To Rise Above the Fall

Her senses were assaulted by the bleak demise of the Mandrake, from the cold blaze by the flashes of Warpfire, the blood chilling scream raidiating from the Mandrake's throat to the visceral pleasure of splinter induced pain spasms dominating the eerie form of the Mandrake and she allowed herself to take the briefest of moments to enjoy this sensory overload.

Kayle quickly composed herself and lowered one of her daggers to take up slightly relaxed stance, but still experiences within the Arena's within Commoragh taught her to keep herself ready incase of reprisal.

"Nicely handled."

She hated to admit it herself, but she silently agreed with the statement, the twitcher seems to be more than meets the eye, Definitely need to keep an eye on him'.

"I would not deny an Incubus his duel, but we must move! Either kill it quickly out give me a clear shot!

Taking her place back at her pilot's seat, she grasped the controls and began to move Exacting Vengance towards the makeshift battlefield.

"Hurry up and lets move out, before anything else decides to show up!"

Daranúír had noticed the crewman still living in the sprawled wreck. It was remarkable that the crewman still breathed, especially when cowering from a Mandrake and an Incubus.

Curiosity, or a lust for fear, overcame him once all immediate danger was over. The Mandrake on board ad been slain. The pilot was fine and the Incubus looked like he was in need of no help. This was his fight, and Daranúir would respect that… or so he would say if questioned as to why he left his post.

Drawing his sword the mercenary knew that his life of intimidating lesser Eldar would come in great use when this whelp needed to be interrogated. If no answers could be found then at least pain could be caused.
His thick smile grew malicious as he anticipated the torture to come.

Chy'ier looked down at the frosting pool of black blood for but a moment, tilting his head attentively to hear someone that, strictly speaking, possibly wasn't there at all. The young Tubeborn checked his remaining ammo. There was easily half a clip left, the tiny glass vials winking in the dim light like the spangles on a Harlequin's costume. Such pretty, deadly, shiny colours.

"See! I didn't have to use THAT much" he said to an unknown and unseen entity next to him.

"What? No, if it comes to that we can leave them."

"Yes, I know it's not time to fiddle around. Of course they know that."

"No we shouldn't do that, I want the knife and we don't know how big the change will be."

"Oh him? I saw him do it too, he's just pissy because he's useless." he finished as he turned to watch the scene below. Kay-lay and Valaru-whatsisname could take care of themselves, anyway, now that he'd solved the problem. Most problems are soluble in splinter fire.

Valarauka hissed under his breath as the sharp-sweet scent and the tiny, momentary hit of pain alerted his dulled senses once more. He could take no more chances like this. In the wrong alley of Commorragjh, or the wrong boardroom for that matter, the least inattention to detail brought one a fatal demotion. A quick glance to one side and then the other revealed that Kayle was attentive to their borrowed craft and the youngster was deep in conversation with - himself? Preoccupied, anyhow, and hopefully blooded enough to keep the inner beast at bay for the present. The sometime sybarite straightened, bringing the force of his charisma to bear on the swirling duel below. They needed decisive leadership, and now.

"I would not deny an Incubus his duel, but we must move! Either kill it quickly out give me a clear shot!" The commanding tone was pitched just enough to carry above the sound of the melee, with the stamp of authority on it, but not so much as to show disrespect. Hopefully. One could never tell quite which of the obscure ritual strictures of the Incubi would be invoked next. It made them trustworthy companions to be so honour-bound, but it could be a devil of a task working out what that meant to the ordinary Ynneas Eladrith. Valarauka sighted up with the splinter pistol, compensating as Kayle brought the Raider smoothly in.

From the vantage point of the Raider, Kayle had seen the neat mess Chy'ier had made of their own Mandrake, excising it from this plane of existence with the precise reflexes only a predator raised on the streets of Commorragh can have. Shaking off the frozen remnants of its demise, she'd taken an executive decision to nudge the waiting craft closer - no sense in hanging about, not with that ominous bulge in the webway overlooking everything - and called out to those below.

"Hurry up and lets move out, before anything else decides to show up!" Patience is a virtue, but survival beat virtue any day of the week. And most virtues get pretty dull after the first hundred years. She settled into the pilot's seat and looked down to see how the tall Incubus was doing.

It was easy to see, from the slick deck of the Raider, that the fight within the small, green-lit chamber was about to become somewhat more ... interesting. The Incubus blocked and parried the claws of the wickedly grinning Shadowskin, and the half-dead Trueborn he had chosen to protect for later questioning kept his head down in order to avoid losing it. But in the cramped compartment, there was little room to manoeuvre, and even less to wield the great Klaive. Caethir was no inexperienced initiate, however; he knew how to make up for the small space and lack of footwork.

It was the sudden blast of balefire that he had no training for. With a manic grin of unholy glee, the Mandrake held its black arms wide, as if to offer an embrace, before bringing its wrists sharply together. Its eyes vanished back into its face as acid-bright fire leaped along its arms, joining sigil to sigil and forming a miniature firestorm with the Incubus at its centre. With no room to dodge, Caethir attempted to bring up the blade to deflect the stream but it was too wide, the prized sword merely a twig in a hurricane. The blast struck the towering Incubus full in the chest, blowing him backwards up and through the shattered remains of the vehicle. Caethir hit the floor and dropped where he should have rolled.

Daranúr had been standing to one side, the better to be ready to question the living Trueborn survivor once the simple duel in the vehicle carcass was over, and to have the Incubus deposited so suddenly at his feet was a suprise. Not one that he was prepared to admit to, of course, nor one that he wouldn't be able to capitalise on in some way, but nonetheless, it was mildly - disconcerting. The increased adrenaline in his system surged with the pulsing battle-lust and sweet, sweet pain already clotting the air around him, a potent cocktail indeed. Now if only there were some way to -

The Mandrake leaped out from the disintegrating wreck so fast that he could have sworn it missed the intervening space entirely. Perhaps it had. Daranúr hissed an oath and narrowly avoided one of the creature's swiping taloned hands, leaping back, but it seemed that the Creeper had other plans. Crouched atop the Incubus' prone form it opened an impossibly wide mouth, and dug its claws into the joint between Caethir's skull-faced helm and his armour. Hissing, it began to draw out its unholy sustenance, the air around the macabre tableau freezing like an ice planet's atmosphere, little flecks of powdered white falling down like ash from a burning blaze.

At the same time as Daranúr raised his close quarter sabre for what he hoped would be a killing blow, there was a zip and whine of splinter fire and more tiny poison shards studded the feeding Shadowkind. For an instant, the Mandrake seemed too high on pain to notice, but Valarauka's shot hit its central - if shifting - body mass and it arched, letting out an inhuman shriek of agony. The unholy sound was joined by its twin in cacophony across the battlefield, but no-one seemed to pay that one any heed. Daranúr aimed a slash at the thing's ebon neck but hit only its hair, a few bone-white strands falling to the floor as the Mandrake slithered backwards into the shadows with an oddly jerky motion, like a vidcapt played backwards.

Across from the small arena-show that Caethir's duel had become, Excision had splayed the caught Mandrake across his makeshift dissection table. He corrected himself mentally: vivisection. The wriggling from the improvised crucifixion was a little distracting. One of the spiderlike assistant limbs flicked out idly, holding the Mandrake's slender black ankles in a vicelike grip. taloned feet kicked and drummed against the engine housing. Purring happily, the Wrack began to note all the little details, the background of the Shadowkin's piercing screams a melodic counterpart to the whirr of the bonesaw. A silken patch of black skin was torn loose from his elegant schema as the Mandrake writhed, its agony fluid, dropping around him like a benediction. Excision sheathed his Lady's blade with care and took his time. A chance like this just didn't come around every day.

It was with considerable chagrin that he surveyed the bloodied wreckage when the dazed, pain-blitzed Mandrake recovered its composure and slipped back into its beloved shadows. The Wrack looked down at the patch of shadowskin still in his grasp, uncomprehending for a moment. They had been going to make such beautiful music.

Kayle had seen the stalwart Incubus go flying under the blast from one Mandrake and she wasn't about to see the small group further fractured. Urgently working the controls of the Raider with one hand, she set it down to boarding height, one of her pistols in the other.

"Wrack! Playtime later! Come on, we have to get moving!"

Caethir stirred, groaning slightly as his consciousness returned. He ached from the backs of his thighs to his shoulders, and his back felt wrenched, but most of all there was a burning pain in the centre of his chest. A gloved hand could detect a dull cold even through the armour, which crackled with frost. His heart thundered as his system attemped to rouse him with adrenaline. Dimly, he could recall being flung like a ragdoll by a blast of green warpfire -

Strong hands were hauling him to his feet. The snarling Incubus reigned in his anger just in time as he recognised one of his mission allies: Daranúr, grinning with a knowing smirk that clearly said: you owe me. The tall, scarred warrior steadied the Incubus when Caethir attempted - unwisely as yet - to stand on his own, and helped him back into the Raider, Valarauka covering the small party with his splinter pistol in case any of the Shadowkin came back. From there, Chy'ier helped to haul him in and Kayle directed them to prop him next to the pilot's chair. At Valarauka's insistence - though it suited his own plans just fine - Daranúr returned for the semi-conscious Trueborn survivor. He had staggered to his feet, clutching a small pack as if his life depended on it, so Daranúr slung him over his shoulder pack and all jogged back to the craft, dumping him fairly gently in the prow as he vaulted back inside, just incidentally close to his beloved darklance post.

The highborn pilot was so anxious to be away that she swooped the Raider low across the field of wreckage, practically nudging the despondent Wrack with the prow. But not quite. There is a time and a place for electrocution. Gathering Excision, who cast a wistful glance down at the black blood slicking the metal as they left, she took the small ship up again and out into the webway, only breathing more clearly once several turns of the ethereal labyrinth lay between them and the crash site.


Extra Info:

Caethir:By Khaine, that hurt. You are bruised and battered, with enough general damage to reduce your efficiency in a fight. You may have a couple of broken ribs, judging by the way it hurts when you breathe.

Excision: You have a patch of Mandrake skin, still with a few of those nice carved runes, though their glow is fading. Caethir and the Trueborn survivor both need medical attention, and you are probably the nearest thing there is to a field medic.

Kayle: Further examination of the controls reveals that this tricked-out highborn's toy has a shock prow fitted.

General: Although you have left the immediate area, it is not too far if there was anything you wanted to go back for. Otherwise, you can see no other webway traffic and this section is quite clear, though only about as wide as three Raiders in diameter.

While helping to haul Caethir into a place that the pretty lady wanted, he couldn't help but ask her "Does this mean we can eat him?"

Treachery!

Villainy!

The Wrack snarled and roared out his displeasure, striking at the ruined husk of the Raider that had for but a shining moment served as his operation table. Claws of dark metal rent gaping wounds into the wreckage, the black life-blood of the wraithkin dripping from the ripped hull as though the ship itself bled beneath the creature's anger. How dare he! How dare that insufferable wretch deny him his pleasure! How dare he choose life and flee in place of such a beautiful and glorious demise! Excision was far too gone in the throes of rage and self-pity to recognize Kayle's orders, claws raking into the hull to satiate even the uttermost surface of his anger... And even that was failing...

Finally prodded by the vehicle, the youth finally came to such senses that he could at the very least contain himself. He cast a longing look over the wreckage one final time before mounting onto the Raider and allowing the wytch to take him away. For a moment, he peered down at the sagging scrap of black hide that hung in his hand, watching as the runes faded away and the skin became as lifeless as its former owner should have been. With a long sigh, he stuffed the skin halfway into his belt and let it hang like some sort of twisted memento.

But of course this only happened when he knew there was a new play thing... Excision paced his way across the span of the vessel in but a few casual strides, claws flexing open and closed as he came to examine to wounded Trueborn. He did not even bother to glance to the Incubus, the temple warrior standing as but a small flicker of interest as opposed to the prospect of unadulterated pleasure. Let the fool bleed out if he so wishes... What did he care?

With a jerk Caethir woke up. The pain was great, but nothing he has not felt before. What happened? Last thing he remembered he was charging a Shadowed One and then, cold darkness. The numbing cold he felt through his armor ment he was hit by a baleblast from the thing, but Caethir had never been hit by one so strong. He would have to rationalize it later, the mandrake must be slain!

Pain shot threw him from his chest as he tried to sit up. The Shrines are not known for their medical knowledge, but injuries happen and Incubi are taught basic infomation. Caethir guessed that several ribs were broken at worse, bruised at best. It was going to be a detrement to the mission, but he was still in danger and had to get moving.

Then someone started helping him up. Caethir noticed it was the Mercenary, and he had a smirk across his face. Caethir was confused, and then realized he had saved the Incubus from further harm. With a slight nod to the soldier, Caethir payed his respects. Daranúr then called out to the Youngling, and the two of them helped Caethir to the Pilot's chair.

They Youngling then snarked "Does this mean we can eat him?"

"You can try Young One, if you think you can take me." Caethir wheezed. He leaned on his Klaive with one hand, but the other was thumbing a bloodstone waiting for any agression from the Tubeborn.

There are more important matters than putting a child in his place, and the first one was to make sure his injuries were for not. Caethir straightened up as much as his injuries allowed and turn towards Daranúr "Take care of the prisoner. Interrogate him, and make sure that wrack does not have his way with him before we get some answers." Caethir then turned to address the Pilot "Get us out of here. We have wasted enough time for that worthless thing. If you are need of me, I will be in the cabin."

Using his Klaive to keep himself propped up, Caethir made his way into the private cabin on the Raider. His breathing was raspy, and he needed cloth to wrap up his ribs, and hopefully he would find something to take the edge off the pain. Also it would give him some time to meditate and clear his head. He kept palming the bloodstone, just in case the Youngling or the Wrack got any ideas to have some more fun before they made it to their location.

"Does this mean we can eat him?"

If this was a request from the Wrack, she figured it would be just a part of his Coven training, from the limited experiences she had with the chief Haemonculus her father employed, considering more then one occassion she felt his eyes wanting to devour her and she wasn't sure which image was worse...

"You can try Young One, if you think you can take me."

So the Incubus was alive, which meant the bet was still on...oh and of course him being alive was important as well...

"Get us out of here. We have wasted enough time for that worthless thing. If you are need of me, I will be in the cabin."

As the Incubus left the deck she turned her attention back to the Twitcher, "Not exactly the best idea was it-", she began smoothly to the increasingly strange Kabalite, "-and I have a better idea for you...

Close enough for her breath to reach his worn helmet, she caressed him with one hand light and quickly jabbed her Splinter Pistol at his throat, "...if you try something like that again on any of us, I'd hate to waste a vial of my Splinter Pistol to wash your throat out with Splinter Shards..."

With one last strong jab to his throat, she returned to her seat and took up the controls of Exacting Vengance, taking the crew as fair as possible from the wreckage...

"You were right Em'eyeth, no sense of humor at all." Chy'ier said to him self as he sat down on the deck of the raider.

"No matter, there will be a feast soon enough." he said while playing with his new jingly clanky toy.

Damn, should have double-tapped! The Kabalite spat on the deck in disgust as the shadowspawn escaped. He gave his pistol a twirl and sheathed it as the team re-boarded, sighing. Perhaps the next one will let me use the blast pistol without feeling too guilty.

He descended the steps to take a place mid-deck, just before the sail. He stared as deep as he could into the Webway, equal parts eager and cautious.

"If you covet my knives so much, you may have this one" he said suddenly to Chy'ier, tossing him the bloodstained blade, "You and your friend should understand that it is a souvenir of the lengths one such as me might go to avoid being....useless" Valarauka shrugged as if he did not care so much. He did not really even know himself who to fear most of the crew, but open threats could not be allowed to fester...all the better that all of Kayle's attention was focused on the Incubus.

Caethir was a battle-hardened Ynneas Eladrith, and a little pain wasn't about to stop him. he selected the tall mercenary as the most competent, nodding to him his thanks for assisting him to the Raider. The practical edge of this one made him a steady choice for a comrade in arms, or at least, steady enough for now. The Shrine-warrior was not about to underestimate anyone with so many battle-scars.

"Take care of the prisoner. Interrogate him, and make sure that wrack does not have his way with him before we get some answers." Caethir then turned to address the Pilot "Get us out of here. We have wasted enough time for that worthless thing. If you are need of me, I will be in the cabin."
Kayle made a jaunty little salute to the Incubus, already guiding the fast vessel out into the twisting Labyrinth Dimension. Caethir made a wordless sound in response, keeping his bloodstone handy. One could never be too careful. He slipped into the small pleasure-cabin, looking for peace enough to meditate and perhaps some medical supplies.

Daranúr nodded, his eyes already bright with the prospect of unleashing more pain. This time he even had a good reason to do it, not that one was ever truly needed: I hurt, therefore I am. He strode out to where the collapsed Trueborn was huddled in the prow of the Raider, weakly propping himself half against one of the stanchions and rifling through that bag of his. Daranúr smiled grimly to himself. Conscious, and moving. The day just got better.

Elsewhere the little crew was not as content. Chy'ier wasn't that hungry, but he had been knocked back again. He pouted just a fraction, consoling himself with the new, shiny toys he'd liberated. The experimental gourmand had only wanted a taste, anyway. Not like there wouldn't have been plenty to go round. Anyway Mr High and Mighty and possibly tasty had gone to have a lie down in the cabin.

"I don't know. Yes, it is dark, full of shadows probably." He sighed. "All over some little trifle like a bust rib." Mmm, ribs.

He was interrupted by the approaching footsteps of Valarauka. Chy'ier tilted his head up in a passable facsimile of interest, one shiny thing cupped in his hand, another loosely danging from his fingertips.

"If you covet my knives so much, you may have this one" he said suddenly to Chy'ier, tossing him the bloodstained blade, It was a tricky save, but Chy managed to catch it by sticking the glittering object in his mouth to leave a hand free. "You and your friend should understand that it is a souvenir of the lengths one such as me might go to avoid being....useless" Valarauka shrugged as if he did not care so much. The point was made. It was all about face anyway, being seen as too strong to take out for casual amusement. So long as they understood one another, everyone would get along just fine. Understand in this case being a simple standin for had the correct measure of fear for. He knew exactly what he'd do to keep his place on the mission and out of the gutter. Valarauka allowed himself a small smile. With luck no-one else would have to find out.

Chy'ier put the widget down, noting with a small sigh that chrome didn't taste half as delicious as it looked.

Making his way inside the cabin, Caethir's already excellent night vision was augmented by the lenses of his skull-faced helmet. He scanned the small cabin, then, finding no traces of life, or patches of heat or cold, he flipped the light on. The room was low-ceilinged, as was necessary not to spoil the baroque silhouette of the craft, and contained two functional stripped down beds, two storage lockers one under each and a small supply of drinking water. He bent to search the lockers, seeking something useful for his wounds. However, they were empty and - he ran a gloved hand over the shelf with an expression of distaste - contained nothing except the merest film of engine-oil and dust. Grimacing slightly, the Incubus settled on one of the bed-platforms into a simple meditative pose, shutting out the noise from outside.

Kayle took Exacting Vengeance out into the webway, a sure hand at the controls of the sleek machine. She glanced down at the figure of Valarauka as he stood before the mast, Perhaps once, long ago, stalwart ship's captains stood thus at the masthead, watching the waves as their sleek vessels fleeted over the sighing sea. She shrugged a little. Who knew what drug-laced delusions her companions liked to fill their time with? So long as the here and now reality of the fast Raider was obedient, then the Reaver's fun to plan ratio was still, she acknowledged with a glance towards the little cabin, pretty good.

Down on the prow, Daranúr was about to get to work on the prisoner when Excision stormed across the deck, chains clanking their melancholy music. The young Wrack had no face visible, but it was clear from his body language that he was not having a good day. The patch of bloodied Mandrake-skin hanging from his belt was the only other reminder of the work he'd had interrupted, but it was pungent with fresh, iron-scented gore and a nicely topical reminder of the afternoon's entertainments. Daranúr cast a glance over the Trueborn prisoner.

"Aside." Excision growled the single word, clearly not expecting the tall mercenary to stay in his way. Daranúr folded his arms, looking the Wrack up and down. The tattooed, shaven-headed Dark Eldar considered the muscle mass, extra limbs and toughened hide of the devotee of pain for a moment, and decided that his own carefully tended physique was a good match. Plus, he wasn't too enraged to start making mistakes. He reckoned the Wrack might be. Good odds.

Much as part of him wanted a fight, there were answers to be had here and he, Daranúr, was the one to get them. For a moment the impasse lingered, broken only by a short cough from the Trueborn.

"If there is something you wish to know, I can probably just tell you." He still looked pale, but the searching hands had closed on something small and he'd slipped it into his mouth between breaths. Daranúr cursed, lunging down to catch the man's hand before -

Looking already much more refreshed, the Trueborn flipped out his hand palm-upward, offering it to Daranúr.

"Qa'leh's Bliss. Accelerates tissue healing and speeds the knitting of bones. Just the cure for what ails you." His expression was clear: want one? "Blue grade, uncut. Straight from the supplier."

"Poison." Excision spat. "Trickery! He bargains to save himself pain!"

"Of course I do," said the Trueborn, reasonably. He sat up a little more, a touch of colour on his patrician features. "But poisoning you would be a stupid shortcut to take when there are six of you and one of me.

"Now it's plain to me that I have something you want, and you have the means to extract it from my still-twitching corpse." He was interrupted by a rising growl from Excision. "Is that your Wrack? He's slipped his leash." He glanced at Daranúr, a simple gesture indicating that he wished to speak as one professional to another. "Call him off and I will tell you anything I can - it's obvious you have questions. Maybe you have no love for the Wraithkind. Maybe you're thinking: why not just start cutting? I won't waste your time with pleading; that would be undignified. I have only one argument for you.

"I have Qa'leh's Bliss, Grave Lotus and Maiden's Tears. You're obviously a warrior and solders have need of such things. The Tears could fix your Incubus there right up. You could take them, but I can put you in contact with a dealer who only sells to faces he trusts. Like mine."



Extra Info:

Caethir: There is nothing in the cabin, but it is a well-shielded space and your knowledge of Raider craft would indicate no hidden compartments.

Daranúr: In low doses, Maiden's Tears is a very highly priced designer stimulant, but its most common use is as a battlefield accelarant of the natural healing processes. High quality samples seldom if ever have carcinogenic after-effects. Qa'leh's Bliss is a common combat drug on Wych-led raids, also used in prolonged arena bouts by some, frowned on by others as it is simple and relatively cheap and reliable healer, but it also speeds clotting of the blood. Where's the show in that?

"Nothing" Caethir sighed. The cabin was stripped clean except for two cots and some water. He had expected as much, being the raider just was in the shop, but Caethir atleast hoped for some sort of cloth or first aid kit.

"Oh well, guess it is plan B." Caethir slowly took off his coat. He then released the locks on his helmet and sat it down on the bed. It had been almost a day since he had tasted fresh air, and Caethir was very disapointed. The air in the cabin smelled of oil and grease, and he rather be breathing through the mask's rebreather.

Slowly and methodically Caethir started taking off his chestplate, whincing in pain at every snap. The chill had finally gone away from his armor, but the color had started chipping where the baleblast made contact. "It is going to take weeks to buff that out." With his armor off and a few pokes and prods into his ribs, Caethir was able to determined he has 3 broken ribs, plus bruising along his back. The damage was better than he had originally thought.

And with that Caethir began slicing his coat up along his klaive into long strands. When he got to the Guild's Symbol, he paused for a moment and thought about continuing with the mutilation of the coat, but ended up cutting around the symbol. Prescense means everything in Commorragh, and it might yet still come in use.

With his newly cut pile of strands, Caethir began to wrap his chest up tight. Every move sent a strike of pain through him, but it was nothing that he had not felt before. During the first week of training, young aspirants are put up against fully armored Incubi in hand to hand combat without their own armor. The point of the excersise it to teach the aspirants to not trust their armor to protect them, and most of them end up battered and beaten. Caethir himself ended that first day with a broken noise, broken collar bone, broken arm, and several broken ribs. The worse part was afterwards when the Shrine's Haemonculus was mending the broken bones, without drugs. "Brother Tarrith really messed me up that time." he chuckled slightly.

With a final knot Caethir finished his make-shift compress bandage. He slowly began the process of putting his brestplate back on. His movement was restricted somewhat by the bandage, but atleast some of the pressure was relived. With the final snaps in place, Caethir undid the topknot that was holding his long black hair in place, letting his hair breathe. He then sat on the bed and began his favorite mental chant from his Shrine's meditation rituals, and drifted away enough to give him a moment of peace and tranquility away from the pain and the mission.

"Take care of the prisoner. Interrogate him, and make sure that wrack does not have his way with him before we get some answers." There would be blood soon. Daranúr felt almost certain of it. He nodded to the Incubus as they passed and then turned in front of the Trueborn to look at the Wrack. The foetid beast was so sure of himself that he stormed across the deck as if he were captain of a starship.

"Aside." The Coven acolyte commanded as he continued to walk almost into the mercenary. There was no way Daranúr was moving. Answers were needed and this Wrack was not suitable for extracting them. He watched Excision carefully for any open early sign of violence. If he made a single move wrong then Daranúr would not have halted to exploit any weakness he might show. He’d beat the servant of agony into submission… or into the cold grasps of death. Whichever was more reliable to maintain order.

"If there is something you wish to know, I can probably just tell you."
Before anything else could be said the risk of the Trueborn taking his own life became all too apparent. He had placed something in his mouth, but before the mercenary beat at his back to force him to cough it back up he proceeded to explain: "Qa'leh's Bliss. Accelerates tissue healing and speeds the knitting of bones. Just the cure for what ails you. Blue grade, uncut. Straight from the supplier"

He didn’t know how far he could trust this Trueborn; after all, he was their captive.
"Poison." Excision spat. "Trickery! He bargains to save himself pain!"
“Enough!” Daranúr rasped. The job of interrogation (and even the job of living) was always heightened by cheap drugs.

"Now it's plain to me that I have something you want, and you have the means to extract it from my still-twitching corpse." He was interrupted by a rising growl from Excision. "Is that your Wrack? He's slipped his leash." He glanced at Daranúr, a simple gesture indicating that he wished to speak as one professional to another. "Call him off and I will tell you anything I can - it's obvious you have questions. Maybe you have no love for the Wraithkind. Maybe you're thinking: why not just start cutting?” I really want to start cutting. “I won't waste your time with pleading; that would be undignified. I have only one argument for you.

"I have Qa'leh's Bliss, Grave Lotus and Maiden's Tears. You're obviously a warrior and solders have need of such things. The Tears could fix your Incubus there right up. You could take them, but I can put you in contact with a dealer who only sells to faces he trusts. Like mine."

Those drugs would be of great use. Having a member of the party injured so early on could be bad for morale in the long run, especially the injury of a man that had taken the role of a leader. He could also pocket a few of the drugs for his own little stash. “You think that I need your drugs? I have my own.” The mercenary pulled out three phials of different coloured fluids from his pouch. They were the only combat drugs he could afford at the time, but maybe he could get more out of the Trueborn. “Give me the contact of your supplier, the drugs that you have on you and explain what you were doing out in this part of the Webway and I shan’t have you fed to my pet here.”

Excision really did not seem to enjoy being called a pet… his displeasure amused Daranúr.

“Okay, take the drugs.” The Trueborn handed his arsenal of stimulants over, fulfilling the drug addicted-soldier greatly.

“Excision, with your medical expertise could I trust you to take the Maiden’s Tears to Caethir?” He proffered the drugs in a less patronising manner as he had presented to the Coven servant before, but he cared not if the Wrack thought his respect as genuine or not.

Due to the compact space of Exacting Vengance Kayle could easily make out the machinations of her companions conversations, even with the hum of the ship's engine in the backround...

"It seems he isn't as useless as he looks, interesting...", she said to herself quietly, amused by her understanding of the conversation held by the Shock Prow.

Looking back towards the cabin the Incubus had retired to, she decided she could take a few moments away from the pilot controls and observe the Incubus, then find the map bearer to get an update upon their location. Taking her leave from the pilot controls, she moved towards the cabin gracefully, aiming to see a glismpe of what is underneath that armour of her 'little Incubus'.

'Maybe more...' she thought to himself as she reached for the door, opening it enough for her to slip into the room and lean her back on to the doorframe and observed her Incubus for a moment...

"You want something for that?", her question sounded more like a suggestion, with the look in her eyes...definitely a suggestion...

Not really knowing what to do with himself, and Em'eyeth being asleep for once. Chy'ier decided the panicked rantings and musings of the injured mouse didn't concern or interest him, his use was already cashed in. Well... he was out of the city, time to enjoy the quiet moment he thought as he pulled out two of his glowing grenades and picked up the tinker grenade. One by one he threw them up into the air and catching them until he was 'juggling'

Chy'ier, We are starting to get hungry again.

"You want something for that?" The noise broke Caethir out of his trance. He noticed the Reaver slip into the cabin, but she did not make any agressive moves, and seemed to rather stare than act. She could stare all she wanted, but to break his concentration annoyed the Incubus enough to warrent a response.

"I have had worse." He said not skipping a cadence of the mental chant. Several more minutes went by, and the Reaver just stood there. Caethir's patience slowly started to boil. All he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, yet this woman continues to hover like a vulture over a fresh kill. It was to the point that even the Incubus' training could not hold back his annoyance.

Caethir finally opened his eyes and stared down the Reaver. His piercing cold blue eyes met hers to fully pass his intentions along. "Do you have need of me? If not, I would suggest you go back to the helm and play your part." With that, he closed his eyes and continued the verse.

"Do you have need of me? If not, I would suggest you go back to the helm and play your part."

'Oh I have a need alright..., Kayle thought to herself quietly as she strenched out away from the door, while making a small noise to go along with the overtly gesture of her body's moves...

"Apparantly we have acquired some Maiden's Tear, which should help...I suppose", she sighed, but keeping her eyes on the Incubus as she leaned back on to the door and played with the handle...

"I'll go play my 'part', just so long as you play yours..., her tone suggesting a completely different subject then the Incubus mentioned as she opened the door and left the cabin, not without a little show of her fluid body actions, just for kicks...

The Incubus searched the small cabin in vain for something useful. Apparently no-one had thought to make sure that Exacting Vengeance was stocked with even the most basic of medical supplies or, come to that, any food. The tiny reminder of the youngling's intention of eating him in lieu of rations was easily brushed aside by the stoic Shrine-warrior. After all, fleeting irritations are not the concern of the Incubi.

Seating himself, he began to assess the damage done by the Mandrake's baleblast and his own harsh landing. Caethir was well-versed in enough field first aid to make sure that he immobilised the broken ribs, as far as he was able, and compressed the fractures in such a way that they would heal correctly. That done, he replaced his armour and sank into a meditating trance, hoping to hasten the mending bones or at least clear his mind for what was to come.

Outside, Valarauka watched the exchange at the bow. It seemed that Daranúr had the upper hand in the little contest of pin the knife on the prisoner. He watched the exchange with some attention; not only were they apparently in receipt of someone well-connected, but someone with quite a handy supply. Something that he, Valarauka, would be wise to get a sample of before they all disappeared into the veins or digestive tract of some intemperate brawler.

While Excision stood by and fumed, the slick street fighter took full advantage of the Trueborn prisoner's offer of a nice new supply of drugs. After all, better living through chemistry was something fervently espoused by the scarred warrior as the nearest thing he had to a birth credo. That, and the pursuit of power. Daranúr held up a hand (with just the barest hint of smug, after all these drugs looked like a very much purer grade than the street versions he was used to, though he reigned it in fast) as the Wrack growled his wordless rage. He felt he had the measure of the servant of Pain, and he was enjoying the measure of control that gave him. It was intoxicating, in its own small way. Surely but a taste of the power he would one day wield, if the Lady Dracon kept her promises.

“Excision, with your medical expertise could I trust you to take the Maiden’s Tears to Caethir?” he paused, his body language supplying for good measure that the Trueborn was a valuable asset to the mission, surely not to be endangered ... just yet. Excision snarled, but he could come to no decision. An audible grinding sound issued from behind that mask. Surely the sound of teeth on teeth. With a hiss, the young Disciple of Torture stood as if frozen in place.

Who knew what lay behind that inscrutable mask? Daranúr didn't care. He had a new contact, or plaything - perhaps both; he had new toys; he had a promising lead to that first step to the power and respect he'd craved all his life. Life was looking good.

With a low rumbling sound of discontent the young Wrack virtually snatched the vial of Maiden's Tears from Daranúr and stomped off in the direction of the Raider's small cabin.

Meanwhile, at the helm of the small craft, Kayle had had the same idea, if for rather more earthy reasons. After all, the strapping Incubus was all on his lonesome and, by now, quite possibly in a state of half undress. An excellent opportunity for gathering some research material for her bet with the Dracon. Yes, research ... and Kayle was all for hands on experience. Judging that the Raider could be left to fly itself for a while in the trackless, enemy-inhabited webway, she slipped away from her post and into the small cabin. After all, what's life without risk?

She pushed the cabin door behind her and leaned languidly against it. The low light in the confined space glinted off the curves of her Wychsuit where it pulled tight to her perfectly feminine physique. The scent of oil in the room began to take on a more subtle edge, of the perfume of her elegantly coiffed hair.

Deep in meditation, Caethir noticed the change in temperature as the door opened. The subtle shift in air pressure, too, alerted his combat-keen senses. There was a lingering tint of perfume in the room, and the slightest breathy sigh. Assessing the danger even as he roused himself from his meditative state enough to determine his next action, the Incubus quickly decided that there was no need. No-one else on the small craft was so brash as to interrupt him. It had to be Kayle.

After a moment more, trying to return to the inner calm of his meditative state, Caethir noted that the lusty Reaver pilot was still there.

He spared her a glance. Incubi seldom emit a sigh of sorely-tried patience, but this might soon prove to be one of those times.

"You want something for that?" her question sounded more like a suggestion, with the look in her eyes...definitely a suggestion...

The noise broke Caethir out of his trance. "I have had worse." He said not skipping a cadence of the mental chant. Several more minutes went by, and the Reaver just stood there. Caethir's patience slowly started to boil. All he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, yet this woman continued to hover like a vulture over a fresh kill. It was to the point that even the Incubus' training could not hold back his annoyance.

Caethir finally opened his eyes and stared down the Reaver. His piercing cold blue eyes met hers to fully pass his intentions along. "Do you have need of me? If not, I would suggest you go back to the helm and play your part." With that, he closed his eyes and continued the verse.

Oh I have a need alright..., Kayle thought to herself quietly as she stretched out away from the door, while making a small noise to go along with the overtly gesture of her body's moves...

"Apparently we have acquired some Maiden's Tear, which should help...I suppose" she sighed, but keeping her eyes on the Incubus as she leaned back on to the door and played with the handle...

"I'll go play my 'part', just so long as you play yours..." her tone suggesting a completely different subject then the Incubus mentioned as she opened the door and left the cabin, not without a little show of her fluid body actions, just for kicks ...

Outside, the Raider was cruising quietly along, with at least a hundred yards before it would smack shock prow first into the webway wall ... Cursing eloquently, the Reaver pulled the controls back and applied herself to busily correcting the speeding transport's course as if nothing had happened and she meant it that way.

Caethir settled back into his meditations. If he had wanted Wych flesh on display, he'd go to the arena like everyone else. Did these people have no sense of the mission? For a less driven warrior, it would have been easy to succumb to annoyance and worse, but the Shrine does not train hopeless aspirants. He took a deep breath, feeling the trance take hold once more-

The tiny cabin was, it seemed, suddenly busier than a Sorrow Fell harlotry. There was a quick rap on the door of what sounded like armoured knuckles, and the lowering form of Excision stood outlined in the doorway. Caethir's shoulders would have slumped just a little but for his tight bandaging.

"Maiden's Tears," the Wrack growled, holding out a single pip-ampoule, the kind designed to be loaded into and airhypo or, in the field, broken and self-administered with the dissolving internal spike. "For mending the broken."


Outside, Chy'ier was bored. No-one would let him eat anybody. It seemed that there wasn't going to be a diverting spectacle of screams, pain and tasty leftovers in the bow, either. Some people just didn't know how to have fun. He took out some of his shiny toys. Chy'ier was an artist at looking on the bright side, and this time the fact that the haywire grenade was nicely weighted to match the plasma grenades he already carried was enough to bring a smile to his face. Tossing one up into the air, he caught a few times before adding another to the whirl, and another ... such pretty things. Shame Emmy was missing this.

Chy'ier, We are starting to get hungry again.

"Now? Oh, you mean nearly ... well she won't like it." He said, sadly. "Yes, I suppose she is the most tender." He gave a small gasp. "Oh, no that wouldn't be nice would it? And no-one else is half as pretty to look at and no-one smells as nice."

We are getting hungry.

"Yes yes I'll- by the Dar-" Chy'ier was a dextrous former urchin, but it doesn't do to be juggling grenades and carrying on a conversation.

The little silver egg fell in slow motion, but quick as Chy'ier was he couldn't catch it. Part of him thought that this wouldn't be a very good idea anyway. The blooming flower of the plasma explosion was silent at first, then it dawned on him that it was in fact very, very loud indeed. This was going to hurt ...

A sudden noise amidships from one side of the pilot's seat, a bright flash as actinic fire lit up the sleek craft, and a horrible buckling, tearing explosion interrupted every Ynneas Eladrith on board. At the front of the ship, the Trueborn prisoner instinctively ducked and Daranúr hit the deck beside him in short order. Valarauka suddenly found his advance to the prow assisted rudely by the shockwave, rolling with the impact, Molten plasma sprayed out in a radius barely blocked by the baroque fairings of the craft, and only their Kabalite armour saved the front crew and the prisoner from a gruesome death. Pieces of Raider speared down, nearly impaling Valarauka as he scrambled for non-existant cover, and slicing a hefty cut on his leg to go with the self-inflicted painscore.

Caethir's warrior pride was warring with his common sense pragmatic streak when the explosion rocked the craft. Excision was propelled forward into the cabin by the force of the explosion, the Wrack's gnarlskinned form charring and blistering in the heat. An effective, if unfortunate way of taking the force from the blast. Caethir was on his feet, hauling the wounded Wrack out of the way and back into the cabin as he darted out to meet the coming attack ...

The deck was a mess of blazing wreckage and the Raider itself was taking a nosedive into the webway floor. The blonde pilot was lying in a heap against the starboard side of the craft, having been sheltered - he guessed - from the blast by the steering mechanisms and the pilot's seat enough that she had survived. The others were at the prow, out of the main radius of what must have been an explosion centred very nearly on the pilot's station. Caethir's keen senses swept the deck, calculating, but in that instant he could see no enemy force. Just Chy'ier, lying motionless in a circle of burning plasma fluid, shards of once-proud fighting vessel raining down around him.



Extra Info:

Caethir: You have one vial of Maiden's Tears. This will fix up your ribs nicely in about half an hour. The Raider is performing the manoeuvre better known as 'plummet'. Instant battle reflexes deployed could pull it up into a better landing, but you'll need to be quick.

Kayle: You are dazed, and have minor burns, but the pilot's station had protected you from most of the plasma blast. You also have bruises from being thrown against the side of the Raider. You'll be able to assess the damage to the craft if it survives. There isn't long before it impacts, and no-one is a better pilot than you, right?

Excision: Your gnarlskin saved you from serious damage, but you have bad burns to your rear facing and these will require medical attention. At the moment you are inside the cabin and so not blinded, but you are somewhat deafened as below.

Valarauka: You have some heavy bruising and a bleeding cut to your leg. You narrowly avoided being pinned like a butterfly to the deck.

Daranúr: You and your prisoner are bruised and shaken, but no major inconveniences.

Chy'ier: Oh Chy'ier. Dark Muses above. Being ground zero of a plasma grenade explosion is not a good place to be. Only the fact that you have Luck as a major skill means you are not dead. You have concussion, major burns to any exposed skin, your armour is cracked and buckled almost beyond repair, and you have severe internal bruising as the forces dropped at your feet tried to throw you in several directions. You are a painful, bleeding, soot-encrusted mess. Moving is a bad idea. Every joint hurts, and some things may be broken - you aren't really in a position to tell. You are, however, still alive.

Everyone: You are deafened for a short while, and the flash has given everyone outside not wearing a helmet a fearsome but temporary lightburn to the eyes. You will be shouting to be heard and less able to target clearly next post. Your Raider is not looking good. Much of the port side railings blew out, the deck is buckled and the pilot's station is damaged at first glance. Kayle's Reaver bike, stowed at the rear of the craft, is undamaged apart from scratched and dented paintwork. There is a neat, three-foot hole just in front of Chy'ier that goes all the way through the deck.

“In the name of the Muses!” Daranúr exclaimed, blinded and deaf as he hit the deck. One moment that blasted twitcher was juggling his grenades, the next they had been severely compromised. Somebody needed to talk to that boy. By talk, Daranúr meant beat, and by boy he meant imbecile.

Luckily the damage caused to the mercenary had not been severe so he attempted to stand as quickly as he could, holding his face until his vision came back.

If any of his drugs had been broken in the fall he would not be held responsible for the corpse that the others would find…

The world spun around him as he stumbled around the deck, but quickly he regained his sight.

His face was filled with rage as he grabbed the twitcher by his arm and dragged him to his feet. The boy squealed but he cared not for his pain. In the other hand he had the throat of the Trueborn; this wasn’t out of aggression, Daranúr was immensely disgruntled and wanted to make sure that no escape attempt was made. The throat seemed like the easiest part to pick him up by at the time.

“Useless thes’yrin tyrithsp kir’ynach!” He mumbled to himself as he forced them across the deck and threw them both into the cabin beside the Wrack. This was most likely the best place to keep them until more questions needed to be asked.

He gestured for the Wrack to leave and after he made his decision he closed the door after a final glare at the youngling. The Wrack would need help and the mercenary had drugs that could help, but for now he had other priorities. The Servant of Flesh could most likely deal with a little pain for now.

He made his way back to the deck to survey the damage and noticed Valaruka bleeding on the ground.. He had overlooked this in his previous rage.

“Need a hand?” He asked as he knelt down beside him.

Pain?

That was an interesting sensation he had not felt for some time.... Well, not in the literal sense at least. Hands pressed against the deck of the cabin beneath him, feral snarls escaping his lipless mouth from beneath the black face-mask. He moved with all of his limbs, claws of four different hands dragging along the metal to gain some form of control. Almost immediately, he soaked in his own agony, the tingling sensation of plasma burn searing through nerves that screamed for but a moment before dying out, the sizzle of crisping gnarlflesh and sagging calcium pockets, an ever so slight delay in the response time of his two aritifical arms of dark metal, and the stench of spoiled pork burned and charred.

To the youth, it was an almost pleasurable experience, an interesting change sensations that had strangely enough soothed over his rage from his denied entertainment. It wasn't a very logical transition but his species was one of volatile mood swings and addiction to suffering of all sorts so he really wasn't in the mood or place to argue with his own psyche. The pain, while excrusiating for a moment had quickly died down into not more than a full aching throb of agonized nerves. To be fair, his gnarl husk was one of a thick epidermus that integrated with calcium and cartilige pockets to effectively create a natural armour for the body. Even then a Wrack's nerve systems were mostly deadend from constant surgery process and nueral spike injections. That combined with drug injectors tapped into his spinal rig that would dispense pain suppressants - as they were doing now - when the host felt actual pain led to the legend that Wracks 'feel no pain' which was not entirely true. It wasn't impossible, just didn't happen often.

Of course, he truly had no sense of care what the others were doing or what state they were in. Immediately his secondary claws and arachnid mandibles began to work on reknitting his back, peeling away the deadend flesh and simply reknitting the naked flesh with the sagging skin from around the wounds. That was what Gnarlskin was for after all. Easy to fix and required little to no attention. He did not even require to look at the damage, a lifetime of flesh-weaving providing him with all the information he needed by simple touch, smell, and obviously pain. His more advanced biological system would take care of the rest and heal in rather short time, a boon of the dark covens if ever there was one.


(Basically Excision is spending his turn seeing to his own medical needs because quite frankly he doesn't give a rats ass about the rest of you. not going to do anything else because he is no pilot and this attention requires all his concentration )

In the moments before the explosion, Valarauka was silently peforming the mental calculations for the ratios of stimulant, narcotic, depressant, and steroid that would improve his mental and physical state for the next few hours. He didn't actually care where he ended up: he could always adjust his tactics accordingly, but the risk of accidental poisoning from bad chemical interactions was always a danger. Happily, by this point in his short, brutal life he was something of an amateur toxicologist. The cocktail he envisioned would perhaps have only a 10% chance of destroying all of his nerves and brainstem in a matter of seconds...

First, he saw the light of the plasma shine against the hull of the Raider before him. In the amount of time his brain registered this fact, the hot wind hit the exposed flesh of his hands and head, bowing him over onto his front. By that time, his body had kicked into its proper state of readiness, his hands pushing him farther forward into a tight roll. His eyes were filled with white noise, and a split second decision made him turn his head to spot incoming danger. This exposed him to the light of the grenade, but before his vision went totally blank, the positions of the hurtling pieces of ship were instantly memorized. Now even amongst the lightning quick ranks of Eldar gunslingers, only a handful can dodge a bullet after it has been fired. Valarauka knew this firsthand after watching the great Lelith Hesperax herself evade an entire clip of a captured Rogue Trader's archaeotech pistol before decapitating him, as well as witnessing a jealous Succubus utterly fail to emulate the performance the following eve. Valarauka had the good fortune to be faced with a mere three fatal shards of twisted metal sailing at him much slower than a bullet. His mind instantly determined the path to survival; slip between two and suffer a nonlethal cut to his leg.

And, that is exactly what happened. It's good when a plan comes together.

"Tits of Isha..." he muttered as he lay on the deck, one hand clutching tight to his wound, the other drawin the stinger pistol. "Status! Status! Where is the enemy?" He yelled uselessly, shaking his head to try and clear his ears. For several seconds he could only lie senselessly, utterly unable to defend himself. Then, his vision returned, and he surveyed the wreckage, searching for foes. He could only see his allies, and the webway was clear. The loud noise of the prisoner and the madman being stowed was the first clear one he heard. Valarauka struggled to stand, but the pain of this one was far more debilitating than the almost affectionate slice he had self-inflicted. He would be fighting one-legged at the very least. The sight of the webway's colors risingto his sides alerted him to their freefall. Daranur kneeled beside him and offered a hand, his words a muddled mess.

"THE PILOT! ROUSE KAYLE NOW! WE ARE GOING DOWN!" he bellowed, indicating the control console with his pistol. He groaned as a new wave of pain washed over him and buried his face into his knee. His usual methods of avoiding a wound were going to be useless here. Perhaps this mission was a bullet he would been better off trying to dodge.

The raider shook violently from an explosion. The Wrack had taken the brunt of the blast, and now laid in the doorway. His back was charred and gave off the smell of a crispy grox steak. Caethir pulled the Wrack inside the cabin and went out to check the damage. His first thought was that it was some "friends" of their prisoner, but there were no other craft in sight. He surveyed the carnage and saw everyone was alive, if not worse for wear. The raider slowly swayed back and forth, and finally went into a nose dive. With grace that even most wyches were jealous of Caethir sprang towards the controls and used what basic control knowledge he had to try and pull the raider out of its free fall.

"Reaver, I know you Highborn like your beauty rest, but now is not the time to sleeping. Guide me through the controls so I can pull this craft up."

In the quick and decisive battle between an explosion fuelled volley of Kayle's body against the sleek and deadly hide of Exacting Vengance, the hide of the Raider won outright, something that Kayle would never admit defeat to so easily...though it would be something she would have to deny it later...

"Anyone get the identification of that Raider that hit me..." she mumbled to herself, as she felt the after effects of the blast. The smell of burned flesh hit her, and with the heady cocktail of the blazing Raider and battered pain from her brush with the hull, Kayle's limbs were a little slow off the mark as she tried to unheap herself off the Raider floor.

"Reaver, I know you Highborn like your beauty rest, but now is not the time to sleeping. Guide me through the controls so I can pull this craft up."

She would have to give the Incubus her name at some point, a brief thought that she couldn't follow up with, seeing as Exacting Vengance was nose diving as they spoke...

"Not enough time-", she coughed out as she pulled herself up to the controls and moved the Incubus out of the way, "-as much fun as you under my command...

With a firm grip on the steering rod and a quick flicker on the control panel she pulled up on the rod....

"Hold on!

Valarauka had been enjoying passing the time improvising drug cocktails. It was a hobby of his; he considered himself rather an artisan of the chemical repertoire. But as always seems to happen with even the best parties, Fate had other ideas.

The sudden explosion might have caught the sometime Sybarite by surprise, but his reaction to it was anything but ill-prepared. With a split second's calculation he was already twisting as the blast propelled him, taking the lesser hit to avoid being spitted like a foundation sacrifice.

"Tits of Isha..." he muttered as he lay on the deck, one hand clutching tight to his wound, the other drawing the stinger pistol. "Status! Status! Where is the enemy?" He yelled uselessly, shaking his head to try and clear his ears. In what seemed an age, he had gathered enough of his scattered senses to assess and react.

"THE PILOT! ROUSE KAYLE NOW! WE ARE GOING DOWN!"

As the flame-wreathed Raider plummeted towards the webway floor, the scent of burning thick in everyone's nostrils, the canting deck slick with debris and oily soot, Daranúr sprang into action. Grabbing his prisoner by the first handy thing that came to mind, he leapt for the bridge. Scooping up the singed body of Chy'ier, he hurled the young Tubeborn into the small cabin and darted back to assist his fallen comrade in arms.

"Need a hand?" he asked solicitously as he knelt down beside Valarauka. Daranúr knew he was no pilot. No sense in getting in the way. He wasn't unaware of the injuries done to the others, but he knew that Wracks had many tricks up their altered sleeves and if the Incubus couldn't deal with a little pain, well, what were they teaching the Children of Arhra these days?

On the bridge, Kayle was pulling herself up from the stunned heap she'd been thrown into against the side of Exacting Vengeance. Muzzy from the impact, she was aware of a familiar form of the Incubus towering over her.

"Reaver, I know you Highborn like your beauty rest, but now is not the time to be sleeping. Guide me through the controls so I can pull this craft up."

Kayle shook herself, muttering, "Anyone get the identification of that Raider that hit me..." and hauled herself upright. Grasping the steering column of the battered craft, she managed to spare a glance at her target, that is companion in arms, even as she did so.

"Not enough time-" she coughed out, "-as much fun as you under my command..." With a firm grip on the steering rod and a quick flicker on the control panel she pulled up on the rod. "Hold on!"

Not a moment too soon. Exacting Vengeance was beginning to spin, the last elegant death-throes of the sleek craft shuddering through the wrecked balustrades, the pierced fairings screaming with the speed of the descent as air whistled through the battered frame. The Reaver pilot braced against the deck and hauled on the unresponsive controls with as much strength as she could muster. Slowly, far too slowly, the Raider began to respond. Kayle cursed lustily, her hands flying over the controls, trying to coax even a little bit of power from the circuits. Frustrated, she kicked at the dented column, trying to force it into a more upright position.

"Let me." It wasn't a suggestion. Caethir wrenched the steering back into place with main force, leaving Kayle free to get the Raider's spinning course under control. Desperately, she fought to flatten out the dive. Something clicked back into place, electric blue sparks jumping from fusing relays, but it was enough. Shorting circuits overlaid the cloying smell of singed flesh. Exacting Vengeance levelled off at last, shock prow scraping a long, billowing furrow in the webway floor. With a last desperate slam of her hand into the emergency braking systems, Kayle brought the Raider to a stop.

For a moment, everyone was silent, frozen as if unable to move. Even the whirring mechanical arms of the Wrack, efficiently knitting, cutting, pasting ... fell quiet. Seven pairs of eyes, blinking away the last of the explosion's afterimages, focussed on that track in the webway.

Grey, smoky tendrils curled lazily up from the torn furrow, like morning mist in a newly-ploughed field. Blowing aside like the last remnants of a great sovereign's funeral pyre, they dissipated, vanishing, and the dent began to fill itself in, much as a pool in shallow sand will do as the tide rises. Seven breaths released.

"See?" Kayle grinned up at the tall Shrine-warrior, running a hand through her disordered curls, "We make a great team. Think of what we could do together. If we put our minds to it." The sentiment could be understood as a nod to the small band as a whole, but the message of her body was more intimate. After all, Kayle mused, all that adrenaline has to go somewhere ...

Dropped at last, the Trueborn prisoner gasped in a ragged breath (now that Daranúr's scarred paw had absent-mindedly been released from his neck) and propped himself up into a sitting position. Beside him, the tableau of Daranúr and Valarauka reset, the scarred veteran brawler reiterating his offer.

"Need a hand?"

Valarauka blinked one more time. "Ah - yes. Yes. Get me over to the port gunnery station. We need to assess the damage." Rising with Daranúr's help, he was half-carried over to the seat, stubbornly clinging to the point that as long as one had both feet actually touching the ground, one wasn't being carried like a cripple.

Close to the ruined steersman's seat, Excision's auxiliary arms resumed their cutting, snipping, mending, dosing .., there was an almost reproachful timbre to the working machinery's smooth whirring. The pain was gone. Excision's masked head tilted for a moment. It had been enjoyable, in a way, to feel that nerve-searing sensation. It had sharpened his mind wonderfully. Now it was gone, he didn't know whether he should mourn its passing. The thickened gnarlskin was already regenerating, thanks to the subtle mixture of growth stimulants and healing accelerators, but still .. while it lasted ... He gave a small sigh and focussed on the familiar fleshwork. Needs must. It wouldn't do to fail in his mission for his Lady. There would be time enough to explore pain after it was done. After all, she had someone for him to meet.

The contented humming of the working Fleshcrafter brought Chy'ier around from his daze. He took a deep breath, looked around at the ruin of the elegant war-craft, glanced back at the yard-wide crafter, ringed with soot, where he'd been standing, and screamed. He screamed at the stupid waste of pain. He screamed at the ghost plate armour for not taking the ghost walk instead. He screamed at the hostile Universe for taking his bright shiny toy. He screamed at Em'eyeth for talking and for not talking, now, when he, Chy'ier, really needed a distraction. And last of all, as an afterthought really, he screamed because it bloody well hurt.

"...-AAAaaaah!" he finished, reproachfully, then glared at anyone who looked as if they might disagree.

At this point, the Wrack stabbed him in the arm.

"The Lady said to keep you safe." Excision rumbled, his deep voice thickened with the smoke. Chy'ier looked about to turn on him in outrage, but the initial sting of the injection was already spreading a soothing, numbing sensation across his seared skin. He settled for pouting slightly. "Cell renewal." Excision supplied, as if this explained everything. "Sit still, then drink to replace fluids."

Caethir stepped forward past the burned twosome and surveyed the wreck of the proud vessel. The faintest of sighs escaped the laconic Incubus.

"We are in no condition to fly?" Kayle shook her head at his enquiry. "Can you fix it?" he asked, and she nodded, hopping up onto the side and bracing herself with one hand against a stanchion.

"I can get us back into running order," Kayle took over the lead, shaking her head at the amount of debris littering the deck, some cosmetic, some less so. Lykrettil'an was so not going to be pleased at what had become of his baby. Oh well. "But, and this is the catch, boys, we are going to need spares. And, while I know of a big spare parts graveyard half an hour in that direction ..."
She jerked her thumb back the way they came.

Everyone knew what lay in that direction. There was a choice: go on foot to the goal, or go on foot to get parts to fix up their sleek and shiny transport.

The Trueborn raised his hand, deferentially enough.

"You aren't really in a fit state to go hauling parts about. I have a proposition for you all."

"Now, you aren't really in the best of positions to bargain," Valarauka began, smoothly.

"Well, it's true that you could kill me, take my drugs and so on and so forth." He made a face: yada, yada. So far, so unimaginative. "Or."

"Or?" Daranúr wasn't a man of few words, exactly, but he hated a dangling conjunction.

"I tell you where you'll find the most useful hidden stash in that wreckage, you get it and bring it with the parts you need, and I'll use my - ah, special encoding to open it for you. And then you take me with you. You can't force the coding out of me - and I mean that literally, as in, it won't work with coercion." Someone muttered in the background, a rough approximation of 'we'll see about that' with a bit more local colour. He continued, blithely, "We'll have healing drugs, combat boosters, and emergency provisions. And you will have an ally among my Kabal. Which, I might modestly say, is not to be sniffed at."


"And what is this so-called great Kabal?" Daranúr snorted, already intrigued by the promise of drugs, but really not in the mood for anything less than direct to get them.

The Tubeborn straightened himself up a little and forced his bruised body into a fair approximation of a courtly bow.

"Gentlemen, Lady," he announced - was that the ghost of a wink to Kayle? - "I am Vyrrysh Sansetrine of the Wraithkind."




Extra Info:

Caethir: You have one vial of Maiden's Tears, a fast-acting healing elixir.

Kayle: Your experience as a pilot and mechanic confirms that you can fix the Raider, but it will take time and spare parts. Any kind of tools would help, too, but you think that with enough bits, you can do a good enough (if slower) job with the toolkit on your bike. Otherwise, your bike is the only working vehicle you now have use of.

Excision: Your own healing processes are quietly working away and your gnarlskin and internal (and external) systems will be able to get you back on form in about half an hour. Although the shot you gave Chy'ier is an analgesic and restorative, it will take an hour or two to fully heal the burns, during which time movement is still likely to be painful. Your supply of suitable drugs for use on others (as opposed to your own systems) wasn't fully restocked to begin with, but you do have enough to fix up everyone here, should you wish to do so, and still have enough left for one or two major wounds on someone in future.

Valarauka: Your blood is clotting, but the wound will need some attention, Perhaps the Wrack could assist, or you might be able to get your would-be ally to check his pockets for any more useful vials ... You think he has more of a private stash in that pack of his than Daranúr managed to get his hands on.

Chy'ier: You hurt a lot less, and the medicine is making you feel all floaty. Unfortunately, your ghost plate isn't as effective as it used to be. But, hey, it;'s still more likely to block a shot than a Wychsuit.

Everyone: You are no longer troubled by ringing in your pointy ears, and your sight has mostly recovered. It will be clear in a few minutes more. The Raider is functionally trashed, but it can probably be repaired as a lot of the damage that isn't to the steering is to the external fairings.

Messy.

Messy.

Messy.

The word blurred into his mind as he set about his work on the little idiot. It was a curious thing, he never entire cared for cleanliness and yet here we was muttering about it in the back of his skull like his old master. Perhaps he would develop such a trait, a method of coping with what is lost by becoming more like those that are gone yet not forgotten... No matter. The cell regenerative would do the work it needed to but would only do so much. There was still the matter of peeling off the dead and burned skin and suturing the lacerations closed.

With the precise cuts of a Jharian blade scalpel, the Wrack set about the task of removing the dead skin. It was needed otherwise an infection would occur and the cell regeneration would never work... Such a tedious task. He sliced through the taut blackened flesh around the edges, the pinprick mandible limbs stabbing into the cut flesh and peeling it back to reveal bare muscle and scorched red flesh. That would take at least an hour to heal. He continued about his work, not caring whether the stabbing of his mandibles hurt to the twitchy tube-born. He was almost tempted to pluck out an eye, a suitable payment really for all the trouble the little bastard had caused... But he stayed his hands from such things and continued his work in silence save for the occasional growl if the youth tried to move.

Once he was done, he left the youth on the floor as a stitched-up thing on the floor with barely any skin left on his visible flesh... The cell regenerative would fix that... But the next few hours of mending would be excruciating for the little rat. That brought a smile upon his face.

"Lie still.... Enjoy the pain while you mend...."

After he was done, he would move over towards Kayle the pilot, probably the only other person he gave a cadaver"s rot about on this ship...

"Mundane yet debilitating damage sustained... Medical attention required.... Do you object?"

He muttered in a low growl, wiping the tube-born's blood from his scalpel. He was offering to fix her up but to be frank he didn't care either way if she accepted it or not.

She raised a hand to cover the wicked smile creeping across her features...so not only is their prisoner claiming patronage under the banner of a well known kabal...he tried to use it to flirt with her?

Although, he may prove useful beyond the 'secret' stash he speaks of, their was also the obvious idea that this was a setup designed to retrieve the item for whoever he works for...Wraithkind or not.

'Oh what a silly little boy', she mused to herself as she began to think of many possiblities in which they could get those goods...and run her daggers through his pretty little head.

"Well boys, we don't exactly have all day to debate on the virtues of one kin's words, no?", her eyes flickering across her companions, to gauge their responses to their 'interesting' developments...

"Mundane yet debilitating damage sustained... Medical attention required.... Do you object?"

As she turned towards the Wrack at his question, Kayle did have to admit she agreed with his assessment, and needed medical attention...however she felt it was needed more for her appearance more then anything else, the burns across her limbs assaulting her beautiful skin was an outright insult that she would not bear...

"No objection here Wrack..."