The Flesh Is Weak

Die DSA-Chaoten
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  • Qualität des Beitrags: 0 Sterne
  • Beteiligte Poster: JabezP - Ragnar Wulfgrimmson - VincentWeynard
  • Forum: Die DSA-Chaoten
  • Forenbeschreibung: ...Hilfe, wir haben ein Forum!
  • aus dem Unterforum: Charaktere
  • Antworten: 3
  • Forum gestartet am: Sonntag 29.06.2008
  • Sprache: deutsch
  • Link zum Originaltopic: The Flesh Is Weak
  • Letzte Antwort: vor 8 Jahren, 10 Monaten, 21 Tagen, 25 Minuten
  • Alle Beiträge und Antworten zu "The Flesh Is Weak"

    Re: The Flesh Is Weak

    JabezP - 06.05.2014, 03:49

    The Flesh Is Weak
    Ich hab' mal wieder versucht, auf Englisch zu schreiben... diesmal über Skarax... ja, er hat gehörig einen an der Waffel.

    ---

    Skarax shut the door behind him and deactivated the security cameras with a simple command in Lingua Technis. He’d hacked the system days ago, and so far no one seemed to have noticed. It had been disappointingly easy anyway. Whoever was responsible for the Watchstation’s security system was hardly more than a dilettante, and the same seemed to be true for about everyone on the station, whether they were simple serfs or those in command. Skarax only felt some grudging respect for the Watch-captain himself, whose calm demeanour and visible bionics made him a person closer to his ideal than the bumbling masses of incompetent humans.

    An other Astartes would probably have called the Watch-captain ‘someone to his liking’, but Skarax didn’t like people. Most of them he disdained or ignored – the latter as long as they didn’t bother him, which included trying to talk to him. Some he tolerated. A select few he accepted. Those who actually found his approval weren’t human any more, but highly augmented priests of the Omnissiah, or those of his Astartes brothers who had recognized the weakness of their flesh and strove to purge it from their bodies, to be reborn stronger in iron and steel.

    He sat down on the floor, avoiding the cushy looking bed as always, and started to rip pieces of synth-skin from his arms. Brother-Apothecary Yishmael had used the station’s supplies, which were – unsurprisingly – lacking. The synth-skin provided in the Apothecarion was a cheap, mass-produced sort in a nonadaptive colour. On the Techmarine’s umber skin, the peach patches looked like some kind of disfiguration.

    He hissed angrily as he tore off piece after piece and dropped them into the dustbin. An outside spectator might have thought that he reacted to the pain, but the truth was that it hardly hurt at all. Some of the nerves in his arms were nearly numb from the many times he’d cut at them with his combat knife, smashed them into walls or immersed them in acidic concoctions, fervently praying to the Omnissiah that this time, the Apothecaries wouldn’t patch him up with vat-grown flesh and organic covers – ‘skin’, he reminded himself, ‘it is called skin.’

    He hissed again and ripped off the last, biggest part of synth-skin. Tiny blood drops trickled down his arm. He stared at them as if they had personally betrayed him. In a way they had.

    Some of the droplets had reached his bionic hand and stained it – reddish, nearly invisible spots, but to Skarax they seemed huge. He angrily shook them off, finally sending a wave of what could nearly be called pain through his arm. Ironically, blood smelled and tasted slightly like metal, but it was a corrupted, rotten kind of metal, infested with sickening organic taint. It was a mockery of what he revered, what he longed for, and he hated it even more for it.

    Skarax clenched his teeth and let out a deep growl. His vox implant gave it a tinny, reverberating quality. Others had told him that his voice usually sounded flat and machine-like. They’d considered that a bad thing, but to him it had been a compliment. There was nothing he desired more than casting away the last of his flesh and becoming one with the Omnissiah. He wanted to bask in the light of the Astronomican and hear its flickering tide whisper of times to come, times when the leaders of Mars would be overthrown and the Ecclesiarchy would embrace the Truth that was the Omnissiah.

    A faint smile spread out over his face and put the spider’s web of scars into motion. Only the upper right half of the face remained still. His bionic eye was engarlanded by polished iron etched with holy symbols – stylized cogwheels embedded in a map of electrical circuits, interspersed with ancient Terran letters and a bunch of markings that only a votary of the Path of Moirae could understand.

    The bleeding had stopped. The pain had, too. Skarax ran a few mental calculations and concluded that it was an acceptable timeframe – acceptable, that was, for something he didn’t really accept, but had to live with for the moment. Brother-Apothecary Yishmael had scolded him for trying to get rid of his flesh-borne weakness. He’d told him that an Astartes’ body was a gift from the divine Emperor himself, and that hurting it on purpose didn’t only incapacitate its inhabitant, but bordered on blasphemy. He’d also made Skarax promise that he wouldn’t incapacitate himself again while Yishmael was responsible for his physical health. The Techmarine had reluctantly agreed, but only after the Apothecary had threatened to involve the Watchstation’s resident Chaplain. And Skarax preferred to rather not discuss the Path of Moirae with him.

    He laid down and sprawled on the cool floor. His gaze wandered to the deactivated security camera, which stared at him like a blind, accusing eye. Skarax stared back. ‘Gawk all you want’, he thought. ‘The weak will be purged. The strong will prevail.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And I don’t plan on being one of the weak.’

    The camera said nothing.



    Re: The Flesh Is Weak

    Ragnar Wulfgrimmson - 06.05.2014, 18:36


    Cooles Ding



    Re: The Flesh Is Weak

    VincentWeynard - 08.05.2014, 10:53


    Jup, sehr interessant.



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