Fear not, gentle readers!
Your reporter lives on. The
reports of his demise were premature, though often perilously close to the
mark. He has just returned to the safety
of his cogitating room, so that he can relay to you his adventures, his
escapades and his thoughts.
So, as a hush descends over assorted vid screens and the
releasing of breaths across the Imperium of Man (and beyond – we broadcast everywhere
as we are an independent publication and no-one will censor us), your reporter
is taking a quiet sup of brew he has become quite fond of in his recent
travels. And as an independent
publication, we are free to picture said brew.
Not that your reporter is soliciting for freebies, but any contribution
is most welcome…
 |
| Tasty, hoppy, beery goodness. Cures the galloping trots. |
But, that’s not why you’re here is it, gentle readers? You want to know why the Courier has been silent these past weeks. Well, your reporter has been engaged on a most gruelling and tiring journey to one of the most far flung points in the bright firmament of the Imperium. A death world, no less. Where the ground is literally raised to accommodate the bodies. Where the living sleep alongside their ancestors and dream the same dreams. Where tales are told of their passing and toasts are raised in their memories. Where your reporter was struck low with a crippling illness, and only his commitment to get the job done for you, loyal readers, was his goal.
The name of this place?
Orkney. Not, as the name might
suggest, a nest of those thuggish barbarians with which the Space Wolves have
struggled with recently, but rather the home of the Orcadians, who have not
suffered xenos incursions for over a 1000 years.
 |
| A close-call with a tree dragon. Your reporter was preparing to sacrifice his trusty servitor when this beast decided to move off in a different direction. |
Beautiful to behold, and deadly for the wary, let alone the
unwary. Only the very best prepared will
survive. And your reporter. Arriving with his trusty servitor, and already
suffering the effects of what must have been a poisoned blood sausage, your
reporter ensconced himself in his base camp.
Only for the planet to test both fortitude and stamina. So began a battle against the elements and
the very fauna and flora of this death world.
 |
| Spiders! Great hairy-legged, flesh-devouring spiders. This was the very last straw, and the passing freighter was clearly a gift from Him on the Golden Throne. |
It was only by going underground, where rubbing shoulders
with the dead was a literal as well as notional idea. The locals considered your reporter quite mad
for his efforts in trying to decipher the ancient text on the stones. If only he had had the intelligence to ask
the elders, they could have shown him the work carried out over 100 years ago
which answered all of the questions. At
this point, with the galloping trots, halfling-eating beasties and the locals shunning his questions
and company, your reporter was relieved to hear of skirmishing on a planet not
too far away. Hailing a passing
freighter that kindly transported him free of charge (many thanks to the
Pentland Inter-Transit Guild), your reporter made good time to the battle zone.
And what a battle zone. Not 1, 2 or even 3 skirmishes. But 4! The picts your reporter took are still drying, but the words are being placed down on the vid screen, and very soon they shall be ready for your enjoyment.
And I’m sure you’ll all be relieved to hear that the trots have
jogged on, and left your reporter in the rudest of health… Stay tuned, loyal readers, as these four battles were incredible in their violence, and surprising in all of their outcomes...
