Keep your enemies close, What better place?

Stone-hewn the bustling metropolis of the hydra with its towers always growing and reaching new heights. At night it was truly a marvel how anyone slept with all the lights and noise from the traffic, on the surface it looked like everything worked the way it should do, but underground was a different matter.

Underground it was much like Farfurth, people waiting to kill you for money to feed their addictions, others wanting nothing more than to hear you scream and then their was the restricted area's that only those with the highest of security clearance could enter…and there was one that no hydra or council man could gain entry to.

Soloman approached the door dragging the broken body of a new hydra along with him, one that held a certain genetic code that apparently the head of the guild wanted. He was alive but barely after his brief encounter with Soloman, as sparks flew from his body the door opened almost instantly as he walked up to it. A bright light shone through but when he stepped into it the doors closed and the lights faded.

A long corridor with security chain guns, camera’s and even sonar weaponry were aligned down the hallway with several checkpoints maintained by reapers and gunners. Each one bowed their head as Soloman passed them, the tiles lighting up on the floor with every step he took as he left a trail of oil from the hydra behind him. Cleaners had rushed out to remedy this, as they leaved no trace. No trace meant no link to them, and that meant no trouble to the guild.

The hydra tried to raise his arm to pull at Soloman but a loud crack followed by a scream soon remedied that. The chain from his arm had wrapped around the arm in several key places and constricted breaking it beyond the repair of even the most advanced nanobots and technical surgeons. Soft sobbing escaped what left of the lips on the ma's face as he took a left past the barracks where new recruits were getting used to a new life.

He had once been in there, but now he held his own chambers from a recent promotion in rank, now he had his own small group of clan brothers and sisters who were some of the best. With them and him combined, they made up what was known as the fingers of death. They were the right hand of the organization, the part that took the most difficult contracts and emerged victorious unscathed and proud...the left hand consisted of the best legal aid predia could offer.

Passing the barracks he went to the infirmary where he quite promptly slung the hydra onto a magnetic bed which activated as soon as he made contact. He heard something snap and smiled as looked at the hydra's one remaining leg bending backwards with its core components sticking out, the bastard had passed out as the medical team got to work, on his way out he brushed past various other doctors before bumping into Nicolas, someone he would rather kill than speak to.

Nicolas:" Soloman your wanted by the head office, I heard you ran into Kiyoshii...tsk tsk"

Soloman just stood their momentarily before launching a metal fist into the skinny man's stomach making him double over in pain and breathless. Doctors took one look at him and then to Soloman before carrying on with their work. Soloman crouched down beside Nicolas grabbing a handful of the unkempt hair and jerking him up as he whispered into his ear.

Soloman:" Not all of us are cowards Nicolas...you ran that day and many we called brother and sister died, be gracious you still breathe for the next time I will hunt you myself.."

He gave one more sharp tug and pulled some of Nicolas’s hair out and let him drop to the floor as he regained his breath slowly. Soloman left the medical room and carried straight down the corridor in front of him to the main council chambers where the head of the guild and his associates resided. He had been expecting this in all truth, his encounter with Kiyoshii had been brief but still had repercussions such as the failure to complete a contract he had been given..his first failure since joining.

The grand door's emblazoned with the struggle of one who he did not know, one covered in some form of ..growth covered them and told of his downfall and the eventual rise of the guild from his ashes. Truly it was a piece of art and it was also the last bastion of defense should the headquarters be breached. Guards were on constant watch with turrets above the entrance, both inside and out. The power was supplied via several backup generators in case the main one went down, also there was the glyphs that the dark-crafters had placed upon it...but most of them seemed to be keeping something in not trying to keep other out...

The door's opened and he entered the hexagonal room, large onyx pillars and a high raised bench lay before him. Flag's bearing the crest of the guild matched the crest of the demonic warrior outside on the door as he stepped to the small platform before him. As soon as both feet were firmly settled the platform rose a few meters and a light shone down on him as the desk lamps of the council members lit up..all except one in the centre..it looked like the whole of the council was in..all seven of them if you included the one switched off lamp.

Silence hung in the air for a few moments before the door opened once more allowing a doctor in with what looked like medical supplies. was one of the council members ill?? he thought as the doctor proceeded up to the door at the side, the one that would allow him access to the council's bench. Only those with top security clearance could use the door and as far as he knew only the council members held that clearance, as he began to wonder what it was a voice rang out severing the silence that hung in the air, but something was wrong... it sounded weak and old.

???: " Soloman Kruskov, age 45 years old. Height Six foot four and weight ranging from two hundred and eighty pounds to nearly six hundred depending. These are facts..."

The voice cut off, the breathing was raspy and irregular as he heard the snap of the medical suitcase and the hissing of machinery. A few minutes of silence passed with whisper being thrown around, whispers that he could make out but silence soon returned after the snap of the suitcase once more resounded in the air, then the voice continued.

???:" ..along with these there are opinions, such as your motives and what they are for. We know that your family are all deceased or so you believe. But there are always variables ": the voice paused for a breath :"Such as your recent doubts about this guild, and whether there is a true leader. I can answer you now..there is"

The light came on the desk and in a wheelchair sat an old crippled man covered in some form of growth but barely alive. An oxygen mask connected to two cylinders on the back pumped it into his lungs, keeping him alive only through the timed and programmed actions. His skin had begun to peel in places and a look of anger lay within the man's eyes. Hatred for what he had become, for what age had done to him. He saw something move on the face but dismissed it as a trick of the light it was a genetic disorder..it couldn’t have moved he thought to himself as the voice carried on.

???:" Many Believe that this guild was ran by those who sought nothing more than revenge...this is true for that is what we work for. But many believed this guild to be run by a bunch of suits with no experience, hiring those to do the work they themselves could not. That is false for every council member her has fought alongside with their comrades..some have fallen and the ones that have survived are here today...but where are my manners...I am Vladiemeir Sachri Soulostes."

Fear froze Soloman's face in place, he could not believe that after so many years the terror or bimtis had survived. Crippled and barely capable of anything , but still alive. He had heard tales of what he had done, shivered in horror at those that had been recorded accurately with video camera's but yet felt a certain respect for him. Time had not been kind on him as he compared in his mind what he looked like now, and what he looked like then. The crest of the clan...it was Vladiemeir's family crest...he had only just realized this and felt a strange feeling overwhelm him just as the sirens began to rang.

The council members scattered quickly as one tended to Vladiemeir as he laughed screaming along the way .

Vladiemeir :" WE SHALL MEET AGAIN AND I HAVE SOME SHOCKING REVALATIONS FOR YOU BOY!

Soloman didn’t pay much head to the Vlad's words but more so leapt of the platform and unsheathed his sword as the sirens blared the warning that the hydra's belonging to the order known as Johava had breached the main doors and were making their way through the first security checkpoint. Reapers and gun blades mobilized for front line defenses whilst the gunners set off to pick up their arsenal of supportive fire..the assassins and the few rogues that were accepted into the guild scarpered to the numerous access tunnels to surprise them.

Soloman skidded around the corner just as the first checkpoint was breached, a deadlock door slammed down from the ceiling as the screams of frustrated hydra's as they started to use their laser cutter's to melt the door and create an opening. Nicolas was nowhere to be found, but the sirens had labeled him as the traitor, the one who had led them here with greed in his heart and the guild in blazes in his eyes. Soloman cursed him underneath his breath as the front lines were assembled.

This was the only entrance and exit to the complex, the rest was surrounded by several meters of concrete and steel, it was supposed to be an impenetrable fortress..well it was until they were betrayed by Nicolas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Accessing Database~
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~Welcome Soloman Kruskov~
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~Accessing files regarding "Johava"~
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~Security clearance valid~
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"Johava"- An organization of Hydra's that run the criminal syndicate of the Neosstis underground. Their numbers are unknown as are the complete member's list. However from the information we have gathered we can make a basic assumption of their motives.

The Johava seek complete control of Neosstis but so far have only managed to get their claws into the underworld, but certain officials in the council from the time of the splitting of Musca have been compromised and can no longer be used to support us. Spreading from every dark corner of the underworld they rule with an iron fist, stamping out any sign of rebellion at once and granting no mercy.

In some ways the Tallinn clan and the Johava are the same, but the Johava resort to the mad creations of none other than Xavier. Augmented with these "enhancements" they wreak terror and instill fear. Not much else is known about their objectives but below is a list of Typical recruits and tactics.
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~Johava members~
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Typically the Johava exhibit a hive mentality, the sacrificing of the lesser ranks to protect those of higher status. Normally when the hydra are first joined they are little more than lemmings ( a small furry creature who willingly followed another, even to its death....NOTE: Now extinct) who will blindly follow the orders they are given by a superior.

However as they gain ranks they also gain augments and troops for which they themselves can command in battle. Relentless and fearless these machine hordes will overwhelm over confident and under-experienced fighters and destroy them completely.
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~Johava Rank~
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Little is known about the ranking of the Johava members and further research is needed into it.
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~ Johava Founder~
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~ERROR!~
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~ACCESS TERMINATED~

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They had finally broken through the door and he screamed for the attack to begin, he would not die today as he had questions that needed answering and they would be answered...the first abomination walked through the door only to have a heavy .50 caliber anti armor round placed through the artificial cerebral cortex and it fell to the floor in a convulsive heap. This was the first of many to come swarming through the door as more of them created holes whilst the drone's started to pour in. The firing began and grenades were lobbed by the assassins. for Soloman everything seemed to move at a crawl.

He ran forwards avoiding the blasts of energy from a large tank like hydra in front of him bearing an insignia of what looked like a commander, running up the quickly rising pile of dead bodies he leapt from them and raised his sword above him. The hydra looked up and before the processor could tell the motors to move he brought his sword down cleaving it in half. Sparks and oil flew, igniting in mid air as it looked like Soloman was walking from Dante's inferno onto predia.

~~~~~The past~~~~~

Soloman a young man of the age of 18 stepped through the council doors for the first time in his life. Only slightly nervous as he stood on the platform in nothing more than a pair of torn pants and a grubby t-shirt. After hours of grueling questions and tests of his ability he was finally accepted among the ranks of the Tallinn clan. It was then when he made his first friend Nicolas.

Nicolas had just joined that very day too and soon they became the best of friends. For years they worked the same jobs and shared each other's problems, becoming more like brothers than friends but that changed on one mission when they were 21.

It was a routine hit out on a low level criminal gang, or so the Intel told them. They started off like they always did, Nicolas would take one area with his old fashioned magnum slightly modified and a katana whilst Soloman would go the other way with only his blade. They always executed a pincer movement but when Soloman arrived at the designated point he saw Nicolas under fire. Jumping up to save his friend he took a bullet to the gut whilst Nicolas called for assistance, as the Intel was wrong.

They remained under fire for twenty minutes Soloman bleeding from his gut and Nicolas with a broken shoulder. Backup arrived and Nicolas shouted something. Then the massacre began as he gave the wrong order, they came in through the main gate and they criminals started to fire upon them, Nicolas ran and Soloman was left behind.

He did survive this but over twenty people he called brother and sister died that day because of Nicolas's mistake, one that he would bear for the rest of his days, and one Soloman would not forgive him for. It had turned out later that Nicolas had betrayed the clan for money and was severely punished but he begged to be let in. It took a few years but they let him back in...Soloman was not so forgiving..

~~~~~~The present~~~~~~

The battle raged on as the first of his sisters fell, a new recruit who had joined only three weeks ago lay bleeding on the floor, her lower left leg missing from a grenade. Leaping back he dragged her to safety and bandaged the wound as best he could as an energy blast ripped through the corridor tearing his helmet to pieces. Bleeding from his head he finished as she saw the scar on his left eye and gasped...once more he leapt into the fray...

(OOC: Just a little history really and a chance to have some fun, feel free to join.)

The porceline mask seemed to exempt the rest of her body from focus, the twisted malformation of the witch-crafters skin until which point all that it appeared to be was a hollow mask. What lay behind, none could imagine. Predia was much more vast than any could imagine, oddities were many, as the population risen, so did the multiplicity of the exotic, the unique. She was one. A cultist of Gaea. At birth they were mutilated as their face became stone. They broken away from the Predian form.

Creatures of theatrics, their very nature was to either enlighten, amuse or exact fear. To face them in combat is to face against evitability, each one born with strong telepathy, able to potray their minds for all to see at the youngest of ages. They grew quickly, each one learned through the thoughts of others, through that they became beyond the realms of average knowledge. Their perception of existence stretched beyond most, they knew the darkness of the mind before their age came to grow. But even they were not immune to the bite of the vampire.

Artisme, the one who stood now as a kindred at the side of Ophelia was one who had fallen to the bite. No matter how much you may potray the illusion of being beyond the natural Predian form, the need still remains. The need to survive no matter their condition, and they were not alone. Ophelia had gathered many like herself as they stood now as orphan sisters of their old cults, exiles. Survival is all relative to each beating heart.

The whispering thoughts rang through her mind, the thoughts of Artisme, naturally the cultist of Gaea still struggled to communicate without such cryptic analogies. Ophelia simply ignored the thoughts, kept them at bay, but she knew of what the cultist meant. From the veranda the sisters stood. The cries came from below as the erruptions begun. The Johava, the Baris-myt as the Witch-crafters knew their names had brought the potency of their army to bare upon the Tallinn death clan.

There is no irony with the Witch-crafters motives, there is not convience in the options they take. Some witch-crafters may walk blind of the future, but at this moment the future that her sisters had found had now become the present. Ophelia knew as all of her sisters knew, each of them were created as opressers of the average Predian form, they all mused upon the natural instincts of fear and terror. Yet the Johava were alike to them, they diverged from their natural form, they worked to become greater using the machine. They were just as daunting if more daunting than the witch-crafter gathering.

Ophelia looked toward Mustaryn, the exception of the gathering. As he stood without the vampric thrist. He would be the only one with the abilties to assist her sisters in this fight. They moved within synchronisation, guided by the dominating telepathic thoughts of Artisme, as they all worked within unison, linked through the most mentally superior, falling downwards, ever on towards the war that raged below.

Ophelia saw the floor draw closer toward her, she could not deny the over-whealming sense of natural fear taking illuding her mind. Artisme guided another one of the sisters to exact their spell, as within that moment gravity was defied as their landing was eased. Ophelia felt the commands of Artisme taking over her body, her hand reaching out as her stave was summoned. Ophelia and her sisters landed upon their feet.

The machines already reacting so quickly to distort their foes with the desortating sounds that can break the ears, Ophelias stave slammed itself agains the floor, as the anarchy became silence as though their ears been brought down by the sound of a oncoming shell, yet within those moments, there was only one voice that could be heard.

Ophelia Sierra: "We come to clense the machine."

Opehlia made her leap into the air as the ravenous machines began to strike out against their newly founded foes. As the directional war-path of the Johava had been comprimised by the intrusion of Ophelia and her sisters.

His helmet lay in ruins as the blood poured down his face, if he wasn’t blinded in his left eye as a child he would have been now from the blood that was slowly making its way down his face. The woman he had helped was bandaging a wound before starting the battle to defend her home once more. She knew what it was to fight for your home, true an army larger then there's were here to destroy the guild, but what the hydra lacked from the machinations was determination.

They had lost all individuality when they started replacing their skin for synthetic flesh, their bone for high tension alloys and even the brain could be replaced now. The woman leapt from behind the shelter and using her mace crushed the skull of one of the hydra, sparks and oil flying as Soloman himself lept into the air, his sword raised high and proud ready to strike the next hydra that he saw...

A blast of energy and all were sent flying, even the hydra were stunned and a deafening silence rang in his ears. He had been embedded in a wall and pulling himself out the concrete fell to the floor, dust clouds rising and the pieces falling, yet he could not hear them, he could only hear one thing.

Ophelia Sierra: "We come to cleanse the machine."

It was the witch crafter from the scrap yard and that day in old bimtis when he was supposed to be following the rogue bounty hunter to eliminate the witch-crafters. His one failing in the clan and it seemed even now that it haunted him. However maybe not all had been lost as the hydra just started to pick them selves up off the floor his brothers and sisters were already charging.

The Johava's rampage had been altered by the appearance of Ophelia and her kin. Reclaiming his sword his silver hair flowed down his back and his helmet lay at his feet, torn to shreds it had saved his life once more and he would have to make do without its protection. Clenching the sword in his hand the Johava had turned their attention to Ophelia and her sisters, now they would strike using a pincer movement. Soloman gave the order with his free hand and his brothers and sisters side by side marched forwards. Anger in their eyes and rage overcoming the hearts.

This was their home, it will always be their home. Many thing it is just a guild of assassins, but in truth it is much more than that. In some ways it is a family, they watch out for each other, share the joys and pains of life. The Johava wanted to take this away from them, but it will not be allowed. A reaper os a formidable foe in combat anyway, but when you try to take away their home, their conviction only becomes stronger.

Just a few feet away from the Johava back lines and they turned around noticing what was happening too late though as they charged and the battle truly began. Soloman rushed forwards diving past the first few dozen or so enemies until he was in the centre, this was it. If they fell here all was lost, but if they won the hall would bear its scars and the clan would gladly show them and scream We survived this

Spinning his sword around he caught a hydra in the back, lodging it in place a synthetic scream rang out through the corridors as oil splattered his armor and the sparks that followed it ignited. Flames swept through the corridor now but the battle still raged on. Soloman was on fire but he felt no heat, his blade coated in oil was alight and would burn the machinations from his home. The Johava would not win this battle today.

He was surrounded yet the hydra hesitated to attack him as the flames surrounding his body did not stop, but from within the distance in a safe room a crippled old man watched from a CCTV camera with pleasure. A smile was growing on his twisted face one that meant no good except for his own, he had found what he had been looking for. So many years of waiting in the shadows and it would all finally come to an end now, he would be reborn again. A cackle escaped his dry throat as Soloman waged war with the Johava.

Another swing of his sword and another hydra fell, he was closer to Ophelia and her kin now but they moved in unison, like they were as they hydra were, one consciousness but many arms. A hydra tried to hit him with a drill but it just scraped his armor as Soloman grabbed what little hair it had left and severed its head from the body. This fight was far from over.

The holy order, a burning light in a world eclipsed in eternal darkness. The first teachings tell of a wandering people, free of sin that built a world in peace and harmony. Then the old Gods made their promises to the weak minded, false gods and false promises. The false gods promised eternal life upon death, made life of less value. They promised the weight of sins and each it their own way promised rewards for those who shunned or built upon them. Gods split in different values, goals and ways of life. It split the populace of the world and malice first took root.

First came Mitsume who came a sowed misery and madness in his wake. He walked Predia the briefest of the gods, returning to the place whence he came not soon after. Terror left in his wake the once peaceful and great societies began to hate, to desire and passions rose and defiled what they wrought which was pure. The teachings he left his darkened children taught the ways of pain, greed and selfish acts. In one thing, at least this fallen god was honest of his purpose.

Second came Ace, god of good, the greater god and the first of the false ones to offer salvation. The teachings say the trickster was once an apostle of the true god cast down and beyond heavens gates when he smote the world himself. He preached peace, strength, virtue… they were nothing but lies, words twisted and fraught with hidden meanings. His followers lay low countless millions even now in the name of peace and unity. Death is death and murder is murder, to say else is to lie unto yourself and unto God.

Then came others, to which the teachings give little or no mention. Unworthy of any mention in fact, their presence in Predia only added to the chaos but did not change its nature. The false gods left the world behind, no less on the path to wronging another distant world with falsehoods and trickery. Immortals on a power trip, in his point of view.

The teachings the extended further, telling of the world divided and prejudice set. Then the savior came to Predia, sent to bring its sins into the light were only then could they be judged before the most holy court of God. This savior did not preach of peace, he did sway the masses with promises of eternal life or righteousness. Their Savior spoke the language of the ancients, those who came before, his words taught not meaning but command obedience. He dragged the hidden heretic, the horrid mutant and faceless abominations before the holy and slew them in its name.

Floyd taught no to blame upon others, hide behind the teaching of something long gone or false. He taught that an action is the same no matter how it’s stated. A death is a loss no matter the cause or reason. He did not hide the fact he slay those he opposed or coat the true with falsehoods. Floyd led the faithful in a holy war against the mad and disillusioned masses. As any mortal Floyd was slain, he never claimed he was immortal.

It is through his actions the Holy Order was born, given life and through his actions is now a beacon of faith that stands before the end of the world. A light in the darkness and a hope for the hopeless, those lost souls that might find a new life and redemption when no one else would listen. It has eyes in every city, ears on every corner. Its followers ranging from high born to low birth, in the end a body will be a corpse therefore in death all are the same.

Faith shall be the strongest bond and greatest strength in the times ahead. A bone might break, a mind might shatter but ones faith in a cause, belief, is harder than any physical conduit and mightier than any weapon.

It is as thus that Lloyd, but one Avatar of Gods will walks not alone the streets of the machine city. His purring weapon grated the dark uneven tarmac as he passed, its blades scything and screaming at contact. His chest and head held high, a deep grin set in motion upon his lips as he sang. His followers keeping time with chanting and oaths.

” Come unite the world you soldiers of Truth,
Chosen by the Lord to carry His Word.
Till the world proclaims Him ruler of all,
Every soldier must go forward to fight.
Offer God your life and desire,
Uniting both the body and soul,
We shall be the soldiers who can fulfill,
Everything for God by doing His Will.”

His followers raised voices to the chorus,

”Join the fight for the Lord,
sacrificing all that you have
Join the fight, win the world!
We will see victory!”

His own Voice raised to night, shirking foes and potential threads melted into the shadows as they passed, sensing the threat these warriors of the lord posed,

” Come unite the world you soldiers of light,
Called to be the chosen people of God.
Till the world returns all glory above,
Every soldier must go forward to march.
Offer God the wealth you possess,
Uniting from beginning to end,
We shall be the soldiers who can fulfill,
Heavenly desire by doing His will.”

The chorus followed once more and Lloyd quickened the pace. Barely over the voice of joined song and faith could the battle be heard raging nearby, not far now to raging flock of madmen that had desecrated gods home. Abominations, Hydras from the cult ‘Johava’ had sacked the temple between Bimtis and Neosstis. They would pay and Lloyd was going to see to that.

Word had spread through the Order fast of the cults supposed secret plans to raid the Tallinn cult. Though Lloyd and his kind held no fondness for these thugs either they also held no grudge towards them, they respected the faith… in as much to leave it be. Though blind in ambiguity they were not the only ones. The faith had no intention to take to world as one; one cannot change fate alone other than by means of divine intervention.

” Come unite the world you soldiers of right,
Trusted by the Lord as worthy in heart,
Till the world is bright with Heavenly joy,
Every soldier must go forward to win.
Offer God the love in your heart,
Uniting on the left and the right,
We shall be the soldiers who can fulfill,
God's eternal joy by doing His will!!!”

The song came to a close as they rounded the last corner and came face to face with climactic battle before them. Hundreds of Hydra scums were attempting to smash through the Tallinn lines; others weaved amongst them, sisters of some kind unleashing graceful death upon those around them… always the Hydra. Sisters in battle it seemed. Lloyd halted and so did the faithful, his voice called out raised to the heavens and beyond!

Lloyd: “Unto GOD LAY YOUR SOULS! BURN THE HERETICS!”

The faithful rushed forwards as one, hair ablaze and scythes abound. None wielding the colossal weapon of Lloyd, the imposing two handed chainsaw that screamed as he churned the motor in response. A roar in its own right.

Lloyd roared a challenge to all that might hear and leapt into the fray, the sound left the world and yet none of the faithful cared. Only the enemy, the heretic and unclean mattered before them. Lloyd was a the head of them when the last lines of the Hydra turned to meet them, the two forces charged towards the other feet pounding the stricken earth and voices raised in soundless oaths and curses. Hair burned and faces contorted with rage, passion, fear and pain all in one beautiful moment when the two worlds came together.

Lloyd raged with his horrible chainsaw, slicing two Hydra apart below the waist, the two forms slid to his left as his own rampage carried on. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going to survive this night that stalked from the cult of Johava. They had slain 13 of the Order in their raid and they would pay with nothing less that the complete destruction of their pitiful cult. Nothing will sway the Avatars of god from their rightful vengeance. They were going to murder the heretics to a man and then that man would really suffer.

As the Hydra and Faithful collided many from both fell pray to the other, Faithful slain as Hydra with whirling blades for limbs cut thought their ranks and Hydra scythed into pieces by many a many of the Faithful or many at once. The fires of hell would be well provided this night, well indeed.

Lloyd mercilessly hacked another of the fallen Predians, the gore of its body poured forth in a torrent of oil and darkened blood. Its head separated like a coconut to reveal the circuitry and mined brain within. Without pausing he continued his path of and swing of wrath. The Chainsaw was easier to aid than to control, in essence it sought out the unworthy of its own accord. The rage was not quelled and the fury would continue.

All Heretics Shalt Burn, on Earth or in Heaven. There is no sanctuary, to haven or retreat. All life does end and upon it you will be judged. Lloyd was going to hell and he was taking as many others with him as possible. Such is the Faith he and his kind posses.

You cannot Run, only Hide... hide and fear. You cannot Escape, only per long... in torment and suspicion. Hunted till your sins find you.

The gemini eyes began to glaze as her body met the air, from their unnatural foes came all but natural responses, the mass of bodies moved like the ravenous tides of raging water, striving for any solution. The machine never understands, merely learns through failure. The machine is not of faith, it is not of anything but of the material. Within the glowing of their radiant augments lies nothing but the bitter green color of jealousy. Fate given them birth as failures, with those without the ability perceive and handle, thus they turn themselves from what they cannot conceive, they create the alternate. Within their hollowness they christen themselves as the future. They believe to be beyond fate. The Baris-myt, as pure as the chemical sunset above.

The Reaper had no concept of the significance of this event, of the unexplored situation that had risen. The witch-crafters had never truly brought forth true arms against the Hydra, many stipulated that the witch-crafters could not bring down the young new forceful race. As the Witch-crafters intertwine their mind, as they revel within a collective, they only become more confident in their own abilities, they only become more potent. Just as the Hydra. Against these two kindred lay two different realms of the extreme, one who brought faith into the malevolent immaterial and the other who brought faith into the radical material of the machine. Do not be so naive to believe this as a equal battle, the young hydra still needed to evolved, still after 200 years needed to apply more of their efforts to adapt to their environment, while the Witch-crafters had done as such as thousands of years.

Not all of the sisters leapt through the machines within their exotic dance, although some may appear to move, they were only those breaking the immaterial matter of time, or deluding their presence through the matter of where they stood. The cryptic Artisme was no longer one, through trickery she appeared in a multitude of space without moving. Shakira, the great wolf maestro also stood in solitude, her robes floating out of sync with gravity, from outside of her veil her own magic was brought forth. Spirit-wolves, each one given the smallest element of magic to replicate a physical creature in physical presence, as a tide strove forward into the machines.

The machine was already fooled, already stepping forth to learn it's first mistake, their technology aiming as they attempted to trim down the unnatural tide that had seemingly been spawned by so few witch-crafters. For each creature they shot, another merely was conjured from it's creator, her sisters were not even trying.

Ophelia's purpose was clear in this fortay, she was given the task of devouring the sound that surely would have brought nothing but disorientation in it's wake. It was as it was, the machine still needed to evolve to the world they had been given birth into, they still needed to learn upon how to sharpen their claws, how to bring down their foes. Against such a race as the Witch-crafters they stood no chance. There will always be a collected trick up their sleeve, there will always be a trick hidden in the unknown until which time it would be brought forth to delay the machine's superiority... Or end it entirely.

Ophelia's body weaved itself within the air, as her feet found their place above the top of the more dominant creatures of the machine. Her lips blowing the kiss of destruction as the flames triggered little attention in comparison to the trickery of her sisters, the creature had not even moved, had not even sensed her strike. Her eyes broken from the machine, giving herself the time to percieve the world through fresh-reflective eyes. More of the reaper had come, yet there need was no longer required, she could hear their voices calling out from the distance as though they had some immunity to the feeding of her own stave.

Along the other side, approached the gifted, Soloman. The mysterious reaper that brought his assistance to bare during her time at the Scrapyard. His name so familiar within her mind, as pierced the hidden memories underneath the layer of the surface. His sense of perception was not as keen as she imagined it to be, she could see by his stance that he felt nothing but betrayal and fear for the mistake had had made. He had no cause to worry.

Artisme watched the battle rage if anyone would be exaggerate the the truth of this battle, it was merely an extermination, an eradication of a material presence into an immaterial form, her efforts reduced, as did the numbers of the machine. No longer fooling her foes into seeing so many of herself. It seemed that the threat for so long being preached was just as every other race, as the rogue, as the reaper. These were no different, merely failed mutations of the Predian form.

It was then that the hail of fire stopped on behalf of the machine, as she noticed the green-glowing color of jealousy rise from the machines.. She had encountered this phenomenon before within the lands of the Scrapyard, an event that only happens the machine adapts. Ophelia stood in place, as the reapers continued bring down those Hydra unaffected by the update unaware of the machines advancement against the witch-crafters. Within a moment the green turned back to the fierce burned hatred of red. The machine did all that it could to evolve so quickly, they drawn out with their EBS melee weapons as they burned away all that remained of their natural biological mind. With that the Witch-crafters were drained of their advantage.

The machine began to awaken from the distraction as the illusional witch-crafters numbers were brought down to their true value, the machine grasped the leg of Ophelia with the endless amount wired conduction veins as the electric metal began to burn into her skin. One moment of laxity can be the wholesale downfall of an entire battle. The beaten body was thrown into a distance, like a piece of wasted trash, as it seemed the true battle had begun.

The hydra stopped for a brief moment, a small red light turning to green as they updated their strategies, changing the battle plan and ultimately the way they would fight. More hydra poured in from the streets, joining the Johava in their cause simply because they were the same machines . They flooded the corridors as the ones that had been here for a while fighting began to carve any thing that remained of the organic brain, stripping the witch crafters of a huge advantage.

Just at that moment a holy man burst through ,wielding an old combustion driven chainsaw, his followers the same. Spouting forth words of heresy and religion he cleaved through the hydra like a madman possessed, something stabbed him...or it felt like it as the visage of an older man brandishing the same weapon flashed between his eyes...there was a striking resemblance yet they were different. Ignoring this he saw a potential ally, the enemy of my enemy is my friend

A horde of hydra were between him and the newcomer, who seemed to betaking up the fight against the hydra, a buzz saw almost struck him in the face as instinct kicked him, causing him to arch backwards, almost losing his balance. For a brief moment in time he stood there, what appeared to be impossible happening, How he could avoid such a quick strike in his armor was impossible yet something had warned him of the danger before it had happened...something carnal awoke inside of him.

He did not know what it was but it gave him a burst of energy and he would be a fool not to use it in this crucial battle. Gripping his sword tightly in his palm he swung it behind him, focusing on the path that lay ahead of him, thinking of which hydra to strike down first so that he could crave a way to the new groups leader. It would be pointless trying to speak to him over the sounds of this battle as they would just be drowned out...this was no longer a fight, a clash between ideals....no it had turned into a war.

A hydra wandered closer to him ,rearing its ugly head at him before lunging forwards with is buzz saw...the same one that had almost hit him before he had dodged it. Soloman closed his eyes and listened carefully, focusing on the sounds of his enemies, drowning everything else out until he could hear nothing else but the madness of ticking and whirling. it was at this time he was his best. The spinning of the blade sent vibrations through the air, telling Soloman exactly where the hydra was, how far he was away and the speed he was travelling.

Stepping tot he side the hydra continued on its path forwards, stumbling as Soloman buried his sword through its back, oil and blood spraying the air behind him, kicking the body off he rotated the sword in a twirl, spinning around and beheading the hydra that had attempted to catch him off guard. More swarmed to take him down, some using the EBS weaponry to try and disorientate him but to no avail he was in the zone.

It was a state of mind that only the truly skilled and masterful warriors could achieve, true focus in battle meant domination over the enemy. Nothing mattered but your surroundings and your life. In this state of mind even the slow and cumbersome became graceful fighters, able to dodge all attacks and win a fight with the odd's stacked against them with not even a scratch on them, it was time to tilt the odd's in his favor.

Charging he breached the secondary line of hydra placing himself smack in the middle of the fight, his brothers and sisters fighting near the witch crafters and the newcomer just in front of him, on either side lay the hydra. They surrounded him, as he stood there, not thinking about what to do but feeling his next move, planning every possible choice, outcome and consequence in his mind in a few brief seconds. They charged and he unleashed a mighty blow with his sword, hacking the first few hydra in half before his chain was pulled.

Soloman fell to the floor as he was dragged towards an infernal machine which resembled him in some ways. Although it may have a slight resemblance to him, it was in no way him. He grabbed the foot of a hydra whose legs had been removed and replaced with industrial walker units. Grasping a slight indentation he held on as the other hydra pulled harder, his armor slipping before a cudgel struck his back.

Releasing his grip from the blow he was dragged away from the other who had joined them, and pulled towards the machine who resembled him. Maybe it was a failed Johava attempt in trying to recreate a perfect warrior, mocking the Tallinn clan in the process he would not tolerate it. Regaining his focus he let himself be dragged against the floor, the hydra smirking as Soloman was pulled underneath. Smiling the hydra looked down only to have a sword thrust between his eyes.

Sparks flew as the oil seeped down the blade slowly, a grenade tearing the limbs from one of his brothers and sending bits of body pieces flying everywhere. The hydra were maintaining a steady line and neither foe would budge without some form of miracle to turn the tide in their favor. They had only been battling for half an hour but the bodies lined the corridor as if they had been fighting for hours.

~~~~~~~Panic room~~~~~~~~~~~

Vladiemeir sat in his wheel chair, the oxygen mask covering his deformed face as the medical crew's tended to the machines that kept him alive. It wasn’t even living anymore as the only thing that kept him alive were the machines. There would have been a time where he would have rather died than live in a weakened sate...but he had plans, a doctor stood on his air pipe, cutting the airflow.

Gargling he sent a what would appear to be a praying mantis claw from his shoulder and pierced the man's neck, feeling the blood splatter the back of his balding head he smiled. The Doctor fell to the floor and the air rushed into his lungs, causing him to cough violently. Like vultures to a dying animal they swarmed him, balancing the air flow and various other machine parts until he fell back into his labored breathing cycle again.

He had hated what he had become over the years, slowly his body had been wasting away as he searched for the one who held the specific genetic code vital to his resuscitation. All he needed was one fresh strand of DNA, one fresh strand of his DNA. For just over a few centuries now he had searched for the one who held his blood, diluted yes, but still containing that one vital gene.

For the past twenty or so years he had held that gene within his grasp and not realized it. The one warrior who stood out among the ranks, never failing and always exceeding what was expected of him...Soloman Kruskov was his only surviving heir.

~~~~~~The corridor~~~~~~~~~

He had regained his previous standing in the war, now nothing more than five feet away from the leader of the other group as the witch crafters maintained their line with his brothers and sisters. One mighty blow of his sword sent a hydra flying into the crowd, knocking several of them over as they imitated an old and now extinct creature...the tortoise. They rolled on their back's , struggling to get up as he walked forwards, dodging and countering the attacks that came his way. As the leader of the other group buried his chainsaw into a hydra he spoke to him whilst deflecting a sword.

Soloman:" Welcome to the fight friend, my name is Soloman Kruskov."

The war coming was endless, the Hydras numbers increased exponentially as more amassed to join in the down fall of the Talinn death clan. Artisme looked over towards the direction that their sister had fallen. Ophelia lay near death by the unpredicted strike by the Hydra as their plot had witnessed an untimely downfall... If the sisters were not so cautious they may all find themselves within such a state. The figure Artisme simply faded from all sight, no longer depending upon illusion to fool those of the Hydra, as she held herself from existence she sent out the call to the oddity of their cult, Mustaryn.

His home-lands were not of Olymus, neither of any of the kingdoms of Predia. His home-lands were far. From all that the sisters had managed to gain of knowledge, his lands consisted of many suns above, which would explain the difference within his skin-tone, it appeared much darker than their own. With his hands raised into the air, he let out a call in his foreign language, as the time to rise to the next level of combat had come. With that those perished, both Hydra, Witchcrafter and Reaper risen once again towards the fight, brought back through the odd magical elements of Mustaryn and controlled through Artisme as she upon some scaffolding above, watching the battle rage while occasionally moving through the stray shots targeted at her.

Her sisters held the knowledge of how to keep themselves a safe distance from their slow moving mindless zombies, there would be little if any self-damage, as for the reapers they could bring down their foes with a simple strike. Artisme knew that the mechanical mind of their foes would not be able to register the logic of their fallen-allies, for the moment it would take time for them to recalculate and identify to kill those whom had perished.. Unlike before, such an update shall take time..

Artisme knew that the Hydra's political and warfare control systems worked differently from those of other nations, each grouping was of it's own devices, it's own cause and motive. These different groups worked with an exchange which managed and controlled and distributed both hard-ware and soft-ware between the groupings, why the technology wasn't simply distributed equally and why the groupings were not so eager to share technology with other groups was simple. The same as any other nation, sub-sections did not trust other sub-sections. Unity was never truly there even within the Hydra. Each time the leaders wished to expand or seeked the technology of another, there was only two approaches that could have been taken, stealing the technology from the fallen, most often resulting in warfare there after, or trading the technology for resources or other forms of technology that the Hydra grouping had collected.

As of this moment the Johova were identified for their radical stepping, they held not much favor with the other races of Neosstis, it shown within the battle. They had strove through stealing technology from the neighboring Hydra groupings, often they had been a catalyst of control, but now it seemed as though their desire and motive within this battle was to expand their territory. As it was this hidden barracks that split the Johova from another part of the city. No doubt this was only one of the reasons why the Hydra invasion had begun.

---------

The cold and bitter floor seemed to ease the scolding burn upon her flesh as simply now lay in thriving pain.. The moments that had passed seemed to flash-by so fast, now everything seemed so slow. Her stave had faded back into the Immaterial, broken by the release of her own hand, she heard the sounds of the dead rising once more. She had met the point, the point of pain. She could no longer move, could not longer truly conjure a rational thought, all that remained was the dwelling painful thoughts in her mind.

She rose up her arm so her eyes could see. The boils had already been to rise, as had the painful cuts showing the muscles held inside... Her eyes sealed as she no longer could stand to look. She needed to move, needed to escape in some form, like a cat would retreat to lick the wounds of battle. The gemini eyes turned to look upwards towards the scaffolding, as Artisme continued to act out as the general of the forces.. Not caring once to focus upon the dying body of Ophelia.. Ophelia didn't want to leave, no matter the pain. She had been drawn out as a failure, a liability towards her sisters.. She was never born for such forms of battle.. She was never meant to endure such foes.. She knew, yet she pursued to join anyway. This was all her mistake.

Ophelia gasped as she heard the quick stumbling foot-steps of one of the zombies approaching to feed upon what remained of Ophelia, she turned as she saw the creature lashing with it's hungry mechanical mouth, it was one of the fallen-hydra. She tried to roll, or draw out her hands to hold back the creature.. There was no plan, no means upon which to survive, only but the need to survive.. She felt the exotic unnatural pain within her arms as she attempted to move them, the feeling seemed to conquer her senses, it made her feel as though her own body was foreign to her.

She did not hear the sounds of the Specter-hounds as they approached the zombie from behind, shredding the zombie away from it's beaten prey. There stood Shakira as she decapitated the zombie. Her eyes seemed different than before, much more serious in tone as though the joy of battle had been faded by time.

Shakira: "Artisme has declared you a reliability, sister. Go."

With that came her scattering magic as Ophelia's body thrived within the immaterial borders beyond reality, until which point she was brought through into the world before the feet of Artisme. The poceline mask did not turn to face to acknowledge her at all. Either like the blind general that would sooner focus upon a battle than that of her soliders, or as a sign of respect for Ophelia's own character.

Lloyd: "MAY THE GODS FORGIVE YOUR SINS! FOR I. SHALL. NOT!"

He roared as he seperated a vile Hydra from its lower limbs, glorified in how its face twisted to register an impulse of pain. That impulse proved it, that spasm... that he Lloyd was returing their human souls, tearing apart the machine so that the those trapped within could seek salvation from God. Lloyd revelved further through this realisation, emboldened as his faith took hold of his actions and guided his body through the motions of heaven.

Was he truely doing Gods will? Obviously. Was it truely heavens degree that man must serve it? Definetatly. Is God truely the Creator of All. HERETIC?!?! Such questions were not asked, nor wanted in Lloyds mind. False thoughts brought on by a fear of killing, a desire or civilised thought to not kill. That murder is wrong and death to be avoided.

They however knew not the truth of god, had not embraced the teachings of the holy ones. Man was no saint when it was spawned into being, it did not work togeather or cook its food. All that is as a result of mans actions, further from gods true intentions and yet god did not intent for us to remain unsolicited for all time. Children grow and with time sins are born, actions we deem wrong and right. Justice is a term we use to govern those sins and yet by both right and creed those are mans falsehoods. God intended us to grow, but he also intended us to grow wise... maddess was all that Lloyd could within these things.

He soared forwards as if with wings of wind, his holy chalice grinding through another of the foul perversions with anticated ease. Its true that such a weapon as his was old by times. Swords of pure light, spells of apocalyptic scale and vile living weapons such as those made by Hydra and their master. Yet the Evicerator bowed to none of these, it was a fearsome weapon which had changed little over the decades since the Avatar brought it to the world. Its spiked face now rested, roaring in satisfaction, doing gods work in Lloyds hands.

The faithful were falling, many had died. It was expected. Hundreds of half clad humans, swinging massive blaziers of flame, scythes of weat metal and swinging metal stones. Hair ablaze in reckless abandon, thier eyes upon the gates of heaven they set themselves upon their foes.

Their foes came back with wirling arms, blades and saws. They came on mass, with metalic skin weapons struggled to breach and heads as hard as the weapons themselves and yet the faith could not be denied. While one of the Hyrda might strike down two of the faithful another ten would pull it apart. They clustered around their foes sacrficing themselves so that others might undo their foe. Tearing out cords from junctions, breaking glass eyes and tearing off arms through pure effort and maddened rage. The faithful set themselves upon their foe with the determination of thsoe already dead. Nothing more could hurt them, nothing more could inspire fear within them, souls long left and body given over to fits of remaing will.

In truth the Hyrda and Faithful were similar in their disregard of their humanity. One with parts of machine and the other selling its sanity to faith. Yet as similar as they were they could never touch, one idea as different from the other as bread and water. One wished to live, immortaly with power beyond dreams. The other wished to die and ascend to heaven to be judged in the court of the holy, worthy or accension.

Lloyd allowed a tear to form at his eye, his mind given to thougths of self sacrifice and duty. He served as the guiding roll, the fiathful swarmed about him taking the blows he might suffer so he could render their attackers asunder instead. The floor of the corridor soon thickened with blood and oil.

Lloyd: "To me! Press on to the heart of the foe!" and they followed as he continued his path of mercliess retriution against the machine.

A moment of near silence. The machines stopped, the arms came to a halt and killing paused, at least for one side. The Hydra blinked, green lights signalling concious descisions as the last of their outward humanity began to fade away and cool, calm and false logic took its place. The faithful did not stop however and free of momentary danger they took to disassembling, ripping, pulling and even biting at their opponents. Ears were torn of, blinking lights punctured and faces burned from the bone. They had no mercy.

The fighting resumed and with the cold logic the machines began to band togeather, groups of ten would lash out togeather at the faithful robbing their advantage of numbers and yet not a inch was given. The faithful did not look back, or care as their brothers died by their side. The deaths grew and the scale of the battle became a war. Both sides with no true in sight.

A voice saddled beside him in the chaos that was..

Soloman:" Welcome to the fight friend, my name is Soloman Kruskov."

Over the dying retches of a certian Hydra in question he roared, his evicerator making it hard to be heard.

Lloyd: "WELL MET! DELIVER RIGHTOUS FURY TO THESE FOES!"

The man was armoured and tough, blood slick about him both his and not. No helmet reamined were signs of one might be and his weapon slick with oil that it might light at a moments notice. Lloyd reared up to full height, close enough to rival this mans own and barreled fowards Evicerator swinging left and right as limbs slung up and wirling blades danced int he sky at night to fall upon other prey. His rage kept him close to the man as they both tore those around them to pieces. He knew this man acted not in Gods faith and yet he did Gods work regardless. Thus are the massess seen.

Even in life you do gods biding though you know it or not.

The chainsaw roared forth, hewing the flesh from bone as its engine span faster, increasing the devastation that it wrought. Soloman's own arm extending and slicing through the metal and flesh, the oil coating his blade before a single small and almost insignificant spark hit the blade.

In one single instant the oil ignited and the flames rushed forth, engulfing every molecule in fire on the surface of the blade. A strike to a hydra hit the power core, a loud explosion resonated throughout the area as the resulting effect propelled the carcass backwards as Soloman prepared to strike the next one with his fiery blade.

The man screamed of heresy, Sins and righteousness as a memory flashed before his eyes, slightly blurred but somehow surreal and vivid. Almost as if it was he experiencing it, almost like he was remembering what had happened...maybe in another life?

~~~~~~~The vision~~~~~~~~~

The man ducked low, the chain fists connecting with the armour loosely cascading sparks and leaving chewed mail, but the man was unharmed. The two circled each other once more, he had the impression the man was searching with his eyes... looking for something. It is said in many cultures that when two people fight to the death they are able to gleam the others mind. A connection allowing a heightened sense of battle and prediction, he could almost feel the man’s eyes staring at him. He stared back. The man drew his other sword, the one he had just claimed, his eyes wandered to the hiding necromancers amongst the growing flames.

Vlad: "Ha ha ha, this is glorious Floyd! Good and evil locked in an eternal battle, but with a twist. We have guests! It appears that my newly found brothers have arrived and so have your followers. This has all the making of a war! My swords are an extension of my body; they are my soul, my life! Each one has once belonged to a member of my family, and i will reclaim each one no matter the cost! "

The oncoming heretic was expecting him to dodge, to jump back or defend, so that the heretic could press his advantage. Floyd did none of the above; Floyd turned straight towards the man and ran towards the blades. He revved his chain fists even as the heretic’s blades swept downwards. One of them was lashing along his right arm, following the skin and cutting a swath of flesh, the other passing over his shoulder lazily unprepared for Floyds move. Floyd stabbed his chain fists towards both shoulders, whilst still charging into the man head on, and delivering a head butt towards the man screaming...

“MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL! FOR I WILL NOT!”


~~~~~~~~~~~The present~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He snapped back to reality quickly as only mere seconds had passed in time, but his body felt the ache...something missing from him and something carnal laying in wait. A piston drove itself towards his face and he ducked, barely missing him as he drove his sword upwards, piercing the chest cavity and appearing through the other side. Ripping it out the spines tore at the metal, ragging the edges. Using his chain he sent it through the gap and wrapped it around the torso...he now had a flail.

Using all his strength, he pulled at it...Still barely alive it groaned with its synthetic voice before being flung onto the streets just a few meters away from him. The sound of a voice caught his ear...it seemed that the witch crafter had been abandoned and several hydra were crowding round her. Looking to some of the recruits he gave a signal but they were killed before they could act.

Sighing he released his grip on the hydra as a truck smacked it in the road, shards of metal and pieces of flesh decorating the asphalt. Leaping over the fallen he sliced the legs of one of the hydra in its way, buckling under the pressure loss as Soloman used its head as a stepping stone...driving his foot down the metallic skull fractured and the synthetic neo cortex spilled onto the floor.

just a little longer why he had the impulse to save her he did not quite know, but she had proved a worthy ally before during the encounter at the scrap yard. Dashing underneath the swords of his comrades and the foul machinations of the Johava, he lunged at one who had just raised its pneumatic hammer. Seizing its neck he twisted it and brought it to the floor, snapping the neck but not killing it until he stepped to the side on its head whilst impaling another hydra,

Soloman:" Rise Ophelia...your not finished yet...

All that remained of Ophelia was little more than a broken Predian doll, as what little blood she absorbed began to leak across the floor, the world became foreign, the world became distant as she began to feel nothing but the essence of death grow around her. Her gemini eyes glared upwards towards the chemical sky, as she heard.. nothing but the slow beating of her grey heart Her heart like a drum calling out towards the approaching Baris-myt as they through each beat they stepped closer.. Her eyes did not move, her mind did not think. The burning fire of her resolve had been drowned by her own leaking blood, leaving nothing but the darkness of acceptence to her end.

The approaching figure stepped in as the small tide of the Baris-myt was broken by but one alone, as they began to fall by the ravenous swing of chains and that of his sword. A bulk of metal, destiny had twisted itself once again to aid Ophelia for what moments remained. The figure brought with it another door, a rekindlement of her burning resolve, but the small hope of life, of existence.

Her body turned onto her chest, hands trying to move to push herself from the floor... She knew the damage she had taken, feeling the seering pain from her arms, as the muscles had been torn and shreaded from the punishing talons. The pressure only awaken the nerves more as they began to respond with sending nothing but agony to her mind. For the smallest of moments she remembered managing to rise to to her knees until her face once again slammed against the floor...

Ophelia Sierra: "...I am finished..."

She groaned from above the agony until her mind no longer could absorbed no more as she fell back into her own mental recluse.

In his prison he watched the events unfold before his age old eyes..how much death he had seen and yet watching this only urged his old b ones into action, rising from his chair and gripping the oxygen mask that covered his face he removed it, taking his first true breath in nearly a century and it felt so f**king good. His knee's wobbled slightly from years of dis-use before steadying...He needed to regain his body...regain his former glory.

The screen flickered as it focused on the young reaper slashing through the horde's of the Johava as if they were nothing but mere cattle..oh how it reminded him of the old days when slayer city had been fun...Itsu, Floyd, Shinn, Yarnae to name a few..hell even sy'braen and azburdal had been fun compared to this...soon he found himself lacking in breath and slowly he settled back in his chair, strapping the oxygen mask back to his face, breathing slowly and deeply.

An aid wandered into the room and injected him with today’s cocktail of drugs nanobots and...Vodka. They didn’t call it life's water for no reason. He felt it course through his veins, the nanobots working to restore his body as quickly as they could before the growth attacked them, engulfing them much like a white blood cell would a bacteria. His body convulsed slightly as the machines destroyed from within his body, cursing as spit flew from his mouth and struck the inside of the mask, steaming it up.

The aid rushed to him immediately and stepped on his foot...The sound of bone breaking and skin tearing filled the air as a hollow shriek followed. The aid had broken his foot as the back substance that was his blood seeped from the wound, tendrils forming and knitting the flesh back together, the bone moving back in place...but it still hurt like hell and now he was p**sed off.

Despite the pain and his old crippled body he rose to his feet and grabbed the man by his throat, spreading his fingers on his left hand and pulling them back, his arm rushing forwards and piercing the flesh of the aid's stomach, grasping the intestines and wrapping his fingers around them he yanked. Pulling them out he released his grip on the aid as he fell to the floor trying to put his internal organs back inside . Grinning he used up what little energy he had left to grow a spine from his forearm, it snaked towards him before piercing the wound and shredding his insides with rapid convulsions of tiny spines..Effectively blending his internal organs into a nice power shake.

Throughout the spine were several holes in between the layers of flesh...think of it as like a straw...sucking up the resulting power shake made with fresh aid a sickening thought came into his mind.;

NEW POWERSHAKE! Made with 100% human..Warning side effects may include strong urges of cannibalism...

It made him smile as he sat back down in his wheel chair, head reared to the numerous monitors that surveyed the carnage below him, the sounds of war barely penetrating his little safe room...If he was younger he would be down their cutting the foul machines aside with his own blades... If they hadn’t of been pried from his "dead" hands when he was merely comatose from the battle.


That had angered him but he was too weak to carry on his bloodshed and so he crawled from the battlefield, under and over the bodies of the fallen, those slain by his own hands and those slain by the hands of others who had joined his cause...those who hid in the shadows and the only one who had given his name all those centuries ago was none other than Guyre Kouj who had died along side him in battle with a smile across his old face, the sun setting over seemingly a distant land.

That has been many years ago and his body had been broken many times after that during his few years on the streets of predia after the massive explosion had devastated the lands. He crawled through grime and dirt struggling for survival, feeding off rats in the sewers before he stumbled upon an old warehouse on the border of bimtis and Musca...no mans land...for years he scavenged from the world above almost obsessive in his revival until the construction of a new city started...Neosstis. Its construction had been swift as the resulting towers pierced the sky.

At that time he had been nothing more than a petty scavenger that is until a small child wandered towards him with such curiosity and hatred held in his eyes, oh how it reminded him of what he used to be like when he was younger..it was then that his twisted mind truly kicked into overdrive, he envisioned the upbringing of this child to become the first member of his guild..but he needed a name...and that was when he saw the name of an old legend in the undergrounds..well more a myth of a creature who killed without mercy..a possible relation of his...Tallinn.

It took only a few years but in that short time the boy had excelled in what he had been taught and it was then that vladiemeir started to accept..well more like recruit people into his guild but it needed a legal enterprise as the warehouse was condemned to be destroyed..so the guild became not only his own device but also a guild of mercenaries.

Many decades later it had flourished but as he sat there his attention focused ont he one young man...and his eyes widened in the realisation that one small glimmer of hope had called his old bones back into action..he rose from his wheel chair and with a new found source of energy he walked dwon towards the battlefield below him...