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The First Line: Imperial General Quest (WH 40K)

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You are an Imperial General of the Adeptus Militarum, the first and often last line of defence for many of the Imperium's worlds. Fight the enemies of the Imperium, lead Vast armies of disparate humans from many worlds, and prevent the Imperium's corruption and division from devouring you and your soldiers whole.
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Introduction
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    • NottheCrabs!

    NottheCrabs!

    Local fool making foolish things
    Location
    The Bottom of The Ocean
    Pronouns
    She/Her/They
    It is the 41st millennium. For eons the Imperium of man has ruled the galaxy, and for eons it has withstood the foes who wish it to fall. It is ruled by The God Emperor who has reigned for ten thousand years, and to whom all of humanity owes its continued existence. But the imperium is beset from within and without. Heretics and traitors assault the imperium's worlds, unleashing horrifying creatures from beyond reality itself to fight alongside them. Xenos pour through the imperium's increasingly porous borders like an unending flood, destroying everything in their wake. Even as the Imperium faces its darkest hour internal strife and disorder runs rampant, with entire sectors abandoned over petty rivalries and to bureaucratic incompetence.

    To live in the imperium is to live in the bloodiest and cruellest regime imaginable, a regime that fuels the very foes it hates, a regime that threatens to take the entire galaxy with it to its grave.

    In spite of all of this the Imperium still stands. Defended by the Righteous Adeptus Soritas, the Indomitable Titan Legions, and the Emperors own Angels of death. But these are the Imperium's most elite, and they cannot be everywhere. And so it is up to the Untold Trillions of the Astra Militarum, the Imperial Guard, to defend the Imperium's worlds.

    They are expendable. Thrown into the grinder again and again, most will never to see their old homes.

    You are a general of the Imperial Guard. Recently promoted to your position after decades of proud service. You have been assigned to the minor Agri-moon of Euphratia, where rebels and savage Orks increasingly overwhelm the beleaguered PDF. Unfortunately you do not bring any reinforcements with you; the Munitorum deciding that the presence of an Officer would be enough to whip the PDF and few Guard regiments already present into shape, letting forces that would have reinforced the planet be sent to more crucial fronts.

    You have served long enough to know what the regimental commanders will think of this decision. You will be greeted coldly at best. But you have a job to do, and by The Emperor you will do it. The small cargo hauler you were currently on was already preparing to land and you had almost finished your final preparations. Perhaps you couldn't bring the reinforcements that the planet so desperately required, but you could at least look deserving of your new position.


    [ ] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.

    [ ] You rolled your shoulders, the brown officers' smock still itching like all hell on the scar on your neck. You double checked your lasgun, the names of your old gang and squadmates still seen clearly in the worn weapon. You grabbed the official pardon signed by your homeworlds governor from one of the cabins drawers, alongside the old autopistol from your early days. You tie your Dark Orange hair into a bun, putting the green and brown officers cap on your head. A flicker of flame from your lighter lights the Iho stick in your mouth, giving you your last moment of relaxation on the ship.

    [ ] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.[/color]
     
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    The Rules and the Character
  • Informational
    • Trolt Malgreb

    Rank    : Major General

    Grit: 16

    Awareness: 15

    Logistics: 10

    Subterfuge: 14

    Tactics: 19

    Charisma: 18

    Faith: 13

    Personal Combat: 24

    Stats

    Grit     is your personal willpower. It is one of the two major stats when dealing with chaos corruption or psychic meddling, and is crucial when dealing with the temperamental of Imperial elite.

    Awareness is your ability to observe a situation in detail, from the twitch of a finger to the flash of a snipers scope, any sort of difficult observation in or outside of combat uses awareness.

    Logistics is your skill in the logistical affairs of the Imperial Guard, repairs, transportation, and a difficult resupply all use Logistics.

    Subterfuge is your skill at commanding Special Operations, Nightime Raids and infiltration, as well as the general capacity to deceive your enemy.

    Tactics is your skill in the general, open warfare. Military strategies, coordination, and the execution of complex battle plans all rely on this stat.

    Charisma is your ability to convince someone and your ability to inspire your soldiers.

    Faith is your faith in the God Emperor, and is your primary stat for not getting executed by an inquisitor for no reason I mean not being burned at the stake by a mad priests mob wait no its to avoid chaos and psychic corruption, it's also considered incredibly important by imperial society so keep that in mind.

    Personal Combat is your ability to fight against the enemies of the Imperium with your own two hands, this is crucial for duels, halting assassination attempts, and leading from the front. To contextualise things a space marine will always have a personal combat of at least 20.
     
    Last edited:
  • Informational
    • Alright, think that's all I need at the moment, feel free to post now!
     
    [X] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.

    Because what better way of smitting the enemies of mankind then with the righteous fury of a grenade launcher.
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.
     
    [x] You rolled your shoulders, the brown officers' smock still itching like all hell on the scar on your neck. You double checked your lasgun, the names of your old gang and squadmates still seen clearly in the worn weapon. You grabbed the official pardon signed by your homeworlds governor from one of the cabins drawers, alongside the old autopistol from your early days. You tie your Dark Orange hair into a bun, putting the green and brown officers cap on your head. A flicker of flame from your lighter lights the Iho stick in your mouth, giving you your last moment of relaxation on the ship.
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.
     
    [x] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.
     
    Welcome to the Quest silentorphan, Japanime, Jax, NuclearConsensus, and Sgtsoldier123! Thank you for the votes! I'm Probably going to leave voting open for another hour to see how this vote goes.
     
    [X] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.
     
    [X] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.
     
    [X] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.
     
    [x] You rolled your shoulders, the brown officers' smock still itching like all hell on the scar on your neck. You double checked your lasgun, the names of your old gang and squadmates still seen clearly in the worn weapon. You grabbed the official pardon signed by your homeworlds governor from one of the cabins drawers, alongside the old autopistol from your early days. You tie your Dark Orange hair into a bun, putting the green and brown officers cap on your head. A flicker of flame from your lighter lights the Iho stick in your mouth, giving you your last moment of relaxation on the ship.
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.
     
    [x] You rolled your shoulders, the brown officers' smock still itching like all hell on the scar on your neck. You double checked your lasgun, the names of your old gang and squadmates still seen clearly in the worn weapon. You grabbed the official pardon signed by your homeworlds governor from one of the cabins drawers, alongside the old autopistol from your early days. You tie your Dark Orange hair into a bun, putting the green and brown officers cap on your head. A flicker of flame from your lighter lights the Iho stick in your mouth, giving you your last moment of relaxation on the ship.
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.

    May the Emperor have mercy on His enemies, for we will not!
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.
     
    [X] After a quick look at your greying short cut hair you buttoned your overcoat up, the gold Epaulette on your shoulders and the platinum acacia leaf pattern on your collar accenting the deep blue of the rest of your uniform. On your left are several medals, most earned when you were still serving in the PDF. Your laspistol and Chainsord lie at your sides, each bearing the Symbol of your homeworld: a brightly coloured Bird of prey diving headfirst at its target. You grab your simple wooden Aquila necklace and mutter a small prayer, then put it in one of your pockets.
     
    [X] You took a light swig from your canteen, the amasec burning in your throat as you sheathed the chainsword in your hand. You checked your flak jacket and desert camouflage underneath, making sure the bandoleer of various grenades was still secure and your military copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus was still in your front pocket. On your back was your grenade launcher, a series of humorous taunts carved onto the barrel. After one last check that your curly black hair was cooperating you put on your slouch hat, and with let out the jolly laughter that set your soldiers at ease in the wild battlefields.
     
    [x] You rolled your shoulders, the brown officers' smock still itching like all hell on the scar on your neck. You double checked your lasgun, the names of your old gang and squadmates still seen clearly in the worn weapon. You grabbed the official pardon signed by your homeworlds governor from one of the cabins drawers, alongside the old autopistol from your early days. You tie your Dark Orange hair into a bun, putting the green and brown officers cap on your head. A flicker of flame from your lighter lights the Iho stick in your mouth, giving you your last moment of relaxation on the ship.
     
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