Whelp, I'm moving on from Prospero Burns. I tried, I really did. The Space Wolves are just too ****ing boring of a legion. I've found myself sub-consciously flipping through pages that have to do with Space Wolf exposition or the remebrancer's flashbacks. I just... don't give a single damn about any of the characters in this book. None.
Mr. Abnett best tread lightly. So the far the last three books of his I've read have been sub-par (Legion, Salvation's Reach, Prospero Burns).
edit- That being said, thought this shit was hilarious.
Legion-The Lucifer Black was armoured. Grammaticus was not. Grammaticus couldn’t count on landing a clean, quick kill-blow, nor could he risk using his digital ring-weapon. The energy flare would set off every alarm within ten metres.
As the Lucifer turned back, Grammaticus threw a wolf-paw jab that crushed the vox-hub bulge on the side of the Lucifer’s jet-black helmet, preventing him from signalling an alert. The Lucifer began to shout, but his voice was muffled by the helmet’s padded snout. Grammaticus rammed another jab in under the chin of the helm and crushed the man’s larynx, rendering him mute.
Grammaticus briefly hoped that the larynx punch might also prove to be a killing strike, but the Lucifer was made of stronger stuff. His sabre was still drawn, and he slashed at Grammaticus. Grammaticus blocked the blade with the adamantium strips woven into the forearm sleeves of his bodyglove, and drove the palm of his right hand flat into the Lucifer’s breastplate, a tension-reflexive strike that the eldar called the ilthrad-taic or breathless touch. The Lucifer lurched, his breastplate cracking. As he stumbled backwards, Grammaticus looped his left hand around the Lucifer’s right wrist, and whip-snapped it, forcing the sabre out of the man’s grip. It landed on the sand, a bare centimetre short of one of the ground level sensor beams.
The Lucifer was not yet done. Grammaticus had been forced to close tightly, and the Lucifer headbutted him. Grammaticus lurched backwards, pain engulfing the centre of his face as the helm crunched into him. He staggered, and barely avoided an overhead beam. The Lucifer fumbled and drew his sidearm, his broken right wrist forcing him to use his left hand, across his body. As soon as the laspistol came clear of its holster, Grammaticus threw a spin kick that sent it skidding away into the night beyond the tent. He flinched as the tumbling weapon passed between two strands of the invisible security web.
This had to end, fast, before something got tripped. They were so tightly boxed in it was like fighting inside a spider’s web, and any wrong move would bring the spider pouncing down on them.
The Lucifer threw a steel-shod fist at Grammaticus, who ducked left, and chopped a passing body-blow into the Lucifer’s ribs. Grammaticus’s hands, trained and subcutaneously strengthened though they were, were already sore and bloody from punching armour. Grammaticus tried to get behind the Lucifer, but the Lucifer caught him and clenched him in a choke hold. It would have finished the fight, except that the Lucifer was struggling with just one working hand.
Grammaticus grunted and corded his neck muscles to ward against the Lucifer’s choke. Training and experience told him there was one clean way out of the hold, a body throw that would hurl his opponent up and over him. But his goggles saw a sensor beam running right in front of them. If he threw the Lucifer, his opponent’s body would land across the beam.
He kicked back hard instead, and the back of the Lucifer’s head struck against one of the taut, diagonal guy wires of the pavilion. The impact snapped the Lucifer’s head forward, and he involuntarily butted the back of Grammaticus’s skull. Grammaticus winced, but the choke-hold broke. He swung around, dazed by the blow, and shot out a straight-fingered jab.
The middle and index fingers of John Grammaticus’s right hand punched through the left lens of the Lucifer’s helmet and popped the eye behind it. The Lucifer, gurgling through his useless throat, fell backwards against the tent side and slid down in a heap.
Grammaticus paused, crouching low, ready to sprint away if the impact raised an alarm.
No alarm came.
Grammaticus began to straighten up.
The Lucifer flopped forwards, matter dripping like glue from his ruptured eye socket, and began to crawl across the sand.
Grammaticus realised the Lucifer was dragging himself towards one of the ground level beams, his armoured hand clawing out to break it.
He threw himself onto the Lucifer’s back, grappling with him, trying to pull the arm back. The Lucifer was monstrously strong. He dragged Grammaticus with him as he crawled across the sand, straining to reach the harmonic tripwire.
Vicing an elbow around the reaching, straining arm of the man underneath him, forcing it to pull short, Grammaticus drove another jab into the man’s spine. Something cracked. Still, the Lucifer heaved himself forwards, ten centimetres from the beam, five, the outstretched fingers shaking as they groped for the invisible cord.
Grammaticus saw the Lucifer’s discarded sabre lying on the sand beside them. He grabbed it, simultaneously wrenching the man’s reaching arm back and up with all of his strength. He hacked with the sabre, and took the Lucifer’s limb off mid forearm.
The Lucifer convulsed under him. He reached out towards the beam with his stump, but he was well short of touching it. Grammaticus hastily clamped his left palm around the severed stump and compressed to stop the jetting arterial spray from hitting the beam and accomplishing what the Lucifer’s outstretched hand had not.
The armoured body under him went into spasm. Grammaticus pinned it down with his legs and kept the stump clenched tight. He felt the hot blood surging against his palm.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
The Lucifer trembled. Grammaticus put the tip of the sabre against the nape of his neck, in the tiny gap between helmet lip and collar armour, and pushed. The blade slid clean through the neck and bit deep into the sand beneath.
The Lucifer went still. Grammaticus waited until the pressure pulse against his palm finally ebbed away, and then let go of the stump. The truncated arm flopped onto the sand.
laughcry
Stolen from the comic book vs.
Originally posted by RE: Blaxican
Looking at Diablo 3's gameplay, it's hard to believe that it's taken Blizzard 10 years to make it. It looks... underwhelming.
They were probably too busy polishing some Panda ass. Seriously though, it takes a really long time for Blizz to do just about anything it seems.
During one WWE storyline "Sexual Chocolate" Mark Henry was receiving therapy from an inconveniently hot therapist for his sexual addiction. When she asked him about his first sexual experience, he said, "Well, it was a dark and stormy night, and I was real scared!" She asked why he was scared and he immediately replied, "Because I was all alone!"
Originally posted by Demonic Phoenix
I adore Winnie the Pooh's voice. sneer
YouTube video
YouTube video
(Couldn't find a version without that stupid sing-along crap)
Man, today's cartoons suck in comparison. You douches keep talking about the new Thundercats, which obviously does not compare to the original series. estahuh