loudly vile
A message had been send to Arris to meet an old rival and colleague and ally and perhaps friend to Atrisia. Back to where they had had their last great triumph. Mercy didn't feel that triumphant, the annihilation had been rather boring and she didn't get the glorious duel she had wanted. But they jumped out of Hyperspace with the Throne-Spire with the assistance of
Hasuras Na-Gerra
's fleet and missed the destruction of the Death Star entirely.
But soon enough Mercy returned again. Her own people, the Graspborn, requested it and that had intrigued Mercy. They didn't ask anything of her, ever. Too scared that Mercy would reject them or disband them by force.
It had been different this time.
In the wake of the battle and with Thronegrasp's influence, the contagion of the Graspborn was beginning to spread through the Galaxy. It had been the flu before, desperate coughs and sneezes, nothing too dangerous. But now it was becoming a virulent plague. People were waking up after falling asleep to the HoloNews, walking out of their home and finding the first shuttle, being drawn to places they never had seen before.
The site of the Death Star wreckage was one of those meeting places. It was here and above, in space, that the Graspborn turned from a cult into something... more. They had begun scavenging the remnants of the fleeting battle. Picking over ships, patching what they could, breaking apart and welding new forms where they couldn't. And then they called for Mercy, so she could bear witness to their offer for her.
It was that offer that Arris would pass by in her ship as she made her way surface-side.
There was now a fleet in orbit. The Alliance was busy licking its wounds, trying to hold its territory together, they had better things to do than try and fight a fleet that currently wasn't targeting them whatsoever. It was cobbled together, but already there was a golden gleam coming from it. Burnished with rough brands on its hulls, of Mercy's arm.
At the heart of the wreckage Arris would find Mercy herself.
Sitting on something that resembled a throne, also cobbled together, salvaged. She looked... odd, her expression difficult to parse.
"Arris," Mercy inclined her head to her... friend, perhaps. "-Atrisia looks different from the surface, compared to seeing it from orbit." This wasn't like Mercy. Usually she cut straight to the chase, like a knife or perhaps like a tank. Here, however, she almost sounded sheepish. Oscillating between trying to hide a smug, proud smirk and having seemingly second-hand embarrassment about this scene her Graspborn had forged for her.
They had known exactly how to ply her ego... to make her tempted to accept what they offered.
Not just a group of slaves that got out of the way during missions so Mercy wouldn't trample them. But something... more, something that reeked of responsibility, which she had been able to avoid even as a Vigo.
Hasuras Na-Gerra
's fleet and missed the destruction of the Death Star entirely.But soon enough Mercy returned again. Her own people, the Graspborn, requested it and that had intrigued Mercy. They didn't ask anything of her, ever. Too scared that Mercy would reject them or disband them by force.
It had been different this time.
In the wake of the battle and with Thronegrasp's influence, the contagion of the Graspborn was beginning to spread through the Galaxy. It had been the flu before, desperate coughs and sneezes, nothing too dangerous. But now it was becoming a virulent plague. People were waking up after falling asleep to the HoloNews, walking out of their home and finding the first shuttle, being drawn to places they never had seen before.
The site of the Death Star wreckage was one of those meeting places. It was here and above, in space, that the Graspborn turned from a cult into something... more. They had begun scavenging the remnants of the fleeting battle. Picking over ships, patching what they could, breaking apart and welding new forms where they couldn't. And then they called for Mercy, so she could bear witness to their offer for her.
It was that offer that Arris would pass by in her ship as she made her way surface-side.
There was now a fleet in orbit. The Alliance was busy licking its wounds, trying to hold its territory together, they had better things to do than try and fight a fleet that currently wasn't targeting them whatsoever. It was cobbled together, but already there was a golden gleam coming from it. Burnished with rough brands on its hulls, of Mercy's arm.
At the heart of the wreckage Arris would find Mercy herself.
Sitting on something that resembled a throne, also cobbled together, salvaged. She looked... odd, her expression difficult to parse.
"Arris," Mercy inclined her head to her... friend, perhaps. "-Atrisia looks different from the surface, compared to seeing it from orbit." This wasn't like Mercy. Usually she cut straight to the chase, like a knife or perhaps like a tank. Here, however, she almost sounded sheepish. Oscillating between trying to hide a smug, proud smirk and having seemingly second-hand embarrassment about this scene her Graspborn had forged for her.
They had known exactly how to ply her ego... to make her tempted to accept what they offered.
Not just a group of slaves that got out of the way during missions so Mercy wouldn't trample them. But something... more, something that reeked of responsibility, which she had been able to avoid even as a Vigo.
