pr0thean

2022-11-12 07:15:50 -

Her armor clings to her skin.

Cold temperatures continue to plummet, directing shivers across her nerves at rapid rates. Snow crunch underneath Feron's pace; exacerbated breaths details the Drells exhaustion. She offers him no mind - for now, focusing on their shared goal, treading along the treacherous land.

The Normandy’s scattered appendages surround roaming Blue Sun members, planted vessels disturbing the graveyard her friends laid. Feron leads her over to a lone container, whispering commands to her and preparing for the inevitable fight.

Her eyes adjusted, twinkling dog tags sprung her into action.

For their benefit, their opponents were a minuscule size compared to what she previously dealt with. They stood no chance against her biotics - Feron assisting clips eliminating any buoyant mercs, effortlessly trapped in blistering eezo fields.

Scorching armor clads drop, intensified by electricity terrain scalping the snow. Cautiously, Liara trudges over the corpses (Pressley's unattended corpse decomposes in). Halls she attended once decayed under whiteout. Feron migrated to other means. Unidentifiable mutterings fluttered in the air.

She located their objective, an awaiting presentation only the Goddess would have been able to conjure.

Shepard’s body seared from atmospheric influence, characteristics singeing the Normandy’s skeleton remains as well. Her logic only draws blanks - ligaments tore connective tissue on her legs. Her right arm, disconnected from its origins. Tangled veins absorb frostbite instead of blood. Dried blood merges frost.

She wrinkles her nose.

She inhales (she watches Shepard’s agonizing plummet, overwhelming emotions shut her mind off -).

Her knees crumble under her weight, liberating relief washes over her veins, calming her hysterical mind. She ignores Ferons warnings; searching eyes evaluating Shepard’s tattered form. Her hand lays on fragmented fingers (warm human hands compliment her colder presence), carefully laying her helmet on the shattered visor.

Familiar ‘clink’ muted by roaring winds.

“I found you, my love. I found you,” Liara tells her, lifeless eyes greet her, “It’s going to be okay now, I promise.”

She reaches out. She finds nothing.

“Liara - we need to go now!” Feron interrupts. She debates cradling Shepard’s corpse close.

His unsuspecting hands clasping her shoulder startles her, aware of incoming ships of the Shadow Brokers forces. Her throat clenches, eyeing the awaiting pod.

“Forgive me, I must move you now,” She informs Shepard (it's okay), easing a biotic sphere around the corpse, delicately lifting her love out of her frozen barrow.

Howls and bullets attempt to cease her recovery, retaliating fire suppresses their rude arrival. Swinging arms; she successfully migrates Shepard into her refuge, automatically securing once it detects a presence.

Chaos ensues - Feron rushes her towards a ship (“Any ship!”), firing any mercs bordering their cover. Biotics maneuver the pod into the carrier - haphazardly she feared - before closing on her, guarding against clips after clips of foreboding assault.

Liara sighs, rushing towards the pod in immense happiness. She rests a hand on the glass; the ship jerks for their ascension, out of the fridge glacier. She announces her emotion, turning a heel, expecting Feron to be standing near her, congratulating themselves on a job well down.

Panic blossoms; it’s empty, leaving only her and Shepard alone in the ship.

Her armor clings to her skin. Cold temperatures continue to plummet, directing shivers across her nerves at rapid rates. Snow crunch underneath Feron's pace; exacerbated breaths details the Drells exhaustion. She offers him no mind - for now, focusing on their shared goal, treading along the treacherous land. The Normandy’s scattered appendages surround roaming Blue Sun members, planted vessels disturbing the graveyard her friends laid. Feron leads her over to a lone container, whispering commands to her and preparing for the inevitable fight. Her eyes adjusted, twinkling dog tags sprung her into action. For their benefit, their opponents were a minuscule size compared to what she previously dealt with. They stood no chance against her biotics - Feron assisting clips eliminating any buoyant mercs, effortlessly trapped in blistering eezo fields. Scorching armor clads drop, intensified by electricity terrain scalping the snow. Cautiously, Liara trudges over the corpses (Pressley's unattended corpse decomposes in). Halls she attended once decayed under whiteout. Feron migrated to other means. Unidentifiable mutterings fluttered in the air. She located their objective, an awaiting presentation only the Goddess would have been able to conjure. Shepard’s body seared from atmospheric influence, characteristics singeing the Normandy’s skeleton remains as well. Her logic only draws blanks - ligaments tore connective tissue on her legs. Her right arm, disconnected from its origins. Tangled veins absorb frostbite instead of blood. Dried blood merges frost. She wrinkles her nose. She inhales (she watches Shepard’s agonizing plummet, overwhelming emotions shut her mind off -). Her knees crumble under her weight, liberating relief washes over her veins, calming her hysterical mind. She ignores Ferons warnings; searching eyes evaluating Shepard’s tattered form. Her hand lays on fragmented fingers (warm human hands compliment her colder presence), carefully laying her helmet on the shattered visor. Familiar ‘clink’ muted by roaring winds. “I found you, my love. I found you,” Liara tells her, lifeless eyes greet her, “It’s going to be okay now, I promise.” She reaches out. She finds nothing. “Liara - we need to go now!” Feron interrupts. She debates cradling Shepard’s corpse close. His unsuspecting hands clasping her shoulder startles her, aware of incoming ships of the Shadow Brokers forces. Her throat clenches, eyeing the awaiting pod. “Forgive me, I must move you now,” She informs Shepard (it's okay), easing a biotic sphere around the corpse, delicately lifting her love out of her frozen barrow. Howls and bullets attempt to cease her recovery, retaliating fire suppresses their rude arrival. Swinging arms; she successfully migrates Shepard into her refuge, automatically securing once it detects a presence. Chaos ensues - Feron rushes her towards a ship (“Any ship!”), firing any mercs bordering their cover. Biotics maneuver the pod into the carrier - haphazardly she feared - before closing on her, guarding against clips after clips of foreboding assault. Liara sighs, rushing towards the pod in immense happiness. She rests a hand on the glass; the ship jerks for their ascension, out of the fridge glacier. She announces her emotion, turning a heel, expecting Feron to be standing near her, congratulating themselves on a job well down. Panic blossoms; it’s empty, leaving only her and Shepard alone in the ship.

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