The Ruinous Powers (40K CYOA)

[Grimgravy]

C - lets see if the synthesizer can spit out some mind control pheromones

 

[ERYFKRAD]

C
Plus let's use that Perfection and Terrible Visage.

 

[lightbane]

E: Use the implant to create mind-control pheromones, then force each one to rip their own bodies apart. Blood for the Blood God!

 

[ERYFKRAD]

The synthesiser creates drugs, I'm not sure it makes pheromones. Or can we use it to make drugs that'd manufacture pheromones?

Cheesecake how does this work? Do we have a set number of drugs that can be made or can it make whatever sort of drugs we want it to make?

 

[hello friend]

B

 

[Baltika9]

B

 

[Cheesecake]

ERYFKRAD, I was planning to just have it create generic combat drugs with a Slaaneshi flair, but I've got an idea to have the synthesiser have a list of preset drugs to create, and you can have Entek swap the current preset so the synth can create another type (whenever it's 'downtime', ie. not in combat or whatever tricky situation).

I'll make up a list of around five and post it soon.

 

[Nevill]

Brings back memories.

 

[Storyfag]

B

 

[Endemic]

B.

 

[Major_Blackhart]

B

 

[Cheesecake]

Counting votes!

 

[Cheesecake]

Tally

A:
B: Azira, Smashing Axe, hello friend, Baltika9, Nevill, Storyfag, Endemic, Major_Blackhart 8
C: Grimgravy, ERYFKRAD, 2
D:
lightbane's E: lightbane, 1

B. Strike first and fast, slitting their throats and ripping their hearts.

Before the three can even turn, you leap headfirst, slitting one's throat. The mutant squeals, clutching at the wound, black ichor spewing forth. Wasting no time, you leap as soon as you land, kicking a second mutant square in the chest. It sends him flying to the wall. A great thud echoes down the hallway.

The final mutant, snorting and frothing, bulls into you. You have the wind knocked out of you as you fly to where the second mutant had landed. Your head swims, but in an instant your vision clears. You feel an acrid tang in your mouth as your synthesiser pumps stimm into your blood.

You get on your feet and charge. Every step is like a leap. Thanks to the synth, every second of combat feels orgasmic, every thought and plan clear. You put all your momentum into a punch, landing it square in the mutant's masked head. You hear a crisp crack, and the mutant falls limp.

You allow yourself a breather; though the combat itself wasn't intense, the combat stimms take their toll. A burning hunger is lit within you. Ripping into your kill's soft belly, you eat.

----

You are satisfied, for the moment. The synthesiser grafted onto your spine hums loudly as it converts flesh and blood into materiel for its drugs. A slight pang of hunger makes your mouth water. You aren't worried; prey abounds.

The clamor of battle rings all around you. The scent of fire and blood is thick in the air. Screams of pleasure and pain make a macabre choir, and the choristers play violent instruments.

You eagerly follow the sound of the fray, as if entranced by some siren song of slaughter. A building anticipation grows alongside your hunger, and you did not notice time pass, nor the numerous, nameless crewmen you killed, as you arrive at the gaping entrance to the Sodom's primary engine.

Every engine is like a sacred statue to the Machine God, and the primary engine is no exception. It is painstakingly maintained by Entek and his coven of engineers, oiled with sacred unguents. Incense is lit around the colossal machine, and it is perfumed hourly. Servo-skulls sing sweet hymns in binary, like childlike cherubim. The machine itself is a tribute to the Omnissiah; the beauty and excessiveness is a tribute to Slaanesh.

Most technomagi would be mortified to have such reckless violence so close to a beloved engine. Entek is not like most technomagi. Techpriests seek many things; some seek knowledge, others seek power. Entek seeks perfection. To optimize everything, man or machine. He views your blood sports as a 'quality test' - all the victors must be objectively greater than those who died.

To have such a blood sport in front of a great engine, in his (bionic) eyes, is his offering to the Omnissiah. To improve the 'mortal machines'.

Right now, you could care less about his Machine God.

----

The angry orange glow of the engine temple is near-blinding here. Your body is slick with sweat and soot. Corpses litter the floor, and the bedlam of battle fills the air. The air is almost suffocating. Indeed, you're sure a few here died thanks to noxious fumes.

It does not concern you greatly. After all, you are an exalted champion of the Prince of Pleasure. Every experience is worship. The noxious fumes even smell pleasant after a while, like the scent of a poisonous rose.

You stand unnoticed by the combatants. The majority of the participants are here, all who survived the hallways coming here. For this blood sport, it was decided that the six who survive win, and will become the breeding pairs for future crew members.

About fifty mutants remain, fighting with fang and talon. Packs have formed, perhaps by instinct, preying on the weak and individual. You notice three of these packs, all around the same size. Thought the view of violence and the sound of slaughter pleases you, you desire to join it.

You:

A. Join one of the three 'packs', taking charge through dominant will.
B. Join one of the three 'packs', simply fighting, with the safety and assurance of allies.
C. Join one of the three 'packs', aiding them, and supplementing their weaknesses.
D. Fight on your own, picking off stragglers and the weakened.
E. Fight on your own, challenging the largest and the strongest.
F. Fight on your own, waiting until the combat has died down.

As you throw yourself into the tumultuous storm of violence, you:

A. Fight quickly, scoring swift, clean kills. You stay light on your feet. Always on the move.
B. Fight viciously, inflicting crippling pain. You target non-lethally, so that your victims die slowly in agony.
C. Fight unseen, soft on your feet, shying from the blazing light of the engine. You drag your victims into the dark, to do as you please.

----

Character Sheet

Name: Lena Cythriel, Exalted Champion

Gifts:
Daemoniac Tongue
Exalted
Perfection
Terrible Visage

Favor:
Khorne - Reviled
Nurgle - Betrayed
Tzeentch - Intrigued
Slaanesh - Exalted

Malal - Amused

Known Characters:
Detox, apothecary - Uncaring
Hooker, sergeant - Devoted
Entek, tech-priest - Indifferent
Sorcerer - Devoted
The Boy - Unknown

Tempestus, chaplain - Dead?
The Captain - Dead

Forces:
Cruiser Crew - 62,000? - Devoted

Items:
Artificer Bodyglove (Unequipped)
Laspistol (Unequipped)
Synthesiser:
*Stimms (All-purpose combat drugs, designed to suppress fear and lessen stress and trauma.) [ACTIVE]
*Frenzon (Rage-inducing chemicals that throw the user into a violent fit. It bolsters strength, increases violent urges, and reduces self control.)
*Kalma (Euphoria-inducing painkillers used by medicae to subdue restless patients. This automatically releases when the user is nearing dangerous levels of pain.)
*Onslaught (Heightens awareness and improves reaction time, and allows the body to move abnormally fast. Prolonged use has a high risk of brain damage.)
*Spook (Spook temporarily awakens the user's psychic abilities, and in higher doses opens a channel between the body, the soul, and the Warp. Requires consuming a psyker to manufacture.) [UNAVAILABLE]

Location:
The Sodom, Dauntless-class Light Cruiser
*The primary engine within the engine temples.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

Well Khorne hates us anyway so-
DB>DC

 

[lightbane]

DB.

We'll make the next generation of mutant slaves great again.

 

[Azira]

Well, we've gotten our taste of mutant flesh. Good for us. Maybe now we should focus on actually leading, as that's central to our character?

CB>DC

If we fight in a team, we should also debilitate our foes, extra pain = extra homage to Slaanesh.
If we fight alone, we should drag our targets away for feeding.

 

[Nevill]

CB>DC

 

[hello friend]

EC

We can't go after the easy kills. As an exalted champion of Slaanesh, Lena should strive for excellence and perfection of skill. Besides, killing off the strongest participants in this meatgrinder is tremendously wasteful - the blood sports have a heavy eugenic effect. Waste and excess is very Slaaneshi. Maybe the troops will receive some sort of enhancement, some blessing.

 

[Endemic]

CB.

 

[Storyfag]

EB

 

[Grimgravy]

DC

 

[Major_Blackhart]

EB

 

[Cheesecake]

Counting votes!

 

[Cheesecake]

Tally

A:
B:
C: Azira, Nevill, Endemic, 3
D: ERYFKRAD, lightbane, (Azira), (Nevill), Grimgravy, 3(5)
E: hello friend, Storyfag, Major_Blackhart, 3
F:

D. Fight on your own, picking off stragglers and the weakened.

A:
B: ERYFKRAD, lightbane, Azira, Nevill, Endemic, Storyfag, Major_Blackhart, 7
C: (ERYFKRAD), (Azira), (Nevill), hello friend, Grimgravy, 2(5)

B. Fight viciously, inflicting crippling pain. You target non-lethally, so that your victims die slowly in agony.

You skirt the edges of the horde of mutants, with eyes like that of a predatory bird searching for its next victim. Like a graceful swimmer, you become one with the flow of battle, as the swimmer does with water. Masked mutants slash at one another with misshapen claws, gnashing at each others' throats, hooting and roaring. Heads are dashed against walls, bodies are burned in cauldrons of fuel, and dark praises are sung, accompanied by the harmony of screams.

It is beautiful bedlam.

You are drawn to a scrawny whelp, panting so hard as if his chest were to burst. You smile a predatory grin as you close in for the kill. You crouch, staying downwind of the artificial gusts of burning air. Your mutant crew is notorious for their beast-like sense of smell. You inch closer and closer, anticipation building within you.

You leap, like a bird taking flight, poised to slash and lacerate. Your fingers connect with his neck, digging deep, and exit followed by a spray of ichor and a pained growl. Before the whelp can register the threat, you grab its arm, and twirling gracefully you twist it. It dangles uselessly at the whelp's side.

His face contorts with rage, froth dribbling from its fanged maw. It lunges for you, but deftly you sidestep. He crashes into the ground. He lies there, bleeding out, whimpering softly.

----

You look upwards, to the hololithic screen displaying the remaining participants and the current time. Confirmed kills are tracked, displayed next to the names. Of the ten remaining, you rank sixth. You believe you could have scored more but pain instead was your target. Quality, not quantity. The mutant ranked number one in confirmed kills is a speed demon with an equine lower body, the renowned and reviled Raith. Coming second is a relative newcomer, a hulking brute called Gothgol. And third you recognize as one of Hooker's men, a sergeant named Thur.

Though the battle felt like forever, as it usually does, it seems only an hour has passed. You're mildly disappointed - a memorable event lasted three Terran days. With ten combatants remaining, it shouldn't be long until the blood sport comes to an end.

The after-party is something to look forward to, though.

----

Gothgol, a meandering mountain of muscle, is happily tearing the arms off of a four-armed mutant. He seems almost childlike, akin to a brat accidentally breaking his toys. He throws a fit as the mutant breaks in his hand, and throws it at a wall in anger. Sergeant Thur, wielding a 'blade' torn off of some unlucky and unworthy mutant, is holding his own against two others, parrying their blows, fending off savage strikes left and right. Raith, like a blur, dices a hapless mutant into pieces, sending parts of him flying like red birds.

You are confronted by twin beastmen, frothing from their fanged mouths. Each mirrors and mimics the movements of the other. They are like mirror images, save for the broken horn of the one on the left. That one lunges, you dodge, but the other on the right moves behind you and grabs you as you do.

Both your arms are locked in an iron grip, and the first of the pair delivers a crushing blow to your gut. Your head swims as your insides are mushed. You cough blood, staining your white mask red. The mutant delivers another punch, and another, braying madly. It is unnervingly in synch with his twin's laughter.

Even the arcane synthesiser grafted into you cannot cope with the damage. Though you revel in a level of pain unfelt in the year, you begin to tire of it and desire to end this. You begin to sing a siren song, whispering foul, beautiful words with your daemoniac tongue.

"Mask. Take off the mask. Do you wish to look upon me? Look upon me. Take off my mask."

The mutant stops his fist an inch away from you. Every muscle in his body tenses. His multiple hearts race. You sing louder, willing your voice to become sweeter, pouring more of your black soul into the words.

"Take off the mask."

They both reach for it at once, and for a split second it's as if they are about to fight. The one holding you allows his brother the honor, returning to his grip on you, eager to return his grip on you. The other takes off your mask, and it is over for them.

The one staring at your face falls to his back, screaming in fear. Your face, like a sculpture of Slaanesh's own carved unto flesh, is a terrible leering visage, with a lolling, serpentine tongue. Your eyes, black as the void, stare deep into his behind his mask. He shivers on the ground, writhing and gibbering. You twist your head, with a disgusting creaking and cracking, and you leer mockingly at his twin.

He too falls, enslaved by your eyes, whipped by the black words of your tongue. You throw them to the brute boy Gothgol to do as he pleases.

----

With great fanfare, the winners of the blood sport are announced, a speaker in regalia announcing it in Low Gothic. A servo-skull by her side announces it in Binary.

"Gothgol, with fifteen confirmed kills." You see from your throne the boy, hugged by a massive beast of a woman you assume is his mother. "Ror, with fifteen confirmed kills. Ren, with sixteen confirmed kills." You recognize them as the two trading blows with the sergeant. "Sergeant Thur, with seventeen confirmed kills." You see Hooker and her men sharing a drink, cheering him on from their stand. "Raith, with fifty-one confirmed kills." The creature, like the centaur of old legend, roars and prances madly.

"And of special honor, our mistress: Lena Cythriel!" A deafening cheer comes. You wear your face of beauty for the occasion, but hide it behind a silken veil, away from unworthy eyes. You allow yourself a few seconds more of worship before ordering their silence.

Entek comes to the dais, trailed by a throng of mutant techpriests and a flock of servo-skulls, all tapping away at dataslates. He assigns the six into breeding pairs: Gothgol with Ror, and Thur with Ren. He takes Raith before you, the centaur kneeling. The massive machine-man blurts his greetings curtly.

"STATEMENT: As mistress, it is appropriate that you mate with the most suitable specimen."

The creature Raith growls his obeisance. "Mistress, I offer myself to you. I will give you many princes, and they will be warriors and warlords, strong and swift. I will not fail you."

You:

A. Accept the centaur. Only the best is worthy of you.
B. Deny the centaur. You would never waste yourself on beasts.

---

The Sorcerer relays a message from his lair, secreted from mortal eyes, deep within the ship. The time for the Warp-dive is nigh, and the Sodom will arrive at Arcturus IV within the week, if the gods grant it. To bide the time, you decide to:

A. Celebrate, participating in the many orgies in parties elegant or depraved. Perhaps you shall even host one of your own, and it will be the grandest of them all.
B. Prepare - your destination is nigh. You will need to speak with your officers and advisors, and govern your iron kingdom of the Sodom.
C. Worship and commune with the Ruinous Powers. What better place to speak with your gods than the Warp itself?
D. Something else.

----

Character Sheet

Name: Lena Cythriel, Exalted Champion

Gifts:
Daemoniac Tongue
Exalted
Perfection
Terrible Visage

Favor:
Khorne - Hated
Nurgle - Betrayed
Tzeentch - Intrigued
Slaanesh - Exalted

Malal - Amused

Known Characters:
Detox, apothecary - Uncaring
Hooker, sergeant - Devoted
Entek, tech-priest - Indifferent
Sorcerer - Devoted
The Boy - Unknown

Tempestus, chaplain - Dead?
The Captain - Dead

Forces:
Cruiser Crew - 62,000? - Devoted

Items:
Artificer Bodyglove (Unequipped)
Laspistol (Unequipped)
Synthesiser:
*Stimms (All-purpose combat drugs, designed to suppress fear and lessen stress and trauma.) [ACTIVE]
*Frenzon (Rage-inducing chemicals that throw the user into a violent fit. It bolsters strength, increases violent urges, and reduces self control.)
*Kalma (Euphoria-inducing painkillers used by medicae to subdue restless patients. This automatically releases when the user is nearing dangerous levels of pain.)
*Onslaught (Heightens awareness and improves reaction time, and allows the body to move abnormally fast. Prolonged use has a high risk of brain damage.)
*Spook (Spook temporarily awakens the user's psychic abilities, and in higher doses opens a channel between the body, the soul, and the Warp. Requires consuming a psyker to manufacture.) [UNAVAILABLE]

Location:
The Sodom, Dauntless-class Light Cruiser
*The primary engine within the engine temples.

 

[lightbane]

You:

A. Accept the centaur. Only the best is worthy of you.
B. Deny the centaur. You would never waste yourself on beasts.

Jesus, this is reminiscent of Corruption of Champions, only with more evil. However, since when Slaneeshi had standards?

A.

You know everyone will vote that hoping you write a sex scene about it. Hopefully Lena has something to compensate for the drawbacks of pregnancy.

---

B>C.

We had enough games. Time to prepare for work.