AAR: August 25, 2012 - Tempting Lure

The plume of black smoke shows the direction the Ork horde is moving in, but their numbers need to be winnowed before they can be crushed.  The Space Marine captain attempts to lure in a portion of the Ork army in an effort to divide and conquer.  The aliens are cunning enough to see through this gambit, but go out to meet the humans anyway - just for the sport of it!  What will the result of this tempting lure be?

Standard Annihilation Mission.

5x6 table.  A hilly spot of ground with several rock piles and some forests.

The forests are difficult terrain, all hills and rocks that have flat areas are regular terrain.  Other rocks are merely impassable.

Orks versus Space Marines with 1330 point limit.

Chainsawz Ladz: 
HQ - Warboss
Elites - 7x Nobz & Painboy (Power claw, Kombi-rokkit, Kombi-skorcha, Twin-linked shootas)
Elites - 15x Kommandoz with Boss Blackgutz (2x Burna)
Troops - 23x Boyz (Nob with power claw, 2x Big shoota)
Troops - 22x Boyz (Nob, 2x Rokkit)
Troops - 12x Gretchin (Runtherd with grotprod)
Heavy Support - 3 Lobba gunz (5x Extra Crew, Runtherd, 3x Ammo Runts)
Heavy Support - Battlewagon ('ard case, deff rolla, 2 Big shootas)


Ultramarine Dark Purifiers
HQ - Captain
Elites - Dreadnought (Power fist, Multi-melta, Heavy flamer)
Elites - 10x Terminators (2x Cyclone missile launchers, 2x Chain-fists, Power fists)
Troops - 10x Tactical Marines (Flamer, Missile launcher)
Troops - 10x Tactical Marines (Melta, Heavy bolter)
Troops - 6x Sniper Scouts with Sgt. Immortus (Missile launcher)
Fast Attack - 1x Marine Biker

Chainsaw won the initial roll-off and chose the red side of the table.

Dark Purist gets the blue edge.  He tries to steal the initiative, but fails (to much greenskin laughter).

The Orks hide their big gunz behind both the hill and the battlewagon.  One mob of boyz has a gretchin shield, the other has the warboss as a leader.  The nobz are positioned ready to enter the battlewagon in the center of the army.

Dark Purist places all of the tactical marines on one side of the board, supported by the dreadnought and the snipers.  A wide separation is between these forces and the scary-looking terminator squad complete with captain.  The grizzled biker is happy to have a place where he can see the whole battlefield.


Let the game begin!

The Orks move in.  The only unit that doesn't run towards the foe are the big gunz emplacement.  The nobz squad scrambles on board the battlewagon before it rumbles down the center of the battlefield.

Chainsaw's attacks:

• Some of the nobz fire their weapons at tactical squad1, but they are out of range.  Still the gunshots "makez a fine, boomy noise," so it's not for nothing!
• The scream of artillery shells fall into the midst of tactical squad3.  Two space marines are killed during the attack.

Having seen that the Orks are not surprised by their ambush, the Ultramarines respond quickly and effectively.

Several units remain stationary so as to fire their heavy weapons, the units that do move, march steadfastly toward the foe.

Dark Purist's attacks lance all across the field of battle:

•  The dreadnought, snipers, tactical squad1 & squad2 all fire their heaviest weapons at the battlewagon.  There is no noticeable effect of the firepower, other than blasting one of the big shootas off the side of the polluting menace.
• Tactical squad3 shoots at the gretchin mob that is providing cover for the ork mob1 behind them.  3 of the grot are messily perforated.
• The mighty terminator squad, lead by the captain, fire a blizzard of weapons into mob2.  The results of unbelievably destructive as 8 boyz are blown away.  Two of these deaths are the result of detonations of cyclone missiles.

The warboss is confused by all the noise and body parts flying through the air.  He orders mob2 into the cover of the trees to "try 'nd sort thingz out".

Mob1, with the screeching gretchin before them, continue to advance.  The runtherd has to judiciously apply his fancy new grotprod to get the gibbering grot to move forward towards the hulking metal monster of the space marine dreadnought.

The battlewagon driver sees the trouble that the warboss and his mob are having, so makes chooses at this time to head toward the terminators as targets.

The shooty and stompy stuff:

• Mob2 and the warboss shoot at the terminators to try and get back some of their own, but their weak fire doesn't even scratch the mighty suits of armor.
• The lobbaz fire at tactical squad3 again, killing 1 and pinning the rest of the unit, as they scramble for foxholes to hide from the barrage.
• Mob1 shoots at the snipers hidden in the rocks, but the are far too well positioned and can't draw a bead on any of them.
• The nobz shoot at tactical squad3 as they hug the ground during the barrage they are enduring and manage to pick off another of them.
• And finally, in a rare display of greenskin rage versus brains, the gretchin mob slams into the space marine dreadnought.  Biting armor plate, crawling over it and urinating on connections, even trying to cover the sensor lens with their bodies are all acts of insane bravery (or fear of that cursed grotprod) over common sense.  The scene makes the warboss proud as he glances that direction.  "'ats all dere good fur.  We'll 'ave sum grot pudding, t'nite after that ting stomps 'em!"

Seeing that the battlewagon has made its tactical choice, the biker and the terminators withdraw to open the range, while tactical squad2 moves into position to strike at the tank's vulnerable rear armor.

The battle rages with the following results:

• Tactical squad2 fires into the battlewagon's rear armor, but the thick armor dissipates the plasma blast with surprising efficiency.
• The snipers and tactical squad1 fire into the snarling orks of mob1.  2 boyz fall down screaming.
• The biker and the terminators shoot into "the cowardly aliens slinking in the trees."  Mob2 suffers another 5 casualties, despite the cover the trees offer.  "Well, datz no good.  Dese runty trees are puny - I needz sumfin stouter ta shoot behind..."
• The noble pilot of the dreadnought has gotten over his revulsion at the small green things crawling all over him and starts stomping them into the ground and crushing them with his power claw.  The gretchin suddenly understand the nature of their predicament and turn to flee.  The runtherd lets his attack squig eat one of them, but his satisfaction is short lived as the dreadnought opens the nozzle on his heavy flamer and incinerates the entire squad.

The battlewagon skids to a stop just in time for mob2 and the warboss to take cover behind it.

The ladz in mob1 are pleased as anything that the gretchin kept the dreadnought occupied long enough for them to "come ta gripz wif it".

Most surprizing for the space marines is the sudden arrival of Boss Blackgutz and his kommando squad.  They come out of nowhere and begin hooting gleefully.

The damage the orks do this round is impressive:

• The kommandoz shoot at the snipers as they attack them from behind.  One sniper is killed.  Then the kommandoz slam into the snipers, cutting and hacking at them without mercy.  They loose 2 orks, but slaughter the entire group of marine scouts.
• The lobbaz continue to pound away at tactical squad3, killing another marine and keeping the entire unit pinned and unable to do anything for yet another round.
• Mob1 surrounds the dreadnought in the hopes of keeping it busy until the two kommandoz with burnas can come on over and cut it into scraps.  "Jist fer fun", the nob tries to cut through an important-looking cable with his big choppa...  He roars with approval when the attack shuts the robot body down completely and it topples onto its back!

The space marines respond with vigor to the ork attack.  The terminator squad moves up to engage the battlewagon and prevent it from driving over them with its deff rolla.

Tactical squad2 moves to engage the remainder of mob1.

The results of space marine aggression this turn are as follows:

• The biker, tactical squad1 and tactical squad2 all shoot at mob1 to soften them up for the close combat that is surely to come next.  They kill six of the ladz before tactical squad2 crashes into them.  In the press of hand-to-hand, 2 more orks die, but all of the space marines are killed.
• The terminators fire cyclone missiles and storm bolters at the battlewagon as they close with it to no effect.  Then they punch it with power fists and it rings like a bell as the captain's thunder hammer hits home.  The crew of the battlewagon are left holding their hands to their ears while screaming.  The tank will not be going anywhere or doing anything next round.

"WAAAGH!!!"  The battle cry of ork hordes the galaxy over is unleashed!

The deep reverberations of the hull of the battlewagon give added effort to the nob squad to exit the vehicle as fast as they can.

The kommandoz and mob1 run to assault the remaining space marines in their half of the battlefield.

Mob2 and the warboss run with eyes full of bloodlust towards the terminators who have killed so many of their fellow ladz.

The hideous results of ork assaults are:

• The nobz squad shoots at tactical squad3, but the space marine power armor shrugs off their weak slugs.
• The big gunz crew turns their sights to the biker.  Shells pound the ground all around, but the grizzled veteran expertly dodges each incoming round before it hits, laughing at the orks poor fire discipline all the while.
• Mob1 runs into tactical squad3 and the fighting is intense.  One boy dies while two space marines perish.
• Boss Blackgutz and his ladz go through tactical squad1 like a band saw.  One of the kommandoz is slain, but the marines are butchered where they stand.
• Mob2 assaults the terminators and do a fair amount of damage before they are torn limb from limb by the righteous anger of the space marines.  A total of nine boyz and the nob are killed, while two terminators are killed and the captain is wounded twice.  The warboss makes a tactical withdrawal and hopes to find some tough new ladz to lead back into battle.  "I needz sum more dakka over here!  Blackgutz!  Git over dere!"

The biker sees that all of the space marine units he was going to support are beyond his help, so he turns around to off fight the nobz and warboss.

Assaults and rapid-fire bolters galore:

• The biker opens up on the nobz, but they are far too tough to take any lasting damage.  Many of them get some fancy new scars during the attack.
• Tactical squad3 assaults mob1 and manage to kill 3 ladz before they are cut down to the last man.
• The terminators and captain continue to pound on the battlewagon and this time they rip right through armor, tear into the crew compartment, and set off a chain reaction of ammo cook-off that turns the battlewagon into a massive bomb.  The blast leaves almost no recognizable wreckage behind, but one of the hatches slices a terminators head off.

The kommandoz and the small force that is the remnants of mob1 both run toward "the only place left where therez good fightin' ta be had."

The nobz assault the terminators in a bid to kill off all of their hated human foes.

The orks attacks are as follows:

• The warboss got stuck in some trees and he can't join up with the nobz, so instead his whiles away the moments trying to kill the biker.  His slugs bounce off the armored bike.
• The lobba crew fires carefully at the terminator squad.  They are a bit nervous, since some very large and tough nobz and the warboss are easily within their "margin o' air'or".  Mork smiles upon them however, and nobody gets hurt - nobody green anyway.  One of the terminators somehow catches a shell right at his neck joint, turning his armor almost inside out.
• The nobz jump into combat with the terminators, shooting their weapons as they close.  They kill 4 of the terminators, but take 5 losses of their own as the terminator power fists punch right through their armor - leaving no time for the painboy to ply his trade.

The biker thinks that turnabout is fair play and moves to target the warboss.

The terminators remain locked in close combat with the few remaining nobz and so can not move.

The results of space marine force of arms are:

• The biker rapid fires at the warboss, but does no lasting damage.
• The terminators have had enough of the nobz and rip them to large, bloody chunks with another terminator paying for their victory with his life.

The warboss moves to join the kommandoz and mob1 takes cover in some rocks while aiming at the terminators.

A few ranged attacks then occur:

• The ladz of mob1 shoot, but their sluggaz don't have nearly enough power to penetrate the terminators armor.
• The lobbaz fare somewhat better as another shell finds and disables a terminator marine.

The biker drives to the enemy lines in order to harass the lobba crew and hopefully force them to close shop.

Combat results:

• The biker shoots the big gunz emplacement, but misses!  He is disgusted with his failure and resolves to hit the gunnery practice range twice a week from now on.
• The terminators shoot at mob1 and kill 2 boyz.
  

At the end of this turn, the random-game-length roll ends the entire game.  It's all over, folks!

Chainsaw wins!  The Orkz turn the tables on the Ultramarine ambush, ripping the space marines apart.  The orkz had 495 points left on the field (37%) to the marines 162 (12%).  A decisive victory for the greenskin horde.

"Oi!  Youz are lottza fun, fur a buncha puny, pink 'oomun beans!  Letz all git toget'ar 'nd do it again real soon!  Heh-heh-heh..."

"SNAFU alert!  My plan did not survive contact with the enemy."

Crossover - Chapter 4

Slowly he opens his eyes.

Nothing is as Shaddar expects.  The ground on which he pushes himself up from is slanted steeply at roughly 12 degrees.  He turns his head to the bottom of the slope to see that many of the liquids from the console have spilled and are pooled at the far edge of the room.  Shaddar studies the pool of liquid and realizes that not all of it is alchemical potions; there is a great deal of blood mixed in as well.  In fact, the air is thick with the smells of blood, smoke, and death.

His eyes follow the trails of dark fluids to the broken bodies of two of the thralls.  Eesha has been electrocuted, a copper strip wrapped around her left leg.  Tuthoad is missing a large portion of his head.  It appears that a beaker of acid exploded into his face.  The kuo-toa and gnome are alive and breathing shallowly, on the other side of the room.  Shaddar gets to his feet unsteadily and looks to the doorway. 

“Ah,” he thinks, “The minotaur’s axe seems to have slipped into the gargoyle’s neck.  Well, then.”  Despite the tragedy of the loss of the elder brain, Shaddar feels a bit of satisfaction from the sight.  Ped’fraxith will never give him a beating at the command of his master again!  Looking past this happy accident, Shaddar’s tentacles go rigid with shock. 

A large block of stone has become dislodged from the ceiling and now rests on the pulped skull of Felinxtrath.

His mentor is dead.

For a moment, Shaddar is so discombobulated that he does not know what to think or do.  And then he does what comes naturally.

He begins to laugh.

“How obliging you are, master,” Shaddar thinks with joyful malice, “To grant me this happy boon, and so much earlier than I had planned!” 

He turns to examine the rest of the room while still chuckling evilly and is amazed to see that the four slaves are nothing but blackened ashes that have left nothing behind but sooty silhouettes on the torture racks.  The console is a smoldering ruin of broken glass and melted metal.  The iron throne looks completely untouched other than the burnt and liquidated fragments of the crystal still attached to its once fine setting.

Shaddar puts his hands on his hips and examines his situation.  This has been a series of amazing events that he will not soon forget.  His emotions are a mix of delight at the demise of Felinxtrath and disgust at the ruin and disorderly mess all about him.

The worst thing however, is not what he sees and feels.  It is what he does not feel.  A hollow in the center of his being worries him like a scab – itching and painful.  The elder brain is dead.  He feels no comforting presence.  He is alone.

But wait…  What is that?

Shaddar turns once more to the still form of his erstwhile master.  There is something there.  A mental contact that seems familiar, but weak…

“Of course!  The brainmate!” Shaddar thinks with an edge of relief he can not deny.

His mind quests outwards still farther, to see how the rest of his brethren are faring as he moves to collect the precious fragment of the elder brain.  His movement stops abruptly after a single faltering step.  There is nothing to hear.  Not a single illithid mind-voice. 

Granted, his range as a youngster is limited, but much like the hum of the elder brain’s thoughts, he has never been subjected to this type of telepathic quiet.  There is always some other member of the race he can hear and speak to somewhere in the city.

But not now.  Not anymore.  And Shaddar again is confused as to how he should feel about this new experience and wonders at its cause.  Have the foul butchers of the elder brain killed all of his people?  Has he been rendered a mental deaf-mute because of the experiment’s failure?  Or is there another possibility?  Shaddar does not have enough information and so he sets about gathering what assets he can.  Best to be ready for any contingency.

His first step is to collect the thralls under his authority.  With much mental prodding, he manages to awaken the three thralls that have survived the explosion.  They are not thinking clearly yet – their minds are reeling and unfocused.

“Collect what you can from the bodies and the wreckage,” Shaddar tells them.  They begin to obey, slowly moving faster now that they do not have to think of what to do on their own.  Shaddar feels the bonds between thrall and master begin to tighten to him.  This indicates that his lack of communication with his fellow illithids is not an illusion – there must be no other of his race nearby for communal thralls to begin to bond to him like this.

Shaddar moves to the side of his master’s corpse and quickly loots it.  The brainmate is safe and he cradles it for a moment.  Next, his master’s fine robe is quickly removed and donned.  The splatter of blood and brains does nothing to lessen it’s fineness – indeed, Shaddar resolves to never remove his master’s essence from this robe.  A fond memory!  Why should he wash it away?  In a pouch he finds several gems.  A locked scroll case is attached to the belt, although Shaddar can find no key.  Altogether he is quite satisfied and stands, kicking aside his old threadbare robe.

The thralls have completed their task and show him the meager belongings of the dead thralls as well as a few items from the experiment that were not ruined.  He takes what he wishes and the thralls pocket the rest.

His tentacles point to the doorway, partially filled with fallen stones as he mentally addresses Jor, “Clear the rubble and make a path.  I would see what has become of my city.”

The minotaur moves the heavy stones with ease and the group moves down the tilted hallway.  They only travel a few dozen feet before the hallway ends in a brick wall.  Shaddar touches the stone and realizes that it is not natural, but some kind of baked clay.

He backs away and gestures at the wall curtly.  “Smash it down.”
With a bovine grunt, Jor charges the wall with his head lowered.  The wall detonates as the steel-hard horns blow through it.  And a foul miasma assaults Shaddar’s nostrils.

A sewer?

He steps through the shattered wall and finds that he is indeed inside a large sewer tunnel.  Underneath the ripe smell of his immediate surroundings, Shaddar can smell other things: animals, exotic foods, and wood-smoke.  The stench of mankind is everywhere.  And so are the thoughts that he can now begin to hear.  Thousands of them, just within his current range of sense.

Under a city?  A human city? 

Shaddar is confused.  Again.  This new feeling is become quite wearying and he decides that he does not like it.  Clearly the result of the experiment is that the room and everyone in it have been teleported or shifted somewhere else.  He feels the need for more information as a hunger.

Suddenly, there is a horrible metallic sound as a grate is lifted above them.  Light streams down, making Shaddar wince and Loolipo gurgle as the light blinds her.  The grate is next to the wall of the tunnel, fifteen feet ahead of them.  A pair of boots step onto the top-most rung of the ladder that is set into the wall beneath the grate.

“Stop yer moanin’,” a voice comes from the opening, “I said I’m gonna’ go see what made all those awful noises.”  A pause.  “Nah!  It’ll be a lark!”

Shaddar waits until the man is halfway down the ladder before blasting him with his mind.  The man drops to the ground like a stone.

“Take him to the experiment chamber and chain him to one of the racks,” Shaddar commands.  The minotaur quickly scoops up the immobile form and re-enters the hallway.

Just as he disappears a voice calls down from the open grate, “Timothy?  What was it?  A king-rat?  Snakes?”  Another figure begins to descend the ladder.

This time Shaddar waits for the human to reach the bottom before gently touching his mind and fooling him into thinking that he is his recently captured companion.

“This way, friend,” Shaddar says, while beckoning with one hand.  The weak-minded fool follows him with a stupid grin on his face.

“Close the grate and be sure that you remain unseen,” Shaddar commands Cutt mentally.  He then silently speaks to Loolipo, “Follow the human and bind him once we get to the experiment chamber.”

A few moments of muffled yelps and scuffles yields both of the humans chained to the racks that were still in working order.  Since only one of the captives is awake and alert, Shaddar begins his questioning and mental probe with him.

“Where is this place?” he says with malice, his tentacles twitching slowly.

The man stares at his horrible visage with an open mouth for a moment then clucks his tongue.

“Gor!  What a mask!  A right proper villain you are, sir!  Fantastic!”

“Where is this place?” Shaddar repeats, flecks of corrosive slime hitting the man’s arm and making him wince.

“D’ya mean the town’s name?  Oh.  It’s Big City, of course.”

“Big City?  This is the name of your settlement?”  Shaddar is overcome with disgust at the low intelligence of this cretin and all of his kind.  How stupid!  He quickly reads the man’s surface thoughts to see if he is being truthful. 

He is.  And moreover, Shaddar can detect no fearful tinge to the thoughts at all.  Can it be that this man is too dense to know the nature of his predicament?

“I hope this kidnapping won’t be taking long, sir,” the man says, “I’ve got a schedule of drinkin’ to do this night and it’d be a shame to fall behind!”  Then he laughs.  Laughs!

The first man wakes from his stupor and makes an awkward sound.  Shaddar turns to him, and gets a very surprising reaction once they focus on him and his thralls.

His eyes light up with excitement as he shouts happily, “Huzzah!  I’ve been captured by a group of villains!”

Shaddar is amazed.  He has never seen such a reaction in any lessor race.  Terror, yes.  Fear, disgust, and panic.  Denial even.  But this?

“When the heroes rescue me in front of the town I’m going to be famous!  Famous!  The women will love me!  Oh, the stories I’ll be able to tell – free drinks at every pub, I’ll get!  Why, it’s my lucky day!”  The man puffs out his cheeks and begins humming a jaunty tune.

Shaddar checks this fellow’s mind quickly, but his words match with his thoughts and there is no taint of madness there.  Just a certainty that his life is not in any danger and that rescue and fame are inevitable.  And as a further insult, Shaddar reads some further thoughts that indicate that this human believes that he and his thralls are, “some of the best illusionist magic ever!”

Enough.  Either these men are fools, complete innocents, or mentally retarded.  In any case, Shaddar is both hungry and insulted.  He snarls menacingly as his tentacles wrap around the man’s head. 

Within moments, the first man’s brain has been eaten.  A tasty morsel, full of interesting tangs.  Shaddar stands upright from his meal to face the other man whose face has lost most of its pallor.

“T-that’s a scary illusion, you villain, and too realistic by half,” he blubbered, “Are you sure that kinda’ thing has been okayed by the entertainment guild?”

Shaddar chuckles nastily.  “I am fine with this entertainment…  That is all that matters.”  He moves forward slowly and casually as the man begins to cry out.

Minutes later, after the second man’s limbs have stopped twitching, Shaddar absently wipes the remnants of his meal from his face.  Superb!  He has never felt this satiated!  What a glorious feeling!

“I am resolved,” he broadcasts to his thralls, “We will explore this ‘Big City’.  It seems to be filled with amusements and fools.  It would be a pity to not enjoy them – and their brains!”

Chapter 1               < Chapter 3               Chapter 5 >

Crossover - Chapter 3

Shaddar looks at each of the communal thralls to insure that they are in position then nods at the dwarf beside him at the console.  Tuthoad jams the master control lever forward and the experiment begins. 

The fires under beakers flare and magical liquids begin to bubble fiercely.  Cutt makes minor adjustments to the flame levels to insure a constant flow of the required steams.  Eesha and Loolipo both crank on the gears of the torture racks, causing the slaves to gasp in pain as their limbs are stretched unnaturally.  Shaddar watches the measure of tension on each slave being tortured until it reaches the starting tolerance level and then turns the dial that is his responsibility.

Instantly, the slaves begin to scream as their minds are invaded and memories are brutally wormed into.  The drow maiden and the kuo-toa hop from table to table, double-checking the bonds and connections as the victims thrash about as much as they are able.  A psionic glow seeps along the tubes towards the console as the mental energy of the tortured slaves is collected.  Tuthoad begins to cackle with evil delight – enjoying the chaos and madness of the macabre scene he is in the center of.

And slowly, majestically, the crystal at the top of Felinxtrath’s iron throne begins to rotate.

“Yes!” booms Felinxtrath, still gripping the chair’s armrests tightly.  Shaddar can sense the psychic power building inside the throne and especially in the crystal.  His master continues, “Increase the mixture!”

Obediently the thralls and Shaddar adjust both the implements of torture and the rate at which the mental intrusion and ransacking of the four slaves is happening.  The crystal spins faster.

“Somehow the combination of physical and mental torture is feeding the process.  Very interesting,” Shaddar thinks as he works – fine-tuning the rough adjustments made by the dwarf, who can not sense the psychic energies now pulsing through the room.

His contemplation is interrupted by a violent mental thrust into his and every other illithid mind in the city.  The elder brain is calling for help!

“TRAITORS!  I AM UNDER PHYSICAL ATTACK FROM OUR FALSE ALLIES OF THORIMHOLM!  COME TO MY ASSISTENCE, CHILDREN!”

Felinxtrath’s anger and concern is equally mixed in his writhing tentacles. 

“Curse these so-called heroes!” he spits mentally to Shaddar, “They seem to be everywhere.”  He stands quickly from his seat in the iron throne and begins to cross the room. 

“Shut it down.  We will restart the experiment once I have made sure that the elder brain is safe.  No doubt the elder brain can handle a few whelps from the surface city of the dwarves, but I must be sure.”

As he passes his two thralls, he commands them, “Obey the tadpole, he may have need of your aid.”

Just after he passes through the doorway and enters the hall it happens.

It is the most awful thing Shaddar has ever felt.

The horror!

The death throes of the elder brain!

“NOOOOOOOOoooooooo!”

The mental scream seems to echo throughout the entire city, splinters of pain lancing through every mind that calls the massive intellect their leader.  A blast of mental power unlike any Shaddar believes possible washes over him, wiping out all other sensations and thoughts.  A burst of energy that feels like it will utterly consume him – and then it is gone.  All his senses are blinded to the overwhelming sense of loss and darkness!  How is it possible?  Snuffed out in an instant, leaving only a void of nothingness in its place!

And then the wave of mental trauma fades away – fades forever with the lifeforce of the elder brain that caused it.  Gone!  It was gone!  That constant, comforting beacon of thought that Shaddar had taken for granted his entire life!  No longer did it hum as the heart of the city – no longer did its guiding thoughts direct them and inspire them.

Shaddar blinks rapidly to clear his eyes of tears to see that the room is going mad.

Felinxtrath has collapsed in either depression or some other form of stupor in reaction to the impossible event.  The mad dwarf is pounding on the master control lever – trying desperately to turn the machine off, but it was fused open.  The victims writhe in agony, arching their backs with unvoiced screams as the experiment runs completely out of control.  The other thralls are all doing their best to stop what is happening to no avail.

The crystal is a blur it is spinning so quickly.  The tubes are painful to look at - so full of stolen mental energy are they.  Electricity crackles along the copper lines.  Shaddar issues orders as fast as he can think of them.  Nothing works.  The edges of the room begin to blur into unreality.  The floor seems to twist and tilt beneath their feet.

“The psychic surge has overloaded it!” he broadcasts, “Cut the lines!  Cut the lines!”

The minotaur raises his axe to comply, but he never completes the stroke. 

It is too late. 

There is a moment when there is an utter absence of sound or thought – a moment when time itself seems to stop – and then the crystal explodes.  A wave of dark energy rolls over them and unconsciousness (or death) claims all.

Darkness…

Chapter 1               < Chapter 2               Chapter 4 >

Crossover - Chapter 2

Shaddar backs from the royal chamber of the elder brain with respect.  Once he has passed beneath the arch of the doorway, the doors slowly shut behind him.  He can feel the lingering resonance between the elder brain and the brainmate that he cradles in his hands.  With the briefest of pauses, Shaddar continues to focus on the mystery of the brainmate, but quickly decides that he does not have enough information and resolves to ponder upon it later.

“This way, slave,” he projects into the mind of Ped’fraxith with a flick of one tentacle.  The gargoyle’s flare of annoyance is sweet.

As they walk into more populated areas of the city, they begin to pass other inhabitants.  The vast majority of those that they see are thralls – proper illiithids rarely leave their chambers when they can have a slave do the mundane tasks for them, as his master is so fond of reminding him at every opportunity.  Most of the thralls show befitting respect towards him and a few actually stop walking to bow low as he passes.  The thoughts and feelings that the thralls have are interesting.  Most of the thralls in the city have been thoroughly subdued, but a few still harbor feelings of resentment or even a desire to escape.  Ridiculous.

Soon they arrive at the communal thrall barracks.  A series of rough tubes cut into the rock that allowed the thralls a place to sleep for the three or four hours that is their due.  Shaddar mentally summons the thralls who normally work with his master in his experiments.  One by one, they awaken and shuffle before him.

First to arrive is the elf maiden, Eesha.  Her dark skin makes her difficult to spot in the dim light, but her mind is quick and filled with resentment – that mental fire burns bright.  She has not taken well to being a thrall and is always trying to break the unbreakable bond which has been formed.  No illithid wants such a daily headache and so the entire community uses her to do a variety of humiliating tasks.  “Eventually, she will crack and be a proper thrall,” thinks Shaddar.

“Ack!  Curses!” yelps a small, gray gnome as he stumbles to the line, rubbing his head with a damp rag.  Cutt Rubydust has somehow managed to let a tanglefoot bag of glue get into the few remaining hairs on his bald pate.  His appearance is insignificant.  Only his skill at alchemy is important; too important for a single illithid to own him.

A fiendish-sounding cackle announces the arrival of the demented dwarf, Tuthoad.  His unholy experiments have allowed him to master the summoning and grafting of demon-flesh appendages to mortals.  The torn bat wings at his back and his constantly moving, 15-foot-long tail bear testimony to his unique skills.  They also bear witness to the mental instability that experimenting on one’s own body indicates.

Bubbling and wet popping sounds precede the approach of the final thrall Shaddar came here to collect.  Loolipo is a sneaky and lazy thrall, hated by most of the others.  Her sole redeeming feature, from their perspective, is that she always sleeps in the bottom-most tube that is constantly half-filled with water.  Being a kuo-toa, she is quite at home in the damp and the mud.  Her nimble fingers and skill with a pincher staff are useful to Felinxtrath’s current needs.

Satisfied at the quick response of the thralls, Shaddar turns without a word, knowing that they will follow him.  They travel deeper into the lower levels of the city, where the personal thrall apartments and slave pits are located.

The thoughts of the lessor races that Shaddar senses around him become more fearful in their nature the closer they come to the slave pits.  Some minds have the intriguing flavor of being completely shattered into madness.

“Such fragile things,” Shaddar thinks, “It is no wonder that our race will rule the entire universe someday.  Only we are strong enough to do what must be done.”

The stench of unclean flesh and misery hangs thick in the air as they enter the slave area.  Here is where those captives who are unfit for duty as thralls are kept until their bodies (or their brains) are needed by their betters.

A fat-fleshed illithid sits behind a table heavy with stacks of documents.  His drooping eyes turn up and he greets Shaddar with his mind.

“Ah, Shaddar!  I assumed that you would be coming by today.”  His disgusting, ill-groomed tentacles are barely able to gesticulate properly, they are so corpulent.  “Has it been three weeks?  You are here to take sustenance?  I have a drow fellow here that you might like.  Very clever – many adventures, he has had.  Only one arm, but nothing wrong with his mind!  Felinxtrath asked me to save him.  For you?” 

Shaddar has been a victim to this type of taunting many times before.  He knows that he has three days before he may next feed.  Despite himself however, he is unable to stop his lamprey-like mouth from watering and corrosive slime drips down his tentacles to the cavern floor.  His master keeps him at the very edge of starvation and only allows him to consume the brain of injured and aged thralls once every three weeks.  Only once did Felinxtrath allow him to consume the brain of a slave – a young adventurer whose memories and experiences were orders of a magnitude better than a used-up and discarded thrall with decades of non-thought stored in the dusty recesses of its mind.  His master did not give him that gnome as a reward, but as a torture.  Only by knowing and comparing the quality of that gnomish brain could every thrall brain he had been given since then be understood for what it was: the bitter dregs that his betters had left behind.

Baliforn laughs in a single explosive twitch of tentacles at the sight of Shaddar’s drooling and at the angry thoughts he has listened in on. 

“Oh, dear.  My mistake!  Not today after all, is it?  And surely sure a dainty morsel is not for the likes of you, eh?” he thinks jovially, seemingly oblivious to the anger evident in Shaddar’s features.  The slave pit jailer’s tentacles continue to twitch in amusement as he shuffles a few of the parchments on his desk.  “Now then, you are here for some slaves for Felinxtrath’s experiments?  Bah!  Half of the time, they come back in a state that’s not fit to be eaten.  That’s a waste of good brains, if you ask me.”  At last Baliforn finds the requisition and passed it over to be signed.  Shaddar sweeps the pen across the form quickly before studiously ignoring the continuing gestures and mental probes of Baliforn and turning to the gargoyle.

“Collect four slaves.  They must be in good condition.”

Ped’fraxith nods and eagerly enters the slave pits.  This was one thrall that did not mind so much the more cruel tasks his masters required of him.  Soon the cries of terrified victims were heard coming from the entrance. 

It was several more minutes before the gargoyle returned with two drow, a dwarf, and a gnome, all bound together via a chain at their necks.  None of them were young, and the dwarf was quite obviously insane, but all seemed physically sound.  The old gnomish woman wrings her hands constantly as if the motion will grant her comfort.  Unlikely in the extreme.

Quickly now, they march to the experiment chamber.  The only sounds are an occasional wet noise from Loolipo’s rubbery lips and some quiet sobs from the old gnome.

Felinxtrath’s most powerful thrall stands guard.  The hulking bulk of a minotaur in his prime snorts at the sounds of their advance.  Leaning on a massive axe, he opens the door for Shaddar’s little caravan.  Jor Toothsnatcher he calls himself in his own thoughts.  Shaddar hardly bothers to scan those thoughts – the beast is practically brain-dead so far as he is concerned.

Once the door to the room is open to the view of the slaves, the old gnomish woman shrieks and begins to tear at the metal collar at her throat.  The room had obviously once served as a torture chamber and she is terrified.  Before Shaddar or any of the thralls can react to the distressed slave, a blast of mental power scorches from the interior of the room – stunning all of the slaves and some of the thralls into a frozen state of near-paralysis.

“Incompetent fools!  Do not let them damage themselves!”  The enraged visage of Felinxtrath himself fills the doorway.  His resplendent robes are embroidered with gold thread and jewels.  The veins in his high-domed head throb as he examines the slave woman.  All is well.  Seeing that the drama has ceased, he releases the thralls for his mind blast, and gives them mental commands.  The four communal thralls hurry into the room.  Then, with disgust, he turns to Shaddar, “Your incompetence knows no bounds, tadpole.  Give me the brainmate.”

Shaddar hands the precious brainmate to his master and enters the room.  Once he is inside, the gargoyle and the minotaur also enter and stand guard on either side of the door.  Their given tasks completed, both of their faces go slack and still.  The minotaur’s mouth drops open and he breathes slowly and deeply, as if asleep.  The gargoyle turns into an immobile-looking statue that is the common trait of his race when they stand still.

“Prepare yourself for the experiment, Shaddar.  I will not abide any further mistakes this day,” his master snarls verbally.  A great insult this is among the illithid!  Only those of lesser intellects lack the ability to speak mind-to-mind.  Speaking aloud to another of the race is tantamount to calling them out as unworthy of their place in mindflayer society.  Shaddar turns to his work to avoid thinking or saying something that will earn him another beating.

Each slave is chained to a torture rack, their arms and legs being stretched taut by Loolipo, but not painfully so.  Not yet.  Cutt smears each victim with an alchemical goo and attaches tubes to them.  Strips of flexible copper are affixed to the fetters of each slave by Eesha.  Tuthoad is at the controls, calling out when each connection has been made satisfactorily. 

The control console was once a desk, but has now been bolted to the floor and is covered with small burners, vials of magical liquids, and mechanical dials and levers.  Each tube and metallic strip snakes across the stained floor to this console, making it look like a bizarre altar to a forgotten god of magic mechanisms.  From this altar of illithidian technology a single cable runs to the throne.  An iron chair with a high back.  At the apex of the chair’s back sits a massive crystal in a geared setting – immobile for as long as Shaddar has seen it, but looking as if it should be able to rotate along its long axis.  In the throne sits the arrogant figure of Shaddar’s master, Felinxtrath, drumming his long fingers impatiently as he watches the activity before him.

Shaddar checks every task to insure that the connections are secure just as the slaves begin to snap out of the effects of the mind blast.  The little gnome woman begins to weep and cry out loudly at once.  Everyone in the room ignores her.

“Excellent,” Felinxtrath thinks to the group, “Set the tolerance levels to 24.  The memory wormage factor should be 2.1 and at a 60% flow rate.”  Quickly the uncomprehending fingers of the thralls make the declared adjustments.  Even Shaddar does not fully understand the forces involved in these experiments.  However, unlike every previous time, his master seems very confident of his figures.  Very confident, indeed.

Felinxtrath relaxes into the throne for a moment, seeming to savor something only he can see.  Then he leans forward intensely, both hands tightly gripping the armrests of his iron chair.

“Begin!”

< Chapter 1               Chapter 3 >

What is Crossover?

I just realized that not everyone knows what the heck the Crossover stuff is.  Sorry about that!

Crossover is a short-story version of the events that are being played out in a D&D 3.5 game being run by yours-truly: Chainsaw.  It has a single player who is the anti-hero in the grim form of Shaddar, a mindflayer being played by Dark Purist.  He will also play any thralls which fall under his power.

The campaign will be very player-reactive, with Dark Purist's in-game choices determining how it develops. Not to say that there isn't an unrelenting plot and back-story that he will be interacting with, because there very much is one...

The story written here is going to be the notes of what has happened during the game for me - not how I usually do things as a DM.  Hopefully this experiment will be fun for not just us, but anyone else who enjoys a good yarn!

You can see a list of all the chapters so far here.

Crossover - Chapter 1

Slowly he opens his eyes.

The dimly-lit hovel that he calls his home is as he left it when he went to sleep.  As he has always done, Shaddar reaches under his pillow to take hold and stroke his two birthing stones.  The small resonance stones magically fill him with the emotions of self-satisfaction and confidence.  As he sits up at the edge of his bed, he sees the irony that he should feel self-satisfaction in such a meager dwelling.  The confidence he owns in full measure – he has every reason to feel such.

Shaddar is a part of the master race that spans both space and time – he is an Illithid, commonly called a Mindflayer by those to stupid to pronounce such a word.  The tentacles that surround his toothy maw writhe in pleasure, thinking of the inevitable destiny of his race.

True, he is young – having only been raised to greatness via ceremorphosis a bit short of 20 years ago.

“24 days, 9 hours, 12 minutes, and 39 seconds until I am freed,” Shaddar thinks.  “When I am twenty – I will be my own master.”

A vile and familiar mental voice intrudes into his mind, “A master of nothing, tadpole!”  Shaddar’s tentacles twist into a rude gesture, that no one is able to see.  It is his master, Felinxtrath.  A senior Illithid who failed the city, and the elder brain at it’s heart, once too often and was given the task of being the chaperone and mentor to Shaddar when he was first born.  A dark day, to Shaddar’s thinking.  Felinxtrath was cruel, vindictive, and saw his punishment as a gross injustice and waste of his talents.  Never did he allow a day go by that he did not force an awareness of these emotions onto young Shaddar – he made his life a living hell.

“I’ll see you dead someday,” Shaddar spoke aloud, flecks of slime flicking off his tentacles as they jerked, “master.”

His master’s thoughts go on, “At last you awake, slothful one.  I have instructed my thrall to cuff your head for this imperfection in your character.”  A mental hiss of foul laughter rings through Shaddar’s head – he has received a beating every day at the hands of his loving master.  “But with that pleasure completed, you must be about my business!  Before you report to the experiment chamber, visit the elder brain, collect the thralls I have reserved for today’s work, and then bring along 4 slaves in good condition.  Today’s experiment will bring me great glory when it succeeds!  Do not delay!”  The mental connection broke as his master’s attention moved on to other matters.

“Another day of failure,” thinks Shaddar, with a tentacle flip that indicates slight amusement.  Felinxtrath has been trying to do… something… for almost five years.  And each attempt has been a more spectacular failure than the last.  His master has never deigned to tell him what the experiments are about, but they are surely a waste of time.

“24 days, 9 hours, 10 minutes, and 56 seconds until I am freed,” Shaddar thinks with resignation.  He stands and pulls on his low-quality cotton robe.  Some black silk adorns the collar and cuffs, but it is a hand-me-down garment that is threadbare in many places.  An unworthy article of clothing for him.  Shaddar’s burning hatred for his master’s inattention intensifies.

Shaddar’s mental senses quest outwards and he detects the presence of a low-grade intellect in the hall.  When he opens the door he sees Ped’fraxith, the weakest of his master’s personal thralls.  The gargoyle’s wing whips out and strikes Shaddar across the face.

“By the order of my master, this blow is this yours,” the beast grates in a voice dry as dust.  Its verbal tone is regretful, but Shaddar can taste the ripples of delight in his simple mind at the act of violence and disrespect.  Shaddar takes the blow well, as he is expected to, and says nothing.  The monster nods and moves behind him to take his place as a follower and slave.  Shaddar may be low in rank among the Illithids, but he is still miles above a thrall in terms of status.

As they walk down the passageway to the heart of the dark city, Shaddar feels the familiar anger and embarrassment once again that he has no personal thrall of his own.  If Ped’fraxith was his own thrall, or even one of the many communal thralls, Shaddar would punish or kill it for such a blow.  But the gargoyle is the personal property of his master and is therefore beyond reach of the vengeance its actions warrant.  His tentacles quiver with impotent rage out of sight of the insolent thrall.

Comforted by thoughts of inventive tortures he would like to inflict upon the gargoyle, Shaddar is distracted from the idea of where he is going: the elder brain’s pool.  Only once before has he seen it.  A moment of blinding terror for a newborn Shaddar.  The pulsating presence of the mighty elder brain’s power permeated the underground city constantly, but to actually stand before it’s bulk and feel the personal focus of its attention?  No, Shaddar was not looking forward to this task.

And then they arrive.  The chamber doors are open.  And Shaddar knows that he must show no fear before the intellectual leader of their city.  He boldly enters the room, leaving a cowering Ped’fraxith behind.  The slowly moving bulk of an extracted brain more than ten feet across bobs in a briny pool filled with vital fluids and wriggling Illitihid tadpoles.

“SHADDAR.”  The telepathic statement is like the roar of an unholy choir in his mind as he kneels before his ultimate master. 

Still reeling from the raw power of the elder brain’s mental voice, Shaddar misses the beginning of what happens next.  When he comes to himself, he sees a patch of the elder brain’s wrinkled surface begin to swell and pulsate faster than the rest.  He watches with awe as the swelling increases and becomes a large tumor-like growth of brain-flesh.

“TAKE THIS TO FELINXTRATH.  IT WILL SERVE OUR RACE WELL AND TELL ME ALL THAT YOU DO.”  Shaddar is given a mental picture that he is to approach and take the growth in his hands.  Trembling, he does so and the growth separates from the flesh of its parent.  Shaddar has heard of this before, but did not think to see it for himself.  As he stares in reverence, the brainmate seems to collapse upon itself until it easily fits in one open palm. 

“A portion of the elder brain itself!” Shaddar thinks with excitement, “Able to comfort, communicate, and teach even when one is far from home!”  He bows in respect to the slowly submerging form of the elder brain and leaves the room, pondering on why such a gift is required of his master.  Perhaps he really is close to some sort of breakthrough?  Or is it just a closely placed spy?  Does the elder brain want a first-hand report of his master’s doings?

Chapter 2 >

AAR: August 17, 2012 - Heroes Necropolis

The Ork horde moves near a site holy to the Ultramarines - a burial ground for fallen brother marines and a supply depot for the living.  Will the valiant servants of the Emperor repulse the aliens, or will the site be desecrated with the stink of Orkish foulness?  This is the battle for the Heroes Necropolis!

Standard Annihilation Mission.

5x6 table.  The edge of the burial grounds and supply depot known as the Heroes Necropolis.

Almost everything on the map is impassable terrain.  The exceptions are the dome-like bunker (an Armor13 building that has a single entry point on the rear with 3 extra-wide fire points facing the bottom), the patch of weeds which provides cover, the low fences which are difficult terrain, and the two towers which can be climbed.

Orks versus Space Marines with 1150 point limit.

Chainsawz Ladz: 
HQ - Warboss
Elites - 8x Nobz & Painboy (Power claw, Kombi-rokkit, Kombi-skorcha, Twin-linked shootas)
Troops - 20x Boyz (Nob with power claw, 2x Big shoota)
Troops - 26x Boyz (Nob, 2x Rokkit)
Troops - 12x Gretchin (Runtherd)
Heavy Support - 3 Lobba gunz (3x Extra Crew, Runtherd, 3x Ammo Runts)
Heavy Support - Battlewagon ('ard case, killkannon, kannon & 2 big shootas)


Ultramarine Dark Purifiers
HQ - Captain
HQ - Librarian
Elites - Dreadnought
Elites - 5x Terminators
Troops - 10x Tactical Marines
Troops - 10x Tactical Marines
Troops - 5x Sniper Scouts with Sgt. Immortus
Fast Attack - 1x Marine Biker

Dark Purist won the initial toss, selected the blue side of the table, and elected to let the Orks go first.

Chainsaw elects to avoid the kill-zone of between the two fences and sets up his forces closer to the necropolis. The battlewagon sits in the center of the force, surrounded by the nobz.  The mob lead by the warboss takes cover in the weeds.  The gretchin mob is clearly nervous, seeing that they are going to be a "walkin' bullet catcha" for mob2.

The space marines also establish their battle line in and around the forest of granite obelisks that make the entryway to the holy burial ground.  The snipers sneak into position to use the wide avenue between the fences as a shooting gallery.  The terminator squad in-between the two units of tactical marines looks strong and proud with both of the marine leaders in formation.

In a stunning injury to his Orkish pride, the Ultramarines steal the initiative back after giving it to Chainsaw!  This is an insult that will not soon be forgiven or forgotten!  "Git on wif it, 'umie - I gotz teef ta collect frum yer skullz fer dat!"

Let the game begin!

The Ultramarines waste no time with pleasantries nor do they give any heed to pointless greenskin insults - they immediately set about the task of ridding this important territory of alien pests.

Almost every unit in their force moves towards the foe.  Tactical squad1 does so at a run.  Tactical squad4 and the snipers remain stationary so they can take careful aim.  Most impressively, the terminator squad led by the captain and the librarian travel through the Warp as the librarian opens a portal for them!  The smug looks on the Ork Lobba crew's faces turn into pale-green visages of dawning horror as the powerful units appear right next to them.  The marine captain's shout does not soothe their concerns, "Not even the unholy metal scraps that you call artillery and ordnance will desecrate this place, alien scum!  At them, brothers!"

Once the marines are all in position, they open fire, and blood begins to flow:

• The snipers, biker, and dreadnought all attack mob1.  Sgt. Immortus puts a silvered round into the left eye-socket of an ork boy carrying a nasty rokkit launcha.  Two other boyz are also killed by member of his squad.  All futher attacks have no effect, as the mob uses the cover of the weed patch to great effect.
• Tactical squads 3 and 4 both attack the gretchin mob.  The gretchin are lucky to have only 2 of their number die and the runtherd cackles with pride.  "Youse lot are good 'unz!  Stand steady now, ya snotlingz!"
• The terminators, captain, and librarian attack the big gunz emplacement, while flickers of warp energy are still arcing from their armor.  They destroy one gun outright, slaughter 5 of the crew, and terrify the unit - they will be unable to fire their remaining gunz next round.  A great moan of sorrow goes up from the gun crew as a clean-faced, funny, and smart little gretchin named Lickspittle is killed in the firestorm.  "Lickspittle?  Lickspittle!  No!!!  You 'oribble 'umies!  Why!?!?"  As the warboss hears this cry, he whirs to see the smoke and the still little form.  "Kill that dere filth!" he bellows, "I wantz revenge fer me fav'ite grot!"

The Orks respond to the Ultramarine attack by maneuvering into a good position to clean the rust off their axe blades using human blood. 

The warboss leads mob1 out of the weeds and into the more substaintial cover of a large fuel tank at a run.  The nobz embark into the battlewagon and it rumbles forward as the last hatch closes.  The gretchin move between two fortified walls, leaning around them to aim at the murderers of Lickspittle.  Mob2 charges towards the terminator squad with a deep yell.  The remnants of the lobba crew wheel their two remaining gunz into the weedy cover that mob1 just left - the runtherd is so misty eyed at the loss of everyone's favorite grubling, that he only cracks his whip once.

Then they attack.  Only the gunnery crew on the battlewagon do not try to kill the terminators, since they have not yet heard the sad news.  The results:

• The battlewagon fires the dreaded killkannon at tactical squad3, but the aim is poor and only a single marine is killed, despite a satisfying mushroom cloud of smoke and debris.
• The nobz inside the battlewagon, the orcs in mob2, and the gretchin mob all unload their weapons into the terminators.  The powerful attacks of the close-range orkish bullets are all shrugged off, but the space marines ignored the gretchin - surely such rusty and barely-functional firearms couldn't hurt the mighty terminators?  But the grot aim is true and they manage to kill 3 of the terminators!  The Ultramarines are stunned by this unlikely event, but the Orks know that the blessings of Mork (or is it Gork?) are clearly upon them.
• Annoyed that the meat-sheild got more kills than they did, the ladz in mob2 swarm over and around the terminator squad, captain, and librarian in a brutal close-quarters assault.  They realize that without the librarian, the terminators couldn't have gotten close to the lobba crew, so most of their attacks focus on him.  He is cut down by the horde with the loss of but a single boy in return.  The pages of his holy book are ripped out and thrown to the wind.  "Wot 'ese squigglez mean?  Ah, who carez..."

The Utlramarines react quickly to the changing battlefield by moving tactical squads 2 and 3 forward while tactical squad 1 falls back to a better defensive position.

Then they open fire with high hopes of slaughtering the enemies of mankind:

• The snipers attack the lobba unit with their missile launcher and sniper rifles.  3 of the gun crew die, despite the cover.
• Tactical squads 1, 2, and the biker shoot into mob1.  Six boys die in the vicious crossfire.
• Tactical squads 3 and 4 shoot into the gretchin mob to kill whatever unnatural freaks of the universe are in their midst - technically that is all of them.  Together they drop 5 of the getchin punks.  "Only a down-payment on our righteous revenge, brothers!"
• An ominous whine fills the air as the dreadnought fires a supercharged blast from his multi-melta at the battlewagon.  At such close range, it should cut through the tank's side armor like butter.  And it does.  However, the results are completely unexpected.  The beam punches through a metal plate, stikes a bottle of fungus-beer, refracts through the glass and punches right out the other side - doing no lasting damage at all (other than instantly skunking a nobz beer).  "Curse youse, 'umies!  My last beer!  You'll pay fer dat in dobble-teef!"
• The ongoing combat between the terminators and mob2 continues without abatement.  The captain takes a single wound and 2 more orc boyz perish. 

The Orks don't like how the humans aren't dying as fast as they'd like, so they try to increase the flow of blood on the battlefield by "movin' 'round a bit and cuttin' some t'roats".

The gretchin mob have had enough - they have almost broken and run twice.  Their runtherd shuffles them into the bunker to save what he can of "'dese fine, shooty grot, 'ere!"  The battlewagon rumbles into some cover from the dreadnought and the nobz pour out of the back.  The warboss and the mob1 that he leads squeeze past the biker marine to slam into the marines in tactical squad1.

Primitive firearms and edged weapons yield the following nasty results:

• The lone lobba crew fires one of the kannon at tactical squad 3 at the urging of the runtherd.  The blast kills one of the marines.
• The battlewagon's killkannon also speaks to tactical squad3.  The blast kills another marine from this beleaguered unit and the orks hoot in delight at the fountain of soot, blood, and marine limbs that erupt from the ground at the point of impact.
• The nobz shoot at the dreadnought.  Only one nob has a chance of hurting the fearsome war machine, but "ya gotz ta payback dose who skunk yer beer".  His rokkit corkscrews wildly (and comically) into the ground and he decides to make the Mek that built the defective rokkit pay for the fungus-beer instead, when he gets back to camp...
• Mob1 and the warboss fire wildly into tactical squad1 as they close with them.  They manage to kill 2 of them before the chainswords fire up and they get "stuck in, propa".
• The assault between Mob1 and tactical squad1 is brutal, with the squad focusing all their attacks on the warboss.  The marines manage to injure him twice, while 2 more members of their squad die.  This leaves only one marine left alive in a sea of snarling Orks.
• The grudge-match assault between the terminators and the ladz in mob2 continues.  The last 2 terminators are butchered, leaving only the wounded captain to face the foe.  He kills 3 boyz to give them a hint of his grim intentions.

The tactical options of both forces are shrinking rapidly now and both sides are determined to destroy the other.

The space marines tactial squads 3, 4, and the biker move forward to get clear lines of fire on the powerful nobz squad.  Tactical squad 2 pulls back behind the dreadnought.

Then a blizzard of explosive-tipped fire pours into the orks:

• Tactical squads 3, 4, and the biker all shoot at the nob squad.  Their armor, the cover provided by the battlewagon, and the "gentl' ministrationz" of the painboy mean that they only lose a single nob.
• The snipers attack the big gunz once again.  This time Sgt. Immortus' aim is perfect and he pops the runtherd's head like a rotten ostrich egg.  The missile destorys one of the remaining lobba kannons.  The last surviving grot staggers from cover, running drunkenly for home.
• The dreadnought tries to blow up the battlewagon, but misses badly.
• The last remaining marine of tactical squad1 fights valiantly against the warboss and his mob1, but it is to no avail.  He is ripped to pieces, with many of the ladz "gettin' a fancy blue soov'o'neir".
• The captain continues to wield his thunder hammer to great effect on mob2.  They take 3 losses, but he also takes another wound.

The Orkz have not yet felt satisfaction.  They move in for more gruesome kills with a mighty "WAAAGH!" echoing across the battlefield.


The nobz and mob1 both charge towards the foe before them.  The battlewagon driver foolishly tries to run down tactical squad3 with a tank shock.  They simply step out of the way and then turn to see the lightly armored rear of the Ork tank.  A grin settles on both of their faces...

With the roar of the "WAAAGH!" all around them, the Orkz dive into melee with hoots of delight:

• The nobz fire their weapons at the dreadnought in their excitement.  All of the slugs bounce harmlessly off, but one of them unleashes a skorcha blast that goes past the dreadnought and roasts 2 marines in tactical squad2.  "Datz a bonus!"
• Mob2 girds itself for a final assault on the hated captain.  They do manage to wound him, but he kills one of the boyz and injures the nob.  His stalwart valor at surviving almost 200 attacks while still killing some of them breaks the morale of the mob, despite the nob killing the first lad to break from combat.  As the mob tries to flee, the captain cuts them all down, leaving him standing victorious in a sodden field of gore.  Mob2 is gone.
• Mob1 and the warboss assault the three marines left in tactical squad3.  All of the marines are destroyed before they have a chance to respond and more souvenir heads are claimed by the ladz.
• The nobz surround the dreadnought and heave their big choppaz and powerclaws at the war machine.  Their attack is very successful - too successful, really.  One nob is killed and another wounded as the enemy walker explodes in a burst of incandescent light.

The marines move into position to neutralize the remaining Orks and hopefully destroy their tank.  Only small movements are made by the marines to get into the best placements.

The attacks are as follows:

• The snipers and tactical squad4 shoot at mob1.  The missile blasts kill 5 boyz and wounds the nob.
• The captain shoots at the nobs to no effect.
• The two tactical marines in squad3 take their time in placing krak grenades onto vulnerable-looking bits of the battlewagon and it is totally wrecked in seconds - smoke billowing from the interior and the crew shrieking as they are roasted alive.  "Thus do all the enemies of mankind suffer!"

The warboss is not about to let this act of "'umie vandalizm" go unpunished.  The nobz and mob1 move into position to extract payment from the marines in form of their lives.

Their attacks are as follows:

• Mob1 shoots at tactical squad4, killing 1 marine.
• The nobz slam into the pair of marines left in tactical squad3 and utterly destroy them.  They then take a moment to toss bits and pieces of these heroes of the Imperium towards the captain who looks at such desecration with horror and disgust.

Enraged at the dishonorable treatment of the bodies of his fallen battle-brothers, the captain charges towards the nobz.  The biker also moves in order to get a line of sight on the ladz in mob1.

The fighting results:

• Tactical squad4 and the biker rapid fire their boltguns into mob1, killing 3 more boyz.
• The captain heroically assaults the nobz, but his charge is folly.  The nobz are much more powerful that the mob of boyz he killed to the last alien but a few turns before - he is killed before he can even complete the down-stroke of his thunder hammer.

Now the warboss is at last filled with satisfaction.  The last of those responsible for the death of his favorite gretchin has been killed.  "Right.  Letz kill off da rest ov 'em, then.  Might az well, eh?"

The nobz and mob1 flank tactical squad4 and "stomp 'em inta da ground."  Two boyz from mob1 die during the assault.  A small price to pay!

The snipers are disappointed that the Orkz refuse to "come out and play", but the warboss feel that he has everything he came here for: "good fightin', spe'chal tombz, 'nd lottsa blood."

Sadly, the biker and the scout squad must allow the Orkz their victory and lewd party - but they vow to return with a stronger force and cleanse them from this world!

Chainsaw wins!  Good tactics and a stronger force selection (not to mention a lot of luck) allow the Orkz to complete their campaign of wonton destruction.  The orkz had 373 points left on the field (32%) to the marines 175 (15%).  A bloody victory, to be sure, but "datz how propa ladz likez it, see?"

"Lickspittle is 'venged...  Now pass 'round the fungus-beer 'nd letz smash up dis place, ladz!  WAAAGH!"

"So close to a tactical draw that I could taste it."