Leaderboard

As the dust of the battle settled and the storm of darkness faded into the icy bleakness that was the reality of the world, the mummified remains of Inmortos stood. Picking himself from the ground where he had been thrown, he was a silent sentinel as the spirits within thrashed within their mortal bounds. He stood; unnatural and unholy as he oversaw the lording of the petty stone. Beneath his wrappings, the solidified face cracked in an unseen smile. Time would tell if this young vain thing had a place amongst the Sith, much less the true masters of darkness; and time, was a fickle mistress. He stood, watching, for as much as his natural time had elapsed, he had the reserves of eternity at his command. The more pressing matter, it would seem, was one of immediacy. The cravings of young Sith were bent on conquest. That carnage would feed the eternal void from which Inmortos was born and bound. And so, as the butcher directed the stone to him for a verdict, the consciousnesses within the god-king whirled in possibility. Slowly, as if creaking in pain and suffering, Inmortos lurched forward, a single finger waggling the air as he regarded the three Sith before him, each bound to him, their fates intertwined with his own. This cult had its uses yet and the dragon of myth would still serve to consume the galaxy. The voices of Inmortos spoke, carrying in the air, projected from a thousand angled and directions as they warped and warbled in a destructively seductive cacophony. ”No one will follow a captain without a ship.” ”No knee will bend to a lord without a holding.” ”This clan,” he gestured toward Akheron and then pounded a fist to his own chest as plumes of dust billowed from the impact, “survived when the rest of the Sith fell. We continue the fight even now.” ”And yet,” the necromancer turned his icy burning gaze to Dictum, “we have another here.” “One who was bound in the times of glory and the fall. It is not right that we discuss family business in such company. And so, I shall pass my judgement upon the Shard when it is but it and I, alone; when each bound to our cause and,” he paused eying both Dictum and Solus, “any outsiders are removed.” In the distance the towering ziggurat of Inmortos’ throne loomed in the shadows of the dissipating storm. The remainder of his academy for gifted individuals surrounding it, laid out in chaotic order, like grown chicks bound unnaturally to a mother hen. It sat a compact gathering of mazed streets and frozen catacombs, an enigma against the desolation of a world sacrificed to the darkness, a holding flayed and laid bare as a burnt offering before the avatar of darkness, an avatar Inmortos believed was his right to possess. “And so, Lord Akheron, it falls to us.” The chaotic hilt of Inmortos slid into the mummy’s hand. Whispers of the spirits trapped within both his body and blade hissing in gleeful agony at the temptation of death. “One of your crew has blasphemed the name of the Fanged-God and for this a sacrifice is demanded, penance paid in blood. Another stands here as an equal, and yet remains unbound to the welfare of the brotherhood.” ”Still, without his sacrifice, I would not stand here now. Whet say you, a master of cloth and a master of iron until they prove themselves worthy? Or shall we cut them down where they stand?”