09-16-2016, 12:00 AM
Armande Nicodemus took all the back streets there were to get back to the mansion. He was tired and in pain, but he ignored that. The Chong Ran meditation let him move despite the agony. He was failry confident that his camera scattering tech on his clothing- despite the tears and holes- would give him an undetected path.
The feel of warm blood down his arm had given way to cold and then nothing. Clotted. Good. He knew he'd lost a lot and his field dressing had been haphazard at best. It was enough though. The litany burned across his mind, again and again. Betrayal. No more. Never again.
The Atharim had been infiltrated. Worse, he had known and had allowed it. Why. He couldn't answer. He'd flirted with heresy- his first since Lissandra. The idea that the abominations could be used.
His injuries and the loss of Martin had proved that to be a lie. Abominations was what they were. Intolerable. And he would cleanse the Atharim in blood and fire. He would purge it. Never again. Again and again, it repeated itself. Never again. This was war. And you did not tolerate traitors.
At last he rounded a corner and saw the mansion ahead. Home. For now. Even if Brandon- Apollyon- was dead, it had been clear his name was known. This could not be as secure as presumed.
He mounted the stairs- ignoring the faint-headedness that washed over him- and headed for the doors. Inside, he went to the secured entrance. The guards hesitated as they looked at him, but his face spoke a quick death. His eyes blazed blue fire and he walked through unchallenged.
And yet even then, he felt disgust well up. So weak. Such pathetic security. Despite his anger, they should have stopped him. Demanded proof. The place as weak. Sick. Pathetic. He would turn it around. He had to.
He went to the infirmary and his presence immediately commanded the room. Doctor Rosenbaum only had to take a look at him before his armor and clothing were carefully being removed. The dried blood made it stick to his skin, but he bore the pain silently as it was torn away. Instead, he called Father Filevsky.
"I want the mansion locked down. No one goes out. Not a soul. I don't care who they are. Call up the 1st and 2nd Canticles, alll 7 orders. Tell them Barovsky is dead. Battle alert. They will be armed and ready. The new weapons""- He smiled at remembering their effectiveness- "No one is exempt. Not.one.living,soul! And bring Theis to me."
His shirt removed, he saw at last the damage done to his body. Gashes across arms and chest. Breathing hurt. Broken rib probably. But what turned his stomach- seemed portentous- was the ouroboros. The tear across his arm ran down it, ripping the image to pieces. His mouth turned down. Just a tattoo. Just ink.
But it hurt. As if he'd lost something. Something he would do anything to return. At the very least though, Apollyon was dead. Such a terrible price. But cheap, at the cost.
Now, though. Now was the second act. And everyone knew how the second act of a play went. Everyone.
Edited by Regus, Sep 16 2016, 10:36 AM.
The feel of warm blood down his arm had given way to cold and then nothing. Clotted. Good. He knew he'd lost a lot and his field dressing had been haphazard at best. It was enough though. The litany burned across his mind, again and again. Betrayal. No more. Never again.
The Atharim had been infiltrated. Worse, he had known and had allowed it. Why. He couldn't answer. He'd flirted with heresy- his first since Lissandra. The idea that the abominations could be used.
His injuries and the loss of Martin had proved that to be a lie. Abominations was what they were. Intolerable. And he would cleanse the Atharim in blood and fire. He would purge it. Never again. Again and again, it repeated itself. Never again. This was war. And you did not tolerate traitors.
At last he rounded a corner and saw the mansion ahead. Home. For now. Even if Brandon- Apollyon- was dead, it had been clear his name was known. This could not be as secure as presumed.
He mounted the stairs- ignoring the faint-headedness that washed over him- and headed for the doors. Inside, he went to the secured entrance. The guards hesitated as they looked at him, but his face spoke a quick death. His eyes blazed blue fire and he walked through unchallenged.
And yet even then, he felt disgust well up. So weak. Such pathetic security. Despite his anger, they should have stopped him. Demanded proof. The place as weak. Sick. Pathetic. He would turn it around. He had to.
He went to the infirmary and his presence immediately commanded the room. Doctor Rosenbaum only had to take a look at him before his armor and clothing were carefully being removed. The dried blood made it stick to his skin, but he bore the pain silently as it was torn away. Instead, he called Father Filevsky.
"I want the mansion locked down. No one goes out. Not a soul. I don't care who they are. Call up the 1st and 2nd Canticles, alll 7 orders. Tell them Barovsky is dead. Battle alert. They will be armed and ready. The new weapons""- He smiled at remembering their effectiveness- "No one is exempt. Not.one.living,soul! And bring Theis to me."
His shirt removed, he saw at last the damage done to his body. Gashes across arms and chest. Breathing hurt. Broken rib probably. But what turned his stomach- seemed portentous- was the ouroboros. The tear across his arm ran down it, ripping the image to pieces. His mouth turned down. Just a tattoo. Just ink.
But it hurt. As if he'd lost something. Something he would do anything to return. At the very least though, Apollyon was dead. Such a terrible price. But cheap, at the cost.
Now, though. Now was the second act. And everyone knew how the second act of a play went. Everyone.
Edited by Regus, Sep 16 2016, 10:36 AM.