Faction Voidtreader (Trent GE intro Thread)

[Trent]

The moonless night of the ice world was stunning to anyone who had the opportunity to see it. A planet left mostly untouched, with no light pollution, and strategically located by several stunning clusters of stars. Everyone but a local.

TS-101 stood, eyeing the frozen waste he'd once called home with a critical, slighly annoyed eye. He'd joined the Stormtrooper Corp to get off frozen rocks like Rhen Var, and had found himself immediately assigned to a Snowtrooper Training Battalion after graduation. Made sense, but still made the young man a little aggrivated as he sat stood inside his company's snowy trenchline, his Dlt-19 oriented westword in the dim, foggy twilight. The thermal scope on his blaster's view was solidly cold, as it scanned from behind his dug in emplacement on the side of their position up a small hill, elevated enough on the plains to give a slight advantage. Norman couldn't believe the tenacity of the group of offworld rebels they'd spent the last several months hunting, in the horrid conditions they found themselves in. Rhen Var was a cruel place to outsiders. The 29th Snowtrooper Division had dug in and raided the surrounding countryside ceaselessly, finding little besides an occasional local or tribe, who would often help them with information on rebel movements once they heard their own tongue come from one of the faceless, armored troopers asking the question. TS-101had found himself Corporal, as his company's translator in addition to his normal duties as a DLT
-19 gunner.

So far the rebels had been expectedly shy, not wanting to face the overwhelming firepower that the Empire had, except for a skirmish here and there, but eventually they'd have to do something bigger. He doubted they could hunt enough game or fish enough on the run to feed a group as large as their's. Estimated to be about forty or so left after months of attrition.

Norman blinked. Blinked again. A small bright interruption in the deadness of the plains, blaring hot. His heartrate spiked as another cluster of blobs found themselves bobbing his way. He began to key into his helmet and was interuppted by the blare of the DLTs positioned 50 meters either direction on his left and right, with another troop yelling contact into their headset. Muscle memory kicked in.

Steam rose off the heavy blaster's barrel as it spat plasma flying towards the advancing figures. His scope sparkled brilliantly as a rebels blaster bolt flew past his head, cinging the finish on his hooded helmet as he fired short bursts into the shapes, cursing and praying silently as he continued to fire. A rocket took out the pillbox to his left, sending a jet of flame, ice, dirt, and man flying into the air.

Norman fired a little faster.

------------------------------

A small, faded transport ship drifted listlessly towards the stormy world of Durace. Along it's starboard hull sat a barely visible, but still recognizable as that of the now ancient Galactic Empire. Aboard sat rows of almost entirely defunct cryo pods, silent tombs for the troopers that had been unfortunate enough to have been in that particular location. Among them sat a few intact ones, fading nuclear powered lights dimming after a millenia of aimless wandering. Inside the few had lived and died a thousand lives, relived their own histories and haunts on a ceaseless loop, the pods feeding them just enough recycled nutrients from miraculously functioning algae farms that had grown uninhibited in the vessel for the duration of the voyage. A hyperdrive malfunction had ended the lives of the crew early on and left the passengers adrift.

As they slept the ship found itself pulled into the gravity of the barren planet it had unknowingly been headed towards for what would've been an eternity for anyone experiencing it. The survivors, if one could call them that, would find the pieces of their minds scattered into the expanse of their souls, with varying degrees of sanity and cognitive functions.

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Trent

VOIDTREADER
I​

The Golden Citadel, Nokhoira,
Durace, The Unknown Region (904 ABY)

'Great Khan! We have an unidentified spacecraft converging toward our orbit.'
'What are the markings, man?'
'Well, the Galactic Empire, but the old one.... The really old one.'​

Chuckling, though mostly at the fact he knew that stranger events had unfolded as thus in the Galaxy by then, and also at the fact that many more would transpire in the future, (especially in his second lifetime) the Khan would not even dare to feign surprise at the news. Even in their great distance from the rest of the Galaxy's realms, the Unknown Region always had a certain magnetic pull for all-things supernatural, and for all things that lurk beyond the reaches of sentient percerption; thus the Bloodhound's nose remained ever-ready to detected anomalies along the way, as it was certainly not just tears in the Rift between planes of existence, but also those in time, space and reality itself to consider by then.

The Galaxy's mystics had been dabbling too far without properly sealing the results of their work, thus keeping these broken walls in perpetual states of disrepair since, and with no way for the Galaxy to find them all, the only thing the Khanate could do since was record these matters of anachronistic concern. It was partly the reason why Barran became so wrapped up in studies on the matter, as the means of stemming such tides were still quite crude, to say the least, and of course, most-times more troublesome than these tasks were worth. But alas, just as someone had to investigate the anomalies within the depths of Imperial Central's undercity, the Khan acquiesced to the same requirements within Durace's outer orbit.

'Fine! Fuel a damn Doomsayer, an' ready a damn boarding-party. I want t'be done wi' this matter afore my bottle runs dry.'

ONE HOUR LATER...

[Hsssss]
[CLANG]

'Alright then.... Keshigs, fan out - stay active on comms for now.'
'Any particular orders, Great Khan?'
'Aye, one in particular - restore power to this relic, an' at the first opportunity.'
​

For the Khan's boarding action, the collective who were chosen for the task would be handpicked from the ranks of the 2nd Auxilia this time, essentially the elites from Dreamer Darkhan's very own battle-tested Marauders, the ones with the most recent experience of all three brigades in the Khanate's latest clashes. All the greater in their presence for the fact their Darkhan would be there in person to offer strength of his own, and with Dreamer and the Khan both there to keep their Keshigs safe, the Nomads would feel near-invincible as they forayed into the darkness beyond, as such was life for warriors with commanders who led from the front.

'Consider it done, Great Khan. Perhaps then we might get to land this thing, hm?'
'Don't hold yer breath, Fetters. We both know you're smarter than that.'

Ruby, of sanguine red.
Ruby, of wonder, and of fear.
Awaken, Awaken - let me see, let me gaze into shadow.
​

The red jewel, the carved eye that was chosen to hold where the right eye once existed, pulsated with red, glowing light once more, though only for the first time in a few weeks by then. Marking another, long-held wisdom about emanations from the Khan's being, as in the event the ruby illuminated, the Bloodhound would always be at work, scanning the world ahead for threats beyond the veil of existence. But whenever the remaining, left eye was glowing, and in a burning, golden orange hue at that, it was often the case that someone, or some-thing else was working, and with the Omen of Durace as it's chosen conduit.

Thus with jets of unseen red light pulsating into the ship beyond, spreading out like sonar waves through it's inner workings, the Keshigs there would (for once) be glad to see red light over that of orange, autumnal hue, regardless of the hypervigilance it would cast upon his subordinates' shoulders either way. Yet somehow, against all expectations of abominable concern, it seemed that no such issues would arise this time around, marking the first false alarm of it's sort since the fall of the New Imperial Order, over twenty years before that night. It was a blessing to break a bad spell, and though it would be welcomed as a nice change of pace, Barran could not help but feel like a sense for the uncanny still remained, like the awareness of this ship's presence out of time was still clinging to the mind.

Stuck on like hot tar.

'Anything there, Great Khan?'
'No threats.... But I can hear distant heartbeats, stable, but unconsciou-'

<"Keshig-Leader Blue to Bloodhound - we just found something, you might want to take a look at this.">

 

[Trent]

St. Thomas Barran

As the cryo pod responded to the marauders scouring the deck, Norman was lost in an ancient memory.
Almost no one ever wakes up thinking it will be the worst day of their life. Besides the precondemed. It almost always happens in a flash, in a single moment or series of moments. Norman Trent's series of moments came on the 15th day of the 10th standard month, 22bby. A fate he shared with over 3,000 other sentients that day. On the 15th the Confedracy of Independent Systems had taken an active interest in the area of Rhen Var his tribe frequented, cold, unfeeling electronic eyes watched from command centers as swarms of droids descended upon the unsuspecting planet. Vultures screamed through the sky, engaging the sparse Planetary Defense Force and their Clone Allies, balls of plasma screamed through the upper atmosphere as two Venator Class Attack Cruisers fought a desperate battle against a Providence Class Destroyer and five Munificent Class Star Frigates. From the planet below the flashes of light created brilliant lightshows and shadows, playing off the tall mountains and deep valleys of the Ice World.

Norman had watched with awe from his sled as the battle erupted above. His father spat and cursed, urging him onto their troika, an elongated sled pulled by a pair of Tauntauns. The young man was mesmerized at the combat above them, he'd seen holovids sure, but never in person. A jet of flame erupted from one of the venators as the droids concetrated their fire on it, forcing the shields to overload before ripping into the durasteel of the vessel's hull. Clones spun like debris as atmosphere was sucked into the void before gravity pulled them downward. They looked like little meteorites as they fell, white armor flashing brilliantly as they accelerated and burned in the lower atmosphere. Ice burned his skin as his father urged the animals ever faster, onward towards their tribe's mobile encampment, cursing and mumbling as he flicked at the reigns ever faster. The limping venator waned and began to plummet with the men that'd spilled out, shields flickering off as it did. Bombers and turbolasers poured fire onto the wounded vessel and turned half of it into am inferno as it went vertical. Norman held on in shocked silence as the 1,000 meter long craft lost power and fell in a direction that made him incredibly uncomfortable, he'd barely managed to get
maintain his seat as hypsersonic metal crashed into the ice around them. The tauntauns spasmed slightly but maintained their gait, luckily for their passengers they'd been through tribal violence before.

Ahead a mountainside and outcropping loomed, the large, open, durasteel door of the Republic Research station, the closest shelter for miles. Artificial light shone on the tundra beneath the shadow of the mountain as they carted full speed into the door, tauntauns wailing and a research assistant falling onto their face as the leftmost tauntaun smashed their collarbone. The assistant smashed the door control behind them as they came to their senses. "What the hell are you doing?" They shouted as the durasteel came crashing down behind them.

------------

A presence interrupted his feverish memory as his cryo pod opened, it sounded like a type of basic but in his state, Norman couldn't quite make it out. He opened his mouth to speak and felt his throat burn and crackle with the effort, a noise escaped, but it wasn't language. How long had he been frozen, waiting to die? His muscles were on fire as his body moved again, he had to have been incredibly close to death. He couldn't feel his extremities. He could barely feel his own thoughts. All around him shadows moved about as the pod went thru the necessary processes to awaken it's passenger. The tubes and needles sustaining him for his sleep slid back into the machine in a last effort as the pod's power flickered. His heart rate quickened as his vision stayed clouded, he thought of his family and continued to try to speak, straining against his body's own limitations.

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Trent

VOIDTREADER
II​

The Golden Citadel, Nokhoira,
Durace, The Unknown Region (904 ABY)

'Great Khan....'
'Hm?'
'Movement, pod four-delta.'
​

Standing up from his spot behind the diagnostics console, the eyepatch-wearing Khan had finally been given a reason to feel, at least, some interest beyond that of morbid curiosity. From there, the one-eyed Woad then walked over to the cryo-pod in question, coughing a little as he pushed the open button, letting the contraption go through it's processes before he finally uttered,'Welcome to Durace, home to warriors.', chuckling as he gave the new arrival a once-over. It seemed that this individual had many atrophies to overcome, but thanks to the technologies of the Core Worlds, the Khan had every confidence that this issue was easy enough to rectify.

'Don't overwork yourself, pal. We can handle your needs for now.'
'Well.... Lets not cut this encounter short straight away, Ghoul. Relax - he might have a story to tell.'

​

After that, the Bloodhound gently pushed his subordinates away on either side, seeking room to work without worry of bumping into the others, as it was then that he extended his hand to the new arrival. Fully intending to carry this atrophied new acquaintance to the diagnosis, the Khan then suggested,'Lets get you up on that triage table o'er there, hm?', and when the still-disorientated man accepted the helping hand, Barran that lifted him over the right shoulder with an ease that transcended the depth of his physical frame. Unsure whether it was proof of increased power or proof of the new-arrival's malnourished atrophy, the Khan could only consider being more delicate either way, thinking more like a doctor than a warrior by then.

'I'm Tam, by the way.'