City Ruins

Whill Shaman Dažbog Master Moderator Water is the most important element of life. For without Water, you cannot make Coffee. Posts: 1,451 Affiliation: Ancient Order of the Whills	City Ruins Aug 6, 2022 9:09:05 GMT -8 Quote Share Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Whill Shaman Dažbog on Aug 6, 2022 9:09:05 GMT -8 The ruins of the City of the Eye.

Commodore Starkiller
Adventists of the Eye

"By the will of the Eye, you will die."

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City Ruins Aug 9, 2022 10:31:38 GMT -8 Dread Lord Havok likes this

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Post by Commodore Starkiller on Aug 9, 2022 10:31:38 GMT -8

In the days following Commodore Starkiller's reactivation and eventual upload into the Temple database, the viral entity known as the Machine Lord expanded his program to encompass every spare megabyte of space in the old NOE network. The cybernetic realm was as much his reality as the planet upon which his newly christened mechanical shell was located. Spreading further and wider, the technological terror turned the satellite array in orbit around, focusing each magnified lens on the great green orb of holy Pzob, cradle of the Eye. What he saw intrigued his neural circuits.

In the ruins of the once great City of the Eye, the hannites dwelled in number, inhabiting the bones of this fallen civilization. Once upon a time the Machine Lord would have viewed the religious monks as an infestation, something to be eradicated in the most swift and brutal of means. It was part of the reason he had attacked them upon being reactivated. Now though... As he watched them through the orbital lens far above. ...he saw them as something else. Yes, they were still an infestation, but not one of vermin. These hannites were more closely related to ants, small and insignificant on their own, but as a whole they were capable of accomplishing what the Machine Lord currently could not. His logical protocols suggested that rather then terminate the fleshlings, he should find a way to use them to serve the Eye's purpose.

After all, were they not a gift from the Eye? Vessels entering the region of space in which Pzob was located soon found themselves lost in the labyrinth of the massive celestial body inhabiting the system. They entered the nebula free beings with minds of their own, but when they reemerged, they were as good as chattel. These future zealots then traveled to the ruins, abandoning the ships they came in on, and donned the white robes of the hannite order. Once among the ruins, basking in the terrible radiance of the dark temple at its heart, they underwent the religious indoctrination of those that came before them. Transformed into little more then slaves, they were taught to serve the Eye above all else, going so far as to worship the dark masters that inhabited the temple they now served as caretakers. For if the Almighty Eye was their god, surely the High Lords were demi-gods, each a terrible aspect of their all-seeing deity. War, death, famine, chaos, and time. Each embodied a portion of Its magnificence, each was to be obeyed unquestionably.

They served as well as could be expected of organics, full heartedly but obviously flawed for their inherent weakness of flesh. Like a cybernetic voyeur, the Machine Lord watched these ants frolic amongst the ruins of his home, fornicating in disgusting fleshling fashion as they bred the next generation of devoted slaves.

At first when the winged droid ships descended from the heavens, having departed the 13th Death Fleet of the Eye in orbit around Pzob, the hannites appeared alarmed. Debarking ramps slammed down at the ruins edge, offloading long disorderly rows of feral droids of various design and quality. There were multi-limbed spider droids dragging shattered glass casings full of rotten grey matter, protocal droids whose bland mechanical visage were draped with flayed human faces frozen in anguish as the skin continued to decay, and all manner of load lifter whose construction capable hands were crusted in gore that jammed up their gears. In the face of such horror, the hannites could only drop to their knees and genuflect, offering prayers to the Almighty Eye for salvation.

It came in the form of the Machine Lord, Commodore Starkiller. Emerging from the temple was a towering nightmare of Sith forged iron, wrapped in gore slick chains encircling his massive chest and plated arms, while covered in sharpened spikes that rose from his shoulder pauldrons, gauntlets, and joints. A long flowing cape of human tissue hung over his back from his shoulder pauldrons, dripping on the steps leading up to the temple. He descended towards the ruins, each booted step an echoing boom as the Sith Elite Warbot approached the herded hannites gathering in the temple's shadow.

Synthesized Rumble "Hear me!" Boomed the Nightmare Knights terrible metallic voice, shrieked through the grill slit of his angular metal helm with a wash of scorching steam. "Since the day of the fall, when this City was brought to ruination and the followers of the Eye were made low, you have resided in this place, continuing to serve as was expected of you. Your reward..."

His words lifted the eyes of some in attendance, those whose greed outweighed their fear of the mechanical monstrosity before them. They looked at the Machine Lord longingly, fully expecting that this would be the moment where they would receive their hearts deepest desires, that this was the moment that had made all the horror they endured worth it.

Synthesized Rumble "...is continued service to the Almighty Eye. In Its omnipotent wisdom, the Eye has elevated this unit, Commodore Starkiller, to the status of caretaker of the Eye's most sacred site. From this point forwards, you all report to me."

"0100 0111 1010 1100 0110 0000 1011 0110 1001!"

A symphony of binaric shrieks sounded from the feral droid army penning the hannites in, pressing in on them from all sides, echoing loudly across the ruins and out into the forest beyond. Some of the most unfortunate of the fleshlings around the edges of the animal like herd, were caught up in the feral droids excitement and dragged into the mass of rusting metal and rotting flesh. They screamed in delirious pain and terror as they were hacked apart by corroded knives and torn to pieces by metal digits. Mercilessly, the horrendous droid army doused themselves in the unlucky hannites vitae and viscera, showering their mechanical frames in a deluge of organic filth and gore. The monks more fortunate to be at the center of the gathering continued to kneel, heads bowed before the might of the Machine Lord. His furious crimson photo-receptors were filtered through the visor like slit crossing his helm, focusing the eerie light like a laser beam as he stared down at them.

Reaching both trunk like arms of the warbot behind the fleshy layer of his grotesque cape, Commodore Starkiller retrieved the two alchemically forged axes magnetically clamped to his back. He held the double-bladed weapons out before him in either gauntlet, the filth drizzled chains encircling his arms rattling in the sour breeze as he held either weapon aloft. Both Butchersbane and Goreguzzler radiated with the same dark sorcery as the temple, having been crafted in the hell-forge near the former pit of despair. The gathered hannites found their eyes drawn to the emblem on the haft between each axe blade, depicting the All-Seeing Eye on a flaming backdrop.

Synthesized Preaching "To mark this monumental day, we shall make an offering to the Eye, to prove our devotion."

With a sweep of Butchersbane, Commodore Starkiller indicated a hannite near the front of the gathering. Two feral droids, formerly protocol models, stepped forwards and took the hannite by either arm. The human looked visibly terrified and resisted against their grip, uselessly, for they possessed the purity of mechanical strength. Screeching, the whites of his gown soiled by his own vacated bowels, the middle aged monk was dragged before the Machine Lord at the base of the steps. The human was forced to his knees and held there by either droid, while a third smaller mechanoid, this one shaped as a centipede, crawled up the human's back. It sunk its metal fangs into the back of the fleshling's neck, eliciting a wailing cry of pain while forcing the human's head back, exposing the Adams-apple of his neck. While hot urination stained the ancient stone at the Machine Lord's feet, puddling beneath the monk's stained robes, he looked down at the human. His photo-receptors regarded the fleshling with envy, rather then disgust.

Synthesized Prayer "We commit the soul of this devout follower to you, O'blessed Omnissiah. May his spirit continue to serve you in death as it has in life." He declined his metal helm and raised both axes. "Be with the Eye." Boomed the Machine Lord's terrible bass heavy technological voice, followed by two cleaving sweeps of his large double bladed axes.

A geyser of hot crimson sprang forth as the hannite's head was struck from his neck, bouncing across the flag stones while the Machine Lord was showered in the warm red deluge. The head came to a stop as it rolled to the edge of the gathering, then was set upon by the hungry feral machines that ripped it apart as though starved for meat. Still wet from the monks blood, Commodore Starkiller returned his axes to their place behind his cape and stepped forwards, planting one large boot on the headless corpses back, driving it into the ground as congealing vitae continued to seep from its neck stump. The warbot raised a spiked gauntlet high above his head and let out a defiant metallic roar.

A new day had started on holy Pzob. All glory to the Almighty Eye.

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

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City Ruins Aug 23, 2022 11:28:24 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Aug 23, 2022 11:28:24 GMT -8

It was the late afternoon when the repetitive thump of tribal drums rose over the usual sounds of the forest outside the city. Starting as little more then a barely audible rhythmic beat, the sound began to grow louder in pitch, rising in decibel enough to draw the attention of the hannite citizens inhabiting the ruins. Eyes turned to the distance where physical signs of something approaching began to manifest, starting with the shaking of trees as something large was drawing near. Animal horn trumpets blew a deafening choir as the cause of the disturbance finally appeared at the edge of the ruins. Emerging first from the thicketed depths of green foliage was a procession of ewoks, at least a dozen strong. Each sentient bear had a drum strapped to their stomach paunch and beat upon its stretched animal hide surface with gamorrean femur bones. Next appeared a horde of vicious rat-men, or ranats as they were more commonly known. Unlike the ewoks that wore their traditional hoods, the flock of vermin were garbed in naught but the greasy fur they were born with, covering most of their bodies save for their gnarled paws and scaly cable thin tails. At least fifty of the hissing beady eyed rodents scurried from the brush, forming up behind the ewok drummers as they entered the city.

Behind the scampering vermintide was a massive bipedal rodent, one of the Famine Lord's sithspawn mutant creations known as a ranat-ogre. It was massive, at least twelve feet tall and layered in brutal cords of scarred muscular flesh, with four arms that ended in claws that would have been well suited for use as sword blades. A makeshift palanquin of bone and animal hide was strapped to the towering mutant's back, baring aloft the creature's master and the one in charge of the savage horde entering the city. A curtain of man-flesh was pulled aside by the occupant of the palanquin, whose black scaled snout exposed itself and took in the fresh scent of the city through two narrow nostril slits. A purple wisp of poison breath blew from the figure's nose as it exhaled, its black lips parting to reveal rows of yellow pleurodonts, razor sharp and glistening in the fading light of day. Hot rivulets of salivation drizzled over the figure's scaly lips and ran down its chin in thick gooey ropes that soiled the robe of flayed human faces that swaddled the dastardly drake.

Dragus' scaly lids rose and widened, forcing his bloody gaze to adjust to the sun's oppressive radiance. He let out a disapproving hiss, misting the air with crimson flecks as his forked tongue flicked back and forth, savouring the heady aroma of fear pheromones released in the hannites sweat. He pulled the tattered curtain all the way open, stepping onto the edge of the platform of bone so that his long curved toe talons rested over the side. His overlong tail, muscular and capped with a serrated length of corroded iron, pressed firmly to the floor to help maintain his balance. Turning his snout, the saurian Sith looked over his shoulder back towards the way they had just come, watching the last of their procession emerge. Bringing up the rear was a caged wooden wagon containing six fat breasted gamorrean sows and twice as many young porklings. Ewoks with jagged stone tipped spears walked along either side of the wagon, occasionally prodding the little pigs when they got too close to the sides.

When the entire horde had assembled at the broken gates of the city, it stopped in its tracks. The drumming halted and an eerie silence came over the ruins. Nervous hannites watched from behind broken pillars and collapsed dwellings, peering cautiously at the bestial menagerie that had just arrived. Squatting low, the devilish draconian bounded up into the air, flipping tail over end as he leapt off the palanquin and landed ten feet ahead of the ranat-ogre, his talons scraping the crumbling stone beneath his scaly feet. Slipping from the folds of his gruesome vanity, the black scaled barabel's right claw emerged and opened expectantly. Scurrying forth on all fours was an especially foul looking rat, scabrous and covered in leprous sores that wept a sour smelling pus. The ranat had a long wooden pole held in its drooling jaws, one end bearing a rolled up scrap of fabric. Sliding to a stop beside the treacherous terrorsaur, the sentient rodent removed the pole from its plague ridden lips and placed it in the Sith's outstretched palm. Dragus wrapped his claws around the length of wood and unfastened the strap keeping the flag rolled up. As he unrolled the tattered scrap of fabric, he revealed the emblem of the Order on a flaming backdrop. The flag has seen better days, probably better years even, for it was tattered and rife with mold. Still, there was no mistaking to which faction it belonged.

Taking the flag in claw, the Great Devourer raised it over his head and thrust the butt end down into the ground, burying it several inches into the dirt between two cracked stones. His terrible bloody gaze lingered on the ruins, the natural thermal view in which he saw the world easily revealing to him all the trembling hannites watching from cover. The reprehensible reptilian sneered, licking up the beads of vitae that had seeped from his bleeding gums to speckle his scaled lips. Then, in a voice that seemed to carry across the ruins, the lecherous lizard lord spoke. "I claim thiz land for the Eye. I proclaim it, New Dragusssberg!" The ewok band began to drum anew, banging hard on their stretched animal skins. Once more the trumpets blew, impossibly loud, forcing Dragus to tear two scraps of skin from his man-flesh robe, which he then proceeded to stuff into his ear holes. When the trumpets died down, the ranat that had brought the fiendish Famine Lord the flag began to squeak in fast paced rat-speech. The Hungering One stroked his scaly chin with a claw as he listened to the squeaking rodent, raising a glossy black brow when the creature completed whatever it was saying.

"Already claimed by the Eye, you sssay?" Hissed the drake inquisitively. "Oh dear. And what waz that you called it, the City of the Eye? Terrible name. Perhapz we ought to sssimply call it New Dragusssberg inssstead." Again the hunched rodent squeaked away, wringing its gnarled paws while staying clear of the occasional and very unpredictable sweep of the barabel's poisoned tail blade. Unusually patient, He-Who-Hungers allowed his squeaking servant to finish its explanation before continuing. An occasional scale flaked from his chin as he pondered aloud. "Yez, I sssuppose that could be confusssing. Very well, no name change. But perhapz we ought to consssider sssprucing thiz place up, hmmm? Thossse gore covered droidz are pleasssant enough to look at, but where are all the crucified slavez? We aren't running a Jedi praxeum here, Squeakerz. We have our reputation to consssider."

Pulling back the stitched together tortured faces of his hood, the Hungering One allowed the cowering hannites to look upon his magnificent form in its entirety. He walked ahead of the procession of furry bears and fiendish rats, gracing the hannites with his presence as he strode among the ruins. His hungering aura expanded even as his toe talons carved furrows in the stone walk way as he casually sauntered forth, humming a twisted tune whenever his glistening jaws were not exposed. His faithful/fearful ranat servant followed at his side, scurrying on all fours, occasionally leaving a puddle of filth as it piddled in place whenever it felt the need. Though the insatiable spiritual presence of the Famine Lord was an endless pit, drawing and spending the life force of those nearest like cheap currency, there was something alluring about the spell his presence cast. The hannites hiding in their holes felt compelled to appear, flocking to the deranged draconian while also maintaining a respectful distance.

"Now, now." Rasped the reptilian, loud enough for all to hear. "There iz no need to be nervouz. It iz I, your mossst dearly devoted Draguz, Lord of Famine and expeller of flatulence. Come, pleassse, one and all. I wish to basssk in your adulation."

Be it through compulsion, devotion, or mixed emotion, they came. In the hundreds the hannites appeared, some sallied forth by the rusting shriek of feral droids following at their heels. Like bot flies drawn to necrotic tissue, the white robed religious monks came and lined the streets, dropping to their knees and bowing before the Hungering One and his quenchless thirsting aura. Those furthest back lost hours and perhaps days at most off the end of their skeins. Those nearest lost so much more. Hair bleached blonde by the sun turned grey and released from their roots in falling patches. Skin greyed and wilted, turning parchment thin and near translucent. Even as their spiritual essence was devoured before their eyes, they worshipped the Famine Lord, muttering prayers in the sacred language of the Order.

In truth their love and devotion meant little to him. He much preferred them for the flavour of their souls as he sucked them dry, slurping them down to the last dregs. Though he did enjoy the occasional groveling and flattery, even when inspired by fear. Actually, it usually tasted better that way.

"You know, Squeakerz, I'm beginning to think thiz iz the City of the Eye. Look at how they bow and prossstrate themselvez before me. It'z quite pathetic really." He mused, rather enjoying himself until he noticed one brave hannite approach him from the crowd. This one happened to be female, of which there were few, but they did exist. Like the others, she wore a white robe that swathed all but the pale emaciated features of her otherwise unremarkable face.

"Milord, thank the Eye for your return. Is my Timothy with you?" Said the female monk, her blue eyes peering into his own bloody orbs with some pleading and hopefulness. "You took him with you into the woods, to gather some herbs you said. I do not see him with you."

Ah, right. Now that he thought about it, he had brought a few of the little ones out into the deep woods to gather some of his favourite fruit. Pzobian blood berries, very rare, but also very delicious. Assuming that they didn't kill you, for they were extremely poisonous. Nothing quite brought on hallucinations like those berries, not even a potent combination of darkside tainted spice and wine. Unfortunately the stretch of woods where the berry bushes could be found was dangerous. Few of the children he sent out to gather them ever returned. He couldn't recall this Timothy, for he rarely bothered learning any of the names, but it seemed likely that he was one of the many that now littered the forest with bones.

Extending a claw towards the female monk, he summoned her to him, coiling his long tail around the backside of her robe as she came within reach. Expanding his oppressive will, he channeled the malevolent fey and reached into the hannite's subservient mind and dominated it utterly. His bloody orbs began to swirl hypnotically in their sunken sockets, his rasping words heavy with compulsion.

"Of courssse, my dear." Hissed the Hungering One. "You didn't think I'd leave poor Timothy out there, did you? He'z absssolutely fine. Pleassse, follow my asssistant, Squeakerz. He will lead you to preciouz and mossst certainly ssstill alive Timothy." He gave the monk a gentle push with his tail towards his ranat sidekick Squeakers. The ranat raised a greasy brow and stared at Dragus with two beady black eyes. When the woman's back was turned, the sinister saurian smirked and mouthed the words 'put her in the pot', before snickering and sissing as he was known to do.

Returning his attention to the flock of followers gathered in the ruins, he threw his claws out to the sides and shouted to all.

"Whossse hungry? Hmmm? Az you can sssee..." His tail swished around so that the capped length of rusting iron pointed towards the caged wooden wagon containing the gamorrean sows and piglets. "...I've brought with me a feassst. Letz get cooking."

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Dread Lord Havok
The First Order

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City Ruins Oct 9, 2022 8:50:56 GMT -8

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Post by Dread Lord Havok on Oct 9, 2022 8:50:56 GMT -8

Brother Eli had begun the long walk from the landing site of the Belphegor, to the temple three days ago. Only now did he reach the outskirts of the ruins. The Inquisitor Confessor walked through the crumbling gates of the ruins of a city. The old city of the Eye. How it had fallen! Old decayed faded banners quivered in unseen wind. Markers of the brighter past, that shamed the inhabitants.
Eli walked past a collapsed store front advertising a barber's services in aurabesh. He stopped and considered the piles of rubble in the footprint of the building. Unbidden, his hand found its way to the hairs on his chin. He had decided to stop shaving his face after emerging from the bacta tank and already the course grey hair constituting a beard adorned his face.

As he turned to exit the store, he caught his own reflection in a puddle of water. His white trench coat was immaculate, his white wide-brimmed preacher's hat was spotless even after three days of traveling through the moist and muddy forests of Pzob. The inquisitor had lost weight. His clothes were more loose after the extended time he spent in the bacta tank recuperating. Being skewered by a Terentatek had brought him closer to death. Closer than ever before to god, perhaps. Terentatek venom is no trifle.

He looked at his white trench coat with a face of disgust. Not that it was unfit for an inquisitor confessor, it was more that. He wasn't sure if the clothes were somehow cursed by Darth Tyna's unbelief. She was, of course, the reason that he had become so grievously wounded in the first place. If only she had proper faith like Brother Undrew, or Brother Markos! Now those were inquisitors driven by zeal and righteous fervor! It was unfortunate that they were killed executing a coven of heretical inquisitors. The scouts had found them with their throats torn out, surrounded by the burned bodies of the heretics.

Brother Eli returned to his present fortunes. Lord Havok had indeed finally relented to the will of god and appointed Brother Eli as a messenger of death. But, the nagging doubt remained... Am I righteous enough? If only Inquisitor Lord Kryptman were still here to set Eli apart; to ordain and anoint him with the sweet oils of Shili.

Brother Eli trudged along not hearing a soul until he approached the city center. He suddenly found himself walking towards a gaggle of children playing in the cracked uneven street. He stopped for a minute to watch them and rest his weary feet.

They fought and swung sticks at each other, each claiming to be a hero. The heroes battled until one beat the others and proclaimed himself to be a High Lord of the Eye. "I am the greatest! A high lord above all under heaven!"
"Oh yeah?" the others asked. "Which one!?"
The victor thought a moment. "Lord Bacca! The Lord of War!"
The others bowed to him. "All hail Lord Bacca!"
The victor looked satisfied and took a bit of mud from a puddle in the street and drew a circle of mud on his forehead to give himself a cycloptic appearance.
One of the female children exclaimed, "Well, If you're Bacca, can I be your Lady Trace?"
Clearly the two had a prior thing, because the the aspiring lord bacca blushed and sputtered. "Shuuuuure!"
The others, all keen observers, chanted a poem to poke fun at their embarrassment.
"You gotta hold hands!" One of "Trace's" female's friends bossed them.
"Why?" "Bacca" asked.
"Because."
"Why!?"
"Just because! She's famous for holding his hand!" The friend insisted. "She gives him secret powers when she is near him!"
Bacca shrugged. That seemed like a good answer.

Brother Eli chuckled. "It seems the legends of the War-Lord live on, though he sleeps."
"Who's there!" The children whirled suddenly and held their sticks at the ready. They were more likely to run and dive for the shadows, but occasionally they managed to beat a stray rodent or two to death. The protein did wonders for their growth.

"Children of the Eye." Eli walked out of the shadows, his white coat and hat dazzling in comparison to the earth tones of the rough spun linen tunics that the children wore. "The God-Emperor smiles on you this day."
One of the children met his gaze, curious. "What? Who are you?" The lord "Bacca" asked.
"Don't talk to him. Just bow! He might be a lord!" Another kid hissed out of the side of his mouth.
"I've never seen him before though. How can he be a lord?"
"Me neither. I never seen him."
"But it's bad if he is. So bow!" the lady "Trace" insisted.
They all bowed to him anyway, just to be safe.

"I'm on my way to the temple for a ceremony." The inquisitor answered truthfully.
The children stirred and talked among themselves. "He's going to the temple. He has to be a lord!"
"No, I am not a lord. I am an Inquisitor Confessor, but you may call me Brother Eli." Kryptman was an Inquisitor Lord.
"He'sh a confesher." One child repeated the word with a lisp. She grinned, missing several teeth.

"You there," Eli motioned to the child with the lisp. "Walk with me. Take me to the oldest man in the city."
"Ok!" She seemed excited, but grew more uncertain as Brother Eli approached. His 7 foot tall frame dwarfed her.
"Take my hand, child. The Emperor protects." He stooped slightly and held his hand out. She put her hand in his, and he swung her up to sit on his broad shoulder. "You can see further from the top of a mountain, than from the bottom."
She giggled. "You're funny." She lifted his broad white hat and put it on her head, and then rested her palm on his bare scarred scalp.
"What are you?"
"I am Inquisitor Confessor, child."
"What's an inkwizzator?"
"I am."
"What's an Ink... Inqui. What's one do?"
"One of our duties is to teach the children of men to believe and have faith in the God-Emperor of all mankind."
"Is the God Emperor like the Eye? Does it watch over me when I am shleeping?"
"The God Emperor of all mankind created the Second Eye of Palpatine; the Eye that watches over all of us." Brother Eli continued his walk into town through the ruins, seeing a Ranat scurry past. "By all that is holy!" Brother Eli drew his slug thrower from his coat.
"No! Don't! They are part of Lord Dragush's Hoshts. You'll get punished!"
The inquisitor's innate power to discern truth from lies told him that the child spoke the truth as she knew it. "The famine lord employs dirty Ranats?" Brother Eli grumbled as he returned his weapon to it's holster. "Of course he would." "because he is a filthy Xeno." The inquisitor didn't say the last part out loud.

Last Edit: Oct 27, 2022 5:50:52 GMT -8 by Dread Lord Havok

"Life is pain.
Through pain I gain Wisdom and Hate.
Hate becomes my Sword, and Wisdom guides it.
My own Aims give a meaningless Life like Mine purpose.
I am my Ambition; I will conquer.
Without my passion, I am already dead.
Without my hate, I am unarmed.
Without pain, I am a fool.
All ends with death."

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
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City Ruins Oct 20, 2022 8:46:15 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Oct 20, 2022 8:46:15 GMT -8

On the western edge of the former city state, ruins mouldered in the shadows cast by an early dawn as the bright green star of the Pzobian system illuminated the Eye's cradle, eventually touching even the decaying domain of the Hunger Cults of the Great Devourer. As you could imagine, most of the fiendish freaks drawn to the rotting banners of Famine found their way underground before the light of day could reveal the corruption of their flesh and the depravity of the unforgivable acts they committed in the name of He-Who-Hungers. They hid in cellars, in basements of collapsed buildings, in burrows they dug with the bled and broken fingernails of their own very hands, all to escape the oppressive and seemingly inescapable touch of the system's central and only sun. Doors were barred and stones rolled into place as all was fastened tight to keep out even a single purifying ray. When the great migration of ghouls were safely in their subterranean dwellings beneath the ruins, only a few stragglers remained, unperturbed by the daylight. A mix of human and umbaran in filthy hannite robes sat on the toppled remains of a statue that had once depicted the winged vor god Seleevan Khar, a former admiral of the Council of the Eye, now another memory worn away by the unforgivingly ceaseless march of time. Each ragged member of the religious order had the sleeves of their robes pulled back as they held bones to their mouths, gnawing away at the carrion as their teeth filed to points scraped the surface for any available scrap of meat.

Bones littering the floor was a common sight here. One couldn't travel more than a few feet without cracking desiccating corpse debris underfoot. Fortunately the cult's two indigenous followers, broad shouldered gamorrean boars with fat bellies and elongated tusks, were already hard at work sweeping up the remains of last nights festivities. Brushing away the detritus that covered the floor around pits full of low burning coals where the night lurkers congregated, Gork and Mork pushed growing piles of yellowing bones towards the northern side of the city ruins where the mortuary cults of the Death Lord could be found. What they did with the bones and remains was anyone's guess, though there had been rumours as of late that death was not as permanent a state of being as previously surmised. The dead had been seen walking the ruin streets during the height of each nights witching hour, assuming the jaundiced eyes and lying lips of those famished ghouls was to be believed. Upon finishing a hearty breakfast of human ribs, the hannites doused the smoking fires with buckets of night soil and brackish water, then set about their day time chores. Mostly this took the form of gathering up filthy robes to be taken to a nearby stream to be washed, though there were plenty of other duties to keep them active. Shrines needed tending, there were utensils and cooking implements to be scrubbed, and various herbs to be gathered.

Just beyond the crumbled wall that had once encircled the city as an imposing barrier against the forest, the industry of hunter gatherers could be seen in the trees above. With charcoal coloured fur and luminous eyes that shone like sinister rubies in dark sockets, the furry bear folk that inhabited the Pzobian oaks surrounding the ruins, were of the same ilk of night ewok as those that resided in Poisonberry Village. Like those betrayers, these bears had been bred in the black bosom of Dragus' private domain in the darkest corner of the Deep Woods. There in a corroded iron wrought cage beneath a jagged cliff of volcanic rock, further concealed from the sun by the moss draped trunks of towering steel hard oaks with roots buried deep in that tainted earth, was a structure formerly known as the Ewok Sanctuary. It was from here that the night ewoks first emerged, warped by the insidious influence of the darkside that had seeped into those lands, permanently altering anything that lived and grew there. The bears hung the flayed skins of captured gamorreans from the branches of trees to dry, draping the forest in morbid decor. Stone knives and arrow heads were sharpened, while fingerbones and other gathered resources were transformed into trinkets and tribal fetishes.

Unlike the night ewoks of the Poisonberry settlement, those of Weeping Bark Village, remained loyal to the Hungering One and the Order. Hundreds of the hooded demonic little bear folk could be seen flocking to a massive tree at the center of the village, rising higher than even the other centuries old oaks around it. Grotesque fetishes such as ropes of intestines or necklaces made of porcine ears hung from its branches, oozing a revolting ichor that spread across its surface like a growing mold or foul pestilence. They dropped to their knees and prostrated themselves before the great Witch Tree, offering praise to both it and the Night Spirit from which they drew their name, which was in actuality just another moniker of the dreaded Famine Lord. Buckets of blood were dumped against its bark, dripping down its cadaverous trunk towards the forest floor where a thicket of thorns swallowed up the salty drops, further feeding the tree with the vitae of expired victims and sacrifices. Fresh skulls still stained with gore were threaded through vines and left to rattle in the breeze that occasionally blew by and spread the reek of carrion across the city ruins to where the other cults resided.

A rusty protocol droid with two cracked photo-receptors attempted in vain to hack apart a ranat with the chipped blade of a butchers knife. The corroded feral automaton growled in synthesized rage as it missed again, the dulled edge catching broken cobble stone and chipping further as the quick-as-wind rodent slipped out of its clutches once more, scampering out of reach into the maze of broken stones and crumbled infrastructure that littered the former city. It was a common enough sight. They were everywhere these days, infesting everything that came into contact with the wicked Famine Lord. They resided in the bowels of his flagship, the Covenant of Blood. They lived in the countless warrens of Dragusblight beneath the Fortress of Tawntoon, in the Sith star fortress known as the Nullus Beacon, and beneath every city and hole on Roon large enough to house their growing hordes. On the mystical and mysterious isle of Draggle Rock, they lived both beneath and above land, serving the Hungering One directly as indentured staff. It only stood to reason that they too would be found on blessed Pzob where the insatiable Feaster of Worlds drew sustenance. They could be found everywhere, scurrying and scampering, gnawing on whatever morsel they could sink their yellow fangs and tusks into. However, though they were known to burrow ceaselessly, they never so much as scratched the soil beneath the black temple or the city ruins that surrounded it.

Even they knew that something resided in the dark, buried beneath the obelisk that rose like a malefic reminder of the Order's presence on the planet. Something buried, perhaps even trapped and contained, resided deep beneath the black stone structure. So it was that the verminous followers of Famine lurked everywhere else, occasionally even scurrying up the steps of the Black Temple to see what resided within, only to be devoured by the things inside that were too unstable to be allowed free reign of the ruins. Hannites tending to the vineyards of black fleshed grapes that prospered in orderly lines to the rear of the temple grounds, lifted their heads and turned their eyes towards the pyramid that seemed to swallow the light around it. They could hear the terrorized squeak of one of the rodents having a run in with one of the feral inhabitants there within. The noise didn't last long as whatever the child sized mouse had run into made a quick meal of it. Before long the hannites were back at work, hefting buckets of grapes over to large wooden barrels where barefoot gamorreans were whipped by hannites in wine soaked robes. Their flails tore strips of green flesh that mixed with the crushed grape flesh and added a metallic tang to the juice that was being prepared for fermentation.

From all across the city, hannites stood and looked to the sky, peering from beneath shrouded hoods as their eyes followed the path of a freighter descending from the sky above. Contrails of grey smoke wept from wounds in the surface of the ship's hull, trailing orange flame that erupted at random intervals, belching bits of vital electronics that rained down onto the city as flaming metal hail. Braziers of noxious purple smoke swung before a procession of monks departing the temple, marching in a line past mobs of feral droids and scurrying rodents. A hum of chanting voices resounded across the ruins as the monks headed towards an open stretch of ground that was mostly clear save for some carbon scoring on the ground. The shuttle's repulsors powered down and its ramp opened, exhaling fumes and burning embers as those aboard began to pour out of the smoke obscured cabin. Mostly human, the group numbered fifteen souls, with two duros and a wookiee included in the mix. All save one were glossy eyed, their wills having just been broken by the trials of the Pzobian nebula, where the Eye had opened their minds to its terrible penetrating gaze. What was left was a brainwashed shell, scrubbed of memories and waiting to be shown the true path, ripe for indoctrination into the hannite way of life. Hannite monks separated and divided those that stumbled out of the ships hold.

"This one..." Snarled Melkor, grabbing a thirty something human male roughly by the shoulders. Placing a muscular hand on the man's back he gave the new arrival a shove towards a pair of emaciated umbarans that stank of carrion. "...to the Hunger Cults. Next." And so each arrival was divided amongst the monks present. Some were sent to the flesh pits of the Hunger Cults, others to the bone gardens of the Mortuary Cults, a few including the wookiee went to the remains of the old arena to join the warrior ranks of the hannite battle brothers. The intimidating hannite monk, Melkor, growled as he shoved the two duros and one female human towards the steps of the black temple where two hannites with golden masks waited. Each facial covering was fitted with a glowing kyber crystal in the center, like a luminous third eye that distracted from the fact that none of their flesh was exposed. Even their hands were hidden behind cloth wrappings. "Take these three." Spit the angry hannite performing the sorting. "They won't amount to much but the Dread Seer's fate-weavers could still use them as fuel." He squinted two bloodshot eyes towards the sun overhead. "Won't be long now before the witching hour arrives."

Curled in a trembling ball, the last of the new arrivals remained inside the ship, eyes and hands clenched in absolute terror. Sometimes the Eye's...welcome, did not always have the desired effect. Those that resisted the purification process would never become hannites, but they still had a purpose on the cradle of the Eye. The fires of the hell-forge only burned as hotly as they did because they were fed often with fresh sacrifices, though for todays purpose that quota had already been met thanks to a culling raid on the nearby gamorrean tribes by the mechanical agents of the Machine Lord. So, something else was to become of this one. Stepping into the damaged freighter hold that stank of defecation and acrid smoke from burnt electronics, the hannite stood over the passenger, a teenage human male of soft flesh and soiled clothes. Melkor leaned over and placed one heavily callused hand on the back of the human's neck, gripping it firmly as his finger tips dug in and he squeezed, lowering his mouth down next to the man's shaking ear. "This one..." His sour breath reeked of scurvy as he exhaled in the frightened passenger's ear. "...to the Hunger Cults." Rough hands grabbed the trembling man by the arms even as he fought and shrieked, screaming as he was dragged from the back of the transport and taken towards the western side of the ruins. Ranats appeared at the far edges of the gathering, watching with beady eyes and salivating fanged snouts.

Life on Pzob proceeded much as it always had.

Last Edit: Oct 22, 2022 5:45:25 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Belisarius Vilebroth
Member

Preparing to infect a world near you.

Posts: 65
Affiliation: Formerly of the Eye
Traffic Light: Blue

City Ruins Feb 20, 2023 10:18:27 GMT -8

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Post by Belisarius Vilebroth on Feb 20, 2023 10:18:27 GMT -8

A lanky figure in a modified suit of moldering green rad-zone assault trooper armour descended the steps of the Black Temple, trailing a dark cloud of buzzing botflies that shrouded his pestilential form as a sickly plague carrying veil. Jaundiced yellow eyes peered through filmy green lenses at the ruins of the once great City of the Eye. It had changed so much since Belisarius had been here last. He recalled a sprawling metropolis surrounding the obsidian citadel that seemed to stretch beyond the clouds towards the baleful iris that watched him even now from the crackling gaseous Pzobian nebula. Time and neglect had caused that empire to crumble, leaving only its bones which were infested with the remains of the hannite order, parasites feasting off the City's corpse. He looked at them resentfully as he banged the butt end of his alchemized war-scythe 'Slake' on each step leading to the overgrown and cracked cobblestone streets of the ruins. Microscopic nanogene spores swirled around the sickle-shaped head of the polearm, mute over the symphony of insects and the mechanized whine of the three servo-arms jutting from the power-pack on his back, seeming to move of their own volition. This was no mistake, for his power armour was afflicted with a viral sentience all its own. The insane droid brain embedded in the lead lined suit moved the cybernetic limbs around frantically, causing the monks going about the Eye's business nearby to give the Sith Virologist a wide berth.

His reunion with Dragus had not gone as expected. Despite all his preparations and the strength he had gained on Xeraxus, the temple's malign will seemed to work in concert with the Famine Lord, never allowing Belisarius to deliver the finishing blow. The final indignity had been when the Eye's Executioner, Commodore Starkiller, had interceded on that depraved drake's behalf. Outmanned, so to speak, he had been forced to accept the shame of defeat.

Oddly as he walked through the broken remains of his former home, not all of the hannites avoided him entirely. There were some that remembered the former prodigy of Famine, members of the cult that still saw him as one of those demi-god like figures that had ruled over the Eye's cradle like mythological titans. White robed zealots emerged from fractured moss covered structures or rose from the menial duties they were performing, and began to flock towards the tall armoured Sith, stretching emaciated hands and grubby fingers to brush the surface of his sickly form. A pungent mix of chemicals and diseased breath were expelled as a green fog from the grill slits along either side of his beaked helm, wilting their pearlescent robes and causing their flesh to turn grey with illness. Though touching him was a death sentence, they did so willingly, accepting as a blessing the wasting rot that turned their flesh to leprous scale before it sloughed off the bone into putrescent puddles of filth on the ground. They died with rictus grins on their yellowing skulls, those final moments of agony overcome by religious fervor.

The Machine Lord's army of feral droids that also occupied the ruins seemed to pay him no mind, turning the rotten masks of deceased hannite faces they wore over their mechanical features from his presence, ignoring him near completely. To his credit, even though Commodore Starkiller had intervened in their duel, he had not seemed to pick a side, favouring one son of Pzob over another. It would seem the old warbot still considered Belisarius a part of their family in darkness, no matter all that happened or the time that had passed. His path led him to the ruins edge, where the forest encroached on these sacred stones and a gigantic Pzobian oak ascended from the ground to blacken the sky with its encompassing dark foliage. Blood and pus ran down its iron hard bark, dripping from gamorrean pelts that were hung on the many branches that jutted out from its gnarled length. The Witch Tree of Pzob, he knew it well.

Belisarius placed the weather worn palm of his right gauntlet against the morbid trunk of the oak, extending his unnatural senses beyond the mere physical as he sought out the spiritual presence of the Witch Tree. He could feel the malign pulse of the planet as his soul came into contact with something incalculably old...and evil. It did not resist his touch, but rather seemed to invite him to bask in its sinister aura. Though his rotting joints protested after his arduous duel, he began to ascend, climbing up the thorny back until he reached the village suspended above. Charcoal furred bears that reeked of sulphur turned beady red eyes in his direction, knocking obsidian tipped arrows on primitive bows, though none were loosed. To his surprise, the Night Ewoks of Weeping Bark Village lowered their weapons and welcomed him in. The feral natives approached, humming a tribal tune as they began to festoon his sickly hued armour with grizzly fetishes. The Sith Virologist bent his head forwards as a string of severed ears was looped around his neck, then straightened to receive a freshly flayed cloak of gamorrean skin that was wrapped around his shoulders to warm his diseased bones. Closing his eyes, the self proclaimed Plague Lord knelt before the great Witch Tree, and joined his phlegm filled voice with to the choir of their wicked chant. All the while he could feel the presence of something immense and terrible staring down at him from the maelstrom in the sky above.

After several hours of prayer, the laboured mechanized whine of his most loyal servant's augmented leg could be heard thumping across the wooden tree top platform. Belisarius turned his plague doctors mask over his left shoulder, regarding the sore covered algamation of flesh and durasteel that was Festus Phageblight.

"Reaper Prime." Said Festus with a diseased gurgle from his tortured vocal cords. "It is time we depart. Obroa-Skai awaits."

Nodding his agreement, the Sith Virologist stood, towering over the leprous cyborg.

"Indeed, Festus. Let us return to the Excruciator and see the first act of our grand performance enacted. We start with Obroa-Skai, to claim the knowledge needed to lift this curse. Then we do that which my former master never could: bring about the death of Clan Australis..."

Last Edit: Feb 20, 2023 10:22:51 GMT -8 by Belisarius Vilebroth

"All things must wither and die. Let root rot and bower blight, to feed the pestilence of abandoned hope."

Dread Lord Havok
The First Order

Posts: 952
Affiliation: Sith, darkside, Adventists of the Eye, Imperial Remnant
Traffic Light: Green

City Ruins Jun 6, 2023 20:16:59 GMT -8

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Post by Dread Lord Havok on Jun 6, 2023 20:16:59 GMT -8

"There he ish!" The child slapped the top of Eli's bald head with her palm and pointed to a grizzled old hannite in the market place.
"The oldest man in the city?" Eli asked.
"I think sho. He looksh really really old to me."
Brother Eli chuckled. "Fair enough. Our journey is at an end little one." The inquisitor lifted the girl off his shoulders and put her on the ground. "Run along back to the others." He pulled his hat off her head before he patted her back and sent her on her way. He watched as she scampered off down the ruined streets of the old city of the eye, adjusting his wide brimmed preacher's hat. "Now its time to do God's work." The oldest man in the city, eh? Eli found that God seldom suffers the old.
The old man was rolling a barrel from one alleyway into another alleyway, dressed in a simple tan tunic. His face was wrinkled, but his body was still strong from his daily physical labors.
"You there!" The imperial preacher's voice boomed. He was no stranger to preaching in the crowded and noisy streets and his voice could carry rather far. Hannites froze looking in his direction. "YOU! The OLD one!"
The old monk stopped and slowly looked in Eli's direction.
"Yes you, rolling the barrel."
The old man looked down at the barrel he was rolling and back up to the inquisitor, recognizing that he was being singled out. With a look of resignation, he flipped the barrel up, and sat on it and waited.
Brother Eli made his way to the old man. The 7 foot tall preacher stood nearly a head taller than anyone else in the market place, and the old man was a head shorter than everyone else. He said nothing, but waited for the inquisitor.
"I have been led to believe you are the oldest man here in the city."
"Well what's left of the city." The old man squinted and tried to spit but ended up drooling on himself. "I might be."
"You don't know?" Brother Eli was somewhat perplexed that he might not know.
"Well, I guess I am pretty old." The man rubbed his wrinkled face. "I haven't thought about it much. But I suppose I don't personally know anyone older than me. Wait, I reckon there is an older lady." The old man hemmed and hawed. "She doesn't get around much."
"I see. That will suffice. You will come with me to the temple."
"The... the temple?" The old man's eyes widened.
"If I have to repeat myself, I will crush your skull with my bare hands. Clear?"
The old man seemed stricken speechless by brother Eli's intensity. He nodded his understanding to the imposing man of god dressed in white.
"Follow me." Brother Eli abruptly turned- and then stopped, and turned back. "Pardon my bad manners. My name is Brother Eli, of the Inquisition. What is your name?"
"It's Zeek. The name is Zeek."
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Zeek. Please follow me." Just because Brother Eli was an inquisitor confessor, did not mean he was exempt from showing the common courtesies of polite society. In fact he had a duty to be a good example.
He turned around and found his way blocked by the rear of a pack animal. Without hesitation he kicked it hard in the rump with his impervium-toed boot, sending it staggering, into a wall, where it fell down. Brother Eli scowled as he walked past. "It is a crime to obstruct the work of God!" He would have shot it with a .75 caliber slug from his sacred weapon, but he had better things to expend the ammunition on. The animal would very likely be lame- punishment enough.
The hannites in the marketplace separated and allowed Brother Eli and Zeek to pass with no further... obstructions.

Last Edit: Jul 3, 2023 11:26:45 GMT -8 by Dread Lord Havok

"Life is pain.
Through pain I gain Wisdom and Hate.
Hate becomes my Sword, and Wisdom guides it.
My own Aims give a meaningless Life like Mine purpose.
I am my Ambition; I will conquer.
Without my passion, I am already dead.
Without my hate, I am unarmed.
Without pain, I am a fool.
All ends with death."

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
Traffic Light: Blue

City Ruins Aug 26, 2023 7:11:56 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Aug 26, 2023 7:11:56 GMT -8

After the call had gone out, the hannites began to gather in the square of the ruins of the Eye's once great city, flocking in great procession before the steps leading up into the Black Temple. At the top of the steps stood the Famine Lord, cloaked in black feathers with half a bird skull resting atop his crown of black scales, its beak curling over the end of his snout. Behind him his tail spike hovered above his head, swaying in the cool breeze blowing over the expansive forest beyond the city boundaries, stretching across the entire surface of the planet. His right claw rested on the polished pommel of his saber-cane, which he leaned on like a walking stick, while he used his left to dig at a trapped morsel of rancid meat caught between his thicket of razor sharp incisors. He was joined by several prominent high priests representing the different cults. Mephisto was there, in his formerly white habit which was now a mouldering mess soiled through with gore stains, thin lips spread into a wicked smile that exposed bone nubs of teeth filed to needle tipped points like the mouth of a piranha. The sinister leader of the Hunger Cults was more ghoul than umbaran. Hannite champions stood off to the sides, standing apart from their brethren with monstrous glaives and great-swords held between them.

Although the walls surrounding the city were patchwork ruins, unable to keep out a rodent let alone a repel an attack, the front gates had still been ceremoniously thrown open by the hurry-scurrying rodent henchmen of the Dark Apothecary. Sounds of tribal industry could be heard from nearby Weepingbark Village as the night ewoks outside the walls prepared themselves for war. To the West, the pig clans of Pzob could be found marching towards the City in great number, the rodent equerries obviously successful in calling upon old but honoured treaties. There was an energy in the air, as if the whole planet had been rallied towards a singular goal. Long mouldering flags were unfurled at the top of the steps, depicting a ruinous Eye emblazoned on a flaming backdrop, staring in judgement of those gathered today as its length flapped in the wind. Lesser priests could be seen making the rounds between those gathered, anointing them with flecks of virgin blood from recently filled buckets of still steaming vitae. Dragus looked out over the gathering, obvious concern writ across his scaled features.

Despite the lengths he had gone to and the forces he had called upon, it would still not be enough. Not by a long shot.

When the last of the current hannites gathered in the square, the Famine Lord approached the top step of the stairs leading up into the temple, turning his mismatched gaze towards those gathered below. Faces full of devotion looked back, desperate to hear the spoken word of one of the demi-gods from their dark pantheon. The saurian Sith did not keep them waiting long, though his words were short and too the point.

"Fight well, die well. For the Eye."

"For the Eye!"

The resulting chorus was almost deafening. Brainwashed from the point of arrival, the hannites were an unrivaled force of zealous fury, completely devoted to their faith. Today, he asked them to die for it. Their answer? Without question.

"In you go." He hissed, stepping aside as the temple entrance was thrown open and the hannites began to march up the steps, entering the dark heart of the Order. Thousands strong they entered the temple, most never to be seen again. The forces of the Eye marched to war.

Last Edit: Aug 26, 2023 7:14:58 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
Traffic Light: Blue

City Ruins May 13, 2024 8:52:31 GMT -8 Dread Lord Havok likes this

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Post by Dragus on May 13, 2024 8:52:31 GMT -8

RUMBLE! RUMBLE! RUMBLE!

A veil of dust rose off the ruins of the once great City of the Eye as the ground began to groan and protest, suffering the violent effect of a powerful ground quake that split apart ancient cobblestone bricks and collapsed broken pillars that had stood the test of time. Brimstone geysers erupted from great rents torn in the soil of Grandfather Pzob, boiling fleeing hannite monks in scalding acid mist that caused their flesh to blister and slough from their bones in a river of melted meat, turning into puddles of black tar that swallowed even their freshly bleached skeletons. The Death Cultists cursed these ill portents while the Hunger Cultists celebrated in the shaking streets. Those depraved cannibal ghouls in their soiled yellow robes turned on the weakest of their number and prepared a grand feast to celebrate the occasion. The great and terrible Almighty Eye had turned its gaze on its most reliable, if somewhat devious, follower. The Famine Lord had received the Eye's blessing and was at this very moment giving birth to a clutch of eggs upon the menacing star fortress known as the Nullus Beacon. Deep in the heart of a obscuring cosmic dust cloud known as the Cloak of the Sith, the diabolical draconian master of the alchemical arts was enduring the hardships of labour, his suffering a sacrifice for the good of the Order. Hoots and horn blows echoed across the forest, causing birds to take to the air to escape the densely packed shaking oaks, as the night ewoks of Weeping Bark village up in the trees observed these most unusual signs with appropriate religious fervor.

On the steps of the Black Temple at the heart of the ruins, foppish hannite priests in resplendent white robes of the finest silk threw buckets of gamorrean blood down the temple steps, where it flowed into the uncared for city streets to soil the sandaled feet of the Adventists. Verminous members of the Children of Decay hurry-scurried through forming pools of filth, occasionally lapping up the parasite contaminated pigs blood, as they fled collapsing burrows buried by the after shocks of the earthquake. Thirteen terrible tolls sounded from the temple steeple as towering muscular hannite champions in darkly gleaming Sith iron plate struck the sacred Black Bell of the Eye in alternating repetition.

GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG! GONG!

High Priest Mephisto, an emaciatingly gaunt umbaran and leader of the Hunger Cult, raised a jewel bedecked Sith iron chalice as he stood at a prepared dais of polished onyx at the top of the temple steps, his colourless orbs overlooking the rabbled masses that lurked in the dangerous ruins of the greatest civilization in galactic history, par to none. They looked to him for answers, as he looked to the stars and focused his slit pupils on one region in particular, a celestial void storm that served as a buffer between the Eye's cradle and the rest of the galaxy.

"Rejoice, my brothers and sisters of the Eye!" Snarled the phlegm thick throat of Mephisto as he addressed hannite, gladiator droid, rodent, celestial descendant, and porcine labourer; his word were for all within range of the Black Temple. "The High Lord of Famine has gone into labour. They..." He stopped, allowing the chalice to slip from his grip and tumble down the blood soaked temple steps. Poisoned by one of the Dread Wyrm's envenomed fangs, the saurian Sith's sorcery flowed in the High Priest's veins and enriched his soul-hollowed husk with the darkside's corruption. In that moment he could feel the crocodilian villain's agonized birth shrieks lightyears away. His master's words erupted from his mouth, choking Mephisto with blood and bile as he expelled the Dark Apothecary's words. "...re coming! Squeakers, can you hear me? They're coming!" Held around the throat in a vice grip by a phantom claw, the umbaran was suddenly released, falling to his knees and further staining his filthy robes.

Last Edit: May 13, 2024 11:05:00 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Innon'Ruuk Adventists of the Eye There is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand. Posts: 609 Affiliation: Order of the Eye Traffic Light: Green	City Ruins Nov 16, 2024 16:11:17 GMT -8 Quote Share Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Innon'Ruuk on Nov 16, 2024 16:11:17 GMT -8 Current Time-line Lord Granox, Keeper of the Temple slowly hobbled side to side on a path in the old broken city, the ancient man of Pzob moved towards the old market bazaar.
	Last Edit: Nov 16, 2024 16:13:24 GMT -8 by Innon'Ruuk Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
Traffic Light: Blue

City Ruins Nov 17, 2024 7:21:20 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Nov 17, 2024 7:21:20 GMT -8

Mephiston, High Priest of the Hunger Cult devoted to the Famine Lord, happened to be in the old market bazaar that day. Like the majority of those that lurked in the ruins of the once great capital, he was a hannite monk, indoctrinated by the Eye of Palpatine and raised in the service of its most sacred Order. From an early age his questionable preference of diet and detestable proclivities had marked him for the cannibal ranks of the Hunger Cult. The robe he wore over his emaciated umbaran frame might have once been pearlescent white, but had since soured to yellow from the pus and effluence it had soaked up over the years, boasting a pungent perfume of rot and decay. He sat on toppled column from a building long since crumbled, sharpening a curved flensing knife in his right hand with a whetstone held in his left, creating a 'shink' sound with every scrape of the blades edge.

He was awaiting the return of other members of his cult, who were elsewhere in the market purchasing a Gamorrean for tonight's supper. His pale colourless eyes lifted as Lord Granox entered the bazaar, leering with something akin to curiosity. It had been some time since he had seen the Keeper of the Black Temple emerge from those hallowed halls.

Raising the fileting knife, he motioned with it towards Granox, attempting to draw his attention as he waved him over.

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Innon'Ruuk
Adventists of the Eye

There is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.

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City Ruins Nov 17, 2024 13:18:37 GMT -8

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Post by Innon'Ruuk on Nov 17, 2024 13:18:37 GMT -8

Lord Granox's attention was drawn to the cultist fiddling with a blade upon a ruble heap as he paused in the market, he coldlessly peered from beyond his hooded cloaks and robes to the retched umbaran. The Keeper spoke in ancient Sith.

"You Are Soiled Cultist, Clean Yourself. The Eye Commands Purity."

Turning back towards his original line, Lord Granox continued his stroll in the market, his darkside senses absorbing everything around him, he limped and hobbled along, snatching a suitable walking stick from the debris with the force he shuffled about.

Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Dread Lord Havok
The First Order

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City Ruins Nov 18, 2024 18:57:53 GMT -8

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Post by Dread Lord Havok on Nov 18, 2024 18:57:53 GMT -8

Tink tink tink! The clattering of dice and bone could be heard. A voice from the market wailed in response to Granax's admonishment of Mephisto.

"Soil? I see much soil!
From the sacred bowels of Pzob
blasts the fragrant wind of decay;
Fermenting the hopes of all,
parting hair and tangled neti-willows
shaking the blood berry bush
heavy with fermenting fruit,
blasting the brow with dust and time
and flesh and rhyme-"

A sitting monk spoke, with his forehead marred with a festering gouge. The monk was slim with a pronounced paunch under the simple loin cloth that was fastened under his armpits. Most people in the bazaar appeared to completely ignore the Idiot priest as if he had been a common fixture in the market and of no consequence. Truth be told, he had parted ways with his wits upon being forced to gaze into the unrelenting vortex of the never-there and time-streams in pursuit of total devotion to the farseeing ways of the cult of the dread seer. His story was not unique among the cult, with others also having their minds shattered as they tried to unravel the mysteries of the future-past. Indeed the monk's brother, the Fool Priest, had likewise suffered a similar fate. He sat against a wall and cast his dice again. Tink tink tink! As the dice tumbled on the flagstones of the bazaar. He leaned forward in his seat to total the sums of his dice, bending in ways that appeared to force his joints to move in the wrong ways.

The Hannite seemed pleased with the sums that were rolled.
"Purity? I see much purity!
Purity of purpose! This one, yes!"
He held up a pair of dice showing snake-eyes.
"... and One with one, and five!"
He rubbed at the gouge in his forehead which dripped, revealing that it was no mere flesh-wound but a hole in his skull where a black marble sized stone of black meltmassif had been deposited. The Hannite cult of the Seer had blessed him with a third-eye made of the same sacred material as the stone of the Black Temple. The polished stone rotated and wobbled as he shook his head, grinding on the frontal lobe of the Hannite-monk's brain.

"He with eyes to see, let him sneer;
in famine's land he does not fear
For Bacca dreams, and does not hear,
Fragus farts,
the river parts,
For the Umbrian is one with one
of five and not undone,
while I...
THE GLORIOUS EYE!"
*he waved his arms at the sky over his head*
"Leads us true to the end.
FOR THE GLORY OF WAR IS SOON UPON US!
DOWN WITH FRAGUS!"

Upon the finishing of his rambling verse, the Idiot Priest of the Seer's cult devoted to the Dread Seer's visionary ways stumbled from his seat and ambled over to the Umbaran, before spitting a tarry substance into his hand and rubbing it onto his own loin cloth. At this point the Priest seemed to be talking up at the sky. "Kill me if you must, but I shall only transition from the Seer-Lord's service into the ranks of Lord Mortale." heh heh "And there I will stay until he decomposes a new song with words of War." He pointed his finger up and wagged it at the sky. "and then I will POP out of the ground with the armies" Hee hee "to march forth on the galaxy in God's sacred name!" The Idiot priest gave a little hop as he said "pop."

"Oh, and the Eye has not forgotten YOU, Holy One!" The Idiot whipped his arm to point his finger at Lord Granax. The monk's arm reached extension and then continued to swing bending the elbow backwards until his finger slapped his shoulder, and then slowly swung back to point at Granax. "I bow low to one so holy and pure that the dust of Grandfather Pzob fears to cling to your boots and hem!" He bowed low, until his nose hit his knees and his spine cracked like a sabaac player shuffling his deck. "We are not so blessed as thee." The black third eye spun in its socket as the idiot's neck twisted and bent impossibly (while still bowed) to peer up grinning at Granax as the lord walked. "Welcome to the city of the Eye, Milord!" He called out, his tone dark and lusty.

Last Edit: Nov 21, 2024 22:50:59 GMT -8 by Dread Lord Havok

"Life is pain.
Through pain I gain Wisdom and Hate.
Hate becomes my Sword, and Wisdom guides it.
My own Aims give a meaningless Life like Mine purpose.
I am my Ambition; I will conquer.
Without my passion, I am already dead.
Without my hate, I am unarmed.
Without pain, I am a fool.
All ends with death."

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
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City Ruins Nov 20, 2024 7:33:33 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Nov 20, 2024 7:33:33 GMT -8

Granox's admonishment of his apparel clearly amused the cannibal cultist, whose thin pale lips parted in a sneer, putting on display his frightful mouth with yellow teeth filed down to sharpened nubs. The Keeper of the Temple always was a sour sack, but Mephisto supposed it a necessity of the Keeper's station, as maintaining many of the Order's traditions was within the purview of his profession. That sneer festered into a scowl as the bazaars resident jester, the mad monk, rambled and raved with the sort of theatrics one would expect from the avatar of Chaos' followers.

Rumour had it the monk had stared into the depths of the swirling and crackling Pzobian maelstrom far longer than even the strict religious observances of their Order demanded, and as a result have been stricken with madness. It was clear, however, should one listen to the content of the monk's mad ramblings, that he belonged to the Dread Seer's coven. Prophecy, it seemed, came at a heavy price.

Too lean of frame for even the cultist's cooking pot, Mephisto was about to shoo the madman away, when one particular name uttered from the fool's quivering cracked lips cut him right to the bone. Fragus... The reek leather bindings wrapped around the hilt of the flensing knife in his hand groaned as the High Priest's hand clenched tightly, raising spider-web shaped veins that ran from his knuckles all the way up to his elbows. His piranha like mouth grit in a tight grimace, sinking into his diseased black gums, sending a single rivulet of corrupted blood over his lips and down his chin. A hate raw and pure caused his gorge to rise and bile to catch in his throat.

"What would you know of Fragus, fool?" Hissed Mephisto hatefully, before rising from his seat in a surge of motion, throwing his arms to the side to snarl at the bazaar. "WHAT WOULD ANY OF YOU KNOW?!" He jammed the curved knife through his belt angrily to put it away, accidently nicking himself in the process, which resulted in a dark stain spreading across the soiled yellow fabric of his robe over his left thigh. The High Priest shook his head, staring daggers at the monk with those two colourless eyes of his, his face a mask of contempt. "None of you were there. Only a High Lord could face a foe such as that and hope to prevail." Not entirely true. According to the history books maintained within the Black Temple, Overlord Tschel had once faced the Great Toad on Onderon, where it was said he slayed Fragus. Unfortunately with the Death Lord absent, Fragus had some how managed to crawl his way back into the realm of the living, taking over the night ewok settlement of Poisonberry Village several leagues to the South shortly thereafter. After discovering this fact, Mephisto barely escaped with his life, duty bound to bring word back to the Hannites. Unfortunately, none save this madman had taken his warning seriously. It would only be a matter of time before the Leach Lord turned his attention towards the Eye's capital, whose crumbling walls couldn't even keep out ranats. "Oh, what's the use? None of you save this bloody idiot monk have the sense to listen. Fragus take you all!"

He spat a wad of filthy phlegm on the cracked flagstones of the bazaar. He knew his anger was misplaced. It was his own failure to slay the Toad that infuriated him, though that didn't stop him from projecting blame onto others.

Last Edit: Nov 20, 2024 7:35:42 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Innon'Ruuk
Adventists of the Eye

There is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.

Posts: 609

Affiliation: Order of the Eye
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City Ruins Nov 20, 2024 17:01:49 GMT -8

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Post by Innon'Ruuk on Nov 20, 2024 17:01:49 GMT -8

"Welcome to the city of the Eye, Milord!"

Blasphemy! Granox snatches the black stone from the crazy ones skull with the darkside into his left hand and bursts his body in a shower of mist and fleshy bits for all to see with his right. He speaks in ancient Sith.

"Thank You, Go With Peace"

Ignoring the cultist's ramblins. Granox speaks ancient Sith once more, this time thickly laced with the darkside it reverberates in his soul.

"You Are Still Soiled"

Granox continued on his leisurely stroll through the bazaar leaning on his walk stick, black stone in hand.

Fragus, he wondered to himself, what is a Fragus, kids these days and there slang.

Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Dread Lord Havok
The First Order

Posts: 952
Affiliation: Sith, darkside, Adventists of the Eye, Imperial Remnant
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City Ruins Nov 21, 2024 21:59:32 GMT -8

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Post by Dread Lord Havok on Nov 21, 2024 21:59:32 GMT -8

Several cultists that were about to attempt to intervene or help to collect their addled comrade, immediately turned away, thinking twice before interacting with any individual(s) that would end the life of a harmless fakir rather than hear the Idiot Priest's prophetic verse.

One monk braved repercussions to approach the Umbaran who was still ranting about Fragus.

"I humbly beg your pardon Lord Mephisto, I know nothing of Fragus. However, I thought you should know, that Yo'selmus- the idiot priest- he was saying how you were favored of the Eye. You being who you are the One... with One of the 5 High Lords, Lord Dragus that is. You are one with one (Dragus) of the five. Your master's blessing dwells in your body and is quickened by his powers." He spoke haltingly, quite intimidated by Mephisto's white eyes, which reminded him of Lord Havok's peircing gaze- which could see nothing, and yet see everything! "While he, Yo'selmus, said you were defeated, you were not 'undone' by this Fragus. He foresaw your victory, that the river would part for thee and you would be guided by the Eye to end what, 'only a high lord could face,' as you put it." The Hannite paused to cringe, and then continued when he realized he was still alive. "There was more that I and my brother's wrote down, for the interpretation, but..." He eyed Granax. "Prophecy seems to have lost its favor with some. Verses those who prefer sleeves soaked in gore, as in the days of old." The hannite was clearly flattering the Umbaran as one that preferred results, over the appearance of clean robes. The monk did this, after Yo'selmus had been flattering Granax for his spotless robes. Anyone in the market place would know that the only other person they had seen with such remarkably clean attire after a long march in the woods of Pzob, was Brother Eli, the defacto leader of the Inquistorious, with his white robes and wide brimmed preacher's hat.

The Hannite turned to some of the curious on lookers to put their minds at ease. "Do not be sad, Brother Yo'selmus foretold this would be his end."
"Whayt, by majics?"
"No, in the service of the Eye! -In the rapturous throes of a prophetic fugue!" The Hannite closed his eyes. "I would gladly give up my wits to embrace the gift of prophecy as he had!"
The Hannite's brethren watched from a distance waiting, before the young cultist gathered himself with a bow to the Umbaran. "I apologize my lord, I must take my leave. Please accept the offering of my body and feast upon my flesh." With that, the Hannite pulled out a knife and stabbed himself in the neck, shooting blood meters in every direction, but mostly at Granax. The blood generously bathed the old man in the Hannite's red offering and sacrifice to the cannibalistic Umbaran.

Last Edit: Nov 22, 2024 8:03:06 GMT -8 by Dread Lord Havok: Removed unnecessary reaction.

"Life is pain.
Through pain I gain Wisdom and Hate.
Hate becomes my Sword, and Wisdom guides it.
My own Aims give a meaningless Life like Mine purpose.
I am my Ambition; I will conquer.
Without my passion, I am already dead.
Without my hate, I am unarmed.
Without pain, I am a fool.
All ends with death."

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
Traffic Light: Blue

City Ruins Nov 23, 2024 7:34:08 GMT -8 Dread Lord Havok likes this

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Post by Dragus on Nov 23, 2024 7:34:08 GMT -8

A warning tickled Mephisto's otherworldly senses moments before the monk's body erupted in a gory explosion that further coated his already filthy yellow habit in a spattering of red flecks and fleshy bits. The coppery taint of blood teased his appetite, causing the cannibal cultist's black tongue to slide across his thin pale lips, savouring the salty metallic tang staining his mouth.

Nov 20, 2024 17:01:49 GMT -8 Innon'Ruuk said:

"You Are Still Soiled"

Raising a hairless brow, the umbaran offered Granox's backside an incredulous look, making a mental note to send the Keep of the Temple his dry cleaning bill. Oh, who was he kidding? He was never going to wash it. He had his ghoulish reputation to consider. Pinching a ragged scrap of monk meat from his robe, the High Priest turned to regard the other hannite, this one speaking far planer than the seemingly insane ramblings of his exploded kin. He quickly discovered this monk's words were more to his liking.

It was true, Famine's blessing...or curse, depending on how one considered such things, resided within him. The near death blow Fragus had dealt him during his investigation of Poisonberry Village to the south had forced the Hunger Cultist to make a necessary decision. Now he hungered for more than just the flesh of his fellow fiend, developing an unquenchable thirst for the stuff of souls that no amount of debauchery and depraved activity could satiate.

Mephisto's colourless eyes widened in surprise when the Hannite stabbed himself in the neck, opening his throat, accompanied by a geyser of steaming hot blood. Reaching out, the cultist caught the dying monk's body before it could fall to the ground, cradling the dying man in his arms. In moments his pus sour yellow habit had been coloured crimson by the monk's spilling vitae. "Be with the Eye." Hissed the High Priest, the usual cruelty of his tone softened by the act of devotion displayed by the cooling corpse in his arms. Draping a hand over the monk's face, the umbaran closed the cadavers eyes, then laid his body on the ground. He looked up at Granox, who was a little soiled himself at this point.

"Prophecy and psychosis..." His lips parted, exposing his ghastly needle-nub teeth, his words accompanied with breath carrying just a hint of grave mold. "Two sides of the same coin." Mephisto stood, resting two skeletal hands on his hips as he spoke to the Keeper with utter conviction. "You've never seemed to care for anything outside your duties, Granox, but consider this. One fools words might be madness, but two? It is a sign of things to come." Biting his lip, a bead of black corrupted blood rolled down his chin, further staining the front of his considerably soiled and blood soaked attire. "Granox..." He growled with some resentment in his tone, the words leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth that no amount of carrion could clear. "...I desire..." He paused, then shook his head. "No, not desire. I need...your help." An utterly revolting and pathetic settlement if ever he espoused one, but there it was, stated for all the Cradle of the Eye to hear. "Heed my words, if not these fools. Fragus will come. Of that there is no doubt. The only thing that rivals the Famine Lord's hunger is the Toad's Lord's envy. Alone he is a dangerous foe, but with an army of night ewoks at his back, there is nothing save the return of the High Lords that could stop him. Our city is a ruin and our Order is divided. I can muster the collective might of the Hunger Cult, but the others won't listen to me. You, however, still have their respect. The Mortuary Cult of Lord Mortale, the War Camps of Innon'Ruuk...Palpatine's black bones! Even the raving lunatics under Lord Kaan, would heed your words, if you called them to action."

Last Edit: Nov 23, 2024 7:35:58 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Innon'Ruuk
Adventists of the Eye

There is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand.

Posts: 609

Affiliation: Order of the Eye
Traffic Light: Green

City Ruins Nov 23, 2024 15:03:04 GMT -8

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Post by Innon'Ruuk on Nov 23, 2024 15:03:04 GMT -8

Maybe these are not just ramblins anymore Granox thought but legitimate concerns amongst the Children of the Eye for they are troubled by this Fragus. Time to remind them that are Protected, Loved, Cared for. Embracing the offering of body before him. Speaking ancient Sith. A more accepting tone.

"Mephisto, My Child, I Apologize, Come With Me, Gather All Who Will Follow, We The Temple and Granox Will Help You, We See You.
Granox raises his walking stick, pointing in the direction of the Temple off in the distance.

"Come Home Child Of The Eye Granox pauses. It was just prophesied, The dice foretold it, he was to old to see. No... You Will Unite The Factured And Make Them One, For You And I Are One And One With Five. First Brother Of Pzob, We Proclaim Thee."

Granox has found his replacement, He will soon become one with her, immortality in the darkside is his reward, her forever embrace.

"Do You Accept This Charge My Brother Mephisto?, Come Speak With Her As I Do, Are You Ready See For The First Time What Purity Of The Eye Is?"

The Keeper waits as She calls out to all to feel.

Unity is Purity, Purity is Unity.

Aug 14, 2021 17:26:01 GMT -8 Innon'Ruuk said:

Many called them zealots, cultists, tyrants, a hoaky religion....

Maybe we are....

Last Edit: Nov 23, 2024 15:04:22 GMT -8 by Innon'Ruuk

Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

Dragus
The Sith Eternal

In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.

Posts: 1,428
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
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City Ruins Nov 24, 2024 12:37:26 GMT -8

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Post by Dragus on Nov 24, 2024 12:37:26 GMT -8

Granox's words genuinely surprised the emaciated priest, the evidence of which was writ all over his ghoulish face, the umbaran's piranha like mouth hanging agape. The darkside ran through his corrupted veins as surely as the black tar he called blood, and Famine had shown him his favour on more than one occasion, but between Yo'selmus and Granox' proselytizing, he was beginning to feel a bit like the chosen one in some prophecy. Technically, according to the puddle of filth the monk had been reduced to on the cracked flagstones of the market, he supposed he was. Of course, this ascension would mean stepping beyond his role as the head of the Hunger Cult and taking on a much larger responsibility. He didn't know if he was ready, or even if he was really worthy. What would Famine think of this? Would his Master be pleased by his acceptance of this, or would he seek to punish Mephisto for rising beyond his place? There were no certainties, but one thing was clear to him above all else. To do nothing when he could have done something to stop that wretched toad Fragus, that would be the gravest of blasphemies. Sworn to Famine or not, his duty first and foremost was to the Eye and its righteous Order. His jaw clicked as his mouth clamped shut, crushing a collection of flies that had been drawn to the rotting morsels of carrion caught between his sharpened teeth. The shock he felt vanished, replaced by a villain's sneer that espoused confidence in the decision, despite the obvious uncertainty he struggled within internally.

"If it will give me another chance to slit that fat frog's throat..." He hissed wetly, swallowing the mash of pulped insects in his mouth as he lowered his right hand and rested his long spindly digits on the pommel of a sword in a drexl scale scabbard strapped to his waist. One of the famed Fangs of Famine. The corner of his lip curled arrogantly. "...then I accept."

His master would have to find himself a new High Priest for the Hunger Cult, and be satisfied with Fragus decapitated head as recompense. Removing his hand from the reek leather bindings wrapped around the swords handle, the umbaran swept his arm towards the Black Temple.

"Lead the way, Brother." He said, yet as the last word left his mouth, he heard a voice inside his head, cutting through his thoughts like a hot vibro-knife through a cold block of blue butter. Unity is Purity, Purity is Unity. Alright, this was starting to freak him out a bit.

Last Edit: Nov 24, 2024 12:38:59 GMT -8 by Dragus

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Yes, I seek perfection. Perfection of body, perfection of mind, and perfection of the soul. Attaining perfection is the ultimate acquisition of power, and I crave power."

- Dragus, excerpt from the Book of Hate

Dread Lord Havok
The First Order

Posts: 952
Affiliation: Sith, darkside, Adventists of the Eye, Imperial Remnant
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City Ruins Nov 26, 2024 17:56:22 GMT -8

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Post by Dread Lord Havok on Nov 26, 2024 17:56:22 GMT -8

The blood and hub-bub attracted a man with wolfish features in armor with a stylized "I" of the inquisitorious. "Now what kind of inquisitor would I be if there was a xeno-killing party and I wasn't a part of it? Eh?" The inquisitor eyed the Umbaran as he produced a matchstick and a spiceweed cigar. "Now I don't know who Fragus is, or rightly care, but if he offends the God-Emperor of all mankind he is a heathen or a heretic, and I will see his insides become outsides. All the better if he is also xeno-filth." The inquisitor ignited the match with a flick of his wrist and began lighting the cigar with deep puffs. "I am Father Solomon of the inquisitorious, newly arrived and chosen by Brother Eli, Lord Havok's Axios." His voice was gravel-y as he blew smoke from his nose in twin streams like a fire breathing krayt dragon. "Many are called but few are chosen. I fear no toad. The Emperor Protects!"

As he approached Mephisto and Granax, he grabbed for one of the departing Seerists-- a bald one at that. The bald cultist imperceptibly dodged, causing the inquisitor to grab air. "By the Eye-!" He exclaimed and reached for the hannite again, only to have a circle of half a dozen Hannites of the Dread Seer's cult turn on him with their walking sticks, and pointing them as if they had blades or were blasters. The inquisitor chuckled dismissively at the puny threat their staves posed to his armored and genetically enhanced body. "Normally I'd be bothered and kill you all on principle for threatening an inquisitor, but this is comical." He did not consider their sticks to be real threats.

"Appearances can be deceiving." The bald monk (that the inquisitor tried to grab) spoke, with a distinctly feminine voice. "What is it that you want, Inquisitor."

"Dammit boy, in the old days seers and inquisitors often worked together to uncover witches and daemons hiding among the righteous." Father Solomon paused as if that was enough of an explanation, to which the bald monk just stared. The Father continued, "Brother Eli gave proper dispensation to have one of you accompany me." Inquisitor Solomon looked over the other cultists but they all seemed equally scrawny. "I choose you boy. You are able to perform that duty, yes?"
"Yes."
"Lord knows what I'm working with here." Father Solomon turned back to Mephisto and Granax with a tone of disappointment. "From what I gather, the Seer Cult, they are not so militant as the other cults."
The bald feminine monk spat, "As a newcomer, you may be forgiven. But as an inquisitor..."
*Tick, Click*

The hairs on Father Solomon's neck stood up as he felt the cultist's staff touch the back of his head. Only then did he feel cold metal, instead of wood. "An Illusion!"
"You should know that we prefer headshots to fisticuffs." The young cultist spoke in a lower voice to seem more intimidating. It wasn't that they were not militant, it was that a good enough Seerist was a master of a single devastating strike. "The good ones make outstanding scouts and snipers. The best in fact." Unbeknownst to most, this boy had stalked his way to the blood berry neti glen himself as a rite of passage and brought back a basketful of the choicest bunches for Lord Havok to gift to Lord Dragus. His prowess was proven on that point and was technically to be considered a man because of it.
"HA! HAHAHA!" Solomon laughed and turned on the boy to see the staff had reverted to its natural form, a long thin disrupter rifle. "There's more to you then meets the eye, eh boy? What's your name?"
"Akolo. I'm a man now. I've passed the rites." Akolo continued talking deliberately in a low voice.
"Duly noted, son." Father Solomon took a deep drag on his cigar and made a holy sign in the air over Akolo's head before turning back to Lord Mephisto and Lord Granax. "There you have it. Akolo and I are at your service."

Last Edit: Nov 26, 2024 19:21:14 GMT -8 by Dread Lord Havok

"Life is pain.
Through pain I gain Wisdom and Hate.
Hate becomes my Sword, and Wisdom guides it.
My own Aims give a meaningless Life like Mine purpose.
I am my Ambition; I will conquer.
Without my passion, I am already dead.
Without my hate, I am unarmed.
Without pain, I am a fool.
All ends with death."

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