(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:
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Colony micromanagement (Dave can now recite agricultural tax code at parties), and
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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.
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Boss Fight #1: One ornate, monologuing pain-enthusiast. We cut him off mid-speech—literally.
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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
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Craig flew, smashed, and miraculously didn’t dig a hole in the palace floor—progress!
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Dave looted precisely zero reagents (palace gift shop closed for renovation).
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Zaph maintained a kill-count spreadsheet; formulas check out.
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Pascal’s new armour is already “70 % more blood-resistant,” according to his promo flyer.
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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.
