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Post by Whill Shaman Xixo on Feb 27, 2013 16:46:55 GMT -8
*Rodia was a hot, humid world which was covered in dense tropical jungles as well as sprawling cities, swamps and industrial areas. A large area of the planet was also covered in oceans and there appeared to be two polar regions on the extreme latitudes. A known body of water on the planet was the Wesessa Sea where the An'yettu Islands were located.*
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 6, 2014 17:26:10 GMT -8
[/i][/font]}[/ul][/ul] As Faust descended the transport shuttle's boarding ramp, he was greeted by a contingent of Rodian troopers. Armed with carbines and blaster rifles of obviously high quality and clad in suits of battle armor with the distinctive An'yettu family crest stamped on the pauldrons, they stood still as statues, their formation flawless. The Mandalorian got the distinct impression they were putting on a display just for him. Whether their goal was to intimidate or impress, he couldn't be sure. Either way they had failed. Still, he was careful to keep his stance visibly relaxed and his hands away from his beskad as he moved forward to meet them. The various denizens of the galaxy had proven quite a bit more nervous than his brothers in the Priesthood.
The formation parted to allow another Rodian passage; this one wore the flowing robes and the cringing demeanor of a diplomat. Faust recognized him at once: Jaroth An'yettu, a former ambassador to the Republic and current weapons trader. He was the one that had sent a message asking for an audience three days ago. The mercenary had nearly ignored his message, but the Rodian had managed to pique his curiosity with a reference to his deployment during the Mandalorian Crusades. That had been bloody business...and fairly classified. If he'd gone through the trouble to nose into the priest's past and still had the balls to hire him, then the job promised to be something special.
"Ah, Mr. Skirata!" Jarroth hooted in cheerful, if broken Basic. "My retainers nearly had me convinced you wouldn't come! I'm glad to see they were mistaken- they are consistent at least."
"You said you had work for me." Faust's own garbled speech was accompanied by a shrug and a baleful stare. Unfazed, the Rodian nodded emphatically and gestured toward the far side of the docking bay.
"Indeed I do, Mr. Skirata, indeed I do. May we retire to my study to discuss the details?" He turned on his heels without waiting for a response, heavy robes sweeping around in his wake. Faust trailed along behind him, brow furrowed in irritation. What could a sycophant like Jaroth need of a soldier like himself? His work as a beroya was less than well known, and even though the Rodian had proven adept at ferreting out his past, he seemed more the type to settle his scores through corporate backroom deals than a hired murderer.
But credits were credits, and with the kind of offer a wealthy merchant like Jaroth could make, Faust felt like he was obligated to at least hear the alien out. Ignoring the two guards that split off from the formation to follow him as he passed by, the Mandalorian followed his soon to be employer into his estate.
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 7, 2014 17:29:22 GMT -8
Jaroth waited until they were seated comfortably in his study before he began his sales pitch, the two men facing each other, a Rodian guard hovering other both of their shoulders. Their placement prompted a grin from Faust, the expression pulling his withered features taut. Jaroth was right to take such precautions; Kad's whispering tended to come at unexpected times, and death always followed. But the Destroyer God was quiet now, as was his prophet.
"You're wondering why I went to the trouble of hiring outside help, yes?" The diplomat asked with a tittering laugh that was like ground glass on Faust's nerves. "I thought as much. Well, allow me to make myself plain: I sought you out for this assignment because it requires a certain amount of delicacy. I've read the reports on your missions during the Crusades and I must say, I was quite appalled. Had you been captured I'm quite sure the Republic would have seen you euthanized for what they would consider war crimes-"
"Among my people they are considered rites of worship." The Mandalorian growled.
"-But your penchant for carnage is exactly why I sought you out." Jaroth continued, as if he hadn't heard the interjection. "Well, that and because this isn't something I can be tied to. A cadre of troopers bearing the family crest doesn't leave much room for plausible deniability, you understand. This is a job that will require the utmost discretion."
Just then a serving droid entered, crossing the room on stiff legs to present the pair with a tray of drinks. While the Rodian sipped on something that smelled like rotten fruit, Faust took the mug of lomin ale he'd requested. In the contemplative silence that followed the droid's departure, he drank deeply of the cold green liquid and considered what the Rodian had said thus far. From the sound of it he had some dirty laundry he wanted taken care of. Gritting his teeth, the priest marveled at the glories of being a beroya. What Mandalorian wouldn't jump at the chance to clean up some weak-spined alien's mess? When he spoke, his tone held its usual gruff dismissal.
"Who do you want me to kill?"
It took Jaroth a long time to answer. Finally he sighed, drained the remainder of his drink, and set the glass down decisively. "There's a band of pirates operating out of Equator City. For the last several months they've been smuggling weapons off world and delivering them to their contacts on the fringes of the Tyrius system. From there they are distributed to black market dealers amongst the core planets."
"You know a lot about their operation." Faust replied evenly.
"What can I say, Mr. Skirata. Rodia is notorious for its export tax; for a time they offered a much better profit margin than some of the more legitimate channels available to me. Unfortunately they've grown sloppy as of late. It's only a matter of time before they're discovered and shut down- with thousands of credits worth of weapons stamped with the An'yettu family crest. I'd prefer you deal with them first, and return my merchandise to me before any other parties become involved."
Ah, so he'd been correct after all. The poor little Rodian had gotten greedy and dipped his sucker-tipped fingers into more than he could handle, and now he was getting nervous. Scum like him had kept beroya in business for generations.
"What can you offer?" The priest's tone conveyed nothing of his thoughts, something that seemed to irk Jaroth to a small degree.
"Twenty-five thousand. Non negotiable. I want the head of their ringleader- the human Raelta Morrows- as proof of contract completion."
"I'll need to outfit myself for the job. You'll pay me five thousand credits up front, and the other twenty when I bring you Morrows' head."
Jaroth considered this for a moment before nodding. "Fine. I'll have the initial payment added to your account before you leave." Leaning forward, the Rodian passed him a compact OSD. "There are six crewmen in addition to Morrows'. They all need to be terminated. That OSD holds a few composite images, their transport I.D. transponder code, things to that effect."
He tucked the OSD into his belt and stood, armor clanking. "Very well. I will return when they're dead."
"With Morrows' head, don't forget."
Faust only nodded.
[/i][/ul][/ul] [/font]
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Oct 26, 2014 12:48:20 GMT -8
"I must say, I didn't expect you back quite so soon." Jaroth's tone made it clear the surprise was a pleasant one. They were seated in his solar once more, drinking ale and discussing the finer points of how he'd completed the contract. A ceramic box sat on the table between them.
Faust sneered. "You sent me to kill a band of drunken smugglers."
"Yes, well." The diplomat seemed taken aback by the comment. "Up until they began lining their pockets with my credits, they always served me reliably and discretely."
"They serve you better dead." Faust reminded, and then slid the box toward the Rodian. He reached inside and pulled out Morrows' head to examine it. After a brief moment he hooted in amusement and put it back.
"Well done. And the weapons?"
"In a shuttle offsite," the priest answered. "I'll have them delivered after you pay me."
Positively beaming, Jaroth flapped a hand at one of his guards. "Retrieve the beroya's payment." It was silent as they waited for him to return. Faust kept his sulfuric gaze fixed on the diplomat and his hand on the knife in his belt. When the diplomat noticed his green skin paled to the shade of mouldy milk, but he said nothing until the guard trudged back in and set a security box between them. "Twenty thousand credits, as agreed."
Faust opened it to see for himself, and then snapped it shut again. "Vor'e." He raised his arm and spoke into his bracer. "Deliver the weapons."
Jaroth rose and moved to the window. One of his guards accompanied him, bulbous eyes watching the priest mistrustfully. He flashed a gruesome smile and stood as well. The other guard lingered near the doorway, rifle slung over his shoulder. "Ah, there's the shuttle." Jaroth said from the window. The roar of its engines gradually died away as it landed in the courtyard. Faust's hand found the hilt of his beskad as the clank of the shuttle's ramp lowering rolled in through the window.
And then the battle rage descended, and he turned himself over to his God.
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Oct 27, 2014 19:14:49 GMT -8
In the end it had been a short, brutal affair. A butchering rather than a battle, Trull would have said. The reavers had swarmed out of the shuttle's belly roaring chants and spattered with blood. Most were lightly armored and fought with beskad in one hand and Ripper in the other. The estate was defended by less than thirty Rodians; ceremonial guards armored in heavy ceramic plating. They had formed their ranks quickly but broke and fled when the first reaver flew screaming into their lines.
The captives were held in the courtyard under heavy guard. A majority were staff: maids, cooks, and servants. The few guards that had lived long enough to yield were mixed in among them, stripped of their weapons and armor, and Faust had dragged Jaroth from the solar himself. He seemed dazed still, looking at the binders around his wrists with confused eyes. The corpses of his bodyguards were thrown in a pile with the rest of the dead, near the gates.
Faust's gaze swept across the courtyard slowly as he exited the manse. Katariah spotted him and approached with long, impatient strides. Her face was spattered with dirt and blood, and her brown hair had come loose from its binding to give her a savage appearance. She dropped into a hasty bow when she neared him. "Rise," he said at once, irritated. "What's our status?"
"We finally broke through the safe." She answered with a hint of a smile.
Faust was taken aback. He'd assumed it would be necessary to flay Jaroth; something he intended to do once he'd seen to his men. One less errand, the Reaver Lord mused, with just a hint of disappointment. "How much?"
The reaver shrugged. "A little over five thousand Republic credits. There were also a handful of gems, some quite valuable, and a stack of documents. Those have been delivered to your cabin for inspection."
The prospect of plunder bored him as much as it did Katariah, but whereas she thirsted only for battle, Faust had realized long ago that the most difficult part of waging a war was funding it. If success required him plunder his enemies, then he would swallow his pride. The Destroyer God would not suffer his petty excuses and assertions of honor, that much Faust knew for sure.
"My lord," Katariah laid her hand on the head of her axe. "The men are eager to perform their rites."
"Oh? And you?" The priest asked, smiling.
"Aye, and me. These things are not fit to be thralls and you know it. Their compound is ours and their wealth has been taken to the Marauder, so let us send their souls to Kad and be done with it."
He grinned at her again and watched the color rush to her cheeks before he lifted his gaze to the frigate hovering over the estate. Janse had been hard on the heels of the shuttle, rushing in to discourage reprisal and allow the Mandalorians time to consolidate their victory. "In time. For now thralls are more useful than sacrifices. We need credits for new ships, and corpses will fetch a poor price."
"Ah." The woman's expression soured. "Apologies, m'lord. I mistook us for reavers, not merchants."
The Reaver Lord's smile grew taut. "And you mistake me as well, Katariah. Curb your tongue." There was resentment in her bright green eyes, but she remained silent. Headstrong or no, this one will always do her duty. "I'm leaving behind a garrison to hold the An'yettu Islands. This estate will serve well enough as an outpost: isolated, easily defensible...a good place to stockpile supplies and coordinate our movements. Select a dozen of your men to hold this compound and one to lead them. We'll supply them with additional troops and supplies before we leave the system. Go."
"Alor." Katariah slapped a mailed hand to her breast in a hasty salute and then stalked away, bellowing orders.
For a moment the Reaver Lord remained, watching his troops mill about the yard. Those that weren't assigned to guarding the captives bent to other tasks: on the wall three of the reavers clustered around a blaster cannon that had been turned to slag in the assault, dismantling it and stripping it for the fuselage and power cells; to his left a larger group sorted through the weapons they'd seized from the smugglers. One by one they were removed from their crates, examined and tested, and then the An'yettu family crest was burned from the muzzle with a plasma torch. Most of the rifles would remain here to arm the garrison. What was left over wouldn't go very far toward arming his troops. The priest sighed. This holy war had seemed much simpler when he'd been just another grunt. {Continued in Open Orbit}
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Nov 21, 2014 13:06:36 GMT -8
Harlen stood gazing through the window of Jaroth's solar, watching his men run drills in the courtyard below. The ring of clashing steel drifted through the estate, putting a grim smile on the greybeard's face. His own 'gam creaked as he shifted, crossing his arms over his massive chest. He could not help but be pleased at the way things had progressed since he'd assumed command of the garrison Faust had left behind. It had only been a week, yet the defenses had already been repaired from the battle, and sentries armed with high powered sniper rifles patrolled the walls at all times. The turrets mounted at each of the wall's four corners had been upgraded and underwent maintenance daily.
Quelling the surrounding area had gone less smoothly. A local militia formed to oppose their rule, but a few dozen civilians with low grade weaponry made a poor challenge for the reavers, and the planetary government was in such a disarray that only a single platoon of troopers were sent to oust them. Supported by droids and a gunship, they'd made a slightly more appropriate sacrifice to the Destroyer God. He'd participated in that "battle" personally, cleaving their commander almost in two with his vibroaxe. At the time he'd been more concerned with whether the droids' steel chassis had dulled its edge than with the paltry threat the troopers presented.
After their defeat Rodia's government simply declared the An'yettu Islands a no-fly zone and classified retaking them a high risk, low priority mission. Now Harlen ran four-man mounted patrols of the islands during the day, while their gunship swept their perimeter with a floodlight during the night.
A knock at the door interrupted the commander's reverie. "Enter."
A slender, dark haired man entered, closing the door behind him. "Commander," he said quietly, fist rising to his breast in salute. The ringmail he wore beneath his cloak rustled as he moved into the room.
"Saris," Harlen nodded in greeting. "What did your patrol find?"
Saris grimaced, the long white scar that extended from the corner of his mouth pulling taut. "A military shuttle approached from the west, but we discouraged it from landing with an anti-aircraft missile. It attempted retreat but its engines failed less than a kilometer from the coast. Otherwise, nothing. The last of the natives have been exterminated, though there have been reports of stray security droids in some of the abandoned homes. I'll dispatch men to wipe them out with the next patrol."
"Bah," Harlen waved a hand dismissively. "Don't bother. Identify them and give instructions that they are to be avoided. Further action would be a waste of time. Do you have anything else to report?"
"No, commander."
"Then you are dismissed. Begin shift changes for the sentries and then see to the next patrol. And make sure to equip them with a launcher, in case the Rodians get nosy again."
"At once," Saris murmured. He tightened his cloak and turned to depart, leaving the grey beard to resume his planning.
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Jun 22, 2015 17:17:20 GMT -8
Harlen bellowed a curse as Saris' beskad carved a path across his bare chest, then surged forward on the young Mandalorian's follow-through. His axe's generator whined as the crescent blade accelerated up in a counterstrike. All around them, the reavers watched in silence as their commander and his leiutenant performed the Rites of Ha'rangir.
Red spilled down the graybeard's scarred torso, and the clash of steel resounded through the courtyard of the estate again and again as Saris struggled to check the sudden flurry Harlen unleashed. The third strike he blocked numbed his arms and rocked him back on his heels, and he gave ground. The commander's thin mouth curled into a smile.
When the leiutenant lunged forward in a last ditch attack, he casually sidestepped the tip of the beskad and slung his axe around and into the back of Saris' knee.
The limb wasn't severed- not quite, anyway- but the thin thread still connecting it wouldn't support his weight, and he crumpled to the packed dirt of the dueling ring the reavers had constructed shortly after conquering Jaroth's estate. It only took him a few moments to lose consciousness, and only a few more for one of his men to seize his limp arm and drag him toward the entrance to the customized med lab occupying Jarroth's library.
Harlen watched after him for a moment, his eyes still foggy from communing with the Destroyer God, then slowly slipped the haft of his axe through the leather holser on his belt.
He turned to depart, and instead caught sight of an emaciated, one handed Rodian making his way through the rapidly dispersing crowd. "What do you want, di'kuut?" he asked when the cringing creature drew near.
"W- we have received a private transmission, alor. Fraljia sent me to tell you that it may be a potential client, though his request for an audience did not make mention of its nature."
The commander's sneer of disgust faded as he considered for a moment before fixing his stare upon the Rodian's bulging eyes. "His name?"
"Bedrovelse Hevn," Jarroth replied, voice rasping from his shredded throat.
"Fine. Let him land. I'll meet him here, in the courtyard."
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Jun 23, 2015 21:12:56 GMT -8
The waves churned and heaved beneath the Sith Infiltrator as it raced over the sea. Hevn releases his harness and saunters over to the locker. He thumbs in the code, and it opens for him. He removes his utility belt from within. Hevn holsters his heavy blaster pistol at his right hip. He fastens his sith sword to his left hip. It would suffice, for the force was with him always.
His last audience with Mandalorians had been on Lehon. He was examined for weapons before entrance into the governors palace, but they had not been confiscated. Their warrior culture respected a man's right to defend himself, rather than depriving him of that dignity and placing him at the mercy of authority.
Hevn's ship lands at the edge of the pad, a solitary distance from the personal and military transports. The ramp descends, and the Jen'jidai steps slowly down. He is of somewhat large height for a humanoid. He stands at 6'4" with his slim, but powerful frame. His current attire consisted of black combat boots, black BDU pants, and a black tank top. He could be identified as a cyborg at a glance. Bearing some resemblance to Darth Vader in his powerful mechanical gait. He always strides with purpose. His long legs extending as far as they can before sweeping him over the ground. In robes it gave him the appearance of hovering or flight, but out here was just a strong march. Hevn's skin is deathly pale. His neck length hair rapidly grew damp in the humidity of the excruciating heat. It is a dirty grey, iron like color, and plastered flat and soaked to his quadranium-cortosis skull. On planets like this, his breathing came in a struggling wheeze as his body rejected the climate, and his prosthetic limbs had to work harder to compensate. He growled a little to himself as the suffering irritated him.
"Science can only change our nature so much."
Which is why he knew the ancient Sith ways of the force and lost magic were the only path to an elite body. Ultimately the reason he was here. This was just the first of many steps toward absolution.
The displeasure never showed on Hevn's face. His mechanical jaw was locked tight to his upper lip, making his lips a fierce and severe line. As he strode nearer to the compound, he was flanked by armed guards. Their helmets nodded, not in affirmation, but to size him up looking at his armament. Apparently satisfied they did not halt him, but fell back a step behind him with their rifles poised. A nudge at his left shoulder with the blaster directed him toward a courtyard, to which the soldiers nodded silently toward. Bedrovelse returns a nod in understanding, and veers toward it. A mass of men was dispersing. Some cheers fading into the steaming clouds above. Blood was spattered about the ground, still beautiful and shiny wet.
His sith blade roared with hunger into the dark side of the force. It was like the damn thing could see, hear, and feel. All of a sudden his hands ached to seize the hilt, his tongue salivating madly as if it were some true hunger to kill.
Hevn stared at a grizzled and powerful looking man. For all the years Hevn had been around, his face had never aged. It was frozen in time, along with the dead man who once wore it. It was still that of a twenty something year old, despite its wear, tear, and scars. It looked strained and stretched with the metal reinforcing his head. As it would seem, they were both a sight for sore eyes. Bedrovlese gives a half bow, eyes fixated upon the Mandalorian and never leaving.
"Bedrovelse Hevn. "
He straightens his back, rising to the few inches he stood above the other once more as he finished introducing himself.
"It would seem I have just missed an offering to Kad Ha'rangir."
The Destroyer God. He who opposed stagnation and idleness. Something that the Dark Jedi Order had also practiced. To destroy the chains the jedi and sith wrapped around the galaxy, that it might evolve and become greater than ever before. So set in their ways, stubborn and arrogant, that they would never change their philosophies or attitudes. The only zealot Hevn had ever respected was Eversio, and only because the man had come as close as any to annihilating Hevn for good in combat.
"My proposal will please your God, Commander. I desire to bring war upon Muunilinst and the InterGalactic Banking Clan. "
A dark sider never missed an opportunity to manipulate in advance of his cause. On the inside, he smiled deviously. One of his greatest strengths was his vast intelligence and knowledge base. Mandalorian history being a subject of great value any time you encountered one. They were traditionalists and required those traditions be respected.
"Terrorists attacked the planet, and the Clan has frozen all finances waiting for outside aid. They greedily clutch the credits of all with an iron grasp, and deny me my rightful bounty. The idle believe they can hide, consuming the livelihood of all behind their walls and soldiers. I have detailed blue prints of the headquarters, and all of the highest level security codes to gain access to their accounts. The plan is to seize as many of those credits as I can before the Clan can mobilize their full military. They are spread thin running security throughout the city. What I require of you is a strike force of elite soldiers that can hold the top floor against whatever the Clan can manage to throw at us while I get it done. You will be compensated in credits of course, and the divine glow of Ha'rangir as you crush those he despises. I have a secondary proposal, to the survivors of this operation, if successful. Change is coming into season, and I intend to be the wind that brings it Commander."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Jul 8, 2015 15:09:43 GMT -8
A long moment of silence followed the cyborg's proclamation. The Reavers gathered around stood rigid and expressionless, hands on their blasters or beskads and eyes glittering with manic aggression. For his part Harlen simply considered what had been said, his iron-clad fingers tugging at his beard. Finally, he gestured to the blood that still wet the ground.
"Most forcies who know of our Rites lack the courage to seek us out," the old man declared. "And those who do never risk their hides dealing with us directly."
The general concluded that it was an interesting sight: Bedrovelse stood surrounded by highly trained Mandalorian warriors whose religious fervor could only be sated by slaughter, and yet his spine was unbent, his manner unflinching. Refreshing, after their recent conquest and subsequent occupation of this estate. Its defenders had been cringing, undisciplined insects that made for poor sacrifices. A man's body language alone doesn't say much of him, true, but a lifetime of fighting for his life had taught Harlen to read the truth in his movements.
The cyborg's proposal sounded promising as well. Ever since the Reaver Lord had pulled together the tattered remnants of the Crusaders his primary problem had been funding their efforts. A mission like this one guaranteed a fortune, and could make all the difference to the fledgling army. In addition it presented the opportunity to send a considerable number of souls to Kad, and bring his favor upon them. That, along with any thralls they managed to take in the process, could jumpstart the Destroyer God's agenda on a galactic scale.
And yet for now his hands were tied.
"You have piqued my interest, aruetti, but it is not within my authority to give you an answer. The Prophet will arrive shortly with the rest of the Reaver Fleet; it is him you must convince." Next to him, Jarroth's green skin paled a few shades at the mention of the Reaver Lord. It was him that had personally slain the Rodian's personal guard and taken him captive.
Harlen folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me more of the role my men will be playing in your operation while we wait."
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Jul 10, 2015 4:47:40 GMT -8
Hevn's cool maintained, if only barely.
Naturally, Bedrovlese had been an impulsive and arrogant man. There were few in his lifetime he could not best in combat, and often backed his mouth with his sword and sabers. He wrestled back the sneer that wanted to cringe his face. Bit his wicked tongue and it's useless remarks. He remembered William Reign, and the Sage's patience. Jen'jidai always executed control. Choose wisdom over regret. Most swords come with two edges, don't they?
The Reavers weren't mercenaries. They were psychopaths. Feverishly zealous. Chomping at the bit. Perfect. The first challenge was to convince a Prophet of the worth of his offer. If an accord could be struck, these animals would tear a path through the IGBC. Droids aren't programmed with that kind of hatred and ferocity glowing in their eyes. Soldiers lacked the raw blood lust and joy from it these men seemed to be exquisitely intoxicated with.
His sword could taste their hunger. Within the force, it growled loud and hungry like a hutt's empty stomach. In a flash, one of Hevn's many gifts appeared to him.
Bedrovelse's eyes fix no longer on the old man's face, but behind him. Where once Harlen's shadow was cast, a great chasm appeared. A rift into the afterlife, glossy and whirling black. This pool churned and as it did so bodies began to rise. Faint ghastly faces with bony hands and disfigured bodies. Rising to the top to howl in despair and agony at their slayer, Harlen.
Impressive. Harlen's "wake" or so Hevn called it was the mountain of corpses to which these Reavers laid claim. It was difficult to say if this one was even their greatest soldier, but gauging him was enough to satisfy Hevn's curiosity.
His fingers burned to grip a weapon and take them all on. A manic sensation that swept him whenever the cursed sword awoke. A rush of blood lust. Visions of slaughter at his fingertips. It was exhausting to strangle the urge back down. Always control. It seemed some days were harder than others.
He considered the group for a moment. They would likely strike terror into the heart of most, but not this one. Bedrovelse had shared a bed with the Lord of Atrocity. He had witnessed the aftermath of Lahash's mutilation of Rhea. He had walked the most dangerous and horrifying reaches of undeath with Lord Grizz and C'thulu Plaga. The trials Reign trained him for and pushed him through made him suffer each of his deaths and tortures with gruesome and lifelike detail. What his brain could even comprehend as horrifying now was a riddle all it's own, as the limit had been broken over and over as each damnable decade passed his cursed soul by. He could not wince or flinch at such men. Only see the opportunity in their skill and passion.
He was already surrounded. They wanted him to wait for a bigger fish. He had a hard time believing anyone with a such a title as "Prophet" would be reasonable. Thus far the warriors had shown discipline enough to still themselves, but little more than a rabid wampa does so long as their are bars between you and it. Something controlled them at least, hard to say whether it was a man or diety though. It seemed safer to answer the man's question quickly. It would be a shame to etch another line on his face over all that contemptuous scowling.
"Rumor has it the Reavers are quite effective at ripping through forces that vastly outnumber them. The banking clan itself, as well as it's elite members all possess private military forces. There will be a very large droid security force on site. As soon as boots are down, everyone not on my attack force hits the ground. No survivors."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 5, 2015 15:07:48 GMT -8
Harlen chuckled. "Aye, it matters little how many of Arasuum's weak-willed sops crowd about our blades." There was a hint of pride in his voice as he thought of their last battle. Rodia's government had made a feeble attempt to oust them from Jarroth's estate, only to be massacred when their poorly trained, ill-prepared soldiers met his ambush. His laughter faded into a fond smile etched across his scarred, weathered face. "The Reaver Lord will like your proposal, aruetti."
From what the cyborg had told him so far, Harlen approved of it as well. After the firestorm of the Crusades, and his time serving both with the Shields and then Faust's privateers, the aging commander had forgotten how boring garrison duty was. The government's pathetic attempts to retake the An'yettu Islands had been amusing at first, but they'd long since surrendered and now there was little to do but run drills. His fingers clenched into fists, longing to feel the shock of a blow struck true through the haft of his axe.
He sighed and set his eyes on the horizon. All around him the courtyard was alive with activity: Reavers in pairs were scattered about, sparring with blades or their bare hands; up on the eastern wall a trio of men were working to calibrate a blaster cannon that had been giving them trouble since their initial occupation; on the far side, a line of soldiers stood with rifles shouldered, scything blaster fire into scorched targets. Despite it all, the commander could feel stagnation setting in. They'd been here too long, sitting idle instead of doing Kad's work. The prophet claimed it was all part of a bigger picture, but it still felt wrong to remain here.
Suddenly Harlen's eyes focused back on the sky and he smirked. "Speak of the devil."
The Gamma-class assault shuttle set down on the landing pad using its repulsorlifts, the high whine of the engine ringing through the outer courtyard. "Form ranks!" Harlen's roar was even louder, cutting through it all in a commanding snarl. The Reavers swarmed to fall in line even as the ramp descended, hydraulics hissing.
He exited the shuttle accompanied by a man on either side. At his left stood a scarlet-eyed Duros in fiber armor. He wore a pistol on his hip, but from his cringing demeanor it was obvious he'd never drawn it in anger. At the priest's right hand slouched an Echani, light where Faust was dark with one hand draped lazily over the hilt of a longsword. Faust took notice of neither, instead striding straight to where Harlen and Bedrovelse stood next to the Reaver's formation. His patchwork face twisted in consternation as he neared them.
The chains forming his skirt had barely ceased to rattle when he spoke. "I return from completing one contract only to find another waiting for me, it seems." His Basic was little more than a garbled snarl, but an amused smile bowed his flayed lips. "Who are you, that comes to visit my lovely little island?" The priest's mood was jolly, almost manic, yet Janse watched him with a concerned eye, and on his other side the Duros looked positively terrified.
"His name is Bedrovelse Hevn, alor" Harlen cut in, stepping forward and clapping his fist to his breast in salute. "He arrived just recently, requesting to hire us."
The priest's sulfuric gaze remained locked on Hevn for a long moment, as if he hadn't heard. That same small, amused smile remained unchanged, but through the tatters of his cheek his teeth clenched and ground. "We deal in death and thralls, Bedrovelse Hevn. Which do you require?"
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 7, 2015 4:33:00 GMT -8
The commander's words brought Hevn the first relief he had felt since getting off the infiltrator and into the cactus. Within the force, the intensity of each and every soldier rang. Even in the commander too he sensed a roaring fire. It took a hard man to live as many years as this soldier had, with war racing through your veins.
The devil? Hevn wondered if they had the same definition. To Bedrovelse, Lahash de Fortia was the devil. Removing Rhea's lady organs was the most visceral and sadistic way Bedrovelse could imagine to kill one of your own. Your own.
Such brutalities did take place in war. It was a scarring thing for the brain, if the body could survive. He could not help but wonder what a man had to do to be a Reaver Lord. Bedrovelse had won many titles commanding battles, slaying his foes with saber's in their hands, killing everyone dumb enough to play hero. These were men of a different make. How do you terrify men like these? The religion must play with it. How?
The bustling base scuttled quickly into formation. As fast as any group he had ever seen. Their commander's roar blared even over the landing ship's engines. He would have grinned if not for his discomfort in their presence. He looked at the Reaver Lord eye to eye as Hevn was examined in kind. His gnarled voice was coupled with a most dangerous smile. His face looked like a tattered rag, yet he smiled invitingly, with a quaking evil locked firmly in his eyes.
"Death, my Lord. I've got free tickets through orbit on Muunilinst. The InterGalactic Banking Clan is my target. I would like your assistance assaulting their headquarters and taking as many credits we can. Everyone who is not a part of the heist I offer you to slay or capture. The enemy forces include a large on site droid security force, and the individual banking nobles armies reinforcing them from outside. We leave when things get out of hand. I project your take to be in the hundreds of millions of credits."
Bedrovelse stood very still, ever poised around a man like this one. He stays cool and confident under the heat of the Reaver's eyes.
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 9, 2015 19:06:34 GMT -8
Faust let the towering cyborg's words hang in the air for a long moment, his scarred visage emotionless. Next to him, Rilk shifted nervously, his scarlet eyes darting between the two men. Janse toyed with the hilt of his longsword, appearing bored as ever. It was a ruse- the Echani was perhaps the most perceptive man in the Reaver Fleet- but it painted a sharp contrast to the Duros' disgusting cringing, or Harlen's stony expression. As the silence dragged on, the tension between the small group of men began to grow.
And then the priest's gruesome features contorted in a malicious grin. "Finally," he breathed, exulted. "Kad blesses us with a contract of worth."
"And a lucrative one at that." Janse added.
Faust's smile grew even wider at that, until the shreds of his ruined cheek were stretched taut. A single line of dark blood slipped down his jaw where the edge of the wound had torn and re-opened. "Indeed. Personally I find it much more simple to do the Destroyer God's work when our coffers are full, don't you?"
"Aye, alor." the Echani murmured quietly.
The priest's manic grin suddenly vanished, leaving his amber leer looking somehow weary. "Indeed." He repeated. It was true, that wealth simplified things, and to Faust, that alone was its only value. His interest in material plunder was nonexistent, yet even the Prophet of Harangir realized it would be impossible to wage his holy war without it. "Harlen," he growled, and the graybeard stepped forward. "Coordinate with Katariah to oversee the transfer of supplies from the Marauder. It's weapons, mostly; outfit the men and make them ready to perform their Rites."
The grizzled Mandalorian slammed a mailed fist against his breastplate and grinned. "Oya!" He turned to depart, already barking commands into a handheld commlink. The priest watched him go, then turned to Rilk. "Select two dozen of our finest thralls for sacrifice. Kad has granted us his embrace; now we must offer him thanks."
The slaver captain blanched. He opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, then cleared his throat. "My...my Lord, all of our thralls have been slated for sale already. If we back out now word will spread. We will lose clients, be forced to-"
The force of Faust's blow disintegrated Rilk's lower jaw and snapped his head to the side, eliciting a grinding crunch from the alien's vertebrae before he crumpled to the ground. The priest absentmindedly flicked a bit of black ichor from his gauntlet, then slowly removed the Grimhammer from its holster. Rilk let out a low moan and convulsed, spraying his armored vest with blood. "Pleesh," he said, sounding more bewildered than pleading. "Pleeeeeeeeee-"
The Grimhammer barked twice, and Rilk was still.
"Janse," Faust said airily, holstering the pistol. "Collect the thralls."
"Your will, alor." the Echani replied, flicking a bit of cartilage off the shoulder of his cloak.
[/ul][/ul][/font] "I have heard your name before, Bedrovelse." the priest said when they were seated in Jaroth's solar. The Rodian himself stood nearby, awaiting orders. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped- although whether beneath the weight of the iron collar he wore, or the horrors Fraljia had visited upon him, Faust did not know. The Reaver Lord traced one finger around the mug of lomin ale the former diplomat had fetched for him as he chose his words. "The Necromancer of the Eastern Outer Rim. A collector of souls. In that we are alike, I suppose, although I am little more than a courier for Kad." He took a drink, savoring the cold bite of mint and alcohol, and shrugged. "So I am predisposed to the notion of reaving on your behalf. But there are logistics to discuss, as always." Despite his scarred vocal chords and atrocious accent, the fatigue was evident in his voice. "Walk me through your operation. Who else will be involved? How many of my men do you require to perform their Rites?" Faust watching the cyborg intently, studying the man who sought to hire the Reaver Fleet with a baleful stare. [/font]
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 9, 2015 20:44:32 GMT -8
Bedrovelse observed silently as the Lord Reaver began making preparations. The intensity seemed to be creeping up on his servants. He smiled slightly as the Lord Reaver's smile drew blood from his scars. To a man of others tastes Hevn might have offered a cloth to wipe it away, but something told him this one liked the taste of blood. Perhaps particularly his own. Hevn watches without stir as insubordination was met with extermination. His distant grin grew toothier as the gun pounded two shots into the begging soldier.
Bedrovelse shared the Reaver's intolerance for ineptitude, disobedience, and lack of foresight. If the fool had used his brain, he would have seen the cost of the slaves as nothing compared to the blessing of their god. That the wealth from this contract could compensate whatever damages they might entail for sacrificing slaves....as if they were hard to find. Perhaps thralls of excellence were rare, Bedrovelse was not savvy in such trades. He preferred resources like bacta, kolto, and spice to slaves as they were tedious to look after.
Hevn watched life escape the dying man's body. Observed his fleeing soul, staring back at the Reaver Lord in absolute terror before fading in a scream of anger. No vision, no value, good riddance.
Bedrovelse did not suppress the snort of satisfaction he found in the death. Hevn considered ridiculing the corpse's fool hardy argument, but remained silent on the subject until the Echani parted from them. As the Reaver Lord walked him toward the estate he followed curtly, arms folded behind his back.
"A hell of a punch, my Lord."
Seated in the solar Hevn crosses his arms. Staring stonily as ever across at Faust. He carried the same intensity he remembered of men like Zenchou Piteos. A coiled whip ready to crack. Cordial enough until one of those ultra sensitive nerves was struck.
Or was it a show? Something to keep the soldiers in line? Brutality had that effect, in Hevn's experience.
"I was not aware that my name had ever reached the ears of a Mandalorian I didn't have to bury my blade in."
Hevn paused for a moment, leering into the eyes of his host. Considering that this may yet be one as well.
"You deliver souls, I claim them for my own. The efficiency your Reavers operate with would please a god. I would ask though he would not answer me, as he does you. The bodies in your wake speak volumes when the right ear is turned. The despair of your enemies echoes in your steps, Lord Reaver."
From inside Hevn's coat, he removes a datapad. He slides it across the table to the Reaver laying out the blueprints and projected attack patterns of the enemy troops.
"The first phase is the blitzkrieg. Kicking the front door in, and taking the ground floor against waves of droids. The nobles will be alerted to reinforce the HQ, and arrive periodically given their spread across the planet they're trying to seize from the government. Securing the ground floor gives my man time to slice the network, crush their data servers, open the vault, and start the flow into our pockets. The roster hasn't been filled out yet. The acquisition of your services will deter many potential allies. I cannot ignore the cut of your men. If what your stagnant soldiers are capable of is any indication, success beyond expectation can be achieved. How many soldiers perform their Rites is for you to choose, Lord Reaver. As many of your soldiers as you think it will take. It will require extreme precision and coordination. I would recommend veterans whom are fluid and natural, unflinching killers. Not that your good men seem to hesitate."
He had to consider the fool Faust had just slain in cold blood.
"I will be assisting in the breach. Preferably in your vanguard."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 10, 2015 15:41:32 GMT -8
The priest's lip curled derisively, but he held his silence throughout his client's explanation. Whether the barbs laced throughout his speech were intentional or not, it made no difference. Words were wind, and compared to the iron that was Kad's will, they were inconsequential. All that mattered was the Destroyer God have his due.
'And yet I never thought serving Him would require so much paperwork,' he mused in silence. Between recruitment, consummables, and weapons and gear to outfit Kad's disciples, it felt like ages since he'd stepped onto a battlefield. That was false, of course- the Jedi on Ossus had crumbled beneath his boots just weeks ago- and yet he was practically slavering with the anticipation of bloodshed. Hevn, whatever his ultimate agenda, couldn't have picked a better time to recruit them, and Faust had never been quite so eager to work as beroya. Amused, the Reaver Lord wondered how much more eager his men would be. After being confined to the garrison for so long, they'd be killing each other- quite literally- for the chance to wage war.
All of this, the Prophet of Harangir considered in silence as Hevn outlined his plan.
"Viable enough." he said when the cyborg finished. "Droids are little more than weapon platforms, and have no souls to appease the Destroyer God, but we'll turn them to scrap until the defending forces have no choice but to risk their own precious hides. My officers and the veterans of my army will accompany you to the bank itself, but the rest would be of more use elsewhere, killing their soldiers before they reach us. My fleet will support our efforts as well, discouraging troop transports and any fleets that might arrive to offer Muunilist aid. Take my word for it, any of these allies you speak of too afraid to join us would only get in my way."
The priest paused for a moment as he listened to the voice of his God, then sighed. "You speak of great wealth being our reward for supporting your efforts, and I find that acceptable, but I seek things of value greater than just credits. You are a forceling, that much cannot be denied. Ashrah would have me gut you and put you up on our wall as an example, but the Mandalorian Empire has turned their back on the one true God, and so I have turned my back on them. My departure from the Resol'nare puts me in a unique position to use any means necessary to achieve Kad's directive."
"What do you know of alchemy, Bedrovelse Hevn?" the priest asked.
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 11, 2015 14:36:38 GMT -8
"Precisely why I have wasted not my time with precarious cowards, and have come to seek the Reavers myself. My associates and servants consider me ill of mind to contract your slaughter fleet, I consider them ill of mind not to. "
Faust's proposition was too good to be true. He had not expected the Lord to wage full frontal war on his behalf. This was an opportunity beyond measure. The damage he could do to the Clan was catastophic, and they would never be able to chase down an entire Reaver fleet.
It was then though, that Hevn realized the Prophet was more devious and intelligent than anticipated. Bedrovelse had assumed credits and souls enough for the zealous warmongers, but their leader saw beyond that. He was dealing with a Mandalorian familiar with sith alchemy, which was far more rare than he had words for. The art escaped most light, and darkside followers of the force, and yet this Reaver Lord was privy to such knowledge. Where had he encountered it? It was far more unusual still for a Mandalorian to consider it's practice or the use of such objects. Bedrovelse was dealing with more than a space barbarian. This man had cunning in his blood.
Bedrovelse kept a considerable pause, gears of his mind grinding in thought as he stared across at Faust.
There was a slight shock he tried to register. He wondered what response he would be met with if he were to barter for their beskar in exchange for his magic, but truly he did not need their metal. He was capable enough an alchemist and fighter to have existed this long without such armor. Hevn's knowledge of sith alchemy was more vast than any he had known before him except for the Dark Lord Grizz, or perhaps the mysterious Jarypt Namelk. As far as he knew, he was the most skilled alive. He could not say whether the likes of Cronal or Ishmael had survived to carry on their research. This war of Ashrah's had claimed many he once called acquaintance.
"My knowledge of alchemy is extensive. I have personally manipulated the biology of both flesh and metal. I have turned beasts of labor, into monsters of war. I have crafted droids and swords which can stand the strike of a lightsaber. I could change your appearance. Turn bacta into poison. It is an art of depth and obscurity, Lord Reaver. If you are willing to wage the war you have proposed, I would offer you a favor of my dark art. What exactly do you have in mind? For then I may better answer your question."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 11, 2015 18:08:00 GMT -8
"Bah," the priest snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "My face bears my tributes to the Destroyer God, and I hear His voice clearly enough without my beskad talking to me as well. Illusions and weapons are not what I seek, but rather...cohesion." His mouth twisted awkwardly around the Basic word, turning it into a snarling growl. His accent was atrocious, though not compared to the garbled disaster it had been when Trull had first begun teaching him the language. It still felt uncomfortable to use, but few aruetti spoke his native tongue.
A brief moment passed before he elaborated on his point. Not hesitation, but preparation. How did a Mandalorian go about asking a forceling to make use of their magic? The idea was ludicrous- treasonous, had his brothers not proven themselves heretics- and yet things were different now. The war and the vision Kad had blessed him with both changed everything, and so the priest took a breath and continued, all the while watching the cyborg with sulfuric yellow eyes.
"When I was a child, my battlemaster often stressed the importance of knowing your enemy. In knowledge there is power, he would tell me. He spoke not of fleet statistics or troop tactics, but of cultures and psychology. 'Know their beliefs, so that you might cast doubt,' he would say. 'Know their hopes and desires, so that you might see them despair.'" Again Faust paused, though this time in nostalgia. "My battlemaster taught me the art of the blade and the shield, how to employ my 'gam, how to rip an opponent apart with my bare hands, and how to consecrate the souls of my victims to Kad Harangir, but it has always been knowledge that brought me victory.
So when the Mandalore declared the Crusade against the forcelings, and my brothers sharpened their beskads and mobilized their warships...I opened a book."
He drained the last of his ale and tossed the heavy mug across the room without looking. It shattered against the wall only inches from Jaroth's head, sending plasteel fragments flying in every direction. To his credit, the Rodian remained silent, although that was probably because he knew Fraljia would be waiting for him if he interrupted the Reaver Lord's discussion with a cry of pain.
"A battlelord, Bedrovelse Hevn, is a vile, insidious mutant created through sorcery and alchemical practices known only by the most learned of darksiders. A commander who shares a mental link with his men that is so strong, they can act as a single unit without the need to ever speak a word. My reavers are...vicious, I suppose, and adept at killing, but the Destroyer God asks-" the priest's jaw suddenly snapped shut, and a look of pain flashed across his face. It was gone immediately, but the ragged shreds of his face drained of color. "-demands more of us. Of me."
Faust narrowed his eyes as silence fell between them again. His request was unspoken, yet unmistakable.
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 13, 2015 4:30:56 GMT -8
Hevn nodded in understanding as the Mandalorian explained himself. Bedrovelse was hungry for it, and it shined in his eyes.
What madness could a Mandalorian desire of me? He must have something more sinister in the works.
It sounded as though the man's battlemaster was very wise. Hevn himself knew that knowledge was key above all. It was how he survived this long, how he had become so powerful.
Bedrovelse did not fight the wide smile that spread across his lips this time. His white teeth lodged into grey synthetic gums. He threw his head back and stifled the laugh. None of it escaped him as bad as he wanted to bark that awful sound for all to hear. Hevn pointed at the Reaver Lord, extending his arm in something close to accusation.
"You.
He drew his hand back to his mouth to cover the smile as another wave of awe crept over him. The pale sapphires bore into the putrid pits of the Prophet.
"Are."
Hevn drops his hand to his chin thoughtfully. Smiling wider yet as he stares at the Reaver Lord.
"Brilliant."
A battle lord! Now this man knew his study of war. What he asked for was catastrophic in gravity. Cohesion with his exterminators would make them fluid and devastating. Unstoppable in terms of anything Hevn had ever seen. Even more strangely than anything in this request, was the convidence Hevn had in Faust to survive. The act was one of the most savage and brutal rituals in the books. He wondered if such wild soldiers would surrender their will even to their leader. How tight was the Reaver Lord's grasp?
"The first step is their surrender to your will, Lord Reaver. Completely. Those who comply during the ritual will open their eyes, along with you, to find whatever mark you have concentrated upon forever scarred on your bodies. The second is your surrender to them. You will experience the sensations of bleeding out excruciatingly from every pore, total body immolation, and the snapping of every bone. They will march in the pool of your blood and chant until your eyes open. Once you return from whatever test your mind conjures, I can return your vitality, and you will rise a battlelord."
Hevn's smile fades harshly into a cold stare.
"This is a steep gift. Your power will be unmatched. I request an advanced second Reaving in exchange. Squashing bugs on Thyferra won't be nearly as interesting as this, but your mind against the hive would be an adequate test for your new power."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 15, 2015 7:11:49 GMT -8
"No," the priest replied gruffly, expressionless in the face of Hevn's gleeful praise. "I simply do the Destroyer God's bidding. The credit is his, as is everything I've done under His guidance."
He listened intently as the ritual was summarized, memorizing every detail the cyborg chose to divulge. It wasn't much that Faust hadn't already read in one holocron or another after the sacking of Ossus, but finding a forceling actually capable of performing such an intricate piece of magic was promising on its own. If Bedrovelse had confidence in him to survive, it was mirrored in his own confidence that Bedrovelse would be more than able to deliver that which Kad had tasked him with acquiring. One mind to feel the touch of Harangir, one soul to know his will.
"It is not unheard of for one of my men to flay an entire limb before going to battle; pain is a gift, a blessing, how we show our devotion to the Destroyer. The horrors you describe..." Faust snorted. "My Blood Matron visited them upon me before I became a man."
The pain would still be great, of course, enough to kill the strongest Reaver simply through the trauma it would cause to the body. However, there was no surer way than suffering to turn Kad's gaze, and His reward for such a tribute would be...staggering. Perhaps even as significant in power as the ritual he was currently bargaining for. Hands encased in crushgaunts slowly closed into fists, tighter and tighter until the beskar was grating against itself. Things were finally progressing, bringing Kad's faithful one step closer to their goal. He barely heard Hevn's request for a second reaving- he would've put a hundred solar systems to the sword to secure such a weapon.
The Prophet of Harangir's scarred face twisted into a gruesome smile. "Bargain struck, Bedrovelse Hevn."
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 16, 2015 5:26:47 GMT -8
Bedrovelse claps his own armored hands together. Nodding in agreement to the Reaver Lord's conclusion.
This one reminded him of Eversio. The greatest zealot of the Jen'jidai. Fully devoted to the code, the idea and everything it meant. Hevn could not understand the concept of devotion. There must be a power drawn to him by his visions. Ferocity, strength, and above all victory.
"Praise the Destroyer God. By what rites do you seal your bargains? I would complete them so that we may assemble on Muunilinst and commence the Reaving."
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