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Well..cupcakes are mostly sugar and starch, plus in this case some enchanted LSD. Add Everclear and encase the resulting gel around a non-incendiary timed concussive charge and you have a hand deliverable aerosolized dispersal agent that I would now dub as the Mindfuck Grenade. Follow-up with or alter the charge with a secondary incendiary device for Turbo Thermobaric Mode. Probably locally invert all the laws of reality and cause a real fuss.
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Jun 14, 2023 04:02
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You had me at thermobaric E: actually you had me at LSD, but it all sounds good
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Jun 14, 2023 05:27
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Arcanuse posted:honestly with a gnome, another special flower, and the right kinds of flammables we could probably make some kind of smoke bomb that let anyone (in it)/(looking in it) see the weird magic(?) spiritual dream zone we see post-cupcake. I wonder if that weird feather we got has the same properties as the flower
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Jun 14, 2023 19:48
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Trouble on the Rim, Book 2, Chapter 9 Attack on Whale The Fourteenth of December, 347 A.R. Whaleian Outskirts Part 17: Between The Rock and a Hard Place As you make to leave your gaze wanders once more over the people here gathered. Whilst you might occasionally compete for certain bounties, Whale is more than large enough to sustain your various companies, making you not so much rivals as competitors. Here, well outside the city gates where monsters dwell, they might as well be family. Family. Originally a Hobbit term indicating a distinct social grouping within a larger community, characterized by a deep bond of both mental and material, mutual support, based on certain key biological factors that you never quiet got the hang of, the word has come to hold different meaning for different peoples as the Empire expanded to include an ever larger variety of morphologies. Unlike Hobbits, for which such things comes natural, Humans have it the hardest when it comes to family, despite the anatomical similarities they share with the aforementioned diminutives. You suppose it might be because they have to keep track of so much biology in addition to their ever fluctuating emotions, this illogical architecture ensuring that their familial structures are at once both rigid and built entirely on whim. In stark contrast, the Census Bureau of the Imperial Bureaucracy ensures Dwarrow structure is much more practical and easily managed, with each and every pairing ordained by the needs and desires of all parties involved. Built with the core values of efficient community expansion and practical team building experience in mind, Dwarrow families are results oriented, time-gated challengeopportunities. You have many fond memories of your own parental units, only somewhat tarnished by your exile from the mountainhome. As for the other, most common morphologies, you are pretty sure Ducks come from eggs, but how they get into them in the first place is anyone's guess. Regardless, they treat essentially everyone they take a liking to as 'family' and are just as quick to disimprint, should waddlelust or fortunes favour stir their featherclad hearts. Drow you know precious little about, save that it involves Lolth in some manner. You imagine it functions much the same as how Toil interacts with certain Dwarrow functions, through ritual labour, albeit with a more spider focused theme, though from your sparse visits to the local temple you gather that they place great emphasis on both blood and the connections between individuals of note. Perhaps attending a few sermons might reveal more? Other aniforms (frog people, bunny people, various hybrids, etc) are a mystery to you as far as the particulars, though you know there are several important documents involved as you have borne witness to the signing of a handful in your time at the Tukatt Hold Customs, Import and Export Department, as there is some interaction viz a vie recognized pairings to immigration policy. What all this means in the end, for the people's of Rim, is that the word has lost some of its original authority. With so many variations, the true meaning has come to shift with time. Your fellow guildmembers tend to their business as you rally your company and loot to ready yourself for the next round of lethal excitement. The word family still lingering in your mind, as a whisper on the leaves of trees in the wind. Your own company took surprisingly few casualties in your bout with the alligogres, with zero losses despite the imbalance of strength and stature, though you know the others were not so lucky. Besides the dead, for which you can do nothing, there are a few wounded as well, though none as severely as the Drow whom was bored through the chest. Frankly you are impressed that it somehow yet clings to life, but such is the tenacity of its kind. Still, missing parts of its upper torso and bleeding out into the undergrowth, you doubt they will contribute much of anything to the mission. And with them go their two compatriots, the only other Drow amongst you and incredible fighters in their own right. Despite the severity of the situation and the all hands on deck protocol, each imperial life is precious and if they are to have any chance to survive they must get to their temple, stat.  Or do they? Your hand reaches for your pack and clutches the jar of troll paste you bought recently. Whilst it comes with its own drawbacks and is a poor substitute for primordial slime which is said to be capable of regrowing entire limbs, trollpaste might still be able to get the job done, or at least stabilize the patient to the point survival is a non issue. It would doubtless consume your entire supply however, but perhaps the gratitude (or monetary compensation) would make up for it? On the other hand, there are other wounded present. With lesser injuries, the trollpaste could be spread out to alleviate the effect these scrapes, bruises and gnarly wounds have on the mission as a whole, though again your supplies would be used up, and only a symbolic amount could be spared for the Drow, akin to cauterizing the wound. It might give them a minute or two longer, or it may just prolong their suffering. You'd need a combat medic to know for sure and none are present. The third option, to keep it for yourself, is equally valid. You are taking your team deep into the bowels of a Vespid Hive, intent to permanently destroy it. There is no telling what you and your company will face within. Actually, no, that is wrong. You know exactly what you will face as you have been there before, and the answer is Vespids. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. If the other teams cannot hold their attention, maybe tens of thousands. How long could you hold your own, even in cramped corridors, against an endless foe fighting for their very homes? Could you even get out in time, if their bodies clog the tunnels and their poison saps at your resolve? The trollpaste might save your life, or the life of one of your closest companions. 1: You whisper the word family quietly to yourself. What does it mean, to you? A: It's about survival, first of all. Family takes care of family, despite rhyme or reason. You gift the trollpaste to the Drow, acknowledging their bond, and yours to the Guild at large. A Lolthian approach. B: It's about community, the Greater Good. Sacrifices must be made, yes, but even though we sweat and labour, we are secure in the knowledge that the Empire Protects. And you protect the Empire. The best way to protect the Empire is to ensure mission success. The best way to ensure success is to have everyone at the top of their game, or failing that, as many as possible. You distribute the trollpaste evenly, showing your commitment to Whale and it's people. As any adherent of Toil would favour. C: It's all about you. Your own needs, your own connections and abilities. The world runs on this basic principle, that to grow you must get, and to get you must spend, but spend wisely and only ever to ensure that the getting and the growing can continue. In this situation, with your own skin ostensibly at risk, any Quackinite would tell you to look out for number one, unless an even higher number comes up, of course. You keep the trollpaste hidden, earmarked for use only on those directly involved with keeping you alive, well fed and more importantly, rich. ~ Party Thoughts: Skvababt The brothers Loman, bless their hearts, always looked out for one another. Now, though I'm sure you could think of many, mhmm, exciting uses for that salve, I'm of like mind with the shortest of their number. A life saved, is a life saved, no matter what else it may be. Abigail: Wow! You got some trollpaste? Can I have it? I've always wondered what I would look like with a third arm, or maybe an extra beak?! What, it can't grow new limbs? Just fix old ones? Lame. I guess spread it out or keep it then. No sense wasting it on the dead or dying. Mr. Hobbson: I'm here to keep you alive, so with that in mind, I'd share it with the rest if I was you. Strength in numbers and all that. Besides, some good will goes a long way. Khami: Alone in the desert, a camel may only trust itself.
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Jul 18, 2023 18:16
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A
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Jul 18, 2023 18:23
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A
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Jul 18, 2023 18:31
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B
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Jul 18, 2023 18:31
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A + B Use enough to stabilize the drow that they only need one escort to return, if possible, and spread the rest around.
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Jul 18, 2023 19:51
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A
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Jul 19, 2023 03:51
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B. An entire city is at risk, the mission comes first, and maximizing success has to be the priority.
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Jul 20, 2023 13:47
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B
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Jul 21, 2023 03:56
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B
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Jul 21, 2023 06:39
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AB, giving B Priority I'm not worried about scrapes and bruises right now. If we can stabilize the dying drow while leaving enough troll paste to keep the rest of us in good fighting shape, then that's great.
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Jul 21, 2023 15:26
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Volmarias posted:A + B Blasphemaster posted:AB, giving B Priority There seems to be some confusion on the issue, so I'll just bold the qoutes: Swedish Thaumocracy posted:"trollpaste might still be able to get the job done, or at least stabilize the patient to the point survival is a non issue. It would doubtless consume your entire supply however" In short, without a combat medic or other health professional overseeing things, or without a larger supply of paste, you can apply it only effectively to either the Drow OR the minor scrapes.
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Jul 21, 2023 16:19
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Damnit Tommy, we need you.
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Jul 21, 2023 16:32
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B. Doesn't the stuff regenerate, if we don't use all of it? Can use most of it to patch up folks, leave just enough it'll replenish.
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Jul 21, 2023 17:27
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Arcanuse posted:B. Doesn't the stuff regenerate, if we don't use all of it? Over time and to a point; it can be used up entirely. Since you don't have a medic or troll-expert with you, you will just have to guesstimate how much is needed, hence using everything to cover everyone. But I suppose you could leave enough that you think it grow back, but that means a much less effective covering... hence the three current options to limit the headaches involved.
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Jul 21, 2023 17:36
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Trouble on the Rim, Book 2, Chapter 9 Attack on Whale The Fourteenth of December, 347 A.R. Whaleian Outskirts Part 18: Countersiege You walk amongst the groups offering each wounded member a portion of your troll paste salve. Whilst there is not enough to go around to fully restore a lost limb or save anyone from a truly mortal injury, nor repair broken bones, the effect is none the less significant. Applied correctly, even wide cuts and slashes will heal within minutes, bleeding is stemmed in a moment and internal wounds are greatly mitigated. Even old scars and wrinkles disappear as missing tissue is replaced by the tenacious troll hide hybrid, giving each warrior thus healed a new lease on youthful lustre at the expense of a noticeably patchy skin texture when the darker, rougher monstrous replacement interfaces with the natural pigmentation of the people's present. It is especially obvious on white feathered ducks, to the point where one of them almost refuses treatment before being sternly reminded by their company leader that survival comes before vanity and duty, before both. There is a mild tingling across your body, a shiver that passes as soon as it arrived and you feel somehow bolstered, more confident now that you have ensured the greatest utility for the battle ahead. + reputation get, local monster hunter companies of Whale. + ??? Something else is pleased. There is not much you can do for the Drow now, the wound they have sustained is too grievous. Even at a glance you can tell the strange flying snake went straight through them like they were paper. At a minimum there would be broken ribs, perhaps a pierced lung or other crippling injuries to contend with. You offer them the last of your supply, but it is but a band-aid, cosmetic at best. They take it all the same, applying it directly over the heart. If they survive remains to be seen, but they and their two companions are out of the battle. You'd worry, but you have enough on your plate and they seem capable. No more time to waste. Soon, the jungle swallows you. With the foliage growing ever thicker, you skulk about mostly unseen, even as the airborne patrols grow more plentiful with every increment of your approach. After another ten, twenty minutes spent stalking through dense greenery, the jungle starts to thin out again as you enter the deep grove housing the Vespid Hives, towering above you even at this distance.  The airspace teems with hundreds of terrier sized drones and an incalculable number of smaller, non monstrous wasps. Every which way you look, your eyes now more acute and accustomed to the jungle gloom, you spot more and more variations on the standard black and yellow, stinger and wings pattern you are used to associating with vespiforms, as if some insect obsessed toy maker had gone mad with the idea that every handcrafted creation must be unique. Though most are placid and content to go about their beesy lives, the mood changes drastically in the presence of larger vespids, such as the occasional soldier out on patrol. This you notice more as you take in the larger picture, as the swarms scatter and part as their betters pass by. There is no hiding should you go further, your scents are too varied and the hives are on high alert, so you go over what you know one last time with the rest of the team leadership and get into position to push for an entrance as soon as the main force engages their distractionary countersiege. crack! Ah, there it is now.  Another precious tree is felled before the lumbering hulk at the forefront of the Imperial Militia formation, the soldiers behind it steeled and poised to fight off ambushes and to fight at range from the cover it provides. It is a massive construct, easily three meters tall and about half as wide, proportioned as a dwarf but featureless and smooth. Large steel plates have been welded to its legs and torso. Upon its back a large metal barrel is attached with chains and in its left hand is a sharp whirring saw, as if a lumber-mill had come to life. For their part, the militia are covered head to toe in leather, with metal breastplates, gauntlets and full faced helmets or rudimentary breathing masks, such as may be employed in hazardous factory work or in the deeper shafts of geologically provocative mines. They make no attempt to hide their approach and indeed, take potshots at any Vespid that crosses their path. Totalling twenty, the unit is one of five similarly outfitted troops advancing on the hives, each led by another metal guardian in addition to the company officer. For this group, control of the golem is handled by a cleric of Toil who walks at the centre of the formation busying himself with prayer. The keen eyed observer might also notice the lone dwarf striding forward with determination, armour made out of glittering, gleaming golden coins. Face likewise covered, but instead of leather with exclusive, high thread count silk.  Their pace halts at the sound of artificial birdsong, a call repeated like an echo from four other sources further off. The golem lowers to one knee as soldiers surround it to detach the metal barrel and place it within its grasp. More birdsong, and everyone returns to their positions. Some ten seconds later, the golem stirs, catapulting the barrel unnervingly straight as drones and wasps and other Vespids weave through the air, impacting the upper hive with a dull thud, the full force absorbed by the honeylaced malleable hive superstructure. What first appears ineffective however soon turns out be not the case, as the container, now embedded, starts to fizzle and melt, extruding it's emerald green liquid contents down the side of the insect fortress home. The effect is immediate. As more barrels rain down from elsewhere, swarms of Vespid thick enough to provide shade from the sun rise from hidden openings all along the walls, the drones that hereunto had flitted about retreat high into the sky and the lesser critters in all of their manifold niches go berserk with rage, attacking anything and everything nonvespid in range. As all sound and possibility of communication is drowned out by the beating of a million angry wings, each company embarks on their own objectives, with the ones nearest to you beelininig for the entrance you had found earlier. Bereft of barrels, the nearest golem takes to heaving rocks instead, aiming to down the biggest monster-wasps before they reach the front lines. Arrows, javelins and alchemical smoke rains down into the ravaging horde thrown with accuracy and zeal to goad the enemy away from your position, poisons to deny them advantageous ground wherever possible. The Whaleian militia will use every edge it can get, use every trick at their disposal to advance. Everything it seems, except fire. Not for some deeply rooted ancestral fear of an uncontrollable spread, nor wish to preserve the natural beauty of the jungle, but for a far more pragmatic reason: collapsing the hives at this juncture would be detrimental to your mission. The queen rests far below and even if she perished, some other noble would eventually inherit the throne, restarting the cycle of violence that you mean to end. No, what Whale needs to survive is not superior firepower; it is for the Monster Hunters to do what they do best. Hunt monsters. On their own turf, in their own hive. To take them all down, leaving no survivors. --- 1: For the next part of the battle, I would like to... A: Continue as per usual, piloting Our Hero in his decent into the Hive. B: Have a change of pace, piloting the mysterious golden dwarf. C: Are you kidding me? Giant golem! D: Watch a best-off, cinematic sweeping shots with less decisions are more gore.
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Sep 23, 2023 20:35
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D, all options are tempting, I want to know what the golden armor cleric or whatever is going to do.
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Sep 23, 2023 21:02
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A!! Our hero is gonna do some spelunking!
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Sep 23, 2023 21:20
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C Get in the Eva!
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Sep 23, 2023 22:16
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C. It's a lovely day in the jungle and you are a toilish golem.
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Sep 23, 2023 23:27
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B
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Sep 23, 2023 23:50
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D
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Sep 24, 2023 04:03
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Give us the D
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Sep 24, 2023 05:48
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D
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Sep 24, 2023 13:12
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E. Team up with the Gold Dwarf to stick Nazom Stegeth on top of a golem, become mobile field artillery-equipped mech with ITEC serving as a light infantry escort.
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Sep 25, 2023 02:11
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Trouble on the Rim, Book 2, Chapter 9 Attack on Whale The Fourteenth of December, 347 A.R. Whaleian Outskirts Part 19: The Charge You are a tool of Toil. An instrument of excavation, ferrying and careful, precise positioning of volatile alchemicals. But like all good tools, you are multipurpose. Your parameters though literally writ in stone, have leeway built in for emergencies. Seals of wax and iron have been broken for you, and a new, priority directive has been entered. Today, you will do harm.  Incense smoke runs through your interior piping, massaging holy heatcoils and pushing hydraulics to engage your motivators. Your selfless senses accepts a series of complex, verbal commands from the current primary manager and you follow them to the letter, details of the why left wholly unexplored. Before you is a series of killing tasks and a system of bounties, a complex formulae set up by The Lord Thy God to maximise combat efficiency. Scanning your environs reveals an abundance of high value targets such that a mortal would find themselves overwhelmed with choice. You have no such complications. One grouping exceeds the others in terms of value to cost, opportunity to hazard. Revving your buzzsaw you pounce, cutting a sudden swath through the Vespid - filled airspace surrounding the heretical hives. An internal tally ticks, ever upward, as sensors and censors compete to compute your next move. ~ You have never seen so much of anything, as the insects swarming all around. Not even the busiest days at the many markets of Rim (the City, not the Empire) hold a candle to the buzz in the air, though the noise level is comparable. You rack your mind for any shred of information from your schooling that might be of aid. Every monster has their weaknesses of course, but what does that matter when they are without end? Your arsenal is peculiar, at once limited and limitless, but you'd prefer to keep most of your resources for true emergencies, or better yet, forever. Still, you can't rely on skill alone, and your experience is lacklustre compared to the throng of professionals that have joined the campaign. No, as the Goddess teaches, you have to spend money to make money. Reluctantly you tear a golden coin from your coif and flip it into the air, where it catches the sunlight just so and transforms into a golden scourge that flies back to your hand as if pulled by magnets. Grinning with a sudden understanding, you charge into the fray, vaulting and spinning to win. Price be! ~ Just as you practised. Shield up, crossbow at the ready. Trust in your company, your commander, your Empire. If you had the luxury you'd clutch some symbol or keepsake, such as would have comforted you before when things looked grim. This time, things were different. Everyone depended on you to do your part. There was no room for cowardice or bravery, only duty to the mission at hand. Kill as many wasp-things as possible, the bigger the better. You took aim and fired into the sky without bothering to confirm the hit. What did it matter when there were thousands more? Whale needed you to keep it safe, just as it had your father and your fathers father before you. A silken thread connecting you to the past, and your past to the future. ~ As the battle begins in earnest, you, Thorgrim, push together with the members of ISTEC to reach the outer wall of the compounds, trusting memory and firepower when all else is lacking. The distraction provided has thinned the opposition you face as you approach, but the Hive has been agitated, and more Vespids reinforcements pour out of every opening with every passing minute. Worst of all, it's not just drones that spew forth, but soldiers and more dedicated hunter-killers. An expertly fired arrow severs head from torso of the nearest warriorbee, allowing you to close the gap and, together with Mr Hubbson, fend of two more Vespid grunts as Khami, swinging his chains overhead in a wide circle, attempts to offer a modicum of protection from skyward foes. All things considered it is not long before brittle shell fragments and ichor stains your armour as well as the battlefield. Abigail gives the largest Vespid a good whack across the thorax with her staff, chipping some of its armour and causing it to stumble momentarily, though unfortunately not killing it outright. It soon regains its... winging? and lunges for her with a thorn covered front limb, raking her shiny new Vespid Carapace Prototype scalemail to little effect, in the first true test of its toughness. Evidentially, the Hive never expected to fight their own. There is a rumble overhead as a large boulder impacts the upper megastructure, puncturing a hole in the honeyglazed walls and squashing untold bugs within. - Surrounded by a pile of broken insect bodies, sitting down amidst chitin shards and viscera you take a moment to breath as the larger mass of creatures start to purposefully avoid you, or at least the small hill of their dead kin of which you are the centre. Your armour, stained and lighter than before is none the worse for wear and you've only accrued a few minor stings and scratches so far, thanks in no small part to the quality of the life insurance policy granted you by the Unified World Church and your Goddess, Quackeen. The main issue out here, you muse, is going to be mobility, what with all your foes capable of flight. You'll have to dip into your warchest once more to tip the scales in your favour.  Ripping three golden discs from your sleeve and throwing them in the air, you breath deep of the fumes as daylight burns them to ash in an instant. With a reverent bow and a flex of your newly gilded calves, you leap with invigorated zeal out of your 'insect exclusion zone' and into another, thick cloud of Vespids to extract liquid assets from. - Set the bolt, point, fire. No time to aim. No need, either. The sky is wings, stingers and claws. You duck down behind your tower shield to lodge another bolt, feel hot impact through your back. Another dent for the steel. You angle the crossbow over your left shoulder and fire almost blindly into the air, ripping something yellow in half, good, good. Keep up the tempo. Your free hand swats a wasp the size of a hummingbird away from your visor and it tumbles to the undergrowth in a daze before one of your fellow soldiers crushes it underfoot entirely by accident, as they are slowly pushed back by a combination of fear and survival instinct, a slew of warrior Vespid in hot pursuit. You throw a rock to distract them and though one does break off, your comrade is still outnumbered three to one. - It does not occur to you that you likely will not make it out alive, but are you even alive to begin with? Certainly there is a drive within you to accomplish your goals, and like the other lifeforms around you, there are essential maintenance tasks to keep you running in good order. Your fist, like steel rebar, crushes a creature a tenth your size against a tree that towers into the sky, shaking it to its roots in a spray of bark and bee as you consider the path ahead, which way would be more likely to bring you into contact with hostile organics, less likely to contain obstructions? What is the fundamental property by which you differ from the deceased? Beyond your ability to generate more examples of the former, it does not truly matter to whatever passes as the 'you' within the self. As far as 'you' are concerned, life is but a set list of tasks to check off, one by one, until the list runs out and a new one is provided. You plough through dense brush, fallen trees and the splattering of insect upon your mighty frame, fixated to the point of obsession upon a spot some five meters of to the side of the hive, helpfully marked with a bright red A to mark the first real stage of the assault. - The canopy overhead disappears as you make a break for one of the many maintenance tunnels dotting the underside of Hive One. Squirming drones are squished underfoot as the teams push in, warrior bugs effortlessly dispatched by your superior firepower and their limited mobility. Signs of conflict are everywhere, with many chambers passed already containing dead or dying Vespids, the trail leading somewhere down below. You quickly reach one of the main crossroads and from here you begin to recognise your surroundings from your last visit, making note on a hazily sketched map of where you think you are compared to before and to where you are going.  A very rough sketch of the combat arena. Green boxes are distractionary troops. Gray circles are the golems you saw on the way in. The Dark yellow circle is the Paladin that decided to tag along. Red X’s mark places that need to be demolished, and the one at the crossroads next tot he crown-chamber is where you are currently at. The crown chamber in this hive has already been dealt with (by you). You share your findings with the other teams and split up, each captain present deciding what is the best course of action for their group. For your part, you head north hoping to find your way further in, and eventually down to your final destination, the ‘roots’ of the hives that serve as highways for inter-hive traffic and logistics. Finding won’t be especially hard considering the constant stream of workers flooding out of and into the area as the Hive Leadership struggles to thwart the sudden siege as well as contain the intruders, all the while dealing with large-scale alchemical warefare from without. And soon enough hopefully, within. It is at this point you notice you have company. A dwarf on the shorter end of the spectrum is tailing you, introducing himself as Mr. Anvilfoot, from the guild. He is your appointed sapper and in charge of demolitions. Your grin widens considerably when you look over his bulging pack. “Can I?” “No.” A frown. “Not yet.” A grin. A knowing smile. “Just keep me safe for now, I’ll try to stay out of your way.” Almost as if on queue, you hear explosions muffled by the thick hexagonal walls, feel the stale hive air vibrate with the beat of hurried wings and scrambling claws. Sickly-sweet mortar rains from the ceiling and more drones fall down from the floor above even as those that were already present begin crawling on-top of eachother to plug the hole with their special brand of worker-vespid slime. You storm ahead, stopped only briefly by a pair of warriors whom you and Mr.Hobbson dispatch with all haste, moving further and deeper with each passing moment. There is another explosion from the south-east, no doubt one of the other sapper-teams deciding to speed up the demolition schedule in light of heavy opposition. You shudder to think what else it might be. Coming now to another, large chamber surrounded by corridors leading every which way, you surmise yourself to be close, especially as you notice the largest tunnel of them all leading down into darkness. But before you can delve any further you find yourself face to face with a somewhat more formidable foe than those you have faced so far; a full squadron of warriors and aerial scouts, as well as two beeheemoths who seep out of the honeywork like ants to a picnic. They spot you instantly and fly, scoot and bumble into formation, ready to defend their home.  [ISTEC Forces]  You. Jack-of-all-trades, Melee Defence. War-axe and shield, hand crossbow.  Mr. Hobbson, Melee Offence. Sword.  Abigail, Melee Offence. Iron-reinforced calcified slime staff. Training claymore.  Khami, Melee Utility. Iron chains.  Skvababt. Ranged Offence. [On-Loan]  Mr. Anvilfoot. Demolitions. [ISTEC Inventory] 1: Whats the plan? A: Engage Autobattle.exe! You and your troops will fight to the best of their abilities, moving things along at the cost of more nuanced control. B: Fight Defensively You'll be here for a while, better not risk anything. C: Fight Offensively. The sooner you can get out of here, the sooner you can raze the connective tunnels and stop (most) reinforcements. D: Fight Particularly. Perhaps you have a better idea? If so, write-in!
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Dec 30, 2023 19:13
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C There's money to be made.
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Dec 30, 2023 19:48
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A
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Dec 30, 2023 21:05
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B, we can't afford any casualties and the corridor should make a good choke point.
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Dec 30, 2023 22:57
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D. Apply a small amount of FOOF to expedite.
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Dec 31, 2023 00:51
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Outrail posted:D. Apply a small amount of FOOF to expedite.
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Dec 31, 2023 02:12
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Gnomeone has the FOOF cough it up
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Dec 31, 2023 02:20
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Outrail posted:Gnomeone has the FOOF cough it up HBar posted:I don't see any in our inventory, unless you think Mr. Anvilfoot has some and is willing to use it here.  "Love to mate, but I'm here to demolish the central tunnel, if we collapse the hive here they'll just dig around it. And if I set fire to everything, how are we going to get out?"
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Dec 31, 2023 16:06
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Dec 31, 2023 16:33
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I'm hearing complaints and objections when what I want to hear is solutions!!
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Dec 31, 2023 17:07
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Volmarias posted:I'm hearing complaints and objections when what I want to hear is solutions!! "Want me to grab something from his pack?"  "Just try it lass." "Aww c'mon, just a little one?" "Whats life without a little, mhmm, danger?" "Now now, the man has a point. Besides, we don't want to get buried in debris before our mission is even done." "You can't spell demolitions without lions, and lions are falsely known for their bravery." "Exactly. Now hurry up before the big ones get their act together and trap us in here." "Hah, let them try. We hold the advantage in the corridor anyway, especially with fliers about. Let's not do anything foolish." "We should, mhmm, thrust forward, whilst we still can. Let us not be wallflowers now, but go out there and present ourselves right and proper."
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Dec 31, 2023 18:56
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Get just inside the opening, so we can do some melee before withdrawing to a bottleneck, allow the ranged to take potshots in the meantime. We're outnumbered here, so the tunnel is our best bet.
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Jan 1, 2024 01:44
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We are clearly in wasp hell and as such must keep going. Push the objective aggressively. Abigail can’t stop nor will she stop and we must follow. Keep the hammer alive, she’s a sword to inherit. If we’re the best defense we take a rear guard position as ITEC moves. A question for Swedish. How legal or illegal was it to keep a vespid for commercial purposes? They appear sentient. Kobold’s similarly appear sentient, and are census designated pests (kill on sight) so I think we'd get in hot water for keeping one of those. If we could claim live Vespid’s as salvage without getting in a ton of trouble, we should. WWRD? Ever the pragmatist, the emperor gave Mårgått Merryfoot three chances to get in line. There is profit to be made. There is work to be done. Lets get these bees buzzing to the imperial tune. If legally permissible, when/if things go bad we must eat a cupcake and invite the bugs to “Yield,” we claim them as salvage, they gain protection as our (and the other monster hunter’s) property. Even if the wasps get us, they are in a tough spot, they clearly are advanced and have motivations. Rim would not let them go to waste. Also as was demonstrated a long time ago, we can control how we present in the cupcake ethereal. As such, for the purpose of demonstration we should appear for negotiations as a dwarf with a vespid symbiote/ power armor, clearly with waspstone gauntlets. This could be the hottest thing since calcified slime. I'm rereading the thread, and its beautiful. Is it a coincidence that Mr. Hobbson has the same portrait as the Paladin of Toil that we saved on page 49? There is so much depth, so many connections lost in a cloud of FOOF. Edit: Mårgått's name is Mårgått BingoZero fucked around with this message at 11:50 on Apr 24, 2024 |
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Apr 24, 2024 00:15
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