Faust Skirata
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I'm the Juggernaut, bitch.
Posts: 203
Affiliation: The Priesthood
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 16, 2015 15:16:47 GMT -8
Faust's armor clanked and jangled as he shook with a grating laugh. "Our Rites are reserved for the worship of Kad, aruetti, not business contracts. I will make my Reavers ready to deal death on your behalf; when the time comes for Muunilist to fall, you need simply call for us."
The Mandalorian rose from the ornate table and moved to look out the large transparisteel window that dominated the east wall. Through it he could see his men milling about the courtyard below, their faces painted with their own blood, their hands busy doing Kad's work. Had he been a different sort of man he might have swelled with pride at the sight; as it were he simply wondered how many of them would die for the hollow clinking of credit chits.
When he turned from the sight he saw Jaroth carefully picking up the fragments of the mug and bundling them in the front of his shapeless tunic. An amusing scene, that: diplomats and politicians had always been his least favorite sort, and seeing them on their knees never failed to bring a smile to his scarred visage. Words were wind, and those with nothing to offer but the breath in their lungs existed only to be subjugated by the strong. It was a lesson he meant to teach this entire planet, soon, and perhaps one day that education would extend to the rest of the galaxy as well.
But for now his path was set, and there was work to be done. His sulfuric gaze found Bedrovelse again.
"I took the liberty of saving my personal comm frequency on your datapad, so that you might contact me directly when it's time. For your assistance with the ritual, I will bring the full weight of the Reaver Fleet to bear upon your enemies. But I offer you this warning: once we begin our rites, there is no stopping it. I suggest you inform your other allies that any who attempt such a sacrilege will regret it dearly before they die." The priest's tone was nonchalant, for truly, what did it matter? He sought not to threaten, but simply to avoid future complications.
The Prophet of Harangir turned back to the window.
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 16, 2015 15:49:22 GMT -8
Nothing to sign, no hand to shake, no toast to make, surely this was a religious man after all. Word as creed and held punishable by the sword, noose, and blaster. The most vicious and bloodthirsty warriors in the galaxy for him to summon upon his foe.
"Understood."
Hevn rises from his seat, reviewing the information on his datapad and returning it to his pocket. As the Prophet turns away, Hevn strides toward the door. As it opened for him the tension released a little. Out of the oven. The Reaver Lord was an unnerving sight to behold. The way his throat garbled when he spoke his basic. Wild burning eyes on a face which looked even more dead and shredded than his own. He kept his hands at the ready walking toward his ship. Hevn looks over the soldiers as he passes by, envious of the vigor they possess. Never had he seen such men the type to take orders, and there was an entire legion of them here waiting to kill.
The ramp descends as Hevn approaches and he takes the steps to the cockpit. Activating his Sith Infiltrator's thrusters he sets the ship to lift off and take him to orbit. He took a long pull of rum, staring at the ceiling as bubbles rose to the end of the bottle. A few seconds and he tilted it down. He would have whistled if he could, but all that came was the weak rush of air from his lips.
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on Aug 16, 2015 16:17:08 GMT -8
Hevn activates his comm line to the Prophet.
Everything is in order for the Reaving. Assemble at your leisure.
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Faust Skirata
Member
I'm the Juggernaut, bitch.
Posts: 203
Affiliation: The Priesthood
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 21, 2015 14:57:28 GMT -8
The Reavers, pent up in the garrison and eager for bloodshed, rushed to begin mobilizing the moment Bedrovelse's message was received. Raindrops pelted the courtyard and soaked the men as they scrambled to stow their gear and perform last minute weapon checks, but most hummed while they worked, and every so often a laugh could be heard drifting through the dreary evening. When they finished they gathered near the circle, where the thralls chosen for Him had been assembled. Unsedated for the first time in weeks, their eyes flitted about in terror as the Reavers casually formed a ring around them, their smiles and jeers gone and replaced by quiet devotion.
They sacrificed Kad's tributes viciously but without ceremony, driven into a frenzy by both their blood lust and their impatience. Snatches of hymns and prayers entwined with the screams of the slaves as Fraljia strode hurriedly down the line of shackled Rodians and Wookiees, the besbev in her hand dripping blood and rain. Tonight, her pale eyes were free of their usual ice; instead they burned with an almost manic fervor. Her lips formed a string of silent invocations as she opened the stomach of each thrall, offering their pain to draw the Destroyer God's attention before another stroke of her blade released their soul into His embrace. The Blood Matron made quick work of it, her besbev offering that last stroke before their guts had even hit the dirt, in most cases. One unfortunate Wookiee tried to flee, perhaps thinking to bull his way through the perimeter of men. They let him come, then fell on him like rabid dogs, savaging his corpse long after the big creature finally shuddered and died.
Afterward Faust and Harlen stood watching as the Reavers filed onto transports and gunships to be ferried up to one of the ships in Rodia's orbit. The commander dwarfed the dark-haired priest by such a margin that he had to stoop slightly to hear him over the rain and the shuffling of boots. "Did you say you want to conscript the natives, alor? But why?" he shouted, water streaming from his beard.
"The Rodians we have met so far have been weak creatures, I know, and cowardice runs in their veins. But that is not their fault; they have been cradled in Arasuum's bosom for too long, Harlen, that is all. Exposed to the fires of Harangir, some may prove to have potential. The strongest will subjugate the unworthy; such is the natural course of things. We must simply provide them the catalyst." Faust spoke without looking away from the formations, his garbled voice distracted.
"Your will, alor." the commander replied, turning his attention to the wall to hide the confusion on his face.
Those were the last words spoken between the two men as they oversaw the remainder of the deployment and made their way to their own respective shuttles. The last of the transports took off with a roar of sublight engines, and the blood-soaked estate of Jaroth An'yettu was left completely abandoned save the corpses piled in the outer courtyard.
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Faust Skirata
Member
I'm the Juggernaut, bitch.
Posts: 203
Affiliation: The Priesthood
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Post by Faust Skirata on Oct 21, 2020 9:15:15 GMT -8
Fraljia's Talyc Cyar'ika skimmed just above the surface of the Wessessa Sea; close enough to make the water roil and churn with its passing.
If whatever force now controlling Rodia was aware of the threat fast approaching, they showed no sign: not so much as a hail over the comms had greeted the Reavers when they broke into atmosphere, and aside from the Mandalorian troopship the skies were empty, sun shining brightly through the clear blue. 'Even the clouds retreat before us,' the Blood Matron thought with a smirk.
Thoughts of her impending chore quickly soured her expression. 'Dusting cobwebs' she thought with a scowl. Perhaps if the Prophet hadn't abandoned the garrison to chase obscure magic in the first place, she wouldn't find herself relegated to the role of glorified magistrate. 'Fraljia the garrison commander. Kad's breath.'
Unimpeded and unopposed, the Reaver ship cut a swift course to the northernmost island in a chain named An'yettu. The estate's courtyard possessed a landing pad, of course, but nothing even remotely large enough to accommodate the Cyar'ika. By necessity, the ship settled onto its insect-like landing struts just outside of the abandoned structure's walls.
Fraljia leaned against a nearby tree as her soldiers disembarked, running a whetstone along the razor edge of her bes'bev and listening to the shouting of sergeants and the cursing of men wrestling heavy crates of supplies and munitions onto hoversleds. Occasionally her pale eyes would turn upward, searching for any sign of encroaching visitors before falling back to her work, disappointed.
Kad's soldiers swarmed over the estate, first clearing it room by room and then beginning the arduous task of making themselves at home once more. Heavy infantrymen armed with rocket launchers stood guard on the walls while engineers fought to install gunning stations and weapon platforms.
She looked up from her blade as Costa approached, Jarroth An'yettu in tow. The Rodian had changed significantly since his enslavement, shedding fat in favor of muscle and his former, cringing demeanor for a stoicism that would've made Sergeant Saris jealous. His long, puckered snout even bore a trio of deep, jagged scars- self inflicted tributes to the Destroyer.
These changes were evidence to Fraljia that the kiss of the Sloth was not some permanent curse, the only release from which was death; instead it was a quagmire that could be escaped- with some difficulty- through re-education. That the Rodian had chosen to stay when she informed him he was a free being had not surprised her. Once you felt Kad's fire, there was no going back.
"Alor," Costa greeted her, pulling her away from her reverie. "Supplies are offloaded, and I have my squads assembled. Jarroth will accompany us, as discussed."
She shrugged. "If you really think the An'yettu Clan can be made to see reason, then by all means, proceed."
"The An'yettu, like myself, have lost their way." Jarroth stared at her with his gleaming, multifaceted eyes. "I have to at least try, alor."
"And if they refuse Kad's embrace?"
"Then I will send him their souls myself." He assured her icily.
She shrugged again. "Very well. Go."
They went, and the Blood Matron was alone with her thoughts once more. Heaving a sigh, she sheathed her bes'bev on her hip and began trudging up the hill toward her new post.
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Faust Skirata
Member
I'm the Juggernaut, bitch.
Posts: 203
Affiliation: The Priesthood
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Post by Faust Skirata on Nov 10, 2020 10:39:22 GMT -8
Costa ran an armored hand across one of the scorch marks on the siding, brow furrowing. The building- or what was left of it- was a modular, prefab home from the looks of it, the same as the other dozen or so structures loosely assembled in the clearing. "Rucheega," Jaroth had told him. "My family's village."
Little more than ruins, now. Every house had been burned, and a central structure- probably a storehouse, if he had to guess- was little more than a pile of rubble. "No bodies, though." The Mandalorian murmured to no one in particular. It had only taken the Reavers a few minutes to sweep the village and set up a perimeter, leaving Costa and Jaroth with nothing to do but sift through the wreckage. They searched in vain. No blood, no corpses, no abandoned weapons or signs of a struggle. Nothing but the charred bones of a silent ghost town.
"Bah," he finally spat, picking his repeater up off the ground and turning away from the ruined house in disgust. He came face to face with the Rodian, watching him grimly with his orb-like eyes. "No bodies." He repeated. "No sign of a mass grave, either. Maybe they were taken prisoner?"
"Hard to say, without knowing what kind of people have laid claim to my home. There were only a few dozen people living here, sergeant." Jaroth shrugged. "Hardly worth the effort of wiping them out."
"Could've been long abandoned by the time this happened."
The Rodian hooted with laughter. "Not possible. Ever since the days when Navik the Red confined us here, the An'yettu have been a part of these islands- kith and kin, blood and breath. They would never have left willingly. Least of all my mother and siblings."
Costa took another long look around the dessicated village before nodding. "Alright. Driven further south, then. Maybe onto one of the other islands, even. We'll keep looking."
"It would be faster with the 'Cyar'ika' overhead." Jaroth noted, but Costa just shook his head.
"Orders are to avoid confrontation until the Prophet decides what he wants to do. Or until Kad tells him what to do, I should say." The soldier shrugged. "They didn't bother us on arrival, but if a Mandalorian troopship starts running reconnaissance I'd wager the aruettese will eventually come sniffing around."
Silence fell, and the two men turned toward the speeder bikes parked on the village's outskirts in unison.
"We've got movement-" the call was cut off suddenly as the crackle of ion filled the air, killing comms and dissolving Costa's HUD into scrambled static. Cursing, he fumbled at the manual killswitch, cutting power to his helm and allowing him to peer through his visor.
They were surrounded. Rodians in ragged, patchwork armor ringed the village just outside the treeline, shabby rifles and vibroblades clutched in their hands. For a moment they were still, offering no explanation, no demands. Simply watching, and even at this distance Costa could see the terrible rage in their bulbous, glittering eyes.
And then they started forward, not in some headlong battle charge but with slow, measured strides.
Closing the circle.
Tightening the noose.
Costa Fett rolled his eyes and lifted a hand overhead, two fingers extended, and then curled the wayward digits into a tight fist. In response the reavers calmly began falling back into a tight circle, their own weapons trained on their unexpected guests. In half a dozen breaths the twelve Mandalorians were back to back in the center of the village.
Costa dug an elbow into Jaroth's ribs without taking his eyes off his selected target. "Better talk your friends down before they get themselves killed, ner vod."
Jaroth's only response was hooting laughter. Costa followed the Rodian's gaze to where a woman was moving to the front of the circle- young, dressed in fiber armor riddled with holes. A slash of pure white cut a mottled path across her face, from her left ear-stalk down to the right side of her mouth.
She suddenly stopped short, eyes first squinting and then widening in sudden realization. "Jaroth!?"
"Hello, sister mine." He answered, breaking into another peal of laughter.
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Nem Yin
The First Order
The dark expanse of the intergalactic void is not as empty as they would have you believe...
Posts: 410
Affiliation: The First Order
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Post by Nem Yin on Oct 15, 2021 22:53:59 GMT -8
Down through the atmosphere the pod dropped from orbit descended, chased by what appeared to be a molted ball of flesh with a long whip like tail, swishing through the air as it kept pace with the object. Below was the target of its trajectory, an unassuming swamp in Rodia's wilderness, of which there were many. The exterior of the pod heated as it sped towards the ground like a shooting star, wreathed in flame and glowing white hot. The ball of flesh, in truth a yorik-trema, had to keep at least fifty meters away to avoid being caught in the trail of flames, its dovin basals swallowing up any atmospheric resistance it encountered. Inside the Blood Chalice, Torfa Yim stood beside a seated Shendor Yin, whose head was encased in a tall-yor. Hooks of bone pierced the intendant's flesh around his collar bone, while the cognition hood formed a symbiotic link between the pilot and organic shuttle. Its eyes were his eyes, and in turn his will became its actions. For the moment he focused on simply staying out of the pods way as it made the last leg of the descent to the surface below.
Finally it struck the swamp, snapping trees and sending rippling waves throughout the marsh, causing wild animals to flee and birds to take to the air. Powerful acids began to secrete from the bottom of the pod while the top began to peel back and split wide open like a flower in bloom. The water of the swamp began to bubble as the liquid nullified some of the acids effect, though much of the vegetation and ground beneath it had disintegrated into rotten mush. When the acid had done its work, roots speared through the muck beneath the pod and penetrated deep beneath the surface of the swamp, extending out several dozen meters at first, then continued to grow as they absorbed water and nutrients from the marshland. A billowing fog began to form around the organic structure taking root, obscuring it from sight while blanketing the area in a poison mist that choked the air and melted flesh like sulphuric acid.
Spindly segmented legs extended from the underside of the Blood Chalice as Shendor brought it in to land, setting down next to the expanding organic building taking form. The poison fog that seemed to emanate from the structure like pollen had no effect on the yorik-trema. Within moments a seam split in the underside of the ship and a long molleung worm extended to the ground, serving as an organic boarding ramp. First off was Torfa Yim, garbed in a skin bonded oozith and a robeskin cloak overlay. He wore a starfish shaped gnullith over his mouth, filtering out the poison fog and flushing clean air into his lungs. He peered about the swamp with two gleaming mqaaq'it, glowing a sickly yellow in the reflected marsh light. Similarly attired shapers of various ranks followed behind him, with Shendor taking the rear once he had detached himself from the ship's cognition hood. The intendant rubbed at the seeping wounds where the bone hooks had protruded, eager to see the scar tissue that would form in time.
Home sweet home. Muttered Shendor over the villip channel shared by those wearing gnullith breathing apparatuses. Torfa looked over his shoulder and regarded the intendant with a look of quiet curiosity. In his hands he held an amphistaff, which coiled loosely around his arm, forked tongue sampling the swamp air. The Master Shaper stroked the biot and coaxed it into its more rigid form, transforming it from coiled serpent into a solid walking stick. He leaned on the staff while he stared at Shendor.
You have been here before, then? Replied Torfa, also using the gnullith's villip channel.
Shendor looked up. Oh yes. I helped foment discord amongst the populace before our forces invaded. Those were dangerous times, with the threat of discovery and exposure lurking around every corner. I miss the excitement.
There was nothing the members of Domain Yin loved more than a good infiltration mission. It was quite literally what they were bred for. At heart they were all spies and assassins, in much the same way that members of Domain Yim were all deeply devoted scientists and bio-engineers. Yin likes to sneak and stab, Yim like to craft and create.
I'm confident you'll find some entertainment here, Prefect. Once we've established our shaping lab, it will be on you and yours to supply us with specimens.
I can hardly wait. Said Shendor, his savage grin concealed beneath the biot that covered the lower portion of his face.
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