Board Thread:Fun and Games Forum/@comment-25175520-20150521200045/@comment-107.196.174.179-20150607203909

(The second sounds better.)

Rhall leveled his weapon, his upper left arm dangling useless, nerves fried and bones broken. He let out a rage-filled roar, but before he could fire, Arxus's last rocket slammed into the side of his head. The solar charge detonated, letting the bronze vex metal run, and the holographic data feed between the horns flicker out. The secondary wolfpack seekers swarmed around him, tearing at his armour and punching holes in his form. Rhall slumped over, his prone gaze falling upon his hunters; dead, the exos; destroyed, Kahniss; wounded, limping away through a backdoor from the flame baron, who was on his knees grasping the stump of his upper right arm. And Elkris-6; its eye flickering, its frame rent, as the guardians closed in around it. Rhall's whole world was pain, ether hissed out of him at a rate that would kill lesser fallen. But he was NOT done, they had NOT won. The storms had claimed thier prize, the sallvation of the fallen, the designs for an unending army of utterly loyal soldiers to sieze the great machine and crush the city. And he would be there to see it burn. With that thought, Rhall drank deep of the pain that wracked his form...and let the darkness in.

Near where avgust lay, the Archon slowly got to his feet, seeminly uncaring of the ether hissing from his many wounds. He reached up with his upper right hand, grasped the faceplate of his helm, and pulled. With the screech of torn metal, the vex eye skittered across the floor. In its place, were Rhalls own four. But rather than the blue light of the fallen, his eyes held naught but the souless black of hungry midnight.

"I am Rhall, archon of storms, and devotee of Elkris prime. Thou art naught but dead puppets of the light. And I shall snuff. thee. out."