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    333 KB Writefaggotry: The Writening Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)14:04 No.9106539  
    Armed with KEYBOARD and INTERNET, I return to the universe of writefaggotry. As before, just give me a short blurb of what you want written- be it a character background, short story, or just a general description- and I'll churn it out.

    No porn or furfaggotry, but besides that, HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)14:10 No.9106636
         File1270923027.jpg-(155 KB, 640x632, zombies.jpg)
    155 KB
    Zombies become common place, they're used for everything, from mining to bagging your groceries.

    Such a marvel of science. Now the world's population is able to shift it's attention to other things. Peace and prosperity reign, that is until one day one zombie ...
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)14:31 No.9106961

    The young man, no older than seventeen, looked the children over. Down here, in the decrepit sewers, the only other sound than his voice was the trickle of foetid water. Four boys in total, the children looked at the young man with a mixture of fear and awe.

    The young man, Richard, wore a loose white flannel shirt, tie, and pants. He would have looked fit to work in an office, were it not for the massive improvised shotgun clutched in his hands, the pipe rifle pointed at the boys.

    "It started out innocently enough..." He said to them, his voice barely above a whisper, "We found out how to do it with...with...simple minerals and stuff. It was real easy, but so /revolutionary/. Death itself was transitory, so many dead figures brought back, even if only as stupid vermin! The formula made the dead rise into zombies, zombies that we used to make life a...a utopia, for the most part! All the terrible, low-wage work was eliminated, whole new divisions of life opened! The...the 'everyman's world', where a man could own a personal palace for pennies on the dollars, provided it was zed-built and zed-maintained. They didn't need food, or water, or even air! But...but we were fools to think we could order them around forever. Even though we had drastically reduced war, made poverty completely obliterated, we never thought that...that...they'd rise up! Nobody knows /why/ or /how/ it happened, but the zeds- just like in those freaky little movies from the double-O's started biting down on people, infecting them with Agent Zed like the fucking AIDS pandemic!"

    He let out a long sigh, shaking some loose hair out of his eyes. "And now? Now we live in the fuckin' sewers, like rats! Why? Because the Zeds can't work manholes...yet. But the infected? The infected /can/! So...that's why...that's why I've gotta do this." He said, cocking the pipe rifle's hammer back.

    "Can't risk it."
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)14:34 No.9107036
    [40k warning] It be a character background! A noble born craving for knowledge somehow gone techpriest and maybe heretek
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)14:38 No.9107101
    A secret organization in the vain of the SPC fails. Their cover gets blown. Everyone finds out about all the crazy powers and monsters.

    Somehow, things get better. Probably because now there's more people actually *looking* for dangerous monsters than just carting it away to secret facilities on the off chance some agent finds one.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)14:51 No.9107299
    Augustus Morn was born the son and inheritor of a magistrate's manufactory guild, a manufactory guild that presented over ninety-five percent of a Hive City's manufacturing capabilities. An absolute monopoly, the young man was brought up at an early age to relish everything machinery had brought to him. Showing an aptitude for the devices his family operated, the young man quickly found himself visiting each manufactory under their control in person, attending to major problems that even the senior adepts there could not properly solve. It was this aptitude that made the Mechanicus interested in him, as well as bringing the faint eye of the Inquisition- always curious of potential psykers manifesting their talents.

    Though he was not shown to be a witch-child, the Mechanicus found itself increasingly blocked by the boy's father, even as the young man- himself- began to follow the Mechanicus credo via expensive cybernetics he implanted himself with. Eventually, his father buckled, and soon the young boy found himself being mentored by a passing Explorator fleet's Magos Biologis under the father's watchful gaze.

    Little did the aristocrat realize, as his heir was being taught the ways of the Omnissah, that the Magos hired was in fact a Heretek. A heretek fortunate to find a fresh, fertile mind with near-limitless resources.

    When the elderly father did finally pass, the young Augustus found himself at the head of an entire Hive's construction power. The young man's tale only darkened as he was informed of his origins- He himself was a creation of tech-heresy gone "right", made from the gene-stock of several important figures. Utilizing this to his full advantage, he set his sights for the stars. Though his fate on /this/ world was sealed...

    The heavens had many opportunities for an aspiring heretek noble.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)14:58 No.9107420
    Nice! thanks.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:02 No.9107483
    A young Soviet American soldier happens across an attempt to resurrect Abraham Lincoln as a God.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:02 No.9107489
    A changeling psion takes the form of a half-elf and follows a party about until they've got an airship.

    He then swaps minds with a demigod, and kills a god, becoming one. (Btw, it's Eberron :D )
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:05 No.9107522
    A bitter man in a post apocaliptic world killing people for wood and water.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:07 No.9107557
    Dranon and Cultist have a d'aww adventure to get ice cream.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:09 No.9107586
    Oh, I've been meaning to look at this for a while now...

    Dodgers looked down at the city below, to the hordes of determined citizens as they armed themselves. Word had been leaked to the world about what was happening, what /would/ be happening, the moment the first "Herald" of Ragnarök had appeared in Cairo. It had taken most of the assets of the Sector of Paranormal Investigations to take the giant bastard of a pack down, but they had done it. With, of course, the aid of Eric the Magister and the gods-damned Paladin and the Vatican strike-force.

    But they had managed to fell the army of supernatural beings, the first of many, and word had been spread from there. Cover-ups used to take place in the wake of such massive fights, things like airplanes crashing into buildings, or terrorist dictators gassing their own villages. Sure, a larger war was usually waged because of it, but the world's peace of mind was kept /safe/.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:09 No.9107598
    That had all changed with that goddamned wizard Eric, Dodger's latest rival. He had spilled the beans like a nerd cornered by the football team, and he had a smug fuckin' grin the whole time when he did it. The SPI administrator had been tempted to put a bullet in his skull right then and there, if he hadn't known the fact that he'd be killed right afterwards for it.

    So instead, he'd become best buddies with the little shit who spilled everything, every single witness to the massive battle testifying as well. The world had recoiled, China had threatened nuclear action against the "Deymon entreh gaet!", the U.K. had threatened to nuke /them/ if they nuked Egypt, and the whole world degenerated into bickering.

    And all the while, Eric set up his own little chunk of the world, taking over most of South America as the rest of the world bickered over the source and reason for the supernatural events. The only thing they had pestered /him/ with was asking how he became a wizard, to which he only tossed one of over a score of apprentices to them for "Study". A page right out of Dodger's own book. Now, as "Supernatural Activities Specialists" predicted the doom was neigh (Which, for once, was actually quite true), entire cities volunteered to join the upcoming battle for survival. Man and woman alike took up arms, entire countrysides covered in sprawling military bases as chaplains were quickly and crudely trained as clerics and magical items and artifacts came pouring out of the vaults of each government. Governments that all knew ahead of time that the supernatural was real, but- for now- acted like it was a big American-British-Egypt conspiracy.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:10 No.9107602
    A human paladin cleansing a desecrated altar of Heironeous from the grasp of a Lich and his minions.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:11 No.9107628
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:11 No.9107633
    Jurgen's journal.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:12 No.9107656
    Now? Now Dodgers watched as the inhabitants of the city below stood ready to storm the Vatican, a NATO taskforce with a "Supernatural Division" consisting of Eric and his ilk ready to bust down the holiest doors in the world and loot all the artifacts inside.

    And honestly? Dodgers couldn't help but laugh at what the look on the Paladin's face would be when he realized this.
    >> dream 04/10/10(Sat)15:16 No.9107742
    op how familar are you with Eberron? I have a player who needs some backstory help and is from Cyre
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:17 No.9107750
    that's already been written.
    three wishes gone wrong from the P.O.V. of a pretty woman not happy with her appearance.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:20 No.9107826
    I would like to request An ex-girlfriend being turned into a living drawing on paper and her artist ex-boyfriend having a time of his life with it.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:25 No.9107928
    I description of my monk would be awesome.

    She's 26,human, dark tanned skin and fights with a quarterstaff, wears Arabian clothing and lots of gold bangles.. oh and its a fantasy setting.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:25 No.9107941
    "Comrade Vladimir! Take a look at this..." Petrovich whispered, looking through the small crack in the concrete of the abandoned metro. The two Soviet-American spies had been informed of this G-Men meeting place after interrogating one of them, the man only giving up the location after spending a full half-minute in a bathtub filled with battery acid.

    Armed with silenced Kalashnikovs, the two men had traveled along the American metro system for many hours until coming along the meeting spot, a metro station that no train traveled to, nor any stairs led to.

    A hidden facility, for hidden American activities! Regardless, the communist agents would not let whatever went on here continue for long. Hurrying forward, Petrovich peered through the crack, his dark eyes going wide as he looked in on what was happening.

    In the center of the station, a clearing had been made. Metal benches had been removed, windows knocked out, bars and grates removed. Every inch of space possible had been made, only the stone columns now remaining to support the roof over their head. On the stone columns, long strips of paper had been riveted right into the rock blocks.

    Six men stood in the middle of the six columns, a wooden table having been set up in the very center of their circle. Each man wore a fine tux and wide-brimmed tophat. On that table was a set of perfectly preserved remains, only a tophat visible on them.

    "American magic..." Vladimir hissed, his eyes going wide.

    "Four score millenia ago..." The men chanted, their voices a low drone. The spies weren't the most fluent in American, but they could tell the occult when they saw it.

    "Get ready, Comrade." Vladimir hissed, nuzzling his Klashnikov into the crack. Pulling down the trigger he screamed,

    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:27 No.9107977

    "American magic..."
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:27 No.9107980
    >No porn
    Have fun talking to yourself, brah.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:28 No.9108002
    >implying nobody's here.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:31 No.9108070
    I'm not.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:35 No.9108131

    Fuck yeah, thanks man.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:42 No.9108247
    Wait, as far as I know, Changeling's can't swap minds with other beings...

    Jason scowled as he crept up on the desolate camp. The "woodsman" reeking of the woods he had once hailed from, dressed in a shaggy coat of dog furs and wearing boots made from tanned bear hide and bound in braided human hair.

    Up ahead, he heard the chatter of other people from the insides of an office building, as well as the crackle of...fire!

    Fire. They had wood, real wood! And, from the sounds coming from within, clean water as well. Unless they were mad enough to drink the fountain water...

    Regardless, drawing his iron bow, the raider knocked an arrow. He then crouched down, pressing his back against the wall towards the office door. Having been left ajar, the woodsman waited until the conversation kicked up again- that his prey was vulnerable- before kicking it the rest of the way open.

    Rushing inside, bowstring drawn, his unsuspecting prey looked up. A man and a pregnant woman, doubtlessly the man's wife or lover. There was a pistol, a rare relic in these times, strapped to the man's hip. They had been passing a bottle of bourbon until that moment, the bottle crashing to the ground and rolling away.

    A fortunate day indeed! Looking at the small pile of timber each of them sat on, he swiftly loosed a feathered arrow into the man's neck. Blood sprayed as the steel arrowhead, barbed, went through. The woman only screamed in shock and fury.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:42 No.9108255
    Wasting no time, Jason quickly twisted his grip upon the bow, revealing the sharpened piece of rebar at the end. Rushing forward like a pikeman of yore, he swifty- and brutally- charged the woman.

    Laden with child and slightly intoxicated, she could only stumble back as the improvised spear pierced her heart. Blood gushed from the incision as Jason slammed a boot against her face, finishing the task with a stab to the temple. A clean kill. Very rare in-

    There was a gunshot, a bullet whisking by Jason's ear. Flinching, he spun around.

    The man, clutching a smoking revolver, finally collapsed. The fool had actually had enough strength to get off a shot, even after being shot in the neck...

    Jason resolved to aim a bit higher next time, to prevent such a risk. A man had to look out for himself, after all!
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:44 No.9108281
    A goblin shaman finds himself the last survivor/exiled/left behind/lost from his tribe. He somehow finds and tames/raises from birth a Dire Wolf, and also somehow comes into possession of a +2 flaming spear, so if you can write that in, it helps. Some kind of racial antagonist would be nice, but not humans. Maybe elves? And in case it isn't obvious, this is a 3.5 goblin druid character background. All slashes indicate your choice as the writefag- The wolf's name is Marrok, the goblin names himself Wulfger.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:45 No.9108293
    It's a ninth level psion power
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)15:52 No.9108394
    No prob bro.

    D'aww adventure? Dranon and Cultist? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS HERESY?

    Randal couldn't help but smile as he looked over the desecrated altar. That was all the lich could do- his flesh having long ago fallen off. His skeletal smile was sincere this time, for as he stared at the black gemstones arrayed across the altar, all he could feel was glee. Even his bodyguards, two Blackguards of Hextor, were expressing imminent glee at the ritual. All had gone according to plan, the souls of the prominent clergy having been imprisoned at great personal expense. He had lost many undead in the process of securing this temple, and a good living servant- something hard to come by- had died in the process of "Desanctifying" it.

    But now, blessed in blood, the Altar of Nerull had been prepared. Picking out one of the gemstones carefully, his skeletal grasp lifted the rock into his grip. With a casual thought, the stone was crushed to powder in his hands, the spirit within letting out a wail loud enough to cause the stone overhead to leak dust. Not that Randal even noticed, seeing as he didn't breathe.

    Outside, he noticed a number of his undead sentries suddenly cut contact with him. Somebody had arrived to ruin this occasion, no doubt detecting the presence of such dark magic here. Or simply noticing the fact that a formerly active temple had suddenly gone quiet.

    But this still wasn't right. For some reason, more and more of his undead were simply...disappearing. Either someone was interfering with his magical control, an impossible task in such a negatively charged zone, or they were moving quick enough for even undead to be unable to formulate a thought.

    Neither of which Randal much liked. "You two!" He hissed, pointing to the Blackguards. "Ready my carriage! I want to leave as soon as we are finished here."
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)15:55 No.9108433
    nah man. just nah.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)16:05 No.9108573
    thank you writefag for being awesome.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)16:09 No.9108631
    Giving a bow, the blackguards turned around, rushing into the chambers below and-

    There was a brief sound of fighting, of metal on metal. Randal, raising another gemstone in his hand- began to leech power from the spirit within. Draining it entirely, he focused upon the stairwell. A casual flick of the wrist set arcane warding seals along the entrance, and a single word of power resulted in a Pit Fiend materializing with a crack of splitting air molecules.

    The beast gave a fearsome roar before charging down the stairs, Randal grasping another stone as he prepared to confront any who dared to interrupt his ritual.

    The Pit Fiend barely made it three steps before a golden blur of a man rushed into it. Crashing backwards, the Pit Fiend wailed as it impacted the warding barrier. Flailing its arms, it smashed the man that now hung onto it. Randal couldn't see the attacker until the demon fell onto its back, the energies of the ward crackling all the while.

    Dressed in a plated leather coat, the man was intimidating in every way imaginable. Plates of solid gold were stitched into his attire, shining with the holy energy the Paladin now channeled into the Pit Fiend. He wielded a longsword in each gloved hand, the magical energy radiating from them blinding to the lich's arcane senses.

    His golden hair was cropped short, the rugged stubble along his cleft chin only adding to the essence of intimidation he wore like a mantle. Around his neck, the holy symbol of Heironious shone like a small star, the flesh of the Pit Fiend shriveling where the holy symbol touched.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)16:10 No.9108646

    "Demon!" He screamed, spittle flying from his mouth and onto the monster's face. His swords igniting as holy flame rushed down their length and into the demon's torso.

    "By the name of Heironious, I sanctify ye!"

    And, like that, the monster discorporated with the same crack of air that it had appeared. The Paladin, blooded by the claw marks, rose with a longsword in each hand. The wards, meant to prevent a demon's passage, provided no resistance as he walked through. Randal, breaking from his stupor at such a scene, backed against the altar. Gemstone in hand, he began an incantation. The same sort he had used to capture the clerics.

    "Dinnae try." The paladin replied, flourishing his longswords. "I'm protected by Heironious, an' yer petty witchcraft ain't gonna work on the likes of me."

    Randal ignored the holy man, reaching the last syllable of the complex invocation. Energies began to form around him as he focused upon the Paladin, the last element requiring eye contact.

    With casual ease, the Paladin brought his longsword around, the reflection on the polished weapon causing the lich to look into his own eyes.

    The ensuing scream was matched only by the cascade crashes of enchantments being broken. The altar, glowing with holy fire, lost the unhallowed curse that had plagued it so. Torches came back to life, the lich's corpse dissolving into a single gemstone.

    The paladin reached down, placing the stone upon the altar before folding his legs. That was his vow to Heironious. To meditate after each battle, so that he might review it, and strike with further agility in the next.

    Note: I'll return in about an hour. Will continue then.
    >> Alpharius 04/10/10(Sat)16:11 No.9108668
    Just a short story that somehow abuses "Everyone is Alpharius".

    Little background, if you're not aware - the XX Legion of Space Marines, Alpha Legion, had a primarch, Alpharius, and his twin brother, Omegon.

    Everyone in Alpha Legion pretends to be Alpharius, and all have the same physical profile.

    Ergo, Anon is Alpharius, and Alpharius is Anon.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)16:15 No.9108738

    This was more awesome than i could have hoped for.

    You are a god among men.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)16:39 No.9109188
    Bumping for op
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)16:56 No.9109478
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)17:22 No.9110023
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)17:25 No.9110078
    OP, come back already! (or suitable replacement, also welcome)
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)17:39 No.9110328
    Already written brah. Check 1d4chan

    Right then...

    Ulthwin cackled as he stared down at his new, godly form. After all of this time, after all that effort, it had culminated just as planned! He looked down at the baffled party of humans as he momentarily contemplated everything he had done to get where he was, to gain the power of a god!

    He had killed nobles and impersonated them for years at a time. He had posed for an entire decade as a noble, simply to find a band of fools hardy enough to actually break into the Astral plane and- in the process- grant the changeling access to the land where dead gods lay.

    But now? Now it had come to fruition. The entire weeks spent in the drizzling rain, the days of sweltering heats in foreign deserts, the fearsome one-against-dozen fights against wolves that the party had escaped by virtue of being together!

    His effort to switch minds with the unconscious god was pitiful at best, and now? Now he wielded the power of the divine! Now he would tear asunder the veil, and tell his brother changelings of what he would achieve here!

    Sneering at the humans below, he would never realize a horrifying fact, a fact that would prove his undoing.

    There was no great force in the universe than the combined might of an adventuring wizard, rogue, warrior, and bard.

    Even death itself could not resist that power.

    Though death would find a pretty cool show in the upcoming conflict.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)17:50 No.9110528
    Not TOO familiar, but if you fill me in on Cyre, I can make something up.


    And that's about all I can do for porn.

    Jessica awoke with a groan, looking down at a...gray floor? Looking up, she saw that the ceiling was gray also. What the hell had happen? The last thing she could remember was Evan...god, what had happened? Had he gone Manson her?! Oh God!

    She looked at her hands, noticing that they weren't bound. For now, anyways. At least /he/ didn't do anything.

    She hoped. It had been a messy breakup after all, but when she caught him with that /slut/, a breakup was the least painful thing she could do. At least, a breakup and breaking his snoz with a good hook.

    But still, breaking noses wouldn't get her out of this situation. Looking around, she noticed the room was empty but for an old-school door with an arch. Weeeiiird! She wasn't in, like, Romania...was she? Because that would have /totally suuuuucked/.

    "No." Said an omni-present voice around her, glee obvious in its tone. "And as you may have noticed, I'm fucking with your head, my dear."

    Jess bristled as she recognized the voice: Evan.

    "You little fucking creeper! Why don't you- Like, totally come down heeereeeeeee for some /fun/?" She asked, unwillingly going crosseyed as something once more changed the way she acted.

    "I'd love to, dear, but you see- I'm quite pissed off at you right now, and the idea of having /absolute control/ over you is...invigorating." Evan replied, the artist- in the real world- smiling with unbound glee at the girl looking up at him from the magical parchment.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)17:50 No.9110538
    "You mean it's giving you a hard-oh my gooooood!" She said, her head unwillingly swiveling to face a...

    One of the aliens from AvP?

    "Yes." Evan stated, his grin widening, "Yes! Oh, this is going to be /so/ much fun, dear. Now, start running..."

    And with that, the scenery changed to some spooky laboratory, Jess's clothing changing to a skimpy outfit. Her weapon?

    A giant, phallic-shaped gun. Wonderful. Just /wonderful/. Firing with some organic sounds, Jess swore she'd get out of here, then actually murder her immature ex-boyfriend.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:07 No.9110796
    Julia is a lady of fair build, her body having been made lithe from so many years of conflict. She is fairly decent looking, the abundance of jewelry and gold- from the massive bangles adorned with large rubies to the pearl necklaces that rattle freely from her neck- only adding to her appearance. Her dark skin, tanned from so much time spent in the open sunlight, adds a more exotic quality to her features. The large oak quarterstaff on her back might be mistaken by the common peasants and some sort of walking stick or farming tool, but those actually versed in the arts of combat know the dangers presented by a quarterstaff in the right hands. Especially one made from such flexible and moist bamboo.

    Her hands are relatively coarse from so much use of her quarterstaff, and those are often the only warning an enemy gets that the person they are dealing with is not a pushover.

    Besides that, her attire is relatively agrarian. A standard peasant's robe to keep out the cold, when necessary, allow for a refreshing breeze. A straw hat also keeps her head shielded from the shade, and can add to the want for blending in when necessary.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:08 No.9110808
    What were you looking for? A story featuring them? Or just a more in-depth description?
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:16 No.9110946
    Roaming the halls, the armourer-serf grunted under the weight of the pauldron he carried over his shoulder. The massive terminator Alpharius, /the/ Chapter Master, had asked him and him alone to fix the piece! Truly, he had been blessed, and the hours of work he put into working out the small dent had been some of the happiest of his life. Even though he had accidentally buffered one of his fingers off with the high-power tool, it was still a glorious event, especially since he now had a cybernetic finger to forever remind him of this grand task!

    He had even been allowed to visit the Astartes' quarters, a great blessing that only the greatest of serfs was ever permitted to perform! Keeping his head bowed, he quietly walked past the heavy bolter-armed security servitors. They registered him, momentarily targeted him with enough firepower to level a Baneblade, and then ignored him to return to securing the hallway.

    The smith, having almost browned his pants, hurried forth. Armed with only the massive pauldron, he approached the first hulking Astartes he could find. Fortune be, it was Master Alpharius!

    Almost shattering his spine in the process of bowing, he praised the Astartes Lord, "Your...greatness, Master Alpharius...I have the pauldron you requested!" He heaved, shakily raising the over-sized hunk of adamantite.

    "Pauldron?" The Astartes asked, "I ordered no pauldron! Come with me...you likely meant to find the First Company barracks."
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:17 No.9110964
    Heaving again, the smith followed the massive Astartes, nearly sprinting to keep pace with the massive man's galloping strides. Upon at last arriving at the barracks a minute later, the serf nearly collapsed with the effort of stopping.

    "Lord...Alpharius..." He heaved, barely able to lift the pauldron this time.

    Over a dozen heads turned towards the serf, who simply sighed, then collapsed. Coroners would find that his spine had been liquefied from the weight of the pauldron falling onto his upper torso. Not to mention the fact that his head had popped like a grape.

    Any moar, /tg/? Or is that all for today?
    >> Alpharius 04/10/10(Sat)18:20 No.9111012
    ...That's fukken beautiful.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:24 No.9111083
    You're more than welcome! If there's any further requests from /tg/, feel free to voice them! I'm still RIP ROARAN AND READY TO GO.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)18:29 No.9111165
    Need some background for my IG. Got khaki-uniforms and red berets alá British Airborne and brown-dusty tanks. Has of some reason some Penal Legionnaries attached. Would also be good to have room for co-operation with Ordo Hereticus and Adepta Sororitas allies.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)18:31 No.9111191
         File1270938683.jpg-(36 KB, 714x714, 1259644532433.jpg)
    36 KB
    Some Sisters of Battle eat pudding...

    ...with heretical results
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)18:33 No.9111218
    Remember, they don't have to be celibate.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:37 No.9111278
    In the early 41st Millenium, the Imperium- the Inquisition in particular- made an attempt to see the effects of regimental "cross-breeding" after the noted success of the Tanith/Verghast 1st. In order to achieve a more "grassroots" integration, it was decided by the Ordo Hereticus to draw the Guardsmen themselves from a single Cardinal world- Beati Primus. Out-of-system drill instructors were them brought in, as well as a group of Ecclesiarchy-selected penal troopers that had been reviewed and stated as "Spiritually compatible" with the regiment drawn. The penal troopers, naturally, meant to be a meat shield so as to allow the regiment a longer lifespan for study.

    With drill instructors from Catachan and even a few from the aforementioned "Gaunt's Ghosts", Inquisitor Nobody- the lead Inquisitional agent in charge of this experiment- then designated the unit to serve as part of an Ecclesiarchy purge upon a world that just recently emerged from the warp. Noting the success and minimal casualties amongst the actual troopers, primarily due to their vicious-yet-cunning fighting style, he then seconded them to serve as his own "private" army (When, in fact, he simply seconded them to serve on a backwater world until the "Administratum or other Imperial authority deems a term of service necessary").
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)18:46 No.9111420
    Sister Jezebel let out a small sigh as she sorted through her Sister's belongings. The poor girl had been found guilty of taint and summarily executed, but she had always suspected something was wrong with that adept. She had not taken the same relish in battle as the others, had not screamed quite as loudly during a charge as the others. The little things, which had eventually led to- one day, during the ritual purification exams- being found with a psychic taint.

    A psychic taint that, upon being discovered, had instantly caused her to erupt into the form of a Daemon of Nurgle. A truly disgusting fate, and one that Jezebel hoped she would never suffer. Setting aside the ex-Sister's armor and spending a moment to admire the fine craftsmanship of her sword, a mighty, spiked tool of combat that had seen plenty of use, she eventually delved into the personal belongings.

    There were few personal things in a Sister's life, but Catherine had mentioned before the small packet of Imperial chocolate she had, to teach her the "Error of temptation".

    It was a small plastek-wrapped bowl of pudding. A delicacy on most Imperial worlds, the Sister had- obviously- delved into it at least a few times. There was still a bit left, the utensil left in the covered bowl. Jezebel knew she shouldn't have, that Catherine's admonishing of weakness in Jezebel would have been right, but the Sister felt a sudden craving for the sweet, gooey goodness...she couldn't have resisted, even if she were one of the Sister-Commanders!

    Greedily unwrapping the plastek cover and gobbling up what little was left, Jezebel only had to wait for a moment to feel the effects. A sudden sickness overcame her, violent spasms wrenching her stomach. It was too late that she had realized what she had eaten.

    Heretical pudding.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)18:47 No.9111426
    Sweet, thanks.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)18:53 No.9111524

    Haha, awesome, thank you writefag
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)19:00 No.9111621

    No prob! Any more, bros?
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)19:04 No.9111681
    A German Schwere Panzer-Kompanie with Tiger I E tanks fighting a space marine.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)19:07 No.9111725
    If you know Warmachine, a Steelhead mercenary warcaster kicking Cygnar ass.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)19:43 No.9112176
    bump, anything?
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:06 No.9112463
    Kommandant "Little" Adolf slammed his balled fists against the scope, having just watched the lone American super-soldier evade an entire barrage of tank shells with almost contemptuous ease. They were the Sword of the Father! They were the Fuhrer's Fist! They were the Panzer-Kompanie, and this lone soldier had taken out an entire squad of solid German infantry without taking a scratch! MP40s simply caused ricocheted off the absurdly large pauldrons he wore, the StG 44s barely even causing the monster within to flinch!

    Truly, this was the very incarnation of the Devil! His hand-held cannon, for that is the only thing it could be, annihilated the men in a storm of explosions. Had the Americans really been conserving this until now, until the German Army truly fought them on the field of battle?

    Even now, the tide of the battle was turning. American soldiers had taken the German-held ridgeline running along his left, the R4M launch sites having been overrun in a tide of yankee bodies.

    The massive beast, or the Demon as the men had taken to calling him, was currently heading towards Herr Zankl's tank. The gunnery crew inside worked furiously, the treads whining as the tank attempted to move backwards. Its bulky armor was of no use here, one of the crewmen exiting from the top hatch to open fire with the pintle-mounted machine gun.

    The man barely staggered as the bullets raked across his torso and legs, drawing a dagger from his hip that roared clear across the battlefield. Throwing it like any other throwing knife, the blade cleanly loped off the gunner's head. Blood sprayed as the man climbed up the tank's chassis, bullets spraying at him all the while. Producing a thin discus, which he then tossed into the open hatch, the superhuman soldier leaped three meters into the air as the tank exploded behind him.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:07 No.9112473
    "All units!" The Kommandant screamed, "Fire on the American superman! Panzershrecks, to the fore! To the Fuhrer-damned fore!"

    And just like that, the pitch of the battle changed. Soldiers rushed from the Kompanie's half-tracks, panzershrecks meant for anti-tank duty being hefted forward by two-man teams. Loaders died where they stood as the man opened fire, the regularly-armed infantry attempting to divert his attention with a literal storm of lead.

    The bullets had no immediate effect, but it soon became apparent that the sheer weight or projectiles was slowing the man down. Within just a few seconds, the superman was reduced to a fast walk, one hand covering his face as the other rapidly fired the drum-fed cannon in his other hand.

    "Fire zer panzerschrecsk!" The Kommandant cried, his voice cracking in terror as he realized the man was walking directly towards his own tank, the infantry providing the only sort of cover.

    Even though the AT teams couldn't hear him, they fired anyways, four rockets fishtailing towards the superman. With a plume of flame, the armored figure was tossed backwards, doing several backflips. Excellent! No man could survive such a blast!

    But this was no man, with a scream, the Kommandant grabbed the radio once more. "All tanks! Fire on zer American supersoldier! Anti-tank shells, panzershrecks, run him over if you must! But kill zis swine, now!"
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:07 No.9112484
    And with that, launchers were reloaded, cannon barrels were leveled, and the entire Kompanie kept firing up until they were satisfied nothing could survive, a small six-meter-deep crater having been gouged into the ground.

    But for all their efforts, the Astartes still lived. Though horribly maimed by the pressure of the fire, it took three bullets- right through the broken eye lens of his helm- to finally kill the Demon that the Kommandant had rightly feared.

    None in the Kompanie knew that he was but one of untold thousands, and that Germany was going to be in for a rude awakening.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)20:20 No.9112689
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    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:27 No.9112820
    Commodore-Warcaster MacBair frowned as he looked over the battle raging before him. He and his small strikeforce had been sent on a circuitous route to flank the Cyngar attackers. Apparently, the Khador military didn't much like the military hardware that the enemy was bringing towards the front. It was in a guarded convoy and- since Khador had little success in bringing any sizable forces across the trench lines- they had opted to employ MacBair and his lads instead.

    Even now the thirty-man force, backed by a pair of Warjacks fitted for Jack-on-Jack combat, waited on the ridgeline for the convoy to pass around the bend. They had spent several cold nights in waiting, their long guns already set up on nooks and crannies. MacBair himself had checked and rechecked the charges on his Warcaster suit, as well as ensuring the suits of his own men (Those that could afford them, at least) had full hoppers and boilers sloshing with clean water.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:28 No.9112834
    Gods know how many battles were lost due to murky water in the boiler, after all. The shit sank when the water heated up, and suddenly your hopper's not only covered in exploded turd, but you've got a bunch of unaccounted-for gas clogging up your filters and intakes. Then the boiler goes boom, and everyone in thirty feet better hit the deck or get ready for some metal bits to take over the function of your kidneys.

    MacBair, eventually satisfied, thumbed the self-igniter in his suit. Another standard feature for those boys in his company. It cost more to have installed, sure, but when you're lying in ambush...the ability to start your own suit up without some squires is a /real/ Godsend.

    "Right!" MacBair called, quickly weaving a telepathic link. "Jacks are in place, when I give the mark, I want the long gunners to get to picking off any enemy 'casters while me and the heavy hitters take out the main group. They don't seem to have any Warjacks with 'em, so our own Jacks will fuck those siege pieces up. Yeah, I know, they're really pretty! But we got paid to blow them up, so let's blow some shit up!"

    With that quick pep talk done, the convoy soon came into position. They had missed the roar of the squad starting up amidst the noise of their own caravan, the steam-wagons thundering across the entire valley. Thus, when the attack began, they were caught unawares.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:40 No.9113039
    Running right towards the ledge, the auto-loading long rifles began to open fire. The convoy guards, for their part, reacted admirably. Trenchers took cover behind their wagons, though it took a few precious moments to determine from which side the fire was coming from.

    A few moments was all the Warcaster needed. Leaping from the ledge, MacBair and five other steam-armored men cackled in glee. MacBair had worked for several days, upon finding out their ambush point in the briefing, to produce the necessary modifications for his suit and the others.

    But now, as each man pulled the rip-cord situated near the groin of their suit, it was all worth it. With a roar and a sputter, their engines went into temporary overdrive. Boilers wailed as raw flames rocketed from their exhaust pipes, the brass turning white hot as the six-man strike team rapidly slowed their descent. Pedals working furiously already, all six men made the rough landing. Rough, but intact. Up above, the Warjacks took a slower time, their steam shears shrieking as they meticulously carved their way down the rockside.

    Only thirty feet away, the convoy began to return fire with the long-gunners. A few men up top screamed, having been hit even in their cover by a lucky shot or two.

    Drawing his rotary pistol, MacBair discharged a single shot. Rune plates fired as a shrieking, white-hot lead ball hit one of the steam wagons with enough force to rock it onto two axles. The men behind it sprinted from cover, one or two actually having the guns to climb /onto/ the capsizing wagon in an attempt to righten it.

    An attempt that succeeded, both them standing triumphant on the righted vehicle, its boiler still causing it to advance with the others. MacBair felt power flow through his veins as he made a sweeping gesture with the broadsword in his other hand, the engine of the cart giving a high-pitched whine.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:41 No.9113052
    Like a fragmentation shell from a sixteen-inch mortar, the cart went up in flames and fire, the two men onboard immolated instantly. The cannon borne by the vehicle, as well as the shells onboard, went with the ride. Cannon balls impacted across the woods and the convoy, denting wagon armor here or there, or- as in a few cases- felling ancient trees like Paul Bunyan.

    The convoy continued on, however, the steam wagons behind the exploded vehicle adding more coal to their boilers. MacBair cackled as he fired off another shot, smoke erupting from the barrel of his custom-made gun as a different rune-plate fired this time. The man he hit, a wagon operator, didn't even scream as his upper skull was blown off.

    And his remains were turned into a ravenous undead, which promptly began to beat down his former fellow wagon-operators with a coal shovel. At least, until a gunner put the undead to rest with a shot through the heart.

    Slowly but surely, the convoy was decimated, MacBair and his Butchers taking their sweet time. A few losses would be had, sure, but the elite core of the striketeam would get the job done.

    They always did, especially with a Warcaster on their side.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)20:44 No.9113098
    I'm glad you like! As always, I'm up for MORE REQUESTS, MOOOOREEEEEEE.

    Because I've got jack shit else to do, doods.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)20:48 No.9113174
    A rotund, pissed-off night goblin rides a big squig into battle. His latest opponent is a Grail Reliquae rampaging through a goblin camp.

    (I'm fond of writing myself, but I've got writer's cockblock.)
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)20:49 No.9113202
    Also, in case you a reference or whatev:
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)20:55 No.9113304
    some stupid cartoon or something like naruto gets invaded by vikings.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)21:03 No.9113435
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:08 No.9113516
    Squigthrasher, armed with a crude flint-headed spear, settled himself atop the feisty squig. Not to say that there were squigs that /weren't/ fiesty, but this particularly large example looked as though someone had cut off it's gu-yoons and made it eat them.

    Which someone probably had, knowing goblin culture. Regardless, Squigthrasher mounted his obese form upon the large squig's bare back. The camp was in danger, the Grail warrior having ridden into it upon his massive and deadly destrier. It was every goblin's duty to kill the human intruder, then to steal his armor and consume the deliciously meaty interior!

    Spurring the squig with his heels, the massive unison of gob and mount barreled forward like a wrecking ball. Tents, hacked up over days of usage, were bowled over as the rabid squig slammed itself into anything available on a crudely-guided ballistic path towards the intruder. Gob and squig corpses littered the path there, all of them having been decapitated or horribly maimed along the way. The man attacking this camp was a true veteran.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:09 No.9113528
    The knight was visible up ahead, his massive warhorse kicking spiked hooves in every direction. All the while, the armored human's massive greatsword hacked down those not immediately sent flying via hoof. It was a whirlwind of death rapidly closing in upon the Glorious Leader's tent, to which more and more gobs were backing towards. None wanted to face their leader's displeasure if he had to personally fight against the knight.

    Though they looked forward to the new leadership position if he /did/ fight the knight and fail.

    Squigthrasher let out a wild whoop as the Squig bucked in just the right way to leave the night goblin's groin thrumming with pain, all the warning the knight's bucking horse needed to kick the gob square in the face.

    The mighty Squigthrasher's neck snapped instantly, the gob falling limply to the ground as a greatsword cleaved his mount in twain. The flint spear clattered to the side as Knight Superior Alfred continued his purge of the troublesome goblin encampment, neither he nor his mount having taken anything more than a light scratch from the foul vermin.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)21:09 No.9113538
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    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)21:13 No.9113587
    Mac Baine Rocks!


    Background for a character in oriental Sci-fi Setting: A young combat-pilot (name Jin-Sen) has started working for the large mercenary faction the Legion, but during one of the missions something goes wrong enough to earn a nemesis in Captain Rahmal. Bonus if you can throw in a mention of the Icon (godess) the Gambler.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:25 No.9113745

    Naruto stood in the woodlands, his kunai in his hands as he stared at the targets opposite of him. Letting out a complex and giveaway battlecry, he threw the kunai like a humanoid machinegun, a rate of throwing powerful enough to shatter human arms being achieved simply by channeling his chakra. A channeling of chakra achieved by the aforementioned giveaway battlecry. If someone actually understood what he said before each attack, he had once reasoned, they would be able to reasonably react. Provided, of course, they didn't /need/ Chakra to react.

    Which was a silly notion, dismissed by the simple fact that Charka was the /only/ way people fought, and Ninjutsu- a means to an end- was unlikely to ever evolve. After all, what could possibly resist the whirlwind attacks Chakra masters unleashed against one another?

    Putting a finger to his childish, chubby chin, the young Ninja watched mischeviously as his kunai storm felled a tree. The force required to /achieve/ such a feat was irrelevant: Charka solved it all.

    "Hey, Naruto!" Sasuke called, having appeared- undetected and with no prior warning- only a scant few yards away. Such was his own mastery of chakra that the man needed no other mode of transport besides his own two feet to reach Naruto in the woods, and so great was it that he didn't even need to /look/ to walk directly towards his fellow training ninja.

    "Hey! Sasuke, how's it-"

    There was a mighty crash from further into the woods, the sound of trees crashing down one-by-one causing the two genin to look expectantly for their mentor. Perhaps today would yield another new Chakra technique, with which to further bend the laws of physics?
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:30 No.9113808
    Unfortunately, they did not get what they were expecting. Instead, they saw a massive, wooden vessel crashing along the soil. Its wooden hull digging into the earth as though it were water, trees and planks of timber alike sprayed away from it like waves.

    At its prow, a group of ragged-looking men, not at all looking fit for any ninjas of any known village, stared at the two young boys. At least a hundred men stood atop the ship, their-

    They had no Chakra signatures. What sort of men were these?! Naruto actually had to count them by hand, more kunai zipping into his hands as he prepared for-

    The ship began to fishtail, Naruto and Sasuke preparing to leap when the fishtail actually happened. Spinning around like a sledgehammer, the longboat's tail crushed the two boys into a bloody smear before the entire thing came to a rest.

    In the distance, more longboats had the same effect. Atop the first to arrive, Longshanks Ironeater let out a fearsome roar, his bear pelt shaking as the ale-and-piss-smelling viking pointed towards the distant ninja village.

    "Kill the sheepshaggers!" He cried. It was a good Viking warcry. It detailed what you wanted done, without any pansy-ass faffing about: You wanted the sheepshaggers in that village dead, and your lads are free to take what they want in the meantime. No advanced tactics. No siege engines. No mathematics. Pure, simple plundering.

    The hundred-man group, dressed similarly to their leader, took up the cry. Ropes were tossed over the grounded longboat's side, torches and axes made ready as the men descended.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)21:35 No.9113873
    I lewl'd. Thank ye kindly.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:44 No.9113989
    Jin-Sen, raised upon the palace-planet of Nu Tokyu, served as a pilot in Ronin territory for quite some time. His experience with spacecraft came at an early age when he joined with the mercenary group "Legion", a group of quasi-space-samurai that had once been headed by his grandfather. Though a seemingly average start for any starfighter pilot, Jin-Sen was not any average pilot.

    Whilst many other pilots adorned their starships with an icon to The Gambler, Jin-Sen covered his starship in it. Tokens of luck, ranging from a rock that dated all the way back to the original Hiroshima to a pilot's wheel made from- at great expense- the wheel once used by a chauffeur for the Emperor of Earth's Japan. He had even gone to such extremes as personally inscribing each missile on whatever craft he used, in chalk, with that same icon. Even by pilot's standards, he was a fanatic for getting the "Lucky shot" or making the "Lucky roll" away from gunfire.

    Which came to great use when he was at last employed on his first "Real" mission with his squadron, an actual offensive operation against a pirate carrier. It wasn't something that the military bothered with- not when there were actual carrier fleets to deal with. This carrier, by their standards, was a shipwreck-turned-pirate cove.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:44 No.9113996
    The pirate carrier of Captain Rahmal was a five-decades-old variant, with "only" one flight deck compared to the three or four carried by modern ones. What the military's strategic command /hadn't/ factored was the fact that the carrier had plenty of space. Enough space on-board to be refurbished with an entirely automated assembly line. Utilizing parts cannibalized from the ships its raided, Captain Rahmal's ship was a vessel that- potentially- had no limit to the number of starfighters it could churn out. Even if they were low quality, this meant a near-suicide-run for the mercenary squadron.

    Were it not for Jin-Sen, who- blessed by the Goddess of The Gambler- performed a daring feat of heroics. As his squadron, assisted by a lone pair of frigates, attempted to fight off mounting waves of fighters Jin-Sen launched an apparent kamikazi run. Armed with only two torpedoes, the fighter had simply been meant to disable some secondary system like the shield mast or the comms array.

    Instead Jin-Sen, given some unknown guidance, blew a hole clean through the carrier's primary reactor exhaust. Literally shearing the wings right off of his fighter, the pilot rammed his starcraft at full throttle. His cockpit slowly melting, he fired both torpedoes directly at the primary coils for the plasma array.

    Jin-Sen barely made it out in time, having to hit the secondary burners when the carrier's midsection was gutted. The pilots, most of the crew, and the entirety of the ship's main power supply was destroyed. Captain Rahmal only escaped by dint of utilizing all of the emergency power to activate the jump drive. Needless to say, many of his crewmen died, and a great victory was scored for the mercenary devil.

    And a great enemy.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)21:47 No.9114017
    You're both welcome, MAH BOIS. Any further requests to be had of DER WRITEFAG? I've got nothing left to do today, a 2-liter of Sprite, and YEARS OF WASTED LIFE WRITEFAGGING.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)21:53 No.9114110

    Hmm... will have to mod to fit with actual setting, but sweet anyway. Thanks.

    Also, no more requests from me, heading to bed now.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:00 No.9114198
    An office worker snapping and going on a multi-state murder spree using truly improbable physical abilities and inexplicably acquired weaponry.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:17 No.9114417
    "Anderson?" Cliff said, stepping into the tiny four-wall cubicle that served as Anderson's workspace. Anderson, the straight-laced guy. Anderson, the shy-but-kind pencil pusher that constantly churned data in and out for the company, reviewing this form or that form for errors. Good middle-management type, never really wow'd anyone.

    A real shame.

    "Sorry to tell you, buddy, but, uhh..."

    Anderson spun around in his swivel chair, tilting his head at his manager. Wierd. He never usually acted like this. Maybe somebody gave him a head's up?

    "Well, you know, with the recent budget cuts and everything, I'm sorry, but...we're gonna have to let you go. And as a /side/ part of that whole budget cut thing, we can't really give you a severance package. Or referrals. You know, what with the cost of a phone these days..."

    Anderson didn't say anything for the first five seconds, Cliff simply scratching the back of his head. The code monkey then turned back to his desk, looking down at his keyboard.

    "Hey, Andy? You, uhh...you get what I'm saying, ri-"

    Anderson didn't even say anything when he spun around, keyboard in hand. With a sharp cracking sound, the plastic device split clean in half across the manager's temple, giving him brain damage that would later develop into a full hemorrhagic leak by the time the EMT's arrived.

    Hitting the floor like a bag of bricks and leaking blood, Cliff's remains were quickly shifted through. Anderson drew out the manager's keys to a BMW, as well as the pen and pink slip he had intended to write out. Anderson didn't even say anything, but when his nosy cubicle neighbor- Mike- peeked over...
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:19 No.9114434
    Just like that, he clicked the pen into the "usable" position. Before Mike could even say anything, Anderson leaped up onto his desk, stabbing the man across the divider. Right in the fuckin' /eye/.

    Mike fell back, lifeless, with the pentip poking his brain. Taking his small coffee mug of pencils, Anderson left his cubicle. It didn't take long for someone to perk up at the disturbance, a man at a copy machine opening his mouth to the rampaging office worker.

    "Hey, Andy! Got that picture I sent you? The one with the two girls and the cu-"

    Anderson didn't even pause before upturning the cup of pencils, grabbing the annoying coworker- the man who had sent him /so goddamn many/ chain mails- by the back of the head and dashing his forehead out against the copy machine. Several pictures were scanned off of the spreading pool of blood as the other coworkers fled from the madman's path towards the stairs.

    Kicking the door open with enough force to bust the knob, he paused long enough to messily pour himself a cup of coffee, staining his cuff. Turning from the door long enough to give a rude hand gesture, he stormed down the stairs, hearing the buzz down below as a pair of corp security guards stormed up the stairs. Since so many "postal" events, office security had carried firearms, just for a situation like this.

    However, what they /hadn't/ planned for was a rampaging, psychotic white-collar worker with the strength of three equally psychotic gorillas and the reflexes of a god damned cheetah.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:22 No.9114461
    Screaming like a bird of prey, Anderson performed a martial arts technique known as "Falling Eagle on Mouse". But, in reality, was him leaping from the third floor's staircase onto the rear guard on the second floor staircase. Delivering a fatal kick to the solar plexus, the white-collar-worker-turned-psycho-kung-fu-master drew the fallen's man gun as his partner spun around in horror of the scene. Trained to deal with pissed off employees, he wasn't prepared for a full-on maniac on a killing spree with his bare hands.

    Thus, when "Andy" brought the gun up and double-tapped the remaining guard in the skull, the man died bewildered. Grabbing that man's pistol as well, Anderson began to walk down the stairs, the hammers on both guns triggered. Today?

    Today was going to end with a body count a mile high.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:24 No.9114488
    That should be good enough for Andy (Or I can do more if people want). Any other requests?
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:28 No.9114556

    Come on. =( You never did one of my other requests.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:29 No.9114569
    You are a wonderful person, Writefaggot. Andy's adventures in violent murder brought me laughter and I would love to see more of them, assuming that I'm not robbing someone else of their chance to have a request written.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:29 No.9114572
    I didn't? Shit...sorry bro. Just list any I missed. As for Sperm Whale Submarine: I take it you want a description of one?
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:30 No.9114576
    I have a request!

    Two Eldar playing 'Earth 2k', a TT wargame based on, er, now.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:32 No.9114609
    It's okay.
    Yes, but anything would just be awesome.

    Info: It's not a normal sperm whale, they're bigger, it's mostly hollowed out, not needing internal organs, or a brain, and magically reinforced. Has 2 decks.

    Thanks! You're extremely talented.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:37 No.9114680
    I'll write s'more if/when another lull hits...or after this next blurb. Andy is PSYCHOTIC HAPPY FUN YEAH.

    Eldrad and Biel-We stood across from one another on the board. It was a complex game, the one they were playing. It had several layers to it, each of which took place on several different axises. This, in turn, required the advanced psychic and mental capabilities of the Eldar in order to play in a timely and coherent manner. They had decided to play the political version, also known as "134th edition". As such, they both currently stood there, speaking in low murmurs.

    "Going to remove Clinton from her husband's image via political campaigning for presidency..." Biel-We stated, one of the models moving a Z-axis up.

    Eldrad simply smiled, "Moving Barrack Obama to presidential campaign with Civil Rights and Black Majority."

    Biel-We simply watched, wide-eyed, as she compared the modifiers to the two candidates.

    "Khaine dammit..."
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)22:50 No.9114855
    Thanks for the complement...

    The Screaming Narwhal is a massively advantageous, albeit expensive, construction. Designed around the magically preserved remains of a sperm whale, dwarven support beams were utilized to reinforced the hollowed-out interior. Having been gutted through the mouth, every organ was removed, leaving only the waterproof skin and "propellant" flipper intact. A golem-spun turnstile provides the energy required to power the inverted billows that cause the fin to move. Besides that, the only apparatus not devoted to the supply, armament, or quartering of the men onboard are the steering controls- which are essentially a ship's wheel mounted with a vertical axis- and a periscope for viewing distant targets from below.

    The ship, however, is actually decently armed for the extents it went through to be constructed. A large drill bit is mounted upon the whale's forehead, designed to skewer an enemy ship's hull from below and let it sink. A deadly weapon, if there ever was one.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:54 No.9114928
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)22:57 No.9114959
    I have a request as well. A Banshee losing her voice and being exiled for it.
    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)23:10 No.9115146
    Banshee Exarch Malet stared at her reflection in the wraithbone mirror. Clutching a piece of glass in her hand, she moved into the classical "soprano" stance of many Terran Banshees. Or, at least, what she assumed were Terran Banshees from the massive crowds they were surrounded by, and the violence they often performed.

    "..." Was all she could say, staring at the glass in growing frustration. Her mouth was open as wide as it could go, but still, the psychic energy would not fill her throat! Still, she could not scream! She could not even speak!

    Behind her, she heard the wraithbone door open, another Banshee standing in full combat attire. "Exarch?" Inquired the younger warrior-singer, "Are you well?"

    The Exarch nodded, setting the glass down.

    "At you certain? Your aura is...off. Would you like to scour the Craftworld's rooftops, perhaps? A late-night howl often settles my mind."

    The Exarch shook her head, bidding the younger Banshee away.

    "What is the matter, mistress? Why do you not speak?"

    The Exarch's eyes went wide, her mouth wordlessly opening and closing. The younger Banshee gasped, covering her own mouth.

    "By the fire of Khaine! You have been stricken mute! You...you have lost your voice, what...what have you done?!"
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)23:11 No.9115155
         File1270955472.jpg-(98 KB, 1600x1200, adpohcvqsjicboilwtpsfnahwnevxg(...).jpg)
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    >> Writefaggot 04/10/10(Sat)23:20 No.9115294
    Oivoey oiyvey...gonna get some rest now, seeing as we've got another lull. I'll write more Andy, but for now? I REST, FOR ONLY IN BED AM I COMFY.
    >> Anonymous 04/10/10(Sat)23:24 No.9115353
    Thanks for writing, mate. Was a highly entertaining thread.
    >> Anonymous 04/11/10(Sun)00:11 No.9116000

    Hey, I'm back. I was just giving you that as a framework- I'm needing a backstory, so yeah- A more in-depth description. Just flush it out a bit more, if you would. Use all that awesome literary stuff. Thanks :)

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