Oskar's Tale Weaving

[AnOskar]

So yea, this shall be my tithe of this interweb kingdom. To all those who are not familiar with me, I'm Oskar, zé man of roleplaying games. My passion especially is the Warhammer 40k universe, and therefore most of my work takes place there. However, there are a few odd balls and separate projects that I haven't completed for one reason or another, and some of them might even pop up here...

Anyway, I shall kick things off with my current piece of work. It is the creative writing diploma work for my literature studies in high school, a 40k fic called Flower & Raven, detailing the early life of a Dark Heresy villain Master Raven I use in one of my campaigns. Though it isn't finished, I shall post the first entry of it here. Please enjoy. More will follow.

Flower & Raven, Part 1:

The man broke the seal on the slender glass vial in his hand, holding his breath. His heart was pounding heavily, like the reaper inside himself had picked up a sledgehammer and started pounding his ribcage with it. His hands traced the smooth surface of a glass vial almost caressingly, feeling the soothing coldness of it while his eyes studied the transparent liquid and how it obeyed the laws of gravity in moving into the vial from the other one it had called its home for thirteen months. The man let out a sigh of relief as he sealed the vial and placed it onto a rack in front of him. The risky part was finally over. If the balance between caligram and nioria extract was off even by a fraction of a millilitre, the whole concoction would have turned into a cloud of gas as soon as it came in contact with oxygen. Gas that when inhaled would cause its victim’s lungs to burn by causing them to dry up rapidly. But now, it was a poison even more lethal, resting in its sparkling form in the vial like tears of an angel… of death.

He stared at the vial for a while. It and the mix of exotically sweet smells, that were caressing his nostrils seductively even now, reminded him about what he had become in the end. A pawn. A pawn in this game of politics and vendettas that Xicarph’s higher peers of social society had become. The darker side of the pleasure world Quaddis, the playground of Calixian nobility. It was the evening, but not the night. There still was the night. A smile split his face, an ironic smile of insane glee and amusement. Was this what made the life worth living? Watching the beauty of a flower growing while full aware that it fed itself with the nutrients provided by the constantly filling cemetery in which it grew in. He rose up, running his hand through his own hair that had been crowned with fine silver. He liked how it looked, but not what it represented. “Oh well… It won’t be long now…” he muttered, his voice rasping dryly like a parchment left into the sun for six hours and then squeezed into a crump. It was like all those books he had been forced to knead through under the tutelage of his mentor, the sound of parchment rubbing against parchment as his hands gently turned from page to another and eyes devoured everything on the page in an instant. He had been hungry, and what had he gained from it? Death. Head full of death.

The man took off his apron and folded it neatly onto the table next to him, then grapping his jet-black robes and pulling them over his head. To the nobles, he was a valuable pawn. To the targets he was an ill omen, a messenger carrying the ticket to the eternal rest or Immaterium, where the demons devoured their souls in order to satisfy their hunger. Which one they ended up in, the man didn’t care nor think about. He had long since lost his faith in the Golden Throne and the God-Emperor. That’s what happened in this line of work: Seeing the strands of life snap one by one in a choir of high-pitched, wailing notes, made you really think whether or not the One in Terra cared at all as the beloved Imperium he had built through blood, sweat and despair killed itself from the inside. He checked the leather harness with small sockets running throughout it, testing if every single one of them was properly fastened around the small glass vial it carried. So small, so fragile… Each of them would send a man or a woman to embrace their final destiny. To the nobility, he was a pawn. A valuable pawn. The best in this line of work. He picked up his face mask, the ill omen of his conviction. It was darkened silver, shaped like a raven’s head, each feather’s tip and groove in the beak detailed intricately. The carrier of silent death, the ambassador of the nearing end. To everyone, he was master Raven.

As the lock of the door clicked behind him, Raven checked the sockets under his robes carefully one more time. They were not allowed to be too loose nor too tight. The latter would apply too much pressure onto the glass, causing it grow weaker and even break when he moved around. In the case of them being too loose, the vials would smash and bump against the sides of the socket, which would also most likely lead into them breaking. His art was murder, and in murder success was equal to perfection, and survival equal to paranoia and success. Finding all of the sockets correctly fastened, he grabbed his slender fencing sword with silvered finger guard from the weapon rack in front of him and pulled it out from its scabbard. The blade glowed in an eerie way in the light of the candles illuminating the room, once again offering Raven a cruel reminding about the present. He ignored it, running finger cautiously on the surface of the weapon near the edge, surface that had tasted blood of countless victims in the past and would taste it countless times again even after he had passed to the next step. It had been sharpened well, the monomolecular edge giving a small, but painful cut into the skin of his finger. To any of his victims, that small cut would’ve been fatal. Raven nodded approvingly. The miniscule holes were not clogged, so the dispenser would work without problems. He then proceeded, turning the tip of the blade towards the floor and opening the hidden lid on the bottom of the handle. The hidden compartment was just big enough for a small glass vial to fit inside…

[Nuff]

Well, he certainly doesn't seem like a very nice chap

[Squival]

wow very descriptive writin, was wonderfully eerie readin about this character. lookin forward to readin more about him, a Venenum assassin? or just hired assassin who's perfected his poisining art?

[AnOskar]

After a long while, it's me again. I just had a slight burst of inspiration to write and I thought I should do another short one for you to enjoy. This is a small background story for one of my playgroup's RPG projects.

=I= The Apostate =I=

At first, there was only darkness. Darkness and the loud humming of the thruster engines of the lander. It assaulted my senses like a roar of an otherwordly being, ripping my ears apart and tearing me from the reverie of sleep. Perhaps, now that I think about it, it was for the best. My dreams had never been pleasant... at least those ones I could still remember. The eyes still haunted my mind... white, lifeless and blaming. No doubt every single one of them wanted to grab me by the waist and drag me down into the depths of the same misery they were experiencing at this very moment.

I tried to easen the rhythm of my breathing while eyeing the surroundings that were slowly revealing themselves to me, as my photoptic filters were slowly restarting their systems and adjusting accordingly to the darkness of the passenger space of the lander. The hard benches opposite to me were empty, just like the whole lander. Only one who had boarded besides me was the pilot servitor that had to be replaced at the space port due to the malfunctioning of the previous one. Normally, I would've considered this change alarming, but this time my mind had been surprisingly at ease.

Perhaps it was the slight feeling of victory I had experienced when I had learned that my target had fled to this planet and I was finally back on his trail. After several years of investigation, inquiry and infiltration that had felt like an eternity, one of my agents had discovered him in the place I never had imagined he'd have courage to show up in, though most likely it was insanity working on this one over courage. Anyhow, he had played his cards well, I had to give him that. He had compeltely fooled my agents and authority as an imperial inquisitor of Ordo Hereticus for almost a decade.

Perhaps it was the fact that after many decades, I had once again set my foot on the planet I was born in so long time ago. I had completely forgotten about childhood back then, but the instant the soles of my feet touched the metal paneled floors of Forge Brinsing and the freezing winds embraced my entire body through the several layers of insulated clothing I was wearing at the moment, I knew that I had come home.

Perhaps it was the power hidden beyond, in the twisting bowels of Immaterium. A power that used its vile grasp to cloud my mind, lulling it into a false sense of security. Or then it was all of these things at once. I cannot tell. Only the God-Emperor of Terra would now for sure. And he has not spoken to those that worship him for thousands of years. Some whispers of his demise, and silently within the shadowy reaches of my mind, I believe them. But then again, my roots are deep in the cold and desolate flats of Brinsing, covered in metal and pipelining of the mighty forges of Adeptus Mechanicus. I have always felt more at home while standing next to a blazing plasma furnace than sitting in a bench of eccleshiarchal cathedral. Many have shunned me because of this, and I really can't blame them.

I waved my arms around a bit to once again get used to the neural wirings that had been dormant during my sleep. It stinged a bit, but at least I was able to move them. The freezing climate of Brinsing was not the best friend of bionics, and mine were especially intricate. The layered plasteel and ceramite that protected the circuitry within them were no match for the wind that wriggled in from even the smallest gap it found. With a flicking gesture, I revealed my forearm power blade built into my hand, and checked that the field was working without problems. As the shimmering, blue ripples of energy appeared around the slender blade, shining brightly in my filter lenses, and the silent humming which was mostly drowned out by the sound of the engines, reached my ears, I felt reassured. With another gesture, the field dissipated and the blade retracted back into its compartment.

I waited. For how long, I can't tell. For some reason, I didn't pick up my chrono to check. It felt so pointless then. The flight to forge Syber was a long one, and until I had arrived there, I really couldn't do anything. As usual, my mind wandered back into my mission. It did that always when I had nothing to do; going through the details and objectives again and again. However, when it came to Elgentroff Logotov, I start to trace back in time...

It had been 20 years since I had encountered the mad man called Elgentroff Logotov for the first time. I had been visiting Calixis Sector as a part of my initiation to the Inquisition, and was supposed to meet one of my senior colleagues in Tranch, a hiveworld that was recovering from a mutant uprising it had suffered a few decades before. My mission was to locate a small coven hereteks who had been rumored to possess several pieces of forbidden warp techonology. I had just become an inquisitor myself, so I was rather brash, young and eager to prove myself, but still I had prepared for the worst. Unfortunately, what awaited me had been even worse...

In a matter of hours, I had lost almost all of the stormtroopers I had been granted by my superiors. All fourty of them. The best of the best. However, no matter how well-trained, a man is rarely able to kill something inhuman... and what Logotov had prepared for us definitely wasn't human. The horrifying sights of that day still haunt me, tormenting my mind by showing all those men I lost being torn apart brutally. Even I wasn't spared. As my men died in the hands of the his monsters, Logotov managed to capture me as his plaything. The cackling maniac, shrouded in black robes... Several tentacle-like mechadendrites ending to syringes and blades still wet from blood... The pain... I blacked out at some point due to the agony that no living man could possibly bare.

By the time my colleague found me, I was as close to dying as possible. My eyes had been pulled out. My arms lay on the floor in a mess of skin, blood, muscle fiber and bone fragments. My stomach had been ripped open and half of my innards were spilling out onto the operating table. Only luck saved me. Luck, and my friends within Mechanicus. My first mission as an inquisitor was an utter failure. I later heard that even though most of the hereteks had either been executed on the spot or captured, they had never found Logotov. The bastard had somehow escaped.

After my recovery, I began my search for him. Elgentroff Logotov, the Necrosavant. There was close to nothing I could dig up about him or his past. I was running wildly after rumors and gossip, desperate to find even the slightest hint about him or his goals. Nothing turned up, until I had met him again, this time in hive Orsir of Ragna sub-sector, located in Radixus sector. I was tracking down warp tech auction between two major heretek factions, and managed to intercept it and detain several keymembers. One of them was able to escape me, so I quickly initiated a hot pursuit, only to find out that the one I was pursuing was Logotov. What followed was a furious cat-and-mouse between us in the lower hives of Orsir, but in the end, he once again escaped.

However, now I had once again picked up his trail. This time I will get him. This time I will lay all these ghosts of my mind to rest once and for all. I no longer feel this as my duty to the Imperium and the Golden Throne. During my whole career as an imperial inquisitor, it has gotten personal. The red landing lights turn on. I raise my gaze and have a long look at them. We have arrived. Soon, my hand-vox starts bleeping, and I raise it to my lips while pressing the button on the side. A mechanical, monotonous voice bursts from it, as a techpriest secutor speaks: "This is main security unit of forge Syber. Give us your name and identity codes for landing procedures and docking rights." I let out a soft sigh before answering: "Jericus Asadrei. Protocol #762, procedure #106." The silence on the other side of the vox-link doesn't surprise me at all. "Clearance granted. Please wait for an escort in the landing area, Inquisitor."

[AnOskar]

Few weeks ago, I was introduced to roleplaying game called "Shadowrun", and got immediately hooked up. The setting is extremely fascinating, and besides some of the more complex and intricate part of the game mechanics, the rules are rather easy to learn. This is the start of the background story for my Shadowrun character, Isaac Mercury, and more will most likely come pretty soon since I have finished my matriculation examination and have loads of free time on my hands. ^W^


The darkness of the apartment was only disrupted by the gloomy and flickering light emanating through the opened door of the bathroom, drawing the outlines of several piles of books scattered all over the floor. The air inside was stale, and it was clear that the person living inside was not the greatest fan of the great outdoors. Indeed, due to his rare disease, Isaac Mercury spent much of his time inside and only left the apartment to buy groceries and necessities of living. At the given moment however, he was hunched over the sink platform of the bathroom, carefully opening a small plastic pack with his quivering and shaking hands, spilling the fine, yellowish dust out as soon as he made a hole. Gazing into the mirror one more time, an amused smirk split his sickly facial features, bloodshot eyes giving a rather radical contrast to the pale and grimy skin accompanied by the messy, shoulder length grey hair. Inside his head, thousands of hammers kept on pounding his skull, causing intense pain and agony, while silent words were whispering their desires into his ears, feeding the ever growing temptation within the dark recesses of his mind. Hands shaking even more intensely, Isaac reached for the back pocket of his baggy trousers, trying to reach for something…

His eyes opened suddenly, as consciousness took control once again. As Isaac’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the apartment, he was finally able to see where the wall ended and ceiling started. Next, he realized he was resting in his bed, but how he had ended up in it, the man had no friggin’ clue. “Fucking narc… Must’ve kicked the dust up to improve sales…” he muttered silently to himself, while slowly dragging his own body into a sitting position. His head was still blurry as hell, but it would go over soon and the headache was completely gone. Wonderful. Pixie dust was good stuff, but it had a nasty side effect that caused short term memory loss, and it sometimes made things a bit complicated and annoying. He would sniff it up, get high as fuck and then just forget about everything. That’s what his books had said about it at least, and Isaac really couldn’t share his own personal experiences, since bloody narco-enhanced amnesia always wiped his mind clear of everything that happened during his high.

As he reached for his commlink which he had removed and turned off for the duration of his little trip to Nowhereland, Isaac knocked down a glass of something that spilled all over the floor. The contents smelled extremely suspicious, and recalling what he had poured into that glass, and more importantly when he had poured it, didn’t yield any enlightening results. Was it soymilk? Or that vegetable bilge Robert had given to him as a “gift” several weeks ago? The bloody guy tried turn everyone else away from the “artificial and unhealthy” food items that were the only affordable ones in the stuffers shacks these days, and instead eat naturally produced, expensive as hell munchies that tasted the exact same… with the exception of the stuff Robert himself ate, which was always something made out of algae, cabbage and something he referred to only as “herbs”… and people addressed Isaac for sniffing Pixie dust! The background light of his commlink illuminated his face, as Isaac grabbed his glasses and put them onto their place, activating the imagelink programmed into their lenses. Immediately several floating menus and screens popped up all around the apartment, and Isaac began the arduous job of flipping through each one of them. He should’ve done this this before going high…

Ten minutes later he had finished the management of his household. He’d have to go shopping, since the only things left in the fridge were six bottles of Robert’s herbal concoctions, one box of soydough which he used to make his food, two cartons of soymilk, one of them expired two days ago, and three cans of apple cider which didn’t remember buying. His economy, though not on the red, was slowly fading away. He still had roughly 2,000 nuyen on his account, but he’d have to get a job soon or he’d lose the apartment in a month. A job… Even the thought of it made Isaac let out a sigh. How long it had been since he had run the last time? A month? Two? He had not heard anything about the gang, except Robert who kept popping up every now and then to ask him out for a drink or to test yet another crappy vegetarian restaurant. As he was casually going through unread messages his inbox had been bulging with, Isaac kept removing all adverts and spam, some of which were Roger’s links for new restaurants and bars or another lamentation about a girl that had dumped him, he had been receiving for the last few weeks. Nothing. Siske had not sent him a thing.

Isaac rose up onto his feet and stretched his sore limbs for a while. It felt so good. After that he started making his way to the fridge, nabbing the fallen plastic drinking glass from the floor and sending a cleaning request for the block’s cleaning robot. It had been long since his place had been tidied up, and the… whatever had been spilled onto the floor from that glass would certainly make his life into hell someday if it wouldn’t be cleaned off. As he placed the glass into the washbasin and filled it with water, Isaac opened the fridge and took the last soydough pack out, ripping the packaging open and a pouring the white mass onto a plate. Just when he was programming the flavoring settings for the microwave oven, his commlink let out a bleep, and a sudden pop-up window informed him that he had received a new message from Siske. For a moment, Isaac completely forgot about his food. He just stood in his place, reading the message over and over again, his rejoicing and excited grin growing wider and wider with every passing second. Finally!

Leaving the clump of dough onto the plate, Isaac rushed to his nightstand and opened the lowest drawer. At last they had gotten a client. He quickly pulled out a plain, black t-shirt which he put on, but the most important stuff was hidden under it. Taking of the piece of clothing revealed a dark, wooden box which had been stashed into the very back of the drawer. Shivering from excitement, Isaac pulled the box out and opened it. Inside were two rather peculiar objects: a thin silver chain from which several small and rather odd items were hanging, and a palm-sized mirror with some dried bloodsplatters all over its surface. As he run his fingers on the mirror, Isaac felt the power resting within it, letting a streak of silent laughter. It had been too long since he had used it. He hanged the chain around his neck and checked that all the items were there and in good condition: dried finger of an elf, three feathers of a raven tied together and last the tiny, blood soaked straw doll. All of his fetishes were there. Good. Working his mojo would be much harder and exhausting without them, especially for those who studied the dark arts like him. Witches. Outcasts to the astral society of the 2060s created by the old farts of the Hermetic institutions working for the corps. Those who dabbled with the black magic, a remnant from the dark ages of mankind when the witch hunts were still raging around Europe. Holding the mirror in his hand, Isaac turned his attention towards his trench coat that was hanging from a hook on the wall next to the door. With a swift gesture and silent incantations that was like a whisper, the coat rose up into the air and floated right into Isaac’s outstretched hand. His grin got even wider. Isaac Mercury was once again going on a run.

Before he left his apartment, Isaac picked up his side arm; Colt Manhunter, a semi-automatic pistol he always carried with him in a concealed armpit holster. He had never used it really, but Siske had always said that even a mage should always pack some iron with him, just in case something batshit insane would go down on a run. Then, after throwing one final glance around the apartment, Isaac stepped out and locked the door behind himself. Thank god the sun had set down a few hours ago, otherwise the shining sun would fry him onto the streets of London due to his cellular allergy to the sunlight. He had never understood the logic behind it really, even though he had gone to med-school and all, but somehow his skin went through some kind of reverse photosynthesis whenever it came in contact with sunlight, causing it to burn the cellular structure and fry active cells of his skin. He had downloaded the coordinates and the address of the bar, where Siske wanted the gang to gather up, onto his commlink. Apparently there was something big going on and they were privileged to go and pick some spoils out of it. Months of patient waiting had finally paid off. They had a client. A triple-A-ranked megacorp possibly. Isaac was hyped, his fingers twitching impatiently inside his pocket, fiddling the surface of the mirror. They were going on a Shadowrun.

[Iggy]

Absolutely brilliant <3

Although I assume Isaac is going to flip if he finds out that the bar they're meeting at is one of the ones Robert had been trying to get him too for weeks x3

[AnOskar]

And here continues the story of Isaac Mercury. What kind of exciting adventure will he experience this time?

The bar was not a bar, but more like a small pub in the corner of a small mall somewhere around Piccadilly. Isaac had been there a few times, once with Robert and the rest by himself. It was a nice, quiet place with few customers, a fact that made it totally worth visiting. Otherwise, Isaac would never set his foot on Piccadilly. It was swarming with other people around night time, every single one bombarded by thousands of virtual ads, bright signs and never-ending noise that was a concoction of loud music, traffic noises and people talking. Had he possessed a more advanced commlink model than the one he was currently using, he could have eliminated most of the factors of dislike and annoyance, but since his personal finances were not the best possible, he couldn’t afford such luxuries at the given moment. However, this might change after the next run. Siske had promised something big, and he wasn’t the kind of person to exaggerate when it came to business. So even though the bright lights caused his bloodshot eyes to turn watery and slightly irritated, Isaac Mercury was smiling his own sickly, amused smile. As he glided through the crowd while being bombarded by commercial neon spam, Isaac was slowly starting to feel alive once again, a feeling of excitement that had been dormant for a long stirring within him. This night would be a good one.

The sign of “Rowdy Rabbit” had been modified to play an animation of dancing rabbit when viewed through an Imagelink, a little thing that amused Isaac a bit whenever he saw it. After admiring it for a while he just stepped inside, pushing the door aside and letting it slam itself shut behind him. Immediately the smell of cheap cigarettes and alcohol assaulted his nostrils. The furniture, unlike most of the bars and pubs of today, were made of wood, creating a classy atmosphere that Isaac fancied a lot. Ol’ Jim was behind the counter, his over 2-meter-tall frame dwarfing Isaac’s own and anyone’s in the bar all together, but since he was a troll, this was to be expected. Jim had been the “victim” of the goblinization that had taken place some decades after the magic had returned to the world through an event known as “Awakening”. He had greyish skin and backwards curving horns, and his yellow, beady eyes turned towards Isaac as the door was opened. “Oh, it’s you, Blake… How’s it runnin’?” Jim asked, his voice sounding like a growl. Isaac nodded a greeting, while navigating through the wooden tables towards the counter. Marcus Blake was his fake ID to which his current SIN, System Identification Number, was registered to. “Same old, same old… though I hope that it will change tonight… How about you, Jimmie? By the looks of it, there aren’t many customers tonight.” The troll shrugged, nabbing a bottle of cider from under the counter and opening it. “Have there ever been any? Heck, the only time I seem to get business these days is on Saturdays and during St. Patrick’s Day. Still, even though drinks don’t sell, there’s this and that a resourceful bartender can make money out of…” he answered, passing the bottle to Isaac while the man transferred 5 nuyen onto pub’s account, “… which reminds me: a friend of yours came in like fifteen minutes ago. An elf lass, squinty ears, brown hair and jugs large enough to contain fun juice for all drunkards within five miles… and at this time of night, there’s a lot of them. Anyways, she’s in the backroom.”

Jim’s description of Siske forced even wider smile on Isaac’s face. “Thanks Jimmie. I’ll just finish this and join her.” he remarked and started sipping cider from the bottle, enjoying the dry apple taste to its fullest. It was fine, even though it wasn’t anywhere near the real deal, since this was mostly made out of alcohol and artificial flavoring, like almost every beverage these days. As the liquid within the bottle kept on steadily decreasing, Isaac’s thoughts started wandering back into his med-school days. Four years… It had been four years already since he had graduated from there. Time sure flew when one was on this line of work. All his memories were blurry and distant at best, but Isaac really didn’t care about them anyway. That was the past, and today was today.

[AnOskar]

I decided to continue 'The Apostate' a bit more, since I feel like doing more 40k stuff due to my activity with Dark Heresy and Rogue Trader recently.

=][= The Apostate =][=

As the hiss of the hydraulics that operated the boarding ramp of the lander died into the wind and the freezing wind assaulted my face, I stepped out onto the metallic landing pad covered in frost and snow that was swirling all around me in the air. Before my eyes, looming ominously in the shroud of the blizzard, were the large, smoke-belching factorum spires of Syber. As majestic as they were monstrous, these two giants were the only truly visible landmark within thousands of miles of ice cold desert of never ending whiteness. I straightened the collar of my coat and started walking towards the pair of figures waiting for me at the entrance of the factory complex. The wind was constantly howling, promising eternal rest in its cold and unforgiving embrace, but I did not care.

"Lord Asadrei!" A familiar voice reached my ears. Voice I had not heard for a long time. Anastasia. As the figure of my interrogator came into view through the whiteness of the snowstorm, I felt somewhat relieved inside. It was not like I had special feelings towards Anastasia, even though she was a gorgeous woman by any standards. The relief was a product of the thought that there was at least one competent person beside me. The raven haired woman had saved my life from several tight situations in the past, and was able to think out of box when it was needed. "Anastasia... Good to see you. Report." As I gave the orders to my interrogator, my gaze wandered to the second figure, leaning against the wall next to the heavy doors.

He was lean and well-built man, around thirty years old. He wore the long black coat and cap of the Commissariat, and sported honors of an Imperial Guard lieutenant. As my gaze reached his face, he raised his gaze, serious and no-nonsense eyes meeting with my own. "Inquisitor..." he greeted me with slow-paced and calm voice which still contained a hint of unrelenting stubborness, "Commissar-Lieutenant Barbosa Rodriguéz, reporting for duty." I returned the salute, a bit nervously and reluctantly though. A commissar was never good news. "Inquisitor Jericus Asadrei of Ordo Hereticus. I was not informed of your presence here beforehand, lieutenant. May I inquire the reason behind your presence?"

Before Rodriguéz could answer, Anastasia cut in. "He is here to provide support for us, Lord Asadrei. Inquisitional orders." I raised my eyebrow. "Really? Under whose orders are you here, lieutenant Rodriguéz?" Barbosa straightened his back and took a step towards me, which enabled me to make the discovery of him being slightly taller than me. He also seemed to carry a chainsword and a bolt pistol with him, as well as a large arms coffer on his back. Once again, Anastasia cut in. "He is here under the orders of Lady Josephine Kalistrix." "Josephine?" I lost my composure for a moment out of pure surprise, retaining it as quickly as possible after I had realized my mistake, "What interests does Ordo Xenos have in my activities? MY actions are under the jurisdiction of Ordo Hereticus after all..."

It was clear that my attitude was slightly infuriating the commissar, but that had been my goal in the first place. I was not a great friend of Ordo Xenos, especially here in Ragna subsector. More often than not, my investigations had clashed with those of Xenos inquisitors, resulting in months of bureucratic paper warfare which usually ended in my loss and denial of further investigation on my part. Nor was I admirer of the commissariat for I saw them as waster of Imperial manpower and over zealous pricks. Melding Imperial creed's preachings of the Emperor and summary executions of the guardsmen just wasn't good way to keep up morale to my mind. In other words, Barbosa Rodriguéz was the embodiement of things I greatly disliked.

"My lady is not interested in your actions, Inquisitor Asadrei. Our goals are different, but she believes that unlike in several incidents in the past, this time we could both benefit from mutual cooperation." Anastasia nodded, resolute to disarm this volatile situation as quickly as possible. I was thankful for that. She knew I was probably almost as stubborn as the man standing in front of me, and sometimes I just didn't know when to stop. Also, I was not diplomatic at all when it came to Ordo Xenos. So before I could make any sarcastic or any other kind of remark that would've made the situation even worse. "If you'd excuse me, Lieutenant Rodriguéz, I'd like to have a word with Lord Asadrei and give him a quick rundown of the situation at hand." Barbosa nodded, crossing his arms as Anastasia dragged me few meters away from him, brushing some snow off from the hood of her fur-lined flack jacket.

"Jericus! Are you even trying to behave here?!" she hissed at me. "You out of all people should understand, An. This man is from Xenos! Do you not remember that incident in Orsir a year ago?! We almost had that cult there, but then they came and gaves us three months of paperwork and in the end denied any further investigation because it apparently was hampering one of their missions regarding the Nightwinter house! And then was Glasirsk, where we almost had Logotov!" I tried to keep my voice as low as possible and hoped that the commissar did not have as sharp ears as rumors said they all had. "And now, we're once again on his trail and they want to help us! Which one is more important to you, Jericus: your hatred for Ordo Xenos or Elgentroff Logotov?" She had a point. And that was why I sometimes hated her... and at the same time the very reason I wanted to keep her by my side. Not many subordinates dared to question the decisions of their inquisitors. It was nice to have someone competent as an interrogator. "Alright, An... You win. I'll work with those alien hunting bastards this time... Thankfully it is only temporary after all..."

A victorious smile split Anastasia's face. She always did that when she was able to convince me to do something I didn't like, which happened quite often. "Wipe that smirk off your face and tell me the situation, An." "Right. Apparently, the Mechanicus Secutor here in Syber have managed to capture a small coven of hereteks, Solis Ortos Umbra." That name was instantly recognized by my mind. Solis Ortos Umbra. Although it was unclear what their actual goal and purpose were, I had been able to find a strong link connecting them and Logotov. Whatever the heretek did, the organization was backing him up. "You got me interested. What else?" "They are being held by the Skitarii now. Apparently they were doing some kind of research regarding sarcosan wave, but as always, Mechanicus refuses to tell as anything more. However, when questioned, name Alastor Kruger came up." Alastor Kruger. One of Logotov's many aliases known by me. He had used it during his activities on Glasirsk. The victorious smile returned to my face and all bitterness towards Ordo Xenos washed off me. "I'd like to have chat with these hereteks. Maybe lieutenant Rodriguéz and his possible skills might come in handy after all..."

After we concluded our little conversation, I turned back towards Barbosa who looked like his expression had never even twitched. "After assessing the situation carefully, I shall accept your proposal of cooperation, commissar Rodriguéz. I believing your skills will further our cause greatly, and I'm sure you'll find ours most valuable in your own mission." I offered Barbosa my hand, and after a moment he took it, shaking it while holding it firmly in his grip. "The honor is mine, inquisitor. I will promise I won't hamper your mission." It was a warm gesture, but regardless I thought that the cold outdoors of Syber were the perfect environment for the overall mood behind my relationship with this commissar.

[AnOskar]

=]I[= The Apostate =]I[=

We soon moved inside the factory complex, since even though the promised escort had not arrived yet, our bodies were starting to protest in the embrace of the icy winds. I was extremely relieved when I heard the heavy hiss of the door hydraulics behind me. Organic parts of my body were still tingling from the cold and most of my toes were numb, as the seemingly unending tunnels of metal and machinery opened before us, only illumination offered by glow globes installed onto the ceiling above us. It was not warm light which you found in the high spires of the hive nobles or cathedrals of the Eccleshiarchy. It wasn't like one of the twin suns of Gandr system, Hel I, which blazed with intensity of ten thousand plasma reactors, bringing life to the system it governed. To approach it properly to my mind was to call it Hel II, the other side of the twin sun, which was lifeless and sickly star that radiated bluish light and never brought even a trickle of warmth. It was the only source of light in this dark world of machines.

I checked the condition of my hell pistol by plugging the cable of the capacitator back into the socket. The small screen right behind the barrel blinked into life, and after few seconds of configuring, it showed green and brought up the estimated amount of shots in the capacitator. 37. It had lost some energy in the cold. Satisfied, I put the gun back into its holster on my hip. As I glanced back towards my companions, my gaze was first drawn to Barbosa, kneeling before his arms coffer and fiddling with the locking system.

I didn't dwell long on him, and moved to Anastasia instead, who was like me, checking her weapon of choice: a shortened hunting rifle of Orsirian design. It wasn't a masterpiece of a weapon to speak the truth, but under weather conditions like these, you could search for a hundred years and not find a weapon more fitting and reliable. Used by the Longhouses of Hive Orsir as the primary weapon of their private forces, it had been designed to withstand arctic environments and the stress they put onto a gun. Having served as a priestess in the House Gorska, it was easy to understand her choice of weaponry. She ejected the clip and slammed it back, most likely to ensure that it had not frozen inside the gun. As she brushed some wisps of her raven hair, I turned my gaze back to Barbosa, who was checking the operational qualities of the plasma gun he had produced from within the arms coffer. What caught my eye for some reason was a small trinket hanging from the pommel of his chainsword: a small braided piece of rope with a small, metallic skull hanging at its end. It was an odd addition for a man, whose work was strict and nigh emotionless, a clear showing of sentimentality. I did not wish to dwell any deeper though. Everyone has something within their hearts that should lie undisturbed.

I turned my gaze away as Barbosa nodded aprovingly and slammed a new plasma flask into the gun, then turning the gun's power settings on. Almost instantly, as the coils of the weapon began glowing with intense blue light, I felt the warmth the gun produced on my bare cheek, giving me a reminder about the weapon's deadliness. Within the flask, slept matter that when properly heated could harness the destructive power of a sun, but was just as unstable. After checking that all the systems were stable, the commissar turned the power off and slid the gun into the holster hanging from across his back. Then he pulled out his bolt pistol, a grim look on his face.

The reason for his wariness was an obvious one: We had been checking our equipment for a good side of 5 minutes now, and yet an escort had not arrived to guide us. I had given my code and protocol of authority a bit over 10 minutes before entering the complex, so that made it a total of quarter of an hour. It was not like Mechanicus to keep their guests waiting, such was the punctuality of the members of the machine cult. Some might think that this kind of thinking was over cautious or even paranoid, but as an imperial inquisitor, I can safely save that this paranoid thinking had saved my life more than a few times. I eyed the surroundings quickly, looking for several possible positions of ambush, clenching the handle of my hell pistol tightly in my hand. The corridor was rather empty and held no cover whatsoever. That would mean that the ambush would be set later on, somewhere with more cover and hiding places. "Let us keep moving..." I stated, and Anastasia nodded. She thinked like me when it came to these kinds of situations. "Aren't we supposed to be waiting for an escort here?" Barbosa asked, but one look into my eyes told him everything he needed to know about the situation.

[AnOskar]

=]0[= The Apostate =]0[=

We took the iniative. When you were being hunted, it was always better to be on the move as soon as possible. It was what my experience had taught me. Barbosa was first, of course. Not because I hoped to use him as a meatshield because I didn't like the man and secretly hoped that he would get punctured by las shots during the first hostility we would encounter, but instead because it was tactical solution. He had the biggest gun out of three of us, and plasma gun was the kinda of weapon you didn't want to be accidentally shot by from behind. I had seen people being shot by plasma weaponry in my past plenty enough to be fan of experiencing the searing pain that dissolved your skin, flesh and bone into a pile of smoldering goo. It wasn't a precision weapon. The searing bolt that burned with the fury of a sun was not the most accurate of projectiles, but that's why it excelled at overkilling or incapacitating anyone who got hit, no matter where. That said, it was wiser to let Barbosa go first, while Anastasia and I followed with our weapons which were not as destructive, but most likely much, much more precise when came into accuracy.

I followed after Barbosa, my hellpistol ready in my hand. It was a weapon of short range, but packed rather potent punch when aimed correctly. Few metres behind me was Anastasia, covering our back and providing long range fire support which inside these corridors was rather pointless, but once we'd reach larger factorum halls or storage rooms, things would take a different turn.

As I had expected, we were welcomed soon enough. As we passed through another automated set of doors, it didn't take long until we had to dive for cover. We had entered a cargo hall for the lander bays and the gantries that ran all across the top parts of the room, housed several gun servitors that opened fire. Luckily, there were still some cargo containers in the corner near the door we had gone through, so finding cover was not a problem. The problem, was advancing. I was fairly certain that this was just a small detachment of the heretics which had somehow evaded capture and discovery, and would most likely quickly be discovered. However, they still had superior numbers to us three, and seeing the servitors were manning the gantries above us, moving thourgh the open metal floors of the cargo hall was noose short of a suicide. A quick peek from behind the cover revealed that there were at least a dozen gun servitors, armed with arm integrated lasguns. As I was about to turn back to the safety of cover, a bright flash flew past my face and landed into the wall behind me, leaving a small dent and scorched blackness into the smooth surface. That had been close. Whoever programmed these servitors had really made sure they would be able to hit their targets.

As I huddled back behind the crates, a loud bang erupted right next to me, and soon after something heavy hit the floor real hard. Anastasia had taken down a servitor with her service rifle. Where the bullet had hit, I hadn't seen, but the results were satisfying enough to merit a warm smile. She winked her eye at me and smiled back, bracing her gun again to take another shot. Barbosa didn't smile. "We should hurry. These containers might keep us alive for some time, but if they start advancing..." He was completely right. They had the high ground and superiors numbers. No matter if they were servitors or not, if they would start moving closer to us our cover wouldn't help us any longer. "There should be someone giving them binary commands nearby!" I answered to him, just as a barrage of lasgun fire hammered the containers, forcing Anastasia back behind cover. "If not given any specific commands within a certain period of time or the source of the original commands disappears, most servitors revert back to the default cortex command settings and thus usually restart their targeting matrixes according to the..." "I am a commissar, inquisitor, not a tech-priest! Will they shoot us or not after we take care of the people controlling them?!" Barbosa answered sharply, while firing his plasma gun. The shot hit the the servitor nearest to our position, causing it and the safety railings to melt, leaving the rest of the gantryway white hot. "They have started moving!"

[AnOskar]

A little something somethign I wrote for Iggy as a christmas present, featuring Master Raven and Silence, Iggy's character in 40k based Dark Heresy roleplaying game. Here it is now for you other readers to enjoy as well. :3

Silence and Raven

The corridor was silent and dark. The night of the hive had already reached its highest climax in festivities of the nobility, who went ways to get drunk on their debauchery and riches. The splendor of the lights didn’t reach this spire manor though. This was the house of lord Hieronymus Phaal, a senior noble and well known ally to a former inquisitor, now executed excommunicate traitoris, Silas Marr, man known for his involvement in unearthing forbidden xenos artifacts and utilizing them in his foul researches. He was executed by another undercover inquisitor while on field, and now that the Inquisition had begun investigation on him, they had started to uncover several loose ends, massive amounts of schemes and networks of lies woven intricately and hidden from the ever-present vigilance of the Ordos. Phaal’s name came up in a questionable light, and now the higher ups wanted him gone. They deemed the man too dangerous to even keep alive for questioning, as he had apparently gotten mixed up with the ruinous powers and followers of the lord of change. Tzeentch. This in mind, she slid down along the wall in her wire harness, gliding gracefully amongst the large windows and gargoyle statues like a shadow in the night, an angel of death in search for prey. No sound was made in the process. She was death. She was Silence.

She finally reached the location she had been looking for: a utility chute near the middle section of the manor’s tower-like central that had slightly dented, rusty grating covering it. After studying it for a while, she pulled out a small can of melta gel from her belt and sprayed it onto the grating. The sounds of the bypassing conveyor craft’s engines completely drowned the silent sizzle of melting grating. It didn’t take long for the entirety of it to turn into a pile of heated metal that dripped down along the side of the building. Silence wasted no time and swung herself inside, releasing the pin that connected the climbing harness and the rope. With a whip like snap, the rope cut loose, and her slender body slid through the half molten grating. Silence checked her bow that was resting in its holster slung across her back. She felt nothing out of usual, and soon started crawling forward, brushing her shoulder length black hair aside from obscuring her vision. The darkness of the vent wasn’t an issue at all. In fact, it made her feel slightly relieved. The darkness was her friend, a veil that obscured the truth about her from the eyes of the mundane people and herself. It concealed the monster that had embedded itself deep within the abyssal depths of her soul. The hunger.

Navigating the shafts took some time, but she finally reached her destination. Yet another grating waited her there, but she quickly disposed of it with another spraying of melta gel. While metal was still sizzling on the floor, the soles of Silence’s boots hit the dark marble floor silently. Her mat black bodyglove perfectly blended into the darkness, and as her eyes scanned the area, she noticed several doors lining the wall on her left, while on the right opened a magnificent view to the nightlife and shining lights of the Spires. The floor was slightly slanted, forming a continuous ramp leading upwards like a screw. She started moving, bow drawn out with an arrow resting on the string. Silently like a shadow in the night, she moved onwards, looking like a vengeful demon to the eyes of the untrained. She had her target. She had her mission. It would be done soon.

The monotonous hallway came to an abrupt end, and Silence found herself eyeing huge double doors from the deep shadows of a doorway. It was silent. Nothing seemed occupy this mansion, not a single servant or guard. It made her feel uneasy. Something was not right. She closed in on the doors. The imposing dark metal surface depicted three imperial saints in their glory, but grotesque shadows created by the lights of the outside and darkness within made them look like hideous demons, perverting the sacred image utterly. The doors were slightly open. She peered through the slit. The target was there: the slim figure of Hieronymus Phaal, sitting on an armchair with a glass in his hand. He was looking rather calm, obviously unaware of his impending doom and the arrow being prepared to fulfill it. A silent “thunk” was all that could be heard. The monomolecular bladed arrow embedded itself in the right eye of the noble, nailing him down against the backrest of the chair. The glass dropped from his soon limp going hands and shattered against the floor, filling the area around the chair with thousands of tiny shards. Something was amiss. There was no blood. Silence put the bow back and listened, her hand moving cautiously onto the handle of her sword. There were no sounds at all. No bodyguards rushing to the aid of their master, no servants screaming out their terror to the sudden murder of their employer. There was just dead silence that lingered longer and longer. She rushed through the doors, sword drawn out. As she approached the limp body of Phaal that lifelessly rested on its final throne, she started gripping the handle of her sword even more tightly. A decoy. The instant that though reached her mind, she rolled to the right out of instinct. Three silent “clinks”. As she regained her footing, Silence noticed three silver needles resting on the floor, right on the spot where she had been standing a moment earlier. Again there was only silence in the room. Not a single noise broke its serene mood and atmosphere of danger. Then they came again. Three needles. This time, Silence brought her two-handed sword in the way, deflecting the needles easily and brushing them aside.

A man in dark robes had appeared from somewhere. He was standing in the middle of the room, another handful of needles prepared, like a messenger of death itself, a grim reaper from the realms of warp. “Your skills with your sword are… impressive. As are your reflexes…” he said, voice rasping heavily like several stacks of parchment being rubbed together. While speaking, he drew a slender and thin-bladed fencing sword with the hand guard shaped like a head of a raven. “I assume you are here to take the life of Lord Phaal…” Silence didn’t answer, just took a better stance, ready rip the stranger into pieces. Her murderous glare was the only answer. “You don’t talk much, do you, daughter of silence?” short streak of rasping laughter followed the remark, which in turn was followed by a series of coughing, as the figure leaned a bit forward. The distraction was all that Silence needed. She darted forward almost immediately, blade slashing down with swiftness and power provided by her entire trained body. It struck down with grim precision, and hit nothing. The man was still there, but standing slightly to the right of his original position having barely dodged the furious attack. Without a second to waste, he struck with his clenched fist, and almost hit Silence with the needles lodged between his fingers. It was now that Silence noticed the mask the man was wearing, an ornate piece of artisanship made of silver and shaped like a head of raven, each groove of the beak and feather masterly carved as close to the real thing as possible. She swung her head to the side, letting go of the sword with one of her hands and grabbing the arm of the man with it. A quick twist and the needles dropped onto the floor. The assassin was right on her rhythm, and as he felt his arm being forced into an unnatural position, his sword closed in on Silence’s flank. She spun, letting go of the arm and with some intricate footwork was able to make three meters between her and the raven masked stranger. The sword missed by an inch, slicing a light wound into her flank. It was clearly sharp, judging by the cleanness of the cut made into her bodyglove. The Raven brought his sword into a duelist salute, blade pointing towards the deep shadows of the roof.

He didn’t attack, just stood there, sword raised. Even Silence was reluctant to release her aggression. This man was good. A professional in sword play. “The flower will bloom again…” the man muttered, and brought the blade down, its tip pointing towards Silence as the man took a textbook fencing stance. Suddenly, Silence’s body started burning from within. It was an infernal fire, scorching the very recesses of her soul and heart. Then came the wave of chilling frost, and for a moment it felt like her blood was about to freeze up within the veins of her body. Poison. She gripped her sword with both hands while her vision was starting to blur and body tremble. She didn’t have much time. “The tears of an angel, shed for the sinners…” Silence rushed, her great sword dancing a deadly dance of desperation, meeting the slender dueling blade wielded by the man with the mask. Her assault was relentless. Beginning with a powerful sideways swing that was followed by another one made with the spinning momentum of the first one, and ending in a diagonal slash aiming for the head of the assassin, her fluidity was flawless. She wasn’t breathing at all, concentrating only onto the precision of her attacks while being burned by fire and frost and being chased by the seeker of souls itself. The Raven was clearly taken by surprise of the fury, barely avoiding the first two hits only to be thrown aside by the final blow that sent him flying several meters to the side. It was a surprise that his arms had not snapped under the force. Before the man could even react, Silence was upon him, sinking her knee into the stomach of the man. The poison was burning even more fiercely inside her. There was only one way to survive. As the stranger emptied his lungs due to the impact, Silence opened her mouth to reveal two terrifying rows of sharp teeth. Without a warning, she sank them into the man’s left arm, tearing a chunk of flesh along with a patch of black silk robe off. Soon, there was blood everywhere and the sound of chewing filled the silence of the room, accompanied by the agonizing screams of the assassin under her. Spitting out the blood and saliva stained cloth rag, Silence felt the burning die down, and the numbness that had slowly crept on her body was receding. The hunger. The monster. The truth within.

Suddenly, she was sent flying by something, and as she crashed against the floor, she caught a quick glimpse of Hieronymus Phaal, an arrow still stick from his eye socket, standing between her and the masked man, who was slowly clambering up from the floor. A servitor, most likely. “Millanev…” the man muttered while leaning against the machine masquerading as a man. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet up with Silence’s. “You have won today, demon… The tears inside you have dried, and the flower will wilt… We shall meet again another time…” His hand made a quick gesture, and the room was filled with thick smoke. Silence got quickly up and darted towards the location of the man and the servitor, but found nothing. They had vanished into thin air along with the smoke that was quickly dissolving and returning the darkness and silence back into the room.

[AnOskar]

Because finishing anything I have started is overrated!!! 83
Recently, I got a commission slot from Zorakku over FA, and decided to picture my new Shadowrun character Andre. The outcome was so awesome that he and his girlfriend Arisha got themselves a story of their own. :3 Here is the first part of it.

[SurgeOn! 1]

The sweet smell of flavored cigarettes was hanging in the air heavily, punching its way into the nostrils forcefully like a sledgehammer. One just could not escape it, not here at least. The neon green lighting gave the entire bar a gloomy and eye straining atmosphere, where using Imagelink was almost a necessity unless one preferred to go blind in a matter of months. Andre had gotten used to this though, fixing the position of his goggles to stop the itching feeling they caused after pressing against the fur and skin of his eye sockets for almost an hour straight. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his eyes slowly opening and his gaze wandering all across the room. Amongst the blinking and dazzling advertisement pop-ups everywhere, he could make shapes of different people and matrix avatars. There were letters everywhere, floating in the air, but those meant nothing to him. Having grown up on the streets of Rio, abandoned by the society due to his low social class, lack of proper System Identification Number and metagenetic mutation that had made him grow hair, tail and made him look like an ocelot, he had never gotten into a school and never actually learned to read. As his eyes scanned the bar area one more time, his hand slowly sliding onto the handle of his Ruger Super Warhawk, the cold wood of the massive revolver calming his nerves down a bit, but not much, while his tongue licked the two metal rings attached to the ends of his lower lip. He had already forgotten when he had taken the snakebites, and where he had gotten them from, but that didn’t really matter at the moment. What was important right now was the job.

Leaning forward in his chair while checking the position of his shortblade which was hidden inside the sleeve of his shirt, Andre started looking for Arisha, his girlfriend, from the crowd. It was difficult to find any other surges amongst the populace of Rio, at least on this side of the city. The slums were so vast nowadays, that they could be considered small cities of their own. The Rio nowadays was only three or four tenths a vacation Riviera with fancy hotels, sunny beaches and middle class luxuries. The real Rio was the rest: a massive sea of haphazardly built slums stacked on top of each other. Breeding ground for drug cartels and street gangs, where quick thinking and fearsome reputation were only things might’ve kept you alive so far. Most surges, people that had same type of metagenetic mutations as Andre, went hiding and kept low profile, because of discrimination and violence from the other metatypes living there. Even more tried to scrabble up money to move abroad, away from all the misery and fear that held the slums in their unrelenting grip. However, with Arisha, it had been different. She had been born in Russia, and manifested her surge mutation at the age of 18, much later than Andre, who had turned ocelot when he hit 10. She had been an albino ever since she had exited her mother’s womb, and the mutation hadn’t made things any better. The little things she had told him about her transformation sounded extremely unpleasant and painful and she refused to tell him the rest, which he gracefully accepted. It was a bit of a taboo amongst the surges to ask one another about their twists, and Andre didn’t want to intrude any further. Arisha’s surge had manifested in a form of an albino fox, a very rare species here in Rio, and Andre quickly spotted her in the swarm of avatars and pop-ups.

It was as if she had sensed it, and turned to look towards Andre. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Andre couldn’t help smiling. Even though there was at least seven years between the two of them, Andre being 20 and Arisha 27, they had quickly gotten close after she had saved him from a street gang that had tried to gut him in order to get their hands on a drug parcel Andre had been delivering on behalf of one of the smaller cartels near his home turf. For such a petite woman, she had some amazing fighting skills, complimented with one of the heaviest arsenal of weapons Andre had ever seen a single person carry. Her long, black leather coat might have not looked like much, but hidden under it were a pair of machine pistols and dual sawed-off shotguns, complimented with single semi-automatic pistol and a telescopic fighting staff. What she had told him, Arisha had been working as a sweeper for the mafia back in Moscow, eliminating small fries and rising street gangs on behalf of her patrons. What had driven her out, she refused to talk about, and Andre was cool with it. Suddenly, she raised her hand onto her left ear, and Andre turned towards the door near the corner of the dance floor. According to Ari it was the entrance to the VIP area, where the target was. They had been hired as loan sharks through their usual fixer, Ramirez. The job was to find the target, follow him around until no one was in sight and then beat the crap out of him until he coughed up the dough he owed or died. The latter was slightly more unwanted ending, but beggars could not be choosers here, so it was kill or be killed.

As soon as the target, a dwarf with slightly scruffy business suit and black, partially braided beard, exited the VIP area and entered the bar, Arisha’s sense sharpened and her heart started racing. The feeling of the armpit holsters pressing against her flanks, each containing a heavily modified Ceska Black Scorpion, a burst capable machine pistol of Polish manufacture, made her feel excited. So tempting to just let go, pull them out and spray everyone around her with bullets… She quickly dismissed the thought and snapped out of it. She had to concentrate onto the job. Andre was counting on her. The thought raised a slight blush, which was mostly hidden under the fur on her face. She had caught his smile a bit earlier, and was just about to return one when she had heard the target. Her audio enhanced earbuds and sharpened ears had just been able to pick up his voice through all the background noise and electronic music in the club. As the dwarf moved through the crowd gathered in the dance floor, clearly a bit tipsy judging from his slightly staggering movement and fumbling arms, Arisha noticed that Andre was moving closer, slipping into the crowd effortlessly. Soon he was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn’t worried at all. Andre had learned to follow people unseen during his early childhood on the streets, and now as a shadowrunner that skill had shown its usefulness from time to time.

The dwarf had bumped into two young elf girls, and most likely groped them while at it, and now there was small yelling and swearing contest going between them. It didn’t last long, however, and the dwarf moved on, accompanied by the curses of the girls and gestures of profanity. He quickly pushed past the counter, paying his tab through the commlink on the way apparently since the lumbering troll bouncer at the door didn’t stop him when he rushed outside. The strong whiff of sweat reached Arisha’s nostrils as the dwarf made his way past her, but she didn’t follow. Everything was going according to plan, and this was confirmed even more so when Andre followed few moments later. Giving her a small wink as he passed her, he stepped out through the front door and disappeared into the nigh blinding flash of sunlight that was thankfully mostly dampened by the flare compensators installed into the lenses of her glasses. Otherwise her eyes would’ve started weep out of the strain caused by the bright light, a little inconvenience brought onto her by her metagenetic heritage. She waited for a few minutes, itching anxiously to get into the action once again. The sitting and waiting in the club was slowly starting to get into her nerves, as almost every single one of her senses were being continuously assaulted by noises, lighting effects and smells that combined into a nauseating, headache causing cocktail. On top of that, the heat levels had risen to rather uncomfortable levels, and she was starting to sweat just like the target. How Andre and Ramirez could stand heat of this magnitude without any problems, she had no clue. For her, the sunlight was a constant enemy and the midday heat her nemesis. It caused nasty and itching inflammation and rash on her skin, and hurt her eyes like a son of a bitch, causing them to go all watery. The glasses were helping, but sooner or later, few rays would get past when they fell out of position on her muzzle, and then the pain began.

Still, a job was a job, and natural sunlight was a lesser evil when compared to the hellish inferno of the clubhouse. She pulled her hood up and closed the zipper of her jacket, even though she knew it would turn into a sauna outside. Thankfully, the sun was about to go down, so the light wouldn’t be a problem, but the heat would still remain. Oh well, it would mean just another shower before going to bed with Andre after all this was done. Then she left the club, transferring some tip onto bouncer’s account, and started making her way towards the parking lot where her motorcycle was.