Phobos still bore the scars of ages past. Golden Age explorers had come here, mapped it, studied it for any resources to feed the hungry infrastructure for the cities that were built on the red planet below. Then, in the Dark Age, when the Cabal came, they'd drilled into it to build their base, where they'd sat, watching everything. And then, an Age later, the hand of the Taken King had descended and dragged much of it out of phase with the material plane as he'd greedily snatched up everyone he could, to grow his army. Since then, it sat silent, forgotten.
On a rocky rise, not far from the remnants of Fleetbase Korus, a pale figure stood, cradling his Longbore as he cast his gaze out.
With one eye, he monitored his surroundings--
for a hunter who allowed his prey to flank him was unworthy of the name. Aiat.
With another, he watched the red planet turn slowly below him--
for as far as the prey may flee, the worthy hunter will never fail to find them. Aiat.
With the third, he looked beyond into the rippling depths of the Ascendant Plane--
for a worthy hunter's senses must extend beyond the immediate. Aiat.
Below, he saw the inevitable bulk of the Pyramid, like a massive obsidian knife, poised to cut the life from the red planet. While his stalking had only brought him to this place in the past day-cycle, he could see the frantic activity below as the Guardians and their people rushed to evacuate with whatever worthless trinkets and meaningless knowledge they could. The final paltry members of Nokris' brood still strove to thwart these, heedless of the fact that their progenitor had abandoned them. To an extent, he could respect their refusal to quit, to continue to sharpen themselves against the Lightborn.
He saw the last ships departing, human and Cabal alike, focusing his gaze upon the latter. He could feel the inexorable approach of an event, as every being in this wretched system had over the past months. The Great Shapeless One was building to something, all knew it. All eyes were on the Black Fleet as it spread throughout the worlds and moons, but as much as he wanted to bear witness to its grasp closing around it all, he had a job to do.
His eyes tracked the fleeing Red Legion ships, hurrying to try to reach a carrier on the far side of the red planet. As paracausal energies built, as the planet below was dragged beneath Dark waves and out of existence, he raised his Longbore, sighting on the departing Harvesters. His eye locked upon one of them, and his teeth ground together in anticipation as he took aim. His Queen had commanded him to find the Bracus on that ship, and to see to it they did not return to the Crown Princess who was now commanding the Cabal to return to her.
For such unworthy prey, the Bracus had stymied him for some time. He had tracked him to an icy moon, but rather than the Bracus, there had been a Cabal sniper, among other hunters, all seeking different quarry. He had left that moon when he found the sniper had been left behind by the Bracus. As much as he wanted to test his mettle and whet his skills against another hunter, he could not let his prey escape. It had been another span of weeks before he'd determined the Bracus had come to this benighted planet.
His Longbore boomed as he sent a single bolt of decaying star matter through both engines of the fleeing shuttle. It began to tumble, shedding panels of its hull, and he narrowed his gaze, sighting in closer. There it was-- the bifurcated warbrush crest of a Cabal commander. The Bracus did not know he was there, but that didn't matter. The next bolt punched through the Bracus' helmet, causing the armor seal to burst, spraying oil and blood as the body collapsed backward. He bared his teeth in something that might have been called a smile.
He lowered his Longbore and regarded the emptiness below, where the red planet once was, beholding the unfathomable power of the Deep. A lesser being might have trembled in instinctual fear, but he had hunted among the stars and worlds for ages, seen the terrible and amazing things that such power could do. To hunt something that powerful might be worthy.
When he turned to begin his hike back toward the rift which would return him to his ship, he paused, finding something new. A growth of something like organic stone, protruding from one of the everpresent pools of Blight that lay across the moon's surface. It twisted faintly as he approached, a green light emanating from it, and he heard a whispering roar.
ZELA TATU. STALKER OF MYRIAD PREY. MASTER OF THE ETERNAL HUNT.
While he served another Sovereign, he knelt, inasmuch because the power of the Will that pressed on him was a physical weight. Zela Tatu lowered his gaze, but he rested his Longbore on the ground before him. "All battles to the Lord Our Marshal," he intoned.
YOU SEEK GREATER CHALLENGES. YOU ARE WASTED IN THE WEBS OF MY SISTER'S SCHEMES.
He lifted his head at this, beholding the mere echo of War's Majesty. "I was not bred for War. I was bred to hunt. My place is not on the battlefields You craft."
WORRY NOT, PREY-STALKER. YOU WOULD BE WASTED ON THE PLAINS OF COMBAT AS WELL.
He paused. "What do You want of me, Battle-Glad?"
FOR YOU TO HUNT MORE EXALTED PREY. MY SISTER INTERFERED IN THE SHAPELESS ONE'S PLANS. FOR THIS, SHE MUST BE PUNISHED.
Zela Tatu's eyes gleamed at that. His Queen had been doing something where the Lightborn were concerned, but he had not known the specifics, as these had been unimportant to him in his hunt. There had been whispers for ages that She had strayed from the Logic, but he had ignored these as being from other broods and other lineages. To hear it from one of the Sovereigns Themselves...
"You would have me hunt my own Queen?"
FORSAKE YOUR OATHS, ZELA TATU. SERVE ME AND YOU SHALL HUNT THE MOST CUNNING OF PREY. A HUNT WORTHY OF YOUR NAME.
His fingers closed around the grip of his Longbore, and he bared his teeth in a smile. "This. This may be what I was bred for."
THEN RISE, HUNTMASTER. ALL WHO STAND BETWEEN YOU AND HER SHALL DIE. HUNT AS YOU WERE MEANT TO.
Zela Tatu raised his Longbore before Her visage. "I have served. I will be of service."
The Majesty of War withdrew, and the growth of the cryptolith went with it. He rose to his feet and marched into his exit-rift, whispering one final oath, as his new allegiance demanded.
"All tithes to Xivu Arath."
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