Cash78

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

Sorry guys, I've written Phrike out of the game because I just can't give you a good posting schedule or routine and I'd hate to hold up the roleplay. Hopefully this gives you guys something to work with and it was really fun while it lasted!

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

The world dissolved around Phrike in a lazily shifting fog of war that floated across the makeshift battleground, clogging his nostrils and making his eyes water from the residual vapours from the burning wrecks and explosions. He clutched his knife in one hand, chest rising rapidly as he began to hyperventilate, his world becoming a tunnel.

As if by the hand of some cosmic God and with the resounding claxons bringing an end to the conflict, save for a few sporadic bursts of lasfire, he crawled to his feet. His mind never left that tunnel, dragging his way into the rough formation that made up Eighth Squad. In a flurry of activity, he felt shoulders, hands and elbows shove him around as they attempted to get into some sort of respectable form before one of the prowling, white-clad Arbites took the better end of a shock maul to their skulls.

"Inmate!" He raised his head from the hunch it was in, just in time to see the half-face reflection in the helmet of an Arbites. "Where is your service weapon?"

"I-..." Came the start of what would have been a sentence, had he not been cut off by the crack of a fist that sent him sprawling out of the loose formation of inmates. None looked his way, used to this occurance, and the assembly of Imperial Regiments didn't seem too phased to the abuse he sustained.

There was no resistance on his part, no fighting back. He curled into a ball as fists were rained upon him, a semi-circle of other Arbites keeping a close eye on the action and the other convicts. Before the eyes of those who cared, you could see the socket of his eyeball break, his lip crack and split, maybe even a tooth or five come loose and hit the ground.

For what seemed like forever, but in actuality was maybe even a minute or two, the assault continued until one Arbites came around with a resounding swing of his maul, striking him across the skull. Even amongst the commotion of the assault and the formations, the crunch of his skull caving in was harrowing, the kind of sound you remember for the rest of your life.

He fell limp, and the life drained from his body, as the group of Arbites scattered, pushing the body over onto the side to bleed out, lifeless and still sans a few spasms - no repercussions, no ordeal. Maybe in a few minutes a servitor or a serf would come and collect the body to be recycled, his sparse equipment to be dispersed among the inmates.

Phrike, the only member of Eight Squad born on the prison colony of Redemption, had done what few had ever done; he escaped Redemption, dying free and amongst a great cosmic expanse that he had wished he could of explored had the hands of fate not cut his thread to early.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

So, rushed post, but it's the only time I got left but should be able to keep up now.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

He never got the response he wanted, not that it even mattered or cared. The words were said purely to soothe his own frantic mind, with whatever else going on was merely added to the blur of action and the cacophany of lasfire, punctuated by the occasional blast from a frag grenade. He found comfort in the safety of their bunker, the lasfire safely embedding as smouldering craters in the sides, shrapnel appearing to do the same.

Then, as if the Cosmos themselves were wishing to spite the poor Redemption-born Cutman, he watched as the two fulcrums of Eighth Squad up and left in a flurry of concussive blasts. He sat there for a moment, bouncing in his kneeling position before he gripped his rifle, tears welling up in his eyes as smoke drifted in through slits in the bunker, making it difficult to see.

"Oh, for Terra!" He cursed, crawling over to the bunker door and taking off in a sprint after the other two, not quite as adept at lugging around all his gear at once. More than just once his pre-owned boots wedged their cap in a rock, sending him sprawling with a resounding thwack that left him winded. Luck seemed to be on his side, though, as he made progress towards the other two.

The smoke drifting lazily across the hangar simulation, absent of any wind, obscured his vision - what he thought was Octavia and Tigraines turned out to be two frantic Legionnaires. A more seasoned warrior would use this opportunity to get the drop on them, seize the intiative and dictate the tempo - instead, Phrike came to a skidding stop.

For a moment, both parties peered through the smoke.

Lasfire.

A volley of poorly aimed beams of red light fired where Phrike once was, the Paleman now huddled behind a burnt out wreck of a Taurus, the radiant heat scorching one side of his face. He couldn't stay here long, the animalistic "fight or flight" instinct taking over as he heard them stepping over towards him, one around the left; the other around the right.

He took off in a sprint, startling the one on the right as he booked it past him. Through sheer luck, he avoided the volley of lasfire, until the very last instant. Just as he was about to crest a mound of rubble towards the correct squad, the entire left side of his body light up in extreme agony. He didn't stop, however, even though he was no longer under fire. He had no idea if they were still chasing him.

Falling in line behind Octavia and Tigraines, panting, he gave himself the chance to inspect his wound. A lasblast had scorched his tattered dungarees, fused into his skin from the heat, across his arm. He didn't need to worry about bleeding, the wound had been cauterized, as had the other round on his shoulder and side. He'd be fine.

His lascarbine, however, was not. It had copped two blasts, one that melted the side of the barrel inwards and the other across the front of the receiver, clean through. A tentative pull of the trigger only gave him a resounding whine from the receiver and a futile spark, he ditched the weapon behind himself as they ran, clutching his knife instead as he attempted to keep pace with the other two so as not to be left alone.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

Sorry, some time tomorrow I'll try and pump one out - I've just been caught up in work.

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

Aight, got time off work for sickness so put up a post. A bit shithouse but it gets the job done for now. ;3

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

"You got guts, son," came words from the darkest corner of their little slice of the hangar, squared away for what was now a proper squad formation. It wasn't so much the words or their implications sink, but that the voice was unknown yet privy to their argument. "I like that."

The whip-thin frame of Phrike quickly turned to face this newest character, paranoia setting in his mind immediately as to which of the Arbites had been quiet enough to sneak up on them, hear their demoralizing tone and give them just enough time before fingering the detonater, taking out a whole squad at whim. Instead, he saw one of the most terrifying men he had seen - albeit calmed slightly by his lack of uniform, clad only in the dungarees of an Imperial Soldier and not the ornate white, full-face anonymity of an Arbites.

He came up to even Phrike's height, if not a bit shorter, but that didn't make him feel any better. He was as tall as he was wide and he took a few steps back as he came under scrutiny, fingers unconciously resting on his monoknife.

"Guts? No... just..." He scrambled for words, scanning the room before he faked a smile, drawing wrinkles along the multiple tattoos on his face. "Just common sense."

"Where to, uhm... Sarge?" He asked, in queary to where they would be going in two hours. But the man was gone just as he came, into the darkness of the hangar and out of the range of care of the 8th Squad. He stared at the others for a moment, bewildered, before he returned to his bunk in an attempt to understand his lascarbine.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Everything was a blur. From being grouped up and marched under duress into the confines of a much larger chamber, the mock details and the intentions they carried lost on even an educated man like Phrike under the guise of his own paranoia and fear. He could feel the base instincts of his being rise to the surface, his mind going blank as he began to hyperventilate, shaking so rapidly his rifle clattered to the ground in front of him.

In fact, if it hadn't so, he might not have been there. Scrambling to the ground after his weapon, shrapnel tore up the empty void he left and hit one of the 8th behind him. Without a care for the masculinty in it or the bravery of some of the others, he screamed, arterial spray from the man behind him warming the exposed left side of his face as he fell to the ground; dead. There was no point for Phrike to even check. No one survived having their entire throat ripped out by a jagged chunk of metal.

Like an animal, he resorted to what he knew. He found a familiar face, the quiet Guardswoman, and he picked up his rifle with one hand as he scrambled low to the ground, impossibly low, as the barriers around him scorched and splintered, jagged chunks of metal embedding in the frame of the door as he passed it, coming up behind the woman and planting a hand on her shoulder, fearful she'd turn and openly cauterize him. If she cared even to turn, she'd find the man with watering eyes - whether from his own emotions, dust or smoke, it was hard to tell. He was barely holding onto his rifle, instead it was slung over his shoulder as he held onto the tattered remains of the man the woman had just stabbed.

He had a hand over the man's stomach wound, barely aware that this man prior to them had attempted to put lasfire on the woman through the doorframe. In fact, he dragged the man, still bleeding, into the bunker under the guise of gunfire, protected only by random debris. In that time, however, the man had gone into shock, bled out and died. By the time the Cutman got into the bunker with Octavia, his efforts were for nil - the man was dead and he was hauling him uselessly, barely able to get him into the door.

"Terra!" He cursed, a stray beam hitting the wall next to him and sending him scurrying into the ground, now using the dead man as cover. He drew his monoknife and began to cut the vest from the remains of the man, even with a giant hole resting just above the belly. With a resounding amount of effort, he pulled and the vest came free. Just in time too, as he threw it over himself and stood next to the woman, albeit not as confident. In a tone he was not quite proud of, more desperate than he hoped, "What do we do!?"

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

Yeah, sorry. Fire season just started so I keep getting called away pretty much everyday.

Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - The Orcish Mercenary Saga

Hey, I was wondering if you still needed some people for the RP? Put my character up, hope that's all good.

Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - The Orcish Mercenary Saga

Old Moon

Name: "Old Moon" Muzgrim.
Age: 49 (Soon to be 50, the old sod).
Sex: Male.
Breed: Full-blooded orc.

Appearance:



Time is starting to wear on this old warrior, despite all of his attempts to fight it, and it shows. Once a huge, brooding Orc is now slumped over when at ease, his bones stiff and rigid when not in motion. His colossal legs serve only to support his now growing gut and barrel chest, but it's hard to deny the Orc has won his fair share of arm wrestling bouts among younger recruits even in his twilight years. His mouth is mismangled, full of protruding tusks and razor-esque teeth, missing almost entirely his lips. His brow is sloping, his eyes recessed, bloodshot and tired, and his forehead is cleaved from temple to jaw in massive keloid scars. One ear is missing almost entirely, whilst the other is pierced through with varying arrays of silver, gold and jeweled earrings.

He prefers to keep his hair shaved, but has managed to grow a beard (now distinguished) which is patchy in spots where scar tissue grows instead. He usually wears a dirtied blue bandana around his forehead to wick sweat from his eyes. Inkwork tattoos adorn his hands and forearms. Where available, he likes to paint his jaw red before entering battle. His armor consist of heavy banded plates, decorated with frilled leather for decoration, intimidation and to keep his joints flexible yet protected

Skills/Abilities:
- Mano-a-Mano: Muzgrim is an expert fighter with decades of real experience - he especially excels in killing enemy champions, leaders; anyone with a big enough mouth to warrant being cut down a peg. He'd enjoy nothing more than showing a few bunnies what one Orc with a blade can inflict upon a whole army.

- Unstoppable Force, Immovable Object: A bit too poetic, but it stands to reason. As one of the Company's veteran Blades, Muzgrim cannot rely on shoulder-to-shoulder protection from his brothers, nor can he rely on a wall of points. He stands his ground, lest he bring a defeatist nature back into the ranks and hits just as hard as any young Greenling.

- Nature of Warfare: Having been with the Company most of his life, Muzgrim isn't unused to the motions of battle. He is best used within ranks of junior Orcs, his commanding of battle exceedingly well versed. Every Orc lost inflcits a great pain on Muzgrim, albeit a necessary one. It's another lesson learned, another weak link broken and reforged.

- A Father to All: Muzgrim isn't unheard of in the Company. After the head honchos, he might be the first friendly face that exists that isn't out to knock you around the skull or cut you in another training lesson. Firm, but fair.

- Hell's Kitchen: Give him anything edible, if even that, and he'll give you some of the best grub you can get out there. In some cases, just don't ask what animal it came from.

Equipment:
- Full-plated suit: The ancient battlefield equivalent of a tank. No fresh recruit to the company, Muzgrim has had decades to build, forge and fight in his suit and it shows. Like a second skin, he moves as a living bulwark of harsh iron without hindrance. It is smooth, designed not to catch blades or hinder him, underlined with leather and fur and painted one half black, the other red. The helmet itself is half-face, the eyeslots allowing him peripheral vision that he sorely needs when fighting. Orcish fashion follows, with rough studded spikes across the "forehead" of the plate make for a brutal headbutt when the enemy finds himself closer than he'd like.

- Sword and Shield: A vicious combination. The sword looks more like a claymore in size, built for an Orc. Isn't curved like a lot of Orcish swords, instead straight-on, with a handguard, forged out of steel. The hilt is mangled from use, but the blade is forged new and sharp as ever. The shield extends from Muzgrim's shin to his shoulder, square in shape with jagged edges, with a hole cut-out in the center for a spear; Orcs are hard to kill, but cavalry charges are one way to do so easily. The front is emblazoned with the Company standard, as well as a kill-count.

- Spear: Again, a creation designed for an Orc's use in mind. Longer than your usual (heh) bunny spear, it is pointed at the base, so that it can be wedged at an angle into the ground to take a horse charge or as a hold-out weapon. The spear is also covered in streaming cloths of various colours, some splattered with gore and tissue.

- Hatchet: What's an Orc without a big chopper?

- Backpack: Although left behind in battle, it holds the vast majority of his spare equipment and personal items. Food, pots, pans, personal trinkets, etc.

History:

People (see: Bunnies) always like to paint the everyday Orc as a creature of violence. As if day-in, day-out they think, do and achieve nothing but tribal warfare, carving each other up, roasting the corpses of babies over open fires - if that were even true, could you really do that all day, all week, all month, all year? For Muzgrim, he never experienced that. He enjoyed a relatively serene childhood in a mountain refuge he barely remembers, let alone the mother, father or community he was apart of before a lightning raid in the dead of night took him away from all that he had known, separated in the confusion and slaughter. He was seven, eight maybe? Maybe. Can't be sure.

For a few days, he wandered the mountain refuges and forests for a time, stumbling into a Human township. Eventually, he was taken in by a family of Humans, neither rich nor poor. The father, a man of quick anger and petty revenge named Armond, wanted to use him as a display piece. The wealth to afford an Orcish slave, he dressed him in the finest arrangements, paraded him at dinners, beat him in public, lashed out at him - the first man in the town with his very own Orc. The novelty wore off quick as more and more of the wealthy bought one Orc, then another, three, four, five...

His wife, Liana and their daughter Miri, were the other side of that coin. They taught him to read, write, let him play and grow whilst tending to his wounds. When he looks back, as he often does in his ancient years, he remembers them fondly. He grew into your... well, not very Orcish Orc. He was twelve, towering over even the men in the township, but dressed as them, spoke like them and acted like them. He was standing in the square, a market fair was on. It was ideal. No violence, not a cloud in the sky or a complaint to bare until he saw another of his own kid, an Orc who had his true name taken and replaced with "Armis" was struck in the face.

This very point was when everything changed, as cliche as it is. They say you view people of authority and raw power as larger in your memories and to a young Muzgrim, Armis was a thousand foot beast. Rearing up, he struck back, taking the teeth off the noble woman who raised a hand to him. There was an intervening crowd, but they stood no chance - once the tide changed, one Orc became two, then three. The novelty pets they scolded and beat became rampant. A building was alight, embers in the air spreading the damage. It was a full blown revolt.

In a panic, he returned home, although he wasn't the first of his kind to get there, nor did they share his intentions of safe refuge. Armis was there, made leader-elect of his adhoc mob. Armond was swaying in the trees, a limp corpse with a bloated face hanging from a noose, his wife struggling next to him as she fought for air. Miri was next, a blur of motion following as Muzgrim attempted to fight. Instead, they forced his hand - either kill her or die with her. Well, he's still alive today, so it's not hard to imagine what he chose, even if he wasn't proud. The orcs fought as a band of highwaymen for some time, before the Company in its burgeoning years enveloped them to their cause.

He grew from there, from a frightened twelve year old who barely spoke the Orcish tongue, into one of the Company's grizzled veterans, a warrior of countless battles, a champion of slaughter. Those Hangmen Orcs are no longer around anymore, leaving Muzgrim the last. Some died of battlefield injuries, unavoidable, disease or infection from their wounds, but some found that the boy they moulded and scarred for life never forgot the lessons they taught him, glad to return the favour.

Personality and Psychological profile:
Muzgrim fears no mortal instrument, existing with the genuine belief that he might be the first of the Company to truly "die in his bed" from old age. That isn't to say he is without his fears. He is a haunted individual, terrified of being alone or without distraction from the thoughts that he isn't able to drown out with alcohol, violence or companionship, reminded of all the death, violence and pain he has been a party to. Superficially, this doesn't show. He is grandfatherly in nature, well known in the company for sharing a meal, teaching a lesson or defending a brother.

He values fearlessness, integrity and, more importantly, intelligence. He believes there's no future for the next generation of Orcs if they're nothing but the stereotypes that they live up to in the eyes of the world, but he does realize this is the alotment they've been chosen. Among this, he also has no hate or anger towards Humans, nor Dwarves or Elves. Some within the Company see him as weak or frail, as he refuses to indulge in acts of cruelty or vengeance (at least anymore) nor does he believe in hiding his emotions, save for his existential fear of his own mind, an act that pains him. Within the Company, he is one of the first Orcs others meet outside of the head honchos, as he is always willing to give a Greenling a chance, just like they did for him.

Relationships and Acquaintances:
Having been around for awhile, Muzgrim has formed an opinion about a few of the Orcs within the Company, whether based off their reputation or acts of battle he has seen with his own eyes, but has largely been removed from their lives for the most part.