Enigmatik

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

As safe as they would be on Terra? Not in the slightest. He could see no less than three potential ways to infiltrate this place with a weapon, not to mention that the servitor would likely not be scanning for those made from unconventional material. An assassin had once snuck by all security sensors, only to lunge at a confessor under his protection with a knife made from some sort of plastics. That had been... Surprisng, to say the very least. Rubbing his eyes a little, he would watch as the governor fluttered away, turning to the leader of the group as she spoke.

"I'm afraid I'm ill-educated on what exactly we might be looking for. Not to mention that this situation... I am far from at ease here. I shall remain here, perhaps talk with some of the guards and see if they have anything to say to one that is more like them than..." Well, than the pampered nobles and the stern-looking sisters. Admittedly Marcus was hardly the average guardsman, and yet he often found that they preferred to discuss matters with a fellow of military bearing, rather than someone who was so clearly a zealot.

That being said, the priest had the right idea. A weapon- any sort of weapon... Well, he couldn't say that it wouldn't be beneficial. Taking measured steps so that he was walking alongside the slightly portly man, he would lean down and mutter a few words into his ear. "The best place to find armaments will be where the staff of this event are gathering."

The Dawn of the Civilization (Stone age tribal NRP)

Would anyone like to collab regarding an Aishrek raid?

The Dawn of the Civilization (Stone age tribal NRP)

Aishrek

Never Forget Who Dwells In The Dark

Beasts stalk the night, and their name is the Aishrek. Nomads, warriors, conquerors. They let others plan for winters- to them will go the spoils without toiling.

The Aishrek respect one thing, and one thing only- strength. They claim heritage from muscle and sinew, bone and blood. The Aishrek are predators, and as such they offer their praises to predators. Ritualistic self-harm, be it directly through cuts or indirectly through fasting, the consumption of psychedelic or hallucinatory plants and both the beginning and ending of life play a tremendous role in Aishrek religious beliefs. By offering their exaltation to the predators, predators in turn lend their fervour to the tribe. Aishrek warriors may lean on the strength of a bear, the cunning of a fox or the fury of the sabre-tooth, turning the tide dramatically. Outside of combat, their largely carnivorous diet forces them to move often, although their territory is never deserted for long.

No one person can claim to rule the Aishrek. They are 'democratic,' in that they make consensus-based decisions, with elders or those in skilled positions providing advice, but not strictly speaking holding authority.

Just like animal predators, the range that the Aishrek roam is large. Warnings are placed around their most sacred and commonly-trod paths, but much of what they consider 'their land,' is unmarked. Aishrek settlements are never permanent- They are always moving on to the next game to hunt or the next tribe that has encroached onto what they consider rightfully theirs.

In the world of chaotic tribal warfare, where the tides of battle turn on one mans conviction, the Aishrek are masters of morale. Hardened to combat and inured to pain, they use heavy, brutish weapons and oftentimes cumbersome armour to move, seemingly implacably, towards their foes, hacking and slaughtering until they flee. When the bloodshed has stopped, they take their fill of the bounty their defeated enemies held, take their time to honour the Hunt, and then move on, shedding no tears over those who have returned to the blood.

The Aishrek consider even themselves a tribe of outcasts. Those whose great strength and fortitude raised them above the common members of other tribes, and were rightly feared as superior to their so-called tribesmen. When paranoia or fear forced them out, they banded together, taking the name of the Aishrek and channelling themselves through those who turned life into a hunt- swearing to keep their strength and fortitude forevermore.

The Dawn of the Civilization (Stone age tribal NRP)

Aishrek

Never Forget Who Dwells In The Dark

Beasts stalk the night, and their name is the Aishrek. Nomads, warriors, conquerors. They let others plan for winters- to them will go the spoils without toiling.

The Aishrek respect one thing, and one thing only- strength. They claim heritage from muscle and sinew, bone and blood. The Aishrek are predators, and as such they offer their praises to predators. Ritualistic self-harm, be it directly through cuts or indirectly through fasting, the consumption of psychedelic or hallucinatory plants and both the beginning and ending of life play a tremendous role in Aishrek religious beliefs. By offering their exaltation to the predators, predators in turn lend their fervour to the tribe. Aishrek warriors may lean on the strength of a bear, the cunning of a fox or the fury of the sabre-tooth, turning the tide dramatically. Outside of combat, their largely carnivorous diet forces them to move often, although their territory is never deserted for long.

No one person can claim to rule the Aishrek. They are 'democratic,' in that they make consensus-based decisions, with elders or those in skilled positions providing advice, but not strictly speaking holding authority.

Just like animal predators, the range that the Aishrek roam is large. Warnings are placed around their most sacred and commonly-trod paths, but much of what they consider 'their land,' is unmarked. Aishrek settlements are never permanent- They are always moving on to the next game to hunt or the next tribe that has encroached onto what they consider rightfully theirs.

In the world of chaotic tribal warfare, where the tides of battle turn on one mans conviction, the Aishrek are masters of morale. Hardened to combat and inured to pain, they use heavy, brutish weapons and oftentimes cumbersome armour to move, seemingly implacably, towards their foes, hacking and slaughtering until they flee. When the bloodshed has stopped, they take their fill of the bounty their defeated enemies held, take their time to honour the Hunt, and then move on, shedding no tears over those who have returned to the blood.

The Aishrek consider even themselves a tribe of outcasts. Those whose great strength and fortitude raised them above the common members of other tribes, and were rightly feared as superior to their so-called tribesmen. When paranoia or fear forced them out, they banded together, taking the name of the Aishrek and channelling themselves through those who turned life into a hunt- swearing to keep their strength and fortitude forevermore.

@Raylah Don't worry, we still have some rip and tear.

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?"