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The Weenie Roast (lengthy)

 Post subject: The Weenie Roast (lengthy)
PostPosted: Wed Mar 26, 2008 4:38 pm 
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I've written one of my recent Necromunda fights up into a bit of a narrative AAR. Hopefully it is appropriate to post it in this forum. If it needs to be moved elsewhere, please let me know and I'll gladly do so. I'm not a particularly skilled writer, but I attempted to make this enjoyable to read, so I do hope it will be. It follows the basic chronology of the fight, but I've taken a bit of 'artistic liberty' with a few of the rounds so as to make them flow more smoothly in the story. I was playing my Scavvies on defense against an Escher player who was attempting to save a captured ganger in the Rescue Mission scenario. I rolled up 6 Sentries, plus 3 dog followers and he rolled up 6 rescuers for his strike team. For Treacherous Conditions, the battlefield was steeped in Long Shadows. Its a fairly lengthy read, but hopefully that won't be too great a deterrent. Please to enjoy:


Aryo Slithand belched into the battered rebreather that masked his face, relishing the after-effects of his rat burger in close quarters. His gaze passed languidly over the crudely-constructed wreckage of Fort Brundage, the ramshackle collection of debris that passed for The Bleakers' home turf. Slithand generally liked to take his evening siesta atop Point Blagg, the precariously leaning tower that had the dubious honor of being the single highest point in the whole of his scrofolous Scavvy kingdom. Camp was quiet tonight, the stillness broken only by the periodic howl of one of the ragged hounds that prowled the darker confines of the pseudo-fort.

And the occasional scream, of course. That scrawny Escher brat could wail like an overflow siren when ol' Jimmy Peepers put the screws to her. He'd been workin on her the better part of the day, trying to squeeze out caravan routes, the locations of ammo dumps, and sometimes just for the fun of hearin her yowl. She was a prideful one, that wench. Put on quite a front right up til good ol' Jimmy sawed off her left hand and chucked it over the side to Urblat. The Bishripper got a trifle peckish while making his rounds, see. That was the problem with the scaly folk; mean as hell in a scrap but they could put a serious hurtin on the food supply.

Slithand leaned back against his chain-mesh hammock and started settling into a half-doze. That last caravan job had been quite a haul and his belly was full. Having a full stomach for the evening siesta was a rare treat these days and one that The Bleakers couldn't take for granted. Tomorrow's chow promised to be even more satisfying. They'd dined on captives before, sure, but having a sweet little Escher chippie in the pot, especially after hauling back so much scratch from those dead pack-slaves, promised to make it a Victory Feed to be remembered. Yeah. A take like that was definitely worth dreamin' about, as much as Scavvies could dream.

It was more howling that stirred the booze-dulled Scavvy boss from his partial slumber. Not just one mutt this time either. Sounded like the whole mangy pack had their hackles up about something. Probably cornered a wounded Ripper over by the old still. "Fheargus! Go shut dem slobberin shithounds up already! I'm gettin shorted on m'beauty sleep here!" Slithand knew that Black Fheargus was walking the southern perimeter tonight, so he wasn't certain the gnarled old Scaly could hear him over the din of barking. He bestirred himself to his feet and slung his autogun on his shoulder, hollering again, "Fheargus! Yeh got stummers in yer ears!? I said shut them-" BLAM!!!

The unmistakable sound of a scattergun spilling its misbegotten payload echoed off to his left, followed immediately by Brother Chancre's rasping cry, "Rats in the house! Up an' at'm, you scabs, we got rats in the bloody house!" Slithand ran a quick tabulation in his head. Hard to tell who was where in all the shadowy dark, but he was pretty sure Chancre was on watch over by the delapidated trash chute that the Bleakers had affectionately dubbed The Bath House. The boss unshouldered his autogun and took a knee, using his free hand to activate the cracked headlamp that was strapped just above his rebreather. The anemic beam didn't shed much light, but it was enough to see a handful of shadowy forms flitting around near the bulkhead below him.

"Peepers! Keep dem warbly eyes a' yern peeled tight. Reckon the (&#$@!) is havin at tryin ta get their wee girlie back before she goes in the pot!" The dim glow of his headlamp drifted over to the opposing tower where the young Escher girl was strapped to the twisted remnants of an old ventilation fan. The only sign he could discern of Jimmy Peepers were the two undulating eyestalks peering up from behind a shattered slot machine. He could see the Escher girl, too, writhing in her bonds and trying to call weakly to her would-be rescuers, the piteous cries muffled by the pair of Scavvy skivvies that served as a makeshift gag. After a moment, the barrel of Peepers' autogun jutted up between the waving eyestalks, trying unsuccessfully to draw a bead on the fleeting figures below.

Another flurry of barking errupted, closer this time. And this one was accompanied by an agonized scream as the savage mutt's fangs found soft Escher flesh. The barking escalated to a crescendo as it was joined by a second dog, doubtless drawn by the ruckus and the scent of blood in the stagnant air. Slithand tried to follow the cacaphony of barking for a moment, his headlamp and autogun both trained and seeking a target. "Chancre! How many bangers in the wire!?"

That same hoarse rasp echoed back at him, "Got a'least three at The Bath House, chief! Lemme see if I kin spot any more. Piss! Bossman! There's a feggin giant down the-GAAAAH! Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" A brief laser light show errupted atop The Bath House. Apparently one of the Escher raiders made it to the top and tagged Chancre square in the back with a las pistol. Judging by the declination of the scream, the poor wretch was too close to the edge when he got clipped and took a header over the side. A sickening crunch sounded from below and the screaming came to an abrupt stop.

Still trying to orient himself to the position of the attackers, Slithand stayed low behind cover, the sickly beam of his headlamp the only inidication of his position. The staccato fusillade of several automatic weapons sounded from the ground level, followed immediately by a gutteral howl somewhere on the second floor. The Bishripper was definately taking fire, though how much or to what extent was indeterminable. Another barrage of fire sounded from somewhere lower still, accompanied by a beastly, bellowed warcry and some pained canine yapping. It seemed that Chancre's alleged 'giant' was toting a gun as big as he was and had just handily dispatched one of the slavering mutts that prowled the twisting corridors of Fort Brundage.

The boss' bouncing headlamp finally illuminated the giant, albeit through a maze of spinning fans and twisted metal bulkheads. Giant was right. The Escher crew were apparently intent enough on rescuing their misplaced comrade that they'd appropriated the funds for an Ogryn mercenary to accompany them. "Lessee how yeh like a few rounds in that fat ass a' yern, big feller." Slithand squeezed the trigger, sending a hail of gunfire down below. Unfortunately, the intervening metalwork turned most of the shots wild and if any actually landed, they were absorbed by the Ogryn's burly hide. The boss swore vehemently into his rebreather and called over his shoulder, "Elias! Obidiah! Getcher wretched ass over here! Urblat's takin heat, Chancre's taken a header, an' we've got a feggin' Ogryn in the wire!"

The two-headed mutie hollered something in response, but his words, whichever mouth it was that shouted them, were lost in another hail of gunfire and frenzy of barking. One of the remaining mutts had spotted an Escher fixing to work her way up the side of the prisoner's tower. The brutish bodyguard slung himself down off of a gantry and landed in front of the much smaller woman, presenting nothing but his immense bulk and the jagged blades of his Rippergun as a viable target. The wild dog launched itself in the air, only to be sheared completely in two by a merciless sweep of the Ogryn's brutal weapon. The beefy merc bellowed another throaty laugh as the shower of mangled dog fuelled its bloodlust even further.

Jimmy Peepers was apparently trying to get a handle on the situation from atop the tower where the captive Escher was held. His ill-maintained autogun wasn't up to the task, however. It sputtered out a single shot and then locked up tighter than an Arbites weapons cache. A wave of gutteral profanity rained down from his post as he tossed the ailing shooter to the floor and scrambled around for a replacement weapon.

"Get yer (&#$@!) wired tight o'er there, boyo! We're up to our necks in this mess! And somebody fire up that siren! Get the Meatman out here!" The Bleakers had tied on a pretty good one after returning from the caravan run and most of the camp were sprawled in their tents, snoring in drunken oblivion. Slithand immediately regreted being so free-handed with that case of synthetic swill they'd appropriated from the pack-slaves. Still, if they hadn't been too drunk to walk, it was a strong possibility that half of his crew would have disappeared entirely, choosing to take their spoils into the wastes rather than continue taking orders from Boss Aryo. "You hear me o'er there!? Get on that damned horn! I want the boys out here sharpish!"

Firefights in the Underhive had never been quiet. Brief exchanges of gunfire were as common as flies on a rat roast, and were usually accompanied by plenty of shouts and the thump of bullets hitting flesh. Nonetheless, there was always something especially satisfying when they got really loud. It would be hard to judge which was actually more noisome, the ominous belching of Fheargus' Scattercannon or the pained cry of the Ogryn who took the brunt of its tidal wave of shrapnel. That academic debate aside, it was obvious that the second Scaly had finally joined the fray.

It would have been even more satisfying to know that Urblat the Bishripper had gotten to bring his mismatched swords to bear against that hulking giant of a bodyguard, but another rain of automatic weapon fire had him pinned down in a corner somewhere on the second level. The sound of barking had pretty much ceased altogether now, the ravenous guard dogs being silenced forever. With that bleeding Ogryn and the Escher leader poised to ascend the central tower and only poor ol' Jimmy Peepers standing between them and their comrade, the fight could have turned dangerously against the Bleakers in the space of just a few heartbeats.

Fortunately, two things occured almost simultaneously to swing the tide back in Scavvy favor. Firstly, Peepers managed to snatch up the hostage Escher's slugger from the scattered remnants of her clothes and gear. With a measure of alacrity uncharacteristic for the sedentary mutant, he turned the archaic pistol on the closest target he could eyeball: the wispy Escher girl who had only moments before sent Brother Chancre on his ill-fated swan dive. The old shooter cracked loudly, firing the lone bullet remaining in the chamber, but a single shot was all it took and the scrawny lass dropped like a stone.

Secondly, Slithand's Ace in the Hole finally slipped out of his tattered sleeve. The noise of the firefight had awakened Meatman Pyke. The bearded, three-armed mutant emerged from his tent, bristling with a mismatched array of weaponry. He was staggered by the drink, to be sure. And groggy from his post-revel slumber. But most importantly, he was pissed as a Ripper in a claw-trap about being rousted from his tent on his first night off of watch duty in three weeks. His bunkmates, Cletus Cassidy and Lil' Donnie were with him and looked no less cheery for being awakened.

The trio stalked forward, the positioning of their tent affording them the advantage of appearing, as if from nowhere, directly behind the infiltrating Escher girls. Their rusted, ramshackle weaponry discharged almost simultaneously. Close enough, leastways, that it was impossible to determine whose shots actually struck home and whose went wild into the darkness. Such nuances, however, could be debated at length over the Victory feast. What mattered for the time was that the Ogryn managed to get between the three Scavvies and the Escher leader, but took a hail of fire insodoing. Though still on his feet, it was obvious that the big brute had had enough. Whatever scratch the eschers had thrown his way, it certainly wasn't enough to pay for turning him into a pincushion. With wretched Scavvies before, behind, and above and the girls' supporting fire from atop The Bath House down for the count, the rescue team decided to bottle out before they ALL wound up in the stew pot.

A few parting shots followed them into the night, but the strike team made it away relatively unscathed. Slithand gathered the camp to run damage control and start the taps flowing again. He was loathe to spring for two slosh-ups in one night, but playing the teetotal now would run the perilous risk of him losing face with his lads. Urblat was alive and relatively unharmed, though obviously agitated at missing the chance to bloody his blades on that Ogryn brute. Ol' Brother Chancre had seen better days, of that there was no doubt. His near-gellid bones had spared him any serious damage from the fall, but the charred wreckage of his chest was too badly mangled for the nominal Sawbones to do any real patching. The wound would eventually close, but Chancre would be rasping all the more now, what with his lungs seared like a rat on a spit.

Or an Escher on a spit, as was the case with poor little Yukina when the Victory Feast got fully underway the following night. Aryo Slithand retook his spot atop Point Blagg and surveyed his crew and kingdom. He tucked his curved, rusty sword under his hammock and kicked his feet up, the gronny boots long-since melded with his rotten feet. Belching once again into his rebreather, the victorious boss chuckled and muttered quietly to himself, "Oh yeah. Its good ta be the king."


Thanks for giving it a read. Please feel free to make comments, positive or negative. I'll be happy to write up more narrative AARs in the same style if people enjoyed this one, so let me know.


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 26, 2008 11:10 pm 
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clegane, great job! I really enjoyed it, please post more :D 8)

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