Candy Cane Elf
AdvancedJ3lly@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@LemonZest1337@Irredeemable
Things were moving rapidly, but nevertheless Victorine made sure to see it all.
Leaving Lisbeth to the tender ministrations of the far larger Sister Christina – deceptively gentle and precise for one of such stature, but then what did one expect from a trained Hospitaller? - the Celestian strode into the thinning crowd of heretical quagmire with her pistol raised and a prayer upon her lips.
“A spiritu dominatus...”
Something, possibly once human but now far less in her eyes, mewled in fear and flung up its hands, before she put a bolt through both its uselessly protective limbs and cranium.
“Domine, libra nos.”
A larger figure attempted to grapple her around the waist, her legs planting themselves as she simultaneously bought the pistol down to strike. For a moment the man, for it was a man of not insignificant strength that now sought to throw her to the floor, ceased his heaving and gave a shake of his head – enough time for the pistol to come down again, and again, and again, until the grip and fist of the Celestian were both covered in crimson gore and more pale brain matter.
“Our Emperor, deliver us, a morte pepertua.”
Several shots later and a few swift strides across the room, she went to stand beside Sister Adalard and smiled with pride as she gunned down the last of the heavy stubber crew.
Only now did Captain Shelek and his surviving ratings and armsmen, all looking as disgruntled as one another (although more than a few made the Aquila or glanced in awe at the Sisters as they moved from cover), come out to secure the atrium leading to the Genetorium.
“God-Emperor bless you all,” the Captain puffed by way of thanks and greeting, “quite the mess...” he mumbled, clearly thinking for a moment as he looked over the dead and dying, his own eyes falling on the hunched over and wheezing form of the Heretek toward which he pointed one stubby finger, “what are we going to do with that?”
“A just question, Captain,” acknowledged the Sororitas, not really certain herself, “I am inclined to grant him the Emperor's peace, but he may be useful to us. Do you anything that could incapacitate him, short of a bolt to the skull?”
“I think we can handle him,” growled the large Naval officer, “seems to be helpless enough already though.”
There was truth to that, the mechadendrites hanging limply and trailing across the floor, blood and machine fluid pooling together at the feet of the creature that slumped forward on its knees, nothing of the dangerous being that they well knew it to be.
“Secure it, imprison it. My thanks, Captain.”
Turning to take in the state of her own party, and only now realising just how many minor wounds she herself had obtained from Emperor knew where, she could not help but let a feral grin stretch across her face, holstering her bolt pistol and sheathing her sword with as much fluidity as if they were on parade.
“I will not force any of you to pursue the coward that fled, some are in no fit state to do so, but I give you the choice now to make yourself heard one way or the other. We are not far from our destination now, and the craven milksop could either escape or, Emperor willing, become lost within the bowels of this vessel; should he not flee, he will be found sooner or later.”
Things were moving rapidly, but nevertheless Victorine made sure to see it all.
Leaving Lisbeth to the tender ministrations of the far larger Sister Christina – deceptively gentle and precise for one of such stature, but then what did one expect from a trained Hospitaller? - the Celestian strode into the thinning crowd of heretical quagmire with her pistol raised and a prayer upon her lips.
“A spiritu dominatus...”
Something, possibly once human but now far less in her eyes, mewled in fear and flung up its hands, before she put a bolt through both its uselessly protective limbs and cranium.
“Domine, libra nos.”
A larger figure attempted to grapple her around the waist, her legs planting themselves as she simultaneously bought the pistol down to strike. For a moment the man, for it was a man of not insignificant strength that now sought to throw her to the floor, ceased his heaving and gave a shake of his head – enough time for the pistol to come down again, and again, and again, until the grip and fist of the Celestian were both covered in crimson gore and more pale brain matter.
“Our Emperor, deliver us, a morte pepertua.”
Several shots later and a few swift strides across the room, she went to stand beside Sister Adalard and smiled with pride as she gunned down the last of the heavy stubber crew.
Only now did Captain Shelek and his surviving ratings and armsmen, all looking as disgruntled as one another (although more than a few made the Aquila or glanced in awe at the Sisters as they moved from cover), come out to secure the atrium leading to the Genetorium.
“God-Emperor bless you all,” the Captain puffed by way of thanks and greeting, “quite the mess...” he mumbled, clearly thinking for a moment as he looked over the dead and dying, his own eyes falling on the hunched over and wheezing form of the Heretek toward which he pointed one stubby finger, “what are we going to do with that?”
“A just question, Captain,” acknowledged the Sororitas, not really certain herself, “I am inclined to grant him the Emperor's peace, but he may be useful to us. Do you anything that could incapacitate him, short of a bolt to the skull?”
“I think we can handle him,” growled the large Naval officer, “seems to be helpless enough already though.”
There was truth to that, the mechadendrites hanging limply and trailing across the floor, blood and machine fluid pooling together at the feet of the creature that slumped forward on its knees, nothing of the dangerous being that they well knew it to be.
“Secure it, imprison it. My thanks, Captain.”
Turning to take in the state of her own party, and only now realising just how many minor wounds she herself had obtained from Emperor knew where, she could not help but let a feral grin stretch across her face, holstering her bolt pistol and sheathing her sword with as much fluidity as if they were on parade.
“I will not force any of you to pursue the coward that fled, some are in no fit state to do so, but I give you the choice now to make yourself heard one way or the other. We are not far from our destination now, and the craven milksop could either escape or, Emperor willing, become lost within the bowels of this vessel; should he not flee, he will be found sooner or later.”
