Storyteims, /tg/! Have I got a goodie for ya!So I'm running this Deathwatch game. One of my players (whose PC is an Ultramarine) ended up being interned in a Dreadnaught sarcophagus (story for another time, my dearies, but it involves about twenty pounds of frag grenades, half a pack of lho-sticks, and throne-knows-how-many yards of detcord, among other implements). So it's about halfway through my campaign, and Ultra decides he wants to gamble with the local IG regiment to boost their morale (in the campaign fluff, this regiment has gone through some brutal "reforms" and has suffered some heavy losses). Imagine, if you will, that you're a lowly Guardsman, stationed on a Emperor-forsaken backwater outpost on some forgotten planet near the ass-end of nowhere. You're sitting around a table with your mates, playing a few hands of cards, when all of this sudden this walking TANK comes up and asks to be dealt in the next hand. So I decide to be a bastard (because he's been trolling me for the past few sessions, but he has horrible luck with dice when the chips are down) and pile on a Very Hard (-30) modifier, thinking how his bad luck would make me laugh. Oh how wrong I was. Not only did he win every roll, he did it with *five* degrees of success on each roll. >cont'd if anyone gives a fuck
>>20168261Go on, I'm listening.
anyone have that "dis gun b gud" gif with the honorable african-american and the chair of folding
>>20168261Now imagine that you're that same Guardsman, and that the tank is fucking *cleaning house* at the table. It has won your hard-earned meager pay, but it has also won your lasgun, your armor, your fucking *shirt;* hell, it's even won the *table* you're playing on. And remember, this is a *walking fucking tank* that's your opponent. Fucking Ultra kept winning hand after hand, until I basically said, "Fuck it. [Ultra], you've won enough hands to boost morale. These guys couldn't be happier."After this sudden string of good luck, Ultra decided to do something really interesting:He gave everything he won *back* to the Guardsmen. *Everything.* The money, the cards, the armor...It was surprisingly heartwarming to hear it from his character. "You gave me a good match. You did not win. You will have days like this, where you do not achieve victory, whether it be here on the table or the battlefield. But you must not walk away from those days with a head hung in shame; instead you must hold it high and remember that, no matter what, you will always have the day after."He then proceeded to lumber away, when suddenly APPLAUSE ERRYWHERE.>cont'd soon~~
This intrigues me.
>>20168592I like this bastard!
>>20168592The ENTIRE FUCKING outpost (or at least the room he was in) breaks out into thunderous applause. Guardsmen try to get up close, like they're trying to get an autograph.Then the Commissars start to make their way over.And that's where things got...*interesting.*See, the commissars were all of noble birth and were chosen for they're political connections. They also hated anything that "disturbed the Emperor's fine work" (i.e their extremely long breaks).To contrast, the Guardsmen were all of lower-middle class. You can all try to guess what happened next."What in the Emperor's name is--THRONE ON TERRA WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU PEASANTS SWARMING THAT DREADNAUGHT." Fucking silence. You could hear a fucking pindrop and it would register on the goddamn Richter scale. "All of you! The nerve! Excuse us, milords, for our soldier's...*encroaching* enthusiasm. Won't happen aga--""Why did you halt their well-earned celebration?" Leave it to the fucking *walking, talking* tank to shut up a Commissar. Then Ultra proceeds to roll an Intimidate check with a Challenging (+0) modifier.Fucking aces it. *Three* degrees of success."Ah--uh--well, you see, Wise One--""Give me good reason *not* to rip you limb from limb.""You wouldn't dare--""*I would.*">epic conclusion to come along shortly
Come on OP, don't fail me now!
>>20169256The Commissar is trying not to shit his pants, but already his defeat is written on his fucking face. He only mutters one word. "Continue."The celebration and glee starts up again as now the Guardsmen *really* have a reason to celebrate--no one, not even a Space Marine, has been able to make a commissar want to shit his pants. And then there was merriment, there was joy, and there was, for but a brief instant, there's no worry about the battle tomorrow. There's hope in its place. There was also a shit-ton of ale, which my Space Wolf player giddily dove into. The antics that happened afterward? A story for another thread.