Eligos

Ishmael Ardesnus's page

62 posts. Alias of Rookseye.


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Uriah Trantor wrote:
"Go and tell me these visions. I will say upfront, that even though we rarely agree about things, I have never doubted your strength of will."

Beneath the Gear Box

Ishmael blistered mouth parts again, spilling out his sibilant hiss.

"It is the relic. In my vision, I saw a child whose face was a golden light, wreathed by angelic wings of purest white. Her voice was my that of my sister, and she spoke words of purest truth. She said that the bones of Saint Trobriund would protect us from the Plague that is to come. Ten fingerbones for ten servants of the Emperor. She said you will know their efficacy by a miracle. I know not what this is, though..."

At this moment, Sigmunt's breathing grows more ragged, the Duct Wolf groans in agony from the adjacent bed, drowning out the last of Ishmael's words.


Uriah Trantor wrote:

"It is all right, go. I will call you if he needs you.

Beneath the Gear Box

Nessa is less than enthused to leave her patient's side but seems to understand your request for confidentiality. She nods once, and leaves through the sliding glass doors, which whisper shut behind her, leaving you with only the faint beeping sounds coming from the monitoring equipment and the faint hiss from the the oxygen pumps.

When you look back at Ishmael, you see his eyes are closed again, but his throat seems to be twitching as if he is struggling for the willpower to speak. When he does, you find that you have to lean so that your forehead is almost touching the cold plastic sheeting that tents his bed. When the cleric opens his eyes again, you see how awful the effort must be for him. One eye is occluded with a maroon build-up of blood, the other is nearly sealed from the blistered scarring on that side of his face.

"Goldo said: 'There is only one true path, and that is the path of fire and pain.' I can assure you, psyker, that I presently understand the latter part of his adage."

His voice trails off into a stuttering, whistling hiss, turning into hacking coughs that seem to bring agony to the Redemptionist's features. He grits his teeth, one of the blisters at the corner of his mouth leaking fluid down the side of his badly burnt face. You belatedly realize that Ishmael might have been laughing in his own pained way before the coughing started.

"In my twisted dreams of agony and purple fire, I have been visited with another vision, Trantor. I can speak little, so I will be direct. As another who has experienced the visions of this world, I trust only you to tell me whether they came from some rapport with the Emperor as I hover near death's door or if they are the whispers of the Warp, corrupting my spirit."


Beneath the Gear Box

Nessa is interrupted as the priests eyes open slowly, painfully, tearing at the blistered flesh near the tear ducts, and causing livid pink tissue to seep thin traceries of blood. Unable to move his head, his eyes slowly rotate to affix Uriah. His voice is a harsh gasp, barely audible through the plastic sheeting.

"My words are for you alone. Tell her to leave us."


Iacton cannot help but feel pity for the horribly burnt cleric. Beneath the ghastly mask of blood and ash on Ishmael's face, he can see the dark red weals that are already bulging with large blisters. The burns on his eyelids seem to have sealed them from opening.

As Krade's aide slips one arm under the wounded man's shoulder, trying to lift him without increasing his pain, Ishmael's eyes suddenly snap open with an audible tearing sound of ripping flesh. His wild, white eyes, rimmed with wet blood, focus on Iacton with a crazed look, moving down abruptly to stare at a spot on the assassin's chest.

"...do not let it claim you!...

Just as quickly as it happens, the cleric drifts back into unconsciousness. Iacton lifts him over his shoulder, the weight of Ishmael's words far heavier than his insensible body.


Ishmael screams in righteous outrage moreso than pain, even as the purple-black warp-flames lick up his chest to encircle his face like a halo of roiling witchfire. Even now, he still shouts the litany of exorcism defiantly as his skin blisters and burns.

Ishmael attempts a WP = 42 test to act normally, 1d100 ⇒ 80, succeeds. He then drops to the ground, rolling along the floor of the chapel even as the up-pour of blood bathes him. Attempting an Agility = 38 test, On Fire penalty (-20), bonus because of wetness of bloody rain (+10) for a target Agility = 28, rolling 1d100 ⇒ 17, success!

Somehow, the Redemptionist smothers the flames, bathed in the blood of the dead indigens and corrupted guardsmen resting lifeless around him. He rises from the gore, his face a blackened smear of ash and vermillion wetness, a hateful sneer on his burnt face, wide, half-mad zealot's eyes staring whitely at the squealing daemon in holy indignation. The exhortation that was forestalled in his hoarse throat as he collapsed to the floor returns tenfold in a shout of command that reverberates with every word in the final refrain of the litany:

"Daemon, I BANISH YE!"

As he shouts, the circular stained glass window high overhead shatters under the pressure of pooling blood into thousands of shards of colored glass, the saint's face breaking apart into millions of fragments that descend like luminous tears in the upward weeping red rain.

Sav is next.


As the expanding cloud of solid flame reaches him, Ishmael tries frantically to dive beneath the pew nearest him.

Dodge roll for Ishmael, 1d100 ⇒ 45, failed. Ishmael takes 13 damage, mitigated by 3 AP by his chain coat, and his TB of 2, for a total of 8 Wounds damage. Rolling his Agility to prevent catching fire, 1d100 ⇒ 98, fails. Ishmael will sustain 1d10 Wounds (no reduction for armor) at the beginning of his next turn unless he is extinguished or extinguishes himself (fortunately/ironically, bloody rain will help this attempt. Ishmael is heavily wounded, with 1 Wound remaining.

As he was damaged by one of the Flamer of Tzeentch's psychic powers, Ishmael is rolling an Ordinary (+10) WP test to resist gaining Corruption Points from the disruption of his reality in the face of the Warp. Rolling 1d100 ⇒ 24, success.

The cleric screams aloud as the wall of fire encompasses him, flailing his arms in an impotent attempt to extinguish indigo flames that are now licking up his arms and chest. Already dropping prone, he rolls desperately about on the floor of the chapel against the twitching, boneless bodies.


As the bloody rain showers forth from the corpses, Ishmael is buffeted and tossed about by a swirling twister of broken bone from the osseus cage that once bound the daemon inside of Kirsch. He shouts the rite of exorcism again, chanting loudly over the din, taking heed of what Savalos said by dashing away from the altar and the others after firing another round from his pistol at the horror.

Ishmael fires, BS = 46 with a penalty for the Blood Storm (-10), for a modified BS = 36, rolling, 1d100 ⇒ 9, hit, rolling damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10, mitigated by the Flamer's Unnatural TB of 8 yields 2 damage. Ishmael then takes his remaining half action to move to square C1.

The round strikes true, fired into the gurgling maw reaching for the Redemptionist as he scrambles away.

Sav is up.


As the whipping tendrils of molten, indigo-hued flame scour the walls over the cleric's head, he concludes his holy litany with a few terse words for the daemon, cocking his ornate Metallican weapon.

"Have it your way then, daemon."

He rises to a crouch, aims carefully, and pulls the trigger on his revolver from nearly point blank range. The stink of the cordite mixes acridly with the charred odor of open flame.

Ishmael's BS = 46, +10 (Aiming), +30 (Point Blank), BS = 82, rolling 1d100 ⇒ 30, a hit. Rolling damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9, mitigated by the Flamer's Unnatural TB of 8, yields 1 damage.

The large caliber bullet punches a wet hole in the center of the rubbery, tubular body of the hideous creature followed seconds later by a hissing jet of purplish gas and a shower of gleaming, emerald colored sparks.

Sav is up next.


Ishmael sneers at the horror, loudly reciting the Imperial Exorcist's Creed while denouncing and excoriating the creature at the top of his lungs.

"Begone, Abomination!!! As our Master said: the servants of the daemon, as well at the daemon itself, are justifiable targets of our wrath!"

Rolling a Fear Test for Ishmael, (WP = 42 - 20, WP = 22, rolling 1d100 ⇒ 21, success. Rolling Initiative for Ishmael, 1d10 + 4 ⇒ (10) + 4 = 14


"By the Purging Flame of the Redemption!"


"...for just as the Holy Flame of His Light immolates the heretic, so too does it purify the faithful of all corruption."


Rolling WP [42] for the Fear test for Ishmael, 1d100 ⇒ 80, failed, re-rolling for the Unshakable Faith talent, 1d100 ⇒ 20, success.

Ishmael shudders, but icily maintains his composure, continuing to mutter a prayer for the Emperor's mercy as he looks with pity upon what has been done to Kirsch.

...the warm light of the Throne brings comfort, the swiftness of his sword brings blessed release to those innocents corrupted against their will...


Although his voice falters slightly when the full nature of the corrupted abattoir the chapel has become is revealed, Ishmael does not stop speaking his benediction. In fact, he raises his voice and begins to speak more authoritatively as the horror of it all sinks in.

He proceeds forward, flanking Savalos with Iacton, holding his ornate revolver in the one hand and the aquila adorned forge hammer aloft in the other. Stepping over the lifeless limbs of the dead, he casts his steely, gray-eyed gaze at the looming, irregularly-shaped cage in the distance.

During a break in the verses of his prayer, he speaks in a soft, solemn voice. The voice of a priest offering his support and strength.

"When the time comes, Thul, do not hesitate in granting him the Emperor's mercy. Do not waver, if he is your friend he deserves a quick end in the face of this suffering."


Watching Savalos approach, the cleric nods to him from where he stands by the door, his expression impassive despite the glare that the ganger gives him.

"A true crusader of the Ecclesiarchy does not balk when confronted by the Warp's foul taint. I will not utter prayers of comfort through a closed door like some lackwit coward. I am going in with you so that I may offer your friend the absolution he requires and the mercy he deserves as a faithful servant of the Emperor."

Looking at the key you carry in hand, Ishmael's eyebrow arches slightly, his brow wrinkling with the scrutiny.

"Strange. That is almost certainly a key to a temple reliquary."


Ishmael turns to Uriah, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Scrutinizing the perspiration slicking the psyker's brow, his expression uncharacteristically softens to genuine concern.

"Do you see it? Do you see the truth now, as I do? Tell me it is not only I that sees the holocaust to come..."


Ishmael, Awareness test, 1d100 ⇒ 81

Ishmael looks further down the hall where a great set of ornate, bullet-riddled double doors stand closed, woodcuts of Ecclesiarchy scripture prominent on their panels.

"Do you hear something?"


Juan 'Johnnie' Rico wrote:


"I think I know who or what the Heretic represents. It is time we talked with the Intelligencer."

Ishmael seizes upon Johnnie's comment with barely tempered spite.

"Aye, we know who the Heretic represents; you need only look around at one another or in a looking glass. If we keep upon this path we will be truly damned. Only the pure can survive the coming firestorm."

His piece said, he then steps out of the surgery into the hall with Iacton to keep watch over the hallway.


Seeing the cards from the doorway, Ishmael shouts into the room at Savalos.

"You hold in your hand the works of a heretic, look not upon them, for they are fit only to be burned! They are a perversion of the sacred tarot of our savior!"


Finally reaching the landing, Ishmael points his enameled revolver down the corridor, over the heads of the others, taking in the destruction wrought from Druuther's last stand. Looking back to Uriah behind him, he curses under his breath, whispering to the psyker.

"The ogryn is dead. My instincts tell me the brute took many with him, but if so, where are their remains?"

Glancing over Uriah's shoulder at something, the cleric continues:

"Rico is coming."

Looking back himself, Uriah sees Juan Rico mounting the stairs, leaving Ivaanov and Albrek to guard the entrance below. Over the arbitrator's shoulder Uriah can see Albrek shaking his head sadly. You know the reason. All of you understand what the violence in the hospice might portend for Quincus. Johnnie's face looks ashen, his jaw trembles slightly with either rage or burgeoning grief, you cannot be certain which.

Perhaps it is both.


Staring at the feathered servitor, Ishmael casts a sidelong glance to the tech priest and mutters.

"I have an inkling that fate or fortune has nothing to do with these coincidences."


Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy

Ishmael, standing beside the door, whispers back to Uriah.

"It smells of death in there!"


Stepping off the lift, Ishmael looks back over his shoulder.

"Perhaps he is the bogey-man, then, Ivaanov, did you consider this?"

As the tech-priest makes to respond, Ishmael waves his hand and shakes his head, stalking away before Ivaanov can say anything.


Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII

Uriah Trantor wrote:

"As the Master orders, so shall it be. Let us be off to the rendezvous point. We are cutting it too close. May the Emperor's wisdom guide us in what we must do."

The enormity of the orders that are on my shoulders, weights down on me. The Emperor give me strength to do what we do and the wisdom to do it right.

"May the pyres of His burning enemies light our way."

Ishmael strides ahead of you and Ivaanov purposefully, leading the way.

"We must hurry if we are to reach the hospice at the designated time."


Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII

Uriah Trantor wrote:
"We do not know the extent of the corruption, but what I just saw, and the holovid we saw, this world is in danger of needing to be cleansed. I pray to the Emperor that it does not come to that, but I know that each of us will do what is necessary."

Ishmael looks blankly off into the middle distance of the narthex chamber, whispering under his breath.

"Cleansed...cleansed with fire...yes, pray it does not come to that..."


Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII

Uriah Trantor wrote:


"I am a voidborn psyker, I have visions most of my life. There is a reason those like me are chosen to serve."

I say this softly, my voice with a rasp in my vox.

Ishmael, his manner the most subdued you have ever seen him, quietly escorts you to the chairs, and then takes his own seat. He lets the silence of the room serve as a buffer before posing his next question, allowing you to regain some semblance of normalcy. It is intentional, and this coupled with assisting you a few minutes ago is perhaps the kindest gesture the cleric has ever made on your behalf.

Just the same, his query is laden with an ominous foreboding when he asks it.

"What will we do if the Master sends no answer?"


Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII

Uriah Trantor wrote:


"Thank you for asking, the power here, granted to them by the Emperor, has shaken me in its glory. I need to sit down and meditate on it."

I will try to walk to the seats. If I am too shaky, I will ask Ishmael to help. I will talk in private to the others about the vision.

You stagger slightly as you make your way to the ring of chairs, and Ishmael catches you by the shoulder. Relenting somewhat, you allow yourself to take his support, although on some level it galls you to do so. When you are halfway to Ivaanov, the cleric whispers into your ear, in a reticent, almost hopeful rasp.

"Do you see them, too? The visions? Do you see the fires?"


Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII

As the fit passes, Ishmael turns from the window and makes his way over to where you stand, somewhat shakily, near the wash-basin. He gives you an appraising look up and down, the sardonic sneer leaving his face momentarily, replaced with a look that suggest genuine concern.

"Uriah, is everything alright? You look unwell."


The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control

Ishmael stares daggers at the piggy little man.

"My sidearm?"


Ishmael seethes with every word from the twist.

"I pray that the rest of you know the restraint I show in suffering this fool of an abomination to live. He should thank the filth he crawled up from my adherence to the mission takes precedence over the desire to watch him burn. My only solace is that this ride is almost ended."


Ishmael, much calmer than before after the filling meal and most of a bottle of vintage amasec looks incredulously from Uriah to Ivaanov. From his glance, it is apparent what his opinion of Uriah and Ivaanov's fighting prowess in a violent engagement is. He sighs in resignation and drains the last of his beverage directly from the bottle. He may be a little bit drunk.

"I will accompany our fearless leader and the tech-priest to the Choir as well. They will need someone to make sure they don't get killed. Uphive or no, it seems like everyone is gunning for us on this Throne forsaken world. The psyker speaks true, better to take precautions."


Savalos Thul wrote:

"To further explain myself as to why I need Krade's pic for confirmation. There was a girl who was like a kid sister to me. She died just over a couple years ago. Her body was taken from the hospice by a man fitting Krade's description. That girl looks identical to Kalaziel. Kalaziel entered into Krades service the same time Maia was taken. I need to know."

"If you have useful information pretaining to this Ishmael. I would like to hear it."

Ishmael looks poleaxed by Albrek's revelation. His righteous indignation fades within seconds of the guardsman's comment. He peers into his amasec carafe as if looking for answers.

"I...I...don't know anything of this, Thul..."

Ishmael turns to Uriah as the psyker speaks, nodding, but looking blankly ahead, seemingly lost somewhere in his past.

"Yes...alright."


Savalos Thul wrote:


"Finally I need a reliable pic of Krade. And I need to confirm that image with someone. If the image is confirmed...Then I am going on a Wolf Hunt. Cause then Krade crossed me personal like. And I will vent him. The Old Man should know upfront. Not to mention what the Yellobacks did to my family. Johnnie, I expect you to back me against the Yellobacks. The Duct Wolves are your family too. Regardless if you where a badge now or not."

I take a deep drink from my glass. Damn I need a refill already.

Ishmael chuckles, shaking his head as he decants another glass of his amasec. He quickly drains the glass, staring at Uriah, eyes never wavering from him while responds to Savalos' last statement.

"My apologies, ganger! I must have been mistaken when I assumed that the five of us were recruited to serve the God Emperor of Mankind on his Golden Throne under the tutelage and absolute control of Inquisitor Ahmazzi of the Holy Ordos of the Inquisition, the former coincidentally being my first and most important master, while the latter Uriah so frequently reminds me is the worldly vector for the former's will."

"Since our landing on this accursed, corrupted, mushroom-stinking rock the psyker has not missed one opportunity to lecture me on this matter. I see fit to lecture a little myself, now. Forgive me if I have forgotten that our primary reason for coming here in the first place was for you to assuage your homesickness and formulate a vendetta upon our master's designated contact based on the irrational speculation given you by some drug addicted medicae. Perhaps it is cavalier of me to presume that the corrupting powers of the taint of Chaos itself should take secondary concern to your hurt feelings."

"What say you, Uriah? Tongue-tied are you? Let me then perform your duty as senior acolyte in our master's little coterie, since you seem confused as to your obligations to redirect our little wayward hive scum, here."

Ishmael smiles, waggling his finger in scolding fashion at Uriah.

"There is no playing favorites, psyker."

Ishmael fills his glass again, sets it too his lips and drains it away once again. He looks directly at Savalos, his voice raised, but level.

"You FORGET YOURSELF acolyte. The petty little dramas of your specious previous life are meaningless now. You SERVE the HOLY INQUISITION of the EMPEROR OF MANKIND, and you will perform your duty!"


Ishmael stares intently at the footage as it is played back again.

Ishmael tests Perception, 1d100 ⇒ 51


Ishmael shrugs, his curiosity picqued, but he is not quite willing to commit to witnessing the footage firsthand.

"I will accept your description as the truth of the matter. However, I find it disconcerting and hard to accept that some repugnant fat man living in a mirror along with a legion of tiny bogey-men made off with our contact through a reflection."

Looking hard at Rico's ashen expression, he thinks better of the bravado leading him toward witnessing the vid-captures himself.

"But, all the same, I will accept your word as truth."


Ishmael points to the weighty legal tome resting on the table.

"What is the book for, tech-priest? Are you considering on studying up and replacing your employer?"


Ishmael chuckles, wryly.

"Please, a bottle of Scintillan amasec if you would, my dear. Something in a vintage more than twenty years of age standard. And please, nothing kept in stasis. I have refined tastes and it will not go unnoticed."


Ishmael eyes the mechadendrites suspiciously as they collect his ornate firearm and other weapons.

"That had best be returned to me in the condition in which it was found, machine."

The machine doesn't acknowledge the cleric's implied threat, but it seems to make Ishmael feel better about relinquishing his heirloom revolver.


Ishmael looks up at the streaming pennants and flags, his head turning to take them all of those visible on this edge of the gear-shaped building's roofline.

"What is the significance of this tattered heraldry?"

The cleric sounds genuinely curious.


Ishmael looks back at Iacton, his face drawn back in the familiar sneer that you have grown to know so well. The contented, almost exalted calm his visage carried such a short time ago while his revolver brought death to the gangers is long gone. He points at Kalaziel.

"What does your master see in this ill-omened thing. It haunts our every step like some leering, malformed, child-like gargoyle. Can it really be wise to follow it's vague cues?"


As the pair of gangers flee for their lives, Ishmael raises his pistol again, tracking their heads like a target shooter tracks a pair of clay pigeons, and settling on the faster one, depresses the trigger gently.

The sharp report of the ornate revolver is followed by the cleric yelling after his quarry.

"Run? Run? You begat this gunplay cowards, at least have the courage to finish it like men!"

Ishmael fires his revolver again, BS = 46, Aiming (+10), modified BS = 56, roll 1d100 ⇒ 65

The round whizzes over the ganger's head, causing him to flinch and piston his legs all the faster in his attempt to escape.


Ishmael moves forward a few meters, abruptly stops in his tracks, and while standing bolt upright, reaches into his cloak for his frag grenade, and casually pulls the pin as if he was yanking the tab on an alluminum beverage container. He considers the object in his hand for a second, and then rolls it under the bench where the three gangers take cover.

Ishmael moves to "U8", then rolls his grenade under the gap beneath the bench, aiming for square "Q3". BS = 46, Short Range (+10), modified BS = 56, 1d100 ⇒ 66

Miss, rolling for scatter diagram, 1d10 ⇒ 5, meters away, 1d5 ⇒ 2. The grenade lands in "Q5" instead.

The grenade bounces up off of a dip in the cobblestones and doesn't quite make it underneath the stone bench, detonating with a tooth-rattling explosion just in front of it.

Damage, 2d10 ⇒ (5, 10) = 15

The crumbling rockcrete bench serves as cover for two of the gangers, "Q3" and "R3" (the fat one didn't get behind it), counting as 4 AP, all three attempt to duck down to avoid the shrapnel (count as Dodge tests).

Ganger "Q3", Dodge test, 1d100 ⇒ 44
Ganger "R3", Dodge test, 1d100 ⇒ 99
Ganger "S3", Dodge test, 1d100 ⇒ 8

The concussive shakes the very ground of the roundabout and shrapnel flies in every direction, the two gangers behind the bench scream in agony as they are pierced by the fragments. Unfortunately for the fat, gut-shot ganger, his Agility bonus (2) is not enough to get him out of the Blast Effect, mostly due to the blocking wall, even though he succeeded on his Dodge check.

Ganger "Q3", hit location, 1d100 ⇒ 78
Ganger "R3", hit location, 1d100 ⇒ 15
Ganger "S3", hit location, 1d100 ⇒ 86

The grenade rips the entire left leg off of the fat ganger wounded previously by Ishmael, throwing his body like a bulbous rag doll against the wall of a derelict hab-block. The ganger with the autogun manages to duck in time, but the shrapnel rips under the bench, tearing into his leg and shredding it. The ganger next to him was standing to fire another round and is blown back with concussive force to the ground, choking and coughing from the impact and the rockcrete dust raining down all around. Both are seriously injured, but scramble to regain their footing. The thug with the jammed autogun digs through his vest for a sidearm, while the other sifts through the rubble of the bench for the revolver he dropped.


Ishmael centers his aim and fires at the fat ganger's center mass.

BS = 46, Point Blank on a fat ass target (+30), Aimed (+10), modified BS = 86, roll 1d100 ⇒ 74

The round blows a clean hole in the center of the hive scum's chest.

Damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

The fat ganger staggers back, incredulous he has been hit.


Ishmael moves to the left flank of the group to start a protective ring around the tech priest and psyker. His ornate Gunmetallican revolver is already in hand.

He whispers:

"Emperor guide my hand, it looks like Mount Thollos will soon erupt"

Initiative: 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4


Ishmael sighs, looks down at his duct wolf scat-stained boots, and looks back up as the others quietly file out of the alleyway to follow Kalaziel. Unholstering his revolver, he flips open the oversized cylinder and double checks that each is occupied. Satisfied, he flips it closed, and slides it back in.

"Fine. But by the smell of this district, I don't like our odds of walking out of it dressed like a Malfian Commercia delegation!"

He removes the brocaded vest and cloak he has been wearing since the Void Needle and tosses them to the ground in disgust as he stalks out into the thoroughfare.


Ishmael looks on in bafflement as Uriah strides out of the alley, following Kalaziel.

"So, what? Now we are just going to follow that thing around like some preening lecher follows his chosen courtesan? Where are Thul and the others then? I trust it not. There is something foul about its countenance."


Ishmael frowns.

"I guess this was the tail we were waiting for. I'm not sure that I want to remain behind to see what else it might bring."


Iacton pauses in his investigation of the scene when he hears Uriah speaking into the microbead.

A moment later, about ten meters further down the corridor, one of the heavy cage doors opens outward and a tired-looking man dressed in faded gray fatigues with the tell-tale bulges of full flak armor beneath steps out, lasgun in hand. He signals down the tunnel, and another, younger, red haired man with a sardonic expression steps out from another door about five meters behind you, spinning an elaborately ornamented revolver around his finger before holstering it.

Ivaanov nearly jumps out of his potentia coil in surprise, spinning around and shakily aiming his compact las at the newcomer behind the party.

"Easy metal man, it doesn't have to stay in the holster."


"This is my preference as well. An explosive collar would not be enough for me to drag one of those filthy, misshapen creatures, anyway."


In typical, blunt, callous fashion, Ishmael asks,

"Is she dead?"


Ishmael re-aims his pistol, casually walking to almost right beside the ogryn, and aims for the tenaciously clinging duct wolf's center mass again.

Ishmael fires, adjusted for point blank, 1d100 ⇒ 61

The bullet blows another hole in the duct wolf's side, the wondrously effective product of the Gunmetallican forges doing its intended work.

Damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

It takes Druuther several seconds before he realizes that his persistent attacker is dead, and he stops shaking his arm. He only prises the beast's jaws off his armor with Ishmael's assistance, and the cleric's distaste for touching the creature is clearly evident on his face with the effort.

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