A New Foundation

[Sirak Kolar]

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In the wake of the Primeval Civil War, brought about by the ever deranged Black Prophet, was the ever smoldering hearts of thousands of zealots. Amongst the loyalists and separatists, were numerous splinter groups that fought for control of small lands, to worlds, to even derelict space stations corrupted for decades by disease and death. Hidden among these splinters, was Ebon, the proud, aspiring Warlord of Dantoonie, brought to battle his fellow Primeval over allegiances to their swayed opinions on gods they would never meet.

These were not Ebon’s thoughts, however, as he merely glazed over such trivial ideas, and focused on the tasks at hand. In front of him laid a battlefield, and it’s carnage was vast.

In the broken down city center of a hopelessly demolished unnamed section of Bastion was Ebon, his blade whirring in violent groans, each slicing down a different opponent that found themselves at odds with his anger.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Ebon’s eye’s twitched as more blood sprayed across them, his teeth bared as he ignored the blaster wound in his back. How could he have been so distracted that someone landed such a demeaning hit on the experienced warrior… It shook him to his core, evident in his almost uncontrolled outburst, a roar that shoot the very durasteel balconies that surrounded him. In front of him, not more than a mile, he could sense a large convoy of separatists attacking a bunkered building of loyalists he could only imagine were wearing thin on ammo, food, and moral. He knew his next targets.

With passion for his war gods, Ebon through his weight through his foot, expertly leaping through the air as he had been practicing. Although minor, it was still a force leap, and with it he landed with a faint grin only he could notice, before charging towards the brigade before him. Five Hundred meters, Four Hundred… One Hundred. He could hear the fighting now, the cries for ammo, the screams of pain as a man fell, and the ones in charge shouting orders amongst their subordinates. It was the environment Ebon was most comfortable in.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

His lightsaber ignited in an instant. He knew there were 185 men, fighting against 83 fortified in the makeshift fortress of whatever tower they found themselves in. It wasn’t good odds, but the fortifications, no matter how rudimentary, still made for good leverage on the battlefield. Ebon rushed from the back, cutting down the first armored communications officer he saw, and with his cry of pain and his subsequent thud, his comrade next to him too fell in nearly the same moment.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

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Ebon’s strategy wasn’t to kill every soldier in the area, but to crush their morale with horrid violence. His strikes would be long, calculated, and most importantly meant to crush sweep by sweep. No wasted movements could be tolerated, especially with the pulsing of pain in his back. Ducking and dodging between the few transport vehicles kept, he continued his onslaught… 10, 20, up to 34 down, and he could feel his breathe heavy.

He focused once more on how many were alive on both sides… 131 versus 76. Ebon knew he had to hurry, with the focused assault on the tower, and more attention turning to him, neither him nor his ‘allies’ in the tower would survive for long. For a moment, he closed his eyes to regain his focus, a soft growl forming in his throat as he turned around to face the armored vehicle before him. Quietly, he rested both his hands against it, blaster fire grazing it’s edges and rushing past him as distance calls for maneuvers took place.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

In a focused attempt, Ebon pushed with what might he could muster, forced the half-track across the broken and into the air before landing on the largest danger in the area, a tank not 20 meters from him. As it landed, it exploded, forcing the enemy to cover lest they’d receive lethal wounds through their armor.

Ebon’s feet once more kicked into action, side stepping a blaster bolt and moving once more for the right. His feet lifted off the ground with a bass laden jump that threw him atop a small group of unsuspecting soldiers, each cut down in a mere moment's notice. In the distance, he heard what could only be an order for retreat, or perhaps rerouting their course… It mattered little to Ebon, because he knew if it kept up much longer, all his anger, all his energy would give out.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

He had been fighting for nearly two days straight now, the only thing keeping him up was his sheer dedication to the art of war and his unbridled anger forced into art by Balagoth. In just a moment, he shuddered and fell to his hands and knees, lightsaber on the ground, as he threw up what little material lay in his stomach.

His body ached from the punishment he and others had exerted on it. It would be some time before he could recover completely, and focus once more on his unending goal of cleansing in the name of Balagoth, but for now, these small battles would help push him to where he needed to be. Ebon’s eyes slowly began to flutter shut, his monstrous exhaustion finally winning the battle of consciousness, and his mind ceding to the ideas of sleep and recovery.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Ebon awoke to the soft murmur of a guard near him. Despite the pain, Ebon jumped to his feet, and jerked his hands up in a formal fighting pose to any that may be near him. Instead of facing down the barrel of a gun or blade as he expected, he was met with a concerned smile, and surprised faces amongst a small crowd of various aliens.

He grunted, his hands still staying afloat, in case one took a crack at him with their gun. A soft voice broke the crowd, a man emerged, hair tied in an odd manner and a bear blessing his jaw.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

“I assume everyone’s reaction, means you’re up and movin’ then?”, the odd man offered, a smile adorning his face.

Ebon simply nodded, clenching his fist and bringing it slightly closer to his hip.

“No need of the hostilities… We actually wanted to thank you.”, he offered once more, his smile feigning a tad.

“Words mean little to me.”, Ebon retorted, snarling despite his weakened state.

“That’s why we’d rather follow you. We know who you are… the ex Cabal member, warlord that challenged the Black Prophet. We all know you.”, the man said once more.

“And if I refuse?”, the now recognized warlord now said, his hands moving to pick up the shirt that was taken off him for the bandaged shoulder he only just now recognized, another moment moving to clip his lightsaber to his belt.

“Then we’d follow you anyway.”, he said coldly, his tone changing.

“We aren’t just some militia… we were proud to serve our gods once. But this war… turning us against our own. We’re tired. We need real leadership. We need a future, Warlord.”

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Ebon’s eyes panned from the man to the crowd, his eyes catching with what sorely remained of the few that were left, only seventy. A token force of what they once were.

Once more a low grumble formed in Ebon’s throat before he thought of the opportunities he could commit to with more weight behind him. He nodded slowly before bellowing out, wincing only slightly at the pain of so much air.


“If it is fealty you wish, then fealty you shall receive. Come, each one of you, bow at my feet and pledge your allegiance to your new Warlord…”

In these coming months, he would need these men more than anything. They would keep him focused, give him a foundation, and most importantly, give him power amongst the galaxy. Having a following, a reputation, is power, not merely one's own skills, but those that look up to those skills.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

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In the aftermath of the Primeval's Civil War, each member undertook a severe training regime under Ebon. Although cruel, it forced them into the warriors they became today. Each with their own style, their own mastery, and more importantly their own skills on the battlefield. Bounty hunting became their forteit, and their own true means of survival without funding from planetary mining or marketing, and with it their equipment faltered, but their hearts grew stronger.

They knew in time, Ebon would lead them back to greatness, and with it their hearts would sore, while their souls would one day partake as Balagoth’s offering. Bloodshed became their lives, and with it they adopted Ebon’s undying passion for cleansing the cosmos of filth. Their first destination, Nar Shaddaa...

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