Prologue: The Thunder Hammer Debacle
It all started when we encountered a group of cultists mid-ritual, presumably summoning something unpleasant. Naturally, we opted for the traditional approach: interrupting with extreme prejudice. Things escalated quickly, as things do when warp-spawned horrors are involved, and Craig, in a masterstroke of tactical deception, decided to pretend he was completely incompetent. Why? Because he wanted the Thunder Hammer.
"I simply can’t wield it!" Dave wailed, in what Craig would later describe as a pitiful display of groveling. "You must take it!"
Craig, being the noble and selfless teammate that he is (his words, not ours), finally relented and claimed the hammer, much to Dave’s "relief." With the demon dispatched, our new buddy Jae recruited, and the warehouse fight behind us, we moved on to important business: shopping, upgrading the ship, and preparing for Argenta’s pilgrimage. Because nothing says piety like heavy artillery.
The Descent Into Chaos
In our ongoing quest to prove that tactical brilliance and abject panic can, in fact, coexist, we ventured into the lower levels of Footfall’s shadow quarters. Because where else would one willingly go if not into the grimy underbelly of a rogue trader’s least reputable neighborhood? If this place had a tourism brochure, it would just be a single page that read: "Welcome! Good luck not getting stabbed."
We found ourselves staring at a large facility populated by some extremely unsavory individuals who, in true video game fashion, were loitering around in an ominous yet aimless manner. There were two gantry staircases leading downward, so we did the only sensible thing—split the party.
The Gas Cloud of Death
We stepped forward, and a fight broke out. That, in itself, wasn’t an issue. The real problem arose when the boss turned off the extractor fans. Within moments, the entire room filled with a thick, green toxic gas that rapidly eroded our collective hit points and, more importantly, our morale.
"Right, strategic retreat!" Myles commanded, proving that even in crisis, he could find an excuse to issue orders we would immediately ignore.
Our brilliant plan? Run back up the stairs, escape the poison, and let the enemy come to us. Genius, right? Except for one minor detail: The hostiles were immune to the gas.
So there we were, heroically gasping for air in a corridor - which was not indeed free of gas as we thought, watching as our foes stood perfectly content in the swirling mists of doom, waiting for us to make the next move. According to our best calculations, we had about six rounds before we all keeled over dead.
Craig’s Suicide Sprint
Faced with the certainty of death via asphyxiation, we developed a new plan: Craig would sprint straight to the control panel and turn the extractor fans back on.
"Just run past the boss, don’t engage!" Myles instructed.
"What if I—" Craig began.
"No engaging!" we all yelled in unison.
Our job was simple: distract the enemy while Craig made his grand sprint. This mostly involved a combination of haphazard gunfire, dramatic flailing, and Dave loudly reciting a litany of grievances against our tactical choices.
Miraculously, Craig made it to the control panel and, in a shocking display of competence, actually pressed the right buttons. The extractor fans roared back to life, sucking away the poisonous cloud, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief (and oxygen).
The Inevitable Beatdown
With our lungs functioning again, we set about the usual business of bashing, stabbing, and shooting our way through the remaining enemies. Craig, buoyed by his successful sprint, immediately reverted to form by charging into melee and getting promptly bodyslammed by the boss.
"At least let me enjoy my victory lap first!" he protested as we pried him off the floor. (This didn't actually happen - it is a fiction made up by the AI. We believe at this point Craig was still eyeing off Dave's thunder hammer, and so had to make do with mere mortal weapons).
A few well-placed shots, some reckless heroics, and a surprisingly effective tactical flank later, we emerged victorious. No one died (which is always a bonus), and we proved once again that we excel at making plans that mostly hinge on Craig doing something dangerous while the rest of us look busy.
So, in conclusion:
- Splitting the party is always a great idea until it isn't.
- Breathing is, in fact, important.
- Never trust a room with a big-arse fan.
Next time, we’ll probably make another brilliant tactical decision that ends in chaos, but for now, we bask in the glory of our not-quite-disastrous victory.