Krath Inmortos

Inmortos smiled at the Sithling’s words. Was he even listening to the dread necromancer’s instruction to have gotten caught on such a phrase? But still, one could be taught, lime a dog, to heel. If this one did not desire to rule the Sith, perhaps he desired more. If he did, Inmortos could help shape him and form him. If all he desired was the table scraps of impressing a master, then he was already lost; another cog to be ground to dust in the machinations of more worthy Sith. The cold had no effect on the sorcerer. It’s encircling embrace did not ensnare him like it did those lessers whose souls it sought to drain. Still, being entombed within the ice itself did restrain the wizard and muffled the outside world, even as it was muffled and slowed by the powers of stillness and cold outside. And within, Inmortos continued to manipulate the ice, casting the energies of the air, water, and souls into the void. The ice continued to twist and crack and expand until it reached the fringes of the foggy battlefield. Even there, it creaked and groaned as it sought to bind more heat, more life, more existence within it’s eternally silent grasp. And still, Inmortos worked, in his silent tomb of cold his hands churned forth the cursed ancient sigils of a time long before the name Sith was even known to the cosmos. A flash, a blur of color, emotion, and energy, zipped overhead; a stark contrast to the stillness of absolute zero. Inmortos’ eyes were drawn to it, even as he felt a shift in the force, a movement on the absolute glassiness of the void within the ice. The stone plunged downwards riding the emotionally charged wave downwards crashing through the thick ice in a torpid assault first on Inmortos’ senses, destined for an attempted assault on his very person. Inmortos, stooped as he was, ducked, his spine curling even more with the will of the ice. The stone bullet crashed through the ice overhead coming to rest in the ice across the small tomb that contained the sorcerer. It had been breached, and like the tombs of Sith kings of old, doing so unleashed the cursed and evils contained within. From his stooped position, Inmortos grasped his frigid hilt, ripping it from his sleeve as he activated it in the same motion. A blackened blade erupted from the end, sucking in light and warmth, icy fingers crawi from it’s aura as the temperatures dropped further obscuring the evil lord in mists and thermal blotting cold. Directing his stillblade towards the vaulting mechanical being, a twisting spiral of galeforce winds erupted from Inmortos. It tore through the icy enclosure blasting spikes of razor sharp projectiles along it’s billowing path. He traced the movement of Solus above, carving his tomb open to the heavens as he sought to blast the Sithling from the sky on a explosive wave of tearing wind. As the blast of supercharged supercooled air struck Solus’ chassis and tore at the edges of his plating, it rocketed the Sith apprentice skyward until he fell from the directed maelstrom, plummeting back towards the ground where he landed in a heap. Climbing from his icy enclosure like a wild cat atop a mountain overlook, Inmortos regarded the mass of droid and force energies. In one hand he clenched his still ignited weapon, cold mists radiating from his form as his edges were blotted from sight and his temperatures equalized with the air. The wind, once pointed and directed now howled about the sorcerer, billowing his robes and swirling the mists as they clung to the area about him. Inmortos stopped across the clearing from Solus. “Do you hear my words apprentice? If you hear them, why do you not heed? Are your loftiest goals so low that you think you can achieve them bound in the mortal coil you now possess?” his voice boomed supernaturally on the wind, weighted with the cold deadness that was the inevitable final fate of the dark side. “I see now that you are not one to take analogies and lessons to heart, but that I must speak plainly as if to your dog. I care not what your aspirations are. A pawn such as yourself will never become more than a pawn if he has not goals of his own beyond the approval and whims of he that holds your leash. So long as you think only of what this world is, what you can do with this world, you will never be enough. You will fail, bound by your own lack of insight and imagination. You are but a stone. See through the force, not your attached eyes. See the truth. Find your own weakness and cultivate it so that when the time comes, your very weakness may become your strength.” ”When your lightsaber failed, you reached out upon the force. That shows me you are capable. Then you resort to throwing stones at me, a god? If that is all you learn by the way of the warrior I know now why we seek to surrender our Infinite Empire to the likes of the Jedaii.” With a waive of his hand, ice materialized about the apprentice’s lightsaber hilt as it rolled on the ground, entombing it and binding it to the earth ”You, Solus, are more than that. Find your fears, bind them and make them your slave. Face them so that you might overcome them.” Inmortos reached for his belt line and withdrew a phial. He regarded it for a moment in silence, before tossing the crystalline container into the wind where it crashed and splintered at the base of the heap that was Solus. A heavy vapor rose with the crash, before settling and washing over the Shard and his automaton, working it’s way into every crevice and clinging wherever it might find a microscopic hold. Despair, bottled and purified from the tortured souls held within Inmortos’ care. The Curse of Howling Despair did not care upon whom or what it inflicted it’s touch. Beings were sapped of their emotional energies, struck with immediate severe depression and apathy. Machines reduced to the slightest slimmer of power, only emergency generations holding off the complete sapping away of power. And it spread from the spot where it had erupted, creating a festering pool of thick despair to any that dared come near. Lowering his hand, Inmortos regarded the Shard. “I teach this lesson but once Apprentice Solus. If you cannot find your weakness, it will be exploited by those who can.” ((Curse of Hollowing Despair: Unsealing a crystal phial, the cryomancer releases a miasma of distilled despair that clings to any living or powered things that it touches, sapping away both emotional and technological energy. Victims of the curse suffer immediate severe depression and apathy, and machines afflicted by it struggle to function on the barest minimum of power. The cone of effect is short but broad, reaching ten feet away from the sorcerer but spreading thirty feet wide.))

The disembodied spirit cackled with glee at the apprentice’s vain attempts to slash at his ethereal being with his saber. Even in this form, Inmortos could feel, perhaps even greater unbound by his mortal frame, the other’s raw emotions, his potential power as it bled through his shell on the rising tide of the stone-Sith’s fury. And so he laughed. Even as the bounds of force-made tethers began to coil, circling to try and ensnare the sorcerer’s spirit, he laughed. As the chains tightened, dragging and clawing with emotion barbed edges at the necromancer’s very presence, he laughed. Like the tales of old, chains forged in life dragging sinners into the abyss, they pulled him downward. But Inmortos was no mere Sith, bound to this world and battle. No, he was a being of power and might, unhindered by such paltry bounds like death and hell. His very existence had become hell itself, a frozen wasteland of nothing that stretched for eternity in all directions; and, he was it’s king. Sliding from the chains, the spirt swirled about and doge back into the billowing mists and fog, dense as the tormenting fire smoke that still now ravaged the wilds of this world and as cold as the touch of the Reaper’s hand itself. Back, into the body of Inmortos where it lie in splendorous riposte, dead on the battlefield. Sitting up in the ensnaring shadows of the fog itself, Inmortos voice carried, echoing against the plaza walls and the choking mists until it seemed to reverberate from everywhere. “Gooooood” his voice carried his glee, drawn out in it’s echo. “I can feel your passion; but victory is attained through power, and power through strength.” As he spoke, the cryomancer’s hands began to weave a chilling spell in the air. “Many Sith like your master and even the Empire itself see strength only where one is strong. You must become more if you wish to one day rule the Sith young Shard. Find your strength in the shadows, where others would never see strength in you. Where there is strength, there is no weakness. Destroy your weaknesses Solus! Destroy them and within their wreckage find strength you knew not that you possessed! Bind your weaknesses as slaves to your will and work them to their death.” Inmortos’ words dwindled off into the mists, their power hanging in the thick icy air. Then suddenly, from within the center of the choking cloud came a spark of unnatural blue energy. It arced from the spirit of Inmortos returned to his frigid form. The cold did not bother him; for he was master of the stillness of death. It spread like crackling electricity in every direction solidifying any liquid it could touch, entombing those within the mists’s grasp in solid ice. It reached for their souls seeking to drain them of energy as Inmortos poured his entire attentions to the task at hand. The clouds of fog and steam began to crack and twist as they began to solidify into an unholy monument of jagged edges, towering walls, leaning towers and encasing ice. Linworm, soldier, Sith, dead and living; it mattered not. All would be ensnared equally as the power lashed out from the depths of Inmortos’ frozen empty soulless heart. Any energy claimed would be lost to the cosmos, violating the very principles of nature. Energy claimed here was destroyed, a step in the endless quest towards absolute stillness and the end of the need for the very Sith Code Inmortos now taught and ascribed to. In the center of it all, the Krath pushed himself first to his knees and then, with great pain, stood upright to his hunched visage, held up and empowered by the very ice that entombed the world around him.

Inmortos’ smile widened to reveal his greyed and rotting teeth. This young stone had spirit. It was a shame that they had sought to crush him; but then again, it wasn’t. It had shown the shard what and where the intentions of the others lay. With time, if he were strong enough, Inmortos hoped the droid-bound slave might even free himself from his shackles. As the apprentice remarked on Inmortos ‘crumbling facade, the necromancer could not help himself. He broke out into a cackle that seemed to echo across the courtyard as rolls of frigid icy fog began to billow forth from beneath the reaper’s robes, cascading from his deep cowl and sleeves. It billowed forth to fill the courtyard, rising like clouds of deathly clenching mist that clawed at every surface it could touch until. As this happened, Inmortos brought his laughter to an end, turning his eyes upon the form of Solus even as the fog and icy mists obscured their sights. “My frailty reveals more of you than it does me young stone. It is your own chain that binds you.” Suddenly, Inmortos’ body convulsed. His eyes rolled back in his head. Falling backwards his body succumbed to the cold, entering a deathly state. All body functions ceased and the sorcerer’s body crumpled to the ground, as dead as one could be without the touch of the force. Even that though, portrayed the man as such. Wrenching from his body, the spirit of Inmortos tore free from his body as it fell. It erupted with an ethereal scream as it vanished into the mists. ”Remember the code,” a disembodied voice spoke from the mists, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “The chains that hold you down can only be broken through victory.” “Victory only gained through power and power” “through strength.” The air whirled and swirled as the invisible force spirit raced about tracing trails in the frozen mists for a mere moment before they disappeared. ”Your strength is limited by your perceptions.” “Your power is hindered by your lack of strength,” “of mind and imagination.” “It is because of these that you fail.” Each time the voice spoke, it paused, before continuing from another direction. As he finished the cold tendrilled hands of Inmortos’ spirit ran passing fingers through Solus’ chassis, the icy grip of death, the touch of the reaper thinning the veil between this life and the great beyond.

Inmortos’ attention was caught by the crystalized Sith slinking away from the gathering. He decided to follow. This one interested him on a scientific level. To be a crystal presented many opportunities; to carry life, a whole new way with which to store his harvest. Weaving his way through the gathering of Sith, would take the hunched sorcerer several minutes. Each movement of his body a creaking ache of deliberately inflicted pain upon his mortal form. It was a small price to pay in Inmortos’ opinion. Leaning heavily in his cane, the reaper-esque man slowly followed the trail of life that rippled across this deliciously dead and devastated world. He could not match the hurried speeds of the robot. His only hope remained that he would catch the apprentice before he tried to depart this world, a task he worried little about seeings as how they were still bound to this place. Inmortos did not stop to admire the remaining architecture or revel in the destruction. He pressed forward, gaining the clearing ringed by cultists just in time to see the robo-Sith carve a path through the rubble with his flying form. A smile twisted across his face as he watched the Sithling return fire. Shuffling forward the stooped magician’s icy presence was not something to be obscured, not as each padded step seemed to leech warmth from the air. The linworms quieted and parted before the cryomancer’s icy crawl. He stopped a couple meters behind the kneeling crystalline droid Sith. “Yes. You do.” he responded to Solus’ statement. “To be bested by such a hideous malformation as that,” he pointed to the unmoving, yet breathing form of the alchemist Solus had taken to battling for reasons yet unknown to him. “Would be an embarrassment even the likes of Darth Akheron could not tolerate in a slave.” Inmortos stood regarding the metallic form before him, a sense of curiosity playing across his deadened glassy eyes. He stared beyond the droid’s chassis, beyond his crystalline nature, and regarded the fiery soul of the stone itself. He would make a warrior a fine lightsaber crystal, Inmortos mused as a smile tugged at his frozen features, creasing his sallowed face with wrinkles and cracking by lips. So much potential if it could be harnessed properly. The necromancer ran a dried sandpapered tongue across the ichorous blood that dribbled from his cracked lips before his voice rasped again, “What happened to your pet? Did you kill it in your rage? What is it that you truly desire oh Sith of stone and steel?”

Inmortos stilled as the Imperial Head spoke, unable to continue in conversation with his fellow necromancer as all eyes turned to focus on Lady Nyrys. The frail looking Firereo weathered the display of power much as the dead, silent and still, his lips pressed into a thin line. He grimaced, his eyes flashing briefly, at being offered to serve beneath the Mandalorian in battle. He knew his place in this regime though and the dark lord would do his part, even if he was not to return to the core of this watery world or venture forth to find the lord of the Krath as he had desired. It was but a divergence of his plan; one he would take in stride as he plod inwards towards his eternal destiny. As the group was dismissed to mingle and interact, Inmortos stayed for a drawn-out moment, surveying the eclectic group. His conversations with Oni and the others forgotten in the shadows of what had been brought about. Seeing the Mandalorian making his way towards the feast hall, he elected to follow. If he acted now, perhaps he could forego any premature encounters with death later. Shuffling along with his weighted walking stick, the black-clad necromancer hurried after Tros. His bones creaked and his joints popped as the decrepit wizard lungingly snaked forward. “Master Mandalorian,” he wheezed when he finally drew close. Stopping to lean heavily in his stick as he caught his breath. “On the field of battle, one such as I am a liability at best. Look at me, barely skin and bone knotted together by sinews too stubborn to die. I cannot lead men into battle or flail about with a mighty sword. Antiquity, not technology, is my area of expertise. Might I propose a better arrangement? Armies of undead to distract and demoralize these rebellious souls, drawn from crypts and battlefield across the galaxy. Mindless monsters and beasts to terrify and ravage your foes resurrected from the depths of space and the madness of the mind.” The necromancer stooped his head even lower on his twisted frame in a bow before the Mandalorian, both hands clutching his cane to remain upright. “I await but your word m’lord.”

Inmortos stood still and listened. So this was the plan. He would do as he always did, provide the finance of souls and the material of bodies to be ground before the Sith war effort. It mattered little for what reason. The dead were but fodder to be burnt upon the altar. He had no criticisms or challenges. He would pay his due to a war that was below his disdain to fight. As the crowd began to mingle, the dark lord pondered his departure, for he had tasks that beckoned. He did not desire the promised attention his premature departure had apparently wrought. So he stayed, immobile as a specter of solidified shadow wraithed in black. Yet, in the mumblings and conversations, one approached. It reeked of death, of one who had crossed the veil and returned beyond what was natural, blurring the lines of nature, grasping at souls as if they were more than a valued commodity upon which to build. Yes, this Darth Oni was one who was shrouded in the mists of religions and ritual; but even one as misguided as this carried a power about him and was worth acknowledgement by the Necropolis King. “Mon Cal was not mine to rule,” he offered in sly correction to deflect any disdain at the failure of the Sith to hold such a jeweled world. “It was only a mine to be stripped of raw materials to a greater end. It belonged to Krath Apothos who even now rots within the cells of they our Empire seek to empower. He was not trained in the arts of death nor empowered to hold it. His death would be most welcome, but he clings like so many to the mortal coil fearful of what might lie beyond the void.” Gesturing to an alcove that led from what remained of their gathering chamber, he continued, offering a momentary alliance with the mystic necromancer. Such a thing would complete their tasks and keep them within the graces of this mortal monarchy. Besides that, the icy necromancer had business to conduct with the grotesque Hutt. “Let us retire, as soon as we may, Darth Oni, to the gluttonous master of the Krath. Together we might in a single ritual raise forth the horde so desired for this campaign. With our contribution completed then might we turn our attentions to our own immoral and immortal ends.” As he began to glide ethereally through the group, a smile twitched at the corners of his frozen features when he heard the whispers of the crystalline Sith. He placed a cold hand on the robotic being’s shoulder as he passed, imparting a heatless void as he withdrew his hand, a hissed wordless warning, more snakelike than anything, cracking his lips beneath his breath.

An uncharacteristic sigh escaped the lizard’s mouth as he listened to the Sith’s words. It came out more like a hiss than anything. “Your risssssk is appreciated brother and will be reeeemembered.” The undead lizard slumped forward onto Mordecia’s feet as Inmortos’ soul left it, dead, the putrid odors of decay oozing and wafting freely as the ravages of time took it; unheld within by Sith magicks. Back in the cold black bowels of the ship, Inmortos’ eyes opened. With an angry groan, he stood, calling his Ithorian wooden staff to his hand, the weighted blade tucked in the handle smooth and icy against his gnarled knuckles. With a pneumatic hiss the ramp descended. Through the clouds of steam the Sith sorcerer descended, his black robes hanging loose over his gaunt and twisted body. He clacked and shuffled towards Mordecai, falling into step with him as they turned to return. With a wave of his hand, the undead necromancer rose, it’s bodily fluids reanimating as the lizard’s body twisted and cracked unnaturally before falling into line behind the dark visage. They made their way back towards the gathering of Sith, as they did, Inmortos spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I care not for kingdoms of this world, for empires and armies. They are but tools. We have a greater purpose brother and gatherings to showcase power and soothe insecurities are but a waste of the time we have to act; especially when none would dare to challenge the Lady Nyrys. Not I, not even you, who might take it as tradition would afford. I will not stand against the dark master, whoever that may be; nor will I suffer foolishness and waste by one.” Slipping back into the gathering as Akheron’s mechanized living crystal spoke, oh how he would like to subject that stone to the tests of Doctor Zylus, to put it into a saber and send dark energies coursing through it, he heard him pledge his loyalty, chanting his allegiance. “Hail the Dark Empress” he hissed with the others as his undead minion hissed the same. Whatever this council was for, Inmortos hoped that it would be productive, more than an insecure princess seeking acknowledgement from men of war. If the Empire was to fall, there were things that must be done, pieces set up to fall so that in the end, he, Inmortos the Eternal might reign over a kingdom not of flesh and blood of land and wealth, but of the expanses of eternity, a kingdom that knew no bounds, a kingdom of the mind.

The engines flared to life as Inmortos’ puppet made final adjustments for takeoff. As the hangar roof slid open, the comms flared to life but it was not Dr. Zylus that cackled across the speaker. Instead it was from above. Apparently the Sith fleet also were in some sort of game, kowtowing so soon. With a suspicious squint through lizardly eyes, Inmortos surveilled the control panel and beyond the viewscreen. There in the hangar stood a solitary figure, a Sith. A Sith Inmortos knew, militaristic and violent. He was one the Krath had been surprised to see give up his ambitions so easily. He had expected so much more, perhaps this this one might even via for the mantle of leadership amongst the Empire. Keying the outer speaker’s Inmortos voice carried through the lizard’s hissing mouth out into the hangar. “What is the meaning of thisssss Darth Mavanger. I, a lord of the SSSSith, do not heed the commandssss of naval officerssss.” And yet the Darth motioned for him to join him on the bay floor. Whatever may be transpiring, the sorcerer had not made it this far without a strongly developed sense of paranoia to augment his abilities. His diving into forbidden texts and rituals having warped his mind so that past, present, and future, myth and reality all blended as one. He would honor this warrior-minded Sith. That was deserved. He would not; however, risk much for this strange display of behavior on the heels of such revelations. Jumping from the corpse at the helm, leaving it to sink forward dead and decaying at the controls, Inmortos’s spirit jumped to another, a darkly clad necromancer of his own line, willing to give up his body that his god-king might live. Clad in priestly garments of black adorned with talismans and profane ruinic sigils, the cleric of evil disembarked, accompanied by a guard of lizardmen. The guard stood back from the Sith warrior that had followed them, leaving Inmortos’ servant whom he now possessed, to continue forward alone. Their weapons were held at the ready and as soon as they had left the ship it sealed itself again. With all the lithe grace of his kind the possessed body stalked forward, a jagged spear of a scepter tonking ceremoniously with each step until he stared up at Mavanger, his clawed toes scraping against the Sith lord’s booted toes, through slitted dead eyes. “I am no dog to be sssssummoned by ssssscrapssss at the will of any. SSSSStand down your navy that I may leave unhindered assss I came Lord Mavanger.” He smelled putrid. His scales shone with blood and ichor that was his own and others. Held together by dark side magicks, the diminutive creature’s scales provided it a measure of protection. It was something Inmortos hoped would be unneeded; but he did not trust this Sith. He had thrown away his passions for peace to easily. Still, he would honor him with a word. He had seen this one’s powers on the field of battle. He had earned a moratorium of respect from the twisted wizard. Perhaps, Inmortos hoped, he might rekindle this one’s passions.

Inmortos stood in silence, his cold gaze radiating out from beneath his cowl. He took in the spoken words and waves of feelings in the room. He had no desire to claim such a mortal throne, one that by admittance was weaker than the Spider himself had portrayed, held together by the assassin overlord’s strength of will. This vacuum saw the machinations of the Sith begin to crumble. He did not know this Nyrys, nor did she earn his fealty by right of inheritance. He did not either desire to challenge her or assume the mantle she bore. He had served his own ends within the Sith Imperial war machine, his goals being served by the eternal trudge of Imperial might. The carnal desires of these others were not his own. Power and territory, slaves and authority were of little value to his master plan. But to give up such a prize like the galaxy seemed a waste of such resources and might; one that Inmortos was surprised to see the likes of warlords give up without resistance. Still, they were not his battles or his losses and he cared little for them. He would do as he had always done, lurk in the shadows and construct his eternal memorial. When empires and rulers were forgotten, when bodies decayed and souls dissolved, the memory of Inmortos would remain etched amongst the eternal fonts of true dark side power, a black spot of never ending torment on the fabrics of reality itself. He would but adjust his ways accordingly and continue as he did allowing this new plan to follow it’s course. Inmortos stared at Nyrys for a minute more while the others spoke before turning his gaze upon Akheron and his mechanized apprentice. He hoped that they could feel the iciness of his vision, the sheer deathliness of his deadened emotional lack of response. He willed that the warrior and his pet, and the dog too, to know they had a place to welcome them should they so desire it. Even as their ideals differed, Inmortos had a use for these dark worshipers. And then, without a word, Inmortos turned. Shuffling he made his way from the room, the heavy tap tapping of his cane all that acknowledged his departure, his retinue of diminutive undead and worshipful necromancic lizards flowing silently behind him. He would return to his ship. This world had little left for him. The dead here could be harvested by the lesser necromancers, by those who craved the spirits and not material. If this was to be the beginning of the end of the Empire, he knew it best to fade now before others began. From there he would protect himself and his eternal plan. He would not be the Sith to die for the cause of others’ power. This Imperial fade would not be his doing. He would use it for his own end. Once aboard, Inmortos reclined himself within his chambers, reaching out to take control of one of his undead servants. Then, with scaled reptilian hands, he started his ship. Keying the comms, he related a message to his associate, Zylus. “Doctor, gather your wares. We depart immediately. The fall of the Empire is at hand.” The message was brief and to the point, but Inmortos knew even in his servant’s body, the maddened scientist would understand who it was and what would follow.

Inmortos fell behind as the Sith warrior and his metallic minion scurried forward to take their place at the gathering. The Sith Sorcerer’s bones ached with each step, his body prematurely aged by the magicks that pooled within his veins. He felt the darkness of the devastated city. The toppled columns that masked the scores of mangled and mutilated bodies, scorched and crushed beyond recognition. Soot filled his nose as he licked his dry lips, tasting the utter devastation of the place, of the world. Inmortos’ dried lips cracked into a twisted smile, black bloody ichor dribbled from them. A raspy rough cackle of glee emanated outwards, low at first, but growing in strength and volume. Dropping his cane, the necromancer fell to his knees in the rubble filled street; waves of dark energy radiating outwards in fractured icy gusts of frozen wind. He could feel the souls of the recently departed extending outward in every direction, raw and ripe for the plucking; wealth and power bound as one. He knew it was true, there was a place for the worldy Sith, those who sought to conquer and destroy. They were those who carried the platter upon which the feast of the masters was served. They were the servants of the darkness, their souls bound to the truly free. Inmortos felt the power radiating from the palace. He could feel the gathering of Sith within. They were like a pustule awaiting burst. He could feel the swirls of rage and hatred, of darkness and desire. Cold and coagulated, Inmortos rose. Calling his cane to his hand, the Firrereo leaned heavily on it, shuffling forward towards the palace and gathering of darkness with his escort of lizardly minions trailing in his wake. Inside, the wizard entered the room. He saw the warrior and his crystalline apprentice kneeling removing the headgear, or in Solus’ case head itself. The reaper-clad magician stood at the back of the room, melding into the shadows. He shook his head at they that bowed. He had never met this dark presence, this dark woman. He had served under the Spider as their goals had aligned. Even then, he had been on his own more often than not, emerging from the darkest shadows of the Empire when he had need of raw materials or his skills at drawing forth armies of the damned were purchased in bloody sacrifice and ritual. Now would be the time to see what she that had assumed the throne might do; if she was worthy to trod where he had. And so he stood, hunched and withered, pain pooling in his muscles and death frozen in his limbs. Cold air oozed from his robes and his breath crystalized with each deliberate exhalation. From the dark recesses of his shroud he regarded the Sith all around them, silent and cold.

Inmortos regarded the Sith warrior with a nod, “You have our thanks Akheron; but if your apprentice can secure one transport, surely he can bring us two. My associate here has samples and clone servants that must be brought back with us and, if you may be so willing, a sample of your own flesh would make his journey here worthwhile. Should you be struck down, I will ensure you have a mortal form upon which to cling, lest you be lost to the void.” Inmortos shuffled along alongside the warrior, leaning heavily on his Ithor wood cane. He was as much an anomoly on the battlefield as he was in life itself; for while he was alive, he was suspended in a nigh eternal cryostasis of life and within the force itself. His presence stretched across the cosmos connecting him to the world he ruled as a god.

Advancing into the next bubble, Inmortos gave little heed to his cohort’s plight, though he was secretly glad the clone had made it. The knowledge in his mind was too valuable to lose and plucking it from a dead body took time he did not have. He would need to be a bit more careful. As fun as popping bubbles was and all, he had already loosed their sub back to the seas. Still, his doctor and compnay were now somewhere in the chaos that the more worldly Sith were creating. A sinister smile cracked the Sith’s frozen far off features. It was going as he planned. Deliberately walking forward, Inmortos waded towards the chaos, his frail hands rolling at his waist as he mumbled. The words were barely discernible, like an old man lost from reality, but each was carefully chosen and woven with the others into an ongoing spell of icy destruction. Where he stepped, ice crystalized outwards across the floors and up into the bulbous walls. Where he looked, heat vanished in a puff of cold steam, glow lights flickered and went out. Where he gestured, spears of ice arced outwards blocking doorways and impaling any who gave inclination to stand against him. As he breathed the temperatures dropped, crystalizing the very breath of any before him. Those that did not bow before the frail old wizard died, their bodies hanging from spears of ice, the lifeblood dripping out of them. As he moved, Inmortos felt a twinge of dark side power, an unknown being or beast of power was radiating it’s presence in the darkness. The dark lord licked his lips, whatever or whoever it was might make a welcome addition to the doctor’s collection. The greater his collection grew, the more powerful Inmortos became. The twisted doctor’s creations were but a breath away from becoming slobbering undead slaves, extensions of Inmortos’ will. If it was strong in the force, it might also allow the doctor to unlock the mysteries of biological force manipulations; another power for the god-king of the lizardmen. Glancing about at the kowtowing gungans, Inmortos surveyed their very souls. “Worthless,” he spat as waves of atomizing destruction ravaged their bodies like swarms of insects. The grand hall was filled with screams and then fell silent aside from the clatter of bones to the ground. The dark sorcerer shuffled on. Any Gungan before him met a similar fate until he found Dr. Zylus or one of his clones. He struggled to tell them apart. “Doctor, it is time we secured transport to the surface. A beast of dark side power beckons. I think it may be one worthy of your research.”

A wicked smile cracked Inmortos’ frozen features, “Most excellent to hear. If you or your,” he regarded Zylus’ more militant copy, “associate wish to walk the streets with me, you are welcome. I suspect that you might be able to identify more material. Material I may otherwise purge.” Inmortos gestured for the breach and the chaos and carnage that echoed into the submarine. The smell of carnage was in the air. Gingerly, leaning heavily on his cane, Inmortos picked his way to the Gungan coty beneath the crashed submarine. His failing eyes surveyed the chaos; blurs of movement beneath his gaze. Where his eyes rested, the energy dissipated like heat in a snowstorm rising in puffs of steam and vanishing int the air. Inmortos took in the bulbous structure that had withstood the impact of their vessel. “Fascinating” he whispered as he approached it. Reaching out with one ghostly pale knobby hand, the sorcerer pressed his palm to the bubble’s interior. Like an opaque curtain being drawn, the ice seeped outwards, obscuring the outside world as the bubble was consumned. Once frozen, it would take but a touch. Once the bubble froze, Inmortos looked to his comrades and laughed. “Who likes to swim?” Tapping the sphere, a crack formed and Inmortos stepped through a gelatinous membrane into the next sphere. The bubble quickly destabilized and cracked, water pouring in at the seams for a moment before it gave way to the might of the sea all at once.

The good doctor had arrived just before the submersible had been able to free itself from the icy web that had ensnared it; a byproduct of Inmortos’s display of power. There was little time for pleasantries before the craft was hurling towards the Gungan city. The Sith lord had barely enough time to brace as the liquid medium holding the ship gave way to a tumultuous screeching of metal on metal. That was not going to buff out. Like an icicle, Inmortos’ feet kept him stayed to the deck even as the craft jolted and listed violently before stopping. The forces of Akheron and Solus were first to the fray, falling screaming upon the Gungan defensive forces still mustering to their sudden location. Inmortos acolytes acted differently, the necromancer and undead taking up their place at the breech to ensure that none gained access within. Turning, Inmortos regarded the clone with visions as grand as his own. “Doctor. Your arrival is most, unexpected. As you can see, I am about the business of our mutual beneficial arrangement. Shall we secure your souls before I convert the remainder to my will?”

Inmortos smiled wickedly as the warrior took the blade. It left a frosty air behind wherever it moved, sucking the energy from whatever it touched. “What is left may be harvested by your servants. What falls will be harvested by me. The wealth of a city is minimal compared to the wealth that this world offers. We will summon forth the darkness to the precipice, thinly veiled from reality. Once your harvest is complete, we will burst the bubble and darken this entire world.” Looking to Solus, he added, “Brace yourself, the wave of death that is about to descend upon this deep Gungan fortress of solitude is enough to overwhelm the most seasoned. Battle, slaughter, mayhem are nothing compared to annihilation.” Before he could continue, the Sith were interrupted by a shipwide comm from the bridge of icebound craft they found themselves on. “Masters, communication from topside. A Dr. Zylus is requesting the location of Krath Inmortos. Something to do with . . . a contract? Please advise.” Inmortos paused his diatribe, his face twisting with surprise at the announcement. ‘What? How was he here? Why was he here?’ ”Send him down.” the Krath spat aloud, his deathly voice dripping with contempt and annoyance at being interrupted. He would teach this mad scientist, but he needed the man alive, for now. He needed his mind and killing the clones seemed only to set him back, any new experiences or knowledge being reintroduced. “Hell forbid you ever become as useful to your master as this one is to me! He lacks the power to resurrect you when you sin!” Inmortos spat before turning back to Akheron, “I will join you at the city to partake of the slaughter; but first I must handle an unexpected variance. Perhaps one or two of your finer force-attuned specimens might be bought for their weight in jade. My associate desires their souls. With them, we might tear a hole to your dark god that rends the universe asunder.” He smiled evilly, his lips blue with cold; dry and chapped. This may yet work to his advantage; but first, he would insure that Zylus watched, stood by his side as an entire city was sacrificed to draw forth the darkness of the beast. The pilot relayed approximate coordinates and directions through the maze of the planet to their location within view of the pulsating core back to the surface. Hopefully it would not take long for Dr. Zylus to join him. In that time, Inmortos hoped that Akheron and Solus would begin the slaughter, churn the deep city of supposed safety into a ripe panic. He looked forward to the taste, garnished with hopelessness; followed by destruction and it’s stillness amongst the collapse of fire and ice. He had but to wait.

The dark magicians eyes stared unblinkingly into the receptors of the Solus-bot as if staring beyond the seen and into the very soul of their owner; but just as suddenly, they shifted. Inmortos’ eyes turned towards the apprentice’s master, he that had began the training of Apothos. Training that Inmortos had brought to fruition. His eyes flickered with glee at the mention of his gift, and while it was not death itself, it was still a gift that would bring such to bear. Motioning, Inmortos’ necromancic disciple came forward, an elongated case of blackened polished wood held reverently in his arms and hands as he presented it to his dark master. ”It is quite simple Darth Ahkeron. I shall bestow upon you this weapon, for you are one of few that might wield it properly. With it, you will help me carve a gateway. A gateway through the very force itself, deep beyond where mere mortal cowardly powermongers and Jedi dare swim. A gateway built upon a cursed altar. A gateway beyond the frail bonds of life and death.” Inmortos turned to fully face the Sith warrior, stepping aside as he did. With a flick of his hand, the locks that held the case closed opened and the case opened upwards in silence. Within, upon a bed of inky black velvet lay a weapon, a blade, instricate and ornate, gilded with crystalized bone and jade. The blade seemed to shimmer with a vorpal blackness as if it did not quite exist or belong entirely unto the reality and realm upon which the trio of Sith stood. It’s edges were honed to an atom’s width and it’s hunger palpable in the air itself. As the case opened, the lighting in the room dropped, drawing shadows out of nothingness. The temperature dropped several degrees, sending a pale chill beckoning through the air. “A limnal blade, hewn by the darkness of my own hand and crafted from the utter hopelessness that makes up my very own necropoliptic tomb. This blade has yet to taste flesh or be carried into battle by a worthy possessor. I present it unto you, you have but to name it and take it in your hand.” The sorcerer beckoned Karys forward with a skeletal white bony finger, budding him to take the blade as the stillness of the room pressed in, almost suffocating within the weapon’s aura. “But be warned,” he added hastily, his dry voice cracking, “such a weapon is not possessed by spirits, but will still destroy he that is unworthy. Strengthen yourself. Steel your soul against the call of timeless eternity.”

Aboard the aubmarine, the venerable Sith Lord moved with purpose towards the aft of the craft and the escape pods therein. Such a thing would be of most use to Inmortos. He did not fancy a swim. As the duo of other Sith boarded, the Necromancer regarded them with a silent icy stare. Where his eyes passed, heat vanished, dissipated into lost energies in the cosmos. As Akheron spoke, Inmortos nodded briefly, but as the Sith warrior fell silent, the sorcerer allowed the still air to hold it’s place amongst the silence of the sea. He could feel the force move, subtle yet absolute. The tightening of the bands that seemed to bind the warrior to his robot-like apprentice. The sorcerer’s eyes followed the trail of the force, felt the life force twinge and grieve beneath the crushing power of darkness. The droid-being reeked of pain and suffering, his soul bound by the agony of Akheron’s dark will. A smile played across Inmortos’ lifeless pale face; a sparkle of glee shining against his shadowed yellowed eyes. So this droid had a spark of life, a soul. His body though . . . his body was mechanized, an urn for a life; of little use resurrected as a servant for his cause. He felt the fear and rage welling up in the apprentice. He could taste it, a dark cacophony of swirling emotions, hot and raw even as the stone sought to conceal it. Turning his eyes on the Shard, he spoke. His voice was raspy and dry, cold and biting. “I brought you a gift, but if you would like, I could just kill him instead. I find death to be a great teacher and a gift greater than any other. After that, we can accomplish what I came for, to reach the darkest depths of the force itself.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Inmortos’ stared into the eyes of the apprentice, icy tendrils of invisible cold reaching on his sight to sap the heat and life from that which filled his vision. “The Force shall free me,” he spoke the final line of the Sith code, spitting it with a glimmer of lustful desire.

The invitation was granted. Who was he but to accept such a gracious offer. Here amongst the freshly dead, there was, as always, wealth to be harvested. Death was aplenty. Such a field of destruction presented by the core, guarded by but a membrane. It held back the death of an entire world. Such membrane alone held back a tear in the force itself. A twisted smile of glee cracked the frail sorcerer’s flash-weathered face. The force deadened about him, the temperature dropping even further as he projected this deep eternal stillness outwards. The cold shrouded the viewport of the vessel, crystalizing the seawaters before it encasing the fore of the ship and the approaching gungans in a rapidly expanding field of ice as it spread outwards in all directions. The craft shuddered to a standstill against the ice. A throbbing of metal echoed through the ship menacingly. The crewmen exchanged worried glances, but remembering the fate of their brother on the deck, chose to remain silent. The ice continued to spread, a dull dry chuckle reverberating from his mouth. It grew in cacophony as the ice continued to crystalize the waters reaching outwards with icy tendril-like fingers towards the plasma core, seeking to suck the life and energy from anything it could grasp. The comms crackled, their transmission scrambled and scratchy beneath the expanding plumes of ice. Still, what did come through gave the demented soul pause. He turned to look towards the speaker as if it made him better to hear. An entire city? The expanding field of ice ceased it’s crawl as Inmortos turned to the leader of the craft. “Prepare me a pod. There is work yet to be done before this planet is extinguished.” he growled as he signaled his two lizard entourage and stalked slowly back through the ship, cane in hand.

Inmortos’ cracked lips parted as he let out a singular laugh void of entertainment, but carrying a dark glee. “Heh.” They were in the heart of this world that radiated black across the surface. Inmortos felt a twisted entertainment at the though. The Necromancer knew something about hearts. From his studies of ancient lore beyond the realms of the Sith, he knew the heart. It was a gateway to life. He relished it. Crushing it beneath his will. But the heart could be a wily thing, slippery and pulsating, bound and protected in earnest. ‘An apprentice’, he pondered for a moment ; ‘perhaps more a sacrifice’. The heart was no easy thing to master and while the flesh and skin of the planet had been filleted unrighteously, Inmortos knew of this world. It tended to come back with life renewed each time. The heart needed subdued. No, not subdued, crushed; it’s blood running through the fingers of the Sith’s crushing fingers. Only then could death take a true hold and carve an unholy tear upon the ripples of the force itself, spewing forth the darkest of powers and magics contained within. “Take us to them,” the necromancer hissed, his soft retched voice carrying with it an air of authority as he waved his hand back towards his ship and a pair of pint-sized lizard beings, one living and swarthed in dark flowing robes and intricate gaudy talismans and one dead, adorned in little more than rags and carrying a jagged spear in one hand and an ornate black case carved from unknown wood native to his world, scrambled down the ramp to his side. They did not bow. They knew their place. Chosen as ones of their god-king to be heralds unto immortality. At an annoyingly slow pace, Inmortos made his way to the submersible, his servants trailing in his shadow. The man’s white knuckles bulged as he had to exert himself to climb the stair into the vessel. Inside, he nestled himself into a cushioned seat within the bowels of the craft, his minions standing sentinel on either side of him. Within minutes, the sub departed and began it’s winding descent into the dark cool depths of the planet. Deeper. Deeper. They pressed onwards into the inky black depths, the lights of the sub not the only spear to pierce the veil of dark crushing pressure. From his seat, Inmortos had but to call upon the dark powers of death and the rituals of the forgotten and doomed, in doing so, he closed his eyes, willing the force to allow him to see beyond, to see not the physical but the spiritual. Opening his eyes, the necromancer’s cold gaze pierced beyond the durasteel confines of the ship. He could see the life force of everyone on board, even the weak glow of the piddly lives of the fishes that parted way before the craft. He watched. He sensed. Reaching out on dark jetties, he probed for Akheron and his apprentice amongst the vileness of this life-filled world. It would be a worthy sacrifice befitting a god. Shouts of surprise and an urgency surged through the ship as they neared. A battle was underway. On Naboo, one would have expected that the battle take place far from here. This was too close. It did not matter. The lives of monstrous beasts and strong warriors pierced the veil, but dimmed in comparison to that of the Sith that stood to stop them. Rising from his chair, Inmortos leaned heavily upon his cane for support and balance as the submersible heaved to a stop a safe distance away. Makibg his way to the helm, Inmortos regarded the acolytes there, judging their cowardly stoppage. “Take me into the fray.” “But sir!!” the commanding officer objected in despair knowing their craft to be unarmed. He was cut off by a gargling nose from his throat as the robed Sith crushed the man’s windpipe with a thought. “Closer.” He commanded, his voice absolute. The fear that rippled across the deck was palpable and no more concerns were voiced as the sub churned into the fray. As the submarine neared, Inmortos walking stick clattered to the floor with a bang that made the rest of the crew jump; the dense metal handle denting the smooth deck plating. With one hand, Inmortos held to a handle above. The other, he held in the air before him. With an intentness that radiated a deathly cold stillness on the very force itself, the dark magician turned his concentration to the aquatic world outside. The air in the ship dropped in temperature rapidly, crystals of ice forming on the consoles from the humid air. From the prow of the craft arced an icy spear, growing as it traced a path along the watery medium, it zigged and zagged as the frail wizard’s hand jerked, directing it upon a path of his own devising. It’s angled jagged tracing tore through the sea, cooling the water about it that did not freeze, release bubbles along it’s path. Arcing forward the icy skewer froze small fish in place before it speared through the center of one of the massive colo claw fish, tearing like a frozen demon out the opposite side of the fish, it’s blood pouring into the water as the ice raced onwards until it drove into the neck and spine of a fighting gungan. The warrior instantly went limp. Inmortos smiled, tasting the death as it radiated in the force. Feeling the Sith, he called out to them on the force, “I am Inmortos.”

The Eternus slowly began to descend towards the planet’s surface, the dozen crew kobold-esque lizards. Evenly divided between living and undead, worked beneath the mental lash of their god-king. They were honored to serve. As the craft began it’s descent towards the battle-ravaged and decimated world, the hunched necromancer in his blackened robes smiled. His white teeth blended against his icy pale lips; as white as his deadened flesh. His tongue snaked across those same parched lips, lapping up the taste he could sense even within the ship in the processed air. Death was everywhere. It was magnificent! Coming to rest at a makeshift landing platform within a Sith military camp, the crafts wings settled into their docking position and the landing ramp descended. There was no pomp or fanfare at the Sith’s arrival. In fact, he had not even been summoned to the battlefield world. Yet the call of darkness had echoed across the cosmos to him, bidding him forward. Slowly, like the withered and aged elder his body betrayed, twisted and bent by the will of the dark side, Inmortos descended. He was not escorted by soldiers or carried by slaves; his only companion was the deadened latticework of cold air that was the deepest unmoving recesses of the force itself. The pits of hell accompanied the man in breathe, icy and deadly, and spirit, deadened and putrid. Leaning heavily on his cane/walking stick, Inmortos advanced. Each clack of his stick and fall of his foot echoing in eternity. The machinations of lesser Sith usually were not worthy of Inmortos’ attention; but here, here his interest had been stoked. The actions of those he would look down his nose upon echoed into the expanse. They were worthy of his sight. Across the encampment, a flurry of soldiers moved beyond the usual activities. Inmortos had gained clearance high above, the inly herald to his arrival. It had given time for a detachment to be assembled to welcome him. As the commanding officer opened his mouth the speak, Inmortos waved his hand, tendrils of icy air following his motion as he sought the man’s silence. He needed not nor desired a welcome. He was a god. Those he desired worship him would in due time. The man stoped, jaw slack for a moment until the Sith Lord spoke. “Where is he that is called Akheron, I have brought him a gift worthy a warrior of the Sith?” His voice was raspy and cold, deadened of emotion and it’s words carried with it a cool stillness that dared one interrupt at his own peril.

The darkness flowed hear even as the air within the obeliskibg tower set heavily with an unnatural heaviness. Death was not uncommon here and it did not take long for Inmortos to amass a gathering of necromancers from within the ranks of the lizardlings that called upon him as their god. Of course, they were taught only so much so as to carry about sacrificial ceremonies and harvest the needed soul jade and frost, reincarnating their brethren into shambling worker drones that did not tire so as to continue to carve out their city within the jungle, revealing ancient ruins and expanding their dark lord’s holdings and eventual tomb. This world would fall and his chosen servants would live forever. Deep within his frozen abode, Inmortos ran his fingers through the containers of talismaned soulfrost. There was plenty here to be used for construction and still enough to be diverted. Waiving his hands, Inmortos summoned a half dozen worshippers, instructing them to take them to the precipice of his tower, where his frozen throne sat overlooking the world below. He followed after shortly. As the sun set and a cloudless night blanketed the city, the living found their ways to rest, the undead toiling without rest. High in his tower, Inmortos labored, the passage of time unknown and uncared for. Hunched over in his throne, he chanted profane spells as he shattered one soulfrost talisman after another, binding the essence within, the screaming souls of the departed into an icy cloud. Each shattered talisman decreased the temperature until dense fog began to roll from the humid air about the planet down unto the city below. The entire temple complex was clouded in icy fog, it’s dense liquid clinging to and coating everything in slick layers of frigid ice. Still he toiled. The night passed and the sun obscured by the growing layers of fog, unable to be burnt away faster than it was produced. The essences were solidified by the elongated fingers of the Necromancer, chanting and manipulating the essence into a condensed circulate of unbreakable soul ice. Frozen sweat soaked the sorcerer’s robes causing them to crinkle and snap with his every move. His new body, stooping and frozen, his joints solidifying as if aged 100 years in a night, Inmortos bound the delicate lattices of every soul to the temple about him, to his throne, to the world itself, to his own soul and mind. As a last step, Inmortos crafted the crown about his brow. He curved it about his cranium, his skin burning beneath the cold as it split and accepted the crown as part of it’s own. The crown bound itself to Inmortos in darkness and frozen flesh as it grew, blue jeweled orbs forming with pure congealed time and suffering. As he finished, Inmortos collapsed back into his throne, the ice there meshing with the damp frozen robes of the god-king. The lifeless colors of his flesh were blued and spoke of the draining of warmth and color from the very essence of the man. The world about him was unnaturally still, even the darkness of the force stalled and heavy as it reigned driving life and the living force out before it. The ritual complete, Inmortos was bound across time and space to this place; his crown a part of his body and an outward sign of his lordship; his throne his beacon of power to the cosmos. ____________________________ For days, Inmortos sat unmoving, the fog of his ritual settling unnaturally over the city, binding her residents within a fog of eternity, unaware and uncaring about the outside world or anything beyond what was just in front of them. The worship of their master was their purpose, nothing else mattered. Slowly, even in his twisted state, Inmortos, bound by the thinnest of cellular bounds to the life the galaxy deposited on his body, regained his strength. To sap it or to regain it was a task of titanic undertaking. Finally, he had enough to stand. Pushing himself from his slumped position, the sorcerer stood; his body was stooped and pain hovered about his body. It was all that broke the stillness. Raising a gnarled hand, Inmortos snapped. The sound carried across the temple summoning a servant to him by the tendrils of the force. With a rasp, Inmortos directed his ship to be prepared, a guard assembled, and his elixirs brought to him. The Sith had need of him, he felt it.

With a gasp of hot heavy humid air, the eyelids of the still clone flittered open and the spirit of the dead and damned took hold. Inmortos opened and closed his jaw, working every muscle in his head and face as blood surged through his newfound body. It was terrible. He clacked his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth. He could taste it, “Life.” He spat the word from his pristine white teeth. His Firrereo skin was radiant with life, a far cry from the decrepit form struck down on Mon Cal. His hair flowed back over his shoulders in a rainbow array; but already the roots were beginning to fade as the darkness took hold, sapping the very life that now surged through the necromancer. Stumbling forward in the stillness of the underground crypt, the necromancer fell to the floor. He was unfamiliar with the life and agility that was within, too familiar with the compensations of his past form. The elongated stone structure was filled with solitude and darkness save for the faint glowing bank of machinery that sustained the clone bodies of Inmortos’ master plan, his scraping against the floor the only sound. Picking himself up, Inmortos made his way hesitantly at first, but with more surety at each step, back towards the cask from which he had been reborn. Next to it, like each yet lifeless clone, sat a blackened trunk containing equipment new hosts may require upon their return. With a scan of his palm, the case hissed and popped open. A lightsaber, robes, sacrificial dagger, it was all there save for his sword. It was a loss for sure; but one that may serve him yet. The paltry souls he had carried were lost, but they had been lost the moment he had seized them. They were replaceable. Donning the robes and tunic over his naked form, Inmortos secured the gear he had available and made his way out through the labyrinthing tunnels up and up into the permanent tower of soul frost and stone until he emerged within the empty throne room at it’s zenith. There, standing at the guardless window, Inmortos looked across the teaming city below. What had once been ransacked ruins now bustled under the servitude of his will, worshippers by the thousands toiled to reform the city in his visions. Now, as he emerged, the masses below turned their attention to the tower as a thunder claps drew their attention skyward. Raising his arms, the worship of their god-king began anew; dark ripples radiated out and sacrifices were prepared.

The darkness howled, it’s gutteral animalistic cry escaping Inmortos’ ichor dripping maw as much as the wind howled tearing the building apart at it’s seams from the inside. In an instant, two more lives were snuffed from existence. Their deaths only fuelled the unnatural fervor of the deranged Sith monster clad in black. The spirit within the blade wrestled for control, it’s power tapping that of the dark maw and empowering the sorcerer’s frail body in grotesque and unnatural ways. Yanking back on his weapons, even as the spitting stream of fire began to pour forth from the metallic assassin’s clawed hand, the man that was Inmortos gave himself fully over to the dark demented dreams of the dark side. No more were his petty aspirations anything when overcome by the pure intensity of infathomable darkness. Death was all around them, the spirits of the dead beckoning they that would join. Their ethereal claws grasped for the next to fall. They whispered on the winds, shrieking cries of endlessly eternally unsatiated desire. They cursed the blaster bolts turned less lethal. They cared not who died; all they hungered for was another to add to their ranks. Theirs was the will of the dark side, wanton destruction at whatever cost. Any attempts to enlarge their ranks would they support. Sacrifices must be made! Leaping with force imbued energy, the flames of HC-42’s attack scorched the fringnes of the man’s robes about his feet. He arced upwards, driving his glimmering Sith blade towards the leeping Leep in hopes of impaling her head on his ancient blade even as she unleashed a bluish cone of energy against his face. It burned. It stung. The grasp of the weapon raced down every nerve within the necromancer’s body. Inmortos’ momentum carried him tumbling over the top of the flame-spewing assassin droid, landing with a wind-spewing thud against the decking just as the onslaught of stun bolts erupted from Emma and her entourage tearing through the air towards where Inmortos had been, betwixt they and their comrade; but there no longer. The dark being’s hands twitched against the power of the blast. Stunned for but a moment, he lashed out from the ground, his saber and sword slashing viciously at the droid’s lower portions in an attempt to dismantle him by will of force alone. The power of the darkness coursed through him, amifying his pain, turning it to power, drivig back the effects of the stun blast. The withered wizard’s only reprieve was his vicious cries of agony that spewed incesently from between his chipped and blacked teeth. The flames that singed about his ankles only added to his pain as he righted himself to his knees so as continue his flurry of maddened strikes even higher on the droid midriff. His blistering skin was of little consequence beyond the pain that fueled his cries. As they caught on the wind and careened about the room, the darkness joined with the pain of the cries. It twisted and attempted to corrupt and destroy, trying to wither flesh and age metals and electronics anywhere it might touch. He was a servant of the darkness. His life did not matter. All that mattered was that destruction served a sufficient sacrifice to the darkness. ((3)) ((Turned himself over to the full authority of the dark side and the malevolent spirit seeking to possess him. He lept clear of the majority of the array of stun bolts, stabbing at Leep’s face midjump before being struck in the face by a bolt and falling to the ground on the other side of HC-42, leaving the droid between he and Emma & Co. Inmortos’ robes were ignited at the bottom edge, burning the man’s skin, the pain fueling his dark side power. From the ground, Inmortos slashed viociously and crazily at HC-42’s legs and midsection, righting himself to his knees, all the while screaming in pain; the dark side carrying on his voice in an attempt to prematurely age and corrupt whatever heard it/it touched.))

With his saber ignited still in his hand, Inmortos crouched beneath his makeshift shield. Duel explosions rocked against either side of the ice-held door, buffeting the Sith lord in ripples of destructive energies that threatened to send him tumbling end over end had they not simultaneously buffeted him, sandwiching him between in a vortex of noise and power. Instead they ruptured his eardrums, sending echoes of pain radiating intensely through the firrerreo’s cranium. The intensity of such a cacophony threatening to overwhelm him, but for the pure evilness of the dark side that coursed through his body. Such a frail thing. It was held together but by the sinews of darkness and the powers of death that he commanded. The closer he was drawn to the maw of eternity, the less entombed by mortality he was. The more he died, the more powerful he became. And as his body was buffeted by the power of the blasts, his icy expanse ceased, remaining; hungering where it lay, only repulsed slowly by the licking flames. The Sith’s mind no longer planned. He no longer thought as a higher being, his mind ravaged by the dark side and assaulted by the soldiers of rebellion. He gave himself over to the call of the darkness, to the unnatural indomitable will of those that sought to control him. He lashed out, calling on the powers of eternity, the winds of change rushing to his call even here in this that would be the tomb of all that attempted to stand against the power of the dark side. About the room, the wind howled in a gale force surge of sweeping power attempting to upend and hurl whatever and whoever was not bolted down. The dark side still had use of this decrepit servant. His loyalty had yet to be rewarded. Where he might fail, the darkness would not and in full display it shook the plating of the walls and careened bodies and debris, crates and tools about turning them into missiles of deathly intent. The end game of darkness was destruction and Inmortos was a loyal bringer of such sacrifices; his body a conduit of the darkest depths of depravity. And as the straightline winds tore against and through the hangar, Inmortos gave himself over to laughter, evil, maniacal, and crazed. It carried on the winds filling the room with his lunacy, his mind opened completely to the call and grasp of the powers of darkness. In the depravedness of his lost mind, another spirit lurked, awaiting a chance to strike, to seize power and return from it’s shackled imprisonment. A dark presence cursed and bound not to Inmortos vorpal blade, but to another weapon that hunt at his waist, an ancient sword, carried by rampaging Sith warlords of bygone eras, still thirsting for destruction; for destruction was the true language of the dark side. It had once sought to claim Inmortos and been bested by the necromancer, but now, here, in the heat of this frozen battlefield, it fed off the powers of chaos, of destruction, of the dark side. Sensing Inmortos undefended mind, the spirit struck, lashing for control of the man’s physical form. The spirit had need of a vessel, that was all. As evil as the purity of the putrid dark side, the force bent to it’s will. And as it seized some of the control over the rabid ravaged mind of Inmortos, he drew the sword, his body succumbing to the will of the spirit. The spirit saw through the eyes of Inmortos, he felt through the senses of the Krath, and his will tangled with that of the necromancer. As HC-42 charged, the tendril of ice grasping at the robot’s servos, the assassin droid shielding the dark lord from the bulk of incoming fire. Such fools, unwilling to sacrifice each other for a greater goal. Swinging his sword wide, his weapon clashed with the heaving electrified weapon of the droid, blocking some of the blows and redirecting the forceful strikes away from his core as the weapon burned and singed the Sith’s robes and papery flesh, knocking the sorcerer back beneath the bot’s greater strength. For each blow, each nerve that seized and cried out in pain, the darkness flowed into the recess hewn by the weapon and as the spirit-laden ancient blade crashed against the staff, Inmortos other hand, swung his blacked bladed saber downwards in hacking motions towards the droid’s head and shoulders, seeking to sever servos and sensors before driving the dark weapon inwards in a stab towards where the droid’s heart ought to be. ((2)) ((Was ohysically buffetted by the explosive bladts of the grenades, eardrums rupturing and Inmortos’ mentality fraying against the onslaught of his mind, opening him up to the darkside. Inmortos unleashed a blast of winds afross the battlefield attempting to sweep his enemies off their feet and/or buffeting them with other airborne projectiles. Giving himself over to the warrior spirit that inhabits his Sith sword, Inmortos clashed with HC-42, taking some blows on the extremities due to the droid’s superior strength and lashing back with his black-bladed saber at HC-42’s head and shoulders before trying to stab him in the “heart”))

Inmortos cackled wildly as the robots reacted as robots might be expected to. These machinations were no better than their masters that programmed them and it was for those souls that the necromancer craved; not these bits of rubbish. Yet there were still souls here to be claimed and they that threw their lot in here would be devoured. The dark sorcerer’s wounds from the battle before had healed, a byproduct of his distinct heritage, leaving the visage of death prepared for action beneath his tattered robes. This battle would be his and these abominations would be cast aside. The sound of blaster fire no more than began to erupt and the Sith lord was already flurrying into action. His feet did not move. The dark tendrils of the force surged with his unhinged desires and passions as his hands flicked upwards using the force to heft the fallen blast door from the ground, slamming it down between the dark lord and his foes across the bay even as some charged at him. The door created a buffer to absorb the withering display of destruction as the rebel blasters played their song of doom against the door. Inmortos was left sheltered for the moment, only his undead in the hall behind him as company. It was simple telekinesis, taught to even the most basic force using apprentice, slammed the door designed to handle such an onslaught back into the ground as a shield. With the touch of his hands upon the back of the door and the floor itself, the iciness of Inmortos’ void-filled soul crept out in all directions, drawing the life and power from whatever it happened to touch, tasting the energy of the fire that crested about the fringes and absorbing it in it’s bitter embrace. The ice solidified the door to the floor. It craved life, energy, motion of any sort. Whatever was caught in it’s expanse of icy doom would find itself clawed at so as to bind it where they met, freezing muscles and sinews and transforming moving cogs and gears into frozen hafts. Even as the flames licked the front of the door, ice crept along the back; a duel of eternity and destruction, a duel of competing dark side manifestations. This was Inmortos’ power. This was the power of the dark side made manifest. All the while, Inmortos whispered beneath his breath, a cursed spell torn from the skin-bound tomes of an ancient unholy order brought back to the world of the living. The very foundations of the force seemed to reverberate with the power of the forbidden words calling out to the dead that lay stacked behind the rebel force. Clawing their way back to existence, their souls re-bound to their tattered bodies, imprisoned and tortured, four of the dead rose up. Hulking musclebound dock men, their minds ragged and unreasonable, pushed beyond the limits of life, torn across the horizon of death, rose and charged. Their minds were simple, pushed to a point of utter rage, directed only by the curse of the dark side’s power chanted in a whisper by the necromancer. Righting themselves the undead charged the rebel firing squads, the graves’ tide seeking to charge, claw and tear at the droids and soldiers. They sought to drive their death-fueled passions into they that the dark side drove them to destroy. The lives, the power sources of these rebels would be extinguished if the freshly undead not ceased. ((1)) ((Used basic telekinesis to set the blast door up as a shield from the spray of incoming blaster fire across the bay and to catch the burst of flames from HC-42’s charging attack. Inmortos used Creeping Doom found in the Cryomancer’s Guide to cement the door in place with ice, sending ice outwards to attempt to ensnare the advancing rebels while simultaneously chanting so as to use Gravetide, found in the Necromancer’s Guide, to reanimate four of the dead that the rebels had stacked near them prior and send them after the rebel attackers (Emma & Co.) ))