i think reasons, place, and that kinda stuff should be taken into acount, im not saying i want to start killing players, im just saying that we are chaos after all, of properbly all the 4 major gods and not the eldar or Imperium
that is to be expected. and like all powerfull warlords, she should learn that Darwinism is the greatest strength withing chaos
Perhaps, but in war, body count is also useful. Either way, this off topic. That's my verdict, friendly fire will be met with punishment, end of discussion.
What if there are no witnesses to said friendly-fire or the witnesses die? Question is hypothetical by the way, I don't plan on murdering anyone, but you never know with Chaos, might have to self-defense or something
Well knowing chaos I'd say it could happen but for the sake of the RP's story I don't think it should happen a lot but as Shadhunter said end of discussion.
well gm wants the best player experiance possible, not just self character movement. who knows what happens
Name: Dyrhildr War-Scythe (her last name is self-given) Gender: Female Race: Human Mutant Warband: Pale Throng Class: Mutant Raider Equipment: Feral World Leather Armour, created from many patches of feral beast hide and some bits of low-quality iron covering the arms and legs. Some barbed hooks are attached to the armour. 5 Throwing Javelins, tipped with jagged metal and made from tough enough wood to be reused. Sword, large and heavy enough that it barely qualifies as one-handed, with a rounded tip. Hunting Knife, not intended for combat, but still pretty sharp. Description: Spoiler A warrior hailing from the feral tribes of Cylenia, Dyrhildr is much taller than most humans, standing at 6' 8“ tall, and possesses more than enough muscle to warn any onlooker of her physical power. With pallid, almost white skin, and black eyes and hair, she fits well into the Cylenian stereotype. Ritual scarification has left its mark on her body, creating a network of wicked black scars in imitation of her culture's former Astartes masters. An aquiline nose and a hard, square face seldom not drawn into a snarl complete an appearance that looks like an illustration of an Imperial scholar trying too hard to convey the savagery and strength of the feral tribes... ...were it not for the fact that the Gods have already graced Dyrhildr with their attention. In place of a right arm, the tribeswoman has grown a wicked, large blade the length of her entire former lower arm, the upper half wrapped in distended, inflamed muscle perforated with bone spines. Its flesh constantly twitches, as if hungry for bloodshed, and stretches well over her shoulder up to where a breast should be, though the thick sinews and tendons and muscle needed to properly move this lethal appendage have taken over the space previously inhabited by the adipose tissue. History: Spoiler Born on the feral world of Cylenia, the youngling that would grow into the War-Scythe was already subsumed into a culture of warfare and savagery before she was an adult; becoming a huntress and a warrior of her tribe at the tender age when most other humans would learn to read, to ride, or to assemble a lasrifle, thanks to the lingering influence of this world's former king, Dharkallon. After joining the proper warbands as a full adult, and recieving the war-name of Dyrhildr, she, like most of her kin, waged war on the other tribes and hunted fearsome beasts until she, in a hunt gone awry, managed to slay a giant burrow-wyrm of the frozen plains in a feat of desperate power. At the utter edge of mortality, she climbed the beast and ran her spear through its head, maw and brain after it slaughtered or broke her entire warband. This act of courage and power seemed to attract the attention of ancient, but not forgotten Gods, and soon, lying on the ground waiting for her death, Dyrhildr felt the immense pain of her arm being torn apart by its evolution to a weapon worthy of her deed. But while most tribes of Cylenia still venerated what their old masters, the World Eaters, had taught them, and venerated Khorne in all they did, Dyrhildr's tribe abhorred the mutant and the Dark Gods, and so, came to abhor her as well. The raider was infuriated at being cast out – striking down a number of her own tribespeople in her rage – and left for the frozen wastes, looking for a people who would venerate her as a champion of the Gods like she deserved. But her own former tribe's constant war against the followers of the Old Way made those that would wary of her, and so, the self-styled War-Scythe spent a number of years as a hermit in the woods, honing her skills as a hunter. Dyrhildr War-Scythe had always assumed that it was a sign from the Gods when a shuttle crashed on the planet, its inhabitants lost members of a mutant cult. Investigating them with curiosity (and admittedly, the intent to kill them and take their stuff), she soon found that they too believed mutation to be a glorious gift instead of a sign of weakness, and in an understanding only the twisted mutant mind could come to, joined them after they fixed their craft. This was how she came to join the Pale Throng, and how she came to learn of the Empire, an accursed religion of weaklings like her old tribe, that feared the Old Ways and had no proper respect for a glorious champion such as her.
Name: Jarron Hugg Gender: Male Race: Human Mutant Warband: Pale Throng Class: Renegade Officer Equipment: Longknives, two swords in the style of the Brontian regiments. Throwing knives, concealed in his belt and in his boots. Laspistol, a backup weapon holstered inside his coat. Carapace breastplate, incorporating a gorget to protect his neck from ironic decapitation. Guardsman’s uniform, khaki-colored garments including tall, black leather boots and a grey greatcoat for the sake of style. Description: Spoiler Jarron Hugg is no giant, standing at 5’9”, but he possesses a stout, barrel-chested build that speaks of an impressive physicality. His craggy skull looks as though it was mounted onto his shoulders after having been chiselled from a single slab of stone. His mutation is apparent, though not especially monstrous in anything but its implications. His muscles are barely visible underneath the thick, leathery hide that covers his body, chalk-white in color and lined with crimson scar tissue. History: Spoiler Jarron Hugg was orphaned at a tender age, when his father gave his life in the defense of the Imperium. As a recognition of the elder Hugg’s sacrifice, his son Jarron became a ward of the state, and raised within the confines of the Schola Progenium. Under the tutelage of savage and overbearing drill abbots, Jarron Hugg was instilled with the Imperial Creed from an early age and put through gruelling challenges to shape him into a weapon of the God-Emperor. He was an unexceptional student, neither exceptionally successful nor exceptionally prone to failure, but he was nonetheless a quite successful student, and met the high standards of his taskmasters without complaint. The weak were slowly weeded away from the strong, and Jarron found himself with fewer and fewer peers. Upon his graduation, Jarron was forwarded to the Commissariat for further training, and carried on his tradition of mediocre results. He was neither cowardly nor incompetent, yet he failed to meet the standards of the commissars, and rejected. He was reassigned to the Imperial Guard, where he served in the capacity of lieutenant in the 7th Brontian Longknives. His educated upbringing was a burden for him in the beginning, as it clashed greatly with the culture of the Bront hive worlders, and his savage comrades held little respect for him. Nonetheless, the theories instilled in him during his time in the Schola commanded that he earn the trust of the men somehow; Jarron went native. The young officer started taking in the men’s customs, their expressions, and their insights, and came to understand how the Brontians blended personal combat and ritual bloodshed with undying devotion and discipline. After these epiphanies, the lieutenant started leading in the spirit of his incomplete commissar training, fighting side-by-side with his men, and with time earning their trust. One fateful night saw the young lieutenant and his squads huddling under a bridge while the rain poured down around them, and the water reached their knees. Before them loomed a once-great, defaced cathedral. The voice of their captain boomed over the rolling thunder as he explained their mission. They had been fighting for months on a remote hive world, after the Imperial governor had declared himself Arch-Despot and abandoned the true Imperial faith. The key to his success had been a coven of witches who seduced the governor into treason. Now, the captain explained, one of these witches was holed up in the cathedral; the 7th Brontian Longknives’ mission was to kill the witch. The battle inside the cathedral was nightmarish, as the witch brought the full power of her Warp-bestowed spells to bear. Guardsmen died in droves, and when the dust settled, the floor was slippery with their blood. Jarron Hugg and a few of the remaining squads had cornered the witch, but she had killed anything in sight thus far. With a shouted prayer, and a wordless rage from some, the last of the guardsmen charged, and many of them fell uselessly. Only eight remained standing. The witch shrieked a final spell, but was dumbstruck when none of the guardsmen seemed affected. Before she could rectify her mistake, Hugg closed the distance between them and swung his sword and decapitated her, holding the head up for his comrades-in-arms to see afterwards. It was a victory, or so it seemed. The eight survivors received a hero’s welcome upon their return, and the celebrations took off as the traitor governor’s power was finally broken with the last of his witches slain and their heads - along with the governor’s - displayed on the gate of the governor’s palace. It quickly became apparent that something was amiss with the survivors, however, when one was found to have drained himself of blood eight nights after the victory. The next two slew each other in the middle of one of the regiment’s ritual melees, felling one another in unison with a decapitating strike. Sixteen nights after the victory. The fourth descended into whispering madness and self-mutilation twenty-four nights after the victory. Thirty-two nights after the victory, the fifth of the survivors cut down seven of his comrades before slitting his own throat. Forty nights after the victory, the sixth was found at midnight, howling wordlessly until his face was red and his eyes were watering. Forty-eight nights after the victory, the seventh was executed after attacking the regimental commissar, tearing out his throat with his teeth. Between these events, the regiment as a whole suffered from nightmares and frequent squabbles, the slightest provocation devolving into fights, yet none of the others died. Only the seven of Jason’s comrades. Jarron Hugg survived, and when eight nights passed from his last surviving comrade’s breakdown, nothing seemed wrong with him. The truth, however, was that Jarron had been suffering from rashes ever since the fateful night. The ritual scars he had gained during the battles with his Brontian comrades would break open and bleed, as though the wounds were fresh, before healing within the day. The lieutenant became sullen and withdrawn, and preferred solitude when his duties allowed for it. In these dark times, cryptic figures would appear in his hab unit at night and wake him from his sleep. They explained to him that his body was changing, and that he was becoming something more than human. He did not listen at first, but something kept him from reporting the events. Then, he began to listen, and then, he began to ask questions. The men in the shadows offered him an opportunity to understand, and he took it. Lieutenant Jarron Hugg disappeared one night, secreted away by the dark agents who had lured him into their scheme: Jarron Hugg had joined the Pale Throng.
