Quake & Mourn Campaign: Assassination, with Extreme Prejudice

Last week the club gathered to play the next round in our fantasy campaign. In this game, Josh and I faced off in a quick assassination scenario set in the windswept wastes of the Sunderstone Badlands.

Ditherprank came to rue the day he desecrated that road-side shrine
of St. Gormly with his kaotic magicks, because, as by whisper on wind,
news of his deed came to the royal Heirophant in Vildeburg and she
dispatched her Royal Assassination Squadron to destroy the blasphemer.
The priesthood mechanical duly, and with the blessings of all the
saints, awakened the cold metal contrivances of murder and set them on
their path, with an Adept of the brotherhood militant to guide them.
Fulgid Glim and his banditry were tracking the remnants of a defeated orc warband south
across the Sunderstone Badlands when they heard the royal klaxon
echoing off the stones. The Adept militant called forth Ditherprank by
name. 
Glim glared at his puckish magician sharply and hissed.
Ditherprank whimpered, as much in fear of the Tainted Thegn as of the
Murder Machines arrayed against him. The mute sycophant who carried
Ditherprank said nothing, but then he never did.
Needing no spurring from Fulgid Glim, nor any excuse
for the glory of battle and trampling dust, the Dire Men rode at the
assassins, and were knocked aside and gunned down as the contraptions
spun violently forward.
Ditherprank shrieked at his mute to find some
cranny-hole in which to hide themselves, but they found no sanctuary in
the blasted dirt. In a breath, a magnificent machine was above him, and
with its blessed hammer smote the mute full in the trunk, sending him -
and Ditherprank beside - in a bloody arc that could only be described as
celestial in its height and grace.

The machine stalked to the broken, twitching body of
the mute and regarded it for a cold moment...and as the mute gave a
final spasm and expired, the machine moved just as coldly away. 
A dozen
yards off, in the pit of a pock-marked crater, from the skull that
imprisoned the spirit of Ditherprank the wizard, there issued a rattling
sigh. His calcic temple had gained a long and painful crack, which
would irk him greatly over his centuries of imprisonment, but he had
escaped otherwise without harm. It was a shame about his mute, but one
could not fret greatly over that withall. Because, thought Ditherprank, when the shit hits the shrine, there are many mutes in the world but there is only one Ditherprank.
-- Mattias, Chicago Skirmish Wargames club member



Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


Archives

Categories

Recent Board Topics

  • No Recent Posts

Support CSW!