Bork Lazer

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

“ Alright, double-time, Takka, let’s move it or lose it!”

The radio transmission stuck out like a canopian chihuahua barking its ass off. Such a powerful transmission was comparable to lathering yourself in barbeque sauce and diving into a pit full of lions. Everyone knew where their HQ was and it didn’t take an idiot to put two and two together to find out that one of their supply warehouses was being attacked.

Aroxy waved over to Helma and Ansel who ran back to the safety of the Merry Go Round like their lives depended on it. The Von Luckner was already crawling at a slug’s pace, its engine slowly starting up, as the two crewmembers clambered onto their hull. Latching on like mice, they scrambled into the porthole and sealed it off.

“ Did we manage to get any LRMs?,” Aroxy questioned out loud whilst Helma began opening ammunition chambers, sliding shells inside.

“ Only a few, captain! It’s not going to be enough for extended combat.”

“ Let’s hope we won’t need it. Keep that turret inclined up, Helma. If we can’t get a lock, we might as well try and swat them out of the sky.”

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

To the victor goes the spoils.

Aroxy saw the aftermath of war too much when the smoke had cleared and the air stung of cordite and burnt propellant. He knew many soldiers and mercenaries who saw looting as a means of coping with the brutality. After all, what better hobby was there for murderers than to keep mementos of their past glories? Aroxy wasn’t the type to engage in it. The Merry Go Round was the only memory he needed. The nicks, scratches and age of the war engine contained immeasurable wealth within it.

Here, though, the looting was purely for the sake of survival. The Merry Go Round grounded to a halt a good 100 feet away from the convoy of supply trucks. Aroxy clambered out of the port-hole and turned around to raise his hand against the face of a confused Takka who had climbed up after him.

“ Stay in there,” Aroxy commanded. “ We need an eye out for reinforcements and you’re both qualified to both gun and drive. If you’re nervous about gunning, you can let the auto-loader do the work for you.”

“ You sure that’s the only reason, Major?,” Takka grumbled.

“ No,” Aroxy said. “ But now’s not the time to chew you out. We have priorities to focus on.” The tone of finality ended the discussion between them both as Takka climbed back in without a complaint.

“ Someone’s grounded…..,” Greta mused as she climbed out of the hatch followed by Hansel. The blonde driver took off her helmet and ran her hand through her straw hair, loosening the tangles and frayed knots. Hansel meanwhile rolled his arms and gagged at the scent of burnt human flesh in the air.

“ Greta, Hansel.” His two other crew members stood at attention. “ Coordinate with the supply trucks and see what we can fit on the Merry-Go-Round. We need 120 mm shells, SRMs and LRMs stat. We don’t want to be caught out here by the Guard with our pants halfway down.”

“ Roger, major,” Both chorused as they ran to the warehouse. Aroxy took out his comm radio and spoke into it.

“ This is Steel Rain. Merry Go Round is keeping an eye on the horizon. Any who can assist my crew members in finding ammunition would be appreciated.”

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

NIM NOM: As the last syllable leaves your lips, the tiny hooded chef begins to break into a flurry of excitement. The furious speed at which he’s moving transforms him into a multi-armed demonic god of epic culinary proportions.

TIMING: Yet, in the chaos, there is a symphony of execution. Every chop, every move that he makes is a ballad, an ode to his skill. A method in the madness is still present, in spite of his unorthodox methods.

NIM NOM: The vertically challenged chef slams a hunk of kraken tentacle onto the counter. It’s still squirming. He takes out a knife and begins making a series of rapid scores through the meat, barely visible to the eye.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS: Every cut he makes, it isn’t just for show. Every cut is exactly placed in order to prevent the meat from curling up, a common tendency amongst cephlapods. You wouldn’t expect to see something so ingenious in a street stall.
NIM NOM: Once he’s done, he places the prepared tentacle into a wok. He takes a pouch and dusts a mixture of spices and herbs over the still-cooking meat. Under the broiling heat, the skin begins to crackle into a nice brown crust.

PALLETE: The smell of cardamom, cane sugar, dried firepeppers blending together…..

NIM NOM: He then produces an amber bottle of foul-smelling liquid and drizzles it into the wok. Immediately, a gout of orange-blue flame swallows the bowl before dying down into a coat of trickling fire. The inferno slides off the crisp meat. He throws a sprinkle of pine nuts that cloy onto the sticky meat. He shimmies it onto a palm leaf and then hands it towards you.

You inspect the dish curiously with a pensive eye.

VISUALIZATION: The presentation is a little lacking…..

PALETTE: But taste is often the better indicator of talent

Eventually, you take a bite. It’s a war of contrasting flavors as you piece together the culinary puzzle that has been assembled before you. The meat is cooked well, having a tough satisfying bite that demands your attention as you chew it. It straddles the line between being too rubbery to eat and being too soft to enjoy. The notorious gaminess of kraken meat has been balanced by the earthiness of the pine nuts and the mysterious glaze that the chef used.

If a street chef can incorporate such refined methods, perhaps, you could too?

NEW INGREDIENT UNLOCKED: A DASH OF PEASANTRY

Ingredients are special boons that offer you unique stat bonuses when interacting or options within certain encounters.

NIM NOM: “ Oi, knife ear.” the chef pipes up. “ You block line. Move.”

VISUALIZATION (FAILURE): A knife-ear? Has he spotted a ear infection?

CONNOSEUIR: A knife-ear is the common informal term for half-elves. It’s typically used by orcs, trolls and…

Kobold. You should have figured it out. There’s only one race in all of the Occident that gravitates towards street food.

RACE UNLOCKED: Half-Elf

RAISON D’ETRE: However, as you look at this Kobold, you realize that he has something that you don’t have at the moment. A purpose and livelihood to strive towards.

What sparked your journey towards culinary ascendency?

[X] - A rivalry between you and a chef of another house.

[X] - To fufill an oath you swore to your former Chef de Cuisine

[X] - To pay off a debt to a plane entity.

[X] - Write in

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

CHARACTER SHEET



Name: ???

Background: ???

SKILLS

PSYCHE: 5

Raison D’Etre : ???

Experimentation: ???

Brigade De Cuisine : ???

Showmanship: ???

Syntheasia:???

INTELLECT: 3

Connoseuir:???

Management:???

Technical Rudiments :???

Enterprise:???

Gastro-Alchemy: ???

SENSE: 3

Palette:???

Visualization: ???

Texture: ???

Awareness:???

Timing:???

The Ingredient Shelf

INVENTORY

- A Kauldron-brand cooking wok

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

>UPDATING MITHRIL CHEF FROM 3.5 EDITION TO 5th EDITION

The idea of drinking your sorrows away with a mug of ale sounds promising as does having the opportunity to taste local Benin cuisine. However, the street food appears to be the perfect balance between expenses and expectations.

SYNTHESIA : How could you turn up your nose to street food? That raw smell that brings you back to simpler times, the hubbub of children chattering together, adults conversing together while waiting? It is the glue that binds a village together in times of dismal hope.

CONNOISSEUR (SUCCESS): During the aftermaths of the 4th and 5th Iridescent Wars, street food blossomed in popularity as eateries and taverns closed down in the wake of King Arlo’s tariffs on grain, meat and other imports from the East Twilight Principality. If you wanted to eat cheap, hawkers were more likely to be your friend than the local garrison.

ENTERPRISE (SUCCESS): It’s the life of the hustle, baby. The glorious financial arithmetic of coin for food is in front of you as of this moment. No special offers. No discounts. No guild inspections or certifications. Just the dreams of an individual bunkered under the need to survive.

The line is slow and long as you trudge forward at the pace of an eptileptic slug. A lumbering troll and a dwarf squeeze you enough that it’s almost suffocating. This all better be worth it.

ENTERPRISE: A street vendor’s life lives or dies by the quality of their food. If there’s this many people lining up, you know you’re in for a good time.

PALETTE: You could have experienced better flavors if you were more willing to be frugal….

ENTERPRISE: A decent meal costs 20 silver kings. Tavern food is overpriced anyway. Being conservative with our culinary investments is the only logical route at this point.

DIRTY STREET FOOD STALL: After a long period of waiting, you make it to the front of the line. The stall is clumsily built together from bell iron and worm-eaten planks of oak. The letters “ N” have been scratched 4 times on the upper most plank. Racks of foul meat, vegetables and stale food hang from flaxen rope. A jar of floating eyeballs in brine squint at you as you come closer.

NIM NOM: Behind the stall, you spot a cloaked tiny figure standing on top of a bag of flour. A stained apron is wrapped around his torso. He’s currently stirring into a wok aggressively with an oversized ladle over a charcoal fire.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS (SUCCESS): A spatula would be more suitable for this type of operation.

PALETTE: Each toss brings new flavor. It isn’t just for show. The flecks of aroma that cloy onto every granule of food. The sear. The heat. It’s like smelling a campfire.

He turns around. Bright yellow eyes stare out at you from under a ratty brown hood. He jumps off the bag of flour and waddles towards you.

NIM NOM: “ Welcome to Nim Nom’s Num Num’s. Your order?”

The chef speaks so fast you barely have time to decipher his words.

VISUALIZATION (FAILURE): You can’t quite figure out who this chef is. A goblin, maybe?

“ Excuse me?”

NIM NOM: The chef shakes his head in annoyance and slaps a furry clawed hand on one of the front facing planks to catch your attention. A series of names is written alongside a table of prices. This must be his menu.

“ You hungry, you buy.”

At his insistence, you peruse the list, thinking carefully about what to buy.

[X] - Flochian Flambe

[X] - The Garbage Chest

[X] - Stoned Aboleth

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

“ Goddamn, they folded already,” Takka murmured into the crew comm, staring out into the burning remains of the small storage facility. Aroxy was inclined to agree. The small firefight had gone surprisingly well with little casualty on their side. Such was the nature of a shock and awe attack. They also owed their victory to the relatively small size of the garrison. The small little patrol gorup of vehicles had been completely demolished as the Mechwarriors mopped up after the initial spearhead that Merry Go Round had provided.

“ Alright, Helma. Park us a little closer so we can put them out of their misery,” The VOX 225 gave a throaty roar as the treads of the Merry-Go-Round sped up, ratcheting up their speed by a few miles or so. It was enough to keep up with the light mechs which were beginning to outpace them by quite a bit. Aroxy scanned the distance before spotting the last remaining Scorpion. The Scorpion was awkwardly struggling to scramble away to a better firing position, but it was impossible with the near catastrophic damage Merry-Go-Round’s AC had done to its fuselage. Aroxy could see the large divot where the round had penetrated clean through. Thick clouds of smog were pouring out from the cracks.

It was a dead tank walking.

“ Alright, Takka. It’s a fish in a barrel. Make sure to kill it this time. Helma, slow down a bit so he can aim properly.”

Aroxy could hear Takka quietly harrumph at his coddling. The turret slowly aligned with the retreating form of the Scorpion, the barrel dead-centre on target.

“ Ready.”

“ Fire.”

“ On the way.”

The cannon erupted. Instead of an explosion, though, Aroxy watched in confusion as the round exploded in a pyroclastic bloom, showering the Scorpion in a bath of scorching napalm. The entire wreck became a bonfire as Aroxy began to hear high-pitched screams in the distance. Within seconds, the damaged tank became an oven as the crew inside were roasted alive by temperatures hot enough to melt through plasteel.

“ Goddamnit, what was that, Takka?!”

“ Whoops, must have loaded the wrong type of ammunition,” Takka replied innocently. “ At least, we saved the HE, right, cap?”

“ You and I are going to have words about insubordination later, Takka.” Aroxy murmured in fury. He watched despondently, taking his eyes off the Scorpion once he saw a crew member jumping off, his uniform half-burnt. Half of his body was cooked, his skin bubbling like tar, before he collapsed onto the grassy field.

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

YOU: At least, they didn’t steal your wok. You gently hold the master-crafted implement in your hands. The smooth ebony handle grips nicely to your calloused hands. Whorls of runes are etched on glossy steel. You flip it around to examine the bottom. The sigil of a pot filigreed in gold with two cherubic angels on either side of it. The mark of Kauldron Emporium.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Kauldron Emporium is the foremost smithery of dwarven forged cookware in the Western Occident, their specialty residing in heat sensitive equipment. Its creator, Roil Belloweather, became frustrated after being forced one too many times to repair their family’s communal pot from his wife’s horrible concoctions. Thus, a profitable venture was born.

YOU: You trace the bottom. The lack of charring from extended use is a testament to the craftsmanship of the western dwarves.

TEXTURE [EASY:SUCCESS]: Your body heat leeches away from your skin like a sponge. You can almost feel the currents of cold and hot pumping within the wok, an intricate web of heat dissipating through it like a tidal wave.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS [EASY:SUCCESS]: Light, accurate and deadly for frying. Just the way you like it.

YOU: You take care to tie the wok carefully around your bindle and take stock of your other belongings. All your bare necessities are still there: spare clothing, a waterskin made from goat vellum and your trusty grease-splattered apron.

Staring wistfully back at the door, you think for a moment that maybe, there’s a chance you could go back in and ask them for your belongings back.

ENTERPRISE [FAILURE]: Who do you think you are? Every tavern cook here has more reputation in their left pinky than you have here. After that miserable performance, you’re lucky that they still left you alive as it was.

RAISON D’ETRE: Didn’t you listen to what we said before? We. Don’t. Need. The. Guild. D’Cuisine.

YOU: But -

RAISON D’ETRE: No but’s. The mark of a true chef is to persevere through pain. This is just one of the many trials you’ll have to go through in order to reach your precipice.

YOU: I don’t get much of a say in this, do I?

RAISON D’ETRE: You were insane enough to become a chef. Why stop now?

YOU: Signing longingly, you trudge off the steps of the entrance and into the bustling city of Benin around you.

CONNOSEUIR [SUCCESS]: Benin is a humble trade port on the outreaches of the Bruised Steppes, the Azure Mare scything through and dividing it into three halves. It is perhaps the greatest hidden confluence of cuisines from all across the Occident where a burgeoning gastronomic revolution bubbles underneath the cobbled streets…….

Abruptly, a wagon rolls past by you, filled with its quarry of pungent seafood from the riverside harbor. The driver gives you an apologetic wave. The streets are modestly bare around you. A guardsman in the streets takes out his lantern, reminding you that noon is on its way soon. Your stomach then growls to grab your attention.

Palette: It’s in the air around you. A cornucopia of delights. Gnomish pastries, elvish sommeliers, dwarven fare, smoked hydra……

YOU: Letting your palette guide you as you walk around on the streets, you decide to sate your appetite at….

[X] - An inn. Smoke billows out of its chimney in thick fumes and the rowdy noise of brawling customers can be heard from far away.

[X] - A street side stall. A queue of hungry customers stretches outs like a snake.

[X] - A eatery. The tables are bare like a desert oasis and you can spot a white drabbed figure milling about aimlessly, sweeping the litter of autumn away with a broom.

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

CHEF GIRARD HEARTHSPICE: “ What is this pile of bugbear shit?”

YOU: Those are the last words you hear as you are escorted out of the headquarters of the Guild D’Gourmet. A pair of burly half-orcs take you by the shoulder and toss you out without ceremony. As you stand up and brush yourself off from the dirt, the wide gates slams shut. Even though it's closed, you can still hear muffled peals of laughter at your expense.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Gaining membership into the esteemed culinary authority of the Occident is no small feat. The selection process is strict and consists of three phases. You made it halfway through the first which is better than most chefs can say.

YOU: The head examiner, a geriatric gnome, barely even tasted your dish before deciding it was the worst sin since well-done unicorn steak.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs the advice of a couple of old dinosaurs anyway? You’ve managed to get this far on your own.

ENTERPRISE: No restaurant in the Occident can open without their say-so. Perhaps, partnering with another guild will be of benefit.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs partners? Let’s be in charge of our own restaurant!

SHOWMANSHIP: The world needs to know your flavor, and we don’t need the Guild to cramp our style.

ENTERPRISE: Intriguing. An independent venture? We can finally manage our salaries!

YOU: I can get more than 10 imperials an hour?

SHOWMANSHIP: Think of the decorations! We don’t have to deal with rotting oak planks anymore or those unsightly barmaid uniforms!

YOU: The price for entry was steep, though. You begin to search through your pockets and the bindle which you carried with you on your back.

TEXTURE [EASY: SUCCESS]: A smattering of small metal coins clinking is familiar to you. You have at most 50 golden imperials, 35 sliver kings, 10 bronze paupers and an eclectic collection of pennies and nickels. You have a few clothes on your back, but where are your kitchen tools?

CONNOSEUIR: As a price for your failure, the Guild D’Cuisine requisitioned all of your remaining kitchenware for their use. It was written in the contract that you signed before the selection process.

YOU: There was one thing they didn’t manage to take though.

[X] - A heirloom knife made of a mithril and adamantium alloy.

[X] - A Kauldron brand, enchanted wok, perfectly smithed to distribute heat evenly.

[X] - Your bottle of toasted spirit cooking oil from the Celestial planes. It’s half empty.

Melsborow Nights II- A sequel to an interactive horror story

The customer

Why I Roleplay Female Characters (As a Cisgender Man)

The gender of the character doesn't really matter per se whenever I think of a concept. It always comes secondary compared to whatever I conceptualize. If the character's identity, race or ethnicity plays a factor in how I roleplay that character, then, I take consideration of that.

Your concerns are far more valid for 1x1 RPs whereby the individual who makes a interest check specifies that they want the character to be of a specific gender (Or hell, in worst cases, the player to be of a specific gender). I often find the latter to be more annoying given the anonymous nature of the internet. Don't ask me to do a psychological analysis of why the heck anyone would want to RP with someone of a specific gender.