- My life ends only when my rage has been vented, when my need for vengeance is satisfied. It will be a long life. -
Smoke obscured his visor, his vision suddenly shifting from muted grays to a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, purples, and blues. The commune had been leveled to the ground, what structures remained were being consumed by great plumes of smoke and fire. Dozens of corpses littered the ground at his feet, some of them so numerous that they impeded walking. With a twirl of his pistol, the masked marauder quickly reduced the bodies to pieces with a few volleys.
Too many of his companions worried themselves about the preservation of the dead, their twisted obsession with their insane experiments paramount in their minds. To the butcher known as Guvaith Rook, none of that took precedence. He only cared about power and violence, and as his visor turned in the direction of the new acquisitions his heart began to pump faster in his chest.
Oh, how lovely they were.
Terrified.
Unspoiled.
Holstering his pistol, the Traitor of Keldabe strode amongst the wreckage of a once vibrant community without any shred of reverence. The stone-faced soldiers of the Grand Army stood still as statues at strategic intervals, rifles held parallel to their chests in preparation for any further resistance. They did not partake in the same sensations as Guvaith or his cohort, they weren't programmed to. Born from the genelaboratories of his master's citadel, these next-generation strand-casts were almost robotic in their dispositions.
Were they even people anymore? It didn't matter to Guvaith, so long as they obeyed his orders without flinching. So far they had, he bet that he could command one to terminate themselves and they would without raising a complaint. Loyalty, obedience. They were the virtues programmed into the Dark Master's Grand Army, His numberless legions, with the failures of the Third Imperial Civil War guiding their continual evolution.
They were a stark contrast to Guvaith's ilk, the fierce fighting Death Watch. So few of them remained now, their numbers dwindling precipitously since the Great Scouring. The Dark Master only allowed them to exist by His own grace, casting any one of them aside when they displeased Him. The fortunate ones continued on as Golems, fighting until their mechanical servos could no longer compel them forward into battle. The unfortunate ones were not given such an opportunity, more often than not ending up worm food for the Dark Master's monsters.
Not Guvaith, he had rendered himself a useful cog in the Dark Master's machine.
Slavemaster.
The Iron Hand.
So long as he drew breath, and potentially even beyond that, he would do what he can to survive the gnashing teeth of the Dark Master's twisted game. It was all any of the Mandalorians who had willingly betrayed their brethren, condemning them to a fate worse than death, could do. Their own former brethren hunted them relentlessly, Guvaith had managed to survive over a dozen assassination attempts by the Mandalorians huddled beneath the banner of the Enclave. He'd sent their broken helmets back as warnings, but they never seemed to catch on.
He tilted his head up towards the sky, idly wondering if they would make another attempt.
Darkly he wondered if they'd succeed this time.
