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Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011


Portrait: I8

Name: Qwg
HP: 3
Glory: 0
Skill: Risk Assessment

Backstory
There is no achievement so great that a perfect storm of keen eyes, statistical acumen, and crippling anxiety can't undermine it. Qwg ignored her mother's entreaties to volunteer rather than be conscripted, suspecting her of simply wanting Qwg out of the house to better allow her to pursue her romantic interests without her perennial wet-blanket of a daughter around. Her suspicions were true, but that didn't stop the horde from absorbing the hapless Qwg. Her calculations of her survival are...not promising.

Action
Clutching her stick in a white-knuckled grip, Qwg looks about her at the motley horde surging forth against the fortification. "At least seventeen percent casualties before the enemy is even sighted," she predicts darkly to herself. Blinking through a pernicious eyelid twitch, she scowls at the would-be sappers laying to with crude digging implements. "That's a mass grave, not a tunnel," she shouts futilely into the general chaos. "Shore up those diggings before you all eat dirt terminally!"
Qwg shakes her head in a futile attempt to banish the images of horrific cave-ins that dance through her mind. Dunderskulls.

Analyzing Risk: 1d100+10 22

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Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Name: Qwg
Skill: Risk Assessment [On Cooldown]
HP: 3
Glory: 1

Qwg sighs as the horde pours through the breached gates. They never listen, she miserates, but you know if it had collapsed it would have somehow been my fault! Grasping her stick in her best spider-on-the-wall-poking stance, she shuffles up to one of the "fearsome" dummies. Peering intently at her target's ramshackle anatomy, she grunts with effort and attempts to thrust her "weapon" where it will stand the best chance of doing some damage.

Fighting the "ogres"!: 1d100+1 37

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Name: Qwg
Skill: Risk Assessment
HP: 3
Glory: 2

Downtime
Grimacing and digging her rump uncomfortably into her threadbare bedroll, Qwg dug splinters from her blistered palm. No one mentioned how much wood these sticks were made of! Looking around the bustling camp, at the invariably doomed T surrounding her, she sighed and dug a tattered notebook and stick of charcoal from her pouch.

Onion-Head, she scribbled. Arsonist. Likely cause of death: Smoke Inhalation. Survival Quotient: TBD.
Digging-Guy. Excavator. Likely CoD: Cave-in. Survival Quotient: TBD.
Eyepatch. Apiarist. Likely CoD--


She looked up in mild dismay, hearing shouts and angry buzzing from the castle's upper battlements.

--Anaphylaxis. Survival Quotient: TBD.

Sweepy McFour-Eyes. Sales-t. Likely CoD: Heart Disease. Survival Quotient: TBD.
Buzzcut. Liar. Likely CoD: Barroom Knife-fight. Survival Quotient: TBD.
Eyelet-Head. Skulldigger Skullduggerist Crimesman. Likely CoD: Trampled by Horses. Survival Quotient: TBD.


Looking up again at her doomed comrades, Qwg felt a measure of peace. She continued writing...

Strategy
As the warlord lays out strategic options, Qwg recalls the little game with which she whiled away so many childhood days, and made her ever so popular with the other children: Sitting motionless for hours at a time, predicting by a number of factors how likely passersby were to fall prey to accidents or illness. There seemed to be a correlation to how few birthday parties Qwg was invited to, but she would not presume to declare a causative link.
"We should Scope them out," Qwg agrees simply. "Scan for potential failure points in their formation. Incipient failures in discipline. Uh...warning signs of untreated diabetes?"

Scope Them Out: 1d100+12 42

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Sep 23, 2017 around 13:29

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Qwg
Skill: Risk Assessment
HP: 3
Glory 3

As Ringo passes by, carried aloft in triumph on the shoulders of his comrades, Qwg fishes the notebook from her pouch and stares at "eyelet-head"'s entry with consternation.
"Must be the ring," she mutters, scribbling a few quick revisions. "Didn't factor for wind resistance..."



Qwg carefully picks her way through the red-carpeted carrion field, all too aware of the rich panoply of diseases to be found while grubbing in corpses and their various excreta. Nonetheless, she forces her twitchy-lidded eyes to carefully pore over the Frman dead, poking and rolling with her stick in an attempt to find a weapon more suitable than the splintery mess she currently wields.

"Too sharp," she dismisses. Then, "too dull." Carefully placing the disqualified weapons aside as to minimize their hazard to less aware looters, she picks up a blade and grimaces. "Too rusty," she declares with a scowl." Suddenly, her eyes light up as she sees a potentially--No, some pointy-headed yahoo just snatched it. Gritting her teeth in consternation, Qwg shouts out above the din, "That spear's head is insufficiently anchored! Enjoy your deathtrap, Tman!" It doesn't get her a weapon, but she feels slightly better. Taking a moment to change that particular hordling's Likely Cause of Death to "Friendly Fire Incident," Qwg continues searching for an offensive edge, preferably something that will let her stay at statistically safer range.

Looting weaponry from the unworthy dead!: 1d100 50

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Sep 25, 2017 around 21:49

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



HP: 3
Glory: 4



Qwg doesnt find a suitable weapon, but in Flutter's grisly expiration she finds something better: data. Interesting, she thinks, nibbling on her charcoal stick despite the dark stain on her teeth, with the way he was carrying on, I expected him to wind up with eggs in his chest. Peering over the top of her notebook, she watches with grisly fascination as a snow-white butterfly light on a puddle of brain and skull. Extending its tiny curled proboscis, it begins to delicately lap at the spilled blood. Almost immediately, a blush begins to spread throughout the veins of its wings, and by the time it flits off again, the butterfly is a dark, venous red.

Mogspeed, little looter, she intones with a hint of sentimentality, before heading off to find the Nailsmith and contribute to the hordes power.

Shopping
4 Glory to Harvesters Grim Duty

Later, around the fire, Qwg listens to the sentiments of the horde and makes a few adjustments to her ledger based upon what she hears.

Vote 1
Noostra, eh, she muses, plucking an unpleasantly hairy gobbet of roast beast from a smoldering skewer and peering at it dubiously. Noostra is good. Probably lose a few horderinos. Nibble. Squint. Glabrous meat, this. But thats the game, hm? Id give it3 to 1 if we shake up a few comfortable bluebloods, well find one craven enough to open up the gates to save his hide.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011




(If you're one of the 20 or so Tans not included in this image, it's because I hate you you'll be in the next one.)

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Qwg
Skill: Risk Assessment
HP: 3
Glory 3

Qwg looks from her notebook to the departing Gado with a grim certainty, and shakes her head as she underlines something. Closing the notebook, she turns to Klrf and does her best to apply a reasonably non-disdainful expression to her features, an effort that only worsens the intensity of her eyetwitch.
"Blend in. Not the worst idea I've ever heard," she admits slowly. "Though...do you have any experience in merchanting? Where's Neebs? She might be able to help you concoct a more convincing cover. As for me, I'm sure those mines are a deathtrap even without any immanent sabotage attempts...I think I'm going to pose as a mine inspector; get a look at things and put myself in a good place for when the sht hits the fan..."

Impersonate a Safety Inspector: 1d100+13 101

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



HP: 3
Glory 4

Qwg watches events unfold around her with the grim lack-of-surprise that drapes those poor souls doomed to be perpetually correct about how poorly things are going to go. With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, she pulls the folds of her robe close around her to minimize the risk of being dragged down and trampled by the mob, and assuming a slump-shouldered stomp, threads her way to a raised doorway out of the crush of bodies.

Taking a moment to catch her breath and get a better look at the lay of the land, Qwg notices keenly the stream of shouting townsfolk pouring out the town toward the invading ogres, leaving the interior poorly-defended. Seeing Bully teetering above the crowd, held aloft by Gloff, she is seized by a notion, reaching out to grab the handle-shaped topknot of a burly mook passing alongside her. Leaping up onto the hapless Tans shoulders, she points at Dummy, bellowing his way toward town hall.

We won't get better odds, she cries imperiously to the hordlings nearby, voice wavering as she struggles to stay upright on her strapping mount. Follow that screaming idio--hero! Kill the mayor!

Kill the Mayor!: 1d100+4 16

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



HP: 3
Glory 5

Qwg carefully climbed down from her battlemook, meticulously avoiding sticky blue puddles as she took a step away from the increasingly abstract mass that was once the Mayor of Fortis. "That went uncharacteristically well," she mused, as much to herself as to Humbug. "Poor, Mog-blighted reddie," she said, nodding sagely. "Mayoring is number eleven on our list of professional widowmakers. Mining is number nine, so our boy here had about one foot and three toes in the grave. Actually, Humbug, thank you for reminding me; I should submit a report to the Risker's Union so they can update their data."

Even as she spoke, however, Qwg's eyes slowly swiveled to track a blood-smeared skillcore lazily rolling across the plaza. With a brief, inarticulate cry, she dove for the orb of crystallized elan, hitting the cobbles with a jolt that knocked the wind out of her. She flailed an arm toward the core, only to see it bumped by passing T-toes, skittering deeper into the crowd.
"That core will increase my survival chances by 23%, you blots," Qwg wailed, body-checking nearby hordelings and giving voice to an extremely undignified expletive as she scrambled after the core.

Snagging Amputation Skillcore: 1d100 23

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 6

Cloistered with a battered pewter mug of appalingly watery ale at an unappealingly sticky table in an the least objectionable drinking establishment she could afford, Qwg stared at her hands with grim fascination and no small degree of nausea. Now fully assimilated, her new Skillcore had granted her disturbing visions of her own anatomical structure and those of others. Every time she moved her fingers, she was intimately aware of the gliding of her phalanges, and the proper leverage needed to disarticulate them. The awareness was disquieting, but Qwg saw how it might come in handy...the enemy fallen were already being harvested for their precious Skills; why not take it step farther? Already, she was beginning to scribble notes about points of articulation and potential risk factors of additional limbs on a bar napkin.

Later, feeling resolved, if queasier, Qwg stepped out into the night and immediately began picking through rubble and shaking down scavengers. A good knife would demand resources best spent elsewhere, but her newfound amputationary acumen left her with no doubts that the proper gauge of wire could saw through flesh and bone more cleanly than any knife. Now where was Gawp and all those special eyes of his when you needed them...

Scrounging for a coil of slicin' wire!: 1d100 50

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 7

Qwg looked from her notebook to Splut gravely, lips drawn in a thin line.
"I see you've got...bread," she muttered stiffly to the Bluffist. "Nutrition is...good for reducing risk factors. Should talk to Patsy about incorporating more whole grains..." She stopped, briefly grinding the heel of her hand into one twitching eye. "Look," she began, glancing again between hordling and notebook, "I'm...amending your entry. If you can recruit some helpers to pad your chances, do it, because my ledger doesn't like you on this one. You're...ah...you're good at the thing you do, but Risk...Risk is a gnarled hag squatting on the chest of the sleeping world." She looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment, reaching out a tentative hand to awkwardly pat Splut on the shoulder. "Just..." Pat. Pat. "Think about it, hm? You're a force multiplier, and we'd hate to uh...lose you." Turning away quickly, she rushed off toward the staging area for the Ngel scouts, ledger clutched to her chest.
"Beautiful doomed bstard," she mumbled to herself, shaking her head at her display of sentiment.

Scout out Ngel: 1d100+7 85

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 8

All scouts having reported their findings, Qwg sat ensconced in her Riskfinding calculations well into the evening. Abruptly, however, she stopped, nearby Mooks glancing over at the sudden cessation of the constant skritch of charcoal on paper. A deep scowl slowly creased Qwg's features, and a bark of disgust tore itself from her throat as she tore the heavily scribbled page from her notebook and hurled it away.

Attempted, rather, as the loose page simply floated and flapped in the night air, before finally lighting gently atop Humbug's hat.
"Just trash it," she growled at the sleuth. "No mystery on that page except the mystery of WHY THESE NUMBERS WANT ME TO DIE!"

In the moment of shocked silence that followed, a slightly embarassed Qwg folded her arms and looked around awkwardly. "That is," she stammered, "I've run all the transformations, and barring a Cornbread-level Spoiler, it...Well, it doesn't look good." Looking over to Strn, she shrugged helplessly. "Ram or no, we bash down that door, we die." Looking back to Humbug, she pointed at the heavily marked page she had lost. "We infiltrate, we die. And worse, we lose the data from our no-doubt entertaining deaths to the enemy."

Qwg stood, experimenting with folding her arms in front, in back, akimbo, and a few other halting configurations before finally just clutching her notebook to her chest. "Look. We've got the bones of a good assault, but...Just...We don't have the tpower. Now, eventually, they're going to get a shipment of supplies or new prisoners, or...something. Or maybe if we keep looking, we'll find a weakness. But I don't want to just sit around waiting, especially..." She glanced meaningfully over to Warlord Grimper's lean-to, the profile of a giant drinking Tan silhouetted by the firelight. "Especially given our company. So...I've got...well, the beginnings of a plan..."

"Statistically," she began, pacing around the fire, "the odds of mistakes accumulate over time. Small factors can..um...be exploited, especially with a...a little help." She stopped in front of Strn. "That ram of yours," she said, "may or may not do for that gate. But I imagine it'll ring those walls like a bell. What if we sneak up in the middle of the night, every night, at a different time, to a different part of the wall, and WHAM, give the redders something to keep them awake and on edge. Then high-tail it before they send somone out to investigate."

"Grumbus," she continued, not getting too close. "It's Grumbus, right? I don't know the specific...ah...mechanisms of your talent, but I do know that if they do send somebody out, giving them a non-lethal but highly communicable condition to take back with them could really heat things up on the inside. Dodopx, or something? Get things nice and itchy. A lockup with the kind of prisoners this one's got? Has to be a pressure cooker already, and we can...ah...exacerbate that. Maybe even prompt a few prisoners to start shaking things up on the inside."

"Spleen," she moved on, "if they start sending out bigger groups, maybe landmines? I'm open to input, here."

"Sndis," she said, forcing herself to make eyes contact, "Maybe write some demoralizing verse on the walls? Or something better...I...uh...don't want to tell you how to work."

"Klrf," she said, smiling slightly despite her sour demeanor at the pyro-Tan's gormless charm, "You could probably lead them around with some well-placed fires. Or...I don't know, spooky burning effigies? I'm not the expert."

"The point is this," she concluded, looking to the assembled hordlings, "Let's engage in psychological warfare. Keep them sleep-deprived and off-balance, and harry them guerilla-style if they attempt to engage. Then, when the rest of the horde arrives, they'll be ripe to fall." Suddenly uncomfortable, Qwg cast her eyes to her feet. "Uh...that is...I think it would improve our chances. There's room for embelishment..."

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Oct 19, 2017 around 17:51

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 8

The readiness with which the most enthusiastic sieger Strn and all the rest went along with her plan took Qwg off-balance. Externally, she flew into a frenzy of preparation, smearing herself and hordemates with ash and soot to break up their profiles in the darkness, assessing the least risky points of attack and the most likely avenues of counter-attack, tugging straps and tightening buckles, even pointing out muddy patches on the prison approach that might cause a fateful slip for the ram team. Inside, however, doubt nagged her. All her life, she'd kept her head down for a reason. Actuary figures she could deal with, but people? People were something she'd never quite gotten the hang of.

But the enthusiasm in her fellow Unexpectables seemed real. Grumbus, with whom she had never shared more than a disgusted glance, had come alive when given the opportunity to exercise his skills. The normally cool Sndis had reached into her creative quiver and pulled out an unexpected embellishment. Seeing Ringo ready to go despite his woeful injuries heartened her despite her abiding dread. And she found it simply impossible to retain a scowl when looking at the jovial figure of Klrf, Mg and Gm bless his pointed head. Despite the creeping certainty that it would all go wrong; the icy finality of her figures...This could work. It could really work!

So why was she so afraid?

Go Team Psyops!: 1d100+18 21

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011


National: L

Horde: E

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 9

Qwg tried to calm the tattoo of her racing heart as the Ngel guards shuffled out into the night. Through the pounding of blood in her ears, she heard the the voice of her advanced instructor at the Grand Chancery.

"Getting this far...Bearing witness to the shoddy underpinnings of our lives, changes a T irrevocably," she had said, peering down over immaculately polished ruby spectacles with haunted eyes. "Some become intractably risk-averse, paralyzed with fear, incapable of joy or love in such a fragile world. Others go the other way, but, well...I don't need to give you another lesson of those poor souls taken by the Riskergang, the Blood Calculus, the terrible cutting wind on fortune's edge that leaves none alive. To objectively assess Risk, you'll have to find the balance..."

Mg know she'd tried. But now, shaken out of her ordered life by constant life and death struggle, thrown into decisions determining not only her own life, but of others, something had begun to unfold within her. A hideous, unwelcome comfort. The inevitability of their gruesome demise no longer a cold stranger, but a soothing companion. Performing a quick calculation, she found the risk of the grim task before them...acceptable.

Watching the guards advance, lanterns bobbing in the darkness, Qwg felt a cool smile creasing her lips as she saw the seams and faults of their anatomy revealing themselves to her. With only her pointed stick and blunt teeth, her ability to capitalize would be limited, but seeing how easily these Frmen could be taken apart bolstered her resolve. Glancing over to Strn, she gave a single grim nod.

Take Out The Guards!: 1d100+9 46

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 10

Qwg quietly wiped the Frmen blood from her hands on a handful of grasses; it wouldn't do to stain the uniforms. Peering at the glistening mound of wet, freshly extracted skillcores, she attempted to snag the Gazing core and stash it away; she had no particular desire for it, but some of the eyejobs back at base might be willing to trade something valuable for it. Gawp, perhaps?

Claiming the Gazing skillcore: 1d100 88
Looting Guard Armor: 1d100 55

As the heat of the moment subsided, and the swell of inmanent Risk subsided, she felt her accustomed sangfroid returning. In the cold light of reason, she found herself agreeing with Warlord Grimper. The prison had been scouted, the enemy weakened, and prizes wrested from them. Several Unexpectables had infiltrated the prison, and their success was now out of her hands.

But.

Sunk Cost, said her mind, but "Wait, Warlord," was the reponse from her treacherous lips.
Cut Bait, she didn't say, as Grimper's baleful gaze fell upon her. "We can't leave yet," she said instead. "The plan is still underway!"
Don't throw bad Glory after good, absolutely refused to be uttered, in deference to "Now is the part were we sit tight." Well, conceded that inner monitor, we're committed now. Don't get us Grimped.

"Look at our assets," she continued hastily, "Ringo, Shiny, Otter, Humbug; our infiltrators and breakers, who do their best work in the dark: Right where they need to be. Sndis to continue the mental degradation of the enemy from the inside, meeting her contact and sowing havoc and despair." Reaching down, she patted the pointy head of the rotund Klorf. "And Klorf here, with his ability to build signal fires, will fall back to report to the rest of the horde. We'll set the chisel, and our comrades will swing the sledge to crack this place wide open." Looking up at Grimper, she patted the cover of her notebook confidently and hoped to Mg and Gm that Grimper didn't have a Lie Detection skillcore. "The numbers have tipped in our favor. The redders will pay for the atrocities they've committed inside those gates, and you'll lead us over their broken bodies as we free our countrymen to fight by our sides once more."

Qwg turned, gazing intently at the gates of Ngel, lips creasing as she mentally analyzed approach vectors for their chances of success. "We just have to wait," she declared, tapping her notebook to punctuate her words, "for exactly the right moment." Snap, closes her notebook. "Then strike for Her Majesty."

A Jailbreak at The Most Opportune Moment!: 1d100+20 92

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Nov 1, 2017 around 13:10

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 11

Qwg stared at the hatch with narrowed eyes. The green Old Guy alloy was no doubt impervious to most harm, but an indestructible door was only as strong as the wall around it...or its hinges. Something fluttered in her chest as she suddenly found her gaze drawn to the hatch's bolts and the floor in which they were sunk, every fault suddenly glaringly outlined to the insight granted her by the Amputation core. The mechanism was every bit as capable of failure as mortal flesh, and she felt like she knew just where to force it. She scribbled furiously in her notebook.

"We have to get through that hatch," she declares, pointing with her charcoal pencil, "or it was all wasted effort. Strn," she observed, showing the Sieger her quick, but immaculately labeled diagram of the hatch bolts, "this metal is fatigued. Some strong blows here and here, and they should shear under the stress. This hatch is a beast, and I know you just Broke Down that Gate, but do you think we have enough smash juice left in us to Crack It Open?"

Amputate the Hatch Bolts to Crack It Open!: 1d100+21 61

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 12

Seeing the gibbering horrors shambling toward them, Qwg feels a hot, blunt pang of terror twisting in her chest. She tries, and fails, to marshal a cohesive plan; her thougts scatter like a flock of brbs before a pouncing tger.
Still grasping desperately for composure, but pushed inexorably forward by her charging comrades, Qwg falls back to what she knows best: Memorizing and reciting endless actuarial tables.

"According to table TAM-83," she mutters under her breath, feeling the grip of panic beginning to crack, "The 5 year projected mortality rate change of male, 35, Monsterist is 22.53..."

She grips her pointystick in blanched knuckles, raising it high as she treads forward with greater vigor.

"An additional BMI increase of 10 increases the rate to 76.7 in a 90% credible interval," she growls as the fear begins to crumble away, charging the fat, laughing wendigo with a snarl.

"Let T be a continuous random variable with cumulative distribution function F(t) on the interval [0,∞)," she screams with tears streaming down her face, thrusting her weapon at the goggling eyes of the horrific aberration, "YOUR SURVIVAL FUNCTION APPROACHES ZERO, YOU FAT PIECE OF CRAP!"

Attack the Laughing One!: 1d100+22 67

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 13

Qwg hissed through clenched teeth as the bulk of the hideous laughing wendigo pressed her into the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her weapon, slick with ichor but still clenched in fists long gone numb, was forced deep into the creature's ponderous bulk by the great heaving of its flesh. A hot, bitter spray of monstrous fluids splattered Qwg, mingling with the blood flowing from her wounds as she struggled. Her feet slid on the slick floor, body held erect only by her deathgrip on her weapon, and she plaintively looked to Warlord Grimper, haunted desperation in her eyes.

Push Beyond (Laughing and Loud)!
Also jumping in front of a Mutation bullet if needed

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Nov 10, 2017 around 18:36

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 14

Qwg sagged against the blood-spattered corridor wall, catching her breath. She was grimly satisfied to still be among the living, but that had never truly been in doubt. Qwg had perused the forbidden Table W406 only briefly, but from even that glance, she knew she was not destined to die here among the wretched of Ngel. Examining her ichor-soaked limbs for signs of injury, she noted one scrape in particular seemed a bit...off. Seen from the corner of her eyes, the edges almost seemed to undulate, writhing toward one another in a struggle to rejoin. Choking back a surge of dread, she pulled down the sleeve of her guard tunic to cover the wound, and strode into the carnage to inspect the wounded.
MUTATE!: 1d6+1 2

Before surveying the damage, the Assessor first paid a brief visit to the weapons stockpile; none of the gross, who-knows-what infested weapons dropped by the guards would do to operate on her fellow hordelings. In the end, she decided to pick up a nasty little number with a serrated blade. Good for getting through bones, small trees, or enemy morale!
Picking up some kind of weaponized bonesaw from Magda!

The casualties...weren't as bad as she feared. Still, though, Qwg went among the wounded, offering to remove any truly mangled member or suspicious growth. In truth, much of the "gangrene" and "monsterist buds" were probably just hangnails and skin tags, but one couldn't be too careful when dealing with wendigos! The procedures helped to calm the fears of some of the more paranoid among the horde, anyway.
The Cutting Edge of Medicine!: 1d100+24 65

On her rounds, Qwg managed to come across Gawp the Looker, poring through the enemy remains with his bouquet of eyes.
"Gawp," she called, reaching into her pouch to withdraw the Gazing skillcore, crystaline and gleaming eye-like. "I've run the numbers, and you should stick this in your face." Glancing down at her torn guard uniform, she scowled. "Perhaps you could help me get this mess fixed up, in return."
Exchanging Gazing Skillcore to Gawp for an Armor Upgrade!

Finally, after much procrastination, she found unable to avoid talking to Splut any longer. Something churned in her belly that hopefully wasn't emergent monsterism.
"Splut," she coughed, glancing down at her notebook to 'check a figure', "you seem...alive. It's...ah...a good thing you listen as well as you talk."
A long pause, thankfully broken by Splut's offer of a skillcore.
"Yes," she admits, regaining a bit of her calm in the face of statistics, "I can determine where this could best be applied. I appreciate your insight in the matter."
Another long pause, long enough for panic to begin to set in again.
"Well, keep it up, Splut," she blurts, whirling to hide her furious blush and quickly escape, but slipping in a puddle of gore and sliding into Splut.
"Gak!"

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 15

AJ_Impy posted:

Splut

He reacted instinctively, reaching out to catch and steady her, inwardly wincing as that compressed some of his bruises, but adeptly maintaining his poker face.

"Careful there, those things... they did not go to their ends cleanly. Are you all right?"

His poker face slipped a little, a touch more concern than would be usual overriding his cherished sangfroid.

Qwg nodded carefully. "Yes," she decided eventually, "I̧͞'̵̷͢m ̕f҉̛iné͜͡.̨͟͞ " Eyes widening, she immediately tore herself from Splut's arms. Silence, then, and the knuckles of the hand clutching her notebook could be seen to blanch. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Grimper approaching, no doubting the intent in his eyes. "̷H̨҉e͞heh͏͞é,͟҉"͘͜ " she bubbled involuntarily, before slapping a hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. "Splut," she muttered quickly, lips pressed together in an attempt to keep any more devilish laughter bottled up, pressing the Whistling skillcore back at him. "I don't want to...ć̵̴ò͠r̸r҉̵u̡͟͡p͘t͠͡ it. Give it to...Ringo; he's crime-adjacent enough to get some use from it." Looking back again, an unhappy Grimper loomed ever closer.
"I need to̵ ͏g͏̴̨ò,̶͢ ̸Ş̕p͏l̴ư͠ţ͜.̴͡. I'll...see you around." She quickly wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her uniform, but not without giggling faintly into the cloth. Lifting one hand, as if to reach out to Splut, but thinking better of it, she awkwardly converted the gesture into a hesitant wave, before turning to Grimper.

Facing the warlord, she steeled her face, even as the corner of her mouth attempted to quirk in laughter.
"I kno͞w͝ ͢t̷he odds, Warlord," she forced through gritted teeth, sweat beading on her upper lip. "Brand m̨e,́ bef͡o͜r̀e҉ it's too l̦̹à̫͈̼̺t̛͓͖̫̮̗e̯͈̮͉." An odd, pained look came over Qwg's face, like she was struggling to hold in a sneeze or a cough, and she let out something between a snort and a chuckle, agony written on her features. "H̢̕̕͝a̷̵̴̡͜!҉̀̀ ̢͢҉́H̕͢͡͠u̡r̀͘r̸͜y̨̡!͘ "


Returning the Whistling skillcore to Splut, for him to give to Ringo.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 3
Glory 15(-4)

Qwg sat fully ensconced in her riskbook, actuarial tables draped around her wounded psyche like a warm blanket. So many entries to edit before...
She scribbled with the speed of the damned, updating the dead, dying, and merely delayed-in-dying, and making margin notes for her successor, just in case she found herself unable to continue her work as a wendigo (or ravaged corpse). Hordelings came and went, but she had no eyes for their pitying looks, nor ears for their comforting platitudes. They meant well, but deadlines had no respect for the mourning of others, and she had work to do!

Finally, after a long jag of writing, she laid aside her pencil for a moment, massaging her cramping hand...still a hand, for now. She looked up from her calculations, took a long, shuddering breath, and suddenly noticed Gawp passing by with his new shield.
"That's...not a bad idea, actually" she admitted, reaching into her pouch and removing a handful of chits. "I suppose I'll go talk to Magda about getting myself one. Worst case, they can send me home on it."

Spending 4 Glory on a Shield.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 12

Qwg huddled beneath the coarse prison blanket, the thin material doing little to dispel the cold that seemed to radiate from the depths of her very bones. She had broken down eventually, of course; she knew others had as well, others with far more time than she to come to terms with the inevitable. But thered been so little time, and shed just been too busy to fall apart.

Until she did.

One moment she was scribbling furiously in her risk book, and the next it fell from nerveless fingers, and she broke. She crawled into a dark corner of this benighted place, and she wept and howled until her ribs ached and her throat burned with bile and her hands were bruised from uselessly pounding the floor.

And now she was done. She felt dry; hollowed out, and something huge and primal echoed in that space, making its lair.

AJ_Impy posted:

"Hey. I, er, I thought you might want some company."

Splut found her there, sitting cross-legged beneath the blanket, riskbook in her lap, and just running her hands over the cover. Not opening it, not reading, just feeling the smooth, worn leather of the cover like she might not have the chance much longer. Even the scratchiness of the blanket was welcome sensation to skin that might soonwhat? Run like wax? Harden into armor plates? She nodded in silent assent to Splut as he joined her, and she received his sympathy and his attractive lies with an icy placidity.
Its not so ba͜d͞ , she muttered, voice dry and dull, like someone getting over a cold, but with something other bubbling up from time to time, quickly suppressed. Now. Before the Brand, it was all w͠҉r̴͡o̵̴ng̴͞ inside, like a broken bone grinding, b̸u̷̶͞t͏ somehow pleasant? She shook her head vigorously, pulling a disgusted look. The words are...No. Not pleasant. But d҉e͢͠͠si̡͠r͘҉àb̷̧l͡e. Like worrying an ulcer with your tongue, but...inside your chest? And the Brand, wellyou heard it. They probably heard it in Fostis. But now? Im just cold, mostly. Head feels like its stuffed with cloth. It҉c̨͡hy̸̛͠ on the inside, where I cant get to it. And it feels like Im going to ṕ̵a̡ss̷͏ ̵̛͠o̷̡͞ú̷̸t͠ if I breathe too deeply. But mostly cold.

AJ_Impy posted:

"Whatever happens, we're going to get through this, okay? Whatever the odds, whatever the outcome, we're going to get through this."

She nodded.
We will, she agreed, though it was unclear whom, precisely, we comprised. Truthfully, the numbers arent as b͢à͞҉d̛ as you might suspect. I hesitate to say, almost promising. Our e̶͜x̵pe̕r̴̨i̸̡͟eń̴͢c͢͟e here will likely be a crucible. Weve been a collection of dregs who got lucky before, but n̴ó̵w̴̧ after t͢h̴͠i̷̵s̵ ̕p̨͝͞l͘a͡cę? Ẁ̸̡̧̧è̶̸̷͟ ̴̢͠͏A͡͠ŕ̡e̶͜͜ ̨̨H̷̛͟o̴͡͞r̢͟͟͠͝d͟͠͝͠ę͟ .
She blinked, as if taken aback by the certainty in her voice, then looked up as Hob approached.

WereGoat posted:

Yeah, it was nice to chill with Neebs, but he really needed to do see Qwg before she turned. To ask her permission to be there to see what he would be dealing with very soon.

At the Beekeepers request, Qwg sighed wearily, the sound like desiccated insects rustling in a bag, but gestured permissively to the ground nearby.

You found me, she admitted cautiously, so you may stay. Im no͝҉t͏͟͠ comfortable being a s͞p̛͟e̡c̸͢t̷͘ac̨̀l̸e̵ , but you mi̧͞͠g͘h̸͢t̨ see something that helps the o͞t̨͝he̢͢r͘s. At that, she looked to Splut, her face suddenly conflicted. You dǫ͟͜ņ'́͟͜t I wont think any less of you if you dont want to be here for this, Splut. Idly, she rubbed her forehead, wincing and gritting her teeth. I wouldnt want to b̨e ̵̀h̶e̶r̸e͘͏ for t̨ḩ́i̴̧̕s̶̢̛̀ . Qwg closed her eyes, leaning her head back to rest on the wall.

Į̵t̵̕'͟s̵ going to h̶̛́́͞a҉̡͜҉̶p̧͢͞͠͠p̡̀e̡͘n̢̛͡ soon. Whatever It is. I feel l̵̶i҉k̴͞e̴͏ Its as ifu̵̧̢͞g̵̢̢͘h̕͝. Sndis could explain it better. I̴̵͘͞ dont have a poetic bone in my body. Not standard issue for actuaries Į̶̹̘̻͉̗̺̤͖̞̪̫̟͕̦̰͎̭͉̀͘͝ͅ'҉̩̗̥̝̹̟̀̕M҉̮͎̝̹̯̗͕ ̥̭̻̘̣̲̝̠̘̳͡͡͞Á̡̛͠҉̻̟̤̯̣̮ͅͅͅF̶̨̠̗̳̱̣̯̥̬͚̕ͅR̨̛̯͖͎̳͔̰̀A̧͔̥̻͚͜I̸̢̠̬̠̜̟͎̦͙̫̰̬̬̪͈͎͘ͅD͢҉̸̶̛̘͖̙̙͈͈̝̻̝͕̰ .

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Nov 19, 2017 around 22:30

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 13

Qwg staggered under the drastic changes to her balance, and the flood of new stimuli pouring over her. The additional eyes didn't help, so spread throughout her chaotic anatomy that her brain couldn't compensate like Sndis's or even Gawp's could. She trudged, dragging the hulking mass that was once her right arm along behind her, its eye giving her a constant rear-view that threatened to send her legs in different directions.

But she was adjusting. Faster than she'd expected. Faster than should be possible. She was adapting. Becoming.

There were Colors, now. Everywhere.

New Colors.

Colors she didn't have words for...Not yet.

And the smells. She could smell the life around her, especially the potential seeds of rebirth within the monsterists among the Horde. She felt an obligation...some twisted maternal urge to protect HERS.

AJ_Impy posted:

He offered her a smile, and said,

"You're alive, you're still yourself, I could ask for nothing more."

Qwg knew better than might be expected what she looked like. The extra eyes gave a certain added perspective absent the run-of-the-mill T. She felt a pang of bitter disappointment as she looked at Splut, for what might have been, but oddly, no shame, no anxiety. Not anymore.
She saw the tangle of conflicting emotions surrounding Splut...she called the smear of color Splg.

"Y̫͚͓͓O̠̣͎̰͡U̷̵͇͍̯̩͇̮'̤̠͓͇̹ͅR̨̻̤͘͞E͎̦͖͕̻̞͍ ̜͈̹̺A̪͈̦̰̱̕͢͝ ͖̗̰͙̻͕̼̘̼̀͡G̷̞̩̭͓̘̯O̧̻̫̗O̧̯̱͖̘̦̺̮͟͞ͅD̵͇͈͚͈ͅ ̵͔̠̻͉̱͓̪̦͓F̶̡̜̠͎̘̖̦R̯̠͍I̴͚̩͍̺̬̬̠͘É̶̶̯̗̦̹͕̖̮̜N͚̯̼Ḏ͓̗͚͞ ," she rumbles, lips twisting into a broad, toothy semblance of a smile, reaching out with her more normal left hand in an affectionate gesture. "N̠̱̘̟̭͟͜͞O̘̪̭͉̱̤͝͝ ̷̠̦͚̰̕R͓̰̳͓͖͔E͏͈̜͜G̬͕Ŗ̲̗̞̻̰̖̺̀E̲̘̤͉̖͘͡T̺̼͙̲͙̥͠S̠͖̺ , Splut, O̘͎͎͠K͔͓͜Á̛̟͎̟͇͟Y̷͉̟͉ ?"


gowb posted:

"I have a proposition for you. I am going to form a cavalry squad to supplement our forces, similar to Captain Snodis' Neotypes. I would propose to you that our cavalry ride upon Wendigos! Such a force would descend upon the enemy like thunderbolts! It would be glorious!" Her eyes shone with the possibilities. "We could at least try it, while intercepting any incoming forces. Think it over, I beg you!"



Qwg stared at Vist with every moist, staring eye she could bring to bear. She suppressed the urge, the need to peel open her gaping maw, settling for letting just a few errand fangs peep from her lips. What were once fingers, now boneless, striving things at the end of a writhing column of tumorous flesh squeezed the handle of her Bōnsaw until the wood creaked. Staring at the creature before her, the colors swimming in her vision coalesced along the fault lines of Vist's anatomy, and Qwg felt a surge of icy resolve rise in her belly, lifted on a wave of hot, acidic gorge.

Then it passed.

"N̵̴̨̼̤̟͉͝͝Ò̞͉̤̟͉͚͔̰̹͟͡ͅ ," she stated, then simply stared, unblinking, until the smaller Tan left.


Swedish Thaumocracy posted:

"Qwg!" "You look amazing. Glad to see you among the living. What did the ascendancy feel like? Can you speak? Can you still asses risk? If so, excellent. Will you do us the honor of following us down into the Vault?"

"ǸI͜C̶̸͟Ȩ ̧͡H̴͝A̷T̵́,̀ S̕͘͢Ņ̸͝U͏R̵̨̨D͘S̶҉ ," she replied, her new mouth and surplus of teeth giving her a bit of difficulty with the Monsterist Captain's name.
"Ỳ͡E͟͞S̷̷҉,́ ͝T̢͜O ͟T͜H͘͞E͠ ͜V̶͝À͜͏Ư͠L͡T̵̨.̶̵ ̕I͡ CÀ̛͢N̸̵̢ ̴̴͢S̴͜T҉̕IL̴Ĺ.̡͡.̵̧́.͟ " She reached down with the left hand to stroke the cover of her Riskbook. Peering at Sndis appraisingly, she watched the officer's fault lines and morbidities, listened to the whispers of probability enveloping her, and Qwg smiled. With a dozen too many teeth.
"I͟͡ ̛D̸̨ON'̷͡T ̕N͘EED̡͘ ̕T̶̨͟HE̛ B̨͞ÓO̕͟͞K A̢N̷̕Y̢MO̵̵͡R̢͘͞È͠,̛ ͞S͜N͜U̕͝R̸̀͡D̶̸̢S͟.͡͠ ͜TH̷͏̨E̷̵ ̨R̵҉̨Į͢S̶̷K̸͞ ̀͝S̸P͜E҉̢AK̸S͏.͞ ̢I̧͢ ̷͘҉L͞Ì͞S̶͞͝T͠͡Ȩ̡N̵͘..̧͜.̢͢͜ "

Following SNURDS into the Vault! (+Risk Assessment, +Officer Buff if applicable) : 1d500+73 180

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 14
Ritual Glory 1

Qwg stared with her panoply of strange eyes at the Old Guy apparatus before them, lips curling in a silent snarl. Even to her uncanny new levels of pattern recognition, this was inscrutable. A method of interrogation? Formation of a hive mind? A ritual to imbue new (or extant) Warlords with the power of their lessers? Given time, she could puzzle it out, but they were crucially short on that commodity. One of her eyes, the surly one in her right arm, cut to Grimper, and Qwg wondered, not for the first time, the true circumstances of his becoming. Then, back to the hateful chair.

"NǪ́T ̧͡S̷̕͡Ì̢̀T̕͜͝T̨I̡̡N̶̨͡G̢͜ ҉͝IN̡͏ TH͘͞AT.̨͝ , " she declares simply and unambiguously, before turning to Captain Sndis. "Ơ̷L̕̕͜D ̸͘G͞U̡͠Y͘ WÍ̶̡R͘҉E," she observes, not to be confused with an old guy wire. "Ç͘O̵͡͡U҉L̶͟D͘͞ ̧B̡͜͏Ȩ͡ ̛͡U̕͡͞S̸̸E̷F̨U͟͜L̵.͏͘ .. L͢ÉT̷̡ ̨͟͠M̡Ę ̢KN̶͘͞Ǫ͜W̨͘͡ I͜F͡ ̸I͜͞T̴'̸͢҉S̀͘͞ N̨̨Ò̶T̛͟ T̶̶̀Ơ YO̶̸U͏͟Ŗ͟ ̛T̶A̢̢͜S̶T̵͜͝E̛͝ ...I̕ C͜͏͟A͏N͟͞ ̡́Ḓ̡̛̤̭͙̯͔Ę͖͔̬͇F̶͓̤̱͕̱͇́Ì̙̳͔̲̭N͍̱̻̲̦̫̺̺͞I̛̦̙̞̝ͅṰ͙͠E͉̼̻̩̹̼L̶̼̕Y̵̘̘̹̮͙̳͜͞ F̧́IN̢͝D̷ ̨͏À̡ ̕͠͞U̸͜͜S̴͠Ę̀͢ ͜͝F̢́Ǫ͜R̛͝ ̀́̕Ì̀T͟.͝ "


As the Captain takes a seat, and some of the team sets to investigating the Mechanism, Qwg watches intently. She will turn her intan insight to unraveling the mystery of the Vile thing, and guard well Her Horde. If anything unsavory presents itself, or if someone should find a hand stuck fast to a life-draining artifact with no chance of escape, Qwg will not hesitate to Amputate the offending member.

Investigate the Vile Mechanism / Do The Necessary: 1d500+24 32

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 15
Ritual Glory 1

As the horde deploys to battle, Qwg scowls impatiently at her floppy Captain.
"N͏Ó̡̢ ̛͏T̴͘͠I̡͡M̨͢͢E ͝͝TO ͘R͘ÉLA̵͟X̵͡,͏̶ ̶͏C͘Á̛̕P̶̨̡T͞͝AI͏̷N," she mutters, and simply reaches out with her massive tentacular arm to pluck Sndis from the chair. The wendigo glances up with most of her eyes, seemingly at nothing, then peels lips back from the sawmill that is her mouth. "O̴̡͡UR̡̕ ͡͠S̶̛̀K̡̡I҉LL̸͡S̢̕͝ ̀͘Ą͏RE ͞Ń͟͞E̴̵ED́͢E͝D̵̕ ̛̀E̵L͢͠S͞EW̨H̀E̡RE̴͞.."

Shortly, outside of Fostis...

The pounding of the drums strikes Qwg like a physical blow, her entire chest vibrating with every beat. The even, martial insistence of it fillsher twisted heart with disgust.
"ÒU̡̕͞R̕҉ ̴̨̢RI̛͜S̴̢̕K̴͝ ̛́͡S҉̸͞C͡R̸E̡A̵͢͜Ḿ̴S̴ U̡N͏D̀͞E̸R ̵͜T̛͠HE͢͜S̸̕͝E ͟DRU̢M̵̷̷Ş̨," she hisses to Sndis, pointing with her good hand at the drummers and the dancers. "C̷͝H̡A͏I̕N̛͏̛S̷̨ ͟͞O͞F͏̶͞ ̵ST̸R͏̷E̛͘N͞͡G̴̨͟TH̡ ̨͠AǸD̀͘ ̷W͘͡EA͠K҉̷̷N͜E̴SS̛..̴̶.҉̵ẂE͝ ͏҉W̷̧̕ÍL̷͠͏L S̷͠E̵͏V̸̕͠E̵͏́Ŗ̧ ̢̨T͠Ḩ̴ĘI̶R̢ ̨͘F̨̨ƠR̷̴͡C̴͢E͝ M̴̶̢U̧͜LT̴͡I̴͡Ṕ̢͞L̢͏I̸E̸͡R͢S ͏̢́A̡N҉D҉ ͏S̶͏EI̷̸͘Z͝E͜ V̛́I͠C͡T͜O̷҉͢Ŗ̛̕Y̵ ҉͏F͏҉͞R̷O͘͡M ̕͢ŃU̸̧͟M̢͝ER͢Í̢́C̵̡A͝Ĺ ͘D̸Ą̢̧RK̸҉N̶ES̀͝S͘.̢ ." Her many eyes blink in staggered arrythmia, as if in protest of the regular beats of the drums, and she sketches out actuary tables in the air with her finger, inked with luminous tracers her Captain cannot see.

"A̶͠R̷̛M̨̛͝S̵̵͡," she growls, cutting her eyes conspiritorially to the exotic monster Trinh beside her. "A̴̛͞RM̛͜S͏̷̀ ̵͞A͜R̸̢͘E͞ ̨ŖE̸Q̷̡U̸̡IŖ̡E̸D̶̡̛ ̡̧̛F̴҉O͘R ͝D̴R҉̢͘U̷̢MM̸̧ĮN̷͘G͠." Her Bad Right Arm writhes in agitation, spined tendrils slapping against the ground.

With a terrifying lack of noise, Qwg leaps forward into the fray, bounding from one statistically-optimal point to another, great serrated Bōnsaw flashing as it whirls on the ends of her great grasping, whipping appendage.

Not until her limbs are slick with foeblood does she speak; she begins to howl, deep and mournfully, the fuschia glow of her tainted power casting stark shadows over her massed foes. "F̵̸̕͜A̶͜C̢̢̕È̴̷̛̕ T ̡̛͠ ̸̶҉B̷̨͞͞L̶̢̨O͞͞Ǫ̸҉̛D̸̶͡S̕̕͟͡H͏̵͢͟͟E͢҉͝͏D̸̛͟͠͝ ."

RECKLESS ATTACK against the Drummers: 1d500+75 431

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 16
Ritual Glory 1

Qwg nods absently as Sndis encourages her and orders her to support the Unexpectables assaulting the ranks of archers, running a long, ribbon-like tongue along the serrated blade of her bōnsaw. She can hear the rippling strings of the long-ranged instrumentalists, and the incessant plucking itches the backs of her eye sockets. The Wendigo Risker narrows her eyes until the physical shapes of her foes blur into a smear of gray, lurching forward with only the burning lines of their interconnected segments to guide her. Her saw screams across the stone, leaving a trail of sparks as she rushes the massed archers with dismemberment on her mind.


Attack the String-Slayers!: 1d500+16+10+10+1 75

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Dec 2, 2017 around 04:33

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 17
Ritual Glory 1

Qwg isn't particularly patriotic. Enlisting with a non-combat administrative unit to escape an unsatisfying home life, only for a clerical error to thrust her into a loser's vanguard isn't something to foster trust in one's nation. Her transformation didn't change that.

Qwg, however, is possessive. Seeing how everything could fall apart only made the nervous, retiring Tan that she was hold on all the tighter to what she could. Classmates could take away her painstakingly labeled notebooks. Ambitious neptists could take away her positions in the Actuariad. Her own mother could take away her fianc. But seeing Grimper brutalized, and Her Horde subjected to Frmen cruelty merely solidified one thing in her eerily-faceted mind.

No one was going to take away H̴̶̵̝̞̗̗͔̞͇͢É͇̟̻̯̫̞̯̯̪̯̜͞R̯̱̠̲̣̙͔̩͔͓̳̠̗͍̣̬͝͝͞ ҉̧̢͙̰̤ͅH̴͔͇̖͔̤̼͡O͏͏̶̪̯̻̞̬͝R̴̢̫̝̰̜͚̺̫̝͖ͅD̶̵̶̗̼͇̕͜É̷̬̪͎̙̰̝̮̰͇̳̼͓̳͍̹̖̩̩͘͟͜ͅ.̷͏̢̢̣͔͉̞ .



Her eyes focus in concert on Agenou, her cores marking up the enemy Commander in her vision like a butcher's diagram. Her writhing right arm stills, handle of her bōnsaw groaning and creaking in the force of her grasp like an old house in a storm.

She couldn't change most of the things that had gone wrong in her life.

But this guy?

gently caress this guy in particular.


Attack Agenou With Grimper: 1d500+78 577

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
HP: 1/1
Glory 21>13
Ritual Glory 1>0

Seeing what is happening with Gado, and seeing the numbers spin off from the act in progress, Qwg frowns. Even so, she likes the numbers even less were she to intervene, and Sndis thankfully didn't order her to assist, which might have forced the issue. Instead, she shuffles off toward the rest of the horde, to do what may be done there.

Qwg is halted in her progress by a brief pang in her chest, and doubles over, puffs of pink smoke trailing from the corners of her mouth as she coughs, the sound possessed of all the sonorous beauty of an accordian falling down the stairs. After, she feels...the same. Must be seasonal allergies.

The Risk Assessor passes her looting hordemates with bemusement, and feels no real need to join in the scrum. She quietly plucks up one of the superior tuned shield models, but otherwise leaves them to it. Perhaps she would take a look at the skillcore harvest, but for now she simply enjoys the rough camaraderie of Unexpectables climbing over one another for loot. They had survived, despite the just as her a҉̴́͡ş̶s̡͘͟e͘҉҉s̡̢͠ś̶̢͟͞m̨̕͞͝ę̧́͟n̸̷̢t͜҉̵͜ had indicated. She briefly wonders at how fearful she had once been, how intensely strained she was, fighting herself. All she'd had to do was let the numbers be the numbers. So simple, now.
With that thought in mind, she peers speculatively at the pyramidal stack of gleaming cores, waiting to be claimed. The advantages and risk of every core flashed across their crystalline faces, and she willfully ignores them, reaching for the Spinning core.

Claim the Spinning skillcore: 1d100 80

There were still things to be done. The wounded had stacked up in the fierce fighting. Many were the Unexpectables with arrow pieces to be cut away, bad flesh to be trimmed. She would help, if they would let her.

Healing the Wounded: 1d500+29 269

She had her own tasks to attend to as well, of course. Qwg eyes the warped handle of bōnsaw with a broad, broad grimace.
"Sùccep͝t̡ib͢l̵e͟ ̧to ̸br̸ea̸ka̸ge ̶i͠f ͟u̢s͟e̷d i͝n̴ ̴b͝att̡le,̛ " she mutters. "O̕b̶vi͝o͘u͟s͝ po͞įnt͘ of ̨fail͜ur͜e͞, ͏t̸here̷. " She runs her tongue along the cracked surface, scaly headfronds rustling as she shakes her head. "This̢ ͟weàpòn w̧a͘s ̛n̨e͞veŗ mean͏t͟ ҉f͠or thes̛e ̧s̡tr͡es͘ses. S͘pl͡įnters le̸ad tò ̛įn̷fec͟t̢ion̢s͏. ̨Su͜b̕oṕt̛im̛al gr͢ip҉ s̛tr͞enǵt͡h̕. M̧iss̸e҉d op̛portun҉i̷t҉ie͡s͘.͟ I͠n̸ad̕e͝q̷u͠a҉t͟e. "
She looks up, sweeping her gaze across Her Horde.
"We can do better."

"N̶̡̛O̢͝G͘GI҉̴Ǹ͠͡Ś̡ ," she growls, before catching herself. "Exc͞use̴ ̢me͝," she corrects with a surprisingly dainty nod of her monstrous head. " ̴Nog̕g̵ins͡.̵ . I͞'͜m ̴in need of a̶ co͝ns̶u̴ltatio̴n ̡fro͝m͏ ̛a carpentry expert." She lifts bōnsaw with her writhing right arm, the embarassment creasing her eyes apparently at the weapon's condition, rather than her own.
"Th̛e̢ h̡ánd̸lè ̧of my weapon is̢n̕'̛t̢ ̛g͟o̕i̢n͟g͘ ҉t́o st͝a͡n͘d ̢up ̢t̨o̷ ͠t́hȩ s͏tr͟e̛s҉s͟es҉ my̧.̛.́.new situ̢at͝i͝o̴n is ̵pu̡t͡ting̶ ̕i̛t̛ ̶t̶o. ͘I̸ wa̢s͟ ͢thi̴ńking of r̵ein̵f̵or̛c̸e͜ment.̢ ̸Láminaţio̕n̡. P̡os͜si̷bl̀ỳ ̨a̸dd͞ing a̢ n͟e̴w̷ ͞j͏oint a͘nd ̛ar͟t̴i̶cu͟lati͜ǫn poi̷ǹt͠ ́en̢tire҉l͝ỳ,to increase my reach.͠ ̸If͡.̀..̵i͏t̴'̸s̶ not̨ t͝o̧o m̸uch ͝trouble, I҉ ̨thought I'd̨ ҉pic͞k̷ y̴ou͠r brain on the mat̷t͢er."

After their conversation, she files away the carpenter's contributions to bring to Magda.

"Ho̴b.̨ " she greets her fellow wendigo, settling herself near him and visibly relaxing, right arm tendrils growing lax, eyes no longer forced to blink in concert. ̴"I̧'m͢ ͡wo͏r͘k͘in̶g̶ ͘on͏ im̧p̴rovi͞ng my ͝w̷ęa̢p͏on͡. Ma̢king̕ ̶it m͜o͞r͘e҉ ͝suit̸ab̕l̀e͘ fo͝r ̵m̢y҉ a̵n͞at̵om̡y̵ ͝and ̛c͠omb̢at ͜s̵ty͘l̀e͏.̴ No͟g̶g͢in̶s ̀is͠ ͞our͢ e̶x҉pert ͡on car̀p͞én҉t͠r̡y̶,͞ bu͟t͢ y̸ou h͢av͡e͡ sp͢e͜cia͞l͜įz͟ed ͢kn͠o͠wl͢ed͢g̕ȩ o͝f̀ wax̢ ͜a͝nd ̛p͟r̵òp͝o͡li͜s ṕroḑuc̢t҉ş ͝tha͠t ͜mi̵gh̴t͘ ͜b͏e͏ of͠ ̛use̷ w̕hi̵l͟e̴ treat̵in͏g̸ and ́lamina̛tiǹg ̧the͘ w͏ood?҉ A̵l̵so..." She nods meaningfully at Hob's own weapon.
"Oth̡e͠r͘ ̷aug̡me͞n̕t͡ations.͏ F͏or ̀all the ̷p͏rec̸i͞sion ̕o̶f́ ͜t̢he enȩmy ̕stri̸ng-̶slay̢ers̛,͠ t͞h͠è color o͠f ͢th́eir ̨s̷on̶g c̵o͝ul҉d nòt mat͡ch͠ ͞t̷hat͢ ̢of̶ you͠r own bo͘w̴. ̕I ҉wo͞ul̨d v̡eŕy m͏u̡ch͜ like̢ to̸ borr͝ow͠ s̶ome ̀of̀ ͢t̵ha̡t̕ ̵èx͢pe͜rt҉ise͡,̨ if҉ ͏i̧t ̷w̡ou͜l͟d̷n't͏ ̵be à ͡bǫt͠her.̷..."

The apiarist's contributions join Noggins's, and Qwg prepares to approach Magda on the matter, as well as the possibility of bolting a few more salvaged plates and to her armor...situation, to shore up a few strategically weak points. As she leaves, however, Qwg seems to notice the butterfly nearby, and one corner of her mouth turns up, letting a few teeth peek out.

"Yo̷ų a͢n͠d Í bot́h͏,͢ l͡it͟tl҉e̕ ǫn҉e҉.̵," she croons, reaching out to ever-so-gently feather the bristles on one spindly leg. "B́e̕come."


Qwg Actions:
Claiming a Tuned Shield
Claiming the +25 Spinning core: 80
Healing the wounded: 269
Spending 4 Glory to upgrade the bōnsaw along the saw-cleaver upgrade path.
Spending 4 Glory to upgrade Qwg's armor with bits of armor from the fallen foe.
Spending 1 Ritual Glory to feed Cobaltwing.

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Dec 8, 2017 around 19:10

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning
HP: 1/1
Glory 13

Zapanda's cruel words would once have stripped Qwg's resolve bare, sending her scurrying to her room to brood and second-guess herself. But when the wendigo looked at the ex-researcher, she compelled herself to focus on how pathetic and, ultimately, breakable Zapanda was. It was pointless to be intimidated by a creature who so desperately struggled against her own impotence in whatever way she could, and whose limbs were attached so...tenuously, and so Qwg simply left.

Hordelings passed her by, nibbling of pieces of delicious-looking cake and talking animatedly about this and that subject. None gave Qwg any notice or regard, save to alter, not-so-subtly to her enhanced analytical process, their trajectories to give her a wider berth. Qwg, the old Qwg, was no stranger to the experience, though the evasion was a new wrinkle. It came as no great surprise, either to the anxious Qwg of before, nor to the calmly analytical Qwg of now, when upon reaching the mess, the cake was entirely gone. She felt the beginnings of a lump in her throat, and before her eyes, ghostly lines of severance began to spread out to cover everything and everyone before her. But the wendigo took another breath, a ragged one through a too-wide mouth, and simply left.

Hob begging off to pursue a more glamorous project would once have plunged Qwg into simmering resentment, sending her deep into her actuarial tables in an attempt to find interactions that made sense. But when the wendigo looked at her hive-riddled squadmate, she felt no real animus; his advice had been quite sound, after all, and it was well for all members of Her Horde to pursue projects of passion in those fleeting moments between life-threatening conflicts. She gauged Hob's chances of success quite high, so as the armor crew set about their tasks, Qwg simply left them to it.

Sitting alone at the edge of camp, watching hordelings scurry hither and yon, Qwg considered her lot. She could attempt to monsterize her weapon, as Hob had suggested, but she figured that it was better to avoid rampant displays of monsterism for now, given the matter of Gado, and general sentiments of the moment. She could join the Vault crew again; the last excursion had granted her a fleeting moment of usefulness as something other than a weapon. But R̵is͏̨͝k̀͢ Á͞ss̶͘e͠ss͏̴m҉̸͜e̶͡n͏t́͢ screamed against it, and she doubted it would be allowed, anyway. The risk of contaminating the delicate workings of the Old Guy artifice with her contagion would be deemed too great. Perhaps Zapanda was right, the miserable wretch. Perhaps it would be better if she simply sheathed herself, until Grimper needed something else destroyed.

Idly Spinning her savagely-toothed weapon in precise, deliberate orbits, Qwg waited.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning
HP: 1/1
Glory 14

Qwg's rotary meditation was interrupted by a small, extremely hesitant throat clearing; little more than a marmt's cough. Tracking the noise with one of her eyes, she saw a wide-eyed hordeling, a scrap of paper clutched in one trembling hand.

"F-from N-n-nog-nog--" Qwg delicately plucked the note from the Tan's fingers before they could stammer themselves to death. She quickly scanned the document with the eye sprouting from her hand, though to the hordeling, it almost certainly seemed as if she hadn't read it at all. With a faintly murmured, "Th̶anķ ̶you̡" to the bewildered messenger, she stalked past them into the camp.

Sndis, now, this was something. Qwg's first impulse upon seeing the state of her Captain, was to look around for bottles, pipes, or other paraphernalia of recreation chemistry; she'd lived with her mother for long enough. She even smelled the air for any whiff of liquor fumes, but her analytical core quickly discerned the matter to be psychological, rather than pharmacological. A mental break, Mg and Gm knew she'd seen enough of those already. Even regressions weren't all that uncommon, but those tended to involve curling into a ball and whimpering, not...was Sndis frolicking? Qwg frowned. Sndis was already a somewhat unstable narcissist (not necessarily a bad thing in her position), but apparently her problems ran deeper. She wasn't sure if Noggins expected her to apply a bit of logical cold water to the fugued-out officer, but she didn't like the odds of that approach. The wendigo didn't want to inadvertently turn a disassociative episode into outright catatonia; she wasn't an alienist, but the Risk spoke to her, whispering harsh negatives.
An alternative, then. Hunching down to a less threatening stature, Qwg approached, curling her broad mouth into a clownishly-exaggerated smile.

"Ś̡ŅU̵̸R҉̶D͏S̵̛," she muttered gently; given the predilections of the person in question, playing up the wendigo affect a little more than was strictly necessary might actually put Sndis at ease, rather than frightening her. "I ͏li̡k͠e̡ ̷y͝our b̀a͝t̴on. Can ̶I h͢ȩl̡p yo͟ù ̡d̢ec͞oraţè ̢ít?" Taking a bit of looted cape, she loosened the fibers with her sharp nails, and began to SPIN them apart, and into a new configuration.

Spinning cloth for a battle standard: 1d500+39 343

Perhaps the best way out for Sndis was through. And perhaps Qwg could briefly be more than a weapon.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+25
HP: 1/1
Glory 14

Qwg is visibly nonplussed by the news from the Vault, and after attempting to shoo a few mooks away from the fallen Spinning core to glom onto her own, spends considerable time monstrously hunched over her Riskbook with tiny pencil stub clutched in one claw, making edits and calculations and reciting arcane actuarial procedure to a seemingly invisible audience. She spends extra time on Ringo's page, scribbling and sketching while staring intently (and probably unnervingly, if he notices) at the transformed dekat. Nearby Unexpectables can make out something about "H͡èroi̶sm̸'s̷ como͠ŗb̸idi̷t̸y͏ w̨it͏h h͞ub̧ris̨.҉," and debating the necessity of a " ̧de͝ ņov̵o̡ as̡ses̢s̛m̢e͡nt," with a clearly confounded and anxious mook.

Claim the extra Spinning skillcore: 1d100 5
Horde Vote: Go to Noostra.

Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at Dec 23, 2017 around 01:05

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 15

Problem: Many eyes with which to watch, but an inefficient vision arc!
Solution: Spinning! Qwg finds a high perch and rotates with eerie grace, her fuschia glow washing over the darkened camp in waves like an eldritch lighthouse.

1. C -- Third Watch: 274!
2. C Fast Pace
3. D Raid and Explore
4. A Madmist

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 16

Qwg stepped back from the padded crate containing a tiny baby swaddled in cloth and strapped into a makeshift crash harness among the provisions. Between that and corking the points on everything within five yards, her Wendigo Risk Assessment left her convinced that the child was as safe as she could make it. The only remaining threat was the patrols currently jeopardizing the Horde's sack of Oxnyard.

Time to get to work. There were Frmen out there with far too many limbs for safety.

Take Out The First Patrol!: 115

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 17>18


Qwg pensively chewed her orders and frowned. The burning lines of Risk blossoming in terrible fractals from Sndis's atrocious plot made her head throb...Resources were being pulled away from vital offensives for the sake of setting epidemiological brushfires, and they were all going to get burned. She had played along with her Captain's delusions and bizarre fugues for the sake of cohesion and results, but if the ends no longer justified the means...
Qwg realized that for the Horde to thrive, she might have to do a bit of judicious pruning.

An assessment for later.

First, she had lines to defend, and what better way to protect her own than to hurl herself in a whirling cyclone of blade and sinew into the massed ranks of the enemy cavalry. Taking heart in the snapping cloth of the Slinker Standard, she was confident enough in her survival, and blunting the charge was imperative. The bōnsaw screamed and sparked along the ground as monstrous muscles propelled her toward the charging horse in a Spinning counter-charge. Her maw open to reveal entirely too many glistening teeth, Qwg's throat gave rise to a terrible, croaking, horse-bolting bellow.

RECKLESS ATTACK against Horsemen: 1d500+30+17+2+10+10 131

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 18

Qwg flicked the horsechunks from her saw and grimaced. The line hadn't held, and she'd have many entries to amend tonight. Trinh had taken over her horse butchery with admirable dedication, so she turned a few of her eyes toward the milling throng of Frman infantry. A clear and present danger, despite the pounding they'd taken, and one forsaken by much of the Horde in favor of more glorious targets.

The Risk was too great, she Assessed. They'd have to be dealt with. She howled a precise accounting of their formation's weakness to the mookly Hordlings near her, and let her Bōnsaw lead the way.

A Whole Bunch More Guys!: 1d500+50+18+2+10+25 436

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 19

Infernal Construction: 1d6 3 (Wide Room)

Qwg glanced around her at the sudden edifice, then turned her many eyes back to the panicking throng of infantry.

"Y̡oúr҉ ͝Comma̧nde͡r s̵eęm͜s̶ t̵ó dou͏b͟t ̨y̢our̛ c͞om͟mi̷tme͝nt," she growled wryly. Then, flexing her shoulders with a series of great, rippling crackles, she swung the bōnsaw in a lazy arc, then lept into a lethal, serrated pirouette.
"ǸÒ͘W̡H͏̛͞E̕͝͡RE ͏̢̕L̴̨Ę̕͢FT̛ ́͏T͘O̸ ͘R̶̡U͢͡Ņ̧!̸͝ "

Spin Attack the Soldiers in the Wide Room!: 1d500+19+30+2 110

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation+15
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 20

As the tremors of battle-risk shiver across her nerves, Qwg can't help but let a quiet smile crease her broad, fangly maw as the other Wendigos charge headlong at the wall. Their animalistic purity enchants her, and she, too, feels the call of battle, wherein their kind can be embraced as useful, rather than shunned as other. Still, her growing disenchantment with the countless tiny slights (less tiny when it came to Zapanda), not to mention the the undeniable madness of their Captain, and the almost certain fate awaiting them once they were no longer required to reap lives, all weighed heavily. She had come to realize that if she were to protect the Horde, she might have to protect it against itself, or at least parts of it. The Risk sang to her through the sleepless nights, weaving complex patterns before her eyes, and showing her what diseased flesh she would have to shear from their ranks.

Soon.

But not now.

Now, she had a motley crew of mooks and killers to instruct in the art of mayhem, artfully applied.
"Ţh̵ȩre," she growled, pointing to a stretch of wall where the archers were almost imperceptibly less efficient at renocking their bows. "T҉he͝re, ̴wh͡er̸e͟ ̛t͝h́e҉ ̡r͘e̸load҉ c̷hain is͠ ̵s͠lów̕! T̢he̡i͝r̡ s̴h́o̕d͝dy͟ tim͘e͜-̕maǹa͢geme͜n̛t͟ ͘s͡ki͡l͞ls̨ ́wi͟l͏l͏ ͝s͏ee the̡ir ̵blo͝o̷d̛ ͢sp͟i͞lled̸!͝ B̵̢̤͈̲̠l̶̶̳̲͠o̹̝͍̼͍̺͙͢͢o̼̭̣͉̲d͕͙̖́͜ ̷̻̼͠͞f̛̮̜͎̲̼̟͠o҉̧̯̟̫̻̻̗ͅr̶̢̠̞̺̖̰̲̲ ͏͓͓t̷͎̭̩̣̩ḥ͠ę̛̰ ͕̼̹́A̵̕͏͔̥͚̩̖̤̳͍c̰͖̱̥̯t̨̯͙̫̠̖͞u̻̻̘̲͉͈̻̱͔͟͠a͇̹͝r̶̦͚͉̜͉̕y̡̮͕͙̠̯̤͘!"

Hurling her body at the wall, grasping with tendrils, hooks, and teeth, Qwg sang a harrowing slaying song as she mantled the battlements and laid into the foe at their weakest point.

Climb that Wall!: 1d500+50+20+10+2 349

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation+15
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 21

Qwg found the Captain's sudden regard for Frmen lives strange, but she was no stranger to precision Amputation. The inner workings of the Inhabited's masks were a mystery to her, but she'd take them off just the same. If not the masks, then the faces to which they were attached. Frmen didn't need faces to live, did they?

Push Back the Nearby Inhabited!: 1d500+21+15+2+10 154

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Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Cosmetics:

Skill 2: Amputation+15
Skill 3: Spinning+30
HP: 1/1
Glory 22

Qwg's many eyes and many-er teeth gleamed in the sanguine glow of flames diffused through murderous banks of Madmist. If any part of her bestial self longed to simply let go, to throw itself into that cloud and let come what may, it was firmly locked away behind the steely discipline of the Risker. Instead, hearing the signal from her Captain, Qwg peered into the smoke and chaos, and let the luminous threads of risk coalesce into a clear course forward, plotted to take her toward the Thumbscrew without encountering any Madmist.

Anything else she encountered? Well, they'd quickly discover what it was like on the business end of a Wendigo on a mission.

Push for the Thumbscrew!: 1d500+50+22+10+2 482

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