kriegankorsair

[kriegankorsair]

"Third Option. Fun."

The Navy is mining the Imperial side of the passage, out of spite or incompetence is up to everyone’s individual preference.

[kriegankorsair]

"I'm sure it pleases the more petty of our maritime ancestor's that the chance of drowning during a boarding action is not, as one would expect in void, nonexistent."

Amadeus, given your ships unique defenses, do torpedos bother you or are they a non issue?

I don't want to get hit by one, ever. We laugh, but when they do hit it's very bad.

[kriegankorsair]

A shaped charge on the central processing unit.

Hesman, what differentiates a powerful machine spirit, like that of a Titan, from an abominable intelligence?

Theology

[kriegankorsair]

Seconded.

Your characters (the rogue trader crew specifically) have made me realize my ocs (so far just xenarite but not heretic techpteists who replaced parts of her body with necron tech, and a half genestealer cook with 4 arms) work better as part of a rogue trader's crew than as a part of an inquisitors retinue. So uh thanks for that.

I personally think RTs are underused in 40k. Liked, they're arguably as powerful as inquisitors provided an inquisitor isn't about, but WAY more freedom for fun and fuckery.

Want to extort a planet dry? Want to conscript a bunch of dudes? Want to have sanctioned xenos? Want to potentially boss around space marines?

It's all in the fun package of having your own ship and hype squad.

I think rogue traders also embody a bit more of 40ks more hilarious angles as well, so it's a more lighthearted way to see the universe depending on the Rogue Traders demeanor of course

[kriegankorsair]

"I believe the High Gothic is... er... Mementos Morit."

Why do you think the imperium has an obsession with skulls, Lord Captain?

I'm fairly sure it is because the Emperor sacrificed his face for humanity, so that we might travel among the stars.

[kriegankorsair]

"If there's one thing I've found, if you look and sound official enough you can expropriate nearly anything. So long as you're prepared to run."

"Theres underhive gangs with jetbikes but I can't get a replacement for a regular bike?"

[kriegankorsair]

(Oh dang, that's a problem that can't be solved with either chicanery or theft strategic expropriation, so I can't help with that one. Unless you like Void Suits.)

(Debating whether an Aquila Lander would be useful or even make sense)

[kriegankorsair]

(Could always just ride outside the vessel too... Custodes armor is pressure sealed. I used to use Brawler T8's in a roll similar to MD-500 Little Birds, 4 dudes on each side of the fuselage with suspension harnesses on. Brawler drops them off then loiters for close air support. Though the Brawler is wicked obscure and only mentioned briefly in one book IIRC. Basically a baby Vulture.)

(Debating whether an Aquila Lander would be useful or even make sense)

[kriegankorsair]

(I'm personally a fan of the Arvus Lighter, less onstentatious but easily upgunned. Cheaper too.)

(Debating whether an Aquila Lander would be useful or even make sense)

[kriegankorsair]

(Calculating the amount of credits winning this fight will cost. Then leaving.)

(Struck with a sudden hatred of 40Ks cruisers. Again.

Light Cruisers, Heavy Cruisers, and Battle Cruisers? Sure

Grand Cruisers? I guess.

'Cruisers'? Uh. What are you? Whats your bastard role? You're not a ship of the line, fuck off out of here)

[kriegankorsair]

(Any problem that can't be solved with upgunned frigates isn't a problem Big E intended me to solve.)

(Struck with a sudden hatred of 40Ks cruisers. Again.

Light Cruisers, Heavy Cruisers, and Battle Cruisers? Sure

Grand Cruisers? I guess.

'Cruisers'? Uh. What are you? Whats your bastard role? You're not a ship of the line, fuck off out of here)

[kriegankorsair]

Celtic Mythological Creatures:

Fucked up little guy

Fucked up horse

Woman (dead)

Woman (Wet)

Woman (dead) (wet)

WIZARD

[kriegankorsair]

His ripper gun went off with a sound like tearing silk, unzipping one of them, spilling everything out. The flat black lenses of his mask watched it happen. He smiled, and took his blade across another monster’s neck, and watched it’s pustule ridden head tumble free, to splatter noxious fluid on the rockcrete at his feet. Deep within the plague riddled corpse of a world… they were a scalpel. Surgical tools excising the last useful thing on this doomed planet.

Tool? Not anymore… his one remaining human eye twitched as the question came up, like he knew it would. He was the hand. He made decisions. The humming stopped, the first indication that he’d heard the El-Tee. Somewhere to his left, his armored man set a large swath of corpses on fire with a wrist mounted flamer. The Captain basked in the relative warmth of the corpsefire, before he surrendered the point, indicating that the formation should close with a simple hand gesture and a chirrup on his coms. As Kriegan as the words both he and the medic knew. “Corpses didn’t kill the team down there. Reports indicated weapons fire. We can…” He holstered his ripper gun, and drew his plasma pistol, taking careful aim. He fired, and there was a concussive BOOM from within the horde. A corpse, which had harbored an internal gas pocket, exploded with the force of a frag grenade, spewing out bone fragments into the horde around it. Several of them buzzed by the formation itself… though they simply spanged off of armor, robbed of their killing momentum by distance. “Expect a stand up fight. With what I don’t know. Heretics, mayhaps. Secreted into the staff of this facility. Or…” Traitor Marines. “Something worse. Whatever they are, they fought as a unit, and breached the lab concurrent with the onset of the infection. The specialist team they sent in was nothing to be scoffed at… if the the opposition saw to them, we’re in for a bit of a scuffle.” “Nothing we can’t handle. I’m sure of it.” He specifically addressed that statement at the Maybe Kriegan. Like some sort of inside joke. A dark one.

Continued from here. @kriegankorsair

"Our last friendly contact was more than a day ago. No one has been here, that we know of."

A small but perceptible stiffening rippled through all of the gathered Red Wolves as the Rogue Trader revealed his objective. All, save the Lieutenant himself, who remained cool in the face of it. He nodded once, settled into a combat stance, and turned towards the encircling dead. "Fall in then, Karstann," he said, gesturing, "and sync your vox channels to ours."

The Lieutenant took point, squad forming around him with the Helix Adept in the center, and started cleaving a path back the way they'd come. "Form a wedge until we get into the stairwell, then stagger our numbers in line. Keep the Adept in our center if you want to live." A secret not so well kept as those on the black ships, the aforementioned Adept indicated her person by lifting a hand again- as if the emblems were not evidence enough.

Two of the Red Wolves took to the fore, two more flanking to the side of their medicae, leaving space between them for the black-garbed retinue to fill. If Karstann so chose... The front center was there to take. Regardless of his choice, the Astartes pressed forward into the writhing Unbelievers, pulling the trigger only when a cluster pressed too close. Nyko, for her part, had only a powerblade drawn, more focused on reinforcing her negative presence than anything else.

In the open vox, she hummed a childhood tune from home.

[kriegankorsair]

As though he needed further invitation. The Captain was something of a crass man in terms of reverence, not one to supplicate himself before the sons and daughters of the Emperor… but to fight alongside them, when there was heresy thick on the field. He did so love to kill.

The high pitched whine of a chainsword spinning up was all the confirmation that was needed to the Lieutenant’s urgings. Swept blade of the cutlass patterned weapon sang through fetid flesh as easily as air, dancing in figure eight dueling patterns, attack, defense, attack, paired with a dagger in his offhand which gave off a glow like stoked cinders, and set everything it cut on fire. His squad took to the work with equal zeal, secreting themselves amid the ranks of their larger counterparts, glittering beams of crimson scything outward from beneath the shoulders of the Space Marines, as the black clad troopers utilized their bulk like mobile cover, canting their weapons around them to cut down that which the super soldiers missed. Save for the largest of them, clad in power armor of their own… they tucked into the buffet of slaughter before them with a hydraulic manipulator, smashing and crushing, as the multilaser on their shoulder spat needle pricks of light that cut through the dead before them like taut wire. A flick of the wrist, like a conductor waving a baton, and a head fell from it’s shoulders. Practiced movements. He didn’t even really realize he was humming, softly, into his vox. Murmuring along with the tune. “Oh errant sons and daaaaughters, marching far from ashen laaaands. Our blood is coins upon the platter. Our bodies tithe against our deeebts.” The blade sunk into the stomach of a particularly corpulent deader, and he hit the reverse switch, the ceramite teeth flinging it free. “A tenth, a tenth, a tenth again, our children for the throne!” It was a dour tune. A marching tune, meant for one man to sing and others to step in time to. It made him happy. Every Kriegan misses home. The ashen sky a blanket, the concrete tunnels a cozy bed. He glanced back at the medicae and cocked his head to one side for just a moment, before returning his attention to the work… using a knife which sprang from the tip of his boot to finish off one of the unbelieving that clung onto him with fingers nearly bare to bone. “The specialized team. They weren’t the sharing type. It’s no surprise you didn’t know they were here. Nobody did.” And now, it was quite possible this world was paying for that oversight. “I’ve been told to expect resistance.” “More resistance than we’ve already met.”

Continued from here. @kriegankorsair

"Our last friendly contact was more than a day ago. No one has been here, that we know of."

A small but perceptible stiffening rippled through all of the gathered Red Wolves as the Rogue Trader revealed his objective. All, save the Lieutenant himself, who remained cool in the face of it. He nodded once, settled into a combat stance, and turned towards the encircling dead. "Fall in then, Karstann," he said, gesturing, "and sync your vox channels to ours."

The Lieutenant took point, squad forming around him with the Helix Adept in the center, and started cleaving a path back the way they'd come. "Form a wedge until we get into the stairwell, then stagger our numbers in line. Keep the Adept in our center if you want to live." A secret not so well kept as those on the black ships, the aforementioned Adept indicated her person by lifting a hand again- as if the emblems were not evidence enough.

Two of the Red Wolves took to the fore, two more flanking to the side of their medicae, leaving space between them for the black-garbed retinue to fill. If Karstann so chose... The front center was there to take. Regardless of his choice, the Astartes pressed forward into the writhing Unbelievers, pulling the trigger only when a cluster pressed too close. Nyko, for her part, had only a powerblade drawn, more focused on reinforcing her negative presence than anything else.

In the open vox, she hummed a childhood tune from home.

[kriegankorsair]

The Space Marine Lieutenant bore witness to an absolutely superhuman display of self control. And he didn’t even know it. Such was the extent to which Zigfried hid his immense frustration.

“You know, I had the hope that maybe you lot would have it.” The Captain managed, before lapsing into silence again. At the press of the horde against the invisible barrier, he did some mental math, tracking his eyes from the talkative medic to the dead pressed against a wall of nothing. Some cogs turned. He resisted the urge to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose. It would do little, given the plated mask he wore over his face. Inquisitorial Secrets. He hated them. Almost as much as he hated Inquisitors. But he had red in his ledger, most of it belonging to his father. Some of it his own. This fell into the latter category. Certain things had needed covering up. And now he was here, in the puckered sphincter of the Galaxy, for the Emperor. “A sample of this virus. A specialized team was sent to retrieve it. The last contact we had with them was from a comms station in a sub basement of this building.” He took a couple of plasma potshots into the writhing horde… really only in the interest of making the few that were shrieking with discomfort at the touch of some unseen force shut the frak up. “Which means our objectives align. My men and I will accompany you. And you’ll have the support of our gunship. So long as you aid us in securing the sample. We simply cannot leave here without it.”

Darktide

The Brawler banked, playing it's nose bolter over an encroaching swarm of the risen dead. "Throne on Terra there's a lot of these frakking things." The small gunship slowed, until it hovered in place over the teeming hordes of the undead. "This AO is warpfrakked to hell, Captain, what are we even looking for out here."

The Captain was standing on an external stirrup, welded onto the exterior of the gunship, hand grasped around a paired handhold, one of eight pairs mounted to the exterior of the craft to allow it to, after an uncomfortable fashion, carry infantry. Gazing through a pair of magnoculars, he scanned the ground beneath them on the preysense setting. The night was dark, and the wind wet and harsh against the small aircraft, causing it, and the brilliant searchlights it projected, to bob and dance. Someone lose their footing on their stirrup, panicked for a moment as they hung on their harness, and calmed as their fellows helped them back into place. The sound of boltguns, barely audible, rang out from below. The swarm seemed to shift, like a changing current in a fleshy sea. "THERE!" Zig indicated a building to the Northwest with the designator built into his magnoculars. It was a sturdy looking structure, all rockcrete and reinforced pillars, bearing the sigil of the Administratum. "They're in there. Bring us in." The rotary cannons on the undersides of the Brawler's wings were already audibly spinning up as they turned about, losing altitude to come in for a combat landing on a projected balcony off one side of the structure. Heavy shells hosed down the hordes of the dead that scaled the rockcrete face of the building, throwing them backwards into the pulsing black, to land amid their fellows. Eight pairs of boots hit the rockcrete, and small, fast figures darted towards their projected point of egress. The high pitched scream of a chainsword broke out, along with a shower of sparks. With a hydraulic hiss and a shriek of distressed metal, the doors were open, and they were inside. The intermittent flash of hellguns lit their way inside the darkened interior, until they were upon them. Space Marines? "Pardon my impertinence..." The grim cadre of troopers arranged themselves behind him in a staggered V, barely visible in the dim light, clad in matte black carapace and cloak. "But who the frak are you?" ( @red-ledger-astartes )

[kriegankorsair]

{“I’ve never ‘eard of the Red Wolves.”} {“Neither have I.”} {“Both of you haven’t heard of a lot of things. Stow it.”} In their defense, he’d never heard of the Red Wolves either.

The eight of them, clad in matte black carapace plate save for one of them, more hulking than the others, who appeared to be clad in some form of powered armor, stood before them, from the exterior, absolutely silent, the intra-squad channel allowing the two more skittish members of the small cadre to vent their confusion without breaking the illusion that they were, the lot of them, stoic slayers of xeno and heretic. After all, appearances matter. The apparent leader, clad in the same black armor as the rest, marked out as someone a cut above only by the weapons he carried, an ornate chainsword, twinned plasma pistols, and what looked an awful lot like a ripper pistol, stepped forward, approaching the beleaguered Space Marines with even, measured steps, pausing only to take a couple of pot shots at an approaching shambler with one of his plasma pistols. “I am Zigfried Von Karstann. I’ll save you the other titles. I’m a Rogue Trader, and I’ve been sent to…” Secure an asset. That’s why he was here. How well would the Emperor’s Finest cope with the fact that whoever was calling the shots on this whole fiasco considered them expendable? Horus have it, he wouldn’t lie to them. It wasn’t like they were paying him for that. “I’m here to secure the asset. My orders were vague. We weren’t expecting you.” While he’d been busying himself with talking, the lads were busy earning their pay, weaseling their way into what remained of the Red Wolves’ battle lines, adding the blazing bolts of their hellguns to the sporadic bursts of bolter fire, save for the soldier in power armor, who unleashed a dazzling hail of lazgun fire from a multi-laser mounted on his forearm. “We don’t have access to anything that could airlift you out.” The Captain continued, an apology implicit within his tone.

Darktide

The Brawler banked, playing it's nose bolter over an encroaching swarm of the risen dead. "Throne on Terra there's a lot of these frakking things." The small gunship slowed, until it hovered in place over the teeming hordes of the undead. "This AO is warpfrakked to hell, Captain, what are we even looking for out here."

The Captain was standing on an external stirrup, welded onto the exterior of the gunship, hand grasped around a paired handhold, one of eight pairs mounted to the exterior of the craft to allow it to, after an uncomfortable fashion, carry infantry. Gazing through a pair of magnoculars, he scanned the ground beneath them on the preysense setting. The night was dark, and the wind wet and harsh against the small aircraft, causing it, and the brilliant searchlights it projected, to bob and dance. Someone lose their footing on their stirrup, panicked for a moment as they hung on their harness, and calmed as their fellows helped them back into place. The sound of boltguns, barely audible, rang out from below. The swarm seemed to shift, like a changing current in a fleshy sea. "THERE!" Zig indicated a building to the Northwest with the designator built into his magnoculars. It was a sturdy looking structure, all rockcrete and reinforced pillars, bearing the sigil of the Administratum. "They're in there. Bring us in." The rotary cannons on the undersides of the Brawler's wings were already audibly spinning up as they turned about, losing altitude to come in for a combat landing on a projected balcony off one side of the structure. Heavy shells hosed down the hordes of the dead that scaled the rockcrete face of the building, throwing them backwards into the pulsing black, to land amid their fellows. Eight pairs of boots hit the rockcrete, and small, fast figures darted towards their projected point of egress. The high pitched scream of a chainsword broke out, along with a shower of sparks. With a hydraulic hiss and a shriek of distressed metal, the doors were open, and they were inside. The intermittent flash of hellguns lit their way inside the darkened interior, until they were upon them. Space Marines? "Pardon my impertinence..." The grim cadre of troopers arranged themselves behind him in a staggered V, barely visible in the dim light, clad in matte black carapace and cloak. "But who the frak are you?" ( @red-ledger-astartes )

[kriegankorsair]

Darktide

The Brawler banked, playing it's nose bolter over an encroaching swarm of the risen dead. "Throne on Terra there's a lot of these frakking things." The small gunship slowed, until it hovered in place over the teeming hordes of the undead. "This AO is warpfrakked to hell, Captain, what are we even looking for out here."

The Captain was standing on an external stirrup, welded onto the exterior of the gunship, hand grasped around a paired handhold, one of eight pairs mounted to the exterior of the craft to allow it to, after an uncomfortable fashion, carry infantry. Gazing through a pair of magnoculars, he scanned the ground beneath them on the preysense setting. The night was dark, and the wind wet and harsh against the small aircraft, causing it, and the brilliant searchlights it projected, to bob and dance. Someone lose their footing on their stirrup, panicked for a moment as they hung on their harness, and calmed as their fellows helped them back into place. The sound of boltguns, barely audible, rang out from below. The swarm seemed to shift, like a changing current in a fleshy sea. "THERE!" Zig indicated a building to the Northwest with the designator built into his magnoculars. It was a sturdy looking structure, all rockcrete and reinforced pillars, bearing the sigil of the Administratum. "They're in there. Bring us in." The rotary cannons on the undersides of the Brawler's wings were already audibly spinning up as they turned about, losing altitude to come in for a combat landing on a projected balcony off one side of the structure. Heavy shells hosed down the hordes of the dead that scaled the rockcrete face of the building, throwing them backwards into the pulsing black, to land amid their fellows. Eight pairs of boots hit the rockcrete, and small, fast figures darted towards their projected point of egress. The high pitched scream of a chainsword broke out, along with a shower of sparks. With a hydraulic hiss and a shriek of distressed metal, the doors were open, and they were inside. The intermittent flash of hellguns lit their way inside the darkened interior, until they were upon them. Space Marines? "Pardon my impertinence..." The grim cadre of troopers arranged themselves behind him in a staggered V, barely visible in the dim light, clad in matte black carapace and cloak. "But who the frak are you?" ( @red-ledger-astartes )