Rockette

{Closed}

Y T O N E

^{"The divinity that knows no name, the righteous mutated by despairs; all this leads to the glorious dead and depraved, bound by The Law of Subjugation."}

Unknown Location — Test of the Faceless — 250 — 8 / 8

^{And so my dearest. . .}

Deep down it begins to stir,
a fissure of ooze that bleeds black and red;
scarlet edges pool around numbs fingers each struggling
against their rot. Pain is glory; pain is eternal and she
feels the darkness inside her, like
a w o r m. . .

Reality returned in sworls of darkness, each vagrant shade billowing smog and myraid of hues dulling into ebonies feathering against one another, coupling to depress and swelter into terrible wraiths of malcontent. From the wreaths of gloom and fabrications of despair, figures would descend, wrought in leathers that bore the imitation of tempered skin; mortal membranes swathed over spindly arms and broad shoulders, poured into colours of soiling muck and dried blood. When pools of silver lift, hesitation is found in the vast, crushing desire of penance and to pay right to these apparitions, and suddenly the whorls of obsidian combust, fusing and conglomerating into one being. Ytone's gaze shifts, peers, endlessly intertwined with flames that do not reap red, but instead pulse with silvers and greys, smudges of black and soot coat her stare until she meets the eclipsed visage of her own self.

And then. . .

She rapidly banishes the illusion of herself, darkened and wreathed in flame with sudden plumes of red decorating both lips and cheeks. Arachnid fingers spear and pull on her countenance, raking back into the thick, wispy lines of her hair to pull on the reins of her existence here, rather than the false visual of what had initially greeted her. The air was thick with the tangible pulse of mana, she could feel that much crawling against her skin, slick and probing at her own veins and innards tangled within the infestation of magic. It bade a peculiar expression of her lips twisting, brow folding over the depths of her silver appraisal until her attention was severed prematurely by the voices that droned across the fabricated environment. Their capes and cloaks of scarlet, adorned in pauldrons and ebonette armour befitting legendary Templars that she had heard whisper and rumour of from long, long forgotten stories. The slurring insult of heathens feathered across her thoughts, pouring from her lips with ease as Ytone fluidly, and slowly rose up from her prone position against the trembling and scorched soil. These were ill-favouring individuals that paled in comparison the effect of the dark—robed Gaki, and any sort of intimidation and wonder that spurned the others of the traveling party immediately waned and dissipated from metal festooned shoulders rising and falling with her rapid inhales.

Ytone felt oppressed here, this realm that sired the trio of red cloaked shades that mocked true fear and reverence, and she did not like. Almost on reflex, bidden by instinct and implanted subjugation, her fingers twined and pulled, flexing against the hilt of the Raksha blade and freeing it from the ebony sheath straining in her opposite grasp. Integrated hours of pain, torture, and blinding fury wove a tapestry of skill and finery into her swordsmanship, she recalled hours of practice beneath a pulsating moon of yellow, of burning fingers that sang with her ache and blood, and the grueling reception of sparring — slicing — the double-edged blade into flesh, fur, and bone. Swiftly, she attached the chain of the Tessen to Raksha's hilt, the bladed fan landing softly at her feet before she ran the length of the connected links gleaming within the provided sun of false origins. Her brow furrowed, deeply, at the utterance of this being a test, and her lips blossomed wide and bore teeth of shimmering bone and bite.

A test!

As if they had the right and rule to put her through another trial, another method of proving her worth, to gauge the capability of her sword and mana poisoning that was boiling in her veins like tar. She had endured so many tests. . . So many. . .

"I've proved myself hundred and hundred of times over. . . Who are you to test me." Ytone rallied, intent on striking down the remaining recipient of her sudden offense before they too vanished into swirls of smog and shadow, leaving deformities of magic and mana in their wake. Ytone's expression stilled and narrowed, eclipsing into her concentration as her fingers poised over the chain of the Tessen then cinched tighter and her arm began to whirl. Muscles flexed and burned as she spun the ligament, flexing her grasp to increase the rate of which the weapon spun, slicing air and crafting a humming tune that sang of her intentions the moment the faceless, groaning shambles of man began to arise.

She had seen similar manifestations before, not in the shape of the mortal constitution, but the bestial rage of beasts that bore faces riddled in rot and skin, piles of flesh warping over into layers of oozing sores and pain. Her grip abroad Raksha burned thrice as her — she cringed — companions began the leagues of striking the opponent, thus spurring their wrath. Some were intelligent to try and forsake the initial blow, but Ytone scoffed at their attempts at lame pacifism. The enemy was provided, and it was in the form of man that was unworthy, powerless, and overall beneath her. If these were great beasts and creatures of the realm, then she would've bowed and offered herself.

But, this was not that. This was a mere jest at pegging them to attack. And Ytone would answer.

The first wave provided vital information as she continued the spin of her bladed fan and chain, The Raksha almost singing in the desire for penance and blood. One fell to the blade of one, a girl whose name she knew naught and cared none for, and she eyed the festering swell of ebony pus and good that boiled over the broken earth. So, decapitation was the ill intent, the sacrifice to these... abominations. Ytone took that into stock, allowed the second wave to commence until shrieks and moans wailed behind layers of flesh, muffled cries of fury and helplessness that spurred the others to answer in flashing blows of sword and righteousness. Silver eyes narrowed, dangerously so, mere slivers in the planes of ebony and pale skin until her grasp on her chain grew lax, fingers flaying open to unleash the projected force of the Tessen at it flew, singing iron that rivaled the torrential capers of the Faceless.

The bladed fan acted as a weight tethered to the end of a rope, mimicking the engineering of a grappling hook or tread and slung around the pale, veining neck of one brutish vagrant adorned in rusted armour and wielding a mace of equal deterioration. The chain looped once, twice, three times and she followed suit, her fingers cinching about the connected links once more to pull taut on the lead and force the chain tighter, summoning a gurgling roar for her efforts. Her lips merely flattened at that, deadened simpers gracing naught her features as she charged, the Raksha angled in her one-handed vice and pulled on the chain more so, as if herding the creature to the fury of her weapon as it came down; a swoop of grace and elegance bathed in precision and death aimed to impale the whorls of flesh containing the cries of the woeful being.

^{. . . will you then ask for my name when the world has gone.}

The Wolven Storm

Years with the Company had integrated a near second nature into gathering the particular specs and intonations of the Captain's speech, pinpointing the importance of his spoken terms and the details laden within his gruff timbre that had her crossing her short arms at her ample bust. She possessed her original skepticism, wonders, and inquires to the exact specifications of what oddities they were going to investigate, playing the role of Inquisitor was all fun and dandy, and she could champion that, but it still left her with pursed lips and drawn shoulders. She had participated on missions and jobs with far less information and details than what was currently given to them, of course, and dared not to speak aloud with her... concerns. Twenty years garnered flawless trust and execution, they would not disappoint her now, right?

Thdris slowly rocked back onto her heels, her attention severed prematurely at the mention pertaining to the intentions of his missive and the particular troupe gathered by the delivery. This was a teeming pot luck of individuality and skill, and whilst diverse in ability and time spent with the Company, she had only minor doubts to their formalities to working in unison. Thdris knew those who had been with the company nearly as long as she, sprinkling differences of years here and there, but able to surmise a basic opinion with the initial troupe easily enough. She had faith in the veteran crew, they were efficient and experienced, well oiled methods that came with many quests lining their records.

She trusted Odran with fathomless fondness and admiration, more associated with his tact in working with The Captain for so long, her servitude only spanned to twenty years — and had it really been that long? — and she doubted she could ever parallel in second command to him. Thdris’s lips gnashed together in a chortle, sealed behind a smile wreathed with mirth. Whilst the former had her respect in spades, she could testify little to the amount of trust she had in one particular scout: Kuro. It wasn’t so much his deposition, or the disturbingly haunting breadth that cloaked him entirely as an enigma, or the way he appeared to barely make a sound in every execution of his body. More so that she knew nothing of him, nothing to pin his familiarization despite working with the man on several occlusions. Be it on natural distance, or the demeanor Tormalk displayed around the human male, it left Thdris off put and nearly disappointed in the lack of camaraderie.

Thdris glanced and slid her gaze sidelong, pinning scarlet tresses with ease in the whorl of swarthy colours. The anxiety exhibited in her beasts had sprouted seeds and vines of encroaching doubt when it came to those magically inclined. Those wine coloured eyes passed elsewhere into comparison, landing on emerald oculi framed in brunette locks hacked by the edge of a blade from self-hand fluidity. Or not, Thdris thought with a crooked tilt of her mouth, angling her plane of observation and panning over the Kaerun fellow with a flicker of her gaze passing between him and Triala. Both betrayed the typical Elvish constitution, but were similarly bound and twined in the Will that pinged her companions in discomfort located on a tier they could not understand. It was only by the saving grace of one particular Vorstagian Charger that the Dwarva woman absolutely adored that wove a tapestry of kinship with the pyromancer. On that sliver of thought, she reminded herself to inquire after Blackheart’s condition, and thus fixated her attention else where.

The whelps and pups, as many of the Company had alluded to them as, she had yet to develop a sense of admiration, respect, and much less any foundation of trust. Gideon — she cannot for the life of her figure out how to pronounce it, so in her mind she calls him Geo — had proved himself on few circumstances, but was belied on the peculiar way Tormalk responded to him. In close proximity, the trustworthy hound stood erect and compacted, tail straight and head high in sheer displays of defiance, as if interacting with another canine in the midst. Thdris had reprimanded Tormalk on numerous occasions, but naught could alleviate her beast from his unease and disposition around the man — even after two years.

The youngest of the troupe, the babes who had yet to garner their fangs and claws, Thdris could not gather evidence to how she felt about them. More taint of the Will laced them both tight, and both Durduum and Tormalk had spent little time around the two for that reason alone. Nights of witnessing the two lope back and forth along posts, tugging on leads, and expressing clear distress when banked so close to their tents. It pegged the Dwarva with a deliberate notion to avoid them, and as much as she despised her actions, the overall psychological displays of her companions was enough to cement her belief in that it just had to be done for their own, individual, sanity.

But, none effected her, or the two beasts, as much as she did. Taller than her by many heads, and wispy in muscle tone and overall appeal. She was dangerously beautiful, the serpentine lady in the midst of wolves, with fangs in the materialization of her gaze; perceptible shades of azure that reminded her of swollen thunder heads that interchanged with strikes of lightning. Defying to her appearance was the magic she felt off of her in waves, purely unrestrained power gilded in finery and grace, Thdris found her appealing in that confidence, but also left her wary of the Sorceress in close quarters.

Thdris’ focus came to from her mental exchange of opinions, barely catching the dregs of conversation and quips as her body moved on a literal auto mode until their provided observer spoke aloud, voice ringing her abundance of disfavour that caused the Dwarva to bark in her laughter. Amusement laced her tight as she vacated the tent, approaching the company members in the last clips of her chortle, a gloved hand rising to swipe at her ecru cheek feathered in fine hairs.

“Quite a mouth on that one.” She commented to none in particular, lips eternally lifted in a charming simper in the midst of bantering for those who would handle the negotiations. Her smile broadened graciously on the tones of a recommendation, and whole heartedly agreed with a firm clap against Triala’s hip as she stomped up beside her, mindful of Blackheart’s massive, velvet nose looming above her short head.

“Oh, how’s the hoof rot? Gone I suspect?” She ducked down, briefly, examining the previous site of infection and finding most of it cleared for travel. The herbal concoction was an experimental wonder when she had to treat Durduum out in the wilderness once with limited herb supply to use. It was a near miracle in the healing process of it, and applied monthly, it left the Dire Boar with hardly ever contracting the lame swelling. Her broad, thick-lipped smile seemed to ooze her pleasure as she glanced to Blackheart, keeping respect to his usual temperament and his awful penchant to attempt in snatching the bronze trinkets from the thicket of her hair.

She was ultimately prepared to embark, making note that she’d have to retrieve Tormalk for the journey and even considered borrowing a pony from the hands who managed and groomed the mounts of the Company. Thdris carefully constructed a basic plan within her mind whilst she pondered over her manner of speech to address the Guard when Odran effectively banished her calculations. Her brow furrowed, displaying her obvious disagreement with the final selection. Why send pups to perform to the will of the pack? Surely others were better suited to the task, she herself being among them. However, the slang term of “too much dwarf” immediately broadcast to her frontal lobe, glaringly harsh in the reminder that some — well, most — considered Dwarva to be nothing but barbaric drunks and as thick and dense as the stone that they lived in.

Broad, rounded shoulders shrugged and slumped beneath her leathers, visibly defeated as she drawled a sigh and stomped past their replacement of a captain and waved her hand in a flag of dismissal.

“I’ll fetch Tormalk, his nose will provide helpfullness to anything amiss. This means I’ll be leaving Durduum behind, so if shit goes south, you bet I’m riding on your back.” She flippantly stated, thick digits scratching through the prickle of facial hair as a sigh slid past those parted lips.

“Guess I’ll leave Durduum with the Kennel Master then. Oh Peton!” She cried, hands cupping around her exclamation to project her voice outward to the encampment in a sing—song tone. “I need your wonderful assistance!”

And somewhere in the encampment, hiding behind a herd of ponies, the Kennel Master Peton hid.

[closed]

@Wade Wilson - Best wishes from us all! ♥

@Raijinslayer - Happy to see James again, and this time not all deranged psycho on us. o;

@Hellis - No worries, as I said, I'm giving this small grace period for everyone to catch up. c:

Star Heresy

@AmongHeroes - Gasp! That new set though. ♥

{Closed}

@Luminosity - Yeah, pretty sexy set, isn't it? c;

Any-ways. Babycakes - @icmasticc - is a bit indisposed today, so he wanted me to relay the notice to everyone: his post will take a bit longer than originally intended. So look out for a post here by the coming weekend. ♥

The Wolven Storm

I'm about five hundred words plus in my post, but it's nearing four in the morning; going to catch some odd hours of sleep before finishing it up!

@Hexaflexagon - Running used to be a method of venting it all out, unfortunately I keep such late hours with work, I get home well after the proper hours, unless I wanted to jog about in the dark, heh. But yes, it's reassuring to have some patience while I work through this current slump, they don't last very long, but can get incredibly deep and dark if I'm not careful. Luckily, writing provides a decent enough distraction.

Star Heresy

P ' S I Y A H

[α] Luynus — Snoria Bazaar — Early Evening

^{Initiating . . .}

Elegant intonations and intricately laced articulation surrendered from pale lips, every breath of annunciation carried fluently betwixt pearl flesh that easily conjoined over curious dialect and accentuated carefully into conversation. Poised phrases, inquires and rejoinders swiftly collaborating behind interchanges of haggling dialougue and manipulated tongue. This was an art of its' own, on a separate tier of interaction that was inclined with the feathering tints of nobility and refined gentry; a class of bustling creativity in the garnish of shadowy manipulation laden under obligated sincerity. Violence and disfavour here was carefully cloaked behind simpers of rabid endeavors, biting inclinations that translated to ascending prices and refusals of purchase in favour of the neighboring client. The bustling exchange lasted for barely a minute, sixty seconds of rapid firing intricacies and suddenly the heavy weight of a vintage military shell was being slapped into her arachnid gestures, fingers curling against near ancient metal salvaged from dead hands and hunks of worthless machinery.

"I need chips," a breathy sigh intoned, a pleasing dialect and accentuation of modified vocal cords that rang with the cadence of grace and dignity: the sole, regional language of Upper Nobility. "Not this.. thing." A scoff puttered from her pearl coloured mouth, tongue pressing against pallid bone in clicks of disapproval, and offended service as she literally dumped the shell back into wreathed hands interlaced with silvery threads and clusters of cybernetics. This was shoddy amplification that tampered the skin and wore the membrane to leathery, pocketed scars and disfigured complexion, the exhibit of black market results often left her lips in a curl. The proprietor let loose a tangent of dribble, dulled tones and intonations that beget to the local flavour, not Jovi articulation, but the slur of Ori that still made her cavities bleed.

"Then I'll give you these: ninety credits, all together." Two more shells, and bundles of fiber optic cables and ports assembled into a bundle of purchase; sales and deals fished out from random selection, she mused.

The translation, of course, was lost somewhere in the bedlam of timbre and tones, a slip of the verbal juncture, and hope waned through the successions of bartering before she left, sauntering further down the browse with emerald oculi reeling with the myriad of wares proffered openly by frenzied possessors. Sensory here was absolution, and the whorl of activity and bandits of illegal franchise literally spurned her amplifications into overdrive, violet pings and modulating frequencies pulsating to life in irregular blushes of colour in reaction to electric currents and impulses. P'siyah carefully concealed her sensory implants through the ebonette overcoat tied securely around her waist, knotted and laced together over the latex of her suit that suffocated her in the slick material. The concepts of covert operations were null on context to her appearance, the grace of hyper beauty from genetic purchase and years of constant splicing had simultaneously cursed her with the inability to properly blend into the mortal flaw of humanity. However, under the guise of a noble within a noble, she played into her role with finesse, for the extravagance was known among the bazaar. The slum market recognized the royal when they glanced upon one, and in the upper echelon of wares where prices were displayed into the reeling and befuddling expense, P'siyah ventured with the confidence of one befitting to their stature. The spools of her ebonette hair were wreathed high onto her crown, extensive tails spilling from the knotted tresses pinned into place through swift, spindly graces of her hands. Boots of common footwear found purchase easily on the bazaar asphalt reflecting both neon and smog in whorls of oil—slick water; left loose around her ankles and crisscrossed with curious silver buckles and obsidian heels.

She was dressed down into rudimentary cloth, courtesy of a curious bystander she had came across during the transit upon the civilian transport, exchanging wardrobes under the pretenses of befitting wear and the moniker of Priscilla, a epitaph given with a garnishing smirk by one of her more quip—riddled comrades. Priscilla was a noble woman, Lower Nobility of course, of certain wealth by the bequeath of some doting father who lauded himself on a throne of a benevolent nature to his beloved heirs. She was here by her lonesome, wary of the experience, but lolling into the atmosphere, complexity wreathed in simplicity; this was her only ability into surreptitious affairs. It played well into various results, especially the further P'siyah descended into the bazaar, sidelong glances peering through the thick fringe of her lashes, hands tucked away into the depress of pockets as she continued, at her leisure, a saunter worthy of a boulevard. Whilst her impression was best deemed careless and inexperienced, there was a confident sway into her swagger, one of pure intent and destination and every sweep of flickering green gleaned new sights, information, potential illustrated into the gathering of details and specs through this eternal bustle.

The wolfish fatale among the sheep, P'siyah swept through the flock until the resonating scuffle of her heel paused at the threshold of an absurdly embellished sign, decked out completely in harsh, hot pinks and illuminated within borders of cyan bulbs that pulsed in the endeavors to garner attention. It was lurid and vain, and utterly ridiculous, and exactly what she required. Located in the upper tiers of the Snoria slums where the colony apartment towers loomed, wreathing around the smaller, underground establishments banked between the compacted buildings with shoddy brick and dampened alloys. The labeling illuminated the stairwell that fell way into the gloom and P'siyah carefully shielded the emerald of her oculi to an aquamarine clipped with mossy undertones and piled her thick, tumbling hair into knots and swirls to decorate her appearance; these intricate and minuscule performances of sprucing activating the threading of sensory throughout her frame; webs shimmering to life—bearing hues of azure with violet discs humming in their luminescence. She carefully plucked her way through the door, hinges that should've squealed upon pressure instead yawned fluidly, betraying the aesthetic of the underground facility as curious, vibrating bass waves pitched, and coated her ears and nerves. Immediately the proprietor shimmered into view, heavy cybernetics seeded tight through the metallic shrug of his arms that wired up to broad, copper plates feathered in overdone trims of gold that faded into the black of shadows surrounding the both of them. Mechanical eyes honed in on her figure, immediately bypassing the barrier of cloth to recognize her own altered form; genetic and mechanic.

"What's a Noble want with the Nyte?" He slurred, heavily accented Ori pouring from his lips that almost made her expression cringe into disfavour.

"This is a meeror den... No?" P'siyah carefully supplied, mimicking his slur and slang to appear familiar with the locality.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He answered swiftly, immediately penning a rapid succession of modules she hadn't noticed at his temple, various components shimmering into hues of green that brightened to near, blinding neon. Her eyes narrowed, memorizing the particular motions and gesticulation until he nodded, confirming that their conversation was deemed secure, temporarily, by the broadcast of the channel he supplied through his own mental capacity. P'siyah shrugged her shoulders, smiling a trademark simper of dazzling glamour and canted her head to one side, manipulated refineries bleeding out onto her countenance as she applied the long term effects of her exceptional beauty to gain particular favour.

"Now.. I need one of your private rooms, furthest down as possible. No disturbances. A lady needs to get her fix."

Of course, he had no idea of what her real intentions were, or that using a meeror den as a base of operations, because it was a particular vantage point in relation to the geosynchronous orbit of the Operational Support Satellite, and with the colony apartments' own bustle of activity and electronics that would eclipse her own meddling. The fact she had been heavily anticipating to get her turn with the OSS was another matter all together, one she had gleaned over carefully when inquired by Anson to her... Intentions. Allow the other hackers to have their trinkets and games, the OSS was her gleaming gem to be sharpened and finalized into something of pure grandeur and polish. Pearl flesh tipped into a sensuous smile, pouring into a sigh as she knelt down onto the floor, ignoring the finer trimmings of the furnishing stained and the mixture of blacklight that gave further evidence to the real endeavors carried through out the den.

No matter, she thought, carefully unfastening the knot of her overcoat and slowly shedding the cloth to activate the latex sensory suit that brightened to life, illuminated with her own discs beneath the slick mesh and material. It was akin to a secondary skin, leaving none to the imagination as she also retrieved various tools from her previous cover. These were projection tools and rings of silver, six in total that she laid about her in a circle, as swift and careful flexes of muscles and fingers began penning the objects to life. Low hums resonated through out the room, blooming to online existence with an azure glow smothering the purple haze and swarming with various binaries and flickering numerals as each of the rings arose, expanding into the six—gated holographic sphere of The Seraphim. The process took less than a minute, the gargantuan projection responding immediately to every movement she executed as visual panels came forth, summoned by small pings with her various controls bridled beside each screen projecting her status. The complexity of the network shadowed various servers and farmed into its own private sector of information. It took another time frame of few, passing seconds to initiate The Seraphim's display and to locate the OSS through its' trajectory miles above the planet, but that distance hardly phased P'siyah as the matrix of her holosphere transmuted into coding and rapid—fire signals, immediately connecting to the satellite without hindrance through invisible links and fine threads of technology.

Immediate, swift flashes of her digits over her controls, almost too quick for the mortal eye; twisting over them with flicks of her wrists, keys blinking onto the projection and surrendering from view as she initiated the up—link and finalized the connection with a grin of completed finesse. The OSS controls were hers now, the entire system responding with quiet sounds of calibration and transferring its' all—seeing purpose onto her visual panels, various sectors of the bazaar immediately available to her personal threatre and interchanging to diverse details of the market as she twisted the controls. With fingers sunk deep into digital feed, it was almost artistic into every bend of her arachnid gestures just as a familiar voice splintered over her consciousness through mental feedback.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

"Sorry Anson..." She murmured, eyes aflame into pools of peridot as she acknowledged that her commanding officer was linked through his modified oculi to the satellite, but she could amplify and fortify its' range, thus able to broadcast the ocular feed into a broader scope. She had intentions to access luxury models located through the bazaar that would yield to her the exact specifications and details of the local revenue through every stall she could pinpoint with The Seraphim display and the OSS's geolocator, however she suspended these actions by swiping the panels and screens to the side, waiting for the final input of her commands. Her response was gradually delayed as she pried her fingers from the OSS controls and began to expand her connection range next, The Seraphim efficient and almost ruthless as she began accessing the ports of cameras located outside the den, panels coming to life so she could examine the limitations of the building. A small ping to her flank aroused her attention then, pink hues blinking to animation as another hacker activated her own terminal, making P'siyah acknowledge such by the noise, but did not garner any further reaction as she carefully responded to the direct missive of their residing leader with her own encryption in the swift, elegant tongue of Jovi.

^{>Seraphim and the OSS are connected. On stand by.}

Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

I really need to catch up in the IC, everything is beginning to bleed together: personal matters, work, other stories and people depressing me. I'll take my slow junctures at work to read through everything once more, nine hours on my feet though might not yield much result in terms of a post, but this weekend should provide me some time to do so.

The Wolven Storm

I have quite a bit to respond to with Thdris, and reading the IC put me back into the overall atmosphere of the story. Personal matters are bleeding into my writing, depression is an ugly thing in relation to work and such. Ah well. I'm hoping to have something up before work tomorrow, otherwise it will be a grueling nine hours on my feet until I'm able to produce something. Luckily my dwarfy-lady is a bit refreshing to write for.

Star Heresy

Post is half-way into completion by my word document. Second portion needs slight confirmation, but nearly four in the morning, sleep is calling.
Hopefully the second half will be completed before work tomorrow.

Till then!