TAPANI SECTOR
LUPANI MINOR
Rain pattered down on bleeding, offered corpses and warriors in waiting alike.
Crimson mixed with water as it ran through the carved lanes, gathering in shallow channels to be collected by the attendants. They moved between the ranks in silence, pressing a living symbol across every offered brow. From the front of the consecration zone came the chant, its volume heavy enough to make the stone slabs tremble beneath armored boots.
Off to the side, a large figure watched. A smaller one stood beside her.
"Why do they do this?" Mercy asked, amber eyes tracking the lines as they vanished into the rain.
The attendant clutched his hat between twitching hands and looked up at his Sovereign. "They wished to, my Lord."
The answer fell short. He seemed to realize it as soon as the words left his mouth.
"They know many of them will die when we march on Coruscant and beyond," he continued, fingers tightening in the silk. "They want something to bind them together. Something that says they mattered. That they will not be forgotten when they rot in the ground."
Mercy hummed. Rain soaked her as it did the others, darkening her short hair until it clung to her skull, but she paid it no mind. Her attention remained fixed on the spectacle. Struggling Imperials were bound, their lives cut short. Each Graspborn was marked in turn, a brief brush of blood before helmets sealed shut and the stain could cake against skin and armor alike.
These were the elite of the Auric Horde. Veterans of Tapani, Chandrila, Generius, the Conclave, Kattada. And others still. Worlds without names, remembered only for the reputations they left behind in slaughter.
"I did not teach them those words," Mercy said, faintly amused by the fractured Old Tongue. "I did not tell them to seize Imperials. Nor to mark themselves in their blood."
The attendant bowed deeply.
"You did not need to. They have seen you marked in the blood of your enemies. They believe that by copying you, they might carry a fragment of your power."
This time, Mercy did not laugh. The glow in her eyes intensified as the rain fell and the chanting swelled.
"Then let them grasp."
Above the clouds, ships held position, their prows turned inward, toward a throne waiting to fall.
LUPANI MINOR
Rain pattered down on bleeding, offered corpses and warriors in waiting alike.
Crimson mixed with water as it ran through the carved lanes, gathering in shallow channels to be collected by the attendants. They moved between the ranks in silence, pressing a living symbol across every offered brow. From the front of the consecration zone came the chant, its volume heavy enough to make the stone slabs tremble beneath armored boots.
Off to the side, a large figure watched. A smaller one stood beside her.
"Why do they do this?" Mercy asked, amber eyes tracking the lines as they vanished into the rain.
The attendant clutched his hat between twitching hands and looked up at his Sovereign. "They wished to, my Lord."
The answer fell short. He seemed to realize it as soon as the words left his mouth.
"They know many of them will die when we march on Coruscant and beyond," he continued, fingers tightening in the silk. "They want something to bind them together. Something that says they mattered. That they will not be forgotten when they rot in the ground."
Mercy hummed. Rain soaked her as it did the others, darkening her short hair until it clung to her skull, but she paid it no mind. Her attention remained fixed on the spectacle. Struggling Imperials were bound, their lives cut short. Each Graspborn was marked in turn, a brief brush of blood before helmets sealed shut and the stain could cake against skin and armor alike.
These were the elite of the Auric Horde. Veterans of Tapani, Chandrila, Generius, the Conclave, Kattada. And others still. Worlds without names, remembered only for the reputations they left behind in slaughter.
"I did not teach them those words," Mercy said, faintly amused by the fractured Old Tongue. "I did not tell them to seize Imperials. Nor to mark themselves in their blood."
The attendant bowed deeply.
"You did not need to. They have seen you marked in the blood of your enemies. They believe that by copying you, they might carry a fragment of your power."
This time, Mercy did not laugh. The glow in her eyes intensified as the rain fell and the chanting swelled.
"Then let them grasp."
Above the clouds, ships held position, their prows turned inward, toward a throne waiting to fall.
