This blog post today is a promotion of a fan fiction written by my Facebook friend Dylon Perkins.
Rothterran Prime: Liberation
The sun rose slowly over the Campus Martius, the trees motioned playfully. Job stood tall and hard as an oak, the iron armor clanged softly as he adjusted his stance, and moved; the gentle breeze tugged his deep red war cloak. His emerald eyes gazing across the soon to be battle field at the Sordorian Camp. The Sordorian Wars had been going on for a generation and Job was confident he would end it. The Skarlet people had elected him as Emperor for his promise to put the long war to an end. He had to keep his promise. And if the Sordorian’s wouldn’t negotiate, he would have to fight them.
“Well general, is the artillery ready?” Job quizzed as his General at Arms approached, his voice deep and commanding yet soft.
“Yes my lord, the ballistae, and catapults are primed and ready to hail death.”
“Good, rouse the men, we attack at midday.” Job nodded, his crown catching a bit of the sun. Reflecting it toward the Sodorian camp. Job then turned to reenter his command tent; the red wool coverings offering shade.
The General jogged off to get the army ready for the assault. His metal armor clanking as he moved.Meanwhile in space above the planet; a small fleet of Sith war ships leaped from hyperspace to take positions in the star system. Dozens of Star Destroyers; hundreds of frigates and cruisers.
“Sir, there seems to be no advanced technology in system,” spoke an ensign staring at his display. “At least none our scanners can pick up.”
“Good. Makes our job plenty of fun.”
The captain smirked, standing from his throne. His black uniform tidy and neat. “Hail the Krayt.” His voice was demanding.
“Yes sir!” the ensign followed orders and an image of the fleet admiral appeared on the bridge’s view screen. A broad man; his skin a hellish red, his eyes could pierce the soul.
“Yes, Captain Valoris?” spoke the admiral in a deep commanding voice through a mask that covered his nose and mouth, it was designed to look like a skull’s jaw. Every few seconds a bit of steam emitted from between the “teeth.”
“The jump into the Uncharted Region was successful, milord. The planet appears to be primitive, orbital scans indicate a basic society,” the captain reported. “I think we can engage to form our base sir.”
“Why fight, when we can take our role as gods to these primitives?!” the admiral asked rhetorically, his hands gesturing to the heavens.
“Start the attack, target major cities first and then start the land assault. I want no losses from us, Captain. This operation must not fail.” The Sith Pureblood’s gloved fist slammed against the arm rest.
“Yes, Lord Terminus,” Valoris spoke; swallowing the fear of his master, attempting to look confident. The middle-aged captain turned to his com officer. “Commence the bombardment of the major cities. And prep all landing parties.”
“Yes sir,” the officer went to work relaying orders.As the dawn settled into morning, the streets of Skarlet were bustling with life, merchants selling all sorts of goods, from food to elaborate metal work. The Royal Guard along the walls, the city was safe from almost any attack from the ground.
As an elderly monk pushed the large cumbersome doors of the temple open, a burst of light from the heavens; as intense as the sun blasted through the stained glass, incinerating a few other holy men, and the crowded streets turned to panic as the lights hailed from the sky. Within a few moments, Skarlet was razed to the ground. Ashes and broken walls littered with bodies.
The blue Banner of Sordor burst into flames as the lights hailed across the world, kingdoms fell to what was said to be “Ahvo’s Wrath”: every palace crumbled, every wall shattered; those not killed or wounded were traveling, of the four billion inhabitants of Rotherran Prime, the survivors of this fire from the heavens numbered only half a million. Half a million battered, terrified people. The armies in mid conflict, sword smashing against shield, arrows falling as rain in the wind, javelins tossed meeting flesh, stopped almost as one to see the horror of heaven’s fury hailed upon the cities that their families, and loved ones dwelled in. Fear gripped all, anger strangled a few.
“Perhaps we should end this bloodshed,” Sordor’s general, who had led the blue banner to battle that morning, spoke; removing his iron helmet and watching the lights continue to fall.
“Agreed. We should send a rider to check our respective homes.”
Job looked at the blood stained ground, bodies of the red and blue nations tangled in death. Job removed his helmet and put his hand on his counterpart’s shoulder. “Rainear, we should tend to our fallen and find out what’s happened..”
“Yes..” was all Rainear said, walking half strength to his camp.
“Gather the fallen; prepare them for a pyre!” Job ordered to his men.
“Do the same,” he addressed to the Sordorian nearest him. And in turn walked back to his camp. This war had ended without a victory.“Begin the landing,” Captain Valoris ordered; sitting on his throne, his lips around a death stick. A combined force of thousands of small ships burst into the atmosphere; hundreds of landing craft full of droids and warriors, Sith Lords, and Sith troopers, ready to begin the bloodbath of conquering another world. Lord Terminus himself was on the landing craft that hit surface first. He walked off the craft as a king would to see his subjects, dark black cloak, a blood-red tunic trimmed in gold, his lightsaber hilt modeled after the iron sword’s hilt with guard.
“Darth Malgus continues a campaign as a puppet of the Emperor, blind to the new order I shall build and surpass the Sith of old.” Terminus’ pride was high, his laugh frightening as the survivors of the bombardment were rounded up into new camps to be surveyed by their new lords. “Milord, there’s a large group of warriors to the west, two different banners fly. One red, one blue. Orders?” A Sith knelt before Terminus. His cloak a clone to the hundreds of other Sith in the Empire.
“Deal with them, you imbecile! Don’t let them rally a resistance.” Terminus smacked his subordinate with his gauntleted hand the phrik steel, slashing the Sith’s face who was unmasked.
“Yes milord,” the Sith tried to hide his anger from the attack, faillingly; his sneer dripping blood.