Tussle at Townwall
A two-player game of Rogue Trader
“This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it.”
I am not entirely sure how much I agree with Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea of eternal recurrence, but it does seem to ring true when it comes to my gaming. I have found myself drawn back to an old friend: the rules that spawned a multinational leviathan, Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader.
These venerable rules are hardly a streamlined, modern ruleset, yet I have a real soft spot for them. It seems almost surreal that Rogue Trader has been part of my life for nearly forty years.
Those of you who have been following this blog from the beginning will know that it all started with a series of solo games of Rogue Trader. I was spinning a narrative based on the characters and the events that unfolded on the tabletop. I probably burnt myself out trying to play and write up one game a week, so the Cantwara Sector has been left to sit for a while.
Although I was not playing Rogue Trader, I was still thinking about the characters and the sector; I simply needed the right moment and a little inspiration. Inspiration came from two YouTube channels: Tabletop Club, which perfectly captures that old-school aesthetic, and Uglub’s Armoury, which reminded me just how much I love these old figures.
Finding the right time was a matter of kismet: a friend was willing to give the rules a go, and I am on spring vacation.
Narrative
Green light illuminated Lieutenant Grey’s face as he scanned the auspex, his usually calm visage marked by a faint crease of worry. The rebellion was spreading beyond the control of the Imperial forces. The Thunderhawk banked hard to port, narrowly avoiding a burst of anti-aircraft fire. The Marine veteran’s hand brushed the purity seals upon his armour, and his lips intoned a prayer of protection.
His squad was hurtling planetward when his vox-caster crackled to life:
“Lieutenant Marcus Grey. Imperial Command Designate.
By writ of the Adeptus Administratum, and under the watchful gaze of the Omnissiah, you are hereby briefed.
The frontier settlement designated HIVE-OUTPOST ALKHAM-NINE has entered a state of sanctioned disorder.
Xenos presence confirmed. Classification: ELDAR. Threat pattern: Raid and extraction.
Their objective is a relic-signature emanating from the central ruin-zone. Artefact classification pending.
Risk level: SEVERE.
Your directive is thus:
SECURE the precinct zone. DENY the xenos access to the artefact. PRESERVE Imperial authority by force.
Civilian casualties are acceptable. Loss of the artefact is not.
Imperial assets at your disposal include:
Adeptus Arbites.
Imperial Guard elements.
Attached Astartes detachment.”
Grey turned to his battle-brothers. “The enemy lies below us — xenos and malcontents. We shall show them the light of the Emperor. In His name, brothers!”
The Eldar pirates offered a cache of advanced weaponry to secure the loyalty of the local gangs, mercenaries, and the Scargillites — striking miners whose anger burned brighter than their failing industry. The weapons would lend strength to their doomed resistance against the smothering dominion of the Imperium of Man.
Their fate did not trouble the Warlock. To Vaelys, the threads of possibility were already laid bare. He had foreseen the likely outcome: the miners crushed, the gangs scattered, the mercenaries slain or scattered to the void.
Yet even doomed pawns have their purpose.
They would bleed. They would distract.
And in that distraction, Vaelys would claim what truly mattered.
Magistrate Talia Arden struggled through the sucking black mud of Alkham Nine. Once verdant, the world had become a poisoned mire — first through relentless mining, now through war.
Mud dragged at her boots and stained her coat, but she raised her voice above the distant thunder of artillery.
“Forward! Close the distance!”
The soldiers of the 21st Dubris Regiment advanced, slipping as they pushed towards the trench line. They had barely reached it when the enemy opened fire.
Autogun bursts tore through the mud, cutting down the leading ranks. Las-shots answered in ragged volleys, but the defenders were entrenched and ready.
Arden did not hesitate.
She drew her sidearm and stepped forward into the storm.
Warlock Vaelys felt the threads of possibility slipping away. He had to reach the artefact before Imperial reinforcements arrived.
Ignoring his honour guard’s warnings, he rose from the trench and stepped into open ground.
A lascannon beam struck him at once, fired by a Space Marine through smoke and ruin. His guard retaliated, shuriken catapults hissing as monomolecular flechettes cut down three Marines where they stood.
Vaelys laughed.
His thread was not yet severed.
The displacer field flared, twisting space as the blast triggered its defence. In a shimmer of light, he was torn from harm and hurled across the battlefield.
When the glare faded, Vaelys stood beside the artefact.
The flash of light to his right made Gorick “Red Eyes” flinch. Steward of the Scargillites though he was, he was still unaccustomed to the brutal realities of warfare. The noise, the smoke, the suddenness of death — it was nothing like the picket lines and shouted slogans of the mines. He tried to shout orders, to steady his men, but they surged past him towards the enemy trench line, driven by anger and desperation, ready to spill the blood of those who had oppressed them for so long.
The men of Alkham did not realise what awaited them. Concealed within the trench was a squad of the feared Arbites. The blue-clad law enforcement officers stepped forward with cold discipline and calmly opened fire with their bolt pistols. The withering volleys tore through the charging Scargillites, cutting many of them down in the mud before they had even fired a shot.
The Scargillites were saved by Davidus Hurley and his gang of reprobates, the Chess Club. The name had begun as a joke, long ago in the back room of a workers’ tavern, but there was nothing playful about them now. These hardened gang members had clashed with the Arbites more than once, learning through bruises, arrests, and broken bones that the only argument the law truly respected was hot lead.
From behind a pile of concrete tubes and the rusting carcass of an ore container, they opened fire with practised discipline. The sharp, staccato crack of their autoguns cut across the battlefield, and two Arbites staggered as the rounds struck home, their blue armour splintering under the impact before they fell into the mud.
The firefight with the Eldar was not going the Astartes’ way. The relentless hail of shuriken fire had pinned his warriors in place, monomolecular discs whining and ricocheting from ceramite plate. Beyond the smoke and ruin, a band of mercenaries was manoeuvring to outflank them, closing the trap with grim inevitability. Lieutenant Grey could see no path that did not end with the xenos recovering the artefact.
The realisation settled heavily upon him.
Retreat was not a word often spoken by the Adeptus Astartes. Honour demanded advance. Doctrine demanded resolve. Yet command demanded survival. He would not squander the lives of his battle-brothers in a gesture of pride.
Failure would bring censure. There would be reports, inquiries, perhaps even rebuke. So be it.
Better censure than annihilation.
Grey activated his vox-caster, his voice steady despite the storm of fire around him.
“All units, fall back. Tactical withdrawal. Regroup at rally point Sigma.”
The order tasted bitter — but it was necessary.
