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STOP. QUOTING. ME.
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Gone fishing for a week, will return soon.
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Merry Yuletide, one and all! Gods bless.
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What's this then, ey?! You'd best not be a manhunter!

Bio

Greetings,

I am Jbcool (known as McScottish on the Total War Centre); 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

Got some fine writers already in the Discord, I'll hold on for a couple more days before writing the OOC.
Aaaand a Discord link for those interested enough: discord.gg/n9KBTpr


I'll make this short, alright.

Mercenaries (commonly known as Dogs of War) in the Warhammer Fantasy world - I love them!

If you love them as much as me, scrappy groups of down-on-their-luck folks plucked from origins obscure or high, forced to fight for their very lives for gold, to shed the claret of themselves and others at the whims of others, then boy-oh-boy this one is for you.

Too long has the Elder Scrolls franchise held on to co-operative writing projects, it believe it is now my turn to make a concerted effort at doing the same.

To this end I am looking for dedicated writers capable of writing to an Advanced standard, at least enough to form a solid core of dependable folk for a continuous romp across the Old World and beyond; if you think you fit the bill, get yourself known and give us a post.

And, as always, questions are more than welcome.

EDIT: Just a quick update, that may help folks decide, this will be set in the Border Princes region of the Old World - at least to begin with - anything can happen, to anyone.
@BangoSkank@Hank@Guy0fV4lor@Bright_Ops@Jamesyco@Searat

Even as he had been show-boating, the monocle pressed firmly into his socket had began doing its job; from the moment he had entered it had started formulating data, recording faces and voices, expressions, everything that Livingstone needed to get to know his new entourage. He had decided to turn the targetting reticule off before entering, as he had no desire (yet) so kill any of them. So it was that, in spite of his erratic movements and apparent lack of any focus, Rupert's expression – or decided lack there of, though none could cover all micro- expressions – was well noticed.

“No?” Queried the elderly gentleman then, the bristling moustache flickering from one side of his mouth to the other, before an exasperated breath was drawn out of his mouth, “William,” he chuckled to the straight-faced soldier nearby, “I do believe I found the perfect crew – no questions, no nothing. Indeed, each seems as one ready to propel themselves into the Warp and back for me.”

For a moment he leant on his cane, eyeing each of the rooms occupants with a look of natural inquisitiveness, locking them on to Maxie foremost; there his eyes remained even as he lifted his cane and gave the six-footer a nice jab in the ribs with it.

“You, sir, are clearly inebriated. This would ordinarily be a shooting offence, unless on my say so, but as this is our first meeting I shall let it slide. Do see that it does not happen aboard my vessel, or you may find yourself quite cold in open space without a blanket.”

He passed over Apollyon and Isaiah, noting them mentally nevertheless, going straight to Gustave and once more letting his gaze linger.

“Ah yes, the Bristonian.” Older than those in the room he may have been, but Livingstone missed nothing... Not that the state of the Guardsman was hard to miss, “medals aplenty you may possess, and I am glad of it, but come to me in this state again and William over there will make sure you understand not to do it again.” After a moment he leant in close enough that only Gustave could hear, “are you not ashamed?” His eyes never left those brown opposites until he turned and strode to where Roald had positioned himself.

“Roald Cliffbloom, is it not?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, and Livingstone did not wait for an answer, “thief... lecher... and Trailblazer.” He gave a smile then, some amusement contained within it, “yes, you remind me well of the Ratlings of Crinatera Fifty-Six.”

Having had his fill of assessing each of his newest acquisitions, for that is most assuredly what they were, and in more ways than one, the Trader returned to the holo-projector.

“Believe me when I tell you gentlemen, I have allowed you all into somewhat of an 'inner circle' – your skills, your talents, I will be needing and will one of these days make use of them all. I will treat you fairly and with respect, and I should hope you will have the common decency to do the same.”

“Nionus Seven-Twelve,” he announced suddenly, the holo image shifting to a floating orb, “this will be our first stop. There we shall stop, resupply, and begin the first stage of a longer journey.”

The world appeared to be one primarily of desert or wasteland, as far as one might see with the naked eye, larger settlements – hives most likely – dotted about the place as it rotated on an axis in front of them, the image flickering and dying nearly as fast as it had appeared.

“Right. Bring yourselves and your possessions to the Pride, and then to the bridge. I shall see you all there once you have found your chambers. Good day.”
@BCTheEntity@Andreyich@jbeil

Delafare could only watch with barely contained awe as the three Sisters and the Confessor - his speech as fine as his facial hair - launched themselves into action, his own Troopers being put to shame with every passing second. The Corporal was what one on Cekrov may consider a 'veteran', as in he had seen combat other than just small-scale skirmishes, but never before had he got to fight alongside and witness the capabilities of the Ecclesiarchical fighting force that were the Adepta Sororitas.

"Rally yourselves!" He yelled as loudly as his voice would allow, the heat from burning buildings and the stench of burning bodies making his unprotected eyes water, his throat causing him to choke partially on his words even as he squeezed them out, "soldiers of the God-Emperor, to me! To me!"

The ingrained conditioning of following orders, and the very real devotion to the Cult Imperialis - a form of worship embedded in them since childhood by red-robed priests and even redder-faced schoolmasters - gave the withdrawing Guard a jolting backbone of steel, scattered soldiers forming together once more with Delafare as an anchor; moments later and he had organised them into a ragged but formed line of bristling las-weapons, fixed bayonets reflecting the crackling flames of the ruined village.

"Soldiers of Cekrov, for Sarton, for the God-Emperor... To the Confessor, Charge!"

His own ornate chainsword whirred into life as his thumb knocked the activation stud, the noble features twisting beneath his cap into one of fanatical hatred of these unclean and impure cultists. One thing was indisputable; he would die before shaming himself in the eyes of his God and his chosen warriors.






Even as the loyalists flung themselves at the Archenemy soldiers, and as Lisbeth showed her piety by shedding more than her fair share of blood (hopefully this would not become a habit...) Victorine was making her way around the conflict, having slunk away just before the combat have devolved into close-quarter brawling; she had decided that rather than seeing the searing cottages as an obstacle she would use them as cover and a place of unexpected ambush.

With one hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of her powersword, the other relaxed but ready on the trigger of her bolt pistol, she forced her armoured bulk from one side of a nearby building to the other. Now, while it was known that Sororitas armour did not provide the all-consuming protection of their Astartes allies, the pattern of armour she clad herself in was enough to stop her burning to death, becoming a living candle as so many heretics had become by her own hand, and more than enough to splinter obstacles and walk with purpose through weakened walls between rooms.

Ave Imperator.

An unexpected sadness overcame her as her visor picked out the crumbled human forms pressed against one wall, a man with his arms wrapped about a smaller female figure, both now no more than charred remains; why with their armour could not the Sororitas have been given the transhuman and unfeeling emotions of the Space Marines as well? Would she really have wanted to feel nothing as she looked upon the pitiful corpses, probably farmers of this village who had done no wrong or harm to another.

God-Emperor grant me vengeance.

When she finally emerged from the inside of the cottage covered in a layer of debris made of ash, paint and plaster, she took some small measure of joy in imagining the looks of surprise and shock behind those hand-carved masks - suddenly a servant of the Emperor had burst through a wall, out into the alley connecting the village green to the edges of the settlement, her blade already flicking out to catch a stilled adversary in the throat.

Somewhere to her right she could hear the Imperial forces pressing into the orange-clad butchers, their resolve already weakening and only diminishing with ever passing moment, while to her left - at the entrance to the passage - she expected the second flanking force to arrive at any moment in support of their comrades.

"Flee for your lives traitors, for I have no mercy to give."

Much like Alexa her voice was robotised by the vocaliser of her helmet, the words coming out as more of a bellow than a spoken sentence, the closest heretic drawing back as her prescence eroded the religious indoctrination of the Ruinous Powers, others preparing to sell their lives as dearly as possible before meeting their uncaring deities.

A trio of nasty looking bastards took it upon themselves to risk the Celestians wrath, a broad women and two men encircling her like carrion around a corpse.

The first did not even have time to raise his stubber before a bolt imploded his face in on itself, gore and brain matter flying everywhere as his body crumpled to the ground, his compatriots given enough leeway for the second man to bring a studded club down on Victorine's outstretched arm even as the woman opened up at close range with a six-shooting stub pistol.

Both closed in as Victorine kept her (she suspected broken) arm at her side, sharp breaths making their way in and out of her lungs - made so by the solid rounds punching into her gut but failing to penetrate through into flesh.

As the man raised his club to beat her over the head, Victorine doubled over fleetingly, she lunged forward and skewered him in a sizzle of cauterising flesh and blood; the look on his masked face was like enough one of angered shock as he died.

"You bitch!" Screamed the wide-shouldered woman, lifting off the mask to reveal a screwed up visage of pure hatred, eyes burning into Victorine worse than any bolt or blade ever had. It could be that rage and emotion blinded her, but rather than firing into the struggling Celestian she instead went to pistol-whip her senseless. Victorine could not truly believe her luck, releasing the hilt of her sword and bringing one circled fist right into the face of the already repugnant woman while the other grasped hold of her incoming wrist; slowly-but-surely she crushed the wrist, the feeling of snapping bone giving her immense satisfaction, her free limb drawing back and hammering into that face again... and again... and again... and again..

Having been paying little attention to her surroundings, a rookie mistake that she would chastise herself severely for at a quieter time, Victorine was relieved to see flashes of purple making their way through the orange - the Cekrov Troopers had made their way from one side of the village to the other in the nick of time.

God-Emperor be praised.






“I guess we'll be heading into the mountains next then?” It was both a statement and a question from Corporal Delafare, surprisingly the highest ranking officer left of the Cekrov Guard escort, his face a mask of well-concealed concern, “for that is where they have fled too.”

Once the enemy forces had routed, stragglers cut down by blade or blast and without mercy, a concerted effort had been made at an ad hoc cleaning operation. Everyone from the surviving inhabitants to the Sisters had done their part, Delafare wisely using the time to request further reinforcements for an expected pursuit into the Cekrovian 'Wynrock Hills'; these were much less hills however, instead being a series of towering mounts riddled with more holes than a heretic after a firing squad.

“I do believe so, Corporal,” answered Victorine in affirmation, the Celestian seated atop a crate taken from one of the transports, her arm tied close to her body in a sling – not fully broken but not entirely whole either - “although from what you have described it will take an army to traverse all the furrows and passageways of the Wynrocks.”

“That is lamentably true, my lady; we would find the cult eventually, of that I have no doubt, but...”

He could only shrug, a gesture that Victorine generally despised, it meant that no-one truly had any idea how long it could take or what the ramifications could be come the eventual end.

A sigh escaped her lips as she rose from the crate, now at least a head taller than Delafare and giving him the briefest of grim smiles, turning away from the rudderless man and striding across the village green to where a temporary medicae post had been assembled. It was here that the wounded Troopers were taken, as well as Sister Dominicia, Sister-Hospitaller Christina doing all she could for the lot of them and more.

“Thank you for this,” she said by way of greeting and making herself known, lifting her arm an inch or so from her chest, moving to stand beside the giantess of a warrior-healer and surveying the bodies – those that moved and those that did not – with eyes as dark as mahogany and as deep as a calm body of water.

“How goes it? How is our foolhardy sibling?”

Although she asked the questions, and genuinely cared for the answers, her eyes went not for the first time to the weapon that Lisbeth wielded in disregard for proper command structure, armament regulations, and that seemed to get here into so much trouble – that sword, Persephone... They would have a talk about it, once she recovered, of that there would be no doubt.
Speakers hitherto unseen upon the topmost parts of the chambers ceilings suddenly flocked to life; from all around (surround sound you might say) the blaring tunes of brass instruments launched into life in a fanfare of musical grandeur - the sounds of trumpets, trombones and more filled the place as if there were a marching band present in the room itself. This was swiftly joined by strings and, perhaps most odd of all, the wheezing drones of Drookian bagpipes until it reached a crescendo of noise... Then fell once more into utter silence.

After a crackle of static, a voice one may find in the robotic throat of a servitor or floating servo-skull made itself known.

"Welcome honoured guests to the Windsor sweet, please be upstanding for the arrival of Rogue Trader Sir Edmund Hildred Livingstone of the Livingstone Dynasty."

The first figure to enter the room as the doors slid open was not surprisingly Livingstone himself, no, this was a male figure approximatley six-feet-and-four-inches in height, his back ramrod straight and his broad frame filled out with hard-earned muscle. Clad in the scarlet uniform of the Praetorian Guard regiments, three white chevrons showing the rank of Sergeant on one sleeve, the polished boots stepped into the soft carpet of the room and were followed by a sweeping glance from the glinting green eyes of a professional killer. Beneath the mutton-chops and moustache of brown hair that worked their way over his face, Sergeant Richard Williams allowed himself a brief smile, taking off his stunningly white pith helmet and placing it beneath one arm before standing aside and speaking out into the corridor for a moment.

A brief pause passed before the second individual made their way into the room, slate grey eyes instantly assessing the room and those inside it, bushy white brows rising and the glorious white moustache twitching slightly, the Rogue Trader visually disappointing to say the least; Edmund Livingstone was around five-feet-and-seven-inches-tall, his head covered in a puff of white hair combed over to one side, dressed from head-to-toe in a kahki shirt, a pair of khaki shorts that revealed his knobby knees, and then a pair of long white hose rolled down to his khaki walking boots. In one hand he carried a pith helmet similar to his military counterpart, and in the other a black and brass-ended walking cane. Over his eyes were a pair of round brass-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.

"Gentlemen," came his reedy voice as he moved past them and toward the projector at the other end of the room, Williams following at the usual distance for a bodyguard, "please take a seat, take some food and drink, and make yourselves comfortable."

With leisurely but measured movements he took his place next to the projector and produced a clay pipe from a breast pocket, fingers working quickly to fill the bowl with 'bacco and ignite it in time for a long inhalation.

"Thank you all for presenting yourselves here; I am Edmund Livingstone and, since you have made your mark, I am alos now your employer."

Even as he spoke it was obvious that his mind was processing what he was seeing - aspects such as Gustaves torn uniform, Maxies obvious drunkenness and Rupert's simple prescence - his breaths producing a thicker cloud of smoke about him.

"In case it was not obvious, you are to form something of a 'retinue' about me... although I do so dislike that term. I believe 'team' or 'group' would be more appropriate. Any matter, you each of you possess skills, abilities or pasts which make you more valuable to me than your average press-ganged drone."

Williams stood stock still on the periphary of his charge, taking in everything in silence as Livingstone leant against his cane and allowed an expression or earnest honesty to wash over his features.

"I will be honest, genetlemen, I am mandated by the God-Emperor himself to travel to the farthest reaches of the galaxy and beyond. Where I go there are mutants, there are heretics and there are xenos; while I do not deal with all of them, of course, but if you are of a particularly religious upbringing I implore you to make yourself known."

A further pause and more leaning, with a slight swaying, it was clear that Livingtone was only just getting into his stride.

"I have seen things you people would not believe, I have hunted Tyranid bio-creatures through glacial wastelands in order to claim it's skull. I have founded colonies in the name of the God-Emperor on the edges of known the Milky Way. I have fought Greenskins larger than three men standing atop one another, and I have seen warp trickery that would melt the minds of lesser-willed men."

The holoprojector took this moment to turn itself on, the picture flung up showing a smiling younger Livingstone in what appeared to be a trophy gallery; on the walls behind him were the skulls of all manner of creatures, from sleek Eldar heads to square Orkoid skulls, to saurian Tarellian craniums and blatently obvious humanoid heads.

"We will be going beyond the reaches of the Imperium and into places unknown, uncharted and full of hazards and dangers. If you are of a weak composition, or simply wish to retract your contracts, then speak up now... Or, should you have any questions before we get underway, I shall give you a moment to ask."
It was cold, so very, very, cold. He had fought in such inhospitable conditions before, they all had, but the nights here froze even Astartes to death inside their armour. Ever since their arrival here is had been nothing but death after death, their own or their enemies, Minosian himself waking from a self-induced comatose state to find two of his brethren dead inside the ramshackle shelter they had constructed from the frigid night.

Slowly he checked his battered and worn armour, remains of blue and white paint still perceptable beneath the thick layer of grime and gore that showed it in the light to be red. It was armour he had worn from Bodt to the walls of the Imperial Palace itself, having never failed him yet, armour he would come to eventually shed himself of in the murky future, for the moment being the only thing that had kept him alive so far.

Groggily he ran his hands over it, over his helmet, his visor picking out his brothers corpses and his helmet the sound of heavy snowfall outside - these he blink-clicked away with a sigh, his blood already warming up in his veins, one large fist closing around the hilt of his chainaxe.

A sudden burst of shouting caused him to get to his feet, not as swiftly as he would have liked but he did so anyway, one finger always hovering over the activation-stud of his weapon as he drew back the tarp covering the doorway.

He could see nothing, but he could hear it... Shouts in the distance, the staggered spurt of flame from an unseen weapon, other voice rising protest and the clash of weapons.

How had the Third attacked so silently? No, they could not have, it was impossible even for them.

"Khârn, what are you doing?!" "You will die for this, Betrayer." "Gods curse you!"

Skalathrax they had called the planet, it was the end of his legion and the end of him as he had been known.


Inside a chamber aboard The Awoken, where he had been for the last several weeks, the twitching form of Minos Bull-Head sat bolt upright, his body lathered in sweat and the growl of the Nails eating once more at the back of his mind. They were always there after all, always.

Only on the eve of great enterprises - or in his own life of great acts of bloodshed - did such dreams of the past infect his transhuman 'sleep'; betrayals of himself and others, the faces of those he had massacred in the Blood Gods name, old comrades that by rights he should not be able to recall after so long and through so much as he had done.

"Khârn," he grunted through snouted teeth, rolling from the slab that served as his bed, his cloven feet hitting the floor with a thud, that one name spat from his twisted mouth with as much venom now as it ever had been at the time.

It was at that point, as he looked around the room and gave his shaggy head a shake, that he remembered precisely where he was and why - today he was to meet with his 'host' Euromulus Krynne, some sort of big meeting happening in his main lounge.

Minos wished to kill him, of course he did! He would have wished to even before he had sunk into the worship of Khorne as deeply as he had. The fool was a Slaaneshi devotee, as well as a blustering idiot, and had it not been for the promise of death and skulls in time to come - more than just his own and his crews - the corrupted World Eater may have dispatched him already.

As it was he was already moving to keep his date with destiny, his weapons held inactive in either hand, and his foetid breath rising from his mouth as he moved from corridor to corridor and hatch to hatch within the Iconoclast-class vessel.

When he entered the lounge at long last, having to step over and aside from some sort of rotting gruel lining the passage into the room, he could hardly believe his eyes... It was a circus of extreme proportions.

Maybe it was the scent of potential enemies worth killing, maybe it was his Astartes traning kicking in as it had so many times before, but the very first thing he did as he strode into the room on his oddly jointed legs was assess the threat level of every individual he could see.

A coterie of mortals, unaugmented and weak, two Ogryns of differing forms (one with a very ugly maggot, but what did one expect of Nurgle spawn?), and two Astartes. The first of these he noted had tried to appear as a member of the Black Legion, in the eyes of Minos at least he had failed, others may be fooled by the strangely plain black and brass but he was not. The second he could barely see, but had heard enough when entering to know not who but what stood in the shadows.

Minos did not even acknowledge his patron, moving to stand some distance away from any of the others - yet within striking range, should he need it - standing open-legged and tense as a length of taught wire, for this was the only way he could stand.

Enemies, some voice that was like his own but not his own reminded him, I need enemies.
Eleven people! This should be an interesting role play.

@levinfist Considering others have just walked in from somewhere or other, I'd say so.
@Gallows I WOT M8?! Nah, I kid, I played TT Warhammer for over a decade, and never stopped ready/arguing about the lore.

@Guy0fV4lor F.
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