Culluket

Mass Effect: Brink

It could be said, in a surreptitious whisper, that Omus Vol was compensating for something.

His office was huge. His desk was huge. The chair behind it was huge, a plush leather monolith mounted on a wide platform obviously designed to place its diminutive occupant above the eye level of most species, and the whole thing was surrounded by a towering half-circle of glowing holographic monitors; most of them displaying (huge) inventory and profit returns, a smaller bank showing the flickering feeds of illicit surveillance cameras Vol had ordered set up around the station. A thin, expensive red carpet lined the long, grueling, utterly needless distance to the desk from the main door, and lit merchandise racks and exaggerated portraits of the Volus himself flanked the walls every step of the way.

But whatever that "something" being compensated for was, it sure as hell wasn't Vol's bank account. T'Loak may have been running the show -- "for now," as Omus liked to say -- but Omega was balanced comfortably in a state of very lucrative cold war, and the Volus's digital coffers were overflowing.

The cut-price crime lord himself now reclined in his oversized leather business throne, looking over his imports as a skinny, hard-bitten looking human woman in a black polysuit went through his schedule.

"...so, after that, we have a meeting set up with some Blood Pack representatives. They're passing it off as a standard deal, but our mole says they're planning to hit the Blue Suns hard over a contract dispute, and word is they're gonna be buying big."

"Ahh, yes, yessss... *hssfftt* ...Good customers. Give them the preferred client discount."

"The seventy-five percent markup?"

"Mnyesss." Vol sat forward, rubbing his armored hands together, "And see to it that the Blue Suns... *ffssssst* ...are informed we're having a sale on improved shielding this week, hm hm hm!"

The woman nodded and withdrew, making a note on her dataslate. Vol jammed a lit cigar against his mouthpiece, sucking thinly through the valve.

"Myes, good business."

The arms dealer leaned back in his enormous chair, rotating idly to regard the curved wall of monitors. He took another drag on the cigar, chortling quietly as he surveyed his dominion. Yess, there were the Blood Pack now, chasing down that fleeing mantis... There a Sur-clan, hacking into an Eclipse terminal... Ahh, there was that ingratiating (yet enticing, in a Matron-I'd Like-to-Fondle way) narc Trishar Rayana, and next to her...

The crime lord's smug laughter turned abruptly to a smoky fit of coughing, valves whining as his suit attempted to compensate the gas flow. He stood, hands thumping onto the table.

"Im-possible!" he wheezed. "Him? Here?"

But there was no mistaking it. It was him -- the first of the Dash-clan. That same cocky self-assurance. That same waste-eating grin. That irritating Earth-clan hair.

Omus hammered a button, still choking and wheezing, buzzing one of his underlings into the office; a Turian encased in battle-singed mantis armor.

"You there! ...*tsssssssh*..." Vol's stubby arm jabbed repeatedly toward the monitor bank, "I want this man apprehended. Forthwith! ...*hfffff* ...Send some Vorcha to bring him here at once."

The Turian scratched the back of his helmet on idle reflex.

"Vorcha, boss?"

Omus steepled his fingers, "*hsst* Yessss."

"I, uh, don't think we got any Vorcha"

"Then find me some!" demanded the Volus, pounding one porcine fist against the desktop. "What do I... *fffft* ...pay you for??"

A hurled paperweight banged against the door as it hissed shut, the Turian beating a hasty retreat. Omus's beady glowing lenses glared after him a moment before slowly turning back to stare up at the monitor bank, and the digital mirth of Declan Calaway.

"Yess, some things are simply said better with Vorcha. ...Ohh, Declan." Vol leaned in close, the face of his pressure-suit lit with the orange glow of the holo-screen. "*hssssht* ...You shouldn't have come back. Before, I was merely the learner..."

The would-be kingpin sucked another trickle of cigar smoke through his respirator valve.

"...But now I am the mast--"

The Volus broke off as the office resounded with yet another noisy fit of coughing.

Mass Effect: Brink

Dropping a post shortly that will definitely agitate the pot.

Mass Effect: Brink

I thought that was what happened. I did briefly consider seeing how long I could string it out for as a joke, but decided that was too self-defeating, even for me.

And I'll jump in, alright. *steeples pudgy metal digits* Oh, how I'll jump in.

Mass Effect: Brink

Vuulnoghd intensifies...

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

The Lady's anger burned low and hot, like coals under clay, heating the hearts of those aboard her flagship, enflaming them with vigor even as they shrank back from her ire. She had thrust herself from her command couch, pacing furiously through the vaulted corridors of her flagship, demanding that her arms be brought forth, and the decanting chamber now hummed with song as its mistress was girded for war.

A white skirt of chamois leather was bound around her waist, pure and pristine. Her breastplate was fitted, glittering with fables of old conquests and mythical beasts, gleaming white gloves and serpent-bound bracers encasing her arms. Sacred attendants stood atop marbled platforms to anoint her braided hair with noonseed oil, and at last her high-crested helm was lowered, covering her face; her hard eyes masked by aquamarine lamps, her anger by a gentle, golden smile.

She flexed her gauntleted hands, gripping her banner-wrapped spear and hefting the enormous Aegis, expressing readiness. A bronze bell was sounded, and the vessel's doors heaved shut with a machined sigh and a metallic thump. A score of robed technicians knelt, bowing their heads to the deck, and the Lady's ark descended.

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, five days earlier ++

*klnk*

*ZPHWARGLEPFFFFFF--*

The streets abruptly rang with a grating burst of static and an ear-splitting scream of electronic feedback, the volume of it drowning out even the fusillade of gunfire.

*sqkwreeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!*

*tump tump TUMP*

*IZ DIS FING ON?*

The Kindly Ones were advancing into an unceasing hail of Orkish bullets, the noise like an avalanche of hail against an iron rooftop. Slugs and shells sparked from the black/white armor of Rhino transports and the heavy shields of the Terminator phalanxes as the ranks of bolters returned fire, and for the fifteenth time in ten hours, the would-be Warboss of Harkonnen IV had something to say.

*'ELLO 'ARKONNIIIIIING!! BOSS ROKK 'ERE ONCE AGAIN WIV A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!*

The streets and squares and spires of the grand refinery had all been perverted by the heathen mob, terminals and conveyors smeared with tribal paintings of leering red suns, smashed statuary converted into clan banners and heathen altars. The refinery's hundreds of vox towers, too, stood defaced by the warlord's creatures, bristling with spikes and braziers of burning dung, their loudspeakers now protruding from between the hinged metal teeth of the Orks' foul, skull-like totems, so that the jaws shook and yammered with the volume as every pipe, passage and roadway for miles echoed with the warlord's voice.

*FER ONE, IT LOOKS LIKE ME OLD MATE HABDAB NICKED 'IS LAST GUBBIN...*

The second column of rhinos crested the crossramp at speed and rammed the barricade, taking the shoota position focused on the primary force completely by surprise, pancaking ten of them against the opposite battlement. The heavy bolters roared like beasts as the advance turned and continued, spitting their explosive blessings, chewing flesh and metal into pieces.

*AN FER DA UVVA ONE, IF YOU LOT UP BY DA CROSSWAY WUZ JUST FINKING HOW BORING KRUMPIN' WORLDMELTA'S BOYZ OVA AN' OVA WAS...*

Half of the Ork mob was obliterated before they ever turned around. The second column pressed forward through the pall of black ash, merging with the first, cutting down scores of Orks still focused on their rivals.

*...DEN DIS IS DA LUCKIEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, four days earlier ++

Another stream of KillKrazy's psyko-bikers rounded the hard corners of the extrusion complex at full speed, many of them skidding sideways and tumbling to the floor or impacting catastrophically with the wall in blossoms of flame. Two were poleaxed off their mounts by the shafts of power spears, the unmanned vehicles throwing sparks as they flipped and bounced down the remainder of the roadway, marines crouching to minimize impact. Gunfire blazed amidst a shadowed jungle of hammering pistons. The advance had became a joust. It was ceaseless.

*BREAKIN' NEWS, YA GROTS! LOOKS LIKE WORLDMELTA'S HAVIN' HIS OWN SCRAP WIV SUMMA DESE KAN-WEARIN' HUMIES WE ALL BEEN WAITIN' FOR! SO FER ALLA YOUSE NOT DOWN DERE YET, DIS IS DA PERFECT TIME FER A SURPRIZE ATTACK!*

A trio of bikes landed on the rhinos and flew into the space marine column, balanced on their rear wheels, raking the ranks of the Furies with slug-fire and iron blades before crashing and exploding. Scrap-metal bridges and crude stunt ramps jutted from the roadways and tiered pipes above, explosive flashpots going up in noisy showers of sparks as swarms of crazed, cackling Orks on smoke-belching, red-painted cycles tore along them at uncontrollable speeds, launching themselves high over walls and between glowing streams of molten metal, unloading their weapons at full auto.

*...ALRIGHT, SO IT LOOKS LIKE WORLDMELTA THOUGHT DA SAME FING, AN' NOW WE'S SURPRIZE-ATTACKING HIS SURPRIZE ATTACK.*

Some were caught by bolter rounds from the scouts above or punctured by plasma fire from below. Others missed their mark entirely and plummeted wailing into the canals, or simply landed front-first, shattering their vehicles before skidding and tumbling to a fatal stop. Passengers hung from rear seats, handlebars or sidecars, axe-wielding maniacs who leapt from the speeding vehicles, hacking viciously at the marines' ranks before being broken.

*JUST ANUVVA BEAUTIFUL EVERLASTIN' NIGHTTIME 'ERE ON 'ARDKONNING FOUR, WHERE DA FIGHTIN' NEVVA STOPS! GAHAHAHA!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, three days earlier ++

*LOOKS LIKE DEM KAN HUMIES IS UP TA DA HALFWAY FLAG! AND DA HUMIE BOSS STILL HASN'T SHOWN UP FOR DA FIGHT! TALK ABOUT LAZY! AH WELL -- GIVE EM DERE PRIZE, BOYS!*

Five looted cargo haulers screeched in reverse through the narrow alleyways, chassis throwing sparks as they scraped against the facility walls. On signal, the hoppers began to tip, dumping their contents into the manufactorum floor. Squigs. Hundreds and hundreds of mindless, hopping fanged maws boiled across the facility toward the Imperial forces as Orks leapt heedlessly from supply elevators. The central ranks fell back as Flamers gouted from firing ports and scouts launched a barrage of grenades into the swarming sea of gaping teeth from above.

*DATS IT BOYS! STOMP EM FLAT AN' BRING ME DA BITZ FER ME TRUKK! A SHINY NEW BIONIK KLAW TA THE LAD WOT BRINGS ME DA MOST 'EADS!*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, two days earlier ++

The foundry was now underlit by the hellish red glow of the magma canals, the heat streaming upward in a vaporous wall even from the fifty-foot deep man-made shafts. The voxcasters howled with a cacophony of breakneck drumbeats and metallic, electrically amplified string instruments.

*I'M DA BADDEST AN' DA MEANEST!*

The trenches and roadways of the foundry were filled beyond capacity with a seething ocean of massive green bodies, surging forward from every side in violent hunger. Scores were smashed aside in numbers or lifted into the air by the lethal blades of glowing spears, forced into the burning depths of the canals or ground noisily under the treads of the Rhinos. The dark steel of the foundry road was drenched in blood and ichor, the marines' advance made over the piled bodies of their enemies and the broken armor of their own noble dead.

*I'M DA HEAVIEST AN' DA METALLEST!*

Hugely armored Ork nobs leapt from the backs of spiked, defaced cargo trucks, shaking the ground where they landed, bellowing in challenge.

"COME ONN!!"

A hammer the length of a Terminator swung like a pendulum and pounded a squad sargeant ten meters through the air into the canals, her armor crumpled like tin. She was dead before she reached the bottom. Captain Euryale spat blinding rounds from her plasma pistol, the creature's armor melting on impact, running like mercury. She ducked the backswing of the hammer, which clanged into the side of one of the transports, forcing it momentarily off course.

*I'M GUNNA RIP YER SHINY HUMIE BOSS INTA SQUIG CHOPS AN' STIKK 'IS SKULL ON ME TRUKK!*

She lunged for the opening and her chainsword bit deep into the monster's side, spraying dark blood and sparks as the Ork howled.

"COME ONNNN!"

Euryale was taken by the throat and smashed into the steel plating of the manufactorum roadway like a rag doll, the surface denting deeper and deeper with each blow before the armored monster was forced to release her by a barrage of autocannon fire. Roaring, it closed in as gunfire whipped past on all sides, knocking aside Tisiphone's spearhand and locking her arm in its gigantic klaw, the weapon screeching as it struggled to tear through the dreadnought armor.

"ORLL TAKE ALL OF YER--"

The Terminator leveled the flamer directly into its eyes and pulled the trigger, incandescent fire spouting against the creature's jagged visor. It released her, bellowing in pain and anger and clawing at its face, the iron armor glowing red hot. Another two heavy flamers trained on the thing as it raged and flailed, still trying to swing its weapon through the prometheum torrent as it was riddled with more and more cannon fire. Another marine was broken before Tisiphone impaled it, shielding herself as one final glob of plasma vaporized the front of its skull. The giant fell, crashing thunderously to the metal walkway. Euryale whispered something inaudible and then lay silent and unmoving.

*I'M GUNNA FRAG DAT STUCK-UP GIT WORLDMELTA AN' KRUMP ALL HIS BOYZ,*

A looted trukk skidded sideways, the carriage bursting open to release another horde of Ork 'ard boyz, strapped with transport doors and defaced manufactorum signage, before a krak rocket spiralled into them, knocking one of them back into the vehicle and punching through its rusting gut. It careened out of control, dragging one of the Ork heavies with it, skidded over sideways and exploded into a geyser of flame, flattening the bulk of the horde and incinerating a dozen more. The tide was not even slowed, Orks swarming around or clambering over the top of the blackened, flaming husk, a row of the beasts even standing atop it, roaring and emptying their weapons at the advancing phalanx, too crazed with battle-lust to care.

*AN' DEN I'M GUNNA STIKK DA BIGGEST ROKKIT YOU EVER SEEN ON DA BACK OF DIS PLANET AN' BLAST IT RIGHT UP URLAKK'S FAT skreeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE--*

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, occupied territory of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy, today ++

The Void Stalkers had come, and death had flown with them.

Fragments of broken Rok ships rained down like apocalyptic fire, shattering into blazing chunks against the towering machine-spires or exploding in the atmosphere above the battlefield in a flaming shower of embers. The night sky flickered and flashed with luminous streaks of lance fire and shooting-star waves of ork flak. The steel roads and walkways were choked with mangled bodies and burning wrecks, the constant stream of bikers bogged down by pile-ups as one after another had streaked into a flaming chassis at speeds too extreme to stop. The assault was at its climax, the Ork's battlelust cresting like a tidal wave, the Furies' hatred hotter than the red blood of Harkonnen itself.

Morale on both sides was at a fever pitch, but the advance had now slowed to a crawl in the face of the thickest opposition. Gunfire raked every inch of the primary loading bridge, and the compound stood behind a significant blast gate, bathed in industrial floodlights and the hot underglow of molten metal. The Warlord himself stood atop a patchwork metal dais, drumbeats pounding from below him, flashpots going off left and right.

*COME ON DEN! 'AVE A GO, IF YA FINK YER 'ARD!*

He was huge, huger than any Ork should be. There was no flesh visible anywhere on his body. Everything had been replaced by cybork machinery or covered by armor plating. His eyes were burning red points glowing in a jagged mess of wires and painted steel, the huge iron maw so popular amongst ranking Orks no mere decoration but bolted as a vicious prosthetic to the creature's metal skull, wired up with a number of oversized microphones. A mass of black cables jutted and swung from the back of the warlord's head, serving as a replacement topknot. A singed, spiked leather jacket hung over his enormous shoulders, a full-sized Deff Dread killsaw arm bulging from one torn shoulder. His unnatural voice continued to shriek from every voxcaster in the foundry.

*I DON'T NEED DEM EXTRA BOYZ! I'M BIG ROKK KILLKRAZY! DIS IS MY PLACE! MY TRAKK! MY FAKTERY! I BEEN WAITIN' YEARS FER DIS!*

Far behind him, murky in the distance and set atop some great industrial pit, gaped a huge Orkish totem, built so that it was gaping up at the sky, wisps of vapor streaming from between its opened jaws. Sweltering orange light glowed from beneath, setting its shadow against the overhangs and pipelines. The hideous Orkish music continued to blare as the Warlord jeered.

*I WANNA SEE YER BOSS DOWN 'ERE! I'M GUNNA SHOW YER WHO'S THE TUFFEST AND DA LOUDEST! I'M GUNNA PAINT ME BEST GITTER WIV DA BLOOD AN PATCH ME JACKET WIV DA SKIN! DIS IS GUNNA BE A NITE TA REMEMBA!*

Captain Stheno braced against the rear of a shattered transport, sheltering from a storm of flashfire while venting an overheated plasma cannon.

"Lady spare us from the incessant ravings of this savage." She spat, hoarsely.

*AND JUST TA SPICE FINGS UP: ME BOYZ ARE GUNNA START FEEDIN' ONE SLAVE INTO THE MOUF OF GORK FER EVERY TICK OF DIS TIMEY FING THAT YOU AINT DEAD!*

"What is that?" The Captain turned, addressing the technician fervently stabilizing the rhino's engine, "A weapon?"

The technician consulted her instruments, quickly. "Logged vox chatter suggests some sort of heathen idol. Crossreferencing location data."

The marines were lit in glowing blue and green by the pict-display, brightening into yellow-white as a stream of rockets broke and erupted with a crash across the loading bridge beside them.

"Sir..." the technician's helm twisted between the gigantic idol and the Captain. "...It's talking about the barium furnace."

Something small fell from a yellow-lit ledge between the vast, jagged jaws. A muted scream sounded throughout the refinery, choked off as by a thick, bubbling hiss.

*NEXT!*

"It's still operating. Final communications suggest the warlord has its minions and prisoners battle on its walkway for sport--"

Another tiny figure plummeted between the blackened jaws of the idol. Another scream abruptly ended. Polyhymna's vox interrupted forcefully, carried with the voice of her mind.

"All companies, accelerated timetable. Consolidate to Marathon formation and obey the Lady's will. Do not give this creature one ounce of satisfaction."

Gunfire and cannon rounds smashed into the battlefield on all sides and the dark tide spilled onward as one life after another was lost amidst the hissing of the crucible and the mad screech of the warlord's laughter.

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, headquarters of Ork warlord Rokk KillKrazy: Now ++

The ark of victory slammed into the floor of the roadway, a meter-high shockwave of black ash rippling out from the impact in a perfect circle, thunder rolling across the manufactorum. White-and-black as the others of its kind, but greater, decorated with golden scrollwork and black-figure battle-scenes, the motto of the legion inscribed on carved gilded parchment framing its peak. The painted walls thumped down with a hydraulic sigh, and the pod's sole occupant stepped forth from its shadow, her crested helm towering over even her own ranks.

An unseen radiance seemed to flood out from her like an astropathic beacon, like solar fire. It was as though the sun had crested some dark hill and now blazed white across the sky, bathing the battleground in pitiless, radiant light. For a moment, all of the shadows of the world were conquered, and for the barest second even the Orks flinched and shrank back, hesitating in the face of something they could feel but never understand. The second Chief Librarian rallied, lifting her staff.

"The Lady!" she cried, "THE LADY IS WITH US!"

A thousand voices roared metallically from a thousand helm-mounted vox speakers, a sea of weapons raised to the roiling sky.

"RESUME THE ADVANCE! RAIN FIRE UPON THE FOE!" she sang, exulted, "THIS DAY IS ALREADY OURS!"

Arete pointed the way forward, its tip bursting into writhing blue flame as the marines charged, firing and flowing into new formations with geometric grace. It was as though crowns of fire danced above their heads. There were no missed shots, no glancing strikes. For every one of them that fell wounded, a hundred barbarians were slain in recompense. The compound drew nearer, the charge never faltering, columns parting and spreading wide, only the Lady and her honor guard, the twins and two of their chosen holding the center.

*FINALLY!* The distant shape of the warlord spread its mechanical arms wide, *ISS ABOUT TIME YOU SHOWED UP, YA FANCY TART! ...WHASSAT? NUFFING TA SAY? SQUIG GOTCHA TONGUE??*

A score of Ork psyko-bikers ramped down from the labyrinthine pipelines above, rattling automatic gunfire, only to break against an invisible wall, rebounding ten meters back the way they had come save their leader, who with an olympian reflex was impaled on the end of the force spear, held triumphantly aloft like a gruesome pennant before being flicked contemptuously away.

*WAIT -- YER BOSS IS A WEIRDY?* the voxcasters screeched with laughter, *DATS DA MOST EMBARRASSING FING I EVVA--*

Lydia cast up her hand, and Arete remained suspended in the air, her skirts fluttering as a shockwave of force built and then burst, slamming outward with a storm's fury, parting the ork tide in waves and sweeping scores of them into the burning canals, their screams echoing from the shafts like an inhuman choir.

*...SCREAMIN' MORK! DROP DA WALL, BOYS! ISS SHOWTIME!*

Emergency lights began flaring, alarms wailing as the titanic blastwall shuddered, lowering inch by inch, struts and girders shaking as it receded into the roadway. Grot-manned spotlights clacked on, beams flooding down and angling wildly across the spectacle.

In the distance ahead, the warlord's platform was revealed -- not a podium but an enormous, patchwork vehicle; a towering red monstrosity, part crane, part fortress, welded with mismatching armored plates a foot thick, patterned with rattling chains and bristling with cannons. A huge metal roller crusted with vicious, rust-stained spikes jutted from the frontal grille, itself almost the height of a man. A cannon turret whirred and rotated, angling slowly down toward its targets. Uncountable tonnes of looted construction equipment converted into an enormous, overbearing war machine.

The engines gunned, angrily, shaking the manufactorum as rows of enormous exhaust pipes sputtered with greasy flame. The ground quivered as the behemoth catapulted forward, faster than anything of that size should possibly move, hurtling across the battlefield toward the firing space marines with heavy, lethal momentum.

In unison, Lydia broke into a sprint, feet pounding against the metal roadway past ricocheting bullets, kicking up a stream of ash as she flew out to meet it. The machine bore down on her in seconds, guns ablaze, looming over her like a falling cliff. The electronic screech of the Warboss rang out over the roar of the titanic engines, the pounding clamor of the roller.

*HOW D'YA LIKE ME NOW, HUMIE?*

Magaera fell to a crouch, bracing her legendary shield and drawing on all of her will, trailing ash as she skidded.

*HOW D'YA LIKE M--*

There was an ear-splitting thunderclap of collision. The battlewagon crumpled, went vertical and launched into the air, sailing slowly and heavily over the ranks of the Furies, blotting out the floodlight and blanketing the foundry road in its impossible, vertiginous shadow. It flipped ponderously, end over end, once... twice...

The hulk landed on its roof with a deafening, bone-shattering burst, a noise so dense, so unbearably loud that it seemed not a sound but a physical wall of force. It bounced once, shaking the very air, the impact and aftershock sending even the armored Terminators staggering to their knees. The metal roadway buckled, the underside of the ork machine crumpling like paper, huge machined parts and jagged pieces of welded metal flying upward like a fountain of shrapnel and coming down like jingling rain. The giant crane slowly bent with a hellish creak and groan of tortured metal, and fell with a thunderous crash into the canals. The jagged cylinder, torn loose by the impact, clanging down somewhere behind them like the tolling of an apocalyptic bell. Torn bolts, Ork weapons and ragged shards of hot metal continued to fall heavily to the ground.

There was a moment of stillness. Every assault had ceased. Every gun had fallen silent. The Lady stood, looking back, a hot breeze blowing at her chamois battledress, uncoiling the colored pennants of her spear.

*HrrrrrnnnnNN--*

There was a screeching of tortured metal; an impacted hatch on the side of the battlewagon bulged outward, groaning, before bursting off its hinges with a clattering clang, the Ork warlord falling backward, sparking and smoking as he tumbled heavily onto the dented road, throwing the broken carcass of one of his underlings aside like spent refuse.

*I... AIN'T... *whrreeze* ...DONE.*

The colossal Ork forced himself up on mechanical limbs, lamplight eyes blazing in its iron skull. He heaved a huge chainaxe from the wreck with his good hand, noisily spinning up the killsaw of the other. He started forward, glaring at Lydia murderously.

*I AIN'T DONE--*

Tisiphone's spear punctured the enormous limb of the killsaw from the side as the Warboss lumbered forward, wrenching him heavily back down to the floor, her armored boot pinning the machined forearm. Lydia watched, silent, impassive. Her white-armored hand lifted the crested helm, and the carved, golden smile gave way to a cool olive mask of contempt. The Lady of Victory turned, skirt swirling beneath a canopy of burning rain, and walked away without so much as a gesture; her legions falling into step and marching by without a sideward glance. Their heavy greaves pounded in unison as they filed past the wreckage, streaming unstoppably into the red twilight.

*WHERE DO YOU FINK YOU'RE GOIN? WE'RE SUPPOSED TA FIGHT! SAY SUMFING! SAY SUMFING!!*

Another spear punched through the mechanism of his other arm as he struggled to rise. Several more Terminators drew closer as the legion marched by, slowly surrounding the stricken warlord, the weight of their armored greaves against the metal platform tolling like a sepulchral gong.

*YOU FINK YER 'ARD? I'LL CRUSH YAS ALL! FIGHT ME! FIGHT MEAAAAAAGGGGH!!*

KillKrazy screeched into his microphones as a third spear lifted and slammed through his armored chest, penetrating metal and wires and slicing through living green flesh, holding him like a beetle on a pin. Servos and gears whined and muscles bulged as he strained with all his swollen, unnatural strength to stand up. Alecto's superheavy boot thumped down onto his gigantic, rebar-armored leg, slowly twisting the metal under its weight.

*WHAT'RE YOU DOIN'?* The Ork's electric voice was tinged with panic, howling after Lydia. *WHADDIS DIS? GET BACK HERE! WHADDABOUT MY FIGHT? DATS THE WHOLE POINT!* He roared, thrashing, *I WANT MY FIGHT!!*

The lumbering shapes of the Terminators loomed over him, aquamarine eyes blazing amidst the huge, dark silhouettes.

"+ The beast overestimates its importance, sister. +" boomed one.

"+ This was never a war, monster. +" declaimed another.

"+ This is an extermination. +"

The spears came down.

The blades flashed, stabbing again and again and again, tearing through wires and painted steel to the last vestiges of living flesh within, gashing and flaying and dismembering in a horrific orgy of violence. Sparks flew, green-black ichor gouted, the joyous shrieks of the Furies warped into an unearthly drone by their heavy Terminator's voxcasters. Everywhere the manufactorum's address system shook as the warlord's bellowing rage was replaced by a maddened, animal screaming so tortured, so unbearable, that even the creature's human slaves cowered and wept, covering their ears and shielding their eyes from the work of their saviors.

It took a long time for him to die.

It took a very, very long time.

---

*Praise and glory to the Emperor of Mankind!*

Polyhymna's clarion voice rang in triumph across every voxspeaker and every channel of the planet's communications, reverberating out across the system. The Librarian had earned another deep, long scar across her face, her skin dark with a dripping coating of blood, and in the exultation of victory she paid it not the smallest heed.

*The barbarian horde is broken, its machines toppled, its leaders cast down and slain! Even now on Ullanor Prime their brazen master suffers death at the hands of the Emperor's most favored -- The conquerer's prize has become his tomb--*

Silhouetted scouts paced attentively over heaped mountains of ork weaponry destined for the crucibles, the chaotic mounds looming taller than the legion's transports. Piled xenos bodies were thrown into hoppers and shovelled into the magma canals as streams of human prisoners were released from underground holding pens. KillKrazy's horde had been broken, fleeing or falling to infighting, easily mopped up by the 13th's reinforcements.

Lydia Magaera herself stood apart, looking out over her children from a raised viewing platform like a marble statue, her face impassive, her mind closed.

"My Lady," Stheno approached and knelt, bowing her head, her helm clutched under one arm. Half her face was a mass of burns, a cybernetic eye gleaming in place of her ruined one, and her voice rasped abrasively in her throat, "We have brought the head of the Ork creature that dared challenge you. It is unlike any of the beasts I have yet seen -- Entirely metal, save for the workings of the tongue and throat, and a hollow for the wretch's brain... such as it was."

The gigantic metal head of Rokk Killkrazy was dumped heavily to one side behind the Captain, its bionik eyes dark, its huge iron jaw wedged open with its last horrifying screams.

"Would you take it as a trophy, mistress?" asked Stheno, "Or shall we smelt the foul thing and be done with it?"

Lydia stared down at the cybork monstrosity, her expression cool and disdainful. And then she looked to one of the attending technicians and beckoned, the marine kneeling and handing her a data-slate. Magaera's fingertips danced purposefully across the surface of the device, the glowing images reflecting in her eyes; until at last she handed the slate to Stheno, wordlessly tapping a single location marked in amber. The Orrian’s Fury -- flagship of Erron Khaal, Primarch of the Wild Blades.

Stheno smiled for the first time that day, showing her teeth.

"It shall be conveyed to him with all speed, my Lady." she said, rising. "I am confident your brother will appreciate such a unique and carefully-chosen gift."

And for a moment, through her weariness and distance, the Lady smiled too.

---

Epilogue: Cassandra

---

++ Harkonnen IV, Heavy Foundry Alpha Primus, Liberated 13th Legion secure zone ++

The girl was bolted to the crossbeam by an iron band around her neck, forcing her to bend backward. She clutched at the thing uselessly, staring at the ceiling, teeth gritted, hands soiled with dirt and dried blood. On each side, twisted, wiry little green bodies pranced around her in the near-darkness, cackling and leering as they dared one another to get close enough to prod at her exposed flesh with sharpened sticks. She kicked out at a clutch of them viciously, and they danced backward, whooping and hollering in sadistic mirth. Another crept round, jamming the splintered wood into an open gash in her opposite side, and she screamed, groping for the hateful creature, scoring a solid hit on the nose of another as it closed in for a jab.

The laughter cut off abruptly and light flooded into the pen as the gate was torn forcibly off its hinges. The gretchin shrieked, immediately trying to flee. The Terminator swung her shield, hard, liquefying two of them between it and the wall. The other four slipped through her legs and were thrown to one side by a series of shotgun blasts from a waiting scout troop as they scuttled into the open.

"+ Here! Another survivor! +"

Two marines double-timed into the converted ore container, sweeping bolters and targetting lights across the corners of the room before moving to release the prisoner.

"Be still, child." instructed one, holding the bar steady. The other gripped the iron collar and wrenched it free with a thud and tinkle of cut bolts. The girl collapsed, caught as gently as possible by the armored marines.

Alecto locked her spear to her armor and reached up, disengaging her helm. The glaring aquamarine eyes went dark and she lifted, revealing her hard, battleworn face, her dark, half-shaved hair, the old impact scars against the side of her skull.

The girl was malnourished and filthy, her hair wild and matted, her eyes ringed with dark circles and staring with an empty, distant look that Alecto knew only too well. She was covered with cuts, bruises and open wounds. Shaking and ill-used.

And young. Far too young.

"Return to duty," Alecto said softly, "I will attend to this one."

The marines withdrew, obediently. The Terminator stomped forward carefully, drawing the girl to her feet and supporting her with her shoulder.

"You were kept away from the others." Alecto observed as they rose, the girl's thin, soiled legs shaking. "Why?"

"Bechuhh..." the captive licked her cracked lips with a dry tongue, "...Because I fought."

"Fought." Alecto made certain the girl had a grip on her before guiding her slowly toward the smashed gate. "You fought the xenos."

"They killed my father," the girl's voice shook, barely audible, "My mother. They threw my little brother into the crucible. I fought. I don't care what happened. They put the ones that fought in here. Only me, now."

They paused at the door as the girl began coughing. Alecto held her up carefully with a huge armored hand.

"...Used the condensers as fighting pits." the girl continued in a cracked whisper, "The furnace... They gave us sticks and made us fight the gretchins." she coughed again, voice thin and shaking. "They thought it was funny..."

"You will find their mirth has left them."

The muffled noises became clear and loud as they emerged into the hot, open air, the sky above still alight with embers and the violet flash of Void Stalker fire. Promethium-fuelled flames flickered around smashed idols and the doorways of Ork sheds. Everywhere the facility was bathed from above by the heavenly lights of descending airships, the air alive with the vox-chatter of the marines.

"I heard" the girl swallowed, looking ahead with a thousand-yard stare, "what you did to him." She drew in a tight breath through her nose, "I wish I could have seen it."

Alecto looked at her, silently.

"...Tell me your name." she said at last.

The girl didn't look up.

"What does it matter?" she whispered, bitterly.

"Because I, too, was once a girl who lost her mother, and her father." the Terminator replied, with uncharacteristic softness. "And I fought, as you did. And now I am so much more." Her voice hardened. "...Now I am death and judgement in the service of a Goddess."

They slowed to a stop before a squadron of scouts overseeing an endless stream of survivors. The girl hung over Alecto's titanic shoulder, limp and broken. She gave no reply, no response at all.

"...Will you not fight one day more, my sister?"

The girl screwed her eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"...Cassandra."

Alecto turned and called, firmly: "You."

The rearmost scout knelt, quickly, her shotgun laid at the Terminator's feet. "Exalted sister."

"Get her to a transport." Alecto ordered, passing the girl's weight to the other woman, "See to her injuries, water her, feed her, then bathe and clothe her and bring her before the Lady, with my authorization. And be of heart!" she called as they departed, "For this day you have surely earned your passage."

Cassandra looked back, once, and vanished between the mass of black and white armored bodies.

Mass Effect: Brink

This is cool and all, but I noticed you don't have a Volus? You should have a Volus.

Here is a Volus.

Omus Vol

"Just according to vuulnoghd..."
_{(translator addendum: vuulnoghd means 'plan')}

Omus was the Dasher's "quartermaster;" which is a polite way of saying he was a gun runner and profiteer who decided hawking (and, conveniently, growing) his inventory out of a pirate ship was good business. He is the perfect picture of Volus vice: A greedy, scheming, self-important opportunist whose loyalty can't be earned -- merely rented. When the Alliance ambush hit and the evacuation order was given, he was the first to abandon ship. In fact, he was abandoning ship before the crew was told to get away. ...You know, come to think of it, nobody's even sure where he was when that whole thing started.

Despite his self-centered avarice, his seething contempt for the frivolous nature of the "Dash-clan" and his reluctance to get personally involved in anything resembling 'heavy lifting', Vol brought a lot to the table. In addition to supplying a respectable panoply of arms and equipment, he had a knack for tinkering, frequently working to create new and improved shield, tool and weapon modifications, which he was only too happy to make available to his companions at very little additional cost. If he ever does get involved in a firefight, then what he lacks in mobility and speed is made up for in cutting-edge weaponry and disgustingly overpowered personal defences he hasn't bothered to share with anyone else.

In the time since the crew broke up, things have gone better for Vol than they have for even the most fortunate of the others. In fact, he's now a minor crime lord on Omega, openly peddling high-powered weapons to every side and slowly expanding his territory. It hasn't been difficult. As one might expect amongst the seedier, more volatile levels of the station, he's had no shortage of customers.

Omus harbors a special grudge against Zik, who has an inborn talent for foiling his schemes. Even today, wheezing, pressure-suited cries of "ZIIIIIIIIIIIK!" can be heard drifting up through the ventilation shafts of Omega's lower levels. That said: his credits are as good as anyone else's. Even the best vendettas have to take a back seat to good business, after all.

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

Eventually he'll end up with an all-dreadnought legion, and can drop those in.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Honestly, I really really reeeeaaaallly want Sketti to bash his brains in. But he's eating (semi) calmly at the moment. What would the Hobbie do to get him to go over and kill him? (not that it needs to be something drastic for Sketti to have an excuse)

@POOHEAD189

Have him make some snide remark that's the last straw, or have him mutter something about 'carving the pig' and then grab a knife out of the roast pork and go for his throat, then you can put an axe all the way through his skull, embedding it in the table hard enough that the chamberlain can't get it out and has to leave it there amidst all the food as the feast continues. I don't know, get creative! Do you want me to post as Chengizz to make it seem less weird?

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Hoooly shit, you know what that means.

You guys can kill the Hobgoblin in your next posts.

Gobskag can watch, tugging nervously at his collar.

Beyond Civilisation's Grasp... - A Rogue Trader (WH40K) RP [Seeking Desperate Souls for Adventure!]

Though it may have seemed like blank disinterest, Jean-Luc was staring at the only other living patron of the Last Chance in mild surprise. With his hood fallen, there was no mistaking it: a Navigator, of all things, here, of all places. Here for the Trader, perhaps... Here with the Trader, potentially. Whatever the case, theirs was a non-overlapping expertise, and there was no cause to be ungentlemanly. Perhaps they might even pool their resources.

"Distinguished sir." He placed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly, turning, stepping over the ruined servitor and sweeping broken glasses noisily from the rear of the bar until he found an intact vessel. He wiped it clean with a thin towel and set it on the counter, holding the bottle up to the light. "But of course. I see little reason why not. To sample such a rarefied vintage alone, well..." he sighed lightly as the faintly glowing liquid trickled exquisitely into the glass. "...Even in a place without law, some things remain a crime. Salut." He clinked his glass against Galga'roth's, taking an only moderately disinterested sip. The liquor was magnificent beyond anything he had tasted in months, but alas, the pleasure never lingered long.

"Forgive the atmosphere." He indicated the ruined saloon as the maimed Ogryn suddenly gave a weak groan, its remaining arm twitching under one of the other bodies. "...Renovations. Excusez-moi, un petit moment..."

La Mare yanked one of the throwing knives out of the counter, arched forward and hurled it precisely into the creature's bulging carotid artery with a thunk. A thin mist of blood began piping up over the rubble of the piano. The abhuman giant made a deflated, wheezing sound and slowly stopped moving.

"...Unfortunate species. The brain frequently takes time to process the fact that it no longer lives. But I forget my manners: Jean-Luc Bauta de la Mare, at your service." He gave another half-bow, taking up the glass and swirling the contents, distantly. "If I might intrude on the business of so vital a personage, have you come down on the shuttle? Or..." He let the question hang, as small, smoking chunks of rubble collapsed from the las-ridden stairwell.