Love and Krieg 2.0 9: I'm here for the plot

And with that we are done for the day.

kek, reminds me of baldric saying "I have a cunning plan sir".

Story time is best time.

So nice to see so many different stories growing from these threads.

I feel like writing, who should get to deal with the Kriegers next?

I'm thinking voidborn. Anyone have other ideas or requests?

Naval stories pls, they do spend a long damned time in the warp during travel

Please bear in mind I have limited knowledge of the naval lexicon, so some things will take me a little time to research for purposes of writing, so I apologies for the delay. However, I will do my damnedest to make it a good read first, accurate second.

No worries voidanon, I'm just excited for more glorious stories to read when i wake up in the mornings.

With my name chosen for me, I'll start.

+Tempestus Sector, 851.41ME+

“Go Forth and Conquer” was both the name and the purpose of her ship. It wasn’t HER ship, but it was still her ship. A repurposed Exorcist class, acquiring in both an act of enlightened self interest and a burning passion to carry the God Emperor’s will to the furthest corners of the Imperium, where His light has been never seen, or worse, been rejected. The Captain was a strange man given to a spartan life broken only by a profound love for tea, books, and opera, preferably of the religious sort. While other rogue traders were off searching for xeno ruins to plunder, nobles to court, or vices to indulge in, the Captain was focused on two things: First, finding alien words suitable for human life, and claiming it for the Emperor. Second, bring any humans discovered into the Emperor’s light, by whatever means.

She was not the captain. VoidsmanImmo Late was many things onboard the ship, but Captain would never be one of them. As she donned her reinforced purple and bronze voidsuit, rubbing the layer of rust red xenohide secured to the exterior, she whispered a soft prayer to the Omnissiah and the machine spirit to hold all seals tightly, and to thirst lightly for energy. As the helmet sealed itself around her face, she whispered another prayer and pushed the airlock glyph. A roar of mighty mechanical lungs pulled all the air from the small chamber. She released the valve to her oxygen tank, and was greeted by the oily scent of recycled oxygen. It had been so long since she smelled sweet air.

As the door slide open silently, she took her first step out into the void and was engulfed in the profound silence of it. All she could hear was her heart beat, the rush of life that coursed through her, sustained her. She did not dare breath in this first moment in the void’s embrace. She surrendered herself to it, knowing she was only a momentary guest in its infinite domain.

“Immo!”

“Ah! Damnit Telbeck, what?!”

“Close the damn door! Where you raised in a barn?”

“The frak’s a barn?”

“Just close the door.”

Disturbed from her ceremony, Immo could only grumble and push the external airlock glyph, whispering a prayer so it would open when she returned. Some would argue on who was more worried about appeasing the Machine Spirit, voidborn or tech priests. Immo would always argue voidborn. Techpriests tended to not care if the atmosphere was vented out of the room. She gently stroked her right hand with her thumb, letting the machine spirit know she wanted to turn. With a few puffs of compressed Co2, her sole defense against the unforgiving void spun her around and brought her about.

Before her was a war torn transport, its keel torn asunder like some hungry beast had taken a great bite out of it. The Magos believed there may be survivors onboard, and had ordered a full search. They had recently settled a world overrun by horrific ash storms and dangerous native life. It was a mineral rich world, and was deemed habitable enough. Recouping their losses with some indentured passengers would both be merciful and efficient, something the Captain was all for.

They had grappled the mortally wounded ship with maglines and pulled it in close. Close, but not too close. A good kilometer separated to the two ships, and all around her were fellow voidsman. Some, like her, grabbed onto the thick cable tethers and moved towards the ship. Most stayed behind, positioning themselves behind barriers at the cables base, ready to ward off any potential boarders. Most wielded pneumatic flak cannons, ready to hurl showers of shrapnel at anyone in a voidsuit, while a few had entrenched positions and manned las-cannons. A few techpriests worked on connecting coolant pipes to the ship proper, ensuring the enormous amounts of heat would be siphoned away properly. Many are the luxuries of atmosphere.

Propelled by inertia towards the rapidly growing transport, Immo watched for any signs of movement, flicking back to her helmet’s auspex readouts and vitae signs. Radio chatter flicked across her crew’s channel. The greybeard Kersknov was telling an old void story about a planet where the rubies were the size of grapes, and the grapes the size of melons. Some dirt born thought he was serious for a moment while she, like many others, rolled their eyes at the old story. With a pair of blinks, her auspex told her to reverse thrust, and with a faint clank, she was returned to the world of sound. Through the meters of ceramite, she could hear the rumbling of the ship. So very faint, the reactor must be dead, but air still flowed in it. Around her, the rest of her crew landed, each armored similarly to her.

A trench gun, a long combat knife, and an array of low to high explosives, along with a few emergency shelters for survivors to hide in. Little more than a pressurized plastic bubble, it was enough to remove someone from isolated chambers with atmosphere. Not everyone knew how to put on a voidsuit, after all, much less operate in zero gravity.

With a muffled thud, her heels magnetized to the ship’s hull, turning her to a sense of up and down. It was always reassuring to only operate in two dimensions. Even after all these years, mankind still liked to not worry about up and down as directions they could freely move in. Her crew followed suit. Their techpriest support landed shortly after. Flickering lines of text filled up part of her auspex array. The techpriest never told them their name, so the crew just called them Kitbash, given their tendency to create surprisingly useful items out of junk.

+Functional airlock detected. Move to following location+

A tiny icon flicked into her field of vision, and her crew began marching off towards it. Dozens of other crews had landed all over the ship, scouring the hull for alternative entry points. Cargo haulers had already departed to the torn asunder midsection and began harvesting anything of use. More likely to find survivors at the bow and stern. They climbed over three story tall murals, navigating the etched metal so deep they could easily be used as trenches, as they navigated towards the eye in an aquilia. An airlock aperture was hidden away in it, either for a savior pod or just to make repairing micrometeor impacts to the mural easier. She had to take a moment to admire the practicality of it.

Kitbash went to work pleading with the machine spirit to grant them entry, as they truly were friends, even if they did not know how a friend would ask to be let in. A couple of the more throne inclined talked about potential salvage, and if the aquila was actually gold or just a coating. Talbeck, a disgraced noble’s son turned would be swashbuckler and the closest thing Immo had to a friend, scoffed at the two, telling them “It’s gold for the sort of people you are.”

“The frak’s that supposed to mean, dirt huffer?” Came the response from Enric. A squat fellow, he was outlandish compared to the unnaturally tall voidborn around him even though he claimed to be asteroid born.

“Easy Enric, he says that to get a raise out of you.” Manfred calmly said, the crew’s token voice of reason, as well as their medicae support. Immo tried not to think of how many times she had heard that unnwaveringly calm voice talking to her while he scooped her organs back into place, or performed triage in the middle of boarding action.

+If you all are done flapping your meat curtains at each other, the machine spirit has finally agreed we are in fact friends of the ship. Do not waste time and let it reconsider its choice.+ Flickered across their screens, and they mutely walked into the airlock. A tight fit for the five of them, more so around their armored voidsuits, but fit they did. The machine spirit for the interior lock was far easier to convince of their friendship, and quickly ushered them in, a wheezing gasp coming from the air vents. No atmosphere in this section of the ship it seemed.

With a short test, they found gravity was no longer functional, and proceeded slowly into the ship. Their entry point was inside the ship chapel. A hundred meters long, by fifty meters wide, and twenty meters tall, It was moderately impressive for a ship this size to have a chapel this large. Less impressive was the vast array of corpses floating in mid air all around them. Blood hung in the air, frozen in place by the vacuum all around them, crystallized by the near absolute cold. The corpses were preserved near perfectly, having had almost no time to decay before becoming preserved.

“Looks like they snuffed themselves…” Talbeck broke the silence, grabbing a stubber out of the air, and pulling out an empty magazine.

“Suicide or fighting?” Enric asked while he “examined” the corpses. No would argue with him about his kleptomaniac behavior, so long as it wasn’t from the crew, and he shared stuff that was particularly interesting.

“Suicide. Too many clean entry wounds to the skull.” Manfred floated towards the beautifully rendered fresco on the ceiling of the Siege of Terra, all the valorous Primarchs casting down the traitors into the warp. He ran a gloved hand along it. “At least they had the decency to not bleed over everything.”

“Shipwrecked you suppose? Whatever gutted them didn’t bother to finish the job, and left them to die.” Immo proposed as she pushed against the massive double doors leading into the chapel, gazing down an ornate hallway, lined with trophies from a hundred worlds. Fewer bodies lined the halls, some of them having turned on one another, or taken their own life. They moved on slowly, searching room by room for signs of atmosphere, periodically rapping on pipes to listen for responses.

It did not take long for their call to be answered. A short series of vibrations ran along the pipe, in the most commonly accepted cry for help. Three short, three long, three short. The crew looked to one another, then to Kitbash. Already the techpriest was searching an access point to the great machine spirit’s network, prodding it for whatever shred of information remained active in the great slumbering giant. It took them many attempts, from a dozen different points, to finally find one with enough energy to answer the question. The local oxygen piping network flashed across their vision, one pipe highlighted, and lead through a withering array of twists, turns and bends before ending two floors beneath them, and about 500 meters back.

+Most likely location for atmosphere and survivors based on 49-K1’s path. Cargo hold, designated “Freaky Guys” Unknown contents, proceed with caution

The squad nodded and took off as quickly as mag-assisted traction would allow, their lumbering frames pushing past free floating debris, creating a ripple in the destris all around them. Down a massive elevator then descended, small wisps of pressurized Co2 pushing them down. It was not long before they stared at the grand airlocks leading into the cargo hold.

“Breach?” Enric asked, a manic glint in his eye as he held up a breaching charge.

Manfred just smacked the man, and knocked on the airlock with his boot. A moment later, he felt a response through the door. “They have pressure on the other side I believe. Make a proper entrance.”

Kitbash was quick to comply, pulling out a canister of metal foam sealant and a deployable airlock. Nothing more than a few sheets of plastic stretched over a metal framework, it could be inserted into any roughly human sized hole and arrange itself to fit in place. Preparing a small airlock out of the foam, the techpriest activated a plasma cutter and began to slowly melt his way through the door. Over the vox, Telbeck informed the other boarders they had located survivors and were preparing to rescue them. A few muttered profanities at bets lost, or cheers at them won could be heard before a call for vox discipline was ordered.

As Kitbash finished opening the cargo hold, they were met by the muzzle of a lasgun under their helmet as they were pulled into the breach.

+Occupants threatening. Requesting assistance

Immo quickly pulled open the airlock and into the cargo hold, ignoring the rush of atmosphere to push past her. She was greeted by a first. Whoever these people were, they had managed to create zero gravity trenches out of flakboard and cargo containers. All around her in a semi sphere, were hundreds of identical gasmasks, pointing identical lasguns at her. One of the gas masks, wearing a much finer looking coat, was accosting her techpriest.

All of them were silent, except for the hiss of respiratories filtering air. Was the air in the hold contaminated? No matter, they were being rescued and this was how they met their saviors?

“I am lead voidsman Immo Late, of the rogue trader vessel “Go Forth and Conquer” we are responding to your mercy beacon’s signal. Please lower your weapons, we mean you no harm.” Rarely did they find survivors with any form of sanity left to them. Rarely did she even get to say that before needing to give them the Emperor’s Mercy, but for once, she wasn’t rudely cut off by the obvious threat before her.

“Guten tag, Herr Late. I am Hauptman Alpha-360. Have you come to assist us resume our mission, or have you come like all the others to steal the God Emperor’s equipment and supplies?” She could almost feel the fingers dropping discipline and curling around the triggers.

“Salvation.” She raised her hands slowly, letting her trench gun float up past her helmet.

“There is no salvation for us, but if you are here to assist us, we thank the God Emperor for this mercy.” The emotionless gasmask turned to the awaiting wall of lasguns. “Prepare for disembarking. We are resuming the mission.”

In every case where she had seen survivors rescued from the promise of a slow, cold death, there had been cheering, crying, laughing. Now, silence. Just the sound of bodies pushing away from cover and gathering supplies. It is still one of the most unnerving things she had ever witnessed.

And now she was going to have them living onboard her ship until the Captain figured out how to get rid of them. She had a sudden sinking sensation in her stomach. She was not looking forward to the next couple of months.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

And that is all I have for now. I'll await some feedback to stem my sense of "not good enough! Look at all the typos, the errors!"

Those dubs overwrite everything, and I think the name I gave fits

I loved it! It seems like such a Krieg thing to do.

"And they said we couldn't make trenches in space, hah!"

I like it a lot; read's well and from a prespective I haven't seen much. I have a question on Kriegs though; would they see suicide as a acceptable way to die or would they rather, in a case like this, starve to death or worse?

Suicide is stealing from the Emperor. You are taking his equipment and squandering it. Starvation at least means your body failed before your will to serve did.

+Tempestus Sector, Onboard “Because I can”, 851.41ME +

Immo Late, lead voidsman of boarding squad T-13, professional marine, amauter geologist, was currently thanking the God Emperor for granting her another successful boarding action. All around her, charcoal grey coated, gasmasked and mostly silent members of the Death Korp of Krieg were floating around. Gathering crates, dissembling fortifications, and making themselves ready to “continue their mission” as they continued to put it.

She found it almost wrong to try and assist, as the guards moved in machine like unison, only a handful of words being exchanged within earshot, often in the form of orders. It was in a form of Gothic she wasn’t familiar with, and obviously in some form of military cant. Every band of guards had their own, unique to the planet or segmentum. She had quite the ear for it. Nothing like throwing back an insult in a tongue the insulter didn’t know you understood. Somewhat. It’s backfired more than once.

Here though, she couldn’t listen in to conversations, because there were none. No chatter. No jokes. Not even a working candace. Just the hiss of breathing. It was unnerving to her. She had seen servitors that were more talkative than these men. At least the Hauptman was willing to talk to her.

“We have been delayed for six years, three months, and eleven days from our mission, Herr Late. I assume your captain would have no issue assisting servants of the Emperor perform their duty?” The Hauptman stood stock still, floating slightly above the deck, the ends of his greatcoat slowly flowing behind him. The coat barely fit the man, and it looked like he was swimming in the armored fabric.

“We will offer whatever assistance we can in returning you to Imperium space.” Immo said flatly. Technically, any planet they colonized was considered Imperium space, making this both a lie and a truth. More than one indentured passenger had taken offense to this. After being offered the chance to walk back, they quickly silenced their complaints.

“That is not our mission.”The Hauptman responded in a monotone voice, muffled by the respirator they refused to removed, even after Kitbash confirmed the atmosphere was perfectly safe for unaugmented humans. Immo had taken to mimicking the Kriegs, and refused to drop her voidsuits helmet. When on Terra…

“Well, what is your mission then? I can’t promise any real assistance in fulfilling your mission, as I do not speak for the Captain.” Immo looked around the office. Spartan did not do it justice. There was not a single amenity, trinket, junk, or any sign of habitation. If it did not have a distinct function, it had no place here. Of course there was a beautiful, jewel encrusted aquilla mounted on the wall. Immo had seen a great many treasures, and she couldn’t help but understand when Enric was obsessed with shiny things.

Even through her visored helmet, the Hauptman could obviously see Immo was ogling the aquila more than was reverently. “If you are unwilling to assist us perform our mission, then you are stealing the God Emperor’s equipment and supplies.” She saw his hand twitch towards a bolt pistol holster on his belt.

“We are here to rescue survivors from this wrecked vessel. Nothing more.You will be asked for nothing but your labor in exchange for passage to the nearest habitable world claimed by the Imperium.” Immo held up her hands before her, backing away slightly.

“What is the mortality rate of manual laborers onboard your vessel?” The Hauptman’s hand did not move from his hand. What, did this man care about the press gangs? Criminals and savages barely civilized enough to not beat each other to death over ration bars. The Magos was talking about just servitoring them all, make things easier in the long run. The third riot put that idea to rest for good.

“No higher than any other ship in the Imperium. In fact, we keep it a bit lower with proper food and water.”

“Any deaths in transit is wasting the Emperor’s equipment and supplies, and therefore theft. We will not tolerate any theft of the Emperor’s equipment and supplies in exchange for passage. Too much of the Emperor’s equipment and supplies has been wasted without even reaching our mission that further reductions are deemed absolutely unacceptable to the success of the mission.” Immo took a moment to process that statement.

“So you are telling me you will not work for passage, and will remain here in space, adrift, because we aren’t heading the way you want to go?” Immo did her best not to laugh at the insanity of that statement.

“No, I am telling you that you will assist us in our mission, otherwise we will board your vessel and commandeer it in the Emperor’s name so we may fulfill our mission. Anyone who attempts to deny us our mission will be considered obstacles to the success of our mission, and will be removed as needed.”

“Are you threatening us, Hauptman?”

“No. I am ordering that you assist us, in the God Emperor’s name, or we will do whatever it takes to succeed. I have already sent out specialists to commandeer your salvage crafts and retake the Emperor’s equipment and supplies they have already stolen from the other regiments. They are already in position and they will begin their mission at my command.”

“You’re telling me you plan to try and take over a ship of ninety thousand with two thousand malnourished, muscle atrophied, unprotected guards?” Immo could not fathom the depths of insanity she was listening to.

“No. We have planned to. We estimate a 0.9% chance of success. This is deemed acceptable if it means we can continue our mission.” The testicles on this man had to have their own gravitational field, because Immo’s jaw could not help but drop.

She stared at the rail thin Krieger standing in front of her. With the exoframe of her suit, she could easily snap the man in two if she really tried. If she ordered it, she could have a torpedo launched into this cargobay and vent it to space, killing them all. Obviously the Hauptman knew this. The gleam of intelligence behind their lenses couldn’t be denied.

Instead of calling for a lost cause bombing run, she broke out into laughter. The Hauptman nearly drew his bolt pistol, watching the woman have a moment of full bellied laughter. “Oh by the Helm and the Throne, you’re serious. You are actually serious. You’d try.” Each word was broken by a burst of laughter. After the laughter passed, she took a deep breath and chuckled, shaking her head to disperse any tears that floated underneath her eyes.

“Alright, Herr Hauptman. You’ve got the right level of crazy that my Captain just happens to like. If you show him this conviction, and I promise he’ll agree to assist you in whatever way he can, even if it means using his own ship as an orbital bombardment. By the Emperor, are you sure you didn’t go mad over the years?”

“Infirmity of the mind is a weakness we do not tolerate on Krieg. We are all sound of mind, and if any of your clerics wish to perform tests to ensure it, we all offer ourselves for scrutiny. If any are found lacking, we will purge them from our ranks for failing the Emperor.”

She was fairly certain the chaplains would call them all soulless and pray.

Before too long, the majority of the boarding crew had arrived, and supplies were being brought into to evacuate the two thousand near identical gasmasked Kriegs. A few of the voidsmen knew of the infamous guardsmen. They talked of a dead world and dead people. Of the same face behind each mask. Of no face behind the mask. How they were ghosts, they were machines, they were actually swarms of grots in long coats. Soon anything that might be true was drowned out by void tales, how an uncle’s son’s niece’s friend’s bunkmate had seen a blank canvas of skin behind the mask, and how covering the lenses when the mask was removed would blind them did Immo turn off her voxbead, trusting Kitbash to inform her of anything actually important.

Mission complete, the boarders were released to their usual duties. For Immo, it was maintaining her crew’s morale, filling out reports, running drills, and issuing discipline when needed. Luckily, she was off duty for the next two days, the reward for successful evacuation of survivors. It wasn’t much, but the crew was quite pleased with it.

She returned to her squad’s airlock, and began to remove her voidsuit, muttering a litany of prayers as she released each seal on the heavy, armored suits frame. Kitbash gave her a multi lensed glare at the xenohide she fastened to the exterior. They had nowhere to talk about tech heresy, the techpriest’s private quarters proof enough of Kitbash’s lenient approach, but still, never did the tech priest use anything from xenos in their projects.

+You are lucky the machine spirit of your voidsuit is more sanguine and adventurous than most+ Flicked across her helmet before it came off. She wished she shared the connection with her suit as Kitbash did with their’s, but sadly, she was purely organic, outside a few fake teeth. She flashed the tech priest her signature gem studded smile, a rainbow of semi-precious stones making up a half dozen missing teeth in her smile.

“Oh, you know it loves to carry trophies outside of scars.” She patted the heavy suit as she put it back into its locker. Her hands were long and willowy, covered in an array of scars and callouses, as was the rest of her. As her crew shuffled off towards the shower, removing their skintight jumpsuits and hurling them into a laundry chute. Each threw a soiled diaper into a chute leading to the recycling tanks, for the nutrients and water to be reclaimed. Enric took a bite out of his algae bar as he threw his in “See ya innaweek.”

Kitbash excused himself from the shower to follow, having no organic waste to clean off, unlike the rest. One of the rare luxuries afforded by the Captain, was proper amenities for voidsman. Yes, it was a communal shower, and there were a few dozen crew showering at once, filling the chamber with a cacophony of sound. A few stares were met with glares and a smile. She had cultivated a reputation as the gem toothed bitch. She’ll happily lose another tooth in a fight, she’ll just carve a new one. She won’t do the same for those she fights. Most stares quickly turned aside, allowing her to shower in peace.

Mostly. Her reputation did not extend to her crew, who had seen her at her best and her worst. Enric loved this, by walking up behind the woman, and slapping her solidly in the ass. The response as always a knee to the nose, followed by a flurry of cursing from Immo as she slammed her knee into the squat man’s prosthetic face. An emotionless slab of etched metal, a “cultural relic” as he put it, he claims he earned it when he saved his entire people from extinctions by single handed battling the beast known only as the Rheht’khan. Manfred found his medical record say he lost it by getting bitten by a “Brown Surprise” during an orkoid infestation in the bilge.

Enric bent over laughing, drawing a few more curious stares as Immo hopped about, swearing. The height difference between the two was massive. Two point two meters tall, and a solid 80 kilograms, Immo still had a distended appearance, her features slightly more angular than normal, her watery blue eyes just a little too large. Her hair was cut short and was an iron grey color. Her muscles were well defined and rippled like cables beneath her albino white skin. Flat, if muscular, would define her figure and assets.

“I swear by the Helm I’ll bust that face of yours eventually, Enric.” She shared her pain by offering a quick, harsh flick of her hand to the man’s exposed manhood. Light, but sharp, for that resounding pain. Like striking a bell. The bell end no less. Enric slowly succumb to a fetal curl, and whimpered. “Honestly, I let you use that malformed member once, and you think I’m free reign.” A stern kick was added in, although she held the full strength behind in, more making a point than actually trying to hurt the man.

“Aaah, you know you love the attention.” Another kick. She would neither deny or accept the truth of that statement. Her authority clearly established, Immo resumed her shower, savoring the 45 seconds of freshwater that ran over her. It was even warm today. Normally it was either “Fresh off the reactor hot” or “We used this for the cogniator’s cooling system cold” Today was definitely looking up.

Cleansed and dressed in her voidsman jumpsuit, she walked through the maze of corridors leading through the ship towards her shared quarters. The crews of four slept together, while their tech priest support went off into the depths of the ship to their temples. Kitbash worked in the foundry temple near the cargo hold, fabricating all the tools, munitions, and equipment needed by the ship, extracted from captured asteroids and salvaged ships.

Outside her barrack, she checked the small parcel slot with her name on it, letting out a little gleeful sound as she pulled a sealed package from it. Aloof as they were, Kitbash knew of Immo’s love of rocks. Everyone needed to have a hobby, and for Immo it was pretty rocks. Kitbash would pick out any “piece of useless destris found around productive ores and minerals” that she seen before. With a happy twirl, she opened the door and slipped inside. The Captain expected everyone to live as spartanly as he did, meaning the shared quarters was little more than a pair of bunk beds, a shared washroom, a few hold away tables, and several footlockers.

Deploying one of the tables, and pulling a small set of lapidary tools from her locker,she took a moment to run a hand over her collection of finely polished and shaped stones, each unique. Some voidsman and ratlings covered their skin in tattoos to mark their travels. Immo carved stones taken from planets and asteroids from each system she encountered. Hopefully they found some stone onboard that vessel. They weren’t staying in system longer than needed. She felt it bad luck to not bring back at least a shard of stone from each system. It felt like she had never been there, and what happened never did. With the distortion of the Warp, it felt nice having a piece of earth to ensure it was not just a fever dream brought about by a geller field flicker. Since man first sailed the seas of Terra, sailors of all type have their silly superstitions.

After dealing with the emotionless and frighteningly dutiful Kriefers, Immo felt she would need all the good luck she could get in the future. She pulled out a dataslate, and turned on an audio file. It was the translated sound of a moon they had passed. She found it to be a rather soothing.

youtube.com/watch?v=EAKXaUMZpOc

==================================

There, that should do me for today.

...

Bump

Bump from 8

Fantastic voidanon! I look forward to this story, rogue trader is a less focused on area and doesn't get the love it deserves.

I also had an excellent time. It reminds me a lot of Execution Hour, One of the few black library books I actually really enjoyed. The fleet in general and rogue traders in specific don't get nearly enough love.

Here is a space penis for you.

Certianly has interests. Your voidborn already has more stuff that distinguishes them from a lot of protagonists.

Rather then you know: Catachan, Ogryn, shy Krieger, grumpy krieger.

Wish I thought of gem teeth.

Bump from 8 again.

Thank you for the praise, it feeds the desire to write. Sorry if it gets a bit long winded at points, the posting character limit really helps keep things nice and condensed, avoiding run on sentences.

Also, true to the nature of Rogue Trader and its original flavor, expect some "wackiness" onboard the "Go Forth and Conquer" nothing too crazy, but the sort of stuff that you'd swear was just another long yarn spun by a bored voidsman.

A heady dose of Sunless Sea has gotten me quite in the mood for the horrors that lurk within the deep black. I'm curious when my references are going to get spotted, it's a fun game, hiding in jokes throughout your story. And lets not go just for the obvious ones either.

bump from 9

Thread keeps on dying. I must write. I must write so it may live!

Without a planet’s rotation nor a blazing star to light the sky, the concept of day and night was nonexistant onboard the “Go Forth and Conquer.” The march of days was denoted by the sacred 24 hour cycle, broken into four shifts, broken into a toil and ease cycle. Everyone was expected to work a shift and a half every day, their schedules all but chiseled into the bulkheads of their quarters. Only in the most dire of circumstances was a voidsman’s shift changed.

So when Immo answered her barrack door, boarding knife in one hand, glaring at the junior voidsman trembling slightly before her, her eyes narrowed to slits and slightly bloodshot from a round of drinking with Telbeck the shift before, it was not surprise that the knife ended up embedded a fraction of an inch into the deck. She had been summoned by the Quartermaster, and was requested in the cargo bays.

It would be a long trek to the bays from her barrack. Six levels down, into the belly of the ship. In the void, space was at a premium, and outside the grand hallways, opulent halls and cavernous holds, you were expected to make the most out of whatever room you had. While it may be seven kilometers long, two and a half tall, and one and a half wide, the idea of having personal space was a pipe dream for crewmembers. Ninety thousand people crewed “Go Forth and Conquer” scattered here and there, never too far from their designated stations.

It could take days to walk from one end of the ship to the other through the twisting maze of corridors, maintenance tunnels, crawl spaces, and work stations. For a trained member of the crew no less. Time to time, maintenance cleaners would discover the dessicated, or rarely consumed, corpse of a former passenger who had gotten lost in some rarely used section of the ship, vast galleries full of pipes, cables, pneumatic delivery systems and other more esoteric systems.

As she pressed herself flat against a wall, allowing a gaggle of chattering techpriests to rush by her, lost to their own machine language, she slipped out of the cramped, claustrophobic crew quarters, and into the main corridor. From engines to prow, this mammoth tunnel allowed for the quickest means of transit from one end of the station to the other. It was also the beating heart of the ship, as throngs of crew hustled to and fro, taking supplies, manpower, equipment and materials throughout the ship. The walls, 30 meters high, were lined with ratling alcoves, vertical barracks that offered little more than a bed, a light, and a flimsy curtain to give the illusion of privacy. They were shared between three different ratlings at a time, depending on how dense the crew was.

Now, so heavily depleted from their latest colonization efforts, some of the alcoves lay empty, each of the pressed laborers offered a true luxury: Their very own bed. The security detail was quite thankful for that, as knife fights over sleeping rights were at an all time low, as was parasite spread amongst the crew. She still remembered the great earlouse outbreak of 839.40ME. She instinctively began looking for her desiccant powder, the inside of her ear beginning to itch like mad at the memories.

Move at a purposeful, if reluctant pace, Immo took time to look at the variety of commissary shops that lined the main corridor. From the lowest bilge cleaning ratling to the Captain himself, everyone earned a share of the bounty, and with months or years between proper port calls, there was a need for Thrones to flow from crewman to crewman, eventually ending up back in the ship’s coffer.

Brightly colored vendors hawked their goods to passing crewman, each proudly bearing the writ of trade, issued by the Captain or the Seneschal to those deemed capable and honest merchants. All a crewman’s need were met by the Captain, but algae bars, synth fiber jumpsuits, and nutrient supplements were suitable for only the most devote to the Captain’s spartan lifestyle.

She pulled out a few thrones and bought herself a slab of sauce soaked meat along with a half glass of watered down amsec. The sweet and stringy nature of the meat complimented the iron tang of the amsec quite nicely as she wolfed down the meat on a skewer, handing the metal rod back to the hawker before carrying on. She’d have to pay extra if she wanted to keep it, after all.

Fortified by proper meat and with the hair of the dog to take an edge off the pounding of her skull, Immo took one of the drop chutes to the cargobay. Freed from the pull of gravity, these hollow tubes run top to bottom of the ship, allowing crew to quickly ascend and descend as needed throughout the ship. Voidborn wove past one another, moving effortlessly from G to zero G, each sharing a private chuckle as the dirtborns stumbled, shuffled, and collided with others in the tunnels. They would earn their voidlegs soon enough.

She listened to the chattering all about her as she went towards cargo at a safe pace, not wanting to cause a clog. The betting pool on which chute would clog first after each new press ganging, how long it would take, and if the offender would be killed in the accident was an ever growing pot. Some say if a voidsman put a single throne on maintenance chute ZZY-99, and it was first to clog, he would be able to buy their very own ship to captain. Immo wasn’t a betting woman. Much rather just enjoy the show.

Floating then falling out of the chute in the Cargobay, she quickly navigating the cavernous chambers stack floor to ceiling with cargo containers from a hundred different worlds, destined for a hundred different ones. Farming equipment, pre-fabricated shelters and foundries, weapons, vehicles, and more varieties of seeds than she could imagine possible. The Captain made sure anyone destined to claim a new world for the Emperor were prepared for the task ahead.

She wove through the tight packed crates until she heard the distinct grinding of the Quartermaster. The ominous hissing of Krieger masks could be heard between turns, along with the ornery man’s voice. “--on’t care WHAT your reason is, you aren’t making fucking trenches in MY cargobay!”

“Herr Quartiermeister, as we will be awaiting transit to our mission in this area, we are authorized to perform whatever non-permanent alterations to the bay we desire to assist us in ensuring our combat effectiveness is not reduced by the inability to perform drills and training. Shall I cite it for you?” The Hauptman stood before the Quartermaster, staring down at the half man yelling at him, totally impassive and with a voice that never raised beyond an eternally patient tone.

Years ago, long before Immo was even a twinkle in her father’s eyes, the Quartermaster had been bisected at the waist, literally reduced to half the man he once was. Instead of opting for augmented legs, the man decided to get a form of mobility more suited for his lifestyle. Mounted on the front of a treaded cargo hauler, operating the two tracks with a pair levers on either side of him, a small control panel giving him command of a hoisting crane on the back, allowing him to carry a load ten ratlings couldn’t lift on their own. Never had she met someone so opposed to augmentation.

“Don’t you go barking your little notebooks code and regulation. That’s for groundpounders, not voiders. You want to live in my cargobay, free of charge? You follow MY rules.” The Hauptman flinched his foot away, as the Quartermaster rushed by him, treads nearly shearing his foot off at the arch, sparks lifting up off the decking. The Kriegers had made themselves quite at home already, although it would take them some time to return to combat effectiveness. Immo could tell the Hauptman was having difficulty standing in the artificial gravity, having been free floating for longer than what even a voidborn would consider safe.

The fact he was arguing his rights to make another trench array, and how his men were standing by patiently, holding tools, flakboards, and algae bars. Everywhere she looked, crates and crates of the bars were cracked open, their wrappings discarded neatly into piles, and Kriegers would wolfing them down by the pairs, washing it down with canteens full of rust flavored water. As with all the saved, the Captain would give them as much food and water as they needed to return to health. Never had she seen someone so eagerly consume the compressed single celled plant life. She knew hunger was the best spice, but even hunger could not make some tastes tolerable.

“Voidsman Immo Late, reporting for duty, sir.” Immo snapped a sharp salute to the Quartermaster as he rushed by. The shower of sparks that erupted as he slammed to a stop, spun around, and gave the woman a glare so venomous she thought she might need to see the medicae bay afterwards for a dose of Panacea.

“You were requested by name by the Hauptman. From here on in, you are ordered to be the crew liaison with the Kriegers.” The quartermaster barked out in a rush of words before returning to his tasks. Immo could only stand there for a very long moment, eyes wide, and jaw once again dropped.

“Herr Late, are you ill?” The Hauptman waved a hand in front of her face a few times. “It seems your teeth are abnormally discolored. I assume dental hygiene will be sometime we must attend to ourselves?” Immo flushed crimson for a moment at the comment. It jolted her back to reality, and her eyes locked onto the Hauptman. He’ll be joining her for that shot of Panacea.

She rushed forward, and grabbed the man by the coat lapels, lifting him off the deck. He tried to say something, but was vigorously shaken about. “What the hell did you say to the Quartermaster to get me reassigned to your babysitter?!” Liaison sounded like a glamorous job, able to rub shoulders with passengers, hear stories from alien worlds, savor their foods and maybe even have a few one night stands. She had seen enough of the Kriegers during her first encounter to last her a life time. Now, she was expected to spend the vast majority of her time down in the cargo hold, tending to the Kriegers and ensuring their journey is as pleasant as possible. After the second attempted mutiny, the Captain decided more resources needed to be spent on their “guests” She’d never want that normally. Less so with these gas masks.

What a lovely, living and detailed description of the ship. It feels like a complete entity, an armed city in space.

The captain sounds to be a principled sort, I look forward to meeting him.

To be fair, he is based off an old PC in a Dark Heresy turned Rogue Trader game I DMed years ago. It was a fun game, and a lot of the flavor and hijinxs to happen later will be based off a retelling of those stories.

Work with what you know and all that jazz.

I've awlays wanted to play that, never got to.

Posts nicely formatted, minimum of spelling errors and generally good grammar. Solid characters with a good grasp of Krieger mentality that's an odd-but-entertaining mix of the Dead Men books and the original L&K. Great sense of place and the ship feels like a fleshed-out community.
Overall 8/10, would refresh thread repeatedly.

Bump, going to be writting soon, playing dawn of war for inspiration.

(This is the waifu story. Here we go)

88c clutched her lasgun, huddled behind a rock cropping as Belchett took point. The squad leapfrogged through the debris strewn field, chimera's smoldering near defilers and melted slag that once was profanely emblazoned.

88c, no wait addemun, Misty thought, she's been Redesignated with a name, pouted. This was, plainly speaking, madness. Imperially sanctioned madness but a kriegers place was in the trenches, things were simple that way. Everyone in the line was a loyal solider. Everyone out of it was either a deserter, a xenos, or a heretic. Either way the same instructions applied. The only time a krieger was out of a trench was to make a new one or on a horse and even then the Riders were simply human artillery.

Simple, efficient, not this... scouting!

Misty took a deep breath, the rebreather hissing as Misty calmed herself, she was in a new unit she was the one at fault here.

Belchett raised a fist, halting the squad as he pointed forward, large boot prints crashed into the dust. Ork tracks... probbably. 88c never truly took the time to study marks of passage. Regrettable, immediate rectification scheduled.

The catachan... the sergeant nodded, taking the front of the line, lascarbine out front as the squad followed the tracks, camp and its comforting bulwarks fading into the sunny distance.

After several hours on foot Misty began to understand the weight of the pack she was requisitioned. The enemy line was far away and, since the motor of the chimera could alert their position, they had to walk the whole way. There was a chance that the 645ths 2nd company 3rd platoon Devil squad would be here for days. And as the junior member it was up to Misty to carry all the gear.

Efficent, Misty mused. By doing so the more trained members were unhindered, so long as she managed to guard the supplies efficiently she will serve her new assigned roll well.

Misty looking up at the massive ceramite mountain overhead. Misty gazed at the Omnivault, the massive arcaenotech relic dominating the skyscape. One of the most impenetrable bastions in the Imperium, it was the omnivault's presence which had Kathas V declared a Armory world in the first place. The fact the orks were stationed so close was worrisome, even if the 645 did have companies stationed around it to breach the vault now that its keeper was executed. If that vault was opened by the orks...

Well, Misty figured, holding for reinforcements would become significantly harder.

Sergeant Richand stopped the squad again, pointing at a ork patrol. They were getting close.

Richand motioned for the rest of the group to hide behind cover as he motioned for Harmond, the woman looking embarrassed as she coughed.

"Oi, you wit da big dakka, who'd you have to sock ta get such a fine shoota?" Harmond yelled out, the medicae's voice twisted in a gross imitation of the ork dialect. Misty stared at the sergant, who nodded quietly from his cover. The fortunate thing about being near a ork base was that the area was littered with debris. Orks never understood tidyness, the only orks who left a place cleaner then they left it was the lootaz and even then only if the place wasn't theirs.

The ork guard blinked, his skin darkening as he kicked the ground, a small bandanna affixed on his head. "Uh shucks, dis ole thing? Killy was made by da mek special on account of me pushin one of da humies tanks all the way over to him for some gubbins. Coulda got da grots to do it but you know de'll muck it up some how." The ork looked around confused. "Where are you anyway?"

Harmond laughed. "Can't you tell a talkin rock when you see one? All proppa boyz see a talkin rokk eventually, how you gonna be a nob if you aint ever talked to a rock."
"Sure I seen rocks talk!" The ork said, beady red eyes darting to make sure no one heard it. "It's just dat i got to keep an eye out for da humies, day gonna ruin our plans."
"Dat does sound bad, can't trust does hummies wit nuffin dat waht i always fink." Harmond retorted. "But why youze off doing dis planning nonsense when you can be having a proppa fight like orks should."
The ork shook his head. "Dat's the clever part of the boss's strategy. We'ze gonna krak dat big fingy up dere and take all da lootz, den we are gonna use it on da humies and krump dem with dere own dakka."
Harmond laughed. "And how you gonna do dat. Dat rokks way to big to be krakked by yous guyz."

The ork stomped his foot. "Nuh uh! We'ze got a plan."

The earth rumbled, Misty watching the Catachans grip tightly to the rock. Amateurs, Misty thought, who isn't used to the roar of artillery fire at childhood?

"Dat is da plan." The ork said as Harmond coughed.

"Roight, dat was a good talk but you see dat ork ova dere, da one in da hat?" Harmond said as the ork looked behind him, looking at two other orks boredly making patrols.
"Yeah? What bot dem?" The ork questioned.
"Dey called you a git." Harmond said as the ork reddened.
"DEY WOT? DEY ARE GITS!" The ork yelled as he chased after the two, the guards looking up to see the descending mass of personally insulted slugga boy crash into them.

Harmond looked at the Sergeant, coughing. "That's not good." Harmond said weakly, her throat sore.

The sergeant nodded. "No, its not. We took years prying the vault off the hands of heretics we can't let that thing get into the hands of the xenos." The sergeant's mouth curled. "Mary, report to command, we are going to have to go in and see what these orks are doing.

The sergeant turned to Misty, a grim smile on his face. "Well welcome to the Devils, hell of a baptism huh."

Misty shrugged as the sergeant frowned. "Bah, little bundle of comedy aren't you? Any idea what that racket was about?"

The krieger paused considering the options "Artillery fire, but given the sound to distance it would have to be of similar ordinance to at least death strike missile. " The sergeant frowned.

"If they have something like that pointed at the door we have some time, weapons that big don't reload themselves. But then they might just beat us."

Misty tilted her head. "Possibility is calculated as zero. Orders are to hold planet till reinforcements are arrived. Krieg does not break orders."

The sergeant chuckled. "Well I ain't too keen on getting my face mounted on a ugly ass pole either. Guess we just have to stop them."

The krieger nodded, maybe the devils were not so complicated after all.

I was going to continue this to the actual ork camp but I dont have the energy to, maybe in the daylight.

Rest assured the actiony stuff going on is just so that we can have more shenanigans later.

If I wanted to write more serious action id make a 40k quest for it.

So wouldn't the Warrant Of Trade supersede any authority that the Krigers could claim?

page 9 bumb

For the longest time her voice and his breathing were the only things that seemed to exist. During the long transit to Soest a tech priest had endeavored to lecture the 76th on the many physical properties of the universe. Most of it seemed nonsense but one lecture always lurked in the corners of Theta’s mind.

“Do you know what the void is?” The giant in red had stood on a raised platform. “It is the darkness in between the stars. You see black because there is nothing there. I have been asked many times whether this void ends or keeps expanding outwards. Both questions are false. Only a thing that exists can end or expand but the void is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Can you comprehend this?” The giant stood still for a long time and the vaulted room had filled with electronic echoes as the figure imitated breathing. Unable to see a foot in front of him and following an unseen voice, Theta could safely say that he knew what nothing was.

“Fifth platoon walk twenty paces to the left...Private Zeta turn left, you're turning right I said left…Theta!”
Theta swung his arms and jumped away from the ditch’s edge, falling into the Witch’s arms. “If you need me to hold your hand just say so.” She helped Theta right himself. “Anything you want to tell me?” She stared at him expectantly. “No,” was his reply

Theta continued his courageous advance. All the times he bumped into Sergeant Phaesta, tripped on rocks and walked in the wrong direction and needed the aid of the Witch were just minor mishaps. The Witch found him again and helped him climb out of a traitorous hole. .

“Throne dammit get off your ass!” She hissed at him as she lifted him up. “I don’t have time to babysit you.” She held him in place to prevent him from walking away, she was surprisingly strong. “There is only one solution for this,” she sighed, “I need you inside me.”

“What.” Theta nearly choked on the word. Once, during the trip to Soest, he was woken in middle of the sleep cycle by the commissar who had randomly decided to give him a long and enthusiastic speech about these sorts of things. Theta really did not want to know why that happened. The Witch violently shook the corporal.

“There really is something wrong with you. My mind corporal! My mind! We can form a mental bond, only temporary. We both want the same thing, your will can bond with mine. This means you will see what I see so you won’t be falling down all the frakking time.” When Theta hesitated she dragged him over to her face. Theta could not turn away now. He saw that her eyes were green, that fine wires ran along her neck to the base of her skull, that there were marks on her throat. “You do know what the Captain will do to you if he finds out you’ve been slowing our progress.” She let the fact sink into Theta. “Will you let me do this or not? They will find out something is happening if we wait here any longer.”

He had a second choice. A choice that meant trying to make it look like an accident. But without her the company would never be able to escape the fog. Theta silently begged for forgiveness. It amazed him that there were always new lows to sink too. He slowly nodded.

A flash. The sensation of drowning in an ocean of heated knives. He heard screaming and realized it belonged to him. Then back to reality. He looked around, half expecting a firing squad but he was now alone. Theta marched to the hill. He never fell, never staggered, never got lost. Hopes, fears and dreams that were not his coursed through him. He found the Witch waiting for him at the bottom of the traitor occupied hill.

“The bond is no longer needed. End it,” he thought. There was no need to speak, they shared their thoughts.

He saw her smile sadly in the dark. “Breaking the bond would be a traumatic experience. It would leave us exhausted and we need to be ready for the assault.” She waved at the hill.

Theta’s clenched his fists and he struggled to control his breathing. His throat became sore. Now he would not only go to the Emperor carrying his ancestor’s crimes but also the blight of a mutant. He finally admitted to himself that he was not the guardsman he was meant to be. He was weak. The visions in the mornings, his relationship with the psyker and his agreement to the bond were all evidence of this. He had to prove himself all over again, he had to think of something.

“You ruined me.” He thought.

“I'm sorry,” the voice was filled with regret. The Witch reached out to him but he retreated. Theta’s squad arrived and he crawled off to join them.

The verlorene haufen arrived and began their climb up the hill. The crawled up slowly, cutting gaps in the razor wire and moving to the parapet of the enemy trench. The fog remained strong and they soon disappeared from the sight of those crouched on the bottom. The men of the second wave fixed their bayonets and held their breaths. Theta whispered a final prayer of forgiveness.

The hill screamed. Spears of flame shot up through the fog and they revealed a black horde rushing up the hill. Heavy stubbers roared and the noise consumed all of Theta’s attention. The Witch was now only a figment in the back of his mind. A member of the first wave signaled Theta’s squad and they headed towards him.

“Verletzung festgestellt!” The guardsman cried and helped Theta’s squad into the trench. Theta clasped the man’s hand but was blinded by a red spray and the two guardsmen tumbled down the hill. It wasn’t until they reached the foot of a quartermaster that Theta managed to heave the ruined corpse off of him.

page 9 bump. You know its weird but i imagined a post in here.

God kriegs are such drama queens.

holy fucking shit.

somebody actually saved my shitty art.

first time I looked at Veeky Forums in months, and it gives me the happy feels.

... now I wish I'd done more work on that Love and Krieg writing I was doing all those years ago...

you-a do requests?

Not only did someone save it, but someone saved it, another person looked at it and then posted it. So atleast two people did.

sometimes. I work extremely slow, but there was a magical 3 days when I was following L&K threads back in 2010 where I got several works done in just a few nights. currently I have no scanner or anything, so if I did anything, you'd be getting a cell-phone pic of it.

I'm glad y'all like it. I imagine its an under-served niche, though, so I reckon any art for it is better than none. still, I'm glad its appreciated by somebody.

oh that sucks, scanner broke?

dead and gone since time immemorial. truth be told, art fell by the wayside after career options there crumbled under the weight of the recession, and other priorities took precedence over replacing it since. I mostly just draw for my own amusement these days, if even that. but I've been away from anything even resembling a "community" that might show interest in that, like Veeky Forums, for a long time.

once upon a time I started a L&K story alongside the other writers that started this jazz back then, and illustrated characters for them, too. but since, I've been driving trucks and trying to make ends meet.

I feel you on that. Ironically I'm spending too much time writing to write silly stories for Veeky Forums Also gotta really think about my future and employment options in a couple years.

times sucks

indeed.

the only reason I'm even looking at Veeky Forums at 2 in the afternoon is because I lost my job. I should really be out job hunting, but it just gets so fucking depressing after 6 months of "no"s.

anyway, I'd still be happy to draw something for you. just don't expect a fast turnaround on it. that way, if it gets done fast-ish, you'll be pleasantly surprised.

nah yu good man. Focus on yourself first. Job hunting is the worst. its why I really wonder if I should re-enlist.... is the irrevocable mental damages worth the steady pay and benefits?

Am I the only one hoping some smut will be written up soon in one of these stories?

Gael remenbers the rain.

In a serious note I only think the Cog one and medicae one would be any good.

Things would be messy with mine, they are all dead in the grenadier one, the voids girl would probbably rather get herself shot then be with any of the kriegers in a romantic sense.

And I am convinced that any sexual contact in 76sans story will consist at least 50% of Theta crying on the other side of the bed.

Correction, Cadian X sister of battle would work fine too.

wait, you mean mine?

Yeah there is enough sexual tension in it for that to be smutable.

Honestly Misty and Fifteehate do not make good porn stars.

oh yeah I planned on some smutts going on in it but I don't know whats allowed, and also I am a huge sunovabitch, I might write some more tomorrow. but honestly I have no outline plot or anything plannned on it. All my energies are going towards my other stories.

On that note the first chapter of the Aeric and Dalia story was re-written to look flow and just all around be better!

I know Gobble got around with it by posting the porn in a pastebin and linking that.

Granted I havent planned any of my story but it showed.

I even came up with a answer to how kriegers eat only to realize I cant use it because there already wrote a scene where that would be contradicted.. Shrug.

I know that feel. nothing sucks than writing a wonderful piece then going " whoops can't use it" then selcecting it all and hitting delete.... forever.....

maan I hated that

Well I can just say fuck it and do it anyway, its only a idea, I can just add more to it to explain why they can also eat normal food.

The idea is that kriegers eat the same way warthog heals. So they actually have food in canisters that can be placed on the mask and simply inhale the nutrivapor. It has long term health concerns but the kriegers are not designed to live long.

yeah if you can support it with hard 'facts' and reason it never hurts.

Then you have situations like mine that would have resulted in several character deaths that weren't ever meant to happen. That was a fun chapter to rewrite

... I've considered illustrating that as well.

in fact, there should be one image of a commissar playing strip poker with her company of Kriegers out there that was in one of the original threads...

Uh excuse me, Mr drawfriend sir, but if you were considering drawing any scenes of a uh risqué nature might I make a request. I don't know if you have been following these threads or not, but in one of the earlier threads there was a scene quite a few of us wish we had had a drawfriend for at the time. It was the scene where Rochas stumbles upon the medicae in the shower and learns she's a girl. It was a pretty good scene, and the ending in particular was of interest to us. If you feel so inclined to draw something, I would appreciate it a lot if you would take that scene into consideration, and if sure others would as well. My apologies if I have offended, I don't mean to badger anyone, I just felt it was appropriate to put that out there.

Ive never seen a more awkward proposition before. Usually its more. "Yo how much to draw ork dick?"

Why not both?

I'll be first to admit, I'm shit at pacing. 6000 words, and only NOW are we getting into the "And now you get to deal with Kriegers!" part of the story.

Don't worry, love can be found in all the oddest of places, at the strangest of times. More will be written today once the sun sets over here for me.

Gotta keep on working and making those thrones, you know.

Consider it a compliment that someone would be hat in hand enough to ask you in such a way.

Also, I second that. It's a good, iconic scene from the story, with a little bit of cheese and beefcake for those who have that oh so niche need on both sides of the fence.

I expect Rochas to have an ass you could bounce a throne off.

Bump

can ya link me to the archive of the thread? I need to catch up if I'ma draw anything. but shower scenes are hot, so I'm up for it.

for you? I'll give ya the first one free, baby.

Speaking of pictures waht about... hmmm... I dont know if I actually have any drawable scenes, thats what i get for basing my story on witty dialogue.

Rockchewa might be interesting to see.

“Herr Late, would you please put down my superior officer?” Asked a short Krieger, who served as the Haptumann’s secretary. “I am unsure your rank relative to Herr Hauptman Alpha 360, but I believe this would qualify as assault of a superior officer.” Suddenly Immo remembered the fanatical devotion the Kriegers displayed, and took a moment to add this to her mental catalogue of regrets.

Several of the Kriegers moving freight had stopped and turned to observe the scene. Several of them reached for laspistols, either preparing to protect their superior officer or dispense a bit of military justice. Immo was no stranger to just how harsh military justice was, a wide array of lash marks marring her skin proof of that.

The resounding clicks of safeties being dropped and latches releasing filled the air as she promptly put her hands up and backed away from the Hauptmann, who was being lifted off the decking by the short Krieger who started all this. A third dose of Panacea would be needed today, provided she didn’t end up dead on the decking.

“CAPTAIN ON DECK!” Came the mechanically amplified voice of the Arch Militant, and as one, Immo included, every single voidman became stock still and snapped to attention. The sound of crates being dropped, machinery coming to a screeching halt, even a weapon discharge as a security officer dropped his stubber, having been showing it off to an inquisitive Krieger quartermaster. The Hauptmann landed on the deck with a muffled grunt

The turbolift doors swung open with a hydraulic rush, and out stepped the man, the myth, the Captain. Captain Attacus to those who knew him was born and bred in the void, once a humble officer of the captain’s law onboard his vessel of birth. Many are the stories of how he came to acquire “Go Forth and Conquer” but none will ever claim he did it in any way except a perfectly legal one. Any claim otherwise was an affront to the Captain’s honor, and had led to many fights in ports.

Once, during a moment of mercy to a small band of Tau survivors, he heard a young female refer to the Captain as “bishi.” Immo had no idea what that meant. The Captain towered over others at 2.3 meters tall, and had a pair of rich purple eyes. His hair, kept waist length, was platinum colored. Angular figures, set in a permanently serene mask outside of combat, gazed across the cargobay.

“At ease.” His voice carried an authority that only those who had truly earned it could match. A cry for medicae support could be heard, as the crew returned to their duties. “Herr Hauptman, welcome onboard. I see voidsman Late has already greeted you in the traditional method onboard this ship. I apologies for the apparent misunderstanding.”

On cue, the Arch Militant, a wild eyed and chipper shredder mouthed feral worlder who was never out of view of the Captain, rushed up and began to vigorously shake each of the Kriegers who were prepared to gun down Immo. He did so two at once, the barbaric mountain of muscle always eager to display his unnatural levels of strength.

Obvious the Captain was lying out his ass, but as Captain, he dictated what was tradition or not onboard, making even the wildest of claim truth in its own right. Immo sheepishly helped the Hauptmann up, brushing off his greatcoat with a weak smile. “Welcome aboard Hauptman.” She muttered before backing away from the group.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, welcome aboard the “Go Forth and Conquer.” I am honestly surprised we found survivors. My Magos told me the odds of survival to be about as low as my respect for those who point weapons at my crew. I’ve been briefed about our first encounter with you, and how voidsman Late had the distinct joy of first contact with you.” He cast a stern look at the woman, who wilted underneath it.

“Your request of her over my more adept liaisons is a curious one, which is why I am here directly to hear your reasoning for it.” It was not uncommon to see the Captain about the ship, personally examining the runnings of his ship, and was not above handling more troubling issues himself. She still keeps out of level O at 1700 hour when she’s not feeling violent.

“For no other reasons than I have a liking for her.” Came the flat answer from the Hauptman. “I believe her response to our first encounter is the only reason why this situation was solved peacefully. Evidently she believes me to ‘be the right level of crazy’ as she put it.” Immo had dealt with enough faces behind masks to know there might just be a smirk beneath the Hauptman’s mask

“It is no mystery that the Kriegs aren’t known for liking things. If it’s not related to dying in the field of battle for the Emperor, it’s a waste of your time, and most likely heresy.” The Captain crossed his arms over his chest, wearing a heavily plated officer’s coat, still bearing the emblems of his time as an officer of the law.

“That is why I am a Hauptmann, Captain. I have served the Emperor for a very long time, Captain, and I have had to deal with a great many liaisons in my travels. Often, the best is the one who isn’t. She is a military woman, used to dealing with others through armored visors, has been completely honest with me since our first dealing. She is obviously a child of this ship, giving her knowledge of its working and how we may best assist in its operation.”

“Earlier you told us you were unwilling to have your Kriegers work on the ship.” The Captain pulled out a dataslate, taking a recording from Immo’s vox during their conversation and replaying it. “And 0.9? We will have to strengthen the counter boarding measures. Now, how do you plan to assist us?”

“I do not see much difference in fighting in a trench than a corridor. If anyone attempts to stop you in assisting us in fulfilling our mission, we are authorized to lend the full force of our regiment in preventing such. Another reason I believe Herr Late would be the best liasion. She is trained in battling in zero gravity. While our experience waiting taught us a great deal, we did not experience any battle against trained combatants. I believe such experience would be invaluable to the regiment in the future.”

“One final question for you then, as you have sold me on approving this request. What exactly is this mission you keep speaking of?” The Captain looked at Immo, who had slumped her shoulder and accepted her fate. She would need to clear out her bunk and footlocker, and set up in the cargo bay. Her crew will be getting a new lead until they kicked these gasmasked goons out of the cargo hold, and then she’d be reassigned to a crew without a lead. Considering there were 5,000 marines at anyone one time, the odds of getting into her old crew were slim.

“Our mission, given to us by the Lord Inquisitor Regenal von Tumpernatch is.” The Krieger struck a dramatic pose, and pointed off towards the aft bulkhead. “Fuck off to that star over there, and kill any xenos you find. After calculating exactly which star he is pointing to, LX-VR214 in Segmentum Obscura, we embarked the first transport that was available, and have been in transit for the last seven years. Sadly, our first attempt at warp travel ended poorly and left us adrift.” The Captain, Immo, the Arch Militant, and the Quartermaster who had driven up to listen, just stared in silence, before the Captain burst out laughing. The laughter did not stop until the turbolift doors closed.

"Bish"
Completely heretical.

The RNG appearance creation rules are to blame for this. We had a good laugh at it when we finally noticed.