In Extremis

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

In Extremis

Chapter 1

The shadowy figure moved slowly around the room. The man on the table ignored the pacing shadow. He was bathed in a harsh light. He merely closed his eyes and prepared himself. He had been preparing for months. He knew this might be his fate, but he had pledged his life. If this is how it should end, then he would make his peace with it.

The pacing stopped. He could tell the man in the shadows was staring at him. He smiled. He knew he could beat this man. This man was nothing. He had disrupted the verbal interrogation with his own questions. He had kept the man now pacing his interrogation chamber off-balance. The interrogator had gotten frustrated, almost leaping upon Bravar and killing him. Bravar knew he could do it again here. He had trained for this, and he would resist the physical torture as a ceramite wall resisted a las shot

Bravar heard the interrogator pick up his instruments. He waited for the sharp pain of flesh being sliced open, the pounding ache of his testicles being clamped, or even the massive bruising of a simple bludgeoning. But as he waited, there was nothing. What was the interrogator ****? Had he gathered up his instruments and left Bravar there to rot? No, Bravar could tell the interrogator was still here. He forced himself to give up hope. The interrogator could use that against him.

“What is the nature of the organization in which you have involved yourself?” Bravar did not reply. “Do not make me ask again. I have no compunction towards those who would subvert our cause.” Still Bravar did not speak.

Bravar then felt it: a cold touch tracing from his stomach up to his chin. He tensed slightly. Then he felt it. Sharp. Sharper pain than he had felt in a while. The interrogator had stabbed a shallow wound in Bravar’s left eye. His mind railed against the pain, but he merely sighed. This was what he had trained for. But it was still slightly unexpected. He hoped that permanent crippling would not be part of this interrogation. But still, he had prepared well, and gave not a murmur of satisfaction to his torturer.

“Tell me, Bravar Caldwell,” asked the deep voice, “what do you expect to gain from being interrogated in this way? Is it personal honor? No, I don’t think you are the type. Your reason is that you have some ill-conceived notion of being the silent hero who will hold out against the tyrannical oppressors until the bitter end, dying without flinching, no doubt. Well I have a new thought for you, scum Caldwell. You and your existence are without meaning. I invite you to gaze upon the the galaxy in which we reside.”

As the voice spoke the last words, Bravar was suddenly thrust into the depths of space. He could see the vast suns, massive in their splendor, burning brightly and forcing Bravar to look away. Then his view zoomed out, and the suns became mere pinpricks of light against the infinite blackness of space. He could see them be devoured by beings made of pure energy and malice. They fed off the suns until the suns were no more. The beings turned towards him, and he knew they wanted his soul to consume. He saw gargantuan fleets of alien creatures eclipsing the suns, and he could sense their cold, calculating collective mind wishing to devour him. He saw Chaos in its raw, elemental form, swirling energy. He saw a vast ocean of blood, a landscape rotted yet not dead, a vast meadow where debauchery led to such pleasures as would liquefy his mind, and dimensions of space, time, and more yet unknown twisting together, and the line in time that represented his life but the most insignificant speck, no grand purpose in it at all, just another speck lost amongst the universe. Worst of all, he could see the things that swam through the warp. They swam towards him, solidifying from shapeless energy into daemons with razor-sharp claws and teeth, giant axes, multiple mouths, roiling plagues, and more terrifyingly beautiful than he could imagine. They all smiled at him as they closed in for the kill.

In the interrogation chamber, Bravar screamed. His interrogator did not even have to force him to lose bladder and rectal control to further heighten his terror. Under its lid, Bravar’s remaining eye boiled and poured out of its socket. The interrogator tied a cloth over Bravar’s eyes. He cleaned his tools and left the man to the two Arbites, who carried the man back to his cell. The next time Bravar was placed before Mathias Rosenadel, he would reveal the secrets of the organization he had so naively gotten himself involved with…

=][=

Rosenadel walked leisurely down the hallway of the Arbites Precient station towards the offices his master had “requisitioned”. The station was a dull metal gray, inside and out. It spoke of pure functionality, which Rosenadel admired. The sense of functionality was further impressed upon by the number of Adeptus Arbites officers going about their duties. It seemed as if every Arbites officer was in the station.

Rosenadel let himself into the office marked “Arbites General” and shut the door. “I trust your second interrogation was much more effective?” asked a figure in the middle of the room. Rosenadel had almost whipped out his pistol and shot the man as a reflex. Interrogator Grahm Niedderberg was of medium height, and slim. His cloak of earth-brown hung around him, hiding his lithe but powerful build. As Inquisitor Krustyef’s other acolyte, Niedderberg instructed Rosenadel when their master was busy. Which was often these days.

Rosenadel looked up to Niedderberg. While Krustyef was a stern but distant father-figure, Niedderberg was a close friend. They both inspired loyalty and trust, merely in different ways. Niedderberg also had control over his emotions, especially temper, that Rosenadel knew he must learn from. This had proved to be his mistake in the first interrogation. Bravar did not answer his questions, and Rosenadel tried using intimidation to get the answers he wanted. When it did not work, Rosenadel tried physically beating the man. He was reprimanded, privately, thank the Emperor, and reminded that he was only to verbally interrogate at that stage. The room was psychically nulled, so he could not use his more powerful talents anyway. Rosenadel knew when he was beaten. He could not focus clearly enough to question effectively, and merely asked basic questions that might get them somewhere.

He had been much more effective in the full interrogation room.

“It went well, I believe. But I am not finished. I will go to his cell soon to talk to him more calmly and find names. I will also try to pull a mental map off his mind so we can track where the cult is hiding.”

Niedderberg looked at him sharply. “Mathias, you should go there now. I could tell that the man was mentally prepared for all of your verbal tactics, and though you may have broken him psychically, he may regain his strength faster than you think. I will talk to you more on this later. Go and make certain that he remains under your control."

Mathias was suddenly struck by how idiotic his plan now seemed. Leave it to Niedderberg. He knew what he was doing, and could always improve Rosenadel’s methods, as well as point out his mistakes. He did it in a kind enough manner, but still Rosenadel found it frustrating that Niedderberg could so easily pick up a flaw whenever Rosenadel voiced his plans.

“Thank you, Grahm. I will head there immediately.” With that Rosenadel hurried off down the corridor of the Arbites Precinct station towards the prisoner hold.

[Dan296]

*gasp* rosendal! you feind! how could you....be so nice =D
that was really cool. were he shows him the real terrors of the galaxy? thats awsome! very nice.

[Killermoose]

That was nasty (in a good way!) I haven't seen you write like this before, but I really enjoyed it! Great job!

[Cagarner]

Ha, I like it when he showed the man the truth about the galaxy, and all the horros that await him.

A mental map of his mind, is that possible, even in 40k? I have not read of that before.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Originally Posted by Cagarner

Ha, I like it when he showed the man the truth about the galaxy, and all the horros that await him.

A mental map of his mind, is that possible, even in 40k? I have not read of that before.

Actually I meant a picture of where Bravar has been going. I'll clear that up...

Dan296: Feind? Yep. Rosenadel is not a nice guy!

Killermoose: How does this differ from how I've written before? I'm curious becuase I want to make sure I'm producing the right effect, and that the story has the right feel. Anyone is free to answer this if they wish!

As for further installments (Chapters...), they will, alas, be a while apart. Hopefully just as good. Until then...

[Cagarner]

Is this going to be a short novel, or just a few chapters. I thinik it has the potential to be quite big. There is some good characters in it.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

I fully intend to make this into two novels (perhaps not full length).

Novel 1: How Rosenadel becomes an Inquisitor (In Extremis), and Novel 2 on his involvement in tracking certain rouges...

For each one, I have to be careful to take things more slowly than my typical short story. I have to be sure to fully develop characters, possibly (probably) even show them change (physically, mentally, in maturity, etc.). I am currently reading Angels and Demons by Dan Brown to get inspiration, and get a feel for how to develop a novel.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

II

“You are sure your diversion is working? I will not have our kindred be massacred in the open. Our task’s completion is imminent. We have only to slip through into the aether and we are free.” The tall, slim figure stood menacingly over two bodies. The humble human before him cowered on his knees. This time he did not cry at the sight of the bodies. He was far past that point.


The rest of the human’s apartment was in the state that it had always been. The disheveled kitchen was still in its weathered-looking state. Except for the half-dozen lithe shapes that slunk around, wearing little except the occasional piece of spiked plate armour and loin coverings


“Yes, Master! All is ready! We are ready to depart,” said the man in a quavering voice. The tall figure nodded and turned away. “But…”


The figure turned back, a dangerous look in its eyes. “Yes?” it hissed. “You have something more to say? Some part of the plan has been fouled, no doubt. Tell me, slave, or I shall have to convince you to trust me again.” The figure’s voice was dripping with sarcasm and pure, evil cruelty.


The man’s eyes widened and he trembled slightly. “No, no Master! I am still convinced! However… you are correct. Caldwell has been captured! If they break him, he could lead them here!” the man squealed.


“I am well aware of what could happen, slave. Be gone. Announce that it is time to leave. Everyone is to gather at the appointed spot.” The figure was calm, but its tone was icy.


“At once, Master!” The man scampered out of the house that was once his, hurrying down the road.


The figure turned to the shadows prowling the room. “Go,” it hissed, “gather the slaves, and bring them to the portal. Make haste!” The shadows slipped out of the house. A warrior in plates of heavy armour stepped out of the shadows. Despite the wicked-looking weapon glowing with power it carried, the tall figure did not flinch. “Archon, what if they do break him? What if they have already broken him?” The armoured figure stood at a stiff attention, but there was a hint of concern in its voice.

“It does not matter. We will gather as many as we can, hold out as long as we can, and then simply leave. We have done this for years. I did not become Archon because I am a fool, Draathek. We will once again escape with our harvest. She Who Thirsts will be well sated, and perhaps I can conjure something to ward her off forever. Perhaps more. For now, we will concern ourselves with herding the slaves through the Gate. Go and assist Jerik in gathering his kind.”


“At once,” Draathek answered and walked out the door.


The Archon looked down at the bodies that lay at his feet. How he had savored their pain as he tortured them. He had learned the best methods of torture from his master Haemonculus. He had also gleaned much knowledge from observing the Chaos Space Marines of the Emperor’s Children legion. He was close to completing his goal. Soon, he might not sacrifice merely to survive, but to gain power and favor from the Tempter of Souls. He could tell from the way her moans and screams had resonated in his head as he killed them that She Who Thirsts was very pleased with him.


He was confident that his harvest would be great. The distraction set up to neutralize the officers of the Adeptus Arbites was working. Thousands of emergency lights were going off at the precinct headquarters, some indicating that the population was rising in revolt, some that there was dangerous warp interference within the city, and more that there were dangerous weapons of mass destruction inside the governor’s hall. This had distracted them as his warriors gathered all the slaves to be transported through the portal.


Yes, the Archon thought, I will have my slaves, and then my power. I will have power over that fool Vek. She will be Queen of the Shadowed Talon Cabal no longer. And then, I will torture her, and offer her to Her… she will be a most satisfactory sacrifice for the both of us.

=][=

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

=][=

Rosenadel entered the shadowy depths of the holding cell chamber, not even pausing to grab a torch. He located the cell of Bravar Caldwell with ease. He stood looking into the dark cell for a moment before launching into verbal tirade

“Scum, you will tell me now where your cult hides! I swear that if you do not tell me now, I will sift your mind to find where the others with you hide, and replace that knowledge with pain!”

Caldwell was curled up in a ball on the wet, slimy floor of his cell. He was trembling, but Rosenadel could tell that it was not from the cold. Caldwell suddenly snapped his head to look straight at Rosenadel.

He giggled. “You can’t stop them now… your master was far too late… and you were too weak to properly break me… you have shown me the horrors that await me when my flesh has expired, but you know nothing of pain… but they do. They trained me, showed me that I could achieve great power. They are powerful… and they will get you, too, interrogator.” He cackled, a pitiful laugh that induced a coughing fit.

Rosenadel felt a pit drop in his stomach. This man was not broken, he was insane. Rosenadel had not broken but destroyed him. He began to concentrate, connecting with the man’s mind, searching for connection to the man’s masters and fellow cult members. If there was still information left that was not lost among the man’s swirling, decayed psyche, Rosenadel had to retrieve it. The air grew colder than normal in the dank dungeon, and a layer of frost started to creep over the puddles on the floor around Rosenadel.

He could sense Caldwell’s mind, a swirling chaos of thought, most now random and with but one simple pattern repeating over and over. It was one Rosenadel had sensed as soon as he had inflicted Caldwell with the vision of the galaxy at its worst.

Fear.

It pooled and dripped, like the water and slime of the prison on the walls and floor. He could sense that some of it came from a set of four faces that grinned, drooled, bit, and smiled. He could sense that some of the fear came from Rosenadel’s own presence and the memory of the torture.

But as Rosenadel searched Caldwell’s mind for members of the cult, the intensity of the fear increased wildly. Rosenadel followed the trail of terror, trying to see an image. At first there were only vague shapes, tall and slim. They flitted around like ghosts, eluding a clear picture.

Rosenadel saw human faces, and from the emotions Caldwell associated with them, Rosenadel could tell they were trusted neighbors and friends. But there was a larger collection of faces, clearly people Caldwell did not know very well. They were all connected to a dark, swirling circle. The cult. It pulsed with a life of its own, and Rosenadel had to fight to resist it. It was clearly the work of dark powers such as he had only seen once before.

The dark, elusive shapes were also tied to the raw energy of the circle. They neared him, and as they did so, they stepped into the light Rosenadel’s mind cast upon them. They were hominids, tall and lithe, and wore little to cover their pasty flesh. They were armed with all manner of wicked-looking blades with serrated edges and covered in toxins. These creatures Rosenadel had seen before: the dark and twisted kin of the Eldar.

Rosneadel heard himself gasp at the realization that they could only be connected to the cult as a way to acquire more sacrifices to stave of the soul-sucking powers of Chaos. That there was an Eldar presence here on Hallon astounded him. He had not sensed any threat beyond that of mere civil insurrection.

Rosenadel knew time was short, and that he should not maintain his psychic connection for much longer. Though it had not even been a minute since he had pried into Caldwell’s broken mind, he knew that a broken mind, especially broken by a psyker and having been tainted with dark powers in the first place, was a dangerous thing. He would half once he had discerned the identity of the cult’s leader. He was so close…

However, as if to confirm his previous thoughts, Caldwell groaned, and Rosenadel saw a shape smash against the dark vortex that represented the cult. It broke through the swirling energy and came straight at him. Its formless shape solidified into a shapely human body, more beautiful that Rosenadel had ever seen. It opened its mouth, singing a siren song that drew Rosenadel closer and closer to it. He tried to resist, but to no avail.

Before it could embrace him in its clawed hands, he saw a dark shape leap at him. It was one of the Eldar armed with a slim silver blade. Rosenadel tried to slip his autopistol from its holster and unsheath his combat knife. But the warrior was too fast. It stabbed him straight through the chest.

Suddenly, Rosenadel was back in the Arbites prison. Caldwell did not look good. His flesh was turning paler and paler, and bumps began to appear under his skin. The prison was still dark and dank, but not the same.

The difference was the six-foot Eldar wych standing over him and her blade lodged through his chest and poking out his back. The last thing he remembered was the female warrior bending over to lick his chin, cooing in a dark and sultry voice, “You will be especially savored, young slave.”

[Killermoose]

The plot thickens... good job Inquisitor!

As to why this differs to how I've seen you write before. I haven't seen you create long conversations, or put in a sense of mystery. Also, it's new to me to see you put in more depth to the characters, and their emotions. It's really good, and perfectly fits this story. I'm really enjoying this so far!

[Lord Inquisitor Fyurex]

Having watched you write these stories (literally watched you, lol) for a couple years now, you style is subtly changing and you are becoming and better writer. In Extremis is definately written differently than your short stories, but that is good. I am very impressed.

dude, i am also showing my friends here all your stuff. I making a legend out of you.... you should be thankful. :-) and we need to make that fortress this summer.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Originally Posted by Lord Inquisitor Fyurex

Having watched you write these stories (literally watched you, lol) for a couple years now, you style is subtly changing and you are becoming and better writer. In Extremis is definately written differently than your short stories, but that is good. I am very impressed.

dude, i am also showing my friends here all your stuff. I making a legend out of you.... you should be thankful. :-) and we need to make that fortress this summer.

True dat.

Thanks Furex and Killermoose. I'm glad to know this is a new, yet good direction, and that I'm getting the effects and style I was aiming for!

I guess I was practicing for the big one with my smaller stuff...

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

This is acutally still part of chapter II.

=][=

Bravar Caldwell knew that something was wrong when, as he was brought to his cell, he could feel his blood pulsing faster and his organs begin to move.

As his interrogator came down a second time, his vision was swimming. He saw strange shaped before his eyes. He heard himself speak, but it was almost as if he spoke another language. He mocked the interrogator. Nothing could stop them now. They were so close, so powerful. Caldwell could feel their power radiate from the shapeless energy form that swam in the shapes at the edges of his perception.

Suddenly, there was a shock to his system, and he knew that the interrogator had opened a channel between worlds, in his mind as well as Caldwell’s. This was a mistake. Some part of Bravar Caldwell tried to warn the interrogator, to tell him to stop before he went too far, but Cladwell knew that the interrogator’s curiosity and quest for knowledge would doom him.

Caldwell could see a face, one of the four that had been haunting his thoughts since his psychic torture by the interrogator. It was the one that made his soul warm and tremble in equal measure. Its beauty was intoxicating, and it smelled of a field of sweet flowers in a pit of lies.

It was staring at him. Gazing deep into his soul. It moved towards him gracefully, dancing in a terrible rhythm that enticed Cladwell and repulsed him in equal measure. But he was powerless to stop it. It embraced him, and it face changed from the voluptuous visage of a temptress to a gaping, sharp-toothed maw that came down upon his face.

Caldwell screamed. It was a scream of terror and sinful bliss in equal measure. In his cell, he saw the Eldar stab his interrogator, and he relished the pain he felt radiating from the wounded man. He enjoyed playing his eyes over the wych’s supple figure.

He could feel the daemon taking control of his limbs, his senses, his mind. He took pleasure in it all. He could sense the pleasure that awaited him if he accepted the daemon’s offer.

He did not hold back. The daemon could comprehend pleasures that his feeble human mind could not. Dimensions of pleasure that made him shudder in ecstasy at a mere glimpse of what this daemon was offering. He told it that he would wanted it all, to feel everything at its most intense level, and then higher, again and again. He could sense the daemon’s acceptance and its approval.

Then Caldwell truly screamed in horror as the daemon revealed what its offer truly entailed. Caldwell’s soul was torn asunder and shredded to pieces, cast into the warp in exchange for the daemon’s consciousness.

In the Adeptus Arbites dungeon, Bravar Caldwell’s body took a new form. It snickered as it broke the bars of the cell that blocked its entrance to the world. It giggled, feeling the dank air of the dungeon, and the pain that had so recently been here. It followed the scent up the stone steps and into a place full of panic and fear. It howled in pleasure.

[Mordecai Caine]

I really like the feeling in this story. May I say that their is a kind of "a touch of Ravenor"? Witch, to me, isnt a bad thing! I long to see what our dear inquisitor may cause for havoc in the coming chapters!

And about your writingskill; I think its really great! Better than my swenglish anyway

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Originally Posted by Mordecai Caine

I really like the feeling in this story. May I say that their is a kind of "a touch of Ravenor"? Witch, to me, isnt a bad thing! I long to see what our dear inquisitor may cause for havoc in the coming chapters!

And about your writingskill; I think its really great! Better than my swenglish anyway

Hm, Ravenor? I have not read either book. Just the Eisenhorn series. I shall have to get my hands on Ravenor and see what he's like so I can be sure not to copy him.

And thanks!

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

III

Arbites started screaming. It was not a warcry, or someone bellowing an order to charge. It was a scream of pure terror. Something was very, very wrong.

Hassel Niedderberg was moving immediately. He grabbed his vox-piece and opened the door. The sight that greeted him was like nothing he had seen before.

Pasty-white lithe shapes darted around the Arbites briefing amphitheatre, putting only the choicest wounds into the Adeptus Arbites trying to shoot and kill them. They were wyches, part of the xenos species that were dark kin of the Eldar. Wyches were warriors who practiced gladiatorial combat in their dark realm of Cammorragh. Only the best survived.


But that was not what disturbed him.


The thing that nearly unhinged his mind was the tall, slender, and impossibly beautiful creature that was using its clawed hands to tear apart the Arbites and lap up their blood that sprayed over its face. It was then that Niedderberg realized that the wyches were merely massacring the Arbites in an attempt to flee the monster that would tear them apart just as easily.


Niedderberg was stunned, but only for a moment. He quickly lunged straight through the swirling melee. He lashed out at the wyches with his sword, a finely-crafted blade forged in one of the most prominent blacksmith’s smelters on Nocturne after Nidderberg had greatly aided his master, Inquisitor Krustyef, discovering a malevolent xenomorph that fed on the pure heat and the molten metals of the lava that flowed all over the planet. The “Fiuro” as they had been named, were subsequently exterminated, and the people of Nocturne were very grateful, gifting each of Krustyef’s party with a carefully and beautifully crafted weapon. Niedderberg had named his sword “Vulcanus”.


As he sliced and eviscerated his way through the chaos, he suddenly found himself in front of the tantalizingly frightening thing that made the Arbites howl in a disturbing manner as it tore out their entrails. It stood over him, a head and shoulders taller than his two meters. It had two elegant, wickedly-curved horns protruding from its temples, and smaller nubs around the circumference of its head, like a crown of pure malice.


Without a chance to think, Niedderberg’s reflexes made him lunge forward and stab the entity in the abdomen. His sword slid through its flesh effortlessly, and a burst of steam and light erupted from the wound. He plunged Vulcanus into the abomination up to its inlaid-gold hilt. The thing hissed at him and swiped the back of its hand at him, knocking him backward into one of the wyches about to execute an Arbites officer. Niedderberg quickly rolled off of the female warrior and whipped out his autopistol. Despite her lightning reflexes, the wych was not able to reach her weapon in time. Niedderberg filled her face with shells, and the nearly-headless body fell to the floor.


But the terrible beauty was upon him once more, Volcanus still stuck in its abdomen, and Niedderberg scrambled out of the way as it slashed the space he had just occupied with its claws. He reached out his hand and tugged Volcanus from the mass of bright fluids and mutated organs that it was stuck in, emitting another hiss.

The fluids leaked over Niedderberg’s blade and down over his hand. They felt warm and he felt a sensation like he was still at home, all those years ago, peacefully laying in his burning house, the scorching sun playing over his charred face.

The feeling of peace was washed away in a tide of burning as Niedderberg felt his hand become hot, as if it were on fire. He saw the fluids burst into flame, and sizzle away. He could tell, in another part of his mind, that the pain was intense, but he felt more focused, his mind now clear.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

He danced his sword around the mutated beauty’s flesh, scoring a dozen deep wounds in less seconds. The thing howled in what Niedderberg assumed was pain, but it sounded like a scream of twisted pleasure to his mind’s fright. Niedderberg knew at this point that this was no Dark Eldar combat-beast. This was once a human, but whoever it was had been replaced by a daemon that merely wore the human’s flesh.

The daemon slashed its clawed fingers across Niedderberg’s chest, and blood started to gush from the wounds. Niedderberg felt like his chest had just caught fire, and the burning sensation overwhelmed his senses, his vision swam and he saw purple spots blot out the image of the daemon bending over to finish him off.

Niedderberg’s vision cleared just in time to see the Arbites officer he had saved put his combat shotgun to the daemon’s head and pull the trigger. There was a deafening roar, and Niedderberg suddenly recognized the weapon and its wielder.

The drum magazine gave the shotgun away as a special automatic model, and the weapon went off on full-auto for three seconds, pumping buckshot into the fleshy head and spraying pieces of butchered meat all over the amphitheatre. Bruster Carmichell was grinning in delight at this gory spectacle, enjoying the destruction of the ravaging monster.

Bruster was a veteran Adeptus Arbites officer before he and Inquisitor Krustyef crossed paths. In the middle of the uprising of a genestealer cult, Bruster was the one that personally led the purgation of his station against the traitorous Arbites officers that revealed themselves as part of the cult. Krustyef was very impressed with the man’s devotion to his cause and invited him to sever in a capacity that befitted his skill and sense of duty. Carmichell refused at first, but Krustyef had reminded him that most of his friends were dead after the fighting, as well as his family, who all stood against the cult while Carmichell was at a meeting with the high-ranking officers of other precincts.

Krustyef could manipulate or he could show a man the brutal, cold truth. Carmichell ensured that the new officers of his precinct were fit for duty, and then joined Krustyef on his mission to thwart the alien.

Now Bruster offered his hand to Niedderberg, and Niedderberg could feel the man’s strength as he was pulled off the ground. “You need to be cared for,” Bruster said sharply. Niedderberg was know for holding off care for himself until his mission was accomplished.

“I need to-“ Niedderberg began.

Bruster never got to cut Niedderberg off. The daemon rose off the floor and both Carmichell and Nidderberg could see the flesh starting to repair itself, extra mass appearing out of nowhere. As its vocal chords became whole again, it laughed an eerie, soul-chilling laugh.

Niedderberg did not wait. He grabbed his sword off the ground and plunged again to the hilt into the daemon. He then focused. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bruster’s breath mist when he breathed. Niedderberg felt a great warmth flow through him. It intensified, feeling now like fire, and he remembered the burning that he felt on his hand. It was there now, too. He pushed past it and channeled his power into the daemon. A bright flame erupted at the base of his sword’s blade, and it leapt to the daemon, consuming it. There was an explosion of flesh and innards as the daemon screeched, shifting shapes impossibly fast, and then dissipated into a black hole in the air.

Niedderberg turned to Bruster, but did not get a chance to say anything. Bruster immediately caught him as Niedderberg fell unconscious and slipped on the now-melting ice that had been his own blood.