Primarch Drek'ma
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Tathra Khaeus
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Galak
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Hrajlmak'Natok
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Hraelga Nacht
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Drekarys Kel
Objective: Slay Comrades-in-Arms
There was discussion throughout the chambers, and Osam knew that his fate lay hanging in the balance. Some seemed intent on discussing his lack of speechcraft, choosing to ostracize him on the grounds that he was incapable of expressing his thoughts with as much eloquence and brevity as they themselves were able. Others rebuked this claim on the grounds that the Risen-Sraelvun had never been granted access to the greater faculties of the Bedlakorum and the Major couldn't help but feel some camaraderie and appreciation for those who would take a stand in his behalf.
The way of the Bryn'adul, however, was not merely speech upon speech upon speech until one side or another surrendered due to the persistent filibustering of their opponents. This was proven after several moments as a trio of bright white lights suddenly appeared upon the podium stand. Osam was confused as to what these things might've been, and considered that these might be a part of each of the Ish'makras hearings, but moments later a set of Sraelvun drones strode through the portals. They were recognizable to the Major as some who had fought alongside him throughout several conflicts. Why were they here?
Kukris and blades hung in their hands, raised up so as to strike at whatever stood before them, and Osam's stomach began to sink as he realized their purpose. Even as the Primarch proffered the challenge to the Risen-Srael, the Major realized that he himself was unarmed and would be at a serious disadvantage in terms of equipment. It was a test of his capability, to determine whether or not he was sufficiently superior to his fellows so as to be removed from their company and placed into his own classification.
This was not simply a three-one fight. It was a battle between every Sraelvun alive to determine where they would fall in the rank of civilization. The lesser would claw and drag at their companions to force them down to their own level, whereas the Risen would only be able to achieve their rise if they could break the binds that kept them with the true Sraelvun.
Osam didn't need to hear the staff striking the ground to know the fight had begun. The trio strode forward, weapons raised, intent on plunging their knives into his carcass. They didn't hesitate in their movements, didn't stall or attempt to feint against him, and gradually the Major began to realize that they weren't thinking about the battle at hand so much as relying on mere muscle memory given to them by countless hours of flash-training and combat experiences.
He needed to deprive one of them of their weapon if he was going to stand any chance. His eyes settled upon the one in the center and his kukri. That was his usual weapon of choice, and thus it would be the best for him to acquire. Contrary to popular belief, it was genuinely difficult to disarm a person, let alone three at once, and the Sraelvun for all of his battle experience knew of no fancy techniques to allow such a thing. He needed the knife to be stationary... and he knew the fastest way to accomplish that was also one of the most painful.
The Major froze in his tracks, letting the center Srael get closer and closer while the other two began to circle, intent on jamming their knives into his back. There was a sudden thrust of the blade towards his abdomen, and Osam swung his hand towards it as if to parry with his bare palm. The metal met flesh and forced him to clasp his teeth so hard he thought they'd snap in his mouth. The kukri was dug deep through his palm, blood welling at the hilt and beginning to flow to the ground. With a burst of forward momentum, accelerated by the immense pain that having a blade thrust through one's hand causes, the Major cracked his skull against that of the center Srael, sending the surprised drone sprawling onto his back.
There was no time to debate the best way to remove the embedded kukri. He clasped his hand onto the hilt, drawing the weapon out as quickly as possible, trying to focus on the urgency of the situation instead of the immense suffering it caused. He took the blooded implement into his grasp with a shriek, spinning on his heel just in time for one of the other two standing Srael to bodycheck him, forcing him back and onto the ground himself. He sprung to his knees, aiming to stand as the other strode forward and aimed a kick at his side. The foot was caught at the last moment and nestled in the crevice of his wounded arm so as to lock it in place.
The kukri lashed forward, jamming up the length of the caught drone's inner thigh, a torrent of blood spilling out of it as a major artery was severed by the knife. Another shriek of pain -- this time from someone else, and the Srael was tossed onto his back to deal with the wound inflicted. By now the other downed drone had already arisen again, recovering from the concussion he had been given thanks to the Risen-Srael.
The dance continued, another flash of knives. The Risen-Srael flashed his blade towards the face of one of his opponents in a feint, observing as the ignorant creature moved to counter it only for a hefty fist, still bleeding immensely slammed into his jaw with a crack. The way he felt all of the teeth in the drone's mouth rattle and shift indicated to him that he had managed to break the jawbone with the blow. It was true that the Risen-Srael was stronger than his opponents in terms of brute physicality, then.
One drone was on the ground, having gone a sickly pale as the blood poured from his body. Another lay prone, nursing its broken jaw as it struggled to lift itself up, and the last was --
He felt the blade slam into his back with a gentle thud before retracting out for another blow. The Risen-Srael twisted, his survival instincts forcing him to adapt instead of faltering as the others had, and he lashed out with his own weapon, catching the retreating drone on the chin with a gash. The wound in his back ached fiercely now, just as the one in his hand, but neither had stricken anything so vital that it could not be repaired when he was finished. The drone raised his own weapon for another blow, but Osam was ready for him now, charging forward to shorten the distance between them and clasping his hands around him in a facsimile of a hug.
He squeezed tightly on him, preventing him from utilizing the weapon he held as they shifted about the stage. Finally, he lashed out with his knee, making contact with the side of his foe once... twice... thri -- the hip broke from the repeated abuse, dropping the final Sraelvun to the ground with a cry. Reaching down, he plunged the kukri into its head, finishing it off and pinning it to the ground in the process.
One had expired from bloodless, one from the kukri to its head, and the last still lay nursing its jaw and rolling to and fro in an attempt at recovery. Osam approached it, pinning it down as it lay on its stomach and lifting a claw so as to finish the job. He stared down at it now with a new appreciation for the musculature, for the tone of its meat, for the way that the bones in its head still popped when it shifted, desperately attempting to escape him. It was no longer a threat, simply prey, and Osam had been Sraelvun for all of his life...
Objective: A Victory Feast
The claw dug in deep into the neck, stunning and finishing off the enemy as the carotid was severed. It curled from within and then tugged with surprising force, tearing away the chunk that concealed the vital artery and lifting the liberated piece to the mouth of its victor. It wasn't the most delicious meal he had ever had, but it was the one he had worked the hardest for, and as the rawest of meats filled his maw, the Ish'makra around him seemed to disappear.
He had earned this. One bite, and then another, the flesh chewed between his teeth and swallowed for later rumination until the head had all but been separated from the rest of the body. Cannibalism was not something looked down upon by the Sraelvun tribes, and Osam had been part of one that feasted on their own kind with as much exclusivity as possible. Nevertheless, these were court proceedings, weren't they? His less savage blood flooded him with reason, and with a final swallow he rose to his full height, turning to face the Primarch.
"It is done."
Osam
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Fomoris
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