Dune: The Discovery Phase, or Don’t Forget to Fuel the Generators

 

We rejoin our brave adventurers at their newly rebuilt base, a sprawling edifice that, depending on who you ask, is either a shining beacon of survival ingenuity or an architectural monstrosity with too many staircases.

Dave stands proudly, scanning the horizon for applause. None arrives.

“Where do I put this stuff?” asks Craig, dumping a suspiciously large pile of random loot into the middle of the floor.

“Why is it so big?” muses Myles, gazing at the looming walls.

“Is this our base? I don’t remember it looking like this,” says Zaph.

Dave exhales dramatically, the sigh of a man who knows he is surrounded by philistines. “Right. Focus up!”

“Listen carefully,” he commands. “Check your gear. Level 2 cutterays, medium blood bags, litterjons of water, Mk2 battery packs, Khirijon stillsuits or armour. And we’re not coming back until your backpacks are full.”

“Can we take our bikes?” Craig asks hopefully.

“No bikes,” Dave snaps. “This trip is on foot. Life in the desert is not a cakewalk.”

“There’s cake?” Craig perks up.

“No cake. No bikes. No slacking,” Dave growls.

And so, properly scolded, we set out. Up the stairs, out the back door, climbing the switchback path. We’re almost at the top when Myles pipes up: “Are we there yet?”

Dave sighs again. It is going to be one of those nights.

---

Lessons in Swordplay (and Patience)

“Draw swords!” Dave orders.

There’s a scavenger camp ahead, perfect for live combat drills.

Craig is crouched on the path, suspiciously still.

“What are you doing?” asks Dave.

“Drawing a sword,” Craig replies, pointing proudly at the doodle he’s etched into the dirt with his dagger.

“Two targets,” Dave continues. “On three, we attack.”

“Wait,” says Myles. “Is it on three, or do we attack after three?”

“We attack on three.”

“ONE!” yells Craig, immediately charging forward like a berserker.

Everyone else follows in varying degrees of confusion and enthusiasm.

“Stop hitting me!” shouts Dave as he fends off both scavengers and friendly fire.

“Swords suck!” complains Myles. “Why can’t I use my rifle?”

“Everyone needs to learn all weapons!” Dave declares. “It’s about skill versatility and team composition!”

“Swords suck!” Zaph echoes. “When do I get a sniper rifle?”

“When I say you can!” Dave roars. “And NOT A MOMENT SOONER.”

---

Blood Bags and Broken Seals

Fight over, we drain the bodies of blood (as you do), loot everything not nailed down, and press on.

In one cave we find corpses behind a broken moisture seal. Everyone turns slowly to look at Craig.

“It wasn’t me,” he says unconvincingly.

---

Dave’s Masterclass in Quicksand Navigation

At The Anvil trading post, we take a detour into a cliffside cave.

“Follow me,” says Dave. “Watch out for quicksand, heavy gunners, and—”

KER-THUNK.

Zaph leaps off a ledge, directly into a firefight. Dave rushes to assist and gets immediately bogged down in quicksand.

Luckily, everyone else is too busy swinging swords to notice his heroic flailing.

---

Bikes, Boosters, and Bad Ideas

Having survived our foot march, we zip across the dunes on our bikes.

At the top of a rise, we spot a Harkonnen base. Wisely, we avoid it and focus on gathering carbon crystals.

Back to base, unload, smelt steel.

Next up: “Evict squatters from an Imperial testing station. Dead or alive.”

“That’s our kind of gig,” Dave says cheerfully.

Myles tries out his bike booster and rockets ahead like a sandworm on espresso, waking every worm in a three-mile radius. The rest of us dive for the nearest rock.

---

Heavy Gunners: Craig’s Nemesis

Inside the Imperial station, we find a hologram delivering a welcome speech it’s been practicing for 10,000 years. We ignore it, drink all the water, loot every chest, and drain every corpse.

Combat is intense:

• Dave and Zaph clean house on the left flank.

• Myles and Craig… less so.

• The heavy gunner turns Craig into salsa.

By the time Craig respawns, the team has moved on.

“Heavy Gunners: 3. Craig: 0.”

---

Of Fancy Pants and Moral Bankruptcy

We return to base laden with schematics for hats, gloves, and—most importantly—pants. Dave now answers only to “Mr Fancy Pants.”

Then comes Dave’s solo adventure.

While gathering iron ore, he finds an abandoned base, doors swinging open, storage unlocked. He politely robs them blind.

“350,000 credits,” he announces. “Left them 50,000. I’m only 80% a-hole.”

It takes three trips and four new storage chests to hold his loot.

Moral of the story: don’t forget to fuel your generators and lubricate your wind turbines.

Phobophobia: When You’re Afraid of Being Afraid of the Fear of Fear

 

Dune the Awakening: The Interlude

The endless dunes do strange things to your mind. Or, to be precise, they do strange things to Dave’s mind. The parched throat, the lack of water, the incessant slaughter of strangers to extract their precious bodily fluids—it was all too much for him. To make matters worse, the sight of their humble 4x4 rock hut sitting next to magnificent palaces triggered an advanced case of House Envy. Once House Envy sets in, it’s all downhill: Claustrophobia, Grammophobia (fear of grammar or sometimes writing in general), Thanatophobia (fear of death), Tropophobia (fear of moving or making changes) , Trypophobia (aversion to clusters of small holes), and even Basiphobia (fear of falling) took turns bouncing around in his brain like a deranged bingo machine. Since there is nothing to fear except fear itself, Dave naturally developed Phobophobia too (the fear of phobias).

Thus began Dave’s solo week of base redesign while the rest of us went AWOL, possibly to preserve what little sanity we had left.

Walls were raised to cathedral-like heights to eliminate those oppressive low ceilings. Stairs with safety rails appeared to keep us from our usual habit of gravity-testing. Straight walls were replaced with flowing, curving surfaces that would make Gaudí weep with envy. Holes in the floor were patched (boo) and several medium-sized cisterns were installed and miraculously filled with actual water instead of recycled human plasma.

A mezzanine now suspended the power generators off the floor, separating them from the water tanks and, more importantly, from Craig. Out back, Dave constructed a massive switchback staircase climbing the cliffs. It was so extensive that it could double as an Inca pilgrimage site.

Craig, naturally, contributed a sniper nest. This inspired Dave to demolish the third floor entirely, raise the roof on the second floor, move Craig’s bed as far away as physically possible, and install crinkled paper on the floor so you could hear Craig sneaking about at night like some sort of carnivorous marsupial.

For Myles’ latest hobby—grappling practice—Dave threw together a five-story bastion complete with a ladder and trapdoor. Craig’s multi-floor death trap was also retrofitted: slightly less deadly but far more challenging thanks to the addition of walls. And through it all, every attempt was made to preserve Zaph’s beloved CCF lighting strips on the garage floor because priorities.

At long last, Dave could return to his new hobby: wandering the desert at night, waving a sickle over flowers to harvest water like some demented Grim Reaper of botany. All in all, it was slightly less murdery than harvesting blood.

Myles surveyed the sprawling complex, nodded in admiration, and finally voiced the question on everyone’s mind:

“So then you pack this up and bring it with you on your bike when we move to a new spot next week?”

Dave froze mid-sickle swing as Metathesiophobia (fear of change) dug its claws into his soul.

Dune the Awakening: The Graduation (or How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sandworms)

 We decided to compare graphics cards.

RTX 2070

RTX 4080 Super

Let's Ride

After several sweaty weeks of assembling sandbikes, consulting with planetologists, and murdering every trooper trainer’s drinking buddy in a 5-kilometre radius, the big moment had finally arrived: we were graduating from the tutorial zone. No more handholding. No more convenient safehouses. Just us, our questionable decision-making skills, and an endless sea of sand.

We were now… couriers. Yes. Fear us, desert. For we deliver. Well, except for Myles, who refuses to use his bike’s storage compartment on principle.

An Important Stop: Rocks and Wrecks

Our first stop was a pile of rocks (to hide from sandworms) and a wrecked buggy to salvage. Dave and Craig gleefully dismantled it like raccoons at a car crash buffet while Zaph got shot down by territorial scavengers—his blood darkening the sands in an aesthetically pleasing spiral pattern.

Myles was too busy polishing his sandbike to notice.

A little duct tape and some heroic first aid later, Zaph was back on his feet, and we taught the scavengers who the real kings of the desert were (hint: it’s not us, but don’t tell Craig).

The Anvil and the House Vote

We made it to The Anvil, the local trading hub, where we delivered our cargo, grabbed every job on the board like caffeine-deprived interns, and chose to side with House Atreides. This was a purely democratic decision because no one wanted to shave their head and smell like boiled onions to join the Harkonnen.

Craig voted Harkonnen, of course. He was outvoted.

The Great Sandstorm Incident

While circling a promising outcropping for a base location, the weather satellites issued a sandstorm alert. Time was of the essence. Zaph panicked and drove his bike directly into a ditch, trapping himself in the storm’s path.

Myles, Craig, and Dave zoomed off, engines roaring and laughter trailing behind them, and made it to The Anvil just as the massive stone doors slammed shut. Inside, the survivors toasted their “fallen” comrade with a few rounds.

Zaph? Zaph became one with the desert.

Building the Base (aka The Great Hoarding Begins)

Once the storm subsided, we found the perfect spot for our base: on the edge of an outcropping, conveniently near resources. Dave slapped down a sub-fief console and began construction while the rest of us scattered like those weird hoppy desert mice, gathering granite, iron ore, and copper.

Walls went up. A roof followed. Storage chests appeared, multiplied like rabbits, and filled instantly. Craig, naturally, dropped his inventory all over the floor like a toddler with a Lego set just to make work for Dave.

Myles and Dave took an Ornithopter back to the tutorial zone to pillage our first base before scrapping it.

Iron, Blood, and Tears

Back at home, our iron ran dry, so Dave built a refinery. “Crap,” he muttered, “it needs water.”

We built a blood refinery. Craig and Zaph went hunting scavengers to refill it. We installed water tanks, dew collectors, and anything short of hiring a team of desert hermits to spit in a bucket.

Trials and Tribulations

Feeling brave (or bored), we tackled the second trial of AQL. Let’s not talk about that.

On the bright side, we learned to make compactor rods for harvesting Flour Sand—the main ingredient for silicone and, more importantly, better guns. Because if there’s one thing this crew agrees on, it’s that there is no such thing as enough firepower.

We also embarked on a heroic quest to retrieve stolen goods. The goods weren’t there. We looted a cave and killed everyone inside—still no goods. We hit a scavenger outpost for intel—another bust. Clearly, detective work is not our calling.

The Base Evolves

Back home, we expanded. A second storey was added, then a third. Craig installed trapdoors in the floors because “ambience.” Dave added a sandworm statue, curved walls (for Feng Shui), and a five-storey buttress with a ladder.

Craig, in his eternal wisdom, built a sniper nest on the roof, which immediately became another floor. Later, he added “inconvenient ladders” in strategic places to keep Dave on his toes.

Diplomacy and Dew Harvesting

We tried to curry favor with House Atreides by finding their missing spy. We found him. He was dead. Strike two.

Water shortages persisted. Myles researched dew harvesting and discovered, to everyone’s surprise, that you can get water from flowers—at the right time of day. Unfortunately, you still can’t get blood from a stone, even after Zaph died on it.

Final Notes

The base now towers like a bizarre architectural experiment born of equal parts necessity and chaos. Dave is still fixing Craig’s ladders. Myles is still refusing to use his bike storage. Zaph is still finding new and creative ways to die.

And Craig? Craig is probably halfway up the sandworm statue, building a diving board “just in case.”

We may not have conquered the desert, but we’re definitely redecorating it.

Dune: The Awakening – From Rogue Traders to Sweat Recycling Hobos

 

It was a very anti-climactic evening in the deserts of Arrakis, as The Worm—our would-be apex predator and Craig’s destiny—stubbornly refused to turn up and devour him whole. We’d crossed the sands, even shouted helpful instructions like, “Craig, stand still and wiggle!” but alas, the Worm was either on strike or enjoying its union-mandated coffee break.

So, in true conqueror fashion, we each built a base. Nothing quite screams “galactic domination” like a hastily cobbled 2x4 rock hut. Eventually, we consolidated on Dave’s base, partly because it was closest to the trading outpost and partly because it was the only one that didn’t look like a sand-encrusted bathroom stall. The outpost itself was a tall, well-lit building with thick walls designed to withstand the fiercest sandstorm. Dave’s base, in contrast, would struggle against a stiff breeze.

We teamed up like the dysfunctional family we are. The generator was stocked with power cells, lights installed, and—since Dave is a hoarding pack rat—storage boxes were added, then more storage boxes, and then even more storage boxes. It was hot work, so we extended the roof for shade and, in an inspired moment of “eco-conscious survivalism,” installed blood converters. Because nothing says “progress” like harvesting people for their blood to turn into potable water. Truly, how the mighty have fallen: from Rogue Traders with their own sector to escaped prisoners licking dew off flowers.

Zaph, being immune to distractions like “all the shiny rocks,” got ahead of the rest of us. Dave, however, couldn’t resist, “Put that down, we have enough copper!” as Myles intercepted him carting yet another armload of raw ore. Meanwhile, Zaph calmly set up a small ore refinery and a fabricator. Naturally, Dave went right back to collecting more copper. Craig, whose hobbies now include “murder for hydration,” needed to drain scavengers for their blood. So, off we went to the nearby Imperial Testing Station—a charming relic from a simpler, slightly more genocidal era.

We explored, looted, drank scavenger water, killed scavengers, opened secret doors, looted some more, and acquired weird components that screamed “future quest item.” Back at base, spice-induced dreams followed. Craig, feeling claustrophobic, added a second floor to the base because apparently “two levels of chaos is better than one.”

Then came the first Trial of AQL. We sniffed spice from a bowl, passed out, and dreamed of playing hide-and-seek with the sun. You know, normal Tuesday stuff. Afterwards, we ducked into a cave during a sandstorm, hit another scavenger outpost for the patented KLS treatment (Kill, Loot, Steal intel), and rolled back to base with new gear and slightly more heatstroke.

Zaph found a rifle but immediately grumbled, “There’s no scope. How am I supposed to do headshots with this?” Beggars, as it turns out, can be choosers even on a desert death world.

We raided an old Fremen cave (moisture seals were slashed—ziplocks clearly hadn’t been invented yet), looted scavenger outposts, and returned to base with a fresh haul. Blood was poured into machines; we researched surveyor probes using the mystical knowledge gained from our spice trip. Myles climbed rocks to launch the probes but found the height insufficient. After some mutual grunting and stamina breaks, he and Dave scaled a larger outcropping and successfully revealed part of the map. Craig, meanwhile, struggled to operate the surveying tool and possibly invented several new swear words in the process.

A visit to the trading outpost ensued. We spoke to an old geezer who promised to teach us to be troopers if we would kindly go murder his old drinking buddies. Sign us up.

After delivering copper and miscellaneous Imperial Station loot, we bought Camelbak recipes and headed for the wreck of a crashed spaceship. Rock outpost to rock outpost we ran, staying in the shadows while Myles screamed, “CRAIG! Stay in the shade or you’ll roast!” Naturally, we hit another scavenger outpost (KLS, rinse, repeat), looted the ship, and learned how to burn hinges off doors for maximum dramatic flair.

Returning to base, Craig took sadistic joy in placing materials in the wrong chests, sending Dave into a slow spiral of organizational madness. We crafted new clothes for scavenger infiltration, stillsuits for stylish sweat-drinking adventures, and bike parts to trade at the outpost.

Next week promises further idiocy: retrieving forgotten materials, building a trike, learning “planetology,” and finally leaving the newbie training area to embark on our real adventure.

Saturday morning: Dave logged in alone to do base cleanup, put items in the correct chests, and add yet another level to our rock palace. Because even in the grim heat of Arrakis, Dave can’t resist playing Space Ikea.

Goodbye Grimdark, Hello Sunburn (And Sandworms)

Rogue Trader: The Epilogue

After exploring the distant future, where life is grim, there is only war, and the occasional psychotic break brought on by staring too long into the warp, we have finally deserted the world of Warhammer 40K.

We are leaving behind the days of Rogue Traders, plasma rifles that explode at the worst possible moments, and Craig charging in straight lines to certain doom. Gone are the tech priests, the zealotry, and the suspiciously cheerful servitors.

Instead, we set our course for an alternate sci-fi reality—a place where you are not dependent on rogue traders who never stock the thing you actually want and where you can, at last, make your own stuff.

Welcome to Dune: Awakening.

A world where the landscape is the same pleasant sandy colour all year round. The weather? A balmy 50°C in the shade, dropping to a brisk 40°C at night—perfect for a light stroll in your stillsuit. A world where the spice of life is, quite literally, spice. Where survival depends on finding water, building shelter, turning plants into clothing, and turning scrap metal into weapons, trikes, and possibly questionable life choices.

Here begins a new gritty adventure.

And, of course, every new game deserves a new team motto:

“We don’t have to outrun the giant sandworms. We just have to run faster than Craig and let the worm have him. We need a sandworm tooth to make a crysknife anyway.”

So buckle up, adjust your stillsuits, and prepare to make fun of Craig all over again—this time on Arrakis.

Ambushed by Aeldari – Wulfar Saves the Day (and the Party, and the Sector)

 

It began with Lazarus trying to impose some kind of logistical sanity. “It’s just a little camping trip,” he told Sister Argenta, confiscating an ammo case and chucking it aside like an overpacked tourist’s hair straightener. Argenta’s glare could have cut ceramite. Indira, meanwhile, was pleading to join the outing like a teenager begging to go to Coachella. “Please, please, please take me with you! I know my door is down there somewhere!” she cried, waving vaguely at the planet below like she was calling bingo numbers.

Lazarus, ever the paragon of command efficiency, folded like wet cardboard. “Fine – you’re on the shuttle. Argenta, go bake cookies or something.” Had her eyes had lascannons, he’d be a puddle on the floor.

Maze of Misfortune

The mission was simple: find the missing Winterscale. Thirty days out. Presumed dead. What could go wrong?

Well. For one, no one mentioned the planet was a labyrinth clearly designed by an Aeldari interior decorator with a flair for sadism. Following the sacred doctrine of “always go left,” we naturally bumbled into a sniper-heavy Aeldari party. Six Rangers. Two of ours. Zaph’s math-face turned pale.

Yriliet nobly fired first, injuring one. Cue guardians charging. Cue three Rangers entering Counter-Sniper mode and Yriliet getting removed from combat like a misbehaving file. Lanto was wounded. The snipers’ union had clearly voted for “No Mercy Mondays.”

Then Indira acted. Or… attempted to. Psychic lightning did strike three guardians. Unfortunately, it also summoned a blue horror. Right next to Lanto. Because obviously what this situation needed was a daemonic lawn gnome with murder in its eyes.

Sir Vegetable, not to be outdone by Ulfar’s historical murder sprees, thunder-hammered all three guardians. They politely declined to die.

Lanto ran for cover—straight into the horror, who promptly cut him down. It was now 4 vs 9. Things were going great, assuming your goal was to fail spectacularly.

Cue the Ulfar

Lazarus lobbed a grenade and vaporised three guardians menacing Veg. Then three Rangers returned fire, instantly downing Lazarus and Indira. 2 vs 6. Time for the Ulfar Show™.

Ulfar sprinted, kicked a Ranger to the ground, and shot another. Two Rangers fired back. One hit a guardian instead (friendly fire, classic elf mistake). Sir Veg was downed. One vs four.

Ulfar then casually:

• Shot the blue horror.

• Strangled a Ranger to death.

• Got shot again. Shouted, “Puny elf!”

• Sliced, kicked, and shot another Ranger.

• Found the final Ranger hiding behind a pillar.

• Lobbed a grenade to flush him out.

• Punched him mid-evade.

• Ripped his arm off and used it like a cricket bat.

The rest of us stirred groggily, badly wounded. Lanto had so many broken bits he was basically a maraca. We looted the corpses. Obviously.

Winterscale: The Shadiest Sidekick

Eventually, we found a village chief who offered soup and a side quest: find his sister the Shaman. Of course, she was with Winterscale, who’d been off playing Warhammer IRL. His party looked half-dead. Winterscale and his bestie were perfectly healthy. Suspicious? Obviously. Did we care? Less than you’d think.

We convinced them to return with us to the village. Lazarus, in his best Boy Scout voice, promised “just a short trip.” Three days of forest-maze meandering later, we arrived.

Shaman did her calming-forest-magic bit. Lazarus talked Winterscale into leaving most of his party behind to rest. We set off with just him and his #1 Fan to chase Aeldari.

Yriliet’s Family Reunion (with Flamethrowers)

Found an armoury. Lanto got a new gun. He drooled. Mostly because he could barely lift it. Then we met the Aeldari — Yriliet’s long-lost kin. Surprise! They’d been carpet-bombing the planet to flush out a hidden Humunculus. Also with them? Our Harlequin friend, who has the unsettling habit of popping up like Pennywise mid-monologue.

Turns out, the Aeldari had called another Craftworld to nuke the sector. Lazarus asked Yriliet for advice (a clear cry for help). She managed to talk her kin down and performed a solo psychic rite to negotiate with the Craftworld.

It worked. The Craftworld agreed to pick them up — and not start a galactic war. Ten points to Ravenclaw.

Burn Baby Burn

Back to the ship. Time for some good ol’ space admin. Projects completed. Trade contacts upgraded. Ship upgrades bought. Loot sorted. Excellent. Time to hunt the Humunculus.

We benched Lanto (too injured to hold a teacup), and brought Argenta instead. Lazarus only realised she’d brought a heavy flamer as the shuttle descended.

Sir Veg and Ulfar, naturally, were on point. Naturally, they triggered combat by existing. This time, however, we executed a Zen-like fallback to a choke point.

Lazarus, deadpan: “Argenta, set the world on fire.”

Argenta: “Burn baby burn!” She hosed the corridor. Nothing burned. Shrugged. Tossed a grenade. Corridor now on fire. Ulfar joined in with Melta-BBQ. Corridor: inferno. Lemmings (i.e., enemies): dead.

Then the Alpha Grotesque floated in like an Uber Eats delivery from Hell.

• Yriliet: chants, shoots, 280 damage. (New record.)

• Ulfar: melta, bolter, makes goo.

• Idira: something dramatic we forgot to write down.

• Yriliet again: before her turn starts — shoots, 252 damage. Alpha’s dead.

Beta Grotesque? Practically a mop-up job. Even Sir Veg landed a hit before Ulfar did his patented Slash-Slash-Shoot-Slash-Kick™ finisher.

---

Next Week:

Will we trap the Humunculus in its lair? Will Indira finally do something memorable? Will Craig accidentally become planetary governor again? Stay tuned.

Same warp-time. Same warp-channel.

Ulfgar and His Trusty Sidekick Yriliet Save the Day

If you recall from last episode, we had just kicked off the final battle in the Dark Reach Spire — facing off against Yremeryss, four Grotesques, and a small battalion of Incubi. Unfortunately, Lazarus and Sir Veg had already been on the receiving end of a solid pummelling and were now looking distinctly half-alive.

Lazarus, surveying the field, bellowed at Veg: “SLAM the three Incubi near you!” Veg complied with his usual thunderous flair, but — to everyone’s dismay — the Incubi simply shrugged it off and remained standing.

“DID YOU FORGET TO CHARGE YOUR HAMMER?” Lazarus roared over the din of battle.

Meanwhile, Ulfgar (Ulfar to his mates) kicked a Grotesque aside and sprinted across the chamber to assist the beleaguered Rogue Trader.

Sir Veg wound up for another mighty hammer strike and slammed it down again — yet still, those three stubborn Incubi stood firm.

Pasqal, thinking tactically, shoved one Incubus off its feet and, noticing that several were now neatly lined up, whipped out his meltagun and served them a toasty blast. They remained charred… but annoyingly alive.

Yriliet — our trusty sniper — calmly shot and felled a Grotesque, leaving just one lumbering monstrosity in the room (with two more ominously ascending the rear staircase). Pausing only to wipe sweat from her brow, she lined up another shot — this time at Yremeryss, who didn’t so much as flinch.

Then things got interesting. Two small Dark Eldar craft docked on either side of the spire chamber, unloading three more Incubi and a sniper apiece. It was now 6 of us versus 18 of them — and the bases were well and truly loaded.

Lanto, our second sniper, coolly lobbed a grenade into the cluster on the left, dispatching three instantly, and followed up with a clean sniper shot to finish their marksman.

Meanwhile, Yremeryss took the opportunity to deliver yet another savage whipping to Lazarus.

Ulfgar darted to the right flank, cleaving two newcomers with his chainsword. Sir Veg, gathering himself, finally managed to splatter an Incubus sneaking past him.

Then Yriliet — star of the night — executed an Incubus, eliminated a sniper, finished off two wounded Incubi, and patched up Lazarus. The tide was beginning to turn. It was now 6 vs. 8 and — for the first time — we thought: we might just survive this after all.

Lazarus, battle-weary and fed up with playing the designated punching bag, shouted: “Everyone, SHOOT Yremeryss!”

We did — though both snipers were frustratingly caught mid-reload.

An Incubus charged Ulfgar, but he simply booted it to the floor and nonchalantly shot it in the head.

Lanto took aim at the wounded Yremeryss, only to have Sir Veg accidentally nudge his elbow as the shot fired — causing the bolt to miss. Veg thought this was absolutely hilarious and rolled about on the floor laughing.

Yremeryss, on the other hand, did not find this funny. She promptly sliced Lazarus mid-speech and nearly finished off Lanto. Suddenly: 5 vs. 8. To make things worse, two turrets sprang from the floor — and Yremeryss, after draining Lazarus’s life force, was back at full strength.

Sir Veg, fuelled by turret-hate, charged across the room to tackle one of them, while the other turret coldly gunned down Lanto.

Pasqal attempted to seize command of the field — but alas, his tactical brilliance had seemingly leaked out somewhere amidst the chaos.

Yremeryss now advanced on Yriliet, unloading shots at Ulfgar, who twisted and dodged in a flurry of acrobatics. Yriliet seized the moment — each time Yremeryss fired, she countered with precise sword strikes, cutting deep.

Ulfgar rushed forward to shield Yriliet, booted Yremeryss away, knocked her prone, and then leapt between her and the advancing Grotesques, unloading his bolter at point blank.

Just then, two more Dark Eldar craft arrived, disgorging eight fresh enemies. One group immediately swarmed Pasqal and took him out — reducing us to three vs. eleven, with the home team now having the clear upper hand.

But Yriliet, ever the sniper queen, fired — gravely wounding Yremeryss.

Ulfgar followed up: he killed Yremeryss, dispatched a Grotesque, and booted another down the staircase.

An Incubus rushed in and downed Yriliet, leaving just Ulfgar and Sir Veg standing — two vs. nine — in what had become our hardest fight yet.

Veg, undeterred, flung himself into the nearest wave of newcomers, hammering wildly with berserker zeal — Incubus after Incubus fell beneath his blows.

Between them, Ulfgar and Veg wiped out the rest.

Bruised and battered, we patched ourselves up and looted absolutely everything not nailed down — just in time for Harly to arrive and open a portal out.

MVP of the night? A dead tie between Yriliet (new personal best for damage dealt) and Ulfgar, with honourable mention to Sir Vegetable.

---

Aftermath

Safely escaped, we cashed in our hard-won XP to unlock new Archetypes. News of the realm was grim — the Dark Eldar were overrunning our worlds — so we checked in on planetary projects, returned to the ship, and were instantly mobbed by every NPC wanting an audience with Lazarus. All he wanted to do was shop.

There was an awkward moment when the crew attempted to have Yriliet executed for allegedly leading us into a trap. Lazarus refused even to hear it.

---

A Little Light Respite — and More Shenanigans

We set out for a “welcome back cruise” — partly to shake off the battle and partly to see what our rival Rogue Traders had been up to.

Mid-flight: Marazhai snapped, murdered some of the crew, and got us into a nasty scrap with warp-spawned demonettes. Yriliet almost talked Marazhai down — but inevitably, it ended in blood. We dispatched the demonettes, and Lazarus, not one for sentiment, executed Marazhai on the spot for kidnapping and torture.

---

The Next Mission

We’ve now arrived in a decrepit system where the rival Rogue Trader has been missing planetside for 30 days. Their fleet wants us to go in and rescue them. What could possibly go wrong?

The Memory Leak Crusade: Pascal.exe Has Left the Chat

 

You know it’s going to be one of those nights when the session starts not with a war cry, but with Dave typing mournfully into Discord at 7:35pm:

“My mic is playing up.”

It echoed like a premonition of doom.

Dave, ever the techno-optimist, had updated to the latest Windows 11 patch (KB5060842) because the release notes promised to fix the very memory leak issue that had plagued him before. Trusting Windows to fix itself is like trusting a grox not to gore you if you look at it funny.

Within 20 minutes, his machine was hemorrhaging RAM like a busted Promethium tank. Thirty-two glorious gigabytes, all devoured by the great void. We told him to reboot. He rebooted. The leak returned faster than Craig at the sound of a loot chest unlocking.

Dave then tried to roll back. But alas, the rollback only removed security patches, not the blight itself. He toggled services, killed startup tasks, sacrificed a small Java daemon—no dice. The leak endured.

Eventually, Dave entered “Pascal Spectator Mode.” He watched via Discord stream and issued guidance like a Tech Priest operating a remote forklift:

“Use the meltagun.”

“No, not that button.”

“Why is Craig charging the refrigerator?”

He became a digital Obi-Wan, whispering from the cloud, occasionally glitching into a Force Ghost every time Discord buffered.

---

🦾 Meanwhile, In the Actual Game (Sort Of)

To say we were also fighting the game would be an understatement. Rogue Trader had clearly ingested some of Dave’s memory leak and decided to offer up a constant stream of “loss of synchronization” errors. Every 15 minutes, someone—usually Safe or Craig—was ejected from the Warp like a bolus of corrupted data.

Step 1: Reboot Rogue Trader.
Step 2: Load save.
Step 3: Wait for sync.
Step 4: Someone drops.
Step 5: Repeat until morale breaks.

It was the digital version of Sisyphus, except instead of rolling a boulder, we were launching a CRPG with all the stability of a servitor with its RAM on fire.

By the time we actually resumed combat, it was already creeping toward midnight. Of course, that’s when the game decided to unleash something big. And not “Craig’s ego” big—we’re talking 800 hit point “hope you packed snacks and painkillers” big.

It lumbered onto the battlefield with the ominous weight of an unpaid Adobe subscription. We had barely started swinging when Zaph looked at the clock, narrowed his eyes, and said:

“This is going to be at least another hour. Maybe two.”

We all silently agreed. We were too tired, too broken, too RAM-deprived to face a boss fight that would likely involve multiple phases, a monologue, and Craig yelling, “I jump on it!”

So we paused. Mid-battle. Mid-chaos. Dave still exiled from gameplay, Craig mid-swing, and a monster mid-lurch.

---

🎮 Final Thoughts: The Emperor Protects (But Not from Windows Updates)

This wasn’t a Rogue Trader session. It was an elaborate tech support LARP with occasional combat elements. Dave, our noble Pascal, spent the night scrying the battlefield through Discord like a divining priest watching over the feeble.

We fought no demons, defeated no masterminds. Our true enemies were:

• Patch KB5060842 (may its memory leak forever),

• Rogue Trader’s netcode, and

• Whatever eldritch algorithm decides when a save syncs correctly.

And yet—somehow—we remain undaunted. We’ll return next week. With patched clients. With cleared caches. And with Dave, gods willing, back in the pilot’s seat of Pascal, ready to ignite something other than his RAM.

In the grim darkness of the future, there is only war. But in the present, there is only Task Manager.

One Job, Sir Vegetable. One Job.

It’s not paranoia if they really are trying to kill you—which, in our case, is less an aphorism and more a mission briefing.

Fresh from our rousing, limb-removing success in the arena, we emerged into the undercity like victorious gladiators… who had just remembered we left the oven on. Ulfar immediately declared he had “errands” to run and legged it. Never a good sign. Like finding Craig quietly reading the instruction manual.

Lazarus, sensing imminent murder or bureaucratic inefficiency (worse?), led the chase and caught up just in time to prevent Ulfar and Sister Argenta from turning Marazhai into Maraz-pâté. After a bit of stern lecturing, Lazarus wandered off for a private chat with Marazhai under Yriliet’s nuclear glare. Nothing suspicious there.

Marazhai, being as subtle as an orbital strike, declared his sister a traitor and asked Lazarus for the final blow when we found her. Lazarus agreed. He even crossed his heart—while crossing his fingers behind his back. Honour among Rogue Traders, and all that.

With Marazhai benched (and babysat by Argenta, because apparently she’s our emotional support zealot), we headed out. We had barely exited the pit before Wych thugs and their pet Grotesque tried to turn us into wall art. Yriliet dove behind Sir Vegetable for cover. Bad choice.

Vegetable, seeing movement in his periphery (which is 50% tunnel vision and 50% hallucination), smashed his hammer down and accidentally stunned Yriliet. He then faked going berserk. Or maybe didn’t fake. Jury’s still out. Regardless, he diced eight attackers like a blender set to “rage purée,” while the rest of us politely dismantled the Grotesque.

We stumbled into the Overseer’s office to find him panicking harder than Craig at a diplomacy check. Apparently, us winning wasn’t part of the plan. “You were supposed to lose! Now I’m doomed!” he wailed, while frantically shredding files and changing his name on LinkedIn.

“Whatever you do,” he warned, “DO NOT KILL Keykeross.” Then he legged it, taking our escape plan with him.

Wandering the undercity once more (because apparently we love urban sightseeing while being hunted), Yriliet muttered about betrayal and paranoia—just in time for an assassin to drop from the sky like the worst kind of Uber Eats delivery. The assassin chased Lazarus through the streets, shooting wildly while we used the local population as mobile cover. At one point Lazarus, clinging to life like a soggy biscuit, stumbled into a blind alley—only to spring our trap and turn the assassin into warp mulch. Teamwork!

Enter the Harlequin. Again. More riddles. More poetry. More vague foreshadowing. Fortunately, Lazarus speaks fluent nonsense and translated the message as:

“Go to the arena, survive a delaying action, I’ll open a portal, and—oh yes—DO NOT KILL Keykeross.”

Arena, Round Two.

The commentator tried spinning it as an epic rematch: “Heroes! Honour! Glory!” We ignored them.

Match 1: Beastmaster + 2 Khymera fiends

Lanto, slayer of beasts, forgot to reload his beast-slaying gun. A bold strategy. Ulfar tackled a fiend into the dirt, setting up Lazarus for the kill (which he took with suspicious ease). Apparently, Lazarus is done with “leading” and moving into “soloing.” Everyone else mopped up.

Match 2: Ssylth military expert + “perfect specimen”

Pasqal, battlefield cartographer and occasional masochist, faced the Ssylth and got turned into meat confetti. Somehow, we won anyway. Probably because Ulfar swung for the fences and actually connected.

Final Match:

Keykeross, a Pain Engine, three Wych Guardians, and three Incubi.

Our side? A tightrope of paranoia and poor impulse control.

Lazarus barked the plan: “Survive. Delay. DO. NOT. KILL. Keykeross.”

Formation: Pasqal + Ulfar right, Vegetable left, the rest centre. The Guardians charged left. Ulfar went full rugby tackle to assist Sir Vegetable. Meanwhile, the Pain Engine decided Lazarus was its personal chew toy. Pasqal invoked the Omnissiah and fired his melta gun. The Pain Engine barely noticed. Lanto and Yriliet tried to slow it, but it vomited toxins in reply.

Lazarus—ever humble—shot it directly in the engine and muttered, “Do I have to do everything myself?”

Meanwhile, Ulfar was punting Guardians into the crowd. Vegetable went full murderhobo—again. Lazarus screamed, “Remember! Do not kill Keykeross!”

“Which one is Kerkeross?”
SMASH
“That one.”
SMASH
FACE-SMASH

Sir Vegetable’s hammer reduced Keykeross to unrecognizable salsa.

We sprinted in as Harlequin popped smoke and opened a portal.

“You had ONE JOB,” Lazarus roared in Vegetable’s face.

“She’s still twitching,” replied Sir Veg, nudging the corpse.

“No, she’s snuffed it, now move!”

We dove through the portal.

Emerging into the dark Eldar equivalent of a sports bar, we found ourselves surrounded by fans watching our fight on replay. Two rival factions, both slightly drunk and entirely armed, noticed us.

“It’s them—the Keykeross killers!”
Thud (faction leader passes out)
“Oops. My bad,” said Sir Vegetable, as Lazarus initiated the death-stare protocol.

Cue bar fight. Twenty-two combatants. Another Pain Engine. Casual Tuesday.

To our advantage, the crowd hated each other as much as us. Ulfar flattened the leaders, Yriliet and Lanto picked off table dancers, Pasqal fired multiple warning shots into the floor, ceiling, and self. Then froze for a “sensor recalibration.” Sir Vegetable went turbo again and cleared house.

Post-fight, Harlequin reappeared with more riddles and dropped a bombshell: a tower full of imprisoned Eldar.

Yriliet looked deep into Lazarus’s eyes and proclaimed her undying love—if he rescued her people.

I mean, how hard could it be?

Stay tuned next week, when Lazarus’s Larrikins absolutely will not kill anyone crucial. Probably. Maybe. No promises.

Lazarus Negotiates Peace. Everyone Dies Anyway

– In the Grimdark Future, Only Save Scumming Survives –

The continuing chronicle of Rogue Trader Lazarus and the Intergalactic Clown Car he calls a crew.

So. It’s 11:03 PM. Dave logs on late—glowing, content, and mildly suspicious from date night. “How’s it going?” he asks, with the cheerfulness of someone who wasn’t just murdered by a robot octopus.

How is it going?

Well, Dave, we got slaughtered. Then went shopping. But silver lining: we found the missing crew, hooray! Downside: they’d been flambéed by a multi-tentacled horror whose hobbies include turning skulls into yogurt. Fortunately, the Emperor invented save scumming, so we graciously rewound the timeline and declared it all a very vivid hypothetical.

---

Enter Team Lazarus: Take 2

Thus reassembled—two snipers, two meatshields, one Rogue Trader, and one guy who thinks plasma burns build character—we charged heroically toward the lair of Mr Tentacles. While Zaph and I explained the extreme hazards of melee combat with such a foe (e.g., becoming a fine red mist), Craig—our beloved vector of chaos—rushed in “for a better look.”

Craig’s definition of “look” involves poking with his face.

Combat began.

Sir Vegetable (Craig’s warrior persona) promptly took cover behind himself, declaring he couldn’t risk scratching his new black armor. A bold tanking strategy: self-preservation via mild sulking.

Pasqal (Dave’s tech-priest/tactical savant) mapped out the field with all the gravitas of a war-room general, strode forth to apply some sacred flesh-rending, and… whiffed. Thoroughly. We all blinked. He covered the moment by casually tapping the robot with an axe and lobbing a toxin dart at its metaphorical kidneys. Result: one angry dent.

Yriliet (Zaph’s “Xenos have no rights” sniper) called it a torture construct and promptly aerated it. Mr Tentacles, now thoroughly annoyed, spun up and blenderized Pasqal into deli meat.

Lanto (Zaph’s backup sniper) put another hole in the metal monstrosity, which prompted it to float over and turn Argenta (Dave’s other character) into extra chopped liver. We are now 50% less priestly.

Lazarus (me, obviously) took stock, declared Yriliet “Best Sniper in the Galaxy,” and ordered a follow-up shot. She obliged—Mr Tentacles was decommissioned with extreme prejudice. It’s not love. It’s tactical and hot.

Pasqal reassembled himself with whatever techno-witchcraft keeps him ticking, investigated the wreck, declared it a heresy against sacred cogwheel alignment, and vaporized it.

---

Back at the Opera House of Secrets and Inadvisable Deals™

We brought the assorted limbs of Mr Tentacles to Tervantias, the world’s sketchiest shopkeeper. While poking around his lab, we discovered his caged pet Space Marine, Ulfar, who had that “gladiator-for-hire” vibe and a deep loathing for small talk.

After what can only be described as advanced haggling, Lazarus secured Ulfar’s services in the arena. (Argenta, meanwhile, curled up for a post-evisceration nap.)

---

Gladiator Prep: Nothing Screams ‘Teamwork’ Like Height Disadvantage

Naturally, we decided to recon the enemy. A nastier collection of Dark Eldar you’ve never seen—led by Marazhai, a literal war criminal who once kidnapped and tortured us. Lazarus, leaning hard into diplomacy, fired up the Universal Translator to assert dominance.

“I am Rogue Trader Lazarus! Bow before me!”

What came out was: “Where is the toilet? My armor is rusty.”

Undeterred, Lazarus tried the ol’ “we have a common enemy” pitch. Marazhai almost bit, before strutting off to the arena with his murder kittens.

---

Let the Games Begin (and Immediately Go Off Script)

Round One: we were tossed into a match with 2 Sslyth (giant murder-snakes), 4 gladiators, and 2 snipers positioned on platforms. Snipers with elevation. Because of course.

Giant Ulfar couldn’t fit behind anything, but that didn’t stop him. Pasqal opened with a stun grenade that temporarily benched three gladiators. Ulfar roared into the gap, punched a snake, then mule-kicked a gladiator in the pancreas. This was the high point of Vegetable’s day.

Our snipers eliminated their snipers with practiced efficiency. Yriliet downed the snake attacking Ulfar, who shouted “thanks!” by immediately shooting a nearby gladiator and diving in to help Sir Vegetable, who was… underwhelming. The tankiest member of our crew now had a visible inferiority complex.

Still, we won. The crowd roared. Lazarus posed heroically. Vegetable flexed—briefly—before Ulfar’s shadow made it awkward.

---

Arena Round Two: When Your Arch-Nemesis Joins the Party

Plot twist! The champions were dropped into the ring—and one of them was Marazhai. Lazarus tried again to convince him to switch sides.

This time, it worked.

Yriliet stared daggers. Ulfar laughed, until he realized it wasn’t a joke. Marazhai slaughtered one of his allies, did a stylish acrobatic flip, and landed on our side. The crowd loved it. Lazarus gave a victory nod. Yriliet muttered something about “mistaken priorities.”

Pasqal charged into a cluster of three gladiators, cleaving indiscriminately and wondering aloud where Sir Vegetable had wandered off to.

Yriliet coolly executed the enemy team’s leader, Ablas.

Now it was Vegetable’s time to shine. Lazarus pointed dramatically. “Vegetable, be a hero!”

Vegetable charged… missed… and slammed the ground with all the majesty of a toddler in a bouncy castle. He hit nothing. Nada. The hammer had fallen, but not in any impactful way.

To his credit, he did eventually take out one champion. Pasqal mopped up the leftovers with the exasperation of a man covering for a younger sibling who forgot their pants to school again.

---

The Aftermath: We Win! (No, We Don’t.)

The crowd was rapturous. Our enemies were paste. But then the judge stood, peered into the pit, and declared:

“Technical foul. You lose.”

Apparently recruiting your torturer mid-fight violates some obscure arena etiquette. Shopping privileges were threatened. Lazarus sighed. Yriliet glared. Ulfar considered switching back.

---

Next Time, on 

Warped Expectations:

• Will Yriliet and Lazarus ever rekindle their now-burned bridge of romance?

• Can Sir Vegetable overcome his crippling case of Astartesphobia?

• Will Pasqal ever miss again? (Unlikely.)

• Will the Judge revoke our punch card discount at Space Costco?

Find out in the next thrilling installment. Provided Craig doesn’t accidentally trigger the boss fight again. 

Chip leader on the damage scoreboard

There are worse things than boredom

 

Title: Trial by Arena, Betrayal by Bastard, Redemption by Knife

---

There are worse things than boredom.

So much worse.

Last week we had achieved the unthinkable: peace, stability, and a rapidly accumulating stockpile of side quests Lazarus refused to acknowledge. Aboard our rogue-traded slice of hell, things were quiet. Too quiet. Like a horror film soundtrack with all the violins cut out.

Enter Yriliet, requesting a private audience with Lazarus—an event that, statistically speaking, ends in one of two ways: steamy romance or galactic calamity. Spoiler: it wasn’t the sexy one. She wanted to explore a mysterious system. We, mistaking this for a side quest with actual loot, agreed. What followed was betrayal, gassing, kidnapping, warp-space abduction, drug-fueled torment, light beatings, and recreational mind-worm insertion. You know, standard Tuesday.

---

In Which Lazarus Is Tried, Tortured, and Slightly Poetic

Lazarus, desperate for a moment’s peace, was instead offered a front-row seat in a hallucinated Inquisition trial courtesy of his new parasite pal. Because nothing says “relax” like being psychically indicted while concussed.

Then came the real trial. Marakezai, our snake-themed nemesis, was sentenced to fight in the arena, which was a rare instance of us agreeing with Dark Eldar jurisprudence. Lazarus was meanwhile deemed unworthy of court drama and casually discarded like Tuesday’s servitor waste. Just as he was preparing to expire melodramatically in a pile of refuse, he was rescued by a literal space clown—the Harlequin, speaking exclusively in beat poetry and eldritch riddles.

Armed with a cryptic verse and a budget pistol, Lazarus staggered through Commoragh’s underworld, pausing every ten metres to vomit and/or brood.

---

Redemption by Knife, Reconciliation by Bad Life Choices

Stumbling across Yriliet mid-ritual, Lazarus ripped a blade from her trembling hands and declared with righteous fury, “Yriliet is mine. You can’t have her.”

He then stabbed her tormentor, which—while romantic—did little to improve their odds of surviving. Yriliet, gaunt and haunted, asked the only question that mattered: “Why would you rescue me?”

Lazarus, still bleeding from half a dozen metaphysical wounds and the entire concept of leadership, whispered: “I forgive you.”

And like that, our cross-species will-they-won’t-they rekindled over shared trauma and murder. Adorable.

---

Gladiators, Gunpoint Negotiations, and Dealings with a Scaly Devil

Their quest led them to the Pit—home to Malice, Snake Man Supreme, who was training slaves to fight in the arena. Lazarus attempted diplomacy. Malice declined. Lazarus fixed a broken machine nearby. Malice re-considered. Ultimately, he offered assistance—but only if Lazarus would kill the Commissar, a rival poacher of prime human meat.

Classic quid pro quo: you fix my mechanical baubles, I blackmail you into political assassination.

They accepted. As one does.

---

Sisters, Snipers, and Shattered Allegiances

The trail led to Sister Argenta, now inconveniently in service to the Commissar himself. She did not take kindly to Lazarus holding hands with Yriliet and refused to betray her commanding officer.

The Commissar, for his part, claimed he was nobly training escape squads and had already sent two to hijack a shuttle.

We nodded sagely, betrayed Malice, and left with what we thought was the moral high ground. Yriliet called it a trap. Yriliet was, as usual, completely correct.

---

Malice in Wonderland: The Pit Fight from Hell

Back at the Pit, Argenta confronted Malice while the snipers flanked. The plan was simple: survive until the Commissar’s troops arrived. This lasted roughly six seconds before Malice’s goons shanked Argenta into the dirt.

Yriliet went full sniper-goddess, popping heads like she was playing whack-a-heretic. Lazarus, meanwhile, adopted the role of slightly unhinged tactical coach. “Kill that one. No, that one. Ooh, good shot!”

The Commissar arrived with “elite” troops—who immediately died with the usefulness of a flammable airlock curtain. But they provided a meat distraction, allowing us to mop up and finally end Malice.

One boss down. Just several hundred more to go.

---

The Arena: Chimera, Trauma, and a Side of Betrayal

Seeking the rest of our crew (and, if we’re honest, better loot), we stepped through a portal straight into betrayal. The Commissar delivered a betrayal monologue so clichéd it nearly came with PowerPoint slides. He escaped. We were tossed into the arena with two warp-chimeras, Argenta, Yriliet, Lazarus, and ten of the Commissar’s “best.”

Argenta found a flamer and introduced one Chimera to the joys of spontaneous combustion. The other Chimera immediately turned three elite troops into bloody soup.

Lazarus, battle-weary but brilliant, hatched a plan: pull the chimeras into reality with gunfire, then kill them. It worked. Sort of. We killed the beasts. The troops turned on us. We killed them too. Efficient betrayal recycling.

Argenta then spotted one of her former trainees chained up and begged for rescue. Yriliet warned against it—pointing out we were injured, half-equipped, and had about as much chance of saving anyone as Craig does of navigating a puzzle.

Lazarus chose mercy. With sniper precision, he ended the prisoner’s suffering.

Sister Argenta added another layer to her ever-expanding PTSD lasagna.

---

Harlequin Redux: Clowning Around with Prophecy

Through the next portal, we reunited with the Harlequin, who delivered another cryptic verse while Yriliet screamed incoherently—either from psychic trauma or poetic overload.

Lazarus translated: “Find your friend, kill the evil, flee dramatically.” Roughly.

The Harlequin told us to follow “the winged vanishing dudette.” We did. It led us to Pascal.

Pascal was halfway to becoming a dark eldar appliance. Lazarus, not a fan of body mods, told him to rip it out. Pascal declined, citing certain death. Lazarus relented—grudgingly.

We left the torture world behind, one crew member heavier, several layers of sanity lighter.

---

Lesson of the Day: Betrayal is like death. You never think it’ll happen to you—until you’re face-down in a gladiator pit, dodging chimera poop and poetry at the same time.

Warp willing, see you next session.

That’s Not Heresy, It’s Creative Problem Solving

 

Absolutely nothing suspicious here. Just a humble recap of one of our most restrained sessions yet. Naturally, it began with us surrounded by Drukhari—because no plan is truly complete without an ambush by sadomasochistic space elves.

---

🚨 Tactical Brilliance and the Flamethrower Ballet

We opened with what some might call a strategy and others might call “everyone yelling until someone charges.” Lazarus (that’s me, the voice of reason and also the man with a monocle and death wish) ordered a surge rightward to deal with three enemies in tight formation, clearly hoping sheer kinetic enthusiasm would substitute for actual cover.

Vegetable charged the front like the wall of meat and justice he is. Pascal, in his usual techno-glory, lit up the battlefield with strategic overlays and righteous violence, knocking one foe prone. Argenta—bless Dave’s need to always overachieve—ignited the heretics with a flamer and then, upon request to “do something heroic,” performed a cartwheel and a pirouette. In power armour. While roasting enemies. Somewhere, the Emperor clapped politely.

I, meanwhile, ducked behind a pillar and asked the obvious: “Why is that one still breathing?” Pascal obliged by plasma-blasting the prone fool in the skull. No notes.

The Sylth slithered toward Vegetable like a rejected Mortal Kombat character, but Sir Veg met it with hammer and howling fury. They responded by ignoring him completely and firing poison at literally everyone else. Rude.

🐙 Tentacle Monsters and Flaming Fur

Enter the Khymerae—large, extra-planar puppy nightmares with tentacles. Naturally, they went straight for Argenta, egged on by the ever-encouraging beastmasters. Yrliet shot one, missed the other due to phasing out of reality (classic), and Argenta responded with another glorious immolation. Lanto and I joined in the suppressive fire, not out of sympathy, but because it was objectively cool.

Sir Vegetable executed a fleeing foe with all the subtlety of a freight train. Pascal, having tasted the power of leadership, barked for everyone to converge and squash the Sylth like a team of righteous garbage compactors. Miraculously, this actually worked.

With the battle won and the stench of sizzling Drukhari wafting in the air, Clementia burst in to report our army’s victory and the enemy’s retreat. How dare they flee before Vegetable could hit all of them.

👑 Victory, Debris, and Diplomacy

I emerged to a palace that could best be described as postmodern ruin chic. Blood-soaked carpets, shattered marble stairs, and just enough surviving civilians to cheer me back into another crisis.

Naturally, I declined the celebration with a heartfelt, “Frack, that’s for a joke.” Which in Rogue Traderese translates to: Fix the rugs and then maybe.

Next, I did what every noble lord does when his house is on fire: held a TED Talk about poor defensive architecture. Pascal, of course, suggested we commune with the machine spirit of our flagship. After chanting things that sounded suspiciously like dial-up modem noises, we met Nomos, the ship’s possibly-sentient AI. Not evil, just chatty. And best of all, it silenced Pascal. Praise be.

🌌 Warp Jumps and Wanton Violence

We jumped to an uncharted system—because clearly, peace was making everyone nervous. Awaiting us: five eldritch xenos frigates and a light raider. They immediately torpedoed our poor support frigate, which valiantly managed to blow up one of them before limping off like a wounded duck.

So we did the sensible thing and rammed the largest ship in existence. It worked. Our own ship got hammered, but we pivoted like a majestic space whale, redirected shields, and blew a second frigate to space dust. Our dorsal and forward batteries were less effective—thanks to holograms. (Zaph swore one of them flipped him off.)

Then Lazarus ordered a Warp Wave from the psykers, who promptly turned the enemy flagship into a spinning heap of shredded alloys. One shot. Demolished. We earned new toys: triple torpedoes, flamethrowing boarding parties, and an improved ram. Which we immediately ordered. Because what could possibly go wrong?

🎉 Party Time, Inquisition Style

Back to Dargonus for a recognition ceremony. I brought Pascal and Heinrick—because what’s a celebration without mutual suspicion?

I gave away free batteries (very on brand), drank wine, insulted nobility, tried to seduce a nobleman’s wife (mild success), and met Heinrich’s boss. So far, so very standard.

Then I went to bed and walked straight into an ambush from the Inquisition. Plot twist: Heinrich sent a report. A damning one. Featuring every questionable decision we’ve made stitched together like a heresy quilt. They sat me down for a little chat.

Luckily, Lazarus is as good at talking as he is bad at emotional regulation. I convinced them that my actions, while bizarre, were all part of a master plan. They agreed to “keep an eye on us.” Translation: Try that again and we’ll vaporise your face.

Still, gifts! A plasma-spitting ring for me, a sniper rifle for Yrliet, and a future court-martial for Heinrich. Win-win-win.

---

Thus ends Chapter 2.

Lessons learned:

• Cartwheels are viable combat maneuvers.

• The Sylth are rude.

• Our ship might be haunted.

• And Craig is surprisingly effective if you point him in the right direction and yell, “Hit that.”

See you next week. Bring snacks. And maybe a backup palace.

Gatecrashers, Gatekeepers, and the Great Palace Rummage Sale

 

(Filed by Lazarus, Rogue Trader extraordinaire, reluctant adult, emergency janitor of other people’s bad decisions)

---

1. “Hold my void-beer, I’m activating the gate.”

We were minding our own business (read: poking a deactivated warp gate with a long stick and zero exit strategy) when—fwoomp—the thing lit up like Craig’s credit card at a digging-implements shop. One Dark Eldar frigate dropped through, then another, then another, until the pattern began to feel personal.

Cue Whack-a-Frigate: Pascal cranked every macro-battery to eleven, Lanto called his shots like a pool shark with a death wish, and Sir Vegetable tank-rammed the closing act just to see if the hull plating really was “thunder-proof.” Verdict: the xenos retreated, our paint job did not.

And because no good deed goes unpunished, a sneaky boarding party materialised amidships, aiming to turn the Good Ship Lillipoop (who named this vessel?) into modern art. We sprinted for the power core, chopping down pointy-eared saboteurs while Sir Vegetable vaulted the entire engine bay—hammer of thunder raised—yelling something about “BY ODIN’S CONTRACTUAL COPYRIGHT!” Splattered sapper, crisis averted, applause all round.

---

2. Retail Therapy & Turnip Futures

With the immediate fireworks over, we indulged our real passions:

• Colony micromanagement (Dave can now recite agricultural tax code at parties), and

• Shopping (Craig bought vegetables; Pascal bought black heavy armour “because it hides plasma stains”).

Nothing soothes warp-frayed nerves like produce and plate mail.

---

3. Vox-Drop: “Everything’s on Fire, Wish You Were Here”

Just as the last receipt was stamped, an urgent transmission crackled from Dargonus, jewel of our “empire” (work-in-progress, 2-star reviews on WarpAdvisor). Fleet crippled, palace overrun—the Dark Eldar had used our gate-side slap-fight as a diversion.

We punched in yellow-route jumps so violent the G-forces flash-aged Craig’s beard. Mid-warp, Lazarus used the shipwide PA to inform Yrliet: “Do not enter my trophy room without a permission slip in triplicate.” Thus ended our brief cross-species rom-com subplot.

---

4. Parking Orbit & Orbital Smackdown

We dropped out of warp trailing smoke and righteous indignation. Lazarus unleashed our experimental Warp Cloud™—patent pending, side-effects include existential dread—and reduced the enemy flotilla to drifting confetti. Somewhere, an Eldar insurance actuary wept.

---

5. Palace Crawl: “Wyches Get Stitches”

Shuttle touchdown amid burning courtyards, broken statuary, and the distinct aroma of melted vendetta. Inside, corridor after corridor of wych byches (their spelling, not mine) swarmed us.

• Boss Fight #1: One ornate, monologuing pain-enthusiast. We cut him off mid-speech—literally.

• Side Quest: We liberated our long-suffering spymaster from the trophy room (door still locked, paperwork intact—take that, Yrliet).

Finally, we kicked in the throne-room doors. Cliff-hanger? Absolutely. We’re professionals; we know how to stop right before the loot drops.

---

6. Casualty Report & Running Jokes Ticked Off

• Craig flew, smashed, and miraculously didn’t dig a hole in the palace floor—progress!

• Dave looted precisely zero reagents (palace gift shop closed for renovation).

• Zaph maintained a kill-count spreadsheet; formulas check out.

• Pascal’s new armour is already “70 % more blood-resistant,” according to his promo flyer.

• Lazarus remains emperor of sarcasm; the palace remains on fire.

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Closing Thought

We came, we saw, we punted the Dark Eldar out the airlock, and now we’re knee-deep in marble rubble deciding who’s paying the cleaning bill. Spoiler: it’s me. It’s always me.

Next time: the throne-room showdown, Craig vs. Architectural Integrity round #547, and Dave’s continuing quest to find a lootable plant in a burning palace. Same warp-time, same warp-channel—assuming the warp doesn’t explode first.