Dominion Come And See | BotM Dominion of Seeratter

[Thalia Senn]

She had never felt such focus nor such pure, cold rage in all her life. The two Thalias' blades cracked against one another again and again. She could see that her weaker self was speaking, but the words were muted by the storm raging around them and the crashing waves.

Finish this game.

Tempest's snarl returned. She drew even more on the Dark Side, pulling it from the deepest wells of power she could find, she could remember.

"Shrii ka rai ka rai

We're coming to take you away

Shrii ka rai ka rai

We're coming to take you away

They'll do what they can

And they'll do what they must

But when they do find you all you'll be is...

Blood and Bone."
​

Tempest nearly vomited. Where had that come from? The lullaby was easily thousands of years old. Images of dark bodies with too-long limbs and big, bulbous heads filled her mind. They swam up from the deepest parts of Pamarthe to devour young children who sailed too far from home. She knew the lullaby had been changed. The monster it alluded to was not the Nameless. Those didn't scare normal people, let alone the people of hardy Pamarthe. But the harsh water world had plenty of other ghost stories and this one had a special place in her locked away memories.

The fear. The pain. The cold. She should have never taken her father's boat out that day. That day she'd touched the Thresher. The memory rushed up to meet her and from the tips of her fingers came lightning. The bolts traced her weaker self and made Thalia drop Doxmite as she flew back into the cabin of the small skimmer, splintering the wood. She twitched, small arcs of electricity still visibly wracking her body.

Tempest could feel the fear in the little crystal as she scooped it up. It was weak now, the effort of empowering Thalia and keeping Tempest out finally making it more pliable. Tempest smirked and stepped up to Thalia. That fear she felt when she was a little girl, touching the minds of millions of those dark things, she turned it into power. She plunged Doxmite into the chest of Thalia and she drank in the pain, the loss, the fear and pumped those feelings into the crystal.

You will be mine.

The blade began to shift in color from pink to crimson. It was as if it was draining the blood from Thalia. The pain was too much for Doxmite though and as the red crept she felt physical cracks forming in the crystal.

"What....have you done?" Thalia asked weakly as her body fell apart into a heaping mass of skyeels that flew away. Tempest screamed in triumph, but that triumph was short-lived. The lullaby, it wouldn't leave her mind and as she tried to force the feelings of fear from her mind she noticed several heavy, wet footsteps on the skimmer. She turned, her new weapon at the ready and felt claws rip through her armor and pierce her chest. As her vision began to blur she saw the great maw of a Thresher wrapping around her skull. Tears welled up in her eyes as her childhood fear became reality.

Finally. We may feed.

​

She awoke from her nightmare holding a cracked and disfigured doxmite. The lightsaber's hilt was damaged beyond repair but inside she could see the crystal, feel it. It was like a thousand tiny screams and she knew that she had succeeded. Why then, did she also feel that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong?

 

[Maris Fero]

Spoiler: tl;dr

+ Thinking Traps about what sort of traps.

+ Lightsaber found beneath the dead beast, using the Force

+ It's broken.

+ Realising the place is open to other visitors if the bug got in, and that her force use might alert them.

+ Scuttling like a bug along the wall and ceiling to avoid more traps. Following a feeling.

- FOUR -​

Location: Seeratter, Vault, Present Day
Tags:

With the sudden brutal halving of the Stonechewer, the immediate danger to Maris had ended. However, the danger ahead posed by the revealed traps was real, and in fact all the more terrible due to the impersonal, untargetable nature of menace the hidden defences represented. One false footstep might have been the sudden end to Maris’ journey, and the Shrikes dreams had, of course, shown her nothing of this threat, let alone a safe passage through the challenges set by the vaults mysterious creator.

What was certain was that the beast had triggered something, Maris suspected a pressure plate but supposed it could have been laser tripwire. Taking careful steps to approach the fallen beast's carcass, Maris ducked down very low to inspect the source of the energy field previous discharge. It was short work finding disguised emitters placed along one of the many seams between heavy floor tiles, with the buildup of dust and grime in the abandoned vault it would be almost impossible to detect more without a patient search at the floor level, assuming none had been mounted in the walls or ceiling. And Maris knew that if she had designed such a trap corridor, she wouldn’t have hesitated before mounting other devices midway up the wall to cut unwary travellers down to size.

It occurred to her at that moment that she should probably do exactly that aboard her own station soon enough. She had relied on stealth, anonymity and her droids so far, but Maris was becoming more and more convinced that nothing ever remained hidden forever - despite her own wishes. Take her own arrival in this bygone and buried vault, her presence due solely to the whims and caprice of the force, Maris suspected, drawing her in with a dream. But now that she was here, she sensed the pull take her deeper. It was an urge the likes of which she had never felt before. Something down here, forgotten and sealed away in the darkness was calling to her.

Reaching to her belt, the infiltrator pulled a smoke capsule free and snapped it, letting a small plume of misting dark smoke billow from the utility item before she tossed it ahead and watched the first of the smoke begin to fill the hallway ahead. She watched, impatient, as the smoke rose and spread, no sign of the telltale laser sensors appearing. Pressure plates then. No matter.

She turned her attention to the debris around her and reached out to feel for her lightsaber in the force, eyes narrowing as she sensed the touch of the dull crystal within and urged the weapon back to her hand. Motion at the edge of the fallen Stonechewer confirmed her fears, the beast had collapsed atop the weapon, or swallowed it even. With a snarl, she called upon her power and rage and her fingers splayed like claws. She slowly rotated her wrist until her palm face upward and with effort, she watched the heavy half a corpse begin to lift and struggle into the air enough for her to free the trapped weapon and snatch it back the ten feet to her hand.

The weapon hilt felt damaged in her grasp, something within seemed to have come loose, and part of the casing had cracked along the length of the grip. Testing the initiator, the weapon sputtered and failed once. Holding it tighter Maris tried again and the lightsaber's short shoto blade found life again, but the pitch of the energy field was wrong, Maris had no idea if it would function for long and she deactivated the device again quickly, noting to her dismay and increasing frustration that the hilt had begun to heat with prolonged activation.

No Lightsaber. Back to the ceramic edge and the shock prod it was, at least until she had time to sit down and figure out a repair for the stolen device.

She should move again, she considered, looking back the way the beast must have come. If this beast was here then there was another entrance open, and if an entry was open that meant other tomb robbers were probably already inside. If any of them had any sort of proficiency with the force, they might be on the same track as Maris, or maybe they already felt her presence when she moved the beast.

Speculation served her no good. Calling on the force to enhance her physicality and feeling the strength of the Darkside seeming to grow on this planet with every moment she moved off at pace, moving diagonally across the hall to the wall between the beast and her intended direction deeper into the vault. As she came closer the slender apprentice leapt, maintaining momentum as she took several long strides along the side of the vertical wall and through the smoke. Her motion carried her forwards and her hands found purchase on the wall's surface, the custom gloves and boots she wore adhering to the surface as she scuttled along as if she were an insect.

She continued, on up the wall diagonally, until the Shrike was crawling along the ceiling as a spider might, silent and predatory as she followed her instincts deep into the heart of the dark.

 

[TK-818]

DEVIL​

"Good," the Ebruchi burbled in reply.

Sinh had long served the Brotherhood, long served the Warriors of Ren and their master Kyrel Ren . The Shadow had become his devotion, it’s secrets one by one becoming his. He had no teacher to guide him, no scrolls to instruct him. He harbored no hidden schemes or grand plans, his ambitions always surmounting to what was the Will of the Dark Side. The Will of the Shadow.

"Together we will claim the riches within. They will fuel the Brotherhood's glorious crusade."

The dark warrior silently nodded in agreement, his composure showing his readiness for what laid within. There was little else to say, the two had been through many conflicts, many battles that had forged them into what they’d become. If anything there was a understanding, a mutual knowing of another that could come only from the crucible of combat or ravages of war.

He followed the hobbled form of Tu'teggacha as he transcended the once-barrier kept by the colossal doorway. As they held their lanterns high to light the way, Sinh took in their surroundings, studying everything that fell before his gaze. The place was beautifully crafted, a true haven worthy of the fabled pirate queen. He could only marvel at the ingenuity and danger presented with such a place as they advanced further and further from the outside in. The tunnel stretched on.

"First, we should hunt down the Shorak treasure hunters who survived our attack. A few of them fled inside the vault. Most likely the traps and guardians, whatever they are, have finished them all off... but we should make sure. Following their path will tell us much about this place's defenses."

A hunt.

The Knight of Ren pressed his hand firmly against his halberd and nodded in agreement. It would be done, the Taskmaster was no fool and neither was the Dark Disciple. Lifting his halberd from the hardened tunnel floor beneath his feet the warrior began to scout ahead, moving in front of the others as the new vanguard to the party. He paused briefly, head tilting to his shoulder to catch a glance back at the Ebruchi in his wake.

<“I’ll see them bend or break before you. Wait here for my return.”>

He would begin the hunt, it was time to see if he could track these Shorak. It was time to see who was the better killer.

 

[Tu'teggacha]

Location: Seeratter, Vault's South Entrance
Tags: TK-818 | Maris Fero

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Tu'teggacha waits for Sinh to hunt down the survivors
• Shorak treasure hunter Naax tries to escape the tunnels

If there was one thing the Taskmaster hated, it was personal risk.

That was why he loved having loyal minions so much.

So when Sinh offered to go ahead of the Ebruchi's little looting party, taking care of the surviving treasure hunters for him while he stayed back in relative safety, Tu'teggacha could not have been more pleased. His facial tendrils twisted into the ghastly Ebruchi version of a smile, partly exposing the horrific rings of teeth that lurked beneath them. "Your zeal is commendable," he told the Knight of Ren. "Good hunting." Truly, this was the perfect situation. The Shorak treasure hunters would blunder through the traps and reveal the guardians, and then Sinh would mop up the survivors, eliminating the danger in a single two-step process.

So the Taskmaster lingered at the threshold, waiting out the bloodbath.

-----------------------------------------
​

Deep in the twisting halls of the complex, Naax gripped her blaster tight.

As far as she could tell, she was the only one left. Boaz, Yora, and Riiv had been killed in the ambush at the entrance. Olon, Qilli, and Yern had been taken alive, which was probably worse. In the wake of that initial firefight, the rest of them had retreated in the only direction they could - into the vault itself. That hadn't gone well, either. Rovano had gotten himself shredded by monofilament wire strung across a doorway. Alzead had been eaten by one of those huge arachnids, which had apparently found a weak spot in the ray shields - or some other entrance? - and tunneled into the complex. Ehler had stepped on a mine. Ghek had triggered a pit trap.

That accounted for all of them except Divu and Traos, lost or dead out in the dark.

Naax was still in shock over just how fast everything had fallen apart. An hour ago, just a single measly hour, they'd been celebrating around their campfire back at the vault entrance. They'd finally managed to crack the puzzle that the Pirate Queen had used to secure the colossal magnalock that held the impenetrable doors shut, the first people in two thousand years to figure it out. All their research and preparation, ten years of work, had finally paid off. They'd opened the way to the fortune that was going to save their families from the Maw, the threat that had terrified them since the day they'd heard that Csilla was suddenly just gone.

And then, within an hour, all their work had been stolen out from under them.

Oh, feth. She was never going to see her wife again, was she?

Forcing the thought down as hard as she could, Naax raised her slowly dimming glow rod higher, trying her best to illuminate the way. No. She refused to die here. If she couldn't bring the treasure home, she could at least bring herself, and she was going to fight like hell to make that happen. Someone had to tell the people of Shor what had happened here, to preserve the names of the dead. The treasure hunter's mind raced, trying to come up with a plan. Well, if the stonechewers had gotten in while the vault doors were sealed, then there had to be another way out. She could find that way. She could escape this awful place.

Naax did not know that Maris Fero crawled above her, spiderlike...

... or that TK-818 was coming for her in the dark.

 

[Kralmus Orr]

Location: Seeratter System, Listening Post Approach
Allies: Marlon Sularen | Dyans Keto
Foes: Aeson Keel

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Kralmus fights through the rest of the guard droids

​

If the Brotherhood had intended to simply destroy the listening post, blowing it out of the dark skies above Seeratter, this battle would likely already be over. But that had not been the decision the higher-ups had made. They wanted to place captured relatively intact, with as many prisoners taken and databanks secured as possible. The Maw wanted to find out how much the Galactic Alliance had learned from their spying efforts, how much information had leaked out of their desolate domain. And besides, an intact long-range espionage post might prove useful to the Brotherhood. If the station's sensors could reach Iol, they could reach Makatak, Iskadrell, and Ponemah Terminal.

They could be turned to spy on the Alliance's frontier worlds, instead of the Brotherhood's.

Such tactical considerations were, like the one-sided battle raging in space, irrelevant to Kralmus Orr. He was a warrior, not a commander, and he didn't care for the minutia of strategy. He lived for the pumping of adrenaline through his body, the shudder of impact up his muscular arms, and the spray of warm blood across his armor - or better yet, his face. So far he was getting two of those things; the enemies he was facing, frustratingly enough, were droids, and did not bleed. He had to content himself with sprays of machine lubricant, and even through his armor he could tell that the warmth and texture were all wrong. It was like having your steak switched out for a salad.

Sure, it was still food, but it just wasn't the same.

The droids were tough, too. This was the superior technology of the Alliance at work, cutting-edge military hardware designed to minimize their casualties while remaining combat effective. The damn things were a highly-effective tarpit, gradually regenerating from any blow that didn't put them down outright. They were forcing Kralmus to hold his axe two-handed and low, whipping his body around in long, powerful strikes that took full advantage of both strength and momentum... and all the while they were shooting him. His slate and crimson armor was blackened with carbon scoring, and he could feel it growing hot. Enough concentrated fire would surely breach it.

And then one of the droids employed another weapon entirely.

As the neural pacifier beam struck him, Kralmus found his thoughts scattering, as if he'd suddenly awoken from a dream he was already starting to forget. He let go of his axe, which went flying from his grasp and whacked its haft against one of the remaining droids with a dull clang. Behind his helmet, he blinked several times, his yellow-eyed vision suddenly a little fuzzy. For a weaker-willed man, that might have been just the beginning of the stunning effect, giving the droids enough time to finish him off. But Kralmus was not that man. With a shake of his horned head, he brushed aside the disorientation. A brutal skinning knife appeared in each hand, and he hissed loudly.

Back into the fray he went, slashing cables, piercing chestplates. The cannibal had recalibrated his armor, allowing him to better shut out the disruptor energy, and subsequent hits slowed him less and less as both body and technology adjusted. Within two minutes the rest of the droids lay splayed out across the hall, dismembered and leaking oil, their slashed chassises sparking weakly. Kralmus himself was breathing hard, shoulders heaving with exertion. He sheathed his knives and bent down, retrieving his dropped axe. He was wasting too much time here. If he didn't hurry, the organic personnel were going to get away, and he would lose out on the real fun.

Time to make haste, then. He grinned, running a forked tongue along serrated teeth, and ran.

 

[Aeson Keel]

Marlon Sularen | Kralmus Orr

Whispers in the Dark

Chaos.

The assault had begun in earnest now. Boarding pods and breaches were being detected all over the small station. At just over 300 meters the station was tall, but its actual livable space was incredibly small. Most of the length was taken up by important systems, shield generators, sensory equipment and the like with space enough only for a small team of engineers but more likely a single maintenance droid like a DD-6 or some other astromech. In the cramped halls of the station now as the small contingent of Alliance marines and security droids things were looking hairy. The 222nd was doing what little they could though and he was glad the Admiral had sent them in.

"Go! Round the corner we'll cover you!" One of the marines shouted. Aeson cursed. Not much he could do but help evacuate. They had cut off most other routes to the hangar bay where the ship was waiting under heavy guard. Aeson nodded to the marine. He checked his chrono. Just five minutes left until the station scuttled itself. They hadn't had time to completely wipe the cores but he assumed most of what they'd find are things they already knew. Or maybe the initial scans of the sector. It was negligent of him, but these lives were more important, tactically speaking, than the data itself.

Just before he turned the corner he saw the two marines turn to fire on the incoming Maw horde. Was that a Mandalorian? If the Mandalorian tribes were involved this could be a problem.

​

Mayson Asyr was reaching the end of his life. Late into his 70s, kolcta treatments and cybernetics had kept him in 'fighting shape' and as an admiral of the late Galactic Alliance he had been allowed to retain his rank and position, though most of his assignments had been things like this. Places where his experience would come in handy but also had low risk of actual strenuous combat. Well, who was laughing now? Alliance High Command had tried their best to keep Asyr out of the glory but today he would finally find glorious purpose in this new Alliance.

The turbolasers from the surprise assault had taken one of his ships down. Luckily the Vigil had been docked to the station's hangar for resupply and had been protected by the station's powerful shield. But now he was left with a gunship and a corvette. Not much to face off against an entire fleet of battlecruisers. Legends say that over the desert planet of Jakku a Starhawk had once taken down an Executor, a warship of such size and power that they hadn't seen the like successfully produced in number since the ancient days of Palpatine's Empire. He hoped for a modicum of that commander's luck and that modern Starhawks held up to the stories.

"Sir! They're charging some kind of super laser!" Asyr's four throats grumbled a response, the translator spewing out the old man's thoughts.

"Don't worry, our shields should be able to take one hit." He'd seen the specs. And the telemetry confirmed his thoughts. Let them waste their time. For now, he just had to keep the ships occupied. More rumbles.

"What is the status of our fighter squadrons? Are the corvettes in our hangar ready to launch yet?" That would bring his useable capital ships up to five.

"Launching dampner aerosol missiles!" There was a whoosh as several massive missiles rocketed outside the shield bubble of the cruiser and flew until the missiles either dispersed their payload on their own or their range was cut short by a stray turbolaser blast. For a time the Starhawk was obscured in the pink smoke but as turbolaser shots came in the concentrated dust began to disperse the energy, turning them into harmless blips on the shield sensors.

"The Starshark and Bearclaw are ready to launch but Redline is still rearming. No word yet from the Colastar." Asyr rumbled, a true rumble this time as no words came from the bulky cybernetic implant that encased his neck.

"Hold them back for now. Tell their crews to prep for launch and get the Redline and Colastar online as fast as possible!"

"Support craft have reported a safe landing in one of the station's hangars. Marines are on the scene and are evacuating staff."

"Good. If we're still alive in five minutes I want every one of you to leave the ship in those shuttles and escape pods. I'll make sure the station is scuttled." The bridge was silent, the only sound the occasional beep from a console and the dull thud of turbolaser fire pelting the shield of the Starhawk.

"Yes sir," said the vessel's second in command.

 

[Thomas Barran]

3rd post

Thomas Barran
"The Shriven One"

Objective 3: BYOO
Tags: Open to interaction, Tommeh's hame!

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART FOUR

Defence Center, Rebirth Homestead,
Fort Shriven, Righar (Winter of 872 ABY)

The site's construction and upgrades wouldn't end with the Equinox of 871 ABY, and certainly not whilst the Technobarbarians still reigned supreme over Rhigar, for much and more was to be done to ensure the world's safety, to keep their rivals and adversaries alike from smelling weakness or vulnerability in the air. Besides the indoor-farming operations for the eco-engineers to work with, the same bored minds would help in the conception of solid outer defences, keeping the engineers perfectly occupied as they waited through torturous stretches of time for the right equipment, though the work on the Warlord's Wall in particular was proving quite effective in keeping the engineers happy for the foreseeable future. Yet that foreseeable wouldn't last too long, as all their hardest work would finish as soon as construction of the outer wall had been completed, a future event that none were looking forward to, but the arrival of the eco-engineering rigs would soon put these issues to rest.

<"Rook, Dreamer - you there?">

<"Yup">

<"I'm here, Shriven.">​

Though the wait itself was already seeming to be a case of going to the best place for such equipment, already considering the short trip to Mar-Zhambul to pick up some of their own, all whilst suggesting that the only Scar Hound without battle-gear should search the discarded-plunder scrapyard for something suitable. The Shriven One had been considering this for almost a month by then, but needed to be sure his most-important tasks were seen to before he could depart for the Scar Hounds' homeworld, though it wasn't an easy means to stay put in any tangible capacity, something that Barran knew would need to be discussed with his friends before reaching a final decision on the matter.

<"Alright, meet me at Tower: Solipsis in five minutes. We're going back to the Forge a little earlier today, there's something we need to discuss.... And a ritual to plan as well.">

<"Alright, we'll be there. Kinda halfway there myself, so I might be there before Dreamer.">​

If the others favoured the trip upon completion of the Warlord's Wall, then Thomas was sure to sacrifice his caged test-subject, fulfilling purposed aplenty already by the time the winter of 872 ABY began, helping Barran especially with the nuances of his craft as a torturer. Learning a great deal from and about his captive as he learned the technical nuances of the tools he used on the Golden Bones' leader, with small mercies allowed in order to keep his subject alive for as long as possible, the Shriven One would know everything about his victim before the decision to offer the last and chief-element of the squatters to the Avatars of War, Death and Rebirth. His name was Muridan, a former street-urchin of Mos Eisley who left Tattooine in search of wealth and pleasures of the flesh, encountering many of his gang underlings from the seediest corners of every crime-infested planet in which he tried his luck.

Forming the Golden Bones soon later and using their momentum to acquire monopolies in sex-trafficking and prostitution in their,"Ascent", to underworld prominence.

The more the Shriven One learned of Muridan's life and proclivities, the more he looked into the trail of buried victims around the homestead and the events that led to their deaths, the more Thomas despised his tortured test-subject with every last nerve and muscle-fiber in his body, bringing a near-desperate hope to the forefront of Barran's mind. Everything was hoped to make sense in the event his friends agreed with his sentiment, as in that moment, the Shriven One was still under the impression that their disagreement would mean having to learn more of the despicable life his captive had been living before his Tormentor found him. Muridan was a deviant and defiler of the worst, most disgusting varieties rolled into one, and if the Maw had gone in a different, less-than-spiritual route, there was every chance this individual could've become a great enemy to civilisation in his own right.

But the Maw's darkness was fortunately something of a greater purity to any rivalling barbaric malcontent, almost disdainful of heinous criminality in their devoted journey to embrace the threefold process, in complete contrast to the lower-class raiders like the very raider Barran wished so much to sacrifice to the Three Avatars, blessedly stepping away from a vile, stomach-turning caste of warriors who otherwise served as cannon-fodder for the real Marauders and Cyborg-warriors to spring forth from. If the Scar Hounds could step and stomp on the bloodied corpses of men like the scummy Golden Bones, reducing their cadaverous remains to bloody pulps in their wild charges for glory, then the Marauder-class would draw comfort from the fact they knew their meat-shields deserved it.

Tonight is Muridan's night, I can feel it.... I just hope that Rook & Dreamer feel the same way.

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART FIVE

The Forge, Rebirth Homestead,
Fort Shriven, Rhigar (Winter of 872 ABY)

'Despite the mountain we still have to climb, honestly, I still think you're onto something here. The others can't quite articulate it as concisely as you do, but yeah.... Regular Scar Hound equipment is clearly wasted on you, far too simple for a man reborn. And though it looks good on you, its clear you've managed to do well without it. We need something that suits you, something that completes you.'

For what felt like an eternity, the Scar Hound trio discussed futures both immediate and distant together, hashing out means of viably travelling to Mar-Zhambul in a way that incurred no retribution, and in a way that ensured a safe, authorized return to Rhigar as soon as they were ready to bring their findings back; and before long, small to-do list for both planets began to take shape, with the last of their construction-work taking primary precedence before anything else could be considered seriously. All of it transpired as the captive's cage shook with the trembling of his increasing fear of dying horribly, anticipating a death that would've been slow and brutal but still in no way ready to face such dreaded circumstances for his final moments, envisioning the look on the Shriven One's face as he watched on through a blood-spattered smile, enough to give nightmares to even the coldest of cold-blooded killers.

'Alright then, the Plunder Scrapyards it is. That's our goal before this war you speak of picks up again, this is the time we have to prepare for any foe who dares outflank our warlord.... Strategic Reserve in name only, remember?'

A man so frightening to Muridan in that moment that he could scarcely believe the torturer to be human at all, as if he was some sort of demonic-creature wearing human skin, or worse. Not that it mattered, for the last face he would ever see as a living man, in all it's disdainful glory, would soon become an afterthought at best. And in fewer than three hours into the night, the deviant gang-leader would meet his fate, perceived as blessedly soon for the sake of his perpetual suffering until that point.

Though the bitterness would remain to the end, even as they dragged the last of the Golden Bones from his cage by his feet to feed him his last meal, tearfully washing down bread and cheese with thawed snow-water in a metal cup with rage in his heart, bitterly desiring revenge as the trio watched on in apathetic silence. A fitting end for one who probably made others suffer in fashions much worse than the suffering inflicted on himself over the course of two years, a sentiment Muridan's captors shared with vehemence as they discussed it on the way to the site they had prepared specifically for the last of the planetary squatters, a wooden, octagonal platform held in place by bolted scrap-metal, much like those which held up his comrades, though the captive's own was missing a support-column to keep him pinned up.

'Any last words? It's far more than you deserve, and it's your only chance to have your say before the end.'

Dropping his head dejectedly as the splinters of the planks under his knees dug into the flesh and cartilage that protected them, Muridan muttered,'For you? None. For all the bodies buried beneath your feet? I will treasure every last moment I spent with them in life-', cut short by the flat spine of the Shriven One's rusty hatchet. Under other circumstances, the captive would have been allowed to finish his last spoken words as a living man, but in consideration of the nature of his poor choice of words, the deviant was stupid to believe it wouldn't enrage his tormentor to such an extent. However, as soon as the shackles were applied and torches were lit for the ceremony, Barran would find himself gladdened as he watched Muridan spit blood and the last of his teeth out, given heart by the fact he would be shot of the whimpering bottom-feeder once and for all.

'That's more like it.'

Reinvigorated by the fact the real fun was about to begin.

'Enough, time to begin.', Thomas muttered as soon as there was enough pause to interrupt with, stepping over one of the chain-binds to get a better view of Muridan's tattoo-covered back, covered in scars of almost every variety. Leaning forward, far enough so that his head was level with the raider's right ear, Barran whispered,'Your only redemption is not to scream.... Otherwise - only darkness awaits where you're going.', before leaning back and giving the deviant a moment to prepare himself before truly getting underway. The winds of Rhigar would howl and scream as they threw snow-dust everywhere, but strong enough that the clouds overhead would be parted and pushed off in separate westerly directions, giving the trio a gorgeous view of the planet's three moons, glowing with cold, eerie glows that seemed to intermingle at their own specific midnight-regions, and all fully-waxed as shiny orbs of blue and white in the last days of their lunar-cycles.

Rook was heard sighing with reverent joy at the sight as Dreamer was seen physically dropping to his knees, both seeing the good omen for the glorious sign that it was whilst the Shriven One planned the first steps of the actual execution itself, silently thinking to himself as his friends prayed to the Three Avatars. Whatever was transpiring, someone - or something - was watching from a realm far beyond their own comprehension, and they wanted to see this execution proceed without interruption. And Thomas, the budding esotericist, was all too happy to oblige them, all too happy to serve the souls of the eternal.

'For the Avatar of War,
I MAKE WINGS OF WICKED FLESH!!!!

For the Avatar of Death,
I SMASH THE RIBS THAT HIDE BENEATH!!!!

For the Avatar of Rebirth,
I PRESENT THE LUNGS ON THE SHOULDERS!!!!

For those who watch from beyond,
MY REPENTANT SOUL PRESENTS THEE AS MY OFFERING!!!!

HEAR MY SOUL, HEAR MY PRAYER!!!!

FOR I BESEECH OF YOU A WAY,
A PATH - A QUEST I CAN ENDEAVOUR!!!!'​

Never before had the Scar Hounds seen lightning strike on Rhigar, only hearing it in the thundersnow spells that often tore through the region, but when it landed with a flash on the very platform the Shriven One was standing on at the time, the trio knew this was a sign meant for them. This event would be referred to as the,"Omen of Three Moons.", after that day, but the reverence would be put on hold for the sake of their duty to the Three Avatars, and as Rook and Dreamer turned to nod their silent prompts to get to work, Barran roared a hoarse, chesty roar into the starry skies around them, taking in the moment with wild abandon before finally setting to work on Muridan's brutal execution. The last survivor of the Golden Bones would finally understand almost an instant later, sobbing as the Shriven One drew closer, powerless to his own fate as his killer's breathing became more erratic when he drew the sharpened edge of the rusty hatchet across the smalls of his back in plotted-path preparations for what came next.

'Remember, your only redemption is not to scream.... The gods are watching now. Try not to disappoint them, Muridan.'

Then, without any further warning or prompt, Barran got to work, and to the wicked one's credit, the first part would be endured with grunts and mild-flailing, even as smaller chains were attached to the skin that had been flayed away, left to flap in the wind as the next part would be much more difficult to bear. However, much to the relief of the Shriven One, shock would take the Golden Bones' leader the rest of the way; completely delirious after coughing, spluttering and grunting himself into a semi-conscious, incoherent mess after both ribs at the bottom were ripped out in singular succession. Leaning in whisper again, the Woad chuckled for a moment before admitting,'As much as I wanted you to scream and ruin it for yourself, I'm surprised to say you've survived the hardest part.... Redemption awaits if you can keep your eyes open for the rest, an' I know you're good for it.', in the process of removing every other rib that stood between Thomas and the raider's lungs.

'Good work, Shriven. Keep it up!'

Slippery though the task was, the Shriven One was still smart enough to get both lungs out and onto Muridan's shoulders, and without cutting or severing a single blood-vessel in the process, the still breathing lungs would rest well-nestled into the raider's long, matted hair that was flowing at the topsides of his trapezoids. Completing the Blood-Eagle part of the ceremony, all that remained was the heart, and Thomas knew fine and well that the Avatars of War, Death and Rebirth wanted to see him raise it high as the true offering, and the Gods once again liked what they saw when he finally did. With a simple reach down into the cavity on the left side, the Woad grasped the still-beating heart tore it out with an air of impatience, holding it to the moons as he filled his lungs with an abundance of Rhigar's frozen, snowy air for the final incantation of the ritual.

'WAR - DEATH - REBIRTH!!!!
HEAR ME!!!!

WHERE IS IT THAT I MUST-'

PERHAPS WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF YOUR OWN SOUL!!!!

BUT AS FOR WHERE YOUR FEET MUST TREAD-
MAR-ZHAMBUL, EXEGOL.... TYTHON!!!!
IN - THAT - ORDER!!!!

DESTINY AWAITS, THE PATH AWAITS!!!!

YOUR PURPOSE AWAITS!!!!​

As the dark eastern clouds covered the three moons of Rhigar, reclaiming their stormy hold over the world beneath with a fresh wave of gusty, gale-force winds, Thomas roared once more, celebrating with savage elation as bit a clean chunk of Muridan's heart and threw it to the frozen wilderness beyond. Matching their savage, screaming outcries of joy to the Shriven One's own, his friends would reveal they also heard the moons speaking without even so much as saying a word to confirm it, registering with great relief in the mind of the Woad as the trio let it all out together, hurling their wordless exaltations into the darkness beyond as the unwelcome raider's corpse rocked back and forth with the wind in listless, swaying motions. Their quandaries had been answered, though in a reserved, cryptic fashion often attributed to immortal entities of the Three Avatars' ilk, but Barran was smart enough to understand, and with enough ease to know that he was finally taking steps in the right direction.

'WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!!'
'WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!!'
'WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!! WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH!!!!'

 

[Maris Fero]

Spoiler: tl;dr

+ Thinking Traps about what sort of traps.

+ Lightsaber found beneath the dead beast, using the Force

+ It's broken.

+ Realising the place is open to other visitors if the bug got in, and that her force use might alert them.

+ Scuttling like a bug along the wall and ceiling to avoid more traps. Following a feeling.

- FIVE -​

Location: Seeratter, Vault, Present Day
Tags: Tu'teggacha TK-818

Fear

To some practitioners of the Darkside rage and anger were the emotions which called out most keenly to them through the force; For others, it might envy or lust. But for the Shrike, it had resolved to be an acute sense of the gnawing fear in others, above the other strong emotions. And she could almost taste the fear ahead of her.

Like a pale reflection of her own doubts, the traveller ahead and still some way off in the vault tunnels was regretting their choices. Maris could almost taste the loneliness and resignation in the wayward soul at the moment that Naax realised she would like as not never set her eyes upon her spouse again, though, of course, the Shrike had no understanding of the motivation behind the emotion. Whoever it was, they were anxious, and such stresses would only make this labyrinth all the more deadly.

The shadow’s seemed to cling close to the raven-haired apprentice as her pace slowed and she took extra care to maintain her silence as Maris felt the presence of the stranger come closer. She shifted position above the passageway, her body taut as she held herself perfectly still an alcove between two of the deactivated lighting units, hidden in the gloom. A moment later the first hints of light from the approaching glow rod spilt into the passage below Maris, along with the sound of nervous footfalls and the unchecked breathing of the troubled soul.


Would she kill this fellow tomb robber? She considered the question in that coldly detached manner that made Maris particularly dangerous. The stranger might never cause her another issue, perhaps their fates would never cross again. Leaving her alive would likely result in the woman’s death to one of the many traps, but she could also serve as an early warning system, if anyone else was wandering these passages it might be beneficial to let them discover each other and cause a disturbance elsewhere in the complex. But then letting a survivor roam could be just another rival to her prize.

With a gradual, practised motion, the hidden assassin drew out a length of garotte wire from a pocket at her wrist and let it form a noose like loop. It was a coin toss of whether Naax lived or died.

The Shrikes’s breathing slowed and her form stilled as the blaster toting survivor passed beneath her, seeming to pause as if distracted by a sound ahead. Maris eyed the woman dispassionately, noting the conviction in her stance, the sudden decision to survive writ large in her expression.

It was a struggle, Maris felt the urge to take that hope away from the stranger, but at the same time, she put a value on the will to survive - and the will to struggle. She should be allowed to struggle, if she was strong enough she would survive and thrive. Gradually, the Shrike returned the loop of wire to her pouch as Naax found her strength and began to move off into the dark once more. The invisible killer watched her go, head cocking in intrigue before she started on again, heading the strength of the dark pulling her further into the vault.

 

[Thomas Barran]

4th post

Thomas Barran
"The Shriven One"

Objective 3: BYOO
Tags: The Mongrel + OPEN

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART SIX

The Gundabard Ruins, The Runic March, (Formerly The Plain of War)
Zambul Acus Outskirts, Mar'Zambul (Spring of 873 ABY)

'Alright then, initiate. Here's where it all begins for you, an' after this.... We winter in Rhigar again, but you're movin' up t'the Forge when we get back. For now though, we get ye ready for the,"Tactical Reserve", ready to lead your own platoon by the time we're done with you.'

Four Scar Hounds left the rest of the Strategic Reserve on Rhigar, mostly well on in their cybernetic journeys anyway, so further empowerment and training was no longer needed on their part, leaving the Shriven One to take his three closest subordinates across to the former-Gundabard world of Mar'Zambul. Formerly a dark, desolate place where only arcanists, shamans and lich-kings alike reigned supreme, but after the Maw had their way with the planet's inhabitants, the once proud rulers within Zambul Acus would be dead long before the grass had grown long enough to significantly soften the landing of their ship in the pretty, colourful heaviness of the planet in full solar spring. Thomas, Rook, Dreamer and the latest addition to the group had decided unilaterally to land as close as they could to what had once been the Plain of War, opening the off-ramp for their speeders fewer than 50km away from their designated campsite, beginning Ghoul's post-reconditioning initiation from the moment the engine of the Shriven One's speeder roared it's pistons into action.

For days they would try to adjust to the already increased altitude in the construction of their camp, in the building of their fenced-off perimeter, and in the training-schedule that felt all too brutal in the beginning; but acclimatise they would, and acclimatise they did, at least until the Shriven's small expeditionary party took it upon themselves to try tackling the planet's altitude-gravity and it's many differing levels of unfathomably heavy pressure. It was at the summit of the tallest peak in the area, overlooking over the Runic March in it's glorious entirety, this would be the spot where the Shriven One would start constructing his training-grounds; using the increased altitude to it's fullest as Thomas and his comrades hauled rocks and boulders back and forth, working day and night to build the site where they'd eventually move all their equipment to, turning days into weeks as their muscles, tendons, bones and willpower strengthened to visibly-noticeable extents by the end.

And by the time the training site reached a state of near completion, the midsummer heat was already beginning to make it's presence felt as the Shriven One's inner-circle continued to broaden their physical forms, especially when the real training began; beating down on their skulls, necks, chests, arms and shoulders as swords, knives, and hands were put to the test in almost every practiced scenario, acclimatising them to an otherwise-normal solar heat that initially felt much worse under 167% Gravity. In time, they would name both sites, with the former being innocuous enough to be named with ease, but in the naming of the latter, a mild nosebleed would ensue. A small reminder of the life he lived before, but only in a fragment, only in a small droplet of rediscovery, thus leading to a rather minor headache in comparison to others, with the nosebleed ending within seconds of snapping out of it.

The landing-site, aptly named,"Dragon's Rest Station", (designated,"The DRS", soon later) for the amount of nights they spent planning their next steps around a campfire that only ever simmered to ashes twice in the time it took for the second site's construction to conclude, would be a deserted husk of it's former self, almost completely bare but for some landing-pad work they would set to finishing before the autumn leaves had their say. The training site, again aptly named, but in an even more meaningful manner, was dubbed,"Camp Crucible.", with the operative word reminding Thomas of a warfighting ideal he once held dearly to his heart, in a previous life that a lot of Mawites were still trying to piece together. And despite the pain, the Shriven One would continue carving and chipping away at anything standing out against the smooth surfaces of Camp Crucible's many exterior surfaces, joined by momentarily concerned comrades who worked to make the place pristine, for this would be more than a gym, sparring-yard or any of the facilities attributed to their brainchild.

This was to become what many would later consider to be the Shriven One's temple, his most wondrous tri-theistic house of prayer, his very soul's threefold love-letter to the moons of Rhigar.

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART SEVEN

The Plunder Scrapyards, Zambu'Tacris Outskirts,
Black Stone Valley, Mar'Zambul (Fall of 873 ABY)

Alright then, lets see what jumps out at me. Bound t'be something of use here, surely.​

Venturing out from Camp Crucible, Barran's small party-of-four took their speeders many hundreds of miles away from the rough comforts of their temporary home to find the ruined city of Zambu'Tacris, seeking the Maw's plunder scrapyard site so they could finally see to the,"Shopping list", the geo-engineers gave the Shriven One before they parted ways. However, whilst Ghoul, Rook and Dreamer saw to the necessities that gave rise to the trailers they had towed along for the purpose, Thomas would see to the scouring process in his own way, seeking out armour and equipment that better-suited his fighting aura, such that better-suited the most savage traits he was known for. All the signs and omens were leading to this place, and in agreement with the Three Moons, his friends, his comrades and his own heart, Barran was readier than ever to explore for his own sake - a true rarity for a Mawite, even for all the anarchy and deathly freedom the Galaxy attributed to his new caste.

'An' they have the audacity to call it a,"Plunder Scrapyard".... Much too vast for that, man.'

For as far as the eye could see, and for much farther beyond, it was just endless piles of discarded takings from every battlefield on which victory was earned by the Brotherhood, and the Shriven One's feet were ready to track and scuff his boots on as much as was necessary to cover that day. All Mr. Barran could do was let the cadence of his feet drum away as his dead-eyed gaze scanned the wonders around him, seeing more than just discarded plunder and waste, seeing more than the others ever did as the winds kicked up the dust at his feet.

You know what you need, so there's no need for window-shopping here. Not today anyway.
​

First, a gas mask the Shriven One was drawn to, gaining a nosebleed from a memory of an exhibition at a war-history museum, and another as soon as a Durasteel Brodie helmet and old-style combat webbing had been found nearby; not knowing the story of how the items got there, nor of where or who these items were taken from, making the painful experience quite aggravating in the process. However, something else appeared to Barran soon after, something glinting under the evening sun that caught the corner of his periphery, and though it was buried under a pile of otherwise-useless items at the time, Thomas was adamant to find out exactly what it was. Pulling and toppling down whatever stood between the Shriven One and his curiosity, it didn't take long for a distinctive ring reached his ears, understanding almost immediately what it was that caught the eye so alluringly from the offset.

Beskar, pressed into several differing items, all held in place by a fraying, torn synthetic-thread sandbag; a telling sign that whoever had put these items in such a specific spot (as poorly as the sandbag was hidden in the first place) did not want these items to be found, though the individual in question was more likely to have been dead for a few years by then. Making matters even easier in these moments, and much to Mr. Barran's relief and assurance, was in knowing the fact that whoever had left it there had similarly-scant clearances to the likes of the Golden Bones - these items were Scar Hound property whether these sneaky hoarders liked it or not.

'Throwing-daggers, Imperial, Galactic, Ashlan, Sith-Imperial credits.... And what do we have here?'

And the Woad was well aware of his privileges as the Mongrel's close subordinate, given more brazen reason to claim it in the assurance he was more loyal than most to his Warlord.

'Interesting.... Of all the items I wasn't expecting to find here, I would never expect to find a buckler of pure Beskar.... On Mar'Zambul of all places - beautiful, but still wasteful.'

<"Alright, you lot.... Quick question; are there any Mandalorian Forgemasters among the ranks of our comrades? The allied tribes, I mean. We would've known if one served among us, they'd be at my Forge long before I ever found it.">

<"You're not wrong there, Shriven.... I wouldn't know, neither would Dreamer.">

<"However, a certain Ghoul appears to know - shall I give him a comm-device now then, or....?">

<"Go for it, but that can wait. Happy knowing that someone among us knows, an' for the moment, that's more than enough for me. As you were. Shriven out!">​

Chuckling a little to himself, Thomas shrugged off the matter and muttered,'Fair enough, though I dare say that would be a good matter for the return journey.', to himself as he wrapped his hands around the open-top edges of the sandbag to haul it over his shoulder. Then after that, Barran dropped the sandbag carefully at his feet before loading the items that irritated him in contrast, to sit rattling atop the items that didn't aggravate him as he lifted and carried it all one-handed over his right shoulder for the walk back to the speeders. Taking in the welcome sight of Mar'Zambul's rising moon as the evening sun's rays lit the cold glow in a golden veil of warmth, the Shriven One would be left alone with his thoughts, hearing nothing on the air around him for miles but for the distant clunks and arguments of his friends, at least until a presence was felt nearby - one that lacked a heartbeat, but one that was no doubt still recognisably strong in spirit.

'Your footsteps are lighter than they were on Durace anyway, good t'hear.... In any case: how're you faring, Milord? Good to take in an extra 7, 8 G or so?'

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, Black Stone Valley
Tags: Thomas Barran

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mongrel returns to Mar'Zambul
• He reflects on his own mortality and the rise of the next generation
• He speaks with the Shriven One about the future

Returning here, he always felt the phantom pains, agony in parts of him that he no longer even possessed. He'd suffered his second great injury here, taking a Gundanbard war mace to the chest, his ribs so badly crushed by the blow that he was nearly killed outright. The Heathen Priests had worked on him for hours, picking jagged fragments of bone out of his lacerated organs, patching him back together with dark mysticism and forbidden science. In those tormented hours he had begged to die, to pass on to the Galaxy To Come.

But that had been more than ten years ago.

The gods were not done with him yet.

And perhaps everything did happen for a reason. Had it not been for that Gundanbard mace, and for the metal-reinforced ribcage he'd earned as a result, he would have died on Carlac. He'd still had a mostly organic body then, and only the metal reinforcement had kept him alive when Mercy - no, she had been Ziare back then, agent of the New Imperial Order - had shot him point-blank with a scattergun. And as he lay dying in the dust of Mar'zambul, his vital essence had flowed out, seeping into the ground. The planet had become bound to him.

Bound in blood and pain and destiny.

It was here, among the toppled temples of the Gundanbard and the enslaved remnants of their dark cities, that he had chosen to make a home for his Scar Hounds. In the planet's wild places, harsh deserts and jagged mountain highlands, his tribe tested young warriors and raised new battle beasts. In the forges that had once served the world's Dark Lord, Omnist tech-shamans oversaw the construction of new War Skiffs and Raider Walkers. This place was their home, the refuge and crucible they had earned by brutal right of conquest.

And now a new warrior had joined them.

The Mongrel had kept his distance from The Omen for quite some time now. He told himself that it was because he didn't want to interfere with the man's development; chosen by prophecy or not, he wanted the new "recruit" to rise or fall on his own, fighting his own battles to take his place among the Scar Hounds without any measure of special treatment. And the Shriven One had done just that, becoming a leader of men, taking on the challenge of war against the entire galaxy without hesitation. He was truly a rising star in the tribe.

But part of it was also The Mongrel's fears. In his heart - or the hollow where it ought to be - he could feel that his own time was coming to an end. He had fought for the Maw since its return to charted space, even before the Second Great Hyperspace War had begun. In every major battle, and most of the minor ones, he had been on the front lines. And though his legend had grown, other pieces of him had been steadily chipped away - his body, his mind, his soul. Now he was only a damaged, aging brain ensconced in a metal warsuit.

The Omen, The Shriven One, Thomas Barran...

... he was the young hound, freshly reborn.

And The Mongrel was growing old.

The warlord knew that he should not fear nature's way. Embracing the churning of ages, the endless cycle of war, death, and rebirth that had always driven the universe and always would, was an essential part of serving the Maw. He could not fault the Jedi for clinging to stasis for thirty thousand years if he himself was afraid to pass on when his time came. No matter how The Mongrel ended, no matter when his time finally ran out, his legacy would endure. He had forged a tribe out of little more than scrap metal and fiery will...

... and that tribe had risen to set the galaxy aflame.

When his ravaged "body" finally died and he passed on to the Galaxy To Come, reborn into paradise by the grace of the Avatars, he would be at peace. His accomplishments, his bloody legend, would linger on long after he was gone. He knew these things to be true. And yet when he looked at Thomas Barran - a warrior remade just as he had been a decade and a half before, shriven of his past, freed to serve the Maw - he found himself staring into the face of his own mortality. He was in his mid forties. In civilized space, that was not so old.

For a slave-soldier of the Maw, it was beyond ancient.

So as The Mongrel walked across the world he had broken to his will, gravel and ash crunching beneath his feet, he found that succession and mortality were on his mind. It was spring on Mar'Zambul, and the various flora imported from more fertile worlds blossomed all across the highlands; new life growing, its roots fed by the blood and carrion of years past. But down here, in the valley where the Scar Hounds had made their great Plunder Scrapyards, there was little sign of that rejuvenation. There was only a monument to great destruction.

The Scar Hounds were not like the disciplined, regimented soldiers of the Empire and Galactic Alliance. They had no universal equipment, no quartermasters to report to for standardized ammunition, no uniform to mark them as a single army. They were raiders, looters, scavengers, men and women who seized whatever they wanted from the battlefield and turned it to their own purposes. The treasures of dozens of worlds and scores upon scores of battles lay here, tumbled together in great mounds of plunder. Ready to be repurposed.

Ready, like any good Mawite, to be reborn.

The Shriven One knew he was coming, of course. He knew even before The Mongrel's footsteps could be heard, felt it somehow through that destiny-rich power that swirled about him. The Mongrel had evaded death many times, rebuilt after countless injuries that would surely have killed any ordinary man many times over, but Thomas Barran had escaped death in the most literal sense, emerging from its dark kingdom and refuting its claim on his soul. He was the prodigal son of the enemy, returned to bring ruin on his father's house.

At first, The Mongrel had thought that Thomas would be his weapon. But in the years since he had found the Omen on Durace, he had slowly begun to realize that the man was so much more than just a lance to be aimed at old General Erskine's heart. He was the future. Whether or not he knew it, he was the Maw's next generation, reborn in the midst of the great conflict that the first generation had begun. When The Mongrel's time ran out, he would have to hope that the Shriven One and his generation could carry the torch.

The torch that would set fire to all of civilization.

Your footsteps are lighter than they were on Durace, the Omen called out. Were they? Perhaps so. Where once Thomas had represented the unknown, now he had new meaning to The Mongrel, a meaning the warlord was gradually learning to accept. That was why he had come, after all: to face the fear that his time was passing, to find peace in the divine cycle. Accepting that his end was coming, and that the Brotherhood's holy mission would go on without him... that could bring him peace. It could lighten his steps, even on this heavy world.

Good to take in an extra 7, 8 G or so? "That is why I chose this planet," The Mongrel rumbled, the first time his grinding mechanical voice had split the dry air of the valley. "I came to the same realization that you did, the same reasoning that saw you build your Camp Crucible: a warrior who can fight with the weight of Mar'Zambul on his shoulders will be unconquerable on the tender worlds of the Core. Soft planets make soft warriors, unaccustomed to true hardship. The Brotherhood must be stronger..."

"... for we bear the burden of the Great Cycle."

Picking his way among the piles of debris - he found that he could recognize where each trophy or mound of scrap had come from, the hoard forming an unlabeled museum of the Scar Hounds' many battles - he stopped near where the Omen had paused, the moonlight rippling oddly across his jagged, rust-colored armor. "You rise quickly, Shriven One. Just as I knew you would. But the Avatars despise all stasis; there will be new and greater tests soon." The Mongrel stared up at the night sky, taking in the cold and distant stars.

"Are your warriors ready to face them? Are you?"

 

[Thomas Barran]

5th post

Thomas Barran
"The Shriven One"

Objective 3: BYOO
Tags: The Mongrel + Open

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART EIGHT

The Plunder Scrapyards, Zambu'Tacris Outskirts,
Black Stone Valley, Mar'Zambul (Fall of 873 ABY)

'That is why I chose this planet.'

Of course its the root of the Warlord's power in all the battles I'm told about - ​

From his fight on Csilla, to his obstinate stand against all odds in his fight with the Kainate, and most importantly, of all that the Mongrel had endured just to make it to Mar'Zambul in the first place, and everything the Warlord lost in his attempt to take the surface of the very planet they were both standing on at the time - everything made sense in the reasoning behind the home-planet choice itself.

Everything made sense, even the unspoken reason for the Shriven One's presence there, but not even the man reborn, for all his power and heightened senses, could ever be all-knowing, nor would he ever be one for divination if something as simple as recollection pained him in the first place, not whilst the nosebleeds continued. Only guesswork as to what brought him there, as to why the Mongrel sought his private counsel, could bring him close to understanding what was just moments away from transpiring; but still, there was a comfort in hearing that rumbling, mechanical voice again, made all the easier to hear without any stormy sands or the loud bursting rifts in reality to hinder and muffle the volume of his spoken tone this time. Despite the form that stood before him, the Shriven One could feel a soul resonating wildly from within the Mongrel, and it raged, hissing smoke and sparks in a way that almost mirrored his own in that moment.

This mutual rage, intense though it was, seemed to be shared in knowing solidarity, a rare moment between warriors who were supremely wary of each other before - finally finding that trust in each other as the moon rose up from the east.

Of course it's rooted in supreme strength and athletic prowess, built for war from the feet up.​

'I came to the same realization that you did, the same reasoning that saw you build your Camp Crucible: a warrior who can fight with the weight of Mar'Zambul on his shoulders will be unconquerable on the tender worlds of the Core. Soft planets make soft warriors, unaccustomed to true hardship. The Brotherhood must be stronger...'

He wasn't wrong, and the Woad could see, even feel it for himself by then, long since contextualised in the rising strength of all three who left Rhigar with him, long since contextualised in the Brotherhood's constant extension and occupation of new territory in their perpetual state of aggressive expansion. Looking back to his armoured cybernetic commander, Barran listened intently as the Mongrel continued,'... for we bear the burden of the Great Cycle.', in the earnest spirit of the topic they were discussing with each other. Aptly put for one the Galaxy considered little more than a frothy-mouthed, rabid dog without a body, supremely poignant for one who the Galaxy never could claim to know or understand with any lasting finality, especially in knowing the twofold meaning behind such an ironclad Mawite maxim.

With posture casually turning back and forth, (to gaze over the grand piles of plunder his subordinates had left there over time) seemingly basking in the sheer magnitude of takings as the golden sun cast her last warm, loving embrace of the day, the Mongrel then stopped at the most recent spot where Thomas had searched and said,'You rise quickly, Shriven One. Just as I knew you would. But the Avatars despise all stasis; there will be new and greater tests soon.', making quite the revelatory preamble as to what the reason for his visitation was, letting his admission hit with better effect as he paused to gaze at the night sky. The time to decide on what the next course of of action would be, whenever it was fated to be, was upon him, and though such matters would always carry a sense of foreboding in the minds of the Core-Worlds' peoples, Barran couldn't help but feel the anticipatory excitement continuing to intensify.

'Are your warriors ready to face them? Are you?'

Dropping to his knees in blissful reverence, acquiescing to his fate like he was jumping head first into it, the Shriven One dropped his gaze to the ground and prostrated, smiling as his voice calmly answered,'Readier than ever, Milord. After all, I can only ever truly learn this way.... Rising to every test, no matter how daunting the challenge may be.', in a deep, warm-hearted spoken tone. As he sat back up to a double-knee'd kneeling position, the Woad bow his head with hand over heart, with voice booming enthusiastically as he drawled,'With everything I have to throw at the Galaxy, I do it all for the Three Avatars, the Scar Hounds, and for the greatest of all the Maw's warlords.... For you - I'll bathe entire planets in blood if you ask it of your Shriven One, Milord.', rising to his feet as he spoke, but dropping the filled sandbag to the ground between them.

'Beskar, lots of it.... I wish not to barter with it, but rather, I wish to forge weapons with it instead. Shall I forge something for you when I return to Rhigar?'

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, Black Stone Valley
Tags: Thomas Barran

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mongrel muses on the nature of time, and on the Shriven One's ascendance

The sun was going down over the valley, its last rays bathing the vast plain of loot in light the color of rust and aurodium and blood. It was fitting, the warlord knew. His own sun was going down, his own light fading, his day growing old. But the sun would rise again, bringing harsh, bright, fierce morning for Mar'Zambul. There would be such a new dawn for the Scar Hounds too, sometime soon, when the Avatars finally called him away to paradise. Everything was cycles. Everything. Individuals had only one choice in each cycle:

To resist it, to fight fruitlessly for stasis...

... or to embrace change.

The Shriven One was ready. He had risen up of his own accord, guided by swirling destiny and sustained by iron will. As The Mongrel heard his Omen speak of embracing every challenge and rising to meet every test, of serving first the Avatars, then the Tribe, and then the Warlord, he knew that every lesson he had hoped to impart to this rising champion had been successfully learned. Old Erskine Barran and his protege Gowrie had taught The Mongrel much, adding a cunning tactical mind to his savage heart through their example.

Now he had taught Barran's bloodline his own lessons.

A cycle again. Receivers to givers, old to young to old.

At first, The Mongrel did not answer. His mind, and his words, seemed a million miles away. "There is no such thing as Time, Shriven One," he said, and even his rumbling, grating voice seemed to hold a strangely reverent note... or was it wistful? "There is only motion. A day is one revolution of a planet on its axis. A year is one orbit of a world's sun. Seconds are measured in the radiation emitted by atoms. Sand through an hourglass is simply the passage of matter from one place to another. Everything is a cycle, motion eternal."

The Mongrel turned to look at the Shriven One, the lost Barran son, prostrate on the rocky floor of this plunder-strewn valley. "Today, you move on the upward curve of your cycle. Your star is rising, your strength waxing like this world's moon." Above them the night sky was bursting into bloom; this far out into the wild lands of Mar'Zambul, there was almost no light pollution, and the stars seemed as vivid and close as the piles of spoils their light played over. "Ride this wave to victory over our foes now, for just as the tide rushes in..."

He thought of himself, of his glories and losses.

"... so too does it recede."

The strange cybernetic lenses that now served as The Mongrel's eyes remained firmly fixed on the Shriven One as he rose, both literally and figuratively. "Forge for me two things when you return to Rhigar," he commanded. "Two blades. Let one be a sword of beskar, a worthy warblade to carry with me on my final crest before my final fall." A weapon he could use to cross blades with Barran and his ilk one last time before the end. "The second blade," he thundered, "is you. Forge yourself sharp and strong, Shriven One."

"You must continue the cycle."

 

[Thomas Barran]

6th post

Thomas Barran
"The Shriven One"

Objective 3: BYOO
Tags: The Mongrel Darth Solipsis Keilara Kala'myr Khamul Kryze + Open to interaction

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART NINE

Mineheel Spaceport, The Southern Cyanarlians,
Lower Hon Zduul Valley, Exegol (Spring of 874 ABY)

There is no such thing as Time, Shriven One,​

Guided by faith alone, Ghoul would pilot the Shriven One safely (though many and more dangers were delegated on the way) through the infamous Galactic Barrier to the Brotherhood's moonless capital planet. However, much to the Goidel's credit, the Mongrel's lesson on the Scar Hounds' concept of time, and acknowledging it's true, immeasurable fluidity had been taken to heart in his first quiet talk with his mentor before embarking for the slow, laborious journey through the Red Honeycomb to Exegol. A lesson Thomas would trust in as the stranger encounters occurred along the way, and though the route was as safe as could be hoped, the anomalies and risk-factors had kept him from exploring the concept further as result, though only for as long as the Honeycomb's riskier segments slowed their approach - inciting deep introspection almost as soon as the pathway towards Exegol cleared up again.

There is only motion. A day is one revolution of a planet on its axis. A year is one orbit of a world's sun. Seconds are measured in the radiation emitted by atoms. Sand through an hourglass is simply the passage of matter from one place to another. Everything is a cycle, motion eternal.​

Eventually landing several hundreds of miles away from the Sith Citadel with this trust in the cycle in mind, Thomas would allow distance and urgency alike to become a non-factor as his legendary Warlord instructed, though the Shriven One would've been loathe to admit that it would be in the hopes he would learn more about the significance of his pilgrimage on that occasion. The Three Moons had spoken after all, and in the need to visit the second of three planets of this cycle, there could be no dawdling, a fact in particular that had forced the Shriven One to return to Rhigar almost a week after his first uninterrupted conversation with the Mongrel. Returning to the Forge with the intent of bringing his finished works with him to Exegol, these lessons imparted on the Woad would ceaselessly bounce around in his mind like pinballs, staying with him long after his one-way departure for Exegol, knowing throughout that these words would stay with him for many years after whatever awaited on Tython.

Perhaps even for the rest of his next natural life-cycle, but none of the added notions mattered to the Shriven One, not whilst his eyes were still wide with awe and curiosity, almost perpetually dewy with the joy of being alive to see it all through his own eyes.

Today, you move on the upward curve of your cycle. Your star is rising, your strength waxing like this world's moon.​

Thomas had rather-bluntly made a barbed point of landing at Mineheel Spaceport, one of the very few sanctioned landing sites across Exegol's inhospitable surface, not only for the respect that would need to be shown whilst on the surface of the Maw's capital planet, but in the fact that Exegol's tallest known mountain was in the area. Presenting a perfect place to build a compound for yet another simple Forge, to train and to meditate, the very summit of Mt. Obsidian. Much like Camp Crucible, the heavy gravity would offer much in the way of adverse training conditions for the likes of his clique's latest addition, and without the likes of Rook or Dreamer there to assist and lessen Ghoul's workload, the growth in strength would be enough to present decent sparring-partner material before long.

Ride this wave to victory over our foes now, for just as the tide rushes in...​

The Shriven One needed to be prepared, he needed more than ever to be stronger than the man he was in his first cycle, for the process of War, Death, and Rebirth had every chance of inflicting irreparable damage on Barran's memory and psyche alike - making a bumbling mess of whatever reanimated or reincarnated form Thomas was expected to take in that third cycle he dreaded so much.

... so too does it recede.​

Endangering himself for as long as he idled, and for every moment in which Barran caught himself idling at that, only rest and recuperation would be permitted as excuses; for the Woad's introspection, as much as the process left him half-catatonic at times, was almost always endeavoured on the move. Ghoul had often snapped the Shriven One from his reveries, leaving the resurrected one alone with his thoughts for a while each time before bringing him back to realise he'd stopped pacing forward entirely; a small blessing, though one that had larger significance on Rhigar, occasionally shaking Thomas out of it whilst he was in the process of staring into space with burning-hot hammer and tongs still in his vice-like grip. It was in these acts that the Woad realised that his new initiate actually valued the purpose of his role, the very reason young Ghoul had been brought along to both Mar'Zambul and Exegol alike, among the many that were cited by both Rook and Dreamer alike.

Forge for me two things when you return to Rhigar,​

Especially when they returned to Rhigar, and during their talks throughout their journey back to their beloved Forge, seen showing for himself that (just like each and every one of his superiors) his own transformative process had begun. Ghoul belonged, and all it took was one trip to the heavy-weighing expanse of the Runic Valley, one near-perpetual contribution to the construction of Camp Crucible, and one rise to the challenge of piloting the Galactic Barrier.

Two blades. Let one be a sword of beskar, a worthy warblade to carry with me on my final crest before my final fall.​

And a similarly-awestruck reaction to the prospect of making a sword for a legend. Reacting just as the Shriven One had when the Mongrel first manifested his wishes into spoken form, for many (if they had known this was what Barran's Warlord had wanted) would have coveted this honour greatly in the event other great Mawite weapon-smiths had been commissioned in the Woad's place. The significance of acts such as these, the great relevance they bore to the story of his master and his father alike was just a knife's edge away from breaking an already-unstable mind, despite the fact all three Barrans were still oblivious to what was really going on at the time. Many wheels were turning around the Shriven One, the Mongrel and the Maw alike, bearing particular consequences that none of the aforementioned mortal elements could foresee or even fully guess with convincing finality, but the one thing all could know for certain was the fact the events they were all marching towards were guaranteed to leave their deep gashes on the Galaxy.

The second blade-​

And yet, whatever else was stated in the Mongrel's far-sighted wishes would be down to the Shriven One alone, a door that only Thomas himself could pass through, a part of the cycle of which only a successor could ever possibly know. A part of the Woad's journey that had not yet been considered in his time bringing order to Rhigar, but in the Warlord's clear and concise order for his acolyte there was much and more on the matter of Barran's journey that would be placed before him, almost as if another, much heavier sandbag of Beskar had been dropped on his shoulders.

-is you. Forge yourself sharp and strong, Shriven One.​

A rising power in his own right, on this Thomas could agree that he most certainly was, and knew it well enough by then, especially after gaining on the strength and fighting prowess that had been discovered as a mere smithy's spark on Rhigar. Mar'Zambul was proving much and more to this effect, urging Barran onwards whilst the entire planet weighed him down in perpetuity, sending his body-heat into near-unbearable extremes many times in the process of building Camp Crucible, all of which had formed a rather fearsome baseline to build from by the time the Warlord found him. However, unlike the Shriven One's friends, Ghoul would experience this both on the journey to Exegol and would soon embrace further training atop Mt. Obsidian, embracing the sword as he steadily began to master the Silverist sword art with Barran as his instructor. Thomas would be ready, in mind, body and soul, and soon, in a position to empower all who would be fortunate enough to stand with him in combat - to empower all who would someday learn to see the Woad as their Warlord.

You must continue the cycle.​

Such was the way of warriors watched by the eyes of the eternal, forever clothed and warmed by the prophecies that guided their sword-arms every time, but Thomas had quickly realised that he could never have foreseen the sheer weight of responsibility that was being bestowed upon him in that moment, with the same being realised of the sheer magnitude of power that was soon to be handed down from Warlord to Acolyte. The very soldiering stock that made the very warfighting backbone of the Brotherhood, such that rivalled and often surpassed their better-supplied, conventional allies, and by the sheer strength of will and determination as their superpower, and all, as according to the words of his master, would serve as the Shriven One's warriors someday.

The Maw's very first clean line of succession, a concept so alien to the Brotherhood that it was thought to be abandoned entirely for the treacherous ascension methods of the New Sith Order and those who rose before them.

'I know I've been quiet, Ghoul. Much and more has been occupying my mind lately, though only because our Warlord has given me much and more to ponder.... Responsibilities much greater than you an' I await us, and I must be ready - we must be ready.'

THE LIVING ARTEFACT: THE MOONS OF RHIGAR - PART TEN

Mineheel Waystation, The Southern Cyanarlians,
Lower Hon Zduul Valley, Exegol (Spring of 874 ABY)

'Looking a little lost there, fellas.... Sure you're in the right place?'

Homemade alcoholic brews, Spice, cigarras and hookah pipes, a perfect den of scummy lows, Mineheel's waystation would make for a perfect place to stay whilst the Shriven One steadily amassed the building materials he needed over time, and a perfect place to learn more about the other elements within the Brotherhood as a result of the amnesiac's curiosity. Threatening though the atmosphere appeared at first glance, many and more red-faced,"Locals", would turn a collectively-regretful shade of white or yellow as soon as Barran's hood had been drawn back, and much the same when they turned to see what sort of sneering killer was accompanying him, for Ghoul had become something more than the nickname would have suggested at the time also. For the archetypes of the repentant, and perhaps even the spectral in some instances, seemed less likely to fit in at the waystation in the beginning, though these thoughts would change rapidly with the calming mood of the rooms they walked through.

'Wary they may be, Shriven. But I'll regardless be every part as wary with our - er - new acquaintances in turn.'

Mostly human, though there were individuals of Zabrak origin in the corner of one of the Hookah lounges they were led through on their way to the brewery den, led by a near-derelict service droid that moved slower than it had any right to. And yet, the duo eventually made it to their little corner of the room, letting the droid leave two drinking cups next to them before sluggishly scarpering with abysmally poor haste; sneers and silence would meet the Shriven One's gaze as he looked around, seemingly standing to reason that the alcohol was strong enough to make monsters of mice here too, much like everywhere else in the Galaxy. Thinking little or less of it, Barran would snigger as he dipped both cups into the nearest drum and handed one to Ghoul, muttering,'In reference to your earlier statement, I believe this would be wise.... But still, I come seeking information - an' building-materials of course.', with a casual sidelong glance at a scar-faced Twi'Lek who was obviously taking exception to the presence of the new arrivals.

'Problem? Or should I choke you and finish my cup at the same time?'

'Not the problem you're thinking of, stranger.', the Twi'Lek coolly responded, standing with his cup and calmly walking with open body-language, friendly expression and non-threatening tone, but his eyes were telling a different story entirely. Ghoul had foreseen this, and was already sliding closer to the Shriven One by the time the angered local stood to approach, sitting silently with Vibrodagger drawn as the Twi'Lek continued,'I didn't even need to overhear you to know you aim to clear out stock that is otherwise reserved for another project - in hands that aren't your own.... My warehouse, my rules.', maintaining absolute consistence with the icy tone throughout. It was clear that there was only one way to change the Twi'Lek's mind, and for the first time since his resurrection, Thomas was left with no choice but to adopt a peaceful, diplomatic approach, an outcome that Barran previously hoped would fall to someone else in his stead.

'How about this for an idea? We help you shift the stock to wherever it needs to go, and in turn, perhaps you let us help you craft what we need afterwards. Sound like a plan, Twi'Lek?'

The sanguine-skinned drunkard stopped in his tracks, briefly looking to Ghoul to see if he was hearing correctly, with eyelids drawing back to express a shock and surprise that was never expected to be found in a place like Mineheel; but in seeing that the feeling was mutual, watching on as the Scar Hound's head tilted inquiry towards the Shriven One in turn, the Twi'Lek loudly chuckled as he nodded appreciation for the unpredictable nature of the auburn-haired madman sitting opposite. Choosing then to sit at the Woad's table, the red Twi'Lek then replied,'Alright then, human. You're on.', clinking his drinking cup against those of his new acquaintances, completely unaware that Barran already had grander designs with him in mind. If Thomas played his cards right, his fortress architect would very much look like the individual who brazenly approached with fighting words in the first place, and much like those he forgot in death, the Shriven One was very much a gambling man.

'The name's Cazne'Kairn by the way, though I go by,"Caz", around here. And before I forget, we'll be hauling quite a fair amount when you return, so rest up at the earliest opportunity.... I'll be waiting, rest assured.'