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 Recent Posts
"Die, filthy xenos!" The round catches the creature in the center of it's mass, ripping through flesh, sinew and bone, causing the beast to flinch and shake with the impact.
The creature snarls, spraying discolored blood from its muzzle.
Ishmael almost casually squeezes off a carefully aimed shot with his revolver at the duct wolf leaping toward Savalos, just as the great beast pounces.
The bullet passes inches over Savalos' head, the round ripping through the creature's right flank as it jumps.
The wound cripples the creature, and it crashes into the hiver, right forelimb hanging limp and useless, chest exploded outward, blood-flecked foam spewing from it's mouth into Savalos' violet hair. The wolf's weight slams Savalos to the floor of the tunnel, but the beast is clearly dead, unmoving, as it looses its last ragged breaths into his ear.
Ishmael looks around, wrinkling his nose in distaste before drawing his gleaming Gunmetallican revolver. "Bah, I can see you have come home, Thul, the place has your smell about it. What is that, anyway, mouldering mushroom?" When the cleric steps forward, his foot squishes into something with a soft 'sploosh'. He immediately recoils, the mocking grin on his face twisting into a look of abject revulsion.
Ishmael waits for Albrek to finish before steepling his hands upon the table, and closing his eyes, speaking slowly and thoughtfully as he does so. "The way is not clear in my heart. I disagree with Uriah, but not for the reasons you all would assume. The longer we remain here, the sooner we will be discovered by our hidden adversaries. We will then cede whatever small advantage we still possess. We do not know these men. Even if they are loyal to Krade, who is to say they will not be the next to feel the wrath of his enemies?" Ishmael turns to Johnnie, opening his eyes and brazenly grinning his rictus of a smile. "It seems we are divided, I believe your vote will decide the plurality, arbitrator."
Ishmael's mouth creases into a half-grin. "I will take any man's plea of penance, and gladly administer absolution or purge and cauterize the transgressor's sins my own way if the Emperor finds his faith lacking." "Of whom do you speak?"
Ishmael's eyes narrow slightly as Uriah makes his impassioned speech and some of the cleric's arrogant, mocking, ire falters somewhat. Although you doubt he has been shamed, it appears some measure of reason has returned to his demeanor. Looking away from the psyker, he begins to gather his own weapons, re-holstering them methodically. Without looking directly at Uriah, the cleric addresses him as he re-holsters his heirloom revolver. "Within Infernis, the lowest hives of Gunmetal City, my birthplace, there is an expression: 'Until the gun is forged, there is no sense trying to kill anyone with it; you will only burn your hand.' ...I concede you are correct in this...we have a duty to attend to."
Ishmael stands aloof in the corner of the entry foyer, obscured by shadow. When Uriah turns on him and issues his demand, the Redemptionist steps forward into the dim amber glow radiating from an ornate lamp set upon a pearl-inlaid curio table. He says nothing, staring the whole time at the psyker, and proceeds to place his revolver and looted autopistol on the piece of antique furniture. He then slips the metal crossbow from his shoulder and lets it slide to the floor behind him with a clatter. His self-disarmament culminates in the cleric dropping the heavy hammer to the floor with an ominous thud. Eyes never leaving Uriah, he smiles, lips tightly closed, and pulls the frag grenade from inside of his vestments, dangling it mockingly from the pull-pin for a moment. "I, like my My Master, serve the God Emperor. My oath is sacrosanct and unremmitting. I have not faltered in my duties, or deviated from what My Master expects of me. My loyalty to him is unswerving and my honor unimpeachable. I can see how a warp-tainted twist such as yourself may be confused by such things as faith..." Ishmael slips the grenade back into his clothing, patting it once for good measure. "Nevertheless, you have my oath of steadfast service as chosen proxy to Master Ahmazzi, as he does his service in the name of He Who Sits Upon the Golden Throne. For what you are, be grateful you have even this. I expect that you, too, will be judged one day, Uriah, as you have seen fit to judge me. I urge you to recall the third of the holy Scintillan Dictates: 'Though shall not over-esteem thine own importance...' "Words to live by. Let us not forget what brought us here in the first place, I am not the only one who perhaps needs a reminder."
Ishmael smirks, and looks to Savalos. "The destination is an Adeptus Arbites spire, perhaps Savalos is just fearful that they may have an open warrant in his docket and take him into custody for some past indiscretion." "Hrmphh, I am of a mind to go where the winged-freak suggests. If our contact is there, we should have nothing to fear. Well, most of us, anyway."
Ishmael seethes in his seat, the anger whipping through him like a firestorm. The visions came more frequently now. Sometimes even during his waking hours, they fueled his rage, filling him with a fury beyond reckoning. He was certain the others had noticed his madness, but their attacker reeked of the corruption that the fire sought to cleanse. Even as the hammer rained down upon his broken form, he knew that it was the only way he could appease the urges within. Still. He had angered the voidborn freak. Defied his temporal master's authority. It would not sit well with them. Reason was returning, this was good, at least for a time. The epiphanies were so vivid now, he almost welcomed them. Burning. Everything aflame with His divine fire. Not yet. Not yet, but soon. He only needed to bide his time and the deeper understanding would come. As much as he was loathe to admit it, the psyker was correct about one thing. The prayer. In his fit of fury he had sought to defy the buzzing buffoon in any way possible. But he had been wrong. Sinned. He must atone for this. Immediately. Standing, Ishmael makes his way to the archway leading to the shuttle's bridge and re-tethers his hammer to his belt. He puts an arm around both Albrek and Johnnie, and bowing his head, intones in a deep stentorian voice, a prayer to his one and only true master. "May the light that shines forth from His fiery heart bathe us all in the pure radiance of His absolution. May He Who is His Own Prisoner illuminate the path of our travails, shine His Molten Purity upon the Corruption that lurks in the darkness between, and purge with His Divine Inferno the evil that is revealed to us, his servants, upon this crusade we now embark upon. Throne Save Us All." Smiling genuinely, calming now, Ishmael comforts himself with the knowledge that although the fire dims, the ember still smolders, and the firestorm can always rekindle itself from the tiniest of sparks. Always.
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