Private Off the Leash

[Arken Rhau]

//Oseritton Prison Colony
//Under Maw Control​

The sound of the blade as it struck the floor, that scraping, pounding clatter of steel on stone on steel again. It was all he could hear anymore, like thunder in his ears. He’s saying something… Wild and static eyes fell upon shuddering lips. All the sound in the world had died in that moment save for the echoing ring of the blade that had slipped from his grasp. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. He didn't need to hear their final words, not when he knew them by heart.

Arken, what have you done?

With a gasp the nightmare fell away and Arken reeled from his pained slumber, the chains that bound his hands and feet set to their peculiar metallic laughter as he struggled in vain against their clutches. A reflex in its entirety, one that faded from the forefront of his thoughts as his mad, startled eyes flew across his surroundings and the truth of his reality once again sank in.

Still alive.

Imprisoned within four stark walls he could barely, the dungeons of Osseriton were a dark and decrepit ruin, all skittering shadows and distant screams. A special kind of hell on this prison world with a room reserved just for him. Gingerly he shifted his weight, seeking a semblance of comfort on the rough stone floor, and for his efforts felt the agonizing spasms of his torn muscles in retaliation. He’d almost forgotten, they had beat him this time, and they had beat him badly. Kicking and punching and clawing until the young sith, lost in the stupor of the assault, was brought to the edge of death’s door. He had been sure they were going to finish him right then and there, something they had threatened a thousand times before. It felt more like a broken promise. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't ache or burn, or worse. He didn’t need to see the bruises to know they covered his face and body, and he was convinced something had to be broken inside. Now that he felt it across every inch, he understood why his tormentor had staid their hands from delivering the final blow. To live was much worse.

It seemed a steep price to pay for victory and the injustice of it burned in his chest. The ‘warden’ had been displeased, Arken’s lackluster performance of late leaving much to be desired despite the fact that he had survived their latest trial, it now seemed merely staying alive was no longer adequate for his master. The warlord now demanded more of his would be aspirant, and Arken would either live up to the Bloodsworn’s standards or die exhausted in the attempt. Until then, this place was his fate. This place was his tomb.

How long? He began to wonder, cracked and bloody lips slowly working in concert with murky thoughts as they slowly took shape. He slumped against the chains, the cold, rusted metal biting deeper into the gnawing wounds around his wrists. It must have been days, Arken realized. Days of dipping in and out of consciousness, of threading the line between this world and whatever was next. He was thirsty beyond belief, and his stomach, when not just an undefinable knot of misery, felt terribly hollow. The Epochan had known better days, that was for sure, though he couldn’t remember a single one for the life of him. In truth it was hard to think clearly for longer than a second when his head felt like it had been replaced with the very rock used to bash it in. It was the waiting in between ‘sessions’ that was the real torture. The sitting in his own filth for days on end with nothing but the rats to keep him company. Eventually, mercifully, rough hands would arrive to drag him from his coffin. They never failed to impress him with their methods, and never once was he shown an ounce of clemency or lenience. The beatings, the drownings, and even the other deplorable things he couldn’t bring himself to think about… all of it was but a welcome reprieve from the damned waiting.

The light of the torch came into view from down the winding hallway. He watched as the harsh firelight rounded the corner and started bobbing towards his cell. Arken shut his eyes and scurried into the corner of his cage out of a well-honed instinct that he had picked from the rats. Go away. Just go away. Can't you seem i’m busy! The sith groaned as he realized the light had stopped just outside. “No!” he croaked pathetically, his dry and deteriorated throat pained in a terrible manner by its unexpected use after so long without muttering so much as a whisper. It had been so very long since last they came, hadn't it... Bitterly, he had begun to believe they had just simply forgotten him down here, but now that the creaking, rusted howls of his cell door being opened filled his ears, he wished they had.

They grabbed him, faceless men grunting with the effort of lifting his bony carcass off the floor. They dragged him from his cell –his home- but the sith did not fight them this time. Instead, he went meekly, his pale body hauled away toward the lifts. They would going up. He knew, because there was no more down to go than this place. Ripped from the blackness of his wretched void, the prisoner was cast back into the light of the surface for the first time in a very, very long time. When Arken managed finally managed to open his eyes, the slave didn’t like what he saw. His body, if it could be called ‘his’ anymore, was not what he remembered. He barely recognized the sight of his own legs under him, spindly and weak as they were, and even his arms were like twigs wrapped in the rotten rags his shirt had become. He could have wept at the sight had he any tears left to spare. The pain didn’t help matters either. Being forced upright as he had only served to remind Rhau what horrible wounds wracked his back and shoulders, remnants of his past excursions into the torture pits accompanied by the same rough, angry marauders who were manhandling him at present. The sith awaited the chains and shackles that always followed whenever he was brought out of his cage, his jailers and their ways well known to him at this point. None ever came, and Arken dared to spare a confused look at the men holding him. Despite the seemingly indistinguishable levels of contempt and hate they all had for their guest, he knew all their faces like they were his best of friends. With so many choices, Arken wasn’t sure which one was his favorite though; there was the bald fellow who enjoyed kicking Arken when the young man didn’t move fast enough for his liking, or the ugly cyborg who liked to tease the Sith with his meals, flinging gruel into the muck of his cell and laughing as Arken scrambled to get it before the rats did. Some of the others just ignored him all together, barely even looking at the mangled soul in their custody as they marched him about or beat him bloody. No doubt the kind who had been doing this for so long they couldn’t even be bothered to take their pleasures from it anymore. The scariest kind of man was one who saw the things being done down here as boring and mundane.

Somewhere along the journey Arken realized he’d passed out again, for when awoke to sound of the elevator doors hissing open, he saw that they had brought to him not to the pits, or the arena, or even the mines, but to a place few on Osseriton ever had the honor or the courage to enter. The throne room was a stifling place, the scent of burnt flesh and a disorientating heat washing over the slave’s pale frame as they dragged him forward. A small voice in the back of his screamed to fight, to struggle, to run! He quieted it, fixating his attention instead on the number of holomaps and projector screens scattered about what had once been the Warden’s office of this penal colony. Angry, blinking symbols blared across star charts and world maps of places he did not recognize, but the gathering of warchiefs peering into them looked none too happy. Somethings going on. The leadership of the maw? A crashed ship? But Where? Who?

The questions fell to the wayside as Arken was thrown to the floor, and he realized he was not alone. To his left was a familiar face, blue and beaten. Sev’ren, you survived. Of course you did… The Chiss man seemed to notice Arken for the first time, and his expression gradually warped from one of bewilderment to sheer hatred. Arken looked away, too ashamed to meet his old friend’s gaze. He peered instead to other male, a cracked horn Devaronian Arken was relieved to say he did not recognize, but by the equally venomous look in the alien’s eyes, it seemed he knew Arken all too well.

Slowly, carefully, Arken raised himself up unto his feet, the effort alone stealing the breath from his lungs, but he persevered, standing with a determine grit. There before him, astride his throne of steel and skulls, sat in judgement the warden and warlord of Osseriton, Zachariel Steelblood . A juggernaut of fury and wrath, the dark side of the force rolled off armor clad giant, in sickening waves, prickling at Arken’ skin hotter than the dessert sun burning behind him. The sith winced at the sight of his twisted master and his many grizzly trophies, stifling a shudder as he reminded himself what the price of showing weakness was. All around him the mutterings of the marauders in attendance had died down to an eerie silence.

“Master…” He bowed, greasy black hair tumbling over his shoulders and chest. Beside him, the other two ‘chosen’ echoed the word and the reverence. All on Osseriton served the Steelblood in one way or another, and Arken knew better than to believe he was any different. “What is your will?”

Zachariel Steelblood
The Mongrel

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Seated atop his throne, Zachariel looked every part the evil, warrior king. Shrouded in darkness and glaring at some holo projectors, Zachariel himself looked annoyed. And any who knew the warlord, knew that heads rolled when he grew annoyed. As it stood, there was one target for Zachariel's annoyance now, an upstart Chiss leader hellbent on revenge. Much of that revenge had cut into the work of the Bloodsworn and slowed their expansion. It couldn't stop the inevitable, but slowing down their war path was damage enough, damage Zachariel would no longer allow.

Glancing up from his brooding, Zachariel watched in utter silence as his three most recent acolyte aspirants were brought before him. Each of these three had something to prove and sought his approval to become more powerful. They had all come far and simply needed a final test of loyalty and skill. Luckily enough, the Chiss rebel had volunteered for the task. Two birds with one stone as it were, and it saved him the bother of hunting the man down himself. Such a task was beneath him, unless the target proved to be enough of a nuisance, and woe be to the target that did that.

Silence fell as Arken spoke, promptly followed by the other two aspirants. It made Zachariel's lip quirk upward with some amusement. But he said nothing, instead staring down at each of them, gaze slowly shifting from one to the next. The silence was damning, all anyone in that room could hear was the distant screams of slaves and prisoners of Osseriton, cries of pain and agony intermixed with roars of hate and bloody laughter. After a short while of this, Zachariel finally spoke, his voice a low rumble of hate and a promise of pain.

"Each of you wants more, each of you wants to prove yourself. You want power over your own fate and the strength to change that of others." Zachariel leaned forward then, one arm leaning on his leg, the other hand still resting on his arm rest. His skull helm glares down at them, even as very grizzly trophy is fully on display, showing every accomplishment of his and failure of another. Not to mention the countless skulls that gaze out without seeing. "I tell you now that you will fail. Everything thus far has been luck as much as skill, no more, no less. All you have proven to me is that you can survive." Zachariel leans back once more, once more being shrouded by darkness. "That will not get you far in the Brotherhood, much less in the Bloodsworn. No. I have one final task for you, for you to prove your worth to myself."

Motioning to his right, an image of the Chiss rebel leader appeared, along with all the relevant information regarding him.
"You will prove your worth by hunting this one down. I care little whether or not you kill him, so long his little crusade is ended. Kill him and you will have proven your worth to me. Capture and bring him to me however, and your reward will be far greater. I would certainly enjoy breaking him personally. Regardless of that outcome, succeed and you will rise to new heights, fail and I will express my displeasure very clearly."

Arken Rhau | The Mongrel

Sorry once again for the delay.

 

[The Mongrel]

Rhigar. Another day, another pathetic Chiss colony.

This one was proving more troublesome than usual, though. When Brotherhood slavers had stormed the military academy on Rentor, moving between buildings built into floating icebergs on that backwater's frigid seas, they had been able to efficiently round up the students and instructors alike. But Rentor had been isolated, cut off from the rest of the Ascendancy due to hyperspace debris in the aftermath of Csilla's destruction. That lone facility hadn't been able to call for help from its own planet, let alone anywhere further. So while the Brotherhood's target on Rhigar was similar...

... the circumstances were different. And more difficult.

The Rhigar Military Academy sat in the midst of a vast taiga, snow blanketing the ground and dusting the branches of huge, gnarled trees. Just as the academy itself stood in the middle of a dangerous wilderness, so too did the entire planet, for it was located along the Chiss Ascendancy's western border... the border beyond which lurked the core territories of the Brotherhood. But even before the Mawites had taken power in the Nihil Retreat region, pirates had boiled out of the Unknown Regions to attack Chiss worlds. These border planets had always been vigilant for such raids.

Rentor had been ensconced in the heart of Chiss Territory, seemingly safe. Rhigar, by contrast, had faced invasion before. It'd been ready.

The end result: the Mawite advance had stalled, and what should have been a quick raid - sweep in, take slaves and plunder, sweep out - had become a dangerous stalemate. The academy's instructors had quickly rallied the cadets, holding the line long enough for reinforcements to pour in from elsewhere on the colony world. That in turn had been enough to hold the raiders back long enough for Chiss Expansionary Defense Force reinforcements to arrive from Kinoss, turning the increasingly-messy affair into a full-scale battle. It was the work, they said, of one particular Chiss...

... a rebel leader on a fiery crusade against the Maw.

That was why The Mongrel had been brought in, why the snows of Rhigar crunched beneath his metal-shod boots... and the boots of the tribesmen and Mawite walkers advancing behind him. He was a fraught choice to reinforce this particular battle, but there was no helping it; no one else had been readily available to intervene. The source of the trouble: the newly-risen Warlord had once been part of the other participating tribe, the Bloodsworn. He had broken away to form his Scar Hounds, giving up his sworn loyalty to the great Zachariel Steelblood in order to forge his own destiny.

That might affect their ability to... cooperate.

The Mongrel had not actually faced his former master in quite some time; though they had fought in many of the same battles, he had been striking out on his own more often than not, leading the core of veterans who now formed the Scar Hounds to victory. There was no telling exactly how Steelblood would react to the rise of his former servant. Would he be proud that his tribe had been the first - and thus far only - to elevate one of its mere marauders to the position of Warlord? Would he be enraged that The Mongrel had turned away from his service? Would he see the new warlord as a threat?

There was no use speculating. Whatever might happen amid Rhigar's snows, The Mongrel resolved to be prepared for it. He needed his focus to be on breaking the stalemate and winning this battle. The Chiss were dug in deep around the academy, defending it fiercely with heavy weapons and skillful trench warfare. It reminded him all too keenly of the battle on Csilla itself, a true meat grinder, in that the Mawites would win with strength and savagery if they could just actually reach the trenches. But so far every advance had been cut down. They needed a new plan, or new forces.

The Mongrel looked up. Mawite shuttles were coming in.

Arken Rhau​

 

[Arken Rhau]

The Mongrel​

Bleary eyed and skull pounding as if it were about to crack apart at any moment, Arken struggled to study the holographic projections. General Kranik’dez’orion, the blurry blue name read, above it an equally blurry and blue face glowered down at the three would be Bloodsworn. An older Chiss male, garbed in high-ranking military attire, crimson eyes alert, streaks of white in his otherwise dark black hair. A regular looking fellow, were it not for half his face being a melted nightmare that sagged down what was left of his cheek and jawline. It didn’t take an expert to recognize the tell tall signs of torture, but Arken was ‘experienced’ enough to know sloppy work when he saw it. Something else struck him as curious. It wasn’t some old profile picture taken years ago either, this was recent, from here on Osseriton!

“Your will, my hands.” Sev’ren’s familiar, raspy tenor reverberated across the throne room. He glanced over at the young Chiss, saw him glaring back from beneath a bowed head. Arken bowed as well. This general wasn’t going to be his only problem it seemed. And I can feel that Devoronian’s ire from here like the heat off an inferno. Who the hell is he? Flanked by adversaries on either side, Arken found himself imperiled before he’d even left… yet he would be leaving. For the first time in years, freedom from the penal planet was within in his grasp. After everything it felt like such a bad joke. If only he had known all need to do was kark up completely and nearly kill himself in the process to get this opportunity he would have done so years ago. Immediately his mind flew to a plan, a means of escape. First; Stealing a ship, then gunning it as far and fast as he could before anyone had a chance to shackle him in chains again. Where would he go? To the Empire? The Alliance? To Epoch and his family…

Rough hands dragged him away at Zachariel’s dismissal of the ragged trio, the domineering warlord bidding his minions to their task with the promise of punishment unholy should they dare to return in failure. One of the bastards jostling him about slipped a data pad into his hands. Arken blinked at it. “Your master has another ‘task’ for you, worm. Be sure-” A commotion over the man’s shoulder. Sev’ren, being led away just like Arken, tussling with one of his captors. The acolyte balked, wide eyed, grabbing hold of the marauder who had handed him the pad and shoving him forward as he saw the Chiss steal a blaster from his guard's holster and aim at him. Two thunderous bangs echoed off the throne room walls and Arken felt the man in his grasp shake twice, shudder and sigh. A pair of molten holes sizzled from his back, a bewildered expression marring his miserable face as he slumped to the ground, dead. Sev’ren was shouting, screaming "Bastard! Coward!" as he was wrestled to the ground and hauled away, and all around them the men of the Maw were… laughing. Some even clapping their hands, trading bets between each other, glibly entertained.

Was that all their lives were worth now?

Pushed and shoved until he found himself shuffled off into an empty chamber, Arken finally found himself alone with his thoughts. It was an unpleasant reunion. Quickly scanning the room, he noticed the gifts left for him; basic equipment, boots, knives, clean clothes -well, clean for this place anyway. If it weren’t for the crusty blood stains, he might have even suspected they were tailor made just for him. There was even washcloth and a basin full of water that didn't seem soiled, poisoned or stagnate with rot. True luxury. The sound of chains rattling alerted Arken to another presence in the room. He went rigid, diving for one of the knives and spinning around, ready to slash and stab his way out of the room if he had too. Instead, his blue eyes fell upon a woman cowering in the corner, her leg shackled to the wall. He thought he recognized her bruised features, vaguely, distantly, a face among many lost in the fog of his hazy mind. She certainly recognized him, yanking and scratching at her bindings like a feral beast, her dirty demeanor all scrunched up in disgust. She looked at Arken with abject horror, and he looked at her much the same.

The acolyte turned abruptly to the door as it closed behind him, moaning. “No!” He banged on the metal. “Let me out!” He could feel it. “Let me out.” Taste it in the air. “I can’t.” Arken wailed, slumping against the door, eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t.” She thrummed with the force, quaked with it like a tremor that shook the very ground. He knew her now. One of those that had followed him in his failed rebellion. His childish tantrum. He felt the veins on his arms and neck begin to bulge and blacken. “Not again… please.” He rose, stumbled, collapsed atop the basin, water dashed across the floor as he fell limp and quivering in the wet. He’d promised her freedom, like all the rest. Promised her everything if she would just fight for him, if she would but trust him. There was a face in the liquid reflection, one he did not recognize, its eyes filling with an inky blackness, pupils burning into a wrathful red. He was so hungry.

Somewhere, someone was laughing.

So bloody hungry…

When Arken awoke he found himself standing in the belly of a transport shuttle, red lights blaring in the bleakness of a black hold. The ship rattled around him. Atmosphere? There were faces in the dark, looking at him, cringing away from something. Me. Feeling the wet around his mouth the acolyte wiped at his face, hand coming away red and glistening. Wide eyed and horrified he swallowed, started scrubbing viciously at the blood, smearing it in his desperation to get it off. Where…

The lights shifted from red to green and he felt his ears pop in the sudden pressurization of the cabin. The shuttle doors on either side of him snapped and slid open, bitter cold air rushing in like a charging bull and nearly wrenching him off his feet. With the wind came the light of day and dawn of realization.

This wasn’t Osseriton.

Below him Arken beheld a white and rolling landscape he had mistaken for cloud cover. It was a cold world, this Rhigar, frozen and desolate. He winced at the sight of it. Between two sprawling mountain ranges the dropships descended in ragged formation, eight of them in total, the exhaust from their ramshackle engines leaving pitch black fingers of smoke clawing across the pristine sky. Their target; a dense, thickly wooded forest that spanned the width of the expanse. Arken could see little lines skewering zigzagging patterns throughout the foliage and knew them to be trenches. There were craters too, many of them, marring the face of the forest from one end to the next. There was a large facility at the far end of the taiga valley, as of yet seemingly untouched by the conflict raging just beyond its perimeter. Little dots were moving around in that snow, Mawites gathering around ghoulish, mobile armor, others fanning out across the battle lines. It was more than just a little skirmish going on down there. “Rejoice you maggots!” A harsh and warbling cybernetic voice struggled against the howl of the wind. “The Avatars have called you worthless scum to purpose.” One of the savages was yelling. Arken noticed he was the toughest looking of the group, bigger, badder and better armed than all the others combined. The rest trembled with more than just the cold as he stalked the drop ship cabin. Fresh slaves, untested. He did not envy them, but then again, he didn’t envy his own position either. Arken found he had little patience for their fear or pity for their doubts, not when he was drowning in so much of his own. At least he had the decency to hide it instead of advertising it to whole damn world. “When we hit the ground, don’t stop moving!” The pit boss was yelling. “We’ll advance with the walkers and slaughter everything in our way! For the Brotherhood! For the Voice! For the-”

BOOM!

He felt his jaw smash against the durasteel bulk plate, teeth rattling in his head, thrown off his feet by the impact of the explosion somewhere terribly close. He scrambled to find a handhold as the ship began to list and careen. Outside the other shuttles were breaking from the formation, weaving away as anti-aircraft fire blossomed across the crisp blue skies. One of them exploded in a shower of burning metal and ionized gasses. He could see bodies falling from the wreck as it plummeted towards the earth. It would not be the last. All across the line the Chiss were surging forward, red eyes swimming out of the white snows, a surprise assault that spanned the entire length of the Mawites faltering grasp on their world. They had been waiting, it seemed, preparing, and the approach of the Brotherhood’s latest reinforcements had been the signal to beat back the invaders in one concerted effort. Cadets poured out of the trenches, their burnished white-gold uniforms in dapper contrast to the bombed-out battlefield they stormed across. Alongside them fought the camouflaged soldiers of the defense force, hurling grenades and smoke as they charged, guns blaring in a flurry of red the lit the forest in a torrent of blaster fire.

It was chaos.

And Arken was plummeting headlong into its depths.