Coruscant - Galactic Throne

[Exodus]

Coruscant.

Galactic Throne

is burning

 

 

Astrographical Information
Region: Core Worlds
Trade Routes:

• Corellian Run
• Koros Trunk Line
• Martial Cross
• Metellos Trade Route
• Perlemian Trade Route
• Shawken Spur

Orbital Position: --
Grid Coordinates: --

Sun: Coruscant Prime

Moons: 4 Natural

• Centax-1
• Centax-2
• Centax-3
• Hesperidium
• Artificial Satellites

Physical Information
Class: Terrestrial
Atmosphere: Type 1; Breathable Oxygen Mix

Climate: Temperate & Irregular
Primary Terrain: Ecumenopolis; Urban Cityscape, Mountains

Major Cities: Galactic City

Points of Interest: 

• Coruscant Underworld
• Galactic Museum (Collapsing)
• Great Western Sea 
• Imperial Palace (Converted to a Mercenary Encampment)
• Jedi Temple (Destroyed)
• Manarai Mountains
• Senate Building (Collapsed / Under Duress) 
• University of Coruscant (Destroyed)

Fauna:

• Cthon
• Duracrete Slug/Worm
• Gartro
• Hawk-bat
• Stratt
• Thrantcill
• Umrach

Societal Information
Indigenous Species: 

• Humans (Zhell)
• Taung (Extinct)
• Coruscani Ogre

Immigrated Species: Various

Population: Trillion+ (Rapidly Declining)
Primary Language(s): GBS; Thousands of others
Faction Affiliation: Neutral

 

 

! WARNING !

Hazard Criterion

Type: Undomesticated

Difficulty: Extreme (9)

Hazards:

Devastating Climate, Collapsing Infrastructure, Societal Anarchy, Mercenary Contingents, Mandalorian Crusader Outposts, Lawlessness, Post-Apocalyptic Cityscape, Debris Belt, Wildfires, Highly Radioactive Zones, Scarce natural supply, low-functioning utilities

 

 

 

 

 

CURRENT STATE: 

 (Written by Chad G.)

 

Once considered the heart of the galaxy, the planet spanning metropolis of Coruscant is now a savage ruin, bleeding out while the galaxy ignores its slow demise. Life persists on Coruscant, but it bears no resemblance to the lives people once led here. The rich and powerful who survived the attack have long since fled the planet, and with the planet crawling with Crusader zealots and raiders, there is little incentive for offworlders to attempt to stabilize or resupply the people abandoned on the surface, let alone any plans for rebuilding. 

 

The Total Loss Zone (TLZ) refers to the area that the moon impacted the planet’s surface, in what has deceptively been called a glancing impact. This area has been completely destroyed and will most likely remain uninhabitable for centuries. The adjacent regions are the red zones, extremely damaged and unstable areas that are routinely on fire, filled with toxins, highly radioactive, and often all three at the same time. Beyond that are the orange zones, where most of the non Crusader survivors settled or were forced to relocate to by more violent groups. Supplies are ever dwindling, collapsing buildings are a constant threat, and even basic utilities such as power and water are uncertain at best. The rest of the planet is considered a yellow zone, rife with crusaders and blanketed in a lethal cloud of particulates.

 

The Crusaders that have remained planet-side have seized the most intact portions of the planet for themselves, ruling over largely lawless raider communes where might is the only true authority. They routinely launch slaving and supply raids on any survivor colonies that they find, in addition to often demanding tribute, and none have the power to resist them. Occasionally two warlords will skirmish with each other over raiding rights to specific territories, but none of them want to risk ruining what they have here.

 

The lower levels of Coruscant have largely gone dark, but survivors desperate enough to try and look for supplies in the darkness have rarely returned, and those that do speak of cannibal cults and maniacs leading sacrificial rituals to appease dark spirits in the deepest places. Even the raiders avoid the lower levels if given the choice.

Edited October 14, 2019 by Exodus

[Exodus]

 

 

 

 

C A M P A I G N

Chapter Two

 

 

The illustrious Sith-Imperial Armada manifested from the scenic wealth of hyperspace, emerging into the Coruscanti System as a commanding incarnation of fear and might. Thousands of ships trailed from behind, burrowing into the black field of space before them, lining the pockets of this ruined system with extreme force. Hesperidium was in complete mar, Coruscant was feverishly ablaze and every level of orbit remained disastrous. The arrival of the Sith-Imperial warships swarmed over a kilometer in distance, jumping from the ringed shipyard of Kuat and into the destruction of Coruscant. Wreckage and Debris spun loosely out of control, tearing themselves apart in volumes that differed in the size of destroyers to spearheaded columns that threatened to impale whatever stood in their way. The formation of the Armada barely shied from the large scope and circumference of desolation that laid before them, but the danger, as they could all see now, was very real. 

 

Defensive screens began to immediately form up from the rear of the Black Scarab, which would now root itself as a staging point for their operations to begin from. Fighters were launched, and smaller ships diverted their heavy usage of power to forward shields as they ventured forward and braved the vollies of wreckage that would soon slam into the body of their vessels. The larger warships and made use of their weaponry to pound open gaps in the wreckage for advance forward. Maintenance crews unraveled from different task forces and began their laboring to manage the havoc all around them. 

 

Beams of energy erupted from the more offensive of task forces, scorching through the debris and slamming into the heaviest arrangements, impacting with tremendous force and displacing whatever was caught in their path. Transports and atmospheric gunships would need the opportunity to make it through this mess in order to make landfall, but there was another obstacle that appeared on the other end of the chaos; vestiges of the infamous Crusaders.  

 

 

 

TIER I / ORBITAL DOMINION

 

Most planets endorsed by a major faction, whether currently or previously, will offer a bevy of orbital defenses for the conquerors to wade through. The first phase of a conquest is to deteriorate the defenses that present themselves, paying careful attention to the current state of the planet in question. Belts of asteroids and debris from a previous battle must be taken into account, dangers that were never once accounted for, can realistically present themselves if the conditions make sense for them to. Planetary shields, mine-fields, rogue task forces and many more options are ripe for exercising, these type of flavors should be engaged to supplement the intensity of a conquest. 

 

For the Sith Empire, it is quite simple; we must establish a staging point for our unwieldy offensive. This can be at a marked rendezvous point, a mock bastion setup on a nearby moon, or as simple as the Faction Flagship. This area will be noted as a Faction Checkpoint, and will be the cornerstone of our orbital operations. The faction leader will track the strategies employed by the members of the faction, as well as their performances before rendering the ability to progress further. If Hazard Zones are in effect, the faction must be able to adapt to the prompts as well as the realism of their forward progress. Faction members will be able to employ all resources accessible to them to achieve success, at the discretion of the faction leader. 

 

 

 

(Sith Empire, you have now arrived. React accordingly to the havoc that is just outside our formations, and the incredible ruin of Coruscant. Post any approved task forces in the appropriate forum and have them engaged here if you wish, understanding that the maximum to deploy is 3. Our objectives are to arrange ourselves for battle, and realize that the Scarab will be used as a preparation/operations vessel in order to move forward. Read the Hazards that are listed and be cognizant of them as we freeform this. Any questions, ask away within our channel.)

[Exodus]

C U L L I N G.

The harvest of the weak will be handled by the might of the powerful and no other; the old and the corrupt will be dismantled, the unjust and unworthy will be hung by the sharpened skin of the Reapers’ blades, and the Dark Side would have it's bountiful fill. Coruscant was enveloped in unquestionable devastation, and now the Sith had arrived to sweep through the planet and warrant the unchecked rot with masterful hands. Make no mistake, the Sith Empire would be cast as the truest deliverers of justice and freedom in the eyes of all who could see, while the noose around the neck of the galaxy tightened slowly and without notice. This was why, it was his choice to make. No sliver of opportunity was missed, and the yield of harvest for the Sith since his return, spoke without precedent in how dominant they had truly become.

 

The King of the Sith was on the move. Colossal steel doors to his private quarters heaved open, and a smog of powerful incense unleashed into the wide vestibule. Primitive lamps with oils that burned with the ash of his violent ancestors, suffocated the chambers and imbued those that were within with the clarity of a God. Ancient power crawled the skin of the Spider, searching his flesh and finding the sacred stains of ink that were drawn across his body. He stepped from the obscure awning of his quarters slowly with vapor still dripping from his armor. The anatomical cuirass that covered his abdomen stood out as a solid black, burnished beautifully with the black of alchemy inside his chambers. It appeared as if he were an Imperial Knight, dressed similarly but with a perverse touch, mockingly interpreting the color of death and the emblems of his unruly Empire on their uniform. From his slim greaves, to his gauntlets, and to his neckline and pauldrons, the matte black shading of his armor seemed lacquered with real blood. 

 

There were bodies left in those chambers, bodies that were vampirically hollowed to the bones. Their blood maybe, but the trail was not hard to find. The charming natural hue resting in the eyes of the Dark Lord was utterly deceiving, his posture terrifyingly perfect as he stood beside the mysterious Keepers that kept watch of this corridor.  It was not hard to hear what type of monster the Anzanti Sovereign was, and his efficiency was a matter they could only bow their head in respects too. "Gentlemen." His voice echoed deeply, the sound of the Other side duplicating his words. The doors behind him closed and sealed immediately, just after the Keepers stamped their staves knowingly. Exodus turned and made way for his personal starfighter Lightbreaker, his baronial cape flashing behind him, emblazoned with a large and infamous familial white crest. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Exodus]

From the mercurial husk of the Lightbreaker, the Dark King could see the undivided expanse of the Sith superstructure as it broadened for miles in each direction. Mighty turbolaser columns were stretched across the breadth of the Black Scarab, opening with a hailstorm of raw energy that imperiously choked congested space. Spotted enemy warships were harshly gored, detonating them into unrecognizable heaps of ruin once they chanced entry into specific firing lanes. It was suicide to rear your head against the Dreadnought, most understood that by now. The coordination of the Sith-Imperial Armada operated under prolific efficiency, while the armaments attached to each formation and each task force, began to breach inlets to the inner orbits of Coruscant. The battlefield was sickening, engorged by death and clutter, worsening as the power flotilla stampeded forward. 

 

"Lord Emperor, integrity of the starfighter will suffer full exposure if engaged."

 

"Pull me through."

 

The image of the artificial intelligence appeared before the Emperor, washed in a computerized backdrop of calculations that bleated as the Lightbreaker accelerated towards the uncertain intensity of the chaos ahead. Hurried breath briefly fogged the inside of his navigational helmet, obscuring the displays before him for a brief moment before the digital pane re-calibrated and cleared the condensation. A chronograph bickered with sound as time moved forward, and once the strike team punched through that Dauntless, the timer would see a final conclusion. A high-pitched whine cut through the riot of space, followed by the unrestrained blare of compound explosions ripping through the enemy Heavy Cruiser.

 

It was time, at last. 

 

A phantasmal energy crawled to life, smothering a large portion of the Heavy Cruiser. Operational luminosity throughout the entire warship flickered and then eclipsed into black. Indiscernible electromagnetic energy drowned the light from around them, and the immobilized warship became ripe for harvest. When the Dauntless fell dark, task forces hidden beneath the shell of the powerful Scarab, readily equipped for boarding operations, jumped into the fray and streamlined themselves one destination. Undoubtedly, it would be easier to blast the Dauntless into smithereens, but the potential to catch a Crusader of merit would be more than lucrative. 

 

 

“Advancing now.”

 

The black-stone luster of the daedalian Lightbreaker shifted into a fierce acceleration, coordinates locked for the mammoth Dauntless. Azurean streaks of burned fuel trailed behind the starfighter as it launched itself recklessly into anarchy. The intelligence network installed inside the prized starship absorbed full reign of navigational system, Exodus surrendering his control over them and himself to the inebriation of the Dark Side. The Lightbreaker drove with impunity through the debris field, performing extraordinary maneuvers, jockeying the full weight of the machine to sweep passed the invariable trajectories of rock, wreckage, and hostile shelling. The Dark King commanded an exhaustive palette of the force, exercising a transparency of the battlefield by way of his foresight, envisioning the way forward.

 

One hangar, and the action would begin.
 

[Exodus]

A R R I V A L.

 

 

The stealth canvas of the vessel ricocheted with soft flutters as it settled onto the devastated air-dock, the matte black sheen of the Lightbreaker spreading an eerie sentience aboard the Dauntless as it spread itself open and touched down on the still-warm bodies of the enemies below. The sound of the smaller chain-railgun screeching in automation was haunting, eagerly searching out a target in all corners of the quiet hanger bay. Three rotational cycles, reeling with the metal clash of the rounds attached to the barrel, semi-targeting the last breaths from the corpses of those that would not be remembered. This place festered with desperate death. Exodus unfastened himself from the cockpit while his eyes quickly scanned the written font that rolled across his screen, and no surprise found his expression. He did not speak, nor did he wish too, and instead narrowed the stricture of his armored gauntlets. 

 

"Your authorization is required, your Grace." The articulation of the AI came off less enlightening, and more facetiously. 

 

 

The Dark King spent a cavalier sneer, ignoring the eccentric software and the peculiar jest that came from it. With his weapons checked, he made his move to exit the craft and reconnaissance the underbellies of this derelict Dauntless. "Relay the information to all assigned commanders. Delta-73 and his company will make landfall shortly, address them and familiarize them with reinforcements immediately. There are a significant number of task forces still available for deployment, do so quietly and eliminate their orbital intelligence. Nyrys, Telperien and the remaining Sith need to be drawn up to speed, they will know how to situate themselves from there.  I shall seize command of the boarding forces here, and uncover what it is that these fools are keeping under wraps. The Galactic Throne will be mine." On cue, the ramp fell and the spectacle of ruin was strewn across the bracketed metal floors; smashed transports filled with focus-fire, butchered bodies from both sides overlapping one another, and all of the little details of war that could fit nicely into a painting of struggle. The distinctive image of E-11 rifles ungraciously emptied, metallic armor designs of fallen Sith troopers, and an arid blood bath. Exodus strolled passed them, wraith-like in his demeanor, an imposing march of a curious King.  

 

There were five transports of ours here, more that latched onto the forsaken Mandalorian cruiser in other places. As he laid his remarkable emerald gaze onto the battlefield, a mind so powerful could only visualize the events that came to be, drawing from a spreading darkness. There were those outside of the Dauntless that reached out by way of the mind and spirit, ancillary kindred Sith that were urged by the temptation of battle. Exodus would respond in kind. Unchaining the secrecy of his presence, the Dark King was heralded as one of the most powerful beings that this galaxy had ever seen, and the loosening of his darkened presence would pass through an extremely large reach, both soothing and terrifying simultaneously for all who would have no choice but to feel it. Emperor, and Dark King of the Sith Empire, slackened the Sith Sword in his palm, dragging the blade against the steel below him as he roamed.

 

 

[Exodus]

K I L L Z O N E.

 

 

The eastern hall swam in an ocean of black, haunting in the way the narrow passageway yawned into nothingness, shadows crawling from the corridor like wisps of buttery smoke. Gunfire suddenly loosened with the drumbeat of a hailstorm, an explosion followed with a vicious eruption that rattled the steel framework all around them. The loud thermal detonation careened the smaller airdock with a crude rumble, devouring whatever stood within a six-meter radius. Blood, screaming, and the chiming of battle saturated the already oppressive air. Yet, from the eastern hollow, another had emerged to enter the fray. 

 

The well-heeled leather of his boot was the first to surface from the flush smoke. The obsidian complexion of the cured hide looked rich as it crossed the blood-moistened floorboards, one step before the other in a pair of unhurried steps. It would seem that an Imperial officer, and a familiar Lady of the Sith were hand in glove, two distinct seeds of his Empire. The likeness of a time that had long past, brought nostalgia to his cold heart. A symbolic affinity between the Dark side and the Imperial machine, a union restored by the many hands of the Spider. One he would nourish by the strength he had earned. And as a twist of fate, he wore upon himself a cunning interpretation of the uniform that belonged to the treasonous Imperial Knights, quantifying their insignificance the longer he remained as the head of the snake. He adjusted his gilded bracers, watching interestingly from under the brim of his black hood. 

 

 

"We need to bolt. Pick our fights until we can linkup with the proper ground troops and get real weapons."

 

KING EXODUS HAD COME.

 

The matte cloak that chain-linked into his armor piece whiplashed as he quickened his steps. His movement was unbelievable, a blur if the mind even tried to capture a tenth of the quickness he exercised. The distance between the eastern shadows, and the choke-hold between his kin and the Cabal, was covered in a matter of breaths. An inhale, and an exhale delivered him to the forefront of battle. The devilry of Transcendence activated and was already spinning wildly, the malformed hilt of his lightsaber burning a brilliant red, dancing in front of him as he brushed off the stream of fire headed their way. The archaic weapon was of legendary ilk, a tool of destruction that was synonymous with the All-father of Assassins, one of which would not be recognized from the sight alone of it alone. Whenever the lightsaber did scorch the atmosphere though, a distinct and otherworldly humming could be heard in the eeriest of tones, with every swing and every stir. 

 

Retreat was a fair choice by the two, for the vast number of adversaries imbalanced the scale. The appearance of heavy blaster rifles meant that open field combat was not advantageous to the duo, and it was more cunning to funnel them into the dark and take them apart piece by piece. He was sure that was indeed their strategy, for cowardice would have sealed their fate otherwise. 

 

 

"On me." His voice was clear despite the pandemonium, a dreadfully calming elixir, echoing in the minds of Bakra and Fieldgrey.   

 

 

The blowout had kicked up more obscurities on the battlefield, and circumstances had now taken a turn in their favor. The smaller air-dock brimmed with smoke banks that rose from the canisters, fell in pours from the impaired ventilation, steamed wildly from the fallen star-fighters, and now crested from the thermal detonator. Visibility suffered to say the least. Exodus moved forward into the thick of it nonetheless, his dancing blade masterfully rejecting the barrage of blaster-fire coming their way. Heedless of where the blaster munitions came from, Exodus brandished his blade with his dominant left, and re-oriented the bombardment to instead neutralize the Cabal that attempted to surround their position. With his right, he summoned a brawny heave of the Force and peeled the weapons from the enemies that continued to advance from the northwest. A pair of heavy blasters, a few pistols, and a massive vibro-sword slid behind him. If Lady Awenydd and Petty Officer Bakra wished to turn the tide, now was the moment to seize.

 

[Exodus]

I M M E R S I O N

 

Darker now, flashes of red blindly punching through the smoke. Blaster bolts. Exodus spread his stance thin, lowering himself nearly into a split. Weak lungs or not, a great many would slowly buckle into a wheeze if they were not wary, dropping below the smog was likely the best option here. The assassin closed his eyes to see what he could not with them open; as far as his natural sight could see, his unnatural mind had a vision that was nearly prophetic in efficiency. The hum of the warship drummed alive with echoes and sounds, senses that heightened him into an apex predator no matter the species he was up against. 

 

 

"I see every last one of them," His voice was charred with the Dark Side, but his answer met the curiosity of the Imperial Officer Bakra. 

 

 

Exodus tumbled forward into a clean roll, organizing enough momentum to torpedo his body like a bullet towards his enemies. It was absurd how his command of the force could accelerate his body the way it did. He spun through the air hard and fast, with the blade of his lightsaber in hand. With the red flare of Transcendence, it looked as if it were a ring of fire that surrounded him as he torpedoed into the fray. The first of his foes caught the brunt of his aerial speed, an aggressive Form IV punched into the Cabal with a force that would have ripped the Trandoshan into two. The assassin missed intentionally, spreading himself out again so that he could stick the landing just behind the stunned foe, driving the width of his red blade through the body of the creature that now stood within his kill zone. Execution of form was flawlessly delivered. The Trandoshan was dead before he could understand how quickly it had happened, his body slowly teetering apart at the seams from what was once whole. The Cabal stood dead, but managed slight movement from his pointed fingertips on his left hand. Exodus heaved upwards, and then diagonally with his weapon before kicking the upper half of his foe over. The left hand of the Trandoshan separated from the wrist, and his head fell clean off from where it just sat moments ago. Before the green-skin came entirely undone, the assassin was on the move again.

 

 

The speed in which he moved was hard to trace, but he needed them to try. A loud whistle cracked the sound of the chaos all around them. The sound was so naked and powerful, lasting only one full breath, but the hearing of it was what left a gnawing impression. It became a white noise inside of the mind of their enemies, 

 

"What is that noise?!

Focus, focus, find him!

Kill the bastards now!

...What is this force magic?

They have reinforcements, they are in the shadows you fools, shoot!"

 

The language was Dosh, so it came across as loud hisses, growls and grunts. The frantic ramblings implied their confusion, and now their desperation. They were beginning to see things, many things, shapes and sounds shuffling their feet behind the veil of low visibility. They aimed high and low, an obvious disorientation scattered across the small airdock in frenzy. Perhaps the Spider was toying with his food. Durasteel screeched off of the flooring, already compromised from the crashing starfighters, but now the metal was being manipulated. Darth Awenydd and her ally Bakra had found a new confidence, now pushing their own offensives. 

 

The heaviness of a vibrosword slammed into his crush-gaunt, with an intention to mutilate the Spider, but the quality of the armor-piece was underestimated. Metal clashed with Mandalorian Iron, naturally forcing the Dark King to brace slightly from impact, but the physiology of an Anzati was far superior to most. He adjusted quicker than most could, and immediately seized the weapon with the same hand, holding the Trandoshan closer, close enough that he could smell the rank odor from the underpits of the creature. “Where is the Arkanian Prisoner?” The Cabal hissed in his native tongue, growling obscenities from under his mask that truly answered nothing. The green-skin was rebellious and yanked harder with both arms to free himself, but the cumbersome weight of the vibrosword added to the difficulty. “Pic’ would be ashamed of these rodents.” Exodus leveled the red blade to the face of the Cabal now, silencing the incessant yapping coming from the despicable beast, Dosh was never a pleasant language to listen too. 

 

“Cow-erd” The beast tried Basic, so much hate bleeding through those beady eyes.

 

 

Exodus released the hold on the sword, dropping backwards by a step to avoid blaster fire. All youth and lean muscle came from the Trandoshan now, leaping forward into Exodus, waving the heavy blade in figure eights multiple times before crashing down onto the floor. The Dark King cracked a smile. This time, he ensured eye contact, the brilliant emerald of his eyes showing for the first time as his hood fell from his wolf-mane. For a brief moment, he could see real uncertainty in his opponent’s eyes, almost as if he was questioning his entire life to this point. But it was too late.

 

Advancing. Forward again. The Cabal charged at him with the heavy-blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. The Spider dodged the first and met the second with his crush-gaunt once more. This time with a force that sent his opponent reeling, but not enough to knock the blade free of his hands. A raving set into the Trandoshan, understanding that his every move was futile. A small storm kicked up in the airdock, circling what he could only describe as a witch, and this man in front of him who was impregnable from the jump. He could see the other Cabal fall from crack shots behind the broken TIE fighter, his attention now scattered. 

 

“Focus on me, Trandoshan. You must watch closely, or you will miss the moment that you pass from this life into the next.” The voice of the King was smooth, alluringly so, but the otherworldly pitch of it sounded like he spoke from the grave. 

 

Dun Möch. The Trandoshan could not believe the audacity, he stampeded forward now. Swing. Swing. Swing. The first two missed horribly, and the third, a back-swing that lacked strength because of the exhaustion in his muscles. Exodus slapped the heavy-blade from the hands of his opponent and punched into his chest with the same hand, finding flesh and bone. The forearm of the King ate through his opponent as easily as air. The Cabal dropped to a knee, tried to stand, and dropped again. “I will find what I am after, reptile. Now embrace death.” Exodus reached deeper and squeezed, crushing the insides of his opponent, feeling every bit of a warm surrender. The life released from his foe, and so did he, pulling his arm from the idle corpse.

 

Exodus wasted no time and burrowed further, angling his attention now to the enemies that held their choke-point towards the north-western access. He was now the spear.

 

[Exodus]

The onslaught continued deep into the northwesteern corridor, chaos rapidly dancing in the backdrop as he moved. These creatures had never seen such footwork in their lives, the way in which this speed demon murdered so liquidly. Allfather Exodus swept his feet as deftly as the shadows themselves, and with that, his sun-touched blade burned through his adversaries two at a time. The dangerous stalemate of the smaller airdock had not interested him, for he knew the two he had left behind were more than enough to quell the pathetic uprising. The King of the Sith desired answers, secrets that were confined within this ancient barge that had eluded him and the Sith intelligence for far too long. Windows of opportunity were now closing however, and closing fast as explosions tore through the Hexa.

There was another strike team that extracted what he needed, operating under the distractions the other Imperials provided when they had boarded, trained to remain a mystery to even those that were considered allies. These four were marked in the armor of classic stormtroopers, but blackened in paint with small detailings of luminescent emerald. Their deployment always signified a critical extraction, but reaching them for answers was an impossible feat. Once their objectives were confirmed, a direct line of communication with their commander-in-chief would verify that their departure was permissible. Stealth technology was extremely prevalent in teams that conducted themselves under the emblem of the Spider, nurturing the air of mystique that surrounded them.

He could feel the fires of this Dauntless spread like wildfire beneath these scorched layers of metal. Bolts and beams splitting apart as the infrastructure viciously separated, peeling undone before the atmospheric gravity of Coruscant suctioned them into an unforgiving heat. Exodus rounded the bend and made way for the airlock that had suspended his cloaked starfighter. The rummagings planetside had unfolded and the struggles of Coruscant would not be sorted without the Emperor-King leaving his imprint.
 

 

(Going off grid.)

[Exodus]

The force moves darkly around creatures about to kill.

The small transport descended carefully over the last recorded landing zone of the Devil Hounds, suspending itself under the constant shelling of moonfall. As armored as the carrier was, the damage it had endured thus far was physically evident in how crushed the steel skin of the bird appeared. Traces of black smoke inked from out of the loud and overworked motors, wheezing as the strain of suspension worked the last nerves of the ship. The ventral side of the carrier heaved open, while search-lights popped on and scanned the depressing proximity of the broken building. War had quite obviously taken its toll, and the emptied drop pods were evidence that the Hounds had become part of the struggle. Thick cables flung from the ventral port, and down them came the grisly black polish of Imperial Shadow Troopers. As they descended into the gloomy landing zone, their cloaking devices vanished them as soon as their boots met with the uneven surface. They were in their truest form as invisible predators, sweeping the scene, securing the bewildered premises. The first of them moved to secure the blind corner of the room, the second disappeared as he slid down the rope but made for the opposite corner. The third of them dropped down and moved up the middle, angling his T-21 blaster rifle evenly towards the gaping breach in the wall that exposed outdoors. He paused half-way, sweeping to his left, and then to his right.

"LZ Secured, Spider One."

 

Just as the courageous voice sizzled through their communication set, the Imperial Emperor stepped from the carrier at roughly sixty feet, plummeting dangerously fast, landing with a powerfully charged force that seemed to stretch the barrier of sound. The raw pressure loosened the moon-fall brie and shook the exposed room to the roots. Sediment fell from all over and softly revealed the positions of three more Shadow Troopers not previously seen. Their cloaking devices were slightly hampered under these conditions, but the veil still offered a considerable measure of comfort from sniper nests in the area. The fragrance of death was a sweetened scent he could taste on the wind as it brushed by, so remarkably fresh. Bleak and colorless vistas of destruction seemed to be the only backdrop that Coruscant could now afford the people, no matter which way you looked. A dark force marinated the bodies of the fallen here, sweeping from mangled corpses and draining into the black hole of power that wreathed the Dark Emperor as he motioned through them. The passing of lives was an intimacy more telling than the taking of them, and as the surcoat of the reaper swept over them, their failing spirits yawned the secrets they once held dearest. The dead had nothing to lose.

Exodus marched forward while the men with him kept themselves extremely aware. Meteoric moonfall began to line the indentations of Sith steel that were sanctioned on his body, a mounded ebony warplate resting against exotic trimmings from the fiercest of creatures. He embraced the visage of a nomadic conqueror, with the trappings of his kills drawn about him, emboldening his mighty presence. Truly, the warmth it afforded him was a pleasure on this miserable planet. He drew the traditional hemming of his black hood over his wild and unmistakable mane, covering himself from the uncertainty of the powdery mildew.
 

 

"Jurek. Lead reconnaissance through the immediate vicinity.

Eliminate any hostiles, leave none alive.  Beetle, provide assistance for our wounded. 

I will find the others, they are nearby. Make contact if there are obstacles."

(Jurek, Mu, Xora, Beetle, Law, Code)

 

"Copy, Spider One."

 

 

Six Shadow Troopers heralding their stygian-triprismatic polymer armor, embellished with the insignia of the Imperial Spider, confirmed their mission by moving as soon as their Emperors' had finished. Unit NZ-44 withdrew through the building, navigating an adopted and digitized schematic. The Emperor stood on the edge of the breach, staring out into the abyss, tracing where it was that the Blood Prince had found himself now. 





 

[Exodus]

What do you see?

He planted his knee in the unsifted rubble, rocks and rust thrown askew. The Dark King rested his breathing, slowing the heaves of his heavy chest. He quieted his mind, just enough with the chaos of Coruscant running free, Exodus would become acutely still. The wailing wind coursed through his wild mane, brushing through the small trinkets of his fuel-black armor, dancing with the darkness that shed from his skin. Kneeling with his balance surer than standing, the Spider focused his mind into a clarity that could see so much more. The skies were seething with pain, black smoke chalking the atmosphere as the industrial clouds burned horribly red. Corpses by the thousands filled the soil as fertilizer would, blossoming into a misery that the Sith could feed from like swollen fruit. Rivers of blood were tickled by the shine of a dying moon, draining into the deep wells of the galactic city with the thickness of wine. He could see it all with eyes wide shut, and it was the force that showed it to him. Lacking the natural biorhythm that most creatures had, his body began echoing vivid sights through sound for miles away. The range of detection that opened up for a King of the Dark Side was beyond ordinary measurements, heightened predatory senses that was wielded so naturally.

"We will bring an end to this." The voice of the Spider was as comforting as stone, both unmoved yet strangely empowering as the smooth fluency of his Anzati tongue whispered like a warm chill down the spine of his most powerful allies.

He slammed his fist into the broken earth, breaking the floor beneath him apart as he shoved his weight from the ledge and leaped far into the distance. First instinct drew him to crush the resistance that his commanding forces weighed their lives against, but something more had revealed itself to him. Echo detection unearthed a cluster of activity buried in a place shunned by the citizens of Coruscant. Beneath the roughened crust sat a broken site once claimed by the darkness that had been buried away shamelessly. Whatever it was, it now called to him. The assassin spared no quarter to his speed, the whistling and waning of meteoric impact punished the grounds around him. He slid beneath barely suspended canopies of steel, bound himself over vast canyons filled with fire, spearheading through blockades of failing buildings. In the passing, there were creatures and small groupings of people that caught this and blinked twice, checking their eyesight while trying juggling their survival. He harnessed the force as if it were entirely his to command, allowing it to burn through his blood as he covered great lengths that landed him before a fortress he had longed to set his sights on.
 

"So this is it?"

 

Taut rancor-skinned boots nestled deep into the moonfall debris beneath his feet, planted sternly as a high-heated storm began to brew overhead. The Emperor dusted his cloak leisurely and tightened the metal gauntlet braced to his right hand, now sizing up a vast uneven region of land that was utterly beaten to pieces. The people of this world were beneath the oppression of a nightmare, and every where he turned, Coruscant seemed drearily seeped in an inevitable downfall. The roots of the industrious land were heaved to the surface, the streets were cracked wide open with mammoth splinters of concrete staggered awkwardly everywhere. There was something here.

 

 

 

Edited January 20, 2020 by Exodus

[Exodus]

Coruscanti sunsets were always a thing of praise. It was strange, the praise being what it was—especially considering the artificially controlled environment. After centuries of being the most occupied world in the galaxy, manufactured structures had ultimately sheathed the entire surface of the planet. To better accommodate such overdevelopment and dense inhabitation, it had been necessary to fill the stratosphere of the city world with a sequenced array of planetary mirror technology and atmospheric purifiers. The deployed facilities were essentially the only way that Coruscant maintained its place as the capital and undisputed heart of the galaxy.

 

However, consequential to the fabricated ecology that ensured temperate stability was the complete elimination of all weather variations that would normally denote the natural passing of seasons. Coruscant no longer experienced the sweltering heat and lackadaisical haze of summer. Nor did it undergo the cooling night temperatures that stimulated waning displays of multi-colored foliage, which would indicate the transition into fall. Frosty mornings and thick blankets of snow no longer marked the dormant slumber of winter, and absent was any trace of the flowery blooms and melodious birdsong that would herald in the rebirth of spring.

 

Instead, there was only the continuous gray of neutrality, as bleak and artificial as the dull plasteel and indistinct ferrocrete that covered most of its landscape. The last remaining hints of Coruscant's past natural splendor were those spectacular sunsets. When, without warning, the sky would burst into a magnificent array of vivid shades spanning from pale ochre to deep magenta before slowly ebbing into the night. No such spectacles graced the skies now. Coruscant burned with a fire drawn from the deepest depths, accentuated by the somber downpour of a moon scattered across the galactic throne, raining unforgiving death. The uneven terrain beneath him waned with enormous fissures that lined the entire district. There was nothing like it for miles. It was incredible how vast architectural designs were now reduced to simple mounds of mud, stone and metal. An area once brimming with life, was savagely torn asunder by the heaviest concentrations of moonfall he had seen thus far, trimming tall buildings to mere dirt, turning men and women into shelved dust. 

 

The grandeur of the jewel was lost, but the Empire would use their might to stave total destruction. Emperor-King Malacoda Syn stood with unfocused eyes as lengthening shadows fanned themselves across the splintered streets. Although his impeccably shined armor halves and meticulously blackened robes were consistent with the persona of the esteemed King of all Sith, his unruly appearance was just the surface of who he was. A terrifying shell that shed no light on the frustrating sorrow that churned within his mind and burrowed unrelentingly into his cold soul. His yearning for perfection was riddled in a time he wished he could forget. A heavy sigh escaped him, Exodus lowered his face into the rough leathers stitched to his gauntlets and raked his fingers through his long ravenous hair. Such things made no difference now, Exodus knew that his destiny had become greater than his thoughts.

 

"Spider-1. We have a visual on an incoming target. Signal to engage."

"Stand down. I will clear the area."

 

 

The command was immediate, stern and baritone as the words echoed over transmissions. Exodus turned instead to lay eyes on what he could already feel approaching. Rampant rot riddled the core of the creature, permeating each step it traveled with an intangible sickness. It walked as the infected did, diseased with half-hearted mobility and a health quite obviously on the decline. Threadbare clothes, sullied and picked apart by the seams. Ink and charcoal covered sickly skin, while death lingered in it's bones. The language of the creatures' clothes spoke of High Sith diction, trinkets and hieroglyphics reminiscent of an age previously passed. Exodus locked his visceral emerald slits onto the prey, as it dared to speak freely in his presence.

 

 

“.. The only one?”

 

 

Exodus wondered if such words were true, outcasts from failed tenures could not be trusted, nor did he have a particular use for the whimpering that came from them. If what he spoke was true, he would be the first to dissect these harbored secrets for what they were, and weigh their worth. He turned towards the creature, while reaching out to it’s mutilated countenance. The helmet was triangularly fashioned, larger and heavier, burned into the face of the absent-minded servant. The Dark Lord drew his metal-plated fingers across the headpiece, searching for particular apertures. The power that stood before the servant would buckle most to their knees if he allowed a measure of it to loosen. 

 

"You are forgiven, worm. Your life is mine."

 

 

From the radiocarpal joint and opposite of that, the ulnocarpal joint, long and thin proboscis-like appendages slowly revealed themselves. What was mythically derived from the face of the Anzat species, now drew from the wrists of the conqueror and propelled themselves into the foul mouth of the creature. They scurried like rattlesnakes into the nasal cavity, aggressively tearing through bone and brain membranes, and leeching onto the brain. The raw absorption was otherworldly, quickly vacuuming the soup of life from this odd creature. The brain ruptured violently, leaking aged life, informational synapses and the secrets of the soul. Blood struggled to find openings as fast as it retched from the mouthpiece of Ar-Pharazon, crawling down the iron mask of a disappointing regime.

Edited January 22, 2020 by Exodus

[Exodus]

The body seized, the brain loosened, and the euphoric surrender of life loaned itself to the Sith Reaper. The Anzati King released his clutch, and tossed the creature to the wayside. The emptied corpse rolled a few paces, lightly sprawling to an awkward stop. What life remaining in such a broken creature, drained without struggle or remorse. The excessive torture that the wretch had suffered was an overindulgence that the Lords of Old used to exhibit their insanity, wanton and serving little more than to inflate their desperate egos. This mouthpiece of Ar-Pharazon was no more, and the ignorance that the worm had suffered with for decades, had finally come to an end. Exodus brushed his heavy-cloak, shaking the moonfall soot from the rich embroidery, casting his sight to where he now understood his destination would be.

"Arkob Skon. I see you."

The Spider dropped out of his thought and sprang for the entrance. Hoarse adrenaline flushed through his veins. Exodus jerked his movement unpredictably, leather bound boots trampling incredibly fast over the rocky terrain, bounding left and right in dark flashes. Meteoric deterioration fell from the skies in all shapes and sizes, hammering the landscape all around him with terraforming power. The King himself worked to keep his balance definite, knowing that the slightest mistake could lay him beneath an impact that would wipe him from existence. The danger zone did not hesitate in a constant attempt to erase all things living, unearthing all manner of hazard and secrets as it did. His handmade alchemical vestments afforded him excellent maneuverability, akin to the hunters of his homeworld. And so, the Dark King moved like the wind.

Visions drew to the front of his mind, screening his reality with instinctive direction on where to find this entrance. He had never been, but the wretch now showed him the way. He found himself ignoring the many wide-berthed fractures in the tectonic plates of Coruscant, most of them oozing super-heated gases to the surface or belching a yawning descent in which there would be no returning from. Then suddenly, the assassin tucked into a roll and launched himself into a rocky opening.

_______


Exodus deftly flew himself a great distance into a lightless black, landing where his memories had led him, lightly against another ruptured bedrock. Looking around, sweeping the full range of his eyesight, he found himself in a cavernous space. Erected before the Dark Lord now, was the broadest barrier stretched from wall to wall, salmon-colored and seemingly thicker than the walls of Dragon Gate. He marched forward, indifferent about the obstacles that stood in his way.

[Exodus]

G L O R Y  H O U N D 

 

 

What have my enemies become? He looked to his open palms for answers. Searching the metal canvasses covering his hands, combing the unsurfaced asphalt before his feet as he stepped slowly towards the barrier, his eyes found no clear answer to the question. The expression on his face suggested no such concerns, unnaturally composed for how harshly the world around him was beaten, much less the problem that laid before him. There were harsher times than these, powerful creatures that offered a chance at death. The softest of sighs escaped his cold lips, a droplet of frustration for the way things were. The rise and fall of the crusaders, a campaign so miserably abrupt that it seemed like little more than a temper to be thrown. And this was all that was left to show for it.

 

 

“Just one moment,” 

 

 

Exodus moved closer now, waving his hand with the Force as words of caution eased into the minds’ ear of Vadmir the hopeless. He spoke without tongue, and with a dark inflection of sound that seemed strangely commanding. Ordinary folk would spin tales that when the Spider chose to speak, the heaviness of his simplest words took hold of the soul entirely. Gripping, seductively magnetic, eating away profoundly at all levels of consciousness. The Emperor-King was closer now, cleverly positioning the curious Mandalorian directly in front of his slow march, blocking the line-of-sight the others would have. The barrier and a foot of space separated the two.  

 

“Little Mandalorian. We have not crossed paths before this, so I will give you a single chance to prove your nature.” Exodus held eyes as only the strongest ilk of the Dark Side have, with a burning chroma impregnated with inquisitive hatred. Such a fiery saturation churned the calming emerald that once was, and became the only means in which the Dark Lord communicated his emotion. “Rats, I dislike them entirely. Sniveling pests, self-serving and easily frightened. They are a necessary breed, but I find them everywhere I step. Jedi, Crusaders, Mandalorians, and I dare-say, even several Sith have shared the same skin.” He whispered his words sincerely, spending the small measure of time to occupy space inside the mind of the Mandalorian. The gesture was passive, seeding his subconscious with imagery of battle, triumphs that showcased the Emperor as a threat that now stood just an arm reach away. 

 

“You see.. this is an extermination. And just like rats, this Glory Bound you serve, scurries beneath a land that will never belong to them. There is no honour here among you cowards, you bring shame to your heritage, and I know you can feel it. Do not worry, I will butcher the lot of you for it. Your chance is to choose now, Vadmir. Die in the dirt with the rest of them, or join the Dark side and find your dignity. You and I both know, this wall will not hold me.” The Dark Side was intoxicating, but the truth was a heavy swallow for most. He understood the meaning of this. Kill the others and drop the wall, or face retribution.

 

"Choose, Vadmir."

 

[Exodus]

"The Dark Side is yours, Vadmir. You are free."

 

His cloak was charred and splattered with dried blood, and his armor softly dented and scratched. Strands of his wild crimson hair—no longer the full inky black of his youth—hung loosely over his face, having escaped his royal topknot. Under normal circumstances he would have already bathed, washing away the sweat, blood, and stink of fire from the derelict barge. He would have sent his armor for repair, and secured himself a new cloak before returning to battle. Appearances mattered, particularly as the Emperor-King of the Galaxy. No time. The brilliant arranger of death closed his eyes and took a bottom-heavy drag of air. A deeper breath than usual, but only to appreciate the moment. He knew the look of undoing all too well, and as of late, preferred the raw sounds that came from it. When the thermal detonator triggered and unleashed catatonic rage, the symphony that came from it was comparable to music in his ears.

 

Exodus clapped his hands together by the bridge of his nose with his eyelids still sealed shut, much in the way that pious Humans humbled themselves into prayer. The wall fell in that moment, and the full brunt of pressure that discharged from the blasting cap leveled out in forceful waves. Flesh vaporized while stunted metal punted across the cavernous hollows, ringing a viciously loud roar down the distance. Legendary Transcendence, the dark-bladed lightsaber he had drenched with the souls of his prey for decades, moved from his waist-buckle as if it held a mind of it's own, sensing what was about to be. Exodus opened his eyes, searching out the number of enemies that rallied themselves behind the temporary veil of uprooted dust and dirt. The beating of their tiny hearts betrayed them however, the shuffling of their steels and the fear of the unknown turned them into blaring beacons.

 

He started his focus with a single breath. In, and out. He could hear water dripping through a crack in the cave ceiling, singling out a pattering against the stone floor, while a heavy debris shook loose from the explosion that obscured the entirety of the cave. He studied the rigid patterns carved into the floor’s stone before Vadmir had freed himself, and pitched his path to memory. He took hold of his weapon, and made a few tentative swings with the blade. The war relic felt solid in his hand, but remained eerily ethereal in nature, as if it wasn’t there. His blade was now his breath. 

 

 

Exodus dived forward and plummeted into battle, the Dark Ones’ weapon blazed all the brighter as a sudden darkness spread forward with him. A black mist rolled across the barren lowly cavern floors, consuming everything in its path. The Glory Bound turned to fight..

[Exodus]

P A R A G O N

 

 

 

A young boy crept slowly and silently down a dark hallway. He looked to be no more than the age of six or seven Coruscanti solar cycles . He had straight jet black hair down to his shoulders, shimmering pale green eyes, and a powdery almond complexion. He was clothed in a deep red night tunic of exceptionally fine material and craftsmanship, contrasted by his bare feet and arms. Every step was thoughtful, careful, steps that were driven to memory. The route had long been mastered, as mastered as it was secret.

 

The unlit halls the boy tiptoed down were that of his family's manor; a significantly old and looming residence nestled deeply in a dense inauspicious forest. The walls were solid stone, stretching up into a curved, classical-like ceiling. The house was marked throughout by paintings and tapestries, running the gamut from elegant landscapes and portraits to out right abominable depictions of violence. A dark red woolen carpet was spread throughout, covering the cold hard stone of the floor.

 

Ahead of the boy, down the stretched and daunting hallway, was the reason for his stirring in the middle of a high-moon. A grand cast-iron door marked in strange genealogical symbols. Rustic, inflamed with age and richness, light peered through several small gaps in the frame. The crafty child continued his silent march. As he approached he began to hear the voices of the people on the other side.

 

He reached the imposing door at a crouch and pressed his emerald eye up to one of the larger gaps on its side. He was not able to make out much at first, though after a bit of focusing, he could make out a group of hooded men spread out across the room. Absence of clarity settled in as he could see these people gathered in a large half circle, and standing among them in the center, was a single man shed of his hood. A severe, domineering, ardent looking man. His eyes were a similar color to the boy's, but darker, more consuming, intensely unnerving. He seemed to be leading this gathering, but how the boy came to this conclusion, was beyond him. The man in the middle was the master of the house, and it was his father.

 

The boy pulled back from the door, breath awkwardly strained, heart pounding. His father was a dreadfully stern figure, who would not hesitate to punish such skulking in his home. The boy swallowed hard, understanding the danger he was in. With a deep breath he peered back into the unusual chamber.

 

He could now see that in the center of the circle was a woman, entirely naked, heavily with child, and surrendered in radiantly arcane tattoos. She struggled and cried out, writhing around on the ground, but she was not bound. She was there as willingly as any of the others present, including the hidden little boy. Her convulsions were not the result of fear or panic. They were but the byproduct of the coming birth. Her baby was well on its way.

 

Chanting. The men all began to chant, but it was not in the boy's native tongue of Anzat, nor any of the several subsequent languages he had acquired in his short life. It was a language that he had never heard before, that very few humans ever had. A guttural, inhuman language, seemingly ill-suited to human phonetics and vocal biology. It was the boy's father that started the chant, and it was promptly repeated by the others, his followers.

 

“HAA, NEYO LA YUD MASUR KEE, TAH UHNAH KAHRU LUR SHU.

DZWOROKKA YUN; NYâSHQûWAI, NWIQûWAI.

WOTOK TSAWAKMIDWANOTTOI, YUNTOK HYARUTMIDWANOTTOI!”

 

Pressed up against the wall the young boy was dumbfounded, confused between senses of wonder and terror. While this was far from the beginning of his espionage on his father, from the idea that his father was up to things those outside his home would not condone, he had never witnessed anything like this. The chanting continued, the same strange words repeated over and over, for what came to seem like hours to the boy. Even to an excited youth, the repetition proved daunting and eventually boring, it did not take terribly long for him to fall back against the wall, and into a deep sleep. The chanting continued.

 

Belatedly, and to the sounds of faint thunder, muffled moans, and an abnormal amount of creaks from the old house itself, the boy's eyes slowly blinked open. He was momentarily lost, unaware of where he was or what he had been doing, in far more of a daze than the effects of sleep alone would produce. After a short time the thunder struck much louder outside the house, and the boy's confusion started to fade. He was soon up on his feet, stumbling backward, still slowed a bit by the strange drowsiness. He could tell that his mind was more clouded than it should have been, stifled by a blurring uncertainty.

 

Something else caught his attention after a moment. The masonry all around him, the carpet, the door, everything was moist, covered in a thin layer of a strange black grime. phlegm-like growth crawling against the walls. Small puddles of soiled water pooled in crooked pockets of the stone floor, strangely similar to the spilling of soup from his Fathers’ prey. The boy almost choked and grabbed his nose defensively as a horrible acrid odor gagged him. It should have been immediately noticeable upon waking, but it hadn't been. It was an uncomfortable smell, rancid and sour enough to burn the eyes. The entire moment became permeated with an immense and sudden sensation of primal terror.

 

Suddenly, the sound of a splitting lightning bolt cracked his sensitive ears , the loudest strike he had ever heard, as if it were pounding mercilessly into the room next to him. It shook the foundations of the house violently, echoing loud enough to give the impression that the manor would come crashing down into rubble. The boy sobered from his sleep immediately, eyes already filling with tears.

 

The terrifying crash was immediately followed by screams from the other side of the door, voices begging, crying out in fear, or pain, perhaps both. Though one voice remained constant, steadfast in the face of terrible peril, that of the boy's father. He continued chanting without interruption, only one or two others struggling to still follow along with him.

 

There was another loud but much more muffled boom from within the room, the boy felt it as much as he heard it, vibrating out through the house, and within himself. The roaring echo-like chanting now reverberated through the boy's body as well, pulsing down his spine and through his limbs. The Anzat lacked the common constraints of a humanoid heart, but the abstract feelings pulsed through him body-wide, nearly knocking the consciousness from him.

 

The concert of screams continued, progressing in intensity and participation, echoing through the door more wildly and desperate by the second. And then, a horrible shriek. Unlike anything the boy had ever heard in his life. So awful, so barbarous, and terrifying, Neither the Anzati language, nor the linguistics of Basic could describe what this was. It was more than enough to send the boy flying from the door, moving down the hall at a dead sprint, not stopping until he crashed into the banister at the end and almost flew over it, plummeting two stories to the hard marble floor of the entry hall below. The screams from within the other room continued frantically, increasing in volume and desperation. Only the boy's father continued the inane ceremony now, his voice booming loud enough to reach the nearest settlement miles away.

 

From his new perspective the boy could see that it was raining heavily outside. Lightning strikes flashed in the distance every few seconds, occasionally hitting quite close to the house. The thunderstorm rattled the already diminished foundation, brewing a natural phenomenon unlike one he had ever seen. The boy was hyperventilating. His chest and shoulders lifted and fell dramatically. His eyes were wider than they've ever been. Another horrid shriek rattled the foundation of the manor again. And the boy was again in flight, down the stairs with an almost supernatural swiftness, stopping at the front door.

 

Thunder strikes continued to assault the property, which seemed to be drowning in a smarmy otherworldly quality. The walls and floor of the first level also contained the same wet, acrid quality as the second. This had to be a nightmare, one that was slowly ingesting his home. The boy knew he had to escape, this dream was far too real, and somehow he knew that he was very short on time. Catastrophe rested on the cusp of climax.

 

He burst through the door like a battering ram, sending the old wooden aperture into the stone wall with a loud crack, flying out the large main entryway of the manor, dashing through the pouring rain and into the sprawling ancient forest. Trees stretched out beyond the perimeter of his home in all directions. The boy continued as fast as he could across the cleared land, into the treeline border. He ducked behind a very large stone, pulling himself down, putting the bolder between himself and the house. He lowered himself behind it, peeking over at the house.

 

Somehow, even after putting so much distance between them, he could still hear the incessant chanting. Even more shocking was how the chanting here seemed to be equal in volume to when he had been hidden on just the other side of the door. But now it was more felt than heard, like the drumming of thunder from before.

 

The chanting then stopped. It was replaced by an absolute silence, so complete that it almost seemed to slow time, sickeningly so. It was quickly interrupted by another lightning-like crash, louder than all the others, like an explosion. Finally broken, the boy's father began to scream out for his life, in abject horror. He was answered by a scream so loud and monstrous it could only be described as a whaling, overpowering, roar, almost demonic-like in its garbled, depraved seething. The entire forest shook as if the world were falling apart, trees cracking and falling over, fissures opening and sucking up patches of forest into blind and unknown depths. The boy held onto the rock to stay on his feet, praying that this dream would end.

 

The boy took off into the forest, his mind not even attempting to comprehend anything else, his survival instincts taking complete control. A third other-worldly wail roared out from behind him. In the final moments before what was once his lifelong home fell out of sight he managed to turn his head back to look. The view was not clear, but something now sat where his house had been, or so his eyes told him. The boy ran as fast as he could, as hard as his young body could withstand, deeper into the woods. Stranger sounds continued behind him, carnivorous in nature. He wondered in his panic why this nightmare continued, he needed to wake before his life had changed forever, placed onto a unique and tragic path that would echo out into millennia.

 

The boy's name was Malacoda Syn.

 

________________________

 

Malachi heaved for air, lungs completely dried of it. His little eyes widened to twice their size, completely blinded by black while panic pumped through his body. "Help me!" The boy tried to shout the words, but they were shallow and trapped. Boxed in, his arms and legs were pressed against wood. There was no room to lift himself, no space to pull himself upwards. It was impossible, but he tried. Fear swallowed all of his reason, and it drove him wild. He scratched, screamed and beat against the imprisonment. Crying, sweating and struggling to breath. Frustration was draining him, and the noises the little boy made were completely irrational. 

 

LET ME OUT. 

 

He beat against what felt like impenetrable wood, elbowing and punching until his skin began to split open, quickly inviting an unsweetened numbness. Kicking and headbutting was not out of the question, but nothing seemed to work. The more he squirmed, the more he choked and coughed to catch his breath. Tears ran down his cold cheeks, while sweat stuck uncomfortably to his clothes. Wait, what was that sound? Pouring, a low whisper, something was spilling. He hushed himself to a still, but the tears still teemed from his eyes. Dirt, it was loosening somewhere. Putting the flat of his hands against the surface, he felt the cool earth leak between his fingers. This was no dream. The boy opened his mouth to scream, but a bursting of mire and muck cracked through the wood and strangled the child. Eyes widening before death while his body was claustrophobically confined. 

 

This was no dream.

 

________________________

 

"Skon."

 

Screaming. The rushing tides of black haze disappearing into the warm sickly soil, just before the bone-fingered yawning of the dark side could fall upon each and every Mandalorian here. A hesitation in butchery which would cost Exodus the musings of surprise, but in exchange, a new opportunity became ripe for the picking. Skon had wormed himself to the surface at last, bawling hoarsely in a dreadful pitch that singularly reminded him of that night. This moved the Dark King to a reverie that he once buried in the recesses of his mind, a childhood souvenir he had tried to wash himself of. 

 

Skon drew closer, pacifying his fright with empty words and a blind vanity. Blasphemously he walked, garmented in the dressings of a powerful Sith. Skon continued to roar his accusations with excellent clairvoyance, bandaging his souring resentment with tales of unfair privilege. Every word that left his mouth only meant failure. Lord Exodus likened this emotional tirade to the last words one always chose to spew from the hole in their face, seconds before the cold hands of the reaper snatched their life away. Vain rhetoric regurgitated so they could hear themselves speak, but did nothing to stave the end of their days. An uninterested smile began to outline the wet of his lips, eyes frozen with an emerald glaze. The Dark King held an unnerving watch, locked dead onto the leader of the Glory Bound. Skon waded in the waters of an Anzati, extremely territorial, and any movement within their domain was to surrender to swift and indiscriminate barbarism. 

 

But what if the Mandalorian spoke true? Entitlement, ego, and ease. Perhaps Exodus would forever remain a victim to the poorer stigmata of the unruly Sith. He shrugged slightly at the idea, entirely unbothered. It was difficult to draw a line from now to his beginnings, unsure of when exactly he had placed upon his shoulders, the mantle of a God.

 

"Nothing unveils the truest nature like the use of power. It is far too easy for the weak to be gentle. Most can bear adversity; but if you wish to know what a creature really is, give it power. This is the supreme test, this indeed is my heaviest burden. Yet, your fear has been acknowledged, and I more than welcome your desperate conditions. Skon of nothing and no one, I will show you exactly why the Force crowned me as King." 

 

It was strange how the cool of his voice boiled newer tensions that silenced the backdrop of the wide cavernous space they had found themselves in. Motion slowing, time creaking by. Exodus' grin had become deviously sharp-toothed and full of intention. He let his weapons hit the ground, and the unbuckling of his crush-gaunt followed shortly after. The Force worked around his own body, disarming blades and tools of battle mockingly. Piece-by-piece they fell until all that remained was the two-toned black tunic fitted against his powerful body. He tightened the band around his waist and set himself to stance.

 

 

"Step forward. Your burial awaits you."

 

[Exodus]

 

"I don't understand, Father. Why do they come from my wrists, why are they not like your own?" 

 

"Do not question it. Your appetite is of a different nature, my son. The soup of a creature is, to you, a lowly matter. The light of the universe is what you hunger for most. And your fate will see you devouring the very stars above."

 

The boy frowned, not understanding the meaning of his Fathers’ words. All he could feel was anxiousness, uncertain of why he was born different than those he loved. His disfigurement left him more desirable than most, but in his youth, his peers had chastised him for it. There was never enough time in the day to digest such heartache, for his discipline was swift and his every waking moment slaved to a rigid physical and mental acumen. There was only the hunt. You lived, or you died by the hunt. There were no two-ways about this, and the rule of survival was made clear by the thousands that succumbed to it by day and by night.

 

"..The stars?"

 

Malacoda looked up at them, peaking through the long limbs of an old tree. Three men set themselves into stance before the boy as he stared curiously towards the skies, readying their traditional duel with the young master. "Begin!" The voice of his Father had always put a fear in him, much more concerning than the sound of a blaster bolt emptying into a man. Exodus searched the crest of the cavern, somehow watching those same stars he had seen when he was younger through rough-hewn stalagmites, imagining the curiosity that had once set his eyes ablaze with wonder. How far away those memories were.

 

The King of the Sith turned to Skon, entirely too nurtured by death to care for the execution on display. What meant more to him was the unsightly circles of dark that sunk the skin beneath the eyes of the Mandalorian. There was a festering imbalance inside of his prey, a sickness that rattled through the fragile being, misspelling impressions of strength. The Anzati could smell this. Yellowing tracked the pigmentation around his face and into his eyes, a corrosive infection of power that this creature drank blindly of, or rather, a power that in-turn drank from him. The Mandalorian wore his pride as his armor, perishing brilliantly from the soft trinkets of death that he choked himself with. Other indicia were rampant in the histories of the Sith, powerful creatures swallowed by the immortal taint of a burden too heavy for weak shoulders. This fiend was no different, bearing the same marks, failing to a gluttony born from incompetence. Now he courted with the orchestrator of the ways of the Wicked, the Lord of his sickness, without the slightest of clues. 

 

"You could've left the mask on." 

 

Skon moved past him, hideous and unsightly to the naked eye. Just as the two drew themselves outside the crown of the cove, the bandit made his move. The sweep came fast, scratching along loose rock. Exodus leapt before contact, nearly high enough to vault clean over the Mandalorian. Anzati physically outclassed most species, and the way in which they carried themselves showed this. When the Dark Lord landed, a conversion of raw power audibly erupted from his body, grounded by the landscape. Skon continued forward with an aggressive out-pour of strikes both high and low, and Exodus exploded with unmitigated might to match, snapping defensively at the strikes before they could land their mark. The spider kept his prey close, shifting his feet quickly, re-balancing his weight to sidestep and weave anything that came his way. The exchanges were tight, jarring and becoming faster by the blow. Exodus smiled knowingly, pristine canines hungering as they fought. 

 

"Without it, you're nothing. We are the true warriors, our entire life being a struggle to survive and thrive, each day fighting to lay claim to the right to continue on to tomorrow. You took shortcuts, your ego growing fat while it rested on the laurels of your gift.."

 

"What of your gift, Arkob? Ssss-hehehe. What of the artifact we found?"

The voice was slithering, embedded inside of the mind of the Mandalorian with a nauseating ache. Each word, each crawling syllable, teasingly maddening. The tone of it sounded like nothing of the Sith he fought, perhaps a voice uprooted from the dark energies this Skon had entertained in all his thievery, perhaps it was the artifact. Without misstep, Exodus kept the exchange of strikes comparable, extremely dexterous in countering the basic aggression thrown his way. 

 

"Without it, you are nothing. Isn't this why you are here? You struggle because you are weak. This is your shortcut. You know what you found inside, it is dark there, it is warmth. It is your only hope, because you are weak, but it is not yours. Poor Vadmir, do you know what this one made him do? What he--This one is trouble, this one is stronger than you know. He is pretending, you should.. run." 

 

 

"Skon, of nothing and no glory. Is this all you have?"

 

(1) 

 

[Exodus]

E Y E S P Y.

 

 

Gears turned unorthodox, strikes of which were less routine. His opponent wasted no time, rolling forward with renewed conviction, unveiling a sharper repertoire of combinations. Exodus met him within a whisker, powerful physical energy ricocheting each time their guards met. It was difficult at first, resisting the temptation to unbind the shackles of the force between his fists and punch a hole through the chest of the Mandalorian, but the demur of Skon bothered him more than he realized. 

 

Besides, nothing was more euphoric than a traditional barehanded slug-fest.

Blood, bruises, and broken bones.

 

The brutal trades between the two broke under the weight of unnatural clouds opening up above them with a garish crack of thunder, drumming fantastically across the terrain. Exodus pushed backwards, avoiding what the senses in his ears rang out. Moonfall punched into the field with a heavy foot, digging into the broken flatland with fierce-piston like power. The world around them shook violently, pandemonium evolving just outside the reach out of the cove. The assassin shuffled from the immediate impact, dashing a small distance from the cratering while remaining locked onto his target. Overly thawed soot rained down his backside as he watched the Mandalorian escape further into the open battlefield, tracing where his feet carried him.

 

Exodus drew a longer breath than usual, natural responses to stress and adrenaline attempting to numb his concentration. Excitement tickled his nerves too, but the assassin remained doggedly focused on his kill, as was ordinary for any that held the heritage of an Anzati huntsmen. Exodus traced the distance that Skon levied, picking up a predators’ stride while he tracked his prey the long way. Skon hurried recklessly into the open fields, trading his blind sides to clear himself from the debris. Swift and accurate passage across these scarred lands would prove difficult under panic, yet Exodus stirred as neatly as a cold-blooded vornskr. Another whip of lightning and thunder cracked the atmosphere, blinding the battlefield behind them. When his mark did not turn, Exodus hounded forward with incredible speed. Haste consumed him, hungering forward while the black of his robes tapered in the wind. 

 

“.. Unlike me you say? What do you know of the King of the Sith?”

Sickening laughter echoed from every which way.

 

His free-run sprung over great distances in the most efficient of time, stitching himself to the shadow of Skon, immediately recovering the separation of space. Calloused black-leather boots hammered the uneven rock, yet each and every step seemed completely empty of sound.

 

“Behind you.”

The whispering voice lied.

 

The assassin descended from above as fierce as meteor-fall. His body was spinning, turbulence kindred to an unruly typhoon. Brutally, he opened up into a spinning hook kick meant to take the head of his opponent clean off with the blade of his foot. 

 

[Exodus]

Bludgeoning speed became punishment. Skon was awarded with a few slippery strikes, even connecting with the face of the Spider. Trickling blood as black as venom and a pristine smile were the welcome, with little in the way of an actual knock back to impede the aggressive onslaught of the King. For every punch his foe landed, Exodus returned a demoralizing three to four that echoed through the bones of the Mandalorian. They both fed their feet into the dirt in order to source a meatier grip, both men dually fighting the slipping gravel beneath their boot with meteoric spray splashing their proximity.

 

Exodus chewed another four knuckles to the face, eating the impact whole. Whether it affected him or not, was not a thing visible in the way he continued to move forward. Nothing slowed the assassin, not even for a moment's time. In fact, the widening of his toothy grin became more apparent with each hit, amusement tauntingly drawn across his soft features. Exodus countered with a force to wake Vadmir from his eternal rest, cracking into his opponents' rib-cage with a swift upper, followed by a cold straight to the face. The sound of the hit alone was jarring, slapping like thunder across his face. The powerful strikes were the distraction, the lighter jabs targeted pressure points and more vulnerable joints on the body, worsening the hesitant efficiency of the warrior.

 

Skon was failing form quickly, arms loosening to a slack, body weight sluggishly hammered backwards until he could stand no longer. Exodus stalked forward still, wiping the blood from his mouth, ceaseless in his curiosity. Something dangerous stirred in those eyes. The way in which he watched over his prey, mechanically searching out any hostile language of the body, revealed much about his approach to the hunt. 

 

"I don't...understand...I was meant to...to be..."

 

 

"...This is beyond the struggle of two men. This was fate, was it not?" Exodus mimicked the words that Skon had shared earlier, a tone of sarcasm cutting into his baritone. “The weak have deceived you. They would say that the meek shall inherit the universe, and that the strong should nurture the gentle.” He pauses, spitting the taste of blood from his mouth. “It is kill or be killed, Skon. Your faith in fate has offered you fearlessness yes, but fleetingly. Such sandcastles find themselves devastated against the heaviest of tides. Power must be won you see, and with the years of your life purchased in blood and survival. What you do not understand, is a reality harder to swallow than the preaching of the blind. What you thought you were meant for, was nothing more than a sharpened fallacy. You kneel before the Dark Side now, and I will reap what you’ve sown, deliverer of what you wished for.”

"I challenge you, Sith. The true test of the warrior. No armor, no weapons, to the death.."

 

 

Exodus massaged the joints in his fingers, warming them for a necessary pain. He drew closer to the Mandalorian now, understanding the paralysis of defeat that numbed his opponents' body, the look of disoriented terror filling his expression. The nature of surrender was far too familiar for the Anzati Warlord, such was the demonstration of all prey he had come across in his years. Now, closer than he had ever been, close enough to ingest the reek of fear from sweat-soaked clothes, the Emperor halted. Exodus reached through the tangle of greasy hair on Skon's head with his bare hand, twisting slowly, gripping at the lengths for control. His right foot planted as pivot, the opposite slid backwards now in gathering. The arm opposite of the one that held Skon like a ragdoll moved likewise, rearing backwards steadily like a rattlesnake readying to deliver death. "You've fought well."

 

The Dark Lord hammered his face with his dominant left, again and again. Each strike was particular, methodical and bone-crushing. The first might have been shook him from his wallowing, but the second and third stole years from his life. The fourth and fifth found blood, phlegm and tooth spewing from his face. Exodus did not stop. The thrashing was strangely paced, with enough time in between for Skon to try and exercise a breath. He couldn't. Quickly, the legs of the Mandalorian came out from underneath him, just as consciousness slipped away in pieces, asphyxiated with pain. Exodus clutched harder now, keeping the body of his enemy suspended from the floor. Breaking his nose, breaking his face, breaking his spirit. Exodus found no enthusiasm in this, just an irresistible itch to put out the flames of hope. Such stubborn cinders. He had lost count after the sixteenth, not that he was interested in keeping track. The body had fallen limp much before, but at last, the hair that he held on to had torn from his scalp. The body had collapsed with a face unrecognizable. Exodus flipped the body over, and dragged him from his collar, back into the cave.

 

 

[Exodus]

L E S S O N

Weariness, Coruscant began to weigh on him. His breathing was harder, less composed than what others had seen of him in these past few years. Yet, his body felt incredible. It was his mind that fell tired. The thrill of mortality pumped through his veins, unsettling the patience that once rested in his eyes, brewing a wildfire of fervor that bellowed from his chest. His body surged with dark power, but his mind wilted slowly. “..Glory or Death?” Exodus dragged the dead leader through the mud distractedly, ignoring the very distinct attention this gathered him. He could feel the eyes of the cavern lock his way, he could hear the sour sounds of sorrow whimper from the remaining few, of shock and anguish and disbelief. They were fools, unacquainted to the awes of war. They would learn.

 

"We heard Skon's gambit. The Glory Bound is yours. Kill us or command us, our lives are yours now. We follow the banner of strength, as our fathers before us. We are capable, but dishonored, exiled. Every last man here seeks to reclaim that honor through combat or death in combat. As Death Watch, we are already considered dead among our own kind, until we become so. Do you understand?"

 

An unbowed Mandalorian met Exodus mid-way. He was tall, unremarkable before the Emperor-King, but chose his words with surprising certainty in his voice. The man kept his arms from his weapons, which meant he was less a fool than the other that had reached for one, but a fool nevertheless given that he chose to remain helplessly inside these caves. Skon spoke of faith before his face was crushed in; how much faith did these men and women have in him? The thought of it made him smile charmingly, innocently with the life-blood of Skon basting the hand that held the lifeless body. He let go, dripping death from his fist. The perished leader of the Glory Bound hit the surface with a stifled smack, a trail of red had followed their mild trek, now becoming a muddy mess from beneath him. The sounds irked out from them again, that of mewling and sobbing, whimpering. “..L'yukstiwr” A simple word in the lowest of Sith diction, but suiting.

 

“Your name. What is it?” Exodus chewed at the sentence, imperial in tone, and impatient with his precious time. His hair was loose, matted to his face and his neck, barbarically ashen black yet strangely regal against his stern visage. He was every inch a King of the Dark, staring coldly into the visor of the brave. “Rull,” he said flatly, the small trace of fear in him somehow began to surface through his helmet. He was the closest, he moved closer than the others to witness the duel. The hairs on his skin raised when he watched the Sith move as if the wind were his to command. Mandalorians held their own against the best of them, both juggernauts of battle. Somewhere in his mind, somewhere perverse, he wished to test just how far this Sith could go. Maybe one day, but what was this man like unchained? That’s where the growing fear lay. He shuddered at the thought

 

Exodus reached out, and a blade whizzed towards his hand. He snatched it from the air and lowered himself over the body of Skon. Rull hesitated, unsure if this was a declaration of the end, or something else. Exodus spun the small foreign steel between his fingers and drove it into the chest cavity of the fallen leader. Skon was already dead, no reaction came from him. Exodus adjusted the depth of the blade, feeling out the positioning. The Mandalorian may have been sturdier in a past life, but the artifacts of the dark had drained him of incredible muscle mass, sickening his cells into deprivation. The angle rang true, and the Dark Lord tore strongly in one direction, splitting Skon open between his breasts. Nasty business, the sight of the man wretched open from collar bone to belly button, was unnerving.

"Captain Rull. I need you to see this." Exodus squatted for a moment, reviewing his crude handiwork. The blade in his hand hung lax, bouncing to an unheard rhythm as he showcased the scene before him. "Flesh, and blood. No one can tell what goes on between the person you were and the person you become. No one can carry you there. There are no maps of the change, and swearing fealty to fate will do you no favors. You just come out the other side..

 

Or you don't."

 

He said these things plainly, attempting to unhinge the belief that the matter of their survival was indeed out of their control. it was not. "You will temper yourselves in the wild fire of the Dark Side, growing stronger. You will learn that when you find suffering, you learn survival. To cheat this law, will leave you no better than your friend here." The Emperor had heard Rull issue a surrender moments before, soldiers to the rear that radioed the submission with haste. Exodus was not concerned, the Blood Prince would butcher those that stood in his path, Nyrys haunted the surface of the planet as a living nightmare, Telperiën the Golden ran as rampant as a plague through her enemies. The names he familiarized himself with, the names that had carved themselves into the echelon of the Sith Empire would reign supreme, indifferent of the enemy that stood before them. 

 "All honest effort produces lessons. We must embrace every type of learning, even failure." Exodus looked over Skon, in his failure as a man, as a leader. He then turned his focus to Captain Rull, and several others that drew closer now, gathering safely around the Sith King. Each of them listened intently, uncertain where this may lead their clan, if finding glory where it was one striped, was possible here.

 

"I assume that this lesson was clear, unless there exists another that would like to review what little Skon has learned?" 

 

The Glory Bound dropped to one knee collectively, bowing before the Emperor-King in decision. Each of them hammered their fist against armor in salute, the emphatic gesture signaled their obedience, their servitude now signed in the blood of a man that none would remember when history was written. All across Coruscant, in it's space and on it's surface, the clans made their peace. Whether it was life, or war, mattered not. Those that crossed over into the Empire, would be commanded to strike out against their kin, eliminating smaller pockets of resistance. Those that fulfilled their duties with hesitation, were marked and disposed of by a most hidden Inquisition. The fires of Coruscant dwindled now, and the chaos of the lands settled before the might of the Sith Empire.

 

[Exodus]

T E M P L A T E

 

Captain Laz Rull, Ivia Uso, Oevas Qun, Nyra Nepmu, Jamos Byl, Oddeus Viszard, Ziorr Bairn

 

In the hours past, each of them came to heel. The Emperor placed the decision to live or die, in their very palms. Curious was their nature when the proposition was made, because such offerings came with a price. They wished to live, they were driven by the impressions of Glory, an insatiable craving instilled by those that had dismissed them from culture. The ache of abandonment, of betrayal, burned deeper than the crossing of foes. They made an exception here. This Sith before them, when he spoke, their ears filled with spurring aspirations. It was unexplainable to them really, how his words burrowed inside of their minds convincingly, how his strength of presence swayed them so easily from the intractable Skon. He had never cared for them anyways, and had become drunk on tall tales of dark artifacts, losing the interest of his warrior people. 

 

“.. The Sith Empire. Arkaab did not believe word when it came. The Emperor, do you serve him directly?” Laz Rull steadied his words as the Howlers listened curiously from their T-visors. Exodus did not respond immediately, eyes still trained on the hilt of his legendary blade. The band sank several feet back from their Captain, doing their best to review weaponry or pack the remnants of their automated defenses, still careful not to miss a lick of information shared. The Imperial Reclamation Service had arrived, and with them, military transports in droves. The excavated territory was now fielded by dozens and dozens of scholars, archaeologists, and well-experienced Imperial soldiers. Improvised camps were assembled in double-time upon arrival, armored vehicles bullied over difficult terrain, and zone-shielding brewed alive from impressive external batteries. It was as if an entire skeletal framework now etched itself around these immediate coordinates, a functioning bastion that would wreath the Spider.

 

“It is easier said, that you and your clansmen serve directly.” His reply felt fatigued, unconcerned in the title of things or the decorum of conversation. “Much more will be clear to the company you command, and this.. readjustment will await you in the Maw. For now, gather your people and prepare yourselves in Quarantine. Medical inspections are underway, and there are a lot of your dead to sort through.” Matters of a classified nature were held within the labyrinths of the Maw, affairs of indoctrination and curriculum devoted to extreme cases of survival, expounding on what these warriors already knew. Imperial soldiers stormed the sector now, TIEs screaming low, while the heavier crafts nurtured the near horizons. The Howlers were dejected in truth, the feeling of welcome would not be instantaneous, it would have to be earned on the battlefield. They gathered themselves mournfully, and made way for a new journey.

[Exodus]

L E G I O N.

 

On the outskirts of the residential, hulking armored machines hibernated protectively, lining the bordering shields that shelled them from moonfall. TIE Fighters, colossal mecha, and a vast collection of transports hummed at bay. Industrious crowds roamed astir. Soldiers from all walks made their presence known. Color varnishes of black, red, and of white armor plates marched from the bulk of transports. Entire hosts of the Imperial Legion stamped their marked banners into the earth, asserting their ranks, strength and positioning to claim pieces of the land. Gargantuan canvases pitched themselves high, ripe with the rich colors of their unit regalia, encampment tents that reached dangerously close to the yawning entrance of a forgotten Sith Temple. Sanctioned standards held a medley of fearsome creatures, bloody bludgeoning weapons, and the hardest of names. All raised high, but none higher than the Imperial Spider. 

 

A herculean awning heaved highest beneath the temple collapse, belonging to none other than the young conqueror. Brazen aurum and silken shadows gilded the royal encampment, regal drapery in the minimalist customs of the King of the Sith. Inside, Exodus rummaged through documents, tediously shuffling through holo-screens to structure the next step for the hungry imperial machine. Dark herbs and plain fire burned incessantly, billowing a soothing and seductive aroma that filled the space. The smell was enriched with amphetamines, a nourishment that speared through the lungs. Beautiful bone-setters and masseuses skirted around the Dark Lord, washing his wounds tirelessly and combing through the knots in his body. The powerful incense was more than enough to remedy the exhaustion that ran through him, but the company of the maternal had been a preference he kept closely. These women were the acme of beauty and strength, the most astute of assassins bred with exotic physical traits far beyond a quality known to core worlds. They would kill him just as quick as he would blink, or try their hand at it, but their admiration for the Allfather of Assassins was second to none. Only he could dwell in the company of the Kodashi Vipera. 

 

"..You couldn't just break his little windpipe?" She whipped sarcastly, playing at the wild mane of the Spider. "Why toy with him?" Her face was milk, smoother than the bed of stone etched by the harshest of waters. The way in which she stared into the emerald eyes of her King, daring and true. 

 

"Killing him too soon, the rest of them would think of me as a cheat. He had to earn his burial. The promise was made, Ayda." Exodus challenged the amethyst charms her eyes were filled with, uprooting an honest smile. She was a Goddess. She took the sweltering warmth of medicinal cloth and soaked it over his shoulders. Close enough, pressing her body against his, allowing the ointment to run down his arms. Blinking slow, she knew she could tear out his throat from this distance. It was not far from the truth to say that she had considered it more times than once, but she preferred the smell of the cold hard death that accompanied his auric vibration much more. If she missed the kill, there was something unsettling about seeing him maddened. Not many have truly seen it, and those that have, say it is a terror worse than butchering.

 

"Promises mean nothing, Malachi. Why do you men continue to throw such words around? The wrinkles in her nose meant that she was offended by the word, promises made and broken by a past she refused to share. Exodus hadn't pressed it, never searched her mind for the answers. The other women that rested about, sharpening his tools and preparing his war raiment, each of them turned their attention away when Ayda vexed. 

 

"There is value in words, Ayda. Promises are a comfort to those that would have them, to those that are accepting of them. They loosen their guard with belief, and then they become less than what they were; prepared for less than the worst. The promise, the words, are simply a sedation. And we are the venom thereafter." Exodus explained these things distractedly, and with a calming voice, placing his real attention on the screens that he filtered through intensely. He continued to digest streams of information that various councilmen extracted and uploaded to the feed, allowing Exodus to remain abreast with his hands-on approach, categorizing the worth of those that served him. The King would shoulder the entire weight of the Imperial Machine until those that he had groomed, could bear their share of the power. Exodus paused in that same thought, as if hearing a sound too far and too distinct for any other here.

 

 

"The Blood Prince has landed, have an emissary send for him. I will have words.."

 

[Exodus]

There were thousands that had lost their lives to the cold clutches of Coruscant, most still burning out by the second. The strong, the weak, and the miserable in-between. A nightmare haunted the broken lands. Exodus had searched, but he had found no joy in this war, besides the culling of the unworthy, or the hunt of a true adversary, these tribulations were a working tire. It was simply kill, or be killed. These were the words his father breathed, living them harder than any Sith he had ever known, beating the ideals into him until his back had scarred maliciously. There were few that could challenge him now, his father no exception. Even the ilk of the Jedi had soured like spoiled milk, yet Skon had reminded him of blood. The scent of it would never leave his hands, nor did he wish to be rid of it. And now, another most familiar with the taste, had come before him.

 

Ayda pressed a white towel against his wild hair, dampening it from the wash. Ilya wrapped obsidian stones in a red cloth, tightly and without touching the cold embrace of it, tucking them securely into a container. They both wore masks now, grossly ornamental in every way, animalistic in their designs and covering every inch of their faces. The colors were hauntingly mixed yet complimentary to their skin, doing their best to distract from their supernatural beauty, ensuring that those that looked upon them were not completely usurped of their senses. The Vipera served their King passionately, and the Spider never thought two ways about it. His attention to detail, cleanliness and order were strange quirks for a man that could murder so savagely, and the hands of these powerful women eased these small burdens.

 

"Our victory, Ca'Aran." The Dark King spoke the name with a strange accent, undoubtedly tinged in High Sith, growling the enunciation indifferently. Whether it was the duel he spoke of, or the conquest that invested them to a dying rock, it was one and the same. The Imperial Machine was an engine of evolution, fueled by the might and power of freedom. Whether it was the stormtrooper that had cut down another with impassioned blaster fire, or an animal in the vein of Nyrys the carnivorous severing her foes, any and all beneath the banner of the Spider would grow.

 

 

"How many dearest to you, have you lost? Speak freely, what are their names?" There was something cold in the way his voice remained so assuring, yet poetically haunting. He looked up from where he sat, exfoliating his hands with the poisonous mosses of Umbara by way of a simple basin, locking eyes with his Blood Prince.

[Exodus]

"Honorable then,"

 

He stressed the word. Truthfully, he did not care in the least. It was not for a lack of sympathy, but rather a cold indifference borne of names he once knew as well, names perished to war and famine. To the dirt is where their bones and bodies rotted, souls traveling the dark expanse of the afterlife, alone and bereft of ambition. Yet, Ca'Aran listed a few, friends even. Attachments that both strengthened him, and softened him in other ways. The predictive capacity of clones, the thirstful seed of camaraderie, this one was no different than the others he had studied. The stories of this man were telling, once a drunkard who relished obscene over-indulgence, worshiping little more than the reflection in his mirror. Killing senselessly and without purpose, and bedding himself with anything willing to part legs. He was a barbarian, but one debauched in utter buffoonery, a would-be jester in his courts. He was changing though, becoming harder, lens much clearer than they had ever been. The two had known each other for decades loosely, and finally the promise of Ca'Aran began to blossom in a quiet rage. There was an odd nature when it came to the Spider, one that pulled the very best out of those that drew near. 

 

"T'uulia. See to it that the fallen are recognized, ceremonies in their honor, and restitution for their families." Exodus spoke plainly, feeling the eyes of the Vipera curiously look his way. She obliged softly, voice as savory as honey, leaving the royal canvas behind. There were no gilded furnishings, no banquet tables of abounding exotic foods or wines, nor were there any of the affluent trappings that the Blood Prince was generally accustomed to here. Burning incenses bleeding with alimentary smoke, water and sea-mosses to cure and calm the wounds, and Sith artifacts that played in the dark. Sanitation was a peculiarity with the Dark King, not an extravagance. 

 

 

"I share in your grievances, for your losses are my own." He stood now, taller than the Captain, a primal husk of a creature. "There were those that advised us to leave you to die at Dark Sun, the many thousands of you thoroughly cornered. The losses would have been far greater, more definitive. Your lively maturation would have ceased, and your legend would be a mockery. You would fall, and be a protector of nothing."  Just as Arkaab Skon before. "There were losses there too, Ca'Aran, odds stacked imposingly against you. There was a sacrifice made in your favor."  The Emperor-King spoke in ways that allowed reality to settle in slowly, resting on the coattails of his truth. "They would have butchered you and your companions. Quite efficiently, might I add. Just as I could have done to these whimpering Glory Bound." He spit the words out. "Yet that is the hubris of scum, too sick and cowardly to dirty their hands for themselves. The civilians, our workforce, would perish pathetically and for nothing, we would not see true expansion if we annihilated each and everything we set our gaze too. Development would stifle, under-fed by the growing unrest of innocents sheepishly terminated, food and flame for the Rebellion. The Lords of Dark before myself, were all tyrannically mad for show, weak in their wisdom, burning out faster than a flame set to the tides of Mon Calamari. They could not have built this, they lacked the vision. We are conquerors, we fight, and we die; yet we are Rule, we will decree preservation for those faithful to our code."

 

The mulberry vapor in the air sieved through the nostrils, and burned the irises to a faded shine of white. The solution nebulized and injected the drums of the force inside of his bones. He was electric with power, energy replenishing within the small space he drew rest. Exodus explained these things to his Captain, satiating one of his most promising soldiers with a mandate different than the ones he was accustomed to. This would equal his longevity, this would become his legacy, Ca'Aran of power and promise. These were his tests, and his missions and directives would pull him through an understanding that would rival beliefs he once had. This was the reset he needed, and the one Exodus could foresee. If he failed in these things, if he fell short of his excellence, Exodus would be the one to cull the poison from the root. The Dark King would not stretch himself thin, running this Sith-Imperial machine, he would nurture those into a power of their own and see them flourish.

 

 

"If I have failed in this. Show me, brother."

There was openness in his voice, stern but also dripping with challenge.

The Vipera swallowed a deep gulp, and Exodus stood before his Captain.

 

 

 

 

 

[Exodus]

From the sunken caves beneath the cold bedrock of Umbara, Exodus was returned to realities of this era, with little from his kin that he could take pride in. The brotherhood of the Sith had rotted into delinquency, dishonorably broken apart and hunted into three parts of a sniveling extinction. Black Sun was dead, sitting with idle hands and too few in numbers that it was laughable. Operations stalled entirely with no one to champion their progression. There was no evolution, in fact, it looked as if every step was taken to ensure that the infamous factions of power became painfully inept. They all shared the blame, they were all guilty and caught red-handed in his eyes. It was Exodus that took the reins of the dark and saddled them into an Empire that would sweep the galaxy, and it was Exodus that bargained with the fading flames of the Black Sun, fanning them to life once more and sheltering them into an alliance that would return them to power. Only a fool would believe they stood a chance without the Sith, no more than a couple whippings from embarrassment. The divide between the Blood Prince and Zalis was glaring, beyond ailing. Public opinion traded in these truths, hear-say and propaganda that illustrated each and every turn that the Spider made to push these forces through, sanctioning the safety of his allies and those that followed him into the fray. Not just one victory, but one after the other and another. Yet, there were many that were sightless and ignorant to these truths, just as Raven was before she fell. He had neither the time, nor patience to educate the apparent children of this galaxy. All he could do was offer wisdom when he could, and yank the weeds from his garden when they reared their pitiful heads. He was a testament to the survival of not one, but two of the galaxy's most powerful empires. Failures would be a part of the journey, and for those, he would be as prepared as he could be. 

 

There were fewer and fewer men and women that were in his likeness, or of his mind, and this was what slowly made the young King colder.

"Do not patronize me, Delta."

 

 

There were others that had committed themselves in totality to the Spider, others that moved even now, to capture worlds on a Red Campaign in the name of the Sith Empire. Ca'Aran would eventually decide which side of the coin he would land on. Whether he ranked amidst fools who could not contribute or value the vision, or he rose higher than the achievements of an archetypal criminal, forging a legacy beyond those that had betrayed him. Ingratitude had a price, and it would be paid in full one way or another. The Dark King sized the trooper as he paced the lengths of his temporary abode, passing the dry armories and weaponry splayed across tables. He weighed the importance of such a creature, wondering if he could endure all of which he had asked for, and more. 

 

"Colonel Ca'Aran. The responsibility is yours." Exodus had moved further from him now, sinking deeper into the shadows. His voice crawled from the darkness, rummaging through small treasuries that the Vipera had been instructed to deliver prior to this meeting. A small-scale case floated towards the clone, suspending before him and opening to reveal a commemoration inside. The medallion had a black ribbon with purple linings, as well as three silver dots on each side near the medal. In addition, the medal itself possessed a tower-like design at the top, which ended with three prongs, and the circular emblem that featured an engraving that resembled the iconic TIE fighter. The Medal of the Emperor's Fist was an Imperial medallion awarded for distinguished services to the Emperor in strengthening and maintaining galactic peace. Each of the surviving lieutenants would have by now, received Medals of Valor for their efforts. "Lima Company will assist you while you levy a personal Brigade by way of your Imperial advancement. Make for Salliche, Colonel. Bring the planet to a kneel and wash Dark Sun from your hands." 

 

 

 

Brigade: ranged from 5,000 to 7,500 soldiers, led by a Colonel.

 

 

 

 

 

[Exodus]

Coruscant, the bright jewel of life and far-reaching rule throughout the course of history. An ecumenopolis that had worked to pull apart all evidence that told of powerful Sith who had once ruled with heavy hands here. The enemies of the brotherhood moved tirelessly in this, similar to their efforts on Carida, to destroy the daunting sky-rise temples devoted to the sacred teachings of the Sith. They were fervent in these endeavors, religiously erasing any mere mention of them, commanding that a planet so vast, would be one without the presence of the Dark Side. And now, this was the result of their blasphemy. The Galactic Alliance was an assembly of half-wits thinking they could ever suppress the infinite dark, dressing themselves as a grand protectorate while they hid behind the flood of warships. They announced themselves as judge, jury and executioner. Those warships folded like wet sheets of paper, and their sentencing to exterminate the truest lineage of power had gone against their favor. For too long Coruscant had served as an affront to the Sith, harboring enemies of what was now the Imperial State and serving as an untouchable redoubt for pro-Republican influence, to stifle new Imperial trade convoys moving between the territorial worlds.

 

But that would come to an end.

 

The ebb and flow of the galaxy had begun to shift, spies embedded themselves like ticks into the skin of the crumbling Alliance, speaking enthusiastically of opportunity, far before Faust was sent to upset the scales. Stagnation, coupled with complacency. The Galactic Alliance fanatically spread themselves thin to the rumors of a rising, sacrificing their impoverished people against all warning, neglecting military stratagem in favor of obsession. Their wholeness; mind, body, and soul split from the foundation as they abandoned the people they were sworn to protect, from the horrors of simple and extremely primitive raiders. To have risen so far, only just to crumble to the machinations of few. The Dark Lord dangled threads of web around the theater of war before it even began, predefining the fall of the Galactic Alliance. The Great Sith Empire was here now, its military was centralized and vast. The Emperor-King and his unofficial war council now drew plans to cripple the remains of the ailing bodies of governance that opposed their iron rule. A tripartite offensive now stirred the amassing power of fleets under the rule of the Spider. Border planets that outlined the territorial expanse of the Sith Empire, now caught the attention of his might.

 

A cyclopean shadow emerged over Coruscant, succeeded by a horde of smaller-scaled shadows that quickly changed pattern into an uncompromising darkness intent on swallowing the broken planet whole. An eclipse of battlecruisers, destroyers, warships of all shapes and sizes orbiting the heart of a dreadful assault force; the Black Scarab. Personal flagship to the Emperor-King, reigning miles from prow to stern, the Black Scarab was the largest warship ever constructed in the modern era. It was the summit of nearly thirty years of hidden construction and concealed research by way of Umbara, it was the kiss of death that the Spider intended to wash away the aging fleets of his enemies. Wherever the obsidian carapace of the immortal Scarab crawled, death and destruction would be yielded from its path. And now that same doom would be delivered to the enemies of Coruscant, unfurling as the rest of the Sith Empire unhinged from the black of space.

 

 

An uproar of fighter-craft vomited from the the ventral hangars of monstrous vessels like swarms of hungry locusts, the rain of assault transport continued down from the skies but heavier now like the downpour of a relentless storm. The decree of the Emperor-King was final, and Coruscant would become the belonging of the Sith Empire. Their preliminary arrival was short-changed in the event that pressure was placed onto another of their worlds, but now the deployment became heavy-handed and assets of all kinds fell in overwhelming numbers, eager to terra-form the sickened state of the jewel. Victims of Coruscant would bear witness to this blitzkrieg as the skies became filled with the a mind-blowing upheaval of landing craft skewering the clouds as they breached the atmosphere. The sprawling planet-wide city was too hazardous for any particular landing zone, and only the boldest and most elite of the Empire’s warriors would be given the honor of risking their lives in other dark traces of the disheartened city. The walkers and tanks would have to be assembled beyond the range of any remote defenses that lingered, but the brutality of the Dark-King broadcasted over local holo-screens had forced the hand of many that still held out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Palms were open, trying to find something that just wasn't there. Answers to the frailty of his foes, largely elusive. Their breaking was as easy as the bones of the smallest of avian species, impishly vulnerable to the crushing weight of the carnivorous. Arkaab Skon broke apart in this way, his brittle body coming undone by the hands of the conqueror. These were the hands responsible for the breaking, and they have done so for as long as he has drawn breath. Exodus sighed deeply and stared up into the emptiness of space, his features looked as if he half-expected a voice to call out from it..

 

Silence.

[Exodus]

Command centers bloomed with a funnel of new and vital information. Planetary management became of immediate importance once a suitable station nestled into the bedrock of a dismantled Coruscant. District creation, building constructions and design, assigning grand workforces for resource production and to maintain peace or enforce order. Officials spent the better half of the night managing the impossibly high disparities in the numbers regarding population decline, all while setting up additional garrisons for planetary defense. The world was a tangle of webs, but these were the right people for the untangling of them. 

 

Piracy was shot to a crawling halt once the presence of entire armadas poured into the system. The Sith Empire spared no expenses in the roll out of their might. With the rings of Kuat under new directives, their ship production soared to an unmatchable efficiency. Sword fleets, patrol behemoths, and creations unseen by any man or woman in recent wars, had nonchalantly dominated the trade routes. The presence of fleets automatically halted the rampant piracy for the systems in which they threw their collective weight. Various sentinel armadas were given orders to patrol between systems, coordinating with joint task forces to increase visibility, for their borders now expanded dangerously fast. To aid in the spread, monolithic outposts were deployed from regions in proximity to give nearby systems further trade protection, also campaigning heavily escorted convoys to assist the operations.

 

Empire-wide laws of behavior outlining the governing precepts for how they have and will guide themselves further in the expansion through the stars, as well as their stance on various other tedious subjects would begin to trickle into the political houses once they were windswept, and the dominion of the Spider would soon capture the galactic jewel whole.

 

Exodus ran his fingers across the SCI built into the vambrace slung to his forearm. The drill of information that flooded unmarked channels was more than enough to break the failing Dark Lords that preceded his reign, the intangibles chipping away at inflated ego. At a checkpoint such as this, most crumbled in their rule, bouncing from planet to planet aimlessly. They were bright flames to a solemn candle, flickering out as time and space ate at their resources. Those that followed Exodus now, would carve a legacy worthy of forever. 

 

"Ca'Aran," the Dark King announced through encrypted voice messaging, a voice so easily pitched in an eerie carving of sound. "Do you see them? The pieces are coming together for you. They shift when you speak, they follow when you lead. They will fight, and die for you, but how.. is entirely in your hands." He let the moment breath for but a second, knowing he already understood such things from the past he had carved for himself. What he really wished to say would dig far deeper. ".. Have you been made aware? Those that left you for dead have shown their faces at last. They have resurfaced unbothered by your disappearance, many believe it is relief as whispers go. They have flaunted their luxury in a system not too far from our reach. Let me remind you, Ca'aran. You are home now, and nothing is out of our reach. Keep me apprised of Salliche." 

 

 

The message cut immediately after, with the Dark King hungrily searching the stars as he departed the broken surface of Coruscant.