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3 yrs ago
Current is sexualizing Pokemon a variation of bestiality?
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3 yrs ago
lol. lmao
7 likes
3 yrs ago
JOHN TABLE!
1 like
4 yrs ago
hearing rumors that rebornfan is storming the US capitol, looking for whoever's responsible for everyone ghosting his RPs
14 likes
4 yrs ago
you got a fat ass and a bright future ahead of you. keep it up champ
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The thunderous footfalls of the Wolfhound's iron boots reverberated within the cockpit. Each stomp shook the interior, jostling it's pilot in his seat as he held fast to the controls. "Damned shock absorbers are acting up again." Han Bjornson grumbled to himself, his guttural accent betraying the frustrations he felt.

When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.

Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.

Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.

Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."

Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.

Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.

His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.

Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.

Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.

Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.

His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...

The thunderous footfalls of the Wolfhound's iron boots reverberated within the cockpit. Each stomp shook the interior, jostling it's pilot in his seat as he held fast to the controls. "Damned shock absorbers are acting up again." Han Bjornson grumbled to himself, his guttural accent betraying the frustrations he felt.

When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.

Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.

Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.

Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."

Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.

Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.

His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.

Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.

Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.

Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.

His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...





GENESIS PROJECT PERSONNEL DATABASE



MILITARY PERSONNEL RECORD ARCHIVE, LISTED UNDER PUBLIC INFORMATION BY ORDER OF THE UNITED EARTH COUNCIL

ACCESSING...
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NAME: ROSS, ELIJAH SEX: MALE D.O.B (DATE OF BIRTH): 10/10/2176 ETHNICITY: MIXED, CAUCASIAN-LATIN

P.O.B (PLACE OF BIRTH): ARCADIA, MARS P.O.R (PLACE OF RESIDENCE): ULROP STATION, EARTH ORBIT

MOTHER: ROSS, MELINDA (deceased) FATHER: ROSS, DANIEL (deceased) SIBLINGS: ROSS, LAUREL (age 38, botanist)

ENLISTMENT: ARCADIA CONSCRIPTION OFFICE (age 17) RANK: COMMANDER DEPLOYMENT: VITAE

LICENSES: FOR PILOTING CRUISER AND GUNSHIP CLASS VEHICLES




WARNING - THE DATA YOU ARE TRYING TO ACCESS IS RESTRICTED. ONLY THOSE WITH A VALID PASSCODE MAY ACCESS THIS PART OF THE FILE. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSCODE NOW.


INPUT PASSCODE:
***********

PASSCODE ACCEPTED


ACCESSING...
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Color me interested.
H E L V E T E


The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD


It was soon made clear that many of the man-things had survived whatever massacre took place here. In a graveyard of unrelenting death there still stood a few too resilient to die. Helvete found little comfort in the appearance of several man-things, however. He knew not why, but merely to look upon them made his guts churn. Flickering embers in his belly flared red hot for reasons unfathomable to the druid. They could not be trusted. Nothing could- not in this blood-soaked pit of madness.

Helvete's pleas for nonviolence were answered by the tender, shaken voice of a younger woman. Her words offered some meager comfort in an otherwise terrifying situation. Surrounded by strange man-things and standing in a mass grave was enough to set anyone on edge, with Helvete's amnesia only compounding the bleakness of it all.

A terrible scar about her neck drew his agitated gaze, piquing a small bit of curiosity in him. 'Strange-weird,' Helvete quietly wondered,'Would kill most man-things. Would kill this thing, too, yes-yes. How strange-weird indeed.'

"Ah...yes-yes..." He spoke in a slow drawl, still working to process all that was happening. "Very good. No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt very bad." He was glad to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from the people around him, at least. Someone had still tossed him into this place, and killed all of those man-things. Someone very bad.

As Solon was just managing to calm himself down, a mighty bellow slammed against his ears. A woman more akin to an angry oxen was screeching furiously from atop a mound of broken bodies. The angry cries of the obvious warrior caused Helvete to scamper backward in a low crouch, his body kept close to the ground as he brought his staff about before him. A wordless hiss was his only verbal response to the berserker's screams for answers. Not only because he found her dreadfully terrifying, but because the druid had no answers to give.

More man-things descended from the hills of corpses, all of them as confused as the last. No one seemed to have any idea where they were or why they were here. Five man-things and Helvete still breathed among the many hundreds of fallen.

Many questions, no answers; that was all they had.

A few had a determination to act, however. The only man man-thing that had joined them spoke rather strongly of escaping this dreaded pit of despair. Helvete was inclined to agree. The longer they spent here, the more likely they were to run into whatever monster-beast had tossed them in here.

The young woman with the scar about her neck wasn't so keen to leave right away, however. She wished to stay and search for more survivors among the dead. Solon was of a split mind on that one. On one hand, Helvete felt a strong desire to agree with her. Staying and searching for at least a short while sounded like the right thing to do. Yet, on the other hand, Solon was afraid of what they might encounter if they lingered here for too long. It was not an easy choice to make, so he stayed quiet, allowing the rest to speak their minds first.

Before that discussion came, however, another spoke up. The one that Helvete had seen conversing with the neck scar woman before he had scampered into view. She thought it wise for them to introduce themselves before they continued. Knowing the names of his temporary companions sounded like a good idea. It would make it simpler to address them, when the need arose.

"You don't remember-recall either, man-thing?" His brow shot up as Syrenia mentioned that she was suffering from the same amnesia that afflicted Helvete. "Strange-odd. Very strange-odd indeed." The old man muttered to himself, a hand letting up off the floor to run through his stark white beard. "This thing is Helvete." He shifted his hand down to beat against his chest. "I am one with the Wood. Very good-great with Forest magic, yes-yes." Solon proudly proclaimed. That was something he had felt the moment his fingers wrapped about Oakheart. It was a part of him. He could feel it's presence radiating through his very marrow, filling him with power.
H E L V E T E


The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD


It was soon made clear that many of the man-things had survived whatever massacre took place here. In a graveyard of unrelenting death there still stood a few too resilient to die. Helvete found little comfort in the appearance of several man-things, however. He knew not why, but merely to look upon them made his guts churn. Flickering embers in his belly flared red hot for reasons unfathomable to the druid. They could not be trusted. Nothing could- not in this blood-soaked pit of madness.

Helvete's pleas for nonviolence were answered by the tender, shaken voice of a younger woman. Her words offered some meager comfort in an otherwise terrifying situation. Surrounded by strange man-things and standing in a mass grave was enough to set anyone on edge, with Helvete's amnesia only compounding the bleakness of it all.

A terrible scar about her neck drew his agitated gaze, piquing a small bit of curiosity in him. 'Strange-weird,' Helvete quietly wondered,'Would kill most man-things. Would kill this thing, too, yes-yes. How strange-weird indeed.'

"Ah...yes-yes..." He spoke in a slow drawl, still working to process all that was happening. "Very good. No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt very bad." He was glad to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from the people around him, at least. Someone had still tossed him into this place, and killed all of those man-things. Someone very bad.

As Solon was just managing to calm himself down, a mighty bellow slammed against his ears. A woman more akin to an angry oxen was screeching furiously from atop a mound of broken bodies. The angry cries of the obvious warrior caused Helvete to scamper backward in a low crouch, his body kept close to the ground as he brought his staff about before him. A wordless hiss was his only verbal response to the berserker's screams for answers. Not only because he found her dreadfully terrifying, but because the druid had no answers to give.

More man-things descended from the hills of corpses, all of them as confused as the last. No one seemed to have any idea where they were or why they were here. Five man-things and Helvete still breathed among the many hundreds of fallen.

Many questions, no answers; that was all they had.

A few had a determination to act, however. The only man man-thing that had joined them spoke rather strongly of escaping this dreaded pit of despair. Helvete was inclined to agree. The longer they spent here, the more likely they were to run into whatever monster-beast had tossed them in here.

The young woman with the scar about her neck wasn't so keen to leave right away, however. She wished to stay and search for more survivors among the dead. Solon was of a split mind on that one. On one hand, Helvete felt a strong desire to agree with her. Staying and searching for at least a short while sounded like the right thing to do. Yet, on the other hand, Solon was afraid of what they might encounter if they lingered here for too long. It was not an easy choice to make, so he stayed quiet, allowing the rest to speak their minds first.

Before that discussion came, however, another spoke up. The one that Helvete had seen conversing with the neck scar woman before he had scampered into view. She thought it wise for them to introduce themselves before they continued. Knowing the names of his temporary companions sounded like a good idea. It would make it simpler to address them, when the need arose.

"You don't remember-recall either, man-thing?" His brow shot up as Syrenia mentioned that she was suffering from the same amnesia that afflicted Helvete. "Strange-odd. Very strange-odd indeed." The old man muttered to himself, a hand letting up off the floor to run through his stark white beard. "This thing is Helvete." He shifted his hand down to beat against his chest. "I am one with the Wood. Very good-great with Forest magic, yes-yes." Solon proudly proclaimed. That was something he had felt the moment his fingers wrapped about Oakheart. It was a part of him. He could feel it's presence radiating through his very marrow, filling him with power.
Name: Han Bjornson

Rank: Cadet

Allegiance: Lyran Commonwealth

Planetary Origin: Tharkad

MOS: Mechwarrior

Synopsis of Role: The House of Bjornson was once a powerful force in the Principality of Rasalhague. It's patriarch commanded large tracts of land, paying tribute only to the world-lord that ruled over the entire planet. When the Draconis Combine attacked their world, House Bjornson answered the call. Soldiers, tanks and even a Battlemech were sent to fight off the encroaching forces of the enemy. But it was for naught. Their world soon fell to the Combine's forces, and the Bjornson's heir was forced into exile for fear of his own life.

He was Han's great grandfather. He arrived in the Lyran Commonwealth seeking refuge, where he was taken in by a dying noble house on the edge of Lyran space. The heir soon married the eldest daughter of the Lyran house, and he went to work rebuilding his reputation in a new corner of the galaxy. He was able to uplift the Lyran noble house he'd married into, turning it from the sad state of affairs that it was into a reputable power in the region.

His child, Han's grandfather, found a place in the court of the Archon. He moved the house to Tharkad as he worked his way up the ranks of the military. When he retired a well respected general, Han's father took over for the house- and promptly ruined their reputation. A lazy, good for nothing slob that did little more than drink booze and paw after women like the sleazebag he was, Han's father caused the honor of the Bjornson name to take a nose dive.

It was only through sheer grit and force of will that Han worked his way into the Nagelring. Facing the prejudice of his peers and the mocking of his instructors, Han Von Bjornson is determined to restore honor to his house. To erase the stain of his father on his family's legacy. To truly earn the title of nobleman.

Battlemech: A WLF-1 'Wolfhound' mech, modified with an experimental Endo Steel lostech skeleton

You definitely have my interest. I don't know much of anything about Battletech's universe, but I could probably get a decent grasp after a wiki dive or two.
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