Current
Ma! The sex roleplayers are being weird in the advanced tab again, Ma!
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6 yrs ago
Stack sats, print gats, distill vats, feed cats
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6 yrs ago
We here at Cyberdine Systems have heard your demands and we answer your cries with "BullyBot". With the push of a button you can now automate all of your cyberbullying. The future is here. Embrace it.
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6 yrs ago
>using the phrase "normie" unironically
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6 yrs ago
They always ask me, "What the fuck are you doing!?" but never, "How the fuck you doing?"
"Not a damn thing here either." The Ork Hunter grinned under his hood when that unmistakable Catachan accent reached his ears. He'd made a number of friends among the Catachan Jungle Fighters when they were brought to the jungles in the Third War for Armageddon. He knew them to be reliable in a fight and relentless. Catachans were second only to other Ork Hunters on his list of favorite allies but that also made them his favorite rivals. "A Catachan, eh? Well all-fuckin'-right, now we're in business!" Grett laughed and he could be heard shifting as much as his bonds would allow. "Gimme a minute here and then the lot of us can go crack some skulls on the way out, how's that sound?"
As difficult as it was to escape the stress position, it wouldn't be impossible. Orks like to take slaves every now and then so every Ork Hunter was given a bit of training in how to escape bonds. In keeping with the usual savagery of Ork Hunters, it wasn't pretty. There was a loud pop as Grett wrenched his left thumb out of its socket. The Ork Hunter hissed with pain and swore colorfully under his breath. He hadn't wanted to disable his thumb unless he had a plan and now he had one which mostly involved murder and escape so far. He began wiggling his left hand and using his remaining fingers to ease the restraints off his wrist, giving a small grunt of pain every now and then. Already he could tell this would take a bit more than a minute but it'd be worth it eventually.
"So, in the mean time let's all get to know each other. What's everyone's favorite color? Mine's purple." His attempt a conversation was as much a means to pass time as it was a distraction from pain.
@Jbcool To be fair, they have no idea where they are and they all just had their shit kicked in twice. For all they know this could be a trap. In all honesty, Grett's just looking for anyone willing to work with him to escape and break as many cultist/pirate faces as possible along the way.
Grett had awoke not long ago when the sound of shuffling feet and clinking chains drifted toward him from beyond the darkness of his hood. He was still dazed and exceptionally sore from the beating he'd recieved but he was still able to tell that several people were now in the room with him. Unfortunately, none of those he assumed were his captors moved close enough for him to headbutt. Those in the room, were, however, well within range of the strings of vile obscenities he flung at them as well as mocking gibes claiming none of them knew how to give a proper beating, threats of obscenely grisly murder, and questioning of their mothers' sexual morality. Nothing he said got a rise out of his captors, much to his frustration.
He verbally abused his captors from the moment they arrived to the moment the door to the room clanged shut. The Ork Hunter was left to his own thoughts and the soreness in his ribs once more. He attempted to wriggle free of his bonds for the hundreth time to no avail but that didn't stop him from trying a hundredth and first time. A harsh sigh escaped what was left of his lips and the tooth-shaped projections on the cyberneric half of his jaw. Despite his assertion his captors didn't know how to beat a man, he was forced to acknowledge their proficiency at securing bindings.
He soon became aware of shallow breathing in the darkness. From his count there were at least four other people in the room, possibly more, now shackled in the room with him. "Oi!" he called out, "any of you awake?"
“Lasgun? No thanks, lad. I hate Greenskins to their fuckin’ marrow but they sure as shit can make weapons and I'll take a shoota over a flashlight any day of the week.”
Personal Demeanour: His attitude is surprisingly light given the nature of what he does. He considers it a waste of time to worry all the time. “Save worryin’ for when you get caught in an Ork ambush and he puts the barrel of ‘is slugga up your arse.” He's also a great fan of gallows humor, sarcasm, and general crude humor, it helps keep him at least sane enough to be a spectacular soldier. He's lost a good number of friends in the equatorial jungles of Armageddon but it rarely gets to him. In his mind they died doing what they loved and in service to the Emperor. What higher honor is there? He’s tough as they come and possesses a will stronger than ceramite. He’s cheated death more times than should be legal and survived injuries that would end the military career of lesser men. The man has refused to die, thus far, simply because he doesn’t think it’s his time. He hasn’t survived purely by strength or cunning, although those things certainly helped, he’s only still alive by the Emperor’s grace and raw survival instinct. He has a deep respect for the Catachan Jungle Fighters even if he still views them as rivals. However, if he ever sees a Pyran Dragoon, he’ll first ask them if they fought in the Battle at Hell Town and if they answer “yes”, they’ll receive a sucker punch that lifts them off their feet.
Description: Grett is rather average in height with thick slabs of muscle beneath skin crisscrossed by many scars. The only scars of note are a ragged mark on his abdomen and the fact his chin, and the entire right side of his jaw have been replaced by a cybernetic prosthetic. His face is hard and his mouth is often set in a cruel smile. Like many of his fellow Ork Hunters, Grett has a number of tribal tattoos on his face, head, neck, and chest. He maintains the somewhat unofficially official hairstyle of the Ork Hunters, a short-cut mohawk that only adds to his wild, feral look. He sports a pair of large Ork tusks threaded into the skin of his right upper arm so that each tusk is held in place by a “strap” made of his own skin. As a final touch, he always applies war paint when he is able: three black, vertical streaks down his mouth and black circles around his eyes, giving the vague appearance of a skull. His clothing is standard for his regiment. Combat boots, jungle camouflage uniform, camouflage paint on all visible skin, and his Scalper might as well be part of his uniform considering he sleeps with it in hand.
Service Record (History): Grett was born into war, a war in the streets of the lower Hive City he called home. He doesn’t quite remember his parents which can be attributed to how young he was at the time they abandoned him as well as the number of concussions he’s sustained throughout his life. He’d already been fighting all his life just to eat and have a few scraps of bedding so when he learned that he could fight and be given food for doing so, he jumped on the chance to join the guard at the ripe age of 17 and has loved almost every day since.
Within the first few weeks of basic training, his superiors didn’t know what to make of him. He fought like an animal and after beating so many of his fellow recruits even those older than him into submission with unorthodox methods, it quickly became difficult to find anyone dumb enough to spar with him. The savagery he brought to every fight was the mark of a natural Ork Hunter and so he was shipped off to Cerbera Base to begin his training in the affectionately named “Hell Town”.
Surviving training was an accomplishment and him a place among the infamous Skull-Takers. One day, at the age of 20, his squad got caught in a firefight with a large band of Feral Orks. Grett leaned out from behind a tree to take a shot and a shoota round smashed into the left side of his chin and exited through the back of the right side of his jaw. He managed to keep fighting and nearly shot the medic when he came to treat his demolished jaw. He got himself a prosthetic so he could eat his rations without them falling out of his mouth and was back in The Green within a week.
It wasn’t until two years later that he officially earned his nickname, “Roach”. His squad ambushed an Ork patrol and Grett pushed up to knife fight range and tried to ram his Scalper in the spine of an Ork but the Greenskin heard him coming. It whirled and caught him in the gut with its choppa. The weapon only missed cleaving him in half because Grett managed to lop the arm off mid-swing. Grett collapsed to the jungle floor and started brushing mud and leaves off his intestines as he waited for the fight to be over. He’d managed to place all his intestines back inside and was a third of the way through stitching himself back up in the ten minutes or so it took for his squad to exterminate the Greenskins. His squad wasted no time in building a small fire so they could have something to cauterize the gaping hole in his abdomen. It took a full week but eventually he was mobile again as long as he had a shoulder to lean on and survived the arduous trek back to Hell Town. When the doctors finally let him out of the infirmary, his squad greeted him as Roach because he simply refused to lay down and die.
The Third War for Armageddon were some of the best years of his life but also the worst. He made many good friends among the Catachan Jungle Fighters but lost some old friends. Grett came out the other side of the fight a veteran of a War for Armageddon but the brutal fighting decimated most of his regiment. He is also a veteran of the Battle at Hell Town. During the battle, the Pyran Dragoons disobeyed the orders of Colonel Pertinax, commander of Cerbera Base, and abandoned their positions along a section of the perimeter. Grett was one of the men tasked with pushing back the resulting Ork onslaught and they only barely succeeded. He lost a number of good friends that day because of the Dragoons and to this day he harbors a deep-seeded hatred toward their entire regiment. Most of his regiment was killed in the Third War for Armageddon so he and the few survivors were dispersed among the more intact regiments.
Equipment and Armament: >Ork Shoota
Missions in the jungles of Armageddon can last for weeks at a time without a chance to restock ammo. This forces Ork Hunters to use captured ork weaponry. Like his comrades, Gret has actually come to prefer ork guns over lasguns for their sheer stopping power and the demoralizing effect of the deafening sound produced by many shootas firing together.
>Ork Slugga >Scalper
A huge, machete-like weapons able to decapitate an Ork in one swing. Standard issue for the Ork Hunters
>3 frag grenades >2 smoke grenades >Camouflage Paint >Poor Weather Gear >Rucksack >Basic Toolkit >Basic Med Kit >Mess Kit & Water Canteen >2 weeks' Rations >Grapple Launcher with hook and 100m of 200kg strength line >Blanket & Sleep Bag >Rechargeable Lamp-Pack >Dog Tags >“Skull-Takers” Pin
the mark of one who has survived the training of Hell Town to become an Ork Hunter
Miscellaneous: He can play the harmonica like nobody’s business. At first he only started to learn to play to cure his boredom while in the hospital recovering from taking an ax to the gut, but he quickly found he enjoyed the instrument and always plays when not on patrol.
