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Lehon - Jedi Temple


Kakuto Ryu

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The path of a Warrior was strenuous path to walk at best, to test not only one's self, but that of another in an intertwined lethal dance of blade and fist. To truly be tested, and to test, one would have to pour everything of themselves into each strike and blow, into each parry and deflection. It wasn't a path for the feign of heart. It required resolve and mettle, to push all fear aside and resound in the moment of defiance in death. It was always a shift between life and death, never any middle ground. You either lived, or you died. That was the truth of the Warrior's Path.

 

And these two knew it all too well, this truth evident in the flow of their strikes, the gaze they shared upon one another of mutual respect despite the intent to kill and maim. It was fun. It was joy. It was freedom. And it was ecstasy. These two danced to the rythmn of death so ceremoniously, strike for strike, as blood poured and muscles bruised. And they didn't linger in the rapture of ego nor of concern. If one hindered for even a moment, the other pressed for submission. They would not reciede until death was eminent. This was their way, and they rejoiced in it.

 

For a brute of extraordinary size, Shiro found himself tested immensely by the stature and capabilities of the adolescent Bull Rancor. He could feel his broken form pressing to invite his inevitable death while the Bull Rancor stood sturdy against the Force Shiro used to enforce his dominance, the heavy breath of both panting against the tropical air. The Sithling had managed to tear two of his tusks from his form and still stood if only barely. This surprised the Rancor immensely. In the recesses of his mind, he had never been challenged in such a way outside of his own ilk, prompting a kinship growing toward this outsider.

 

And for Shiro, despite his broken form requiring his beastial mindset to overcome, he could now understand why these creatures were so revered by the Nightsisters. He, too, was beginning to grow fond of it and his kind. There was sentience within, minimal as it may have been. But there was also the pride and heart of warriors within as well, a bond that divided and brought many together. Feeling the pain within coursing through his form with every movement, even the prosthetic lung weighing upon him, Shiro smiled profusely. For if he was to die today, he was glad such a creature had been found to be his ravager. Pulling on the Force, Shiro charged forward.

 

And blackness enveloped his psyche, his last vision of green grass flowing vertically against his sight and the softness of the soil. He could briefly feel the presence of the Nightsisters growing closer, but unconsciousness quickly took him as a hand grasped his entire form. His last thoughts were of his impending death. But was it so?

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Kahla grinned widely as her saber met the flesh of her enemy. Finally it was time for the Jedi to feel the pain that she had known. The statistic satisfaction of contorted empathy she felt poured through her being as she made ready for the defense she'd have to put up. As the beast to her back encroached the Jedi began a quick succession of stabs. Kahla gripped the force around her, molding it to her will. As if in slow motion she watched the bright blue blade pierce the air towards her. She ducked her body down and leaned her head to the left. The molten plasma ricocheted of the right of her faceplate, just below her cheekbone. The heat seared and burned beneath the mask, as the steel, while durable, was nearly as effective as placebo against a lightsaber of any form.

 

Kahla could feel the ground quake as the creature behind her continued to approach. As it did, the Knight reared for the next stab, this one coming for her shoulder. Kahla had to quickly reverse her momentum, swaying herself out of harms way as she twisted and leaned away from the blades path. While not making contact, she could once again feel the warmth of the blade bleed through the armor on her chest. At first it was almost comforting, but quickly grew to a cooking heat just as the spear was once again retracted.

 

She could nearly feel the breath from the animal on her neck as it reared for its next attack. The Jedi's weapon came once more, this time in a lower blow. This time Kahla had prepared herself, pushing through the natural instinct to run from the beast behind her and instead focusing her entire being on the spear aimed at her. With her right hand, she flicked her saber to catch the Knights and divert it from its path, redirecting the blade further right. As she did so she turned her body to the right, and with a tense grip brought her left hand saber down towards the shaft of the spear, hoping to split the weapon. She'd placed everything on this gamble, that if she could manage to disarm the Jedi, even for a moment, she could deal with this pet once and for all.

 

Kahla continued her spin, coming face to face with the Acklay as its massive claws came down toward her. She called upon all her strength, both in the muscle of her body and the steel in her arm as she swung to catch the creature's left claw head on. She could hope to wound, or even disable the weapon-like appendage, but at the very least she'd knocked it from its fetal course. As she continued the turn off the heavy strike, the other claw caught the larger left shoulder pad, yanking on her shoulder and tearing it from its place. The serrated claw sliced against her flesh, and ripped into the muscle of her shoulder. The pain was unlike what she'd experienced before, sharp, yet dull, and anything but a clean slice. Kahla roared as the pain gripped her being. But she had practiced, she took the pain, using it to power her hatred like a great war machine. The roar she cried was not just of pain, but of warning as she continued her spin, ending in a lunging stab towards the center of the Jedi, one that channeled her hatred to a fine point and aimed like a weapon of its own.

 

As blood splashed into the mud, blending with the brown muck, Kahla focused her fury on the Jedi for turning such a creature loose on her like hounds to an escaped prisoner. She would prove herself no such prisoner, that she now wielded the power that once oppressed her.

 

 

((Defensive Actions/Damage Taken)) ((Attacks made)) ((3))

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Once more, she felt herself pulled into the movements of Ataru, moving with fluidity as the Sith redirected her spear. But in her pain from her wounds, she made the mistake of trying retaliate against the warrior's strike, and her spear was sheared in half as she swung, the blade deactivating. Luckily, all of the sensitive components were close to the blade, the lost half essentially a light metal rod elongated for reach, but it was little comfort to her as the weapon's functional half sailed through the air and embedded itself in the mud. Had the Sith continued her assault, Kadi would have likely fallen. But instead, she turned, seeming to believe that all Kadi had was her spear. Kadi reached for her belt, drawing her survivalist knife. It was a deft blade, light and small at around 5 inches, but one she was familiar with.

 

For a moment, it occured to her how battered she must look. Bleeding, scorched, with the wrong half of a lightspear in her off-hand and a mere knife in the other. But she was a Jedi- She would stand against this Sith, no matter the odds. As the Sith sent blows against her friend and companion, she rushed forward to the Sith's exposed back. With the glorified metal pipe, she struck towards the back of the Sith's knee, hoping to throw her off of her course. She dropped the pipe as the swing finished, reaching out with the force to the functional half, and willing it towards herself. She could hear Juro's cry as a saber bit deep into one of his legs. Kadi felt compassion for her injured companion, but she knew the way of the wild. A predator like Juro was not stranger to pain, and to battle. The only difference between him receiving the injury her instead of while hunting was that the Sith before her delivered it out of spite, rather than self preservation.

 

Once again, the duel culminated in a single thrust towards her chest. Her mind raced at a million miles an hour as her insincts decided her course of action. Up, like before? She was too injured- she wouldn't clear the distance in time. Down? She would just be putting her face in the path of the blade instead. Parry? Her knife was saber resistant, but she'd made the mistake of trying to match this warrior's blow already, and had payed for that decision. She braced herself- she knew what was coming. She twisted, and the blade missed it's intended target, impaling her right shoulder. Her vision went white as pain seared her nerved, and she let out a pained cry, her quiet stoicism broken.

 

She had to push through.

 

She focused herself, breathing heavily through the pain in the brief moment that it took for her to move again. Luckily, her right arm required minimum movement in that moment. She drove her knife towards the Sith's wrist, hoping to sever the nerves the let her hand close. Her other arm, now wielding the proper half of her spear, ignited the blade and drove it towards the Sith's chest in a similar move. In truth, she knew that her fate here didn't matter. She could hear the fighting in the Temple- She had bought all the time she could, and she was at peace with that. Maybe this would save a few more today.

 

Juro hesitated for a moment. He knew he had to strike, but he had grown cautious of the Sith's blade, and Kadi wouldn't command him to attack into them. But when she was impaled, Juro's hesitancy vanished, and he leapt forward to protect her as his maw opened, revealing rows of serrated, barbed teeth as he lunged for the Sith's head.

 

((3))

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Rainfall dampened the sound of screaming. It gave the cries a hollowness, stifling the ringing echoes before they could resound in chorus. The shouting of a disheartened garrison had lasted a moment, tinged with terror, before it had transformed into disjointed, chaotic shrieking. That too had lasted only a short time, before the rains and the cuts of a blade had changed them into the gurgling mewing of dying men.

 

Vorin stood now amongst the dead, the zweihänder an inky stain of crimson-mottled night resting in his hands. It seemed to smoke in his hands, coated in crimson crystals that formed from rainwater and blood, dripping down to shatter upon the Temple’s floor.

 

Why are we not still killing?

 

Bloodletter’s whispers was the background of the Sith Warrior’s world, and yet even a Sith sword could not create more enemies where there were none. The Jedi he had slain had led the reargaurd of the Temple’s forces, and other than the terror that hung upon the meager winds of the dying hurricane, there was nothing to fight. At least here, one the outskirts of the Temple, the fight was done.

 

Sulpheric eyes stared up at the imposing walls of the Temple. There, he could feel a vibrant, soothing presence at the heart of the Temple. A wanting, a lustful rage grew in his heart, to be at the heart of the war. Vorin drew in a deep breath of the hurricane’s dying wind, letting it chill within his lungs. He forced the rage to change, to take on the coolness of his breath, attuning his mind to Wrath.  He could feel the life before him, beckoning him to crush it from existence.

 

So a few Jedi still breath…

 

The flock was bereft of its guardian and the wolves were at the door. Footfalls left behind a trail of ice and the Sith Warrior approached the main wall of the Temple. He brought with him a fell wind, but no raging fire. His signature was not that normative flame of a warrior, staining the force with unrestrained rage and wrath; his was a cool sociopathy. Vorin set his jaw, a placid expression removing emotion from his face. A light was ahead, a cerulean brand that marked a Jedi.

 

They do love to mark themselves in such garish displays…

 

Crimson flame blazed as blaster-fire whipped in the air, the ever-present calling card of chaos. A few soldiers fired from the shattered cover of a breach in the wall. A shimmering in the air almost caused the Sith Warrior to smile; another Jedi was holding the breech with a shield, and before it the Jedi with the azure blade defending the gap.

 

Vorin landed near the rubble, stepping quickly beside one of the soldiers. The markings on the uniform signed the Twi’lek as a medic. Before her lay a shuddering Wookiee, wounded in the abdomen by an axe-blow. Its blood stained the wind with its pungent scent. Sulpheric eyes seemed to glow in the darkness as he stared at the Jedi, watching him as he cut through Sith forces. The Jedi behind the shield would be able to see him clearly. He allowed himself to exude his coolness into the Force, mirroring his feelings as he had killed the last Jedi, savoring her blood on his lips. It had been him that had killed the Jedi who had held the rear-guard, and he would kill them too. 

 

Oh… you want them to see…

 

The Sith Warrior measured the medic in front of his for a millisecond before he drove the icy blade into the base of the Twi’lek’s spine, right above her hips, crippling her in an instant. He pushed the blade further into her until the tip pierced the soft flesh of her belly and then ripped it from her with a savage flourish, her blood spilling onto the shattered gravel in a half-frozen slurry. Her scream was ear-piercing, and he fed upon it, drinking it in along with her terror, twisted joy blossoming in his heart.

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Death is No Escape

 

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Duel Ruling with Nok/Tarko advising

 

A great duel between friends, I am glad that you both did this duel and both your characters were very well played. 

 

Khala, one note before the ruling for future use:

Lightsaber throws are not your forte. And lightsaber throws that complete their arc and come back to your hand are slightly abusive as that removes some of the defensive plays your opponent can use. I would look to other attacks in the future. 

 

However this comes down to the last post. In a warrior sentinel fight it's all about negotiating range, and while this was effective for the majority of the duel and Juro was used well, the final post was in my opinion a major misstep on Kadi’s part. 

 

Letting yourself get impaled is one thing, it's a visceral amount of damage, but then moving that arm/shoulder while impaled would significantly open the wound channel if not sever your entire shoulder and arm. Not to mention you have already been wounded on the shoulder already. As such the last attacks made by Kadi are unrealistic with the scope of the major injury. A spear attack requiring a lot of body movement that would open wound channels even more. As cool visually as that would be of pulling yourself through a lightsaber blade to attack like a Uruk Hai, it does not work. Leaving Kadi essentially at the mercy of a strong Sith Warrior at their optimal range. 

 

As such a wounded Khala is the victor.

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Ca'Aran

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The final trails of evacuees streamed from the temple under streaking fire of Jedi fighters overhead. They launched salvo after salvo into the advancing Sith horde as the Jedi defenders and soldiers on the ground held the line, slowly giving ground as the final Jedi transports began to takeoff. Only a few remained, the bravest and most steeled Jedi pilots awaiting the defenders that would manage to escape. Those that did not have fighters or craft of their own would inevitably need a way off planet.

 

In the fray, Leena held her own. The sound of battle surrounded her, pain, suffering, fear, and dying. Yet through it all, the healer felt the tendrils of light that bound lives and the forces of good together as one. They were twisted and braided together, unbreakable against the onslaught. Even without her weapon, Leena was helping hold back the crashing tidal surge of darkness. She was a beacon of amplified light side energy and power glowing against the nightshade of evil.

 

The healer’s comm buzzed notifying her of the transports’ status and that a retreat was in order, a fighting retreat. No man, woman, or child should be left behind; relics and artifacts, younglings, elders, and noncombatants already safely away. Across the battlefield other Jedi and troop leaders were made aware of the same. They began to fall back, felling Sith forces as they beat a retreat to the landing platforms and awaiting ships.

 

Leena held her position, the surge of enemy forces breaking against her seawall of solidified force power. Even still, she kept pouring power into the barrier as she gingerly stepped backwards making her way towards the rendezvous point. Beyond the glimmering wall of energy, Leena felt a cold surge of deathly energy, a harbinger of death. Looking up, the Mon Cal could see him in the distance, carving through Jedi forces beyond the wall. It was time to go; but for a few more minutes, she would hold the line. These were her patients, every one of them. Nobody would be left behind.

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There was surprise in the Sith's eyes as the crimson plasma drove into the Jedi's body. She'd done well so far, avoiding the majority of her blows, or at least deflecting them enough not to do substantial damage. Was this a trick? Was she simply playing into the Knight's hands? The thought that once again, all was for nothing plagued her mind. The memories of defeat after defeat circled her thoughts like a powerful typhoon.

 

The Jedi twisted out a knife, one clearly not meant as a weapon, more a tool. She had to be desperate. Kahla flicked her offhand saber to deter the improvised attack. The muscle in her shoulder ached and throbbed for being forced to flex. As the second blade caught and flung the steel implement she was blinded by the sky blue light that came forth from the carcass of the spear she'd severed. In an instant Kahla extinguished her left saber, to keep it out of the way as she pulled her primary blade up in her metallic grip. The vibrant red blade hastily burned through the Jedi's clavicle before twisting left to catch the spear's point in its path.

 

As Kahla turned similarly to how the Jedi had, their blades met. The strength in metal shoved the spearhead down from its fetal path, but not completely free of its collision with her body. The azure plasma burned a path along her hip, only just missing the bone. Once again Kahla roared in pain, near crushing the hilt of her sabers in her iron grip. As her head lifted her gaze met the endless rows of predatorial teeth as the maw of the beast began its brutal path.

 

She lacked the strength to further force her off hand into action, and so she simply made a deft stab towards the creature. As its eyes caught the scarlet blade it hesitated, seeming to have associated the warm hue with the pain she'd caused it. The beast retreated for a moment, only long enough for Kahla to turn her attention back to the Jedi.

 

She had fallen.

 

Confusion once again captured Kahla. She hadn't sensed the death of this warrior's spirit, though she laid so seemingly lifeless. Had she fallen unconscious? Perhaps the pain of the near severed shoulder had pushed her beyond her limit. The Sith turned once more to the screeching acklay, staring it down as it paced forward and back, advancing as it ached for a chance to get to the duo, but receding in fear of the looming figure. Kahla knew she couldn't continue the fight, too exhausted and injured to resist the creature any more. The hilts of her saber clasped to her waist before she pulled the split spear to her hands, a trophy for her to claim.

 

Never breaking her eye contact with the monster, she retreated to the front line, Sith forces still holding the rebels occupied. They seemed mostly unconcerned with the withdrawing Sith.

 

A shuttle had set down in the opening before her, the ramp hissing as it opened to let out the next wave of troopers. They ran past her, few batting an eye, never to question the dealings of their betters. Though a medic halted, choosing to follow Kahla back to the shuttle. She would have time soon enough to revel in her victory, for now her health was her top concern.

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From the darkness, comes the truth. And within the darkness, all lost is found. For the darkness hides everything unwanted or unspoken, and from it, is birthed brutal honesty. And before Shiro, in the abyss that has became his mind, came the coldest truth he had ever had to face. What was the reason for his existence? For him to walk the path that he does? What was Shiro? What was his testament?

 

Shiro had fought, had murdered. He enlisted in the Imperial Marines to flee persecution. And now he walked the path as Sith to feed his hunger. But these were menial excuses. Not truths. Nor were they even half truths. In the abyss, in the darkness, hidden in the recesses of his mind, he knew what had always been hidden. He empowered himself with Pride, with Wrath, with Hatred. But as Lady Awenyyd had spoken before, these were not his Sins. They were but stepping stones, enhancements. But where did his true power come from. What sin kept him going? Which held his mind and body together through the devastation he wrought upon himself?

 

A murderous smirk crossed his face as the truth revealed its self before him, the opened maw of his reflection revealing the endless pit within his soul. And so, Gluttony had always been there within him, an endless hunger. Power, Destruction, Death, Punishment, War. It echoed within him like vibrant resonance, a complete picture painted with the ease of a brush stroke. And as the smirk widened into a grin upon the reflection of his soul, the endless maw slammed shut, and a blackened gaze stared back as the reflection became distorted. Before Shiro stood the reflection of the Rancor.

 

Eyes shot open and peered around the cluttered cave and toward the ravenous maw of the Rancor from before as it peered down over his laid form. His body felt broken, unable to move as his gaze met the eyes of the looming beast. And around him, the darkness swirled majestically, pure and unbridled. Magicks courses his veins as the Sisters stood about and briefly recognized his consciousness. And the ground shook with power as the beast moved around. Shiro was surprised that he still lived. And beside him, Shiro could feel a weapon, a lance embued with the very darkness that seeped the soil of Lehon. Before his mind could make sense, the Sister from before spoke.

 

"Pull yourself together, Apprentice. Your Master awaits." She spoke, her voice full of disdain. "The beast thought you dead, and has not left your side. It seems he has chosen you despite our commune over our thoughts on this matter."

 

Slowly Shiro began to rise, grasping at the lance to hold onto as he began to gather his footing. The beast turned it's gaze and lifted it's gigantic hand to his side in aid. As Shiro's gaze met that of the beast, it's voice vocaled syllables of significance, causing Shiro's gaze to look in shock. "Arrrr-tooorr"

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The surge of Sith pressed harder and harder, like a tidal force coming in reaching for it’s highest crescendo. They were in a losing battle and even Leena knew that, so when the order that all but the transports for those on the ground were away, orders were relayed to begin to fall back to the landing pads. Lehon was lost, but hope was not as long as a Jedi stood against the darkness. No man or woman, no child, no droid, nothing of sentient value would be left behind.

 

And so the forces of light began their fighting retreat. Leena backed away, pouring herself into the shield that held the gap as she distanced herself from it. Her brow glistened with exertion as it soaked into her already saturated and clinging robes. The longer the wall held, the more lives she could save here.  
 

A familiar screech echoed across the cacophony of the battlefield. Chancing a glance from her determination, Leena saw Juro, the arachnid-like Acklay towering above the battlefield as it scurried and skittered towards the evacuation craft. Atop the creature, Leena felt her, more than saw. The unmoving lump was Kadi. She knew it. There was still life in her, but for how long, Leena did not know. She just knew that she had to get to them and find her apprentice, wherever he was.  She would not loose them all, not in one day, not here. That was not the Jedi way. The temple was lost, her saber who knew where, her friends dead and dying, her apprentice missing in the fray. Leena struggled to hold the shield as her concentration faltered under the deluge of doubt that came with these thoughts. Then it collapsed. The force of the Sith’s withering firepower and Leena’s own mortality bringing down the protective layer of energy. Leena tripped, sprawling in the mud and pooled water and blood and she lay there while all about her chaos erupted tenfold. She lay there trying to come to grasp with what was happening. The world swirled all around her.

 

Another ear-splitting cry from the acklay drew Leena’s attention back to reality. Gunfire and explosives echoed all about her. Pushing herself to her feet, Leena extended herself in the force searching for her apprentice while her feet began to move towards the transports along with the others. More than once, she sent a telekinetic blast outwards sending encroaching Sith executioners flying backwards through the air. “Simka!!”

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Vorin watched as the shield collapsed, judging the Jedi that had held it for so long against the ferocious onslaught of the Dark Side. It appeared to be a young woman, born to that underwater race from which Akbar and others had come. He hadn’t seen a Jedi like her before, so much life swirled about her, warm and vibrant. He wondered what would be reflected in those large, watery eyes as he crushed her windpipe. Would she favor him with a last trace of dying hope, turning to bitter terror in that last heartbeat?

 

Do you think... an underwater species can drown in their own blood?

 

The Sith Warrior dropped the squealing, choking Twi’lek into the slurry of her blood, pausing to watch the tremors that ran the length of her lekku, before striding into the onslaught. He carried Bloodletter on his shoulder, the blade a formless dark current beset with crimson stars. It appeared like the blood-kissed sky on a night of fire.

 

A blast of telekinetic energy surged against him, shattering away the crystalline matrixes of sith-formed ice, but yet he stood. He slowed his steps, advancing offline from the Jedi, circling like a predatory beast watching a sick yew. Wind cracked the air, fluttering the strip of cloth, stained as it was with Jedi’s blood, like a banner in battle upon his belt.

 

He didn’t care to speak, if she wished, this Jedi would share the fate of the one he had slain or join in the terror of a hasty retreat. There would be many of their wounded to feast upon yet.

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Death is No Escape

 

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At the froth of the Sith’s tidal surge, the Jedi fell back, their blades whirling blurs of protective energy against the darkness. The Jedi fought a hasty retreat to their transports; each one lifting off and rocketing for open space with an escort of Jedi Aces and fighter craft. Every Jedi and Rebel craft circled back from their strafing of Sith forces to carry their transports and their cargo towards freedom. Angling away from the Sith fleet, they surged towards the stars and hyperspace, the hopes of the Jedi Temple at Lehon borne within.

 

On the wave of encroaching doom, Leena felt the presence of frigid evil cresting. She beat her way towards the last transports as they were beginning to lift off. She grabbed Simka as she passed him heading towards another craft pulling him after her towards a closer craft.

 

The healer could feel his eyes boring into her very soul, cold tendrils clawing at her heart. Chancing a look over her shoulder, she saw him, like a feral half-starved beast at the edges of the herd. He did not strike as his minions did, a king over his minions he waited. No, he stalked, a great beastly predator waiting to kill and feast. His gaze was an icy challenge beckoning Leena to come at him, to fight him off, to clash against him in battle, to buy time to save the others and chance singlehandedly turning the tide of battle for the forces of good. They were temptations that whispered to the girl’s heart, playing on her deepest desires. They twisted her good intentions trying to subvert them for evil, compelling her to sin. 

 

Leena squeezed her eyes shut steeling herself against the wave of dark sucking emotions. They tasted sweet on her tongue. She desired nothing more than to fight off this monster. She wanted to stop him, to stand in the gap and buy precious time for the others. Knotting her hand into Simka’s robes, she pulled her apprentice aboard the last remaining transport. It’s engines were already igniting, the roar of their power carried across the battlefield.  As the ship began to lift off and the boarding ramp starting to raise, Leena chanced one final look at the predatory Sith. “Not today,” she mouthed, her words lost to the roar of the transport before turning to walk further inside. Inside, Leena sighed, looking back again as the ramp slammed shut. She had a greater responsibility. She was a Jedi. She did not serve her own desires; however noble. She would not be a pawn twisted by the dark side.  Leena blinked back a tear of pain for they that had fallen. She could feel the pain that radiated aboard the ship. The craft shook and creaked as her pilots pushed it to the edge in an effort to protect the lives of all aboard.

 

 

Somewhere amongst the last vestiges of combatants to flee the planet, Juro was providing a protective space for his charge. Leena heard his familiar cry deeper within. With a heavy sigh, she released Simka’s arm. She looked weary and downtrodden, almost beaten. Shaking her head, she looked into Simka’s eyes through her own tears. “We are not free of them yet. Neither are we done yet. Help them Simka.”

 

With a heave, Leena moved forward into the ship searching for Kadi, feeling her clinging to life by a thread. As she moved, Leena’s hand instinctively moved to her waist, realizing for the first time that she still had not gotten her weapon back. She wondered where it was, feeling deep down that she would never see the weapon again. She had no way of knowing that the Guardian she had given it to lat sprawled in the mud of Lehon, dead, her blade ground into the muck. A wave of dark emotions swept over the Jedi Master even as she found Juro and Kadi.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Oh my… She seems to be still… Alive?

 

The crimson-eyes Arkanian looked up from where he sat upon the dark snow, legs crossed, meditating amongst the dead and dying. It took effort for him to tear his mind from the sound of death. Every drip of blood was its own rhythm within the songs of war. Every strangled cry, every rattling cough was a voice to a holy chorus. That choir was as ecstasy from which the Sith Warrior was reluctant to turn from.

 

A bitter, retching cough came from the snow at his feet. A breath of warmth began to turn the frost into a trickle of reddened water. It appeared like wine, spilling across a white canvas. Vorin focused upon the warmth, breaking into it with his mind.

 

…I cant feel my legs…

 

So the Twi’lek medic was still alive, her insides churned to carmine slush by the thrust of Bloodletter. She was barely moving. It wouldn’t be long now.

 

Mhmmm… Draw me again

 

The leather-bound pommel, so stiff with the cold the Sith could feel the wire binding that lay beneath. The blade made no sound as he unwrapped it. It appeared so formless in the faded light, a crimson night without stars. Yet, he didn’t strike. He listened instead to her heartbeat as it grew slower, its rhythm fading to join the quieting chorus of the lifeless.

 

A Krath approached, stepping gingerly amongst the strewn bodies, careful not to stain his verdant robes with the consequences of war. The Vermandois had shown up after all. A prim voice blossomed into the night as the man proffered a Jedi flag to Vorin, crumpled in a manicured fist.

 

“Well done taking the planet, Blackmorne.”

 

The Sith Warrior affixed the beautiful, proper man with his silent state.

 

“A new Dark Lord has been… Crowned. Our Court supports her, Nyrys, an apprentice of Sheog.”

 

Vorin nodded, Bloodletter across his knees, crystals of ice forming upon it and then melting away in a rain of red. When he spoke, it was slow and deliberate, like the grinding of a stonemill upon grain.

 

“Then... this planet is hers.”

 

He moved his eyes from the Krath, watching the slurried blood creep from the Twi’lek’s shattered chest. Somewhere he knew the blood of the Nightsister girl had stained the ground and his indifference grew. Had it been a victory then? It surely felt like a defeat.

Death is No Escape

 

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Lehon. A filthy backwater that was only freshly occupied by Sith forces. He'd heard troubling reports that had led him here- Someone on the ground had reported that Quela Darksong had not only nearly suffered another loss, but had disappeared from the field of battle. It was the final straw of a concerning chain of events that led him to believe that she may have been an agent for forces that wanted the Empire dead. From her failure to stop the Rebels from escaping Kuat, to her failure to take Correlia, to Felucia and now here, Darksong's movements in the Sith had been disastrous for all the Sith forces involved. Even here, with this gross misallocation of resources, even her barely won victory had cost the Empire dearly. If these forces had remained at Alderaan, they could have responded when Korriban was struck.

 

And so here he was, tasked with investigating her disappearance. At best, one of her subordinates killed her and assumed command after witnessing her incompetence. At worst, she had fled as a traitor and taken the Empire's secrets with her. He would learn what he could, and then relay that to his superiors. Even if he found her, which was unlikely, he was too low right now on the totem pole to take action against the Sith Master. Regardless, he was needed. He would start with asking the loyal Sith who remained- Darth Tyra and Lord Blackmorne, who had both succeeded where their commander had failed in breaching the temple grounds. It was at the ruined temple that his shuttle touched down, and he took a moment to breathe in the death and despair around him. What was left of the defenders were dying or being captured, and the dead's souls drifted in the Force. He stepped carefully over a dead defender, making sure not to catch his coat on the bloody remains. He could sense death clouding the battlefield, but it was considerably thicker in anguish and agony at one of the further breaches. He would start there.

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  • 1 month later...

Vorin stared at the rain-darkened sky, sulpheric-yellow eyes glittering. The damaged lammelar plating ground and squealed as he slowly stood, shards of crimson ice cracking away like pebbles from a mountain, sliding to join the bloodied slurry at his feet. Pain coursed from his wounds, a burning caustic thing that crept into the background of his mind, spreading like creep-vines upon an ancient temple. His slow breathing caught on his tongue, an unsteady heartbeat of rage beginning to colour the world in red.

 

Oh, you think you’ve had it rough?

 

Vorin’s fingers tightened around the roughened leather bandings of Bloodletter’s hilt, the Zweihander dripping the rain from it in inky blots that twisted with the reflection of the fading light, cast as though through a mirror darkly.

 

You only let me kill twelve rebels! Twelve. In a war!

 

The Sith Lord ground his teeth, and straining as though against a great weight, placed Bloodletter into the sheath on his back. Dark, blotted ice crystals flowed and sealed across it, sealing it as if below a frozen lake. The Warrior shook his head, tying his unkempt hair into a snow-white, rain tangled plait with a banding of leather.

 

Lord Blackmorne stepped lightly across the dead, his boots grinding on the strewn viscera, feces, and blood of war. The putridity, that carrion-song, was ripe in his nostrils as he walked towards another of the Sith Lords who came from the entry-way. He was of fine stock, that pale brooding and pompous sort that made up the Imperial Court and its intelligence offices. Vorin’s own armor leaked blood slowly, and was stained by the corruptions of the dead. A ghoul compared to the finery of this newcomer.

 

The Court of Madness had named this one as Umbra, Lord of the Necromancers. This was a different sort of dead-monger than his own Master, Sheog, one of refinement. Not blood-bound to the sins and their pleasures. Unbidden, Bloodletter thrummed in the force, the ice grinding upon its sheath in mimicry of the death rattles that had been the chorus of this battlefield hours before. Blackmorne’s voice was that of shifting stones, seldom used and exhausted.

 

“If you have come for war, I fear you have missed the worst of it.”

 

He bowed his head in reverence, causing a new, glistening trickle of crimson to spill from a wound on his neck. Under Exodus, the deaths of common soldiers had been of little consequence, but to lose the number of Lords and Masters that this pitiful planet had cost the Sith Empire, there would surely be a reckoning. Much less the Right Hand of The Spider, the lady Qaela. 

 

“I suppose you come to find the Nightsisters that commanded this mission, and so I must place myself at your mercy, for they did not survive the battle. I accept the failure of their deaths as mine, as I could not preserve them for the Dark Lord's pleasure

Death is No Escape

 

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Umbra chuckled at the warrior-s statement. He had just come from a battle on Korriban, and while he had no qualms about killing off these rebels and their sympathizers, he also valued the need to recuperate after fight. War exhaustion was real, and many Sith, whether they be of the order or not, had fallen to it before, and many more would fall to it still.

 

"I'm fresh from battle. The Rebels struck at Coruscant. I would still be assessing the damage there if it weren't for my superiors tasking me on an investigation into this campaign."

The warrior gave his report, and Umbra frowned. He reported failure, but the planet was theirs, and he could sense death on his fellow Sith's blade. He did not stand before Umbra in pristine armor, polished to a shine, wielding an untested weapon. His armor was damaged, muddied. His blood seeped into the ground, and his weapon had been drawn.

 

"The failure is not yours, comrade. I came on suspicion of treason, committed by the Lady Darksong. But if she is no more, then the situation will have resolved itself. In truth, it saves much work- Investigations take time, and they can quickly turn bloody if handled... Improperly. While I do enjoy such things, it is very messy business, a thing that drives a wedge in our ranks and powerbases at a time where we must present a united front in the face of an organized rebellion."

 

His gaze surveyed the scene- the Sith had taken the temple, but the cost had been a large portion of the Sith Fleet deployed to a fringe of the galaxy, and likely the support of the Nightsisters. It was something that would need a note, at least. His eyes lingered on the Vermandois, taking in the man's appearance. It seemed he was not the only Sith in the Intelligence community interested in the events here. He gave a respectful nod to the senior Krath before returning his attention to the Sith before him.

 

"I am Krath Umbra, of Sith Internal Affairs. I don't believe we've met. The pleasure is mine, surely. Do you perhaps have time to inform me of the events that took place here? I only have fringe reports and generalities from the briefing I got from my officers."

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The Sith Lord stared into Umbra’s eyes, his own narrowing as the Intelligence Officer spun a tale of betrayal and treason. It was a story he had heard often of one Sith Lord or the next. It was the nature of the Dark Side, unrestrained passions moved a soul towards independence and a natural conflict with leadership. The other side of the credit chit was the obvious pairing, those that delved deep into the darkness were driven to paranoia; such power was never a stable thing.

 

“If the Rebellion has truly become united, then The Spider’s plans were not but folly. A time of purging then…”

 

Bloodletter almost purred in its sheathe, its voice serpentine and nearly orgasmic with the thought

 

The useless Sithlings cast to the carrion. How beauteous that would be!

 

Blackmorne’s grim jawline became more defined as he gave the Sith before him a rueful grin and spread upon his arms and hands in a gesture of more familial greeting, blood still dripping from him. The Court of Madness had never been one for the crippling haughtiness of a Dark Lord’s Court, and often spurned the formalities.

 

“I am Vorin Blackmorne, of the Court of Madness. I have titles to throw about, but who cares for such things. Call me Vorin.”

 

Tza Anachas, one of the Sith Warriors that had joined Blackmorne from Sheog’s court, a handsome Cathar girl, handed Umbra a datapad, with vid records of the battle and set up a small projector which displayed the battlemap as it now stood.

 

“The nightsisters seemed to have led a strong attack at the temple’s outer walls and on the enemy’s skirmish line in the forest. Reports are that most of our nightsister allies were slaughtered there. Some pretty Jedi with an Acklay I think.”

 

Vorin shrugged, Tza displaying a few numbers in the basic script demonstrating approximated dead on each side for the skirmish and assault. He gestured to the landing pad, a fleck of blood pixelating the display for a moment as it passed through the hologram.

 

“My warriors, a dozen of the Court’s finest, attacked from the side of the landing pad, at their retaining wall with me at their head.”

 

The image blurred into a still image of Vorin and Armenia Draygo facing each other, Bloodletter driven through the woman’s chest.

 

“I met a fierce fighter, some Jedi woman of considerable strength… But the Dark Side prevails. When she fell, the garrison faltered, then crumbled.”

 

Numbers appeared noting only a few wounded from Vorin’s squad, with an opposing number of Jedi and Soldiers displaying medium to high casualty rates.

 

“They were able to evacuate at the last, we could not get through a Force Shield in time to route them truly and kill what had remained. Many refugees escaped. Some did not.”

Death is No Escape

 

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As the shuttle transitioned back into realspace, Darth Nyrys was immediately struck by a very different aura emanating from the world below. Sure there were ancient echoes of a nearly forgotten empire, but from the ashes was erupting a new and visceral sensation. Despite the presence of so many warships, the planet seemed fully intact, and not another victim of boundless destruction. The music in the darkness here was alien, not the familiar songs of the Sith, but the melodies could be changed to serve their purpose. 

 

Upon landing, she could feel the wondrous glory of honorable martial battle in resonant tones that made her heart soar. There was both fire and ice in the ether, casting the world in beautiful dissonance through their disparity. Balance was the pursuit of stoned philosophers, those who walked in the world knew that greatness was born of conflict and the clashing of opposites.

 

She approached the Sith command center feeling revitalized, the turgid waters of depression evaporating away as her warrior’s heart sang. Perhaps among these Sith she would find truer kin than the scheming courtiers on Naboo. Stillness gave way to a torrent of emotions, and the weight left the heft of her blade as she entered the current both as the warrior and the river.

 

A Sith warrior with a skillfully crafted greatsword was finishing his report to another Sith as she entered. “As long as the honorable combatants were found and overcome, that is what matters. They are the stone upon which we sharpen our blades. Refugees sap the resources and energy of our enemies, and provided that our soldiers fight with vigor and resolve, spread stories of our glory and might.”

 

“So tell me, who amongst our number fought well here so that there deeds might be commended?”  

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Umbra nodded at the man's introduction. Curt and quick. Warriors were refreshing- they almost always say what they mean. So much politicking was just... unnecessary when speaking with a warrior.

 

"Your name and station are enough. The rest should be saved for banquets, not the battlefield."

 

He payed close attention to the briefing. The entire skirmishing force broke upon one Jedi? Either the Jedi was strong, or the skirmish was weak. The Nightsisters had always remained a conundrum to him. The strongest of them had claimed to be Sith, and the rest followed the Sith like lost pets, looking for their owners. And yet, in battle, their knowledge of the wildlife and the darkside made them, valuable assets. Luckily, it seemed the brunt of the attack went well and the walls were taken with relatively few casualties. The recording of the battlefield caught his eye, and he laughed heartily as Vorin finished his report. 

 

"It's no surprise the garrison broke after your kill. The Jedi you faced is known as Armenia Draygo, the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order. An impressive kill, to be sure. As for the refugees, it matters not. We weren't here to kill every last person. That you have chased off their forces into full retreat is enough."

 

He rubbed his chin, watching the recording again. It was rare for Sith to show such promise so early. He could only hope that the man would emerge from the Court of Madness with a better grasp on his sanity than Sheog the Mad. His focus was pulled away by a new voice, one that he didn't recognize. But he certainly recognized the armor of who it belonged to. He gave a deep bow, his arm across his chest.

 

"My lady, it is an honor. I've just been briefed myself, but it seems Lord Blackmorne has distinguished himself. He has slain the Grandmaster in single combat. I know not of others yet, however."

Edited by Mavanger

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The ramp hissed as it dropped slowly into the gravel, the dust settled as the Fury's thrusters died away. Not a hundred meters away towered a massive door into the mountain, thick black clouds rolled over the rocky surface of the mountaintop, stretching far into the horizon. Flashes of white plasma illuminated the furious storm above, in their wake followed ear shattering thunder. A soul crushing darkness filled the depths of Darth Tyra's heart as she stepped forward to the colossal stone doors. Each of her breaths felt labored, the air was thickened by the hatred that fueled this place. An icy chill ran through her veins as her left hand made hesitant contact with the ornate basalt. Her focus honed onto the darkness of this place, the darkness that she'd allowed intertwine with her being. A crack of lightning struck her landing craft, sparks flew by her as the great mechanism that had held the seal shut for so long worked, clunking and thumping before the doors loosened, and finally opened.

 

She'd spent a long few hours in the bacta tank; waiting patiently for the more grievous wounds to heal to a more malleable state. Finally it was time for her to find some semblance of reward for her actions; in taking up this mantle in the absence of the one that came before her. She stepped forward into the depths of the tomb, with only a simple signal flare to illuminate the damp halls in crimson light. Great pillars held the weight of the mountain above her head, stone coffins held the bodies of ancient warriors of the Sith, her heavy footsteps echoed as she drudged on, deeper into these catacombs. As her mind drifted into the depths of the darkness, she'd failed to notice the thick grey fog fill the room. No longer could she perceive the walls, but could only barely make out the pillars around her. Her feet had begun to resist her, and each step no longer echoed a stone floor, but a muddied shlop.

 

The final room laid ahead of her, as she stepped through she could feel her legs snag on a steel wire that gripped against the cloth and plates of her armor. The cold had sept in, waring at her skin, slowly chilling her flesh. She shivered, slowed by the heavy, damp and cold air. Then, finally revealed to her, a podium upon which an ancient artifact sat. A crown of broken and jagged bones, with a faceplate of black steel with a curving Y shaped eye slit. It was beautiful in its unsymmetrical structure, seemingly favoring the left, with each tooth of bone on that side reaching higher than those on its right.

 

The Serrated Diadem

 

With both hands she lifted it from its cradle and peered into the depths of its mask. A horror came over her, dread filled the room. Her resolve had to be steady, and she pushed against what felt like an immovable object in her soul. She turned the crown, as panic began to force her heart to drive, her every instinct to tell her to drop it and run for the doors through which she entered. With great willpower she lowered the crown onto her head; and then silence, blackness.

 

The thunderous boom of a shell impacting the mud, causing the soil to eject into the air before raining down. The whine of bolts blitzing past. There were screams, distant and near, of suffering and despair.

 

And then, nothing. No screams, no bullets, no shells, wires, mud, fog. Just the amber hues bouncing off the black stone walls. The sudden silence was haunting, but the worrier was prideful in her seeming triumph over the Sith illusions. There was still a great deal of adrenaline in her system, and she jumped at every sudden noise that came from the halls as she egressed the tomb. As she sat at the helm of her Interceptor, the adrenaline washed out of her, her heart steadied. It had seemed this Echo of the Past had run its course, and now this artifact would serve her purpose. Soon it would be time to discover how it would do so.

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

As her craft began its final approach of the Sith Command center a familiar presence washed over the ever present darkness of the helm. And a shuttle had already claimed one of the designated landing areas. The ship rocked as the landing gear made contact with the ground, and before long Darth Tyra made her way into the command center, where in other Sith had begun to congress. She was drawn here, into this room of new faces. She'd never been good with meeting the rest of this empire, but she felt at the very least it would be necessary to report the finding of her artifact to the one commanding over this battle. Kahla had come in behind a very commanding figure, one still addressing the room. Silently she fell in, stepping to the light only after the lady had finished speaking, so as not to interrupt.

 

The more posh of the men spoke next; speaking very highly of the fourth, and final Sith in the room. If the claim were true, that this one had felled the Grandmaster was incredibly impressive. Kahla could only be hopeful to ever live up to such an accomplishment. The unfortunate task of following up such an impactful statement fell upon her shoulders, and she knew she couldn't hesitate in her response.

"An extraordinary feat to say the least, Lord Blackmorne." She bowed her head respectfully. "While my claim could never be equal, I successfully slain a defending Jedi Knight on temple grounds; and defeated her pet in the process." 

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The Xerxes class deployment shuttle detached from the fuel lines of the star destroyer with a hiss of escaping fuel and oxygen. Four other identical drop ships trailed behind, each holding a cache of equipment and several dozen commandos. The shuttles were rounded, dark objects, whose durasteel and composite hull were crisscrossed with dampening panels to absorb radar and other sensor sweeps. Though these transports were not actually deploying for a high risk engagement, the commandos within were glad of the training. 

 

They hit the atmosphere at an oblique angle and the turbulence inside made the youngest passenger yelp in fright. Though she did her best to stifle it with a firm press of her hand to the side of her cybernetic unit, a fresh flush covered her freckled face and she buried her head into the pauldron armour of Sigrid Hensi who put an arm around her. Delta looked passively at his cringing adopted daughter, and then looked back out the small viewport. He thought for a moment before finally speaking. 

 

“There is much to be afraid of 43391. Turbulence is not one of them. If this was the turbulence of turbolasers then I would agree with the feeling. But worry not, the fear will pass with experience. For now, let go of dear Sigrid and sit straight. You are no longer a child.”

 

She nodded and sat up, Sigrid kept an arm around her none the less which Delta did not dispute. Æthe 43391 was a girl in need of a mother figure, and Sigrid was a good candidate. Even if His own pursuits were anything of the sort. A red light above the viewport lit like a flare, bright and glaring.

 

“Groundfall in less than a minute. Stand and prepare rifles.” 

 

They all stood, slipping their helmets on, another routine practice run, but they did need to look good for the Dark Lord. And as the light cycled to green, they draped to the sandy beaches below. 

 

Darkwatch had arrived. 

 

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Ca'Aran

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Umbra’s bray of laughter caught the Sith Warrior by surprise, disconcerting as it was. A small wince crossed his placid countenance. He had expected the emotion in its wake to be mockery for some unimagined aberration, but it was genuine happiness that had arisen.

 

So, that woman had been the leader of the entire Jedi Order? He had heard stories from the kretch-tellers of the Grandmasters, such names that had reached galactic infamy; Ara-Lai Kaipi, Starlisk, Kiralloca and so many others… The name Draygo had been among them. The one without a heart. Disbelief boiled into shock and doubt.

 

Blackmorne was saved from a stutteringly doubtful reply by the voice of a woman and the staggering weight of power he felt swirling within the Force. The presence was contained, held fast behind walls of iron, but it was not unlike standing before the Mad Hutt. A storm of energy, swirling in the background. It was like the instant you can taste and smell the rain before the first drop lands.

 

He turned to her and forced his battle-weary shoulders to bend, his scarred and roughened lammelar plating grinding as he bowed. This was no lotus-eater, bound into ivory towers with chains of arrogant gold. This woman had trained in the Court of Madness and had become the Dark Lord. Such a title never fell by de-facto, nor was it disgraced by nepotism.

 

The Sith Warrior took from its bindings the sheathed Zweihander, its only tassel the bloodied strip of the Grandmaster’s tunic and proffered it before him, a ceremonial offering of the victory over the Jedi. His hands held firm before him, but beneath the skin the muscles ached and cried for rest, the burnings of lactic acid lashing at his mind. One of his knees sunk unbidden to the ground and he bowed further.

 

“My deeds are few. War only makes heroes in stories. Had I known the Jedi I had fought to be important, I would have brought her to you alive. I offer you my sword, as a symbol of your victory here.”

 

Bloodletter was its own identity within the veil of the Force, forged as it was from Sheog himself. It was one of the Seven heirlooms of the Court of Madness. Its name of secrets was Accidie, for that was the emotion from which it was forged; that listless torpor that made mankind heavy in their own minds, driven in flight from their divine nature into the pitiful sorrow of the world.

 

From his knee, The Sith Lord contemplated the words of the others, and the newcomer whom he recognized from reports. He smell bacta on her, but even yet there were the stains of raw battle. He flashed her a genuine smile, one of warm welcome.

 

“Darth Tyra, you stood alone against what broke all the nightsisters and turned the tide of battle before the very gates of the Temple. I would raise her, Dark Lord, as a champion of this world.”

Death is No Escape

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

“There is no need to atone for an honorable kill, besides the Jedi have always been skittish prey, likely to pick up everything and scatter to the wind whenever they get the slightest sense that someone might have found one of their secret clubhouses. We are participants in a war eternal, and in such matters one can only find victory and purpose within, for no matter how many victories we achieve, there will always be more battles to come. That being said, I am not the Spider, and the fruits of the labor of our intelligence operatives will be clutched to my breast less jealously as we move forward.

 

Speaking of which, I do not know who knows what about that situation, but the Spider has vanished completely. I do not know whether or not he meant to disappear or if he ran afoul of the abyss that he had begun experimenting with, but before he ghosted us he gave me his lightsaber in a way that I assumed was a passing of the torch. It is not our way to transfer power in such a manner, so I have been traveling to each gathering of Sith and offering the opportunity to challenge me, so that we may continue our path under the rule of the strongest. If any here wish to challenge my claim to the title of Dark Lord, now is the time to do so.”   

 

    On the one hand, warriors of this sort would be the most likely to bristle at the idea of someone ascending the throne without trial by combat, but on the other hand the least likely to be driven by petty politics and ambition. Krath Umbra gave the impression of a Sith that had adapted to a very specific niche within the Empire, more interested in moving chess pieces on a specific board than running the entire show.

 

    She hated that she had to do this to begin with, and maybe that is why the Spider did it in the first place, sadistically gifting the title to the warrior who believed in earning everything. The former Dark Lord hadn’t seemed the type for pettiness when she had met him in the past, but here they were. Or perhaps in his own alien way of thinking he thought that he was honoring her devotion to the cause. So many questions left unanswered.

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  • 3 weeks later...

“Get up.”

 

Two pairs of eyes locked for a moment through ‘T’ shaped visors, before one quickly glanced away. A blush formed across her face, which was thankfully hidden from the rest of the training unit by the stark and impersonal helmet. One more push on already far too tired legs, a strain on muscles not used to the weight of Empire issued armour. Once more into the run, following the almost inhuman surge of durasteel clad bodies as they ran down the beachhead. Pushing through the pain, the exhaustion, and the dreaded feeling of knowing that this would all repeat tomorrow. It would repeat forever most likely. 

 

Was that all there was? Running from training to training, punctuated by long downtimes in barrack, until either she died or the Empire fell? She didn’t know, and most of her mind did not care. What else was there in life? A boring office job in some casino the Rebels would blow the nuclear reactor of? No, she would be like father. Someone who made the gears of the galaxy move. 

 

Shoulder arms. Run. Jump. Crawl. Shoulder arms. Fire. Climb. 

 

Æthe 43391 would be a soldier. 

 

_____________________________

 

Three long hours later, the leader of the Darkwatch watched the recruits as they slowly trekked up the beach, their helmets finally taken off, and enjoying the last few hours of sunlight. They would be woken up at 0200 hours local time for night training. But they didn’t know that, so he let them enjoy their short evening. 

 

“Langraf, Frostwin. Reports if you please.” 

 

The two commanding officers of the first and second special operations companies stepped forward with crisp salutes. 

 

“The digs continue at pace. Though we are not participating in their activities, the archeologists continue to enjoy the sight of our commando’s protecting them. I anticipate another few weeks of likewise activities, as they continue to hunt down their ‘world altering’ artifacts. Whatever those are.” 

 

Delta laughed sharply. Then turned to Frostwin who gave him a friendly shrug. 

 

“Training continues as you can see. They are coming along well though some of the scientists in this expedition have suggested some kind of enhancement ‘therapies.’” 

 

Delta’s grin turned into a frown. 

 

“Anyone asks to do that again and bring them to me. We will not have Sith magic preformed on our men. Understood?” 

 

They both saluted. They had seen enough of that in their service time in Black Sun. 

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Ca'Aran

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  • 2 weeks later...

Sleep was weird here in the sands of Lehon. She had dug foxholes before, mostly in the hard packed dirt of Onderon, but here the sides of the hole always seemed to tumble back down into the center. Supporting it with an armful or two of driftwood and durasteel scraps had held the hole together, but it made the thing awfully cramped. Especially when she added the tarpaulin covering. Plus the damned external battery she had to plug into her cybernetic unit every week. She lay back into the virtual nest of her foxhole, pulled the packed sleeping bag over her face, then plugged the two prongs into the side of her head. She pulled the auburn hair to the side, and with well practised fingers, opened the sliding panel on the dark grey cybernetic unit and pushed the two prongs from the external battery into place. 

 

Remember

 

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment as the cybernetic unit adjusted to power input instead of power output. This was always a weird feeling, and her vision seemed to turn to sparkles before it subsided back into the dim grey green of a tarpaulin ceiling. She let out a soft sigh and leaned her head back onto the makeshift of her long deployment pack. Charge nights were always long, the dull hum enough to keep her awake. And she was one of the few training recruits to hear the soft pattering of rain against the top of her makeshift shelter. But even despite the humming in her ears, the exhaustion from the days training won the battle over her subconscious and her eyelids fluttered once, twice, then she was asleep, even as small rivulets of water made their way from the evening rain, through the sand, and into the bottom of her foxhole. 

 

It was that rain that saved her life.

 

The cold and damp feeling of the wet sleeping bag, finally drove her out of sleep and into a fight for her life. A cold hand clamped firmly around her neck the moment she opened her eyes and she found herself staring into a horrible and beautiful face. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as the grip around her neck increased, the face close enough to bite, if she could resist the pressure around her neck. 

 

A cold smile from even colder grey lips. And she began to struggle in earnest. She struck out with a fist that smashed into the creatures face, then she dug at her gunbelt. Pawing at the retention holster as the creature leaned down towards her. Ignoring her fierce blows at its head and neck, unti she could only see its fangs. Its fangs and its great yellow eyes that seemed to want to stare into the very depths of her soul. 

 

That was if she even had a soul.

 

Snap.

 

The pistol came loose with the holster still attached and she held down the trigger as she crushed the forend of the blaster into the chest of the creature. It shuddered with the first shot, almost shocked and began to squeeze harder at her neck. Darkness began to appear around the edges of her vision as she squeezed the trigger again and again. But for every shot there was no easement from the creature. Instead, the darkness reached out welcoming hands, and swallowed her up. 

 

Sudden unconsciousness detected. Calculating. Shock administered. 

 

The cybernetic unit around the base of her skull flared to life. Pulsing a massive dose of electric shocks down her spinal column, and forcing the young woman from the sweet embrace of death. The creature screamed and flung itself away, Pawing at its mouth which leaked a mixture of Æthe’s blood and scraps of freckled skin. She screamed. A cry more for her dad than any fear. 

 

_____________________

 

And so death descended onto the camp and Delta awoke to the sound of screaming and blaster fire. 

 

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Ca'Aran

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Umbra listened intently to the newest Dark Lord's words. It was an interesting approach, to be sure. Sharing intel with the Sith was a double edged blade. It allowed them to act on more informed decisions, to further their powerbases, and stay informed of threats to the Sith Empire. All of these were admirable benefits. But it was not without risks. There would be more places to look if their secrets landed in enemy hands, whether it be through weakness or treachery. It would also remove a valuable asset the Spider had over his peers, one that had allowed him to maintain his grip on the Sith. A secret known to the Lords was a secret that the Dark Lord could not leverage in a power struggle. It was brave, and potentially foolhardy, but it would earn her loyalty and respect, two things that she would need in the coming months given how the attained the rank.

 

He stepped back with a bow, watching her and the others around him.

 

"You shan't find any such challenges from myself, my Lady. My place is with Sith Intelligence, not as the Dark Lord."

 

Of course, as any Sith would, if he grew strong enough one day he may make a play for the title, but that play was not now, nor any time soon. The Sith needed a stable leadership role, not a rapidly changing Dark Lord.

 

"I have a number of investigations pending, and will brief you on them when you are ready. More concerning, I come from Korriban. The Rebels have struck our home, destroying a vital warship in the attack and fleeing before our reinforcements could arrive. While their casualties were considerable, I fear the attack will only rally more people to their cause. I would like to examine the defenses of allied worlds under your authority, and hopefully sidestep the red tape in doing so before another incident like this occurs."

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Blood coated the inside of his helmet like a fine film. Every breath a labour that spattered the inside of the durasteel helmet with more of the bright red liquid. The heads up display in front of his eyes was hazy with the stuff. There were so many breaches in his armour now that he could not even rely on the display’s accuracy in regards to his and his squad’s vitals. In his periphery he could sense that his command unit was mostly alive, tucked into the burned out remains of a tented foxhole. Crouched among the bodies of the previous occupants. Whatever had happened in the night, Delta was sure that this was the bitter end of the Lima One special operations unit. If he even survived the night, it would mean everything would change. 

 

He coughed a mixture of mucus and blood out of his airway and leaned against the wall of the crudely dug foxhole, his vision hazing white and black from the effort and blood loss. He pushed his hand against the torn scrap of armour that covered the right side of his chest and winced as the suit's haptic feedback simulated the feeling of a stream of blood coursing across his fingers.  Which meant the bandage he had applied earlier had come off in the rain. He groaned and dug at the pouch on his belt. Letting his blaster rifle rest on the side of the foxhole as he used one hand to staunch the bleeding while the other unfurled a coagulant impregnated gauze and shoved it into the ragged gap of skin and muscle. It would need to be cleaned, but that could wait until after he had survived the battle. Next came a bacta bandage, then another layer of gauze which he wrapped around his chest to secure it in place. Then an ampule of the stabilizing hypospray, which he injected then he straightened and picked back up his blaster rifle. 

 

A glance showed him little movement in the surrounding field. A few glowing fires, but no movement. With a blink he flipped through the spectral viewmodes on his helmet until he came to the thermal imaging camera embedded right above his browline in the helmet. A few white hot figures huddled here and there in the viewsite, but also a swarming and seething mass of dark black. 

 

So the fight was not yet won. 

 

Whatever the excavations had awoken, was still out there. Hunting and tracking the survivors of the Special operations training group. Which included his own daughter. His heartbeat began to rise at the thought and he leveled the blaster rifle at the center of the swarming mass of figures. Took a deep breath, then triggered the forwardmost of triggers on his rifle and shot a red flare into the midst of the darkness. 

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Ca'Aran

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Vorin stared into the dirt-flecked boots of the Dark Lord. A small tendril of ice stained the ground with crimson as it slipped from the void of Bloodletter. He had listened closely to the words of the Lady, most of the words uselessly diffuse about the core of what she had to say. She was Dark Lord, but she appeared to flower the former with decrepit praise, as if she needed to appease any who had stirrings of rebellion. It did not smell of strength. It had the air of an Empire on the verge of collapse. The Sith Lord’s voice was low, gravelly, and calm.

 

“It would be a lie that soured the tongue, to say I have no aspirations for the post you now hold, Dark Lord.”

 

There was a murmuring, scraping, laugh that skittered across the ground, forming from the voidless shape of Bloodletter. It was a gleeful anticipation, icy and manic, reflected in the steel eyes of the Sith Lord. Those sulpheric yellow eyes seemed to glow as he brought his gaze from the Dark Lord’s boots to her face, sizing her up. It was for but a moment, but it was as though he was tasting her blood.

 

A smile came instead, overcoming the predatory pull that the Dark Side set into his heart, dragging him always like the heart of the Maw. The tension bled from the room, and the void that had been Bloodletter dropped into cold steel within its sheath, harmless and no longer wielded.

 

“But the Court of Madness has made its pledge, and I will not the ties that bind our Empire.”

 

Vorin bowed his head, the whitened hair spilling from his shoulders, lightly bound by a scrap of bloodsoaked cloth

 

“Hail, Dark Lord.”

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Death is No Escape

 

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  • 4 weeks later...

Blood seeped from beneath the formally white armour. Dripping in slow  cascade from where claw and bone had found purchase in flesh and muscle. Oozing around bacta bandages and plasma cauterized entrance wounds to make dark red patterns on armour now stained with the grim mixture of blood, ash, and mud. The symbols of a night of terror. 

 

He pulled himself up and winced at the pain shooting up from where an IV had been placed through the gap in his thigh armour. He adjusted the bag of plasma and handed it to his Lieutenant who held it at head level as Delta pulled himself out of the foxhole. She was not much better when it came to wounds, but she was able to keep up with him as he started to walk the battlefield, stopping every few meters to look at a young and crumpled body. The search becoming desperate as pale face after pale face was found staring at an empty sky. Walking became a mad dash from foxhole to foxhole, the rest of the surviving command team joining in as they branched out throughout the makeshift encampment looking for but knowing that they would only find a dismal despair. 

 

Whatever the excavations had unearthed, they had brought a terrible curse upon the soldiers training to become part of the Special Operations Group. 

 

Another failure to be written in blood red ink under the name Delta73. 

 

He knelt by another small form and pushed the lifeless body of one of the semi-winged creatures off of it. A small flash. A blink of red light from beneath blood matted red hair and his laboured breath caught in his throat. Another red flash and he felt himself ripping off his gloves and helmet. The smell of the battlefield hit him first. The sour smell of mud, the crisp smell of ozone from overfired blasters, melted ceramoplastics, and the all too familiar smell of blood.  

 

She looked so small there. Laying like a discarded doll in a divot of the earth. Skin as pale as milkglass except where it was splashed by lines of freckles. The persistent and heavy rain from the night had washed most of the blood off, except where it had been mixed by mud, or clotted by fangs. He took another breath and placed his shaking hand on the thin shoulder which still carried the rank pauldron of cadet. 

 

Oh gods it was cold. It was so cold. His vision narrowed for a moment and his hearing became a whine of tinnitus. He hadn’t felt that kind of reaction in a long time. His vision swam for a moment, hazing in and out as the crumpled gray and white uniform and armour became a likewise crumpled figure in the deep blue tunic of the Jedi Healers. In a second he was back, holding a blaster rifle, kneeling inside a burning tent. Watching as blood misted lips tried to ask him why he had pulled the trigger. 

 

Why had he pulled that trigger a century before? Some revisionists would say that it was because of a little chip in his brain that flipped a switch that made him into a traitorous killer of the only woman who had ever truly and personally loved him. No. That was revisionist history. Plenty of soldiers and even commandos had resisted the order to kill their generals. And in truth, no such chip had ever existed. Delta had pulled that trigger because the young woman would not love him. She had been conflicted with her own teachings, they had loved one another, even physically, but she had let her doubts creep in. And in some petty and disgusting decision he had obeyed the order. An order that came at a fateful time. Turning spurned love into homicide. 

 

His vision swayed again, and he was kneeling in the open mud of Lehon again. Staring at the corpse of his daughter. Staring at the ripped flesh at her neck, the frightened look in her eyes, and his blaster pistol still held in her hand. The magazine reading empty on a blue white display. 

 

Would the galaxy take everything from him for that fateful pring day at the end of the Clone Wars? 

 

“Captain, one of them approaching.”

 

Hensi’s voice was harsh, and Delta knew that she too was fighting back tears with every fiber of her being. Æthe had been a constant in the lives of all the command staff since she had joined them. But a glance up told him one of the Sith Lords that had overseen the Archaeological dig was walking their way. Stepping without a care over the bodies of cadets and creatures alike. A firm hand placed itself on his shoulder, it was the gentle hand of a friend who had tears snaking through his graying beard. They were all here now. He gave Frostwin a nod, which the other man returned and Delta pulled himself to his feet as the Sith lord in charge of the dig stepped up. 

 

With a hard nudge of his boot the Sith kicked Æthe’s lifeless arm out of his path and Delta could hear a gasp from one of the officers. 

 

Who would ever know what the Sith Lord would report? What question he was going to ask. It was all cut short by a quick fist in the throat afterwhich Delta struck him again and again. How many blows? Delta did not count, but they didn’t stop until he was punching into the mud through the back of a skull. His arms covered in a slurry of blood, mud, skull fragments, hair, and brain. 

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Ca'Aran

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  • 5 weeks later...

The loyalty of the warriors at Lehon had been secured, and the vanishing of Qaela confirmed. It was time to move forward with her plans, and launch an attack that was long overdue. She would destroy the Sith, and from the ashes the Sith would rise anew, stronger, sharper, and purified of the bloat and corruption of the last empire. One day her own empire would suffer a similar fate, but that was the necessary path of the Sith, to find one’s measure so that the next generation could surpass it. There were Sith that thought themselves above this cycle, that wanted to rule eternal, but such individuals were doomed to fail, and weaken the Sith in the process.

 

“War calls to us again, assemble your forces over the planet of Naboo in preparation of our next strike.”

 

-------------------------

 

Darth Nyrys had never properly forged a Force bond with Ca’aran, she had always had a creeping fear that her own darkness would pick away at him from the inside, but nevertheless there were still gossamer tendrils of connection between the two. Even through those barest strands she could sense pain, anguish, and loss within his heart. She would not let him suffer those things alone. Leaving the command room she bid a shuttle to take her to her beloved, so that she might be a comfort to him as he had been to her. Ca’aran was perhaps the only anchor remaining for her own sense of decency, an angel with a broken halo who could understand her darkness but also take her hand and guide her to a better path.

 

The shuttle ride was brief, and ended at a Sith excavation site. She disembarked rapidly and without the ceremony, moving with determination into the literal and metaphorical darkness. The excavation whispered to her in alien tongues from a time before the Sith. In different circumstances she would have been overjoyed to study the location, but she was singularly focused on reaching Ca’aran.

 

She found him with his unit, encircling a slight figure, seemingly way too small to be a soldier, yet bedecked in the regalia of a recruit, such as it were. Even through the pain and the stillness she recognized the face of the girl. She had been wrong before in saying that Ca’aran was her only anchor, but in a way it was true after all. The girl had helped bring her back from an eclipse of the soul that threatened to unmake everything that she was and replace it with an unspeakable void.

 

For the briefest moment she frantically considered bringing her back, but it was followed by a spell of clarity in which she realized that what was brought back would not be the brave but gentle girl that she met in the ruins of her ego and failure. Instead, she gingerly took the girl’s pale hand and cradled her. Knowing that it would mean nothing but still compelled to express this feeling of tenderness even if it was too late. It was a cruel realization that she knew hundreds of prayers from her anthropological studies, but none to any powers that she believed in. She looked to Ca’aran, who surely was wounded by this even more than her.

 

“I mourn with you, Major.” relying on proper speech to give some distance to the pain in her heart. “What happened?”

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Blood dripped in silent cascade down armour that was now dark with carbon scoring. Silent sobs coming in the gasps between breaths. Tears streamed in a white hot river down his face. Tracing pale lines through his blood stained face. Tracing through stubble that was graying at the fringes. 

 

He had seen death face to face from the very moment he had first opened his eyes in the cloning tank on Kamino. He had done quite a lot of killing in his overly long life. Not all of it in the service of a greater good. Most of it in fact, in the service of a greater evil. 

 

What was this hubris? He cradled the lifeless body and watched his tears wash away the blood on her face. Wishing at every drip that the body had been his instead. How had he expected anything less?  He would not have blinked if this had been a child of a new republic soldier, gunned down on the streets of coruscant. Something that he himself had done on several occasions on the orders of some Sith Lord or the other. He had sunk cloud city to the very depths of Bespin and had laughed about it. He had detonated the bombs that had thrown Alderanni towers into an apartment complex with what? Three million inside of it? 

 

But he could not regret those actions. 

 

They had built the terror that had preceeded the rise of the Empire. The only way that true peace could have been achieved. So what if Exodus had spoiled their chances. Ailbasí could do make good of it in this next cycle. Then there would be a reason for this madness. Then the grinding cycle of violence could finally end. 

 

__________________________________________________


 

“What damnation is this?”

 

Sigrid Hensi unclipped her rifle from its sling and handed it to another soldier, stepping gingerly over the body of an archeologist whose eyes still leaked the smoke from a blaster shot to the brain stem. Sitting in the middle of the excavation was a small and pyramid-like crystal case. It was whatever the Sith Lords had been digging for, that was for sure. Surrounded by warrens and nests of whatever those dark and evil creatures had been. 

 

She reached down to her belt and unhooked her dump pouch, throwing away the two magazines that were still in the bag from the night before. Then she placed the bag over the crystal, and keeping it covered, the command team walked back to their leader.

 

__________________________________________________

 

Delta’s eyes snapped open. 

 

What was that smell? Burned flesh, carbonized hair, drying blood. No. It was the smell of Her. The faint scent of Ailbasí Zirtani, it could have been perfume, or perhaps he just knew her presence from the comfort it gave him. 

 

Red rimmed ice blue eyes looked into the crimson eyes of the Dark Lord. 

 

“The excavations awoke something that surprised us while undergoing training and foxhole drills. We were picked to pieces during the night.” 

 

He looked back down at the now very cold body of his daughter and gave Ailbasí a mournful smile. 

 

“She didn’t stand a chance.” 

 

With one hand Delta reached down and brushed aside the flame red hair from the cybernetic unit. He placed his hands on either side of her head pulled the two mainframe storage disks from their places behind her ears. Then handed them to Gerald Frostwin who had stepped up with the rest of the command team. With difficulty He pulled himself to his feet  and gave the Dark Lord a crisp salute as Hensi held out the bag containing the crystal. 

 

“My Lady, I believe it is time we leave this damned planet behind and begin the last attack of the Sith Empire.”

 

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Ca'Aran

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