I recall having promised you all the continuance of a story detailing the adventures of one Mr. Silon, his Magistratum-friend Mordeci and Devi the criminally-gifted. Prior to my beginning of this, the third installment, I ask that you ready yourselves to sit down for a bit of reading as this story certainly isn't as short. You see, It is about this time that the game begins to 'accelerate' as it were, as the DM wanted to 'move things along' instead of having us continually chase gutter-scum hither-and-yon for ten levels.

I am certain that when the DM gave us the monumental task of killing a government official, he never thought we would have had such "catastrophic success" as a strategist would put term it. You see, we didn't have a single inkling of a plan beyond "walk in and find the fellow, ventilate his body, then leave." And why not? The previous incarnation of this plan had worked beautifully well, we now had transport (highly visible and full of holes), funds, and some degree of notoriety on the street. All of this was accomplished, mind you, without any of us being wounded in any significant fashion. Perhaps we were too cocky or possibly we were fresh from other gaming systems but this mission would certainly underline how very lethal Dark Heresy is to your character's ambition, or the very least their life.

Upon reflection, I seem to recall that our characters simply woke, armed themselves, locked the door and walked to where the ganger-mobile was parked some blocks away. We found that one of the surest insurance policies in the bad part of town was to have a vehicle riddled with bullet-holes, missing most of its rear window and body trim. The vehicle was unmolested beyond what it had suffered the previous day. Before allowing any to drive, Silon, the lowly tech-adept spent time in deep prayer, ritualistic incantations and a merry jig all supposedly to Appease the Machine-Spirit within the beast. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no I did not make a "This able beast shall get us there" quotation, but Mordeci did and Silon silenced him with a curious agreeance "As the Omnissah wills it."

Silon was allowed to drive to the . . . well, it was then we all realized we had no idea where precisely the PDF base was, or if this commanding officer was full time or reserve or even how things worked in the hive. For all we knew he could be a minor noble in the spire or some wealthy businessman who had the dubious honor of commanding a PDF company in the lower hive. So, Devi came up with a plan.

"I look around for Recruiting posters."

Naturally, this being the Imperium of man and the Imperium of man needing all the bodies they could get, posters were virtually everywhere to be seen. We read the address off the bottom for the local recruiting office's location. We attempted to make our way to the address, getting lost once or twice before real disaster struck. With a clatter and a knock, the engine died. It was, to be fair, not the end result of the Machine Spirit having been angered by our transgressions. It was something far more simple, actually. We were, for lack of a better word, out of 'go juice' and the gauge read empty. Mordeci smacked the back of Silon's head and asked why he didn't notice that the fuel gauge was almost empty, Silon admitted having never driven a vehicle before. There was a moment of stunned silence, then anger as Devi and Mordeci realized in character that the man/machine that had insisted on driving this entire time had virtually no experience with any form of operating a wheeled civilian vehicle in traffic.

We managed to push the vehicle off to the curb and then decided to ditch it as it was most likely going to attract attention just sitting there full of bullet holes. There are bad things in the lower hive, agreed, but Magistratum officers are on the occasional lookout for suspicious vehicles and this holed and holy machine fit that role most perfectly. Silon would refuse to part with the machine at first, the other party members informing him that it had served valiantly and that it would find new friends that would take care of it. After having failed to detect their blatant lies, Silon was determined to at least acquire a memento helped himself to the Tire Iron. Or rather, this happened.

ohboyohboyohboyohboy

You have my full attention, Dave.

Myself: "I'm going to search the vehicle over and see what can be salvaged"

The DM: "Roll search"

Myself: "uh, Pass, barely by two points"

The DM: "While searching the trunk you feel the Omnissah guiding your hand, and you recover what you believe to be a real treasure: The tire Iron.

While they were walking down the crowded sidewalk, Silon holding the tire iron out as a dowsing rod (in what way better to attempt to scry the direction of the Omnissah's will than by through a divine instrument?) They passed a street preacher who was ranting and raving about the evils of the hive biting off the heads of the righteous. Silon passed him without thought, for this man was incoherent and illogical. Devi recognized the preacher as the one speaking before the . . . incident at the theater. The man was fire and brimstone, apparently magnificently pissed off at having lost his greatest supporter, his proudest student, the best convert he had. It was interesting to see how the DM showed us eventual outcome of our choices, the sum total of our decisions. This man, once a rising star in the Ecclesiarchy for having converted a major ganglord and then turned his flock to working good, was now to live as a street-preacher, surrounded by second-hand toughs and yelling whatever he thought the Emperor thought appropriate.

We walked on for a time, Silon unaware of the outside world, only following where the 'Wrench of Divine Adjustment' dictated, spending his entire focus on the holiness of this object and it's will. I have always believed that if you are going to play a zealous man, do so with the zeal to match your character. A paladin does not 'eat breakfast', a Paladin 'sups the breakfast which has been granted unto him by his holiness on this day, a most blessed day in service of his lord god.' A Paladin does not "attack bandits", he "defends the goodness of the people against any incursion of evil, great or small, with all of his heart for all of his days". However, Silon didn't have a floating head in the sky, but he had the Tire Iron and he would follow it. Devi and Mordeci did make jokes behind Silon's back but he accepted their skepticism, fully prepared for the Omnissah to show his logic in time. Silon was prepared to forgive their ignorance.

As the Tire Iron had guided us to the appropriate place ( or that we arrived there incidentally by DM appointment) a short amount of time later we found the Imperial Guard Recruiting station for this part of the lower-hive. It was a long storefront with all sorts of silly posters that most modern military recruiter's have. Broad chested men with square jaws looked proud in front of an Aquila, standing for Hatred, Pure, hatred, and the Imperial way. We walked in and immediately Mordeci came to the front, not wanting to be represented by Mr Silon, whom was truly fascinated by the model and pattern of copying machine prevalent in this office. He asked the man behind the desk "Is this the recruiting office for the PDF?" The desk sergeant growled out a "Why? Join the real guard, good pay, good benefits, and we'll have you killin' aliens before the year is out!" This sort of man was obviously on a quota and thought we had intended to join. Mordeci flashed his badge and said "Is this the recruiting office for the PDF?" to which the Desk sergeant said "no, officer, that's two blocks to the West . . . sorry . . I just thought." We left before the man finished his apologies at having considered us cannon fodder. Silon blessed the copier on the way out.

The PDF recruiting station, was, by comparison, a much more spartan place. The posters looked much sadder in comparison to the technicolor glory portrayed just blocks away. We were told the poster had a guardsman hand-stenciled and "DO YOUR SERVICE" written under it. As though there were choices in the matter. We entered and it was run-down hell. The lights flickered, the floor tile was peeling up, the counters were dirty and there was some young man fresh from training sitting behind the desk. Silon had to test in order to keep his focus on the mission at hand, because there were so many things ...so many, many things that needed repair, mending, soothing, caressing care and he needed, NEEDED to help them. The party restrained the tech-adept and reminded him of the mission. Silon held the Tire iron close and murmured incantations while Mordeci questioned the man behind the counter "Where is the Colonel of your regiment?" The young man appeared stunned that anyone was actually in the building, but Mordeci's trick with the badge brought him around to seeing that our mission was not merely interrogative but certainly more official. We were informed that the colonel had taken leave to go hunting with his friends. We asked where he hunted. The said that the Colonel hunted in the warrens beneath the hive with his other, noble friends.

So, we found that this mission had just literally gone to shit.

YAY!

IT'S THE MAN WITH THE PEG LEG!

Finding a way down into the worst parts of the hive isn't as easy as one would think, you see, they put all sorts of barriers up to ensure that nothing from down there decides it wants to come up and ruin life for more civilized folk. Eventually we did hear rumors that a freight elevator in an abandoned factory went straight down to the bottom of the hive, as the steelworks it once was hunted scrap and slag to re-heat for use as cheap building materials. It wasn't a perfect lead but it was the one the DM gave us so we walked for hours, and were completely, COMPLETELY exhausted by the time we found the Factory. It sat there, doors chained, closed, and rusted. The complex was in ruins, had been picked partially apart by scavengers. The concrete was split and broken. However, there was someone home, there were flickering lights int he abandoned complex, the burning lights of squatters at camp. We found a hole in the perimeter where the indigents had breached the wall, and Devi deactivated a few rudimentary traps left for us to find. Now, these traps weren't of the dangerous sort but were more of the 'raise the alarm' sort, cans on strings and that sort of thing. We ran to the building's edge and Mordeci peeped through a broken window, looking to see if there were any of the locals on the bottom floor. Startling these folks would have been a bad idea, we figured. Best we sneak through completely.

We had all snuck into the machine-works of the idle forge successfully, finding no patrols, no indigents directly visible, and nothing frightening or terrible in any way whatsoever. Well, at least that's what the rest of the party had thought. Silon was beside himself, running his fingers over all of the idle, rusted machines and realizing that it would be a glorious agent of the Machine God blessed much with the Omnissahs touch that could return all of these machines to working order. If only he had the skill. Silon sighed and continued walking with the party, holding the Tire-Iron low, spirits seemingly quashed by being surrounded by such terrible industrial waste as idle machinery. The only thing that moved him at all was activating the Elevator to the Warrens, something requiring a side-quest in trying to find a functioning power-cell in the place and then hooking it up. Several tech-use tests later the platform began the long, groaning, grinding descent into the unknown, leaving the dim light above for absolute darkness below.

Seeing as there was nothing to do but likely ride the clattering, ancient elevator for several hours, Mordeci began to tell stories. He told us about how once his father chased a Murderer down here . . into the dark. Silon asked if Mordeci's father was involved in law enforcement and friends, Mordeci's family had been law enforcement for the better part of the history of the Imperium. They might not have been the best, but they were there doing their part. Mordeci said that his father never came back, and that the department refused to send any more men down after him. Devi was absolutely frightened at the idea of having anyone go down to the Warrens for any reason, she said that even 'the worst' would rather face a firing squad than take that leap into hell. And here we were, slowly dipping into hell to hunt a PDF colonel who spent his idle time hunting who knows what with his friends down here. Mordeci checked his autogun and Devi her new shotgun. I still only had my laspistol and felt wholly under-armed but the Tire Iron concealed in the robes made Silon feel all sorts of special-purposed.

We didn't arrive in the warrens till much later. To be honest we didn't precisely 'arrive' but more 'stalled in the elevator and hung there until Silon found that the 13mm Tire Iron was of perfect size to release a nut to send them falling the last dozen feet into waist high....well, whatever horrible semi-liquid filters to the bottom of a city of this size. Everyone checked to see if they were alright and we looked to the Elevator suspended above us, realizing we were NOT going to get out the same way we got in. Certainly the Colonel, if we found him, would likely have his own way up. Mordeci turned on his glow-lamp and so did the rest of us, playing them around and finding nothing but shadows and debris as far as the eye could see, augmented or non. It was this time I lamented not having some sort of specialized in-built sensory equipment and for matter of fact the DM had not even allowed us to spend much of our experience point total (read, none in my case) for 'reasons that will be apparent soon enough'. Now I've heard some understatements in my life but that one would prove to be a doozy, at least in the realm of tabletop gaming. So, here we were, wading through poo and worse, and listening for anything.

Good thing I don't have work tomorrow. Because I'm grabbing a coffee and staying up all night to hear the rest of this story. Glad to have you here, Peg-Leg Dave.

I think I almost died laughing hysterically at your last thread. Please, keep it up.

Before long we were set upon by mutants, but not of the overly angry "I smash you good" sort, but more the "Misunderstood, still loyal to the Imperium yet deserving of nothing less than total hate" sort. It was a casual thing, just one big, grotesquely shaped humanoid come waltzing over to us with a weak glow-lamp around his forehead like a second hand halo. He then said "YOO NEED MEET CAPTEN". It wasn't up for argument because every time we tried to interject or get a word in, he would say "YOO NEED MEET CAPTEN" and then begin trotting off, so, out of fear of having nothing else to do, we followed him. In time, we came to a camp.

The camp was more or less a rubble pile in the poo ocean (or Poo Sea, uncertain as to how poo-geologists label things down there), there were camp-fires set up along the perimeter, some really uncomfortable looking lean-tos and scattered garbage salvaged from the refuse dumped down here daily. We were brought before the "Captain" who was some giant, bloated beast carried by a pair of stout looking midgets. The "Captain" wore a PDF Captain helmet and was nothing less than a disgusting mass of rotting, barely-sentient flesh. He burbled out a story along the lines of having once been a PDF captain who was stationed down here for too long, and then found himself in charge of the Mutant population, until in time, he became one and wasn't welcome topside anymore. We were supposed to feel sorry for him, but as Mordeci and Devi listened to his story, Silon managed to pass a sneak test (partially assisted by the mutants all being too busy listening to their leader, and all being dumb slabs of meat) and walk around looking for anything useful to better arm himself. Silon dug through various piles of detritus and a few homesteads (it was difficult to tell the difference between them) before apparently I came across "The Captain's" lean-to. Inside was a shrine to the God Emperor made out of bits of metal, which was admired for its metallic content. There were bits of armor that no longer fit the man, but no were no longer serviceable either. What appeared most useful, however, was cradled in the hands of the skeletal remains of some underling: A flamethrower. Complete with back-pack unit of the sloshing, universal petrochemical: Prometheum. I informed the DM that Silon straps the flamethrower on. The DM informs me that Silon doesn't know how to use the flamethrower appropriately. I inform the DM that Silon isn't about to leave this beautiful weapon found through divine process in the hands of these heathens.

F5ING LIKE THE MOTHERFUCKING FIST OF THE NORTH STAR

>>15520509
Pardon the tangent, but what is the font used in the OP's picture? I really like it.

Silon sloshes over to the camp-fire, flamethrower in hand, walking awkwardly as he's not used to the weight of it and constantly fidgeting with the straps. The Captain gestures at us, and in a Marlon-Brando tone asks why we have stolen from him. I ask Mordeci if he knows where the Colonel is, and Mordeci says that "yes, yes we do, the Captain informed us that he has a camp on a barge just a few klicks to the north, he even provided us with a map." Silon then turned to the "Captain" asking "To whom does this Flamethrower belong?" The captain burbled out something about it being communal property, and that it was used sparingly, as needed to drive off predators in the event that . .

Silon said "Mutants cannot own Flamethrowers" and hosed the beast. I had intended to just scare him so we could walk away with our new toy, but through a few flubbed tests and being unfamiliar with the operation of said mechanism by training, I bathed half the camp in a hiss of flame. Mutants ran around on fire, others popped and sizzled as they died. The captain erupted like a microwaved bratwurst and then belched great gouts of foul smelling smoke. One half of the camp was trying to put the other half out and we just, well, for lack of a better word, left.

When far enough away, Mordeci asked Silon why he had done what he had done. Silon replied "It was an accident, but it should be forgivable, Mutation is a sign of Heresy, so is questioning its rightful purge." Silon was gesturing with the flamethrower now, having forgotten completely about the Tire-iron as a tool of the righteous.

what the fuck is this shit?

>>15521061
Storytime. Now shush.

Eeee EEEE EEEE!!!! *squeals like a little girl*

Is it indeed that time again?

>>15521061
Kind sir, I am relating the third in a line of longer adventures about a particular character of mine in a chain of Dark heresy games. You are most welcome to pull up a chair and listen. Or you may stand there and curse. Either/or. I will be posting at my own pace due to internet difficulties during this storm.

>>15521077
take your time, it's always worth it!

After a time, there was less poo-water and more rubble, a gradual slope uphill through a tangled morass of bent rebar, crushed concrete and other such debris from a thousand years of urban decay. It was devi who spotted the landmine that would have killed us all, she stopping the party and bending down to examine the device before realizing she knew very, very little about explosives. I was asked if I could do anything 'with it', and certainly I could so I answered in the affirmative. Did I have the demolition skill? No. But, I wasn't asked that either.

Standing over it, Silon attempted to 'speak unto the device's spirit'

The DM informed me that the device was quiet, as though waiting to surprise me. I informed the party that we should find another way altogether as this way was unpure. They didn't question the man with the flamethrower, it wasn't prudent.

After enough time we found a collapsed tube of some industrial machine long destroyed and crawled through it toward our destination. Before too terribly long we were within sight of our target: Three large tents, two dozen house-guard and a roaring campfire with some nobles sitting around it, drinking and bragging.

In the darkness of our hiding place, we tried to figure out a suitable plan of action, namely, blowing this man away in such a way that we were not harmed in the process or implicated. Angering a noble family was likely a way for a DM to have horrible assassins trail us for the rest of the game, just our luck to find that this man was in some way related to a Malfian house, Rogue trader, or bastard son of the Planetary Governor. Dms are evil like that. Sitting in the darkness we watched the pattern of the guards, we watched the nobles drink and brag, barely catching snippets of their conversation: They were pleased in today's Mutant hunt.

Silon suggested "Walking over and making casual conversation"

Devi asked what was Silon's stupid idea this time?

"We share hobbies" Silon informed the rest of the party.

It got a chuckle but not much more. We were having difficulty in finding a way to get in without dying when there was a Boom in the distance. More of an explosive clap. A landmine had gone off.

After having burned half of their loved-ones to death and then walked away with their greatest weapon, the Mutants got awfully sore at us and decided to charge off in pursuit, knowing full well where we were headed. They had hit the mine we had circumvented and the guards quickly formed up into defensive positions. The nobles doused the fire with potable water and took up ornate hunting rifles. Soon, a horde of thundering, bellowing mutants tore up the path swinging their fists and clubs and firing smoke-powder weapons. The guards returned fire with orderly bursts but couldn't kill them all before the Mutants hit the main defensive lines. We used this whole scramble to break from our hiding spot and go around to the side of the camp, except I somehow got lost in the explosions, flashes and strobes of a firefight in the dark. So, being in a dark and unfriendly place, I brought light to the world. I informed the DM that I was going to point the flamethrower nozzle at the nearest moving thing and squeeze the trigger.

Things did not go as planned.

The DM rolls some dice and informs me that due to my own ineptitude, unfamiliarity with the weapon, and that it's been poorly maintained for so very long, I have critically failed and am likely in trouble.

I burn a fate point.

The DM asks if I meant 'use' and I said "No, I want to burn one. I have had terribly awesome accidents so far, and I intend to keep having them. I am burning a fate point."

So, I let out a long, uncontrolled burst of flame from the nozzle, and my attempts to wrest control of it only make things worse, sweeping it around and around like a child trying to control a fire-house. Eventually the tanks run dry and I've managed to set a bunch of 'things' which are now rolling around in the rubble, covered in flames, screaming. That's more like it. It is then I ask if Devi and Mordeci are okay. Barely, apparently, did they avoid the river of flame sweeping through camp. Good, good. I would have hated to have killed them, as I was at the point of remembering their characters names every time I used them.

Honorable Lord Dave. It may have been asked before, but I am unaware if an answer was given.

What is the super secret origin of the Peg-Leg that comprises the majority of your name?

Now, I know you are thinking that I accidentally set our man on fire and now he's off burning in peace face down in poo-water while the rest of us run away. No, and no. Well, yes to a degree. The Colonel decided it was time to leave and Mordeci found me in time to say to my face "He's getting away you Pyromaniac bastard", and while the guards were fighting off the last of the mutants, we chased the Colonel through the rubble. Unlike most PDF colonels, this man had a hunter's instinct and was no pushover. He set a series of traps as he ran, simple things to give him time, a tripwire that injured Devi and slowed her, and right as we thought we had him, he had us. At the base of an elevator, he stood there with a very imposing instrument of mutant-destruction, a double-rifle of some sort, and was backing into the elevator. He said "Not another step, Not another step" fingers on the double triggers. I broke the situation down logically "He can't shoot all of us, he only has two shots loaded."

It was at this point that Silon was shot twice in the chest for an incredible amount of damage and blown back into the party, who prevented him from hitting the ground.

>>15521257
I do believe the magnificent tales of this ficticional Technologically oriented pseudo-clergyman of a fictional far future may shed light upon your question

>>15521257
I am missing a leg, partially at least, courtesy of some rather angry indigenous folk in a country that is very, very hot.

>>15521281

Having read some of your previous threads, and upon seeing this statement here and now, I must re-iterate a sentiment from one of those previous threads, and that my good sir is an admiration for your attitude in regards to your situation.

Now, on with the story! There are Heresy's afoot and PDF Colonels to kill!

When a man gets his number punched, at least from my perspective, he thinks a little differently. Time does slow down, for a second or two, because the brain is in shock at what happened. Silon, with two very large holes in his chest is trying his hardest to coax biological parts that their failure would be only proving that the flesh is weak. He has a moment introspective thought, to his childhood, where he didn't want to be a menial at all, he wanted to be a cowboy. He didn't know what a cowboy was but that didn't stop him from wanting to try. He digs deep and finds that his life is fading. He blacks out.

And comes to a few minutes later, as even though none of the party has medicae training they managed to stabilize him, barely, from the brink of death. Silon, however, can think of only one thing.

"Give unto me . . . the Tire adjustment Lug wrench . . 13mm . . . my friends . . " The Dm has informed me that Silon saw the Omnissah in his moment of need, and that all the answers laid in the Tire Iron.

>>15521314
As I've said before, we're all in situations we don't particularly find favorable, just surround yourself with good people that always make you laugh and you have life fine. I do, and I consider myself very lucky.

While the DM and I had made our arrangement during one of his Smoking breaks as to whether or not my character would die, or what he would see in a near-death experience other than logic and binary code, we had not settled what precisely was to happen once he came-to. The Dm simply said "Trust in the Tire Iron" and smiled. So, it was strange to the folks who had stayed inside that I would request a tire iron, figuring that I might hold it to my chest like a dying man might a bible, or a dead man a lily.

Instead, I cleared a perception check and found that the Tire iron was just the right size to fit the bolts on the housing that protected the wiring to this elevator shaft. I crawled with determination over mud, rubble, and my own blood to the elevator shaft. I used what strength I had to open the housing and interfaced with the machine by placing my palms into the wires and closing my eyes.

The man who had shot me was almost to the lower-hive, almost back to his office, almost back to normal elevation.

Almost.

I caused the elevator to free-fall a thousand feet, then stop. I caused it to vary its speed, easily possible as I was informed that the elevator rode on little cogs set on the side rather than cables, as they were impractical for how long it had to traverse. I shook the man to pulp before bringing the elevator back down to our floor. The party wanted to know what made my character chuckle softly, but as the doors opened they knew. The gun was bent around the man's remains, the elevator cabin littered with teeth, bone, blood, coins, pocket material. I was hoisted into the elevator and we rode back toward the top.

Silon teetered on the edge of consciousness, and smiled, weakly, thanking his compatriots for saving his life.

It was then that the session ended.

>>15521388
...wow...

>>15521388


Nice

Speaking as someone that tends to avoid 40K threads on /tg/? I am inspired as fuck to go out and play some Dark Heresy now.

Awesome story, Dave! If it was as half to fun to play as is was to read about then this is campaign of the year, all years.

>>15521330

Thank you Dave. Never have I met a man that I was more proud off and honored to share a name with.

>>15521409
>>15521410
>>15521420

Thank you, but most importantly, remember to thank your Good DMs so that they don't end up becoming bitter, running garbage and eventually becoming "That DM" that runs nothing but frightens away newer generations of prospective players. That's where elitists come from, folks.

Thank you for your thank yous, but what I'm saying is that I couldn't have done this without a very good DM, some very good company, and a good game-store.

Damn it peg leg. I just moved so now i don't have a groop and your stories just make me want to play that much more!

>>15521435
man, me neither. I haven't really roleplayed, ever. Checking out one of the most civilized boards on 4chan just makes me want to play this kind of game.
Does anyone know any good websites for this?

>>15521463
Online isn't nearly as awesome as just hanging out, eating pizza making references and rolln' dem bones.

However, there's often threads on here looking for people to play online, and then there's sup/tg/'s IRC chat. Hell any IRC probably has a #roleplay. Sure alot of those are freeform and full of bulshit but every little bit helps

>>15521498
>>15521463
/tg/ is a safe enough place, find someone who lives close to your area, just give an area code, and perhaps someone will speak up to knowledge of a good LGS where one could pick up a game. If that doesnt work, head to the local college or community college and check their posting board, there has to be a meet-up sheet in there somewhere. Now, if you'll pardon me for responding for a bit, I'll be reading my friend's blog. It usually has me in stitches.

>>15521433
I am very interested now. What made your gaming store so great?

This is not a "what makes it so great?" negative comment. More of a market research sort of question.

>>15521626
- Takes pause from the goings on of the Black Pants Legion -

Now, the secret to a good game store starts with location. Strip mall? Not great, Real-mall, very poor, own-location, expensive. There are a hundred permutations to try to work out, distance to other gamestores, readily accessible to your audience (close to school bus lines) and other such things must be researched perfectly in order to give someone even half a fighting chance.

However, the trick is, to discourage the wrong sorts and encourage the right. There's a trick I do not know in keeping the store profitable, but I do know the trick to keeping the bad sort out. Make sure everyone minds their manners, no children unless accompanied by adults (So that people's models are not destroyed accidentally), kick overly aggressive tournament-driven assholes out, and always have time for the good people. You see, its like doing business in the old days: talk to your players, find out what they want and give it to them. The only research to do is to find what feels comfortable, and right. Everything else should follow.

However, if it doesn't, then I suppose it's not a healthy business venture. I couldn't imagine trying to start a small business in this economy. Or any other.

>>15521694
But what makes it so great for you?

I am saving and working my way towards business school. My dream is to own my own gaming store. I am very interested in what different people enjoy about their gaming store. Gives me ideas for my own.

>>15521949
I suppose that's to each person's recollection and reckoning, but to mine own, it has never been anything other than that same feeling I had when I was playing Dungeons and Dragons for the first time in my friend's basement. The lights were dim, the walls were paneled in wood, there was a 486 Hewlett Packard in the corner and led zepplin playing on low. It was a dim place where you just felt safe, comfortable, and kindly toward one another.

My friend says that the game store to him evokes that feeling of wonderment, of seeing 40k for the first time, and what the models could be in the right hand.

In short, find what drives your players and give it to them. Certain nights for certain projects, lots of communal time to build a community (painting workshops are a prime example, I find), and fun tournaments. Not GW tournaments as hell, they're about as on the level as a fault line. Just have a tournament where someone wins a custom painted miniature by one of your employees or something equally great.

Have nights where you teach the young ones D&D, Pathfinder, whichever. Be a man of principles.

>>15521987
I plan my store to be an events based store with ample gaming space. I want to be able to run events for every type of game. Tournaments for various things. Events every day.

Part of getting a profitable store is the basic principle of Asses in Seats means Money in the Register. Its part of the basic unwritten rules of the store. I give you a place to game and you buy from my store.

rolled 18 = 18

>>15521987
I'm going to college in the fall, and the university I'm attending isn't particularly "nerd friendly", as it were. Think I should try and make converts of some of the people I'm befriending? Or should I simply seek out those who already play?