Public Dhenon Golizio: Clash of Titans

[Fjendar Alcademon]

"Foul devils"

The stout, deep voice of the Athysian warlord sounds across the tainted decks. Tameless, wild and rageful, the Dark Side energy floods the hangar bays, who crowd with dozens of Buzzer Squadrons, fueling up as the feral-like pilots scream archaic warcries, craving the battle to come. A chaotic state, with many of the support crew struggling to complete fueling of the starfighters accidentally being burned alive, as the exhaust engines ignite, shaking the very deck.

"Many thought us gone. Banished... We are here to remind them... That we, are not"

The deck of the upper hangar is wet, as the blood patterns down the catwalks. The soft pale hand of the she-witch drives the knife into the runic pattern against the flesh of the cyborg-consumed Athysian. His bionic red eyes twist and turn, as they are readjusting. The dozens of cables and wires of the life support progressively vanish under the skin. As the witch walks back, the Athysian jumps onboard the tattooed wing of the Hoplite.

"This will be the greatest feast of Blood"

Fjendar Alcademon 's towering figure stands at the large palace-like deck of the bridge. His pale power-armour a contrast to the darkness that usurps the artificial atmosphere. Scattered around the bridge, cyborg operators hold posts over the dim-lit screens and consoles, as the Red Horse sails through the cold craving void...

Behind the massive blood-red spiked hull of the Athysian flagship, the spear-headed Lernea carriers fill the void with the myriad of fighters that swarm in a near-endless tide, amidst the Quardent Destroyers and the heavy warships, readying for the battle to come.

"Spare no soul! Give no quarter!!"

The giant of a man reaches out with his arm. His huge palm curling into fist, as he aims it towards thee transparresteel of the bridge, as if he could grasp onto the void itself and twist it broken...

"Let the galaxy Burn! The Gods be Damned!!!"

Ahead of the Athysian armada, right behind the Red Horse, the Blood Spear roars onwards. The ring-weighted palms of her master, Irratar Hemstagon , tap against the long saberstaff hilt, as his fiery eyes await visual with the enemy horde...

The asteroid field around the planet disturbs the void around it, while the desert war-torn ground of Dhenon Golizio quakes, upon the march of the Edikar corsair hosts, sallying out the fortified Warclaw dropships, overshadowed by the bulking presence of the Bonegrinder walkers and the lung-bleeding warcries of the Erevosian warbands...

War on Dhenon Golizio​

An'fâug'lir​	Hadzuskatka​
Commanders Lord Nyâsh Xardâs Gothdâur Xârdrael the First	Commanders Fjendar Alcademon Irratar Hemstagon Hyara Hemstagon Kraujar Sars
Graug Horde Gundanbard Warbands Marskhan Kraujarmatur Warbands Marskhan Savage Warbands Bryn'adûl Hosts Tectari	- Athysian Raider Fleet Cultist Core Mawler Fiend Cult Warbands Vorran Iron Guard Regiments Fallen New Sith Zealots Exile Warbands Athysian Stratis Hosts Vrea Stratis Regiments Vrea Anaktas Legions Vrea Lonchophor Legions Vrea Edikar Corsair Cohorts Vrea Machis Regiments Mawite Marauder Reinforcements Kitiakira Warbands Heathen War Shamans Deathgangs Cirihut Warrior Gangs Tarar Marauder Tribe Marskhan Slave Horde Marskhan Kraujarmatur Warbands Marskhan Savage Warbands Fiend Shadowspawns Auxiliaries Athysian Droid Regiments Kronosian Black Valkyrie Regiments Kronosian Black Valkyrie Naktidis Cavalry

The world of Dhenon Golizio was a thriving trade crossroad in the Outer Rim. It was, until the coming of the Athysian Raider Fleet.
For eight years, the planet has been under a brutal regime enforced by the Athysian warlord Fjendar Alcademon. The planet was stripped of all resources, with the majority of the population being driven into slavery, as the Athysian exiles prepare for their return to the outer fringes of the Unknown Regions; their ancestral homeworld...

Fjendar has been rallying cutthroats, pirates and corsairs, mustering numbers for the great return. This, ofcourse, has not gone unnoticed...
Sharing a common history, the once enslaved race of the Marskha, after the collapse of the Athysian League, has spread across the stars... For the Athysians to return to their homeworld, Athysia, will be to restore an ancient powerful stronghold that has now been buried deep in Eternal Empire space...

The hordes of An'faug'ir soon summon thousands of warriors, mobilizing to end the old blight of the Marskha at its core: The Athysian Nobility.

As the Athysians prepare, the An'faug'lir sally to face the foe, ensuring the ancient world of Athysia shall be claimed by the rightful overlord...
The two hordes now meet on Dhenon Golizio...

Both sides determined to thriumph over the other...

Both sides refusing to give quarter...

And so, the War on Dhenon Golizio.... Has begun...

 

[Warmaster Nyâsh]

Lord Nyâsh

Awakening
​

Terror. Mayhem. Carnage.

From the bridge of his battlecruiser he observed the hyperspace passing by it jumped back into real space, the system coming to sudden stop after a zoom in. The atmosphere on the bridge was heavy, filled with smoke from the burning pits, the air thick with the smell of unnatural organics and decay. One could feel how the ship itself breathed the vacuum of realspace, how it pulsated, how its movements were transmitted into the half-dead crew who was entirely incorporated in the metal and organic structure of the vessel.

Lord Nyâsh stood in the bridge-sanctum, a master over the matter, a god of the secret flame and fire which powered his damned crews and warmachines. It has awoken. His dark plate, Ârmar, reflected and broke the shine of the flickering fires and arteries of lava which produced the thick air and dim light, but incredible heat. Normal humans would have difficulties to dwell here, for it was like a pyre-made room.

Onslaught. Havoc. Chaos.

There was no communication, no words, no speech. Only the silent flickering and seething of flame and molten rock. The fleet swarmed out - half a alive, half warmachine as it approached the defenders. Turbolasers were charged, magma-cannons directed, organic torpedoes prepared. Screens of fighters and bombers launched as the mixture of living and piloted war-crafts prepared to attack todays adversary.

The fleet did not matter to him, it was a distraction, a mean to an end. Only a planet provides the warmth, the necessary core to give him what he wants, needs, desires. Nyâsh is fighting to satisfy his warhordes, to bleed them. These adversaries seem worthy, seem appealing to be used. Maybe even subjugated.

With a simple turn the Dark Warlord moved out of the bridge and towards the bowels of the ship, where he would find hangars and his landing units. It was not his to steer the fleet anymore. Moving through the ship was like moving through the intestants of a steel-leviathan, slime and oil were mixed, doors and muscles the same, hangars just openings where it suited the war-craft.

Once arriving in the tract he deemed his destination, stepping through the last bulkhead, he spotted his strike force and with a fanged-smile below the completely sealed helmet, he jumped onto his Tectâr, Angrân, and raised his mace.

​

​