Star Crossed Chaos.

[Darth Eversor]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGUi6spQ9M0&index=11&list=PL3701130022801F23​

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Woe came in small tides; systematic murder, heartless and cruel. ​

Domination over the weak, dominion over their mediocre beliefs and spines. ​

The horrors of war, the atrocity set in motion.​

Casualties climbed, the beast gorged itself.​

Corruption and rot, blood and sinew dashed across the planets.​

A rift into the darkness torn, nightmares spilling into the materium.​

Safety was non-existent, cruelty was manufactured and mass produced for all.​

More innocence to be taken, a robbery of soul and integrity.​

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- Ambria, Devil's Court -​

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"He who protests the fairness and wise words of authority are expendable, judgement shall come over him. Your sin is ignorance, your punishment, damnation."​

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Standing before a captured group of varied species and cultures was the maddened warrior, heavily clad and darkly cloaked to obscure his appearance. Distorted metal and bloodied, saturated fur made up a mockery of an appearance that faintly whimpered nobility, but was too malformed by the twisted deeds of the foul slayer. The Jedi present in the hostage situation looked towards the creature with hatred burning in their hearts and tears, if there was any one act that could spike the temperament of even the most passive, it was the slaughter and senseless terror wrought among those that they felt were undeserving. Who were they to have jurisdiction?​

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"The child shall come before the father... the feeble minded shall heed the tongue of the enlightened, the sick shall be made useful, the defiant fight for naught. Disease is perfection manifest, the blade an extension of the soul. Your rotting corpse is a peace made to the God that demands embrace from you. Do not consider this an extortion of any sort, rather, a gift..."​

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Unable to handle the endless rambling of the crazed abomination, one of the Jedi managed to break free and reached for his lightsaber, charging in for the death and hopeful permanent end of the one known as Abraxas. Would the nightmare be over?​

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The screech of vindictive angst fell upon the bold young man, he relaxed as he saw the glow of where he had struck the beast, unfortunately, it was not enough to get through all of the armor. A poorly premeditated execution and the abrupt end of the shamed Knight. Abraxas reached out with his right gauntlet, twisted claws tipping each digit of the creation's large hand, the green lightsaber was cast away from the Jedi's grasp and smashed into a nearby wall; however, the determined captive didn't end his struggle there. Through the Force, he shot out a striking gust of energy that managed to stagger the Sith slightly, albeit barely. ​

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"...Ungrateful..."​

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Unsheathing a massive two-handed war-blade from the darkness of his cloak, Abraxas began walking towards the now fear-struck rebel. Dragging it against the ground, sparks began to kick up, the left hand of the abomination reached out and grasped the lad through the Force. His windpipe being crushed and closing in, he himself being pulled towards the behemoth like a puppet on a string. Staring into the boy's eyes, he saw a fighter; a would-be champion.​

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"...This does not end with a hero's pride held upon a pedestal..."​

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Pulling his sword-arm back, the massive ugly blade skewered the toned flesh of the brave warrior, his eyes going wide and bloodshot as crimson began leaking from his orifices. The corrupted, tainted weapon pulsed decay and burning anguish into the Jedi's mind and body for a few moments before Abraxas raised his blade above his shoulders and slung it to the ground, shattering the fool against the weathered stone.​

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They all panicked and shouted, but to no avail.​

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"...The death of the sinner is made divine, their crimson to quench the the divine thirst of the Force. Do not fret, for you too will have purpose."​

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From the blackness of the dungeon, no one heard their screams.​

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

 

[Feralt Tarr]

Upon the distant sea of decadent throes of dry sand, the ship settled roughly upon an outcrop of smooth sandstone, polished by a century's worth of biting, hot storms; its hull already scarred by the wind and festering sun. As it touched down, upon abrasive legs, curled and warped by age, it shuddered violently, threatening collapse upon its structure beneath its weight and slight momentum; the figures in the cockpit jerking with the sudden landing. His hair: pale; a gaunt thing, dressed in swathes of draping, heavy cloth, containing a fermenting body heat and sloughs of sweat which brewed noxious odors from the body; what flesh was exposed was equally grotesque, fierce with pallor and covered in all varieties of dancing scars which peppered his flesh eagerly. His face, concealed, lost beneath a great iron mask that stared, unending, into the void of nothingness. Beside him sat a quarren, blue of skin: Lygash, a chosen attendant of his; due to his natural blindness, even through the Force, Feralt held no hopes of piloting.

"Lygash," Feralt addressed with deep, muscular voice, echoing through the metal chamber which hung taut over his mouth; "Take thee for naught but abandoned; make haste, return to thine brethren, lest you face the wrath of ineptitude." With this, the great figure lurched from his seat, his shadow silhouette cast against the blaring, internal lights of the ship and casting rays of incandescence over the rustic frame. Buttons, of all sorts of varying color and brightness, flashed about them, signalling their successful, though costly, descent; a bright, red sign in particular glittered haughtily in the corner: WARNING! WARNING!

Lygash responded obediently (with distinctive lilts of distaste which flared in his squirming, squishy voice), "Yes, Feralt; when shall I expect your return?"

"When called." That was that, and Feralt departed, horrid cloak flaunted behind him by the sharpness of his turn and, like fog, vanished into the sun which poured into the descending ramp, leading to the open wasteland before him. His sword was hoisted from his shoulder - a great hunk of durasteel, dulled and feeble through use - its weight digging his feet into the loose sands of the endless terrain; heated by a great, broiling sun which hung low overhead. Several things had drawn him to such a place; its power in the dark side among them - yet, there was a greater pulse among the drought of emotion, save for that of darkness, which swirled about . . . and even greater abyss amongst shadows, which was swollen, glutted by despair, against all others, like a black hole swallowing the very void of space.

Something monstrous waited for him out there.

The exiting ramp swung back up, pistoned by great clouts of steam which spewed forth from the ship before shutting, decontaminated and perfectly sealed against pressure and hostile gases. With a great blur and hum, the ship swung back into the air, repulsed, with great clouds of sand blown away from its base, until it was but a distant speck in the azure sky. Feralt's garb and great, prideful mane danced beneath this pressure, only to calm beneath the early breeze. He huffed - for what else was there to do before traversing a great lake of cruelty, unto an altar of suffering? - and departed, iron cleaver slung haughtily over his shoulder, feet sinking into blazing sand, like hot cinders, with every step; he departed, in search of the very black hole which drew so much fright - but also inspired a sense of curiosity.

"Feralt hath come," he promised.

[member="Abraxas"]

 

[Darth Eversor]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7DR-RHyvVE​

The darkness mingled with silence. The maddened one stood among this, witnessing the birth of vile thoughts. Their screams and cries were no more, but there was much to be desired. Abraxas turned towards the light of the cavern's edge, sand being whisked in by the breeze as the ember gaze of the monstrosity fought against the sunlight of the high-noon. He turned back once more to examine his kills, his mark on this world and those that stand defiant against him. They would be left in the belly of Ambria to be digested by its corruption and the sands themselves. Never to be discovered for years to come.

Shifting his darkly clad self, Abraxas made his way out into the open world. There was a certain stillness to this realm that exclaimed true beauty and life. A cesspool of spirits and violence that boded well within the abomination's twisted psyche, embracing it as if it were truly home. The lab that had conceived him was nothing but a distant, faded memory of a life that he used to live. A tool for the Empire; once a glorified soldier, now a marauder and bringer of damnation. The demon roared through the Force, the planet stirring and reacting to its spawn's call. The sands picked up and stirred more intensely, whispers invaded his ears and spoke of a new, living subject on this very planet. A low, growling sigh escaped the hellish metallic cage of a helmet as he began to feel this said life-form.

"...A darkness comes, it hungers as well..."

Lifting up the massive war-blade, the beast rested it against his shoulder and began trudging through the loose sand and hollow ground, crackles of Dark Side energy erupted and boomed around the surface of the cursed realm. The armor beneath the massive fur cloak was exposed by a gust of wind revealing bizarre, almost religious depictions and detail. Twisted and with thorne; rather an instrument of torture than traditional armor. This was but a side-effect of the mentality and life Abraxas chose to follow. He longed to depart from Ambria to spread his knowledge and wisdom to the rest of the galaxy; they too must become divine.

"...Embrace me, traveler...open your mind to me..."

He wandered the barren surface, cursed with the hunger of blood; the cries of many for naught, there was more to be acquired.

Rusted reaver, lamenting spawn of hate.

The sorrows of a starving child of the dark.

They would be mended soon.

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

 

[Feralt Tarr]

To the cadence of an ailing wasteland, Feralt lurched through the spines of dunes, cascaded in wilting sloughs of sand; an unspeakable heat betrayed him as flesh and blood - the weight of the sun a burden upon his shoulders, much like his cleaver, which had now been slung behind him to be dragged through the loose soil. His hair went wild, catching the wind and exploding en masse like a great, writhing ball of slick worms, crackling and whipping in the air. Only on the occasion would he tilt his head back, the sole movement besides the rhythm of his march, to guide locks of nesting hair from his masque's brow. Feralt Tarr, a man of ambition; he, who would be drawn by a promise: unspoken, untainted. More creature than man, he spoke with a graceful tongue, bent parch by the long absence of water, rusted and almost elderly: he observed, "There art a symphony of sensations cast upon thine wind; Feralt hath been noticed."

A miraluka, Feralt, despite his quirks and oddities, was adept in the Force - having been from a young age. He was naturally blind, born without eyes; like the rest of his kin, he saw through the fine membrane of the Force, like a blind spider, working his way to a tangled fly, writhing, through the vibrations upon its silken web. Much like so, he sensed the presence and its intent adeptly:

"...Embrace me, traveler...open your mind to me..."

Without formal training, it took quite some time to silence his mind; yet, adequately, he succeeded and, in turn, made his own presence known. He had paused, his lanky form turned up against the bright incandescence of the desert sun; hair and robes taking flight about his gaunt, pallid figure, as if bleeding away before the light. "Is it thee for whom Feralt seeks?" he inquired to the open wind, unsure if whether or not the question would be registered; "Thou hath been noticed - and hath drawn a harbinger from afar; Feralt seeks thee, O Darkness. Where art thou?" He wound up his sword-bearing arm, a slender thing - it was a wonder if he could wield that monstrous, dulled hunk of metal at all; it was more of a slab of iron than a blade; brittle and bent - yet, with begotten strength, of which he took care to flaunt, he threw the weapon into the distance. The great blade twirled through the air, glimmering beneath the light of day; its haft bound in stiffened linen and leather - bruised by used . . . sweat and blood together, pooled, within the dry cloth. The sword flew, perhaps farther than Feralt had even intended - yet, he still watched it with a humorous glint, sparkling beneath the iron mask; and, oh, how it traveled.

The weapon sunk into a distant hill, up to the crossguard, buried, beneath the sand; it caught the wind and rumbled, bending and twisting upon a thin spine of a tooth, rocking from lost momentum. He had discarded his weapon in its entirety; he had no intent to retrieve it - it would come back if it were to; and vice versa, it would stay there if need be. It mattered not. He rose his hands into the air, in mixture of prayer and reverence - he had come upon what he sought, guided by unseen hands; lest it was not written within whatever book of fates, upon which the gods would council, he was content to let the current of the river of destiny, riptide or no, and float along with whatever was presented. And, oh, how well it had worked for him hitherto; guided by these strings, he had amassed quite the potential. Who was he to ignore such a gifted process; to fix what was not broken? And here he was again, upon the precipice of something entirely new.

[member="Abraxas"]

 

[Darth Eversor]

"...I have found you..."​

The blazing sun beat down on Abraxas, the blood of his last victims painting his blade with coagulated gore. From a distance his eyes were able to catch a glimpse of an object taking flight through the sky, along with a figure. The abomination stared for a few moments before changing his direction towards this familiar presence. It was the one from before, he was certain. The Butcher of Ambria was beset by a likeness to his own, he could taste the blood that this one had spilled, it satisfied him and sent a shiver up his spine unlike any other. The presence of death was intoxicating and euphoric for the amalgamation of flesh and twisted metal; an unholy union forged for the sole purpose of demise and slaughter.

There was the one question that posed as odd, however. Was this creature evil? Abraxas did not consider himself as such. Morality did not exist to him, the only reality was choice and objective. Death happened by circumstance and for a purpose. The fault in where the Sith changed was his genetic donor, one Kaine Zambrano, otherwise known as Darth Vornskr. The man was a tyrant, a pestilence to the galaxy and a forerunner for Panatha's true uprising and potential. His excellence often spoke of harsh cruelty and demanding loyalty, blood was a currency he was well compensated for. His legacy and thirst to purge lived on through Abraxas.

He honored that to this day.

"...My hatred for all life is unbiased and truthful; death is judgement, divine and necessary..."​

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"...Release me from this purgatory..."​

The longing for new flesh and an abundance of it was overdue for the hulking abomination, the arid landscape and the drying of wasted crimson irritated the bladesman. He'd rather the land around him gorge on the lifeblood of his victims along with his blade. The dark side demanded presence and attention, and he obeyed this need. The galaxy was his horizon, and this, the beginning of his rise.

Every grain of sand on this world a member of an audience, a change made into reality. This was the day of revolution, redemption.

Big changes start with small beginnings.

"...Vornskr...I have not failed..."​

The tide is rising.​

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They would sup and drink of their blood and flesh; the damned.​

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[member="Feralt Tarr"]

 

[Feralt Tarr]

It was a hot pulse, almost erotic; a defined heat that seemed to race across the landscape like a flash of warmth, like the brief impact before detonation - the bright, numbness that came before dulled pain. Even in blindness, he could see the brief, cascading veils of white that blurred with the intense feeling - the sand raced by, as if fleeing the presence. Before him stood something of impenetrable darkness; cruel and monstrous - not human, but more . . . this was only how he could describe. Something that shrieked of metal, of molded flesh - the stench of freshest blood filled the air, flooding it in vision which stained his nostrils red; tears blurred in his eyes. A distant voice, picked up by his impeccable hearing; inaudible, indiscernible, but with distinct, booming lilts that ran shivers along his spine. It was a spark of necessity; he felt it - the reason for it all, an almost tactile texture of purpose, yet it vanished, as quickly as it came; it taunted him to continue. So he did; he left his blade discarded in the distant dune and resumed the march through hot sand, towards the unseen mass of horror before him - a creature beyond the realities of nature.

He was coming close now - he could hear the raspy wind clattering against its armoured body; a fiend, a scourge locked away within a rustic cage of terror; and he raised his arms in welcome. He knew not why he was driven to seek this creature out, anymore than he understood the rest of what drove him; it was an almost instinctual calculation, supplemented by the sixth senses of the Force which had, since birth, guided him to better understanding. It was a surreal, yet visceral, sensation; like what had driven him to so many choices - and he flourished beneath this unspoken command. Now, it told him to approach the shadow before him - that which blocked out the sun, with all other light; a figure he could almost see within the depths of blindness - a killer, cold and decisive, who lived, breathed even, for the sensation of slaughter - a true butcher, which fed upon the lives of those who might fall before him; an existence of destruction, which inhabited this galaxy for the sole purpose of taking it all away, to watch it burn . . . again and again. Not completely unlike himself, it seemed; a kinship, he felt, and experienced.

In the past it had always been simple - to walk, straight forward, into the shadows of the valley of death; it was what led him to the budding commander of the Toar Shul, and decided, for him, to assist in their revolution; it was this that drove him to the fields of battle, walking among the rows of dead, reaped of the blood sown like seeds of death, budding flowers of demise - he was, in this sense, a reaper, or perhaps a demon of death. Where he tread, doom felt certain to follow, and he reveled in the opportunity . . . more indirect than, I suppose, could be said @Abraxas; rather, he challenged himself as the harbinger of chaos - not the storm itself. He reveled in the opportunity to preach of rapture, to poetically enlighten; he would drive the sheep from the cliff - he rode upon the horse of Despair and called upon them to raise their heads to God and to clasp their hands in prayer . . . rather than to fight for themselves. As he looked upon the creature that was Abraxas, one might have expected to see the eyes of the devil leering out . . . rather, they saw nothing at all, save for a deep, impenetrable darkness.

He dropped to complexities of his speech, for the symbolism was rendered not before the meeting of kindred spirits, lost (or, rather, found) upon the gates of decimation.

"I . . . Feralt, no- Come," he began with tattered breath, hushed by the deep thickness of his iron mask, sweat beading along his concealed flesh; it was not nervousness that bade him stutter - rather, excitement, "Forgive me for my sloth, for thou art for whom I search so long and tiresome for. I, or rather, we art Feralt Tarr, a wandering soul or, perhaps, a congregation. Then, might I be so bold to inquire: what art thou? For thy heart beats not of thine own flesh and blood: rather, it is of a glutted, swollen maw . . . of which feasts the deeds of sin- no; rather, thou exalts no particular compass . . . no direction rather. Again, what art thou? the Devil?"

 

[Darth Eversor]

And then there were two; seeds of the same crop, the wheat from the chaff, those strong enough to endure the galaxy and its pitiful nature. History tells the tales of those that rise and fall, but the scars made will always be remembered. The death of thousands - millions even would not sate the unquenchable thirst that drove Abraxas. Those that would not follow are heathens to the reality of a new, beautiful world. The subservient would be made to take a knee to their Lords, their tongues would be removed so they too may be silent like the shadows. The reach of the maddened was not a pipe dream, the fingers were already beginning to dip into the waters.

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A ripple to become a tide.​

The Force mingled with the presence of this newcomer, this comrade of worship and true devout acceptance of the purgatory of the mind. There was nothing, and nothing was meant to be. There was choice, and the actions of the abomination painted a picture of true innocence and understanding. In the eyes of the Jedi and society, Abraxas was nothing more than a spawn of Sith meddling and Imperial desperation; however, they were blind to realities outside of their own. The world only existed before one's self as they desired it, who are they to take away the life and flourishing dreams of a humbled sentient? Harsh was the galaxy, unforgiving and biased. Deprecating, hypocritical animals that need a leash.

These brothers of the same philosophical womb would bring a new order of undoing. The purge of cancer, the death of the galaxy's ego and pride. Many would detest this, many would push against it in disgust. It would take time to make all of the uneducated understand the truth behind bloodshed and burnt out cities. They must become clean.

They must become divine.​

"...I have many names..."​

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"...The sins of all are many and infinite; to waste their use, to go hungry without them is a disservice..."​

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"...Your search has ended, weary traveler..."​

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Abraxas moved towards [member="Feralt Tarr"] silently, the unable to penetrate the darkness of his cloak and helmet. He stared as shadows seemed to roll off the creature's armor and blade. His gaze without life.​

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"...What do you see when you look upon the stars?"​

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A quiz; a test of the devout. Would his new-found kin truly embrace this crusade?​