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post #11 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-29-13, 09:48 PM
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Done! See my above post.

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Last edited by Chaplain-Grimaldus; 09-29-13 at 10:17 PM.
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post #12 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 10:29 AM
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Name: Veteran Squad Whip Isaiah Melech

Age: 325

Chapter of Origin: Excoriators

Appearence:

Isaiah is roughly the same stature of a normal marine, his features are rather angular with a strong jaw line and rigid cheek bones, he has several scars criss crossing his face, along with a very small closely shaven mohawk of white hair. He has slag grey eyes and a sombre look to him.

He wears predomiantly Mk VII armour but he has a studded right hand shoulder pad, on his left shoulder pad he bears the Excoriators chapter symbol, the Stigmartyr, a red gauntleted fist with a lightning bolt held in it's palm. All over his armour is several burns, cuts and what looks like damage however each is accompanied by some very minute lettering which describes how he came to get them.

He carries a finally wrought combi bolter with secondary flamer and at his waist appears to be a whip of some sort.

Personality

Isaiah is a sombre man, although he's very taciturn and stubborn when it comes to combat, his poor social abilities may have condemned him to a life of squad leadership however inwardly he is quite happy with situation within the company and would rather maintain his personal control over a squad than to be at the command of someone else.

History

Isaiah has yet to suffer from the "curse" that plagues all the sons of Dorn that bear the ivory white of the Excoriators chapter. His rise to Veteran Squad Whip was relatively slow as he wasn't one for playing politics with the higher command, however he was duitiful and when his squads previous whip was struck down by an Ork Nob, he swiftly took over the leadership of his squad as he was the oldest serving marine, upon taking command he repelled the Orks, garroting the Ork Nob with a line of steel cabling from a nearby collapsed building. Rather than replace him after the battle he was promoted to Squad Whip before eventually becoming the Veteran Squad whip.

It was during his most recent action that he received further attention of his Corpus-Captain when he went toe to toe with a renegade champion of the red corsairs in single combat wielding a power sword and his favoured combi bolter, his enemy wielded a strange power whip, which his enemy used disarm him of his power sword, in turn Isaiah used the flamer part of his combi weapon to screen him from further attacks until he was able get close and personal with the champion, what followed was a battle of sheer strength as Isaiah used every available piece of debris and his fists to bash the champion's head to a bloody pulp. Taking the whip he presented it his commander, it wasn't until he was chosen to represent the chapter in the Feast of Blades that the power whip was returned to him, having been purified and cleansed of all corrupting influences it was given as a gift to celebrate his choosing.

Equipment
Mk VII armour with studded right shoulder pad.
Frag and krak grenades
combat knife
Master Crafted combi flamer
Power Whip

Last edited by Words_of_Truth; 10-01-13 at 08:56 AM.
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post #13 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 12:02 PM
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Name: Vanguard Veteran, Axe Brother Conric

Age: 362

Chapter: Executioners

Appearance: He has thick black hair that stands on end, the spiky tips reaching a couple inches above his scalp in the thickest places. He has dark brown eyes, a strong bridged nose, and cheeks covered in black facial hair scruff, one side also full of scarred pockmarks. His lips are neither to thin or too thick, but they are rather pale. The top half of his right ear is missing, damaged during battle.

His metallic dark blue power armor is of Mark VII design. Two black axes cross in an X over his chest. Because he is vanguard, his left and right shoulder pads remain the same dark blue as the rest of his armor, with a dark silver trim, the left brandishing the chapter emblem twin axes over a red shield.

For his best kills, whether they be most honorable, most difficult, or of an incredible importance, he has made a tradition of drawing his finger through their blood and making a streak down his helmet's faceplate. He started on the right side and has progressed to about the halfway point. Of course, the color of the blood dulls overtime, so they are darkened lines, the oldest ones near his right ear piece now barely black smudges. He has preserved them the best he can despite wearing the helmet through countless battles and weather conditions.

A thick chain is wrapped around his right shoulder guard, holding in place a fine black cloth with litanies stitched into it with scarlet thread. It hangs partially over the shoulder pad tucked tight at the bottom corner, the rest flows down to the abdomen and then works back up behind the shoulder for a complete loop. He also wears a tattered black cloth around the groin of his armor with three campaign badges woven onto it.

The lower legs of his armor are finely painted with faint skulls appearing in whisps of grey smoke, making it appear as if Conric is forever walking through the mists of dead souls he has slaughtered. His armor has many scars, just as his body, which he has chosen not to repair due to their significance, further proof of his deeds beyond the records ofthe chapter's death-speakers. There is an Astartes skull attached to the hilt of his chainsword, the handle protruding out of the wide-open mouth.

A Roman numeral five is located on his left knee. (note: I picked fifth company just because every picture I have found of executioner vanguard vets have the V company symbol. Odd to me if they are supposed to follow Codex doctrine.)

Gear: Conric carries a double headed chain axe and a storm bolter for his primary weapons. The teeth on his chain axe are viciously serrated and the artwork phenomenal, with four dark toned paintings of his greatest deeds; one on each side of both blade encasements. It took him decades to master the art form of a large twin bladed axe after using a chainswrod for his first century of service and then a single bladed chain axe. He also carries grenades, and a combat blade heavily detailed in fashion of the Fire Lords chapter.

Personality/History: Conric has become accustomed to be called barbaric, and any marine who has met him from other chapters has become accustomed to him defending his honor with aggressive force. He strictly adheres to his chapter's practices and methods of war. He makes it a point to remind others that the Executioners are a codex following chapter, and he is quite familiar with Guilliman's writings, having read them himself several times and the Codex Astartes even more so.

As many would expect, he supposes, he is a grim individual. He has met the occasional marine in his time of service who was intriguingly happy or humorous in spirit. None of these marines were from his own chapter of course. Though the process of becoming an Astartes drains nearly all that go through it from light hearted emotions, or emotions at all, he has noted that somehow in many chapters certain individuals will gain back these emotions over time.

In the world of the Executioners chapter, he cant see where this would ever have the opportunity to take place. It is a world of constant tension filled with the utmost potential for violence amongst battle brothers. Each one willing to main or even kill one another in name of their honor if need be. This is why other chapters call them barbaric, but this is how the Executioners live and it is how they have become such formidable, durable, and relentless opponents...they spend the time with their own chapter brothers tense and ready to fight at a whim. Even with three death speakers per company, keeping order amongst the Executioners has been a challenge as long as Conric can remember.

Conric has spent over three hundred years living with his Chapter's blood laws. He has a short temper himself, because of it. He also hates being told what to do. As all Executioners are expected to, he forged his own glory and has secured his honor within his chapter, or most of it at least. He knows his place, he knows his doctrine, he knows his chapter's sole purpose of killing the Emperor's enemies and nothing else...He doesn't need to be told what to do. His brothers rely on him in battle to know what to do and be able to do it, as does he rely on them to do the same.

Of the twin feral home worlds, Conric was born on Stygia. Amongst fire and ice, he practically raised himself, as he was expected to by his people. His people would come together when there was a threat to them as a whole that no individual could overcome but otherwise, an individual had to fend for themselves. He cares little for the deeds that got him into the chapter's ranks and dismisses what he remembers of his three century gone childhood with a wave of his hand.

He considers his first real memories to be those that began his long list of notations for his company's death speakers to read off when recounting his glory carving.

As a neophyte, he hated that he was forced to be a part of the small amount of long-range support the battle brothers brought to war with them. For the longest time the sniper rifle in his hands appalled him. It screamed to him that he was just an accessory. He was too ambitious for it. He wanted what the battle brothers wanted, to get in close to the enemy, to kill them in glorious slaughter up close and personal. But during a particular battle that had gone sour, that rifle served him better than he ever would have imagined it could. It happened when he discovered that if the battle brotehrs actually ended up needing long range support, then they needed it badly. Three squads ahead and below him were deep into an overwhelming number of an alien race who attached AI components to their armor. There was no honor it, the machines were fighting the battle for them; calculating, moving limbs to block or shield with utmost efficiency. As Usual the battle brothers has dived straight into close quarters combat, but this was the first time Conric saw it utterly fail. As soon as he saw the first Executioner's face as the battle brother turned around, he reacted immediately where the other scouts beside him hesitated. there were gaps in the armor he could see through the scope. He scored hit after blood spraying hit into the xenos' weak points. The Executioners never fall back, he learned, but he got the enemy off their toes and he was recognized for it. That battle alone launched him towards fast becoming a wearer of power armor.

After about 80 years or service, Conric had gotten used to the 'barbaric' ways of his chapter without realizing it, hardly even knowing the ways in which the Executioners differed from others. That is, until a decade long war against a hefty Ork incursion in the Segmentum Tempestus. For the first six years it was a joint operation with their founding chapter, the Imperial Fists. Since being a battle brother, he had heard of other companies meeting with or fighting with the Imperial Fists, they being the only chapter the Executioners had kept any real ties with, but he never actually met them himself. He first met one on the High Executioner's battle barge, then again in the deployment zone...and again next to them firing their bolters in dirt trenches. Each time he noticed more and more that the Fists acted a certain way towards he and his brothers, as if they didn't trust them 100%.

During the seventh year, another chapter came to support the fight, the Red Talons. The Executioners and Red Talons got along horribly, and the Talons dislike of the chapter was evident from the start, and was in no way subtle as it seemed to be from the Imperial Fists. If the Fists hadn't also been involved, The Executioners may easily have engaged the Red Talons as much as they had the Orks. To prove their superiority, the Executioners did what they do best, and severed the head of the Enemy leader, both literally and metaphorically. Fifth company was first to the Warboss, and Conric was right at his Captain's heels. Regretfully he didn't land the killing blow, but he did land the first.

Petty arguments that stemmed from that war with the Orks, many of which snowballed from fights with Imperial Fists and Red Talons, caused serious clashes amongst the Executioner leadership for decades to come. Leading his force to the defeat of the war boss was the first of many reason why Conric's company captain, Captain Osranik, felt he should challenge the High Executioner for his position. As was the chapter's custom, it was his captain's right to do so if he wished.

Osranik trusted Conric highly, but despite Conric's disapproval of the idea, Osranik challenged the High executioner anyway. Upon the High Executioner's barge where the bout began to unfold, one of the High executioner's veteran axe-brothers did the unimaginable, feeling so disgusted at the thought of Osranik taking the place of High executioner moved in to intervene and attack Osranik from behind. Once again Conric acted without hesitation when others did, and tackled his battle brother to the ground. They began a fight of their own while the captain and master continued on. Conric felt satisfied that the toughest dual of his life was one with another Executioner. He prevailed, first sticking his blade through his brother's torso before the beheading. However, captain Osranik was defeated and killed, as Conric had predicted would happen. The High Executioner promptly promoted Conric to fill the veteran's position. No one present knew why the other Executioner had made such a foolish decision, perhaps he knew he would die but had decided seeing Captain Osranik fail was simply more important than his life. No one would know now. It is that Executioner's skull that Conric has attached to his chainswords hilt.

Now that Conric was in his new position near the High Executioner, and more than a whole new century of battles under his belt in the vanguard, he began meeting more and more other veteran marines from the other companies, naturally, as well as from other chapters. Some of which he has learned he should be seeing at the upcoming 702nd feast of Blades.

(I may be adding a part on how he specifically knows one of the other characters if and when a certain someone posts their sheet.)

You can never be prepared for the unexpected



Last edited by unxpekted22; 10-04-13 at 08:18 AM.
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post #14 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 03:12 PM
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My character is up, ended up completely different to my original idea, but I love it when that happens.

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You are charged with the crime of existance Xenos! - Watch Librarian Auron
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post #15 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 03:35 PM
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I kept mine deliberately understated since I see the chapter he is part of as pretty understand and not well known, echoing how they came across in Legion of the Damned book.
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post #16 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 03:59 PM
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Name: Caderyn, Champion of the Fire Lords.

Age: 352.

Chapter: Fire Lords.

Appearance: Tall and handsome with a full, well-defined face. His cheekbones are angular, encompassing a thick-lipped, petulant mouth. His eyes are those of a Pyran mountain lion, purest, palest green, intelligent and hungry. As is befitting of a Fire Lord, Caderyn's skin is painted completely blue, a terrifying, hellish display of veterancy. Some - Like those of the Black Templars - May go as far to label this custom pagan, borderline heretical. The Fire Lords however, forever the warlords, welcome such judgment. A straight, unbroken nose cleaves his face; slightly upturned, giving him an arrogant, condescending look. Caderyn wears his red-blonde hair short, cut to the scalp neatly - Long hair is, after all, a potential grip for a bold enemy. A golden torc, emblazoned with swooping eaglets, encircles his throat. A raven, the Pyran bringer of death, is tattooed upon Caderyn's left cheek.

Beneath his plate, Caderyn is well-muscled, his body a weapon in itself, relatively untouched by the ravages of war. A single, bleached scar runs from his left breast, down across his stomach, before terminating at his hip - A painful reminder of Caderyn's less fortunate days, gifted to him by a particularly perfidious Eldar reaver.

Caderyn takes, like many of the Fire Lords, great pride in the care and function of his power armour. It is the scarlet and gold of his Chapter; polished to a mirror-sheen. Upon his left pauldron, Caderyn displays the symbol of his brotherhood proudly - A clenched fist being devoured by flames, picked out with rubies and obsidian. Flames are cut into the palms of his gauntlets, glowing with a curious inner-light that, thus far, Caderyn has declined to explain to outsiders. His helm is an ornate affair - A death-mask, serene and angelic, tears of bronze and platinum adorning the cheeks. For those observant enough, they will realise that the death-mask is Caderyn's own, a somewhat morose and fatalistic gesture.

Equipment: Amongst the tribes of Mundus Pyra, it is whispered that upon the painful, blood-spilling birth of their world, the Emperor gifted the Pyrans with two things - The sword and the shield. In war, Caderyn carries both. Illuminos, his sword, is double-edged, the blade decorated with a coiling fire-wyrm, stained rust-red by the cutting of a thousand throats; the pommel shaped like a pair of entwined, golden hands with pearl fingernails and platinum rings. His combat-shield is circular and covered with animal motifs, swirls and spirals. It is a great source of pride for Caderyn, the result of a day's worth of work, beaten and twisted into shape from the richest of Pyran metals. Caderyn also carries a serrated combat-knife and an unconsecrated boltpistol, the latter a replacement for Caderyn's former weapon; still heavy and unfamiliar in his grip.
Personality: As befits a warrior of the Fire Lords, Caderyn is a mercurial figure. His moods are as tempestuous as nature itself; sometimes Caderyn is quiet and brooding, lost deep in thought, whilst others he is loud and opinionated,unafraid to accuse and banter with his companions. Caderyn's fighting style echoes that of his ancient ancestors, to many appearing untrained, fearless, wild and savage - Though, to any swordsman, it is th exact opposite - Powerful and direct, designed to obtain the quickest decapitation. It is said amongst the Fire Lords that an enemy's soul is safe-kept in the head, and as such, Caderyn is an headhunter - Skulls being the greatest of trophies. In his long, honoured career as a champion, Caderyn has taken a hundred-and-fifty-five heads of renowned enemies, wading into the thick of battle to seek out the most ferocious of warriors. This secular fighting style has not won Caderyn many friends amongst the Fire Lords, but it has won him respect and fame as a great swordsman - One of the greatest, it is said, that the Chapter has known.

Caderyn is neither cruel or kind, though he has shown both in his times, being a somewhat cold character. He is constantly alert, to an almost paranoid degree, never arms reach from his blade and shield. Even allies are not exempt from his scrutiny; having been betrayed more-than-once by those he would call friend. This readiness for bloodletting, this detached, unconcerned nature, leaves many unwilling to know Caderyn. But, the champion cares little. Whilst he does enjoy company, he does not favour it. If alone, Caderyn can lose himself in thought - Hold his very own private symposium, something which he does too often. Despite being a warrior, Caderyn is also a poet and a reader; studying religious tomes, guides to war, sycophantic autiobiographies. Caderyn speaks a thousand dialects, some wholly, others partially - Including Fenrisian, Macraggian and Cadian. Despite these facts, Caderyn is not arrogant naturally, but it was rather an ugly trait drawn out by the arrogance of others.

Background: Mundus Pyra is a broken, twisted world. Great oceans of lava, visible from orbit, scour the land - Poisonous gasses rendering many of the planet's mass uninhabitable to even the most advanced of bioforms. Sharp, dagger-like mountains jut from the surface, thousands of feet high, sheer and unwelcoming. Marshes of mud, as thick and clinging as molasses, render even more of the land inhospitable. To an outside observer; an Imperial explorator or a rogue trader, the world would be categorised as a death world - Not unlike Catachan or Miral - But to the tribesmen of Mundus Pyra, it is but one thing - Home.

Caderyn was born amongst these tribes, the son of a war-chieftain, Caragar. His folk, the bronze-skinned Bretarnae, were fierce and barbaric, worshipping the Emperor as a black-skinned, golden-eyed war-god. The shamanic rulers of the Bretarnae, the Harwarda, proclaimed that once ever generation, all boys of age must compete in a great bloodletting ritual. It fell upon Caderyn, as the eldest son of the strongest chieftan, to bring honour to the Bretarnae.

He set off, carrying but a spear and shield, from the walled safety of his home-fort into the wilds. With his hair braided and his skin painted blue, the boy was surely a nightmarish figure, stalking through the steam-shrouded wastes, chanting in his native tongue. He was not alone, however, a dozen other boys following in his wake, each equally as naked and equally as bloodthirsty. Four of these Bretarnae boys would fall to Caderyn's own hand, challenging his leadership and earning the price of insubordination. Of the other eight, Caderyn's boyish impatience would eventually grant them death, also. And so, at age ten, Caderyn took his first skulls.

Stumbling across the pit-dwelling of a fire-wyrm, the Bretarnae boys entered as one group, spears jutting out over the rims of their shields, water-soaked leather hiding their faces. In the darkness, dry, scorched bones cracked beneath their feet. Deeper into the cave they ventured, foolishly daring the hell-beast to reveal itself. With a silent cry of blistering furnace-heat, the fire-wyrm was upon them, claws rending and fangs crushing. Five of the Bretarnae fell within as many heartbeats, lifeless and mangled, eyes staring on in horror. Caderyn alone was unfazed, launching his spear at the beast's chest, where it pierced with an unholy howl. Two more of the boys fell, crushed beneath the fire-wyrm's paws, as it sought out the offending hand.

Unarmed, save for his shield, Caderyn bellowed for his remaining companion to act. He did so, turning and fleeing, an act that ended in the jaws of the mighty serpent. Alone, armed with only a shield, Caderyn stood his ground. The fire-wyrm was a true monster, it's hide hardened by heat, one eye closed beneath red-raw scar tissue. But Caderyn was bold and fearless, straightening, embracing the prospect of death. The fire-wyrm lunged, and at the last moment, Caderyn rolled aside, bringing the rim of his shield down upon the beast's snout with a crunch. Shards of teeth and bits of tongue erupted forth with a pained howl, the sole, hateful eye searching the darkness for Caderyn.

The Bretarnae princeling did the unthinkable. Snatching up a broken spear, he leapt onto the fire-wyrm's back, skin blistering where it touched the creature's hide. It bucked and roared, crushing rock and Caderyn's corpse-band beneath it, attempting to dislodge it's killer. But Caderyn, emboldened by the prospect of death, simply rammed the spear into the fire-wyrm's brain-pan. It slumped, twitching, throwing Caderyn across the chamber. Bloodied and bruised, with bleeding, cracked thighs, Caderyn emerged victorious. He carried the still-warm body of the fire-wyrm home, upon a sled of scales, much to the awe of his people. When he eventually entered the gates of his town, he found a great commotion. He was an hero, an Emperor's-send, bringing honour and pride to the Bretarnae. And soon, he realised why. His father and the Harwarda surrounded a figure, a giant in gilt, too broad and too muscled to be one of the Bretarnae.

In a language that was too sweet, too rich, the giant informed Caderyn that he would be accompanying him to a place where only the dead went - The heavens.

And so it was, that Caderyn of the Bretarnae became a Space Marine. His induction was relatively unworthy of note; his body accepting the gene-forged organs of the Astartes with little problem. Caderyn excelled as a Scout, finding that the treacherous, wild and cunning methods of the Tenth Company suited him well - And he soon earned his marksman honours, emptying the skull of the Ork warlord Nagara Toofsmasher on Vicora - Slipping away into the darkness like the wraith of Pyran myth. But this was not his destiny.

His true-calling was that of the blade. Elevated into the Eighth Company; Caderyn soon honed his skill as a swordsman, besting many of his brothers in the dueling-halls. On the hulls of starships, in jungles and searing deserts, in cathedral-cities and hives, wherever Caderyn's sword swung, only blood flowed. He was unstoppable, a comet, the brightest and most ferocious of the Eighth. This, soon, caught the attentions of his superiors. His Captain applauded him, placing him among his own honour-guard after but a century of faithful service.

It was here that he would remain, for a century and half, leading countless pyromaniac charges with his sire. However, on the mining world of Arcatanus, Caderyn's lord fell to the poisons of an Eldar reaver. Blinded by hatred and the desire for vengeance, Caderyn too allowed his guard to fall, and paid for it. The Eldar's sword, a vibrating, nigh-on invisible blade, cleft Caderyn's chainsword in two and sliced through armour, flesh and bone. The Eldar fled, carrying the Eighth Captain's lukewarm body with them, disappearing into the night. Steaming in the cold air, Caderyn grasped onto life, vowing that one day, somewhere, he would slay the Xeno that bested him.

The Arcatanus Campaign broke Caderyn. It left him hollow and embittered, locked away in his own private chambers, sneering and spiteful. Was it not his responsibility, as shield-bearer of the Eighth, to safeguard his sire's life? Had he not failed to stop the blade of the Eldar reaching his Captain's throat? These questions occupied Caderyn's mind for days upon end, haunting him. He was, by the agreement of each and every of his brothers, broken. It was the intervention of the First-Captain, one Brenos Phorus, that saved Caderyn from a life of melancholic misery.

Brenos was an unrelenting figure, unforgiven and prone to violent outbursts. Summoning Caderyn to the training chambers, Brenos proceeded to beat him bloody. Weakness and self-loathing, he said, had no place amongst the warriors of the Emperor. It was an unforgivable sin, a cancerous growth that would fester until Caderyn slipped into the grasp of the Archenemy. The likes of the Heresiarch Horus, Brenos grunted, fell because of such vices. When the two were done, Caderyn laying at the First-Captain's feet, Brenos offered Caderyn a new life; a place within the hallowed First Company, the hundred-and-twenty strong Teulu.

Caderyn accepted, and as he rose from the bloodied ground, found himself reforged. When word reached the Fire Lords of the 702nd Feast of Blades, Caderyn was undoubtedly the sole representative. He, aboard the frigate Fire-wyrm, was alone sent to the Oriax IV warzone. And it would be there that Caderyn would either be cemented in legend among the Sons of Dorn, or lost to the annals of time.

And there he is, my first character in nearly a year; he's not great, and there's a lot left to be desired, but I hope he makes the cut. Me and Unxpekted would like our characters to have some form of history, so I imagine we'll both edit something in about that... Looking forwards to roleplaying with you all once again!

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #17 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 04:34 PM
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Am I right in sensing Celtic influence here Dark Angel?

When the sky falls down, The Dead sleep no more. Can you survive as your world slowly tears itself apart?

"When life gives you lemons...BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD"
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post #18 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 06:13 PM
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Aye, you are correct. There's not much on the Fire Lords, so I run amok with them.

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #19 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 06:31 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by dark angel View Post
Aye, you are correct. There's not much on the Fire Lords, so I run amok with them.
The chaplain that appears in Legion of the Damned as alcohol or Promethean in his mouth and uses his flint like teeth to ignite it to breath fire, was pretty cool.
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post #20 of 179 (permalink) Old 09-30-13, 07:09 PM
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LoTN has a bit of reading to do when he pops back lol.

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