Private You're No Good To Me Dead

[Darth Solipsis]

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DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW

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Flashes of light, ripples in a storm more foul than any possible natural phenomenon. The rivers of power carried them off as the metal warped and torn asunder by the will of the Sith'ari, flashes of light amidst the rising whirlwind leading into the gaping maw fired in intervals. Gehinnom was about to crumble into the planet beneath, the waking moment nearly coming to Alars Keto and Dakrul as the Avatar of Death came knocking, the storm ripped it's way into the Holy City. The marauder lieutenant lifted from his feet as the wormhole carried him upon a mighty gust into the vortex, a gentler hand, a guiding hand lifted the faithful Heathen Priest Dakrul up in pursuit. The dark power of the Voice bringing them home.

Flash.

It all went white and then after a high pitch static, everything went dark.

Gehinnom sank into the surface, all was over. There was no way to record the passage of time, no idea how long had transpired since the near death of the two Mawites. The marauder was still unconscious, a man lucky to have been near the object of the Dark Lord's gaze, Dakrul . The Heathen Priest had been a loyal servant to the Sith'ari, a capable replacement to Deacon Marduk since his appointment, the mighty Dakrul had led the Heathen Priesthood and as such wielded power over the faith and the MAW at the whim of the mighty Voice. His death would bring great instability to the Brotherhood, such a scenario was unacceptable and the possiblity of such would not be allowed to persist.

The Dark Lord of the Sith had fetched his servant from the clutches of doom and now awaited him within the darkest depths of the Sith Citadel. There was much work to do, much to share with his faithful servant as they prepared for the what would come next.

His voice whispered from the depths.

"Dakrul."

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[Dakrul]

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Secretly he wished to one day stand in the rubble beneath, in the glazed landscape of the Rhand.

This was the end, the place of his birth to be sacrificed to the Avatars. To burn in the pyre of war, vanish in the face of death, and rise again as something entirely different through the gift of rebirth.

Along with it, thousands would perish, thousands already had and thousands more would to the relentless engines of the Maw. Why couldn’t they understand? Did they truly believe their empires would last forever? Were these lighterbearers so afraid of their demise they would turn to the teachings of the ancient Sith and attempt to hold out forever?

Nothing was forever, even his immortal husk will perish, all will perish, it was the fate of the galaxy, every nebula of clustered stars, and from it, something new would be born, better, stronger, understanding of its past weakness. Their struggle was futile in the eyes of the Avatars, they all would end the same, before the flames of the Nether, their spirits judged, either maimed to stardust or maintained as one to bear on to others their stories of life.

As the holy city of the Heathen Priests fell to its doom, the chant of the dead would not fade, no it would grow louder with every death. Slaves, soldiers, and marauders alike would raise their reanimated voices in menacing union. Their eyes burning of blue hellfire.

"War, Death, Rebirth"

As Dakrul watched through their eyes, heard through their ears, and tasted through their mouths, he too would join them. Sing alongside them, chant the creed of the Maw, again and again, a lullaby for a metropolis of nightmares. He had long closed his senses to the figure of Alars Keto that had somehow found his way into the Priests ritual pit. He was fully indulged in his prayer, nothing else mattered but to appeal to his gods.

As if willed by their very hands his focus was torn from his out-of-body incantation. A massive surge of force energy tunneled towards him. A moment of shock at the potency of the flames that lit this pocket of power. Before he could usher any more thought his feet left the ground of his abysmal altar, he was carried into the maw of the vortex, felt the jolts of lighting crackle at his form. With a thunderous clap, he disappeared.

The Gehinom fell silent as the dead returned to their deaths, only to finally make an impact accompanied with a sound like an army of colliding mountains. Everything was obliterated.

He awoke in darkness, above him, to his side, all around him, darkness. It felt... safe, a cradle of demise for a beast that knew nothing else.

Then, him, the Sith'ari, the Voice. He called out to him. Dakrul´s four hands reached out at nothing but he knew somewhere here, somewhere wherever here was his Master subsided. Finally, he called out mentally his thoughts send words echoing into the depths

"Master, Dakrul is hereeeee, Dakrull will comeeeee to you"

The monstrosity hurried towards his creator.

Darth Solipsis