Onderon

Delta walked into the Onderonian Commander meeting with all the air and ceremony of a royal guard, his steps high and gooselike. He was dressed in the blood splattered uniform that he had worn during the so called ‘Naboo Crisis’ where he and a handful of others had slaughtered the Naboo royal family and a host of gungans in what could only be described by a local holo news agency as: “The greatest slaughter known to civilization.” That was of course pushing the description to ‘fake news’ hieghts, and many other acts of slaughter surpassed the event in pure body count a thousand fold, but Delta liked the holoreel and had kept it on playback throughout the Marie’s many holo terminals.

He saluted the great Hutt with a high Onderonian salute, arm outstretched and straight at an angle above his head, fingers together, palm down. The pink Coresec uniform in all its glory still splattered with the blood of a few ‘democratically elected’ princesses shone brightly in the dim battleroom light. He tipped the pink cap that contrasted horribly against his blonde hair and placed it under his arm before addressing the room. “Lords and ladies of Onderon, you are hereby occupied by the joint venture of the Sith and Black Sun. There is no reason to be alarmed. Everything will be just fine.”

He looked about and grinned roguishly, “Oh great Sheog, Lord of the Krath, the 7 sectors, and the Sithari first of his name, king of Nubia and all lesser beings, I believe we shall be hosting a ball in the main courtyard in a few days time and all are invited. Including that pretty little furry thing you have stashed somewhere around here.”

Grabbing at his collar, he tugged, ripping away the pink uniform and revealing his jumpsuit and blasterbelt. A handsome if a bit mass produced man. Ready for war, dining, dancing, and mercenary work. Not at all a famous terrorist or jedi killer.

Rruror'rur'rr moved with all the confidence and finesse of a well tuned machine, and not one that had been setting in the sands of his homeworld for even a week. Picking through the bags and bits, he let out a Tusken snort of disgust, Heathens. Devils. What good is this blasphemous junk? he pondered as he tossed priceless artifact after irreplaceable treasure after invaluable bits and baubles over his shoulder many landing with a satisfying crash, clank, crack, and/or clatter on the ground behind him. He did find several bits of foodstuff that he cheerfully stuffed in his pockets after inspecting it to be sure it appeared untainted by the devils' magic.

Then, suddenly, he felt it; he was not alone. His ancestors were with him yet (The Force) warning him of the approaching danger as well as another presence, not quite a voice, but a presence. Raka he grinned behind his mask. They were all warning him of the same thing. Danger. More devils perhaps? Demons from beyond?

It was then that a voice cried out in greeting. Spinning around, rifle slung and gaderffi drawn in one sweeping motion and swirl of his garments, he saw an armored being (Parangor) sans any sort of head covering. Obviously a devil or a demon to walk about with his flesh displayed for all to see.Prodorissac!" Betrayer he snarled as he hefted his gaderffi up, and took a step towards the approaching man who walked as a warrior but spoke as a trespasser.

Beware. he thought as his eternal ancestors (The Force) warned him of more danger than just this; but still, To die slaying devils and demons. Oh glorious day!

Snarling and bellowing a Tusken war cry Rruror'rur'rr lept to close the distance between he and his newfound foe, swinging the spiked end of his gaderffi at the devil's face.

Not surprisingly the Tuskan didn't seem to take his presence at his hunting grounds well, besides the strange presence he felt from the Tuskan he seemed just like any other warrior that for some reason or another wanted him dead. It was a pity, he had hoped to talk with the Tuskan, he hadn't seen one in years, but it seems this one had other plans. Without drawing any weapons Drogan took two steps back and one to the left, while raising and dropping his hand. As the Tuskan made his swing Drogan heard the pulse of the stun setting on the snipers rifle. As it struck the Tuskan he again thought how sad it was he couldn't have gotten the man to come with him of his own free will.

As the Tuskan lay on the ground Drogan called over his other soldiers and ordered them to carry the Tuskan back to the Crimson Star with as much respect as they could muster and to be sure not to leave either of the mans weapons behind. As his men gathered the Tuskan and took him back to the ship Drogan scanned the cargo he had been going through. The kills were clean so at least he knew the Tuskan was more then just fury and brutality.

After returning to the ship he made sure the Tuskan had been placed not in the energy cell in the cargo hold but instead in a guest room, his weapons were obviously locked in storage but he would not treat the man as a prisoner. Drogan gave the order to take of and to head toward the landing area provided in the last communication. I would take an hour or so, which means the Tuskan would be up and about soon on an unknown ship. This would be an interesting day, it was nice to finally have some interesting days again.

• Keeper of the Dark Side

The adamant burnish of the Deimos X-20s mirrored the thick wilderness all around them, sickly splinters of trees and sheets of leaves washed over their mineral skin, painting them in perverse colors of dark verdure. Their stillness was horrifying; each of their gargantuan bodies were narrowly camouflaged beneath the underbrush, defending the perimeter with empty eyes that somehow hungered for purpose. Not far off into the distance, a small carrier had landed ahead of time and unpacked a sentient shipload. Six children of the Sith, each of whom now sat in the presence of the Dark Lord, fenced in by what Lord Exodus had now ordained, 'The Iron Demons'.

“Master, they say they want peace, then why do they keep killing?” All of the small faces in the circle turned to the red-headed human boy who cautiously spoke up. They were so youthful and awfully far from adulthood, yet the taste of war had long since swelled their bellies, and their hardened faces surrendered the luxury of innocence. “Hypocrisy.” The Dark Lord hissed with venom in his voice, a loathing solely meant for the brothers of Light alone. He bowed his head and weighed the depth of thought that came with the question. The layers of Jedi treachery dredged deeper than what these little warriors could yet grasp, but here and now, they would have their feast of knowledge. “Look no further than the Code that those vermin abide by. They say that there is no emotion, there is peace. They say that there is no passion, that there is serenity. And they would assure you that there is no chaos, that there is harmo—”

• "Peace is a lie! There is only passion!
  Through passion, I gain strength!
  Through strength, I gain power!
  Through power, I gain victory!
  Through victory, my chains are broken!
  The Force shall free me!"

All of them thundered beautifully, protesting the Jedi with such militant diligence . The Code, and their echoing voices, roared emphatically throughout the jungles of Onderon. Chaos was their freedom, their choice, and within their hands laid the power to reach out and take what it was that they desired. Exodus wore no smile upon his face this time, but his black soul tickled with certain rapture. “The Jedi and their code are filled with redundancy, frantically clutching onto beliefs that confine their humanities,” Exodus paused, slowly searching the six of them out with a knowing glare. “...We, are free to explore our humanity. Whether we become seekers of salvation or manifestations of sin, the force is at our mercy, and our chains will forever be broken!” Exodus spoke with fire, setting the hearts of the younglings ablaze. None of them could sit still at this point. A tiny projector fell from the embroidered vestments that kept the Dark Lord in regal acumen. The small piece of technology hit the dirt, clicked awkwardly and immediately reproduced the bigotry of Carida, highlighting both the treason of the Empire and the wanton slaughter of Sith by the Jedi. The video feed was sharp, and sped to address what it was that Exodus meant of hypocrisy. A pair of Jedi, and a bevy of clone-troopers raiding an already besieged temple, bombarded to Hell without yield for the innocents that were present. There were those that simply wished to learn, as these younglings chose, and now their light was lost forever. Exodus rained revenge upon them all, and this too, the younglings understood. "You all must exist in a state of constant evolution, or risk the deterioration of everything that you are." His dark voice weaved an appetite beneath their skins, a fuel that exhilarated the children who had come to witness the Jungles of Onderon first-hand. The video simply added to their hate of the pompous Jedi. Droids ID-I through VI reset their defensive stances, and stood at ease as Exodus lifted his hand sheepishly overhead.

• "Now leave, search these forests for the beasts that crowd them and do not return to encampment until you've carved the heart out of tonight's supper. Earn your keep, warriors."

The younglings rolled onto their sides and planted their feet into the bed of Onderon, pushing off and sprinting towards separate directions. Exodus was a God to them, and their etiquette did not show this, but they were the future of a powerful Sith and the Dark Lord worried more about their hunger than the decorum of children. It was now time to break contact nonetheless. The Sith that had accompanied him, as well as the future of Black Sun now rested in a fruitful land. The Dark Lord knew that these men were more than capable of pushing the agenda forward without having to hold their hands, and this allowed him to execute behind the scenes. "ID-III. Relay a message to your makers,"

"...Tell them I am on my way."

(OOC: the text under the spoiler tags is flavor text not necessary to understand the post. You have been warned.)

Uriel heard the sound of the bones being ripped wholesale from their owner’s bodies. His ears, huge and sensitive turned independently towards the beautiful sound and a fang filled smile crossed his face. Soon the lovely smell of blood and other offal filled the sensitive chambers of his midnight black and oversized nose. A growl reverberated outward from deep within his diminutive, blue furred body. Rigid, poisoned tipped quills ripped into readiness up his backbone. The chilling tone filled the bedchamber.

An aggravated sound came from the mahogany bed at the foot which he sat.

“Darling,” said the young man, “It’s a little hard to concentrate with your pet making all that noise. Shall I call a servant to put him in a cage for the night?”

The woman sighed, a combination of frustrated arousal and aggravation. She rose from the bed as a blue, six armed blur attacked the young man and picked up her bandau top that lay discarded on the room’s ornate floor. She fastened the top and adjusted the loincloth into the correct position even as piercing screams filled the room.

Once finished, she turned around to watch as the last of the young man’s lifeblood soaked into Uriel’s blue fur turning him a hideous shade of nauseating purple. Large, amber colored eyes regarded her from the mess created by the six sets of razor sharp and poisoned talons and mouthful of fangs.

Communication passed between them via the Force.

“Yes,” she purred, “you did say that I needed to be ready soon. But I figured I would have a little time for myself.”

Her red accented lips pouted beneath bangs of her long, lustrous, blue-black hair. Amber eyes regarded Uriel from where he sat.

“Did you at least save me a piece?”

Uriel raised his upper two arms after tucking the other two somewhere into his abdomen. The tall young woman walked barefooted over to the bed, reached down and picked the two foot tall abomination up and allowed him to clamber up until he stood on her shoulders. A streak of red blood followed his trail, staining the woman’s torso with a smear of read that curled up her should and around her neck.

“Shall we go see Lord Sheog?” she asked.

An almost feline growl sounded from above her. She smiled and began to walk from the room, pausing only to grab two backpacks from a chair next to the door. The smaller one she handled to Uriel, the other she swung into place and felt Uriel shift his feet to allow the straps into place.

They walked through ornate corridors until they stood before a doorway that led to the barracks of the Royal Guard. Uriel’s nose told him of the slaughter within and a tounge as long as his two and half foot height rolled out from his mouth. Drool dripped down onto the woman, mixed with the path of smeared blood and created intricate rivulets as it ran down her toned body.

From overhead, she heard Uriel impatiently growl and set him down. She pushed open the door and in a tenor voice cried out, “Mighty Sheog, Master of the Sith Empire, Uttermost Terror of Terrors, True Lord of Gastronomical Delights, may I present you with the reborn Uriel, servant of the True and Only Master of the Sith.”

Charging forward with a snarl, Rruror'rur'rr felt a sudden twinge, as a voiceless ancestral cry alerted him to another danger. But it was too late, he was too committed. Charging forward and swinging his gaderffi, Rruror'rur'rr was hit with an agonizing wave of nerve distorting energy that started in his gut and radiated throughout his body, transforming his roaring snarl into a pained yelp for a mere moment before he went silent and fell to the ground in a blacked-out slump.

______________________________________

Aboard the Crimson Star:

As the haze withdrew itself from the edges of Rruror'rur'rr's vision, he found himself staring upwards at a clearly unnatural, machined ceiling. Underneath him, the Tusken felt the softness of a bed designed for the weaker more coddled beings of the galaxy.

Devils. Again!

Leaping from the bed, confident in the fact that these devils had at least not taken his robes and equipment, the Tusken reached for his gaderffi....

GONE!

his rifle.....

GONE!

A quick self assessment showed that he had been stripped of his bandoliers and equipment, including his fire starter.

Cursed Devils! They mean to test me.

Glacning about the sparsely decored room, he began to assess.

Yes. he smiled benath his headgear. The devils may have stripped him of his traditional weaponry, but the ancestors had provided. Quickly, Rruror'rur'rr stripped the pillow from its pillowcase, casting the fluffy symbol of excess aside and filling the case with a variety of whatever knobs he could pull off around the fresher, decorative soaps, and anything hard enough to warrant a place in his makeshift weapon. Once he was satisfied with the weight of the sack, he tied it off. Then stripping a sheet off the bed, he twisted it into a cord, pulling it taut between his hands testing the strength of the cloth.

With his makeshift club swinging from his waist and his garrote held securely in his hands, Rruror'rur'rr made his way to the door.

Locked.....Again. These devils and their doors.

Shaking his head, Rruror'rur'rr stepped back, standing just to the side of the door. Reaching a fist over, he beat on the door several times and gave a single Tusken yelp hoping to attract the attention of whatever devil surely lurked outside.

It worked last time. Why wouldn't it work this time?

Rruror'rur'rr waited.

and waited.

and waited.

Nothing

The Tusken tried again and again, but no one seemed to answer his cries or beating on the door. Perhaps the devils knew of his trickery the last time. Perhaps they could not hear him. Nevertheless, he was a Tusken, not one of the soft skinned, flabby denizens that violated his ancestral home who needed the likes of pillows and foul technology to survive where sheer git and determination were needed.

The awkward moment was disturbed by… sensations, coming from her connection with the strange hutt. The link that had been established earlier had never really been broken, and through it she felt that gaunt animal trying to gnaw its leg off to escape a trap that wasn’t there, a rabid look in its eyes. She let out a deep sigh,even though she wasn’t handling it… well, this was the epitome of a dream come true for her, to meet the handsome prince and have him flirt back was sense of reality shatteringly good, but now she had a choice. Either she could stay here to steal a few more moments of this dream and have everything come crashing down outside of her control, or she could try to salvage things at the cost of losing this moment. Her choice left a little more of the cub she was behind, and helped her speak with a greater measure of confidence to the Prince, as an adult.

“There is an urgent matter to which I must attend, but heed my warning well, the only people that will fight for the good of your people are your people, and in that regard you will need weapons and training to survive. It seems Onderon has once again found itself in interesting times on the galactic stage, and more than anything I want to see you survive them. I wish I could stay, but you would not believe my interest in you genuine if I did. In truth, you may find yourself unable to forgive me for the unwitting part I had to play, and that thought rends my heart into pieces. If you do find it within you to see me as separate from the actions of others, here’s my comm info.”

Ailbasí turned to leave as the prince voiced his objections to her departure, and that last gasp of temptation clawed at her mind to stay, but she found to the strength to leave. As she left, tears meandered down her cheeks for the loss of that moment, and for the loss of that part of the girl she used to be, but what remained was wiser and more driven. The confidence in her stride increased and the length of her gait sped her forward as she moved on to deal with the issue at hand. She knew a charnel house of slaughter awaited her, but part of her work with the university had entailed unearthing mass graves to identify remains. What would come would not phase her.

Moreso she felt disappointed. Everything from her initial detention to the bloodless conquest of Onderon had spoken of a Sith order far different from the one spoken of in textbooks and holovids, and yet now she wondered if that was a facade, a sham designed to lure her in past the point of no return. Only time would offer any semblance of true answers. Moving through the palace in a driven manner and flanked by her protectors, she at last reached the conference room where she could feel the pull of her master most keenly. She activated her med-inhaler, far behind schedule and with the painful awareness that tonight would be grueling, and opened the door to the blood soaked chamber.

“It’s a good thing I was in the throne room, I didn’t bring a raincoat and it would have taken days to get this mess out of my fur. I came to check in to see if there were new developments since I could feel through our bond that you had started to kill everybody. Do I need to go fetch my black eyeliner and black leather villainess getup?”

• The Chaining of Onderon

• “Your mind and body cannot host what it does not have the power to wield. You must understand this, or fall to a hunger that neither can quite fathom.” - The Spider

Mobile excavation drills from the walled city made their way to a small encampment. Machines that were taxed with the reconstruction of Iziz were now repurposed under the command of Exodus and had traveled mysteriously out into the Jungles of Onderon. The wild pastures of Onderon could feel the iron wake of an unsparing envoy, tearing through the forestry and toppling a number of trees that blocked the path. Armored tanks with powerful tread and drills that could punch a hole through the core of the world, trampled through the homes of vicious beasts and schools of life. In comparison, the small path of destruction from the excavation team cut a thin line through a very small piece of the massive jungle, but what followed behind the machines, what they dragged through the mud would be enough to destroy Onderon in one breath.

It was an unbelievably massive metal sphere, born of tempered Sith steel and drowned in a runic language far beyond the comprehension of creatures that exist in this time. A large ring settled around the belly of the strange sphere. Somehow, the ring was not attached physically, it instead hovered there as if by the strength of a magnetic pull. The spherical artifact was a mystery to all who had never step foot on the worldcraft Arachnakorr, which meant none here but Exodus himself. There were links of metal chain connected to the artifact that helped to heave it throughout the jungle, seemingly thousands of them clicking and singing a metallic tune as they clattered together. The wild beasts of Onderon knew better than to strike here and now, for the Dark Lord was lingered nearby and his presence was a sickening and fearful poison that stunted their primal instincts. The noise of the machines, the clatter of chains, and the ease of destruction was another warning to keep at bay. They would surrender, for now, but by then it would be too late.

Scores of men and women, armed to the teeth, traveled on feet alongside the envoy. Their appearances were rough and extremely varied in terms of race. They were mercenaries. Each of them followed the line with their weapons in tow, loudly chattering among themselves, sharing campfire stories both rich and unheard of. Mixed in with the bevy of mercenaries however, was certain individuals heavily draped in black robes. There was one of them for every ten hired guns, and their robes carried an elegant mapping of thin gold from head to toe, impossible to tell that the illustration represented a spider and all it’s weavings.

“Well the fellas' say they've never seen no damn Ambassador Cook before, I bet he's one of them demons that the Sith keep around. You know? The type that eats faces and steals your identity?” A sheepish Human with dull features, high off of something spoke above the noise of the envoy. “Now where would you get an idea like that? Fool! I told you to lay off of the spice, those type of things do not exist. The Mad Hutt is what you need to be worried about. He is of no sound mind, he will eat you whole on a moment’s whim. He would skin you alive and is crazy enough to think you’d actually enjoy the feeling. That right there, gives me the creeps!” The female Onderonian shuddered when she spoke, her Bothan whiskers always twitching as she did. “Psssssshh. My boy Delta is in town, soon as we’re done messing about in the mud, I’m fixing to meet up with Black Sun anyhow. That Vigo sure knows how to handle a pistol proper and we ain’t afraid of no stinkin' Hutt.” The Human was proud, foolish, but proud of his mercenary homage. What they both did not understand, as well as all the others that listened as they came to a full stop was, who that man was.

Exodus stood there, staring them all down, mercenaries and machines alike. His robes were similar to the strange people that lined their envoy, but his was a rich winter white with touches of gold and blood red. The symbol of the arachnid was more than obvious on his. “Colin… Hush down now..” She froze, her words came out chopped and hesitant. The Human felt anxiety crawl up his skin and could not recognize what it was from. He looked up and did not realize at first, but then his eyes widened in shock. The other thirty-four mercenaries halted and stared forward at the man that stood in the way. The support vehicles finished their long-winded whining as all breaks were engaged to a full stop just outside of the encampment ahead. The individuals in the black robes knelt down immediately and bowed their heads. The half-mask that covered Exodus’ features, blanketed him from pure identification, but those eyes were always the most telling detail he had. “Who is that?” Colin whispered to his partner, his voice uncertain and riddled with fear. “The most dangerous man you’ll ever lay your eyes on.” This she was sure of, the steadiness in her voice spoke from a certain knowing.

Exodus walked forward, paying no particular attention to any one person. He was a King of the Sith, making his way peasants who buried their worth in the measure of coin, they were small fry but still more valued than the worth of Jedi. This was just what the picture looked like, but the truth was, his mind was far too occupied with his vision to dissect the fearful that stood before him. The sphere that was hoisted upon the tanker was where his focus laid. He marched forward, stopping in front of the drill that led the envoy and reached out with just one arm. The metal of his crush-gaunt flickered in the evening light that trickled through the thicket of leaves high above. The mercenaries looked back hesitantly, unsure of why that man had his arm out, and even more unsure of the natural feeling of fear that snuck into each and every one of them. “They say, in a time of Gods and Monsters, this man was the one of the coldest and most fierce. He could bend your mind as easy as he breathed. They say he married darkness itself to reel her in close, slitting her throat at the altar, and skinning her alive to take her precious skin as his own. Her skin was what shadows are made of, and he slips in and out of it as he pleases..”

There was a certain rustling behind the spherical artifact, but the envoy was still halted. Suddenly those great lengths of chains that were connected to the sphere pulled up and off of the dirt, a countless number of them rising high and low from all around the contingent. The thick metal links clicked loudly and began to wrap tightly around the massive calves of the trees, some wrapping higher up and others rooting themselves into the dirt below. Some of the chains began to puncture deep into the earth, and with the chaos of metal swinging every-which-way, the group of mercenaries instinctively dropped a knee and held their arms to cover their heads. Now they were all bowing, and Exodus grinned behind his mask.

There were oohs and awes as some could not understand how the chains moved on their own. There was unease, and understandable fits of panic, while others understood it to be some sort of use of the Force. Many here had never witnessed such displays of magic or force, if any at all in their lifetime, and even the simplest of applications surprised them. The chains began to puncture the earth rigorously, digging deep into the soil and rooting themselves as far as their lengths would allow. Between the trees and the soil, the spherical amalgamation of Sith steel would now begin to lift and suspend itself above the carrier it arrived on and above the masses gathered here. It was different than the setup on Arachnakorr, but it would make do.

Finally!

While normally a patient and laid back person, Lysander couldn't wait for the cringeworthy flirting of Ailbasi to be over. It wasn't so much she was awkward or quirky, Lysander found it to be humorous and charming in fact. It was that in his opinion she in no way knew how to flirt with the prince and was slipping in a pool of her own drool. " Girl needs some lesson" he thought to himself as they exited the throne room. As he followed her to their destination she began to cry. It was then that he realized she had picked duty over a shot at love, a choice to familiar with him. The feeling hit home and he opened his mouth to say something but failed to find any words to say. Instead he continued to follow her in silence into a bloody chamber.

As Lysander entered the chamber he was struck with fear and shock. As he looked around the room of corpses he could not recall seeing or doing anything close to what had happened to these people. He could only describe the scene as if the flesh had peeled off the bodies like layers of an onion. His eyes finally landed on the Hutt. Primordial fear surged through Lysander as his eyes looked into the Hutt's eyes. It was as like he was staring into a black hole, hungry and starving. Lysander started to remember the stories his father told him about the Sith and their power, Lysander thought there was some exaggerating but he was dead wrong. With the power and hunger that came from the Hutt, Lysander felt that it could reach into body and rip his very soul out of him. The fact everyone else was calm in the face of a living black hole was just as jarring as the bloody piles in the room.

Ailbasi spoke to the Hutt but it only came out as a garbled mess in Lysander's mind. An alarm in the heads up display buzzed in the corner. One of the probes noted that a merc ship carrying a Tusken prisoner is coming towards the city. Lysander shook his head to clear the message and the fear slowly started to fade. As he looked at the Hutt again it licked its lips as if ready to feed again. With a deep breath Lysander regained his composure and thought back to another story from his father. A story about how respectful and decent the Sith can be to their subordinates. These Sith must be in the same vein as the Sith from the stories, how else would everyone be so calm. If they were not like the stories, then Lysander had made his peace long ago. if death were to come he would go kicking and screaming with all he had. Not like the helpless lambs that had been swallowed by the comic slaughter that was the Hutt

For better or worse, Lysander's loyalty had been bought. With a sigh he curses his own rules of never abandoning a job or be bought out. Lysander was gonna be with this crew till the money was gone or they all stopped breathing. The fear had subsided and was soon replaced by disappointment. He shouldn't have let the fear be so much and come so quickly. Lysander resolved to do better, no be better next time and started to refocus on the meeting. After all it was time to meet some new faces.

Watching the Tuskan on the survelance device they kept in this particular gueast room Drogan couldn't help but respect that the Tuskan was being both rather calm and very practicle with his attempts at escape. The improvised club and what he assumed was a garrot of some kind, were not bad weapons but would be pointless against his crews armor and helmets. Watching for several mor minutes and smirking slightly at the continued attempts to draw attention to the door he finally decided on a course of action. Punching in the appropriate code he accessed the ships coms as well as the translation unit his grandfather had insisted be installed on all the bands ships back in the day. It had been terrible seeing that many protocal droids shredded for their translation units but it wasn't practical to have to maintain a small fleet of them when all that was needed was there language capabilities. Turning on the comms in that room he wondered how best to proceed. He supposed honesty would work.

"I will have to ask you to calm down friend, there is no one that is foolish enough to open that door and even if we did the weapons you have improvised not be very useful. If you remember I was in full body armor and when finished with our helps choking is also no longer an option. We are not kidnapping you to sell you into slavery or hunt your for sport, there is a person on this planet that would like for us to help them train a new form of military. If you would calm down we can have a discussion as we travel to meet this person, but do know that we will not allow you to harm us or the person trying to hire us."

Letting go of the comms he waited to see how the Tuskan would respond. The translator was choppy at best with his language so he had also broadcast in common. It would be interesting to see if the Tuskan calmed down.

With a final snarl and fist-slam into the door, Rruror'rur'rr jumped as the dual speakers in Tusken-very VERY choppy Tusken and Galactic Basic began reverberating through the room from unseen speakers.

A startled growled escaped Rruror'rur'rr's lips as he spun around, eyes scanning the room looking for the source of the voice. It did not take long for him to find it given the voice's lengthy spieling from the electronic voice in dual languages. True, he could understand both, as could a small majority of Tuskens, but that was a secret they liked to keep to themselves, much like their traditional adoption of deserted desert orphans.

Finding the hidden camera built into the very seam of the ship's interior wall, Rruror'rur'rr stared into it, his Tusken turbaned and shrouded face filling the viewscreen, He spoke, albeit in the growling roars of one of the infamous desert raiders, "Grrr, grah'gro Gro'groo'sgra Ul'gra'ul Grink Sgra'lala'grrr Prodorissac " [[Translation: Demonspawn, I will not train any of your foul stench. Bring your blasphemous toys and challenge me yourself. Coward!]]

With a closed fist, Rruror'rur'rr reared back and with two solid blows, knocked out the video feed. He then scrambled down and resumed his position by the door, waiting. I will not fall for such obvious attempts to bring about my fall. I will not become one with the sinners and fallen spawn

(Sorry, I'm holding a lot of people up because I've been so busy, so I'm just going to post quickly. Excuse the quality.)

The encampment was structured with a cautious perimeter, while just outside of it, the excavation continued. The service vehicles from Iziz had started their dig while the mercenaries roamed the camp aimlessly. ID-I through VI were deployed as sentinels just outside of the makeshift camp, while Exodus and a few other Sith took heed of the artifact. They called it The Heart, and it could only be assumed that this functioned as a source of immediate dark energy. The tempered steel now appeared deeply rooted into the lower shelves of Onderon, and equally fastened to the thick trees that surrounded it. The hoist of The Heart was invincible; there was no easy way to remove such a thing at this point. Just as it did on Arachnakorr, the sphere began to hum with a low resonance, growing louder and at a slow pace as time drew on. The project would conclude as soon as day turned to complete night, and then the Sith machine would begin to poison the smaller eco-systems one-by-one, and give rise to a new breed of Sithspawn.

A special, and long awaited comm signaled towards Delta;

Another comm signaled for Sheog, before Exodus made his way towards the temporary departure of the planet;

Exodus would then depart Onderon with the Lightbreaker, transferring coordinates to the Master of the Krath.

“RC-A2532-D73 reporting sir.” The words escaped his bleeding lips, swollen and split from a direct blow from another clone, a clone that was lying at his feet, moaning softly and blessedly unconscious. Bleeding from a broken nose and with a little bit of clear fluid running from his right ear. Probably CSF, Cerebrospinal fluid, from the knee to head blow that had laid him out. The poor man would be out for weeks from the ‘training’ injury. A completely avoidable training injury if they had practiced punching bags and targets instead of each other, but this is how their trainer had wanted them to prove themselves. The trainer, a Cuy'val Dar Mandalorian named Dred Priest and his girlfriend Issy, just nodded their approval and beckoned another pair of clones to begin their match in the other circle. When their backs were turned, Delta knelt down next to his brother and making sure his neck was stable, lifted him from the ring to the medical station. It was an effective method of training them for combat, even if it pared them down to half strength, it made them effective ARCs in the end. Or at least that was the hope. Two hours in a bacta tank later, and Delta was good as new, at least on the outside. His brother had expired from the blow he had given him, and that shook Delta to the core. It was his first kill, and it had been his pod brother.

The ring of a comm unit brought Delta swiftly from his reverie, it was from the Dark Lord and while it carried an approving tone, he knew that there were warnings written in it. A man of overindulgences? What was it that she had said to him so long ago…

Be careful of your heart Ca’Aran, it is precious to me, you were raised a slave to service and that dulled it. Don’t let it awaken to lust and greed.

Her words cut to his heart as they whispered across the eons to strike him again like an icy fist to his stomach. He kept reading until the end, ignoring for the moment the icy tendrils of memories pulling him into the past of a hundred years prior. He sat for a while at the feast pondering over his datapad, until he had written up a proper response.

The Massive Hutt looked from Armalite to the small creature announced to him, and then back to the weapon. The Force echoed in the same sound from both of them, a twisting madness held within the bonds of flesh and crystal. He remembered the taste on his lips, the insanity of the first kill, held within the bonds of frost and ice. Overkill, a thousand bullets obliterating flesh into smear upon the fields of ice. The Hutt’s gutt bounced as a small laugh exited his mouth along with a healthy dose of phlegm

<

The Lord of the Krath reached out with his gluttony, feeding into the beast’s own hunger. It was not unlike that of a rhakgoul, or a shadowalker, a primal desire much deeper than its simple bindings of flesh and sinew. He raised his staff, allowing the humanity from Armalite flow to the beast in an offering.

<>

Sheog glanced at his holopad, observing a message from his beloved Exodus. His gluttony had overwhelmed his manners, and the admonishment from The Dark Lord was well deserved. He nodded to the holopad and summoned The Demented Madness. Sith Master Anders Rae and his twin approached, summoned with a widecast. Alaibasi was summoned as well, to start her training with the two human twins.

He peered at the Cathar through his crimson eyes, smelling the inhaled medications clingingto her fur. Her words carries a maternal tone, but he ignored it.

<>

He paused for a breath

<>

The Hutt prepared for departure, and the Demented Madness left the dual gravity well of Onderon and Dxun for the vast emptiness of space above. He would follow Exodus’ call, to death or whatever madness awaited. He was growing hungry again, and the insatiability was driving his insanity.

High over the world of Christophosis Delta’s ARC-170 whirled in intricate cohesive patterns, not a regulation maneuver but he was after all a Republic Commando and in the modified Recon ARC on long distance patrol behind the enemy frontier. And the navigator behind him was his Jedi general, who he was currently trying to impress by flying through the thickest parts of the planetary asteroid belt. Her laughter came from behind her fiercely clenched jaw as they finally slowed their speed and came to rest on one of the larger asteroids. With the shudder of the landing struts connecting with ferrite iron ore, they knew they were locked in. At least for the moment. He reached up to his console and activated the long distance low emission sensor array and positioned it towards separatist held space. The long antennae, slung underneath the crooked nose of the ARC cost upwards of 16 million republic credits, more than he or she would ever see in their lives, but it was a vital piece, able to detect hyperspace signatures within a few minutes of their arrival in the distant microjump point several thousand AU away which would give the Republic military the precious minutes or hours to prepare for the inevitable separatist reinforcement of their blockade of the planet. On the planet below, Delta knew that troops, jedi, and materiel were running dangerously low, and that without the Republic counterattack all would soon be lost. The asteroid belt was well patrolled by droid starfighters and Delta and his passenger knew that they would be here in cold vacuum for days if not weeks. The third passenger spot, usually occupied by the tail gunner was now filled with crates of rations and an o2 generator. Enough to last them for at least two months of constant operation.

It would be hell. But such is war.

Then suddenly the control panel lit up like an Alderaani fireworks display. Something capital class had just made a forward jump right as their last sensor ping had reached location. It was heading planetside, and according to the computer’s calculations would be at the Galactic eastern approach within ten minutes. No time to warn the fleet, though he did send his findings. The report bounced back within a minute.

Engage with the weapon.

He looked back to Kailen and she bumped her helmet on his. The antimatter bomb was powerful enough to take out such a ship, and instantly if its shields were down. Delta gulped down a swig of water and was about to close his T-visor when Kailen worked her way around his seat and kissed him.

For luck-

For luck....

Delta looked up at the door as it whisked open to let a beautiful feline through, her white fur sparkling in the harsh red light of blood spattered glow lamps. He grinned roguishly and pulling himself finally from his stupor, extended his black gloved hand. As he walked around the now cleaned off benches he apologetically spoke,

“Ma’am I am glad you could join us, sorry for the mess, the maids should be here shortly. I know that this level of destruction may not go over well, but I assure you, you will not see such a slaughter on Onderon again. I am Delta seventy three, Leader of the Black Sun, at your service. ”

As if to accent this statement, the cleaning droids began to finish their last bits of repair and wiped off the glowlamps. Now there were no more bodies to get in the way. And now business could occur with no fear of getting one's shoes wet with discarded human remains.

He couldn't help but smirk at the tuskans reference to him as a demon. He hadn't been called that in years, and even then it was only once when he let the blood rage take over. It was also slighly amusing that the Tuskan thought there was only one camera in the room. Thinking for a few moments he sent a message to his second and requested that they clear the tables and chairs out of the mess hall and to set up the banners and trophies on the wall as well as the traditional shrines. He thought it might be fun to actually duel the Tuskan. He had never fought one before and while he didn't want to kill him he was curious to see just how tought a Tuskan was.

Flipping the coms back on in the Tuskans room "So you wish to battle me do you, I will admit it has been awhile since I had a good bout and it may be enjoyable. I will be sending two men to escort you to the combat zone. Upon arrivla we will observer all the traditions of my people as well as of your ancestors if there are any rights that need to be performed prior to a duel. Are there any objects or items you need to perform your rights for duels?" Waiting for a reply he hefted the tuskans staff that they had confiscated. He wasn't sure if it would be effective against his armor or not, or even stand up to his vibrosword but he would allow the tuskan the use of this traditional weapon, though as with all duels an assortmant of options would be provided. Now he just had to wait for the tuskans reply but first, "I will also advise against attacking the men I send to bring you to the duel, they will be fully armed and may actually take it upon themselves to shoot you and a bag of buttons and knobs will not work on their armor. " He had to give the tuskan credit for being brave, slightly foolish given the circumstances, but brave.

Assassin? he pondered at the voice's suggestion. Glancing about the room he dropped his makeshift garrote on the floor, digging into the pillowcase of randomness until he found a simple toothbrush taken from the bathroom, Good for sand, he mused silently to himself before nonchalantly tossing the rest of the bag and it's contents on the floor besides his other homemade weapon and tucking the brush in his belted waistband.

He then stood, staring at the door, unmovingly; still enough that even his rough desert robes did not shift at all - a desert statute trained and bred for the harshest of survival encounters. He stood that way until finally the door was opened and he was met by a duo of demon-bound warriors garbed in the foulest blasphemy Rruror'rur'rr had yet to see.

Staring through his goggles affixed firmly to his face through the complex headpiece worn by every true Tusken he glanced at one and then the other, yet still remained unmovingly statuesque, before suddenly he growled and took a half-lunging step at the nearer of the two soldiers, stopping halfway before they could fire upon him and chuckling hoarsely. "Grrr gra'duda d'grrana ga ru'rah gr'ru rah" Translation: Take me to your leader. I do not come in peace

Rruror'rur'rr followed half a step behind his two keepers through the metallic halls of the ship, only offering the occassional animalistic snarl or bark at passing lookie-loos in an effort to send them skittering away. They did not trust him; nor should they. After all, he was a true son of Tatooine unlike these blasphemers. He would see to it that they all suffered for their indiscretions. perhaps in pain and death could their souls. He would not even acknowledge it but deep down, Rruror'rur'rr hoped that perhaps the master he was to battle was one of The Builders of ancient legend; one who had enslaved his people and taken those too weak offworld as slaves to their technological terrors.

As they where he was to meet his newest foe (Parangor) his escorts stepped aside and ushered him through a door....

The stage had been set perfectly, all semblence of the mess hall had been removed and the requested trophies from past victories had been arrayed around the room, objects ranging from skulls of opponents and creatures to pennents made from their armor and clothing. Drogan sat on a short stool across from the door with his vibrosword resting across his lapp. Behind him hung the banner of his band in a deep crimson with gold insignia. The lights had been dimmed so as not to provide a glare and the time had come to meet his foe. Before the door was a small table with a strip of crimson cloth on it. Laid out for his opponents choosing was a variety of melee weapons, including the staff they had taken. The misture of vibroswords, axes and maces provide the opponent with ten choices. He was looking forward to seeing what would be chosen. His armor gleamed in the soft light with his helmet resting snuggly on his head he surveyed the room one more time. It was going to be a good day, he hoped to have fun and that the Tuskan would have some fun as well.

As the door slid open Drogan remained in his seated position waiting for the Tuskan to enter and the door to close. Looking directly at his opponent he spoke slowly to allow the translator he had set up time to work. "Welcome, before you are an assortment of weapons that you may choose from to participate in the duel. This room as been set aside for this purpose and this purpose only until I tell my crew otherwise. After you have chosen your weapon I will perform the rituals of my people and then you may perform any rights that your people would perform. After that we will agree upon a signal to begin and start the duel. I know your kind hates my kind, my kind being anyone that is not Tuskan, but know that I am not your enemy and I have great respect for your people. I am not sure why my employer would like to talk to you but I am assuming it is because you are a warrior, a true warrior, of your race. Please take a moment to choose your weapon or if you prefer you may survey the room and get familiar with it so that you don't believe you have a terrain disadvantage. Once you have made your choice we can begin the rituals and proceed with our duel."

Waiting for the translator to finish he again eyed the Tuskan up and down. He was worried for a moment that the tuskan would not understand and simply immediately attack as he did in the woods, it would be a great dishonor to slay a man in a ritual duel without following the tenents of the duel but if push came to shove he would do what he must.

Stepping into the nearly empty durasteel room, Rruror'rur looked around, taking in the plethora of war trophies scattered about. Cleary he seeks to impress me with his bits and baubles. Sad he shook his head as the seated man before him spoke. Stepping up to the table that held his nearly four foot long Gaderffii as well as a smattering of other weapons the demon-spawned man seemed to think might tempt him, Rruror'rur'rr scooped up his prized weapon. it was blasphemous to even have taken it from him and let him live. Will their insults never cease?!

As the man droned on in the tongue of the outsiders (Galactic Basic), Rruror'rur'rr listened, but gave no outward sign that he understood any of what was being said. Content enough to pretend to ignore the foul tongue. Yes, he knew it and could, if needed speak it; but there was quite little cause to possess a true son of Tatooine to speak that of the enslaved, weak, and lost.

As the man finally stopped droning on and on, the Tusken smiled beneath his shrouded facemask, Do all warriors from this hell speak so much? Is it because they are afraid to fight?

Just then a mechanized voice began to roughly translate what the man had just said into Tusken; at this point, it was really more salt in an open wound than anything else. Still, it would due to acknowledge his foe's attempt at some manner of civility, even if it should be his undoing. Staring through his tinted goggles, he offered a brief nod to Drogan before hooking the L-shaped weighted and spiked club of his Gaffi Stick beneath the edge of the table holding the extraneous weapons and with the finesse of a dancer, sent the table skittering aside rocking, but not tumbling over, as he stepped forward.

As the mechanical spawn rattled to an abrupt and unjustifiable Tusken end, Rruror'rur'rr stepped to within two sizable paces of the man before him. Gaffi in one hand he gestured towards Drogan with his open hand, as if to instruct him to continue with his rituals, As if he his prayers to his false gods could save him now Still....his ancestors' ever present speechless voices did not seem to indicate that the creature before him meant him any ill will. They were not crying out a warning of danger as they had already since his arrival in this demon's lands. If anything, judging from this man's speech he wanted to fight Rruror'rur'rr for the simple thrill of battle as he and his brethren had done countless times back home. His now dead brothers thanks to these, these demons! No! That was a privilege that was earned by a brother or gifted to a child, not handed out to any would be passerby that wanted to test his mettle against a true warrior. True warrior. At least he has that right.

With a low guttural growl that needed no translation, he slapped his gaderffii into his other hand with a *THWACK* indicating his impatience with the entirety of the set up.

For a Sith, gifts rarely brought pleasure. Uriel’s favorites gifts included pain, hatred, suffering and sorrow, preferably in several different combinations and inflicted on others.

When Darklord Sheog’s power swept over him, he learned another companion of the Darkside. One that he knew intimately yet never named. Hunger. He felt himself filled with it, his skin inflating, pulling away from the underlying connective tissue till the internal pressure became too much and he burst upon the beauty of Sheog’s newest treatise.

Yellow-orange bile spilled out, a disturbing reminder that instead of his previous body, a scientist somewhere found a way to transfer him into something unnatural, something unholy. Even under the frozen fire of the Darkside, the lab grown flesh of his form left a genetic taint among the twisted strands of his DNA and among the daughters of his mitochondrial DNA.

Once the agony finished, Uriel, nude, remained hunched over in the torn and shredded remnants of his past form. His skin smoked frozen vapors amidst the chambers ruins

.

Uriel straightened, audibly gasping in pleasure as he straightened to his previous height, towering over his newest companion yet dwarfed by the beauteous bulk of Sheog. H turned to look at his lord, to speak the words the great Hutt needed to hear, but one last change made itself known.

The spines of his previous form erupted in a torrent of blood and spinal fluid from the hard ridge of his spine. Poison dripped down the contours of his tightly muscled ass, dripped down the hard muscular ridges of his thighs and pooled onto the floor and joined the pool of fluids already there.

In his excitement of being restored, the spines rose straight up in a crackle of static electricity. Off balance, he stumbled forward and fell to his right knee. Leaning over, he howled in pain as the electricity flowed back into his nervous system and reigned down into the floor. When it was over, he remained kneeling before his lord on his knee, with all four hands resting on the ground before him.

Frowning, he turned to look towards those hands and watched them disappear into his torso. Where they went, his conscious mind failed to comprehend, but his subconscious knew. Shaking his blood covered, bald head to give himself extra seconds to comply, he looked up at Master Sheog and croaked out his first words in a month.

“Master, I live to serve the Sith. As you say so shall it be, my Lord. My ship, Dark Heart will be readied for departure within an hour’s time.”

Uriel rose, saluted his Master and bowed before turning on one heel and heading for the nearest doorway. The young woman, her eyes wide, followed closely in his footsteps.

Her amber eyes glowed triumphantly as she whispered softly, “The Master’s man a beast within born amidst silent sacrifice…” even as they left the room.

After walking several minutes she spoke directly to Uriel.

“Master, shall I see to the ship’s provisioning while you seek out some clothing?”

“Clothing won’t be necessary until we are on the ship, Chiara.”

Chiara tried again.

“Lord Uriel, how show I provision the ship?”

“With the youngest and fittest you can find, of course along the usual lines.”

“As you wish,” said the twenty something woman. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes,” said Uriel, “there is another dark presence here. She is slightly older than Maire. Make sure she is on the ship when I get there.”

“Where will you be Master?”

Uriel turned towards a short, quiet hallway and smiled back at the young woman. Retrieving the Heart of course. I am tired of getting frostbite on Hoth.”

A little over an hour later, the Darkheart rose from the pad where Chiare landed it but a few days before. On board, where Uriel, Chiare, Maire, Chiama, a young woman frozen in carbonite and 2 dozen captives that joined the 3 dozen or so already there.

Uriel, now fully dressed in the robes of a Sith apprentice, with the addition of a kama at his waist, and all his weapons dependent from their proper attachments, watched as the starlines stretched in the familiar forms of hyperspace.

Zalis sat in the cockpit of Nimbus and watched as the star line broke into what most would consider to be normal. From her view, the planet before her looked calm and ready for the sultry and vice she was eager to bring. Quickly, she opened a comm channel and hailed whoever may be listening.

"This is Zalis Krales, ready to bring forth credits galore, along with some favorable company..."

He had to admire the Tuskans bravery, given the strange environment he had thought he would want to take some time but that was his decision. Standing Drogan turned to the emblem of his band and the man trophies on the wall. Kneeling in front of the banner he placed the tip of his blade on the floor and recited the liteny of his band. "For those brothers that died free and in glorious battle, I devote this conflict to your memory and to the belief that you will guide my hand. Let us never again know the yoke of slavery forced on others by the Matriarchs of the Echani, or that of the old sith lords that took us to be their warrior servents. Till my last breath I will stand tall and never again bow."

Standing and turning back to the tuskan he nodded and entered into a Thrysian sword ready stance. The full ritual would take to long and he didn't want to keep his friend here waiting. Even as the translator he forgot to turn off blurted out his "prayer" he prepared to teach this Tuskan that just because a person was not born on Tattooine doesn't make them weak.

Rruror'rur stood watching Drogan. It would be so easy to strike the unsuspecting man as he turned his back to the Tusken and knelt. Fool! he thought to himself as his hands tightened their grip on his well work gaderffii; but he did not strike. Something held him back. Back home, the voices of the ancestor's buzzed about him constantly, warning him against the very environment that sought his demise, not to mention all but select Tuskens of his tribe that radiated hatred, fear, or some other negative emotion towards them. This being though, this non-Tusken heathen, he was different. The ancestral voices did not seem to indicate hatred or fear. Instead, the man seemed ..... calm. Strange. Very strange. In fact, the being before him, still a threat, but he seemed more like a brother than a foe; if the ancestor's were to be believed. They have not deceived me yet

With his gaderffii held before him in a low stance, Rruror'rur'rr's legs flexed unseeingly beneath his swirled dusty robes, ready to spring at a moment's notice. The duo stood for several awkward seconds, neither moving. It was then that Rrurror'rur'rr realized that perhaps the man was waiting for some profane Tusken ritual. True, the Tuskans had many rituals; however, performing in front of an enemy was not one of them.

With a grunt, he gestured with the clubbed spearlike end of his weapon towards Drogan's sword, "Graa'ak" [[Translation: Your move blasphemer]]

Still, at leasat the man honors me by covering himself in my presence...

He had to admit the Tuskan was kind of confusing, he had expected a rather immediate attack if the Tuskan had no rituals but to each their own. Drogans normal battle sense didn't seem to be indicating that the Tuskan suddenly liked him, it still told him the man before him wanted him dead but apparently in an honorable way. Well if the Tuskan insisted on giving him the first move he would have to make the most of it. Dropping into an echani strike stance Drogan suddenly burst across the distance that seperated him from his foe.

As he closed the gap he quickly drpped lower and spun to the side lashing out with the flat of his blad at the Tuskans knee as he spun past. The hope was to cause some harm but nothing lasting so he was hoping the robes would pad the blow a little. As he attemped to complete his spin if all went well he would end up standing facing the Tuskan behind him in a ready stance. While in real life or death battles he would not hesitate to strike from behind in a duel for honor he would be damned if he would strike in such a way.

Legs already tensed in expectation of attack and shrouded by his robes with gaderffii at the ready, Rruror'rur'rr's response was quick and light. As the ancestral voices cried out to his soul warning him of the incoming blade, the Tusken, shifted his weight to the far side of his body from the attack, bending his knee even more; allowing the blade to slap nothing but course cloth, while simultaneously dropping the hooked end of his Gaderffii mere inches in an attempt to snag a piece of armored plating with the razor sharp metallic bladed L-shaped spiked end, either catching it and spinning with it to face his opponent, or missing and using his shift in weight to spin around the other direction, weapon at the ready.

The flat of his blade? He means to play with me. Smiling beneath his breather, he pondered, Perhaps one day....

The cold durasteel surroundings were of little comfort for a warrior bred and trained under the seering twin suns and sand-filled wastes of Tatooine. Guerrilla warfare, that was his specialty: Pop up, engage, and then disappear into the swirling desert sands. A straight up fight was not Rruror'rur'rr's favorite method of battle, yet still, years of rough and tumble desert life interspersed with inter- and intra-clan violence as well as the regular raids on traders, Huttese thugs, hunters, and even the occassional ne'er do well missionary seeking to rescue the lost souls of the desert had left the human/Tusken hardened in more ways than one; much more than any military schooling or training could.

((1))

Delta triggered the comm unit attached to his arm armour and spoke into it at Zalis.

“Hey girl, long time since we have killed bothans together, land at bay 4892 and come join the feast. Dress up, this is a super formal event. Totally legit.”

Construction on a Golan III Space Defense Platform began to sift through their primary stages.

To be completed 11/06/17.

“My apologies Master Sheog, being surrounded by royal guard with no armor or weapons to speak of was quite a fright, and as a result I spoke out of turn. I will remain here with the twins as I do not feel particularly Sithy yet, and do not want to embarrass you in front of others.”

One of Sheog’s associates approached Ailbasí, doing that weird my mouth is open and I’m baring my teeth but I’m happy thing that humans do all the time. The Prince got a free pass because REASONS, DAMNIT! But most humans made Ailbasí think of pinkish mostly furless monkeys. This one had a yellow mane and similar facial features to the clone soldiers of the pre-Empire Palpatine era. Maybe a bootleg clone completed with DNA from another soldier? Regardless, this one was famous enough that she recognized him from the Holonet.

“I don’t know know if I should remark on the dubious wisdom of accepting the word of a criminal or accept that if anyone would know the schedule of people exploding it would be you.”

Ailbasí did her best to smile back to signal that her words were meant in jest, but just in case it was a bad smile she threw in a wink too. As long as she was using the right eye she should have all of her bases covered…

“So… your masterfullnesses, is part of my training going to be living as a hobo on the streets of Onderon, or can I get a room? My dad gave me an emergency credit chit, so I can afford at least a few nights, I never really asked him how much the wiggle room the account had.”

The Tuskan was good, very good. His reactions were just as fast as Drogans and for a brief moment as the Tuskan dodged the blow he had the impression that someone had spoken just prior to his blow landing. In the same instance he heard the voice his instincts screamed for him to drop his shoulder as he completed his spin. It was a good call as the spike blad on the end of that staff had attempted to grab his shoulder plate. He wasn't sure if it would have pierced it or pulled it off but there was no reason to test the theory. Once again facing the Tuskan, and knowing full well he couldn't see his face, Drogan grinned and felt a thrill he had not felt in a long time. The thrill of getting to fight somone actually worth fighting.

Taking two steps forward Drogan led with the point of his blade in what appeared to be a forceful thrust at the Tuskans right shoulder, a move normally used to quickly injure and disamr an opponent. At the last moment however he flashed the blade in front of the Tuskans face with no intention of hitting but as a distraction. As the blade made it sudden cross Drogan lashed out with the flat of his palm using an Echani strike method straight at the Tuskans chest. Even as he followed through with his plan his instincts warned him the Tuskan would realize the attack and that he should end the attack with a stutter step to the side.

A swing and a miss. It is as if he is guided by the spirits. How is this possible?

His weighted weapon found nothing but air. Should have expected this. Barbarian! Bringing the swing up short after he missed, Rruror'rur'rr would not have had time to dodge the incoming blade even without the ancestor's warning; thankfully his attacker feinted in order to drive his palm into his chest. Realizing the attack was far less than lethal, Rruror'rur'rr allowed the blow to land as he sprung backwards, rough hewn robes rustling in the body-moving manmade breeze, grabbing with his free hand at Drogan's outstretched hand in an effort to pull him forward off his feet while simultaneously swinging the same weighted bladed end of his club upwards towards his foe's helmeted face.

As his feet touched the floor, the Tusken was already ready for another attack.