They had landed much closer to danger than they would have liked to have thought. Thousands were cast out into the under city yet only a few hundred survived the fall. Slaves of all races gathered into a single band where they were rounded up by their Dark Eldar masters. Only in large numbers could they hope to survive out in these sprawls next to the putrid fluids of the Khaides.
Not a single day passed without a power struggle. The ensemble of races moved together, fending off the Parched and the gangers of this dark corner of the city; but a single Eldarith Ynneas always sat at the pinnacle of power amongst them. There was one problem with this: Kabalites from both the Harrowed Soulscream and the Poisoned Tongue were present making loyalties fickle even when nobody could trust one another at the best of times.
The Dark Eldar split off into small contesting groups. The Dracon had his squad, the Slavemaster and a couple of Kabalites he had been able to reel in through false promises and murderous lies. His only real competition were the figures Dracon Yuilla Gui’lashana of the Poisoned Tongue and Tubeborn aspirant Feltaan Varuscht of the Harrowed Soulscream.
Varuscht, even though only a lowly Warrior at the time of expulsion from the vessel, had acquired a formidable backing within the group. Somewhere in the region of eighty Warriors, from both Kabals, had started to follow him. He was a charismatic man yet twice as ruthless. He had been quick to murder his Sybarite and scavenge his remains making him more powerful than those he served with. Those who posed a threat he had swiftly put down as he constantly watched his back; something the Dracon found very wise.
The other, the Dracon of the Poisoned Tongue, had irked Krass’ull. He was a man far more knowledgeable than he was, something that was the result of the Poisoned Tongue’s vast educational facilities. Being from a rival Kabal made the two Dracons hate each other; it was only natural. The only thing that kept their weapons sheathed was their situation. They had a disliking for each other’s personalities but each was a wise tactician that, even though it would be foolish for them to admit, would struggle to assume control over the other. That did not stop them from scheming, however.
Krass’ull had paid for some young whelps to set up traps and slay his guard on a couple of occasions, before sending a handful of his own Trueborn to ‘investigate’ the commotion, fully armed and fully armoured. As payback Gui’lashana would arrange for a number of Krass’ull’s slaves and wealth accumulation to mysteriously vanish, their bodies to be absorbed into the green river to be picked out and packaged into crates as food by the lowlifes of the area.
Their rivalry would die out on rare occasions when they would team up to make sure that Varuscht’s charisma would not make him own the largest percentage of the ramshackle gang.
The collective of slaves and Kabalites had one objective that they all sought to achieve before any later progress could be made: find an area to secure and run. Set up trade with neighbouring gangs and try to make a name for themselves. This had been agreed upon by the three strongest figures, but Krass’ull had no intention on working with the Poisoned Tongue for long. At the moment they had one similar target and shared a will to survive, but they were enemies, after all.
An area had been picked out, a place known as the Teggurats Slums in the Sprawls along the river. This area, a hive of distrust and anarchy, reached from the shore of the Khaides up onto the side of a jutting tower, where a man known through rumour as the ‘Overseer’ resided.
With him marked out the gang sought refuge for four cycles while they conspire against him.
The three sat around a mould covered table in a dank corner of the hovel that was passing off as a tavern. They had their cloaks hugged tightly around them to keep off the ever biting chill and their hoods raised to mask their faces from any bounty hunters that may have been roaming nearby.
Behind each stood two of their chosen guard. Tsallion and Goreveh stood behind Lord Krass’ull, each having daubed their armour in a dark mauve paint, something which pained Goreveh greatly. To cover her red war paint made her feel as if she was sullying her own honour. Tsallion cared not for the colours he wore, only for who he served.
Goreveh held her arms crossed against her breastplate, her Shardcarbine held like a pistol in her large hands in case a dispute kicked off. Tsallion merely stood with a straight back, hand on the pommel of his fine sword. If anybody made any quick movements a one-sided mêlée of bloodshed and swift murder-hits would open up. Tsallion was not scared in the slightest. The others gathered did not seem to pose much of a threat, with only the Poisoned Tongue worthy of being watched. Varuscht was only able to recruit from Kabalite Warriors that had become malnourished through the efforts of the Poisoned Tongue. The other Dracon’s men were something to watch out for, though. One was a female with acid-yellow eyes and a half-smile curled with contempt. He couldn’t see what armour she wore, but he guessed that she was part of a Wych Cult. A single strand of her dyed turquoise hair hung across her face from beneath her hood, a colour which aggravated the veteran Trueborn. It was a colour he did not like to see people wear. It was a colour that made him want to flee, to escape it all. Here was safest for him, though.
The other guard of the Poisoned Tongue Dracon had a shaved head and wore a brazen-skull face mask that gleamed from beneath his hood. He had no idea what this meant, or who it marked him out as, but he was certainly a curiosity. Red eyes shone from the eye slits, inspecting the form of Tsallion as if they were soldiers who once faced each other personally in the field.
Something about him was creepy. His eyes burnt with the lust of a drug addict and with the thirst of somebody who craved pain. He looked like he had not fed recently, something which could prove dangerous. Yes, he might be weak, but he would fight a lot harder just to taste a soul.
The display of natural colour in their hair and irises was another thing that made the Harrowed Soulscream feel unwelcoming towards them. According to Lord Cavash, anybody that did not bear the deepest black eyes, the palest ghost-white skin, and jet black hair was inferior and not worthy of being around the children of T’llionoch. This indoctrinated prejudice would surely not help with negotiations out in these parts.
“Why have you summoned us here?” Varuscht opened, his hand wrapped around a frost-laced stone goblet
“Yes, my question exactly.” Yuilla nodded, his high-Commorrite accent out of place in the slums.
“Neither of you have seen it?” Krass’ull asked, gauging their reactions. “You have not seen the omens of this area? You have not seen the signs and the warnings?”
“What signs? What warnings? Have you been speaking with those fortune tellers?” Varuscht laughed condescendingly, taking a long drink from whatever filth was being served. It was best not to ask what it had been fermented from.
“The Razorwings have stopped flocking, the Hellions have started to raid closer to the slums, and there is word of rebellion against the overseer on the streets.”
“And where, Krass’ull, have you heard such rumours?” Yuilla raised an eyebrow, holding his body language as not to let anything slip.
Interesting, Krass’ull thought. He has not questioned the Razorwings or the Hellions. Either Yuilla had accepted such superstition or he had shunned aside these lies completely. “I have ears everywhere, Yuilla. I have innumerable agents in every crack and crevice of this den of wretches. I hear everything.” He stressed that final word and looked between them. Varuscht had started to tap his finger on the table in front of him but the Poisoned Tongue Dracon remained perfectly still.
The two Dracons locked stares for a short moment causing a silence that not even the creaking of Varuscht’s chair as he leant back could disturb.
Tsallion could feel his hand tighten around his sword. All others were doing the same, waiting for some invisible or perceived order to start a fight.
“As do I, Krass’ull. I would be foolish to presume that you had not.”
“Hmm…” Krass’ull pondered, emphasising his depth of thought. “Then it seems that we’re at an impasse here. You know my plans and I know yours.”
Krass’ull placed his Blast Pistol on the table after emptying the crystal phial from within. It could not be fired now and Krass’ull was left seemingly without defence. He could have shot the rival Dracon there and then, but it would have been pointless if he had been expecting it.
“So, you know now that I shan’t have you assassinated by my hand or any hand that I have to command in this slum. Care to disarm your own assassination method?” He grinned and waited for Yuilla to act.
With an audible sigh the Poisoned Tongue Dracon raised his Splinter Pistol and shot out the throat of the shorter of Varuscht’s two guards. She couldn’t scream as she fell, body convulsing and writhing at the feet of her patron.
“What is this!?” Varuscht shot to his feet sending his chair hurtling across the room to crumble apart with contact from the wall. He drew his Power Sword and pointed the tip at Yuilla. The tavern had suddenly become silent and they could feel the eyes of hundreds of rogues turn their way.
Behind the counter the barman prepared his Shredder in case a brawl broke out.
“He had a bomb implanted in her throat, Kabalite.” Krass’ull declared, smugly. “In her sleep it had been implanted with the hopes of killing us both.”
Varuscht started to tremble. He was playing a game that was seemingly out of his league. “Then I must have his head!” He lunged the sword and sparks flew.
“No.” Tsallion’s own sword blocked the Power Weapon’s path confusing the young Kabalite further.
“In ruining our own schemes openly against each other we are allies with a single cause.” The Harrowed Soulscream Dracon announced. “Now, too much has been disturbed here. We must find a… quieter location.”
Their eyes remained upon one another as weapons were sheathed and they moved to the exit, one group after another.
The corpse was removed but the blissful essence of pain lingered in the air.
“Sir,” Gorveh whispered after they had gone their separate ways, “why did you disarm your pistol? You could have shed his blood!”
“Do you really think that I am so unimaginative that I’d kill him with simple Darklight? You insult me, Goreveh.” He snarled, offended. “I knew that he would be simple enough to believe that a shot from my Blast Pistol would be my attempted strike against him, so I held my cards close, only showing a select few tells.”
Goreveh seemed dumbstruck.
“I would never leave something to chance like this. He will die when the time is right.”
They were both glistening with sour sweat, but only Gorvex felt the sting of it. He was struggling in this sparing session, but he would be damned if he would let her off easily.
Ducking low under a predictable chest slash he lunged for her calf, but she danced around his blade with a honed grace that made Fllythyx Gorvex look like a child finding its feet.
A long slash drew up his exposed back, causing him to grunt in pain as his opponent danced away. He stood slowly, concentrating on her position. Her feet were light but now she was getting predictable. It would only take some minor changes to his fighting to best her.
The sweat stung the dozens of shallow cuts along his arms, but the pain was temporary. Others from previous sessions had scarred or scabbed over. The pain invigorated him and he could feel that all this extra training was doing his health well. The problem was the damage being caused to his pride. He hadn’t won a single match yet.
He looked to Baranda’ch who was stood upon a mezzanine at the end of the hollow cavern built into the earth beneath the slum. This vast network of chambers and halls had been discovered by the Kabalites, cleansed of the hiding nightmares and turned into a reasonable habitat for them. Fighting was the one sport that could keep them all occupied; all other than Baranda’ch. He was supposed to be overseeing the match but he had other things on his mind.
Gorvex turned his sight back to his opponent, spread his stance for stability, raised his knife and waited.
He was going to make her come to him this time. He had noticed that she was off balance when flipping through the air, something that could easily be used to his advantage.
Smiling, his foe broke into a sprint. Her legs sprung her into the air with a powerful kick. Over his head she flipped, so Gorvex took the opportunity.
A deep wound was landed straight across his right shoulder, separating the meat from bone.
He growled and fell as his sparing partner landed elegantly, swishing her dyed red hair from her eye.
“What a fool.” Kat’tar laughed in derision, startling Baranda’ch.
“What? When did you get here?” He asked, more demanding than polite.
“Long enough ago to watch him get humiliated.” She laughed again, more weary of the older Trueborn this time.
“Do you think that you could do better?” He raised an eyebrow, indicating a challenge that she could not refuse.
“Let me fight her. Let me show you what I can do.” She grinned a malicious half-smile, oozing confidence that Baranda’ch believed was misplaced.
“Fine. It’s your death wish.” He stepped to the makeshift handrail, raised a hand in the air and started to shout in a voice that echoed throughout the stone cavern: “New challenger! Trell Kat’tar and Semyla Farrin. Fatigue!”
The game was simple. The first to be tired out or broken beyond being able to defend themselve’s was a failure while the other would be crowned victorious.
The woman down in the arena smiled and started to juggle her knife with one hand to sharpen her reflexes. Trell removed her armour plating and put it aside, her skin-tight Wychsuit covering up the flesh of her body.
She moved down the staircase with carefully placed steps as she sized up her opponent. This fight wouldn’t be too difficult, she thought. Her opponent was tired, so a fatigue match could work poorly for her foe. Her enemy, this Semyla Farrin, would be inclined to injure her outright to earn victory, so Trell would be on her guard.
“What are you doing?” Gorvex whispered to her as he climbed to his feet to leave, blood coursing over his bare chest. “She’s way out of your league.”
“Yours, perhaps.” She walked past her fellow Trueborn without a second glance.
“She’ll kill you, Kat’tar!”
Kat’tar prowled her way forward to the marked out starting point in the arena. Her foe was roughly fifteen metres away from her.
This would be fun, to say the least.
With a signal from Baranda’ch they were free to shed blood. Trell’s feet scrambled across the ground, propelling her lithe form towards her opposition. Within seconds their knives met, sparks flying in the air as a dozen blows were made, blocked and parried between the duelling pair.
They moved around each other, ducking and moving, weaving in and out of one another’s limbs as to avoid being the first to be cut.
Trell made four consecutive strikes, each stronger than the last, to throw her enemy off balance, and while her foe stepped back she spun around; her back on Farrin’s side as she turned to face her opponent’s rear to land what could be a game-winning strike.
She felt the blade meet her flesh.
Trell’s bicep bled, her inky blood trickling down her pale flesh. It was but a scratch, a scratch that had annoyed her.
She now realised that her foe was unusually fast and was not going to be easy to defeat.
Making a small distance between them, Trell prepared herself for an onslaught of blades. The first contact had been to gauge any weaknesses but she had been able to find none.
The next stage of combat came with startling speed. The blade of Farrin swirled and slashed in front of her, forcing Trell back to avoid being turned into a thick paste. With her armoured foot Kat’tar lashed out, stamping on her opponent’s delicate ankle causing her to cry out and spiral away, her knife a mere centimetre from Trell’s throat.
Leaving no time for recovery, Trell counter-charged with a number of lunges followed by her punching out for her opponent’s chest with her empty hand. Each stab missed, but the punch landed square in the chest, winding her foe.
Feeling distressed and vulnerable, Farrin spin-flipped back, wheezing, and kicked dust into Trell’s eyes, blinding her momentarily.
As the Trueborn wiped at her face she slowly regained her vision. Quickly she could see enough to notice her opponent charging right at her.
She had no time to react. Farrin flipped over her head and stabbed her in the back. Trell wavered and stumbled forward as the other combatant landed perfectly.
That move… that was a something taught within Wych Cults.
Turning, Trell faced her opponent. She could see the confidence in Semyla’s eyes, but Kat’tar had her own tricks up her sleeves.
She could see that her foe was coming for another pass, most likely to land a disabling and potentially fatal blow.
Her feet beat quickly like the rhythm of a war drum on the earth. A mist of dust was raised behind her and when she got close enough she got ready to make the final leap.
Trell had other ideas.
Her blade spiralled from her grasp, piercing into her enemy’s abdomen; this slowed her enough for Trell to swing her right hand out and break her foe’s nose.
Her enemy lay in the dirt, failing to move for many moments.
Only with the aid of a cocktail of drugs was she able to stir from unconsciousness, her face a ruined piece of former art. Trell Kat’tar stood over her victoriously, Gorvex stunned at her side and Baranda’ch quietly grumbling as he tended to the wounded duellist.
“How did you do that?” Gorvex needed to know.
“She was a Wych. She needed to be dealt with in that manner. I would not best her with knife skill alone. I recognised her skill… it was unmistakable.” Panting heavily, she attempted to regain her breath.
“How’d you recognise her trade so easily?”
“I was a Wych, once.”
Gorvex gasped, venom burning in his throat.
This could not be.
The rain outside pounded down on the roof of the makeshift hut, every single patter aggravated him more and more. He had worried. He had worried for the first time in many years and it wasn’t even about himself. He found himself worrying for another being.
Leaning on the counter he finished whatever the drink he had stolen from a street vendor was and looked to the door. Most of the slums had fallen silent now, other than the occasional scream due to blood feuds and vengeance killings. The silence had made him hear the footsteps approach.
The door opened, he lowered his Shardcarbine and stormed forwards, embracing her in his arms.
“I was waiting for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” She answered. “I can look after myself.”
Ignoring her former protest they kissed, their armoured forms pressed tight against one another. This warrior’s embrace was what they shared, a glimmer of joy in a life of sorrow.
Together Baranda’ch and Goreveh were happy. They were determined not to let anybody get in their way.
“So, who is it?” Tsallion asked with his usual tone, his knuckle tearing open on the jagged tooth of their captive.
“Why should I tell you?” Baranda’ch also hit the captive, enjoying his job a little more than he had done in recent weeks.
“Because I’m your comrade. I can help you.” Tsallion punched him again.
“Teryth’plak varesh!” He exclaimed. “Torment me, more like!” Baranda’ch made another punch to the gut of the captive this time, stepping back to stretch. Nothing woke him up like a relentless beating.
“You two are insane.” The Slavemaster commented from the opening of the alleyway. He had been watching out for any patrols but was too amused by the exchange. To anybody listening in it might sound like they were beating this tied down man for answers, but really they were talking to each other and pounding him to a pulp until he was willing to share information.
“Silence.” Baranda’ch ordered, waving a knife in Telvoor’s direction.
“Just tell me, Hels.” A disconcerting amount of slight affection crossed Tsallion’s voice, but this forced emotion failed to open his old Trueborn kin up to sharing answers. “I know what you’re feeling; I shan’t poke fun at you.”
“You know what I’m feeling? Then get out of my face, my blood scorches my veins as this topic arises.”
“M-maybe you… maybe y-y-you should open… up.” The captive spat blood, earning the attention of both the Trueborns.
“For that you lose a finger.” Baranda’ch cut the index finger from the man and flung it over the hovel behind him. “Now, if you want to talk how about giving us the entrance codes?”
“Very well.” They returned to knocking the man about for a few minutes, working up an enjoyable sweat as his soul started to leech from his body.
“Inyon lama-quanon, comrade. I have felt it, too. So tell me, who is she?”
“She?” He feigned ignorance.
“… What are you on about?”
“Don’t hide this emotion from me. You should purge it from yourself lest it bring a knife to your throat.”
Baranda’ch stopped hitting the man for a moment to allow him to recover. He looked close to death but the Trueborn knew that the captive would last a little while longer.
“I’m loosing my patience. What are the access codes for the Overseer’s citadel?”
“I… I’ll never-”
“Wrong answer.” Another swift kick to his chest put him in more agony than before. Maybe a few of his ribs had broken. If they would make him die quicker then he could only hope.
“If he’s not going to share anything with us then we have no need of him anymore.” Tsallion’s grim voice disturbed the man as he noted the Trueborn pluck a Darklight Containment Phial from a pouch at his waist and force it into his mouth.
The fear overwhelmed the captive causing him to blurt out the codes.
Baranda’ch noted them and Tsallion curled a lip up in success.
“Good man.” Tsallion hit him in the jaw. His body spiralled away, torso and head consumed by the implosion.
Together the trio left the alleyway leaving only a pair of legs to be plucked apart by the Parched.
“Trust me, Baranda’ch. This emotion shall be your downfall if left to twist you. Get rid of it now before irreversible wounds are caused.”
Cycles had passed, but now they could do what they had longed to achieve since they found the damned slums. Their uprising would begin, the slums would burn and all would be united under a new reign.
The Overseer would die, that was for certain, and Krass’ull was determined to inherit his tyrannical throne.
The others involved in this plot would lead the head of the assault. Varuscht had recruited thousands of slum dwellers for the temporary militia and the Poisoned Tongue Dracon would orchestrate the assault. Any militaristic upper hand that this may have given the Dracon had been thought over with great consideration allowing Krass’ull to make himself the most important member of this uprising. Only he had the power to command his Trueborn and each of them played a vital role in this uprising. Tsallion had held back to stay with his Lord, for protection and to oversee the carnage. Baranda’ch, the Slavemaster and Gorrvex had been in charge of leading the militia they had recruited into key strategic positions to slay any resistance that the owner of these lands may have been able to bring against them Tseng Goreveh, Trell Kat’tar and the duellist, Semyla Farrin, assassinated the key figures that would stand against them.
Within minutes most of the factories and weapons stores that had not been captured by the militia were set aflame with flickering, roaring colours that illuminated the perpetual night.
The Poisoned Tongue Dracon and the lowly Warrior that had risen above his lowly kin were responsible for the main siege of the spire of oppression. Krass’ull wanted no part of this. When they should be united he knew that there would only be treachery. The weaker of the two would be cast down into the dirt while the victor could be dealt with later.
Tsallion stood stoically next to a pile of corpse-strewn rubble. Many flagpoles and blades had been added to the mess to create an effigy that had inspired anger and hatred in the militia. It did not move the Trueborn. After centuries of decadence and depravity such minor displays of pain failed to move him. He watched as skirmishes became mass bloodlettings. Hovels caught fire, militiamen and women catapulted their incendiary projectiles into the path of the resisting mercenaries to deter and to maim. Those that had scavenged the best armour forced their lesser forwards with bellowed threats and with the jab of scavenged swords.
Most of the militia had been sickly men and women forced to work here, but now they had renewed vigour. Many were cut down as they progressed into the paths of Shredders but they did not hesitate. Many charged through flames to fight with the oppressors, their knives and saws-blades hacking at limbs and armour. Dozens were slain in the first instant that Tsallion had watched but hundreds more stepped over bodies to take their place.
“Tsallion. Tsallion!” The Dracon’s hand shook him by the shoulder, grabbing the Trueborn’s attention.
“Did you not hear anything that I said?”
Tsallion’s cold helm did not act to make it seem like he cared. In truth, he didn’t. All that mattered for now was survival.
“It doesn’t matter.” Krass’ull laughed, placing a small capsule in his mouth.
“Combat drugs?” Tsallion asked derisively as his lord proffered a yellow and blue pill to him.
“I found them on a corpse last evening. I thought that they could be useful.”
The silence Tsallion now displayed was different from his usual uncaring aloofness. This was almost judgemental.
“Don’t look at me like that, Trueborn. These are tough times and we must prosper through any means necessary.”
“Indeed.” He sighed, looking at a group of Warriors running past. Amongst them was the man with the skull mask.
Almost as if Krass’ull knew that something was bothering his bodyguard he asked “Is there something that bothers you about that man?”
“I’ve seen the venom with which you hold yourself, Hyllna. What is it that you hate about him?”
Tsallion turned his head to look his master in the eyes. “With all due respect, Sir; it is none of your damned business.” He looked back ahead of them, not fearful in the slightest of vengeful retaliation.
A moment of silence passed between them in which the distant screams grew louder.
“Tsallion.” The Dracon’s voice conveyed actual concern for once, something that proved disconcerting. “You would inform me if you knew of schemes against my life, would you not?”
“Sir, my only purpose is to serve you.” Hyllna bowed the truth of his words like a blade in his master’s chest.
“Why? What makes you so loyal? For the last two centuries you have been in my service and on many occasions you could have taken my place. Why have you not?”
Tsallion removed his helmet, the release of stress upon the old suit’s mechanisms creating a slight hiss. “I do not aspire to obtain ranks, master.”
“Then what do you aspire for? Wealth? Power? The right to own others? Surely there must be something?”
“No.” Tsallion hadn’t considered it before. “If I had wanted any of that you’d be dead. I have no doubt about that.”
“Neither do I…” Krass’ull grew weary. The constant threat posed by his most valuable ally always proved to shake his confidence.
“Serving to protect you is enough. I have nothing left in this agonising galaxy other than my hatred and my Splinter Cannon. I have no debts to remove and no more threats to face. No men come knocking for payment and I do not owe anything to anybody. I am my own man and I seek nothing more than to exist.”
Krass’ull was shocked at this statement. Tsallion had always seemed to lack drive and often came across as monastic, but now he just seemed to be a ghost of what the Dracon suspected to be a once great schemer. “What caused you to become like this?”
Tsallion turned away. “I do not wish to speak of this any longer.”
“Why not? You have hid your past from me for this long, and I have respected that. We all have daemons that stalk us. Share with me so that your burden can be lifted.”
“I am not that weak.” He stressed, disgust audible.
The Dracon was going to pursue the subject but they could hear something on the wind. It was something that cut through the familiar sounds of war.
The cackling swarms descended, great blade hacking at limbs while screaming flames announced terror.
“Are you forgettin’ something, Dracon?” That damn low-tongue asked from the end of the street. The charismatic flow of his voice was almost lyrical.
“Kegahn Trallavan.” The Dracon forced a smile, “What can I do you for?”
“Where’s my payment?” The Helliarch demanded, his gait more intimidating than friendly.
“You’ll have to ask the Prince. Can’t you see I’m havin’ a bit of trouble?”
“No, you set up the deal. You give me ma payment!” Hellions swooped in and landed on each side of the street while others gathered to close in around the pair of warriors.
“No, you look!” He stormed forward, Hellglaive ready to decapitate somebody. Tsallion had brought his Splinter Cannon up just in time, the muzzle aimed at the undefended gut of the Hellion. All the other Hellions of the Lightning Scorpion gang braced themselves. Some hissed while others got a tighter grasp on their weapons.
“You lettin’ the man with the big gun do all your talkin’, Dracon?”
“In slums the man with the biggest gun always wins.” He remarked, snidely. “Now, about your payment. There was a slight problem with the raid, ‘n now we’re down in this filth. I do ‘ave a way that I can pay you, though?”
“Oh?” He revealed his fanged maw in a wide grin.
“Come on, I’m sure there’s plenty o’ loot in the Overseer’s spire.” His blast pistol dropped two of the Hellions in quick succession, allowing himself and Tsallion to take to the skies in a whooping, airborne horde heading straight for carnage.