Description

The acolytes of the Umbra Swarm do not grovel like slaves, nor do they mumble mantras of submission like the Thrall. They stand erect, disciplined, with such tight control over their posture and breathing that the tension seems part of the uniform. Each wears a dark, almost ceremonial exoskeleton, with fibers of living obsidian that tense like muscles in the dim light. Their faces are covered by optical masks that conceal not only their identity, but also the humanity they once possessed. They are soldiers, yes, but also pieces in a theater of mental domination: obedience born not of love or fanaticism... but of carefully distilled fear. When Eziri enters, the acolytes do not bow their heads, but the silence thickens. Not out of disrespect, but out of precision. The air fills with a low hum: not just that of their weapons, but that of the connectors on their nerve spines, pulsing in unison with the will of the Hive. One of them takes a step forward, not aggressively, but with surgical deliberation. “Your orders,” he says, his voice, distorted by the helmet, sounding like the crunching of bones underwater. There is no threat in his tone, no plea. There is purpose. Beside him, another acolyte activates the calibration of her plasma launcher. The emerald glow that emanates from the weapon illuminates the inscriptions etched into their armor: not mystical runes, but sacrificial codes, dates of forgiven betrayals, names of dead sisters still whispered from the weapons they left behind. Each symbol is a reminder that loyalty has a price… and a limit. Acolytes need not swear oaths. They don’t believe in promises, only in chains. Their current obedience is a strategic decision, not an eternal devotion. But it would be a monumental mistake to mistake their pragmatism for disloyalty. For the true fear that moves every muscle of these creatures is not of death or failure. It is of her: Impirha, the Witch Queen of the Umbra Swarm. Her name is not spoken, it is avoided. The Acolytes do not tremble before enemies, but the memory of Impirha displaces something primal within them. It is not that they do not love her; it is that her very existence prevents them from loving anything else. Their thoughts are law, their silence is punishment. Those who have seen her face say it's like peering into a cosmic ulcer: beautiful and repugnant, sacred and toxic. She doesn't lead, she defines. And so, these Acolytes' every move is shaped by the echo of her will. Not out of passion, nor a sense of belonging. But because Impirha wrote them from the bones. They are her pen, her knife, her retribution. When Eziri finishes speaking, no acolyte responds.

Gender

Female

Age

Talking Style

Roleplay