Post by Huka on Sept 30, 2016 16:39:33 GMT -6
Grunts of battle ripped in the closed space. The whips of contained plasma slashed the air, just barely missing limbs. The stomps of deft boots clanging on the floor. Rasped breathes from what feels like hours of combat. Sparks bleeding electricity from damaged hull. Bodies laid sprawled, few still baring all their limbs. On the bridge, the two dervishes danced their fatal moves.
The minions of Heresies and warriors of righteous Purity marked their blood on the floor, but their paragons continued on.
One crackling blade swung, its tips just barely missing the swift. With a retorting whirl of body and staff, the retorting glaive thrust in lightning-fast arcs. Cunning dodges and rebuke of the energy shield saved the other’s life. Smacking the long weapon downward, the open gate of opportunity showed itself. Quick as a whip, the Shipmaster lunged.
It seemed so clear. So perfect. Too perfect. In an instant, where victory seemed assured, it was twisted into a dead serpent’s trap. Instead of armor and flesh, his blade pierced the fluttering veil of dark blue cloak. The stench of war-appropriate cloth filled the nostrils as the Zealot snapped his open hand out. From the guile of armor, a sword’s basket hilt flipped into fingers and summoned the burning blade of sand-gold plasma.
Pain was instantaneous, almost unregistered from the sudden cauterization of nerves, bone and arteries. The lunge still carried his shocked body, neck meeting the blissful end of the re-angled sword from jugular to spine. Conscious still worked in the eyes, he watched his head topple in midair while his body flung through the holographic projection of his Destroyer’s command and into the crew pit below before it too followed.
The Zealot stood alone on the platform, legs shuddering in fatigue and the immense weight of combat and duty pressed onto his shoulders like Jiralhanae gravity. Fingers finally found the notion to flex and released their dominant pressure, allowing both sword and glaive’s plasma to die.
The avian-shaped helmet slowly looked around, individual visors seeing the Dead. Different factions. Different races. Different faces. Yet, all embraced nonetheless to the same end. Life and Death had no qualm. Returning his sword to its secret house, he moved for the Communications console. Fingers tapping in command before a voice questioned in the chanting song of the Prophet's, “Upon the Ears of the Holy Seers, we hear thou. Speak thine confession and hear thine truths.”
“The taking of lives for the endurance of the Holy Covenant.”
“Truth shall be imparted, Reticent Zealot.” The voice returns before the central holotank started to flicker behind him. Turning in smooth motion, the victor fell on knee and hand. Eyes unworthy to his highest of bound benefactors. The Prophet, majesty and proud, in his robes of scarlet and gilt power with his mantle and crown, sat upon his floating throne.
“Your Mission is complete, Hunter?” He asks, linking his withering fingers. Eyes gracing down upon the submissive warlord. “Yes, sire. All heretics are asundered before my righteous blade in my right and impaled by my burning glaive in my left. The cost were much, but their Honor is kept. Their link to seduction cut from shoulders. Under your great word, Truth is given.”
A empty expression of approval crested the serpentine-necked seer’s face. “Very good, my Hunter. Plot this ship to the nearest sun. None aboard this ship shall be given the respect of ceremony. They lost their privilege of such. Return to us, your work is not done before you may return to your ilk.”
“As ye command, Noble Truth.”
The minions of Heresies and warriors of righteous Purity marked their blood on the floor, but their paragons continued on.
One crackling blade swung, its tips just barely missing the swift. With a retorting whirl of body and staff, the retorting glaive thrust in lightning-fast arcs. Cunning dodges and rebuke of the energy shield saved the other’s life. Smacking the long weapon downward, the open gate of opportunity showed itself. Quick as a whip, the Shipmaster lunged.
It seemed so clear. So perfect. Too perfect. In an instant, where victory seemed assured, it was twisted into a dead serpent’s trap. Instead of armor and flesh, his blade pierced the fluttering veil of dark blue cloak. The stench of war-appropriate cloth filled the nostrils as the Zealot snapped his open hand out. From the guile of armor, a sword’s basket hilt flipped into fingers and summoned the burning blade of sand-gold plasma.
Pain was instantaneous, almost unregistered from the sudden cauterization of nerves, bone and arteries. The lunge still carried his shocked body, neck meeting the blissful end of the re-angled sword from jugular to spine. Conscious still worked in the eyes, he watched his head topple in midair while his body flung through the holographic projection of his Destroyer’s command and into the crew pit below before it too followed.
The Zealot stood alone on the platform, legs shuddering in fatigue and the immense weight of combat and duty pressed onto his shoulders like Jiralhanae gravity. Fingers finally found the notion to flex and released their dominant pressure, allowing both sword and glaive’s plasma to die.
The avian-shaped helmet slowly looked around, individual visors seeing the Dead. Different factions. Different races. Different faces. Yet, all embraced nonetheless to the same end. Life and Death had no qualm. Returning his sword to its secret house, he moved for the Communications console. Fingers tapping in command before a voice questioned in the chanting song of the Prophet's, “Upon the Ears of the Holy Seers, we hear thou. Speak thine confession and hear thine truths.”
“The taking of lives for the endurance of the Holy Covenant.”
“Truth shall be imparted, Reticent Zealot.” The voice returns before the central holotank started to flicker behind him. Turning in smooth motion, the victor fell on knee and hand. Eyes unworthy to his highest of bound benefactors. The Prophet, majesty and proud, in his robes of scarlet and gilt power with his mantle and crown, sat upon his floating throne.
“Your Mission is complete, Hunter?” He asks, linking his withering fingers. Eyes gracing down upon the submissive warlord. “Yes, sire. All heretics are asundered before my righteous blade in my right and impaled by my burning glaive in my left. The cost were much, but their Honor is kept. Their link to seduction cut from shoulders. Under your great word, Truth is given.”
A empty expression of approval crested the serpentine-necked seer’s face. “Very good, my Hunter. Plot this ship to the nearest sun. None aboard this ship shall be given the respect of ceremony. They lost their privilege of such. Return to us, your work is not done before you may return to your ilk.”
“As ye command, Noble Truth.”
