Thread:IceTiger184/@comment-32167936-20180210033402/@comment-35281622-20180411211616

A Dark heresy tale from /tg/

From a thread about DM smackdowns and other such shenanigans:

Our DM smote us. He smote all of us. Dark Heresy, we're in the depths of the Hive after ten sessions of tracking down a temple tendency operation to destroy the hive in order to replace every single person of leadership or importance with their seconds, who were temple supporters. We've apparently been listed as dead by the inquisition and someone has been remotely saving our bacon or doing us favors, all the while leaving us a trail to the temple's operations. We are a six-strong force of former Arbites hot on the heels of some heresy and level five to boot. We have all opted for power mauls, shields, bigass shotguns with exterminator (flame projecting single shot) modules mounted. Out from the darkness steps a furry. He is described by the DM as being regal looking and like a dog but a man yet, and muscular, and wearing a bodyglove, and armed with two wicked looking weapons. He explains in a voice that is described as 'noble, strong-hearted but weary' that he is the person behind us being saved, placed as MIA, as well as the string of clues. He explains he has been hunting the temple tendency and hates the cult for what they did to his race eons ago. He explains he is the last of his race, and that he is slowly dying. Chief arbite says "Correction, DEAD" and we all open up. We murder him with fire. The DM ragequits.

The next week we find out the DM was a closet furry and this was his way of coming out to us, and that DMPC was his avatar. I guess we should have realized it was important when he described every detail of his musclebound dog man for about 5 minutes. Oh well. Suffer not the mutant. ..

Round 2

DM of the above who ragequit kinda got upset for a while but eventually found 'his people' and by his people I mean the store's contingent of faux tailed wearing fat people. I have nothing against fat people, but I do have something against people who claim to be 'fursecuted' for their lifestyle choice when their lifestyle choice involves being a gigantic douche to anyone who doesn't share their love of really weird shit. Anyhow, he manages to dry his eyes and decides to start all over with a 'more professionally minded and more serious inquisitorial party'. And here I thought I was doing my job, right? I have a gun, a gun that shoots fire, there are things I don't like, I shoot them with gun. Problem solved. His new game that is 'super serious' is closed to people who are not 'serious role-players' which means people who are furries are welcome whereas the rest of us must enjoy being normal people who enjoy goofing off.

Just when you thought all dorks were united, right? So he says we can join his game if we make serious characters. His party is full of furries playing furries. He explains this as they are from an ancient alien race (NOT KAYOSS) that once helped humans but humans turned on them, blah-de-blah-de-blah. They have an ancient, secret agreement with the Inquisition per their super secret squirrel arrangement with the Emperor at the start of the Imperium. I realized this could not stand. No furries in my 40k. Chaos abominations are fine, sure, they're okay. They exist to be burned. Furry race of furries that retcon the whole setting? Not a fucking chance. Not from this guy. When I wore a badge and a gun I had a copy of the Uplifting primer in the glovebox of my cruiser, and damnit all nobody is going to ruin my 40k. Begin operation: Ruin dark heresy for furfags at local gamestore and also pick up nachos (We are bad at naming things).

We infiltrate the game in pieces, each member playing something the party doesn't have (Normal humans played by non-brain-damaged members of society that actually have jobs and don't live off mommy and daddy as they go to art school which they then use as an excuse to draw as much furry porn as possible/end mini rant). We rolled up 'open minded' Mechanicus monkeys, explaining to the DM that we would honor any ancient treaty no matter what so long as we got first crack at archaeotech and shiny bits. He allows us to join. First gaming session is on a table with two of those long bench seats, I'm sure your game store has those. On one side is the 'coalition of the willing' made up of the trio of tech priests, all level 5. On the other side is a bunch of smelly people with fake fur trappings. Their broken characters rolled up and ready (by the by, each stat of theirs due to racial bonuses is made up of the following formula: 30+3d12) and include special classes such as 'Dark Reaver' and 'harvester of sorrow' and other crap that is epic level equipment, best quality that destroys all armor and has impossible ranges. For example, there's a sword that he invented that is only usable by their race due to their close relationship with nature. This nature alignment allowed them to wield a sword made of what appears to be black, ever-shifting tar that when it strikes you, you take 1d10 damage with no armor or toughness save, per turn, until one of their kind heal you. Its called the sword of forgiveness or some other weeaboo shit as they have to forgive you for you to not die.

Thanksgiving-dinner-poop-sword notwithstanding, we are ready. Our once awesome now failtastic DM tells the party that we were responsible for the destruction of his last game. They stare at us. One growls. One of them actually fucking growled and took his fake tail in his fat sausage fingers and waved it. If people did shit like this a hundred years ago they would be in a place called Wellsville and they would be exploring a land of electro-shock-therapy, salt baths and colonic irrigation with yogurt. The DM says we will begin our story and that he introduces a rule for everyone at the table. He says "Anyone who dies in this session is dead for the remainder of the game, no new characters, you just have to watch, all agreed?" The furries nod, this fat chick with a kinda furry mask thing's chin moves like a sack of cream gravy. It's obvious he told them separately that if they wanted to try to kill us with the uncontrollable tar like stool wand we would stay dead and they could get broken xp. Not so fast, furfags.

I looked at the DM and realized my once friend was now just a freaking nutcase, and it was up to me to bring him back to normalcy. Or just break his game like a little kid and be a jackass. We are level 5, he has allowed us to take one piece of equipment from the book and 3 reloads. Any piece of equipment, as standard quality, and 3 reloads. What about cyber implants or anything else? No, its broken, we have to earn it he says. Yet furries have an armor, I shit you not, that is '16 armor on all locations' and is made of a silk like substance that changes color based on mood. Yiffweave coat, eh? We all chose multi-meltas. I'm sure you know where this is going. Ten minutes into our first adventure, on their spaceship that is waaaaay better than any imperial spaceship and is also made out of organic space-plants, ten minutes into inane roleplaying about how beautiful and unique all of their characters are, ten minutes into cursing humans and wondering why they have to work with us mechanical men, we decide to gather them all into a room.

They gather into this room, a room with a huge armor plated piece of 'crystal-glass', and they offer to tell us the history of their people. The DM beams. He hands a sheaf of papers to the speaker. The speaker of truth apparently, an honored position amongst her 'clan', tells us of this bizarro 40k history where they are behind everything from the rise of the Emperor, the dark age of technology, giving the Adeptus Mechanicus their tech and keeping all of this a big huge secret. Then they were betrayed! We listen. This goes on for 30 minutes. It is painful. But the moment of glory is at hand. I make the sign of the cog and offer to tell them a history. They call us liars, but we try to tell the real history of 40k as far as human reckoning is. They interrupt us a dozen times over with chants of 'lies, lies' and howling. Yes, they howled. At the very end I say "There is one part to your history you forgot, humanimaleritics' and they seem puzzled. The DM seems puzzled. We say "The part where you die".

We opened up with multi-meltas, all 3 of us, overlapping our fields of fire at point blank range. The DM starts screaming at us immediately. The store owner tries to calm him down but he keeps screaming, he turns red, his hands shake. He is furious. Fuck you bengal. We work out damage to the max, as we cannot miss at this range.

DM returns 10 minutes later, swearing at us and saying "You're all fucking dead, you die, get out of my game, you are fucking vermin" so on and so forth. But as we leave he explains that we cant kill them due to the special abilities they all have from their belts that allows them to soak the first 50 points of damage, something they created to prevent backstabs from imperial assassins sent to cull the last of their numbers. We left and had beer. The end.

Epilogue: We started going to the other game store in town, we hear they have their own Dark Heresy setting called 'revenge of the scattered' which the game store owner called 'revenge of the scat-herd', all based on the above fluff."