[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

OOC: This is to be inserted chronologically before the GM's preceding post.

 

Pain. Darkness. Nothingness.

 

He was falling, locked in a death-grip with some great, red-winged monster, exchanging savage, bone-shattering blows with the arch-fiend as they plummeted towards terra firma. It roared a deafening, guttural, inhuman bellow of rage unrequited as they dropped, while burning hive spires in the distance, each a kilometer or more tall, lanced up towards a blood red sky increasingly choked with black smoke. He pummeled the berserk abomination again and broke off one of its horns, driving the bony spike into an eye socket, and hammered the improvised weapon deeper into the daemon’s skull when–

 

The astartes jerked back to consciousness, dimly aware that he was hanging upside-down. He forced his heavy eyelids open and was greeted by a vertigo inducing sight, as two images of a wreckage-and-corpse strewn surface hewn from the living rock of some immense cavern fought for supremacy with one another. He groaned and closed his eyes again, shaking his head. The coppery stench of wet, wet blood filled his nostrils, and he swallowed a mouthful, realizing he was drowning in the stuff. Opening his eyes again, the competing images had nearly resolved themselves, and he realized he was staring up at the floor a few hundred meters below him. His head continued to clear, with higher order function and reasoning quickly reasserting themselves. 

 

Two huge figures in armour stared up at him and names came to him unbidden. Hagga. Executioner. Cyrandras. Psyker. Witch. Sorcerer. Red Corsair.

 

He rolled his helm around and discovered his drop had, apparently, been arrested by some cargo netting, in which his left leg had become ensnared. The paint was flaking from his leg plates again, exposing the gray of bare ceramite and long-faded yellow hidden beneath.

 

How did I get here…?

 

He remembered flying, descending upon a horde of mutated enemies, and his jump pack misfiring. Then an explosion. Then a crushing blow to the head and darkness. His head felt off. Likely his skull had been cracked. He fumbled at the web of synthetic rope but could not free his leg.

 

He shook his head again and suddenly his helm’s HUD sputtered back to life. As the machine spirit performed its diagnostic rituals, he noticed that his left lens had a crack running down the middle, though it did not seem as though pressure integrity had been compromised. Lucky him.

 

At this point he realized he still clutched his chainsword in a rictus grip, the weight of the enormous weapon with its heavily scuffed and worn black-and-white cheque motif pulling his arm at an uncomfortable angle. No need for that. He mag-locked the chainsword to his hip and continued to assess his situation.

 

Ukalegon drew his combat blade from its sheath strapped to his left pauldron, and noticed a portion of the ribbed, heavy-duty power cable connected to his power pack, and looked up again to see a melta pistol dangling from the end, its silver-and-crimson casing dimly reflecting the distant glow lamps of the hangar bay.

 

Good. He had not lost his sidearm.

 

With some effort, he grasped a loop of the net and hauled himself partway upright with one hand and started carving away at his bindings with careful, practiced cuts from his massive, broad-bladed knife. After a minute or so of work, his leg came free, and unhindered he righted himself, suddenly hanging from the net by one hand. He released his grip and dropped toward his compatriots, firing a sputtering burst from his jump pack to arrest his fall, and he landed hard. He felt caked, encrusted blood between his helm and scalp as he rose and adjusted how it sat upon his head.

 

The ex-Lamenter sheathed his blade and looked about, somewhat surprised by the restoration of gravity to the massive cavern. Hagga clapped him on the shoulder, apparently pleased to see him returned, and started off towards the nearby wreck of a krokodil, and Ukalegon fell in behind him and the sorcerer.

 

Eventually they reached the ugly transport craft, and they carefully worked their way in. They found a Red Corsair still trapped in his crash webbing, but he appeared to be unconscious, perhaps in sus-an. Hagga waved at Ukalegon and presently a boltgun was pressed into his hands along with a full magazine of bolts. He turned the weapon over in his hands and by rote gave it a quick inspection, expertly examining the firing mechanism and receiver before checking the barrel alignment. It was some indeterminable mark of Godwyn-pattern boltgun, the standard workhorse of Astartes chapters across the breadth and reach of the Imperium, and one whose operation and maintenance was deeper than amygdala-level genetic memory to the average space marine. Its casing was a heavily scarred and mottled red-and-black, and he could just make out the faded remnant of a skull with down-turned horns* under the slap-dash paintjob. He cocked an eyebrow at the chapter device, then shook his head, putting it from his mind for the time being, and rammed the proffered magazine home. A long, worn leather strap had been attached to the firearm by crudely mounted steel rings at either end, no doubt to correct for a faulty mag-locking mechanism. He grunted, half bemused, and slung it over one shoulder, nodding his thanks to Hagga.

 

A lift ride later, they emerged into a bunker of some sort, a slight figure awaiting them within. 

 

 

*Hat tip to our GM per our OOC joking and meandering.

Edited February 4 by Necronaut
Updating placeholder with fluff

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Brimstone? A suitable enough name for such a place. Hagga doffed his own helm in imitation of the mortal and nodded respectfully, a simple honour towards one who had shown courage in battle.

 

“Your name, mortal? I am Hagga Rykaz. Ukalegon Moros. Cyrandras Rakash.”

 

He pointed to his squadmates in turn. Then he gestured towards the vox speaker.

 

“As you just heard from one of our comrades, we serve Iorek Redfang, vassal of Huron Blackheart… and we are taking this station.”

 

“However, unlike these filthy xenos abominations, we seek alliance with its inhabitants, not conquest, as long as they are of Humanity. Any pureblooded men and women who are willing to work with Lord Huron will receive their share of the spoils, and his protection.”

 

Hagga had to hold in a snarl. The thought of recruiting support for the Blood Reaver turned his stomach, but they needed allies here.

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Comms Blister:

 

'Boffin,' she replies, albeit rote. For a second, your blank looks force understanding that the name means nothing to you. She nods at each of you in turn, albeit wearily, listening to Hagga. Her gaze turns inwards, distant. 'Boffin's what they called me. My real name is Seryna Morvenna Arrondubh, 789665432, Supernumerary Lieutenant Third-Class of the 91st Caledonian Assault Pioneers, sirs! Sentenced for heresy to life at hard labour, sirs!'

 

She spreads her hands, gesturing over the console, showing her handiwork in re-jigging the controls, a wash of bitterness in the pantomime.

 

'You want this hole - you can have it with my compliments. I apologise for firing on you earlier - I didn't know whose side you were on. I wouldn't put it past our glorious leader to hire any old thug. Present company being excepted, my lords.'

 

Seryna sits down heavily, and the act reveals a dreadful bone-weariness when she struggles to unscrew her canteen unsuccessfully and just leaves it. 'I'll be your ally if you can get me off this rock. The shadows move when you're not looking.'

 

Her mouth sets into a grim line, and her face is haunted by the ghost of something terrible.

Edited February 4 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

+Four One this Four Two. We have the Comms Bunker, have neutralised some opposition+

 

Kraggan tried to get hold of the Marines, whilst he watched the wall grills. 

 

+Would appreciate it if you could hook up with us. Objective is Command Bunker and a Purple called Druid. Ware the walls! +

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-2:

 

Just as Kraggan finishes speaking, the sound of something large slithering through a crawl-tunnel sounds above your heads.

 

Krokodil 4-1:

 

The mortal group bursts into life, once more filling the comms channel.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

+++Understood. Landing bay is secure… for now, at least. We will join you as soon as we can.+++

 

Hagga answered, then looked down at ‘Boffin’.

 

“Can you show us the fastest way to the communications hub? On the way, can you tell us anything you know about what we are facing here?”

 

 

[A.T.]

Xerxes

 

Sealing the door seemed of little benefit given the vents present here, a curious oversight in the bunkers defenses. Likely whatever creature lurked within could outpace them but its avenues of attack were limited.

 

(overwatch)

[Mazer Rackham]

The Comms Blister:

 

'I don't know what they are, or if they have a name. I know they weren't here from the beginning - they came here.' Seryna shudders. 'All happened before my time, I've only been here six months.' There is disbelief in her reflection, although whether she surprised at the time elapsed, or her survival longevity in the circumstances, is unknown. 'Some of 'em are near Human, others got three or four arms, mutations you wouldn't believe. Then there are the real monsters. Claws and piss-yellow eyes full of hate.

 

She fades off, staring into an interminable distance.

 

Suddenly, she shrugs, and Seryna holds up her canteen to Ukalegon, miming opening it. 'If you wouldn't mind, lord?'

 

FIshing in her webbing pouches - a mishmash of plasfibre and leather pouches - she pulls a pill bottle, and pops the top. To Hagga's bare nostrils, the stink of a powerful stimulant cocktail wafts up. Recaf, analgesics, and dextrose, mixed with something you're not familiar with, but it stings vaguely of some narcotic. Seryna revives as she crunches them up and swallows them, reaching for her canteen. The Lamenter's monstrous hands make it look like a scent bottle in his palm, as opposed to a litre.

 

'I tell you, I worked with Stunties, Ratties and Oggies. I've seen Greenskins and Renegade filth, none of 'em looked like that.' She breaks off to point at the dead scum. 'The fastest way to the command centre is via the Duodenum. It's a network of tunnels which connect to bigger tunnels that make up a waste and cargo transfer system.'

 

She wags a finger. 'I've been in there once, and Emperor's boiled numb arsecheeks, I didn't like it. Low gravity, cargo crates coming past like bloody lasbolts off the grav-cats, freezing bloody cold.'

 

Her stare is almost vacant when it meets Hagga's.

 

'But it's the quickest.'

 

She stands, ransacks the dead for weapons and ammo, anything of value. Finding a grenade, Seryna straps it to her webbing yoke in a very dangerous arrangement against her left side, but it is exceptionally inexpedient for deploying. With a sneer, she rips the pin out and drops it on the floor, the bomb shockingly only restrained by adhesive tape. 'Shall we go?'

 

Krokodil 4-2:

 

A half-cover plate pops as a conduit bursts, likely overloaded or damaged by the earlier grenades.

 

 

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham
Removed Test for Mortals. No need.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

As the woman talked, Hagga frowned.

 

“Very well. But first, my brother here needs a working microbead. If we have to pass through any more areas without atmo, it would be helpful if we can all still communicate.”

 

He started looking over the gear left in the control room, talking to the other Astartes as he did.

 

“My old Sergeant, Kutha… he died the first time we went to Khymara… but not long before Badab started, he had just returned from a tour with the Deathwatch. He wasn't supposed to, but he told us about some of the things he'd seen.”

 

Hagga paused, looked back at Seryna for confirmation before continuing.

 

“Four-armed bds, right? Yellow eyes, purple skin? If I'm remembering the details right, I think this is a Genestealer infestation. A big one too, maybe, if the mortal is right and there are more than one of the pure xenos. Have either of you faced them before? By Kutha's account, they're bloody fast, bloody cunning, and those claws will shuck you out of Tactical Dreadnought plate like a damn oyster. This job is bigger than Iorek or Huron realised.”

 

 

Edited February 5 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon grunted in amusement at the female human, her resourcefulness and her moxie. He couldn't help but respect her tenacity in such hellish conditions. Truly this is what made humanity the greatest species amongst all those found within the galaxy.

 

Relinquishing Seryna’s canteen, the ex-Lanenter stalked over to the corpse of one of the xenotic hybrids and squatted over it on his haunches. Doffing his helm, Ukalegon produced a rag typically used for weapon maintenance from a belt pouch and used it to wipe the dried blood from his handsome, albeit scarred, face and scalp, and gingerly felt around for the source of his discomfort. Near the crown of his thick skull, amongst the blood-matted hair of his sandy mohican, he found what had likely been the point of impact between the steel girder, his helm and his head, and what had been a brutal rent in his scalp that had already scabbed over and closed, and was in the process of healing. He was sure his skull had been fractured, but knew the bone would knit and fuse soon enough, particularly after another visit to the apothecarion. 

 

He grimaced at the thought of submitting to Iscario’s tender mercies again.

 

Drawing his knife, he turned to Hagga and intoned, “Let us learn something of these disgusting wretches before we exterminate them wholesale, hm?" 

 

Grasping the deceased hybrid by the throat, he looked into its foul, rheumy eyes, and lopped off the top of its brain case with a mighty stroke of his blade. Using its tip, he scooped out a small portion of slimy gray matter.

 

“Ugh, they smell even worse on the inside!"

 

His nostrils flared, and mouth twisted in a rictus of disgust, Ukalegon served himself a bite-sized morsel from the tip of his knife, chewed and swallowed, flicking the rest away across the chamber. His revolting meal choked down, he spat a gobbet of acid in the hopes of cleansing his palate, and watched as it sizzled upon the bunker floor, awaiting the unnatural flood of harvested memories.

 

He offered his companions a wan smile. “This should not take long. Put me out of my misery if it goes poorly, will you Hagga?"

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

“The Dod’zhen. I have seen records of encounters with these creatures and their degenerate ilk during during biarding actions on ‘ hulks coming from the Maelstrom.”

 

The Sorcerer nodded towards Hagga, but kept an eye on the human female as he talked. The Gene-Thieves were a Xenos infestations of the worst kind, spreading their deviancy timorously into anything it could reach… 

The female’s intentions seemed true enough,  but she might not even be aware that the Xenos filth what it’s clutches already in her.

 

He shook his helmeted head at the flask the woman was holding up.  It would take time and effort to wade into a mind derailed by an apparently extensive use of stimms, analgesics and Throne knew what … and to discern those nfluences from a possible Xenos influence hidden beneath that…

 

Cyrandras doubted they would be able to spare the time.

 

“Nasty beasts. There should be much more glory to be had in this place than our Jarl Redfang might have wished for! “

 

Rakash laughed humourlessly.

 

“Looks like we are once more going to do  all the hard work the vaunted Imperium failed to do, Brothers …”

 

He continued, seizing upon  the opportunity to work on a bit of brotherly cohesion in their current situation as he became aware of what the Lamenter was attempting to do…

 

Cyrandras rolled his eyes. 

“Now here is an Angel who definitively dares not fear to thread… , he thought. 

 

“You might want to be careful with that, Brother. There are scripts claiming the Gene-Thieves share minds as well as their Xenos heritage. If you go this way, there is no telling what you’ll find.”

 

He drew the plasma pistol from his waist, thumping the cycler. The weapon started humming.

 

“Or what wil come back….”

 

 

Edited February 5 by Xin Ceithan
Placeholder filled, some typos

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: I've removed the WP test for the Mortals, as I re-read and decided it wasn't needed.

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

For the benefit of Tarh, Kraggan recounted the details from the Logs that he had recovered. 

 

He really wished for a brace of Heavy Bolter armed Combat Servitors at his command. 

 

 

 

 

[Machine God]

9 minutes ago, Mazer Rackham said:

GM OOC: I've removed the WP test for the Mortals, as I re-read and decided it was uneeded.

 

 

 

 

 

@Mazer Rackham - Definitely unneeded for Kraggan as he only has his Axe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 5 by Machine God
Spoiler as in IC.

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil 4-1:

 

Rummaging in the lugholes of the deceased, Hagga finds sufficient comm-beads for the team. Seryna ignores your pilfering, instead checking her newly acquired lasgun, which she immediately, and dangerously, overclocks with a bypass to the variable setting. She strips the weapon expertly, then removes a few of the circuits which form the beam energy regulator, before inverting them, and recombobulating the weapon housings.

 

She presses her fingers to her lips, kisses them, then strokes the forearm of the rifle.

 

'I miss you,' she says, quietly.

 

Then she pulls on her void-helm. +Vox-check, check, over.+

 

Ukalegon:

 

GM: *Cracks knuckles* There's always one brain-gobbler, isn't there? A Hard (-20) Willpower Test please, my lad.

 

Krokodil 4-2:

 

There is more stealthy shuffling as the details of the files are recounted. It sounds closer. A slow hiss-wheeze, menacing. It seeps into the room, along with the fug from outside. The heavy gases piling up around your ankles as it swirls into the comms bunker. The lights flicker.

 

Bump-bump.

 

A duct expands above Kraggan's head, the metal bending out of shape before snapping back.

 

Closer.

 

An extending, long-lasting groan of metal under strain sounds under Tarh's feet.

 

Scratching. The hum of air vents completely dies.

 

Mechanical silence occurs, but for the odd sensation of the asteroid 'settling' around you, a strange pseudo-amniotic enclosure. The cogitators continue to flicker with thier amber and emerald runes, painting odd shapes across the walls, the beams slicing through halon fog.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon looked over his shoulder at the sorcerer while pressing a vox-bead into his ear and shrugged, "We are all fallen, Cyrandras. There is no coming back. Better to learn something of their strengths than to continue to fumble about in the darkness of blessed ignorance."

 

 

 

Wp Test: WP46 - 20 (Hard) = 26

D100: 17; 1 DoS

Edited February 6 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

Ukalegon:

 

Your body, at least is grateful for the horrendous, yet prodigiously nutritious meal. It begins the process by splitting off all the amino-acids, proteins, carbohydrates and even the sticky residue of brain glue found in the human cranium. All this is perfectly normal. You even feel the spur of revitalisation as your body greedily accepts the offering provided by your callous barbarism.

 

Indeed, should a normal human, or even one of the despised Inquisition have borne witness to your xenohybrid-cannibalism, they would have voided their innards in brutal sympathy for your...'elevenses'.

 

It is a subtler thing that comes like an aftertaste, an afterthought. Something foreign to the ken of man lingers, a...soupçon in the juicy jus.

 

This is not as delectable to your palette.

 

Fear, first. Discovery, purgation, privation. The fire and the steel, doors hewn in twain by light, huge metal men churning though deep, dark tunnels. Men. Not-Our-Flesh. They wear silver and black, they carry death and defeat. They carry severance from the brood.

 

Quickly, run, run! Hide! Survive!

 

Sleep. Survive. Sleep.

 

Awaken in metal crib.

 

A deep, yawning hunger fills your mind and body, yearning to devour you in turn. It is, oddly warm, welcoming, the notice of a drooling mouth appreciating a meal, a gourmand lusting after that which never fills. It stirs your need and awakens your own, terrible thirst. Trapped in the dream-scape of these revelations, you sense a growing closeness of family at table, the lights of candles and the moans of those starving for attention, for direction. Lambs. Lambs for slaughter.

 

Violence to escape, watch. Yet, love. Yes, they accept the kiss. They hide, become one.

 

And yet, this is but the starter. Behind it, the chilling main course, a bitter dish of hatred and infathomable wrongness wars with something else. A ship, a bridge, an Angel-Martyr's call. The screaming of innocents as the brood gathers strength, a hulking brute in the darkness. The depths, entombed in a shell of rock and bone. It comes closer, looking.

 

Looking.

 

Looking at you with suddenly frightened eyes. Human eyes.

 

And that's when you release Seryna's neck from your grasping hands, fighting off the terrible thirst. You can smell your own saliva on her exposed neck. Her suit has been ripped open, by your hand.

 

'GET OFF ME!' she screams it, a harrowed throat in a desperate plea. 'DON'T TOUCH ME!'

 

Her hand goes for the grenade.

 

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham
A boom, boom, boom. Gonna shoot you right down...knock you off your feet, a-boom, boom, boom...

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon shook his head in an attempt to clear the awful, hellish visions from his mind. And the hunger. Such a depthless, boundless, all-encompassing need to consume. As he came back to reality and released the shrieking woman from his grasp, he noticed her hand reaching for the incendiary attached to her belt webbing and he snatched her wrist.

 

"I am myself! I am myself! Forgive me, Seryna. Forgive me, the – the hunger, the hunger… you do not understand. Do not do something you will regret. I mean you no harm.”

 

He knelt before her and gently pushed her hand away from the grenade. "We Astartes can devour the flesh of our enemies to see their memories, to learn about them while on the hunt. I did not expect such a strong response.”

 

He rose and turned back to Hagga and Cyrandras. “I have put many xenos to the sword, but these are unlike anything I have encountered before. The asteroid must be fairly riddled with them and their hybrid spawn. I… believe they have encountered our kind before. Perhaps the Deathwatch as you said, Hagga? There is one larger than the rest, their chief? No, they are more like insects or rats." 

 

He spat again, disgusted by the alien memories.

 

“If we are to succeed they must be utterly eradicated. No survivors. That or we abandon the venture and obliterate this rock from the safety of the Wolf, but I think we all know what Lord Huron will demand…" 

 

He spared the frightened woman another remorseful glance, shook his head to himself and donned his black Corvus-pattern helm once more, content to remain in silence for a time. 

[Mazer Rackham]

Ukalegon:

 

Even as you speak, she recoils from you, scrabling under the console in some primeval instinct to hide, to shrink even from your shadow.

 

'Don't touch me...don't touch me...don't touch me...don't touch me...don't touch me...'

 

She whispers it with each, heated breath. Her mind has fled elsewhere, her eyes crazed, staring. The combination of her motley draught and your...unintended grapple have shaken her beyond endurance. She menaces all three Space Marines with her gun, stock tucked under her armpit, free hand close to the bomb, but not quite on it. She pays absolutely no mind to your conclusions or conversation.

 

She is seeing something that isn't...quite...there.

 

Now her suit is torn open, you can see the base of her pale, pretty neck. There is a strange wound there, healed over.

 

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The Executioner grimaced at the mortal’s fragility, and at the Lamenter's sudden bloodthirst. He waved the other Astartes back from the console where she had taken shelter, and moved backwards several metres himself too. Give her room. At the same time he knelt. The grenade at her belt should have had him putting his helm back on immediately, but he wanted to look her in the eye. He spoke softly, slowly, a deep, reassuring rumble.

 

“Peace, woman, peace. You are strong enough to survive a little rough handling. You have survived much worse in this place, and come through it whole. We will leave you here, if you do not wish to come with us. Lock down the portals until we have dealt with these xenos. You will be safe enough, and you will never have to see them ever again, I swear it by the Darkenvault itself. Just tell us which way to go to find this Duodenum, and then you can rest.”

Charm Test: Fel45 +? (No Helm?) = ??, Roll: 49
OOC: Ugh, that's in the GM's hands then. I thought there might be a Fel bonus for no hat, but I'll be blowed if I can find it now…

Even as he spoke, Hagga spotted the old wound at her throat, and froze. Kutha had said something about the way the ‘stealers infected their victims. Could this be that? Were they being played? He readied himself to leap aside - or shoot her in the head - at the slightest hint that she was reaching towards the grenade.

 

Edited February 5 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Xerxes

 

"Observe the picters or exit the comms bunker, reinforcements will be on their way if we do nothing but wait." Keeping his aim on the ducts Xerxes glances around at the scattered remnants of the first assault team for unused frag grenades and other weaponry.

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: The +5 Fel for No Hat is in DW. Don't think it's in BC

 

Hagga:

 

Her breathing begins to slow, staving off the threat of hyperventilation. She makes no sudden moves - in fact, if nothing else she seems paralysed, her muscles tensed to breaking. Seryna's face is a picture of rictus terror.

 

GM: Now you are closer, you can make out the wound a little better. Make an Easy (+20) Intelligence Test.

 

Xerxes:

 

You can discern nought from the picters - everything is on the fritz, however, luck is not totally against you. One of the Mortals was carrying an Autopistol which is still in reasonble function, with half a magazine (judging by the weight) and an undamaged Frag Grenade.

 

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Int: 32 +20 = 52, Roll: 38, 2DoS

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

You notice that the wound on her neck does not resemble the wound on the neck of the xeno-filth Ukalegon had for brunch. It is oddly shaped, distended at an oblique angle. Quickly looking at another corpse, torn open by the flak shells, that wound matches the brainless male. Hers is different - and smaller - as though...incomplete.

 

Edited February 5 by Mazer Rackham
Good grief, my spelling is getting worse.

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

The Lamenter  had regained a grip on himself just in time enough to save Cyrandras from the dilemma of deciding if and whom to knock out or shoot at point blank range…

 

He’d just fallen back a bit to guve both parties a chance to recover ( and  maybe put the Lamenter between him and the woman’s  collection of overclocked las weapon and incinerators as much as possible… ), when the mortal began quivering and exposed the blemish on her flesh.

 

Taking another step back, Rakash raised the plasma pistol again, levelling it straight at the mortal.

 

“I’ll give you one chance to explain what happened to you , woman, and earn the privilege to avenge yourself at the side of the Red Corsairs. “, the  growl came  from his vox grill. 

 

Int: 48 +20 = 68, Roll: 37, 3 DoS ?