!!axso+Og9by5 01/13/12(Fri)16:03 No.17530867|
You enter the mess hall. All the tables have been overturned as makeshift cover. The men and women defending the room are as haphazard as they are disheveled. You see a toothless old man clutching an MP40 against his chest. A girl, no older than thirteen is peering over a counter-top holding a luger at arm's length. The fight in the building ahead does not seem to be going well, as the wounded are being brought back at increasingly common intervals. The chatter of machine gun fire can be heard just ahead.
You start toward the door. The old man clears his throat:
"If you're not going to take a gun with you, at least put on some pants."
You pause at the threshold. It's the first joke you've heard in months, and despite yourself you begin to laugh. You turn to the pathetic throng of gaunts, a broad smile upon your face.
"Tell them that it was Proteus, the Demon of Gdynia, who killed them all."
You exit the building and to the shock and horror of those watching through the windows, your muscles begin to bulge. You cover your body with a dense layer of white bone. Venomous spines sprout from your macabre carapace and your fingers elongate into razor-sharp blades. You let out a blood curdling howl that is heard throughout the entire camp. You do not hesitate, you tense your muscles with all of your superhuman might.
Roll 1d100, the sum of the first five rolls determines the carnage you bring.