Practically nothing is known about Them except that which they have left behind. Their symbol as shown above appear wherever they have been as do their writings which twist and writhe as with a life of their own. Writing which, far below the lifeless desert of an alien world, almost killed Alexander.
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That is not all they leave, however, if only it were.
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Populations of whole planets and moons cruelly and viciously slaughtered, tortured and defiled in ways scarce imaginable. The screams, the screams of the still-living impaled on curious "trees" of organic crystal that seem to grow from the ravaged soil. We know this because one is always chosen to survive, untouched but for the removal of their eyelids.
The wicked, organic looking hooks this one holds, anchored with chains They wind are Their wrists, are the only weapons They have been seen to wield. Other "tools" on the "apron" of uncured skin They wear are used in a much more leisurely and brutal fashion. They adore to torture slowly and appear to feed off of the screams...
The watcher sees it all that they love be brutalised and killed. They are rarely coherent enough to say nought but "Them. Them. Them!"
Close inspection of these creatures shows they were not always centaur-like creatures; their "forelegs" are, in fact, twisted and malformed hands making their gait oddly stuttered and unsteady, their visible flesh perhaps necrotic or currupted, pierced by unpleasantly organic-looking tubes and pipes. Only the mask or helmet that they wear appears pristine, the rest of their panapoly seeming corroded, ancient, and near organic in places. The form they currently inhabit appears to be more of a punishment than a natural thing. Perhaps this is the source of their seemingly unending malice and viciousness? Their constant pain and suffering causing their only pleasure to be inflicting the same upon others.
Rumour circulates of a planet, colonised centuries ago by an Ark, long gone feral. On this planet they speak of demons, endless waves of them that flow before plodding and wicked four-legged masters; twisted and unholy amalgamations of man, beast, exo, and possibly more. The Dracograth Kalliades and Neshaa fought the twisted "demons" on this strange world and named them the Flesh-Woven but of their "masters" there was no sign. Of the feral, barbarous humans who through either insanity, bravery, or both, only one remained among the living. Neshaa, it is believed, left this valiant warrior his Spear as reward. Whether They occupy this planet or use it for other purposes remains unknown because the Dracograth picked up the signal indicating the return of The Crown and left before investigating further.
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When, upon reuniting with Alexander in deep space, in orbit around another nameless moon, they boarded the Hyperion's Bane, a Kalshodar cruiser long lost, they saw a horror so terribly familiar in the main embarkation deck of that ship. They saw Lysander and his entire company of Kalshodar impaled on those same "Trees of Pain" as Lupernikes called them. The hanging Kalshodar healing around the vampiric thorns of those trees of living crystal before being ripped, torn, and bled once more. Nobody had heard a Kalshodar scream like that before, not even Apàteon when he vivisected them below the streets of Lùndùn.
The Kalshodar, Dracograth, and epibatoi making up the boarding party were torn from their sickness and horror by Alexander's calm command "Burn it all," he said quietly. "Burn it with everything you've got."
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Only those who knew Alexander well knew this was a sign that he was in a place far beyond rage, the almost grey cast to his eye confirmed that. They would burn this place or he would tear it down with his bare hands. They set their charges, gathered up the scattered armour and weapons, and left the Hyperion in silence. Minutes later, The Dragon's Crown and every surviving cruiser blasted the Hyperion into the system's sun, that their brothers might go to Elysium in peace at last.
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Alexander has been fey since that moment, moody and withdrawn, even from his closest friends as the journey to Gaia progresses. "They are coming," he will murmur on those rare occasions he speaks at all. "They are coming."
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