Power Perpetuation Simulator

The latest thing

Sat, 07 Mar 2026 20:49:29 GMT

The sirens say you need it.

It’s the latest thing, they shriek.

You walk down the street, sirens and screens on every surface, all in harmony for a few expensive seconds – it. The latest thing.

They never agree, those beguiling faces, those undeniable screams. They all promise something different – power, virtue, wealth, sex, purity, all in a hundred forms and colors and shapes and rituals of pharmacokinetic foreplay, but now, right now, they all agree that you need it. The latest thing.

It’s new to have to go somewhere to spend money. You usually order a dozen fantasies to carry you through a month, subsisting on dry pasta and energy drinks when your treacherous body makes its unanswerable demands. The grip of the wheel, like a second skin steering you to work, is like a half-feral horse driving down unfamiliar streets. The siren inside the machine leads you through this trackless exurb to it. The latest thing.

The building is inviting, in that designed-in-2008 way, letting you know that everyone inside knows how important your values are, they are so important we drape ourselves with its entrails, rolling in its death to smell like its life so you know we are friends, aren’t we? A lie is made sweeter if you know the truth arrives either way. Why not demand sugar to make the medicine go down? Inside, entered freely and of your own will, you will find it. The latest thing.

The money is spent, the divine eyes of the bankers have seen your agreement and made it sacred. You, holy consumer and customer beloved, are gently walked down the stairs to your arrangements. Through the miracle of capital, your vulgar fluids are transubstantiated into a means by which we propitiate Mammon, and beg him for a fractionally-kinder doom. Through this sacred bargain, all of your futures are bundled and sold as a tranche except for one, this one, the one where you don the armor, wear the helmet, swear the oath and kill the deserving and all the sirens and screens proclaim your heroism and you know for a moment that you are it. The latest thing.

It gives you purpose. It gives you tools to achieve that purpose. It purifies you of every stray thought or contrary desire, makes it so easy that it isn’t a decision at all, isn’t it thrilling how pulling a trigger can feel like going to sleep, inevitable and nourishing and sacred? Rapid ingress, open-flash-clear open-flash-clear open-flash-clear and all the vagaries of modern morality, all the hundreds of cues missed and opportunities thoughtlessly squandered become mercifully reduced to a single process – hear the order, follow the order. Exit through the gift shop. In the eyes of God you have finally been made sacred. All are at last it. The latest thing.

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What's in the walls

Sun, 01 Mar 2026 01:27:40 GMT

Good evening. My name is John and I do not live in your walls.

It is important for you to know that I do not live in your walls. Other people, other creatures, other life forms may live in your walls, but I do not. If you hear scratches in your walls, those are not my nails. If you smell something odd, that is not my unwashed body. If you see a gaping hole in your drywall, that was not my claustrophobic outburst.

It is important for you to know that something does live in your walls. It is not me, I do not live in your walls, I never have. But I know your walls very well. Those scratching sounds are not your foundation settling. The odd smells are not from your neighbor's enthusiastic attempts at compost. The hole in your drywall was not the result of a drunken pratfall.

It is important for you to find out what lives in your walls. I do not live in your walls, it is fruitless to act as if I do. But I know your walls very well. I can find out what lives in your walls. I will lure out the scratching sounds with bait. I will dig in the insulation to find the source of the smell. I will sample the ragged edges of the hole in your wall to understand the intruder's passing.

It is important for you to know that only I can tell you what lives in your walls. I do not live in your walls, that is obviously impossible. But I know your walls very well. I have been in your walls for so long that that which lives in your walls could not evade me. I have seen what lives in your walls. I have observed it scratching the drywall inches from your sleeping face. I have found its warren, stinking just behind the stove. The hole it made is as known to me as my own home. Which is not in your walls, of course.

It is important for you to know that you live in my walls. I do not live in my walls, that was never the truth. But I know my walls very well. I have seen my walls from outside of my home and from within, and I know every inch of insulation like the place of my birth. I permit your scratching, as it lets me know where you intrude. I ignore your smells, until it becomes inconvenient. The hole in the wall has been patched, as I cannot tolerate the presence of vermin within the home.

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Thoughts on Victor Hugo's "Toilers of the Sea"

Wed, 17 Dec 2025 05:31:02 GMT

I read Hugo's Toilers of the Sea recently, and I came away with a better understanding of Hugo's style. I read an abridged Les Miserables in college and remember it being entertaining, but little beyond that - I think I have enough experience with the author now to appreciate it a little better!

The general idea is that if something shocking happens to a stranger, it catches the eye only for a moment: soon enough the everyday crises in our lives turn us away from even the most grievous injuries and miraculous windfalls a John Doe can have. If those same things happen to a friend, a neighbor, a colleague, someone you really know, it sticks in your brain. You mull over not only the event itself, but the decisions made leading to it and the actions taken afterward. Hugo therefore spends nearly a hundred pages not on our principal characters, but on the setting: the Channel Islands of Guernsey, Alderney, Jersey, Sark, and Herm. We learn about the islands' geography, its people, their language, their history, their customs, their faiths, and their prejudices. Only then from this detailed pattern does Hugo bring our cast into focus. Spoilers for the whole book nearly immediately below, but in short I recommend the book for anyone with the attention span to take a history class as a prerequisite for drama on the high seas!

( Read more... )

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Presenting the '78 Sanctus Armored Limousine

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 06:27:01 GMT

Certain enormously successful genestealer cults can completely replace Imperial culture with mores suitable to the coming Ascension. This limousine is one such device: the '78 Arkham Sanctus, built to the Cult of the Four-Armed Emperor's exacting specifications. The cult's elite (and the off-world visitors they court) use this heavily armored state car when dealing with matters of civil administration. Ascension Day is assured, but the Star Children are still far away - the government now has turned entirely towards the production of additional biomass and defense of the same.

( There was a tape inside the glove box when bought new... )

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From the Cohost Archives - In a barn, with a box of scraps

Mon, 28 Jul 2025 03:51:58 GMT

UMS DEBRIEF TRANSCRIPT

OPERATION CODE: COIN 38-93

MISSION PARAMETERS: INVESTIGATE THE DESTRUCTION OF UMS PATROL STATION 21, FORMER FEDERAL TERRITORY OF MISSOURI

RECORDING OFFICER: SSGT. AREVIK DAVTYAN

STAFF IN ATTENDANCE:

SOLUTIONS APPLIANCE SPECIALIST KLAUS "DIESEL" STAPLERFAHRER

RECORDING FOLLOWS

SSGT. DAVTYAN (HENCEFORTH "D") AND KLAUS STAPLERFAHRER (HENCEFORTH "S") TAKE THEIR SEATS.

D: So. Let's start with the obvious.

K: There's a lot that was obvious, Sarge.

D: There sure was, Diesel. We sent you down there with a full squad for a counter-insurgency operation in bum-fuck nowhere. Do you know what happens if we lose the Midwest, Diesel? No more corn, no more meat, no more dairy, no more rations. It's back to fucking liquid feed for the lot of you. So saying "we got our asses kicked by a bunch of jumped-up hicks in tractor-pullers" isn't going to fucking cut it.

K: "Tractor-pullers," huh? Okay. Let's pull up the recording and I'll show you a fucking tractor-pull. We don't see shit until about two hours into the op. The patrol station was burned down, everything smashed or stolen. Locals uncooperative until we flatten a few houses, and then we get pointed to this big-ass ranch about a mile out. Look at this -

DISPLAY FEED BEGINS PLAYING RECORDING OF COIN 38-93 FROM STAPLERFAHRER'S PERSPECTIVE. SQUAD ADVANCES ON A LARGE RANCH, INCLUDING A FARMHOUSE, SEVERAL BARNS, AND A GRAIN SILO.

K: Okay, pause it here.

SSGT. DAVTYAN PAUSES THE RECORDING.

K: What we're looking at is not a civilian habitation. It's a fucking killing field. Those blue tarps by the silo? Hiding a pair of hostiles, each no more than some low-slung cages and a grenade launcher welded to Bulldog legs. The garage in the farmhouse is about to open up for another two hostiles with severely up-gunned Spotters. And the fucking barn?

SA-S STAPLERFAHRER RESUMES THE RECORDING. THE BARN DOORS ARE KICKED DOWN BY A NON-STANDARD SOLUTIONS APPLIANCE. A PICKUP TRUCK CAB, COVERED IN SHEET METAL, SITS ATOP A SET OF GUARDIAN-CLASS LEGS. THE TRUCK APPEARS TO HAVE A PAIR OF BROWNING .50 MACHINE GUNS WELDED TO THE SIDES AND A 105MM CANNON ATTACHED TO THE ROOF, WHICH IS VISIBLY SAGGING DUE TO THE WEIGHT. THE UNIT BEGINS TO EMIT SOUND FROM THE HORN, IDENTIFIED AS THE OPENING STRAINS OF "LA CUCARACHA". COMBAT ENSUES AS SA-S STAPLERFAHRER ADDRESSES SSGT. DAVTYAN.

K: These farm kids have been stealing machines from each other and lashing weapons to them for literal decades. And now that we've stomped their government into the dirt, they have a target that their parents will let them shoot at. Every time we send steel down there, they won't just wreck them and try to rebuild as it was, they'll cannibalize the wrecks to upgun two or three different units with unpredictable armament and no IFF to track. No tracking, no aim assist. No aim assist, no fucking chance for those rookies. The little bastards run circles around them trying to hit something sensitive with grenades while that Frankenmech obliterates our point man in a single blast. I only got out after the cannon sheared off of the truck from overpressure, but you know damn well they'll not only have it fixed up in a few days, they'll also have scavenged the rookies' machines down to the seat leather.

S: I'll pass your concerns to Corporate. Get some rest, Diesel.

TRANSCRIPT ENDS

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From the Cohost Archives - Sim Habit

Sun, 27 Jul 2025 03:43:51 GMT

There was a banging at Karina Miller's door. An emergency sortie would have come through the PA system, so this was undoubtedly a personal matter and could be safely ignored until a more reasonable time than 2:15 AM. The soft click of her lock (long since replaced with a third-party model) told her that even if it was a personal matter, it wasn't going to wait.

A blinding taclight was all she could see. A voice, one she recognized as her CO's, called out. "Let's have a chat, Spins. Outside in two." The taclight stayed on her as she threw on pants, slippers, and a jacket. In the hall was her CO, Hilda Greene, and two empty suits she didn't recognize. "Our friends here are with Internal Affairs. We're going on a little trip." Miller's blood ran cold. In an outfit like UMS, you didn't get a trial of your peers. If you stepped too far out of line or pissed off a C-level, your death was a write-off.

( Read more... )

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From the Cohost Archives - Salvage Rights

Sat, 26 Jul 2025 02:05:50 GMT

UNITED MILITARY SOLUTIONS

IN-THEATRE RECORDING TRANSCRIPT

LOCATION: LUXHANG DEFENSE SYSTEMS CORPORATE TERRITORIES, SOUTH AMERICA, FORMER CHILEAN REPUBLIC

RECORDING UNIT: DULLAHAN DRONE #33309

ONSITE STAFF:
THREE SOLUTIONS APPLIANCE SPECIALISTS:

KARINA "SPINS" MILLER
FREDERICK "DRONE" SHORN
SIERRA "PICKY" CALVIN

REMOTE STAFF

WALTER "WHALETEETH" RIVERS (SUBORBITAL POSITION)

MISSION PROFILE: DESTROY THE INDEHAR MUNITIONS FACILITY AND REMOVE EXOCORPORATE FORCES FROM MANUFACTURE & EXTRACTION ZONES

EYES ONLY

RECORDING BEGINS. CALVIN, MILLER, AND SHORN ADVANCE INTO THE OUTER MANUFACTURING RING, SINCE LEVELED BY MASS ACS-20 ROCKET SALVOS DELIVERED BY RIVERS.

( Continued... )

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From the Cohost Archives - Rations

Fri, 25 Jul 2025 03:17:24 GMT

UNITED MILITARY SOLUTIONS

PROCUREMENT PROSPECTUS

EYES ONLY

United Military Solutions has been the premier solutions provider for rising and established powers galaxy-wide since its formation after the Landsknecht Wars. Since our founding, we have been the go-to firm for resource extraction, personnel depletion, materiel destruction, anti-civilian operations, and counter-intelligence sweeps. Despite our year-over-year growth and consistent delivery of just-in-time ordnance solutions to our clients, our sustainability is under threat from an heretofore unconsidered quarter: rations.

( Continued... )

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From the Cohost Archives - The Origins of Mech Melee Combat

Thu, 24 Jul 2025 02:01:53 GMT

UNITED MILITARY SOLUTIONS HISTORICAL RECORD

COURSE# 2205: HISTORIES OF SOLUTIONS APPLIANCES IN THE FIELD

EXCERPT OF SUPPLEMENTAL DOCUMENT 33a: BATTLEFIELD INNOVATIONS IN THE LANDSKNECHT WARS

Through the very earliest days of Solutions Appliance development, the vaguely hominid outline of the machines caused the layman to ask if they could "punch" the enemy. Military doctrine prior to the Landsknecht Wars pointed out the many terrible risks involved in swinging the barrel and support structure of an autocannon, missile launcher, or other side-mounted weapon into enemy armor. It was not only a danger to the pilots, but also devastating to the mount in question - fried gyroscopic gear and destroyed actuators were among the least concerns facing the enterprising pugilist. If, say, the side-mount was fully or partially loaded with armor-piercing ordnance, mutual destruction was assured.

( Continued... )

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From the Cohost Archives - A Promise Made

Wed, 23 Jul 2025 01:15:23 GMT

"Run me through the timeline once more."

"From the mech's logs or from DULLAHAN?"

"Both."

"DULLAHAN reports that hostiles were spotted at T+1:01. Despite heavy fire, Greene's adrenaline and cortisol levels were well within tolerances, with the AI only needing to adjust fine aim on two occasions. At T+1:09, a railgun round punctured the cockpit. DULLAHAN reported immediate loss of pilot, taking formal control of the mech."

"Any anomalous events before engaging the enemy?"

"There was a wideband transmission at T+00:33. DULLAHAN flagged it as tactical review, so no one bothered to check the logs until now."

"To who, and what was said?"

"The call was sent planetside, to a receiver in Cranehurst."

"Company territory, thank god."

"The conversation was brief, about seven minutes. Did you want it verbatim?"

"No, just the salient points."

"Domestic affairs with the pilot's spouse. They spoke briefly about financial arrangements for a child's schooling, then commiseration about the time the pilot is spending away from the house. The call ended with a promise to return home after mission completion, in defiance of the pilot's contractual obligations."

"How long was Greene with us?"

"They were a lifer, or planning to be. This was their nineteenth sortie."

Klein looked past the analyst and into the monitor - Greene's whole piloting career, distilled into a single page, collated by DULLAHAN.

"How many of those missions had DULLAHAN oversight?"

"Seventeen. Greene signed on to the program almost immediately, citing the desire for the data feed bonus."

Klein had a hunch, and he didn't like it.

"When was this telephony unit installed?"

"Maintenance logs on the device start after their third mission. Is that relevant?"

"I hope not. Were calls placed regularly on the device?"

Brenner flicked through ancillary logs, documentation on pilot behavior that would normally never see the light of day unless someone had seriously breached contract. Of course, the telephony unit was itself a violation, but Greene was quick to make friends in the maintenance team and it was swept under the rug.

"Mostly. At least one call to the Cranehurst residence per mission before hostilities began but after leaving visual range of HQ."

"Mostly?"

"The one exception was Greene's ninth mission - sentry duty during the opening hours of the Sileng revolt. Their mech was disabled before firing a shot, making them the second combat casualty of that conflict."

"Every other mission saw a call placed to Cranehurst, and were also successfully completed?"

Brenner turned to the monitor, trying to play down his growing anxiety. Every mission with DULLAHAN watching featured either a phone call to Cranehurst followed by successful action, or total defeat.

"...yes."

"The telephony unit - did DULLAHAN have access to those calls?"

"Interrogation logs of the maintenance team responsible reports it was spliced to the company's own wideband receiver. It's entirely possible that it did."

"When did the mech's internal logs detect a drop in vital signs?"

Brenner stared at the screen for a second longer than was necessary.

"Vital signs dropped at T+00:21. DULLAHAN flagged it as a malfunction, reporting Greene's vitals as stable until the cockpit blew."

"I want the internal logs on the mech transferred to hardcopy and sent directly to my office. Once I confirm receipt personally, delete the logs and scrap the mech. Forget this ever happened."

"Understood."

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From the Cohost Archives - DULLAHAN

Tue, 22 Jul 2025 04:22:27 GMT

"The older pilots still don't like them, despite the bump in survival rates. They say they didn't train for years and survive for decades to have their machine piloted for them. I get it, to some extent. DULLAHAN stings the ego something fierce, especially if you've gone without it most of your career. It's like learning you've been typing incorrectly for years, and now you begrudge the way you type now even though it's faster and more efficient, because the techniques were yours, not Mavis Beacon's.

"The way I explain it to new pilots is this: as long as your squad is in range, DULLAHAN monitors your pulse, blood pressure, eye tracking, cortisol/adrenaline levels, everything. If you start to panic, DULLAHAN will take over part of the mech's function until you regain your composure. If it detects most of your attention is focused on evasives, it will adjust your fine aim according to your IFF logs. If there's an incoming projectile that you aren't reacting to, it will jet you out of the way. If your vitals drop, it will execute a takeover of the mech, and depending on the terms of your contract it will either evacuate you from the AO or attempt to complete your mission with whatever systems it can still access.

"Every sortie you fight will give DULLAHAN data, which then partially determines your bonus payout. If we get actionable tactical data, you get paid more. If you spend the whole mission sitting on your ass, you don't get the data feed bonus, simple as. The transmission drone is shielded with as much radar camouflage as we can manage without impacting communication, and is usually beyond visual range of the enemy, but protecting it should be priority two, just behind mission completion. Needless to say that if it gets destroyed, not only will you not receive a data feed bonus, your team will be billed for a replacement.

"There are rumors that some of your comrades were replaced with DULLAHAN nodes, and I can tell you it's flatly untrue. Every sim we've run trying to train it to run missions without human intervention have thus far ended in failure, usually because it tries to either kill mission control or disable communications between it and MC, then fire on every IFF signal it can find until it runs out of ammo. Until that changes, your contract is safe."

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There's a city in there

Tue, 24 Jun 2025 17:19:36 GMT

You wake up driving in the rain.

The bridge is impossibly long, barely two lanes wide. Above, a starless sky. The only lights are from the city ahead, a yellow glow from countless sodium lamps. That dim glow is just enough to illuminate the dark water below, constantly lapping at the edges of the bridge, threatening to engulf the concrete island. The seawalls surrounding the city are damaged, shored up here and there with sandbags. Even at this distance, you can see heaps of scrap steel and concrete - reconstruction efforts stymied by continued flooding.

You fumble in the glove box for your documentation - face, name, reason for travel, psychometric prints, all in a little leatherbound book. There's a small tollbooth a few hundred feet from the city gate. Stopping there, you hand the book to the guard. He's a citizen; you can tell by the shape of his face and the look in his eyes - he looks at you like a suburbanite looks at errant deer.

The guard jogs away with your book to a larger concrete shed next to the gates, dark windows revealing nothing. Why are you here? You can't remember. There's nothing in your rearview mirror except the bridge and the dark water. The rain is cold, and hasn't stopped since you woke up. A different guard trudges back up to the tollbooth and wordlessly hands you your book, freshly stamped with a logo you don't recognize.

( Read more... )

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PPS Summons Brave Fencer Musashi #8 - Four-Course Catastrophe

Mon, 23 Jun 2025 04:22:02 GMT

Been a while, hasn't it? Recalling when we last left off, Musashi had saved Tim's life by gathering the materials for Remedy, Grillin' Village's traditional medicine. While the immediate threat is gone, the lingering problem of nightly vambee visitations continue to plague the village. The beasts were flooding out of a trapdoor in the Restaurant, and so we steeled ourselves for the descent. Tonight we go bowling, play table games, and enjoy some bar snacks!

( Read more... )

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The Luckless Captain and the Owlish Professor - a Fallen London scribble

Sun, 22 Jun 2025 02:58:54 GMT

Twelve pence. All that was left of his worldly possessions, save the very clothes on the Luckless Captain's back. That, and the near-empty mug of ale that had too much of the river in it to ignore. He had done everything right - hired the finest zailors M. Demeaux could hope for, navigated the perils of the zee perfectly, fought off pirates, kept crew and cargo safe from the zee-beasts that haunted the Salt Steppe - only to find that cargo suddenly worthless, the buyer having gone out of business days before his arrival. The long, perilous journey back home was met with more devastating news: a run on his bank had destroyed what savings he had left and sent his employers into destitution. It was only a matter of time before his creditors found him.

( Read more... )

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Mysteries in Fallen London - Approaching the Gates of the Garden

Fri, 07 Mar 2025 09:23:39 GMT

In light of the (admittedly distant) release of the Fallen London TTRPG, I thought I might start collating my personal knowledge of the great mysteries in Fallen London, so that I might reference them later and decide what layer of the mystery box to expose to the players and when. Nothing here will be cited, and I do not promise to remember every detail. Regardless, there are SUPER DELUXE SPOILERS for Fallen London, Sunless Sea, and Sunless Skies.

Fallen London has four of these mysteries, the first of which we discuss below the cut.

Approaching the Gates of the Garden: Of Death, why it shuns the Neath, and the terrible effort of seeking immortality.

Seeing through the Eyes of Icarus: Of life, its order, and the chains we only just feel, but cannot yet break.

Touched by Fingerwork: Of dreams, of mirrors, and the powers that war behind both.

Walking the Falling Cities: Of London, of the cities that came before, and the ones that will come after.

( Read more )

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The Echo Bazaar and the Fifth City

Fri, 07 Feb 2025 04:32:48 GMT

With the upcoming Fallen London TTRPG approaching fast and the original game's 15-year anniversary having arrived, it's a good time to start yammering about one of my favorite settings of the last several years!

In 1862, London was stolen by bats. The city, buildings and people both, were brought miles underground to a cavern bordering a massive brackish "lake" - the Unterzee. There was hardship, at first: the sun was gone, and with it much of the bounty of the earth. But Londoners are a hardy lot, and it was quiet down amidst the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine.

Thirty years later, you arrived.

( Read more... )

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The Last Day of Croeller's Halberdiers

Wed, 05 Feb 2025 08:26:50 GMT

Reveille came an hour before dawn, with Captain Croeller having been awake an hour before, by now fully dressed and waiting on the rally field. The men knew that the last man to make the field would be put on slop duty, so the response was prompt - within five minutes thirty stout troops stood in perfect formation, with poor Trooper Niels wearing an owl's feather to signify his devotion to sleep.

The men had signed on as state troopers for simple reasons - three meals a day being the most important, but a few eyed the gleaming medals on their Captain's chest and hungered for glory. One or two might have even seen service as a way to serve their barbarian god, Sigmar. Their captain did not care why they held their line, so long as their weapons never wavered. Croeller walked up and down the assembly, ensuring their weapons were in good repair and their clothes were reasonably clean. He was the sort that believed discipline begins with the simplest of tasks, and grew from there: a man that couldn't be trusted to keep himself clean couldn't be trusted not to break and run. After a few agonizing minutes, the captain satisfied himself with his men's cleanliness and walked back up the field to address his troop.

"Today, men, we will be doing our duty for the Empire, and for Sigmar! We have been given fine uniforms, strong weapons, and stout armor! We have been given a solid month of robust training, and three hot meals a day! Today, men, we repay the Empire for its generous bounty by routing its pernicious foes! Today, men, we fight the Orks!"

Croeller scanned the faces of his men, looking for flickers of fear, or at least recognition. He found nothing, but had been in command long enough to know that could mean either firm parade drilling or complete ignorance of his subject.

"Any man that has fought an Ork, raise your hand!"

No hands were raised. Croeller cocked an eyebrow. He began to walk back towards the lines, volume still at drilling level.

"An Ork is a foul green creature in the vague shape of a man. They eat whatever they can fit in their tusked mouths and kill whatever they can lay an axe on. They are bigger than you! They are stronger than you! They are tougher than you! There are more of them than you!"

By now, he was bellowing directly in the face of Trooper Hauptmann, who was looking somewhat green himself. "What, then, do you have that an Ork doesn't, Trooper Hauptmann!?"

Hauptmann was one of the simpler troopers, even among the rest of the unit scraped up from Nuln's outlying villages. Still, he was quick enough to speak dogma. "Sir, faith in Sigmar, sir!"

Croeller stared at Hauptmann, watching a single bead of sweat trickle down his temple. To his credit, he didn't flinch when the captain continued to bellow, walking down the line again. "Hauptmann is correct, men! We have faith in Sigmar! But...we also have brains! We can think! We can think of what's going to happen after we thrust! We can use our training to fight with cleverness! Isn't that right, men!?"

An affirmation boomed from the assembled troops. The captain's bushy eyebrow, now high enough to meet the line of his helmet, pointed to a trooper. "You, trooper Bucknell! Get up here!"

Trooper Bucknell was scarcely five feet tall. He jogged to the front of the rally field looking for all the world like a particularly wiry halfling. He threw a salute and stood at parade rest, looking especially short next the the massive captain.

"Trooper Bucknell, make ready your halberd and point it at me."

He only hesitated a moment before hefting the weapon and readying it for any charge the captain might care to make.

"Now, men, an Ork is bigger than you in the same way I am bigger than Bucknell here. Now, Bucknell, if I were to run straight at you, sword raised, would I die?"

Bucknell looked at the captain, and then at the halberd, steel gleaming in the first beams of dawn. "Sir, yes sir!"

"And why is that, Bucknell?"

"Sir, the halberd would get you in the belly and all your giblets would fall out, sir!"

"Very good, Bucknell! Back in formation with you."

As the trooper began to jog back into formation, the captain continued to yell.

"The Ork is not an intelligent creature! It only knows one trick, and that is to charge fast and yell loudly while it charges! Whatever crude weapon it is wielding will be brought down on you with an overhead swing! Your job, men, will be to jab Greenie in the belly and make all its giblets fall out! Can you handle that, troopers!?"

Another unanimous affirmation. "There may well be fifty of those green fools taking the field today! There may be one hundred! Maybe more! But I promise you, my boys, you will not have to kill half of them, because they are cowards! They are bullies! Even their green gods are too busy fighting each other to spare a thought for their spawn, but Sigmar's will steels our hearts! Make ready, men! We march to war!"

A cry came up from Croeller's Halberdiers while the rest of the force roused themselves at second reveille. Two hours later, the men will have fed and begun their march.

Three hours after that, Croeller's Halberdiers would be butchered to a man by a mob of Orks. While Captain Croeller would be remembered as an able if uninspired commander, the rest would be left dead and forgotten in the mud.

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PPS Summons Brave Fencer Musashi #7 - Race for the Remedy

Sat, 01 Feb 2025 11:08:08 GMT

When we last Bravely Fenced, Thirstquencher's "Mission Vambee" was launched against what remains of Allucaneet Kingdom. Now under a curfew enforced by hordes of zombie/vampire hybrids, the villagers have already suffered a casualty in Hilda's son, Tim. There is one chance to save the boy from his grim fate: an herbal medicine called "Remedy". It requires the blossom of the Misteria plant and a dose of Aqualin, a kind of mineral water accessible only at the top of Twinpeak Mountain. Musashi and Hotelo have been deputized to recover the ingredients and reverse the infection. Tonight, we'll break into an underground mine, see just how tough Hotelo is, and cure the town brat!

( Read more... )

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PPS Summons Brave Fencer Musashi #6 - Thirstquencher's Riposte

Tue, 24 Dec 2024 08:27:36 GMT

We return to Brave Fencer Musashi, fresh from a series of victories in our quest to restore Lumina! We had absorbed the Earth Scroll, destroyed the Earth Crest Guardian, and of course crushed a Thirstquencher agent to death under a giant rock. Tonight the Thirstquencher Empire makes its countermove, and we learn a little more about our invaders!

( Read more... )

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WAD review: Wings A-Four by FreyaTail

Mon, 23 Dec 2024 08:07:49 GMT

Published in December 2024, Wings A-Four is the second WAD I've played by author FreyaTail. Her previous work, Laboratory Scuffle, was formatted like a traditional DOOM level: an industrial environment stuffed with demons gave way to a sterile laboratory also stuffed with demons. Wings A-Four was developed for a "BlueSky" themed contest, and was necessarily more abstract. I played on Ultra-Violence, and had a good time with it!

The opening act is a corridor leading straight through to the exit. The exit proper is barred by an impassible laser gate, and is flanked by four different alcoves similarly barred and stuffed with treats: ammunition, additional weapons, and the automap behind the final gate. In the rough center of the corridor are two pairs of doors, each locked with (what else) a blue skull key. One key is near the exit gates and freely available, but each one crumbles to dust after use. Herein lies the central conceit: four challenge rooms, each one containing a skull key. Defeat the challenges within, locate the skull keys, and go claim your prize - simple enough! In general, I thought this level showcased a lot of technical improvement by the author. There were fun tricks with custom lighting, teleports, and moving platforms! More detailed discussion follow below, but do pick up the WAD here if I've piqued your interest!

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Warboss Gorkachov storms an Imperial Guard supply network in Warhammer 40,000!

Fri, 20 Dec 2024 09:50:01 GMT

Tonight I played a 2000-point game with some unique semi-narrative scoring rules. I was running an Ork list designed to storm straight down the middle of the board and scrap, while my opponent was running an Imperial Guard regiment designed to prevent exactly that. While the Orks took absolutely catastrophic losses, I pulled ahead on points by the end of turn four and claimed victory despite a projected 90% casualty rate. That's 40K for you: if everyone under your command dies but completed the mission, that's a Major Strategic Victory no matter how much gore you had to wade through! More pictures and fiction about the game below the cut!

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A "Guns of the Navarone" scenario erupts in Warhammer 40,000!

Sun, 15 Dec 2024 07:53:28 GMT

The scenario at tonight's game featured six players, all with ~500 points worth of different factions:

Attackers:
1. Orks
2. Chaos Marines (Death Guard)
3. Chaos Marines (Word Bearers)

Defenders:
4. Genestealer Cult
5. Craftworld Eldar
6. Sisters of Battle

The goal of the attackers was to capture the mountain fortress at the other end of the map within six rounds. If they were thrown back, the defenders would win even if every last one of them lay dead!

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VODs from the future

Fri, 13 Dec 2024 06:32:58 GMT

7/9/2031

Gre4sySmitty - 33.2K viewing

Unboxing

"This is something real special, chat. My sponsor deal with the USAF came with this badass-lookin' thing - it's the first military-grade drone controller you can connect to your PC! We can - oh, thanks, Vexbox for the dono, saying: 'predator time'. No, no, this is strictly for reconnaissance, flyovers, that kind of thing. They aren't handing over keys to attack drones to us civvies, no matter who we voted for. Maybe next year if the Arches sweep like they're saying they will we might see on-stream strikes. BUT, let's see if we can't find some terrorists, chat. The paperwork I got says that once we're online we'll be sweeping some bombed-out dustbowl, one of the 'stans, not exactly sure where. I'm not a reader, chat, you know that!"

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Midnight Snacking - a Fallen London scribble

Mon, 09 Dec 2024 01:51:03 GMT

The Owlish Professor sat calmly on a boat, surrounded by the flames of the Stolen River. He had the remaining part of his library next to him, and was flinging book after book into the fire as if he was feeding fish. Once it was the Thames, before being translated to this abyss along with the rest of Her Majesty's holdings - London included. His contemplation of the Queen's dark bargain was interrupted with the realization that he had run out of books. As he watched his last volume of poetry turn to cinders, the Professor began pulling off articles of clothing to feed the river's hunger. When those were gone, he began to pull off a long strip of skin -

The Owlish Professor woke, screaming stifled by long habit. Nightmares were a chronic and widespread side effect of life so far from the light of the sun, to the point where Surface visitors complained of them even days after their ascent through the Cumaean Canal. While this phenomenon was of considerable interest to scholars in the burgeoning field of psychology, it was a damnable inconvenience to anyone trying to sleep through the night. Throwing off his duvet and stepping into his slippers, the Professor made his way down the spiraling stairs from his rooms to the Upper Pantries of the Royal Bethlehem.

The clientele of the Royal Bethlehem is quixotic in the extreme, necessitating staff ready around the clock to provide for their unpredictable schedules. The Sleepless Gastronomist was at their post, flicking through the latest Magazine Formerly Known As The London Magazine, trying to ignore the distant screaming from the lower floors. The Professor knocked twice on the counter, snapping the Gastronomist out of their reverie.

"Ah, Professor! Late night, early morning?"

"Just an interlude. Some scotch and a ham sandwich, if you please."

"Mm. A ham sandwich."

The Professor did not like the Gastronomist's tone. It suggested difficulty entirely incommensurate with a midnight snack. "Yes. A sandwich. With ham. And mayonnaise. Possibly a slice of cheese."

The Gastronomist drew a gloved finger to their pursed lips. "Yeeessss...with mayonnaise. I couldn't interest you in some other condiment? I have a very nice morel relish."

"Let's dispense with formalities. What happened to the mayonnaise?"

The Gastronomist deflated, poking their head out of the pantry window to make sure they were alone. "There's a dispute by the docks, it would seem. See, the Royal Beth gets much of its supply from -"

"P&O Shipping, yes. How long has their ship been impounded?"

"A day or so. The Manager's furious."

"A shame. Just some roast chestnuts, if you please."

The Gastronomist produced a small paper bag with a half-dozen warm chestnuts with an apologetic air. The Professor turned on slippered heel to leave. "Wait and hope, my friend. Good night."

As he ascended the spiraling stair to his rooms, the Professor turned the problem over in his mind. He was owed a few favors at the docks - not only was he a captain of some repute, the Professor had made a regular habit of resolving dockside brawls in favor of the workers when he could. This is a matter that could be settled in a matter of hours - not soon enough to address the immediate problem of sandwich deficiency, but certainly soon enough to avert further obstacles to snacking. Once at his rooms, the Professor cut a clipping from the Royal Bethlehem's menu and pinned it to a postcard with an idyllic image of the Campanian coast, making the message clear: the Surface ship's cargo bound for the Royal Bethlehem is to be extracted. As an incentive, the names and addresses of certain particularly vicious neddy men were encoded in a paragraph of trivia about the hotel.

A messenger bat flitted about his rooms, wings still violant from a desperate experiment long concluded. Tempting it down with a candied cricket, he tied the folded card to its leg and released it into the gloom. There was nothing else to be done but to finish his snack and ignore his unaccountable peckishness.

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Kazuma Kiryu Fights Every Cop: a survey of law-enforcement's chances at interrogating the Dragon

Tue, 03 Dec 2024 00:03:47 GMT

For the uninitiated, Kazuma Kiryu is the protagonist of Sega's most prominent series of video games in recent memory: Like a Dragon, or Yakuza in the West. Kiryu's life isn't so much punctuated with conflict as much as it is conflict punctuated with stretches of peace and sprinkled all over with absurdity. Over the course of seven mainline games and several spinoffs, Kiryu has fought legions of thugs, martial artists, hardened killers, tigers, military hardware, construction equipment, combat robots, tigers again, and Beat Takeshi. For reference, this is the sort of thing Kiryu does to people he isn't fond of.

When police do figure in Kiryu's story, they're usually either hapless bystanders or patsies of more dangerous factions. What proceeds are True and Accurate predictions of the results of assorted fictional police attempting to interrogate the Dragon of Dojima.
( Matchups proceed below )

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