The cruiser slipped out of warp space like a knife through flesh, driving a hole through reality. This form of travel was reckless, only ever attempted by the fool-hardy, warmongering Morai. The ship was dotted with weapons, utilitarian looking. A single spire rises out of the haphazard structure, and a Morai Captain sits at the top.
Inside, the Captain laughed to himself. They were about to begin the bombardment on the Isoran homeworld, a small utopian planet known only as Isora. It had an odd history, a forgotten colony of humankind. When Man's empire collapsed, Isora had kept to itself, running off the supply of energy mined from their sun. The Morai wanted the sun, and they wanted glory in battle. This invasion brought them both.
He peers at the mirror on the far side of the room, inspecting himself. Aside from the simple polished ebony plate he wore, a jagged crown dotted his head. He looked like an embodiment of death.
"Serf!" He barks sharply, summoning in a servant. The cowering, hooded figure hunches down as it walks in.
"Yes, mlord?" The serf asks nervously.
"How soon until we can commence the bombardment on the capital city?" He demands sharply.
"Mlord, Lord Draxxus told us all that he would start the bombardment, as customary to the Warhost Leader- Nghh." The serf was cut off, as he rose from his throne. He picks the slave up by his neck, and holds him there. His cybernetic implants increase his strength exponentially. He lifts his up, and with one gesture crushes his spine. The life leaves the servant's eyes, and he tosses the corpse aside like a rag doll.
"Gun crews." He growls into a receptacle on his command throne. "Lock on the atomics on the city. I want nothing standing after the first volley." He says.
Lord Captain Ner'Grall leans back in his throne, and watches as fire blooms on the planet side.
10/10 would 'scape again.