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Since my last storyteim went over well enough, I'd thought I'd start another.

So this time around I shall tell you the tale of Gerald Greypaw, the Space Wolf Skyclaw who fell from space just so he could goomba-stomp a Daemon Prince.

So the party is clearing a space station of cultists. Everything seems to be going ok.

Soon the station is cleared and the party finds out that there's a Daemon Prince dirtside and wouldn't you know it? They have to go kill the damn thing.

All the shuttles that the cultists have been using are offline, the drop pods are all in various states of repair (ranging from "might not survive reentry" to "oh-throne-shit-is-so-fucked"), and the party is running out of time.

So what does Gerry suggest?

"Strap a jump-pack on me and throw me out the pod bay doors."

His reasoning? "I should have enough momentum to make a big enough hole outta the damn bastard."

>cont'd soon, my darlings~
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There is actually a precedent for this, considering how fast drop pods impact.
In second edition under their Citadel Journal rules, drop pods rammed with a S8, -5 save mod hit that dealt d20 wounds. Yes, precedent, I say.
Yay for storyteim

I decide to make this as challenging as I possibly can.

I throw at him a -30 Pilot (Personal) check, a -30 Demolition check for when he's landed (because he's FUCKING DROPPING FROM GODDAMN SPACE HE'S GOING TO MAKE SHIT BLOW UP), a -30 Awareness check to SPOT where he's gonna land, and a partridge in a goddamn pear tree (no, really, I actually threw a partridge in a pear tree at Gerry while he was hurtling through space because why the fuck not).

He barely makes each of the checks as he's falling into the atmo (and misses the partridge in the pear tree by mere *inches*).

He then reaches the Demolitions check.

And that's when shit got unreal.

>cont'd as soon as I can
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Aaaand? What happens neeext?
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>Ask and ye shall receive

This would be the part where I tell you that he failed so spectacularly that he fucking died on impact.

Instead of failing so hard, he succeeds by fucking *six* degrees of success. *Six fucking degrees.*

For comparison, Ultra the Gambling Dreadnaught succeeded his checks by *five* degrees of success.

He doesn't just fucking kill the damn Daemon Prince, he *obliterates* it beyond all comprehension.

He also creates a crater the size of two states and completely destroys a few dozen cities.

Every cultist within a thousand-mile radius is either reduced to a fine gooey paste or is buried under throne-knows-how-much rubble.

And the funny thing is?

Gerry fucking *survives* all of this.

And that is the tale of Gerald Greypaw and his epic goomba-stomp.
Good show, my friend, good show.
I don't always appreciate tripfags, but when I do, I appreciate HereticRAIDAA.
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I aim to please the masses.

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