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Aaris III

Tarrian Skywalker

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The two ships, a yacht and a shuttle, were little to get excited about as they entered the atmosphere of Aaris III. For the few beings planetside that had the technological abilities to note the ships, there was little to incite a response. The Death Striker base, long abandoned by that organization, was on the far side of the world. It was currently home to a small loosely-organized band of smugglers who used the wayward world as a storehouse and ad-hoc base for this portion of the galaxy. These two ships that swung low over the treetops presented little threat or fear to the minor criminal enterprise and their ill-gotten booty.

It was not entirely uncommon for ships to descend planetside. In as much as Aaris III was out of the way, forgotten, and of little use to the galaxy at large, it still attracted the occasional band of rich partying socialites or treasure-hunting history buffs. Nothing threatening to burly smugglers and sleazy fences. 

It was not an entirely wrong assessment. Inmortos and Apothos were fans of the historical. They did not present a true threat to the smugglers’ compound; at least not yet.


Inmortos’ Imperial shuttle hummed above the treetops. The world shone like a jewel both from space and on the surface. Every inch of industrialization had been taken back by the natural. The metallic cities were now covered by the sea, the sands, or the jungle. The external vents of the craft opened and began to scoop up the unadulterated air of the world. It replaced the reprocessed death-tainted air within the craft.


Inhaling deeply, the necromancer breathed in the heavy humid air above the jungles. Where another would have smiled at the fresh nutrient-filled life-tinged air, Inmortos did not. His smile was different, his dry cracked lips twisted in a demented cackle of delight. Where others smelled life, Inmortos tasted the lingering odor of death. Death was here alright, wherever life existed, death followed. The death here was different. It was planet-consumning. It was violent. It was omnipresent.


As the ships settled into a clearing along the sand-covered beach a short hike through the dense undergrowth from the forgotten city, their engine blasts kicked up plumes of sand and churned the beach waters into a froth. The vessels settled in as they began to go through their shutdown procedures. The landing ramp to The Eternus descended to the beach and the dozen undead Mon Cal residents shambles out to the world below, forming up two equal lines on either side of the walkway out towards the moss-covered trees.


Slowly, the Sith Lord descended the ramp. Each step was accompanied by a deep-seated clang from his heavy walking stick. Making the sandy beach, Inmortos paused. He inhaled deeply as he awaited his cohorts arrival on the world. A lesser man would have thought such a pristine and peaceful place would be beneficial for the soothing of a ravaged soul, the healing of a wracked husk. Inmortos was not a lesser man.


Closing his eyes, Inmortos adjusted his focus. Instead of focusing on the world before his eyes, his sight turned to that of eternity, of times present and past. Where his natural sight struggled, his view into the world of souls, life and death, was keen. Instead of jungles and trees, the Sith Lord saw the distance flickers of life, of souls, weak and pathetic as they might be. They were drawn to the rumble of the ships; curious but wary. Some visitors brought gifts; sweets, treats, and shiny knick knacks. Other visitors terrorized the primitives of this world. They had once ruled until an unnamed malady nearly drove them to extinction. They had nearly killed their entire race, pulled from the pinnacle of their status to where they now languished. They were lost in the bowels, within tunnels dug with their own bare lizarded hands underneath the now nature-reclaimed metallic cities and their ancient foreign technologies they once ruled. Inmortos could see them. He could sense their patheticness. He nodded in silence, assuring himself. They would do.


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The rarely visited jungle and Gaia world of Aaris III had little in terms of defense. They had a few rusted bulk cruisers that had been kindly donated by the old military mercenary organization but no one in the loosely organized defense gave it much hope. They had not been serviced in four decades, and the rust was thicker than the hull plating. 


AARIS III was doomed. The small defensive forces knew it. Sent out a comm through the old holonet beacon to the GA. Which they still believed existed. Then surrendered with all the dignity that could be offered. 


They had been abandoned decades ago by the strykers. Now they were abandoned by the Galactic Alliance which had died years before. The Sith were welcome to this Backwater. 

NPCs for boardwides and small stories on request

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The Iron Howlrunner's ramp lowered, and Krath Apothos descended in his walking throne, flanked by his Deepguard. His breath was already labored, and his dull grey skin gleamed with a greasy sheen in the humid heat.


Like his fellow Krath, Apothos cared little for the natural beauty of this place. The buzzing insects, the muggy air, and clinging muck only served as a distraction from the true potential of this place. Extending his mind outward, Apothos sought the faint signs of a civilization long gone.


Faintly he felt the presence of the Death Strikers camp, their weathered tools and picked over devices still relatively fresh. But it wasn't what he was looking for.




There. Below them. A cable passed directly beneath them, corroded and frayed but still mostly intact. The echo of thoughts and voices hung around it, clinging to the metal and insulation. A communications cable, a mile off and buried deep, but it must have been a large one for him to sense it from here.


He sunk deeper into his trance, letting the senses that the art of mechu-deru granted in conjunction with his own Dark Sight to feel the emotions that had been carried by the cable. Almost without conscious thought, he commanded his throne to begin walking closer to the cable.


Minutes passed, or maybe hours, Apothos could not be sure. The whole of his attention was focused on those faint whispers of an ancient people, their emotions preserved in the technology they had poured themselves in. As he grew closer, he began to sense those emotions that had been buried in those messages the cable had last carried. Anger. Fear. But hate most of all. A frenzied, clawing hate that even now, centuries later, Apothos could feel struggling to worm its way into his mind.


This had been no ordinary war. It had been something else. Something driven.


It did not matter. They were dead. But perhaps their war had left something for him.


He was nearing the cable, the underside of his walking throne and the chassis of his droids splattered with mud, when something else caught his attention. Technology. But large...and active.


His throne adjusted its course, and at his urging it began to lope across the ground, legs moving faster than they'd been designed to, but compelled to do so by their master's will.


As he closed in, he sensed what he was approaching. It was a ship, a bulk cruiser by the feel of it. Old and barely functional, but active. It had landed nearby, likely flying in low, either in the hopes of catching the two Sith off guard or because the junk ship couldn't be trusted to ascend above the treeline. Either seemed equally likely.


The throne picked up speed again, Apothos now taking direct control as if the device was an extension of his own body, though in far better shape. His droid escort was forced to sprint to keep up with their charge, and before long Apothos crashed out of the underbrush, startling a squad of what could only charitably be described as soldiers. Their blasters were spotted with corrosion, and their GA uniforms were so faded and mud-stained that it would have been difficult to tell them apart from work overalls.


A few raised their blasters, while the others only stared in stunned fascination at the bizarre sight before them. Charging them was a dirty mechanical throne, bearing a robed, half-dead neimoidian shrouded in a black cloth.


"H...halt!" One called out hesitantly. Apothos could feel his fear radiating out, and like a fire catching in dry brush, the other soldiers around him began giving off the stench of fear as well. They may not have known what Apothos was, but something deep in their gut told them he was nothing good.


Apothos gestured with his hand, and the blasters were yanked out of their hands. Such weak-willed pawns, abandoned here. Their pride had long since dried up, and their resolve had been quick to follow.


And their ship...


Apothos grimaced, even as the soldiers fell back and scrambled away, a few whispering "Sith" under their breath. One made it to the cruiser's ramp, only for it to retract and close before he could step foot on it.


Pathetic...but mine.


His will extended out to the rest of the ship, his mind parsing code and protocols, digging up maintenance records for problems that had long gone ignored.


His throne passed the stunned, frightened soldiers, and with a rusted shriek, the cargo elevator lowered from the underside of the cruiser. The soldier's surprise told Apothos that that particularly part of the ship hadn't been functional for years, but it responded to its new master's command.


"Your ship...is mine," Apothos said as he and his guard grouped onto the loading elevator. "You can stay here...or serve me."


The soldier who'd called for him to halt stepped forward, then stopped. His jaw jutted out, and his eyes narrowed.


"Long reign the Galactic Alliance," and Apothos felt a flicker of that pride kindle to life inside him.


Apothos cocked his head.


"Very well. Enjoy the walk."


As the elevator began to ascend, Apothos was pleased to see over half of the rest of the squad run forward and jump onboard the ship. Apparently their fear of what lived out here was enough to overcome their sense of loyalty.

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Apothos wasted no time. Inmortos raised a questioning eyebrow as his fellow sorcerer crashed into the underbrush. So many Sith were occupied with the here and now when eternity was all that mattered. Inmortos shrugged. The warped and twisted Neimodian had a role to play. In fact, the lizard wizard was proving to be quite useful now that his shackles had been removed.


Standing on the beach, a beachhead to his new dominion, Inmortos surveyed the lush growth that turned up in wall-like fashion at the edge ls of the sand. Vines, limbs, and greenery were all that could be seen when one tried to survey beyond. Yet still, Inmortos could sense them, their spirits, as they eked closer, their curiosity overcoming their sense of self-preservation.


Apothos was off, Inmortos could feel his ripples in the force as clearly as the winds overhead washed through the swaying trees. The subjugation of Aaris III was beginning and unlike the bread and butter warriors of the Sith, sorcerers had a different tact. There were no army-laden menaces falling from the sky to spill forth their conquering cargo. Bloodshed; Inmortos delighted in it even if it was not always the most direct application to a problem. There would be plenty of it in the coming days; just not yet. There were quicker, more efficient, subtler ways to accomplish the same goal. This world would fall not just to the Sith, not just the lords of Mon Cal, but to his dark touch: his eternal touch.


As the curious reptilian eyes began to peer through the foliage, Inmortos acted. Apothos would handle the offworlders. The locals here were now within Inmortos domain. Inhaling deeply, the air about the Necromancer paled; it’s temperatures dropping several noticable degrees. Taking a step forward, ice began to snake out from the Sith Lord’s feet and staff as they touched the ground.


Exhaling, a gale of frigid wind bellowed forth. Greenery shriveled and withered in a moment as the cone of cold sprung forth from the frail Lord’s lungs. Plumes of what seemed to be steamy smoke billowed upwards into the yet untouched humid air as anything caught in the projectiled blast of arctic air succumbed to the assault. Arcing out in lighting-like all-embracing patterns, ice spread at a rapid rate outwards from the font of power: the darkly swathed sorcerer himself. The sand crystalized into a solid, the sea began to solidify and break apart only to welcome in more rapidly cooling water that froze and repeated the cycle, the jungle withdrew as it might before the first trees bowed before the might of the cryomancer’s spells. They toppled with groans and crashes of thunder beneath the onslaught as they were iced over, their humid homeworld entombing them as they fell.


And there as the ice advanced, so to did Inmortos.


Within the wood, curiosity turned to shock, awe, and trembling at the display of power. The scaly cold-blooded primitives hissed warnings back and forth filling the jungle with a cacophony of noise as they watched and fell back before the onslaught of one man, his undead minions standing motionless behind him, towering sentinels of unknown purpose. Perhaps they too possessed the powers of the gods?

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The ship groaned and creaked as it rose over the trees. What should have been a smooth ascent was instead a vibrating. jerking rise. Apothos could feel his throne adjusting for what at first seemed like an uneven floor, but he soon realized it was the ship's gyroscopic balance malfunctioning. He doubted this thing could have even broken atmosphere before falling apart or exploding.


Around him, the rattling of scrap and broken machinery littering the floor drowned out the roar of the thrusters engaging. Behind him, the fear of the Galactic Alliance soldiers...or rather former soldiers...emanated out and filled the ship like a soft hum. But there was something else. Their fear didn't feel right. They were certainly afraid of him specifically, that was for certain, but it wasn't the bone-deep fear of helplessness or death. It was something else. Something more...anticipatory?




Apothos' throne whipped him around, so attuned to him that it responded on its master's reflex. Lurching to its feet, buried in all the discarded tech, was an old, rusted droid. A large one. It only took Apothos a second to recognize a Red Terror droid.


"INTRUDER" it repeated, its old vocabulator laced with static. Its hands raised, and Apothos's throne turned again, putting its high back between Apothos and the droid's extending fingers. That may have saved Apothos' life, as the cap of each finger detached and the concealed blasters beneath erupted in laser fire.


Erupted might have been too strong of a word. Now that he was paying attention, he could sense that only 3 of the 10 blasters were functioning, and the larger blasters concealed in the chest were being stymied by the rusted chest plates refusing to retract. Still, three blaster bolts to the chest wasn't much less lethal than 10 for someone like Apothos.


Rage welled up inside the Sith sorcerer. How had he missed it? No, that was obvious. He'd been so intent on connecting to the ship he hadn't even bothered to check for additional security. There had been no other living thing onboard, and the possibility of a droid had never occurred to him.


A hissing screech of pure vitriol burst out of his frail form as his will slammed into the ancient droid, tearing through its mind and demanding that it submit.


The droid faltered for a moment, its blasters quieting. The lights of its photoreceptors flickered and dimmed...then brightened. It stood straighter with a new purpose. Deep within its memory banks, it recalled being abused by these same soldiers, frustrated at the isolation and monotony of their lives. If it was still intelligent enough to understand the concept of revenge (which was not for certain), those memories certainly did little to stop Apothos from taking control.


It lowered its arms with a rusted shriek, and stood at attention.


The back of Apothos' throne smoked, scarred black by the sudden attack. Then, slowly, legs clanking against the metal floor, it rose and turned. The hidden, blind face of Apothos was brought fully in line with the "soldiers" who had surrendered to him. Who had agreed to serve him.


Who were his.


"How dare you defy me?" Apothos rasping, weak voice betrayed none of the anger he felt. It sounded...curious.


"I...we didn't know-"


Apothos raised his hand to forestall the lie. His hatred swelled, ballooning inside his chest into something like the heart of a sun.


"How dare you?"


His curled hand extended straight, skin stretching painfully as he forced his fingers out. Apothos recalled the line of a tome he'd read a half-dozen times.


To wield the Dark Side is to wield raw power itself, drawn up by your emotions. If a practitioner can channel this power through their body, the natural bio-electrical currents running through your flesh can provide a suitable and ready template for that power to take. The consequences can be debilitating and painful to the wielder, but if one is determined to wield the true power of the Force, then sacrifice is a given.


Apothos took a breath. Then he let his hate call to the Force...and he let the responding power flow through him.


Brilliant, hot white-blue light crackled on his extended fingertips, and then burst out in a wild explosion of lightning. It ran along the walls and ceiling in wild arcs. It snapped, broke, and reformed over and over as it danced everywhere it could touch. Apothos' body shook with pain and laughter as he cackled while his fingers smoked.


After a few moments, the power exhausted itself, and Apothos slumped back into his chair, cradling his now blackened and injured hand.


The traitors were dead. So was the droid.


Apothos frowned. He had not meant to kill either. The soldiers he'd meant to punish, and the droid shouldn't have been hit at all. His control was-


His thoughts were interrupted by the ship giving out a loud, descending whine, and Apothos cursed. His little uncontrolled display of power must have touched on the ship's primary energy coils, and while the standard safety features and redundancies should have handled the power surge, this old piece of junk had likely had neither for quite some time.


The ship began to dip, and Apothos felt light as the ascent was reversed.


No. You will not fall while you bear me.


He extended his will once more, and called upon the ship to repair itself. His mind raced through systems and conduits, and where it touched the ship began to reassemble. Secondary and tertiary systems suddenly came back online. Rust shook itself off of pistons. Lights flickered on as diagnostic programs activated and began assessing the damages.


The ship began to level out, and as it did, alarms that had corroded into silence years ago suddenly garbled to life, blaring out proximity warnings. Then, faint and distorted, a voice warbled out into the cockpit. It was unintelligible, but as connected as Apothos was to the ship, he didn't need his hearing to know what it said.


"Impact imminent."


Apothos ceased his efforts on the ship, knowing he didn't have the time to fully fix it before it crashed. Instead, he turned his attention to his throne and the smoking droid.


"Protect me," he ordered, his will and the Force carrying the command along the channels of his mechu-deru.


The droid's chassis obeyed first, shrieking as the metal tore and flew towards Apothos. It wound itself around the arms and back of his chair, forming a protective shell that molded itself around the contours of the Krath's body. Pistons positioned themselves as make-shift shock absorbers, and even the blasters found use as single-use retro-explosives to correct and counter sudden shifts in momentum. It was an impromptu, one-use device composed of sheet metal and held together with the Force, but it might protect Apothos from the oncoming crash.


The last rivet screwed itself into place as the ship collided with the ground. The tearing sound of metal that had filled the room became utterly deafening as the ship's bow ground into and through the metal streets of the ancient city that had the misfortune of being in the vessel's path. Apothos' throne was tossed across the cockpit, legs scrabbling and clutching to maintain some kind of equilibrium. Bursts of tibanna gas struggled to counter the sudden movement as the remains of the blasters burst on cue. The metal shroud surrounding Apothos collided with the front viewport, sending spiderline cracks through the weekend epoxy material, and the pistons fired in perfect timing to mitigate the blow on its occupant. Even so, the collision left Apothos reeling.


The ship slid along the surface of the ancient city, toppling buildings with its bulk and shedding tons of rusted sheet metal behind it, before eventually grinding to a halt propped against one of the larger surviving skyscrapers. The building teetered and groaned, but miraculously stayed standing.


Inside, Apothos' damaged throne began to twist and repair itself under its master's mechu-deru. The droid chassis shell fell apart, its purpose served, and a bruised, battered, but living Apothos coughed and grimaced as his chair slowly lifted him from the mess of scrap that had buried him.

Edited by Krath Apothos
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Carving a swath of ice and downed trees, Inmortos advanced a sole entity of entropy on the humid worldscape before him. Creature and primitive alike fled before the icy tendrils that branched out into the undergrowth. As he passed, a path of dense ice coated the way in a glassy smooth frigid walkway. As he progressed deeper and deeper, the reptilian residents of the world began to cautiously appear at the edges of the ice, gingerly touching the solidified liquid and chittering in hushed clicking tones. What was this thing that subjugated their world at will? Did it not appear in the same way as the offworld interlopers, in a smooth stone from the sky? What then was this power this darkness-clad being commanded? Where others commanded light in fixed displays, this one subjugated all that stood in his path. Even the ancient forests fell at a breath.


Inmortos drew upon the darkness all around him. Life and death were prevalent here amongst the green. Tipping the scales drove the life-filled jungles towards the inevitability of death. With each moss heap that withered and tree that fell, the cryomancer’s necromancic powers grew infinitesimally. Every step was a surety towards the eternal guarantee. This world was ripe for the plucking, all Inmortos need do was reach out and grasp it. With Apothos having set off to handle the small off world remnants, Inmortos was free to subjugate all that befell him.


Finally, Inmortos lowered his hands, the direct blasts of frigid air dwindling, remaining only in the deathly aura of cold and shadow that seemed to cling to the Sith like a uncleaned coating of barnacles. With a trail of glassy cold coated destruction behind him, the Sith stood alone. Before him rose the collapsed and rusted walls of an ancient citadel. Forgotten by time, lost to the grasp of eternity. Beyond, Inmortos could see collapsed towers, skyscrapers, and other structures that boasted of an ancient civilization that had ruled this world. Forgotten to all, but not to the Sith. He could see beyond. With a glance, Inmortos could see what had been and he knew what would be. With that realization, he began to laugh, a raspy cackle that echoed along the ice trail and down along the deserted twisted streets. Forgotten no more, here, in the service of a Sith Lord who would not be forgotten, the city would be returned to a glory that it’s former might could ne’ar hold a candle to.


The dark Krath was wrenched from his machinations of glee by the crashing of a mighty, albeit derelict vessel, into the desolate city. The screeches of destruction mingled with the tangible cries of terror and pain that seemed to radiate from the ground itself. Immediately, Inmortos’ eyes glazed with unholy anger. This was his city, who dared touch it?


Leaning heavily on his cane, Inmortos plunged himslef at a rapid clip-clopping walk into the desecrated city. At the fringnes, emerging cautiously to glance were the innumerable reptilian residents who had once owned the city only to have become the slums of their own failures. The Sith Lord was cognizant of it, he did not care. This city would serve him, her occupants would serve, subjugate, or become the mortar upon which eternity was crafted.


Into the city he moved, a solitary reaper. Fallen obstacles  dissolved at the press of his hand to clear a pathway towards the city center. The closer he came to the downed vessel, the more Inmortos could taste the putridness of Apothos. What had he done? Had his power overwhelmed him already? Had he been but a pawn that strove for eternal glory only to be snuffed out?


As he finally neared the ravaged ship, a twisted thing of metal from a bygone technological boom, he tasted them, rising on the winds: the souls of the men desecrated by the Sith’s display of electric rage, bound in the cackling static of the force as even in death, they struggled to find peace.


Touching his hands to the bulkhead, Inmortos leaned, pouring necromaric energies of destruction and decay from his fingertips into the metal. The hull glowed an eerie orange as if it were superheated. It’s glow heightened in  intensity before suddenly the entire panel gave wave in a plume of rusted dust leaving a hole large enough for the necromancer to stoop and enter.


Inside he could smell the death. The tendrils of electricity and dark magics doing little mask their aura. The mangled bodies of the soldiers, burned and crushed would be of little use; not in that form at least.


Sweeping his hands outward, Inmortos began to quietly chant in a tongue more ancient than that of the original Sith. He called upon powers that ruled before civilization itself was more than an infant in the womb of the galaxy. The Sith’s raspy voice cracked and boomed with each horrid whisper. The temperature dropped with each syllable. He moved as a carrion bird, almost hopping from meal to meal, surveying each for the choicest of morsels. Running his hands across their ragged forms, Inmortos drew the last puff of breath from their lungs, carrying with them the essence of those who had died at Apothos’s hands. Each breath materialized into a glassy coat of snow across the fallen’s bodies. It was swept up by a telekinetic wave of the sorcerer, vanishing into the folds of his robes. Soulfrost. The temple had begun.


Only once his dark ritual was complete, the husks of the damned left to somidify in the cold or rot in the hest did Inmortos right himself to a fully standing position. He turned to look upon Apothos. “Worthy sacrifices my brother; but it is not enough. There are more here. More to be seen and subjugated to my will. Here, in this forgotten city, will my legacy be born for eternity.”


Outside the ship, numerous lizard-folk had gathered eying the ship and who or what it might contain. They withdrew fearfully at the swelling of cold that seemed to breathe from the ship itself in a steam as it met the humid airs all about. They hissed and whispered to one another as their hunter-caste, if it could be called even than, clutched their primitive spears and clubs in nervous anticipation of what was to come. The cry had gone out, something had come to their world. The bravest had gathered to investigate and if need be confront it.


Inmortos could feel them outside. He could taste them. He hoped to use them in life and in death. For now, he hoped that their lives would serve. Death was a readily available commodity; but each had it’s value. One not needless waste it when life could hold such a gift until the proper time.


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Inmortos stepped from the shadow of the ship, exiting the breach he had made. Outside he surveyed nearly a dozen skin, tunic, and leather clad lizardfolk. Each clutches a spear or some other makeshift weapon. Towards the back there were even some with crude bows of wood and sinew. 

The locals eyed the interloping Sith nervously. He could taste their fear. It was almost more sweet than the fear of the fish folk Apothos commanded. These base minds knew much less and feared even more. There was one thing they did know however: power. Power was what subjugated them to their false jungle deities. Power they feared and could not match. Power was what kept order in their subterrainian commonwealths. The rule of might still clung ahold to them, even if they were relatively peaceful.


It was true, they were not warriors. Still, Inmortos could taste the baseless death and destruction they had wrought upon this world as if it was yesterday. So fresh, so blurred was the passage of time to the decrepit Sith Lord.


All these people needed was a push. A push to show them true power. A push to inspire and invoke fear. A push to bring them under his thumb.


Looking out over the gathered few, the chosen, Inmortos knew what he must do. They did not share a language or culture. They did not need to.


Stepping forward, Inmortos footsteps crinkled with icy intensity as the moss and growth froze and snapped beneath his death-shod feet. He approached the militia, licking his dry lips and tasting their unease. He did not stop moving forward, slowly. They withdrew, pressed against one another until they were practically crushing their comrades for fear of this man and the aura of death that radiated from his very visage.


And then it happened. Finally. With no where else to go, no where to run, no where to turn, a young male drove his stoney spear point into Inmortos. The carved edges sliced through his cloak with ease and the weapon lodged in the Sith Lord’s side drawing blood and ichor in equal amounts to pool and saturate his garment.


Only then did Inmortos stop his progress. The dark Firrerreo locked eyes with the lizard-like local who was even now shaking uncontrollably with fear.


Not a word was said as silence seemed to fill the air and press in heavily from every side. Running his hand upon his blood-soaked robe Inmortos drew his hand up to look at his own mortality before he turned his attention back to the trembling cowardly soldier before him. Slowly, with the intensity and purpose of oncoming death, Inmortos reached down to grasp the haft of the spear in his bloody hand.


With a hiss the weapon dissolved in a crackling of splinters, falling downwards in a fine dust of aged sawdust. The offending lizard gasped as he held out his hands to see the dust that was his weapon sticking to his palms. His shock was not over though, far from it.


The Sith Lord lunged closer, his hands shooting out to grasp a limb and face of a lizard on either side of he who had struck him. In a ethereal tidal surge of power that vibrated the leaves of trees down the way, Inmortos unleashed his power so that all might behold. Both the lizard to the right and the left disintegrated to dust amid screams of agony. No one dared to move even as they cringed at the sounds of the pain.


Righting himself, Inmortos ran a hand down his wounded side, his innate abilities  already trying to stitch the wound. He coated his hand in blood and with it reached out. The lizardman who had attacked him nearly fell in fear, his knees knocking together. Inmortos grabbed his face and the lizard hissed in pain as the blood seemed to burn and freeze leaving a blackened raised scar across his maw.


Then and only then, did the Sith throw back his head and cackle. It was a laughter that reached to the sky. The air above them plummeted downwards in a whoosh of wind, it’s tempersture dropping rapidly at the touch of Inmortos’ voice.


And all here would know that he, Krath Inmortos, carried forth the powers of life and death, that by the touch of his hand eternal damnation was wrought, and by the kiss of his lips their gods would fall.


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In his mind's eye, Apothos watched the end of a world.


Seeing Inmortos take his domain was like watching the last breaths of a man taken by death. A violent , gasping death rattle, a last bucking of the body desperate to cling to what was already lost. Then nothing. Cold. Inevitable.


The locals certainly seemed convinced. The fear the radiated from them created a light to Apothos' sight that must have last been matched only by the burning inferno of this city when it fell. Pain, hate, wrath, fear, all saturated the metal beneath and around him.


The metal...


Apothos' chair lurched the remainder of the way out of the wreckage of the ship. The reptilian inhabitants noted him, but the dark presence standing before them was of greater concern. The neimoidian sorcerer paid them no heed. The city was what drew his attention.


He extended his awareness, finding broken circuits and shattered pistons hidden beneath the corroded sheets of corroded metal. Their function had long since gone, but the intricate intentions of the devices remained. Here was the corpse of a civilization, the bones hinting at the designs of its creators. Septic systems, communication lines, power networks...all present, and all decayed.


Then his mind touched on something. Like the crates of spice on Kessel, this hunk of metal hummed with the pain and fear its past had saturated it with. Leaving Inmortos to his conquest, Apothos's throne carried him down from the ship and through the streets. A few of the local lizards peeked their heads out, then hid as he passed, unaware their fear revealed them to Apothos far more effectively then his nonexistent eyes ever could.


He found what he was looking for at the end of a long alley, blocked by rubble. The debris was old, predating Apothos' misadventure with the ship. It appeared that a blast of some kind had sheared away portions of the surrounding buildings, covering this portion of the alley. But it was the piece of broken scrap metal jutting out from the rubble that caught Apothos' attention.


Upon closer examination, it was a weapon of some kind. A large tube that had carried some kind of power generator. Some kind of heavy, anti-armor weapon then. The lizard that had carried it must have hated with a true fire, greater than anything his peers might have felt, for Apothos to sense it this long afterwards. But it was not alone. Scattered, like dying embers, were the flickers of other dark emotions, all linked to weapons of different kinds.


Why here? Why had such a cluster of weapons (and presumably the remains of their owners) ended up here?


Apothos extended his awareness again, and found his answer.


There was a security system here. Advanced, capable, better than anything he'd seen on this planet. Tucked away in this random alley, its sturdy construction had held up remarkably well, leaving it almost functional. Masterless, it responded to Apothos' command almost eagerly.


A panel, partially obscured by rubble, squealed and shifted, then finally slid away to reveal a passage.




Apothos's chair exited the long, winding passage, deep beneath the city. The heat had grown intense as he descended, far more than made sense. It pressed against him, oppressive and insistent, as if the city was making a last ditch effort to hide its secrets.


As his throne made the last few steps, he sensed what he hadn't before.


A forge.


A city of metal. All that metal has to come from somewhere.


Below him was a massive pit, hundreds of feet across. He could sense more, lined up in each direction, cold holes that had once held the great fires that smelted this civilization into existence. Automated arms hung limp from corroded rafters, awaiting commands for manufacture. Blocks of metal and carts of ore sat in neat piles, never to be used.


The silence was absolute. This place had remained undisturbed since the city had fallen.


Apothos laughed.


A dry, rasping laugh that built and echoed through the chambers. And his will came with it.


A tiny, tiny glow glimmered to life in the bottom of the forge closest to Apothos. Then it grew brighter. And brighter.


Fuel lines reconnected. Plating bent back into place and shed years of corrosion. Status lights blinked back on.


There was so much here.


Let Inmortos keep his dead.


This steel corpse belonged to Apothos.

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Over the coming days, the foundries that Apothos had discovered beneath the city churned evermore to life. There was all the taw materials a fledgling foundry could ask for. Soon enough the dull roar of their fires could be heard grumbling faintly beneath the city. Weapons, armor, and even the beginnings of an ancient lizard-designed corvette began to take shape beneath the surface. The entry to the foundry that Apothos had found was but one of a chain of such structure, some larger and smaller. Most of them were still secured; although a couple had to be rid of lizardly inhabitants and their primitive abodes.


On the surface, Inmortos’ will began to reverberate from his display of power. The lizardfolk warriors who had witnessed the dark lord’s display of power had been quick to spread the news of what they had seen to the others until hisses and chirps were resounding about the island. Within a day’s time, the people were bringing offerings to appease this new being that had descended from the heavens and called forth powers to overthrow their own gods with a wave of his hand.


Nothing they brought was good enough. Nothing could appease Inmortos’ appetite. A chosen few, given the mark of the beast, for that is what they called the blackened palm print Inmortos bestowed upon those who quivered bjt dared to stand up to him, had become a sort of vanguard for Inmortos. While they could not stand against his undead Mon Cal and Quarren servants, they served a purpose. They were allowed into the presence of their dark deity. They alone were not struck down in his presence without a gift. They became his hands in their tribes.


Over the weeks they began to assemble vast populations of their kin. Some began to slave away in Apothos subterranean realm of fire and shadow. Others worked to clear the rust and overgrowth from the downed city. When one died, his soul was drawn forth by Inmortos himself. It was the only time labor ceased, when the dark deity strode forth to reclaim the life lost. In grief, hope was found; for those who died in the service of their new god-king were reborn, stronger, fearless, and strange. Those blessed enough to die in service worked without ceasing, elevated in status over their mushy mortal brethren. The secrets of necromancy were Inmortos’ alone; but to the primitives, he was their god. He was a defier of death, conqueror of all that was seen and unseen.


Those who did not work were sent into the abyss of fire and darkness to slave before the master of the hellscape, never to be seen again.


Long dead warriors, ancestors, and friends were unearthed and brought before Inmortos. They too received his touch and rose again to ‘live’ and serve alongside those that had counted them lost for all eternity. 


And so, the peoples worked diligently. They harvested their foods and purged their city at the will of their overlord.


Each lizard that was worked to death had his soul frost harvested, the beginnings of Inmortos’ temple and tomb. Atop the toppled spire of the city’s highest point, a ziggurat of ice began to take shape, it’s cold tendrils branching outwards over the city blanketing the area in an eternal autumn of cool winds and cold nights. Fallen sheets of metal and stones were hoisted by the primitives sheer strength of numbers and desire to please their new god-king. The tower took shape looming over the landscape.


The city was coming to life. The world was bowing before the Sith and in that submission, the ancient prosperity was coming to the present and growing exponentially.


Within a grand circular central chamber atop the ziggurat, Inmortos stood, his hands raised high and blackened by the frigid air that whirled and swirled about him. He chanted, dark ancient words of prophecy, older than the Sith Empire, older than the Jedi or the Sith, almost as old as the universe itself.  From his maw spilled the frost of countless souls, primitives, Mon Cal, any and everyone Inmortos had harvested from. He poured their deaths, their darkest emotions into his creation until it was complete. An ornate throne of swirling whirls and jagged maws of mythical creatures sat there. It was the center of the room and from it radiated an ink cold darkness. It was the lack of fire, lack of heat and light. It was an analogy of death itself, sustained by the darkness and frost and blood that were poured into it. For days, Inmortos carved bloody deathly runes into every sacrifice his enforcers brought to him until the blood  flowed freely down the throne and poured forth from the ziggurat unto the masses below. 

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to almost a month a vast horde of living and dead assembled beneath the command of Krath Inmortos, deity of life and death. They were armed with fanged blades and clothed in feral armors of night.


The dread corvettes that slowly chugged out of the atmosphere were unable to contain the mass army of undead that were being pulled from the soil. The city continued to serve. The ziggurat grew and it’s icy halls expanded outwards, bolstering the foundation and oozing darkness, cold, and ice.


It was only then that Inmortos and Apothos opted to depart their newfound conquered world, to return to the lair of water and machine, to Apothos’ den of iniquity. A fleet needed to be commanded to augment the smaller ships of Aaris III and carry forth the armies of Inmortos and the navy of Apothos unto the galaxy.

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  • 2 months later...

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.


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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.


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  • 3 months later...

Amongst the dark chill shadows of Inmortos’ sprawling ziggurat, within the windowless throne room at the center, encased in a ice of deathly etherealness, a lifeless husk sat embedded on the throne of Inmortos. Far below, across the once overgrown  jungled city, amongst the sprawling citadel of soulfrost, carcass, and stone, millions of lizardmen toiled. Covered in the shadows of the ziggurat, their voices rose, a chaotic symphony of anguish and devotion. The cries of the dying carried above the din as lives were extinguished beneath the blades of lesser necromancers; Inmortos’ choice servants set to carry out his will in his absence. It was these same dark practitioners that had first sensed the death of their master’s physical body across the cosmos. It was these who now performed the black rituals to bring their master back to them. For days they danced and cut themselves, sacrificing those chosen by divine lots, their soul stuff harvested to lend power the profane and arcane. and as the power built a bridge was made across the sprawling chasm that separated life from death. To summon such a cursed soul required the powers to reach into the deepest recesses of beyond and struggle against the eternal bonds of divine punishment. From the deepest depths of hades they wrought Inmortos fractured frozen soul; summoning it back to the material plane. There, in blood and ice they bound the soul to the freshly hewn body atop the throne.


Sinews and bones shorn from sacrifices, knit together with dark magics, the body quivered as the highest necromancers anointed the frozen corpse in cursed blood gathered from the sacrificial altars across the city. Their cries filled the dark hall. The force itself shuddered beneath their reality-warping words. After days and nights, finally, the body itself shivered as the cool touch of Inmortos returned to his throne world. A dark presence filled the room as outside, above the city, storm clouds began to swirl in an icy storming vortex centered on the tower of the sorcerer’s power.


Beneath the blood drenched ice, eyes blinked. With a great heave, the soul borne ice cracked and splintered, cascading down the from the body leaving the pale naked grotesque form seated atop the throne. All that he wore was an icy crown of souls infused by forbidden magics to his brow.


The wave of cold that burst from the body as the soul of the Reaper inhabited it was enough to freeze solid every necromancer in the room. It bound their final moments of pain into eternal statues of torment; their final sacrifice. A single cold breath emanated from Inmortos’ body as he tasted the final sacrifices in the air. 

A dark smile twisted across his face. This fresh body already torn from the hands of death, but a temporary vessel; a vessel of power nevertheless. He could feel his death with the apprentice Solus. In his death, Solus, a Sith, had granted Inmortos a victory of his very own. He was home.


Standing, the necromancer felt every joint in his body resist. He felt every muscle strain against the ravages of life. He forced his will upon the frankensteined body. It was his. This body, like this world, like the Sith upon Naboo, would bend to his will. Raising a hand, Inmortos called a fine black robe to him. The force itself carried it across the room to swarth his nakedness, shrouding him in mystery and darkness. From beside his throne, a cane rose to his hand. The monstrous wizard leaned on it heavily; the task of living anew sapping his strength. Faintly he could hear the chants and cries of those below. He could feel the deaths of so many rising on the frigid air that clung to his Necropolic citadel. They strengthened him as he knew every sacrifice of life powered his own and in their death each servant would continue to serve for eternity. They would be bent to the necromancer’s will evermore.   

Here in his throne room, Inmortos’ power felt unending. He knew to achieve his eternal goal he must leave it, for now. Before he did so, the frozen soul of Inmortos reached out into the frozen plane of the force, carried by the interconnected web of death that spread across the galaxy. He sought the glowing abyss that was once the life world of Naboo, for upon it he knew that the apprentice he had sought to instruct might still be found. In the stillness of death he sought to touch the mind of Akheron’s pet, to let him know that he had failed. Inmortos lived and as long as he did so, the lesson remained incomplete.


Leaving his throne room, I mortos made his way through the pitch blue still catacombed tunnels of soul-bound ice and death. Pools of weeped waters, excess of emotions in death pooled in the corners, yet unharvested by his minions. Inmortos ignored them. He descended the stairs until he emerged upon an ice-ringed balcony closer to the bloody rituals of his servants, those that worshiped him a god. Stepping into sight, a hush of fear and awe swept over the cityscape as activity ground to a halt. Here was their master, he who granted life, granted death, granted immortality. Raising his hands into the air, Inmortos spoke, his voice a harsh and crackling hiss that carried on the stillness. “Let the Feast of Souls begin!”


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  • 2 weeks later...

The monthlong period of feasting and ceremony began with roars of excitement. Games would be played to determine the greatest and weakest amongst the people. Victors would have their souls torn from their bodies, implanted in both mechanized and biological dark side creations, minsters born from the minds of Inmortos’ high priests. Such an eternity was seen as an honor and vast crowds gathered to watch the bloody and violent games. Prisoners of war were sacrificed with great pomp and circumstance, their blood allow to pour down the steps of the great elevated temples to their god-king. Smoke from great fires mi  by led with the icy gray skies above as the lifeless bodies of these sacrifices were cooked. They were devoured in the great feastings that spanned well into the night at the close of each day.


For each life taken, souls were gathered, transformed into jade riches or harvested as soul frost to be added to the ever expanding necropolis of Inmortos. Death ran as freely as blood down the streets of the jungled fortress of ice nestled within Aaris III. From the furthest villages and encampments came more. Devout followers who sought the favor of their deity. They brought with them shackles prisoners; those who had resisted the globe-encompassing expanse of Inmortos’ will. Forced to bow before the innate and grotesque throne of jagged ice, their throats were cut and their blood flowed to the ground, making the icy floors of the ziggurat red with blood. With the rising sun of each day, the icy expanse of the city glowed pink with blood and ice. Catacombs became torrented rivers of blood that gargled and flowed beneath the city.


And through it all, fear, awe, and worship fueled the bottomless expanse that was the dark side, carving deeper into the untouched depths of the force itself. From his throne, Inmortos sat overseeing it all from within his minds’ eye. Each death tugged at his ragged soul, fracturing it and drawing it deeper into the mine of the force itself. Even the air over the city twisted and warped with the ravages wrought upon the life forces of this world. Inmortos’ body twisted and bent with the waves of the force; contorted in pain as he gave himself over to the depravity of his worshippers. Gritting his teeth until they shattered, he cried out. Bits of tooth, blood and ichor spew from his mouth as an ethereal undead wail rose into the air. It smelled of pain, drenched in power, upon it was born the fears of Inmortos, the fears that gave him power. The cry carried upwards tugging the darkness with it until the skies above were blanketed in a whirling pitch of blackened darkness and icy shooting tendrils of blue lightning and permafrost. And still, he clung to his throne of soulfrost, his knuckles whitened and bulging with the pressure. Electric blue tendrils of power arced from the Reaper’s throne to the crown upon his brow. It bound all of the dark evils of this world, any sin committed within the shadows of the ever growing spire, to Inmortos himself. It served as a grounding rod against the universe powering death and timelessness through Inmortos into the world around him.


Within the fortified cityscape below the revelry groaned to a halt as all attention was directed to the font of undead energy that magnetized their works to it.  The priests and necromancers were the first to give themselves over to the draw of doom. They gave their minds over to the madness. With knives, teeth, and claws, they tore their flesh and clothes, spilling from their homes and temples as they danced with abandon in the streets. Like a fast-moving plague it spread as the madness touched warrior and cleric, slave and peasant, living, dead and undead alike. None would be left untouched as sin and evil reigned freely beneath the wicked sky. Temperatures dropped and the flowing blood began to coagulate into cold molasses moving sludge. Still, they danced on. The wind began to howl and tear at any that was not secured, tearing life from the maws of many. Still, they danced on. Each that fell was reanimated by the power that seemed to swirl and surge about the Necropolis of Eternity. Empowered by the touch of the eternal lifeless state of being an undead, immune from pain and aging and pleasure and warmth, caught in a twilight existence a soul unnaturally ensnared in a prison that sought release. Still, they danced in.


Within his tower, Inmortos’ body was overcome by the power of the darkside. His muscles caught and spasmed snapping his very bones with their power. His eyes rolled back in his head as every nerve in his body burned with the touch of fiery death, frozen in an instant entombed in a bed of lifeless numbness. Against his throne, his fingers snapped and nails shattered. His tongue wagged about his mouth, flicking blood and bone onto the undying scream. The very blood within his body boiled at the surge of power in the force. His flesh, dead already and reanimated, peeled backwards in pages revealing his ichor bound twitching muscles. And just as his unnaturally woven facade could bear no more, his scream faded, the last echoes of it carrying forth to the maelstrom that crossed both this planet’s plane and beyond death into the hellscape of eternity contained within the force. With his scream carried the pieces of blood and flesh that has been shorn from his body, leaving a skeletal visage of cracked bones and tendons, blanketed in burnt tattoos of flash-frozen nerves. Broken bones were held together with fear and pain, leaving a cannibalized skeleton moist with blood and slacked off flesh, dripping ichor, seated where the vessel of Inmortos had sat.


And as his mind touched the expanse, it was washed in the surge of time itself from the conception of the universe to it’s final end in blackened fire and absolute cold nothingness. It reached upon the expanse across the cosmos, over people and worlds, tasting of the deaths of the countless forgotten. Sensing them, the heart of Inmortos tensed and raced. This would not be his fate. He would not become one of them. It did not matter, in pain and cold he was forced beyond that which a mortal mind could be capable of. It ravaged his very being, tearing it apart and stretching it beyond shape and recognition.


Just as suddenly, his attention was caught, drawn to a point within the cosmos. He reached for it, a beacon of blackened power beyond what he could fathom. And as he reached, he felt his skeletal fingers claw at the surface before the maelstrom spat him out. Back unto his throne on Aaris III, broken, twisted, and transformed.


Overhead, the storm let out a deafening peal of thunder. Such a journey that had seemed to have taken moments had in reality been weeks, drawn from the powers of the maddened dancing and death below until all but the strongest had died. Even the undead had grown silent, collapsed in heaps, worn into oblivion.  The storm pelted the citadel and ziggurat with sheets of icy rain and wind as it blew itself out. Within his tower, atop his icy throne, the desiccated corpse, or what remained of it, that was Inmortos breathed.  In a sibgle icy exhalation that rattled bones, the necromancer stood. He was hunched. To gaze upon him was to gaze upon the ravages of death itself. Bits of flesh and muscle clung to the fractures skeleton that composed his mortal vessel. Lidless eyes rotated in the sockets of an exposed skeletal face. Bone, flesh, and death held together in fear and pain. Calling his fine black cloak to cover his putrid form, Inmortos stood. He was the visage of a lich king of yore. His lipless mouth formed a single word, “Sullust.” Whatever the power had been to solely consume an entire world was now upon the surface of Sullust. Inmortos knew he had to learn this power; to tap deeper into the force than he had even now descended, to give himself fully over to the depravity of the dark side so that he might achieve his life-ending goal.


Seizing upon his cane, the Reaper made his way from his tower. Through the frozen blood drenched streets he wandered. Amongst the fallen in exhaustion and death, wiped by the very powers that had now crafted him he moved raising up the most grotesque and powerful where he found them to form an entourage as he made for his ship. Those that remained would eventually rise, by the whip or word of his faithful priests this world would continue. It had to. It was all part of his grand vision.


Arriving at his vessel, Inmortos’ boarded and they departed without another though; vapors of icy fear and pain trailing in his wake.




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  • 2 months later...

Inmortos’ shuttle broke the perpetual cloud cover over the forgotten city that now housed his towering ziggurat and expanding citadel of lifeless ice. From within his black sarcophagus, the Lich-king slowly sat up. He could taste the life within this world, beings, the press of the jungle, all of it. It was invigorating. It spoke of untapped power. It’s stench mingled with the tumultuous odors of the force. Massive sacrificial pits and fires belched smoke, putridity, and heaving force injuries high into the cold wintery sky. The thin snow-choked air churned with the powers of death and the darkside.


Slowly, as with great effort, Inmortos clasped the edges of his crate with boney hands. Pain radiated outward as his joints clacked and the god-king of Aaris III stood. He shuffled to the viewport to gaze out at the city below. Reclaimed from the dense jungles, the forgotten cities and technological traps were laid bare, engulfed by the expanding crystalline walls of soulfrost and ice. The people, living in squalor beneath the surface, had scurried like rats before Inmortos had come. He had elevated them from their despair, bringing them civilization and purpose beneath his protective wings. All he asked of them was their lives. In exchange, he offered them that which he craved the most, immortality. 

Inmortos mind hovered on the words of the great quivering Hutt master. He could be loved. Didn’t these people love him now? Did they not worship him, the very ground he walked on? They loved him. Right? And love, wasn’t that why he was doing all this? It was his love for his father and his mother, forgotten by everyone, everyone but he, that had led him to where he stood now. No one would forget him. No one would forget the name Inmortos. These people, they loved him.


The corpse at the helm brought the ship in to land. Inmortos stared out the window lost in thought the entire time. It was easy to control the mindless dead. It did not even require thought for such a simple task.


As he stepped from the gangplank, Inmortos leaned heavily on the smoothed hilt of the dagger affixed within the top of his cane. All that came to meet him was a small cabal of necromancers. Sorcerers trained by his own hand in the arts beyond death. Surely they loved him. He had given them the keys to all but his innermost sanctum of his kingdom. So why did he feel nothing but disdain from these lizard men  as they laid their eyes upon him? Did they desire him to never return? To take what he had built for himself? Would these people remember him if all they wanted was to take the gifts he so freely gave?


The whole thing made him sick.


Inmortos shouldered his way through the diminutive wizards. He had no time for them, not if their joy would not be the penance they paid to be in his majestic presence.


Inmortos stalked to his ziggurat and ascended the circling stairs upwards into the sky. Within his cupped throne room atop the world, Inmortos slumped into his icy throne. His power radiated with his confliction, magnified by his throne and crown. His anger oozed from his rotted flesh and poured like ichor-filled blood across his bleach-white exposed bones. These people, surely they loved him, even if those he had granted the most power to did not.


To be loved for eternity, spoken of as the great provider of an eternal existence worth living. That was what he  desired. To dedicate that love to the might of the Sith would only  exponentially magnify his legacy. So why did he not feel it was so? Why did he, Inmortos, the god-king, feel so alone?


The walls of his throne room oozed soul frost. The frozen temperatures crystalized Inmortos’ undead breath. Within the dark side writhed and twisted echoing Inmortos’ internal conflict. Outside the first flakes of snow began to fall as temperatures dropped across the jungled continent, progressing into a winter storm. 

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Inmortos sat in the dark for hours. The only sounds that broke the ethereal dark stillness were the nevromancer’s raspy breathing and the howl of the wind outside. The storm was blowing a wintery gale unto the city once again; an outlet for the power that condensed within the cracked soul of the Lich-king. As he sat, slumped forward in his throne, hands holding his head resting atop his knees, Inmortos’ mind whirled, considering all that had taken place on Sullust. The Krath Master Sheog had power that Inmortos could only dream of. And yet he wanted just a sliver of it. That meeting had relayed a truth long hidden, Inmortos would need to do more to be remembered for eternity.


Deep below in the snow-blanketed citadel, the people that Inmortos has favored to bring from darkness to light lived and prospered. They did so under his authority. He had pulled them from their primitive mire and gave to them that which he too sought, eternity. Surely they loved him for it. Didn't they? Wouldn’t they love him for all time, worshiping at his temple long after he had gone from among them?


The idea nagged at his mind over the hours until it became an all consuming thought. He could not put it from his mind. His people, these people, loved him. He gave them no reason to hate him, to fear him, or cast him in any light but that of their savior. He knew it; but he had to hear it.


With the snap of his cold boney fingers, the heavy winter silence within the throne room was shattered. The snap echoed on the dense thick air seeming to echo out the doors and throughout the tower. Within moments a single tiny lizardman materialized in the darkness. He was swarthed in dark heavy robes, the unnatural spark in his slitted eyes speaking to his undead nature. “Yessss my master?” He hissed as he bowed low, clasping an ornate staff in his right hand.


”I require your body.” Inmortos responded. “It will be returned once I have completed my walk among our people.”


”It issss assss you desssire my master.” The lizard coo’d without looking up from the floor.


In an instant, the heavy dead cold air was whipped to a frenzy. It pulled at the robes of the undead necromancer and his master. The winds of the storm outside blew through the throne room with an icy blast. On that surge, Inmortos’ soul leapt from his body into the maelstrom until it was carried to the reptilian necromancer. Pitching it’s head back, the lizard’s mouth gapped in sheer pain and horror as the spirit of Inmortos dove inside taking root within the being’s chest. In the throne, Inmortos’ body slumped, lifeless.


The winds died in an instant. The heavy cold air returned. Inmortos, inhabiting the body of the undead priest, suppressed his servant’s spirit as he took control. Lifting his free left hand, Inmortos fanned his clawed fingers as he looked at them through slitted eyes. His tongue whipped out of his mouth, forked and snakelike. He tasted the heavy air. It tasted cold. It tasted of death.


”Many thankssss” he hissed, his voice that of the lizards.


Turning, Inmortos made his way to the stairs and began the great descent to the city below. He followed the winding paths and hallways of the soulfrost necropolis until he stood before the great wood-hewn doors that separated his private sanctum from the lives of his subjects. There, he paused. He was still alone. He had no need for guards here. His people loved him enough.


Taking a deep breath, Inmortos calmed himself. He was about to receive confirmation of that which he knew to be true. Leaning against the doors, he pushed them open and set off afoot through the drifting snow into the empty streets of his citadel.


The wind blew high overhead and the snow wafted down. The streets were empty as the last rays of the planet’s sun flickered through the hazy storm cover. Inmortos knew where to go. It was meal time and that meant the lizards, his people, were gathering for their evening meal and communal time in one of the many great halls he had them erect throughout the city.


Making his way to the hall, Inmortos slipped in a side door. There he was greeted by a trio of spear-toting armored guards, living ones. They stared into his eyes and labeling him a necromancer, and an undead one at that, led him, rather more forcefully than he would have expected, to a pen of like-looking undead in a corner cast in shadows by the roaring hearthfire. “Another of Inmortossss’ssss exxxxpeeramentsss.” One of the guards hissed as a fourth lizardman, opened the gate to the miniature palisade, reaponding,


“Pray that it is not too late for the elders to recall him from beyond.” the guardian of the gate added forlornly as he stared into the blank undead eyes of Inmortos’ host.


Scrunching his nose, Inmortos went along with what was happening, confused by the act as he was jostled into the docile herd of undead lizards. Shouldering his way to the wickered fence, Inmortos could feel the heat of the flames as pots were removed from the fires and bits of meat and exotic jungle vegetables were removed and the gathered people fed. They started with the young and the old. Even they, however, got distinctly small servings. As he watched, Inmortos heard a child blaspheme his holy name only to be fearfully shushed by a parent or elder with a warning that Inmortos had spies, eyes and ears, everywhere.


The longer he watched, the more he saw of the same. An ungrateful people who distrusted his gift of immortality. A people who lived in fear of catching the eye of Inmortos or the hungering attentions of his cabal of necromancers. The Lich-king felt the heart in the chest of his host grow heavy. These people did not love him. They despised him, feared his wrath, as should any from their god, he though.


But in this sobering realization, Inmortos saw a glimmer of hope. Perhaps these did not love him. They were the fools upon whose backs this glorious eternity was built; ungrateful wretched peasants, nothing more. His priests, those who served him and rules at his command, surely they loved him; as do they who have been granted the gift of eternal servitude without pain or cold or death. All he would need to do was get out of hear. In this body, his force powers were limited and while these would be punished, they who dared to complain about the gifts they were given beneath the stoney visage of their god-king where they supped; that would not be yet. 

And so for hours, late into the night, as the wind and snow blew against the wooden walls and shutters, Inmortos stood, an unmoving undead, listening to the complaints of his people as they cursed him for everything from the food on their plates to the cold that he had summoned to protect them. Nothing, it seemed, was good enough for this wretched ungrateful people.


At the end of the night, the guards opened the gates and led the undead to the doors, pushing them into the mounting piles of snow; but not before flicking handfuls of black glittering dust in each undead’s face first. When they did this to Inmortos, he felt his face burn and had he been a living being, he would have sneezed. Such a reaction was missing in the undead. As he stumbled into the snow, Inmortos’ mind began to blur, a bulk of the evening, it seemed, was trying to disappear in a haze. But they would not succeed, bound in this body, Inmortos’ soul was still strong in the force. Even as his undead body writhed against the magical powder, the necromancer called upon the force to preserve his own mind.


As the other undead eventually righted themselves and set off through the snow towards their assigned positions, Inmortos picked himself up. Using his staff, he cut a path through the snow back towards his ziggurat and throne. He had learned things; but the thoughts of one great hall was hardly enough proof to prove that they did not love him. They had to. If they did not; well, he would use these blasphemers as a lesson. They would love him, just as his servants loved him.

Edited by Krath Inmortos


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Back inside the silent crypts of his frigid necropolis, the lizard body borne Inmortos stalked. Through angled winding corridors, up and down stairs, splashing through deathly cold puddles of soul frost that solidified in icy layers on his robes, he moved until he came to the winding stairs that led upwards. Upwards through the cold and dark, empty stillness in a winding circular spiral that finally opened up into the frozen throne room of the god-king himself.


Seeing his lifeless body slumped atop his soul bound throne, the body Inmortos inhabited lurched forward, his mouth falling open as his chin hit the floor. A whisp of ethereal vapor exhaled as the body returned to it’s lifeless state. Wafting upwards through the still heavy icy air the spirit of Inmortos passed through the rotted lips and maw of the skull exposed Lich, the shadow of life returned to it’s roost.


With a flicker, Inmortos’ eyes rolled forward, bulging from the dark recesses of his black cowl. He sat up, his boney fingers clawing at the edges of his throne, pulling him upright.


At his feet, his undead servant slowly pushed himself upwards, “Thank you, my master,” the lizardling spat.


Inmortos sat, his mind a whirling vortex. It was not the cold coolness of death, but that of a soul, a mind tormented. They did not love him, the rabble. They did not need too. For they were the cattle from which he chose to love. The worthy, the chosen, elevated beyond even their peers, a chosen few amongst a chosen people. They would love him and in time, teach the masses to love as well; to love as he loved his mother and father. They would remember him, with love; as he remembered them.


”Rise.” He hissed to his servant. The undead scrambled to his feet. “Your gift is appreciated. Ask, and your reward will be yours. Anything you ask, up to a kingdom of your own.”


The undead man shuddered, a chill of opportunity, a courage of ignorance granted by the dark side. A glimmer shone, perhaps, even now, months of service, pained on a metaphysical level, not dead, but not alive either; bound in a purgatory between two worlds; perhaps, this was a worthy sacrifice. Eons of torture bound in each minute of being finally collected enough to now warrant a reward, a release from this eternal condemnation.


”Freedom.” The undead lizardling hissed. “I want my life back.”


”What??” Inmortos snapped, his eyes flashing a cold danger, his temper rising.  What could he mean?


”I wish to live, to love, to feel. To live and die with my family. To return to my brood and barrow in the jungle.”


Slowly, Inmortos rose as the lizard spoke. The diminuative soul was so lost in the perception that perhaps his nightmare was ending that he did not recognize the cold frothing rage that sublimed from the Lich’s exposed bones. An icy fog poured from his orifices as Inmortos soul sank into a tepid eternal pool of nothingness. This one did not love him either. He pled to be released from the greatest gift the god-king could grant. This was not love. He spat upon all Inmortos gave to him, desiring a return to his unelevated primitiveness.


And then, a ripple. On the unblemished surface of the eternal stillness that was the depth of the untouched force. It moved. With it so did Inmortos; his body not his own, a vessel of the darkest most ancient twisted roots of the force itself. His hand shot outwards, carrying the force of time immortal. The neuranium sacrificial dagger in the hilt of his Ithor wood cane erupted, sending splinters of sacred wood in all directions. The blade flew, an extension of the necromancer’s will, burying itself in the lizardman’s throat with a gurgle of blood.


A sacrificial blade, designed to pull forth the lifeblood of the chosen and to draw their soul upwards for harvest, the weapon would do the same now. Empowered by the deepest recesses of the darkness of the primordial force, the blade sunk itself into the gargle sunset bound blood of the undead, his body sucking at the weapon and drawing it inward. And outward came the twisted soul of the undead lizard, a soul freed from life by death, but bound to a plain it was not meant for.


Striding forward, Inmortos cradled the soul in his skeletal hand, as if a mother caressing the face of a child. It was a thing of beauty really, cracked as it was bound to a plain it had been freed from. Inmortos mind drifted to thoughts of his own mother, how she had loved him and cared for him. How she was gone, forgotten and discarded by the galaxy. He felt anger at the thought that she who was so beautiful, who meant so much to him, had been so easily cast aside. He loved her and it had not been enough!


And these, they did not even love him. He had tried to give them what he had desired, what he needed. They rejected it, spat in his face. Inmortos’ hand snapped into a fist crushing the soul within until it’s light went out. It was no linger bound to this world, but neither would it be freed to the next. It was crushed, destroyed, gone as if the life had never existed.


The dead body fell to the floor. It was useless for any sorcery now, a husk whose resources had been exhausted.


Inmortos sank back into his chair a heavy sigh escaping his mouth. The masses did not love him. Those given his greatest gift did not love him. There was but one more, his priests. Surely they loved him. They worshiped the ground he walked upon did they not? Taught all that they knew, the powers of life and death. Even now, they gathered in the Temple of Inmortos preparing the profane rituals.


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Solus nodded and began his trek downwards, utilizing the stairs and then a nearby ramp. The concept of Force Speed wasn’t entirely new to him. While he hadn’t put a name to it, he recalled how he did something similar when he was fighting Innmortos. When the necromancer was distracted with the lightsaber Solus had used, the Shard had unknowingly allowed the Force to flow not through his body, but rather through his crystal into the wires and framework of his body, giving his motors extra power. Force Jump sounded very similar, just utilized differently. 

The path solus took led him to a series of tunnel-like areas. A quick check revealed more sensors and cameras like before, but these sensors Solus could not trace where they were connected to. There were no blades in the walls at all, nor did the cameras seem to be linked to anything. Still, solus knew his master was expecting stealth, so he proceeded with caution. 

At least for the first few minutes. 

Down one of the halls, Solus spotted a Gungan, creeping through the darkness like a skilled hunter. Observing, Solus noted how this Gungan had survived for so long, and the blood on its spear was fresh. Either he had encountered the Ackley already, or had slain one of his fellow Gungans. 

As skilled as the Gungan was, he missed the fact there were cameras. Stepping into one of the camera's sights, a klaxon sound alarmed, deafening the halls. Solus and the Gungan flinched at the blare, and then fear filled them at the sounds of crashing behind solus. Solus turned and saw that behind him, the ceiling was crashing into the floor, cascading towards him.

"Oh…" Solus realized out loud.  "This is where force speed is needed" 

Solus broke into a mad dash as the crashing ceilings followed at a rapid pace. The gungan he passed by didn't even try to fight, but instead followed, seeing the immediate danger. However, it was obvious the gungan would never make it. 

Had Solus had more time, he would've stopped to enjoy the sound of the gungan getting flattened. But focus was the essence here, and pleasure had to come after.
The Impossible Geometries were harder to use this time. Most of it was because Solus was running and fearing his life. Sometimes instinct worked in his favor, but here it didn’t. But another part of it was that Solus was still riding his emotional high. Two Acklays under his belt had replaced his anger with a sense of pride.  In this vacuum of a situation, where it was only he and the monsters and the Gungans, envy was worthless. 

Solus felt empty.  And the crashing ceilings were getting closer, changing all of his emotions to panic. 

Solus’ thoughts scrambled around in terror. If he failed, would he die? If he didn’t die, what would become of him? Would his very shard become someone else’s weapon? Or would his master torture him again and again like before with the rest of the Si...

In the impossible Geometries, a cloud of red anger erupted. The anger thickened and goo-ified, clinging to the shapes that was Solus. In the Force, anyone nearby would have sensed the sudden power flowing around the Shard’s chassis. And for those who were not sensitive, they could see the result as suddenly the chassis surged with energy, overclocking its motors to a ridiculous degree. Before the last ceiling could crash down, Solus became more of an afterimage. Down the hall, around the corner, and even further, Solus surged forward non-stop. 


The memory of the abuse he had suffered under his Master in front of his peers was more than enough fuel and focus. And it only recalled the other memories of betrayal from his family before his ascension. The eternal darkness that was before. The isolation from all living things. All that pain for something that was not his fault. All that pain was rage and envy. And all that rage was energy in the Impossible Geometries

Solus’ next test came quickly. With the ceilings still falling behind him, before Solus was a massive, open chasm, and below, the Acklay waited. Having felt the  crashing tunnel, it knew prey was either approaching or dying. All it had to do was to wait. 

Still surging with energy, Solus charged forward, jumped slightly to land in a crouching position, and launched himself across the chasm onto an opposing wall. The Force continued to surge through him like a storm, and gave his leg motors the power needed to cross such a great distance, and continued to give him the power to launch again towards the Acklay at the bottom.

Solus came down like a meteor. In a strangely similar account to how he killed Innmortos on Naboo, Solus’ fist struck the monster’s forehead and completely splattered it into the floor. 

But this time, Solus didn’t stop after the killing blow. Instead, his rage continued to boil over. With a quick retrieve of his blade, Solus began to butcher the body over and over, slicing each and every body part he could see, and then some. The world turned red in Solus’ blood covered sensors. There was nothing but rage and anger and fury, wanting desperately t o lash out and destroy anything it could get its claws on. It was the rage of the Fanged God. Of death. 

Solus eventually stopped, collapsing onto the corpse he had mutilated, barely holding himself up. He had never called on the Force so much in such a little amount of time. His battery was drained and needed to recharge for a few moments. 

“Excuse me sirs, but we have arrived. Shall we prepare the landing shuttles?” A Linnorm announced to Akheron. Indeed, the ship had just broken out of hyperspace over the partially snow covered world of the necromancer’s minions.  Solus stood up from the corpse and looked up, sensing the sudden surge of life that had come into view of the ship. 

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Akheron observed silently again. He was for now pleased, his apprentice had started to show signs of the potential and promise he knew lay beneath the sentient crystal's exterior. The Darkness within as gifted by the Fanged God flowed strong, at least until his energy reserve was depleted, however Akheron knew there may be time to somewhat relax on the way to the surface. 


He felt the planet long before they entered the system but being in it's presence was something else entirely. All he felt was a deep sense of suffering of Death. Speaking to the Linnorm he replied.


 "Do so, let Lord Inmortos know we are here and request for the fleet to resupply, refuel and re-arm. Have his space faring gift prepared to await his command once I personally speak with him. Prepare our escort and have the Linnorms on standby...just in case. There is much we do not know about this necromancer and his domain. Let's be cautious."


 Turning to Solus, he spoke as all returned as it once was. Once he was clear, the carcasses were removed and the platforms were gone. A empty room remained. 


 "You did well my apprentice, but do not let your rage entirely consume you. This has been the undoing of many Sith. Rage and hate if left to it's own devices, allowed uncontrolled and unchecked would destroy all that you are and wish to become. Your own strength would become your demise. We may draw from Rage but there still a price as with any emotions drawn of the Darkness. Draw too strongly and it will suck you into a endless pit of unstoppable Rage and Anger that would strike not just your enemies down, but those you call ally or friends as well.


But that is enough for now. Come, Lord Inmortos awaits below. I am certain we shall plenty of opportunity on the surface to test you further and advance your training. Even still be on your guard, he is a unknown quantity. I am not quite sure if he is to be fully trusted....yet. This is his domain, his powerbase. As such We must be cautious, I do not know what to expect of this...festival, Baptism Of Blood."


With that he headed to the shuttles, motioning his apprentice to follow. He made a quick stop by his personal quarters to pick up a unique gift he had crafted for the necromancer, one he was certain he would appreciate and would repay the gift he had been given previously. Continuing on to the shuttle he entered, wondering what just awaited the two below. Although one thing was certain, he could feel a deep unrest about the planet...even now. He would soon see why. 

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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron


I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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Inmortos sat. He was unmoving, as the dead. His rage at the people, his people, was palpable. It manifest as a deadly humid cold that rolled from he and his throne. In the force, it was a heavy blanket in the void, a snow covered stillness that reached as far as he could perceive, a calm deathly cold stillness uninterrupted. It was as if the force itself was heavy and frozen within the grasp of his undead furor.


And so he remained until he felt a disturbance. Something above. A presence he had known before. The thick clouds that extended over and out from his city thickened in innate reaction, the winds high up in the atmosphere increasing to a howl. The people of Inmortos had little in the lines of air defenses, a few anti-aircraft emplacements from the smugglers that he had routed upon his ascension to godhood. There was little need. The powers of cold and death were enough. The people could retreat to their underground boroughs.


Inmortos slowly stood, staring at the ceiling as if he could perceive through the icy ceiling. It was the stench of the shard that had tried to slay him on Naboo. A smile twisted the rotted flesh across the exposed bone of his face. This would be a surprise.


Something else. Something he had felt on Solus and on his former apprentice, Apothos, the touch, the mark of he who had trained them. The Sith Warrior, Akheron.


They had come at his behest afterall, to receive the anointment of blood; and oh would there be blood. Such would be the wound in the force with the powers death that Inmortos would bestow upon them; should they survive it.


Channelled through the power of his throne, Inmortos called to the legions of undead. They may despise him, but he had given the him life. He alone held the power to control them, to bend them to his will; and he would do so now.


Assembling a Legion of armored and armed undead, decaying and mangled, murderous and hungering, Inmortos directed them to the sole landing pad within his citadel, alongside where his own shuttle sat. These blackened grotesque lizards would meet the envoy of his fellow Sith. Should they prove true, they would escort him to his throne room.


So they stood, the legion of undead. Buffeted as the craft landed, they stood, staring unblinkingly with cold lifeless eyes in the cold heavy air. As the craft opened to regurgitate it’s passengers, the undead commander of the legion, a musclebound beast with fractured linbs and head dangling at an odd angle, one eye lolling from his eye socket, stepped forward. In his hands he held a wickedly barbed spear of blackened metal. “Our Master Inmortossss bidsss thee welcome Lordsss of the Sssssith. He hassss commanded that we are to essscort you to his throne room where you may beg pennance for your ssssinssss.” The undead’s voice dripped with scorn and hatred as his forked tongue flicked in and out trying to smell the new arrivals in the snowy air.


Forming around the Sith, the rotting undead encircled Akheron and Solus and their escort of linworms, leading them through the city; their short bodies carving a path through the ever falling heavy snow. In the near distance, rose the necropolis of Inmortos, crafted from alchemically formed ice and soul frost. Thick jagged walls encircled a castle of darkness, the middle of which rose spiraling to the clouds in an intricately carved ziggurat that seemed to radiate extreme cold, drawing the gray light from the air and casting the world around it in shadows.


At the massive sealed gates the legion stopped until unseen guards pushed open the doors with a slow yawning creak. Inside, darkness and cold reigned in the absolute still silence. None of the legions dared break it. There was no one inside it seemed. If they were, thy were well hidden in alcoves and winding halls.


Through it all they marched, weapons held at the ready to subdue any that tried to escape with undead violence of steel, tooth, and poisoned claw. They dod not stop until they reached the narrow winding steps that curved to the right up the exterior of Inmortos’ tower. The winds whipped loudly above, sending shards of snow and ice tearing like razors through the air. It was here the escort stopped, parting to allow the party access to the narrow stairs that circled upwards about the exterior of the massive spire. “Climb. Those who live will have gained an audience with our god.” The lizard spat before returning to the ranks where they stood, motionless.


The thick walls of eternally frozen souls and suffering emotions were slick with the wept overflow of the damned, weeping from the very pores of the ice, slowly solidified by the cold winds; an ever expanding growth of Inmortos’ throne.


Atop the spire, a walkway rhat was a mere foot and a half wide, curved to connect to the balcony of Inmortos’ throne room that overlooked the world below. Within, the balcony turned into the pressing darkness of the frozen throne room. Atop a dias of dozens od icy stairs on his massive throne of power, a conduit of Inmortos’ world power, sat the Lich King. He was slumped against one arm rest, his jaw agape and maw hanging open. He looked dead and even the force was dead around him in this room.


As those who survived the climb to the throne room entered, Inmortos slowly righted himself. His body creaked and cracked. His skeletal joints popped. Any smile or sense of joy was gone from his face. Seeing the Sith he asked one question. “Did you feel it? They hate he who has given them eternity, he who plucked them from the gutter unto eternal salvation.”


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Akheron eyed the undead lizard men with suspicion, even as they surrounded him, his apprentice and his escort before he even had time to object. He didn't like the fact that these...abominations stood so close. Almost like a pack of rabid, hungry wolves held back only by the alpha. And the unrest he felt in the Force, the rage and anger, the icey chill, did little to change his thoughts on the matter, if anything he was more cautious, holding a hand close to his saber just in case. He distracted himself on the ascension by looking at the citadel of ice and souls.


He was sure he could hear wailing from within at some points. It was impression, a feat of Sith Magic he could hardly fathom, and yet strangely familiar, it reminded him of Ziost in his youth long before it's destruction. As the undead muscled lizard man spoke, Akheron simply laughed in his face before he spoke. His defiance evident even in the face of uncertainty.


Making a statement of truth.


 "I am honoured to be here however....your master should of told you. I am a Sith Warrior. The Lord Of Wrath. I do not beg like some commoner or mewling quim, nor do I ask forgiveness like one. I accept my sins as part of me, I come only because I was asked, nothing more."


Letting the words sink in he remained silent for the remainder of the trek to the top, even as he felt the rage from the creature at being berated. He cared little about it, undead as it was. Making it to the top, he had the Linnorms wait below as he motioned Solus follow him into the epicentre of Inmortos power, and to the Lich King himself sat atop his ice throne.


Hearing the question, he answered truthfully. Showing a wisdom beyond his years, wisdom born of the rule of his own people.


 "Yes, the unrest? I feel it. Like a storm brewing just below the surface. Such is the price of power, of a throne Lord Inmortos. There will always be problems to contend with. Besides. Few know the true cost of eternity until it is too late. Eternal life to some, while it may seem a good idea at the time...soon loses it's appeal. Some would prefer the gutter to the promise of salvation after perhaps decades of the same. Either that or they seek more than they have, they crave what you have yet know it will always be just out of reach. And for that you will be hated, despised. For jealous they become and envious of the power you control. So much so that the hate they have will lead them to break oaths and only ever leads to betrayal. Question is what will you do to answer it when that happens as now. Will you answer the challenge or not?


Regardless I have a gift or two that might cheer you up."


Akheron proceeded to remove something of a blade, wrapped in leather clothe. A sacrificial blade belonging to the Fanged God and bathed in the blood of the sacrificed to flame burnt alive. Their suffering still lingered upon it. In his other hand was held a datadisc with two holograms of ships schematics.


"First a sacrificial blade bathed in the blood of the sacrificed to flame burnt alive for the Fanged God in his honour. The suffering of those that died upon it lingers still. The second gift, something more practical. A ship. Glacadh An Dorchadas. Embrace Of Darkness in the common tongue, a Sion Heavy Escort Carrier/Cruiser and complimentary starfighters in the newly field tested Acklay Class Heavy Interceptors, both of which I had a hand in personally designing based on battlefield experiences in the space arena so to speak. Both saw action above Naboo, you can review the data in this disc along with the schematics at your leisure. 


Both are in appreciation of a gift once previously given and to strengthen an any alliances between us if that is your desire. I must say this...Baptism Of Blood has me curious".

Edited by Karys Narat iv-Adas
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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron


I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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When on the planet, Solus marveled at what he saw. The impossible Geometries were almost frozen here in places, unable to move at all. Much like Innmortos, it ranked with unholy sorcery. But unlike the necromancer, these beings who even now surrounded the Shard and his master showed no signs of power. Just pale and sluggish reflections of what was once a semblance of life. 

And yet, their manner of speaking, the words they chose, the way they walked…it all spoke reverence and worship. 

In the Impossible Geometries, the lines of Envy around Solus intensified. 

“I want this…” Solus muttered as he followed his master. It was loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to indicate the Shard wasn’t seeking a reply. Even on the dangerous climb upwards, his thoughts of envy continued to intensify. “All of this…an entire planet. I should get something like this eventually. In fact, I think I will. After all, if a pathetic husk of a being can rule a planet, why shouldn’t a servant of the Fanged God have a planet to destroy at his whim? After all, the Empress has her servants, and my master has the Linnorms. Someday, I will have a planet of my own.”

Solus had to pause and tilt his head at his own thoughts. “Course, it couldn’t be Ishvara. That place is already claimed by my father, so… perhaps there is a jewel in the galaxy not claimed yet, or some place where my kind already exist. People seem to think I’m a droid though…so perhaps a place like that…”

Eventually, the two made it to the throne room. If he could have, Solus would’ve smirked at the misery Innmortos was obviously in. He didn’t need to be  force sensitive to detect that the necromancer was something akin to miserable. 

Perhaps he could use this misery against the necromancer further. After all, Solus had killed a body of Innmortos. Why not the spirit as well?  And if he could take away this planet from the necromancer, well, that would be even better. 

Solus waited for his master to be done speaking. The words he spoke resonated with the Shard a bit. Eternity was something the Shard knew well. It was an eternity of nothingness before he ascended into the world of worlds. Still, a part of his master words did the opposite with Solus. At least here, eternity would be entertaining. There was always something going on. They were in the middle of a war after all, and the Force was very enlightening of how the universe worked. Maybe it was the type of eternity that lost its appeal. 

“If you don’t like their hatred…” Solus began, his intent on hoping to break the necromancer a bit mentally while simultaneously siding with his master’s words. “you could always get rid of them and start again. Like my master has said, answer their challenge and kill them. All of them. Make both the loyal and the disloyal see the stupidity of hating you. After all, what’s a planet of insufferable lizards compared to the eternity you have now to find something better?” 

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A wicked smile crept across Inmortos’ face. “To kill. It seems so simple to the uniformed. When one is a master over the gateways of life and death, things become . . . complex young saber stone.” He addressed Solus as he stood. Inclining his head to Akheron he offered a bow. “Your gifts are of great kindness; but we both serve under the Dark Lord. We are brothers in the Sith. No gift is necessary from an equal.” Not that he would not take them.


Reaching forward, Inmortos grasped the sacrificial blade in his hand. He felt the weight it bore, a dark soul-pulling weight; bearing the weight of the countless lives. It was heavy in his hand. “This blade,” he spoke reverently, “has spilled immeasurable blood. A fitting gift my friend. Come.” He gestured to the duo as he walked, slowly and purposely towards the inner stairwell, a much safer, albeit dark and cold, descent than the narrow windswept stairs outside. “We should test out this new tool. Did you not come for a Baptism?”He tucked the gift into his swirling black robes.


It was a lonely descent bare of the pomp, circumstance, and servants usually afforded a god or a king. It was more like a decrepit miser alone in his castle; yet the palace seemed to yield to the dark shadow of a man, the Lich. Leaning heavily on his staff, Inmortos led the way through the dripping stairs and halls. “Soulfrost.” He said of the drips, pointing out a pool of it on the floor. “Avoid it lest you wish to be frozen in time. Nasty way to lose a foot. The sword I gifted you Akheron, is bonded with it. It will draw energy, even from souls, and dissipate it.”


Moving through the winding inner channels of the necropolis, Inmortos followed a map only imprinted on his mind. In truth, the tunnels moved with the will of the dark side, bound to his crystalline throne, bound to Inmortos by way of the icy soulfrost diadem fused to his skull. He continued to speak as they moved. “Look at my body saber stone. You thought you destroyed me on Naboo. In truth, you released me from the forces that sought my indentured servitude, from my weak form. Now, I rule here as a god. To punish such a people who controlled this power, to destroy them takes more than snuffing their lives like candles.” It was an admission, Inmortos had willed his death at the hands of Solus. An orchestrated  plan to return to his own world, this world, a world that seemed revolted by his mere presence.


And they continued, into the underground of the city, the crypts and catacombs of an ancient people long forgotten. Here Inmortos fell silent. The ancient pale of death reverently held in the air. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, were buried here. Their lives and even their deaths forgotten; but in those deaths they served a greater purpose. Such was the way of Inmortos’ own undead legions, only . . . only these had died willingly for the greater good. He could taste it. Such devotion made him feel sick now. Their descendants so fallen from their honorary lineage.


Through undisturbed dust and heavy cobwebs they moved until they found a stair. Upwards, finally, into a holy sepulcher full of splendid jewels and precious metal laden furniture. It was a burial chamber fit for a king, containing all that was needed in the afterlife. The treasures of systems and worlds. Even some of the treasures of Apothos’ storehouses of artifacts on Mon Cal. “Behold. My crypt. Touch not the cursed treasure. It will bring death” Central to the room, a gold covered sarcophagi bearing the visage of Inmortos, but in his prime, sat open. It’s silken lining showing impressions of having been used.


Walking to the only wall that was not gilded in depictions of Inmortos’ life abd power, the Lich king ran a skeletal finger along the ruins carved into the stone. He muttered and mumbled the words as he read. It was an ancient forgotten tongue that predated even the Sith; a language from before the galaxies had been explored. Ancient spells that secured the tomb. The walls began to shake and the great rune-inscribed stone rolled back from the mouth of the crypt exposing a glistening temple on the other side. It was the Temple of Inmortos.


The chanting was apparent as soon as the stone was moved away. Nearly one-hundred shrouded necromancers raised their voices, their spells caused the ornate statues and decorations to swirl in the heavy force-laden air. It was unnatural and evil. It was worshipful, ancients chants of unforeseen power. Inmortos had raised the best and brightest of the force-sensitive children of the lizardfolk up as necromancers in his own image. They ruled the people in his place. His power, was their own.


As the dark master came into the sight of his acolytes, their disdain was palpable, as was their fear. Before, Inmortos had not cared. The words of Sheog still played at the back of his mind. What was the good of it all.


None of this was what drew the eye of any who were brought into this inner sanctum. A full-sized pool of churning blood, deep and long. One could easily submerge within.


“Blood.” Inmortos spat the word. “Sacrifices to the god-king gleaned by ad from the warriors of the Sith, of The Spider-King himself. Gifts to a loyal servant.”


Inmortos stepped up the golden gilded steps that descended into the pool. His eyes surveilled his acolytes. Their chanting continued uninterrupted, but their eyes; their eyes darted too and fro, glancing at the Sith who had entered the room from the sealed burial chamber.


”Do you feel it my brothers? Step into the pool, wade into it’s warm embrace. Feel the taste of life on your tongues, knowing it is mine to command. This is the Baptism of Blood and I, Inmortos, the god-king of Death, will induct you into the grasp of the death and will bathe you in the life of the lost.” Before the Sith could enter however, Inmortos’ hand shot outwards to catch Solus in the chest. He stared at Akheron. With a furor in his bulging lidless eyes he whispered, “No machine. No technology. Just the naked body and soul; lest the blood boil and the initiate become a sacrifice!”


The voices of the necromancer cabal rose with fervor all about them. They knew what was about to come and they hungered for another life to add to the pool.


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Akheron laughed a little as Solus talked to himself about perhaps one day having a planet to control of his own. His ambitions laid bare. His Envy surging outwards. He spoke as they followed, looking upon the strange structure around them, listening to Inmortos and taking note. Avoiding any soulfrost.


 "Perhaps one day you will have such a planet my apprentice. Just as you desire, just as I have Falleen and parts of Korriban. However it takes a great deal more than you know to keep such a thing, there is as always a price to that which you crave...to keep control and keep what you desire takes a toll. And just as Lord Inmortos says...It is a easy thing to just kill, it is simple. To kill for the sake of it is nothing, but to really relish the moment, it is better to do it for a reason, even if known only to yourself or self satisfaction.  And as said, sometimes those you seek to kill require more than simply slaughter. Not that this not enjoyable. True punishment requires many things. As you shall see."


 Continuing on the walk, Akheron was in awe at the crypt and the treasures held within. Envy of his own briefly simmered before subsiding. He noted the life story of Inmortos, looking upon each moment that let to who and what he became. Trying to gauge a better understanding of his fellow Sith. To understand the necromancer and just what he wanted, for he knew that the secret likely lied in the clues hidden in the depictions. As with all Sith secrets were usually hidden in plain sight.


And then he heard the unusual dialect. It was one he had rarely heard, predating the Sith. Likely Rakatan in wagered. And next he saw the temple, one devoted to the God of these unread lizard folk he had seen about. One devoted to the image and power of Inmortos. And within stood his most loyal followers, devotees to the Lich King and the power of the dead. He could feel their disdain for him and Solus, considered as outsiders.


He smiled a little under his mask. Let them hate and fear, he was Sith. Staring at the pool of Blood if it could be called such a thing, he felt drawn to it. Like a moth to a flame, it called offering sweet temptations born of the Darkness. Whispers of the dead called into his mind, offering yet more temptation. But for now he resisted.


Listening, Akheron was cautious, resisting and not stepping a foot forward. So this was the reason for his invitation, to be some kind of recruit , a induction. But for what reason and why he wondered. What was the endgame and what would be the price if he submitted.


 "Now I see what you meant by Baptism Of Blood. You meant it quite literally...and yet I wonder. If I do As you say, if we both do. What is the price, the cost of submitting to the pool and the dead within, of exposing my flesh, bone and very essence of what I am to such a ritual. And to you. What would become of me."








 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron


I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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“Thats Dragon or Solus now to you, necromancer…” Solus replied at the first call of Saber Stone. The added insult of being young also seemed to sting slightly. “And sometimes simple answers are better then convoluted ones you…” 

Solus stopped himself. No use letting his anger out at this moment. Still, over time the necromancer seemed to try to goad Solus further and further. Whether it was by showing off all of his treasures, or saying his death at the Shard’s hands was intentional. The necromancer seemed to be open for a battle of words with Solus. 
At least, that was how the Shard interpreted them. 

“Huh… With all this power and wealth, Innmortos…” Solus started, once the crypt had been revealed. It was good that Innmortos warned against touching anything, for Solus’ skeletal hand had begun to wander to the sarcophagi. “...I would have figured you would have enough to get a body that doesn’t hobble with weakness.” 

Still, Solus’ words only hid the fact that he was incredibly jealous of all the wealth and power the necromancer had. Shouldn’t he, Solus the Dragon, have more then a withered old thing? Thankfully, his master’s words came to his head briefly. Warnings about how controlling a planet being harder than Solus knew. This at least held Solus back a bit from attempting to be more vicious with his words. 

However, that restraint quickly began to evaporate when the necromancer held the metal chassis back from the pool. 

“Are you dumb as well? I have no blood to boil. Or are you just wanting me weak so you can put me in your blade, like I did with your brain and blood back on Naboo” At this, Solus held up his newly crafted lightsaber. Perhaps the necromancer would sense that a piece of his old body was used in the blade’s crafting. 


Without turning his head from the necromancer, Solus listened to his master  ask his questions. Solus grumbled. 

“Master, do we really need this? His servants tell us to seek forgiveness, he denies the Fanged God what is due by raising the dead, and now he expects you to disrobe like…like some common ship’s hand! I will obey you my Lord, but a being like this is not worthy of respect nor trust.”

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The chanting continued into a crescendo of long lost languages and words, spells that wove the very fabrics of the force and bound it with unnatural intricacies to the blood itself. The surface of the pool began to gurgle and sway. The thick concoction stirred to to life, the life of the lost contained within it’s very earthen grasp. And as the voices rose, so too did the blood until it danced atop the pool like it was being pelted by vicious drops of invisible rain. It was the force bound to the life.


Inmortos turned back to Solus, reaching his free hand up to drop back his deep cowl revealing a skeletonized face, a liplessly framed maw of ragged teeth, lidless eyes, and rotted flesh peeling from the bleached bone beneath. “The spirit may be willing, but the body is but a vessel, weak . . . and replaceable, unable to contain the power of the dark side.” Stepping to the edge of the pool, Inmortos gestured again bidding them enter. “No sacrifice is without cost Lord Akheron. You know that to defile a fellow Sith invites retribution by the Dark Lord. This gift is for me as much as it is you. It is my contribution to the fall of the Rebellion. What you do with this power afterwards will be to the glory of the Sith Empire, to the praise of our Empress, and the rending of the force itself. ”

Steam rose from the writhing blood. The temperatures of the air within the Temple plummeting to below freezing in mere moments until the only source of heat within the hall was the viciously churning blood itself.

Focusing his unblinking eyes on the Sith Warrior he spoke, his voice low. “Your servant speaks of things he does not know Lord Akheron.”


He smiled, his skulled face twisted in evil delight as he extebded his hands in gracious explanation. ”The secrets of the Father of Dust are not to be trifled with. You know this. Enter the blood. Receive the gifts offered by the shedding of innocence. Taste true darkness. Become invigorated with the powers of a true Sith. Powers of life that transcend death. Powers of death that envelope life. Be consumed by the lifeblood of eternity and transformed into servants of The Maimed Beast made whole.”


Yes, Inmortos knew of these servants of the Fanged God. Their religion as ancient as the spells he himself controlled. They both extended beyond the meager origins of the Sith people. Inmortos had studied their manuscripts in his quest to control death itself. In them he found a fanatic zeal that rivaled his own. He would enable these servants of the Fanged God to serve their deity, to serve the Sith, to fulfill Inmortos’ oath. In return, they would be filled with the lives of countless beings not their own, with souls shackled to the blood seeking release; unleashed upon a galaxy unknowing and deserving of destruction. In their path, Inmortos would call forth the legions of the dead. Their lives and deaths serving to advance his own agenda of immortality. 

Stepping backwards, the chanting of Inmortos’ acolytes hung in the frigid air as the temperatures continued to plummet. The lizards’ green-hued skin paled and turned blue, their bodies shaking as their very life was drawn from their cold-blooded bodies, lost to the cold bottomless hunger of stillness. And yet they chanted onward, knowing the punishments that would await them should their magics fail.

The necromancer-king looked at the Sith Warrior and his Apprentice. His voice grated lowly and with power. “Enter the blood. Be unshackled from that which holds you back.” His words were cold and commanding. He would not offer such a gift again. To rebuff him would be to insult the god-king’s hospitality, to insult Inmortos himself.



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Akheron considered the words, looking into the Darkness of the Force, sensing for deceit. He found none, and something told him as much as the two distrusted the necromancer, this was the correct course to take in serving the Fanged God and the Dark Lady. Nothing ever happened without a reason he had found as experience had taught him. 


His apprentice was young, full of defiance. Much like himself once upon a time, fearful of that which he did not know. Both were offered a chance, should they pass the test and ritual of unlocking more of their potential...that much was certain, looking within Akheron knew the price might be worthy of the risk. Besides as a Sith and a Warrior he would not refuse a rare boon such as was given. Even if he did not fully understand the reason for it.


He spoke, understanding.


"Calm yourself my apprentice, I feel we have nothing to fear. If Lord Inmortos wished us harm, he would of done so already. I can understand your mistrust, the previous experience was painful, but it was one of many such tests as a Sith. This is yet another.  Nothing happens without reason where the Darkness is concerned. You or I may not fully understand the reason why we were brought here, but the Fanged God brought us three together for a reason. Just as I as a Sith Warrior or you as a Assassin serve the Dark Lady and Fanged God by taking life from our enemies on the field of battle in fire or from the shadows, necromancers also serve a purpose. They are the taker or souls, collectors and serve the Fanged God by punishing the enemies of the Sith with eternal servitude or empowering allies such as us, here and now. Helping to unlock our further potential. 


Yes there is great risk, but such is the life of a Sith. As much as we might mistrust Lord Inmortos, I trust in the Fanged God and the Darkness. We can either choose to embrace the pain and prove our strength, our power and devotion to the Darkness by stepping into the pool and coming out stronger for it or give in to the fear and mistrust. The Fanged God watches and awaits your choice. 


I have made my choice now it for you to make yours my apprentice. This is your next test, a test of both pain, devotion and loyalty. How far are you willing to go to become all you desire. To be a Sith and serve the Darkness and Fanged God. Will you choose to place trust in one you hate and the Darkness....or will you give in to your Envy.


In case it is the latter, I offer a new ability to learn, to assist with your transfer to the pool. That of Telekinesis. Similar to a Force Push or Pull except that this ability will allow you to manipulate physical matter, allowing you to touch, grab, hold, and otherwise interact with a target. Even yourself. The ability using the Darkness to lift targets in combat or not. It can also be used to disarm or physically attack opponents, as well as a method of defense for the user or the target. For a sufficiently skilled or powerful practitioner, the size, distance, weight, and mass of the object do not matter. One can possibly lift something as small as a piece of fruit to an X-Wing or be able to affect a target from another room or yourself. Telekinesis also entails applying and defying physical forces without physical contact and from a distance, with the strength and intensity of this force causing the feats performed with it ranging from making small to medium-sized objects float or levitate weightlessly, to slowing or completely halting the motion of moving targets, to crushing targets with the strength and resilience of metal with extreme amounts of pressure. Despite the there is a price. Telekinesis may allow us the ability to manipulate and interact with targets without physical contact and from a variable distance, the precision, accuracy, magnitude, range, and intensity but this is tied to the our concentration, willpower, emotions, senses, and spatial awareness. Therefore, it is a power that can be weakened, causing us to be unable to properly control it. Physical or mental fatigue, stress, or disorientation are side affects of prolonged use. So use it sparingly my apprentice. Now it is up to you to make your choice."


With that he was done speaking, stripping as far as his underwear, Akheron revealed his true self. Placing his weapons alongside them. A Tsis Pureblood, a Massassi of crimson red, long thought of as extinct...marked with a lifetime of war, with scars on almost every speck of flesh. That which was not covered in these scars were covered in ornate ritualistic tattoos that gave off a eery glow. Or appeared that way. Some were Tsis in origin while others such as his face and head were markings of the Fanged God. Of Clan Brasganu, branded into the skin. The only metal that remained was his prosthetic arm and leg. Sith Steel, imbued with Sith Alchemy and Magic he rationed they were resistant enough to survive the ritual. 


Besides it was something he refused to remove, he still wished to retain some dignity. Making his way down the steps he entered the pool, his crimson skin becoming one with the blood. In the Darkness he focused himself, preparing for whatever came next. Leading by example he hoped it convinced his apprentice.

Edited by Karys Narat iv-Adas
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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron


I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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Solus listened to the two speak and nodded. The necromancer’s words about the Father of Dust and the Fanged Beast resonated true with the shard. In what little spare time the Shard had, he had studied some of the aspects of the Fanged God. That was part of the reason why he was so proud of his newest title. 

“Very well my master. I will obey” 

At first, Solus didn’t move, as he only observed his master disrobe and prepare for the pool of blood. But eventually, he knew what he needed to do. 

“This better be no trick necromancer” Solus told Innmortos, and got into a kneeling position before the pool, lightsaber held at rest in hands. His motors seemed to be working in overtime, trying to combat the frigid coolness that had overtaken the chamber. The hiss of steam from boiling oil was obvious, like breaths in the snow. 
 The motors eventually died down however, as the entire chassis shut itself off. The final act of it before turning off its power was the opening of its face plates, revealing the small crystalline being inside.  The dancing lines inside the Shard mades its orange glow almost eerie. The wires connecting it to the rest of the body disconnected themselves, allowing the thing to be at rest. 

Slowly, but surely, the crystal began to shake. It wasn’t a violent shaking. It wasn’t even a sudden shaking, but more of a gentle wobbling around, as if a child with fat fingers struggling to grab a coin from the ground. But as it struggled to move, the shard’s glow began to dim and darken while the lines of thought inside began to touch each other and spin brighter and brighter. Soon, they were spinning a circle around the center, a ring of shining light, while the rest of the crystal turned a sickened black. To those who could sense the Force, it was obvious that Solus was tapping into it. 

The shard lifted and drifted out of the dead chassis like a jellyfish on an ocean current. As Akheron disappeared into the pool, Solus followed. Bobbing through the air, the crystal floated closer and over the pool of blood until suddenly, without warning, the shard fell and plopped into the pool of blood, sinking into its depths.   

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Inmortos stood silently, the hateful chanting of his minions a backdrop to the impromptu training offered by Master to Apprentice. This was not his place and he would allow it uncontested for it furthered his own agenda.


As the warrior disrobed, Inmortos watched with keen fascination, taking in the old wounds and tattoos. The mechanized limbs almost caused the necromancer to lurch forward, to grab the hulking Sith; but he refrained. He was a warrior; if he chose to take these limbs into the pool, he would need to be strong enough to weather what was to come. If he could not, he was unworthy the titles he carried.


As the Tsis slid into the hot volatile blood, Inmortos’ eyes were called to the mechanical chassis of Solus. In the warping vortex of the force, he could feel the shard reaching out to touch the sea of churned icy power. Slowly he exposed his true self, a crystal, and wavering in the air currents plunked into the boil of blood, quickly vanishing from sight.


Inmortos knew what must come next, as did his followers. To toss a stitched amalgamation of corpses into the pool would birth a Sithspawn powered by the lives of countless other tormented lives and souls. To do so to the living, the willing, changed the formula.


Ancient magics were often best left untrifled with.


Raising his skeletal hands into the air, Inmortos seemed to direct the howling symphony of the cabal’s chants as they dissolved into vicious screams of forgotten tongues and forbidden spells. The air itself, cold and dead, pulsated with an otherworldly life, like that of a heartbeat of a massive monster held just beyond the veil. The candelabras along the walls seemed to dim before they were snuffed out by the vortex’s cold icy breath. The room was bathed in inky black for but a moment until arcing spears of ice traced invisible lines through the air, crackibg and arcing like a solidified extension of force lightning. The ice glowed, a spiderweb of eerie blue that caused the blood to appear black. It raced forward and in a moment struck each necromancer acolyte in the chest with an explosion of fiery dark side power.


Their bodies tumbled forward into the pool, each landing with a splatter before it was violently expelled outward and upward in a gout of blood red flame. Tossed to the edges and corners of the chamber the bodies fizzled and burned melting the icy tendrils as they were turned to vapor in the swirling air. Blood flowed from open wounds and gaping mouths, winding towards the chaotic pool. 


The wind howled in the temple. The temperatures began to solidify everything it touched and in the din, the banshee wails of madness erupted from each fallen servant of the god-king mixing with the tempest of dark side power and wind. In it, Inmortos stood at the head of the pool, his hands raised upwards, bathed in the flickering red light of the burning bodies. He looked like a demon called forth from the deepest pits, hewn from the chamber floors of hell itself.


Gone were the chants, gone were the hateful acolytes. What remained was Inmortos, the manifestation of the dark side itself, and the two Sith in the blood. 

The blood would burn acidic and hungry against the unnatural extensions of Akheron, seeking to dissolve them and not stopping there as they sought to eat away at the body they were sewn to.


Bathing the Shard entirely, the blood seemed to search and prod for any cleft or crack upon which it could slither towards the center of the stone, to touch and intermingle with it’s soul.


Inmortos stepped forward, his rotted feet submerging into the blood on the first step as he looked above into the vortex calling the spirits of the hateful dead necromancers, bidding them towards his outstretched undead hands. They screamed; their ethereal voices driven to madness by their darkness fueled deaths; unable to leave the chamber and commanded by he that was neither alive nor dead. They continued to scream until they coalesced into one shimmering unstable vortex between Inmortos’s hands. The bone of the Lich-king began to smoke as the raw spirits dissolved bot just flesh but any semblance of life. Holding them there in the dark side maelstrom Inmortos screamed. 



His voice howled into the vortex seeming to both draw from the presence and feed into it, fueling the necromancer’s power as he heaved the sphere of burning souls downwards slamming it into the blood. Upon touch the sphere shattered the final eternal death screams erupting as the souls spread across the pool and were enveloped by the blood in fiery columns of eternal destruction. The bodies were quick to follow as they turned to ash whipped by the wind and clasped by the darkness until they seemed to cease to be or ever existed save for the fires that burned where the bodies once had laid.


Inmortos, still smoking as pain radiated from his melted hands, reached into the deep sleeves of his heavy robe. Gingerly he removed the sacrificial dagger he had been presented. He felt it’s weight, the weight of deaths innumerable. Using it, he slashed himself, tearing his robes to ribbons and raking deep grooves across the rotted flesh that still covered some of his body. Blood and ichor flowed freely down the bleached exposed bone and tattered robes until it reached the pool he stood in. “KREV Z KRVE, ŽIVOT SE ZNOVU ROZIL. VŠECHNY SILNICE MEANDEUJÍ, ALE MAKONEC VESOU K POŠETILOSTI.” He chanted as he set about mutulating his flesh, strips of rotted meat abd flesh splashing into the ever increasingly tumultuous bloody pool. The heavy liquid lapped at the god-king’s


With each surging wave within the pool, the pulsating presence’s power was bound to the blood until it grew even heavier, as liquified steel. It clung to the bodies of Akheron and Solus and pulled at them, seeking to burn away any impurity of life, of the mind, to wash them anew and to fill their voids with life. For in these two presented a dark hope, a folly once given up eternally begotten. In every man there was life, and where life ended, death. The lives of those slain, ensnared within the pool fought one another, clashing against one another like saber against saber. The strongest life forces would bind themselves to the shadows of death found within those in the pool and be carried unto the promise of new life upon their backs.


The blood at Inmortos’ feet retreated from the cold stench of death that carried upon his aura. For he was an enigma, one who might give the gift of the life of another, but unable to partake himself. He stood alone. Casting the Sith blade into the blood, a plume of smoke and fire erupted as if lava spewed forth from a fissure. The blood pulled the heavy weapon downwards into the abyss, the same abyss that sought to drown the lives of Akheron and Solus; to snuff them out and fill them anew, vessels of escape from the torments of undying back to the world of the living.


The blade, saturated with death itself, was quickly consumed, it’s power leeched and replenished into an unholy weapon of might and ritual deep within the pit.


The very seams of reality seemed to strain above the pool, a monstrous presence straining against the binding shackles of reality and time. A deep and wicked voice bellowed in a strange tongue rarely heard by those of mortal ears; and one that when heard would drive those who heard it beyond the brink into utter madness. 







Even Inmortos shuddered at the words, tumbling backwards to fall upon the stairs in a pile of his own bones and robes. He looked up just as a searing bolt of red lightning arced from the void and struck the blood filled pool. With a thunderclap the room erupted in a blinding flash of red. In that moment, all life ceased within the confines of the temple. Death, souls, they mattered not as the beast that was the netherside of the force itself consumed all. A black hole void of insatiable hunger; and then it was gone.


For what could have been minutes or days, but in truth was hours. The temple lay a desolate and barren waste until the force retreated, bound once again by the shackles of the living force. The blood was gone. At the bottom of the stone pool lay the Shard, the Tsis or what remained of him, and the dagger. Esch swelled with unholy energy, life that was not their own that cried out for vengeance. Beside the pool, Inmortos lay, a mass of bone and blood and ichor.


And as the unnatural life that he possessed returned to him, Inmortos had but the strength to right himself, to feel a clarity wrought by the purge of the darkness. He knew what must be done and he looked towards the coming battle to complete it. He needed more.


With a dry rattled cough, he wheezed. “No soul must be left unsundered. Take what you can. Destroy them all. This world will serve as a catalyst to the power of the dark side; to the dark lord.”


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Akheron waited for what seemed like to him a eternity yet was only a few minutes when the blood surrounding him took hold. At first there was nothing, just the warmth until that warmth began to feel like it was burning. Like the blood itself had become as acid and was melting his skin, yet this was far from the truth. As the ritual began in earnest, he felt as though on fire...gritting his teeth he fought back against the pain and the hallucinations that soon took hold as what appeared to be a gateway, a Eye Of Chaos opened before them. Threatening to suck them all in. 


In the blood as he felt like burning, in his Wrath and Rage Akheron saw hallucinations. Visions that looked and felt all too real, visions of the Fanged God and the Darkness. His body convulsed and sputtered, shaking, shuddering violently in the blood a s it engulfed him into the abyss at least for the moment. The blood enveloped his form like a red blanket as it wrapped around like liquid metal. Bending, breaking and remolding his prosthetic arm and leg, molding new flesh with bone and the imbued metal (Looks like Starkillers spiky arm). He tried to scream but his mouth refused to open. It felt like he was in Chaos again. As if in the realm of the dead. As he suffered, a amalgamation soon became apart of Akheron as the ritual induced blood threatened to eat away at him, binding his prosthetics on both a spiritual and physical level into one as the acidic life forces tried to clamour for passage out of him. Passage he denied them, drawing on the Darkness and all he knew, all his strength and power to not submit.


His body raised, caked in blood still engulfing him as he floated, levitating in a ritual trance. His body grew in size, muscles bulged as his eyes shot open. The deepest black, filled with the Darkness of the Force. But he was still in a trance, he spoke in the language of the Tsis, before switching to that of the chants. As more blood engulfed him, his body shot back into the blood bath going under. 


It was as this happened he saw a searing bolt of red lightning arc from a void and strike at the blood filled pool. He heard the thunderclap in room erupt in a blinding flash of red even in his trance. The next few hours seemed like minutes as he fought against his own Rage and Wrath. The hallucinations became more vivid and soon Akheron face to face with what he thought to be a depiction of the Fanged God or as close as the mind allowed. In that moment he believed more than ever,  Fanged God, the Darkness was all real.


Soon enough and Akheron found the strength and power to will himself free of wherever he was. He controlled his Wrath and Rage. Finally awakening in the empty pool, Akheron opened his eyes properly for the first time since the ritual started. Looking at himself, he felt filled with power. Invigorated even. His Wrath and Rage simmered just below the surface, desiring a outlet. He would soon oblige.


Looking upon what had once been prosthetics, Akheron noted the changes. How the imbued Sith steel had warped and moulded with new flesh, bone, muscle and blood to create a amalgamation work of Sith art. Or so he thought. On the tips of the fingers he noted a Starkiller like razor sharp appendage, a hand encased nearly all in imbued Sith metal yet allowed him to stab or slash while his upper arm was flesh blended to the remaining metals. His prosthetic leg was much like his upper arm, flesh and metal. 


Testing them briefly, he enjoyed the new movement he had been given. The return of missing flesh upon that arm and leg. And the gift of Rage. He would not forget it, or how his mistrust at least for now had been misplaced. He spoke out, using what remained of one of the lizard folk clothes to wipe the blood from himself. 


Speaking he replied to Inmortos.


 "So shall it be Lord Inmortos. I believe a apology is in order...I was wrong to mistrust you. I thank you for this mighty gift and the additional side effect of the return of something akin to a real arm and leg again, a return being whole. I am not quite sure what happened but it is a boon. One I look forward to using. If it is a purge you require, you shall have it. Let us burn in the name of the Dark Lady, the Darkness and the Fanged God."

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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron


I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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For a moment, the Shard simply sat on the ground of the now empty pool. Even as the others moved, the shard remained motionless. Its lights continued to spin around brighter and brighter, its insides an ebon black. But something was tinting the darkness within. Something else. A shade of red had made its way in. Through cracks unperceivable to the naked eye, the power and the souls of the dead had gotten in and touched the lines of thought. 

Then it began to shake and make noise. Somewhere between chittering, clicking, purring, and hissing, the noise started low, but continued to raise in volume slightly. While at first most species outside of some canines and arachnids would be able to hear what the crystal was sounding, it became clearer as it increased in amplitude.
The color inside the crystal was no longer black nor red, but a mixture of the two, swirling like a cursed liquid. If one took a microscope to it, they would have seen images. Some familiar, while most not, the images of faraway places, lives and their livelihoods, timeless places and places stuck in time, and much more flashed over and over in no discernable pattern. Images from the past lives that had been used in the making of the pool of blood.

And still the crystal made its noise. Louder and louder, the noise grew, now the volume of a slight moan. 

Gas began to emit from the Shard. Choking and putrid, thick red mists poured out from the unperceivable cracks the liquid had found its way in. The gas itself hissed as it escaped. But instead of dissipating into the air, it swirled and circled the small shard. A cloud of red.

And still the crystal made its noise.  Louder and louder, the noise grew, now the volume of a snake’s hiss. 

The lines inside jumped about the images, as if they were trying to swallow the images as quickly as they appeared. Despite moving as fast as light would allow them to move, the lines could not keep up. The images were too fast and too much, and each line could only grasp on each one briefly. Clinging onto it was a pointless endeavor. 

And still the crystal made its noise.  Louder and louder, the noise grew, now the volume of a hound’s growl.

Then the images inside the crystal stopped and froze. A space station, floating in an endless sea of darkness. Behind it, predatory eyes glanced at the darting lines around it hungrily and wildly. The lines in turn, spun around the image of the station and the eyes, as if they were communicating with it.  The eyes would glow, the lines would intensify, and the eyes would glow again. Until the lines suddenly stopped, frozen in place. 

The noise stopped, as if taking a breath. Then it shrieked and violently shook as the lines came to a standstill. 

The gas that had swirled about the crystal thickened even more, glowing with intensifying heat.  From the mists, numerous, thin tiny legs began to form, and, shakily, lifted the shard up and began to skitter across the ground towards the chassis. The stone didn’t seem to follow the legs perfectly however. It was as if the legs were just a bit ahead of it, and the Shard was simply levitating along with it trying to keep up. As if the legs were just an illusion to sell the fact that the shard was moving of its own accord, screeching the whole way.

Up the chassis the stone climbed, leaking mist behind it. Finally, it reached the Chassis’ head and nestled itself in, its screeching muffled by the plates and gears. The wires inside reattached themselves of their own accord, the faceplate closed over the Shard, and the chassis came to life. 

“!emag elttil dam ruo yalp, stel ho, stel, edam laed a kcurts laed a! krow ot teg stel ahahaha!”  The chassis’ voicebox crackled, with bursts of static bleeding through occasionally. It twisted its head about widely, as if taking in everything. With each twist and violent shake, its head leaked out a bit more red mist, as if neither the chassis nor the Shard inside could contain it. 

Whether it was because it understood Innmortos or not was unclear. Rather it simply holstered its lightsaber and moved towards the nearest entrance. In the throes of pure madness, Solus was controlling and being controlled by something else entirely. A mixture between sanity, madness, and something else entirely, the chassis moved like a first generational  protocol droid rather then a sophisticated machine, jerking and flinching randomly.

“!ytnelp a si ereh tnemyap dna tnemyap seriuqer nossel hcaE !meht morf ti ekat ew os ,evah yeht tahw evresed ton od yehT!" 

The first being that Solus met demonstrated what was about to happen to anyone else. Grabbing the first lizard thing that had rushed to investigate what its god-king had done, Solus lifted it by its neck into the air. The Shard’s left bony hand released and began to extend its scomp link directly into the lizard’s left eye, and began to spin wildly, as if accessing a common data port. 

“!ahahaha lluf ni tnemyap !sey sey sey!” The chassis cackled as blood continued to spurt out from the now dead lizard. Even so, the mist that leaked from the chassis’ head began to solidify briefly, forming images similar to a bleeding hologram.  At first, it was an image of what looked like the face of the  lizard that had just died. Then it morphed into several other faces and even some buildings before it dissipated into a mist once again. 

“on on on on taht evresed t'nseod eh !ma i suoivne woh  !nam ylimaf a!” Solus cackled, dropping the body. “!retaerg gnihtemos uoy ot laever lliw i dna gniht elttil erom em evig!” 


With this mad cackling to itself, Solus’ chassis continued to move. It would find the nearest exit, and like Innmortos had commanded, it would attempt to kill the world.  

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