Avatar of WilsonTurner
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    1. WilsonTurner 12 yrs ago
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10 yrs ago
Current Spontaneously moving to a new account- OfWindAndRain.
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10 yrs ago
Born too late to explore the world; born too early to explore the galaxy.
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I'll eventually get a real bio in here.

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Here's a list of problems with that "intel" you have there about the Heshans:
A) It's Heshan, from Hesh, not Keshans, from Kesh.
B) Heshan troops are in foreign and unfamiliar territory, and were not even allowed to camp within the safety of the walls- they are hardened warriors. It is unlikely anyone would get them to talk so soon, to possible enemies. Everyone is foreign; everyone is a possible spy or assassin.
C) Heshans are warriors- attempts to wheedle information out of them would be met with cold glares, even if they were drunk. It's also likely they'd still beat you senseless before falling, too.
D) There is the northern icy tundra of Hesh, then there is the central deserts, and then the southern grasslands. It's all primarily flat- but it's not infertile. Desert is desert, but rivers provide lifeblood that makes otherwise inhospitable land very fertile and very much farmable.
E) Women are not so much warriors. They're more like the gems- they're protected and fit into traditional roles of women. Many, many people are unlikely to put a sword into a woman's hands.
F) You might want to add that they are clansmen- very much obviously. Kaz is the only one with heavy metal armor, and that's very, very expensive metal armor. Stuff that would rival a king's armor, though simpler and yet seeming more valuable at the same time.

So essentially, you need to get soldiers to relax before they talk, and these are elites from a continent-conquering force. Unlikely that you'll get them drunk enough to spill without even inviting them inside the walls. At best, they're offended by the gesture, especially with the approaching blizzard. At worst, they're likely to sick a knife between your ribs and take your money.
I don't like Chatzy :c
@RPforthatPR please calm down. Rushing others to post might end up badly.


I posted.
<Snipped quote by duck55223>

No. No. That's not the same thing. No. Nononononononononononononononononononononononono. Antimatter isn't negative mass, nor is it even remotely related to negative mass. And you don't say "A antimatter" or "A atom". It's "an atom" and "a(n) particle/atom/whatever the hell of antimatter".

Let's revisit the fact that you thought antimatter and negative mass were the same thing.

NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO.


He's right.
<Snipped quote by Durandal>

It wins because w40k

<Snipped quote by WilsonTurner>

To be fair, this walker is from a setting where hell is an alternate reality inhabited by demons that will eat your soul the moment they get... and you have to go through that hell for FTL travel, if there is one flaw in your ships psychic shield your soul gets eaten because your just a puny mortal who cannot possibly stand up to the chaos gods. The navigation beacon in this hell is powered by the corpse of the God-Emperor of Mankind who is constantly fighting a physic battle to stop said hell from spilling over into the real world. There are literally gods running around murdering other gods and betraying each other then getting murdered by mortals and soulless robots and trapped into fragments, and where a race achieved advancement from prehistoric stone age to super advanced alien race in 5000 years and apparently have no soul despite every other biological entity in the setting having a soul... Reality got buttfucked a long, long time ago, so;

1: Probably super metals. If not, power armour super metals. If not, metals being held up by the will of the guy who got skinned, embalmed and entombed inside the thing

2: They're energy weapons

3: It's not kinetic, like you said, so that can be chalked up to lacking recoil

4: Pretty much, though that's probably part of the design because the imperium loves making bullet sponge walkers. From it's ornate design I would judge that it's probably quite holy, so it might have a Rosarius field (Read: super energy shield). Or it might just be made out of super metals. Or power armour super metals. Or both, because why the hell not. To top it all of, from the colour scheme it's from the Ultrasmurfs so even if it was armed only with a piece of string and a thimble, it will destroy everyone who stands in it's way. Lol.

5: You're right on what the designs imagery, but wrong on the time frame. It's supposed to be from the year 40,000 AD (Or at least, it's presumably AD 40,000, unless the Imperium Switched the dates at some point) lol.


With all this supermetal crap, I think I'd just make a really big long-range cannon on the opposite side of the planet, have a small scout team mark the rather obvious target (or just spot it from orbit or high-altitude satelite) and then put a hole in it with a power armor human-enchanted-or-whatever supermetal shell that has superexplosives and crap.

That should put a hole in it. If not, I'll just use a nuke to blast a crater large enough to make it extremely difficult to get up.

Or maybe just a weather machine, and get it stuck in the mud. Slip'n'slide, eh?
Kaz eyed his sword dubiously- he was still doubting if it was quite shiny enough. Appearances were important, he knew, and he had to keep his up infinitely. No one could see him unguarded, weak. Friends were weakness- a bridge inside that could be manipulated. His armor and his weapons, they defined him- and they needed to look their best, so that if he should draw blood, one may see that not only does it look good, it also does its job. It might even get someone to underestimate him- and fighting a foe that underestimates him is a pleasing activity, if aggravating.

He wiped the sword down several more times with the oily rag, using the special recipe by clansmen of Gray Marsh to erase all rust or debris. Then he pulled out his whetstone and went at it again, sharpening and sharpening and sharpening. A servant appeared several dozen schrrrrrrrkings! in, opening her mouth to address him in some way. Instead, he cut her off with another application of the whetstone, eliciting a cringe from the maid, before following up again and again, watching her reaction. There were few servants such as this in Gray Marsh- most everyone knew how to kill. "An armed society is a polite society," indeed, when anyone you disrespect may end up putting a knife in one's back.

Finally, he stopped, put down his whetstone on the chest he was sitting on, and picking up his rag again. He busied himself with wiping it down all over again, getting metal shavings out and making the newly sharpened edge gleam. The maid, finally sure that she wasn't about to be interrupted, again opened her mouth to address him, sucking in a breath for something or the other. Instead, Kaz, again, rudely interrupted. "What is it that you want, youngling?" He stood, sheathing the sword at his waist, the sword sliding into the rune-covered steel-reinforced leather scabbard without a sound. His armor clinked against different plates lightly, surprisingly quiet for such heavy, thick armor. Mainly, that was thanks to the chainmail-and-leather combination. He was, technically, wearing the same leather armor as the rest of his troops, just modified and custom tailored to accommodate the semi-decorative plates of steel armor, with chainmail helping to protect his legs, squished between leather to make it appear deceptively weaker than the rest of his armor.

The maid flinched as he rose above her, but admiringly stood her ground, again trying to speak. "Sir- Lord- ah, that is... Warrior Kaziden of Hesh, your presence is requested within the great feast held below in the Great Hall." The maid scurried out immediately after, not even bothering with curtsey of any kind. He snorted; it did not matter to him.

Instead, he collected his knives, gave them another, shorter run with his whetstone and rag, before sheathing each back into their small pockets. He tightened the loosened straps of his armor, rolling his shoulders and shaking himself down, making sure he was limber and not at all stiff. Even a week's riding wouldn't stop him from being alert and prepared, for sure, otherwise he had no right being the greatest Warleader Gray Marsh- or all of Hesh- has ever seen. He allowed himself a moment's glow of pride at his achievements- he was the first and only Warleader in the entire sketchy history Hesh that has ever united the entire continent- and now there was the chance at more.

A cold, slightly predatory grin graced his worn face, and he stepped out into the hallway, weaponry and armor tinkling slightly. A passing maid cast him a glance, before looking back down. He caught her, however- an arm stopped her as surely as a wall would. "Take me to the Great Hall," was all the prompting he needed to send the maybe-terrified maid to guide the man of unknown origins and unknown armor and symbolism to where all the people are.

It was with great pleasure that he shoved the doors open in what may be a purposely dramatic way, striding into the room, dominating it for a moment, as people turned towards him. Weaker men wilted slightly; stronger men grew slightly more wary and alert. Gregor was the first person he noticed, the person he had already associated to be the head of the castle. Either way, as he strode nearer to the center of the room, ignoring any maids or servants, he cast his eyes throughout, taking in everything as if he already owned it. He met each man's eyes, each servant's, long enough to make the connection, short enough to take almost no time at all. He took in the entire room, turning slowly, before finally acknowledging Gregar, in which he leaned his upper body slightly forward, bowed his head, and crossed fists across his chest- the gestures of a Heshan warrior to someone worth respect, regardless if they are weaker, stronger, or equal. It was, for him, demoting Gregor, demoting him from the assured position of authority to someone of questionable authority and power- and the more politically inclined might be more likely to notice.

He was the kind of person to build up power as quickly as possible, and in any of the courts in Hesh, he would've already established himself as a major party, even without backers. Utter confidence in himself, combined with the warrior's strength and a conquerer's tendency to regard things not yet their own as future possessions meant that he would be very difficult to fight against, whether politically or militarily. Oh, he wasn't having any illusions now- there were plenty of lords here. The man in charge should fear; Kaz would be doing his best to undermine and usurp his position. If Kaz succeeded in taking it, he may go on to conquer the rest of the continent by politics or military, or should he be stumped, the leading family would earn his respect and a possible alliance offer.

And the smile he gave Gregor was a private, secret smile- one that anyone in charge would fear. A chilling smile, cold, calculated, yet simulating warmth and kindness. The smile of a manipulative killer.
<Snipped quote by ClocktowerEchos>

Clock is correct.


WHO-IS-THEE?!?!?!
Those legs/waist would be crushed to oblivion.

The giant cannon wouldn't be kinetic; ammunition wouldn't be able to be efficiently funneled to it.

General proportions and all that suggest that firing the big cannon would drop it on its back.

Very easy target for a whole lot of effort and resources.

General design of it suggests a medieval-y walker, steampunky. I don't think technology would've advanced sufficiently to have such little legs pull up such big feet and move them without falling over, nor while keeping up such a great big weight.


Dat shit way better than dis shit:

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