ETERNAL ECLIPSE - OPERATION: CAUTERIZE
Gravehand - Chapter 1
GEAR: Crimson Lightsaber
OBJECTIVE: Operation: Cauterize
TAG:
Athassehl Sylaar
|
Brackard Cain
| Open
VENGEANCE
ZAKUUL
The Spire's upper levels were a labyrinth of marble and gold, but to Atum, they were merely a series of scent trails and heat signatures. He ignored the tactical displays and the ornate tapestries, his focus narrowed to the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his own heart and the distant, frantic vibrations of those who still drew breath at the summit.
As he prowled forward, more blast doors hissed open before he could even reach for a control panel. The scent changed as he approached the apex. The air here was thicker, heavy with the smell of expensive oils and the sharp, metallic tang of absolute terror.
The final set of grand doors, massive, etched with the history of a dead empire, parted with obedience. Brackard's silent sabotage had laid the Spire bare. Atum strides into the Throne Room, a shadow of black fur that seemed to absorb the dim light of the eclipse.
Across the vast, polished floor, the last of the Zakuul leadership huddled near the Eternal Throne, protected by a final triad of High Knights.
Atum's connection to the Force flared, not in a display of telekinetic power, but as a violent surge of physical reinforcement. His leg muscles bunched and fired, launching him across the throne room in a blur that defied natural biology.
He met the center Knight with a fever of strikes. His lightsaber was a whirlwind; a flurry of vertical and diagonal slashes so rapid they blurred into a single, shimmering wall of crimson energy. The Knight's shield held for a fraction of a second before Atum's sheer kinetic pressure, bolstered by the Dark Side, shattered the energy field. The Shistavanen didn't stop; he flowed through the guard's defense, his blade a red streak that severed the man's pike and helmet in one continuous, brutal rotation.
As the first Knight's body began its slow slump to the marble, the remaining two moved with a cold, practiced synchronicity that Atum's instinct-driven tunnel vision hadn't accounted for.
As he overextended to finalize the kill, the second Knight stepped into the gap. A glowing pike-tip hissed through the air, catching Atum across the ribs. The searing heat of the energy blade scorched through fur and flesh, drawing a spray of dark blood that pattered against the pristine floor.
Atum snarled, the pain fueling a sudden, erratic surge of Dark Side energy, but he was off-balance. Before he could recalibrate his stance, the third Knight followed through with a heavy, shield-first bash. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil, the sheer force of the blow sending the Shistavanen skidding back across the slick marble.
Atum caught himself on one knee, his claws digging deep, ugly furrows into the gilded floor to halt his momentum. His breathing was a ragged, wet rasp. Blood matted the black fur at his side, and his yellow eyes burned with a cold, predatory fury as he glared up at the two remaining High Knights. They were closing in now, pikes leveled, their movements disciplined and overlapping.
The Spire's upper levels were a labyrinth of marble and gold, but to Atum, they were merely a series of scent trails and heat signatures. He ignored the tactical displays and the ornate tapestries, his focus narrowed to the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his own heart and the distant, frantic vibrations of those who still drew breath at the summit.
As he prowled forward, more blast doors hissed open before he could even reach for a control panel. The scent changed as he approached the apex. The air here was thicker, heavy with the smell of expensive oils and the sharp, metallic tang of absolute terror.
The final set of grand doors, massive, etched with the history of a dead empire, parted with obedience. Brackard's silent sabotage had laid the Spire bare. Atum strides into the Throne Room, a shadow of black fur that seemed to absorb the dim light of the eclipse.
Across the vast, polished floor, the last of the Zakuul leadership huddled near the Eternal Throne, protected by a final triad of High Knights.
Atum's connection to the Force flared, not in a display of telekinetic power, but as a violent surge of physical reinforcement. His leg muscles bunched and fired, launching him across the throne room in a blur that defied natural biology.
He met the center Knight with a fever of strikes. His lightsaber was a whirlwind; a flurry of vertical and diagonal slashes so rapid they blurred into a single, shimmering wall of crimson energy. The Knight's shield held for a fraction of a second before Atum's sheer kinetic pressure, bolstered by the Dark Side, shattered the energy field. The Shistavanen didn't stop; he flowed through the guard's defense, his blade a red streak that severed the man's pike and helmet in one continuous, brutal rotation.
As the first Knight's body began its slow slump to the marble, the remaining two moved with a cold, practiced synchronicity that Atum's instinct-driven tunnel vision hadn't accounted for.
As he overextended to finalize the kill, the second Knight stepped into the gap. A glowing pike-tip hissed through the air, catching Atum across the ribs. The searing heat of the energy blade scorched through fur and flesh, drawing a spray of dark blood that pattered against the pristine floor.
Atum snarled, the pain fueling a sudden, erratic surge of Dark Side energy, but he was off-balance. Before he could recalibrate his stance, the third Knight followed through with a heavy, shield-first bash. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil, the sheer force of the blow sending the Shistavanen skidding back across the slick marble.
Atum caught himself on one knee, his claws digging deep, ugly furrows into the gilded floor to halt his momentum. His breathing was a ragged, wet rasp. Blood matted the black fur at his side, and his yellow eyes burned with a cold, predatory fury as he glared up at the two remaining High Knights. They were closing in now, pikes leveled, their movements disciplined and overlapping.