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Warhammer Fantasy: Morrslieb Ascendant

@Dogematix I see you there!

WARHAMMER 40K: THE TARSON INCURSION

"I think my Servo Skulls would be better suited for this mission. They can traverse the rough terrain of this forge world better than any pair of human legs, and thanks to their small size, they will have a much easier time staying hidden from the enemy's view than any elite team, especially if said team features an Astartes."

Adrianne commented, her passing one purple eye over at Nergui, the towering, 8ft tall Astartes who could best be described as a human tank. Trying to sneak him through Ork territory unseen would be akin to trying to smuggle a bolt pistol into a nightclub when you yourself wore little more than a body glove!

I really don't know why people always seem to think this, I really don't - minus being gigantic in size, an Astartes is more than an equal in pretty much any aspect of warfare. Hell, the Raven Guard are an entire Legion/Chapter known for stealth! Sound dampeners on the joints, softly padding when moving, or simply taking off his armour completely (they all begin as Scouts), would all mean having Nergüi about would be far more of a boon than not.

But hey, he's fine with doing nothing as well.

An Unholy Mass: Warhammer 40,000 RP [Black Crusade Inspired] [Mature Content] [Seeking Heretics!]

Riiiight, so...

@Bright_Ops@Sophrus@Eisenhorn, you're all in the same bar, so I'd suggest having some form of interaction - I can get some going, if you like, but I thought you'd like to have a little chat among yourselves?

I also assume all you guys are currently in the Lower Hive I.E. The working class area? While BC is probably in the Upperhive (or even the Spires)?

@BCTheEntity, feel free to post as/when you can/want, I know you know what you're doing.

@Ollumhammersong, looks like I'm gonna have to come and dig you out of the underhive...so shall it be done.

Warhammer Fantasy: Morrslieb Ascendant

@POOHEAD189@Kingfisher@Sleater@Maxwell@BCTheEntity@Eisenhorn@Shorticus@Andreyich@Ollumhammersong@GingerBaron@Drunken Conquistador@Lexicon@Austronaut@jbeil@Culluket

You've all shown interest in my past RPs that are like this, so if you're interested them here it is - if not, then no worries, no need to reply.

If anyone else is interested, or have any questions, get asking or telling.

Warhammer Fantasy: Morrslieb Ascendant

Hail and well met,

If you know anything about my RPing history on this site, then you well know what to expect from this RP; that being gritty sell-sword adventuring in the world of Warhammer Fantasy Battles. In a similar vein to "Let Loose the Dogs of War!" and Treasure Hunt by CelticSoldier, as well as games such as Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay and to an extent Dungeons and Dragons, we shall once more be delving into the world of mercenary work within the WHFB spectrum and the adventuring work of WHFRP - think Gotrek and Felix for this RP.

In this incarnation I have decided to go with a group of adventurers (think WHFRP or Warhammer: End Times - Vermintide) to take part in all manner of daring do and feats throughout the Old and New Worlds. Should this go well, I hope ultimately to make it into more than a one-shot RP, but I'm not going to get ahead of myself.

You may then be wondering where the Hell does Morrslieb come into this then? Well, it is no obscure knowledge that the 'demon moon' is a sign of bad omens, daemonic interventions and all manner of mishaps and disasters in the Warhammer world - the fact it is ascending is probably bad enough. There are other things beside, but I'd not want to spoil potential plot lines in the interest thread.

I'm looking for writers of a good standard, as well as folks who are able to think for themselves when I'm not about (including just how far you can go without dismantling the entire RP in my absence!), people who can post at least once a week/round or possibly twice.

Most WHFB races (of a lawful/neutral alignment) are allowed - no Beastmen, Skaven, sentient zombies or generally anything that would be knifed as soon as they entered a civilised settlement. In fact, as far as possible, I'd rather keep it to Men, Dwarfs and Elves (Halflings can come as well...), that going from the most common to the least common. Where such men (or women) may be from is up to the player.

So, all I can say now is thank you for reading all of that (assuming you did read it all) and, should you be interested, then pop a post up with interest, any questions you might have, and any potential character concepts you see yourself indulging in.

'Misthophoroi' - A Sci-Fi Mercenary RP

@POOHEAD189

"Showing yourself on a human world," Virgil said rhetorically, smoke wafting from him. "You must be lost, or someone worth of note. Or you're looking for something. Or maybe someone..." He took another drag from the cigar, before he dropped it onto the ground. The heel of his boot crushed it into the dirt.

"I'm thinking if you're looking for something done, you're willing to pay a handsome price. Question is..." Virgil lifted his head a bit, allowing some of the sun to illuminate his face. He had a chiselled jaw, and an impressive handlebar moustache. "What's making you do it here, and not asking any of your own kind?"

Teeruk flinched on unconscious impulse at the rather abrupt confrontation, his eight limbs flickering at the same time and his mandibles clacking together as he eyed the human. He had neither expected to be so abruptly questioned (his own people were a rather neutral race in the last great war after all!) nor to have to explain himself – the man with the impressive facial hair was correct though, he was here with a purpose, and he was looking for a resource that was more prevalent on Taenarum than anywhere else in the galaxy; he only wished he had come armed now.

“You think this issss a human world?” half-coughed the emissary, one set of limbs waving around the square without much thought, “where do you think you are?” It was a solid enough question, even now there were at least a hundred different species on this planet all after the same thing, and although it was nominally in human space it did not belong to either of the giants of the galaxy. That was exactly why people made their ways here.

“What I am doing here, silly human, isss the ssssame as any other employer!” There was a sharp edge to the tone of the slightly irritated diplomat, not used to the heat or to such brusk treatment from strangers, “and I will have you know that my own people are less warlike than any found here.” His Humanitas was good, almost flawless, but what could one expect from a trained mediator, “now...what can I do for you?”

All eight eyes – blacker than a ravens feather – swivelled to peer at Virgil, and although it was impossible for Teeruk to pull of what humans called a 'smile', he had a good and disturbing go at it anyway.

'Misthophoroi' - A Sci-Fi Mercenary RP

@Synthorian@Canoli@Bishop@IrishAngelQueen@Indy Cooper@Tsar Gatto@POOHEAD189

If anyone wishes to post, please do! My workload is kicking the shit out of me, and writing is...hard at best; I will get a post up (hopefully soon), but if anyone needs/wants to post for some characterisation etc then yea.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

I was slightly late ;-;

@Amaranth

Yes...yes you were. Shame!

You can edit it later, if you like.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

@Cash78

Phrike

Name: Phrike

Gender: Male.

Age: 32.

Former Occupation: Prisoner, born and bred.

Former Rank/Position: Prison cutman, "ghetto medic."

Mental and Physical Traits: For such a man who looks like something fresh out of a nightmare, Phrike is oddly jovial and friendly, if only superficially, as the man puts no real trust in those around him and uses his submissive nature only to see another day - as grim as it may be. He rarely fights, not without it being on his terms and is not prone to great feats of courage. In fact, he tends to cower around authority.

His strengths lie in his resourcefulness and tenacity, characteristics necessary for a man who operates on men with intestines pouring out, stab wounds and broken bones from tyranical Arbites with nothing but the bare minimum and hard fought knowledge. An addendum, he holds no love for the Emperor or any other faith, the Legion is only but a way to flee the cage he has been born into.

Appearance: Tall, overtly so for someone as nutrient deficient as a prisoner of Redemptio, and whip thin at that. His nose and face is covered in burst blood vessels, sunken blue eyes with eyebags like you wouldn't believe and a face marred by pox scars, with a huge gash running along the top of his lip through his right nostril. His gait is hunched and awkward, his arms, neck and stomach laced with self-harm scars.

He is missing a finger or two on his left-hand from frostbite and he habitually shaves his head down to the scalp, as well as his face and eyebrows - the risk of contracting ticks and mites in his line of work is too common to handle. The barcode tattoo common to all in a Penal World has been placed on his forehead, as well as varying blue, faded tattoos of various denominations: such as a pin-up on his left chest, eyes above his groin and various administrative tattoos along his scalp, such as his prisoner ID, services rendered, etc.

Wargear:
Lascarbine
Explosive Collar
2 Mono Knives
3 Frag Grenades
3 Krak Grenades
Flak Helmet (His Flak Vest has been stolen, unfortunately for him).
Imperial Guard Penal Legion Prisoner Uniform
1 Inhaler
1 Gas Mask
Poor Weather Gear
Rucksack
Basic Tool Kit
Mess Kit & Water Canteen
1 Weeks' Rations
Blanket & Sleep Bag
Rechargeable Lamp-Pack
Micro-Bead
Ident Tags ("Dog Tags")
Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer
Various medical implements (if that's alright).

History: Just another lost soul, Phrike was born into the harsh realities of Redemptio and survived only by the generosity of a few Arbites, the weight of his parents connections and luck; it seemed more than likely that he'd die from starvation or one of the many infectious fevers that ran through the confines of the colony. However, as it is with all things, his parents passed as time went on from one thing or another, Arbites once kind to him were transferred, killed or turn coat and the connections he once enjoyed soured. A teenager, alone, he was abused frequently - his fear of authority comes from the many "visits" to his cell by Arbites after light's out.

There's no real history to be had for Phrike, actually. He survived by luck or tenacity into his adult years where he became the local cutman, an apprentice to the underground surgeons and bloodletters for those who feared punishment or retaliation from authority for injuries rendered. This allocated him some respect, gave him a purpose and allowed him to survive as long as he has.

His name had been passed over numerous times for introduction to the Legion personally by the High-Governor, his presence calms the local populace and takes valuable stress of cramped infirmaries. How his name made it past the ballet this time is unknown, but it has afforded Phrike the opportunity for a life outside his cage.

For how long, though?

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Hank@Cash78

Redemption and the chance of redemption made sure that the Penal World – or at least the prison complex the covered nearly the entirety of it – was able to volunteer or conscript enough men to form multiple Penal Legions for the war currently being conducted nearby. One to two thousand men and women were all that were needed to form a standard regiment of the Imperial Guard, the same number forming a Penal Legion in its totality, and to say that there were thousands upon thousands of convicts, criminals and lunatics on Redemption was to understate the prisons population by more than a few million.

Each 'volunteer' was carefully noted, their name, place of origin, past and past discretions all sent from the massing halls of the Eastern Wing to a nexus of data-devices for later use. There were criminals to be certain, murderers and rapists in for pretty obvious crimes, serial killers and deserters that would either thrive in a Legion or die trying...then there were those that, most would say, did not even deserve to be here; mothers and fathers that had taken food for their starving children, a man from an ultra-religious planet who had quoted a verse from the books of the Cult Imperialis incorrectly, and another who claimed in his madness that the foundation for the state religion was based on a book written by a traitor Primarch!

What time for exchanges of speech or even glances that the prisoners may have had was cut savagely short, uniformed guards moving in amongst and between the mostly reclining groups of prisoners and shouting them to their feet - those that would not or could not rise were beaten with batons, electro-prods and rifle stocks until they did so.

“Get moving!” Came the yells, “the sooner you're processed the sooner you can go and die.”

Process was a technical word for making your way to the shower blocks where more guards waited - weapons held ready in tightened grips, some prisoners rightfully flinching away at the scene of so many abuses within the prison but with nowhere else to go – and being asked or forced to strip oneself of the dour grey uniforms in which you were clothed. From there one would proceed into the showers, water as freezing as an Arctic tundra, and wash as thoroughly as possible without soap or heat.

Still dripping with moisture and barely out of the door at the far end of the showers, the naked prisoner would then be confronted with a room – usually another hall, but in this case turned into a Departmento Munitorum storeroom and dispensing hall – full of half-mechanised or gruff faced department operators and quartermasters standing behind tables and waiting patiently for the first prisoner to approach.

On approaching the prisoner may notice a few things, possibly the piles upon piles of stuff kept under guard between each table and the wall, perhaps the condition that the weapons were in – most used and some still with the blood of former owners upon them – or the general raggedness of everything that they were given.

“Name and crime,” a servitor would ask upon approach to the first table, the data being searched and confirmed, “please proceed.”

“Jumpsuit, flak vest and flak helmet, one,” a quartermaster would blurt, placing said items upon the table before you and ushering you along up the line, the items of the stark grey jumpsuit being in almost freshly produced condition...the flak armour not so much.

“Inhaler, one. Gask mask, one.”

“Rucksack, one. Mess kit and water canteen, one.”

And so on and so forth...

Once the prisoner reached the end tables, the most secure and well guarded, he was fitted with an explosive collar or plain metal. Some struggled at this point, electroshocks ensuring their cooperation, while others willingly submitted themselves to this necessary procedure.

Only after this point were any weapons given to the prisoners; a standard pattern lascarbine, four charge packs of ammunition, and two mono-knives to be precise. Grenades would be issued if and when they were needed.

At least one prisoner believed it would be a good idea to turn his weapon upon his keepers, his head quickly turned into a red mist by the collar he had so quickly forgotten about, those nearby finding their grey jumpsuits with patches of red blood and human gristle.

Finally, and with some effort under the weight of everything given to them, the prisoner was pushed or launched bodily into what appeared to be a hangar of some sort; for though there were no vehicles yet present, there were landing platforms and a shield separating the outside world from the interior of the prison. Not long did the prisoner have to consider where they were, or even the fact that they may still be naked – a line didn't stop just because one person wished to change! - because other figures were already present except for those of the seemingly omnipresent prison guards, that being those of white-armoured Arbites who were not to be kept waiting.

---

Arbitrator Kenelm let out a grumbling murmur from his scarred lips, his fist tightening around the dataslate that he held in his hands, the power maul making a slight rattle as it bounced off of the carapace armour on his legs. For hours he had been standing there, his stark white armour meant to separate him from the scum under his command but only annoying him instead, he had not served with the H'ruskan Third Arbites Precinct for nigh on thirty years only to be thrown into the meat-grinder of war with a mass of convicts all around him. Again he studied the flitting runes and pictures before his eyes – unseen beneath the reflective visor of his helmet – and grunted.

After what seemed like far too long the unwashed (or washed in this case) masses began to filter into the hangar, his fellow Arbitrators swiftly moving to form them up; those Arbites wearing the usual black armour of their posts were essentially the policing units of what would come to be the 1st Redemption Penal Legion, serving directly beneath the legions Prefect Penatante, while he and his white-clad brethren were those with the experience and willpower necessary to actually lead the criminals into a war-zone.

Prefect Maitiu may have been his superior, but in this place, in this moment, he was God.

With some reluctance he shifted into his role, beginning to snap off names in his sullen tone, barking crimes at the mass before him and moving to a position on one of the multiple landing pads.

“Humphrey Oliver, for rapine and murder,” a shout that produced a lithe and disturbing specimen from the collective – something about the man making the Arbitrator want to immediately go for the detonation remote in his pocket.

“Reijo Lorne, for desertion of the Chogorian 8th, former sergeant... Valent Eyvindur, for mass killings of innocents, former Colonel of the Ungaran 57th... Jerrik Samuel of Bardina, for assassination and racketeering...”

So it went on for nearly an hour.

“Octavia Westerlund, for desertion from the Steel Legion,” he finally shouted, the athletic woman on his dataslate looking like the model Guardswoman, causing the Arbitrator to think that perhaps there was hope for his squad yet. At least if his Militarum aide had anything to say about it.

“Nathan Hall, for murder, rape and desertion... Tigranes, for heretical dealings and murder, former PDF Sergeant... Gate Kurman...”

Gate Kurman? A former Enforcer from Tiranis! Well now, this was unexpected; it was not enough that he was shouldered with scum, now he was to take a former Arbite (and an Enforcer at that) into his squad of thirty or so criminals. This was beyond a joke.

“Gate Kurman, for smuggling, former Enforcer.”

They had been processed, they had been armed, and now they had been called. For the Emperor.