SITH GATHERING - DESEVRO
Tag Direct:
Darth Carnifex
|
Darth Avida
|
Darth Solipsis
Tag Indirect:
Darth Vinaze
|
Hasuras Na-Gerra
|
Donne Toulemonde
|
St. Thomas Barran
|
Darth Bellum
|
Mercy
|
Talon Draven
|
Darth Virelia
Equipment:
Bōchōr | The Vow of Saud | The Helm of the One-Eyed Prophet | Korrûg Kuûr
The frosty breath of regret flushed down his spine. His rage, once a roaring, berserking beast, was stung now by the ghastly touch of ice, like skeletal fingers probing into flesh.
He had pulled the acursed trigger of the Korrûg Kuûr.
A bullet made of hatred, wrought by the damned, decades prior, a haunted slug, a possessed thing.
A revolver forged for hunters who stalked prey across both light and dark. A murderer unwelcome in heaven or hell.
A weapon that killed not only its mark and any life left in its wake, but also devoured the bearer who dared unleash its fury.
The Saint, still wreathed in a mantle of pyre, slumped forward. His gun arm dropped, and he vomited blood into his helm.
Korrûg Kuûr's vile claws of decay sank deep, the contempt for its wielder seizing its price.
On his knees, with black motes encroaching on his vision, Da'Razel stared out at the infidel he had sought to kill.
His lips curled in a revelry of anticipation at the thought of her corpse anointing the ground.
But the demon bullet screamed past him.
He heard its pleas, a desperate shriek of unfulfilled purpose fading into the backdrop of frozen tundra.
Lost forever, somewhere in the endless white, yearning for millennia to come, pleading for some unfortunate soul to stumble upon its grave, so it might sink its poisoned aura into them and kill, kill because its sole existence was to kill.
How?
But there was no time for any more regret. This was a battlefield of prophets and false idols, demons past and demons still. And it raged with their spilled ichor.
His eyes cleared only to be seared by the blinding light unleashed upon them all by once such demonic icon.
Darth Carnifex
sending forth a hissing geyser of fire, an inferno as infernos ought to be: unrelenting, unapologetic, all-consuming.
Few could emphasize with the nature of this element as its Saint.
Touched by the Force, but to no avail, trapped within the furnace, never to master any of its other gifts, there was no other shape to him but that of the flame, no other relation but the ember. Whilst mortal men bled blood, through Da'Razel's veins coursed molten candescence, whilst in their chests pounded hearts, in his chest bore a blazen storm.
Fire was life and death, creation and annihilation, fed only by taking.
Tt was the most natural thing in his existence.
As he gazed into the tossing, hissing crescents of the eruption, he desired nothing more than its embrace: the warmth of its touch, the stench of seared flesh, the black smoke of his charred corpse.
Still kneeling, steel biting into the frozen ground, he fixed his faceless stare on a pale, veiled figure.
"Ahh… your Holiness…" his lips rasped, naming the dark apostle, the appointed prophet, Lord Vinaze.
But before his worship could reach the man, the silhouette was struck by a crackling thunderclap of lightning, an enemy outside his periphery seeking to slay the ancient lord.
And as he braced himself to witness yet another failure of the dark side's arsenal, he instead beheld a miracle.
The Dark Lord did not fall. He drank the lightning. He licked his lips at its taste, swallowed its pulsing sparks, and turned it into strength. He bathed himself in it.
Da'Razel turned back to the oncoming hellfire. He would not see how his foe endured the infernal cascade but if the almighty God-Emperor allowed it, he now knew how he himself would.
When the searing torrent kissed his skin, he gave way to it as any lover would. He embraced it, bowed as though before a wild beast to be appeased.
This was no ordinary radiance. This was a divine blaze woven by the very energy of the galaxy, it burned with, and through, the Force itself.
The Prophet wrapped himself in its power, wearing it like a king draping a royal cloak across his shoulders.
He felt the unbearable potency stitched into its texture. And for a fleeting instant, like polar forces colliding, he touched, through the Force, the nature of the one who had knitted it.
The Lord of the Kainite. The Dark Lord Carfinex.
A shudder ran throughout his core. The scorching bond faded, a heartbeat never meant to last, but with its claim now lost, this power was his own.
Trading gazes with his Lord and savior Vinaze, hearing the words pressed into his mind, Da'Razel knew, beyond rage, beyond pain, beyond doubt, what was expected of him.
A golden light burst from beneath his helm, glowing brighter than the illuminated visor of his blank iron veil.
And like freshly stoked kindling, he erupted into light.
The consecrated pyre upon his back woven into seraphic wings, unfolding as a celestial avian.
Da'Razel, engulfed in a mantle of Force-fire, rose aloft, reborn like a phoenix from their ashes. His golden gauntlets unsheathed the yearning great sword,
Bōchōr, from his back.
And there, above the battlefield, soaring over the befallen, his incandescent gaze locked upon the once primarch of the Sith.
He declared.
"Among heaven and hell, I alone am the Saint of Flame."
And with firm grasp wrapped around his blade, Da'Razel swept down in a fatal arc to strike the god of old.
