Warhammer 40k CYOA

[Groddil]

It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the vast Imperium of Man for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day so that He may never truly die.

Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the Tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat to humanity from aliens, heretics, mutants -- and far, far worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be relearned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

So. This is a thing, ain't it?



Far above the planet of Sahrafin, a small planet in the Korz System, a single Carrack-class Transporter exits the warp, returning from a long journey to the centre of Imperial space with a fresh load of passengers. A wealthy-looking passenger stands in a corner, staring at the planet below, surrounded by several scruffy looking women. A figure emerges from the crowd, coming to stop next to the man.
"Like one?"
The newcomer shakes their head at the cigar.
"Hey... Have I seen you before?"
The newcomer shrugs.
"I know you. What's your name?"

Select name, age, and gender.

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Astilan Furtis, Male.

[Groddil]

"Furtis."
"Hmm... Can't say I knew a Furtis. Full name, maybe?"
"Astilan Furtis."
The gentlemen nodded slowly.
"Astilan Furtis. Odd, you look familiar. But we've never met. My mistake. You sure you don't want a light?"
"I don't need your cigars. I'm-"
"Suit yourself. What're you doing here, anyway?"

Select background:

Astilan Furtis, Imperial Guardsman.
Astilan Furtis, Rogue Trader.
Astilan Furtis, Agent of the Imperial Inquisition.
Astilan Furtis, Down on his luck nobody looking for a fresh start.

[Lady Ashenwyte]

I am an Agent of the Imperial Inquisition.

[Groddil]

"Classified."
"With the Inquisition, are you? Hmph, could've thought as much. Tell me, Mr Furtis, what brings you to Sahrafin? Heretics, daemons, or xen-"
Before the man can finish his sentence, screams fill the air. The blast of a las-pistol shoots overhead, disappearing down a long corridor. A loud shriek, somewhere between tearing metal and fingers down a chalkboard, echoes through the ship as passengers scatter. An Imperial Guardsman shoves past you, trying to break through the panic-stricken crowd.
"We'd best get away from here. Or at least, I'd best. By the Emperor, I hope they trained you for whatever's going on here."
The traveler begins to follow the surge of people down the hallway, away from where the guards seem to be converging. You duck behind a corner and reach for the pistol strapped to your leg... Or you would, if it wasn't stored in your quarters, along with most of your things.
"really bad stuff."

What do you do?

Head towards the disturbance.
Flee the disturbance.
Stay put.

Inventory

Weapons

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 300.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to
            bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.

Ammo

Junk

[close]

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Head to my quarters.

[Groddil]

You begin to follow the crowd away from the disturbance, hoping to make it to your quarters before whatever is causing it shows up. The mass of panicked passengers doesn't appear to be moving very fast, but you notice a small side-corridor that they have overlooked.

What do you do?

Inventory

Weapons

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 300.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to
            bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.

Ammo

Junk

[close]

[/quote]

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Travel through the side corridor.

[Groddil]

You duck into the side-corridor and try to find a way to get back to your quarters. The corridor appears to twist in the right direction, but there are no exits in sight. Another groan echoes through the ship, followed by a flickering of the lights, but everything seems fine.
"Waaaaaaagh.!"
"The fuck was that?"
You look behind you, but see nothing. As you round the next corner, the corridor splits in two. One way, the left, widens out and rejoins the main corridor. The right corridor stays the same. After getting your bearings, you deduce that you need to go right to reach your quarters. Or, you could double-back by going left.

What do you do?

Inventory

Weapons

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 300.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to
            bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.

Ammo

Junk

[close]

[/quote]
[/quote]

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Go right, clearly there are xenos on this ship and the files I carry cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of vile xenos filth.

[Groddil]

"Fucking Xenos."
You duck down the right corridor, soon vanishing from sight of the main hall. You have no idea what is on the datapad you carry, but judging from the state of the Machine Spirit, it probably isn't a good idea for any Orks to get ahold of it. The corridor you turned into does not appear to contain anything of interest, so you press on. You pass the occasional link to the main corridor every now and then, but see nothing out of the ordinary. Eventually, the side corridor stops entirely, forcing you to rejoin the main corridor. You chance a look outside one of the transporter's windows and notice a large, red, ramshackle ship attached to the rear of the vessel.\
"I knew it. really bad stuff!"
Your quarters can't be far now. But then again, neither is the hanger. Provided there are still craft there, you should be able to commandeer one and hightail it off this ship.

What do you do?

Inventory

Weapons

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 300.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to
            bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.

Ammo

Junk

[close]

[/quote]
[/quote]
[/quote]

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Get to my quarters and take the datapad, any identification papers, and my weapon.

[Groddil]

Just because the Orks aren't getting your orders doesn't mean they can't get their filthy claws on any other important information you have in your quarters. You continue on your way without much incident; it appears that the crowd is not in this area of the ship at the moment. You manage to reach the accommodation sector your quarters are located in and shove through the door. You lock the door behind you and begin turning out the storage containers. You manage to find your weapon, a few more Thrones, and the rest of your documentation, which should either be taken with you or destroyed. Before you actually leave, you hear blasts of a las-rifle, followed by hideous laughter. Taking a chance, you ease open the door and notice two small Orks leap onto an Imperial Guardsman, followed by a large explosion that sends Guardsman and Ork flesh everywhere. More Guardsmen appear from the left, firing at the advancing rabble of Orks. You quickly shut your door before any of them notice you.

What do you do?

Inventory

Weapons
Autopistol - A fairly simple automatic pistol that you keep on you at all times. Well, almost all of the time.
Improvised Melta Grenade - A highly explosive, highly flammable canister of Promethium that is sure to make a large fire if used correctly. Incorrect usage may result in loss of limbs. You only have the one.

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 1000.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.
Inquisitorial Warrant - An important document that allows you to work your Inquisitorial magic. 'Nuff said.
Transport papers - Your transport information that granted you passage to the Korz system.

Ammo
Autopistol rounds - Bullets for your autopistol. Comes in 30-round clips. You have 3 clips.

Junk
Visit Terra! Flyer - A flyer distributed by the Heart of the Imperium travel offices. Contains information pertaining to the Holy Terra, and instructs readers to make a trip to the Holy site for the low price of only 89213087421.95 thrones. Should be destroyed immediately.

[close]

[Lady Ashenwyte]

Surprise the Orks and take command of the Guardsmen. I am an agent of the Emperor's Holy Inquisition, for vile xenos to slay the faithful is anathema.

[Groddil]

You fit a clip into your Autopistol and shove the door open, jogging towards the guardsmen. One of the Orksploders, as you shall now call them, tries to lunge at you, but two autopistol rounds put it in its place. A larger Ork, ahead of the pack, tries the same tactic with a large axe, but one dodge causes the axe to smash into the wall, wrenching it from the Ork's grasp. After firing off a few more rounds, you jump around the corner where the guardsmen, eleven of them, are slowly retreating.
"Where do you think you're going, men?"
"Away from 'ere!"
You grab the speaker and shove him forward.
"Shape up you fools! Where's your Commissar? Form two lines, keep moving backward. Don't let them charge. You five, move BACK. Get some space between the ranks. You cluster, you die. Now give those bastards everything you can, aim for the legs."
The guards' las-rifles cause several Orks to fall flat on the floor, but they are quickly trampled by more of their filthy brethrin. The front guards drop back to reload while the back rank shoot over their heads, firing slightly slower, but scoring more precise shots.
"T'ain't workin'. There's too many of 'em."
You ignore the babbling of the guardsman and focus on a smaller Ork perched on the shoulder of his bigger cousin. One shot later, the Ork's explosive detonates, covering the Guardsmen in green chunks. The surviving Orks appear stunned briefly, before charging with a defiant 'Smaaaashaaaaa.'
"The hangar! We need to get to the Hangar. Shoot the legs or we're going to be overrun!"
The Guardsmen fire blindly at the Orks, who appear to multiply no matter how many you kill. Turning on your heel, you notice a corridor already filled the bodies of Orks and Guardsmen. One marked 'Hangar Bay.' This could be a problem.

What do you do?

Inventory

Weapons
Autopistol - A fairly simple automatic pistol that you keep on you at all times. Well, almost all of the time. Loaded with 21 rounds.
Improvised Melta Grenade - A highly explosive, highly flammable canister of Promethium that is sure to make a large fire if used correctly. Incorrect usage may result in loss of limbs. You only have the one.

Apparel
Inquisition Longcoat - A standard-issue black trenchcoat issued to agents of the Inquisition. Weaved with ballistic fiber to protect you.

Aid
Cyanide Pill - Probably best not to eat this.

Misc
Thrones - Standard Imperium currency. You have 1000.

Quest Items
Orders - A datapad containing your orders. Currently locked by a particularly agitated Machine Spirit, with a message instructing you to bring the datapad to Private Wicks at the Sahrafin Docks.
Inquisitorial Warrant - An important document that allows you to work your Inquisitorial magic. 'Nuff said.
Transport papers - Your transport information that granted you passage to the Korz system.

Ammo
Autopistol rounds - Bullets for your autopistol. Comes in 30-round clips. You have 2 clips.

Junk
Visit Terra! Flyer - A flyer distributed by the Heart of the Imperium travel offices. Contains information pertaining to the Holy Terra, and instructs readers to make a trip to the Holy site for the low price of only 89213087421.95 thrones. Should be destroyed immediately.

[close]

[/quote]