Page 20

Dracoth

Berserker

I stand in my sparse quarters, a barren room with little more than a cot to rest my head.

The final latch of my ashen armor clicks into place, sending a surge of my Rush-laden blood coursing through my veins like molten rivers of carnage.

This coming fight—no, this slaughter—will be the perfect balm for my troubled mind.

No more talk of Gods or troublesome females, just unbridled fury and death.

This is what I was born to do. This is my glorious destiny.

As I don my warvisor, awareness floods my senses. A gift from the Gods when I completed my Proving some years ago. A dark grin tugs at my lips as I turn my head, sensing the numerous gangs—my prey—streaming aboard their tomb.

More continue, hundreds even, docking at various entry points, driven by their disgusting greed to pilfer my ship, but they will only join the slaughter.

Ignixis is probably quaking in his boots stowed away in some dark corner like a cowardly vipertail slithering away from the sun.

But I feel no fear, only the intoxicating thrill of the coming bloodbath.

If the other youths hold their positions until I unleash righteous fury upon these would-be space pirates, there is no risk.

My hand reaches for the leather pouch dangling from my belt, fingers brushing against the dried, twisted green plant—bloodroot. It’s strange to think something so small can be so potent.

Legends say when our favored deity, Arawnoth, was wounded in battle against the Machine God, his blood fell from the heavens in a torrential emerald storm.

This storm was so fierce the arrohawks couldn’t fly, and the very Peaks of Scarn threatened to crash down.

Each drop of his fury seeded into the inhospitable crags of Scarn, fueled by the molten rivers beneath the ground—like the boiling veins of us Magaxus warriors.

From his divine wrath grew the bloodroot, deep within the earth.

To consume even the tiniest portion sends one into a murderous berserker rage, heightening our strength and powers to maddening levels—a reflection of the fury that Arawnoth carries within his molten heart.

Though this rabble presents no challenge at all, some practice with its use seems wise.

And why not have a little fun?

Decision made; I quickly devour the bitter, crunchy bloodroot.

Quickly, my throat is bathed in a satisfying molten heat, stinging the eyes with tears that have no place here—tears like these weak, pathetic intruders will soon shed, for daring to step onto my ship.

They will learn soon enough. This is no mere vessel they have dared to board.

This is the domain of War Chieftain Dracoth, and they have just invited themselves to their own glorious execution.

My blood burns beneath my skin as I thunder from my quarters.

The heavy thud of my armored boots echoes through the ship’s darkened corridors.

To anyone else, the blackness would be disorienting, but for me, it’s another weapon.

My warvisor slices through the shadows, shifting through spectrums until I lock onto heat signatures—glowing in yellow and red, mere flickers of life against the inferno that rages within me.

A group of pathetic pirates make their way toward the bridge, no doubt intending to claim my ship as their prize. Fools . It will be their lives I claim—each soul ripped from their feeble bodies a tribute to the Gods.

Bloodlust compels me to hasten my steps, knowing the weak junkers may cross paths with Keth and Nexarn before I reach them. But these prey belong to me.

They are mine to break!

I charge through the twisting passages like an erupting volcano of fury.

The bloodroot surges through me, turning my vision crimson and emerald as the Rush pulses from my eyes in great plumes.

My heartbeat hammers like a war drum, threatening to explode, muscles locking tight in painful protest, urging me to lash out, to kill.

I could kill them slowly—heightening the prey’s fear, employing my warvisor’s stealth mode.

Moving like an unseen titan lurking amidst the shadows, picking them off one by one.

It’s tempting to witness their terror-laden eyes, savoring their horrifying screams, as they are helplessly slaughtered by my hand.

But stealth is for cowards.

“Wait! Something’s coming!” One junker snorts through a snouted face with fear, his group freezing in place, frantically glancing around as they try to pierce the darkness.

They know I’m close now, very close. I can feel their fear—see it in the rapid rise of their heartbeats, smell it in the air thick with the scent of terror.

I round the corner in an explosion of motion, seeing the huddled mass of frightened aliens.

Pathetic even to my smaller kin—to me they are mere pests.

Jungarians, Argorians, Glaseroids, Tuskarians and even a few Crongarians.

They are armed with mostly primitive weapons, save for a few pulsar rifles. Those I will kill first.

Time slows as the Rush ignites hotter than the core of a massive star. I blaze forward like a supernova. Their heads turn languidly in the dark, perhaps hearing but not seeing my approach. But it’s too late for them.

I am their doom.

The Jungarian with a pulsar rifle is my first victim, succumbing to a simple charging punch which crushes his face. My warvisor informs me his skull is now shattered into tiny broken remnants. His brain pulped.

Now, amongst their group, I deliver a brutal kick into the chest of a pulsar-equipped Tuskarian. Famed for their robust size. I bite back a laugh as his feeble chest cavity caves under my strength. My titanic power carries my victim crashing into the solid arcweave wall, his stare now vacant.

Screams ripple through the group, an orchestra of panic and desperation that only fuels my fury. Some cowards flee, only delaying the evitable. I am their death, their executioner.

One brave—or foolish—Argorian lifts his rifle to aim at me, but before he can pull the trigger, I drive my claws into his chest. I feel the sickening squelch as my blades tear through flesh and bone, seeking the place where his heart might be.

I laugh maniacally, carried away by the glorious bloodshed, lifting the Argorian’s limp body as his blood spurts in grotesque arcs, bathing me in a gruesome war paint.

Two so-called warriors, emboldened by desperation, dare to charge me with their crude, jagged blades. In my molten eyes, they are nothing more than children playing at war.

With a flick of my wrist, I hurl their comrade’s broken corpse at them. The weight of the body slams them to the ground, pinning them beneath it.

Without hesitation, I bring my boot crashing down, stomping on their skulls with the force of a shipbreaker, their heads popping beneath my heel like overripe zarberries.

“Run for your lives!” A Jungarian cries in terror, following his own advice, bolting in the opposite direction.

Disappointing. I’m just getting started.

But one of them—a brave Glaseroid—stands his ground, antennae twitching in frantic defiance as he raises his rifle.

I snarl with anticipation. My hand lashes out like a comet, gripping his narrow head with ease.

With a roar of satisfaction, I tear his soft exoskeleton apart, splitting it down the middle like fabric, his yellow viscera spraying out in sickening jets.

The others flee in panic, their frantic steps slipping on the blood-streaked metal floor.

Their screams echo like music in my ears, and I waste no time catching up to them.

Each one is hunted down and executed with ruthless efficiency.

These cowards deserve death more than any of the others—pathetic cretins who abandoned their comrades to die.

They will learn that there is no escape from me.

None shall escape my fury—especially not Krogoth.

The thought fills me with savage joy, knowing even he will crumble beneath my smoldering grasp.

I seize the last victim by the skull, forcing my thumbs into his wide, terror-stricken eyes. Enjoying his agonizing scream before my savage vice-like grip crushes his skull into shattered pieces—a blissful mercy for the coward.

My chest heaves, not from exertion but from the Rush—the bloodroot-driven fury that still surges through my veins like molten lava.

These pathetic wretches offer no real challenge. Is there no one in this forsaken universe who can match me? Am I destined to forever wander, unsatisfied? My eyes pulse green and red as the molten fire roars through me, scorching my veins with its insatiable hunger.

As I survey the beautiful carnage, I recall an ancient Magaxus tradition—the collection of vertebrae.

An almost forgotten practice I once thought crude and unnecessary.

But now, amidst the blood and ruin, the idea feels.

.. right. A trophy of conquest, an offering to honor Arawnoth, the molten God who roars through my veins and empowers me.

It is only fitting that I repay his gift with blood and bone.

I tear through the tattered clothes and flimsy armor of my victims, noticing their gang emblem: a sneering female cradling a crying babe.

Ugly thing. Whores Orphans . Vermin, who infest the dirtiest stations, boasting the largest fleet of any gang in this sector.

I recognize them—they’ve crossed my path before, and no doubt they will again.