Qhan of the Vahla
Where I have passed, grass will never grow again.
Amid the Transitory Mists, lurking deep within nigh impassable stretches of nebula gathered marauders and reavers and pillagers of all manner. They assembled together aboard a mobile Xi Char Cathedral Factory, their ships waiting in the depths of the brilliantly lit nebula, as they made merry.
Today they came not to plan an immediate raid, or to strike a target for plunder, but to form a pact together.
No fealty. No true allegiance. No oath of servitude, for all pirates fashion themselves free nomads not bound by the strictures of any government.
Yet assembled together, they are more than the sum of their parts.
Within the Cathedral Factory, Hasuras Na-Gerra and his Vahlan corsairs mixed with the Hapan exiles. They'd turned a hangar into an immense hall, filled with food and drink.
Gerra raised a goblet fashioned from the skull of a fallen Mawite warrior.
"To we the nomads, who alone among the stars know true freedom."
