Ollumhammersong

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

Thank you for that. I want to keep it going but I just don't think I can

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

@Andreyich@Kipsateking@Lady Selune@Searat@Irredeemable@POOHEAD189

Hello everybody, I just wanted to say a couple things about this rp, the first is that I do thank all of you for sticking around despite the terribly slow pace and staying with it.

Unfortunately after some thinking and several attempted revisions from a GM's prespective I think I am going to put the proverbial bullet into this rp. Again, I thank you for your willingness to keep going but I don't think I can improve the pace of this any time soon and give it proper attention.

Warhammer 40k: No Pity, No Remorse, No Fear! - A Black Templars RP

Oberon Accepted the information about the time dilation more easily than most of his fellows. It was common knowledge that warp travel was at best a devil's bargain for the Imperium, and Such occurances were hardly uncommon. It was merely time for it to befall the warspite. The Omnissiah, in his magnificance could still be praised for seeing them all through the warp unscathed, even if they were now a little late... It was not something to be angry or sad over, it merely was. All one could do was accept it as an inevitability of placing ones trust in as fickle a realm as the immaterium. It was like being angry at a star for burning brightly in defiance of the void sorrounding it. A waste of energy.

He had nothing further to say during the meeting until the first first enemy broadside slammed into the warspite's armoured hide. He could feel the rage of the spirit responding to this impudence. Oberon did not like the idea of it being roused while still trying to re-orient itself from reality insertion.

The Techmarine was already heading towards the assault rams. “Agmar” The forgewrite signalled the ships senior forge serf.

“Yes my lord.” The aged voice replied, heavy with defferance to his long time master. “Have a team of servitors sent to Boarding ram sigma-2. Ensure there are two data recovery menials among them.” It was a poor gamble, as any data ripped from such tainted cogitators as found onboard a chaos vessel may likely be corrupted far beyond any hope of proper recovery. But it could also contain invaluable information regarding the last hundred pus years of lost time. It was certainly worth the life of a servitor or two to try.

"Certainly my lord." To his credit the aged serf was remarkably calm despite being as clueless about the current state of affairs as one could be. Maybe it was his indoctrination training or he was simply too old to care much about being under attack yet again. In either case Oberon would regret his soon to be death from old age or violence, the efficiency rate amongst the other forge menials would likely drop at least four percent as a result. An unacceptable fall in productivity for the fighting company to endure. A thought for another day, for now duty must be performed. The Warpsite couldn't be calmed from this newly induced rage even if he tried. Maybe he was wrong and this fight would be a good for it. In any case it was beyond him, So he left it as a problem for the on-board tech adepts to sort out.

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

@Andreyich@Kipsateking@Lady Selune@Searat@Irredeemable@POOHEAD189

What say the rest of you?

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

@Andreyich

I have a feeling a lot of people have. And I know it's largely my fault for moving so slowly. But at this moment i'm just worried if people are even interested in continuing or if sufficient interest has faded entirely.

Warhammer 40k: No Pity, No Remorse, No Fear! - A Black Templars RP

Sure, draw up a sheet and send it to JB

Warhammer 40k: No Pity, No Remorse, No Fear! - A Black Templars RP

Name: Obryn

Personal Demeanour:

As a general rule, interactions between techmarines and the ‘regular’ brothren are usually strained at best. Though not for a lack of trying on Oberon’s part. His time amongst the forge-masters of mars has changed him irrevocably, and his induction and enlightenment to the glory of the onmissiah causes him to view the Emperor and interpret his divine will in a different light than other Black Templars.

His belief in the ‘Emperor-as-Omnissiah’ puts him at odds with the reclusium and most of his other brothers.

Rank/Position: Techmarine

Power Armour History: Once a suit of mark VII power armour, it is now barely recognizable from its original state. Passed down through several generations of techmarines before him, each one making their own subtle(and not to subtle) alterations to the venerable plate to suit their own purposes and tastes. These modifications, when compounded through the centuries have produced a protective suit that is superior to anything worn by the rank and file brothers of the chapter.

Oberon earned the suit following his induction into the forge, a gift from the chapter forge upon completion of his training on mars.

Description: Obryn wears the afformentioned suit of artificer power armour, Kept in immaculate condition as is only proper for a member of the forge.

Underneath the armour he looks much like what one would expect a space marine to look like. Tall, broad, square-jawed with a closely shaven skull. His body plays host to a number of cybernetic augments, as is also customary for a member of the forge. His spine and other bones necessary to support and interface with servo arms, a few internal organs, Both hands have been replaced to better allow him to connect to the machine he is in communion with.

Skills: Skills of the forge, as a techmarine Obryn is capable of breathing life back into virtually any wargear, from an overloaded plasma pistol to the partially ruptured engine of a predator tank, to the most rent and abused suit of power armour. As long as some spark of the machine’s spirit still lives there is always hope that it will live to see another battle.

History: Obryn remembers few details of his past before ascending to the status of an Emperor’s angel. A scattered memory here or there of billowing manufactory smoke stacks, of back breaking labour even from a young age, and scratching out a living in abject squalor. A hive world was the most probable answer. But a mining and refinery world was also plausible. Either way it mattered little, the human mind, even an augmented one like his own only had room for so much information. And there were far more important things that demanded presedance than a childhood that he left behind two hundred years ago.

Not that his early years in the chapter were any more eventful, certainly there was warfare and bloodshed abound but in the context of hindsight, and viewed through the lense of a forge-wright’s eye, mere warfare is inconsequential and past glories earned are minor when compared to his new duties and the technological wonders at his cybernetic finger tips. To dwell on his past is pointless, and to over-indulge in pride is tantamount to vanity.

Equipment and Armament: Servo arm Cutter/manipulator, Ohmnissian power axe, Modified gauntlet w/ incorporated combi-tool, modified Bolt pistol

Miscellaneous: Obryn commands a number of artificer, lay-adept and technical serfs in service to the chapter armoury, as well as a number of labour purposed servitors, including a limited supply of battle servitors that can be awakened and used as an escort when he must take to the field, to protect him as he focuses on his rituals of repair.

Warhammer 40k: No Pity, No Remorse, No Fear! - A Black Templars RP

Oberyn’s body may have been in attendance at the meeting but his mind was elsewhere. He did not need to be a forge master to feel the confusion of the Warspite. It hummed through the bulkheads and the very deckplates, to those trained enough to sense it. The Warspite was an ungainly beast trying too orientate itself from a violent and sudden hurling through the warp like the rest of them were. True, It was a magnificent and ancient spirit, far older than any of the brothers on board, and this was but one of hundreds of translations made by its engines over the centuries of its service. But this was a particularly violent translation, And the engines needed to be soothed properly before they could be relied upon to jump again. A duty Oberyn would happily be attending to were it not for his involvement in this gathering.

Still, he arrived on time. Precisely when he was expected to actually. Time his departure and travel perfectly to arrive at the meeting neither later nor early. He supposed it would actually be good for him to arrive to the command bridge anyway, to view the informations and incoming data streams for himself to better understand what was putting so much stress on the soul of the vessel.

“I have come brother chaplain.” Oberyn remarked shortly as way of greeting, and a stiff bow as offered pleasantries. The keepers of the forge were not ones for formalaties and ritual beyond what were extended to the omnissiah and his machines. “Though my hands are needed elsewhere. The Warspite struggles with this change and I must sooth it's pain lest it begin to feel neglected. Or it grows too agitated.” Neither was a particularly attractive prospect. Either the machine became moody and unresponsive or would start to turn it's confusion to frustration and anger, and find small ways to lash out said frustrations.

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

@Andreyich@Kipsateking@Lady Selune@Searat@Irredeemable@POOHEAD189

wow... that took sooooo much longer than it needed to. But at least you all get to shoot something now. As for the enemy themselves. They are just mutants, as mangy, pathetic and as varied as your imaginations can conjure up.

The plan is to form up with eachother, and receive the enemy, so feel free to kill a mutant or two in your post. With your gun or with your knife, or both! It will be a fairly large pack so there are plenty for everyone.

Retaking the Front (40k Astra Militarum Roleplay, Currently Full)

The impact of the lander into the blighted soil of Molov was akin to being kicked in the chest by a particularly angry horse, while another was kicking you in the back as if sandwiching you between them, and a third was kicking you in the head just for good measure. So to say it was a violent landing was an understatement.

Artyom didn’t know how long he was dazed. At some point he had clearly released his harness and dropped to his hands and knees on the tilted floor. Struggling to keep himself from tumbling as his sense of balance and self-awareness tried to re-assert itself.

“Sergeant….. Sergeant!” He screamed. Pushing himself to his knees as he surveyed the damage around him. Everything was chaos, everywhere he looked there were injuries and confusion. Bones were broken, necks snapped, men and woman rendered unconscious from the impact and the chemical stench of electrical fires and burning wiring insulation was filling the confined space with toxins that would surely kill them all if something wasn’t done.

“Get the ramp open! Open all emergency hatches, Do it now!” He was shouting to everyone around him, not just his NCOs. Artyom was not going to let this metal monstrosity be his tomb, machine spirit be damned. He attempted to rise, nearly slipping off of a wet tongue that was severed by someone unfortunate enough to have had their mouth open during the crash.

Struggling to get any other officers on the vox but the forward sections of the lander seemed to have suffered far more than the stern. He had no idea how many of the company survived the crash, but the first priority was to get out of the lander before it was blown away by whatever artillery the enemy possessed.

When the company did earn its freedom and the emergency release handles were cranked until arms were ready to pop out of their sockets, Artyom began giving orders and his platoon piled out of the lander in a far less organized fashion than when they originally marched in. Stumbling out into the open battlescape first and what greeted him was a site from hell.

Chaos had warped the planet, All around the lander was blighted wasteland of twisted iron and a stench so horrible it had Artoym scrambling for his rebreather. Coughing all the while as his lungs protested as they inflated with fetid air. It was almost pure poison and the smell was one of the most foul things he had ever experienced. The very ground itself was blighted with a mixture of genuine industrial waste, haphazardly dumped where the masters of the dark factoriums willed, and chaos taint.

“Masks! Masks!” He called to the troops crawling out of the lander after him.

As he fumbled his own mask into place and breathed a few easier breaths of relief, he surveyed his sorroundings. The battle was definitely still being raged around them. Some landers had managed to land close to the city while others carrying the most valuable war machines and cargo landed father out, in the extreme ranges of the anti-aircraft guns which brought their, and apparently several other landers down too. Their wrecked frames belching black smoke that did nothing to improve the already rank and polluted air. Artyom could see the hull of at least one other lander covered in tiny shapes, likely playing out a scene mirroring his company's own desperate crash and escape. He had no idea where the other lander's for their regiment were however, and how far the crash put them off course from their original landing zone.

And the lander..... holy throne the lander. It frankly was a miracle they landed at all. The entire front half was a crumpled mess of steel and the broken cockpit was one raging inferno. Artyom wasn't an expert but it probably took a direct hit, which would explain about their descent. If anyone was alive from the first and second platoons they were probably trapped under several tons of broken iron, Bodies pinned or mangled by the impact. Artyom wasn't sure if he could to anything to dig them out even if he wanted to.

Elsewhere there were signs of proper war being waged. Lines of light and heavy armour had already touched down, unloaded and were now making their way towards the dark city. Their hulls attracting the aim of the yet un-fired ground artillery and other heretic defenses. The Imperial infantry were slower to mass but also seemed to be collecting themselves as best they could and readying to march through the wastelands to support the armour. It was an all out invasion, the Imperium didn't want to establish some wasteland toehold and be bombarded with artillery and sorcery all while they tried to assemble something approaching an invasion force. They wanted to overwhelm the enemy in one blitz invasion, at least here. To take an entire city to establish their firm, un-removable presence on the world and demoralize the heretics.

Cannons roared, flame belched and explosives tossed up tonnes of tainted earth every few minutes. So far the enemy artillery hadn't taken much notice in their battered and fairly isolated company.

“All squads take cover behind the lander and report. Sergeant Kinsely! I want a headcount. How many survived the crash? And are there any officers? And we we have a damn vox caster?!” Artyom really, reaaaaaally hoped he wasn't the last one alive right now. He had no idea what to do next or if a vox unit was or could be salvaged from inside. Without it he was blind. And had no idea where his regiment might be or which direction he should lead this shattered mess of a company. Towards the city? Away from it? Would he be shot for cowardice if he tried to lead them away? His gut told him 'probably' They Guard tended to have a narrow and unforgiving view on these things.

Artyom tried not to betray his own mental freak-out as he nearly tore himself apart from the inside trying to determine what was best to do. Being an officer wasn't his job. It wasn't supposed to be his job. He was a fucking corporal, a field medic. He had no idea how to lead these people or what to possibly say to them after that shit-show of a crash.

A piercing howl, one sharp enough to cut through the thunder of cannon fire and loud enough to betray it's nearness reached his ears, and the ears of everyone else around the lander. The noise was definitely animalistic but also.... not from an animal. At least no animal Artyom was familiar with. Whatever produced that noise was almost human, it sounded pained and angry and.... sad? Mournful? Soon it could be heard again, and was followed by a second, shriller but still inhuman shriek.

Looking out among the battlefield again he saw one of the crashed landers, the one like his own that survivors were trying to crawl their way out of. Only now there were other shadows crawling over and around it. These shadows were much less human in their appearance though it was hard to tell from here. They seemed to be a pack of some kind, like predators only more hunched, gangly and misshapen. The small flashes of las-light told him that the Imperial soldiers did not appreciated the creature's presence whoever they were. The noises of war hid the cracking of ionizing air and the shouts of terrified men, but they were clearly under attack by whatever it was those creatures were.

“Uh, lieutenant! LIEUTENANT!” One terrified Valhallan trooper shouted to Artyom in their native tongue. If it wasn't for that jolt of recognition Artyom may have been to engrossed with the scene across the wastes to pay it much heed. “What?!” Artyom spun around, genuinely pissed at off the trooper's tone. “Speak Gothic you *******” He chided the trooper. Not knowing where the offender was at first he eventually found him, climbing up the side of the lander in an effort to get a better view. Artyom almost ordered him dragged down and beaten for being such an idiot without proper permission.

“Well, what is it?” He shouted up. “Mutants.” The man called out eventually, his attention apparently focused rather intently on something only he could see from his angle. “I think their mutants! Coming towards the lander.” He called back. Artyom swore, packs of mutants would make sense. Much more than mere animals roaming loose in the chemical wastes. Probably seeing these landers as a perfect opportunity for potential fresh meat.

Looking around at the survivors he had Artyom knew it may not be enough depending on the size of the pack approaching. Some survivors were still being hauled out, as was valuable equipment. Artyom swore again and asked for confirmation from the trooper. Numbers, direction, anything But little was forthcoming.

“Fourth Company!” Artyom bellowed in his best and least accented low gothic. Making the decision to fight, after all they could hardly go back inside the lander and hide, and after being shot down from the sky and tossed about like a child's doll during a tantrum the Valhallan felt like venting his anger on something or someone. And a mutant was as good an opportunity as any. “Prepare to receive!” This was at least something he was would be able to take control of. Whether they all survived it or not was another matter.

"Form circle and Fix Bayonets!" One mustached mordian sergeant shouted out in the typically impeccable parade ground snap his people had perfect over the millennia.