Once upon a time there was a man called Joshua Eric Masterful. He was a small and tired man. He drunk and dull witted. His son grew up and became a great Goliath leader. He was tall and proud. He had never seen the pits of the lowest realm of the Hive city known as Necromunda. Necroumunda was disgusting, Necromunda was home and Necromunda reached to the stars.
Below in the depths, this Joshua Junior or for it was too hard a word to spell, Joshua Masterful thought, well this is it. It has to be disgraceful and disgusting down there. It has to be the pit of shades, the pit of morro, the pits, what is in the pits? That is what Joshua wondered. Oh yes how he wandered down layer after layer, blowing apart grates and blowing apart civilians. He was a brutal man, none would stand in his way.
Over the years after enveloping abosultely everything on the whole world. A small but ferocious ratskin team arrived to destroy him. But they were painful. They were drunk and they were not wanted. They were thrown out, despite following him. Outlanders huh? Thought Joshua, who needs that trash?
So after a while and after a few fights between a Delaque gang that was very tough and very mean. A small gang, just five members, a horrid gang by the accounts of all the papers, all the journalists and all the watchers. Oh dear, what a terrible shame, Joshua laughed, he was headed for the pits. And none should stand in his way.
But two Escher gangs came later, and they were strong, one was full of power, they used their trading post skills and hunted the Goliaths. Oh the ruination of all that stood before them. They craved blood hunks of flesh. Equipped only, both gangs really, with swords to cut and behead. They were such a special evil little team, picking on both each other and of course the famed Goliath gang. But they rarely understood strategy for it was simply being agile. Cut and rip and slit. A chainsword here for this sophisticated gang, they called themselves. And the other had many well, let's just say scum were easy to find. Joshua laughed.
Pain was not exactly everything in the world. A pain that haunted Necromunda. Some scavvies dotted around and picked up the slack in a slack jawed attempt, thought the press, to create a fiasco out of a purge. The pain that all suffered, ruined the hive around. Bitter and thick were tricks, all the gangs fought. After the fight the Delaque gang picked up a Beastmaster Wyrd. And that Wyrd was called Tom. Tom was a ripperjack wyrd. And Tom liked to be called mister Ripjan. And mister Ripjan hated these Goliaths, from everything the Delaques had found.
Roughly twenty days later, a huge plum of fell energy ejected from a pharmacy tower, the cries of enemies of the Escher screamed out and again the Scavvies met in a purge, followed by trying to run their own Guilder's caravan. In the end the Delaque were outlawed. And the arbites came in for a Lord of the Spire public display. Oh well will were really reach the pit, where all the baddies are, thought the rich and greedy second in command to Joshua Masterful, Snape Winters. Oh glorious rubbish. Let's kill some Cawdor when we get down there ok Mister Masterful, he yammered in his ear.
The ratskin gang appeared from no where and destroyed the whole of the enemy hive team. And after many battles and gunfights, the outlaws bought the Delaques and one Escher gang, a pair of needle rifles. The scum were fired. And then a ripperjack landed on the champion of the Goliaths and he was dead.
Joshua look lost. And dispanded after losing his heavy bolter. He was furious but kept it to himself. He never reached the pits. Oh so he thought as spyrer hunters arrived to clean off his head, and all the others who had worked with him. Like the wyrd telepath who worked for the Ratskins and some others.
It was a bitter pill to swallow but knowing the arbites would gun them down, the Delaque took the only way out, and climbed five hundred stories, nearly starved. They released their wyrd near the top, and said here is where we started. And then the jumped into the pit like furnaces the Goliaths were famous for. Four stories fall, into molten slag.
Part Two
Missles were firing in the shadow depths. How are we to become what we were said the Cawdor. They hit each other round the face. Hid their secret martial art training. Equipped cheap autoguns and clubs. Strapped under their short tunics. They have missles. They have them. How can I stop them. Frag is nearly futile to fight against. How can we stop them, they gossiped. Only pain from frag bits. Oh we will have to run them down. And hope for the best.
No Hope Saloon. Opened each night at ten o'lock and finished each morning at three o'lock. What a wonderful day, said the depressed drinking hole manager. He had had many jobs, and when a Goliath gang smashed down his door and demanded he relocate everything and work for him. He locked himself in the back, sent in his barmaid. And ran.
He became a scum. Who worked for Cawdor. Fat with a plasma pistol, from drinking, he just shot bottles and crows that fed on carrion. And was happy when he spent his savings. Now he would win. Somehow the Spyrers from a level across got word. And destroyed his gang in a night. Nearly. They fired him. Down to four members.
Skrit a gang leader, with a club and a shotgun, now a lobo chip too. Gronk a gang member with a club and autogun, now with a stub gun. Sever a female cawdor with a pistol, an automatic one. That was mostly it. For Zonk had just a little left after a broken leg and horrible scars. But he did have a boltgun. They had to sell the rest of their gangs stuff, or stash. And hid. Oh they hid. Fearing the wrath of nature.
As the new Spyrers arrived and destroyed each gang in turn. Very venomous was this spyrer gang. Four malcadons and a little training. They had to get a good gang rating. And they went up. Finishing the Cawdor was not the priority. Back down came two of the malcadons but only one prooved worthy. So he led a crew with jakaras. And they were fearsome. Their vow, kill them all. Roughly, that is what the newspapers which were poorly written by strange mutants. The caravans moved again.
The End
Below in the depths, this Joshua Junior or for it was too hard a word to spell, Joshua Masterful thought, well this is it. It has to be disgraceful and disgusting down there. It has to be the pit of shades, the pit of morro, the pits, what is in the pits? That is what Joshua wondered. Oh yes how he wandered down layer after layer, blowing apart grates and blowing apart civilians. He was a brutal man, none would stand in his way.
Over the years after enveloping abosultely everything on the whole world. A small but ferocious ratskin team arrived to destroy him. But they were painful. They were drunk and they were not wanted. They were thrown out, despite following him. Outlanders huh? Thought Joshua, who needs that trash?
So after a while and after a few fights between a Delaque gang that was very tough and very mean. A small gang, just five members, a horrid gang by the accounts of all the papers, all the journalists and all the watchers. Oh dear, what a terrible shame, Joshua laughed, he was headed for the pits. And none should stand in his way.
But two Escher gangs came later, and they were strong, one was full of power, they used their trading post skills and hunted the Goliaths. Oh the ruination of all that stood before them. They craved blood hunks of flesh. Equipped only, both gangs really, with swords to cut and behead. They were such a special evil little team, picking on both each other and of course the famed Goliath gang. But they rarely understood strategy for it was simply being agile. Cut and rip and slit. A chainsword here for this sophisticated gang, they called themselves. And the other had many well, let's just say scum were easy to find. Joshua laughed.
Pain was not exactly everything in the world. A pain that haunted Necromunda. Some scavvies dotted around and picked up the slack in a slack jawed attempt, thought the press, to create a fiasco out of a purge. The pain that all suffered, ruined the hive around. Bitter and thick were tricks, all the gangs fought. After the fight the Delaque gang picked up a Beastmaster Wyrd. And that Wyrd was called Tom. Tom was a ripperjack wyrd. And Tom liked to be called mister Ripjan. And mister Ripjan hated these Goliaths, from everything the Delaques had found.
Roughly twenty days later, a huge plum of fell energy ejected from a pharmacy tower, the cries of enemies of the Escher screamed out and again the Scavvies met in a purge, followed by trying to run their own Guilder's caravan. In the end the Delaque were outlawed. And the arbites came in for a Lord of the Spire public display. Oh well will were really reach the pit, where all the baddies are, thought the rich and greedy second in command to Joshua Masterful, Snape Winters. Oh glorious rubbish. Let's kill some Cawdor when we get down there ok Mister Masterful, he yammered in his ear.
The ratskin gang appeared from no where and destroyed the whole of the enemy hive team. And after many battles and gunfights, the outlaws bought the Delaques and one Escher gang, a pair of needle rifles. The scum were fired. And then a ripperjack landed on the champion of the Goliaths and he was dead.
Joshua look lost. And dispanded after losing his heavy bolter. He was furious but kept it to himself. He never reached the pits. Oh so he thought as spyrer hunters arrived to clean off his head, and all the others who had worked with him. Like the wyrd telepath who worked for the Ratskins and some others.
It was a bitter pill to swallow but knowing the arbites would gun them down, the Delaque took the only way out, and climbed five hundred stories, nearly starved. They released their wyrd near the top, and said here is where we started. And then the jumped into the pit like furnaces the Goliaths were famous for. Four stories fall, into molten slag.
Part Two
Missles were firing in the shadow depths. How are we to become what we were said the Cawdor. They hit each other round the face. Hid their secret martial art training. Equipped cheap autoguns and clubs. Strapped under their short tunics. They have missles. They have them. How can I stop them. Frag is nearly futile to fight against. How can we stop them, they gossiped. Only pain from frag bits. Oh we will have to run them down. And hope for the best.
No Hope Saloon. Opened each night at ten o'lock and finished each morning at three o'lock. What a wonderful day, said the depressed drinking hole manager. He had had many jobs, and when a Goliath gang smashed down his door and demanded he relocate everything and work for him. He locked himself in the back, sent in his barmaid. And ran.
He became a scum. Who worked for Cawdor. Fat with a plasma pistol, from drinking, he just shot bottles and crows that fed on carrion. And was happy when he spent his savings. Now he would win. Somehow the Spyrers from a level across got word. And destroyed his gang in a night. Nearly. They fired him. Down to four members.
Skrit a gang leader, with a club and a shotgun, now a lobo chip too. Gronk a gang member with a club and autogun, now with a stub gun. Sever a female cawdor with a pistol, an automatic one. That was mostly it. For Zonk had just a little left after a broken leg and horrible scars. But he did have a boltgun. They had to sell the rest of their gangs stuff, or stash. And hid. Oh they hid. Fearing the wrath of nature.
As the new Spyrers arrived and destroyed each gang in turn. Very venomous was this spyrer gang. Four malcadons and a little training. They had to get a good gang rating. And they went up. Finishing the Cawdor was not the priority. Back down came two of the malcadons but only one prooved worthy. So he led a crew with jakaras. And they were fearsome. Their vow, kill them all. Roughly, that is what the newspapers which were poorly written by strange mutants. The caravans moved again.
The End
