|Topic Review (Newest First)|
|06-26-12 04:48 PM|
|Dave T Hobbit||
Originally Posted by Adrian View Post
|06-26-12 03:54 PM|
SOOOOO, are we going to vote sometime soon?
|06-23-12 10:09 AM|
Was it Enough?
King Milanovich deserved a better fate. Skalantia had enjoyed seven prosperous decades under his rule. Getting eviscerated and having his remains left hanging from the ceiling like a grotesque chandelier was not a just reward.
But Brother-Sergeant Pontius had little time to ponder about the grisly decorations overhead. He was still in the middle of a life-and-death struggle with the ones responsible for this atrocity.
"Advance!" Pontius ordered, ignoring the fact that the greenskins were still charging at them through the narrow hallway. With practiced precision, the Pontius Team followed his command, meeting the green tide head on and gunning down dozens of the enemy.
Surprised by the ferocity of the Astartes counter-blow, the Orks were thrown back. Veteran Brother Felix then took the lead, drawing his Psi-Sword. His swordsmanship skills were becoming legendary. Even his fellow Space Marines only saw a blur as he hacked and slashed his way through a dozen Orks within seconds.
The enemy was breaking. Pontius could sense it. All that remained now was the cleanup, unless...
The head of poor young Brother Crassus suddenly exploded beside him, having caught a massive Shoota round head-on. There was deafening roar, but Pontius didn't have to turn his head to know the source. The War Boss had finally entered the fight.
Pontius gritted his teeth. This was going to be a challenge. Such a beast was not brought down easily, and the other Orks were already rallying at the sight of their leader.
But to everyone's surprise, the fight ended before it could really begin. A blazing hot plasma round took out the Boss's left eye. A second shot obliterated the other eye, leaving the War Boss blind. Enraged, it began to shoot and stab wildly, accomplishing little but to slaughter most of his remaining troops.
A third shot finally killed the War Boss, obliterating the monster's brain. Felix, killing the few remaining greenskins, walked over and broke the corpse's spine to make sure it was dead.
"Good shot," Pontius admitted, though without much enthusiasm in his voice. Though Brother-Logis Cicero was proving to be an excellent shot with the plasma gun, Pontius never liked him very much. Cicero either spoke bluntly or not at all, and he made little attempt to form a rapport with his Sergeant.
"I believe we have annihilated them, sir," Felix reported as he stepped into the throne room, "Auspex indicates no further Xenos life signs."
"Any survivors from the hostages?" Pontius inquired, though knowing it was unnecessary.
"They are decorating the ceiling just like their king, sir," Felix reported grimly, "But our Thunderhawk is reporting that there is a crowd gathering outside."
"We should leave immediately," Cicero said, "We have accomplished our quest. Meeting the locals will just cause unnecessary delay."
"The crowd is standing between us and the extraction point," Felix pointed out tiredly, "Do you propose that we just ignore them?"
Cicero was about to argue, but Pontius cut him off, "We'll deal with it when we get there. For now, honor our fallen Brother."
Felix and Cicero stared at each other for a moment, but quickly set aside their differences for a higher cause. Together, they carried Crassus' body - flanked by the rest of the Pontius Team - as they began to march back to the Thunderhawk.
As Felix had pointed out, they soon met the crowd at the castle gates. And as Cicero had feared, the crowd was about to cause an "unnecessary delay".
A woman led the crowd, wearing tattered robes. Yet she still had an unmistakable aura of nobility about her, and Pontius recognized her almost immediately. She was Princess Alyastra, daughter of the dead king and the only surviving member of House Milanovich.
There was anger in her eyes. The crowd shared her anger. Pontius felt unease. He did not know what to do.
"Did any of my family survive?" she asked, though the tone of her voice indicated that she already knew the answer.
"They did not, mamzelle," Pontius answered simply.
"And the Orks?" she went on, her tone remaining the same.
“All dead as well," Pontius reported.
A long silence followed, as Alyastra simply stared at Pontius with those angry eyes. It was as though she was saying "Why weren't you here to protect us? Why did you let my father die?"
Finally, Pontius broke the uncomfortable silence.
"We must leave immediately. Our Quest here is complete. We are required elsewhere."
"Very well, I understand," the Princess replied without a hint of sincerity in her voice.
"No you do not," an angry new voice shouted, "You do not understand."
Every pair of eyes turned on Brother-Logis Cicero, even those of his fellow squadmates. The princess and the crowd were enraged. Pontius and his team were mortified. Even with their limited social abilities, they knew this was a horrible faux pas.
But Cicero knew no fear, "We are not Gods. We cannot bring back your dead. We are not priests. We cannot help you grieve. We are not farmers or masons. We cannot help you rebuild."
Cicero then took off his helmet, letting everyone see his face. It may have been handsome once, but it had been terribly scarred when he was still a Neophyte - fighting Orks in another time and place. His eyes were hard and angry like that of the crowd.
"We are warriors. Our only purpose is war. We kill those who try to harm you. We avenge those who have already been harmed. That is all that we can do."
Then, for a brief instance, Cicero's eyes softened. He motioned towards Crassus's lifeless body. There was sadness in his voice as he spoke.
"And when it is time for us to meet the Emperor, we can only ask ourselves: Was it enough?"
Cicero once again donned his helmet. A long silence followed. This time, it was Alyastra who broke it.
“Yes, we understand,” she said, before stepping aside to let the Space Marines pass.
The crowd did likewise.
The Pontius Team left Skalantia without further incident.
Later that night, Princess Alyastra would visit the spot where Brother Crassus had died. They knew because blood and pieces of his helmet had been found on that spot.
She lit a candle, joining many others that had been placed there. Silently, she prayed for the young Marine’s soul, even though she did not know his name.
The ritual done, she leaned down and whispered three words to the stones hallowed by hero’s blood.
These words were for him alone:
“It was enough.”
|06-22-12 11:15 PM|
|KjellThorngaard||I am out for this month. Too busy/distracted to write more than a handful of words. I feel crappy for not writing much at all, but such is life. I won't even be able to picj favs becuase I am heading off to the North Woods for a week of camping with my son's Scout troop. Good luck to all and see you next month!|
|06-22-12 09:27 PM|
|Dave T Hobbit||
His right arm would not respond. Harrin struggled to open his eyes but something held them shut. Fumbling he found a gooey crust over his face. Rubbing made the pain worse but he doggedly cleared his eyes. Struggling to focus he made out a camouflage pattern covered in streaks of mud. Why were his legs up there?
Patting with his left hand he discovered he was upside down. His right arm was under his body. It felt like he was resting on gravel. He was too vulnerable like this so the first priority was getting the right way up. Teeth clenched he bent his legs and toppled sideways.
Pain and darkness.
His vision cleared. The throbbing in his head was drowned by a stabbing sensation in his gut. Above him towered a rock face and above that the stars glittered.
His last memory was still day so either they thought he was dead or did not care; he was safe enough here for a while, so second priority was to determine how rutted he was. Three limbs working. His right arm still felt slack but he felt tingling. If he was lucky it was only numb from him lying on it. Checking his torso he found an unbroken ampoule of Numb on his tags. His hand jerked away from his stomach. The surge of pain stopped a proper feel but if felt like a stomach wound. From the stickiness on his fingers it had reopened when he tipped himself over. If he took the Numb he would be able to move, maybe find his pack, or he could save the painkiller for when he could see what he was doing.
Unless days had passed this was still enemy territory, so visibility worked against him too. Finally his right hand gripped the cap of the ampoule hard enough to let him twist off the cap. Bracing himself he stabbed it down into his stomach. Black suns burnt across the night sky before a liquid chill took the pain.
* * *
"Looks like a Zilf, Sarge. Pretty battered. Maybe got caught in the blast when some flyboy took out the bridge."
Harrin took point as the squad slipped over the ridge. Jogging past the wrecked car, he took up position on the far side of the road.
"Rut that's shiny." The shout drew his attention. Sarge was standing next to the wreck holding up a cup. A golden cup covered in jewels. "Help me get this box out, lads."
Straining Sarge and Trevik manoeuvred a crate out of the back of the wreck, accompanied by a gush of slithers and clanks. Harrin's jaw dropped; the crate was literally dripping with riches. Abandoning his post he jogged back to his squad.
"There's another crate in there, Sarge," marvelled Trevik. "How much d'you reckon there is?"
"Enough for a general to spent an hour telling us we ain't pushing those mudhumpers back like his pencil says we should... or maybe a short carry to make up for all the generals we got to carry until this is over. We find some out of the way place to stash it then we can all be rich when the mud dries."
Harrin watched the faces. Sarge was suggesting looting. Someone decides to take a stand and this could turn messy.
"You four get these crates off the road and get that spill back on the crate." Sarge's bark broke the tension. "I'll see if there's anything in the front."
* * *
After the Numbrush abated he managed to push himself into a sitting position. Without the pain to muddle him up he could see that he was actually in a gully and was only a few feet deep. Even better, there was a dark mass lying several yards further along.
Recovering his knapsack he quickly pulled out a bandage. Now he could pull the tunic away without blacking out it looked like a gunshot wound just below his ceramic insert. The bullet must have clipped the plate so it went in slow.
Bandage in place he slowly eased himself into a kneeling position. His las-rifle was nowhere to be seen. He had a knife and one grenade to protect himself. So one chance at killing the first mudhumper unit who found him. He carefully peered over the rim. The gully ran across a steep slope. Behind him it dropped off before plunging over the edge of the mountain. It would be rutting hard to get out of here, but at least he knew where he was now.
* * *
Two loud bangs startled Harrin. Trevik dropped the other end of the crate and ran for the cave mouth. SP fire meant the mudhumpers had found them. Gathering his wits he dived for his las-rifle as the pleasing scorch of fire being returned echoed out.
Another bang and Trevik disappeared. Harrin decided radio silence was less help than knowing what was happening. Time stretched alarmingly before the channel opened.
"Harrin? I'm pinned down to the left of the mouth," whispered Sarge. "They've got the path covered but I reckon you could get out the right side and drop over the top of the slope if I give you cover. Break on my mark."
* * *
At some point during his crawl up the slope the wound had torn open again and it was damp enough that he wasn't going to make it home. However, thanks to the Numb he didn't feel much, and he figured he knew what happened. He had been diving for cover when the bullet hit and he rolled all the way down. If they looked over the edge later they would have assumed he went off the bottom. Just bad luck they got a shot off despite the covering fire.
Or was it? Three shots to take down three men but they missed Sarge. Sarge had been in the Zilf alone while they moved the crates. Maybe he took a pistol while he was there. Two close shots would be easy and Trevik wouldn't be expecting Sarge to shoot him. Maybe he figured bigger payout if he didn't have to share.
Calling on every tatter of stealth that remained he slid over the lip. Sarge was sitting propped up on a rock looking the other way.
"Sarge. Bet you weren't expecting to see me again."
His legs splaying beneath him, Harrin flicked his hand forward. Sarge instinctively caught the pin before looking down.
"I kept most of it because I had to carry it up the hill but I figured you deserved a share."
- Word count: 1099
|06-22-12 07:56 PM|
Some more visions came along, so thought I'd add them.
I don't own all of the 40k books/audio drama's, so I don't know if any of this contradicts published stuff.
If so, please bear with this, as I'm just trying to conduit and make sense of the stories which make themselves known to me.
A lesson from history (1099 words)
“Captain Ejaias, the room’s lock has now opened; a time-delay. Do we investigate where He once trod?”
“This is our forefather’s place, Brother Jorgen.” came the reply. “We must seek him out and unite like the first times.”
Harsh yellow beams probe the darkness for signs of disturbance, then the Captain’s form...stooped from decades-old injuries...shuffles through the doorway. Yet initial excitement turns into bitter disappointment.
If anyone would have returned it would have been Him, for only He could have bypassed the very guards and systems He established. Yet all that greets their gaze is the bare mahogany furniture from familiar stories.
Every surface is scoured clean as though only yesterday, yet it has been decades since this room was last opened.
Trepidation grips the Astartes as they espy an opened parchment scroll.
As the most senior, the one who has flown with Him, Ejaias unsteadily grips the edges and begins to silently read:
It is said that the Final Ferryman is crafty and wise, tricking the unsuspecting into giving up a part of themselves as part of his fees.
Yet, whatever he wishes to charge for transport to the afterlife, his geas is that he cannot refuse the payment of coinage from this planet’s oldest times.
Ancient texts deep in the spires showed me the early metallurgy involved and it was the whim of a moment to banish the others from my presence for the three months it took to smelt what I required for the last of...them.
Looking back upon the reasons for this responsibility, there was such arrogance, such yearning, such pride. My Brother’s sabotage was undoubtedly the main cause and shall never be forgiven, yet faults also lay elsewhere.
Here amongst the freezing clouds, sweat drips down across my skin. My mane of once-wild hair now lies bedraggled and forlorn like it’s owner; plastered across eyes which have seen too much.
A single laugh barks out, yet seconds pass before I recognise it as my own.
‘The Silent Killer’, ‘The Unseen Hand’, finally brought low. Not by some stronger foe, nor a better swordsman, but by his own longing to emerge from the shadows, blazing back to the forefront.
“Should have stayed in the shadows, old man.” people will say.
“Why strive for an office which was never to have been yours?” they shall enquire.
Whoever ‘they’ may be matters not...it is sufficiently shaming that such shall be one of my legacies.
Might they ever forgive me? And, even if they could, would I actually want them to..?
There are things I have done which cannot be atoned for: planets ablaze with bombs and fires set by me and my kind; corpse-strewn alleyways across a dozen systems speak of our prowess; blades silencing turmoil before it could even develop.
Wrecks of ships-of-the-line on all sides litter the space-lanes because of us, testament to their owners’ lack of ‘right- thinking’; their obstruction; their...malcontent. Who else has counted such toll on the enemy?
Quashing heretics and removing the heads of dissenters is automatic function -just like breathing- for who else could remove the fell foes of Mankind?
We are not as others, yet who else but us could be so blinded to the truths in their own hearts?
Unlike several of my kind, I was not born with the powers of prescience. However, I study those I hunt and no kill ever goes unplanned.
I can ‘read’ a man at a hundred paces, timing the drawing of his gun.
Contact made, I count the sixth and seventh demi-seconds as the last of his life leaves his eyes, the weapon not even halfway out of it’s holster.
I shall be two streets away by the time his body hits the pavement.
For almost the twentieth time, I look to my gauntlets...freshly repaired for the coming task, for I am His Hand still.
A hundred and fourteen pennies glint in my palms and the irony is not lost upon me:
Nineteen for my number;
Multiplied by each of three disgraces (an absent son failing to stop the blades which assailed his Father, the treachery of brotherhood blinding me to people’s true directions, then the treachery of this hubris);
Two coins for each of them.
Perhaps for the last time, I give the final mission-prayer I have taught to my sons so thoroughly: ‘Let none stay my hand, our Lord’s work is done this night.’
Some time later with arms broken, knees sagging from multiple fractures and ragged heavy breathing, it is over.
The cells which used to hold them now resemble the charnel-houses of old...the ‘Secret Police’ chambers which contained dangling corpses before my arrival.
Despite the battle-exhilaration, I took no enjoyment from it...all fifty eight raged at me whilst these mistakes paid with their lives.
It was some time before I could find all the items I seek, as their previous owners were particularly vehement against deliverance, yet my keen eyes located every one.
Thankfully all were undamaged, so for a second I dared to think there might be hope after all.
Kneeling, I place the remaining penny over the one hundredth and fourteenth closed eye:
I had hoped this last one, Haresh, would become as strong as the true ones. Yet, as a writhing beast, he had tried to take me down into his death-grip.
As I tore out it’s vitality, it squeaked for release like a puny child, undeserving of it’s heritage, yet surprisingly human at it’s last breath.
Whatever faults they had in this life would be paid by my coins and their deaths.
Such is the only chance I might have to make sufficient amends and rectify the wrongs.
It has been a year to the day since then.
Locked in tight, immobilised by the fear I had visited upon others, the answers only recently came.
The treatises cannot remain here; such things would tear us asunder when we are needed most.
I know the Techpriests and their bizarre, arcane ways: Traitors still exist amongst their ranks and the books would quickly come to their debased attentions.
A shuttle shall be sent into the void carrying this casket, a catalogue of my failures.
Locked and coded so that only my sons may open it, I hope one day they may succeed where I failed, but they are not yet ready.
Brother-Captain Ejaias exits his progenitor’s chambers, the scroll barely clasped between his quivering hands.
Champion Jorgen enquires: “What does it hold, Captain?”
Ejaias’ faltering reply: “Nothing. Everything. A lesson from history.”
|06-22-12 07:39 PM|
Finally got my contribution done--or at least I hope so. I went for original world this time around, since apparently "restitution" and Warhammer or 40k didn't mix in my head.
The common room of the inn looked much better now. True, remains of meals were strewn between the straw covering the floor and the smell of beer permeated the room, but the broken tables and benches have been removed. Nobody was moaning on the floor, holding a bloodied limb, either.
The innkeeper glared at the four of them—mostly at the dwarf, but Fynn treated him to her best sneer nevertheless. Lesser beings should not direct such looks at her.
“We got ‘em,” said the one-eyed human, whose main contribution to the hunt had been hiding behind the dwarf, placing a small bag on the counter. “You can count the ears.”
The innkeeper nodded and opened the bag. He spilled the contents on the counter—large, green ears, some still decorated with pieces of metal. There were twenty of them. The human pushed the ears with a thick finger, his mouth moving as he counted and Fynn felt another surge of contempt. To think an elf like her would have to run petty errands for a human who needed both hands and feet to count! And for what? A few measly broken pieces of wood?
At least the whole ordeal was over and she would be able to leave those wretches behind. She had no business keeping their company and longer than necessary and since their little errand was done, she planned to go back to her business.
“Twenty goblins dead,” the innkeeper said. “That won’t pay for what you lot broke, but I won’t have to worry about the buggers stealin’ an’ scarin’ people.”
Fynn sniffed angrily, ready to point out that she really shouldn’t be held accountable for the impulses of lesser races, when she felt a warm hand rest on her shoulder. She glanced behind herself and found herself looking into the orange eyes of the Abomination. It smiled at her. Fynn shivered, wondering not for the first time, how come a creature like this could even exist.
“Are you sure that’s enough?” it asked, now directing her grin at the innkeeper. The human swallowed. Fynn didn’t blame him, even a lesser being would sense the wrongness of a child born of fire and flesh. “They did break quite a lot.”
“Ah, well, of course, you never owed me nothing, Miss,” the innkeeper replied, swallowing nervously.
Fynn balled her fists in anger. That this… bastard of an elemental could command such respect, such fear and she, an elf of pure blood, would be held to the same standards as a filthy drunken dwarf and a primitive human was an insult she’d not let pass. Was it not enough that the greed and pettiness of the human owning the inn forced her to join those two?
“But I did, didn’t I?” she snapped angrily. “I was only protecting myself from his-“ she pointed angrily at the one-eyed human, “advances! Is it my fault that they all decided to break your furniture? I only broke one bench!”
“And nearly gutted one of the patrons,” the Abomination said cheerfully, but now its fingers were digging painfully into Fynn’s shoulder.
“Keep your filthy hands away from me!” Fynn snapped, trying to pull away from its grip, but for such a slender appendage, the Abomination’s hand had a vice-like grip. Its smile faded and suddenly Fynn felt a lot less certain. She suddenly recalled how easily magic came to the half-breed, how easily she could make anything burn.
“I am going to assume you enjoy being indebted, love,” the Abomination drawled.
Fynn was dimly aware that now everybody was watching them and she was reminded of the one time when she and her sisters had watched a cat kill a mouse. The expressions around them showed the same fascinated horror.
“Indebted?” Fynn asked, swallowing convulsively.
“Oh yes,” the Abomination replied. “Do you think I didn’t hear what you keep calling me? ‘It?’ ‘Abomination?’ Do you think I do not know who left the snake in my blanket?”
She placed a slender chocolate-brown finger over Fynn’s heart. The nail sparkled for a moment with a gentle golden glow. Then Fynn doubled over, pressing her hands to her breast. The pain was nearly unbearable—it was as if something was burning itself into her body, smoldering her heart. Flames filled her lungs and she coughed, desperately fighting for breath.
She was staring at the mud-caked boots of the woman she called the Abomination, but she did not truly see them, nor the bent dirty wooden floor. Pain, pain, pain, it was all that she could focus on, as something worked itself into the fiber of her being.
Then, finally, it stopped. Fynn looked up and found that the small circle that had formed around her before had now dispersed. Now, only the Abomination remained its dark face inscrutable.
“You’re mine now, love,” the Abmomination said. “You will repay all your debts to me—for every little insult, for every thought against me you had.”
Fynn gasped and tried to bite back a terrified sob. She looked up into the orange eyes and saw neither pity nor warmth in them. It was the look of a cat, staring at a dead mouse, disappointed that the rodent would not make amusing sounds or try to run.
“You can’t,” she managed to gasp weakly, breathlessly. “I’m the daughter of-“
“My mother was fire herself,” the Abomination said gently. “Why should your pedigree matter to me, when I can summon her very fury with my merest whim?”
Fynn fell silent. She wrapped her arms around herself and cast her gaze around the room, searching for someone willing to help. None met her eyes; the dwarf already gulping down a mug of beer, the one-eyed human talking with the innkeeper. She thought she saw him glance at her and smirk, but it was just a ghost of an expression.
She looked down, back at the floor and thought bitterly that she was lost.
|06-22-12 01:37 PM|
Let's go everyone, just a day left to get your stories in!
Okay, more like 39.5 hours, but still, let's get cracking!
|06-21-12 04:08 PM|
Calling in the debt
Word count: 1092
The warp rushed past the Heat of Pleasure as she sailed the turbulent seas seemingly unbothered by the figures that touched and probed her sides like small lichen looking for a way in to cause havoc amongst the tasty mortal beings that lived aboard her. Like a Lioness who had enough of the attention, her engines emitted a loud snarl that sent the small demons scurrying away, realising she was already bound to on whose reach was infinite.
Chaplain Demara paused as he felt the ships displeasure and touched her sides, his dark eyes rolling back a little at the sensations he felt. He whispered a calming mantra to the ships spirit and continued on his way. He had the Rapture to prepare for their next port of call, and the claiming of an old debt, one that Jovotch was going to collect with all the thanks of an enraged Lion.
Majora was a world loyal to the golden throne, where once she had been a beautiful oasis in the sea of the Imperium, she was now a world of industry and hive cities. Imperial Guard regiments raised here were sent to the far flung corners of the Imperium never to return. Of course its biggest assets were the mining facilities that produced tonnes and tonnes of ore for the ever hungry Forge World of Harjsan XI. There was a heavy Arbites presence and it was needed, the miners were a violent lot, when the work shift was through they headed into the seedier sectors of Majora and many of the world’s enforcers could not cope with the more rowdy elements.
The governor was a harsh woman who brooked no deviation from the path of the Golden Throne and she was known to hunt down cults with such vigour that she had been commentated several times by the Justice Marshal and the hidden powers that be. However she was not aware that a pact made ten thousand years ago was going to come back and haunt her and her world.
The Traitor guard units of the Majoran 23rd and the Majoran 41st bowed their heads and listened to their company chaplain speak of the glories of Slannesh, how he expected every woman to bring him riches and every man to bring her souls. Above the hideously mutated humans stood the Lord Commander and Demara, allowing the priests of the regiments to finish their sermons. When they had all eyes turned to the balcony and all went down on one knee before their masters.
“Ten Thousand years ago, when our father strode towards the home of the false Emperor with Horus he spared the world of Majora under the condition that they turned away from the Golden Throne and would provide our brothers with warriors who could go where we cannot go. They promised us a world where we could recruit battle bothers. They lied to us and when our recruiting squads landed they were killed by the false angels of the accused Iron Hands.
This betrayal of your former home world has not been forgotten and it is time for them to pay their dues. Your commanders saw the value of your oaths to my father; you have all been blessed with long life and gifts from The Dark Prince. Look see how sister Neryn is ready to join with the Dark Queen and become one of her trusted servants.”
All eyes turned to Trooper Neryn, her skin pale, her eyes glowed and her lower body masculine she was changing and every victory her company attained in the service of Slannesh enhanced that.
“Kill every living being on that world and your future will be realised. For Elaxsius, the host and She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed”
The shout was echoed through altered voices and Jovotch grinned.
Majora did not know what had hit it. The drop pods fell from the skies around the main city and corrupted Stormbirds and Thunderhawks flew over the city and fired their chaos blessed missiles into PDF Barracks sending thousands of tonnes of rockcrete falling onto bodies and other buildings. The Rapture waited, they watched their own guard tear apart their former home world’s defenders with savagery and gusto that, in all honesty impressed the brothers of the Flawless Host. High above them a woman’s devotional screams changed to bliss as she held aloft the heart and head of the Ecclesiarch Priest.
Neryn ascended and Jovotch watched in rapt wonder as this once mortal woman became a champion of Slannesh, her lower body became serpentine as the changes wrought upon her brought her former troop mates into a frenzy of worship and slaughter.
Jovotch could hear the twin hearts of each brother of the Rapture begin to beat faster, anticipating the slaughter to come.
++Release the drugs into your system brothers and do what you do best++
Upon his orders each brother of the Rapture released their own combat drugs and their bodies acted accordingly. Senses heightened, violence magnified the favoured of Elaxsius the Flawless tore into the populace.
They skinned living bodies even as they defiled them in ways too unspeakable to even mention. Children were caught, skinned and hung over fires so that their pitiful cries fuelled the ever sensation hunting warriors. Men were forced to watch as their wives were brutally raped then had their own bodies violated even as acts of depravity were forced upon their loved ones.
Jovotch stood before the ruling council, the newly ascended Neryn by his side. He told them of the oath made by their forefathers and how they had broken their deal. How they had cost the lives of battle brothers through their dishonour. The Governor staring at the crucified bodies of the Arbites told the Warrior where he could go.
Jovotch clutched her chin between his giant fingers and the pain made her cry out. It was music to his ears. And such a show of bravado deserved only a fitting reward. He ordered the city destroyed but before he left he killed the council all but the governor, he left her with a whispered thought.
“What did you tell her?” Demara asked as they walked away, her insane screaming in their ears
“I told her that her forefather signed the agreement and that her grand uncle was a battle brother”
Jovotch pointed to a terminator clad warrior with skulls and flesh adorning his armour. Brother August roared his affirmation to the dark prince.
“Restitution paid I think” Jovotch grinned
|06-21-12 02:02 PM|
|Serpion5||Welcome to Heresy Kurnugia. Quite an entrance.|
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