Desmundor Alcademon
Hegemon of Athysia, Fallen Prince of Bassilicor
Desmundor approached, looking up and down at Valia as if he tried to evaluate her character in a mere glimpse; A ritual practiced a million times on a million souls. He lowered the hand holding the Sith's hilt, and then allowed it to fall on the ground. He kicked it with his boot, and the hilt rolled against Valia's feet.
"These savages praise their weapons. Killing them with one like such would give them a warrior's death." he shook his head.
"They have defiled the Red Harvest. OUR celebration." his voice spiked, an emphasis intended to be heard by all surrounding Athysians, each craving for the coming violence.
"You kill them like a Sith, you become one..." he reached with his hand to his belt, sliding a sword from the scabbard by his hip. The weapon was forged by pure crystal that carried the stench of dark alchemy; The blade curved, single-edged, sprouting from a simplistic handle that was forged by the very same piece of crystal that formed the blade, differentiated only by a white fabric wrapped around it, so the grip wouldnt slide.
"You are no Sith..." he tilted his head, lifting the blade up. "WE are no Savages!"
To the very word, the surrounding Athysians bursted in a sudden cry, hands lifted up, a statement of their support. The Hegemon turned, and spinned the blade to a reversed grip, stabbing it against the soil, before Valia's feet.
"You have been lost. Tonight, you find yourself."
"These savages praise their weapons. Killing them with one like such would give them a warrior's death." he shook his head.
"They have defiled the Red Harvest. OUR celebration." his voice spiked, an emphasis intended to be heard by all surrounding Athysians, each craving for the coming violence.
"You kill them like a Sith, you become one..." he reached with his hand to his belt, sliding a sword from the scabbard by his hip. The weapon was forged by pure crystal that carried the stench of dark alchemy; The blade curved, single-edged, sprouting from a simplistic handle that was forged by the very same piece of crystal that formed the blade, differentiated only by a white fabric wrapped around it, so the grip wouldnt slide.
"You are no Sith..." he tilted his head, lifting the blade up. "WE are no Savages!"
To the very word, the surrounding Athysians bursted in a sudden cry, hands lifted up, a statement of their support. The Hegemon turned, and spinned the blade to a reversed grip, stabbing it against the soil, before Valia's feet.
"You have been lost. Tonight, you find yourself."
