Objective: Wrath of Storms
Gear: Lightsaber
Tags:
Evor
Gerwald Lechner
Naedira Darcrath
"
It is unraveling exactly as you had ordained, Master. " Arkyrion said with placid reverence, his blue-purple eyes bolted firmly upon the tactical display. Flicker as it may, from the atmospheric conditions, the young man watched on as enemy forces began migrating from satellite ritual sites Cresh all the way through to Isk—seeking to reinforce and bolster their position at main site Zerek. One of the primary targets her forward operation observation probes had designated.
At her command, the young Apprentice rose. His hair, a cascade of white strands, had already been meticulously tamed and woven into a network of tight braids and intricate knots. Each wintery tendril, bound with dark leather strips, forming a complex patchwork of patterns that coiled around his head. The braids, hemmed together with precision, framed his face like a warrior's crown, accentuating the sharp angles of his features. With but only a scant few stray wisps, caressing his brow and temples.
"
Your ally, is my ally. I shall regard his every command as if they fell directly from your lips, " he acknowledged with no question, he'd sooner die than betray the trust that had been developing between them. Under the harrowing tutelage of the Dread Queen, every moment unfurled as an unyielding trial, a relentless ascent toward a pinnacle of malevolent power.
The sun-drenched hours oft surrendered themselves to the darkness of relentless discipline. His body was as marble and she the chisel. Every stroke from
Srina Talon
's swift and merciless hand etched a scar into the stone of his flesh, each wound a testament to his ferocious pursuit of mastery. The brutal elegance of her methods beginning to carve him into an instrument of her hellish will already. He would not fail, nor would he embarrass her.
Arkyrion had made a pact with her, that day on Jutrand—only in death could it be broken.
With a final nod to her cryptic warning of the woman, he whisked himself away with great haste, becoming lost in the throngs of soldiers mustering for their deployment. It was a chaotic cacophony of purpose and determination that echoed through the vast hangar of the
Evolution IV. Each step reverberated like the drumbeat of a war march, a rhythm that quickened the pulse and steeled the resolve.
Booted feet met the cold, unyielding metal floors in a resolute cadence, a sound that spoke of readiness and grim anticipation. The metrical clatter of armor plates being fastened, weapons being checked and rechecked, and the low murmurs of troops sharing quiet words of encouragement blended together into a harmonious prelude to battle as her Legions prepared.
The harsh hiss of hydraulics filled the air as the massive bay doors of the troop transports slowly creaked open—the soldiers, clad in their armor, moved with a precision that belied the tension in the air. Each movement was purposeful, each gesture an affirmation of their commitment to the mission and the Will of their Empress and Emperor.
Amidst the organized chaos, the officers' barked orders that cut through the din,both crisp and commanding. They directed their troops with unyielding precision, orchestrating the movements of their forces with a fluidity that could only be born from countless hours of training and inculcation.
The metallic clank of boots against the gangways reverberated as the soldiers filed into the transport vessels, taking their designated positions with practiced precision. The low hum of repulsorlift engines grew steadily louder as the Vindican-Class Transports powered up, and the anticipation in the air became palpable.
As the transports lifted off from the hangar decks, a collective breath was held, the tension mounting with every meter gained. The sounds of soldiers embarking on their journey to the surface of Fiviune became a solemn reminder of the trials and sacrifices that lay ahead, a chorus of resolve that would carry them through the storm and into the heart of the tempest on the surface below.
The Vindican troop transport, a monstrous leviathan of dark metal and roaring engines, plunged through the heart of the orbital disorder that wreathed poor, withering Fiviune. The young Sith Apprentice sat within the belly of the beast, surrounded by the dim crimson glow of the trooper compartment. He'd elected to face his first true battle rather nakedly, just the obsidian robes that clung neatly upon his spindly bones, and a single Lightsaber that he'd not even crafted himself. It was,
perhaps, a mistake—but if he were here to further prove his worth, he sought to earn it the hard way.
The vessel shuddered and groaned as it streaked further and further on towards the atmosphere of the world, defying the wrath of the Tsis'Kaar defenders. Outside, the orbital battleground raged fervidly, Shikkar-class corvettes and Arbite-class cruisers, once loyal allies, now danced with deadly destruction. Locust and Huntress-Class Starfighters weaved and banked like frenzied wasps, their weapons searing through the void of space in streams of ruinous energy.
The transport bore down upon the world below aggressively, bristling laser cannons clearing the way as deflector shields sheltered them from an early demise. Arkyrion watched through the transparisteel viewport as starlight fractured around them, until finally the storm-wracked clouds swallowed them whole. Thunderheads of dark energy, clashed with crackling bolts of crimson and emerald lightning, casting eerie shadows across the deck. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp and twist, as if the world itself had joined this rebellion against their presence.
Each strike seemed like a malevolent entity, an avenging deity lashing out with wrathful fury. The very air trembled with the ferocity of the storm, as if seeking to wrest control from even the most seasoned pilot, and hurl them off in to oblivion. Torrents of rain cascaded upon the vessel in an unremitting deluge, mournful tears, to wash away the blood and violence below.
The landscape of the planet revealed itself through the tumult as his descent continued, and it seemed to resemble a nightmare of some shattered dream. Jagged spires of rock that thrust forth from the surface, each stone and crag,like a monstrous fang—gnashing at the heavens with cruel intent. Fissures that yawned grotesquely, like timeworn wounds that never healed, deep chasms that whispered of forgotten cataclysms and unfortunate doom.
"
Three minutes! " The pilot's voice crackled through the comm system, his words muffled by the storm's fury.
Arkyrion breathed in slowly, his bones vibrating from the violent journey, it was almost time.
In the distance, something loomed, monstrous and terrifying. A primeval abomination, a nightmarish amalgamation of strength and ferocity. Towering at a height of over six meters, with a heavily muscled frame covered in mottled, leathery black and powdery blue skin, with a stomach bloated and glistening with ichorous fluids. Hunched shoulders gave it a malformed posture, and its horrific limbs ended in gnarled claws that looked both formidable and gruesome.
A pair of malevolent yellow eyes gleamed from deep, pustulous, sockets—filled with an unquenchable hunger for the life force of the prey it felt summoned towards. Its grotesque silhouette, revealing itself only in the frequent blinks, of the eldritch lightning that lanced the skies above; like some primal demon incarnate, the Terentatek stalked ever closer to the group. Spines and bony ridges protruding from its back, a maw, festering with countless serrated fangs—dripping with the repulsive ichor of a nightmare yet to be dreamt.
It could
feel them, it
hungered for them. No sooner than
Gerwald Lechner
unleashed his attack on the numerous, smaller specimens, so too did the great beast. Its roar booming with unspeakable depravity, as it bound with dreadful intent through the rain and darkness towards
Naedira Darcrath
. Ready to maim, slaughter, and devour them whole.
Xeykard
/ (
Alina Tremiru
/
Quinn Varanin
)
Darth Malum of House Marr
