Post by Erlking on Jan 23, 2023 2:56:55 GMT -5
The Wolfsbane rumbled steadily across the black abyss—The eternal void between worlds stretching endlessly around it. Erlking sat silently in the midst of a modest crew, his seat elevated far above their heads. He rested his head on one arm, gazing lazily through the reinforced windows surrounding the bulbous command center. In his other hand, he absently twirled his purplish ruby.
… WE ARE NEARLY THERE.
A deep voice reverberated through his mind, bouncing along the walls of his skull. The slightest hint of a grimace flashed across Erlking's face.
My… Haven't you become talkative, He replied, a hint of annoyance in his thought. Had I known you’d one day pester me like this, I might not have taken your deal… ancient one, He continued. A moment later, the voice responded.
… ALL MORTALS ARE THE SAME. POWER DRIVES US. BINDS US. YOU ARE NO DIFFERENT. WE… ARE NO DIFFERENT.
Erlking sighed and sat up straight. He’d been given similar lectures by the old deity many… many times during the past few weeks. Enough so that he was able to faintly understand him. He was saying (albeit very cryptically) that, given the choice—Both he and Erlking would always choose the same thing. He was partially correct.
Crazed as he was for strength… Not all power was worth its price. Immortality, for instance. He and this… deity, differed in that respect. The ancient one had sold himself long ago for promise of eternal life… And Erlking thought it was pathetic. Eternal life was a curse in itself.
Erlking chose not to reply—He didn't need to. He and this ancient one were united, and it could plainly read any thought he had. He too became silent. After a few minutes, Erlking knew he’d returned to his dormant slumber. Having these short conversations took every bit of energy the dead god could muster. Shortly after, the distant, faint outline of Arcose and its many moons appeared. It annoyed him how often the ancient one was able to ‘predict’ these things.
His small crew entered into communications and began to organize their descent. The officials at Floe Spaceport took longer than normal… But given the withdrawal from Pars, and the port’s normally vibrant and busy schedule… This was expected. After a few minutes, they were clear to land, and the Wolfsbane soared down onto one of the upper levels— Bay Area UC-11. This area was normally reserved for alien tourism and was already equipped with a vast amount of medical and cold protection gear. It was rarely used—Tourism wasn't exactly a major imperial industry—So the port officials stuck him and his military there. With a powerful THUNK, and subsequent powering down of engines, the Wolfsbane made landfall.
He stepped out of his ship, casting a neutral gaze on his forces. Hundreds of hawk fighters, some more battered than others, were arrayed in a messy organization. Thousands of soldiers, most wearing damaged armor, performed various tasks. They seemed to be trying to alleviate their boredom, most of them having arrived the month before. All of them had that same “downtrodden” look. They’d had nearly a month to process what had happened. They’d fought, and died in a useless conflict, over a planet which itself was now meaningless. Rendered uninhabitable by the oceans of lava covering it. More importantly, Clan Unghol was in a miserable state. The war had virtually destroyed it. That was more devastating to these men, whose livelihoods depended on the clan.
“What a sad sight,” He growled quietly under his breath, stepping onto the docks. The Prince of Pars had much work to do, it seemed. The triumvirate would have to wait for now.
… WE ARE NEARLY THERE.
A deep voice reverberated through his mind, bouncing along the walls of his skull. The slightest hint of a grimace flashed across Erlking's face.
My… Haven't you become talkative, He replied, a hint of annoyance in his thought. Had I known you’d one day pester me like this, I might not have taken your deal… ancient one, He continued. A moment later, the voice responded.
… ALL MORTALS ARE THE SAME. POWER DRIVES US. BINDS US. YOU ARE NO DIFFERENT. WE… ARE NO DIFFERENT.
Erlking sighed and sat up straight. He’d been given similar lectures by the old deity many… many times during the past few weeks. Enough so that he was able to faintly understand him. He was saying (albeit very cryptically) that, given the choice—Both he and Erlking would always choose the same thing. He was partially correct.
Crazed as he was for strength… Not all power was worth its price. Immortality, for instance. He and this… deity, differed in that respect. The ancient one had sold himself long ago for promise of eternal life… And Erlking thought it was pathetic. Eternal life was a curse in itself.
Erlking chose not to reply—He didn't need to. He and this ancient one were united, and it could plainly read any thought he had. He too became silent. After a few minutes, Erlking knew he’d returned to his dormant slumber. Having these short conversations took every bit of energy the dead god could muster. Shortly after, the distant, faint outline of Arcose and its many moons appeared. It annoyed him how often the ancient one was able to ‘predict’ these things.
His small crew entered into communications and began to organize their descent. The officials at Floe Spaceport took longer than normal… But given the withdrawal from Pars, and the port’s normally vibrant and busy schedule… This was expected. After a few minutes, they were clear to land, and the Wolfsbane soared down onto one of the upper levels— Bay Area UC-11. This area was normally reserved for alien tourism and was already equipped with a vast amount of medical and cold protection gear. It was rarely used—Tourism wasn't exactly a major imperial industry—So the port officials stuck him and his military there. With a powerful THUNK, and subsequent powering down of engines, the Wolfsbane made landfall.
He stepped out of his ship, casting a neutral gaze on his forces. Hundreds of hawk fighters, some more battered than others, were arrayed in a messy organization. Thousands of soldiers, most wearing damaged armor, performed various tasks. They seemed to be trying to alleviate their boredom, most of them having arrived the month before. All of them had that same “downtrodden” look. They’d had nearly a month to process what had happened. They’d fought, and died in a useless conflict, over a planet which itself was now meaningless. Rendered uninhabitable by the oceans of lava covering it. More importantly, Clan Unghol was in a miserable state. The war had virtually destroyed it. That was more devastating to these men, whose livelihoods depended on the clan.
“What a sad sight,” He growled quietly under his breath, stepping onto the docks. The Prince of Pars had much work to do, it seemed. The triumvirate would have to wait for now.
PL: 15,000
WC: 612
Notes: TLDR, After withdrawing from the dying world of Pars, Erlking arrives and sees the remnant of his army in a miserable state.
WC: 612
Notes: TLDR, After withdrawing from the dying world of Pars, Erlking arrives and sees the remnant of his army in a miserable state.