"STOP. QUOTING. ME." Jb, 2019, quoted in 2022." Roland, 2022, quoted in 2022.
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likes
5 yrs ago
STOP. QUOTING. ME.
3
likes
5 yrs ago
Gone fishing for a week, will return soon.
6 yrs ago
Happy New Year!
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6 yrs ago
Merry Yuletide, one and all! Gods bless.
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Bio
Greetings,
I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.
As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)
So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.
Time: 5 AM Location: Adeptus Ministorum HQ, Vernum Primus Weather and Temperature: Clear white skies, -8 degrees Faranheit/-22 Celsius.
I am a scribe, a clerk, and I am meant to be at my desk! Raged Terebravisse inwardly and in verbal silence, I'm no Ordnance-tech or Regimental Aide.
The harsh Vernum weather chilled his exposed flesh, the joint between his quilled fingers and the still-organic flesh there taking on a rather unwanted ache as he clutched his writing slate to his chest, his bionic eyes whirring quietly as he moved his head momentarily to look over the ranks of assembled soldiers and war machines to his right; nearly three-thousand men, including Abhumans and recent conscripts, made up the ranks of the freshly minted 87th Combined Regiment - no actions or glories yet taken that would provide them with one of the monikers so commonly taken by other more veteran regiments, in spite of the many veterans of decimated formations who even now stood to attention on the frosty rockrete parade ground beside him.
Ahead of him walked the Command Platoon of their commanding officer, Colonel Dragutin Vyacheslav - formerly of the 1502nd Valhallan Regiment - a man who exemplified his planet in both mind and body, his icy flesh standing out in stark contrast to the recently presented uniform of black and white camouflage he now wore, and his glacial blue eyes focusing on the podium that had only recently been erected before the soldiers. Unlike that of the Lord-Militant it was a simple wooden platform, although holo-screens had been dispersed throughout the ranks, that the men and women may see him as he spoke.
Terebravisse continued to look gloomy, even surrounded all around by his fellow servants of the various arms of the Ministorum, his ears blocking out the continual droning of the brazier-waving priest striding forward before their snaking column. Other members of the Ecclesiarchy would be doing the same duties amidst the ranks of the Guard, saying prayers and reciting verse, but Terebravisse had no time for such things outside of his chamber. His own way of worshipping the God-Emperor was to make sure everything within his holy Militarum was correct, not to kneel on some stone floor or yell praise into the abyss.
Even as these thoughts occured to him the Colonel was mounting the podium, his command platoon - the Regimental Commissar, the standard bearer yet without a standard, and a hand picked group of aides and soldiers - surrounding the lower section of the wooden construct, forming a cordon and keeping watch for any signs of trouble.
Peering down his hawkish nose, his features very much like that of a bird-of-prey, the Colonel ran a gloved hand through his greying black hair and cleared his throat to speak, but not before taking a moment to survey those before him.
Before this 'inspection' each and nearly every soldier had been issued with a number of specific items, firstly their freshly produced uniforms - standard-issue flak vest, helmet, boots and cloth based on the Cadian style of armour, sporting a black and white camo scheme due to their 'founding' on the Hive world of Vernum, an urban enviroment - with many of the soldiers before him already looking toward him with the violet eyes of that great fortress-world; in fact this was the very reason for the choice of uniform, the solid core of his regiment being Cadian through and through.
Secondly came the process which many had complained about, but could really do nothing about, and that was being re-issued with standard issue equipment; this meant standard-bearers stripped of their former flags, sometime to be replaced by those of this newly created formation, it meant non-issue weapons taken from those that were carrying them, and it meant that such items were taken and locked up in the regimental stores.
It should be noted that the Abhumans remained outside of this structure, being counted as auxiliary formations, to be dispersed and shared among the rest of the regiment if and when they were needed.
His eyes fell for a moment on the only part of the regiment he had not yet inspected personally, and only because it was the part of it that made the flesh in his cheek twitch something fierce - that of C Company under the command of a Captain Arlena Di Fieroccu.
He was a veteran, not lost on Munitorum politics and efficiency, but had they had to have given his regiment a shortage of fresh materials! Why had the God-Emperor seen fit to find them lacking here, an entire company no less!
This was a company that he told himself he need not inspect, their commanding Captain a Mordian after all, and he had known them long enough to realise she'd keep them in line.
With the last flicker of annoyance sloughing from his features, he turned with a smile to look directly at the holo-projector relay set up in a servo-skull hovering before him.
"Brave warriors of the Imperium, you have done all that the honour of war requires, but there are still more enemies to drive from the domains of Man," his face took on the stern expression of one that knew these enemies well, "you may hail from different worlds, may fighting in differing styles, may speak another language, but from this point on you are all of the Emperor's Imperial Guard. You will fight and die for your brothers and sisters, beside them, as part of the 87th Combined - at least until we win a victory worthy of some other name."
His cool gaze could be felt even through the holo-screens, his calm but grave demeanour clear as he raised his voice to a crescendo, "you fight as one, you die as one, for Vernum was but the beginning of it; fight hard enough and you may one day be granted the right of settlement, perhaps even the right of a trophy world."
Pointing his hand up into the sky, he turned his head toward the crisp mornings gaze and let out a short sigh, "tomorrow we board our transports and begin the cycle of service anew, as a regiment dedicated to the Emperor anew, so check your gear and fill your bellies, for there is no telling when you may get either fresh uniforms or fresh food again." With a gesture from his hand the standard-bearer below the podium, who until this point had carried a furled and covered flag, pulled off the cover to reveal a flag bearing the symbol of an Ork skull impaled upon a Cadian combat knife, the word 'Vernum' visible on the top left of the red background...the rest just waiting to be filled.
"Do not fail me, do not fail his Holiness on Terra, if you should find problems then report them to your officers and servants of the Commissariet. Above all remember this, the Emperor protects."
Once that well-used phrase had been echoed by every man, woman and Abhuman present, the Colonel left the podium and boarded one of nearly three dozen chimera transports - each one patterned in the same black, white and blue scheme as the infantry - the vehicle heading toward the landing site, not three miles away, where tomorrow they would embark for future conflicts in yet another warzone.
With loud yells and cries each company was dismissed, to do as they would for the time being, turned out back to their billet areas and the recommendation of preparing themselves not seeming like a bad idea at all.
Okay, so phase two commences!
Right, everyone but C Company is looking brank-spanking new, and although there is not enough to go all around, if anyone wishes to grab a new helmet, piece of clothing etc then they can do so.
Apart from that, feel free to 'let loose' some more (probably best not to get drunk etc though) in a more orderly manner, because the next 'event post' will be taking us up and off the planet.
Greig finally had enough of wallowing in self-isolation, taking one last swig of fiery alcohol before turning back toward his surviving squad mates and the small fire they had managed to get going; it was more than enough to illuminate the scraggily lot of them, yet small enough to not be noticed as one of the larger fires going.
"Richt then lads, let's stoap pitying ourselves 'n' git some entertainment gaun, aye?" Asked and proclaimed the sergeant as cheerily as he could, rummaging momentarily in his huge rucksack - a distinctive piece of Finreht equipment - to produce a slender shimmering instrument that he gave an experimental whistle, the high-pitched noise piercing the air around them.
"Dae ye hae yer fiddle, Neacel? 'N' yer drum, Tadhag?"
Two of the six found their own instruments, lifting them out and giving one another a smile. Then came the last.
Grinning Wee Lachlan, now minus his vox set - it having been blown asunder some time between their last charge and the present moment - produced what appeared to be a tartan-dressed octupus from his bag and, after placing it beneath one arm, gave a few sorrowful drones.
"A'richt then! We'll stairt wi' a short dance, 'n' then git oan tae a tae o' jigs. As yer superior, ah will tak' th' foremaist dance. Lay oot th' guns."
Two lasguns were lain on the ground in a cross, Greig taking his position in the bottom right corner of the makeshift square, and a nod to Private Tadhag got a drum beat going, soon with a squirling tune courtesy of Wee Lachlan.
A small bow to no-one in particular and Greig was off, his kilt swirling about his knees as he leapt over the guns, keeping within the square and twisting this way and that as he did so.
No doubt it would attract some form of attention from others, even with the Finrehters placed within their own little corner, but whether it was the right sort or wrong sort of attention they would soon find out.
Clerk S-25-97-D, otherwise known as Avidius Hilarus, made his way slowly but surely through the ranks of celebrating soldiers and could not help but give a small shake of his augemented head at what he saw. This was not because of their behaviour, oh no, he well knew the value of celebration after a victory... no... it was because he knew what the order contained within the data-slate in his left hand was.
Each officer of the upcoming 'combined regiment' - dubbed the 87th Combined Regiment 'Expeditio Vernum' by the highly imaginative brains at HQ - from the regimental colonel to the lowest captain, would be recieving a personalised copy of the orders and would be expected to follow it to the letter.
His long legs carried him easily through the various colourful groups, his slender frame softly slipping through, until he finally reached the officers quarters and came to the door of one Captain Di Fieroccu.
Several swift raps on the door bought the newly minted company commander out of her reverie and soon enough she would be looking into the one green and one bionic eye of the clerk, his hand outstretched toward her and the data-slate presented along with it.
"Your new orders, Captain. The celebrations will likely proceed through the night, possibly into the new day, but what you wish to do with your company before that is up to you."
With his task complete, Clerk S-25-97-D could not return to his office and proceed with some real work. These Militarum assignments were so dull.
Emperor be praised.
What the stalwart Mordian would find, once she decided to enter her personal clearance and view the document, was a list of eighty-or-so military personnel from severely depeleted formations; these would all be part of her new company - Company C of the regiment - but from that list she would, eventually, have to select her own Company Command Squad.
The regiment would be forming officially some time the next day, late afternoon most likely, and until then Captain Di Fieroccu had the entire time to rest, recuperate, or simply get right it.
The Seventy-Eighth been holding their section of the encirclement trenches, placed around the city in case some Greenskins attempted to slip away after what was sure to be an Imperial victory, for over two months now; in that time there had been numerous break out attempts, and each time the regiment had been whittled down until, as it stood, there were no more than a few platoons left.
It was in fourth platoon, second company, seventy-eighth Finreht Highlanders that Sergeant Greig Sithech now found himself.
Being in the Guard was not the life that the sixty-eight year old would have chosen for himself, no, he had actually wished to be a simple cattle-raider and farmer on his home planet!
Sitting here against one of the trench walls, waiting for the order to withdraw behind the lines or the next attack to wash over them, he was at least thankful that he had kept himself and his gear in the best condition he could.
With a shake of his shaggy head, his mane of dirty grey hair giving him a feral aspect which went well with his bearded visage and general demenour, Greig stood and rolled back his broad shoulders; he may not be the largest of men, but he had the posture, poise, and lean musculature of a true 'hard man' nonetheless.
"Whaur urr ye gaun, Greig?" Questioned the platoons vox operator, Wee Lachlan, the swirling markings about his arms and face not too dissimilar from Greigs own, showing that both were from the clans of the wide, deep, glens but not of the same groups.
This was not to be though, the vox crackling to life before Greig could reach the other side.
"Seventy-Third, Seventy-Third, this is HQ, please respond."
"HQ, this is Seventy-Third, orders?"
"Escapees incoming, prepare to repel, ETA ten minutes. Over and out."
"Ye 'aw heard tha', git up an fix bayonets," bellowed the kilt-clad Finrehter, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that for many of them this would be their last charge.
Long strides took him along the readying lines, forearm grasps and oaths exchanged with familiar faces, before Greig came to the officers dug-out. Sure enough there was their Captain, the poor Offworlder continuing to shake and mutter, his mind broken by constant shelling from both sides.
"Time fur annur charge, captain darlin', ye rest easy noo 'n' dinnae fret." Spoke Greig softly, knowing that once this was all over he would be recieving a Commissars bolt.
When the time finally came, fluidly slipping his ever-sharp bayonet onto the lug of his lasgun, the Sergeant prepared to spring... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two...
There was the klaxon, there were the men and women, and all along the trench section the banshee screeches of Finrehters soon mingled with the bass roars of those Orks that had managed to flee the city - and no doubt would regroup later, if not stopped here.
"FINREHT GU BRATH!" Bellowed Greig, his bare legs hurtling over the uneven ground and carrying him into the fray, his bayonet plunging into the ribcage of the first monster he met, several squeezes of the trigger burning neat holes through the brutes torso and sending it to the ground with a beastial groan.
The battle-craze was on him now, the red haze that seemed to be an in-built part of every Finrehter, his vision narrowing as if in a tunnel and his heart loud in his ears, bayonet plunging into flesh time after time and before long his breathing became laboured and he began to slow... it was this time, and this time alone that he was struck from behind, and all was darkness.
“Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.”
Greig, along with the dozen or so survivors of what he liked to call 'the final charge', stood stiff-backed and to attention as the final words of the speech were read out.
After being found and patched up by the medicae, them hosed down by Munitorum disinfectant, he stood and stared off into the distance (or at least at the back of another soldiers head) as he had done oh so many times before. His thoughts, as they had before, turned to the pyres of bodies and the burning corpses that would never see the rugged hills or mountains of Finreht again, breath the pure air or see the red hawk-eagle swooping high.
It nearly bought him to tears.
Evening and the chill of it were soon setting in, darkness coming with it, as the bonfires were lit and the what could reasonably be considered a 'party' began - alcohol flowing freely, food even provided to the victorious warriors of the God-Emperor - but for Greig and the dozen-or-so other Finreht of the Seventy-Third that remained it was one of loss and mourning.
"Urram do na thuit, gum faigh iad fois còmhla ris na sinnsearan." Intoned the highest ranking officer left, raising a silver quaich to his lips and swallowing the fiery liquid, smiling behind his beard as it burned down his gullet.
"Honour to the fallen, may they rest with their ancestors!"
Eleven more silver items glinted in the firelight as the rest drank, before descending into murmured conversation and low-scale boasting.
Greig could not currently keep any company but his own, plucking off the brooch bearing his clan crest and unwrapping the top half of his plaid, wrapping it's chequered material about his shoulders and walking some way away from his own fire to lean against a hab-block wall, one hand yet resting gently on the hilt of his dirk.
"Bloody weel survived again, haven't ye auldjin?" He muttered to himself, peering up at the sky and the moving stars of the Imperial Navy, watching his hot breath rise toward them, "a' they brassic wee jimmies 'n' lassies... Weel... Whit wull become o' ye now?"
With as much leisurely surety as slotting in his bayonet, he reached into his sporran and plucked a hip-flask from it, and with military efficiency popped the unscrewed top into his mouth.
"Bugger it."
More liquid, what the Finrehters called 'life water', warmed him as a fire or a billet bed could not and, just for the moment, he was content.
Feel free to take this momentarily how you see fit - good conversation, setting up camp, scouting about a wee bit and so forth. My next post will probably have everyone covered in blood, so may as well take it easy while you can.
Dietrich sat as patiently as he could, waiting with only his eyebrows showing anything of his inner thoughts, as adventurers spoke over one another and answered questions that had already been asked or answere - it amused the mayor, even as it exasperated his chamberlain, and the one-eyed Reiklander raised one large hand as Marguerite finished speaking.
"We have no Elves to speak of in the Reikwald, Herr Dawi," spake Dietrich to Burundi, "at least not that I know of," he leant forward slightly and with a conspiratorial whisper said "but you never really know, not with Elves."
"Now I do believe the remainder of your questions can be answered by yourselves, and I suggest you hurry outside and proceed with what I am certain shall be an easy task for a group of such skill. You shall each be paid upon return but..." his hand went into a drawer beneath his desk, withdrawing pouches filled with two-hundred golden coin exactly, each being placed on the desk before the group, "let this be a small incentive, of course our tardy Bretonnian need not take one if he sees fit."
It was just past noon when the group returned to the sunlit town, citizens watching them warily, for it was not often that a group of such assortment and exotic leanings came to their patch of earth, a wagon indeed present in the main square and awaiting their arrival.
It was none other than Johann Cartman (yes, that was his family name, what of it?) Now with a thoroughly empty wagon, and a smile as wide as a half-moon on his face when he realised just who he would be transporting, a smile that may just as easily fade when he discovered why he would be doing so.
Tied to the rear of the wagon were a train of donkeys, each one packed with supplies, enough food and water there to last the party a good week in the wilds, the last two of six beasts loaded with tents, roll mats and other camp assortments.
It would appear that Dietrich was as good as his word, and knew that they would accept his offer before even they did.
"Ho' Master Brunde, I see you have some friends with you this time?" He called, giving a small wave of an optimistic hand, "this is exciting."
Wheels creaked and Bretonnian horses snorted, dogs running about four strong legs, and hushed speech taking place as the wagon rolled unevenly away from the cleared land around the burg of Schartenfeld and into the shadowy treeline of the Reikwald proper...
It was unlikely that anyone saw the eye watching, eyes that sooner or later they would not doubt look into face-to-face.
There, she is posted. I hope you dont mind me taking the liberty of saying we get a campaign medal. I wasnt sure about receiving the triple skull so i just left that to the imagination. Hopefully, more medals can be attained throughout the campaign!
I hope also that you are getting a feel for Deeks' superstition and Richs' unbridled optimism.
I have pictures for what they look like, but i dont know if we're even doing pictures.
No pictures, no, you are correct.
Is there any chance you could get on the Discord? Only everyone else is, and it's easier to discuss etc there.
Greetings,
I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.
As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)
So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Greetings,<br><br>I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.<br><br>As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)<br><br>So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.</div>
Vampiretwilight,
BCTheEntity,
Fuzzybootz,
Kaithe Dame,
NecroKnight