Eisenhorn
Member
Inquisitor of some Note
- Last Seen: Online
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 2889 (0.64 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- Eisenhorn 12 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Zeus23,
Bentus,
Not a Sayan,
Fading Memory,
CrypticMeaning,
Lurking Krog,
Ariamis,
ppppppp,
Lunamaria Hawke,
abcabc
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
@Monochromatic Rainbow
I've seen the Internets fascination with her, its entertaining how much attention she gets for no good reason.
I've seen the Internets fascination with her, its entertaining how much attention she gets for no good reason.
The inclusion of specifically Macha amuses me more than it should.
Heh, seems like an interesting bunch, if I do say so myself. Looking forward to seeing folks butting heads, both on the same side and opposing.
Stukov groaned at the sound of blaring music, sitting up slowly from what one could call an incredibly restless sleep. The usual progression of nightmares and memories he would much rather not remember, all in a damn progression only broken up by him bolting up in cold sweats, over and over again throughout the night. He had to wonder if this was something Smiles had to deal with on a regular basis as well, or if he was just unlucky with the damn voices having something to use as fodder to make his life more difficult. Pulling himself out of the bed, in a room he had chosen for its rather plain, spartan qualities (probably a servants quarters of some sort or another), he walked over toe hte mirror, looking at the tired face staring back at him, augmatics obvious to a trained eye. "Emperor preserve me, I look like shit..."
Rubbing the stubble, he shook his head and got dressed, carapace armor going on and he tugged the jacket on over it. Least he'd feel less cold now, that warp cold seemed to pervade his bones more than it used to, but he was familiar to the near absolute cold of the void, so it really didn't bother him too much these days to be a bit chilly. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he smirked at the comment that one smug sister had gone and made about expecting trouble. His job was to not only expect trouble at all times, but be ready to put it down at a moments notice. And considering Boss had one Sanctioned psyker with dubious ideas of limits, and an unsanctioned psyker who had his own issues, coupled with more than one of those damn Sisters, yeah, he was ready for trouble at a moments notice.
Walking out of his room and downstairs, things got considerably colder. If not from the tension that existed between Stukov and the Sisters, than because he was literally chilling the room he was in, not enough to overtly manifest anything, but enough to be noticeable. He, after making sure he wasn't sitting on anyone, found himself a place to sit, cracking his neck from the poor angle he had been sleeping at, before glancing at the others awake so far, and spoke in his harsh, raspier augmatic voice. "Morning Sis, Smiles, and you don't have a nickname yet... Spades, morning Spades." And the ever so witty commentary on nicknames continued, this time the new Sister getting the nickname based on her armor color. But he had seated himself closest to Smiles, who was probably the closest he had to an ally in this room so far, writing off the Sisters in general, just because they were too zealous for their own good most days.
Rubbing the stubble, he shook his head and got dressed, carapace armor going on and he tugged the jacket on over it. Least he'd feel less cold now, that warp cold seemed to pervade his bones more than it used to, but he was familiar to the near absolute cold of the void, so it really didn't bother him too much these days to be a bit chilly. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he smirked at the comment that one smug sister had gone and made about expecting trouble. His job was to not only expect trouble at all times, but be ready to put it down at a moments notice. And considering Boss had one Sanctioned psyker with dubious ideas of limits, and an unsanctioned psyker who had his own issues, coupled with more than one of those damn Sisters, yeah, he was ready for trouble at a moments notice.
Walking out of his room and downstairs, things got considerably colder. If not from the tension that existed between Stukov and the Sisters, than because he was literally chilling the room he was in, not enough to overtly manifest anything, but enough to be noticeable. He, after making sure he wasn't sitting on anyone, found himself a place to sit, cracking his neck from the poor angle he had been sleeping at, before glancing at the others awake so far, and spoke in his harsh, raspier augmatic voice. "Morning Sis, Smiles, and you don't have a nickname yet... Spades, morning Spades." And the ever so witty commentary on nicknames continued, this time the new Sister getting the nickname based on her armor color. But he had seated himself closest to Smiles, who was probably the closest he had to an ally in this room so far, writing off the Sisters in general, just because they were too zealous for their own good most days.
The loud report of a pistol roared in the room, sending the offending thug flying back into the table, crumpling onto the ground as he slid off the ruined table, clutching feebly at a torrent of life blood. The other two thugs didn't have a chance to rise, the twin roars of the follow on shots faster then a man could readily draw two more pistols from a brace. The fat man sitting so assuredly well guarded, blanched, hands raised at the figure standing in the door, one that had been firmly kicked open. Siegmeyer Heilborg, former Outrider and now a mercenary, had been hired on to take this fat filth in alive. Trafficking Chaos artifacts or some such nonsense, and the local powers that be owed the Witchhunters a favor. And so, in turn, he was hired to ride down this fat man and bring him in for some coin. Hell, they told him the fat bastard was trafficking in Chaos artifacts, he would have done this for free. Siegmeyer glared at the fat man, speaking with a Hochlander's accent, and completely without an iota of pleasantry. "I'll make this simple. I still have five shots, and my employers made it clear that, try anything, I can kill you on general principle. So get up before I decide to just say you went for something dangerous, foolish fat man."
Siegmeyer stepped back, whistling for his horse that was awaiting him outside while the fatman rose and slowly walked out. Siegmeyer hopped onto his horse, and gestured to the fat man. "Start walking, ahead of me. Try anything, and know that my lead flies faster than you could possibly waddle." Siegmeyer sighed quietly as the fatman began moving, smelling like he had soiled himself, as he slowly trotted along behind the man. It would be a long couple hours back to civilization, and a couple hours he could not relax on. But they were a, Sigmar be praised, blessedly short couple of hours, as nothing had happened. Arriving at the local town's guardhouse, he shoved the fat man into the custody of the local State Troops that had been waiting for him to return. "Pleasure doing business with you lads, one trafficker, as promised." He received his coin, a decent sum for relatively simple work, and he turned his horse onto the road again. No sense hanging around, he could make it to the next town before requiring a place to stay the night.
The local town board though, caught his eye, as a new piece of paper flitted on it gently in the wind. Riding over, he lifted the paper up to get a better angle on it. Duardo de Trantio was looking for able bodied mercenaries, eh? Madman was cursed by most sensible folk, all sorts of rumors swirling around his now black name. But Siegmeyer doubted it was little more than madness that afflicted most who crossed paths with Chaos of some sort or another. They all dealt with it in their own way, some more overt than others. He still had many sleepless nights from his own experiences, but that was not the pressing issue at hand. There was coin, and food, to be had for merely attending, so he would at least go hear this man out. Memorizing the details of where to be, he turned his horse onto a new path, riding off into the still rising sun, a new destination in mind.
"Such a decrepit looking grounds, seems the Lord of Guilmuer has fallen onto some hard times, looks like a warband hit this place, a long time ago..." Siegmeyer sat astride his horse, resting readily on the mount while he weighed his options. Quite a few had tried to turn him from his journey, stating it was foolish at best, and absolute suicide at worst. But he had pressed on this far, so by Sigmar, he would at least see this journey done. Trotting to the drawbridge, he paused, remembering the message, and raised his voice, calling firmly into the still night, and into the decrepit looking structure. "Hail there! Is any soul present here? I come in response to the summons by the Lord of Guilmuer!"
Siegmeyer had made his move, and now it was a matter of waiting. He just had to hope, now, that if someone indeed did respond, they had proper place for his horse. She had seen a long trip here, for he had been on the wrong side of Tilea when he got word of this place and the gathering of mercenaries for a cause yet unknown.
Siegmeyer stepped back, whistling for his horse that was awaiting him outside while the fatman rose and slowly walked out. Siegmeyer hopped onto his horse, and gestured to the fat man. "Start walking, ahead of me. Try anything, and know that my lead flies faster than you could possibly waddle." Siegmeyer sighed quietly as the fatman began moving, smelling like he had soiled himself, as he slowly trotted along behind the man. It would be a long couple hours back to civilization, and a couple hours he could not relax on. But they were a, Sigmar be praised, blessedly short couple of hours, as nothing had happened. Arriving at the local town's guardhouse, he shoved the fat man into the custody of the local State Troops that had been waiting for him to return. "Pleasure doing business with you lads, one trafficker, as promised." He received his coin, a decent sum for relatively simple work, and he turned his horse onto the road again. No sense hanging around, he could make it to the next town before requiring a place to stay the night.
The local town board though, caught his eye, as a new piece of paper flitted on it gently in the wind. Riding over, he lifted the paper up to get a better angle on it. Duardo de Trantio was looking for able bodied mercenaries, eh? Madman was cursed by most sensible folk, all sorts of rumors swirling around his now black name. But Siegmeyer doubted it was little more than madness that afflicted most who crossed paths with Chaos of some sort or another. They all dealt with it in their own way, some more overt than others. He still had many sleepless nights from his own experiences, but that was not the pressing issue at hand. There was coin, and food, to be had for merely attending, so he would at least go hear this man out. Memorizing the details of where to be, he turned his horse onto a new path, riding off into the still rising sun, a new destination in mind.
Some Time Later
"Such a decrepit looking grounds, seems the Lord of Guilmuer has fallen onto some hard times, looks like a warband hit this place, a long time ago..." Siegmeyer sat astride his horse, resting readily on the mount while he weighed his options. Quite a few had tried to turn him from his journey, stating it was foolish at best, and absolute suicide at worst. But he had pressed on this far, so by Sigmar, he would at least see this journey done. Trotting to the drawbridge, he paused, remembering the message, and raised his voice, calling firmly into the still night, and into the decrepit looking structure. "Hail there! Is any soul present here? I come in response to the summons by the Lord of Guilmuer!"
Siegmeyer had made his move, and now it was a matter of waiting. He just had to hope, now, that if someone indeed did respond, they had proper place for his horse. She had seen a long trip here, for he had been on the wrong side of Tilea when he got word of this place and the gathering of mercenaries for a cause yet unknown.
In
Remnants of the Departed Imperial Guard (Eisenhorn, Sophrus, and Yennefer)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Cpl. Cross was unperturbed by the final approach, rising onto his feet, hanging onto the straps to not get knocked over by the shaking of the Valkyrie as it came down to hover over the drop point, LT. Elross was out of the craft and Jericho sprinted out, landing with a roll, coming up to a knee at the sound of screaming cultists, former PDF who had lost their way. The Krieger Grenadier didn't open fire on the PDF cultists that had been scythed down by the loyalist PDF. That was good, some men still followed the true path. It reminded him too much of Krieg's past, brother turned on brother by the fell gods of Chaos. But he focused on the current situation, standing up as the Lieutenant called out about having all the fun to herself, muttering a response for her to hear. "Confirmed, engaging traitor PDF."
The first man got slammed into the ground, a burning plasma wound rather neatly cleaning up the leading man. Normally, the Krieger preferred accurate, effective shots over a spray of las fire but, considering the numerical situation coupled with the fact he had a Type XIV Lasgun, which other regiments would know as a Hellgun, he had the means to effectively suppress as well as do some serious damage, mostly from penetrative properties. So he took a forward position, kneeling behind some debris and switching the selector to fully automatic, taking aim through the optics before squeezing the trigger, sending a vicious burst of las rounds down range, punching through several traitors and sending them stumbling to the ground. He kept firing in short, automatic bursts, mostly to manage the damned heat the Type XIV produced, but it would make a hell of an effect, time enough for Sarge to get in place with his flamer and really clean up.
The first man got slammed into the ground, a burning plasma wound rather neatly cleaning up the leading man. Normally, the Krieger preferred accurate, effective shots over a spray of las fire but, considering the numerical situation coupled with the fact he had a Type XIV Lasgun, which other regiments would know as a Hellgun, he had the means to effectively suppress as well as do some serious damage, mostly from penetrative properties. So he took a forward position, kneeling behind some debris and switching the selector to fully automatic, taking aim through the optics before squeezing the trigger, sending a vicious burst of las rounds down range, punching through several traitors and sending them stumbling to the ground. He kept firing in short, automatic bursts, mostly to manage the damned heat the Type XIV produced, but it would make a hell of an effect, time enough for Sarge to get in place with his flamer and really clean up.
Well, I wont speak for everyone else, but for ol' Jerod, he was told to go kill things. The semantics and politics? Hell, he can debate those later. Right now he has things to axe.
@Rithy Venerate dat ass. On a serious note, nice to get another perspective on our foes.
Jerod
Jerod grinned ferally when the lightning struck, heaving his axe off his shoulder into a ready position, turning to face the three remaining lancers. Poor sods were probably expecting to face off with the Champion lad himself or something, lances were useful for dealing with swords users. Not his axe though, and he didn't even blink as the arrow slammed into his shoulder, forcing him to step back from the impact, looking at the arrow now jutting out of his shoulder before turning his gaze onto the middle of the three lancers, and inhaled quite calmly before letting loose with a wild, angry scream as he leaped headlong into the three lanchers, axe held high to bring down onto the first poor sod he reached. "AH'LL KILL E'ERY LAS' ONE O' YE, YE DAMN'D PRANCIN' NINNIES!" Probably a jarring shift for all parties involved, allies and enemies, since up until that point, Jerod hadn't given the slightest indication he would have such an all consuming battle rage.
Lances gave reach, which tended to make them feel safer against swordsman who couldnt reach them safely. It was why swords were not recommended for dealing with lances. Axes, though, their weight smashed through the supposed reach that they had, and besides, reach only helped against someone who cared whether or not they survived. A man willing to leap into a line of spearmen, screaming his defiance for all to hear, bringing an axe down with enough force to shatter a man's weapon, well, that was probably not what they were ready for. The first man who had the baleful attention of Jerod didn't even get a chance to stutter out a response as the fighter cleaved downwards with all his momentum and weight, smashing the lance in half and crumpling the man into the ground, jerking his now bloodied axe out of as he whirled onto the next one, letting loose with a ceaseless barrage of heavy handed, brutish swings that left little opening for the poor soldier under assault. The other one recovered and jabbed forward, embedding the spear tip into Jerod's side, hoping to at least stem the assault.
"IF YE DAMN'D FOOLS T'INK T'AT'LL STOP ME, YE'R DAMN FOOLS!" Jerod roared and spun, wrenching the spear tip from his side and catching the man he was turning from with the backside of his axe, concussing him and sending him crashing to the ground as he leaped full force onto the offending lancer, raining a heavy crescendo of blows that would have left little more than mincemeat and a badly damaged lance. The last had recovered his wits enough to try and attack the distracted, battle mad fighter, and scored a glancing blow like the archer and other lancer had, and Jerod was quickly splattered with enough blood that telling his, from anyone elses, was nigh on impossible. Jerod spun, running the lance into his already injured side to snare it in place so he could freely smash his axe down into the offending lancer's head, more than once as he crumpled to the ground, and was left little more than a mess as Jerod ripped the lance clear, screaming at the horsemen hiding from him behind the wagons, fixing his sights on the largest group. "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH" Short of the Champion reigning him in and redirecting his rage, he would gleefully go charging headlong into the largest group of enemies he could find next, survival and injuries be damned.
© 2007-2026