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.