Dune: The Awakening – Interlude: The Architect

 

The Architect – Theme Song

One day, you’re high on the mountain peak
So high that the ground feels antique
Then the wind at your back brings ember and ash
And your whole proud house comes down in a crash

Was it planned at all, or just paint on a wall?
Any choices you wish you could reset?
I can’t comprehend—were there blueprints or plans?
And may I speak to the architect?

After the last “renovation adventure” (known locally as That Time Dave Accidentally Bulldozed Reality), Dave decided to do things differently. Responsibly. Sensibly. With permission.

“Hey Myles,” he called across the base. “Now that we’re part of House Atreides, don’t you think our home should reflect that? Maybe… some green on the walls?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out, go crazy,” Myles replied, not looking up from under the hood of his Thopter. It was the kind of distracted approval you give a toddler with crayons, not realizing those crayons are industrial paint sprayers and the toddler has a credit line.

⸻

Phase One: Inspiration

Dave took this as divine sanction. He leapt into his Thopter and headed for Helius Gate, near the Pinnacle Trading Post. The Atreides outpost there was a cathedral of green-panelled glory—rounded entrances, bay windows, intricate webs of glass, basalt, and smug architectural superiority.

And then came the deal of the century: every plan, every blueprint, all for a mere $80k. That was 25% of the group’s funds, but Dave’s internal calculator immediately filed it under “bargain” and slapped the cash down.

⸻

Phase Two: Materials

Back at base, Dave tallied the plastone: 9,000 units. Good, but not Atreides good. He needed more. The buggy was fueled, the mines were stripped, the refinery roared to life. Days later, another 12,000 plastone joined the pile. The desert sighed in resignation.

⸻

Phase Three: The Madness Takes Hold

He started with the main hangar:

• South wall: ripped down, replaced with green Atreides panels.

• Two exterior walls: replaced with Atreides bay windows.

• Interior wall: mesh-panel walls, more bay windows.

• Door: upgraded to a Pentashield.

• Roof: new green Atreides roofing.

Then his own hangar: entire north wall became a bay window, new floors, all walls replaced.

Main house? All roofing replaced Atreides-style. Safety rails upgraded.

From there, Dave entered a fugue state:

• Pyramid of Power: upgraded.

• Traveller’s Outbuilding: added.

• Bastion: rebuilt from the ground up.

• Ramps: smoother, wider.

• External vertical walls: replaced with vertical-windowed Atreides walls.

• Crafting room: raised roof.

• Water refining area: expanded and hermetically sealed.

• Switchback: rebuilt entirely in Atreides style.

⸻

Phase Four: The Reckoning

Myles finally crawled out from under his Thopter and looked around. “Some green paint,” he muttered, surveying the hangar that now looked like Frank Lloyd Wright had binge-watched Dune and gone feral.

“Dave, report to the hangar. ASAP.”

Dave arrived at a sprint, expecting maybe a collapsed roof—difficult, given it was a forcefield.

“I approved some green paint,” Myles said slowly. “Please explain what the hell is going on here?”

Dave flipped open his notebook. “You told me to knock myself out and go crazy. Ta-da.” He gestured broadly at the emerald-tinted imperial splendour.

“So it’s just this hangar then?” Myles asked hopefully.

“All the hangars,” Dave confirmed, “plus—”

“Stop right there. How much of the original building remains?”

Dave thought for a moment. “The foundations… well, most of the foundations. Oh, and the floor. Well, most of the floor.”

Myles closed his eyes. Somewhere, faintly, the theme song played again.

Dune the Awakening – Climb Every Mesa (and Crash Every Thopter)

🎵 Climb every mesa, ford every quicksand… 🎵

  Climb every mesa, scour high and low, 
  Follow every byway, chase where winds may blow. 
  Climb every mesa, ford every quicksand, skim over every drumsand, 
  Follow each spice eruption till you find your team’s grand stand. 
  A role that will take all the nerve you can spare, 
  Every day of your life, in a rift, gasping for air.  

By the time we were done, the only thing we hadn’t forded was Craig’s patience, and even that was wearing dangerously thin.

Between sessions, Dave channelled his inner Frank Lloyd Wright—if Wright had been fuelled entirely by caffeine and bad ideas—and unveiled his Mighty Pyramid of Power. All generators? Inside it. Fabricators? Moved to “a more convenient spot,” which is Dave-speak for “somewhere you’ll trip over them on your way to bed.” Two extra hangars appeared for his and Craig’s thopters, which prompted Myles to ask the obvious:
“Who authorised this?”
Dave, without missing a beat: “It’s implied in your request for more mighty hanger space.”
And thus, Dave found his official team role: Den Mother & Part-Time Architect Dude.

Myles locked his own thopter, borrowed Zaph’s, and left Zaph stuck at base—thus discovering his role: Thopter Repair Dude. Craig’s thopter-building escapades? Redacted, mostly out of kindness.

Following the song lyrics, we flew north to “climb” mighty mesas—by which I mean we landed on top, looted the chests, and fled. Aluminium mining resumed until Myles fell off a mesa, leaving his thopter stranded like an abandoned shopping trolley on a freeway overpass.

We practised gliding our thopters for speed and fuel efficiency. Most of us improved. Craig perfected the art of dune-crashing and hitching rides on Myles’s thopter… until Myles learned the ejection manoeuvre.

Westward we went, where we found the Pallas, sliced through doors, and ran Atreides faction quests. House Atreides got our loyalty (because the Harkonnen “shaved head and smell like regret” aesthetic is a hard pass). Then north again to ruin a slaver outpost—water tanks sabotaged, fuel depot torched, crane wrecked—before they emptied a full can of whoop-arse on Craig. We killed their boss, but not before Craig cemented his team role as: Crash Test Dummy & Target Dummy.

Back at base, we built Zaph a mighty sniper rifle, because of course Sniper is always Zaph’s role. Then came rebel-hunting and blood extraction in a massive rift base. Craig—lacking a working anti-grav belt—jumped down the stairwell and added Vampire to his résumé.

Naturally, Dune wouldn’t be Dune without a few 10,000-year-old imperial testing stations. We ran a couple, unlocked our inner Sword-Masters, and were heading home when Dave’s squirrel instincts kicked in.
“OOOH SHINY—purple sand!” he yelled, cutting power and barrel-rolling into a death spiral. It was almost enough to challenge Craig’s crash test title.

Myles—apparently colour-blind to purple—could only see spice sand while hovering and scanning. Dave demonstrated spice collection and worm evasion. Craig tried to distract the worm with interpretive dance while Zaph harvested. Close calls were had. Photos exist. And since there’s an achievement for collecting 2,000 spice, this nonsense will be repeated.

Till next week—remember: climb every mesa, ford every quicksand… and if you can’t fly it, crash it spectacularly.

Dune: The Awakening – Dave and the Agave of Madness

 

They say the desert reveals who you really are. For Dave, it revealed a man willing to cross half a planet on a dodgy bike, risking worms, warlords, and warranty voids—for mood lighting.

It began, innocently enough, with a minor garage upgrade. Dave, standing atop our recently refurbished base, admired his architectural triumph: “You can now fit two buggies.” Naturally, this revelation led to the spontaneous crafting of a second buggy to confirm said claim. It fit. Barely. The trikes were promptly evicted to make room, and a second storey was hastily slapped onto the garage like a badly written sequel. Dave’s bedroom was sacrificed for a new ramp. Safety barriers were added, mainly to stop Craig driving into the power generators—again.

But the pièce de résistance? Lighting. Specifically, those glowing CHOAM ceiling panels everyone else seemed to have. Our place looked like a bunker-themed cave rave hosted by a mole. Dave’s IKEA manual, tragically, had nothing on “desert chic.” So he did the unthinkable: he asked for directions.

“A trader west of the barrier sells the plans,” said a suspiciously chill drifter.

Dave nodded, sprinted to his bike, and packed supplies like a man going on a milk run: water, fuel, and a bit of Solaris cash. Myles, performing his sacred Mentat duty of maintenance, warned, “I haven’t serviced that bike yet.”

Dave dismissed him. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

🚨Desert Odyssey, Chapter One: Worm, Meet Dave

He passed Thor’s Hammer, zipped past the spaceship wreck, and hit the borderlands at full throttle—at which point the planet’s ecosystem attempted to murder him. A sandworm the size of optimism in a Zaph strategy meeting rose from the dunes. Dave screamed, swerved, and barely reached rocky safety.

He detoured north, skirted cliffs, and days later stumbled into the fabled trading post, panting, sunburnt, and bug-eyed. He bought the CHOAM lighting instructions and, broke but victorious, caught a thopter ride home.

Then he read the instructions.

“Requires: Salvaged metal – check.
Agave seeds – 5 per light.”

Dave blinked. “Wait—seeds?”

The guide helpfully noted: Agave grows near cacti.

Cacti? We’d never seen a cactus. Just bones, rocks, and Craig’s abandoned quest markers. Dave returned to the Anvil, bribed a trader with spice beer, and was told, “Go west. Far west.”

🚨Desert Odyssey, Chapter Two: Agave or Bust

Dave prepped again. “Just collecting flowers!” he called as he left.

“Get plant fibre!” shouted Zaph.

“Get evil black rocks!” added Craig.

“Let me service your bike!” begged Myles.

“No time!” Dave roared, vanishing in a cloud of overconfidence and unserviced treads.

He flew to the Pinnacle post, leapt on his barely-functional bike (now blinking red like it was having a heart attack), and tore westward. He picked up fibre. He mined black rocks. He explored cactus-filled valleys teeming with scavengers and glow panels mocking him from other players’ bases. He looted. He climbed. He grapple-jumped and faceplanted. He waited through entire moon cycles hoping agave would bloom.

Nothing.

Finally, in a cactus grove surrounded by corpses and broken dreams, he found it: one agave plant. Five seeds. One light.

“ARE YOU @#%&ING KIDDING ME!?” echoed across the sands.

🚨Desert Odyssey, Final Chapter: The Return of the Lightbearer

Dust-choked and sun-fried, Dave eventually staggered into the Crossroads outpost, pack overflowing with goods and bitterness. He didn’t even wait for pleasantries—just slapped Solaris into the pilot’s hand. “Fly. Anvil. Now.”

Back at base, Friday night arrived.

We gathered to admire his labours.

Myles: “The entrance is too narrow. I can’t get the buggy through.”
Craig: “Where’s the bike park?”
Zaph: “Where’s my supersuit? Where’s anything? Why are the crafting stations gone?”
Dave: sobbing in the buggy storage bay

Salvation came in the form of ornithopter licenses. Zaph trained Myles in an adrenaline-fueled certification run over Haga Rift—Zaph weaving through crevasses like a Fremen pod-racing ace. Myles invoked the God-Emperor and banned Zaph from stunt-flying forever.

We returned to our warlike duties:

• Slaver extermination (10 required, we overachieved).

• Strategic sniping (Zaph), head ducking (Slavers), and terrain-crawling (Dave).

• Looting every chest en route to help our friends (also Dave).

• Zaph getting bored and flying off solo to get murdered (Zaph).

In the final showdown, we split our approach: Dave on foot, Zaph sniping from the south, Craig and Myles pulling a dramatic rooftop landing that alerted every single enemy in the base. Dave got pinned. Zaph couldn’t see him. It all went sideways until Dave finally shot his captor and squirrel-looted his way into the fight.

Zaph died. Dave ran back. Craig was possibly redecorating. Myles was swearing.

Somehow, we won. We handed in missions. Raided labs. Explored caves. Lied to a stoned Harkonnen. Made progress toward becoming Swordmasters of Atreides.

Next week, we journey westward—toward the wreck of the Pallas.

Probably via cactus.

Probably looking for lights.

Probably driven by Dave.

---

Agave count: 20. Number of functioning lights: 4.

Number of times Dave was told to service his bike: infinite.

Dune: The “What Is Dave Doing Now?” Episode

 

Dune: The “What Is Dave Doing Now?” Episode

A cautionary tale of open doors, opportunistic scavenging, and ignoring storm warnings like a true professional.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when Myles, against his better judgment, logged into Dune to “just check on the base.” What he expected: minor landscaping. What he found: The patio had collapsed into a retirement home for half-broken chairs, the BBQ area looked like it had hosted a small war, and the bridge had more holes than Zaph’s alibi for not attending planning meetings.

Sighing, Myles did one last sweep before logging off—until he noticed something troubling. Dave was online.

“Dave… what are you doing?” he messaged, already bracing for impact.

“Thank the God-Emperor of Dune that you are here!” Dave replied, which is never a good sign. “I was just off mining aluminium—what with the 50% tariff from Trumpenstein, you can’t just leave it lying around—and I found this base with an open door, so naturally I wandered in…”

“Get. To. The. Point.” said Myles, invoking the ancient Rite of Interruption.

“No power, all crates open, lots of stuff. I claimed the buggy. It’s fully loaded. So much stuff. GET HERE ASAP,” came the fevered response.

Myles, now concerned this was either a trap or a rerun of the infamous Goat Cheese Incident from Enshrouded, sprinted to the Anvil to catch a ride to the Pinnacle. Dave, ever the multitasker, had also summoned Zaph. “There’s an Ornithopter up for grabs,” Dave added. No further persuasion required. Zaph was in.

Zaph logged in, skipped every safety protocol known to man, and flew the thopter to the base, promptly loading it to maximum capacity. Just as he was about to leave, Craig logged in—sensing loot disturbance in the Force—and was furious he hadn’t been invited to the party.

Dave, determined to secure their claim before some desert bureaucrat noticed, sprinted to Arrakein to pay taxes. Myles, now driving the buggy like he was being chased by a sandworm, navigated back home under Dave’s helpful advice like, “Don’t go left. Or right. Maybe… just keep going straight?”

Craig, naturally, climbed on top of the ornithopter and rode it back clinging between the wings like a knock-off desert Batman. No seatbelt. No plan. Just Craig.

Back at base, everyone unpacked their stolen bounty into shiny new storage containers, rearranged like a particularly aggressive episode of Dune Decorators. Myles and Zaph logged off. They had seen enough.

But Dave and Craig? Oh no. They went back.

Like true hoarders with no concept of limits, they did a second trip to retrieve the most precious of all resources: industrial lubricant. Once there, Dave got That Look. The one that says: “I’ve had an idea.”

“We can’t leave all this machinery lying around!” he declared, and before Craig could ask what machinery, Dave was already disassembling the entire enemy base like a caffeine-addled IKEA employee. Crates, refiners, crafting stations—nothing was safe. They loaded their haul into the buggy, their backpacks, and Craig’s trike, which he parked creatively on a collapsed roof beam.

They wiped the place down, scrubbed for DNA, and unclaimed the territory. Let the desert cover their tracks.

Then began what Dave called “inventory optimisation” and everyone else called “an unholy weekend of menu navigation.” Bigger crates. Colour-coded boxes. Silicone blocks and welding torches. A flight deck was added for the thopter. A power room. Extra cisterns. His bedroom? Gone. Merged with Craig’s. His reason? “It’s more efficient this way.” Craig’s personal chest was relocated to an undisclosed location, which Craig insists he’ll remember. He won’t.

Garage upgrades followed. Bikes now park on a raised platform. The buggy has a workshop bay. There’s a new ramp. Honestly, it’s probably Council-approved.

And then, Dave took to the skies.

He repaired the ornithopter, topped off the tank, and headed south to a suspiciously Thor-shaped plateau. “I wonder if you can land on that?” he pondered aloud.

You can. He did.

There was even a wrecked ornithopter at the top (presumably one of Craig’s earlier experiments in vertical flight). Dave, naturally, whipped out his salvage tool. But then: doom.

A sandstorm alert. Not the friendly kind that gives you a countdown and a gentle warning. No, this was Death Imminent, You Idiot level.

Dave panicked. Tried to stow the thopter. Remembered he already had a bike stored. Cue existential dread.

He jumped in and flew blind through the storm, radar dead, vision gone, the wings turning from healthy yellow to sad red. Myles was going to murder him.

Somehow, the storm passed without total annihilation. Dave limped home, duct-taped the wings back on, and resolved to lie. “It always had 80% health,” he rehearsed.

But alas, dear reader… he forgot to erase the black box flight logs.

Then again, maybe Myles won’t check. Maybe Craig will remember to pack ammunition. Maybe Zaph will teach Craig how to fly.

Maybe.

But this is Dune. Anything is possible.
(Or should that be - This is Dave, Anything is possible!)

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sandstorm

The ruined base - thats what 70% of ours will look like in a couple of days

Dune: The Dave Accidentally Downsized Our Base Episode

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sandstorm

Let it be known across the burning wastes of Arrakis: the great base of House Hot-Mess was no match for one man, one click, and one tragically unlabelled foundation block.

It began, as these misfortunes often do, with Myles pondering the after-action report that hadn't materialized. Suspicious. Either Dave was still busy alphabetizing his reagent collection or Craig had once again triggered the “dump entire inventory in a heap” macro. Perhaps both.

In a show of what passes for diplomacy in our group, Myles gently prodded Dave for said report. What he got was something more akin to a confession:

“It’s not my fault,” Dave wailed. “You said the base was too big. And the taxes! So I solved that problem…”

The tone was… unwell.

“What have you done, Dave?” Myles asked, which is quickly becoming our group’s most used phrase after “Where’s Craig?” and “Don’t touch that.”

Dave, trying to be reassuring (and failing like a Mentat in a conga line), insisted,

“It’s okay. I can fix this. I just need to spend $60,000 Solaris.”

“STOP,” Zaph barked, alarmed. “You will not incur any additional expenses for this temporary base.”

Dave whimpered, clutching a blueprint like it was a teddy bear.

“But… the bridge… the switchback… the testing tower…”

“Dave,” Myles asked again, more urgently now, “what did you do?”

“Just some minor improvements. Adjusted the ramp angle, widened the forcefield… had to delete a couple of blocks to make it work. Just… one click too many and the base—it’s gone!!”

Yes, dear reader. Gone. Disappeared. Vanished into the digital ether like a Craig-planned stealth mission.

“How is that even possible?” Myles demanded, channeling the kind of calm normally reserved for hostage negotiations and IKEA instruction manuals.

Zaph’s sniper nest? Gone.
Craig’s bike? Missing.
Dave’s dignity? Under severe duress.

“It’s fine,” Dave sniffled. “Only 70% of the base is exposed now. It’ll be destroyed by sandstorms soon. But the important stuff—the main building, storage, beds, power, refineries—that’s safe.”

Pause.

“Dave,” Myles said flatly. “Which 70% is gone?”

“The bridge, the cliffside switchback, the testing tower…”

“So… the 30% that’s safe?”

“Yes! Mostly! Except Craig’s sniper nest. The HOA filed a complaint. Apparently he was shooting their kids. Had to go.”

“This is worse than the infamous Gold Dragon incident,” Craig growled.

Dave, seizing his moment like a Bene Gesserit citing obscure bylaws, replied:

“As per my construction contract, I cannot be held liable. Limited liability, no reparation, not worse than the Gold Dragon incident, courts in Texas only, and if you don’t like the rules—move your stuff out.”

“Whatever,” Craig muttered, furiously Googling Texas extradition treaties.

At this point, Myles took a deep breath, the kind you take before diffusing a bomb or explaining cryptocurrency to your parents. “What actually happened?”

Dave explained that building tools in this game are very powerful. You can construct a monolith or destroy it with a single click. There is, fortunately, a handy warning system if you try to delete your sub-fief console. Unfortunately, that doesn’t trigger if you click the foundation beneath the console.

“No warning,” Dave said solemnly. “Just… gone. Land area reduced from 11,500 to 2,800 sqm. I reported it as a bug. I’m sure the devs will get back to us quickly.”

[Cue audience laughter.]

After that small... landscaping event, the evening continued in its usual style: lightly armed chaos.

We visited a “market” that had nothing for sale and was therefore promptly liberated of all its inhabitants and assets. We passed on the savings to our contractor, who gave us a hit job. (As one does.)

We then ransacked three scavenger bases, executed a local leader, and rode off into the sunset like sand-blasted murder hobos.

Eventually, we reached Western Vermillius Gap and did some casual sightseeing: imperial testing stations, spaceship wrecks, caves with eldritch echoes, the usual.

Myles asked a simple crafting question: “How do we make Cobalt Paste?”

Dave, ever confident, declared:

“Easy. Just a 15-minute jaunt to the rift for Erithyium crystals. I know a shortcut.”

Spoiler: He did not. We rode across the rift like a bunch of desert-hardened toddlers trying to find grandma’s house with a potato map. Two mining complexes later, two hours older and slightly more cynical, we returned and finally refined the Cobalt paste.

Zaph logged off, possibly to scream into a pillow.

Dave then convinced Craig and Myles to take “a quick bike ride” to The Pinnacle trading post. The goal? Pick up a disruptor schematic and some aluminium ore.

We returned victorious, only for Craig to immediately convert all our aluminium into a hat.

Because of course he did.

---

Closing Thought:
What began as a structural adjustment ended as a mass eviction, a missing sniper nest, and a fabulous new aluminium hat. Next week, we consider the philosophical implications of sandworm insurance.

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.

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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.

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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.

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🦾 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.

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🎮 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.