![[-]](https://www.horuset.com/images/igame/collapse.png "[-]")
30-11-2025, 07:39 PM
The storm over Dromund Kaas had been building for hours, thick and heavy, like a bruise swelling across the sky. Lightning spidered through the clouds—brief, violent flashes that turned the Horuset estate into a landscape of stark angles and long shadows.
The shuttle lurched through that storm like a wounded animal struggling toward familiar ground.
It didn’t descend with grace. It couldn’t.
Instead it limped—listing sideways, engines coughing smoke, hull shuddering with every gust of wind. One stabilizer dragged a ragged trail of sparks as it scraped the air, refusing to release the vessel until the final approach forced it down.
The engines screamed - or tried to, at least, only offering a long, tortured whine - and then cut.
The ship hit the landing pad not with a crash, but with the heavy, miserable groan of something that had held itself together for far too long. It sank into the duracrete beneath, as if the harsh stone were the softest embrace it had felt in the longest of times.
Smoke curled from vents.
Panels hung loose.
The whole frame vibrated like a creature taking its last breath.
Then it went quiet.
The kind of quiet that feels like relief.
For a time, nothing moved.
Kaas’ rains pattered against the hull, breaking the silence. Wind tugged at torn plating. A single external light flickered, guttered, then died.
At last, the side ramp bucked inward, catching, grinding, then forcing itself open with a low metallic snarl. The air that poured out was thick with sweat, blood, stale heat, and the harsh metallic bite of long-burnt fuel.
Saarkha stepped into the storm.
She looked carved from the same brutality as the thunder rolling overhead.
Her robes were ruined—charred at the edges, ripped at the seams, soaked through with dried blood that rain slowly coaxed back into life. Ash clung to her skin in uneven patches, caught in the creases of her knuckles and the hollows of her collarbones. Her forearms were wrapped in filthy, makeshift bandages, dark with old and new stains that the downpour only partially washed away.
Every burn, every cut, every bruise stood stark beneath the dim landing lights. Some wounds were crude—stitched in the field, jagged and ugly. Others looked days old, barely healed, cracked open again by the strain of the journey.
She moved stiffly at first, not from weakness, but from the kind of deep ache that lived in the bones—earned through repetition, endurance, and suffering. The storm plastered her hair across her face, revealing more hollow cheekbones, a sharper jaw, eyes sunken from sleepless nights and too many vigils under foreign skies.
Five worlds had taken their tribute.
They had not taken her.
She descended the ramp slowly, each step measured, each footfall leaving behind a smear of diluted blood that rainwater chased toward the cracks in the stone. The air around her carried the scent of journeys that demanded more than strength—sacrifice clung to her like a second skin.
Her shuttle hissed behind her—metal expanding, coolant venting, engines cooling for the last time. It sagged on its struts, exhausted, as if it had been waiting for her to disembark before allowing itself to die.
She did not look back.
Saarkha crossed the courtyard without urgency, without hesitation, without the slightest tremor of doubt. The estate’s lights cast her in pale gold and sharp, onyx shadow, shaping her into something half-statue, half-priestess. Rain carved lines down her face, mixing with soot, blood, and filth until it looked like warpaint being washed away by degrees.
She reached the main steps.
Ascended.
Then vanished into the estate’s darkened threshold.
The storm swallowed her silhouette, thunder rolling after her like a closing curtain.
Far behind her, the shuttle gave one last settling groan—metal collapsing inward, systems finally giving out now that their duty was done.
And in the courtyard’s heavy silence, marked only by rain and scorched stone, one truth settled like an omen:
The Bloodwrought had returned.
The shuttle lurched through that storm like a wounded animal struggling toward familiar ground.
It didn’t descend with grace. It couldn’t.
Instead it limped—listing sideways, engines coughing smoke, hull shuddering with every gust of wind. One stabilizer dragged a ragged trail of sparks as it scraped the air, refusing to release the vessel until the final approach forced it down.
The engines screamed - or tried to, at least, only offering a long, tortured whine - and then cut.
The ship hit the landing pad not with a crash, but with the heavy, miserable groan of something that had held itself together for far too long. It sank into the duracrete beneath, as if the harsh stone were the softest embrace it had felt in the longest of times.
Smoke curled from vents.
Panels hung loose.
The whole frame vibrated like a creature taking its last breath.
Then it went quiet.
The kind of quiet that feels like relief.
For a time, nothing moved.
Kaas’ rains pattered against the hull, breaking the silence. Wind tugged at torn plating. A single external light flickered, guttered, then died.
At last, the side ramp bucked inward, catching, grinding, then forcing itself open with a low metallic snarl. The air that poured out was thick with sweat, blood, stale heat, and the harsh metallic bite of long-burnt fuel.
Saarkha stepped into the storm.
She looked carved from the same brutality as the thunder rolling overhead.
Her robes were ruined—charred at the edges, ripped at the seams, soaked through with dried blood that rain slowly coaxed back into life. Ash clung to her skin in uneven patches, caught in the creases of her knuckles and the hollows of her collarbones. Her forearms were wrapped in filthy, makeshift bandages, dark with old and new stains that the downpour only partially washed away.
Every burn, every cut, every bruise stood stark beneath the dim landing lights. Some wounds were crude—stitched in the field, jagged and ugly. Others looked days old, barely healed, cracked open again by the strain of the journey.
She moved stiffly at first, not from weakness, but from the kind of deep ache that lived in the bones—earned through repetition, endurance, and suffering. The storm plastered her hair across her face, revealing more hollow cheekbones, a sharper jaw, eyes sunken from sleepless nights and too many vigils under foreign skies.
Five worlds had taken their tribute.
They had not taken her.
She descended the ramp slowly, each step measured, each footfall leaving behind a smear of diluted blood that rainwater chased toward the cracks in the stone. The air around her carried the scent of journeys that demanded more than strength—sacrifice clung to her like a second skin.
Her shuttle hissed behind her—metal expanding, coolant venting, engines cooling for the last time. It sagged on its struts, exhausted, as if it had been waiting for her to disembark before allowing itself to die.
She did not look back.
Saarkha crossed the courtyard without urgency, without hesitation, without the slightest tremor of doubt. The estate’s lights cast her in pale gold and sharp, onyx shadow, shaping her into something half-statue, half-priestess. Rain carved lines down her face, mixing with soot, blood, and filth until it looked like warpaint being washed away by degrees.
She reached the main steps.
Ascended.
Then vanished into the estate’s darkened threshold.
The storm swallowed her silhouette, thunder rolling after her like a closing curtain.
Far behind her, the shuttle gave one last settling groan—metal collapsing inward, systems finally giving out now that their duty was done.
And in the courtyard’s heavy silence, marked only by rain and scorched stone, one truth settled like an omen:
The Bloodwrought had returned.
