Tribemeet 2020-21 Buildup & Story


=][= Ordo Grognardicus =][=
Staff member
Yak Comp 1st Place
Tribe Council
Jun 1, 2016
Ellon, United Kingdom
TribeMeet 2020 is a gathering of nerds and enthusiasts of all things Necromunda for a weekend of action-packed gaming among friends (11th&12th September 2021)! The campaign will accommodate both the Community Edition (NCE) and Newcromunda (N18) rules, so bring whichever gang strikes your fancy. The story follows on from the massive success of TribeMeet 2019, this time at a bigger and better venue at the Newark Showground, NG24 2NY, UK.

All pertinent details

Welcome to the Buildup & Story thread!
Post snippets of fluff about your gangs, their stories so far, whatever takes your fancy!


The air was warm and stifling up at the top of the dome. The fumes of what passed for civilisation below prickled at the skin and made unprotected eyes water.

Guild of Sanitation Ninth Technician Yussuf Backvalve slowly picked his way along a suspended gantry, slick with the red-brown algae which always thrived in these dark and damp places behind the lighting rigs. He was approaching a section where the lighting rig below had either fallen or been removed long ago, so beneath the gantry was nothing but a several hundred metre drop into Fury's Rest.

The gantry swayed and groaned as he reached the edge. Closing his eyes tightly, he removed his foggy googles and, without looking, deftly splashed a little water from his canteen into the lenses and swilled them out before putting the goggles back on. That was better. He peered over the edge at the factories, hab blocks and streets far below, savouring the small surge of adrenaline he always got when he reached these points.

Not bothering to clip onto the corroded safety wire, he strode out over the gap, the gantry groaning under his weight. He could see his objective just ahead. A two metre diameter pipe, jutting vertically down from the gently curved dome roof beside the gantry. There was a steady drip-drip-drip falling from the attachment point on the end. Yussuf took a second to remember the telltale marks and shape of that particular model. It was am STC MkXXIV potable water attachment. It would either have been part of an ancient fire supression sprinkler system, artifical rain matrix or a drinking water supply. This far up, it would be the fire supression system - he doubted a dome like Fury's Rest had ever warranted a rain system. In the gloom he couldn't see any trace of the MkXI-44 flow distribution hub or the mountings for the associated MkMCCCXII sprinkler system itself. Perhaps it had never even been fitted all those years ago.

As he reached it, he scrubbed his thick rubber gloves over the lock on the control panel cover, scraping away half an inch of the algae. Above the lock was stamped the legend FR-9651646546AB6164F6. From his belt pouch, careful not to drop it, he pulled a key with a long metal tag wired to one end, stamped FR-9651646546AB6164E6. He read it again, then the lock again. He had, as usual, been issued the wrong key - though he noted that it was at least very, very close this time. What key E6 was for he couldn't possibly know - as the number suggested, the Guild of Sanitation held billions upon billions of keys in the Library of Locks and with the best will in the world they had inevitably become mullded over the millennia. Thankfully, everyone "in the field" already knew this, and went prepared.

Yussuf tucked the key back into his pouch - his life would not be worth living if he didn't return it and fill out the ridiculous eight-page misallocation report, to put with all the other hundreds of thousands of misallocation reports, never to be checked.

He then took out his "other key" from the opposite side of his belt - a heavy crow bar with a force amplifier node patched to the end. Crude but effective. Jamming it between the lip of the cover and the pipe, he thumbed the node on with a hum and pushed. With a bang the lock shattered and the cover popped open, and Yussuf just managed not to drop his power-bar over the side of the gantry.

The control panel inside was clean and dry, but also fried. He's been told a signal had been sent for this pipe to open as part of a "Scheduled Cleaning Routine", and the pipe had not opened. He'd never known a Scheduled Cleaning Routine of these pipes. He wondered breifly exactly how irregular something needed to be to still be considered Scheduled. By the look of it, it had never opened since the day it was installed, so he was not in the least surprised to find the signal had just fried the panel and resulted in a very slow drip. He was also not in the least surprised to find the pipe not connected to anything, or that he had been given an order that would flood part of the dome below. Such was the power of beuarocracy.

He moved futher along the gantry to a larger cover. Not even bothering to check the lock, he popped it with the power-bar. Inside was a shiny red manual override wheel, still with a little wax seal supporting a small vellum tag on the side lock. Whatever had been written on the tag had faded to illegibility, and when Yussuf touched it it crumbled to dust.

Shrugging, he wrenched the lock off cracking the ancient wax. It came away easily. Grabbing the 1 metre diameter wheel, he put all his effort into giving it half a turn. Nothing changed from the pipe flow - still just a drip-drip-drip. He gave it another turn - easier this time. Drip-drip-drip. Another - the drip became a trickle. Another and the trickle thickened. He thought by now the pipe valve flaps should have opened fully, and indeed he couldn't turn the wheel any futher. He gave the pipe a whack with the power bar and with a thundering whoosh the valves thumped open. The whole world vibrated and the gantry gave a tortured scream. Algae and sludge was sucked free as the water pulled a powerful air current down with it.

Yussuf looked over the edge through the misting water. He hoped nobody was directly below. He'd carried out his order anyway - the valve was open.

He hadn't been ordered to close it again.

Yussuf made his way back along the vibrating gantry to the circular exit point, sealing the heavy hatch securely behind himself.
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The dripping was starting to get to Grex. Growing up deep in the hive made him used to all manner of constant background racket. Even the quietest night cycle was marred by a constand low hum of distant machinery, people bustling in the streets and, more recently, sporadic gunfire. This was different though. This noise was new and constant - he'd been hearing it for hours now as he lay trying to forget how hungry he was.

Plip... plip... plip... plip...

He dragged himself from the stained mattress that served as his bed in the half-ruined hab block. He was sure it was a dripping pipe, but he knew that the water supply to this block had been shut off for as long as he'd known it. He grabbed his autogun and hefted it onto his shoulder with a grunt. It was heavy. It didn't used to seem heavy. He caught sight of himself in a broken pane of glass. Instead of the muscular youth of a newly initiated gang member, a ragged, wiry and scarred spectre stared back at him. Still wearing the flak vest and trousers of a larger man, new holes punched in the belt to bunch them round a thinner waist. He looked like shit. But he was, at least, alive - unlike two thirds of the Ratchet Crazies gang.

He stepped from the room, over the curled up form of one of the Juves sleeping restlessly in the corridor. He was meant to be guarding Grex whilst he slept. Grex considered kicking him awake for a second, and decided against it - the kid could rest.

He listened instead.

Up. The noise was definitely coming from above. He walked along the partially collapsed floor with practiced precision, avoiding by instinct the boards and joists which would plunge him to the floors below. A wobbly, rusted ladder with various rungs missing and sketchy fastenings to the wall led upwards towards the roof. It groaned under his weight as he slung the autogun and began to climb as smoothly as possible.

Plip... plip... plip...

Andro, the lookout on the floor above, peered over his shoulder as Grex climbed.

"Hey Boss, nothin' much goin' on. Goin' for a look-see?"

Grex just grunted and kept climbing. Boss. Grex was new to the gang only a few months ago. Andro was an even newer recruit - but still looked like a grizzled veteran now.

Another floor up and the ladder got very shaky, another and it was abruptly truncated by the telltale half-melted, half-burned impact of a lascannon shot that had come right through the exterior of the hab. Part of the wall above had collapsed into the street, and whilst the ladder continued to hang temptingly a few feet above the hole, Grex knew it was only held in place with two or three rusted bolts.

Plip... plip... plip...

It was getting louder. And definitely coming from what was left of the roof. Grex looked around. He'd never tried to get up there. This was the tallest building still standing in the immediate vicinity, and the upper floors provided a commanding view without having to get all the way to the top. He very carefully made his way along the corridor. Fire had ravaged this floor and the one above. He wondered if it had been caused by the lascannon shot as he made his way along, trying to stick to corners and edges where the floor should be stronger. The rooms, where they weren't open to the outside or completely lacking a floor, were bare - long since looted. Towards the end of the corridor he found what he was looking for - a large section of exterior wall was gone and part of the floor above had fallen in, leaving a steep ramp he could clamber up to the floor above, and slightly further along the roof had collapsed into the building leaving a manageable climb to the very top of the building.

Here, effectively outside and beyond the reach of any long since gone cleaning units, everything was covered with a two inch thich accumulation of chemical dust and ash. It floated up as he tried to find handholds to climb with, and irritated his lungs, causing him to cough which kicked up yet more ancient dust. He pulled his bandana down over his mouth with a dusty hand, filtering out the worst of it.

"This place needs a bloody good wash" he muttered to himself as he made it to the roof. He'd heard of high class domes where they periodically turned on overhead sprinklers to clean the buildings and streets. The thought of wasting that much water appalled him, but he had known a scummer from a higher dome who swore he'd lived under one of the swanky zones in a town called Sky Springs - every few weeks a deluge of dirty water would pour into the settlement and they'd try to capture and filter enough of it as possible to sell on. It would bring with it the occasional credit token or piece of lost jewellery. The scummer had an earring fashioned from a dainty gold ring set with a ruby he'd purportedly pulled from a filter in his youth.

"No such bloody luck" Grex groaned as he hauled himself the last precarious few feet to the rooftop. He looked around. The roof was festooned with long-dead air scrubbers, a broken crane derrick, a rusted water storage tank and dust, lots of dust. The dripping was coming from the water tank. As Grex moved towards it, he found the roof was disconcertingly springy underfoot. He could just see that it bowed inwards towards the water tank at the centre. Could it still have water in it? Perhaps it was only just rusting through and dripping onto the roof.

He very carefully crawled forwards on his hands and knees to distribute his weight, leaving a snail trail of disturbed ash behind him. Now that he was closer, he realised why he could hear the sound of the dripping four floors below - the drip was coming from above, and landing in the water tank, which amplified the sound like a large drum. He could now see where the fluid had subsequently dripped from the tank onto the ash, darkening it with moisture. He briefly wondered how much heavier wet ash was than dry ash, and whether his guys would have to find a new bolthole before the roof collapsed completely - he was reasonably sure if it did the heavy metal water tank would take an express ride to the ground floor taking everything in its path with it.

He made it to the tank, and looked in through a rust hole. The top of it was open. He peered up, trying to discern detail in the distant blackness of the dome roof. The dome lighting wasn't functioning directly above, but lights were working to the left and right of him, making it impossible to see the concrete and pipework he knew was above him.

He caught a glimpse of a glimmer of light and managed to focus on the tiny star. Plip. The drip fell and landed in the tank, making it vibrate slightly.

Then another - Plip.

He carfully hauled himself into the tank through the hole and towards the impact point. The tank shuddered and rumbled like an oil drum with his movements. Plip. The drip landed right in front of him. They'd carved a perfect little circle of bare metal in the ash as they fell, and washed a small rivulet towards where it subsequently fell to the roof. He couldn't see any extra corrosion, and risked holding his hand out to catch the next drip. The large heavy drip didn't burn. He used the next couple to roughly clean his grubby hands. Now the risky part, he thought - cupping his palm he allowed a dozen drips to accumulate into a little pool.

He pulled down his bandana from his nose and mouth, and tentatively sniffed the fluid. It didn't seem to have a smell beyond the rust, ash and recycled air of his immediate environment. Very carefully, he dipped his tongue in it. Then took a sip. He spat it out immediately - it tasted like stale spit and acid burps. He knew of only one thing that tasted like that. Clean water. He was tasting his own foul mouth as it washed his numbed taste buds clean.

He took a bigger sip and swilled out his mouth, spitting again, before trying more.

It wasn't quite pure. There was a chlorine tinge to it, with a hint of iron, but it was the cleanest fluid he'd drank for a long time. He waited a while, allowing more to accumulate in his hands, and took a more refreshing drink of the lukewarm water.

He smiled - hunger was a killer, but thirst would get you quicker. This could keep some of the guys alive, and he could probably trade it for food, if only it fell a little faster and he could figure a way to collect it. He was just contemplating getting a couple of gangers to start shovelling the worst of the heavy ash from the weakened roof when he realised something... the drips were falling faster.


Well, that would help the gathering, but they'd have to hurry before the weight of water accumulated too fast.

The drip became a trickle.

Grex lay down and put his face and mouth under the stream. He couldn't remember his last shower. He looked up as he backed out of the water tank, dripping water from his hair.

"Well, shit" he said, dead pan.

The silver string of the trickle soared up towards the dome roof... where it became a collection of stars... which became a wall of frothing white, dropping fast.


Denga slipped around the corner just in time to see the gang's bolt hole implode. A foaming lance of water punched through from above, right through the building. It shot from the ground floor windows and doors before the lower walls bulged and the building burst open, collapsing into the frothing torrent with a thundering boom.

Denga turned and ran as hard as he could as a wall of rubble filled water pursued him along the alley.
Maxie opened her eyes to the blaring of her alarm. Her badly aimed swipe at it sent the flimsy fibreboard bedside table tottering, just like every morning. It had been a late night helping the Sixgun Sisters scavenge for anything valuable in the ruins at the edge of the dome. All they'd found was several hundred cases of a cheaply printed tome entitled "Watercraft for Dummies" - A restricted text probably due to go offworld, presumably to a planet where having enough water to float a vessel in wasn't a fevered fantasy. She drew her curtains and waved as Mrs Greddick who worked at the corner convenience quartermaster went by, then she went to brush her teeth.

She was three quarters of the way through the ritual of oral cleansing ("all the best skulls have shiny white teeth!) when her brain caught up with what her tired eyes had shown her. Mrs Greddick went past the window. Maxie lived on the fourth floor of the hab block.

She darted back to the window. The street outside was a slowly moving stream of sludgy brown water, with occasional flotsam. Mrs Greddick was paddling along on a sheet of insulation board, some of her shop's wares balanced on the back.

Maybe that book would come in useful afterall.

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In Iiya’s Bar, Fury’s Rest, where nobody knows your name…

The Kommisar shares a stein of Second Best with CaptainClone V:

“good evening my friend Kommisar! Good news from Mankfester Dome I hope?”
“Gutentag Captain! Ja, CapKom waste management is 100% efficient even with only 50% workforce. We are ready for the Clones arrival. But there ist just ein thing…”
*the Captain takes a drink of best to brace for the inevitable clause*
”Das Dome ist filling with ‘wasser’, while you have been in lockdown, das imperial agents were attacked and dome liquidation has begun.”
*the Captain chugs the rest of his drink and thuds his glass down*
”Thank you for the report Kommisar, good work! Now, if you don’t mind paying the bill, as iv looked in every pocket of my battleskirt and iv forgotten my wallet, and I’ll call the minions, teleport a boat from orbit, and wait for you outside!”

🎶 Ringstiiiinggg Ringsting diddle de do de do. Ringstiiiinggg Ringsting diddle de do de do. 🎶

“fill up lads! The Kommisar’s paying, …quick before he comes!”

“make sure there’s enough supplies Wolfgang and Kronk, it’s a long journey to mankfester by Sump”

“all ready to set sail Captain!”
*the Captain puts on his special boating hat*

“Aye Aye Captain”

“Set course for the PleasureCube!”


*the Captain talks under his breath*
”I hope we can make it to ClockworkTeal in time?”

The Troll King looked around the 3rd floor of the ancient ruined industrial tower “Is this genuinely all that’s fracking left of my mighty golden horde?” He muttered to himself, not for the first time.

There were at most ten Trolls collapsed exhausted against the various industrial detritus, they’d been running for days, they’d killed hundreds of the vermin, but still THEY came.

The only Trolls left were the cunning ones, the stage fourers, and the only thing keeping them in the fight was their ability to use proper weapons. In their panicked fleeing the Troll King had also “collected” both Heisenberg and ClockworkOrange, he needed them for the drug! In truth the Troll King had no idea how they made it, but if there was ever to be more Trolls he needed them.

Over the days and weeks that they had been running both Heisenberg and ClockworkOrange, more or less, fought willing for the Trolls. It was that or die to those things.

Suddenly everyone’s head picked up at the sound of running feet and the slurp of raising water….THEY were coming again! “Come on we need to get out of this bloody dome!!” bellowed the Troll King and as one the Orange Tide fled.

The scene fades with a desperate hint of orange…is this the End? If the Trolls are scared should you be?
Denga lay panting on the first floor of a former clothing factory, surrounded by moldering mannequins of different shapes and sizes. He could still hear the muffled roar of the water falling where the Ratchet Crazies used to have a headquarters. It had been a close thing - the water had caught him, and he'd miraculously managed to avoid being pulled under or hit with flying rubble. He'd caught the dangling sign of the old factory two blocks from the hideout and managed to drag himself in through a broken window.

The street outside was now a slowly flowing river, frequently dotted with pieces of rubbish, equipment and the occasional body. After the initial wave the water level had dropped to about a third of the way up the first floor of the building, but it was still flowing steadily out into the dome and not dropping any lower. He'd since heard distant shouts and screams - not all human - as the water rudely interrupted warrens of hiding gangers and other hive denziens.

Denga hauled himself upright, his strength starting to return. He'd lost his lasgun in the torrent. Although he wasn't convinced it was waterproof, he was still pained by the loss. He'd inherited that gun from his now dead mentor just weeks ago - it was well looked after and had a good crosshair sight on it he'd pulled from a dead Van Saar's destroyed lascarbine.

His stub gun had stayed in his thigh holster though. He opened the fat chamber and dropped the bullets out into the palm of his hand. They were home-made dum-dum bullets - blunt and brutal. He wondered whether the propellant was good after being dunked. Normally he'd ask Old Tinker, the gang's armourer, but he'd been at the hideout and was probably dead now. A few months ago that would have saddened Denga, but now... so many had died during the Scavvy incursion, revolt and subsequent crackdown in Fury's Rest that just one more death was like hearing a vaguely remembered uncle had died rather than someone who had mentored and supported him for months.

He loaded three of the dum-dums back into the gun, and alternated them with three standard stub gun rounds from his flak vest pocket - he figured the factory standard bullets were probably better sealed than the home-made ones. Snapping the heavy revolver closed again, he holstered it and looked around.

"Creepy room" he said to himself, as hundreds of the old mannequins stood and lay around him. Many had crude faces scrawled on them. Some were partially dressed, some had chunks missing after being used for target practice and some had been sliced and scarred by knives and swords. A couple were blistered and burned by fire.

He picked his way across the room, which occupied the entire first floor of the building. He couldn't make out any obvious stairs or ladders in the unlit gloom of the building, but there were regular thick concrete columns supporting the roof above that prevented him from looking in every direction at once. In the centre he found a floor section missing, and the ceiling above had a matching hole. A chain hoist dangled down from above.

The floor below was a swirling mass of trash and oily water as the ground floor of the building filled to meet the water level outside. It didn't look welcoming. He looked up to the floor above instead - straight into the face of a ganger who had just looked down from above. The ganger was wearing a hooded robe - Cawdor or Redemptionist, he could't tell in the gloom. Either way, he was about to shout an alarm.

Denga tried to draw his stub gun fast, but it caught in the clammy material of the holster, so he instead darted back into the shadows hauling it free as the ganger above shouted "Intruder!"

He cocked the stub gun as he hid amongst the forest of mannequins. He heard the whine of an electric motor and the rattle of chains as a cage lift lowered through the gap. There were three gangers in it - two with autoguns, one with a chainsword and a large pistol, and they split up and headed in different directions. None headed directly towards Denga. He stayed as still as possible.


Grex came round with a cough and splutter. It was almost pitch dark, and the splashing he made as he jerked awake echoed in the confined space. An eerie light filtered from floor level allowing him to just see the sloped, rusty walls of wherever the hell he was.

He was on his back in a slanted, half-cylindrical room. The floor beneath him was crumpled metal, with a few inches of water. The light was coming in round the rim of the floor on half of the room. There were no doors or windows, the air was stale and heavy, and he could hear a deep rumble from outside his metal prison.

He tried to keep his panic in check. He remembered falling as the water destroyed the building... the old water tank spinning in front of him... realisation struck him - he was in the water tank. Yes, the bottom was one slanted wall and the curved, sloped ceiling was a side. It had crumpled with him inside it, the side with the hole in it was below him, flattened by the impact of it hitting the ground at the bottom of the building.

Standing, he had just enough room to brace himself against the sloped ceiling and push. It flexed and moved, creating strange wobbly-rumbling sounds. As the rim behind him lifted slightly, more water came in with an odd, bubbly sounding gush. His ears popped too.

He tried again, lifting the back more. With a scrape and thump something shifted and dragged down the sloped roof outside. His ears popped again and the world spun, water gushed in and the room upended - he was swept upwards in a rush of bubbles, scraping through what had been the rim of the floor.

He managed to open his eyes - the world around him was bizarre... rubble, floating wreckage, a strange, illuminated shifting ceiling above him... he tried to kick and struggle up, and with a gasp, broke the surface. Frantically splashing, he managed to grab onto a floating panel of insulation foam, which sqeaked under his fingers.

Finally able to breathe again, he looked around. He was in a fairly large square. The waterfall coming down where the bolthole used to stand was about thirty metres away. It looked like every building immediately adjacent had collapsed to create the square. Water was swirling around the area before flowing away along the various alleys and through exposed building interiors around him.

He was slowly being swept towards one of the building interiors, and as he approached, managed to grab a piece of rebar and drag himself onto the ruins of an internal staircase. He dragged the insulation foam out of the water too. Perched on the stairs, he took stock of the situation. He had a variety of cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. He'd lost his autogun, grenades, and one leg of his trousers. His knife was still sheathed at his belt, but apart from that he was now unarmed.

Dragging the unwieldy foam sheet beside him, he stumbled up to the first floor of the building. It seemed to be completely empty. He couldn't drag the sheet around everywhere. It would help him to float though... Dropping the foam sheet, he stripped out of his flak vest and drew his knife. The vest was lined with pouches that would, in miltary service, contain ceramic armour plates to stop shrapnel, small arms fire and disperse lasgun strikes. All Grex had in there was centimetre thick sheets of crude boilerplate in the front pouches - effective against knives and perhaps stub gun rounds, but not much more. They were heavy, and protection from knives would mean nothing if he drowned. He spent a few minutes cutting the foam and stuffing the cut panels into the armour pouches of his flak vest, front back and sides.

He shrugged the much lighter vest back on, and began to look around for a route through the buildings and rooftops to head further in-hive. He wasn't sure where he was going, but there were other Orlock gangs in the area and he may as well try his luck joining up with them... if they were still alive.
The scent of floral incense hung lightly in the air, a recording of a choral chant playing quietly in the background. Sunlight flooded in through the ten metre tall windows, pleasantly warming the room.

She sat on a purple velvet couch, thickly padded and trimmed with cloth of gold to match the ornately carved legs, taking a rare second to relax. She looked out of the windows at the cloud tops, tinged yellow with pollution. Her bionic monocle could pick out the specks of shuttlecraft nipping about, and if she zoomed in she'd be able to make out the distant spire of anoter hive just piercing the horizon. As it was she was content, for now, just to watch without enhancement.

A gentle ping disturbed her, followed by the barely audible swish as one of the huge, ancient oak double doors swung open behind her on well maintained servos.

"My Lady, the abominations have been located" came the voice of one of her trusted aides. One of the few who didn't have to be given permission to speak in her presence.

"Oh?" she asked, not taking her eyes from the view.

"In the underhive my Lady, a dome referred to in recent files as Fury's Rest. It has been a hotbed of insurrection recently, and has been marked for extermination. The process has been started - effluence flooding it would seem."

"How long until it's complete?"

"Two or three days my Lady."

"Well then. Have Captain Arctus report to me - I believe he has experience of this "Fury's Rest". And have Skettleworth lay out my armour in my chambers. We shall have to see about acquiring a sample of these mutant abominations for examination."

The aide nodded and silently left the room.

Lady Gloriana Baudicea rose from the couch, her light blue silk gown swishing on the highly polished floor as she strode from the room.

The doors, sensing her exit, swung closed behind her, bringing the two halves of the intricately carved and painted design on their outer surfaces together before firmly locking.

Bubonicus took in the aroma from the bow of his new prize. The Nevergreen. A worthy steed to carry him on the next part of Grandfather's great journey. The sump trawler captain had practically pulled his hand off when he had strolled casually into the quaint little town of Sumpton Upon Sump and offered his entire kingdom in exchange for a few rusty boats. The sump captain was now king of an entire dome, leader of a whole tribe of scrofulous minions and a network of criminal gangs. He called himself the Garbage King, but his reign would be mercifully short.

The vision had come to him in a dream, as many of Grandfather's instructions did. A great torrent to wash away the old and usher in a new era. Death and rebirth. Such was the great cycle of Nurgle.

He had gathered his closest allies around him, Brazz, the ex-Goliath ganger that had saved his life all those years ago. Grox and Drax, the giant mutant brothers who had been among the first to offer him fealty. Hans Hammerface, the pack slave whom he had freed from the Mechanicus explorators, along with a clutch of his most "gifted" sons and daughters, after all, he would need a lot of manpower if he was to escape the dome and continue Grandfather's Great Crusade...

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A drip-drip-drip of water on Mick Jogger's head wakes him from his drunken stupor. He rolls over on his mattress to realise that it is completely soaked through. For a moment he panics thinking someone's spilled the keg of fungus beer! Then he comes to and realises it's the floodwater, rising and coming from under the door. "Shit! Looks like we'll have to move hideout again." At that moment Mr N Satisfaction sloshes through the doorway. "Hey Boss, I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is the pissing water's up again. The good news is I've heard some troll chatter that one of them clone boys you've been wanting to nail is in the area an' spoilin' for a fight." Mick Jogger grinned. It might not be such a bad cycle after all...
The gangers crept around amongst the mannequins in the gloom - Denga could hear their robes rustling. He fought the urge to try and move or run - in a room full of mennequins a sudden movement would draw fire much faster than staying still, so he hunkered down beside one that was still clad in a tattered coat of thick, burgundy cloth... and had an idea.

The closest hunter seemed to be moving away, so he carefully laid his stub gun within easy reach and started to remove the mannequin's coat, staying down and being as slow as he could. Getting it free with the barest of squeaks from the mannequin's rusty frame he was glad to see the coat had exactly what he was looking for - a long hood like a scribe would wear. He crouched again and quietly shrugged the musty coat on, one sleeve flopping to the ground as its decayed stitching gave way. He swept up the sleeve and bunched it up, stuffing it into the hood before pulling it up - it made the hood stand up, just like the three gangers were wearing!

Retrieving his stub gun and mouthing a silent prayer to anyone that might be listening, he very carefully stood up and began moving through the mannequins, slowly and purposefully, as if he were the hunter. Nobody shot at him. He moved along the outer wall, and true enough could see two of the gangers looking about seperate from one another - he couldn't see the third, but that wasn't surprising with the columns and dummies everywhere. They could easily have seen him, but seemed to be ignoring the hooded figure silhouetted in the half-light, as he hoped they would.

There didn't seem to be any way out of the building. He could stay on this floor, or he could try and go up - down was still a swirling morasse of debris. He contemplated simply moving around avoiding the gangers... but eventually they would realise there were four of them down there or at least grow bored and gather up to head back upstairs, and he's stand out again. Instead he began making his way towards the closest ganger, trying to keep roughly behind him. He wasn't sure what he was going to do exatly, but that ganger had a functional looking Autogun which would go a long way to evening the odds if he could get his hands on it.

"Hey?" came the questioning voice from behind him. He autmoatically swung and pulled the trigger... the hammer snapped down on a dud cartridge.
"You nearly shot me, you jumpy juve! Be more careful! Have you seen him?" the figure called, but didn't raise his own weapon - apparently still convinced by the hood. That wouldn't last forver... Denga stood and walked towards him, gun low but ready, uttering pious sounding apologies as he approached. The figure looked away, and must have twigged something was up... his autogun began to swing towards Denga and the bright eyes within his hood widened. Whether he'd noticed there were too many people or heard the wrong voice Denga would never know, as the second attempt with his stub gun barked a loud rapport - the dum-dum bullet taking the ganger squarely and messily between the temple and ear. All pretense at stealth gone, Denga grabbed at the autogun even before it had hit the floor and darted away from where he thought the other two were, his hood flapping back with the sudden burst of speed.

Sliding behind a column, he quickly checked there was a round in the autogun's chamber before risking a look round. One ganger was rushing towards where the body of his comrade lay, the other was further back, holding up a faintly glowing plasma pistol, but looking around warily rather than rushing on. He didn't think the further ganger - probably the leader - could see where the other was heading due to the columns in the way. Denga dropped to one knee below the height of the mannequins and aimed at the still visible body of the fallen ganger. The other reached the body and began uttering a benediction, peering carefully around. Denga felt no remorse in the chattering hail of fire he put in his back before scuttling away to the tinkle of brass on the concrete floor.

He was breathing heavily now, and couldn't hear anybody approaching over the ringing in his ears from the autogun fire. He realised he'd lost track of the the leader. He could however hear the chain hoist as it slowly moved the lift cage back to the upper level - almost certainly to bring more religious fanatics down to see what was going on.

Now at the opposite wall, Denga still couldn't see any way down that wouldn't kill him. As he scampered along behind a row of packing cases, one of them exploded with a white hot flash - a plasma hit! Burning plastic shards pattered all around him as he twisted to face where the shot had come from. The leader was advancing along a clear path between rows of mannequins, chainsword held high, steaming plasma pistol pointing at Denga. He pulled the trigger of the Autogun without really aiming and it chattered to life... for three shots before falling silent. The three shots knocked one manneqiun over and blew a chunk from the belly of another... but didn't hit the advancing leader. Denga quickly racked the bolt of the Autogun. Empty. The magazine must not have been fully loaded when he seized it.

He fumbled his hand under his coat for the stub gun, finally ripping it free, aimed a little more carefully and pulled the trigger... nothing... he pulled again and it squibbed, dull sparks hissing from the chamber but nothing coming from the barrel. In desperation he closed his eyes and tried to pull the trigger again... nothing. A bullet was lodged beween chamber and forcing cone, preventing it from cycling. He screamed in frustration and threw the pistol at the leader, now only four metres away, and watched in disbelief as even that missed, clattering to his right amongst the packing cases.

The leader was laughing out loud - "As it is forseen by the HOLY EMPEROR!" he shouted, "YOU, weak imposter, shall not kill ME this day! My armour of FAITH protects me from your UNCLEAN WEAPONS!" His voice rose to a shriek. "OH HOLY EMPEROR! SEE ME THIS DAY! I SHALL DISMEMBER THIS FOUL BLASPHEMER IN THY HOLY SIGHT!"

The leader revved the chainsword and continued advancing, but kept the plasma pistol ready. Denga could hear its powerful hum beween religious tirades. Fear gripped his gut and he tried to force himself to move... leap... anything... but he couldn't... he'd never been so helpless in all the gang fights he'd experienced. All that kept going through his mind was how he could have thrown the stub gun so badly, as if it were the biggest regret of his soon to end life.

The leader was babbling incoherently now, spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were fixed solidly on Denga, who could smell his unwashed robes, and count the stains down the front of his dark red cassock. The chainsword revved to a scream and he raised it above his head, shrieking a prayer.

Well, this is it, Denga thought, suddenly feeling calm. He had heard tales of people's lives flashing before their eyes, but nothing of the sort happened. He simply sat, rooted to the spot, and watched the frothing, manic face of the leader about to mangle him with a chainsword with almost disinterest. It had to happen eventually. The scales had to balance - he'd killed a good number of people in his hime, and it was his turn. He began to wonder exatly how many people he'd killed. Fifteen perhaps? It was hard to know in gang fights - you coduldn't always be sure whether the person you'd hit was dead or later recovered. He knew one Van Saar he'd shot on three seperate occasions - the old fool had somehow always survived until a lasbolt had taken the back of his head off...

Hold on.

It must have been a few seconds. The chainsword hadn't struck. But it was dark. Denga realised his eyes were closed, and managed to convince them to open. The Leader was standing there. The chainsword was still raised, screaming blades poised to kill. But his expression had changed. His eyes were unfocussed... some kind of religious trance? No. Not that... Denga knew that expression... he was...

Denga suddenly came back to himself like a freight lifter hitting a building. He threw himself aside, knocking over several dummies as the leader fell face first onto the floor, the chainsword carving a deep gouge in the concrete where he had been sitting before skittering out of the leader's hand and ricocheting away to splutter out imbedded in a packing crate.

Denga couldn't help but burst out laughing as he saw the hilt of a fighting kife sticking proud of the leader's back, right between his shoulder blades, as a callused, tattooed hand grabbed the hilt and yanked it free.

"Well, don't just sit there" said Grex, wiping the bloodied blade on the dead Redemptionist's cloak. Denga could hear the chattering of the chain lift beginning to lower again. He scrambled and grabbed the plasma pistol, and suddenly completely clear headed, stood up. He took a step towards the chain lift, a good fifteen metres away, and flicked the power selector of the plasma pistol to Maximum. He'd never used a plasma weapon before, but somehow it felt right. He didn't feel fear as the cage lowered, revealing six red-robed fanatics in it. They raised their weapons as they saw him and began shouting insults as they opened fire wildly. Nothing hit Denga as he aimed the Plasma pistol, grinned, and fired.

It was clear the shot wasn't going to hit the cage. One of the redemptionists even laughed in mockery as the bolt whipped overhead. The laugh turned to a collective scream as the heavy iron cage plumetted into the whirling torrent of debris-filled water below, the glowing end of the chain following into the water with a hiss, leaving a small flame of burning oil on the surface to briefly flare before guttering out.

The plasma pistol hissed wildly as Denga lowered it and Grex put his hand on his shoulder.

"Well..." said Grex, "I was going to claim that pistol myself, but I think you've earned it. Let's get the rest of the weapons and get out of here."
Right you 'orrible lot! I want stories! Drama! Amusing anecdotes! Tell us all what happened for posterity (and so I can live vicariously through you)
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No kidding! We strongly suspect a load of you have smartphones with cameras. Where’s all the pictures?!?
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“You want stories?” A low slightly husky voice croaked out of the gloom.

“I can give you stories.”

It was a thin, athletically built man dressed in a green vest, red trousers and brown boots. He put an LHO stick in his mouth, struck a match on the seam of his trousers and lit the stick.
Flicking the spent match away he inhaled, removed the stick and blew out a long stream of smoke.

“They call me Chopwell and I survived the flood.”

The night before TribeMeet, constructing Metro Morph terrain, kits kindly donated by Crowd Forge Studio:

First outing for the Rolling Stoners, trying to intercept a precious package carried by the Ripflow Sharks.

Soon into the battle a fierce, yet strangely alluring, Sump Angler Frog appears.

Djanjo is gobbled up and never seen again.

Bebop thinks twice about his chances, and decides to run!

Unfortunately, he doesn't leg it quick enough, and the frog eats his leg.
“I heard there were no survivors of that flooded dome?”

Chopwell cast his eyes over to where the voice came from. It was a scraggly man with a bionic arm and a particularly fine mustache. By the style of his trenchcoat and ragged trousers he was probably a trader from one of the many bazaars that circled the flooded dome.

“That might be the official line” replied Chopwell “but I was the first out and there might have been a couple of Escher and my old mate Pedro wasn’t too far behind but I haven’t heard from him since.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Not at all friend. I saw the fall of Furiosa myself; she was on fire as she took out a load of scavvies and I mean ON FIRE, as in burning. She still whipped them into a bloody pulp and carried on.”

“There’s only a few high enough exit points from that dome, you seriously saying a runt like you could get past someone of her calibre, her Ogryn bodyguard and regiments of highly trained Enforcers? Ambull crap.”

“I didn’t say I took her on in one-on-one combat friend. I just said I was the first to escape the dome. Look, we’re getting ahead of things. Let me take you back to where it all began.”

Chopwell took out another LHO stick and lit it, again drawing heavily on the pungent smoke before blowing out in a long stream.

“It all began when we’d received an assignment to deliver cargo to Trollholme, my Captain had access to our top cargoship which we’d retrieved from where it’s previous owners had wedged it stuck in the sewer canal a while back. Seemed a shame to waste it.

Anyway, he figured if we were going into Troll infested waters he’d better get a couple of hired guns in tow. One a scummer called ‘Orc’ who fancies himself as one of that Xenos but in reality he’s some mutie hunchback with a couple of real fancy bolt pistols. The other a quiet Ratskin, refuses to give his name.

All was quiet until our scout ship, the Sump Skimmer radioed in that they’d seen a Trollship on the horizon…”

* * *

Green tinged water quickly lapped up the sides of the Wasteland Pirates Sump Skimmer. It was a small boat, powered by twin sails which picked up on the constant flow of air that blew through the hive bottom. In enclosed areas you’d hardly notice it but out on the open expanse of the sump it was strong enough at times to power huge vessels. One such huge vessel had just appeared on the horizon. It’s large black sail denoted its status as one of the Trollships. There had been rumours that the King Troll had a fleet of such vessels but no-one had ever seen more than the one but it had the habit of being seen regularly in different locations often seemingly at the same time.

Van Cleef whistled down to Florentine who was sat in the middle of the boat and had been doing maintenance on his prized shotgun.
“Hey, get on the shortwave, We’ve got Troll’s coming.”
There was a grumbling from behind the front sail before the muscular hulk of The Engineer moved into view.
“Hmm” he moaned “I’d hoped we’d avoid them, I’ll get the Heavy Stubber trained on their ship but you get ready to steer us out of range of them. I’ve heard Trolls can get real tricky.”

Van Cleef nodded. It was his task to steer the skimmer and the last thing he needed was to get rammed by a warship. That would be a real pisser.

“Sure, sure,” he replied “Florentine! Radio the main ship dammit!”

Florentine gently put down his shotgun and pulled the small radio from his pocket, depressed the switch and spoke into the receiver.
“Trollship ahead boss. We’ve got our eye on it, Out.”

* * *

Captain Strongarm was lazily slumped in the wheelhouse of the Cargo Vessel he’d recently come into ownership of. He was hoping to snooze until they’d reached closer to Trollholme but had been rudely awoken by a static buzz ridden call from their scout ship. Trolls. He didn’t need this.
Slowly he got to his feet and moved over to his helmsman, a tiny muscular man he’d picked especially for his enthusiasm not only to steer such a massive vessel but also to get into combat. Sometimes you just need an incredibly violent halfling to stand by you.

“Ron, we’ve got trouble brewing. I can trust you to not scupper our new ship right?”

“Sure can,” lied Little Ron, “If those Trolls come near I’ll just drift us out of the way.”

Strongarm knew this was a lie. It was far more likely that Ron would be the first to abandon his post if the opportunity to belt a Troll in the face came up. Even though its more likely he’d be hitting them in the sternum.”

“Ok Ron, I’ll be up here with you so you stick to that.” He walked over to the open door and leant out. Below him were a few of his crew, a rather mute Ratskin and a scummer he’d hired who was perched on the engine housing.
“Listen up chaps, we’ve got Trolls coming. I know this is the first time we’ve seen them so lets be friendly right? One of our deliveries is for their home and I don’t want this to be our first and last delivery run.”

There was much muttering from below. It was a well known fact that Trolls were tricky and keen to recruit more to their cause even if you were reluctant. In fact they preferred it if you were reluctant.

The large shape of the Trollship loomed into view. It was travelling at quite some speed. Strongarm guesstimated it at being 1 ½ it’s usual speed due to the powerful wind that had stirred up. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. A bad omen.

* * *

At the front of the cargo ship Barrington stood looking at the rapidly approaching Trollship. At this rate they’ll have met and passed each other with no incident.
Then there was an incident.

He noticed the muzzleflash from their skimmers Heavy Stubber towards the Trollship. It wasn’t obvious who fired first but it was obvious that a raging gun battle was taking place.
“Oh mon, dis is bad.” he said slapping the face of Pedro next to him who had been casually looking down at the water parting on the bow.
“Those idiots have started a fight wid the Trolls.”

“Eh? Oh crap. Maybe they’ll not realise we’re together?”

“You stupid mon? They get close enough and they’ll see our gang colours.”

“Maybe we could just hide behind the shipping containers?”

“Nice. Then we can get shot for cowardice.”

He looked back towards the Sump skimmer. They were getting alarmingly close to the action now. There was a huge spray of blood and the hulking figure of The Engineer at the front of the skimmer slumped backwards. That was their Heavy Stubber out of action now. Closely followed by the green coated figure of Florentine collapsing to the deck. Their man on the rudder, Van Cleef could be seen frantically adjusting the sail and trying to position the skimmer away from the Trollship. He needn’t have bothered. The Trollship had changed course to encounter them next and from it’s side a metal balloon like ship carrying barrels could be seen.

“Get your gun ready mon,” said Barrington “we’re up next.”

“Why did we get put at the bloody front?”

“You want to stand next to that creepy Orc guy?”

“Hell no.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

The downing of the skimmer crew hadn’t escaped the attention of Captain Strongarm either. He’d just had an all too brief radio exchange with Florentine before the line went dead. From what he could gather the Trolls had taken a pop at their Heavy Stubber guy, who had retaliated and things spiralled downwards. Perhaps it was a bad idea to have put him up front? Maybe that did look kinda like they were spoiling for a fight? They were in Troll waters now. If you could call it water. It was hard to determine what collection of fluids they were sailing across.



“You break it, you pay for it.”

“Got ya boss.”

Little Ron was clearly itching to get out there and bash someone.

“Let the hired guns do the heavy lifting.”

“Ok boss.”

Strongarm leaned once more out of the cab and spoke to the crew below.
“Hey, things are heating up.”

“Waaaaaaaaaagh!” Screamed Orc “I’m a gonna get me some Troll meat!!”

It was a bad idea to hire these weirdos, Strongarm just knew it. Still, he’d rather send this weirdo in rather than one of his own men.

The Trollship shifted once more to close in on them, some of the manic chattering could be clearly heard coming from their deck. The Trolls unleashed a hail of gunfire on the cargo ship and most of Strongarm’s Crew dove to the floor to avoid being shot. All except the scummer Orc who enthusiastically returned fire with his gold and jewel covered Bolt pistols.
There was much commotion from the deck of the Trollship. It seems the yellow clad Troll had been the recipient of Orc’s gunfire and they were not happy.

The gunner at the back of the Trollship aimed his harpoon launcher at the Pirates skimmer. His harpoon sailed smoothly towards the stern and skewered Van Cleef sending him flying several meters out of his vessel and into the murky green liquid that passed as a sea. The skimmer was unmanned, its only remaining crew lying out cold on the desk as the hive wind pushed it onwards leaving Van Cleef to his fate.

“Boss boss boss!! The skimmers out of action!” Exclaimed Little Ron. “What do we do now boss??”

“Only one thing left” said Strongarm “better defend the cargo.”
He swung out of the cab again and fired his boltgun at the Trolls. Several went down but he couldn’t make out if it was permanently or if they were just avoiding being shot again.

Orc unleashed his bolt pistols again but was cut down by a hail of bullets in return from the Trolls. One of the Pirates engine crew, a blue mohawked man known as Gogul took aim at the Troll’s flying balloon and sniped its only pilot. The balloon stopped moving. Its pilot was dead.

Little Ron also retrieved his trusty stubgun and leaned heavily to his right to fire out of the wheelhouse window, unfortunately he didn’t let go of the steering stick. The cargo ship moved swiftly to its starboard and its bow slammed into the front side of the Trollship. Trolls and Pirates alike were knocked off their feet as the two vessels scraped each others starboard sides with a horrifying screeching of metal and a cracking of wood.
Ron knew this damage would take a long time to pay off.

Down at the bow of the cargo ship Barrington and Petro were having their own problems one particularly big Troll armed with a huge flamer thrower had taken a fancy to roasting some pirates. The Troll grinned a macabre smile and unleashed a torrent of liquid flaming death dousing Barrington from head to toe. He collapsed to the deck and tried the roll method to extinguish it. It would’ve worked if the deck itself wasn’t also blazing with fire. Pedro tried to slap down some of the fire but it was a pretty futile effort. At least he wasn’t also on fire.

The manic chattering rose from the Trollship to fever pitch as the Trolls scrambled to their feet and fired all they had at the cargo ship. Their shots rebounded off the vessel and containers alike but nothing struck a pirate. The Troll harpooner also tried to skewer a second victim but the shot was wide. He spat at his own misfortune as the two ships continued to crunch past each other.

As the two vessels sterns closed in a strange anger took over Gogul. He ran down the side of the cargo ship and lept towards the ladder on the bulkhead on the back of the Trollship. It was a difficult jump but he reached and grasped the rungs of the ladder just as the two ships moved away from each other. Pulling himself up he started to climb until he reached the top and swung himself up over the rails and landed firmly on the deck of the Trolls wheelhouse.
The Troll that was steering looked blankly at this interloper. He seemed a bit confused at first but then started to give a wide but sweet smile at Gogul before instantly snapped into a snarl and lunging towards him.
Gogul used his elbow to belt the Troll in the face, breaking its nose. It emitted a high pitch squeal alerting an even bigger Troll over the opposite side of Gogul’s presence. Was he the Troll King? Gogul and the squeeking Troll tussled for a while before the bigger Troll approached, slapped down his underling, picked Gogul up by the neck and swiftly deposited him over the side into the sump sea below.

The bigger Troll looked back at the stern of the cargo ship with a vague disinterest, like he had other things on his mind. He lifted his gun and fired off a shot at the back. Then he turned to command his vessel onwards. They had other engagements he cared more for.

Pedro had finished slapping the last of the flames down on Barrington. He was quite burned but hopefully they could get treatment at the next port. He could see the cargo ship had turned to come alongside the unpiloted Troll balloon. A command came down to him from Captain Strongarm to hop over and take control of it. It could fetch a few creds on the black market but it’s far too dangerous to keep such a ship around for fear of reprisals.

Strongarm himself leant out of the cab and called down to what what left of the crew below, a Heavy who’d done bugger all during the altercation the hired ratskin who was looking after Orc and two Juves, Chopwell and Luke Plankwalker who had a badly injured right hand and was exclaiming in very fruity language how much he hated Trolls and the Troll King.

It could’ve been worse. No-one had died but they were in rough shape.

“Better turn this ship round Ron” said Strongarm, “pick up the Skimmer and find VC and Gogul who are floating around out there somewhere.”

“Sure boss.”

“And Ron.”

“Yes boss.”

“You’d better start saving to cover that damage.”

“oh. Right boss.”
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