In commorragh Kabals are the most common group that forms, and are the most common group to fall. However, a Kabal can come back from the brink, and in doing so become legendary. This is the story of once such Kabal, the Kabal of the Bleeding Edge.... Deep within the bowls of Lower commorragh an Archon by the name of Hertaerix Lecapant, Defiler of Souls stirred, pacing the room that was a cruel reminder of her failures. The gilied Imperial chests that had once contained richs beyond compare were empty, trophy mounts that were once filled with glorious reminders of her ingenuity were bare and furiniure that was once luxurious were now threadbard,creaking in the night. Her mind drifted to who had remained loyal during the fall from grace, but her eyes drifted to the knife which lied on the table to her right, on top of a pile of notes, plans and caluculations she had made when planning a way to claw her way back to glory... All of which had failed. She walked over to the table, sat down then played with knife abesnt mindedly, while over looking her notes. She soon reached a decidion, and so moved the knife to her neck. She was about to press down the knife onto her neck and end her misserable exisitance, for it was clear she'd never make a comback.... until her eye caught upon a plan that she had discarded too soon. She looked at that plan, and soon the pieces clicked in her head, and the path for the Bleeding Edge to regain it's glory was now open to her and she would not let anything stop her now. She then tossed the knife to one side, and stood up and viewed her room with new eyes. The chests no longer seemed empty, but waiting for the richs to arrive. The trophy mounts were not bare, but waiting for new trophies to be mounted upon them and the furiniture was not threadbard and creaking, but simply in need of repair. She would call those she that were integral to the plan in due course, but for now, she rested from her strike of inspiration. OCC:I declare this RP open! This is a little time to get to know eachother before we start off the plan... have fun!
The Trueborn started to get sick from one failure after another, sitting in a simple chair instead of one worth her being, one leg crossed over the other. The left hand holding a book, the right resting on the blade sheathed on her waist. As usual it was a book about the basic principles of war. Only one she could save from the many she had before the fall of this poor Kabal. But so was Comorragh. One mistake and you are in the slums. Vect and the others would pay earlier or later, and their souls would make just the right currency. Skilled and elegant as she was, only a thumb was needed to flip to the next page. Not so clumsy like humans who would need two hands to read a book. One to hold it, one to move the pages. Yet, she had to give them one compliment. They were quite the survivalists. She smirked to herself when she had to think about that one particular strong Mon'keigh who was just doing one uprising after another. His strong will alone made him interesting to her, perhaps time for a visit? Yes... Time for a visit... And so Arymea made her move to the slave cells, leaving her book in her chair.
Kormaily- Sat alone in a dark part of the once proud house, how it had fallen so far so quickly was beyond comprehension. He was debating with himself his next move. He had 'acquired' riches uncountable for this Kabal, and now it was gone. The only real reason he stayed was because of the great hauls he was able to score. He would give this some more time before he would hunt for a new Kabal, which he was not to keen on doing. It was hard enough to be accepted by this one, sure he could leave and try to etch out an existence on his own, but without a ship a corsair was nothing. He decided to pass the halls to clear his head. Maybe he just needed to catch a Reaver race to get his blood pumping. He continued his wanderings, in both his mind and throughout the Kabal.
The Slave cells were yet another reflection of the sorry state of the Kabal, with there being a considerable lack of them in the cells. There was some of note however: some humans were in one cell, scarred from the many vists they had. The stormtrooper was nowhere to be seen, but he had left signs that he was around. Another trueborn by the name of Arglestic was also in the slave cells, indulging in three of the Parched that were foolish enough to try fighting the Kabal. He clearly only put his own pleasure above the Kabal's needs, for one of the Parched was missing an arm and being pinned down while he tried removing the other arm, and unaware of how valuable a single slave is.
"Arglestic. Don't tell me, our dear warrior is off to another uprising, is he? I know we are not doing much, but to let him go just so he can make another revolt which we break down is not just annoying but on the long-run could actually cost us some of our lesser warriors." The female complained, not enjoying the lack of order. It seems like ever since the downfall nothing was worth living anymore for the majority of the Kabal, yet it was their exact strength. Nobody would suspect a comeback...
A breath of polluted air raked, tore at Xileas' lungs. It was bad air, the air of the lower levels, the air of losers. She snorted dismissively, arrogant, perched atop a gargoyle depicting a flayed man of the mon-keigh race, made from the very same. It was unable to scream or otherwise show any sign of this, but apparently its creator made sure that it wouldn't die. Normally, she'd admire the work of art, but right now she was too angry at herself. The Scourge used to fly so high, fly up there with her peers, and some inferiors. She had once been free. Now though, she was confined to the lower slums, to this place where no winged would ever walk. Such dirty worms, wriggling around like the insect they were. And they all thought her equal? It was this bitch Lacapant - unable to keep her business together, to hold up a Kabal. Once, Xileas, when she was still a member of her rising star Cult, openly proclaimed that she was an ally of the Bleeding Edge. They were feared, as was the Wych. Her relationship to them was what had financed her wings, eventually. Wings... Xileas flexed them longingly, putting tension on her chest muscles to spread the snowy-white appendages. Now, this patronage was what denied her the higher levels. The other Scourges - her own former flock, her former murder, her Solarite whom she'd given so much to - would just tear her apart for her arrogance when the Bleeding Edge was powerful, now that it was impoverished, and with it, Xileas. She coughed, the bad air not something the spire flyer was used to. In a way, it was ironic that now, the Scourge was stuck with those she so loudly claimed to be her patrons, while the rest had quite literally flown away, out of reach. She shook her head, strands of pink swept by a foul wind. Who did she shake it at? Not even she knew. With a powerful leap, she moved upwards, not by much though certainly enough to be noticed by the fallen angels that polluted the air only metaphorically, but much more directly lethal than the stench of the poor and weak. Carried by the heavy air, she sought out 'her' Kabal's headquarters, seeking someone - anyone! - she could pick on.
It took a few minutes for Arglestic to respond as he was so engrossed in the removal of the Parched's arm. But he then said to Arymea "I doubt he could run off and try starting an uprising without meeting the Parched. Then he'd come running back to us for protection!" He then returned to his ravaging of the second Parched, who was bleeding from every orifice, leaving the first one to waste away.... The Scourge soon spotted someone worth picking on, a Human that seemed to be in fairly good condition and with not a single Parched in pursuit of the poor man. He was dressed in ragged attire that looked like a Human guardsmen uniform from above.
Kormaily - His wanderings eventually found him near the slave cells. Personally he didn't much care for this part of the Kabal, but they were definitely a good source of income, especially if you found the right buyer. He watched as the Trueblood wasted one and then a second source of wealth. In the corsairs eyes a dead slave or even a badly maimed slave was of no value. He just shook his head and continued on his walk. Eventually his thoughts drifted from capturing slaves and riches to capturing ships. Ah the glorious raids, he missed them. Hopefully soon he'd be able to ravage the Imperial supply lines again.
The sight of the lone man brough a wicked smile to the hungry Scourge's lips. He looked virile and in good health, which meant he could be hurt longer, to increase his pain. Xileas chuckled. 'I could eat.' Stopping in mid-air for a second, her smile slowly grew into a grin like a scar tearing open. It had been a while since she'd exposed her white, sharp teeth out of pleasure instead of strife. A sharp cry accompanied her as the harpy swooped down onto the man, claws first, ramming him into the ground. "Hello... little morsel", she whispered into his ear in the simple, piggish language of the mon-keigh.
The man yelled in pain from being slammed into the ground, with the sound of bones cracking in the air from the man's hard impact on the ground. The words whispered into his ear caused terror to overcome him but he tried to claw the Scourge in a fit of fear, but to no effect, however he did come close to scratching Xileas's body in what seemed be an actual effort to hurt her.
