They call it the Summit. A name with a double meaning. The Summit is the smashed remnant of half a mountain in the center of a ring of massive peaks that form a natural barrier to the eternal storms wracking the surface. The landscape is barely more palatable than beyond the barrier with a few hardy shrubs scratching a life from between the slabs of black rock and a few malformed creatures that might have been mammals slinking from hole to hole in fear of larger hunters. The Summit is the sole remaining permanent structure and the designated meeting point for all the Clans once every three years to trade and settle the deadliest disputes.
It is a place of ancient history and a glimpse at what this world might have been before the ecological destruction that ravaged it so. The fusion of advanced environmental shields that blocks the worst of the radiation that seeps through the atmosphere and weathered buildings maintained by the adepts of Clan Cowl. The unique clan is the source of most of the material and machinery needed to keep the land-trains moving and operating. Their knowledge of fabrication and restoration making them beyond the touch of all. A designated neutral ground.
It is here that Carnan plans to meet with the many Clan Heads and make his case before them to bind them under one banner…or break them all beneath his iron fist. The land-train of Clan Malus is a marvel of innovation and improvisation. Every surface tooled with the stories of the Clan in fine script. Images of great battles fought and won in the history of the Clan rendered in laser etched lines in the very metal. Oil smears are quickly wiped up by greasy faced younglings while scratches are buffed away by the older children. The warriors within the land-train are squat and muscular in keeping with the higher gravity, their hair black and their skin a pallid grey from lack of proper nutrition and sunlight.
Most are armed only with an electromagnetic slug-thrower with a good deal of punch behind it, some wield beam rifles that eat through power cells like no one would believe. There is little in the way of discipline or training, no standardization in uniform or armor beyond that of a red gauntlet stamped onto every armband or metal shoulder plate. Stitched into fabric flak-armor weave panels, tattooed onto exposed skin. That gauntlet is everywhere.
The politician beneath the Sith can appreciate such symbolism and the power inherent in it. The pragmatist, however, knows this to be a simple result of the constant struggles between the disparate Clans and the need to be recognized as a part of the whole. There is little in the way of extra-Clan politics involved here. A presence at his side snaps him from his ruminations on the nature of his surroundings.
"Clan Leader," he says as a simple greeting. The powerfully built woman grunts in reply. Stern of countenance and just as leeched of color as her underlings, the only thing truly remarkable about her is her eyes. Such a bright blue that if he hadn't known better would be the result of bionic augmentation. Her eyes are as piercing as weapons batteries, attempting to pin him in place like and insect beneath a needle. The voice that croaks past her thin lips is harsh with a lifetime of shouting over the roaring of engines and the howling of the storms.
"What do you fancy your chances are here? The Clans are proud, independent. They will not take talk of unification and a bridle lightly, even one coated in gold. People have tried in the past."
"Yes well, they never had a cruiser in low orbit ready to turn this entire place to glass if one hand is raised against me."
Thane Magara grunts and crosses her burly arms across her chest. The bulk of her ceremonial suit making her seem even more thickset and squat. The plates are made of polished steel etched with the story of her line, every Thane's story from first to last. As much badge of office as a functional piece of hardware. Something that Carnan can respect.
"The Clans might not respond to threats of force as well as you might think. The larger Clans like Borgo and Richter will only need a few promises of resources…maybe a show of force. Some are more set in their ways. They might need to be made example of."
Carnan arches one crimson brow in question. Magara's searing gaze flicks away to observe the land slip past them through the transparisteel.
"You are being awfully candid about how best to bring your entire race under my banner. Why place yourself behind me so readily?"
"Medusans respect and prize strength above all, Off-Worlder. The weak are culled for the good of the Clan, only those who have something to offer the Clan are allotted food and water rations. The sick, the weak, the old are a weakness." Her sermon ends with a hateful hiss. Eyes burning, fist clenched. He can taste her fury and it is as sweet as a fine wine across his tongue.
"Good. Strength I have in spades."
"Hmph. We shall see."
((-))
Thane Kolka of Clan Borgas stands slouched, leaning his weight against one leg and cocking his hip in his ceremonial plate at the center of a box of his Clan's finest warriors. The brutal warlord leading his Clan through the Southern Wastes is a man of brutal power and simple objectives. In his twelve years as Thane of Borgas he has overseen the annihilation of four minor Clans and the absorption of their land-trains into his own Clan's.
His face is as strong and pointed as the horn of an anvil with the whirls and blocks of ritual scarring rising to form trenches across his face. His nose has been broken and poorly set and his eyes are set deep and glimmer cruelly from the shadows of a heavy brow. It is the face of a bully and one used to exercising power over others. Thane Magara knows this more than any other for in her younger years, when Malus trailed a little further south the Thane of the time sought a marriage between the brash warrior and her. Before she broke the Thane's arm in the dueling pit and claimed the armor for herself.
Magara steels her spine as she leads her four guards forward. While not old she is not the brash youth who cares only for the swiftness of her blade and the strength of her arm anymore. Such things make a good warrior but are found lacking in a good leader. Iron must be tempered.
Her gut roils at the lecherous light that enters the barbarian's eye as she approaches. She stills the twitch towards her weapon before it reaches the fingers.
"It is always a pleasure to greet the noble Clan Malus to the Summit." The supposedly sensual purr reverberates between the parked land-trains ringing the Summit like teeth on a cog. The Borgas land-train is a behemoth stretching a kilometer and a half containing upwards of three-thousand people within its heavily armored bulk. The cars are an eclectic mix of new and old taken from shattered trains and the wreckages of Clans long dead on the wastes. It utterly dwarfs Clan Malus in every way, but she will not bow. Medusa will not allow it, and their mother-world is a harsh disciplinarian.
"Would that I could say the same of Clan Borgas. How Clan Cowl ever trusts you to keep your word in the Summit I will never know," she ripostes with a barb as flat and sharp as the knife sheathed at her hip.
"Why Magara one would think that you wished a feud with Clan Borgas with so much vitriol being tossed about like sand in the World Storm. Shall we meet in the dueling pits younglings to settle such a dispute…and then the tie breaker in my chambers over a mug of Glock?" The barbarian sneers nastily in what he imagines is a charming smirk.
Disgusting muck-sucker! I should have castrated the bastard when I had the chance, she seethes internally. Her guards can sense her growing agitation and shift ever so slightly to better react to anything that their opposites might try. The tension in the charged air shatters as a tall figure emerges from the airlock of the Malus land-train. Gliding down the lowered ramp and swathed in black cloth and armor like a vision of death, Lord Carnan sets foot on the grit of the Summit.
His sickly yellow eyes gaze about with a detached coolness. The red flesh of his face draws a hushed intake of breath from the Borgas entourage and a few hands inch towards mag-pistols. His mouth twitches in amusement, shattering the aristocratic façade for a heartbeat. Inwardly, she knows that like as not he could break all of Clan Borgas without any assistance. That he has chosen Malus as his heralds to the Summit is a mark of honor that she takes great pains to keep from showing.
Medusans prize strength. Strength with no challenge is iron left to rust. It grows weak without challenge and a stone to sharpen its edge. Though in her thoughts and in actions she might have submitted to the Off-Worlder she, like all Medusans that will fall beneath his banner in the end, will never stop challenging that strength in some way. This is not to mean that she will be openly defiant for that is foolishness and conflicting with the Medusan Mindset. It is to ensure that their leader is firm in his course, that he is sure that his way is the best way and that he is willing to defend it to the hilt.
"What. Is. That!?" the Borgas fool bites out while wrapping his meaty fingers around the hilt of his knife and the grip of his pistol. Magara can almost feel the amusement radiating from the alien as he turns towards Kolka.
"I am Lord Carnan, captain of the Vengeful Spirit. I am here to speak to the Summit as a guest of Clan Malus. Who are you?" The Thane puffs out his chest almost comically and places his hands on his hips.
"I am Thane Kolka of Clan Borgas. Conqueror of the—"
"Correct me if I'm wrong Thane Magara, but I only asked for his names not his titles. Correct?" Mirth bubbles in her chest at the near snarl that twists her fellow Thane's lips at the interruption.
"That is indeed true my friend. However it is considered rude for one to posture against someone who has yet to cross blades with them. I'm sure my fellow Thane didn't mean anything by it."
"And if I did?"
"Then it'll be settled in the Pit."
A grin stretches across Carnan's face sending an anticipatory thrill down Magara's spine. That smile promises blood and pain. A smile of a killer and one who enjoys breaking their victim beneath their clenched fists. A Medusan smile. The alien's voice is velvet smooth and deep as he voices his challenge.
"Yours or mine?"
((-))
Juka stands at the side of his Thane, face hidden behind the black visor of his new helmet and fists clenched tightly as the man that made so many promises to him loosens his shoulders in preparation for the Pit. The young Medusan tries his best to marshal his unease. The tall Sith represents the best hope for his people to prosper beyond their meager existence and is now risking all of it on a brawl in the Pits.
"I can feel your disquiet, Juka. Speak your mind," Carnan rumbles and begins disengaging different hidden clasps within his armor. The heavy plates are removed carefully and stacked on a battered table off to the side of the fighting pit. The Pits reside in a large coliseum-like structure near to the center of the Summit. Ancient columns of grey and white stone support the enclosed structure, the dome constructed of abrasion resistant ceramics and supported by gleaming beams of a silvery metal inscribed with many ancient lines of script in forgotten and dead languages.
Seven rows of seats ring the deep pit filled with the same black sand as beyond the walls with jagged spikes of iron ringing the lip of the pit. The stone of the floor and walls is stained with the passing of ages, the edges worn smooth by time and use. Members of Clan Cowl linger at the edges as more and more Medusans filter through the intricate doors guarded by Clan Cowl warriors clad in advanced power armor and wielding ceremonial halberds tipped by miniaturized coil-guns. The guards are giants, swollen with lost genetic enhancement technology and specifically bred by Clan Cowl to be the perfect killers loyal only to the rulers of the Summit.
Juka once saw them deal with a pair of bickering clan warriors. They moved almost as fast as Carnan and with the precision and power of a Stone Giant of legend. That so many of Clan Cowl are present for an honor duel sends fearful shivers down his spine.
"I feel that there is more to this duel than is on the surface," Juka responds eventually and turns back to face the red skinned alien as he removes the upper layer of his suit. The alien's torso is built almost exactly like a Medusan's though the proportions are just ever so slightly off. Just enough to taunt the eye and the mind. Scars decorate the expanse of red skin in a faint network of pale pink against crimson.
"Good. Then you are not a fool. Kolka thinks this a power play. He will be the first Medusan in hundreds of years to face an alien and slay him. His legend will grow, and he thinks to unite all the Clans under his banner, build an Empire."
Juka arches a brow. Carnan smirks and stretches his arms over his head. Muscles beneath his crimson flesh bunching and coiling like taught steel cables.
"Of course, he won't ever consider that he is just an abject lesson that I will be delivering to all the gathered Clans around us." The crowd begins to move towards their seats as the two fighters begin walking towards the edge of the pit. Juka scans the Thane of Clan Borgas and feels his unease return with a vengeance. Kolka is a slab of muscle and scar tissue. Ropey scars consistent with serrated blade wounds and puckered patches of skin that Juka recognizes as bullet wounds litter the Thane's torso across slabs of muscle. He moves with the confident stride of an experienced fighter.
Cruelty glints in his eyes as he accepts a large knife with serrations along the spine. Carnan scoffs and holds out his hand. Juka pulls his blade free of his belt and presents it hilt first. Like all Medusan blades it is well made and highly durable. The steel ripples along its length like smoke down to the edge which is burnished to a mirror sheen and sharper than a razor. A simple guard of brass protects the hand and the grip is molded rubber.
The significance of a Medusan giving another a blade is not lost on Carnan as he examines the blade with an inscrutable expression. He nods and steps forward to the edge of the pit.
"And what lesson will you be giving us?" Thane Magara inquires from her seat. Carnan smirks and raises his blade.
"There is always…a bigger fish."