Natsucooldude

Fabula Elysia - Medieval Fantasy Nationgame

So the thangor believe the end times are here? Inb4 self-fulfilling prophecy.

Fallout: Fall of The Brotherhood of Steel [Rebooting and Accepting]

@SleethI would like to add my own thoughts. While I appreciate your punishment for people trying to derail thingd, I feel like the exact nature could be handled differently.

For example, you could have had bruce disarm and wound kaben's character. The ghoul is obviously twitchy and all it would take is perhaps a somewhat fudged attack roll against the gun arm.

Just my two caps

Valiant Heroes, Vile Heresies [Warhammer 40,000 Death Watch]

"I have no experience with this Xenos ilk, but it sounds like an ambush would be in order. Much harder to accomplish as we'll be on their turf, but if we were to lure them into an enclosure..." The Angel trailed off in thought. Despite his lack of experience with these 'Tau',

@Leolycan

This tidbit in your latest post somewhat bothered me. We are supposed to be the deathwatch, the best mankind has to offer when it comes to combating xenos. For an astartes in the deathwatch to have no experience whatsoever fighting tau (or any specific xenos race for that matter) strikes me as highly unusual. At the very least he would have picked up some theoretical knowledge about the tau somewhere along his induction into the deathwatch.

Valiant Heroes, Vile Heresies [Warhammer 40,000 Death Watch]

I rolled well

Fabula Elysia - Medieval Fantasy Nationgame

Your descriptions are a bit light at certain fields but whatever. Roleplaying matters far more.

@Willy Vereb

Give this man a medal! he understands what a roleplaying forum is really about!

Ere' we go! Ere' we go! Ere' we go! - WH40K Ork RP [Lookin' for boyz an grotz]

Barakka Dakka.

Name: barakka dakka. “da franken-shoota”

Species: Ork

'Rank'/Type: Flashiest flash git. And if anyone else is flashier I'll krump em and take their gubbins so I'll be the flashiest again. And don't ya dare tell me I'z one o' dem greasy meks!

Age: I dunno... twenty O' dem humie years I guess?

Klan: Bad moonz

Appearance: Barakka iz your typical flash git. Clothed in a red leather jacket (for gettin to da fight faster, ya see?) Over a yellow suit of the best armor teef could buy. (yellow is a shooty color right?) and standing at about four meters of ill-tempered green muscle and bone. He has several slings containing anything from extra ammo to a bottle or two of squig ale. (I'z an even shootier git when I'z drunk!)

Personality: Barakka is a prime specimen of orkish boastfullness. He has made his very own unique shoota, amongst other things, and will waste no oppurtunity to tell aothers about this accomplishment. He considers himself to know everything there is to know about shooty things and thus dislikes listening to any other ork about such things unless said ork is a superior of his

History: barakka has always been a shooty git. He popped out right in da middle of some warbosses hittin each other ova da 'ead over who da biggest git was. Naturally, as an ork, he grabbed the biggest shoota and started firing at anything he didn't like seeing.

Everything after that was a glorious haze of shooting, lootin, sometimes reloading, wading through piles of spent casings, and more shooting. He was lucky enough to be on the winning side. A trend that continued throughout much of his ascent to greater orkdom.

It was around his fifteenth year of shooting the same old humies with the same old shoota that barakka felt something he hadn't felt before... boredom. Even the thrill of shooting a squad of guardsmen into mincemeat got old when repeated one too many times. So he went to the mek for the first time. Asking him to make his shoota flashier. The thing was already one of the better weapons in the camp, so improving upon it was difficult. After a particularly spirited night of squig ale and grot stomping, the mek had the bright idea to tape a flamer to the shoota. This first prototype responded to attempts to fire it by launching itself from the wielder's hands and spiraling bullets and fire everywhere. Barakka was far too 'ard to be bothered by being lit on fire though... The ork walked away with some grafts 'borrowed' from a passing grot and a newfound interest in experimental weaponry.

The second and third attempts, incorporating a rokkit launcher and a stolen melta, failed in equally unexpected and hilarious ways. The rokkit-shoota launched not just a rokkit, but the entire gun at the unfortunate grot chosen to be target practice. The melta-shoota vaporized itself and the ork that tried stealing the weapon before barakka could test it.

At around this time, the other orks in the camp were getting somewhat annoyed at the weird git and his self-destructing shootas. The first few incidents had been laughed off, but the fourth test, dubbed “da big plasma accident” finally caused tension to boil over. An angry mob broke into his hut, intent of getting rid of the idiot before he could do any more damage. Barakka however, had just finished work on his latest prototype, incorporating ideas from all previous iterations (and maybe some warp fuckery from a passing weirdboy). It had three barrels all firing seperate payloads, a self-reloading missile tube, and an underslung flamer, all linked to the same trigger. Barakka was nothing but thankful for the horde of target practice that so generously volunteered itself. By the time the local warboss wandered over to see what was going on, much of the surrounding campground had been leveled and barakka had just run out of ammunition. The warboss was not amused by this.

And it was like that that barakka was cast out. “Get out of 'ere! Ya aint even a flash git and you're already unbearable to have around!” the warboss said as he loaded the hapless ork and his entire workshop's worth of junk into a catapult. The landing was rough, but barakka was not worried. They had allowed him to keep his gun due to none of the other orcs daring to go anywhere near the damn thing. The ork just picked a direction at random and kept walking.

Eventaully, he came upon a bunch of orks, not from any of the local clans he knew... It took him a bit to realize he was standing before what would be his future companions. A load of freebootaz, just happening to pass by to get some planet-grown squig ale. The ork tagged was allowed to tag along after he told a summary of his exploits up until then.

Over the next few years with the freebootaz, barakka found himself to be one of the shootiest gits on the crew by far. This finally marked his transition into being what other orks derisively called a flash git. He was proud of the term all the same though.

Skills: Barakka has two truly notable skills. Salvaging and firing weapons. As a salvager, barakka is quite unmatched, able to make truly orky weapons simply by taping looted wargear onto plain old shootas. Ever since his first forays into making these franken-shootas, he has perfected this new technology into an art form. His guns are widely popular and in high demand. In part because even the most daring meks find themselves lacking in the insanity required to reproduce these weapons.

The second thing barakka is good at is shooting. He has been doing it from the day he popped into the world, and he gradually learned the finer subtleties of this, in his opinion, very orky way of fighting. He can handle the recoil on even the most oversized and unpredictable weapons around, and he sometimes practices the abbarant skill of aiming directly at the thing he wants to hit rather than simply waving his shoota in his target's general direction while holding down the trigger.

Equipment: Barakka carries the usual equipment of an ork, that being wargear and basic rations (this catagory includes grots). He is armored with a pretty typical construction of yellow-painted metal plates over a superstructure of squig leather armor.

By far the most notable thing about barakka's loadout is his gun. Some men say the snazzguns of the typical flash git are oversized. Such people have enver met barakka. Still using the same design as his first functioning prototype, this franken-weapon is truly one of a kind, at least as far as barakka knows. It consists of three revolving barrels, all drawing from the same ammo supply. The rugged barrels can fire jsut about any round put into them, from imperial plasma charges to tau pulse cartridges. The typical clip is basically just a bundle of mismatched ammo cartridges lumped together and thrown into the ammunition feed on the topside of the gun. It still has the underslung flamer the prototype had, but the missile tube was merged into said flamer to allow the gun to fire napalm rokkits. Because why choose between a flamer or a rokki when you can have both.

Barakka is completely trusting and reliant upon this versatile and unpredictable weapon, to the point he does not carry any other weapons on his person. After all, that would mean his gun isn't perfect in every conceivable way.

Miscellaneous: He runs a business making franken-shootas for his fellow orks on the side. Business is usually booming even though production is very slow. Barakka only makes new guns when he feels like it. And nine times out of ten, he would rather go lounge on his already substantial pile of teef and enjoy a good squig steak dinner.
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Valiant Heroes, Vile Heresies [Warhammer 40,000 Death Watch]

Barca of the raptors... A quiet, dependable battle brother. Known for his adherence to common sense above rigid regulations.

He had simply listened to the inquisitor's litany, nodding to signify he had understood the man's words. Ignoring the layers of overzealous embellishment this seemed like a pretty straightforward mission. Going in, wiping out a tau commander, and ideally escaping before the xenos catched on to what was going on. Precise attacks with overwhelming force, as per the usual offensive tactica of an astartes like themselves.

He took a moment to inspect the battle brothers he would be making this strike with. The majority of them somewhat worried him. The unsubtle and brutish demeanour of two space wolf and a worringly zealous battle brother of the space sharks. He did not know what to think of the dark raven. The only one he did appreciate was the librarian, quick as the man was to remind everyone where the tau faltered in battle. Barca knew all too well the tau's preference for ranged combat. His first mission to go wrong involved a tau firing line. He had vowed to himself to never underestimate the enemies of mankind again.

Now, he sat in the drop pod, waiting, readying himself for landing. He had checked all his equipment already, and was doing it again, partially to not let even the smallest defect slip trough, partially to keep himself busy. The astartes didn't like waiting. Every second spent doing nothing was a second wasted in his mind. And wasting anything at all was an affront to the emperor.

His came cloak was ready and had the right colors for the deployment zone. Muted greens and browns to hide in the underbrush and lay waste with his heavy bolter when the right time prevented itself. He, like many of his chapters, held some disdain for the boastful way some battle brothers conducted themselves in combat. Barca had seen such battle brothers enough times to recognize them on sight... Perhaps it was one of the reasons why he instantly disliked the presence of the space wolves and the space shark.

“So, brothers. Who will be the vanguard of this formation? I, and presumably my brother of the space wolves, will already form the sternguard.” He turned to the space shark. “You perhaps? You have the air of an eager combatant about you.”

Discussing tactics, it was the preferred way for a raptor to learn more of his battle brothers. A good way of judging the characters of the other elements of the kill team and a productive and argueably necesarry exercise besides.

Fabula Elysia - Medieval Fantasy Nationgame

@ClocktowerEchos Let it be known hencefortht hat you have my permission to puppet t'chak somewhat for the sake of making your next post flow better.

Fabula Elysia - Medieval Fantasy Nationgame

“Ambition is something no lesser man should carry in their hearts. After all, it is what makes great empires fall to the actions of the foolish few”
-The black book. Chapter 1. Internal hierarchy and balanced division of power.

In the reclusive territory of the blackland, a fortress stood, carved from the black stone of a mountainside. Inside, the aged leader of the orc tribes held court. Tulida Blackclaw was reminiscing about his life. The adventuring, the conquest, the defeats... and the eventual discovery of this untamed paradise of an island.

Yes, he had achieved quite a lot in his life... But now, the ever present shadow of old age was finally starting to take its toll. He had first noticed it in the small things. Forgetfulness, a higher suspectibility to diseases, finding it that much harder to get out of bed every morning.

It wouldn't be that much longer. He could deny this or start preparing his fellow orcs for the end of his reign and the hopefully peaceful ascension of whoever fate decreed would be his succesor... well, fate and the vote of the various lesser orcish leaders in the realm. He had made his black book required reading for all orckind. The written word was a far more reliable means of teaching what was important to the next generation than the easily misinterpreted spoken word. Surely none would be as foolish as taking the wisdoms of the black book out of context.

“Khagn, the scribe has arrived.” Tulida heard the voice of his aide, a quick-witted goblin by the name of Ambaghai. “Yes... he can come in... This was for the letter to the golden horde was it? I think we also needed to write a letter to Great chieftain Olar about the flow of lumber from the ogre's forests.”

“Sir... that was yesterday.” Ambaghai said in his distinct patient tone. Tulida had saved the goblin's life once, and they had been good friends ever since. “Oh... well call the scribe inside then!”

The kobold scribe came in, parchment and inkwell at the ready and accompanied by a gnoll messenger ready to set out and deliver the letter as soon as it was sealed. “This letter is hereby aimed at whoever the current Khagn of the golen horde is. I send this letter with no obligation for response and purely aim to inquire with it.”

It might sound paranoid, but Tulida hadn't been keeping up with golden horde politics lately. For all he knew, some old clan bearing a grudge against his own had come into power in the interim. So it was better to be safe than sorry. The orc took a deep breath and started dictating “Hail, Khagn of the golden horde. To you speaks the scion of your dominion, Tulida of the blackclaw clan. I send this letter to inform you that the adventure I set out on so many years ago has ended with me creating a realm of my own. The black island of the northeastern coast of your territory is where we are. The land is not cursed contrary to what the people of the coasts there would tell you. It is in fact an untamed land abound with resources and, as far as we have determined at this point in time, no native peoples that lay claim to the land.

As you may have guessed, age has been catching up to me recently. This old dog of an Uruk would very much like to live out the last of his days in his ancestral homeland. I have found my ability to maintain my current office lacking and have decided I will abdicate as soon as a succesor for my position has been selected. Enclosed in this message is a gift to show my goodwill, a blade of the black iron in the mountains here, crafted by our finest smiths.”

“With sincere regards, Tulida Blackclaw, Khagn of the blackland Uruks.”

The scribe laborously wrote down every word, the gnoll was already readying his pack for the long trip to the distant port town of Tulida's landing. One of the few parts of the island's coast not made impassable by the jagged cliffs that gave the island its infamously uninviting appearance. The scribe inspected hhis work, nodded, and rolled the parchment up. Now all that remained was for the letter to be sealed and sent off.

“Will that be all my khagn?” The kobold asked as she offered the parchment to Tulida for the application of the reqesuite seal. The orc started heating an amount of wax as he thought. “I think it is... Ambhagai, do we have any other letters for today?” The goblin sighed. “Yes, we have to write a letter to all the Khagns to call them together for your official annoucement of abdication.” The orc furrowed his brow. “Yes... yes that sounds about right.” Tulida sighed... He really was getting too old for this.

---

Sometimes it is for the best to leave the wounded behind to save those still capable.
-The black blook. Chapter 3. On the subject of warfare.

In the port of Tulida's landing, a ship was finishing the last preperations for a voyage. Its crew a ragtag bunch of various races in stark contrast to the lizardfolk-dominated crews of the other ships in port. There were many on the ship, smiths, hunters, artisan, warriors. Of all races and connected by just one thing. A curse that affected not the flesh, not the mind, but the soul. It had been obvious what they were when death came from them... and then rejected them from their rest. The phenomenom of hallows was somewhat known in the blacklands. Those affected often banded together to travel to the mystical lost kingdom in group. One such group was departing today.

They were informally led and represented by a weathered lizardman hunter named t'chak. He had discovered his hallowing after a particularly terrifying encounter with a swamp alligator... It had been quite confusing to find himself wake up on a funeral boat. Both for himself and for his family. Still, they had been a great support, yet he couldn't stay amongst them.

He had talked about the matter at length with his tribe's shaman. He was told the curse would claim his mind sooner or later. He did not want to put his loved ones trough such a harrowing descent into madness, so he had said his goodbyes. All that remained of them now were the memories of past times and a hand-carved wooden figurine, depicting himself in his prime.

He had found a kinship amongst the other hallows, and a newfound sense of purpose besides. Having always been somewhat of a planner and leader it wasn't long before a group had formed around him. Together, they had rented an old boat with the intent of sailing to that fabled place that called to all of them... Mystrost.

A battle scarred orc walked up and gave a salute to the pondering lizardman. “Captain, the ship is fully loaded and ready. The crew is all there. We are ready to embark upon our voyage.” The lizardman simply nodded. “Good... We are off then.” He was a man of few words, still, half of these hallows wouldn't even have gotten to this port without his guidance, and most of them held quite a bit of respect for the lizardman. Quickly, they unfurled the dusty sails of the old trader vessel. A favorable wind catched into the sailcloth, and soon, the vessel cleared the mouth of the bayou. Into open sea, and on towards more dangerous lands;

TL;DR

Summary for reference
1. Blackclaw expresses his desire to return to the golden horde to live out the rest of his days.
2. Hallowed tribesmen sail off to mystrost

Fabula Elysia - Medieval Fantasy Nationgame

@ClocktowerEchos would you be partial to the blacklands getting involved in mystrost trough a party of hallowed tribesmen going there?