Mavanger

While Darth Idrija worked on the weapon, Darth Mavanger set about establishing the foundation for the new Sith Empire, and their new capitol of Ziost. He had the manpower- Those Sith that had sworn allegiance to him came with authority, and their slaves. Those that did not had been killed, and their slaves donated to surrounding warlords. And yet, those people only cared about what would bring them power. Armories, garrisons, factories. Infrastructure and spaceports were beyond their care, shipyards were beyond their power, and any form of inter-planetary empire was going to take more than a ragged band of warlords and tyrants. That was what his job was. Motivating those he now commanded to devote their resources to the betterment of the empire. It was a common adage that only two things were certain, death and taxes. It was less common for there to be a choice between them. He wouldn't be able to coerce resources from them forever, but he could do it long enough to show that they were not being poorly used. But first he had to establish his own base of operations on the planet, at the very least so that there was a place to route the upcoming tithe to. He could only remain on his flagship for so long, and while it was fully equipped to serve as a military hub for military operations on a local galactic scale, it was no use on a larger galactic scale, nor was it suitable for an administrative hub. He didn't have the slaves that the others did- He was never one to take slaves. In all his time he'd only ever had one- The girl from his homeworld. His first day. It had been so long ago. She had remained on Korriban until it fell, and had been evacuated- He treated her well, and in time she had forgotten her hatred of him. She was currently on special tasking combing through the fractured data-logs they had evacuated for anything useful. Regardless, he needed builders. The next shipment of slaves would be his. If they worked fast, worked hard, worked well, they would be set free within reason. If they didn't, they would die.

Darth Mavanger pondered the smith's words. In his time studying the Sith Forge he had read about such rituals, and she didn't ring of deceit or treachery, neither in her body language nor her presence in the force. He walked forward, lifting a large cleaver from it's position on a wall rack. He examined it closely- it was a twisted, old thing. He could only imagine the creatures it must have cut to create a fine cuisine. Now, though, it would taste a different kind of flesh. He looked at the smith, a stern expression upon his face. "Then it is done." He placed his arm upon the counter closest to the lit fire, taking only a single breath before bringing the cleaver down on his arm with frightening speed in power. In a mere moment, it had been severed just below the elbow, blood spurting across the counter with a warmth that seemed almost cool compared to the fire of the forge. He withdrew the stump quickly, shoving it into the fire to cauterize the wound. As the fire flared and his flesh melted, his stoicism broke, and he released a bloodcurdling scream. It carried not only the pain of the wound and of the flames, but deeper pain, something more ephemeral. A wound that would not heal with bacta or with time. One that had festered now for years. One that he had pushed down and abandoned for the sake of the Dark Lords before him. Vengeance had never truly been his. But now the Sith were at his command. Not a contingent, not a war front, not the military. The entirety of the Sith Empire was at his back, and he would wield them as a blade. He would cut a wound deep into the same part of the Sovereignty's soul as what now bled him every moment of every day. The Galaxy would know peace only when there was nobody left to fight him. He removed the stump of his arm from the fire with a shuttering breath, steadying himself. Once, he had thought himself able to rest. That if he couldn't find a cure to what ailed him, that he could stop the pain in another way, in the embrace of death. But he was denied his death on Naboo. The Dark had dragged him from the brink with but a single purpose- to burn those responsible for Jarvus's death world by world. And then again, in a moment of clarity aboard that damned shuttle, forced to leave Falleen, he had consigned himself to the same fate. That he would never again be called upon to face these things. The cold expanse of space had consumed him, hidden him- Until the Dark led that damned sorcerer to his resting place. Back into the war. Back into the politics. Back into pain, and suffering. It was who he was. It was what he was. But the time had come to uphold his end of the bargain, and his moment of introspection faded as his arm cooled and the pain began to simmer. Clarity was once again lost. He led the smith to the courtyard, where many already lay slain by an over zealous sorcerer. For a moment, he looked for the offender, intending to bury the cleaver in the chest of whoever had disobeyed his orders. He was pleasantly surprised to see the man already dead, his corpse used as a seat for a militant slave. Something about her seemed different than the rest- The way she carried herself, even here, spoke to him. She was a fighter. A warrior. A predator. It was no wonder that she was who the smith was drawn to. Indeed, had he known such a presence was amongst the slaves and captives he would have done things much differently. "They are yours. Whether you sacrifice them, train them, or set them free matters not to me so long as it does not threaten our position here on Ziost."

Darth Mavanger watched the Sith for signs of trickery- and was relieved to see none. She was well built, the time behind the forge shown by her figure. Her spirit was commendable as well- she was not one who would fall to the elements, at least. Not every Sith who had survived the collapse would be able to say the same. How she managed to fend off the warlords, though, remained to be seen. Was she simply too small for them to notice so far? Did she offer her services? Was she dangerous enough that letting her have one building on the fringes of their territories was a minor appeasement? All of these questions he would know the answer to in time. "The extent of complacency within the Sith will never cease to disturb me. You are correct that I seek no such pity. I forged my will on the front lines of war and conflict, in space and on ground. I had thought that I found allies cut from the same cloth, but alas, they have disappeared along with Calypso and those loyal to her. No matter- The Sith were once powerful enough to annihilate any form of resistance to our rule, and with the right leadership, we can be that again." He didn't move as he spoke, watching for signs of hostility. "I would offer that leadership. I don't ask that you kneel if you do not know me, nor my deeds, but I would ask a service of you. My blades have been lost in the throes of battle and chaos and rage. I would petition you for a new weapon. My forge is far from here, and returning to it risks both its' secrecy, and Ziost's. In return for services rendered, I would offer you a fresh shipment of bodies to continue your repairs and your fortifications. They are on their way as they speak." In truth, he didn't know that she was a forgemaster when he had come, but everyone on the planet was looking for manpower. Whether she had been a fighter or a crafter, he would have found use for the slaves.

Darth Mavanger walked through the ruins of Ziost's surface, the planet's cold biting at his being even beneath his robes and armor. He hadn't truly understood the magnitude of the Daith Order's failure to recover from the war in the early days, each still pouring resources into fighting the tide of Sovereign and Jedi forces to hold onto whatever pieces of the galactic stage they could. Instead, they had lost everything, and were left with nothing to rebuild. All around him was evidence of this. Sith who didn't know the first thing about building an empire, only maintaining one that had been built by others. So used to their palaces and offices, they were unprepared for the harsh ice age that Ziost demanded they endured. Most that had the ability had retreated to the ragged fleet in orbit. He had received a few petitions of loyalty himself for such a luxury to be provided, but he had declined them all. They would learn to endure the elements, or they would never be able to retake a galaxy who's populace now resented them. Still, not every Sith had been rendered helpless. The useless had sunk, resembling the beggars and the rabble more than Sith without the support of nearly limitless resources, but the truly powerful and resourceful were starting to rise to the occasion, establishing their own districts and territories that they ruled over like petty kings and queens. He had visited several such places, gaining the allegiance of those that would bend the knee, and gaining the heads of those few who had tried to oppose his rise. He was content to let the survivors continue their rule once they had sworn fealty on the condition that they heed his call when the time came. In truth he could have mobilized them today, struck out for battle in a desperate attempt to regain a foothold. Part of him wanted to do just that, to relish in the simplicity of waging war. But he was surrounded by the consequences of such sentiments, and understood the need to let his people stabilize. This brought him to where he was now. It was a humble place, an old restaurant in the heart of the old capitol. And yet, despite the humble appearance, it was Sith, and a place left untouched by the surrounding would-be warlords. It drew curiosity as to why such a small position would be left unassailed, and warranted a visit if nothing else. He entered fully expecting to be stopped, either by guards, words, or traps, but met no resistance. Curious indeed. He could feel the difference in the air as soon as he entered- Not heat per-se, not this close to the entrance, but a lack of biting wind and the start of a new structure built over the old. It was almost a metaphor for the Sith as a whole, but he wasn't concerned to ponder such things at the current moment. Moving deeper, he could see a familiar glow, a known presence in the force. A forge. He reached the doorframe, his frame blocking out any stray light that may have found its way in, leaving only the light of the fire to illuminate the room. He could see who he could only presume to be the owner of the forge at work, studying whatever tome or manual she had managed to salvage from the fallen empire. "I'm impressed. It took me the might of a hivemind to assemble my forge this efficiently, and yet you've managed to perform such a feat out of the kitchen of a diner. How did you manage such a thing?"

If Darth Mavanger was moved by his peer's pledge of loyalty, he did his best not to show it. He was glad to hear that Akheron would finally be abandoning his foolish beliefs, and was eager to see what he could do unbound by mysticism and blind faith. He turned to Tros, nodding at the man who had first found him in deep space. "Lend your forces to this purge if Darth Akheron will have them. Chances for the real thing will be few and far between in the coming days while we rebuild our strength. Int he mean time I will task my remaining agents with finding the remaining Sith so that I may offer them the same ultimatum- Serve, or fight. Our unity is what allowed us a hold on the galaxy. When that fractured, so too did our grip on the people. I will not make that mistake." He opened his communicator and send a signal. It was a signal to his troops, to his command structure, that the game was now afoot. With the support from Tros confirming the loyalties of the Mandalorians, and a known Sith like Akheron supporting his claim, all that was left was ascertaining if Calypso yet lived and if so, whether or not she opposed his ascension. Deep down though, he knew they wouldn't be able to find her. Whatever dark side experiments she had departed to perform were likely the cause of her disappearance. Still, even without direct opposition, there was work to be done. "You mentioned the Shadow's Gambit. I don't know it, but if you're speaking of it then I presume it has some importance to you and your coming plans? Speak freely."

Darth Mavanger shook his head as the other Sith proclaimed his support for whoever proclaimed their leadership next. "Maybe one day I will know the words that will impart upon you the wisdom I have found in my own death. Free you of the idea that the Dark Side grants us freedom, chooses it's champions. But the days of Dark Lords being some... mythical selection by the Dark Side is over. Thrice they have failed us. Exodus let dissent build within the Empire, Nyrys let the empire fall, and Calypso let the Sith fade from unity. When I came to the Sith Empire, they were powerful, united behind a leader that had led them to battle time and time again. I seek to usher in this era again. I will blaze a trail through the galaxy to it's very core with a Sith Empire reborn as warriors and generals, statesmen and logisticians. We will set the seeds of an empire to surpass any that have come before." He watched the other warrior for signs of dissent, of aggression. "I would claim the mantle of Dark Lord, as is my right as the Warmaster of the Sith Empire, the Warden of Kuat, the Scourge of the Outer Rim. I will claim this title in the name of my deeds, as your general, your ally, and the man that our troops trust with their servitude. I have invited you here to give you an opportunity to draw your blade in opposition, or to kneel to me as the true master of the Sith Order, as earned through my actions, through my force of will, not deigned worthy by some supernatural presence that deems me it's avatar, but by the blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifices I have made for our people. What say you, lord Akheron."

Darth Mavanger gazed upon Ziost from the observation deck of the Raven's Bane, a quiet moment of contemplation in the frenzy of the planning and preparation for the battles to come. It occurred to him just how rarely he had opportunities like this- He had always sprinted from one fight to the next, seeking out his next victory, his next battle, his next enemy. Rarely had he been given the moments to contemplate why he fought. At first, it was for legacy. He wanted to make his mark on the galaxy, to create a legacy that people respected. After Dark Sun, it was to serve the Dark Lord with fanatical devotion, to be his trusted servant. After twin battles of Kuat and Corellia, his purpose had shifted. If the Dark Lord had been unwilling to grant him status after his victory, he was going to take it for himself. He surrounded himself with powerful allies and loyal warriors, and brought the rebels in the Outer Rim to their knees, only to lose the one person he valued above himself. Vengeance had consume the next years of his campaign, leading to the death of the Empress and the fall of the Sith Empire. And what was it all for? This barren world was all that the Sith held claim to. Many knew his name, but what power did his people truly wield now? He had but one ship and the battered crew that manned it. True to his hope, his sensors confirmed that Darth Akheron's ship was also in orbit. He thought he could see it in the far distance, a speck of off-colored light contrasting with the rest of the galaxy. He thumbed the Sith command comlink- it had been rarely used since the fall of the Sith Empire, but he knew Akheron would still hold one. "Darth Akheron. The Warmaster has need of your presence. Report to my ship immediately and make your way to the observation deck."

Darth Mavanger nodded. Then all that was left was to put his forces to march once more, as he had above a dozen worlds since he joined the Sith. The only difference is that he would be facing down his former allies, the people that he had lost so much to serve. No more would he be doing the bidding of a Dark Lord who's ambitions lay in the ephemeral eradication of the Jedi and the Sovereign Alliance. No, he would put the galaxy to the torch with his own actions, and inspire his people to do the same, as he had for years. "Then we set off to find Darth Akheron. I'll ready the remainder of my forces- Nar Shaddaa likely took a toll on them, and it will do them good to hear from me once more. My next stop will be Ziost- If he is not still present there, there will hopefully be people hwo know of his location. He isn't the most subtle of our allies, after all. I suggest you do the same with your troops- ready them for what is to come, then meet us on Ziost. Once we have solidified my position, we can discuss the plans for our empires."

"Then the pact is struck. May neither of us break it, for the fate of both our peoples rely on our loyalty." He let the reality of his new position set in for a moment. He hadn't always seen eye to eye with Dark Lords in the past, from his disagreement with Nyrys's plan to open defiance against Exodus after Kuat, but he had never proclaimed himself one. At best, he was stepping up to lead a Sith Order that was rapidly spiraling into nothing. At worst, he was declaring open rebellion against the reigning Dark Lord. But it couldn't be helped- The Sith needed strong leadership, and they needed it now. If Calypso had gone missing as her compatriots before her, then he would take up the mantle, and he wouldn't relinquish it until he was dead, either at the hands of a Sith looking to take it for themselves, or the Sovereignty and the Jedi looking to quash the head of the Sith. "If we are to do this, we need a plan. You said the Sith are scattered- I may still have allies among them. I fell in defense of Darth Akheron's world, he would be a good starting point. Are there any of your people we should visit to solidify this alliance, and to solidify your hold on your people? I know the Mandalorians are no strangers to marching to war, but we may very well be asking them to march against former allies. Will that be problematic?"

Hearing the true state of the Sith drove a dagger of loss into his chest. Everything he had fought for, and his worst fears had come to pass. The Sith had scattered, and their feigned defeat had become a true one. His worst fears, that Nyrys's plan would lead to the Sith Empire's downfall, had come to pass. What that meant for him remained to be seen- He knew the Sith needed real leadership, strong leadership, but it wouldn't do them any good to splinter here and now. He needed a plan. "What of Darth Calypso? She proclaimed herself Dark Lord, and she had the power to back that claim. She will be a threat to my leadership if she decides to oppose me." He was quiet for another moment, before broaching the rest of his thoughts. "We'll need to find the remaining Sith ourselves for two reasons. The first is to declare my new position, but also to rally them and give purpose and direction. If you aid me in this, then when we crush the Sovereign Knights and their puppet empire, I will give you your wish. The Mandalorians will be whole once more- You will hold Mandalore, and your people will be vassals under the Sith Empire, free to recruit from your own and enforce your own laws so long as you continue to the reigning Dark Lord." He knew the implications of his words- If he were to be usurped, or defeated, or replaced by another Sith, Tros's loyalties would likely remain to the throne. But that was the Sith way- To take power from those above, and if he were to tie Manda'lor's allegiance to his occupation of the throne, it would put the entire future empire at risk of collapse without the support of the military arm. No- When he was slain, and another had taken his place, they would have the support of the Mandalorians so long as they both respected this deal.

In truth, there was only one warrior amongst those gathered who could hope to defeat him. His eyes found Tros Ardell, Manda'lor the Zealous, the last true son of the Crusaders. The legacy of the Mandalorian people, his title bestowed by Terra herself. He knew the threat this man may have posed. For a moment, he wondered if the now dead Sith had brought him here as protection, insurance against Darth Mavanger should the bonds prove ineffective. If so, the man had underestimated his own ability to survive close quarters with a warrior. He braced himself for combat as the Mandalorian warriors surrounding them stiffened, his eyes meeting those of the Manda'lor. And then, the man kneeled. He offered his service to Darth Mavanger, an unwarranted pledge of fealty and loyalty. And he remembered what had driven him before Nar Shaddaa. Before Naboo. The pride he felt at leading warriors to their victory, at a campaign well run, and well earned victories. Tros Ardell had pledged himself in hopes of reclaiming those days, and he would not be disappointed. "Rise, Manda'lor the Zealous. As long as you are my ally, you will stand on your own two feet, as a warrior. As a Mandalorian." He looked around the hangar, spotting Captain Ralos. So she was the one that was responsible for this. His faithful captain, unaware of the position she had inherited. Loyal to the end. She must have spent many months looking for him, judging from the appearances of those around them. "Captain, head to the bridge and prepare for a hyperspace jump. You'll have a destination once I am caught up on the state of the galaxy." He looked at Tros, nodding. "Walk with me. It would do good for the troops to see me alive once more, and you can inform me on the current state of the Sith. Most importantly, is the plan working?"

As the last of Darth Mavanger's closest allies and followers filtered into the room, the fulgurmancer shuffled forward, his body wracked with a fit of coughing as though the very notion of physical activity gnawed away at the man's corrupted and twisted flesh. He looked around, a wicked smile having taken residence upon his face. The fallen Darth Mavanger's body was carried off of the shuttle by no less than four troopers, struggling under the weight of the already large man's weight bolstered by his sithsteel armor. "Good, his body is intact. Even now, long after death, I can feel his rage. His hatred. His power. It is but an ember now, but it can be... re-ignited, so to speak, given the right catalyst." He placed a hand on the corpse's armored chest, breathing deeply as he began to chant. It was quiet at first as he wove his dark necromancy into the body. It was a talent he had hidden until this moment, though it didn't surprise Ralos. She had always assumed he had some way of reviving her commander. His chanting grew louder, and the smell of sulfur wafted through the hangar as the necromancer channeled his power into the body. Even though she expected it, it shocked her to see Darth Mavanger's eyes open once more. _____________ The first thing Darth Mavanger felt when he resurrected for the second time was the Force. The smothering blanket of rage and fury that perpetually burned within his soul. He had been so close to oblivion. So close to all this hatred being forgotten, lost forever. So close to true freedom. To peace. And yet, as he began to take in his surroundings, he knew that he had lost his chance. His ploy had failed- The Sith had found him even in the deepest, coldest vacuum of space. He looked upon the man who had brought him back, the blackest rage he'd felt in years filling every fiber of his being as he began to move, sitting up. "Darth Mavanger, Warmaster of the Sith, I command you to kneel before me" Darth Mavanger felt the trick as the command was spoken- The necromancer hadn't just brought him back, cursed him once more with the rage and anger that had become his very nature. He had woven a dark magic into the spell he had used to do so, one meant to control his body and his will. He rose, turning to face the man. He felt the confidence of the necromancer falter as he rose to his full height, wordless. He took a step forward, and the fulgarmancer took one back. "I command you to kneel, Darth Mavanger!" The first thing that the Warmaster had done when he rose had been to shatter the frail bonds the necromancer had tried to shackle him with. The spell had been meant for weak willed corpses who couldn't fight back. When faced with a Sith of greater power, who's very presence in the Force ate the light. Wordlessly, he lunged, grabbing either side of the man's head, pressing his thumbs into the other Sith's eye sockets, feeling the man's eyes give way to his gauntleted fingers. The man tried to grab the Warmaster's wrists, to send his lightning through Mavanger's body, but to no avail. He let out a panicked scream as Darth Mavanger's grip tightened. "Never again shall I kneel to another." Blood and viscera and brain matter sprayed across the floor as the Sith's skull gave way to Darth Mavanger's hands, imploding with little resistance as he threw the now lifeless, still twitching corpse to the ground, breathing heavily as he looked around. "Anyone else?"

The troops in the mess hall around Manda'lor the Zealous and his people had shown them comradery thus far. They'd served alongside Tros and his warriors several times, and had seen firsthand their abilities and their commitment to the cause. Captain Ralos also knew that Tros had been a trusted associate of Darth Mavanger, and had asked him so accompany her vessel in their search. There was a familiarity among the troops that came from sharing a cause, and from the bonds forged in war. This was the strength Darth Mavanger had fostered- Where other Sith Lords had fostered paranoia and competition, Darth Mavanger had always sought to unite the Sith war effort under a single unifying plan. That had been what made him so successful in the Outer Rim, what had made him a beacon for the up and coming Sith Lords, and had made him a stalwart ally to three Dark Lords so far. One of the shock troopers, an elite veteran of both Nar Shadaa and Naboo, approached the table. He gave the ruling mandalorian a sharp salute before speaking. "Manda'lor, your presence has been requested in Hangar A1. We have him" __________ The shuttle that carried Darth Mavanger was an older one, likely left over from the days of the Empire's control of the galaxy. It had seen conflict after conflict, it's old hull marked with every fight it had seen. The hangar had been emptied save a select few people- only those that Captain Ralos felt she could trust. Herself, her second in command, the Sith Fulgurmancer, and a squad of troopers loyal to only her and the man being brought in. All that remained was to wait for the Mandalorians to arrive, and see what the Fulgurmancer had planned once the shuttle was opened. In truth, their presence was more for Darth Mavanger's safety than her own- If he came back to life like he had on Naboo, he'd be most vulnerable right after, and if the Sith who was present was looking to pad his portfolia with the slaying of the Sith Warmaster, she didn't want to be the one who gave him the key.

Captain Ralos was uncomfortable with the presence of the Sith sorcerer on the bridge. Them man twitched uncontrollably, his face and body constantly contorting as though he were constantly withdrawing from death stick, or some other more nefarious drug. He had introduced himself as a fulgurmancer, capable of helping track down her missing leader. Darth Mavanger had left them nearly two years ago, after he had slain the Empress Raven and cemented himself as one of the foremost Sith in what little of the Empire remained. He'd finally dropped out of contact with the remaining Sith a few months ago. At first, she'd hoped he was taking the time to finally center himself after her predecessor's death, and retreat from the Sith politics. But as the time drew on, and she'd heard whispers of his death, she knew that wasn't the case. That was when the Fulgurmancer had revealed himself, telling her that he knew where to find her fallen general. It was an offer too good to be true. She knew the prices Sith extracted for their services, and she had no intentions of delivering her commanding officer to such a man. Another coughing fit wracked the man's body, and she glanced at him, half worried that he'd short circuit the entire bridge now that they were in deep space. She'd changed her tune when the new Dark Lord had disappeared as mysteriously as she'd arrived. Without her, the Sith were scattered and alone, being picked off one at a time as the Jedi and Sovereign Knights worked throughout the galaxy. If the Sith had any hope of rebuilding, they'd need a strong leader. A Warmaster. It was then that the Sith spoke. His voice was like the whisper of static, the first time she'd heard it since she'd welcomed him aboard and he'd told her to focus her search on the hyperlanes between Falleen and Carida. "We're close. I can feel his rage even from here." That was all the evidence she needed. "Launch the fighters and the transports. He's close. Once you find him, bring him aboard and give him plenty of space."

Revelation. The refusal of the call. The denial of vengeance, and the words that deep down, he'd wanted to hear. From Cassandra. From Kirlocca. From this girl. That he had done this to himself, and despite it, that he could be better. That his path was not the only one. That the cycle could be broken. That his chains could be lifted. "A lonely death is what I have given myself, child." He pressed the blade into her hands softly, making sure she held it tightly. His voice was low, and hoarse. The words of a dying man, spoken with the knwledge that they would likely be the last he ever spoke. "The blade's is name in ancient Sith, Imeall Dólás. The Edge of Sorrow. The manifestation of loss and grief. And now, a reminder of what such things can do. Keep it. Remember the lesson you have learned here." He stood, groaning as pain shot through his body. An old friend, here to comfort him in his final minutes. He knew what came next if he didn't stop it. It happened on Naboo. It robbed him of his warrior's death. It perpetuated the cycle. He saw his reincarnation as what it truly was now- A twisted tool of the Dark Side. But knowledge wasn't freedom, and he knew if he came back this time, even more of who he was would be lost. He grabbed her wrist, dragging her to the door leading to the next compartment with what dregs of strength he could muster. He hit the release, and it hissed open. Those on the other side were still blissfully asleep- the cabins were soundproofed, a necessity for large scale transport like this. He pushed her through the entry, holding her there for a moment. "This is the way it must be. To break the cycle. To break my chains, and be truly free. That is the way of the Sith, in life... as in death." He sealed the door with her on the opposite side, driving the accursed Edge of Terror into the controls, shorting them out. He left it there, abandoned, as he unclasped his cloak. It fell like a wave, tattered cloth drifting to the ground. He removed his remaining pauldron next, letting it tumble to the deck of the starship. With each piece, he was closer. Closer to freedom. To salvation. His bracers came next, and then his gloves. Finally, he undid the clasp of his chestpiece, letting it fall to the ground, with all the weight of his anger. His fury. His rage. His loss, his grief, his guilt. All that remained was the bloodied suit underneath. Mustering everything he had left, he launched a wave of destructive energy at the wall of the cabin, tearing a massive hole in the side of the ship. In a heartbeat, he was sucked into the void. In his final moments, Mordecai smiled. The wheel was broken. It was over.

He heard the blade before he saw it, scraping across the ground as it was lifted by the girl. He turned in time to see it sailing towards the window of the freighter. The pommel impacted the window with enough force to crack the window, toppling to the ground, and a quiet hissing was the only warning he had. He slid forward, grabbing his helmet at the girl's feet and placing it over his head. The window shattered from the pressure just as he threw a force barrier up around the girl. She would know this lesson, even if it claimed his life. Especially if it claimed his life. The cabin violently decompressed, throwing the denizens against walls and sucking the air from their lungs. His own exposure to the vacuum drained him- It chilled his blood, it darkened his vision, even with the assistance of his mask. It took everything he had to plant his feet and hold his ground while maintaining the barrier. The few survivors clawed for air that wasn't there, their blood boiling in the near-zero pressure as the died terrible, visceral deaths. It was nearly a full minute before the old ship's security systems located the breach and a blast shield shut it off. When it was over, everyone was dead. He threw off his mask, falling to his knees as he coughed and sputtered, struggling for breath as the Dark Side returned to him, doing what it could to sustain him. He looked up- The barrier had held the vacuum at bay. Good. He smiled sadly as he looked up at the lone survivor. "Now, yo-" His body was wracked with pain as he coughed violently, blood spattering across the durasteel flooring, mixing with that of his victims'. "-you know. They might have survived if you hadn't-" Another round of coughing, this one much worse. He wouldn't be long. Maybe this time it would stick. Maybe she could end it, and avenge him, even if she knew not what she did. "If you hadn't taken action." He pulled on the Edge of Sorrow, the twin blade of the blood soaked Edge of Terror, and it slid slowly across the floor, his power waning here and now. He threw it at her feet. "Do it. Avenge them."

The silence broke as a man screamed, and in a moment, the entire cabin erupted. The killing had begun in earnest now and he moved to kill the next man before him, but stopped short when he felt it. A vain effort to stop him, an attempt on his life, fueled by hatred. The girl tried to stop his heart. A step in the right direction, but she wasn't there. Not yet. He fought her off with relative ease, grasping the man's neck. Darth Mavanger's attention moved back to the girl "No. Not yet. Not until you understand the mistakes that have led to this slaughter." Anger filled him, and with a powerful squeeze he could hear the sickening pop as his neck was snapped and his spinal cord broken. He fell limply from Darth Mavanger's hand as another tried to run past him. A young boy, likely the same age as the girl. Another future severed as his blade caught an arm, sending the barely surviving boy to the ground. He would likely not survive his wound for long. Another refugee, this one met with a knee driven into her ribcage hard enough to shatter ribs like shrapnel, tearing through her body. "This could have been prevented, if not for one's mercy."

"You don't understand. But you will. And when you do, when you understand the lesson I am teaching you, you will understand what must be done. What should have been done, countless times." He pulled the blade free, blood spraying against the bottom of the bunk above the now deceased man. As he brought his blade up, the young girl grasped his arm. A fruitless endeavor. Even in his current state, trained warriors would have trouble slowing him down. With his free hand, he gently grasped her shoulder and pushed her away. She would never thank him for this. He knew that. He was altering the course of a life with every step. Every swing. Thus was the power of terror. "Watch. Listen. Learn." He raised his blade high, and brought it down on the next refugee's neck, slicing through steel and flesh alike as he severed the woman's head. The blade was almost silent, the resistance nearly non-existent. He looked down. On the ground level lay another, looking up at him with a bloodied face and frightened eyes. He reached down, dragging the cowering man by the hair across the ground before dropping him and bringing a massive armored boot upon his neck. "You cannot stop this." Another refugee tried to run towards a door. He reached out with the Force, yanking him closer, the force impaling the man's abdomen with Darth Mavanger's outstretched blade. A strong pull, and the sword was free, having nearly cut the man in half as it looked for freedom. Blood arced across the cabin, a wicked spray, driven by the force of his fury.

How did this young girl, barely into her life, have more empathy than Jedi Masters? He placed the cold against his bruised neck, relishing the pain, but also the relief. He wondered if it was ignorance that drove her lack of fear, a fundamental disconnect as to what a Sith Lord was, and what they did. Kirlocca had known- and yet he had spared the Warmaster. He hadn't even taken Darth Mavanger into custody. He knew that this was the weakness that was evidence of his great blasphemy- The denial of Darth Mavanger's grief, his sorrow, his loss. And yet, he was so tired. Tired of the pain. Of the loss, Of the war. Of the fight. But he wasn't done yet. As he stood, he contemplated what came next. Retribution. The cycle would continue. Pain begot pain. Grief unto grief. His life would lead to more death. Maybe Kirlocca had defeated him, stolen his victory and replaced it with a lock of his own hair, as though they would meet again on day as friends. He didn't understand grief. Not like Mordecai did. His was deeper than loss. It was more than the death of the man he loved. More than the deaths of his friends and allies. It was guilt. Deep down, he knew. He knew that he was the reason they had died. Those he cared about, those he fought beside. They had trusted him, they had followed him to war, and they had all died for it. The cycle began with him. and every revolution pulled him deeper into his despair. He knew this. He had always known this. He knew how to break it, but there was one last thing to do before he did. He would ensure his vengeance survived him. His fight was almost over, but hers? The Jedi Guardian would never spare another Sith, if he even survived. He could feel it, deep in her soul. She knew the Force, even if she wasn't aware of it yet. "You have done me a kindness. But it's too little. Too late. I've fought too long to let my enemies survive now. And so, young one, I offer my sincerest apologies for what comes next." He lifted one of his blades, the Edge of Terror. It was chosen for a purpose. The tool of his strike, of his gambit. He wasted no time in moving, and with two strides he had plunged the blade into the heart of the first refugee. The slaughter had begun.

Refugees. Cowards. They fled their homes rather than take a stand. Even traitors had more honor than these people. His mind churned with various thoughts and emotions. Potential actions and reactions. The girl spoke again, asking to treat his shoulder. In truth, he barely felt it, the pain feeding his consciousness, but he knew the risks of infections and nerve damage. He reached up to his shoulder, peeling the pauldron away with little effort. He placed it gently on the ground, the metal heavy in his hands. He watched her work with sorrow. "Do you know who I am, girl?" She surely didn't. If she did she would have woken her peers, and they would have jettisoned him out the airlock. She would have drove a knife through his throat while she had a chance. It was strangely comforting- that the person before him didn't know who he was, or what he was capable of. The Sith knew him everywhere. Those that didn't know him by name or by reputation, knew by his presence. The Sovereign Knights were the same- they recognized his threat, and they had no intentions of sparing him. "Why do you help me?"

When Darth Mavanger woke, he felt a deep rage in his heart. More than the flashfire of wrath that he'd felt in battle, at slights, at poorly thought out decisions. This was an unfathomable sense of hurt, of grief, of denial. Was it defeat? It wasn't alien to him. The greatest lessons were learned from the worst losses. It stung, but in the grand scheme of things it was for the better. The Sith were supposed to be in decline, and his public defeat on Falleen would hopefully sell that narrative. An empire in decline, even the most dangerous among them losing ground. No, this wasn't what angered him. Maybe it was Darth Akheron's disregard for the Sith's plans, his endangerment of the Sith Worlds by not only bringing a defense force, but losing them too. It was blatant disregard for the current state of the galaxy, and the consequences would surely rear their head in the coming months. But he'd faced this before. Inmortos on Naboo, his own insolence on Kuat. No, this was the way of the Sith. To test the bounds, to try their hand even when the cards were against them. He thought back to the fight, and with some digging, he found it. The thorn in his psyche. The wound in his mind. That a Jedi Master, the masters of sympathy and healing, couldn't understand what loss was. A declaration that because he had lost less than the wookie, that what he felt was a lie, was weak, was a result of weak temperament. His rage stemmed from the understanding that the one who could understand, who knew what it felt like to lose everything, denied his grief so viscerally. His eyes snapped open as he heard a voice, and his mind returned to his body. His mask was gone, a source of cold against his neck. A young girl knelt over him, asking if he was okay. Empathy? From a girl so young? Did she not know who he was? He sat up, looking around. He was on a ship, filled with refugees. Why was he still alive? The Wookie hadn't killed him. Yet again, the weakness of the Jedi failed to stop him. Failed to end the cycle. How could the Wookie claim that he didn't know true grief, true loss, when his own losses couldn't even drive him to kill an enemy determined to slaughter his people? And yet, this young girl help empathy in her heart. "Where am I?" His voice was low, lest he wake the sleeping passengers. A Sith, even unarmed, could cause a panic in such close quarters.

Darth Akheron vs Sandy Sarna First of all, I want to congratulate both of you. This was a very well written duel that I found relatively easy to follow along. It flowed well, and maintained a sense of grandiosity even in a relatively tame battleground. You both did great characterizing your motivations and driving forces, and it made this duel incredibly fun to read. That said, there can be only one victor, so here's the breakdown. There are two major things that came up that need being addressed, but they both fall under the same umbrella. First, in Akheron's first post, he writes an outstandingly creative use of Shatter, one of the abilities laid out in the warrior's guide. Sandy attacks with a telekinetic wave, and Akheron tries to counter with Shatter. While a very creative solution to her attack, trying to match a master Jedi Consular who specializes in telekinetics is a very good way to end up pasted against a wall. As a warrior, you'll never beat or even match a master telekinetic in their own field, the same way Sandy can't hope to match Akheron in melee combat. The second thing to bring up is Akheron's third post, where he once again tries to match Sandy blow for blow in telekinetic combat, trying to throw her own rubble at her. While a cool scene, it must be remembered that we have classes to represent our character's strengths and weaknesses. Warriors and Guardians specialized in close quarters combat with blades, fists, shields, and other such weapons, but Consulars and sorcerers specialize in ranged combat, like telekinetics, lightning, and force blasts. Any time you try to beat a class at what they do best, it's gonna go poorly. Despite that, the duel was well fought by both of you, and when Akheron relied on his class's toolkit and his skills as a warrior, he did outstandingly well. With all of that said, Sandy Sarna is the victor.

The Wookie's mistake had been hard earned- In an attempt to halt Darth Mavanger's flurry of blows, he had stepped into the Sith Master's guard, trying to emulate his own earlier attack with his knee. But without the momentum, the power, the fire of rage and anguish to drive it, it wouldn't prove nearly as crippling. His ribs ached where the knee met he'd taken the previous blow, pushing him back the precious few steps he needed to strike once more at the Wookie as his lightsaber carved through the Warmaster's shoulder. It had found a chink in his armor, a necessary point to allow for his movement, and in doing so, seared both his body and the fabric holding his should plate attached as it his the ground with a heavy clang of metal against pavement. The Wookie had made a critical mistake- He had underestimated Darth Mavanger. It was clear in his bladework and his intentions. Simple cuts and spacing blows, an attempt to tire the Sith and to keep him at an arm's distance. He hadn't considered that the Warmaster had earned his title through bloody battle and conquest, that he had anything behind his movements beyond a tantrum thrown by an apprentice who didn't yet know how to harness their rage and pain into something dangerous. If he had dueled Mordecai Valar, the young, ambitious Sith apprentice, over Borleais, he would have found the same success that Ismael had. The scarred tissue that coated a large swathe of his face was a grim reminder of that lesson, though. He'd learned many of those. In the years since, he had transcended blind, pointless attacks. Every cut fed into the next, every strike fueled by his malice. Every assault designed in the moment to kill his opponent. He remembered what he had learned, each fight bringing with it their own cavalcade of emotions and sorrow. On Kuat, he had learned never to underestimate his opponent. Doing so had nearly cost him and Xahl their lives. On Corellia, he had learned the follies of the Jedis' defensive fighting when the young padawan was defeated. On Kuat again, he had been taught the error of blindly following where his opponents led him. That had cost Xahl, his best friend, his life, and had nearly crushed Mordecai with a slagged turret. Trulalis had taught him the dangers of overextending when the Rebels counter attacked Mon Cal, and took everything from him. And so many more. Every foe, felled by his blade. The number of people that had survived him were countable on one hand, both friend and foe. This was his path. A firestorm of hatred, of rage, of vengeance and anguish, that left nothing but charred remains in its wake. All of this loss, this sorrow, spit upon by the great Jedi hypocrisy. The preaching of empathy, without the ability to empathize. The belief that the Dark could never defeat the Light, regardless of the number of times the Jedi had nearly been made extinct by the Sith. The Wookie, as powerful as he was, only had one weightless blade and an injured arm. Darth Mavanger would shatter his defense in one final flurry of blows. A sweeping attack low, an outlet for his wrath, towards the shins from Imeall Sceimhle. His momentum carried his spin into an anguish-filled blow from Imeall Dólás as he rose merely a fraction of a second later, another cut towards the Jedi's midsection in a second bisection attempt. A third strike, an overhead swing from Imeall Sceimhle in an effort to split the Jedi's skull in his fury. Another swing brought forth his grief, a cut towards the Wookie's ribs from Imeall Dólás that would tear the Jedi's heart asunder as the Rebels had done unto the Warmaster. Every attack, meant to overwhelm. Yet another blow flashed towards the Jedi Master, carving a path through the Force as Imeall Sceimhle moved to intercept his Lightsaber, in an attempt to make the Jedi as defenseless as one frozen by terror would be. And then, the final blow. Into it he poured everything. All of his pain, all of his loss, his rage. But more than that strike his very will to live, his resolute promise that he would avenge Jarvus through blood. Imeall Dólás drove down unto the Jedi everything that Darth Mavanger could muster. He would make him understand his pain, one way or another. ((3. Excellent duel! Can't wait for the outcome.))

The world seemed to slow as Darth Mavanger closed the distance with the Wookie. His first two strikes fell upon a stalwart defense, a testament to the Wookie's abilities, albeit only a temporary one as his knee drove into the Jedi's ribs and his pommel cracked across Kirlocca's face. It was in this brief moment of bliss, as his blades tasted their first drops of blood since Nar Shaddaa, that he saw the Wookie's play, a foot driving towards his shin. The very move he had used against the Imperial Knight over Kuat, the move that had almost claimed victory. He leapt, shifting his momentum into a spin, intending to drive two cuts into the Wookie's body, but as his own turned midair and he met the Wookie's eyes, he realized his mistake. The blow didn't pierce his armor- It was a solid Sith alloy, designed to stop everything short of a blow by power armor. Unfortunately, it didn't need to break the armor to be effective as he was caught midair by the force-powered punch. Pain reverberated across his chest as he was pushed back through the air, interrupting his plans for attack as he hit the ground and rolled, driving his blades into the ground to slow his movement. Had he tried to brace himself, the blow would likely have caved in his chest through his armor. It had taken him by surprise- He'd never fought an opponent that could match his strength, his power, blow for blow like this. He would have to be careful to not allow another blow like that. He stood, correcting his chance as he took the briefest moment to catch his breath from the Jedi's blow. He charged again, channeling his emotions and sensations. The pain from the Wookie's blow sharpened his mind, opened his senses to incoming attacks and malicious deceptions. The frustration at his attacks being interrupted drove power into his strikes, merging with his rage and his lust for vindication. The Jedi had rebuffed his offer of kinship, the opportunity to avenge his grief. Darth Mavanger's sorrow had burned entire planets, slain entire populations. He'd slain a monarch to right the wrong done unto him, and yet still he felt it so succinctly. And yet, the Jedi claimed his own grief as greater as though one history of loss negated another. He declared the Sith Warmaster's grief as lesser, as less deserving of empathy because because his list was not known, all the while refusing to bring the perpetrator of such personal sorrow to justice. These things drove him forward, a hardened hammer of darkness to fall upon the brittle shield of light. His empirical truth against the shallow protections of false comforts and self deceptions. A crushing miasma of loss and despair to swallow hope, happiness, and peace wherever it went. His life was a testament of the weakness of the light. How many times had they the opportunity to kill him, to stop his rampage, his crusade? Kuat, Trulalis, Naboo, Nar Shadaa, and now Falleen. All testaments to his wrath, his hatred. All carried with them scars of his passing. He let out a cry that was as much for battle as it was for loss, grief, and sorrow. A harbinger of rage, fury, and hatred. Of guilt and regret, of bloodlust and violence. He feigned the same opening, a false blow to shield his intentions, his true target of the Wookie's outstretched palm, extended past the easy defense of a lightsaber. He stepped to the Jedi's left, bringing down Imeall Sceimhle towards Kirlocca's bicep, intending to either disable it, or sever the arm entirely. The second blow came from Imeall Dólás, a horizontal slash powered by his momentum and his rage towards the Wookie's midsection in an attempt to bisect him, a cruel cut that if it connected would likely debilitate the Wookie if it didn't outright kill him. Another vicious attack followed as Darth Mavanger attempted to get behind the Wookie, a diagonal cut from should to hip from Imeall Sceimhle, followed by one more combined swing by both blades, a crushing blow from above as he looked to demolish any defenses the Wookie could muster. Speed and power were his allies, his weapons, his tools. His trade was battle. His art was war, and he was a master. A potential prodigal son long lost to the dark. ((2))

Darth Mavanger's face contorted with the Jedi's words. The fire of rage was started with a spark, a denial of his loss and his hurt. His hands went to his blades and the Jedi spoke, taking a step forward as the Wookie positioned himself for a showdown. "The Dark Side is much more than rage and anger. It is love, hatred, anger, joy, all in the pursuit of passion and freedom. We open ourselves to everything so that it might grant us the power to change the galaxy. So when those are taken away, piece by piece, so that all that is left is anger and rage, that is true loss. That you still proclaim your people's sacrifices as worthy, their memories honored, means you will never feel the pain of losing everyone and despite everything, all your work, your blood, your tears, you still lose." He drew his blades as they called out in the Force for blood, for vengeance. One, in his right hand, was the incarnation of his fury, the reckoning that he had sworn upon the alliance the day Jarvus had been slain over Mon Cal, Imeall Sceimhle, the Edge of Terror. A harbinger of his fury, of his rage. A promise of vengeance, and of death. But the other in his left, equally important to the pair, was the incarnation of his grief. A reminder of who he had been, of what he had lost. Imeall Dólás, the Edge of Sorrow. It was his bittersweet memory turned into the weapon that would avenge it. A sign of what it had taken to turn him from a level headed conqueror, who's only goal had been to solidify the Empire in the Outer Rim, to the malevolent specter of wrath that he had become, laying waste to planets and empires alike. "But I can show you." He reached into the compartment of his armor that housed Raven's soul, crystalized to prevent her return, pulling it out attached to it's pendant. "I promised a name. A location. The murderer of your Empress stands before you. She hasn't joined the others in the afterlife. She hasn't found peace. She is here, suffering, for eternity, a victim of my vengeance, a consequence of my grief." He stowed the crystal back in his armor, taking a fighting stance, his blades held to either side. "If you will not willingly claim yours. I will take any choice you have." He charged forward, an inferno of dark side energy, burning away all that it touched, his blades wounding the very fabric of the Force itself as they sliced through the air, severing any remnants of the light. The ground thundered under his feet as each step cracked the pavement with the force of his advance, and the space between them faded away. His blows carried with them all of his anger, his hatred, his sorrow. With each swing of his swords, he would show the Wookie the despair he felt. His first strike was a driving thrust from Imeall Sceimhle, carried forward by his anger and his momentum, meant to impale the Wookie's heart. His second, only starting a moment later, was a rising slash from Imeall Dólás, seeking to split the Wookie from groin to collar. Every blow lethal in it's means and execution. Every strike, leading into another potentially killing blow. Another attack, a familiar one that had worked well against previous opponents, further using his momentum to drive his knee towards the Jedi Master's gut, and another strike as he tried to enter the Wookie's guard, a pommel strike from Imeall Dólás's raised position at his head with enough force to smash skulls. ((1))