[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-2:

 

There is no lingering threat, nor does anyone accost you in the process of completing your grisly work. No accomplices to the poor murdered wretch sally from the toolroom, nor does anyone else's shadow darken the corridor, although perhaps Kraggan's mien is a touch gruff at his Patron's rightful blood being taken by another's lance.

 

Regardless, with growing confidence - thanks mainly to the good signage and some fortunate turns, your demi-squad finds their way to a concourse - a wide promenade 10m across and again as high, which shows signs of old discipline, cleanliness and routine - albeit now stilled. Brushes and mops stand erect, or lean against the steel wall panels, pails long dried up. Paintbrushes are fixed in gummed-up cans where the process of painting the direction trails ceased. Side offices, small cantinas are all empty. Store cabinets are, incongruously wrenched off their mountings to moulder in accumulated dust.

 

Small comestible stands, once part of a bustling small market row are smashed, upended or proven absent by discoloured floor panels where they were previously resident.

 

Everywhere though, the interminable striplamps and glowglobes emit that annoying, low buzz, as though a small fly is trapped in your helms.

 

The closer you come to the Comms Centre, the more industry and commerce gives over to battle. Bloodstains scourge the walls, spent cartridges, flattened bullets.

 

Yet no sentry bars your way, no group of outraged miners seek your company or confrontation, just the odd drip-drip of condensation from the vent grates and grilles of the ventilation system, and constant hum of a powered section. This is possibly because of the large bloodstains, spent ammunition, broken blades and las-scoring over the immediate area.

 

It is after long minutes of travel you find the actual comms-bunker - and formidable it certainly is. The door is 3 metres wide by 2.5 metres tall reinforced, barred and buttressed plasteel. Grey plascrete sets it apart from the environs of pale cement and shining panels, Bonding studs bedeck the stanchions, bolting cowling over the essential comms cables and conduits leading from the room.

 

It matches every STC requirement of Class 3 communications infrastructure.

 

This is exceptionally odd. The facility, as known to the Techwrights at least, should sport a Class 5 or at the most, a Class 4b, a less power-hungry, technical and ranged unit which is well-renown as easier to install and simple to maintain for this station's type of resource reclamation personnel.

 

The control and access panel on the door reports it is under security lockdown, and will require the correct codes, or a significant technical attack.

 

The door, lock and four-way junction the comms centre sits at the centre of, is covered by security picters - or at least two of them. One is hanging from a cable, and the other is smashed and on the ground - stripped for parts.

 

GM: Assessment of the digitally secured lock will reveal that to open it will require a successful Arduous (-40) Tech Use Test and a minimum of two successful Difficult (-10) Security tests.

Edited January 25 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Teeth had darted past him to assist with the stunned foe. A quick thrust with a hitherto unseen sword. 

 

A skull denied. 'It matters not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.' 

 

"Thank you." He said as they hid the body under a floor panel and cleared His Blood away. 

 

The party then located the Comms Room which was locked down.

 

Using his Fallen Magos Power Axe he dealt with the remaining working security picters. 

 

Examining the door with others, he pointed out the empty side alcoves. 

 

"Clear STC construction and yet these alcoves should contain a Class 5 or a Class 4b Combat Servitor. Randomous Factoria favours yet again. If I can have your assistance Xerxes we can open this to a point where the multi-key of Crux'as can be employed, although of course it's going to be a slow process."

 

 

 

INT49 +10 (Tech Use +10) +10 (Combi-Tool) +10 (Assist) - 40 (Arduous) = 39. Result: 12, Pass 3DoS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He brought his axe to the locking mechanism. Utilising it's plasma cutting tools and mechandendrites to remove panels, he and Xerxes gained access to the innards."

 

 

Edited Saturday at 11:32 AM by Machine God
Arduous difficulty

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: Ok, I see the edit with the numbers! On a -40, that's a 3 DoS Pass.  I'll say that took about 15 mins overall due to successes.

 

Kraggan:

 

Your knowledge of STC's allows you to make incisions without compromising the structure more than required. It is up to the sneak-thief to finally bypass the last sentinels to admit you.

 

Edited Saturday at 11:19 AM by Mazer Rackham

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

The teks had removed enough of the door's security panel that the Smiler could wedge in his multi-key. Time to work. Cor'gail, watch my hands.

Spoiler

Security Test

Target - 41 + 20 (multi-key) - 10 (difficulty) = 51

Roll - 50 (!)

Result = Pass, no DoS

 

Target - 51

Roll - 86

Result = Fail, 3 DoF

 

Target - 51

Roll - 25

Result = Pass, 2 DoS

 

The lock-work was difficult, cramped and hard to access even with portions removed, but with enough time anything will yield to those blessed by the Four.

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

The approach to the communication hub was clear, worryingly so. If other elements of the Corsairs had already been through here then they would have taken the objective. He did not like it, there was good fortune and there was a trap and this felt like the later.

 

While the other three busied themselves with the door mechanism Tarh surveyed the surroundings again and again, looking for the first sign of the ambush that was surly coming. In-between he arranged some of the debris and abandoned objects into makeshift cover. It would not hold long, but a little was better than none.   

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-2:

 

Truly, it has been a team effort. The different blends of fervour and skills an amalgam to this moment.

 

There is a serried thump of ratchets as the Smiler finishes, his bypass circumventing - maybe pleasing in itself, for one of his proclivities - the bastion.

 

Clunk-clang.

Clunk-clang.

Clunk-clang.

 

The mighty door swings inwards, and when it does, the lights come on inside the comms bunker, yet no-one is home. Entering the room, it is easily 60m squared of packed hollow. Proofed against EMP by dampening sheets, it has it's own power supply provided by a fusion generator, albeit this is only for emergency transmissions by the looks of things. What is most and immediately noticeable is the centre of the room.

 

A smoothly bevelled pit drops away to darkness below, mirrored by a funnel which pierces the ceiling. Filling these gaps, each 3m in diameter, is a rather girthy plasteel and ferrocrete buttressed column, supported and festooned with armoured cables, myriad conduits, and attended by flexible hoses plugged into a circular array, suspended from jacks, locks and ports in the ceiling. Peering up, the funnel itself disappears into vertiginous darkness, and the room is cooled by the waft of nitrogen vapours condensing on the equipment.

 

The whole structure is supported by a honeycomb lattice of polished armaplas, which is damaged by eitther gunfire or cutting equipment - perhaps where someone tried to sabotage the installation.

 

Around the room are two concentric rings of augur and picter pulpits, replete with control consoles and switches, plus hololithic relays and display projectors. Many of the cogitator screens are smashed, but whilst this shabbies the marvel, it does not detract from the power.

 

Why a deep-range comms relay installation, usually found on a warship, should be found on a simple mining colony is unknown.

 

Dataslates are scattered around the room, but that is not all. Many of the chairs are destroyed, ripped from their footings, cables for the armrest controls splayed and sprung. The upholstery, likewise forms a spilled, spongey spall across the floor. Several deck plates are stained by recently congealed blood and ragged remains of voidsuits are strewn about the place, but there are no bodies. Two broken autopistols and an old Overseer stunstick lie discarded along with lots and lots of spent rounds. Pockmarks dot the walls, floor and ceiling in a strange, abstract pattern.

Above the thrum of broken ventilation fans, coarsely whirring with missing blades and off-kilter of axle, you can hear the murmured comm-chatter from across the entire station.

 

+Wrench, get your team to the airlock in the lower quad. Cutter thinks those mechs are loose.+ The male voice is distorted, but more from a gutteral slur to the speech than voxcoder noise.

 

+Caleb, Caleb, you deaf sod, are you there? These Purple bastards have brought Marines to finish us off! Space Marines! Autocannon's down to three-hundred! Caleb?+ It is the first female voice you've heard, harsh from shouting, she tries to make herself heard over the bombarding thunder of a heavy wepon firing in an enclosed space.

 

+Pipes, Bolts says the toolroom security is on the fritz, and Spread hasn't turned up with those tools. Keep your eyes peeled.+ Again male. A different, more refined voice, but still has that burr from before.

 

On an external channel, re-routed through internal comms, you hear the following:

 

+The Emperor is your Father. He demands your service. Satisfaction is your reward. Come to him, the weary, the profane and be saved. Take of his warmth and flesh, be of his family and find a home.+

 

The voice is lulling, mellifluous, and male. It has a beautiful quality that makes the artists among you wonder how well it sings. It's presence is warmth, it's absence is chill. The message repeats.

 

Edited Saturday at 12:32 PM by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

He moved to a command pulpit and plugged in to access the controls. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INT49 +10 (Tech Use +10) +10 (Combi-Tool) -30 (Hard) = 39. Result: 35, Pass

 

 

 

He input his and his acquired input codes, to make an announcement. He linked it to their microbead frequencies and hoped that the announcement would be Station-wide. 

 

 

Edited Saturday at 05:50 PM by Machine God
Tidy up

[Mazer Rackham]

Kraggan:

 

< < COMM LINES OPEN > >

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

+This Station has been been claimed by Iorek Redfang, vassal of Huron Blackheart! The Emperor is dead and he never was the Omnissiah!+

 

+That Witch-tongue is the Usurper the Purple Band Gang.+

 

+Followers of the Station, we of Iorek Redfang are here to save you against the Purple! Can you dig it?!+

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

Damage to the comms room appeared superficial, interfaces smashed but not the crystalline control stacks within nor connections to the wider transmission arrays. Xerxes peered up into the conduits calculating the likelihood that such alterations had compromised the security of the room for the door itself had been well sealed and a bunker such as this would seem like a logical place to establish a stronghold.

 

Kraggans voice blared out behind him condemning the Emperor and these purple-marked fighters in the same breath. Those from the tool room would reach them in minutes, "secure the outer access routes. We have declared open hostilities against this entire station and they know exactly where we are."

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon dove and took cover from the chaotic, albeit noiseless, heavy weapons fire, ending up next to Hagga who had one gauntlet pressed against the side of his helm, no doubt listening to vox traffic. The Executioner looked right at him and tilted his similarly pointed gun metal helm, as if shouting orders at him but the Lamenter could only stare at him dumbly, for he had not secured a vox-bead for himself yet. However, Hagga’s gesticulation towards the closest knot of… rival pirates? Miners? Who were these mortals with the purple armbands anyhow? Whoever they were, they were working their heavy stubber like men possessed, pressing all within their purview with a non-stop stream of lead.

 

No matter, the order was clear. Put them to the sword.

 

With a curt nod, Ukalegon shifted into a low crouch and fired up his jump pack, preparing to take his maiden flight with the dubiously maintained unit. He could only hope it wouldn't explode on him the first time he used it.

Edited Saturday at 08:41 PM by Necronaut

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

- Acknowledged-

 

Rakash signaled and fell in behind Hagga, trying to keep on the trail cleared of debris in wake of the Executioner’s Advance and to avoid the larger ones sent flying as the Lamenter rose on his jumppack.

 

He felt the the crystalline blade of Thata-Ska’push throbbing in his left as the force blade reacted to  Empyrean echoes of the violence around - and ahead - them. 
 

This would be close I work, bladework, as the detritus and debris made aiming difficult. Nevertheless, Cyrandras chose to keep his bolt gun on his right at ready, scanning for anything that might prove a threat to their advance before melee was joined.

 

+++ Witness, all you  Daeva of Heaven, Sea and Earth as we, who were bound in  blood, fulfill our oaths to the Path of Heaven! +++

 

Cyrandras whispered into the vox. He cared little for the gods of the Empyrean and even less if the others or indeed anyone listened to it. But it never hurt to remind the other parties involved in such bargains to stick to their end of it….

 

 

Edited Sunday at 01:48 PM by Xin Ceithan

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-2:

 

As Kraggan activates the comm-lines, the bunker lights up properly, the machine spirits stirring to life to provide proper illumination and power to all the terminals still functioning. A commline flashes, a transmission cutting through the awkward static after Kraggan's bold proclamation.

 

+Caulker, is that you? have you been at Doc's funny sauce again?+

 

The chatter cuts out in a squeal of feedback, then for a solid two minute, there is silence, until a message track around the screens and hololithic displays.

 

< < COMMAND OVERRIDE > >

 

Suddenly, one of the devices within the sanctum ignites. It is a hololithic comms plinth, a circular dais which is used for projecting images of the good and glorious of the facility. It stirs to life as you busy yourselves at Xerxes' urgings, a slender figure appearing in brilliant shimmer. Attired in a void-hardened mining suit, a thick, long-sleeved scarlet robe drapes his body, concealing much of the labouring attire. A thick belt cinches his waist with an ornate, possibly Archoetech pistol holstered in it.

 

He is helmed; the black glass of his visor a curious void in the image, but around the suit's collar is a noose of purple-dyed cloth, the cut end dropping to his waist. His right gauntlet clutches a staff with an ornate, shiny metal mace head unlike any steel or silver you are familiar. Around his wrists are large-diameter golden bracelets, etched with strange runes.

 

It all looks very expensive.

 

+Ah, there you are,+ he says quite amicably, offering a small bow as part of his greeting. His voice is the same as the one in the repeating message.

 

+My master, the Emperor, bids you welcome. I must admit,+ he says, circling his free hand in the air, +I know not this Redfang or whom you claim to serve, but the Father-upon-throne is very real, and lives, I can assure you.+

 

He looks around the room, meeting each of you in turn, left hand stroking the scarf.

 

+They call me Druid. I am the Priest of the Father-Emperor, and Confessor of the Hanged Men. Do you seek enlightenment?+

 

Edited Saturday at 08:42 PM by Mazer Rackham
Got interrupted.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga smiled as Ukalegon's jump pack blazed to life. Good. The others had got the idea, even though they couldn't hear him. Now he needed the assistance of the two Corsairs and their followers. He sent a short ranged transmission burst towards the Astartes on the central gantry using the same frequency they had sent their warning on.

 

+++This is Rykaz, Krokodil 4.+++

 

He paused for a second to ensure the other Marine was looking his way, then continued. As he spoke, he used two fingers to give quick, simple visual directions that matched his orders.

 

+++We will hit the purple scarves to our right.+++

 

He pointed at himself, and then to his right.

 

+++Have your forces suppress the unmarked to your right. Confirm.+++

 

This time he pointed at the Corsairs on the gantry, and then over to his left.

 

 

Spoiler

If required, Command Test: Fel45, Roll: 34, 2DoS

 

That would have to do. If they hadn't understood, they surely would as soon as the three made their move. Hagga took a firm grip on his weapons, braced himself against the crates, and nodded to Ukalegon and Cyrandras.

 

Go.

 

Hagga pushed off in a sudden, violent release of all of the power in his legs, gene-forged strength enhanced by the thick servo-bundles within his greaves. He hurtled down the gantry towards the foe, burning sword held ready to strike.

 

 

Spoiler

Charge Move vs Purples on the right of Level 2 Gantry.
Ag Test: Ag42 -20 = 22, Roll: 16, 1DoS
WS52 +20(Charge) +5(Compact Bonus) +10(Horde) = 87, Roll: 62, 3DoS.

2 Hits +1 for Power Field = 3

Power Claymore (Axe) Dam 1d10+8 +SB11 Pen7

All Hits should cause Mag Dam? (unless they are substantially tougher than I assume!)

 

 

 

 

Hagga disliked combat in zero-g. The lack of sound and the slowness of his limbs made him feel disconnected from the thrill of battle, like he was fighting underwater. But his opponents were just as hampered, even slower, and his great blade, razor sharp and red hot, sheared through mining suits and flesh and bone with equal ease.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited Sunday at 06:54 AM by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-1:

 

GM: Yes, they're all Hordes, granting +10 to Hit. They have a Magnitude which reflects their élan, not size, at 30.

 

Acknowledging your order, the Marine with the renegade troops directs their fire, pinning down the other group indicated. You quickly realise the pack of men you cannon into has split from the main force and the others are shooting your comrades.

 

Purple Scarves (A 15 mag):

Full move to get smashed in the Teeth by Hagga.

Whatever is left punches back: Miss.

 

Purple Scarves (B 15 Mag):

SAB at Ukalegon: Miss, All.

 

Boxes explode noiselessly as the Lamenter lurches forward on his jump pack.

 

GM: At this time Marine Players should proceed narratively with rolls to inform. I am not yet asking for Initiatives.

 

Edited Saturday at 10:37 PM by Mazer Rackham
That should work.

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Crux'as looks at Druid, his smile present but brow furrowed. 

 

"The Father-Emperor? Would that be the one on Terra, or another?"

 

This smooth-talking "priest" did not conform to any member of the Ecclesiarchy that he knew of, but there were thousands of sub-sects among the Faithfully Deluded. If they were lucky, this was not a member of the Corpse-God's own, but someone they could subvert to their own cause.

Spoiler

Common Lore (Ecclesiarchy) Test

Target - 41

Roll - 4

Result = Pass, 3 DoS

 

"Enlightenment is always a worthy goal. What is your path towards it?"

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

A preacher of one of the many corpse-god sects so rife within the Imperium of Terra, it was of no interest to him. He noted from the preachers garb that purple was of some significant to this cult and any hostiles that wore it was like an adherent. Had there been a schism or some religious disagreement that erupted into infighting? Certainly something had happened before the Corsairs arrived. 

 

While the Smiler engaged with the preacher Tarh instead headed back to the entrance door, alert for danger. Presenting himself, even as a hololithic display and engaging in conversation was perhaps a ploy to distract them, and if the hostiles thought they need distracting then, so Tarh reasoned, purple sworn men where closer than was healthy.

 

Spoiler

Awarness Test for hostiles

Per: 32

D100: 68, Fail, 4 DoS

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'As:

 

Druid's holographic shade turns to you.

 

+Ah, a questing mind! Of course he is on Terra,+ he replies, gently, with a beaming smile that mangles the words. +But also he is here! Father also sends the flesh of his flesh to bring word to the faithful, the ready. Is not the Father-Emperor capable of such a feat? Indeed, it is so.+

 

He sweeps his free hand around to emphasise his revelation.

 

+We of the Hanged Men find enlightenment through the release of burden - for it is only through freedom of the soul that a man may soar!+ He chuckles, and the rote inflections reveal he's broached this oft, and well. +We cast off our old names, and assume that which we are, to fit the Father's purpose - for what meal can be shaped without tools? What mine may be cut without strength? And to keep us aloft is the love of our Family.+

 

He says this last with great endearment, before switching it up a gear of interest.

 

+Tell me, good fellows, your accents, they seem from a far-flung place. Do you come to take up the pick and shovel?+

 

Tarh:

 

Druid's wittering is quite distracting from your vigil. Perhaps a sock can be found so the proselyte can stick it in his craw? Nothing moves out in the corridors that you can discern.

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"Not quite. We are looking for those who wish to cast off the blinkered and blind eye of authority, for those who yearn for the freedom of endless transformation and delight."

 

The smile grew wide and sly, one spinner of tales to another.

Spoiler

 

 

 

Charm Test - attempting to sway Druid's mind favorably towards the part

Target - 62

Roll - 51

Result = Pass, 1 DoS

 

 

"You mentioned flesh of the Father. What exactly does that entail? The divine flesh of the Astartes perhaps?"

Spoiler

 

Inquiry Test

Target - 52

Roll - 46

Result = Pass, no DoS

 

As he chats with the holo, the Smiler subtlety motions to the former tech-priests, trying to get them to cut off the communications between everyone but themselves. 

Edited Sunday at 02:55 AM by Lord_Ikka

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

The place whilst wondrous was wrong. Faced with a locked down door, this command bunker should be a fortress. 

 

Technical innovation yes, but not at the expense of tactical superiority. 

 

What had the pirates done or what had they acquired? 

 

Have we assaulted a base trying to fight off other forces? But what other forces? Xenos? 

 

Maybe here in the deep dark. 

 

He caught Teeth's cues and thought that Two-Backs had too, as the other was flicking switches attempting to lock down the Comms assault. 

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'As:

 

[Charm Attempt: Hidden]

 

Druid's posture changes and he leans into the holoprojector like he's found gold.

 

+My dear friend! It is so good to find one who understands the depths of it! Of transformation, of becoming other! You simply must bring your friends to our feasting hall - a grandiose name for a barracks - but it is rich in companionship! There we can discuss your ideals!+ There is schoolboy giggling.

 

At your mention of Astartes however, the bonhomie tarnishes, and the giggling departs.

 

+Oh, my. No, no - our flesh of flesh comes not from those grand and fell warriors, but from the Father himself. I am confused, however. You speak of shucking authority, yet your comrade has proclaimed bondsmanship. Where does this lie? Who is this Redfang, and how comes his gaze upon us? A grand name, yes? Is he, perhaps Astartes - I only mention them as you do, friend+

 

Xerxes and Kraggan:

 

Studying the data interlink reveals much. The connection is through a hardline, and protected from noospheric scattering, furrther it has a significant amount of power, and a rotating fractal-hex security encoding. To sever the link will take time, they will know you are trying. However, it provides information of the power of the cogitator at the other end. As much as a marvel this bunker is, the command centre must be significant indeed.

 

There is always the option of smashing the terminal...

 

A clatter echoes down the corridor.

 

Krokodil 4-1:

The autocannon traverses, no longer blazing at anything that moves - it concentrates on the pockets of purple-scarves, blasting a clutch of them, and floating detritus into red and silver confetti.

 

Hagga:

The enemy melts before your assualt, viodsuits rent open, the bodies within streaming atmosphere, pressure and giblets into the void.

 

Edited Sunday at 10:34 AM by Mazer Rackham
Giblets

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

A hardline. Xerxes peered up at the assortment of cables above, heavy and reinforced as they were to carry such signals. One wondered just how much before an interlink burnt out, and how much would reach the cogitator beyond.

 

The bunkers self contained generator fed into backup capacitors that were still at full charge. The tech adept motioned with his mechadendrites in such a way that Kraggen might see the inference while he continued to study the cables. They would need a means of connecting the two, the axe perhaps.

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-2:

 

Druid Awareness: PASS

 

+Your colleagues appear agitated, my learned friend,+ Druid says to Crux'As, peering at Xerxes and Kraggen. +Perhaps they seek assurance? Come now, can we all not bask in the glow of togetherness? Of course!+ He has a moment of revelation, +you do not know the way to our family hall! I am but a fool! Should I send a guide to you?+

 

In the distance is the hammer of boots on steel deck.

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"No, no need for that, for there is work for us to do here before we join you. Talking as we are can be a great help to seeking a consensus of values." 

 

The smile tightened at the sounds of an incoming party, but the words never stopped.

 

"To your questions before; When we talk of authority, we talk of the repression of the Imperium. Of the monotony of never-ending regulations and drudgery. The Redfang is our current taskmaster, bringing us to this place to deliver freedom and the path to Ascension. He is of the Astartes gene-type, but we can become so much more than that if we accomplish great deeds."

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'As:

 

+Oh, my dear fellow! Abandon your burdens! We can take care of all your efforts and then everyone can rest! In the day; toil for our own, in the eve, comfort in our home.+ His voice becomes soft, lulling as you almost talk past one another.

 

+My desire to share our mutual dream is strong, but I regret Father would not care for the staid and stubborn Astartes very much, you see, they have persecuted both our kind for painful ages, have they not?+

 

If a blank helm visor couldn't look pained, the sheer command of body language makes it apparent.

 

+Liberation is heartbeat away - just accept our invite and all will be well. No, you must. I insist.+ The amiable nature cloaks the hardening tone.

 

The holopicters flash with static before reigniting with new images. It appears to be another airlock, but unlike the one you entered by, this one has no defenders, only...vicitms.

 

Across the walls and floor, the entire clean-room is dirtied red, rich Astartes blood comingles with human vitae, pooling around the parts of both. Soggy, red chunks of meat clasped within fractured and fragmented armour and voidsuit. The scene of butchery and animalistic fury is enough to yank at the stomach of the hardiest veteran, where it is impossible to tell which bit...belongs to which...other.

 

+I regret your companions refused. Do make it easy on us all, won't you, my dear friend? I do so miss the sparring of sharp tongues and it has been so long since one of your calibre graced us.+

 

Edited Sunday at 01:17 PM by Mazer Rackham
Got interrupted again, cleanup