I Want It All

[Blackthorne]

The Mar'eshi were swift in assembling at the tree temple - amassed in short order with weapons and eyes gleaming for the taste of blood. A strong murmur passed through them as the Sha'Matri appeared at the temple entrance with her face cloaked in the shadow of her hood. Saffron eyes blazed within, a shudder of quiet seeping through the bodies. They turned and gazed, stone-faced in their war-flecked armors. The closest of them kneeled to the woman who had come to be called their Shadow Mother. Their guide in absence of the Host Lord.

The only one to see her eyes close forever.

"Warlord Balac Kotyc'ade does not heed the call of the true Gods," she began, Pacean words lilting in crisp clarity through the trees, "and now he stands before Sargon's will with the intent to deny him. We have cast a passive eye over his rule for too long. Sargon will not be denied."

A warcry rumbled, the seeds of zealotry firmly rooted would soon blossom in crimson.

"Follow my Champion, [member="Orkamaat"], Priest of Balagoth. To the holdfast. Eogorath hungers for heathen blood to fuel his flight. Bring them to him alive."

[member="Khaleel Malvern"] [member="Boethiah"]

 

[Orkamaat]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGyOC1UcQFw​

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[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

​

The soil beneath his feet rumbled, carrying the quiet thunder of a zealous army with growing reverberations. Almost like the beginning of an earthquake, though where its epicentre would be was still uncertain.

Likely wherever the horde ended up, which Orkamaat supposed would be scattered all over the settlement. Tearing down what wasn't nailed in place, burning the rest, despoiling any altars to the false Gods that the misguided people of Wayland had erected under the bitter rule of Balac Kotyc'ade.

Fools.

His judgement was like a gust of wind, gentle in its conception, yet swift to grow and consume all in its path with a primeval fury to rival the forces of nature itself. The man, hollow and like a leaf in that wind himself, let out a blood-curdling bellow, tendons standing out against his gray skin like some sort of grotesque relief, and the sight of him alone screaming before the looming city gates would be enough to stop many a brave defender in their tracks.

Alas, it was merely the beginning.

As his cry petered out into echoes against the beheaded mountain, the Priest keeled over, a thin figure kneeling in the dirt, though not to bow to the Warlord; his wiry hands dug deep into the wet soil, searching for the one thing that Wayland had in even more abundance than trees.

Corpses.

Flesh peeled back, rotted and flaking, eroded by its passage through the rough stone, and the bone below was found pulsing and green, threaded with scales and spikes and all manner of protursions not commonly found in osseous structures.

Then again, they were rarely Vongformed by plague-stricken Shapers.

His skin pulled taut over the edges of his skull, and when the man finally rose to full height again, there wasn't much left of him anymore. It was a wonder he could stand at all, when the gale was picking up like it was.

"Balac Kotyc'ade!" he called out, his voice reverberating down the spine of Tantiss.

"Time to meet your maker!"

 

[Boethiah]

Strange jungle creatures watched anxiously from the treeline as a horde of unsavory warriors descended upon the small settlement which was boldly declared capital of Wayland. Deep within the citadel at its heart the warlord clenched his fist angrily, the sounds of bombardment, the screams of the dying, and roaring of spiraling flames that consumed all they could touch rushing to his eardrums. Droplets of sweat began to escape the Ubese Manadalorian's flesh, forming a small pool around the seal of his helmet. Behind the imposing features of his armour was a very afraid man; frightened by the consequences of losing and the decision to aid the Hutt of the Rift in his act of rebellion against that which the Host Lord had built. Beyond the comfort of his temple, there was a war waging, a war that his men were now losing and soon the enemies of his allegiances would march against his doorstep, and certainly what guards he had left would offer little resistance.

Contemplating the situation dearly, Balac Kotyc'ade had a decision to make... If he stayed and fought, there was only the grace of Balagoth to save him from death. Yet asking the God of Death itself to spare you from the fate of their domain was certainly arrogant and foolhardy. Even if he was able to summon the very last drop of his Mandalorian might, he knew deep within his simple mind that he'd still die no matter how many he took down with him. Rising from makeshift throne created by desecrating the shrine to Nogras, the Mandalorian's hand moved to wrap his durafiber mantle around his shoulder. Footsteps echoed loudly, his durasteel boots digging deep within the water covering the stone-carved floors. Guards and slaves perked up, watching their Warlord out of fear and anxiety as Balac continued his way towards the modest entranceway into the temple's main hall.

Standing watch over the conclave within was a shadowy figure who stood tall and straight next to one of the several pillars which lined the room. Among the few souls there was the young Dathomiri slave, who had stumbled upon the meeting after sneaking away from the altar to Sargon. The young girl nearly ran into the figure watching guard, certainly he had noticed her presence by now and yet he did not turn. Only subtle twitches and the occasional blink offered any evidence that the man was indeed alive. He dressed simply, wearing greenish-grey robes which blended well within the surrounding jungles, and carried an odd metallic cylinder which hung loosely from a hook on his belt.

As she would begin to sneak away from him, the guardian's hand lashed outward and snatched Boethiah's arm. In response she delivered a light squeal, cutting herself off shortly to prevent any others from noticing her presence. With her heart racing, the girl's Amber eyes refused to leave the man's face, hoping that she could judge his next course of action. Much to her surprise he did not move further, his gaze blankly looking outward towards the Warlord and his advisors. Her breathing steadied, as did the pacing of her heartbeats, and then the man's grip jerked her towards the side of the room, causing her to slide down the wall and land on her posterior. Knowing it was foolish to do much else, Boethiah sat there quietly and tried her best not to exist.

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Boethiah"]

"A bit theatrical, love." the whisper came and went, fluttering on the wind.

But the Underlord did not wait on her speech. Instead he started wandering away towards that subtle tether in the Force. It felt red, purple and green, it felt like an amalgamation of nature twisted by artificial shaping - Orky. The name hit him straight in the face the moment his familiar touch reached through the thin veneer of the Force and left a message.

"You presence makes this far less boring, transcendent one."

A few more steps and suddenly there was a gate. Bright white shining radiance and promises. Khal brushed the texture, his eyes closed, the mind humming in accord to the promise made.

Then he knocked and stepped through the opening made.

Ripples in the fabric. The shade of reality was torn in a brief moment, before a man in a trench-coat stepped out. A cigarette perching on the loft of his lip. Smoke trailed behind him and a lighter shade of blue shined from the eyes.

The reckoning was coming.

 

[Orkamaat]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wiZ7rNHi9mk​

​

​

Boring?

He didn't acknowledge [member="Khaleel Malvern"]'s presence in any way, continuing to walk toward the gates at an almost languid a pace.

Rejoining Balagoth in its greatness is… boring? Still no inflection to his voice, though the Priest did falter in his stride for a moment as he squeezed out the last word. "I see you are a godless man, Khaleel."

Not for long.

Whispered as he let the last tatters of his burgundy cloak fall to the ground, tattered and dancing in the crescendo of the wind. Wayland itself stood with the ancient husk of Orkamaat, supporting him even as it strove to raze everything else to the ground. Trees groaned and bent as the powerful gusts yanked on their branches, roofs clattered and peeled back under its incessant push, windows shook and cracked in their frames; yet the Priest stood tranquil and calm, reduced to little more than two burning embers inside a grinning skull.

Years rapidly drained from his body, trickling down his empty veins and to his fingertips, and much like a brid of prey would, the anzat began to move with the ebb and flow of aerial current. Faster and faster he went; ash and fire dancing in the wind, beautiful until the very moment they burned.

There was no demon anymore, no grass, no forests, no soil; there was only the city left, and then only the gate.

A tall, imposing structure of bonded durasteel, thick as a small speeder was long, with spikes sharp enough to split a man tail to head in a single thrust. Between the tight lattice of these lethal protrusions an intricate design lined each wing of the massive doors, starting at the far left, so far up that one could hardly see – for the gates and the walls surrounding them dwarfed the tallest trees of Wayland – continuing all the way to the bottom. A single repeating motif spanned the whole length of the intricate carving; Balagoth.

Orkamaat smiled at the foolish interpretation of his Master's visage, coiled back so far that the pointed ends of his ribs were the only thing staring up at the sky, and extended his bony arms as far as they could go, and then some more.

His jagged shadow, cast upon the looming gate by the sun behind him, seemed to writhe and waver at the edges for a moment, and then it tore away with a loud snap, eliciting a sharp cry from the Priest. It thrashed and grew, spilling over the cool gray contours of durasteel like rich black ink down the fuller of a blade.

Or was it blood?

Orkamaat gasped and clawed at the glare of the sun, collapsing onto his knees as the dark taint spread across the gates, hissing, gnawing, all-consuming. Time and death, intertwined from here to the end of the Universe; both merely an aspect of Balagoth, both inflicted upon the fleeting existence of the gates before him.

Corrosion.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Boethiah"]​

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah's eyes faced the ground, her keen sense of hearing listened to the arguing Warlord and his advisors, when suddenly the sound of guards shouting erupted.

"They're at the gates!" One exclaimed, others rushed to join him. Only a few dozen soldiers managed to muster any sort of defense in the event the gate fell. How it was falling seemed to puzzle them, but they kept their weapons drawn and prepared to fire at a moment's notice. Meanwhile the Warlord marched back to his chamber, the few men that remained with him -- some elite Mandalorians -- sealed the secondary door behind them. The slave's eyes gazed curiously upon the Knight, wondering why he hadn't left this place already.

The Stone Knight's feet slowly moved forward, dragging across the dirt and stone path beneath. He walked towards the center of the room, and then pivoted in the direction of a small doorway along the other side. Without words he beckoned for her to follow, waving his hand so that she might see. It took her a moment to realize, but as she did Boethiah did not hesitate to scramble to her feet and rush towards the man's side. He led her through a very narrow corridor, one with strange markings on the wall depicting events even she, a servant of the four, hadn't seen before.

Without protest or inquisition, she simply kept following.

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Blackthorne]

[member="Khaleel Malvern"]'s departing words were drowned out by the war cry of the Skarsovi. The howling of their beasts and the thunderous trampling of approaching Vara'Rih on their gleaming steeds, the Selipa. Loxa followed with an envoy of witches in tow, walking the wooden planks lining the waters surrounding Yvarenthi and towards the hill where between the bodies of armored beasts a single charcoal-colored creature of green flamed mane and tail stepped forward to greet her.

The Sha'Matri uttered a low word of greeting to the Azaru. Horses. Her fond memories of them within the Dathomiri Clan tribes on Aaris III had given rise to bringing their likeness here. In her youth, under the torturous tutelage of Inhix, Loxa had become a skilled rider with strong connection to the mounts of her tribe. The Azaru had been a most gracious gift to her, rare as it's kind was. A nearby warrior helped her up into the saddle and for a moment Loxa sat, breath caught in her chest as Korangar grew excitable within her middle.

She watched from her vantage point as those left behind to protect the temple Yvarenthi moved into their places. Khal was gone, moving to join [member="Orkamaat"] in his siege of the stronghold.

"Sha'Matri? To Eogorath?" said a nearby Vara'Rih, his six-legged mount pacing by, sweat slicking obsidian sides from beneath leather and metal armor plating.

"No," said Loxa, "to the high roads and the mountain caravan."

The Vara'Rih gave a wicked smile. They would not be bereft of their own fight in this battle. Pulling at the neck-rein he wheeled his Selipa around and gave a high war cry, urging it off through the group and down along the the slopes towards the valley. Thunder took the ridge with them, dark clouds brewing overhead to follow in their wake.

[member="Boethiah"]

 

[Orkamaat]

The last droplet of black squeezed out of him, and the Priest crumpled to the ground into a misshapen heap of broken bone and tatters of flesh. For a few moments, there was no sign of life from the malign shape sprawled on the trampled grass, and only the distant sounds of a city rallying to a late defense could be heard through the gaping hole where the gates used to be.

In their place, nothing but a fast-scattered pile of black ash, quickly grasped and billowed to the skies by the gusts of wind that rushed into the exposed settlement along with the invaders.

As feet stampeded around him – bare, rags, boots, pegs – Orkamaat kept his burning gaze glued to the skies above them, observing the chasing clouds with an odd quietude washing over him. Screams soon followed the Skarsovi, and then fire and smoke, and resistance was quelled with indiscriminate bloodlust.

Death to heresy.

With a wet cough, the anzat slowly picked himself up, vainly dusting off the shredded remains of his once-purple robe. It was matted with specks of grass-green and dirt-brown now, reduced to little more than desperate and stubborn threads by a hundred passing feet.

Slowly but surely, the Priest followed in the steps of the angry mob, avoiding the pools of blood more out of habit than anything else; it wasn't like it had any point to in his current state. Up and up he went, meandering through the rabid rabble like a ghost. Unseen and untouched by the people of both sides as they hunted each other down the streets, Orkamaat calmly climbed the foot of the mountain towards the Citadel of Balac Kotyc'ade, the first and last Warlord of Wayland.

Balagoth come for his own.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Boethiah]

The Stone Knight continued to lead Boethiah down the strange hallway, deep within the walls of the citadel.

It was a quiet walk, as the guardian spoke no words. The slave's eyes curiously gazed upon him, wondering what his purpose was in all of this. Yet she was trained long ago not to question her betters, and remained silent with him. Internally, however, her thoughts had sparked many conversations...

She began to argue with herself about how this would all end. Who was it that stormed the gates? Certainly the Civil War brewed, but she hardly knew which side was which.

Their walk continued, and it was a long one. The walls did not change colour nor shape. It seemed as if they'd go on forever, or if perhaps this was the product of sorcery. Whatever it was, she certainly felt the minutes pass by with no seeming end in sight. The corridor must go deep within the mountain.

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Orkamaat]

As the blood-drunk savages broke down doors, pillaged, burned, and defiled everything they could get their hands on, the rather more sophisticated individual known as Orkamaat opted to take the scenic route across the crumbling roofs.

Planks and ferrocrete gave out beneath his feet, but always just one step behind him, trailing him like a blaze of ember and ash as he skipped the fighting below and beelined straight for the palace.

[member="Loxa Visl"] hadn't anointed him Champion for nothing. He'd brought down the doors, letting the zealous killers flood the settlement of heretics without batting an eye, but it wasn't his place to slaughter those same infidels side by side with the Skarsovi.

The Priest was here to fulfill a greater purpose; one that he had screamed at the top of his lungs before inflicting the single punishment that no thing in the Universe could resist, living or dead.

Time.

Little of it passed since he'd picked himself up from the disturbed burial grounds and entered the burning city, and even less would pass until he reached the palace perched inside a nook of the Tantiss mountain, its once stern gaze reduced to the quivering of eyes shut tight.

The end was coming, and Balac Kotyc'ade knew it well.

Orkamaat spilled outward from the confines of his mind, brushing past the bright pinpricks of the raging witches, past the dim flames of the dead and the dying, past the fear-stricken guards on their last power pack, and into the throne room.

How will you greet it?

His whisper was planted in the back of the Warlord's mind, left there as if it were a spawn of his own thoughts.

Kneeling or proud?

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Boethiah]

The sounds of battle became as quiet as a whisper, and the humidity within the corridor picked up significantly as they began to come towards some sort of end. A few dozen meters ahead of them lied a door, and there was no ta single person standing watch over it. Whatever lied inside, it must've been unimportant if the Warlord decided not to guard it. Then again, she wasn't even aware this corridor existed...

Perhaps he didn't either.

Many dangers could be found on Wayland, and among them were those left behind by the Galactic Empire centuries ago. The slave didn't know much about that history, as the witch grew up on Dathomir before finding herself taken by the Warlord himself. What purpose she served had yet to be discussed, unless she was intended to scrub the floors that never once became clean.

The Stone Knight stopped in front of the door once they were only a stone's throw away.

He turned to Boethiah, "You will be safe inside," his voice was low but somewhat soft. It seemed he didn't talk much, and when he did it'd only be brief.

She nodded, not saying a word to him.

Whatever lied behind that door, she has lost all will to disobey directive.

[member="Orkamaat"]

 

[Orkamaat]

The followers of Sha'Matri were still laying waste to the lower reaches of the settlement when Orkamaat came to the very edge of the last roof, elegantly stepping off only to coil like a cat upon landing, taut tendon and muscle cushioning the impact. He straightened his back, cranked his neck, and shot out his left arm to grab a fleeing heretic as the child tried to sprint past him.

He lifted the struggling youngling with disinterested ease and never stopped walking up the ramp, holding its wide-eyed stare with his own twin rings of fire. The few guards remaining at the entrance to the palace hesitated to shoot at him in fear of hitting the kid, and it afforded him more time than he could ever need.

With a long stride, he was flush against the first man, his fist plunging into his gut and spilling out its contents like candy out of a ripped bag. Splash, they met the floor, but Orkamaat was already pressing the other one against the wall, breaking his wrist against the edge before snapping up his chin until it went crack.

Absently, as he walked through the unguarded side door, the Priest noted that the child was screaming.

The jagged figure stopped in its tracks, looked down at the crying kid, then sighed. Two probosces unfurled from the slits beneath his cheekbones, and the human offspring was momentarily struck silent by the sheer abject terror washing over him.

Thank Balagoth.

The kid never made a sound again, except for the sound a husk of a child's body makes when a Priest discards it in the courtyard of a Warlord's palace.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Boethiah]

The Stone Knight approached the door, pressing a keypad off to the right of it. The entrance split, each part sliding into the wall on either side.

Behind the door was an empty room, save for a small fountain on the far side along the wall opposite the doorway. Boethiah's eyes looked up to the Stone Knight whose own gaze stared blankly into the room, she pondered curiously on the purpose of the room but asked no questions. Instead she walked inside, approaching the fountain and then sitting in front of it with her legs crisscrossed.

Her amber eyes looked into the water, mesmerized by its motion and the soothing sound of the flowing waterfall. Boethiah turned her head back to see where the Stone Knight stood, only the figure had disappeared; left without a trace.

The disappearance left an emptiness in her gut, she felt concerned. The door slid closed, and she waited in the room...

Whatever events transpired outside, she was blissfully unaware.

[member="Orkamaat"]

 

[Orkamaat]

Humming to himself, Orkamaat slowly ascended the steps leading to the throne room, carefully stepping over a few bodies that littered the hewn marble on the way up. A few minutes and heretics later, the Priest had mostly recovered from the exhausting feat he'd performed to bring down the gates of the infidel city. He seemed… more whole, somehow, a ghost returned from death's doorstep. His gray flesh had regained some color again, tinted with a slight burgundy flush that only served to bring out the glowing tattoos even more.

A circlet around the top of his shaven skull, flowing down into a single Rou rune that had been carved into the zygomatic and frontal bones on the right side of his face. It weeped fire, its light ever brighter the closer Orkmaaat got to the reinforced doors of the throne room.

The inevitable needn't rush, after all. It would arrive precisely when it wanted to; no, not wanted. When it was meant to arrive. Balagoth would eventually embrace all, from the lowliest bacteria to the most powerful Sith Lords in search of immortality, and it would do so without discrimination. Whatever people were before – Jedi, soldiers, farmers, Warlords – they were all equal in death.

The Great Leveller.

The Priest came to a stop before the smooth, intricately carved mohogany , appreciating the expert craftsmanship involved in its creation before bursting them open.

The guards waiting on the other side were greeted with a shower of needles, followed soon after by the shadow of the door as one of the wings was brought soundly down upon them. They did little to delay its descent, departing from life with a wet crunch as the massive wooden slab cracked down on the polished stone.

Orkamaat emerged from the settling dust, wiping hot blood from the side of his face as he advanced on the Warlord of Wayland, Balac Kotyc'ade. The man, to his credit, was still sitting on that treasured chair of his, though a closer inspection revealed him to be gripping the armrests just as fear was gripping him. Perhaps he'd simply been incapable of fleeing, rather than electing to stay.

Balagoth wouldn't care either way… but it was not yet his time. [member="Loxa Visl"] wanted the heretic alive and well, doubtless for some grand ritual.

"Sha'Matri requests your presence, Kotyc'ade," he spoke, voice ringing hollow in the once grand hall. "Will you come?"

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah slid back against the far wall near the fountain, the sound of flowing water soothed her thoughts and brought peace to her mind. It inspired her to mutter a small prayer, the words unheard even by her own hears by echoing internally. Her chest rose and fell, her breaths drew long and steady as she began to find comfort in the serenity. Outside the war had vanished, the room became a box at the galaxy's core. She closed her eyes and countless threads of light formed around her, connecting her to the life forces of every world in her very imagination.

Even if it was imagination, she felt the connection. She felt something calling to her, a power of sorts that constricted her. It didn't feel threatening, but neither did it feel welcoming. Whatever this feeling was, the intensity pulsated like a phantom pain and etched itself into the very fabric of her reality. Nothing would stop her from heeding its call; she yearned to discover, and sought its source. Opening her eyes, the girl's head tilted towards the fountain, its waters continued to flow. Pushing off the wall with one hand she lunged slothfully towards the fountain, approaching it on hands and knees before her knees bent back as she sat up in a meditative sitting position.

The witch-slave bent down and dipped both open palms into the liquid, cupping the cool mountain waters so that she may contain it. Bringing her hands to her lips, the water slid down her throat, cooling it along the way. A refreshing drink, and a tempting one. She began to consume more...

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Orkamaat]

Balac, to his credit, didn't flinch.

He met the Priest's gaze head-on, chin held high, like the proud man he used to be. Without context, the scene would surely look comical to anyone who happened by; a ragged thing, more corpse than man, staring down a ruler dressed in riches. The Warlord of Wayland was still seated in his high throne, rimmed by soft fur and leathers of the beasts he had slain. Or his hunters had slain, it made no difference to a king.

But he was king no more.

Kotyc'ade gripped the armrests of his imposing chair with a knuckle-whitening strength, his teeth gritting behind the tight-lipped mask of his face. The skin was pulled taut, making him seem nearly as gaunt as the servant of Balagoth that had come to collect upon his sorry soul.

"Who is this… Sha'Matri?"

The query of the fallen colossus rang hollow in the empty room, cascading off the lavish tapestries lining the walls of the chamber. He'd tried to infuse the question with the last vestiges of his vanity, but it was all gone, consumed by the flames that were well on their way to consuming his city, too.

Orkamaat tilted his head to the side, then approached the man on the throne with a steady step. Any guards who would've barred him closer had long fled, and so their conference was rendered nearly… intimate.

"She sees the way, Balac," he spoke gently, offering his hand to the trembling man. Nearer, now, and the Priest could see the small shudders running the length of his fur-clad limbs, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the pallor of his skin. "She tells us where to go."

Knowing or not, the Warlord of Wayland was already with one foot in the grave, and looked it too. Indeed, the Priest and the King would make for a fine pair as they walked out of the palace.

Together.

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Blackthorne]

They took the highroads by the thunder of their steeds and that within the sky. Innocuous clouds becoming embroiled in this siege, turning an angry green-grey and falling upon the soldiers holding the mountain caravan with wicked force. Bolts of green and yellow tore across the horizon, burning body and setting the dry grasslands alight. The Vara'Rih galloped out across the mesa picking off Sentries and cutting off escape routes. By the time the fires spread, burning hot with the powers of the Priestess and her following, and with the capital city cut off there was no where left to go but into the waiting hands of the Mar'Eshi.

Their's was not a killing triumph, but a wounding one. Prisoners were needed. All manner of heathen blood to fuel the rage that would make the giant Eogorath soar.

The green glow of the Azaru's mane cast Loxa's features into a ghoulish light as she quietly guided it forward through the Chaos of the assault. Movements of mount and rider were calm and precise - unruffled by the slights of battle. Golden eyes followed the progress of her people, and when an armored enemy attempted to flee she subdued him with the Force of her silent determination and fluid use of a blazing saffron lightsaber blade.

Some would fall but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make for the bounty that Kotyc'ade attempted to deny her: Qiloa stone.

"Sha'Matri! I am not worthy."

The hushed and frantic greeting rippled across the caravan people as the sounds of battle died down, overtaken by the roar of grassland fire, the rumble of dark skies and the tamping of horse hooves on dirt road. Loxa rode past, somber gaze seeking out the one who lead this group.

"Where is Akenatten..."
"I am here, Matri," a robed man, tall and lithe, stepped forward around a horse-drawn wagon. He approached the flaming mount and kneeled, "I am not worthy."
"Namaste, Akenatten. Have the heathens killed anyone in the caravan?"
"Four Mar'Eshi, Matri, when they attempted to raid us."
"Why did they stop?"
"Riyah told them you would pay for our passage twice the value of the stone. They let her leave to deliver the message and bring back payment."
Loxa looked off across the line of wagons filled with the bounty of the mountain mine, dark-rimmed eyes settling briefly on the faces of the offending soldiers of Kotyc'ade's army, "This one will honor the promise of payment," reining her horse around, "and release. We go to Eogorath."

[member="Orkamaat"] [member="Boethiah"]

 

[Orkamaat]

As if by some miracle, things, people, and destruction all seemed to eschew the pair as they walked out the front door and down the slope of the mountain hand in hand. Orkamaat nearly disappeared, his thin figure and spidery, sinowy limbs blending into the chaotic background of fire and ash, and so to the screaming, fleeing onlooker, there was only the once-imposing silhouette of the Warlord of Wayland, descending from his throne with an entranced gait.

It reminded the Priest of a very particular kind of walk; the kind one witnessed in those accused and waiting for execution. It was in the subtle drag of his feet, in the declination of his chin, in the dulled glint of his eye.

Dead man walking.

"Come," he urged, softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the clamor of a city in its death throes. "Sha'Matri awaits, Balac. So do the Gods."

And they did, all of them. Their eyes keeping watch of the vessel that would take their chosen peoples to lands uncharted, to lands unconquered and lands unknown. They would traverse the endless voids between stars in its belly, until they perished, or until they found the holy shores.

Whatever came first, they would finally meet their Maker.

It occurred to Orkamaat that he was getting ahead of himself, and with a sigh he shifted his grip on Kotyc'ade, leading him through the maze of burning and collapsed streets, never once losing his way until they emerged through the gaping hole in the wall where the gate used to be.

The Priest motioned towards one of the groups outside, and soon enough, they were off on horseback, poised to leave the dying city far behind.

Soon, my child, he whispered to Eogorath, and smiled. For the first time in years, Orkamaat was looking forward to a new life.

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​