POOHEAD189

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Initially, I had figured we would be caught in an ambush as we left. The marksmen positioned inside of the gala were there for precaution, rather than predicted utility. Only in the most strangest circumstances did I believe we would be attacked in the very center of the party. I spent my time, while vigilant and performing the same discreet injections as Emmaline, doing my best to enjoy myself. I began to feel more unburdened by the worries, and despite the lingering thoughts of what was going to occur, I found spending time with Emmaline without care for decorum was immensely enjoyable. She recieved more than a few men's attention, but to my surprise I had to politely decline a number of young women, and a surprising amount of married ones, much to the glowering displeasure of their husbands.

However, the trap was sprung nonetheless. I dropped Emmaline in a dip and vaulted over a stone alcove. The CRACK CRACK CRACK of the lasbolts ripping through even the screaming. Men scattered and women tripped and screamed, but to my satisfaction the local arbites and the PDF forces that had been requisitioned were returning fire without hesitation.

There were moments in firefights where the combat shifts, and you can sense it. If you've been in as many as I have, it's like feeling a change in the wind. As soon as I felt it, I lifted myself up and planted my arms on the stone's solid surface to steady my aim, discharging my autogun three times into the closest assailant, who had redirected his fire and attention to the upper floors of the refurbished theater. Two slug hit his body armor, but the third pierced his neck, blood spraying into the goggles of his closest partner. I switched targets and emptied the magazine into him before he could duck behind cover, not giving him time to reorient himself. Briefly I saw Emmaline to my right, and it was after the second man was dead that she used her will. I felt an almost impenetrable urge to drop my weapon, but I was trained to resist such compulsion.

Well, that would bring questions, I thought to myself. Luckily we could blame it on the attackers, easily enough.

As she turned and fled the three men swatting aside the waiting staff, I reloaded quickly and provided cover fire with five quick shots. She screamed but did not stumble, and crashed into the stone. I pulled her over to land heavily beside me, the other men diving behind cover as I did so, lasbolts superheating the air just above our heads.

"Good job on hitting his knee," I said, referring to the first man she shot as I returned fire again and then hastily reloaded. I only had two magazines left, I noted.

"What?" She asked, incredulously.

"We need one alive, remember." I said with a grin. She was going to shake her head, but then she screamed my name and pointed. I turned as a man landed just beside me, spinning his carbine to take me in the head. I kicked out on instinct, knocking him off his feet. His carbine went off, lasbolts flying inches from our feet. That gave me the moment to leap up and tackle him to the ground as bullets and laser pierced the air a mere meter above our heads. He managed to knee me in the stomach, attempting to break my teeth with his forehead, but I dodged the blow and returned with my own, dazing him and pressing his gun into him, redirecting my previous pulling motion. The carbine went off again, spraying the stonework with lasbolts. I felt I had him, but our contest ended when Emmaline plunged her knife into his leg, and I yanked the gun out of his hand and bashed the butt of it into his face, knocking him out cold.

A bullet ricocheted off the floor beside my head, and I hastily slid back, pulling the masked man's limp body into cover as I handed Emmaline the lascarbine. "Here, be careful. Try not to hit the guests." I deadpanned, and swiftly tied the assailant up, binding his hands behind his back before I retrieved my fallen gun.

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Awesome! Can't wait to get to it

Blackguards of The Moonsea

Malcador had seen the weaving of magic too fast for the eye to follow. Movements so quick, flows so minute in design, they could barely be said to have occurred at all. Yet the assassin moved like a dream. Serpents could not claim something so sinuous, and yet it was beautiful. He had been attracted before, but the fluidity of her motion was mesmerizing, and the smoke only added to the mystique. However, Arloke's alien form broke the spell, and he realized for a single breath he had been staring before he tumbled out of the doorway, and his mind caught up with him. He coughed, but kept himself upright as the drow caught her breath. Suddenly, he realized he felt the weave again. It was as if Mystra had awoken and touched his brow.

The drow also made a fine point, it was time to go.

As if on cue, Arloke spat out a small glob of silk into Malcador's open palm. "Eugh..." he complained, but it was needed. Quickly, he placed the bottle of alcohol on the ground and he withdrew the thread from his pocket, holding it taut with a flourish, keeping it vertical to the ground so the silk would slid into it. He began to chant the opening to the incantation, needing to begin softly to catch the winds of magic before he could truly call upon the powers. Like one could feel the water they had just drunk sliding down their throat, he finally felt the weave come around into the center of his sensations, and then he began to speak louder. He could only see his hands before him. He did not hear the shouts of curiosity from his left, at least not at first. When he did, it was distant, out of focus. He could barely hear the metallic sound of swords leaving their sheathes, and men crying out for them to halt their activity. He could make out the tensing of his companion, but his spell reached a crescendo, and suddenly the silk, as well as the thread, were consumed by purplish flames that erupted from the bottle.

Immediately Malcador grabbed the assassin's wrist as smoke whirred to envelop him, and he pulled her close in a sudden embrace to make sure he did not leave her behind. "Don't stab me!" He said hastily, and he felt Arloke clinging to his leg as the mystical smoke ensconced them. The guards leaped into the smoke, but their swords cleaved through nothing, and their hands grabbed only one another.

For a single instant, there was a feeling of utter weightlessness as their bodies were flung through an unknown dimension. However, just as soon as the weightlessness had appeared, gravity came crashing back, and both the mage and drow hit the dirt as if they were lovers that had been shoved off a table. Malcador felt her knee go into his stomach, and his dark blue eyes widened as the breath was driven out of his lungs. However, the sky above, though the same sky, was now marred by the leaves of trees on the right. Idly he realized the wall of Thentia loomed over them...

The outer wall.

They had made it outside! No wonder it was so bloody cold. For a brief moment, he appreciated the drow's warmth, but he knew every second added to the possibility of being stabbed, or perhaps she would bite his jugular and drink his blood? He was still unsure of what drow females did to people that were no longer useful. It was an intrusive thought, he doubted she would do that at this point. But now was also the moment of clarity. Now they technically did not need each other, at least not immediately.

Malcador would push her off of him, but he also knew putting his hands on her wasn't smart, so he simply let her go. Arloke shimmied off his leg, helpfully.

"We did it." he croaked with little enthusiasm.

major drama in the status section of the silly roleplay forum

greenday is pretty fkn cool

Wealth and Warpstorms

"Weel, 'spose theer culd be werse crewmen." Alcander said dryly, but not dishonestly. Alcander recalled taking a break from his rounds in a seedy dive during his stint as an enforcer on Hive Laterus, where the ex-crewmen of a small time rogue trader had bragged he had gone into debt with the Black Bankers, a notorious loan agency, and had placed his captain's ship as collateral. He had fled to a different system and let them handle it amongst themselves. Alcander had a number of anecdotes of people whom he trusted even less than those of the Porphyrian account, which more spoke about the state of the Imperium than any intelligent choice on his or Camilla's part. However, they had to make do with what they could.

He inclined his head at Camilla noting she would take his advice. They had a frigid gulf between them for close to a week, but he was somewhat calming down from it, despite his misgivings of her betrayal. They got on so well before then, it was a shame. But he also had to remind himself on the simple fact, he had not done anything wrong except more than asked.

The shuttle began to vibrate (more violently, at least) as they broke through the atmosphere, and Jocasta merely decided to speak louder so others could hear her extol on and on about the inner workings of the archeotech. For once, Camilla and Alcander had a moment of camraderie as they shared a suffering look together before they both looked at Jocasta, who's eyes were on the ceiling as she recounted the fifty seventh integral component to a macro-hammer, which Alcander noted they did not even own. As they prattled on, his ears popped gently, and he cleared his sinuses a moment as the air pressure was redistributed by the shuttles life support. Thrusters were engaged, roaring even over Jocasta's lecture, and they slowed their descent over the course of the next few minutes until they were all shaken by a dull thud, and green lights began to flicker above them.

"Seneschal, shall move along?" Camilla asked, happy to notice Jocasta had gone silent and expectant. Alcander looked back at the crew, and then after hesitating a brief moment, nodded.

"Yes ma'am, lady." He said, and unfastened himself to open the hatch. Behind him, the voidsmen began unshackling the combat servitor, and it whirred to life, its arms raising just as Alcander pulled the latch, the reinforced plasteel dropping onto the snowy ground with a loud 'thunk.' Immediately, the cold rushed in, but the outside of the shuttle was still hot from the fall. It would give them a brief field of warmth before it would be snuffed out. "Alright lads, ye heerd the ledee! Moov oot!"

Camilla produced a small data-slate, no doubt with comms and directional capacity. He bloody hoped it was accurate.

Blackguards of The Moonsea

Basheba curse the whole situation, he thought. Malcador was not an assassin, but he had seen hard men and professional killers work before. He had expected more stabbing. Then again even if she went in there and promptly stabbed two of them, they would still have a fight on their hands. Briefly he pondered sprinting past everyone and then turning the door into a block of ice with his cone of cold spell, but he wouldn't betray the pretty drow or her dog-sized spider. As much as he might feel the thought creeping in, something held him back, for good or ill. Damn, he hated having a conscience, as small and weak as it was.

He had to admit the guards were hard men. He had expected a few of them to squeal and fall out of their chairs at the sight of a spider that size, but they drew their swords after the briefest hesitation. As the smoke poured in, noting that, at least, was a very smart play, he wrapped a cloth around his handsome face in anticipation. Drawing in a deep breath, he steeled himself and watched the chaos unfold. Webbing shot out, covering the arms and hair of the guards who had not had the foresight to keep their helms on. The dark maiden waded into them, going about her deadly work with impressive efficiency. The wizard knew it wouldn't go her way if he did not help, but he had a distinct fear of blades entering his body and had given up on physical combat after the academy. Even with his past of running the streets, without a weapon and against armored men, he did not like his odds.

Instead, an instant read of the room had Malcador's eyes catch the man that was still just waking up. He was not only drowsy, but was taking in a lungful of fresh smoke and staggering away from the fireplace, desperately trying to find clear air where his eyes could focus without stinging. He dropped his near empty bottle to roll across the floor and feebly reached for the sword at his belt. While the other men turned, trying to find the source of the commotion and the location of the spider, Malcador sprang from the lip of the stairwell and charged the staggered guardsman, hitting him from behind with the entirety of his weight and driving him to the floor in a heap. Immediately he felt a bruise welling from a piece of plate slapping into his forearm, but he yanked the helmet off and grabbed the man's head of hair before he used all his strength to slam it into the ground thrice, each time hitting audibly as the cries of alarm rose across the room. He grabbed at the hilt of the sword in the now limp hand, and withdrew it from his scabbard, rising with an arming sword in one hand as a duelist, or more aptly, a battlemage might.

He kicked the head of the fallen man one more time and then ran in to the flank of the confusing melee, trying to decipher just what was happening. The smoke and the webbing and the assassin's whirring blades made it difficult to ascertain, but he still waited as long as he could for a well-made strike, suddenly seeing a bare neck out of the smog. Malcador stabbed at it, but missed. Luckily he made a pull cut and gashed the man, who cried out in pain and turned, his eyes wild and his face screwed up from the smoke and pain. Malcador desperately blocked a clumsy cut from him, before cutting his hand, causing him to drop the blade. Malcador stepped forward and smashed the pommel of his sword into the man's face. He fell like a downed tree. It was a lucky exchange of swords, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Assassin! Let's get out of here!" Malcador cried, drawing a small modicum of the other men's attention. He backpedaled out of their line of sight behind the smoke, but he had to admit he was also finding it difficult to breathe and see his surroundings. He lowered himself to the floor in a crouch, deigning to make his escape before he saw the fallen bottle had rolled into the wall. He went for it, glad to see it still had enough of the swill to be useble for the spell. "Let's go!"

He began a full sprint across the remaining half of the room, making for the door, sword leading in case he had to use it in his flight. If Arlocke gave him a bit of webbing, they would be gone in twenty seconds.

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Doctor Knave Mister Knight

Name: Rupert Henry/Sir Aldus Grey

Character Concept: Knave Knight

Physical Description: A spin of yarn, a bit of grime, a man out of time. A pinch of charm, a penchant to rhyme, a skulking shift in the paradigm.

Rupert is unscrupulous, disheveled, and half the time unbathed. He sports a coat fit for a victorian and a hat that hides his indigo eyes. His face is symmetrical, albiet his nose is still crooked from a back alley scuffle in his early years. His hair is brown and as thick as wheat, and his skin had an almost pallid grey coloring to it. He has the distinct look of someone with a dangerous secret, with the air of a dealer of money, and a smile of someone not afraid to die.

In fact, he might welcome it.

General Background: Rupert Henry was born in 1809. An orphan, a street urchin. He made a home for himself in the backslums, working petty crimes and growing up without guidance beyond a friendly scholar who taught him a few educational anecdotes and ways to speak properly. One day, when Rupert was an adult, he went back to visit the old scholar, to find he had disappeared. The only thing left in the vacated estate, the only thing in the entirety of the cleared out structure, was a crucifix necklace, set on a dias.

He pocketed it, more to sell it than remember the old man, but eventually he did find himself putting it on his neck.

The necklace disappeared into a trillion golden sparks, and the mark of the cross was on his chest. Now, he has a voice in his head. The voice of the scholar, who, through an incessant amount of questioning, revealed himself to be Aldus Grey, Lord Captain of the Ordo Draconis, the Order of the Dragon.

Rupert is now bound, as Aldus is, to the Oaths of the Order and to finding the Seven Heads of the Beast, which are seven evil dragons. Three have been slain, in two hundred years. In that time, Rupert cannot steal, or he would feel the sting of a thousand needles in his eyes, he cannot lie, or be struck by lightning, and he cannot steal, or feel the sensation of being boiled alive. He has had to skirt the lines, do what he can to survive, while adhering to these draconian rules of life.

Powers:
Aldus's Arms & Armor: To cry "Arma Invicta" summons forth a suit of magical plate armor, along with a crucifix longsword able to harm otherworldly beasts. The armor was made in the fires of the last goodly dragon, Dómgreind. It can withstand small arms fire, and is resistant (but not immune) to magical attacks.

Skills of Practice: A two hundred year old young man, living with the knowledge and unsolicited advice of a six hundred year old knight.

Skullduggery: Rupert might be bound by oaths, but he knows how to bypass them in certain ways, and knows his way around a back alley.

Longevity: Rupert can die, if his head if removed or if he is drowned for an extended period of time. However, it is exceedingly difficult to kill him, and he can live indefinitely until the task of the order is complete.

Fear: Rupert fears being stuck in these oaths for eternity. He initially fears dying for this mission he had no stake in, but is beginning to think death might be a release. He fears not being able to truly live. Aldus, however, fears dying without fulfilling his oath.

Desire: Rupert wishes to be separated from Aldus, and allowed to live freely, or die to end it.