Jump to content

Krath Inmortos

  • Content Count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

4 Neutral

About Krath Inmortos

  • Rank

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. The darkness howled, it’s gutteral animalistic cry escaping Inmortos’ ichor dripping maw as much as the wind howled tearing the building apart at it’s seams from the inside. In an instant, two more lives were snuffed from existence. Their deaths only fuelled the unnatural fervor of the deranged Sith monster clad in black. The spirit within the blade wrestled for control, it’s power tapping that of the dark maw and empowering the sorcerer’s frail body in grotesque and unnatural ways. Yanking back on his weapons, even as the spitting stream of fire began to pour forth from the metallic assassin’s clawed hand, the man that was Inmortos gave himself fully over to the dark demented dreams of the dark side. No more were his petty aspirations anything when overcome by the pure intensity of infathomable darkness. Death was all around them, the spirits of the dead beckoning they that would join. Their ethereal claws grasped for the next to fall. They whispered on the winds, shrieking cries of endlessly eternally unsatiated desire. They cursed the blaster bolts turned less lethal. They cared not who died; all they hungered for was another to add to their ranks. Theirs was the will of the dark side, wanton destruction at whatever cost. Any attempts to enlarge their ranks would they support. Sacrifices must be made! Leaping with force imbued energy, the flames of HC-42’s attack scorched the fringnes of the man’s robes about his feet. He arced upwards, driving his glimmering Sith blade towards the leeping Leep in hopes of impaling her head on his ancient blade even as she unleashed a bluish cone of energy against his face. It burned. It stung. The grasp of the weapon raced down every nerve within the necromancer’s body. Inmortos’ momentum carried him tumbling over the top of the flame-spewing assassin droid, landing with a wind-spewing thud against the decking just as the onslaught of stun bolts erupted from Emma and her entourage tearing through the air towards where Inmortos had been, betwixt they and their comrade; but there no longer. The dark being’s hands twitched against the power of the blast. Stunned for but a moment, he lashed out from the ground, his saber and sword slashing viciously at the droid’s lower portions in an attempt to dismantle him by will of force alone. The power of the darkness coursed through him, amifying his pain, turning it to power, drivig back the effects of the stun blast. The withered wizard’s only reprieve was his vicious cries of agony that spewed incesently from between his chipped and blacked teeth. The flames that singed about his ankles only added to his pain as he righted himself to his knees so as continue his flurry of maddened strikes even higher on the droid midriff. His blistering skin was of little consequence beyond the pain that fueled his cries. As they caught on the wind and careened about the room, the darkness joined with the pain of the cries. It twisted and attempted to corrupt and destroy, trying to wither flesh and age metals and electronics anywhere it might touch. He was a servant of the darkness. His life did not matter. All that mattered was that destruction served a sufficient sacrifice to the darkness. ((3)) ((Turned himself over to the full authority of the dark side and the malevolent spirit seeking to possess him. He lept clear of the majority of the array of stun bolts, stabbing at Leep’s face midjump before being struck in the face by a bolt and falling to the ground on the other side of HC-42, leaving the droid between he and Emma & Co. Inmortos’ robes were ignited at the bottom edge, burning the man’s skin, the pain fueling his dark side power. From the ground, Inmortos slashed viociously and crazily at HC-42’s legs and midsection, righting himself to his knees, all the while screaming in pain; the dark side carrying on his voice in an attempt to prematurely age and corrupt whatever heard it/it touched.))
  2. With his saber ignited still in his hand, Inmortos crouched beneath his makeshift shield. Duel explosions rocked against either side of the ice-held door, buffeting the Sith lord in ripples of destructive energies that threatened to send him tumbling end over end had they not simultaneously buffeted him, sandwiching him between in a vortex of noise and power. Instead they ruptured his eardrums, sending echoes of pain radiating intensely through the firrerreo’s cranium. The intensity of such a cacophony threatening to overwhelm him, but for the pure evilness of the dark side that coursed through his body. Such a frail thing. It was held together but by the sinews of darkness and the powers of death that he commanded. The closer he was drawn to the maw of eternity, the less entombed by mortality he was. The more he died, the more powerful he became. And as his body was buffeted by the power of the blasts, his icy expanse ceased, remaining; hungering where it lay, only repulsed slowly by the licking flames. The Sith’s mind no longer planned. He no longer thought as a higher being, his mind ravaged by the dark side and assaulted by the soldiers of rebellion. He gave himself over to the call of the darkness, to the unnatural indomitable will of those that sought to control him. He lashed out, calling on the powers of eternity, the winds of change rushing to his call even here in this that would be the tomb of all that attempted to stand against the power of the dark side. About the room, the wind howled in a gale force surge of sweeping power attempting to upend and hurl whatever and whoever was not bolted down. The dark side still had use of this decrepit servant. His loyalty had yet to be rewarded. Where he might fail, the darkness would not and in full display it shook the plating of the walls and careened bodies and debris, crates and tools about turning them into missiles of deathly intent. The end game of darkness was destruction and Inmortos was a loyal bringer of such sacrifices; his body a conduit of the darkest depths of depravity. And as the straightline winds tore against and through the hangar, Inmortos gave himself over to laughter, evil, maniacal, and crazed. It carried on the winds filling the room with his lunacy, his mind opened completely to the call and grasp of the powers of darkness. In the depravedness of his lost mind, another spirit lurked, awaiting a chance to strike, to seize power and return from it’s shackled imprisonment. A dark presence cursed and bound not to Inmortos vorpal blade, but to another weapon that hunt at his waist, an ancient sword, carried by rampaging Sith warlords of bygone eras, still thirsting for destruction; for destruction was the true language of the dark side. It had once sought to claim Inmortos and been bested by the necromancer, but now, here, in the heat of this frozen battlefield, it fed off the powers of chaos, of destruction, of the dark side. Sensing Inmortos undefended mind, the spirit struck, lashing for control of the man’s physical form. The spirit had need of a vessel, that was all. As evil as the purity of the putrid dark side, the force bent to it’s will. And as it seized some of the control over the rabid ravaged mind of Inmortos, he drew the sword, his body succumbing to the will of the spirit. The spirit saw through the eyes of Inmortos, he felt through the senses of the Krath, and his will tangled with that of the necromancer. As HC-42 charged, the tendril of ice grasping at the robot’s servos, the assassin droid shielding the dark lord from the bulk of incoming fire. Such fools, unwilling to sacrifice each other for a greater goal. Swinging his sword wide, his weapon clashed with the heaving electrified weapon of the droid, blocking some of the blows and redirecting the forceful strikes away from his core as the weapon burned and singed the Sith’s robes and papery flesh, knocking the sorcerer back beneath the bot’s greater strength. For each blow, each nerve that seized and cried out in pain, the darkness flowed into the recess hewn by the weapon and as the spirit-laden ancient blade crashed against the staff, Inmortos other hand, swung his blacked bladed saber downwards in hacking motions towards the droid’s head and shoulders, seeking to sever servos and sensors before driving the dark weapon inwards in a stab towards where the droid’s heart ought to be. ((2)) ((Was ohysically buffetted by the explosive bladts of the grenades, eardrums rupturing and Inmortos’ mentality fraying against the onslaught of his mind, opening him up to the darkside. Inmortos unleashed a blast of winds afross the battlefield attempting to sweep his enemies off their feet and/or buffeting them with other airborne projectiles. Giving himself over to the warrior spirit that inhabits his Sith sword, Inmortos clashed with HC-42, taking some blows on the extremities due to the droid’s superior strength and lashing back with his black-bladed saber at HC-42’s head and shoulders before trying to stab him in the “heart”))
  3. Inmortos cackled wildly as the robots reacted as robots might be expected to. These machinations were no better than their masters that programmed them and it was for those souls that the necromancer craved; not these bits of rubbish. Yet there were still souls here to be claimed and they that threw their lot in here would be devoured. The dark sorcerer’s wounds from the battle before had healed, a byproduct of his distinct heritage, leaving the visage of death prepared for action beneath his tattered robes. This battle would be his and these abominations would be cast aside. The sound of blaster fire no more than began to erupt and the Sith lord was already flurrying into action. His feet did not move. The dark tendrils of the force surged with his unhinged desires and passions as his hands flicked upwards using the force to heft the fallen blast door from the ground, slamming it down between the dark lord and his foes across the bay even as some charged at him. The door created a buffer to absorb the withering display of destruction as the rebel blasters played their song of doom against the door. Inmortos was left sheltered for the moment, only his undead in the hall behind him as company. It was simple telekinesis, taught to even the most basic force using apprentice, slammed the door designed to handle such an onslaught back into the ground as a shield. With the touch of his hands upon the back of the door and the floor itself, the iciness of Inmortos’ void-filled soul crept out in all directions, drawing the life and power from whatever it happened to touch, tasting the energy of the fire that crested about the fringes and absorbing it in it’s bitter embrace. The ice solidified the door to the floor. It craved life, energy, motion of any sort. Whatever was caught in it’s expanse of icy doom would find itself clawed at so as to bind it where they met, freezing muscles and sinews and transforming moving cogs and gears into frozen hafts. Even as the flames licked the front of the door, ice crept along the back; a duel of eternity and destruction, a duel of competing dark side manifestations. This was Inmortos’ power. This was the power of the dark side made manifest. All the while, Inmortos whispered beneath his breath, a cursed spell torn from the skin-bound tomes of an ancient unholy order brought back to the world of the living. The very foundations of the force seemed to reverberate with the power of the forbidden words calling out to the dead that lay stacked behind the rebel force. Clawing their way back to existence, their souls re-bound to their tattered bodies, imprisoned and tortured, four of the dead rose up. Hulking musclebound dock men, their minds ragged and unreasonable, pushed beyond the limits of life, torn across the horizon of death, rose and charged. Their minds were simple, pushed to a point of utter rage, directed only by the curse of the dark side’s power chanted in a whisper by the necromancer. Righting themselves the undead charged the rebel firing squads, the graves’ tide seeking to charge, claw and tear at the droids and soldiers. They sought to drive their death-fueled passions into they that the dark side drove them to destroy. The lives, the power sources of these rebels would be extinguished if the freshly undead not ceased. ((1)) ((Used basic telekinesis to set the blast door up as a shield from the spray of incoming blaster fire across the bay and to catch the burst of flames from HC-42’s charging attack. Inmortos used Creeping Doom found in the Cryomancer’s Guide to cement the door in place with ice, sending ice outwards to attempt to ensnare the advancing rebels while simultaneously chanting so as to use Gravetide, found in the Necromancer’s Guide, to reanimate four of the dead that the rebels had stacked near them prior and send them after the rebel attackers (Emma & Co.) ))
  4. Inmortos tore his eyes away from the unseen scene above, what became of Apothos was not a mantle for the necromancer’s shoulder; not while the Sith still breathed anyway. All about him, the undead surged, their countless eyes relaying to the shadow-clad skeleton of a man the goings on of a city in turmoil and hopelessness. Even now, the city itself quaked beneath the lord of death and time eternal. Still, the rebels pressed on, intent on some unfathomable fools’ errand to try and lap up that which had rightfully fallen from the master’s table. The city would be lost. Inmortos was sure of it. He had seen to it. There were other cities that Apothos could ply his trades upon. This one, this one would serve as an example for all who opposed the Sith, and as warning to these so called rebels that their meddling came with a price; one too great for them to pay again and again and not be clasped in the steel maw of darkness and despair. And yet still, they fought. Carried by his surge of undead, Inmortos flew through the city. His legion of undead lizards had fallen to unknown forces. They were a worthless sacrifice and yet, Inmortos found that those people, they who worshipped him as a god in life and death, their sacrifices here pulled at the strings of his withered heart. Those had been his minions, sacrificed to serve him and butchered senselessly by these usurpers to the throne world of Apothos. Apothos would pay for them. These rebels would pay for them. And so, back towards the shipyards, the surge carried the dark lord. The canted spire that once was the pride of the galactic industry, battered, broken, listing and frozen barely stood. Hordes of undead surged through the shattered doors and windows. They deposited Inmortos inside the devastated main entry hall. The security post was vacant and decimated, Apothos’ deepguard having followed their programming and seeking out insubordinates and degenerated. Clutching his heavy cane in hand, Inmortos began his slow shuffle through the hall. He felt the force whirling lime a tempest, clawing in hunger for more blood, more death. Making his way throughbthe complex, Inmortos followed the call, the taste, of death. It led him to a locked door; blast doors sealed by the security countermeasures. What was behind it tasted other-than-heavenly. The taste of death was almost overwhelming. With his free hand, Inmortos slammed it into the door with a resounding gong. The sorcerer’s nails dug into the metal as wisps acidic rose beneath his palm. Energy poured forth from the dark side manifesting in tendrils of rapid aging and unmaking. The door began to crumble before the necromancer’s magic; slow at first, but as the door gave way, it clattered to the floor before him with a resounding bang about the hangar. Inmortos surveyed the scene within. The icy air was a remnant of his magics and he welcomed their cool embrace. The undead and dead littered the floor, some stacked like cordwood by the rebels. Behind him, more undead surged, held at bay by the will of the sorcerer. He regarded the rebels with a sick curiousity. They certainly looked like mortals, but their souls . . . their souls did not exist? They were droids! Blasphemous creations, tools of Apothos will. They were of little use to Inmortos; but their smoking husks may yet be of use to his fellow lord of Mon Cal. With what they carried in their cores, the rebellion could be quashed for eternity. The mortals, well, their souls would be added to his trove of souls gems. Treasures to be ferreted away in his vault. Standing there in the shadows, Inmortos allowed the dark bess of the force to swirl about him, manifesting as a cold breeze that whistled towards the door that contained the rebel forces. With a sharp crack, the Sith lord’s blackened saber hissed to life, it’s blackened energized blade drawing heat and light towards the abysmal maw of it’s existence. Steam and fog curled from the hilt, bathing the Sith in an ethereal fog of war painting him a cloaked specter; the embodiment of death itself. “It is the end rebels. Be gone.”
  5. Locked in physical combat was a place that Inmortos did not desire to find himself, especially with a rabid dog such as Mythos. He felt the beast’s anger, it whirled within the blowing winds in an invisible vortex of power that buffeted and empowered the very darkness the Sith was drawing upon. The heat of that passion became ice cold as it flowed through Inmortos and back out into the rebel commander. The icy tendrils snaked along the wolfman’s body, freezing muscle, bone, and blood in an ever expanding grasp of ice. His bladed hand caught in the rebel’s mechanized paw, left Inmortos feeling even more exposed to the incoming surge of teeth and rage. With a cry, the cryomancer did the only thing he could do, he fueled the ice that branched from his fingertips. Overhead, Inmorts could sense the clash of light and dark as Kirlocca and Apothos sought to best one another. Even if he was bot coherent enough to know what it was, the chaotic surges of darkness only empowered the Sith more. And then it happened, a horrible darkness erupted across the cityscape. The wailing and gnashing of teeth was but a whisper compared to the dark tear wrought upon the natural world. Apothos’ own machinations had struck a blow, in unison as only droids might, killing thousands in an instant. Apothos had sacrificed his own subjects. Nothing was beneath him. Nothing would stop his quest for power. Without a conscious thought on it, Inmortos’ face twisted in evil glee. The Necromancer’s tongue lolled from his mouth like a beast trying to taste the meal that it sought. He drew the power inward sending it cascading forth in an unhindered flow of heat-draining, life-sucking power. Mythos began to crystalize, the cool blue of absolute timelessness and lifelessness metastasizing across Mythos’ furred skin and armored form. It moved rapidly across the dog, cementing the canine in a twisted statued form of his final rage; his teeth, mere inches from Inmortos throat. And still Inmortos poured the energy of absolute nothingness from his hand ibto the dog, a ragged growl of anger searing from his mouth. Grasped in the dog’s dying grasp, Inmortos was trapped until the energies of cold and darkness overwhelmed the steeled mechanics of the arm, causing it to split and crack and rupture beneath the onslaught of cold. Ripping his arm free, Inmortos stumbled backwards still clutching his saber. He blinked and regarded the frozen figure before him, sparks fizzling from his exploded arm. Shaking his head, the Sith lunged, hacking away at the dog’s arm with his saber as he sent bits of frozen flesh and electronics clattering to the ground. He howled into the wind, the force feeling his raw emotion and feeding off it. The gale force winds whipped the snow into a fury about him and did not relent until the frail sorcerer tired of his onslaught; the dog’s stump of an arm reduced to nothing but a frozen stump. Stretching his back, he righted himself from his display of anger at having been touched, no attacked, by such an inferior animal. Inmortos lowered his arm that clutched his saber, deactivating it with a hiss. The force responded to this act even, the winds about the dark lord subsiding briefly before being picked up by the storm overhead. Inmortos regarded the rebel before him. He had fought and his soul bellied a being of power, power that yet existed within the frozen corpse that stood. Reaching into his robes, Inmortos produced a stoppered flask of milky white etherous liquid. Opening the bottle, the Sith approached, holding the flask near the frozen being’s snarling maw. Beneath his breath he chanted ritually, his words a long forgotten tongue of ancient forgotten magicks. He called to the soul of the dog, drew it into his throat until it streamed from between his teeth and into and unto the bottle. Catching what he could, Inmortos chanted until the vial was full and overflowing. Only the. Did he stop. He stoppered the flask with a squelch, stepping back to regard the soul-drooling statue with disdain. It was not his entire soul; bit it was enough. He would use it to the furtherance of his power, perhaps embed it into his throne or the walls of his citadel. Maybe even, with such power contained within this liquified shard, he would use it as a portion upon which to craft a crown worthy of his brow. He brushed the thoughts away with a wave of his knuckled white hand. Those were for another time. He regarded the dog again for a moment. He had tried and failed, as the Sith knew he would; for what else could be expected of a dog. There, amongst the maelstrom of force and weather, of death and dying and undying, Inmortos put the dog from his mind. He had other matters to attend to. Turning, Inmortos raised a single hand. It wavered in the air for but a moment before he let it fall. As he did, the command that held the hordes of undead back was broken and both the Sith and Mythos were swarmed by the hungering lifeless throngs. As he made his way through the surge of his own creations, they parted before him. Behind him, he could hear the slobbering and snapping as the zombies claimed another unto their own. Inmortos eyes glanced skyward; somewhere amidst the gale his partner danced the dance of death. If he were to fall, Inmortos had a plan for his body as well. ______________ Elsewhere throughout the city, the throngs of undead continued their tireless advance. Scores more continued to crawl from the seas. Where the ice, cold, and wind had not forced open sealed entrances and walls, the press of thousands of undead often did. Pressing inwards, upwards, and downwards, the legions of death were met with fear and revision wherever they went. Where two were cut down, three more surged to fill their ranks. Where innocents fell, their deaths were but a final moment of sanity before they joined the throng. Into the city, into the buildings, into the depths, the horde advanced, caring not for preservation of life or matter. They tore at whoever or whatever was in their way, their singular goal apparent: destruction of anyone or anything that might hold life. Beneath the water line, the city itself began to crack, trickles of water erupting into torrents as even the mechanized safety measures of the city failed beneath the accursed machination’s of Apothos’ mechu-deru. The dead surged with the water as it cascaded downwards into the city beneath the city, a city beneath the waves. Icy torrents of destruction that bit and tore without thought of who or what was before it. And the city, floating upon the once pristine, now frozen seas of Mon Cal lurched mightily as the water began to reclaim her birthright.
  6. Inmortos eyed the wolf even as he righted himself, his pulsating blade still in hand. The freezings mists rolled from the activated blade about the Sith mage. His gaze did not falter, his vision following the swift movements of the wolf. It was due to this evil-fueled gaze that Inmortos saw as the moving blur of fur and fang tossed an explosive into the air overhead. The sorcerer’s lips twisted in a smile of evil glee. The dog was rushing his encircling array of razored spears and shards of ice. The fool. As the explosive detonated overhead, Inmortos winced, his eyes squeezing shut out of some bit of primal survival reaction still carried in his decrepit and defiled form. And as his sight was obliterated in the moment, ending his continual glare of disdain, the Sith laughed. It was a deep rasping cackle of glee that carried over the battlefield; magnifying as the wolf threw itself onto the spears of ice. He could taste the blood in the wind-whipped air. Like a dog, this rebel had thrown himself forward, unable to calculate a safer path to it’s goal. So focused on it’s rabid intent that it did not care what could befall it before such a task could be completed. With his vile saber in hand, Inmortos lashed out. He did not need his eyes to see, for he was a creature of thebdarkness, a servant of the black eternal abyss. His was the vision of the ancients. His was the vision of the gods. His was the vision of the darkest realms of the force and it was this that he allowed to speak to what remained of his tattered and shriveled soul. Twisting Inmortos, drove his saber forwards into the storm of emotions that painted his attacker. He directed a broad sweep and stab of his black blade of despair towards the dog’s maw. He was not a bone to be chewed upon, cast away from the master’s table. He was the master, this battlefield his table, and this dog an infidel to be put down. Even so, the dog’s claws raked against Inmortos’ arm. It was a touch. It was pain. The dark man’s flesh split beneath the canine’s rabid talons. The touch, the pain, was all he needed. The dark energies of the force rejoiced in their servant’s pain. Inmortos’ face twisted in pain and rage. How dare this dog touch him again! Inmortos’ blade flurried blindly against the wolf, the winds of the gale surging once again to try and drive him back unto the spears of death. The wolf’s claw-filled paw that raked the sorcerer’s arm were met by the touch of icy flesh. Inmortos own hand, the one free of the saber, came down atop the muscled tendons and fur of the dog, the deepest recesses of the force pouring forth their storehouses. From the lowest depths of hell, Inmortos called the absoluteness of nothingness. No heat, no life, pure still death. With a touch, Inmortos loosed these powers unto the world, their frigid grasp expanding, seeking to draw the wolf into their gasp, a frozen statue, breath sapped from his body, life imprisoned for eternity in a moment of time. Rapidly these tendrils exuded outward, seeking whatever they might touch, so as to entomb whatever fell to their grasp in an eternity of timeless ice and death. ((3)) ((ACTIONS: -was blinded by the flash grenade, but guided by the force and close proximity of Mythos’ raw emotions. -moved his saber to intercept Mythos’ bite attack to simultaneously seek to skewer Mythos in the face. -Used a blast of wind coupled with some indiscriminate slashes of his saber to try and drive Mythos back into the spikes from last round. -Received lacerations to the arm from Mythos’ claws, using the skin to skin contact to try and freeze Mythos via a direct touch attack of Creeping Doom.))
  7. The billows of smoke were enough to obscure the sorcerer’s vision, if but for a moment before the winds of the storm began to carry them away. It was enough. As the whispy necromancer’s eyes searched for the signature soul of the wolfman, he moved forward, his blade held at the ready. Such a dog was not worthy to die by such a hallowed weapon, but if he wanted to play these games Inmortos would not hesitate to smite him in whatever way became necessary. And then he struck. Inmortos barely caught the soul-bound canine’s surge out of the corner of his eye as he scanned the battlefield. On instinct, the sorcerer spun, his singularity-fueled blade whirling in the snow and smoke as a surging blast of wind erupted from the Sith lord’s very being. The chaos that followed was immediate. Inmortos blade tangled with that of the wolf’s, his foe’s physiciality a power that Inmortos could not hope to meet head on. The surge of wind from the Krath raged towards Mythos, sucking away heat in the air and attempting to drive the warrior back by the power of the force, the power of nature’s life-claiming fury. Allowing the wind to throw him back on the waves of the force, Inmortos flew backwards towards the spire of Apothos, landing with a clatter on the frozen ground. The dog’s blade had been parried in part by the saber and Inmortos flung away from the brunt of the injury by the dark winds of the storm that he commanded. And yet, the wolf’s blade had not entirely missed it’s mark, tearing a gash in the dark lord’s swirling robes and tracing a track of blood and ichor across the Sith’s thin-skinned hip. Blade still in hand, Inmortos righted himself to a crouch, his robes still swirling about him in the tempest he drove towards his foe. With his free hand, the Sith touched the ground, the force surging forth from his frozen hand into the ground sending erupting spines and spikes from the frozen ice-covered ground outwards from his location in every direction, snares of certain destruction should the dog charge him again powering upwards and outwards in a shielding ring of destruction. And still, he glared at his foe. It would not due to let the beast from his site again. Inmortos’ eyes simmered with hatred and pain powering his unholy gaze of cruel disdain as he sought to stare into the rebel’s heart and soul, to freeze it in place and lock his musclebound body in a statuesque pose of pain. “Stay down dog.” he hissed, his voice billowing out on the steam of his breath. Never again would Inmortos allow such a lowly mortal to touch him again. He would see to it that this dog was frozen solid. From that crystalline statue, he would draw forth the dog’s very soul. Such a powerful essence would be used to build his temple, his entombing monument of eternity. The dog’s soul was worth more than his body. After this battle, the dog’s body would be too frozen to be of much use in the ensuing battle. ((2)) ((ACTIONS: Tangled Inmortos Stillblade with Mythos weapon to divert the brunt of the attack while simultaneously using Darkness Reigns to blast Mythos with a surge of icy wind and blowing Inmortos back to create space between the combatants. Some damage was still taken from Mythos’ blade. Landing, Inmortos used Maw of Inevitability to send a surge of icy spikes erupting from the ice and snow covered ground outwards and pressing his Glare of Cruel Disdain in a renewed surge. NOTE: Inmortos as a cryomancer and necromancer is not directly seeking to deal direct damage in a conventional sense, but is seeking to entirely shut down his opponent, freezing him and hindering him until he can no longer stand against the powers of entropy and death. ))
  8. Inmortos stood there, his guttural cry sending the wolfman’s dogs running. All about the two that still stood, like a fluid pulsating wave that defined the amoebous edge of their battlefield, the hordes of undead surged against a seemingly invisible barrier, held back by a mental tick issued by the necromancer himself. They would not surge, would not move towards the Shistaven as long as their master deemed it so. If one were to come to close however, they would not be controlled outright. Such was the power over the entity known as death. The only place about them that was not a mass of moaning hungering dead was the spire of Apothos tower that Mythos had sent his pups into as if it would protect them. His shouting voice fell to a hiss, Inmortos regarded the sole soul that lingered before him. He was an alpha dog; a dog that bore it’s fangs in defiance of certain doom in hopes that it might intimidate this unknown foe. Today, this dog would learn it’s place. Today, the dog would be put down. Blinking once, the man whose soul was as cold as his flesh, concentrated the power that flowed through and around his body. He called forth the forces of death and timelessness that were heralded by the cold and directed them with an unblinking glare of cruel disdain towards the wolfman. He sought to convey an unnatural chill even more frigid than the arctic winds and snow that flew about them; to shatter the dog’s focus and disrupt his aim, causing von Howlster’s muscles to seize and tremble resisting the will of their owner. With a glance, the Sith Lord showed his power. He had not even moved from where he stood, his blackened blade crackling against the blowing snow. But to freeze the mutt was not enough. This dog had bore his teeth to a superior and needed to learn his place. Inmortos knew enough about the ways of life and death to know such a challenge could not be left to stand. With a skeletally knobbed hand clenching his wicked saber, Inmortos used the other to gesture menacingly, drawing a single undead forward, a rebel of unknown background or breeding. The only known was that this interloper he had fallen to the scourge and been absorbed amongst them. With a clenching of his fist, the undead crumpled to the ground his soul manifesting in the dark man’s palm. With a twist of his hand, the dark waves of the force destabilized the soul of the rebel and Inmortos sent it careening forward towards the wolf. A wraith of the fallen rebel surged forward with a scream, charging towards the rebel leader, unable to recognize his once ally or stop his advance. He would only stop when he reached the Shistaven’s location, the destabilized soul going to implode in upon itself. It was akin to a fragmentation grenade in reverse and would seek to draw deepguard, snow, ice and anything not bolted down upon itself with lethal velocity. Accompanying this shattered soul, a trio of undead surged forth from the mass, commanded by the will of the necromancer. Animalistic beasts in a shambling rush, they sought to claw and gnaw and tackle, bind and ravage the wolfman to the frozen ground. Inmortos pressed their corrupted minds to the point of breaking, all it took was a touch of their mind by one who understood death. Tearing past the dark man clad in his deathly robes, the dead charged for Mythos. And still, he stood. ((1)) ((Powers are drawn from The Cryomancer’s Guide and from The Necromancer’s Guide. Both are linked here for perusal. I tried to include some description of the power’s potential effects in the post. ACTIONS: -Glare of Cruel Disdain directed towards Mythos -Used Soul Shatter on an undead to seize it’s soul and destabilize it, sending a ghostly figure of the former owner towards Mythos’ current location. This is fragmentation grenade for a sorcerer. The only exception being that instead of exploding, this implodes upon a point of singularity -Gravetide used to send three undead surging towards Mythos to try and take him down, the dead coming from behind Inmortos and passing by him to go towards Mythos))
  9. The screaming fireball of Nok Morliss’ ship was enough to draw Inmortos from his fervor. Even as the whitened surround of the city’s cold grasp ensnared and shrouded the world mere feet in any direction across the city, the vastness of the explosion tore over it all. The heat of it erupting in a cosmic inferno that signaled above the storm-swept chaos below that the battle was far from settled. Allowing his fueling of the storm to cease, Inmortos regarded the maelstrom that he had breathed essence into. It, like the undead that surged all around him now, had taken a life of it’s own. It would be several hours before it would dissipate from the intensity it now bore down upon Mon Cal and Coral City. The Sith lord’s glowing essence within the force faded some as he breathed a sigh of relief. Such a conjuring was a signature weapon of the cryomancer and yet the act drew a price from the caster. The Sith’s skin was frozen and blackened, in places by the ichor that clung clanily to his ice cold skin; in others by the frostbite that had taken hold of his exposed flesh. Coupled with flayed flesh that exposed some of his skeletal features beneath from the biological weapon of the Mandalorians and Inmortos was a visage of the reaper himself. And yet, over the howl of the storm, another howl pierced the winds. They were almost indiscernible against the blizzard until too late. The bombs and ordinance of the Mandalorian onslaught erupted in explosions across the surface of the shipyards. They sent billows of flame and duracrete into the wind, crating the ground and punching holes in buildings. All about Inmortos the hellfire of the children of Mandalore fell. The dead surged still, unaffected by the incoming doom. Those that were caught fought to pull themselves forward, the pain meaningless. Only the truly valorized were halted in their undead singular aggression. Around Inmortos those that were not cut down by the assault were felled by the necromantic powers of evil. The Sith Lord tore the essence of life from their bodies forming them each into swirlibg vortexing spheres of deconstructive power that whipped with fury and frenzy about his frail form. They swallowed the bulk of the debris that sought to tear at his flesh and render him into countless pieces. And even then, a pulse of light side energies radiated across the darkness that clung heavily to the world only shadowed by the dark powers Inmortos had come to recognize as that of Apothos. It would do no good for the Nemodian to fall. This world was his to command and Inmortos had many resources still to harvest from here before he tired of the sniveling lizard. As the onslaught of bombing ceased, Inmortos waived the remainder of his ubdead kobold-lizards off, directing them to find they that were assaulting the shipyards and end them, to swarm the tower up and down and to not cease until death was all that remained. Inmortos threw himself into the press of undead. He was carried by their writhing bodies and hands quicker than any mere mortal might be able to traverse. With a glance and a thought, Inmortos directed his chaotic carriage towards the spire from which Apothos called down his dark machinations. The battle surged greater here. Blaster fire and the screams of the damned and doomed pierced the howling winds. At the entrance to the tower formed a band of rebels. They were fools. They would die as fools. The snow crunched underfoot as Inmortos approached slowly; the ice beneath a hidden temptress awaiting a foolish surge of physicality. The wind whipped the snow, icy razors of pain and suffering to exposed flesh. Only the dead did not surge, withdrawing at a mental break issued by the black robes being of death and darkness. A wolf and his dogs. That is what Inmortos observed before him. With a blink of his eyes he surveyed not their physical forms but their souls. The towering wolfman would make an excellent addition to his retinue; but first, he needed to be broken. Some men used the lash. Some used affections and awards. Others used tortures unspoken of in civilized society. Inmortos was different. Those ways were so uncivilized and wasteful. The answer was simple: death. The dog would be broken by his death, reincarnate a subservient soldier at Inmortos’ beck and call. But Inmortos was not devoid of manners. Even death had some manner of decorum. From within the depths of his cowl, held in place by ice and ichor, he licked his lips tasting the souls of those he was about to vanquish. Summoning the dark waves of the force, he enveloped himself in the swirling vortexes of it’s power. Drawing the hilt of his saber from his sleeve, Inmortos clutches the haft of evil before him like a dark priest might carry his sacrificial blade. His staff clattered to the ground beside him. With a deathly hiss the blade erupted. Instead of bathing the blowing snow in a hue of red or any other color, the blade did the opposite. The denatured crystals within created a blade of infinite blackness that drew light unto and into it, shadowing the world about the wielder. Frigid mists radiated from the sorcerer obscuring his form and winds seemed to radiate from him in an outward direction. With the hum of the blade, evil seemed to break free of his chains and an unholy roar of phlegm and blood surged forth from Inmortos. It was a call of animalistic and mythical power. It was a call of the ancients. It called for battle. ((Pre-duel set up between Mythos and Inmortos. The weather and the undead mentioned here are environmental hazards from the battlefield, not NPCs.))
  10. The hordes of undead pushed deeper into the city, their rotting corpses pressing through the snow, pressing each other forward when the elements or defenses hindered them. The city was overwhelmed. The necromancer’s defensive measure was not designed to preserve. It was a spell, a sorcery meant to corrupt and destroy. With gnashing teeth and tearing claws and fingers, the swarm advanced, their cold deathly touch only amplified by the elements. _________________________________ In the shipyards, the sorcerous powers of Inmortos painted him as a beacon in the force. He was the epicenter of the storm and from there he poured power into the storm, it’s power beyond his control as it ravaged the city and the seas beyond. In the turmoil of the vortex overhead a pair of missiles churned through the chaos focused on the highest energy output of the storm: Inmortos himself. They were tossed by the winds and buffeted by the snow and ice that coated their hulls. The dark lord sensed the power of the incoming weapons even before they became visible. His hands slowed their tracing of the intrinsic and profane as he redefined his focus. Staring up into the whiteout, the Sith clenched his fists in defiance. As the missiles began to appear as faint outlines in the flying snow, Inmortos inhaled deeply pulling any of the residual warmth in the air towards him. The missiles lurched and jolted as they closed in rising and falling on the currents of cold and colder; slamming down into the rooftop of the overgrown hangar, detonating on impact. The missiles erupted and the entire western portion of the structure, large enough to construct one of many of the Mon Cal’s massive vessels in, collapsed with a thunderous ground shaking rumble. The weapons’ payloads were detonated in a fiery expulsion, launching them into the maelstrom. Their biological flesh-eating particles were detonated into the building and whipped on the wind currents of the storm dispersing them across the storm. Inmortos stood there, the force a whirling vortex of darkness about him as. The building he stood in collapsed in plumes of dust, ice, fire, and snow all enveloped by the storm. Inmortos vanished into the collapse. The hollow building settled into the cracked ground. All about the undead lizards tensed, pulling themselves from the rubble where it consumed them; grasping their weapons as they moved to guard their quarry yet. Overhead, even without the fuel of the dark side to grow and power it, the storm was strong. It would be hours before it would begin to dissipate; but without fuel, it’s edge was lessened. _________________________________ For minutes, the rubble stood unmoving. Then it shifted, subtly at first. Over and over again the duracrete slabs shifted and quaked, their rumbles shaking the grounds about the shipyard as a large slab that had been held up by a standing portion of the wall collapsed. In a sulfuric plume of smoke and ash, blackened spheres of cracking darkness erupted through the falling slab. Their smoke mixed with the storm overhead. The ground shook as the rest of the duracrete slab crashed down. In the middle of it, a hunched form crouched covered in snow and dust. Orbiting about this form were a dozen spheres of the same black energy of decay and entropy trailing smokey sulphuric gases and bathing the necromancer in a cloud that stood against the call of the biting wind. Slowly standing, the dark visage rose. His robes were ragged and torn, their deep black grayed by the snow and ash and dust. Burnt holes peppered the deathly cloak. Extending his hands out from the thick sleeves of his robe, Inmortos’ hands were pocked with deep and horrid burns from the hex missiles’ payload. Bones and ligaments were exposed against the skeletal hands, blood and ichor pooling and coagulating in the cold as it dribbled out of the wounds. Reaching upwards, the Sith Lord pushed back his hood. His face was ravages by the weapon, a large portion of his skull exposed to the elements. A swath of Inmortos face was missing from his nose across his right cheek and up along his temple. Ichor and blood flowed slowly down his face, bit at by the wind and the cold. Half dead and frozen between life and death, the Sith Lord called his staff to his hand. With a thumping walk forward the orbs of destruction carved a path before the necromancer until he approached the edge of the rubble. Turning his head to the sky, Inmortos let out a howl like that of a lich of legend. He called his lizardly warriors of death to him. Their muscles ground and churned against the bite of the cold as they snapped to lifely movement making their way across the windswept whitened battlefield towards their master. And through it all, Inmortos hands started to move again, calling forth the deepest recesses of the force. He reached deeper than the most crushing depths of Mon Cal’s oceans and high into the sky. He drew the darkness from these unseen heights and depths, calling it, controlling it, bending it to his will. He poured this power back into the storm, his hands tracing runes of power and destruction into the storm. The only things that kept the Mandalorian weapons from destroying Inmortos was the cold and the dark lord’s natural healing abilities. The frozen particulates dissipated across the city in the maw of the storm. Al they need do was be warmed by the world’s sun to renew their deadly quest.
  11. Inmortos danced. His body flailed about almost as if he were possessed. The cold winds tore at his robes. The razored snow and ice tore at his flesh leaving infinite furrows against his pale taut skin. It did not blossom a rosy red against the onslaught of cold. It could not. The Sith Lord was becoming one with the storm, his own body encased in an aura of cold timeless death. Still he danced on. His rooftop perch was swept free of the droves of snow that fell sideways from the sky, carried by the force of the maelstrom. In the distance thunder cracked and rolled, it’s own power unchecked as it rained down flashes of firey power from above. The winds blew. The weight of the darkness of the force Inmortos’ only anchor against being swept downwards. Ice accumulated across any surface it might cling to even momentarily and snow began to drift in deep dunes of crystalline power wherever the wind deposited it to lie. And yet, Inmortos danced on, pouring more and more power and hatred into the storm. He hated these fools who thought that these worlds were worth saving. He hated they they sacrificed their lives so wantonly for something so mortal. He hated the Sith domination. He hated the rebels. He hated the overlords who ground his parents into oblivion. He hated the very idea that this could happen to him. He feared it and reviled it and that gave him power. He raged in anger at the waste this battle created; that it tore him from the one thing that mattered, eternity. His emotions fueled his dance. His frostbit fingers carving their unholy sigils into the biting wind. His words torn from his mouth and lungs to fuel the feast of immortality the storm carried upon it’s fronts. The blood and ichor that seeped from his wounds blossomed into icy shards binding the sorcerer to the storm itself. He was the storm. He could not be stopped until all that he hated had been cemented in ice, ceased in their tracks to be redeemed by his own hands in death. ________________________________ The undead soldiers that Inmortos had ferried with him from his burgeoning fortress world stood guard; sentinel statues amidst the chaos. Their undead muscles froze and solidified in the cold. They felt no pain. They did not shiver or seize. They stood. When the time to move would come upon them, they would quake and snap. Pain that would fell a living thing was nothing to them. Broken limbs and torn muscles were merely a hindrance to be overcome. The twenty undead lizardfolk progressed asa barbaric mass against those assaulting the slowly closing doors. The hissed and cries and bit and clawed and struck with their fanged metal weapons. Driven back and knocked down by the overwhelming firepower of the rebel force, they kept getting up, dragging deadened limbs or crawling forward with their hands, raging the whole time. The only way to stop them would be atomization or destruction to a point that they flopped on the ground, no longer a threat. They felt no pain, their vision burned red with the master’s will: destroy. It was the gift of their god. Their will for no more pain, no more loneliness, no more death. Elevated above their mortal peers to demigod like status back on their homeworld. The assault pressed forward unhindered even as an explosion rumbled in the building behind their prey. Even when the ground opened up swallowing some of them, there were no cries of pain, no whimpers for mercy. Instead they clawed their way out, burnt and smoking, focused on the hunt. __________________________________ Elsewhere about the fringes of the city, the sea gave up her dead without question. Long since having crawled forth from the depths, summoned by profane powers, the long dead of Mon Cal surged forth, oozing, shambling, and even crawling. Some carried ancient and not so ancient weapons akin to their time of death; many advanced empty handed, hans clawing for flesh and anything that got in their way. Their skin and sinews hung as ragged as the remnants of their clothes. They came and they kept coming, clamoring up the city sides and across the ice. Wheb the ice broke beneath their crush, the fetid remains of Mon Cal, Quarren, men and women, and more pressed on and up. They were called by a darker purpose and they would not be denied. They were the dead of Mon Cal brought back unto unlife. Pain did not hinder them. Cold and loss of limb were but a hindrance to be overcome. At the city’s edges they pressed and inward they drove en masse, ransacking anyone and anything in their paths. Locked doors gave them pause, but even then the crush of their weight was enough to overcome but the greatest of security measures. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in their midst and grasp were devoured and destroyed until their mangled bodies rose upon the necromancic energies that radiated from the swarm; joining their undead kin. _______________________________ The pipeline explosion shook the structure Inmortos’ used as a perch. He was so lost in his neurotic dance that he hardly noticed, stumbling only to right himself and continue to throw himself into his profane ritual. ((OOC NOTE: Both the blizzard and the undead horde are environmental hazards brought to bear in the environment that is the battlefield and skies above and seas beneath. The NPCs that Inmortos brought with him are not environmental , but are simply flavorful NPCs.))
  12. He felt it. Inmortos felt the dark rippling of the force currents as soon as the Mandalorians burst into the atmosphere. It made him grin, a sickly smile of bloodstained yellowed and blackened teeth. It was a flavor long remembered, to when the Sith and warriors of Mandalor had bathed together in blood side by side. That dark fealty was a power few could command. Not in life at least. Inmortos cackled as he made a mental note to resurrect the dead shield maidens and berserkers at battle’s end. For it was to be a battle. All around him, landing craft had rained down from the sky. Their steeled shells spewed forth legions of commandos unto the city, Apothos’ City, a City of the Sith! It had been fortuitous that they had returned, almost as if the force itself willed their presence upon this world; called forth to defend with dark savagery that which was theirs to claim. Looking to the sky, Inmortos could see the battle beginning to unfold above, the swarms of Mandalorian riders a herald for an unnatural pairing. Inmortos head whipped downward as if he could surveil in a glance. Children of the light, children of weakness, they were here as well. Worthy sacrifices perhaps? With his eyes narrowed, the Sith Lord could see the beginnings of an assault across the massive duracrete field that made up the largest shipyards in the floating city. He stood amongst the warehouses and construction bays, but in the distance the sound and flash of blasters foretold of death. Inmortos licked his lips. Ah death. With a wave of his gaunt sallow hand, Inmortos wordlessly directed twenty of his hundred undead lizard primitives to aid in the defense of Apothos’ divine sanctuary of finance, the unholy halls of Mon Cal Shipyards. Clad in angled blackened plate and mail, bearing weapons of medieval evil nature (spears, swords, etc) the diminutive lizards fell into a haphazard charge, their hissing battle cries heralding their chaotic advance on the men, women, and droids pushing against the entrance of Apothos’ sanctum. Without waiting to see if his undead minions would succeed, Inmortos turned and approached the nearest hulking enclosed ship bay, a rickety stair provided all the access he needed. With a thought he directed the eighty remaining kobold-esque undead to surround the structure. No access would be allowed, wilingly. Hand over hand and step by step, the prematurely aged sorcerer ascended the rocking stairs, the winds beginning to whip his heavy robes about him as they began to grow and crescendo following the chanting rasp of the Krath’s voice as it formed ancient words that were carried forth by the wind and the tempestuous roil of the dark side. Gaining the roof, Inmortos leaned into the wind, clasping his ithor wooded cane against the howl. With steps as sure as the encroach of death itself, Inmortos walked to the center of the roof. Once there, the Sith Lord’s voice rose as he threw back his head howling his accursed tongue unto the winds. His staff fell to the room with a clank as the Sith’s hands preoccupied themselves with repeatedly tracing profane sigils unto the air and wind, each born and carried forth into the darkening sky. Across the city and centering upon the sorcerer, radiating out in etching arching bands of cold, the temperatures began to plummet. It would take some time, but soon enough even the seas that lapped at the city’s edge would begin to crystalize, frozen in the embrace of darkness, death, and eternity as the warmth was sapped from them. Overhead, deep dark clouds began to channel themselves into existence, exploding exponentially over and over again with each unholy cast of Sithly magic. They began to poor forth sheets of driving rain that froze to whatever it clung to. The city that was bathed in darkness by the rebels own assault would fall even deeper into the black as the power of the Sith sought to block out the very sun. And still the temperatures fell and the winds howled their ethereal call. Across the city, liquids began to solidify, fuels began to gel before solidifying in time. Joints froze. Engines seized. Lives began to wither against the onslaught of winter’s beauty unleashed once again upon the city and world. Still, Inmortos chanted; his words were torn from his lips by the wind. His body sho with the cold as it overtook him. He felt it. The pain of frostbite and beyond wracking his body. That pain drove him, focused him until he looked to be half mad with pain and dark enthusiasm, his frail body dancing in the wind as he traced the darkness of his soul unto the world before him. His cloaked ripped with rage against the frail being’s body, held in place against it’s will as it sought to free itself unto the grasping teeth of the wind. In the distance, thunder pealed out in a chasing cacophony across the city; lighting raining down haphazardly without aim or cause. In centered locals, the wind s began to form themselves into grasping funnels. And all the while, the temperatures continued to fall. Eventually the cold caught up with the onslaught of the weather and the droves of falling rain turned to sleet and then to snow. Driven like innumerable falling shards of glass on the wind, the snow carved farrows into anything soft and exposed. Bathed in the glow of dark side energies, Inmortos allowed any control of the storm to supersede him as he poured forth energies into the blizzard.
  13. In close formation with Apothos’ ship, the Eternus dropped from hyper. The bridge was cold and empty save for one black-shroud being who stood at the helm. The temperature in the ship was just enough to preserve life, bearing back the eternal embrace of the emptiness of the cosmos. The phrase ‘like a meat locker’ was only apt in that it barely touched on how cold it was within. The edges of the crafts view panes were spiderwebbed with frost. The dark lord shivered momentarily against the cold, a vestigial reminder of his still somewhat mortal body. He had departed Aaris III before his ritual had been completed. The man longed for nothing more than to continue his construction on his tombworld, a legacy to remembered across tome eternal; but with his power came responsibility. A responsibility to the more carnal ventures of the Sith Empire; and so he had returned with Apothos to his throne to obtain crafts of war upon which to carry the legions of his undead servants, to subjugate the galaxy and in that allow Inmortos time to cement his own legacy in stone, blood, and ice. With slow deliberate movement, Inmortos surveilled the orb before him. Mon Cal, that perfect jewel, hung weightless against a backdrop of stars. The flaws of the world wrought by the weakness of Nok Morliss, a weakness now carved free of his flesh, glimmered like cracks on the world’s surface. A dark presence emanated from the ship, connecting with the lingering sorcerous necromancy Inmortos had left in place upon this world. If it had been a test of his abilities, the stating power of the magics, even this far away, boasted of unseen success. The status of the bodies reclaimed from the deep was another matter entirely, one of which had yet to be seen. Yet something was wrong, Inmortos could feel it, a chaos not of Sith machinations blended with the cries of recent and long ago rendered evils that echoed from the world. Surveying the cosmos, Inmortos pondered as to the location of Apothos vast fleets. Had the one he had unshackled been deceiving him all along? With a determined depression, Inmortos keyed a comm directly to his comrade. His voice was a harsh grating whisper, cold and heavy, in a word, lifeless. “Apothos. Your world smells of chaos wrought not by our hands. Revolution unto a god is sacrilege. Punish them.” He lifted his finger from the comm before adding with a hiss, “Or I will.” So much water. So many servants cast unto the deep and forgotten by their brothers in arms and loved ones. So much potential. This world was truly a gem to behold and with the proper urging could be transformed into an icy tomb of immortality; but first, it must be crushed. The Eternus angled itself, not waiting for Apothos reaction and began a sharp descent towards the planet. Whatever was going on would be dealt with. Permanently. All the Sith Lord needed was a place to land. The shipyards were open and known to Inmortos to contain the prizes of his brother. They mattered little to him; however, the ships and knowledge contained within would be of great use in establishing Inmortos’ own contribution to the Sith war effort. Then at last, he might be left to his own devices, to eternity. The Eternus landed softly in the midst of the yards, a flurry of armed deepguard noting the ship’s arrival and logging it as the dark lord’s. A token emissary stood to greet him as the clunk of his cane heralded his decent to the planet. “Go.” he waived his hands at the droids, sending them off to their more oressing tasks of suppression. With a grandiose wave of his hands, dark ripples of energy cascaded outwards from the Sith, swarming back unto the ship like a pack of ravenous howlrunners clawing atop one another until they surged within and awoke the slabs of undead stacked within the hold. Within minutes an entire squadron of diminutive lizardfolk armed with jagged evil spears and blades and clad in bulk plate and mail trudged forth. The life was gone from their eyes, replaced with a hunger; obedient, subservient, and deadly. The first of Inmortos undead servants from Aaris III to be blessed to be chosen by their god and carried forth unto the stars. At home, they had already become the stuff of legend. Across the city, chaos seemed to reign in the moment, as even now the hordes of Apothos magicks brutally restored order to what should have been a lesser servant race.
  14. Over the coming days, the foundries that Apothos had discovered beneath the city churned evermore to life. There was all the taw materials a fledgling foundry could ask for. Soon enough the dull roar of their fires could be heard grumbling faintly beneath the city. Weapons, armor, and even the beginnings of an ancient lizard-designed corvette began to take shape beneath the surface. The entry to the foundry that Apothos had found was but one of a chain of such structure, some larger and smaller. Most of them were still secured; although a couple had to be rid of lizardly inhabitants and their primitive abodes. On the surface, Inmortos’ will began to reverberate from his display of power. The lizardfolk warriors who had witnessed the dark lord’s display of power had been quick to spread the news of what they had seen to the others until hisses and chirps were resounding about the island. Within a day’s time, the people were bringing offerings to appease this new being that had descended from the heavens and called forth powers to overthrow their own gods with a wave of his hand. Nothing they brought was good enough. Nothing could appease Inmortos’ appetite. A chosen few, given the mark of the beast, for that is what they called the blackened palm print Inmortos bestowed upon those who quivered bjt dared to stand up to him, had become a sort of vanguard for Inmortos. While they could not stand against his undead Mon Cal and Quarren servants, they served a purpose. They were allowed into the presence of their dark deity. They alone were not struck down in his presence without a gift. They became his hands in their tribes. Over the weeks they began to assemble vast populations of their kin. Some began to slave away in Apothos subterranean realm of fire and shadow. Others worked to clear the rust and overgrowth from the downed city. When one died, his soul was drawn forth by Inmortos himself. It was the only time labor ceased, when the dark deity strode forth to reclaim the life lost. In grief, hope was found; for those who died in the service of their new god-king were reborn, stronger, fearless, and strange. Those blessed enough to die in service worked without ceasing, elevated in status over their mushy mortal brethren. The secrets of necromancy were Inmortos’ alone; but to the primitives, he was their god. He was a defier of death, conqueror of all that was seen and unseen. Those who did not work were sent into the abyss of fire and darkness to slave before the master of the hellscape, never to be seen again. Long dead warriors, ancestors, and friends were unearthed and brought before Inmortos. They too received his touch and rose again to ‘live’ and serve alongside those that had counted them lost for all eternity. And so, the peoples worked diligently. They harvested their foods and purged their city at the will of their overlord. Each lizard that was worked to death had his soul frost harvested, the beginnings of Inmortos’ temple and tomb. Atop the toppled spire of the city’s highest point, a ziggurat of ice began to take shape, it’s cold tendrils branching outwards over the city blanketing the area in an eternal autumn of cool winds and cold nights. Fallen sheets of metal and stones were hoisted by the primitives sheer strength of numbers and desire to please their new god-king. The tower took shape looming over the landscape. The city was coming to life. The world was bowing before the Sith and in that submission, the ancient prosperity was coming to the present and growing exponentially. Within a grand circular central chamber atop the ziggurat, Inmortos stood, his hands raised high and blackened by the frigid air that whirled and swirled about him. He chanted, dark ancient words of prophecy, older than the Sith Empire, older than the Jedi or the Sith, almost as old as the universe itself. From his maw spilled the frost of countless souls, primitives, Mon Cal, any and everyone Inmortos had harvested from. He poured their deaths, their darkest emotions into his creation until it was complete. An ornate throne of swirling whirls and jagged maws of mythical creatures sat there. It was the center of the room and from it radiated an ink cold darkness. It was the lack of fire, lack of heat and light. It was an analogy of death itself, sustained by the darkness and frost and blood that were poured into it. For days, Inmortos carved bloody deathly runes into every sacrifice his enforcers brought to him until the blood flowed freely down the throne and poured forth from the ziggurat unto the masses below. As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to almost a month a vast horde of living and dead assembled beneath the command of Krath Inmortos, deity of life and death. They were armed with fanged blades and clothed in feral armors of night. The dread corvettes that slowly chugged out of the atmosphere were unable to contain the mass army of undead that were being pulled from the soil. The city continued to serve. The ziggurat grew and it’s icy halls expanded outwards, bolstering the foundation and oozing darkness, cold, and ice. It was only then that Inmortos and Apothos opted to depart their newfound conquered world, to return to the lair of water and machine, to Apothos’ den of iniquity. A fleet needed to be commanded to augment the smaller ships of Aaris III and carry forth the armies of Inmortos and the navy of Apothos unto the galaxy.
  15. Inmortos stepped from the shadow of the ship, exiting the breach he had made. Outside he surveyed nearly a dozen skin, tunic, and leather clad lizardfolk. Each clutches a spear or some other makeshift weapon. Towards the back there were even some with crude bows of wood and sinew. The locals eyed the interloping Sith nervously. He could taste their fear. It was almost more sweet than the fear of the fish folk Apothos commanded. These base minds knew much less and feared even more. There was one thing they did know however: power. Power was what subjugated them to their false jungle deities. Power they feared and could not match. Power was what kept order in their subterrainian commonwealths. The rule of might still clung ahold to them, even if they were relatively peaceful. It was true, they were not warriors. Still, Inmortos could taste the baseless death and destruction they had wrought upon this world as if it was yesterday. So fresh, so blurred was the passage of time to the decrepit Sith Lord. All these people needed was a push. A push to show them true power. A push to inspire and invoke fear. A push to bring them under his thumb. Looking out over the gathered few, the chosen, Inmortos knew what he must do. They did not share a language or culture. They did not need to. Stepping forward, Inmortos footsteps crinkled with icy intensity as the moss and growth froze and snapped beneath his death-shod feet. He approached the militia, licking his dry lips and tasting their unease. He did not stop moving forward, slowly. They withdrew, pressed against one another until they were practically crushing their comrades for fear of this man and the aura of death that radiated from his very visage. And then it happened. Finally. With no where else to go, no where to run, no where to turn, a young male drove his stoney spear point into Inmortos. The carved edges sliced through his cloak with ease and the weapon lodged in the Sith Lord’s side drawing blood and ichor in equal amounts to pool and saturate his garment. Only then did Inmortos stop his progress. The dark Firrerreo locked eyes with the lizard-like local who was even now shaking uncontrollably with fear. Not a word was said as silence seemed to fill the air and press in heavily from every side. Running his hand upon his blood-soaked robe Inmortos drew his hand up to look at his own mortality before he turned his attention back to the trembling cowardly soldier before him. Slowly, with the intensity and purpose of oncoming death, Inmortos reached down to grasp the haft of the spear in his bloody hand. With a hiss the weapon dissolved in a crackling of splinters, falling downwards in a fine dust of aged sawdust. The offending lizard gasped as he held out his hands to see the dust that was his weapon sticking to his palms. His shock was not over though, far from it. The Sith Lord lunged closer, his hands shooting out to grasp a limb and face of a lizard on either side of he who had struck him. In a ethereal tidal surge of power that vibrated the leaves of trees down the way, Inmortos unleashed his power so that all might behold. Both the lizard to the right and the left disintegrated to dust amid screams of agony. No one dared to move even as they cringed at the sounds of the pain. Righting himself, Inmortos ran a hand down his wounded side, his innate abilities already trying to stitch the wound. He coated his hand in blood and with it reached out. The lizardman who had attacked him nearly fell in fear, his knees knocking together. Inmortos grabbed his face and the lizard hissed in pain as the blood seemed to burn and freeze leaving a blackened raised scar across his maw. Then and only then, did the Sith throw back his head and cackle. It was a laughter that reached to the sky. The air above them plummeted downwards in a whoosh of wind, it’s tempersture dropping rapidly at the touch of Inmortos’ voice. And all here would know that he, Krath Inmortos, carried forth the powers of life and death, that by the touch of his hand eternal damnation was wrought, and by the kiss of his lips their gods would fall.
  • Create New...