Shooting Star [Floating Market]

[Ras'kala'han]

Listen to the music of screaming. Listen to the whispering of the Force. Carnage, it first whispers, and it is glorious. But then it bends in an arc of silence, and whispers the word 'danger', and suddenly nothing is certain. As if anything was ever certain. Vesper, Antherion, the man does not break his smile or let his certainty waver.

"Something... is approaching. Rapidly. We need to move with haste."

The escape pods were close... close enough. He began to push himself, moving as fast as he could -- not that fast, honestly, but faster than he was before. More of a light jog than a quick walk. His cybernetics were functional, but they were built to sustain someone who otherwise would be paralyzed from the neck down and focusing the majority of his energy on breathing, only so much could be done.

As he bore down on the escape pods, the halls of the Floating Market were undergoing a rapid shift. Shambling undead of several varieties milled about, seeking their next victim. Footfalls were softened against a layer of thick, bleach-white moss as red vines hung down from the ceiling and crept along the walls. Blackened flowers opened, and the air was thick with pollen. This was a true beginning.

In the radiance, he made out a strain of the presence of the Mindeater. The Hollow Man, the Anathema. If he moved, used his powers, he could seek him out, fight him again, cross blades with his allies at his side. He sighed wistfully.

"Not yet. Not now, not before the time is right." With a two-handed, hooking gesture, he wrenched open the doors to the escape pod bay. Two were launched already, but a few were being boarded by some stragglers, regarding the men with a measure of confused terror. He winked at them.

| [member="Vitor Avendahl"] | [member="Darth Abyss"] | [member="Arisa Yune"] | [member="The Slave"] | [member="Nick Imura"] | [member="Darth Rage"] | [member="Serenity Loveheart"] |

 

[Darth Empyrean]

And with the wink, The Slave walked through the opening provided to him by [member="Antherion"].

His lips parted, his eyes seemed to twinkle in the emergency lighting, and all those before him were submerged in a heavy pressure. A dark aura powered by years of pain and sorrow, amplified by darkness and wonton murder; the embodiment of the boogeyman stood before them in a mesomorphic body. Perhaps he didn’t have the claws, nor the mysterious hood, but what he did have was a blade, one of such vibrant steel that it seemed to sing as it was pulled from its sheathe.

A long sorrow note, one that treaded the air with a playful obedience to The Slave’s movements. As his footsteps gave a hard bassline, the screams of the fleeing created a harsh treble, his sword formed the melodramatic mid with each fleeting strike.

One, two, three…

The seconds counted off in his head a tempo formed. To The Slave, the cries of help, the blood spilling into his open mouth, it was all the growing crescendo of a symphony. A song only he could hear, but oh how intoxicating the music was. It’s vibrant sounds seemed to fill him with joy, a soft hum forming to the perspective beat he had formed with each strike.

Although it began at 4/4 time signature, he soon grew it into a 6/8; something the careful strokes of his blade adjusted to in comfort within moments.

Terrified passengers moved to eject the pods before friends and family could board, leaving them to their doom as the pods that did work were sent free into the orbit of space. In their last dying moments, they would be betrayed by those that loved them and forever knowing that those entrusted with their life would be cursed by the guilt of their death.
The Slave liked the thought of that. Regret… How quaint.

│ [member="Vitor Avendahl"] │ [member="Darth Abyss"] │ [member="Arisa Yune"] │ [member="Nick Imura"] │ [member="Darth Rage"] │ [member="Serenity Loveheart"] │