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Corvala
Feb 27, 2013 11:10:04 GMT -8
Post by Whill Shaman Xixo on Feb 27, 2013 11:10:04 GMT -8
*Corvala was the capital city of the planet Shili. It was a trade-focused city and was renowned for its masters of holistic medicine.*
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The Major
Member
Also known as Sailor Titan
Posts: 5,959 
Affiliation: Fallanassi
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Corvala
Jun 25, 2013 3:56:07 GMT -8
Post by The Major on Jun 25, 2013 3:56:07 GMT -8
It has been just over a week since the invasion had begun. Now the Star Destroyer cast its shadow upon the rebuilt city of Corvala. Really, this had happened so many times that only a slight slice of the population had fled -at least from the human perspective. In reality, some of the Togruta recognized the awkward "X" symbol painted upon the side of its hull. They were filled with rage and fear, and attempted to warn their friends and family. Those that would listen packed their belongings and exited the city away from the fighting and made way into the countryside post-haste; a great deal of the aliens would become to proud to flee -seeing as this was the homeworld of the Togruta species.
They would learn what the people here three years ago learned.
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Post by Inquisitor Kryptman on Jul 4, 2013 1:10:09 GMT -8
A single man in black and gray strolls though the lesser used back alleys of Corvala, the only smattering of color across his trench fighters uniform being the golden stylized "I" seal hanging from his neck. Though perhaps calling the hound of the Inquisition a "Man" was a stretch. Could one be considered human after having their DNA chain edited so many times that no geneticist would be able to identify it? No, The Inquisitor lord called Kryptman only appeared to be Human, with the exception of the long metal fangs which had replaced his canines or the sulfur colored eyes hidden behind his mirrored glasses. Currently those predators eyes were turned skyward to fix upon the Victory Class Stardestroyer which cast an oppressive shadow over this tainted city. Anger and disgust rise in the Inquisitor as he spots the broken cross sigil painted across the warships hull, to see the mark of his hated enemy so boldly desecrating a vessel of holy Imperial design was enough to make the Emperor's man feel physically ill. The machine spirits of the warship were not the only thing barring the unholy mark; since the fascist faction that the major had given rise to had come here, banners and propaganda posters with that vile "X" were plastered everywhere. Not all that long ago, the Inquisition was flying its own black and gold flags over this city. Under Inquisitorial rule this cities human citizens had been molded by the church into followers of the true god emperor of man, while the native Togrutan population had been driven to near extinction by the orders Viral bombs and the guns of its faithful. The area of Corvala Kryptman found himself in now still bore structures with the gothic hallmarks of Imperial chapels and basilicas... but now even these fluttered with heretic flags. In the years since Kryptman's order had abandoned its interests on this world sin had been allowed to flourish unchecked. That would be corrected.
A wide grin stretches across the daemonhost Inquisitor as he fishes about in this coat pocket for something. It had dawned on Kryptman that the Major had perverted this world as a means to draw him out in the open, a tactic he could respect. As the Inquisitor lord digs about in his left hand pocket as second figure clad in the same Inquisitor's garb joins him in abandoned alleyway. The Emperor's man casts a glance over his shoulder as he hears the boot falls of his companion, though, this second figure could not be seen by anyone who happened to be observing the situation, he was little more than a fabrication Kryptman's fractured perception of reality
=Kryptman=
It would seem our prey seeks our attention, Master.
The last word is practically spit, making it clear that the title was devoid of any sort of respect. An simple disapproving shake of the head is all that is provoked from the imaginary friend.
=Lord Vaughn=
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Are you certain the daemon trafficking wretch is even here?
The Emperor's hound growls through clenched teeth and turns around to fully regard his dead maker. The grapefruit sized holes Kryptman had riddled into Vaughns chest cavity still wept crimson from ruptured organs and flowed around the jagged spikes of shattered ribs. Punching those wounds into Vaughn with the large caliber rounds from his own gun had been the best moment of Kryptman's life.
=Kryptman=
No...
How could he? The Majors talents allowed her to erase all evidence of her existence, permitting her to move freely across the void of space and leave no trail that Kryptman could follow. Not that the hound hadn't tried to sniff the spidery heretic out, all to no avail. Kryptman had decided that the only thing he could do was wait for the wych to make her grand reappearance to the galactic stage... but the Inquisitor had not kept his hands idle. The Emperor's man had bided his time by ensuring he would be ready when the time came to slay the Major and her pet abomination, further augmenting himself with genetic re-tailoring and petitioning his order for special sanction to take the next step in his evolution as a daemonic weapon of the church. Kryptman's hands had also not been idle since he had landed on this world in secret a week ago. After his arrival the Inquisitor had spent his time seeking out the faithful he had left behind, or failing that any human whose mind bent easily under his power, and organized them into terror cells. The Inquisitor lord had soldiers to command, the order had and entire army of faithful devotees at its disposal, but the work Kryptman had in mind for today would have been a waste of their talents... and lives. Soldiers of the Emperor deserved to die on the battlefield, crushing the wicked under their jackboots, not in some grand display.
The Daemonhost hound finally produces a small remote detonator from his coat pocket
=Kryptman=
...But we have an invitation she will not refuse.
Kryptman twirls the det-trigger carelessly about in his left hand as he presses his right against his ear, activating the com-bead implant and connecting him to his awaiting flock
=Kryptman=
My children, I trust you are all in position?
after a few breath spans of static, a nervous voice belonging to a young man crackles into existence
::Yes, your grace... The faithful stand ready to serve the will of the almighty Emperor. Our charges are set, and we are prepared to deliver his justice to the heretic invaders.::
The Inquisitor's silver fanged smile stretches farther.
=Kryptman=
Then through the power vested in me by the master of mankind, I absolve you of all of your sins. Ave Imperator.
::Ave Imperator.::
The trigger ceases its twirling, and with a single tone "beep" the weapons strapped to the bodies of willing fools detonate. All across the city of corvala 24 devout or persuaded men and women cry out Imperial religious mantras before they explode... not with fire, but into deadly crimson clouds as the phobos viral weapons they have been equipped with rip there bodies into so many bloody streamers and sow their virulent content into the air. In the city square, the park, schools, police stations, military checkpoints, hospitals, all become carnal houses as the wicked little germs set about there works. This particular viral strain had been designed by Inquisitorial weaponers to be highly contagious so as to spread rapidly and manifest symptoms within minutes of exposure. In the opening moments, citizens of corvala were fine... aside from the trauma of watching another human violently end their own life... but shortly the nightmares began. At first the doomed heretics feel a bit flu-ish , then the hallucinations start as the virus begins to affect the mind, manifesting whatever fear was held deep in their subconscious. The end result is mass panic as normal everyday citizens are driven mad, many lashing out at each other, others simply die screaming bloody murder as are torn apart by horrors which aren't truly there.
Through his connection to the force, the Emperor's man can feel the panic spreading and life forces snuffing themselves out. The Weapon of the Inquisition is racked with mad laughter, anyone observing the scene might believe that some hyena had been sliped into the hounds gene-cocktail, as he again hits the trigger. Improvised explosives set within one of the taller office towers of the city detonate in timed succession, shredding "innocents" and blowing out windows in a specific order. By the time the glass shards rain down on the surprised populace below, the building face is wreathed in the flaming pattern of the stylized "I" icon of the holy Inquisition.
Many of the population would remember exactly what that mark stood for, but this spectacle was not meant to gain there attention. Had the Inquisitor lord's intent been to retake this world he would have rained an army down upon them. No, this had all been for the benefit of one woman, and whether or not she was on this world; eventually reports of what had happened would reach her ears.
The Madly cackling priest flips his comms channel to open, allowing any and all military personnel to receive his challenge
=Kryptman=
::Tinker, Tailor, soldier, sailor... our bullets punish all without distinction.::
Hopefully that would be enough to draw the self proclaimed huntress out into the open, if not... well the Inquisitor had faith that the Emperor would provide. The agent of god, kills his transmitter to ensure he cannot be pinpointed... a salvo from the hovering warship would be most unwelcome. The hound vanishes into the darkness of the alleyway, laughing to himself as the chaos he has sown reigns.
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The Major
Member
Also known as Sailor Titan
Posts: 5,959
Affiliation: Fallanassi
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Post by The Major on Jul 6, 2013 6:45:24 GMT -8
"!Sturmbannführer!
Sturmbannführer!
The report on the terrorist attacks is ready!
Civilian causalities remain undetermined. Estimates from the viral scans indicate at least a thousand succumbing to the effects of the gas.
Our loses stand at 17 Panzerschützen dead, and 20 others being treated and examined. Our brave squad leaders thought with haste, thus giving out the necessary orders to facilitate minimal loss. One of our Panzers was also taken by a suicide bomber. It lays disabled and surrounded by the gas.
Here, Ma'am! The report for you to properly disseminate. I must attend to the reactionary force.
Heil, Kommandant!"
The sweaty officer places a manila folder upon a glass desk, raises his right arm from the elbow and shows the sitting figure the palm of his hand by the level of his eyes. He then turns on his boots, and quickly marches out of the room, before proceeding to jog back down to the staging area. The shadowy figure stands, slender and proud, breathing deeply with an air of palatable annoyance. The figure reaches over to the report, and flips it open.
There it stands, a picture of a suicide bomber clutching a highly stylized and golden "I" right before blowing himself up.
God damn it. The freaking inquisitors were back. It had been a while since their kind had abandoned this planet and their other facilities for some inexplicable reason: as if the galaxy rose up and moved thousands of parsecs to the left, while leaving everything of the original space in the dark. Only one thing remained to be seen. If this was just the religious zealots left behind from the Inquisition's occupation then it could be dealt with swiftly and without notifying any of the higher ups on the chain of command. But if the mad dog was back, if the psycho, Father Kryait, Wolfmann, Special Kay, Kryptman the Mad, was indeed back, then the situation would definitely degenerate. Suddenly, it did not feel so safe in the Star Destroyer.
"Oh, fuck all kinds of duck."
The shadowy figure walks from the darkness and into spacious quarters. She was a major, but if you couldn't guess from those words just uttered, and the fact that title was not capitalized, than one could safely assume that was not The Major. No, Major Emono, Major Liza Emono was an uncomplicated woman, and not given to flights of passion or of fancy, nor did she need glasses -but this new information was seriously pissing her off with worry. She ran her hands over her rich, mulatto colored temples, thinking, thinking of what tactics she could apply to the current problem. She snaps her fingers with an idea, and then proceeds to a communicator on her desk, pressing a button and talking into the receiver while leaning over the glass.
"Warrant Officer Hartke, contact our quislings in Corvala's City Hall and the commissioner of the police department. Tell them to silence this problem. Threaten them, cajole them, I don't care, get them to move their agents against these Imperial dogs. I'll not have my first op. ruined by some cock loving zealot seeking vengeance."
Channel closed. But now was a bigger issue. Call her and tell her? Or no. Both were unpleasant prospects.
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Post by Inquisitor Kryptman on Jul 8, 2013 8:36:16 GMT -8
Atop one of Corvala's many buildings, the Black saint responsible for all of the chaos raging in the city below sits upon a ledge so that he could admire his handy work while he monitored enemy radio traffic. The Inquisitor lord appears unconcerned with contracting the virus he had released, namely because the weapon had been gene-tailored to attack human DNA, and Kryptman was anything but human. Things were not going well for the soldiers attempting to contain the outbreak, though many had been equipped with Chemical Warfare kits to protect themselves from the effects of the panic inducing viral weapon, the cities civilians were still affected. Delirious and fear riddled citizens attacked everything in sight, and the very air itself carried the viral weapon responsible. The soldiers would be able to rally and put down those partaking in this forced insurrection, but every citizen without a gasmask would eventually become an enemy. Nothing short of firebombing the city would rid this city of the plague causing all this madness, At some point the heretic forces would realize this and this city would be sterilized by the thunder of turbo-lasers. The enemy would have contained the out break but at a high cost... but none of this mattered to the Inquisitor, he was concerned with finding radio chatter that might indicate his true quarry was on approach.
::TRANSMISSION INTERCEPTED::
Reads the text projected in the corner of Inquisitor lords vision by the mirror finish lenses of his glasses. Behind those lenses, predatory canine eyes narrow in irritation as the message between officers plays in Kryptman's ear. A low growl rises in the hounds throat, sparking a curious look and a sarcastic tone from his ever present imagined companion.
=Lord Vaughn=
Your brilliant plan hasn't hit a snag has it?
The current lord of the Inquisition didn't bother to answer the spectral pest, he had been fully aware that it would take time for his grand stand to sink in with the commander of the heretic forces, and get them desperate enough to bother The Major. Whomever was at the helm of this crisis response wasn't getting just how dire their situation was, and Kryptman was running out of patience. Fools... where Inquisitorial bio-weapons were, there was only one status you could count yourself under: Fucked. Kryptman would have to make it known that what was plaguing this world was far beyond his enemies capability to destroy... let alone contain. Kryptman needed another target, something that would demoralize local military forces and make them realize exactly what kind of supernatural force they faced. As the Inquisitor lord turns his gaze to fix upon the Victory class Star Destroyer dominating the skies, a mad grin spreads. It was perfect, the warship served was the single greatest symbol of The Major's grip on this accursed world, as well as the source of heretic tactical advantage. With the viral weapons spreading through out the city, the tainted Star Destroyer served as the perfect air born rally point for groundside forces to evacuate their wounded and the ideal point to scramble quick reaction forces to aid with containment. The Emperor almighty truly provides as well as protects, for not far from the Inquisitor's current position was an air field the army had converted into a casualty collection point...
Infiltrating the air field was a simple matter for the superhuman hunter of the damned. Utilizing his armor's holographic camouflage and his supernatural speed, Kryptman was easily able to make his way past the heathen soldiers, and board one of the gunships tasked with ferrying wounded troopers to the medical bays of the Victory unnoticed. After the aircraft had made its journey to the hangar bay to off load its injured for triage, Kryptman abandoned stealth all together. As soon as the transport gunship settled to the steel deck, the Daemon host Inquisitor slew all of those aboard in quick succession. A series of muffled high caliber gunshots and surprised screams echo within the troop bay, catching the soldiers, medical staff, and flight crews off guard as the blood soaked harbinger of Imperial judgment drops the ships ramp and strides into the hangar with a wild silver fanged smile fixed upon his face. Gun smoke still curls from the barrels of his twin gold etched silver castellan .75 cal side arms. As the stunned soldiers level weapons upon him, Kryptman checks to see that the hangar security cams are watching as he raises his voice loud enough to be heard by all in the large landing bay. The Inquisitor pitches his head back into an daemonic howl before addressing his new audience.
=Kryptman=
IN THE NAME OF THE GOD EMPEROR, I CONDEM YOUR LOST AND IMPURE SOULS TO ETERNAL DAMNATION!!! AMEN!!!
In response to his declaration, the heathen troopers let loose their weapons. Gun fire stitches through the air, only to impact against the gunships hull as the Inquisitor lord taps into the infinite well of hate that provided his connection to the darker powers to boost his speed to a level that the human eye cannot quite track. Laughing madly, the daemon hound becomes a blur of motion as he stows his pistols in his thigh holsters, only pausing long enough to end lives. One moment the Inquisitor is crushing a soldiers skull with a jackhammer punch, in a flash he's impaling another by ramming a hand through a troopers chest and straight through his back in a shower of crimson. This cycle repeats itself over and over, soldiers being stomped into a bloody pulp against the deck plate, or ripped limb from bleeding limb. The doomed men fire wildly at the daemon in their midst, often hitting nothing but air or riddling comrades in a hail of bullets or blasting friends into shredded ribbons with desperately thrown grenades.
The Inquisitor lord is in paradise. This sort of violence is what Kryptman lived for, what he had been built for. Each life taken was a gift to Kryptman's dark god, each blood choked scream that ended with his silver fanged maw clamping down upon a heretics throat was a song of worship. The daemonic powers Kryptman had been granted had been a blessing from the god of mankind himself, though the hell hound hadn't realized this until recently, and now he gave in fully to the bloodlust urges programed into his gene structures with a joy filled heart. In this frenzied state, the Wolf's altered physiology crammed his blood stream with an addictive mixture adrenaline and endorphins that drove him even further into a chemical and spiritual euphoria.
Eventually only one wounded flight mechanic remained, shot through the gut by his own comrades. The hound stalks circles around this fallen man as a wolf would a wounded animal. Not quite ready to end his fun, Kryptman basks in the man's fear. Through his enhanced senses, the hell hound can smell the sweet tinges of terror in the man's scent... can hear his heart race in fright.
=Mechanic=
MEIN GODT! VHAT ZEE HELL ARE VYOU?!?!?!?!
The Inquisitor's mad grin stretches even farther... far enough that it had to hurt.
=Kryptman=
Heh... We are the dread wolf... We are the Hunter of the impure and the Predator of the faithless... and you? You are all simply prey.
The Inquisitor lord turns to the nearest security camera, peering straight though to whomever might be watching on the other side as he removes his mirrored glasses. Revealed are eternally hungry canine eyes, the right burning sulfur in color... the left an icy blue in hue that shines in malice. The daemon host hound then sets upon the screaming man with razor edged teeth, consuming him in ravenous bites.
Now the enemy would know what it truly faced. Not some ragged collection of religious terrorists, but a weapon of righteous wrath. A man made daemon now called this warship its hunting ground, and it was driven by holy purpose and unshakable faith.
Woe be to the damned.
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Corvala
Jul 11, 2013 14:57:00 GMT -8
Post by Inquisitor Kryptman on Jul 11, 2013 14:57:00 GMT -8
The blood soaked Inquisitor makes use of the lull in combat to prepare for the inevitable enemy response, but not by preparing his arms, or even readying his blades, it is his soul he seeks to prepare. It would appear that the Emperor's man has chosen to bide his time with an art project. From the gnawed body of the Inquisitor's recent victim an arm is pulled free and utilized as paint brush, with this severed limb and the blood dripping from it the Stylized "I" of the holy order is inscribed upon the least blood smattered bulkhead in fairly decent detail. Before this bloody effigy, the Lord of the Inquisition drops to one knee and overlaps his forearms to form a cross as he utters a short prayer.
=Kryptman=
Thank you oh lord, for this my righteous purpose. I am your servant, oh god, and I exist to cleave the flesh of heathens, xenos, and daemons alike. Amen.
As the Daemon host prays, the imagined specter of his creator materializes yet again. The Hallucination of the Departed Inquisitor lord Vaughn assumes the same position and mutters his own prayer just outside the range of hearing before rising and turning his attention to his creation.
=Vaughn=
Your target is clearly not here, Daemon. Were the wych present, she would have no doubt announced herself by now.
The Imperial cultist's mismatched eyes snap open, wild with rage as a low growl rises in his throat.
Damn this... Damn HER! Where was she?!? HOW MUCH LONGER MUST GODS VENGENCE WAIT?!? Years Kryptman had been searching for the lanky sharpshooter... YEARS. But time was irrelevant, no matter how long it took the Major would be found and brought to justice. Kryptman had all of the time in the universe, he did not age, he did not starve, and he had proven time and again that he did not die. The blue eyed daemon had slain Kryptman a long time ago, only for him to rise again. The cursed machine called Starkiller had crushed him to paste, and yet again the hound rose. The Major herself had shot Kryptman dead, her dancing bullet ripping him apart... yet here he stood. A combination of peerless genetic engineering and dark force magics had produced a perfect deathless weapon that would serve its purpose until the stars themselves burnt out. It was a very real concern that old age would kill the Major before the Inquisitor could, but he would not allow that. The only way that the Major deserved to die was at Kryptman's hand, No one and nothing else would be permitted to destroy her evil. The agent of divine judgment would turn his shining blades and scything bullets against anything that would rob the heretical Wych her rightful end. The Major was Kryptman's prey, HIS nemesis, the only being in this accursed galaxy that was WORTHY of putting her down. The time would come eventually, the Huntress and the Wolf would have their deadly dance upon the grand stage of combat... but It could not arrive fast enough.
The feral growl continues to rise from the Inquisitor, building to a daemonic howl as he rose to his feet. Twin silver pistols nearly 13 inches in length are snatched from the holsters at Kryptman's thighs, golden etched lettering shining in the light. These were Kryptman's preferred weapons, Castellan .75 caliber anti-material side arms and the inscriptions upon them boldly announced their purpose.
+PUNNISH THE SINNER+
+SILENCE THE DAMNED+
The pair of blessed weapons twirl with a gunslingers flourish before halting abruptly, Barrels intersected to form the sign of a cross in front of the Inquisitor lord as he cries out in rage at no one.
=Kryptman=
MAJOR!... WHERE ARE YOU!?! MAJOR!!!!!!!!
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The Major
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Also known as Sailor Titan
Posts: 5,959
Affiliation: Fallanassi
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Corvala
Jul 12, 2013 9:38:15 GMT -8
Post by The Major on Jul 12, 2013 9:38:15 GMT -8
It had taken some doing. The commander of this invasion had contacted her Kommandant, her true leader, not the figurehead, and have spoken her plea. It was unpleasant dealing with that face with all its shadows, very chilling. Oh, sure, she was inspiring when ever it was needed, but then there was the times when her glowing white glasses covered her eyes. Ugh....
In any case, it was extremely bad news. Horrid news. The worst she could possible hear. And now Liza felt as if she were walking into one of the more violent deaths one could not even hope to have a nightmare about: death by the sword dancer.
Finding Kryptman wasn't the issue. His trail of death had already left its mark on the crew assigned to defend the ship. He might note that, like rats, shuttles were departing and troops were conducting jetpack assisted paradrops unto the surface. Everyone was sweating under the steel helmets, or writing hasty letters to their loved ones: only thing is that this outfit didn't really have loved ones. A door opens in front of Kryptman, making way into a large hallway with all manners of nooks, cover, and vents. Possible ambush point? Only the paladin could know. Through this doorway marches Major Liza Emono, sleeves rolled up, equipped with two hand cannons: revolvers chambered for the .454 casull round, a trench spike, and a bastard sword slung over her back. It was obvious in her pheromones: she was deathly terrified. Her chocolate skin was so devoid of color she almost seemed gray. Once within twenty paces of the war dog, she holds up an open palm, a symbol to parley.
"Inquisitor, my name is Liza, Liza Emono. I know you're looking for her, but she isn't here. She is not on the planet, nor even in a nearby system. I have contacted her, and asked her for help in stopping you. She sends you a message, Priest. 'I have no time for failed experiments. Do as you see fit, Commander, and do not contact me unless you have something worth reporting.' Inquisitor, my men and I have not come here to abuse these people, you should see that our battle outside of the city was conducted in an honorable fashion, with any wounded being treated with these very walls. We have worked with your battle groups before as komrades. We have helped build your glorious temples, and have not plundered the works dedicated to your God, nor have plans to nullify the people's faith in your religion. Please, do not kill anymore; we only seek to make this place wonderful once again. Spare us, and I'll find a way to bring what you want here. Consider this an attempt at a peace treaty."
She bows with her arm crossed over her chest. However, her eyes begin to glow blue, and flare of power is lashed out in the Force. Now it was the war dog's move.
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Corvala
Jul 12, 2013 13:07:56 GMT -8
Post by Inquisitor Kryptman on Jul 12, 2013 13:07:56 GMT -8
As the door's part with a hydraulic hiss, the barrels of Kryptman's weapons uncross and track the ebon skinned woman that walks through. Mismatched sulfur yellow and ice blue eyes burning with hatred regard officer Liza Emono and the Inquisitor's face becomes a dissatisfied frown. The officer's scent carried the adrenaline laced tinges of fear, as did her force signature... but the hell hound knew that fear was often the most powerful driving force in the galaxy and would not underestimate anyone who would face him alone. The entire time Liza delivers her message his Castellans remain leveled center mass, leaving her staring down large .75 cal muzzles. Long moments pass after miss Emono finishes her plea, it would seem the Inquisitor lord was contemplating upon her words.
It was true, these soldiers were simply trying to build a better world for humanity here, and in the past Inquisitorial guardsmen clad in field gray had once stood shoulder to shoulder with the fighting men of broken cross. Liza had made a very valid argument for her men's survival, they had after all accomplished good works. This hangar, however, was no court of law, and Major Emono's words had not fallen upon the ears of a sympathetic judge. Had Liza known one thing about Inquisitors of the holy order, it should have been that Mercy was not a virtue of the Imperial faith... and Daemons would not be suffered to live.
The wolf sniffs the air sharply and his nose is assaulted by the coppery edge of spilled blood, and something that isn't quite a human female. The Inquisitor's sense of smell is confirmed by his force sight, dark energies were gathered in the woman opposite of him and her eyes shown a baleful blue that he knew all too well. The daemon within Kryptman stirs as it detects something close to its own kind and Kryptman's lips pull back from his silver fangs in a wicked toothy grin. Kryptman's shining blue left eye seems to burn a bit brighter as he speaks, tones edged in a cold amusement.
=Kryptman=
Liza Emono, you have already been condemned...
The Inquisitor lord gestures out towards the officers entry way with his left hand pistol, gathering his hatred and calling upon the darker powers to grab hold of the heavy metal doors with the force. Durasteel groans and mechanisms shriek in metallic protest as Kryptman makes a sudden violent sweeping motion, wrenching the blast doors closed with a heavy clang as the force of the action causes them to buckle and warp while the hydraulics that operate them burst with the strain of trying to keep them open. The officer was now denied a quick egress, or hope of the swift arrival of support, and before her a true perfect monster was grinning at her with hungry eyes.
=Kryptman=
...From the moment of your creation at the hands of that damned wych, your fate was sealed. Unsanctioned daemons that will not serve the god Emperor's will must be purged, and with his divine purpose as my guide your wretched soul will be sent screaming to hell.
The safety switches on the twin antimaterial side arms switch over to fire with an audible duet of clicks.
=Kryptman=
But hell will seem a paradise after I've finished with you... And know that before or after you die, you WILL give me Major.
With that the hell hound rushes into action, surging into a sprint taking him rushing straight past Liza's left hand side so close that she could reach out and touch the ends of his flashing barrels, his weapons barking twice each with a deafening "KA-CHOOM!!" as he moves along his path. Large caliber armor piercing, high explosive round sail through the air at different points along his trajectory as the silver slides ratchet back to spit smoking brass shell casings scrawled in scripture in Inquisitor's wake. None of the shots were placed to kill out right, targeted for Liza's shoulder and hip joints so that when the rounds penetrated and detonated her limbs would be blown off in jagged bloody wounds. It would seem that the Inquisitor lord was testing his unnatural counterpart to see how she stacked up to a real monster...
...either that or he was just plain having fun.
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The Major
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Also known as Sailor Titan
Posts: 5,959
Affiliation: Fallanassi
Traffic Light: Blue
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Corvala
Jul 13, 2013 15:07:38 GMT -8
Post by The Major on Jul 13, 2013 15:07:38 GMT -8
This was the space and font colour usually reserved for thoughts. In them, Liza could process his ignorant spittle about her. Actually, there was no time to anything of the sort. One moment he is speaking, the next he's charging. Think? Death. For the genetically unlocked Major of this unit, it would take every ounce of her training and skill to survive even another moment with the walking death cloud known as Father Kryptman. You see, when you were enough of a badass, the dregs that managed to escape from your killing sprees tended to give you all manners of nicknames to pay tribute to your greatness. Liza didn't even have one to her credit.
No time for snide remarks, no time to explain she was more or less like the Inquisitor; there was only time to make a face that could be summed up as "!" and quick dodge. This was handled by ducking underneath the first bullet, and spinning like a dancer to her front, just barely getting out of the way of the second. Both rounds explode against the nearby wall, showering them in brilliant sparkles. Suddenly, one of her hand cannons is drawn, and lines of anger stripe across her already glistening brow.
"Idiot! She's not here! This is pointless: you just waving your dick out under the excuse of some holy war. Father, your brain is cracking like an egg!"
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Corvala
Jan 28, 2014 23:01:31 GMT -8
Post by Jelak Altayr on Jan 28, 2014 23:01:31 GMT -8
Heedless and barely aware of the current conflict, an unassuming shuttle streaked through the hazy sky, leaving a laser-straight vapor trail.
In the cockpit the pilot sat gazing down dispassionately. The ruin of a society meant little to the new arrival. He activated the comm and spoke with a flat voice just a half degree from boredom.
"Crucible One incoming. What is my berth?"
A moment later Jelak Altayr was stepping into the new port, noting the rank odor of the native settlement. Such concerns were trivial compared to his work. Noting the nearest worker he pointed a gloved hand.
"Where is the person in charge of this city? "
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Corvala
Feb 1, 2014 12:48:08 GMT -8
Post by Jelak Altayr on Feb 1, 2014 12:48:08 GMT -8
Jelak strode from the starport, following The directions given him by the Dark Tide non-com towards the field headquarters of the occupation force.
Jelak ignored the local sites as he walked. The architecture and culture of a weak and conquered people were inconsequential. Only the works of the mighty mattered, and his new allies had yet to leave their mark on the world.
Ahead, the squat, bland former city hall which now served as field headquarters grew larger with Jelak's approach. He walked passed the sentry with less than a nod as he flashed the temporary credentials that the Major had sent him.
The crisply-presented, disciplined young man at reception stood at attention as Jelak stepped over to him.
"I am expected. Jelak Altayr, to see whomever the Major has left in command of the area. I am to receive rank insignia and forces at my personal discretion. Are you authorized to complete this task or must you summon another?"
OOC: tagging the Major per our messages.
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The Major
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Post by The Major on Feb 3, 2014 7:34:54 GMT -8
Luckily for the traveler, things hadn't been as explosive since the Inquisitor Lord had simply vanished from the capital ship looming over the vanquished city of Corvala. Terrorist attacks by his zealous followers did persist in the few months since his departure, but they were not guided by the hand of genius. Predictability and bad tactics, plus the fact that the invaders did not care about the civilian population had resulted in a desperate fight for the inquisitor's zealots. Luckily for the traveler, his job should be that much easier.
The receptionist, a junior grade officer, smirked darkly Jalek. While this branch of the remnant army were known for their brutality, they still liked to approach the job as something of a hobby. Do what you love, love what you do. If it wasn't apparent from the twisted smiles and haughty eyes from every corner, then it was obvious once one of these troopers spoke -nobody here was forced into their current role.
"Ah, yes. You're the new civilian contractor. Lucky duck, you are. We've been itching for this assignment to get started."
The man produces a datapad and flicks a few slides and taps a few buttons -sometimes twice, damn leather gloves made the touch screen detection wonky. A tone is heard spattering from an overhead speaker.
"The CO will be here soon. Are there any callsigns, codenames, or tags you prefer to go by when on the field? "
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Post by Jelak Altayr on Feb 4, 2014 0:16:18 GMT -8
"In keeping with Dark Tide parlance and in view of the services I am to render, Oberstbiesten would seem an appropriate title."
Jelak continued to scan the room, hoping to learn more about his new patrons from the outward manifestation of their operating philosophy. The aesthetics and infrastructure of a conquering force were among the few elements of any culture that Jelak deemed to bear any merit.
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The Major
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Post by The Major on Feb 10, 2014 7:37:56 GMT -8
"Nah. . ." Knifed a voice from somewhere above both receptionist and prospector alike.
"You'll be working with me, Sunshine. I'm not callin' you by that bullshit. "
A pair of boots smacks unto the ground nearly right on top of Jelak, and accompanying this motion is a human woman -above average height in normal stature with a look in her eye that looked like it would make the Devil himself blush.
"I'm Major Liza Emono. Congrats, welcome, yadda-yadda. I'm not the Major, just a major. If this works out, you'll call me by my name -Liza. Until then, you'll call me 'Boss,' gotdat?
"Now, we're not really stressing any of the legal crap here with your requested presence. We have a job, need a specialist, and you fit the bill. . . . on paper, or holodisk, or whatever freakin' gizmo you use." The mulatto woman reaches out her left hand, a mechanical hand, out in order to shake the contractor's hand. To compliment this, she offers him a smile as well, but it ultimately looked more like grimace.
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Corvala
Feb 10, 2014 11:43:15 GMT -8
Post by Jelak Altayr on Feb 10, 2014 11:43:15 GMT -8
The new majors informal attitude did little to put off Jelak. The man was not overly fond of military pomp. Nor did he bristle at calling her "Boss." The power of words and titles lay only in the fear that inferior beings allowed them to possess.
The contract calls for, among other things, a breeding pair of alchemically-altered Azul beasts, suitable for cloning. Expeditious fulfillment of terms provides maximum mutual benefit. Local indigenous people's have the most intimate knowledge of feral populations. Have we acquired suitable collaborators, Boss"
This last was said with a slight but deferential bow of the head.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 20:37:08 GMT -8
The shuttle landed on the appropriate area, did the appropriate things, and all was well with the cosmos. The ramp came down, Gulliver strode down, all 6'4" of him. He had left the armor on the ship, along with the M240B, the rifle, and most of his explosives. He had flat out refused to leave the pistol behind, however. The PLR-68 technically was based on a rifle, and fired a rifle round, but it looked like a peashooter in the merc's oversized hands.
He was out of the ship, at least. All that was left was to wait for the welcome wagon.
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The Major
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Corvala
Mar 3, 2014 21:41:53 GMT -8
via mobile
Post by The Major on Mar 3, 2014 21:41:53 GMT -8
And that welcome wagon came in the form of a Chiss dressed in a wonderfully cared for uniform. He surely was the kind of officer to never have his hands in his pockets, curse in front of a CO, or wear white socks underneath black or slate gray trousers. First thing he noticed was the "pistol" Gulliver carried on his person.
"That has to be the strangest handgun I've ever seen. Errr, yes, Sir. Welcome to Corvala. I'm aware you had to deal with this spaceport's particular traffic control. I hope they didn't traumatize you with article this and clause that. I have been directed to answer any questions you might have. The summit will be taking place in a far more secure resort town about 150 kilometers to the west and north form here. Saarlan is typically considered chilly for the average Coruscanti, since it is a mountain community, so winter clothing is recommended. Feel free to use any hotel there, they are all offering special rates and accommodations due to the summit. Do you have any questions or shall you be on your way?"
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 22:04:11 GMT -8
"Just lead the way."
What followed next was a whirlwind of activity. Hotel rooms were booked, security arrangements made, and naturally paperwork was filled out. Mercifully, these guys didn't seem to have realized how much Gulliver hated the shit. Speaking of shit, the Chiss liaison had nearly had a heart attack the first time the hulking mercenary (who had, as a matter of course, insisted on driving) swore a blue streak at a careless driver. The second time he had turned even more blue. By the seventh, it was clear that the fellow was severely out of his depth.
Still, they all survived. Arrangements were made. All was well, and no one, but not one, was shot.
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Chloro
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Post by Chloro on Mar 6, 2014 9:35:00 GMT -8
Well. Look. Who's. Coming.
Said the girl, grinning, wearing an waitress uniform and who was reading a newsflimsy, held with unusual hands. They had both far too many fingers, for one, and two, were specialised past the point of simply gripping things. She dropped the paper carelessly to the table, where she was resting her boots and drummed the table anxiously, a red eye staring into space as tendrils of cigarette smoke curled around her. Who would see her, sitting in staff area of a restaurant, enjoying a moment's break from the grind?
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The Major
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Corvala
Mar 6, 2014 10:02:00 GMT -8
Post by The Major on Mar 6, 2014 10:02:00 GMT -8
"Excuse me, Miss? I'm sure you're used to this kind of thing with those looks, but you look like a vision -blended like a poisonous cocktail promising euphoria. In this planet, I'm sure you have to beat them off with a stick. . ."
Said an dressed-for-success officer who now hovered across the table of the red eyed woman's boots. He was peering at these particularly, and with the kind of look that invoked a sort of hunger.
"Do you mind terribly if I keep you company, perhaps even sully your calm with some conversation?"
The officer smiles slyly with a Soloesque brand style of intensity.
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