Pzob's Open Orbit

While hardly the sentimental type, there was something about laying his eyes upon the sacred seat of the Order he had long been in service to that sparked an infectious sense of longing. He allowed his bloody gaze to linger on the view of the planet far longer than he intended, only turning from the view when he heard the audible gasp of the tusken child escorted by his cycloptic furry flock member. He regarded her curiously, narrowing his scaled brow as he leaned towards her, mouth slightly parted to reveal the slavering incisors within, breath hot and reeking of spoiled meat. "Breath taking, isssn't it? You should have ssseen it at the height of the Order'z glory. Imagine an empire ssstretching the length of the galaxy devoted to Palpatine'z greatessst creation. There usssed to be an endlesss ssstream of shipz to and from the City of the Eye, delivering slavez taken from all over the Empire for ritual sssacrifice. The flesh pitz were never empty." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, recalling fond memories of the past. "I can ssstill hear the screamz." He hissed, crimson fleck misting from his lips.

That was all in the past now. After the destruction of the City of the Eye, which the Hungering One had played no small part in, the path towards dissolution had been a forgone conclusion. It inevitably led to a staged conflict between the Order and the Imperial Remnant at Prakith, where the death of the Order was on full public display. In actuality the Order had concealed themselves within the ranks of the Remnant and continued on in a much smaller capacity, hidden from view so that the great work might continue. Knowledge of the Order's continued existence was known to only a small handful of individuals, and those that actually still served numbered only as the Great Devourer's wicked kin. There were also the monks that continued to inhabit the grounds of the great temple, though the purpose they served was more in line with custodial staff. Besides, that wasn't the temple he was currently concerned with.

"It'z nothing more than ruinz now." He continued. "Yet the Eye persistz..." Looking back at the viewport, he could see the Pzobian nebula in the distance, crackling with electrically charged magnetized rock and gas. He stared intensely at the mysterious veil, attempting to see through the misty depths at what lurked within. Somewhere deep in the heart of the nebula was the second Eye of Palpatine, waiting for the faithful to awaken it. Even as it dreamed through the ages, the furious burning Will commanded the faithful to fulfill its terrible desires. Dragus could still feel a painful throb at the back of his mind when it has spoken to him last, commanding him to depart for the Unknown Regions on a mission to construct the black alters. Every time it reached out to him, it took a part of his soul, almost hollowing him out in preparation of something. He was beyond resisting anymore. He would follow its dark whims wherever it led him, even if it left the galaxy a cold lifeless husk. He grinned savagely at the thought of getting some much needed rest of the most absolute sort. Breaking from the reverie, he again focused on Kr'Naan, running a forked tongue over his drooling scaled lips.

One might ponder why the seemingly insatiable Hungering One was sharing such privileged information with the child. While it was true that there was little he enjoyed more than hearing himself talk, in this instance it had everything to do with the fact that he considered the tusken girl to be one of his possessions now, in the same way the ewoks and the ship belonged to him. After she had served her purpose in securing the stone he sought, he would need to decide whether to dispose of her or find some other use for her. He recalled trying tusken before but found it a rather unenjoyable experience. The meat was too tough and stringy. He preferred a more balanced cut of lean meat with just a touch of fat. Though perhaps he could fatten her up a tad. With the proper seasonings, maybe even in a slow cooked stew of some sort, it might actually be quite good. Future meals aside, he was also fairly certain she couldn't understand a word of what he was saying, so really the risk of over divulging was quite minimal.

Behind him, Lil'Havok guided the star courier towards the planet. The ranat in the co-pilots seat leaned over and waved a gnarled paw in front of the milky eyed 'wok's cataract obscured view, seeming to not effect the furry pilot as it flipped switches and manipulated the control yoke. The ranat offered a shrug and sat back in its seat, nibbling on the end of its tail that had so recently been shortened.

"Come on, Wart." Dragus finally said, gently running his clawed digits over the top of her head wrapping as he stepped past her and headed for the lift. Lil'Bacca was already trying to guide her into the lift as well. They'd need to organize a few supplies for when they landed. Chances were they'd be roughing it for at least a day or two.

Continued from here.

Rising above the clouds, the Grimblade rapidly ascended through the atmosphere until it was greeted by the cold embrace of the airless vacuum of space, breaking the gravitational grasp of Pzob as it left orbit. Lil'Havok's milky white eyes lingered on the viewport as the blindest member of the flock manipulated the controls, taking them further and further away from the blessed cradle of the Eye. Next to the ewok in the co-pilots seat, Squeakers operated a secondary set of controls, activating a beacon to signal the Famine Lord's flagship. The Hungering One was present as well, standing behind the pilots chair with a clawed hand resting on the head of the seat. His gaze lingered on the nearby gaseous nebula, just visible at the edge of the viewport. The natural anomaly was more active than usual, churning with highly charged particles that crackled like space born lightning. Dragus muttered something incomprehensible under his breath as his crimson orbs peered further into those depths, compelled to stare directly into Pandora's box while something immense and sentient looked back.



Dragus blinked, the entrancement broken by the timely intervention of Kr'Naan's incessant need to know everything. He forced his attention away from the nebula and turned his snout towards her. A series of beeps sounded from the console the ranat was operating as the sensors detected a large vessel about to transition from hyperspace into the system. The black scaled fiend's scaly lips peeled back into a wicked grin and he gripped the headrest of the seat tighter, piercing the leather casing. With his other arm, he raised a single talon and pointed it at the vacant expanse of space displayed before them.


Right on time, a dark technological terror exited the swirling blue confines of the hyperlane and rapidly decelerated from lightspeed travel, possibly seeming to appear from thin air to the technologically ignorant sand child beside the cruel arbiter of suffering. The Imperial II-class Star Destroyer appeared massive as it obscured most of the screen, growing ever larger as the Grimblade continued to accelerate towards it. The wedge shaped hull was painted black and fitted with long impervium spikes that were occupied with the outlines of sapient figures. On closer inspection one might be able to make out the frigid form of bodies actually impaled upon the sharpened spears. An icy mist trailed the destroyer as its giant ion engines rumbled, shaking the sea of spitted corpses until frozen limbs and skin broke free and bled off the hull like morbid sweat. Decades of torment and all manner of cruel practices taking place within its blighted decks had given the warship a permanent aura of hopelessness. Even separated by many kilometers of distance, the saurian Sith could feel the wave of wickedness wash over his hollowed out soul and revitalize his spirit. The star courier's nose began to dip as Lil'Havok took them in to an approach vector angled towards the open hangar halfway between the bow and stern. A terrifying fanged maw was actually painted around the opening, making it appear as though they were flying into the jaws of some great beast.

"It'z called the Covenant of Blood." He hissed in delight. "It'z where my children and mossst loyal followerz ressside." He pursed his lips, contemplating the best way to describe a warship to someone who had likely never seen one before. "Like the Grimblade here, only larger." Another excellent description, bravo. "It iz a reflection of my power and the inssstrument we will ussse to acquire the ingredientz for our feassst. We will of courssse be inviting thossse aboard to attend. A party iz alwayz better with guestz."

Of course those guests would be expected to do their part. Unspoken to any save the devilish draconian himself, the Supreme Leader of the Sith organization he currently belonged to had ordered the subjugation of the nearby world of Rishi. While the Great Devourer no longer had interest in empires or the lives of inferior beings, he did so enjoy visiting his own brand of chaos upon an unsuspecting population. Plus this way he could kill two, or two million, birds with one proverbial stone. If after he had his fun the Sith Eternal still wanted to make use of the bones and ash that remained, well, they were welcome to it. Dragus only cared about the act itself. Still, in some sense it did mean they were going to war. Hence the need for the Covenant and its hordes of sin inspired villains.

As the Grimblade entered the dimly illuminated hangar, a ranat waving glowing wands guided them towards a reserved parking spot, just as the landing gear extended and Lil'Havok set them down on the permanently gore stained deck. Like the star courier they had been traveling in, the interior of the ship was also poorly lit. It didn't seem to trouble the umbaran Sith cultists, who appeared ghoulish as they lingered in the perpetual shadows, nor did it seem to trouble the ranats and other dark creatures that resided within as they tended to operate primarily on scent. The ewoks however, of which there were plenty, seemed to travel throughout the ship using lumen-rods or other manner of portable lights. With a hydraulic hiss, the boarding ramp unsealed and lowered to the hangar floor, exposing the interior of the star courier and intermingling the atmospheres. The air had a coppery metallic quality that seemed to circulate throughout. Still grinning wickedly, the black scaled barabel led Kr'Naan and the others into the small lift to the ready room, and wasted little time in descending the ramp. Lil'Mort and Lil'Kaan waddled out after him, almost slipping on rat droppings that littered the hangar floor like a valley of putrid flowers. Dragus threw back his head and let out a gleeful roar, raising his claws to the ceiling and slapping his tail blade on the deck.

An electric shiver shot through Kr'Naan's spine as she heard that word exit from the mouth of Dragus, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.


Home? Was he taking her back to Tatooine already? Was her debt already paid? Or had she done something upset him? A feeling arose in her mind that screamed to beg for forgiveness, to fall on her knees and kowtow to try and dissuade him of this action. Her place was at his side, and to leave would be a punishment worse than death. Before she could even start to kneel however, a dark shape appeared in the void of space before the Grimblade. A ship, imposing and massive enough to fill up the entirety of the viewports of the cockpit. Kr'Naan instinctively took a half-step backward at the sudden appearance of this vessel from out of nowhere, as if by magic. Never in her life had she ever seen such a large ship. How would one even construct such a thing? It did not even seem possible.

Kr'Naan felt her throat dry and forcefully swallowed nervously as Dragus explained the appearance of the warship. Just mere moments ago she had been terrified of returning home...but why? Would that not be a good thing? To be safely home among the sand? Yet she had been clenched in fear and anxiety by something tying her to the saurian Sith. The bargain she had struck with the godkin. Obviously it was not fulfilled. This was to be a new home for her. His home, as he had said; now her home for the foreseeable future. Kr'Naan's bottom jaw dropped slightly at the mention of the black scaled barabel having children.


The implications of children sired by the deity were heavy. Did that mean that they too were unborn gods? Or demi-gods? Her belief from legends of her people was that the unborn god operated mostly alone, only ever keeping a small cult so as not to be noticed while enacting the devious plot of his rebirth. Yet here was an enormous spacecraft which, logically, had to be operated by many to maintain; unless it was autonomous, controlled by the power the krayt god possessed somehow?

Each time she believed she was beginning to understand things, her worldview was expanded more and gave her thousands more unanswered questions.



Kr'Nan fumbled with the power switch on the small light emitting stick and looked down at the floor. The smell hit her before her eyes adjusted to the light level, and she gagged a little as she smelled feces and rotting flesh. Kr'Naan brought her respirator which hung around her neck up and breathed through the filtering device. It did not help much, but it at least made the air more breathable.

The Tusken youngling squinted as she saw other lights carried by familiar looking furred creatures: both ewoks and ranats. Kr'Naan slowly moved down the ramp, careful of her footing as she felt a squish when she stepped on the deck of the hangar. Luckily Tusken boots had really good soles for walking in sand. While the layer of filth was definitely wetter and squishier than sand, as long as she planted each step she would not slip. This did make her walking look slightly weird, as each step she seemed to stomp awkwardly as she got a feel for the different textures of the floor.

In the dark corners of the other side of the hangar a screech of a ranat worker filled the air, causing all nearby to take off in random directions. A wet smack and metal clattering could be heard, followed by a guttural growl as a dark reptilian figure burst from a vent and clambered on the floor after one of the fleeing rat-folk like a beast chasing prey, which it was. Using all four of its clawed appendages to run down one unfortunate ranat that was not fast enough, taking the squeaking and shrieking rodent to the excrement caked floor by the throat and ringing the life out of it in its fanged maw. The creature then proceeded to crawl back where it came from, dragging with it the carcass of the unlucky ranat worker. Everyone else returned to work as if nothing happened. Kr'Naan had barely made out any details of the darkness enshrouded creature, as her light did not reach that far, but its figure reminded her greatly of that of her master's.

Kr'Naan nodded and followed silently behind, but not too far behind, Dragus as he led her through the ship. Her head tilted up and around as she studied the dimly lit walls and floors carefully, trying to memorize their path. Much of this new place, the ship she now found herself aboard, the Tusken did not understand. As it had been briefly, and rather poorly, explained to her it was just a larger Grimblade, but this ship seemed nothing like the smaller vessel to Kr'Naan. For one, the number of beings aboard; almost all rather fuzzy in one way or another. The long dark hallways, all rather messy and filled with one or several scurrying or crawling lifeforms.

As they walked through the hallways, the sight of beings in bondage being instructed and punished by overseers caught the Tusken child's attention. As they passed by the first of these groups, Kr'Naan's eyes lingered on the slaves for a moment before turning back to mentally mapping the ship's interior. Even though she no longer wore a collar, for a moment she felt the weight of it return, and the singed skin around her neck from the energy that had removed it burned as a reminder.

Kr'Naan contemplated the barabel's description of his children as being overtaken by madness. The concept of the unborn god siring descendants with a mortal, she presumed, was a strange conundrum. What use did he have for half-mortal and crazed mindless beasts?



In truth she had no idea, as it was only a guess based off of the entirely false belief that the saurian Sith was a deity. Still, her question as to what use the devious draconian had for his feral spawn became clear as they stepped out of a turbolift and into a stiflingly hot room. The address that followed an awakening of the scaled masses was more than enough for her to realize their purpose. It was the same as everyone else her master had under his command.



Unfortunately the Tusken girl was unable to understand much of what was said in the speech to his progeny, a familiar pain flared up in the back of her mind. Slowly some of the words spoken by Dragus were translated in her mind, though sadly only a few. The rest of the

Kr'Naan visibly squirmed when she was pressed for a critique of the oration, trying to think of the best way to word her answer..



In fact, they seemed to enjoy it a little too much, as some of his children began tearing apart each other in violent exuberance. Kr'Naan stepped slightly away from the translucent wall of energy that was the only thing keeping them from the rabid reptilians.

Captain Gritzel leaned over the glowing holographic chart module of the boxy slab that was the navigation terminal. He slowly exhaled smoke from a stim stick hanging from his lips, surrounded by his graying stubble. The imperfect cloaking device on the U-raider class corvette, Beowulf, rendered navigation as much an art as a science because the ship was visually impaired while cloaked and underway. Tracking other ships could be done, but was even more of an art.

“I think with the gravometric scans, electromagnetic echoes, along with the ion wash trails, I still think we've been able to track the signature of a Class 3 Victor.” A woman spoke behind him.
He looked over his shoulder. “As opposed to a Class 3 Golf?” Gritzel raised an eyebrow under his imperial naval cap. His executive officer, Amlia, made a decent call, based on the signature readings, but still didn't take in everything Gritzel saw. “What about the garbage volume?" The captain was referring to the nets that the ship deployed to catch and survey garbage of ships it was covertly tracking. It was a intelligence gathering tool: you can learn alot about a target from its garbage. Plus you never know when an enemy might get sloppy and jettison a droid with records of schematics that hadn't been wiped from its memory. But for the seasoned sub-spacer, the volume of garbage alone could tell them how big the ship was they were following. "A smaller ship is going to have smaller waste, and would dump it more frequently rather than storing it. Saves on fuel in a hyperspace jump. Also smaller ship- fewer consumables.” He took a drag on the stim stick. “No, Amlia, We're tracking a Gladiator.”

“Bullshit, sir. Bigger ships can empty their garbage compactors before they get full, for the same reasons, including disciplining insubordinate marines- bigger ship, bigger crew. Giving more cause to order someone to clean out the compactor.” 
“Remind me to assign someone to clean out the compactor when they get rowdy.” He scratched his stubble. It had been a week since he had showered or shaved. He wore a tough wearing jumpsuit, with an unstructured and dirty naval officer's jacket with soft insignia sewn on the chest. Not having sharp edges helped if the ship was jerked or rocked. He probably smelled bad, but so did everyone; you got used to it after a while. His Executive Officer was no better, wearing the same tough jumpsuit but with her officer's insignia on on her collar. She, like everyone else, shaved her head to manage living on the ship and keep it from getting caught in machinery. It had been weeks since they had been uncloaked and able to dump their own garbage. They had been slowly compacting and filling up every available space on the ship. The 150 meter ship with nearly 80 crew was even more crowded at the beginning of a voyage though, with supplies, diamond-boron torpedoes, fuel and powercells jammed into every conceivable nook and cranny on the ship.
“50 credits on it.” She stood her ground, determined to give the captain a run for his money. 
He considering Amlia's bet a moment longer. “You're on.” Gritzel looked at the ship's chronograph. It was almost time to take another set of positional plots and readings. “Let's take a peek.”

The other crew on the bridge looked up from their consoles and scopes to watch the captain straighten up and maneuvered around the cramped bridge to get to the monoscope. Flipping a lever, the cylindrical fixture rose from the ground, presenting the captain with two handles and a viewscope. Outside the ship, a long telescoping probe deployed and extended from the hull of the ship until the tip of the probe extended beyond the cloaking field envelope produced by the Beowulf's stealth generators. The probe was currently disguised as an asteroid though it could be altered to appear like other things.
Gritzel turned his officer's cap backwards and put his face against the scope. He slowly turned the scope 360 degrees, with up and down sweeps to take in their surroundings with a variety of wavelengths.

“Well?” XO Amlia asked.
"So impatient." His tone was not serious. He swiveled the scope around and finished taking the navigational readings. The information gathered by the probe updated to the navigational terminal, and a new position popped up in the holographic chart. 
Amlia took that time to make an entry in the log. "Ship's log, New entry. Positional reading, 16:00 hours, Pzob system. Ship status-" She checked the various terminals providing a birds-eye view of the ship's systems. "Cloaked, rigged for stealth. Reactor coolant backpressure nominal. No power spikes or reactor anomalies. Cloaking device operating within parameters. All other systems showing no change since last log entry. End report." 
“I may owe you 50 credits...” he began.
“WOO!” She pumped her fist before she heard the rest of his sentence.
“... If I wasn't spot on.” He grinned.
“Wait, wha-?” She abruptly halted her celebratory performance.
“Take a look.” He spun the monoscope to face her, grinning even more.
She peered into it to see a zoomed in view of the three large engines of a Gladiator 3 class star destroyer. “Unbelievable.” She said, as if mildly disgusted. “You salty old spacer.” She reached into her jumpsuit and flipped a 50 credit chit at the captain. "Don't spend it all in one place, old man."
Capt. Gritzel caught it in one hand and finished up the last of the stim stick before crushing it in a garbage tray on the navigation console. “Not to worry. You'll have time to win it back.” The captain and XO passed the selfsame 50 credit chit back and forth, numerous times with their bets on voyages. “Fat lot of good 50 credits does on patrol.”

One or two of the other crew on the bridge also tossed each other credits based on their bets on who was right this time between the Captain and the first officer.

“Well, sir. Now that you've proved a point,” She stowed the monoscope, pulling the lever to retract the probe and hydraulically drop the scope to the floor. “Do we plot torpedo targeting solutions and run launch drills, or do we uncloak and space our garbage?”
“We run 6 targeting solutions and simulations, then we run a set of launch and re-load drills. If we beat our previous reload time for all six for'ard tubes, then we'll uncloak and dump our garbage.”

The crew gave quiet cheers in the enclosed bridge, as the orders were communicated throughout the ship. The U-Raider had spent the last six weeks tracking and following the friendly ship, Argo, from its berth at Bilbringi, to Corulag, Muunilinst, to Corulag and finally to Pzob. It was on assignment as an attachment to Argo's task force, but Gritzel chose to treat the entire thing as a stealth operation to better drill his crew. The planet Pzob was out of the way enough, and the only ships present in the system were those that also belonged in Havok's fleet, so that decloaking posed no threats.

After running the exercises. Gritzel took his ship to the edge of the system to decloak, before bringing his uncloaked ship back into orbit over Pzob, to make it seem like the ship just dropped in from hyperspace.

Incoming encrypted transmission to the Belphagor.

To: blind.but.kewl@firstorder.net
From: alwayz.hungry@sitheternal.ca
Subject: Invitation to Draggle Rock
Attachment: Video Message (notewokporn.mp4)


As the video began to play, the image displayed on screen was that of a tropical beach with swaying palm trees and a sandy beach. Gentle waves of sparkling clear water rolled in to shore, soaking curved toe talons sunk into the sand, before the image rose up and zoomed out. Standing in front of the shot was a resplendent reptile in a robe of brown rishii feathers. In one clawed hand the black scaled lizard held half a coconut shell with a little spiraled straw and umbrella sticking out of it. With the other he waved his finger talons at the camera, then reached up to pull back the hood of his robe to reveal the familiar snout of a barabel, one well known to the Weaver of Fate. Black lips split to expose glistening rows of razor sharp incisors, practically gleaming on the bright sun soaked beach.

"Hello, Havok dearessst, it haz been far too long." Hissed the Hungering One, pausing to take a sip from his coconut. "I believe the lassst time we ssspoke waz during that nasssty businesss with Kaan. I regret that we had to lock him up in the basssement, but thossse unplanned renovationz he waz performing on the Eye'z temple were sssimply outssside the ssscope of the hannitez annual budget. Commodore Ssstarkiller iz ssstill sssending me billz like he thinkz I'm made out of creditz." He shook his snout from side to side. "Bacca waz alwayz better with the purssse. At thiz rate we'll all be pauperz. Siss, Siss, Siss."

Gnarled digits came into view around the edge of the screen as the ranat camera operator began to move the lens, focusing on a large black stone fortress sitting upon a cliff. The menacing looking structure cast a dark shadow across the rest of the otherwise pristine and welcoming tropical island.

"Az it happenz my worker ratz have jussst completed the conssstruction of Fort Ewok, my new beach resssort/fortresss of evil incarnate, on the fair isle of Draggle Rock on Rishi. I wish to extend to you a cordial invitation to visssit at your convenience, ssso that I might reveal to you sssome of the projectz I've been working on sssince my long overdue return to the galaxy. You are welcome to bring guestz if it pleasez you, and I am certain you will be enthusssed to hear that Draggle Rock iz a 100% handicap accesssible. You may of courssse bring a ssseeing-eye ewok with you, if you ssso desssire. Until then, fare thee well, brother blindessst." I think he meant dearest...

As the message ended, a line of text at the bottom of the email became highlighted and began to blink.

On the Beowulf.

Beep beep beep.
The commscan system beeped signaling an incoming message. "Sir, encrypted transmission, captain's eyes only." 
"Is that so?" Captain Gritzel walked through the cramped bridge to stand next to the machine as it printed off the encrypted message.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
From: OFFICE OF IMPERIAL INTELLIGENCE, Office of Secret Services (OSS), FLAG BELPHEGOR, AGENT QUASAR
To: Cpt. GRITZEL, BEOWULF,
LOCATION: [REDACTED] [unable to be unredacted]
CLASSIFIED: CAPTAIN'S EYES ONLY
RE: OPERATION GET-REST
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>BEGIN

[REDACTED]

[>>>

UNREDACTED:
In an operation of tremendous importance, you will receive AGENT QUASAR and any personal support staff on a covert mission at 14:00 and leave at once.
Take the BEOWULF to the RISHI SYSTEM and while cloaked, you will follow the instructions of AGENT QUASAR for insertion on the planet.
If the secrecy of the mission is compromised, extraordinary procedures shall be followed.

>>>END
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The Captain read the orders and crumpled the paper. Just what he needed. A special operative and support staff on his already cramped ship. "Here. Get a load of this." He uncrumpled the paper and handed the orders to Amlia, his XO, who read them.
She scoffed. "Extraordinary procedures? They want us to rig scuttling charges and self destruct if we're discovered? Can we at least try to fight or run away before we do the enemy's job for them?"
Gritzel chuckled. "I know, right?" He looked to the ship's chronometer. "It's almost 14:00 now. Commscan?"
"Lambda shuttle off our port bow, requesting permission to dock."
"Granted. Send an ensign to greet our visitors and tell them where they'll be sleeping and where to stow their shit. Then they can come up here and explain to us what we're doing. I'm going to use the 'fresher before they get up here. Something tells me its going to be an interesting ride. XO, you have the bridge."
"AYE sir. I have the bridge."
The captain left the bridge as his executive officer directed the helmsman to put the ship on a course towards the hyperspace lane at full impulse power and steer clear of the fleet that emerged from the nebula.

A blood curdling shriek echoed throughout the vast and dark corridors of an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer in orbit around Pzob. It was soon joined by a second cry, followed by a third and fourth, each longer lasting and more terrible than the one that preceded it. The telepathic choir aboard the Covenant of Blood found their thoughts intruded upon as the vile leach lord reached across the dimensional plane to haunt their dreaming minds, afflicting them with nightmares as he teased their tortured psyches, sowing terror for his own amusements sake. Outside their prison of conjured thought, their eyes wept tears of blood, foul effluence seeped from every orifice as their bodies rejected the corruption slaking its thirst on their spiritual essence. As each experienced their own version of hell, the Blood Wyrm whispered to them a set of coordinates, promising sweet relief to their suffering if they only speak what he bayed at them. Quivering lips began to speak a numbered code, written down by the withered hand of a cloaked cultist in that same dark chamber, unlike the others this one bound to a desk with a stack of parchment, pot of ink, and quill plucked from the neck mane of a Pzobian feathered lizard. By the dim light of a single tallow candle of congealed human fat, the emaciated ghoul recorded the code spoken by the choir, writing exactly what he heard even as the lips of the choir cracked and misted blood with every espoused syllable.

As Famine relinquished his hold on the minds of the indentured slaves, the choir grew silent and the cultist's quill slowed to a stop. Licking the boney grey tips of his fingers, the cultist separated the stretched sheet of gamorrean hide from the rest of the stack of parchment and folded the handwritten message inked in virgins blood. Folding it closed, he placed the paper on the table and picked up the tallow candle in his gnarled left hand, dripping a few droplets of fat onto the seam. Putting the candle back down, he opened the desk and removed a black marble stamp, which he then pressed into the puddle of fat to form a wax seal. When he removed the stamp, the letter was sealed, marked by the emblem of the All-Seeing Eye. The cultists then swiveled in his creaking chair and handed the letter to a beady eyed ranat that emerged from the shadows, licking its lips hungrily as its delicate sense of scent absorbed the unique flavour of the chamber of misery. Scampering away into the dark, the verminous underling disappeared into the ventilation system and scurried across the ship through unseen paths known only to the rodent hordes of the Great Devourer.

Lorn Dirkwood, dark apostle of the dreaded draconian and defacto commander of the flagship in his absence, exited the turbolift onto the bridge. The doors whooshed apart to expose his pristine robes, their midnight hue unmarred by his most recent journey into the Covenant's lower decks, where mutants and monsters congregated. An acrid scent of scorched ozone still clung to his gloves from when he had used his lightsaber to thin their ranks. In the absence of the Pater Mutatis, the warped creations living in the dreadnought's bowels were less organized and more prone to violence, even against members of rank such as the acolyte. He would have to arrange a hunt soon to reduce their numbers, lest a problem present itself at a later time. A familiar itch caused Lord to raise a gloved finger to a ring of scar tissue that encircled his neck, scratching the old wound as his ethereal senses were prickled by the shadow cast by a familiar presence. He sneered as he heard the screams from the choir caged in the chambers just above the bridge, knowing full well what it meant. By the time the ranat bearing their tortured message arrived on the bridge, the apostle was already lounging in the command throne, staring out the view port at the star speckled stretch of space ahead.

Leaning down, he took the folded scrap of pig skin from the rodent and split the seal, jaundiced eyes flickering from left to write as he quickly absorbed what was written within. There wasn't much, just numbers as one might find programmed into the navigational computer. A subordinate carried the letter forward to the appropriate station and within short order, their destination was inputted and preparations were underway for their departure. Before breaking orbit, a drop pod was launched from the underbelly of the great black beast, glowing orange as it sped through the atmosphere and shrieked towards the surface of Pzob on a heading south from the location of the former City of the Eye. As for the Covenant, its massive engine cones roared into the vacuum, spewing ions and radioactive particulate as it propelled the star destroyer away from the holy world and towards the nearest hyper lane. Once clear of the crackling nebula that dominated the system, the wicked warship accelerated to lightspeed and tore a rift through the dimensional barrier, clawing a path through hyperspace.

Location: Herios sector : K749 system : Derelict Golan Platform (Pzob's orbit)


A shower of sparks spewed from the seam of a large set of hangar doors as a plasma torch seared its way through durasteel with the focused heat of a star. As the seam split and the doors were breached, a rush of stale atmosphere was sucked out the opening, drawn into the void along with scattered debris. The star speckled black tapestry of space was revealed, along with two gun metal grey Space Troopers in zero-g combat armour. Manipulating their maneuvering jets, the two troopers moved aside as an ugly shuttle transport entered the vented hangar and set down on the deck, mag-clamping itself to the surface. The transports doors opened with a pneumatic whoosh and and whine, flipping down to form a ramp from its interior to the hangar floor. Heavy footsteps thudded inside as the shuttle's occupants headed for the open door. First off were six humanoid figures in form fitting black body-gloves sealed against the vacuum of space, over which they wore white gammaplast plate armour. Each carried a blaster carbine with a lumen torch under the barrel that projected a cone of light everywhere they aimed. These void-soldiers spread out, taking up position across the hangar as they waited for the commander to exit last.

They didn't have to wait long. Finally emerging was a hulking brute of a battle droid, at least seven feet tall and covered in dark Sith iron plate armour. Rusting coils of barbed chains encircled its thick chassis, soiled with rancid specks of decaying gore caught between its links. Above its plated skirt was a thick leather belt through which a number of sinister tools were thrust, which included: hooks, fileting knives, and cleavers. A long cape of cadaverous tissue hung from its spiked shoulder pauldrons, hanging down the towering warbot's back almost to the bottom of its armoured greaves. Two vile double-bladed axes were magnetically adhered to his backplate over the fleshy layer, each having been forged in the bowels of the black temple in the ruins of the former City of the Eye. A metallic groan sounded as the mechanical monstrosity flexed the digits of its spiked gauntlets, eliciting hydraulic hisses of expelled gas.

Commodore Starkiller, also known as the Machine Lord, looked around the near vacant hangar through the slit visor of his armoured helm. Crimson photo-receptors set in the sockets of his silvered skull underneath the faceplate were focused through the slit like a laser beam, projecting an ominous red glare on anything he interacted with. A synthesized growl rumbled from the vocabulator built between its rows of flat metal teeth, venting chemical steam through the grill of his faceplate. Wordlessly, the nightmare knight raised its gore spackled right mitt and cut the air in a single motion, giving the hand signal to the vacuum suited soldiers to continue forwards. The soldiers were hannite monks from the surface, recruited from the warrior ranks dedicated to the Warmaster. As such, they followed the orders of the Eye's Executioner as though they were sacred edicts from the Eye itself. Methodically they moved through the space station, clearing deck after deck as they searched for any signs of life or impending threats. There were none to be found, however, as the platform had long been abandoned.

Well, perhaps 'abandoned' wasn't exactly the most appropriate description. It hadn't been evacuated so much as forgotten about in light of the Order's public dissolvement.

Desiccated corpses were all that remained of its original crew. Starved of air, or simply starved in general, as they had been left to rot in the cold embrace of the void. An honourable death, or so the Machine Lord believed. They died in service to the Eye, after all. What greater calling was there? Little by little they reclaimed what they could, finally arriving at the command centre of the orbital platform. A layer of dust covered everything. One of the hannites approached a screen and wiped the grimy residue from a monitor before pressing the power button and waiting to see if the machinery would boot. It took a few seconds, but eventually the screen flickered with light and the boarding team was able to gain some level of control over the facility. Word was sent to the Eye Infection to begin sending over repair crews to make the platform operational again. With little forethought, the Commodore renamed the NovaGun 'Ulrich Station', after the Sith Lord that had first inducted him into the Council of the Eye aboard the Death Star so many years ago, back when organic tissue still clung to his cybernetic bones.

Beyond the platform, repair tugs completed bringing the old satellite array in orbit online. Once more the Adventists eyes-in-the-sky were active, turned towards the surface of the Cradle rather than seeking outward threats.