Faction The Gathering [Brotherhood of the Maw]

[The Messenger]

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The sky bled smoke and ash, the land laid out saturated in an orangish hue as fires raged on across the bleak and tattered horizon. The city was gone, wiped clean, and left barren by the Brotherhood of the Maw. If one looked carefully, they could see parts of exposed ship in the clouds, in the smoke. Several cruisers hovered overhead casting an aura of dread across the now empty land. What had once been a thriving colony had now been effectively wiped from the face of the planet.​

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The clouds parted, opening wide as a lone shuttle soared into the open air above the ruined colony. Flying between broken building and twisted metal, the vessel drifted over the landscape searching for a suitable landing zone. The starship slowed, pacing itself as it approached an area of flat desert and scorched earth. Two sets of landing gear dropped from inside as the shuttle descended, easing it's way to the surface the ship pressed against the sands below. Steam rolled out from the underbelly of the shuttle as it powered down and dropped it's loading ramp slowly to unload it's precious cargo.​

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Like magic, from behind dark shadow and busted block came several landspeeders, rushing to meet with the shuttle's occupants. The first to emerge was an old man, dressed in ritualistic garb, known to the Brotherhood as 'the Voice of the Maw'. A seer, an oracle, and a member of the Heathen Priests with a connection to the Dark Side of the Force that was undeniable. He alone interpreted the will of the Maw, he alone stood separate but equal to the Heathen Priests as the very mouthpiece of the mighty avatars. He was no warlord, he was a prophet, and now he came to tend to his flock.​

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"Come, Children of the Maw."​

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Now the warlords would gather, the heathen priests that followed them would be summoned, and the marauders of the great horde will bear witness. Bear witness to words of return. Bear witness to the beginning of the end. The Brotherhood had come back to the edge of known space, and they were ready to make war.​

 

[Alars Keto]

The air was foul and wreeked of death, the fertile gardens and wonderous glass spires that once painted a tranquil picture of prosperity had been wiped clean. The desert rushed to meet the empty streets and broken towers of twisted metal. Lush gardens that beautified the streets were engulfed in flame, the wonderous oasis had been desecrated by their hands. Scorching fires raged over piles of burned men and women alike. They were the fortunate ones, the survivors of the Brotherhood's warband were wrapped in chains and dragged away, taken as slaves or worse as spoils of war. You keep what you kill, you take what you want. Rule by the Strong, Death to the Weak.

His speeder zoomed over the horizon kicking up sand and passing debris alike in his wake as he rushed to catch a glimpse of the Brotherhood's Prophet. He'd been with the Brotherhood of the Maw for almost a decade now, and in that time he had rose from slave to enforcer, walking meat to brother in arms. This was the only life worth living, the Brotherhood had shown him the way, to him the smoldering ruins around him was progress. Progress for the galaxy, a real pathway to true freedom. It was so beautiful.

The shuttle descended beyond the dunes, into an area cleared of debris and road alike, shattered remains of aircrafts dotted the area as his speeder climbed over the hillside. His landspeeder roared as he pressed down on the accelerator, the vessel labored under the stress of the thunderous boost and thrusters running full bore. As he cleared the peak, he could see the shuttle before him and a lone figure emerge. The Voice of the Maw.

Other speeding flashes of black emerged from the corners of the horizon, the warband was gathering. Something big was about to happen, his face filled with sadistic joy as he relished in the thoughts of what could be, and what would happen next. Another raid? Perhaps a culling of sorts? Only the darkest of thoughts filled his skull, and only then did he see the vessels of several warlords descend from the sky.

It was going to be big, he slowed gradually as he approached the site before him. He scanned the area for his benefactor, the man in charge of the operation, if you could call him a man. He was a hurricane, a freak of nature, a vessel of power in the form of a man. Trained in the forbidden arts, and wielder of the same magicks the Jedi and Sith hoarded away. Syrenno Maraan , one of the many warlords who held sway over the Brotherhood, his employer and master of the domain of which he took refuge.

His eyes spotted the dark robes of the most recent addition to the ranks of warlords, the mysterious Lady Maestus , rumored to be of the Sith Order itself. Her entry into the ranks of the Brotherhood was bloody and rise to power even bloodier. She was feared across the fleet for her command over the dark magics wielded by the Heathen Priests, and her power to command the mind could not be ignored. He looked upon her image, standing alongside the Voice. How she managed to attain such a place so quickly was baffling, he'd make sure to stay clear of her if possible.

Ah Koleric , the Shaper of Kro Var. Master of the elements and bringer of fire. His image descended from the loading ramp of the shuttle near the meeting of minds. He would not be surprised if the dreaded Zachariel Steelblood was among the warlords gathering, his appetite for death was matched only by his will to dominate. The twisted Gen'dai was known as one of the chief terrors among the Brotherhood's ranks.

His speeder came to a halt as he arrived at his destination, he dismounted and turned toward those assembled eagerly. More approached, raiders and marauders of the horde that made up the Brotherhood's dark army. From the lowest warboy to the mightiest champion, they came to hear the words that would be spoken here and now. His eyes drifted to the shuttle as what he assumed to be the final occupants onboard dismount for the meeting. Tattered robes, the stench of rotten flesh, there was no question who these individuals were. The Heathen Priests gathered near the Voice, Kryll looked for the face of the mad warpriest Anabasa , the wisest he felt personally among the dark clergy.

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[Zachariel Steelblood]

The Brotherhood of the Maw. It was a faction who's ideals and beliefs Zachariel wholeheartedly supported. The strong ruling the weak, conquest, death, and destruction simply for the sake of it. All of that and more where reasons enough for Zachariel to work with them, to become one of their warlords. Their ravaging of various worlds in the unknown parts of the galaxy had certainly brought him no small amounts of joy, but finally returning to known space was its on dark blessing. It meant their deeds would soon be known by the wider galaxy, and that they could finally target true population centers, finally slaughter those more worthy of death.

For that reason, Zachariel had been one of the first to join this attack. And now that this slaughter was done, it was time to see what else was in store for the future. Thus, Zachariel returned to the center of it all, flying in on wings of fire created by his jetpack. He crashed down near the edge of the gathering, landing in a crouch before slowly rising to his full height. His bloodthirstiness was evident, as he'd dragged back a half living individual from his last slaughter. Furthermore, new trophies adorned his armor, the still screaming heads of some unfortunate victims. They were kept living through the dark arts of the Force, dark arts Zachariel had learned since joining the Brotherhood. Clearly each of the heads was in great pain, and their silent cries were just loud enough to be heard by those near Zachariel. Each was screaming in untold agony or begging for a death that would never come.

As for Zachariel, he simply smiled at them, making his way through those gathered. Passing by a recently arrive speeder and its pilot(Kryll), Zachariel simply strode past the numerous smaller beings. He towered over them, even as they parted before him, knowing to fear who he was. Ignoring them, he simply found a destroyed speeder near the front and sat himself on it, causing it to groan loudly under his weight. Ignoring the noise, Zachariel pulled his half living victim onto his lap, smiling cruelly at him under his helmet. Waiting for this procession to start would take time, so Zachariel simply kept an eye on the Voice of the Maw, even as he drew a large, serrated knife to pass the time. Amplifying his victims fear and pain receptors with the Dark Side, he set to work on skinning his still living victim.

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Syrenno Maraan | Koleric | Anabasa | Maestus

 

[Syrenno Maraan]

TAG: Alars Keto | The Messenger | Zachariel Steelblood

Another speeder rode upon the designated meeting place. A figure stood stop it, scanning the horizon. The sweet, putrid smell of chaos and desolation filled the air. The warrior wore a beat up, bronze-like make in the guise of a humanoid skull. Whilst coming through the dust and ash, he appeared as if the image of Death itself.

He was Maweth, leader of one of the various warrior tribes that made up the Brotherhood. He was the master of Kryll, whom he nodded to in acknowledgement as his speeder neared the congregation. He gave a begrudging glance over to Zachariel. His fellow warlord, there was no doubting that. However, Maweth stared him down.

"Truly, Zachariel." His raspy, metallized voice came through the mask's vox, "Must you play with your food? Either kill it or chain it."

His tone was akin to a parent chiding their child. Yet it was a tone that suggested he was unafraid of any retaliation from the larger man. He had seen much, and feared little.

"I would hate to hear its grovelling drown out the message of the Voice." He reminded coldly.

He turned his attention to Kryll, one his trusted lieutenant. He seemed to cock his head to the side a little before addressing him.

"I am glad you survived, friend." He nodded in seeming respect, "How went your rampage? Did you bring glory to our tribe? Did you satiate the whims of the Maw?"

He gave a shadowy, rasped chuckle. He always listened to the triumphs of his lieutenants. It was simultaneously a way to continue his confidence in his choices in who he chose to serve him. Plus, it was good killer of time when the raiding had ceased and the ceremonies were yet to begin.

 

[Alars Keto]

As he thought, the shattered cries of silent agony from the unnaturally sustained heads of Zachariel Steelblood 's trophies caught his attention immediately as the tall brute of a warlord strode past. He'd been apart of the slaughter, the sheer bloodbath that caught the colony offguard when the Brotherhood arrived, so it was no surprise to him to see the mighty Gen'dai had been apart of the chaos that unfolded this day. Fresh from the kill, still dragging along his latest victim, well half of his latest victim. Kryll chuckled to himself softly as he gazed upon some of the fearful faces that stared in awe and dread from the passing warlord, it was amusing to see but valid all the same in their demeanors. He was a warlord among the Brotherhood by right of conquest and held onto it by crushing those who challenged him, foolish as it may be.

His eyes moved to the approaching form of a shadow baked in light from the horizon, an eclipsed form of a man approached. Soon the darkness faded and the light revealed the one who neared, Syrenno Maraan . Lowering his head with a slight nod and a closed fist brought to his chest, he acknowledged the approaching warlord, his master, and listened as he engaged in witty banter with his counterpart. Such was not always the case when it came to a meeting of giants, words were sometimes replaced with blows or swords upon each other's throats. It was the nature of the rule of the strong, rivalries and friendships were not discouraged among the Brotherhood of the Maw, only outright war for those who threatened their great union, their dark crusade, were punished with the utmost severity. Each warlord was akin to a king among the tribes, a master of their own united by a common ideal, a creed.

He addressed his master when he cocked his head and adjusted his gaze onto Kryll. His mind briefly ran back to the recent raid, his thoughts centered on a particular scene. His hands wrapped around the neck of a older man, his eyes meeting the eyes of his victim as he watches life leave him. Slowly, his victim's body went limp and there was no more struggle, no more pain. Kryll rose from his kneeled position over the dead man beneath him and turned his gaze to the sounds of crashing glass, and doors breaking down. He rose to his feet and pressed his hands together as if he was knocking dirt away from his hands. The subsequent screams from the adjacent room was indication of his raiders finding more colonists, victims and slaves. He took another glance back at the deceased old man and scowled.

Well dressed, well groomed, near human to the point you couldn't tell at first glance. He was supposedly one of the colony's best warriors once upon a time, that time had long past and complacency had set in along with old age. Reaching down, he pulled the corpse's head by it's hair and lifted it's head. In a mocking manner he jumbled it from left to right, "Wah wah wah." How boring. There was no challenge here, only walking meat feeding the grinder. His eyes flickered, and his mind readjusted to the present, to Maweth before him. "There were no real warriors here milord. No real challenge, your raiders brought you a decisive victory for our tribe. The spoils were more noteworthy, each tribe managed to secure their own weight in slaves and raw material for expansion to the fleet. We set upon them like a flood."

 

[Anabasa]

Where better to begin the great congregation of the Brotherhood than in the blood and ash of a burned city? The Warpriest's small party walked through the ruined streets slowly, reveling in the devastation. She had taken her preferred form: The body of a human female, but with a strange series of shapes and colors taking up most of the head. A pair of orb-like structures filled the role of eyes for her, allowing her to see as she walked through the ruined colony. The body was also very tall, giving an imposing height, while being unnaturally stretched. A small giggle escaped the Warpriest's lips.

Slaves had been taken, thousands had been slaughtered. The colony had had no chance to put out distress signals-the horde was bloodthirsty, not stupid. They had come here for a peaceful life away from the conflicts of the rest of the galaxy, but had found death waiting for them. The city would be torn down, its materials used to build more weapons of war for the Brotherhood. The survivors would be enslaved, both for manual labor and servitude. She had taken a family for herself, they would make good fun later. Perhaps one of them would be able to be recruited. Perhaps not.

Anabasa, the self proclaimed Warpriest of Chaos, had personally joined in the fighting. What little of it there had been, at least. The city fell within hours, hardly fighting back. They were weak willed and poor fighters. Perfect slaves. She knew that other leaders had taken part as well, but she hadn't seen them yet. Finally, she found the congregation. The voice of the Maw had called her here, and here she would be.


Other Warlords had already arrived, and soon the meeting would begin. Anabasa saw to use to standing around, and so sat on a small throne of rubble. War was coming, and its targets would be decided here. The Maw hungered, and so it would feast upon the Galaxy.


Alars Keto Syrenno Maraan Zachariel Steelblood Maestus Koleric

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Seated where he was, Zachariel hear Maweth's arrival, but didn't directly see it. Nor did he turn to directly address his counterpart, at least not until he spoke. The metallic voice was one Zachariel knew well, but his words brought forth annoyance in Zachariel. Said annoyance was displayed by another cut, eliciting a louder cry of pain from his victim. With a dark, yet amused laugh, Zachariel turned his helmeted head to face Maweth.
"You know as well as I do that it's all the more enjoyable when they scream. Besides, the Voice has yet to begin speaking. But when the Voice does, my little toy will be more than silent, won't you?"

That last part was directed towards the man in his lap, as Zachariel had brought his skull helm close to his prey, leering down with all the darkness and evil. For the small, and very fearful man, it was too much for him, and all the shock and trauma finally set in. Fainting, the man ceased his whimpering as he fell into blissful unconsciousness. Growling in annoyance, Zachariel picked up the limp man. Motioning behind himself, one of his followers appeared, taking the man from Zachariel.
"Bring him to the ship, make sure the whelp survives, but no anesthetics. Fainting won't save him." Bowing his head, the follower vanished with the victim, even as Zachariel directed his attention to Maweth again. "It seems you've had your wish granted, no more pitiful groveling."

With a bored sigh, Zachariel leaned back on the speeder, causing it to groan ominously once more. Turning his head forward, Zachariel allowed his eyes to half close, even as he kept an eye on the conversations around him. So far, it was much the same for everyone. Disappointment in the lack of a challenge, but a dark joy at the spoils. It caused Zachariel to snort in amusement, they expected a challenge from a small outpost like this? The only way they would get a challenge was attacking a planet a major power controlled. Or that some other power had a vested interest in, otherwise it would be a slaughter to some degree or another.

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Syrenno Maraan |

 

[Koleric]

As he stepped out from the shuttle he took from the raid, still covered in blood dried from his flames, Koleric dragged a man in chains barely hanging onto life, he whimpered and pleaded to be spared but would not receive an answer. Koleric scanned his surrounding laying his eyes upon his brethren pleased with their destruction and still playing with their spoils of war, listening to the sweet screams and taking in the aromas of death and burnt corpses he let out a heavy breathe of pleasure.

He looked for some wreckage away from the rest but not too far so he could hear of the stories and torture the others caused, throwing the man down as he did he set him aflame to listen to the symphony of his agonizing wails, warming himself in the flames and cinders as he approached death.

There he would wait for the rest of his brothers and sisters to gather tending to the fire, and playing with his new jewelry made of pieces he carved from the various alien species he and the others had slaughtered. "Nothing wasted," he whispered to himself.

 

[The Messenger]

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Moments ago, this city existed a barren wreckage seemingly devoid of any and all life, swallowed by the fires of war. Desert rose up to devour building debris and former streets torn apart by bombardment from the Brotherhood's merciless onslaught. It had been so quiet, so so silent among the broken spires and scorched gardens. Like the truths these colonist meat sacks clung to in their havens, believing there was safety in numbers, safety in seclusion, the silence was an illusion.

Within the hour, sprawling forth from the pits like ants came forth the warbands from the various corners of the colony and the skies above. They emerged from the homes of the defeated, from the temples they razed, from the starships they amassed together and blotted out the horizon around the shuttle that carried the Heathen Priests and the Voice of the Maw himself. The most prominent of warlords had gathered here, ready to hear the words to be spoken, ready to unleash their hordes in accord with the will of the Hidden Maw. Anticipation was at an all time high as raider and warlord alike stood in wait.

"The time has come!"

His voice thundered and boomed across the restless horde of bloodthirsty marauders. His arms rose high as he spoke out to the masses and preached to his mighty flock. "We have returned to the galaxy, we will make war. The mighty 'Avatars' demand it, the galaxy must be made clean from the filth that covers it. It must be purgggeddd."

The crowd of marauders went wild, roaring with bloodthirsty cheers. "This is a day of days, for too long has the denizens of this galaxy sat complacent, festering as they played war from their ivory towers. The Galactic Alliance and Jedi filth strike at the Sith, bloated from conquest and tired from civil war with Imperial deserters. The Eternal Empire labors to defend their allies and make peace with their neighbors. Peace!? Have we not seen that peace is a lie? A falsehood created to lead us astray from the word of the Avatar of War? The First Order grows and gnaws at the remnants of the Imperium, playing pretend in their palace on Dosuun, ever vigilant of attack. The Concord, they defend the Sith and attempt to make pacts with their sworn enemies to defend against the onslaught of the Bryn, monsters created by the Maw to fulfill the same holy purpose as we. We will wipe the sickness from this galaxy and bring about the end of all life. In the end, WE will be the chosen to embrace rebirth in the waters of the Netherworld. Embraced in the bosom of the Avatar of Rebirth!" More cheers, more roars from the masses. The Voice formed a half cocked smile, wickedly gazing over the horde before him, "Who among you is brave enough to do the will of the Maw? Who among you will rise and set ablaze the opening salvo of our crusade? The Knights of Ren stand with you, the Heathen Priests stand with you, I stand with you!"

Syrenno Maraan | Maestus | Zachariel Steelblood | Alars Keto | Anabasa | Koleric​

 

[Maestus]

Before the Voice began speaking agian, a ship landed off to one side. It was nothing to look at at aesthetically. She had bangs, dents, probably paint and pieces missing. But it was the undeniably a slave ship.

As the landing ramp came down, plumes of steam rose into the air. Mingling with the scents of devastation. The exhaust from the landing stirred up a dervish of dust and sand. Choking anyone who had the misfortune to be standing nearby. The ramp fully down, it was silent and empty for a short time. Then came cries of anguish and pain and the stomping of many feet.

Quickly behind the voices came the bodies. 20 souls. 20 spoils of war. A mix of men and women. The species varied, but they were all near human. A closer inspection will yield interesting suppositions. Certainly not time to divine all her intentions, but getting a basic idea.

All the slaves are healthy. None appear to be injured severely. All are young adults, there are no elderly or younglings. They were dressed in a variety of styles. 2 had the robes of religion of some kind. Most were simple commoners. A few guardmens whose armor was beat to hell and half missing. A blue Twi'Lek female wearing a simple tunic brought up the last if the slaves. The Twi'Lek had hate written all over her face. And anger, so much anger. She carried a plain, simple spear. It was drenched in blood. She brandished it at any of Maestus' slaves who made a sound.

The Twi'Lek herded the slaves down the ramp and to one side of the ship.

Bootsteps began to echo from inside the ship. Slowly and faintly, then growing louder. Rhythmic and staccato. Finally, the mysterious Warlord known as Maestus appeared at the top of the ramp. She thought about pausing at the top of the ramp. Surveying the amassed throng. But why? She held no affection for any of them. She highly doubted she knew any of them as more than a passing face.

She continued down the ramp. The black cloak she wore flapped behind her crisply as she stepped. Slight puffs of dust as they snapped in the air. Beneath that were plain black robe. No adornment or mark. She had no interest in letting anything but herself belie anything about her.

She skirted the edge of the crowd as she made her way towards the Voice. She could hear his voice echoing out as she moved through the crowd. It was an easy feat. It required little energy from her. She simply pushed out with teh Dark Side of the Force. To the throngs around her, it felt like fire. Fire of rage and hatred. They parted like gnats.

Maestus moved unhindered through the throngs. She did allow herself time to look through the heads and faces and see who she recognized. She saw Syrenno Maraan as well as Zachariel Steelblood . And there was Alars Keto . She made mental notes and continued onward.

Finally breaking through the masses, she paused. She listened as the Voice finished speaking, announcing his challenge. She took 2 more steps forward.

I have come.

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Seated where he was, Zachariel made note of others arriving, in particular another warlord by the name of Maestus. She was a small thing, but rather powerful. Then again, the same could be said for every other warlord. Some were tall, others short, but they were all powerful in different ways. Before his musings went too far in depth, the Voice began to speak, calling everyone's attention to himself.

Turning his head, Zachariel dutifully listened as the man spoke, proclaiming their crusade and calling it just. It simply reminded Zachariel just how different he was compared to many of those here, even as they began to roar their approval at the Voice's words. They believed this crusade of slaughter to be a just thing, something demanded of them by gods and avatars. The will of the Maw as it were, or the Dark Side as it truly was known. In every other aspect, Zachariel agreed with them. He was vested in the slaughter, wanted the war. But in this belief, that is where he truly diverged from the rest, even if the powers of the Force had enabled new forms of horror.

Despite his difference of belief, Zachariel was still a Warlord of this Brotherhood. He was a lord of slaughter, a warrior without peer. To the rest of the galaxy, they were crazy maniacs, lost to society or damned in some other way. And that was just the way Zachariel liked it, an ignorant galaxy to raze. Rising to his full height, towering over all present, Zachariel let out a dark laugh. Raising his sword high above his head, Zachariel called out in answer to the Voice, and a rallying cry to all present.
"LET THE GALAXY BURN!"

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Syrenno Maraan | Anabasa | Maestus

 

[Koleric]

Seeing the mass of his brethren in front of him come to silence in anticipation of the words from the Voice, Koleric rose, laying his eyes upon the perfection that is the Voice.
He felt his heart start to beat into a crescendo almost as if he knew the words that were to come, and when he spoke Koleric clung to every word, this is what he had searched so long for, he new this is where he belonged. The Voice spoke of the lies of peace and the truths of war, and the weak, pitiful Orders that have tried to spread it. As the Voice continued to speak of their holy purpose, the fire inside Koleric grew and he started to step forward through the crowd.. Those near him could feel the heat radiate from him, he wanted to be closer to hear the Voice deeper in soul, he spoke of the disease that needed to be purged and how they were chosen, how he stood with them, that is when Koleric's inner fire burned like the lava spouts from his homeland, he let out a war cry and cheered hoping the Voice would hear him, even in their excitement those close to him backed away for if you were close it would be as if you were near a river of lava.
Koleric longed for the crusade ahead for those who stood in their way were to be slaughtered, pillaged, and enslaved. Their blood would be a sacrifice to the Avatar of War, their souls a sacrifice to the Avatar of Death, and the enslaved a sacrifice to the Avatar of Rebirth through the chains they will be reborn and if deemed worthy the Avatar will free them from their bonds to become a Child of the Maw.

 

[Alars Keto]

Kryll looked from his master Syrenno Maraan to the center of the assembly, the very earth upon which the Voice and Heathen Priests stood. Their presence was a blessing to many, most of these sods gave their life and limb for the religion, for the creed. The code, that he could live with, now these dark gods? Not really his cup of tea, yet they may have been onto something with how powerful their wizards were in comparison to the Jedi and Sith. Not to mention, anyone who could attain the loyalty and services of the Knights of Ren were truly a force to be reckoned with.

The enforcer allowed himself to break free from his musings as he zoned back in on the Voice who was about to speak. Kryll stood back and listened as the horde went wild with bloodless, craving their next kill, lusting after the spoils of what was to come. He didn't blame them, he lived for this lifestyle, there was no other way to live. This, it was true freedom, earned in blood and tempered by steel, nothing could sway him otherwise.

The Voice of the Maw issued a challenge in his address to the assembly, a call to those who would answer. One of the first to step forward was the enigmatic Maestus , recently arrived front and center. She announced herself without hesitation or doubt. Only moments later, a voice drowned out the crowd, a war cry and answer alike to the Voice's summons from the dread warlord Zachariel Steelblood himself. Raising his sword high above his head, the surrounding marauders went wild. Dozens of blades and blaster rifles alike rose upward in imitation of the powerful warlord as they cheered.

Through the crowd, making his way toward the Voice himself, Koleric parted the horde as he unleashed an unintentional heat wave around him. It was obvious the powerful Shaper of Kro Var had answered the call, drawn in by the powerful words of the Voice. Kryll knew only too well what this meant, fire and brimstone. It would rain hellfire before the day was up, somewhere on someone. His eyes drifted off once more, spotting the form of the warpriest Anabasa sitting atop a makeshift throne. He wondered what the powerful priestess had to say, what conquests she had taken of late.

 

[The Mongrel]

The words of the Voice carried far, borne on a scorching wind heavy with the stench of death. They passed over the heads of the assembled horde, and even the chorus of dark exultations echoing up from the marauders could not drown them out. They passed between shattered buildings, their windows smashed, their supports bent and broken, and even the creaking of a dying city could not drown them out. They passed through raging fires, kindled by beautiful artworks and innocent corpses, and even the roar of the flames could not drown them out.

The man wished that something in this hellscape could muffle those vile, powerful words... but there was nothing.

He didn't know how long it had been since they'd captured him, but it was beginning to feel like forever. Not in the sense that a child would say it in a line at the store - "this is taking forever, mommy" - but in the sense that it was becoming difficult to remember a time before. He knew pain, and he knew fear, and he knew the weight of his shackles and the collar around his neck. But though he knew there must have been a time before those things became his whole world, though he tried to cast his mind back to that time, he could no longer grasp the memory of it.

Trying to hold onto his old life was like grasping at the shards of a shattered mirror. Each time he tried, it cut him deep.

When he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the pitted armor of his torturers, all cast in the orange light of fiery destruction, he saw no remaining clues to the person he had been... not even in his own face. He had been burned, slashed, and pierced, his hair shorn, his eyes blacked, his nose broken. All he could taste was blood and drifting ash, ash that had come from the pyres consuming everyone he had ever loved. He found that he could no longer weep for them; their faces slid from his mind like water through his hands, and in any case he had no tears left to shed.

He knew what his torturers were doing, because they had made no secret of it. They were breaking him, deliberately crushing his soul, killing the person he had been. And when they were done cutting away all the dross of his old life, the memories, the compassion, they would take what was left of the man they had scoured raw and forge him into a weapon. They would make him one of them, another marauder, ready to descend on another world just like his own and repeat the cycle. He knew it was happening, but knowing gave him no power to resist it.

Knowing only made it worse. A hero, faced with this outcome, would choose death. But they wouldn't let him choose.

All around him, the Warlords of the Maw gathered, their tribes looking up at them in worship, treating them as living demigods of destruction. But even the Warlords heeded that awful voice, the sound burrowing its way into the man's mind. "Listen well, little Mongrel," one of his torturers hissed, raising the hot iron toward the man's flesh again. "The Voice speaks the truth of the universe. Soon you will understand. Soon you will obey." The man's throat was too hoarse to scream anymore. As his flesh charred beneath the brand, the words flowed in.

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Zachariel Steelblood | Koleric | Syrenno Maraan | Anabasa | Maestus​

 

[Maestus]

She stood before The Voice, head bowed slightly. She was humble and respectful before The Voice, but she didn't debase or humiliate herself. She was proud, not suicidal. She studied The Voice. His words, inspiring. Just. His words stoked the blazing inferno already raging within her. The fire in her eyes almost blinding.

When Zachariel Steelblood let out his warcry, she smirked. Such passion and viciousness. She respected that. The savagery, lack of all mercy and give a care. Yes, these were her people. She felt apart of them, yet somewhat separate. She didn't see herself on equal footing. As she imagined how the other Warlords felt. That each was superior to the other in their own mind.

She turned, faced the gathered horde once more. She looked over faces, bodies. Reached out and invaded minds. She sought for hints of doubt, hesitation. Thoughts of turning traitor or sabotaging war efforts. Tinkering and toying with the minds of others was a lifelong pursuit. Something she naturally excelled at, and had honed since childhood. Few could stand beneath her psychic assault.

And a fool was found. A female human, with a baby in her arms. She was a few rows away from Maestus, trying her best to avoid the notice of the enigmatic Sith. The female could feel Maestus prying into her mind. Maestus stood stock still, save for her right hand lifting from her robes. The female human's eyes began to bulge with shock, awe and fear. Inside the female's mind, though, was a miasma of pain. Maestus outstretched hand twisted and turned, sending wave after wave of psychic, mental pain into the doubting female human's brain.

So much so that the female screamed out in pain. The baby was held by an arm, and the female's other arm clutched her head, tears streaming down her face. Falling to her knees, she gulped at the air and sobbed uncontrollably. The baby slid to the ground, safe. For the moment. Maestus lifted her voice high above the collective din.

Look, brothers and sisters. Look upon the countenance of a doubting traitor. One who dares to plan against the Brotherhood.

She lifted her hand, and the body of the wretched female was hoisted above the crowd. She was plain, neither ugly nor attractive. She wore utilitarian clothing, neither stylish no flattering. Neither was it clean, but covered in ash and soot. Full of rips and tears. The females black hair was tied back in a braid. Hands were calloused and scarred from years of manual labor.

Maestus face was absolutely unreadable. A stone mask, she made constant practice of keeping her emotions under control. Her hand was above her head now, holding the human female high enough for all to see. Maestus scanned the crowd. Her eyes connected briefly with every warlord present.

For the unaware, I shall inform you of this female's transgressions. As The Voice spoke, as we warlods addressed the gathered, this female was forming a plot. She thought herself our superior. Was planning to steal the saber from my belt, and strike at the Voice. Figuring that would render us lost. Causeless.

Maestus moved towards the femalem, the crowd partinf like hot butter to allow her passage. She lowered her hand, and the female human descended to the ground once more. She trembled, suddenly remembering the baby she'd been holding. As the human squatted down to retrieve her baby, Maestus laid a surprisingly gentle hand on the human's shoulder. The female sensed her last chance and fell to her knees, her forehead pressed to Maestus boot. The human was whimpering incoherently.

Maestus reached down first, and hesitantly and awkwardly picked up the baby. Settling the baby into the crook of her left arm, she used her right hand to raise the female human to her feet. Maestus gave her the faint outline of a smile. The female reached, touching her baby's cheek. The baby cooed at his mother's touch.

Maestus smile vanished so fast, had it really been there at all?

Maestus right arm cracked forward, fast and powerful as lightning. Fingers like daggers, she burst into the human's chest. She flexed then wrapped her fingers around the human's heart. Ripping her hand and the heart out, she sprayed blood on all who happened to be closeby.

She raised the bleeding heart high above her head. It rained down on Maestus and the baby. A sick and twisted Baptism.

Let the fate of traitors be known.

Inferno red eyes bore into everyone she laid them on. She was indiscriminate. She cared not if it was warlord, marauder or random ally. She would mete out punishment to those who betray the Brotherhood. It was no threat. She let the evidence of action speak for itself in the form of the female's lifeless body.

Heart in her right hand. Baby in her left. Maestus turns and removes herself from the crowd, and glides back to her previous position before the Voice.

Darth Solipsis Zachariel Steelblood Koleric Anabasa The Mongrel Alars Keto Syrenno Maraan

 

[The Messenger]

.

The facial covering that fell over his eyes from his adorning religious crown did not hide the dread that followed his wicked gaze. He watched over his flock intently, studying the faces of those before him in detail while subtly basking in their worship before his feet. The dark prophet peered into the form of the Lethan Twi'lek as she approached, there were no words, only the subtleties of his facial expressions gave way to any hint of approval. He nodded his head as she came into the fold, and gazed onward once more.

The rising war cry of the Gen'dai warlord that came next appeased the Voice greatly, his dark and terrible eyes set upon the warlord as he rallied the bloodthirsty horde to near frenzy. His voice bellowed and distorted as the sinister seer retorted to Steelblood, "Burn it shall." He extended his arm and opened his palm in an inviting manner, "Well met my brother. Let loose the hordes of Chaos and drown out the light. The Maw will provide."

His voice trailed off, his attention shifting to the approaching marauder glistening with the righteous flame, parting the sea of half-believers before his zealous wake as he closed in on the speaker of the Avatars, preacher of the gods. "Come closer, child. Let me look upon you." He studied the Shaper of Kro Var and sank his head back in ritualistic fashion, the darkness built within him as the air grew foul, and the cold presence became akin to painful ice sickles prodding at the senses of those who touched upon the Force.

"Ahh." His mental prowess stretched out over the area, he felt out their emotions and attempted to feed on the negative energy. His head snapped forward, his gaze returning to Koleric before him, his arm reached out as he pointed off into the sea of bodies. "There. Bring forth the Core World slave, the Maw has chosen him to accompany the chosen. Bring forth The Mongrel ." The masses turned in utter surprise, faces of shock, anger, disgust, and sheer jealousy were planted on the faces of each passerby as the slave was pushed forward. A sea of hands passed him along like a rag doll, forcing his body to move through the crowd of violent raiders, the same raiders who enslaved him so long ago.

Before the Voice could speak further, and just before the Mongrel's arrival to the front of the gathering, Maestus spoke up to those assembled. The dark prophet displayed his sight onto the whimpering woman and within mere moments, a twisted baptism of blood. His lip curled in disgust at the weakness before him, how such a insect thought they could betray the Maw and in the end, they groveled for their life. "Well done Lady Maestus. The Maw has blessed you with abilities many only dream of."

His arms rose, his head fell back as he yelled out, "Stand before me, Chosen of the Maw!"


Syrenno Maraan | Maestus | Zachariel Steelblood | Alars Keto | Anabasa | Koleric
The Mongrel

 

[The Mongrel]

In all his brief and quiet life so far, the man had never been anyone of importance. He had been a son, a brother, a friend, even a lover, but only among the handful of people who had passed through his life out here, in this colony that was supposed to have been their refuge. His actions had blended easily into the group, one small thread in the tapestry of the settlement. He had been a leaf borne upon the river, not a fish swimming against it or a rock changing its course. He had never expected, or even wanted, to be noticed beyond that.

But the Brotherhood of the Maw was the great upender of orderly things, the breaker of patterns, the crusher of hopes and dreams. With power and wrath it rolled over everything once considered stable and constant, leaving only fire, blood, and chaos in its wake. What it did not utterly consume, it instead left utterly changed. The man was finding that he was no exception. He had never wanted to stand out, but the Maw had other plans. The Brotherhood had spent a little of its power to change him, and now it would ensure that it received its due.

At first, the man - no, The Mongrel now - did not even realize he was moving. Lacerations and burns and shredded nerve endings made it all but impossible to perceive anything but pain. But as the dark words of the Voice, words he could not block out, trickled through the cracks in his haze of agony, he began to understand. Heavy shackles, dripping with his blood, dragged behind him as he was half-thrust, half-carried through the crowd. Closer and closer he came to the center, to the Warlords, to the Voice, to the heart of the evil and madness.

Why me? He had asked himself a thousand times before, but it had always been a question for the universe. Why me? had been a question about why the Brotherhood had to come to his refuge, why they had decided to leave him alive for torture and transformation, why he couldn't just be allowed to slip into the peaceful, painless sleep of death. But now it was a new kind of question. Why me? meant Why does the Voice even know who I am, and what does It want from me? I am nothing and no one. What will it make me become?

As his eyes fluttered in the firelight, his vision swimming beneath bruised eyelids, he could see that he was not the only one asking such questions. The marauders that forced him forward stared with undisguised jealousy and hatred. Who was he to become noticed by the Voice Itself? He wished he had an answer. But the Maw was un-reason, was chaos, was insanity; could he even understand the Voice's thoughts, if they somehow poured into him? No. More likely that experience would finish him, would snuff out his damaged mind.

At last, he had arrived at the front of the crowd. He found himself in the midst of the Chosen, champions of the Maw, and though he thought he had been pushed beyond fear, he found that he was terrified. These were the demigods of destruction, beings who would shake the galaxy with their deathly footsteps, who would burn a hundred worlds and more. The Mongrel sank to his knees, blood dripping from cracked lips. He was broken, body and soul, and he knew he would do as he was bidden. The veil had been ripped from his eyes now, and he saw.

This was reality. It was cold, cruel, and uncaring. The truth of the galaxy was bitter indeed, but who was he to fight it? No one.

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Zachariel Steelblood | Koleric | Syrenno Maraan | Anabasa | Maestus​

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

When his cry went out, others joined him, and it made Zachariel grin with bloodthirst. They were willing to burn the galaxy to the ground, and Zachariel planned to lead them into that carnage. His words were further reinforced by the Voice itself, and it prompted Zachariel to step forward more. It was then that Maestus' gaze traveled through the peoples soul's. Zachariels was scoured just as every other was, and he didn't even bother attempting to keep it out. He didn't need to, her mind probe simply met a wall of hate, anger, rage, sheer bloodthirst, and a need for destruction kept her from digging. In that though, it cleared him as well, showing that he wanted the galaxy to burn.

Smirking beneath his helmet at her, Zachariel proceeded to watch the show she put on. A traitor in their midst's, it was amusing. What could she possibly hope to accomplish. Had she gotten the lightsaber, she would've been shot or ripped limb from limb, long before she could've done any damage. It was useless, but it was a reminder that there were those who would do anything to fight their coming demise. While useless, it was the truth, and it would make this conquest all the more interesting for it. Laughing as the heart was ripped out, Zachariel gave Maestus a single nod as her gaze crossed with his. Recognition of one warlord to another, and approval of her actions, not that she needed it.

With his focus once more returned to the Voice, Zachariel allowed the cheers of the marauders to pass over him. In response to them, the heads that were still animated reached new cries of pain and terror, causing Zachariel to laugh. Glancing about, he saw it clearly. Those who had most vocally stated their support, who clearly had the most support of the masses, were the Chosen of the Maw. And they were before the Voice now, stood in a half circle facing him. Zachariel numbered amongst them, and he would be sure to use this position of power to good use. Planets would burn as a result.

Thanks to his newfound position, as not just a Warlord but a Chosen, Zachariel had a front row seat as the Voice called forth the Mongrel. It was fitting really, what amounted to the most highly respected individual, calling on the least respected. The powerful needed the weak, even if it was just to rule them, lord over them, they still needed them. It was clearly evident here and now. The Voice had something planned for the Mongrel, not that the masses would truly see. But Zachariel saw, and he was intrigued, and he knew a new player was entering play.

Grinning darkly beneath his helmet, Zachariel crossed his arms across his chest, eyes boring into the Mongrels back. The Mongrel was kneeling before all the Chosen now, backs to them as he faced the Voice. What heights would this Mongrel rise too, or what depths would he fall into? Only time would tell, and Zachariel would ensure the Mongrel remained useful, to him at the very least.

The Messenger | Alars Keto | Syrenno Maraan | Anabasa | Maestus | The Mongrel