(A first‑hand account by Lazarus “Yes, I am still the adult in the room” von Valancius.)
1. Previously on “Those Are Definitely Not Santa’s Elves…”
When last we left our intrepid band, we’d just fed a platoon of drukhari their own pointy ears. Dark Aeldar—the galaxy’s finest purveyors of poison, torture, and 40‑minute villain monologues—were reminded that you do not mess with a fully caffeinated Rogue Trader crew. Consider them righteously arse‑kicked; next slide, please.
2. Project Management in the Grimdark
With the pointy‑eared menace reduced to chunky salsa, we indulged in that most heroic of Warhammer pastimes: bureaucratic empire maintenance. Picture Sim City, only the budget line‑items are “Obsidian Cathedral of Woe” and “Mandatory Statue of Me.” We hopped across our holdings, rubber‑stamped construction reports, collected dividends, and realigned a few planetary governors who’d forgotten to send the fruit basket.
3. Trouble on Foulstone (a.k.a. Eldar Speed‑Bump)
Foulstone pinged the emergency hotline, so we hit the warp currents. Aeldari raiders tried to ambush our magnificent, luminescent, pearlescent, pubescent flagship—with the sidekick frigate in tow—only to discover that bringing knives to a macro‑cannon fight is still a terrible idea. They exploded; we added a skull decal to the hull and carried on.
4. Footfall, Bars, and the Pirate Who Sold Yesterday’s Shiny Baubles
Logistics time. We canvassed trade contacts, scooped up curios, and Sir Lazarus lamented the lone merchant we’d never met.
“Where would I hang out if I was a Pirate trader?” puzzled Lanto.
“The bar,” he concluded.
“Which bar, though?” I asked—Footfall is 90 percent tavern.
“The very first one,” Lanto replied.
Thus we retraced our warp‑wake to Footfall and met Ryzza, Pirate Trader extraordinaire. She brandished an inventory that would have rocked our socks last year; now it was mostly shiny knick‑knacks destined for some other gullible captain. We bought two souvenir shot glasses and a scented candle.
5. Vegetable’s Triple‑Yellow Jump (a.k.a. “Risk It for the Biscuit”)
Craig—sorry, Vegetable, our resident straight‑line magnet—decided progress was for the impatient. While Lazarus luxuriated in a rejuvenating bath, Veg slammed the “Yellow Jump” lever three times in a row. The navigator shrieked, the Geller Field groaned, and a couple hundred luckless voidsmen’s brains went pop like overripe grapes. On the plus side, we shaved hours off the itinerary. Value!
6. Chaos Heretics, Arson as Camouflage, and the Democracy Sausage Cook‑Off
No sooner had we rematerialised than we stumbled upon Chaos heretics. We pretended to be surprised, let them set our ship on fire for verisimilitude, and then sprang the ambush. Barbecued traitor courtesy of plasma, promethium, and Craig’s field kitchen: democracy sausages for everyone. (No one asked where Vegetable sourced fresh meat mid‑void. No one wants to know.)
7. Sim City, but Every Building Screams
Another round of project completions pinged through our cogitators. At this point it felt less like Rogue Trading and more like the worst city‑management game mod ever: “Every status effect is on fire and occasionally chants in High Gothic.” Remember: in space, no one can hear you scream—unless your quarterly report is late.
8. The All‑Inclusive Resort with a Carnivorous Light Show
We took shore leave on a seemingly pleasant planet. The governor greeted us with hors d’oeuvres, vintage amasec, and an offer to feed us to his strange, glowing god‑thing. We declined the tasting menu, slaughtered the host, and ordered the flagship to bombard his deity. Turns out some entities shrug off lance batteries. Said glowstick‑god backhanded us light‑years off course, the audacity.
9. Navigator on Vapours, More Yellow “Shortcuts,” and a Warp Gate That Just Won’t
Our poor navigator—eyelids twitching Morse code—begged for mercy. We obliged by taking another pair of yellow jumps. Miraculously we lived and drifted into the target system. There, a forgotten warp gate taunted us: majestic, dormant, and about as cooperative as Craig during a tutorial prompt. No activation codes = no joy.
10. Wrecked Ship? Absolutely, Let’s Split Up and Touch Everything
Scans revealed a derelict drifting nearby. We, the galaxy’s leading experts in poor impulse control, boarded immediately. The airlock slammed shut, vox traffic dissolved into static, and the emergency lighting helpfully spelled “BAD IDEA.” We pressed on—Pascal hunting for an override while muttering litanies about warranty violations.
Deep in the guts we met a lone hooded tech, chanting binary prayers at a console. Ever the diplomat, I greeted him:
“I say, good chap, we appear to be a might stuck, blessings of the God‑Emperor to you.”
Argenta leaned in, peeked beneath the hood, and shrieked, “Foul mutant, slay it now before it’s too late!” We shot him mid‑cackle. Cue ominous chittering all around us.
11. Surprise! Genestealer Petting Zoo
An overhead panel crashed down, revealing a purple, four‑armed murder‑komodo. “Genestealer!” Argenta hissed. The xeno yeeted Pascal across the corridor, carving his armour like warm butter. Flamers roared, sniper rounds whizzed, thunder hammers boomed—we drove it off, then chased like lemmings. Stupid, stupid f#$king lemmings.
Naturally, a second Genestealer swan‑dropped in. Lazarus’ auspex lit up like a bingo board.
“There are too many, my scanner is going crazy!” I yelled.
“Split up—snipers up the back corridor, sacrificial dummies to the front!”
We love a clear org chart.
12. Corridor Inferno, Sniper Ballet, and Vegetable’s Xeno‑Kebab
Argenta lobbed a flame grenade into the cross‑junction, forging a wall of holy promethium. The Genestealer sprinted through the fire, dripping molten goo. Yriliet’s rifle cracked, driving it back; it yo‑yoed forward again, slightly charred—until Vegetable bisected it with extreme prejudice.
Enter Genestealer #3. Close‑quarters mayhem ensued: claws, hammers, panic karaoke. We bought Lazarus the seconds he needed to plot an escape route, then legged it—sob‑screaming—toward the airlock.
13. “Nuke it from Orbit,” the Classical Solution
We dove onto the shuttle as vox static fizzed with worst‑case scenarios.
“There are bound to be more,” Lanto wheezed.
“Nuke it from Orbit,” said Argenta, “it’s the only way to be sure.”
Permission granted. The flagship vented righteous fury; the derelict bloomed into plasma confetti. Genestealers: 0. Crew: traumatised, but technically Victorious—using the most rubbery definition of the word.
14. Post‑Game Debrief & Casual Headcount
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Casualties: a few hundred brain‑popped voidsmen, one sycophantic governor, multiple chaos heretics, and three Genestealers.
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Loot: Ryzza’s scented candle, one scorched democracy‑sausage recipe, and the smug satisfaction of not dying (again).
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Outstanding Tasks: Replace navigator’s adrenal glands, figure out warp‑gate firmware, explain to HR why “sacrificial dummy” is an official job title.
15. Closing Thoughts (and Mild Threats)
If this session had a moral, it would be “Never let Craig near the drive controls” and “Always bring extra promethium.” Yet we persist—because somewhere out there, another governor wants to feed us to his glowstick deity, and another derelict holds a perfectly good airlock waiting to betray us.
Until next time, remember: in space, no one can hear you scream—unless Craig leaves the vox on open‑mic during karaoke night.
