(OOC: My dearest wolf, my cell is also dying. For all of you in this beauteous nameless guild, I won't be around until Friday noon. RP well, forge interesting narratives.)
<Rharijem> The wounded Crimson Hunter awoke out of nowhere, without reply if his Minnaloushe was still alive. The shockwave in the distant or the loss of enemy presence awoke him. He looked panicking around, to find himself in a Nightshade that was not his. He tried to stand up, just to realize he lost his legs. The eyes of his wandered slowly along his body, to stop at a pair of stumps. Rharijem blinked a few times before realizing what happened, although there seemed to be no pain - The after-effect of Khaines War-Call still holding him in grip. Despite the other injuries he felt... Fine. Though indeed his ribs were still damaged from the fall when Aranethyr threw him down the Amphitheater, he still had to thank him... Hopefully the Farseer was fine. Slowly he leaned back against the seat - getting comfortable as he could not go anywhere, even if he wanted to. With the dead Eldar Guardian pressed against himself and stroking over her armored back. "You will be soon with those you loved in the infinity circuit... There is nothing to fear... Nothing... To... Fear." At this point it was uncertain if he truly spoke to the soul of the Guardian that rested in Ishas Tear on her chest in an azure blue against his Crimson Hunter armor or to himself as the War-Mask started to wear off.
<Kholivaz> The macabre Storm Guardian coated in the life fluids of his enemies maintained eye contact with Mereen, gaze never wavering as his prized knife appeared in his hands. He slid the venom canister from the handle and into a pouch at his belt before bringing Nezorath's severed head up to his stomach. It still slowly bled, droplets turning into small streams between the armor plates of his legs. Kholivaz began to flay the skull of his hated enemy, skin and muscle falling away at a worrying speed. No one, not even the former Hellion himself could count how many times in his life he had done this; preparation of new trophies and ornamentation, but he had apparently done this enough to prepare a skull without looking, eyes still watching the Guardian. ((OoC: Boost the creep factor to 10.))
<Mereen> The Guardian could not help himself but rip his helmet off and vomit all over the floor. The view of such procedure was more than disgusting. His entire meal came up, with pieces of meat still recognizable. His brown-yellow emitted stomach acids was mixing with the blood on the floor coming from all the corpses that surrounded them. His relative young face, long silver hair with blue tips was revealed. With one hand holding said hair it was avoided to get covered in his own vomit.
<Kholivaz> The Storm Guardian laughed as the Craftworlder emptied his bowels, bringing a newly blooded hand up to his shattered cheek, the twisted humor bringing a whole new level of pain to his face. Kholivaz inspected his work so far, already it had left the skull not at all identifiable as the traitor Corsair he and Minna had known. He continued his work, "Cr-Craftworlder. Find s-agh! S-someone of auth-authority!" The Commorrite detested being left out of the fight while Craftworlders and Exodites threw his kind to the Void, a bloodied, nearly broken parody of the Wrack-reaving monster he had been at the start of all of this. He needed a healer. Or that decrepit Farseer to point him in the right direction.
<Mereen> "Not... Possible." He used the back of his left hand to rub some vomit off, revealing his long hair reached easily till his shoulder pads on his back. It was glowing silver almost naturally, only the very tips being a deep royal blue. "The Farseer obviously cannot attend and there is no one else really. Though... Would you mind tell me for what purpose?" Mereen was semi-lying just by the fact of his uncertainty if that Storm Guardian was truly friend or foe. The Guardian seemed to regain control over his body, voice and will - Getting either used and building up a resistance against the Comorrites disgusting deeds. Or simply acting tough.
<Kholivaz> The former Hellion only gave an answer after an ear fell to the floor to join the assortment of body parts from some previous battle. "Unlike you.. D-do not wish to stand.. here! Fi-fight or.. " His work was coming along quickly, large portions of the white skull showing through. It had helped that Nezorath had been a bald Eldar. Did he truly need to be under the care of a Healer again? Kholivaz certainly wasn't feeling good of that there was no doubt, but did he really need to have his mind toyed with in order to come back from this?
<Mereen> "Just sit down and relax. The Healers will come eventually. The Chambers of Isha failed. Although expect Anamnialocians to be treated before you." Mereen said cold - not daring to get attached to this Comorrite. He kept his eyes mostly on the 'Storm Guardian', though he looked from time to time around, seeing the other Guardians collecting Soulstones or sitting down to rest or aiding others with their wounds until the healers could tend them.
<Kholivaz> Relax? Not in this lifetime or the torturous next, ship-squatter. Kholivaz reached up to lower his mask, dried blood and spittle coloring the lower portion of the jaws dark, near rusty red. He clicked his tongue and the jaws snapped shut like a bear trap. A deep breath for patience, another to feel that sweet tingling sensation just before agony, and a snorting exhalation to let the Anamnialocii know just what he thought of their "triage". Of course, he asked no favors nor felt any surprise. He may have reaped a bloody tally of Wracks, but he was still a Commorrite. The former Hellion knew that when pressed, even Astora or Minna would leave him for dead if it meant an Anamnialocii was saved in his place. The thought was nearly sobering! As far as he might have escaped from the Dark City, among the Craftworlders and Exodites he might as well have never left. Ah, I shall prove a thinker yet! And as many great thinkers (See: Those with free time) before him, he decided to spend this moment of (relative) peace whittling away. Or flaying away. Yes, flaying was more accurate.
The Exarch's movements cut a bloody swathe into the retreating Dark Eldar; those who ran fighting harder than those before them simply because of what he believed was an unmatched desire to return home. As sadistic and hedonistic as they were, he imagined they still felt things that the Exarch couldn't. He imagined that, in order to return to their clans, their families, they would fight like cornered beasts. They did, and his remaining Scorpions all fell as a result. He had seen one of them take the head from a Commorrite even with two blades in his abdomen, and another in his chest. But more had piled upon him, and terrifying lances destroyed the rest of his life too quick for Veillon to react. As he cut down the final warrior in his immediate location, the Eldar sighed and flicked blood from his Biting Blade. Still, his job wasn't over yet, so he made his way towards the Kaelorian dead, collecting their soul stones with an unnatural silence. Then, when the final was placed in the protective space in his armour, he immediately lowered his knees into a squatting rest and placed both hands against his helmet, removing it from his face in order to taste the air. Yet even without his helmet, his face of war wasn't removed. Instead of looking horrified, or overwhelming joy at his survival and the Eldar victory, or even sadness at the deaths of his comrades - Veillon simply looked brooding.. And angry, with eyes as dark as his hair. Eventually he stood, placing his war helmet back over his head and making his way over towards the nearest Eldar victors. "Exarch Veillon of Craftworld Kaelor, here to aid the Farseer on behalf of my war council."
