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    1. jbeil 11 yrs ago

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6 yrs ago
Current I just want someone to play Cyberpunk with ;_;
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6 yrs ago
the spookiest soccer coach
7 yrs ago
In the sort of mood to hack my wrists open and paint the walls
7 yrs ago
#FREEDANKULA
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Hurt me.
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He was a traitor.

He was a traitor, holding the life of a saint as ransom.

There was only one end for traitors.

"The sainted child shall be an example for us all as a martyr," Lisbeth swore under her breath, and levelled her weapon.

"Blam - blam - blam!" Three shots fired in a single burst, rat-tat-tatted against the metal holding together the Emissary's flesh, as the last rounds in the weapon were expended. All to the good - the Emperor's justice was best delivered by hand. With a roar, Lisbeth pushed off on her left foot and dashed towards the techno-witch, gun raised overhead for a downwards strike aimed at the top of the Emissary's skull, thick ropes of muscle contracting to throw her forwards with all speed.
Stripped of her weapon, Lisbeth felt chastised for a moment, but before she had time to mope the order came to come through the door, and as it lifted she followed her leader underneath the door. A las-beam cut across her line of vision and left her momentarily blinded, and aggressive training kicked in, driving her onwards toward the source of the beam. Move fast, low, and jerk - she banked hard to the left, where one of the players had rised from their seat. Her momentum carried her into him, and before either could react they were in a tangle upon the floor, exchanging blows. His hand struck her across the face twice, busting her lip with the first strike and breaking the skin around her cheek on the second. Something hot in her mouth radiated across her tongue as a third blow came, but this time she raised her head and clamped her jaw around his palm, a scream ringing out as he struggled. His other hand moved to rescue it's counterpart, and that left his holster open. With a swift grab, Lisbeth tore the pistol out from the leather case and twisted her hand, forced to pull the trigger with her thumb into his midriff.

He grunted, and two more shots rang out as slugs ripped through his torso, and on the fourth yank of the trigger he was already dead, slumped on top of Lisbeth, his warm breath against her neck set her spine tingling, like maggots crawling through her bones. Move. Speed is life. Matron Deangelis' lessons rang in her ear as she made a great effort, heaving against the fallen guard's mass. As she lifted, two more las-rounds blasted the fallen guard's back, and the sizzle of burned meat displaced the stink of his breath in her nostrils. With a kick, she extricated herself and dashed for the the overturned table. It wouldn't hold for long against the lasguns, but it would buy her a few seconds to exchange shots and hopefully distract the shooters long enough for another of her sisters to take them out.

She badly missed her sword.
"A life spent in His service is joy, Sister," whispered Lisbeth. "Destroying His foes is our divine mission. Behold," she announced, with an extended hand. She wished she had her armour - a ceramite fist would have made this much faster. "Our work is done, for now. More await." She shared a swift glance with her superior, and a nod. There was enough time for a brief lesson, though it would have to be combined with movement. As she took her position, ready to breach the next door, she spoke under her breath, careful not to give away their position. Not another ambush. Not like her.

"I understand, Sister, that if I were to fall in battle, and you were unable to aid me, that you would take responsibility for delivering me to His side. The Emperor's Mercy, I believe it is called. Mercy is precious. Valuable. I see no reason to waste such a scarce resource on His foes. Save your mercy for those who deserve it. Save it for me. Now hush - we have a foe to slay, and a governor to rescue." Something burned in her eyes as she spoke, and she turned her head back to the door, lasgun raised and set for a silent scorch. They took our Saint. Our deliverance. I will burn them on a pyre of hatred for what they have done.

"We should move swiftly, Sister-Celestian. There is precious little time to lose."
Battletech?

STRAP ME INTO MY URBIE AND PUT ME IN, COACH
Are you still buying in new people? If so I have a Brujah with your name on it!
Sister Dominica was the vessel of His judgement, swift and deadly. It was a simple task to arrive at her appointed position, and remain out of sight. She kept her knife sheathed within the civilians' clothes, preferring to avoid the risk of a shimmering light giving away their position; instead, as the whistle came, she handed herself over to Him and let her hands travel where they may. Wordlessly, the voice she had always trusted moved her to dash forwards, muscles pinging like taut elastic as she steamed towards the leftmost traitor. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the image of the great Celestian falling upon the enemy, before she delivered a stinging punch, swinging outside of her body and into the neck of the traitor whose attention was drawn by his fallen comrade.

Like cardboard in heavy rain, he folded, hands going to his neck. A failure. That blow should have killed him outright. Lisbeth silently tallied another mark against herself as she set about finishing her task. The guardsman, wheezing as he sucked unsteady mouthfuls of air into a dented windpipe, could only raise his arms up to chest height before a heavy shin struck him in the cheek, bringing him to the floor on his back before a heavily-muscled Sororitas pinned his arms to the floor with her legs. Without a word, Lisbeth's arms dived towards the sides of his head, already beginning to become slick with blood from a broken cheekbone, and plunged her thumbs through his eyeballs. There was a momentary resistance before a moist pop, and thin bones cracked as Lisbeth stirred the insides of his brains, forming a sticky, porridge-like paste of bone and mashed flesh. It gave Lisbeth a little measure of joy to know that the traitor died in horrid pain, a welcome appetiser for the judgement and purgation to come.

Her task finished, she wiped the pink jam from her thumbs on the collar of the dead soldier's fatigues, lip curled in disgust. She would not waste prayers on this one. Instead, she grabbed his dropped rifle, pulled the bolt and ejected the magazine to check the state of charge, and rammed it back into the port, satisfied. They were not part of the trinity, but las-weapons at least had the virtue of silence. Quietly, she fixed the bayonet stolen from the dead guard's belt, and nodded towards her commander. "Celestian?"
Even without her armour, Lisbeth couldn't feel anything but utterly secure in His light, utterly certain in His protection. She had almost stepped out of the aircraft rather than jumped, and rolled easily across the floor to stand, half crouched, as she accepted her orders with a silent nod. They would be the Emperor's judgement, silent and swift, rather than his flaming sword today. She envied the Confessor, already injured in the course of His duties, but pressed on anyway. All things come in their time, she reminded herself, as without a word she moved into the complex.

She raised her arm in a closed fist, the signal to halt as she peered around a corner - two guards were posted by a door - if not the armoury, then likely some other important section; how very typical of the enemies of the Emperor, to pretend at such great schemes and then give away their key position in an act of obviation. The problem was how to draw them away for long enough to get behind them, the distance too great to despatch them without giving enough time to raise an alarm. The other end of the coridoor was within sight, but to attack from that side would have it's own dangers. A pincer movement, then.

Shuffling back slowly, not even making a sound with the brushing of the fabric against her scarred skin, she addressed her sisters in almost inaudible High Gothic. "Two targets. I will go back the way we came and turn against ourselves, until I am at the far end of the coridoor. On your signal, Sister-Celestian, I will strike from the far side while you strike from here, and with His grace we will each fall upon one before his brother in treachery can make a sound. Sister-Celestian?"

One thought stuck in Lisbeth's head as she read the dark-skinned warrior's face for a reaction. I wish I still had my sword.
When the order came to turn about and abandon pursuit, Lisbeth's heart sank. She knew her place, but to allow the enemy to get away with such a perfidious crime, not just against the humble people of Cekrov but of all Mankind, and leave only the Guard to chase the enemy rankled. Her arms ached to swing her blade in pursuit of vengeance, and an iron will burned inside her to pursue victory, at any cost. But I know my place. The Guard would flush out the foe, and if the Saint still lived, she would restore Him as soon as possible, and all of the fighting and struggle would finally come to an end, with the God-Emperor awakened to protect His people in the flesh once again.

Being asked for input was not a comfortable position for Lisbeth. She was a warrior, and a servant of the Emperor, and through the chain of command ordained from the Golden Throne itself she humbly accepted her orders and her mind was pure, too small for doubt. The responsibilities of command and decision-making she left for those who were her superiors, and until He ordained that she should be fortunate enough to be lifted to their position it was not the little nun's place to assume that she knew any better than anyone else. That said, she had been ordered to offer her opinion, such as it was, and a loyal servant obeyed without question. Already her thinking had approached too close to questioning, and she would set herself penance as soon as practical.

"Sisters, I suggest that we storm the palace and destroy the enemy with all prejudice. If the Governor's life is forfeit then he will reside at the Emperor's side as a martyr. If the enemy lose their nerve and flee, we will chase them down and destroy them. I am loathe to place the lives of the peasants at risk to take part in...lies," she spat, as though the word were bitter poison, "but it matters little. If we are faithful, we will be victorious. The taking of hostages is the act of a coward, and such cowardice cannot stand for long against our faith. Few as we are, perhaps we might split our numbers, to create the impression of a larger force - or perhaps we might use an alternative route," she suggested, tapping the tip of her chin with an armoured finger. "Confessor, Sister-Celestian, do you have the authority to commandeer a flying machine? If the enemy expect us to storm their gate...maybe we should attack from the skies instead?"

What I wouldn't give for a few Sisters-Seraphim right now.
The Confessor's words were not lost on Lisbeth. For a few moments, she stood on the green, ignorant of the fire around her, barely even aware of the shrieking bullets and the hiss of the las-blasts fizzing through the air. She rolled to the floor as a sweeping beam cut the air where she was standing, and fiddled with the grenades tied to her waist, pulling a cluster of three from underneath her rosaries. Gripping the pins in her teeth, she yanked down, and then lobbed them towards the enemy, hunkering down for a count of one, two, and then pushing herself up with her arms and legs, launching herself towards the burning buildings. As soon as she was visible again, the door-slam bang of the grenades went up, tossing dirt in all directions, maiming those between the two little cottages where the bundle had come to rest. While two of the traitors ducked behind a discarded cart to check on their companion, Lisbeth flicked the toggle on the side of her bolter and let loose with a stream of full-auto fire, recoil straining her wrist as she fired, pounding the area with explosive bolts.

When the gun clicked empty, she released it, allowing the heavy weight to hang from the leather strap, and instead drew _Persephone_, screaming as she vaulted over the cart, delivering a steel boot to the face of one of the traitors. The other fumbled with his pistol, landing two glancing shots on her shoulder that would leave superficial burns but otherwise did little to stop her furious advance. She crushed the side of his skull in with the pommel of her power sword, before sprinting across the way as a stubber opened up with a cracka-cracka-cracka drumbeat, spouts of earth launched around her feet as she made her way to cover, to take breath for a moment.

As she breathed, two more came around the corner, armed with shotguns, and they were the faster to react. The taller one, a grim-faced soul with a thin mop of red hair, unloaded two quick rounds into Lisbeth's gut, shards of metal embedding into the black surface of her armour, scratching away lengths of white scripture carved into the plates. None penetrated to her flesh, but the impact left Lisbeth stunned for a moment, and would lead nasty bruises later. The second thrusted a bayonetted rifle towards her, shining metal blade heated up by the flames, and caught the join between her greaves, slicing deep into her hip. To her shame, the frenzied sister cried out, before punching aside the shotgun now levelled at her head, and rode the momentum to spin, catching the rifleman with the heavy edge of her vibrating blade, the power field stripping away flesh and bone as she hacked through his chest, leaving him with a gaping wound along her side.

Blood seeping from her own wound, Lisbeth's leg gave way, and she sprawled to the floor, a race between her and the red-head to grab the nearest weapon. The shotgunner had a head start, but the conditioned reactions of a true warrior were faster than the advantage of surprise and treachery. Grabbing the discarded las-rifle, Lisbeth jammed her finger into the trigger, pumping six blasts out towards the shotgunner, two striking him in the gut and a third in the middle of the chest before he collapsed, smoke rising from the scorch-marks on his flesh. Behind her, the striken heretic stirred, and she rolled, squealing as her hip twisted and the torn muscles rubbed against the dirt, locking an iron fist around the traitor's throat. He did not have time to choke before the sister crushed his carotid artery, his brain barely aware of what had happened before he sank into the darkness.

When she tried to stand, she found herself crippled, barely able to do much more than crawl, and resolved herself to keep fighting, reloading her bolter, and aiming it squarely in front of her, waiting for the next treacherous soul who dared to test themselves against a servant of the Emperor...
Lisbeth hadn't stopped smiling throughout the whole trip. The trip through the countryside was a blessed relief from the hot, turgid air of the city, and a gratefully-recieved reminder of all that He had given mankind. Fields of crops waved in the breeze as the open-topped carrier moved along tarmaced roads, birds tweeting between belches of low, monstrous noise from the carrier's engines. Hours passed quickly for the sister, rapt in a sort of childish joy as the world rolled past, though the rest of the crew did not seem to share Lisbeth's fascination for the world of Cekrov and the quiet, humble agricultural work that continued as they moved by, work that had continued for tens of thousands of years and would continue for tens of thousands more, with every soul content with their place, clearly defined by His plan, with no need for thought or doubt or consideration, only to hear and to obey and to please Him. It was a beautiful future, and it would come to pass soon.

"Sister," Lisbeth had asked Alexa, after hours of chirping about how wonderful this world was, no doubt boring the enlisted men to tears in the process. "When we get to Sarton, and we bring the saint back to Terra, do you think we will get to see Him? I hope we get to see her raise Him. What do you think will happen when He is returned to us?"

Whilst Sister Lisbeth's sheer joy was admittedly infectious, Alexa couldn't bring herself to be quite as optimistic as her sister in arms. Certainly, the world was wonderfully pleasant on the eye, and it'd be truly glorious to bear witness to a resurrection on a scale as grand as that - and yet, her prior fears stuck, the possibility of possession over Sainthood holding in her mind, and even if this girl could revive the dead with His holy power, if using His own power to restore Him was at all possible, the difference in scale between a mere mortal and the long-dead body of the God-Emperor Himself was as a comparison of the masses of heretics and the Imperium's benevolent rule.

"If He is brought back to us by our actions," Alexa quipped, "then I imagine He will reward us greatly - or else, allow the prestige of such a grand act to be its own reward," she added somewhat belatedly. The negative tone imparted to her words wasn't entirely the fault of the vox this time, though she would certainly play it off as though it were if queried. It wasn't that the idea was grotesque to her, of course it wasn't! But it seemed very unlikely to come to pass.

"When He returns," continued Lisbeth, totally unfazed by Alexa's measured scepticism, "I think I'd like to be on a planet like this. After all, once He comes back to us, there won't be any need for us to fight, will there? The heretics and traitors are bound to see the error of their ways, and I'm sure there's no way any aliens could possibly bother us with the Emperor walking amongst us again." Within her mind, Lisbeth felt the warm smile of a father, and she knew exactly who He was. "I know," she said, to the voice of the Emperor, silent at the moment. He was probably busy preparing for His imminent return, that would explain why Lisbeth couldn't hear Him. "Sisters? Sister-Celestian?" A loud clunk from the engine stole her words away, and she satisfied herself in continuing her conversation with the gigantic Hospitaller opposite. "I think I will miss fighting for Him, but I'm sure what awaits us will be far better than any other victory, right, Alexa?"

"It'd certainly be nice to have all our problems solved with His return," Alexa nodded. "But, even when He was present during the Great Crusade, He couldn't be everywhere at once... though, if the Living Saints are envoys of His power, perhaps He could present Himself to all and sundry through them?" It was unusual for Alexa to speak so much, but that idea did make her feel a bit better: the God-Emperor had ways of projecting himself.

"We didn't know the nature of the Enemy then, though. Without the advantage of surprise, there's no way they could ever stop Him a second time." The earliest spark of a thought questioning how the Emperor could have been beaten at all was born, and then swiftly crushed, a perfectly conditioned mind squashing all traces of doubt. "As long as we obey, He will be our shield." Lisbeth cast a glance behind her, as the craft began to crawl up a gentle hill. "Do you think we're nearly there yet?"

"Mm. You aren't wrong." Alexa considered Sister Lisbeth's words, then wondered what it was that made her so... optimistic? Certainly not dense, but she was so certain that this girl would be a Saint, and so convinced that the Emperor's eventual return would be the balm to all their worries... was Lisbeth a more faithful servant than herself? Possibly. She couldn't help but recall her violence on Athega Tertius - the death of a comrade drove one to righteous fury at times, of course it did, but after they'd been told to hold them prisoner for interrogation...

She put it out of her mind as Lisbeth asked whether they were there yet. "I imagine we're not far off," came Alexa's response, leaning out of the craft a bit to get a better view... only to catch sight of black, oily smoke, just over the hill. Oh, no.

"...but we might want to be ready for a battle," she murmured, thumbing her bolt pistol in its holster. Optimism was excellent for providing an ideal to aim for, of course... but sadly, realism tended to provide a more accurate image of how things might turn out, on the whole.

Lisbeth hadn't stopped smiling. Permanence was laid at her side rather than on it's strap, Persephone hanging limp at her hip. She even found time to wave at a group of peasant children leading a grox-cart during the conversation, and they'd returned the gesture. This was a quiet world, it seemed, and outside of the temptations of the city the simple hard work kept the people free from distractions or improper thoughts. She wondered if those children had ever seen a servant of the Imperium before, beyond statues and the tales of their elders, and if in years to come they would tell their own children about the time they saw the avenging angels of the Ecclesiarchy. "What do you mean, Sister?" Lisbeth's eyes travelled to follow the direction of Alexa's gaze, and as she saw the plume of smoke rising from the distance she realised, with a terrible dread, what the Hospitaller was talking about.

"No..." Her pale skin turned almost grey, and her eyes grew cold and glassy as the promise of paradise seemed to be stolen away. "Tell me that's not Sarton." She turned to Victorine, to Alexa, and back, pleading. "Please! It can't be..."

Now, as the convoy rolled to a halt and the group caught sight of the burning cottages and the wails of the dying echoed across the hills, Lisbeth's smile died.

And there went the optimism. Frankly, there wasn't much to be optimistic about - houses were aflame, people were dead and dying, and they had evidently arrived much too late to prevent whoever had invaded from achieving their goal. Whilst this gave a little more credence to the idea of the girl being a Saint, it also rather suggested their goal was to kill her - unless, of course, that possession had simply led to the inevitable.

Alexa said nothing more to Lisbeth, but drew her weapon at Sister-Celestian Victorine's command, stepping out of the craft once it came to a halt. Gunfire was audible, meaning this was likely an external raid - meaning, they needed to act quickly if they wanted to salvage anything resembling a potential Living Saint.

"Sister-Celestian, I believe we should confirm whether the girl has perished or been captured, and pursue her kidnappers if so." She didn't like to suggest something that was probably obvious, but she felt she had to make the statement just in case. There was vengeance to be sought her, for certain, but also victims to rescue, and potentially one of extreme importance to the Imperium.

Lisbeth's heart fell heavy, and her previous optimism gave way to horror, and then despair. Not again, she thought, strapping Permanence back on as she hopped out of the carrier. They cannot take Him from us again! As she absorbed the scene, her mind turned once again, this time from despair to anger. "Sister-Celestian," she growled, in a tone quite unlike herself. She sounded more like the Confessor, or perhaps even the bass drone from Alexa's faulty helmet. "Orders? Permission to engage?" she urged. Lisbeth could feel her arms beginning to shake, and her hand drew closer to her sword and the clutch of grenades around her waist, rather than the longer-range (perhaps, the more sensible choice) bolter.

The smell of burning flesh stirred her soul with an incandescent rage. They were so close to the Saint, to mankind's deliverance, and once again, the Enemy had stolen Him away from his loving subjects. If the Saint still lived, Lisbeth would find her, and her captors - or murderers - would be torn apart in a fountain of gore before she was done with them. Be my Sword, Lisbeth, spoke the Emperor, and the slight twitches betrayed her eagerness to bring justice to this tragic scene. Selfishly, she hoped Sister-Celestian Victorine would not notice her reddening eyes, and the welling of enraged tears beneath the tattoo on her face.
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