Mawite Legend
Location: Kinoss, CEDF Depot Ruins
Tags: Dyans Keto | Keilara Kala'myr | Zachariel Steelblood | Aldo Garrick
As The Mongrel and his honor guard advanced, preparing to attend the council, the warlord noticed a new presence arriving beside him: faithful Mercy, the greatest of his champions. Ever since he had captured her on Carlac, allowing the Taskmaster to turn her to the side of the Maw, she had aided the Scar Hounds mightily in every battle. There was no other that he trusted as greatly - an odd feeling, given that his first encounter with her had been her attempt to kill him. The fact that she had nearly succeeded had convinced him of her worth.
"GOOD," The Mongrel replied, his vocabulator buzzing as it translated his brain's impulses into cybernetic speech. "WALK WITH ME. LET US SEE ABOUT THIS NEW CRUSADE." It would be valuable to have this trusted ally alongside him, for he was not at his best. His injuries weighed him down, injuries to his very mind, and until they healed he would need assistance in staying alert to the ever-shifting politics of the Maw. The unwary would be devoured in this eternal contest of strength. He did not intend to be counted among them.
Beside them, the representatives of the Bloodsworn made their own greetings, including to The Mongrel himself. The warlord tried reflexively to incline his head in recognition, then remembered that he no longer had one. So instead he spoke. "GIVE MY REGARDS TO YOUR MASTER ALSO," he replied, hating the flat, tinny sound of his digital voice. He was glad that he and Zachariel had reached an understanding, a mutual respect based on recognizing one another's prowess as warriors. He did not want to have the Gen'dai for an enemy.
And then another figure stepped forth, one whose appearance drew a hush over the crowd. The Mongrel's photoreceptors struggled to refocus and make out the shape of the man. It couldn't be... could it? But it was. Aldo Garrick, the dead admiral, slain in battle as his starship broke around him, walked into the center of the gathering. The Mongrel ought to have felt awe, as the marauders did. He ought to have seen this as a sign of the might of the Dark Voice, of the power of the Maw to reach beyond death. Instead, he felt... empty.
Was this their destiny? To become hollow shells of themselves, dragged back from their final reward again and again, made to serve the Brotherhood even past the time of their martyrdom? Would they ever reach the Galaxy To Come, or would Rebirth play a cruel joke on them over and over, casting them from the threshold of paradise back into this corrupt and decaying age? He did not know, and he supposed it did not matter. He was helpless before the Avatars, the only true gods; whatever their will might be, he would see it done.
But he was tired. So very tired.
The Mongrel's focus shifted as Dyans spoke again, the Krath leader preparing to begin the war council. "VERY WELL," he buzzed, his spiderlike frame scuttling sideways to face her properly. "SPEAK, AND I WILL LISTEN. IS IT THE GOAL OF THESE CRUSADERS TO BRIDGE THE GAP BETWEEN MARAUDER AND FINAL DAWN? HOW WILL THEY ACHIEVE THIS? ARE THEY TO BE OUR OVERSEERS?" The thought rankled him. His warriors were rightfully proud of the destiny they had forged for themselves; they needed no others above them.
Especially others as yet untested in battle.