Sic transit gloria mundi
[member="Valiens Nantaris"], [member="Tempest"]
The door to the armoury was made of Graphite Reinforced durasteel, making it highly resistant to even a missile. Unless it was open, access required typing a password into a console and the corridor leading to it was monitored by cameras. A large, spacious training hall lay adjacent to it. There was enough hardware inside the armoury to equip a tin pot dictator's praetorian guard. Siobhan was sitting at the workbench that was situated in the centre of the armoury surrounded by walls of racks full of swords, blasters, rifles, shotguns, grenade launchers and various other pieces of absurdly destructive military hardware.
It was the Galactic Rifle Association's wet dream, though it was doubtful that any of those gun nuts would actually be able to properly utilise these beautiful death dealers. After all, most were inadequate manlings! No, these beauties needed the touch of a woman.
Mark One and Mark Two Bolters filled half the far wall next to racks of shattervolleyguns and a pair of portable repeating blasters. To her right a mortar was resting on the floor besides crates of grenades and a flamethrower and handguns of various types were lined up to her left in shelving that reached to the ceiling. It was like a shrine for the goddesses of war.
"Oh, they're so pretty," Siobhan declared happily, her voice thick with emotion. There were few things in the world she loved as much as inanimate objects that allowed her to cause carnage. Well, except shoes, pretty dresses, Mirien, her daughters and Tegaea! But you could not help love the bulky perfection of a well-oiled bolt pistol. Or the elegant poetry of an APEB round tearing through the helmet of a Sith and blowing his face off, spilling his blood and brain matter across the ground.
She checked her chronometre and noted with a frown that Tempest was running a bit late. They had stuff to do. Like, working on the girl's training and improving the arsenal. Ah, well, she'd probably have a good explanation. Like the fact that she was 'familiarising the new sergeant with her duties'. Her eyes turned to the old, sturdy, but rather battered beskar'gam that lay spread out on the bench. She ran her hands over the suit with exaggerated reverence, as if she were touching a sacred relic in a Temple of Ashira.
The door to the armoury was made of Graphite Reinforced durasteel, making it highly resistant to even a missile. Unless it was open, access required typing a password into a console and the corridor leading to it was monitored by cameras. A large, spacious training hall lay adjacent to it. There was enough hardware inside the armoury to equip a tin pot dictator's praetorian guard. Siobhan was sitting at the workbench that was situated in the centre of the armoury surrounded by walls of racks full of swords, blasters, rifles, shotguns, grenade launchers and various other pieces of absurdly destructive military hardware.
It was the Galactic Rifle Association's wet dream, though it was doubtful that any of those gun nuts would actually be able to properly utilise these beautiful death dealers. After all, most were inadequate manlings! No, these beauties needed the touch of a woman.
Mark One and Mark Two Bolters filled half the far wall next to racks of shattervolleyguns and a pair of portable repeating blasters. To her right a mortar was resting on the floor besides crates of grenades and a flamethrower and handguns of various types were lined up to her left in shelving that reached to the ceiling. It was like a shrine for the goddesses of war.
"Oh, they're so pretty," Siobhan declared happily, her voice thick with emotion. There were few things in the world she loved as much as inanimate objects that allowed her to cause carnage. Well, except shoes, pretty dresses, Mirien, her daughters and Tegaea! But you could not help love the bulky perfection of a well-oiled bolt pistol. Or the elegant poetry of an APEB round tearing through the helmet of a Sith and blowing his face off, spilling his blood and brain matter across the ground.
She checked her chronometre and noted with a frown that Tempest was running a bit late. They had stuff to do. Like, working on the girl's training and improving the arsenal. Ah, well, she'd probably have a good explanation. Like the fact that she was 'familiarising the new sergeant with her duties'. Her eyes turned to the old, sturdy, but rather battered beskar'gam that lay spread out on the bench. She ran her hands over the suit with exaggerated reverence, as if she were touching a sacred relic in a Temple of Ashira.
