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Balthamal Venerable Brother

Balthamal

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Posted
++++++++VIII Legiones Astartes++++++++

Complience Action Theta - Rho - Seven - Three - One - Nine - Epsilon

Target: Darvenal System; 4 Habitable Worlds

Designated Commander: First Captain Sevatar

Sub Commanders: Malcharion, Ithilion, Ophion, Hurophion, Toriel

Notable Fleet Elements: Nightfall, Shroud of Eventide, Covenant of Blood

 


Planetfall +14:55:03 Terran Standard Hours


 


There came a convergence in the battle between the darkness and the even blacker night. It was small, barely worth notice save that it presented opportunity to either warrior brave or desperate enough to seize upon it. Barbastellan was neither of these things. Bravery and desperation killed almost as many men as stupidity and cowardice. Death was nothing but a reaper and it cared for neither the virtues or vices of it's tally so long as the tally kept etching it's way ever longer through history. Barbastellan was not brave nor a coward. He was only two things: a weapon and a killer. Born one, in the sunless depths of a Terran sink-hole prison hive, claiming the life of his birth mother, the first notch on his score, 9 seconds into life, and forged into the other by deranged geniuses fighting for a madman who bred and cultured other madmen to take his war through the stars. Ironic, that here, now, in the ashes of a world burned to dust that such things became relevant.


 


Barbastellan did indeed notice that Hurophion seemed to be all of these things and more. Brave? In a fashion. It took a kind of pyrrhic bravery to turn the void burning weapons of a battle barge against the men he had sent into a death trap of his own devising. Cowardice? Undoubtedly. What else is it to murder a quarter of a company from a hundred miles above, your hand not even on the blade that ends their lives. Desperation? Certainly. Why else would he resort to purging his command of those he distrusts. Paranoia can be healthy. In the mind of a fool it is toxic. Stupidity was the last and greatest of Hurophion's flaws. Stupidity in that he sought to put his plan into motion with such glaring obstacles in place: He would cleave his company of significant strength, and with Nostramo burned such warriors would not easily be replaced, not even with the new techniques of implanting gene-seed into youths. He did not have the allegiance of the rest of his men. Murder within the ranks was hardly unknown within the VIII Legion, to the extent that there were dozens of accepted ways that brothers could shed each others blood and face no censure. To carry out such a plan under the nose of the First Captain, a man known for tolerating no divergence from his orders, a threat backed up by his chainglaive, a threat everyone across the millions of warriors in the Legions would be loathe to test.


 


And there was one other thing Hurophion was, stark against every other flaw in the dizzying speed of the murder duel. He was slowing. His parries were micro seconds out from optimal, the angles of deflection growing ever more erratic. His blows started to lack the crisp sharpness that he had displayed until now. Was he really getting tired? They had duelled for no longer than 10 minutes surely. Was it a feint? A ploy to make him overextend? Barbastellan cared little for either possibility. All his thought and focus was bent upon reading the minuscule twitches and tiny shifts of balance that pre date attack. He was doing a fine job of brutalising Hurophion without resorting to the kind of preening swordsmanship practised by the I and the III Legions. He was beyond such notions of aggrandisement although he did allow himself a mental smirk at the deed name given to him by the savages of the VI; Blade Dancer. The name of a fop from the mouths of animals who could rival the efficiency of even the VIII in murder.


 


​There would be only one way to push Hurophion into revealing his true strength; bleed it from him. Altering the patterns of his attacks, Barbastellan aimed a blinding thrust at the eye lenses whilst slashing the other dagger towards the weak armour layer between cuiress and shoulder guard. The response was almost instant. A quick slash to deflect the first dagger against the reinforced ceramite of the helm crest and a slight twist of the arm brought the shoulder guard around sufficiently to push the second away before both lashed out towards the neck seals of Barbastellan's armour. He smirked behind his helm as he parried the foremost with both daggers and used his return to guard to slap the second aside with his vambrace before thudding a kick into the knee joint of Hurophion. It caught, hard and he stumbled back a few steps. That's more like it my lad he thought. But it still isn't going to stop me making sport of you.


 


His smirk became the sadistic smile he had worn for centuries: hunter and prey, murderer and victim, seeker and prize. All unseen, he sprang forward to kill.


 


Planetfall +01:07:29 Terran Standard Hours


 


Liagond was a problem. He was coarse. He was brutal. He was belligerent to the slightest hint of anything approaching an order. And for all of that he was subtly supreme at his role. It had taken less than an hour to round up the claws and with a blunt tone he had dispersed them on approach paths to the city walls. He had even identified the best ways to breach the walls in any given location. Barbastellan was forced to reappraise his initial misgivings about having the Headsman as the go-between for the Atramentar and the 14th. If he was half as efficient amongst the blood and slaughter as in the preparation he would be worth his weight in ceramite. The seekers, he had sent towards the mercantile district, mainly due to the large concentration of habs but also because it was miles away from the secondary landing zone Sevatar required. 


 


The Atramentar themselves stalked dangerously close to the pipeline half buried in a dried out river bed a few miles off the main roadway. It was unlikely that something as vital as a fuel feed would be out here for a city on high alert however the infrared and thermal bleed from the the pipeline itself would do a fine job of blinding any auspex readings to the ten warriors in Terminator plate advancing on them.


 


Ultairu and Quaralon were ranging ahead of the rest of the squad whilst Dearios brought up the rear, his massive reaper autocannon swinging slowly from side to side, ever alert to any approaching threat. Barbastellan and Nazvun were deep in conversation.


 


"I don't like the feel of this Barb," said Nazvun.


 


"You're hardly alone with that particular outlook brother," replied Barbastellan. "What I'm more interested in is how you arrived at that particular conclusion."


 


"If Sevatar was right and this is Hurophion playing king with his company he would hardly be the first in the Legion to do it. Throne in flames we've done it for the whole Legion for close on a hundred years. Why is this different?"


 


Barbastellan paused before answering, framing his thoughts. "Before when we have....excised...... some of the more troublesome elements of the Legion were always between war, not about to land in the :cuss covered centre of it. And our sanction has always come from the Primarch, not from a captain looking to make himself secure or even the Kyroptera and their politics within those beneath them. We do it because that is what has been laid upon us.


 


Nazvun scowled. "Don't hide behind the Night Haunter's name and authority as though you are dedicated to his rule of the Legion. You've made no secret of the fact you despise him. He knows as much!!"


 


Barbastellan matched his brother's scowl with one even blacker although both were hidden beneath the skulls of their helms. "I'm loyal to the Primarch because Sevatar is loyal to him. He is a mad butcher who has taken us too far down his own road for us to be anything but what we are. The Night Haunter is the Legion and the Legion is the Night Haunter. That doesn't mean I will throw myself at his feet and beg to lick the blood dripping from his talons like some of the other deed-named amongst us! I was VIII Legion before he led us and I will be VIII Legion after he has found whatever death seems most humorous in his black moods"


 


Nazvun almost recoiled in shock at the force and import of his sergeant's words "I thought the rumours that he would seek his death were exactly that: rumours. There is truth in these things?"


 


Barbastellan mentally berated himself for such a careless tongue but still replied, "I know not for certain. To be truthful I've given little thought to the Primarch or his future since we watched the homeworld burn. I've been more concerned with the degeneration of some amongst our brothers. They see it as a leash loosed or a bond slipped." He shook his head, given weight to his words. "They cannot see that we have always been thus, Nostramo  was never the poison fangs buried in our flesh that some have made it out to be. Look at the War Sage, he could easily pass for III, the IX,the XIII, right up until he throws a cities maidens to the skinning pits. No the only thing Nostramo blooded truly was the Primarch. We were set upon this path the moment they carved us up and wormed us through with his gene coding." 


 


Nazvun took a long breath, audible over the vox before he was interrupted by Liagond, his voice broken by the large static coming from the nearby pipeline


 


"Lions, break west of the pipeline, there are several depressions that can hide your movement. And we must speak. At once"


 


So it was that fifteen minutes later the Headsman stood before the Atramentar and spoke.


 


"The Seekers are already at work in the Mercantile Quarter but their signals are being jammed. They don't have any uplink to the fleet in orbit. They only managed to speak with me since the overpowered a broadcast tower and hijacked it's signal"


 


Barbastellan appeared non-nonplussed at the news although inwardly he seethed. "Explain one thing to me brother. How could they possibly jam the orbital uplink if they have no idea we're here?"


 


Liagond shrugged "Looks like that cunning plan is slowly coming apart doesn't it? They might have caught them going in but given the route I put them on it's unlikely"


 


"Is it possible they know they're there and are merely letting them wander into a kill-box?" Nazvun interrupted before the next question was voiced.


 


"It's highly unlikely given the screaming that was going on in the background of their last vox burst"


 


Barbastellan held out an oversized fist "Give me the vox set you used to contact them, I want a report directly from them"


 


It was difficult. The static was brutal and the gunfire and shouting going on, partially audible even still miles from the city wall itself added a further counterpoint to the poor quality transmission.


 


"I know what you said Guran, what I want to know next is just how much jamming you're getting," snapped Barbastellan into the vox.


 


Guran, for his part, rapidly losing his own patience as well. "It's been like this for the past hour or so. Ever since we got through the perimeter it's been murder on the channels. All we're getting is the automatic ping from the Nightfall to say that there is a link active. Doesn't mean we can access it though."


 


This wasn't good. If the enemy were actively blocking an uplink it would kill everything in it's transmission spectrum. To cut everything but leave a signal repeater with enough power to register the machine spirit of the ship, and not the company's ship at that, did not bode well. It could only mean that Hurophion was cutting off his men's only viable way to communicate with the fleet, and by extension, their exfil route. 


 


Barbastellan was about to request more information when the sky above the city spat fire through the clouds and an object trailing the ionised plasma of a sub orbital craft speared its way into the city. All thoughts of vox jamming forgotten, Guran came back over the link.


 


"Blood of the father it's a drop pod! It's come down two blocks from us. Wait two."


 


The Atramentar glanced at each other, armour slowly beginning to cycle combat stims through their blood streams at the news. They were veterans to a man, they knew this signified a change in the whole theatre. Barbastellan turned to Liagond who was standing ready a few feet away.


 


"Headsman, all claws are to hold ground. They are not to advance any further into the city or beyond it's borders if they're still outside. Do it now. Right now!" The last words were a sharp bark. Liagond, to his credit didn't question anything merely begain voxing the order to the claws.


 


Turning his attention back to the threat at hand, Barbastellan voxed Guran again. "Report Guran. Why the fug is a drop pod landing here now?! And only one? The whole city will raise an arm call!"


 


Guran's reply was lost in a wash of static. It was only on the third attempt that he managed to rely the words that turned Barbastellan's blood to acid. "It was running cold. The thrusters didn't fire and it's buried itself in a crater. We had to wrench the doors open. It's completely empty and powered down."


 


Barbastellan didn't even have time to order his brothers to flee before the sky began to ignite once again. The clouds boiled away under the weight of the lance fire and missiles raining from orbit. 


 


The last words he caught before the vox disolved in a howling gale of static were Guran's: "Ah :cuss..."


Flint13 Venerable Brother

Flint13

Posted
  • Author
Posted (edited)

See this is why the VIII Legion has no trouble attracting souls to it's ranks. We don't discriminate or show preference to who gets the knife slid tenderly between the 3rd and 4th

Nah, I aim just to the left of the spine, about the forth lumbar down. Abdominal aorta ~_^

 

In other news, badass fluffing buddy!

Edited by Flint13
Balthamal Venerable Brother

Balthamal

Posted
Posted

You people are nicer then me. I just hit the spleen, sever the spine right above the pelvis and then I start the fun.

 

By the way, I really like Liagond. It's like he has my personality. :biggrin.:

 

Gotta be careful though Kol, if you clip the kidneys they won't be able to scream ;)

Balthamal Venerable Brother

Balthamal

Posted
Posted
 


++++++++VIII Legiones Astartes++++++++

Complience Action Theta - Rho - Seven - Three - One - Nine - Epsilon

Target: Darvenal System; 4 Habitable Worlds

Designated Commander: First Captain Sevatar

Sub Commanders: Malcharion, Ithilion, Ophion, Hurophion, Toriel

Notable Fleet Elements: Nightfall, Shroud of Eventide, Covenant of Blood

 

Planetfall +03:56:42 Terran Standard Hours

 

Any patience Barbastellan possessed had boiled away in the fires of his anger hours ago and the situation wasn't making any efforts to improve that. Guran's seekers were dead. Having completed their mission and sabotaged the city wide deflector shields preventing orbital strikes from above, they had burned in the opening salvos fired from the heavens. Out of the remaining claws, the three who had been inside the walls when the skies ignited had been overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

 

It had been Liagond who, again, impressed with his brutally effective planning. The mortals within the city would know they were under attack now that the entire Southern Quadrant was smoke and rubble. Sadly that didn't include any of the concentrations of their military might. With several claws discovered and in some cases pointing towards the infiltration points, any commander worth his salt would be sending his forces flooding around the outskirts of the city to isolate and destroy and further elements seeking to gain entry. Liagond's counter to this was simple, and brilliant. With the enemy battalions flooding out of the city there were ample openings to slip in. He'd even found a gate inconspicuous to get the Atramentar inside too, a minor miracle given what was going on around them all.

 

Now they were inside and creating ad much hell as they could whilst avoiding the crushing numbers that would see them all dead five times over. It had proved impossible to get through the storm of ballistic weapons unscathed however. A further eighteen of the 14th's claws were dead or dying and, much to Barbastellan's fury, Dearios, Huras, Szethar and Ultairu were also dead. How the fact that this :cuss hole of a planet had equipped so much of it's elite forces with a form of plasma weaponry had been missed in all the briefings merely added further fuel to the inferno burning through him.

 

Missed or deliberately left out he wondered. It could easily have been either. What mattered now was to live long enough to ensure he bled the bastard behind this dry. To that end he and his brothers had pushed hard towards the designated area Sevatar had demanded. Now he just needed to speak to him to get the rest of the 1st company to the surface and salvage something from this catastrophe. What he got however was the very last person (except the Emperor and the Primarch) in the galaxy he wanted to speak to.

 

"Hurophion." The word was breathed with such malice that a mortal would have soiled themselves and died from a sundered heart. The voice on the other end of the link, free from static and distortion was smug, if a little surprised.

 

"Well well, this I did not expect. A little surprise from Sevatar I see. Without informing me. How inconvenient for you." Hurophion paused to let his unsubtle threat hang on the connection. "A pity that some of the vaunted Atramentar had to die whilst intruding upon the 14th's operations. A sure sign that the enemy were far more significant than we had been led to believe. And a pointed reminder for Sevatar to keep his nose out of my business. Playing the Primarch's favourite son should be enough for him!" the last sentence was spat, full of venom. Barbastellan didn't care in the slightest about the politics amongst the higher echelons, he just wanted to get off this rock alive.

 

"Hurophion, launch the armour claws now! The enemy are focused on search and contain operations outside the walls! We can-"

 

"I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this," Hurophion snarled. "I fed a few of the pure born Nostramon down into that death trap to ensure the mongrel Terran's died to a man as well! Consider this a lesson in natural selection. If you were of the homeworld you'd have seen this coming. Have a nice death, brother."

 

The signal died leaving static hissing in Barbastellan's ears. The sound that broke through the white noise then was the sweetest, most precious thing he had ever heard. 

 

"Barb...."

 

"Sev! We're getting butchered down here! We have a secure drop zone but the bastard is refusing to order the launch!"

 

Sevatar's reply was a long, long time in coming. "I'm not going to teleport the Atramentar down there to die Barb. From here the situation looks beyond salvage"

 

Barbastellan tasted ashes in his mouth at the thought of another betrayal, this the most galling of all. Finally succumbing to the rage that had been bubbling away for hours he snarled back at his captain, the warrior he idolised.

 

"We're dying down here Sev because you sent us to make sure this kind of thing didn't happen! Dearios! Huras! Szethar! Ultairu! All dead because you told us to be on this worthless rock! Blood and ash get down here and fight and die with your men!"

 

The vox dissolved into static again and Barbastellan finally admitted defeat. He really isn't going to save us from this was the melancholy thought. Taking a quick glance at the retinal display picking out his brothers, Barbastellan prepared to move away into cover when the smoke billowing around the square began to churn into a swirling vortex. Unwilling to believe what was happening, Barbastellan forced himself to watch as the smoke boiled away under the detonation of white light suddenly in it's midst. As the after glare faded, he look around and saw hulking shapes moving into a defensive formation, the figure in the middle of them all obscured but for the length of chainblade atop an adamantium haft and the ceremonial chiropteran wings cresting his skull helm.

 

Barbastellan opened the vox, almost afraid of the death sentence he expected to come.

 

"I thought you were going to keep the Atramentar out of this death trap, not bring over hundred of them here to die with us," he said pointedly

 

First Captain Sevatar looked at his subordinate, any expression hidden by his helm.

 

"We are Atramentar brother, where else would we be?"

 

Planetfall +14:58:12 Terran Standard Hours

 

The end, when it came, came with a suddenness almost shocking in it's arrival. Hurophion continued with his tactics of feigning weakness, attempting to draw a mistake from his opponent. Barbastellan was having none of it. He continued to pound blows at the weak joint sections of Hurophion's armour. The daggers were fine weapons, he could even see himself using them beyond this duel. Funny that, how he could see beyond the moment he was fighting for his life in. But it wasn't just his life he was fighting for was it. It was for the dozens betrayed to die by the bastard in front of him and for his own brothers, dead in the fires of hubris and paranoia. He would have his blood price and he would have it now.

 

Abandoning all pretence of form or style he reversed his grips on the daggers and threw himself directly at Hurophion. Stupidly, fatally, Hurophion flinched and hesitated, just for the briefest of split seconds. His arms just didn't have the speed to come around to block the blows, his knives scraping futilely against the cuirass. Barbastellan's first dagger found the opening between breastplate and bicep armour, shearing through the under suit and lodging in his primary heart. His second cracked through the left eye lens of the helm, puncturing the eye and jammed itself inches into his skull.

 

Hurophion stiffened and toppled backwards, his blood painting a palate of vengeance in the dirt beneath him. Barbastellan straightened slowly. His emotions churning from elation, to exhaustion to anger and then to grief for his dead brothers. Some within the legion might frown upon sentiments like that but not the Atramentar. They were brothers to a man, even if they did sport with one another, they were a fraternity that nothing would ever break apart. Ever.

 

Some of the men from 14th Comapny approached, Liagond foremost among them. He looked down at his former captain and spat on his corpse. Nazvun nodded from the edge of the circle, his warplate still too damaged to do much else. Barbastellan motioned for Triraen the apothecary to take the legion's due from the dead captain, the bone saw already starting to cycle up as knelt down. The sound of swearing stopped Barbastellan in his tracks. He glanced at the apothecary, his expression forming the question.

 

"He lives still Blade Dancer," said Triraen. "End if"

 

Liagond raised his blade as he stepped up next to Hurophion's non moving form. "I shall take my due from him, for him leaving us to burn in the spite of his stupidity."

 

Barbastellan shook his head, a dark idea forming.

 

"No. Every man of the 14th shall have his due from this treacherous bastard. Strip his armour and harvest him, there won't be much left after we're done. Bring me something to hold him in place"

Balthamal Venerable Brother

Balthamal

Posted
Posted

The screaming had stopped a while ago. Now all that punctured the silence in the grand strategium was the hissing rasps of breath through a half torn throat and the jangling of chains as the victim tried in vain to escape the fate approaching. Barbastellan Lasiurius, The Duke of Blades, Regent of the Forsaken, slide his knife tenderly into the open rib-cage before him, prodding organs thick with gore before pushing the cold steel through a lung. The victim spasmed in pain again, his breath becoming even more labored now that he was down to a single functioning lung, the other two punctured with methodical precision.

 

Throne in flames he was so tired of this. Of the necessity of carrying out judgement on those who shared his blood, who should be standing with him through the fire of the Long War. And here he was, again, carving apart a fellow Night Lord.

 

It wasn't exactly the same of course. He was a Captain of the VIII Legion now, not a subordinate obeying his commander, being in the worst place at the worst possible time. No he was here because he had trusted an erstwhile brother. He had dared to believe that betrayal wouldn't be his reward for keeping faith and honoring his oaths. And he had been proved wrong, his oaths spat on in the name of greed and paranoia once again. He glanced at Khamalak's face, drinking in his agony. Eyes, ears, tongue, jaw, all had been cut away. He hadn't let his brothers take their due this time. This was far too personal, far too bitter.

 

His men were flooding throughout the ship, chasing down every single Word Bearer still breathing and who hadn't sunk into the cowardice to flee with whatever arcane means they had. Or perhaps it was only the chosen few who were permitted such power, the rest left to plead to suckle the dregs of whatever lore they let slip. His anger still flared as he recalled the words shared in this room scarcely an hour gone.

 

Khamalak standing before the assembled sub commanders of the 153rd and 14th companies. Such a gathering. One of the more impressive forces that still bore the winged skull in the galaxy. The rest of the Legion, if they still lived were on the Eastern Fringe, reaving and bleeding the Imperium at will. Barbastellan didn't begrudge Khamalak his position of power. Without him the 14th would have died to a man on Terra's scarred soil. They were the only other company to evacuate on The Murderer in the Gloom, it's huge frame more than enough for several thousand legionnaires but left carrying just under seven hundred into the black, cowed in shame and defeat. Barbastellan had sword, before his gathered brothers, that he would serve Khamalak in honor of the salvation he had provided, if only by virtue of being the first captain to reach the ship and claim her. Malice class battle barges were rare prizes, to virtually stumble upon one required more luck than any man could claim in a dozen lifetimes. Nevertheless, Khalamak was the commander of the Gloom and he had waited for as many of the Forsaken to reach her as he could before the Wolves of Fenris would have torn her throat out.

 

Khamalak standing with Barbastellan at his left shoulder, Trom - Hal of the XVII Legion at his right, wearing a vipers smile in the warp ravaged flesh of his skull. He called himself Gal Vorbak, although what that Colchisan title carried meant nothing to Barbastellan. He had listened. In silence, in despair and finally in cold anger as the brother he had pledged to had explained, not even ordered but justified, why a good proportion of his men, his Forsaken, would be used by the Word Bearers to breed more daemon infested husks. He had paid no attention to the power, to the promise of such a bonding. He remembered the black sands all too well, seeing the crimson armor of space marines warp and deform as the monster in the souls of the XVII had clawed their way out.

 

He would burn before he allowed any soul to go through such a melding, let alone offer up his own men for such a foul rite. So it had come to refusal and to a pointed reminder of the oaths sworn before. Khamalak wouldn't be swayed. He had seen the power of the Gal Vorbak and craved it for himself but was too cowardly to place himself in their claws, he would have the next best thing, warriors in his thrall bleeding the same foulness across the ship. Blades had been drawn, claws flexed and the blood had flowed. 

 

Khamalak had minutes of life remaining. Barbastellan savored every second of suffering like a fine wine. The memory of the mutilation he had put the fool through would sustain him for long years. He reached over his shoulder and drew Arianyr in a metallic rasp, pausing yet again to admire the blue-silver of the metal. The doors grinding open brought him back to the here and now, Liagond and Nazvun entered, both plastered in gore, fresh helmets and skulls chained to their armor, chainglaives still held loosely in fists.

 

Liagond unclasped the seals of his skull helm and eyed the body before his captain. "It's all but finished Barb, the last of the dregs are cornered in the empty supply tanks just off the 43rd Concourse. Every last one of the whoresons will be dead within the hour. Even Gal - Korious unleashed his automata on them. Seems he was less than impressed with the implications of Khamalak's proposal. Something to do with sub-optimal algorithms he said, I forget exactly. The arch - magos has the tendancy to blurt binary when he's angry" He spat a gobbet of bloody saliva onto the deck beside Khamalak. "What do you want done with this one?"

 

Barbastellan rested his blade point down on the deck and kept his eyes on his former lord as he replied, "He has minutes left at best, I'm going to drag every second of it out if I can, a pointed reminder to any of his men of the price of betrayal."

 

Liagond chuckled darkly "There will always be betrayal Barb. We are the VIII Legion, treachery is in our blood. Although our brothers show remarkable restraint in abiding by your order that all murder duels must be sanctioned by you"

 

"it seems that our brothers have a much better memory than some about the debts owed and oaths sworn," said Barbastellan, still staring at his victim, anger leaving a vile taste in his throat.

 

Nazun's swearing did cause him to turn around, the acid in his voice a foreshadowing of ill news.

 

He kept his voice even as he looked at his closest brother."Tell me"

 

Nazun hesitated for the slightest moment before replying; "Triraen is dead. One of the bastards got a lucky shot off"

 

Liagond started snarling curses in Nostraman, Barbastellan merely took the news in silence for five heartbeats before whipping his sword around and planing it through Khamalak's hearts, the potent power field in the metal charring the flesh into ash. Deactivating the generator in the hilt he slammed the blade back into it's sheath.

 

"Tell every brother on that deck they are to keep the bastards penned in and nothing more. They are not to kill them, maim them or even injure them. Summon the rest of the Temnochta'yan and whet your flaying knives. We are going to make sport of them such will live in the memory for a thousand years."

 

Barbastellan clamped his helm on, the skull on it's front a good representation of the anger boiling away in his veins.

 

"Then tell Ship Mistress Aralavo to prepare to sail. We are going to Tsagualsa. We need to find another apothecary"

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