angryangryaces
Better a Squig than a Fascist
tabletop gaming sideblog for @acephysicskarkat
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I'm meeting up with the friend I'm giving these to tomorrow, so it's lucky that apart from the troll (which he will just have to wait for, between oppressive heat and humidity and puppy-related sleep disturbances I'm amazed I even got them done), the Pitzbog Steeljaws are ready to play!
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Experimenting with sponge painting to give this Blood Bowl vampire a crushed velvet cape:
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Started working on some Dark Mechanicus because while the current Dark Commune kit looks very good, it's also so specific in concept that it's a bit weird to see three of them on the top tables, so I wanted to build my own that would both make a little more sense in context and fit in conceptually with my Iron Warriors. This is a mess that currently contains mostly parts from Skitarii and Cawdor, with Delaque for the leaders and some dipping into the Citadel Skulls kit and the leftover mecha-tentacles from a Chaos Helbrute, and by next week will probably include bits from several other Admech kits.
This first build has two leaders, two icons, and a "mindwitch" who's actually just wielding a weird gun.
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The heavy hitters of the Pitzbog Steeljaws are done, at least unless I choose to throw another layer of Nurgle's Rot on the swamp water
First time I've used sponge painting for scuffing paint, it's real useful
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also for clarity I have not told this friend I'm doing this and have no idea what he thinks of the Pittsburgh Steelers
so as a Christmas gift for a friend I painted up a Dark Elf Blood Bowl team as the New England Patriots and gave them to him
(we're both Australian, so his undying support for not just an American football team but the most American American football team is a little weird but w/e)
and one thing led to another
so now I'm painting up the starter box black orcs for a friend who never fucking paints anything
as the Pitzbog Steeljaws
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so as a Christmas gift for a friend I painted up a Dark Elf Blood Bowl team as the New England Patriots and gave them to him
(we're both Australian, so his undying support for not just an American football team but the most American American football team is a little weird but w/e)
and one thing led to another
so now I'm painting up the starter box black orcs for a friend who never fucking paints anything
as the Pitzbog Steeljaws
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So after four years, I've decided on an actual use for this blog: it's going to be my tabletop sideblog.
I am an adequate-quality painter and reasonable converter held back by a fear of greenstuff and if that causes any problems oh well
I am also a wingnut who gets too much stuff but that's, y'know, just how tabletop works
here is the terrain I've spent the last two days building and in some cases magnetising
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Oh hey Scott Morrison did another thing that proves him to be an odious little bigot with the moral fibre of explosive diarrhoea. This would be news if that wasn’t basically his ground state of being.
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So I was doing my volunteer spot at my local public library and there was a book on display called “The Little Grey Book on Sex and Transgender” by one Patrick J Byrne. My train of thought, recreated:
Upon seeing the title: Hmm, I hope this is well-informed -
Upon seeing that the cover talks about implications for democracy: I am now worried.
Upon checking the conclusions: Patrick J Byrne, you are an idiot and a liar and there should be a law against being as terrible a person as you.
(There should also be a law against publishing books on trans issues if you use the word “transgenderism” unironically, for the same reason that you shouldn’t be allowed to talk about race issues if you spend time on Breitbart, but oh well.)
Patrick. May I call you Pat? Anyway, Pat, you reactionary fuckface, nonbinary people are not coming to steal the word ‘girlfriend’ you toxic buffoon. You cannot claim that it’s unfair to women to have trans equality because some women are trans. Go crawl up your own asshole and implode.
I’m not mad at the library for having it; libraries have to stock a wide variety of stuff, even utter shit. Libraries even have to stock Ayn Rand. I am, however, mad at the reactionary fuckface who wrote it and the dumbshit publisher who printed it.
(A bit of checking tells me that the same publisher, Wilkinson Press, is responsible for Mark “Outlaw Being Trans” Latham’s book, a compilation of Pauline Hanson’s bullshit, a bunch of whining about a “male-bashing society”, and “How Political Correctness is Destroying Australia”, so at least they’re consistent! Although it turns out consistency is not a virtue when you are consistently shit.)
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The soup is just too hot!
Is hot soup gonna be erratad to be food subtype
It doesn’t have the sac for life ability.
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and here I thought you were issuing a Hot Take
the fact that there are ducktales fandom shipping donald and mickey is so weird because it’s the most basic cartoon romance ever. like imagine shipping homer and marge
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That’s a pretty solid list of D&D character priorities, too.
every culture has their ethnic donut and every culture has their ethnic dumpling… humans be frying dough
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This is going to be an evergreen tweet for a year and a half and then I’m going to have to make another one about Dutton, who is also an odious little bigot with the moral fibre of explosive diarrhoea.
Oh hey Scott Morrison did another thing that proves him to be an odious little bigot with the moral fibre of explosive diarrhoea. This would be news if that wasn’t basically his ground state of being.
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Oh hey Scott Morrison did another thing that proves him to be an odious little bigot with the moral fibre of explosive diarrhoea. This would be news if that wasn’t basically his ground state of being.
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Poison
The air smells of rain, burning fuel, and the countless small poisons that circulate in the city, and my scars ache in the cold, a filigree of pain tracing out the lines of my skeleton. My damned, addicted brain is hissing for me to press the button. I don’t listen to it. I throw my bag into the transport and pick a seat.
“Caller” walks us through the job on the way in. It’s straightforward: get in, grab a prototype from the testing labs, get out again. Minimal casualties, which is why he told us to bring hammerblow rounds. Ideal for a pack that doesn’t want to make the news.
One of the others looks at the chain holding my gun to my wrist. Must be a rook. They’ll learn. You can always tell a seasoned wolf; they stop looking at your little tricks and secrets and just let you get on with your job.
As we come in for a landing, I pull my hat down and make sure my kerchief is going to hide my rebreather. Combined with the goggles and the coat, it should be almost impossible for the watching gargs and other cameras to tell who I am. I’ve already checked my gear: submachine gun, machete, grapnels, a few kinds of blasting charge, a couple of different poisons.
***
The windows break the neon light from outside into rainbow fragments, which play over my coat. The stylised illustration of a winged figure giving gifts from heaven isn’t spiritual; it’s marketing. The gifts being dispensed have brand logos on them for the corp’s subsidiaries.
One of them has the stylised atom of Nucleus Energy on it, and my scars flare into pain for a split second. I know it’s psychological. I grit my teeth behind my collar and carry on.
Phase one is a cakewalk. “Caller” had some inside intel that this part of the building was going to be low-security, and that seems to be working fine: the rook, who I’ve learned is called “Mooch”, is keeping the cameras under control, looping some footage so none of them pick us up. It’s not going to last forever, but it doesn’t have to; we’re not under any given eye for too long, and most of the gargs are outside.
The next corridor is wrong. The walls are riddled with bullet holes and carved with a filigree of blade marks. The mutilated bodies of corpsec guards are everywhere, limbs wrenched from their sockets and throats ripped out. Even through my rebreather, I can smell blood and gunfire, mingled with another smell: a thick, animal musk.
I’ve heard the rumours – everyone has, everyone knows this is happening, no matter how hard corpsec try to suppress it – but I hadn’t expected to see it here. You never do, right? It’s always a friend of a friend that runs into this shit.
This is going to suck.
***
“Mooch” is the first to pull the trigger. Not wise, exactly, but I can’t blame them; the dead guards are mute testimony to how deadly these things are, and it’s not like a full pack in tac gear is exactly subtle. Within seconds, everyone else has joined in. Hammerblow rounds patter off its hairy, gore-spattered skin like rain. A couple of them provoke flinches, leave a mark, but don’t slow it much.
It looks like someone took a very large, feral wolf and mashed it up with a man. Its head is mostly canine, although its teeth are larger than any reasonable animal’s, but the rest of it is chimeric: its apelike stance and powerful arms are human, or at least close to it, but its tail and hair are lupine, and its clawed hands aren’t really either. It’s also covered in blood and shreds of what might, once, have been a corpsec uniform.
It howls in fury and leaps at us.
***
According to “Mirai”, it’s all the fault of the veins and the other rich bastards. Says some conspiracy site put her onto it. Supposedly, the reason corpsec guards are so loyal to the veins, so weird and bootlicky, is that the labs figured out some kind of gene treatment, isolated the stuff from dogs that makes them so loyal, and the suits give it to the When it goes too far, they change, when the scum at the top finish draining their humanity.
“Sigismund” says she’s full of shit. Genetics don’t work like that, and even if there was some secret tampering going on, it’d be more likely to lead to cancers than monsters. Mind you, he thinks it’s magic, so I’m not sure how reliable he is on the science. (He’s got a wild set of ideas about that, too. According to him, the beasts are nature unfettered, lashing out at the corp-choked world in a violent frenzy. Says he’s trying to figure out how to use that power constructively. Hasn’t gotten anywhere yet.)
Right now, though, the cause isn’t particularly critical. It doesn’t matter if it was made by mad science or black magic or if creatures like this are just a thing now. It’s bearing down on me, and there isn’t much I can do to stop it.
I hit the button.
***
Not a literal button, of course; jek doesn’t use physical controls. Instead, I mutter the activation phrase, and a pain like cold fire stabs into my veins as the injectors pump poison into my bloodstream. My whole body convulses, and the cold fire begins to heat up. The part of me that’s given in, the addict in my mind, it tinges the whole process with an edge of lust that shames me. Even so, I’m not stupid enough to pick this fight without it.
The effect is almost immediate. My gear feels like it’s made from cotton candy. My original bones would have already shattered from the convulsion, but the substitutes are doing their job. My vision fogs around the edges, but it’s almost supernaturally clear at the centre – I can make out the beast’s individual hairs, and the shattered remnants of a corpsec radio headset dangling from its neck like a collar.
I give it a burst in the face before it hits me. I can tell it felt the impacts, but it barely slows before tackling me to the ground and knocking my gun out of my hands. Fine by me; the bullets aren’t helping much anyway. The others will have to go on, take care of the mission while I fight. It’s probably best; jek isn’t just physical, and it’s poison for a pack. Nobody on jek is a team player.
The force of the tackle rolls us into the last corridor, but my armour protects me from the impacts. Coat’s not going to be salvageable, though; it has claw marks in it now. Without the jek, I’d have been knocked a lot sillier than I am.
As the beast lunges for me, I bring up my machete. It doesn’t dig deep, but jek-fuelled muscles drive it through the skin. The beast’s blood is surprisingly bright – what little of it comes out, anyway.
It seems to have decided I need to be tenderised before I’m eaten. It scoops me up and slams me into the wall. My goggles dim; the beast has its back to a window, and the neon light from outside would be streaming into my eyes, so they’ve compensated.
Then it all comes to me at once: the window could be my solution here. The beast is recovering quickly; it’s already stopped bleeding. I’m not going to win this one-on-one, and if the pack know what they’re doing, they’ve already headed for the objective. I have to do something unexpected.
I fire one of my wrist grapnels. It hits the window, and the motors whirr. It’s designed for heavy loads, and after a frozen moment while it calculates the weight, it retracts, dragging both of us into the window.
The beast is surprised, but not enough to disorient it. It thrashes around, its rage twisting metal and driving tinted duraglass out of its sockets.
The window gives way, and we both go over the edge.
***
On impact with the wall, one of my charges goes off unexpectedly. My spine doesn’t enjoy it, even through the pain-deadening haze of jek, but it doesn’t do serious harm; it just blasts a chunk out of the wall and flings us into traffic. The beast sinks its jaws into my left arm, and I let go of my machete; it disappears, never to be seen again.
As we tumble, I try and find some weakness. I can’t go for its eyes with any kind of accuracy, its bones are nearly as tough as mine, and even striking at the stomach only seems to make it angrier.
Our descent is bluntly interrupted by a corpsec lighter. Our impact with the cockpit shatters the duraglass canopy, so we must have been going down pretty hard – but, fortunately, the beast hits it first. The impact solves two of my problems at once. First, while landing still hurts like a bastard, even with jek, the beast takes the brunt of the impact. Second, the beast’s breath is laden with pink froth. After a moment, the rage flees its body, and it goes limp. Probably had some of the canopy driven into its lungs; not a pleasant death, but a final one.
The lighter skews wildly off-course, and I realise after a second that the pilot is either unconscious or dead. Corpsec lighters do have autopilots, but some people prefer the personal touch or are worried about reprogramming (a valid concern; “Mirai” once sent a half-dozen corpsec troopers on a routine patrol out of state as a prank), so not everyone uses them.
I don’t have a chance to get to the controls, but luckily, we’re headed towards a window. The pain in my entire body worsens a step as I see a giant Nucleus Energy logo, and then we hit.
***
I stagger to my feet, somehow still conscious. It’s almost impossible to break my bones now, but my right leg is definitely not as straight as I remember it being.
The window in question was right next to a meeting room, apparently. A stunned silence hangs in the air, but in a few seconds – even ones drawn out by jek – people are going to start yelling and running.
The big logo on the wall confirms it. This is a Nucleus Energy office. The bastards whose strontium leak cost me everything. Their poison had seeped into my bones, forced me to get them replaced. Left me with a debt I could only pay off by taking wolf jobs here and there. All my scars, all my wounds, this growing addiction to jek – all their fault. I can’t tell if I’m hurting worse because I know it’s them, or if my body is already redlining my pain receptors.
My jek-focused perceptions show me that one of them has a refrigerator briefcase here. A vein, then, carrying his supply of transfusions around with him. I can’t tell which of the others are veins, but they all might as well be: even if they haven’t had the treatment, they have the same kind of mind. The suits in this city are all the same: cold, bloodsucking bastards, they only care about themselves. The veins took a treatment that would strip their empathy and didn’t even notice. Even before that was developed, they gutted the land, poisoned the water, pumped fumes into the air. We’d be better off without them.
The weight of my gun dangling from my wrist is still there, and with jek reflexes, I could do a lot of damage here. Start at the door, work my way across. Even a vein’s boosted body can’t take a good hit to centre mass, and none of them look to be wearing much armour.
It won’t solve much, but it’ll be a little less poison in the city’s bloodstream.
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Lyle Shelton can just choke to death on his own shit BTW.
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Conversation
Know your DS3 Red Phantoms
ALVA, SEEKER OF THE SPURNED: I just want to say from the bottom of my heart I didn't sign up for this shit
CREIGHTON THE WANDERER: people think that i am cruel but really i have the heart of a child. 4 or 5 of them actually I collect them
DAUGHTER OF CRYSTAL KRIEMHILD: back by unpopular demand: me
HOLY KNIGHT HODRICK: I came out to attack people and I'm honestly having such a good time right now
KNIGHT SLAYER TSORIG: I'll kick anyone's ass. I'll kick your ass. I'll kick your dog's ass. I'll kick my own ass.
LIVID PYROMANCER DUNNEL: i may seem like an angry person on the surface but deep inside im actually angrier
LONDOR PALE SHADE: write 'nothing is set in stone' on my grave as both a witty joke and a subtle reminder that i will be back
LONGFINGER KIRK: i've never made a wise decision in my life and i never will
MOANING KNIGHT: I may seem like an asshole, but deep down I'm a good person, and even deeper down I'm a bigger asshole
SILVER KNIGHT LEDO: One day I'm gonna say "fight me!" and someone's just gonna fuckin deck me
YELLOWFINGER HEYSEL: miss me with that 'weapon accuracy' shit. im shooting everything. im laying down cover fire. im shooting the walls. im shooting my teammates. im shooting myself. my accuracy is 100% yall just dont know what im aiming at
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