Populate Blot Out The Sun | BotM Populate of GH-531

[Darth Solipsis]

The Second Great Hyperspace War
Brotherhood of the Maw
Mar’Zambul

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//Link for the summary of past conquest during the dominion of Mar’Zambul: X

//Links for Populate Required Threads:

• The Gathering
• Bring Me His Flesh-Leather!

It has been over three years, three long years. The desolate world of Mar’Zambul had once been the crown jewel of the Gundanbard race and the mighty Argandulaniux Empire that saturated in the majestic energies of the Dark Side, secluded in the depths of the Unknown Regions.

The Brotherhood came from the very same depths of the Unknown Regions during their initial conquests, carving away a domain from which they would catapult themselves on their crusade to burn all that lay in their wake. The Heathen Priests in their most august wisdom had selected the savage race of beasts as warriors of worth, they offered them acceptance into the Brotherhood and a place within the Dark Crusade.

The Gundanbard.. declined.

In their most foul act, one of the high and mighty Heathen Priests were murdered in cold blood during negotiations. The Dark Voice, Darth Solipsis , was enraged and demanded blood to repaid in kind… and so it was in that darkest day the MAW came with one purpose, one task. The utter annihilation of the Gundanbard race. A thorough extermination to scrub the homeworld of the very Gundanbard clean of their heretical filth. The New Jedi Order, in their wisdom upon recognizing the Brotherhood early as a threat to galactic stability came forth to combat the vicious horde.

The battle was immense, the toll.. catastrophic. The Brotherhood.. victorious.

The Gundanbard were dead, only a brave few managing a leave into exile with their glorious leader Aldrouk Grandaun who swore to retake the homeworld from the clutches of the Dark Horde. It has been three years..

Times have changed..

The Brotherhood has expanded, it’s methods evolved. Where once they were restricted to Gehinnom and it’s dungeons, fighting Jedi in the underbelly of the Holy City they now had become titans of industry. Droves of slaves flooding into the expansive territory that the Dark Horde held sway over, their reach undeniable and foul, one that spread across the galaxy to the Galactic Alliance and New Imperial Order alike.

The Brotherhood now hosts a great gathering, one not seen since before their conquest of Rhand, held on a barren world stripped clean of life and left to burn in the fires of annihilation. They had come so far, their crusade growing day by day as the fires spread across the galaxy.

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The Brotherhood of the Maw is a galactic power vast and expansive with different sects and dark ambitions, all adherents to the Dark Side of the Force or entities associated with it’s vile grasp. While the ideologies of these many groups vary, their goals do not nor do the one they all follow..

Darth Solipsis , the Voice of the Maw and Dark Lord of the Sith, has summoned the Brotherhood to congregate enmasse as ONE on the forged world of industry, Mar’Zambul. Within the deepest recesses of the once holiest place of the Gundanbard, representatives of the Warlords of the Maw, Marauders, Zealots, Knights of Ren, Sorcerers of Rhand, Nightsisters of Dathomir, Neo-Imperial Sith Cultists of the Final Dawn, Death’s Hand Mandalorians, and even the enigmatic New Sith Order for the first time would gather. All in preparation.. for WAR. It would be a day long remembered, a day not seen since the first Great Gathering.

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Mar’Zambul was once a thriving jewel of the Argandulaniux Empire, now it has been stripped down into a massive forge world. Precious resources are harvested here day in and day out to produce valuable materials such as Durasteel and other alloys all in preparation of the Second Great Hyperspace War. Epoch Engineering Corporation and it’s various affiliates under the secretive Final Dawn have completely reshaped the face of most Mar’Zambul cities, strip mines, forge facilities, and automated factories sprawl along the surface of the various metropolitan areas. The goal of which was to prepare for the loss of materials and resources funneled continuously from the Core Worlds and to help self-sustain the Brotherhood of the Maw’s Dark Crusade.

Leaders from around the Brotherhood gather in planning the next phase of Mar’Zambul’s development and what next need be manufactured for the Brotherhood’s War Effort.

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Whatever you want, post away.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

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DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW

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His hands rested against the smooth surface of the stonework throne of the Gundanbard, a seat for their mightiest warrior king and Dark Lord. Ironic that it would seat another..

The Dark Lord of the Sith glared out at the legion vast assembled within the massive antechamber of the Great Temple of Jendu, the once holiest seat of the Argandulaniux Empire, now it stood as a mighty edifice belonging to the Heathen Priests who had fatefully served their Dark Voice and his vision for the Brotherhood. The die was cast.

There would be WAR.

The Brotherhood would assemble enmasse here within these hollowed chambers and witness via in person or holographic image the proceedings of a Second Great Gathering. One that would see the public arrival of the New Sith Order hidden in the backdrop, finally revealed but left unexplained to the confused Mawites. The Voice had unified his flock in all their various facets and cultures, their sects, their beliefs. Now was the time for them all to come together and begin their plans for the coming conflict, together as one.

The Dark Lord extended his hand out over the flooded horizon, occupants shoulder to shoulder squeezed into the massive chamber as the eyes of the Dark Voice glared down upon them from the elevated seat. He offered the floor, he offered to listen.

“Speak.”

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[Prax Elvros]

Location: Mar’Zambul
Objective: Great Gathering of Aga'dul

A dark voice beckoned them here. So shall its call be answered. Outside of what was once the great holy site of the Gundanbard people, a Lictor-class dungeon ship landed. The Despoiler, the flagship of a newer warlord named Thaurond. He had once served under Maweth, before the deceased marauder met his fate at Csilla. Maweth rode to his death in holy fire as he fought against the Chiss and their allies. Now Thaurond commanded a fraction of his liege's forces who flocked to him.

The dark warrior disembarked from his ship with a small retinue of his disciples. He was not foolish to walk in such a meeting on his own. The dark side was known for the duplicitous nature of its followers as well as their strength. He entered into the chambers to which the Voice had bid him and his peers join for congregation.

He stared silently out into chamber, the flaming visor of his helm akin to a singular eye. He motioned to two of his followers, who raised the banner of his warband. A black, talon-like hand wreathed in flame against a field of iron grey. He waited in silence until the Dark Voice bade him and his peers to speak.

"Witness me, brothers and sisters!" Boomed Thaurond's dark voice like living magma, "The Voice has bade us here, and I shall answer this. We have shaken the Galaxy with our holy strike on Csilla. Yet, I believe we can go further..."

He paused to let his words settle for a moment.

"Long have the various Children of the Ashla taken root on Jedha as a beacon of the light." He spoke with venomous contempt, "I say we strike our next blow there. Snuff out temples of the Light, and reap the precious kyber in its veins as our own. Assail Jedha in vengeance for the crusade against Korriban."

He rescinded his spot of speaking to his fellows.

 

[Darth Senthral]

Location: Mar’Zambul

@Secluded Dream

A humble Allanar N3 Light Freighter found itself landing among a congregation of Dark Siders. More fit to say THE congregation, it’s importance was not be trifled with. Even a mere apprentice like the one who emerged from the humble cargo ship and stepped down it’s ramp, even he understood that. Reaching the ground, Mar’Zambul’s very own, Darth Rhys immediately felt something grand had occurred here. A destruction, one beyond his grasp, like nothing he himself had seen before. Even now he could feel it, knowing there had to be time between now and when it took place. Eyes wandered to the meeting chamber, and a mind wondered the types to be found in there.

“A Meeting of Sith. The greatest are here. Dark Siders capable of more then maybe I can imagine, and I pride myself on my wonderful fancies. Odd, yet fascinating.”

Yet in all that fascination he held stance before his ship. Knowing he could not simply go forth without his Master, Darth Tennacus. So he stood in that silent vigil, awaiting permission onward. Awaiting a comrade that had tried to kill him. One he had to one day kill in all possibility. Yet a sense of loyalty held him. Even if one that was not held by trust and camaraderie. Yet a common goal, knowledge and power, and perhaps far more. Ideals.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

Location: Mar'Zambul



Too long had he been absent. Too long had he laid dreaming, forgotten as the Galaxy moulded around him. Millenia had past since he last felt the Dark Side so concentrated. Amassed within a legion of Sith that had not been swept by the Light. Since the Brotherhood of Darkness, he waited - yearned - to see the Sith in such abundance. The Rule of Two had kept to its promise; the survival of the Sith lived on in all of them. Each of them would have their roles to play in the grand scheme of things. Even death would deliver them further in their conquest. The Force had called out to them; a summons of those still loyal to the cause. There was no hesitance in the Sith's answer.

To see the Brotherhood of the Maw thriving gave hope to the future. The concentration in the Dark Side, fuelled by the presence of so many a Sith, brought about great nostalgia in Darth Tennacus. He owed thanks to one particular Knight in general for delivering him to the last hope for the Sith. Maybe that Sith was not present now, but perhaps he would be later. For now, Tennacus would not dwell on probabilities. He was there; his apprentice was there. And so the Darth descended from his apprentice's freighter to meet at his side.


Recognisable formality went a long way. Tennacus had made sure to adorn the fabrics older than himself, with draped, midnight fabrics hung loosely over his physique. Aspects of his appearance were obscured, save for the hood not descending completely over his face. Grey gems sparked from a deadpan expression, gleaming above the respiratory unit assigned over the Sith's mouth. Necessary to prevent inhalation of too much oxygen, and a consequence of being locked away for so very long.

Once he reached his apprentice's side, he came to a halt. "Listen carefully and cautiously as to blooms here today. Perhaps it may be a part of history."

With that, the Apprentice and Master proceeded away from the vessel towards their calling. The Dark Lord of the Sith had summoned his hosts, and so the two entered without a second to waste. A bow of his head offered greetings to those had yet to meet; his new brothers and sisters in arms. But for the Dark Lord, he descended to a knee as his own master had taught him so long ago, announcing his unspoken loyalty.

"My Lord," Darth Tennacus said monotonously, and then returned to an upright posture.

 

[Darth Senthral]

Darth Tennacus
Darth Solipsis

Closely did Apprentice listen to Master, and closely did he follow. Darth Rhys followed aside and yet behind. All the formalities were not known to him, but this was like his own way of saying that they were both Sith, and in that respect equals. Yet still one was the Teacher and another the Learner. The Learner followed behind, and picked things up along the way. A gesture of unspoken respect, even if all did not receive it the same way as he.

As Darth Tennacus bowed his head to others, Darth Rhys shortly followed. Never at the same moment though, always after and not before. It seemed the safe way to play it, he did not know that his Master missed any of their new brother and sisters, but he would make no note of it if so. This circle was scarce for true trust and camaraderie. Yet it was apparent there were those who trusted each-other more, and those less. In small increments sometimes, and in greater at other times. These were things those that Akimill, the brother he had killed would notice. Seems you slay a man you truly know and you take with you a part of him forever. Like the story of the assassin who stocked a jester so long, that he took on that demeanor after killing him.

When they came to Darth Solipsis, there was a deeper bow. He need not wonder why, it was clear on everyone’s faces. It was clear by the grand way the man before him carried about himself. Most obviously it was clear by his placement in the room. Rhys quickly mimicked his Master’s kneel and spoke the very same words.

“My Lord.” Though he could not mimic the monotone in the former’s voice. Respect was clear in his tone. He then rose.

 

[Maestus]

She was in the cockpit of the NSO transport shuttle she had taken command of. Staring out the view port as they descended upon Mar'Zambul. She remembered the battle fought, albeit distantly. It was years ago. She really couldn't be expected to remember every single detail. After all, the little things were typically beneath her notice. Or she wanted everyone to think.

Truth be told, Maestus tended to have a very keen senses. Her prowess with mental attacks through the Dark Side enabled her to glean information other wished to remain hidden. And so, she filed the information away for future use.

AS they came through the atmosphere and finally through it, the pilot landed the craft near where the conglomeration of ships were. With practised ease, the pilot landed with barely a bump. Maestus nodded once, then turned on her heel and made her way to the ramp, which was being lowered.

She stepped off, pulling the hood of her diaphanous silk robes around her face. While they were the same colors as her usual robes, red with black stitching, these robes were special. She wore them only for important gatherings and ritualistic affairs. Such as what she was striding into now.

Three steps behind her, not a single step more or less, came the Commander and his second in command of Maestus Chosen. Clad in leather short pants that had metal plates over the things. Bare chested except for the Beskar pauldrons on their left shoulders. In their right hands, unwavering, were Beskar pikes. They followed their mistress with grim determination and a hyper awareness. They were, after all, walking into a viper's nest.

The trio strode into the hall. The two Chosen wore metal boots, and they clomped on the hard floor with each step. As if they were announcing Maestus presence. Or maybe they were intending to inspire trepidation in those gathered. Regardless of the reason, their footfalls alerted others to their presence before any of the three were seen.

She paused at the fringe of the gathering, and allowed her gaze to take stock of who was in attendance. Several faces were unknown to her. Such as Darth Tennacus and the one who accompanied him, Darth Senthral . From their stances and body language, she would surmise master and apprentice. No matter, she would learn about them soon enough.

She stepped off, casting a sidelong glance to the Commander of her Chosen. With a nod, he and his second in command stepped in front of Maestus. Once more, exactly 3 paces. and in perfect sync with each other. As one, they lowered their pikes and moved into the crowd, which was thankfully still sparse. Idly, Maestus mused about who else and how many would come. Her master, Darth Solipsis , had put out the call. It would be interesting to see who answered and who ignored it.

The two Chosen stepped into the crowd wordlessly. They used the shaft of the pikes to move people aside, making way for their mistress. AS for MAestus, she strode through behind her Chosen. She walked with her hands clasped loosely at the small of her back. Her robes were open, black fabric with red stitching could be seen. On her belt hung an unusual hilt of a weapon. It was longer than your average saber, as well as being more elegant. It looked to be polished basker, with phrik accents and inlays.

Her hood still down, she held her chin proudly as she moved towards Darth Solipsis upon the throne. She allowed her eyes to study him as she approached. Not that she did not known her master. Since his recent transformation, she had to assess him anew. He was, or perhaps, would be her enemy. It was her destiny to strike her master down, and she would not allow someth9ng like an unnoticed detail to prevent her from fulfilling her eventual goal.

She reached the bottom of the stairs that led to the throne. She leveled her gaze for a moment, looking directly at Solipsis. Then she lowered her head a bit, respectfully. After she gave him the respect he deserved, she took a step up, and stood just slightly above everyone else. Purposefully? absolutely.

Turning to face the crowd, she slowly lowered her hood. Black eyes with red flames at the rim stared coldly at them all. She studied them, searching for weaknesses to be exploited. She was expecting no miraculous revelations. Oh no. But the devil was in the details and she would not allow a detail to go unnoticed.

 

[Halketh]

I L L U S I O N
D I V I N E

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It was the somber, resolute echo of the chamber doors thundering to a cumbersome close that heralded the arrival of the divine. A thundering crash in the distance, it was, a trumpeting toll announcing the coming of the end. Through the sea of black drape, strode the piercing spear of white, parting the river of the faithful with absolution. A lonesome form, a snowflake illuminated against the blackness of night, the armored shape marched through the crowd with an uneasy rigidness to his boots, as the faint creak and rattle of weary bones and stiffened joints urged to motion carried him unto the abysmal gathering. Through those unfamiliar, he moved, uncaring for the shoves and disgruntled words offered back with his entry.

He would not be barred from the purpose he was entrusted.

A stormtrooper, an oddity, but one garbed with the fine half-cape of Carlac draped asymmetrically across his chest, trimmed with metallic gold. The bloody red wings of The Perished marked him apart from the armor he wore, designating him as one of their own, rather than the faceless oceans of foes otherwise confronted. Upon his approach to the throne, he halted, sharply turning to his right, bringing heels together once more to stand at an unnatural stillness in the position of attention; apart from the crowd, tucked between the throne and the throng.

He was silent.

He did not acknowledge the Dark Voice, nor the woman who rose to stand by him.

A hand drew an object from the depths of his half-cloak and produced it outward for the crowd to see, a guilded transmitter. Compressing the button on the crown of the device saw it illuminate with bluish light, projecting an image for the assembly to witness.

<"My, what a marvelous time it is-"> A voice unfamiliar to all but a select few of those present echoed from the transmitter as the particles took shape, arranging themselves geometrically until the countenance of a blindfolded man emerged, armored from the jaw down, draped in ivory and gold similar to the soldier bearing him, <"my apologies for being unable to attend in person, as I'm quite occupied with the impending arrival of the New Imperials upon my world."> Lord Halketh turned his head, flashing the devil's smile in the direction of The Dark Voice, <"All is to be as I said it would be. The New Imperials will take the bait I have lain for them, and yet still, they are ignorant to the greater machinations at hand.">

A ringed finger raised, trailing beneath the miraluka's jaw as he gave shape to his thoughts. <"They see my declaration as an act of war, as expected. They will send an invasion force to seize the planet from my grasp by force, one which will be met by The Perished. Their slaughter will do naught but grow my forces and weaken them, rendering them vulnerable to our incursion. With The Sith Empire toppled, most of The Assembly is scrambling to sort woe and weal, exposing their vulnerability enough as is. Even now-"> there came a pause and tilt of the Warlord's head as he seemed to peer toward what those viewing him could not see, <"-they gather on Bastion to discuss a plan, for hours now they have debated, and have naught to show for it. Their efforts will be disjointed and unorganized at best, as will their hold on their territory, further punctuated by the failure of their recognition to my plan.">

Once more, his head righted, only now he angled his eyeless visage toward the gathered crowd. <" Brothers and sisters, the time to break the Iron Sun has come, and my world, Carlac, will be the first grievous wound in the gluttonous beast.">​

Darth Solipsis Maestus Darth Senthral Darth Tennacus Prax Elvros ​

 

[Romund Sro]

Titans of Industry

Romund had no issues not being around all the odd political intrigue that came about from being with the Sith and other dark side practitioners in their gathering on the planet. Leaving them to their schemes and plots while the intelligent, and forward thinking men like himself got stuff done behind the scenes. At least that's how Romund's heightened sense arrogance made him feel.

Seemingly being one of the last members of an obscure dying race didn't help numb the sense he was a protagonist in some great story. Under his large dark trench coat Romund wore some simple yet sharp business casual style attire. Wearing gloomy cloaks in meetings like this did not inspire much confidence he believe. Would anyone have really bothered to elect palatine if he looked like a saggy old sausage in his senator days? Probably not.

Currently Romund was looking into gaining some land rights Dassel System, making some potential logistical allies on an industrial powerhouse like this was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. He spoke in a rather well mannered and schmoozey tone with a local industrialist. A member of the local brutish race on the planet. Walking the halls of a great weapons forge.

"So if all goes according to plan with land rights you can rest assured that I'll mange a good deal of imports here for raw materials. That way you'll no longer need to be so concerned with the whims of the core worlds that turn their noses up when it comes to planets like yours here." Before arriving Romund had done some mild research into the natives and their culture. Looking to play into their desires for conquest.

"You speak a big game, but I like that. Ambition is key here in times like this. If you can manage some of our durasteel imports we can set you up and the rest of the Brotherhood with probably more weapons than you'll know what to do with, and sounds like a wartime economy is in our future for joining The Maw." They replied as walked with Romund, he looked at them with his one eye and spoke back.

"I think so too, and your planet and your people will play a big part in the conquest to come."

 

[Derix Tirall]

P O W E R
UNKNOWN REGIONS | MAR'ZAMBUL
HIGH REGENT OF THE FINAL DAWN
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For the first time, the political apparatus of the Brotherhood of the Maw met in joyous congregation.

From the disparate warlords, and mysterious witches to the Knights of Ren and the growing might of the neo-imperial Final Dawn, all gathered beneath the watchful eye of the Voice of the Maw. But to the High Regent of the Final Dawn Darth Solipsis was not a prophet of the three great Avatars, but the Sith'ari- the supreme being.

He watched in earnest beneath the throne of the Dark Voice, listening intently to the first speaker. The Mawite Warlord, as predicted, spoke of the deathly ashla and the threat posed by the wasteland of the Jedha desserts. Hard pass. Jedha did indeed have to be dealt with, after all it was a symbol. And all Imperial's knew firsthand the damage symbols wrought.

He nodded to the Warlord of Crackull- the Twi'lek Sith Lord Maestus . But then came someone with an ounce of enthusiasm, a true plan. "The glories of New Imperialism" He decried the rule of Irveric Tavlar. The former Stormtrooper ruled not an Empire, but a desperate alliance of fedual warlords destined to collapse upon itself.

Carlac would be safe- at least in the sense none would normally think. While sure the forces of the New Imperial Order would wreak havoc in some sense of patriotic fury- the Brotherhood, at least Final Dawn, would provide safe refugee and, with time- vengeance.

Halketh | Darth Solipsis | Prax Elvros | Darth Senthral | Darth Tennacus ​

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Tags: Darth Solipsis | Prax Elvros | Darth Senthral | Darth Tennacus | Maestus | Halketh | Derix Tirall | Arken Rhau
Links: Chosen​

A meeting of such proportions never happened, the logistics were too impossible. As such, a meeting of the Brotherhood's forces and leaders had only happened rarely, the only other true meeting of all had been during their first conquest into the galaxy. This though, this wasn't the start of their conquest, merely the next stage of it. Zachariel had heard rumors from his own spies, but all knew that this meeting would shake the galaxy in time. Another step to burning the galaxy to the ground, another step to greater conquest and a change towards something new, something stronger. Another step to the end of the Jedi and Sith, and an end to a reliance on the Force, or even the Force itself.

As more and more of the Brotherhood emerged, Zachariel remained shrouded in darkness by the base of the throne and the stairs. With him stood two Bloodsworn Chosen, alongside Arken Rhau, the very useful and up and coming apprentice and acolyte of Zachariel. Near them was a small section of Bloodsworn, the few Zachariel had decided would accompany him, should they be needed, and to properly show that the Bloodsworn supported this. As others spoke of plans and various important figures appeared, Zachariel gave a pointed snarl to the Chosen directly next to him. Immediately the warrior straightened and turned towards Arken, even as more people spoke and arrived.

"Listen closely and listen well, because you'll be told this only once. As you know by now, there are various warbands in the Brotherhood. We, of course, are the Bloodsworn, sworn by blood to the greatest warlord, our lord, master, and liege, Zachariel Steelblood. However, there are other warlords, each believing they are great in their own ways. You can see several of the fools here, each believing they are grand and unstoppable. Look upon them and know your enemy. They are nothing before our liege, but far outstrip the regular marauders, and few even of our own number are properly equal with any of them. That goes doubly so for you, as weak as you are and so unused to the ways of war. This also means you must know your enemy."

Giving Arken a moment to take that information in, the Chosen glanced towards his master searchingly. He received nothing from the gen'dai he so imitated, only the faintest of screams from some still living trophies on Zachariel's armor. As such, the Chosen turned his gaze over the crowd before speaking once more, pointing out those he spoke of. His commentary ranged from various Darths and the supposed warlords, all the way to the more established warlords such as Maestus, up to the impressive Voice of the Maw. The Chosen told Arken all the Bloodsworn knew of these supposed allies, of their warbands and their styles of combat. He even spoke of the supposed rivalries some of the warbands may have had with the Bloodsworn, but only one was truly of note, that of their little feud with the Chosen of Maestus. One did not mess with the Bloodsworn or its lieutenants without expecting it to be remembered, or re-payed in time.

Then the warrior fell silent as Zachariel held up a hand, stopping the Chosen. Zachariel's skull helm turned to observe Arken then, eventually speaking in a low rumble.
"Know your enemies and know yourself, and you need never fear the outcome of a battle. However, you will never underestimate them, because even the weakest mortal can prove a true nuisance. And those present are more than weak mortals, and more than a match for you. Know and remember the warlords and their followers, and ensure anything you do against them either ends in their deaths, or your own. I will brook no failure, and should you survive by some miracle." Zachariel turned to face Arken fully then, leaning forward to hammer his point home. The weight of the Dark Side weighed heavily on the mans mind, driving home endless nightmares, even as Zachariel's red glare bore into him. "Should you survive your failure, then what you have endured will be nothing next to my fury."

Standing straight once more, Zachariel turned forward, focus returned to these proceedings. Then, with a snort of derision, Zachariel nods his head forward before advancing, emerging from the shadows as a nightmare from the dark. Behind him his two Chosen advance in lock step, pale imitations of their leader, but each a formidable warrior. With them, they direct Arken to follow, to follow their liege. The masses part before Zachariel, driven away by an instinctual fear of the hulking warlord, clad head to toe in his armor, and fully bedecked in all his grizzly trophies. Zachariel stood head and shoulders over all present, something heightened with the dread his dark aura spread aobut. By now many nearby had felt his dark aura, and almost all had heard of his murderous reputation, if not seen it first hand.

Striding forward, Zachariel completely ignored the Darths who had payed their respects to Solipsis. He made no sign that he even noticed the hologram of Caelitus, in fact if it were close enough, he would have simply walked through it and to the base of the stairs. There he gaze up to the Voice of the Maw, even as his Chosen and Arken halted and took up honor guard positions at the base of the steps, towards the side they had come from. Smiling darkly beneath his helmet, Zachariel bowed his head to Solipsis as well, before raising his head almost as quickly.

Then he took that same step up that Maestus had, now standing even with her, and towering ever taller. Turning to the masses, Zachariel crossed his arms across his chest, glaring out across the congregation. Time to see who was part of the worthless cattle, and who might actually amount to something.

 

[Kyrel Ren]

The Night Vulture had roared through the stars, the Master of Ren left shaken to his core following Exegol. Everything he had believed in, turned upside down. From the moment of his resurrection he had been a tool for the Sith. One way or the other he had been tasked by them. Controlled in some way. On Exegol his worst fears were slowly realized as the so called champion of the Maw felt controlled. His destiny ruled always by the Sith. This drove the undead creature into a state of seclusion. What was worst, was that Solipsis was not a feeble old man but a being restored to full strength.

He no longer had the luxury of biding his time. He couldn’t wait to stab Solipsis in the back, not when he embodied the Sith now. In his meditation it had all made sense. With the collapse of other Sith across the galaxy, Solipsis was now free to bring about his own vision. What was worst was that the beliefs of a dark side religion free from Sith influence was a carefully fabricated lie. Only he knew this, for he was shown this, and when he saw so many of those that should have earned the blade of his saber. He had no choice but to continue to serve.

For days he remained aboard the Night Vulture, until he was summoned by Solipsis, the voice still ever in his mind. The voice that brought unbridled rage. Days had passed, and yet he quietly thought of what did his path hold. He had meditated for days until the rage was so great, eyes blazing with yellow fury, like Vader and Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, he was like them. He was a weapon to be used, granted promises of power that was his until now.

Objects around the room cracked and broke entirely. The sheer weight of his rage levitated anything that was in his immediate vicinity. It had seemed the loyal dog had finally snapped. The craft descending through the atmosphere, the dark craft falling in line with the Sith craft he was introduced to on Exegol. His jaw locked tight, his fists clenched. When the craft arrived at the landing pad, a ramp opened, smoke billowing and a sharp hiss from the ramp. The Knights of Ren slowly emerged with the undead Master. Slowly approaching the congregation. This day would be much different, the time for being a tool was over, this time he would make his challenge to Solipsis. Solipsis would know a fury unlike any other. Today the so called “Sith’ari” would die along with that of his Sith.

Darth Solipsis Maestus Halketh Darth Tennacus

 

[Arken Rhau]

​

It was one thing to imagine the storied hordes of the brotherhood in all their gathered glory. It was another thing entirely to witness it with his own eyes -to be subsumed in all its marshaled darkness so completely.

Upon a conquered world, within its once holiest of places, a thousand tribes of dark side gathered in their untold multitudes, and never before had Arken felt such terrible power in one place. From warlords to wayward sith, from heathen zealots to hallowed clergy, the full might of the Maw had been summoned and Arken could not fathom a more shuddersome site. The weight of it alone was nigh unbearable, as if adrift in the eye of a great storm and knowing that one wrong move would see him swept away in the unforgiving torrent of ambitions unbridled. It was like drowning, yet as he struggled to keep his head above the roiling tide, at the forefront of the acolyte’s thoughts were the words of his warlord echoing with prominent clarity.

‘Know your enemies...’

Were not these their allies? No, an inane thought quickly quashed as he followed in the Chosens’ wake, the sting of their words still burning at his pride, yet merely a singe compared to the warlord’s fiery promise of punishment should he flounder. There were many names to be remembered, many faces to be etched into the back of his mind like Prax Elvros , his searing words wasting little time in inciting ruin and recognition. The many murmurs and grumblings among the collected seemed eager to appease the ashen warlord’s lust for conquest. Then there was the hologram of one Halketh , treacherous sovereign to a distant empire. Of him he knew even less than nothing save except his grand design held some sway in the greater plan. More he did not recognize, more still he cared not to. Among so many disparate cults and clans and marauder bands the one thing that bound them together was their mutual reverence -their singular veneration- for one thing, and one thing only: The promised annihilation of all that stood defiant against the will of the Maw.

One would imagine such a monumental undertaking left little room for collaboration among the mad and maligned that swelled the ranks of the devoted, but the priests, in their frothing divinity had sworn it, the avatars themselves had foreseen it, and the Voice… Arken’s gaze drifted upwards to the stone dais where the dark lord sat in solemn judgement from upon his stolen throne. Darth Solipsis , the head of the serpent. The emissary of the end. Since his arrival on this world the thing inside his head had been scratching at the frail boundaries that divided them, each force sensitive being gathered in the temple a maddeningly tantalizing meal to be shred apart in service of its endless hunger. Yet as he gazed into the sulfuric scrutiny of the emissary of the end, for the first time since he could remember, the young sith felt the beast recede on its own volition, almost as if it were at peace. The sudden chill that racked his spine threatened to shake him to pieces and he hastily turned away.

‘Know yourself.’

The warlord’s warning echoed as Zachariel Steelblood ascended the stairs to the throne, the durasteel juggernaut taking his rightful place at his master’s side. In almost surreal contrast, opposite the Gen’dai despoiler was the red right hand of the prophet herself. A Twi’lek of all things, her burning glare matched only by the bloody crimson of her tattooed skin. Where Steelblood was all iron wroth authority and seething fury barely restrained, hers was an eminence that projected pride and power with an almost frigid intensity. The looks the two shared, or rather didn’t, spoke volumes. This must be the one, he mused, deep fascination at odds with his mounting unease. Maestus . Of all the dark lords in attendance, his master had seen fit only to show this one any real sense of begrudging recognition. Who, Arken wondered, could be so brazen enough as to anger the scion of war and survive? The thought crossed his mind as he fell into place at the base of the throne alongside the other honor guard. He found himself standing next to one of Meastus’s chosen elite, the man a physical specimen of rigid extremes, and one who projected the style and grandeur of the one he served. Arken found you could tell a lot about a person by studying the ones who followed them, and today of all days was perhaps the most critical time to truly get a feel for who these men and woman of the Maw really were. Under the collected appraisal of all their wicked kinsman, they would reveal what was most important to them in what they wanted others to see. This man, in his unique regalia and disciplined attentiveness told a grand tale indeed.

Arken cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder and scoffed. “Nice shorts.” He muttered derisively, just loud enough to be heard over the din and discussions. They were in fact, fairly nice indeed, but just like everyone else the acolyte too had something to prove, something he needed everyone else to see. If he ever hoped to escape from beneath the bootheel of Zachariel one day and earn himself a place among the prominent, he would have to show he was worthy of the attention. Few things did that better than making a bloody spectacle of those who were not, and better still, one who was a lauded enemy of his master. He’d learned as much on Osseriton, among the gangs and clans who vied for dominance upon the desolate planet. In truth he felt an eerie similarity to those days as he looked out among the gathered throngs here in the temple, but where the slaves wielded sharpened shivs and big words, here the threat was more implicit, the tools of savagery more cultured. The acolyte caressed the lightsaber at his hip, feeling the gouges and marks along its silver hilt.

Yet before the snide challenge could be addressed, the temple doors suddenly swung wide open, the enormous sculpted stone thrown aside with ease as something… unnatural made its entrance. Something that Arken recognized he felt coming from the red winged trooped. At the head of a column of ebon clad warriors, what Arken could only describe as a wound in the force itself strode into the grand chambers, a bubbling cauldron of such hatred and monstrous force that presence alone was enough to scythe apart the crowds blocking his path. Arken realized his hand had since tensed tightly around his weapon as he stared at the man, the abomination they whispered of in hushed voices and shadowy places. Kyrel Ren , the one reborn.

A struggle ensued, one internal and demanding of a resolution within mere moments as the hulking master of Ren approached. Arken may not have been as practiced in the force as many here were, but he knew enough to understand all that malice and fury was being directed, not just harnessed, but focused for a diabolical purpose. That purpose, that target, lay at the top of the stairs where his master resided. His hand absentmindedly touched the bloodsworn brand still fresh and tender upon his chest, the hesitation fading into resolve as he stepped into the monster’s path.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

Location: Mar'Zambul

The Maw gathered like clouds before a storm, signaling a shift in the greater galaxy. Khamul had only recently joined the Brotherhood, but in his short time among them, he had managed to carve out a space for himself and his followers. Death's Hand had been growing in number, as other Mandalorians slowly found their way to Khamul's side. With each passing day, Khamul felt as though his goals may in fact finally be in sight. But first, there was the issue of the galactic powers that be; a thorn in his side that would soon be remedied.

The Hellhound of Mandalore made his way into the room with several members of Death's Hand in tow. They quietly pushed their way through the crowd, eyeing the others as they passed. Many had come to voice their desires and concerns, and others had come to listen. As each individual spoke their piece, Khamul could feel the tension brewing. It didn't take long for him to pinpoint the source... Kyrel Ren . Khamul hadn't met this warrior of Ren, but he had heard the stories. The hatred that poured from him could only mean one thing... he had come to challenge Solipsis.

Khamul wouldn't take action. He wouldn't step in the way, nor speak out against Kyrel. After all, should the Dark Voice fall, it would only serve to weed out further weakness within their ranks. If one were to die, then the whole would be strengthened in their demise. He turned the members of Death's Hand that had accompanied him, whispering to them in Mando'a.

"Should anything happen, you are not to intervene We only engage if attacked."

He would keep a hand casually resting on his lightsaber as he continued to listen to the words of others. Today's meeting would certainly one to remember...

After what had happened on Mustaphar, Khamul was beginning to think that such occurrences were a requirement to the Dark Voice's meetings. Whether or not he would once again have to draw his blade, would be a different story.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

​

DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW

​

The stonework throne was elevated high, his visage clear for all to see as his hand waved across the expanse of Mawites gathered. The Dark Voice peered over the masses with a piercing gaze, dissecting one by one each individual his terrible glare fell upon. He opened the floor to his Warlords, the ruling elite among the Brotherhood of the Maw, individuals whose domains and tribes flourished under the Dark Horde. His sulfuric eyes fell immediately upon a sudden approach, a risen individual from the bowels of the dark throneworld of Exegol itself. Attention peeked, the Dark Lord leaned forward to take in what Prax Elvros , the Black Hand of Ixigul, would speak to the Great Gathering.

The Dark Voice invited him forth with a wave of his hand, a gesture to speak and be heard. The flaming visor of the Dark Warlord flickered under his booming voice as Prax Elvros spoke of striking first at Jedha, a suggestion that warmed the cold heart of the Dark Lord. The sundering of the planet and the scrubbing of the Jedi imagery would be an effective tool in the coming war. Perhaps too soon though, his machinations within the Galactic Senate and the Galactic Alliance itself had yet to bear fruit, the New Jedi Order were still in the height of their power and still had to be brought low before a total cleaning or better yet purge of their idols would be advantageous.

He nodded with approval but paused before giving his thoughts, wishing to hear the opinions of the others. Perhaps even the Heathen Priests themselves who held sway over the hearts and minds of the legion vast nearly as strongly as he himself did. The vile gaze of the consumptive void that was Solipsis shifted upon the approach of two among the enigmatic NEW SITH ORDER, victors of the Sith Schism, and the now-dominant sect of devotees in the galaxy to the Sith Religion. He acknowledged @Darth_Rhys and Darth Tennacus I’m their approach and bade them welcome with a cold glare, “Approach.”

It was at that moment the Chosen entered, gracing the halls with their approach. The honored tribe of powerful warriors that served under the mighty Maestus , his student and now a Lord of the Sith in her own right with a domain over the planet of Crakull and a rivaling force to that of the Bloodsworn led by Zachariel Steelblood on the world of Osseriton. He acknowledged her respectful approach, his eyes like daggers following her with a crooked smile filled with dark grimace.

The Stormtrooper that approached, shifting it’s way through the disgruntled crowd with indifference had not caught his eye until it was nearly upon him. Boldly displaying the imagery of Carlac and of the Perished. The Elder’s eyes averted to the holographic image conjured forth as it extended it’s hand, his own raising up to the alerted Sith Sovereign Protectors, halting their movements as their weapons brandished before all to see. The image of Halketh , Lord of Carlac, sprang forth.

“Lord Halketh.” The Dark Lord opened his hand in gesture, “As expected, I look forward to hearing what news you bring.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, especially for Maestus at his side. While the transmission from Carlac had been received not long ago, he had only alerted the Heathen Priests of the situation developing. He wanted to wait, gather the powerful warlords of the tribal warbands together, and I’m the midst of the great gathering sick the dogs of war upon Carlac to ambush the amassed New Imperial forces. He already had members of the Court of Daggers among the New Sith Order ready for Halketh’s word.

The Dark Lord reveled in the information gleaned from the High Warlord, his crooked smile spreading into a sickening grin stretching from ear to ear. “So it shall be. You have done well, my Shadow Hand.” The Dark Voice rose from his seat as Halketh addressed the great horde, “The time has come! The New Imperial dogs muster over the frozen globe of Carlac. The first blow to light the fire will be ignited with Imperial blood!” His hands opened flatly as he raised them high, his voice bellowing and piercing simultaneously. The chambers flooding with his voice, his eyes turning to face Halketh , “Kneel.”

“Hence forth, Lord Halketh upon your shedding of the Imperial dogma. Though the fires of adversity you shall be reborn... Halketh you shall be named.. Dark Lord of the Sith. In tradition of Lord Vader and his many predecessors. The New Sith Order ruled by TWO Dark Lords, Master and his Shadow Hand. You, Executor of the Final Dawn and Dark Lord of the Sith..”

The Dark Voice almost snickered under his dark visage of benevolence, a twisted grin knowingly watching over those that vied for the coveted throne. He sat back down into it’s coveted seat and lifted a hand, “May..Rise…”

The eyes of the Voice shifted as it felt a subtle calling, moving through the crowd to the fixed position of Arken Rhau . His gaze remained fixed momentarily before moving on as Death’s Hand entered under the Mandalorian Sith Lord Khamul Kryze .

The Dark Lord’s attention peeked when the Champion of the Maw, Kyrel Ren , finally arrived. He let the whispers flood into the mind of the undead creature, but looked on at his guardsmen and ordered them to clear an open path. Had he come to finally accept his place knowing who truly ran the Maw behind closed doors? Or had he come to challenge the Dark Voice in the height of his power, his purpose robbed of him due to the revitalization of his physical shell?

If he wanted to die then so be it, he’d oblige him.. but the Dark Lord still had uses for him beyond death and a purpose.. a dark purpose unfulfilled.

​

 

[Dakrul]

​

"Tins... Gul" the black-skinned figure uttered again. He was but a shadow of his former self, starved and worked the Gundanbard had long lost his warrior spirit to the Maw.

Before him kneeled a creature almost three times his size, a giant of wretched flesh, cladded in alloys and iron. Bulges of bloated muscle eked out of cracks in the huge insectoids chitin while fledging worm-like tendrils burrowed out of exposed skin. His faceless hide was entirely veiled by a crown of rusted metal. Under which a toothless orifice muttered the words back to the slave.

"TiiNNsssss GuuuuuL"

"Yes... yes me" the former war shaman pointed at himself "I am a Tins-Gul.... He" his battered hands now directed the Mawites attention to a corpse with lighter more greyish skin humped in a corner "was an Aul Dual".

Dakruls massive limps spun into motion as he crawled along the caverns ragged ground towards the corpse. He was trying to understand. The Heathen Priests that had accompanied him had agreed to allow him to explore the ways of these vermin. This planet was once filled with many such beings, he was told they acted as fearsome warriors but he recognized none of that now, now they were but ashes in the wind.

A three-fingered palm placed itself on the dead Gundanbard head, and the Zealot whispered "Showwwwww meeeee"

A surge of living force ran through the body of the former war chief, cosmic dust in another plane suddenly given directive, reformed, reforged, reanimated. The Aul Dul opened his eyes and Dakrul was flooded with memories.

A few hours later a Heathen Priest came to collect their belonging from the prison camp the subject was visiting, it was not difficult to control Dakrul, he was a loyal follower and a devoted Mawite. Yet and this held true especially for the less experienced members of the priesthood he was a terrible sight to behold.

They had given birth to much terror in the belly of the Gehinnom, but very little was so utterly wrong as this one. After entering the cell they had left the giant in his eyes had to adjust to the lack of light. Dakrul sat before him in the middle of the room.

"Come the Voice will address the gathering soon" the human yelled into the cave. He watched as the humongous Cha'ta'ri rose to his feet, didn't he only have four arms? The young man's eyes narrowed trying to clearly make out the figure in the darkness.

He shivered at the sight, swallowed his fear as his eyes tried to understand what they were seeing.

"I understand Gundanbard nowwwwwwww" Dakrul explained. The head of the Aul Daul was stitched onto his right shoulder, even so, it was still moving whispering tales of old, while his arms and legs hung under the monster's second set of appendages attached in a similar fashion. Long fleshy tendrils pierced out of the Mawites abdomen ended around the neck of the still-living Tins-Gul whose eyes screamed of the terrors his mouth dared not to share.

"I want to hear the Voice" Dakrul reminded the Priest who was still trying to make sense of what had happened here.

Swallowing his fear yet again he accompanied the Sithspawn into the halls used for the ceremony. The Faceless Hunger wanted a spot near the throne, near all these devils, and fiends but most importantly near him. The Sith'ari.

In his world of endless fires there was solitude in the gravity of this being, a refuge he could find nowhere else. The closest he could come to the embrace of the Avatars.

He found a place somewhere behind the throne and sat in a crouching position carefully petting the frightened Gundanbard in his lap. He would take in every word, try and understand those terms he could not, and silently discuss it with the head still attached to his shoulder.

"What do you think a Haketh is? Adversity?" the reanimated hide to his right simply moaned and Dakrull had to snicker silently not to disturb the onlookers.

I wonder what it tastes like...

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, city of Zambul Rix
Tags: Romund Sro

Between the two Great Gatherings, much had changed.

The Mongrel reflected on this simple fact as he descended the ramp of his landing craft, finally back in Mawite territory after the Battle of Korriban. At the first Great Gathering, he had been nothing more than a slave, freshly tortured into obedience as a front-line marauder in service to the newly-returned Brotherhood. He had been openly blessed by the Dark Voice that day, picked out from among hundreds of thousands, and at the time no one could have imagined why. He had been scrawny, pathetic-looking, not distinct in any way from countless other Mawite cannon fodder slaves.

But the Dark Voice had chosen well in whom he blessed.

In the three years that had followed, The Mongrel had gone from a nobody to a terror of the galactic north. Expected to die in his first battle, he had survived dozens. He had risen to command the ground forces that had ravaged the Chiss capital world before its destruction. He had fought the most elite soldiers and mage-knights of the galaxy's most powerful governments, with neither formal training in the art of war nor the power of the Force on his side, and he still stood. And then, Korriban. He and his Honor Guard had fought against three armies at once, drenching the sands with foemen's blood.

They had died to the last... but he'd crawled from his grave.

They called him the Thrice-Born Hound. They said that the Avatars themselves had interceded to deliver him from that tomb planet. They said that he was a marauder no more, that he had risen from slave to warrior to warleader to Warlord. With the power of the legend he had forged, The Mongrel had broken off from his service among the ranks of the Bloodsworn Tribe and forged a warband of his own. Now he led the Scar Hounds, masters of the fusion of beast and metal, savage nature and unyielding machine. And by the grace of the Dark Voice, he had been granted a world to house his warriors.

Mar'Zambul would be the home of the Scar Hounds Tribe.

The planet had changed greatly since The Mongrel had last set foot here. He remembered it as a world of dark temples and teeming alien warriors, the home of the Gundanbard and their Dark Lord. He had fought to cripple their empire and seize their homeworld, and he had been grievously wounded in the battle; his entire ribcage, shattered by a Gundanbard mace, had been replaced with implanted durasteel. That had been the beginning of his dramatic transformation into something more than human, a transformation that his loyal tribesmen now sought to emulate, embracing cybernetic grafts.

But now the Final Dawn had reshaped Mar'Zambul. The old Gundanbard foundries had been updated and expanded, and the planet's deserts echoed with the thunder of industry. Like the shipyards at Osseriton, the planet ruled by his old master Zachariel Steelblood , these factories would churn out the war materiel necessary to shatter the Brotherhood's enemies. And now they were technically under The Mongrel's jurisdiction... though his rulership would be hands-off. He was a warrior and a warleader, not a businessman or a master of logistics.

Let the Final Dawn run this industry. The Mongrel and his Scar Hounds would wield the mighty weapons they produced.

What mattered more to him about Mar'Zambul was that it was the perfect crucible in which to forge his new tribe. Gravity was 1.6 times standard, adding a crushing additional weight to everything... and forcing his Aspirants to grow strong as they trained. If you could swing a warblade or shock mace in such high-gravity conditions, you would build the muscle to bat aside enemy parries and tear into armor with ease. The harsh deserts were the perfect location for Scar Hound marauders to learn to hunt and survive alongside their Firefang Wardogs, forging the bonds of a pack as much as a tribe.

And the industry helped them embrace metal over flesh.

Though he was more focused on training his new tribe for the coming battles than on overseeing any aspect of production, The Mongrel wished to understand all the goings-on across Mar'Zambul. And so, as his shuttle landed in the industrial city of Zambul Rix, the freshly-minted Warlord sought out Romund Sro . Rumor had it that the sorcerous warlord - whom The Mongrel knew only by reputation - was already seeking to establish industrial contacts with the Mawite-occupied forge planet, and The Mongrel intended to find out exactly what the man intended to offer... and to receive.

He approached Sro openly, walking alone. He could see that the man had a few Gundanbard with him, and he smirked behind his mask. Almost all of the aliens had either been wiped out or fled the battle, refusing to give up their faith in their Dark Lord; rumor had it that he was still lurking in Wild Space, plotting a great reconquest. He should have joined the Maw when he'd been given the chance. A few of the Gundanbard, a very few, had been wise enough to see which way the wind was blowing. They had changed sides, and thus been offered positions keeping the planet's factories going.

Only now, their produce would serve the Brotherhood.

"Romund Sro," The Mongrel said, stepping into the group's path. "So you, too, have avoided the politics of the gathering." Indeed, the Warlord of the Scar Hounds had made a deliberate choice to keep away from the Temple of Jendu, where the Dark Voice now sat enthroned. He did not trust sorcery, and the Voice's guests and confidants reeked of it, swimming in dark mystical power. The Mongrel did not know the truth of the New Sith Order, and he did not want to know. Better to focus on war and conquest; those were things he understood. "You see the great potential in this planet, don't you?"

He looked out across the smog-choked city. "I know I do."

 

[Halketh]

I L L U S I O N
D I V I N E

​

It was a wicked grin that saw the projection of the distant Warlord rise to his feet as the proclamation was made. A pity it was, to miss one's own christening, but alas, fortune saw him elsewhere. Arranged in virtual space, Darth Caelitus rose from his lowered posture, grasping the trailing edge of his half-cape to return it to its proper position. He turned toward the audience then, tucking both hands neatly into the small of his armored back.

<"Better yet still,"> he continued with a warmth blooming from his chest, <"Their Imperator slumbers amongst the dead as we speak. The soldiers I placed in their meeting performed their duty admirably. A forced change in leadership to further cripple their efforts."> He sighed then, betraying the general monotone he oft spoke with, <"I had hoped to see him unto the abyss myself, but alas, one can only be treated so beautifully in one day, it seems.">

<"Irveric Tavlar is dead.">​

He hummed a singular note of amusement, acknowledging, at last, the arrival of Kyrel Ren . The same wretched undead he had felt upon his sacking of Thule. The same hateful, volatile shell of a man who allowed his rage to serve as his sole lantern in the incomprehensible darkness. Of all his newfound allies, perhaps Ren was the most dangerous by his count, however, his darker proclivities gave him an edge on the dead man. That, surely, would come when it was due in time. For now, however, Caelitus considered the weight of his new title in silence, and further, he pondered just how many of these "allies" of his would attempt to lodge a blade into his throat in an attempt to seize it for themselves.

There was nothing quite so complimentary as attempted murder.

One had to care much for someone to plot their murder, as much had become overtly apparent to the miraluka over his many years of drifting through the galaxy. His thoughts were disturbed by a voice cast from beyond the hologram. It was time.

<"Unfortunately, I'm afraid I must away for the time. Gather your soldiers, prepare your warbands, they will come to Carlac in full, vengeful force. At their most broken, they are now, and I fully intend to shatter them to pieces at my feet. I expect nothing less from you, worldbreakers.">

The soldier supporting the projector released the switch with Caelitus's farewell, dissipating the hologram with a fizzling hiss. And as silently as he had come, he pivoted and marched toward the edge of the chamber, making his departure.​

Darth Solipsis Maestus Darth Senthral Darth Tennacus Prax Elvros Zachariel Steelblood Kyrel Ren Dakrul ​

 

[Romund Sro]

The Mongrel

​

Romund hadn't actually noticed the newcomer until they spoke his name. After which he perked up some and looked over at them with his one vibrant sithy eye. Hearing them mention how they both seemed to avoid the all the treacherous politics elsewhere. "Greeting, The Mongrel, or should I say Mr. Mongrel?" Romund said with a slight smirk. Knowing how odd such a name would be. But he did wonder what he should call them. "And you'd be correct, it's nice to see someone else here looking to get things done rather than partake in self destructive scheming." Perhaps if they chips are other down it'll be people like Romund and The Mongrel that came out on top in some form or another.

Romund believe that being neutral, and doing it well, was just as difficult if not more so than taking sides. He had his own plots of course, but he also knew his place, and was patient. He listened to The Mongrel speak about how they both saw potential in the planet. As they did it the Gundanbards around them began to excuse themselves from the two of them. "Of course, Mar'Zambul will be a key asset in the conquests to come."

"When I get control over Najra-Va I'll be using it supply this planet with many raw materials to develop into weaponry for the Maw. Without trade to the core it'll be important to keep this world producing. From my understanding you'll take the reigns over this planet right?"

He hope he wasn't seen as jumping the gun here on Mar'Zambul for already making plans with it in mind without having consulted The Mongrel about it first. With a name like that it's hard to get a read on how diplomatic they care to be.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, city of Zambul Rix
Tags: Romund Sro

Despite his odd "Mister Mongrel" joke and his aristocratic manner, which generally put the simple and straightforward Mongrel ill at ease, the warlord found that he agreed with Romund. "It is one thing to test our strength against one another openly, to weed out weakness," he said, thinking of how his own rise had been accomplished only by clambering over the bodies of lesser Mawites. "It is another to plot in the shadows, trying to usurp power rather than earn it. I am a simple man, a warrior who believes that battles should be fought in the light of day. Anything else is cowardice."

It was why he would never rise to any position beyond the one he had just attained; The Mongrel had no gift for subtlety or manipulation. He did not understand the machinations of the New Sith Order, did not even understand what they were. He left them to their shadows, trusting that the Dark Voice would lead him to battles better suited to his more straightforward talents. And soon, with a new Great Hyperspace War beginning, such battles would never be in short supply. The Alliance, the NIO, and likely other "civilized" governments would try to hold back the will of the Avatars, and they would fail.

The Gundanbard representatives excused themselves, and The Mongrel paid them no further mind. They were cowards too afraid to die with the rest of their people, instead choosing to abandon everything that had made their culture interesting so that they would be spared. But Sro was another matter, one of considerable interest to the newly-minted Warlord. "Yes," he replied, offering a nod of his half-metal head. "Mar'Zambul has been placed in my hands. As you say, each of our industrial worlds is important. We do not trade or purchase. There is only what we can build ourselves."

And scavenging, of course. Scar Hounds were adept at it.

"Najra-Va," The Mongrel said, tapping the durasteel mask covering his chin with a metal finger. "I remember the system well. A series of broken, sunless planetoids drifting around a cored-out planet. This is your choice? Beyond the mining, what potential do you see there?" The marauder had enjoyed his time on one of the nearby moons, for he had been honored by the Heathen Priests there, chosen to give a sacrifice in the aftermath of the victory at Csilla - a highly sought-after position that earned great favor with the Avatars. But what was really left there now, in the ruins?