Cräg nôch tærann!

Vandus looked to the other members of the platoon. He was the only one who bore the red shoulder pad that distinguished him as a payed conscript. The black emblem sewn on to it in black leather, a fox head with one eye, signified him as a member of the esteemed and feared Order d’Militante (officially known as the Hereditary Order d’Militante d’Ranum of Strona). He was dressed in his typical war gear, a shirt and hood of iron chainmail provided most of the protection while leather gauntlets protected his hands and forearms. Over his chain shirt, he wore a hauberk of thick burlap painted with the colors of the hiring military, in this case red and orange, the colors of the Anos Legionaires. The last bit of protection was in the form of re-enforced leather shoulder pads baring the same colors and insignias. The only other things that signified him as more than one of the other worthless peons and fodder of the Anos Legionaires were his weapons, a steel short spear with runes of fortitude inscribed in it and a bronze shield with the same one eyed fox and runes of protection upon it, and all the little trinkets and trophies attached to his person from previous battles and fights.

Hanging from his neck, dangled a pendant of great sentimental value to him. It was a simple stone triangle, but inscribed in to it and repainted with some red ink was the Mark of Ranum, the god of Glorious Deaths. Those who looked upon it would be drawn in, lost in the intricacies of the mark (eight isosceles triangles all pointing to an empty center and aligned to create the illusion of 4 lines intersecting at a center point and the space in between filled with red). Vandus always felt a certain amount of comfort wearing that pendant, as if there was an invisible shield in front of his own that would always protect him.

The small differences in his appearance though, were a wild contrast to that of the other members of his platoon. All fair skinned and green eyed Anosians, they not only bore an almost familiar resemblence, but their uniforms were exact duplicates. Each wore a suit of chainmail covering all but the face. Over that each wore the same green and orange burlap hauberk over their torsos and leather shoulder pads, each painted a certain color to represent rank. Platoon commanders wore read on their shoulders, captains wore orange, foot soldier wore green and militia men wore yellow. Any man of higher rank wore specialized shoulder protection of different material.

The platoon of soldiers marched over the cobbled road at a fair speed. Far ahead marched another platoon, scouting ahead for dangers. The truth of the matter was, the kingdom of Anos was at war. A war they could not win. They were fighting the Odrun’s on one border, a kingdom of war hungry cavalry men intent on fighting for the sake of fighting, and the barbarian picts on another border. The kingdom had little hope of defeating the Odrun’s alone, let alone with the barbarian Picts marauding to the east. All seemed to be lost, but with great resolve the kingdom had kept alive. They had contracted out most of the Order d’Militante and many mercenary companies in the hopes of strengthening their small army. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

Faintly, a thumping sound began sounding in Vandus’ ears. At first he thought it was his heart pounding during the steady march, but as it grew louder his weary eyes shot open. Drums. Drums pounding out a deathly call, signifying only one thing. The others heard it too and looked around wildly.

“Here they come!” shouted one of the platoon’s captains, waving his war banner back and forth. No sooner had he said that than the cries and screams of men erupted around them in the forest. Warcries. Out of the trees poured a mass of blue and tan flesh. The attacking force came at the platoon from both sides, catching the edges off guard. The first rush broke the lines of the Anos Legionaires and threatened to crash right through them, but those who had time to react held strong.

“Men! Form two groups facing the sides!” called the commander, gesturing wildly with his rune carved longsword. The soldiers, as poorly trained as they were, followed orders exceptionally well and through the midst of battle, they formed two lines, each facing the sides of the road.

Shield walls were formed and Vandus found himself at the front of one. Hordes of picts swarmed out of the trees, horrid barbarians dressed in simple leather and cloth. Most of them had a fair amount of exposed skin that was painted in blue war paint. All of them were armed with simple archaic weapons, bone, wood and stone axes, spears and clubs. Some held rusty swords and axes, obviously looted from previous raids. Each snarled and bellowed, even as they died. Vandus thrust his short spear over his shield in an unpredictable pattern, piercing flesh and leather, occasionally ducking an over head chop. The shield wall held strong and bodies began piling up. A lucky savage caught him across the nose with the tip of his crude dagger but was sent to the depths of hell a moment later by two quick jabs of Vandus’ spear.

Fighting had only lasted for no more than five minutes, but suddenly the barbarians ceased their assault. As Vandus pulled his spear from the corpse of one of them, he looked up and found no more, it was as if they had never been there. However experience had taught the young soldier one thing about picts. They were never gone unless you were dead.

“Raise those shields, archers!” he shouted. The other members of the platoon gave him an odd look at first but quickly they understood. Just in time the groups of men raised their shields in a vertical shield wall to intercept the sudden barrage of arrows coming from hidden archers in the trees. The rattling thunk and occasional cry of a man not so lucky was all that could be heard for a moment, then there was only silence. In the distance a crow called, pleased at the sight of battle as that surely meant he’d have supper, but that was the only sound. Slowly the shields were lowered as men looked about bewilderment.

“Cräg nôch tærann!” came a cry from the woods in the guttural voices of hundreds of savages. Vandus rolled his eyes, this was only the beginning.

Tapletop RPGs, A List

OK so this is not going to be some nice fiction writing today, sorry folks, this is going to be… well I won’t call it a review, more of a list. A list of what Tabletop RPG is best for what, out of the ones I have experience with. I’m sorry your favorite’s not on her, but I can only play so many. Once again, I’m going to be talking about the differences between them and what to use when, not what is “the best system”.

• D&D 3.5 -  Mmm. D&D, my old friend. My introduction to role play was through this, those years ago. Well down to the nitty gritty. D&D in general is good for high fantasy medieval type games, but they can be low-mid as well, just depends on the GM’s discretion. There’s several amazing prepublished settings out as well, or you can make your own. The setting it’s self is rather rules heavy, but once you get the hang of it you can do it in your sleep. I can make a character at this point all from memory. The main mechanic is dice rolling, lots and lots of dice rolling. Roll a d20, apply your modifier, see if you succeed or fail, add any other dice or modifiers, role play it out.

• D&D 4E – Same thing as 3.5 but a whole .5 newer! Now that whole .5 makes all the difference, they really reworked the system for this, but when it comes down to it, it still feels like D&D. The main differences is, instead of just rolling your dice, you now have powers, some can be used any time, others once per encounter, once per day, etc. Each race and class get their own unique powers and abilities and in my mind, it can make it feel more cinematic. Instead of slashing at the troll, I rush him, kick him in the danglie bits and coup de grace his ass. However, if there’s only one PHB to go around, be prepared to feel like a wizard madly flipping through pages trying to find the one thing you want. Other than that, a lot has been simplified, sometimes in a good way, othertimes not. Really the only difference between 4E and 3.5E is what you personally like.

• Savage Worlds – Savage Worlds is currently my favorite. It’s a pulp action style game with the main goal of making a system you can play in any setting. There’s a rule for everything and a rather all encompassing skill list. What I find amazing is that for such an all encompassing game, it’s quite simple. There’s not a lot of insane rules if you want to be a Canadian Half-Elf from Space wielding two shotguns and riding a robotic dinosaur. Now this is very different from the d20 system, instead of applying your modifier to your d20 roll, for each skill and stat you have a die. A d4, d6, d8, d10 or d12. The DC is always the same, it’s always a 4. So if you are as unskilled as can be, a d4, and you’re trying to pick a lock, well you concievably can, but you gotta be real lucky. But say you are a master, a d12, well hell that should be no problemo.

• Cortex – OK Cortex is very similar to Savage Worlds, you might not know it by name but it’s the system of the Firefly RPG, Supernatural RPG, and BS:G RPG. It’s a system for every setting and is very similar in mechanics to Savage Worlds. The main differences is, characters are more complex in terms of rules. On a Savage Worlds character sheet, I’ll have my 6 or so stats, my maybe 5 skills I chose to train, any edges and hindrances and that’s about it. On a Cortex one, there’s close to 10 stats and a whole slew of skills. In the end, it’s the difference between 4E and 3.5, what do you like better?

Project Rehab

Tension permeated the room. Every corner was nervous, the mass of human bodies shuddered but stayed quiet. A man in a tie and suit approached the podium.

“I’m sorry.” he began nervously, “I never thought I would have to say it, but Project Rehab was a failure.”

Those words stuck with me through out ALL of this. Project Rehab was an experimental new drug that affected testosterone and serotonin receptors in the brain. Basically, it was supposed to “fix” criminals. Instead of jail time, a few treatments of Project Rehab and you have a functioning member of society.

Yeah, like that was a good idea. You’d think by now the government would learn mind control is never a good idea. I guess not. See, it didn’t last. Now that’s bad enough as it is, you have a bunch of criminals now free of mind control running about, but it got worse.

What happens when you block the testosterone receptors and pump someones brain full of serotonin? They naturally develope more testosterone receptors and build and immunity to serotonin. Now serotonin makes you feel at ease, makes you feel comfortable. Testosterone makes you feel manly and angry.

After the drug wore off, these individuals were highly suseptable to testosterone and barely felt their own natural serotonin levels. So what do you have? Very angry uneasy people. Who are criminals. And loose on our streets.

I remember Project Rehab’s inception, the president’s speech, his promises. I remember all of that. Now all of that’s pointless. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but my name’s Blake Cromwell. I’m a british ex-pat from the UK, living here in Los Angeles. If you can call this living.

Los Angeles had the highest rate of Project Rehab releases, and also one of the highest crimerates in the country. This isn’t a city anymore. It’s a war zone. The national guard is down the street, moving towards my direction.

It’s a hopeful situation, I haven’t seen a non hostile human in days, but as I write this, there’s about 22 hostiles attempting to get into my building. By the time the nat. guard get here, they’ll have made it in. I only have 8 bullets left.

Hell even if the guard get here, I’m a beat up looking dude with a gun, they’ll probably put me down like the rest. Hell, they would even if I didn’t look like this. I’ve seen too much. I just hope… somehow.. this letter gets out.

Somehow. Listen, I have a sister back in the UK. In Bristol, if I someone finds this letter please

The note stops here. Found nearby was a large amount of blood and 7 shotgun shells and no bodies.

For the Emperor! *NSFW NSFW NSFW*

Today I awoke in my normal fashion. Rousted prematurely by an infernal technological contraption’s incesant beeping, I set out to find the perpetrator. Soon enough I found a small plastic box with lights flashing. When asked it’s name and purpose it continued beeping so with a cry to the Emperor I flung it down my hallway. It ricochet off a wall and into the bathroom, I heard a watery “ploop” and new it had landed in the toilet.

Stripping off my bloody night vestments (the blood being from the ritualistic sacrifices I perform in my sleep to grant myself eternal life), I stumbled to my dresser.

“Open.” I commanded it, forcefully. It did nothing. “OPEN YOU ASSDICKING SHIT FUCKER!” I cried again. Nothing. The thing was obviously malfunctioning. I begrudgingly hoisted open one of the drawers and reached in a hand to draw forth my battle garb. To my dismay the drawer yeilded nothing but air.

“FFFFFFUUUUUUU” I began under my breath as a I systematically dismantled my dresser as punishment. Thirty minutes, two screw drivers and a sledge hammer later, my dresser now served as my “pile of fucking wood”.

Perturbed, angry, and naked, I stood in my hallway regarding my home with contempt for it bore no battle garb. I would have to forage for my clothes like primitive men forage for food. I figured the neighbor’s house would be the first place to start as he seemed to be the type to wear clothes.

I walked to my back door but find the glass door shut. With a mighty bellow I headbutted it repeatedly until the glass shattered. A few shards embedded themselves in my forehead and several more cut deep gashes in my body, drawing forth a steady stream of blood.

Blood soaked, angry and naked I agiley hopped the fence, shouting at the top of my lungs “Yip yip yip!”. My left foot however failed me at that moment and caught on one of the fence boards, ripping half the fence out as I tumbled to the ground.

As I pulled myself out of the tangle of fence posts and slats, I found my neighbor staring at me in freightful bewilderment. “For the Emperor.” I stated matter-of-factly, attempting to explain my impromptu entrance.

Slowly his eyes drifted from the shards embedded in my forehead, down my bruised and cut body, and inevitably to my handsome gonads. Confused, he attempted to say a word, but simply sputtered.

“For. The. Emperor.” I said more firmly, growling at him as I flexed my pectoral muscles, switching from one to the other.

With a frightened yawp, my neighbor dove into his house and began dailing his phone, most likely calling the police. Quickly I moved, forcing my way through his screen door, to intercept. I grabbed the phone from his hand and bit off the antennae. I then grabbed him by the throat and forced his head through the nearest window.

Feeling safe that I would have no intrusions on my hunt for clothing I searched his house for his laundry room. I eventually found it in the garage. I began sorting through the man’s dirty rags, finding them all to be not to my liking. After going through the pile twice, I found I would have to pick the best ones he had, though none were up to my standards.

After a time I decided upon a very utilitarian outfit. A bright pink tshirt with the sleeves forcefully and sloppily torn off to create the illusion of a tank top, a brand name scrawled across the chest, “BadBoyz” it said.

I then donned his only pair of denim shorts, the edges frayed and torn. This would have to do. As I exited his house through the front door (I’m a gentleman after all), I pulled the poor chap from his window, his body limp in my arms.

For a moment he stirred and moved as if to escape so I forcefully headbutted him until one of the shards of glass transferred to his left eye ball.

As I strolled down his front steps I stopped a moment to relieve myself on his lawn. His elderly neighbor stared at me, her hair curlers giving her head an almost alien appearance. I noted I would have to check her for Xenos DNA sooner or later.

As I loosed the last few drops of urine from my bladder, I memory came to me. Today was my friend James’ birthday. I was supposed to be at his house to celebrate with him in only two hours. Moving like a cat on hallucinagenics, I leaped sporatically to my car, a VW Van with the top half violently sheered off to create the illusion of it being a convertable.

Blood stains permeated the seats and my assortment of tools lay in the back. I hopped in and began furiously rabbit kicking the ignition until by some eldritch power, the vehicle sprang to life.

“Kee-keri-kee!” I shouted as I left my culdesac to go birthday shopping. To be honest, I had no idea what I would buy James, or where, but through no fault of my own I ended up at the local Walmart.

I parked my vehicle (fondly called the “Killfuck Soulshitter IV”) on top of an elderly lady and strolled through the automatic doors, thanking the spirits for opening them for me. A young ginger lad greeted me, his acne screaming in terror.

He stopped for a moment to stare at my attire and I informed him it was borrowed from my neighbor by delivering a swift jab to his wind pipe. He crumpled to his knees, gasping for breathe.

I moved to aisle 2 labeled in ancient runes “Feminine Hygiene Products and Lotions”. I passed a rotund african american woman who stared at me, no doubt marveling at my fine glutial musculature. After a time I began simply pulling items off the shelves and stuffing them down my pants, as I had forgotten to grab a basket.

Time past quickly, a Taylor Swift song playing on repeat over the intercom system. I was no longer aware of my actions, but evidently I had checked out as I found myself running from the Walmart security force, arms full of tampons and home pregnancy tests, screaming obsenities and blasphemies as my pursuers. I had also somehow misplaced my pants.

I threw my treasure in the back of the Killfuck Soulshitter IV and sped off down Hammerson Street. Nearing the point where Hammerson becomes Sonnerham, I slammed on the breaks, as I had bypassed James’ house.

Throwing my car into reverse, I slipped between two other vehicles and slammed into a UPS truck. I went flying through where my windshield would be if it had been there and landed in the passengers seat of the truck, my arm badly bent. I was vaguely aware of the bone protruding and arterial spray flowing violently from my wound.

The UPS driver looked at me in horror. “Burn the heretic, kill the mutant, cleanse the unclean.” I recited to him, hungrily gnawing at his jugular. I soon left his vehicle, feeling woozy from blood loss and retrived James’ gifts from my car.

I managed to stumble to the birthday boy’s house, causing only five traffic jams and collisions. So I was 1 hour and 45 minutes early, it was not a problem, I was sure James would be overjoyed to see me.

I rapped angrily at his door before I began excitedly kicking it. I heard voices from within and began carving runic markings into the wood of the door with my teeth. After a time it opened and there stood James’ sister.

She stared at me in utter disbelief. My arm was now turning very white from blood loss the bone was stained red. Glass adorned my forehead and my outfit was less than satisfactory.

“J…james….JAMES!” she cried for her older brother.

James came sliding down the bannister of the stairs as usual and met me at the door. “Bappy Hirthday.” I managed, spitting blood and teeth all over him.

I began showering him with tampons and home pregnancy tests as his sister began crying. He began shouting at me, but his words turned into Xenos curses. I recognized the heresy before it even began. I stopped my celebratory ritual and socked him right in the solar plexis.

Spinning, I backhanded his sister and tackled him to the ground. There I pinned him and ripped off his shirt, revealing the mark of Khorne upon his chest.

“Zagl Nurgle xhak forek narucht.” he spat, seeming confused. Feeling increasingly weak, I feared my life was coming to an end. With my last ounce of strength I ripped my arm from the elbow down clean off and began forcing my now dead hand into his mouth with my still functioning one.

His sister at this point was silently sobbing, but I could feel the evil eminating from her. Before my eyes she began transforming, while James choked. Her long hair turned into little horns and her arms into pincers. Suddenly I was confronted by a Tyranid Gargoyle.

It was at this point I felt my soul slipping, the warp taking hold. I cried for my unit, but then remembered they were not here. The emperor’s embrace was comforting but cold. I felt myself slipping from consiousness, horror, the warp.. I could feel the xenos so close… but I was so far…

With my final breath I furiously bitch slapped the fucker upside the head and promptly shit myself, the two entirely unrelated. I could feel myself dying. Slipping, sliding. I could smell the smell of decay, I could hear screams. Suddenly everything was warm.

I was now with the Lords of Chaos.