Necromunda TribeMeet2019UK - NCE

MancInventor

Gang Champion
Apr 6, 2017
393
1,450
153
Peterborough
That soon? Frack I’m not going to make it. Too many Halloween commissions and costumes to finish and get out.

:(
Er, not quite. It’s 2 weeks to the big reveal. Tribemeat 2019 is going to be in 2019 otherwise the distortion of the space time continuum will cause a rift and the warp will open up somewhere around Nottingham.

Did I say tribemeat? I meant tribemeet.:cautious:
 
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Azzabat

Hive Guilder
Yak Comp 1st Place
Tribe Council
Jan 24, 2013
3,736
7,142
183
52
Bristol, UK
Also ... I am in a constant state of flux between Greenwich Mean Time ... Eastern Impertinent Time ... and Pacific Down Right Nasty Time!
 
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Blood Donor

Executive Officer in Charge of the 2014 Bake Sale
Staff member
Necromunda Custodian
Aug 23, 2011
3,393
4,359
178
33
Golden, British Columbia, Canada
... I bet you’re too chicken to come face the Orange Tide!
I bet I can 2019 this thing :cool:

Is this a London thing? Peterborough? Nottingham? I mean I know I will find out in like 13 days and will then have a year to prep... but dang all this hype train not knowingness! :LOL:(y)(y):)
 
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ClockworkOrange

Executive Officer in charge of Trolling
Staff member
Yak Comp 1st Place
Tribe Council
Dec 29, 2012
4,175
11,659
183
Nottingham
Pah! We are sufficiently far enough along the hype train track, for there to be enough clues for the discerning Yak to have figured everything out by now from the issued videos and pictures. Some of them are obvious, you’ll kick yourselves when you start to figure it out!
 

Stoof

Yakmarines 2nd Co. Word Priest
Yak Comp 2nd Place
Tribe Council
Jun 1, 2016
2,766
8,542
213
Ellon, United Kingdom
Gate10Switch.png


What WAS that damn smell?

Some of the lads were cruelly tormenting the young lad about it - he'd started with the transit security corps the day before the smell came. He chucked, fat belly wobbling, at the prospect of the constant jibes the lad would face until he proved himself in combat - not frigging likely in this forgotten precinct - or someone younger and even less experienced joined. The lad's future didn't look too bright.

Muggo shifted in his uncomfortable, sweaty plastic seat and hit the transmit button on the barely functioning cogitator unit that probably hadn't been properly serviced since before his grandfather was born. With a stuttering *ting* it indicated that the curt message - the fourth this week to the Guild of Sanitation - had been sent.

Still, if all he had to deal with in his career as a Gate Control Supervisor 1st Class was an old cogitator and a bad smell then long may it continue. Cushy job, he thought. Cushy. He stuffed another fistfull of salty grox scratchings into his chubby gob and crunched them open-mouthed, pellets of the fried fat tumbling down his stained grey and orange uniform.

Farting loudly, he stood to survey his empire.

Outside the orange stained windows of what he called his office - or more acurately, small roadside booth - stood the gate to his left, a massive construction of armoured steel and concrete, and the road into Fury's Rest on the right. The gate was his responsibility every day from early morning to late evening until he was relieved by his opposite number Gandy. Not that it was much of a responibility. He'd never once in his twenty-two year service thrown the huge lever which would, in theory, bring the two massive panels together. Neither had Gandy. Every year some red-robed clickety-men came to inspect the mechanism, and every year they left without doing very much, seemingly satisfied that it was in good repair.

There wasn't much traffic at Gate 10, and what there was got handled by his two deputies - Freg and Hakesell. And now Frenser, the lad.

Hakesell and Frenser were standing across the road. Hakesell was "inspecting" Frenser's brand spanking new shotgun. Muggo knew he was really sneakily replacing the shells with his "specials" for the laugh they were about to have at the lad's expense. That's why Freg was nowhere to be seen. Muggo grinned remembering the look on Freg's face when they'd played the same trick on him fifteen years earlier.

Finally, Hakesell handed the weapon back to Frenser, who cradled it through the crook of his arm - it was his prized posession. The one thing in the arsenal of the Gate Control Officer 3rd Class that was likely to make anyone but the lowliest tramp pay the slightest attention to him, despite what his official mandate of enforcement powers stated.

Muggo strolled slowly outside, hands in pockets. The smell was worse out here. Like vomit and stale sweat and the waste vats out the back of Hive Guys all mixed together. He gave thanks for the tiny buzzing air-scrubber that ran ceaselessly in his office.

As if on cue, a groaning shuffle started from a few buildings down. A shambling, scabby figure staggered out from behind a long burned-out cargo hauler that had been shoved up against one of the walls. Muggo tried not to laugh at its comedy zombie gait as the crudely made-up and costumed Freg picked his way towards him.

Hakesell jumped dramatically to action. He pointed at the "Zombie" and dashed into the office to get a reporting form. Frenser racked the shotgun and shouted for the creature to stop, voice cracking. Of course, it shambled on towards him undeterred, giving out a loud groan that nearly broke Muggo's composure. Freg was really going for it.

The "zombie" was ten or so metres away, and Mungo could really appreciate the efforts Freg had gone to. The disgusting looking cloths wrapped around his arms, which he'd smeared with something that looked disgusting. His face was an unrecogniseable mass of pustules. Mungo wondered how he'd made those. His bare chest was covered in filth and grime and the portly Freg had somehow made it almost look like he'd been starved. It was so over the top that Muggo fancied the smell had gotten worse as he approached.

The lad bellowed a final warning, his face ashen white. Muggo decided to do his part and pulled out his old, heavy stub gun, pointing it at zombie-Freg as he approached. It wasn't even loaded. It never was.

Now only a few metres away, zombie-Freg broke into a sudden run and with a POOM the lad fired the shotgun - it would have vaporised Freg's head had the shell not instead discharged a sparkling cloud of glitter dust from a quarter-charged shot. It glimmered in the still air. POOM POOM the lad fired twice more - it was like a saint had exploded, Muggo thought, finally bursting out laughing.

He was surprised to see Freg chrage headlong onto the now screaming Frenser, fists flailing - even those glitter shells would really really hurt if fired at point blank. Through his tears of laughter, he noticed there was blood coming from Frenser's face. Freg was really going too far, clawing and biting at the screaming lad.

Muggo bellowed at him to stop it. Freg looked directly at him - his eyes were yellow and wild.

Muggo heard a shot from behind him. He hoped no do-gooder passer by had shot Freg as he looked around. Hakesell was staning there, looking surprised. Muggo frowned at him, and Hakesell dropped face first to the concrete, hitting so hard Muggo heard his nose break.

What in the Emperor's holy arse-cheeks was going on?

Someone was running up the street. Muggo turned to shout at them to halt... it was Freg. Flailing his arms and shouting. But...

An icy shard of terror drove through Muggo's heart and deep into his stomach.

Dropping the useless stub gun he turned and sprinted as fast as his huge frame could go to the booth where his own, loaded shotgun lay propped in the corner. He snatched it up and racked it as not-Freg stood. The lad was clearly dead. Muggo punched a man-stopper shell right throgh the zombie's chest. It grinned.

Pain seared into Muggo's shoulder as bullets shattered the window behind him, bathing the booth in light. He fell against the opposite wall. The stench was getting unbearable. A head, scarred and leaking green ichor from a burst boil on the forehead, leered in at him over the windowsill. He blew it apart with the shotgun.

Something landed beside him with a heavy thunk. It was a rusted cylinder, six inches long and three in diameter. It had twine and filthy cloth wrapped around it and a couple of nails and copper wire poking out the top. It was hissing.

With clarity of mind he'd not had for several decades, Muggo leapt to his feet. Bullets immediately whipped at him... he felt their impact, but they couldn't stop him, adrenaline surged through his body. He felt his heart falter as he lunged.

His huge fist closed around the lever. He pulled with all his might. More impacts. One hit something vital and his vision began to pulse. The heavy lever fell into position, and he slumped to the ground as the wail of sirens and the flashing of long-dormant warning lights began. The booth vibrated as the gates began to move.

Muggo smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, as he heard the old cogitator ping a message received tone.

About damn time, he thought.

The grenade went off.