The Healer of Wounds's Story

The engagement in the street seemed a furious cacophony of carnage and combat, and might have seemed logical for such a miserable place as this planet, were it not for one very distinct detail - one that caused the Belkan ranks to buckle, the Imperial element of the Union strike force dissipating as quickly as they came and with no apology to their Coalition comrades. Across the street did stride a titan of a figure, armor that seemed as much bone as it did metal, just under ten feet in height, every step forcing the immediate surroundings to shake with the weight of the figure.

But, despite its immediate presence in the line of danger, in locations that might prove its doom, it seemed to pay little heed - continuing straight for the door of the establishment of Gambit's, albeit slowly.

The stench of evil was everywhere in this age.

But here it stank especially so, not just this planet, but this establishment. It had been the witness to many a dark sacrament, and too many a foul or unpleasant deed. Misery was a part of this planet's being, as it was for every one in the wake of the Great Rebellion, but like Scatter, Terra was no stranger to war, suffering, genocide. The only sin they were yet free from, the only slander on their canvas that they had yet to bear, was that they knew not the touch of the Deep One.

But his bastards, both mortal and otherwise, still meandered about the place - some of them with purpose.

He was no such fiend - the automaton that strode the streets of Terra reached beyond ten feet, its bulk comprised of armor that looked to be birthed from the melding of metal and bone, yet it made not a sound. Footsteps landed lightly on the concrete sidewalk, despite its lengthy stride and pace, even pushing the door - such a strange thing that was - ajar with nary a hint of noise. The unobservant passer-by would notice so very little, perhaps not even remember it at all - he preferred it that way - were it that they didn't draw its attention. What lay inside of the bar, however.

He certainly saw.

The seething presence of the dark individual at the bar begged the attention of the guardian, the sentinels perched upon either shoulder of the being's armor danced about to the other patrons of the bar for but a moment as they dismissed their capability to prove a threat. Even were they the thralls of evil, there were of little consequence to him. But this dark one? No. He could smell him, hear the whispers of his thoughts and desires.

Every fiber of it begged for his destruction.

Seeming to sound without a point of origin, a disembodied voice, softly-spoken, echoed in the room, or seemed to - perhaps it lay only in the minds of those present - speaking plainly. "Begone, creature."