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Recent Statuses

11 mos ago
STOP. QUOTING. ME.
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1 yr ago
Gone fishing for a week, will return soon.
2 yrs ago
Happy New Year!
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2 yrs ago
Merry Yuletide, one and all! Gods bless.
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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

@Dusty@BCTheEntity@Andreyich

In the subterranean warrens below the battlefield...

Sweat, along with other more bodily functions, dripped from the quivering flesh of the huddled multitudes roped together and gathered like cattle in the underground 'Cathedral of Anash'Ra' – a name given to the vast cavern by those cultists initially sent to Anairu to sow the seeds of its destruction in the name of Slaanesh.

On a plateau of granite there was a focal point upon which only the most determined or iron-willed of the planets kidnapped inhabitants would look, adorned as it was by the cults sacrificial altar of supernaturally 'steaming' metal – if it was metal, looking more like a pulsing purple cocoon, wisps of multicoloured gas drifting toward the caverns highest points before evaporating as if by magic – three figures surrounding it... four, if you included the sacrificial individuals.

The foremost among them was a masked figure in robes that never seemed to stop changing colour, sometimes agonised faces seemingly pressing against the flesh-like material, crying to be set free, his hook-nosed mask equally shifting in texture and colour if not in form; due to this, beside his height and any pallid skin that could be seen, the man below was visually an enigma, the two towering ones at either end of the altar less so.

Both were half-men, their lower bodies furred and hoofed, their features warped to that of horned Beastmen, Satyrs even if one should know those most ancient of Terran myths!

One stood in silence and clutched a two-handed axe in huge hands, both the weapon and the beast drenched in the blood of a hundred or more innocents, while the other... the other was in an obviously perpetual state of priapic arousal, those being sent to the Prince of Pleasure doing so after hideous violation – at least their deaths following that were swift and sure.

“Magister!” A purple-cloaked messenger sprinted past the bloody-handed executioner without a glance, kneeling before his earthly lord, “Magister, above ground, the-”

“The Astartes have arrived.”

It was a statement rather than a question, but the courier seemed unmoved by the pronouncement and simply gave a nod of acknowledgement, “I have never seen their like before, but they are here your holiness, as you have no doubt foreseen. They shine in silver and fight with the fury of many.”

There was an intake of breath and a slight twitch of one hand from the Magister, “we shall need to quicken our pace! Move these cattle faster, we shall call for reinforcements and summon our god a little earlier than I had intended.”




The gore and offal of several dozen attackers coated Bieito quite nicely as he threw himself through the wattle-and-daub wall of the nearest building, a fine layer of dried clay adding itself to the blood and multiple small scorch marks where high-powered las had impacted on his armour, dust moving all around him as he stomped toward the opposite wall only to cease his movement for a moment.

Curled in the corner of the building, which had obviously been a habitation before he somewhat barrelled into it, were two people – one a small child and the other a women who glared at him with unrestrained fury... but also the correct amount of fear – Bieito feeling absolutely nothing as he looked at them, not a twinge of some primal familiarity nor a sense of needing to keep them safe, it was odd to him that at this moment he pondered on how odd it was to him that it even was so odd to him to feel like a hollow shell!

For a further several second he wondered if he should kill them both, they were worthless and corrupted and would surely burn in the flames of retribution anyway, so why not?

As it happened the choice was taken from him rather unexpectedly, the distinct sound of a multi-laser being shifted into position not far off causing him to turn his gaze away for a split second, snapping fleetly back as a child's cry was cut off by a crack and a snap and a hysterical twitter.

Framed instantly by his targetting reticle was the now non-existent mother holding up the head of her offspring, an elongated tongue moving to lap up warm blood even as her face started to melt and reform in a visage that was created to make any mortal drop to their knees in adoration... but he was far from mortal.

“Come,” it crooned even as it – oh it was an it alright – nonchalantly threw the head to one side, squatting on haunches that had began to break and reknit together, “join us Space Marine, join the orgasmic embrace of Sla-.”

It never would finish uttering blasphemies, the Grey Knights halberd flicking out faster than the eye could see and cutting the earthly shell of the half-formed Neverborn in two, ceasing the process.

“Brothers, we must be on our guard” warned Bieito over his helmet vox, even now scanning about for emerging threats, “the enemy know we are here and I believe are moving to fortify choke-points in the town, that and they are finally summoning help from the beyond. Daemons.”

He could not keep a little hint of relish from his tone, what Knight in their right mind did not wish to test their mettle against direct servants of the Dark Gods?

“Recognised, Brother Bieito,” came a crackling reply from their Justicar, “we must all move with extreme caution and extreme prejudice, we are but five – even if we are Knights of Titan – do not hesitate to slay those you find, for each is a potential portal. We must head toward entrance sigma-epsilon-epsilon with all haste.”
@The Whacko@CaptainBritton@Deadnaut@f0un@Ibzan@Bastian

CT-6619 managed to arrive after what may have been a rather integral part of knowledge, quickly knocking off a salute to the Mandalorian instructor and slipping his training helmet over his head, making a quick mental acknowledgement of those assembled - noting with an internal sigh that CT- 1184, the loudest of their team, was absent - before taking his place on the line along with Troopers 8246, 7627, 7331 and 7642.

"Apologies for the lateness brothers," he said through gritted teeth, a small grunt emerging from behind his teeth as he released his DC-15A was only at half charge, "and sorry Instructor Harkin, I was attending to important matters in the barracks, sir."

Attention... attention... training simulation to begin...

Five...

Four...

Three...

Two...


A klaxon blared and the room immediatly shifted into what some might see as a smaller version of the primary Citadel course, walls emerging from the ground at several points, a higher platform rising to overlook the course at the farthest end of the room, and the clanking sound of a dozen or so B1-droids powering up being all too familiar to the Cadets.

"We need to get that gun set up," half-yelled 6619 as he advanced to the nearest shoulder-height wall at a crouch, pointing to a patch of higher elvation off to the right side of the course, "if Bruiser were here we could send him in as bait."

Droids were moving through the course now, some more visible than others, painted white with targets marking them in stark red, coming on like the programmed mechanoids they were and always seeking their more organic enemies.

"Thoughts, comrades?"
Tipoca City Military Complex, Kamino, 22 BBY




@The Whacko@CaptainBritton@Deadnaut@f0un@Ibzan@Bastian


"We all knew that something was happening, we just couldn't fathom what, don't think even our flat-faced Kaminoan handlers or even our training instructors did either; it wasn't long after that Jedi had come to visit, the man who was our genetic template leaving us for the wider galaxy without so much as a word – I suppose his job was done after all – a feeling of agitation... of an oppressive but intangible sense of cogs turning over the galactic horizon...

It was barely a week before Geonosis that we began to be trained all that much harder by those we – at least some of us – had come to see as surrogate parents, completely unaware that soon we would be engaging the Separatist Army across a dust-filled hellscape, muzzle-to-muzzle, programmed robot against their organic opposite, a literal baptism by firepower.

How could we have known, how could any of us have known, that very soon the most mature of us would be taken from our barracks with barely a fraction of us returning to Kamino?"


- Anonymous Clone, 105th Journal

CT-6619, considered to be one of the more thoughtful (though still within parameters, of course) soldiers of 4/2nd Battalion – a mere designation without meaning, at least until they were called upon to fight in an official capacity – field stripped his Deece once more, taking apart and laying out each separate component with as much ease as one might consume protein rations in the mess hall; of course it had been implanted into all of them, just one of a hundred necessary skills to function as elite soldiers in the Grand Army of the Republic, the maintaining of ones weapon wrote in genetic code which could not be removed.

He had been at it for hours, yet he was paying as much concentration to act as a child might, his focus turned inwardly as it usually was and his mind working faster than his hands.

Ever since the departure of their progenitor he had been pondering on things he knew the Kaminoans would find unsightly, well aware of what happened to those clones found to be anything less than perfect and perfectly obedient, unable or unwilling to shake the thoughts and feelings that it was only a matter of time now until... until... well, he didn't know!

All he knew was that the long-necks were getting more worked up in their attitude, more strenuous in their perfection of the next batch of clones, the cadre of Mandalorians and others becoming more savage in their methods and the little trips to the Citadel Challenge course more regular – slowly he reached up and traced one of the many scars he had received recently, a grim expression on his face.

Instructor Jendri had imbued he and his brothers with the customs and culture of his people, in a genetic sense of his people though he was a clone, but even the father-like giant had been more unforgiving and brutal over the last couple of months. Six-six-one-nine didn't blame him however, believing that he had most likely been instructed to by those above him in the hierarchy, the training they received from their alor nothing in the way of 'soft' at the best of times, although usually accompanied by some form of moral or psychical lesson to go along with it.

Speaking of which...

The other members of Rawl Squad would in all likelihood already be at training room 7-2-12 by now, six-six-one-nine having just snapped out of his reverie to realise where he had to be, scooping up his yellow-visored practise helmet and returning his blaster rifle to the barracks armoury.

Time for training... again.

Such is the life of a clone.
The infinite sea of ink-black nothingness stretched as far as the eye (and even the mind's eye) could see – here, in the outer reaches of the Segmentum Tempestus, the sleek shimmering silver cruiser waited unmoving, and always the sickly purple scar of the Cicatrix Maledictum pulsed and oozed in the void. Like some patient bird of prey it was etched with psychic wards and a Gellar field far more advanced than any other in the Imperium, everything from its armour to its reinforced structure speaking of a supremely fast and hyper-technological vessel of war.

Those sentient lifeforms aboard, though there were few enough of them, were no less impressive in most regards; the majority of these were regularly mind-wiped Chapter Serfs, efficient and highly trained but only fractionally less vulnerable to corruption than those of other Astartes formations, the true power aboard the Lamiae Mortis contained within only five individuals, five superhuman warriors of the God-Emperor who had been brought to this place for a purpose and one purpose alone…




Kallikles, Justicar of the Grey Knights Chapter, leader of one of only three Strike Squads contained within the chapters Eighth Brotherhood under Brother-Captain Mithrac Tor – known colloquially as the 'recruit' brotherhood, being populated chiefly by the chapters newest neophytes – allowed a sour expression to creep across the three-quarters of his face that remained flesh and were not taken up by finely crafted bionics, his left eye glowing in the dim light of the cruisers innermost sanctum, a place which also served as a shrine and a briefing room.

Out of his armour Justicar Kallikles was an imposing figure but now, clad as he was in all his panoply of war, he would have been the dread and terror of any mortal unlucky enough to challenge him. It was not for this that he or his brethren had been crafted though, everything from his armour to his demeanour showing that he and they had been forged to fight something more and less... much, much, less.

“Brothers,” came his rumbling voice, a rolling thunder that cut through the incense and candle lit shade of the chamber, “I will not mince my words and I will not extol platitudes to you, you are Grey Knights and know what must be done – this is your first true test as my Battle-Brothers, to be victorious here will ensure your ascension to full brotherhood and gifting of the holy Tactical Dreadnought Armour, to fail will ensure a swift residence in the Dead Fields.”

With a simple wave of his hand a central holo-projector leapt into life, the sallow light causing Bieito to narrow his eyes momentarily – not actually something he had to do due to his implants, and probably a hangover that even his transformation from man to demi-god couldn't change – as the rotating orb of Anairu spun around and around.

“It looks safe enough, a far-out planet of dirt and dust with a minimal population of nomadic tribes” commented the Justicar, “but it is far from it.”

A flicked finger and the projection narrowed to pinpoint a location on the southern continent of the planet, enhancing further to show what was on the face of it your average pre-civilised gathering of mud huts and trading bazaars, but there was something not right... to anyone who knew what to look for, even the shape of the village seemed... off. Indeed, if one continued to look harder they would soon realise it was constructed along a specific shape. Very specific.

“The Prince of Pleasure,” hissed Bieito from between his teeth, the symbol of Slaanesh traced out by the village and its parameters as clear as day.

“Just so,” confirmed his superior, an armoured digit penetrating the projection like a blade, “brothers, the Cult of Anash'Ra – a chaotic assemblage we have thought gone a hundred times over – is once more abroad on Anairu. We do not believe they have been able to summon their daemonic master yet, though minor entities may be present, as well as multiple human targets.”

Simple, straightforward, and to the point; they would descend like the Emperor's own wrath and snuff out this movement before it could gain traction and summon to them their patron deity.

Alas, Brother Olympio feared there was more to the matter. In the many hours of meditation he had on the travel through the Empyrean to the system he touched many of the flows of fate. There were so many things he saw! Alas, the vast majority were unimportant. From seeing the dinners families would have for a month to the figures of Administratum clerks regarding water filtration systems to be delivered for local system monitors.

But among all the nonsense he was able to sift out things that were very much useful.

“I fear that is not all, my Brothers.” he stated, realizing he may earn the ire of the Justicar using the term that may arguably have not yet been earned. “I know not yet how, but this… situation relates far more to the galaxy at large than simply threatening the security of this system. The Thousand Sons, Abaddon, they are pertinent.”

Taking a deep breath, he knew this was all a load of information that was just there, unusable with how it was given. “I simply wish to say that whatever we face may be greater than anticipated. I do not wish to suggest that it is beyond our competence until such is proven but I would simply give this as a warning to exercise caution.”

“All the more reason for us to end this threat swiftly.” This was the first thing Brother Elazar had said in quite a while, though he had been far from inactive in the meantime. For most of the trip, he had been practicing with his weapons of choice, twinned falchions, in a training room aboard the ship; it was only as they approached the target world that he brought himself to this room, and even now he was visibly flexing his extremities as if to keep from rising and pacing outright. “If the Traitor Legions are involved, foiling them may be a matter of minutes and seconds.”
“Prepare yourselves, we engage in an hour. Emperor be with us.”

A hiss of the doorway, a gust of chill air, and the four Battle-Brothers were left alone to armour themselves and ready themselves for battle.




Bieito was unable to be ‘shaken’ in the mortal sense, it just wasn’t part of his genetic makeup, but he was nevertheless concerned by the words of Brother Olympio - arguably the most gifted psyker among them after the Justicar - the entirety of Squad Kallikles sitting silently in contemplation even as their drop-pod sped away from the Strike Cruiser and into the atmosphere of Anairu. It was impossible that Kallikles himself had not heard the words of his charge, but he seemed completely unphased, no doubt focused completely on the task at hand… just as he should be.

A quick glance over his helmets HUD was all Bieito needed to tell him that all was in order (at least according to the blinking diagnostics), though this didn’t stop him from running armour-covered fingers over his wrist-mounted bolter and the smooth adamantium haft of his force halberd, the shaking turbulence of atmospheric entry giving way to a much smoother course.

On the outside the pod was a blazing red streak, puncturing through the overcast sky to slam down on the north-western outskirts of the accursed village, every member of the squad already on their feet by the time metal touched unstable soil.

“Stay alert and kill anything that moves, we are not here on a mercy mission; remember, we are the hammer!”

Justicar Kallikles did not need his helmet to amplify his voice, but the iron-edged words that tumbled from his lips nevertheless came as cold as a crystal clear mountain stream, causing the blood to alight and the soul to steel itself.

The ramp of the pod descended with a hiss, seemingly taking eons in the mind of the battle-fuelled neophyte, Bieito counting down the very seconds until it too impacted with the earth to reveal a brown-looking world and multiple buildings before them; they were a ramshackle lot of structures, some appearing to have had some attempt made to fortify them with sandbags, razorwire and gun emplacements, while their did not seem to be a single adversary to be seen.

Indeed there was not, although this did not last long, the squad barely having left the cover of the pod before an ear-piercing alarm began to wail mournfully and the village began to erupt into movement.

There… a figure in robes and carrying a simple lasgun… targeting…

The first kill dropped to the floor in a mist and spray of gore, Kallikles using his in-helmet systems to sketch a path toward the largest and most central structure, shifting his storm bolter about to track the increasing number of hostiles.

“Onward,” he bellowed through his helmet's grille ,“and fear no evil.”
A New Batch - A Clone Squad Roleplay




Not going to lie, this will follow much the same path as Domino Squad, at least in the beginning, eventually leaving Kamino as 'shinies' for the wider galaxy; at this point I intend to post them to a non-canon legion under a non-canon Jedi, the details of which can be discussed as things go ahead.

If you're a fan of the Clone Wars series and the journey of Domino Squad, of Band of Brothers, Sharpe or really any other squad-focused film or TV series, then this may well be the RP for you! This is going to be 18+ and certainly not Disney-friendly, something more gritty (I'm aware it's Star Wars and not WWII), so if that's something you enjoy I can only repeat my earlier statement.

Where we begin is pretty set - they're clones after all - but where this could end is really quite open, as far as things go.

So if you're not interested at this point then this is likely not your cup of tea, but if you are then please feel free to say so, or join the Discord server here: discord.gg/4Umx5Ne.

I'll also be happy to answer any questions, as always.

P.S

We'll be using Legends over Canon because 'eff Disney and up the Mandos!




Plot


In the year 32 BBY the earliest batches of Clones of the Grand Army of the Republic were cloned from the DNA of Jango Fett, a Mandalorian bounty hunter. Fett and thousands of other bounty hunters and mercenaries have been training the men for the last ten years to become the deadliest army in the known galaxy. Through Kaminoan technology and science a clone ages twice as fast as a normal human. At ten years of age the men of the Clone Army have the body of a twenty year old Jango Fett. They were implanted with a biological chip at birth to make them more docile than the original donor but are still encouraged to exhibit free and creative thought.

The clones of the 105th Legion and the batches contained within were some of the earliest to reach maturation, this fact combined with their large number of Mandalorian-born drill sergeants (how this came to be is unknown, although it seemed odd for so many to be training those outside of clone commando formations), meant that when the time came for their deployment during the First Battle of Geonosis – an action that would see them forged in a most terrible crucible of war – they thought themselves prepared...

Our own tale begins and ends with those members of Rawl Squad, named after the swift-moving and deadly Mandalorian serpents, among the first clones to leave the facilities of Kamino and head for the stars, unknowing of the dangers and tribulations they would face in the darkness of the galaxy.

We begin mere days before the 'activation' of the first clone forces and, though they do not yet know it, for them begun the clone wars have.




Character Sheets












Accepted Characters



















Rules/Guidelines


  • No arguing in the OOC. Take any disagreements into private messages.
  • Everyone needs to post a minimum of once every two weeks. Disappear for too long without explanation and I reserve the right to kill your characters and fill your units with "replacements" (Other Players)
  • In IC profanity will be kept to Star Wars profanity. Damn and hell are acceptable, shit and bitch are not. Star Wars profanity includes blast, karabast, blazes, and many others.
  • This is high casual/low advanced. A minimum of four-five well written paragraphs per post is required.
  • Don't do anything that will drastically alter the plot without my okay. In other words no going "OMG there's General Grevious coming to kill us. Where did he come from?"
  • Other than that have fun. This is going to be a gritty warfare experience. We are going through the entire war guys.
I'm all about some clones, and some OG Star Wars Expanded Universe. Definitely interested!


Hallo, excellent, excellent and welcome aboard.
After consultation with myself, we'll be going with Legends lore!

Looking for a few more folks if possible though.
@The Whacko Not a fan of the canon? :D

@Deadnaut Nice to see you again Dead, seems like forever!
Hmm. Might there be an opening for a Mandalorian drill sergeant?


While there is room for that, post-Kamino there'd no longer be a viable role for you nor much point (since the squad itself are the focus), so I'd have to eeer on the side of saying no currently.


Thought I'd pop this up to see if anyone would be interested in, as you may well expect from the title (or not), a Clone-based roleplay?

Not going to lie, it would follow much the same path as Domino Squad, at least in the beginning, eventually leaving Kamino as 'shinies' for the wider galaxy; at this point I'd intend to post them to a non-canon legion under a non-canon Jedi, the details of which can be discussed if/when this goes ahead.

If you're a fan of the Clone Wars series and the journey of Domino Squad, of Band of Brothers, Sharpe or really any other squad-focused film or TV series, then this may well be the RP for you! This is going to be 18+ and certainly not Disney-friendly, something more gritty (I'm aware it's Star Wars and not WWII), so if that's something you enjoy I can only repeat my earlier statement.

Where we begin is pretty set - they're clones after all - but where this could end is really quite open, as far as things go.

So, there's the initial pitch; if you're not interested at this point then this is likely not your cup of tea, but if you are then please feel free to say so, or join the Discord server here: discord.gg/4Umx5Ne.

I'll also be happy to answer any questions, as always.

P.S

We'll be using Legends over Canon because 'eff Disney and up the Mandos!
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