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Soldat Tenaille

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  1. AFV till the 18th of Jan.

    @Twitterpated @LightningBolt @Warlock @Pseudonym @supernal So I thought I was over the malaria but I went back to the doctor today and I've basically relapsed back into it. My chances of posting in this condition are VERY slim - doctor thinks I'll probably recover sometime in early Feb. Sorry for the delay.
  2. AHHHHHH, I'm late but I want to be apart of this. With that in mind I've discussed it some but I'd like to have the ODSE take a foothold somewhere within Terrenus. As an ethnic group it seems unlikely they'd settle an existing town, though mass genocide of a population isn't completely out of the question. Baring actually establishing their own town I wouldn't mind having them take control of the drug trade in Last Chance.
  3. AFV till the 18th of Jan.

    @Twitterpated @LightningBolt @Warlock @Pseudonym I'm a bit late, but I'm back. I probably won't be able to post for a few more days, but I wanted to give a heads up that I am alive. I caught malaria which took me a bit to get over, but all else is good.
  4. AFV till the 18th of Jan.

    @Twitterpated @LightningBolt @Warlock @Pseudonym I'm going out of country a bit earlier then I thought - I'm leaving tonight, I'll try to get one post before I do. I will be gone from Dec 28th to Jan 18th, I may have intermittent internet access at that time in which I could potentially post but I can't guarantee it. Look forward to writing with you all when I get back!
  5. Whispers of Thy Kin

    Claude saw the bolt before he heard it, the black projectile embedding itself mere inches from his face - it was an odd thing, a short little arrow with a heavy tip; but it seemed to glow as if electricity or some other energy crackled off of it. Had Claude been a man from any other time in Earth history this sudden attack likely would have startled him, causing a brief panic. However, World War 1 was not a kind time - it was a time of hiding in the dirt canals filled with corpses of your friends and family all around you, a time of bullets constantly flying over head risking life with their horrific super sonic crack. A sudden, unprepared ambush shot had been Claude's life for a time that felt so long it might as well have been eternity. His trained eyes didn't take long to spot the man rambling and screaming across the street and overhead - he was dressed in crimson, with the wild eyes of a man who had long since lost his sense. He was stationary, as if expecting Claude to either not notice him or fear him for all he was; or perhaps the man simply didn't understand what it was that Claude held, a weapon with a destructive power enough to turn men into corpses with a single blow. The wild man fought with himself, throwing his weapon before somehow reacquiring it - and then he calmed, as if a Commander had roared in his ear to prepare for the next volley. The man would never get another shot. Screaming, rambling - even crying; these were things Claude had seen on the battlefield a hundred times. The trenches of the French country side in 1915 were not kind to men, and those who howled and roared often died first - their minds too weak to deal with the horrors they would stand from the trenches, cursing the name of the enemy, or God, or themselves. Men got good at taking single shots at madness across hundreds of feet of open ground - it made Claude's shot at the rambling man holding an antique all but child's play. A sharp exhale was the only indication as the trigger of his rifle 'broke' clean across its sear, releasing the firing pin held back by a spring and striking the primer of cartridge within - like a thunder crack the Lebel rifle howled out its horrible payload; but the sheer speed of the bullet far exceeded the sound. By the time one would get the warning of the blast, they would already have an 8mm, 200 gram metal projectile tumbling through their body and tearing their insides to bits. Claude did not hesitate, the moment the feeling of recoil hit his shoulder he began to move - it was exceedingly likely the crossbow wielding man was about to be no more then a corpse, by the sheer volume of gun fire bouncing of buildings all but guaranteed the wild mans allies would be upon him with a haste Claude was not keen to find. Sprinting from the alley toward the building the crossbow wielding mad man was perched on Claude worked the bolt on his rifle smoothly but with haste, pulling it backward as he ran a hunk of spent brass flew from the chamber - flipping the magazine cut off with his thumb Claude forced the bolt forward and down chambering another of the brass dealers of death. Mahaksiel would get his hunt - but there was no guarantees it was Claude who would be hunted. [OOC: Forgive me if I misinterpreted anything, I wrote this on my phone.]
  6. Whispers of Thy Kin

    [Saint Desolatus, Genesaris.] 'This must be Hell. ' That was all Claude could think as his mind struggled to grasp what he saw - at a glance it was an ancient city, the architecture reminiscent of the Vatican or Prague but twisted in such as a way to simply feel perverse, the runes and etchings on the wall warping and his twisting his psyche, as if his mind was fraying at its edges as it fought to keep whatever was outside from getting in. It took Claude a long while to move, his mind still trying to piece together exactly what had happened - his captain had ordered a charge and then; it all hit him like a truck, causing his legs to give out in a heap. He remembered it all, the horrific battle, the seeming teleportation of his body into the German trench - the screaming, God the screaming of French and German alike as those things tore them to shreds, like wolves mixed with men and then those men torn into rose like puppets their bodies more gore then man. RAAAAGH Claude could hold it no longer, and what little field rations were in his stomach stained the dark road below him. Wiping the bile from his mouth he rose to his feet, glancing down at himself to make sure he himself wasn't some horrible beast - he found nothing unusual, his winter coat, his uniform underneath, the comforting weight of the Lebel rifle slung across his back, it all seemed in order. If this was Hell he was glad he at least appeared the same, and the weight of the rifle gave him some reassurance - perhaps whatever horrors awaited him could be faced. Taking the rifle from his back he pushed the bolt up and back checking the chamber - the magazine cutoff was on, preventing it from chambering a round from the tube magazine under the barrel; the weight as well as the peak of brass from the elevator told him it was fully loaded. Checking his ammo pouches he found enough cartridges for three more full magazines - it wasn't a lot, but it would have to do; and if it didn't well he always had his bayonet. "Pas encore de démons, au moins." He said to himself, chuckling a bit at the absurdity of it all - had he known he would end up in Hell perhaps he would have went with his family to Italy, but it was far too late now. Dead men were allowed no regrets, and Claude would be damned if he gave into his despair and let this Hell beat him before it even started. Drawing the rifle tight to his body he began to walk slow through the streets of the cursed city, the odd quiet making it seem like a ghost town - but the lack of dust or significant decay made it clear it was not abandoned, or if was it had not been for long. This put Claude far further on edge then any sound, the suffocating silence making every alley, window or door infinitely more menacing then they should be and at each Claude would pause, scanning them long with the point of his rifle to bear. The Lebel was a long rifle at nearly 52 inches, and its length made it unwieldy for these urban environments but a few years in the trenches had taught Claude how to maneuver the massive rifle with relative ease even in tight quarters, and the streets of this underworld caricature of a city were far wider then any trench. Eventually Claude grew tired of his fear, and realized that the best way to know if he was alone or not was to simply ask - but first he would grab some cover, sliding into an alley Claude covered the single entrance with the point of his rifle. Inhaling sharply Claude began his gambit. "Quelqu'un à la maison?" He asked first in French. "Anyone Home?" He yelled then in English, his French accent apparent but the words understandable enough and finally. "Ist jemand zu Hause?" He asked in German, slightly softer then the other languages - because frankly if there were Germans here he wasn't sure he wanted to meet them.
  7. Whispers of Thy Kin -- Diving into the Shadows

    This is really cool. I want to offer one of my characters for this - but if your comfortable with it I'd like to shift the order slightly. Claude Tenaille is a dimensional jumped WW1 soldier (and my actual Great Grandfather) - I want him to literally dimensionally jump into the "lap" of the current crossbows cursed owner and frantically fight for his survival, get the crossbow and realize its cursed and just haphazardly try to avoid those pursuing the crossbow while fighting the curse. Obviously I'm already in an RP with you, and I have a week or so break coming up so I won't take it personal if you want to give someone else a shot!
  8. ODSE Diplomat Mission OOC

    @Twitterpated @Warlock @LightningBolt Just a heads up I'm going to be out of country from around the 5th of January to the 15th or 18th. I might have access to Internet during this time period, I may not.
  9. Anabolikos [WIP]

    [WIP Friends/Enemies/RP threads/Etc]
  10. Anabolikos [WIP]

    [WIP Skills/Powers/Etc]
  11. Anabolikos [WIP]

    [Name] - Anabolikos [Age] - Eighteen [Height] - 5'8" [Weight] - 260lbs [Race] - [WIP] [Occupation] - Adventurer [Fight Style] - Catch Wrestling [Place of Birth] - [WIP] [Alignment] - Neutral Good [WIP] [WIP]
  12. Diplomatic Mission [ODSE] [Tazarek]

    Qanaas wasted little time after the arrival of the Greenskins, locking onto each of the Terric Commandos with his mask enhanced vision. Qanaas exhaled in a single long breath, steadying his heart beat for the feat of marksmanship that was to come. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. The three remaining Commandos after Elendar had killed one and Qanaas had killed one vaporized simultaneously; as if Qanaas had fired all three rounds in a single moment. The elites had not even a moment to scream for their fallen comrades as their torsos became a pink mist, coating the entire cliff side a sickening shade of pinkish brown which would make a squeamish sort retch at the sight of it. The Greenskins were rapidly approaching, but with the threat from the front neutralized there was a path to escape - forward. "DRONE, ELENDAR - GO GO GO GO! COMMANDOS NEUTRALIZED!" There was no time to command without motion and so as he spoke Qanaas scrambled down the cliff, landing hard into the path - he was closet to the Greenskin now, with Elendar a few paces ahead of him and the Ambassador, Drone and the Dwarves beyond that. SCCCCCCCCCREEEEEE The high pitched wail of the bird whistle sang out as Qanaas spun it in his hands, the jeweled chain blurring as it picked up speed. Qanaas knew he would not be able to avoid melee, he would have engage - he was simply too close to not be run down and cut down from behind. Better to die facing the enemy. "A life eternal has no value, only in death does glory await." Qanaas chanted as he spun the whistle in a blurring pattern in front of him, a traditional Elven battle chant about the glory of the afterlife - sometimes known as the Elven Death Hymn. The first orc realized too late the threat the chain possessed as it entered the range of the masked Elf, his neck and face being ripped to shreds by a dive bombing hawk. That was all the time Qanaas needed, he was no melee combatant - but he did have a trick. Releasing the chain whistle to fall back to its resting spot against his hip Qanaas grabbed his rifle in both hands and pulled the straight pull action back. "A life eternal has no value, only in death does glory await - the death of ones enemy!" Slamming home the bolt Qanaas fired another massive .950 Odin round, the muzzle blast echoing even greater from the bottom of pass - the tone so deafening some goblins even grabbed their ears, their weak wills beaten by the pain of the their ear drums rupturing. The kick of firing the massive rifle unbraced sent Qanaas reeling - but not without reason. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK. The tell tale of sound of the sound barrier being shattered repeatedly, as if eight rounds had been fired with a single motion - and in a sense that was true. Qanaas used such a strange straight pull rifle design for this very purpose, taping into the magical properties of the bracers on his forearms Qanaas was allowed to move his limbs at such a speed as to defy logic for a brief window of around a second and a half. Wholly impractical, the bracers were designed to allow a swordsman the fastest cut or draw in the world - but the fine motor skills needed to align an edge, the compound movement of the draw at the elbow and wrist had made the bracers all but worthless for most. For Qanaas and his custom rifle with they were perfect - simply hold the trigger down with hand, and make simple pull and push motions with the arm to fire round after round instantly. The sheer volume of fire shredded the nearest orcs into a fine mist from head to toe, coating Qanaas a disgusting shade of red - the Greenskins behind those initially hit the massive Anti-material bullets were less lucky, the tumbling hunks of metal ripping limbs to shreds or simply tearing through their chests like a cannon ball. It hardly killed more then fifteen or so, but the display caused a brief hesitation. One Qanaas used to turn and flee, hoping this allies had done the same.
  13. The Hand of Valjer: Act I, A Touch of Wyrmfire

    The door opened with a sickening creek, like the tension piece of a grand thriller it yawned itself wide into the tavern proper bringing with it the whipping wind and smooth, piercing chill beyond the touch of flame. What stood in the doorway was at a glance not a man, a ball of fur and the glint of steel, standing at a height of 5'4" - like a bear with a metal jaw against the backdrop of pitch black and soft, dancing flame. The grumbling that followed its entrance did little to convince anyone watching that it was anything but a bear, the grunts and growls and under breath curses mixing into one distinct groan. A whirlwind of motion stripped the fur covered creature down, revealing the blonde Dwarf underneath - leaving the furs piled up at his feet that nearly match his height. "Aye, lass. I'm here for the beast." Baddic spat, adjusting the rifle slung tight to his chest and rolling his neck as he did - all the while keeping his gun metal eyes firmly locked on his potential employer. His stout muscular form shook like a man freezing to death, his hands barely able to keep a firm grasp on the rifle as he pushed it across from his chest to his back, the various pieces of equipment all over his body shaking and clacking against itself; however it was not cold that made him shake, but the restless need of the Curse. Baddic had arrived at the IceStone Tavern some weeks ago, his endless wandering aimless yet always dragging him toward the greatest danger it could muster. That wandering had ended the moment the weather started an earnest, leaving the Cursed dwarf trapped in the confines of the tavern just like all the rest - but unlike the rest, his body demanded action. Each day that past tested his patience, pushed him further to the edge of The Curse and the affliction that came with it. So Baddic had taken to simply venturing out into the cold at regular intervals, seeking beast or man to quench his thirst - but he never got far. The wind, the snow and the cold made sure even bundled like a bear he was would get no where, and what horrors were outside these walls had chosen remain too far from the tavern for his idle wandering to reach. Not that it had stopped him, and everyday he ventured just a little bit further. When Baddic saw the bulletin, the request to kill a great Wyrm some thought be connected to the a God if not the God itself Baddic could not resist. Damned be it if the lass posting the request had the thousand yard stare of a person who had seen their whole life destroyed, damned be the weather - damned be anything at all that kept him from sating the aching at his very core for adventurer, for death; his own or otherwise. "I take it yer the brave one seeking to hunt a legend, aye?" Baddic waved his hand in front of him, as if saying he didn't actually want an answer to that question. Taking a seat at the table nearest Nadia's pacing Baddic began to remove the magazines from the pockets on the front of his armor, laying them flat on the table and unloading each with a slow, deliberate pace. The brass cases soon lined the table, their rune etched surface catching the light of the fire and dancing across the helmet atop Baddic's head. "Name's Baddic Wandercloak." Baddic grumbled as he reloaded each magazine and slowly replaced them on his armor before unslinging the rifle and laying it on the table - his short fingered rocks for hands expertly stripped, inspected and put back together the rifle as he continued his conversation. "Don't mind me the details, I don't be needin a reward and I ain't here for your story. Point me and say 'kill' s' all the instruction I need." Baddic jeered, taking occasional glances at Nadia in between inspecting parts of the rifle. "And lass - hide that nervous nature, a leader of a party can't be lookin' like she gon' be the first one to turn tail when the death starts coming. " Baddic flashed her a smile, more menacing then reassuring - the grin of a man for whom death was an outcome to be cherished, the mad shark mouthed smile of a battle addict. [OOC: Note this is my first time playing Baddic OR a character like him, so forgive any character inconsistency. Also, If I lean too hard on metaphor please do let me know. I've been writing a lot of 'technical' papers lately and am trying to get back into the swing of narrative.]
  14. The Hand of Valjer

    I should mention from like Jan 8th to the 15th I will be out country and may or may not have access to the internet. Just a future heads up.
  15. The Hand of Valjer

    Yeah I'm all about climbing that thing to unload rounds point blank into its face. I need it in my life, honestly.