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7/6/2025, 6:34:26 AM
You will hunt the weirdboy. Even in the best of circumstances psykers are dangerous, and with orks you must factor in their chaotic, unplanned nature into the equation. If that blast you were hit with was all it could do then you will have little to worry about, but you suspect it did not know what you were capable of; and now it will know you are a more dangerous foe than usual. If you had a bolter than it would be a simple matter, finding it and blowing its head off, but you must make do with what you have. However, an idea comes into your head, and you pick up one of the pitchforks lying by a corpse. Yes, this will do nicely.
So with your power sword in one hand and the pitchfork in another, you cut past the small gretchins that throw themselves at you and run into the darkness of the forest. The orks here are thick, scrambling over each other for a good fight. But the slaughter is easy, your blade easily slicing through the orkish horde, leaving their corpses sizzling on the ground. They do not yet realise that they cannot hope to penetrate your armour, what few weapons that do manage to land a hit bouncing uselessly off the battle-worn ceramite.
You do not know how the humans are holding out, and hope that they can hold on until you slay this weirdboy. It is hard hunting him. He flits through the darkness, throwing bolts of light at you, sometimes strange green feet that you easily dodge while it crushes orks and trees alike as more packs of orks jump on top of you, which are quickly dispatched by your sword or simply crushed beneath your boots, green gore starting to run up to your knees and running down your helmet. Some start to realise the futility of the conflict and run into the night, but many are still coming at you for a good scrappin’, yelling their species wide battle cry, WAAAAAGGH. You grin. This is too easy.
It's then that you see him. Or, the glow of the spell he is casting, bright green and writhing with energy around his hand as he raises a giant bone club into the air. You raise the pitchfork and throw it at the same time he releases the spell.
Roll 1d100+10 (+10 from the pitchfork) Bo3, DC 40.
Also feel free to come up with the Celestial Knight's colours, hearldry, and battle cry.
>Write in
So with your power sword in one hand and the pitchfork in another, you cut past the small gretchins that throw themselves at you and run into the darkness of the forest. The orks here are thick, scrambling over each other for a good fight. But the slaughter is easy, your blade easily slicing through the orkish horde, leaving their corpses sizzling on the ground. They do not yet realise that they cannot hope to penetrate your armour, what few weapons that do manage to land a hit bouncing uselessly off the battle-worn ceramite.
You do not know how the humans are holding out, and hope that they can hold on until you slay this weirdboy. It is hard hunting him. He flits through the darkness, throwing bolts of light at you, sometimes strange green feet that you easily dodge while it crushes orks and trees alike as more packs of orks jump on top of you, which are quickly dispatched by your sword or simply crushed beneath your boots, green gore starting to run up to your knees and running down your helmet. Some start to realise the futility of the conflict and run into the night, but many are still coming at you for a good scrappin’, yelling their species wide battle cry, WAAAAAGGH. You grin. This is too easy.
It's then that you see him. Or, the glow of the spell he is casting, bright green and writhing with energy around his hand as he raises a giant bone club into the air. You raise the pitchfork and throw it at the same time he releases the spell.
Roll 1d100+10 (+10 from the pitchfork) Bo3, DC 40.
Also feel free to come up with the Celestial Knight's colours, hearldry, and battle cry.
>Write in
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