Recent Statuses

19 days ago
Current @Smarty Jones: Kind of depends which character you chose. If it was a GTA character, it'd probably not be fair; if it was Goku or something, I'd want to make sure they weren't written toxically.
1 like
3 mos ago
Beep beep, coming through.
1 like
3 mos ago
Anime needs tall vampire ladies who explore deep themes.
4 mos ago
Boy, this is worse than that time I was sus.
4 mos ago
I'm sorry, Poo. It's a painful experience, for certain; if you want to talk about anything, I'm here to lend an ear and a shoulder.


Hello, I am me from the internet. I migrated here from Kongregate's Forum Games Forum, so feel free to look for me there if you wish to follow a career in internet stalking people. (ಠ_ಠ) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

A link to some of my past characters, which I need because static tabs do not take up internet.

Infamous Quotes From People Who Exist

“I really don’t follow how your faith believes its perfectly acceptable to doom 4,000 years plus of sentient beings, on a pre-set path of no escape from sin, just so their descendants can be offered the ‘chance of salvation’ when the god murders its own son.”

“Don’t be an ass or a pussy, ’lest you get screwed by life. Being a mouth or a hand is somewhat safer, and an eye socket is pretty much sacred in this regard, so always keep a look out.”

Most Recent Posts

Jeremiah Beltrán Carlos

Wha- oh, shit, somebody else was here. Which, actually, that really was it, huh? No other guards... and so far as he could tell, nobody else had come out of their cells yet beside him and this other guy. With a hoodie. Lucky fucker probably had a television in his room too. Not that that mattered right now, but...

'Ay, hermano,' he called out, heading over to the guy. Did he recognise him? Twig like this guy, he'd probably remember seeing him around. 'You just get up too? 'Cause, uh, I'm pretty sure the guards need to get their arses in gear, yeah? Folla perezoso. Hah. That was a joke, but uh...' He gestured around as if to say "noone else is laughing", because obviously they couldn't if they weren't there. If a joke falls flat in prison, does anybody laugh at it?

'The hell you doin', anyway?' he asked. 'You look like shit, like you ain't slept in ages- have you slept in ages, mate? Or have you been on drugs for months or something?' Shit, looking at him now... he could have been. He didn't know if the guards used tranqs on inmates regularly, even if he knew what it was like to get shut down every so often, but this guy sure did look like he was coming down from something narcotic.

Jeremiah Beltrán Carlos

Jeremiah woke up, at about the same time he normally did. Or, rather, he was barely nudged by the pitiful whinge of the alarm in his cell, and it took him a couple of minutes to actually realise he was conscious, and another few to come fully awake; a few more seconds to recognise he was late up, and maybe a couple more seconds after that to understand that something was not right about the situation, given that the guards weren't on his arse for sleeping in.

Speaking of which, were they gonna come around any time soon? As if tempting them to, he decided to do some pullups instead of following the schedule... and after five minutes and his sixth set, they were still absent. And speaking of which, his cell door was open, too, wasn't it?

'¿Qué diablos está pasando?' he asked himself, finally moving toward the door and pushing it. Sure enough, it swung on its hinges, allowing him out into the corridor. Looking around... the lights were flicking between their usual white colour and the red they used when low on power. Air vents sounded nasty as hell... anything else? Shit, probably, but he'd go for that when he felt like it.

'Ay, anyone else up yet?' he yelled out, trying to get at least a few people's attentions. There were others in this building, right? He knew he'd wanted to bang some of them for a while, but... well. If he was the last one in, that just meant he had the run of the place. Heh... what a shithole to be left alone in.

Seriously though, the lack of staff was creepy as shit.
Collab between @BCTheEntity, @Hank, and @Eldritch Puppy


The initial portion of Aodh’s training went as expected. Assigned to Kill-Team Hallr, he and they were taken to the hypno-induction chambers to absorb knowledge of the alien that was hardly known to even the vaunted capabilities of the Astartes. He certainly would have said he knew a fair bit about the unknown, courtesy of the Indomitus Crusade- but if he hadn’t been fully on-board with Watch-Commander Kade’s sentiment that they didn’t know everything there was to know about the galaxy, he certainly was by the end of their first session.

Really, the taking on of knowledge wasn’t the issue for Aodh. Looking through Watch-Fortress archives was just a matter of enhancing one’s ability to debate strategy against a given foe, and hypno-therapy hardly required effort on their part at all beyond willingness to take on what was to be implanted. No, what he found himself grating against was the particular training he was put through by the Mentors Drill-Sergeant. Over and over, they were put into scenarios which he at least was entirely out of his depth for, often demanding stealth or guile or the like; and over and over Drill-Sergeant Odilon seemingly went out of his way to nitpick every detail of their attack plan, forcibly moulding them in some way or another; this latest test mission had left Aodh feeling no desire at all to claim the right to kill the leader, so many times had they already killed him. Worse still, when Aodh made an effort to pursue his usual modus operandi of debating a plan of attack before making it so, he was more often than not seen as undermining Hallr’s instruction, thus reprimanded and disregarded accordingly. What was the point of having so many minds present if they weren’t allowed to consider what to do?

Speaking of which, some other Kill-Team members seemed far more on-board with training than himself. The Black Sword, Brother Parion, was not unintelligent in that respect, and between sessions could be very friendly, albeit becoming rather the aggressive killer on the field proper. Brother Jonas, of the Raptors, seemed to have issues with the close-quarters nature of much of their training, but managed rather well with the stealth aspect, and despite his relative sense of fatalism Aodh managed to form some semblance of camaraderie with him. And the Blackshield, only going by Lucifuge and even so far as to refuse the appendation of “Brother”, simply followed orders, seeming keen enough to interact with the others of Kill-Team Hallr, but remaining utterly silent as to his own background, as one might expect once the concept of a Blackshield was explained properly. Aodh did his best to honour his desire to remain shrouded, ultimately.

And then there was Brother Yndrasil. Aodh, frankly, had trouble liking him - he could acknowledge that behind those bright blue eyes was an extreme intellect and constant assessment of everything, but he had come in apparently malnourished and only filled out in the month since. And unlike Lucifuge’s shrouded history or even Jonas’ grim pragmatism, it seemed like he simply refused to integrate socially, and that made figuring out who he was difficult. What was not difficult was seeing him work, so far as Aodh could tell, almost perfectly within the hyper-confining demands of Drill-Sergeant Hallr’s overwatch. This mission in particular had apparently seen little to no faults on Yndrasil’s part, and he had to admit... that was galling for him.

Not that Yndrasil noticed. He had been grateful for the training and the opportunity it presented to fully dedicate himself to something, and grabbed it firmly with both hands. All of his time had been dedicated to self-improvement, and that meant that there was no time left to dwell on the immense solitude he felt every time he was alone in his room, with nothing but the silent Brand for company. Another marine might have sought the company of his new battle-brothers, but that was not the way of the Void Stalkers. Besides, he considered most of them to be loud and brash, qualities that were abrasive to Yndrasil’s contemplative mind, and he kept to himself instead. Only the Raptor seemed agreeable to him, by virtue of his grim silence and pragmatic dedication to achieving results. Yndrasil understood that.

The sheer amount of information available in the databanks and the hypno-therapy sessions had been daunting at first, and Yndrasil had been a little taken aback to discover how little he knew about the Imperium at large, or even about some of its foes. For example, he had never even heard of the T’au species that they were facing in the current exercise. This only made sense given the location of their territory, but the feeling of being woefully unprepared had been deeply unpleasant for the Void Stalker. More confusing had been his lack of knowledge about the Primarchs, who appeared to be extremely important and played a large role in the consciousness of his brothers. He couldn’t help but wonder why he had never learned about them, or about their bloodied and tragic history, or why he didn’t know who his progenitor Primarch had been, but answers were not forthcoming. Gorseval could not speak to him here, and the Deathwatch knew nothing about his Chapter. So, instead, Yndrasil had focused on the here and now. A month into their training he felt that he had caught up significantly, and that soothed his unease.

While Yndrasil kept to himself and seldom spoke without being spoken to, it was clear that Jonas went out of his way to avoid interacting with Parion. The reason for it was obvious too; both of their chapters claimed to be successors to the Raven Guard, yet one of the proverbial apples seemed to have fallen quite far from the tree. Relations between Black Swords and the sons of Corax were cold at the best of times, almost every Raven Guard successor chapter refusing to acknowledge the Black Swords to be sharing their blood. In turn, they learned to keep their distance. Aodh and Lucifuge proved to be of good enough company at least, and Parion respected the latter's unwillingness to discuss his history.

The training, however, frustrated him to some extent. Stealth was not exactly his speciality, but this was not the issue. He understood that the training was meant to get him out of his comfort zone, so to speak, so that he may become a better tool for future missions. Seeing Yndrasil's expert marksmanship and talent to avoid being detected comforted him in his opinion on the matter. No, the problem lies elsewhere.

No matter how good of an imitation the holographic projections were, they could not be more than only that. Illusions. Moving, shooting training dummies. Fighting them proved to be... extremely unsatisfactory for Parion. His usual bloodthirst was teased by this mockery of a fight, without any way to satiate it. While maintaining high levels of aggression and exhibiting all of the martial prowess that could be expected of an Astartes, his ferocity was not half of what it should be in a real combat situation. The Black Sword had the distinct impression that a part of him was like a wild beast walking in circles in a cage while being prodded and poked at, growing more and more wrathful and impatient with no choice but to endure it.

Regardless, the Kill-Team was ready to begin again. The first task was the easiest - abseil down to the domed roof of the compound from above. Despite the length of the cliff face above, they had practiced it well enough that Aodh, at least, could make it down the full length and to the roof within fifteen seconds, easily half of what he’d been working at initially. And so he did, shaving off perhaps another tenth of a second in the process. Every second did count, too: too long on the cliff, and they’d be spotted and shot down before they even reached the roof. To that end, however, Aodh moved to one side of the roof, spotting a triad of sentries patrolling with one another. All three would need to go down at the same time.

He’d been told over and over again, maintain radio silence for maximum stealth, and a couple of times the failure to do so had cost them. This time, he made hand signals to gesture two of the group over, relaying the information before selecting his target, and aiming his bolt pistol at the holographic sentry’s head. When they were ready, then.
Consider me interested once again. My man shall see the light of day once more!
The God-Emperor has sat upon the Golden Throne for ten thousand years - his body kept on the cusp of life even as his soul eternally fractures into countless agonised shards of knowledge and personality. Yet, non-linear as the Warp is, one such shard has encountered an aspect of the Emperor from long before its own time. Desperate to end its master’s pain and its own, it throws itself into that nascent forge, and so changes the course of fate for the entire galaxy…

It is the dawn of the 31st Millennium. The Grim Crusade is in full swing, and vast swathes of the galaxy have fallen under the control of the relatively fresh Imperium of Man, led by the Emperor of Mankind to bring the Imperial Truth to all and sundry. The Imperium, in theory, is a society that denies religion and deity alike, and hates all xeno races with a passion - even as, in practice, many of its elements struggle against these fundamental bases, most notably the infamous Edict of Tolerance and its divisive decrees. Nonetheless, the Emperor's knowledge of the alien and beyond is incalculable, yet sufficient to see them beneath humanity's heel either alive or dead. For him, nothing less than the absolute dominion of humanity is acceptable.

To achieve this goal, the Emperor has used his vast knowledge of genetic engineering and the arcane sciences of forgotten times to craft various superhuman soldiers - the legendary Thunder Warriors, the Legio Custodes, and most recently, the Legiones Astartes, the twenty Legions of Space Marines. Led by sons and daughters of the Emperor known as Primarchs, paragons of humanity’s power even compared to their subordinates, the Legions, along with the Imperial Army and other Imperial forces, have marched toward absolute conquest over the Milky Way for over two centuries in spite of any and all setbacks.

This is where you, the players, come in. You will be playing as one of these twenty Primarchs, once scattered, since brought under the wing of the Emperor and into control of their own Legion. How these Primarchs and their Legions are moulded is entirely up to you; what methods, tactics, philosophy or weapons you choose to employ is your decision, and will influence how your Legion interacts with the rest.

The game thread can be found here, and a link to the Discord channel can be found here. If you're interested, be sure to read through the first post in the OOC, and feel free to chat with myself and the other players about your ideas too.
Aodh was quiet for much of the trip to Jorval. Certainly, he addressed those who addressed him, keeping his tone reasonable and light, but he did not then go out of his way to seek those who he would likely not see again in future, or even his fellow Battle-Brothers who had been seconded for their vigil. In truth, his interactions were perfunctory - his mind caught somewhat on the events leading to his secondment, and whether or not this represented rightful honouring of his deeds, or subtle punishment for a breach of honour.

Weeks before...

'Congratulations, Sergeant Aodh.'

There was not much time left before the announced arrival of the Deathwatch's transport shuttle - it would present itself within the next few days, if the call for battle brothers to serve was correct, though even with every precaution taken, travel near the Cicatrix Maledictum remained ever a challenge, inconsistent to a fault as far as timing was concerned. And yet, the tithe of Space Marines owed to the Deathwatch remained ever unfulfilled - every individual who was deemed fit to contribute was a necessity, and according to Brother-Captain Calum, Aodh himself fit the bill.

A normal human would likely have been left reeling by an announcement of this magnitude, presented by Captain, Chaplain, and Apothecary, all at such short notice. They'd need time, maybe more than they had left, to process the situation and respond properly. Aodh merely blinked, then responded 'I am honoured, Captain,' in a neutral, almost pleased tone. Indeed, to enter the Deathwatch was a great honour, to both Marine and Chapter. 'I never believed I'd be offered the opportunity to fight such vaunted battles... though, you are certain I am worthy?' he asked to clarify. It was almost a redundant statement - he knew his own abilities, and he knew what he was capable of fending off. Indeed, the Captain himself chuckled somewhat as he asked. Really, the only reason he asked was Chulaine's earlier statement about the Tempest Blades eyeing him for, potentially, future recruitment, a thought he had privately been enjoying. Secondment to the Deathwatch would at best delay such progress, and at worst prevent it outright.

'Well, if we must be sure, Sergeant, let us reconfirm our beliefs.' He gestured for Chaplain Ruaraidh to speak, the old brother-priest stepping forward and solemnly stating 'I have known you since your time as a Neophyte, Sergeant Aodh. I have seen your very soul, and I know what prowess you have strived toward in spite of what you consider your weaknesses and limitations. The Imperialis you bear on your armour proves your heart is true to the Storm Wardens, and to the Emperor. If there is any who would thrive in the Deathwatch, it is you.' A very heartfelt statement, it seemed.

'I, in turn, have examined your body as thoroughly as possible,' the Apothecary stated. Brother Murchadh had never been one for excessive statements, and his appraisal was correspondingly brief: 'You are genetically pure, and physically as capable as possible for your age. You'll fit right in, Sergeant.' He concluded with a nod.

'Indeed so,' the Captain continued, smiling blandly. 'And of course, I cannot simply suggest you aren't an incredible warrior, and a great asset when it comes to slaying the xeno threat. Why, when I witnessed your rapid and masterful defeat of the Warboss Dreddnort, even in the face of your own demise, I couldn't help but think your skill would be wasted outside of the Deathwatch. And you have suggested that Brother Edan would be a worthy Sergeant in his own right, have you not?' The moment the Orkish Warboss was mentioned, Aodh felt his features fall just fractionally - a fact Ruaraidh and Murchadh failed to note, but which Chulaine certainly witnessed. He had suspected that might be the case, but...

Captain Chulaine leaned forward just so, smiled that bland smile, and uttered 'You will do brilliantly, I am quite certain.'

'...likewise, Captain,' Aodh responded, betraying no further emotion than what he'd already shown. It was an honour, after all.

He'd thought back to that moment a lot since then, moreso after the Deathwatch came for him and his kin than before. The first oath had been as heartfelt as any - because of course it was, oaths were invaluable, and the pact between Adeptus and Ordo moreso than most - but beyond that, he had largely been left to his own devices. A lot of time was spent in training, and a lot more in focused prayer, meditation, and mixed in with these a sort of internal debate. It had taken him a while to come to any semblance of satisfaction about the matter in his mind, but debate was what Storm Wardens excelled at: he'd created figures in his mind to represent the various sides of the argument - heavily in favour of and opposed to Calum's actions, lightly in favour of and opposed to the same, and a neutral participant chipping in to ensure fair debate - and used them as devices to process his thoughts on the matter as best he could. He'd have much preferred to discuss with another Storm Warden on the ship, of course, but given its sensitivity, that seemed... unreasonable.

Ultimately, a couple of days before he made planetfall, the debate petered out to each arguer's own opinion, cycling back to each statement over and over with no further progress: those in favour proposed that he ought to take the task of the Long Vigil as a challenge, and as suitable penance in the extreme case; the neutral party maintained that even without the Tempest Blades' eye on him, he would earn great honour both personal and for the Chapter through his actions in the Deathwatch, provided he maintained the standards that were expected of him, perhaps even greater than kinship with the Blades could offer; and those against continued to hold that it was absurd for Chulaine to hold them back from the Tempest Blades like this - though the less extreme arguer made it clear, too, that if such an indirect, almost underhanded method was how the Captain chose to avenge his grudges, then really, he was the one who showed a lack of honour, and not Aodh.

Aodh was very tempted to agree with that last argument, but couldn't bring himself to settle as such when he had technically interfered with the Captain's oath first. Instead, he forced himself to at least agree with the neutral participant: he simply needed to be aware of the oaths others in his Kill-team had made, and ensure his spur-of-the-moment vows of slaughter did not override any of those.

Nonetheless, whilst he forced himself to be ready for arrival well prior to reaching the Watch-Fortress, even the relative lack of resolution did not override Aodh's surprise with how utterly dead Jorval was. He'd heard, of course, about the Tyranid splinter fleet that had passed through the area, but he had expected their destination to be a planet or moon that hadn't been devoured wholesale. An inability to support complex life was one thing; a total lack of atmosphere or indeed anything worth saving, especially when it had previously possessed value, was quite another. Not least the lack of an obvious Watch-Fortress, either on the planet's surface or orbiting the world. A small amount of questioning, however, revealed the truth: the planet had been hollowed out by the Tyranids before their destruction, making it more than suitable to become the Watch-Fortress wholesale. It was, he reckoned, an impressive means of protection, ensuring many kilometers of bedrock between a potential threat and even the most rudimentary protections on the fortress proper - not to mention the ease with which weapon systems could be hidden beneath its surface.

As anyone who had ever worn power armour in a vacuum knew, their environmental seals ensured that one could wear them indefinitely in the most inhospitable environments, and mag-boots ensured the ability to remain attached to most surfaces. Aodh therefore couldn't claim that he was pleased to be approaching the apparent entrance to the Watch-Fortress in an environmental suit, wearing a rebreather, and tied to the planet's surface by gravitic emitters lest it fling him away. One of Watch-Fortress Jorval's many defensive measures, no doubt - assault would be nigh-impossible if one could not approach to begin with. Nonetheless, his armour and equipment was separated from him, borne by servitors and a cadre of tech-priests, and the idea left him rather discomforted even with understanding of what the Deathwatch's intent was. His blade, after all, was of great value to him; to not have it on his person could mean defeat clutched from the jaws of an otherwise simple victory, even in a battlefield as blasted as this. He doubted any of his fellows did not feel the same, even with the assurance from the Inquisitorial emissary escorting them to their destination- an older scion, maybe twenty decades or more in terms of age- that their equipment would eventually be returned to them "better than new".

The disguise of the lift, in hindsight, was not surprising. The fortress was hidden in the planet, so it was unlikely that the entrance would be simple to find. What did finally raise an eyebrow was the sheer scale of operations within the entranceway alone: dozens of Marines in black armour, hundreds of Mechanicus adepts, maybe over a thousand menials, a small battalion of weapon turrets no doubt operated by a great many machine spirits...

'Welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, Storm Wardens,' the emissary announced gravely as the platform neared the end of its descent. 'As of now until the end of your Watch, your former rank is irrelevant. You shall be instilled with the knowledge you are required to know, trained until the Watch sees fit to let you engage the enemy, and fight alongside your cousins as commanded.' It still grated somewhat to be reminded that his fellow Storm Wardens would not be a part of his own team, but the reasoning made sense - flexibility came with variety, of course.

'Training will officially begin in forty-eight hours; your first sessions of hypno-therapy will begin in due course after. Until then,' the emissary advised, 'you shall be shown to your chambers to await further instruction.' He couldn't help but ponder whether hand-to-hand training would help him much, given his preferred combat style, but better at least to be prepared for a brawl than to fall victim when caught off-guard. With but a final glance at his Brothers, Aodh followed the man requesting his attention away, and into the Watch-Fortress proper.
In case anyone is wondering, we have come up with an increase of slot availability as of recent. Therefore, let me state officially that we do have room for new players, if anybody is interested.
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