One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. [IC]

[Ms.Malbolge]

Nixios still rages at the anything and everything about him, mind entrenched in a red haze of bloody rage fit for a Khornate. He clinches hammer in his hands, holding it straight above his hands like a grisly totem. His warp driven fury still swirls about him and he now bends his will once more, forcing that putrid fury up the shaft of his hammer and into Chryolrr.

With a gurgling shriek he whispers eleven words of power that would cause any but the most hardened of souls to be driven mad from the merest whisper of those foul words. He rushes forward once, holding his hammer before him like an awkward spear as a corona of green lightning forms around the great raven. When he reaches the center of the field he lifts his hammer once more and screams as loud as his enhanced lungs will allow.

"ALL WILL ROT!"

With that he drives the hammer down into the ground where it crashes with a might thunder clap. The corona of lightning explodes and the foul green lightning strikes from Chryolrr, eagerly hunting for flesh uncorrupted by chaos. Where it strikes flesh sloughs off bone and blood turns to rank puss in the veins. Truly a dark spectacle this plague marine has wrought.

[Illiterate Scribe]

Enus strides forward, actually somewhat impeded by his enormous armoured bulk, as each manic footfall drives a hand's-width deep footprint into the paving. As he implacably advances, ignoring the small arms fire pattering like light rain off his carapace, he literally burns a hole through one enforcer, and cripples another four beyond any doctor's capacity to save them - which, together with Crimeas' aural assault, cleanses the rooftops of all visible Imperial scum. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs - until what feels like a small freight train hits him straight in the chest. He's knocked over, which, while better than being reduced to a fine mist of gore, the fate of the Redemptionists around him, is still a fairly major wound, even through his armour. The contrails of the frag missile mark a perfect target for the Chosen of Tzeentch, who, invoking the ritual to boil the missile launcher's target, lets fly with his spell.

Perhaps to apologise in some unfathomable way for the low power behind the last blast, the winds of Chaos rush through him. A lot. Deth's mind is momentarily overwhelmed, nearly burned out, by a surge that blurs the line between thought and action - and thus his will is made real. The missile-carrying arbiter's blood boils, but the sorcerer is clumsy and blunt with this unexpected groundswell of power, and ends up doing rather more - the figure momentarily stiffens and jerks, as liquefied blood, bone, and flesh burst from every crack in the armour. The figure falls, more a clanking, leaky vessel of armour than a person any more. There is still a great deal of energy left unspent, however, too much for him to handle - it discharges in great jangling arcs in all directions, sending him rocketing skywards. So much for stealth.

Almost as if to match his arch-rival's pyrotechnics, Chryollr lends his own strength to the wave of power being channelled by the Death Guard sorcerer. Bathed in a light that, despite its dim, faded lustre is somehow painful to look at, the hammer strike sloughs the skin from the circle of remaining enforcers trying in vain to hit the Nixios. They are carried away on the breeze like so much fire-ash, armour and all. The foundations of the buildings around you, already weakened by the earlier attempt, can't take a great deal more of this, and the small low-rise hab unit occupied by the vox-using arbiter collapses to the ground, in an explosion of choking dust and rubble.

There is silence.

This proceeds for roughly ten seconds before you hear movement coming from one of the entrances to the plaza. The Redemptionists level their weapons, as five arbites walk out on legs shattered by the precise harmonies of Crimeas' blastmaster, hands raised above their heads in a universally recognised sign of surrender, although the look on their faces suggests that this isn't really what they wanted.

Behind them walks what's left of the sniper that Deth nailed with the bolt of change, with a jerky, unnatural gait. Its armour and flesh have fused, although it appears to be breaking down before your eyes, and it keeps it's long-las pointed at the backs of its prisoners. A demonic face that, worryingly, is not where its face should be, twists in to some approximation of speech.

I thought I woul-ld b-ring s-o-m-e puh-rih-sern ...

And the construct collapses, its chaotic essence finally depleted, leaving the captured arbites standing terrified in the square.

Spoiler

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Yeah, I know, blood boil doesn't technically allow you to kill someone instantly, but, when you get this:



that would be a sign - consider Deth suddenly more interesting to a higher power for this. Anyway, our obliterator friend is fairly heavily wounded - nothing that his obliterator virus-fuelled constitution won't get over, but he's hurt bad.

[Ms.Malbolge]

Nixios smiles when he sees his enemies turned to ash around him, lifting his hammer above his head while he roars, lost in the fervor of battle lust. With no foes to kill his great helmet swings to and fro, looking for something to main, something to infect or kill. His roar turns into exalted laughter when the building crumbles, his Master's blessing mixed with Chryolrr's own might causing such destruction causing the Death Guard much glee.

When the prisoners come out Nixios makes to charge them, to rend their very souls even as he corrupts their flesh... but he manages to hold himself, thinking better of such a wanton display. Instead he turns his attentions towards the wounded Enus and he makes his way toward the fallen marine, beginning to inspect his wounds.

The wounds, being no doubt great from the direct impact of a frag missile, are laid open before Nixios as he brings his left arm, which is adorned in dark equivalents of an Apothecary's own tools. He focuses his power to his eyes, willing them to see past the armor and carapace, to see the skin and muscle, the bone and blood. With this sight me might perhaps see the Obliterator virus as it courses through his flesh and bone. If he does see this then he focuses his power into that virus, causing it to advance forth, closing Enus' wounds with newly corrupted flesh.

If he does not recognize the Obliterator virus them he will use a combination of extremely painful cutting, prodding, burning, and more prodding mixed with his own sorcerous power to heal the marine.

(If I can tell he has he Obliterator virus I'll try to use my power to speed it up in such a way that it advances a stage as it heals him. If not then I'll use a combination of classic medical techniques combined with sorcerous power to heal the brute.)

[Illiterate Scribe]

[spoiler]You might notice that he's 'merged' a little bit with his weapons and armour, and that his flesh seems very eager to close up, but, beside those two specific symptoms, and the fact that he's way, way too big to be a normal marine, with similarly distorted armour.

[shadowmage]

Deth hangs in the sky back arched arms and legs spread eagle head thrown back mouth unseen open silently screaming. The power crackling over him and up and down his Force Staff the eye on it's head wide open. Till he finally falls back to the ground barely tapping on the last of the fleeing power to allow him to make the changes to his body to land safely or at least fairly unhurt.

[Fan]

Enus gasps as he is knocked over by the missile, the impact causing him to topple with a resounding CRACK as his massive bulk hit the ground... He raised his hand weakly from his chest, and what was this? Blood? "Is this what my blood looks like? It's been so long since I've seen it." He thought to himself in the first moment of lucidity he had in years. He then turned to the remaining redemptionists, and said in a calm tone.
"Are any of you doctors prechance?"

[RandomLunatic]

Ah, more worthless pieces of waste, Crimeas says brightly at the sight of the prisoners. Whatever shall we do with them, Brothers? he asks, making his own suggestion by way of plodding towards them with deliberate ponderousness and drawing his chainsword.

[Rodgin]

The traitors must die, Damien says with a smile, looming back over. And while I would love to do it myself, I say the deacon and his men should. To show their loyalty. Slaughter them, to the last man.

Damien looked at the men they had "saved" knowing the twisted fate he had in store for them. To die was not enough. THey would die knowing they were abandoned by all. Hopelessness was what they deserved.

[RandomLunatic]

Disappointed, Crimeas sheathes the chainsword again and gets out of the way.

((BUMP!))

[Illiterate Scribe]

One redemptionist, carrying an exterminator, comes over to the prone marine. Looking over the rent in his armour, he sheepishly waves his weapon.

I can clean the wound with this, if you want, bu-

He is shouldered aside by the plague marine, who leans down to inspect the wounds of his brother in corruption.

What he sees in the enormous space marine is fairly unnerving, even for a servant of plague itself. Rivulets of flesh are running like molten metal together, softening and cementing skin to skin, bone to bone, and flesh to flesh. Nixios' attempt to employ sorcery in its repair seems to be going well, until suddenly the spirit inhabiting Enus' body lashes back. There's a cold, alien, unnerving intelligence, not plague or contagion, dwelling there, and it does not appreciate the intrusion of a foreign contaminant. Regardless, the obliterator's wounds seal up, leaving him whole, but with cracked armour, and lacking a few pints of what passed for blood in his veins.

The remaining redemptionists, listening eagerly to the conversation, seem only too happy to comply with the instructions to execute the prisoners, for they have been hounded across the face of Kirala's world-spanning urban sprawl by these Arbites. They close in on the prisoners with knives and long chainblades, remain there for a few dozen seconds, and withdraw to reveal five corpses. They have been stripped of their armour, equipment, and the now somewhat more heavily equipped fanatics are testing, loading, getting used to their weapons. After strapping a torn-off breast plate over his chest, a shotgun to his back, and picking up a pair of shock mauls, he clanks his way over to your group.

Sirs; we have dispatched with the 'arbiters', as you asked. Now, while we are beholden to you for dispatching the Emperor's justice and protecting us this day, may I be so bold as to suspect that it is not the reason His chariot brought you here today? Tell us how we may be of help; this world is a godless one, and, while humans fall more easily than angels, we still offer up knowledge of this heathen place.

Spoiler

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I didn't post in a week?

[shadowmage]

WE are here to bring the light of the Emperor back to the forsaken place. First you can take us to some place where we can plan and you can tell us what is going oh here. How this place can become so corrupt. Along the way you can start to tell us what has happened here so we can start planning once we get there.

[Fan]

Enus felt the magic slip through his form, repairing the most of the major damage, then in a flash... The lucidity was gone, and he found his purpose again, to eradicate, to take back what the rightful dominion of chaos. To make things right. These were his mandates, and the ones he was going to bring down upon these servants of the pompous corpse who calls himself god.
"Thank you. Now let us finish what we started. But, first I'm going to pay a visit to that frag missile launcher.
Enus walks over to the leaky vessel of armor that was once the Enforcer who used the missile launcher, and hefted up the frag launcher appraisingly, is it still usable, and does it still have any ammo in it is the question here.

[RandomLunatic]

Crimeas merely looks on for the time being, his gaze shifting between the events before him and the cityscape, looking for more victims minions of the False Emperor.

[Illiterate Scribe]

Yes, yes, we have a secret convent in one of our brother's houses near here. As far as we know, it is secret even to the arbites and their Inquisitional lapdogs. Come, follow.


The deacon begins leading you down a narrow passage off the square, that twists and winds with serpentine prolixity.

Brother Librarian, where shall I begin? This planet was once a good, Emperor-fearing planet, that was committed to its traditions and the simple life. All that changed, though, two years ago. Off-worlders bearing some sort of eye [or did he say 'I' - it's hard to make out] symbol came and took over - they suborned planetary government to their cause, holed up in the orbital Administratum platform, and then never came out.

He looks up into the sky, as if seeing if the station is visible at the moment, but then shakes his head, looks down. Too much smoke and dust.

Their scheme obviously required enormous manpower, skilled, technologically advanced, manpower - you saw all of those arbites? Nearly everyone here sports some sort of augmetic or bionic, that in some way aids them in their work. We refused; one of the reasons that we're being hunted down like dogs is that we refused to swear allegiance to their offworlder cause, receive their devil's mark, and participate in their scheme for full employment; instead, we rather would stay with the Emperor.

I believe that there is, hidden somewhere within their organisation ...

a cult. Alien fiends, Chaos ones, heretical ones, I do not know, but I know that it's there.

The frag missile launcher is now in the hands of one of the Redemptionists, but he gladly hands it over to Enus. It's out of actual weaponised grenades, but it still contains three smoke, two anti-plant and two gas grenades.

[Fan]

"Congregations of flith."
Enus mutters under his breath as he checks to see if the loadout is secure before taking the gas grenades, and a anti plant grenade just in case. He then turns, and goes about looting the weapons of the fallen Arbiters, and passing any usable ones to the survivors.
"You'll need these if you plan to live past today."
((What? now our cannon fodder shoots the enemy back.))