Lady Selune

Ban the Person above you

@Callousqueen

Banned for hypocricy.

Ban the Person above you

Banned because what part of Farenheit 451 was a love story. Bloody English students.

Lady Selune Wishes to RP With You! [Always Looking] [Ignore Post Count (It's All Bumps)]

Bump

The House Which Has No Walls

Bump! We still need those to lead us through the darkness and into the House.

[Storms and Shadows] - A Black Crusade inspired 40k Chaos RP.

@Bloodrose

If it wasn't for the fact that there are two astartes both with monomolecular combat knives and dark eldar with shuriken weapons on the battlefield, it'd easily be the sharpest thing around... And it's taken enough heads (and legs, arms, chunks of viscera, gribbly bits...) to earn the moinker, so why not?

Lady Selune Wishes to RP With You! [Always Looking] [Ignore Post Count (It's All Bumps)]

Choo choo.

The House Which Has No Walls

@Bazmund

Hah! I started playing it, I got my first Power victory and I've been so hooked. This is basically going to be the start you get after a victory, but with the issue that there are other cultist with the same idea, and there's no more clear leadership like in the game where you have your previous character obviously giving you orders.

The House Which Has No Walls

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The Year is 1915. In France, blood is shed by the gallon, men dying upon men. In England, beneath the veneer of Edwardian society, there is a world that the public knows not about. There are no laws that regulate these societies, at least no laws that exist on offical books, yet nonetheless these societies are hunted and persecuted by organisations that work under the name of the King. One of these societies was formerly lead by a young gentleman by the name of Valentine Blay, but unfortunately for his followers, Valentine Blay no longer exists. Quite what happened to him after he bade his followers to leave his abode is unknown, but ever since that day he has vanished- his house empty, his estate in limbo.

Luckily for the Society of the Sublime Gaze however, his work was left intact. Layers upon layers of Valentine Blay's work- his diaries, countless tomes considered downright heretical by those that arrest in the name of His Majesty, the intricately detailed maps of the House Which Has No Walls... All left in near-pristine condition, save the begriming of their surfaces with dust and secrecy. The goals held by Valentine Blay are less clear however, and the vast cult that his charismatic personage assembled now finds itself rent with discontent and infighting.

Those few that were counted among Valentine Blay's cadre of confidants are now faced with bevy of dilemmas. Do they follow the path that had begun to be hewed by their forebearer, do they strike out on their own, or do they do something else, not quite one and yet not quite the contrary either? As more and more of the cult is pulled away to clash steel with the kaiser's legions, who will come out atop the malificent pile of deception?

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This will be an RP heavily inspired by Lovecraftian ideas and horror, with a lot of its core ideas taken from the fantastic Cultist Simulator. You will take control of upper-echelon members of Valentine Blay's (surname compulsory) cult, and with your leader gone, the struggle for power can now commence.

[Storms and Shadows] - A Black Crusade inspired 40k Chaos RP.

Snicker-snack says the Slaneeshi's sword.

[Storms and Shadows] - A Black Crusade inspired 40k Chaos RP.

Although her whipblade was the most beautiful of the ways that she killed, sometimes it came necessary to prioritise the expedience of death over the majesty of it. With her weapon a sword once more she would give it a firm flick, the viscera acquired from the death of the salsafied fellow below her splattering off to the ground. Driving the end of her weapon into the dirt, electricity still cracking from it, she would reach inside her clothing and fiddle briefly with the straps of a holster, drawing out a magnificent handcannon from its deapths. Black, with intricately woven golden lines and curves and a marvellously rich wooden finish, she would half-break the top of the gun, load a clip into its mechanism and then snap it shut.

Her eyes would look through the gloom and she would take up a firing stance, her legs planted firmly into the ground, her shoulders square and her arm raised up, one hand drawing a dagger from a sheath at her back whilst the other raised her gun to eye level. She sighted a foe. Breathed out, breathed in. "Five." She would breathe, and as she did so squeeze the trigger, one bullet cracking out of the muzzle of her gun, the lick of flame from the end of it spelling death through clean brutality. Her wrist ached slightly, but the calibre of the bullet had left a disgustingly mince-like crater in the head of her foe.

She would turn to the next foe. Once again her breathing slowed. She could feel as time itself waited, waited for her to align every aspect, waited for the Prince of Pleasure to smile upon her shot and grace it with Her presence, so that it flew and granted the swiftest, purest oblivion. As jaw fell from cheek and mutant collapsed to the dirt, she would smile. Two bullets and two deaths by her hand. Four more for perfection.

'Perfection' would not be attained today however. As she went to fire again she heard a roar from her side, and, swinging her gun around, practically leapt out of her skin. Some wretch had managed to sneak up on her, and his screeching, clearly struggling to function chainblade came dangerously close to marring her skin. Taking a step back she would swing out with her blade, but her foe was apparently a little faster than the previous one she had faced, the spinning teeth of his own weapon coming down to meet (and then promptly eat through) her knife. Bringing her handcannon down towards her waist she would fire, the shot entering the creature's gut, then lash out with her leg. Even injured her foe still stood, and her leg barely seemed to effect him. Throwing her body out of the way she would barely avoid a retaliatory swipe, but as her opponent moved to where she should have been, she fired another shot.

Her opponent howled in agony as splinters of bone and viscera splattered out from his knee. His chainblade spluttered out as it hit the ground and furiously she would storm to where he lay, one hand dragging him towards where her cracking, razor-sharp blade still stood impaled into the ground. Even as her opponent writhed and bit and scratched she would heave him over, stamping on his face and then bringing the hilt of her sword down as if she was a chef slicing herbs.

With her vorpal blade parting head from neck she would look up, satisfaction vanishing from her face as yet another foe came into view, this one clearly made of sterner stuff than the four left dead by her hand. Reluctantly she would draw her blade, hunkering behind a pile of rubble as she waited for those far stronger in sword than she to strike the first few blows.