Bugman

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

It was time. Godric wished they had more opportunity to plan, but damn Slimes had given up the plot. Slimes was no idiot, Godric knew. That’s why he’d managed to convince the damn guard to let him take the oath, because they knew not the full extent of his crimes. But Gods new and old, his mouth was the most vile and wild he’d ever heard. It was thus unsurprising he’d let slip what he planned to a pair of fellows that weren’t vetted. Karol and Bob. Both were liked by all, but they were good boys through and through, they’d need to be eased into this sort of thing, convinced over time. Instead, the nuisance had blabbed and got them bloody terrified. Someone had overheard poor little Bob praying for the strength to reveal what he knew now.

Well, at least they did a mercy to these men by killing them in their sleep. A pair of knives to either eye and that was that. Men at their posts had throats slit, or in a few cases were simply given a kick to the back to make them fall off the wall to an inevitable death after a quite long and probably terrifying fall. Those were the most unfortunate ones.

“Putting a torch to the Torches.” Godric murmured, watching his fellow deserters set flame to several buildings.

Though the plans of the mutiny were cut short by that damn mouth on Slimes, they were still very thorough. They had been assembling or fabricating wildling arrowheads and clumps of fur from beyond the wall to sprinkle about the place. Bodies were moved around, and slashes were put on wood and stone to simulate a struggle. A few heads were cut off and put on sticks, and any stocks of food that the mutineers couldn’t take with them were put to flame to make it seem as if the savages from beyond the wall had taken them.

The hardest part in truth was assembling enough clothes for everybody to change into, truth be told. All the rest could largely be dismissed as trophies and the like. But getting clothes and shirts and trousers, hiding them and keeping them clean and dry and not eaten up and shit in by rats and moths? That was tough. But they had managed, just about.

All was done or being done, except for something very petty. On the tips of his toes, Godric made his way to commander Blackburn’s room. “Knock-knock.” He announced, rapping his knuckles twice against the door before putting stolen keys into it and opening it. Blackburn was already up, sword in both hands. “Don’t worry, commander. I want this to be fair.” the Stark boy said, dropping a bag that had a suit of armour therein. “It is yours, put it on.”

Blackburn knew what was happening, he didn’t need an explanation. “You always had a darkness about you, boy.”

“I know!” Godric replied, taking a seat and balancing hid sword’s pommel on the tip of his index finger. “They always told me that, you know? They say they look in my eyes and see no soul. But I tell them, was it my fault both mother and father had such dark eyes that mine came out darker? I think everyone puts so much stock into what people look like, you know? You for example, Mr. Blackburn.” Godric had to resist a smile as the commander snarled when he was addressed without honorifics. “You’re not even forty and you’ve white hair. Well, alright, silver. But I don’t think anybody is going to claim you’re a Targaryen or any kind of Valyrian, would they?” The final clanks of plate being donned were coming about, and thus Blackburn stood, staring the young Stark-traitor down.

Godric got up, and gave his sword a quick flourish. It was a bit too artistic and exaggerated, a joking “ouch” coming out of the Ranger as the blade nicked his own cheek. “Are you ready?”

“I was ready to put you in the dirt the moment I laid eyes on you, bastard.”

“Oi! I’m not a bastard! Mother never betrayed father!” He spread his arms as if to take exaggerated offence, and then lunged at the commander. Naturally, his sword was swatted outside. Godric was an excellent fighter, but he was less experienced, shorter in arm and leg, and certainly far less muscled than the Blackburn that had enough meat to feed a family of cannibal wildlings for a week.

The two circled each other in the tight confines of the bedroom, knowing neither had any room to back out. Godric decided to try a bit of dirty fighting, again trying to lunge as a mere feint for giving his opponent a kick in the groin. But Blackburn was ready for this, the man foregoing the stereotype of the slow brute to neatly sidestep the attack, performing a simple parry of the feint in the event Godric chose to commit to it, and to try and humiliate the traitor he gave him a kick on his ass too. With a roar the Commander went to try to finish him off, but with a panicked cry Godric picked up a stool and threw it in Blackburn’s face. A pained grunt came from him as the furniture bounced off of his helmet and Godric didn’t waste the opportunity he’d been given. He picked up his sword by the blade, the weapon the wrong way around. But it was perfect for the moment, taking it in a death-grip he did an underhand swing, using the crossguard to sneak a nasty hit right between Blackburn’s legs. Blood ran as the commander screamed in pain, the moment intensifying as Godric then pulled the blade to have that same crossguard like a hook. His own blood ran through his gloves, but flesh was torn out of his opponent’s backside and he fell screaming in pain.

Getting upright, Godric wiped a bit of sweat and red hair from his brow. “Thought you had me there!” he taunted, jumping into a handstand that he was forced to turn into an awkward half-cartwheel as he lost his balance. “I promised you that you’d pay commander. I promised you when you kicked me into the gravel on that first day, didn’t I?” He chuckled as he kicked the man in the jaw. “I’m a man of honour, I keep my promises!” he joked, amidst the breaking of his vow to the black.

Finally, he leaned in to the man and whispered. “I know where your kindred live. My vengeance has only started.” It was a lie of course, he didn’t know and he wasn’t quite so petty as to harm them. After all, it wasn’t they that insulted him. But he did like to see the fucker’s last moments be of agonized fear. Taking Blackburn’s head off of his shoulders, Godric thus proceeded to the castle’s courtyard to address the assembled mutineers.

Looking them over, they all awaited what he would say. He was obviously the leader, he was the one that planned this, he was the one that got people that hated each other into working together, he was the one that convinced several men who had taken the Black willingly without it being a last resort to suddenly decide and turn on it.

Now he was the one to slay Commander Blackburn, the symbol of their invisible shackles being broken.

“This is it lads.” he roared. “We don’t have time to sit around and bellow much, and I bet half of you wouldn’t understand half the words I’d say in a speech, what with me being a well read and poncey arsehole. But we won, comrades. They put us to do this because they wanted us gone. They punished us for crimes we didn’t commit. They punished us for crimes that oughn’t be crimes. They sent us to the frozen ass-end of the world to get rid of us in a job they’re all too lazy or cowardly or stupid to do. Well no more. It doesn’t matter what part of Westeros we come from, we won’t be taken advantage of. We’ll write our own stories, we won’t let any other man write them for us. One-nil against a world that wants us dead. One-nil!” As he raised the commander’s head, all the different men cheered, and repeated his last words as a rallying-cry.

“One-nil! One-nil! One-nil!”

They ran to the stables, finishing up the last of the burning. The deception would almost certainly be seen through with sufficient investigation, but it would at least buy a little bit of time if all went well. Still, they had to get as far South as possible, ideally having gone at least past two towns before a carrier pigeon was sent out.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Disgraced Stark

Godric Stark
Age: 21

Appearance:
Just a bit shorter than the average nobleman but still taller than most peasants, Godric has thick red hair that somehow curls itself into messes no matter how much it is combed, a fact that unless trimmed almost to a buzz cut makes him look like a vagabond even in fine clothes. His eyes are a very dark, almost black colour that people have described as either a soulless void or a reflection of the night sky depending on their disposition towards him. He has a somewhat distinctive gait, even when walking slowly his legs have far more movement in the knees and calves as if he is always rushing to be somewhere.

from the night of his defection

Description & biography:
Godric Stark is son of Coeman Stark, son of Brandon Stark, son of Artos. As a baby and as a child, Godric was very large leading to great hopes that he could grow into a warrior to proudly represent the House in any tourney. Alas, as the boy reached puberty he barely grew at all, leaving him if anything somewhat shorter than much of his family if still taller than commoners.

Still, all the whisperings into his ears that he was destined for great things never left him. He didn't need to be a monster of muscle to make a name for himself. He trained, he studied, he dreamed of a great destiny for himself. Whatever plans his family might have for him, he would be ready to fulfill them so long as his efforts were recognized.

With the passing of time, he feared that his labours were for not. He fought great warriors and Knights, he gained the praise of the Maesters, and yet it seemed there was naught for him. But a day dawned that it was suggested he might marry one of the Targaryen Princesses at the edge of their dynasty. He was overyjoyed, and made sure to have a good showing for himself by fighting in a tourney in the capital. Though he didn't win, the honourable position of fourth place among many more experienced Knights was nonetheless impressive. All seemed well and indeed even Aenara herself seemed to be receptive to this. She loved the sonnets he sang for her, and indeed promised her heart to him.

The negotiations for the marriage were coming to a close, when Godric's world was turned upside down. Suddenly everyone in the capital seemed cold, distant in his presence. His brother came forth, demanding if a whole slew of accusations was true. Supposedly Godric had slandered the Targaryens in a drunken rant, it was claimed he had called them inbred madmen unworthy of being royalty. He denied all of this, but none were convinced. So great was the shame was that not only was he recalled to the North, his father gave him a simple ultimatum. He would take vows and head to the Wall, or he would he would be quietly made to disappear. It didn't matter to him, so long as the King was appeased.

He seethed and writhed and cried, but what choice did Godric have? He took his vows, and went North. Briefly, he tried to make the best of the situation. Perhaps he could ascend to leadership of the Watch, perhaps he could become a great hero here to be remembered forever just as Artos for defence of the realm.

But, this wouldn't be. As the reality of this cold exile set in, with each passing day he felt more resentful and betrayed than he already had.

Finally, he decided he had enough. He didn't deserve any of this, and after discussions with a few fellows that had a distaste for their position he chose mutiny.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Red Cult

The Followers of R'hllor

The night is dark and full of terrors.

Description:
The Red Priesthood can be found all across every major city in Essos, but with an exceptionally large presence in Volantis. Worshipping the Lord of Light, the faith is much more in line with the traditions of Essos with things like human sacrifices still commonplace, making its tenets somewhat alien to the Westerosi, and in turn having many dub it a demonic cult. Nonetheless its devotees of all classes are some of the most fervent followers of any faith in the world, their sincerity rarely matched by the followers of the Seven.

Recent History:
While the followers of the Lord of Light do not have absolute control or recognition as a state religion anywhere, it is undeniable their evangelical efforts have guaranteed them recognition as an important actor within Essos. In Volantis in particular their temple is a gargantuan construct that lets all see its import within the city and the continent.

Recently their spread has become somewhat of a matter of concern. While not outright preaching any kind of sedition, people's devotion to the faith has begun to undermine the other power structures in Essos.

Now, with the rise in import of Lord Maelys Blackfyre, they see an opportunity. If they can convince him of the value of the faith and assure his claim to the throne of Westeros, they would be able to attach themselves to a powerful force to evangelize the West.

Notable Members:

Ronko: The High Priest of Volantis for the Followers of the Lord of Light, his position makes him the closest thing to a centralized authority in the religion. With control of the single largest coffer of the faith and the largest congregation the Priesthoods his decision is very often seen as final in any action of the faith. Any effort of R'hllor's worshippers needs at the very least his indifference to find any success, but ultimately all seek out his aid and favour. If he looks well upon a cause, he may shower it with gold and men to ensure its success. If he sees no fruit to be born of it, he would ensure not a single coin or Red Priest from Volantis comes to it and in turn it would likely wither and fade.

Ronko is somewhat skeptical of the mission to the Band of Nine. While it would be splendorous for the Red Cult to put its favoured man on the throne of Westeros, the plan has many issues. For one, Maelys Blackfyre has not yet been converted, and his disposition to the faith has yet to be seen. Second, the success of the new Blackfyre rebellion as some dub it is very, very dubious. Should it fail, it would simply aid the existing power structures in Westeros in demonizing the religion and hence make supporting Maelys not only a useless, but outright counter-productive proposition. However, the fervour of some of the Priests supporting this have come to interest him. He has permitted the use of some funds and resources of the Volantene Red Priesthood, but he demands that first there be results before he releases much more. Conversion of Maelys and his victory in the Stepstones would be ideal, but for now he at the very least wishes for some assurances from the Blackfyre pretender and his supporters about what might be granted for the glory of R'hllor should they throw their support behind the band of Nine.

Mara:
A Westerosi woman that was once enslaved after being captured by pirates, she was liberated by the Volantene Priesthood. Since then, she has been positioned as being one of the vanguards of evangelizing Westeros. Her efforts are to be complementary to that of Koloth, ministering to the smallfolk and nobility alike in Westeros that might work as a fifth column in support of Lord Maelys should he come to worship the Lord of Light, or to simply lay the seed of converting all Westeros more organically if that fails. In particular, she is valued because she diligently kept the old Gods and the new. Having been immersed in both religious cultures she is well aware of how to best evangelize the different people of Westeros according to what they might find best convincing to follow the Lord of Light.


Koloth
Age: 39

Appearance:
Dark skinned and dark haired, his eyes have a milky green tint that might have been a proper green once, but is now just a symbol of his blindness. His skin has the texture of a a very old leather boot, stretched across a broad and meaty frame that is still ready to take on the duties of the Fiery Hand.

The Western Missionary

Description & biography:
Koloth was born a slave to slave parents. His early life bore nothing of note. Inevitably being broad shouldered as he was he served many years as a galley slave, his back turning into a carapace of whipped scars and his body a lot of cords of muscle to better push ships across the sea. On one unfortunate journey, the ship he was on crashed on the rocks, him being among the few survivors. Nonetheless he was still property, and gladly sold to the Volantene Priesthood of R'hllor.

As the catechism of Koloth began, he took to the faith earnestly. He had quite literally nothing in his life before, and suddenly he had the whole of infinity presented before him in the form of the Lord of Light. He strived with every passing moment to better serve the Lord, and with the death of one of the Fiery Hands he was presented an excellent opportunity.

It was the first moment in his life that Koloth felt pride, when he finally donned that armour and saw a reflection of himself in the point of his spear. Now he was something, now he was not mere property of another man.

Yet as the years passed, his service felt... unfulfilling. Night after night at his post he would stare into flames, his vision seemingly dulling. Until one day, vision was gone outright. But to Koloth, this was not blindness. He had gained sight. He saw a vision of the war upon the Stepstones, and immediately came to High Priest Ronko. Visions weren't an entirely uncommon thing in the Red Priesthood, and so he was not very skeptical of Koloth's words. When the conflict between the Westerosi crown and the Band of Nine began, the affirmation of Koloth's vision gave him great credence. Thus, while somewhat reluctant, the high Priest was willing to spare some resources in the form of faithful souls and coin to support them for Koloth's vision of bringing Maelys on the crown of the Seven Kingdoms with the burning heart behind him.

So the man departs, eager to bring the Blackfyre claimant into the fold and unto the Throne.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Red Cult

The Followers of R'hllor

The night is dark and full of terrors.

Description:
The Red Priesthood can be found all across every major city in Essos, but with an exceptionally large presence in Volantis. Worshipping the Lord of Light, the faith is much more in line with the traditions of Essos with things like human sacrifices still commonplace, making its tenets somewhat alien to the Westerosi, and in turn having many dub it a demonic cult. Nonetheless its devotees of all classes are some of the most fervent followers of any faith in the world, their sincerity rarely matched by the followers of the Seven.

Recent History:
While the followers of the Lord of Light do not have absolute control or recognition as a state religion anywhere, it is undeniable their evangelical efforts have guaranteed them recognition as an important actor within Essos. In Volantis in particular their temple is a gargantuan construct that lets all see its import within the city and the continent.

Recently their spread has become somewhat of a matter of concern. While not outright preaching any kind of sedition, people's devotion to the faith has begun to undermine the other power structures in Essos.

Now, with the rise in import of Lord Maelys Blackfyre, they see an opportunity. If they can convince him of the value of the faith and assure his claim to the throne of Westeros, they would be able to attach themselves to a powerful force to evangelize the West.

Notable Members:

Ronko: The High Priest of Volantis for the Followers of the Lord of Light, his position makes him the closest thing to a centralized authority in the religion. With control of the single largest coffer of the faith and the largest congregation the Priesthoods his decision is very often seen as final in any action of the faith. Any effort of R'hllor's worshippers needs at the very least his indifference to find any success, but ultimately all seek out his aid and favour. If he looks well upon a cause, he may shower it with gold and men to ensure its success. If he sees no fruit to be born of it, he would ensure not a single coin or Red Priest from Volantis comes to it and in turn it would likely wither and fade.

Ronko is somewhat skeptical of the mission to the Band of Nine. While it would be splendorous for the Red Cult to put its favoured man on the throne of Westeros, the plan has many issues. For one, Maelys Blackfyre has not yet been converted, and his disposition to the faith has yet to be seen. Second, the success of the new Blackfyre rebellion as some dub it is very, very dubious. Should it fail, it would simply aid the existing power structures in Westeros in demonizing the religion and hence make supporting Maelys not only a useless, but outright counter-productive proposition. However, the fervour of some of the Priests supporting this have come to interest him. He has permitted the use of some funds and resources of the Volantene Red Priesthood, but he demands that first there be results before he releases much more. Conversion of Maelys and his victory in the Stepstones would be ideal, but for now he at the very least wishes for some assurances from the Blackfyre pretender and his supporters about what might be granted for the glory of R'hllor should they throw their support behind the band of Nine.

Mara:
A Westerosi woman that was once enslaved after being captured by pirates, she was liberated by the Volantene Priesthood. Since then, she has been positioned as being one of the vanguards of evangelizing Westeros. Her efforts are to be complementary to that of Koloth, ministering to the smallfolk and nobility alike in Westeros that might work as a fifth column in support of Lord Maelys should he come to worship the Lord of Light, or to simply lay the seed of converting all Westeros more organically if that fails. In particular, she is valued because she diligently kept the old Gods and the new. Having been immersed in both religious cultures she is well aware of how to best evangelize the different people of Westeros according to what they might find best convincing to follow the Lord of Light.


Koloth
Age: 39

Appearance:
Dark skinned and dark haired, his eyes have a milky green tint that might have been a proper green once, but is now just a symbol of his blindness. His skin has the texture of a a very old leather boot, stretched across a broad and meaty frame that is still ready to take on the duties of the Fiery Hand.

The Western Missionary

Description & biography:
Koloth was born a slave to slave parents. His early life bore nothing of note. Inevitably being broad shouldered as he was he served many years as a galley slave, his back turning into a carapace of whipped scars and his body a lot of cords of muscle to better push ships across the sea. On one unfortunate journey, the ship he was on crashed on the rocks, him being among the few survivors. Nonetheless he was still property, and gladly sold to the Volantene Priesthood of R'hllor.

As the catechism of Koloth began, he took to the faith earnestly. He had quite literally nothing in his life before, and suddenly he had the whole of infinity presented before him in the form of the Lord of Light. He strived with every passing moment to better serve the Lord, and with the death of one of the Fiery Hands he was presented an excellent opportunity.

It was the first moment in his life that Koloth felt pride, when he finally donned that armour and saw a reflection of himself in the point of his spear. Now he was something, now he was not mere property of another man.

Yet as the years passed, his service felt... unfulfilling. Night after night at his post he would stare into flames, his vision seemingly dulling. Until one day, vision was gone outright. But to Koloth, this was not blindness. He had gained sight. He saw a vision of the war upon the Stepstones, and immediately came to High Priest Ronko. Visions weren't an entirely uncommon thing in the Red Priesthood, and so he was not very skeptical of Koloth's words. When the conflict between the Westerosi crown and the Band of Nine began, the affirmation of Koloth's vision gave him great credence. Thus, while somewhat reluctant, the high Priest was willing to spare some resources in the form of faithful souls and coin to support them for Koloth's vision of bringing Maelys on the crown of the Seven Kingdoms with the burning heart behind him.

So the man departs, eager to bring the Blackfyre claimant into the fold and unto the Throne.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : A War And Nine Crowns

Disgraced Stark

Godric Stark
Age: 21

Appearance:
Just a bit shorter than the average nobleman but still taller than most peasants, Godric has thick red hair that somehow curls itself into messes no matter how much it is combed, a fact that unless trimmed almost to a buzz cut makes him look like a vagabond even in fine clothes. His eyes are a very dark, almost black colour that people have described as either a soulless void or a reflection of the night sky depending on their disposition towards him. He has a somewhat distinctive gait, even when walking slowly his legs have far more movement in the knees and calves as if he is always rushing to be somewhere.

from the night of his defection

Description & biography:
Godric Stark is son of Coeman Stark, son of Brandon Stark, son of Artos. As a baby and as a child, Godric was very large leading to great hopes that he could grow into a warrior to proudly represent the House in any tourney. Alas, as the boy reached puberty he barely grew at all, leaving him if anything somewhat shorter than much of his family if still taller than commoners.

Still, all the whisperings into his ears that he was destined for great things never left him. He didn't need to be a monster of muscle to make a name for himself. He trained, he studied, he dreamed of a great destiny for himself. Whatever plans his family might have for him, he would be ready to fulfill them so long as his efforts were recognized.

With the passing of time, he feared that his labours were for not. He fought great warriors and Knights, he gained the praise of the Maesters, and yet it seemed there was naught for him. But a day dawned that it was suggested he might marry one of the Targaryen Princesses at the edge of their dynasty. He was overyjoyed, and made sure to have a good showing for himself by fighting in a tourney in the capital. Though he didn't win, the honourable position of fourth place among many more experienced Knights was nonetheless impressive. All seemed well and indeed even the Targaryen girl seemed to be receptive to this.

The negotiations for the marriage were coming to a close, when Godric's world was turned upside down. Suddenly everyone in the capital seemed cold, distant in his presence. His brother came forth, demanding if a whole slew of accusations was true. Supposedly Godric had slandered the Targaryens in a drunken rant, it was claimed he had called them inbred madmen unworthy of being royalty. He denied all of this, but none were convinced. So great was the shame was that not only was he recalled to the North, his father gave him a simple ultimatum. He would take vows and head to the Wall, or he would he would be quietly made to disappear. It didn't matter to him, so long as the King was appeased.

He seethed and writhed and cried, but what choice did Godric have? He took his vows, and went North. Briefly, he tried to make the best of the situation. Perhaps he could ascend to leadership of the Watch, perhaps he could become a great hero here to be remembered forever just as Artos for defence of the realm.

But, this wouldn't be. As the reality of this cold exile set in, with each passing day he felt more resentful and betrayed than he already had.

Finally, he decided he had enough. He didn't deserve any of this, and after discussions with a few fellows that had a distaste for their position he chose mutiny.

Hidden Amongst Humans - Initial Thoughts

as said elsewhere, interested :]

The bug man's hive of ideas

>_>

The bug man's hive of ideas

ฅ(^•ﻌ•^ฅ)

The bug man's hive of ideas

(*_*)

From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large

Writing upon the great mountain-face that was his canvas, Amunal was sated. The humans struggled to understand what he was doing, in part because he was writing words that they had no means to express. But even with this difficulty they found a fountain of knowledge in what he was doing. Medicines, mechanisms, means of organization, optimizations of their law, the united realms under the reverent stewardship of the Sunborn all found themselves flourishing. Peace came, tribes and Kingdoms one by one joining the flock. Not a hand was forced, for most the conclusion was natural.

Amunal was happy to let this slow advancement go on. If he forcefully introduced all that he believed best, he also knew it would not go over well unless he micro-managed it all, a matter he didn’t wish to go through with. He was far too busy, considering concepts that were novel to any mind in the Milky Way.

Oftentimes, he would use his spare hand to write orders for people, while separately speaking to them. At a few points, so engaged was he that even his feet were used to write as he conveyed messages and orders to four parties at once, all the while one hand kept writing upon the wall of the mountain. Many moments would come when he would simply tell people to figure it out themselves. Sometimes this was simply because he wanted them to learn independence, sometimes it was because it would be a waste of his time, other times it was an outright experiment to better study the lesser humans. He knew them well, but not perfectly, and situations with the possibility of high variance but low impact outcomes were perfect little laboratories.
But, eventually, there came a problem he could not delegate.

The Starlanders as far as he was concerned, were a myth. He had seen a few artifacts of materials far too complex to have been made on this world, and he knew well that somebody existed there. But of those that came to Brahms for wanton slaughter and did not establish any kind of meaningful presence? It was preposterous.

Amunal believed in a world that was tidy, orderly. A society that killed for joy would not be one that could reach and then maintain a presence in the stars in his opinion. He would regret being so flippant to the concerns of the mortals, when finally the thousand and seventh complaint came to him of the starlanders within the same day. He counted, and he heard the voices of men he believed sane. He should have listened to his past instincts.

Arriving at the scene of the bloodshed, Amunal stared at the corpses. Yet… there was an issue. The carnage was unaccounted for. There had been more people in the burning village than there were corpses, or at least so a quick review told him.

“Where the rest?” He asked of the man standing by his side.

“I don’t know. Some stories speak of them taking people away.”

Slaves. He supposed that was some sort of justification for all this destruction. But why the deaths? Why not a more delicate means to get labour? What for even? He supposed that the innate value of a soul meant that a soul could always produce some sort of value to a slaver. But what? What would make such deaths?

Then he saw it, the glint in the sky. He stared at it, and ignored all the pleas from the mortals as night and day passed and he stared at the tiniest of shinings.

At some point, he told all the humans bumbling about him to leave for kilometres around him. Less than an hour after this order, the Starlanders came. Most of the humans fled even further, though a few brave fools went to protect their beloved fools. They lasted few seconds as shard weapons killed them or complex tools incapacitated them.

But at last, he was face to face with one of them. That smug face, those pointy ears, it wasn’t what he expected of an evil alien but it was not shocking either. The alien laughed at him, and spoke in one of the dialects of Brahms. “Tell me, will you come quietly? Or need we spoil our prize like those?”

Amunal put his hands behind himself and tilted his head to the side. “Why do you do this?” he demanded. “What do human captives do that your civilization cannot accomplish on its own merit?”

The alien laughed again, and raised its weapon. Before the trigger was pulled a thrown stone impaled it to what seemed to be a scantily clad female of the species. How similar to humans they were. Fascinating! He would have to study them.

But first, he would kill every single one of them.

It did not take particularly long, and as planned he picked up the impaled speaker of the aliens. He laughed at it, Amunal’s voice a perfect imitation of that of the Eldar. The alien’s eyes widened as Amunal addressed it in its own tongue. It was a taunt to add insult to injury. “Why do you do this?” He asked again, giving another mocking laugh as the alien stabbed uselessly at the Primarch’s skin, the blade sliding off of flesh that turned fluid upon impacts.

“And, why do you struggle in vain?” he asked. This was a question he had asked of humans a thousand times, and yet none gave a good answer for why they went with efforts that would inevitably be undone by others. Perhaps these aliens had somehow avoided these human quandaries.

Now it was again the alien’s turn to laugh as it spat in Amunal’s eye. The Primarch didn’t even blink as the mixture of saliva and blood ran from his pupil down his cheek.

“Because we enjoy it!” The alien taunted. “Because we enjoy killing, we-”

“Thank you.” the Primarch said, ending the life of the creature with a single twist of his wrist. In the last moment of the aeldari’s life, it was confused, almost scared as its elfin features were mimicked by the Primarch.

In a flash he ran towards some of the humans still watching and gave simple orders once more. The aliens were to be taken apart, dissected. Their materials were to be dealt with similarly, though he suspected none of the steel tools on Brahms would have the strength, precision, and sharpness to take apart the weapons, armour, equipment and vehicles of the invaders.

His orders were interrupted though, as he looked up and saw the presence of a small entourage that had arrived. That by itself meant nothing, but he had not seen or heard them walking here.

He tilted his head, and realized he recognized the faces of two of them. The elderly shamans that had summoned him to this world, or at least so they had according to them. They had not aged a single day. The details down to the very stubble on their faces shaved with obsidian daggers was exactly the same. Their tans, even the arrangement of individual hair follicles.

The Primarch approached them, returning to a more base form. The dark skinned and pale haired man with a beard turned to the more androgynous silvery form that he had when he first met these men. Crossing its hand behind itself, the almost-perfect creature looked at them through eyes without irises. “You again. You told me to seek you out, I have not. Why have you returned?”

The men smiled almost as one. “When you looked to the stars, you sought us.”

Amunal’s gleaming metallic lips turned into a wider smile, though there was no mirth behind it. “No, when I looked to the stars, I looked to the stars.”

“You are mistaken, you-” Belsokh began, though he was halted by the hand of Ptraf.

“The Starlanders will come once more, Sunborn.” Ptraf paused, and continued as he was not interrupted by the Primarch. “They will come, and your people will suffer. But this can be prevented. We need only adjust our arrangement. We have the knowledge to defend from their assailments, and indeed put an end to them, we-”

Now the Primarch interrupted. “You speak of ancient weapons, from before the war?”

“You know of the war?” Ptraf asked, now suddenly the one seeming far less wise than Belsokh.

“Of course he does, he would have learned of the records!” The other Priest replied.

But Amunal only smiled thinly, for Belsokh was wrong too. Truth be told, Amunal had never visited the archives, and barely listened to the mythologies. They seemed irrelevant to him, even when he was able to loosely corroborate the stories to what he was able to surmise himself. The scarring on the planet, the artifacts of strange metals he was able to find the composition of, the inconsistencies in the sciences that had developed. Nobody had to tell him that these people were forced to their primitiveness. It could be concluded from first principles.

“I shall find these weapons myself. I shall not bind myself to your sacrifices. Leave, before I kill you too.” he had only not destroyed these tribes because now they seemed to only sacrifice their own kin, who he could only presume were ecstatic rather than slaves forced to die. It was nonsense, but a willing sacrifice wasn’t one he very much cared to preserve.

“But how will you come to the Starlanders?” Belsokh countered, his questioning expression slowly turning to a grin as for many seconds, even the fast moving mind of the Sunborn could not come with a response.

“I will seize their crafts.”

“How?”

“I will.”

“You have not answer the question.”

In the same instant that Belsokh’s tongue touched his teeth to finish the last syllable of his sentence, a hand the size of a torso wrapped around his throat. “Your heathenry won’t bring me to the stars, cultist. You are being a nuisance.”

Belsokh couldn’t speak, and Ptraf was forced to intervene. “Your Wisdom,” he pleaded, speaking to the Primarch with a new Honorific. “All we ask is for you to give us an opportunity to present ourselves. If it is nonsense we speak, we will be force into ignominy, our tribes will join you. If not, we merely plead that you let us speak freely to you, at will.”

The skin and eyes of Belsokh turned red, it seemed his head would pop off like a cork from a bottle of gaseous wine as the meaty hand on his throat only got tighter. But then he was released.

“Go. Assemble what you need.”

Ptraf smiled as Belsokh tried to get air he had never needed so much before. “We need more of these Starlanders first, for I know you shan’t want your people slain. Alive, your Wisdom. Take them alive.”