Character
The Ark's gates yawned wide, iron jaws lit by the glow of braziers. Korda paused at their threshold, the smell of oil and ash heavy in the air. His boots struck the stone with deliberate weight as he crossed into the halls, the sound echoing like a war drum calling only for him.
Everywhere he looked, the Ark breathed with fire and iron. Walls of beskar bore scars from torch and chisel; banners hung above like silent witnesses to victories past. Smoke drifted from censers, carrying prayers thick as the incense itself. The air itself felt alive, humming faintly with the weight of countless voices lifted in prayer before him, as though the Ark remembered every oath and every death.
He walked alone, yet not without company—shadows clung to him, ghosts from the life he had left in ruin. His left eye, pale red beneath the scar that split its lid, caught the firelight as though the Destroyer himself had branded him.
When he reached the chapel, he slowed. The door gave way beneath his gauntlet, its hinges groaning like old bones, and the chamber welcomed him in silence. Rows of iron-forged icons stared down with unblinking judgment, their visors and visages hammered into eternal scowls. At the altar, the braziers burned low, steady flames that seemed eternal, their light smearing the walls with restless shadows.
Korda removed his helmet, lowering it carefully until it rested against the cold stone floor. Out of respect for Ha'rangir, no veil of steel would separate his face from the god's gaze. He knelt, his scarred eye stinging as if the flame itself had burrowed into him.
"Destroyer," he murmured voice roughened by both exile and war. "ni dralshy'a ner o'ralar. Ni cuyir copaanir dar'tome jii aliit bal solus. Tion… tion par ni? Tion'jor gar laam ni olaror ganaat par ni ven'riduur?" {trasnlation: "I leveled my own village. I was cast out by blood and kin. So why… why did you see fit to bring me back? Why let me breathe again when my hands are already stained?"}
For a long while there was only silence, the vast quiet of the chapel pressing down like the weight of an unspoken judgment. Then, as he bowed his head, the braziers flared. Flames surged without wind, leaping high and painting the icons in a momentary blaze of crimson and gold. The smoke twisted, taking forms that could be faces, could be nothing, lingering just long enough to stir the pit of his stomach.
The fire settled again as though nothing had changed. Only the hiss of flame, the slow settling of embers, and the faint taste of iron in his mouth remained.
Korda closed his eyes. Was it a sign of acceptance? A warning? Or a cruel trick of his imagination? The god of destruction did not answer plainly. Perhaps Ha'rangir never did. But in the flicker of the flame, in the silence after the roar, Korda could almost believe he had been heard.
Domina Prime
Everywhere he looked, the Ark breathed with fire and iron. Walls of beskar bore scars from torch and chisel; banners hung above like silent witnesses to victories past. Smoke drifted from censers, carrying prayers thick as the incense itself. The air itself felt alive, humming faintly with the weight of countless voices lifted in prayer before him, as though the Ark remembered every oath and every death.
He walked alone, yet not without company—shadows clung to him, ghosts from the life he had left in ruin. His left eye, pale red beneath the scar that split its lid, caught the firelight as though the Destroyer himself had branded him.
When he reached the chapel, he slowed. The door gave way beneath his gauntlet, its hinges groaning like old bones, and the chamber welcomed him in silence. Rows of iron-forged icons stared down with unblinking judgment, their visors and visages hammered into eternal scowls. At the altar, the braziers burned low, steady flames that seemed eternal, their light smearing the walls with restless shadows.
Korda removed his helmet, lowering it carefully until it rested against the cold stone floor. Out of respect for Ha'rangir, no veil of steel would separate his face from the god's gaze. He knelt, his scarred eye stinging as if the flame itself had burrowed into him.
"Destroyer," he murmured voice roughened by both exile and war. "ni dralshy'a ner o'ralar. Ni cuyir copaanir dar'tome jii aliit bal solus. Tion… tion par ni? Tion'jor gar laam ni olaror ganaat par ni ven'riduur?" {trasnlation: "I leveled my own village. I was cast out by blood and kin. So why… why did you see fit to bring me back? Why let me breathe again when my hands are already stained?"}
For a long while there was only silence, the vast quiet of the chapel pressing down like the weight of an unspoken judgment. Then, as he bowed his head, the braziers flared. Flames surged without wind, leaping high and painting the icons in a momentary blaze of crimson and gold. The smoke twisted, taking forms that could be faces, could be nothing, lingering just long enough to stir the pit of his stomach.
The fire settled again as though nothing had changed. Only the hiss of flame, the slow settling of embers, and the faint taste of iron in his mouth remained.
Korda closed his eyes. Was it a sign of acceptance? A warning? Or a cruel trick of his imagination? The god of destruction did not answer plainly. Perhaps Ha'rangir never did. But in the flicker of the flame, in the silence after the roar, Korda could almost believe he had been heard.
Domina Prime