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The Eye of Terror: The Labyrinthine Depths of Chaos (Part I)
Cameron:
Abbadon is nothing more then a pile of stinking flesh. The daemon blade Drach'nyen and the Talon of Horus have vanished. Nothing of value remains.
As Kalana picks herself up off the ground, the pocket of reality that Abbadon created around this field before attacking finally dissipates. The companions can clearly hear heavy combat nearby. Kalana determines the direction.
"That's coming from the entrance to the main labyrinth. They're trying to open the way for us. We need to go and help."
Garr had just exited the forcefield created by Danyael and descended to the ground. He looks around at the companions as Kalana speaks.
"I do not think that the majority of us are in any condition to provide assistance right now, Lady Ryoki. We may need time to patch ourselves up."
Kalana nods in agreement and raises her hands. She expends a large amount of mental energy, and the companions can feel time slowing.
"There. I just bought us about 30 minutes. Rest, meditate, do what you need to do. But then we have to move."
Soul Reaver:
Soul Reaver's vision is blurry and his mind almost blank after his victory. The only thing he can feel is the heat that radiates from Blooddrinker's hilt. He grasps at it, a lifeline back into reality.
The next thing he feels are the numberless bruises, cuts and burns across his body - none throbbing stronger than his broken shoulder. He winces as he uses Blooddrinker to pull himself back to his feet. With a small grunt of effort, he pulls the sword free from the grey, stony ground - the sword is still as immaculate as ever, the razor sharp edges of the blade glimmering softly with an inner fire. Soul Reaver sheathes the sword at his back, then, clutching his wounded shoulder, makes his was over to where the rest of the companions are gathering.
Around him, Soul Reaver suddenly feels a pulse of energy, and the flow of time starts to feel sluggish. Even in his current state, he marvels at this: though magic in the mortal plane can be used to manipulate the flow of time, something on this scale would require phenomenal quantities of mana and incredible mental fortitude. Kalana's powers were indeed fearsome.
Soul Reaver overhears her speaking, and was indeed relieved to hear that he would have a chance to recover. He dragged his wounded body over to large boulder, where he sat down with the loud clanking of his armour.
Thirty minutes was not much, but it should be enough.
Soul Reaver nods over at the rest of the warriors nearby, silently acknowledging their shared victory and his appreciation for their help. Then, he closes his eyes, and concentrates.
First comes his broken arm. The shattered shards of bone slowly realign, then fuse together as though they were never broken. Damaged tissue and blood vessels knit themselves together. In a few minutes, he feels strength return to his previously flaccid limb, and he flexes his fingers to make sure that everything is indeed back to normal.
Next come the more superficial wounds, which he tends to in a more general fashion, focussing on his regenerative powers.
At the same time, he tends to his own mana reserves, absorbing the magic from the air around him. His store of sorcerous energy had almost been competely depleted, so he drank of the sluggish ocean of magic like a man dying of thirst.
When he felt at least partially restored, Soul Reaver turns his attention to his equipment. His armour was in a sorry state - the black steel was visibly rent and torn in many places, and he sensed thousands more hairline cracks and imperfections, all caused by the vicous battle against Abaddon and its explosive aftermath.
Soul Reaver channels his powers, filling and restoring his armour, the hairline cracks vanishing, the rents fading away in a glow of red energy.
When he is done, he opens his eyes once more. His armour is restored, pristine and untouched, his magical energy returning, and his body healed. The black cape once more flaps from his back. Nonetheless, he has not fully recovered - the battle had been costly, and there was too little time left. There was a feeling of hollowness within that would not soon be filled.
He turns his gaze to Kalana.
"What of this Labyrinth, Kalana? What awaits within?"
Cameron:
Kalana makes her way over to Soul Reaver. She has indeed expended quite a bit of energy to give the companions this time, and she slumps down against the rock next to Soul, catching her breath and resting her mind. After a few moments, she speaks.
"Unfortunately... we have virtually no intelligence on the inside of the Labyrinth. Few people who enter make it out again, and those who have emerged have not done so with their minds intact. Most of the information that we have gotten is raving gibberish descriptions of eldrich horrors which may or may not actually exist. The only thing we do know is that you cannot trust your senses once inside. Things are never what they seem to be."
Veldanya Venalla:
As the angel touches down near the elementals he goes over to the remains of the Despoiler. Kneeling down he examines the remains as if to verify that Abaddon is dead and it isnt mearly another of his vile tricks. Sensing that his presence is gone, Jharm breathes a sigh of relief.
"There. I just bought us about 30 minutes. Rest, meditate, do what you need to do. But then we have to move."
Upon hearing Kalana's statement, Jharm gazes over his battered and beaten armor. His one shoulder guard crumpled from the flying debris while he fled the explosion. His helmet crushed and probably vaporized now. Focusing his power into his armor, the shoulder slowly but steadly begins to reform into its original shape. With that done he calmly sits down, crosses his massive legs and begins to meditate, connecting himself with the Light and regaining his power and strength, waiting for the rest of his companions to be ready to move and aid the space marines.
Faidth:
Faidth sheds the multiple layers of defenses that had managed to keep her virtually unscathed during Abbadon's last stand. Bits of bone, rock and debris clatter to the ground around her as the protective cocoon disintegrates. She draws the back of her hand across her forehead to rid her complexion of the dark crimson rivulets that slowly seep from a small wound near her hairline. Marius had taught her to ignore pain quite efficiently and the blood that flows is more of an inconvenience than an actual wound.
She places her hand to her forehead and concentrates upon the torn skin and warm blood beneath her fingertips. Though she cannot create new cells to replace the ones that have been destroyed, moving pre-existing ones does not pose a problem for her. She isolates the correct atoms, moving them into position and effectively covering the wound. Where she has transfigured the cells, the skin is thin and susceptible, but the bleeding has stopped.
The rest of her respite from battle is spent within this anomaly of time in a quiet seclusion. She sits cross-legged upon the battlefield, her eyes closed and her mind at ease. She can practically hear Marius's voice in her ears, telling her to slow her breathing so that she may regain her energy. His lingering essence is enough to bring solace to her and soon her body is replenished, though her thoughts of him still bring a poignant sting to her heart.
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