POOHEAD189

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

Gantz's betrayal and subsequent death was swift, but Neil was nothing if not a trooper. He rallied himself and bounced back like a rubber band, deciding he would dwell on it later. Within a second, he knelt by the ratling with the woman who called herself Rasa. He held Skit's hand as the other crewmen retrieved their weapons. Orm was quick with a gun, and Zail was a weapon all on his own if need be, but it was very likely Rasa still saved his life. Behind him, Orm pulled his gun on the blonde, eyeing her warily. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Orm, put the fucking thing down, she's with me." Neil remarked, watching her use a cast-spray from her medipack to seal up Skit's wound after slowing the bleeding with a swab and sutures and injecting him with a small syringe.

"She's with you? Thrones sake, why not say something?" The normally too-caring hunter asked.

"You know me, I like surprises." Neil said offhandedly, sharing a small look with the woman. How the hell she caught up with him, he had no idea. Who the hell she was, was another really good question. He had been curious at the party, now he was fascinated, one might even say inquisitive. Sorry, just a joke for something years down the line. At the moment, Neil was just glad she showed up when she did.

"Am I dying, boss?" Skit asked, pained. Now that the danger was over, he could wallow in self despair.

Neil whispered to the woman. "Is he dying?"

"No," she said.

"No, you're not dying." He remarked louder.

"Feels like I'm dying." He complained.

"Oh, you'll feel alive soon enough." Neil grinned, holding up the jewel for Skit to get a good look at. The others leaned in too, and it warmed Neil's heart to see them all smile. If only Gantz hadn't been a piece of shit, Neil could have shared this moment with him too. Guess Horus was in the place you least suspected. Speaking of which, Neil saw the gorgeous woman stand up, and he rose up with her, looking her up and down. Not salaciously (or not only that), but with interest of another sort. It dawned on him that there might be other heretics down here, or worse, more arbites soon enough. He had to make this quick.

"Hi, Neil Edwards. Rogue Trader." The devilish captain said, holding his hand out to shake. She took a brief moment before taking his hand in hers and shaking officiously.

"Tilda Chastain," She said crisply. "Curator of the administratum, turned quartermaster of the guard, turned freelancer."

Neil gave a smooth, rich whistle. "Multi-talented..."

"I thought he said he knew her?" Orm asked quietly, but Zail elbowed him to be quiet.

The situation would have been completely awkward to anyone else. Neil did not continue for a small collection of seconds, the cogs whirring in his head, and Tilda shifted uneasily. Below them, Skit squirmed uneasily, muttering to himself as if to say 'I'm still here,' but did not speak up. Neil's hand still held the immaculately cut orb, a small beacon that reflected the wan light of the room gloriously. He pocketed the thing as Tilda opened her lips to speak.

"Look I-"

"Hey that's great, anyway, you want a job?" Neil asked.

Tilda blinked, flummoxed. "What?" Her confusion and surprise was different. The Rogue Trader thought it made her even prettier.

"Well I'm in need of a new seneschal since you kinda popped my last one. No hard feelings, had to be done, but all of these guys have a specialized role, can't promote them. They wouldn't want it either. But if you're out of work, why not join up, be my second?" Before she could ask why, Neil held out three fingers from his left hand and marked each with his right hand's index finger for every point he made. "C'mon, we're a lot alike. We're both cute, we both sneak into parties, I bet you're a day drinker..."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Graf Todbringer, I regret to say that it might be some time before this correspondence reaches you. I retrieved Lady Eleanor, but we had some trouble on the road. Brass Keep had emptied, and a host of beastmen and northmen, hundreds of thousands strong marched on Middenland to slaughter and rape what they may. The lady and I saw the great army on a hill near Grimmenhagen, and fled south on our horses with all speed. We have arrived in Untergard, and make for Talabheim. Cousin Nadine and her husband have a townhouse there, one we could use even if they are not in the city. Ulric guide you, father. I shall write again when I can.

-Kasimir Reinhardt of Middenheim

---

Emmaline moaned in despair when thunder rolled in the distance, and Kasimir sighed, more at her mewling than the thought of being caught in the rain.

It had not been an easy week. A day's ride to Middenheim, only to be blocked by the legions of hell and its mortal followers, casting a shadow over the province the likes that had not been seen since Ludenval Todbringer, followed by a three days hard and very lean ride south until they managed to reach Grimmenhagen. Halberdiers and crossbowmen had been on high alert, and the two of them had nearly been pierced by quarrels, but it was clear the walled town was fully expecting to be hit within the week, and so the two of them had stooped to paying double price for some food for the road, and then promptly rode south another two days. They had talked very little, save a few short conversations on where they had been and what they had learned in their schooling. Kasimir and Emmaline had even shared a laugh at the expense of a few particularly loathesome professors.

It was to Kasimir's great dismay that he grew to realize they actually had quite a bit in common. Both had more schooling than necessary, both had felt the sting of being used by their parents, and both of them had a particular distaste for authority. She even explained a bit of her magic, and the two of them had discussed what had happened to them since Emmaline's escape from the capital. However, any other attempt to build bridges between them had taken a backseat from the travel, the danger, and the need for quiet when bedding down for the night. That, and Emmaline's complaints day in and day out. The two of them might share some core opinions and experiences, but if Kasimir was a hawk, Emmaline was a plump goose.

Now the two of them plopped along on a wooded path, mere hours away from Untergard, a riverside town where Kasimir planned on taking a ferry to Taalagad, and there they could barter for a ticket into Talabehim. Once they arrived, then Kasimir and Emmaline could decide what exactly they were to do with one another.

"Ranald's cock, are we almost there?" Emmaline asked, dejected. She had taken to riding Kasimir's smaller horse while the bastard had taken the Destrier, and Kasimir saw his stallion eyeing him every now and then as if to ask whether this was a permanent arrangement. "My butt cannot take more of this."

"Just another hour, m'lady. Then you and your sore ass can get a rest." Kasimir remarked, glancing at her. "You know, we could have taken a wagon if you hadn't egged the peddler on."

"It's not my fault his wife got jealous," The blonde assured assured him, but Kasimir was not too certain. True, Emmaline had not tried to seduce the man, but he had seen her use similar tactics to get a free ride from the man, before his wife took out her switch and Kasimir had to save her from receiving multiple welts.

"But it is your fault your ass hurts," Kasimir quipped.

"Takes an ass to know an ass," Emmaline responded, but when she glanced at Kasimir to gauge his reaction, he wasn't looking at her. He was glancing left and right, head tilted to hear better. Before she could ask what was the matter, he held a hand out for her to stop her horse, and she did so, albeit clumsily. They waited there in silence for a few moments, the only sound accompanying them was further thunder from beyond the treeline. It sounded far too close to a monstrous growl. Emmaline cleared her throat quietly. "What is it?"

Her words were interrupted by a whistling, and two barbed arrows pierced the tree just past Kasimir. The destrier whinnied and Kasimir's steed screamed, but the two of them were well trained beasts. Figures burst from the undergrowth, some as tall as a man, while others were no larger than a child of ten. Emmaline screamed at their grotesque features, and even Kasimir's blood ran cold when he saw them. They were mutants; loathesome things that had taken refuge in the woods and congregated together to stay alive. No description could do them justice, and none were the same. Some were covered in scales of chromatic colors as others were covered in rank fur, and a few had pallid, pig-like skin almost like a man. Too-long tongues lolled out of their mouths, and the wide array of teeth covered the entirety of the animal kingdom. One had a cavity at the center of its bare chest that opened and closed like puckered lips.

"Fuck this!" Emmaline cried.

"Ride!" Kasimir ordered her, or more accurately, his horse that she was straddling. Both steeds kicked up and charged forward, but not before a few of the monstrosities had leaped at them. The destrier was trained in war, and even as Kasimir's sword impaled a flying, frog-like humanoid, viscous green fluid running down the blade, the destrier kicked the head off of a reptilian mutant wielding a butcher's cleaver, and they were off. Screamed and cries rose up behind them, and a throwing axe flew past Emmaline's head, disappearing into the trees.

"Did the horde catch up to us!?" Emmaline called to him as they sped up the path, glancing back, clearly referring to the monstrous army dozens of miles to the north.

Kasimir shook his head. "No, they're just a local pain in the ass."

"Oh ha-ha!"

How many RPs do you have at the same time?

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The orchard would have been lovely under the sun, during springtime where innocent looking boys like Lucian might have played with his friends or kissed his first girl under the trees. Kasimir, though never wanting for food, had never been as lucky as some of the lesser nobleborn for their truer parentage. He had never lived in an estate or had a personal garden, just a room and obligations to prove he was worth keeping. But he had seen numerous ones like this, and with the grey sky and the eerie silence of the dead, he felt he was in Sylvania, not in the heart of Middenland. Their footsteps were loud in his ears, what leaves were on the ground cackled from every step.

"Once we pass the wall to the south, we'll get to the horses a mile down the road." Kasimir whispered, and Emmaline groaned at the thought of walking a mile.

"Worry nat laydee, iv need be I zshall kereh you" Reynard proclaimed, and Kasimir rolled his eyes. He used to think tales of chivalry were inspiring. The thought fled him, though, when he realized something off about the orchard. The apples weren't red or green. They were grey, flakes falling from them. Some of them crumpled to dust before his eyes. Whatever Lucian had done had sucked the life out of them. Even the trees seemed more wilted and gnarled.

"Death seems more preferable." Kasimir said to himself, drawing a curious look from Emmaline. If undeath caused such destruction, twisted the mind so thoroughly, then he would rather go naturally than live forever, he decided. As if on cue, there was a keening wail, first dim and growing steadily louder. It had no source. It was all around them, until Kasimir realized it was screaming one word: Eleanor.

Cadavers burst out of the ground, some with pallid flesh and others naught but bone and grubs. They dug themselves out of the root infested ground, one hand clawing out of the earth between Emmaline's feet. She squealed and clutched Kasimir, kicking at the hand and crying 'getitaway getitaway!' Kasimir pulled her around with one arm and used his other to chop the hand off with a slash of his sword. A dozen corpses were half out of the ground, Reynard worrying three that had already managed to make it to their feet. Kasimir and Emmaline then looked at one another, noticing they clung to the other and promptly untangled, but not before there was a great cry of anguish from behind them. They whirred and saw Lucian standing there, wild eyed and glaring at them in disbelief. He was flanked by two wights in guard uniform, dragging their arming swords on the ground.

"Eleanor..." He said, disbelief on his face. Kasimir did not know if he was jealous or there was something else bothering him, but whatever it was, he was growing more unhinged by the second. Kasimir cut down a zombie that reached for him and clove the head of another. He was confident they could take down these shamblers, but the magic Lucian would unleash would catch them at the flank. Reynard was grabbed from behind by a corpse, and he struggled to rid himself of it before others leaped atop him, dragging him to the ground in a heap of zombies.

Kasimir chopped the head off another one, but he suddenly felt his form was stricken by something he couldn't comprehend. Some force beyond his understanding, and it was horrific. He felt his body, his soul, his every mind withering. His ears rang, his nose filled with the smell of ash, he thought he heard Emmaline screaming, but he was not sure. He tried to move, and to his satisfaction, his arm did begin to arc slowly, but then suddenly he felt every nerve in his body getting picked apart, and he screamed in pain.

However, the next moment he hit the ground like a poleaxed ox, the pressure and the torturous pain immediately subsiding. He even felt his strength returning, and he heard a distant but obviously very loud shout of "FOR ZE LAYDEE!" A figure flew past him, and Lucian went wide eyed when Reynard's crucifix sword clove into the necromancer's collarbone, chopping through meat and marrow. Blood sprayed, and the young man gaped in disbelief yet again, vainly trying to raise his arms to pry the blade out. Reynard started to say something else, perhaps something heroic, but despite Lucian's mortal wound, his spells had not been undone. The shambling guards behind him whipped their swords up with surprising alacrity and stabbed into Reynard. The man wore mail and a protective coat, but the swords were sharp, and armor did not always halt a thrust blade. Both swords penetrated his torso, but did not run him through entirely. Reynard gasped from the pain as both he and Lucian fell back onto the dirt of the orchard, staining the once verdant grass with their lifeblood. Lucian, still trying to grasp the sword, gave another rattled breath, and then died there on the ground of the estate he would have inherited. At once, the wights and zombies fell apart in piles of mottled flesh and bone. Kasimir ran to the fallen knight, and took his head in his to steady him, but after one swift glance, he knew it was too late.

"Iz mon enemee ded?" Reynard coughed, blood seeping from his bottom lip. "An ze laydee sef?"

Kasimir squeezed his hand, nodding. "Yes."

Reynard grinned, and Kasimir could tell he was happier now than he had ever been in their short acquaintance. His every breath a wheeze, Kasimir watched him struggle to continue speaking. But he was losing his grip on reality, and instead he looked up into the sky, and spoke a small sentence in his native tongue, before he, too, died. Kasimir looked at him for a long moment, sighed, and then closed the valiant knight's eyes. "May your gods embrace you, sir Reynard of Montfort." He whispered, and then drew himself up to his feet, turning to Emmaline. "What did he say, if you know?"

"I think he said...If you ever reach Montfort, tell them I fought with honor," she remarked, though the uncertainty in her voice showed it was more an educated guess. Kasimir nodded, cleaned his blade on his cloak, and sheathed it in one, fluid motion.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

Wealth and Warpstorms

"Ah look lek a cop? Moost not be doin' a gud job fettin' en." Alcander mused, raising an eyebrow at the green-haired woman. He gave a cursory glance at Camilla's soon-to-be personal guard, as well as the surroundings. He felt yet again that this was above his paygrade, even before he took the probator position. He had taken it upon himself to wear a jacket, like he often did back on Castobel. In large, artificial environments, it was often just shy of cold. That was usually a good excuse so he could keep his weapons cloaked and at the ready.

He was amused at the pomp, and at the red tinge on Camilla's cheeks from the welcome. Despite being thirty, Alcander felt as if his career was winding down, while lady Del'a'Trantio's own was blossoming. It put him in a somewhat whimsical mood, and he gave the men who stood at attention a nod of his head, before turning back to the master-at-arms. He held out a hand to shake. "Pleaser tae make yer acquain'ence."

"Top o' the marnin' tae ye," Jocasta replied, taking his hand and shaking it, though it was hard to tell if she was having a go at him or just being funny.

"No' bad, but yer tekin' through yer noose." Alcander pointed out. Jocasta wrinkled her nose and tried to look at it, crossing her eyes. Alcander strode past her to take in the immensity of his surroundings, and it wasn't even the main bridge. The hanger itself alone was beyond what he ever thought he might see again, worthy of the upper spires.

"Shoulde we check de cogitater first?" Camilla asked, a trite unsteady, likely from the circumstances. She pursed her lips. "Or we coulde eat zupper?"

"Ye doon' ''ave tae be teh acommodatin' jest kez ahm a guest." He told her. Behind them, Yvraine and one of Camilla's men stepped off the ship, the visored man holding the secured box with all of the varying peices of the servo skull. "Let's check th' cogitator fer the skell, then we can see wat on th' cooker."

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

I cannot promise I shall be able to join, but I'll know in a few days and likely play an Argonian

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

This sounds pretty good actually

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal gave a smile that showed his teeth. It gave him a handsome, if feral look. "Well, you don't need love to be a lover, but I can see your point. Your word choice just confused me, I think." He wondered if she had known that surface-dwellers also had bedfellows. It was usually Amal's experience, truth be to the gods. He reclined, however, and listened to Char's story, surprised and pleased she was so ready to share. He thought he would have to wait.

He found himself smiling again as she spoke, particularly when he heard the inflection in her voice, her arrogant disdain so venomous he could feel it in his veins. There was something about her when she became animated that was incredibly attractive. He began to think it was just the thrill of seeing another side of her, which caused him to realize he already enjoyed her general cool demeanor. And then when she was horribly gleeful, he was enthralled. He found he was interested in the story, you could see it on his face. He laughed when she described the destruction and the idiosyncrasies of the horrific literature devouring creatures.

"How difficult?" Amal asked, a sly look on his face, rubbing his well-formed chin. "Are they valuable?..."

He took a swig of his drink, a single bubble floating up its neck as he gulped twice before he dropped the bottle, and he scooted closer. It was almost imperceptible, a smooth movement that was as natural as breathing. "How much would you be willing to pay to get one? Perhaps, I could steal one for you?" He grinned, giving a subtle wink. "I would not usually offer, but I find I have a thing for pretty drow that help me escape a lich's dungeon. You don't find that everywhere."

Blackguards!

Amal was a man of immense tastes, one might say.

A normal thief loved gold for what it could give them. Amal loved gold for its own sake. He loved the way it glittered, the way it clinked together, the power it held over men. Yes, he was interested in how it could grant him women and comforts, but he also wished for it for his own pleasure. And so when the blue woman, for he did not know her name, promised him wealth beyond his dreams and a ravenous look, it was like leaving out a fresh steak for a wild dog. However, he was a wild dog with cunning. He wasn't about to trust her completely, but he did give a wink in response.

As for Sulfrey, he did not know where that was. Amal was from far away, he had to guess. These lands were verdant and bountiful. It was lucky, despite their stupidity, that he awoke with northerners. At least someone knew the lay of the land in some fashion.

He was unused to Orcs and Dwarves, but they were acting less unhinged than the men in their group. Amal was somewhat unhinged himself, but not at the expense of his survival. He also knew the non-humans were not in the process of trying to kill him. That tended to sour burgeoning relationships, he found. His musings were cut off by the arrival of the easterlings from the valley below. The Gray-Dwarf's pronouncement was well said in the face of the cloaked riders. They had come out of nowhere, as if summoned by a djinn. Their cloaks whipped in the air, the wind cutting like a zephyr. Swords gleaming in the afternoon sun, Amal cursed at the sight.

Well, at least there was a wall of flames and a transmuted Ogre on his side.

Usually he was the impetuous one, but his companions were taking a lot of liberties with their lives. He cackled, unable to help himself at the sight of the chaos before the riders had even arrived. Minutes after waking up, and pandemonium ruled the day.

He was not averse to violence. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. However, he was a bit confused on what was occurring at the moment, and tired besides. Still, perhaps he could improve his mood by slitting a few throats, and so he unsheathed his scimitar and pulled his dagger out, hefting both in a deft stance. For a brief moment, he wondered if the riders were there for him, and decided not to taunt in case they announced their reasoning and his newfound 'companions' abandoned him to save their own skins.

Amal rolled to guard the witch-turned-Ogre's left flank, steel weapons bristling and readying to hack at a horse or to block a sweeping sword that tried to take his head. He grinned like a jackal, his bloodlust rising. Perhaps this was just what he needed to sober up from this strange situation.

Roguish Anomaly: A Warhammer 40K RP

Neil touched down quietly, his feet barely a whisper after the dozen foot drop. He had left the arbites behind him, feeling the rush one got when they made a successful escape. The only illumination for dozens of meters was the light above him, but he had good eyes, and he had been here before, days ago. He rose from his crouch and rushed down the decline into the dank corridor. He looked over his shoulder and let out the softest of chuckles, before he ran into something solid that should not have been there. It wasn't a wall, though it was so thick Neil's momentum practically made him bounce back.

He kept his feet and turned back, gazing up at a wide, smiling face and eyes that glimmered. The figure's arms, neck, even his face was etched in symbols that flared, but not with light. He did not know how they were burned into his retina, but somehow they were. Neil was not one to take anything serious, but he did feel a flicker of fear in his breast. If it had been anyone else, they would have been frozen, and then dead. However, even with all his skill, he wouldn't be alive without a bit of luck.

The figure, clad in rags, raised a makeshift axe that looked as rudimentary as an ork choppa. As it pivoted to strike, its foot slipped on the puddle they stood on. It was only a small stumble, but it was all Neil needed. He gave a short kick to his foreleg, sending it skidding back, which caused the large figure to topple forward. Neil grabbed his head and brought it to his knee, shattering bone and cartilage, blood spraying. To his surprise and disgust, the thing was not unconscious, even as it hit the ground. It wriggled and tried to rise, but Neil stepped on its back and sprinted forward. As he did so, he saw shadows move amongst the soft light against the wall, and footsteps clapping on the stone as numerous pursuers gave chase. Soon their whoops echoed across the baroque sewers as they followed his fleeing form.

His greatest advantage was he knew where he was going, and he was nimble as a squirrel. He left the maze of corridors and found a sloshing brown river flowing underneath him, concave ledges and alcoves with angelic busts standing vigil. He was impressed by the artistry in something no one other than daemon-men and thieves would be able to appreciate. He did not stop, leaping over with the desperation of a man fleeing from a Carnodon. He wasn't sure if he would make the five meters, and as he launched himself over the drink, he noticed a dozen stepping stones to his left he could have taken.

"Aw, Saint Celestes ti-!" He cursed before he crashed, torso first, into the wall. He flailed his arms to grab the inlet at the edge, the air driving from his lungs with his eyes wide. Neil finally grabbed a handhold, and pulled himself up right when his pursuers arrived behind him. He rolled over and looked at them. There were five crazed cultists with what looked to be butcher knives and blasphemous sigils, three men and two women, at least he thought. They were too covered in dust and shit and all of them had manes that had not been washed in years.

Neil cleared his throat and brushed himself off, holding a hand out as if to say 'time out' before he straightened his button up. "Sorry, gemstone's mine?" He asked, raising his voice into a question.

For a long moment, they stood there silently. He could see in their eyes they could not see him. They did not look at him, not really. There was something else there. It was creepy, but he was not expecting them to speak in unison: "Edwards. Give it to us. You cannot escape, Edwards. The void calls to you. It drinks of your essence."

It would have made a normal man shudder or freeze in horror. Neil scratched his nose, pursed his lips, and then shot all five of them. Heads, necks, heart. The echoes of the autogun crashed across the stone, flashes lighting up the shadows, and all five toppled into the muck below. Neil blew the smoke from the gun barrel and turned to leave. He stopped midstep when he heard light splashing below, and groans.

"Goddamn, these guys are hard to kill." He deadpanned, and kept going.

Five minutes later, he jogged into a spacious chamber, octagonal, with a small sewer stream through the middle. Past it, there was a rise where his men waited, along with a civilian model OSV transport, and behind them was a dark opening that led into a runway that ran two miles until it reached just beneath the space port. They had set up lights days ago, and Neil slowed his running down as he stepped into the lumen's glare. He heard Orm sigh and Gantz laugh as he came into view, and Zale stood there as unemotional as ever, his pupil-less eyes seemingly taking in everything. Neil waved at them nonchalantly, catching his breath.

"Knew you'd make it," Orm declared, though Neil could tell it was bullshit.

There was a loud crack, and a flash of smoke from underneath the OSV. It was too fast for the captain to see, but he felt the slug fly past him. He spun just as the cultist that had lurched out of the shadows from behind lost his head, blood, brains, and bone flying. Neil flinched from the viscera, then turned to see Skit reveal himself with his long rifle. Neil yelled at him. "Little to the left, you missed my jugular!"

"You're welcome boss!" The ratling said, not catching the sarcasm.