Enigmatik

Murder for Fun and Profit: Mercenaries in London

The weight on his back was an old familiar friend to him. Thumbing the strap of it, he let the ammunition inside rattle and clink about. It made stealth near impossible, but who needed stealth when you had 35 5.56 rounds and one more in the chamber. The long, slightly curved magazines were neatly tucked into the many pockets of his rig, whilst his appearance was covered by the balaclava. A set of ballistic goggles, tinted to cover his eyes, were fitted neatly there.

He was ready. The laser designation, a polymer rifle-styled stock with a trigger hooked up to an electronic device one of the artillerymates had cooked up. He looked down at his phone where the message had been sent out, running it through the software that PH had instructed him to get when he had first worked with them. It was important, since strictly speaking they were probably a terrorist organisation, but really England's counter-terror organisations hadn't been a threat to Pale Horse since the nukes.

No matter though, he had turned up. The area around here was crumbling, with vines and grass starting to sprout up between cracks in the asphalt. The only sign that he had, in fact, turned up to the right place was a stencilled design on the wall. Other than that... Didn't look like anyone else had cropped their heads up. Waiting game, he supposed.

Murder for Fun and Profit: Mercenaries in London

"Gie'za pint mate." The Scotsman leaned forward across the bar and indicated with two fingers. The barman looked up at him and nodded, putting down the cloth he had been using to wipe down the surfaces.

"Sure. Foster's alright?" The man indicated to the taps in front of him. Lager, mostly. No good local stuff anymore, microbreweries had been the first to go after the nukes. He supposed that at the very least it cut down the number of hipsters.

"Nah, nae having that shite. Stella." He pointed to the white tap, the bartender leaning over and filling it up, trimming the head off with a quick swipe before handing it over. A quick draught of the stuff to quench that tickling in his throat, and then the man would slide across a plastic fiver, watching as it was gobbled up. He needed a job soon, someone to shoot.

Speak of the devil, there was his phone. Messages from Pale Horse. A raid on a CDA facility. Sounded like his kind of job. A CDA counteroffer would crop up, but he didn't care about that. He'd already accepted the PH job, no need to bugger around. A few swiped got him across to the conference call app he'd set up with his squad, sending them a ping. Two minutes later, and half a pint of Stella in his gut, and he would start the call. "Alright boys. Get set up, we'se got a job to do." That was all that he needed.

Polishing off the pint, he would listen to the message as he left the bar, nodding slightly. Bang boom crash. Seemed exactly what he liked to do. Just hoped the call to action would start quickie sharpish like.

Murder for Fun and Profit: Mercenaries in London

Pleasant's the name, killing's my game.

Roland Pleasant

A 32-year-old veteran has seen a lot of things. Like, a lot of things. Who could blame him then, when at the time of the bombs in London, he finally decided fuck it? Nobody at all. In the chaos, it was easy for him and his squad to sneak away with L118 Light Gun and enough ammunition to keep themselves supplied for a century if needed. Now, all it takes is for one toss of a laser designatior and a position'll be barraged faster than you can say 'improper use of military hardware' three times backwards.

Beyond a bloody big gun behind him, Roaland also bothers to lug around a lot of bullets. Far more than he himself needs, as a matter of fact. Instead, most of his rucksack is free for people who need spare ammo to grab a magazine or three... Just so long as they toss some dosh his way. He isn't running a charity, and the prices for an in-fight pick-me-up aren't bad in the slightest.

For killing people with more precision than a 105 howitzer shell, he also carries around a L85A3 standard issue assault rifle, and an equally standard L105A1 handgun. Plenty of firepower, plenty of stopping power, all in neat packages. In case things go really south he carries an L3A1 (lots of L's in the British army,) bayonet- perfect for stabbing people when they get too uppity.

The man himself... Well, he does tend to get a bit hammy sometimes. His faint-but-still-audible Scottish accent, the fact that he easily has the heaviest firepower amidst all the mercenaries and his combat experience means that he's generally the most obvious sound on the battlefield... And, to be frank, off it too.

Murder for Fun and Profit: Mercenaries in London

Pleasant's the name, killing's my game.

Roland Pleasant

A 32-year-old veteran has seen a lot of things. Like, a lot of things. Who could blame him then, when at the time of the bombs in London, he finally decided fuck it? Not in the slightest. In the chaos, it was easy for him and his squad to sneak away with L118 Light Gun and enough ammunition to keep themselves supplied for a century if needed. Now, all it takes is for one toss of a laser designatior and a position'll be barraged faster than you can say 'improper use of military hardware' three times backwards.

Beyond a bloody big gun behind him, Roaland also bothers to lug around a lot of bullets. Far more than he himself needs, as a matter of fact. Instead, most of his rucksack is free for people who need spare ammo to grab a magazine or three... Just so long as they toss some dosh his way. He isn't running a charity, and the prices for an in-fight pick-me-up aren't bad in the slightest.

For killing people with more precision than a 105 howitzer shell, he also carries around a L85A3 standard issue assault rifle, and an equally standard L105A1 handgun. Plenty of firepower, plenty of stopping power, all in neat packages. In case things go really south he carries an L3A1 (lots of L's in the British army,) bayonet- perfect for stabbing people when they get too uppity.

The man himself... Well, he does tend to get a bit hammy sometimes. His faint-but-still-audible Scottish accent, the fact that he easily has the heaviest firepower amidst all the mercenaries and his combat experience means that he's generally the most obvious sound on the battlefield... And, to be frank, off it too.

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

Emperor how he hated this so much.

He hated wearing the robes that had been pampered and cleaned beyond what he normally did by himself.

He hated preening himself and ensuring that his beard was properly done up so that he might look presentable to pompous and stuck-up Imperial hierarchies.

He hated the meaningless, petty squabbles that seemed to occupy so many of those whom humanity had given the keys to rule. If he could choose between staying a night in a militarum camp beset by xenos or in a court such as this, he would take the soldiers any day of the week. At least they saw ceramite and adamantium and wished for more, rather than seeing it as an ugly necessity for their own protection.

His current dress was, in fact, one of two sets he owned. The other had been pockmarked by the battle somewhat, and so he would have to stitch it up by himself later, leaving him with this. If he was being strict with the rules of the Cardinals, he should only have been wearing this when posted to a reliquary or other important 'public face' protection job, but it could serve the same dual purpose that he was by being here. A white faux-fur ring around the collar held an implanted heater in case the crusader had to stand for hours on some freezing planet, whilst the length of the robes and the wide-collared hood allowed for his face to remain somewhat concealed. Indeed, to an unpractised eye little would differentiate him from any other reasonably-ranked member of the ecclisiarchy.

The servitor examined him carefully, and would find him lacking. Not so much as a stubpistol would grace his body... Although in truth that was largely due to his utter lack of proficiency in anything further-ranged than his spear, and it wasn't as if he could covertly bring in a man-sized polearm without arousing significant amounts of suspicion.

Then came the handsome man in the ornate uniform, and inwardly Marcus could feel his insides slowly scream out for release from this suffering. Many cardinals took to self-flagellation in order to prove their piety, but this... This was something altogether different indeed. Torture on a level that even the Inquisition might consider extravagant.

The World Unravelled: A God RP

---

Was that... Feeling? Sensations? The welling of his consciousness to the surface? He felt a deep chuckle rising up in his chest as he emerged from his slumber, letting out a dark and rolling laugh that crested across the other figures and shapes, continuing on past the abyss of emptiness that pervaded them and into the utter nothing of the beyond.

"Ahaah..." His laugh trailed off undramatically. "It's so good to be back ladies and gentlemen." Or, well, just ladies at the moment, it seemed Perillian had awoken first, and him second. He supposed he could work with that. Dressed as he was he felt barren, and he extended his hand out so that two fingers were pressed against each other, their pads upwards in a gently sloping 'V.' Between them he watched as solid silver formed like mercury, spreading out until he was holding the bridge of the nose of a mask.

With it finished forming he pressed it tight against his face and looked around, reaching up to crick his neck a little bit with both arms. Hat? Check. The wide brim of it was clear and obvious, and he could feel the ornate feathers moving around with every twitch of his head. That would do indeed. The wide cloak he had around him was as beautiful and concealing as it always was, and he stood with a practised ease, spiderwebs of precious metals emanating like cracks in glass from wherever he stepped.

Turning slightly away from Perillian, he extended his hand. The skull formed there, glittering and opulent. Every inch a marvel of extraordinarily expensive work. The so-called forgemistress wished she could make something like this- for all her efforts the perfectness of a Core could never be replicated. His stared back at him, the skull almost returning the laugh that Anacahe had so graciously put forward, but he put it away before that could become a possibility.

Tipping his hat towards the younger goddess, he held his hand out again and waited patiently. Metals swirled out, until they formed a simple golden edge, flat and clean. Running it down, he felt as it parted something beneath its surface, and then he stepped through, into his own dominion. Only briefly though- with nobody alive, there was nobody dead, and the party would not have started yet. A quick look-see to make sure everything was fine, and then he was back through, cocking his head at the craftswoman.

"You seem concerned my dear." A smooth baritone rolled out of his mouth as he spoke. "What's wrong?"

The World Unravelled: A God RP

Comically unfinished

Anacahe, Dealbroker, Don of Death and Ruler of the Underworld

Gender: Male? Female? His voice is baritone, so that's really the only thing that most people have to go on.

Major Domains: Death and the Underworld.

Minor Domains: Mineral wealth, deals, souls, parties, life.

Opposing Domains: Despair. Death's not something to be afraid of- everything has it's time, after all.

Appearance: Not many people get to see much of Anacahe. The wide cloak, ornate hat and the shadowy face concealed partially by the mask make it almost impossible to get a bead on him. Mortals don't tend to see underneath that mask either.

Core Appearance: A glittering platinum skull suspended in a smoky crystal sphere. The eyes are replaced by two unendingly black gemstones.

Personality: People expect death to be a nasty SoB, but Anacahe is really totally unlike this. Friendly, if a little mysterious, he views death as one big party, and isn't in the slightest afraid of anything. A patron of the arts, fine dining and the luxuries in life, his appearance oozes a playboy persona that few other gods can claim to have.

Relationships: How does this God view other Immortals?

Allegiances: Anacahe has never handed his core over to anyone else. Not Sandrimor, not one of his competitors. He's a total wild card.

Domain: The Underworld.

Peoples: N/A. Everyone passes over to the other side, he doesn't discriminate.

Avatar and Anathema: Avatars are the God’s wills made manifest. No matter the shape or form they are capable of slaying other deities and are the greatest weapon that any God can have. Anathema are weapons that are capable of slaying immortals without damaging their Cores, and are usually limited to a small collection. Anathema and mechanical Avatars will need to be reforged after a Roil.
Misc:

The World Unravelled- A God RP

WIP so I don't look lazy, even if this is peak laziness.

Anacahe, Dealbroker, Don of Death and Ruler of the Underworld

Gender: Male? Female? His voice is baritone, so that's really the only thing that most people have to go on.

Major Domains: Death and the Underworld.

Minor Domains: Mineral wealth, deals, souls, parties, life.

Opposing Domains: Despair. Death's not something to be afraid of- everything has it's time, after all.

Appearance: Not many people get to see much of Anacahe. The wide cloak, ornate hat and the shadowy face concealed partially by the mask make it almost impossible to get a bead on him. Mortals don't tend to see underneath that mask either.

Core Appearance: A glittering platinum skull suspended in a smoky crystal sphere. The eyes are replaced by two unendingly black gemstones.

Personality: People expect death to be a nasty SoB, but Anacahe is really totally unlike this. Friendly, if a little mysterious, he views death as one big party, and isn't in the slightest afraid of anything. A patron of the arts, fine dining and the luxuries in life, his appearance oozes a playboy persona that few other gods can claim to have.

Relationships: How does this God view other Immortals?

Allegiances: Anacahe has never handed his core over to anyone else. Not Sandrimor, not one of his competitors. He's a total wild card.

Domain: The Underworld.

Peoples: N/A. Everyone passes over to the other side, he doesn't discriminate.

Avatar and Anathema: Avatars are the God’s wills made manifest. No matter the shape or form they are capable of slaying other deities and are the greatest weapon that any God can have. Anathema are weapons that are capable of slaying immortals without damaging their Cores, and are usually limited to a small collection. Anathema and mechanical Avatars will need to be reforged after a Roil.
Misc:

Prophet's Rest: Far Flung Sci-Fi

@Wernher

They probably view the Crayven as space China. An industrial powerhouse with the potential to be a serious threat, but at the same time, you have to at least have some form of diplomatic relationships. Enemy close, if nothing else it means that your nukes have less distance to fly before blowing things up.

Prophet's Rest: Far Flung Sci-Fi

@Wernher
Very much accepted. Just understand that the droids aboard the Prophet probably have strict orders regarding what happens if he flips female. Probably involving lots of guns.