<Nezorath the Scourge> The man didn't not falter, and as soon as Kholizas was off of him, he dashed forth with a guttural growl, utilizing his wings to gain a massive momentum. His power blade swung in a diagonal arc, ready to split the Hellion in half.
(OOC: Also, I'm sorry if I miss posts or make no sense recently. Lot on my plate... But I'm working on solutions, and the Architect will be back in full shortly.)
OOC: Take your time and work out whatcha need, last I checked none of us are going anywhere. So no pressure!
<Kholivaz> There was still strength in his limbs, despite all of Nezorath's efforts to put him down so far. Admittedly, he was coming out in much poorer shape than when he had gone for the Scourge, but the Hellion wouldn't die like a simpering weakling, head bowed to the floor. The speed at which his fellow Commorrite came at him was going to hurt. A lot. Kholivaz knew it was better than the alternative though, the power sword glinting in the light of whatever titanic struggle lay beyond the duel. He kicked off of the ground towards the Scourge, one hand lashing up and out to hammer into Nezorath's wrist, to block the killing stroke. That was all he had time for as the larger, enhanced physique of his opponent struck him and bowled him over to fall in a tumble of giant wings, armor, and curses. His same outstretched hand gripped the Scourge's wrist to keep control over the arm and avoid being impaled by the blade, the other looping under his armpit and over Nezorath's shoulder, in a crushing embrace. There was no room to pull his last chainsaber or even to use it, were it in his hand. Instead he kept the traitor corsair close and braced for the shock to come, even as his metallic jaws clamped down with enhanced strength at the joining of shoulder and neck, looking to tear out his throat.
OOC:Well...i was...hmm...nevermind.I`ll just sit here and meditate!\ Zeth fell on his kness and in doing so...crackling the marble beneath with his adamantium enforced exo-skeleton.He fell in a silent prayer to the Machine God and few faint whispers could be heard from his moving,pale lips...tho the language was intelligible to all except to those who are privy to the sacred language of the Omnissiah.
Veillon Antadriel The shrine had moved, the Striking Scorpion Aspect Warriors marching from the Craftworld of Kaelor to the very ship that was so engulfed in battle: the Anam Alqethir. Led by their Exarch, Veillon Antadriel, the warriors were a sight to behold, proudly marching to aid in a war effort they knew little about. The War Council of Kaelor had sent them, and them alone, to aid Aranethyr; no more Kaelorian Eldar would be arriving this day, but perhaps no more were needed. "Keep moving, we are close," spoke the Exarch, his voice firm and commanding, yet surprisingly subtle, as though his tone was whisper no enemy was meant to hear. The exit Webway gate was close now, for Veillon could see it in the distance. A short strait remained between his shrine's Scorpions and where they were meant to be, but that final stretch was no simple walk. The first warning of trouble was the rumbling, a sensation foreign to the Exarch's previous experiences with the Webway. His brow immediately furrowed, a bead of sweat running from temple to cheek as he paused his march, for just a moment, to better experience the unusual feeling. Then, a loud crash! Cracking, splitting and other such noises of collapse came from behind and above. Veillon quickly raised his Biting Blade above his shoulder and with a yell, ordered his Scorpions to surge towards the exit as the webway tunnel began to cave atop them. They soon ran, their swiftness slowed only by the armour known to be thicker than their Howling Banshee counterparts. Still, it was not enough to slow the experienced warrior down, his strong leg muscles pounding him forward with long, fast strides. Many of his entourage fell behind, crushed under the weight of the collapse, but a few remained with him - close enough to survive. With a final push, they made it through and came skidding to a halt upon the crystal bridge, just as the Webway Gate flickered and disappeared behind them. "What was that?!" Asked one of four remaining Scorpions. A mere handful compared to what he had started with. "Sabotage," said Veillon, his voice a growl. His eyes looked down upon the corpse of the Gatekeeper, then slowly slid up the forms of the Wyches now turning to face them; mad grins all around as they prepared to engage in combat. "I see our cousins are here, offering their lives for our cause," the Exarch said, as he held up his left arm and straightened out a Scorpion Claw to the first of his opponents. "Scorpions, it seems Aranethyr needs our aid. Gather round and prepare for battle - slay these sadistic whores and then push on," he commanded, as the four Eldar gathered around him, readying their weapons and sharpening their minds for combat. The fighting began when the Shuriken Cannon attached to the Exarch's vambrace opened fire, projecting dozens of projectile disks towards the Wych leader at high speeds. She seemed to sense this move, and leapt up high over the path of fire barely before the first Shuriken left the Catapult. Up and over she dived, coming down upon Veillon from above with two curved swords striking down towards his helmet. In response, he raised his Biting Blade, whose teeth attempted to tear into the enemy's metal with a roar that blinded her with sparks. She fell down, momentarily unbalanced, and the Scorpion took the chance to kick her back away from him as the four soldiers still under his command began their own respective battles against their new foe. The Exarch and the Wych moved at each other once again, the Biting Blade striking skilfully against each of his opponent's weapons. With each clash, each warrior switched from aggressive to defensive, then back again depending on the situation. Their flurries of strikes were a sight to behold; martial skill unmatched as each movement was perfectly tuned to counter that of the enemy. No single breath was wasted, no unwanted loss of energy, no single melee mistake. The Wyches were truly an enemy to match them, the Exarch thought, as his blade came upon both of hers and they suddenly stopped their dance. The test of skill turned to a test of strength, both pushing against the other. The one who lost would be cut, no doubt, and likely die. It was a clash that could end his mission before he even started it and for that reason, Veillon was not going to lose. "Goodbye, Wych," said he, as his helmet's Mandiblasters fired needles into her face. The lasers then burst forth, hitting the conductors piercing her flesh and superheating, causing her to reel back and scream as her flesh charred. Taking his chance, the Exarch slammed his Biting Blade into her abdomen, the teeth ripping through her flesh until only two halves of a woman lay separately upon the bridge below him, now covered in spilled blood. "We move now," Veillon ordered, as three of his soldiers finished their opponents. The fourth had fallen, but such was to be expected in battle. He only wished he would have lasted a little longer. He moved over to the fallen, taking the Spirit Stone from his armour and placing it safely within his own. With that done, the four men moved out, looking to find one who could offer an explanation.
Liriasol stared. He blinked at the laughing Avenger, the strange, androgyne sound of that laughter with its off-balance edge. He reached out and removed the twig from the other's hair, a tender gesture that belied his puzzlement and the concern he still felt for his .. brother's? state of mind. And though he was relieved, though he understood the strain they were under, he was not entirely a being of sensitive cadences and gentle words. "So what the hell is going on here?" he snapped, gathering up the fallen parcel of fresh meat and moving towards the fire, still with eyes on Visethianne. Had the highly-strung Avenger lost the plot? "She's crying. You're laughing. I'd appreciate an explanation so that my next actions can be appropriate." The Outcast wasn't sure if he would have to comfort a grieving warrior or slap a hysterical madman. Liriasol was one of those who shout because they care. Things were potentially about to get extremely caring.
OOC: No worries, just need a Minna-dream/telepathy-weirdo-thing-poke at Rharijem! ^^ Other than that: Relax yo! @Annihilus welcome among us! <Artisan> The Yme-Locian would smile upon the familiar voice, the former Gardener-Eldar who had guided him before! And she was quite pretty too, she probably was a thousand years younger than himself though! Not that he truly had interest in women or the responsibilities with relationships, but that simply did not matter now. The elder hurried to Aranethyrs side. "I doubt there is a healer among you?" He simply noted and took his first layer of robes off, letting him stand there only in an undergarment that covered his chest to feet as a one-piece. It was not decorated as it was just to keep him temperate beneath the robes. Zryas-Vehd ripped off some pieces and wrapped it around the open wounds to stop the bleeding - supporting his friends' body at least a bit. Yes, most of the healing power came from the will, but Aranethyr was old and worn out, his will was not truly weaker... Just more affected and less focused at one thing at a time. That is what made him an excellent leader, he could always embrace everything at once, every single factor that could affect the fate of even the smallest individual within a plan. "Don't you dare die right here, right now! Not in my arms Aranethyr! You cannot do that to me! You survived worse, come on old friend!" Zryas-Vehd plead upon his soul. Tears starting to push through his eyes upon the terror of his friend. That was the burden of a pure civilian. How could those Comorrites do this?! Darn city scum! They all should be slain in his opinion for just having caused a scratch upon his friend! Death was the only thing they earned! Though it must had been alone surprising to the Eldar around him of how his voice had changed from a reserved, inspiring and intelligent tone to a quite primal, scared, hateful and sad one. It was clear that his emotions took a strong toll on the Yme-Locian.
