04-27-2016, 01:15 PM
As it were, Duncan and Gurney were well versed in commands like that and opened fire on Matrix’s command. There had been developed what is known as the “Atreides Battle Language”, a form of sign language that only military commanders from their House were taught. Other Great Houses had their own versions, some spoken and others only written or hummed, but theirs was gesture based.
On this command they lasguns cut like white-hot scalpels of light through the stone edifice of the building. On their world it would have literally cut it in half- the building falling away, but in this world it simply penetrated a little better than a bullet but skill would prematurely end if faced with too much density. Then came the return fire. Flicking on their shields, each became encased in a vibrating fields of orange light that generally traced their body in simplistic squares of Holtzman energy.
The attacker's few stray shots kissed their shields and bounced off. The two had risen to allow their enemies to see the ineffectiveness of their attacks. They would normally have stayed low and taken pot-shots but wanted to have the psychological impact of them in play. They would force them to fear the two gunmen and lead them to more quickly abandoned their cause if they were not already convinced from the bodies of their friends.
Slipping like liquid mercury across a table of glass, Paul made his way around back unnoticed and deftly climbed the backside unseen. Passing without issue through the enlarged part of one of the embrasures by seemingly “slipping” through the crack by way of an odd temporary contortion, he entered the third floor and slew the one remaining man without raising any sort of alarm. Their attention was on the meatgrinder below caused by Matrix and the harassing lasgun shots of his two men.
Inside it was dark, the only sources of light coming from candles mounted upon low stands. The room was largely circular with a stone staircase circling down to the next floor. This floor seemed to be their dry good storage- things less damaged by the heat. Weapons, clothing, dried meats, coins, and other treasures. This made sense- heat rose and he could sense the difference. The room was not made to vent air properly and it was stale and hot. There were two bodies felled by his men and one by his own hand- probably either new men punished to sleep up here or to guard it from the others. Without trust a settlement does not exist... fools.
Making his way down the stairs, flowing with the noiselessness of falling velvet, he lead head first to the second floor. This was a far more established room, though of much the same make. There was a central corridor running generally north to south but walls partitioning off various offices, chambers, and what he projected were sleeping quarters. This was the living spaces for the men and the place where they conducted their business. He could not see into these rooms, though some offered him a glimpse as the fleeing men had left the doors ajar when they fled, but he knew this instinctively. Some men still fought back against Duncan, perhaps having seen the slaughter below and hoping to take out their harrier before turning their guns on Matrix. The men were a medley- ill-gotten characters from all realms and worlds. Their designs were varied, some men with guns Paul might recognize, others mustached wild-west bandits from Earth that was, and still more of fantastic designs- cartoon animals, robots, beats, and more. Paul made short work of them and from the outside Duncan must have realized this as he ceased his fire. Eight lay dead at Paul’s hand and not a scratch to speak of. His crysknife dripped blood but his mind and conscious was as clean as white linen.
Moving down to the first level he say a strange man rushing his underlings out- fodder to Matrix’s assault. Paul needed no special insight to know this man was their leader, he wore it on his face like a king might wear a crown. This man was clearly a Pirate- adorned in the seafaring style with a great cutlass upon his waist under his greatcoat. A bandoleer of antique pistols sat across his chest. When the last man had rushed out to the slaughter, Paul set about doing a bit of his own.
Rushing down the stairs he meet the man’s eyes. Paul saw the work of Shaitan (Note: a Fremen term for a powerful embodiment of evil) in his expression and knew he could not falter. Paul flashed his crysknife but was meet with the same sort of blinding speed when the man drew his cutlass and deflected it. Paul, rolled, blurring as he did so but the man brought up a pistol with his offhand and had it leveled at Paul’s face when he rose to strike. He discharged a powdery mess of led and furry at the Duke but when it cleared Paul’s shield had absorbed the blow- having been flicked on at the last moment. Turning it off Paul rotated on his front foot by swinging his back foot wide and giving the pirate a spinning blow with his dagger. It caught the man in the side of his temple and rendered him dead in an instant. The viciousness and sudden finality of the blow was silencing- the corpse slammed into the ground a moment later to shatter it.
Moments after the killing had ceased outside, Paul emerged, dragging the corpse along with him like it was luggage- gripped at the back of his greatcoat, heels dragging in the desert sands. He tossed him among the pile of the dead and looked impartial but a bit grim.
“These were men who did wrong by their fellows. I offer them nothing but death. Do not mourn for them, for they would not have done the same for you. This is the law of the desert. Our justice must continue to be swift and harsh or they will never learn fear- that is to say that their actions of terror will be meet with a greater terror. Only in this way can we slowly shape the minds of men out here in the desert. Only with time can we form them into respectful, altruistic, people. Until this cancer is cut out- the deserts cannot grow.”
There was pain in Paul’s voice, thinly masked. He did not enjoy this work but knew it to be necessary. He did not love this, no... he hated it but knew what must be done. Such was the way of the desert.
On this command they lasguns cut like white-hot scalpels of light through the stone edifice of the building. On their world it would have literally cut it in half- the building falling away, but in this world it simply penetrated a little better than a bullet but skill would prematurely end if faced with too much density. Then came the return fire. Flicking on their shields, each became encased in a vibrating fields of orange light that generally traced their body in simplistic squares of Holtzman energy.
The attacker's few stray shots kissed their shields and bounced off. The two had risen to allow their enemies to see the ineffectiveness of their attacks. They would normally have stayed low and taken pot-shots but wanted to have the psychological impact of them in play. They would force them to fear the two gunmen and lead them to more quickly abandoned their cause if they were not already convinced from the bodies of their friends.
Slipping like liquid mercury across a table of glass, Paul made his way around back unnoticed and deftly climbed the backside unseen. Passing without issue through the enlarged part of one of the embrasures by seemingly “slipping” through the crack by way of an odd temporary contortion, he entered the third floor and slew the one remaining man without raising any sort of alarm. Their attention was on the meatgrinder below caused by Matrix and the harassing lasgun shots of his two men.
Inside it was dark, the only sources of light coming from candles mounted upon low stands. The room was largely circular with a stone staircase circling down to the next floor. This floor seemed to be their dry good storage- things less damaged by the heat. Weapons, clothing, dried meats, coins, and other treasures. This made sense- heat rose and he could sense the difference. The room was not made to vent air properly and it was stale and hot. There were two bodies felled by his men and one by his own hand- probably either new men punished to sleep up here or to guard it from the others. Without trust a settlement does not exist... fools.
Making his way down the stairs, flowing with the noiselessness of falling velvet, he lead head first to the second floor. This was a far more established room, though of much the same make. There was a central corridor running generally north to south but walls partitioning off various offices, chambers, and what he projected were sleeping quarters. This was the living spaces for the men and the place where they conducted their business. He could not see into these rooms, though some offered him a glimpse as the fleeing men had left the doors ajar when they fled, but he knew this instinctively. Some men still fought back against Duncan, perhaps having seen the slaughter below and hoping to take out their harrier before turning their guns on Matrix. The men were a medley- ill-gotten characters from all realms and worlds. Their designs were varied, some men with guns Paul might recognize, others mustached wild-west bandits from Earth that was, and still more of fantastic designs- cartoon animals, robots, beats, and more. Paul made short work of them and from the outside Duncan must have realized this as he ceased his fire. Eight lay dead at Paul’s hand and not a scratch to speak of. His crysknife dripped blood but his mind and conscious was as clean as white linen.
Moving down to the first level he say a strange man rushing his underlings out- fodder to Matrix’s assault. Paul needed no special insight to know this man was their leader, he wore it on his face like a king might wear a crown. This man was clearly a Pirate- adorned in the seafaring style with a great cutlass upon his waist under his greatcoat. A bandoleer of antique pistols sat across his chest. When the last man had rushed out to the slaughter, Paul set about doing a bit of his own.
Rushing down the stairs he meet the man’s eyes. Paul saw the work of Shaitan (Note: a Fremen term for a powerful embodiment of evil) in his expression and knew he could not falter. Paul flashed his crysknife but was meet with the same sort of blinding speed when the man drew his cutlass and deflected it. Paul, rolled, blurring as he did so but the man brought up a pistol with his offhand and had it leveled at Paul’s face when he rose to strike. He discharged a powdery mess of led and furry at the Duke but when it cleared Paul’s shield had absorbed the blow- having been flicked on at the last moment. Turning it off Paul rotated on his front foot by swinging his back foot wide and giving the pirate a spinning blow with his dagger. It caught the man in the side of his temple and rendered him dead in an instant. The viciousness and sudden finality of the blow was silencing- the corpse slammed into the ground a moment later to shatter it.
Moments after the killing had ceased outside, Paul emerged, dragging the corpse along with him like it was luggage- gripped at the back of his greatcoat, heels dragging in the desert sands. He tossed him among the pile of the dead and looked impartial but a bit grim.
“These were men who did wrong by their fellows. I offer them nothing but death. Do not mourn for them, for they would not have done the same for you. This is the law of the desert. Our justice must continue to be swift and harsh or they will never learn fear- that is to say that their actions of terror will be meet with a greater terror. Only in this way can we slowly shape the minds of men out here in the desert. Only with time can we form them into respectful, altruistic, people. Until this cancer is cut out- the deserts cannot grow.”
There was pain in Paul’s voice, thinly masked. He did not enjoy this work but knew it to be necessary. He did not love this, no... he hated it but knew what must be done. Such was the way of the desert.
![[Image: AXsJ8wI.png]](http://i.imgur.com/AXsJ8wI.png)