To Rise Above the Fall

When the Reaver Maiden offered no objections to her treatment, the Wrack mentioned for her to join him in the personal quarters which had inadvertently become the young Fleshweaver's makeshift clinic due to circumstances. He inclined his head towards the other males standing about, offering them nothing save a wayward glance before turning on heel to follow Kayle into the cabin. There, he motioned for her to seat herself comfortably upon the bed, the two walking past the twitching little tube-born still lying on the floor.

Sit.

He ordered., perhaps the only situation a creature who bore no interest in power would ever exercise power over another. He felt no thrill in it, as the others did. Only the power of torment, the sensual domination over another's suffering was an authority he could relish. This was not such a circumstance.

Once she had seated herself, he would begin to work, syringes cycling in the forearm of his mechanical limb to a fresh pain suppressant. Injecting it into her shoulder, he allowed the chemical to begin its work as he helped her remove the majority of her Wytche suit. Despite receiving far less damage than the little one, Kayle's suit provided far less protection given the exposed areas presented to tantalize the eyes. He was neither interested nor cared for the naked body before him, such concepts of carnal desires were beneath him..... His lady was perhaps an exception to that though... But that was a story for another time.

"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."
That sounded like a challenge if Daranúr had ever heard one.
We’ll see about that, he muttered aloud.
"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."

Lies. All lies, he thought. He was just trying to save his own hide. Daranúr did not believe a word of it, but for the offer of drugs he listened.
"And what is this so-called great Kabal?"

"I am Vyrrysh Sansetrine of the Wraithkind."

“Oh, I see.” Something between boredom and aloofness was present in Daranúr’s mind. He had heard of the Wraithkind before but had not had the (dis)pleasure of meeting them in person. Not many people from within T’llionoch ever got to escape out into the main City.

“I say we hurt him. He says that he can’t be coerced… I don’t think he knows of my methods.”

“Hang on now.” The captive put his hand on Daranúr’s shoulder. He didn’t like to be touched.
With a quick swing of his sword the captive lay on the floor, foot lying on the deck beside him as the captive wailed. “We have the Maiden’s Tears and I don’t get bored of cuttin’. You really think that I can’t persuade you?”

The mercenary kicked the limp foot aside.

"Chhhhhhyyyyy’iiiiiiieeeeerrrrrrr…….."

"IdidsaythatIwashungryYYYYEEEESSssssss… "

"ButthisisnotwhatImeant…"

"OhwellduetoyourineptnessI’mtakingoverforawhilewhereismycutlery?"

“whataninteresingspeciminthatKayleI’msureshe’smostdelectible” Em’eyeth thought as she slowly checked his body for one the two knives.

“OooooooooooohhhhthisfeelingissomthingthatIhavelongmissedweshoulddothismoreoftenChy’ier” Em’eyeth thought to Chy’ier as she got him up and enjoyed the searing pain with every minute movement. Walking outside the cabin to locate Chy’ier’s rifle, Em’eyeth couldn’t help but notice that there was a warm foot without it’s owner just lying about.

"Guesswegotdelivery” Em’eyeth thought as she had Chy’ier swiftly and smoothly kicked the lost foot up to his hand. “Where’smyotherknifeChy’ier? Ahh” and subsequently walked over to the rifle idly resting on a rack, fetching the knife and sheath.

"Thats enough Daranúr, we need him in mostly one piece." The Incubus eyed the Mercenary, hoping that his bloodlust was slated with the limb removed from the warrior.

"Some in are party are in no condition to make the rest of the journey without transportation, so we must go back for the parts. We also can not leave the raider alone, so we must split up. With the Feral One's condition, he and the Wrack should stay here." He turns towards the Sly One, who was leaning up against the control console. "You are also not in any condition for a long walk either, but your eyes will be useful to keep watch around the raider. The Reaver, Daranúr, and I should head back towards the wreck. We will take the Trueborn with us, hopefully he speaks the truth about this stash. As it seems he is now in a "special" condition, we should check to see if the Reaver's bike is still in working order. We can also use it as a Pack Fiend for whatever we need. Any objections?" The last part was more of a formality than an actual question. None of the others have stepped forward with a plan, and the Incubus doubted anyone would.

"If there is none, we should prepared for the trek. I saw some extra water in the cabin, we can split the bottles 50/50 for those staying here and those heading out. Let us go now and prepare." With that Caethir began walking towards the cabin to gather the few supplies he found, as well as his helmet.

"Thats enough Daranúr, we need him in mostly one piece." Daranúr shrugeed slightly, disappointed. He had, in truth, hoped to cut on the Trueborn a little more, but the blood that had been shed was sufficient.
Now he just had to get the Trueborn to stop complaining.

You cut one person's foot off for touching you and you never hear the end of it...

The mercenary did not argue with the Incubus. His decision seemed reasonable; Daranúr just hoped that he had recovered sufficiently. He had no doubt that an Incubus could probably continue without complaining but he did not like the thought of him being hindered if anything were to go wrong.

"Open your ears and listen good, Trueborn. If you hold back anything, I'll kill you. If you bend the truth or I think you're bending the truth, I'll kill you. If you forget anything, I'll kill you. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive. Now, do you understand everything I've just said? Because if you don't, I'll kill you!"
It amused him how fear could be caused through a bunch of empty threats. He was too valuable to actually kill, but what did the Trueborn know? Can you really trust the opinions of a man that can't keep hold of his own foot?

With a prolonged stare as he walked away, Daranúr went in search of supplies.

The sutble relaxants flowing through her system, alongside the removal of her Wychsuit had a odd soothing effect on Kayle, she mewh'd sweetly and allowed herself to stretch out across the bed lewdly, with no shame in either her feminine form nor the slow caress enveloping her body like a lover's questing hands from both the pain suppressant and the feeling of the air across her flesh.

As the Wrack above her started his work, Kayle bathed in the violent tableau she could hear from the deck of 'Exacting Vengance', both appaulding and feeling disappointed in the drug-crazed Trueborn as it seemed she may not get to play with their prisoner herself...

"Oh well, I guess he won't be around for long anyway", she mused lightly with a small smile breaking out across her face.

As her jetbike was mentioned she stirred slightly, if her bike was damaged during the Raider's desent she would have to reconsider not flaying the unstable Tubeborn where he stood, or once she was done....a red stain across 'Exacting Vengance'.

Once she felt the Wrack had finished with her, she picked up her Wychsuit from one side of the cabin and made her way out to the deck of the Raider. Without even waiting to finish redressing in her Wychsuit she eyed up the picture in front of her, the prisoner's blood gushing out across the deck of the damaged craft from his marred leg, to the servered foot on the other side of the Raider.

"Well looks like I missed a party trick-" she mused aloud as she made her way towards her beloved jetbike...still only mid dress and with a seductive patherish fashion, she already able to see that it suffered some cosmetic damage but could make out no visible problems which could ground her bike.

As she reached her bike and took a look underneath it, as she suspected the only damage was cosmetic in nature. Still, she was tempted to take a little out of the Tubeborn, but alas now was not the time, with more pressing issues to deal with, the condition of 'Exacting Vengance being on top of things.

Getting up from the bottom of her bike, she turned to look at the many eyes of her companions...as well as their multilated prisoner with a prideful smirk at the corner of her mouth.

"It will run, just a cosmetic job on a few dinks here and their..."

"You are also not in any condition for a long walk either, but your eyes will be useful to keep watch around the raider."

"whoisthisharliquin?Whyishetalkingtomelikeheownsme?" Em'eyeth started.

"youmakeagoodpointwecanusethemforfoodandprotectionfornow." Em'eyeth finished as she guided Chy'ier to sit down and enjoying every second of blissful pain that their wrecked body produced. "ohlookthattasteymorsiliseyeingupmysnackIwonderifheknowshe'snext?" and with that, Chy'ier took a large bite out of the foot while staring at the new member (albiet temporary) of our little group.

"Chy'ieryoushouldtellthenewguythathetastesquitedecent" Em'eyeth thought to Chy'ier as he audibly swallowed.

"It will run, just a cosmetic job on a few dinks here and their..." Caethir could tell that the Reaver cared much for that bike. The way she checked over its parts with such care. He could respect that, having just did the same thing with his armor after the encounter with the mandrake.

"Good, prepare to take it for a spin. The sooner we move out, the sooner we can get this mission completed. You will also be taking a passenger with you, so I would at least make sure you are a little more presentable."[/color With that, Caethir heads towards the cabin.

The inside looked much different than he had left it. Blood and burn skin was strewn around, and what little content that was in the cabinets was toss around by the descent. The Wrack stood cleaning his surgical equipment of the fresh blood of both the Reaver and the Feral One.

"Wrack, you have one more patient for today. The Trueborn seems to have "misplaced" his foot, and we need him to not bleed to death. Stop the bleeding, but make sure it is in the most painful way possible." Caethir then went in search of his helmet, which he knew was somewhere in this mess.

There was, at least, a kind of consensus aboard the fire-blackened, blood-spattered vehicle: the Wraithkind Trueborn wasn't making any friends.

The Wrack had no time for such high-falutin' nonsense at the best of times. Excision was a professional. He had standards to maintain. It wouldn't do to blot the memory of his former master by doing half a job, even on the little Tubeborn brat with the butterfingers. And so once he had made his initial injections, and the cellular renewal was underway, he made sure to remove all the damaged dermis and suture any deep wounds until such time as it kicked in and properly did its work. Sloughing his skin like a serpent would be far more useful to the ghostplated urchin, but Excision had neither the time nor the tools in his current situation to effect the genetic change. Something to consider later, perhaps.

On the subject of hides, the lovely Reaver's leathers had done almost as little to protect her delicate highborn skin as they did her modesty. The Wrack had no interest in this - one of the trademarks of so many of the Shapers of the Flesh is that the delights of a carnal life seldom pique their esoteric intellect - but he did not like to see good skin marred ... unless it was by his own hand, of course. This was not such a time. In any case deep in the Wrack's scarred chest there was a remanent desire to see to the Reaver's hurts, from whatever seed it might blossom.

Kayle was watching the posturing from the small knot at the sharp prow. Even with her proud acknowledgement of the adulation of the crowded arena, she'd seldom come across one quite so bold as this. To flirt with her while he bargained for his very life - well, while it was audacious, it wasn't enough to impress her. She'd counted Archons' children among her would-be suitors. This one was pretty, but he wasn't sufficiently entertaining even as a way of showing the Incubus what he was missing.

"Well boys, we don't exactly have all day to debate on the virtues of one kin's words, no?", she drawled, her eyes flickering assessingly across her companions. As she turned away from the little crowd Excision stood at her elbow, sparing the Wrack little attention for the tableau. He smelled of blood and ethanol.

"Mundane yet debilitating damage sustained... Medical attention required.... Do you object?" The Wrack's mask tilted slightly with the question. She favoured Excision with a faint smile and a nod.

"No objection here Wrack..." As invigorating as the touch of the flame might have been, the buzz from the crash was wearing off and her beautiful alabaster skin was scorched and lacerated. It simply wouldn't do. She followed him to the cabin and let him peel away her Wych suit, the tender ministrations both soothing and pleasantly sensual.


Outside, no such friendly assistance was on offer. Daranúr had just gone too long without violence for his own meagre self-control to take any more. And in any, he didn't want to deny himself. What was he, some kind of Craftworld ascetic?

... "I am Vyrrysh Sansetrine of the Wraithkind." Was Daranúr supposed to care?

“Oh, I see.” Wraithkind. Pale chancers, something wrong in the genes he'd heard. Never be allowed to call themselves Trueborn in T’llionoch. It was not even a pretty speech, and the scarred mercenary had heard it all before.

“I say we hurt him." he volunteered, "He says that he can’t be coerced… I don’t think he knows of my methods.” It was patent nonsense. He, Daranúr, was a backstreet painartist, a sublime torturer of the alleyways and downtown basements of a hundred patches of contested turf. This skinny fool, who was he?

“Hang on now.” Sansetrine held up a hand, touching Daranúr briefly on the shoulder. It was enough. No-one laid hand on Daranúr Sselathar. With a lightning-fast swing as the last of his patience - already as thin as a slave's excuses - fled,he lashed out with his blade and severed the captive's foot. “We have the Maiden’s Tears and I don’t get bored of cuttin’." he spat, his accent returning to his roots. "You really think that I can’t persuade you?”

The Human heart, slow, sluggish, inefficient organ, still carries the sheer dumb musclepower to shoot a jet of blood (venous, or arterial for preference, given the brighter shade of red and the almost effervescent delicacy of all that extra oxygen) a clear ten feet on a good day. The Eldar heart, beating as it does twice as fast, makes any severed limb quite the fountain. Crimson spray shot across the deck, covering Daranúr and his surroundings. The Trueborn prisoner gave an agonised cry and fell down, the quickly-spreading pool slicking the deck as his eyelids fluttered, clearly on the edge of consciousness. Damage he'd sustained when they found him was not yet fully healed, and now his aristocratic face was white with shock. What had he done to make that necessary? The flirting, maybe it was the flirting. Maybe this scarred wretch was her concubine, maybe he didn't fancy competition. The sound of his own blood dripping in a stream over the edge of the decorative balustrade brought an end to speculation.

Caethir stepped in. "That's enough Daranúr, we need him in mostly one piece." The Incubus eyed the Mercenary, hoping that his bloodlust was slaked with the limb removed from the warrior. The Shrine-Warrior knew that a firm hand was needed, or the small party's fragile unity would unravel entirely. Failure was a slight to honour he could not countenance, especially not from simple lack of anyone taking the initiative. He might not be a politician, but he was a tactician and that was far more valuable here.

"Some in are party are in no condition to make the rest of the journey without transportation, so we must go back for the parts. We also can not leave the raider alone, so we must split up. With the Feral One's condition, he and the Wrack should stay here." He turned towards the Sly One, who was leaning up against the control console. "You are also not in any condition for a long walk either, but your eyes will be useful to keep watch around the raider. The Reaver, Daranúr, and I should head back towards the wreck. We will take the Trueborn with us, hopefully he speaks the truth about this stash. As it seems he is now in a "special" condition, we should check to see if the Reaver's bike is still in working order. We can also use it as a Pack Fiend for whatever we need. Any objections?" The last part was more of a formality than an actual question. None of the others had stepped forward with a plan, and the Incubus doubted anyone would. It was time to be decisive.

"If there is none, we should prepared for the trek. I saw some extra water in the cabin, we can split the bottles 50/50 for those staying here and those heading out. Let us go now and prepare." With that Caethir began walking towards the cabin to gather the few supplies he found, as well as his helmet.

Chy'ier writhed for a moment more as the Wrack's last stitches tightened in the drying webway air. Suddenly there was a faint morsel of someone else's suffering on the wind. As if scenting it like an ur-ghul, his red, rictus-masked face might have grinned; it was a little hard to tell. Emboldened, he hopped up to his feet (raw, red-printed footsteps pattering across the deck), collected his weapons, and scooped up the bleeding foot. Unwrapping it from its armoured shell as a slave will husk corn, he licked the fresh blood and took a bite.

The prisoner's jaw dropped. Curiously, Chy'ier regarded him as his teeth snipped off an errant vein.

"You taste good, Wraith-kin. Sweet."

"Dark Muses above!" The Trueborn, already dizzy with blood he could ill afford to lose, started in numb horror for a second. "You're insane! You're all insane!" His voice rose in an unsteady pitch of hysteria. "It won't get you what you want! There is nothing you can do to frighten any more from me! We are Wraithkind! We don't die! We have conquered Death! He sits at our right hand now!"

Blah, blah, blah ... "Open your ears and listen good, Trueborn. If you hold back anything, I'll kill you. If you bend the truth or I think you're bending the truth, I'll kill you. If you forget anything, I'll kill you. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive. Now, do you understand everything I've just said? Because if you don't, I'll kill you!" It amused Daranúr how fear could be caused through a bunch of empty threats. He was too valuable to actually kill, but what did the Trueborn know? Can you really trust the opinions of a man that can't keep hold of his own foot?

With a prolonged stare as he walked away, went in search of supplies.


Inside the cabin, Kayle stretched and purred at the attention to her soft flesh. Blissed out for a moment, she allowed Excision to finish his work before rising, flowing like liquid honey from the low cot in her new-found relaxation and marvelling at the restoration such scarred hands had produced. It was a pity she'd missed the party outside - she'd noted the spraying sound of blood hitting metal at one point, and words, a lot of words, typical lowborn posturing probably - but her ears perked up at the sound of the Incubus' commanding tone and more importantly, the mention of her beloved bike. Hmm. If the damage was more than cosmetic, the Twitcher had better hope he had enough hide left for her to take her share out of it. One more red stain across the battered chassis of Exacting Vengeance would scarcely make much difference, but her point would be made. She picked up her Wych suit in one hand, casually buckling on some of the abbreviated sections as she stepped outside.

Kayle took in the tableau: downed prisoner, severed foot being nibbled on by the peeling, nightmarish Tubeborn (on the mend, but still as red raw as one of the Haemonculus' coffin specials), Daranúr and the tall Incubus turning away to other business.

"Well looks like I missed a party trick-" she mused aloud as she made her way towards her beloved jetbike...still only mid dress and with a seductive patherish fashion, already able to see that it suffered some cosmetic damage, but she could make out no visible problems which could ground her vehicle.

As she reached her bike and took a look underneath it, as she suspected the only damage was cosmetic in nature. Still, she was tempted to take a little out of the Tubeborn, but alas now was not the time, with more pressing issues to deal with, the condition of Exacting Vengance being on top of things.

Getting up from the bottom of her bike, she turned to look at the many eyes of her companions ... as well as their multilated prisoner with a prideful smirk at the corner of her mouth.

"It will run, just a cosmetic job on a few dinks here and there..." However many pairs of eyes were on her voluptuous form, it never troubled Kayle. But the bike - well, for a minute there, that was a worrying moment. Idly, she began to toy with one of her armoured straps, watching the blood flow so prettily across the damaged hull.

If you cut an Ynneas Eladrith, does he not bleed? Fair enough. All par for the course in the horrible world of Commorragh, where one's main concern is usually to be the cutter rather than the cut. However, when a howling mad bastard eats your own flesh in front of you, even a Dark Eldar will sometimes be given pause. The prisoner was beyond intimidation by something as mundane as harsh words and dirty looks. His shaking hands fumbled at the pack he'd kept so close, and with a hasty movement he shoved something into his mouth, spearing his own cheek on a ragged nail in the process. Kayle rolled her eyes. Probably more drugs. She wondered if she ought to steal his handbag.

"Good, prepare to take it for a spin. The sooner we move out, the sooner we can get this mission completed. You will also be taking a passenger with you, so I would at least make sure you are a little more presentable." With that, Caethir headed towards the cabin. The Reaver Pilot pouted a little at his back. All this, and she only merited a curt order to get dressed?

The inside looked much different than he had left it. Blood and burned skin was strewn around, and what little content that was in the cabinets was tossed around by the descent. The Wrack stood cleaning his surgical equipment of the fresh blood of both the Reaver and the Feral One.

"Wrack, you have one more patient for today. The Trueborn seems to have "misplaced" his foot, and we need him to not bleed to death. Stop the bleeding, but make sure it is in the most painful way possible." Caethir then went in search of his helmet, which he knew was somewhere in this mess.

Excision nodded, after a pause that might have been insubordination but was more than likely simple weighing of his supplies and intent. The Wrack strode out of the small cabin and across the deck.

Valarauka looked down at the bleeding prisoner. He regarded him quizzically, as if he couldn't quite be sure how he got to be there. The former Sybarite shook his head, snapping back to reality. He really needed a better dealer. Speaking of which, hadn't this foolish Trueborn mentioned drugs? He knelt down beside him, fastidiously avoiding kneeling in the blood.

The prisoner didn't move. Valarauka reached out and nipped him painfully on the ear. Nothing. He shook him. No response.

"Ah, by Lhilitu's freezing tits -" he wrapped both arms around the Wraithkind's bloodied midsection and tried for the Heimlich manoeuvre. A damaged rib cracked, but nothing productive happened, except a small, greenish trickle from between his slack lips. Valarauka dropped the limp form and selected a small splinter of hull from the littered deck. After a moment's consideration, he jammed it into the prisoner's eyeball. Let's see you sham your way through this one.

Still nothing, With a single whipcrack expletive, Valarauka took a tiny drop of the green liquid on one finger of his gloved hand and sniffed at it cautiously. With a grimace of disgust, he recognised it as a fatal poison. An expensive one.

"Are you happy now, brawler? You broke our toy." With that, Valarauka helped himself to the Wraithborn's satchel. No sense in leaving it lying around when it obviously contained something worthwhile.

Caethir located his helmet and turned back to the foredeck.Valarauka was rifling through the bag methodically, while the erstwhile prisoner lay slumped at his feet.

"Poison," said Valarauka idly, tipping the bag upside down and slitting the lining in case of hidden pockets.

Incubi have more self-control than to sigh, but behind the closed helm who would know if his flint-hard stare rolled just a little? Caethir paused but for a second.

"Reaver. We will not need to accommodate a passenger, but we will still need your bike for carrying extra parts for repairs."

"Not to mention," Kayle purred, looking up at the tall Warrior, one hand still occupied in buckling on what passed for a breastplate on her left side, "that I would much prefer to ride."

Caethir didn't miss a beat. "You will also be an invaluable scout in determining if the crash site still has a Mandrake infestation." He looked across at Daranúr. who was storming across the deck and kicking at the body, about to start a fight with Valarauka in want of anything else as an outlet for his thwarted temper. "Mercenary. We have work to to."

"Who made you Vect?" Daranúr stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.

Caethir laughed mirthlessly. "My Dark Father, when he found me worthy to follow the Shrine Codes. Now we move out."

One brief staredown later, which neither party would ever concede to have truly lost, the Reaver stepped in between the two men and held up a hand.

"Has either of you gentlemen got a soul-chit?"

"What the-" Daranúr had no patience with this floozy, not at a time like this.

With an amused expression on his aristocratic face, Valarauka flipped her a chit.

"Right, now you're Manacles, you're Vect's head." She tossed the soul-chit up into the air ...

Some while later, the trio sped on their way back to the crash site, Caethir loping along as Kayle now took point, now scouted the webway ahead, Daranúr perched on the back of her jetbike despite her being sure the Incubus had won the toss.


Back at the Raider, Excision busied himself with cleaning his knives and making sure every part of his rig was in smoothly working order. The day had brought him interesting pains and much fleshwork. In a way, it was almost like old times.

Chy'ier was perched on the cabin roof, muttering. He cradled his splinter rifle in both hands, watching the scenery, what there was of it, and sucking on a toe bone.

"YoushouldwatchthemallcloselyChy'ier", Em'eyeth told him, as she stretched out one of his hands, watching the last few flakes of burned residue fall away from his new white skin. "WefeellikeachrysalisChy'ier." She giggled. The sound bubbled through his healing chest. "Thequestioniswhatmannerofbutterflyarewe?"

Valarauka turned away from his sweep of the grey depths of the webway at the sound of the Tubeborn's fractured giggle. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then raised a hand to hail Excision.

"Wrack, it's plain to me that there's nothing doing out here. Now tell me," he looped a companionable arm around Excision's scarred shoulders, "what are your thoughts on blending pharmaceuticals ...?"


As the wreckage site approached, Kayle scanned it cautiously. She wasn't equipped with any kind of sophisticated scanner, but she couldn't see any sign of life ... or Mandrakes, which no-one was quite sure were alive or not. She examined the bulging fault in the webway wall for as long as she dared. She couldn't be absolutely sure it hadn't gotten bigger, but at least it hadn't split. Anyway, she was burning time. With a neat turn - shame about the lack of audience for her exemplary flying skills - she shot back to the two waiting men and appraised them of the situation.



Extra Info:

Excision, Valarauka, Chy'ier: You are back at the Raider, with, as yet, no sign of other traffic or ... denizens,

Valarauka: From the Wraithkind's pack you have, if you want them, three small vials of Adrenalight, one more of Maiden's Tears and another vial of poison - probably the same as killed the Wraithkind. Will it be lethal on anyone? It's hard to tell at this stage, except of course by testing it ... There are also a small pile of soul-chits - about enough to buy a simple laser pistol - three sealed ration bars, a small bottle of water and a sealed flat box about the size of your palm. marked with the sigil of the Wraithkind.

Chy'ier: You and Em'eyeth are sharing a body that is now mostly healed, though some of that new skin is still a bit itchy. You are also feeling a little intestinal distress ... raw foot is not a healthy diet.

Kayle, Daranúr, Caethir: You have made it back to the crash site without incident, and the bulge in the webway wall is as ominous as ever. It does look slightly enlarged, but as a plus you can't see any more Mandrakes. There are a lot of spare parts strewn about, but it will take time to find some that are useable and not just debris.

Kayle: Excision has done a good job in fixing you up, and there should be no permanent scars.




Of course, one never can see any more Mandrakes ...

The death of the captive did not bother him. The annoyance his auto-homicide caused the others did not affect him. How his death made the others feel about the mercenary’s methods did concern him somewhat. How they perceived his back alley methods of knowledge extraction he cared little for: they had always been effective in the past. This Wraithkind, the scum, was just the exception that proved the rule. What really did stay on his mind for a while was the risk of the others turning on him.

Valaruka was a once a Sybarite and would, by nature, blame Daranúr for anything that could have gone wrong. This he understood. He would do the same in his situation… along with slapping those responsible. The Reaver seemed not to care for what had happened to the captive, so he thought that no qualm could lead to future bloodshed with her. He could see that the Wrack wanted to get to him, and perhaps he should have let him in hindsight. Maybe one taught under the Haemonculi could cause more pain than he could. Perhaps he could learn a couple of things from Excision. Chy’ier did not worry him in the slightest. As long as there was a constant stream of body parts going his way he believed himself to be fine.

Daranúr’s biggest concern was the Incubus. He knew that the Incubus was the one to lead the party being the only member decisive enough to not get bogged down with more menial pleasures; but the way he stared at Daranúr made him feel as if the Incubus was trying to undermine the mercenary. He probably was not; it was probably in his mind. The Incubus was a great combatant and in a duel Daranúr knew that he’d lose. Fighting was something the mercenary was born into but Caethir had been tutored in the black-walled shrines.

He knew that he, himself, was very good at fighting dirty and could put up with a great deal of pain, and his skills would probably keep him alive, but if anybody wanted him dead the Incubus was most likely to succeed… or the Wrack… or if that Trueborn managed to poison him. He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.


Something that was really, REALLY, bothering him now was the fact that he was on a Jetbike. He despised these contraptions. Many of his contracts back in his early bounty hunting days, when the Reaver gangs plagued T’llionoch were for the Dracons at the head of the T’llionoch Defence Force. He had chased many an outlaw across the realm and hunted them down, following the screaming trails left by their speeding contraptions. That was back before the darkest days of his past, though… things he cared not to remember.
On the bright side, he thought, he got to cut that whelp’s foot off! The look on his face as his toes were nibbled one by one was priceless! Also, he still had his syringe of mystery Combat Drugs. If he could get the supplies he’d make some more and sell them to whoever would buy them. He might even have a party by himself! Who needed allies when you had stimulants and steroids?

No. He stopped. Those thoughts were intrusive. Those thoughts were what led to the deaths of the foolish. He wouldn’t indulge too much, just enough to survive.

Maybe this endeavour to find spare parts would be calm and quiet. Shedding blood would be fun, but he started to doubt how long they’d survive as a group if he carried on recklessly. Maybe in the future there would be less cutting and more beatings. Yes… that could work. A wide grin stained his face.


“Is this as fast as you can go?” He asked with a haughty chuckle, hands on the waist of the pilot. “I always thought Reavers were supposed to be impressive!”


As the trio reached their destination Daranúr looked around with an almost paranoid frequency. It always paid to be cautious of creepers. The crash site did not seem any different to him and he could not spot anymore threats. He drew his sabre to be on the safe side, primed his Splinter Pistol and exhaled with audible exasperation as the tedious task of rummaging was at hand.

“Anybody find anything interesting?”

As soon as the trio was out of sight, the loot from the short-lived captive disappeared into different pouches and compartments in Valarauka's armor. The box, however, he was hesitant to deal with. A Dark Eldar should always fear poison, from the most obvious clouds of gas billowing from a Coven barge to the omnipresent glass plague that infected the entirety of Commorragh. But, to keeps one's sanity, it was often useful to prioritize your paranoia. Now, with suicide serum "in play", the trapped box gave off nothing but bad vibes. The Wraithkind seemed to be one of the more insane organizations that he had come into contact with, which really was saying something.

The Kabalite took the brief moment of relative solitude to relax slightly. He leaned back against the pilot's deckrail and closed his eyes and let himself dwell in the absurdity of the situation. There was something beginning to bother him about this mission, some undercurrent that was guiding their fates. Every time his intuition had sung this strongly in the past, he had found a critical fact buried amongst everyday minutiae that let him avoid one of the many unhappy accidents that a Sybarite might suffer. Introspection came easily to the experienced psychonaut, and for a few moments he allowed his mind to wander again through the patterns and possibilities. If there was something he was missing, correcting that error could pay incredible dividends. It had all return to the Dracon, of course. Everything about how this sortie had been organized was so mundane that it was wrong. This was not paranoia, but unlike the feverish fears of desperation, the problem could not be easily solved by imagined answers. Valarauka simply did not have enough information, and attempting to overstep his role would kill him. If they were all puppets in a play, he was not the leading man. The admission of this did not help his ego, but it was one piece of the puzzle that he needed to understand what the hell was coming up.

A stab of pain in his leg brought him out of his amateur meditation, and he was surprised to find his eyes open and a hand over his drug pouch. Yes, even this injury would work to his advantage. A perfectly good reason to work as an adjunct to the main players. Survive, observe, and thrive...these were his watchwords now. Survival required a working leg. He took painful steps down to the main deck and approached Excision. He gave a friendly greeting, taking him in an embrace. Disgusting. Nauseating. Impressive craftsmanship. This exceptional sawbones was a lynchpin, he was sure of it.

"Wrack, it's plain to me that there's nothing doing out here. Now tell me...what are your thoughts on blending pharmaceuticals ..?" The Kabalite rolled his fingers in sleight-of-hand to produce multicolored vials of elixirs and medicinals, enhancers and mood-alterers. He even flashed the container of poison for a second, giving a wry smile, "Maybe not that one. That one is more suitable for the soon-to-be dead- on the end of a sharp hook, for instance, or a razored fingernail to inflict the shallowest wound: all the more delightful to see the victim realize such a small thing causes so much pain" he grins conspiratorially, "I had devised a concoction to steady my nerves, but now I am forced to not only seek medical assistance from you, our most excellent fleshsculptor, but drug advice as well."

The warrior sat down on an outer rail of the Raider that had not been shorn off, revealing his mangled leg and displaying a selection of drugs. The combination might look acceptable to an amateur, but Valarauka knew the healing factor would be stimulated enough to deplete nutrients he needed to keep up his brain functions. "While you work, what do you think about these in conjunction?" he asked, testing to see if the Wrack would let him die. If he did, he could play it off as a joke. If not, he knew he would gain evidence that he might be able to trust Excision with his life as well as his leg: the former was much more precious. And once he had established that, he could hand off these delightful toys to the person for whom they would do the most...good.

In the name of the Black Muse, Artist of all Suffering and Savoir of the flesh, what did he do to deserve this?... As a child lacking anything in the way of social skills, he had always been considered 'slow' and though in some regards that may be true, he was far from an idiot. Perhaps, as a disciple of the flesh, his training had offered him a grander sense of clarity rather than simply observe what is right in front of him. Or perhaps he was simply having one of his brief and shining moments of individual intelligence that rose from a see of insanity and sadistic addiction... Whatever the matter, his seething rage had emerged in a much grander scale than when he was denied his pleasure in the suffering of the Wratih-born..

To look back on the current situation, the Raider had been sorely damaged, every member of the crew (save for him and Kayle who were now patched up) was damaged, and a potentially useful prisoner was now dead.... All for the incompetence of his so called 'associates'... Worthless pathetic filth... Already he had gone against his better judgment in keeping the tube rat alive, having done so ONLY at the request of the dearest lady... But should the feral one ever test him again with such stupidity and the Wrack would flay the rat alive himself.... Far more infuriating was that gutteral trash duelist who believed himself to be some expert in the art of interrogation... His ignorance was only outclassed by his blind arrogance as he clearly lacked anything in the form of understanding of what it means to suss the secrets from blood-stained lips... Petty word play may have done him well on the streets with weak-willed Vagabonds and Hellions but this was a league the wretch had no hope of understanding. He was not an artisan of the flesh, and he never would be.... To think that he had trusted the Incubus to hold these cretins together... How foolish he had obviously been in that notion, it would seem, for the Temple-child stood aside and did nothing. No example was made, no order was restored... Nothing. Three members of a disheveled troupe that had already lost any measure of the Wrack's trust, and at the same time lost any chance of his aid when they were bleeding on the floor again...

The tip of the Wrack's handscythe pressed gingerly against Valarauka's chin, threatening to slit the tubeborn's throat of let him suffer the agony of the Coven's lethal poison if he were to take another step closer. The Wrack would not be touched. No one touched him. It was even a rarity that he enjoyed the embrace of a woman and such occassions were often very brief but always ended in alot of pain and a great deal of blood... Despite the low growl that escaped the young Flesh-Weaver's black-metal faceplate, he listen to what the tubeborn had to say... Of course it was a request concerning drugs and a plead for his life. How typical...

He may have not been as well versed in drug use as a concoction mistress, but it was painfully obvious that the drug combination would kill Valarauka in his current position... With a heavy snarl of annoyance, followed by a soft sigh, he simply said nothing save for the simple order "Be still." and then went about his business. He was even generous enough to use his own personal syrum, the same he had used on himself, Kayle, and the rat. The cell-regenerator went smoothly into Val's arm through a sterile syringe, letting the drug run its course for a moment to numb most of the pain before Excision went about the task of putting the man's leg back together.

This was going to be a long day....

The run back to the crash site had not been a pleasant one. His broken ribs still burned from his previous time spent at the crash site. The compression bandages has helped somewhat, but that was like throwing a small patch of syn-flesh onto a life threatening wound.

He does carry a easy fix for the situation though. Caethir's hand drifted towards one of his pouches. He had been pondering on using the drug the entire trip, but decided to hold it for a more grievous wound. He could also use it as a bardering chip with several of his so called "allies", although only one had earned the right to be called such so far.

The crash site had not changed much since their last visit. The Webway still looked as ominous as ever. The swirling, sickly colors did not look like they had changed much, but any difference was enough to put The Incubus on edge.

"Let us be quick, we should not dwell long in this place. We should split up to speed up this process. Daranúr, search for anything of use in the wreckage. Weapons, ammo, drugs, food, anything we can safely carry back on our persons. The Reaver and I will find the parts she needs to repair the Raider."

Kayle had to admit, despite the grandure of piloting a Raider such as Exacting Vengance, it paled in comparison to the familiar feeling of her personal Jetbike under her finely sculpted flesh.

However, not so familiar to her is the Kabalite clad companion Daranúr hanging on her beloved Jetbike like some kind of hulking meatbag...

“Is this as fast as you can go?” He asked with a haughty chuckle, hands on the waist of the pilot. “I always thought Reavers were supposed to be impressive!”

'Oh, the mercenary thinks himself funny does he?', she'd have to make him eat his words...

She revved up her bike, letting the engine roar loudly and turned to look at her passanger, a wicked smile full of venomous intent, "This too slow for you? Then I guess I'll just have too...", willing her Jetbike with the force of her body, she ripped the engine and took of like a missle.

As the Jetbike tore with great speed in the webway, she slowly turned her head back to the view in front of her, noting the slight variation in the bike's flight path as nothing to worry about...with a wall of the webway in her immediate future.

"I suggest you hold on", the words passing from her lips with barely contained glee at the speed flowing over her. With a flick of her hands, the bike's speed turned the bike into a whirling display of exquiste death...if she only had someone to use her bladevines on...

The spinning jetbike, at the last possible second pulled off an extremely sharp turn away from the webway wall and fired off back to the direction of the walking Incubus behind them, an air of superiority and amusement about her as she dropped off the mercenary.

"Be right back boys, try not to miss me too much, ok" she waved off lightly as she raced ahead to scout the wreckage and to check on the condition of the webay.

As the wreckage site approached, Kayle scanned it cautiously. She wasn't equipped with any kind of sophisticated scanner, but she couldn't see any sign of life ... or Mandrakes, which no-one was quite sure were alive or not. She examined the bulging fault in the webway wall for as long as she dared. She couldn't be absolutely sure it hadn't gotten bigger, but at least it hadn't split. Anyway, she was burning time. With a neat turn - shame about the lack of audience for her exemplary flying skills - she shot back to the two waiting men and appraised them of the situation.

With the Incubus and mercenary within site, she slowed down in order to stop just ahead of them, "It seems just as we left it, empty save for the wreckage and no signs of Mandrakes, or anything else for that matter", noting no changes to either of her companions as they reached the wreckage soon after she reported back.

"Let us be quick, we should not dwell long in this place. We should split up to speed up this process. Daranúr, search for anything of use in the wreckage. Weapons, ammo, drugs, food, anything we can safely carry back on our persons. The Reaver and I will find the parts she needs to repair the Raider."

The Incubus taking charge again, though Kayle had to admit she agreed with his logic, as with the limited numbers they possessed speed was the priority, and it also provided her with more time alone with the Incubus. Maybe she should thank that tubeborn twitcher for the unexpected treat.

'Maybe...right now more pressing matters to attend to...', namely the Incubus in her company...and of course fixing Exacting Vengance she thought to herself, more of an afterthought really...what can you say, she's a girl on a mission.

"You wanna get on top?", she offered the Incubus, as she moved up her bike with the grace of a slithering serpent, "As I said, I prefer to ride and grip the controls"

That Reaver was certainly impressive; he would have struggled to admit it when he jumped to the ground. Maybe he could trust her to pilot the party to their destination without becoming a ball of flames… as long as everything else went well.

"Let us be quick, we should not dwell long in this place. We should split up to speed up this process. Daranúr, search for anything of use in the wreckage. Weapons, ammo, drugs, food, anything we can safely carry back on our persons. The Reaver and I will find the parts she needs to repair the Raider." The Mercenary nodded in affirmation as he hauled large pieces of wreckage aside and kicking away at the shrapnel. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty: this was something that leant well to his profession.

First and foremost in his foraging interests was new equipment for himself. If he could find a slightly better pistol he’d be pleased. He’d had his Splinter Pistol for aeons now and had found that the grip was now worn away beyond any long-lasting repair. If he could find drugs then maybe he’d trade some with the former Sybarite. If he could find a nice blade then he might keep it to himself or offer it to whoever might need it – for a less than reasonable fee, of course.

He decided on something immediately. If any grenades were found they would not be given to that twitcher!

He had helped stop a creeper from claiming Caethir’s life here once before. He’d be damned if he did it again without more equipment... or drugs. His sabre was as sharp as ever, however, and if help was needed he supposed he’d have to offer it. He could, however, be ambushed by writhing shadows for stealing the Mandrake’s original prey… and now he was all alone.

Spinning quickly he slashed with his blade but only met air. Paranoia was healthy to an extent. It might keep him alive a little while longer out here.

He crouched back down and got to work.

"speakingofwhich." Em'eyeth thought as Chy'ier jumped down from her little seat and walked over to the corpse that the chef was now obvously looting.

"itstimeforachangeofonescolor" Em'eyeth got past Chy'ier's mouth as he kicked the vulture out of the way and began to replace the damaged pieces of his armor with the corpse's fresher ones.

"snacktimeforlater" Em'eyeth thought as the fresh meat was loosened from its hard coating piece by piece.

"neverhadoneofthese" Em'eyeth thought to Chy'ier as she put the final touch on, a helmet.

[sorry, meant to post over this and I can't kill double posts ]

At the Wreck Site

The ride to the wreckage of the Wraithguard vessels and their still-nameless adversaries was relatively quick, and aside from the occasional shift and crack from the settling piles of metal, plasteel and other more exotic materials, quiet. Kayle picked her way over the debris, fastidiously selecting pieces that might be of use.

"Let us be quick, we should not dwell long in this place. We should split up to speed up this process. Daranúr, search for anything of use in the wreckage. Weapons, ammo, drugs, food, anything we can safely carry back on our persons. The Reaver and I will find the parts she needs to repair the Raider." The Incubus' commanding tone quickly and decisively meted out the task ahead of them and its swift resolution. So long as nobody argued. It spoke well for the lack of idiots in the vicinity that no-one argued.

Caethir had considered taking some time on the way back to apply the Maiden's Tears to heal his injuries - the drug was a potent dose. Whatever else the dead Wraithkind prisoner had been, he'd been rich enough to invest in a good quality of pharmaceuticals. But he might need to heal far worse wounds than those he had. In any case, the Shrine Warrior had plenty of experience of fighting while injured. He held fire. No true Incubus let a little pain distract him.

Searching the ravaged machines, he turned to Kayle.

"Reaver. Let me know what is most needed and I will load it onto the bike."

Kayle nodded approvingly as the tall warrior recognised her expertise. It wouldn't be too much of a chore to direct him, either, even if it was just to collect machine parts. "We'll need some rail sections to patch up the damaged bodywork to stop it from shaking itself to pieces," she drawled, casting her mind back to the twisted ruin some careless maniac had made of the elegant craft, "engine coils, spare transmission chips, a core spare or two wouldn't go amiss ..." she reeled off a list, stalking among the piles of debris herself as she did so, pointing out the heavier pieces for him to lift or, given his wounded state, them to shift together.

The thought of what they'd found in the wreckage last time was troubling, nagging at the edge of her mind, but it was something she couldn't truly counter. She'd just have to rely on her own quick wits. There was something more, though, something she couldn't quite put her finger on ...

At last she spotted the solid deck plating she'd been looking for to repair the damage pilot's seat (in lieu of finding any actual pilot's seat, but she could improvise).

"There," she indicated, directing Caethir to retrieve the section with his superior reach. If she just happened to be where she'd get a good look at his taut musculature as he bent to extract the plate, well, the ways of chance were strange.

"Nice chassis."

Daranúr looked the piles over with as much attention to detail as he could muster, being as he wasn't exactly used to fixing things. Taking them apart, that was something he could get behind. But they needed to fix the Raider up. So he just looked for what seemed the most like unmangled bits of Raider to loot for ammo, weapons, provisions. Not as easy as it looks.

He tipped the teetering hull of the Raider furthest from the webway ... bulge ... it hurt the eyes somewhat, that little prolapsed loop of damned intestine, and it made him feel far too much as if he might be digested at any moment - and it smashed gratifyingly against the labyrinth floor. With a snapped curse the Reaver leapt up onto the nearest pile of junk, scanning for threats, while the calmer Incubus drew his Klaive and took up a combat stance.

"What?!" Daranúr looked fractionally hurt. It had been unstable. It might have come crashing down at any moment. He was taking prudent steps to reduce risk. Wasn't he supposed to reduce risk to his companions? After a little colourful language from the errant racer, he resumed his search, keeping an eye out for Mandrakes. He found a few bloodstains, but nothing more aggressive jumped out of the shadows. Daranúr rummaged, coming up at last with some splinter cartridges, a couple of small arms - lasers, mostly - and a single plasma grenade. Guess where that wasn't going. He kept on searching, conscious of his rumbling stomach.

Looking through the last pile of wreckage, Kayle had found out what had been niggling away at the back of her mind. It was the lack of bodies.

"Reaver."

"Incubus." Brevity like this didn't suit her, but she returned his laconic address with a little spark of humour in the corner of her eye.

"Have we everything we need?"

"In terms of repairs, yes. You know, I should teach you my name. You never know when you might need it ..."

"At present, you are our only Reaver."

And at present, you are the only uptight Incubus in this little party. Kayle sighed inwardly. Still, it gave her something to focus on. "Yes, all right, we're done." She turned to Daranúr, who was wistfully eyeing one of the darklances mounted to the front of a smashed Ravager. "Come on. We need to get moving before that thing ... changes. Get what you've collected and let's go." There wasn't much room on her bike with the parts strapped to it, and it wouldn't go at a proper speed loaded like that, or manoeuvre, but it was better than lugging it all by hand. She throttled the overtaxed engine and set off.

"Boys and their toys ..."

As they cleared the bend a couple of hundred yards away from the webway pileup, there was a hideous, roaring, screaming, nerve-pinchingly horrific tearing sound. As one, the three Dark Eldar exchanged glances. Kayle didn't spare so much as a glance behind her as she fired the engines.

"Run ..."



At the Wrack Site

Valarauka was matter-of-factly looting the body of the Wraithkind when a shadow fell across the practical Sybarite. Chy'ier was striding over to him with considerably more swagger than the street urchin usually displayed. Perhaps he was still high on whatever it was the Wrack had injected him with. Lucky swine, part of him murmured, while the rest evaluated the Twitcher for any threat. Not too soon, either; he had the nerve to aim a kick in Valarauka's direction before he squatted down and began to peel off the armour from the now cooling corpse.

Briefly, Valarauka considered a blast pistol to the back of the head might solve a few problems, but he checked himself; it would only be a waste of ammo. In any case, he had more important things to do. Rising, he went over to Excision, approaching him as he himself would most prefer to be approached: in a spirit of friendly camaraderie, with a fistful of drugs.

It was a test, of course; and one that the Wrack seemed to acknowledge, even if the thick-skinned creature didn't respond very much. It all told Valarauka something. More than this, it got his hurts fixed. Though there was an adrenalising moment when the Coven-servant had held his sickle-blade up to his throat, the Sybarite held his nerve in turn. It was all a part of the game. The first one to blink, after all, loses. Valarauka was done with losing.

With a low, rumbling growl and a sigh, Excision got to work. Now that it was understood that no-one - no-one, unless it were his dear Lady, ever got to touch the Wrack's scarred form, then no-one else needed to die in the next hour or so. After that, Excision was through with patching up lackwits, especially those who were a danger to themselves and others. He slid in needles, sending a soothing analgesic through the sometime Kaballite's system, and sutured and stitched and knit ... Excision was a professional. He did not produce shoddy work. How much of this was from a sense of pride, or how much had been ingrained by years of harsh training mattered not. Now it was second nature, and it gave his mind time to wander ... time to focus on what he would do if anyone else was foolish enough to get hurt. And he decided that it would be - nothing.

Oh, he might aid Kayle, just possibly; the lovely Reaver was the nearest thing to innocent of all this nonsense, even if that was the only possible way the word would fit her. But Valarauka, the Sybarite, had proved himself to be typical of his kind. The Twitcher, the peculiar little tube-runt, well, he was a worthless husk if ever there was one. The Brawler was fit only for just that - brawling. He clearly knew as much about interrogation as Excision knew about court dances.

Perhaps - snip - if he were to work for the exalted, beautiful - swab - elegant, cultured Lady Dracon - stitch - then it might be necessary to learn how to move in such elevated circles as she knew and deserved. How the Wrack would manage this, he did not know. His brow creased behind the barred mask as he worked on the routine task. But perhaps, somehow, he could find a way.

He was interrupted in his meditative pondering as he cleaned away the last of the blood from the now-healed skin (the red of the spilled ichor reflecting the sheen on his Lady's perfect lips) by the sound of panicked flight and tortured engines.

Kayle's bike screamed into view, loaded down with spare parts and the Reaver herself, perched unsteadily above the former wreckage. She decanted rather hastily just as Daranúr and Caethir jogged to a halt.

Em'eyeth gasped as Chy'ier paused in his fitting of the purloined armour (only a few scratches and one missing foot section, one careless owner). "Ohohohnoitburstwideopendidn'titChy -" Her hands buckled faster. "Gottogetreadytogojustassoonaswecango ..."

"It's gone," Kayle announced, her pale face a little whiter around the cheeks. "Wrack. Can your - manipulators," she couldn't think of a better word for the mechanical hands, not just now, "stand up to heat? I need someone to help me solder. The rest of you, watch the tunnel and for the love of Qu'aleh, if you see any ... thing, shoot it." Without waiting for agreement or not she ran to the battered hull and began selecting spare parts, hastily deploying the repair kit from her beloved bike.



Extra Info:

Chy'ier: You have serviceable Kabalite armour missing a foot section - better than you had before, but it fits rather badly. It's a bit loose on the hips and a little tight on the arms, but it'll do. Plus, it is a lovely shiny colour, mostly. Not all of that is blood.

Valarauka: Your injury is gone.

Kayle: You have enough spare parts to fix the Raider up enough to fly and use its firepower, maybe even the shock prow, but it would be advisable to pick defence or flight first as working on them all at once is likely to have you run out of time to finish either.

Daranúr: You have three laser pistols, one plasma grenade, five splinter cartridges (pistol size) and three in rifle size, a power sword (should work, you haven't had time to test it) and eight scavenged ration packs of various kinds each including a liquid ration for the day.

Daranúr, Caethir, Kayle: The damaged webway has ruptured behind you. Unless anyone wanted to stop to look [PM me if you did], you have heard the soul-chilling sound of the Warp breaking into the Labyrinth Dimension and none of you are sure nothing got in. The tunnel behind you swiftly collapsed in on itself, but amid the folding, shearing, imploding mists and the smoke of dreams twisting with a thousand deranged fantasies of awakening daemons, you can't be sure the passageway funnelled down to nothing. There might be just the merest pinprick of a breach remaining after the collapse. If there was, there was room for something to get in. Every Commorrite knows what this means.

All: Just after the salvage party returned, the sound of the webway collapse finally reached you. Amid the hideous cacophony, it was impossible to be certain that there were no other sounds.

He had found a few interesting things in his rummaging, but by far his favourite was the Power Sword. He had rarely been able to use a weapon so bloodthirsty before; out of opportunity, not out of skill. Now he had his hands on something that would render the Incubus’s armour to be as valuable for protection as a thin strip of paper! Now he could defend himself if any negotiations went southward.

Smiling, he picked up the slightly scorched Plasma Grenade before throwing it up into the air to gauge the weight. Somebody else could use this… somebody other than Chy’ier. Even though that twitchy little thing was the reason they were back at this wreck his exploits had entertained Daranúr when he looked back on them.

The ammunition could be given or traded to whoever might need it and the same went for the ration packs. Now, the Laser’s were interesting. He had not com across these compact weapons before. He’d keep one for himself if he had room and give one to the Reaver and the other to Valaruka if needed. The Incubus and Wrack probably wouldn’t want them and who could trust the twitcher?

He was thrilled about the Power Sword. This was not a diplomatic issue. HE was keeping it.

"Confirmed."

That was the simplest way Excision could respond to Kayle's rather strange question, his gaze turning curiously to the spider-like limbs that twitched along his back, writhing as though with a mind of their own. They were made of the most durable dark metallic in the Dark City, one of the many perks to come from being the pet of a twisted Flesh-Weaver. No expense was reserved to ensure the mutilated servants were at optimal serving condition. Haemonculi were often among the few who even cared about their servants. A hilarious thing given their line of trade...

Nevertheless, the mandibles could withstand at least a measure of heat enough to serve in the repairs to the ship, though the heat may short-circuit their functionality for a while and enough heat would eventually turn the limbs to molten slag. Even Dark Eldar technology wasn't perfect. The Wrack let out one final sigh before following after the Reaver. It seemed like he was cleaning up everyone's mess today...

Gottogetreadytogojustassoonaswecango…” Em’eyeth chattered to Chy’ier as she guided him to his discarded rifle laying on the deck of the injured raider “asmuchasihatethistinkertoyofyoursidontwanttodealwithyoursobbingandwhining.” She commented to Chy’ier as the weapon is slung onto his back.

“Thisnextfightismine” she said as she unshiethed his daggers, and began to sway too and fro with a rhythm that only the shattered mind of Chy’ier could hear.

“yes…youremeberthisdancedon’tyouChy’ier” she quipped to Chy’ier as she started to rhythmically flick and twirl his daggers in his hands.

“Ikilledthoseskyboardriderswhenimadeupthisdance…ithinktheyratherlikedit” and with that she flicked his knife up into the air that also started a jump into a twirl while catching its knife in the decent.

“ComeOne…ComeAll…LetsDance” Em’eyeth let escape Chy’ier’s lips while continuing her dance.

Everyone in the small group knew what a possible webway breach meant, and no-one was foolish enough to ignore it. The lithe Reaver pilot dispensed (just this once) with flirting and buckled down to fixing Exacting Vengeance up enough to fly. While Dark Eldar vehicles were nothing if not fragile, they were fleet and this would be of more use than merely adding more firepower. For his part the practical Wrack agreed to her plan and set to assisting with the welding. His rig was meant for fixing up flesh and bone, but in a situation like this everything that could be done to help might just be the thing that kept them alive.

Chy'ier put away his carefully-cradled rifle and, with an elegant flourish, swept out a matched pair of daggers. In his new skin the young Tubeborn seemed to move fluidly and, despite the ill fit of his 'new' armour, he strode forward with a dancer's grace to take a place next to the Incubus in the front line.

Caethir knew what was coming - if the webway had breached and not held - would be a catalogue of horrors. With luck, there would be time enough for Kayle to fix the transport and they could make a tactical retreat. Without such luck, he was the best hope of buying her that time. He nodded to Valarauka and Daranúr and directed them to fall into place beside him with a sweep of his hand.

Daranúr fell into place readily enough, a huge grin on his face as he fired up his new toy. The only thing better than power, the old saying ran, is power and a powered blade. He looked forward to spilling some blood. Or ichor. Something with entrails, anyhow. It had been too long since he'd really hurt something.

Valarauka shook his head, leaping up onto the downed Raider's hull, pistol at the ready. Caethir was about to growl a command when he spoke up, sighting down the barrel at the tunnel.

"You take the frontline if you want to; I'm a sharp shooter. I'm best suited to covering fire and anyway, I'm a dead-eye shot. I can shoot over your head from here."

The tall Incubus issued a low growl anyway, and one scarlet eye of his horned helm regarded Chy'ier for a moment. The ghostly white hide of the newly-regenerated Tubeborn was showing through very few places now, but the strut and swagger with which he moved into line looked strangely familiar from another environment entirely.

"Let'sdancelet'sdancelet'sdance!" The rapid fire speech put Caethir in mind of someone on Hypex but no-one had screamed about any missing stash, so who knew. Perhaps it was the rush of regeneration. Chy'ier wove and swayed, watching the tunnel as a mongoose will a snake.

Caethir took up a good stance, Klaive raised, and waited with the stoic calm of his kind. Daranúr chanted something that sounded a good deal like what one might hear in the arena stands. Chy'ier spun and twirled, lost it seemed in a world of his own, and up in what passed for the rigging, the sometime Sybarite began a filthy Low Commorragh song about what some Lhamaeans will do for soul-chits. The Incubus emphatically did not sigh. Such were his comrades in arms and no doubt it was a trial sent by Khaine.

The first thing anyone heard were the screams. Ricocheting off the twisting tube through the Immaterium, the screeching howl of approaching daemonic incursion lent a chill to the air and a thickness to the blood. Out of the darkness and grey, almost as fast as a Dark Eldar at a run, nearly a dozen loping, leaping beasts used every part of the webway wall, some spiralling overhead as they rushed onwards, dropping down among the combatants like a Beastmaster's pack. Valarauka got a shot at one as it fleeted overhead to aim for a rear attack, and Caethir swiped one in half with his Klaive as it landed. Nine more were in among the defensive line now, and there was no time for anything fancy.

The creatures bore the unmistakable taint of the warp; about five feet long, they looked superficially like hounds, but seemed covered in purple and red scaly skin. They had a cluster of eyes on top of a gap-mawed muzzle, the huge span opening to reveal a double row of teeth. Each monster bore huge claws on each of its six feet, using one pair to balance and two to swipe, or four feet to evade and two to strike as well as snap with the huge jaws. Their heads were earless, instead having short horns where they should be. Two peeled off and tried to find a way around Daranúr. Valarauka winged one, cursing loudly at having to aim around the brawler's head.

Chy'ier leapt into the fight as the creatures reached them, daggers spinning and twirling - a fine dance, right enough. The arterial spray of one of them was soon decorating the webway floor in a mosaic of crimson.

TheybleedredChy'ierifwecutthemdotheynotbleed? Em'eyeth enthused privately to the Tubeborn, enjoying her newly-armoured form's speed and grace and increased durability.

Daranúr took a swing at one and was gratified to find that the steaming halves of the ruined warp-spawn flopped nicely to each side of his boots, though the self-cauterising nature of his new weapon was a trifle disappointing in the blood department. Not so Caethir; awash already with the red tide of battle, the Incubus roared a battle-challenge and swung his Klaive to meet his opponents.

Kayle got a good solid bit of work done on the pilot's station before the wave hit. Ducking instinctively, she bent closer to her work with - for once - but one thing on her mind: work faster.

Excision, however, was done with metalwork. He'd done as much as he could, and now the whirring drills and blades on his back and his solid, muscled arms ached to be put to their proper use. It was time to tear flesh and sunder bone. With a roar of his own the Wrack charged into the fray. Was it to protect the lady working? Was it to spill blood? He cared not. Ever since he'd left the Dark City his natural urges for destruction and pain had been thwarted and he had had enough. Time for something to die.


Extra Info:

Kayle: You are at the Raider, which needs maybe five more minutes to be in a condition to fly. So long as the rest of your group can hold off the monsters, you can work. albeit with a lot of adrenaline flooding your system.

Valarauka: From your position of height you can get a clear shot at one of the beasts attacking Caethir, or either of the ones around Chy'ier, although Chy'ier just won't keep still.

The Combat Chorusline: You are all slightly in front of the Raider and spanning the tunnel. On one side, Excision has two opponents. neither wounded. Caethir has three, one slightly wounded and slower than the other two. Daranúr has two more facing him, one winged by the shot from Valarauka earlier. Chy'ier has moved and is now dancing with two more slightly to the other side, one with a cut down its back.

About Combat Posts: Because of the nature of combat - which is that you can state what your character wants to do, and then I have to determine the resolution before it can continue - combat posts are usually shorter. Don't worry as I expect this As someone once said (hello Cavash), there are no auto-kills and you can't assume your character is successful in their attacks, that is my job to determine, but you may by all means post what you'd like to do next should they work.

BLOOD FOR THE-

No, that wasn’t right.

Where had he heard that before? He could not recall. It sure was catchy, though. It was a new shade of wrong, too, especially seeing as no blood was shed by the Power Sword. Missing the usual ribbons of bloodshed that his old blade shed he drew his duelling sabre and attempted to keep the immaterial beasts at an arm’s length.

If Valaruka could get another shot at them then that would be great, if not he would have to decapitate them himself.

He remembered his Combat Drugs.

They sure would be useful right now.

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Daranúr wants to take his Drugs if possible and keep himself alive. He’s using both of his blades and is seeking to maim the uninjured Daemon first in a hope to level the playing field. Fighting two wounded beasts is easier than one!

Three targets stood infront of the Incubus. These warp beasts bared some resemblence to the playthings of the Beastmasters, but Caethir had never had the pleasure of fighting them before. He relished that he was finally being challenged, and by Khaine he would not fail.

The fiends began to circle around the warrior like wolves surrounding their prey. They believed their numbers would win them the day. They thought they were the alpha predators. They had never fought an Incubus before. With a roar that rivaled even the beasts own in ferocity, Caethir lept towards the injured spawn.

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OOC: Caethir is going to try and finish off the injured spawn once and for all, and hopefully use that momentum to cleave through as many beasts as he can.