Faction Litanies of the Dark Side: Spoils of War

[Valia Muqai]

Hyara's answer did not aid in lessening Valia's continued profound confusion, though she didn't immediately drop the seeds on her palm and before she could answer Hyara, she had already gone off to indulge herself within the lecherous celebration of the Red Harvest. Valia stood in place awkwardly until a shadow approached from behind and dropped an amulet on her palm, which made Valia spin around and meet the armored warrior's gaze whom spoke in the Athysian language she had no understanding of. The intent behind the gesture being lost on Valia as she immediately interpreted it as a sign of interest, knowing the kind of celebration the Red Harvest was, She practically ran to put herself inbetween Hyara and the man, though he had vanished by then. Valia dropped the amulet during her attempt to put distance between them.

Despite her desperate attempts to remain as a mere observer, the Red Harvest was no mere party. The blind priestess appearing on the stage and casting her dark spell across the crowd. She sung no songs, but so intense was its influence through the force that Valia could practically hear it as if it was made manifest. It made her heart race, breathing quickened, beads of sweat on her brow despite the cold air she felt. The sensation was deeply uncomfortable, afraid even. Upon seeing the open debauchery around her. Her mind defaulted to the only thing she wanted to do, escape.

Valia shook her head as she attempted to resist the spell's influence to the best of her abilities. Looking around, she noticed a black mist appearing all around them and the discomforting feeling that they were all being watched by some unknown being. Seeing that Hyara was lost within the dark spell, she chose to move on her own. Rushing through the crowd and dodging any dancing bodies along her path as she attempted to find the exit of the temple. The sensation of heat in the sea of cold beckoned her elsewhere, but Valia willed herself away from its call, seeing her mind on doing nothing but attempt to flee.

Yet, no matter where she turned or how far she walked, Valia was utterly lost within the chaotic sea of the Red Harvest. The walls never seemed to get closer nor could she longer catch sight of Hyara since she left her side. Everything that barraged her senses only intensified as the ritual went on and the heat she felt only continued to persist.

Valia stopped, standing still amongst dancing pale bodies her eyes closed as she catches her breath without having to see those around her. Hyara's words suddenly rung through her mind.

"Cast away your past!"

"Empty it all!"

She thought of what would happen if she did escape from the temple. Where would she go? What would she do? The corpses of the fallen allies she had slain and the horrified look of Master Aola at her actions flashed across her mind. They know who she was and what she had done, the one chance, her last chance of salvation, and she had destroyed it all. There was nothing for her to return to. Padawan Roshia Chamiane had died on Karideph, she had killed her. Who was the killer? Valia? Sennon? Something else? She still did not have an answer. An ill-timed epiphany that took far, far too long for her to reach thanks to her quest to defy the Dark Crusade. That one, at least, she had succeeded? She will never return to them. In fact, she had killed Valia Muqai as well on that ship. She was neither Roshia Chamiane nor Valia Muqai, as both died by her hands....

Valia opened her eyes, feeling her cold tears flow down her cheeks. She raised her hand and unraveled her fist to look down the seeds she surprisingly still posessed.

Filled with sudden determination with whatever madness had suddenly gripped her, she ingested all of the seeds she held.

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

The Red Harvest unfolded in a labyrinth of obsession and debauchery. Bodies blended in an amalgam of depravity and blasphemous rites of the Dark Gods, under the guise of shadows of Death, never allowed passage to the hollows of the Netherworld, for spells conjured by the Eyerhea were far too powerful a mesmerising chain extended through the very shallows of the Force.

The Hegemon walked proudly through the ocean of dancing bodies, jumping to the rhythm of drums and Buzzard engines. Warriors chanted the name of Desmundor Alcademon; Each cry of joy yet another reminder of the wicked pacts sealed by his very blood yielding the promise once spoken in Void and blind Loyalty. Each bewitching hand reaching to barely caress the gold-adorned bronze armour of the Hegemon, yet another pledge of foul pleasure he denied by continuing his pace.

The Red Harvest was not for him. He had his path already paved by the will of the Gods. This, was for Athysia; For a thousand-year legacy sealed in a path of bloodletting and defiance. Everyone knew such. Everyone knew HIM.

And yet, still...

All praizes called out his name. For he was the one who led the Black Dannu to the stars, beyond the Cluster.

---

"Behold, lord Hegemon" Theocha intoned, tilting her head tall in gesture to the surrounding chaos. "The seed is sowing. The Gods have rewarded our fallen Dead."

Desmundor turned his head and offered her a look. His silence her reply. He needed not speak the words he knew well, she already had read through flesh and mind alike.

This is only the beginning.

Athysia will rise again.

I will make it so.

Theocha's cold face shifted ahead of the path. A presence septic with Dark will, enthralled to patrons deceitful and unmade in the face of Death. Like sour milk in a feast of excess, the pale Athysians withdrew upon sight of the grim warriors. Their flesh defiled with rusted metal; Tubes and cables sprouting from dead tissue, swollen by infection and disease; Their clothes colourless fabrics, wrapped with belts weighted by plundered pouches and lightsaber hilts. Their chests bared, shoulders covered with black cloaks brandishing the seven-pointed Star of the Dark Crusade...

Theocha's mind reached out in the Force, the very presence of the barbaric heralds of the Sith a perversion in the otherwise flawless ritual. Her words a whisper clad in meaning. An omen riddled with obvious intent.

Hate, Faceless. Living Dead.

"Four years and forty days bane, never a triumph...."

The Hegemon's voice a wrathful snarl, his words flogged with demand.

"You chose now to walk this world." The Hegemon halted his pace, intentionally positioning himself infront of the Sith band, stepping into sword's reach from the figure he distinguished as their leader. A familiar thrall enslaved to the will of the Dark Lord...

Upon the Hegemon's taunt, the surrounding debauchery halted, as if each of the Athysians heeded a call unspoken, yet loud enough to distract them from the acts performed.

Pale warriors stepped forth, their bodies put infront of their witch coounterparts who stood bare in defiance behind their chosen champions. Their eyes blazing flames, lips whispering binding curses.

"You are late, Sith... And now pace over Athysian triumph..."

 

[Hazdrabal the Cannibal]

Each moment spent on this cursed world a reminder of the failures many and nameless, to break Omwat under the Sith heel; Now a spoil to be harvested of its remaining essence by the savages clad crimson. In his bionic eyes, the Athysian Raider Fleet was nothing more than a mockery of the Dark Lord's slave hordes. Blind to the chains they so desperately venerated around their throats. The Sith knew no chains. The Sith had no chains. Under the guise of the Dark Lord, such banes of the past had been long cast away, for the thrill and freedom found in rage and carnage. The Athysians could never understand such teachings... They could never harness such power.

And yet, in each step Hazdrabal took upon this CURSED world, he was reminded of the success not his own... Of the failed campaigns, and pointless battles fought in vain, while the slaves managed to break in within mere days of siege....

Hazdrabal could not fathom the anger such a thought caused to him....

As he walked, head of his marauder champions, the Athysian savages made way. They feared him. They feared what he could do, if found on his wake. He knew that to be true...

And yet.... there was one who didn't.

When the whelp they called a Hegemon stepped infront of his path, Hazdrabal sensed a besieging darkness pressing in on him. Each of the naked warriors, once consumed by the perverted ritualized celebration, now faced against him, like a nest of flies suddenly in alignment when faced with the hornet's presence. The Hegemon stepped forth, his words an open challenge, fuelled by the devilish witchcraft performed by the whores that drove the Athysian war fleets in the absence of reason.

"Careful, Hegemon..." Hazdrabal's bionic lungs bellowed a voice filtered through a malfunctioning voice chip. His growl loud enough to sound over the cacophony of the drums. "I am here on the Dark Lord's decree. YOUR Dark Lord..."

He stepped forth, meeting the Hegemon's chest with his own, as his metal hand unclipped the bind of the cloak causing it to slide on the defiled soil. His muscles tense; His palms curling into fists, on the side of the collection of lightsaber hilts that hung by his belts, and as he did so, so the Sith accompanying him reached for their weapons.

"This is still, the Dark Lord's victory. Do not forget, who put you on that throne... and who can pluck you off it...."

 

[Murnuri Hemstagon]

Her body a tool stirring the unseen winds of the Force. Her hips and arms motioning like serpent tails, her legs peaking from through the thin fabric of her tunic. Gold and Kyber jewelry screaming in the Force, beackons of the channeled energy flowing through her, a summoning cataclysm to the Temple's very heart. Her eyeless gaze possessed by the black shadow, whirling around her contrasted by the light of the blazing flames sprouting from the Buzzard engines.

Hallucination reigned. The mind opening wide, vision twisted into the countless shades of the arcane, ancient and corrupt into a mask of inconceivable beauty. The soil beneath, a watery swamp of sensation, boiling by the flames produced by the countless bodies in conjunction. Time lost its meaning, as Realspace and Netherworld twisted into one, outworldly amalgam, and souls chained in unseen darkness, buried under a hallucination of Light, trapped deep in the Citadel's hollows.

The Eyerhea's touch through the Force, stimulated by the hallucinogenic seeds and aphrodesiacs consumed, a lover's caress, guiding each towards the path paved by entities of no flesh or mortal presence.

As bodies mold, the path clears for Valia, sky and soil twisting as if the nausea becomes a guiding sensation.

And then, suddenly, the path opens. A pit amidst the sea of bodies cleared, for presence dark and foul enough to dissolve much of the spell's effect, in a defiant tear in the Red Harvest...

 

[Petros Papadopoulos]

Petros stopped the moment he sensed their presence, the foul stench of the interlopers who dared to interrupt the sacred ritual of his people. In a moment, he effortlessly pressed through the ever shifting crowd of bodies in the midst of coalescing, and stood at the Hegemon's back, slightly behind the naked forms of his fellow Athysian warriors.

His yellow eyes glared from behind the visor of his helmet, the only one among the warriors aside from Desmundor still wearing his Armour. After all, the Harvest didn't apply to the likes of him, an instrument of Empor, sworn to death itself. There was no place in his world for any other but the Crimson Star and the Gods.

Which only added to his quietly growing rage as the filth spoke, his tone proud and insolent. An insult to the "Dark Lord" he claimed to serve. For even though Eosfor had abandoned his post, he was no less a god. Yet the paladin felt that tonight would serve to begin changing that.

Regardless, he remained focused, his pollaxe held firmly in his right hand, braced against the ground. His left hand holding his shield, ready to pounce the moment things turned violent. Prepared to bring death to the blind fools the moment he sensed them draw their weapons.

 

[Valia Muqai]

Once the seeds were consumed, it did not take long for Valia to feel their effects. Everything felt so intensified, physically and spiritually unlike she had ever experienced before in her own existence. Yet, nothing felt muddled, it's as if everything became as clear as glass. All her fears, worries, and doubts replaced with clarity and, oddly enough, lust. Valia felt as if she finally understood what Hyara met to cast away the past and empty it all.

Valia did not resist the path she was led on. She walked, for how long she did not know, following the unseen path paved by the unseen as reality and non-reality melded together like the bodies of those around her. It was difficult to deal what was and wasn't real at that point, though she did not care in the moment. Perhaps, she may join the dance happening around her soon enough.

After what felt like an infinity following the cleared path, Valia finally reached the end where the feeling of utter bliss was replaced with the dark foulness that Valia sensed to be all too familiar. So familiar that it pulled her mind out from much of the seed's effects, and the voice she heard made her feel a rush of adrenaline. Not from fear, but from anger. For the memory of what they had done was far too torturous to ever cast away so easily... A small part of her mind told her to run, to flee while she could, away from the wretched Sith before they could notice and drag her back to the Dark Lord's feet. It was no wonder why Omwat had fallen so brutally, it was certainly their doing, they may have even come specifically for her....

But Valia did not flee.

She knew that will never work.

"Or perhaps it shall be the Dark Lord that gets plucked from his throne!" Her voice yelled out as a response to Hazdrabal's threat, breaking the silence and ignorant of the blasphemy her words held to the Athysians. "After all, YOU had seen who had come close to doing so haven't you?" She pointed at Hazdrabal.

 

[Petros Papadopoulos]

Petros, despite himself, turned at the sound of the voice behind him, only to glance the form of the woman from earlier before sharply turning back. She knew them, it seemed, and with her words, he could find no disagreement.

One day the so-called Dark Lord would be removed from his mortal throne to ascend to his proper place alongside the other Gods, though it seemed she knew nor cared nothing of this.

Regardless, he began putting the pieces together, as it seemed this woman, chosen by the Gods, bore the misfortune of encountering the God of War personally...

Perhaps that is why she was important after all.

Without a word, he focused his mind, his voice heard by none, save for her:
"Sister, favoured of the Gods, hear my voice...
Take the weapon at my back. Bring death to these Foul interlopers."

Seemingly as a coincidence, his mantle blew in an unseen breeze, giving her a glimpse of the lightsaber attached to his belt.

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

Go ahead...

Do it...

Coward Slaves...

Come taste Death...

Whispers sung across the narrow confrontation. The very minds aligned, each of the curses spoken and the promises addressed, a wave against the Sith's willpower. Desmundor could sense that. He felt the besieging might descending upon them, those he saw as obstacles of divinity, and he revelled in it. Now, Athysia had shown her true colours, now Desmundor had established a place among the Dark Crusade, if not above it, he could be the agent that tore off the mask of pretence, he attributed to the dark warriors of the Crusade.

He openned his mouth to speak, yet a voice sounded, harsh and taunting, loud enough to cause the Hegemon's eyes to turn and look.

The pale hair flowed down her chest, while her eyes, burning with anger, glared at the Sith warlord before him.

She knew him...

Oh, she knew him more than a warrior knew his captain.

He could feel a burning flame suddenly sparking beneath his chest. A sensation so forsaken, it felt like a hand beyond flesh wrapped around his heart and squeezed enough for the lightning to vaporize the blood pumped through. He stared, eyes burying his confusion in a presence of might.

Each of the Athysian warriors stood ready, around the Sith. Though none of them carried any weapons, Desmundor knew the Sith were aware if anything was sparked, none would make it out of the Temple, at least not in their current mortal shell...

"So, then..." he intoned, his gaze returning to Hazdrabal.

 

[Hazdrabal the Cannibal]

Tik

Tik

Tik

Hazdrabal's mind screeched by the mental warfare conducted by the Athysian barbarians. Like nails, clawing against his head, their spells wrestled to find an entrance from where to devour him whole. He would not allow it. His scars too deep, his suffering too great to allow mere barbarian whores to toy with the weapon that was his will.

No.

"Haven't you taught your whores to be sile-"

Hazdrabal halted, as his bionic eyes turned in recognition of the one who dared address the Dark Lord in this foul manner. He stared, in silence, as hate boiled within him as he realized the one speaking was none other than her.... Valia Muqai...

The Dark Lord's fallen apprentice....

"You..." he growled. His bionic hand reaching for one of the lightsabers by his hip, the cortosis that had replaced his mouth filling with foaming rage.

"You dare show yourself, weakling!?" the Cannibal roared.

As he did, the Sith escorting him motioned, a tell tale of the coming clash.

Hazdrabal reached for the hilt....

He reached...


Where the frak is that hilt!?!?!?


His red bionic eyes turned to Desmundor, as the most-familiar plasma blade of Hazdrabal's lightsaber shined from the Hegemon's grip, aimed under the Sith's chin...

 

[Valia Muqai]

For Valia, the crowd of Athysians that circled them practically did not exist from her perspective. Her gaze was locked onto Hazdrabal with such cold hatred and anger that it could make a regular foe flinch before considering to attack. Hazdrabal was no regular foe however and Valia knew that well. She only briefly averted her eyes to strike a brief glance at Petros as she heard a voice within her mind's eye, noticing the lightsaber clasped onto the armored warrior's belt, though she did not take it just yet.

"What an odd word to call me, Hazdrabal. When all you are is be a glorified little servant for a mindless, useless master. The Dark Lord's cheap little whore if you will." Valia snickered at her own words as if she had spoken some sort of great joke, then letting out a brief laugh when the Lord Hegemon took and used the Sith Warrior's own weapon against him.

She reached with an open palm towards Petros, beckoning the lightsaber hilt into her hand with the force. The weapon unclasped from the warrior's belt and flew perfectly into Valia's hand, where she quickly ignited the weapon, signaling her readiness to fight.

"You'll be free from his clutches soon enough. Really, it's far more than what you and your lackeys deserve. Consider it an act of generosity on my end."

In a quick and unpredictable move, Valia tossed the lit lightsaber towards Hazdrabal's Sith escort. Controlling the rapidly spinning blade through the Force to cut down the Sith before they could have time to take out and ignite their own weapons.

 

[Petros Papadopoulos]

Petros smiled in amusement as he observed the confrontation. Clearly the spirit of defiance had not yet vanished from the woman, the reason she earned the favor of the God of War, even if she'd seemingly departed his service. Regardless, after the words spoken against Desmundor, her, and the insults laid at the feet of his people, he could feel Empor's favor surge within him as the lit lightsaber spun past him, heading for the Sith.

Without warning he dashed forward, as though moving in a single step like a wave of darkness. One of the Sith near the back locked eyes with Petros as the Paladin appeared before her, Pollaxe ready as he thrust the spike through her heart faster than the dark robed woman could summon her weapon. His cortosis shield already poised to deflect the inevitable follow up from her companions. Ready to pounce on his next victim.

"You who dare oppose the will of the Gods shall meet death."

He stated ominously, nodding to Desmundor before sharply turning to shield himself from a saber strike.

 

[Eosfor]

Jenberniuk did not protest. She roared. Malice caged in crystals shattered and defiled through eons of corruption, soaked by blood of untold thousands, the Kahrinarsa was severed like the God of War was from his place on Pantheon... And so, as the Jenberniuk felt Valia's touch, dread energy surged through, as if every bit of muscle tissue was torched clean of any necrotic corruption, up until then silencing the shards of Life gnawing themselves into survival.

Oh no...

Eyes burned like cannons ready to fire; Her motion flawless, as if empowered by might plucked from entities far beyond the mortal gaze could fathom...

Upon the throne of septic cause and vain malice, He turned his Blind gaze to the hilt that rested beneath his armoured claw. Lightning, red and furious, sparked from within the binds of the hilt, as if the Kraujasjaarvek demanded retribution; One of the two the Kahrinarsa had been split into... And as the Dark Lord glared upon the protest of his weapon most loyal, he felt the heat of the blood spilled by his other half, the one most Defiant. The Jenberniuk feasted in ravenous hunger, willing to consume all there was within a circle of Black Will.

Valia

Her chains quivering by the weight of His Will, twisted and corrupt by the unspoken will of the Force herself, the one which he had so long failed to interpret...

Each cut, a gaping maw through which black shadow spilled out; Souls bound and consumed by the Jenberniuk, like a talisman claiming its own arcane from victims faceless and unknowing.

In that moment of blood and fire, His black heart tore open, as the Chains fell off, their links stretched to a breakpoint. He willed to stand up from the Throne, yet his knees gave in to the weight of his being, forcing him on the ground. Upon his body's quake against the floor, blood, black like pitch and sticky like a curse spoken in forgotten tongues, splattered beneath, escaping from unseen gaps in his armour and flooding his mouth defiled by machines.

Valia

He clawed the floor. Fires caused by the passing of his infernal wrath, burning within with enough intensity to incinerate the remnants of his own, shattered soul, trice over. The Kraujasjaarvek sparked still, a grim reminder of the stagnation that had befallen it, having yet to be unleashed in manner befitting the antiquate evil.

V̵̡̥̆̄̓̾͆͆͑̑͌͒A̶̡̧̧̢̢͕̱̮̺̙͕͉̤̳͕̽͑̿͗͝Ĺ̸̥̳͓̣̣̦̤̯͆͊̽͗̿̆̈́̚I̴̲͚̯̰̹̐̈́͑̕A̵͙̲͂A̴̡͚̝̥̻͇̩̟̪̞͕̦̅͒̐̉̚͠ͅA̸͙͓̤͈̭̿̚​

Darkness consumed the cursed warship, as if the very power generators gave in to the Grim forces manifesting onboard...

S̵͔̽̀̇̇̌̿̽̇h̴̡̺̞̞̖͋̈́̓̍͒͘͝ͅe̶̞̓͛̉̊̅̈́̅ ̴̧̢͖̼͖̫̈̉͒͛̎̕ī̶̢̨̤̫̙̹̘̬s̸̛̱̿̌̽͆͆͘͘ ̵̧̬͍͕̣̙͖̀̓̓̒̑̚n̷͙̪̬̰̆́͆ò̸̱̻̘̹̺͈͍̼t̶̳͙̘͎̦̮̿̓͂͠ ̴̢̗͍͍͈̉̏̎̓̔̕̚ÿ̵̙͗́o̷̡̡͔͙̲͊̿̚u̴̦̅̅͐ŕ̶̫̯͔̒̌̒͒̿̚ͅs̸̠͙͓̃̀̈̃̑͘͝͝ ̷̼̹͖̠̼̹̍̓͊͊͠͝a̶̤̞͖͉̻̻͆̽̈́͜n̶̖͙͚̫͎͕̠̂͑̍̉̽͂͋y̵̧̗̳̦͕̫̘̲͒̉͂͊̀͝m̵̲̍ỏ̸̧͉̫͍͚͔̥̋̒́̓̂͒̕͜r̸͓̀e̴̝̪̝̱̜̘̟͕͝
B̸̢̝̞̺̪̎̿̓͐̈̚̚͝ȑ̸̨͙͕̔̾͌o̵͖͒͐̔͜t̵̨̪̯̤̋̎̒̕͜h̴̻͗͐͌͘͝e̷͍͔̲͖͊͛̎͆̊̇̍͜ŗ̵̧͚̘̭̱͇͑̕͝

​

---

The winds of Black Will stirred as the bodies of the Sith started falling. The she-warrior's glare ever-fixed on the Paladin's visor, as blood pumped from her lipless mouth. Even in Death, she refused to give in, her entire being focused barely to keep her vengeful glare on him for just a moment still.

I will find you.

She willed to speak, yet she knew there would be no more words spoken before Death. The desciple of a God twisted by corruption and false prophecies, she resembled a mockery of the champions of Ancient past, who followed Bracheg Khar into Damnation in the War of Fire. Life escaping the body, the Sith remained standing, her body hung by the spike passed through her heart, as the Netherworld accepted yet another Soul...

Theocha's eyes blazed crimson, her mouth twisting as she spoke the verses of the enchantment. Her palm wrapped around the Kyber talisman she wore in the center of her abdomen. Eyes perpetually tracking Cuuaghil Mas, her strength his own; His will, an amplification of her own...

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

His will clad in determination. His being stretching in the Force, contesting Hazdrabal's own defiance of the Temple's binding spells. As the Sith blade shined from his grip, he tilted his head up, as the Jenberniuk flew in a deadly spin, naming sacrifices to the Black Lord with each of her sweeping twists. As each of the Sith perished, the Hegemon's eyes shined with anti-light, a further grace to the veneration he had conjoured to the Dark Gods of Athysia.

In a sudden motion of his free hand, he snatched the Jenberniuk, right when the unstable plasma of her blade reached for Hazdrabal's neck. A burst of crimson lightning sparked from the contact of his hand. Pain surged through, as lightning invaded the gauntlet and gnawed to the pale flesh underneath, causing fiery sparks bleeding from under the hand's grip. And yet, Desmundor relished to the pain, a demand from the War God himself, which he too, in defiance, denied satisfaction.

"You go back to your Dark Lord, Sith..." he intoned to Hazdrabal; His voice an ode of wrath. "And you tell him, the Black Dannu have laid claim on this world. You tell him, none other shall have share of the glory but Athysia... And the Hegemon."

The two blades crossed, trapping Hazdrabal's neck in a loop of burning plasma.

"Now leave... Before I let the Vultures do their deed upon your corpse..."

 

[Valia Muqai]

The Marauders stood no chance in the wake of the spinning blade, their bodies sliced into pieces before they could draw their weapons. Most were lucky enough to be blessed with a fatal blow that sliced their their hearts or head, the other few were not so as they lay on the dirt, suffering a slow death from disembowelment with, quite literally, no legs to stand on. Each thread of life cut by the blade felt outright euphoric for Valia that she could not help but grin madly at their fates. It made her wonder why she ever fled or hid from the Marauder ilk for so long.

Once Hazdrabal's pitiful excuse for an honor guard were taken down by the spinning blade, she redirected it to fly towards Hazdrabal, uncaring that she may hit the Lord Hegemon the process. However, she was denied her final kill when Desmundor snatched the blade before it could strike down the man she hated almost as equally as the Dark Lord. Valia's elation suddenly, replaced with an intense rage at this perceived offense. Not only was she denied her kill, but the Lord Hegemon intended to have him spared and returned to his foul master. A possibility utterly unacceptable for Valia.

"NO!" Valia bellowed out in her rage, uncaring of the disrespect it carried towards the Lord Hegemon "He is mine! His blood will be on MY hands and that rotted creature he calls a master will not see even his corpse!"

No longer having her weapon in hand, Valia turned to the force. Extending her hand and chanelled her dark rage into a barrage of crimson-lightning no different from the one that she had used to unknowingly slay the younglings that had been in her path. Aiming at Hazdrabal and uncaring whether or not it might hit The Lord Hegemon, if he choses to not to evade.

 

[Petros Papadopoulos]

Before she could do anything of the sort, Petros, in a flash of dark mist, appeared before her and slammed the butt spike of his pollaxe into the ground before absorbing the lightning with his shield.

"CEASE!"

He commanded, yet in her blind fury, Valia pushed on, the Paladin straining to remain upright as red electricity arched around him.

"CEASE!"

Petros repeated. But again, she continued, even intensifying her attack. Throwing all her anger and hate toward Hazdrabal, blinded as the Paladin roared in pain, his small shield no longer enough to protect him. Yet, he stood in place, left with no choice but to react.

And react he did, sending forth his own lightning, attempting to at least redirect the flow.