Interlude I: The Hound
Scars open over azure skies, set against yawning maw of the void. Through radiant ruptures a fleet of bright-shelled warships translate into realspace. A war is being fought here, brothers and sister tearing at each other's throats, fighting for a future they'll never live to see.
Urkalla, the Huntsman, stands upon the navigation deck of the Lure poised to kill. He drives the ancient vessel forth with nary a pause. The pale green architecture twists to his liking and the crew race to do his bidding. They ache to be ruled; he gives them a firm hand, ruthless to a fault. His mother's queendom is his birthright. Her might is his inheritance.
The blue planet is a monster. The detritus of several crushed, folded hulls hang within its toothless maw. The Cabal are his Aunt's people; they are bold, they are audacious, they are well-meaning but they are blind to their own worth. He will never begrudge them for always waiting where they are needed, throats bared to lunging jaws. Those warships of the ivory-tusked whelp's employ turn to engage. Frantic cries rebound across the shared BattleNet, tickling against Urkalla's horns. Their alarm is sickly sweet - a prey-scent, thick enough to lather across his tongue. Their fear is muted, overriden by their fury, their righteous zealotry.
This is good, for he would have them no other way.
The others, cloaked now in the wine-soaked colours of the drunkard's passions, perceive his arrival at a stumbling rate. Their minds are scattered - all but a few have been reduced to mere motor functions. Bags of flesh and bone with little to drive them. Few souls to harvest, but his brood follow new laws. The act is a reward now, in and of itself. He cares not from whence the tribute comes, only that it does. If need be he will consume them all.
"Take their lives," Urkalla rumbles. His demand shivers down the spine of the ship, rippling through un-space to reach those tombcarriers lining on either side. Ancient weapons forged in wars older than the stars themselves rouse trembling. "Take their hopes. Take everything and give it to me. Truth rides forth. Aiat. Aiat. Aiat."
Soulfire cannons squeal with knowing anticipation as they are brought to the fore. Acolyte crews coax the caged amalgamation of shredded spirits forward - ushering them to howl, to split open Cabal frigates and drag the personnel within screaming into a press of dying minds. Harpoons worked from ancient bones adjust, aim, and fire. They fly forth like the colossal wyrms they were once fashioned from. Songs spill from the fangs of illustrious witches, scoring breaches within steel-locked warcarriers. Thrall flood from the portals; their unified shriek of grisly glee beckons the fleet closer, closer, closer until they are within range to lock horns. Fission missiles and supercharged slugs crack shell, break hulls, immolate hundreds but the deaths invigorates the rest. Urkalla listens keenly as his people die and he basks in it.
Cabal ships focus their shields towards their flanks where Hive vessels collide. A few strike lucky - they prove too resilient or the blow is too glancing to lodge. The rest are not so fortunate. Hooks and javelins fire forth, tearing through force barriers and metal both. Soulfire runs down their length; it reminds him of savage insects native to a far-flung world who liquefy their prey's internals and drink them hollow. The lives of thousands pass with whimpers, the energy of their beings undergoing metamorphosis. They are fuel to his fire. Nothing more. Their defeat is a salve on his riven soul, but too short-lived by half. Urkalla motions for the advance to continue - to drive deeper, deeper, deeper into the bottomless blue.
It does not please him to leave the remainder of the Cabal reeling in his wake; he not a wasteful killer. This irksome purpose ill-suits him, but his loyalty holds strong. Contingencies move to force his hand. He is, as ever, a prisoner of his own making - beholden the to the wishes of another. One dear. One who has swayed him from the natural path.
"That's it," the Queen's Sky-parasite whispers in his ear. Its poisonous words echo from Thrall skulls around the deck, riding on waves of bewildering enchantment. "Keep going. Put those poor bastards to some use."
The curtain will not fall. The act is not yet finished, and there are players who yet need to act their part.
AN: Writer's block hit real fucking hard. Just throwing this short little thing out there while I put the finishing touches on the next chapter. Had to revamp a couple of things regarding the "Plan".