Salvage & Sorcery using SoloCanvas
Did a run into a Decaying Orbital Elevator Base overrun by Raiders and Cultists. It was hilarious. Right at the end, Venci Dade, the Gunslinger was down to about 6hp after hogging most of the XP. Quite suspenseful. Also, my "I can't roll to my benefit to save my life," curse struck over and over. The cultists would explode multiple dice into extra hits while my guys would fumble their way to zero hits. Constantly. Started the run with 8 healing potions, ended it with one. The image shows a fight between my Scavs and a group of Pillagers.
SoloCanvas was pretty easy to use, post-it notes became room trackers, the draw square function making the rooms and corridors themselves. 30s googling to find an appropriate picture to crop and tossed in a token generator made tokens trivial. Importing arbitrary images let me do things like put a title block up top, and the enemy's stats below the battlemat. Inbuilt PDF reader with form filling capability let me keep track of character sheets and a MD based notepad let me keep a journal, the first entry of which is below.
>Ignis checked the quiescent blade of his three thousand year old Mekar and Slaughter Holy Arbiter-class Eldritch Archblade. Of course it was straight and true. He prayed to Hashequt the Golden for three hours at the beginning of every cycle, whetting his blade through worship. The silvery oiled sheen of the starmetal reflected the actinic lighting of the inside of the drop pod bay, showing the distorted reflections of his companions, Aethrial, Chance and Venci.
>Chance he could figure out, ex of the Great Brotherhood of the Seven-fold Path, an Arcane Techgnosis cult from the Outer Belts, there was nothing left for her, their blacklists are legendary. Venci, too, was easy to understand, with braggadocio and insecurity in equal measure, the former pipefitter had abandoned his Sacred Union journeyman's position after a pistol duel led to the death of a Master. It was Athrael Xilltarr that was the mystery. She had been trained in the Holy Sciences of Aetherobiology and Psionic Archaeology on Farseer Station, in sol-pol orbit. What could drive someone to abandon a life of luxury, not to mention a decade of soulsearing study at the hands of the Sect, to become a scraphound?
>He didn't know, and the overheads turning from white to red meant he didn't have any more time to think about it. He put his Arcfire H9000 neurohelm on over his head and clamped it to his armor, quietly mouthing a prayer to The Hammer as he did so,
>My blade is my will,
my will is my blade,
To sunder one is to sunder both,
To wield one is to wield the other,
I will master my will and through mastery, will master my blade,
I will master my blade and through mastery, will master my self.
>His neurohelm ran through suit diagnostics as he stepped into the cramped capsule, locking his blade into the slot in front of him and holding onto the crosshilt like one of the famed statues of the Basillica of The Gored One.
>In a burst of steam, the well-oiled pistons of the hatch slammed shut with enough force to sever a limb, as more than one slow 'hound had found out.
The count down started, "10...9..."
It was time to launch.