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A sweater! Come in, cover it, children are around

Sup Nerds! Still room in this rp?

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The Hardest Rider - Shinji Legion/Khan Borderlands

The howl of the engine was what alarmed the caravan, yet at this point, it was already to late. The howl of the machine soon was joined by the warcries of the companions of the hardest rider, who´s war club scraped over the ground below. He could make out seven walkers and four brahmins, packed and heavy with loot. One of them raised a rifle, which unleashed a hissing beam of laser upon them, but missed , its atomic fury cracking open a wreck of a vehicle far away from them. With one more warcry on his lips, Shinji pressed through with his foot, the bike below him storming forth.

The carrier of the laser rifle screamed in fear, as the bike came past him, and the warclub connected with his chest, shattering bones and flesh alike. Seconds later, his companions were upon the traders. A spear was jammed into the side of a brahmin, a blade took the head of another carvan guard and Shinji himself took another kill to his name, when he disloged the leg of a fleeing man, before driving his bike over him. Howling in victory he stopped his bike, before raising his bloody club over his head. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY!"

The meat of Brahmin was tender, if cooked right and slowly. The loot had been meager, mostly books and useless junk, that the hardest rider simply had no use nor patience for. It was the rotten slave, that he had to drag along on due to the demand of the warchief, that was holding upon one of them, reading through it, while letting his own meat go cold. With naught but disgust, Shinji and his seven companions feasted, while letting a bottle of moonshine pass around, that they had found on one of the brahmins, while looking into the fire of books. "None of these were worthy kills. You walkers should not dare to mention them to our ancestors! They will laugh at you, when we meet them on the asphalt of the eternal highways in the sky. They will not take you into the halls of the freckled maid or painted host if these are the best you have. Brothers...i tell you, my great ancestor, the man i am named after, has killed more men in a morning, than any of you in your life!" Taking a deep sip from the booze, Shinji looked over to the rotten slave. "Vagari...sounds like virgin spelled with a fucked up mouth! Who gave you this silly name?"

The Ghoul did not answer, but kept looking at the book, but Shinji was not intrested in letting him go easy. His blood was boiling and his mood raised by the raid. "You know, Thunderfoot would never know if i would just break your ugly rotten neck! To be fully honest, i think it would be for the best. Your whining and boot licking makes me sick, every time you open your mouth, all i hear is a worm bending over." The smug grin on the slave drove Shinji wild, as he got up, his companions falling silent. "Your ears have rotten off, you worm? I am talking to you!" The slave just shaked his head, closing his book. Laying it down, he himself got up, small and rotten as his figure was. "You are all that is wrong with the 80s, dear Shinji. All that was wrong with Thunderbird!" The hardest rider spat out. "Thunderbird was a leader! Thunderfoot will be a leader! You will just be a sniffling worm. Didnt he made you his concubines wetnurse? Heard he cut off your manhood as well...if it had not long rotten off." Shinji just wanted to strangle the old man, but some curiosity was woken in him as well.

"I was indeed the servant of the mother of Thunderfoot. Who was a woman who deserved better than this brutal barbarian. All joy she ever had in life, he took from her. As you most likely will from who ever poor woman you will copulate with and father an offspring." Shinji took a deep breath, as his hand formed a fist. But a promise had been a promise, and he would not defy his blood brother. Once more, he felt the curiosity getting the better of him, in all his anger. "Redhair had a good life as the concubine of the greatest leader the 80s ever had!" Cutting off another piece of meat, Shinji reached for the bottle from one of his companions. "But what would a slave know of that?"

"Didnt he lead you to your downfall? Didnt he die, not on your sacred highway, but strangulated by a rope, in front of a cheering crowed in Shady Sands?" Taking a huge swing, Shinji scoweld at the slave. "He poked the bear one to many time, yes. But he now rides with the great ancestors on the eternal highway! He feasts in the halls of the freckled maid and the painted host!" The slave didnt answer, just once more stared in his books.

The kick to his side, woke Shinji roughly, who reached for his dagger, but the hand of his companion "Cutters-Edge" was faster and on his mouth. "They are upon us! Ten of them, Legion scouts.." The beating of his heart was all Shinjig felt as he rolled over, taking hold of the rifle. He and his companions lay awake, ready for the ambush that would soon be upon them. They had been in such situations before, and Shinji knew that a good counter ambush could turn the tide better then a real one ever could. He could hear the steps towards them, as he took a deep breath. He was ready to fight once more this day...

"Amicis, ego postulant diplomatica loco. Nos sunt envoys de potens rex Thunderfoot, qui offert, manum in amicitia, ut potens legionem, et promptus est ut persolvo tributum eius, ut et gloria. Ego, humilis servus in eius nomine, fuisse fiduciam loqui in nomine eius. Hoc incursione meum custodes male monuit, tamen extra legionem territorio. Nos esset, non audeat ad contemptum sacra terram de legio, sit ut difficiliter vel peregrini." 1.

Shinji rose, cursing this damn fool, speaking what he suspected was some strange spell. But the figures in the shadow stopped and lowered their weapons. Did it work?

"Nobilis Thunderfoot, Vincere Salt Lake City requirit diplomatica loquitur, cum legionem. Ego humiliter petentibus, ut ego sum, ad esse adduxit ante a persona auctoritate, ut tenere dixit diplomatica loquitur." 2.

1. Friends, i demand diplomatic passage. We are the envoys of the mighty king Thunderfoot, who offers his hand in friendship to the mighty legion, and is willing to pay tribute to its might and glory. I, a humble servant in his name, have been trusted to speak in his name. This raid of my guards was ill advised, yet outside of legion territory. We would not dare to disrespect the sacred ground of the legion, be it as envoy or travellers.

2. Noble Thunderfoot Conquerer of Salt Lake City requests in all honesty and in the spirit of friendship, diplomatic talks with the legion. I humbly request that i am to be brought before a person of authority, so that i may hold said diplomatic talks.

T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

"We give upon the earth, our brothers...our comrades...our fellow faithful." The group leaders voice boomed, even though he spoke normaly, with little haste, but a deep bitterness. The two militans, that had been Bat-kick and Jagged lay broken upon the board. An explosive trap, had sprung when they had entered the building and torn into them, like a sickle into fresh razorgrain. The Group Leader had held onto Bat-Kicks hand, when he taken his last breaths, coughing blood that was more black then red. His last words, had been a hissing begging for last breath of Miasma, to numb his pain. When the rebreather had reached his mouth, he had already turn limp in his grip, dying from the terrible wound, the cowardly contraption had inflicted upon him. The priests in the liliac robes, had collected them, ordered their slaves to strip them of all that was salvagable, before leaving their bodies behind, tossing all they could still use, to fuel this eternal war onto a cart, before moving on, back behind the army. Naked, the the group had gathered some fabric, to give their brothers some decency in death, and cover their wounds. Rolled into it, the had placed them here, in a more secluded spot, with deep earth to bury them, rather then just leave them for the crows, as the priests in the liliac robes would do.

"They were brave! They were brothers to each and every one of us. None of us ever found them wanting. None of us could claim to have done better! We will never see the likes of them again..." The Group-Leaders mouth felt bitter, as his lungs begged for the miasma. His nose took in the smell of blood, and for a moment, his sadness was overcome by rage over the cowardly murderer who had robbed him of these two fine men. "If it wasnt for Jagged, i never would have made it through the blood works. He jumped in, when a ghoul overpowered me.." The voice of another militant rose, before one more came forth. "Bat-kick always made sure we all got our rations. He would not eat before the rest of us did." Three of his men were digging two holes, deep enough, that the two would finally be able to rest, never to be found by the vile faithless. Something inside the Group-Leader wished he could say something. Promise that they now were at a better place. But it was a lie. There was no such thing, in the twilight of the monolith.

Finishing up on the hole, the three climbed out, ready to lower the bodies. "Let us never forget our brothers. Let us never forget who they were, as they would have never forgotten us!" Reaching for the bodies, the Group-Leader suddently stopped. It was a buzzing, like a swarm of angry insects, all around him. Slowly, it grew to a massive roar, and then, the ground itself began to shake. "Group-Leader? What is that infernal noise?" Turning, the Group Leader walked forth, between the two holes, and stared into the red sky. Then, he saw it. Machines, roaring Machines of death and fire...

When the Group leader woke up, he was lying in the hole. His whole body ached and pained, as he was half covered in earth and half in... "No...please no!"

Getting up slowly, he shaked the earth off, wincing, as he spat out earth and blood. His ears were still ringing, as he could not tell where he was. The buildings that had surrounded them, were gone. Fire and ash was everywhere. Reaching for his ears, he could feel the hot liquid of blood running down them. "WAR GROUP! RALLY TO ME!" He knew that he was screaming, but he couldnt make out his own voice. Standing on his shaking legs, he stumbled forward, into the ruins.


The group leader would not find them. When he returned to the two graves, he slowly began, the task to fill them, with the remains he could make out. He had come, to bury two of his group, but now, was burying them all in two shallow graves. So little, was left of them, that he hardly could fill one of them.

The scourge of Colombus, second strike against the Cult by the Brotherhoods Airforce, had been an even greater success, then the first attack on the skull monolith. The vanguard of the cult army, caught suprise and directly in the city, was shattered under the infernal bombing campaing.

Okay, little adventure game for you. Find the link on the first page of the OOC
The blade sank deep in the waist of the Mayor, as he whimpered in pathetic pain, clutching it closer. The sharp red agony burned only half as hellish, as the despair of guilt he felt. "I...i am so fucking sorry.." They had taken his pistol from him, when they had locked him into his bathroom. For hours, he had bashed his hands against the door, screaming at them to just end it. He knew what he had done. He knew what his actions had caused. Thousands were dead now, dying by his actions.

He would not wait until they would drag him out of here, screaming and begging for his life. To the pyres burning outside, the crude imitations of a monolith, where the woman clad in white was singing. The witch that had lured him to this path. She had been so kind and open to his worries and troubles. Tears streamed over the Mayors face, as his finger slipped and with a scream of pain, he cut his finger. Dropping the bloody blade, he stared at his hand, as pure despair overcame him. He had signed the orders. He had send the troops to the east, he had send the wrong ammunition...he had signed the death sentenced for thousands of the most loyal soldiers of the republic. He still could hear the firefights outside. Loyal troops were fighting heroically, but outmanned. The Lady-in-white had half the city on her side, with more traitors inside the state milita. He had seen them pouring into the city, when they had dragged him away from the windows.

Like a fetus, he whimpered as he reached for his legs. The blood was flowing, as he knew that they would come back, before he would bleed out. Never in his life, even during his captivity on board of a pirate of the Dominion, had he felt such despair and hopeless fear. He was all alone, in a nightmare with no way out.

It was at this moment, that he felt it. Burning hot in his pocket, pulsating like a beating heart. For a moment, the Mayor believed to have finally succumbed to madness. But he felt it, clear, numbing the pain from his bleeding wrist and fingers. It was an agonizing task, to reach for it, and produce the pulsating object from his pocket. Staring at it, in the dim light of the room, his eyes grew wide, as the jet-black stone reflected his face.

For the last time in his life, the mayor felt fear...

T H E I R D - A N A T I O N S H A T T E R E D

The Door broke, under the application of a heavy kick, shattering the wood and letting the lock spring out from the frame. Even before the first broken bits of it had hit the ground, Stanislav and his men unloaded their assault rifles in a deadly and furious fashion at the closest possible range. Storming the room, Stanislav rejoiced in the chance to finally fight the bastards that had burned his home and slaughtered his people. He never had found any sympathy for the new church and its rising power among the people, army and government. He had told them all, that it would not have a good end, yet nobody had listened to his warnings. Now, as the information about the Cult invasion could no longer be hidden by traitorous officers and soft-spoken missionaries, the time of bullets and knives had come. The time to choose between the republic and the devil. Stanislav had been born in Port Austin, a city now gripped by madness and death. The church had taken over, armed its followers and cultists. Suicide Bombers had blown up multiple police stations and military police had been gunned down by traitor among their own ranks, hiding their faces behind a white hood with symbols he did not know, nor wanted to.

"TAKE NO PRISONERS! FIND THE MAYOR!" Securing the room, Stanislav felt a sting in his heart, as he looked at the table. Empty eyed and fearful, the face of the bureaucrat Stanislav had cursed a week ago for messing up his paycheck, was looking back at him, his throat slit ear to ear. But it was the corpse next to him, far smaller and younger, that shattered something deep inside Stanislav. "Jesus, do these bastards know no limits?" A soldier whispered behind him, as the Sergeant-Mayor reloaded his weapon, trying to focus himself on the task, and not on the display of endless cruelty and terror. The statehouse, was just like the city, a sight of madness and death. "Four second in breath, four seconds out breath...the men count on you to lead them. If you don't do it, nobody will!"

"Onward! If the rat was right, the Mayor has to be on the second floor. We grab him and then get to the boat. Double time!" The soldiers nodded, as they stormed onwards, over the corpses of the traitors, towards the stairs. It was there, were a second ambush was tried by the cultists, but the veterans of the Regional Army had fought the Dominion for years. Firing through the thin walls, the traitors fell. Smashing his rifle against the weakened wall, Stanislav tossed a grenade through it, before jumping to cover with the rest of his men. Screams of panic were silenced by a loud explosion and the hissing of shrapnel, before a pathetic whimper came from the dying inside the room. One bloodied traitor stumbled through the door, before collapsing, his arm missing and his body in tatters. Checking the room, Stanislav felt pity as he looked upon the white hooded corpses, before his mind recalled the corpse of the little girl.

"Sarge...that's the guy who sold water at the harbor. I..i talked to him yesterday.." One of his soldiers, a sturdy build red haired oaf named Damian Miller had removed the hood of one of the traitors, and as Stanislav looked onto him, he saw not the face he had hoped for. It was not a grim monster, but a thin and friendly face, even now, smeared with blood and gore. "This is not an invasion...we are fighting our own bloody people.." Feeling the stares of his man, Stanislav shrugged, before once more letting his bellowing voice speak. "This is not the man who sold you water. This..." Stanislav gave a kick against the head of a white hooded figure. Falling half off, the lower face of an young woman became visible. " not your friend! Not anymore. They are the enemy, and we will treat them like that. They have turned into mad beasts! I will personally shoot anyone who shows them mercy. YOU HEAR ME?" He had no passion left to inspire. No heroics could survive in this place of darkness. His men nodded in cold agreement, as he leads them on further. He had to find the mayor.

Finally, they made it up the stairs, finding the office of the military prefecture. Among all the death and chaos, seeing him crucified against a wall with a dozen of blades hardly had any effect on him anymore. It was just another senseless display of madness, unleashed by his own people against themselves in an abysmal orgy of violence and death. The Bathroom was barricaded with a crate and a collection of chairs. It was quick work, for a group of seven men, to move them aside and with their Sledgehammer, they crushed the door. Breaking it down, Stanislav had his rifle raised, aiming into the small room, dark and dimly lit. He could smell the blood, and his jaw twitched in disgusted expectation of another maddening display of Cult cruelty.

The naked man rose to his feet, opening his arms, as Stanislav stumbled backwards. "Mayor? Mayor, is that you? I...IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR I WILL KILL YOU!" Stanislavs nerves were at its breaking point. This night would haunt him to the end of his days. It was not a war, not a battle, but madness. Every aspect of it had nothing human about it, but pure, diabolical evil beyond the deepest abyss of a mind of a man. He had not come so far, to have his men or himself be blown to bits by a cult Suicide bomber. With a scream he unloaded his gun once more, and his men joined in. Firing at the man in the dark, their muzzle flashes gave light to him, bloody and covered in tattoos in black.

Finally, the weapons turned silent, having unloaded their lead fury onto the man. Staring at him, Stanislav lowered his gun, before a deep, eternal fear gripped his heart. Like snowflakes, the bullets sank inches before the man, before slowly landing on the ground. His men let out fearful gasps and screams as they stumbled backwards, unable to make sense of it, but Stanislav would go down without a fight. Be it insanity or some dark truth to the rambling of the church, he would not let it happen to him. Pulling out his sidearm, he raised it, ready to unload once more.

"There is no need for that, Sergeant-Mayor!"

Stanislav stared in shock, as he heard the voice of the Mayor in front of him. Slowly, the Mayor stepped through the bullets, their heat burning his skin. Now in the light, Stanislav could see his wounds and...bleeding tattoos. Self-inflicted wounds, coated with a black liquid, jet-black and terrible to behold. "Mayor, what is this? What is the meaning of it?"

The Mayor stood still, glaring over the men, before whispering, a grim smile on his face. "It means that we now will fight fire with fire.."

It was one of the greatest injustices of the Three-Highway War, that nobody would ever learn, that Mary Silver Smith, was the hero that saved Hamilton from the cruel fate, that befell so many other cities in the IRD, at the start of said war. If i had not been for the Waitress in the "Sweetwater Saloon and Grills", and her finding the crude but honest compliments of Colonel Manuel Sadoul, somewhat charming, rather than annoying as most women did in Hamilton, she would never had ended up in bed with said Colonel, during this fateful autum night. Sleeping in the sideroom of the office of the Colonel, it was who was awoken by the two cultists of the church of Starry Glory, breaking into the office to murder the Colonel, wearing uniforms of the secret police. Using the Colonels sidearm, it was Mary Silver Smith, who shot both of them, then gave out the warning over the radio and barricaded the door to the office, even before said Colonel was awake.

Sure, she could not stop the massacare at the statehouse of Hamilton, where cultist stormed a late seating of the local governeour with his closest advisors. Or the suicide bombing attacks on posts of the military police. But what Mary Silver Smith could do, was drive the very drunken Colonel to the garrison of the local divison of the regional army. Even here, the Cult had its traitors, but this time, the element of suprise was on the loyalists sides, and these traitors were rooted out quickly and without mercy. Less then one hour after the first suicide attack and the murder of the governer, it was Mary Silver Smith, who once more was driving a still very drunken Colonel into the middle of the city, but this time seated in an Armored Car, with two heavy machine guns and a divison of Regional Army troops following behind in their own vehicles. Unexpecting such a heavy and fast counter-reaction, the traitors and cultists inside the city, were unprepared to an republican answer in machine-gun fire.

It was in the early morning of the next day, with a now very hung-over Colonel Manuel Sadoul, who was hailed the savoir of the city, that Mary Silver Smith, finally could get some much needed rest.
Meanwhile, the "Emergency Security Zone of Hamilton" would gather up soldiers and draft milita. With Colonel Manuel Sadoul now in charge, no contact to any of the Regional States or Federal Goverment instiution or Army command, he did something completly out of the box. Once more it was Mary Silver Smith, now stuck in the uniform of an IRD Captain, who was awaiting her audience with Colonel Melissa Hammon. She did not buy the excuse of Manuel, that he wanted to send the sole person in the city he trust, as she was smart enough, to know what he did was technically high treason. But she had seen firsthand what had happened inside the city, with Cult raging among them. They needed help, and the enemy of the enemy, was the friend after all.

Mary Silver Smith never had understood the political reasons for the conflict with the Confederation, nor had she cared much about it. Walking in her uniform, so bluntly like a civilian, that even her four bodyguards gave up on pretending, she had been refused to be granted direct contact with their president, and instead been send to another Colonel. Cursing Manuel under her breath, she sipped the offered water, while smoking a cigerret, staring at the clock, before finally being told that she could see the person she was waiting for. Walking in, she rushed past the soldier, into the office. "Colonel? My name is Mary Silver Smith, Captain for Manuel Sadoul, but i will be honest, i am waitress, i had two hours of sleep in the last three days and i got a lot of points to adress. Excuse me if i dont know how to salut, but i am new to the whole military buisness."

T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

"Faithful! Enlightend! Brothers and sisters! Heed my call upon you. I am Lady Commander Jatta-Kalum, Missonary to the blind and fearful. I call upon you, in your darkest hour, to say to you, do not dispair. The Faithful are coming and they are among you. Do not fight the coming of the new order, but embrace it. They, who have already confessed your soul and lives to the monolith, rejoice in sermon with your brothers from the south, here to punish the wicked and faithless.

The task of spilling blood is upon you. Do not refrain from it, starry glory awaits all who take it upon themselves, to fight in his name. Stars shall bleed, and streets shall run red. Then, there will be heavenly peace, as well all are united in a new world of enlightened worship. For no longer we have to hide our devotion, no longer do we need to endure the lack of faith of they around us. No longer shall the truth be ignored, by the ignorant masses...

I call upon each and every one of you, to do your duty. RISE IN HIS NAME! There is no meaning in this mortal world! No meaning in any live or death. Only in Ug-Qualtoth you shall find what you all seek.

Now go forth and serve...with knife, bullet and granade.

Thousands of radios would spray out the words of the lady in white. Some under the backdrop of firefights in the streets. Others in cities already flying the cruel banner of the Cult. Others would be crushed by hammers, the seconds they awoke, by the forces that had resisted the Cult. But the painting was on the wall. The IRD was no longer an existing concept...but a sea of warlords, cultists and army holdouts.
T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

Iron-Jaw Indianapolis

Once, the man who would become Iron-Jaw, had been a mere raider. His life pointless, his exploits meaningless and his whole existence without any point in the great cosmic plan of he-who-slumbers. Then, he had met the prophet himself, who had raised him from the filth of the Pitt, to become the first warmaster of his army, during his push to take the holy city from the unenlightened heathens that dared to occupy it sacred ground. He had been the weapon of the prophet, his all-powerful and wrathful will.Then, others had usurped his rightful place, and the prophet had discarded him after his shameful defeat against Überboss Fredrick, the man, who had shattered his jaw and ripped it remains from his skull. The eggheads had restored it, giving him teeth and bones of iron, yet the prophet never would even let him into the sacred tower.

With Vulpes, Iron-Jaw soon felt a grim reminder creeping up his mind. For each passing moment, the legion Frumentarii vanished, turning into the shadowy figure of the tall and lean Überboss. Stumbling backwards, Iron-Jaw coughed out blood and spit, before roaring like a wounded boar. "DIE ALREADY..." He had felt so helpless in that fight so long ago. The Überboss had not fought him, but toyed with him, mocked him and finally crushed him. Never again would Iron-Jaw let this happen to him again. With blind fury, he lashed out, his weapon less like a blade, but a club, while he tried to get a hold of Vulpes. Once he would have a hold of the little man, he would easily break his spine like a frail tweak. But he couldnt.

Vulpes was like a leave in the wind, evading and skillfully dodging. And with each missing swing, each thrust and each roaring charge, the face of the Überboss appeared larger and larger in front of him. Soon, the muscles of the Brutish Warmaster felt sore, his weapon heavy and his mind turned against itself. "You are dead...we killed you long ago!" He muttered, stumbling backwards, as the Legate raised his voice. Looking around, the Warleader witnessed him being proven right. He was cornered, surrounded and beaten once more. His eyes grew wide, as the creeping hand of fear wrapped tightly around his heart.

"Its not over yet.."

He did not knew what gave him the push, yet he stepped back, his hand moving to his rebreather and placing it on his mouth and nose. With a flick of his finger he released the sacred Miasma into his lungs, stripping all fear from him. The world around him took a deep red tone, as he once more felt the old feeling of power flood his body. Gripping his weapon with both hands, he roared out a challenge, that quickly was accepted by the him surrounding Bodyguards. They attacked him like a wounded beast, but like one he fought. From all sides, there were spears. Gripping one, another was driven through his armor. Coughing, he felt the sting, but no pain with it. Screaming, he lashed out with his blade, cleaving the head of the Bodyguard who´s spear still stuck in his chest. Maybe it was fear about this feat of endurance, brought upon him by blessed Miasma, that gave him a second of respite, before once more, the attacks came onto him. From all sides, he felt it upon him, as he blindly lashed out. He could not tell if he was hitten stone of flesh, shattering bone or air. All there was, was the sacred Miasma, his sacred connection to the monolith. He felt his teeth sinking into flesh, before tearing out a huge chunk of it.

Then there was the face.

Vulpes once more looked at him, closer than ever before. Their eyes met and the Miasma seemed gone. Almost as if time stopped, Iron Jaw could see the face vanish behind a blade, coming closer and closer. It scratched over his shoulder armor, came towards his head and then, his sight turned red again. Not the red taint of miasma, but a bloody, black red. Collapsing, Iron Jaw fell onto a slain Bodyguard, clutching his eye. Clutching his eye, he could tell that Vulpes had opened most of the side of his head, taken his ear clean off and opened parts of his cheek. Raising an arm, he groaned, but only blood came out between his lips. This was the end, his end!

But fate had other plans. One of the Molerat mounts, wounded badly and left for dead, would proof to horrible even for death. Maybe it was the nightmarish smell of blood and destruction, or just one last act of terror, in hopes to be utterly destroyed, burned and removed from this world, cleansing it of the abhorred that was its unnatural existence. Screeching and storming, it attacked the group of remaining bodyguards and Vulpes, with a deadly fury, forcing them into a defense, away from the dying warleader. In the end, it was even more nightmarish in death, literally cut to pieces.

Saulus Evictanus, removed his helmet and fell down onto a piece of rubble, before picking up his spear. His eyes wandered from the slain beast, over its fallen kind, to the cult-warriors, dead on the ground. As if seeking reassurment, he tried to find the corpse of the warleader, who by now had to succumbed to his wounds, but he could not find him. "He is gone... Another Bodyguard shook his head, giving another beast a stab through the head, making sure it was truly dead. Taking a knee, besides one of the fallen, he frowned. "Glory to Caesar! Shall we look for this devil's corpse?"

Truly, there was no way that he could have gone far. A man could not survive such wounds...but had not the same be believed for the beast that had so wrathfully defied death?

Indianapolis had given the Legion and Brotherhood a taste of what kind of war this would be. A battle had been won, as the last few remants of the cult, if not cut down or shot, fled into the sewers they had came from, bloodied and broken. The City had fallen, becoming the first major victory against the cult.
>mfw Eldrich gods invade and are about to destroy reality and i still dont get a day off...

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