Ziost

[Vorin Blackmorne]

The Sith Warrior reclined upon the edge of his bunk within the quarters assigned to him within Ziost’s garrison command. It was a spartan residence, lacking the finery that had adorned the Warrior’s Barracks within Lord of Gluttony’s reign. It was, however, fully functional for his uses. He ignored the conflict outside. Dark Lords came and went these days like credit-chit whores, he had his own machinations to pursue, and none a change of leadership would interfere with.

 

The datapad he held lit his pale, severe features with an unsteady glow as data streamed across its holoscreen. As Blackmorne thumbed through news articles streamed from the heart of the Sovereign Alliance, the whole right side of the datapad reflected a single face, pale and thin, with hair the color of honey and eyes a severe blue. He had been obsessed with this creature, every angle of her royal features caused the thrill to hum within his veins, that rush of cold adrenaline that drove him. Bloodletter’s devious words turned through the rush within his mind

 

Have you discovered where you might snip… This bud from its stem?

 

A half smile tugged at the edge of his frown, enticed by the thoughts of future joys. His voice churned like falling stones

 

“The Alliance speaks greatly of hope, a frail human emotion.”

 

With a flick of a finger, the galactic view of the mid-rim settled on his screen. It panned to the Chommel Sector and towards Naboo, the world from which his target hailed. A planet once devastated by war, brought to ruin by the natural turns of galactic fate. A few news articles came with it, outlining the efforts of a young queen to rally the galactic community to action

 

“They will try and rebuild with that hope at their core. That is when the foundations of this Alliance are most fragile.”

 

The light of the datapad died away, reflecting only the dimness of the barracks, the Sith Warrior, the crimson bedsheets, and the tangled remains of his bedmate. The Sith had found her amongst the captured padawans, the honey-stained hair drawing his sulphoric gaze. Her screams had fed his desires for a time, but such passions were always short-lived. Blackmorne stood, binding his long, white hair with the scrap of bloodsoaked robe he had kept as a totem from his first victory. He placed Bloodletter within its sheath, its long blade shifting from a mass of star-streaked deepspace into blackened steel. The hunt was about to begin.