Status

Recent Statuses

2 mos ago
Happy new year, one and all, the Emperor protects!
3 likes
2 mos ago
Merry Christmas and happy Sanguinalia to all! Remember fabulous hawk-boy!
1 like
4 mos ago
I'll be away for 3 days (back on Monday), see y'all then!
1 like
5 mos ago
I am not dead, I will get my RPs posted on, no I have not abandoned this site. That is all.
1 like
8 mos ago
Busy times at work, so to all my players/writers, I'll be back on soon!
2 likes

Bio

Greetings,

I am Jbcool (known as McScottish on the Total War Centre); Scotsman by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a reciever 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

@Blueskin@Lucian@Dusty@Drinky@Andreyich@POOHEAD189@TJByrum@Laduguer

"I have been going horse for long time, and I vant vodka after travel. You can provide, da? If you have, then a round of it for everyone on me!" He said, with a wave of a slightly damp fist. He leaned a bit closer to the barkeep presumably after the last interaction was done and said "I vant to kno' if there is vork here. Good vork, something long lasting with decent pay, for someone that can fight and has... special talents." It was right to the point, but such was the way of the Gospodar folk.

Oh Gods... Thought Ludolf silently to himself ...a bloody Kislevite.

After exchanging coin with the greybeard sat at the bar and handing him a pint flagon of Zhufbar Ale – not as uncommon, even here, as the Dwarfs craggy features showed he believed – the tavern proprietor gave a small chuckle at the rebuke from the clearly experienced warrior and turned his attention back to the apparently presumptuous snow-dweller.

“Look northerner, I have vodka if you are willing to pay up coin to buy it, if not then you stop offering drinks to everyone in this place. We do not give out drink for free in the Empire...and by the looks of all here, well, I'd say you owe about nine crowns at least. You have that money, do you?”

It wasn't that the former soldier disliked the pale Kislevite, he was just not one to part with his stock for anything less than a fair price; as for the Hochlander, he didn't even look old enough to drink.

“As for work, well, he should be here any minute.”

************


Severo Emigdio the One-Eyed hauled his skeletal frame along the road with as much energy as he could muster, huffing and puffing to himself all the while, muttering in Estalian and wishing he had never become a 'party' of the Guild all those decades ago. It was quite a boring tale really, and short; he had made his way to the misty isle of Albion, discovered a jewel the size of his own head, and taken it from beneath the gaze of a mentally deficient giant! True, it had taken right eye, but in the end the wealth that had come from the jewel had been worth a singular eye and allowed him to buy his way into the lower hierarchy of the Guild.

Now, as he visibly sweltered beneath the colourful red cloak and inside the green tunic and hose he wore, he cursed that ruby to the Underworld and back.

The Estalian certainly did not look the 'sellsword' type, and indeed he was not, if anything he was a huge fluke, and his gaunt appearance and slicked back black hair did nothing to give him any form of martial air possessed by some. At five feet and seven inches he was of average height for one with decent nutrition, the cane he held in one spindly hand and supported himself upon with a silver top in the shape of an Estalian galleon, and the general clothing he wore showing him as a man of wealth but not of war.

Across his chest was a broad leather strap, supporting an entire collection of writing equipment inside a leather satchel, these were – for the moment – the tools of his trade; for he was a recruiter for the Guild, and all that that entailed.

“Estupid calor,” he growled as he eyed the pathway leading into the open space before him, his head rising to see the exterior of the Nag before him, “Finalment, estic aquí.”

Urging his lanky legs to carry him the rest of the way, he half-fell through the doorway of the tavern – barely avoiding the Elf and gaggle of Dwarfs milling about not far from the entrance – righting himself with all the composure he could muster and walking to his regular table in the farthest corner of the place.

On this day he sat as far away from the fire as he could, giving Ludolf a curt nod to let the Reiklander know he was here, and arranging on the tabletop his implements with skilled and practised motions; a quill, parchment, an inkwell and so forth.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, may I hath your attention!” He intoned loudly, standing from his seat and opening his arms wide, “any and all seeking work with the Guild shall see me in their own time, one at a time. Pleath enjoy yourselves until then.”
REET, I'll give everyone a wee bit more time to get their conversations done with, then I'll move us along. Probably Tuesday or Wednesday. I also recommend that, if speaking to another character, you tag them.
@Legion X51 Write a sheet, give us a look, and we'll see.
@jbeil Soon - I'm working all week, so it could possibly be as late as Monday. Hopefully not, but could be.
@Andreyich Who?

@Dusty I actually don't think Monty Python could have done any better with the French accent...I had a hearty chortle indeed.
@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Blueskin

Ioanus Secundus, how had they landed on this shithole planet?

Months had passed since Eighth squads first live-fire exercise, the wall of muscle that was Sergeant Mason remaining with them throughout, up to, and including participating in their first deployment to this so-called 'Civilised World'; Ioanus Secundus was a former colony world of the Imperium that had been allowed to grow organically from the ground up, the faith of its citizens strong as iron...until his arrival.

He had come as an off-world traveller, a trader in ideologies and philosophies that seemed strange and exotic to say the least, the planets rulers - and the Planetary Governor to boot - being each of them wise enough to know when something was amiss. Slowly but surely the rot of something foul took root on the planet, riots and revolts against the rightful rule of the Imperium springing up in any number of cities across the planets face, strange symbols being daubed on the very walls of Arbites precincts, and folk going missing in the night only to be found later without certain organs or limbs.

It was when a forceful investigation was made by the Arbites into rumours of cult gatherings that the planet erupted in turmoil, the capital city of Pitchpoint becoming ground zero for a revolution in the name of the Ruinous Powers, and only then did the Planetary Governor send word via astropath out into the wider Imperium with a request for help.

Ioanus Secundus was not a particularly high priority planet in general, but the taint of Chaos could not be allowed to spread, and so an Imperial Expeditionary Force was assembled - it included two dozen or so regiments of the Imperial Guard, a small contingent of white-clad Astartes from the Absolvers Chapter, and enough armour to level entire districts.

Included within their number were, of course, the Eighth Squad of the First Redemption Penal Legion under Arbitrator Kenelm and Sergeant Mason.

What had begun as an open attack across the planets main, and most heavily inhabited, continent had soon become bogged down and turned into trench warfare. It is here, some miles south-west of Pitchpoint, that the First Redemption in their full strength were about to be awoken in a most ungracious manner.

************


"Alright, everybody up!" Came the booming voice of Mason, his red bandanna clearly visible through the plastic sheeting that covered each dugout - a shining beacon of military style in a grey and dreary war - the man himself wearing little more than a vest and his usual combat trousers and boots, "there's more digging to be done today, so don't slack on me, ye hear?!"

A week they had been where they were, the Eighth Squad of a regiment consigned to death or redemption in the God-Emperor's glorious name, digging their own section of the overall trench network like the slaves that they honestly were. They may not have been servitors, but they weren't far off. Meanwhile Kenelm had been in meetings with the other Arbitrators of the Penal Legion, as well as the High Command, and things were not looking good.

If reports were anything to go by, they'd be making contact soon enough...


Ludolf Bohn enjoyed these warmer summer days and evenings, having fought from the warm climes to Estalia to the frozen wastelands of Norsca during his time as a warrior of the Empire. He had fought all manner of the living - from the forces of rival Elector Counts, to Greenskins and even (some said) the Rat-men of Skavenblight - as well as numerous encounters with the forces of undeath. He had seen his own comrades raised up to fight against him, hewing them apart with the very same zweihander blade that now held pride of place on brackets above and behind the bar. Yet running a tavern, along with his wife Hilda and young son Jochen, and the various hired hands of the establishment, was by far the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

A giant of a man at six-foot and four-inches in height, his pale flesh covered on his face by a great bushy beard of greying gold, he kept a close eye on all his patrons and staff with eyes the same grey as a thunderstorm cloud. Dressed as he was now, in a simple blue tunic and trousers of a brown, he wore a brown apron over it and could often be found simply wiping out the inside of a flagon behind the bar.

Having so many patrons move through the Nag every day, he barely noticed Jeb (@TJByrum) as the huntsman made his way past the hired doorman and peacekeeper - an Elf, but not just any Elf, one of the fabled White Lions of Chrace - and walked toward the bar, before taking a stool and catching the Reiklanders eye.

"Well met, friend. I'm after room and board."

"Oh yea," grunted the barkeep, taking in the measure of the young man with an experienced eye, one hand moving through his luxurious beard, "we have a few of both, Herr Hochlander. Could you be more specific?"

Before Jebidiah got a chance to reply though another patron took away his attention, a much shorter but heftier visitor, unmistakable as anything but a Dwarf (@POOHEAD189) of the mountain holds; they were travellers not uncommon in the Reikland, and Ludolf apologised to Jebidiah and begged his indulgence for a moment.

"Ale. Keep it coming."

Certainly here was a fine specimen of Dwarfish culture and manhood, a longbeard by the looks of him, one who should be accorded respect within his hold...well, he was not in any Dwarf hold, but a Reikland tavern.

"Ah, Master Dawi, I have a fine keg of Zhufbar Ale just waiting to be tapped...for the right price, of course. A rich flavour and dark colour, not an ale to be missed." One hand went to scratch his beard again, those grey eyes never leaving those of Drimbold as he spoke, "perhaps I may suggest a flagon or two of Korben’s Finest? A worthy Dwarfish stout made from pale malt, roasted unmalted barley,
and caramel malt? Two pennies for a pint of ale or one for the beer."
@Dogematix You still up for this?

This will be my final try, if there is anyone else who would want to join this, please speak up now and get a sheet to me.
@Jarl Coolgruuf@Dogematix@AdvancedJ3lly@Andreyich@CaptainBritton@Superboy

Would anyone else like to post before I do? Was hoping people would but...


Off the beaten track, the usual forest roads between the Empire province of Reikland and the Bretonnian lands across the mountain, within the leafy confines of the largest forest in the province, can be found the highly insular hamlet of Rottfurt. It is built nearby a river, and indeed is a fine place if one wishes to move produce via the Imperial waterways, but outside of this it is an inbred and dismal place, full of local yokels and some of the stupidest people imaginable.

Fortunately this is not where this tale begins...

Some miles to the south-west of Rottfurt, between that very place and the free town of Übersreik – known across the province for its volume of trade and thoroughly important river bridge – is a tavern known to all and sundry as The Limping Nag.

If one were to wisely ignore both the unappealing name, and the disgruntled mumblings of the forest locals, then they would observe a fine family run establishment situated by a bubbling brook, the Nag being in actuality a well-supplied and firmly built timber structure with a thatched roof and a charming atmosphere to the low-beamed interior; scores of tables and benches are placed throughout the common room, the bar well stocked and kept clean by the burly proprietor of the tavern, and comfortable bedrooms available up a set of stairs at a reasonable price. A hearty fire burns softly in an alcove of the far wall of the room, and any customer will be treated to the sight of some of the finest wenches in the Reikland.

A simple traveller would never know that it was all a front, funded for an supplied by The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords – a collective of retired mercenaries, adventurers and military personnel who gathered together their wealth and privilege in order to all others to undertake their own missions in life; from young farmhands intent on running off to die in a desert seeking gold, to grizzled veterans who just can't sleep without thinking of the next battle, all are catered for and their needs met by the Guild.

It is to this place that you have come, for what purposes only you truly know.

Twilight it currently is, the sun beginning to set over the trees, the evening air hazy and humid, leaving a warm fuzz to settle over proceedings, and you are active and awake. Maybe you have been at the tavern for some time now, perhaps you are only arriving today, either way the barkeep – Ludolf Bohn, a retired soldier of the Empire Greatswords (Reikland province) – will be pleased to see to you and your needs.

So come on in, take a seat, seek out a friend, or simply make your business known.
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