Deathslayer: Heavy Metal RP - Games

Gudrun ran up to the tipped-over metal container and hit it with the flat side of her axe, sending a metallic echo through it. "Vise theg so ad jeg kann klyfe deg nedr i leirun!" she demanded.

The can slid a few inches when Gudrun hit it with her axe. For a moment, there was silence as the mutant within slowly calculated his next move. A set of long and sharp fingers, covered in blood, wrapped around the edge of the can before hoisting it off the ground. As the mutant dropped it aside itself, the contents, garbage and human remains, spilled out across its back in a foul-smelling display of humility. Once the mutant stood up straight, he was revealed to be taller and stronger than any normal man, towering over Gudrun in the process. "[highlight]All I ask for is PEACE!! Do you not un-der-stand!!?[/highlight] They come to Au-ru-zanth, take food, I make food from them! Fair traaaade! Why you hate sim-ple Au-ru-zanth? Why you want fight!?" In a display of brute strength, Auruzanth stomped with his foot on the side of the steel trash can and flattened it as easily as a flimsy aluminum can. He held a rib bone in each hand, each sharpened by means of greedy gnawing in search of marrow. It was immediately clear that the mutant would not accept a fight unless it was to the death.

Karlek slowly walked up and pulled out a pack of dried meat from one of his pouches. He reached out and motion for Auruzanth to take it. "Calm down, flesh-eating one."

[QUOTE]"Who created M.O.T.O?"[/QUOTE] "M.O.T.O. said he was made by CyberCorp, designed to be the Motorized Omnitechnical Tactical Officer. Cooked him up to be an AI that could efficiently track down enemies, but he grew a bit of a personality over time.-- Pheonix stopped as he heard the Strange skeleton speaking. "Hey, you nazi lookin-freak, I won't have you talking down about America like that," he began, stopping as he and Lucy seemed to be going at it.

"What are you gonna do? Shoot us?" Otto sounded unimpressed by the future-cop. About a hundred similar memories began to bounce in the golem's head. Most of them ending the same way. With a loud gunshot.

Soon, the sun had faded away and the shroud of the night had finally come. With only the dim light of the shattered moon was illuminating the land with the bright specks of the stars pricing the endless darkness that was the night's sky. And with the sun's leave, whatever few villagers stand remained outside eventually retreated with it back to their shanty dens as the town's defender swiftly arose from their watchtower to man the desolate roadway. Party lit by a few faint lanterns scattered about the town's alleyways. The town's defender was simply a sole guardsman raiding upon a weathered war beast and clad in the armor of a forgotten age with a large sword slung across the back, with an odd, curved short sword attached to their right thigh with a venerable handgun of the southwestern sands hoster on the other. This guard was the only thing standing between the village and the horrors of the badlands. However, even though the town's halls were dead as the night with only the guard and our heroes active at this late hour. Another figure emerged from the night's shadows, through far more mysterious. Cloaked in dark robes and his face completely shrouded in unnatural darkness with his steps not registering any sound as he made his way through the town to the tavern. The guardsmen not even glancing in this individual's direction as he continued his patrol around the town. The Bartender gave a weak nodded towards the figure and hastily put away his broom and put a fine glass of clean water on the counter as the figure simply took a seat. The Bartender showing no reluctance or any sound in preparing the drink. Returns to cleaning up the huge mess within his tavern without making any eye contact with the unknown figure.

Motormouth grunts at the cloaked stranger, frustrated that he can't see the figure's face despite getting uncomfortably close. With a pair of gigantic fingers, he attempts to pinch the top of the figure's hood and pull it back.

Jorin looked up from where she was sitting silently inside the tavern, having returned inside after the excitement outside. She noticed the large truckman was now attempting to dehood an individual that had walked in quietly and sat down at the bar. She didn't even hear his footsteps as he entered, and his face was hidden. She did eye the swords that he was carrying, as well as the handgun. Maybe he was the man from the watchtower she had seen on the way in. Were there others like him? Or was he alone? She simply remained silent, watching him and Motormouth.

[quote]"M.O.T.O. said he was made by CyberCorp, designed to be the Motorized Omnitechnical Tactical Officer. Cooked him up to be an AI that could efficiently track down enemies, but he grew a bit of a personality over time."[/quote] "Of course he grew a personality, you fiend. Your kind treat machine AIs like they are tools and not the sentients they are. Disgusting. I want to speak with this M.O.T.O. If I find you are holding him against his will, I will be very displeased." She didn't seem concerned with the ramblings of the nazi, and instead focused on the cop. Machine freedom was far more important than some other idiot's remarks. Still, she took a curious note at the newcomer which entered the bar, shrouded in shadow and entering without noise. That last fact irritated her for some reason - he hadn't been detected on her passive sensors. Her fingers twitched as her gaze changed between the cop and the newcomer, who was now being accosted by that beast who had troubled her earlier over the toaster.

"Ach, if you want his attention, just talk to him. Or do as so." Otto moved it's hand in front of the stranger's face and snapped it's fingers. "Good evening. The large machine-mensch want's to speak to you."

Motormouth didn't much appreciate Otto's intervention. He silently one-hand palmed Otto's head and face as if to shush him before stiff-arm shoving him away and returning to the task of peeling back the stranger's hood. He just couldn't seem to grip it between his big boy fingers. It was like trying to peel off a decal with short fingernails. His steamy gorilla breath was blowing in the stranger's face all the while.

The figure simply let out a deep, sinister chuckle at the dimm witted Brute's attempt to unmask him. An aura of dark magic could be felt in his presence. "Uhh, man..." the bartender muttered at the gaintic man-machine, puling him aside for a private talk. "Don't mess with him, man, he's bad news. Real bad news to all of us if he's gets mad.." the bartender tried explaining to monster truck man.

Jorin perked up when she began to sense the presence of dark magic. Had another abyssal appeared somewhere? She then noticed that the feeling was stemming from the cloaked man that was sitting at the bar, being pestered by the truckman and the undead construct. What exactly was he?

Motherfucker stopping a trucker. If there's one thing that Motormouth hates more than shitty undead Germans, it's being pulled aside for frank warnings about cloaked strangers he's trying to disrobe. Motormouth opened his mouth as if to speak but instead a throaty yell of unbridaled toxic tantrum fury burst forth. Screaming incomprehensibly, he grabbed a bottle of moonshine from the all-but-raided liquor cabinet, broke the stem of the bottle, and poured the mess of liquor and broken glass down his throat. He paused, swishing the mixture about in his mouth before turning to the perplexed bartender and belching a stream of putrid alcohol-fire directly in his face, igniting him instantly. The bartender barely had time to react to his immolation before being lifted by his ankles and swung like a flaming flail, horns first, at the robed stranger. [b]Motormouth will not be denied his vengeance against this stranger who's slightly perplexing him[/b]

Outside Karlek stared at the bar with fear in his eyes. "By the tribes."

https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/337300237326483466/360142604555517962/csqzce2mxhyy.png Death Slayer, 2018 (Colorized)

As the man of both automobile and...Man, slammed the cloaked figure with the burning bartender as hard as his motorized muscles would allow.The loud sound of the aflame bartender being thrown head on into the shadowy man could be heard all-round the town. And yet, even though the swing was spot on, impacting the cloaked figure dead center with the burning bartender being be thrown straight into the air and cashing down face first into the other side of the bar and destroying several of the bar's chairs and booths in the impact. The shadowy man was found to perfectly intact and unfazed, still siting uniformly at the counter while the bartender's body made a heavy thud as he hit his bar's floor rather hard after being used as a makeshift club by the monster truck of a man that was Motormouth. A sight grin could be seen on the man's face as he slowly turned to face the furious Man, Machine, Truck...Thing. The Man then turn back to his drink and stared down at it for a second before tossing out the glass's contents at the still burning bartender. He then slowly rose out form his stool and peacefully began to turn his glaze towards that of the infuriated Motormouth. However, the man's soon spoke and his words shook the normally crazed man-monster-truck that was Motormouth. "That is no way to greet a old friend, is it?" The Man said in a sinister tone, his voice both deep and elegant. Baring the accent of the ever-wet lands of Neo-Albion. And when the Man had finished turning, his hood had fallen and his face was fully revealed. Giving Motormouth momentarily shock. For it was a familiar face to the unholy fusion of both man and truck. As it was the foul one that had forever changed that him with his dark magics. However, for the others in the bar. Such as Commander Kaz, Sir Vauquelin and Officer Charger soon recognized his face as that of Commanding his monstrous techno-ultra leviathan leading the charge of the Sorcerer King's invading armies into their worlds. As this was the one and only Magister-Maguns Maximian, leader of the Sorcerer King's shock troops and his most prized lieutenant. Maximian stood at roughly 2 meters tall and had long, pale white hair and sported an well trimmed beard, his skin complexion was fairly similar. His features we're similar to that aged Human with the only unnatural quality being that his eyes were a solid black. However, before any of them could ever began to act, time itself had suddenly slowed to a absolute crawl as Maximian rose his hand up and made a quick gesture with a wick of his fingers. With his actions being completely unhindered while everyone else was forced to watch their sluggish actions in slow motion while the Magister-Maguns spoke in his sinister tongue. "Now...Since you murdered my look-alike butler and left me with a quite mess at my desert resort along with putting a nasty stain on my favorite cloak. I shall give you quite the reward my old friend. That of a warrior's death at the hands of my most infamous warrior cadres...I hope they give you and the rest of these pitiful creatures a fate, most agonizing." Maximian then pulled back the cloak on his wrist, staring down at a anarchic relic of a more civilized time on his forearm. "Well, would you look at the time. It would seem that it is that time again to bring another unruly realm under my master's glorious rule. So with that I bid you all adieu. Enjoy your fates, you miserable vermin." And after a standing bow, the Man had vanished in a hazily cloud of black smoke most foul with time returning at it's usual pace with all signs of his presence gone. "Good thing I'm indestructible." The Bartender muttered, letting out a sign of relief before dragging himself up off the ground. Patting out a small flame on his shoulder and walking over to pick up his boom to continue cleaning up his ravaged tavern. --- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wB6tJD5-z3o However, amidst the moon-lit dunes that laid outside the small town of Dim-Shade. A massive cloud of dust had suddenly began to rise around Dim-Shade, surrounding it entirely with only a few miles separating the rising cloud of dust and the small town. Dozens of growing eyes of shapes and sizes could be seen piercing the dense haze. A deafening cacophony of the mechanical roars then followed, sending the entire into a massed panic as the dust turn to thick smoke and the metallic growing continued to rise. Soon, vague silhouettes began to form within the veil of smog. But within a moment, these hazily silhouettes rapidly took shape and their true nature was swiftly revealed. They we're that the Sorcerer King's dreaded outrider cavalry. Clad in torn, engraved robes and crudely made armor built out of scrap metal. They rode upon large, roaring beasts of heavy metal, savagely ripping apart the very ground beneath them while they splat out ceaseless flames. Our Heroes having very little time to prepare, as these motorized marauders were quickly closing in and were soon going to be set upon the town.

Karlek turned towards the distance and listened to the roars. "An unfortunate development." He readied his weapon while his armor powered up to its full, at the same time the helmet visor tinted itself.

"Hans, how long has it been since the last fight?" "About 3 days." The golem cracket it's knuckles before picking up it's weapon. "We were getting rusty."

Who was that man? He stopped time with the snap of his fingers...and bore the appearance of one touched by the Abyss itself. Was he an Abyssal like her? Or something else? She'd dwell on that at another time, though. What he said at the end was what troubled her. They had incoming foes that needed to be dealt with. "Meislas, forgive me." muttered Jorin, as she stood up and pushed her wooden chair under the rusted metal table. She quietly began to levitate again, gently rising off the floor. She outstretched her arms to her sides, then arced them in a strange, symbolic motion. The right arm arched over head, bending so that her hand would stop just a few inches from in front of her chest. The left arm did the same, though arcing downward towards her legs and coming up to meet the bottom of her right hand. Her hands were formed into a pair of different and strange gestures, with the insides of the wrists touching one another as the fingers pointed in opposite directions. Right fingertips up, left fingertips down. As she floated there, she began to give off a faint sort of aura. Black in color, it began at her hands before spreading out to surround her body. The black smoke from before began to seep from her lips yet again, as well as from beneath her headwrap where her eyes should be. The brand on her back began to glow yet again, scarlet red. Then, she spoke again in her infernal tongue. "er, fbmsclih mfoii. vnwl al hrl ihgljvhr he dlihgeo hrni, ao ljlao, ie hrmh n amo sejhnjpl he zpznbb ao sejhgmsh. vgmjh al hrl welg he ibmo hrmh rnsr illci he dlihgeo oep, mjd sbmna hrlng iepbi ie hrmh n amo vge lwlg aegl welgzpb mjd sejhnjpl he ilgwl nj oepg jmal." The black aura grew stronger, much more clearly visible now, as did the glow from her brand. The odd thing was, she seemed to get physically stronger. Muscles across her body tensed up, more visibly so in her arms and torso. Becoming more toned and defined. As if she had just recieved a boost of power from somewhere. Her hands returned to sides, before she drew out her club-like weapon. "I do hope that each of you are ready. Should you become wounded in battle, I shall aid you. If you should perish...I shall take good care of your souls." she said, looking to each of the others in the room. Her voice sounded...off. As though it was now several voices speaking in unison, though each a little different than the others. Her speech was still soft and elegant as ever, though.

What?? How? Motormouth was stunned. The Asshole Wizard was alive? The butler? You mean the man who had spent his last 22 hours complaining about being squeezed to death and not casting any spells to escape [i]wasn't[/i] the ultra-powerful wizard that had initially captured him? That guy he was squeezing was telling the truth? That he really was in the butler's quarters and crushing an uncanny look-alike? Was the Asshole Wizard really [i]just[/i] in the very next run as the man had repeatedly pleaded to him? Could he really have used his free hand to open the door and check as was repeatedly suggested? Could it really have been the very same butler who Motormouth had already met at that mansion before? The one that he realized looked strikingly like the Asshole despite being much kinder? The very same butler who had taken pity on Motormouth, sneaking him extra food and comforting his woes? The man who had once confided in him that his worst fear was to die by mechanical crushing due to mistaken identity? Nah this has to be some sort of dark wizard fuckery. The facts just don't add up. In any case the Asshole Wizard had long since poofed away in a cloud of Asshole smoke and now his Asshole fuckbuddies were closing in. Motormouth had to tear through a few dozen of these freaks on his way back to the wizards mansion. He offered the group a bit of helpful combat knowledge: "Aim for face. Without head, they powerless."

After a long time standing without a response from Gudrun, Auruzanth could sense something powerful and evil nearby which distracted him and made him nervous. All of a sudden, he threw one of the sharpened rib bones in Gudrun's general direction, shouting a grunt at her- "Nyaangh!" before skittering off into the shadows and around a corner. By the time anyone could follow him around the side of the building, Auruzanth was long gone, which is to say, very close nearby and hiding on a rooftop. However, he wasn't hiding from the rude visitors who had interrupted his meal; instead, he could sense the great danger which was descending upon the town, and endeavored to lay low while all the chaos unfolded.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XL752-bVgLs The gang of these motorized pillagers we're soon to be upon the town, riding their roaring and soaring choppers straight in attack formation towards the bulkhead of the town's makeshift walls. Their dark blue robes and strange hats flying behind them in the wind. They soon raised their arms high in the air. The tattoos on their wrists soon flared to a bright, fiery red with their fists covered in hellish flames. Their leader, an massive, bare-crested figure that was covered in mystical tattoos and terrifying scars robe upon an titanic three-wheeler that stood nearly 3 meters in height with himself being not too much shorter when standing. His face was obscured by a torn hood and was further shrouded in a unnatural darkness with only his bright, glowing eyes being visible. His only other pieces of clothing was his harden, steel toe leather boots and his ripped denim jeans. This champion of both marital and magical battle, led his men with a thundering war cry that his gang followed with a mighty uproar as they closed in on their target. Soon a wing of these motor warriors spit far from the rest of the gang and formed a spearhead to lead their charge with their mightily champion heading the tip of their penetration into the village center. He furiously pointed his clenched fist straight towards town's wall while riding forward at full speed. His bright glowing eyes soon flashed red as did his tattoos, a bolt of crimson red hellfire then leaped from his fist into the dead-center of the makeshift defenses. The didn't stood a chance and were blow asunder within seconds with only the town's sole guardsmen standing tail upon their steadfast steed, challenging the warlock leader alone with a dead stare eye to eye the motor-warrior champion as the rest of the spearhead rode past them towards the tavern. The champion drifted their three-wheeler right up to the singular defender, coming to complete stop while the rest of the spearhead straight into the village, casting a torrent of fireballs and throwing them about indiscriminately into random shacks and buildings as rode forward. Our heroes ( Or most of them ) has made their stand outside of the tavern, the time for words is over and now the time of action has come for our heroes to prove themselves in deadly world of sword, gun and sorcery. Ready to unleash their power at these terrible motor-warriors of the Sorcerer-King. COMBAT HAS BEGAN! - - - (( Write out your character's actions in your next post, use Bold Text to distinguish your base actions and write a paragraph bellow as a description. )) (( Example: )) (( Full Attack )) (( X unloads his double barrel riot shotgun into the upcoming mob of zombies ))

Karlek grunted and raised his weapon. A swarm of plasma fire was unleashed upon the first enemy.

Otto smiled while it stared down the impending horde. Gripping the demonic MG42 in one hand it started shooting at any foe it deemed stupid enough to come at him.

The built in engine on SMASH-THE-BLOOD's hammeraxe fired off in bursts as he practiced swinging it around, readying it for the oncoming attackers. He held it over his shoulder and took a stance, ready to swing really hard at the first goon to challenge him.

Half Move, Half Attack Roaring, Motormouth charges directly at the tip of the incoming biker formation before attempting to grab the front wheel with his bare hands and flip the bike.

While these mightily motor-warriors began their terrible raid on the poor, defenseless town of Dim-Shade. Expecting to find nothing worthy of meaningful resistance to their assured victory, adding another mark to their name and another dead, smoking crater left to rot within the wastes while they move to rape and pillage more helpless villages, all done gloriously in the name of their Warmaster with the motor-warriors forming an double ranked spearhead into the heart of the small town. However...Fate has chosen a different end for tonight, if our heroes have anything to say about it... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6_zsJ8KPP0 Target: Motor-Warrior Spearhead, First Rank Result Needed: 6 Roll Result: 10 Total Damage: 6 Status: 3 DEAD Karlek fired first! The venerated alien trooper planted his feet firmly into the ground and let loose with his trusty automatic plasma caster. He lit up the nighttime sky with a devastating salvo of fiery plasma bolts, screaming across the street towards the gang of incoming motorcycling warlocks. One of his plasma bolts collided mid-air with one of the Motor-Warrior's fireballs. Causing it to explode into a massive fireball of both plasma and hellfire, the closet was instantly disintegrated with another being ignited by the blast. Unable to control his bike, the inflamed motor-warrior crashed his bike into a nearby motor-bike. Causing a deadly high speed collision for both of them that end in a brutally gory death as they bikes made contact. Their bodies being slamming into the twisted metal of their mechanical steads ripping into one another. --- Target: Motor-Warrior Spearhead, First Rank Result Needed: 6 Roll Result: 12! Total Damage: 14 Status: EXTERMINATED Otto loaded his hell-forged MG42 with a fresh 200 round belt of Skull-Tipped 7.92 Mauser, wonderful memories of the war flooded back through the golem's broken mind as he slam down it's cover and pulled back the gun's bolt, thinking a second to meticulously line up his shots before letting Hitter's Buzz-saw work it's dark magic. Unleashing a hailstorm of hate fueled lead smelted out of the damned souls of Otto's victims. Various images of the good times flashed through Otto's eyes, such the time when Wolfgang and his comrades got the drop on those dirty bolsheviks at Volga in the opening days of Stalingrad or when Klaus and half of the 36th got a fresh shipment of MG42 with over a ton of ammunition just in time for Warsaw. Shredding through flesh and bone like a hot knife running butter at 1,500 round per minute. Equally, Otto's effect on the first rank was nearly the same as Dirlewanger's work on the Slovaks. With only the charred bodies remaining next to the burning slag of motor-bikes remaining of the fist rank. An photo perfect recreation of one of the more horrible scenes found at a finished chamber. --- Target: Motor-Warrior Spearhead, Second Rank Result Needed: 5 Roll Result: 4 Total Damage: 0 Status: Unmaimed SMASH-THE-BLOOD readied himself for one of the upcoming attackers but maybe due to drinking a massive cocktail of over dozen tonics crudely mixed together left SMASH-THE-BLOOD swinging his hammeraxe just a tad bit too high and letting one of the passing motor-warriors drive pass him, unharmed. Much to SMASH-THE-BLOOD's dismay. --- Target: Motor-Warrior Spearhead, Second Rank Result Needed: 6 Roll Result: 7 Total Damage: 2 Status: 1 DEAD, 1 Bike Acquired Motormouth ran headfirst into battle at full overdrive, rushing pass the firestorm of oncoming fireballs and ignoring grizzly fate of the first rank. The towering fusion of both Man and Truck focused his horsepower on slamming both of his piston-driven hands on the front wheel of a motor-warrior that motormouth had previous contact with, one that motor-warrior had always found to be most worst out of this band of rampaging murderers and twisted deviants that first captured Motormouth and brought him to the Magister-Maguns's summer retreat's slave pens. For this was the one, the one that pissed on the side of Motormouth's rig after they captured him. However, today, was the day that Motormouth would had have his revengeaning. Motormouth had sent the Motor-Warrior flying into a large, conveniently placed storage container filled with slow-burning fire acid located behind the bar with Motormouth gaining a nice motorbike. --- The Second Rank of the Motor-Warrior Spearhead was quickly gaining pace, swiftly replacing the first rank that was utterly destroyed in moments but they we're quick and we're ready to make their counter attack towards our heroes, preparing to focus their fire magic all onto the them soon.

Running into the oncoming bikers, bullets and fireballs whizzing by his head, Motormouth's eyes found their target. He didn't know his name, but he knew his face, etched into his memory as he was. Motormouth knew him only as Pissboy. It was bad enough that Pissboy had pissed on his truck the day he was captured. It was worse that those pissed-on parts later ended up inside of him. But what Motormouth couldn't forgive was the joke. The goddamn joke. About being a "whizz-ard". NO FORGIVENESS Motormouth leaped into the path of the oncoming motorcycle, looked Pissboy dead in the eyes, and with impeccable timing crushed the front wheel of his bike as it attempted to run him down. Pissboy's momentum carried him over the handlebars and over Motormouth's head, who stared him down as he flew, in cool slow motion. Motormouth knew that behind him was that precariously open dumpster vat of "Miscellaneous Chemicals" the bartender was always trying to prevent him from drinking. Pissboy had been in the middle of casting a fireball spell when he'd been launched, and in his panic he'd forgotten to put it out before plunging headfirst into what could be the most easily flammable substance known to mankind. With a thick splash he was submerged, and fire spread along the surface of the liquid. A few bubbles rose to the surface followed by a screaming, burning Pissboy, who struggled in vain against the burning acidic mess that stuck to him like tar. Unable to pull himself out, he naively attempted to summon water to extinguish himself. Motormouth had seen the bartender panic at the prospect of rain. That was the only time he ever covered his open-air chemical garden. Whatever was in there, it shouldn't get wet. But wet it got. As Pissboy began to pull himself from the extinguished, thinning mixture and onto safe ground, it suddenly reacted with his summoned water, foaming and changing color. The metal of the dumpster began to react, heat, and twist under the concoction, and the weight of the warlock pulling himself over its edge caused it to warp underneath him and tip the entire dumpster and its contents over top of himself. The result was a cocoon of acidic resin and molten metal, trapping Pissboy inside and slowly corroding and burning him to death. A final act of desperation came as a bloodied, sizzling hand burst through the side of the pile twisting and writhing a few times before flipping the bird and dropping to the ground, severed at the forearm by corrosion. God, that was violent. Let's check in on Motormouth. [b[Full Attack:[/b] Motormouth decides to put his newly acquired bike to good use, by swinging the whole damn thing at the head of the next oncoming biker.

SMASH-THE-BLOOD quit spinning himself around a short while after noticing he just missed his target. This seriously pissed him off, and nothing's more dangerous than a SMASH-THE-BLOOD that's both drunk and pissed. But this time, he wasn't gonna wait for the fight to come to him. Picking up his Hammeraxe one more time, nozzles blasting off, he charged at the oncoming wave, determined to smash their faces into fine tomato face-paste. Half-Move, Half-Attack.