E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh
TYTHON
876 ABY
THE WIND
The cold caress of steel touched his tortured skin again as the epidermis of iron was laid over the marred flesh again. It was a painful ritual as much as it was comforting. For sixteen years now he had lived in this state of perpetual strife and suffering. It was an existence drowned out of any respite, of any of its human fruits in joy, love, laughter equally as sadness and suffering. There was no singular person who tethered him to humanity any longer. Such was the blessing and the curse of being a man unapproachable, unrelatable and ultimately immune to the attachments that others relied upon for their strength and vindication.
He did not look to any neophytes of the Empire any longer, just as he had no mentor to look to, friends or lover to confide in. There was no true indication as to what he truly
felt if it was anything at all. In truth, not even Rurik Fel knew anymore. All of which belong to the materia within which he'd attached any sentiment, had seen its meaning iconoclast by truest death or willful and invigorated exile from his life. Those to which he was bound by blood, reviled him. Those whom he'd taught, were personally apathetic to him. There was no personal attachment for which he'd held personally. Were it not for the select few who were at the end of his path of vengeance, there would be well and truly nothing beneath the steel.
Even so, there hardly was. Without that iron visage and skin grasping his tortured body- he was a man deprived of purpose, identity, and attachment. He'd always felt this way since the coming of the twilight irreparably destroyed his body. But now, the constant suppression of pain and emotion made for a withered husk of a man separate from the sense of individuality. The Empire was the last tether he held to any true and righteous purpose. Without it, he would've walked past the brink of existence ever to be seen again. But that was not the reality.
This reality, he was the Iron Emperor. In that title, that burden of obligation and solemn vow of sacrifice, he donned his truest purpose.
The winds of purpose would ultimately carry the Emperor and his host to Tython. He remembered this world well, one of the many worlds in which he was tutored in the Jedi Code by his once mentor Vyrin Karis. A presence that abandoned him years ago now.
He knew as soon as he gave the command to his host to venture forth to the world of Ashla that it would be a pivotal, decisive moment. For himself, yes, but above all, for the Empire, for the fate of the Galaxy. There was a sensation that fell over him in that electric blue starstream in transit, of which he knew what was to come, what was to be expected of him in the coming strife.
He accepted that obligation as he had every single one before.
On Tython, he would graze closer than ever with that final destiny. And he accepted that.
He stood aboard the bridge of the NIV Ferrata, standing at the side of Wilhuff Krieg as his still mortal eyes gazed past the iron visage in line with Krieg's crimson photoreceptors- installed in the sockets of boiled eyes lost during the defeat over Dantooine over a decade ago.
"Any minute now...we know they'll be there...but do we know what else we can expect, my Emperor? Our intelligence is...rather sparse."
"Hell." Rurik replies.
"The Galaxy will be watching, the beast emerges to make its final cry of defiance, to subjugate all that is known to its chaos...and in this maelstrom, Admiral Krieg...we shall have our vengeance. I shall prepare the Legion, inform me when we are to emerge from Hyperspace." He remarked to the Admiral before nodding once and taking leave from the bridge.
A few moments later, he was in the hangar bay of the NIV Ferrata, ironclad footfalls treading into echoing silence as a brigade of the 501st was formed and assembled before Fel. The Emperor's Chosen. They were the old guard, the first formation to defect with Irveric Tavlar and march with him into Harnaidan, Dubrillion, Bastion, they'd been there since the Iron Sun's dawning. Once more they'd be one of the first through the breach on Tython and while Fel was a far cry from the mortal man they'd followed from the start, he'd gained their respect in spades in his time of command.
Though perhaps a letter grade behind Tavlar in true leadership and charisma, he was a capable tactician as any other, a man who'd led from the front and possessed an inhuman unyielding in the face of danger. Nothing could be put before the mission to Fel. He would take risks most any other human commander would not and while it always bared a cost, the 501st, ever unwavering in their confidence in their ability to best any adversary, respected the doctrine held by the Iron Emperor and followed him as they did the Sovereign Imperator before.
As he stood on the podium before them, the clap in unison of closed fists slamming over their hearts in salute sounded out through the bay as Rurik returned the gesture, bringing his hand down at ease to signal to each of them to do the same.
"Sons and daughters of the Empire. Our enemies come together once more...the Maw has pried open the jaws of hell and seeks to bring the Galaxy down into it...but no matter how hot the flames, the iron will endure...the Empire will endure. This era of strife has been long and unforgiving...but I ask of you this once- to follow me into the fires so that we might seize our final victory and bring order. Our will be done."
"Our will be done! Ave Rurik! Ave Empire!" The Stormtroopers sounded off before slamming their fists to their chests once more in salute to their Emperor.
While all hell raged in the smiting skies and broken earth of Tython, the shrieking cry of darkness was far too loud and far too punishing to ignore. He knew exactly where the enemy lie here. In all the light of Ashla that this world emitted, it still cast the deepest shadow. The 501st were dispersed largely where they were needed, with a small unit, task unit 'Enigma', assigned to be Rurik's personal tactical command- the very same old guard who'd followed Irveric Tavlar into the streets of Harnaidan and Ravelin, the beaches of Dubrillion and Vjun followed Fel all the same.
Distinct from the cobalt skull motifs that were painted across the right half of their helmets- supposedly mirroring the marred half of Tavlar's face, they followed him. The scions of darkness and their presence were heavy here- but nothing that could not be put down by the will of the blade.
However, before he could set himself squarely in the encounter of the enemy of all that was mortal, the god of chaos Solipsis himself...he had to enact his vengeance. Not merely to his own behest, but to that of the Empire. If they were to have their final victory, their reign of order over the Galaxy- Rurik needed to slay the very man who put him in this horrid, incalculable burden.
On the climb of Akar Kesh, in the shadow of Solipsis's pursuit, another followed.
The Traitor.
An obligation which he would finally seize the opportunity to fulfill and bring the
death to the traitor.
"Caelitus." He spoke, his voice echoing through the fabrics of the Force itself to make certain that the traitor would hear him and know where he was. He was not hiding, he was
yearning for that encounter, to make due that it would be one of them that would remain among the mortal, the living.