- Location
- Singapore
Glory or Death: Chapter Master Quest [42k]
- Location
- Australia
I just caught up after finals and omg Cicerooo nooooooooooo omgggggg I am not okay wtffffffff 
- Location
- Classified
I really don't get how armor and armor pen work. Like, armor values on the front page start at 45, but a high pen weapon is pen 6. By the terminator armor statline you posted earlier, I assume that the system is changing, but I don't get how it works right now.
- Location
- Singapore
armor pen is 1d20 +(AP), so a Bolter (with AP3) has reasonable odds of penetrating a suit of power armor (about Armor 12), but is not going to be reliably killing Space Marines unless you're a good shot. Lascannons should have higher AP values that let them vaporise standard power armor and, if they can bypass Soak, easily deal with Terminators. They are what you use to hunt actual tanks, after all. And while I tend to take the 'walking tank' statement more literally than most in GoD (it's the only real way that Space Marines are anywhere near as unkillable as they should be, considering most of their armory is anti-armor in some way), Space Marines are not invincible. Just ultra-fast, ultra-agile, slightly-more-than-man-sized tanks. With the typical Space Marine being a Medium Tank, Terminators being Heavy Tanks, and Artificer Armor-Clad Veterans being MBTs - less protected than Heavy Tanks and unable to mount weapons quite as large, but are still more effective than Mediums and far more versatile than any other mark.
...I've done a lot of reading on tanks. I wish I didn't take that year long hiatus now, we might have been on Guts and Glory by now.
I did it off of my knowledge of the existing 8th edition system, so as done, a 33% chance to survive either the final death blow or a wound that would normally bypass saving throws. I didn't understand the mechanics of the quest either, but I figured Swordo would adjust for the actual system and if it was accidentally OP.
Just for kicks, an alternative from the complete opposite build philosophy (but probably rather OP):
Fury of the Angels
Armor 16, Soak 3, Strength +3, Perception +1, Agility -1, Void-Sealed
Trait: Gun to a knifefight
Having recently completed their crusade against nearby orks, the Crimson Crusaders have come to a begrudging acknowledgement that, though they are filthy xenos who deserve only death, there is some merit to the idea Orkish philosophy of "More Dakka." Adapting this to a more pure incarnation in Humanity, Osiron has drawn upon not only his own great genius but also the Chapter's store of cogitator crystals to greatly reduce the interior space requirements without compromising the armor, agility, or other capabilities of the Terminator armor. With that space, he has managed to incorporate a pair of Inferno pistol gauntlets into the suit, providing a rude awakening for any who seek to close into a melee engagement.
Once the mechanics are finished, will you be posting them here? Also, just out of curiosity, is agility utilized in figuring out hits at all (as a saving throw against ballistic skill essentially)?
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- Location
- Singapore
Absolutely. Right now Agility should be used for Dodge, but it might change. Unlikely, but possible.
- Location
- in the trash
The front page says that the Tartaros pattern only gives +2 Strength, which would be in line with the stats for the example relic armour. (+1 Strength, +2 Perception)
- Location
- Singapore
Incidentally, if you can't grok the stats, just an armor writeup also works! I can extrapolate the stats myself.
Tartaros itself has -1 Agility instead of -2 Agility due to its more advanced nature, but in exchange it's a higher level technology, so if you ever lose your Senior Techmarines (i.e. Osiron, Matthias and Lysander) you will have a lot of trouble repairing them without looking for help from the few people left that do know how to repair it.
...Honestly, thinking about it, Tartaros might share technological principles with the Contemptor. I might offer 'insights' into that as an option for the Techmarines later on.
I'm referring to the new statlines, where Terminator Armor provides +3 Strength because it's goddamn monstrous, and regular Astartes PA provides +2 Strength to differentiate it from Inquisitorial and Sororitas armor, which otherwise have identical protective stats but none of the extra boosters. And also suffer Agi penalties.
Tartaros itself has -1 Agility instead of -2 Agility due to its more advanced nature, but in exchange it's a higher level technology, so if you ever lose your Senior Techmarines (i.e. Osiron, Matthias and Lysander) you will have a lot of trouble repairing them without looking for help from the few people left that do know how to repair it.
...Honestly, thinking about it, Tartaros might share technological principles with the Contemptor. I might offer 'insights' into that as an option for the Techmarines later on.
Omake - How Osiron Stole Sanguinala
- Location
- Singapore
A/N: I am so sorry.
----
Date: 254.M42
Location: The Mountainhome, Karanda, Karanda System, Subsector Hecaton, Sector Tarsus, Segmentum Obscurus (Coreward of Cadia)
"Forgemaster, what in the name of the Emperor are you doing?"
"Calm thyself Lysander I am WORKING!" The Forgemaster turns around, shaking his fist at one of his disciples. The beleaguered Student of the Tread-Priest sighs as he continues standing there, both sets of arms crossed. "Bother me some other time with your paltry requests, Lysander! This is a work of GREAT IMPORT!"
"It looks like you're building a box," the Senior Techmarine says blandly.
"We are Space Marines," Matthias notes beside him. "Everything is a box. Such is the nature of the Machine Spirit."
"Machine Spirits do enjoy box-like shapes," Lysander notes.
"And triangles."
"Only together with boxes, Matthias. We are not the perfidious Eldar."
"Oh, certainly, certainly."
The two of them share a nod, and then look up at their Forgemaster tinkering away at his lathe. "What are you working on?" Matthias asks. "And I promise not to challenge you to an Axe Duel during the Feast this year if you answer me."
Osiron glances back furtively. "Two years."
"You ask too much old man. I challenge you to--"
"Calm thyself, Matthias," Lysander says, pushing the man's power axe down before he fully draws it. "He promises. What is this?"
"This, Lysander, is a marvel! IT IS--"
How Osiron Stole Christmas
"...Forgemaster, what is Christmas?"
"Ah, my mistake, it won't be in time for the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension-slash-birth! IT IS--"
How Osiron StoleChristmas Sanguinala
----
The days passed. Battles blurred together. For once in decades, the entire Chapter gathered in their Fortress-Monastery to observe this holiest of nights - and at full strength, for a change. The coming year would be a busy one, full of deployments. The 5th Company in particular would be involved in the Third Damocles Crusade, having won the right after petitioning the Chapter Master. Even the 6th, 7th and 8th Companies made a brief return from their battle on Lionel, citing that 'the heretics asked for a truce because we were kicking their butts so hard even we started to pity them'.
As it was the holiday season, Aurelius was uncharacteristically merciful. He only strung them from the top of the Mountainhome with long strings for half a day after they had returned without having slaughtered every last trace of the Archenemy on the Hive World. Tis the season, after all. Even Chaos respected the 'fuck you its christmas' Treaty of 135.M42, a universally binding document signed in the wake of Magnus the Red's incredible hissyfit after the conclusion of the Retribution Crusade. It is said that Primarch Russ laughed himself silly. It is also said that Primarch Russ laughed so obnoxiously that great Bjorn, the Fell-Handed, knocked him silly. Accounts are difficult to confirm, as is typical of interstellar communications.
But when the day came, Sanguinala itself, and all the good men, old men, and cheeky cherubs of the Crimson Crusaders checked under the large statue of great Sanguinius that dominated the center of their halls with a large box of Raldoron-Pattern tissues in each of their hands, there was a strange loss felt in their souls.
There were no gifts. No chainswords. No power swords. Not even combat knives, stenciled with well-wishes from their dead father, painstakingly hewn by the Sanguinary Priests with their bare hands. Discontent rippled through the Chapter as word spread of this absence, as brothers demanded that the Sanguinary Brotherhood's failure be brought to task. It nearly became a riot, before the Chapter Master arrived with the Sanguinary Guard, each of them wearing a tall conical hat with a white ball dangling on the end and red robes trimmed with fur, more than ready to calm their brethren.
Half an hour of dutifully chopping every last Crimson Crusader on the head later, and another fifteen minutes of dealing with the odd concussion, the Chapter Master took his place at the podium, addressing each and every one of his Space Marines. "What in the fyck do you mean 'the Sanguinary Priests' forgot?!" He asked calmly, the perfect image of a man in control. He raised his hands, not minding the deep imprints he had pressed into the marble with his tremendous grip strength alone. "This needs to be brought to task! GERALT! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" He requested evenly.
The High Priest came soon after, escorted by the Sanguinary Guards. He and his bed were held high above their heads, each of the ten helping to lift his slab. And then they threw his bed - and him - onto the ground, waking the sleeping man immediately. Geralt Taldor looks around, bleary-eyed from a late night of being a Priest. "This is a surprise," he says, completely unsurprised. "So I imagine this is about the gifts?"
"Of course not that would be preposterous," Aurelius says. "Now where are they before I shoot you out of a cannon."
"Osiron stole them," Geralt yawns in response. "Last night, too. Him and the Techmarines and every single Servitor on the planet."
"There are literally billions of servitors on all Karanda," says Sanguinary Herald Tarael, who wore a large white poofy beard in honor of great Sanguinius, who often refused to shave for the entirety of this month and dyed his majestic full beard white with stress and sugar.
"I know," Geralt says again, yawning. "Did none of you hear them stomping on the lower levels?"
"Of course not," Aurelius harrumphs, and all the Crimson Clad nodded in agreement. It is common knowledge that Sanguinius only brings them gifts if they sleep before 2200 hours the night before, and Aurelius has not violated this rule since the day he became a Blood Angel. "Where is the foul traitor?"
"You can't seriously expect him to still be on Karanda," Geralt says flatly.
"I AM INDEED STILL ON KARANDA!" Osiron booms bombastically, a large green image of him appearing in the air above them. Nearly three hundred Crimson Crusaders draw their bolt pistols. A few of them spit acid from their Betcher's Glands on instinct. The acid landed on several Serfs, who used their bodies to shield the furniture, and found themselves thoroughly disappointed by the lack of acid eating through their skins. It seemed that sugar disabled the organs and made them benign - a secret no Apothecary or Sanguinary Priest has ever allowed an enemy to know in ten thousand years. "YOUR RETALIATION MEANS NOTHING! WHAT SHAMEFUL DISPLAY, BROTHERS!"
"I am going to cut your budget you fycking traitor THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER!" Aurelius calmly states.
"THEN COME FIND ME! I AM IN THE LABYRINTH OF OSIRON - SEEK ME IF YOU DARE!"
Aurelius looks about, and finds his brothers all already charging for the Labyrinth, be they in robes or half-donned power armor. He could not ask for a finer group of Space Marines. Tears in his eyes, Aurelius and his Sanguinary Guard follow.
----
When they arrive in the Labyrinth of Osiron, it is a hellscape they all knew, but never wished to remember. Crawling with cyberdiles, menacing with servitors, and dank with ink and parchment-musk, it was a place no sane man would ever seek out willingly. But none of them were sane. And none would be sane, until they recovered their gift from their Father.
But the perfidious Techmarines stood in their way, cackling with their axes primed and their servo-arms caramelized. Though the Chapter charged, every man screaming fearlessly into the breach, few could make it through.
Until Captain Kallis of the 7th Company rammed a Land Raider through the gates of the Labyrinth, and thirty Rhinoes slammed into his back in pursuit. The great doors to the Labyrinth were torn asunder, and the Crimson Clad sallied forth.
Inside, yet more horrors awaited them. Horrifying, mind-numbing imagery threatened their psyche at every turn. Chipped swords, weapons dripping with oil, swords faced with improper care. Did these fools not know that the oil for polishing a sword must be removed immediately, lest the blade rust? Do these fools not realise a sword is not a toy, and chips must always be attended to immediately?! The strain was too much for many, and they lashed out incoherently, wailing in the memory of swords lost to the most insidious enemy of all: Fools.
Once again, the Captains sprung into action. They set the canvas ablaze, fuelled by their incredible spite. It is said that, on that day, Captain Astorum was so infused with salt that anything his fingers touched would smoulder and then catch on fire. By the end of it the labyrinth itself was on fire, top to bottom, every bookshelf and every lake of ocular cleaning fluid.
Soon they arrived at the lair of the dread Osiron himself, who stood guard before the large pile of gift-swords, wielding four power axes; one in each hand. There were no words. There was no settlement but in blood. The Crimson Clad charged, and were quickly struck down.
By this time, there were few Crimson Crusaders left. Many had broken on the walls, many more died when their Rhinoes abruptly crashed into each other and killed them all with concussions. And even more went mad, and the rest burned when the Labyrinth was set ablaze. Only a scant few remained; of them, including Aurelius Asterion.
"Why, Osiron?" The Chapter Master asks. "Why this?"
Osiron sighs atop a pile of corpses. He shrugs his helmet off, revealing the Forgemaster's handsome, angel-forged features - and his newfound red eyes, bearing black circuitry that sprung about his iris in a clockwork pattern. "To test my ability," the Forgemaster replies coldly.
Aurelius growls. He takes a daring step towards Osiron, drawing great Invictus. "OSIRON!"
Osiron matches his step, planting one foot lower below his mound of corpses. "AURELIUS!"
"OSIRON!!"
"AURELIUS!!"
"OSIRONNN!!!"
"AURELIUSSSSSS!!!"
They charged at one another, one blade against four axes, a battle between brothers that would shake the heavens--
----
Aurelius Asterion, Lord in Crimson Clad, cuts the manuscript - and his desk - apart with his great blade Invictus. The blade moves with Aurelius, instead of being dragged along, as if it was duty itself to destroy those writings. The book falls into halves, and then each half immolates on its own. Just to be safe, Aurelius pulls out the hand flamer mounted beneath his desk and sets it on fire anyways.
"Why do you have a hand flamer under your desk?" Geralt asks.
He and Tarael, standing dutifully beside him with two hand flamers in hand, both look oddly back at him. "Don't you?"
"Yes, but I'm the High Sanguinary Priests. I have to sterilise mutated subjects."
"And I have to sterilise horrible fiction, your point?"
Geralt says nothing. To fill the air, Aurelius unleashes another gout of flame on the rapidly-disintegrating pile of ash once known as total and utter nonsense. He starts to say something, but Aurelius blasts the work again. And again. And once more to be certain. The High Priest closes his mouth. He opens it again. "Your office is on fire."
"It is necessary," Aurelius sighs. He claps his hands, and another Sanguinary Guard steps in, a tea set in hand. He lays out two cups and pours out the beverage, heedless of the flames currently consuming the furniture. Aurelius takes one cup, pinky finger extended, and inhales a waft of tea scent. He looks up at Geralt. "Want a cup?"
"...The Sanguine Heresy broke you, didn't it?"
"Lots of heresy broke me. Why didn't it break you?"
"Because I have good taste, Aurelius. I don't bother with trash."
"Then why do you wake up at all?"
"Very good, sir," Tarael says, his legs now being consumed by flame.
"Thank you, Tarael," Aurelius nods, his tea rapidly vaporising under the heat.
Geralt shakes his head. "Happy Sanguinala, Aurelius."
"And to you, Geralt." Aurelius frowns and sniffs the air. "Is something burning?"
----
Date: 254.M42
Location: The Mountainhome, Karanda, Karanda System, Subsector Hecaton, Sector Tarsus, Segmentum Obscurus (Coreward of Cadia)
"Forgemaster, what in the name of the Emperor are you doing?"
"Calm thyself Lysander I am WORKING!" The Forgemaster turns around, shaking his fist at one of his disciples. The beleaguered Student of the Tread-Priest sighs as he continues standing there, both sets of arms crossed. "Bother me some other time with your paltry requests, Lysander! This is a work of GREAT IMPORT!"
"It looks like you're building a box," the Senior Techmarine says blandly.
"We are Space Marines," Matthias notes beside him. "Everything is a box. Such is the nature of the Machine Spirit."
"Machine Spirits do enjoy box-like shapes," Lysander notes.
"And triangles."
"Only together with boxes, Matthias. We are not the perfidious Eldar."
"Oh, certainly, certainly."
The two of them share a nod, and then look up at their Forgemaster tinkering away at his lathe. "What are you working on?" Matthias asks. "And I promise not to challenge you to an Axe Duel during the Feast this year if you answer me."
Osiron glances back furtively. "Two years."
"You ask too much old man. I challenge you to--"
"Calm thyself, Matthias," Lysander says, pushing the man's power axe down before he fully draws it. "He promises. What is this?"
"This, Lysander, is a marvel! IT IS--"
How Osiron Stole Christmas
"...Forgemaster, what is Christmas?"
"Ah, my mistake, it won't be in time for the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension-slash-birth! IT IS--"
How Osiron Stole
----
The days passed. Battles blurred together. For once in decades, the entire Chapter gathered in their Fortress-Monastery to observe this holiest of nights - and at full strength, for a change. The coming year would be a busy one, full of deployments. The 5th Company in particular would be involved in the Third Damocles Crusade, having won the right after petitioning the Chapter Master. Even the 6th, 7th and 8th Companies made a brief return from their battle on Lionel, citing that 'the heretics asked for a truce because we were kicking their butts so hard even we started to pity them'.
As it was the holiday season, Aurelius was uncharacteristically merciful. He only strung them from the top of the Mountainhome with long strings for half a day after they had returned without having slaughtered every last trace of the Archenemy on the Hive World. Tis the season, after all. Even Chaos respected the 'fuck you its christmas' Treaty of 135.M42, a universally binding document signed in the wake of Magnus the Red's incredible hissyfit after the conclusion of the Retribution Crusade. It is said that Primarch Russ laughed himself silly. It is also said that Primarch Russ laughed so obnoxiously that great Bjorn, the Fell-Handed, knocked him silly. Accounts are difficult to confirm, as is typical of interstellar communications.
But when the day came, Sanguinala itself, and all the good men, old men, and cheeky cherubs of the Crimson Crusaders checked under the large statue of great Sanguinius that dominated the center of their halls with a large box of Raldoron-Pattern tissues in each of their hands, there was a strange loss felt in their souls.
There were no gifts. No chainswords. No power swords. Not even combat knives, stenciled with well-wishes from their dead father, painstakingly hewn by the Sanguinary Priests with their bare hands. Discontent rippled through the Chapter as word spread of this absence, as brothers demanded that the Sanguinary Brotherhood's failure be brought to task. It nearly became a riot, before the Chapter Master arrived with the Sanguinary Guard, each of them wearing a tall conical hat with a white ball dangling on the end and red robes trimmed with fur, more than ready to calm their brethren.
Half an hour of dutifully chopping every last Crimson Crusader on the head later, and another fifteen minutes of dealing with the odd concussion, the Chapter Master took his place at the podium, addressing each and every one of his Space Marines. "What in the fyck do you mean 'the Sanguinary Priests' forgot?!" He asked calmly, the perfect image of a man in control. He raised his hands, not minding the deep imprints he had pressed into the marble with his tremendous grip strength alone. "This needs to be brought to task! GERALT! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" He requested evenly.
The High Priest came soon after, escorted by the Sanguinary Guards. He and his bed were held high above their heads, each of the ten helping to lift his slab. And then they threw his bed - and him - onto the ground, waking the sleeping man immediately. Geralt Taldor looks around, bleary-eyed from a late night of being a Priest. "This is a surprise," he says, completely unsurprised. "So I imagine this is about the gifts?"
"Of course not that would be preposterous," Aurelius says. "Now where are they before I shoot you out of a cannon."
"Osiron stole them," Geralt yawns in response. "Last night, too. Him and the Techmarines and every single Servitor on the planet."
"There are literally billions of servitors on all Karanda," says Sanguinary Herald Tarael, who wore a large white poofy beard in honor of great Sanguinius, who often refused to shave for the entirety of this month and dyed his majestic full beard white with stress and sugar.
"I know," Geralt says again, yawning. "Did none of you hear them stomping on the lower levels?"
"Of course not," Aurelius harrumphs, and all the Crimson Clad nodded in agreement. It is common knowledge that Sanguinius only brings them gifts if they sleep before 2200 hours the night before, and Aurelius has not violated this rule since the day he became a Blood Angel. "Where is the foul traitor?"
"You can't seriously expect him to still be on Karanda," Geralt says flatly.
"I AM INDEED STILL ON KARANDA!" Osiron booms bombastically, a large green image of him appearing in the air above them. Nearly three hundred Crimson Crusaders draw their bolt pistols. A few of them spit acid from their Betcher's Glands on instinct. The acid landed on several Serfs, who used their bodies to shield the furniture, and found themselves thoroughly disappointed by the lack of acid eating through their skins. It seemed that sugar disabled the organs and made them benign - a secret no Apothecary or Sanguinary Priest has ever allowed an enemy to know in ten thousand years. "YOUR RETALIATION MEANS NOTHING! WHAT SHAMEFUL DISPLAY, BROTHERS!"
"I am going to cut your budget you fycking traitor THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER!" Aurelius calmly states.
"THEN COME FIND ME! I AM IN THE LABYRINTH OF OSIRON - SEEK ME IF YOU DARE!"
Aurelius looks about, and finds his brothers all already charging for the Labyrinth, be they in robes or half-donned power armor. He could not ask for a finer group of Space Marines. Tears in his eyes, Aurelius and his Sanguinary Guard follow.
----
When they arrive in the Labyrinth of Osiron, it is a hellscape they all knew, but never wished to remember. Crawling with cyberdiles, menacing with servitors, and dank with ink and parchment-musk, it was a place no sane man would ever seek out willingly. But none of them were sane. And none would be sane, until they recovered their gift from their Father.
But the perfidious Techmarines stood in their way, cackling with their axes primed and their servo-arms caramelized. Though the Chapter charged, every man screaming fearlessly into the breach, few could make it through.
Until Captain Kallis of the 7th Company rammed a Land Raider through the gates of the Labyrinth, and thirty Rhinoes slammed into his back in pursuit. The great doors to the Labyrinth were torn asunder, and the Crimson Clad sallied forth.
Inside, yet more horrors awaited them. Horrifying, mind-numbing imagery threatened their psyche at every turn. Chipped swords, weapons dripping with oil, swords faced with improper care. Did these fools not know that the oil for polishing a sword must be removed immediately, lest the blade rust? Do these fools not realise a sword is not a toy, and chips must always be attended to immediately?! The strain was too much for many, and they lashed out incoherently, wailing in the memory of swords lost to the most insidious enemy of all: Fools.
Once again, the Captains sprung into action. They set the canvas ablaze, fuelled by their incredible spite. It is said that, on that day, Captain Astorum was so infused with salt that anything his fingers touched would smoulder and then catch on fire. By the end of it the labyrinth itself was on fire, top to bottom, every bookshelf and every lake of ocular cleaning fluid.
Soon they arrived at the lair of the dread Osiron himself, who stood guard before the large pile of gift-swords, wielding four power axes; one in each hand. There were no words. There was no settlement but in blood. The Crimson Clad charged, and were quickly struck down.
By this time, there were few Crimson Crusaders left. Many had broken on the walls, many more died when their Rhinoes abruptly crashed into each other and killed them all with concussions. And even more went mad, and the rest burned when the Labyrinth was set ablaze. Only a scant few remained; of them, including Aurelius Asterion.
"Why, Osiron?" The Chapter Master asks. "Why this?"
Osiron sighs atop a pile of corpses. He shrugs his helmet off, revealing the Forgemaster's handsome, angel-forged features - and his newfound red eyes, bearing black circuitry that sprung about his iris in a clockwork pattern. "To test my ability," the Forgemaster replies coldly.
Aurelius growls. He takes a daring step towards Osiron, drawing great Invictus. "OSIRON!"
Osiron matches his step, planting one foot lower below his mound of corpses. "AURELIUS!"
"OSIRON!!"
"AURELIUS!!"
"OSIRONNN!!!"
"AURELIUSSSSSS!!!"
They charged at one another, one blade against four axes, a battle between brothers that would shake the heavens--
What in the actual all-knowing, all-loving, little-tolerating, Emperor-fearing FYCK is this?
----
Aurelius Asterion, Lord in Crimson Clad, cuts the manuscript - and his desk - apart with his great blade Invictus. The blade moves with Aurelius, instead of being dragged along, as if it was duty itself to destroy those writings. The book falls into halves, and then each half immolates on its own. Just to be safe, Aurelius pulls out the hand flamer mounted beneath his desk and sets it on fire anyways.
"Why do you have a hand flamer under your desk?" Geralt asks.
He and Tarael, standing dutifully beside him with two hand flamers in hand, both look oddly back at him. "Don't you?"
"Yes, but I'm the High Sanguinary Priests. I have to sterilise mutated subjects."
"And I have to sterilise horrible fiction, your point?"
Geralt says nothing. To fill the air, Aurelius unleashes another gout of flame on the rapidly-disintegrating pile of ash once known as total and utter nonsense. He starts to say something, but Aurelius blasts the work again. And again. And once more to be certain. The High Priest closes his mouth. He opens it again. "Your office is on fire."
"It is necessary," Aurelius sighs. He claps his hands, and another Sanguinary Guard steps in, a tea set in hand. He lays out two cups and pours out the beverage, heedless of the flames currently consuming the furniture. Aurelius takes one cup, pinky finger extended, and inhales a waft of tea scent. He looks up at Geralt. "Want a cup?"
"...The Sanguine Heresy broke you, didn't it?"
"Lots of heresy broke me. Why didn't it break you?"
"Because I have good taste, Aurelius. I don't bother with trash."
"Then why do you wake up at all?"
"Very good, sir," Tarael says, his legs now being consumed by flame.
"Thank you, Tarael," Aurelius nods, his tea rapidly vaporising under the heat.
Geralt shakes his head. "Happy Sanguinala, Aurelius."
"And to you, Geralt." Aurelius frowns and sniffs the air. "Is something burning?"
Last edited:
Theunderbolt
"Prepare for trouble..."
- Location
- USoA
For a moment I thought the dice gods fucked us. Then I saw the threadmark title and realized it was another sort of evil.
- Location
- Reno Nv
This is what happens when all the stress of Christmas comes to head.
Dream Logic
An offseason swallow
- Location
- In transit
That was beautiful. I had to stop reading so I could breathe. It was too funny.
- Location
- The Garden
No, no you're not and that's perfectly ok.
Aww, I was hoping for an appearance from Cicero.
- Location
- Singapore
That would bring down the mood, so unfortunately, no Cicero.No, no you're not and that's perfectly ok.
Aww, I was hoping for an appearance from Cicero.
He'll probably get a proper sendoff like Leonthas did.
- Location
- United Kingdom
Oh god it's My Immortal.
- Location
- Moscow, Russia
Not to sound uneducated, but what is "My Immortal" and why do i get Slaanesh-like vibes from that name?
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
It is basically the Platonic Ideal of The Shitty Harry Potter SI Fanfiction,
- Location
- Moscow, Russia
Ahhh...
Thank the Emperor that I wasn't fast enough to Google it before this reply. Thank you, Deadly Snark.
We need the WTF rating enabled for that
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
TETSUOOOOOOOOOOO!!! ...Oh, sorry, I just got caught in the moment.
Swordo's dignity.
Kairos123
Insomniac Extraordinaire
That is an amazingly accurate summation.
rofl::lolIs that supposed to be "The blade moves Aurelius, instead of with"? It looks like it has an extra "with" in there.
- Location
- Singapore
I don't know what happened, it was supposed to be 'sword moves with aurelius instead of being dragged along', gah
Is that supposed to be "The blade moves Aurelius, instead of with"? It looks like it has an extra "with" in there.