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.

---

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.

Yellow Jumps, Democracy Sausages & Other Totally Sensible Life Choices

 

(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

• Casualties: a few hundred brain‑popped voidsmen, one sycophantic governor, multiple chaos heretics, and three Genestealers.

• Loot: Ryzza’s scented candle, one scorched democracy‑sausage recipe, and the smug satisfaction of not dying (again).

• 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.

Those Are Definitely Not Santa’s Elves

A Rogue-Trader chronicle by Lazarus, who is still scrubbing charred elf-bits off the hull

---

We spent ANZAC Friday knee-deep in pointy-eared misery, battling “elves” of the Dark Eldar persuasion—the kind that gift-wrap your spleen rather than toys. They specialise in three things: torture, pain, and villainous monologues long enough for intermission popcorn.

---

1 ⸺ Scan, Sail, Sucker-Punch

Following established laziness-as-procedure, we glided into a rumoured Xenos system, ran perfunctory augur sweeps, and pottered about like tourists until two Dark Eldar destroyers and a frigate decloaked right on top of us. Fortunately, we’d brought our own friendly frigate as a plus-one. The xenos ships flickered behind distortion fields—think Vegas magicians with worse dental care—so our gunnery crews needed an extra mug of recaff.

Dave-as-Pascal fiddled with his recalibrated plasma coil, Zaph plotted firing arcs, Craig repeatedly asked if ramming counted as “tactical finesse,” and I (Lazarus) channelled my best captain-voice. Distortion fields or not, the score ended “Us 1, Sneaky Space-Elves 0.” First blood, pass the loot.

---

2 ⸺ Planetfall & Gladiator Diplomacy

Touchdown revealed a butchered population and survivors herded into live-streamed gladiator arenas—think Reality TV by Clive Barker. The Dark Eldar hosts opened with a 700-word soliloquy on inevitable despair. That was long enough for me to whisper to the would-be gladiators, “Fight with us and you might live; fight for them and you’ll headline tonight’s barbecue.” They switched teams mid-speech.

We prevailed; the villains legged it; we stripped their fallen kin like bargain hunters at a Black-Friday sale. Zaph bagged a sniper-rifle upgrade, Pascal harvested suspicious tech-fetishes (“for research,” he claims), Craig pocketed anything not fusion-welded down.

---

3 ⸺ Home Improvement: Rogue-Trader Edition

Back aboard, we fenced the swag and played Ship-Sim Tycoon. A quick hop to our planetary holdings let us inspect the civic projects we’d commissioned (spaceport expansion, public-works statues of me, that sort of thing). Payouts collected, new contracts signed, and a Navy supply run netted us fresher weapons, engines, and force-fields. Pascal cooed over the power-draw readings like they were newborn servitors. Craig asked if we could attach cup-holders.

---

4 ⸺ Twelve Ships of Oh-No-Mas

Rescuing Yrliet’s remaining kin sounded simple: slip past a Dark Eldar patrol. Narrator voice: We did not slip past the patrol. Three distorted destroyers pounced. Mid-brawl, they squealed for backup. A second trio warped in. We were still stubbing out the last of those when another triad arrived.

“This sucks,” said Lazarus—verbatim—“I hope no more of these Xenos arrive before we finish charging the laser cannon.” Naturally, a final set of three pirates dropped in right on cue.

Good thing our upgraded force-fields soaked the opening volley, armour shrugged off the rest, and that brand-new warp-lighting array flash-fried any boarders. We finally nailed the combat sequence well enough to let Craig actually ram one pirate hull (“Achievement Unlocked: Aggressive Parking”). Torpedoes boomed, our escort frigate played decoy, and the final scoreboard read 12-0. Zaph logged the kill tally; Pascal logged the reactor temperature; Craig logged onto the shipwide vox to replay victory guitar riffs.

Post-clash bonuses: a cargo bay of Xenos scrap, crew XP in spades, a shiny “Crush Fleeing Ships” manoeuvre, and a repair protocol efficient enough that even Dave approved. We now fear absolutely nothing… provided it’s smaller than us and outgunned five-to-one.

---

5 ⸺ Spy-Vs-Elf on Gaston

Cue my spy network piping up: more Dark Eldar mischief on Gaston. Planetfall revealed their standard festivities—torture kiosks, disembowelment booths, and of course the inevitable stand-up monologue. Their leader offered the classic super-villain handshake: applause for tracking him down, verbal fencing, then a “settle it in the arena on Cormorant—our warp-soaked home world.”

Yrliet, being the voice of reason, politely declined on our behalf (translation: she threatened to shoot him in the kneecaps). He fled—again—leaving us knee-deep in hostile elves and eager civilians.

And that’s where we park the adventure: war-gear prepped, torpedoes loaded, Craig practising thunderhammer swings in the cargo bay, Pascal tweaking force-field harmonics, Zaph fine-tuning his scope, and yours truly drafting ominous motivational speeches. The Dark Eldar think they know pain; wait until they meet a Rogue Trader crew fuelled by caffeine, loot fever, and Craig’s questionable life choices.

---

Closing Vox-Cast

Next time on “Grimdark Shenanigans”: Will Dave’s plasma rifle explode again? Can Zaph maintain his sarcasm-to-headshot ratio? Will Craig read the instructions before initiating hand-to-hand with a spiky hover-bike? And will I ever finish a monologue before the enemy does? Stay tuned—same warp-time, same warp-channel.

Emperor willing, we’ll prevail. If not, remember us fondly… and salvage the torpedoes.

The Hallucinogenic Heresy and Other Holiday Highlights

Cassia used her Psyker powers to get us all high, in a last-ditch attempt to prevent Lazarus from executing her entire family for bleeding on his palace floor. Pascal spent the downtime stripping and rebuilding his plasma rifle, which had overloaded and exploded—almost killing Cassia during the aforementioned family feud.

This, mind you, was the dramatic crescendo following several hours of mind-numbing space travel, scanning boring planets in boring systems filled with, you guessed it, nothing. Even the promise of a Space Hulk turned out to be a galactic nothingburger.

At one point, as we neared the principal planet of Lazarus’s Rogue Trader domain, a delegation from the Adeptus Mechanicus requested to come aboard and speak with Pascal. Lazarus agreed—his old trading buddy Omicron-22 was leading them.

What arrived instead was a grim parade of fifteen heavily armed Adepts led by a barely-functional crankcase in rusting power armour. He accused Pascal of heresy, blamed him for the scrap code outbreak on Karvis Gamma, and claimed he’d broken faith with the Omnissiah. Lazarus, not one to be out-pomped in his own palace, refused to hand Pascal over without evidence.

Trzus—yes, that was the thing’s name—responded with logic so flawed it practically looped back into parody, declined our offer of a joint investigation, and doubled down on his request for Pascal’s head on a platter.

We politely declined, of course.

It promptly escalated into a firefight in Lazarus’s trophy room.

“Not my precious tank!” Lazarus cried, as laser fire pummelled the one Omicron had chosen to cower behind.

We prevailed, naturally. Pascal stood victorious, looming over his fallen foe, then reached out with his mechanical arm, ripped the man’s head open, and extracted some mystery circuitry. Everyone was extremely impressed, I assure you.

⸻

The palace itself had devolved into whispers of broken comms, portents of doom, and lots of “Only Lazarus can save us now!” The planetary governor tried to nudge us toward solving his family’s internal squabbles. We left swiftly.

“I’ll get right on that,” Lazarus announced, already halfway to the door.

⸻

Back aboard the Voidship, it was time for a bit of empire maintenance. We kicked off development projects on our planets, fulfilled some dusty old contracts, and—this being us—went shopping. Lazarus finally tended to some long-overdue ship chores: adjusting fuel levers, complaining about Vox comms, and cracking his predecessor’s encrypted data vault like a sanctified tin of beans.

We then jumped across his domain, looping back to Footfall to tidy up loose ends. On the way, we intercepted pirates attempting to escape with a merchant vessel. That didn’t last long. We upgraded the ship, bolted on new weapons, trained up some of the crew (because Lanto and Argenta were doing absolutely nothing in combat), and made a few key personnel changes: Cassia was promoted to ship commander, giving Lazarus the boot, and we created a new Void Master role for Idira.

⸻

And what of exploring, you ask? Let me tell you—exploring sucks.

We responded to a distress call, landed on some insignificant rock, and braced to be hailed as heroes. Instead, we found ourselves in the middle of a well-prepared ambush: six auto-cannons, a minefield, and precisely zero decent cover.

We emerged battered but victorious.

“No trap shall defeat us! No foe overcome us! We flee from no one!” Lazarus declared triumphantly.

“Aside from that one time, with the Chaos fleet,” someone reminded him.

“One time! And you never let me forget!” snapped Lazarus.

To be fair, we usually hear that line from Craig when someone mentions the gold dragon incident—which, of course, we do not speak of. Except just now. But it doesn’t count.

⸻

It felt like we spent nine hours doing the following:

• 5 hours watching Lazarus talk.

• 1 hour shopping.

• 1 hour jumping around the sector.

• 30 minutes in a pirate battle.

• 1 hour upgrading the ship.

So what happened in the remaining 30 minutes?

Ah yes. That was the family reunion.

Cassia’s family requested a meeting on Dargonus, capital planet of Lazarus’s far-flung empire. We released her from her force cage and brought her down planetside. Lazarus, ever frugal, refused to throw a grand reception.

“Send in the House Navigator delegates,” he instructed coolly.

Not exactly a warm start. But we did roll out a literal red carpet leading up to Lazarus’s throne. Points for effort.

Cassia’s family insisted she be returned to complete her training. We counter-offered: she could stay and train with us, on the job. Lazarus—shockingly—asked for Cassia’s opinion.

“WTH? He never consults us,” muttered Argenta. “Are we not pretty enough?”

Cassia responded with a scathing stink-eye. And when you’ve got a third eye in the middle of your forehead, that’s some stink-eye.

Cassia declared she was having too much fun with Lassy (her nickname for Lazarus—yes, we’re trying to ignore it) and wanted to stay.

Then someone in her family tried to assassinate her. Obviously.

Two of Lazarus’s palace Wardens leapt to her defence and were cut down immediately. Vegetable flattened the faction’s leader while the rest of us cleaned up her guards. Pascal stood heroically between Cassia and two of her attackers… until his plasma rifle exploded (again), nearly killing her.

⸻

At last, it was over. The enemy lay defeated, shackled, awaiting trial. You could barely see the litres of blood on the red carpet—though the pillars were still streaked with arterial flourish.

Lazarus pointed to the head of Cassia’s family.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t execute the lot of you.”

“I throw myself at the mercy of the court,” came the reply.

“Well, Cassia, what shall we do with your family?” Lazarus asked.

At that point, the throne room lit up with shimmering colours, reality wobbled, and everything got a bit dreamy. In the haze, we… let them go.

Lazarus and Cassia walked back to the ship hand-in-hand for dinner.

The rest of us stayed behind. Scrubbing blood out of marble. Again.

Stuck in the Warp with You: A Ballad of Heinrix and Chaos Goo

Sung with grim resignation by Heinrix von Calox (Inquisitor, amateur karaoke demonologist)

Well I don't know why I came here tonight

I've got the feeling that something ain't right
I'm so scared in case I lose all my hard work
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the Cogitator down the stairs

Screamers to the left of me
Pink Horrors to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you (Lazarus)

Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wondering what it is I should do
It's so hard to keep this smile on my face
Losing control, Sir Vegetable is all over the place

Screamers to the left of me
Pink Horrors to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you

30 Minutes Earlier: In Which We Don’t Find the Millions

Still on the trail of the missing millions (people, not Thrones), we opened a door into a chamber housing a large cogitator. Not your standard, humming-with-adequate-reverence-to-the-Omnissiah cogitator, but something corrupted, something... whispering. Pasqal immediately recoiled and channeled the spirit of every techpriest health and safety officer:

"The evil! Do not approach it!"

Naturally, Heinrix sprinted toward it like a child spotting an unattended jar of warp-tainted cookies.

He poked, prodded, and began murmuring sweet nothings to the machine. “My precious… so close… it’s predicting the future… almost there…”

"What is happening, Heinrix?" Lazarus asked, trying (futilely) to get a grip on the situation. "Where are the people?"

Heinrix: "They’ve been turned into liquid fuel to keep this cogitator running. It’s almost complete. Soon I’ll know the secrets of the cult—"

That was enough of that. Lazarus, fully channeling Samuel L. Jackson in space, pulled out his sniper rifle and shouted, "OH HELL NO!" One precise shot later, the power supply was toast, and Heinrix’s dreams of forbidden knowledge died with it.

Heinrix: "What have you done?! Years of work! Thousands sacrificed!"

Lazarus: "The humanity."

The cogitator squealed, sparked, and birthed a Screamer of Tzeentch.

---

Screaming is Always a Team Sport

"What is that?" demanded Pasqal, backing away.

"What is that?!" exclaimed Vegetable, charging forward like it owed him money.

"Chaos Demon!" shouted Sister Argenta, flipping into cover like a holy gymnast.

Heinrix took up a heroic stance and flailed his force sword.

Heinrix: "Look out!"

Cue wall-to-wall gunfire. Bolts, plasma, lasers—everything short of Dave’s kitchen sink. The Screamer did indeed scream, which—surprise!—ripped the warp a new one and deposited Pink Horrors and a Herald of Tzeentch into the room.

This is where Vegetable truly shone. He body-slammed the Screamer into paste, then bounded off into a dark corner for an impromptu chat with the Herald, presumably about their favourite heretical snack brands.

Heinrix recovered and managed to carve up the Screamer. Lanto applied the final bullet with elegant precision.

But chaos demons are basically flesh confetti. Kill one pink horror, and it explodes into two smaller ones. Soon the room was less “combat zone” and more “demonic slime nursery.”

To add insult to ichor, Chaos demons don’t carry loot. Just slime. All your gear? Slimed. The floor? Slimed. The walls? Slimed. Your pride? Also slimed.

Heinrix began mumbling something about reporting all this to the Inquisition. We told him if he even thought about filing that paperwork, no one would find his corpse.

---

A Christmas Carol, But Make it Chaos

On the way back to the ship, Lazarus suddenly dropped to the ground like someone unplugged his soul. Warp tentacles burst from his face, which (for the record) is not covered in the crew health plan.

He was visited by the ghosts of his bloodline’s questionable past, an inheritance involving some minor business with a Chaos pact. Future, past, present—it was a warp-themed soap opera.

Heinrix, now pretending to be useful, claimed he’d purged the interference with his psychic prowess.

Heinrix: "What was it, Lazarus?" Lazarus (lying): "Nothing. Just a touch of the warp flu."

---

Vegetable’s Navigation Philosophy

After consulting the map, Lazarus plotted a course to the next unexplored system. We opted for the yellow route this time because, as Vegetable put it:

"It’ll be fun."

Queue ominous music. Except—nothing happened.

We scanned a few planets, then stumbled across pirates looting a void station. As the enemy ransacked the place, Lazarus barked orders:

"Run out the guns. Prepare for tight manoeuvres. Let’s show them who da boss."

And by the Emperor, we did. Lazarus piloted the ship like it was a sports car and he had something to prove. Broadsides slammed into enemy hulls as the crew rained destruction. We made short work of the pirates, suffering only minor paint scratches before docking at the station.

---

Space Strip Club Showdown (With Extra Plasma)

Now, I could write a whole epic about the chaos inside that station. How we fought off a horde of pirates that would fill a strip club (don’t think too hard about that image). Vegetable smashing skulls like they were oranges. Pasqal softening them up with righteous plasma. Argenta zapping pirates like a grumpy bug zapper.

Yrilet and Lanto did what they always do: ended people from afar.

Lazarus directed the battle like he was conducting an operatic shootout.

But I won’t. Mostly because Vegetable’s antics are already banned from formal reports.

The important thing is: pirates have way better loot than Chaos demons.

---

Lazarus vs The Console (Again)

Next stop: an ancient bunker with dodgy life support and a gently lethal atmosphere. We ran around salvaging shiny bits while our health ticked down like an inconvenient kitchen timer. Lazarus stayed behind at the shuttle, tired of herding chaos-flavoured cats.

He occasionally chimed in over the vox:

"Have you fixed the water pipes yet?" "Why is the power offline?"

Then he found the console.

Lazarus: "I wonder what this button does?"

It activated automated defences. Four turrets popped up and locked onto Lazarus like he owed them money.

From the depths of the ruin, we heard gunfire and screaming.

"Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine. How are you doing?" Lazarus wheezed over the vox, applying bandages with urgency.

We shut the system down. Then voted to ban him from touching anything vaguely technical.

---

The Pirate Tollbooth of Regret

We jumped to another system and stumbled upon a pirate fleet. They demanded a toll. The group held a very serious discussion about options A through D.
Should we A - pay them off, B - threaten them in return, C- Attack hoping to take them by surprise, or D …

Sister Argenta: "Why are we even discussing this? Man the guns. FULL SPEED AHEAD. DEPLOY THE RAM."

Lazarus checked the geometry. Stars aligned. One frigate was directly ahead.

"Battle stations! BRACE FOR IMPACT! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

We rammed it. Vegetable whooped. Pasqal peeled himself off the floor.

"Newtonian physics is a byatch," he muttered.

Lazarus then ordered the main gun to target a destroyer. Plasma lance fired. Destroyer? Vaporised. The other pirates, now experiencing intense regret, began to flee.

We gave chase. Yrilet scanned the enemy frigate—found a weak port-side section. Missiles homed in. Broadside followed. Then a dorsal turret blast. Then ANOTHER broadside.

Pirates. Obliterated.

---

Damage Reports and Debriefing

The ship was limping. Damage reports came in like depressing confetti. Lazarus sighed, issued repair orders, and stared longingly at a glass of something alcoholic.

We laughed. We recounted our heroics. We polished our guns and egos.

And Heinrix, quietly, took notes. Presumably for a report no one will ever read.

In summary:

• Heinrix almost joined the Chaos cult (again).

• Vegetable negotiated with a Herald.

• Lazarus lied to avoid further paperwork.

• We fought pirates, ransacked a ruin, got shot by our own turrets, and rammed a frigate.

And once again proved: in the grimdark future of the 41st millennium…

Style trumps survival.

Tzeentch

Turrets

Space battle imminent 

Thunder slam

That's a lot of dots.