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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 1:20 pm
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Profiles/SkeletonsProfiles threadQuote: ~Name: ~Planet of birth: ~Age: ~Rank: ~Years of service: ((In the Imperial guard, if any)) ~Company sad (Will be assigned)) ~:Squad/Squad-leader: ((Company commanders will assign Squad-leaders as necessary. Beginning with NPC's characters will earn promotion throughout rp. As NPC's get killed off no doubt.)) ~Weapon of choice sad (Soldier role i.e. RiIfleman, Grenadier, Heavy support, Marksman, etc.)) ~Equipment: ((Uniform, special gear/munitions.etc uniform pic can be duplicated pending home-world regimental kit.)) ~Personality: ((1 paragraph)) ~Biography: - Premilitary/Recruitment: ((1 paragraph; Prior to military life/ how you got drafted, etc)) - PDF/Militia?: Term(s) of Service sad (1 paragraph;optional. if no prior military service explain reason for enlisting/ed briefly. )) ~Appearance: ((Out of uniform, anime only please.Real life creeps me out.)) ~Nothin like dry rations: ((Likes)) ~Fethin shoot it. ((Dislikes))
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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 2:15 pm
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Current deployment status: Counter-Invasion in progress,Location: Messina system, Imperial companies: Currently at full(enough) strength beginning Scarus system crusade. ((Casualty figures,Support gathered, and allied forces statistics will be posted here.)) Allied forces: Fellow guardsmen: Approx 750 million, including notably the 3rd,107th, 304th, and remnants of 331st Cadian shock troops. 16th,101st Elysian drop troops. As well as the 143rd,149th and 150th Krieg Death Korps. 5th, 22nd Vostroyan firstborn.etc. Armour support: Notably the 23rd armored Cadian, 142nd armored Cadian, 8th Cadian heavy tank company. 20 companies of light armor. ((Tauros, Chimeras, Sentinels, Leman russ's, Hellhounds)) Legio invictus: 2 Imperator, 4 Warhound, 6 Reaver, 3 Warlord titans. Imperial Navy: 7 Battleships, 10 Grand cruisers, 15 Cruisers, 12 ironclads, 20 destroyers and 15 frigates. Allies: No casualties 118th Scarus RIP regiment: No casualties.
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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 2:21 pm
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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 9:26 pm
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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 9:28 pm
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Posted: Mon Oct 07, 2013 7:50 pm
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Posted: Thu Oct 10, 2013 11:43 am
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Sergeant Grave herded the men forward into the drop pod like an old sheep dog before entering lastly and closing the shutters to secure themselves for launch. Gear was shrugged from his shoulder and fell unceremoniously to the floor with a heavy 'thud'. Cigar still clenched in his teeth he turned to face the men, once again focusing their minds. "Alright you monkeys. Check each other's gear. This may be what saves your miserable life when we touch down." Leading the way, those gnarled hanss gripped the nearest guardsman by the flak jacket, giving him a sound shaking to make sure things were secured before giving a solemn nod.
Using the time before departure, the good sergeant fitted himself with that eat up old flak armor, fitting it over his steely frame. Next came the obviously Vostroyan Lasrifle, his ritual of visual and mechanical inspection was over soon and blessed the old girl with a kiss before rising up once more, his ruck slung back into position. "Alright Guardsmen, you've been sitting on your asses getting paid to do nothing. Now the Emperor has come to collect." An excellent leader of men, he had the ability to make one think he was talking only to them, and was blessed with the aura of a man of much higher rank.
Free hand rose up to the switch ad he waited for the signal from his vox-man about when to drop. "So.. If anyone wants off this ride, now's the -- " A short nod from his comrade about the green light was enough to stop his joking before finishing epicly. "Too late. Going down!" He threw the switch and immediately they were away under the propulsion of the pod, that feeling of falling through the void - weightless. Whatever awaited them planet-side promised not to be good, and knowing these damnable drop pods, who knew where they'd land.
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Posted: Fri Oct 25, 2013 6:55 pm
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Posted: Sun Oct 27, 2013 7:30 pm
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Plink!
The cultist’s head snapped back through a pink mist, its motion described by a thin arc of blood trailing from the entrance-wound. Before he had hit the ground, two more of his cultist ilk had passed by his still-twitching corpse, screaming the name of their obscene benefactor.
A grey-bearded ratling snarked, “Thank you, sir! May I have another?”
His squad-mates, situated in the pre-engagement-bombarded-ruins of what had once been a bakery, snickered, and they added their sniper-fire to his. There were needle-rounds to go around, and the killing field that used to be a plaza was still wide. While the horde of chaotic rabble seemed to number in the hundreds in the minds of the pilot in the moments before impact, they knew that it was a small band that couldn’t number more than a few dozen. If the ratlings could keep up this weight of fire, then not one of the maddened rebels would make it to the base of the building. And if they did... well, they had an answer to that.
The dropships were easily capable of dropping a whole company of terrified and screaming guardsmen to the surface in one go. Standard procedure was to split the companies into platoons and send them in separately, ensuring that though it was slower-going, the Guard would lose fewer men to a lucky shot. However, the RIP were a special case; they were cannon fodder, and they were meant to bulk up numbers. If they could get a few hundred more bodies into the grinder a sixtieth of a second sooner by cramming a single dropship past recommended crew capacity than they would by sending in three birds, then so be it.
Unfortunately, the ratlings’ dropship had taken a nasty autocannon fusillade to the right wing on the way down, and the bird went down on the outskirts of the city. What a sight! The ratlings had the time of their lives, laughing and whooping all the way down, oblivious to the true peril of their situation until they’d made it outside. As far as they were concerned, it was just a rough landing. A rough landing that flipped the bird and killed about fifty-seven standard-height guardsmen, but hey; you can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs. Speaking of which...
“Haze!” a black-haired ratling shouted. He punctuated his statement by popping a cultist’s eyeball and medulla oblongata from 200 meters. “How’re the eggs coming?”
Sure, nearly three-score guardsmen had died, but the rations had survived the crash. This had been one piece of consolation in the quagmire. They had all cheered upon hearing a vox broadcast stating that the commissar had also been shot down, and that he hadn’t survived. Real, God-Emperor-honest cheers of joy. And tears, even! And then the old man piped up, and the ratlings went back to hauling their supplies to the bakery to set up shop. And by shop, they meant shop. A shop of death and head-shots, and a shop of black-market goods to sell in the mess-hall later. But, hey; they might as well enjoy the plunder a little, because they could only sneak a finite amount back into orbit. This involved getting the kitchen going again.
After several seconds passed, the black-haired ratling realized that he still hadn’t heard back from the kitchen. And he was getting hungry. “Haze?” he called, taking another shot. “Haze? Are you there?”
----------
The silent approach really wasn’t their thing. The cultists loved to run, screaming, toward their certain death. After all, it meant joining the Four that much faster. However, their Chosen had said that the snipers had to go, and that somebody had to actually make it to the building and survive long-enough to kill the snipers, and Aspiring Champion Cho Varmasse and his rabble had drawn the short straw. Granted, straws were now a rare commodity on the planet, so lady fingers were used. Real, honest-to-Khorne lady fingers. Corpses were a dime a dozen, as the ancient Terran saying went. Cho had gotten the pinky, and that was that.
He didn’t think that he was heard. He couldn’t even hear himself think with all the racket his comrades were making. His five-man team relatively-silently stalked through the rubble, careful not to displace stones nor raise an alert. Laspistol and axe-rake in hand, he and his five companions stole through the wreckage. The snipers were on the third floor. The cultists were on the second. In less than a minute, this would all be over. The snipers would break; they stayed this far back from the blessed killing because they were cowards, and those who survived Cho’s attack would scurry and scream and be overrun as they broke from cover. They w-
Tatt! Scrkkskrikkkkt!
Something shifted in a darkened corner of the concrete hallway. Fearing that they’d been spotted, the team spun around as one and began to fire, snapping off shot after shot after several dozen shots at the darkness. It mattered little that they couldn’t see what they were firing at. First the darkness took their sight, and then the light-blindness of the brilliant las-bolts set in. They knew where the sound had come from, and knew that if they hit it with enough las, whatever had made the noise would blow apart in a spray of viscera and Munitorum-issue gear.
Cho was the only one to see death coming.
He had presence of mind to look the other way and kill whatever came into the hallway from behind. At first, he didn’t see it. He was too busy scanning the doors. And then he caught the faint glint of matted steel above him, poking out of the ceiling. Matted, carbon-scored steel. And a narrow lick of flame in front of a high-pressure nozzle at the end of that steel.
The cultist whipped his laspistol around, letting out a frantic cry of alarm as he squeezed the trigger. “They’re coming out of the gods-damned wa-“
FWOOOSH!
“Just frying some ‘taters first!” Flame-Trooper Hazrael called back. When the dying screams and human flames died down, she dropped out of her hole in the ceiling, cradling her special-issue flamer unit to her chest. She landed with nary a crunch of boots on concrete gravel. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, replaced her cap, and stalked off to the kitchen. Taters weren’t her thing anyway, and she also felt a hankering for grox omelet.
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