User has no status, yet


User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

Sorry guys, I've written Phrike out of the game because I just can't give you a good posting schedule or routine and I'd hate to hold up the roleplay. Hopefully this gives you guys something to work with and it was really fun while it lasted!
The world dissolved around Phrike in a lazily shifting fog of war that floated across the makeshift battleground, clogging his nostrils and making his eyes water from the residual vapours from the burning wrecks and explosions. He clutched his knife in one hand, chest rising rapidly as he began to hyperventilate, his world becoming a tunnel.

As if by the hand of some cosmic God and with the resounding claxons bringing an end to the conflict, save for a few sporadic bursts of lasfire, he crawled to his feet. His mind never left that tunnel, dragging his way into the rough formation that made up Eighth Squad. In a flurry of activity, he felt shoulders, hands and elbows shove him around as they attempted to get into some sort of respectable form before one of the prowling, white-clad Arbites took the better end of a shock maul to their skulls.

"Inmate!" He raised his head from the hunch it was in, just in time to see the half-face reflection in the helmet of an Arbites. "Where is your service weapon?"

"I-..." Came the start of what would have been a sentence, had he not been cut off by the crack of a fist that sent him sprawling out of the loose formation of inmates. None looked his way, used to this occurance, and the assembly of Imperial Regiments didn't seem too phased to the abuse he sustained.

There was no resistance on his part, no fighting back. He curled into a ball as fists were rained upon him, a semi-circle of other Arbites keeping a close eye on the action and the other convicts. Before the eyes of those who cared, you could see the socket of his eyeball break, his lip crack and split, maybe even a tooth or five come loose and hit the ground.

For what seemed like forever, but in actuality was maybe even a minute or two, the assault continued until one Arbites came around with a resounding swing of his maul, striking him across the skull. Even amongst the commotion of the assault and the formations, the crunch of his skull caving in was harrowing, the kind of sound you remember for the rest of your life.

He fell limp, and the life drained from his body, as the group of Arbites scattered, pushing the body over onto the side to bleed out, lifeless and still sans a few spasms - no repercussions, no ordeal. Maybe in a few minutes a servitor or a serf would come and collect the body to be recycled, his sparse equipment to be dispersed among the inmates.

Phrike, the only member of Eight Squad born on the prison colony of Redemption, had done what few had ever done; he escaped Redemption, dying free and amongst a great cosmic expanse that he had wished he could of explored had the hands of fate not cut his thread to early.
So, rushed post, but it's the only time I got left but should be able to keep up now.
He never got the response he wanted, not that it even mattered or cared. The words were said purely to soothe his own frantic mind, with whatever else going on was merely added to the blur of action and the cacophany of lasfire, punctuated by the occasional blast from a frag grenade. He found comfort in the safety of their bunker, the lasfire safely embedding as smouldering craters in the sides, shrapnel appearing to do the same.

Then, as if the Cosmos themselves were wishing to spite the poor Redemption-born Cutman, he watched as the two fulcrums of Eighth Squad up and left in a flurry of concussive blasts. He sat there for a moment, bouncing in his kneeling position before he gripped his rifle, tears welling up in his eyes as smoke drifted in through slits in the bunker, making it difficult to see.

"Oh, for Terra!" He cursed, crawling over to the bunker door and taking off in a sprint after the other two, not quite as adept at lugging around all his gear at once. More than just once his pre-owned boots wedged their cap in a rock, sending him sprawling with a resounding thwack that left him winded. Luck seemed to be on his side, though, as he made progress towards the other two.

The smoke drifting lazily across the hangar simulation, absent of any wind, obscured his vision - what he thought was Octavia and Tigraines turned out to be two frantic Legionnaires. A more seasoned warrior would use this opportunity to get the drop on them, seize the intiative and dictate the tempo - instead, Phrike came to a skidding stop.

For a moment, both parties peered through the smoke.


A volley of poorly aimed beams of red light fired where Phrike once was, the Paleman now huddled behind a burnt out wreck of a Taurus, the radiant heat scorching one side of his face. He couldn't stay here long, the animalistic "fight or flight" instinct taking over as he heard them stepping over towards him, one around the left; the other around the right.

He took off in a sprint, startling the one on the right as he booked it past him. Through sheer luck, he avoided the volley of lasfire, until the very last instant. Just as he was about to crest a mound of rubble towards the correct squad, the entire left side of his body light up in extreme agony. He didn't stop, however, even though he was no longer under fire. He had no idea if they were still chasing him.

Falling in line behind Octavia and Tigraines, panting, he gave himself the chance to inspect his wound. A lasblast had scorched his tattered dungarees, fused into his skin from the heat, across his arm. He didn't need to worry about bleeding, the wound had been cauterized, as had the other round on his shoulder and side. He'd be fine.

His lascarbine, however, was not. It had copped two blasts, one that melted the side of the barrel inwards and the other across the front of the receiver, clean through. A tentative pull of the trigger only gave him a resounding whine from the receiver and a futile spark, he ditched the weapon behind himself as they ran, clutching his knife instead as he attempted to keep pace with the other two so as not to be left alone.
Sorry, some time tomorrow I'll try and pump one out - I've just been caught up in work.
Aight, got time off work for sickness so put up a post. A bit shithouse but it gets the job done for now. ;3
"You got guts, son," came words from the darkest corner of their little slice of the hangar, squared away for what was now a proper squad formation. It wasn't so much the words or their implications sink, but that the voice was unknown yet privy to their argument. "I like that."

The whip-thin frame of Phrike quickly turned to face this newest character, paranoia setting in his mind immediately as to which of the Arbites had been quiet enough to sneak up on them, hear their demoralizing tone and give them just enough time before fingering the detonater, taking out a whole squad at whim. Instead, he saw one of the most terrifying men he had seen - albeit calmed slightly by his lack of uniform, clad only in the dungarees of an Imperial Soldier and not the ornate white, full-face anonymity of an Arbites.

He came up to even Phrike's height, if not a bit shorter, but that didn't make him feel any better. He was as tall as he was wide and he took a few steps back as he came under scrutiny, fingers unconciously resting on his monoknife.

"Guts? No... just..." He scrambled for words, scanning the room before he faked a smile, drawing wrinkles along the multiple tattoos on his face. "Just common sense."

"Where to, uhm... Sarge?" He asked, in queary to where they would be going in two hours. But the man was gone just as he came, into the darkness of the hangar and out of the range of care of the 8th Squad. He stared at the others for a moment, bewildered, before he returned to his bunk in an attempt to understand his lascarbine.

Everything was a blur. From being grouped up and marched under duress into the confines of a much larger chamber, the mock details and the intentions they carried lost on even an educated man like Phrike under the guise of his own paranoia and fear. He could feel the base instincts of his being rise to the surface, his mind going blank as he began to hyperventilate, shaking so rapidly his rifle clattered to the ground in front of him.

In fact, if it hadn't so, he might not have been there. Scrambling to the ground after his weapon, shrapnel tore up the empty void he left and hit one of the 8th behind him. Without a care for the masculinty in it or the bravery of some of the others, he screamed, arterial spray from the man behind him warming the exposed left side of his face as he fell to the ground; dead. There was no point for Phrike to even check. No one survived having their entire throat ripped out by a jagged chunk of metal.

Like an animal, he resorted to what he knew. He found a familiar face, the quiet Guardswoman, and he picked up his rifle with one hand as he scrambled low to the ground, impossibly low, as the barriers around him scorched and splintered, jagged chunks of metal embedding in the frame of the door as he passed it, coming up behind the woman and planting a hand on her shoulder, fearful she'd turn and openly cauterize him. If she cared even to turn, she'd find the man with watering eyes - whether from his own emotions, dust or smoke, it was hard to tell. He was barely holding onto his rifle, instead it was slung over his shoulder as he held onto the tattered remains of the man the woman had just stabbed.

He had a hand over the man's stomach wound, barely aware that this man prior to them had attempted to put lasfire on the woman through the doorframe. In fact, he dragged the man, still bleeding, into the bunker under the guise of gunfire, protected only by random debris. In that time, however, the man had gone into shock, bled out and died. By the time the Cutman got into the bunker with Octavia, his efforts were for nil - the man was dead and he was hauling him uselessly, barely able to get him into the door.

"Terra!" He cursed, a stray beam hitting the wall next to him and sending him scurrying into the ground, now using the dead man as cover. He drew his monoknife and began to cut the vest from the remains of the man, even with a giant hole resting just above the belly. With a resounding amount of effort, he pulled and the vest came free. Just in time too, as he threw it over himself and stood next to the woman, albeit not as confident. In a tone he was not quite proud of, more desperate than he hoped, "What do we do!?"
Yeah, sorry. Fire season just started so I keep getting called away pretty much everyday.
Hey, I was wondering if you still needed some people for the RP? Put my character up, hope that's all good.

© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet