#wraithblade

Yeah, we're still on the train of that dumb idea. I made it as far as kludging the back-branch-bit in to the back-fan-space before my heart started sinking. As mentioned last time, legs are a problem. I've also glued them on two bodies so far, so I might have to just put that part of the plan on the back burner for now.

But arms! We like doing stupid things with arms in these parts. So the muttering to myself started, and I off I compared. Revenant is just a no, way too short as expected, and even if I did like the arm that sword can fuck off. Too many holes. Dryad, while spindly, sort of has the elbow in the right spot. Hmm, the finders could be chopped off, but it needs to be clean. Hello again, not so old friend.

As always, saw does the job. The result is spindly, yes, but then again that appears to be how I roll. Slight jank on the left wrist, but the right one's solid. Probably need to go heavy with some pinning; oh no, how will I cope?

This is gruesome. This is getting stupid. But it was too stupid not to try. I don't think I'll try to hack the original shoulder pads off, but I think I can do something with the hacked off claw fingers. Makes it look a bit more feral I suppose.

The soft discontented grumblings of the Exodites was interrupted by a piercing scream of tearing Wraithbone and before any of us knew it, the Wave Serpent was plummeting to the forested earth below. Plasma burned through the hull in scintillating heat and panic consumed the evacuees.

"Brace for impact!" the pilot cried, over the distressing din of alarms and screaming. My Exarch, Thermain T'shallak, placed a hand on my shoulder, I had slain a thousand enemies beside the Priest of Khaine and trusted him like no other. "Be steady, Asuryani" he spoke softly, and so I readied myself for what was to come. One heartbeat later, we crashed into the infamously thick forest floor of Isha's Grove.

I don't know how long I was unconscious for, but when I awoke the burning wreckage of the Wave Serpent was distant and the bodies of its inhabitants neatly dragged clear.  Exarch Thermain stood over them all, the pilot, all the Exodites and three of my squad were among the dead. Only my Exarch, myself and one other were alive. Groggy, I tried to move and was instantly made aware of my broken right arm when the stab of agony coursed through me. There was to be no resistance, this was an evacuation, something was deeply, deeply wrong. As my head reared in pain, I saw what resembled a shooting star in the cloudless nights sky. Not a shooting star, no, a Drop Pod. Not one either, dozens. Isha's mercy, the Space Marines were coming.

"Deathwatch." the Exarch spoke with contempt. Deathwatch, the Imperium's prime xenos hunters. Of course, we were the xenos. In spite of our lineage in the stars and mastery over the universe before humanity crawled out the primordial slime of their world we would stil be hunted by xenophobic children who hated the things that were different to themselves.

"Exarch, we must retreat. The Webway Gate is not so far, we can make it!" the Avenger pleaded to his officer. By way of answer, the Exarch drew his Diresword and silently watched as the largest Pod in the sky drifted towards the earth mere feet away from the wreckage of the Wave Serpent. One second later, the doors exploded off the pod and five towering warriors stepped out. Clad in black, save for their own pauldron's unique heraldry they marched forward with Bolters raised. One removed his helmet, revealing the harsh features of a hardened warrior, the Sergeant it seemed.

"Xenos scum." it spoke to the Exarch Thermain. "We will accept your surrender or you and your men will die"

"There will be no surrender, Mon'keigh." the Exarch spoke flatly, as he took a defensive pose. Shuriken spat forth from his wrist mounted weapon and was joined a moment later by more from the lone survivor. I only wish my arm were fine so I could join the fire, but I was helpless to do so and as yet unseen by the hulking Marines. One of the gigantic warriors let out a choked snarl as he was wounded but the remaining Space Marines made short work of the sole survivor, his body strewn with bolter-shell holes. The Exarch ducked and weaved the explosive shells, his Diresword meeting the neck joint of the wounded Marine, slaying him but instantly he was met with the Power Sword of the Sergeant.

"If you wish to kill me, Marine, you must do it like a true warrior" The Exarch taunted, before saluting with his blade.

A duel began, the Thermain fought like a fencer feinted and used his speed to scratch and poke at the joints of the Sergeant's armour while the Deathwatch warrior resembled a furious blacksmith, heavy powerful blows slung wide never meeting his agile opponent. With the greatest of finesse, the Exarch finally disarmed his opponent and with Diresword angled towards the heart of his enemy he made for the killing blow. The strike that would never come, as the remaining Space Marines emptied their Bolters into the Exarchs body. As if in mockery, the Deathwatch Sergeant recovered his blade and placed the tip through the Exarchs chest, shattering his Spiritstone. Held aloft from the impact of the strike like a banner raised in victory, the soul of the Priest of Khaine fell into the clutches of She Who Thirsts for a fate worse than death.

The injustice was too much for me and through the haze of agony I cried after the killers in my rusty Gothic tongue. "Honour-less bastards, have you no shame?"

I don't know if it was the anger, the fear or the knowledge of what awaited my Exarch but I found my feet and was marching towards the Space Marines, broken arm and all. From my belt, I uncoupled a Plasma Grenade and held it tightly.

"Face me and meet your false Emperor like warriors." that got their attention. Multiple Bolters instantly pointed in my direction but the bravado of an unarmed and wounded man halted them long enough for my ploy.

"Ah, another. Excellent. The Inquisition will be most satisfied we have a toy for the dissection table." the Sergeant scoffed, to a murmur of laughter.

One foot before another, I continued my approach. The warmth of the Plasma Grenade buzzing in the palm of my hand, I readied for my sacrifice.

"Please, I am wounded. I need help, I need a healer, something. Anything. I'll give you information, coordinates. Whatever you want, just help me."

The Sergeant was within striking distance. With all my remaining strength, I swung my arm in an arc aimed for the face of the Deathwatch Sergeant. Time slowed and the faces of my life flashed before me. My mother, my lovers, my friends and shrine brethren I had spent hundreds of years on dozens of paths with. I closed my eyes, and said goodbye. Please, Gods, let this be remembered.

The expected explosion didn't come and in my emotional and painful haze, I didn't see the hand reach to catch mine. The armoured fist of the Sergeant wrapped around my wrist. like he was accosting a child. One effortless flick later and the grenade fell harmlessly from my hand. I cursed, my plan had failed and now I would be a prisoner to the Deathwatch. The Sergeant raised me off the ground by my arm and I dangled unresistant, he looked me like a giant would a delicious morsel, something resembling a smile crossed his scarred lips. Smug bastard.. With the last of my strength, I furiously kicked the Sergeant in the nose and felt the satisfying crack of cartilage beneath my boot. My death will not be without struggle. Blood poured from the broken nose and a snarl of irritation followed. A hard strike from his bolt pistol whipped me through the air and onto my back. My senses screamed, my ears were ringing and I could taste blood, but that was least of my concerns. The Sergeant threw down his pistol and picked me up by the neck. With the life fading from me, I stared into his features. Cold grey eyes were deep set with the many thousand years of life etched into deep wrinkles. The signs of augmentation poked from the skin like rivets and most notably a tattoo of the Imperial Eagle rested on an angular cheekbone. This was to be the face of my killer. He pulled me close, so he whispered almost intimately into my ear.

"When you meet your heathen Gods, Xenos. Tell them Sergeant Arnam Trask sent you to them."

Seriously, the white tack is intentional today. Not just failing to prep or running out of time. I did run out of time, but only due to some faffing and simultaneous clean-up that's not quick. No, the tack is because I don't know whether I'm going to end up with shooty or stabby undead--space-elf-robots. I'm aware of people magnetising, and while that's almost as much of a fetish as pinning is for me, there's some other optional styling bits that make 'guard more distinct, and I'm not magnetising those bits.