OOC: I trump you with this: http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Holy_Orb_of_Antioch (yes the holy hand grenade has found it's way into Wh40k lore. Deal with it. I own your internet souls now.) Fireteam Inferno: Primary Objective: Kill an Astartes Secondary Objective: Record the murder Satharn Tem - Night Lords Astartes (@Jorimel ) Atax Echidna - Dark Mechanicus Slaaneshi (@Casavay ) Krax Brutalus - Black Legion Undivided Astartes (@Colapse ) Rorschach - Night Lords Astartes (@Xaphen ) The Chainglaive made it's way brutally painful through the knees as he was held. A kind of pain not even the Black Dragon could withhold and howled in pain as only blood-dripping stumps were left where his kneecaps once were. He wiggled and tried to free himself but Rorschach held him in place, leaving him to whatever demise the others had prepared for this one...
Inferno Echidna cocked her head at the shamefully gruesome display as she recalled Minotaur with a sharp whistling. There was no disapproval in her dead eyes - instead they were illuminated with a rare spark of longing. While the drudge set to move back towards his mistress, said mistress couldn't help but feel bothered by the sight of this brutal fatality. Her own ability to fight had been crippled, and while the warpsmith had acknowledged this, she only really realized it just now. And while she loved to inflict torment on the living, this kill was not hers, and so she contented herself with watching, wallowing in bloody voyeurism and vicariously living through the Raptor and the Night Lord committing their brutality and chancing a glance over to Zadkiel, adressing the Astartes carefully. "So have we completed our task?"
-Seth Seth Began to think on this as he thought it over he took the letter as she gave it to him. "I will have to speak with my assistance first. when making this decision." Seth said politely to her. "I will return though to give a answer though." he said as he then left to the rest of the teams With the letter in hand.
<Zadkiel> "He isn't dead yet, is he?" Zadkiel complained, carrying Yriel now with his both arms, one could think that he loved her the way she carried her, but the truth was another. "Meet me on the Med-Bay once you are done here, I leave you in charge to get them back up there, Terror of Lorias." The average looking Astartes said in a sharp tone and marched off to an elevator.
"Patience, patience, mademoiselle," Satharn growled, the dangerous edge to his tone not directed at Echidna but at the soon-to-be corpse. The Black Dragon was down but still struggling. Good. He liked a bit of life in his victims. Reaching for the knife mag-locked to his opposite thigh Tem dived forward, pinning the scrabbling Astartes to the deck. His teeth bared in a feral grin, the Night Lord began to saw at the seals of his foe's helmet. Then he had a better idea. Reaching into the bloody ruin made of the Black Dragon's chest by his chainglaive, Satharn's fist punched through coagulating blood and re-knitting organs. He ripped out a bony spur that flicked up at him, its momentum a shadow of the spikes extruded in the fight. There. His armoured hand closed around a bloody knot of meat. Sitting back on his heels, Satharn unlatched his helmet. Dark eyes regarded his enemy as he took a bite from the extracted progenoid. "Well, well," he spat, "black and bitter, like a Primarch's heart." No guessing whose.
The Black Dragon growled and struggled with his arms, wanting to unleash his wrath upon the foe, certainly his gene-seed had been forcefully extracted from his chest and it was painful. But not as painful as their deaths would be once he is done with them! His lower arm blades extracted and distracted wildly while he swung his head wildly around, trying to pierce the Night Lord with it in his face.
Satharn dodged easily backwards, rising to his feet and taking a few steps away from the fallen Astartes. He looked for his bolter. There was a time and a place for fun; this wasn't it. The Black Dragon needed shooting.
Rorschach pumped two rounds into the chest of the Black Dragon. One for each heart. Now letting him go softly, he let his prey feel the oncoming death. He wouldn't die instantly, no his brain was still intact and his superior body wouldn't let him collapse from the pain. No, now he would feel true fear. "Do you prefer the skull or the horn? Brother?" hissed Rorschach, looking at his Night Lord brother for a response.
