The Viatorem is almost quiet with its hold largely empty, the rioting and moans of the diseased outside deafened by the thick hull. With Maria piloting the Viatorem and Liandra scanning for threats from the pintle mount, only Sisters Ilana and Anna are left in the back. The red haired and freckled woman shifts awkwardly in her seat, occasionally muttering calming psalms to her boltgun. "So...Ilana right? We really haven't really talked much, have we? Discounting the holy 'almost eating an RPG to the face' thing."
"Anna Sudlend Rekanov at your service." She says with a soft bow of her head.
Ilana applied the last smear of sacred unguent to the firing chamber of her holy bolter, smothering the last traces of mutant poison from its noble form as she ratcheted its bolt with a reverent hum. She did not have the affinity with the machine spirits in the same way the machine-adepts of the Mechanicus had, but she could appreciate the service of her holy wargear all the same. She looked up as she heard someone call to her, setting her bolter away in a mag-holster.
"Ilana Varkhat Laetifica, an honor Sister Anna." Ilana paused. "I never did thank you for the assistance you'd rendered in that last skirmish have I? Thank you, your assistance was timely, though I wish you hadn't needed to nearly go through the new and exciting experience of receiving a krak to to the face for a witch of all things." The writhing bodies of the possessed civilians flashed through Ilana's mind, and she quickly shook her head to head off the malaise that threatened to acompany it. "One can only hope that the interrogators are going to produce something useful out of him. But enough of that, House Rekanov was it? An honoured house, though I'll admit I didn't expect to meet one of its scions among our ranks. I anticipate serving alongside you regardless."
"Sounds like he's in trouble. We ought to hurry." Anna comments, stepping forward but Liandra shakes her head.
"You remain with the Viatorem, Anna. Guard it with your life." Liandra orders. Sister Anna hesitates, but nods her head and moves to take up a defensive position. "Sister Maria, Illana. I want to see you in action. Do check your fire as we go in. I would rather not explain why Witch-Hunter exploded. Be ready-I doubt they didn't notice the boltguns outside." Harsh chanting and bellowing ring out as Liandra takes up position by a side door. "Ready?"
Ilana nodded as she leaned against the hard rockcrete, tightening and loosening her grip on her bolter, the anticipation of oncoming battle coursing through her veins. She exhaled. Focus. The crack of autofire and the searing shrieks of lasfire abounded from within. At one point she though she heard a chainweapon of some sort. Be certain to check my targets.
She nodded at Maria's prompted, echoing her words. "Ilana in position, on your word Sister."
Ilana applied the last smear of sacred unguent to the firing chamber of her holy bolter, smothering the last traces of mutant poison from its noble form as she ratcheted its bolt with a reverent hum. She did not have the affinity with the machine spirits in the same way the machine-adepts of the Mechanicus had, but she could appreciate the service of her holy wargear all the same. She looked up as she heard someone call to her, setting her bolter away in a mag-holster.
"Ilana Varkhat Laetifica, an honor Sister Anna." Ilana paused. "I never did thank you for the assistance you'd rendered in that last skirmish have I? Thank you, your assistance was timely, though I wish you hadn't needed to nearly go through the new and exciting experience of receiving a krak to to the face for a witch of all things." The writhing bodies of the possessed civilians flashed through Ilana's mind, and she quickly shook her head to head off the malaise that threatened to acompany it. "One can only hope that the interrogators are going to produce something useful out of him. But enough of that, House Rekanov was it? An honoured house, though I'll admit I didn't expect to meet one of its scions among our ranks. I anticipate serving alongside you regardless."
"If you say it was a krak rocket, we'll say it was a krak rocket. Makes for a finer story!" Anna replies, smiling. "Was bloody exciting, krak or not. Would've been horribly embarrassing dying like that for some witch." She shakes her head.
She furrows her brow at your comment. "And why not? House Rekanov isn't exactly orphan free, Sister Ilana." She purses her lips. "Oh. What, our connections to the Mechanicus?" She rolls her eyes, faintly amused. "That hardly means we're all tech-priests, Sister. My mother was a big lover of the Machine-Cult I suppose, but father apparently sponsored Cathedrals and was a patron of an Ecclesiarchal palace at some cluster of dreg worlds in the Red Star: The Abattoir I think? My main tutor was a nun, as I recall."
"It was a long time ago, anyway. I spent most of my life under the eyes of the Drill Abbots. Their teachings proved inspirational, let's say."
Ilana nodded as she leaned against the hard rockcrete, tightening and loosening her grip on her bolter, the anticipation of oncoming battle coursing through her veins. She exhaled. Focus. The crack of autofire and the searing shrieks of lasfire abounded from within. At one point she though she heard a chainweapon of some sort. Be certain to check my targets.
She nodded at Maria's prompted, echoing her words. "Ilana in position, on your word Sister."
"As you command Sister Liandra. I will look forward to the sweet chorus of the stombolter in our ears." She took a clanking step forward and leveled her heavy bolter at the door. It was better if she was the first thing the heretics saw, and that she had the time and presence of mind to confirm her targets. A part of her whispered to change to the bolt pistol, but that was a coward voice, a voice still grieving with that father for his Dominica. Short, controlled bursts would see her through.
"We breach on your word."
Semi auto, careful target selection, and make sure to keep up contact with the witch-hunters so we minimize the risk of friendly fire.
Liandra nods, clicking off the safety on her Stormbolter. "Going right." She hisses. "Breach!" She bellows, slamming her boot into the door with all the strength her servo-muscles grant her.
The flakboard door flies off its hinges, crashing to the ground. Almost immediately the squad is greeted by a veritable hail of gunfire. Shards of rockcrete explode from all around as high caliber rounds tear into the wall, sprinkling them with dust and chunks of rock, a pair of lasrounds slicing through the smoke and noise to punch molten holes in the walls. A grenade follows a moment later, bouncing off the wall Despite the storm of lead, only a handful of rounds strikes the Sisters, multiple bullets sparking off the squad's crimson armor. Sister Illana alone stumbles, a heavy round flattening against the armourglass of her visor and leaving distortion trailing across her vision for a moment, even as the Predator Spirit fires angry red icons toward the shooter cowering around a corner leading into some large hall, servo muscles twitching the boltgun ever so slightly in his direction.
"It's the Sisters of Battle! We're all dead men!"
Through the haze of fire the Sisters barely have time to reflect on what they see. Fine tilework, cracked by age and splintered by bullet holes. Blood sweeping the rockcrete walls. Arms stretching out through cages to your side, flesh blackened and pulling off the bone, mewling cries indecipherable under the noise. Pillars through a door to the left, revealing a great hall. A heavy stubber behind an improvised barricade ahead, howling hate. By a doorway leading further into the building you see, you see a man in purity seal lined fatigues slumped against the wall, his ruined rifle lying in a mangled heap several feet away. His flak vest split open and intestines threatening to spill out onto the floor. He reaches a hand out to you, as the hulking figure towering over him yanks her blood covered chainaxe free of his belly. She turns, revealing chem-bulked muscle lined with injector tubes.
"Fething kill!" She roars, launching herself forward with a laugh, bloodstained chainaxe howling.
Sister Liandra is the first to fire, her stombolter tearing apart a pair of cultists standing next to the cages, splattering their organs and blood against the walls and sending the caged schechin victims leaping back. The chainaxe wielding warrior closes the distance in a second, a great sweep of her axe barely ducked by Sister Illana. The blade chews a chunk out of the floor, spitting out bits of tile. She turns, laughing. "Beckon the Fall, welcome old night, the shadow comth and the crownless kin-"
A burst of boltgun rounds from Illana's rifle turns the woman's groin and thighs into red mist, a 3rd round disintegrating the entire left side of her torso and tearing away the left arm. The woman falls, her remaining limb twitching wildly at you as the drug injectors istab more chems into her dying body again and again.
"Throne of Earth! They took out Selvera!" A heretic bellows, his choice of swear almost making Maria hesitate. Almost. A burst of rounds turns the walls behind him to shrapnel and severs his leg at the knee. He desperately claws at the walls before bloodloss claims him.
"That is the fate of all who are impious!" A heretic bellows. "Fire! Fire! The gods will grant us our victory! The gods will see Dreverarch saved!"
From deeper within the building you hear fighting. The rumble of stub guns, the crack of lasweapons, the clash of blades. Over the vox you hear the witch hunter's bellows. "Repent! Repent! Repent! Receive the judgement of the Emperor!"
Blasphemy and more, everything despicable about their enemy made physical and collapsed into that one scene. She could feel Storm's pistons hammer harder than ever as she walked forward among the Palais and Derosa's retinue, targetting runes painting all she could see until her vision was a sea of red.
Then Derosa alerted them to the sacrifices and many of the red runes fritz away, turning green. With a flick of her wrist, she frees her shotgun from its lock as her boots crunch on the ground. She was one among many of her sisters and if they were to do what she thinks they will, then the crowd will melt under their combined wrath.
"The fools will die in droves," she comments as the false preacher stirs her flock into a frenzy. "Such a flagrant waste of their lives."
At Palais' command, her armour leapt into action, the Storm's stored rage powering the charge. Closer, closer. She raised her shotgun, not even needing to aim for the mass of bodies, and her shots mingled with the boom of weaponry around her.
(OOC: Full Move forward and Full Auto Burst with shotgun. Flechette Shells. +2 Penetration. +1 Damage cause no armour. Reliable. Scatter. Splintering. 22 rounds.
BS 40 + 20 Full Auto Burst + 10 Free Action Aim + 10 Accurate + 10 Close Range + 10 Scatter - 30 Full Move = TN 70.
If Point Blank instead: +30 Point Blank -10 Close Range - 10 Scatter = TN 80. Proven (4))
For several moments, Pia Rosaria says nothing. She cannot, for bile chokes her throat. If her instructors in the Schola could see her, they might think her afraid at this desecration of all proper Imperial values. Thy might think her weak, choking on bitter acid surging from her stomach.
They would be partially right. It is a struggle to banish the black bile souring her mouth, and she recites the sixth verse of the Litany of Detestation.
But it is not fear that makes her choke on bile, it is not dread and it isn't cowardice.
No, what makes her hands shake and then tighten on the grips of her Flamer, what makes her eyes wide and bloodshot and what chokes language from her is one of the Imperium's most sacred emotions: Hate.
It grips her by every fiber of her being, refines her spirit in the vitriolic bitterness of that hate. She bathes in the feeling, lets it scourge away weakness like pity or empathy.
She moves in an instant next to Sister Caelia and a half-step behind their Sister-Superior, every footfall like thunder and the hungering heat of her flamer rising.
Run and Gun towards the horde. Unload the flamer into them, then repeat until I run out of ammo or they run out of heretics
This however, she notices. "They blaspheme! Araxes is the Emperor's first, and his chosen stewards to rule!" Caelia shouts, shoving forward. "We must destroy them!" She rages, feet making dents in the rockcrete.
"Watch you fire, sisters. Our own presence should be distraction enough I think." Caelia mutters, considering and observing the relevant heretics, calming her burning rage into a simmering boil better suited for battle. She was already prowling forward as she said it, the Slayer of Ten Thousand appearing in her gauntleted fist. She pounds forward, uncaring for cover or concealment. "Engaging close in, Sister Superior and supporting Eriko." She voices, then raises her weapon to fire. She doesn't even bother aiming, no truly-simply lining up the crowd and holding down the trigger as she sprints forward. She howls, even over the thunder of the bolter...
"We bring Leanna's Mercy!"
OOC:Full move imto close contact with the main body-focus on full auto full move and shoot actions. If particuarly choice or vital targets present themselves, aim plus semi auto to pick them off. Once within range, begin chucking frag grenades
Sister-Superior Derosa raises her voice to the heavens, an adamantium lined tome of the Chronicles of Leanna in hand. Her voice, calm but radiant, rings over the vox. "The foe comes forth in great number, but remember, my Sisters: How for thirteen days and thirteen nights, Blessed Leanna and a thousand of her Sisters held back the Nightmare Host in all their endless millions. Do not forget that for each Sister that gave her life, ten thousand foemen perished. I do not count such numbers today! Destroy them, in the name of blessed Leanna and the Immortal God-Emperor! Destroy them in the name of the Order of the Burning Rose!"
"We bring Leanna's Mercy!" The Battle-Sisters cry as one, leaping forward into battle.
The PDF are not far behind. With a blare of the lieutenant's trumpet and a waving of the platoon standard, they advance, leveling bayonets and priming lasguns.
"Men of Dreverarch! Form ranks! Prepare to repel!" The officer bellows as the Dreverarch troops fall into an unbroken line two deep, a single squad moving into a nearby building to take up an overwatch position.
Sisters Eriko and Pia are the first to wreak havoc upon the foe. They storm ahead into a hail of gunfire, leveling their assault weapons heedless of the rounds that bounce off them. A plume of holy promethium washes over the front ranks of the raving cultists, turning those directly struck into ash and blackened bone in an instant, those less fortunate turned into blazing pillars of flame for the short moments they live. A hail of shotgun fire follows suit, airburst flechettes shredding through more than a half dozen heretics and sending their bodies toppling to the ground.
Explosives and gunfire rain down upon the Battle-Sisters, some stray shots and shrapnel slicing into the PDF troops, but both the Daughters of the Emperor and His Hammer shrug off the scattered fire. The swarms of heretics pour forth, baying like madmen. The Adepta Sororitas let loose. A storm of bolter fire reduces men in their dozens to indeterminate piles of meat and gore, body after body exploding apart as the rounds land home. The Ex Cathedra's Heavy bolters alone rip through an entire score of the foe, blowing their dismembered corpses across their fellows. A frag grenade thrown by Sister Caelia punches a hole still deeper into the horde, turning several heretics into mincemeat and sending many more staggering to the ground clutching at hideous shrapnel wounds. Yet the heretics keep rushing onward, clawing their way over the piles of dead gangers and civilians, clambering over the broken vehicles. Fear is wide in their eyes, and here and there they hesitate, only to be pushed forward by their comrades or the bellowing chem-glanded freaks striding behind them.
They swarm about Sister Pia and Eriko, two faster than the rest nearly reaching Eriko before a burst of flame from Palais' handflamer immolates them.
"Drive them back!" Palais bellows, brandishing her chainsword. "The Emperor protects!"
"Onward! Onward! Do you not feel the eyes of the gods upon you?" The priestess laughs. Behind her, plumes of fire rise up from the fountain, masked cultist emptying his flamer tank into the pools of promethium and blackwater that sit atop the fountain. Fires lick up the desecrated saint's sides, smoke the color of dusk's light rising from the flames. Above, the storm begins to rage, thunder echoing in the distance, forks of lightning slicing across the blackened heavens. "Old Shadow Cometh! You must merely embrace it! The gods demand blood!"
Sisters Eriko and Pia are the first to wreak havoc upon the foe. They storm ahead into a hail of gunfire, leveling their assault weapons heedless of the rounds that bounce off them. A plume of holy promethium washes over the front ranks of the raving cultists, turning those directly struck into ash and blackened bone in an instant, those less fortunate turned into blazing pillars of flame for the short moments they live. A hail of shotgun fire follows suit, airburst flechettes shredding through more than a half dozen heretics and sending their bodies toppling to the ground.
Explosives and gunfire rain down upon the Battle-Sisters, some stray shots and shrapnel slicing into the PDF troops, but both the Daughters of the Emperor and His Hammer shrug off the scattered fire. The swarms of heretics pour forth, baying like madmen. The Adepta Sororitas let loose. A storm of bolter fire reduces men in their dozens to indeterminate piles of meat and gore, body after body exploding apart as the rounds land home. The Ex Cathedra's Heavy bolters alone rip through an entire score of the foe, blowing their dismembered corpses across their fellows. A frag grenade thrown by Sister Caelia punches a hole still deeper into the horde, turning several heretics into mincemeat and sending many more staggering to the ground clutching at hideous shrapnel wounds. Yet the heretics keep rushing onward, clawing their way over the piles of dead gangers and civilians, clambering over the broken vehicles. Fear is wide in their eyes, and here and there they hesitate, only to be pushed forward by their comrades or the bellowing chem-glanded freaks striding behind them.
They swarm about Sister Pia and Eriko, two faster than the rest nearly reaching Eriko before a burst of flame from Palais' handflamer immolates them.
"Drive them back!" Palais bellows, brandishing her chainsword. "The Emperor protects!"
"Onward! Onward! Do you not feel the eyes of the gods upon you?" The priestess laughs. Behind her, plumes of fire rise up from the fountain, masked cultist emptying his flamer tank into the pools of promethium and blackwater that sit atop the fountain. Fires lick up the desecrated saint's sides, smoke the color of dusk's light rising from the flames. Above, the storm begins to rage, thunder echoing in the distance, forks of lightning slicing across the blackened heavens. "Old Shadow Cometh! You must merely embrace it! The gods demand blood!"
She was like earth, that solid rock that stood resolute amid the enemy's teeth and as they swarmed around her and her Sister, she repeated that mantra through her head. There were too many. Space too cramped. She could bring her shotgun to bear or slash with her chainsword but two more heretics would replace the last one before she could fight her way free.
So she was earth and she heaved against the heretics flailing against her and Pia, creating the space needed to unsheathe her sword. They hesitated as she gripped it firmly in both hands and shifted her feet into a solid stance.
"Sister Pia," she spoke calmly in their vox. "To me and brace yourself for the next charge."
Sure enough the heretics came in their numbers, emboldened and pushed from those behind them, but she stared them down with the teeth of her chainsword, carving those who came within range. They fed their own into the grinder, a grinder who did not care one whit for them, who did not feel the adrenaline of fighting for her life for she knew she would continue to prevail until her allies come with their bayonets and lasguns braying for blood.
But when she saw the Saint Jana's statue go up in flame, she felt a growl emanate from the back of her throat.
In the ever assailed region of Vera Fortis, every soldier knew the worth of the humble supply train. It fed the armies to defend the Imperium's worlds, brought vast stocks ammunition to destroy its enemies, and relieved the embattled front through reinforcements of fighting men. Saint Jara Volgis represented all this to the men and women of Vera Fortis and all the worlds in it for they all knew their part in the humble supply train.
Eyes narrowed, she spoke to Pia between thrusts of her sword. "The Saint, her statue. We must reach it before they have the chance to desecrate it further. These heretics have no sense of decency, not even in battle."
She remembers Saint Jana's giant statue greeting the travelling armies in the gates of the port city of Saiganka. They rested and restocked before they went their way to the next front, always fighting, but supplied. It had greeted her as well, the few times in her life she had returned to her homeworld.
It was a comfort, the studious features of the Saint, and to see it run cherry red under promethium set by heretics did little to warm her heart. Instead, it was like ice by the time her allies had reached her.
"Araxes belongs to the Emperor!" Caelia shouts, hand coming down to pull and throw another frag grenade from her armor. Treason could not be allowed, there could be no quarter. To see them slain now was a mercy anyway, that the scum did not deserve-but she would deliver anyway.
Liandra nods, clicking off the safety on her Stormbolter. "Going right." She hisses. "Breach!" She bellows, slamming her boot into the door with all the strength her servo-muscles grant her.
The flakboard door flies off its hinges, crashing to the ground. Almost immediately the squad is greeted by a veritable hail of gunfire. Shards of rockcrete explode from all around as high caliber rounds tear into the wall, sprinkling them with dust and chunks of rock, a pair of lasrounds slicing through the smoke and noise to punch molten holes in the walls. A grenade follows a moment later, bouncing off the wall Despite the storm of lead, only a handful of rounds strikes the Sisters, multiple bullets sparking off the squad's crimson armor. Sister Illana alone stumbles, a heavy round flattening against the armourglass of her visor and leaving distortion trailing across her vision for a moment, even as the Predator Spirit fires angry red icons toward the shooter cowering around a corner leading into some large hall, servo muscles twitching the boltgun ever so slightly in his direction.
"It's the Sisters of Battle! We're all dead men!"
Through the haze of fire the Sisters barely have time to reflect on what they see. Fine tilework, cracked by age and splintered by bullet holes. Blood sweeping the rockcrete walls. Arms stretching out through cages to your side, flesh blackened and pulling off the bone, mewling cries indecipherable under the noise. Pillars through a door to the left, revealing a great hall. A heavy stubber behind an improvised barricade ahead, howling hate. By a doorway leading further into the building you see, you see a man in purity seal lined fatigues slumped against the wall, his ruined rifle lying in a mangled heap several feet away. His flak vest split open and intestines threatening to spill out onto the floor. He reaches a hand out to you, as the hulking figure towering over him yanks her blood covered chainaxe free of his belly. She turns, revealing chem-bulked muscle lined with injector tubes.
"Fething kill!" She roars, launching herself forward with a laugh, bloodstained chainaxe howling.
Sister Liandra is the first to fire, her stombolter tearing apart a pair of cultists standing next to the cages, splattering their organs and blood against the walls and sending the caged schechin victims leaping back. The chainaxe wielding warrior closes the distance in a second, a great sweep of her axe barely ducked by Sister Illana. The blade chews a chunk out of the floor, spitting out bits of tile. She turns, laughing. "Beckon the Fall, welcome old night, the shadow comth and the crownless kin-"
A burst of boltgun rounds from Illana's rifle turns the woman's groin and thighs into red mist, a 3rd round disintegrating the entire left side of her torso and tearing away the left arm. The woman falls, her remaining limb twitching wildly at you as the drug injectors istab more chems into her dying body again and again.
"Throne of Earth! They took out Selvera!" A heretic bellows, his choice of swear almost making Maria hesitate. Almost. A burst of rounds turns the walls behind him to shrapnel and severs his leg at the knee. He desperately claws at the walls before bloodloss claims him.
"That is the fate of all who are impious!" A heretic bellows. "Fire! Fire! The gods will grant us our victory! The gods will see Dreverarch saved!"
From deeper within the building you hear fighting. The rumble of stub guns, the crack of lasweapons, the clash of blades. Over the vox you hear the witch hunter's bellows. "Repent! Repent! Repent! Receive the judgement of the Emperor!"
Ilana's armoured greave lashed out as she ducked underneath the shrieking chainaxe, sweeping the overmuscled berserker to the ground. The heretic pawed out blindly as she fell, grasping Ilana's forearm in a last ditch attempt to make the Sister lose her balance, but Ilana simply let herself pulled along, and she could practically feel the Prosecutor spirit's glee as the bolter buried itself in the woman's groin before it spat out its angry payload. She kicked away the cultist's dying remains, a third round in the heretic's arm detonating at the corpse hit the floor.
A cacophony of gunfire rang around her as she got up, firelight lashing out in a myriad of shapes as rounds were exchanged before the two sides, gouging plaster and rockcrete out from the dilapidated walls. She looked between the crippled mercnary and then beyond, where she could hear more distant gunfire. She grunted as another brace of rounds sparked off her plate as she broke into a run, "Cover me while I secure the friendly Sisters!"
(OOC: Pull the merc's bacon out of that fire. Hopefully he's in good enough shape to tell us where his friends went.)
"Throne of Earth! They took out Selvera!" A heretic bellows, his choice of swear almost making Maria hesitate. Almost. A burst of rounds turns the walls behind him to shrapnel and severs his leg at the knee. He desperately claws at the walls before bloodloss claims him.
"That is the fate of all who are impious!" A heretic bellows. "Fire! Fire! The gods will grant us our victory! The gods will see Dreverarch saved!"
From deeper within the building you hear fighting. The rumble of stub guns, the crack of lasweapons, the clash of blades. Over the vox you hear the witch hunter's bellows. "Repent! Repent! Repent! Receive the judgement of the Emperor!"
Maria had to double-take at the cages. The sight of corrupted flesh surging toward her was yet so fresh, but these were pitiable creatures. Restrained, tormented, beneath her immediate concern.
With Ilana charging down her one-time field of fire, she swung the heavy bolter around to begin work on the foes coming in from their left. It was all too close and messy truth be told, but she believed in Liandra, her sister, His providence.
"Covering our flank sisters. Witch-Hunter Zayneth, we have met the foe and they shall be swept aside. Do you hear the fire?"
Ilana's armoured greave lashed out as she ducked underneath the shrieking chainaxe, sweeping the overmuscled berserker to the ground. The heretic pawed out blindly as she fell, grasping Ilana's forearm in a last ditch attempt to make the Sister lose her balance, but Ilana simply let herself pulled along, and she could practically feel the Prosecutor spirit's glee as the bolter buried itself in the woman's groin before it spat out its angry payload. She kicked away the cultist's dying remains, a third round in the heretic's arm detonating at the corpse hit the floor.
A cacophony of gunfire rang around her as she got up, firelight lashing out in a myriad of shapes as rounds were exchanged before the two sides, gouging plaster and rockcrete out from the dilapidated walls. She looked between the crippled mercnary and then beyond, where she could hear more distant gunfire. She grunted as another brace of rounds sparked off her plate as she broke into a run, "Cover me while I secure the friendly Sisters!"
(OOC: Pull the merc's bacon out of that fire. Hopefully he's in good enough shape to tell us where his friends went.)
Maria had to double-take at the cages. The sight of corrupted flesh surging toward her was yet so fresh, but these were pitiable creatures. Restrained, tormented, beneath her immediate concern.
With Ilana charging down her one-time field of fire, she swung the heavy bolter around to begin work on the foes coming in from their left. It was all too close and messy truth be told, but she believed in Liandra, her sister, His providence.
"Covering our flank sisters. Witch-Hunter Zayneth, we have met the foe and they shall be swept aside. Do you hear the fire?"
"I hear you! A moment!" The nasally voice of the Witch-Hunter hisses over your vox, almost drowned out by the howl of a chainsword, the clash of steel on steel and the booms and cracks of gunshots and las-discharges. "Begone, foul heretics! The Emperor demands it!"
The hideous shriek of agony echoes through your helmets, along with the familiar sound of a chainsword carving through meat and bone. "Justice finds thee! Sisters, I hear you coming! Emperor give you strength and speed! My servants have suffered heavy losses and their numbers are endless!"
Whatever next might have been said is drowned out by the detonation of a pipe bomb amidst your ranks, Sister Liandra narrowily kicking it aside before it tears through the Black Rot victims as well. The enemy pour on the fire, such a hail of rounds spattering off your plate that Sister Maria and Liandra are both forced back a step, Liandra raising a gauntlet to shield her visor from the hail of shells. Almost blindly she fires back at the enemy barricade as Illana charges forward through the hail. Rounds burst against the barricades, showering the gunner with shrapnel that forces him out of cover-straight into an errant round that severs his arm and takes off most of his skull. Another round catches his loader in the head, blood spurting high enough it strikes the ceiling.
Ilana, for her part, hears the click of a safety being thumbed off just as she passes what she took to be a broom closet. The room now, she sees, is soaked with blood and dead candles before a stone altar. Strange arcane sigils wrought in blood and paint sweep across the tiled floor, unlike those she had seen the cult use prior. More immediately however, is the heretic with a Kantrael pattern lasgun held in something resembling proper stance. She fires at the Sister, a burst of rounds set to maximal power striking along the right pauldron and upper breastplate, clearly targeting the joint of the arm pit. A second heretic ducks from behind the cover of the room, a spray of rounds spattering off Ilana's plate. She ignores the blows, bowling over a heretic who rushes out to try and stop her and crushing the man's rib cage with a backhand. She reaches down to the wounded mercenary. He looks up through tear filled eyes, the front of his shredded flak vest a river of blood. More rounds glance off her backpack and she turns, firing a round that severs a heretic in half at the waist before she returns to the mercenary.
"Caught me right in the belly with the chainblade..." The man breathes in agony, exposing gold teeth. "Can't move. Don't think I'm going to make it." He swallows. "They caught us just as we were leaving, dropped Jakob. Boss, I think I saw the boss go down the main hall, but me and Kaila ducked in here. I think she ran down the hall behind me." He winces. As Illana glances down the corridor, she sees a burst of rounds strike a cultist ducking in from the main hall, tearing away his shoulder and dropping him to the ground.
"Sister Ilana, the Witch-Hunter takes priority." Liandra says over the vox, firing a burst into the ritual room, slaying the lasgun armed heretic and sending the other scampering for cover. She stares for a moment, before returning to her duty.
Meanwhile, Maria covers the flank. She lays down a hail of heavy bolter fire into the flanking hallway, rending chunks out of the walls and pillar and tearing apart a pair of heretics cowering in the doorway, then catches the third with a heavy bolter round straight between the eyes as the woman runs up to join the fray. She sees more movement moving into positions to counter, however, including one of the chem-sculpted brutes, toting a heavy stubber. Shouting and jeers ring out, along with barked orders remaining of the heretic the squad heard speaking to the witch-hunter earlier. The heavy gunfire in the main hall continues, and you hear several cultists raise their voices in raucous celebration.
"Selverus preserve us! They come in such numbers! Sisters, hurry!" The Witch-Hunter calls out.
You hear a second voice ring out from nearby. "Shite, sir, Marian's down! Took a couple rounds and dropped, I don't know if they're still breathing! Danian's hit too! We're getting torn up out here!"
The Witch-Hunter curses. "Stand firm and strike hard! This is our moment! Make them pay for every drop of blood!"
Impact after impact hammers against her and Pia Rosaria exults in it as she runs forward. How could anyone who is not a Dominion understand it? Each impact marks another instance where He held His guarding hand over her through her armor, each step closer to the foe marks a moment where she can do His work. She loves this part of her duties more than any other, when the pitter-patter of foefire does nothing but make her muscles work harder, her heart beat faster, make her face ache from how wide and wild and joyful her smile is under her helmet.
Perhaps the Sister Superior would understand if she yet remembers the days of her youth. But talking to Sister Palais comes later. For now, with the teeming horde of heresy rushing in her direction, there's really only two things to do.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, ignore the futility of their gunfire, focus on the very real threat of some of them going for the knees, the hip joint, the elbows and the armpits.
Observe the horde of filth and heresy coming your way. Orient yourself to face them head-on like Viatorem's ramming plow. Decide how to smite the unbeliever.
Act on it.
With a soft ting she presses the activator-stud on one of her choke-gas grenades and drops it right at her feet.
"WEEP AND REPENT, TRAITOR SCUM!" Pia Rosaria bellows. She will probably have time to get her blade out.
And if not? Well, she'll still have a flamer, and they'll still be flammable. It'll work out, she's sure of it.
"Let them choke on His wroth, and let us mete out His punishment! As one!"
Drop choke-gas grenade at my feet after I move to stand with Caelia, murder heretics until the # of heretics becomes zero. Preferentially use flamer, when swarmed use sword.
"Araxes belongs to the Emperor!" Caelia shouts, hand coming down to pull and throw another frag grenade from her armor. Treason could not be allowed, there could be no quarter. To see them slain now was a mercy anyway, that the scum did not deserve-but she would deliver anyway.
She was like earth, that solid rock that stood resolute amid the enemy's teeth and as they swarmed around her and her Sister, she repeated that mantra through her head. There were too many. Space too cramped. She could bring her shotgun to bear or slash with her chainsword but two more heretics would replace the last one before she could fight her way free.
So she was earth and she heaved against the heretics flailing against her and Pia, creating the space needed to unsheathe her sword. They hesitated as she gripped it firmly in both hands and shifted her feet into a solid stance.
"Sister Pia," she spoke calmly in their vox. "To me and brace yourself for the next charge."
Sure enough the heretics came in their numbers, emboldened and pushed from those behind them, but she stared them down with the teeth of her chainsword, carving those who came within range. They fed their own into the grinder, a grinder who did not care one whit for them, who did not feel the adrenaline of fighting for her life for she knew she would continue to prevail until her allies come with their bayonets and lasguns braying for blood.
But when she saw the Saint Jana's statue go up in flame, she felt a growl emanate from the back of her throat.
In the ever assailed region of Vera Fortis, every soldier knew the worth of the humble supply train. It fed the armies to defend the Imperium's worlds, brought vast stocks ammunition to destroy its enemies, and relieved the embattled front through reinforcements of fighting men. Saint Jara Volgis represented all this to the men and women of Vera Fortis and all the worlds in it for they all knew their part in the humble supply train.
Eyes narrowed, she spoke to Pia between thrusts of her sword. "The Saint, her statue. We must reach it before they have the chance to desecrate it further. These heretics have no sense of decency, not even in battle."
She remembers Saint Jana's giant statue greeting the travelling armies in the gates of the port city of Saiganka. They rested and restocked before they went their way to the next front, always fighting, but supplied. It had greeted her as well, the few times in her life she had returned to her homeworld.
It was a comfort, the studious features of the Saint, and to see it run cherry red under promethium set by heretics did little to warm her heart. Instead, it was like ice by the time her allies had reached her.
Impact after impact hammers against her and Pia Rosaria exults in it as she runs forward. How could anyone who is not a Dominion understand it? Each impact marks another instance where He held His guarding hand over her through her armor, each step closer to the foe marks a moment where she can do His work. She loves this part of her duties more than any other, when the pitter-patter of foefire does nothing but make her muscles work harder, her heart beat faster, make her face ache from how wide and wild and joyful her smile is under her helmet.
Perhaps the Sister Superior would understand if she yet remembers the days of her youth. But talking to Sister Palais comes later. For now, with the teeming horde of heresy rushing in her direction, there's really only two things to do.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, ignore the futility of their gunfire, focus on the very real threat of some of them going for the knees, the hip joint, the elbows and the armpits.
Observe the horde of filth and heresy coming your way. Orient yourself to face them head-on like Viatorem's ramming plow. Decide how to smite the unbeliever.
Act on it.
With a soft ting she presses the activator-stud on one of her choke-gas grenades and drops it right at her feet.
"WEEP AND REPENT, TRAITOR SCUM!" Pia Rosaria bellows. She will probably have time to get her blade out.
And if not? Well, she'll still have a flamer, and they'll still be flammable. It'll work out, she's sure of it.
"Let them choke on His wroth, and let us mete out His punishment! As one!"
Drop choke-gas grenade at my feet after I move to stand with Caelia, murder heretics until the # of heretics becomes zero. Preferentially use flamer, when swarmed use sword.
What follows is one-sided slaughter, not battle. Heretics weep and claw at their eyes and faces as the choking has pours through their lungs, only a handful with either the equipment or resolve managing to stumble through to try assaulting the holy Sisters. Their pathetic blows are knocked aside with ease, a howling chainsword from Eriko slicing open the belly of one heretic, while Palais carves two in twain with a single hefty blow. As the bodies slump to the ground, a score of the wretches turn and flee, screaming into the night. Some however, do not make it far as howling chainblades from the cult's enforcers slice them down. These hulking, respirator clad warriors step into place, gunning their chainblades.
"Beckon the Fall!" They snarl, blades sweeping toward the Sisters, but the three of them knock aside the blows. Pia in particular masterfully turns aside a blow aimed for her groin, a broken chain tooth slicing open the heretic's right cheek. As he flinches, Pia capitalizes on his momentary weakness, the mono-edged point of her blade biting through his gene-bulked muscles and grinding along the bottom of his ribcage. The heretic jerks back, blood spurting from the deep wound. "Gods..." He coughs, clutching a hand against the cut. "The Dark Gods will it!"
The crowd piles around this chaos, rushing around the cloud of choke gas like it was an obstruction in a river. The baying, howling horde is met with a storm of fire.
"First rank! Fire! Second rank! Fire!" The lieutenant bellows, waving his sword forward, the volleys of deadly lasfire answering him. A pair of grenades-one thrown by Sister Caelia, another fired from a PDF grenade launcher-Blow two score heretics to pieces and cleanse most of the left flank of life. Those handful who persevere are cut down by a volley of fire, two unlucky wretches vaporizing in a spray of hot plasma. The right flank pushes forward, but only in the face of hideous losses. Countless cultists burst apart as bolt rounds strike home, and more are sliced apart by lasgun shots, limbs scorched off, heads bursting, torsos scorched apart. Over the piles of dismembered carcasses the remnants of the heretic force charge home, desperation wrought on their features.
"Affix bayonets! Prepare to repel!" The lieutenant bellows.
Sporadic fire strikes the Sisters and PDF. Many of the cult seem stunned by the losses suffered-or perhaps, enraptured. Rounds spark off Ceramite armor and carbifiber plates alike. A few bursts of heavy stubber slice along the right flank of the Dreverarch troopers, one PDFer pitching as a round cracks her gasmask and pulps her skull, another trooper tumbling back with a whelp as a burst cracks his breastplate and bowls him over. Other troops grunt and stumble as rounds punch craters into their armor, but they remain standing.
"Fill in the gap!" A sergeant bellows, as a PDFer steps forward over the cooling corpse of his comrade.
Ahead, unnatural smoke dances around the statue of Jana Volgis in colors that call to mind the deepest abyss or brightest blood. At the corner of the eye one can almost make out figures or faces in the smoke, leering and hungry, but when looking directly at it, there is nothing but a deep ache behind the eyes. Some of the Dreverarch men can be heard whimpering or praying behind their gas-helms. Worse is the sound, the flicker of the flames that dance upon the blackwater soaked waters sounding like laughter. The cultists are chanting, hands raised into the air.
"Aksho Kharneth Akhash, Aksho Slaaneth K'khaa, Aksho Tzeeneth Phaos, Aksho Nurgleth Dh'Akh, Ksy'Iakash Dhaos Akhamshy'y Khaos Akso'mi!" It is brutal, ugly chant, but there is an elegance, a pleasaing rhythm, nonetheless. The words are at once a great shout in the distance, and a whisper as though right behind you. It grates on your ears like nails on a chalkboard wrapped in the finest silks. Prayers ring out among the Sisters against the blasphemies of the foe.
"The Apostate, she's moved!" One of the Sisters calls out over the vox. "Anyone have eyes?"
Both Caelia and Eriko do, even amidst the chaos. They spot the apostate striding calmly through the crowd along the right of the fountain, flanked by her gene-bulked bodyguard.
"The Apostate is to the right of the fountain," Eriko reports. "I repeat, the Apostate is to the right of the fountain."
As the heretical chant continued Eriko turned from her fight against the cultists. She pushes past them, running now, as she lends her voice to her sisters.
"Target is flanked by two gene-modded cultists."
She reached Pia and Caelia and tapped both of them on the back. "Sisters, we need to get to the Apostate now before whatever scheme she has is carried out."
She was unsure if the Apostate even had a plan, or if the heretic priest was just unhinged enough to not care about her impending defeat. But there was something definitely going on with the fountain, with the cultists raising their hands and chanting to their four dark gods, and Eriko aimed to disrupt it.
(OOC: Run forward to the fountain and the Apostate. AB 3. Then start killing there with the shotgun.)
"Melta Cutter spotted! Eliminating!" Caelia shouts, spotting the cultist toting the weapon, choking in the gas.
She rushes forward to get a better angle around the melee of Pia and Eriko, the boltgun snapping up into her hands. She loomed over the man, boltgun booming into the choking and dying cultist. She hears Eriko's call, and shouts back.
"Go, Sister Eriko! I'll cover you and the PDF!"
(OOC: Full move and shoot, execute Melta Cutter, then direct rest of shots into the cult heavies if backstop is clear. 40+10+10+10+30-30= TN 70, +1 Dos, Reroll if fail)
"Caught me right in the belly with the chainblade..." The man breathes in agony, exposing gold teeth. "Can't move. Don't think I'm going to make it." He swallows. "They caught us just as we were leaving, dropped Jakob. Boss, I think I saw the boss go down the main hall, but me and Kaila ducked in here. I think she ran down the hall behind me." He winces. As Illana glances down the corridor, she sees a burst of rounds strike a cultist ducking in from the main hall, tearing away his shoulder and dropping him to the ground.
"Sister Ilana, the Witch-Hunter takes priority." Liandra says over the vox, firing a burst into the ritual room, slaying the lasgun armed heretic and sending the other scampering for cover. She stares for a moment, before returning to her duty.
...
"Selverus preserve us! They come in such numbers! Sisters, hurry!" The Witch-Hunter calls out.
You hear a second voice ring out from nearby. "Shite, sir, Marian's down! Took a couple rounds and dropped, I don't know if they're still breathing! Danian's hit too! We're getting torn up out here!"
The Witch-Hunter curses. "Stand firm and strike hard! This is our moment! Make them pay for every drop of blood!"
"Main hall, confirmed. Proceeding with marching fire."
By the thrice damned angels it was a narrow way and a blind corner, but she feared no heretic. Armor forward, up the bolter, and let the inexorable tide of faith carry her on through the assault. Maria set out at a lento, toward the charnel portal she'd spattered with arterial gore. There was no time to spare, no time for care in their clearing, just the objective and the momentum. She could feel it in Indomitable's servos, how easy it felt to walk forward, deeper, in to the heat of battle.
The hordes of iniquity would be chaff in the blessed harvest, every bolt a prayer to the Immortal for his pleasure and the keeping of their brothers and sisters of faith.
Move and shoot (armor trait)-half move, full auto down the length of the hall.
"Caught me right in the belly with the chainblade..." The man breathes in agony, exposing gold teeth. "Can't move. Don't think I'm going to make it." He swallows. "They caught us just as we were leaving, dropped Jakob. Boss, I think I saw the boss go down the main hall, but me and Kaila ducked in here. I think she ran down the hall behind me." He winces. As Illana glances down the corridor, she sees a burst of rounds strike a cultist ducking in from the main hall, tearing away his shoulder and dropping him to the ground.
"Sister Ilana, the Witch-Hunter takes priority." Liandra says over the vox, firing a burst into the ritual room, slaying the lasgun armed heretic and sending the other scampering for cover. She stares for a moment, before returning to her duty.
"Stay here," Ilana said, authority masking her reluctance to leave. "I will return for you."
Ilana shook her head, putting thoughts of the dying man out of mind. In the midst of battle only duty would see her cause true, she would have to keep faith that the Emperor would provide for him, as He always did. She paid half a mind to execute the heretic behind her before further words from the Witch Hunter drew that thought short, the Witch Hunter's time waned, and unfortunately it looked like they would have no time to be thorough in cleaning out the rot. She sneered at the heretics mobilising even now to bar her way, all wages for the Emperor's due, once the Witch Hunter was secured she looked forward to paying them.
OOC: Move and shoot in the direction the source of gunfire in the main hall.
"Stay here," Ilana said, authority masking her reluctance to leave. "I will return for you."
Ilana shook her head, putting thoughts of the dying man out of mind. In the midst of battle only duty would see her cause true, she would have to keep faith that the Emperor would provide for him, as He always did. She paid half a mind to execute the heretic behind her before further words from the Witch Hunter drew that thought short, the Witch Hunter's time waned, and unfortunately it looked like they would have no time to be thorough in cleaning out the rot. She sneered at the heretics mobilising even now to bar her way, all wages for the Emperor's due, once the Witch Hunter was secured she looked forward to paying them.
OOC: Move and shoot in the direction the source of gunfire in the main hall.
"Main hall, confirmed. Proceeding with marching fire."
By the thrice damned angels it was a narrow way and a blind corner, but she feared no heretic. Armor forward, up the bolter, and let the inexorable tide of faith carry her on through the assault. Maria set out at a lento, toward the charnel portal she'd spattered with arterial gore. There was no time to spare, no time for care in their clearing, just the objective and the momentum. She could feel it in Indomitable's servos, how easy it felt to walk forward, deeper, in to the heat of battle.
The hordes of iniquity would be chaff in the blessed harvest, every bolt a prayer to the Immortal for his pleasure and the keeping of their brothers and sisters of faith.
Move and shoot (armor trait)-half move, full auto down the length of the hall.
"Please..." The mercenary gurgles as Sister Illana strides away. Her boltgun booms as rifle fire whistles past her. Her bolter booms. She catches on heretic as he ducks back behind a doorway, gore spraying forth as the man's shredded legs slump to the ground. More fire rips a makeshift barricade apart, sending the cultist finding behind it staggering back as shrapnel slices through her threadbare robes. The last two rounds drive a last heretic against the wall, blood trickling from his leg, huge rents torn in his barricade. Liandra stomps up behind her.
"Got your back, Sister." The veteran says.
The hallway is a mess. Shell craters and bulletholes line the walls and great pillars. Strange bone charms and primitive candles line the hall, many smashed flat by the violence ripping through it. As Illana and Mina both enter the hall, they see the flash of laslocks firing and careening sprays of stub fire smash against the barricades hastily erected in one corner of the room. A single mercenary stands, his olive flak vest decorated with purity seals and decorative scratches, his face a mask of fury. Nearby another mercenary is slumped, her leg a broken, oozing mess, and a third mercenary leans against the pillar, gasping for breath and clawing at the craters punched in his breastplate.
A trio of cultists leap over their cover, cheering and howling as they barrel down the last mercenary. "Beckon the Fall!"
The last mercenary cuts through them with a burst of fire from his autogun. One heretic's upper torso slaps wetly against the ground as his legs, trailing intestines, continue on for several more meters. A second heretic falls to her knees, her spear and right arm lying at her feet, blood pouring from the stump as she desperately tries to staunch it. The third heretic staggers for a moment, his comrades suddenly dead or dying, his sword goes clattering across the blood stained rug. Across the hall, the mercenary curses, ejecting a spent mag.
"Battle-Sisters! The boss is in the room behind!" The merc bellows, as the crack of gunfire and lasweapons echoes from that direction. Cultists whirl toward the three Battle-Sisters entering the room, eyes wide with fear or narrowed with hate. Many wear rebreathers or common work clothes, but others strange hand woven garments or primitive armor like mail or brigandine.
"Shal'neloth's sake!" Bellows a voice. "The Witch is ours to sacrifice!" The heretic bellowing it is clad in a tattered robe of flak cloth, scripts of leather covered in arcane symbols flowing off it. He brandishes a chain-tipped staff in his hands, paint dabbed across his face giving him the image of a Daemon. He raises his staff, preparing to bellow something-only for Maria to open up.
She strides through hails of stubber fire, a round to the right eye lense barely even making her stumble and levels her heavy bolter. Heretics pour out of the room to her left past the dead body of a mercenary, sprinting in the direction of the apostate or turning their weapons upon her. Across the hall, behind a set of barricades, Maria sees a heretic hastily setting up a heavy stubber. The first heretic to line her sights is a gene-bulked warrior, made faceless by a plas-steel plate seemingly stapled to his skin. A single bolt round rips him in twain, and before his remains can hit the ground, she turns her fire down across the hall. Bodies detonate, limbs burst. One cultist, screaming in some indecipherable language, ducks behind a thick barrel, only for the hail of bolts to punch clean through it. A tattered arm bouncing across the ground is all the confirmation of a kill needed. The last kill of her burst is a cultist right beside the apostate, who pops like a meat filled balloon and splatters gore across the right side of the apostate's flak robes.
The apostate brushes a piece of bone off his shoulder. "Your weapons cannot stand against the righteousness of our cause! We will save Dreverarch!"
Behind Illana, she makes out the crack of lasgun fire. Turning she sees a las-locker ducking into cover in one of the apartments to reload, but surely she heard a laspistol as well? Indeed, a dead cultist
"The Apostate is to the right of the fountain," Eriko reports. "I repeat, the Apostate is to the right of the fountain."
As the heretical chant continued Eriko turned from her fight against the cultists. She pushes past them, running now, as she lends her voice to her sisters.
"Target is flanked by two gene-modded cultists."
She reached Pia and Caelia and tapped both of them on the back. "Sisters, we need to get to the Apostate now before whatever scheme she has is carried out."
She was unsure if the Apostate even had a plan, or if the heretic priest was just unhinged enough to not care about her impending defeat. But there was something definitely going on with the fountain, with the cultists raising their hands and chanting to their four dark gods, and Eriko aimed to disrupt it.
(OOC: Run forward to the fountain and the Apostate. AB 3. Then start killing there with the shotgun.)
"Melta Cutter spotted! Eliminating!" Caelia shouts, spotting the cultist toting the weapon, choking in the gas.
She rushes forward to get a better angle around the melee of Pia and Eriko, the boltgun snapping up into her hands. She loomed over the man, boltgun booming into the choking and dying cultist. She hears Eriko's call, and shouts back.
"Go, Sister Eriko! I'll cover you and the PDF!"
(OOC: Full move and shoot, execute Melta Cutter, then direct rest of shots into the cult heavies if backstop is clear. 40+10+10+10+30-30= TN 70, +1 Dos, Reroll if fail)
Sister Eriko's rush out of the melee is not unchallenged. Blows rain down upon her, clanging and banging against her armor. One chainsword rips a rent right into her breastplate, deep enough to expose the silver of the ceramite beneath the paint. But she continues on.
"Take her down! Take her down!" A Heretic heavy bellows, pointing at Eriko as she races toward the Apostate. Her vision is a blur of tracer fire whipping past her and rockcrete chips torn from the street before her. Rounds smack careen off the curved slopes of her armor, flattened bullets raining down at her feet as she skids to a halt near the Apostate. This close, she can see mottled grey skin, the webbed fingers, the taint of the abhuman. The apostate smiles beatifically as Eriko raises her shotgun. The Battle-Sister does not get a chance to pull the trigger.
The hulking warriors bodyguarding the apostate push forward, swatting lesser cultists out of the way with their bulging forearms even as gun their chainblades. Eriko may have taken them down had a third heretic not rushed her from the flank. Before the Sister can react, the chainaxe hammers into her gorget, a hideous grinding noise deafening in her helmet as shards of ceramite and broken teeth whip past the cultist's face. She shoves the cultist back with her fist before his blades can rip into her throat, but then the other two are upon her. One stroke sweeps over her head, another draws sparks as it slices along her shotgun, tearing off half the iron sight and a chunk out of the butt. Out of the corner of her vision she sees a forth closes in, chainblade howling.
"You shall not have her." One raps through a dark lensed rebreather, granting him an almost insectoid look.
"Keep her busy, brothers and Sisters!" Over the shoulders of the bulky cultists, the Sister makes the Apostate calmly walking back, waving at Eriko mockingly. Lesser cultists flock to her, shielding her from fire elsewhere down the line. "The time draws near!"
The PDF line meets the howling horde of advancing heretics and stops them cold. A towering heavy laughs as he sweeps the head off a PDF trooper, but he has little time to savor his kill. The man's sergeant dashes forward and drives his chainsword deep into the heretic's belly and spine, the man's thick muscle no protection against the howling mono-edged teeth. Even as the heavy falls, bayonets cut into the convert horde, rifle butts crush skulls, and their improvised weapons are knocked harmlessly aside or batter impotently into flak armor. Not far away, Sister Derosa cleaves through a group of heretics without hesitation, even as Sister Arina slices through the thick muscle of a second heavy's arm, sending his chainblade clattering to the ground. Across the other side of the line, PDF troops snarl and hiss as stub rounds crack off their flak plate, one soldier stumbling forward and tumbling to the ground after a burst leaves his segmented breastplate littered with craters. The formation does not falter, however, continuing to put out punishing volleys of fire even as the gaps in the line swiftly refill.
Back beneath the Choke Gas cloud, Sisters Palais and Pia avenge the damage to Eriko's plate a thousandfold. Pia brings her maul down upon a heavy's head, shattering his skull in a flash of light and power, spurting blood and chips of bone hissing as they burn away against the sparking power field. A wide second swing rips the skin from the back of a fleeing convert and burns through her spine, before shattering the left leg of a second heavy-the one already wounded by her gladius blade prior. The heretic staggers, struggling to keep his balance on a crushed limb, even as blood spurts down from his pierced chest. It does not take a Hospitaller to see he will die in moments of his wounds. Palais, not far away, severs the head of one convert, then slices another in twain. The heavy facing her desperately attempts to parry, but it does not save her from the chainsword that slices through her ribs and grinds through her heart.
"Come on, Sister Pia! Into the horde!" Palais laughs, motioning at the great bulk of the enemy, even as volleys of lasgun fire and bursts of bolt rounds rip through more than a score of the foe. But a few steps away, Caelia opens up with a burst of boltgun fire that hisses over the head of a staggering heretic with a melta-cutter. The man, coughing and wheezing, raises the melta cutter and fires off a shot. The flare of heat flies into the sky, the heretic nearly falling to his knees as the weight of the weapon overcomes his dying strength.
"Cant-Breath! I will-I will kill you! Just-Can't-" He wheezes, tears flowing from his half-blinded eyes. Unconsciousness, Caelia suspects, will come shortly.
Unless, of course, shrapnel from a nearby frag grenade happens to slice open his belly and spill his intestines onto the rockcrete. A second detonation flashes in Caelia's vision several meters distant.
"Heavy weapons! Up on the Administratum complex's roof!" The Sister on the Ex Cathedra bellows over the vox. Heavy stubbers, las-locks and hunting rifles boom, sending rounds cracking against Sororitas plate. Then the heavier guns start up. The loud retort of a particularly large-chambered heavy stubber (A stub cannon, in common parlance) sends a Battle-Sister stumbling back against the Ex Cathedra, even as some sort of multi-las spits out a blinding hail of lasers into the choke glass cloud, ripping chunks out of the auto-carriage Caelia is sheltering behind and reflecting off Sister-Superior Palais' curved armor. Behind, at the PDF line, the standard dips for a moment as a long-las round strikes the standard-bearer. But he does not let go of the standard, holding it high even as smoke billows from a crater in the vambrace of the opposite arm.
"The Emperor protects! Stand firm, men of Dreverarch!" The leftenant bellows over the din, only for his shouted bravado to give way to a muted hiss over the vox. "More heretics on the right flank! Through the alleyway! Prepare to repel!"
Eriko staggers backward, her knees threatening to buckle as pain flares up from where her neck was struck. Not only that, but her whole body ached with small bruises and small cuts where her own armour bit past her bodysuit and into her flesh. The Storm of Summers holds her up, keeps her steady now when she needed it the most and she muttered a short prayer of thanks.
Then she pulled her chainsword free from its lock, swinging it in a wide arc against the cultists to give herself space. She intentionally projects her move and predictably the four brutes around her avoid her swing, but they close ranks before she could fire her shotgun at the Apostate, and she is forced to parry the flurry of chainaxes.
Her shotgun in one hand ready to fire at the smallest opening and her chainsword at the other, fending attacks one-handed. This was a fight she could easily win but not in time to prevent the Apostate from fulfilling her dark ritual.
She slammed her pommel on one brute, the one who looked like an insect, and cracked their rebreather. They stummbled back and even then the Battle Sister did not feel the satisfaction of heretic blood drawn.
Emperor damn you all.
It pained her, cut deep into her stomach, more than the numerous little wounds she had taken running here, only to be stymmied by brutes who could not even read.
She risked a glance back, a brute swung their chainaxe, missing her visor by an inch but she had confirmed Caelia's quickly nearing form. The young Velorumite's use of grenades inspired an idea in Eriko, one that could put her feelings to the test.
"Sister Caelia!" She ground out through the vox-comms, her voice brooking no argument. There was little time to spare. "Throw your frags at my feet. Now."
(OOC: If Initiative is higher than Caelia's, delay until Caelia gets to throw her frag grenade. Then move out of melee to shoot at the Apostate.
If Initiative is not higher then move out of melee whatever happens and Full Auto Burst at the Apostate.
The next turn also Delay after Caelia in order to free self to shoot at the Apostate.
BS 40 + Full Auto Burst 20 + Close Range 10 + Free Aim 10 = TN 80
"Sister Caelia!" She ground out through the vox-comms, her voice brooking no argument. There was little time to spare. "Throw your frags at my feet. Now."
"On the way Sister!" Caelia shouts, dashing forward out of the cloud of choke gas. Her hand pistoned backward, grabbed a grenade, then cocked backward. At the end of her dash she catapulted her hand forward, letting the grenade fly towards Eriko. She prays under her breath for her sister, then continues forward towards her.
(OOC: Half move forward, draw grenade, throw grenade at Eriko. If multiple turns, support Eriko with semi auto bursts while half moving forward.)
Blood and viscera trailed down Illana's cuirass, proof of the holy carnage that she had inflicted among the ranks of the heretics. She smashed her way through a rotted wooden door, plunging her gauntlets in deep before forcing the entire structure apart. She could hear the tell tale whine of burning ozone that was so characteristic of lasfire, one-no two shots. One sounded like it had been fired at a different frequency than the laslocks she had come to expect. A laspistol? Belatedly she recalled the crippled mercenary's words, that there was another of his compatriots that had been seperated from the main group. He said her name was Kaila.
You can't save everyone. Ilana told herself bitterly as she turned her back to yet another servant of the Emperor. She proceeded onwards, ever onwards, to the cold, harsh demands of duty. She gave a solemn nod to the lone mercenary guarding the door, "Emperor bless the bravery of you and your comrades" and then thundered on past him, leaving the recoiling forms of heretics both living and dead and the all too dim light of those faithful.
Maria smiled, feeling the rhythm start to build. Indomitable's servomuscle warmed to the task, cables and fibers flexing and snapping to execute the steps of her ponderous dance. They would be focusing here, bringing all they could down upon her inviolable shell, as well they should. She just wouldn't stand there to take it.
Back the way she came, then down toward her sisters she skirted the walk between walls and supports, bulling through mortal impediment to bring her bolter to bear again, scant meters from the face of the braying apostate. Their poor subordinate, braced all wrong, so stodgy in stance. The flash of crimson as Illana moved as well, Liandra not far behind, and they would purify this hole. Sweep away the corruption with salvo after salvo, barrage after barrage. The echo rattling up from her childhood made her heart beat all the quicker to fight off the dragging of fatigue and ooze from her leg.
"You cannot even save yourselves."
The words were soft, the sentiment regretful, but the ensuing roar of the bolter was nothing but rapturous.
Full auto move and shoot (half move) to the red mark, firing through the blob of heretics at the apostate
Blood and viscera trailed down Illana's cuirass, proof of the holy carnage that she had inflicted among the ranks of the heretics. She smashed her way through a rotted wooden door, plunging her gauntlets in deep before forcing the entire structure apart. She could hear the tell tale whine of burning ozone that was so characteristic of lasfire, one-no two shots. One sounded like it had been fired at a different frequency than the laslocks she had come to expect. A laspistol? Belatedly she recalled the crippled mercenary's words, that there was another of his compatriots that had been seperated from the main group. He said her name was Kaila.
You can't save everyone. Ilana told herself bitterly as she turned her back to yet another servant of the Emperor. She proceeded onwards, ever onwards, to the cold, harsh demands of duty. She gave a solemn nod to the lone mercenary guarding the door, "Emperor bless the bravery of you and your comrades" and then thundered on past him, leaving the recoiling forms of heretics both living and dead and the all too dim light of those faithful.
Maria smiled, feeling the rhythm start to build. Indomitable's servomuscle warmed to the task, cables and fibers flexing and snapping to execute the steps of her ponderous dance. They would be focusing here, bringing all they could down upon her inviolable shell, as well they should. She just wouldn't stand there to take it.
Back the way she came, then down toward her sisters she skirted the walk between walls and supports, bulling through mortal impediment to bring her bolter to bear again, scant meters from the face of the braying apostate. Their poor subordinate, braced all wrong, so stodgy in stance. The flash of crimson as Illana moved as well, Liandra not far behind, and they would purify this hole. Sweep away the corruption with salvo after salvo, barrage after barrage. The echo rattling up from her childhood made her heart beat all the quicker to fight off the dragging of fatigue and ooze from her leg.
"You cannot even save yourselves."
The words were soft, the sentiment regretful, but the ensuing roar of the bolter was nothing but rapturous.
Full auto move and shoot (half move) to the red mark, firing through the blob of heretics at the apostate
"You are not wrong. We cannot save ourselves." The Apostate says, bowing his head as Maria levels the heavy bolter toward him. Even as his minions leap to push him out of the line of fire, he calmly raises his amulet toward the Sister as though to ward against it.
The boom of the first bolt round leaving the barrel is almost deafening, The engine kicks off a moment later, adding on a howling shriek to the cacophony. It screams at the Apostate, slicing straight toward his head. And then, there is darkness. Darkness, running like water down a rounded stone, appears a foot in front of the Apostaste's head. There is a thunderous crack as the round strikes the barrier and detonates in mid-air, stopped as surely as it would have if it had struck an Adamantium wall.
"But the old gods and the old magics can." He hisses. Maria puts that statement to the test. Rounds crash against the barrier, one sweeping off at an angle to slice off the arm of one of the apostate's bodyguard, another pushing the heretic preacher toward safety only for a round detonating against the unnatural barrier to kick shrapnel across her face. Other cultists are simply caught in the line of fire, bursting apart and spraying their misshapen guts across the tiled floor. The Apostate grunts, as though from strain, but still brandishes his amulet like a shield. At the center of the eight pointed star it is like there is a void of pure darkness, soaking in light, but after a moment Maria realizes it is an object. A cylinder of darkest, darkest black, about the side of a bolt shell.
Down the hall, Liandra cuts down a pair of heretics with a stormbolter burst as Sister Illana stomps past the mercenary's positions. "The Emperor protects!" The mercenary shouts as he finishes slamming a magazine home.
The Apostate eyes Sister Illana as she enters the room the Witch Hunter hides within and shakes his head. "Enough. I can see when a battle is lost." He turns, snapping his finger at fleeing cultists. "To me! Retreat, brothers and sisters! Our prize is lost! Retreat!" Even as he falls back, bodies fall in around him and more heretics-perhaps unheeding of his orders-take up positions to cover the Apostate's retreat.
The clash of blades reaches Illana as she enters the room the Witch Hunter and his retinue are cornered inside. It was perhaps a sleeping quarters, bed visible through once elegant dividing screens now stained with blood and cored by stub rounds. Dead bodies litter the room, both those draped in the symbols of the cult and other armed civilians of some other nature. In the cramped room blows are exchanged, close range shots booming. Then, she sees him.
The Witch-Hunter, Vahn Zayneth, is a lanky figure, tall with angular features that call to mind a hunting bird. A fine great coat flutters about him as his howling chainsword parries aside an axe stroke from a baying heretic, his wide-rimmed hat wreathing his face in shadow.
"Tremble in fear before a son of Selverus and the Imperium!" He calls out. He does not turn as Illana stamps up behind him, raising her bolt gun. He does not flinch as a bolt disentegrates the man's chest above the bottom of the sternum and sends his arms and head bouncing off the wooden table. "A good shot, Sister! I cannot deny it!"
Smoothly he slides a wood-handled dueling las from a collection strapped across his purity seal adorned breastplate. Another heretic leaps at him with a bellow, leveling a rusted laslock.
"With this shot, I abjure thee!" Vahn bellows as the weapon cracks, red light flashing through the darkness of the room. The heretic cries out as the bolt slices his leg off cleanly at the knee, sending him crumbling to the ground as blood spurts against the wall. Another heretic falls on the other side of the room, right shoulder exploding apart from a hand cannon round. The shooter, a bulky woman wearing slimmed down Cadian style flak armor, snarls as she empties her revolver of its spent rounds.
"About time you got her." She grunts. "Only one of the fethers left!"
The man heretic stumbles back, his eyes wide as he sees all his comrades fallen. Another of Vahn's mercenaries steps forward, bringing down his rifle butt down like a club on the heretic's head. He moves suddenly, bringing up a clean edged cutting blade and knocking aside the blow, his blade cutting along the autogun's stock and biting into the merc's arm. With a cry the sellsword drops his rifle to the ground with a clatter, hand dropping to a knife at his side.
The heretic shrieks like a wild animal. "Death! Blessed be He that dies in the name of Araxes!" He screams, bringing down his blade hard upon the mercenary. The blade cuts through the light flak cloth, slicing through the man's collarbone and down and down and down until it exits to the right of his groin. As his torso split open, the mercenary blubbers for a moment. Then his organs spill out onto the floor and the heretic's boots. "Be anointed in blood and pain, friend! Rejoice, brother, for the Third Fall Beckons!" The heretic cries out, eyes wide, smile across his lips. Even as the mercenary claws at the cultist, the heretic bends forward and kisses the dying man chastely across the cheek. "By our blood are we saved! By blood is Araxes made!" He brings his blade down, cleaving through the meat and bone of the sellsword's neck. He laughs in joy as the arterial blood washes over him.
His naked torso splattered with blood, the heretic raises his blade. "Do you fear Old Night? Do you fear Strife? Do you fear the Fall? Why, why do you fear what is so right, so beautiful?" He motions a blood splattered hand toward one of the broken screens. Within the captured psyker, a close shaven woman who looks like any other worker, kneels bound in black iron chains, her mouth gagged and eyes wide and full of tears. "We will anoint her in the black blood of this world. Her spirit will shine like the brightest gem, like a dowry for that which waits beyond the Veil. It hears us, but it needs more, needs more than we have been able to give! It will become one with her flesh and her spirit and it will speak Heaven's voice! She will be reborn in warp and blood and pain, and it will be beautiful. So beautiful! Why do you resist it? Why, why, why?"
Eriko staggers backward, her knees threatening to buckle as pain flares up from where her neck was struck. Not only that, but her whole body ached with small bruises and small cuts where her own armour bit past her bodysuit and into her flesh. The Storm of Summers holds her up, keeps her steady now when she needed it the most and she muttered a short prayer of thanks.
Then she pulled her chainsword free from its lock, swinging it in a wide arc against the cultists to give herself space. She intentionally projects her move and predictably the four brutes around her avoid her swing, but they close ranks before she could fire her shotgun at the Apostate, and she is forced to parry the flurry of chainaxes.
Her shotgun in one hand ready to fire at the smallest opening and her chainsword at the other, fending attacks one-handed. This was a fight she could easily win but not in time to prevent the Apostate from fulfilling her dark ritual.
She slammed her pommel on one brute, the one who looked like an insect, and cracked their rebreather. They stummbled back and even then the Battle Sister did not feel the satisfaction of heretic blood drawn.
Emperor damn you all.
It pained her, cut deep into her stomach, more than the numerous little wounds she had taken running here, only to be stymmied by brutes who could not even read.
She risked a glance back, a brute swung their chainaxe, missing her visor by an inch but she had confirmed Caelia's quickly nearing form. The young Velorumite's use of grenades inspired an idea in Eriko, one that could put her feelings to the test.
"Sister Caelia!" She ground out through the vox-comms, her voice brooking no argument. There was little time to spare. "Throw your frags at my feet. Now."
(OOC: If Initiative is higher than Caelia's, delay until Caelia gets to throw her frag grenade. Then move out of melee to shoot at the Apostate.
If Initiative is not higher then move out of melee whatever happens and Full Auto Burst at the Apostate.
The next turn also Delay after Caelia in order to free self to shoot at the Apostate.
BS 40 + Full Auto Burst 20 + Close Range 10 + Free Aim 10 = TN 80
"On the way Sister!" Caelia shouts, dashing forward out of the cloud of choke gas. Her hand pistoned backward, grabbed a grenade, then cocked backward. At the end of her dash she catapulted her hand forward, letting the grenade fly towards Eriko. She prays under her breath for her sister, then continues forward towards her.
(OOC: Half move forward, draw grenade, throw grenade at Eriko. If multiple turns, support Eriko with semi auto bursts while half moving forward.)
"Time to see you bleed, Sister." The voice rasps through the cracked, insectoid rebreather of one of the Heavies. "Dreverarch belongs to us."
The hard clang of a frag grenade smacking off the rockcrete puts the lies to his words.
"Get down!" A cultist screams. Some of the heretics manage to spring down to the dirt, protecting themselves from the worst of the ensuing hail of shrapnel. The bulky heavies prove not so lucky. Shrapnel rips through their bulging muscle. One is flung back by the force of the explosion, leaving a trail of blood as his bare flesh skids across the hard rockcrete. Others are simply torn to pieces, falling to pieces around Sister Eriko.
"Sister Pia, with me!" Palais bellows as the two of them sprint through a storm of stub rounds. Pia staggers under the weight of fire, but still they bring their flamers to bear. Cultists scamper for cover, the heavy stubber wielding gene-freaks leaping back a mere moment before a torrent of flame washes over the front ranks of the cultists before the fountain. Some bodies are incinerated instantly by the wash of promethium, so much dust in the wind. Others flail about, screaming, as their robes and clothing catch alight and the fires dance over them.
Fire from the Dreverarch PDF and Ex Cathedra maintains the pressure. Storms of lasrounds and heavy stubber fire rips into more of the cultists about the fountain, sending heretics dead and wounded to the ground in droves. More fire, including brilliant viridan plasma bolts, slashes up at the snipers and heavy weapons on the rooftop of the former Administratum complex, and with a scream one heretic is sent tumbling from the roof minus her arm to splat against the courtyard. Simultaneously, Ex Cathedra's heavy bolters silence the multi-las position, gouging chunks out of the wall and exploding the gunner's head, arms and upper torso.
Heretic flankers try to force the right flank of the PDF line, only to be extinguished within moments. Even as Sister Arina decapitates her wounded foe, Derosa and another Battle-Sister pour on boltgun fire that shreds through cultists and bursts the belly of one of the heavies. A storm of lasgun fire follows suit, slicing off limbs and shredding torsos, sending the remaining chainweapon wielding madmen to earth. A handful of panicked shot crack against the PDF line, sending men and women stumbling, but they straighten up to maintain the fire. A hasty charge by a handful of heretics is cut down by a swift barrage, the flamer wielding heretic at the back barely having a chance to light the pilot lighter before she too is cut down.
As Sister Eriko stalks down the fleeing Apostate, victory seems inevitable. The cries of panic of the heretic's disciples that rise up only seem to add to the certainty of triumph.
"Focus fire, you louts! Don't let her strike the holy one!" A cultist screams as a technical wheels about, bringing the heavy stubber to bear. More stubbers, including a quad-barreled stubber mount pour on the fire onto Sister Eriko. Round after round sparks and flattens against her armor, but even Thorian-Pattern armor struggles against the torrent of fire. She staggers as rounds punch against her visor and knock her helm askew, blood on her lips. Point blank rounds hammer her breastplate again and again until finally they rip craters out of the cuirass. Still, the Sister continues, raising her shotgun as the wails of the damned echo.
"She won't die!"
"No! No, holy one!"
Heretics fling themselves forward as Eriko pulls the trigger at the fleeing Apostate. Bodies burst apart as airburst shells explode around them, razor edged flechettes cleaving through them like a knife through hot butter. Bodies peel apart around the apostate and the storm of flechettes slams into her. She staggers as they slice into her robes, ripping tears into them, other flechettes catching in the ballistic cloth. But the robes hold against the storm. The Apostate glances over her shoulder at the gore that remains of her followers, then continues to run.
"We can't kill you with guns and blades. You tear through us like the damned Angels of Death. But victory is denied you."
The fires of the burning fountain rise higher and higher, flickering about each other as though they were living things in some sort of rapturous dance. Smoke clouds, swirling plumes of blood red and night black, flood across the courtyard. Sister Caelia, Pia, every Battle Sister finds their preysense struggling to pierce the unnatural clouds. The smoke chokes the courtyard, suffocating. Blinding.
The Apostate growls wetly as she slams her fist against one of the cargo containers. Again and again, in some strange beat.
"Aksho Kharneth Akhash." She chants. "Aksho Slaaneth K'khaa, Aksho Tzeeneth Phaos, Aksho Nurgleth Dh'Akh!" She cries. "By blood and fire, I command you! Rise from your slumber, oh blessed ones."
There was a sound. A wet noise, like a serpent uncoiling itself. Metal clanged against metal.
Then, with a loud clang the cargo container bulged outward. Then again and again, the wall of the container giving way as through something on the other side was striking it with fierce and terrible ferocity. A crack appears, showing the void. Then something red. A cultist by the container suddenly screams as something reaches out. He slams against the container, once, twice, thrice. With a crack he slides down to the ground.The doors burst open a moment later, crashing against the ground and sliding across the rockcrete with an ear-splitting shriek.
There is a silence for a moment. "Release the prisoners!" The Apostate bellows, as the smoke billows forth from the burning fountain. Heretics fire into the air, pushing and shoving the sacrifices. They scatter in every which way. Some fleeing in the direction of the Imperials, others simply for open ground. A few claw against Sister Eriko, begging for her aid.
And then a red figure steps out of the container door. It straightens up, red cloth sliding from it like shedding skin. But it was not cloth. It was wet and slick and had empty holes for eyes and mouth. In the flash of the gunfire Eriko sees something that looks starved and withered, the bones of its scarecrow thin body visible across beneath its bleeding skin. Chains, blackened and charred, hang loosely from around its frame. Its fingers are shards of glass, glittering in the light of the flame. Its head is wrapped in burlap, but she can see the red sockets where they should be eyes as it turns to regard her.
A low whine flutters through the air, barely a whisper even in Eriko's autosenses. It is a man's voice, low and terrified.
"Run." Comes the whisper, as a second figure steps from the cargo container. It has eyes, weeping, upon a face broke and restitched together like puzzle pieces. Then a third, hooks embedded through its barbed wire wrapped skin, its arms broken in a dozen places and yet still they move. Then a forth steps out, its spine rippling and shifting beneath its shallow skin like the coiling of a snake. It opens its mouth in a smile, but it has no teeth and no tongue, only a black void full of stars.
"Sister Pia, with me!" Palais bellows as the two of them sprint through a storm of stub rounds. Pia staggers under the weight of fire, but still they bring their flamers to bear. Cultists scamper for cover, the heavy stubber wielding gene-freaks leaping back a mere moment before a torrent of flame washes over the front ranks of the cultists before the fountain. Some bodies are incinerated instantly by the wash of promethium, so much dust in the wind. Others flail about, screaming, as their robes and clothing catch alight and the fires dance over them.
"Affirmative, Sister Superiour!" What follows is a the typical deeds of a Dominion: charge Into the fray, ever forward, aggress upon them without mercy or hesitation, rely on your faith, your strength and your fire at all times.
Lesser minds would be troubled by the agonized screams of those who are consumed by the hungry, sticking fires of a flamer's warload, would be haunted by the sight of skin sloughing off, muscle charring, of eyeballs going milky and popping under the heat. Lesser minds would have nightmares for months on end after a day of such fighting.
Lesser minds are not fit to be Adepta Sororitas, do not have that boundless, comforting well of faith, of knowing beyond any ssense of doubt or despair or weakness that they are doing holy, righteous, necessary work.
She kills, and kills, and kills, and all around her the screams of burning men and women die down - as do the heretics. And the only thing she feels is savage joy. Ave Deus Imperator! Ave Leanna!
And then a red figure steps out of the container door. It straightens up, red cloth sliding from it like shedding skin. But it was not cloth. It was wet and slick and had empty holes for eyes and mouth. In the flash of the gunfire Eriko sees something that looks starved and withered, the bones of its scarecrow thin body visible across beneath its bleeding skin. Chains, blackened and charred, hang loosely from around its frame. Its fingers are shards of glass, glittering in the light of the flame. Its head is wrapped in burlap, but she can see the red sockets where they should be eyes as it turns to regard her.
A low whine flutters through the air, barely a whisper even in Eriko's autosenses. It is a man's voice, low and terrified.
"Run." Comes the whisper, as a second figure steps from the cargo container. It has eyes, weeping, upon a face broke and restitched together like puzzle pieces. Then a third, hooks embedded through its barbed wire wrapped skin, its arms broken in a dozen places and yet still they move. Then a forth steps out, its spine rippling and shifting beneath its shallow skin like the coiling of a snake. It opens its mouth in a smile, but it has no teeth and no tongue, only a black void full of stars.
Lesser minds would flee in terror, too. But Pia? Pia just regrets she did not bring one of the specially sanctified canisters of ingiferous prometheum. Damn and blast, she should have known there would be moral hazards beyond flammable humans.
She checks the ammo readout of her flamer. Probably enough to burn a path to Eriko. "Sister-Superior, should I reinforce Sister Eriko, or make to burn clear the roof?"
"Run." Comes the whisper, as a second figure steps from the cargo container. It has eyes, weeping, upon a face broke and restitched together like puzzle pieces. Then a third, hooks embedded through its barbed wire wrapped skin, its arms broken in a dozen places and yet still they move. Then a forth steps out, its spine rippling and shifting beneath its shallow skin like the coiling of a snake. It opens its mouth in a smile, but it has no teeth and no tongue, only a black void full of stars.
Caelia backs up slightly, her mind spinning. A Daemon!
Her heart beats faster, and she instinctively turns to run, to put distance between her and it.
She steels herself-she was the blood of Velorum. She did not panic, she did not flee. She forces herself to focus on the creature-to study it. She chants the Fede Imperialis under her breath.
"From the begetting of daemons,
Our Emperor, deliver us"
For all it's terror, it did not match the true horror of the daemon that everyone on Velorum knew. It was not a true daemon, nor a truly powerful daemonhost. A weaker creature of the Warp, though powerful still. It was nothing before the power of the Emperor.
Caelia raises her bolter to deny the monsters.
Still, she trembled-it was one thing to know that the monsters could be beaten. It was another to actually do it.
(OOC: If I pass the WP test, Semi Auto bursts on the daemonhosts. If not, fall backward and full auto nearby cultists.)
She could hear the snarl inside her head, hateful, almost desperate to deny the whispers that had accompanied the monsters' appearance.
It wasn't the first time she had shared a battlefield with creatures of the warp, but it had always been as a healer, tending to the wounded who had faced against the Enemy and lived. Never was she a combatant as she was now to come face to face with their twisted visages.
"Back! Back! Behind me!" With a wave of her hand, she urged the civilians to flee, to take cover, to run if they had to even as her stance widened, squaring herself.
She wouldn't run. She wouldn't run. She wouldn't run.
The mantra repeated in her head as she reported the daemonic presence to her sisters, as whispers continued to invade her mind, turning her thoughts dark.
Then Caelia's chant, low and muttered though it was, cut through the muddled thoughts, ringing like the clearest water in the finest spring, and Eriko grabbed a hold of that.
"We beseech thee, destroy them," the ending verse ran through her lips.
She would hold as Saint Leanna had done against darker and more powerful creatures. She would prove that she was worthy to follow Leanna's path.
Perhaps in this she would find a measure of pride. Peace.
(OOC: Eriko will stand her ground while waiting for reinforcements. She'll be reporting what she sees.
Overwatch. Semi-Auto Burst. Fire if the Daemons look like they're coming for her.
BS 40 + Semi Auto Burst 10 + Close Range 10 + Free Aim 10 + Accurate 10 + Holo-Targeter within 40m 10 = TN 90
The Apostate eyes Sister Illana as she enters the room the Witch Hunter hides within and shakes his head. "Enough. I can see when a battle is lost." He turns, snapping his finger at fleeing cultists. "To me! Retreat, brothers and sisters! Our prize is lost! Retreat!" Even as he falls back, bodies fall in around him and more heretics-perhaps unheeding of his orders-take up positions to cover the Apostate's retreat.
Maria stomped out, the body of heretics massing before her too much to forge through pell-mell, so she simply unloaded another salvo in the face of the apostate's rearguard, praying stray fire might end his desecration. It would be too small a thing for a true miracle, but she could pray. The fell relic he carried belonged in a furnace, sacred flames scouring away its corruption, or beneath the withering meltas of her sisters. Anything that arrested the flight of holy bolter fire so was a true abomination.
