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The Savarog Forge World of Taxik-Pirr
Prokator Cuyax Celak, High Admiral of the Kosmicheskaya Sila, was striding about the command decks of the the great Taxik dry docks. Here, he observed as the immense ships of the void force were forged and created, ever pumping out even greater marvels of steel and shielding. Above him, in the secondary forge basins, the titanic, world shattering cannons that were strewn about the heaviest of capital ships were being pumped out under express orders of the Commissariat. It seemed war was indeed on the horizon, and the Savarogs would not allow themselves to be outdone. The Prokator had largely watched this process with the passive nature that being a ripe eight hundred brings, though he couldn't help himself but give a grin as he watched the last of the modernisations be complete upon his own ship, the behemoth known as the 'SUSR Chugara.'
"May sound cheesy, Prokator, but those aliens will never know what hit them." A voice, clearly that of the Prokator's second in command, the hulking Third Captain of the Line, Tatilak Grind. The Third Captain was an imposing figure, even to the most steely of souls, but the Prokator didn't even flinch at his approach and subsequent outburst.
"Indeed. You are right there, hah." Laughed the Prokator, turning to face his long-time ally and even friend. Shaking the other man's hand, the Prokator took to the fine bottle of Ædrunyak brandy that was sitting atop a sturdy wooden table nearby. Pouring two glasses, he raised a toast to the impending storm of arms that would undoubtedly ensure. "To the commune of the Savarog people! To the power we wield! And to the arms, brother! Korbal Savarog!"
The final sentence was echoed by the Third Captain mere moments after, and was followed by both of them downing the contents of their glass.
Allowing a few short moments to pass before asking, the Third Captain cleared his throat before saying, "And to what of the Qulseoc, Admiral? Are they to, accompany, us?" His tone was almost disdainful, and perhaps rightfully as he was one of the few members of the higher echelons of the navy that wasn't fully under the sway of the advanced cephalopods.
"I do believe they are coming with us, maybe for the best. Who knows, may be a suicide run in all, given that those damn Wo-things were myths until eyewitness reports from High Commissar Vardan and the Crakadors with him." To the casual observer, the Prokators voice was far more in favour of the Qulseoc, though those few that understand the complexities of their speech will realise the opposite. His tone was downright venomous of their allies. Luckily no one had been in earshot to hear of such remarks.
"Yeah. Understandable, I guess. Whole empire just shows up out of no where, bound to cause some sorts of trouble." The Third Captain agreed, pouring himself and the Prokator another drink. He knew he'd be requiring it.
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The Savarog Hive World of Srel Parg
The streets were empty, save for the occasional wandering alien, and even the grand markets where far emptier than they had any right to be at the time of day. In their place, silence and an almost reverent sense was about the place, the sort that only utter devotion to a cause can bring. Where once massive signs advertising local produce and industry stood, there were now immense military propaganda banners held high and fluttering in the gentle breeze. The banners were massive, standing the size of a human at the very smallest and being larger than main battle tanks at the largest. Each shared the same image and message however. The skull and sickle which composed the Savarog's ruling political party, alongside the technological symbol of the Qulseoc. In dandelion yellow, the worlds “Korbal Savarog” were written with pride, each a tempting klaxon call for all able bodied citizens to sign themselves up for service to the nation and to the commune.
All were welcomed, be they alien or pure blood Savarog. All were accepted into the ranks. But not all survived the downright harsh training that would follow. Potential recruits were subject to some of the most gruelling drills that any armed forces in the galaxy sent its men through. It was not by insidious design that some failed, but rather some part of their form failed, be they weaker, slower, or downright less hardy than what was expected.
On top of this grinder of meat and drilling was a single man, Lord Marshall Khinar Nozke of the 9th Rinn'lack Foot Guards. Not nearly as tall as the average, and not nearly as broad. Khinar was still just as feared as any of even the legendary Vonar divisions for his unwavering cruelty and passionate belief that the weak must forever be weeded out lest they corrupt the strong with their pathetic forms. He leapt at any chance to berate or abuse, be it a scathing remark or something more direct, and such an event to warrant this had occurred no less than twenty foot away...in his field of view.
An alien man, one of the hardier species and certainly of the more warlike clans judging from his numerous black markings, was sprawled across the muddy floor clutching at a broken nose that was freely bleeding his thick, purple ichor. He didn't have time to get to his feet, as the Lord Marshall was immediately upon him, pressing upon the creature with his spiked walking cane. He mased his aggression with a soft, almost fatherly voice. “Did y'eh fall there, me boy?” He said, giving a rather dumb look of sympathy.
As the alien even opened his mouth to speak, he felt the biting teeth of a Grumlok's barrel resting upon his shoulder. There was a cackle, then the spite laced words following them. “I said, did you fall?! Do you think the enemy will ALLOW such incompetence on the field of war? Well, do you?! Answer me you snivelling wretch of a waste of matter!”
“N- No, no, sir!” Came the reply in a tone almost reeking of fear..and maybe the stench of the aliens...systems, having let loose. He hadn't time to finish, as a full half-inch bullet pulped his shoulder and collar bone into small splinters and shrapnel. There was screeching, much of it. But the Marshall didn't falter. Those who tried to aid the man were told to keep marching lest they wished the same fate.
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Savarog Fortress World of Cariam.
Murlak District.
Wrakador Khotack, Field Marshall of the Vud Subsystem and governor to the world of Carim, was embroiled in an entirely different pursuit. Instead of slaying his own men, he was leading a glorious march of a million across the entire city centre of Murlak. Millions more had flocked from all around to see the marvel of military might as thousand of soldiers marched in perfect formation in shining Srogas and armed to the literal teeth with their weapons of war. It was an inspiring sight to see, as even heavy vehicles with splendid paint schemes and heaping amounts of kill honours across their chassis. Military bands the size of immense platoons blared both patriotic and military songs from the earliest days of the republics up to the current national anthem. The entire world was an ecstatic mass of people of more or less an entire district joined the songs with prideful voices and hearts brimming with zeal.
The most iconic was undoubtedly the sight of one of the nigh fabled artifacts of the army, that monolithic visage of a fully operation Kraxx Titan. It walked with an amount of effortless ability that seemed almost impossible, and bristled with as much firepower as the other units currently joined in the massed parade of power.
Prokator Cuyax Celak, High Admiral of the Kosmicheskaya Sila, was striding about the command decks of the the great Taxik dry docks. Here, he observed as the immense ships of the void force were forged and created, ever pumping out even greater marvels of steel and shielding. Above him, in the secondary forge basins, the titanic, world shattering cannons that were strewn about the heaviest of capital ships were being pumped out under express orders of the Commissariat. It seemed war was indeed on the horizon, and the Savarogs would not allow themselves to be outdone. The Prokator had largely watched this process with the passive nature that being a ripe eight hundred brings, though he couldn't help himself but give a grin as he watched the last of the modernisations be complete upon his own ship, the behemoth known as the 'SUSR Chugara.'
"May sound cheesy, Prokator, but those aliens will never know what hit them." A voice, clearly that of the Prokator's second in command, the hulking Third Captain of the Line, Tatilak Grind. The Third Captain was an imposing figure, even to the most steely of souls, but the Prokator didn't even flinch at his approach and subsequent outburst.
"Indeed. You are right there, hah." Laughed the Prokator, turning to face his long-time ally and even friend. Shaking the other man's hand, the Prokator took to the fine bottle of Ædrunyak brandy that was sitting atop a sturdy wooden table nearby. Pouring two glasses, he raised a toast to the impending storm of arms that would undoubtedly ensure. "To the commune of the Savarog people! To the power we wield! And to the arms, brother! Korbal Savarog!"
The final sentence was echoed by the Third Captain mere moments after, and was followed by both of them downing the contents of their glass.
Allowing a few short moments to pass before asking, the Third Captain cleared his throat before saying, "And to what of the Qulseoc, Admiral? Are they to, accompany, us?" His tone was almost disdainful, and perhaps rightfully as he was one of the few members of the higher echelons of the navy that wasn't fully under the sway of the advanced cephalopods.
"I do believe they are coming with us, maybe for the best. Who knows, may be a suicide run in all, given that those damn Wo-things were myths until eyewitness reports from High Commissar Vardan and the Crakadors with him." To the casual observer, the Prokators voice was far more in favour of the Qulseoc, though those few that understand the complexities of their speech will realise the opposite. His tone was downright venomous of their allies. Luckily no one had been in earshot to hear of such remarks.
"Yeah. Understandable, I guess. Whole empire just shows up out of no where, bound to cause some sorts of trouble." The Third Captain agreed, pouring himself and the Prokator another drink. He knew he'd be requiring it.
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The Savarog Hive World of Srel Parg
The streets were empty, save for the occasional wandering alien, and even the grand markets where far emptier than they had any right to be at the time of day. In their place, silence and an almost reverent sense was about the place, the sort that only utter devotion to a cause can bring. Where once massive signs advertising local produce and industry stood, there were now immense military propaganda banners held high and fluttering in the gentle breeze. The banners were massive, standing the size of a human at the very smallest and being larger than main battle tanks at the largest. Each shared the same image and message however. The skull and sickle which composed the Savarog's ruling political party, alongside the technological symbol of the Qulseoc. In dandelion yellow, the worlds “Korbal Savarog” were written with pride, each a tempting klaxon call for all able bodied citizens to sign themselves up for service to the nation and to the commune.
All were welcomed, be they alien or pure blood Savarog. All were accepted into the ranks. But not all survived the downright harsh training that would follow. Potential recruits were subject to some of the most gruelling drills that any armed forces in the galaxy sent its men through. It was not by insidious design that some failed, but rather some part of their form failed, be they weaker, slower, or downright less hardy than what was expected.
On top of this grinder of meat and drilling was a single man, Lord Marshall Khinar Nozke of the 9th Rinn'lack Foot Guards. Not nearly as tall as the average, and not nearly as broad. Khinar was still just as feared as any of even the legendary Vonar divisions for his unwavering cruelty and passionate belief that the weak must forever be weeded out lest they corrupt the strong with their pathetic forms. He leapt at any chance to berate or abuse, be it a scathing remark or something more direct, and such an event to warrant this had occurred no less than twenty foot away...in his field of view.
An alien man, one of the hardier species and certainly of the more warlike clans judging from his numerous black markings, was sprawled across the muddy floor clutching at a broken nose that was freely bleeding his thick, purple ichor. He didn't have time to get to his feet, as the Lord Marshall was immediately upon him, pressing upon the creature with his spiked walking cane. He mased his aggression with a soft, almost fatherly voice. “Did y'eh fall there, me boy?” He said, giving a rather dumb look of sympathy.
As the alien even opened his mouth to speak, he felt the biting teeth of a Grumlok's barrel resting upon his shoulder. There was a cackle, then the spite laced words following them. “I said, did you fall?! Do you think the enemy will ALLOW such incompetence on the field of war? Well, do you?! Answer me you snivelling wretch of a waste of matter!”
“N- No, no, sir!” Came the reply in a tone almost reeking of fear..and maybe the stench of the aliens...systems, having let loose. He hadn't time to finish, as a full half-inch bullet pulped his shoulder and collar bone into small splinters and shrapnel. There was screeching, much of it. But the Marshall didn't falter. Those who tried to aid the man were told to keep marching lest they wished the same fate.
------------------------------------------------------
Savarog Fortress World of Cariam.
Murlak District.
Wrakador Khotack, Field Marshall of the Vud Subsystem and governor to the world of Carim, was embroiled in an entirely different pursuit. Instead of slaying his own men, he was leading a glorious march of a million across the entire city centre of Murlak. Millions more had flocked from all around to see the marvel of military might as thousand of soldiers marched in perfect formation in shining Srogas and armed to the literal teeth with their weapons of war. It was an inspiring sight to see, as even heavy vehicles with splendid paint schemes and heaping amounts of kill honours across their chassis. Military bands the size of immense platoons blared both patriotic and military songs from the earliest days of the republics up to the current national anthem. The entire world was an ecstatic mass of people of more or less an entire district joined the songs with prideful voices and hearts brimming with zeal.
The most iconic was undoubtedly the sight of one of the nigh fabled artifacts of the army, that monolithic visage of a fully operation Kraxx Titan. It walked with an amount of effortless ability that seemed almost impossible, and bristled with as much firepower as the other units currently joined in the massed parade of power.