Nianque
Verified Dragon
Its a shame we missed post 55555, I'm sure the Abomination would have liked to have that one.
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The Long Night Part One: Embers in the Dusk: A Planetary Governor Quest (43k) Complete Sequel Up
- Thread starter Durin
- Start date
Mirror Match
- Location
- Berkeley
Omake time! It's my take on Jane's fight. I tried to show the 'progression' of Jane's breakthroughs in the fight (go from grandmaster to paragon skill level, then get blade master paragon skill, then get combat paragon skill) while emphasizing the way Jane fights, as well as her 'normal' habits.
Mirror Match
When Jane had called the imposter into the room, she had thought she was prepared—or at least as prepared as it was possible to be against the wiles of Chaos. She had spent the last century plus of her life putting plans and contingencies in place for every conceivable opponent or threat she could find, as well as honing her personal skills against everything from wildlife to cultists and fallen psykers to the actual minions of the Ruinous Powers themselves. Her abilities with a blade had long since transcended simple mastery and time and experience had worn away even the slightest of inefficiencies or hints of hesitation in her reaction to threats. While direct confrontation was hardly ideal, she did not consider it hubris to assume that she would be able to handle a single infiltration specialist. How wrong she had been.
The first exchange after it had assumed her form had actually gone fairly well for her. While more than a little bit of luck had been involved, her opponent had evidently been surprised at being caught so early, and while it was clear it was capable of duplicating her skills, there was still the tiniest bit of hesitation in its counters and blows as if it was still adjusting to its new instincts. Alas, such hesitation quickly began to drop away, and the blows she had landed healed with unnatural speed even as the imposter began increasing its speed and strength to impossible levels.
The only reason Oakheart even survived the second exchange was a combination of luck and her own experience in fighting psykers whose speed and strength was far greater than hers. The situation had reversed—now, instead of being able to exploit the small hesitation between attacks, the imposter was using its superior speed to exploit the vulnerabilities in her style—the vulnerabilities it clearly knew because she knew her own style inside and out. Keeping up more with determination and willpower than actual physical ability, Jane avoided death by the smallest of margins too many times to count in the following flurry of attack and counterattack. Using her opponent's own speed and strength against itself, she managed to land several telling blows—a strike that almost removed its offhand followed by a riposte that should have gutted it, an overextension too small to rightly be called a mistake punished with a cut to the tendons to rob it of its manual dexterity, a glancing blow to her offhand shoulder accepted to bury her poisoned pen into its throat—but the thing just accepted the blows and regenerated within seconds.
Although she knew attrition strongly favored her opponent, Oakheart pulled back to encourage a lull in the fight. She needed a second to think, a tiny portion of time without the need to focus every bit of herself on action and reaction. Fortunately, the imposter let her—because it sensed a tactical advantage in a drawn-out encounter or for its own amusement she could not tell, but the effect was ultimately the same. Regardless of the reasoning, she had a few quick seconds to consider the fight. A lightning-fast analysis of the last exchange of blows lead her to a simple conclusion and a startling vulnerability in her opponent. Mass and momentum. Her style, quite naturally, had its strikes and extension optimized around someone of her size moving at her maximum speed. Others who truly mastered the style would learn to make the small adjustments needed to bring it fully in line with their own body type and physical capabilities, but this thing clearly had not had such an opportunity. More, while Warp-spawn of any type frequently made a mockery of the laws governing the Materium, the subtle over-extensions and shifts in balance from the last flurry of blows indicated that this opponent had not overcome those limitations. In point of fact, their very nature made it all but impossible to truly comprehend the way things worked in the Materium at an instinctive level—it was highly unlikely the being even understood that it was doing something wrong, let alone identify and correct the errors.
The third exchange was nearly even, but for the imposter's regeneration. The faster and harder the imposter swung, the more weaknesses appeared in their form, but so too did the time Oakheart have to strike back shrink and the consequences for taking a hit grow. Both original and imposter danced rapidly through the shadows, blades flicking out viper-fast and with lethal intent. Once more Oakheart avoided death by milliseconds and millimeters on multiple strikes, but this time there was a difference. Unlike the last exchange, or even the first, those milliseconds and millimeters were not the result of luck supplemented by skill, but by skill alone. Alas, despite her best efforts, the edge granted by sheer speed, durability, regeneration, and stamina was such that Oakheart knew that even with this new-found near parity, she would be unable to strike a killing blow before she was eventually overwhelmed.
It was at the tail end of the third exchange that everything changed. In the midst of a retaliatory swing towards the imposter's eyes, Oakheart's instincts screamed at her to somehow twist the blow. Not one to question the sudden epiphany, she did—and while she missed her opponent's eyes, the cut she landed on its cheek refused to heal. Somehow, she had managed to damage the daemon's—and she was now assuming it was a daemon—true form, rather than the projection it imposed upon reality.
At this point the imposter's entire demeanor shifted. It quickly became clear that before it had been playing around with her—why wouldn't it, when regardless of the blows she dealt it it would hardly be harmed at all? Now, though, it had become deadly serious. Somehow, she had become a real threat to it, as inconceivable as it was, and it would spare no effort to put her down. Simultaneously it became more aggressive and more cautious.
The fourth exchange started badly for Oakheart. Between the energy she was expending to keep up with her physically superior opponent and the cumulative effects of the nicks and minor wounds she had taken so far, she was beginning to fade, but her opponent was pushing harder and harder. Nevertheless, she persevered, and managed to land several more nicks with the twist that somehow allowed them to stick. On her third retaliatory strike in the bout, though, disaster struck. The imposter managed to parry it with its full strength behind it, and her footing was slightly unstable due to a splash of blood on the ground. It was not a big stumble, even for a swordswoman of her caliber, but it was enough.
Her fighting style was designed around exploiting openings, and the imposter had fully assimilated it. She was vulnerable, and she recognized the swing that the imposter took. It was not a particularly fast, or graceful, or strong swing. No, the point of that strike was that it was incredibly easy to adjust where it landed—against an opponent in her position, there was no conceivable way for them to dodge, and anywhere the blow struck would be crippling.
So for the second time in the fight, she did the impossible. She did not dodge the strike, for that was futile, but she dodged her opponent's perception. A flicker of shadow followed by a contortion and the blade whipped past her, the imposter's contemptuous little smirk that no one but her would be able to recognize on that face quickly shifting to a faint look of bafflement and surprise.
She did not allow it to evolve further. Her opponent was overcommitted, out of position, and confused. She would get no better opportunity, nor did she need one. A swing and twist and without any noticeable resistance the imposter's head fell off its neck, still in the process of shifting its expression to one of confusion. A plasma grenade or three on its fading corpse might have been overkill, but it had been years since Jane ceased to believe in that concept, let alone against enemies affiliated with the Ruinous Powers. And while it might impede investigation over what, exactly, that thing was, she had no intention whatsoever of fighting it again if at all possible.
Jane made sure to get out of the blast range before collapsing, the combination of coming down from an adrenaline high, her blood loss, and exhaustion proving too much. She also made sure to signal that the situation was tentatively resolved—thanks to what some would call her thoroughly paranoid measures, it would be something like twenty four hours before anyone from the facility would be released, and only then after some rather extreme vetting, but after her preliminary debrief she should be able to take a nap in solitary detainment. Bah, paranoid, was she? If anything, this just showed she wasn't quite paranoid enough.
Mirror Match
When Jane had called the imposter into the room, she had thought she was prepared—or at least as prepared as it was possible to be against the wiles of Chaos. She had spent the last century plus of her life putting plans and contingencies in place for every conceivable opponent or threat she could find, as well as honing her personal skills against everything from wildlife to cultists and fallen psykers to the actual minions of the Ruinous Powers themselves. Her abilities with a blade had long since transcended simple mastery and time and experience had worn away even the slightest of inefficiencies or hints of hesitation in her reaction to threats. While direct confrontation was hardly ideal, she did not consider it hubris to assume that she would be able to handle a single infiltration specialist. How wrong she had been.
The first exchange after it had assumed her form had actually gone fairly well for her. While more than a little bit of luck had been involved, her opponent had evidently been surprised at being caught so early, and while it was clear it was capable of duplicating her skills, there was still the tiniest bit of hesitation in its counters and blows as if it was still adjusting to its new instincts. Alas, such hesitation quickly began to drop away, and the blows she had landed healed with unnatural speed even as the imposter began increasing its speed and strength to impossible levels.
The only reason Oakheart even survived the second exchange was a combination of luck and her own experience in fighting psykers whose speed and strength was far greater than hers. The situation had reversed—now, instead of being able to exploit the small hesitation between attacks, the imposter was using its superior speed to exploit the vulnerabilities in her style—the vulnerabilities it clearly knew because she knew her own style inside and out. Keeping up more with determination and willpower than actual physical ability, Jane avoided death by the smallest of margins too many times to count in the following flurry of attack and counterattack. Using her opponent's own speed and strength against itself, she managed to land several telling blows—a strike that almost removed its offhand followed by a riposte that should have gutted it, an overextension too small to rightly be called a mistake punished with a cut to the tendons to rob it of its manual dexterity, a glancing blow to her offhand shoulder accepted to bury her poisoned pen into its throat—but the thing just accepted the blows and regenerated within seconds.
Although she knew attrition strongly favored her opponent, Oakheart pulled back to encourage a lull in the fight. She needed a second to think, a tiny portion of time without the need to focus every bit of herself on action and reaction. Fortunately, the imposter let her—because it sensed a tactical advantage in a drawn-out encounter or for its own amusement she could not tell, but the effect was ultimately the same. Regardless of the reasoning, she had a few quick seconds to consider the fight. A lightning-fast analysis of the last exchange of blows lead her to a simple conclusion and a startling vulnerability in her opponent. Mass and momentum. Her style, quite naturally, had its strikes and extension optimized around someone of her size moving at her maximum speed. Others who truly mastered the style would learn to make the small adjustments needed to bring it fully in line with their own body type and physical capabilities, but this thing clearly had not had such an opportunity. More, while Warp-spawn of any type frequently made a mockery of the laws governing the Materium, the subtle over-extensions and shifts in balance from the last flurry of blows indicated that this opponent had not overcome those limitations. In point of fact, their very nature made it all but impossible to truly comprehend the way things worked in the Materium at an instinctive level—it was highly unlikely the being even understood that it was doing something wrong, let alone identify and correct the errors.
The third exchange was nearly even, but for the imposter's regeneration. The faster and harder the imposter swung, the more weaknesses appeared in their form, but so too did the time Oakheart have to strike back shrink and the consequences for taking a hit grow. Both original and imposter danced rapidly through the shadows, blades flicking out viper-fast and with lethal intent. Once more Oakheart avoided death by milliseconds and millimeters on multiple strikes, but this time there was a difference. Unlike the last exchange, or even the first, those milliseconds and millimeters were not the result of luck supplemented by skill, but by skill alone. Alas, despite her best efforts, the edge granted by sheer speed, durability, regeneration, and stamina was such that Oakheart knew that even with this new-found near parity, she would be unable to strike a killing blow before she was eventually overwhelmed.
It was at the tail end of the third exchange that everything changed. In the midst of a retaliatory swing towards the imposter's eyes, Oakheart's instincts screamed at her to somehow twist the blow. Not one to question the sudden epiphany, she did—and while she missed her opponent's eyes, the cut she landed on its cheek refused to heal. Somehow, she had managed to damage the daemon's—and she was now assuming it was a daemon—true form, rather than the projection it imposed upon reality.
At this point the imposter's entire demeanor shifted. It quickly became clear that before it had been playing around with her—why wouldn't it, when regardless of the blows she dealt it it would hardly be harmed at all? Now, though, it had become deadly serious. Somehow, she had become a real threat to it, as inconceivable as it was, and it would spare no effort to put her down. Simultaneously it became more aggressive and more cautious.
The fourth exchange started badly for Oakheart. Between the energy she was expending to keep up with her physically superior opponent and the cumulative effects of the nicks and minor wounds she had taken so far, she was beginning to fade, but her opponent was pushing harder and harder. Nevertheless, she persevered, and managed to land several more nicks with the twist that somehow allowed them to stick. On her third retaliatory strike in the bout, though, disaster struck. The imposter managed to parry it with its full strength behind it, and her footing was slightly unstable due to a splash of blood on the ground. It was not a big stumble, even for a swordswoman of her caliber, but it was enough.
Her fighting style was designed around exploiting openings, and the imposter had fully assimilated it. She was vulnerable, and she recognized the swing that the imposter took. It was not a particularly fast, or graceful, or strong swing. No, the point of that strike was that it was incredibly easy to adjust where it landed—against an opponent in her position, there was no conceivable way for them to dodge, and anywhere the blow struck would be crippling.
So for the second time in the fight, she did the impossible. She did not dodge the strike, for that was futile, but she dodged her opponent's perception. A flicker of shadow followed by a contortion and the blade whipped past her, the imposter's contemptuous little smirk that no one but her would be able to recognize on that face quickly shifting to a faint look of bafflement and surprise.
She did not allow it to evolve further. Her opponent was overcommitted, out of position, and confused. She would get no better opportunity, nor did she need one. A swing and twist and without any noticeable resistance the imposter's head fell off its neck, still in the process of shifting its expression to one of confusion. A plasma grenade or three on its fading corpse might have been overkill, but it had been years since Jane ceased to believe in that concept, let alone against enemies affiliated with the Ruinous Powers. And while it might impede investigation over what, exactly, that thing was, she had no intention whatsoever of fighting it again if at all possible.
Jane made sure to get out of the blast range before collapsing, the combination of coming down from an adrenaline high, her blood loss, and exhaustion proving too much. She also made sure to signal that the situation was tentatively resolved—thanks to what some would call her thoroughly paranoid measures, it would be something like twenty four hours before anyone from the facility would be released, and only then after some rather extreme vetting, but after her preliminary debrief she should be able to take a nap in solitary detainment. Bah, paranoid, was she? If anything, this just showed she wasn't quite paranoid enough.
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- Location
- USA NYC
So Avernites warp reailty via Rule Of Cool you now that explains a lot of how they have survived this planet. Admitly not to Janes degree but it does make sense within the context of 40k. Or as much as it does when every human warrior in 40k does it to some small degree. With Avernites being better then most.
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
- Location
- Somewhere on Earth
Uh, from what I can tell, this isn't exclusive to Avernites, this is true for just about everything in the WH40K universe, a paragon trait is by it's nature OP and bullshit and it's something that anyone can get provided they:
A: Get 50 or above in a stat
B: Get to Paragon level in a trait
You can see an example in Horatius Cocles, who has a Paragon trait from his skill in using a mace that gives him a straight -150 to all ranged attacks made at him, and can challenge the strongest enemy in arms reach, upon which they are in a duel and immune to any outside interference up to (But not including) major orbital bombardment.
Avernites are more likely to get to this, but that's mostly because they're in a situation which necessitates high stats and traits.
- Location
- USA NYC
But of course Rule of Cool is a law of physics in 40k how else would drive me closer so I can hit them with my sword be a valid battle strategy
and he's a Space Marine, I am talking about your average human preforming feats of memetic badassry.
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- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
that is how I am playing itBut of course Rule of Cool is a law of physics in 40k how else would drive me closer so I can hit them with my sword be a valid battle strategy
the Tau took a log time to figure it out
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
+1440 Combat Bonus... +1560 in melee with a sword.. Double Damage... x50 damage on crits..
When it says 'anything that isn't a paragon', does it mean that characters like Rotbart, Ridcully, Lin and Haratius are exempted? They're all paragons, after all.
x100 damage should be enough to kill a Titan anyway, shouldn't it?
When it says 'anything that isn't a paragon', does it mean that characters like Rotbart, Ridcully, Lin and Haratius are exempted? They're all paragons, after all.
x100 damage should be enough to kill a Titan anyway, shouldn't it?
Don't think so. Emperor titans have armor a few times more thick than a sword's length.
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
Rule of Cool override?
Works on anything smaller than Emperor. After that the size alone is cool enough to counter.
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
Ah, but the armour has joints
.- Location
- USA NYC
Silly Tau don't do what is logical do what is awesome to achieve victory.
Good design has armor joints protected by more armor.Ah, but the armour has joints
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I totally see Tau going for Shonen anime style after discovering a literal physical Rule of Cool.
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
Why did you think commander Farsight was so awesome, he's literally a mecha character, complete with a giant sword strapped to his mech.
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
- Location
- Australia
Isn't the Tau's schtick that they don't play like this? They're supposed to be the sensible race, justified by having souls so poor they can't even do Warp travel. Guys like Farsight and Kais are exceptions.
dragon
Ancalagon the Black
- Location
- The Skies of Arda
[X] Plan Shard T88
Guys, guys, I know what power the black crystal necklace has! It can make people forget it exists! Not even rotbart remembers and he's been wearing it for decades. Lol.
@Shard do you think you can fit in examining the necklace? I wouldn't put it before warding void shields but wildlife psychic material can probably stand to be bumped down.
Edit: nevermind, I was just pointed to where the necklace entry was. I'm still sticking with tlyour plan though.
Guys, guys, I know what power the black crystal necklace has! It can make people forget it exists! Not even rotbart remembers and he's been wearing it for decades. Lol.
@Shard do you think you can fit in examining the necklace? I wouldn't put it before warding void shields but wildlife psychic material can probably stand to be bumped down.
Edit: nevermind, I was just pointed to where the necklace entry was. I'm still sticking with tlyour plan though.
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They've had thousands of years to change.
We've already examined the necklace. It enhances telepathic powers. Doesn't do anything for Rotbart because he's not a telepath, of course.
A Tale of Two Arbiters
Okay--
*shakes fist*
~~~
A Tale of Two Arbiters
~~~
"LeMaitre."
He turned, eyes widening as Jane's sabre caught in his ribs, shuddering with the giving tremor characteristic of penetrating lung tissue. She shoved forward, digging into bone and flesh and loosing a point-blank snapkick that could split organs.
Beware, Master Oakheart, the stolen face and concealed blade. Aid will come in two hundred and seventeen seconds.
Her boot was caught, lodging into the lamellar cuirass of his training leathers. LeMaitre, or the thing wearing his face, smiled. "Ah," he said, pulling the sabre from his chest in an iron grip, "caught out already."
Jane pulled her sabre free from his hand, slicing his fingers half off. But LeMaitre curled them shut, opening to reveal the wounds hissing away into the warp. "Well, this face was getting old, anyway. Perhaps it's time for a change of pace. Or change of face. Get it?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Jane muttered. She twirled her blade, checking its weight and curve; it lacked the reinforcement of her execution sabre, but seemed undeformed. "Who are you?"
"Mm. I'm me. I'm you." LeMaitre spread his hands. "I can be anyone. It's all a matter of perspective—" He drew his sabre in a flash, deflecting Jane's kneecapping strike and nearly clipping off the tip of her nose with a return blow. "How rude! And when I took time out of my busy life to pay you a visit."
Aid will come in one hundred and seventy-six seconds.
"You killed my student," said Jane tonelessly, her sabre dancing forward in ringing clashes as the face-stealer parried half and dodged the rest. "I will kill you."
"Hm? Is that a promise?" He swung once wildly, without technique, but sheer strength and force turned aside her blade as though it were a blade of razorgrass. "Your student made the same promise. Like pupil, like master, it seems." He licked his stolen lips, tongue flushed red and sickly. "Delicious."
Even as he spoke, his sabre twirled gracefully, with all the skill and technique the real LeMaitre was years from grasping, and never would.
"Is that all?" he asked, when Jane remained silent, even as she exploded into a deadly assailing rain of strikes. "No words for him?"
"Whatever you are," said Jane, diverting a helmsplitter to drive the tip of her sword through his forearm tendons, "shut up and die." As expected, it didn't stop him at all, a mailed fist driving into her chin even as his hand healed swift enough to grab the dropped blade.
LeMaitre chuckled. "Try it."
"If I must win your silence with your death, so be it."
"Is that so?" LeMaitre grinned. "Very well. And if you die, I will wear your face and destroy everything you love. Do we have an accord?"
Jane whirled, weaving between strikes, sabre close to her body as she leveraged the full rotation of her body to carve open his stomach leathers, arm whipping out to rip open a bloodless gash in his throat.
"I'll take that as a yes," said LeMaitre, air whistling through the wound. "But let's make it a little fairer." He—no, she blocked Jane's decapitator with a duplicate of her armoured gauntlet, forcing her to dodge the overhead that came whistling after.
As Jane took a breath, the face-stealer sighed breathlessly, raking a gloved hand through the brown hair of Jane's stolen visage. The mottled coarseness of her burns had been swept smooth and pink, fresh and undamaged. "Now this is a body. Shall we dance, Madam Oakheart?"
~~~
The world had taken on a cold, pale tinge, a shell of witchery that divided them from the world. Sectioned them into a world of pure combat, a scarce universe consisting only of Jane and the enemy, entropically dwindling down to their total annihilation.
By implicitly accepting its challenge, Jane had submitted herself to the psychic isolation. No aid would be coming; interference would likely kill her as the compact rent itself apart on her soul. It was an effect she'd witnessed, in lesser measure, performed by the Chaplain of the Varangian Guard.
The doppelganger, wearing Jane's face and wielding Jane's sword, was not the equal of the Master of Sanctity. But it was close.
And it never shut up.
"Really? You're trying that one again?" It laughed, deflecting her three-form manoeuvre in a single twirl of her edge. "It goes like this, you useless wretch."
And Jane was forced back by the same move, as the doppelganger, moving with the interminable speed and explosive burst of a bolt round, executed it flawlessly, shattering her guard and tracing a bleeding gash from shoulder to hip. Thin, shallow, barely a flesh wound, but a telling blow.
Even as she turned her body, letting the blade pass out instead of digging into her pelvis, Jane capitalized. Performing the bisector technique left the swordswoman overcompensated. The weakness of the stance was apparent, and she absorbed the wound to dig her sabre into its shoulder, moving into—
The blade was blocked, turned aside by steel that should not have been there, but was there by virtue of a twist of the wrist and crook of the elbow. Jane twitched, shuffling back into a dropped stance as the doppelganger shaved a lock of her hair, instead of spilling her throat across the floor.
Jane's mind burned furiously, even as her muscles seethed and sweated. How? The strength needed to cleave an opponent in two was not so easily turned back. Inertial control of that nature was the remit of biomancers and telekinetic puppeteers. If the doppelganger had such power, it would simply have crushed Jane's arteries and killed her in a blink.
But it had done so, with only the skill of arms and pure technique. No flourish, no pattern, simply the fundamentals trained into sheer instinct, executed at speeds that rivaled bullets from a range considered suicidal. One strike, one kill. A way to reliably slay psykers, too fast to be predicted and too lethal to survive. A set of motions that could only be slowed by thought, because to hold your intent in mind was to reveal it to the mindreader.
This was her style, the product of a century of combat against the monsters of the galaxy, the crystallization of a thousand insights and the reward of ten thousand hours. To see it so easily improved, a weakness of the art smoothed over without flaw—
A yawning abyss opened in her heart, before it ignited a fury in her, another flame she compressed into her blade.
The doppelganger grinned mischievously, even as it sought to trim Jane's face from her skull. "Looks like I struck a nerve."
Blows blurred into exchanges, stretched into seventy-strike manoeuvres to open weakness in a single misstep orchestrated over minutes that stretched like hours. Twice, thrice, Jane landed a killing blow, slicing open arteries and snipping hamstrings and even impaling the doppelganger with a three-inch incision to the heart. And each time she had to turn back, the wound vanishing as if filled in with clay, the doppelganger advancing with relentless, murderous intent.
Her muscles had burned initially, aflame as if she were wax to a candle. But Jane fought on, and as the hours came and passed, as she dwindled from burning pain to hollow weakness, as her muscles awoke to screaming agony from oxygen deprivation until falling to blessed numbness, as she lost sensation from her fingers and toes, nonessential anatomy sacrificed to protect core muscles, still she fought, mind sharp in ascetic fervor. A thousand cuts painted her skin like tiger stripes; her body slick with sweat and blood intermingled. Her footsteps traced red prints into the floor.
And the doppelganger was as unharmed and swift as the first second it took a blade against Jane's own. Her own style, perfected and flawless, was written into its every movement, efficient beyond Jane's mortal efforts.
For once in a long time, Jane was the student. She soaked in the motions, the forms and transitions, the exact angles of approach and deflection, each improvement prolonging the last taper of her energy by hard-won seconds she spent in desperation to eke out a stalemate.
"Getting tired, are we?" said the doppelganger, a light sheen of sweat giving its face an attractive air.
Jane couldn't reply even if she wanted to, droplets of blood flung as she performed a perfected technique that was completely, contemptuously parried. So lost in the throes of mental calculation, she'd forgotten how to speak, and would not have entertained the urge regardless.
Her doppelganger scowled. "You're no fun anymore." And then it stepped forward, blade falling in a perfect helmsplitter that would cut from skull to sternum without interruption. Jane executed the counter she had witnessed only four thousand exchanges and eighteen hundred seconds ago, turning the blade aside. When the doppelganger had performed it, it had skimmed by its shoulder with scant millimetres to spare; Jane's own imperfect version shaved a strip of skin and fat from her shoulder to elbow that fluttered to the ground, and she muted the reflexive groan.
"No fun at all," said the doppelganger, and moved into the executioner's form.
Jane stumbled back, even as it advanced, her avenues of escape closing even as her mind sped to find them. Severed hamstring, disembowelment, spinal rupture, a thousand deaths at the heels of the one by blade.
And then she saw it. Her retreat had been delayed by several microseconds, out of sync with the doppelganger's stride, so that she was at her most stable when it was still completing its stride. Her insight, forged over a hundred thousand exchanges, saw the weakness in its stability that came from fundamental movement, a chance in a million that would be invisible to a swordswoman of lesser caliber. Would have been unknown to the Jane that woke up this morning.
The blade descended. Jane struck. The slight imbalance of the doppelganger's movement turned into a catastrophic misstep as Jane cored out a section of its chest, but even as it fell it struck like a viper, shaving flecks of bone from Jane's ribs and angling into her heart and Jane twisted, catching it on bone as she hooked her off arm around the blade, trapping it between wrist and bicep.
The doppelganger tugged once, twice, drawing hot blood and new pain from her arm. She saw its eyes widen, saw it loosen its grip to abandon the blade, and turned her hips, her sabre slicing through throat and spine and flinging the head into the ceiling.
The head dropped, thumping on the floor. The body, its neck bleeding not blood but fog of the warp, dropped to its knees, and Jane struck ten times more in a single blink, reducing it to dissolving pieces.
Jane sucked in a breath, all the hours of combat now striking with its toll. She grit her teeth, defied the instinct to pull out the steel wedged in her side, and took slow, careful steps to the head, before kicking it over.
Instead of dead eyes, it looked at her, pouting.
"It's not fair," it whined petulantly. "I should have won. You cheater, you ruined everything."
Jane flipped her blade into a reverse-grip, and drove it into the eyesocket of the doppelganger.
It screamed, an agonizing howl as flesh and bone bubbled from steel. Jane stepped back hurriedly, but the process intensified, the cries and moans of pain gurgling into silence as a cold wind blew, carrying the scent of ashes.
For a moment, there was silence. Then sirens blared, the entire room locking down as response-psykers appeared. Grandmaster Jameson, wielding a rod of clear crystal, appeared in a flash.
She took one look at Jane and blanched. "Master Oakheart! You need a medic!"
Jane stared, and Tamia shrunk back. "Yes," she said, "I do."
~~~
AN: Later, Jane would train for ten hours straight to commit her advancements into muscle memory, before finding a new student to beat the crap out of.
The point of Paragon is the wielder, not the weapon. Also why would you train with live plasma and not steel? Impractically unsafe, the weight is all different, and I guarantee there are more swords of steel than there are of plasma.
obviously it lingered for her to perform shooting hundred heads and then stab her own face while a sick metal guitar riff played
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Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
Yep, she also has a relic power sword.
We give our people the best toys.
Didn't it disappear as soon as she beheaded it?
Practical lesson
- Location
- England
"And you are certain this is safe Gerald?"
The throne room was a massive arena, the cogitator throne of the governor projecting a bubble of holographic screens around him. Surrounding the throne was a clearing, where the panoply of rule was collected. The Glory Aquila, once mighty and imposing, was now humble and wise perched on its seat. The armour of the governor glinted, wards and runes carved into it, it's reactor slowly humming.
"Absolutely Fred. The divination choir is positive about it, and the headmaster agrees with them. Even if anything goes wrong, Tammy and I will be either side of her."
The governor glanced around the outer reaches of the room, banks of administratii working cogitators, going through the vast quantities of data needed to rule Averneus. Most of the decisions were already made, with the governor giving strict algorithms to his staff, so minor rulings could be made without his direct action. Whenever something came up that could not easily be handled by the algorithms, it was sent to the governor himself, and he made a ruling.
"You and Tammy together still can't guarantee victory against her."
The psyker stood facing the governor, in the gubernatorial pulpit in the centre of the titanic throne room. Dressed in heavily customised recon armour, he was flanked by two fully armoured governor's own. Hundreds more took up positions across the building, securing all entrances with overlapping fields of fire.
"Tamia believes she has a good handle on her abilities. So do I. We'll be fine."
---
Three figures stand on a hill. A man, he looks around 20. Tall, thin, and armoured he looks to the figure beside him and smiles. The figure, a girl of 14 smiles back at him. She is hiding her worry, but the smile to man indicates his presence reasures her.
The third figure, a woman, also wears armour. Her hair is disorganised, falling around the pauldrons of the silver elite armour. She turns to the girl and begins to instruct.
"The orbital volley has just been launched. We have 3 minutes before it impacts. Ophelia, remember the plan. Gerald and I will keep the flames contained. You just need to make it burn brighter, and force it downwards. Just like the melta bomb exercise last month. Divine the time of the explosion, then force your power into the flames. Make them burn brighter and hotter than the sun."
The man adds to this, his voice calming as the sound of waves.
"If you find your control failing, just let them go. Where they are, they will cause no harm, but if you start creating more beyond our barrier, everything could fall. Let go if you can't hold them. Do not them drag you away. It's like a power kite. If you cut the power, you kill the pull."
Ophelia looks over the crest of the hill, and takes in the view. Close to them, she sees lines upon lines of prefabricated fortresses crossing the burnt and flattened forest. Dotted amongst them, she sees the ants, infantry and beetles, tanks. Towering up to the left of the hill is the mighty form of the adjudicator, its main cannons briefly silent.
Beyond them lies the infestation. A towering leaning tumbledown monstrosity built from scrap, and rocks, and strange large mushroom trees. Amongst this scurries close to a billion walking fungusforms. Beasts who's hearts and souls sing only in war, a warped mirror to the Avernites opposite them. Upon the fortress's shoulders lied huge ship to ship weapons, most now brought to silence. The phase tigers had sabotaged a large number of them in yet another famous casualty free raid. Others had been brought down burning by lucky shots from brave artillerymen, or precision strikes by advanced Avernite aircraft.
A stattaco thunderclap echos across the field as the Avernite artillery opens fire. A hundred thousand tubes blaze white and then hang silent, as a rain of shells is launched towards the ramshackle citadel.
The psykers feel the strike incoming before it lands. Ophelia's lips move silently. Three, two, one.
The light is visible first, the tinted goggles covering her eyes go dark, with only the flames visible. She closes her eyes. At this point she no longer needs them. Reaching out with her mind she assesses the flames. Quickly she realises a good tenth of the iron rain passed through the crude voidshield. More than expected. More fire than she had ever felt before.
She grabs it, and lets her powers run through it. Never has she had an outlet so easy to force more and more power through. Never has she been allowed to use this much power. She doesn't fear losing control, for the more power she forces into the flames, the less there is to cloud her mind.
She then remembers. Boost then push. She takes her hands, and raises them above her head at a 60 degree angle. She feels the flames push against her, and for a moment they feel too much, too bright.
"No."
Ophelia forces her hands down, her body feeling sympathetic resistance from the flames. The flames are crushed further down stretching her mighty powers to their limits. They pour through the gaps in the fortress's armour like water into a spongebeast. The burn everything. Ophelia feels a sullen pressure on her mind lift, as the fire purges the orks, burning the waagh field to psychic dust in the warp.
With the task complete, she sets about dismissing the fire, first separating it out, then pulling it away from fuel. She cuts off the supply of warp energy, feeling it build up inside her again, throttling the last of the flames.
The two beta pyromancers look first to her and then to each other. The power of the attack hadn't surprised them, so much as the control and speed. What would have taken them together a good half hour of strenuous control was done in less than 30 seconds.
The sound blast of the shells finally hits them, almost knocking Ophelia of her feet. Gerald grabs her and holds her steady.
Across in the distance the fortress was now nothing more than a plane of orange glowing glass. Ophelia coughs and turns to Gerald.
"Did I do good?"
"You did great champ. You did great."
The throne room was a massive arena, the cogitator throne of the governor projecting a bubble of holographic screens around him. Surrounding the throne was a clearing, where the panoply of rule was collected. The Glory Aquila, once mighty and imposing, was now humble and wise perched on its seat. The armour of the governor glinted, wards and runes carved into it, it's reactor slowly humming.
"Absolutely Fred. The divination choir is positive about it, and the headmaster agrees with them. Even if anything goes wrong, Tammy and I will be either side of her."
The governor glanced around the outer reaches of the room, banks of administratii working cogitators, going through the vast quantities of data needed to rule Averneus. Most of the decisions were already made, with the governor giving strict algorithms to his staff, so minor rulings could be made without his direct action. Whenever something came up that could not easily be handled by the algorithms, it was sent to the governor himself, and he made a ruling.
"You and Tammy together still can't guarantee victory against her."
The psyker stood facing the governor, in the gubernatorial pulpit in the centre of the titanic throne room. Dressed in heavily customised recon armour, he was flanked by two fully armoured governor's own. Hundreds more took up positions across the building, securing all entrances with overlapping fields of fire.
"Tamia believes she has a good handle on her abilities. So do I. We'll be fine."
---
Three figures stand on a hill. A man, he looks around 20. Tall, thin, and armoured he looks to the figure beside him and smiles. The figure, a girl of 14 smiles back at him. She is hiding her worry, but the smile to man indicates his presence reasures her.
The third figure, a woman, also wears armour. Her hair is disorganised, falling around the pauldrons of the silver elite armour. She turns to the girl and begins to instruct.
"The orbital volley has just been launched. We have 3 minutes before it impacts. Ophelia, remember the plan. Gerald and I will keep the flames contained. You just need to make it burn brighter, and force it downwards. Just like the melta bomb exercise last month. Divine the time of the explosion, then force your power into the flames. Make them burn brighter and hotter than the sun."
The man adds to this, his voice calming as the sound of waves.
"If you find your control failing, just let them go. Where they are, they will cause no harm, but if you start creating more beyond our barrier, everything could fall. Let go if you can't hold them. Do not them drag you away. It's like a power kite. If you cut the power, you kill the pull."
Ophelia looks over the crest of the hill, and takes in the view. Close to them, she sees lines upon lines of prefabricated fortresses crossing the burnt and flattened forest. Dotted amongst them, she sees the ants, infantry and beetles, tanks. Towering up to the left of the hill is the mighty form of the adjudicator, its main cannons briefly silent.
Beyond them lies the infestation. A towering leaning tumbledown monstrosity built from scrap, and rocks, and strange large mushroom trees. Amongst this scurries close to a billion walking fungusforms. Beasts who's hearts and souls sing only in war, a warped mirror to the Avernites opposite them. Upon the fortress's shoulders lied huge ship to ship weapons, most now brought to silence. The phase tigers had sabotaged a large number of them in yet another famous casualty free raid. Others had been brought down burning by lucky shots from brave artillerymen, or precision strikes by advanced Avernite aircraft.
A stattaco thunderclap echos across the field as the Avernite artillery opens fire. A hundred thousand tubes blaze white and then hang silent, as a rain of shells is launched towards the ramshackle citadel.
The psykers feel the strike incoming before it lands. Ophelia's lips move silently. Three, two, one.
The light is visible first, the tinted goggles covering her eyes go dark, with only the flames visible. She closes her eyes. At this point she no longer needs them. Reaching out with her mind she assesses the flames. Quickly she realises a good tenth of the iron rain passed through the crude voidshield. More than expected. More fire than she had ever felt before.
She grabs it, and lets her powers run through it. Never has she had an outlet so easy to force more and more power through. Never has she been allowed to use this much power. She doesn't fear losing control, for the more power she forces into the flames, the less there is to cloud her mind.
She then remembers. Boost then push. She takes her hands, and raises them above her head at a 60 degree angle. She feels the flames push against her, and for a moment they feel too much, too bright.
"No."
Ophelia forces her hands down, her body feeling sympathetic resistance from the flames. The flames are crushed further down stretching her mighty powers to their limits. They pour through the gaps in the fortress's armour like water into a spongebeast. The burn everything. Ophelia feels a sullen pressure on her mind lift, as the fire purges the orks, burning the waagh field to psychic dust in the warp.
With the task complete, she sets about dismissing the fire, first separating it out, then pulling it away from fuel. She cuts off the supply of warp energy, feeling it build up inside her again, throttling the last of the flames.
The two beta pyromancers look first to her and then to each other. The power of the attack hadn't surprised them, so much as the control and speed. What would have taken them together a good half hour of strenuous control was done in less than 30 seconds.
The sound blast of the shells finally hits them, almost knocking Ophelia of her feet. Gerald grabs her and holds her steady.
Across in the distance the fortress was now nothing more than a plane of orange glowing glass. Ophelia coughs and turns to Gerald.
"Did I do good?"
"You did great champ. You did great."
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