "Yeah Barry?" "I thought Barry was with you." "WHAT? I thought Barry was with you!" "I am with me!" Barry cries, tears beginning to well up in his big goofy eyes. "Well, when was the last time you saw 'im!?" "I DONT KNOW! LIKE TWO DAYS AGO!!? LAS' TIME YOU TOLD ME TO FEED 'IM!" "BARRY YOU ARE TAKING TERRIBLE CARE OF OUR HOSTAGE FRIEND!" Grumb yells, shaking his cousin by the shoulders. "Well, GO! GO GET 'IM!" He shouts, sending Barry into a panic. Barry begins to climb down the corrugated metal walls as fast as he can, and falls several feet onto a distressingly large pile of bloody clothes and oily rags that had accumulated outside the workshop. He starts to take off in no particular direction, when Grumb shouts to him. "Barry, wait!" He pulls a shiny object out of his haversack, tossing it down to his cousin. "It's called a compass! It always points the way to go!" Barry clutches the device to his chest, sluggishly jogging away from the settlement. He had never meant to let his cousin down! But he would do anything to set things right. "Now, to keep an eye on this suspicious character," Grumb thought, gazing intently into the binoculars as he drifts off to sleep. --------------------------- Barry is taking off by himself while Grumb stays back to complete the mission. He carries my Scrunt rifle and Monotruncheon. In the morning Grumb intends to resume his watch, but he is an easily distracted scrunt, and it's likely he would also spend some time just studying the surrounding area with his binoculars. Maybe he might notice the creepy tunnel undermining the southern walls of the farm complex, and examine that! Who knows. Maybe his vigil should be represented as a Perception test @ 34 + 10 for peering scruntily? Idk! I rolled a d% and got 72. Take that how you will. edit: oh, and i guess if Yurik DOES do something suspicious, there is a slim chance Grumb might see it. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 04:54 on Feb 3, 2015 |
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Feb 3, 2015 04:37
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Murdelia Skurvy Warm and dry Nestled amongst the piles of somewhat soft, crinkly combat skins/disco jumpsuits, Murdelia nodded off, truly Scrunted out from a hard day's honest work. The squeaky, insistant patter of "Ey, ey, got any drigs?Ey, ey, got any drigs?Ey, ey, got any drigs?" carrying her off like a lullaby. Tomorrow, she would finish with those brains, discovering what they looked like cut open and seeing if anything happened when fed to a testscrunt. The tranquil moment was ruined when some scrunt with mechanical legs exploded into the brain-pokin' room, knocked everything over, and began trying to eat her brains! "Ah!! Me things! Stop that!" she screams hoarsely, as Kreb spins around on the ground, trying to lure the brains into his gnashing maw. Unusually for detached organs, the brains are putting up a decent attempt at escaping, but the scrunt invader is the far more pressing matter. "gently caress off or Oi'm givin' ya the boot!!" she commands furiously, but doesn't wait for a response before trying to kick the spinning, flailing, chomping demiscrunt away from her poor defenceless brains. ________ A roll of 38 to try and save my specimens from this fiend, I have Strength 41. Is this an unarmed attack or something?
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Feb 3, 2015 09:10
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Yurik Scraglagger The Farm Malbrathia-3 Upper Floor Of the Chapel-Complex Thingamajigger Now that introductions had been made and beefs had been established, it was time for Yurik to get to work. These scrunts seemed like the sort that could get things done, but they were aimless, directionless. What they needed was guidance...the sort of guidance that he could provide for them. The excited ramblings of this or that scrunt had gotten him up to speed on the current situation (more or less), and while even he couldn't yet figure out why a bunch of humies in a starship would give away so much loot for a shot-up jeebstealer corpse what he did know was that word had been given of a fuel convoy that was making its way from some outpost to some other outpost in a matter of days. It sounded like the perfect target...unsuspecting, lightly protected, and distressingly flammable. The perfect thing to aim a bunch of aimless scrunts at and pull the trigger. Even better, there were maps. Yurik appreciated a good map, though it hadn't always been the case. Once upon a time the most use he would have gotten out of a map was something to start a fire with, or maybe to blow his nose with when he ran out of dry spots on his clothes, but after he had achieved enknowledgement he understood the true value of a map. All those squiggly lines and symbols meant things. Any scrunt could go and find out whether something was dangerous by walking up to it and poking it with a finger, but what if you could find out whether something was dangerous just by looking at a squiggle? And what if you then told some scrunts that you loathed with every fiber of your being that the things you knew were dangerous were actually full of delicious rats and free beer, and then those scrunts were never heard from ever again? A little knowledge was, as the saying went, a dangerous thing, and no scrunt had more little knowledge than Yurik Scraglagger. *** Up on the top floor of one of the buildings, Yurik peered intently down at the map beneath his feet, brows furrowed in deep thought. Around him the scrunts that he'd browbeaten into "assisting" him ran about excitedly like a stumpy hurricane, making gun and airplane sounds with their mouths, some holding their arms out like tiny, hosed up wings as they left trails of muddy (or "muddy") footprints in their wake. Occasionally several of them collided with each other, the remaining scrunts providing a chorus of explosion noises to accompany the resulting crash. Yurik might have been angrier about the way the other scrunts were rather thoroughly trampling all over the map if it weren't for the fact that he'd already committed it to memory. The incident that had crammed datavaults worth of knowledge into his head had left his brain unusually absorbent, like a grimy sponge. Neural pathways had been agonizingly reforged into configurations that no scrunt's brain had ever before known as a galaxy's worth of information unfolded within his head, bringing with it all sorts of new and amazing ideas and concepts, wondrous things, beautiful things that he'd never before been able to imagine, let alone understand. Yurik hated those beautiful things. To go from a typical scruntish incomprehension of the world at large to suddenly knowing vast volumes about life, the universe, and everything had driven home the unpleasant fact that he was kind of a loser. Enknowledgement had brought with it an unwanted sense of self-awareness, and while the old Yurik might have wiled away his days in scrunty ignorance, vaguely dissatisfied but not knowing why, now he seethed with the jealousy born of someone who knew everything but had nothing. Visions of greatness taunted him, greatness that was tantalizingly out of reach for a scrunt of otherwise unexceptional means such as himself. Even when he tried to explain what he knew to other scrunts, when he tried to tell them that there was so much more out there than this or that junkpile or cesspool, things like even bigger junkpiles or cesspools, they refused to listen. They were too set in their ways, too suspicious, too hidebound to understand. (Though really, most scrunts didn't listen to Yurik because he was kind of an rear end in a top hat.) But now they were here on this planet, him and a bunch of other scrunts bereft of purpose or direction. He already knew this wasn't the fabled Slam Sector, and he was fairly certain that they weren't going to find it anywhere on this world. That was all right, the Slam Sector wasn't really all that important (though he was smart enough to refrain from saying so out loud). What was important was what the quest for the Slam Sector represented. It represented opportunity, the chance for him to make a name for himself. He would destroy all the beautiful and wondrous things that had made him feel small and worthless and he would replace them with great, towering, junk-strewn monuments to his own greatness. And centuries, millennia from now, whenever future scrunts gazed upon his works and despaired, even they would remember his name. He would be more than a mere scrunt...he would become knowledge itself. (It was worth bearing in mind that Yurik, in addition to being an rear end in a top hat, was also kind of crazy.) *** "Huh? What's that now?," Yurik muttered as he chased one of the scrunts away from him, slowing down as he approached the part of the map where the convoy would be crossing through from just the right angle to spot something very interesting. "Oooh yes, that'll do just nicely," he cackled before flinging his thinkin' stick out dramatically, bowling several scrunts over in the process. "You lot, go and get th' Sergeant!" They stared back at him, blinking owlishly as they were suddenly put on the spot. "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh whuzzat? Sarnt who? Thfeck?" "Th' Sergeant!," Yurik shouted, slamming the end of his stick on the ground for emphasis. "Whatsisname! Gumbo! The one with a nose like a facken' great big tonker! I got important strategerial information that needs communicatin', so go an' bloody find'im afore I stave your facken' teeth inside out!" The scrunts leaped into action, running this way and that, slamming into walls and each other before tumbling down the stairs and out windows, hollering for Gumbo to come as quick as he could. Satisfied that progress was being made, Yurik was about to turn his attention back to the map when he felt someone tugging on his sleeve. "Th' fack! I told you eedjits to...huh?" It was the scrunt from the shed, the one that he'd vented his frustrations on earlier. "Oh, it's you again. Th' fack d'you want?" The scrunt shuffled his feet nervously, simultaneously cringing and looking at Yurik with pleading eyes. Yurik's gaze narrowed thoughtfully as he scrutinized the hanger-on suspiciously. "Oh aye, is that right? An' what's your name then, hmm?" The other scrunt's voicebox had been crushed by Yurik's thinkin' stick earlier, and so a series of hideous choking sounds was all the answer he was able to give. "Hack Haaaaaack, huh?," Yurik said. The other scrunt simply shrugged helplessly. "Facken' strange name, that is. Arright Hack, so where's the Sergeant gone off to then?" The newly christened Hack trundled across the map and emphatically pointed to the spot where the Sergeant's box of scrunts had made planetfall. "Gone back to get the others, eh? Hmph. Well there's fack-all for it I 'spose. The convoy won't be crossin' that spot for a couple'a' days yet. We'll just have t'wait 'til he gets back. At least it got rid of those other fackin' eedjits, keep'em busy lookin' for'im in the meanwhile." Hack looked over at Yurik imploringly and wordlessly. Yurik studied the other scrunt for a moment before coming to a decision, nodding once. "Oh all right. Run an' grab one o' those rifles the spacemans sent down. If you're gonna be a Loremaster's assistant you gotta be ready to shoot whoever I tells you, however I tells you, whenever I tells you, understand?" Hack nodded and rasped enthusiastically before dashing down the stairs as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. Yurik simply shook his head before returning his attention to the map beneath his feet, plotting and planning and scheming. *** Grumb's and Barry's rooftop vigil proved that there was plenty about Yurik that could be classified as "suspicious." His ability to remain focused on tasks, the way his eyes darted this way and that in unison, the fact that he hardly ever picked his nose. Even after the other scrunts had left the building the so-called "Loremaster" remained behind, pacing across the room, gesturing with his stick and talking out loud to himself (though it was too far to tell what he was saying). Eventually night fell, and as it did they watched as Yurik suspiciously gathered up the map and turned it into a suspiciously impromptu sleeping bag of sorts, bundling himself up in its cartographical embrace before suspiciously falling asleep. Hours passed. Suspiciously. By the time Grumb sent Barry out to look for the other Barry it was late and Grumb was tired, so perhaps it was simply exhaustion playing tricks on him, but as the heavy gunner began to drift back off to sleep he swore that the map-swaddled scrunt lifted his head up, turning his beady red eyes through the windows and through the binoculars and somehow looking right at him, and grinned. A blink and it was gone. A closer examination showed that Yurik hadn't moved and was still fast, if suspiciously, asleep. Grumb's dreams, when sleep finally claimed him once again, were just the tiniest bit more disturbing than usual. Kai Tave fucked around with this message at 08:43 on Feb 4, 2015 |
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Feb 3, 2015 11:11
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Groin Sklunger The Farm, The Gate Groin very briefly takes a break for overseeing the gate repair, and scurries back to the loot pile to snatch up an item. He hisses away some of the civilian scrunts creeping around the pile and pockets the grappling hook for later use; he then scuttles back to the gate like a hosed up little crab. This poo poo is easy, Groin thinks to himself. He was worried being ordered to do work would require effort, but he pretty much just has to watch the mechaniscrunts do all the hard stuff, and then simply slap the poo poo out of them if they get bored, or wander off or try to pass out from exhaustion. Groin pulls out a data pad from his pants and begins to jot some more tasks to do after the gate is finished: 1. Repair the gate. 2. Fix up the LIMOS! 3. Have grappling hook installed into robotic leg. He bolds and underlines task three. 3. Have grappling hook installed into robotic leg. ________ Groin has claimed the grappling hook. He is going to oversee the mechaniscrunts fix the gate, scrunt the limos... and then have them install the grappling hook inside his robotic leg. Moola fucked around with this message at 23:26 on Feb 3, 2015 |
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Feb 3, 2015 22:03
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Grimply & Urok, the wylde hunt https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ftwHWw7uZA Grimply is seething with rage over the treacherous humies. He even thought about being nice to them! Just goes to show that you can't trust the drat fackers farther than you can throw em. Which isn't very far, by scrunt standards. And they even were so dastardly to abduct Flet! The poor little Flet. Granted, Flet is stupid and often annoys Grimply, but dammit, he's Grimply's little stupid and annoying friend! They went through a lot of stuff together, and one day Flet will follow in Grimply's footsteps, and become a prophet of the father! Praise be to the father for his warning. Grimply easily finds the tracks left by the humies. A chain of knocked out scrunts and perfectly good trash that has been scattered instead of piled leads to the wall behind the chapel, and a worn rope is dangling from it. That's how the fackers got out! Grimply needs to act fast if he wants to catch up to them. But there also were several humies, and he probably can't take them all on his own. He turns around to look for a scrunt that can help him out, and almost bumps into Urok. The scrunt has been standing behind him, heavily breathing and with a wicked grin on his face. Grimply didn't even notice that he was there, so maybe Urok picked up some tricks from their sneaking adventure? Right, he'll do. "Oi lad, yer wanted ta 'unt with me, roight? Well, now is yer chance ta 'unt some 'umies!" Urok gives him a quick nod, and proudly raises his chain adorned fist and his new axe while letting out a feral howl. "That'll do, lad. That'll do." Grimply races outside of the broken gate, and over to where the humies scaled the wall. Their tracks are again easy to find. They dashed over the open field, and left a lot of footprints. Grimply would guess that the group is something between six or eight humies strong. Good thing that Urok is there to back him up. He continues to dash along the trail, Urok in tow, and their hunt leads them towards the dark forest at the edge of the fields. Tracking the humies in here could be tough, but Grimply is relieved to see that the humies just forced their way through the thick shrubbery and trees. The vegetation is dense, and it will probably slow them down. This is not so much a problem for the two scrunts, since they are small enough to just stay below the branches and wiggle past the shrubs. A place like this is bound to have animals too, maybe even dangerous ones. A group of fleeing humies will easily attract them, whereas two silent scrunts aren't likely to do the same. And just as Grimply finishes the thought, he picks up the faint smell of blood in the wind. Urok seems to do too, as he licks his crusty lips and mutters "Meat" The duo quickly locates the source of the smell. A humie is lying on the ground, and a strange little creature is diggin into his flesh. It's mostly made up from a large mouth filled with sharp teeth, and could pass for a scrunt if it would have some hair on it. The creature notices the two scrunts, and hisses at them to defend its prey. But Urok hisses even harder and waves his axe at the thing, which makes it consider its chances against the two newcomers. It is smart enough to withdraw, but still gives them a petulant hiss on the way. Grimply quickly checks the humie, but aside from his ragged clothes and huge bite wounds, he finds nothing on him. Urok takes this moment of rest and uses the fresh blood to paint his face with some scrunty tribal markings. Judging by the dead humie, it seems like they did not take any weapons when they escaped. Grimply smiles, this might be easier than he thought. He beckons Urok to stay close and both dive deeper into the dark forest. Maximus Haslinger, on the run https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNmHTb8K95k Maximus' life had recently turned into a small bubbling pot of terror. He was a simple farmer not too long ago, but then everything went to poo poo. First some strange creatures took over his farm, and then his friends too. He won't ever forget the fear he felt when he found himself bound and gagged, while watching his former friends being taken over by these...these things. He has no idea what creatures they were, but most likely some xenos. He already had given up any hope, and then someone else started to attack the farm and the strange creatures. This was the only good thing that happened to him in a while, but it also turned out to be bad because the attackers were not what he hoped for. Instead of PDF troops, they turned out to be weird little creatures that reminded him of Ogryns. But a lot smaller and even smellier, a thing he never thought to be possible. At first it looked like the creatures would set them free, but the prospects darkened as one of them asked them strange questions and threatened them. The creature was covered in gore, and Maximus expected to die soon. But for some reason the creatures just left him and the others tied up, with no real care about them. Maximus couldn't handle the fear anymore, and took the chance for escape when it presented himself to him. It was a blessing that these creatures weren't very smart. "Max! We need to rest for a moment! Lionus' leg can't take it anymore! We need to do something for him!" Max turned around to Balthazar, the old foreman who was supporting Lionus. He fell over a root while they dashed through the forest, and broke his leg. "poo poo, Balthazar, I know! But we can't stop! You saw what happened to Milan when we stopped! That thing just jumped him out of nowhere and bit him almost in half!" "Yeah! But what should we do? We can't just leave Lionus here!" "It's..urgh...it's okay...I can..I can take it..my leg is...fine" It pains Maximus as he watches while Lionus tries to stand on his obviously broken leg. Maximus knows that it's futile, and when Lionus falls to the ground with a loud yell, he knows it too. "Max! We need to make a splint for him and catch our breath! Holy poo poo, we can't keep this up!" "Shut up, Balthazar! Shut up! I can't think like this! I need to think!" "This is a fun trip. Yer good friends, roight? We'll be 'avin lots more games togetha. It's fun. We're friends now, roight?" "Dammit, Ellyn, make that little thing shut up! I can't think like this! I can't think!" "gently caress you, Max! Why do I even have to carry this thing? It smells horrible! Why did we take it with us in the first place?" "Don't be so stupid, Ellyn! If those other creatures follow us, we have a hostage! And even if they don't, we need to show this thing to the army. They have to know what's going on here!" "Yay! I'm going ta meet tha army! Thas fun, roight? I bet it's fun. Who's tha army?" "Dammit make it shut up, make it shut up! I need to think!" "Max, you need to calm down, son. I know it looks bad, okay? But we can do this! We just have to fix Lio's leg and then..." But Maximus never hears the rest of Balthazar sentence, as a bright green lasbolt punches through the gut of the old man, and travels onward into the face of Drusus. He had just sat down while the others argued. The world around Maximus seems to slow down, and he can see what happens in great detail. Balthazar's guts that trickle out of the hole in his belly, and Drusus' brain that has been laid open as the lasbolt rips his skull apart. Maximus can't help them, he can't even help himself anymore. All he can do, is scream. Grimply & Urok, the wyldest hunt https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8ZAx_OvKpM Grimply moves his scope and tries to find another target in the darkness, the standing humie was easy enough to see. But the forest makes it hard for him to place his next shot, and so he yells down at Urok from his tree. "Git thar 'umies, lad!" Urok bolts off like a tiny cannonball. Only with more hissing and sharp edges. He leaps over roots and tree stumps, and hefts himself up on to a medium branch before lunging towards all the screaming. He flies through the dark forest, leaves and small branches scratching against his face. When the foliage opens up, he lands fist first in the face of a scared but surprised humie. With a beautiful crunch, he breaks the skull of the humie and his momentum carries him towards the next one. Urok tumbles against him, but is quickly back on his feet and smashes his axe into the sternum of the humie before he can get back up again. The screaming intensifies, but it's just what Urok needs to fuel himself. He spins around and leaps at another humie that desperately waves his hands in front of himself. Stupid humie, Urok thinks, you can't block an axe with your hands! Splinters of bone and splatters of gore shower Urok while he dispatches the humie, and in a matter of seconds, he surveys the scene around him. One humie is sitting on the ground and seems to be crying, another one is standing and holds a tiny hosed up knife against another scrunt, and a third one is just screaming and about to run away. Urok throws his axe after the runner, and then advances on the humie with the knife. It seems to scream things at Urok and waves the knife around, but Urok is much too hyped to care. He raises his shock gloves and lets out a mighty howl! But just as he's about to lunge at the humie, a lasbolt rips through the trees and obliterates the skull of his prey. The other scrunt tumbles to the ground, but Urok does not care. He was robbed of his kill! But through the haze of rage he hears a strange sound. Crying? Oh right. There was another humie left. Urok turns to the pitiful creature, licks his lips, and then leaps. Grimply climbs down from his tree, and waddles over to where all the ruckus was at. Urok must have done some good work, judging by all the screaming. He pushes through the foliage, into a scene of gore. Several dead humies litter the ground, and Urok is halfway up a tree, while he's trying to pull his axe from it. Grimply takes a quick look around, and sees Flet off to the side playing with some sticks. Before he can waddle over to him, Urok speaks up. "One escaped. Tha meat ran." Grimply wants to answer, but suddenly a high pitched scream echoes through the dark forest, and then everything falls silent. "Well, seems like we ain 'ave ta worry about that one anymore, roight?" Urok nods, and then proceeds to look for a proper hunting trophy. One of these skulls must be still intact. Grimply moves over to Flet, and checks on him. "Flet me boy! Are yer alright? Tha 'umies didn't 'urt ya, did they?" "Oh, mastah! Fancy seein' you 'ere. I'm good! Me and tha 'umies wanted ta play a game! We 'ad fun! Me and tha 'umies. I'm okay. But tha 'umies don't seem ta be. What 'appened?" "It's roight, me boy. Don't ya worry about nuthin. We 'ave ta get back 'ome now, roight?" "Okay! I'll just say bye ta me 'umie friends. Bye, 'umie friends!" Grimply sighs, and then looks for Urok. He is still working on a humie corpse, and it looks like he's getting himself a skull of it. That's fine with Grimply, and so he doesn't interrupt. "Now, Flet. Yer gotta tells me what 'append with tha 'umies. How did they escape?" "Uhh..I dunno...tha 'umies said we could play a fun game togetha...Uhhm..All I 'ad ta do was ta cut one of them free an give 'im me knife for tha game...but uuh..then 'e cut tha other 'umies free too....Which was fine with me..more players for tha fun game, roight? But then 'e punched me and we all ran off..that wasn't so fun at first...but later it got fun again!" Grimply stands there, stone-faced, and then springs into action "FLET YER DUMB LITTLE PIECE OF FACK I'M GONNA KNOCK YER!!". But as Grimply storms forward, the little scrunt cowers and gives him a confused look. Maybe it's the father speaking to him, or maybe it's genuine compassion, but Grimply stops and decides to let it go. It was enough for one night. "It's right, lad. It's...It's all right." he mutters. Urok joins the duo, with a fresh new skull on top of his head. "We done? Back home?" "Yes, lads. We're done. But Flet, I think yer need some teaching. 'umies can't be trusted! Yer need ta learn that. Wait...I think there is a song about it in me book...lemme look for it." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vwdm3eC8FKg ---------------------------------------------- Yes, Grimply goes Disney and sings an educational tune on the way back. You are free to picture the whole thing in your head Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 21:18 on Apr 20, 2015 |
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Feb 4, 2015 00:11
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Scrrunnnnnnnnnnnt The Farm & The Dropsite Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmMwjaaTbsE what have the scrunts made!! Summons, The Dropsite Day One Gumbo stands hands on hips at the dropsite, his limousine spinning on its roof in the muddy field some distance in front of him, shoved round and round by enthusiastic groups of scrunts. Other scrunts cling to the wheel axles, yelling, and eventually falling off and vomiting. Pirk desperately claws at the driver's seat window, but can't get it open. The driver's cabin is awash. The sergeant stands in the drizzle, surveying what the scrunts have gotten up to in the absence of any supervision. He is shaking his head. The corpses of the unlucky PDF squad have vanished, presumably into the large makeshift stew pot bubbling away over a vile, smoky fire, and a good deal of the scrunts now wear scraps of PDF clothing. Sgt Hardchest's body is nowhere to be seen, either. There's a few scrunt corpses dotted around to the west, which would normally be cause for concern if it were any other species currently occupying this area. As it stands, there's less bodies than expected. Scrunt housing has been erected, by the simple expedient of leaning heavy bits of metal against each other, and large groups of scrunts are hanging around aimlessly. There's not much to do in this patch of grass apart from watch the pit smoulder gently, which a good number of scrunts were still doing. Consequently, there was a big crowd watching when Gumbo's limo showed up with SLAM SECTOR daubed on the sides and a pretty awesome drawing of a skull on the roof. They all got a little... excited. The trace elements of frenzon still present in the humans made then a bit more... active. There'll be new litters of scruntlets in a month or so, judging by current goings-on. Thankfully, once the party quiets down after an hour or so, it only takes a modicum of shouting to get everyone to listen up. The scrunts are bored shitless - they're more than happy to head to the farm, once they put the limousine back on its wheels and Pirk is released. The scrunts hitch the makeshift forge to the back of the limo, and then busy themselves with the aimless shouting, fighting and looting that characterises any scrunty endeavour. It seems Gumbo will have to drive himself. Infighting, The Farm Day Two The legs! The legs! Kreb scrabbles like a wildcat but he's not in possession of all his limbs, and he's distracted by his urge to gobble brains. Murdelia has no such handicaps, and is also distressingly brawny for her size. With practised ease she gets the gunscrunt in a hammerlock, while her comrade deactivates his thrashing leg-servos and rescues the precious, precious brains. Huh, this one's wounded. No wonder he's so ornery. The medic applies scrunt anaesthesia to Kreb, via the simple expedient of choking him into unconsciousness. Murdelia reaches for her medical tools... No User Serviceable Parts Included The Farm Day Two Groin puts more effort into avoiding work than most scrunts exercise in actually doing it. The scrunts under his direction scurry around like particularly messed-up ants, swarming the limos and overclocking their tortured engines to within an inch of their lives. The roaring retro-rocket forge takes up residence next to the workshop, and the mechaniscrunts busy themselves in turning scrap metal into slightly flatter scrap metal. Under his supervision they've already righted the gates and overclocked the limos, and he's now gathered the most talented of their number around himself, to explain his plan for the grappling hook. "So ya don't have to bovver walkin', you can just point?" They seem to understand, but warn Groin that they might need to disconnect his arm under carefully controlled conditions in order to tinker with it. He nods. The mechaniscrunts descend, yanking and tugging at his bionics. Groin has no sooner mouthed the word "Feck" than a wrench crashes down on his head and his vision dims - the surprise he feels at this is nothing compared to the surprise he'll feel when he wakes up. Fifth Column Just Prior To Departure The Farm Barry tears around the place in a panic for most of the morning looking for his human counterpart, quizzing scrunts and peering through windows. He looks everywhere - in barrels, under cars, on top of roofs. Eventually he starts looking in places where a person might actually conceivably be, and finds Barrius morosely chewing on some iron rations outside one of the sheds under the watchful eyes of some of the more important scrunts. The scruntlet breathes a sigh of relief as he joins Grimply, Scurrilous, Groin, and Gumbo at their smoke-and-grog break. The Chimera is being fuelled and prepped for the raid on the fuel convoy. The scrunts seem quite cheerful at the possibility of getting more stuff to burn. One of the technoscrunts wanders by, carrying a heap of oily rags. He cheerfuly pipes up. "'lo Barry! Oi see ya found the humee that was talkin' ta Flet bout loosin' them other humies then?" Barrius starts, violently. -------- scrrunnnnnnt Gumbo completely hosed up a Command test by about four degrees of failure, but succeeded in his second test to bring everyone back under control. All scrunt subtypes like you a bit more, both for the entertaining diversion, and the new home. Kreb lost his opposed strength test against Murdelia and is at her mercy. His legs have been deactivated and he cannot eat the brains. Kreb hasn't been doctored yet to the best of my knowledge, so he's getting doctored now; he heals all his damage. He is also, medically, at Murdelia's mercy and she can do various unnecessary medical things to him if both players agree. Groin has his grappling hook successfully mounted in his leg. Unfortunately his leg is now mounted on his shoulder, and his arm is now mounted on his hip. There are no mechanical penalties for this. Barrius might be in hot water!! Scruntinise him! We're finishing up here, and are ready to start raidin' for fuel once you guys are all done here. Hopefully everyone's sorted loot and experience, huh? I might check that at some point if I get a chance. Again, good scrunting, all. Been great fun to watch this spiral wildly out of expected parameters.
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Feb 4, 2015 21:54
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Grumb Slanger, rapidly descending the workshop walls Grumb scrapes his hands in excitement as he drops onto the bloody oily ragpile outside the workshop. The distant noises of rabble and strained combustion had grown closer and closer until a sputtering, thirsty limousine finally came rolling into the complex. Every corner of it is covered with hop-ons, which are clearly causing immense stress on the wheels and frame of the automobile. Trailing behind it, a hastily-manufactured mobile forge comes scraping through, belching black fat-thick smoke and carrying with it the unmistakable smell of long pig. In the distance a collection of scrunts can be seen plodding along, following the deep grooves the forge has dug into the ground in its wake. Before it has even had a chance to stop, the doors pop open and a horde of the more fortunate scrunts [males and able-bodied adults, as is customary] come pouring out of the passenger compartment. The limo rattles on its suspension as its riders violently disembark, until finally the driver-side door opens and Sgt. Gumbo steps out. He ashes his cigar over the head of a passing scruntling and puffs on it satisfyingly as he watches the cloud of old dust and new scrunts disperse out into the farm complex. Seeing Grumb approach, he tosses the keys at his trusted compatriot. Grumb almost catches them the first time! The limousine continues to sputter along, gradually slowing until it love-taps the corner of the toolshed. "Sarge! Hey sarge, I did'choo said! I kep' a big ol' eye on that lordmaster for ya. Both eyes! Like a dangol' hawk, I was!" "Not now, Grumb, I've got a new mission for ya." Taken aback, Grumb swallows a lump out of his throat. "But... Eh made notes and evverthing."  "Firs' things firs', Grumb, tha Limo's outta gas. Gather up th'troops!" the sergeant says, waving his arm authoritatively. "Time's a wastin'!" Sgt. Gumbo puffs excitedly from his cigar as Grumb trundles away, anxiously chewing his homework. Grumb dejectedly begins to gather up combat-ready scrunts from their various stations, dragging his feet like a grumpy schoolboy. He even, in his dejected state, goes to fetch the well rested Yurik from his chapel study. "Might as well," he thinks, "'Ees the only one what knows all the maps anyhow." ---------------------------------- Grumb begins to collect the scrunt compatriots slowly, and gathers up his things for the raid. He eventually will gather up Barry2 before the mission begins, but I'm interested in giving someone else a chance interact with him first. The escapees were not a major concern of Grumb's, so if anyone else is interested in accusing or interrogating him about that they need to take the initiative.
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Feb 5, 2015 22:50
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Murdelia Skurvy Ornery With the pernicious invader captured, Murdelia discovers his untreated wounds from the battle that occurred here at an indeterminate point in the past. Definitely in the last week. Stumbling around, dripping bits of bodily fluid on the ground, luring bears and humans with the scent of scrunty flesh, all very irresponsible. Well, Murdelia considers herself the responsible type. Maybe not in reality, but the perception of self is very important. So she fixes the scrunt. Towards the end she remembers that it technically tried to rob and/or assault her, so she staples the largest wound shut in such a way that says *DuMP asS*. Was that wound there before she started? She's not sure, she's pretty tired. Some rhinestones may have also been added. Together, she and Arnika drag the patient outside and with some coordinated swinging, throw him onto the roof. Problem solved. What was the next stage? The brains! "Almos' got away from me thar" she says fondly as one tries to make a forlorn escape behind a milk crate. These constant misadventures are getting wearing, so without further ado she mashes and dices them up into a chunky pink and yellow slurry. Even for a scrunt it looks and smells inedible, so she indulges her inner destroyer and cooks it in a pan until it turns to ash and charred residue. Poking the fire/burning things is very relaxing. After finishing off her duties and getting a few more hours uninterrupted rest, she takes a moment to consider the pile of jumpsuits she had made. They were very pretty. And tough. Useful. Good work. They could assist the other scrunts. "Grumb is a good sort" she mutters appreciatively, laying out a larger, baggier one with a heat-applied motorcycle decal. "Groin is a bossy sort" she grumbles darkly, setting aside one with flared shoulders and elevated heels. "This one is fer me" she beams, holding up a jumpsuit encrusted with embellishments. By pure coincidence 'No. 1 Docter' has already been stencilled on, along with a skull with a snake coming out of the mouth. "Umm, hmm. Not sure 'bout this one" she says squintingly, examining an outfit with a gaudy reflective trim. _____________ Destroy the remaining brain tissue, heal up Kreb, and pass out the skin suits. One for Murdelia, Grumb and Groin, and one for whoever gets to it first.
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Feb 8, 2015 03:32
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Grimply, the scrunt bro down Grimply had a fairly restful night. He usually doesn't sleep so well, but after his wild humie hunt, he slept deep like a fresh scruntling. The following day didn't present him with very much to do, so he made his rounds through the scrunt camp, giving out blessings and preaching about the Slam Sector, while Flet had to polish their guns as punishment for letting the humies trick him. However, while making his rounds he also caught some scrunt chatter about what was going on. Seems like there will be another raid soon. Didn't the space humies say something about fuel trucks? Yeah, those could be handy. Some of the scrunts also talk about how this one smart scrunt is checkin all the maps and planning the raid. Grimply likes maps and decides to check that out. In the ruined farmhouse, Grimply finds a scrunt that he never saw before. That scrunt is peering intently at the maps before him, while scratching his dashing hat and muttering things like "That bunka is good" or "We's needs ta come from 'ere" and "Fack". Grimply is always wary around new faces, but slowly shuffles up to the scrunt and peers at the maps too. He carefully places the bowl of hot stew he brought with him on the floor, and then introduces himself. "Oi laddie! Yer a new face 'round 'ere. Nevah seen ya before, but as the father says, yer don't know a scrunt till yer a saw 'im. Now, these 'ere maps look mighty good. It's fer oua next raid, roight? Yer marked that bunka there, so I guess thas what we use, roight? Well, 'ow about tha trees over 'ere. Can't fit tha wheelybox inna bunka, but trees will do!" Grimply gives him an encouraging look, and while the new scrunt is reserved at first, he eventually opens up ad agrees on the forest being a good idea. The new scrunt introduces himself as Yurik, and Grimply and he spend some time and disuss the maps and plans for the next raid. Grimply even offers Yurik some stew, since he seems like a good lad. Eventually, Grimply leaves Yurik and wanders through the camp again. He ponders to check up on Flet, but then somebody calls out to him. "Oi yer lollygagger! Yer want some smoke an' drink? This is good smoke an' drink!" It's Scurrilous, who is having some smoke and drink with a few other scrunts. And since Grimply has nothing better to do, he joins them. The smoke and drink is actually pretty good, and Grimply entertains the other scrunts with the story of how he and Urok hunted twenty humies last night. Of course he's exaggerating his story a bit, but nobody seems to notice or mind, and everyone is having a good laugh about the weak humies. Eventually Barry comes around, with the other Barry in tow. Grimply finished his story already, so nobody really notices that he seems to get a little tense. Not only because of the humie, but also because he still remembers Barry's and Grumb's theft of his stew before they got on the humie ships. He guards his smoke and drink carefully. Then a random techno scrunt passes the group, and shouts "'lo Barry! Oi see ya found the humee that was talkin' ta Flet bout loosin' them other humies then?" Grimply processes this information, and splurts out his drink that he was currently...well, drinking. His senses for humie treachery are still hot from last night's adventure, so he drops his smoke and drink, pulls out his scrunt knife and jumps on Barry V2. "Yer facking 'umie! I knew yer was in on it! I knew it!" ---------------------------------------------- Grimply wants to intimidate Barry Mk2 into confessing his treachery. I'm not sure what to roll since it's ambigous on the sheet. Can you please do it for me GM? And then also tell me what stat to use for it in the future 
Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 00:23 on Feb 9, 2015 |
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Feb 9, 2015 00:17
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Scurrilous Scruntson Chomping a very thin self-rolled oily ciggarette between his teeth and taking a long drag, Scurrilous kicks back after a long two days work. Letting out a long, slow breath of acrid and distressingly green smoke from his lungs he begins to idly fidget with the chainsword and tox-injector that weirdo Urok dropped off to him. It was a piss-easy and mindless job, perfect for the technoscrunt to work on to relax and forget about the failure of the frag-defender project, the aftermath of which was still smoldering in the corner. Others join him in the workshop, Grimply tells a particularly good story that Scurr chuckles to, but all in all he doesn't join in, he was too tired at the moment. But he feels all the successful work he's done speaks more than enough for him. As he slaps the last injector in place and puts the exquisite chainsword on the table, he once again leans back and relaxes. Soon enough they'd leave and he'd be shot at, ordered around, and probably die. But right now it was good to be the king. __________ Trade: Armorer: 32 vs 60, 3 DoS If anyone else needs something done by me last minute lemme know soon so I can edit it in.
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Feb 9, 2015 01:46
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Murdelia Skurvy Fashionable As she takes fittings for various scrunts, Murdelia takes the opportunity to pat them down and scrondle their scrunchy scrundles. Her morale seems to improve, not least from seeing Grumb and Groin stumping around in their ill-fitting scruntsuits. She sees them scratching themselves, hitching their fingers through belt loops, spitting on the ground and generally looking extremely sexy for scrunts. All, she knew, thanks to her exceptional fashionista skills and sound judgement. But what to do with this extra suit? A particular figure meanders through the muddy hellscape, and she recognises it as Grimply! He was a strange sort, and had taken a few shots at the fiendish enemy with his enormous gun, or so the rumours went. Most notable was his intense, unwavering faith in the Scruntfather. Now, any decent scrunt believed in the Scruntfather, but as with most scrunty efforts it was a half-assed devotion that largely manifested in the aftermath of loud noises and sudden weather changes. It took a very special scrunt to carry a truly unbreakable faith in the Scruntfather, and let it guide his actions. Of course there was not always a clear consensus on who or what the Scruntfather was... some said he was the gestalt consciousness of all scrunts that ever were and will be. Others, the foul and larcenous aspect of the Emperor's soul that was severed by a blow from Horus. Still more proposed a scrunty pantheon, including The Scruntuncle, The Scrunty-Niece and the Everscrunt Supreme (despite the name, the weakest of the hypothetical deities). A vocal sect of scrunt scholars even claimed that the Scruntfather was actually the Scruntmother! Not that Murdelia found any use for these wild theories in her practical, hack-and-burn lifestyle. Oh right, Grimply. Catching his eye with a wave, she beckons him in with a bloodstained mitt. A good honest scrunt like that needs all the help he can get, and Murdelia is feeling generous to the clergy today. Arnika bangs him over the head from behind with a cinder block, and together they start measuring him for his suit.
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Feb 9, 2015 13:30
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Departures The Farm Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQqTunkvPb0 90's racing scrunts Through force of sheer indignity, Barrius bats the knife away and grabs Grimply by the collar of his new synskin outfit, yelling hoarsely into the scrunty scout's face and momentarily forgetting his status as a captive of a gaggle of heavily-armed and lightly-brained abhumans. Several days worth of tension and low-grade terror starts bubbling out. "If'n ya thought them farmers run out because of me, why the feck am I still here? Ya think I'd still be here with you stinking, hosed-up midgets if I 'ad a decent chance of getting out of here alive?" Realising his situation, Barrius then gently lowers the sniper to the ground and clears his throat. He still glowers, sullenly, but now speaks with an air of protest, not anger. "Ah wuz checking in on them because yeh'd kept them manacled to benches for two days and offered to feed them their mates." He shakes his head. "They probably ran because you scared them shitless. Not like it matters now that you've killed them all." he adds, accusingly. He wipes his hands on his tattered uniform repeatedly. -------- Preparations The Farm Malbrathia-3 Scrunts busy themselves loading up the Chimera ready for the long drive to the ambush site. Gumbo and Yurik anxiously watch the skies, judging their timeframe by the movement of the sun. Dozens of small irritating niggling issues need sorting, as necessary scrunts need to be rounded up or rescued from small holes in which they had wedged themselves or woken up or rescued from the triage wards. The majority of other civilian scrunts are left in place with a general wave of the hand and a yell of "sort this place out!" as the APC is fuelled and loaded. Eventually, only a few minor irks remain.
Shouting ensues. -------- Ambush The Crossroads Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEQtPv9NbXA Soft rains patter down through the bosky forest. Presently, the banging and rumbling of an abused engine can be heard, along with a dim muffled yelling, as an armored personnel carrier slides sideways down a slope, scything away a season's new growth. Several fanged creatures scamper out of its path. "WENNATOLYEREITWOZRIGHTATFAKKINJUNCTIONITWOZYOUROTHERRIGHT" The Chimera slides onwards, teetering wildly on its track for a moment, before a lucky boulder clips its track, spinning the vehicle and causing its bulldozer blade to clip a tree. It rights itself, sliding backwards, and eventually comes to rest at the bottom of an otherwise quite pleasant gully. The rendezvous point for this convoy is quite nearby. The scrunts have the dim foreboding that this is their first time attacking a hard target that might conceivably be ready for an attack; more than that, the scrunts have no idea what they'll be up against. Their comrades clutch their rifles nervously, and there is less aimless yelling than usual as the ambush is set... -------------------- scrunnnnnnnt Grimply screwed up an Intimidate check; sure, it's a trained skill, but no-one else got involved to help you with it and your strength is puny, like rat. Even with a +20 circumstance bonus you got like 3DoF. Barrius has let off some steam. Most of you are severely autistic and can't read normal social cues, and have no idea whether he's telling the truth or not. The commotion has gained the attention of any scrunts who wish to be involved - Yurik and Murdelia, i.e. the two scrunts with Scrutiny, think he's telling the truth. Groin, the paranoid scrunt, thinks he's lying. Scurrilous also thinks so, although this could just be lack of sleep. Scrunts are annoying; socialise with the scrunts to assuage their fears, or just tell them to gently caress off, it's up to you. Ambush is being set; Grimply + Yurik tag-team navigated your way there in good time, and you have about half an hour to set up. You need to confirm your three beneficial terrain features before I draw the map. Maybe there's some skills you'd like to use to try and work out what might be a good setup? Do some Scholastic Lore: Tactics, and judging how well you roll, the map will be more or less beneficial to you. Or maybe you want to figure out what you might be fighting? How will the fuel be stored, are we talking a lorry full of barrels or a donkey train or what? I dunno, do your own prepwork. There's probably vehicles. Basically, we're about to have a fight. Ideally you'll grab the fuel and not blow it up, then you'll drag it back to the farm, have another fight along the way, and then get another loot/XP bomb. After that your road warrior force will be ready to go, so start thinking about what you actually want to do with it.
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Feb 9, 2015 17:39
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Yurik Scraglagger The Farm Malbrathia-3 It was amazing what a good night's sleep nestled in 80 square meters of the finest cartography could do for one's disposition. Unfortunately whatever those benefits might be were spoiled by Yurik being Yurik and therefore beyond any such dispositionary improvements in that, or indeed any, regard. Still, it was better than sleeping in a cage. Right up to the moment that Grumb Slanger kicked him awake, anyway. Expletives and expectorate were hurled back and forth between the two in equal measure, but with Hack by his side (though it was more accurate to say that Hack was standing somewhere in the general area of "by his side" by way of "behind him") he felt somewhat less imperiled by the hulking heavy weapons scrunt. Fortunately the other scrunts he'd met since his uncarceration had proven to be more amenable sorts, or at least less overtly hostile (though that was probably due to the fact that they hadn't gotten to know him very well yet). The friendliest of the bunch had been Grimply, who as it turned out actually knew a thing or two about maps and directions. Even better, he had a finely honed sense for fighting dirty, and as the two of them put their heads together giving the projected route of the fuel convoy a good scrunty staring-at Grimply had actually proposed an idea that, much to Yurik's surprise (and quiet jealousy) wasn't that bad. The "wheelybox"...the Chimera armored transport that this batch of scrunts had stolen from some humies...was, in and of itself, practically a bunker on treads, and on his wanderings about the farm he'd looked in on the technoscrunt, Scurrilous, and watched as the red-robed scrunt tirelessly set about making the stolen vehicle even more scruntworthy. The heavy dozer blade that had been affixed to the front would make it even tougher (from one direction, anyway) and the camouflage woven from tree branches and dead animals would surely work to conceal it amidst all the wretched nature on this scruntforsaken planet, which meant... *** "...on this side o' the pass there's this bunker here," he said to Gumbo after the Sergeant had returned from his road trip, tapping his thinkin' stick on the map where the structure was indicated. "It looks all shot to shite, pro'lly been there fack knows how long, but so far as it's still standin' it's better than tryin' ta' stop a fackin' multilas with your face, aye?" He chuckled phlegmily at his own joke, whacking Hack upside the head with his stick until the other scrunt began making distressed sounds that could possibly be construed as laughter. "Ah, but here's where it gets even better. Ya' see, on th' OTHER side o' the pass there's all these facken' great big trees. If that moanin', metal-limbed mumbletypeg of a driver o' yours can get the Chi-meera into those trees without crashin', then when the convoy comes through we can have guns on THIS side," he said, tracing a line across the map, "and we'll have guns on THAT side." "And then," he said with a nasty grin, "we kill each an' every last fackin' humie what's wound up between'em." What Yurik (and Grimply) were proposing was more than simple violence, it was strategery. And with strategery, a scrunt could conquer the world. Or at least give it a good, hard kick right in the goolies. *** Yurik was one of the scrunts in attendance when the captive humie that Grumb kept around for reasons unknown, Barrius, was confronted with evidence of his treacherous misdeeds as well as the general perfidy of which all humies, in Yurik's eyes, were inexorably guilty of. When the crazed-looking captive grabbed Grimply, the closest thing he had to a friend, by the snazzy lapels he very nearly told Hack to gun him down right then and there (the humie, not Grimply), but he quickly decided against it for two reasons. First of all he was fairly certain, given that Barrius was holding Grimply up in front of him like a wriggling, sequined shield, that ordering Hack to shoot Barrius was liable to result in his assistant gunning down Grimply instead, and that would put a bit of a damper on the whole "friendship" thing. Secondly, as the conniving and opportunistic gears inside his head clanked and rattled away like some sort of limb-mangling hazardous machinery, a deviously brilliant idea suddenly occurred to him. "Awright, awright, everyone jus' caaaaalm dooooown," he said with an oily smile, interposing himself between the unruly captive and the dangling sharpshooter before violence could ensure. "There's nae need for all this ruckus, now is there? I'm sure we can resolve this without any horrible, agonizin', bowel-voidin' violence." He made a show out of looking the humie up and down, hmm'ing and mmhm'ing and giving him a thorough peering-at with his beady red eyes that left the humie's skin crawling with unease. Finally, after an extremely uncomfortable several moments had passed, Yurik nodded. "He's tellin' no lies. Th'other humies must've escaped all on their ownsome while, whatsisfacken...Barrius, that's it...while Barrius here was only checkin' in on'em. There now, that's a good lad," he said, patting Barrius on the arm and indicating that he should set Grimply back down. "Mistakes were made, humies were massacred, but the important thing is that we're all still here and NOBODY else has to die, aye?," he said, giving Barrius a meaningful look. Once the situation had (more or less) been defused, Yurik waited until no one else was paying either Barrius or himself too much attention and pulled the humie off to the side, speaking to him in hushed, menacing tones. "Now you listen here, sonny-Jimbo. Th'only reason no one's scoopin' you into a stewpot right about now is me. Did you let those other humies go? I dae know an' I dinnae fackn' care neither, but all these other fackin' scrunts, they'll believe what a Loremaster tells'em. That means if I say you're innocent then congratu-fackin'-lations...o' course, if I tells'em it turns out you've been secretly plottin' against'em, maybe even had your jeebs secretly stole while no one was lookin'," he went on with an indifferent shrug, "things might not turn out so cheery, understand?" Barrius was once again subjected to the full-bore brunt of Yurik's piercing, red-eyed stare. "You owe me, humie. Y'owe me your fackin' life. Some day, an' that day may never come but I highly doubt it, I'll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, fack off with ye', an' remember...I've got my eyes on you." Yurik will be dragging Barrius along for this little pep talk regardless of whatever any other scrunts like Scurrilous or Groin might accuse him of, unless someone brutally murders Barrius right this moment Yurik will still take credit for saving him from being brutally murdered. Also PICK A loving THIRD TERRAIN FEATURE YOU SCRUNTS, we have a bunker on one side and trees for the Chimera to hide in on the other. People who like shooting from cover should maybe get to the bunker, people who like Chimeras and trees should be on the other side. I left the various scruntmergencies for other people to handle because I don't want to be a spotlight hog and also it's late and I have work in the morning so. Kai Tave fucked around with this message at 09:56 on Feb 10, 2015 |
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Feb 10, 2015 09:37
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Pernicious Kreb, unconscious Kreb is roughly jostled from dreamless sleep by being thrown bodily from a parked chimera. He doesn't know who stowed him in it, or where he is now, but it doesn't really tend to matter to Kreb where Kreb is or how he got there. His first order of business is to check whether anyone stole his things while he was asleep. Everything seems to be in order, aside from some decorative, rhinestone studded stitching on his torso that spells out 'LIL POOPER'. Fortunately for Kreb, he can't read. He picks the rhinestones off himself and eats them. A voice in his head booms THAT IS NOT BIOMASS but Kreb tries to ignore it. It's taken up till now for him to remember the events prior to his unconsciousness. He had been trying to eat a buffet of brains, but his legs had disagreed with him and then a disturbingly powerful lady scrunt had manhandled him to a large extent. Still, he feels a lot better now, so maybe she wasn't all bad. But she had taken away those tasty brains. So maybe she was all bad. Kreb will have to decide on things later. His stomach growls when he thinks of the brains, and he realises how hungry he is now. To try and resolve this, he scrunts along to Grimply and screams incredibly loudly, while jabbing a finger at his own open mouth.
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Feb 12, 2015 22:07
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Grimply, the scrunt bro down Grimply eyes Barry V2 with menace, and is ready to cut his throat. But none of his scrunt bros have backed him up so far, and Yurik even stood up for the humie. Previously, Grimply thought that Yurik is nice but that humie lover attitude makes him a little suspicous. And Barry is here too. He'll probably tell Grumb if Grimply kills the humie, and he does not want to get beat up by a bigger scrunt. While grinding his teeth in rage, he shouts "Yer fackin 'umie! I got me eye on yer! One more fack from you and I'll...I'll....HIIIISSSSS", before running away to sulk. He pushes his way through the scrunt camp, and let's out some of his anger on smaller scrunts that he pushes a little harder than necessary. His mind races as the tries to figure out how to get back at that stinking humie, but then somebody calls out to him. It turns out to be Murdelia. Grimply wanders over to her, but before he can ask her what she wants, his world goes dark. A good hour later, Grimply wakes up behind a dumpster and is confused. Didn't he just talk to Murdelia? Wasn't he angry about something? Why does he wear this strangely well fitting black suit with shiny stones on it? And most importtantly, who undressed him to fit the suit under his clothes? A lot of questions collide in his worn brain, and his psychosis rears up to save it from melting. He had similar things happen to him before. Passing out only to awaken in another spot is nothing new to him. The father probably needed him as a vessel for something important. Yeah, that sounds right. Grimply usually can't remember when the father acts through him, so that must be the case here too. Satisfied with his logic, Grimply scampers up from behind the dumpster, and waddles back through the scrunt camp. A heated argument catches his ear. "Now look yer git, this ain't tha propa scrunt way! This is 'umie stuff! We wanna go back to da 'oles and scrunt like our fathas did, yes we do!" A group of scrunts stands behind the speaker, and he currently yells at some other scrunts that are in the process of making the farm more scrunty. Grimply walks over, and buds in. "Roight, tha fack are yer going on about then?" "These fackers tryin ta live in tha 'umie 'ouses, while there be perfectly good ground back at the Slam Site ta dig good holes in. Me fatha lived in a 'ole, and 'is did too! If 'oles were good enough for them, then they be fackin good enough for me!" Grimply ponders this for a minute. While it's true that old tales talk about the great scrunt holes of the past, this planet puts them in another situation. The old ways, as good as they were, may not be the best option here. "Roight, mate. I'll get what yer sayin, but yer gotta go with tha times, roight? A good 'ole is proper for tha Slam, but this aint be tha Slam. Not yet. This still be a 'umie place fer now. And what do 'umies 'ave? Lots of guns and wheelyboxes! They'll just ride all over us if we jus git in tha ground. We needs ta stay 'ere, to throw tha 'umies back if they come for us! But mate, if you really want ta, yer can make some 'oles over there in tha corner. Then I can send tha scruntlings over and yer can tell them about tha old ways, roight?" The speaker seems to calm down, and thinks about what Grimply just told him. "Well...I guess I could..." That's good enough for Grimply, so he wanders off and his way leads him to the other scrunts that currently discuss strategy over the maps. He gives them a brusk nod, and then listens to their plan. However, he can't do that for very long, because Pernicious Kreb comes running around a corner, screaming incredibly loudly and jabbing a finger at his own open mouth. Kreb pushes through the circle of scrunts, and Grimply realizes that he's aiming for him! "Yer wot, mate?!" ---------------------------------------------- 41 vs 42+10 fellowship to convince the trad scrunts to not be retards 19 vs 47 Agility to dodge Kreb and keep my biomass Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 23:14 on Feb 13, 2015 |
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Feb 13, 2015 23:02
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Grumb Slanger, traipsing about Grumb's disappointment begins turning to frustration as he fruitlessly attempts to round up the remaining combat scrunts for the mission. After finally locating the last of his compatriots, he returns to the rendezvous point with Urok to find that most of the scrunts he'd previously gathered had once again split into bickering cliques and wandered off. A newly discovered vein throbs visibly under his forehead, and he begins to quake with fury. "BLLAAAARGGH!" he wails impotently at the sky, smashing his fists into his ears. Urok lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, briefly discharging a jolt of electric current into Grumb's body. "Oye, calm down mate. 'Ave a cigar." Grumb takes Urok up on his offer, gnoshing aggressively on the stogie and taking a few deep breaths. As he gulps it down, he finally notices Barrius amongst a small crowd of scrunts. His friend seems to have gotten himself into some amount of hot water. Grumb waddles over to the group, patting his hair down flat. "AY YOU! GITCHER PAWS OFFA HIM!" Grumb yells into Yurik's ear, becoming aggressively defensive of his human friend. He begins to raise his fists, when Barrius speaks up. "Hey, hey, it's cool. I think... I think we're cool," Barrius says, not entirely convinced himself. "This pipscrunt givin' you trobble? I'll smack the bowl righ' offa his-" Grumb begins, throwing a shady look in Yurik's direction. Scrunt Barry finally pipes up, interrupting Grumb in defense of the loremaster. "No, Grumb, hones', 'ee was just tellin' off dat weedy snipingman jussa second ago!" Grumb blinks in surprise, taken aback by this new development. "Oh. Well, uh... D - Dang right 'ee was!" Grumb stammers, striking a menacing pose with arms akimbo. Perhaps he had misjudged the wiry little varmint, after all. "Well Gumbo sez it's time ta shove off, so you lot get together by the wheelybox and let's avance this stinkin' plot already!" Grumb whines angrily, experiencing a moment of uncharacteristic clarity. He takes Barrius aside for a moment, patting the scrawny-yet-still-taller human on the back reassuringly. "Listen, Barry, yer one of us now, and I won't stan' fer anyone sez ovverwise. You jes say tha word if'n you gets any lip from anyone, an' I'll lay em low. Unnerstand?" Barrius nods slowly, his devious human mind considering the ramifications of such an offer. "Fer now, soot up! Yer comin' wiff us." He gives Barrius an assertive bop on the shoulder, reinflaming the bruised and toasty tissue. He begins to waddle back toward the chimera, hocking a tobacco-speckled loogie into the dirt as the Barries follow behind. "Wait, Grumb!" a little scruntling pipes up, stumbling forward behind him. "Don' take all the fightin' mans wiff you!" His interest piqued, Grumb turns to face the sweaty little scrunt. He recognizes him as the same yeungling that whispered to him earlier in the barn. "Why'zat, likkle one? "If'n y'all leave, more-a them jeebstealies are gonna crawl up an' eats us aloive! Dey got 'oles, lotsa hidden 'oles!" Grumb smiles, reaching into his companion Barry's backpack and pulling out a battered trench shovel. He hands it to the scruntling with an authoritative grin, and bends down to meet his eye. "Listen, chum, you round up yer scruntling friends an' make a proper scan o' tha perimm... o' tha farm. If you see any 'oles in the ground you fill 'em right up for me." The scruntling salutes him proudly, excited to finally be given a purpose in life. ------------------------------ If anyone's still confused about the Barry thing, I think the best working system is to have scrunts refer to him as Barry and the omniscient narrator refer to him as Barrius. If it still gets confusing you're more than welcome to do an 'old barry new barry' kind of thing. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 18:19 on Feb 15, 2015 |
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Feb 15, 2015 18:13
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Yurik Scraglagger The Farm Malbrathia-3 Devious plans set in motion, Yurik chuckled to himself as he wandered off to do loremastery things elsewhere, looking back over his shoulder to give the humie an "I'm watching you" gesture as he departed...and as such was nearly run over by a limousine doing extremely awkward donuts in the middle of the farm, a whooping band of technoscrunts leaning out of the windows and firing the autogun that had been affixed to it with heedless abandon. "Ack! You cogsuckin' cumberstumps!," Yurik shouted as he fell backwards onto the ground, narrowly missing being knocked bodily across the farm by the limo's rear quarter panel. "What in the scruntfatherin' name o' FACK are you on about!?" "We're! ... Gonna! ... Go! ... Steal! ... Sumfuel!" one of the technoscrunts shouted back intermittently as the limo continued to make its haphazard circuit around the field. "Yer gonna WHAT!? No no no!," Yurik said, stamping his foot and thumping the ground with his thinkin' stick in annoyance. An ambush was a thing of careful timing and precision, of study and planning...it wasn't a place for a bunch of jumped-up machine-humping morons to go driving around all willy-nilly getting in the way of well-laid plans. "Now you listen here you fackin' shower o' scrunts, I-" He was interrupted mid-tirade by Hack tugging his sleeve, quietly rasping in his ear. Yurik's brow furrowed as he listened before rolling his eyes, but he straightened back up and cleared his throat before taking things from the top. "Ahem...I mean, my fellow scrunts. Obviously you lot are burstin' with enthusiasm moreso than brains that's for fackin' sure but before you go tearin' off like a bunch o' wee facked-up wolves, stop an' think for a minute about all these OTHER scrunts here! With us out ambushin' this convoy, an' by 'us' I mean 'not you lot' y'understand, who's gonna secure the farm an' keep everyone else safe from the threat of jeebstealers, or even worse...humies? Nae, we cannae all go, someone has to stay here an' do all that shite I just said. Someone, uh, brave an'...an'...brave. Someone like you lot. What'd'ya say?" The limo continued to drive in circles as the technoscrunts mulled over Yurik's vaguely impassioned speech for several loops before one of them leaned back out the window to reply. "Eh! ... Feck! ... Those! ... Arseholes! ... Anyway!" Yurik glanced at Hack, who simply shrugged. Frankly the technoscrunt had a good point, one that Yurik couldn't really bring himself to argue against. "Ah fack it, well I tried," he said, leaving the technoscrunts to their scrunting and wandering off elsewhere to prepare for the impending ambush. I decided to go ahead and negotiate with the technoscrunts in the limo with my overall 16 Charm (26 Fellowship, -20 untrained, +10 scrunt-to-scrunt bonus). I rolled a 70 so clearly that went super well. Kai Tave fucked around with this message at 01:11 on Feb 17, 2015 |
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Feb 17, 2015 00:47
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Gumbo Bulge, standing on an upturned bucket. "Pirk!" Gumbo scrunts (between a scream and a grunt) at the aforementioned Pirk. The unfortunate young man scrabbles from sleep to a salute like a sack of potatoes falling upward and, when the wobbling stops he yelps "Sah!" "Ver gud salutin Pirk" he says, and squats down awkwardly to pat his young ward on the head from his bucket perch. "Ver gud." He chews thoughtfully. "Wer are we on t'mobilisin, private?" "Sir... I was jus sleepin sir, you were the one who saw." Gumbo shakes his head, downcast. "I wuz asleep too. I slep on this bucket. I think is time to fight somethin. Ambush!" he shouts as he remembers and his tiny scrunty eyes light up with excitement. "THE TANK" he scrunts at nearby Scrunts, "Everybody to the tank!" he pauses and tugs on his beard as a new memory presents itself "an the limos! the clean vehicles! Mos of yuz go to tha limos." He tugs on his ear. "Werrs my sword, boy! Fine chainsey" "Ern... " Pirk holds up an object wrapped in cloth and Gumbo whips the new chainsword free, and - as a bonus - soils the cloth in the mud in a pleasing fashion. He jabs the weapon about for a little while, laughing. "Less go find tha tank an get rollin". Gumbo looks about, its getting dusty now the vehicles are moving about everywhere. "I think the tank is leaving, sir." says Pirk, pointing off into the dust. Something lumbers by about six feet from Gumbo's face. This surprises him but he imagines he just hadn't looked in that direction recently. He scrabbles from the bucket and onto the side of the moving Chimera with surprising dignity, then reaches down a hand to yoink Pirk up beside him. He then clambers up and into the open turret, climbing in face/beard first. Everyone is getting in cars and leaving
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Feb 17, 2015 21:01
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You're Scrunting In The Woods The Crossroads Malbrathia-3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6Cyw0tonwc  click for a bit bigger if you want. scale is malleable; each square comfortably contains the chimera, let's put it that way. If a square contains foliage you can hide the tank there. An overcharged limousine rockets through the woods, hot on the trail of the Chimera. Its occupants are loving life, beaming big scrunty grins as the windscreen is eventually entirely smashed away by rogue branches and rocks thrown up by the APC in front. It plummets down the incline, trailing detritus and scrunts, spinning wildly and coming to rest on the opposite side of the road from the APC. Muffled chanting can be heard from within. Most of the civilians were content to hang around the new farm-camp-filth complex - presumably there will be hell to pay once the hole-dwellers cross paths with the hole-diggers, but the scrunts currently waiting in nervous anticipation have more pressing matters on their mind. Nothing smells quite like a nervous scrunt; elements of hot tramp mingle with an unfortunate young garlic bulb that stepped into the back of a pervert's van, and a certain battery-acid tang begins to make the eyes water even as mildew makes the nose run. This unpleasant reaction, in addition to making the scrunt deeply, deeply unappetising to most known predators, has the curious added benefit of sharpening their wits. Consequently, the Chimera has barely slid to a halt before the scrunts have remembered and identified the key reasons why they chose to make their ambush here. (Kreb has added elements of pea and bergamot, incidentally. Maybe it's that soup he consumed back on the dropship, maybe it's his altered physiology spraying out incorrect pheremones, but regardless, it's putting the other scrunts off a bit as he hunches in the back of the Chimera, gnawing on a spare humie leg from the cookpot.) The area is mostly forest, not so dense as to preclude cautious driving, not so sparse as to prevent hiding a vehicle. There are ups and downs, but it's mostly flat apart from the hill to the south-east over which the scrunts made their approach, and the rocky, sheer crags which the road neatly bisect. A geologically inclined scrunt might be surprised at the unnatural narrowness of the crags, although a narratively inclined scrunt might just write it off as a convenience. There's plenty of similar formations across Malbrathia, anyway. The rock tends to be pretty hard-weathering, but in this instance a bundle of precarious boulders near the top of the passes' north side could easily be dislodged with enough directed force. A tough-looking bunker nestles nearby. Maybe it was used as a tollbooth once, but again, these hard-weathering bunkers are dotted all over Malbrathia, and it's not all that unexpected. Hopefully nothing nasty's living inside it, because it could be pretty useful cover in a firefight, and a decent spot to ambush from. The element of surprise might be hard to come by, though, as the limo full of technoscrunts revs its engine enthusiastically and pounds on its horn. Faint plumes of smoke can be seen on the horizon. What direction? All directions. ------------ scrrunnnnnnt Traditional scrunts are happy thanks to a regular ol' fellowship test. Fearful scrunts have been made happy by a funny solution so I didn't roll. Limo scrunts are along for the ride, so are also happy, although may well gently caress your ambush up if you don't get a handle on them. You have half an hour to prep, still; you have incoming from north, south, and west. The casual eye can detect nothing from the smoke; only skills, only skills have the answer. Bunker will not, in fact, have anything horrible in it, and has 360 degree cover and vision around a more-fortified central pillbox. Like a donut with a... uh... muffin in the middle. There are trees to the east, but nothing's coming from there. Crags are climbable with moderate ease; climbing gear will help. Regular ol' +20 Tech Use to rig a remote/time fuse; you probably don't want to use proximity up there. Failure just means you waste time; ten minutes to climb, five minutes a pop (inclusive of finding the right bomb spots). Failure by 4DoF means detonation. Forest gives cover, you can hide a tank in it at the fringes. Limo needs deeper cover. This is an overview map; combat will get you a more detailed map, although we're dealing with bigger ranges this time. Don't worry if you're primarily melee; there will be stuff for you to do. Oh yes.
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Feb 17, 2015 22:05
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Murdelia Skurvy In a Scruntmera Having a poor recollection of just who organised this whole thing, where they were going and what they were aiming to do, Murdelia has a vague feeling of déjà vu as she is once again carried out of the Scruntmera on a wave of expansionistic scrunts. Grumb appeared to not be crushed by the door this time, at least. She finds herself in a well-concealed spot near the wheelybox, accompanied by a few gently hooting scruntlings and their adopted pets/toys/spouses. "Erm, alroight then, what's all this 'bout now?" she demands at noscrunt in particular. After some peering and prodding she wanders off to find out what's happening from more knowledgable scrunts.
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Feb 17, 2015 22:38
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Yurik Scraglagger The Crossroads Malbrathia-3 "Awright, awright, gather round and listen the fack up!," Yurik shouted as scrunts milled around aimlessly and gormlessly, some running into trees, some running into each other. The limousine continued driving in circles as it had done since they'd arrived. The ride over in the Chimera had been uneventful, if a bit cramped, but now that they were all here they had precious little time to prepare. "We're gonna have a recap so's everyone's on the same page." Scrunty eyes stared back at him uncomprehendingly. "Page? Y'know, like in a book?" More uncomprehending stares. "Aw fackin' forget about it. Just listen up, aye? Right, so we've all got ourselves a buncha vehicles, that there Chi-meera an' some longozines, but y'know what we ain't got?" "A sense o' purpose!" "True 'appiness!" "A big ol' gun what shoots swords all FWOCKA FWOCKA FWOCKA!" "That's right!," Yurik shouted, ignoring everybody else. "Fuel! Logs an' shite are only gonna go so far...we need promethium, an' fackin' lots of it! An' that's why we're here. A bunch of fackin' humies have a bunch of promethium, an' we're gonna take it from'em!" A scrunty cheer went up from those who could actually be bothered listening to Yurik. "Ah, but I can hear you askin', how are-" "How are we gonna take it from'em then?" Yurik fixed the interrupting scrunt with a vituperative glare before thumping him on the head with his thinkin' stick. "AS I WAS SAYIN', I hear you askin' how we're gonna take it from'em then. Well I'm glad you asked, 'cause me an' your Sergeant Gumbo here have cooked up a plan. There's gonna be a convoy, aye? A whole buncha humie vehicles carryin' promethium, trucks an' shite hauling tankers an' whatnot. That convoy is gonna be crossin' this area here," he said, jabbing the end of his stick in the direction of the crossroads. "When they get close, what we're gonna do is blow the fack out of those rocks over there to box'em in. Then we have the Chi-meera in those trees over THERE," he went on, gesturing towards the woods and knocking another scrunt clean off its feet, "an' we have some other fackin' scrunts in that bunker over YONDER, and then we shoot the shite out of anything that looks like a humie," he concluded with a disgusting cackle. "But!," he shouted before everybody got carried away shouting things like SLAM and SECTOR over and over again. "An' I'm sayin' this loud an' clear to every last one o' you scruntfackers! Do. Not. Shoot. The fackin'. Promethium! Do not!," he said emphatically, jabbing Groin in the chest. "Dinnae!," he addressed Grumb (though without the jabbing). "An' no punchin' it with your dagblasted zappy fists either," he added for Urok's benefit. "The whole point of this is we want to take the fuel, not blow it the fack up. You can shoot the humies, shoot up anything else, but if it looks like it's got a great big whack of promethium sittin' in it then leave it the fack alone, aye? Aye." Hack urgently tugged on Yurik's sleeve, rasping and gagging in frantic tones. "What! What is it! Can't you fackin' see I'm...what?" Yurik turned and peered off into the distance where not one, not two, but three plumes of smoke were rising in the distance, and coming closer by the looks of things. "Aw what the fack is THIS then! NOW what? Can't a scrunt plan a fackin' ambush around here for five fackin' minutes without havin' to deal with all this shite!? Someone find out what the fack is goin' on over there! An' over there! There too!" And now you know what's happening.
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Feb 17, 2015 23:27
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Pernicious Kreb, Disgusting There's just not enough meaBIOMASS left on the human's leg for it to be worth gnawing on anymore. Kreb cracks the bones open, noisily slurps out the marrow, and then casts the wreckage aside. He notices the scrunts nervously staring at him, and he hisses at them. It startles them into pretending not to look at him, but given the general eye setup of the average scrunt, it just means they're now staring at him with the eye they hadn't been before. Kreb clambers like a cat with dropsy over the press of scrunts and winkles himself into a place by a viewport. He spots the bunker outside, and yelps with excitement. It's been too long since he's been somewhere grimy and underground. Plus there's a funny smell coming from it. It smells like home... or something new? The two halves of Kreb's brain can't agree on what it smells like, but it smells, and that's enough. He screams and thrashes until someone ejects him from the chimera, and he scuttles towards it, on all threes, using one of his hands to drag his multilaser behind him. Kreb is going to the bunker
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Feb 18, 2015 04:38
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Urok The Crossroads As his brothers prepare, Urok stares at the sky, idly igniting his shock gloves, revving chained spikes through their casing, cleaning bits of farmer from the weapons electric teeth, occasionally munching on a finely seared crumb. The first time he ignited the fist had caught him unprepared, his blood quickened, his muscles tensed, sweat breaking around his temples and a pounding thundered through his head, only abating with bloodshed. The sensation had been...incredible, almost intoxicating in its unnatural force. Like nothing he'd ever felt in his scrunty life. The feeling dampened after the offerings of the runaway farmers, but they were pitiful, a sad sacrifice, like the rats in his tunnels back home, undeserving of death by his new beautiful weapons. The weapons hungered for true combat, and Urok felt a small rush every time his glove sparked to life. The new scrunt, used big words, and talked....and talked. He was talking now. Urok heard his named mentioned, and briefly wonders what happened. He looks around, twirling the beautiful Axe looking for a fight, but none seems forthcoming. The nerds speech seems to be winding down, and Urok has grown bored. He knows there are enemies coming from three directions, and goes looking for his buddy Groin , or a nice ambush spot....whichever he runs into first.
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Feb 19, 2015 16:09
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Grumb Slanger, ambush site Grumb listens intently to the plan, torn between wanting to obey his Sargeant and not wanting to give Yurik the satisfaction of having told him what to do. He internalizes the plan, and as one of the most effective ranged combat scrunts, takes it upon himself to learn as much as he can about the incoming plumes of smoke. "Ah needa better view if'n we're gon' be perpaired fer this ambush!" He rubs his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "Tal'bout, climbin' dem crags, er summat." He looks around to find a nearby teammate to assist him. "Ay Kreb! Gimme a boost up 'ere so I kin -" Grumb begins, but he is interrupted by Pernicious Kreb hissing aggressively at him. Grumb stares nervously at Kreb as he voraciously sucks the marrow from his femur, glaring at Grumb with his unsettlingly serpentine eyes. Grumb slowly backs away from his frenemy, eyes darting around in search of somebody a little more helpful. They eventually locate his companion Barry, who is fruitlessly pestering Barrius about trading a haunch of farmer for one of his last PDF MRE's. "Barry! Come giv me an Barry a boost so we kin get a lookit these plumey smokes!" Barrius nods at his captor-friend, pleased at the notion of getting this burly cretin out of his hair for a minute. He gives Grumb a leg-up, and Grumb begins to scale the craggy rock wall. The ascent is shaky, and about a quarter of the way up Grumb's foot slips from an insecure clump of moss. He scrambles, pulling a clod of dirt and pebbles down with him as he drops down upon a prickly bush. He sustains a few scrapes and bruises, but is surprised at how well the Syn-skin suit dulls the trauma. He catches himself thanking the scruntfather for Murdelia's generous gift, then remembers that he is a devout agnostic. From his recumbent position, he peers scruntily at the crags for several minutes. Perhaps, he thought, this would go more smoothly if he had a plan of attack. With uncharacteristic post-foresight, he traces a path for himself and Barry up the rocky outcropping, looking for secure footholds and roots to hold onto. After devising what seems to be a serviceable route, he gives it another go. His second attempt goes much better, and he is finally able to pull himself and his comrade up to the top of the ledge. The two exchange a celebratory fist bump, and Grumb breaks out his binoculars to get a look at the three approaching plumes of smoke. Barry, meanwhile, decides to make himself useful by examining the boulder pile for structural weaknesses and/or tasty lizards. ------------------------- Athletics test to climb the crag vs 41 strength = 55. Grumb falls, but presumably is able to minimize the damage to himself due to only two degrees of failure. A second athletics test, 41 + 10 Foresight = 28! I figure that's probably enough successes to bring my companion along, so Barry ascends as well. Once up there, they are going to try and get a better look at the approaching parties using the binoculars. This seems like a superb time to use 200 of my unspent XP to purchase the Awareness skill, which I figure isn't entirely unreasonable given Grumb's recent adventures in the field of surveillance. 34 + whatever for using binoculars + whatever for knowing what he's looking for and where it is. I rolled a 46. Grumb intends to relay this information to his compatriots below. If there's time left after that, he would like to come up with a plan for dislodging the bounders. His Bulging Biceps would give him +20 to dislodging them manually, so if that looks feasible that would be Plan A [maybe experimental combat drug would come in handy for this!]. Plan B would be to get some distance and fire on them with the autocannon, which might be more effective at dislodging the rocks at the expense of being less discrete. Plan C would be to wedge his plasma grenade into the pile and tie a length of twine to the pin, which frankly sounds like a terrible idea but it's drat scrunty. HOW'S THAT FOR SOME SKILL USAGE, MOTHERFUCKER Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 20:34 on Feb 20, 2015 |
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Feb 20, 2015 17:56
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