Inspirational Friday - 19/09/2014

[Tenebris]

Here we are again, Inspirational Friday. First thing first I have to compliment all of you, you really make it hard for me to choose a winner for every inspirational post was awesome. I especially liked Schism of Loesh and Malivate and the Sword of Kith'arous, yet this week's award goes to:

 

Xenith and his Iron Panthom

 

The fluff is good, the model is awesome and there were small bits like the obsession and reluctance of the character which made this post the best of this week. 

 

Thus without further a due step forth Xenith and receive your reward. Wear it with pride!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/1/friday-award.png

 

 

Now let's move on this week Inspirational Friday.

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 19/09/2014  - RANK AND FILE

 

As the title aptly says this week I want you to write a short snippet of lore about ONE of your rank and file troopers. The glory of chaos belongs to those who claim it for themselves but every chaos lord needs a host of warriors, followers and retainers to achieve his goals. For every chaos lord there is a mighty warband under his banner. Devout warriors, chaos space marines, dark magi and so on. There are countless examples where the bravery of a single soul won the battle for Chaos and countless personal tragedies too. 

 

For this week I want you to explore the background of one of your rank and file models. We would love to read about their personal story, the drive behind their motives, their ascension into the warband. This week is not about mighty Aspiring Champions or Chaos Lords but about those souls that follow them, fight for them and die for them. I would like to remind you that Inspirational Friday is about inspiration, about Chaos, all of Chaos, so contributions from the players of daemons and traitor guard are welcome too, expected in fact. 

 

So present to us one of your rank and file troopers, write about his personal story and show us your interpretation of Chaos. The Dark Gods demand and thus it shall be!

 

Warriors of Chaos, step forward and present yourselves!

 

 

Now let us be inspired once again!

 

 

Tenebris

[Prot]

Thanks for doing this Tenebris...

 

Xenith, well deserved! Congratulations.

 

Tenebris, oddly enough after I finished my last short piece I though about this very subject... the trick is making it small enough that it fits the contest but still has some cohesion. 

 

The best part is I find this contest really adds depth to the units we/me are playing, working on, or even painting. Who doesn't like an army with personality?

[Kierdale]

Aye, well deserved, Xenith!

[incinerator950]

Good job Xenith.

[Loesh]

The Iron hands, they always seemed to show up at the worst moments.

 

Lazerus brought up his saber as the cultists around him charged through the death worlds dense jungles, they stuck out like a sore thumb with no desire to hide themselves. On his part, he was dressed in what could be identified as mostly ancient Corvous armor, technically qualifying as artificers as centuries of conflict had led to numerous changes to it's design. His power pack had been repaired with improvised materials so many times it resembled more a mish-mash of everything which was only furthered by warp mutations inside the suit, even the Dark Mechanicus wasn't quite sure if the thing was running better or worse then it used to.

 

It was painted pink with black flame decals and trimmed in gold, a stylized Slaanesh symbol with a crescent instead of an orb and a barbed wheel of Chaos took it's place, on his chest was the Imperial Aquilia in mockery of his former life and the symbol of the Emperors Children prominently displaying his brotherhood on his shoulder. In the distance were hundreds of Imperial Guards fighting with cult troops amidst carnevorious vegetation, fighting the wildlife as much as each other.

 

Yet it was the Space Marine in gunmetal grey and pitch black armor that caught his attention, the ancient rivalry was fresh in his mind and merely seeing the man allowed him to conjure a warp scream, killing an incapacitating everyone near him before charging forward like one of the possessed, screaming mouths worked into his plating uttered a chorus as the Iron Hand turned to face him just as Lazerous saber cut into his mechanical arm. Rolling away the Iron Hand brought out his chainsword, barely phased by the strike.

 

Lazerous whirled out of the strike like a deranged marionette, it screeched against the 'beak' of his helm and nearly tore his head off and yet all he did was giggle. The voices taunted the mechanized man as they tried to stir some emotion from, Lazerous was just as confident and despite not being as powerful the saber was much more agile. The Iron Hand seemed to move in slow motion as he ducked and weaved through the strikes, almost always being a step ahead and merely laughing when he was actually struck. The saber, like many of those used up the chain, was from an ancient Terran cult and he prized the decadent weapon dearly for it's ability to slowly bleed out his opponents.

 

Speaking of, some of the blood spattered on his armor and caused the voices to cry in ecstasy as the licking tongues tasted real blood. He worked himself into a frenzy around the Iron Hand as the drugs in his system began to take hold, sometimes clanging off the armor other times biting deep into flesh. Perhaps it was the thousandth cut, he had stopped counting, when his blade finally broke through his rivals armor and tore at his knee-cap, bringing him low. Lazerous felt there was only one death fitting enough, and he decapitated the marine before taking up the head and crying praises to the Darkling Prince.

 

More of them came from the woods after their brothers death, and with a song on his lips the Slaaneshi joyously bounded after them.

[Xenith]

Wow, thanks guys! And thanks Tenebris for getting this going!

 

Time to think up my next story.

[Kol Saresk]

The Song. The Song was in him. The Song was around him. The Song was him. The Song was all.

 

It gave him purpose. It gave him direction. The Choirmaster might have been the one who directed the warband, but it was the Song that directed the Choirmaster. Esfandiyir was simply one of the many, many instruments that brought the Song to those who could not hear it.

 

His chainsword rose and fell with the fortissimo, his bolter filling in the silence of the piano as the thumping beat of the percussion. As the Woodwinds took control and played the softer melody, the battlefields would become as the surface of the lake. And while the brass gave the melody depth, he became the dark shadow lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to strike. And strike he would as the Song crescendoed.

 

There the mighty, roaring bass would show him the falling artillery and the clash of weapons. Here, the strings would make him aware of his enemies closing in. He was an instrument, captivated within the Song. And even as he rested in prayer in between battles, the other sections would play on, keeping the infidels aware of the Song.

 

He pitied them, the fools. They had deafened themselves through willful ignorance, and so could not hear the song. That was purpose, the sharp notes told him. To make them hear; to bring enlightenment. And it was a purpose he gladly fulfilled.

[Soldier of Dorn]

+SCREAMS+

 

Victor Silencio screamed.

 

He screamed because Chaos had taken his Legion, and he could not do anything for it. He screamed because the Night Lords were a shadow of their former glory. But mostly, he screamed because no one would hear him.

 

He was alone, called the Forgotten by his brothers of the First Oathed, and abandoned. At Malakal, when the Terrorborn fought the 64^th company of the World Eaters, he had been consumed by fire. It had left him silent. No more would his cries make the servants of the Corpse-Emperor quake in fear. He was alone in his silence, and he always would be.

 

His screaming continued, as Lord Captain Nyxanos rose to speak. The commander’s voice rang in the Forgotten’s ears, but he did not hear. The sound of torment drowned out the words, save for the very last. The call to arms.

 

‘Viris colratha dath sethicara tesh dasovallian. Solruthis veh za jass!’

 

And the screaming began anew.

 

 

+END+

 

This is my entry, Night Lords this time, because I have less headcanon for them than my World Eaters.

I do know that Malakal is a Imperial Hive World that got caught in a bttle between my two warbands during the Legion Wars, but other than that, nothing.

 

@Kol_Saresk: Oh... Well, I don't stand a llama's chance in a supernova now.

Seriously, this is amazing. It actually makes me want to paint up a Slaaneshi army, and I despise Slaanesh, as any good Khorne boy is wont to do.

[Montuhotep]

Cal Farbaroth had a problem. Rather a fundamental problem, really; he didn't like Daemons. Didn't like them, didn't trust them, didn't actually see any point to them. If the strength of a man's belief and his right arm weren't enough to take him through a breach then, damnit all, that was what a bolter was for. Never mind all this praise mumbo-jumbo continually spilling from everyone else's vox-grills, it did nothing but make his skin crawl and his fists itch.

 

The problem with this state of affairs was that he was a Wordbearer......

 

 A humble one, it was true; no more than a simple line-Astartes with the somewhat meaningless rank of Warrior Brother. He snorted. As if there weren't a few thousand more of them. Sermons from the resident Dark Apostle were dreadful in both their length and their tedium, (not to mention their bloody frequency) - if there was anything to be grateful to the Dark Gods for, it was that Cal had been fused with his power armour millennia before so at least nobody could see him yawning his way through yet another Black Mass. If he was really lucky and kept his vox switched off, he could also get away with the odd sardonic chuckle at how stupid it all was; although the last time he had tried he'd found his Coryphaeus looking at him in a rather direct manner. Fortunately he had the droning prayers off by hearts by now, so he was able to make it seem like an inopportune cough instead.

 

 Right now he felt like starting a fist-fight just to break the monotony.

[Conn Eremon]

I had written this up, so I might as well post it. After reading Kol's though, not sure why I am bothering.

 

 

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Krune tore the twelfth heart from a screaming savage. It was a sacred number to his brothers, for it was their Legion numeral in the ancient past. It meant nothing to Krune, as this Legion many of his older brothers were once a part of meant nothing to him. Nevertheless, he tightened his grip on the young boy thrown flat upon the stone as it went into spasms. Krune passed the heart to a brother, who held it aloft with a roar before devouring it, and gestured for one of the gods to be handed over. Dutifully, an attendant serf, one of the Blood-touched, heavily scarred from the lash and the pit-duels, passed him the obsidian stone with reverence, his hands and forearmed heavily threaded with black lines from the contact. It was one of hundreds kept in the possession of Krune and his brothers, who each bore one within them as well. All had been upon a stone slab such as this one, their hearts ripped free and replaced. Gripping the small form of this lesser god in his armored palm, Krune once again marveled at the ease with which he could simply crush it, grind it into dust. Though such acts of deicide were not uncommon among his uncontrollable brothers, it was well known that all god-slayers are hunted down, slain and their skulls and obsidian hearts ground to powder, lest their perfidy taint the warband further.

 

As always, Krune dismissed the thought and plunged the hand gripping the stone of liquid black into the boy’s chest cavity, holding it in place where the heart once was. Instantly, the body arched its back upwards, veins becoming visible as something darker than the space between stars threaded through. The screams sputtered and became choking, the spasms grew in strength. One of the serfs reached over with some gear taken from the corpse of a medicae, and stapled the boy’s chest closed. The boy’s head snapped around as the noises escaping his tortured throat became filled with anger. Eyes of the deepest black stared at Krune with pure hatred. Then the flesh around the eyes browned and blackened, and small embers formed in the eyes. The roars of anger degenerated back into screams of pain, as blackening spots appeared across the body.

 

With a snarl of disgust, Krune tossed the boy off the altar with a swipe of an arm. It came to rest at the base of the temple of skulls among blackened skeletons just as flames began to flicker across the skin. Krune looked across at the other half dozen altars built upon the smoldering plains of this feral world. One of his distant brothers roared in triumph, holding high his sacrificial victim by the throat. Even across this considerable distance, Krune’s enhanced sight bore witness to the changes beginning to come upon the boy. He let out a deep growl as he gestured impatiently for the Blood-touched to drag forth another of the crying masses below.

 

Krune tore the thirteenth heart from a screaming savage.

[Forté]

Ok, here goes...

 

The time since the raids had been endless. Time had completely changed at the hands of our captors. I had no idea if it had been months or even hours. I wish I'd died.

 

Treval's eyes were bloodshot and sunken. Partly due to sleep deprivation. Partly due to the sensations and ordeals he had bee put through at the hands of the Diving Flayers and their followers. Why his body hadn't given up mortality, or at least conciousness was a total unknown. But the most painful death you could think of was nothing compared to the things he could now speak off. No longer could he scream. His throat too horse to make enough sound. That was when he was thrown back with the others. Some twitching involuntarily, vomiting, rocking forwards. One had headbutted the wall till he fell dead, without any sound at all. Others were returned, missing flesh,  There had been food, well, so long as you didn't ask of it's origin.

 

Those keeping a watchful eye on them were as hideous as those who raided their home. Faceless, skinless humans. Wearing the skin of others alongside extravagant materials like silks and chiffons. Cruel blades and stimulant injectors could be seen on them all.

 

More time passed and others, people Treval had been part of a community with, had been broken, passed away, or abused to the point that they had become one of the twisted, skinless guards. But now the mood had changed. An excitement could be felt through the ship. Then he came. A marine in ornate pastel armour who smelt sweet and repulsive at the same time and spoke in one and many voices.

 

"Today I give you a choice. Either continue as you are, enjoying our hospitality. Or. You can join us as we play out another fantastic orchestra. Much like we did with your home. You'll be armed and will eat well before we attack. But the choice is yours."

 

With this, the flanking guards emptied out sacks of weapons in front of the Marine. Blades, clubs, flails, and a few basic firearms. Nothing more. One man, an old neighbour, picked up a blade and swung at a guard. It never made contact. Effortlessly, the Marine had grabbed the man by the throat, ripped the flesh from his face and thrown him screaming to the other guards who hung him from the celling by hooked chains. Other began to take up arms and follow guards to a huge feeding hall. Food of many kinds were in abundance and Treval knew this would likely be his last meal so made sure he got his fill.

 

Obviously, all the food and drink was laced with stimulants, hallucinogens, and other concoctions. By the time Treval and the others had been herded into the transports they were already showing signs of the effects. The last memories he had was of rage, everything around him slowing, others in the transport beginning to attack  each other, scream, howl, some were clawing at the walls with bare nails. Then it took over completely and Treval was nothing more than a rabid meat shield to be directed towards an unknown enemy until he died.

[Kierdale]

He could feel his teeth shattering, in so much as his brain registered the cracking of enamel and the rending of pulp. He could feel the fragments in his mouth. The texture. The pain however was eclipsed by that being fed directly into his brain by the machine. His body, a post-human slab of muscle was taut as the alien feeling wracked him.

Aye, alien, for his superiors - chaplain Angra, chapter master Sophusar and the chapter's head apothecary and librarian- had brother Talamar strapped into an infernal engine at the other end of which lay one of the Eldar captives. Drugged by the chief apothecary and having his mind scoured by their master Psyker.

 

Talamar had been told that the previous volunteers had experienced only pain -though the human word was barely fit to describe such depths of agony as the aliens apparently did- though the masters were interested that this time they might manage to tap into other emotions before the Xenos subject expired.

Talamar did all he could to hold on to his own sanity. What he felt outshone the worst ordeals of training in his youth, and the most hideous of injuries suffered in battle.

The master librarian's stern eyes, boring into those of the alien, widened with realisation as he managed to strip a layer of the Eldar's mental shielding and he delved deeper.

 

Ecstasy, the likes of which not the lowest of libertines had tasted, not even the noble Sade of legend, imprisoned in the Bastille for his debauchery, flooded the Astarte warrior's psyche. Post-human, though recently enlightened on the battlefields of Cyprius III, Talamar had tasted the nectar of excess on that world of cults. But now those memories were as dust upon his palette. Never again would such pursuits serve to satisfy him.

 

The death of a battle brother left a void within a marine. The loss of one fought alongside, one's life in the others' hands...the Stygian Guard had denied such feelings. All feelings. But on Cyprius III they had been shown the error of their ways. Was it not the greatest of follies to deny themselves such human instincts? The sorrow of loss, the anger at the traitor, the Xenos, the release of a kill. The Guard in their hubris had thought to expunge themselves of such needs but they had merely cast a thin cloak over them.

Something, something ancient and infernal, had torn that cloak aside. And Talamar felt that something's touch once more as he drowned in the alien's grief. Mourning for an entire race all but wiped out by their own deeds. As the master librarian bore deeper into the alien's psyche, the marine experiencing emotions he lacked the words to explain, virgin territory to a human mind, Talamar felt himself nearing that something.

 

And then it was all over.

He screamed as human reality exerted it's bastard mundane hues, sounds and odours once more.

"More! More!" He screamed. He panted. Mewled.

 

Chaplain Angra turned his face, that countenance at once hideous and sublime, to face chapter master Sophusar.

"Now he is enlightened."

[Tenebris]

A whip cracked, down, down on the 15th Helcannon Deck...

 

 

Tanor cracked his whip and he was awarded with more screams. The Arrogance was caught in a frenetic void battle against an Imperial Navy squadron and his helcannon batteries were slow. This group of slaves was one of the worst he has seen and the old gaoler has seen many, many slaves in his long, genenhanced life. 

 

"Load those charges you worthless dregs, if the mighty guns will not roar defiance I will have you served as the next ammunition for the helcannons. Don't make me come down there you scum..."

 

And so the loader crews redoubled their efforts. It was easy to break those worthless slaves, none could stand against a warrior of the Black Legion yet some uprisings were common, and Tanor enjoyed all of them. In a life now long past he would have hated to abuse his human charges, he was bred to protect them, not to gaol them, yet now he was finding it to his taste. His masters in the warband were quite demanding when it came to the guns of the mighty Arrogance and Tanor was all too happy to oblige. Some legionaries would consider service in the gun decks as a diminishing duty, a honourless task, but truth be told Tanor the White was not one of those legionaries. In the past two centuries he carved his own dimension of hell in the fifteenth helcannon deck of the Arrogance, this was his realm, this was his domain and all would pay tribute to him down here. 

 

He personally rounded up the dregs for his guns and each and everyone of them was marked with his personal rune. He maintained a ruthless degree of discipline and backbreaking labor, his gun officers were some of the most cruel aboard the Arrogance and service on the 15th Helcannon Deck was seen as something as a capital punishment, but... but the guns rarely were silent when the battle was joined. Tanor smiled, he lived for the shattering recoil of the helcannons, for the roar of silent, distant death in the void, he lived to unleash the firepower that obliterated entire cities and destroyed entire cultures, he was the master of this hellish pit of cordite smoke, radiation and indiscriminate death, he was a lord among mortals. He was merely a legionary of the Arrogant Sons, but down here, in hell, he was master and commander. 

 

Again he cracked the whip, shattering the jaw of a poor slave chained to the 43rd helcannon along with several dozen others. Death down here was an ugly affair, it came from mass ordnance, radiation, toxic pollution, malnutrition and disease, but the guns, the guns were never found wanting. Every whim of his precious charges was tended, every shell blessed with the blood of the unworthy, the slaves died, but the helcannons fired and fired and fired...

 

In an age past he was Tanor of the White Scars, a true son of Chogoris, but now he was Tanor the White, the lord of the 15th Hellcannon and he was death to millions, lord to two thousand souls and gaoler of the Arrogance. His whip was the law, his voice was the command that shattered walls, struck ships from the heavens and he was the roar of defiance, his guns the voice of the mighty Desolator-class ship. But he was also astartes and to him seconds mattered, his orders mattered, his slaves... mattered not. Again his whip cracked, again he was rewarded with a scream and a cloud of blood, he cared not how many he had to kill, he will beat the rate of fire of Zurdan Grojal and his scum on deck 19th. 

 

While his adversary prefers automated guns and hardwired servitors Tanor despised things which cannot be broken and chained. He was a traditionalist at heart and he will prove today that blood and sweat are good substitutes to abominable intelligence, steel pistons and automated brain cogitators. His whip cracked again, more blood, more screams. He could feel it in his bones, in the tingling of his topknot, the enemy ship was closing in for broadside, the feint radiation of power shields colliding was unmistakable, the first slaves begun vomiting... he grinned.

 

"Get the flayed heads, let's see how the Imperial Navy fights the screaming dead..."

 

 

And a whip cracked once more, down, down on the 15th Helcannon Deck...

[Kierdale]

Wow, Tenebris. Wow!

 

Makes me want to know more about Tanor. How he left the Scars, for one...

Any chance get can get more sometime?

[Tenebris]

In time I presume yes, you will hear more about him. I devised him as a very "traditional" chaos space marine, proud, ruthless and somehow twisted or broken, depends on the onlooker. My opinion is that the scale of Warhammer 40k should be always evident, what is he in a ship with a million of crew, a gaoler of one of the countless gun decks and weapon systems aboard the mighty Desolator-class battleship named The Arrogance? He is nothing, a mere legionary performing an officer duty to his all too human charges. He is a lord of slaves, but he is also responsible for this gun deck. When the warband goes to war he would be one of the nameless and faceless chaos space marines roaring defiance, posturing arrogance, an indiscriminate killer, slaver, murderer, but on the 15th Helcannon Deck he is as close to godhood as a broken astartes can be, he is a lord to two thousand souls. 

 

And thanks for the positive feedback. 

[Midnightmare]

T-minus-120 seconds.

Arterial blood sprayed high as the militiamans head parted from his shoulders, a look of terror still etched upon his face. At the same time, Krell back handed another with his bolt pistol, crushing his face with an satisfying crunch. Before both would be soldiers had dropped Krell had swung his chainsword in a wide arc dis-embowelling another two in one stroke, agonizing screams filling the air. Too easy. The rest of his squad were also revelling in such butchery, as he glanced about, the felling of the enemy by the dozen. Bellowing his Primarch's name, he swung at his next opponent....

T-minus-90 seconds

....He lifted the guardsman to his level, bringing an almighty power armoured head butt shattering bone and mulching brain alike, swinging the prone form of the poor man at his dwindling squad. They stood firm but were no match for Krell's charge. All five were butchered in as many seconds in a whirlwind of gore and rage, the nails in his skull digging deep now, calling to him for his next opponent....


"Blood for the Blood God!"

...he was covered in their blood. Bright red, oxygen rich blood, covering the his bone white armour. He stood over one of the black armoured survivors. He again swung his chainsword with great force which the wounded astartes tried to block with his own, sending him down to one knee. Krell pressed it down until the mono-molecular chainblade was whirring against the Ravenguards visor. Visor to visor, traitor to loyalist. Bitter hatred. In a flash it was over as Krell then imbedded his wicked off-handed knife into the Loyalists soft armour around his neck. Slick with blood, he remorselessly tore the head clear and held it skyward, the look of a red gladiator taunting his next opponent....

"Skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"
T-minus-60 seconds

...the majesty of the Eternity Gate lost to him, crazed with blood lust and fuelled by hatred. He parried the Blood Angels blow. His own wounds were telling now, but he managed to twist away. Sensing the death of the traitor, the impetuous Blood Angel swung wildly with his chainsword, overreaching and leaving himself open to counter attack which came from Krell's squad leader Bullous, whose powered blade clove the Angels arm off. Krell swiftly ended the combat by thrusting his own chainblade up into the soft armoured groin area, imbedded the whirring blade to its hilt. The Astartes cried out as his life was violently taken from him. Krell pulled his his sword free from the twitching body with the aid off his boot. A split second was taken as he and Sergeant Bullous acknowledge each other silently. The din of the final battle deafening. The unstoppable red tide pushingon to the palace, Krell lunged at his next opponent....

"Death to the False Emperor!!!"
T-minus-45 seconds


....He brought his armoured boot down on the next ones helm, his power armour straining as he pressed. The helm beneath it cracked and the ground ran red. How had it come to this? The nails wouldn't let him think. Skalathrax was ablaze and brother fought brother. Honour no more. The Legion broken. He revved his chainsword at the next opponent....

T-minus-30 seconds

....His armour newly repainted black, it was slick with blood and offal. Some things never change sung the nails to him as he dispatched the Blood Angel. The hatred of the long war on his lips, he looked to the sky of Makan and praised his bloody patron and his Warmaster; he of vision, the provider of his next opponent....

"For the Warmaster!!!"
T-minus-10 seconds
The chainblades revved

-9-
"Blood for the Blood God!!!"
The daemonic face on his obsidian armour licking its lips.

-8-
"Skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"

-7-
"Death to the False Emperor!!! "
More revving chainblades.

-6-
The sound of the booming engine slowing.

-5-
"For the Warmaster!!!"

The Berzeker Legionaire squads' chant was incessant, they were like animals awaiting to be unleashed.

-4-

-3-

-2-

-1-
A hiss as the assault ramp opened. The back of his skull screamed as the nails dug in. Krell roared out of the Land Raider, chainsword ready, bolt pistol kicking, out to his next opponent....

Mr Krell - no relation to the undead Uber-Lord

[Xenith]

Once again, I feel the call of war. That twisting in the blood and the ringing of metal on metal that sounds out in the dark.

Beacon-like, the voices of my patrons beckon to me, and like a moth to the flame, I spiral towards them into battle.
Life and loss has forged me into a tool of the red ruination of cities and civillisations, the will of my machivellian masters.
I follow them. Into war. Into death. Into damnation. I am a weapon, their weapon, barely controlled.
The time has come for me to slip my leash. Time to destroy. Murder. Slaughter.
Eradication will be visited upon this world.
Returning the cities of the imperium to the rubble and red ruin that they were birthed from provides the only joy in the steel trap of my corrupt mind.
A bitter laugh escapes my throat as the chamber around me winks out of existence.
The world returns in a  haze of smoke, incense and cold. Blinking back the frost that rimes my eyes, I am in a mud streaked field, the enemy around me.
Organs prickle with barely suppressed energy as the pain begins in my hands.
R ed hot, the plasma gun slides from my flesh with a scream and reek of burning meat. I am death.

 

++END++