Private Prophecy

[Darth Prazutis]

Unknown Regions, Deep Space, Approaching Acheron
Highlord Osbasid, Aboard the Eternal Rule…

“We have witnessed the signs that it is time. Inform the Highlord that the prophecy is upon us.”

“You know what we must do. Arrangements must be made.”

“Inform his Supreme Excellency for time is of the essence, Acheron awaits...”

______________

Some time later…

The delicate tranquility was destroyed with the hissing and whirring of machinery of his armor. It was truly one of a kind in the whole of the galaxy. It was an all crimson creation based loosely off the Ashakrataa-type Combat Armor with extensive modifications so great, it was virtually unrecognizable. Bleeding edge technology from the length and breadth of galactic industry all carefully curated, a multi layered suit equipped with an inner exoskeleton. Unlike the more common armor it was interwoven beneath the very skin touching bone, blood, and the great cage that housed his internal organs and kept the Founder upright. It was the sole reason why he was still alive. The skin below was so pale it had long since turned gray and started to wither over the scarred body. If anyone saw him without the suit it’d be a mere sack of meat with no end to where armor stopped and body started. The only remnant left was the crimson runes emblazoned into his back, carved with the delicate blade of a knife by his dark masters. These runes marked him as the Last of the Goremerji, First of the Founding Seven, Highlord of the Blackblade Guard. The armor was his sealed tomb from which he prosecuted annihilation on a galactic scale, all in the name of his undying masters. The helms visor provided a full heads up display that constantly fed him information from within and without his cage. It was almost entirely different in both look and function from his brothers with its larger visor and crimson sheen. A gold shroud covered the armor pinned in place by a large pendant on the front that bore the warrior’s sigil, it told all of his position of his absolute supremacy over his brothers.

The closer he neared the royal quarter the more sparse the crew of the Eternal Rule became. Those who were present gave him a wide berth and ensured they never crossed his path. Once he approached the first of the Crownguard checkpoints these appearances ceased entirely. There were several checkpoints built within the inner sanctum of the ship designed to protect the quarters of the ruling family. To put it plainly it was a deathtrap filled with automated defenses, chokepoints, traps, droids, and the greatest warriors in the galaxy ready to die to the last to stop any invading force. But this time it was different because the presence of the Crownguard was triple its normal size. Even for the First of the Blackblade Guard security was tight and he was stopped every time by the giant guardians who stood in silent vigil. Once he was through and into the beating heart of the royal sanctum a lone chamber with a sealed door emblazoned with sith runes awaited in the black and grey metal. A full dozen crownguard stood before him as Osbasid halted, their blades crossed before the door.

They barred his path.

For what felt like an eternity he waited as the statuesque figures blocked him, even beneath their helmets he could feel their eyes silently tracking him. The air was thick with tension around the giants whose job it was to defend the royal family, they were hyper vigilant at all times, a level of stress designed to kill most normal soldiers. The runes on the door finally flashed twice before returning to their dimmed state, and the pair of guards pulled away their blades. The sound of seals breaking and hissing drowned the room as the heavy blast door was pulled open. If these were considered giants then the figures within the spherical chamber were titans. Eight figures stood equidistant around the chamber in armor of crimson and cobalt coloration. These titans were nearly twice the height of his dark masters, they radiated darkness like a shroud from them, their gaze falling on him so hard it nearly caused his knees to buckle. These were the Nerean Crownguard and they were legend.

In the center of the room sat a woman covered from head to toe in a black and gold habit, a massive black veil trimmed in gold fell from the headdress and down into a set of robes that covered her form, it parted in the front revealing bone white skin, a gold nose ring, black lips, and blazing blue eyes. For an epicanthix she was so thin it was amazing she wasn’t dead, the bulk of her form being taken up by her blessed regalia. The woman sat cross legged in the center of the room surrounded by female attendants in similar less ostentatious outfits as she cradled in her hands a crystal cylinder. This entered into a gold device at the base that hummed silently, and within sat one of the most precious items in the entire galaxy. It was a Phylactery. “Death Speaker Nareth.” Osbasid said, his mechanized baritone boomed off the walls. She was the matriarch of the religious order surrounding the Lord of Death, his speaker and the sole carrier and caretaker. To be in her presence was to stand within the shadow itself, straddling the realm of death.

“Highlord. Our time nears. We must reach Acheron soon.” Nareth announced, her voice holding the slightest hint of scrutiny. Although she wouldn’t dream of commanding him, in such sensitive matters she was supreme. “The journey is long. The path to Acheron is harsh and it cannot be found by normal means. Rest assured Death Speaker I have come to inform you in person, to make your preparations to move for we shall soon arrive.” Osbasid replied. “The time nears. We shall be ready. It has been prepared.” Nareth repeated. Now with the warning delivered he left the chamber and the doors slid shut behind him.

__________________________________

Acheron was a world so far out in the Unknown Regions that not even the Chiss Ascendancy made it this far. Shattered planets and seas of asteroids made it nearly impossible to navigate the journey through conventional means. This was made evident by the graveyard of lost ships between known space and uncharted space. It was only by means of a specially manufactured Royal Wayfinder that the way was opened, and the first step of the journey could begin. The next was by transmitting the required clearance to even enter the system. Acheron had been the greatest kept secret in the known universe for over sixty years. A fleet of Black Ships sat at the end of the journey prepared to annihilate any ships that would emerge without transmitting clearance beforehand. But once one did transmit the proper codes and did manage to survive the journey?

It was a sight to see.

A massive fleet of black daggered ships dominated the length and breadth of this portion of space. These ships were the greatest the sith empires had to offer, more than enough to rival any force arrayed before it. Thanks to the harsh defenses of the world, ships had to emerge individually or in small groups. This all but ensured that the Black Fleet would be able to annihilate an invading force piecemeal. Behind this fleet far in the distance sat a true heart of darkness, a supermassive black hole that dominated the system where its sun should be. In its shadow sat the planet known by a select few as Acheron. This immense world was nothing more than a black orb at first glance, surrounded by an immense shipyard that serviced the fleet, a series of space stations ringed it like fortresses.

It was what many scientists and astronomers would classify as a Blanet. A harsh death world orbiting a black hole and entirely uninhabitable…or so one thought. Over sixty years ago this idea was challenged. The result of which was an immense equatorial trench that cut the entire planet in two, buried deep within the crust of the world. It would’ve been heralded as the very pinnacle of engineering by the galaxy proper, it blended technology of the modern era with the lost terraforming ability of the Infinite Empire. It gave off a baleful white light at this distance, and it was responsible for bringing life to this planet of death. It vented heat from machines buried in the deepest recesses of the world, generating a breathable atmosphere few ever thought possible.

What was once barren, lifeless rock was transformed, transfigured, ground into something new in ages past. It was a project that even with the colossal resources of the greatest sith dynasty to exist, with the lifeblood of multiple empires it took over sixty years to see it to fruition. There wasn’t a single piece of natural rock left visible on Acheron. It was entirely covered from top to bottom down in the deepest recesses of the equatorial trench where nothing lives, in black steel. The entire world was dominated in a vast civilization of spires, towers, superstructures and other titanic industrial creations. Industry was dominant on Acheron and over half the world were factories and manufacturing facilities that created the layer of dark clouds that commonly hung over the world. It was covered with layer after layer of planetary defenses, orbital guns, ion weapons, anti air weapons all designed to repel invaders atop every spire and tower.

Every waking moment death covered Acheron in its shroud for the harshness of its nature trying to climb back in, to those who dwelled below that turned this world into a factory of death grinding life within, it was covered in a shroud of the dark side. To be near Acheron even for the most depraved hearts was to near death itself, and it could unsettle even the worst individuals subsumed in the dark side, a true living nightmare. It was the Hidden Bastion of Death, Sanctum of Warriors, Training Ground for the Blackblade Guard. In the shadow of the black hole the greatest warriors in galactic history were made. Acheron was designed to forge warriors and everything they needed to prosecute war. It was by mandate that nothing the Blackblade Guard produced came from elsewhere, everything was produced by hand from the industry on Acheron. They were a force fully independent from the galaxy proper, completely self-sufficient in their ability to prosecute war. It took over sixty years for construction to complete, and since then only few transports brought resources the planet needed.

The Iron Citadel was the tallest structure on Acheron; it rose into the black clouds above. It was covered by its own shields and covered in aerial defenses. It was the central structure that governed all things on the planet, and it was the beating heart of the Blackblade Guard. Seven wings stretched out in various directions from the main superstructure: Morcar, Zaddion, Brutus, Anthmar, Osbasid, Rauth, and Atreus wings. All named after the founding Goremerji and the number seven being sacred to the guard, for there were seven original Gorebound, seven leaders of the guard itself. In these areas the millions of trainees, aspirants, and members of the Blackblade Guard lived and trained. Men and women were stripped down and reforged in these halls with everything they needed to twist normal people into monstrous, cold hearted butchers. It was commonly said that those who came to Acheron died, never again returning the same for what happened within those halls was so unspeakable, it defied imagination.

Darth Carnifex ​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The Eternal Rule spun through the cacophonous maelstrom of hellspace, the chaos beyond the viewports a swirling miasma of blood-reds and bruise-purples in opposition to the typical soothing cerulean haze that often accompanied faster-than-light interstellar travel. To the untrained eye it was an incomprehensible tumult, nothing could be gleaned beyond the pure disarray of colors crashing in on one another like waves upon a rocky shore. But to those who could see beyond, the disorder beyond the view-port was filled with nightmarish shapes that writhed and undulated just beyond the periphery of perception, eldritch thought-forms born from the very chaos surrounding them.

All was silent upon the bridge save for the rhythmic beating of the vessel's instruments, no one dared speak; they dared to barely breath. Standing tall above the sunken data-pits and navigator trenches was a towering behemoth, clad in hard black armor-plate etched with blasphemous runes carved in a language that had long since passed from popular vocabulary. Dark zeyd-cloth had been woven in and out of the armor, embroidered phrases of power and cruelty knit into the fabric itself. He was a Priest-King of the Old Kingdom wrought from the pages of history, steeped in divine mythology made real.

He was darkness and cruelty, He was the Eclipse.

Darth Carnifex stared straight ahead, eyes unblinking as He traced the amorphous quagmire that split apart in the Eternal Rule's wake. At His back were a multitude of devotees, shavepates all kneeling with their foreheads pressed tightly against the grated metal floor. Their bodies had been transformed into canvases, words of power carved into every inch of their bare skin. They were bare save for a rough-spun tunic cinched at their waist by a cord of knotted hair, a garment worn by both men and women within the congregation.

Turning to face them, the first among their number was dragged forth by an invisible power and made to kneel before the Lord of Tyrants. Their head was drawn upward, neck exposed, an action which they did not resist, but instead seemed to wholly embrace. Drawing forth a dagger of meteoric metal, engraved with runes of guidance, the Dark Lord ran the length of the blade along the devotee's exposed neck. But, rather than a deluge of blood, nothing split forth from the gaping wound. Another was brought forth, the gesture repeated, and again no blood was riven from the flesh.

Again and again, until they all held the same red maw riven into their necks. Then, the Dark Lord held up an object in His left hand, diamond in shape and inscribed with various symbols on every side. It unwound itself, opening up with a flash of bright light. The blood which had not yet been spilled shot forth from each neck, siphoned into the relic until each and every devotee was utterly drained. Then it closed, pulsating with a dark red heartbeat. He turned and pressed the relic into an obelisk risen from the floor, the smooth metal accepting the relic as though it were a key.

Outside the vessel, red nightmare bled away to the black void of space. A thousand's thousand ships, like iron daggers, awaited them. But the Eternal Rule passed them, soaring through the blackness towards a world hidden against the faint silhouette of a black hole. As they neared the blackened world, the faint outline of machinery grew more apparent. Below was the labor of many decades, a hidden redoubt and nerve-center of the feared Blackblade Guard; the Swordarm of the Butcher King. Above it all was a massive spire, like a spear of twisted metal rising up from the metal hellscape of the world beneath it.

"Bring us to the Citadel," boomed the voice of the Butcher King, and it was obeyed.

The gargantuan vessel docked at the spire's apex, a massive throng emerging from within the bowels of the ship. Banners adorned with the Eye of Solomon rose high above the procession, at it's head was a mighty litter the size of a small palace; upon which was seated the Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Carnifex, and His immediate retainers. High Osbasid was there too, entombed within his armor. As was the Death Speaker herself, her veiled form surrounded by the lessers of her kind.

Before them, yawned the greatness of the Citadel, and the promise of prophecy therein.

Darth Prazutis ​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

To walk the surface of Acheron was to court death itself.

It was a chaotic world of boundless darkness, like courting the edge of chaos itself. A landscape devoid of natural light as if all color and semblance of the natural world disappeared behind the event horizon. It was a monochromatic world of horrors left bare for all to see, hidden beneath its far distance from the universe. Out in the far landscape visible from the docking platform, the true scope of Acheron was exposed. The skies burned over vast open plains holding roiling clouds of fire. The air itself screamed and the ground shook beneath the thump of artillery cannon, the rumbling of mechanized warfare, the very air stung with the distant scent of chemical and other terrible weaponry. It was a testing ground where the many weapons of war and mass annihilation were worked on, tested and retested for their effectiveness. The engine of war was a relentless, ravenous beast that lingered in the hearts of every guardsman. It was an obsession that drove them in their pursuit of perfecting the art of war.

It was a killer’s paradise.

As the procession made their way inside the entire pathway was flanked by guardsmen adorned in black and gold. They were easily identifiable as members of the Custodia, elite troops once considered in ages past to be the personal guard of the Zambrano Lords. Their role ultimately changed over time but the unit remained no less prestigious in the guard. They would often serve in large numbers among legions designated to serve directly beneath the Zambrano’s in battle. The massive archway was flanked on either side by statues of the twin lords who started it all, forged in black iron made from the combined metal of jedi weaponry, and mandalorian steel. They were met along the pathway by the smaller, thinning frame of Director-General Arkoh Grevane. Many consider the arkanian to be one of the figures more important to the progress of the Blackblade Guard than anyone else.

A mad genius and architect of death who turned men into remorseless killers, who turned stripping away the human condition into an art form. After decades beside the Dark Lords, a life spent so deep in the darkness of the pit it altered his very physiology. It whitened his skin to an almost supernatural degree, one of his eyes was now cybernetic, and he was almost completely hairless. Unlike the others he wore a uniform consisting of the traditional garb of a General of the Blackblade Guard, only his decorations were extensive and it held the two crossed syringes. This coupled with other adornments denoted him as the Director-General. Grevane bowed deeply at the arrival of the Dark Lord “My King of Kings, you honor us with your presence.”

He paused before continuing “The specimens you’ve requested have been prepared. I must say these choices are quite peculiar, I have many more suitable for any task in the pits.” The pits were a horrid place that made any prison look like a paradise island. They were deep complexes carved beneath the surface, facilities where slaves of all different kinds were held. It was by the whims of the Director-General that these unique facilities were forged. They stripped humanity from the chattel and these figures were made to serve any function he so desired. It had been so successful there wasn’t a single incident of insolence or rebellion.

“They must be pure of heart, Director-General. Take us to the Proving Ground.”

The hallways of the fortress were an extensive labyrinth that baffled the mind and disturbed the very soul. It was a utilitarian dream, a spartan man’s paradise. Every surface was designed for function, every room forged with a purpose. Every surface spoke of the evolving culture within the Blackblade Guard and every adornment on the walls spoke volumes. It was an extensive facility the Lord of Death had a personal hand in designing for his favored sons and daughters. All through the halls were crowds of guardsmen blocked by the custodia. Every single one dropped to his knees as their King of Kings passed, slamming fists into their chests. These crowds mixed between veteran soldiers and officers in the front, and aspirants in the back. Trainee’s weren’t given leave from their rigid training structure to witness important events unless ordered. Their conditioning process was still raw and it required intense focus. The Director-General fell in with the procession and stood next to Highlord Osbasid as the group entered an immense elevator. The tower was both wide, and tall enough that it required both a tram system and lifts that carried personnel up and down.

After roughly ten minutes the tram slowed to a full stop and it's doors pulled open at the level called the proving ground. Viewscreens showed an immense rectangular arena the size of the former Grand Arena of Canthar. It was a sea of white sand surrounded by tall iron walls and a pair of massive iron gates were at either end. All along its longer ends were varying sized portcullis gates reserved for a wide variety of foes. The arena was lined with columns on either side spaced apart that went down the length, although its layout could famously be changed to support the needs of the fight. Its size was great enough that a large scale conflict could be fought within it.

Along the wall opposite of the lift sat what was known as the ‘Wall of Champions’ where the guard honored the greatest aspirants to ever walk out of the proving grounds. It was one of the earliest levels completed for its importance, and thus saw many classes of the guard within the great arena. All who don the armor are tested in the arena and those who succeed are celebrated, the greatest are even recognized and gifted with a name or designation. These figures were like Tiamat the Dragon, Marr the Hangman, Kharros the Hammer, and Sarvak the Reaper. All figures considered legendary to the Blackblade Guard, who forged success through blood and toil.

They were considered the epitome of success and models that all should aspire to. Each slew great enemies of House Zambrano and forged empires for the Sith Order and slaughtered countless thousands. Many of which would go on to receive personal recognition by the Dark Lords. “Aspirants have been calling the arena the Boneyard since it was created. Its sands are actually calcified bone harvested from the corpses of butchered populations wiped out by the Guard. It now houses the bone from those taken during Decimation.” The Director-General added. The vast arena was now home to countless figures attending to the many slaves chained upside down on the pillars, trenches carved in the arena all connected them to a dais where a pedestal sat. The procession would find its way down to the ground floor where the Death Speaker would climb the dais of black stone, placing the phylactery atop the pedestal, locked into place. “We must take our positions, it is time.”

Darth Carnifex




​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The Dark Lord moved ethereally through the discordant halls of the great citadel, His face set in a stern countenance while He remained solemnly taciturn. He absorbed the words spoken, but seemed as though not to acknowledge them; though He did in silence. All His focus was fixed upon the coming communion, the restoration of the Elysian Grandeval Mortarch; the one who's name was hallowed among the devout as the Lord of Bones, the Deathless Lord, that omnipresent God of the Graves.

Darth Prazutis, the Shadow Hand.

They passed through the shadowed halls, crossing great distances to witness sights both terrible and profound. This was where the Guard was broken and reforged again and again, an endless rebirth in the stygian crucible. Acts of barbarity were commonplace, for life was held cheaply in the blood pits and flesh creches. Children were made to fight, maim, and kill one another to prove their prowess. They were whipped viciously when they transgressed, their skin a tapestry of endlessly mounting ruin.

Thousands perished in the blink of an eye, born under the blackened sun to fight and die; a pitiable existence of brutality. The elders watched uncaringly as the youth were broken upon the wheel of the pits, their bodies thrown to the dogs to be feasted upon. Those who emerged were forever altered, humanity skinned from their psyche and replaced with unmatched viciousness. Through pain, they were reborn as avatars of war; harbingers of death and destruction. In time, they would earn their cybernetics -- their Great Gifts -- and truly become Guardsmen.

The Boneyard stretched out before them, the many slaves affixed to the gargantuan pillars which arose out of the pearl white bone-sand. All took up their positions, the Death-Speaker ascending the dais and placed the Holy Phylactery upon the octahedral plinth. It began to glow and pulsate, emanating a darkness that outshone that of Acharon itself.

It was eager.

It's thirst needed to be slaked.

As the priests began to recite the words of ritual, the adherents stepped forward and unsheathed their crooked daggers. Moving in close, they began to draw their wicked blades against the bare skin of the bound inverted slaves, carving runes and geometric patterns directly into their flesh. The slaves strained against their bindings, howled into their gags, but they could not escape the fate thrust upon them. Pain was needed, for it was the catalyst of the darkest magic. Then, when all pain had been extracted from them, the adherents cut the slave's throats and let their blood flow down into the aqueducts and channels of the Boneyard floor.

The sacrifice of the unwilling had been claimed.

The adherents then cast aside their ceremonial garb, and turned their own blades upon themselves; willingly carving the same runes into their flesh as they had with the slaves. They embraced the pain, letting it wash over them and surround them. When all was accomplished, their shakily pressed the sharp edge against their own neck and split it open with one sharp twist of the blade. Calmly they laid down upon the channels, their own blood mixing with that of the slain slaves.

The sacrifice of the willing had been claimed.

Darth Carnifex watched quietly, silently mouthing an ancient Epicant prayer as He steeled Himself for what was to come. For there was but one sacrifice remaining. As the last vitae seeped out from the adherents, He breathed in deeply and strode forward and ascended the dais steps. The Death-speaker nodded solemnly and then stood aside, a dagger appearing from within her sleeve as she held it out to the Dark Lord. He took it from her and inspected it, His own warped reflection staring back along the blade.

Then, He pressed the blade against the wrist of His left arm and drew it down. Black blood welled up from the wound. He shifted hands and repeated the motion on His right wrist. With both wrists split, the Dark Lord held the blade up to His own and, and very calmly swept the blade from left to right. Immediately a waterfall of black blood rushed out, and the Dark Lord held onto the dais for support as He leaned over the phylactery. His blood drowned the phylactery, coating it evenly and running down the plinth from every side.

The sacrifice of kin had been claimed.

Blood writhed -- unwilling, willing, and kin -- until great rivers of it sprung up into the air, whirling above-head before colliding at the center just above the phylactery. It began to take shape, assume form, and started to vaguely resemble the outline of a man.

No, a God.

Blood gave way to bone, which gave way to muscle and sinew. Organs pulsated into existence before a layer of skin cauterized into place. The newly woken God descended from the air, coming to a rest atop the dais as the plinth sunk into the ground, leaving the phylactery resting next to him.

Carnifex had fallen to one knee, His hand pinched tightly against His sundered throat. Physicians were already rushing forward, but He stayed them with a gesture. His eyes were fixed upon the naked body, which had yet to stir. With a choking whisper, Carnifex spoke through the welling blood.

"Lord Prazutis, can you hear me?"

Darth Prazutis ​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

In this world of unchecked depravity, of infinite malice where hope itself was stretched on the wracks until its threads were torn asunder. In this world where death is an ever present, hungering demon desperately trying to consume its denizens. Where thousands perished every waking moment, so much was ground away into nothing but in this world, something began to stir that hadn't in a long time. It was often considered one of the universe's most precious gifts given, and easily taken away in the blink of an eye.

Life.

It was a swirling maelstrom of blood high in the air that the world seemed to change, it blurred and twisted. The raw power of the dark side began to spill into real space in untethered, wrathful storms generating streaks of crimson lightning that struck, sending showers of powdered bone through the air. Blood gave way to muscle, bone, and sinew as a tapestry of form and function were knitted together before the eyes of all in attendance. It formed from a simple man into a god, a battle titan forged in the endless epoch of war, a scourge, a living unrepentant destroyer seemingly designed to annihilate and take life. A canvas of ten thousand scars forming layers worn by the very passing of ages. A beautiful figure wrapped in tattoos that told a grand story of the life of an immortal tyrant written in centuries, millennia.

A life that would've no, should've broken him into ten thousand pieces. The weight of trauma like the crushing depths of the ocean hellbent on breaking his resolve was written over his battle gouged flesh. It was undeniable as to what he was, the truth was written across his form. He was of the purest Zambrano's ever conceived in form, the epitome of genetic manipulation by Solomon the Abrogator, among the greatest families in all of Epicanthix history transformed into something greater, a living giant of the modern era. A single tattoo crowning his forehead marked his unmatched dominance, his inheritance of the divine legacy of the Sith cementing his iron fisted rule. There was one inescapable truth.

Braxus Zambrano, Darth Prazutis was alive.

The storm receded within the body of the Deathless Lord subverted to his will at a mere whim what might take a trained master decades to achieve. Down he came until his form touched the stone of the dais, drawn through the darkness of the beyond by the blood of the willing, unwilling, and kin. But something was off just then. The typical master of control, builder of the facade of lies and the king of deception shook with a measure of hatred, of rage that never should've been possible. It was so blinding to even touch upon it was like reaching into an infectious virus eager to spread its vile seed. Raspy breaths tore from his lips as he stared down at the stone, his facial features hidden from the Black-Iron Tyrant and the waiting attendants.

"She is gone." He said in response to the call of his name.

"My child, blood of my blood, my heir is gone from the universe. Vesta Zambrano is gone. This universe has taken her from me." Attendants rushed forward then to place a set of black robes over his shoulders, giving the Dark Lord of the Sith a wide berth and disappearing as if his wrath could spring forth at any moment.

"Bladuil*, in her name all will suffer a thousandfold. Every enemy, every hated rival, every vile wretch daring to turn and hide in the shadows thinking they could escape our gaze. I will drown it all in blood. The Kainate must prepare for dados vol*." The giant stood then descending the dais to close the distance between him and his nephew, his brother. "I have returned to you now at the turn of the tide. Our time is returning, and we will see it all ground beneath our heel."

---

Epicant Translations:
Bladuil - Brother
Dados Vol - Total War​

---

Darth Carnifex


​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

Darth Carnifex watched sympathetically as Prazutis lamented the loss of Vesta Zambrano, for it was a loss He too keenly felt. In those hours before her passing, He had gone to her and pleaded with Vesta to turn away from fate; to join them and live. She had refused, as was her right to do. Carnifex respected her enough to honor her last wishes, and so He withdrew from her side and struck out into the wastes of Exegol. He tried to find some sense of relief from the anguish, but found none.

Not even the Jedi could give Him satisfaction, and He left the one who crossed blades with Him alive. Exegol burned then, and so too did Vesta pass into the patient darkness. Consumed, evaporated into the endless nothingness of oblivion. All creation was to suffer entropic decay, a slow but meticulous rot. Vesta did not succumb to that, she went out like a supernova; her luminosity outshining even that of the stars themselves before fading to a darkness that made all other shadows brilliant in comparison.

Carnifex let His hand drop, and the physicians moved and began to quickly stitch together the split flesh of His neck. He would recover, and the wound would heal. But He would carry the scar of His sacrifice for all His days, a permanent reminder of what He had given. He rose then, meeting Prazutis in height. Carnifex took His uncle aside, the pair walking back into the great redoubt as their many followers trailed in their wake.

"We have been lesser in your absence, bladuil. All has been made ready for your return. I have personally overseen the preparations, all that has transpired shall be yours to know."

Darth Prazutis ​