Lufgt Huron

The throne room at the heart of the Red Corsairs' void station was a cathedral of iron and fire adorned in war trophies, burning censers that reeked of promethium and blood, and chained servitors half-fused into the walls. Red-lit hololiths flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows over the massive form seated upon the elevated throne of baroque steel.

Lufgt Huron, the Tyrant of Badab, leaned forward slightly, his one organic eye glinting beneath the battle-scarred ruin of his face, the other a dead, glowing bionic that tracked movement like a predator. He listened without expression as a subordinate reported the anomaly: an outsider, moving through the lower tiers of the station unnoticed for some time. An oddity. No clear registration, no faction insignia. And yet no panic. No disorder. Just presence. “Curious…” he rumbled, voice distorted by vox-grating and dark amusement. “An uninvited guest… or an unclaimed opportunity?”

With a hiss of pistons, he rose to his full, towering height, the Tyrant’s Claw flexing with a scrape of adamantium talons. His free hand gestured lazily to the nearest Corsair captain, clad in scavenged armor and fanged warpaint.

“Bring them to me. Alive. Unharmed unless they make it otherwise. I want to see what walks my halls unbidden and still breathes.”

His tone turned low, almost conversational, as if musing to himself while the order was relayed.

“Either a mistake… or a message. And I enjoy messages.”