I happen to love the vast majority of the lore surrounding the Tabletop game but have since fallen FAR from grace in the realm of actually playing the thrice-damned thing. The books are the meat of the realm in my opinion, far greater than anything else they could hope to achieve. They wrote themselves out once the Necrons came anyway >.>
In any case, maybe someone will enjoy...I might take on additional people at a later date. ~The Deathand
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Omniprophet Isar Vruss ({E-czar}) was not one to go into a killing field without understanding the basic weaknesses of a common foe given the time and opportunity to study up. As such, those that stood before him registered very little on a level of threat. They were more akin to an annoyance, a nuisance that would cost him when the time came to put in for more ammunition. As if something so mundane like money was of any importance to him anyway.
He leveled his weapon, a craft of master forge and workmanship given form in a taker of life. The pistol would be heavy for a man, a mere human, and the kick would be horrendous without months of getting used to or vat grown muscle layered on. Isar Vruss was not a mere human and had things far greater than cheap pig fat under the remnants of his skin. The weapon coughed twice, sending thick dimantium tipped .75 caliber projectiles ripping a void through the air in two fine cones. His arm barely lifted with the recoil, blessed machine enhanced limbs auto-adjusting for the weapons fire. The bolts found their mark, hitting dead center on the sternum of two targets, the contents of the bolts spilling out in an expanding pool of chemical fire that consumed the flesh in mere seconds.
The air hissed to fill the void left by the bolts path and cracked under the intense heat given off by the inferno rounds.
Isar Vruss ignored both, his senses auto-dampening the crescendo of the bolts and his lungs purifying the air with each and every breath he took. So defiant in the dancing flames, that even the hem of his robes barely got hot from the fire.
Again he took careful aim, and again twin bolts cracked and hammered through the air, finding homes in more of his foes, washing away their presence in the chemical fires of their potent payloads.
Movement brought his attention over to his right.
So close were they that he could take in their pathetic forms in vivid detail.
Their withered bodies were covered in grayish skin, casting deep shadows across their forms in the dancing light. They looked on with white unblinking eyes and gnashed their cracked lipless teeth at him. What hair they had was very little and quite on par with the amount of clothes they were wearing. Their naked forms reeked of embalming fluid and slow putrefaction, hands outstretched in a not so welcoming embrace.
Vruss made a single slash with the weapon in his right hand and watched with the same interest he had displayed time and time again as their bodies withered away into flakes of ash. The bodies falling apart at the seem and burning away all at the same time. Vruss held the weapon ready for another attack. The blade was drenched in flame the color of jet, yet the grip was cool to the touch, cold...cold as the Void. The blade hungered for more and was upset that there was so little to kill in the room. Vruss ignored the whining weapon and scanned through the smoke for more of the ghoulish savants.
Fire greeted his vision.
Fire that ate the walls, fire that ate the ceiling, fire that ate the ground.
So much fire, in place so fitting to be burned.
Isar Vruss stalked the flaming halls of the crematorium with intent.
He would find what he was looking for.