Status

Recent Statuses

5 mos ago
STOP. QUOTING. ME.
3 likes
8 mos ago
Gone fishing for a week, will return soon.
1 yr ago
Happy New Year!
4 likes
1 yr ago
Merry Yuletide, one and all! Gods bless.
1 like
2 yrs ago
What's this then, ey?! You'd best not be a manhunter!

Bio

Greetings,

I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.

As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)

So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.

Most Recent Posts






Clerk S-25-97-D, otherwise known as Avidius Hilarus, made his way slowly but surely through the ranks of celebrating soldiers and could not help but give a small shake of his augemented head at what he saw. This was not because of their behaviour, oh no, he well knew the value of celebration after a victory... no... it was because he knew what the order contained within the data-slate in his left hand was.

Each officer of the upcoming 'combined regiment' - dubbed the 87th Combined Regiment 'Expeditio Vernum' by the highly imaginative brains at HQ - from the regimental colonel to the lowest captain, would be recieving a personalised copy of the orders and would be expected to follow it to the letter.

His long legs carried him easily through the various colourful groups, his slender frame softly slipping through, until he finally reached the officers quarters and came to the door of one Captain Di Fieroccu.

Several swift raps on the door bought the newly minted company commander out of her reverie and soon enough she would be looking into the one green and one bionic eye of the clerk, his hand outstretched toward her and the data-slate presented along with it.

"Your new orders, Captain. The celebrations will likely proceed through the night, possibly into the new day, but what you wish to do with your company before that is up to you."

With his task complete, Clerk S-25-97-D could not return to his office and proceed with some real work. These Militarum assignments were so dull.

Emperor be praised.




What the stalwart Mordian would find, once she decided to enter her personal clearance and view the document, was a list of eighty-or-so military personnel from severely depeleted formations; these would all be part of her new company - Company C of the regiment - but from that list she would, eventually, have to select her own Company Command Squad.

The regiment would be forming officially some time the next day, late afternoon most likely, and until then Captain Di Fieroccu had the entire time to rest, recuperate, or simply get right it.
The Seventy-Third had been holding their section of the encirclement trenches, placed around the city in case some Greenskins attempted to slip away after what was sure to be an Imperial victory, for over two months now; in that time there had been numerous break out attempts, and each time the regiment had been whittled down until, as it stood, there were no more than a few platoons left.

It was in fourth platoon, second company, seventy-third Finreht Highlanders that Sergeant Greig Sithech now found himself.

Being in the Guard was not the life that the sixty-eight year old would have chosen for himself, no, he had actually wished to be a simple cattle-raider and farmer on his home planet!

Sitting here against one of the trench walls, waiting for the order to withdraw behind the lines or the next attack to wash over them, he was at least thankful that he had kept himself and his gear in the best condition he could.

With a shake of his shaggy head, his mane of dirty grey hair giving him a feral aspect which went well with his bearded visage and general demenour, Greig stood and rolled back his broad shoulders; he may not be the largest of men, but he had the posture, poise, and lean musculature of a true 'hard man' nonetheless.

"Whaur urr ye gaun, Greig?" Questioned the platoons vox operator, Wee Lachlan, the swirling markings about his arms and face not too dissimilar from Greigs own, showing that both were from the clans of the wide, deep, glens but not of the same groups.

"A'm aff tae tak' a keek ower th' tap, aren't ah?"

This was not to be though, the vox crackling to life before Greig could reach the other side.

"Seventy-Third, Seventy-Third, this is HQ, please respond."

"HQ, this is Seventy-Third, orders?"

"Escapees incoming, prepare to repel, ETA ten minutes. Over and out."

"Ye 'aw heard tha', git up an fix bayonets," bellowed the kilt-clad Finrehter, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that for many of them this would be their last charge.

Long strides took him along the readying lines, forearm grasps and oaths exchanged with familiar faces, before Greig came to the officers dug-out. Sure enough there was their Captain, the poor Offworlder continuing to shake and mutter, his mind broken by constant shelling from both sides.

"Time fur annur charge, captain darlin', ye rest easy noo 'n' dinnae fret." Spoke Greig softly, knowing that once this was all over he would be recieving a Commissars bolt.

When the time finally came, fluidly slipping his ever-sharp bayonet onto the lug of his lasgun, the Sergeant prepared to spring... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two...

There was the klaxon, there were the men and women, and all along the trench section the banshee screeches of Finrehters soon mingled with the bass roars of those Orks that had managed to flee the city - and no doubt would regroup later, if not stopped here.

"FINREHT GU BRATH!" Bellowed Greig, his bare legs hurtling over the uneven ground and carrying him into the fray, his bayonet plunging into the ribcage of the first monster he met, several squeezes of the trigger burning neat holes through the brutes torso and sending it to the ground with a beastial groan.

The battle-craze was on him now, the red haze that seemed to be an in-built part of every Finrehter, his vision narrowing as if in a tunnel and his heart loud in his ears, bayonet plunging into flesh time after time and before long his breathing became laboured and he began to slow... it was this time, and this time alone that he was struck from behind, and all was darkness.




“Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.”

Greig, along with the dozen or so survivors of what he liked to call 'the final charge', stood stiff-backed and to attention as the final words of the speech were read out.

After being found and patched up by the medicae, them hosed down by Munitorum disinfectant, he stood and stared off into the distance (or at least at the back of another soldiers head) as he had done oh so many times before. His thoughts, as they had before, turned to the pyres of bodies and the burning corpses that would never see the rugged hills or mountains of Finreht again, breath the pure air or see the red hawk-eagle swooping high.

It nearly bought him to tears.




Evening and the chill of it were soon setting in, darkness coming with it, as the bonfires were lit and the what could reasonably be considered a 'party' began - alcohol flowing freely, food even provided to the victorious warriors of the God-Emperor - but for Greig and the dozen-or-so other Finreht of the Seventy-Third that remained it was one of loss and mourning.

"Urram do na thuit, gum faigh iad fois còmhla ris na sinnsearan." Intoned the highest ranking officer left, raising a silver quaich to his lips and swallowing the fiery liquid, smiling behind his beard as it burned down his gullet.

"Honour to the fallen, may they rest with their ancestors!"

Eleven more silver items glinted in the firelight as the rest drank, before descending into murmured conversation and low-scale boasting.

Greig could not currently keep any company but his own, plucking off the brooch bearing his clan crest and unwrapping the top half of his plaid, wrapping it's chequered material about his shoulders and walking some way away from his own fire to lean against a hab-block wall, one hand yet resting gently on the hilt of his dirk.

"Bloody weel survived again, haven't ye auldjin?" He muttered to himself, peering up at the sky and the moving stars of the Imperial Navy, watching his hot breath rise toward them, "a' they brassic wee jimmies 'n' lassies... Weel... Whit wull become o' ye now?"

With as much leisurely surety as slotting in his bayonet, he reached into his sporran and plucked a hip-flask from it, and with military efficiency popped the unscrewed top into his mouth.

"Bugger it."

More liquid, what the Finrehters called 'life water', warmed him as a fire or a billet bed could not and, just for the moment, he was content.
@POOHEAD189@TyrannosaursRex@The Wyrm@Blueskin@Penny@Dusty@BangoSkank

Okie dokie,

Feel free to take this momentarily how you see fit - good conversation, setting up camp, scouting about a wee bit and so forth. My next post will probably have everyone covered in blood, so may as well take it easy while you can.

As always, any questions/suggestions are welcome.
@POOHEAD189@TyrannosaursRex@The Wyrm@Blueskin@Penny@Dusty@BangoSkank

Dietrich sat as patiently as he could, waiting with only his eyebrows showing anything of his inner thoughts, as adventurers spoke over one another and answered questions that had already been asked or answere - it amused the mayor, even as it exasperated his chamberlain, and the one-eyed Reiklander raised one large hand as Marguerite finished speaking.

"We have no Elves to speak of in the Reikwald, Herr Dawi," spake Dietrich to Burundi, "at least not that I know of," he leant forward slightly and with a conspiratorial whisper said "but you never really know, not with Elves."

"Now I do believe the remainder of your questions can be answered by yourselves, and I suggest you hurry outside and proceed with what I am certain shall be an easy task for a group of such skill. You shall each be paid upon return but..." his hand went into a drawer beneath his desk, withdrawing pouches filled with two-hundred golden coin exactly, each being placed on the desk before the group, "let this be a small incentive, of course our tardy Bretonnian need not take one if he sees fit."




It was just past noon when the group returned to the sunlit town, citizens watching them warily, for it was not often that a group of such assortment and exotic leanings came to their patch of earth, a wagon indeed present in the main square and awaiting their arrival.

It was none other than Johann Cartman (yes, that was his family name, what of it?) Now with a thoroughly empty wagon, and a smile as wide as a half-moon on his face when he realised just who he would be transporting, a smile that may just as easily fade when he discovered why he would be doing so.

Tied to the rear of the wagon were a train of donkeys, each one packed with supplies, enough food and water there to last the party a good week in the wilds, the last two of six beasts loaded with tents, roll mats and other camp assortments.

It would appear that Dietrich was as good as his word, and knew that they would accept his offer before even they did.

"Ho' Master Brunde, I see you have some friends with you this time?" He called, giving a small wave of an optimistic hand, "this is exciting."




Wheels creaked and Bretonnian horses snorted, dogs running about four strong legs, and hushed speech taking place as the wagon rolled unevenly away from the cleared land around the burg of Schartenfeld and into the shadowy treeline of the Reikwald proper...

It was unlikely that anyone saw the eye watching, eyes that sooner or later they would not doubt look into face-to-face.
<Snipped quote by Jb>

I dont want to use discord, it uses up my creative material too quickly.


Fair enough.
There, she is posted. I hope you dont mind me taking the liberty of saying we get a campaign medal. I wasnt sure about receiving the triple skull so i just left that to the imagination. Hopefully, more medals can be attained throughout the campaign!

I hope also that you are getting a feel for Deeks' superstition and Richs' unbridled optimism.

I have pictures for what they look like, but i dont know if we're even doing pictures.


No pictures, no, you are correct.

Is there any chance you could get on the Discord? Only everyone else is, and it's easier to discuss etc there.
@Penny Would you like to respond at all, before I post?


In the distant background the ruined carcass of Vernum City was incinerated with holy promethium and constant gouts of flame, the incandescent flame of the Emperor's purifying might being spouted by a over a hundred Imperial sentinel walkers that criss-crossed the currently spore-infested cityscape in an attempt to make it habitable for Mankind once more.

At the Cathedral of Holy Light, where Orkoid and Human bodies were currently being turned from masses of flesh and bone into nothing but so much ash, a mass of already broken regiments had held firm long enough for several Krieger Battalions to surround and annihilate the unsuspecting Greenskins where they stood – a great victory had been one that day, at the cost of many lives...too many.

Outside of the city, like a whole nest of ants stuck rigidly and still to the floor, the surviving regiments and armoured formations of the twenty-year crusade stood at attention to receive commendations and to listen to the victory speech of the architect put in charge of the entire bloody mess, Lord General Militant Egough Van Deer.

The man himself stood atop a towering podium overlooking the neat blocks of infantry, cavalry and armour, arranged in a perfect grid formation in spite of the shell-holes and trenches that had been by and large filled in, the ground now mainly flat but still a shade uneven in places.

At the front of each column of regiments, some as deep as sixty formations, had been placed a huge holo-screen so that all could witness the speech and be thankful for the God-Emperor's love; by and beneath each projection screen waited an ample coterie of aides, officers and NCO's – it would be their duty to hand out the medals once their superior was finished.

Klaxon’s blared as Van Deer strode up the podium, clad in his finest long black coat and wearing a peaked cap he nevertheless looked like some form of avian, and with the bitterly frigid wind beginning to whip up about the field, there was no doubt that he must be cold as well. On either side he was flanked by members of his staff, their responsibilities simply to stand and look austere as the General-Militant made his speech.

“Men and women of the Vernum Crusade,” he begin with a wide spreading of his arms, as if to encompass them all, his reedy voice amplified by the micro-comm before him, “for twenty years you have battled across mud and ice, through blazing heat, and marched stoically into the most hellish landscapes that our enemy could conjure...but you have survived where many would not, you have proven yourselves to the God-Emperor and to me, for this you are to be commended.”

With this signal the pack of aides and so forth were set loose, medals and commendations being drawn en masse from thousands of boxes and pinned to chest or placed in hands with military efficiency. There were awards such as the Triple Skull awarded to almost every regiment in the crusade – the amount of casualties having been beyond belief... - and more specific laurels for the differing regiments, dependent on background and part in the crusade.

It was not odd to see that those regiments composed for the most part of Abhuman soldiers – considered subhuman by many assembled there – were bereft of decoration or reward; Ogryns were too stupid to care, Penal Legionnaires could expect nothing, while those with bodily mutations were simply not counted as equals of the humans they fought by the sides of.

“The following regiments have been given the right to settle in this system, may it be your homes forever more, and may the God-Emperor watch over you.”

A list was read out then that included some of the more intact regiments, as well as some of the most depleted ones, but did not include regiments of Abhuman origin or those such as the Mordian 246th, the 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment, the 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg and others.

“Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.”

The General-Militant retreated from the podium, his retinue following in turn and the holo-screens deactivating on queue, the contiguous mutterings of hundreds of voices silenced quickly by Commissars and officers amidst the men.

As soon as the assembly was began it was over, over a thousand fractured regiments directed off toward the Departmento Munitorum headquarters, located in a huge and recently constructed outpost some miles to the west of Vernum City.




Terebravisse Scriba, clerk of the Departmento Munitorum and dispiritedly bored servant of the Emperor, looked once more over the pile of parchment he had been asked to process for presentation to the Prefect of Munitions and gave a long and heavy sigh. It had been several days without a break, his fingers, which each ended in another quill, were hurting and heavy and even his augmented eyes whirred with irritation as they focused and unfocused.

The texts that he had been handling for over a week were texts ascertaining to numbers of lives, to regiments that had become severely depleted and damaged by the crusade, and now a decision had to be made as to what to do with them. While this certainly gave him some form of cheap thrill , the regiments very existences resting upon a strike of his quills, it was laborious and time-consuming work and he had better things to do!

“Next...” he hissed, pulling more parchment toward him, his red-lit eyes (more like a pair of goggles attached to his face for all time) narrowing on the Gothic text before him, “interesting,” slowly but with expert precision he made his way through them, marking each one by type of regiment, planet of origin and specialisation, “you...and you...and...you.”




Evening was setting in, along with bone-chilling cold, as the most damaged of the regiments arrived at the headquarters buildings – at least nine prefabricated constructs of rockrete and plasteel, mostly square in shape and at least four levels high, a hundred or so large hab-units dotted around the perimeter, in which the regiments (or rather the still living remnants) would take shelter for the night until the verdict of what was to be done with them was given on the morrow by the Prefect of Munitions.

For now they could rest, converse, eat some standard rations and generally muse over what their fate would be...

*Sad Warhammer noises*


Fear not, I've just been working a lot recently, I'll get a post up in the next day or so. We'll go hunting.
Extremely WIP sheets, will finish as soon as possible.



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