So a project myself and Brushie have been working on. Please let us know what you think and as always, constructive critism is welcome.
We both may be posting parts of the story, or it may be me posting both of ours, but she will be doing half the writing. So, in no means am I writing the whole thing. (she's writing the good parts! hah)
Written by Brushie
“Get your damned feet off the control panel.”
A pair of pale grey eyes in the darkness, harshly illuminated by the acrid green glow of various ship monitoring displays and cogitator screens, narrow in mild annoyance. A pair of figures sit diligently at the centre of a small, cramped control room, filled with various complex machinery and trailing wires that have worn with age and frequent use.
Odile is statuesque and undeniably noble in appearance, her chiselled features hard and set under a mane of long, immaculately kept silver hair. A multitude of dark, blasphemous tattoos snake their way under her armour and up to her jawline, before sharply stopping; leaving her moon-pale countenance clear and perfect.
The rather battered, ebony armour she is adorned in marks Odile as one of the blessed Sisters of Battle, although it seems not so anymore. There are scuffed areas where purity seals have obviously been roughly torn away, religious marks and emblems viciously scraped off and filed down until nothing remained.
“Pshh.” Comes the inevitably huffy reply, the offending boots begrudgingly heaved up and off the steadily bleeping screens. Nell takes a long drag of the gently smouldering lho-stick that hangs on her lips and exhales with a bored sigh, rolling her eyes behind chunky, soot smeared goggles.
Sporting various outlandish, spiked piercings and with a messy mop of tied back, wildly flame coloured dreadlocks Nell is every bit the typical hive ganger in appearance. Her features are a world apart from Odile's haughty neatness; she has a particularly rough, mischievous look about her- a Vaxanide rogue through and through.
“Found anywhere yet?” Nell murmurs, obviously not expecting a positive answer.
Odile does not look up from the screens, occasionally reading any fragments of text that sporadically flash into life here and there.
“No.” She eventually responds, apparently a woman of few words.
The hiver immediately groans in frustration, leaning her head back as she brings a hand to her face. They had been searching for days now, scanning carefully for distress calls from worlds under siege or suffering from chaos incursion; they needed supplies, and soon- being alone, stealing them during already ongoing raids was the easiest way to stay alive and undetected whilst on the run.
Nell promptly whinges despairingly. “Why is everyone being so boring? It's never been this quie-”
Her whining is suddenly cut short as a series of initially garbled, panicked speech makes the nearby vox transmitter crackle into life. An open distress call- a desperate plea for aid from an ailing planet. Chaos marines.
It was time to move.