What do you think guys? More intelligence or are we good? I say we're good.
TemplarKnight07 Member
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- TemplarKnight07 9 yrs ago
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So how exactly does this start? Have we all been formally inducted into the Resistance, or are we literally "starting" the Resistance with this first op?
In essence, how well do we know eachother, if at all?
In essence, how well do we know eachother, if at all?
I see our Urbane Devil takes a very different approach to spiking people's drinks!
Aye well, I figured it'd be a little bit too obvious to people if drops of blood-like substance were going into their drinks, and drops wouldn't be satisfactory to him, he'd want to see what happens if people get a good dose. Either way, its gonna be some pandemonium in the Red Light district.
An hour later, and Ibzan/"Damien" had kept to his word, he was within the strip club Succubi Den, a name which amused him to no end, and had found two of the most beautiful performers in the place to amuse him as he waited for his dealer to arrive.
He was drinking a triple glass of Fireball whiskey and had bought his girls each a pint. To them, no doubt he was just some young adult with money and suave, though he was pouring over the place like a hawk looking for mice. Aside from him, dozens of patrons filled the club and bar, performers and patrons alike. The room was heavy with smoke, and not all of it was tobacco. Most of the people were young adults, this was definitely not a gentlemen's club of the older varieties. His plans would suit perfectly here, so long as he could pull it of.
Right around the hour mark, he saw his man walk in through a back door, he obviously must be working for whatever criminal interests likely owned this place, that'd be the only reason he could sneak such a quantity of narcotics right into the club. Made sense to use the club as a front to sell illicit goods, and so long as they also controlled the neighbourhood, nobody would ever rat on them.
His dealer had more stability in his step since he left him, the initial effects of the powerful mental suggestion must have worn off, leaving him merely with the instructions and the desire to fulfill them. He motioned over to the man as he looked around, and the dealer walked over, a milk jug in his right hand that he dropped by Ibzan's leg.
"Good, our business is done."
The dealer nodded numbly and walked off the way he came. The girls, Susan and Roxanne, looked over at the milk jug curiously. Susan was the one to speak up first.
"Are you going to make a bunch of caucasians, Damien? Why bring a gallon of milk into a club?"
Damien smiled in the dark lights, and rubbed the shoulders of the two women he had his hands around before standing up.
"No ladies, there's nobody who can drink that much White Russian. Just stick around here and wait for me, I got something to take care of and we'll get going for the night. That is, if you want to continue this party at my place, of course. There'll be more money in it for you two."
To this end, Ibzan flashed a set of c-notes at the girls whom both smiled greedily as they looked over at each other and nodded to themselves. Who wouldn't want to go home with a handsome young man who was offering them a good time and a substantial amount of cash? There were certainly far less savoury characters to have made the same offer, and this young man was admittedly a new man in town, they doubted he was a member of a rival criminal crew in the city. And his eyes just looked so inviting . . .
So, they sat back and enjoyed the atmosphere, while Ibzan took the jug and walked over towards the bar he was wondering where the staff kept any of their empty beer or wine bottles. A small bin off to the side with a couple empty wine bottles told the story, it hadn't been emptied out the back door by one of the staff yet. Keeping his eye on the bartender and any other employees, Ibzan snatched three bottles out of the bin with his left hand, the bottles clinking lightly as he took them by the necks, but impossible to hear over the loud music of the club. He then discreetly walked over to the men's room, and found a stall to get to work.
Carefully positioning the bottles, he poured the Demon's Blood into each of them, filling them up about to the amount of a normal bottle. The three bottles emptied roughly a third of the gallon jug, but that was fine by Ibzan. Taking the now full bottles out with him and the lighter jug, Ibzan found three parties of young adults in the room, mostly young men, and offered them bottles to share, on his tab. Most of the patrons were already intoxicated or high, and so didn't notice how off the "wine" was compared to what wine should be like.
After he found a home for the third bottle, Ibzan returned to his two dates, and told them it was time to leave, and taking one by each arm, they simply walked out the door back towards Ibzan's apartment. The old demon chuckled menacingly under his breath, he still had some work to do tonight, he couldn't wait to see what the newspapers would be saying tomorrow already . . .
He was drinking a triple glass of Fireball whiskey and had bought his girls each a pint. To them, no doubt he was just some young adult with money and suave, though he was pouring over the place like a hawk looking for mice. Aside from him, dozens of patrons filled the club and bar, performers and patrons alike. The room was heavy with smoke, and not all of it was tobacco. Most of the people were young adults, this was definitely not a gentlemen's club of the older varieties. His plans would suit perfectly here, so long as he could pull it of.
Right around the hour mark, he saw his man walk in through a back door, he obviously must be working for whatever criminal interests likely owned this place, that'd be the only reason he could sneak such a quantity of narcotics right into the club. Made sense to use the club as a front to sell illicit goods, and so long as they also controlled the neighbourhood, nobody would ever rat on them.
His dealer had more stability in his step since he left him, the initial effects of the powerful mental suggestion must have worn off, leaving him merely with the instructions and the desire to fulfill them. He motioned over to the man as he looked around, and the dealer walked over, a milk jug in his right hand that he dropped by Ibzan's leg.
"Good, our business is done."
The dealer nodded numbly and walked off the way he came. The girls, Susan and Roxanne, looked over at the milk jug curiously. Susan was the one to speak up first.
"Are you going to make a bunch of caucasians, Damien? Why bring a gallon of milk into a club?"
Damien smiled in the dark lights, and rubbed the shoulders of the two women he had his hands around before standing up.
"No ladies, there's nobody who can drink that much White Russian. Just stick around here and wait for me, I got something to take care of and we'll get going for the night. That is, if you want to continue this party at my place, of course. There'll be more money in it for you two."
To this end, Ibzan flashed a set of c-notes at the girls whom both smiled greedily as they looked over at each other and nodded to themselves. Who wouldn't want to go home with a handsome young man who was offering them a good time and a substantial amount of cash? There were certainly far less savoury characters to have made the same offer, and this young man was admittedly a new man in town, they doubted he was a member of a rival criminal crew in the city. And his eyes just looked so inviting . . .
So, they sat back and enjoyed the atmosphere, while Ibzan took the jug and walked over towards the bar he was wondering where the staff kept any of their empty beer or wine bottles. A small bin off to the side with a couple empty wine bottles told the story, it hadn't been emptied out the back door by one of the staff yet. Keeping his eye on the bartender and any other employees, Ibzan snatched three bottles out of the bin with his left hand, the bottles clinking lightly as he took them by the necks, but impossible to hear over the loud music of the club. He then discreetly walked over to the men's room, and found a stall to get to work.
Carefully positioning the bottles, he poured the Demon's Blood into each of them, filling them up about to the amount of a normal bottle. The three bottles emptied roughly a third of the gallon jug, but that was fine by Ibzan. Taking the now full bottles out with him and the lighter jug, Ibzan found three parties of young adults in the room, mostly young men, and offered them bottles to share, on his tab. Most of the patrons were already intoxicated or high, and so didn't notice how off the "wine" was compared to what wine should be like.
After he found a home for the third bottle, Ibzan returned to his two dates, and told them it was time to leave, and taking one by each arm, they simply walked out the door back towards Ibzan's apartment. The old demon chuckled menacingly under his breath, he still had some work to do tonight, he couldn't wait to see what the newspapers would be saying tomorrow already . . .
In
Warhammer 40K: Beyond the Law - A Mercenary Adventure [MATURE] (Open for business, apply within.)
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8 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I'll post a second post shortly after Hank + Quinntessential.
I'd vote for Jailbreak as well, Intelligence 3.
Ok friends, where we at. Who's gonna go kick who's ass?
I intend to make a collab with Aristos shortly. So it'll be Under-Republic Vs. Commonwealth soon.
In
Warhammer 40K: Beyond the Law - A Mercenary Adventure [MATURE] (Open for business, apply within.)
→
8 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Malkath was not a big fan of drop pods, even though they got one right into the action pretty quickly and were much cheaper to maintain than drop ships, he found them claustrophobic. To this end, he usually kept himself busy in his seat psyching himself out for the thrill of the hunt to come.
The Kroot looked down at the patch they'd given him, the sign of the Human Trade Conglomerate which had hired him and the rest of the band of cutthroats, murderers, and hunters for this mission. He focused intently on the image, letting it sear into his mind. Dead meat be whoever's trying to kill us and isn't wearing this patch
He closed his eyes, letting the patch stitched to his leathers dropp to his side, and he began to slowly increase his breathing, his heart rate rising, the blood pounding, his heart beating in his ears, and his muscles flexing as he then filled his head with memories of past hunts. Mighty and weaker warriors alike, of dozens of different species, all felled by his hand. Some of them were within him now, he having given them the honour of making what made them great warriors a part of him, and others were back in his room as trophies. Why was he keeping trophies now? They served no functional purpose and only took up room when consuming them actually served a purpose and gave him a real benefit.
The benefit is not in DNA but in the renown, the fame, the pride to show to others exactly the kinds of foes that have fallen beneath your talons, beak, and gun.
Malkath shook his head sharply, these divergences in his thoughts were becoming more apparent lately, it felt at times like he had multiple aspects in his head all taking on characteristics of some of the individuals he had killed.
Idiot Mon-Keigh, what did you expect to happen from consuming so many different species? Just be lucky that you've become a more powerful killer and are not turning into a Krootox.
Malkath opened his eyes at this one and gasped, his meditative stance broken. The trials and tribulations of not having the guidance of a Shaper or clan to help deal with one's own evolution certainly had its drawbacks, but he loved the freedom to go where he wished and making his own fortune too much to be bound strictly by the ideals of his people.
He closed his eyes again and resumed his techniques. He could hear the sounds indicating that impact was imminent, and he wanted to be ready when they hit the ground running. His breathing intensified, becoming more bestial, some of his quills straightened up into points on his arms, and as he opened his now dilated and predatory eyes, he knew he was ready to kill these pirates with extreme prejudice.
The pod hit the ground and doors opened and Malkath was leaping out the door and running with a looping charge on all fours, his Kroot Rifle swinging with practiced elegance into his arms with a single motion as he was running, while his more accurate hunting rifle stayed slung across his back. His huffing breathing was all he heard as he charged headlong into his surroundings, not even caring particularly for his fellow mercs that landed with him as he raced into the nearest hall, and more concerned with finding fresh prey.
The Kroot looked down at the patch they'd given him, the sign of the Human Trade Conglomerate which had hired him and the rest of the band of cutthroats, murderers, and hunters for this mission. He focused intently on the image, letting it sear into his mind. Dead meat be whoever's trying to kill us and isn't wearing this patch
He closed his eyes, letting the patch stitched to his leathers dropp to his side, and he began to slowly increase his breathing, his heart rate rising, the blood pounding, his heart beating in his ears, and his muscles flexing as he then filled his head with memories of past hunts. Mighty and weaker warriors alike, of dozens of different species, all felled by his hand. Some of them were within him now, he having given them the honour of making what made them great warriors a part of him, and others were back in his room as trophies. Why was he keeping trophies now? They served no functional purpose and only took up room when consuming them actually served a purpose and gave him a real benefit.
The benefit is not in DNA but in the renown, the fame, the pride to show to others exactly the kinds of foes that have fallen beneath your talons, beak, and gun.
Malkath shook his head sharply, these divergences in his thoughts were becoming more apparent lately, it felt at times like he had multiple aspects in his head all taking on characteristics of some of the individuals he had killed.
Idiot Mon-Keigh, what did you expect to happen from consuming so many different species? Just be lucky that you've become a more powerful killer and are not turning into a Krootox.
Malkath opened his eyes at this one and gasped, his meditative stance broken. The trials and tribulations of not having the guidance of a Shaper or clan to help deal with one's own evolution certainly had its drawbacks, but he loved the freedom to go where he wished and making his own fortune too much to be bound strictly by the ideals of his people.
He closed his eyes again and resumed his techniques. He could hear the sounds indicating that impact was imminent, and he wanted to be ready when they hit the ground running. His breathing intensified, becoming more bestial, some of his quills straightened up into points on his arms, and as he opened his now dilated and predatory eyes, he knew he was ready to kill these pirates with extreme prejudice.
The pod hit the ground and doors opened and Malkath was leaping out the door and running with a looping charge on all fours, his Kroot Rifle swinging with practiced elegance into his arms with a single motion as he was running, while his more accurate hunting rifle stayed slung across his back. His huffing breathing was all he heard as he charged headlong into his surroundings, not even caring particularly for his fellow mercs that landed with him as he raced into the nearest hall, and more concerned with finding fresh prey.
I'm waiting to see if any other chars show up, otherwise I'll start a collab with Aristo and Argetlam
Love the added ops, calendar and stats stuff btw.
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