- Joined
- Jan 7, 2017
- Messages
- 70
- Reaction score
- 25
Pelinaryon emerged from the lower districts a snarling mess of wounds and hatred. The Dark was a palpable maelstrom around the Nagi; it swirled and crested, soared and shrieked. It fed from his fell emotions, and he in turn basked in its destructive embrace, exulting himself in the heart of its shadowy tenets. It was a malevolent symbiosis. His eyes burned. It was during such a state that Pelinaryon stumbled upon a veritable gathering of warriors and soldiers, led by a junior Zeltron Sith that took it upon himself to mock and ridicule the more elderly Pelinaryon when he requested a Bacta solution for his wound. The Nagi ignored him, for the most part. He focused more on addressing the hole in his side and less on the young blood's jeering contempt. He let the Zeltron's arrogant hate flow through him, accepted its existence the way a giant accepts the existence of a fly, and carried on in his current endeavor; sitting on a wreckage pile, the warm slime of the Bacta on the perforation had suffused him with its usual wet sensation, and its sweet scent irritated his nose. But the effects cannot be denied; already he could feel the pain whispering itself away, and power returning with a relish. He closed his eyes and sighed; all around him was the sweet symphony of war, tainted only by one annoying gnat.
"... and you're toothless with that broken saber as well; what Sith would demean themselves so by having their very weapon damaged?"
Pelinaryon opened his eyes. He honed in on his surroundings, towards the soldiers. The mundane grunts and jarheads were ignoring the two darksiders, focusing their attention towards their gear and double checking their plan against a hi-jacked walke-
"And toothless as you are, you are defenseless against the whims of those who might desire to partake in your ruin. I have heard of you, Hellspear, and I do not think I like you much."
The Zeltron breached Pelinaryon's personal space and looked down upon him, his hands fondling the saber hooked to his belt, a sick grin playing on his tattooed lips. Pelinaryon tilted his head to the side.
Then with demon speed he rose up and crashed the top of his skull against the Zeltron's chin —a resounding thump, a disconnected groan of surprise from the soldiers— and Pelinaryon mounted the fallen Zeltron, one hand squeezing his neck with terrible strength, the other clawing sickening amounts of flesh off of his face with each animal stroke. Pelinaryon found himself snarling, his yellow teeth bared in a bestial grin; the Dark clouded his vision, and he thought he was killing the Cathar that had humiliated him, that had literally pushed him into such a sorry state, that Jedi, that Padawan, that fucking she-cat..!
His anger reached a peak. Pelinaryon looked up to the decimated heavens of Coruscant, strips of flesh and muscle dangling on his bloodied right hand, and he let loose a primordial shriek. Of such intensity, of such Darkness, that the nearby soldiers were blown off their feet and disorientated by its keening volume.
Pelinaryon rose. Blood dripped from his hands in a rhythm of pitter-patter-pat-pat-pat on the ground. The smell of urine and waste was stark; the Zeltron, in fear and near death, had soiled himself. The Nagi's chest heaved, rose and fell, deep breaths translating air into his pumping veins. He doubled over and picked up the dead Sith's lightsaber; it was one of those unseemly saberstaff variants, with blades at both ends.
He weighted it. The length was not that different from his original weapon, and the grip was customized with comfortable synthetic leather to accommodate any hand. He turned it on. The blade thrummed with eager violence; clearly, this was a tool used without precision. He turned it off and clipped it on his belt.
He took a look around him, and as expected, the soldiers were looking at him with alarm. Some had their hands near their rifles and blasters. Pelinaryon approached them and assuaged their fears with a genuine promise that his violence will not extend to them unless they invite it. Then he took command.
"You were discussing your plans," Pelinaryon said. "Continue."
A sergeant with a sniper rifle coughed as her eyes briefly passed over the Zeltron with his face mangled off. She took a projector from her belt and a hologram of the nearby districts sprang into blue life.
"A walker has been hi-jacked by the enemy a few kliks off in this sector," the soldier said, pointing her finger towards a blip on the map. "A band of Jedi were sighted by our scouts at this district. By their current path, I have reason to believe that they intend to link up and form a spearhead that might cut a line through our forces .... Here, here and here... And possibly join the Republic stand at the Rotunda."
Pelinaryon took a second of contemplation before reaching an accord with both his tactical, and bloodthirsty, mind. It would be a waste of manpower to try and halt the rogue walker's advance with this lot; and surely, some other Brotherhood commander was already aware of its existence and deployed the right response accordingly? No. Better to take the Jedi than initiate mass suicide against a mechanical behemoth.
"Direct me to the Jedi," Pelinaryon said.
---
They were three. Bloodied, bruised but still unbroken. Inside their hearts, they wielded hope like they wielded their blades; weak, weary, firm and tight in a vise grip, holding on to it as a drowning man might hold on to a debris.
They were three. Following in their wake was a rabble of dispossessed civilians; the despair, the confusion, the hatred, the anger rolling off from them... It was a delicacy for Pelinaryon. He siphoned strength from their emotions, entrenching himself upon their grief to invigorate himself with malevolent power.
They were three. And Pelinaryon was one.
Good enough odds for any son of the Twin Worlds.
A few hundred meters lay between him and the Jedi; the air surrounding them was practically charged in anticipation at the approaching storm of violence. Pelinaryon made himself known. He savored the way the citizens gasped at his arrival, terrified at his alien and eldritch appearance. He savored the way some of them radiated a new surge of hopelessness. Hands clasped behind his back, holding his lightsaber, Pelinaryon began to pace sideways. He called upon his natural grasp of the Force and used it to empower his voice.
"Hear me, Jedi," he said, a malign and arcane brogue attaching itself to his unbelievably loud words, "I am Kharanûth, Hellspear of the Brotherhood, favored son of the Twin Thrones of Moraband and Korriban. The Dark has laid claim to this world, and you bear witness to the apotheosis of our dominion."
He smiled; the Dark side had given his words poison, and it unfurled itself in the hearts of the weak-willed. It reached out to touch the spirits of the vulnerable and gave them a mandate to heed Pelinaryon's speech.
"You signify now the last gasp of a dying age; commendable, but doomed to fail. Look upon your world. It cries out. It writhes in agony. The very heavens themselves are decimated by our fire and millions burn under its light. Millions more will."
Take away their hope...
Pelinaryon, the Liar, reached out through the Force and bade the refugees to focus their attentions toward him.
"The Jedi, in the hour of their greatest twilight, could not protect Coruscant. They could not protect themselves. What false promises made you believe that they can protect you?"
... and replace it with Hatred.
The effect could be called magical, but it was simply a piercing strike aimed at the reality of the situation. Selfishness and the primal trait to look out for oneself was inherent in every being. In this stressful situation, Pelinaryon brought it out of the refugees with a simple truth; the Jedi cannot protect them. Under his snarling mask, he smiled as the words took control. Arguments began, doubt against the present Jedi rose to delightful levels; one man even took his family and broke off from the main group, swearing and yelling that the Jedi were herding them to be butchered and that he was going to find a way out on his own.
A shaggy haired blonde, barely out of his adolescence and still baby-faced, immediately counseled unity and cohesion in the face of adversity. He tried to reason against the growing sea of despair his fellows were experiencing, and cited that the Jedi were still their saviors. That the darkness could still be—
Pelinaryon whispered a word in his helmet's built-in comms. The sergeant from earlier responded with an affirmative.
There was a keening whisper of air and the young man crumpled to the ground, a sizzling blaster wound in the center of his temple. A moment of stupefied silence.
Then. A shriek. Like a person being devoured alive, an elderly woman —clearly the mother— fell upon the corpse of her son, cradled him, and screamed. The flare up of her loss, grief and shock exploded bright in the Force. The mother, venom in her eyes, looked hatefully not at the Sith before them, but at the three Jedi in front of them.
She could find no words. She did not need to. There was betrayal in her eyes, and a profound disappointment. She could find no words. She sat there, cradling her boy, back and forth, back and forth, rendered mute by shock.
Pelinaryon withdrew his hands from his back and ignited his lightsaber.
"See now the incompetence of your saviors," Pelinaryon said, his voice booming and dreadfully majestic, seemingly echoed by a thousand spirits. "See now the hopeless path of death they seek to corral you into."
He took the first step towards them. His eyes, this time around, were focused on the Jedi.
"You," he said, "have failed."
With an unnatural shriek that was more animal than man, Pelinaryon covered the distance between him and the Jedi with a single leap. His target was the female Jedi, who looked to be the most weary out of all of them. Falling from the sky, he readied his lightsaber for an overhead cleave that would split her into two, from brains to belly...
--------
"... and you're toothless with that broken saber as well; what Sith would demean themselves so by having their very weapon damaged?"
Pelinaryon opened his eyes. He honed in on his surroundings, towards the soldiers. The mundane grunts and jarheads were ignoring the two darksiders, focusing their attention towards their gear and double checking their plan against a hi-jacked walke-
"And toothless as you are, you are defenseless against the whims of those who might desire to partake in your ruin. I have heard of you, Hellspear, and I do not think I like you much."
The Zeltron breached Pelinaryon's personal space and looked down upon him, his hands fondling the saber hooked to his belt, a sick grin playing on his tattooed lips. Pelinaryon tilted his head to the side.
Then with demon speed he rose up and crashed the top of his skull against the Zeltron's chin —a resounding thump, a disconnected groan of surprise from the soldiers— and Pelinaryon mounted the fallen Zeltron, one hand squeezing his neck with terrible strength, the other clawing sickening amounts of flesh off of his face with each animal stroke. Pelinaryon found himself snarling, his yellow teeth bared in a bestial grin; the Dark clouded his vision, and he thought he was killing the Cathar that had humiliated him, that had literally pushed him into such a sorry state, that Jedi, that Padawan, that fucking she-cat..!
His anger reached a peak. Pelinaryon looked up to the decimated heavens of Coruscant, strips of flesh and muscle dangling on his bloodied right hand, and he let loose a primordial shriek. Of such intensity, of such Darkness, that the nearby soldiers were blown off their feet and disorientated by its keening volume.
Pelinaryon rose. Blood dripped from his hands in a rhythm of pitter-patter-pat-pat-pat on the ground. The smell of urine and waste was stark; the Zeltron, in fear and near death, had soiled himself. The Nagi's chest heaved, rose and fell, deep breaths translating air into his pumping veins. He doubled over and picked up the dead Sith's lightsaber; it was one of those unseemly saberstaff variants, with blades at both ends.
He weighted it. The length was not that different from his original weapon, and the grip was customized with comfortable synthetic leather to accommodate any hand. He turned it on. The blade thrummed with eager violence; clearly, this was a tool used without precision. He turned it off and clipped it on his belt.
He took a look around him, and as expected, the soldiers were looking at him with alarm. Some had their hands near their rifles and blasters. Pelinaryon approached them and assuaged their fears with a genuine promise that his violence will not extend to them unless they invite it. Then he took command.
"You were discussing your plans," Pelinaryon said. "Continue."
A sergeant with a sniper rifle coughed as her eyes briefly passed over the Zeltron with his face mangled off. She took a projector from her belt and a hologram of the nearby districts sprang into blue life.
"A walker has been hi-jacked by the enemy a few kliks off in this sector," the soldier said, pointing her finger towards a blip on the map. "A band of Jedi were sighted by our scouts at this district. By their current path, I have reason to believe that they intend to link up and form a spearhead that might cut a line through our forces .... Here, here and here... And possibly join the Republic stand at the Rotunda."
Pelinaryon took a second of contemplation before reaching an accord with both his tactical, and bloodthirsty, mind. It would be a waste of manpower to try and halt the rogue walker's advance with this lot; and surely, some other Brotherhood commander was already aware of its existence and deployed the right response accordingly? No. Better to take the Jedi than initiate mass suicide against a mechanical behemoth.
"Direct me to the Jedi," Pelinaryon said.
---
They were three. Bloodied, bruised but still unbroken. Inside their hearts, they wielded hope like they wielded their blades; weak, weary, firm and tight in a vise grip, holding on to it as a drowning man might hold on to a debris.
They were three. Following in their wake was a rabble of dispossessed civilians; the despair, the confusion, the hatred, the anger rolling off from them... It was a delicacy for Pelinaryon. He siphoned strength from their emotions, entrenching himself upon their grief to invigorate himself with malevolent power.
They were three. And Pelinaryon was one.
Good enough odds for any son of the Twin Worlds.
A few hundred meters lay between him and the Jedi; the air surrounding them was practically charged in anticipation at the approaching storm of violence. Pelinaryon made himself known. He savored the way the citizens gasped at his arrival, terrified at his alien and eldritch appearance. He savored the way some of them radiated a new surge of hopelessness. Hands clasped behind his back, holding his lightsaber, Pelinaryon began to pace sideways. He called upon his natural grasp of the Force and used it to empower his voice.
"Hear me, Jedi," he said, a malign and arcane brogue attaching itself to his unbelievably loud words, "I am Kharanûth, Hellspear of the Brotherhood, favored son of the Twin Thrones of Moraband and Korriban. The Dark has laid claim to this world, and you bear witness to the apotheosis of our dominion."
He smiled; the Dark side had given his words poison, and it unfurled itself in the hearts of the weak-willed. It reached out to touch the spirits of the vulnerable and gave them a mandate to heed Pelinaryon's speech.
"You signify now the last gasp of a dying age; commendable, but doomed to fail. Look upon your world. It cries out. It writhes in agony. The very heavens themselves are decimated by our fire and millions burn under its light. Millions more will."
Take away their hope...
Pelinaryon, the Liar, reached out through the Force and bade the refugees to focus their attentions toward him.
"The Jedi, in the hour of their greatest twilight, could not protect Coruscant. They could not protect themselves. What false promises made you believe that they can protect you?"
... and replace it with Hatred.
The effect could be called magical, but it was simply a piercing strike aimed at the reality of the situation. Selfishness and the primal trait to look out for oneself was inherent in every being. In this stressful situation, Pelinaryon brought it out of the refugees with a simple truth; the Jedi cannot protect them. Under his snarling mask, he smiled as the words took control. Arguments began, doubt against the present Jedi rose to delightful levels; one man even took his family and broke off from the main group, swearing and yelling that the Jedi were herding them to be butchered and that he was going to find a way out on his own.
A shaggy haired blonde, barely out of his adolescence and still baby-faced, immediately counseled unity and cohesion in the face of adversity. He tried to reason against the growing sea of despair his fellows were experiencing, and cited that the Jedi were still their saviors. That the darkness could still be—
Pelinaryon whispered a word in his helmet's built-in comms. The sergeant from earlier responded with an affirmative.
There was a keening whisper of air and the young man crumpled to the ground, a sizzling blaster wound in the center of his temple. A moment of stupefied silence.
Then. A shriek. Like a person being devoured alive, an elderly woman —clearly the mother— fell upon the corpse of her son, cradled him, and screamed. The flare up of her loss, grief and shock exploded bright in the Force. The mother, venom in her eyes, looked hatefully not at the Sith before them, but at the three Jedi in front of them.
She could find no words. She did not need to. There was betrayal in her eyes, and a profound disappointment. She could find no words. She sat there, cradling her boy, back and forth, back and forth, rendered mute by shock.
Pelinaryon withdrew his hands from his back and ignited his lightsaber.
"See now the incompetence of your saviors," Pelinaryon said, his voice booming and dreadfully majestic, seemingly echoed by a thousand spirits. "See now the hopeless path of death they seek to corral you into."
He took the first step towards them. His eyes, this time around, were focused on the Jedi.
"You," he said, "have failed."
With an unnatural shriek that was more animal than man, Pelinaryon covered the distance between him and the Jedi with a single leap. His target was the female Jedi, who looked to be the most weary out of all of them. Falling from the sky, he readied his lightsaber for an overhead cleave that would split her into two, from brains to belly...
--------
Death-Disabled PvP has now commenced. Posting order:
@Uleni
@Irxirola Mishka
@Valen Pelora
@Aystil Baham
@Esther Nyx
@The Living Daylights (once he gets his character approved)
@Uleni
@Irxirola Mishka
@Valen Pelora
@Aystil Baham
@Esther Nyx
@The Living Daylights (once he gets his character approved)
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