Merry Christmas, everyone. I don't expect anyone to find time to read this today, but I'll put it out anyway. Forgive any slight errors in grammar or... sense, I haven't proof-read as much as usual (which is in itself petty) because, well, Christmas-dinner is nearly ready. * [b]Chapter 36 -- For whom the bell tolls, for whom hell calls[/b] Emerald flew through the air and time seemed to slow down. Lightning shone through the window, emerald catching its glow within and reflecting a panorama of death back. Smaller shards scattered through the air, snatched by the drops of rain that fell through the window in the ceiling. Gem screamed as it spiralled, a blood-chilling, deadly scream coloured with death's voice. Finally, it met resistance. Stalled for a few moments, pushing hard against the body it had met. At last, it burrowed its way through the flesh and blood, carving through a heart as it clawed its way to the other side. From the hole left in its wake, life bled. Emerald crashed into the wall of the room, and shattered into a million pieces. Sparks discharged into the night, every fatal shred of green fading into ephemerality. Not an emerald, but a burst of plasma. Thrown by the man standing in the door, a satisfied grin all that could be seen through the darkness. "I always did think you a blustering fool," Pel spat with venom at the one he had just shot, brandishing his plasma pistol about maniacally. "Now you die like one. The two of you will follow soon." With that, the Ossoona fled the doorway and vanished into the midnight. Neither Sorran or Ahkrin gave chase, or answered him. Their stunned eyes were focused on the body lying on the floor, whose eyes stared without seeing at the ceiling, limp fingers clutching at the life-stealing wound wrought by the plasma burst. Jaw open, a wordless scream buried in the throat. Immobile. Dead. Hem. * All of Sanghelios loomed before Zharn as he stared out at his homeworld. For the first time he saw the planet; [i]really[/i] saw it. Stripped away the grandeur in his mind, took away the honour, the history, the culture he knew thrived down there. He saw a rock, then. A great orb hanging in the dark of space, shrouded by clouds and littered with ocean and continent. Like Harvest. Like Madrigal. Like Hat Yai... and most recently on his own orders, Eridanus II. If they could be so easily glassed with just a spoken word, an order; turned into a sculpture capturing only the faintest traces of what had once been, then what made Sanghelios so special? Zharn knew that High Charity alone could annihilate half the planet if it reinstalled the dreadnought's weapons. The humans too had their world-wreckers. Zharn had seen the craters on some of their worlds wrought by the testing of their MAC rounds, their nuclear weapons. They were primitive devices, but then even a rock can defeat one armed with a gun in the right circumstances. Which is why they could never be allowed to find Sanghelios with their fleets. Which is why Zharn was driving himself insane worrying about the purported demon and ODSTs loose in the holy city right now. "Any word?" he asked his communications officer, taking care to be sly with his demands. He had been instructed by the hierarchs to not breathe a word of what was truly happening in High Charity to anyone. "No contact from the station, leader. Not a single ship has attempted to break quarantine, either." Zharn pondered upon that for a few moments, before nodding. "Keep watch. I shan't be long," he told his bridge crew, throwing on his ceremonial overcoat and flying out from the command and control centre. He activated his communications pad, opened a private channel. "Orpheus," he hailed. The Jiralhanae took a few moments to respond. "Zharn," Orpheus finally spoke in his impossibly deep voice. "What ails you?" "I am beside myself waiting for the bureaucrats and charlatans down there to update us on the situation. The hierarchs forbid me sending troops down there... I am not a trooper, however, and neither are you." "I don't think Truth would appreciate that little technicality," Orpheus warned him. "You say that as if it should deter me. Will you come down to the holy city with me? I want to see with my own eyes the true state of affairs." "I think you are mad, fleetmaster," Orpheus replied, and for a second Zharn's hearts plummeted with disappointment. "But mad or not, I am sworn to you. And I must concede, I am a little curious myself as to what is happening on High Charity." "Is that your roundabout way of saying 'yes'?" Zharn asked with a wry smile, turning a corridor and rolling his eyes as a cohort of Sangheili who had been busying themselves with other matters leapt to attention. "I'll meet you in the hanger, Zharn," Orpheus answered with an air of resignation, before disconnecting the line. Although he had yet to mention it to his Jiralhanae friend, Zharn had an ulterior motive for wanting to see High Charity. On Eridanus II, the demon had showed him something that had shook his faith to the core. Heretical humans, or at least their familiars, could earn a response from Forerunner technology. Something not even the Holy Prophet of Truth himself could do. This all-too-quickly imposed quarantine by Sanghelios, the tale of the humans who had so easily infiltrated the holy city, Ahkrin's disappearance; perhaps he was being paranoid, but Zharn felt something greater was at work. [i]Always trust your instinct, for it is not tainted by the poison of the heart or mind,[/i] his late sire had once lectured him and the other children in Rolum, back when he had not known the man's true identity. Zharn had rarely found his father wrong on the matter. * It was a stench Jajab knew well. He'd smelt it many times on the battlefield, and many times since then. The cloying aroma of blood, just past the door. Swallowing his fear, he gently edged his way through the heavy wooden doors of the hotel into the cold and dark corridor. Doors loomed over him to the left and right, each holding the possibility of danger. His attention was drawn by the body at the far end of the corridor, however; a kig-yar dressed in formal attire, her thin neck snapped. His tiny heart pumping with terror, Jajab approached the body against his better judgement. The floorboards creaked under his weight, painfully audible in the eerie silence. He strained, but could hear no movement nor voices. He seemed to be alone. The kig-yar's orb-like eyes were wide with surprise, long tongue lolling out from her mouth lamely. A single needle rose from the centre of her forehead, neatly positioned beneath the soft mane which flowed down her back. Had it not been for the pool of neon purple staining her soft facial features, he might have mistaken the needle for another quill in her plumage. Jajab had thought the lack of people in order around the hotel suspicious; the Covenant must have made sure the area was vacated before moving in. No doubt the kig-yar on the floor had refused to leave, and she'd earned death for her trouble. His worst fears were confirmed when he entered through the only open door and saw Convalescence in a similar state, a deadly spire rising from his head as well. Whoever had made these killings had been professionals. "Lords," he whispered, ice blossoming throughout the room as he stared at the clinical chaos. He took one step into the room-- "Don't move," a gruff voice spoke suddenly even as Jajab felt the cold barrel of a weapon press into the back of his neck. He complied.