Under our careful tender, worlds forgotten like Varl will prosper once again. For two months, the architects or the Bryn'adûl have slowly rebuilt the world of Varl using their terraforming nimscalls. Now, some small areas have become habitable once again. But there is still work to do, almost every inch of Varl is littered with the spoils of ancient civil war. This world was destroyed by its native species, ust like this Galaxies inhabitants will do to it. Now, we will rebuild it in our image.
But that is not all, Varl has become home to a trio of our Super-Constructs as we prepare for war against the Silver Jedi and their fledgeling loyal systems. Varl will act as a site for the creation of new armaments and vessels, working with our shipyards on Kesh to adapt to the needs of the incoming warfare.
We must be strong, we must be united.
A new varl will rise, from the ashes of this world we will build a better one.
Prepare for war, oversee your kin or your equipment. These are trying times and quiet moments are to be savoured and spent well. Take this time to reflect, take this time to see the world for what it is. What it is that you fight for, and the righteous path we take.
Objective: Rite of Ending
A renowned Zealot Commander; Nar'akta has died in battle. She is to be honoured as a Drovagaerys at the her burial by the Caden'maris. Attend, pay your respects.
Night came over the azure world like a weeping crash of soil over a corpse pile. Every inch of Varl left untouched for so long was entrenched with echoes of the past. A past that had been the death of this world, it reminded him of those early days. The terraformers he had designed weren't nearly as refined and efficient as the Nimscall. When he was alone, trying to survive on Draemidus everything was always touch and go. Their home-world and its incredibly unhospitable environment had hardened him. There was some.. nostalgia there, reminiscing over simpler times. He loved his people, more than anything. But when all someone had to do was look after themselves, life was easier.
But he supposed that was the point. Life was easier but he was weaker, he wasn't the warrior he was now twenty or even five years ago. Twenty years ago he was naïve, twenty years ago the Tathra of then could not lead the Bryn'adûl of the now. He had been unworthy, but now..
Tathra looked to his arms, he saw the scars and scratches. He saw the growth of his carapace, but he saw every victory and mistake layered on his flesh. Higlighted by the fire ahead, his opaque eyes looked to the fire ahead. The lower of his back resting against the branch. A moment of quiet, but the celebration was not too far off. The Titan rubbed the edge of his pauldron, scratching at a blunt line. You could never see it unless it was lit by fire, but every time he noticed it, it bothered him.
But little things like that always bothered you. Tathra sneered at himself, looking back to the fire. One of the Honour Guards would no doubt find him for the ceremony, but until then. He could rest.
Galak awoke, tearing free from bindings, vision blurred as the Baedurin roared in defiance. Had he been captured, had he been killed? Quickly he felt himself restrained but not by the weak instruments of humans but by something familiar. Two Brutes of the 10th held down his remaining arm and legs. Various aeravalin worked on him, but what for he could not know. His conscious mind slipped away again as he felt his damaged flesh plied and broken, pain surging through him - multiplied by shock that put him under.
Waking again, he felt strong yet weak at the same time. New sensations mingled with old as pain numbed him to the point of a foul awakening. But it wasn’t one of reality, it was maybe dreams. He didn’t dream much, didn’t have time to. But this was strange, the world and his senses were mired by a fog. He saw familiar faces, Brutes he had fought alongside for many years. Some dead, some alive.
He wished he could say he remembered their names, but something in his head knew them all as familiar. That was it, they had all been there that day. At Kesh, when he nearly died. And now he was biting back in the face of survival, the knowing looks of those who had fallen reminded him why he was still here. He would do whatever it took to survive as long as he could. For them. For the Chieftain.
OBJECTIVE: RITE OF ENDING
BYRN IN VICINITY: Tathra Khaeus
The Zealot silently stood at attention, glaive pointed up towards the stars hidden by the brown sky above.
As an Elite, Krarolk had been given the honor of serving as a member of the honor guard for the body of the fallen Zealot Commander. His axes were gone today, along with any other secondary equipment. Today, he only wore his typical armor (repaired since the battle at Yurb) and wielded his glaive. On his left, with an identical set of armor and glaive, was Krarolk's own Commander. He had taken the loss of Nar'akta more emotionally than any other member of the Zealot Elite trio, and he had personally requested to be in the fallen Commander's honor guard. He had told the other two Zealots that he had often fought alongside Nar'atka in his youth, and that they had both been promoted to Commander within about a week of each other. The two of them had used their status to exchange information and share innovative combat strategies, enlightening both of them. Consequently, Krarolk understood why his Commander had brought the trio along for the day of mourning.
Additionally, the ceremony gave Krarolk time to think. During the battle on Yurb, he had encountered a formidable Jedi opponent. Even without her lightsaber, she had constantly been able to demand the Zealot's full attention. She had ruptured the ground around them, and then shot bolts of energy from her hands as if they were rifles. Since then, the Zealot had begun to wonder; could he use his inner energies to perform such feats as well? For most of his life, Krarolk had only known how to imbue his armor, weapons, or body with increased durability and power. However, he had recently felt as if his pond of spiritual energy could be used for an increased variety of purposes. After he had taken a brief trip to the infirmary to seal the wounds he had obtained in the invasion, he had used almost every bit of free time he had to try to channel his energy outside of anything that he had physical contact with. If the Jedi could send their energies outwards without needing to touch the area they were targeting, then so could Krarolk.
Unfortunately, hours of work had yet to wield any significant results. Krarolk often preferred physical labor since it was something that could easily be improved by repetition without much mental work. However, refining his spiritual energy was a much trickier task. The Zealot ached to move around and increase both his strength and stamina, not wanting to become as physically restrained as a Shaman. Obtaining both the will and the focus to strengthen his inner energy was not an easy task.
Krarolk's train of thought returned to the present. His Commander and Zealot Abvor had both walked back to the ceremonial grounds, leaving Krarolk alone to walk on top of the barren ground of the ancient planet. The other two Zealots had left him up to the task of informing the Chieftain of their progress, and Krarolk had obliged without hesitation. Still, as he approached the massive figure in front of him, he couldn't help but feel a combination of pride and anxiety. Tathra represented the apex of their species, the supreme authority to which all Byrn'adul saw as their prime role model. By approaching him, the Zealot would be proving his worth to one of the most powerful figures in the galaxy. Drawing in a breath, Krarolk stopped a few meters directly in front of the Titan and spoke.
"Chieftain, the honor guard will be ready within this minute. Shall we proceed with the ceremony?"
Tathra then looked on from his armour, his equipment to to the earth beneath him, tainted and twisted by the sins of those whom had came before. He levied a stick in his hand, looking at the wood for a moment. Everything told a story, even Humans. But just like this stick, they had to burn so that those who deserved to live could prosper. Predator ate prey. That was just the way the world worked. For too long this balance had been broken as the weak and the rich grew to prosperity. The Galaxy needed correction, everything reminded him of that.
Again and again this world reminded him of Draemidus Prime. How he longed for home.
It goaded him, pushed him to reflect solely on his failures. A poison that ignored victories. He could not simply bend the Galaxy to his will. It took time, flesh and blood and patience. Patience was a difficult beast to control, and even more difficult to master. But when one attempts to create something new from the ashes, patience was key.
He had learned to be patient the hard way, it’d only taken over a hundred years. Strength of will was key too. So many things his mandate required of him. Tathra snorted to himself, tossing the stick into the fire as he stared longingly at the flames. He enjoyed these moments, but it also made him long for simplicity, a simpler life. One day, when the work was done.
Until then, his rest would not come. For now, this would have to do.
His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a Zealot,. The Titan straightened his posture, sitting up slightly. He recognised the chaffing sound of verikast steel against the body-glove armour of the Bryn’adul warrior. He could nearly tell how much the Aeravalin weighed from the echo of each step. Tathra did not acknowledge him immediately; instead he rose tall, towering over the Zealot as the fire flickered between them. Its shadow cast long black circles underneath his eyes, aureate orbs fixating on the Zealot as he spoke.
"Not yet." He said, looking to the sky. It wasn't the right time.
Consciousness returned as he was thrown back to reality. Pain and an old form that felt too worn brought him back to his senses, new nerves and flesh embroiled his own. When Galak woke, he could feel something was strange. Two eyes. He had two eyes. They had.. Changed him. Galak shot up, fear running through him like blood pumped by his hearts.
The Ashaka healers around him seemed to back away, giving him space. He recognised his own flesh and bone, but he felt stronger. Mutagens at work no doubt. He stood there, in half of his torn up armoured body-glove from the battle. He’d lost an arm, but he couldn’t remember much after cutting it off. Everything was a blur. Galak steadied himself against the stone table, his legs felt weak, alien.
“Emissary, are you alright?” Pavium seemed to appear from the edge of his vision.
The Brute looked concerned, resting his hand on the shoulder of the tall Baedurin. Galak felt dry, sore. Like he hadn’t drank in days. He couldn’t even think of the words, the world came slowly back. His new eyes looked around the room, all those in attendance standing in waiting for him. Beyond the room, he saw a familiar grouping of Brutes watching from beyond the glass.
Rite of Ending; it was now quite different from the events Reidun attended. Of course death was a part of her life, for she had been raised for this ever since she can remember. She had already experienced the deaths of her brothers and sisters, but the death of such a famous person, almost a legend, was different. Even if she didn’t know her personally, was her glorious death, to die in battle, a drael could not wish for more than that. By now the girl also had quite a few scars she had acquired during the wars of recent months.
Now there was no struggle, Reidun silently peered away, even if it was already dark, she saw campfires in several directions. She made in silence for the future rite, she knew the customs and was already silently paying tribute to the deceased. She waited at one of the bonfires for the event to begin, earlier it was as if she had even seen the Chieftain somewhere further away. Although Reidun was talking to someone else at the time, she wasn't entirely sure.
The planet itself was a strange anomaly for the young girl, she was not very understanding of science, so she did not understand why terraformation did not work perfectly here. Although they were now in a habitable place, but it still disturbed her, after what she experienced at Atollon, she was not very optimistic. But now was not the time to think about such things, today was the time for something else. Like a zealot, there was a place for the girl at the ceremony.
For now, there was no sign of the ceremony’s starting, so she was immersed again in her thoughts about the future. With conquests, subjugation of planets and how to make the name Drael even more glorious. For this was the meaning of their lives, and it was a shame to deny how good they were in all this…
With a reassuring glint, Galak placed his new hand on Paviums’ wrist. With a nod he replied;
“I’m alright, but I could use a damn drink!” He forced a smile to his face, but genuinely he was parched. He needed something inside of him and quickly. Pavium turned with urgency to the others around him
“Quickly, get the Emissary some water!” The Brute Captain barked, seemingly glad Galak had survived. He appreciated that, more than they would ever realise. Galak didn’t remember past the blood rage, but it appeared he’d killed many or so said the Brutes as he greeted them.
It didn’t take long to find him something to drink, but the pleasantries were over. Soon enough he was back in the barracks, standing alone looking at his armour. Battered, broken. His eyes lingered on the completely missing left arm. It made him uncomfortable, flashes of that trauma reigned in any joy he felt. Galak put his fingers into the gaps in the armour, gaps where his organs might’ve been crushed. Metal that was almost torn apart, he didn’t know how he was alive.
He smiled, looking at the battered and dishambled set of gear. So many battles, so many lost brethren who’d only been a little less lucky than he’d been and died because of it. Galak took off the breast plate, sitting down with it.
He could still feel a touch of the chill in his soul. Even now, sitting alone as he was in the midst of the Risen-Sraelvun quarters of the newly formed super-structure, he could still feel that sensation of frost. He didn't want to think too much about the battle which had taken place which had robbed him of some of his security, but it was difficult not to find himself in the thick of it once more, spiker rattling in his hands with every fired shot. He could still remember the way that the Emissary had trusted in him, had placed such honor upon himself, and yet there was a sort of emptiness now that the battle had concluded.
Had he done enough?
There had been a great deal of conflict associated with the campaign against the Silver Jedi, and yet Osam wondered whether his own actions in the midst of the conflict had amounted to anything at all. He had stricken and been stricken, had gone through the usual routines of warfare that every soldier encountered. He had watched as allies were torn asunder by unnatural forces, and had cheered when foes went through the same gory end. Nevertheless, he questioned whether his involvement in the conflict had been necessary. He questioned if he had made himself known if he had squandered an opportunity placed before him, and he questioned whether he had cowered at a pivotal moment, or if his idea to burrow into the ground at the coming storm of debris had been strategically sound.
Perhaps that was the greatest injury he had sustained. He had seen the Emissary, had seen the damage wrought against him, and yet when he peered down at his own form there were only bruises and scratches and minor marks. He'd done well to conceal himself, to defend himself when the time had come, but did that mean that he had given into cowardice? Was it improper for the Major to have utilized his allies for their numbers when the opportunity presented itself to charge down the Jedi himself, kukri in hand, and rage in his teeth?
He felt cold, even there in the room, and perhaps even worse than that, he wasn't sure if he deserved it.
Drek'ma had to rely now more on his Staff for physical movement than he would like. But, the xenophage antibody had already been administered and a vaccine was being administered to everyone as quickly as possible. His living infected tissue had made this all the more possible. So in a way, he found some sense of pride in being the sole survivor of the bombing attack. However it had come at some price, he felt weaker, his mental faculties had not recovered from what had taken place and he nor their experts were entirely sure of how long that would take. He had been stabilised and the healing process had begun. But that was all, the crusade continued with or without him.
The Primarch was one of the few early arrivals at the actual burial site, the rite had not began and thusly the area was only available for those who had known the Zealot Commander personally. Her squad mates stood by the sarcophagus, some of them were agitated. They did not understand why she was to be buried here. Drek'ma listening to them from a distance.
"Why here? So close to enemy territory, so close that we could lose this system and lose her forever."
"This world is a second Draemidus brother. Did you not hear the Chieftains call? This is an honor!"
The second was a Brute Captain by the name of Tyrak, one whom had fought alongside the Zealot when she had fallen. Her Zealot squad mates seemed to wish to blame Tyrak and the Brutes.
Galak smiled, looking at a dozen different scratches on the armour. He remembered all of them, every story. It'd take some work, but he'd repair it again. Though this time, would be different. Galak had plans, and he didn't plan on losing any more limbs. Galak put on his battered armour, filled with wholes and broken sections. He was getting an upgrade, the 10th was getting an upgrade.
And nobody was going to tell him no.
Galak left the armoury, greeted by the Pavium and the rest of the Brutes whom had been waiting outside. They all straightened up, what banter had been among them disappearing as they saw the battered Brute standing tall. It was hard, his armour felt heavy. It wasn't too different from his recovery after Kesh, but somehow he felt stronger than before. Weak, but strong. It didn't really make sense to him yet, but he knew that only time could tell.
"Let's go." Galak gestured with his head, aiming toward the exit. He wanted to get out of this damn medical facility as quickly as possible.
"An honor? We got to the closest world and decide to bury her in an unfinished pet project colony? Pah, honor."
The Brute scoffed at what he perceived as entitlement from the Zealot, but Drek'ma understood the malnourishment of logic that was grief.
"She is to honored as a Drovagaerys! Does it matter that its not pretty or ideal? It's an honor regardless of your personal feelings." The Brute seemed to attempt to reason, but equally he could no doubt appear as arrogant, judgemental and unsympathetic.
The Primarch could see this argument beginning to unravel before his eyes. It wouldn't take long for an insult to be thrown. He slowly began to make his way down the steps.
"You know nothing of honor, Brute." The Zealot replied, mistakenly taking a step closer as the other Brutes in the area noticed the insult. More than Zealots, Brutes were pack-brothers. The Brute headbutted the Zealot without hesitation, knocking him off his feet. Both were baedurin, locking their arms together in a test of strength as the Zealot rose.
Galak led the grouping of Brutes through the barracks and out of the medical facility. Super-Constructs were large, typically holding areas for recreational activity. Such as drinking, feasting. Not so much galleries or your typical food reserve, but places of respite. Galak had to think, he had survived again and again for a reason. He wasn't about to throw that away.
"Let's drink something. I need to think."
As they arrived, Galak at down alongside Pavium and the others. Galak stirred in silence after ordering their refreshments; the others seemed quizzical. No doubt wondering what exactly it was that Galak was thinking or planning.
"I haven't done my job as Emissary. Its time to step up." Galak was ready to admit it, he'd been flying on the Chieftains wing.
He needed to be his own Drael. His own Warrior, as an Emissary he had the means to make his own visions a reality, his failing was not doing that. But he would never make that mistake again.
Gredak removed his helm, setting it down on the small bench alongside his weapons.
The Zealot paced. He had been chosen to stay behind when the battle for Yurb had been called. In the place of Zealots, Risen-Srael had been chosen to delicver the Distortor. Gredak seethed, what he had on multiple occasions attempted to thwart had started to become reality. The Risen-Srael were replacing them! His Zealot colleagues did not feel the same way as he did. But Gredak knew, he knew more was at work.
Scheming, weak Sraelvun scum.
That damn Risen, Osam. It had all began with him. One of these days, he'd catch a spike in his spine for his arrogant ambitions. Gredak would teach him his place, and soon.
"Understood." replied Krarolk rapidly. "I'll inform the guard."
Without any further hesitation, Krarolk walked away from the Chieftain's position and back down to the ceremonial grounds. The descent felt five times as short as the ascent, the pressure of meeting with Tathra vanishing from the Zealot's body. In what seemed like a single minute, Krarolk had returned to his two Elite comrades.
"The Chieftain said that we shouldn't start yet." stated Krarolk to the trio. "I'm going to visit one of the Super-Constructs to check on the Byrn there, let me know if the ceremony starts without me hearing it."
From what the Zealot had heard, death ceremonies could get quite loud.
Krarolk approached the looming Construct, its vast presence leaving a massive shadow on the surface of the barren planet. Even with ceremonial preparations under way, hundreds of Byrn continued to filter in and out of the Construct. He joined the crowd, ascending a ramp up to the base's middle levels behind a group of Brutes. Ignoring their chatter, he completed his ascent and entered the vast structure. In front of him was a huge mess hall, large enough to comfortably fit over a thousand Byrn of average size and stock. Food and drinks were being served, providing nourishment for many of the Byrn that had been fighting on the frontlines roughly a week prior, and those who were still recovering from wounds obtained on the front.
One group in particular caught Krarolk's attention. A group of Brutes gathered together in a clump, centered around an individual who seemed to be their leader. His armor showed significant strain, and a few scars that seemed relatively fresh were visible on his body. It seemed as if the individual in question either lacked time to heal his wounds after fighting on Yurb or had obtained severe injuries that required more intensive care. Regardless, the Byrn in question intrigued Krarolk. He approached the group, which did not seem to notice his presence yet.
"Sorry to interrupt..." stated the Zealot Elite to the group. "...but I'd like to know how your commander got such wounds. To me, it seems as if such injuries can only come from true heroism and valor."
After listening to Krarolk state that the ritual had yet to begin, his Commander gave him a swift nod and walked away.
For now, the Zealot Elite Commander would need to find another way to express his grief. To him, the only way to compensate for the loss of such a dear comrade would be to give her a proper burial. However, the delay in planning gave him more time to ponder. If he had trained with Nar'akta for longer, could he have given her the skills necessary to prevent her death? Could she have given him the skills he needed to defend her from a mortal wound? The Commander agonized over his regrets, the weight of his grief threatening to bring him down to the same place that his comrade was now entering.
But the Commander's thoughts were disrupted by the shouts of an unruly crowd. Turning to his left, the Zealot Commander found a group of Zealots and Brutes facing off with each other. Upon focusing his spiritual energy into his ears, he was able to hear the conversation as it played out. It seemed as if the two factions of the Byrn had entered an argument into how Nar'akta should be buried, with the Zealots opposing the idea of burying her on the world and the Brutes supporting it. As the situation turned violent, the Commander rushed over.
"Enough!" called out the Commander, echoing the statement uttered by the approaching Primarch seconds prior.
"What gives any of you the right to think you know where and how Nar'akta should enter the afterlife?" yelled the Zealot Elite Commander, his voice dripping with enough venom to silence both the Zealot and the Brutes. "What gives any of you the right to have such a quarrel where one of our finest warriors will soon be laid to rest? You are all hypocrites and scum, unfaithful to the true meaning of the Crusade. Do not act up again, or I will personally dicipline you all. And I assure you, it will not be merciful."
The Commander knew that he had let his personal emotions alter his judgement, but he no longer cared. He simply could not stand to see someone who he had trained and fought with defamed by his own comrades-in-arms.
His response was a small physical gesture, dismissing the Zealot as he descended. His thoughts were elsewhere, Yurb had presented itself as an educational moment for the Bryn'adûl. A moment that shed light on complacency, on hidden weaknesses. These things, they cost wars. They cost lives. And he would not rest until their war-machine was perfected. A Gunboat arrived, styled in black with several smaller turrets and missile cannons on its underbelly, one of their many new innovations underway within the new factories at Varl. But that was not all, a week ago he had set Mutagen Expert Grendrada to work. M'gaelak and Servitor test samples had been sent to his research facilities from Sraeljoarsk to Varl.
Entering the Gunboat, the craft took off for one of the frontier stations. Much work needed to be done, the creation of the Guardians, Murdaks and their new Decimus Super Tanks had all begun creation under this new project at Varl. Tathra would ensure no errors were made, he would ensure the efficiency of their war machine. As the Gunboat flew off in the direction of the Super-Construct, Tathra clasped his hands behind his back - waiting patiently as the Gunboat made its way toward the destination.
He had no intention of tarrying, the ceremony was important - he would be there. But the dead were no excuse to ignore the future, and the future was so fragile. He held it in his hand, like a child - the Draelvasier were his child. And their destiny was one of a delicate balance and he was the tether that held it in place.
When the Zealot approached, the comments made the Emissary snort. Though Pavium and the other Brutes seemed to agree with his assessment. Galak thought maybe he recognised the Zealot. But clearly the Zealot did not recognise him. Commander? Galak was an Emissary, a representative of the Chieftain's will.
Though was that more important now, because of his scars? Maybe he didn't have to puff out his chest, best to leave that to the children. Galak extended his arm, raising his wrist to greet the Zealot.
"Emissary Galak. Took a few bad hits back at Yurb. Nothing I can't walk off though." Galak smirked, looking to the other Brutes as they chuckled amongst themselves.
Walk off? He had to get his arm replaced, and soon enough his armour would need some patch ups too. Everything needed a little reassessing. But at least it seemed this Zealot was good company.
In death, there was closure. It was true for all things, but that didn't mean death wasn't complicated. Sylok'Vanari knew this far better than most. The loss of his parents left him stripped of love, envious of those that had the chance at a real family. Worse than such ill-fate was his integral part of the Bryn'Adûl's expansion into the depths of the galaxy. If there was war, there was wounded. Sylok spent years tending to the lacerations and internal malfunctions of all Draelvasier. In a way it kept him connected to his people, but disregarded as a true primal strength to their forces. Some days, anger would take hold of him, cursing his gift of the force for making him inadequate to his own. Even so, he had purpose. Being a Life Weaver was no easy feat, more often than not, it was only death that he saw. If there were wounded, there was death. Again, it was complicated.
Such expansion had led them to the unsuitable planet of Varl, which in short time became habitable thanks to the Nimscalls that were violently dropped upon the world. It was a necessary move for their species to live. The toxic gases back on Draemidus Prime were a key element to their survival. Still, Sylok didn't want to be here, he had been close to perfecting another batch of new mutagens. He knew the importance of death, but he had seen it too many times to understand the honor in it. The gruesome truth laid bare before him on almost every battlefield, reminded him that giants like his own Draelvasier race can bleed and die like the rest. It was infectious though, to a point. Sylok'Vanari didn't think much of it, how the Draels that died in his hands shaped him. Instead, he became enthralled with the process, even while trying to combat the very thing he had no control over. It was frustrating, but to him there was no honor in death. No ceremony would bring back the most savage of their own people. It begged questions he couldn't seem to answer.
Why encourage a Rite of Ending, when the was nothing after death? If there was no honor in it?
It was tricky, for Sylok to grasp the tendencies of the others, but he too found solace in their teachings. Perhaps there was cause to argue a ritual for the dead. Of all things Sylok could be, it was understanding. Regardless of his own intellectual views, he knew that without the Rite of Ending, there was no meaning to fight. For the Draelvasier, strength meant everything and the best way to show it was during war. Unfortunately, this day; the price was high.
Sylok clamped down onto the round wooden table, set beside the tiny stumps made for seats. The sharp claws that protruded from his lengthy fingers dug deeper the more he pressed down into the grains of cedar. The frustration that began to build on his ashy white face scrunched, the razor sharp teeth following the motion as they clamped tightly in between one another. The grey pools of ice-like daggers looking up at the Baedurin that started in on him.
"Move Greth Tak, I've little time for ignorance." Sylok's voice came out like a hiss, a splintered tongue revealing it self as he spoke. "Ignorance!?" The large Baedurin reeled back, his voice growing in decimals. "Look at you, tiny whelp. Can barely fight, that's why they have you all the way in the back during the battles! You're weak!" Greth Tak spat as he stepped closer. "A disgrace!!" Sylok felt an urge to fight, he was bred for it. Instead, patience taught him the value of observation. Science the value of calculation and caution. "Knock it off, leave him to his own Greth Tak." The strange voice commanded it sternly. An armored warrior that seemed to be in charge of the group. A female with nasty protrusions seeping out from the sides of her head. Her bulky mass let Sylok know she wasn't an Aeravalin. It was all he needed to know. He gave a slight nod and made his way past, his small eight foot frame sliding between the threatening Drael.
He cursed the smug bastard under his breath, careful so others couldn't hear. He looked back at them, but kept walking. His eyes locked with Greth Tak's once more before he slammed into something preventing him forward. Sylok's jaw snapped in irritation, until his head turned to see another. A female Zealot from the looks of it. The more surprising thing was her size. He thought back about when he overheard the other Zealots, he had healed them of their wounds, but their words were ungrateful. This had to be the one they were making fun of. She was shorter than him, Sylok's eyes widened. His mind correcting itself as the name came to him.
"I'm sorry for bumping into you, I was..." Sylok tried to find the words. "Aren't you Reidun Amersis
Reidun was very immersed in her thoughts, as she planned for the future, she thought about being able to subjugate the galaxy with her brothers and sisters. So she didn't notice the interlude nearby either, and she was only startled when someone collided with her. She would have jumped farther away immediately and would have reached for her weapons as well. Fortunately, however, she remembered in time that there were no enemies here, the movement stopped and she lowered her hands to her side.
After that she looked at the man, she was a little surprised that the man was also quite short. Of course not as much as she is; she only met such a small person among the children, not in the case of an adult specimen. She is already accustomed to the fact that, because of her height, the others are often overlooked, and bumped into her. It was a surprise to her that the man apologized.
It was downright unusual, everyone else just grumbled at her not to be underfoot, that was why she was embarrassed, unable to speak or nod for a few moments. And also because her social skills were still not the best, she still didn't have friends, she didn't talk much to others, and well, sometimes she would have needed it. She was not really surprised that the other knew her name, since the "little girl" was known to quite a few, not least because of her size.
<”It's me yes! You don't have to apologize. What can I do for you?”> she asked as she pulled herself out, nor did it help much that she was still very tiny.
The Primarch stood in silence, allowing the Zealot Commander to vent his frustrations toward the quarrelling pair. The two seemed intimidated by his approach and seemingly mellowed by the Zealot Commanders. His physical appearance was unmoving, his unblinking gaze staring almost right through the group ahead of him.
"A Zealot Commander is dead. We are all children of Khaeus, and should not quarrel among ourselves over such things. Life is lived, and lost." His gaze shifted to the Zealot Commander standing to his right, if only for the briefest moment before shifting away again. The Brutes and Zealots physically parted as the Primarch walked between them, the faint rap-tap of his staff echoing across the surface as he moved to observe the sarcophagus.
"War takes." The Primarch explained, looking at his left arm and his stub. War took from them all in different ways, but it was rising against adversity that granted them the strength to surpass those loses.
"The Chieftain will be here soon, let us begin preparations for his arrival."