Board Thread:Fun and Games Forum/@comment-25175520-20150521200045/@comment-107.196.174.179-20150605190709

The room was large, that much was easy to tell, but what it contained was not instantly apparent as the shadows seemed to push back against the lights of the guardians ghosts and gear. While the their visibility was greatly reduced, and a feeling of wrongness settled in over them, one thing gave them hope; the dim light of a ghost shone from a short hallway at the opposite end of the room. But when they started towards it, and entered the room, a deep, low, repeating sound resounded across the expanse. A growl? No, not a growl...laughter.

With a series of clicks, laserwire mesh sprung into existence in the doorways of both halls, prompting a small flash as nearby ether ignited. But rather than blossom into a all-consuming fireball, the lit gas quickly died out, as there was far less of it in the large room than the cramped hallway. At the same time, the large overhead lights of the command room flickered on. But rather than illuminate the entire room as they should, the large lights barely cut into the gloom at all, a darkness far beyond the mere lack of light swallowing their beams just below. In the shadows above the other hallway, a tall figure stirred.

Half outlined by the lights, sitting atop a throne made from the crushed bodies of exos, and the ancient bones of humans, the archon spoke, his words translated by the ghosts of all save Scythe.

"And whenst the prey reaches for the morsel, the cage shall shut behind it, and there shall be no escape. The prey hath run, and I hath given chase. Across the ice and wastes of this moon thy hath evaded me. No more, this is the end."

"Thou art nothing, dead things with the dead souls of a dead people. An inferior people. Tis no wonder thy "golden age" fell. Weak, two arms, "blood" for ether. And yet still thy cling to life. And yet still thy lay claim to the great machine, our birthright. And now, so close, the children of the whirlwind are denied by specters, the risen dead who come to kill our leaders and starve out people."

As the archon rose from his throne, the eyes and outlines of twenty reaver vandals, a reaver captain, and an axis minotuar emerged in the shadows behind him.

"Thy hath patronage, the light. It grants thee strength, plucks thee from beyond the grave to live again and again until thy foes lie vanquished. What patronage holdeth we? We look to our servitors, thou destroys them. We look to our leaders, thou kills them. We look to the dark, and it offers naught but pain."

"But what few others see, that I do, is that pain grants strength."

The archon slammed his foot down, scattering the dead, both metal and bone. Behind him, shock blades crackled and flames danced around the barrels of shrapnel launchers as his hunters awaited the signal to pounce. Around them, the shadows surged and the lights died with each of the archons next words.

"I am Rhall, archon of storms and devotee of Elkris prime. And I shall be there when the last light of your city goes out."

The archon's warcry was echoed by each one of his hunters as they charged forth to meet their prey, wrapped in shadow and guided by hate.