TribeMeet UK 2022 - Fluff & Story


=][= Ordo Grognardicus =][=
Staff member
Yak Comp 1st Place
Tribe Council
Jun 1, 2016
Ellon, United Kingdom
Whoop whoop! Time's a-tickin! Event attendees and enthusiastic bystanders are welcome to post their gang histories, fluffy bits and ongoing stories for the event here!


Water - or something similar to water, anyway - dripped from above onto the gritty concrete floor of the mustering cell. Flashes of neon light flickered through the crack between the doors to the arena.

He sat on the cold steel bench and adjusted the compression coils on the hydraulic system powering the large spiked mace replacing his left arm, just as he had for fifty fights. His ears pricked up as the announcer started outside - the general crowd noise muting as they began paying attention.

With a groan the doors began to open and bright light flooded in. He picked up the battered autopistol from beside him, checked there was a round chambered and stood. The announcer reached his crescendo, and the crowd began cheering and stamping - it felt like the whole hive was vibrating, a feeling that never got old.

He strode into the light feeling a not entirely natural surge of adrenalin as both his natural and augmetic systems prepared for combat. Looking around, he saw the other three fighters striding from their corner doors - all equipped as him, pistol and weapom arm, all less experienced than him. The new generation, some were calling them.

The announcer - MC Manc - in the centre stepped onto a metal platform attached by chains to a hovering airship above and was quickly whisked up into the relative safety of its gondola.

The air shimmered and a huge, holographic "10" appeared rotating above the centre of the arena. The crowd began to count down as the fighters turned to wave at the crowd and psych themselves up.

7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheering as a buzzer sounded the start of the bout. Some guns fired, but nothing hit home and he was already focussed on his first target - a slight but quick fighter, winner of several bouts, who was shooting obliquely at the fighter directly opposite and not paying close enough attention to him. As usual, he ignored the fact he was holding a pistol and barreled into the smaller fighter, whose right arm was a pair of shears. He brought up the mace, waited a fraction of a second as usual to allow the crowd time to notice - and smashed it down. Bits of skull, brain and concrete plinked from his shin plates as the hydraulic mace ended the hopes and dreams of his first target.

The crowd erupted in wild cheering as the announcer Cortina called the fatality, and he indulged himself in a heroic wave as he turned on the spot before facing into the arena and looking for his next target.

Opposite was a huge experienced brawler, the right side of his head and torso all augmetic, with a huge drill arm. Beside him lay a smoking plasma pistol - overheated - and he was trying to grab hold of a much smaller fighter. The small fighter was new, with only his left forearm replaced with a chain blade. The small one was firing round after roud from a stub gun, having no noticeable effect on his hulking attacker.

He strode over towards their fight, happy to let the big one kill the little one before he got there. The big fighter finally grabbed the small round the neck and hauled him writhing into the air before holding him out in order to aim his drill at his sternum. The litte one however managed to swing his chanblade accurately, severing almost through the arm holding him. With a spurt of hydraulic flud he dropped to the ground and immediately sprang up, chain arm held out. The big fighter's eyes and mouth opened in shock, but instead of a bellow of rage, blood and thick black ichor poured from his mouth down his chest as the chainblade ground and churned in his chest cavity.

The small fighter withdrew the blade - it was jammed solid with cabling and wires. The big fighter fell with a heavy thump, eyes still swivelling to follow the action but otherwise out of the fight.

The small fighter stood for a moment before turning to look at him as he strode onwards. Half way across the arena now, and the little guy had a jammed weapon arm and no bullets. The crowd, surprised at the downing of the big guy, now roared in expectation as he approached.

The little fighter didn't seem phased though, simply kneeling down. He began to run at him, raising the mace for a solid first strike - a few yards to go - and the small fighter pulled something from the oily ichor. Something steaming... the plasma pistol. The fighter raised it and he saw the green glow of the plasma coils activating... he tried to dive to the side but the servos in his legs needed a second to slow... the plasma gun flashed...


"Wow, Cortina! What a fight! The new boy wins it!"
"That's right Manc! Old Grex there was the sure thing for this fight, even against Big Driller Dexy!"
"And now he's smouldering in the dust Cort! I doubt the mechs can build him a new brain!"
"Certainly can't Manc, certainly can't! They'll have old Dexy going again though!"
"Oh yeah Cortina, we'll be seeing him again soon once he's been through the pits!"
"End of the line for BoJo there as well - mace to the face! So there you have it carnage fans! Two head-bursters in one fight! Now, with the warm-up fights done... onto the main event...!"
"I don't know... Seems drokked to me." Sonja shook her head and poked at a scrap of exposed shoulder flesh of the pitslave in front of her. The skin made a soft squelching noise, and she quikly recoiled her finger.
"Nah, nah, is in toppy-tip condition, yes!" chriped the fat little man in once-luxurious robes - now oil staned and patched. "Will fight well, perhaps visit Moira, her service good, good as new, yes!" he added excitedly.

The pitslave blinked its one human eye - a milky-yellow affair, a telltale sign of fluid cleansing filters that desperately needed changing.

She stood back to observe it again. It had a big round buzz saw as a right arm, a bionic right eye, both bionic legs, and a large part of the torso was either fully or partially augmented. It was certainly a good price, but the parts were rusty and worn, the flesh components were succumbing to necrosis in several places, and the reactions desperately needed tuning up. She waved her hand in front of its face and it followed her movements... two seconds after they'd happened. She looked at the fat little man and raised her eyebrows.

"Is nothing, a good service, all be fine after that, yes!" - his wide grin grew.

"Two hundred and fifty" she said.

He looked like she'd shot him - "Nah, nah, price advert was five hundred! Nah! You rob me!"

"Two hundred and fifty" she repeated.

"Two fifty? Never, never, I sell just hees arm for that! Four hundred! And I not eat so good this week!"

"Three hundred. And I didn't ask where you got it, did I? Would you like me to ask that?"

His grin faltered slightly, telling her all she needed to know - the pitslave was at best with him after being lost in a dodgy card game, or was stolen - both came with the distinct possibility of future problems.

"Three hundred it is" he said glumly.

Sonja grinned and grabbed his little arm, shaking his hand, slapping a 300 cred chit into it - all she'd actually brought with her.

"Great doing business with you. Now, let's get you to Moira's".

The pitslave creaked and, she was almost sure, smiled slightly.
The pink neon word "Moria's" flickered above the illuminated red MECHANISATIONS over the shop front. The armoured door was closed, and the grilled window showed an array of various oily, flaky-painted and vicious looking implements through the grubby glass.

All in all it had the look of a shop you didn't enter just to browse.

Sonja pushed the huge door and it slowly swung open, eliciting a gentle tinkle from a tiny bell mounted above it. Inside was rack upon rack of weapons, armour plates, fluid bottles, filters, cabling and everything else you could conceivably need to build and maintain pit fighters, the only limit being your budget.

Sonja picked her way over to the counter - it was chest height to her - as her new pitslave ambled in behind her, bumping noisily into a rack of assorted legs. Above the counter, mounted on the wall, was the biggest gun she'd ever seen - the barrel was as thick as her bicep, and from it hung a belt of shells as big as her fist. She was just wondering how big someone would need to be to wield that, when a shadow moved beyond the bead curtain behind the counter and a mountain of a woman swept it aside with a grunt.

The chest-high counter suddenly made sense, as Moira the Ogryn stomped out, staring quizically down at Sonja.

"Uh.. Hi..." she began, "I'm Sonja, of the Slicers, this is my new pit fighter," she indicated the pitslave which had worked its way into a corner and didn't seem to be able to work out how to step backwards. "It... could do with a service. Desperately. Could you... take a look?"

Moira growled, a grin splitting her bright pink gloss lipstick, and strode over to the slave. Without any apparent effort she picked it up and spun it to face her. She did exactly the same reaction test as Sonja had previously, the hand-wave, which it failed worse than it had this morning.

She shoved it and it barely tried to stop itself thumping heavily onto its back on the oil stained floor. Moira laughed - a frankly scary sound on its own - and nodded to herself, hauling the slave back to its feet, and leading it back through the bead curtain to the back of the shop. Sonja, unsure of whether to follow or not, stood for a few seconds, before calling through instead - "I'll... come back in a few hours, yeah?".

There was no response but the sound of a power driver screaming into life. She went off to get a burger and a drink from the Hive Guys food stand she'd passed on the way there.
It had been twenty years since his birthday. Or rather build day. Davy Jones stood motionless in the corner as he did most days, only occasionally had he been called upon to do anything other than aid construction of whatever structure the Pirates needed. His skin was waxy, almost plastic in appearance, like a mannequin. Parts which should be flesh were a green plastishield coating, or simply metallic prosthetics but the most notable addition was the gigantic chainsaw he had instead of a left forearm. That and the massive power pack on his back.

Today was different though, there was a fancy garland draped around him, many of the gang members were sloshing down a mostly unpalatable grog, the sort that only starts to become bearable once the drinker had consumed a few pints already and the toxic effects were kicking in enough to strip the tastebuds of their function. The oldest member of the group stood on a table to raise a toast, he cleared his throat and then one of the barrels of his shotgun into the air. Silence settled in the den.

He ruffled his bushy grey beard before he spoke and removed his pipe from his mouth.
"As you all know, ol' Davy here was cruelly deprived of his lootin' days a lifetime or more ago for some of you. For two decades now he's been robotized like a tool, an implement. Now. Now though, comes the time to bring him back to how he was, the meanest, nastiest son of a in the sump sector."

The crowd roared approval, grog was sloshed into the air and onto each other, a move they might regret later that night as outside of the digestive system its acidic nature could lead to some mild burns given prolonged skin contact. Our speaker, Mr Mordheim, was pleased with the reception. He continued, waving the crowd into a moderate silence.

"As a former gang member who fought side by side with him, I for one welcome the chance to unleash that psychotic side he had in combat. Not in a sump dive, not in drinking hole or scummer settlement but in the CUBE!"

The crowd roared again.

"Friends, fighters, despicable miscreants, Davy Jones will rise again! He will live again, He will fight again!!!"

The roaring was deafening now. Another barrel of Mr Mordheim's shotgun silenced the room again.

"Bring forward the lobo chip tool."

A small man crept forward and handed a lobo reprogrammer to Mr Mordheim.

"With this tool we can unlink the brain mushing the authorities installed and for our own safety we can remotely re-enable it should it prove to be needed."
Mr Mordheim attached the device to near Davy's robotic eye and plugged in a few cables. He moved back and slowly rotated the control dial slightly. Davy juddered a little and then a human emotion happened. An emotion he hadn't had for twenty years. Resentment.

Davy smirked, his plastic face folded in a way it hadn't in a long time.

"Take him to the Escher holding rooms" Mr Mordheim instructed. Several burly gangers prodded Davy in the direction of an iron cladded door. "I heard it's Ladies Night down the Thundercube. Lets have our own ladies night here, now."

Another mohawked pirate opened the heavy door as Davy Jones was prodded inside.

Many a grogged up pirate scrambled up the stairways either side of the door, keen to get a decent view from the viewing balcony.

Mr Mordheim straightened his back, nodded for the door to be closed and bolted. Then he made his way to the rightmost staircase. As he ascended he slowly rotated the dial on the lobo reprogrammer from its passive to unleashed setting. The unmistakable roar of a chainsaw could be heard coming from behind the iron door, followed quickly by screams.

"Happy Birthday brother."
Rogan sat at the Sumps edge idly skipping stones across it's surface.
Every now and then he'd check to make sure his pistol 'Junk'was still where he'd left it. That pistol was crude, prone to jamming and had had to be rebuilt more times than he could count as it exploded every now and then. But she was his and she had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Every now and then he idly wondered at the treasure that could be found in the flooded caverns below, then would curse his luck that he didn't have the right gear or daring to risk what else could have been lurking down on the depths of Old Fury's Rest.

As Rogan was thinking of leaving he spied a strange shadow moving just under the sump surface. Curious but ready he reached for Junk before relaxing.
It was just a skull bobbing in the current.

Wait....the surface was still no current to speak of....

Fear gripped Rogan as he levelled the pistol at the skull. It seemed to bob as though nodding then began to rise as it stepped forwards.

Effluent cascaded from the eye sockets and open jaw of the skull, revealing plant fronds sprouting from what used to be it's neck.

As it emerged Rogan fired off shot after shot, all flew wide as terror tore his aim back and forth, until eventually Junk clicked dry.

Standing before him was a lightly armoured form with what looked like plant fronds waving from its back and cybernetics replacing some limbs, it raised a rusted rifle head clacking to one side.

'Friend?' it rattled.

Rogan hurriedly nodded that he was.

'Gooood' breathed the creature.

It thumped the butt of the rifle on the shore and Rogan lost control of his bodily functions as more of the obscene creatures rose from the depths.

One, which seemed far more enhanced than the others, hauled itself onto shore using a massive chain claw. It fixed him with a stare from within its Gladiatorial helmet.

'Spore Mother approaches, show respect. Bow. Your. Head.'

Rogan collapsed as his legs gave way all thoughts of escape or defence fleeing his fear numbed little mind.

Before him he heard the foot crunch upon the shore, then felt the caress of needle like fingers on his cheek. It tilted his head and he looked up into the horned skull of a cloaked monster.

The monster reached down with one of many fronds holding a pale orange or. Almost reverently the creature placed it on his flesh.

Immediately sharp fronds shot out from the orb, piercing Rogans flesh.
His blood boiled and his skin felt aflame as he felt....something push it's way into his body and soul....

Screaming in agony Rogan perished, the skin sloughing from his face to feed the new organism that had taken root within him.

Within minutes the new creature stood flexing it's new body.

'My thanks Spore Mother, I am Rogan.' with little ceremony the Spore Mother beckoned the rest of the group onwards rusted weapons held in familiar hands.

Casting about Rogan found Junk and delicately retrieved it from among the shore line detritus.

'Time to fix you, again.'

Rogan looked out at the walls of the settlement just beyond the Sump Lake.

It had been a long swim...time to say Hi and find more friends that their Kin might walk again.

The PlantKin walk.....Screams in the dark......
He gazed across the decaying urban blight of Sumpifornia Dome, savoring the warm burning sensation as a draft of stale, irradiated air blew from a nearby vent. Mr. Mangler turned his slab face and cold, dead eyes away from the overcrowded hab blocks, the shanties choking off traffic in the walkways, and the deteriorating asbestosene storefronts. This had been his workplace for as far back as his cogitation lobe’s memory core allowed him to recall. He had lived well here, becoming portly from his good fortune and lack of humanitarian scruples. Unlike many others, he could afford regular maintenance on his bionics. He could afford chems to help the worst of his radiation sores form a bruised crustiness that the docs assured him was “perfectly healed.”

Mr. Mangler did not like killing. In fact, he hated it and every time his targets expired, an unquenchable rage blackened his otherwise vacant, sallow face. Mr. Mangler was a Pit Slave procurement agent, licensed and bonded – and he was the best there was. He prided himself on delivering pliant Pit Slave prospects to his clients. His prospects were docile, insensate, and unburdened of functioning surface nerves and their distracting pain sensations – a distinct advantage for their mechanical improvement procedures. His clients paid Mr. Mangler a premium for his services, and those premiums kept his trusty flamer well-fueled and his chainsword passably sharp (though not too sharp, for a raggedly severed stump made for an easier bionic graft).

But something had begun to gnaw at Mr. Mangler, an unaccustomed preoccupation that was distracting him from his work. It had become too easy. His prospects had lost their fire, they no longer had their instinctual struggle to survive against overwhelming odds. Perhaps it was the ever-increasing radiation levels in Sumpifornia. Perhaps it was the now-predominant concentrations of peroxide and sulfur in what passed for water. Whatever the reason, Mr. Mangler continued to deliver his prospects in exquisite condition, their bionic augmentations were successful, but despite this they were not performing well in either the mining pits or the fighting pits. He feared that Sumpifornia Dome had become over-harvested by his success. Time was needed to replenish the “human capital” of the dome, for now all that was left were the dregs and flotsam. Mr. Mangler needed to move on – not just for reasons of sustainability, but because his patron had ordered him to find a new source of better-quality pit slave recruits. Word had filtered in from far and wide, that in a distant dome, across the inner expanses of the Great Atlantic Seepage, some enterprising reprobates had built a new Thundercube. It was attracting the best of the best among Necromunda’s bad and worse – the perfect recruiting grounds for a fresh crop of Pit Slaves… once they were disabused of their free will, nerve endings, and a limb or two.
Cortez thought back to the fateful meaning that sent him to this fetid corrupt place.

"You are summoned!" The sevitor spoke in it's cold tone.
"Excuse me! Do you even knock before entering?" I snapped back.
"You are summoned!" It spoke again.
Quickly realising I would get more sense out of the door it had opened, I got up and headed out. The servitor led me through the bowels of the ship to an unassuming door, it opened into a small library. Quickly taking in my surroundings nearly all of the books on the shelves were books on the biology of man with a few clearly refering to subhuman species such as ratlings and ogryns.

In front of me stood a man in impeccable armour, I had seen him only a couple of time before, Interrogator Sophus Pelegius, the right hand of my lord inquisitor.
"He has decided on your first task" the interrogator spoke "you are to head to the planet below us. In 6 standard months time there is a huge gladiatorial event going on at the bottom of the Hive Primus..."
"Why I being sent to the bottom of a hive for a simple gladiatorial arena" I interrupted
"...lords from the entire sector will be gambling on the fights, there have also been some dangerous rumours of zombie plague activity recently at hive bottom." He carried on without missing a beat.
"So I am to head to the bottom of Hive Primus and investigate this gladiatorial event? Am I going solo or do I get to take my team?" I asked
"You will be able to take your team!" The interrogator responded, he then walked out of the door, as he crosse the threshold I heard a whisper of "The Emperor Protects!"

It had been 5 months since then and I had finally made it down to the gladiatorial arena, known locally as the Thundercube!....
Let me tell you about a servant from above the wall. She was quiet, unassuming. Worked for some high-ups, maybe even a noble family, trimming their imported greenery or whatnot. And did a good job, was even appreciated by her master and mistress. Had it as good as you'd like, for a servant in the hive. Then one night, her master was deep in the substances, you know how the rich folk are. Was apparently a bad batch, 'cause the trip got way out there, and at one point he threw some toxin or something in her face, messing it all up something fierce. She had to wear a mask since that day. Terrible story, but she stayed and fulfilled her duties, and her master even recompensed her, came as close to an apology as you can expect for one of their kind. So things seemed ok and life continued. Until one day, the unassuming servant, when working in the greenhouse, took her shears and snipped the heads off both her master and mistress! Snip-snip, bloody as hell but clean off. She was of course punished, sold off downhive as a pit slave. They even replaced her right hand with actual shears for fungus harvesting, as a cruel joke I assume. But she escaped, didn't she! Word is she's been running with various gangs since then. Still quiet, but kills without hesitation if you give her an opening.

Mask looked out of the pipe she had emerged from. Being on the run for a long time, she had learned not to travel by conventional routes. But this was it. This should be the dome that housed the Thundercube. Opportunity and riches, for those who knew how to grab it. She felt she could do well. She was the talent, and now she just waited to be scouted...
Last edited:
Visit New Barterton

Established by fleeing guilders after the great flood of Fury’s Rest, New Bartertown or New Barterton in low gothic has sprung up to serve the needs of the local hivers, being perfectly located between several nearby THUNDERCUBES!! and knock off’s like Murderbrawl the new town has thrived.

Seeing this success, the well-known hive chains have also quickly established franchises to profit from the baying mob, Hive Guys, Yo Sumpy, Horgs Ammo Box and the 1 Credit Shop amongst others can all be found in this thriving market town.

It has been said that anything can be bought in New Barterton. This is true, but for a price. Want a functioning warp drive the Ad Mec would kill you for even looking at*? Get yourself to Whato’s scrap yard! Want the last lunch you’ll ever want to eat? It’s Hive Guys! Want to watch a fight? Pick a ‘CUBE! Want to spend the night with an exotic dancer? The Troll “Girls” of Llya’s Bar will not leave anyone wanting more!

So book your next trip to New Barterton, you won’t live to regret it!

*Writers note - Obviously this is NCE, Newmunda they’ll just pat you on the back and wish you a good day.