POOHEAD189

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

One of the ship's servitors whirred past us as they watched the troops drill. I felt a tinge of sympathy for the men as I watched their red faces and the sweat staining their uniforms. Crispin was working them ragged. I did not want to call the man out publicly. If they knew the Lieutenant disapproved of his methods even by a hair, the men would eat him alive. I decided he might have a small talk with the fellow. There was very little I could not alter with a quick talk, I generally surmised. Though the Langeroth Lieutenant was certainly an exception to the rule.

"They're already a problem," I confided to Sel, foolishly using a casual and less than austere tone. Luckily there was not many days left en-route, but there was enough for a powder keg to explode if the right (or wrong) circumstances came about. I sighed silently, through my nose, and fixed my hat before I really let my appearance slip. "I think it would be best if you accompanied me daily. I don't believe you are helpless. Nor am I, but together we can make sure to watch each other's backs."

Admittedly, I mostly wanted an extra pair of eyes to keep myself alive. However, we had only known one another a month and had saved one another's life multiple times. I would like for Corporal Seldon to continue to rough her way through life with her usual, endearing style while I did my best to survive. I heard the clanking zipping of the servitor once again as it made its rounds, and casually turned to regard it, making certain I was not in its path.

I saw a clawed hand reach for me, and I stumbled back, the metal appendage ripping the hat off my head as I ducked. At the corner of my eye, I saw Sel shoot up, instinctively crouching, then moving toward me. She wouldn't make it, I realized, as a buzzsaw from another arm shot toward my chest. I planted my back foot on the floor, and my sword was in my hand as if I had plucked it out of the warp, shoving the arm aside and riposting in a brilliant move; two flashes of steel and my blade skewered the servitor center mass. I twisted my blade, hoping to ruin enough organic matter and wiring to take it out of action, but it kept coming, trying to bowl me over with its weight as the hand, and a stabbing appendage I surmised was used for screwing on second notice, aimed for my eye. I jerked my body to the side, turning my chainsword on and slicing the arm of the hand off as the drill slipped past my face, cutting a bright red line across my perfect cheek.

Spinning, my sword leading in the circuit, I cut the main wiring along its spinal cord. The monstrosity began shuddering, but I grit my teeth and pushed on, my chainblade grinding into it, sparks flying and metal snapping, until the servitor spasmed and collapsed onto the floor.

I stood over the thing, panting softly. It took me a moment to realize Crispin's shouting and the groans of the men had stopped, and I turned to see the entire platoon standing stock still, looking at me. To my left, Sel approached, her gun out but no shots fired. She looked from the servitor to my face. I held my hand up to signify she lower her weapon.

"Don't damage it. We need to check its synaptics." I said, and it was good she was so close to hear me. The entire platoon roared that moment, rushing over to me in a wave of enthusiasm.

Smoke and Steel (A pike and shot era RP concept)

Really great concept tbh

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The manor was like every other statehouse Kasimir had been in. It was far too large and confusing in its layout, serving no one but the pride of the architect and the patron who paid for it. Reynard and he had made it down three turns of the halls and a small banquet dining room, and had cut their way through five lurching zombies. Despite his initial fear, the Brettonian knight proved his valor, smashing through a larger one with a sturdy chair before cutting its head off at the shoulder, and barreling through a turned, freshly dead scullery maid that moaned until he split her down the middle with his sword.

Whilst they were not privvy to this information, or much of anything for that matter, a zombie's greatest strength was the terror it evoked. Even a well-traveled mercenary felt a sense of unease and dread when faced with the grasping, lifeless corpse of a man that could only be moving by necromantic magics. It was unnatural and the antithesis of reality itself, most would agree. However, when two moderately armored and trained warriors could get past that barrier, there was not much difference between a zombie and their living counterpart, save maybe a lack of self preservation. As long as they kept their heads and did not get surrounded, they would be fine.

The two burst into a room that, at first glanced, seemed to serve as a meeting hall for honored guests. A rich rug of red and gold thread was draped across the floor, slim desks hugging the walls held busts and an exquisite book, accompanied by a quill and ink, for prospective dinner guests to sign their names. Outside the windows was the central courtyard and garden. It would have been quite lovely were it not for the half-crazed spearman stabbing an unmoving corpse near the dining room doorway.

His face shot up, a crazed and wild look in his eyes. He bore a classical peaked morion helmet, along with a breastplate that was spattered with blood. It took Kasimir a moment to even realize he was a still-living man, but before he could speak the fellow screamed, wrenching his spear out of the corpse and leveling it at them.

"Monsier! Herr soldyer! We ah hyeyr tu aid yu!" Reynard hearkened to him, holding a hand out pleadingly, but the fellow was too far gone. He cried out something unintelligable, though Kasimir fancied he was yelling something to Taal. The guardsman charged, hoping to skewer Reynard, who was the closest. The knight hefted his shield, and even as the spear point crashed into the kite shield, Kasimir's bastard sword ran the man through beneath the breastplate, ending his life. He croaked and died, falling on his face. Kasimir and Reynard gave one another a grim look, and then Reynard cut the man's head off, just to be certain.

The black deed was abruptly interrupted as the door behind them opened, and a buxom blonde scrambled into the room, rushing headlong and slamming into Kasimir from behind like a pissed-off goat. Kasimir gave a started cry and hit the ground, off-balance and bowled over by the momentum of the fleeing Emmaline Von Morganstern. It was a curious sensation, the entire room spinning and the ground rushing up to meet him, but it took him no time to take stock as he raised his head. He glanced up, and saw Emmaline raise her own head, flinging her mass of golden hair back and blinking her blue eyes. Immediately, Kasimir felt a curious sense of relief she was not dead, or worse. But then his eyes burned with frustration. True to form she had survived, but inconvenienced him in a dozen different ways at once.

"Get off of me!" He complained, pushing himself up so Emmaline rolled off to the floor. She gave a generous 'eep!' but then recovered quickly.

"Kasimir?" Emmaline breathed in disbelief. Relief and confusion warred on her face, and by the look of her eyes, she had a hell of a day. Her next words were given with uncharacteristic hopefulness, even joy to see him. "Are you here for me?"

"Yes, I am." He answered, sitting up and pulling his sword out from under his leg. Luckily he had crashed onto the flat of the blade, else he would have gotten a nasty cut. He glanced at Reynard, who watched expectantly. "I mean, yes, we are." He gesticulated with his right hand. "This is Sir Reynard of Montfort, who valiantly volunteered to aid in your rescue, mademoiselle."

For his part, Reynard gave a courtly bow. "A pleasheyer. Bot, are yu trouly vrom Brettonia?"

"She has spent much time amongst us lowly Imperials. She picked up our mannerisms quite well." Kasimir answered for her, getting back to his feet. On second nature, he held his hand out for her to take. She took it, and perhaps because of the heat of the moment or the fact he had not known if she had been dead or forceibly married, there was a spark there he hadn't expected when their hands entwined. He could see she noticed something similar, but he did them both a favor and elected to ignore it as she steadied herself. He brushed himself off. "And now, we're going back."

"Ai em noot reterening to Middenheim, Kassymere! Ze mereley wish to tayik mai het!" She declared, clutching her neck for Reynard to see and pouting her lip.

"I would not let that happen." Kasimir promised.

"Un zince wen dew yew keyer abot me?" She inquired, her arms crossing, evidently closing her eyes for drama but peeking out one lidded eye in curiosity.

"I don't," He said, too quickly to not be suspicious. "But I did not ride through beastland and hack apart men alive and dead just to get you killed. Besides, you can always stay here if you like."

Gold & Glory: AU thread

The ghouls fought with savagery only greenskins or daemons could match, frothing at the mouth and rending with their elongated claws. They scrambled over one another to get at the corsairs, leaping like hellish frogs and screeching a pale wail into the air. What was most horrifying was that, despite the bestial nature, Markus could see the men they had once been. If one had been given a bath, their claws and teeth filed, and they had been clothed, they could almost be human. It was unnerving, and if Markus were a more charitable man he would have felt a twinge of anguish at his fellow man for devolving into such a state, or philosophically question what was it that truly made a human being?

Fortunately, he didn't bleeding care one way or another. Men, elf, dwarf, everyone was a bastard, and he would kill anyone that got in thrice-damned his way.

"Muere bastardo!" Fernando cried, weaving through the pack with his rapier, skewering and dancing out of the way of sweeping talons. He was one of the few on his crew that Markus would have had to work for to beat in a sword fight. Beside him, Bernard the deckhand cut down a ghoul with a number of hacks from his cutlass, only for another to tackle him, bloodily tearing his throat out on the grass. The elves weaved with their blades in unison, monsters nearly catching them every few moments, only to be scant inches from cutting the high ones before they slipped away. Eckard was cut across the arm by a clawed hand, but the ghoul's head exploded in viscera as Sketti entered the fray with his smoking pistol. Halfdan would have been an easy target for the ghouls, for his big body would have made it hard for him to dodge poisoned claws, but he bore a torn door as a shield and shoved the ghouls with his immense strength, brutalizing two of them with his axe. The battle took only a minute, perhaps a minute and a half, and when the last ghoul was bludgeoned into the ground by Sketti's brass appendage, that was when the creaking of the ship became evident.

Markus turned, and watched his prized possession keel over with the distant, sluggish inevitability of a landslide. He saw his men running from The Hammer's bulk as ropes snapped. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of a blonde head disappearing beneath the rubble, utterly crushed. He took a step toward the crashing craft, frustration and rage on his face. The loss of his ship and the apparent loss of his lover dragged out a loud roar of: "No! NO! NOOOOO!"

He did not even count the casualties, though later Morgan would report five dead, one wounded, and four survivors from the battle. Instead, Markus sprinted toward the fallen ship, his eyes drinking in every splintered piece of wood, every crumbled layer of timber, his very freedom wrecked on this worthless spit of land on the ass-end of the world. Morgan cried for men to get away from the ship in case its integrity was truly compromised. He saw Markus coming, and his relief at Markus's survival was shortlived when he waved for him to stop. "Captain, yer woman... she tried to save the- wait, lad!" Markus only now realizing he was charging straight ahead, too close to what would be an enormous hazard.

"Captain wait!" The old seadog implored him, but he didn't listen. With a knife in his teeth, he took hold of a fallen line and began pulling himself up the vertical deck, even before the dust had settled. The ship gave a familiar creak under his feet, which was a good sign. The balustrade had mostly held, even on the port side. The mast hadn't snapped, though it did look damaged. Gingerly, he pulled himself up to the cargo hatch, took his knife and elbowed his way until his ass rested on the lip of it.

"I'll be damned," Markus breathed, shaking his head in utter incredulity. Not only was the majority of the ship's innards intact but less than a dozen feet below him, standing in the center of a gunpost was his lover, the fiery golden agent of chaos herself. "Emma, how the hells are you still alive?" His voice betrayed he was pleased, despite the callous question.

"Can you just get me out of here!" She demanded, waving her arms. He shook his head in disbelief. He did not know if she was a blessing or a curse. But whatever she was, she was his woman. He looked around to make sure nothing was about to crumble, and then tied the rope to his waist, flipping the dagger to an off-hand grip. He swung himself down, lowering his body close enough for her to grab.

"You good?" He asked her as she wrapped her arms around him. She nodded, and he couldn't help but give a grin, before he carried her back up, using the sturdy dagger to help in the climb like a pick. "We'll get you some chocolates when we can, love."

"And rum." She said.

"Aye, that too." He replied.

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

Bahadir spun, blinking in cautious surprise. Calliope turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head. He had thought he heard something from one of the statues...

"You're a pirate." He said, and even with the accent, it was clear it had a note of incredulity. He had been a slave, but even arena fighters had ears. He knew of Sartosa and its reputation. Granted, perhaps the common man did have greater agency to kill the other in this land. It was hard to say, he had always been made to kill. Gingerly, he took a step to the right, and his foot landed on a tile of sandstone upon the floor, only this square pressed into the floor gently. Quickly Bahadir leaped back, cursing himself for a fool, expecting a pit to open up below them to swallow them up, impaling them on spikes.

However, the tile merely slid under the next one, and as it did so, the sand was displaced enough to reveal it had the image of the sun. He recognized the visage within the symbol. It had been Ptra, the same god who's statue had crumbled and slain a Rhinox during their hopeless arena match not a week ago. Most Arabyans were superstitious, but Bahadir was unsure of how much coincidence there truly was in the world. Perhaps the God did watch over him? Or merely watch him...

The far wall began to rumble, and it split into two, opening up into a dark corridor, the shadows oppressing the space save for a small gleam of red light in the center. A diamond upon a dias, glowing faintly. There was another whisper as a breeze flew through the long chamber into the room of idols. Bahadir and Calliope brandished their weapons, on edge.

But all was still.

Bahadir was poised like the tiger he had been compared to, before he stepped forward, careful with his weight upon the floor. As he approached, Calliope behind, the flames from the torch revealed the ground was littered with bones and mottled weapons, the blades eaten by the ages. They stepped, and were careful to move past the diamond. Calliope eyed it as if she were to pocket it, her fingers brushing the flawless cut, but she drew her hand back and shook her head.

"Bloody hell, I feel like I'm in a melodrama." Calliope remarked. "Ancient gods can kiss my ass. But that's a pretty thing-"

There was a clap from above, and both of the fighters glanced up to see a column of the slim roof of stone falling on them like a guillotine. Calliope sprang forward, Bahadir leaping ahead. But as the pirate stepped, another column fell in front of her, crushing the bones beneath its immense weight. This sent the two of them squishing into one another as the columns slammed into the floor like two gateways, the torch nearly burning Bahadir's face as Calliope's face was shoved into his pectorals. Slowly, she turned her head so her face was free enough to speak. "Bloody tomb! Move sailor, that's an order!"

"Aye Captain, just as soon as my ass can break stone!" Bahadir snapped, having learned some choice words from the dark woman, but luckily for them, the columns did not encompass the entirety of the hall. They wriggled out from between the columns, making their way down the corridor as fast as they could. Another column fell, slamming into the floor. Evidently that had caused a chain reaction, as the floor itself began to shudder. Stones gave way, their sturdy base losing a hopeless battle to gravity. Calliope leaped, and Bahadir shot left, planting his feet on the wall and launching himself from that added vantage point. With his momentum, he managed to snag Calliope's belt and boost her own inertia before they hit the floor of the following chamber, barely missing an endless drop by a mere foot.

"Ugh, Manaan's arse." She breathed, sitting up and rubbing her head. Bahadir sat up too, revealing Calliope had landed on his chest. She slid down to plop on his thigh as Bahadir groaned, blinking. Before he could curse himself, Calliope elbowed him in the stomach eagerly and a bit too hard, causing him to grunt.

"Bahadir, look alive!" She declared, and he followed her finger to get a good look at the rest of the room.

Bahadir doubted it was anything close to a Sultan's treasure room, but it was more wealth than he had ever seen before in one place! Bronze, meter tall sculptures of high priests and men of imperial office framed four different doors, each with eyes of lapis lazuli and earrings of semiprecious stones. Gold sequin littered the floor, like autumn leaves surrounding an oblong pool of clean, crisp water at the center of the chamber. The roof was domed, depicting a mosaic of a witch made of jade and a man in bronze embraced in passion. Their outlines were adorned with jewels that glittered in the light. Chests of mahogany where the sequins originated (as well as various trinkets such as rings and bracelets) had been opened, with skeletons still reaching in, their heads removed or their ribs shattered from some blunt force.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

They crouched in the brush at the base of the treeline, watching the stately manor from down a small decline. Their swords drawn, the middenlander and the brettonian had noticed a patrolling watchman minutes ago, but he had yet to return. Otherwise, they could see no one providing sentry around the perimeter. The manor stood eerily silent, erected before the overcast sky like a grand mausoleum of an ancient king from Sigmar's day. Somehow, Kasimir was more unnerved now than if he saw the walls being overrun with armed men.

"Zshall ve adwance?" Reynard asked in a conspiratorial whisper. He was eager before, but now he seemed more confused than anything. Kasimir did not blame the cavalryman.

"Now seems as good a time as any," Kasimir temporized, and the two began to move, making their way round the shrubs before stepping onto the open ground, keeping low as they moved up the hill, making their way to one of the many archways along the walls. A quick peek, and Kasimir saw no guardsmen within. Shockingly, to the left was a fallen spear, and what looked like a small pool of blood on the cobblestones of the walkway through the small, well-tended garden.

"Sacre bleu!" The Knight exclaimed.

"Sssshhh," Kasimir urged him.

"Wot happoned?" Reynard asked, this time more softly. The two knelt by the fallen spear, but could find no trace of anything pertaining to what could have occurred.

"Damned if I know," the imperial cursed, shaking his head at this further complication. The woman had brought him nothing but trouble since he had met her, and now he was walking into some sort of chaos or violence he could not guess. "Our mission is still the same. Let's move."

"Oui," agreed Reynard, and the two hurried on to the closest doorway, an open portal into a darkened manor. It's door stretched out, apparently whoever had opened it had been in too much of a hurry to bother with closing. Kasimir felt a pang of trepidation, but his armor and sword were some of the best money could buy, and Reynard's armaments were castle-forged. Glancing at one another with grim determination, they stepped into the door, their forms engulfed by darkness.

"ULRIC'S POXMARKED NUTTSACK!"

Kasimir leaped out of the gloom as Reynard scrambled back, making for the light as the mottled corpse of some scullery maid reached out for a cold embrace, gnarled fingers grasping for their throats. Reynard gave a ungentlemanly scream, long and highpitched like the keening of a banshee as Kasimir beheaded the zombie with an instinctual backhanded swing of his backsword. The body stumbled forward even as the head hit the ground, but a kick from Kasimir sent the corpse to the floor as well. He placed a hand on Reynard to halt the squeal. The knight blinked, embarrassed and petrified at the entire situation.

"Les morts-vivants immondes!" He exclaimed, before stammering: "Z-Ze foul undead, monsieur!"

"I know, I killed it!" Kasimir retorted.

"Yieou did noot tell me whe weyer fightin ze undead!" The errant knight snapped at Kasimir.

"You think I hid this from you!? I'm surprised too!" He riposted, both eyeing one another and then the corpse. Kasimir sighed, running a hand through his mane of hair. "Okay, now that we know, we will not be taken by surprise again, no?"

"No," Reynard acknowledged.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

I might have been a highborn, but I was no fool. I knew enemy maneuvers when I saw it, even on a relatively small scale. Morek's constant mumbles were also a telltale sign. If I learned anything from the old squat (considering they could live as long as an astartes, this was quite notable), it was that he had a sixth sense I should pay attention to. And so he and I decided to make a temporary headquarters a few doors down from my main office in a requisitioned broom closet, where I kept a few communique items and a small desk. My vanity was not so great that I could not trade it for a tactical advantage, even though the smell could have been better, admittedly. I held meetings in my assigned office, of course, but otherwise busied myself in my diminutive headquarters. Redirection was a useful tool, after all.

It was from there I was able to step out into the corridor, to find three men of Langeroth platoon skulking through the corridor past my position. A quick look over betrayed their intentions. One of them held a syringe, held behind his hand so as to be concealed in the front. Another had a small shock baton slipped up his sleeve, and the third seemed to be walking openly, but judging by the small bulge in the back of his pants, he was likely concealing a sidearm. All three items were prohibited to men of the line, except perhaps the sidearm, though that was generally marked for officers. It took me the matter of a single second before I nodded Morek to accompany me, and I saw the squat grab his ripper gun and step out with me as I casually cocked my hip and rested my hands on the hilt of my chainsword.

"Aten-SHUN!" I roared.

The men, so focused on keeping a low profile as they walked, yelped at the sudden sound behind them. Yanked out of their mission of ill-repute, they stumbled as they spun in alarm. The syringe clattered to the floor, and I spied it was filled with a strange red liquid. The baton had inadvertently slid out of the man's sleeve, hopelessly exposing itself before he could recover it. I felt as if the three of them had either come for me, or multiple members of my platoon. Their faces were white, their bodies frozen once their implements were revealed. Morek hefted his weapon, not aiming at them particularly, but ready nonetheless.

"L-Lord Kayden, sir." The one that held the baton said, having slipped it back into his coat.

"Interesting choice of recreational items, men. Anything you wish to tell me?"

"No suh," the 'unarmed' one replied, keeping his hands to his sides. If there was the three of them surrounding me, he might have went for his gun, but with Morek and his ripper gun in his hands, he was not that suicidal. Their body language screamed wild indecision. One might break while the others begged or merely stood there, and the possibility of them attacking was not completely gone. I hid my thoughts and tension well, however.

"That's too bad, because I'm quite curious on a number of things. I know you're not planning on using any of those weapons on this ship. We're all Emperor fearing men here, aren't we? You seem to be lost, if nothing else." I remarked casually, looking past my nose at them. I caught the faintest flicker of the eyes of the man that held the syringe going to the fallen instrument. I knew what he was considering before he could move. My fingers tightened on the hilt of my chainsword.

"Trooper, if you even entertain the notion of breaking that syringe, my aide will blow a hole in you wide enough to stick an Ogryn's arm through." I warned, so deathly calm, they knew I was serious. He stepped back, wisely. My eyes whipped to the other two. "You will drop your weapons on the floor. All of them. The pistol too. If you comply, you might just get off with a contraband charge and a dereliction of duties."

"With all due respect sir," the baton wielder said, though I noticed he did as I said and placed his weapon on the ground in front of him. "you can't reprima-"

"I can and I will!" I snapped, eyes baleful. "Oh, at the end of the day you answer to your own CO, but I have leave to kill you where you stand. I don't believe incarceration is out of the question. Now do as I say!"

Lastly, the seemingly unarmed corporal, if his uniform was any indication, withdrew his sidearm (which was a bolt pistol, to my surprise) slowly and placed it on the floor. I noticed one was shaking, but the others just looked guilty as if I had already sentenced them to the firing squad. I made a 'tsk' and motioned for Morek, who stepped forward, his ripper gun trained on them. The squat was chewing something, as usual. I also noticed he needed a bath quite badly. I made a mental note to put that on the schedule for tomorrow.

"Face the wall." Morek ordered them. "On yer knees. Hands behind yer back."

It was while the men were being cuffed that, of all people, corporal Seldon came upon us. I had the syringe in my hand, appraising the instrument curiously, before noticing her standing there. I raised an eyebrow. "Ah, corporal. I was just about to send for you. I feel as if we should check on your squad while Morek runs these men to the brig. I hope you aren't too busy, are you?"

Blackguards!

That two faced son of a jackal!

Amal was not unused to working dangerous jobs for the right price. He had killed men for coin and stolen for his own desire. But to be requisitioned like this with no true reward was not something he was used to! Not out of some sense of pride, but lack of care and worth. If he was not doing something he found enjoyable nor profitable, he simply did not do it. But alas, it seemed as if he had little choice. He would rather keep his soul, or whatever it was this entity was threatening him with. If it meant he could slit a throat tomorrow, he would do this task, but would likely attempt to find this woman when he had the time and make her pay for enslaving him to this task.

Yet all the sudden his world went dark, and he found himself slowly coming to on the hard ground. Oddly enough, he felt a strange tickle on his skin, and finally registered it was grass. He was unused to grass, or any of the verdant landscape he saw now that his eyes were open. He was a bandit of the desolate regions, but he supposed he could get used to this. Amal hopped to his feet with the flexibility of a monkey and the agility of a panther, crouched and glancing left and right, his knife in his hand as if he had plucked it out of thin air.

It was then he noticed he even had his knife, and idly he felt for the sword at his hip and the sack of belongings at his waist. He wore his usual attire too. How did all of this come about?

"Sorcery..." he hissed in frustration, but otherwise he kept quiet to hear the others speak. They did not seem hostile, and after a moment or two, he realized they too were as confused and lost as he was. They must have experienced the same dream-like state, which meant it had truly happened. Wonderful, it had not been some warped dream. Even as the strange humanoid sang and the blue woman sent her hawk into the distance, another one declared himself loudly and began to walk.

Amal merely watched him for a moment as he strode down the sloping incline, before turning to the others. "I say await the bird. A city means food and gold."

Though one was a man and the other an animal, in Amal's experience, it was men who lied, not beasts. He should know, he lied for most of his life.

Blackguards!

@Red Wizard Yep, will post in a day or so!