No Glory

[Voices of The Deep]

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"Glory is attained only through me." - Emperor Cassius​

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[member="Lark"] | [member="Mythos"] | [member="Lord Depravious"] | [member="Darth Lykos"] | [member="Hazel Zanteres"] @Cinder Rose​

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OOC Thread​

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Me. One word.

The only word that mattered. The Red Cloaked Lord sat within his cushioned throne, emerald eyes flicking and narrowing tightly among the great Colosseum before him as the ringing roar of the crowd echoed through the air so thick with blood the emperor could taste the iron. The people demanded their pound of flesh and blood and as always they got it...but to the Cassius, this place had become so tedious and mundane.


Once upon a time it had been a darwinist struggle, an addiction, a puzzle to conquer of which he'd sell his soul and virtue in pounds for its idiosyncratic pieces, all the while determining only vaguely where his next sacrifice would come from and whether or they would be ripped from the comfort of their every day lives and put into chains for his amusement...oh these gladiators with their amusingly trite dreams of freedom as if their fortitude high enough to deserve control of their own fates. This had been so much willing obsession breeding in his brain since the moment they'd arrive here young and vestal and in recollection likely begging to be split open to the skull. Enjoying the convoluted psychosis of it all. Enjoying the fatalistic thrills. When every moment in the arena was eye-catching and heart pounding...

But the game was becoming boring. And Cassius hated boring.

Where had the depravity gone from this hellhole, where everybody strutted around like they meant business, irrational aggression the noxious brew of either heat softening the brains of naive recruits or simply the whimsies of the useless, inbred psychotics Shimura attracted like children to crackers and juice? Where was the spark, the spatter, the fire, the life, the screaming, the brawls, the megalomania, the dirt, the death? It was just so typical now...watching a man clearly at disadvantage fight a helpless battle against a far superior opponent. The Crowd ate it up like Candy...but he wanted something new.

A single finger would stroke along the spine of his pet Ysalamiri, holding fruit within his palm as the smaller creature ate steadily.

Then a whisper, one of his advisers leaned down to utter news into his ear.

"You're Majesty...the newest batch have just landed...they should be arriving shortly. What shall i tell the Game Masters?" The young woman spoke, forcing a grin onto Cassius's face.

"Depends...what does this new batch consist of? I certainly hope this new gladiators will entertain me." He'd must, leaving his assistant silent for a moment as she rubbed her chin.

"If i recall...a young doctor, a couple Sith Lords and their apprentice...and some, horned beast." She replied cautiously. Cassius giving a brief nod and sighing.

"Very well then, bring them to the front after this battle ends...they will be tested immediately of their worth. But for now just keep them in the dungeons." He ordered, waving a hand and dismissing the woman.

And in the back of his mind he wondered...just what these new slaves had to offer.

 

[Xevek Nekonis]

The grimly amusing irony of the situation was clear to the Iriodnian Sith as he sat, reclining against one side of the cell he had been thrown into. It had been nearly a decade, or there about, since he had last felt the bite of slavery - a good many of the scars and burns that decorated his form coming from that time in his life - and never had he expected to feel the sting of subjugation again.

However, thanfully, he had grown wiser and aged well since that time, no longer was he the brash and bold Ul'Jath that had been stolen from his kin in a raid after deciding to lay down his own freedom to ensure the freedom of his Ru. And so, rather than raging and shouting at the injustice of it all, rather than promising pain and hellfire upon those that had dared to slap him in chains once more, he simply sat, head bowed, upper body bared - through choice more than anything, the chance to be free of the restriction of too much cloth a relief that hearkened back to his time on Iridonia after he had worn robes for so long.

With his upper body bared, the mess of scars and burns that seemed to coil across the entire canvas of flesh - gathering heavily on his right side more than anywhere else - would be in plain sight of any that looked his way. However, what would perhaps stand out more were the dark, near pitch black, tattoos that stood out plainly a fiercely against his skin. His Jat'i coiled their way across his form in a mix of thin, wiry script and thick, bold arcs and lines. And with every arc, every twist, every coil and overlapping line a new story was told; tales of accomplishments and victories and lamentations of losses and suffering inked and carved into his body along side the whispers of his life - every person he had ever met, ever killed and ever cared for (the later being more prevalent in his younger years and nearly nonexistent for a couple of years now) imprinted upon him just as strongly as the marks of his Goddesses and Gods were.

As he sat there, unresponsive to the majority of words or actions that may have been directed his way by either guards, fellow Sith or the unknown pair, Lykos turned his sight inwards. The connection he held with the Force had been robbed from him, yes, but, it was his connection and ability to manipulate it only (he recognised the sensation of a Ysalamiri well after all. As such, as he gazed inwards, he stared at the swirling storm of burning sand as bare feet set upon solid bedrock and a single sun orbited by twin moons hung above him. This was his mind, his defenses against intruders.

And, as he stood there, he reached out to the fury of the sand, the heat of the sun, the frozen wisdom of the moons, the steady focus of the bedrock and the fury of the frozen river of ice and water that curled through the center of sun, bedrock and moon alike. Each aspect was a shard of his mind, the Sun being presented as his mind proper, so that his mind was harder to read as one would have to dismiss common thought and choice to listen to all aspects (from wind, to celestial bodies to rock and ice).

There, among his mind in its truest form, his mental avatar impossibly stood in silence, guarding his fury and strengthening his focus and patience while whispering to the feral beast of the storm and sun. Any action he could take now would be a waste of energy, useless over all. As such, he would not act, not just yet. But, soon, he would. Soon he would strike and reclaim his freedom. He would bide his time, wait until the opportune moment. And then the foolish mali'kepen would learn the stories of the ferocity of the Zabraks was well earned. He would bath in their blood, taste it upon his tongue and luxuriate in it. But, until then, he would wait, be the Predator that lurked and waited for the Prey to show weakness. Soon, they would learn the strength of the Patriarch of Rakama.

Due to his head being bowed, long, ashen grey hued curtains of hair hung messily before his face, obscuring his features from the others. However, should the others that had been captured along side him listen carefully, they would be able to hear a low, droning noise coming from the Iriondian. For, beneath that curtain of hair, his lips moved in slow motions, jaw undulating as rough growls and harsh syllables were quietly spoken in a continuous, melodic chant. Ul'Zabrak was a language spoken only by the Nomadic Clans of Iridonia - a relic of a history that most had since forgotten - as it had been replaced in the Cities of Iridonia and the minds of the Zabraks populating the galaxy with the much more modern Zabraki. As such, it would be doubtful that any of the others would understand what he was saying, but, if they could, they would be hearing the uttered songs of the breaking of Chains of the Old Ones by the Great Mother Amina and the destruction she had set upon the Old Ones with the aid of her sons Nath - he whom embodied Death - and Vysh - he who had been birthed amongst War and fed upon Conflict.

The Death of Those That Took Slaves of the Born Free - the Song of the painful death of those that had subjugated the first Iridonians who would go on to became the True Deities. By the day's end, Lykos mused, it might have been recreated on a lesser scale in the present.



[member="Cinder Rose"] | [member="Lark"] | [member="Mythos"] | [member="Hazel Zanteres"] | [member="Lord Depravious"]

 

[Hazel Zanteres]

Hazel slowly regained consciousness, immediately feeling a throbbing pain at the back of her head. She blinked repeatedly, vision blurry as the Hapan tried to get a bearing of her situations and surroundings. It became apparently fairly quick that she was no longer in the same place she had last remembered.

"Shay?" Her first thought was towards the Dravala, but a look around revealed the towering woman was nowhere in sight.

She was sitting in a cell, a fairly large one that was currently holding several people other than herself. It looked to be somewhere distinctly underground, although the Hapan wasn't entirely sure. The ceiling and walls seemed to rumble with activity, the roar of the crowd rocking it as they cheered for something up above.

Were they in a dungeon?

How in the Force had they gotten here? The last thing she remembered...

They had been ambushed. Hazel had gone along with Shay on her latest exploration, searching for a planet that would be suitable for what remained of her kind. That's when it happened, a sizable group suddenly sprung up and had attacked them - or specifically Shay. It was all slowly coming back to the Hapan, recalling how they had tried to outnumber the Dravala. Then at some point during it, Hazel had attempted to assist her only to receive the butt of a rifle to the back of her head.

Now she was here sitting in a cell with others. None of them she recognized, but all seemed to be here for the same purpose. Whatever that was.

As she looked around, the Hapan finally caught sight of something strange. There was a coffin-shaped box propped up against one of the cell's walls. It looked to be made of some type of metal, and if Hazel wasn't mistaken it was also rumbling slightly. A quick glance around made it clear to her just who was in that box, and not sitting in the dirt with everyone else.

"Shay!" Hazel stood up, wincing as she felt her head throb from the sudden movement. She stumbled over until she was close to the box. "Shay, are you okay? Say something!"

She had the foresight to not be standing in the direction the single opening was facing. As not a moment later a stream of fire came blasting out of it.

[member="Cinder Rose"] | [member="Lark"] | [member="Mythos"] | [member="Lord Depravious"] | [member="Darth Lykos"]​

 

[Lark]

Lark idly trailed his finger in the sand, forming small pictures without meaning or form, bringing his abstract thoughts to life. The lines could have been waves or a mound of hills, a wildfire or mountain ranges. When the area around him was covered in his work, he'd brush the sand around, forever erasing his senseless work, and start over. He needed something to do to pass the time, to drown out the endless droll of the crowd above. What they were cheering for he could not say for certain, although he had a few guesses. None of which bode well for him, or any of the others biding their time in the cell.

Light pink skin came out from hiding underneath the rags Lark had been given, remnants of his childhood. A thorn-like pattern of burns tore at the skin around his shoulders, the patches of flesh growing agitated after rubbing against the searing sand. The scars abated into something resembling wispy trails of smoke as they descended down his youthful arms, before vanishing into nothingness partway through his forearm. Normally he kept the burns hidden, it felt odd to have them revealed.

Well, might as well show it all off. Following after Lykos, Lark tore off the loose-fitting rags, they would only burden him anyhow. Beneath the tattered cloth was an amalgam of pink and pale skin, a kaleidoscope of colors etched onto him. He used the rags as a pillow, burning skin he could deal with. Lark hated matted hair. He lay back on his side, letting his mind wander while creating a new pattern in the sand. It scorched his finger, but he didn't mind. Pain meant nothing to him.

A few more minutes went by, the crowd's chants continued and Lykos joined them in their incomprehensible murmurs. Lark shut it all out, he closed his eyes and shut himself away from the outside world, hearing nothing but static noise as he unconsciously scribbled a quick series of lines. He didn't know how much time passed, it could have been seconds or hours. A sudden burst of fire hurtled into existence, Lark felt the heat rise on his back. He rolled over with curiosity, he had noticed the others in the cell but never gave them much thought. Odd, given that people were his favorite toys to play with. Surely they would have been more entertaining than playing in the sand.

Speaking of, Lark turned to see what manner of creation his subconscious spawned. While his previous sketches had been formless, this one was created with perfect symmetry, a tower-like structure that appeared to imitate a house of cards. He had never seen the symbol before, but there it was, laid out like a museum exhibit. Such an odd thing, the mind, he thought, preeminently awaiting release into whatever storm raged on above, and curiously listening for whatever emerged from the torrent of flames.

[member="Hazel Zanteres"] [member="Darth Lykos"] [member="Cinder Rose"] [member="Lord Depravious"] [member="Mythos"]

 

[Mythos]

It had been a long time coming and the lengths Mythos had to go to end up here were complicated to say the very least. Stagnation was one thing that Mythos had avoided yet ever since the return of his spirit to the land of the living Mythos itched for a real challenge yet outside of where he would be identified in the galaxy there had been little chance of it. Here in a Colosseum of war, Here in the sands of combat deprived of his oh so precious dark side he would be truly tested and the thought of it made him smile insanely. Mythos stood in his cell stretching and rehersing the strikes of the various martial arts he had learned while in Atrisia, Midvinter, The One Sith and [member="Darth Erebos"]. It was not the first time Mythos had conducted missions without the aid of the force in fact he had spent countless years wandering in the wastes of the Midvinter snowlands without it, severed from it by a Jedi Master. He had become a warrior then, a supreme hunter and predator capable of standing against all odds so when the Force returned to him he was even more deadly. Looking through the bars to his cellmate his eyes narrowed, slowly he approached the durasteel bars to gaze upon his neighbor on the other side of the fighting arena. Could it be? The Son of Iridonia, the bringer of silent death and one of the few other apprentices from the matron mother of Shadows Ophidia. Mythos could't help but to laugh. "It's been a long time Xavka Duquo..." He said, using his first and last name known from his days in the Sith Assassins and his tone a cheerful one, letting his friend know that this was something he would enjoy.... and bringing death would be something Lykos would also enjoy doing.

Mythos' body was bulked up but he did not lose agility because of it, training in the most hostile of environments made the sand beneath his leather boots feel like home and the cheer of the crowds above him feel inviting. He would give them their moneys worth. He would give them a spectacle. No weapons today, he also had no issues with that. Most likely he was the only person here who wanted to be here, who urged to be here... who needed to be here. "I look forward to killing next to you again"
@Lark @Hazel Zanteres [member="Darth Lykos"] [member="Cinder Rose"] [member="Lord Depravious"]​

 

[Voices of The Deep]

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"Those who doubt the existence of dragons are the first to be devoured."​

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The fires are growing stronger. Occasionally the flames just as ever still, ignited vigorously from her hocks and in breath without warning or command. She could feel the flames within her growing hotter and hotter as her fury grew stronger. Fire was a constant state of energy, frenzied and wild and ever so vivacious. It was angry and passionate. Collected and refine - but it still danced as if music had never stopped. Garnet toned locks danced youthfully against her face and the side of her neck in harmonious rhythm in her silence as a slight draft of warm air passed through the available space in her confinement. The responsibilities she now held, weighed heavily on her shoulders which only grew heavier when she realized what was happening to her.

She knew this feeling all to well. Her limbs restricted by chains and latches, her body forced to be still and her rage defused by simple restraints. Yes, she knew exactly what was happening here. She was a prisoner once again, prisoner to someone else's will. A will aside from her own...chocolate eyelids would ever so slowly rise, brandishing golden colored optics within them as her slit eyes gazed through the only opening available to her.



"Shay! Shay, are you okay? Say something!"

A voice called to her...though it took a moment for her sight to clear, the red haired maiden found her sights falling upon a figure she could not fully recognize. Just another heat signature among many others and to the woman and it was venturing uncomfortably close. Shay clicked her teeth together, igniting a spark within them as a low and reptilian hiss erupted past her lips as a sign of warning, a warning best heeded. The woman in the box was no gentle creature, and she was not in a particularly good mood. She remained tame for now, quiet in a sense. But there was always a calm before the storm and when this box opened...if it opened...hellfire would be unleashed upon all those within the immediate area. This coffin, this cage... it was Pandoras Box. And god help the poor unfortunate soul who dared open it.

The sudden force of the crowd above could be felt in Shays bones...their screams and shouts seemed to drown out everything else as the stomping of metal clashing with stone sounded across the dungeon. Soldiers entering the cells and preparing for the next event, coming to the cell in which everyone including Shay resided in. Behind them the ceiling would cave in, lowering a patch of sand and blood down onto the floor similar to an elevator.

"All of you up, its your turn." A guard shouted, his booming voice disturbing Shays peace as a couple of the soldiers readied their shotgun blasters and spears as the cell was opened. One of the soldiers reached down and grabbed a lengthy chain which seemed to be connected to the metal collars around each of their necks, linking everyone in the cell together to make resistance difficult for each of them. The Soldier tugged on it, pulling the first one on the chain who was the blonde doctor, then the next, then the next until they were all out of the cell and brought to the elevator which would take them to the arena. Lastly, about four other soldiers entered the cell with a Dolly. Two of them attempting to push the container Shay was imprisoned in and the other two holding the Dolly steady as the box fell into it. Rolling the woman out of the cell and onto the elevator with the others as the Soldiers all gathered on as well.

An audible click would sound around them, and then the sandy surface of which they stood began to lift, bringing them up into the blazing sun to face the roaring crowd face to face...revealing them to be in a massive Colosseum. Several mens bodies strewn about the arena as the victors were showered in praise.

Welcome to the game.

[member="Lark"] | [member="Mythos"] | [member="Lord Depravious"] | [member="Darth Lykos"] | [member="Hazel Zanteres"] | Cinder Rose​

 

[Tal Vizsla]

The crowd roared,

The fighters strutted,

And the pale man stood silent, lips spread wide in an exultant grin.



He loved this. Of all the experiences his memories held, this was undeniably among his favorite. He could feel the energy of the crowd, feel the terror of those that now lay dead around him, feel it and feed his own growing thirst for more. If he had been created for any purpose, then surely this was it. He'd thought he was close when he'd joined the mandalorians, but even their brutality and warmongering were a mere shadow compared to the thrill of this.

He wore no armor, and in truth had found little need of it here. The wookiee had been the greatest challenge, all teeth and fur and claws. A madclaw, he thought they were called, and a more entertaining fight by far than their more restrained brothers. The gashes along his arm were evidence enough of that, but he had fallen in the end, just like all the others.

The only weapons he had elected to carry were a simple meter-wide round shield and a two-meter spear. He'd begun the day with neither, but the odds they stacked against him had required some adaptation.

He turned as the lift began to rise once again, facing it squarely from a dozen paces as it brought fresh blood to meet their end on the point of his spear.

"Welcome!" He boomed as they rose within view. "To the last day of the rest of your lives!"



This was going to be a fun day indeed.

[member="Cinder Rose"] - [member="Darth Lykos"] - [member="Hazel Zanteres"] - [member="Mythos"] - [member="Lark"]​

 

[Lark]

A low rumbling sound gradually increased in volume, before small showers of sand fell from the elevator that descended downwards to their cell. He stood up slowly, careful not to disorient himself. He brushed away the odd symbol he had drawn, there would be time to ponder on that later. Before the guards had the chance the drag them out into whatever spectacle took place above, Lark grabbed a small handful of sand and forcefully placed the sharp particles in between his fingernails, causing intense irritation. More of the dust fell into the small crevice separating his chaffed wrists and the rusted chains that kept him bound, and his hands twitched in aggravation. He twisted his wrists, grinding the sand into his raw skin and drawing small trickles of blood. He didn't want to be calm for what was about to happen.

Lark followed close behind the others, ungracefully pulled forward by their captors. He could feel the sand digging beneath his nails, grating against his skin like small pieces of gravel. Once the odd box was loaded onto the elevator, it slowly ascended to the surface, and the tremor of the chants grew more and more audible. When they finally reached their destination, radiant beams of sunlight filled their vision, temporarily masking their surroundings. Lark tried looking at the ground to avoid the harsh light, but the sand reflected it back in his face.

After a moment he grew accustomed to the bright light, and observed the arena he would presumably soon fight in. Weapons and bodies littered the field, blood boiled on the scorching hot sand. ​A gladiatorial arena, Lark thought with amusement, his more chaotic nature taking control. Do they intend for us to fight each other, or are we fighting as a team? Do they realize who they've brought here? Do they know what's in the box? Lark smiled serenely, an odd contrast compared to his lust for chaos. Hopefully the home crowd weren't to attached to their champion.

[member="Bloodshot"] [member="Cinder Rose"] [member="Mythos"] [member="Hazel Zanteres"][member="Darth Lykos"]

 

[Xevek Nekonis]

As what amounted to an elevator dropped from the ceiling above, it brought with it a cascade of sand dirtied with sweat and blood, the roars and jeers of numerous voices overlapping each other in a bid for dominance and the curling, pungent scent of the grim that stained the sand. The physical impact of sound thrummed through his bones and blood as guards hurried in with blades, dragging the captured bodies to their feet. Chain rattling as they were dragged off to be sacrificed for the entertainment of others. Dull pain blossomed within his wrists and neck as the shackles were tugged upon and his body was forced to stumble after the body before him.

However, all of this was nothing but background noise to the Iridonian, annoyances equal to the address of the one he vaguely recognised as Mythos. Through all of this, the guards and his fellows both, would hear the volume of his song change, the tempo slower and more deliberate, however, it never ceased. The low, rumbling mix of growls and foreign words continued to be sung.

After all, why should he stop? This was his song, his tale, now. No longer did he sing of the triumphs of the True Deities, no more did he utter their story of death and punishment. Now, in a language known to no other around him, he sung of blood and pain and beasts and death that loomed within oncoming sandstorms. He sung promises, oaths of pain and blood. He sung of curses and insult. More than that, though, he now sung his own tale, shaping the story of what was to come before it had even occurred. For this place had once been his home. Not the structure itself, but the jeering crowds and powerful scents of blood and death. He had fought, he had won, he had persevered and he had liberated himself before. Now he was no longer the weak child he had been, no longer was he the Zabrak forced into the life of a slave-gladiator. Now, he was more, he was Beasts and Self. And, so he sung promises of what would come in a tongue none bar himself knew.

The Predator, one among others from the sounds from the metal cage that the Prey had so foolishly chosen to only use one were to be judged, was ready. Even as he stood before the crowds as the elevator came to a halt, exposing the group to the gathered populous, head bowed and eye shut as his song continued, he was ready. Ready to taste blood, taste fear and death once more. And, so, he would, that he swore. As soon as the chains would drop from his wrists and neck, as soon as he was free to prey upon the fools that he could hear shuffling around them - the scent of adrenaline and smugness practically radiating from them and spelling out the story of their misplaced confidence, he would feast as Predator, Self and Beast in one. The curling marks of his Jat'i would be proven before this crowd.

A voice, one that would soon belong to a dead man, rang out; taunting them. It spoke of this day being their last, uttered a false promise that it could not keep. Beneath the veil of hair, Lykos' jaw would halt its movement, his voice cut of harshly as he suddenly fell silent - a fact that would only be obvious to those that stood with him due to the noise of the crowd. A small, deadly snarl began to curl at scarred lips. A growl began to form within the depths of his throat, this one no longer tied to any uttered words.

Raising his head, Lykos' ashen hair would part. The Jat'o markings of his Clan and Kin stood harshly against the darkened skin, the shattered side of his face painting a gruesome story. Moon, sun, sand, storm and bedrock shone within his gaze - the Frozen fury of a desert coiling within his burnt amber gaze. Muscles coiled in preparation, snarl growing all the wide and vicious the more seconds that ticked by. Fangs stained with old crimson peaked forth from curled back lips. Chaos begat strength, chaos begat power and freedom. Now, the crowds would see Chaos, would see rage and fury - see why his Kin had survived the Desert Plains and prospered. Now, the crowds would see the Predators strength as he once more stood as a gladiator; a tool for entertainment.

Let the fun begin!



[member="Cinder Rose"] | [member="Lark"] | [member="Mythos"] | [member="Hazel Zanteres"] | [member="Bloodshot"]