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A Servitor The Base Malbrathia-3 A bulbous, low-rez monitor with a prominent jagged crack running its width projects from the corroded steel bulkhead of a massive slab of an Imperial industrial intercom station. On the screen, the scrunts can make out the gesticulating form of a - man? A human, anyway, at least if the bald head and skinny neck can be relied upon as evidence - festooned with a writhing halo of biomechanics. At least a dozen fine multijointed steel arms originate from a rear locus roughly centered between its shoulders - at their tips wave a variety of fine manipulators, revolving syringe autoinjectors, probes, scalpels, suction tubes, clusters of tiny lights, and other less identifiable objects. Its scalp has been mostly replaced with a hood composed of exposed circuitry and hundreds of tiny tubules, a few of them transparent enough to show the bubbling flows of various viscous fluids in and out of his brain cavity. The waving servitor is staring vaguely downward at something off-screen, its lips peeled back in a toothy rictus that, if one felt extremely charitable, might be mistaken for an excited grin. With a sudden loud burst of static, a speaker bursts to live from its grilled housing above the monitor. KHKHKHKHKIFEFORMS! ATTENTION LIFEFORMS! KINDLY APPROACH THE INTERCOM! The servitor looks up, making "eye contact" with the camera presumably focused on its upper torso.
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Feb 16, 2016 05:49
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A Servitor The Base Malbrathia-3 As Yurik and then Drekk approach the intercom and come into view of its cameras, the figure on the cracked screen visibly reacts with a mix of surprise and shock for a brief moment, before quickly regaining composure. For a long moment it hesitates, before responding. "You are scrunts!" it states, not accusatorily as a scrunt might be accustomed to from humie interactions, but more in the manner that Yurik might announce that he has identified a particular scrap of paper as being a map. "Abhuman designation 48-alpha-3, provisional, semi-sanctioned restricted class 2. Remarkable." There is another brief pause, as the halo of mechanical arms behind the servitor twitch with uncertainty. "Greetings, scrunt, and other scrunt designated 'Drekk'. I am designated Usurbius-1738, but for ease of converse you may call me 'Surb'. I am but a lowly Servitor, abandoned within this fortress due to an unfortunate series of oversights. If I might direct your attention to the open airlock: the debris blocking the outer door has trapped me within this laboratory. If you could kindly find a means to remove the debris, thus freeing me from confinement, perhaps I can be of service to you in exchange?" Leaving it to DJF to make rolls as appropriate for Diplomacy etc., but the servitor seems at least superficially friendly enough from the outset, if perhaps a little anxious as well.
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Feb 17, 2016 22:34
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Surb The Base Malbrathia-3 Surb shows no particular surprise as a third scrunt moves into his view. A couple of mechanical arms make inscrutable gestures as he responds to Mung: "I have subsisted on extremely unpleasant biological samples, scrunt, which are inadequate nutrition and also nearly depleted. I am curious to know what a 'burnt dogthing' is, and also 'rock blood,' but perhaps I we can assist one another in obtaining quality foodstuffs if you would be so kind as to free me? As to 'the garage,' this facility does include vehicle bays, on the uppermost level, unless they have been collapsed." Surb squints a little, seemingly thinking about something, for a moment, before his shoulders - and several of the attached manipulators - give a sort of rolling shrug. "Scrunts are not native to this planet. I therefore surmise you are either unaligned, or aligned with the Imperium, rather than servants of the Severans. So. This facility was until recently a concealed, classified research base established by the Imperium without the Severans' knowledge. A surprise offensive by the Severans pushed the battle line towards us, and the decision was made to withdraw. An orderly evacuation of material and records was planned; however, WITHOUT INFORMING ME the commander accellerated the evacuation out of COWARDICE AND PANIC, triggering the explosives ONE POINT FOUR THREE HOURS PREMATURELY." Surb's arms wave in agitation and a bit of spittle drips from his thin, bluish lips. "I presume the Severans now control the area. I have not been in contact with the Imperial command structure since the withdrawal. It is likely I have been assumed deceased. I can only assume the cowardly commanding officer has been executed for his sloppy and wasteful failure. However that is immaterial now. My research is far more important than the trivial movements of battle lines or the short-sighted and ignorant actions of an Astra Militarum commander. Free me and do not despoil my laboratory and I will assist you in turn. Agreed?"
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Feb 19, 2016 21:09
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Surb The Base Malbrathia-3 As additional scrunts limp, trundle, skulk, and sidle into the growing scrumt around the intercom console, the questions pile up and Surb makes a game attempt to address each in turn. "Numerous subjects of inquiry were pursued at this facility, but I can only speak to my own assignment," the augmented humanoid responds to Yurik's first query. "And for my own assignment, I can divulge that I have been systematically assaying homotropic allosteric regulation of enzymes as regulated by some of the unique cyclic protein kinases found among the indiginous lifeforms of Malbrathia-3. However," Surb frowns, and a six-jointed thin metal arm reaches around to prod Surb's forehead repeatedly with a blunt metal probe for emphasis, "I am prevented from discussing the details further with anyone lacking appropriate opsec keyword clearance. As much as such measures are ENTIRELY UNNECESSARY as though I were not FAR BETTER QUALIFIED THAN SOME IGNORANT BUREAUCRATIC OFFICER to determine what is or is not a matter of Imperial secrecy, I have been implanted with a cognitive restrictor." Surb's eyebrows - or rather, the mottled, transluscent patches of skin over his pronounced skull ridges where a normal human might still have eyebrow hair - rise when Yurik lists the strangenesses the scrunts have encountered recently. "There are many liquid metals but I do not know to which you refer. I believe you may be referencing the unusual minerals found in the area but geology is outside my realm of expertise, although with full system access restored I could doubtless perform some basic queries. But this disease you speak of, can you tell me more? Please, would you happen to have collected any... samples?" Groin's greeting is acknowledged with a polite nod, his scruntly horrible smile not phasing the figure on the screen in any visible way, but Surb's eyes follow the blood-smeared canteen as Groin waves it about. Murdelia's makeshift field hospital activity is obscured from Surb's view by the scrumt at the communication kiosk. Down Jacket Fetish rolled some dice; Yurik finds Surb's explanation of his research, and his excuse for not giving more details, to be completely plausible. Groin gets the impression Surb might want some of his blood. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 22:29 on Feb 22, 2016 |
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Feb 22, 2016 22:26
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Surb the Techpriest The Base Malbrathia-3 As the accusations become more pointed, the techpriest's multifarious attachments wave in gentle unison, and Surb's eyes close as he seems to be bowing to his own monitor. "Be calm, Sergeant Gumbo, Corporal Grumb, Scrunt Drekk, additional scrunts. Please! Understand, when first you appeared I had to consider you might be loyal to the Severan faction. I estimated Severans at least 18% more likely to cooperate in my release if they believed I was merely a servitor... useful, but unimportant... than if they knew I am an Imperial Techpriest. I know, now, that you are not Severans, and therefore happily such subterfuge is unnecessary. Yet I profess surprise as well, Sergeant Gumbo: your, ah, colleague, there, the scrunt with the interesting metal cranial augmentation? He asserted you were unaligned, and yet two of you are officers. Imperial officers? In which service? Perhaps the Astra Militarum? You see... neither of us was entirely forthcoming at first, yes? It is prudent to withhold such details until we can confirm that we have a common cause, perhaps?" Surb hesitates for a moment, squinting at what may perhaps be a very small screen on his end of the telecast conversation. "My position is precarious, as you have amply demonstrated. Without your assistance clearing the outer security door so the airlock can operate, I will die, trapped within this laboratory. I have exhausted every other potential means of escape. Should you agree to release me, I am obviously within your power... I have no weapons, I am not a warrior, but moreover I have no desire to escape. I would much rather reach an... arrangement? My research... I could remain here, in this facility, perhaps I can provide you with assistance? I am very useful! The Omnissiah's blessings I can bestow upon whatever devices and machines you might have. Perhaps I can help in other ways? A mutual agreement, you can bring to me samples, food, water, I conduct my research unencumbered by, ah, human officers and their bumbling. Yes?" Surb's mechanical extremities somehow convey an attitude of contrition, waving gently behind his shoulders and head. His thin lips reveal even more of his skeletal teeth, and a scrunt familiar with human expression might almost think he was trying to smile.
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Feb 23, 2016 20:39
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Surb the Techpriest The Base Malbrathia-3 To Grug's inquiries, Surb seems mostly puzzled; "Doggies?" he replies, as his attachments shrug mechanically, but then Yurik evidently clears up the issue adequately. "Dograbbits! What an excellent colloquial term. You refer to the Malbrathian Lapomorphs, no doubt: large, aggressive, pseudomammalian omnivores. We had several in containment here for study, but due to AGGRESSIVE INCOMPETENCE DURING THE EVACUATION they escaped, and have proved quite vexing! I utilized the limited communications available to me from within this laboratory to attempt to summon the assistance of nearby servitors - true servitors, I assure you - but I believe those few that responded were likely disabled by the, ah, 'Dograbbits.'" Surb leans closer to the camera, giving the scrunts an unfortunate close-up view of his transluscent skin stretched over the bones of his emaciated face, laced with veins of various unhaelthy-looking colors. "I suppose you entered the compound through the tunnels? Unfortunate! I do hope no one was killed." He - it really does seem like Surb is probably male, now the scrunts have had a closer scruntiny of the techpriest's face - leans back again, glancing away from the monitor at something nearby for a moment. "As for the matter of the Astra Militarum. Fascinating. You were abandoned here? Intentionally? How uncharacteristically... creative! Dropping scrunts behind enemy lines, left to their own devices. Well. It seems, as you say, scrunt; we have both been abandoned, but perhaps it is a boon: we are all now free to pursue our own interests, yes? Well. You are free." One of Surb's appendages taps him on the chest, pointedly. "I am still trapped. A deal is struck? Only clear away the debris preventing the outer doors from sealing! I will activate the mechanism when you are finished. Only a few minutes work, no? Not so difficult. Once I am free, well, samples, samples, very welcome, dead or alive, alive is better but dead is acceptable, of course. Samples of the Dograbbits, certainly of use, certainly." To discern Surb's sincerity or lack thereof, those at the console should roll a Scrutiny check. DJF will supply individualized results.
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Feb 27, 2016 01:32
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Surb the Techpriest The Base Malbrathia-3 "Alas," Surb tells Grug, with an exaggerated sad face as one might present to a five year old child, "All of the live 'dograbbits' we held in the quarantine room escaped." Surb then puts on a rather ugly exaggerated smile; "Fortunately! The animal is endemic to this planet... that is, ahah, there are more 'dograbbits' outside! Somewhere. Perhaps you can find them? Be careful, they like to bite."
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Mar 3, 2016 21:05
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Surb the Techpriest The Base Malbrathia-3 Surb stares at Gumbo, expressionless, evaluating. A human might have found the stare unnerving. Finally he responds, the back-mounted halo of mechandrites swaying slightly, one slender, tentacle-like appendage reaching out to gently tap Gumbo on the top of his head. "You are quite the clever scrunt, aren't you," he grins softly. "Literate, even! The Omnissiah works in mysterious ways. Well. I believe I know what you desire, which is the means to control the base, yes? I would be delighted to tell you what you have actually asked for... security codes, although I fear your... book is insufficient to record them. You would need..." Surb extends a thick metal back-arm that terminates in nasty-looking bone saw, holding the saw level above the ground about half-again higher off the ground than the top of Gumbo's head - "...about this many books, I should think?" Surb retracts his arms, standing a little more upright to regard the scrunt with narrowed, bloodshot eyes, down his thin nose. "They would avail you not. The simple truth is that this base is not designed to be shut down and started up and controlled in the manner you are thinking. It is a collection of independent and interconnected machines performing all manner of different functions, along with a local extension of the Imperial communications network. I have not 'controlled' the base, as you might have imagined - rather, I have restored functions by making repairs to power systems that, had the INCOMPETENT COMMANDER ACTUALLY DONE HIS DUTY, would not have been possible at all. You see, in his undue haste, he failed to destroy or remove numerous critical devices and systems that he ought to have, and thus," Surb smiles beneficently, "I am alive, and your people shall benefit as I do. Isn't that nice? But none of us shall fully access the Imperial network, hm, at least not for now... or we should shudder to imagine the terrible consequences we will suffer." Surb lowers himself nearly to his... well, presumably knees, but whatever is within his rather tattered robes makes little mechanical whining sounds and a soft chugging that do not entirely suggest knees. "My friend," he half-whispers to Gumbo conspiratorially, "I have disabled a few, ah, redundant, unnecessary security protocols already. You and your compatriots have mostly unrestricted access to the base functions. If something terrible should happen to me, you would lose a valuable ally... for owing to my, ah, unique attributes, knowledge, and experience, I can integrate with the machine spirits of this place in a manner no scrunt could hope to emulate. But in such a regrettable eventuality as you intimated, you would still have access to and control of the base. Only do not attempt to re-establish two-way communications with other facilities or spacecraft, not unless you are fully prepared for the... let us say, heavy ordnance they would surely employ, if they thought an abandoned research facility with operational systems had fallen into the hands of the Severan enemy forces." Gumbo gets another little pat on his head. It might be comforting, or perhaps condescending... or perhaps just a hard, surprisingly cold hunk of animated metal, briefly pressed against warm skin. "It is better that we remain inconspicuous, quiet, yes? Just a little hole in the ground, nothing anyone needs to be concerned for, nothing anyone needs to bombard from orbit, just to be sure. I'm sure you'd agree?" Once again, you may roll Scrutiny to evaluate Surb's claims, if you like. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 01:56 on Mar 5, 2016 |
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Mar 5, 2016 01:53
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Surb The briefing room The base Malbrathia 3 Surb was warming up to the scrunts. Well. That's not quite true, nobody warms up to scrunts. But, in his own subtle way, the techpriest had largely gotten past the initial waves of horror and revulsion - emotions he was extremely unused to experiencing - that had washed over him when a handful of scrunts metamorphosed, like some terrible swarm of rot grubs emerging from a single bloated Nurgle-spawned cocoon, into several hundred scrunts swarming, sauntering, sidling, loitering, and looting their way through the tunnels and rooms of the underground facility. Surb's scientific mind had overcome those primal human emotions originating in his distant and increasingly irrelevant evolutionary past, replaced by the fascination a biologist might feel as he stares into a maze populated by lab rats. Irradiated mutant lab rats. Gun-toting, irradiated, sociopathic mutant lab rats with a basic, practical understanding of metallurgy, bionics, agriculture, and now, apparently, also logistics. And they had a map. And this Yurik scrunt, Surb strongly suspected was a psyker, as well, and obviously not a sanctioned psyker. That was interesting, now, wasn't it. Surb had, apparently, resolved to be helpful. He had made some basic demands - not to have his body parts (mechanical or biological) "salvaged" by some of the more enterprising techno-scrunts, for example. Scrunts were gently but firmly prevented from converting Surb's most valued laboratory into a... well, "bedroom" was hardly the appropriate word, scrunts clearly not understanding the basic concept of a "bed," so call it a communal dormitory, although what the actual scrunts in question had called it was a "huddlin' heap what fer gettin' sum shut-eye an' nonner yer buzniss wha' else ye facker." Surb had helpfully located a "less bright and more cozy" location for those scrunts - an actual complex of rooms formerly used as a dormitory, although given the partially-collapsed ceiling and the nonfunctioning lavoratories, it was more of a warren of hidey-holes, piles of rubble, and the occasional steel bedframe. The scrunts had been delighted. But Surb was satisfied with restored access to the bio-tanks, from which he could extract all the tasteless, textureless nutrient paste he needed. Which was not very much. A scrunt might get the impression Surb's decidedly skeletal physique was not entirely due to weeks of starvation trapped in a lab. A multi-segmented mechandrite arm levered down from behind Surb's right shoulder, jabbing a shiny little drill bit into the map Yurik had spread across the table. "That is a war zone," he declared, pointedly. "As well you know by now, I should think. The Severans pushed through all of this area, and the Imperial forces - such as they are - retreated before them. I know little more of the military, ah, situation, and therefore, Scrunt Yurik, I urge you to take everything else I shall tell you with that in mind. Who knows what the Severans have done! Looting, or fortifying, or repurposing, or ignoring? I have no interest in the conflict, beyond the fact that it has been absolutely disastrously disruptive of my research. Nor did the former commander see fit to brief me on the particulars." The arm lifted, leaving a little punched hole in the dead center of the map, and the drill bit lazily spun with an almost imperceptible whir as the arm hovered over the map, hesitating. "Nonetheless, I believe I can be of some help, my little friends. Here, the Tartarus Refinery. A major promethium production refinery, on the shore of the lake. There is an offshore drilling complex. Ships come to Tartarus, offload crude into a series of above-ground storage tanks. There's an attached settlement - housing, canteens, recreational facilities, that sort of thing. I should assume the tanker transport you... ah, commandeered? Likely filled up at Tartarus." The drill bit lifts again, moving to the west. "Aeolia. Capital city of Malbrathia 3. At one point the Imperial forces were close enough to bombard its outermost districts. That particular tactic appears to have, ahah, backfired, hmm?" Surb grins toothily. "The locals didn't appreciate their homes being shelled. Seem to have rallied a bit after that. Heh. There, just to the north, the former spaceport. Situated just inland from the sea. The Severans used to export products from both sea and land, and that is a convenient confluence of land and sea transport networks, population concentration, and so on. The spaceport was a natural focus for orbital fire. I cannot imagine the Severans have had sufficient time and resources to restore it to full operability - its functions would require specialist techpriests to repair. But? Who can say for certain? Perhaps they have managed to restore one or two launchpads?" The arm pokes into the paper to the large star icon just to the south of the city. "Andurien Power. That is the primary source of electrical power to the region. The generators are embedded into the sides of the hills, with water from the lake fed in as coolant. It was also shelled, but I understand the Imperial forces were never able to knock it entirely offline. It is heavily fortified." His arm drifts further south. "Loyalist Mechanicus. There is the holy cathedral wherein dwell others of my order. I have not been in communication with the Archmagos there for months. Whoever annotated this map does not understand the Adeptus Mechanicus. Of course they are loyalist! Loyal to the Machine God, the Omnissiah. Loyal to the machine spirits. Loyal to our order. We do not care about these petty planetary squabbles. If the Severans have occupied the complex surrounding the cathedral, that would be of no particular concern to us. My fellows will do nothing to subvert the Imperial war efforts, of course... they are not traitors. But neither will they refuse to tend to the spirits of a suffering machine, nor will they abandon their sacred duties and rites. I do not doubt the Severans are aware that attempts to force the Mechanicus to submit to their will would be futile. Should they attack... well, the electro-priests and Skitarii guards will fight to the death, and thereafter, the Severans will find not one Adept willing to assist them in any way. Their entire civilization would be doomed. I think it likely they have, ah, exercised due restraint, and bypassed the cathedral entirely. " Surb points rapidly to each of the little gun icons scattered across the map. "Military facilities. Generally complexes including airstrips, weapons depots, barracks, and so on. All of them held at one time or another by Imperial forces, most of them scuttled during the retreat... although if the RANK INCOMPETENCE of this research base's former commander is anything to judge by, they were doubtless left in reasonably salvagable condition. You should assume most have been recovered by the Severans during their advance." Finally Surb directs Yurik's attention to the little X marks on the map. "These I have no particular data for. Each is a classified location having some military significance. You can see the Eiger Command Center there to the north; and even farther north, Site Sterm, another research facility quite similar to this one in design, although focused on research projects unrelated to my own. Airbase Mors is a larger complex than these other military bases - isolated on the island, it has a central radar station, expansive runways, testing grounds, and fortified hangars. It was home to the most important Imperial air wing a few weeks past... I cannot guess whether it has actually fallen to the Severans, as they must have had difficulty assaulting it with their ground forces. Perhaps not." Surb fixes Yurik with a piercing, laser-assisted scowl. "There is also the Iron Forest. It is a Bad Place, scrunt. Very dangerous. Very... interesting. Something has happened there, some sort of significant change in the local flora and fauna, originating at Site Zero. I have heard... rumors. I was INAPPROPRIATELY AND FOOLISHLY DENIED access to samples! But Yurik, I do not think you will find 'loot' there, nor fuel, nor anything to eat, either. You and I, we have a certain... hm, academic interest in the unusual, do we not? We are kindred spirits in that sense, perhaps? Then in that spirit I caution you a third time: sometimes the experiment is too dangerous. Sometimes it gets out of hand, escapes the lab, savages the lab assistants, and there is all the tiresome screaming and running and excessive use of heavy weaponry. Yes? If you go there you will probably all die. But if you do not all die... kindly bring back samples. Very thoroughly secured samples." The mechandrite arm waves lazily about the map in a dismissive gesture. "That is everything of any importance. Query for additional particulars and I shall tell you what I know, of course, but you have the summary." Surb gives additional details by request for any of the points of interest, but insists he knows nothing about the "off limits" location, and will refuse to give extensive details of anything to do with the Mechanicus that a techpriest would consider sacred secrets. DJF can fill in the blanks in an update if need be. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 06:56 on Mar 16, 2016 |
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Mar 16, 2016 06:50
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Murdelia Murdelia scrunts around in her stompy armor, looking for anything she can do to help them not get blown up, which in her medical opinion is bad for the health of any scrunt. Realizing quickly that she has no idea how to make the ship not get destroyed, she instead motivates the lesser scrunts around her to focus on keeping the ship from being destroyed by threatening them with various frightening-looking medical instruments including her trusty bone saw. Intimidate, I guess Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 22:48 on Dec 21, 2016 |
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Dec 21, 2016 22:45
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Murdelia The tortured shriek of ripping sheet metal heralds Murdelia's arrival in the tunnel, as she uses the full brunt of her power armour to rip the rupture wide enough that she can squeeze through. Bright lights illuminate the tunnel walls, emanating from the somehow already decrepit-looking despite being brand-new armour's floodlamps, and the cool strip of viewport in the helmet is similarly lit by an eerily unnecessary glow. Now that there's a bit of space to stretch out and they're not actively crashing/exploding/being blowed up, the mediscrunt takes the opportunity to fully stomp around and get the feel of her latest acquisition. A blinking red cylinder icon showing on the inside of her helmet briefly distracts Murdelia, until she figures out what that's supposed to mean. "LETS FIND SOME FECKIN' POWER" she thunders through the armour's loudspeakers, "THIS FECKER NEEDS MORE JUICE PROBABLY OR WHATEVER". Without waiting for any particular signs of agreement, she picks a direction in which she has the vague sense that the grox noises are coming from, and hustles one or two lesser scrunts ahead of her to
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Jan 6, 2017 00:17
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Murdelia Her fellow scrunts displaying the typical indecisiveness of their kind, a thought very briefly occurs to Murdelia to take charge and herd everyone in some coherent direction, but she instantly dismisses that idea. Her job (aside from stomping around in this really feckin' excellent power armour) is to patch up the idiots who took the lead and found something dangerous, not to take responsibility for finding something dangerous. Anyway this was a big feckin' space ship so there had to be places to jack in her armour all over the place, so it didn't likely matter all that much. On the other hand, imminent danger did, and a wiser scrunt (if there is such a thing) does well to notice imminent danger. Which... yeah, Mung's friend seems convinced. Screwing up her eyebrows in concentration, Murdelia puzzles through a train of thought with at least three cars in it. There's... maybe Bad Things in this tunnel, the sort of Bad Things that leave humie bones laying around and that Humies seal the dang tunnel off to keep away. So probably not as Bad as scrunts, but still. But, Drekk is yakking about finding Grox, which are alive and also if Murdelia recalls correctly, not particularly dangerous (aside from the medical dangers posed by severe overeating, a theoretical ailment Murdelia would actually not mind studying in detail at some point). So... where the Grox are... must... must not be dangerous! Yes! Also something feeds them and scoops up their poo poo and probably runs on power of some kind that Murdelia can steal. Having made up her mind, Murdelia thunders daintily down the tunnel in the direction of the Grox farms, humming tunelessly HMM MMM MMM, DE DOOOO, DE HUMMM, HMM FECK RHRMMMM I vote for the grox
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Feb 6, 2017 04:59
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Murdelia It wasn't that long ago that Murdelia would have taken cover in a situation like this and waited for the worst of the carnage to die down, so she could get to the interesting bits. Specifically, amputating the interesting bits from her fellow scrunts, in the name of medical science. But a lot has happened lately and the most recent development was especially transformative. She is feeling really pretty dang invincible in this hulking power armour suit and what's more, the poo poo coming at them on first glance does not appear to even have the decency to be made of meat, which is really going to put a damper on any attempts at necropsy. With those things in mind, the scrunt medic (scredic) stomps noisily out of any semblance of cover and begins mowing down the oncoming... whatever they were... with her most blasty weaponry! shoot the 2-KLMN with her scrunt boltgun as a full round action I guess, don't forget mighty shot and if anyone else shoots at them double team too Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 05:28 on Mar 9, 2017 |
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Mar 9, 2017 04:49
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Murdelia Murdelia suddenly realizes there's a scrunt tugging on her shoulder. Oh. It's Arnika. Oh yeah! She'd been feeling so invincible in her stompy power armour that she forgot that an assistant was available for various convenient purposes and abuse. "SPOT FOR ME ARNIKA" she booms quietly from her helmet's loudspeaker, and then continues to blast away at the nearest death robots. full action shooting, arnika provides ranged volley, shoot the nearest death robots. If they're still in the dark we'll stick with single shot, but if they're illuminated (perhaps by murdelia's armour?) then do a burst or something.
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Apr 14, 2017 17:50
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Murdelia Arnika yanks hard on Murdelia's power armoured arm, and the scrunt pivots to notice the giant floating robot thing, which she promptly hoses down with scrunt bullets (scrullets) full action shooting, arnika provides ranged volley, shoot the destroyer lord
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May 18, 2017 01:56
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