Spectator Thread

[Okor]

Okor strode through the entrance, ducking to allow himself to enter. Seeing the familiar scintillating patterns of the Thousand Son, engaged in activity with what seemed to be some variant of a dataslate. A third eye had finally opened itself on his forehead, which was certainly a good sign for the return of his powers. Clutched in Okor's hand was Peoples and Tribes of the Omniverse, an essential tool to his coming conquests. He fell onto the bench beside his Brother, running a ceramite-clad finger down the transparent film protecting the paper within from his veritable aura of entropy. He silently moved his blackened lips underneath his helm, slowly sounding out the syllables. Intriguing.

Warchief Blackhand, one of the first leaders to unite the Orcish tribes during the time of the Diabolic invasions. He led a horde of warriors, warlocks, and beasts to the bark of Yddgrassil, intent on burning it to ashes, enslaving the Elves, pillaging the infinite treasures of the fey people, and rampaging throughout the rest of the 'Verses. Sadly, his hordes met their end upon the blades of the Elves, skewered by arrows, and annihilated by foul magicks. Blackhand was slain by the Queen of the Elves, Tyrande, and his crown, carved from the bones of a Carriage of Elvish Nobles, looted from his massive corpse. Sadly it had disappeared from their vaults several years ago, and was presumed lost to collectors, thieves and criminals. Sighing, Okor folded the book shut. That was one opportunity denied to them. He leaned against the steel wall, gazing around the heavily commercialized room. What he saw caused him to spit and sputter.

Okor had vehemently denied fate and destiny, believing that the only inevitability was decay. He had spat in the face of soothsayers, prophets, and the like, professing how strength of will was the key to glory, not the whims of the Gods. While the Gods were magnificent and powerful, they hardly had time to meddle with the unwashed masses. However, he began to suspect some external force manipulating events in his life, as he gazed upon the advertisement glowing on the wall. Coming now to the Coruscant Museum: The Crown of Blackhand! Grinning beneath his helm, he nudged his brother, pointing towards the garish signage. "Brother... I believe we have found an objective. Control their... hearts, control their swords."