!!1tDIRRlgZfN 08/25/10(Wed)04:02 No.11815772|
>"More than two if you count that whelp I blew a hole in."
"I don't think the rest of the tech-marines fancy your company either." he replies, then inspects your armor "Are you okay?"
You shrug off the helping hands and straighten yourself.
"I'm fine." you say, then you think again. "I just wish I knew what's going on."
You look at the cut in your breastplate. It is cooling rapidly, and as it seems it started to reknit itself. You shiver at the thought.
"I wish that myself sometimes, brother." the champion says.
You measure the man once again. He's wearing an ornate Mark V battleplate, its breastplate featuring an eight pointed star. He's face is half covered by a black respirator mask, giving a harsh contrast to glacier blue eyes that shine with cruel intellect. The left side of his scalp is covered with burn marks. He wears his hair in a tall topknot, like many members of the warrior lodges present in the Legion.
On his side hangs, holstered, an ornate plasma pistol, while his left hand is encased in a monstrous powerfist.
His men, some of them you met earlier today, Daren, Furion, Loki, and Aesir, all of them killers without conscience, but not without honour. You see an icon of Tzeentch, one of the Four Chaos Gods hang on a chain in the neck of Loki.
"So tell us, how did you get in so much feces, and what makes you threaten apothecaries, and shot tech-marines."