Gianfranco Mancini > Recent Status Updates

The Legio Mortis is a force to break worlds with. They are loyal to the cause, and the Warmaster needs them for this battle and all those to come. And that means that Maloghurst cannot throw Princeps Herald Aruken off the gantry and listen to him scream as he falls.
‘The mysteries of the machine are not my domain,’ he says carefully.
A suck-hiss of static, a substitute for a cough of laughter or a chuckle.

What if it wasn’t the Wirtz boys? There was a psychopath on the loose—what if he had done this? She couldn’t imagine what the purpose would be, but she suddenly felt very alone and exposed. She ran to her car, locked herself inside, then called the police.

Everyone in town knew about the flyers, even those like David, who hadn’t seen them firsthand. One house that wasn’t decorated would be chosen and everyone inside slaughtered on Halloween night. David and his family never decorated for Halloween.

The projection stutters and refocuses.
And a new ghost rises. It raises its hand, opening fingers that are claws.
'You remembrancers say you want to see war', says Horus Lupercal. 'Well, here it is.'
Behind him dark rain falls from the void towards the curve of a world. Each drop of rain is a warhead. Darkness ripples out from each impact. Screams rise as the world dies.

Giacevano a faccia in su in una crudele parodia di sereno riposo, con le braccia incrociate sul petto. La sola cosa che tradiva la loro pace era lo sguardo di orrore pietrificato sulle facce di entrambi. Le bocche spalancate in urla eterne. Le gole tagliate da un orecchio all'altro. Si sarebbe detto che guardavano fissi il cielo bianco e vuoto, ma... Non avevano più gli occhi.

Salimmo in fretta il resto dei gradini. Una grande stanza. Una luce fioca, color del piombo, sopra le nostre teste. L'aria era fredda e piena di spifferi, il pavimento bagnato. Le mie scarpe scivolavano come se camminassi sopra uno stagno ghiacciato. Ma quello non era uno stagno, e ciò che giaceva oscenamente davanti a noi non era un animale ferito bisognoso di benevoli salvatori. Era qualcosa di molto più orrendo.

The figure was still there, standing motionless in the same position, a creepy, lifeless scarecrow stuck in the middle of his lawn. The face was shrouded in complete darkness. With the hooded jacket and the streetlights at its back, there was no way of knowing who it was. The only thing Billy could see were the tips of its fingers. They seemed to extend much further beyond the cuff of the jacket than was normal.

“My guess is they don’t like the cold,” Billy said. He was racking his brain trying to figure out which movie this was most like when he was interrupted by a knocking from upstairs. The knock turned into a frantic banging, and they both jumped. “Somebody’s knocking on your door,” Rachel said, probably sounding more panicked than she intended to.

Forse gli avvenimenti erano stati davvero una cerimonia. Forse avevo bevuto troppa sangria. Le prove a sostegno di una teoria più sinistra erano esigue. Non si può rinchiudere la gente in prigione solo perché parla un dialetto insolito. Certo, si erano comportati in modo bizzarro, forse addirittura spaventoso. Ma d'altro canto, siete mai stati a una serata di gala ad Arkham?

“I meant to say that I did not know that a host that small could support us.” It may have been in response to Darl stepping closer, or it may have been that the creature perceived an insult, but either way the orange cat looked him directly in the eyes and hissed, its eyes flattened into an angry squint. The hiss petered out into a series of small clicks and then a purr. Geraldine smiled at him.

“She leaves and we start the plan, got it?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Maybe, if everything goes smoothly, you can pay her and her friends a visit tonight.”

Hannah aveva portato con sé il sacchetto di sabbia. «Le do un'altra botta» disse. «Quella respira ancora». «Ti devi chinare, sennò rischi di cascare dentro" suggerì John alla moglie, la cui mole avrebbe reso complicata l'operazione. Poi indicò a lei e a Katie di farsi indietro, prese la vanga e cominciò a ricoprire di terra umida la donna ancora viva.

She shifted past him and no longer tried to stop his progress into the kitchen. Instead she doubled back into the hallway and wrapped her hand around the doorknob to the closet. It was time to release the hounds.

Il caso degli Slape era ben diverso. Nei loro confronti Philo non provava altro che puro disprezzo, odiandoli come non aveva mai odiato nulla in vita sua. E giurò a sé stessa che se le fossero ri-comparsi davanti, insieme o individualmente, non avrebbero ricevuto nemmeno un briciolo di pietà.

Though her torso was smeared with blood, Dave saw no wounds. Joan removed her shoulder holster and the knife rig. She took off her bullet-proof vest. Her T-shirt looked glued to her skin. It was white. Its whiteness struck Dave as strange and comforting. He'd seen so much blood in the past few minutes that he'd begun to feel as if scarlet was the natural color of things.

A bony five-fingered hand dragged him forward by one malfunctioning leg. Another sank deep into the ropy inner systems of his chest. Three long sickles closed on his face, one puncturing an ocular…
Connection.
Trazyn fled his surrogate body, glad to be gone from this battle of gods and monsters.

An instant before he threw himself against the door, Jeremy heard the clack of a sliding bolt. He clutched the knob, twisted it, tugged at it, crying "No! Let her out! Let her out, you bastard!" He pounded the door, smashed at it with his shoulder, kicked at it. The door stayed shut. He sank to his knees, weeping.

The Deceiver had lured him into combat, planning to decapitate one of the guardians’ two commanders.
‘Not today,’ Trazyn said, channelling energy into his wounds, feeling them drip with corposant as they sutured. ‘You will not leave my gallery alone in this universe.’

Tanya pulled a folding knife out of the pouch of her sweatshirt. She pried its blade out. Jeremy dug into a pocket for his Swiss Army knife. He saw Samson, Karen, and Cowboy produce knives of their own. "Everybody ready?" Tanya whispered. She scanned the group, her eyes glinting and fierce in the candlelight, then turned around and began to climb the stairs.

Orikan stole a glance away from the battle-management panels that hung before him in the air. ‘I hope you brought an army.’
‘You think so little of me, dear colleague,’ said Trazyn, picking out a labyrinth. ‘I brought five.’

He unwrapped the blade and looked at it. Memories of last night rushed in, seizing him with fear and desire. Who needs the razor as a reminder? he thought. Who's going to forget that?

Orikan looked over his shoulder to the main seats, where ushers and pict-industry stars were making their way down the aisles with axes and knives, murdering their way through the passive audience throat by throat. Each kill caused barely a ripple in the brainwaves of the neighbouring victims.
‘You stupid bastard,’ sneered Orikan. ‘You got us box seats to a coup.’
‘Well, the reviews were very good.’

"Your blood and mine," she whispered. Her lips and chin and cheeks were dappled with it. She lowered his hand. She placed the razor blade in his palm. "Keep this with you to remember." "I'll never forget." "I know."

She'd been walking through a small town just after dark. It was October. A chilly wind tumbled leaves past her. She smelled wood smoke from chimneys. On both sides of the street, warm light glowed from the windows of homes. It hit her then. The loss. The sudden understanding that she was outside, alone, unloved, with no hope of ever returning to the home that had once been so cozy and safe and full of happiness.

The C’tan have much to answer for – as does our own species. We shattered the star gods, chained them, made them no better than beasts of burden. And our species has spent eternity as soulless wanderers. Only you and I, Orikan, have tasted what it is like to be free of captivity. But you cannot be free when you are your own prisoner.

She walked in the direction of the house, and soon it appeared peared through the fog. Its windows were dark. The house stood on pilings. Ducking down beside the porch stairs, she gazed into the black area among the posts. It looked like a cozy place to spend the night.

‘Let me state for the record,’ Phaerakh Ossuaria said. ‘That this is not officially a trial.’
‘Can we be executed?’ asked Orikan.
‘Yes,’ said Zuberkar, with a note of unpleasant eagerness.
‘Then it’s a trial,’ Trazyn said.
‘In a technical sense,’ said Overlord Baalbehk. ‘It is an enquiry.’

Cold green beams lanced over Trazyn’s head, sweeping the upper decks of the gargant, stripping channels in the armour as if they were fingers in clay, leaving burnished silver gullies behind. Orks ducked, growling with annoyance. One or two that didn’t get down took the beams full force and fell backward, missing the front two-thirds of their skulls.

The blast had torn away both his legs and one arm. Charred his skull and torso until he was nothing but a reactor and logic processor in a fused hunk of metal.
Trazyn did not concern himself with these details – because he had a plan.

They seemed nice enough, but who could tell? In the car with them, she was at their mercy. But you don't argue with cops, you do as they say. That was a lesson she'd learned early, and never ignored. At least they were taking her away from that creep.