The cultists want the contents of the Yonker Imperial Library. The Inquisition isn't going to give it to them.
They could have burned it to the ground, but they know their master wouldn't have approved: instead, they stand in the doorway, guns blazing and swords in hand, holding back the hordes until the librarians and their servitors can properly reinforce the structure. It had been fitted with static defenses but they aren't working yet and won't for some time.... and in the meantime the cultists keep coming.
Brin Cariaso and First Boris'son have no idea what exactly they want.
They also know that it doesn't particularly matter.
Fifteen cultists rush the door, dressed in ragged plate and brandishing torches and blasphemous cobbled-together rifles, along with the occasional lasgun. They're some fifty meters away yet, but they yell as though they're right beside the defenders and anyone within the library can almost smell their breath (none too pretty).
[Initiative: Boris, cultists, Brin]
The monster of a man called First Boris'son proceeds to yell "WHO SENT THESE BABIES TO FIGHT!"
ResponderEliminarand revs up his Rotary-Stubber firing off the massive weapon at the closest cultist
[full auto burst on cultists]
A rain of bullets arcs toward the oncoming horde, ripping through what little armor they possess as though it were little more than parchment: three die outright, arms torn from their bodies and bone fragments flying like shrapnel. Those nearby stumble through the blood only to be met with bullets of their own; one carries a grenade, and as the munitions rip through his body, it drops.
ResponderEliminarAnd explodes.
A chain reaction of detonations ripples through the approaching line. One cultist vanishes outright, converted into little more than a reddish mist. One shrieks as his laspistol bursts, taking his arm with it, and topples sideways clutching the stump. Fragments of guns, bullets, armor, and teeth ricochet from flailing limbs.
One cultist, sprayed with what remains of his comrade, turns tail and attempts to flee with a strangled yell-- but slips and falls into the slippery mat of liquefied organs coating the street.
Six, wounded but determined (and more than a little crazy), keep coming.
All but one are armed with improvised muskets, little more than cannon-fodder to keep the defenders occupied for just one more second... but one has a laspistol, a genuinely dangerous weapon even to the well-equipped.
ResponderEliminarThe musketeers fire in an impressively-timed volley, considering the circumstances. One shot hurtles past Boris' head, another bounces off his chestpiece, and another strikes Brin in the arm. The man winces, but knows the wound is a glancing one and keeps his position.
The sizzle of the laspistol is accompanied by a volley of curses; the last two muskets have jammed, and their owners are shaking them in a desperate attempt to fix whatever has gone wrong. One, in his efforts, skids in the blood and drops his weapon as the shot from the laspistol burns a hole in the "I" of the overhead LIBRARY sign.
The cultist who had fallen attempts to rise once more and escape, but slips on a length of intestine.
Brin, knowing full well the danger the laspistol poses (possessing one himself) decides to clean out the opposition. He sights down the barrel and snaps off a shot.
ResponderEliminar[Aimed shot at the laspistol cultist]
The shot connects solidly with the man's leg; he stumbles backwards, pants leg smoking, and spits something foul and undoubtedly blasphemous, though exactly what the words are is difficult to ascertain over the faint crackle of guttering grenade-fires.
ResponderEliminarBoris Begins to taunt the Cultists shouting "WHEHHH!! WHEEHHHHH!! CRY SOME MORE!!" and fire off another stream from the massive death machine.
ResponderEliminar[full auto burst on cultists]
One cultist takes a shot to the head but the bullet miraculously ricochets from his tattered helmet and he only stumbles. Another isn't so lucky and simply drops unconscious where he stands. Another is even unluckier and stares at the shredded ruin of his arm before two more bullets slam into shoulder and sternum and he topples with a whimper, dropping his laspistol.
ResponderEliminarThe last two musket-wielders close in, drawing swords; one hangs back somewhat and, in addition, produces a crude grenade of some sort. The now thoroughly blood-spattered slip-prone cultist finally manages to make it to his feet and raises his stub pistol.
The smell of charred flesh from multiple gory explosions is almost overpowering... Boris gags despite himself, and starts coughing. Brin, through a heroic effort of will, manages to hold it together. Barely.
[Boris: only Half Actions may be made in the next round]
[Stand and fire at a sword-cultist]
ResponderEliminarA sudden shot sizzles across the street, striking the lead musket-turned swordsman in the head. He wails, dropping his sword to clutch at his eyes.
The bolt seems to have come from behind an overturned cart, some distance from the library and smoldering somewhat from the fire-bombs of the last wave. Something glints in the lamplight before withdrawing back behind (precarious) cover.
The man shot in the helmet decides now would be a great time to unjam his musket. Unfortunately, a concussion isn't the best companion to detail work and he only manages to spill some gunpowder.
ResponderEliminarThe grenade-carrying swordsman ignores the blind flailing of his comrade and heave-hos at Boris: the taped flask shatters on his boot and immediately bursts into flame. Scorching heat roils through carapace armor and xeno mesh alike, crisping hair, skin, and decorative filigree. Flaming paste adheres to floor and doorframe, licking at blown parchments. A library adept hurries over to try and stamp it out.
[Boris takes 4 wounds; Brin takes 5. The library door is now coated with burning paste]
As meager consolation, the bullet from the stub revolver merely zings through the doorway and strikes the plating of a sorting servitor.
Brin yelps and dances backwards out of the flaming area. Spotting the adept, he grabs him by the shoulder, points at the paste, and yells, "How are those defenses coming?"
ResponderEliminarThe adept blinks at him. "Almost ready, m'Lord."
"Then if you could have someone-- like maybe that servitor over there-- put that fire out, that would be great."
"Uh. Sure. Er, of course, m'Lord."
Brin pulls out his sword and starts trying to flick the paste away while the adept runs over to the servitor.
Chipping at the fire with a sword doesn't seem to have any notable effect, aside from getting flaming gunk on his sword.
ResponderEliminarBoris letting out a cry of pain and fury, proceeds to attack the poor Cultist that was blinded moments before by a lasweapon, with his armored fists
ResponderEliminar[standard attack]
The man never sees it coming. Shortly, he doesn't even have eyes.
ResponderEliminarOr a head.
The sheer force of the armored blow bursts his skull like a crushed nut filled with oatmeal, almond bits, and cherry-flavored party punch, spiked.
A red mist obscures Boris's vision: the last (probably blasphemous) thoughts of the cultist spattered across his photo visor.
[-10 to WS and BS next turn]
[stand and shoot]
ResponderEliminarAnother bolt lances through the air, just missing the man who had thrown the fire bomb. Again the figure withdraws behind the cart.
The last sword-wielding cultist stops, stares at Boris, and then proceeds to flee screaming (wisely avoiding the steaming pile of his comrades). He's followed shortly by the one with the bolt pistol, who probably should have taken off long ago.
ResponderEliminarTwo remain: one still trying to unjam his musket, and another just regaining consciousness. The latter stands, sways, points his musket at Boris and attempts to fire... but nothing happens. He still hasn't reloaded.
Brin stops trying to use his sword on the paste and sets it inside, hoping it will cool off.
ResponderEliminarHe snaps off a shot at the newly-awakened cultist from around the doorframe, knowing it probably won't hit but wanting to feel like he's being useful while the servitor approaches with a fire-snuffer.
[standard attack]
Surprisingly, his target catches the shot full in the chest and is picked up and hurtled backwards by the shot, flailing, before he slams his head on the cobbles.
ResponderEliminarHe blinks, then slumps.
Then his patchwork coat catches fire. What's left of his gunpowder reserves explode as the last cultist dives for cover that isn't there.
The servitor ignores Brin pumping his fist in the air and unfolds one of its many multi-arms, beginning to spray a thick foam over what's left of the guttering fires... they should be completely quenched shortly.
Boris begins to spit up blood that isn't his and grins. Now it gets fun. the big man whips out his pistol and shouts "POW! HAHA!" and looses off a burst at the remaining Cultist.
ResponderEliminar[draw pistol+standard attack](-10BS due to blood)
The shot misses.
ResponderEliminarAt least, at first. As bullets are wont to do, it keeps going.... and strikes a cultist in the shoulder. A cultist that wasn't there before. In fact, the first cultist in a new and much larger wave of cultists now approaching the library from a side-street.
The one struck jerks, glances down at the bleeding wound, and then glares at Boris. He doesn't look happy.
Neither do the other forty.
What was once the remaining cultist gives the big acolyte a crooked grin and wanders away, dropping his useless musket with a clatter.
As the approaching horde opens fire, the lasgun-wielding figure behind the cart appears once again. Clad in the familiar rust-red robes of the Cult Mechanicus, it runs (a peculiar bounding gait that clatters on the cobbles) towards the library entrance, yelling something that might be either "don't shoot!" or "look, Kroot!"
ResponderEliminarArrows, crossbow bolts, crude (or not-so-crude) bullets, and a few lasers arc, zing, zoom, or crackl towards Boris, standing just off the library steps with little to no cover. Missiles of wood and metal splinter on the walls behind him or ping off his armor, fired at long range with little effect... except for two in particular. A laser strikes his midsection with enough power to burn flesh beneath, and-- most humiliatingly-- a crossbow bolt miraculously rises above its fellows to strike him directly in the head. His brain is spared only by the thickness of his bald dome of a skull, though an ever-increasing amount of the blood spattered across his visor is in fact now his.
Brin, aiming at the nearest cultist, yells, "Boris! Get back in here before they shoot your melon off, you Throne-blessed idiot!"
He fires but the grinning woman he hits merely stumbles a moment and keeps coming, hand pressed against her side.
[Boris takes 5 wounds]
Boris turns around to face Brin revealing the the bolt was still sticking out of his head but he didn't seem particularly bothered by it his words, however, deny that fact. "THERE IS ARROW IN MY HEAD!!" he he yelled as additional projectiles zinged over his head. Boris sprinted toward the door and prepared to slam it, waiting for the strange figure also running toward the door to get through to the relative safety of the library. He looked over at the nearest person and shouted "YOU HEELLP NOW!! while pointing at the crossbow bolt poking out of his head.
ResponderEliminarThe acolyte who had brought the firefighting servitor drops a book, eyes like tape reels. "Wha-- what?"
ResponderEliminarDenied their pincushioned target, the oncoming horde turn their attention to their last remaining foe: the Mechanicus, circling around what remains of the first wave and evidently not wanting to emulate the man who'd fallen in it. Though many pause to notch bows, reload muskets, or whisper entreaties over new crossbow bolts, they are now close enough for others of their member to fire... and fire they do. Stones, bullets, and bolts tear holes in the long robes, clattering against armor plate beneath. A round from an autogun catches the figure in the head; it squawks, stumbles, and almost slips on Boris's handiwork but keeps coming.
"Emperor's teeth," mutters Brin. He ducks around the doorframe again, aiming at the nearest cultist and then watching with satisfaction as this one (perhaps somewhat inebriated?) bursts into flames, right leg incinerated. His companions bark curses as ash stings their eyes. One throws a bolas, half-blind, and entangles the man in front of him... who drops a grenade.
There is enough blood and charred organs in the resulting explosion for at least three people. Maybe more. It's somewhat difficult to tell.
The Mechanicus skids inside, metal screeching, and chatters, "Closethedoorclosethedoor!"
with projectiles flying through the doorway and the acolyte looking at him in confusion, Boris pushed the large door shut and turned the wheel all the way into the locked position and sat on a nearby pile of rubble snapping the arrows end off as he did so.
ResponderEliminar"killing tiny men makes me hungry!" he said and pulled a sandwich out of his haversack.
Looking around at the other defenders and judging by the way they looked he decided that now wasn't the time for a snack.
After some thought, he looked at the acolyte and said, "you going to help or not?" pointing at the bleeding wound in his forehead.
The acolyte, who was shorter standing than Boris sitting, stammered "M-my lord, I do not-- I-- pardon, I--"
ResponderEliminarBrin sighed. Boris could be frighteningly smart sometimes, but firing that metal monster always seemed to regress his mentality back to his barbaric Dakkanovian roots. And he had never been much of a people person. No skill at all with the hopes and fears of the common man.
"Leave off, you great boulder," he drawled, "The man's a librarian. Worst they deal with is papercuts and falls from high shelves, none of this shot in the head business." He glanced at the acolyte. "Don't mind my associate here, he'll be all right."
"Momentarily," said a buzzing monotone.
Something hissing and metallic and bristling with saws, knives, and needles attacked Boris's forehead.
Boris yelled in surprise and threw the nearest thing, his sandwich at the whirring thing and threw up his hands grabbing it at the stem and holding it just before his face. "AAHHHH!!" "GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!!" he shouted falling off the pile of rubble he had been sitting on smashing a pile of books and knocking over the fire-fighting servitor and almost flattening its arm in between his massive bulk and the hard stone floor.
ResponderEliminarThe metal appendage clamped between Boris's huge fingers struck the floor with a clang. A thump followed, flailing limbs and a blur of red robes accompanied by a veritable chorus of clattering metallic impacts, almost as though the big man had knocked over a hardware kiosk. Somewhere beneath the din there might have been a distressed wail.
ResponderEliminarThe servitor didn't try to get out of the way, and its arm snapped with a crack. A gout of firefighting foam gushed across the room. Brin bit off a strangled curse as it struck him squarely across his chest, knocking him off his feet.
The acolyte blinked once, twice-- and then ran.
"What are you-- what are you-- what are you--" babbled the buzzing voice, cracked and panicked and seemingly almost unable to finish the sentence, "--d-d-d-d-doing?? I was-- I was-- j-just tryyyyy-ing to h-h-help!"