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 Spinward Front, Calixis Sector, anno 39.8721 The Severan Dominate. A coalition of dozens of human worlds that have turned from the Imperium to embrace the rule of the charismatic apostate Severus. Battles and skirmishes erupt daily throughout the length and breadth the Dominate; warzones and lines of combat can shift on an instant, and today's glorious advance may become tomorrow's tactical retreat. The Dominate is the most insidious threat the sector has yet seen. Ork hordes come and go; Dark Eldar pillage at will; strange and curious aliens from the Outer Reaches make incursions; but the real danger to long-term stability comes from wavering of faith in the Emperor. The Xenos may kill and plunder and move on, but the loss of a world to the Dominate is their corresponding gain. The one saving grace is that the Ruinous Powers appear to play no part in this heresy – a world lost to the Dominate may one day be retaken. It is all-out warfare with strained resources. Imperial High Command stretches supply lines to breaking point in its efforts to land a decisive blow against the Dominate. A Spinward commander uses all possible assets at his disposal simply to stay in the fight. A particularly cunning commander may even find a use for assets that have, historically, not been considered assets at all... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpJ6anurfuw theme song to scrunts in spaaaaace  Spinward Front, Calixis Sector, anno 39.8722 “Emperor's Holy Presence Shall Purge The Twisted And Unclean, Honour To The Pious, Smite The Mutant And Heretic And The Alien, Forever And Ever In His Glorious Radiance”, Recommissioned-Decommissioned Cargo Hauler “Mule” Class, Malbrathia-3 Orbit, Malbrathia System Quite suddenly, a brisk voice pierces the disgusting hubbub and babble. “-quisitor says it's perfectly safe, they have no concept of industry and we've not given them any anti-armour equipment. They breed like rabbits and they carry horrible diseases, so best case scenario they establish a foothold, middle-case they disrupt the Dominate forces enough for us to evacuate a few more battalions, and worst case scenario we no longer have to worry about the horrible little shits on our worlds anymore. Once we come to reconquer we can hunt them down and flame them out with Sentinels, it's all in the files.” The main cargo bay of the battered, rusting, creaking, darkened hauler is full - full to the brim – with bickering, yelling, grumbling Scrunts. Hundreds, thousands of the vile little monsters, in family groups or in combat squads, nursing and fighting and scratching and banging on things in filthy tents and rusted lean-tos. The smell to human sensibilities must be lethal – Scrunts consider it cosy. Enormous reinforced vidscreens have flickered to life next to the leaking, malfunctioning nutrient dispensers, displaying a human face. He stares languidly slightly off-camera, and his face displays that pleasing Scrunty phenomenon of having absolutely no chin at all. A worried voice speaks up. “Uhm, Lord-Commander, we're live. They can see you” The face on-screen turns towards the camera. He looks unhappy. “Hrrppmph! Commissar?” A crack, and a yell. The Screen-Face draws himself up, sets his features and begins to speak. “Let us get this over with. My good creatures.” Nearby Scrunts stare gormlessly. He talks fancy, fancier than you've ever heard before. “The Emperor is pleased with you.” Now nearby Scrunts are starting to get suspicious. No-one is ever pleased with a Scrunt, no matter how many times Ecclesiarchy priests have explained to them about the Emperor's merciful forgiveness of their disgraceful forms. “He has a present for you.” Some of the smaller Scrunts are panicking. The general clamor and noise is reaching fever pitch, and it's hard to make out what the Screen-Face is saying. “He wants you to go live somewhere else. That is why he gathered you all and put you on this vessel.” This, at least, is familiar. “He has found a lovely planet for you. It is very big, and there is lots to look at, and...” He squints at the camera, and looks disgusted. Can he see you? “is that right? Well. This is outrageous! ...it is... it is right in the middle of... the Slam Sector.” With an effort, he finishes his sentence, before blurting out “Commissar!” The ensuring crack and the yell suddenly seem very loud, because every single Scrunt has gone completely silent. The legendary Slam Sector! A place of milk and honey, or at least their far more revolting Scrunt counterparts! A place of safety, of freedom to peer intently at whatever you choose! Screen-Face rallies himself admirably for the final push. “Go to the dropships. Bad people may try to stop you. You can do what you like to them. The Emperor be with you!” He settles back, queasy with the knowledge that he has communicated with Scrunts, as the screen winks off. The silence continues for a short while, before the chant starts. Slowly and feebly at first, then louder and raucous, building to a strange gurgling, wheezing roar. “SLAM SECTOR! SLAM SECTOR! SLAM SECTOR! SLAM SECTOR!” Ecstatic Scrunts charge around aimlessly. There is a general air of celebration. Scrunts seem to be making their way to the drop-pods with as much purpose as they can muster, although you still have some time before planetfall. For now, you may as well enjoy the party. –--------- Welcome to the game thread! Recruitment thread is here. There is a general Scrunt Saturnalia going on - you have complete narrative freedom for a bit, with the caveat that any long-term consequences are purely narrative in nature. For example, you might describe yourself making a firm Scrunty friend, but he's not going to join the party or give you a sweet gun. Similarly, you might get in a fight but you won't take any wounds or anything. For now, just Scrunt at each other and have fun – no need to do stat rolls, just describe what you're up to. For preference, wrap things up so that you're in a drop pod by the time I do the next big post. If people are having fun with this I'll hold off till Sunday. Either make up your own stuff for what's going on, or alternatively, feel free to play off the following random Scrunty events happening: Moola, in your excitement your bionic arm has started to make seductive come-hither motions at a particularly malformed family group of Scrunts. The grand-matriarch appears receptive, as do three or four of the uncles. Phoon, you have been inexplicably hoisted up onto the shoulders of a dozen young Scrunts and they are parading you around. Waroduce and FirstPersonShitter, a small group of Scrunts have begun to beat the poo poo out of both of your comrades in sheer excitement. Your comrades still appear to be having a great time. ThNextGreenLantern, several Scrunts near you have toppled a stack of barrels of Scruntweiser in their excitement. Casualties have ensued. Ignite Memories, a series of excitable strong-Scrunts are doing their level best to wrench off the armour plating surrounding a porthole out into the inky darkness of space. Who What Now, a young Scrunt has gotten excited and made a grab for your really hosed up laser gun! Tin Tim, the walls of this place are metal so just do whatever dude. Climb up poo poo and fire wildly, or get on the ceiling and act as a disco ball. You don't have to do any of this stuff, or if you decide to you don't need to do what's next to your name, it's just ideas. Standard TG style rules apply, which boil down to this – put your name and location in bold at the top of your post, put the main body of your post in normal text with bold dialogue, and put any out-of-character text, including character actions and any stat bonuses you remember, in italics down at the bottom. For example: –-- Barry, Back at Base Camp Barry uses the time spent while everyone else is away to practice his increasibly esoteric masturbation rituals. "Hell yeah!", he cries. Jerkin' it. Relevant stats are Trade +10 (Masturbator) against Agility of 38 –- Apart from that – let this hosed up trainwreck commence!  EXTREMELY USEFUL RESOURCE POST
Inexplicable Humblebrag fucked around with this message at 19:05 on Dec 10, 2014 |
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Nov 7, 2014 21:32
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The ship blows up and every scrunt dies The End
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Nov 7, 2014 21:50
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scalded schlong posted:Now nearby Scrunts are starting to get suspicious. No-one is ever pleased with a Scrunt Beautiful.
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Nov 7, 2014 21:57
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Quit posting itt if you're not a player, fags!!! Post in the two other threads apparently dedicated to this game instead!
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Nov 7, 2014 22:08
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Pernicious Kreb, Scrunthold, The Scene of the Ruckus Kreb is aware that Pelt is currently all huffed up on paint fumes, and likely feeling no pain, so uses this opportunity to rifle through the belongings of those scrunts involved in the ruckus. This is not a metaphor, he actually opens fire with a barrage of laser blasts aimed directly at the currently undefended campsites. Relevant skills Ballistic Skill:50 and Lasgun Barrage.
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Nov 7, 2014 22:28
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Scurrilous Scruntson "Mule" Class Cargo Hauler Before the announcement Scurrilous was feeling rather down. Sure, this ship had been a technological wonderland at first and he had borrowed enough parts not only to make the scruntdroid that was trundling along noisily next to him but also his new third robo-arm sprouting out of his right shoulder. It had hurt like a bitch stabbing those copper wires directly into his own spine and his back was oozing a little more than normal, but it had all sorts of gadgets and pokey and proddy poo poo all over it and was thus incredibly techy. But after that the ship was mostly just boring. Every time he tried to leave the cargo bay he got threatened with being shot, and after the first forty-seven scrunts were summarily executed for trying to leave Scurrilous was reasonably sure that they might actually maybe do it. But then, the vid screens had flickered to life. And the man with the giant face had spoken to them, Scur couldn't quite remember most of it because it sounded boring, but then he said the magic words. Slam Sector. Thats all he needed to hear! While celebrating with the time-honored Scrunt tradtion of punching, kicking, and headbutting everyone/thing within reach Scur felt a tug at his side. Some little scrunty poo poo was trying to pilfer his custom gun! The technoscrunt wheels around to punch the upstart little thief square in the jaw. Dutifully SCR-417 rolls up and begins to assist it's master. Imagine a clamp-hand stamping on a scrunty face. Forever. Suddenly, though, Scurrilous was struck with an idea. He simply couldn't wait to get to the planet, so why should he have to. Flexing his mechandrite, he sprints off to the dropships. Surely there would be a way to launch them now and get to the Slam Sector immediately, right? Right?! _____ gently caress that kid. Scurrilous makes a beeline for the nearest droppod or dropship. Tech-Use +10 vs Intelligence 50 to see if he can hotwire one of them.
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Nov 7, 2014 22:32
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Dak Rugby Cargo Bay Worried for the safety of his fellow Scrunts, Dak goes to check on the Scruntweiser barrels. After, he'll see what the shrieking and squirming bodies are about. Relevant skills are Perception 43 and Medicae 50
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Nov 7, 2014 22:38
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scalded schlong posted:Moola, in your excitement your bionic arm has started to make seductive come-hither motions at a particularly malformed family group of Scrunts. The grand-matriarch appears receptive, as do three or four of the uncles. Groin Sklunger Main Cargo Bay Groin has no concept of hesitation or regret, especially when he is smashed, and he is always smashed; his motto is 'in for a penny, in for a scrunt!'. "Ow you doiiin gorgeous?!" he yells at the tiny hosed up matriarch. The Slam Sector could wait a few minutes. Groin proceeds to pull his pants straight down, and waddles towards the family with his genitals completely exposed, while also trying to wink his bionic eye at her. Moola fucked around with this message at 22:44 on Nov 7, 2014 |
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Nov 7, 2014 22:40
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Grimply, somewhere in the middle of the scrunt storage bay Grimply is suspicious of this "emperor" fellow that the humie kept blabbin about at first, but he knew about the Slam Sector so there must be something to it. It's the realm of the holy scruntfather after all, and everyone who knows about the teachings of the scruntfather must be a friend to scrunts. Seeing all the excitement and hearing endless chants of SLAM SECTOR SLAM SECTOR, fills Grimply with a holy energy(at least he thinks so) and he wants to praise the scruntfather. He uses his magboots to climb a large stack of metal crates in his vicinity. He doesn't climb to the top of it though, but sticks to the highest corner. This is important because he spreads his arms so that he looks more imposing to the huddling scrunt horde below him. He then whips out his worn book and starts to preach about the great scruntfather. But since everyone is way too excited about chanting, fighting, drinking and humpin, he has to fire a few rounds from his pistol between them to get their attention. While this is going on, Flet does something retarded and gross that's better left undescribed. Trust me, it's really retarded and gross. Ballistic Skill 45 with my Autopistol to see if I wound anyone or shoot at the ground like a pro. Fellowship 42(and the +10 from the peer skill I think?) to check how well my sermon is received, and to judge what I'll do next. You can also apply a penalty if I failed the shooting test. Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 23:04 on Nov 7, 2014 |
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Nov 7, 2014 22:54
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maaan apparently none of you disgusting little animals know what "you have complete narrative freedom" means so ok we'll do it the old-fashioned way!! Pernicious Kreb Swelling with a terrible euphoria, Pernicious Kreb powers up his excruciatingly phallic rifle and begins pumping his hot lasery load into the homesteads of unsuspecting scrunt families. Even in the gloom of the cargo hold his aim is true (25 vs [50 (base BS) + 10 (short range) + -10 (full auto) + 10 (half-aim)] = 3 DoS + 1 for Lasgun barrage = 4 hits), and the smell of scorched flesh and flaming fuel fills the immediate vicinity, overpowering even the natural stench of scrunts at rest! You hit four things with a powerful laser rifle. I'm not rolling damage, you can decide what these things are and what happened and how many scrunts died and whether anyone nearby gets angry or even notices. You can also decide what it is you find in their belongings but remember you ain't taking this off the ship - this is the play-around intro bit which is why you're deciding everything! Scurrilous Scruntson Scurrilous beats a path through the thrashing scrunt hordes with his tentacular mechandrite, ignoring cries of "OO'S EE THEN" and "SLAM" and "WOTCHIT MATE" and "SECTOR". In his enthusiasm he lunges straight for the nearest control panel, shoving a baby scrunt out of the way where it is trampled underfoot by its doting parents as they crack open fresh barrels of petroleum to drink and bathe in. With a powerful roar and the aid of his scruntbot companion he wrenches off the casing, jams his utility mechandrite straight into the gap, and completely fucks everything up by connecting with a live wire (85 vs [50 (int) + 10 (tech use +10) + 10 (mechandrite) = 70] = 2 degrees of failure). There is a smell of burning hair. You screwed up on the tech use roll. You are now on fire. This does not really have an impact because this is the tutorial - if it was not, you would not be able to do anything other than try to put it out without a WP test, but then I wouldn't set you on fire for 2 degrees of failure anyway. This is just happening because it's funny. Dak Rugby Dak's heart catches in his throat as he turns over his patient. He presses an ear to its side - silence! Total silence! No gurgling or gloshing at all! With a sigh of relief he realises the barrel isn't damaged, and turns to the next one. The outlook is bleak. The spigot is damaged, and an ominous hissing sound indicates it was shaken up in transit. Injured scrunts moan fecklessly around Dak's feet but he stamps them into silence - he has important work to do! If he doesn't get this spigot fixed quickly, it could explode! You managed a standard Awareness test to realise that poo poo, this barrel's going to blow! You don't have much time to fix it, and you also don't have the means - someone with Tech Use and a mechandrite/combitool could weld it back together, but one of those scrunts is on fire and the other is trying to get balls-deep in an old lady, so you may struggle to persuade them to help. Perhaps other scrunts could assist, or perhaps you can figure out something else to do with this barrel before it blows! Groin Sklunger  The lady scrunt is receptive - the males of her group, however, take serious umbrage to Groin's direct approach (37 vs fellowship 26 + 10 (peer - scum) = 36 for a Charm test = 1 degree of failure) and, wracked with jealous rage, charge him! A few nearby scrunts bellow aimlessly at the fracas, but no-one jumps to his aid! Thankfully, the male scrunts divide their time equally between attacking Groin, attacking each other, and attacking themselves. Faint heart never won fair lady! You are in a fist fight against three other scrunts with your trousers down, and your arm's still making "come get some" gestures. Are you a bad enough dude to beat off these scrunts? Or you can shuffle off if you like and press your attentions on other Scrunts but let's keep it from being R-rated, please Grimply Grimply aims his pistol at a nearby patch of flooring and stitches a ragged line of fire in the shape of a grinning scrunt face. Unfortunately, being a scrunt and thus functionally retarded, he did not take into account the fact that he is in a metal chamber and bullets tend to richochet (59 vs [45 (BS) + -10 (full auto) = 35 = 2 degrees of failure = 2 hits because you didn't want to connect!). A venerable scrunt patriarch and his tiny hosed up child bride crumple to the floor in puddles of ichor. Nearby scrunts slowly turn their faces roof-ward in an attempt to figure out what the hell just happened, but don't appear to be feeling any particular emotion. At least, not until the power of Grimply's oration flows through them! (16 vs [42 (Fel) + 10 (Peer - Scum) = 3 degrees of success!) You killed some scrunts, but no-one cares. They care about your speech though! They care a lot! Tell us what they do, now that they care! ----- by the way are you vile beasts OK with me delegating descriptive responsibility to you? I plan to do this a bit more once we really start getting into it (e.g. "this camp has a particularly obvious defensive feature - Phoon, what is it?") but tell me if you don't like being put on the spot like that.
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Nov 7, 2014 23:39
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Grumb Slanger, Scrunthold Grumb sits back, immensely satisfied with himself. He started his first chant! It went pretty well, all things considered. The grungy lot's been whipped into a revelrous frenzy, which is just a couple steps below 'orgy of violence' on the Scrunt Scale of Alarming Hubbubs. Soon he would whip this miserable lot into shape, and build a new society on Planet Slam Sector [wherever that is]. A glorious new society - full of grunting, ominous stares and asthmatic wheezing. Grumb chews on the end of his cigar as he leans back against the cold steel of the bulkhead. Just then, something catches his ear. "AGHH, NOW ALL YER DONE IS STRIPPING THE DENG THENG, GIVVIT 'ERE!" He turns his dangerously swollen head to see a group of moderate-to-threatening-sized scrunts heaving and scraping at the lid of the nearest porthole, trying to pry it open with a slew of rusty wrenches and awls. Perhaps they are eager to get a firsthand look at the majesty of open space! Or perhaps their aim is to vent some of the hideous stench. Their motives are unclear. Grumb begins to stare, in that way that only a scrunt can stare at something. "FECK! YER WEAK AS RAT FARTS IN A YANKEE CANDLES. GIMME AT IT, YE STANKIN' HOSER" Grumb's eyes widen, as he chews his cigar absentmindedly. He can't quite put his finger on it... "I'LL BOIL YER EYES IF'N YOU TALK TO ME LOIK THAT. WE JUST GOTSTA GET LEEVURAGE". Something is definitely wrong with this. Grumb knows, deep down, that what they're doing is not right. He stands up, and hobbles over. "W'ssal this nonsense!?" Grumb spits, approaching the group of inferior beta scrunts. "Whabbuncha feckin' dolts!" Grumb picks up the scrawniest of the group by the scruff of his neck, lurching over to the airlock. "Ainchoo never ate sardines? Evv'yone knows you canna open a can from the inside!" He slams his free hand onto the airlock controls, shoves the poor sap in the lock and spaces him. "TROYIT FROM OUT THEH" he shouts in the direction of the airlock door, before looking back to the group of would-be strongmen. "Barkin' pissed, 'ee must be," he chuckles, taking another big bite out of his cigar, "'e forgot his flippin' wrench!" Relevant stats are strength 41, with a +20 to lifting/machismo from Rippling Muscles. You could roll intimidate too, if this display of raw manliness alone isn't enough to put these shrimps in their place. Ps, I have no problem with helping out on the narrative-building side, as we're all just sort of making up this culture as we go along. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 17:58 on Feb 20, 2015 |
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Nov 8, 2014 00:40
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Scurrilous Scruntson "Mule" Class Cargo Hauler Scurrilous waited with bated breath for the powerful mag-catapult to launch the dropship filled to the brim with his brethren into the void and into the surface. When it didn't happen he took stock of the situation to see what could have went wrong. He had ripped off the protective panel off the control terminal (that was good), he had jammed his mechandrite into it as hard as he could (as was standard procedure), it had started spewing a lot of sparks (always a good sign), and now his stolen Techpriest robes were on fire (wait what-) "FECKIN' TIT-SLAPPIN' WHORE-FARTIN RAT-SUCKIN' ANUS-JUMPIN' oval office-DIDDLERS!" He screams as he flails around like a daemon out of the warp, which only serves to fan the flames. But while that may have seemed like a random string of expletives to the uninitiated or the sane, it was actually a complex command phrase for SCR-417. The 'bot lurches past the control terminal towards the dropship and clutches a very large hose and yanks with all it's might. The hose burst free, spraying the burning scrunt with hydraulic fluid. Dripping with disgusting fluid Scur blinks a few times and takes stock of the situation again. Obviously something had gone wrong and obviously it was the terminals fault. And so his mind came to the only logical conclusion; gently caress that terminal! __________ Scurrilous and SCR-417 are going to bludgeon that terminal until it's a pile of scrap metal. Then he's going to pocket any unbroken parts like wires and poo poo.
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Nov 8, 2014 01:44
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Dak Rugby, Scrunthold Dak makes a dash for Groin, a scrunt Dak seems to remember as having fancy tool limbs. Groin is making a beckoning motion with his hand. "GROIN! Ye gotta help me save the--" Dak is distracted by the brawl which has erupted around Groin. Dak looks around for Scurrilous, but doesn't see him. He notices fire, though. Dak yells into the melee, "No time fer fightin, fellas! WE GOTTA SAVE THE BREW!" Dak flails his arm to indicate the direction of his patient.
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Nov 8, 2014 01:47
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Pernicious Kreb, Scrunthold, The Burning Region Kreb's aim held true. Past the sight of his gun, tents burn, the air is filled with the stench of cooking skin and petroleum fumes. Before anyone can figure out what happened, and who to blame, Kreb scampers into one of the tents. Inside, Kreb probably should be horrified at the discovery of the corpses of a family of scrunts, wounds still faintly glowing and smoking in the darkness, but his addled brain is still fizzing with the joy of destroying things. He discovers, as he goes to loot the corpses, that fortunately it wasn't a family of scrunts at all, but rather a number of overstuffed bags of trash. Unfortunately, as he looks through the bags of trash, he discovers that they do in fact contain, between them, a dead family of scrunts. Kreb wastes no time, he whips out his shiver-shiv (an overclocked metronome that was once used to murder an amateur bionic orchestra by overloading them, it found its way to Kreb after being flushed down a toilet in his home city. When linked to a laspistol battery it vibrates at the resonant frequency of most alive stuff.). He uses it to secure a number of beards to later weave into his mullet-beard. Due either to his diet or to his general deformity, Kreb never developed a beard or really any hair at all, and uses the beards of his enemies to hide his shameful chin. The burning trash in the tent does not fully explain the smelly smells Kreb smelled earlier, and so he leaves the tent to investigate. He finds his answer up against the wall of the scrunthold. His lasgun shots penetrated the tents completely, and struck a number of non-descript barrels stacked up against the wall. They bear the grubby handprints of many scrunts, and the scars of many failed opening attempts, but Kreb's lasgun punched clean little holes in them. Holes, some of which leak some variety of thickened fuel gel, others which leak a kind of greasy meat gel; supplies for the colonization effort. Only the refined tastes of Kreb can discern the difference between the two, and both are highly flammable. Kreb ignores this issue and begins to suckle at the teat of one of the barrels. Whether it is fuel or meat grease, only Kreb knows. Kreb is ingesting substances unknown
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Nov 8, 2014 01:51
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Grimply, stuck to the edge of a moderately high crate pile in the scrunt storage bay, above a mass of attentive and eager scrunts Grimply's try to get the attention of the other scrunts worked, even if he failed to complete the cool scruntface on the floor. It would have been a great offering to the scruntfather, but since it still kinda looks like a scrunt face if you squint your beady eyes, that's good too. Kiling two other scrunts in the process also doesn't really bother him, since they now take their place at the great trash-table of the scruntfather. He envies them a little, and would secretly like to join them, but he knows that the scruntfather still has work for him. After all, that's what he told him when he was all alone on that weird and hosed up planet. He has to guide these scrunts to the holy slam sector, yes, that's exactly what the scruntfather told him. Grimply spreads his puny arms like a bird and starts his speech, and by chance, a gust of wind from an exhaust fan in the ceiling makes his ragged cloak flap around. It also carries some toxic fumes past him onto the scrunts below, but he's too excited to even notice. The scrunts stare at him in awe, with their mouths wide open. "OI! Hear me ye huddle of fackin' scrunts! Tha time for oua salvation is nigh! Tha holy scruntfather made all that is good an' scrunty in tha world, and now he 'as shown us tha way to tha 'oly slam sector!" The scrunt crowd madly cheers, and random blurts of "SLAM", "SCRUNT", and "OI ROIGHT" wash over them. "ROIGHT! It'll be jus' like oua old scrunts 'ave told us! Tha 'oly slam sector with trash piles so 'igh ye can't see deire top! An' with rats more plump than ye belly is wide! THAT'S WHERE WE'S GOIN!" The crowd is extatic by this point. Their scrunty eyes almost glow with excitement about the slam sector as they jump up and down, and the random blurts now also include "RATS", "THA TRASH", and even more "SCRUNT". "Tha lovin' scruntfather spoke ta me in me time of need! An' 'e told me ta guide ya lot into 'is realm. THA SLAM SECTOR!!" The crowd goes totally nuts at this point, whipped into a frenzy by Grimply's words and the holy power of the scruntfather. They jump all over the place, bounce into each other and still repeat their blurts like retarded parrots. Most of them have very red faces by now, and look to be close to hyperventilating, but Grimply is much too extatic to notice it. He closes his eyes, whips his head back(technically upwards because he's still stuck to the edge of a crate pile), and just starts to ramble half remembered prayers and chants, while madly swinging his book around. Since he's so drat into it right now, he also doesn't notice that something weird happens to the scrunts below him. Those with the really red faces start to cough and wheeze, and clutch their tiny hosed up throats before collapsing to the ground. Grimply would never understand this, but the fumes that blew past him at the beginning of his speech were a little too toxic for a scrunt to endure. And since they all were huffin about, they took a really deep breath of the stuff. The imperial crew of the ship didn't give a poo poo what they were leaking into the scrunt hold, because by their book, nothing that smells so awful could be made worse by their waste. Grimply stills rants and reaves, fueled by the power of the scruntfather, so he doesn't notice how the crowd below him falls silent one by one. The crowd itself is also way too excited and/or stupid to grasp what happens to them. When Grimply snaps out of his trance, he looks onto a pile of lifeless scrunts that litter the floor below him. "Oi! Tha fack are ye scrunts doin? This be no time ta slack, we be goin' to tha SLAM SECTOR! On ya feet!" But his words have no effect on the dead crowd, and Grimply gets confused by it. He climbs back down from the crate pile, swearing at the crowd on the way, and starts to kick them while still swearing. They don't budge though. And eventually, it dawns on him. All of them have gone to the scruntfather. Without him. Again! A sudden flash of grief strikes him, because the scruntfather seems to have turned him down again, and he mutters through his clentched teeth. "Ye fackin' scrunts how could ye go without me? It's not fair I wanna be with tha scruntfather too I earned it fack ye fackers.." But then he collects himself, and recalls the words the scruntfather said to him. He is a guide, and that is what he has to do. Be it either to guide the scrunts to the slam sector, or to the side of the scruntfather. It makes no difference in the end, and his time with the scruntfather will come when his work is done. He opens his book at a random page, and mutters a quick scrunt prayer before stumbling off to find Flet. On his way, he sees Groin Sklunger who has his pants down, with his scrunt dong flappin wildly, advancing on a gnarly but excitedly looking scrunt matriarch. Impressed by such a feat of true scruntiness he yells "Roight mate! Tha scruntfather is proud of ye!" before stumbling onwards. Let's just say I find Flet in a situation that's so weird and gross that both of us never want to talk about it. I know how he is, so I just give him a smack, order him to pray three ave scruntfathers and tell him to get his bag and follow me while I continue to preach. But not as hard as the last time, because holy work is exhausting. When the time comes to hit the pods, we just get swept up in all the scrunty commotion, but as soon as I realize what's going on, I'll try to scramble for a good place on the pods while again yelling about the slam sector and so on. Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 12:43 on Nov 8, 2014 |
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Nov 8, 2014 02:22
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Gumbo Bulge, Cargo Bay, approximately four feet from the ground. Gumbo Bulge came to to find himself bobbing a few feet in the air, hoisted on the shoulders, arms and in one case leg or a group of rambunctious young Scruntlings. The last thing he remembered was chugging a keg of something green, distilled from fungus and peelings. It wasn't clear if these young Scruntlings wanted to toast his achivement or sacrifice him to the Scruntfather. Possibly both, judging by the smell there was certainly something burning nearby. The evidence was inconclusive, from one side of the rabble someone presented him with a mug of something lukewarm with a distinct scent of mouse piss, a soothing scruntlager, on the other side someone was jabbing at his belly with a rusty fork. The chanting was no help either. Get any dozen Scrunts together and eventually they'll be chanting "SLAM SECTOR". He wiggled about scruntily, but found the youths had an iron grip on his arms and buttocks. He took a few moments to think - and a few gulps from the scruntlager - and came up with a plan of action. "Oi!" he shouted. This did not have the desired effect, so he took another few swigs and started kicking at the Scruntling nearest to his right foot. The Scruntling slowed, whilst the Scruntlings on his left kept running forward, causing the small crowd to turn right for a moment. He kicked out with his left foot next, and the crowd turned left. In control of the gang, he now looked around for something to navigate to. To the left were some flaming tents - probably best to avoid. Up ahead was a large pile of dead Scrunts - not an uncommon sight, but it wouldn't be much use in this situation. To the right was a little more promising - Gumbo started kicking hard on the right, and successfully steered the Scruntlings directly into an ongoing melee. The ensuing chaos allowed Gumbo to roll away from his captors/fans and out into open air, slamming face first into the deck but somehow not spilling his drink. He climbed to his feet in front of a somewhat panicked Scrunt he recognised and downed the rest of his scruntlager, throwing the mug back into the melee behind him. "Awrigh Dak whas the rub?" Moola, I've added some drunk and confused Scruntlings to your fight, do what you will with them. GreenLantern I'm here to help with your barrel problem but I doubt there's much Gumbo can do. I don't think I'll be able to get another post in today, as I'm out in the middle of nowhere, but I may be able to get a little reception and will check up on the thread if I can
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Nov 8, 2014 11:30
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scalded schlong posted:Groin Sklunger Groin Sklunger Main Cargo Bay - The Erotic Scruntbrawl The three furious Scruntcles (Scrunt Uncles) advance on Groin and begin kicking, biting and throwing their fists at him in a very violent manner. Groin manages to keep the attackers to his left and right at bay with his muscled left arm and his hosed up robotic right arm. Unfortunately he only has two limbs, so he resorts to the unorthodox tactic of vigorously thrusting his family jewels at the middle attacker, in an attempt to ward him away. This backfires, and gives the third Scruntcle ample chance to kick him right in the trouser kiwis! "Awwww, roight in the slam sector!" he winced, as the Scruntcle kicked Groin right in the groin. The other two Scruntcles notice the third Scruntcles success, and begin joining in recklessly kicking Groin's groin with glee. "Ahhhhhhh me sweetmeats!" cries Groin, as the Scruntcles continue kicking him over and over. This brutal display continues for a few more minutes, but somehow Groin manages to stay standing and endure the beating, while periodically yelling various euphemisms for balls. The vicious assault is thankfully interrupted, when everyone in the melee hears a frantic voice yelling close by. ThNextGreenLantern posted:Dak Rugby, Scrunthold The three Scruntcles are momentarily distracted, and Groin, barely concious from the pain, uses this opportunity to pull up his trousers and drops to his knees in agony. The Scruntcles briefly consider a ceasefire, that is until a small gang of Drunklings (Drunk Scruntlings) come running over, and the melee continues anew. Groin cups his battered and bruised swollen swamp nuts with his left arm, and uses his bionic arm, which has now decided to make a peace sign, to shield himself from the oncoming blows of random Scruntcles and Drunklings. ... "Jekk! Where are ya?! Tha booze! Save tha hootch Jekk!" Groin calls out at the top of his lungs. In the distance, despite the noise of the brawl, despite the commotion of Scrunts stampeding in various directions, and even over the roars of "SLAM!" and "SECTOR!", a voice can be heard slowly getting louder, and closer, and angrier. "...drink?!..." It yells. "...FECKING DRINK?!.." It bellows, getting closer. Just over the top of the heads of nearby Scrunts, a bright orange mohawk can be seen swimming through the crowds, like an angry ginger shark fin. Suddenly, Groin's red-headed little drinking buddy Drekk, leaps into the brawl at some speed, as if from nowhere, like a fart in the wind! He quickly begins hitting everything in sight, even Groin a few times in confusion, while yelling various incomprehensible expletives about drink. Instead of fighting alongside him, Groin uses this opportunity to tap out and quietly but quickly crawl out of the Scrunt scrummage, pulling his entire body along the floor with his robotic arm, while using his other hand to nurse his injured plums. His face completely pressed against the floor of the hangar, Groin pulls himself in the direction of where Dak Rugby is yelling about booze. ________________________ So I've left Jekk to deal with the ruckus, and Groin is slowly heading towards Dak to help with the booze. I don't know if I need to do any checks? Moola fucked around with this message at 14:28 on Nov 8, 2014 |
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Nov 8, 2014 14:24
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Urok Main Cargo Bay - Under Some Trash Like a flickering candle in the wind, Urok drops in and out of consciousness under a pile of warm trash. Waves of sound crash over him, muffled by all the waste and rubbage he is under. He hears yelling, hitting and general pandemonium as he extracts himself from his comfy compost heap and attempts to quickly survey the situation through two squinting, blood-shot eyes. Spending weeks in transit on a ScruntWise Ale transport will put a hurt on anyone. Daks yelling quickly gets Uroks attention, and beer is always a high priority, but as he waddles over he sees Groin pulling himself along the floor. Tracking the trail of bodily fluids and oil backward, Urok sees Drek fighting the mob of scrunts responsible for puttin a hurtin on Groin and quickly rushes to join the fray. Urok yells, as he knocks his Scrunty Shock Gloves together, giving off bright display of sparks and live current between his fists "OYE you cunts, no one beats up my friend!" ___________________________________________________________ Urok is getting in on this fight to avenge Groin, walkin in swinging my fists with my Scrunty Shock Gloves equipped.Stats: WS 43, STR 40, 39 AGI and Scrunty Shock Gloves (1d10 + SB, pen 0, Shocking - take damage from a shocking weapon that round, must succeed +0 T test or be Stunned for 1 round per DoF, can dual wield, don't require grip and Peer - Scum. Depending on how this goes, I'll be off to assist preserving the booze after reestablishing good-order. Urok feels at home already!, Just like bouncing a tunnel bar! Waroduce fucked around with this message at 16:44 on Nov 8, 2014 |
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Nov 8, 2014 16:41
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The Drop-Pod Bays With a terrifying bellow of anger, Scurrilous vents his rage on the control terminal. Smouldering faintly where he is drenched in viscous oily fluid, he pounds the console again and again with his fists, mace and head, slamming his utility mechandrite left and right and venting foul fumes from its chambers! Red warning lights and sirens begin to sound. SCR-417 busies itself with slowly sawing through the base of the console, and other nearby scrunts soon join the fray, attracted by the ruckus and the sirens, gleefully taking any excuse to wildly thrash around. The censer fumes make it hard to see, and one particularly small and twisted scrunt flashes suddenly into ash as he connects solidly with the wiring conduit which Scurrilous had earlier drilled into. In a matter of minutes the console lies broken and the other scrunts waddle off to go ruin something else. Spare wiring and metal scraps are free for the taking, and the top half of the unfortunate small scrunt's skull remains mostly unconsumed by the brief electrical fire. However, the blast door leading to the drop pod now appears to lead out into the void - it is only now that Scurrilous realises the purpose of the red lights and sirens. He must have unwittingly slammed his hands into the control keys in just such as way as to prepare the launch sequence! What's more, failsafes appear to be activating all along the drop pod bay - more red warning lights are emerging from hatches, and tinny Imperial anthems are blaring discordantly from the bay speakers. The drop-pods are getting ready for launch! HULK SMASH you get some wires and some spare bits and bobs and half a skull if you want it I guess. Also you started the drop sequence early!! The Airlock Grumb manhandles the scrunt-runt out of the airlock in short order. It squalls and struggles feebly, but is overpowered by the distressingly brawny heavy gunner. It is vented into space with textbook efficiency.  Shortly, it reappears at the porthole. It peers in gormlessly, clawing aimlessly at the fittings in an attempt to get back in. The scrunts on the inside are mesmerized, and begin shuffling around vaguely in an attempt to show due deference. Some of them seem to have chosen Grumb as their leader, a fact that does not sit well with a particularly wizened and leathery scrunt. It swaggers scowlingly up to Grumb and spits its cigar at his feet. Before it can start anything, the scrunt clinging to the outside of the voidship is scraped off by what looks to be a gigantic drop container, heading off into the blackness of space, far away from the planet. Red lights begin to flash as the other drop-pods get ready for launch! if you want to start a beef with this Rival Scrunt or kiss and make up do feel free, if you want to leg it and go do something else also feel free! Some of the scrunts have been intimidated into seeing you as pack alpha. The No-Longer-Quite-So-Erotic Scruntbrawl Urok charges into the fray like a small brown cannonball (21 vs [43 (WS) + 20 (Charge) + -10 (two weapons)] = 53 = 4 degrees of success). He leaps like a particularly feculent salmon and grabs two scrunts by what passes for their necks, slamming their faces into the ground as he comes back up with a roll. Serious facio-cranial trauma would not normally be enough to worry a scrunt, but when it's compounded by sixty thousand volts of high-amperage current, it means they are unlikely to get back up any time soon. The other scrunts shy away in a panic, although a few remain kicking at each other's shins - in particular, a venerable old scrunt matriarch appears to be savaging some of her nephews, screeching something about "ruining her chances". Groin has long since dragged himself away from this horrible mess, but Urok can see his trail glisten wetly in the dim light of the cargo hold should he wish to follow. Alternatively, there are plenty of scowling faces still to knock about here - but what's all that noise coming from the speakers, and why are those lights flashing? good charge, really thick, tight, powerful. you ruined a couple of scrunts quite handily. They are dead and stunned. You can keep knocking more scrunts about, you can go electrocute the booze if you want, or you can go do whatever. --------------- I'm about to go out so I'm going to have to leave it there. You guys will have to carry on scrunting until tomorrow, but think about heading to the drop pods now so that we can do planetfall Monday. Kreb, you can pick from any two out of jet fuel, grease, cheap beer, concentrated acid, concentrated "acid", rancid water, thick and healthy pea soup, or any other fluid of your choice. Other scrunts will doubtless join you at your repast should you wish. Keggers, get to work on that barrel. Either you can fix it up, or you fail, it's up to Dak. Failure options include explosions, toxic contamination, or theft by other scrunts, or whatever you can think of. Some of you got a bit more attention than others this update, I will even that up on Sunday.
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Nov 8, 2014 18:22
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Dak Rugby, 'Round the Booze Gumbo,Groin, and (to a much lesser extent) Prakk, follow Dak to the keg. Gumbo manages to establish a perimeter around the patient, the the miscellaneous scrunts seem to listen and keep their distance, though they aren't quite sure why. After briefly assessing the situation, Groin completely disregards Dak's advice and scruntily pops the spigot back in place with his hosed up tiny robot arm. Dak presses his ear to the keg to listen. Silence falls over the crowd, except for scrunty coughs, heavy breathing, scratching, grunting, and gas expulsion. Dak shakes his head, "We just wasn't fast nuff... dis keg's flatter 'an my nose." Prakk comforts Dak by telling him it's all the 'umies' fault. The silence is suddenly interrupted by an empty scrunt-stein being whipped at the head of another scrunt in the crowd. Another brawl erupts. Dak decides to mourn this loss the only way a scrunt knows how, headbutting some strangers. I didn't want to tie up too much of the party with this, so I figured this would give this situation a scrunty ending and give Dak something to do until I post again tomorrow. I recommend this as another theme song for the thread. ThNextGreenLantern fucked around with this message at 01:35 on Nov 9, 2014 |
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Nov 9, 2014 01:31
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Pernicious Kreb, The Barrels Kreb scoops up a mouthful of the thick green mixture and tastes it. It tastes good. It's kind of pasty, but it has a nice vegetable sweetness and is full of vitamins Kreb has never tasted before. There's only one thing wrong with it: There's nothing wrong with it. Luckily, the barrel of leaking reactor coolant runoff provides the answer. Just being near it tickles Kreb's nose, eyes and tongue. The taste/sight/smell of home. He dashes in to a nearby tent and finds an empty can in one of the trash bags. The dead scrunt in the bag wasn't using it anyway. Kreb holds the can under the trickle of reactor coolant, then under the slightly slower trickle of thick pea soup. He mixes it with a dirty finger, then begins to chug it down.
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Nov 9, 2014 05:31
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Groin Sklunger Cargo Bay, The Dead Booze Having royally hosed up the attempt to save the hootch, Groin decides maybe its time to follow the rest of the Scrunt horde to the fabled Slam Sector. Groin vaguely remembers the giant fancy talking human head mention something about 'Drop-ships'; Groin doesn't know what a Dropship is, but it has ship in the name, which means it probably either goes through space, or through the water. Groin has never driven a boat, nor flown a spaceship, but he is always eager to add more experience to his Scruntume (Scrunt Resume). Groin hoists himself up and slowly begins waddling in the direction the nearest group of Scrunts are heading. Hopefully they know where the Dropships are, and what they are. ___________ Groin is going to fly a Dropship down to the surface, when we are ready to leave the ship. This can only end well.
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Nov 9, 2014 19:59
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let's get it on Pernicious Kreb Kreb drinks deep of Mother Radon's blessings. The faint tinge of vomit from the can conmingles with the burning sensation of irradiated heavy water, filling the small scrunt with the memories of days gone by. His twisted, hosed-up digestive system happily processes whatever vileness he throws at it. Until it figures out the soup. Kreb has never been particularly successful at following a balanced diet. His intestinal flora react to actual nutrients and vitamins in much the same way a bed of desert plants reacts to a sudden deluge of fresh, cool water. Expansion occurs. Several minutes later, Kreb's horrific mutant gut bacteria begin to multiply with alarming speed, venting the usual gases of a scrunt at repose at an exponentially faster rate than usual. Gurgles and growls drown out even the drop-pod warning sirens, and Kreb is suddenly lifted several inches off the ground by his sudden gain of lighter-than-air gases. This situation swiftly resolves itself in the usual fashion, pebble-dashing an unwary litter of scruntlets behind him. They don't notice, and probably get fractionally cleaner as a result. Kreb is propelled forwards and bumps against the wall of the drop-pod bay. Whether the painful intestinal goings-on that have just occured register as unusual with him is unknown, but his gut bacteria appear to have burned themselves out in a frenzied overdrive of hyper-replication. Only the strong have survived, clinging tenaciously to his guts and biding their time to strike again - the rest fall by the wayside, literally. two hundred words on scrunts making GBS threads and farting. Kreb gets a one-shot combat talent that is sort of similar to the censer of a utility mechandrite - half action to impose -10 on WS tests for all living creatures except Scrunts in a two metre radius. You also get a +10 against your next test to resist poison. The Descent https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wiRivDMIYM Scouse-class Self-Contained Orbital Descent Unit "Hillsborough" Scrunting hordes teem and flock towards the drop bay, aimlessly trampling the feeble or lazy underfoot. The sudden shift in gravity of thousands of small, stinking bodies scampering from one side of the ship to the other sets the rickety old tug into a slight pitch. A thinking man would wonder whether such an old, decrepit vessel has the cogitator cycles to spare to correct for this movement and the early release, in terms of launching the pods on target. A thinking man is not, however, present. Groin falls in with the other scrunts as they head towards the whoop of the dropship bays, his eye fizzing and sparking. Dak, his face noticeably flatter from the use it has seen, is perhaps still wracked with guilt at the fact that he could not save the Scruntweister - on the other hand scrunts will consume any old poo poo, so maybe he's not. Grumb swaggers onwards with a small, awed contingent of scrunts following him at a respectful distance, and a fresh, wizened, leathery ballsack hanging from his belt - Urok has a slightly larger, but slightly more battered group plodding behind him. His belt remains sackless. Grimply stumps morosely towards the pods, mag-boots deactivated and slung over his shoulder. With any luck the pods will explode on launch, but he suspects the Scruntfather may yet have a role for him to play. Gumbo, too, has a following - his natural air of authority has meant that scrunts have gravitated aimlessly towards him, under the assumption that he knows what he's doing.  (the face of a scrunt that knows what he's doing) The gaggle of scrunts pick up Kreb and Scurrilous on the way. POD #15041989 is stenciled in thick yellow letters on the blast door, as red lights flicker and glimmer. The press of bodies is SLAM getting quite SECTOR intense now, and the SLAM shouting is reaching fever SECTOR pitch, but that blast SLAM door just won't open! Did someone SECTOR gently caress up the controls in a blind rage? Suddenly, with a pop, the pressure on the yelling horde of scrunts is released! The door has flung open! Shouting, grumbling bodies scatter into the pod beyond, spilling out to take up all the available space! They strap themsel- where are the straps where are the seats Oh. You're being fired at the planet in a gigantic freight container.  --------- have fun!!! You will all, somehow, survive the descent, as will most of the several hundred scrunts you are with. There are several hundred of you, but only about twenty are any good in a fight. That's you guys and your comrades. This pod does not contain an army, it contains a small tribe with a dedicated, elite warrior caste - everyone else will just gently caress everything up if you try to get them to fight. You can probably train them to be useful if you want, or join up with other scrunts if you can find them, but that's more a long-term goal. Always be on the lookout for ways to increase your power as a gang, because goddammit this is your planet and you have big plans for it! Feel free to describe your scrunt being fired at the planet in a big metal box full of other, terrified feral scrunts, but don't feel obliged - this is mostly a scene-change, and we'll have planetfall and some action tomorrow. Now that we're tightening things up a bit, getting into the game proper and off the introductory railroad, and occasionally actually rolling for stuff, I anticipate things slowing down a little, but do still post as often as you find enjoyable. Inexplicable Humblebrag fucked around with this message at 21:23 on Nov 9, 2014 |
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Nov 9, 2014 21:07
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Groin Sklunger Inside the 'Dropship' After much pushing, shoving, and groping, Groin finds himself inside the fabled Drop-ship! He spends a few minutes peering around the place, climbing over piles of compacted Scrunts inside the pod, looking for some sort of control device for the 'vehicle'. "Where'sa gubbins at?!" Groin mutters to himself. Groin spends a few minutes staring into space, lost in thought. A few Scrunts climb over his face, but he remains motionless, his mouth wide open. Eventually he roots around in his gear for an appropriate solution to the problem. He pulls out a detached steering wheel, a relic from the truck he drove the lorry full of Scruntwiser Ale (R.I.P) onto the Cargo Hauler itself. Seeing nothing to attach the steering wheel to, Groin follows the only logical course of action his Scruntly mind can think of. "....Brmmmm brmmm brmmmm brmmm" he says. Mimicking the noise of a truck. "Vrmmm vrmm, brmmmm" he continues. "Don't worry lads I'm a poorfessional! Next stop tha Slam Sector!" he yells to nobody in particular. At which point SLAM SECTOR chants begin anew. _________ Groin is sat on a pile of Scrunts, occasionally turning his steering wheel and making car noises. Please do not disturb him until the vehicle has reached its stop, he has an important job to do!
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Nov 9, 2014 22:22
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Scurrilous Scruntson The Droppod "Oi! Leggo ah me you fart-huffin' inbreds!" Scurrilous curses as he is swept up in a sea of bodies. SCR-412 follows as quickly as it's master can, rolling over slower scrunts without a second thought. One particularly tiny scrunt-child's skull pops like a grape beneath those heavy treads. A few moments later the technoscrunt is packed tightly under a pile of excited scrunts. He tries to free himself but alas the press of scruntflesh is too heavy for him to move very much. He does hear a squeel when he activates his mechandrite's drill attachment, but as funny as it was it didn't help free him. Resigning to his fate Scurrilous looks over to see a familiar face making engine noises with his mouth. "I ken yew! Ya gave me rowbit buddy tha gift o' sight, yew did." ___________ Let's do this! Who What Now fucked around with this message at 02:29 on Nov 11, 2014 |
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Nov 9, 2014 23:22
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Grumb Slanger kneads his ballsack thoughtfully. Everything seems to be going according to plan - His comrades seemed to have made it to the launch bay, and the droptruck was purring beautifully. Through the throngs of cursing, biting and moshing little ruffians his disgusting bulbous eyes manage to focus on the familiar fauxhawked potato head silhouette of his friend Barry, who was happily occupied stomping and spitting an a handful of the unluckier refugees. Grumb snorts a big wet loogie up into his throat, and tucks in his sack. He grits his teeth for takeoff, and slides on his retro 80's cyberhoodlum sunglasses. The world plunges into Gauss Flayer Green. --------- I made us a little cheat sheet, as I was having difficulty remembering which scrunt was which and I wanted to picture everything more vividly. I also put up our friends and enemies, and If you guys want I can add little one-sentence descriptors to them at some point. Maybe 20-30 words, something like that. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 23:40 on Nov 9, 2014 |
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Nov 9, 2014 23:37
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Pernicious Kreb, The Dropbox Having left Pelt to haul all Kreb's miscellaneous stolen crap to the pod, Kreb sneaks ahead to scope out the population of the pod. What Kreb tends to look for in a person is A) whether they have nice things, and B) how likely they are to be killed by laser blasts. Kreb sees a lot of group B, but not so much of group A. The other notable scrunts of the group have nice things, but Kreb feels like they'd be fairly tough to kill, and besides, he might need them later to use as shields or to mooch off of. To pass the time, Kreb asks Pelt, through the medium of hissing and pointing, to pass him a heavy, damp burlap sack. The sack contains a series of bent tent poles, misshapen wheels, and a hosed up tiny shape that is still large compared to Kreb. After a certain amount of setting up, and the location of a properly shaped barrel and fuel source, Kreb begins to cook:  As he (poorly) roasts the hosed-up tiny wolf, Kreb makes direct eye contact with Gumbo and leers. He has also woven the scraps of dead scrunt beard into his own. juggalo baby coffin fucked around with this message at 02:31 on Nov 10, 2014 |
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Nov 10, 2014 02:29
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Drop Pod Urok stands in the shaking drop pod, breathing heavily from the previous fight. The Slam Sector chants have his blood pumping and he begins idly touching his shock gloves together. A delectable stench passes over him, and Urok makes his way over to Krebs impromptu BBQ. Igniting his flamer, he intends to assist in the preparation of Krebs meal. ___________________________________________________________ Roll for quickly flaming Krebs BBQ and roasting it to a finely charred perfection. BS 32. Thanks for the cheat sheet
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Nov 10, 2014 02:59
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Gumbo Bulge, Scrunt Container. Surrounded by other friendly Scrunts, Gumbo was enjoying the atmosphere and escalating stench of the confined space. At some point he had even attracted a lady Scrunt with a rather fetching mutant lobster claw. Someone in the Container, another Scrunt had started up a bbq, and Gumbo's stomach started rumbling at the stench. He looked forward to a traditional Scrunt meal of extremely burnt meat and gristle. He peered about the container, searching for the source of the smell. Then he found it.        Also presented in gif form: 
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Nov 10, 2014 13:45
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that is probably the most amazing thing i've ever seen
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Nov 10, 2014 17:14
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Grimply, in the scrunt box When the drop sirens started to howl, Grimply was preaching to a rabble of wee scruntlings to prepare them for the glory of the slam sector. Their stinkin parents didn't even bother to tell them about the scruntfather, and this can't stand. Not at a time like this, when the slam sector is so close! When everyone started to scramble for the drop pods, the scruntlings followed, and in their excitement totally stopped to listen to Grimply. He continued to yell after them and waddled the same way, and suddenly found himself inside a metal box full of other scrunts. When the doors slammed shut behind them, it dawned on Grimply that this must be the fabled drop pod that would carry them to the slam sector. He was pleased with this, as it's clear that the scruntfather has shown him the right way again. When he peered at the scrunts around him, he could see that most of them were excited and engaged in scrunty activites like drinking and roughhousing, which is pleasing to the scruntfather. But a few scrunts huddled into a corner, and were gibbering in fear of the weird metal box that they were in. Grimply strode over to them, his book in hand, and spoke to them. "Oi maties! This be no time tah fear, this be a time of joy! We's be goin' to tha slam sector! Look at ye, a shivering bundle of scrunts. Pathetic I say! Pathetic says tha scruntfather!" Grimply whips around on his heels, and squints his beady eyes to find a good example of scruntines. His gaze falls on Groin, who sits on top of a pile of scrunts, handling a steering wheel and making noises. "See tha scrunt over dere? He be showing no fear! He be trusting that tha scruntfather gives 'im tha power to steer our mighty box through tha blak space to tha slam sector! Now stop bein' a lousy throng of scruntlings an' make tha scruntfather proud!" The group of scrunts is still a little unsure what to make of their new situation, but Grimply's strong words and the aura of confidence(read: retardation) around Groin calm them at least. Pleased with his work, Grimply makes sure that Flet hasn't run off again, and continues to shuffle around the other scrunts. His gnarly nose picks up a certain smell in the air. A good smell. A smell like something tasty is burning in here. He finds the source when he sees Pernicious Kreb, spinning a tiny hosed up wolf over a fire, while Urok helps out with his flamer. "Ay, this be a fine tiny facked up wolf ye be roasting here. A proper meal ta bless oua journey to tha slam sector. Yes, tha scruntfather surely is pleased with this. But just ta make sure, let me spice this one up maties!" Grimply roots around under his cloak, but is interrupted when Flet carefully taps him on the shoulder. He spins around, ready to scold him, but sees the scrunt holding up a ragged pouch, with beaming eyes. Grimply nods, and grabs a hand full of leaves and roots from the pouch and throws them on the burning tiny hosed up wolf. Most of them catch fire and fall to the ground, but a few of them actually stick to it. The smell quickly becomes even better then before, and Grimply and the scrunts around the BBQ start to feel pretty good. Grimply had no idea, but most of the leaves he threw were Lho-Leafs. Yes, we are now hotboxing our way to the slam sector.
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Nov 10, 2014 19:55
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hc9p6nuKwv8 Scrunt Box 300km above sea level Low Malbrathia-3 Orbit What noble spirit moveth the clay! What gentle dignity possesseth the scrunt! Faced with the prospect of certain death by splatting from a great height, the creatures accept their lot with a grave equanimity, focusing on making the last moments of their comrades as pleasant as can be! Dripping haunches are shared round as the scrunts find themselves curiously peckish, bolting down expertly-roasted, delicately seasoned perfumed meats with gum, fang and scaly beak. Kegs of Scruntweister are tapped, and goodwill to all scrunts is the order of the day. I mean, it might look to scrunts furthest from the fire that everyone else is shuffling around bumping into things, ravening at charred, flaming strips of filthy wolf and funneling septic runoff down their throats, but they are not in possession of all the facts. Besides, that falls squarely within the remit of standard scrunt behaviour. They don't get to judge. They are not the scrunt who gets to judge. Scrunt Box 8000 feet above sea level The fumes and the food lull the scrunts into a reverie, and enables them to forget their current situation – hurtling down a gravity well towards the ground locked in a metal box. Baroque though the Imperium of Man may be, however, they would not go to all this trouble solely to eliminate a bunch of scrunts. Apart from anything else, it's a waste of a perfectly good cargo container. The feeling of quiet goodwill is abruptly shattered as the retro-rockets engage. With a vengeance. There is a sudden ROAAARRRRRRRR as the burners ignite. The yelling and screaming is astounding to behold, as two hundred scrunts suddenly find their heads forced even further into their torsos by the g-forces, and they are flattened against the roof of the pod. The smouldering spit neatly kebabs a scrunt family, pinning them to the ceiling as the wolf skeleton rattles obscenely beneath them. The resultant smell of panic is indescribable, although a talented perfumer might detect hints of “justified suspicion” before their nose shuts down forever. The roaring and the rattling suddenly intensifies, and the pod lurches to one side, crushing the panicked scrunt hordes into one corner of the container. There is a zip and zing of a retro-rocket detaching and spiralling off away from the drop pod. Mercifully, everything shortly goes black. Malbrathia Surface, Two Hours Later Unknown Location https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AthwKDiT2o Green? What's with all this green? The scrunts gather morosely outside their wrecked container. About forty of your companions didn't make it, but at least that solves the immediate problem of rations. Everyone's got what passes for their luggage – their miscellaneous garbage and ale barrels survived the descent, albeit accounting for the lives of several more scrunts in the process. The wreckage itself will provide enough scrap metal for scrunty lean-tos in the short-term. All in all it was a remarkably successful landing, but a landing onto what? The air is clean. There are trees. The terrain rolls gently off into the distance. Grass grows underfoot. Squirrels bound from branch to branch. Birds chirrup faintly in the distance! Where is all the smog, the gloom, the crags, the industrial runoff? The factories pumping out unpleasantness, the dangerous machinery to get stuck in? What in the Emperor's name is this horrible, alien place? A shriek brings you back to your senses – that's more like it – as a small scrunt who has aimlessly scaled a tree begins to gesticulate frantically. A swift shake of the trunk brings him into position to report, and once he has snapped his arm back into place he gibbers about smoke, exhaust, a vehicle in the distance. You have company. It is safe to assume it is hostile. Or at least, once it sees you, it will be. The vehicle in question appears to be about half an hour away at current pace. It's hard to make out, but the small scrunt thinks it's a Chimera APC. No-one has any weaponry that can get through its hull. Lateral thinking and decisive action is required. The scrunts begin bickering almost immediately. –-------------------------- You survived!! Gumbo may optionally take two insanity points on seeing the roasting of the hosed up tiny wolf, depending how badly it affects him. We're about to embark on our first scrunt bicker. The tactical situation is this, courtesy of Gumbo's Scholastic Lore: Tactics:  click for big! Un-annotated here
You guys need to figure out what to do. I would suggest some sort of ambush. No tests against each other, just discussion. Second Prize will be awarded to the scrunt whose plan is chosen to be put into action by the other scrunts. Third Prize will be awarded to the scrunt whose plan is second-most popular. First Prize will possibly be awarded to the scrunt whose vote decides between two neck-and-neck options. Your prizes will be scavenged after the combat/lack of combat. I will lean towards trying as hard as possible to make your plans work unless they are truly, utterly retarded. Questions, confusion, please shout. Extra XP for good scrunty grudge/favour roleplaying, although you've all already got extra XP for your escapades on the ship. Inexplicable Humblebrag fucked around with this message at 21:55 on Nov 10, 2014 |
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Nov 10, 2014 21:53
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Pernicious Kreb, Ground Zero If there's one thing Kreb knows, it's hiding like a coward and then using unfair tactics to murder things bigger than himself and take their stuff. Though this land is unfamiliar, strange and disgusting, Kreb's keen eye can discern analogues in this world for things in his own. Those strange leafy things are nothing but large, disused sewer pipes. Those rocks; a hillock of petrified turds. The pit in the floor; a shittin' hole of the finest, deepest variety. Kreb formulates a cunning, cunning plan, and begins to convey this to the other scrunts via the medium of screeching, diagrams drawn in the dirt, the drugged mumblings of Pelt, and a great deal of pointing. Kreb holds up a couple of frag grenades, points to the large pile of rocks next to the other, non-pit road. He mimes putting the grenades in the hill and an explosion. Then he pushes Pelt on the floor and then pretends to be driving, and bumps into Pelt a number of times, probably more than is neccessary to convey the idea. Then, using his sharp little teeth and claws he tears the arm off a dead scrunt, and scatters blood around the crash site and throws the arm into the road. Then he points to the dead scrunts, then to the buildings, the road and the rest of the crash site and does a general 'spread out' gesture then pretends to be driving and frightened. He burrows into the wreckage of the pod and comes back with the skull of the tiny hosed up wolf and some torn cloth. He puts the skull on his head and acts like a scary monster. Then he takes off the skull, points to it, then points to Grumb, then points to the road and pretends to be scary again. He is very enthusiastic about Grumb doing this. Kreb points to a tree, mimes chopping it down with his laser, mimes sharpening the tip, then pretends to dump it into the large pit. He mimes pooing into the pit also. Then he takes a branch and lays it over the pit. Then points to Grumb, points to the pit, then mimes being scary again. This explanation naturally causes a lot of confusing among the general scrunt population, so through a number of larger diagrams, and some translation work from Pelt, it's established that Kreb wants to cause a rockslide to block off the other road, create a diorama of carnage to attract attention to the other road, have Grumb dress up as a scary alien beast who did the murders, cut down a tree and sharpen it into a large stake, dump that down the hole, poo into the hole (???), disguise the hole, then have Grumb lure the chimera from the road into the pit where it will fall onto the stake. As added history, Pelt explains "Well, uh, y'see, uh, the thing is one time, back home, brrt, vree, ffffssshhhh, Kreb done in an ogryn by dressin up as a ghost and s-s-s-s-scarin' the oggy inta fallin down a toilet 'ole and landin on a spike."
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Nov 10, 2014 23:19
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Grimply, near the wreckage of the scrunt box Grimply got knocked out during the descend of the container, but he had a really good time before it! A much better time then he had in a good while in fact. Another favor from the scrunt father? Most surely yes! He got flung out of the container when it hit the ground, but was already passed out from the rocky descend and didn't notice it. Now he groggily scampers back on his feet and tries to collect what is even going on. Let's see..he was in a box full of scrunts just moments ago, eating the most delicious roasted tiny hosed up wolf bits he ever had. He was also feeling really good, and was happy about something else in particular. What could that have been?, he wonders while picking at his gross and stubby beard. He can't recall it right now(concussions tend to have that effect, even on a scrunt brain), but the last thing he remembers was that the ride in the scrunt box suddenly got pretty rough and then he must have fallen asleep or something. Wait, the box? What box? Is this crushed wreck that other scrunts are stumbling out of the scrunt box? Why was he in there to begin with? Did he want to go somewehere?...yeah, that's it! "Tha slam sector!" He shouts this at the top of his lung, but nobody joins in and in fact, most of the scrunts around stare at him with a questioning look in their eyes. Grimply gets even more confused by this and can hear mutterings like "That runt is cuckoo!" or, "Tha fack is 'e talkin bout?". And now is the first time that he consciously takes a look at his surroundings. This can't be right! There are trees and grass and drat birds chirping! This isn't the slam sector at all! He falls back to his knees, and angrily clutches a clump of grass while going off on another cursing tangent. His mistreated scrunt brain is dangerously close to imploding as the facts around him collide with his expectations and faith in the scruntfather. But his psychosis gets the upper hand, and suddenly it all makes sense. Yes, of course! The scruntfather never failed him before, but he also has no use for a weak scruntling. He wants us to make our own slam sector, instead of just giving it to us. Yes, this must be right. How could it not be? Grimply was never wrong about the scruntfather before, so this is the only explanation. Satisfied with his completely clear and true logic, Grimply dusts of his cloak(or rather removes a little bit of the new dirt on it), and gets back on his feet like nothing ever happened. Just as he is about to adress the scrunts that still eye him with suspicion, he hears a shout coming from a tree. There is also some commotion over from where that came, so the scrunts around forget about Grimply's outburst and scamper off towards it. With nothing better to do, he does so too. In the middle of the commotion, is a small scruntling, motivated by other scrunts to tell them why he's making such a ruckus. He tells them about a vehicle that's coming, and by his description, Grimply can tell that it's one of the smaller humie tanks. Last time he saw one of them, pretty much all the scrunts around him died, and he's not keen on being alone again. Also they still need to make their slam sector, so something must be done. While the other scrunts bicker, he sends a prayer to the scruntfather and listens to his guidance. Ah, yes. That could work. Since I kinda don't want to type my plan in scrunt-speak, I'll do it here. I think the hole is an obvious solution, but kinda doubt that we can get the Chimera to drive over it easily. Humies are crafty! Also, we would probably not be able to capture the Chimera if we make it fall into the hole. That's not to say that the hole has no use though. I think we can cover it with branches and leaves, and then place some scrunts on the other side a bit behind it. The humies will probably get out of their tank, and advance on the disgusting creatures and then fall into the hole. When that happens, the rest of us scrunts will come out of the forest that's north of the hole and board the Chimera through the hopefully still open rear door. When that works, the crew will just get run over by our biting/kicking/shooting storm, and any humies still left on the outside can get attacked by anyone that didn't charge for the Chimera. We may even be able to use the weapons of the Chimera against them. The scrunt bait will probably get killed, but we have some disposable redshirts right now, so whatever. If my plan is liked, we probably need to roll a fellowship test to get them to be bait though. E: I like Kreb's idea about the rockslide, because this would almost surely force the humies to leave the Chimera and go for the scrunt bait on foot. If they just decide to shoot with the Chimera, the lads have to scamper away and lure the humies in anyway. Also, I think Grimply should roll some kind of test to not get an insanity point because the planet is not slam at all. Willpower? Tin Tim fucked around with this message at 00:03 on Nov 11, 2014 |
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Nov 10, 2014 23:56
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Willpower, yep, or take two insanity points. Roller is here, post the link + result in your next post once you make it.
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Nov 11, 2014 00:13
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Kreb hastily revises part of his plan. He believes that by tying ropes to the log before putting it in the hole, they could use scrunt power to pull it back out again. Then the log could be pulled out of the chimera, then reversed and put back in to form a scrunt battle spike.
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Nov 11, 2014 00:28
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Grumb Slanger, crash site Grumb Slanger emerges from the crash, achy and disoriented. Every part of his body hurt. Even having successfully broken his fall with a pile of jagged aluminum, he seems to have been bruised up pretty fiercely. Worse still, his nutsack was obliterated in the crash. With a single greasy tear, he brushes the dirt and blood off of his arms, and stretches his back. His back! It doesn't have a heavy machine gun strapped to it anymore! In a panic, he scampers back into the crumpled 'dropship', digging frantically through the debris - throwing dozens of badly damaged barrels, haversacks and wounded scrunts aside, he finally sees the familiar rusty glint of Betsy, his heavy stubber. He snatches it out of some poor shmuck's brand-new torso cavity, and clutches it greedily to his chest. Ain't no greedy torso going to take his Betsy away from him! Emerging once again from the wreckage, he sees the rest of the scrunts have begun to raise a hubbub. Through the commotion, he is slowly able to gather that there is a box of hostile 'umies wheeling this way, and that they'd be here soon! There is no part of that sentence Grumb likes. Humans are well known for their horrendous odor, and he's had his fill of metal boxes for the day. He starts trying to find a place to hide, when he notices Pernicious Kreb gesturing wildly in his direction. Kreb seems to be formulating some kind of elaborate trap, though what it has to do with dog skulls he hasn't the faintest idea. Grumb thinks hard. He's not used to elaborate concepts like misdirection and guile. Usually he just stares ominously at his problems until they either go away or start firing shots in his direction. He knows one thing for sure, though, that just a few minutes ago they were eating that wolf, and you just don't wear food. Not if you wanted to get anywhere in life. Nevertheless, Grumb listens intently to his teammates' plans - he scoffs at the thought of using scrunts as bait. Nobody would want to step out of their chimera to investigate a scrunt. Grumb knew that 'umies in boxes liked to stay in their boxes, especially if they felt threatened. They'd just blast us all. No, what humans wanted was wealth - if anything would get them out of their box it would be the promise of a reward. Scrambling through the wreckage for a big piece of aluminum, he crudely paints on it with the gibs of one of his fallen comrades. He props up the sign next to the big hole, in hopes of luring the humans out of their box.  Grumb's plan, in a nutshell, is to use the hole as a decoy - he wants to drop a smoke grenade or two into the hole to make it even more difficult to see what's inside, and for all of the noncombatant scrunts to go hide in/around the imperial buildings to the north. One squad of scrunt elites [who might that be] hides among the trees and bushes just west of the crater, and waits for the humans to get out of their box and investigate. At this time our combat squad emerges from hiding, kill the distracted humans and scramble into the chimera - In whichever order seems most appropriate. Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 01:28 on Nov 11, 2014 |
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Nov 11, 2014 01:14
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Scurrilous Scruntson The Dropsite Massacre It takes a little while before the technoscrunt can pull himself out of the tangled mess of scrunty limbs of the droppod and out into the fresh air and a moment more for his robotic companion to follow behind, it's tracks red with gore from the bodies he pulverized rolling out. Scurrilous listens intently to the plans being laid out before them. He thinks for a moment before scrounging in his pack and pulling out thick glass bottles with disgusting oil-soaked straps of what may have been scrunt-skin. "Stoppin' tha' big metal beastie is key but yew do tha' hower'er ya want. But when tha' dumb piss-garglers inside come on oot a thar, I'll take these," he holds up the bottles and sloshes them around a bit, "and wha'evah more yew lot can give me an' ah'll make sure we 'ave oorselves a proper meal a' roast manflesh!" "Oh, an if'n yew need bait fer the trap thaht gimpy oval office'll do yew best." He says, pointing to Groin. _____________ I vote for whatever gets the Chimera to stop and allows the occupants to exit, preferably somewhere we can plan exactly where they'll come out. My part of the plan that I'm proposing is that I'll take my firebombs and however many more everyone else will donate (the more the better, you can't have too many!) and rig up a massive remote incendiary trap that will catch the PDF just as they disembark. I'm thinking that we bury it just deep enough to cover it with a loose layer of dirt and it'd have a piston to push it up out of the ground to explode with maximum coverage. The any survivors would be easy pickings and it'd leave the Chimera as pristine as can be expected. Also I have volunteered Groin to be decoy if necessary. And I will shift my vote to any plan that includes both a massive home-made firebomb and him being in danger.
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Nov 11, 2014 02:21
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Urok The Dropsite Massacre Urok jerks to life, horrified at his surroundings, soft green stuff is everywhere and there is no ceiling. He looks up, and stares at the vast openness of ceilinglessness before being hit by waves of vertigo and vomiting the delicious hosed up little wolf thing he had helped so hard to cook. Moaning, he rolls facedown and begins holding onto some rocks on the ground and caressing them. He glances up again into bright nothingness, light burning through his eyes. The brightness and light radiating from a little ball in the sky sends nails through his skull. The pain drives him, staggering to stand, Urok meanders his way through the mosh of scrunts. His senses slowly recover, as his hearing creeps back he hears the coward Kreb talking about using good ol Grumb as a distraction. He stumbles over toward the crowd to let them have a piece of his mind. __________________________________________________________________ I support the idea behind Krebs plan up until using Grumb as a decoy. I think we should find a way to get them out of their chimera somehow, after which, from a concealed position, Urok can surprise them with his flamer, and Grumb can unload his The conceled position could be a hole dug in the ground and with scrap over it, or behind some rocks and a tree. If we can collapse rocks into the road infront of the Chimera and have soliders leave to attempt to clear the debris, this would be a beautiful setup to an ambush. @Ignite I thought there was some discussion of you having one in the other thread. my bad. Waroduce fucked around with this message at 05:08 on Nov 11, 2014 |
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Nov 11, 2014 04:54
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Dude I don't have a melta. if I had a melta we could just shoot the chimera with that.
Ignite Memories fucked around with this message at 03:59 on Oct 9, 2015 |
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Nov 11, 2014 05:02
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