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Light at the End

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The ragged elite tossed in his sleep, trying to stop thinking about the inevitable end. Yet how could he? Sev 'Ikavowattinrzoee always had trouble sleeping, and there was no hope of that on the rack of metal. His memories never ceased to remind him of the horror of his career. The senior took a few deep breaths. He couldn't let his value of self-preservation become noticed, not when he owed everything to the High Prophets. They gave him meaning in life, and they gave his family security when he was gone. Why spend time trying to undo that kindness? Sev just got an idea.

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n34:

New Ways Old Ways

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III

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City

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Noble.jpg

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Your Character

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One Way Out

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World_Slave Trade.jpg

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Maester Lucas calls you when the tunnel is clear. You follow him, flanked by guards, until the tunnel opens into a cave -- three slavers at work. "Guards, to arms! Kill these men!" "I have no quarrel with you, only your mistress..."

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City

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A Debt Long Owed

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You

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Battle Preparations

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The ragged elite tossed in his sleep, trying to stop thinking about the inevitable end. Yet how could he? Sev 'Ikavowattinrzoee always had trouble sleeping, and there was no hope of that on the rack of metal. His memories never ceased to remind him of the horror of his career. He slowly pulled himself up, wondering if there was anything to do to stop that. His body ached, mainly from the torture he was performed on by none other than the right hand of the High Prophets, Tartarus. The mark which was burnt and tattooed onto his chest hurt the most, but compared to his lost pride, it was but an unnoticeable itch. He always knew the High Prophet of Truth was trouble, right from the first time he saw him as a respected Councillor. He never ceased to amaze even those who were his opponents. Unlike Mercy, Truth never resorted to anger, never gave in to the pressure of his position... and looked upon each disadvantage he had in the politics as an opportunity. In Sev's opinion, Truth almost acted like he manipulated the events right into his grasp. By the gods, he must have delayed the fleet. If they came a minute earlier, Regret would still be alive. Truth the damnation is behind- The senior took a few deep breaths. He couldn't let his value of self-preservation become noticed, not when he owed everything to the High Prophets. They gave him meaning in life, and they gave his family security when he was gone. Why spend time trying to undo that kindness? He looked around, attempting to find something to do. As he stared at the Jiralhanae guards just outside the door, he considered trying to fight them, knock himself out. No, I tried that yesterday. I couldn't beat four beasts like that. He looked at the ceiling, perhaps an escape route. By the gods, that was armoured up during my first day. Finally, he looked at the bed, and considered making it a shield. He gave it a tug, but discovered it was bolted. He eventually realised that after causing trouble for seven cycles, they had taken out the flaws of the cell; bowls were bolted down, lights were reinforced, cells were placed where glass was supposed to be and ventilation was... was... Sev just got an idea. He ran up to where the only vent for his cell's atmospheric unit was, underneath the bed. His experience with warships meant he knew they all connected to a larger chamber built large enough for Engineers, so a smaller Sangheili could maybe fit in there with no problems. In a desperate flurry, he tried to beat it down, kick it, even head-butt it, anything. It was dented, but he knew he could do no more. There is another way, he figured with doubt. He slowly walked over near the cell door, where a near-empty Plasma Rifle laid. Gold-plated and heavily modified, the Jiralhanae threw Sev's personal plasma rifle, which he affectionately named the God's Word, into the cage to give him the option to commit suicide. He grabbed it, slid back down, and as he pulled the trigger. "He is trying to escape, open the doors!" was the only phrase Sev understood from the wall of Jiralhanae roars. Three massive bodies pinned him to the ground, locking his limbs to the group. He tried lashing out, to do something, but he couldn't lift hundreds of kilograms on one arm, or one leg. He felt the pressure of his arm as they pulled on it, attempting to break it. He relented and abandoned his rifle at the last second, the blood filling back in relief. He was turned over to view the captain of his captors. The captain, wearing a mock of Honour Guardsmen, shouted something in his brutish language, before knocking him out.