“The Grim Darkness of one Sunday”
June 2, 2025
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ON SHORT NOTICE
As I was browsing a long, looong list of Telegram group chats for event updates, one thing caught my attention. Warhammer 40K “The 4 of Us” had lost one of the GMs—the one responsible for the safehouse and the Respawn Area. Long story short, I accepted the challenge and asked to join and help with the task. Two days. That’s all we had.
First things first, couple of chats and calls I was introduced with the core concept dedicated quests list of roles and all that, but there was task at hand that demanded attention.
One of the ideas was to distinguish lower deck personnel from the higher ups by the level of services provided. While the “lower deck scum” was issued with biscuits and water, the elites had a whole feast planned for them.
GMs Morlot and Nick were setting up the location and finalising preparations for the game and I was hunting down extremely elusive transparent cans of soda I discovered another obstacle. Previously widely available cheese and snack plates were nowhere to be found, but that was a mere hiccup for the inventive mind.
I decided to create a feast myself.
It was settled: food must be prepared in a fashion portraying excessive and luxurious services available to those with power, and who else can provide an inspiration for this task if not Slaanesh themselves?
Picking up variety of pastries, grapes, salads and sausages that looked like a adult-toy-beads I struck gold. What other cherry-on-top could possibly crown this masterpiece of excessive consumption than a decision to add some tongue into it?
Next morning I woke up at 5 AM in a panic. “God-Emperor, I overslept!” Obviously, that wasn’t the case—but what can you do? Trying to catch the last moments of slumber, getting some coffee into my system, and rushing to the car with a crate of props and plates full of food, the adventure began.
THE 4 OF US
This is by any means not an exact description of events that unfolded, nor it is accurate, as I resided in one location and was able to abandon it only in the last moments of the game, but here it goes. Those are stories and memories.
And memories of the past games must live on.
THE GATHERING
The time had come. Engines rumbled in the distance—cars began to arrive. One by one, boots hit the gravel, and players emerged hauling gear and suiting up. Armor clanked. Robes rustled. Symbols of the Imperium shimmered under the sun. These moments are sacred. No one was in character yet—just old comrades reuniting across the fractured map. As every LARP in the Baltics is a pilgrimage.
TRADITIONAL PHOTOSHOOT
This was craftsmanship forged in solitude, now unveiled in full regalia. A quiet clash of pride played out in fabric, eva foam, and devotion. After the brief parade, a flurry of photos, and introductory words from GM Morlot, the illusion claimed it’s right and the game began.
THE DESCENT
On the 101st rotation of the standard Terran year 799.M41, the transport vessel “Tchaikovsky,” has been thrust prematurely from the comforting embrace of the Warp. A council was called. The captain gave the order: orbital descent to the nearby celestial body. The anomaly below had to be investigated.
Teams of four were assembled. Volunteers and expendables alike. Briefed, armed, blessed, and sent to the drop bays.
None aboard knew the truth. It was not fate, not malfunction. The Warp had answered a command: an Inquisitor’s will. Their destination? An ancient Aeldari world, long-dead but whispering still through time and ruin.
The photo captures a moment of silent judgement as Inquisitor is not impressed by a one of the pilgrim’s skill to perform the sign of Aquilla.
FIRST ARRIVALS
I rushed to the respawn point - a temple, or what remained of one, just as the first teams began to arrive.
Each squad barely gave me a glance before dashing into the treeline, eager to carve their own truths from the forest. And there I was trying to vomit out the little exposition I could before they vanished. I lied to every group. A different tale each time. A broken narrative stitched by a walking glitch in the veil of reality. A real Imperial priest, or a hallucination. Who could say? Certainly not me.
At some point the lack of food and caffeine started taking it’s toll, and stories began to mix up in my head to the point I had to clarify simplest quest lines. Tense interrogations gave way to divine moments of piece and quiet. Bless those undercover cultists who, with heretical mercy, offered me a pack of biscuits. Emperor be praised—I finally had something to chew that wasn’t the scenery.
The temple, half-buried in time and dust, offered shade and a blessed chill. Yet something felt…incomplete. So I lit the final candle: a four-hour loop of Warhammer 40K Imperial Meditation Music from YouTube. The soft reverb of chants and static whispers filled the outpost with serenity.
COMISSAR ARRIVES
From afar, I heard booming commands laced with exquisite profanity, echoing off the trees like artillery fire. “Talalaev” I smirked. The crunch of military boots followed.
The temple door creaked open and he entered like a storm wrapped in a Commissar’s coat. Couple of hours late. Alone. Separated from his squad. He gave the place a quick once-over, and left unimpressed.
Not long after, echoes drifted back—as every squad he met on the way had caught his wrath, until he met his team and finally took a chill pill.
Commissar is unimpressed with the state of imperial temple, the squads, his team, the planet, the weather, well.. With everything.
It didn’t take long for the players to do the math—if healing was slow and convoluted, but respawning only took a few minutes, then why waste time bandaging a wound when you could just lob off some heads? And why even bother going outside? Emepreor’s temple is as good place as any.
Cultists murmured their heretical litanies at the altar, squadmates delivered final mercies with increasing regularity, and the floor stiffed with dried blood and sanctified ash. Whatever sacred aura the temple held had totally curdled.
SHIT HITS THE FAN
THE CURSED BOOK
Every time I crossed paths with the Adepta Sororitas, they were leagues ahead in pace and purpose, efficient and relentless. In their zeal, they even nearly killed me more than once. If not by bolter, then by dragging an Imperial psyker to pry open my mind in interrogation.
They swept through the forest scouting, praying, exorcising, purifying. Eventually, they found it. The daemon. And in a ritual, they sealed it within a sacred tome.
Of course, that was exactly what the demon wanted. It needed a vessel to escape this world, and in a cruel twist a Sister of Battle provided the perfect one.
Remember that four-hour temple soundtrack I mentioned? The one that blanketed the ruin in calm, reverent static? Just as the Sisters stepped into the temple accompanied by the Demon, without warning, it shifted into “Grimdark Aeldari Cursed Demon Ambience – 40K”.
Powerless but venomous in soul, the demon lingered whispering in their ears. Doubt dressed in scripture. And it worked. I saw the strain in their eyes. Hesitation. The cracks forming. As the whispers deepened, the book pulsed with malice, the Sisters debated whether to carry it off-world to the only place capable of destroying the demon. Everburning holy fires of their own homeworld.
INSCRUTABLE WAYS
As if one demon wasn’t enough, the Inquisitor had other plans soaked in pragmatism and shadow. After all, as the saying goes: to fight evil, one must sometimes summon a greater one. In true Imperium fashion, voluntarism came with a sword at the back. One of the Inquisitor’s soldiers was offered. Flesh, mind, and soul.
And when the ritual concluded done, the demon wore him like a glove of meat and madness.
Everyone gathered in the temple for what passed as a council—if such a thing could be called that with everyone accusing everyone of heresy. Voices rose. The demon-host laughed through cracked lips. Somewhere unseen, the voice of the sealed daemon in the book kept on whispering.
And amidst it all, a lone servitor knelt in the dust. Motionless, save for twitching limbs. His vox-grille crackled with static and confusion.
"Logic fault. Empathy section malfunctioned. Repairing..."
His manipulators reached out—blind, trembling—attempting to fix what wasn’t broken, to patch holes in the very fabric of the air. All he could grasp was nothing.
FINAL DESTINATION
The clocks were ticking. A cold, mechanical voice echoed from the vox—“Evacuation protocols initiated. All personnel prepare for extraction in 20 minutes. This is the final notice.” The captain’s words cut through like a bolt round. This was it—the last chance to settle scores.
One by one, squads peeled away from the temple. It temple stood silent behind them, finally abandoned forever, as everyone moved closer to ancient portal in attempt to escape at least somewhere.
It was clear as day. Time for negotiation is over. Sisters of Battle circled Inquisitor like vultures, sealing his fate. The justice would be done in whoever's name, but one thing certain - it would not be merciful.
And then shots fired.
The daemon-host lunged, desperate to shield his master. But it was already written in flame. Bolter rounds tore through the air, and with the final shot, silence fell. Then the largest of the Sisters stepped forward. Towering a full head above the others, she turned to the crowd and emptied a fresh magazine.
She surveyed the survivors, and spoke:
“This was heresy. We were right. We are evacuating. Anyone disagree?”
No one dared to.
In the aftermath, silence reigned. Amidst the smoking bolts, the servitor remained, kneeling beside the fallen Inquisitor’s decapitated body. One manipulator arm buzzed softly, twitching in futile motions, trying to reconnect sinew.
He did not move to evacuate. He refused to abandon the body. Refused to accept the loss. Refused to overwrite loyalty with logic.
ESCAPE & SACRIFICE
The shuttle, held together by faith, scrap, and the desperate hands of the Mechanicus, clawed its way into the upper atmosphere. Rattling, groaning, it rose—seconds ahead of disaster. But high above the cursed soil, the ritual bindings failed. The seal was broken. The daemon awoke demanding slaughter and blood.
One of the Sisters stepped forward and spoke what none could dare: an offer of a martyr. Her life—for theirs.
The daemon paused. Amused. Interested. And then… accepted.
Her scream was the last sound heard before silence fell once more.
The shuttle continued upward, heavy with grief but as it breached the void, hope shattered once again. Their ship—their salvation—was gone. No signal. No welcome. No light.
Just blackness.
And the Emperor’s silence.
THE GAME HAS ENDED
Game Author & GM - Morlot, madman\demon - Nick "AssCut`a" Pelekhov, behind the scenes - Maria Leit, and final addition - Me.
Thank you for being with us, and thank you for reading this.
There's a lot to unpack. First things first I would add - clearer documentation for inside use, quest giving process that would not involve specific triggers (at least initial state quests) and absolutely no tasks that can be misunderstood. But there is more to improve, so your feedback is what can help analyse stuff and make next games better. Please do not withhold it!
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