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Over the Earth, Through the Trenches, Under the Sky

Mira, Bloody Mira in popular parlance, a curse on the tongues and through the lips of those who know of the bloodstained killing fields of the arid moon. Home to madmen and warlords alike and all that lies in between, naught but fodder for the two who stand above all on that accursed moon. Home to the poor souls just trying to survive on what could have a veritable paradise only for ambition, greed and worse to soak the dry earth and drip poisoned blood down its parched throat. Before the Red Witch came and rent the moon asunder, before the Bolt Cutter thugs slipped in through the cracks left behind by Her and fed like maggots upon the living corpse that was Mira, there still was nothing but dust and blood. Dozens of men and women raised hundreds of thousands to arms and warred amongst each other, content in their bubble of bloodshed and chaos, unaware of eyes that roamed over and deemed the moon insignificant for their own purposes. Until the Red Witch. Until She came and broke the backs of the warlords, slaughtered most of their number and sent them reeling to the banner of the strongest left, the Bone Breaker, the Grand Marshal, the Baron, Geril Sjil, Warlord. Host to an unbridled ambition and a terrible lust for power, Sjil is the apex of his warlord brethren, kept in check by the continued raids of the degenerate Prismaniacs at the behest of their mad god, the Bolt Cutters and their rotting poison in the flesh of his Mira and CamEx, money grubbing pencil pushers who hurl mercenaries upon his moon. He reserves his utmost hatred for Her, the Red Witch that denied him and dares to continue breathing, let alone roost upon his moon and sate Her bloodlust on what should rightfully be his subjects, his to rule, his to break, his to slaughter if need be.

If it were to grant him victory, he would funnel every last one of the wretches that cling to him into the furnace and not look back as they screamed and writhed in the flames and behind the closed grate. All save those who proved themselves to him in all things, his loyal Guardsmen who had shed so much blood, theirs or others, for him and him alone. With them at his back, Mira could be a bastion of the strong, a monolith that may just be able to finally unite the system and destroy those who had wronged him. At the end of the day, however, he is just first amongst equals and his warlord brethren continuously pluck and snip at his power, unable even with their backs against the wall to stand firm against the oncoming night. He inspires no loyalty, only a terrible fear and a seed of hatred in the hearts of men, and only his success keeps him as secure as he is atop his throne. Things must change, yet for all of his grandiose and arrogant words, the way remains hidden to him, the plan obscured, the gate shut. Those who think themselves his masters in the Syndicate grow more useless by the day and the domain of the Red Witch grows ever more, heralded by red clouds on a world that has never once borne clouds of its own. Other voices remain to be heard, however, ones more pleasing to the inner bloodthirst of the man who willingly and proudly bears the title of the Bone Breaker, who whisper of victory in exchange for all the blood he can spill. Gerit has plenty of that to give, if nothing else.