Campfire Stories (fluff snippets inspired by the events of your games!)
“But he was right in front of you! Kaneda raged. “What more did you need? For him to lie down in the swamp and let you hit him?!”
Hosk ground his teeth in anger as he glared at the ground in reluctant submission.
“I’ll do better” he weedled.
“You’re damned right you will!”
Rules: For the rest of the campaign Hosk gains the Berserk Skill, but rather than being triggered by damage, it is triggered by the first time each game he fails a Climb Test.
“She keeps looking at me…” Sage said. “It’s… unnerving”.
Ana grinned at her Berengeii friend. “I think she likes you!” she said. Sage shook his head.
“It’s not that kind of look”
“Men!” Nix chimed in. “totally clueless!”
“It’s not that kind of look!” Sage protested.
Rules: For the rest of the campaign, Sage and Ranelle may not shoot at each other, but must charge each other, if able. If they do, they will fight, may not disengage, but will not inflict Damage.
“Hah! I love it when things break!” Bluewing grinned, beating the twisted metal of his wings back in to shape. “Gives me a chance to make them again, better!”
Wishbone picked his teeth by the campfire, wedging a couple of balls of cotton in to his ears to block out the noise.
“Aren’t you worried you’ll a pack of Raptors down on us?” Graze said, seeming about as unconcerned as everyone else.
“Not really, no” Bluewing said. “I mean, what kind of insane psychopath would be half way up a volcano that’s about to blow its top?”
Rules: For the rest of the Campaign Bluewing gets +1/+0 Movement whenever he is performing a Leap action.
The Bondsmen (Round 2 Winners):
Gersla could tell Limossk was thinking due to the menacing purr he made in the back of his throat. The climb had been arduous, but thanks to a good night’s sleep in their fortified basecamp, the Bondsmen were feeling fresh.
Fancagne’s eyes glittered like cherry red embers as he surveyed the scene. At the top of the Cliff afce known locally as the Rocks of Tanna was a shelf of land, a valley of sorts, before Great Mznuua began to rise to its pinnacle. In the cleft of this valley was a near boiling lake, shrouded in hissing steam and mist, a rivulet of lava trickling down the mountainside to kiss the water surface.
Set in the centre of this lake, however, was a rocky island, rather like a miniature mountain of its own, from which a black plume of smoke rose. The glow of molten rock shone through the charcoal haze, marking the place where the meteor… or whatever it truly was, punched a hole in the mountainside.
“Too big to be a satellite” Hove growled. “Some kind of craft” he said. Limossk nodded in agreement.
“No way to know more without a closer look” he said. “Also, if you were hiding up here, what better place than an island surrounded by boiling water, shrouded in smoke?”
“Perfect” Gersla muttered, “Unless of course you need to breathe…”
It wasn’t clear if Limossk heard her or not. Either way he said nothing, and begun to give orders for them to search the area.
Rules: Bondsmen may chose any non-Leader non-Tough model in their crew, and deploy them as an Infiltrator, even if they would not normally be allowed to deploy infiltrators.
Ka’lla Qua’s hunting trip was a failure. Most sensible animals had fled the area long ago, and so the meagre supplies she’d managed to find were a few root tubas and a handful of fruits. It would keep them going for a little longer, but Ka’lla knew the treasure hunters would be coming soon. She needed to get the Princess out of there.
The cave entrance seemed darker than normal. The ground felt hot, but when she entered the cave the glittering lights flickered on, like tiny mechanical stars. The Princess was huddled in a corner, hugging her knees, eyes wide with fear.
It was then that Ka’lla Qua felt the presence behind her…
Militia Round 1 Choice: “Detour”
“Oh I see” the old Sorrian said, peering over the pebble like glasses which seemed permanently affixed to his bony snout. “I live in a cave and don’t wear fancy clothes like your good selves, so I must be some kind of wise-man of the Mountain?”
“Well… that and the fact that the villagers below literally called you the wise-man of the mountain” Forek said. “Can you help us or not?”
The Sorrian sighed, and flicked his straggly beard over one shoulder, grasping for a few herbs on his over-populated desk, before hobbling over to the corpse. He snorted. Juchita and Forek exchanged glances, silently wondering if the snort was an expression of derision, or an attempt to smell the corpse. Either way he sprinkled a handful of herbs over the body, and brandished a fetish of bones and coloured fragments of junk. Ranelle rolled her eyes, and Juchita stepped in front of her to block the old Sorrian’s view.
“Will that help?” she enquired politely.
“Help?” the Sorrian croaked? “Yeah! Think I want my place smelling of cooked person? No I do not!” With that he reached over the corpse, prizing a piece of charred metal from its arm. “Alright then, so where did you find it?”
“Strapped to a metal chair, part of the debris that fell from the fireball” Forek said.
The old Sorrian’s watery eyes widened. “A burned man falling from the sky… portentous indeed”.
“Its a man then?” Juchita interjected.
The Sorrian shrugged. “Too burned to tell. All you humans look alike to me anyway. Well, apart from the fact that this fellow is a fair bit taller than most.”
“must be from an old satellite” Forek said. “right?”
“If it is, it must be a human, right? There were only humans before the Event…” Juchita suddenly covered her mouth as if trying to stop any other words from coming out. The Sorrian eyed her with amusement.
“That’s right” he said, sagely, “Despite what my people might tell you. Oh don’t you worry. I can’t be offended by the truth. The other races were created by the Humans… as slaves. Pretty legacy, huh?” He let the mischievous glimmer in his eye make its full impact for a few seconds before continuing. “To answer your question, no, this human did not fall from Orbit. Whatever the Fireball is, it’s not a fallen satellite or spacecraft”.
“But… how is that possible?” Forek said. “How do you know?”
“Well” the Sorrian continued, limping over to a book case and sliding off a crumbling tome almost as big as he was. “You thought that in orbit a body wouldn’t rot. You’re right. There’s no air up there. But a body up there would certainly freeze. When a frozen body melts there are signs, and this fellow doesn’t have ‘em”.
He slammed the book down on a reading lecturn and opened it, climbing up a few steps in order to read. After flicking through a few dusty pages he prodded the book with a blunt clawed finger.
“There” he exclaimed, triumphantly.
The rest of the Militia crew gathered around him. The old Sorrian pointed as a picture of a smiling human, standing in front of a flying craft, and wearing a piece of metal on his wrist looking suspiciously like the thing he’d plucked from the body.
“That, my friends, is a pilot’s crono-key. It tells the time, and also sends a magical signal to the craft, so that only he can pilot it. Whatever your craft is, it’s not from Space, and the fellow you’ve brought me is its pilot...