Post by Aleksy on Oct 12, 2016 12:02:30 GMT
New Scene
Aleksy sat in the stark light of his workshop in the shadow of the great iron crusader's cross. he had been a rare sight outside of his secluded workshop since Freya's party, and he had been ensconced there for many nights preceding it. There was work to be done, work no-one else could do, Gun-Runner work. He leaned hunched over the latest magazine for work like a starving dog over it's bowl. Tracer rounds, it had been the bulk of his work these long restless nights. Tracer rounds to fit sub-machine guns. That was the bulk order. But it was not the entirety. Over directly beneath the bloodstained cross that spoke to his unflinching devotion lay the bones of what would yet be an automatic shotgun. It's stock shaped specifically for the Ductus himself, the trigger guard detachable with a switch in case what had called for claws now needed a less lethal approach. Laughable really that such a monstrosity could ever be considered less lethal, yet here in the world of the Cainites just such was true.
Yet it could not be said of all of his works. the white phosphorous grenades given a wide berth and a plexiglass wall away from the rest of the workshop spoke to that. They were few, but then work on them caused his beast to buck and bray. They need only be few, sheer weight of tracers would do the rest, do all that was needed.
On the opposite wall were the flashbangs and the breaching charges. It was all unfinished, there was more work to be done. There was always more work to be done. Not only for his own pack, but all those of the area, it was the reason Przemytnicy Broni had it's name. They would live to their legacy, no matter how hard the Ductus must hammer them into shape.
He sits there silently at work, just as he had been so many nights, just as he would so many more. The Sabbat was in an unending crusade, and all wars needed weapons.
Aleksy sat in the stark light of his workshop in the shadow of the great iron crusader's cross. he had been a rare sight outside of his secluded workshop since Freya's party, and he had been ensconced there for many nights preceding it. There was work to be done, work no-one else could do, Gun-Runner work. He leaned hunched over the latest magazine for work like a starving dog over it's bowl. Tracer rounds, it had been the bulk of his work these long restless nights. Tracer rounds to fit sub-machine guns. That was the bulk order. But it was not the entirety. Over directly beneath the bloodstained cross that spoke to his unflinching devotion lay the bones of what would yet be an automatic shotgun. It's stock shaped specifically for the Ductus himself, the trigger guard detachable with a switch in case what had called for claws now needed a less lethal approach. Laughable really that such a monstrosity could ever be considered less lethal, yet here in the world of the Cainites just such was true.
Yet it could not be said of all of his works. the white phosphorous grenades given a wide berth and a plexiglass wall away from the rest of the workshop spoke to that. They were few, but then work on them caused his beast to buck and bray. They need only be few, sheer weight of tracers would do the rest, do all that was needed.
On the opposite wall were the flashbangs and the breaching charges. It was all unfinished, there was more work to be done. There was always more work to be done. Not only for his own pack, but all those of the area, it was the reason Przemytnicy Broni had it's name. They would live to their legacy, no matter how hard the Ductus must hammer them into shape.
He sits there silently at work, just as he had been so many nights, just as he would so many more. The Sabbat was in an unending crusade, and all wars needed weapons.