Bryn'adûl | Tools and Cloth
His red paw reached out in the cold, grasping at the golden bar. The metal was cold to the touch. Familiar and comfortable, his paw lingered on the weapon, lifting it upright. Opaque eyes studied the familiar weapon with a focused gaze. It was as if his subconscious expected to find something new. He couldn't have grown bored of it. No. This Axe was part of him, his identity. It had been his weapon of choice for many years and with that history brought memories, victories and loses both, he had lead the very first Brutes into battle against the Commenori with it in hand. Fought against heretics and nameless things from the deep seas of Sraeljoarsk.
All of that was part of his identity. He had given flesh and bone to his own kind, decades of his life trying all he could to better this Galaxy. But as he looked to the dormant ruby beard, he was reminded of the other side. His enemy, those who condemned him for simply doing what they had been unable to do. The Titan set the Axe back down gently, reclining slightly as his frustration robbed his focus of any sense of achievement. They did not, rather could not appreciate his work - his mission.
In their ignorance, they saw hatred and evil. They condemned him for doing what needed to be done. Tathra sighed, feeling his age. He was tired, dark rings always sat around his eyes but now he really felt it. A hundred years of his life spent on this work and it had only truly begun. he had many lifetimes of men to spend on his crusade.
But what did they do with their limited spans in this Universe?
They live and die, achieving nothing. It was heresy, it was wrong. They've blindness subjugated their own to a galaxy-wide extinction. It was their failing and he would ensure them hat they knew their kin's blood was on their hands before it was over.
