POOHEAD189

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

Truth be told, manor itself felt more like a palace to Neil's generally pedestrian experiences. Despite his Warrant of Trade, he had never been very prosperous in his dealings in the admittedly short time he had been a Rogue Trader of the God Emperor of mankind. Men often mistakenly believed such a privilege gave one unlimited authority, when it did no such thing. That was an inquisitor's purview. What the Warrant did was allow the trader to travel and do business with who he or she wished, and it was only in their capacity to succeed that gave them their power. Oftentimes Rogue Traders inherited an empire from a sire or more distant relative, but Neil was not so lucky. He had made most of his wealth by smuggling and pirating, though he only did that when he had to. He legitimately wanted to be a tradesman or a privateer for hire, if not for himself than for his men. He had lost a dozen aides over the course of four years, and felt he needed a success if he was going to continue pursuing this life.

That was when he heard of the Edwardian Vigil.

The Orb was apparently priceless, which tended to mean 'extremely pricey, we just want to exaggerate.' The fact it bore his namesake seemed fitting, and he fancied even if he could not sell it, he could fashion it as the Sigil of a new house. Granted, that would require kids, and maybe he would have a few when he was two hundred. As for now, life was a bit too exciting, and he had a long way to go before he could call himself a dynastic power. It seemed implausible he would be able to own a home such as this, much less entire worlds.

The walls were painted in gentle winter colors, contrasting the exquisite paintings that hung in perpetuity to allow the pompous and the snooty to fawn over them. He would stop and look at them thoughtfully, and when a man or woman stood beside him, he would make up some nonsense as if he knew what he was speaking about.

"Commissioned by the governor, you know." Neil pointed out to a plump woman and her husband with an unfortunate eye placement. "Painted by the brilliant François Mansart, though I think his work on Chateau Le Petite is far more delectable." He would laugh and play at drinking red amasec, though he only sipped. When men brought forth food, he would sniff it and make a face of disgust like they had presented him with a dead felid. He played the part well, almost too well. He had a weakness for men he could bullshit and women he could flirt with, though thankfully none he bumped into really interested him. Most here were decades older than him, the rejuvenat treatment plain on their faces, at least to his eyes in any fashion. He even stumbled upon the owner of the estate who called for his arrest not two days ago, but he did not recognize Neil. He had barely looked at when he had called the guards to send him below to the darkness.

Who said classism did not help the common man, every now and then?

Inch by inch, he drifted closer to the collection of artifacts he had subtly eyed when he could. Only a master could have seen his 'accidental' glances, and when he eyed the orb, the holovids had not done it justice. It was a glorious piece of jewelry, catching the light in a thousand facets, and though it sat unmoving, it almost seemed to spin like a celestial satellite. He stopped one last time before another gathering of couples, who glanced his way to politely acknowledge him before they continued on with their talk of local news, politics, and the betting on Cruorian War Beast blood-fights. Neil added in a vague comment here or there, giving a smile to the women and a lively grin to the men. He could never be considered an effete man, but Neil was not unhandsome, and good at going with the flow of a conversation. Soon he had them laughing.

"Why did the Rüstringen chef kill himself?" He asked them, swirling his goblet of amasec. "Because he lost the huile d’olive."

The men and women chortled, their finery shimmering. He gave a soft 'excuse me' and backed away, only to turn around and face a woman he had not seen before. For a moment he believed she would pass him by on the way to speak to some lady friend, but instead she locked eyes with him. She was tall, blonde, with an elegant albeit conservative dress, a full bosom, and emerald eyes he would never forget. But the woman's most striking feature, was she did not seem idly bored or aristocratically amused. She seemed far too aware of everything.

"I know the pun is a bit much, but I don't have many local jokes." Neil said with a handsome grin.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

In response to the overwhelming, not to say: annoying, rude, insane, desperate and pathetic, inquires I have recieved regarding my long running prosecution of the Edwards case. I have decided to make certain portions of my private notes on the subject available for selected readership with the Ordo. Those without Magenta Gold clearence or above should turn away now, those with vermillion or lower should kill themselves immediate for having violated security directive 221-alpha-c, and on general principles. This goes double for certain agents of the Ordo Malleus. You know who you are.

I first became aware of Edwards during the suppression of the Emerald Sky cartel, a group of Xenofiles who had been attempting, with some success, to extract some of the basic tenents of Aldaeri Farseeing techniques extracted from a captured soul stone and combining it with a combination of warp craft and parlor tricks. These were, as such prognostications always are, completely insane and useless. And yes I have read the Mirror of Smoke, dont at me.

The one occurence which convninced me that this was not your run of the mill coven of escaped madmen, bored spire wives and mental degenerates was the scene we found when the arbities assault team I was directing broke down the door to the Sinhala Observatory and stormed their lair. There was a good deal of shooting, though mostly on our side because the would be diviners had not, as the say, seen this one coming but when the smoke cleared, an excuse beside their base incompetence was offered. Every one of their auguries, from evicerated scrub fowl, to micro precipitation mirrors bore exactly the same stigmta. Nor, for once, were these stigmata difficut to read. Each one formed a single word, repeated ad nausem throughought the ruin of the observatory.

Edwards.

-Inquisitor Tilda Chastain, Ordo Hereticus

---

---

The heavy trod of arbites boots echoed down the stone stairwell, a half a dozen armed and armored men reaching the first checkpoint after the length of the first corridor below ground. The security team bolted up from their cafe and holovids, incredulity wiping across their faces at the sudden presence of a handful of enforcers at the door. Out of the group, a fellow with a visored helm and a square jaw that could shatter cement stepped forward, offering alpha-level clearance from the Lord Governor himself. After a brief minute checking the credentials, security marked it as green. The doors slid open, and the contingent moved on without another word.

The prison below Chateau Auclair was carefully guarded knowledge, with only the closest aids and allies of the Auclair family even aware of its existence, much less its inhabitants. It was an exclusive club, used for political prisoners and business rivals, or men the family wished to torment at their leisure. More rarely, it was used for subjects that has been caught so recently and at such short notice, to hold them until the local arbites could show up and shuttle them to a more deserved location. That, however, had not happened for some years.

Square-jaw, a sergeant better known as Moab, had been contacted for just such an assignment. The authority came from the top, giving him leave to handpick the escort. He chose his five best men, each having served over fifteen years in the arbites, and two of them having been inducted into the cult of the changer of ways for nearly ten, like him. He was unaware of why this prisoner was so significant to his lord, but all would be revealed when the time was right. Regardless of their beliefs, his men would follow his orders to the letter.

Passing through another checkpoint, he was stopped just before entering the prison by the lone security staff, a skinny man in fatigues and a helmet that was too big for his cracium. He held up a hand to halt Moab and his arbites. "Wait, whoever you're here for, these are electronically sealed. I have to open the cell myself, and I can't allow you to use the bypass. I must escort you."

"Very well." Moab agreed with reluctance. His voice was a barely suppressed growl at the best of times. "We're here for prisoner 04A325."

The sentry did not seem intimidated by the inflection in Moab's voice. He opened his datapad and idly thumbed the screen, pursing his lips until he gave a snort. "Oh, that one. He's a handful, just came in two days ago. He should be in cell A24, near the front. Follow me."

The troupe of seven men stepped into the grid of the prison, turning left, passing doors of reinforced steel with slits one could open to view at eye level. The lighting was low, and while various prisons would have jeers or angry yelling, each cell here was locked tight, the walls between them a meter thick. The best they could hear was scratching, or a faint echo that could just be a trick of the mind. Moab noticed the lack of decorum, all white walls of rockcrete with no sigil as to indicate their location. He briefly wondered if they brought in the prisoners blind and only removed the cloth when they passed the last checkpoint to give a psychological aspect to their imprisonment. There could be hundreds of people in here who did not know their own gaolers.

The sentry stopped at a nondescript door, a small console at the right side of the steel door. He removed a card from his belt, placed it on the indicator, and began to type down the code to open it. One of the arbites opened the steel slit to peer in, but the sentry shook his head. "You won't be able to see in there. We keep it dark most of the time."

"Valdor, get a light." Moab ordered. One of the arbites took up a lumen, flipping it on, unholstering his laspistol in the process just as the bolts popped open on the door. The sentry and Moab exchanged a look, before the sentryman pressed a button, allowing the door to swing open. Arbites Valdor turned the lumen into the dark of the cell, stepping in gingerly as he moved the light back and forth, up and down, pistol trained where the light traveled. It took a good ten seconds for him to turn around, his eyes showing his bemusement.

"Sir, there's no one in here." Valdor reported.

"What!?" Moab barked, and the Sentry looked incredulous. He took out his datapad and searched the database, before shaking his head. Moab looked at him expectantly, grinding his bovine teeth.

"This is the correct cell. He should be in here." The Sentry proclaimed.

"We he isn't," Moab growled angrily, ready to commit some act of violence. His masters were unforgiving, a trait he shared.

"I know where he is!" A wild new voice croaked. The group whirred, lasguns and lumen turning to the left, but the hallway was empty. Seconds later, they realized the slit on the next door over was open. Moab saw the sentry's look of complete surprise. He could gather that was supposed to be impossible from the inside. Moab approached the steel door, keeping his men back.

"Where is he?" Moab asked simply. Out of the darkness, a pair of eyes set on a wrinkled, aged face appeared inches from the opening. The eyes spoke of insanity, endless years kept in the dark ravaging this one's mind. There was a small cackle, as if the question was the funniest thing you could hear this side of Holy Terra.

"He said he'd be on the third floor! He'd be waitin' for ya! Haha!" The voice said, and the laughter echoed in the cell until Moab closed the slit, turning to his men, who looked at him to make some sense of this unexpected development.

"What floor is the party?" Sergeant Moab asked the sentry, already knowing the tzeentch-cursed answer.

---

20 minutes before...

The wind was soft and warm, which was good news. Neil felt it would be unlucky if he had to change into his suit in a downpour. Of course, infiltrating the party through being captured and escaping, letting his men into the walls from within being the only way they could gain access was definitely touch and go. The Emperor had a funny way of showing his favor sometimes. Orm folded his former garb up, stashing it in a satchel to be carried to their ship in the escape. The ex-bounty hunter was a good shot, but his bedside manner and housekeeping was impeccable. No wonder he didn't make it as a hunter.

To the left of Orm, Skit triple checked his longrifle in preparation for their escape. The diminutive former guardsman was obsessed with the thing, carrying it everywhere like a nervous dog with a stress toy. Granted, ratlings were obsessed with a lot of things, particularly food and thieving. Neil could relate, the thought causing the small-time rogue trader to grin.

Grantz snapped for Neil to pay attention. The captain turned back to his second. "Stay still, I need to fix your tie."

"You worry too much," Neil remarked.

"If you're going to fit in and get to the orb, we need you to look like you belong there." Grantz reminded him. He was a good seneschal, able to curb Neil's worst impulses, which worked well with Neil improvising where Gantz would be stuck in the mud. They had partnered up just a few years ago, but it had been a solid working relationship thus far.

"C'mon, it's a party of rich traders. It's pretty likely they'll be a bunch'a hairy short stacks with ugly, drooping faces." Neil said, glancing at Skit to see if he agreed, though the ratling's lip quivered. Neil waved his way, shaking his head. "Hey, your face is not droopy." He assured him. Skit visibly brightened.

"Syntax, Neil." Grantz said.

"We're about to do a job, I can take a sleeping pill later." Neil said. Grantz opened his mouth, then closed it. Neil winked to assure his second he was messing with him. "Don't worry, this thing is called the Edwardian Vigil. If there's something I'm supposed to succeed in nabbing, it's this. Plus it'll look good on the dashboard. I'm thinking with a Sebastian Thor bobble-head."

Gantz finished typing up his tie, and retrieved Neil's sidearm. An autogun with 9x19mm bullets in the magazine. It wasn't Neil's usual, but the privateer captain had used it enough to guess something was off when he took it in his hand. It was a bit light. "Gantz you're slacking, there's no bullets in the mag."

The senechal blinked, then shook his head. "You're right, sorry. Forgot to load it," he confessed, and handed him a magazine. Neil slid it in with a satisfying click, turned the safety on and placed it in his jacket. It was at that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness across the roof. It was a lithe, atheltic figure who moved like a catachan lurking in the gloom. When he reached the light, his red eyes were visible, almost glowing from the distant lights of the wall. His pale, bald head shined like a beacon under the planet's moon. It was lucky they were on the rooftop, or Zale would have been spotted.

"Bombs planted," the Tenebrian remarked, laconic as ever. An abhuman hailing from the planet of Tenebrae, it was a jungle world, not quite dangerous enough to be labeled as a death world, but close enough for most people's reckoning. The vast, endless tracks of wilderness there were in perpetual darkness save for two terran months of the year, when twilight marred the sky. The Tenebrians were a pallid people and experts of survival and scouting.

"Horus's jockstrap!" Neil exclaimed when he appeared, having thought Zale was going to go back to the ship before the fun began. Zale looked at him with his neutral expression, but after awhile Neil could catch the small inflections of his personality. This one was incredulity. "I hate saying this to a friend, but you really need to shower when we get back to the Firestorm, Zale. You're about fragrant as avain poop, and twice as pale."

"Aye Captain," He said, saluting.

The window pane open, Gantz slid a rope around Neil's waist to lower him into an empty wing of the estate, Orm grabbing it too to help in the task. Once inside, Neil would locate the item and stay out of attention, mostly. Once the arbites reached the party, they would cause enough commotion looking for him that he would slip out the back, and then when they entered the undercity, they would collapse the tunnel behind them, allowing the group to escape. Gantz tightened the rope. "Don't bring too much attention to yourself."

"You can go down instead, if you like," Neil offered with a smirk. When Gantz gave him a look, Neil grinned, and was subsequently lowered into the manor, the sounds of high gothic chatter down the corridor audible even from his position.

Wealth and Warpstorms

Alcander and Camilla knelt down beside the ruin of the servo-skull, more than half-buried from the recent sandstorm. Carefully, Alcander brushed the dirt off with a bit of cloth like some xenoarchaeologist from the schola, and finally when he felt confident it wouldn't break apart from a small tug, he gingerly lifted it up. The mechandetrites weren't yet rusted, those that were left, anyway. Some of the lower jaw was still in the dried ground, and bits and pieces of the skull were missing from some concussive blow.

"Wat eesit?" Camilla asked in her extravagant accent.

"It's bloody damn wrecked," Alcander responded in a breath, turning the servo-skull so the Rogue Trader could get a better view. "Soomething strook th' thing, braken th' parietal bone and the sphenoin, blastin' thrugh the nasal cavity. Pict-recorder's shot tae heel. But..."

He fished in his pocket and produced a combi-tool, flipping out a small invasive piece of metal and slowly tinkering around inside, closing one eye to get a better focus. Alcander had some small amount of experience with servo-skulls and their make, though he wished his old enginseer associate Madrek was here. After a few moments, he cursed and flipped the combi-tool, utilizing a small screw-driver implement, diving back in.

"Samthing I canne do to help?" Camilla asked, tilting her head as she watched. She ended the sentence quietly, however, her keen eyes finding Alcander was on the cusp of something. Biting his tongue gingerly, there was a small, albeit concerning scraping noise from inside the skull, and the probator breathed 'coome onnnnn..." before there was a 'click,' and the dark haired man grinned, giving a deep throated chuckle.

"Data-loom's fried, boot th' back oop synaptics ah think ah ken salvage. We need a good cogitator, a bloody damn good one, an' mehbeh we ken get a small picto-feed o' what transpired." He said, and glanced down at the materials still embedded in the dirt. He handed Camilla the servo-skull, who blinked her big eyes but took it, clearly ordering herself mentally not to drop the thing. Alcander removed the fragments he could find, and placed it softly in his jacket.

"Ah'm sher yer Yvraine is guud at her joob, but somethen's fishy here." He told her, and the experience of his years of investigating showed in his blue eyes.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

I longed for the bars and the elegant company of local women. This trip, which I had hoped would have proved uneventful and even relaxing, had so far been positively murderous in its treatment of my person, not to mention my men. The sheer unbridaled ridiculousness of the tech-priest almost made me question if everyone aboard wanted my head, but I knew that was my overeager paranoia. It was not curbed somewhat by this ploy we were about to play. I felt as if I was about to lose my life over a hunch, though I supposed that was par for course when it came to the guard. I just imagined it would happen to me less than most considering my rank.

The day/night cycle had shifted two terran hours before, the men already having eaten a hearty breakfast and gotten their warm ups done. I inquired to Crispin if I could take over for the day, hoping to showcase my leadership to the men. They were impressed with my skills, as they should be, but I felt I was becoming detatched from them truth be told. I used a convenient truth to create the lie, and before long I found myself in the vast drill gymnasium, huffing it with the men, working up a sweat like I was a common soldier. It felt good, if one considered the spirit of the act. I never did like lording over people, my family's arrogance a larger repellent than the mud and the mire of the average man. It's why I joined the Guard, and refused my father's "offer" of pulling strings to grant me the rank of major. I was smart enough to know he was trying to make himself look more extravagant, and cared little for my sake.

By noon, we had a live fire exercise scheduled. I received the go-ahead from the colonel, cordoned off the space (and made damn bloody sure no servitors were around), and began our drills. Our targets were polycrete mock ups of orks, able to absorb the lesser powered lasbolts without igniting. I lead my men for a quick target practice before I decided to try something more stringent. I reformed us into two teams, and had us perform a skirmish, informing Crispin and Sel to command squads 2 and 4 whilst I command 1 and 3.

Four platforms were raised in dispersed locations across the range to act as 'hills,' and when the buzzer sounded, we began. Sel was in on our 'scheme' obviously, it was her idea. However, Crispin was not privvy, and moved his men in what I correctly surmised was alpha maneuver, attempting to lay down suppressing fire as Sel and her squad spun to envelop. I commanded squad 3 to hold fire as Sel's men approached, laying in wait behind a hill, outside of the traditional cover but keeping hidden from where I believed the enemy was approaching from. I moved with squad 1, using a hill as cover and wheeling left, suddenly harrying Crispin's position. Lasguns firing from over my right shoulder informed me of squad 3 and Sel's squad engaging.

I raised my lasgun, deciding to lead by example, and charged over the hill in what I knew would be a suicidal charge to goad what I knew was to come. Surprisingly enough, the lasbolts flew by, leaving me unscathed as none hit me. I raised my lasgun and fired, the weapon cracking, striking Crispin in the chest. The verdant man cried out, and he fell out of the fight. A handful of his men scattered, but a few kept their positions as we swept in. I wondered exactly what was happening?

But then I felt an immense weight strike me in the back, and my world went dark as I fell onto the floor, the scent of burning cloth emanate as I lay motionless, and all the firing stopped as men shouted and ran to my position, but I was unresponsive. It was out of my hands, I knew. I just hoped I was not truly about to die.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

One of the ship's servitors whirred past us as they watched the troops drill. I felt a tinge of sympathy for the men as I watched their red faces and the sweat staining their uniforms. Crispin was working them ragged. I did not want to call the man out publicly. If they knew the Lieutenant disapproved of his methods even by a hair, the men would eat him alive. I decided he might have a small talk with the fellow. There was very little I could not alter with a quick talk, I generally surmised. Though the Langeroth Lieutenant was certainly an exception to the rule.

"They're already a problem," I confided to Sel, foolishly using a casual and less than austere tone. Luckily there was not many days left en-route, but there was enough for a powder keg to explode if the right (or wrong) circumstances came about. I sighed silently, through my nose, and fixed my hat before I really let my appearance slip. "I think it would be best if you accompanied me daily. I don't believe you are helpless. Nor am I, but together we can make sure to watch each other's backs."

Admittedly, I mostly wanted an extra pair of eyes to keep myself alive. However, we had only known one another a month and had saved one another's life multiple times. I would like for Corporal Seldon to continue to rough her way through life with her usual, endearing style while I did my best to survive. I heard the clanking zipping of the servitor once again as it made its rounds, and casually turned to regard it, making certain I was not in its path.

I saw a clawed hand reach for me, and I stumbled back, the metal appendage ripping the hat off my head as I ducked. At the corner of my eye, I saw Sel shoot up, instinctively crouching, then moving toward me. She wouldn't make it, I realized, as a buzzsaw from another arm shot toward my chest. I planted my back foot on the floor, and my sword was in my hand as if I had plucked it out of the warp, shoving the arm aside and riposting in a brilliant move; two flashes of steel and my blade skewered the servitor center mass. I twisted my blade, hoping to ruin enough organic matter and wiring to take it out of action, but it kept coming, trying to bowl me over with its weight as the hand, and a stabbing appendage I surmised was used for screwing on second notice, aimed for my eye. I jerked my body to the side, turning my chainsword on and slicing the arm of the hand off as the drill slipped past my face, cutting a bright red line across my perfect cheek.

Spinning, my sword leading in the circuit, I cut the main wiring along its spinal cord. The monstrosity began shuddering, but I grit my teeth and pushed on, my chainblade grinding into it, sparks flying and metal snapping, until the servitor spasmed and collapsed onto the floor.

I stood over the thing, panting softly. It took me a moment to realize Crispin's shouting and the groans of the men had stopped, and I turned to see the entire platoon standing stock still, looking at me. To my left, Sel approached, her gun out but no shots fired. She looked from the servitor to my face. I held my hand up to signify she lower her weapon.

"Don't damage it. We need to check its synaptics." I said, and it was good she was so close to hear me. The entire platoon roared that moment, rushing over to me in a wave of enthusiasm.

Smoke and Steel (A pike and shot era RP concept)

Really great concept tbh

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The manor was like every other statehouse Kasimir had been in. It was far too large and confusing in its layout, serving no one but the pride of the architect and the patron who paid for it. Reynard and he had made it down three turns of the halls and a small banquet dining room, and had cut their way through five lurching zombies. Despite his initial fear, the Brettonian knight proved his valor, smashing through a larger one with a sturdy chair before cutting its head off at the shoulder, and barreling through a turned, freshly dead scullery maid that moaned until he split her down the middle with his sword.

Whilst they were not privvy to this information, or much of anything for that matter, a zombie's greatest strength was the terror it evoked. Even a well-traveled mercenary felt a sense of unease and dread when faced with the grasping, lifeless corpse of a man that could only be moving by necromantic magics. It was unnatural and the antithesis of reality itself, most would agree. However, when two moderately armored and trained warriors could get past that barrier, there was not much difference between a zombie and their living counterpart, save maybe a lack of self preservation. As long as they kept their heads and did not get surrounded, they would be fine.

The two burst into a room that, at first glanced, seemed to serve as a meeting hall for honored guests. A rich rug of red and gold thread was draped across the floor, slim desks hugging the walls held busts and an exquisite book, accompanied by a quill and ink, for prospective dinner guests to sign their names. Outside the windows was the central courtyard and garden. It would have been quite lovely were it not for the half-crazed spearman stabbing an unmoving corpse near the dining room doorway.

His face shot up, a crazed and wild look in his eyes. He bore a classical peaked morion helmet, along with a breastplate that was spattered with blood. It took Kasimir a moment to even realize he was a still-living man, but before he could speak the fellow screamed, wrenching his spear out of the corpse and leveling it at them.

"Monsier! Herr soldyer! We ah hyeyr tu aid yu!" Reynard hearkened to him, holding a hand out pleadingly, but the fellow was too far gone. He cried out something unintelligable, though Kasimir fancied he was yelling something to Taal. The guardsman charged, hoping to skewer Reynard, who was the closest. The knight hefted his shield, and even as the spear point crashed into the kite shield, Kasimir's bastard sword ran the man through beneath the breastplate, ending his life. He croaked and died, falling on his face. Kasimir and Reynard gave one another a grim look, and then Reynard cut the man's head off, just to be certain.

The black deed was abruptly interrupted as the door behind them opened, and a buxom blonde scrambled into the room, rushing headlong and slamming into Kasimir from behind like a pissed-off goat. Kasimir gave a started cry and hit the ground, off-balance and bowled over by the momentum of the fleeing Emmaline Von Morganstern. It was a curious sensation, the entire room spinning and the ground rushing up to meet him, but it took him no time to take stock as he raised his head. He glanced up, and saw Emmaline raise her own head, flinging her mass of golden hair back and blinking her blue eyes. Immediately, Kasimir felt a curious sense of relief she was not dead, or worse. But then his eyes burned with frustration. True to form she had survived, but inconvenienced him in a dozen different ways at once.

"Get off of me!" He complained, pushing himself up so Emmaline rolled off to the floor. She gave a generous 'eep!' but then recovered quickly.

"Kasimir?" Emmaline breathed in disbelief. Relief and confusion warred on her face, and by the look of her eyes, she had a hell of a day. Her next words were given with uncharacteristic hopefulness, even joy to see him. "Are you here for me?"

"Yes, I am." He answered, sitting up and pulling his sword out from under his leg. Luckily he had crashed onto the flat of the blade, else he would have gotten a nasty cut. He glanced at Reynard, who watched expectantly. "I mean, yes, we are." He gesticulated with his right hand. "This is Sir Reynard of Montfort, who valiantly volunteered to aid in your rescue, mademoiselle."

For his part, Reynard gave a courtly bow. "A pleasheyer. Bot, are yu trouly vrom Brettonia?"

"She has spent much time amongst us lowly Imperials. She picked up our mannerisms quite well." Kasimir answered for her, getting back to his feet. On second nature, he held his hand out for her to take. She took it, and perhaps because of the heat of the moment or the fact he had not known if she had been dead or forceibly married, there was a spark there he hadn't expected when their hands entwined. He could see she noticed something similar, but he did them both a favor and elected to ignore it as she steadied herself. He brushed himself off. "And now, we're going back."

"Ai em noot reterening to Middenheim, Kassymere! Ze mereley wish to tayik mai het!" She declared, clutching her neck for Reynard to see and pouting her lip.

"I would not let that happen." Kasimir promised.

"Un zince wen dew yew keyer abot me?" She inquired, her arms crossing, evidently closing her eyes for drama but peeking out one lidded eye in curiosity.

"I don't," He said, too quickly to not be suspicious. "But I did not ride through beastland and hack apart men alive and dead just to get you killed. Besides, you can always stay here if you like."

Gold & Glory: AU thread

The ghouls fought with savagery only greenskins or daemons could match, frothing at the mouth and rending with their elongated claws. They scrambled over one another to get at the corsairs, leaping like hellish frogs and screeching a pale wail into the air. What was most horrifying was that, despite the bestial nature, Markus could see the men they had once been. If one had been given a bath, their claws and teeth filed, and they had been clothed, they could almost be human. It was unnerving, and if Markus were a more charitable man he would have felt a twinge of anguish at his fellow man for devolving into such a state, or philosophically question what was it that truly made a human being?

Fortunately, he didn't bleeding care one way or another. Men, elf, dwarf, everyone was a bastard, and he would kill anyone that got in thrice-damned his way.

"Muere bastardo!" Fernando cried, weaving through the pack with his rapier, skewering and dancing out of the way of sweeping talons. He was one of the few on his crew that Markus would have had to work for to beat in a sword fight. Beside him, Bernard the deckhand cut down a ghoul with a number of hacks from his cutlass, only for another to tackle him, bloodily tearing his throat out on the grass. The elves weaved with their blades in unison, monsters nearly catching them every few moments, only to be scant inches from cutting the high ones before they slipped away. Eckard was cut across the arm by a clawed hand, but the ghoul's head exploded in viscera as Sketti entered the fray with his smoking pistol. Halfdan would have been an easy target for the ghouls, for his big body would have made it hard for him to dodge poisoned claws, but he bore a torn door as a shield and shoved the ghouls with his immense strength, brutalizing two of them with his axe. The battle took only a minute, perhaps a minute and a half, and when the last ghoul was bludgeoned into the ground by Sketti's brass appendage, that was when the creaking of the ship became evident.

Markus turned, and watched his prized possession keel over with the distant, sluggish inevitability of a landslide. He saw his men running from The Hammer's bulk as ropes snapped. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of a blonde head disappearing beneath the rubble, utterly crushed. He took a step toward the crashing craft, frustration and rage on his face. The loss of his ship and the apparent loss of his lover dragged out a loud roar of: "No! NO! NOOOOO!"

He did not even count the casualties, though later Morgan would report five dead, one wounded, and four survivors from the battle. Instead, Markus sprinted toward the fallen ship, his eyes drinking in every splintered piece of wood, every crumbled layer of timber, his very freedom wrecked on this worthless spit of land on the ass-end of the world. Morgan cried for men to get away from the ship in case its integrity was truly compromised. He saw Markus coming, and his relief at Markus's survival was shortlived when he waved for him to stop. "Captain, yer woman... she tried to save the- wait, lad!" Markus only now realizing he was charging straight ahead, too close to what would be an enormous hazard.

"Captain wait!" The old seadog implored him, but he didn't listen. With a knife in his teeth, he took hold of a fallen line and began pulling himself up the vertical deck, even before the dust had settled. The ship gave a familiar creak under his feet, which was a good sign. The balustrade had mostly held, even on the port side. The mast hadn't snapped, though it did look damaged. Gingerly, he pulled himself up to the cargo hatch, took his knife and elbowed his way until his ass rested on the lip of it.

"I'll be damned," Markus breathed, shaking his head in utter incredulity. Not only was the majority of the ship's innards intact but less than a dozen feet below him, standing in the center of a gunpost was his lover, the fiery golden agent of chaos herself. "Emma, how the hells are you still alive?" His voice betrayed he was pleased, despite the callous question.

"Can you just get me out of here!" She demanded, waving her arms. He shook his head in disbelief. He did not know if she was a blessing or a curse. But whatever she was, she was his woman. He looked around to make sure nothing was about to crumble, and then tied the rope to his waist, flipping the dagger to an off-hand grip. He swung himself down, lowering his body close enough for her to grab.

"You good?" He asked her as she wrapped her arms around him. She nodded, and he couldn't help but give a grin, before he carried her back up, using the sturdy dagger to help in the climb like a pick. "We'll get you some chocolates when we can, love."

"And rum." She said.

"Aye, that too." He replied.

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

Bahadir spun, blinking in cautious surprise. Calliope turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head. He had thought he heard something from one of the statues...

"You're a pirate." He said, and even with the accent, it was clear it had a note of incredulity. He had been a slave, but even arena fighters had ears. He knew of Sartosa and its reputation. Granted, perhaps the common man did have greater agency to kill the other in this land. It was hard to say, he had always been made to kill. Gingerly, he took a step to the right, and his foot landed on a tile of sandstone upon the floor, only this square pressed into the floor gently. Quickly Bahadir leaped back, cursing himself for a fool, expecting a pit to open up below them to swallow them up, impaling them on spikes.

However, the tile merely slid under the next one, and as it did so, the sand was displaced enough to reveal it had the image of the sun. He recognized the visage within the symbol. It had been Ptra, the same god who's statue had crumbled and slain a Rhinox during their hopeless arena match not a week ago. Most Arabyans were superstitious, but Bahadir was unsure of how much coincidence there truly was in the world. Perhaps the God did watch over him? Or merely watch him...

The far wall began to rumble, and it split into two, opening up into a dark corridor, the shadows oppressing the space save for a small gleam of red light in the center. A diamond upon a dias, glowing faintly. There was another whisper as a breeze flew through the long chamber into the room of idols. Bahadir and Calliope brandished their weapons, on edge.

But all was still.

Bahadir was poised like the tiger he had been compared to, before he stepped forward, careful with his weight upon the floor. As he approached, Calliope behind, the flames from the torch revealed the ground was littered with bones and mottled weapons, the blades eaten by the ages. They stepped, and were careful to move past the diamond. Calliope eyed it as if she were to pocket it, her fingers brushing the flawless cut, but she drew her hand back and shook her head.

"Bloody hell, I feel like I'm in a melodrama." Calliope remarked. "Ancient gods can kiss my ass. But that's a pretty thing-"

There was a clap from above, and both of the fighters glanced up to see a column of the slim roof of stone falling on them like a guillotine. Calliope sprang forward, Bahadir leaping ahead. But as the pirate stepped, another column fell in front of her, crushing the bones beneath its immense weight. This sent the two of them squishing into one another as the columns slammed into the floor like two gateways, the torch nearly burning Bahadir's face as Calliope's face was shoved into his pectorals. Slowly, she turned her head so her face was free enough to speak. "Bloody tomb! Move sailor, that's an order!"

"Aye Captain, just as soon as my ass can break stone!" Bahadir snapped, having learned some choice words from the dark woman, but luckily for them, the columns did not encompass the entirety of the hall. They wriggled out from between the columns, making their way down the corridor as fast as they could. Another column fell, slamming into the floor. Evidently that had caused a chain reaction, as the floor itself began to shudder. Stones gave way, their sturdy base losing a hopeless battle to gravity. Calliope leaped, and Bahadir shot left, planting his feet on the wall and launching himself from that added vantage point. With his momentum, he managed to snag Calliope's belt and boost her own inertia before they hit the floor of the following chamber, barely missing an endless drop by a mere foot.

"Ugh, Manaan's arse." She breathed, sitting up and rubbing her head. Bahadir sat up too, revealing Calliope had landed on his chest. She slid down to plop on his thigh as Bahadir groaned, blinking. Before he could curse himself, Calliope elbowed him in the stomach eagerly and a bit too hard, causing him to grunt.

"Bahadir, look alive!" She declared, and he followed her finger to get a good look at the rest of the room.

Bahadir doubted it was anything close to a Sultan's treasure room, but it was more wealth than he had ever seen before in one place! Bronze, meter tall sculptures of high priests and men of imperial office framed four different doors, each with eyes of lapis lazuli and earrings of semiprecious stones. Gold sequin littered the floor, like autumn leaves surrounding an oblong pool of clean, crisp water at the center of the chamber. The roof was domed, depicting a mosaic of a witch made of jade and a man in bronze embraced in passion. Their outlines were adorned with jewels that glittered in the light. Chests of mahogany where the sequins originated (as well as various trinkets such as rings and bracelets) had been opened, with skeletons still reaching in, their heads removed or their ribs shattered from some blunt force.