Dance of the Moirae, Break the Circle

[Karl Valten]

The weak will always be led by the strong.
Where the strong cry out against fate, the weak bow their heads and succumb.
There are many who are weak and many are their temptations.
Despise the weak for they flock to the call of the adept and the renegade.
Pity them not and scorn their cries of innocence-it is better that one hundred innocents fall before the wrath of the Inquisitoriate than one kneel before chaos.


-Book of Indoctrinations

“I remember hearing these words for the first time all those years ago. I was there, kneeling on the steps of the Imperial Palace among tens of thousands. Kneeling as the Emperor himself dictated what would become the Doctrine of the Inquisitoriate. And I quivered….I quivered at the responsibility placed before us.”

Dozens of bodies, black clad warriors bearing a blood red sigil and others in a motley collection of black market equipment, clashed in the battered streets. The air cooked with the torrents of fire flaying through flesh and armor. Emerald waves of disruptors left swaths of ash. A hideous stench of burning ozone and roasting corpses seeped everywhere, piercing through breath filters with horrifying strength. No escaped the smell of death.

Explosions filled the air as grenades left craters of dismember limbs and arcing missiles blew boulders of marble and granite from crumbling buildings onto the combatants below. Yet despite the detonations, the whine of blasters, and clashing of blades, another sound drowned it out…..Endless screaming rose in a discordant chorus of angels and demons. Screams ringing out from the throats of hundreds, of thousands…cries of pain, cries of despair, and above all…cries of unbridled hatred. Hell in a forgotten city on a forgotten planet.

And in the raging melee, one spot draws to a fulcrum. A company of mismatched soldiers takes cover in the shadow of a central administration building. Nervously crouching behind the scorched wrecks of burning vehicles, setting up fire points among fallen verandas and webs and plasteel girders from collapsing structures. Entrenched repeater and cannon emplacements peak from rubble barricades while sharp-shooters carrying high powered rifles position themselves is the remains of the building’s upper floors.

Expanding before them lay the shattered remains of the city center, a no-man’s land of town square occupied by blood drench path ways, monofilament wire traps, and countless bodies. And all around, once glorious spires pouring black smoke up into a red atmosphere.

A crimson sky above the bleeding earth. A hopeless last stand against and fanatic foe. Many sob…for dead friends, for tortured loved-ones, for the knowledge that not one of their pitiful lives would make it through the day.

“We were perhaps the first true soldiers of the Empire, not automations grown in a vat at the edge of the galaxy. A loyal core of warriors chosen to uphold the dominion of order against the threat of rebellion and sorceries of adepts. Where the armies white-shelled clones failed, a chapter of wraiths would turn the enemy to dust….and I, I was gladly took part in the harvest, ever burning with hate for the heretics.”

At the front of the ragged defenders stands a quartet of valiant figures, their faces a mask of resigned acceptance. A tear rolls down the cheek of one, a breaking heart mourning the memory of a bygone era. With laser fire streaking around, they raise their arms as one….and ignite their lightsabers.

And rushing towards them, a phalanx of Inquisitorial troopers daring the killing fields. In the center of the squads of soldiers advance the terrifying forms of power-armored inquisitors and their hand chosen retinues. Many black clad combatants fall in the charge, but for each one killed the Inquisitorial rage is fueled and fervor of the assault increases.

Somewhere in the horde, a young Karl Valten grips his rifle and joins in the cacophony. He vaults over the hull of a smoking vehicle smashing into a terrified rebel. A spray of crimson splatters across the overturned repulsor-car and a body gurgling body thumps to the ground. His helmeted gaze stares into tearing eyes, mercilessly watching the life blood drain from a young man barely out of his teens. With blood dripping from his gun’s bayonet, young Karl turns to the next victim. Similar scenes play out on the steps of the administration building. Inquisitorial grunts holding off the knats so that the Inquisitors may close with the adepts unscathed.

“Many...friends…I fought with saw the Great Purge as just that; Nothing more than clearing a dangerous enemy from our midst, scouring the threat of corruption from the Empire. But I saw something much more. As the Emperor’s armies spread far into the void reclaiming more and more of the Separatist worlds, the wraith like presence of the Inquisitoriate flourished in the shadows. We committed atrocities not even the Emperor would dare reveal, damning our souls so that the weak-minded citizens of the galaxy would be allowed the comfort of order and the bliss of ignorance.”

[Karl Valten]

There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt.

-Book of Indoctrinations

Hazy smog still filters through the air as the red slowly fades; no longer are there any explosions, no shrieking blaster fire, nor the ringing of metal on metal. Yet the hollow echo of a scream still lingers on, penetrating the city of evanescing flames.

Dark armored forms of Inquisitorial soldiers sift through the rubble and bodies, carrying wounded allies to med-centers while others police the weapons of the fallen. Occasional bursts of gunfire lethargically float through the streets as the remnant enemy is weeded out.

On the steps of the Administration building huddle a group of survivors under the watch of Imperial guns. Karl Valten stands with them, scanning the blood-drenched steps. His eyes fall on the body of an Inquisitor, his or her head cleanly sliced away by the kiss of a lightsaber. Even as the young soldier moves on to the burned and sliced corpses of the Jedi, his teeth grit in rage. Boiling with hatred in the thought that such loyal servants of the Emperor must give their lives for the preservation of order.

“I still cannot fathom why people can choose the notions of chaotic peace and fleeting freedom over the soothing grace of stability and pure light of certainty.”

A faceless soldier turns from the capture rebels, masked lips murmuring an inquiry to a surviving Inquisitor. But one soldier strides forward before an answer can be given.

A black boot kicks a prisoner onto her back. A muted cry of pain and fear draws the stares of everyone within ear shot. The same foot presses down on the woman’s throat. Gurgling sobs raise the hairs on even the other soldiers. Her eyes lock on the emotionless eyepieces of a clone trooper helm and she pleads, begs.

Shouts, cries demanding mercy ring from the other capture renegades. Karl merely puts a gun to her head and pulls the trigger.

In the background, the corners of an Inquisitors lips curve upward.

[Karl Valten]

“Burn the heretic, purge the traitor, cleanse the tainted.”
-Book of Indoctrinations

“Where others faltered, I stood firm. The holy hatred of the Emperor coursed through my veins, dictating every action. With every act of vengeance in his name, my faith grew stronger. Soon, I received the holy honor of being chosen by an Inquisitor to be part of his retinue.”

War raged across the surface of an unnamed ball of ice at the outer reaches of the galaxy. While the dominating forms of assault cruisers blotted out the faint sun and the waves of clone troopers crashed head on with rebel soldiers, a secret war raged on far beneath the icy surface.

“In those years the galaxy heaved with chaos; even the Emperor’s servants succumbed to the darkness. But the purity of our purpose and our merciless hate shone like a beacon, shattering the darkness with our diamond will.”

In the darkness of the ancient temple concealed by the frozen wastes above, Karl Valten leaned against an imposing statue weathered by time eternal. His heart barely whispering beneath the steel carapace of his powersuit. Intermittent barks and gunfire rung hollow in the distance, all but lost in the massive chapel section of the cove.

Across the way, a second warrior in black crouched behind a fallen slab of marble. Her azure eyes burned with the same fire that Valten knew was flaring from his own. She and Valten locked eyes. He gripped the casing of his repeater carbine and placed a free hand on the hilt of his vibrosword while she raised the massive barrel of her rotary cannon with both arms.

Shadows slowly moved along the ground towards them, twitching in fear. The light crunch of booted feet on crushed stone rang like bells in their ears. A slight twitch of the eye was all that was needed. Valten and the woman burst forward in unison, the scream of blaster fire mixing with the singing of Karl’s blade.

“Like a plague, we descended on the galaxy, the nameless horde burning the taint from every lair and coven the Emperor’s armies could not see. We appeared with as a storm from the ocean only to disappear in the blink of an eye….and never once were we lauded for our efforts, not one of our fallen was recognized as a hero. But never did we concern ourselves with such petty trifles. To die in the service of our Emperor is the greatest reward one can achieve.”

The two moved with deadly grace. Young Karl waded through the thick of the mob like an untouchable angel of death, what wasn’t burned to ash by his gun turned to ribbon by his blade. Some tried to fight back, drawing knives and blades…each of their strikes reflected from his sword and armor. Others opened fire with blasters and slugthrowers…but plasma and bullet only met air.

The woman’s relentless march carried her ever nearer the enemy, only to have them recede under the endless torrent of her weapon. Heretics fell before they had the chance to return fire and those few that tried to close in with blades where battered aside as the cannon became a club.

“Each of us differed in technique to do the Emperor’s bidding. Those of us cursed by the adept force used arcane powers to flay the enemy, the patient ones killed from a distance with one invisible shot; the ones imbued with rage used the cleansing flame of incinerators. But I turned to the sword, in close where technology became useless and skill dominated all….in close where I can see the realization in their eyes that they have failed their selfish desires.”

Cries of terror echoed through the merciless halls of the temple as traitors and demagogues fled before the pair, a scene mirrored throughout the installation. No one was spared, soldiers that cowered behind statues of long forgotten heroes broke as the woman’s weapon tore through marble and granite, rebels that attempted to surrender were cut down by Karl’s thirsting blade…others even took their own lives, too pathetic to face a violent death, or worse, captivity at the hands of the Inquisitoriate. And those that ran, they would be hunted down without remorse in due time.

“I never expected to live long; the length of an Inquisitorial retinue’s life is shockingly short. One was expected to die within a year of being chosen, but those that survived would become the most powerful and feared people in the galaxy, ruthless and unwavering in their service. An Inquisitor.”

Karl let the woman fall from his arms, her armor dented and singed with a deep gash of molten metal running across the torso. He sparred half a glance at the body before moving on. Far ahead the static shriek of lightsaber striking electrostaff echoed angrily at the heart of the temple. Karl broke out in a full sprint; sweat just beginning to bead on his brow. Rage coursed through his veins with renewed fury for each ebony cloaked corpse that drifted by; his fellow retainers sliced to pieces by a weapon no armor could protect against.

“Thousands have been lost since our creation. And as I watched allies die around me, my will strengthened. Nothing could break my mind, no one could best my skills, and in the death of my patron, my advancement as a herald of order and vengeance was born.”

He came to a halt at the foot of the primary alter, the bodies of heretics and the Inquisitor’s personal guard littered the marble steps. High above the brown robed figure of the adept and the Inquisitor in his black powersuit clashed. Karl sheathed his sword and picked up an electrostaff from amongst the fallen. At the summit, the Inquisitor began to falter.