The halls of the Temple were utter chaos—but Hesper swanned through them with ease, cutting through convulsing crowds of Sith attacking stumbling, animated skeletons and writhing bodies passing by. She had Xarxes behind her, and Sorin, and Apollyon, and she could see from the corner of her eye that Arach, too, would join them. The wildness of the scene around her seemed to part for her passage, and Hesper walked through with grace and resolve belying her utter, profound defeat. The revelation of Dreadwar weighed on her, its heaviness abysmal and daunting. She was glad for the thick folds of her gown, which hid the trembling of her knees. Her bare feet were noiseless on the spiral staircase down from the battlements, and her focus, while scattered by the mayhem around them, remained trained on making her way down to those dreadfully familiar tunnels and catacombs beneath the temple. Her mind swam with images from the time she spent in the Vergence Scatter, disarrayed visions and futures lingering like ghosts in her haunted thoughts.
Dreadwar turned against us, she thought, trailing her fingers along the stone wall of the staircase as she entered into the entrance hall below. The hurt ran deep. Her chest still pounded, the residue of what could only have been a panic attack sticking to her ribs and in her lungs, making her breathing wheezy and tired.
Again, she thought forward to the tunnels, reminding herself of what needed to happen next. "Lord Xarxes," she said, pausing for a moment and looking over her shoulder for Xarxes and his limping scribe to catch up, Sorin, Apollyon, and Arach close behind.
Ah, she realized, turning fully to him,
this would be our first true meeting in the flesh, wouldn't it. She held out a hand to him, and he would feel déjà vu: it was almost the exact image he saw the first time they spoke, and Hesper reached a hand through the fabric of space and time to receive his fealty. But this time there would be an almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers, a betrayal of her utter shock.
"Your preparations were without flaw," she said. "You and Lieutenant Valantin stand as my greatest advocates and I am immensely grateful. But I am sorry that my arrival led to such chaos." Her voice was stained with a strained mournfulness, and her eyes strayed to the wildness of the room around them.
Thankfulness, here? Xarxes thought, surprised by her words and yet deeply proud to have received them. But now was not the time. The Nightfather’s head still swam with fear of what awaited them, and he took the effort to steel his nerves. The colossal figure accepted the delicate hand of the prophetess, though he hurriedly released it. "Darth Hesper, it is an honour to be at your service and receive your congratulations but, respectfully, we ought to save praise and congratulations for after we survive this." He meant it. Hesper had long been an inspiration to the younger Xarxes, and even now he bore great admiration for the Butcher of Coruscant. Yet his determination to survive outweighed his desire to converse in the flesh. "When we have made it out of here, to Bosthirda, Khar Delba, or any world away from here, then we can speak. For now, let me lend you guidance, lest we not make it out alive. The foes ahead could be numerous and powerful in number."
Xarxes noticed that Zyldek was still with him. Reluctantly satisfied with his survival, he hoped that the Chagrian would serve to chronicle the battles and great escape. If he survived, at least. The warlord leaned over to him, whispering to the shaking figure. "Keep up or die, Apprentice." He received but a shaky nod in response, enough to satisfy him.
Apollyon’s presence and lack of focus was not lost on the Nightfather either. His hatred for her was barely concealed, but he knew precisely why she was this way. A betrayal of this magnitude was bound to affect her negatively, though she seemed to suffer more than Hesper.
Hesper’s own fears were not unapparent themselves. When he had taken her hand, but a fraction of her emotions were displayed to him. If not for her considerable power, Xarxes would have thought she believed their current objective impossible.
“We
can make it, Darth Hesper,” he whispered. “We are here to serve your machinations. Lead us.”
Wringing her hands, Hesper began to walk again, working her way deeper into the Temple. “Let’s talk strategy,” she said, swallowing the lump that kept threatening to choke her. “Because we are clearly outmatched for anything resembling open battle outside the Temple, where mine and Apollyon’s master rides against us. But I’ve foreseen a path through the tunnels—though I fear it will be dangerous for the lesser Sith.” She side-stepped a banquet server who appeared to be stabbing themself. Xarxes grimaced slightly. There were dark things at work here to be causing such mayhem among the peons and underlings of the Order.
“None of this is safe for any of us, Hesper,” interjected the Nightfather. “Any of us could be killed moving through those tunnels, our respective powers aside. I suggest we move. There are no better options, as you say, and you foresee a path for us which may be fraught with danger. Let me be your guiding beacon. I shall sense the way, and my All-Seeing-Eye will be a light in dark places, when all other lights go out.” His Mqaaq’it glowed beneath his helm, showing her its golden light gradually growing red.
Hesper fixed Xarxes with a sharp look. “You’ll use an honorific when speaking to me, Lord Xarxes.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “But yes; we’ll need to move. What I have seen is a clear exit. We’ll need to gather up all who wish to escape with their lives, and shepherd them towards the dungeons and the tunnels. We’ll need the stronger Sith to lead the weak and wounded through the tunnels, and I will bring up the rear.” Her voice twisted with a strange note.
Throughout their journey, Arach had remained silent. After disbanding the energy for her Tendrils, her mind was working on the
wrongness she couldn’t seem to shake. Now, however, she focused more on what was being said and lifted an eyebrow at Hesper’s tone.
She knew Hesper and Apollyon were disturbed and shocked by their master’s betrayal. To be fair, it had shocked her, too, but it was to be expected. Sith betray. It was a hard lesson she had learned on Mortis.
“It might not be safe in tunnels, Priestess,” Arach said, gently. “If that is Dreadwar, he’ll know how to trap us.” The Sith Lady inclined her head and conceded, “That being said, there most likely isn’t another way out.”
“These tunnels may not l-lead anywhere,” Apollyon finally spoke up, voice cracking just once as she wiped the undignified tears from her cheeks. The presence of Arach and Hesper, rivals for her master’s favour notwithstanding, was oddly comforting, that sense the apprentices of Dreadwar were together in this final hour of despair, perhaps not lifting her spirits, exactly, but nonetheless coaxing forth the first glimmers of reason from the lethean waters of her thoughts.
She still felt sluggish, dazed, like a great sickness gnawed at her gut, but the intension of her mind, however shy of Dreadwar’s lofty goals for her intellect, would not stop now. Could not stop. “What if our passage is barred by a cave-in or dead-end? What if they were marked off-limits because the crypts are protected by ancient snares? We could be trapped, with no way out, as the dead breach the shields. This could be
exactly what Dreadwar wants.”
"I'm certain it is," Hesper mulled, her voice quiet. Her thoughts now dwelled on the last conversation she'd had with her Master.
Save them at the tunnel. Her stomach turned over, made ill by the recent revelations, but that last contact was still somehow comforting: the wistful farewell, the strange, sage wisdom. That was the Dreadwar she knew—not the wraith on the black mount. Her trust in him was shattered, now, and she doubted his machinations she had performed were in good faith, but… she did trust herself. She trusted her foresight. It had been true in showing her the pathway back to Korriban, all the plotting and scheming and clever footwork it took to secure the Hesperians. The vision she had seen of the tunnels had been clear. It would be their escape.
"But," Hesper spoke up, "When we were on the battlements just now, I looked into the future and saw a clear path through the tunnels. I foresaw our escape. I also foresaw the coming of…" she looked down, voice catching in her throat. Memories of Mortis flooded her mind "Of Typhojem. Of his return. And I foresaw the arrival of the black ships."
"The tunnels are a risk I'm willing to take. The space is defensible and as easy to use against our enemies as it is for them to use against us. And I think you'll agree that fighting a small, concentrated force in the catacombs is far preferable to open war in the valley outside the temple."
Arach considered Hesper’s words for a moment. Her concern and reason clashed, but her trust in Hesper put an end to her internal debate. She bowed her head in acceptance. “I’ll follow you, my Lady.”
Xarxes had elected not to respond to his chastisement, remaining silent to absorb the words of Dreadwar’s gathered apprentices. The general sense of impending doom aside, the Ar’Adas’s own inquisitive nature would not let the fear and intrigue surrounding the name “Typhojem” to go on without further prodding.
“Typhojem? Priestess, who is this individual, and why does it cause you fear? I sense, not with the Force, that you all know this… thing, and what his apparent arrival entails.” His own voice was tinged by hesitation, both for speaking boldly and for the shock of three Sith women more powerful than himself undeniably afraid of whatever it was they knew. They were, after all, apprentices to the most powerful and famous Sith the Order had ever produced…
So why were they afraid of an individual that neither he, the self-proclaimed All-Seeing-Eye, and no other Sith he knew, had ever heard even a whisper of?
Apollyon frowned, eyeing Hesper with equal parts anxiety and curiosity. “I do not, Lord Xarxes,” she said. “The name tugs at my memory, but only from the pages of myth. Yes, yes, the writings of Sorzus Syn, from the
Book of Sith. Some deity worshipped by the ancient people who lent our Order its name, a species of sorcerers I was raised to believe died out millennia ago, but now believe yet lives outside our gates. It was said Ajunta Pall was heralded as his incarnation, but… Primitive superstition…” She trailed off. The name had kindled another memory, as she thought of
Mitth’res’pheie, reminding herself to disclose the resolution of the mystery to Catalyst. Not Typhojem, what had the name been…
Pomojema.
The frightful idol in the tomb of Ku’ar Danar, an abomination of stone with eyes of crystal that glowed with malefic power. A name Catalyst had attributed to a foul idol of Mimban, a heathen god associated with the legendary healing powers of the kaiburr crystal.
What had Catalyst said then?
A tribute to an unknown healing god laying sealed beneath the tomb of one of the most renowned Sith Lords to grace the galaxy makes absolutely no sense.
It didn’t make any sense. But it did make sense if Pomojema was a corrupted form of Typhojem—
if the statue Darth Dreadwar had placed in his own tomb was that of the same deity referenced by Syn, referenced by the very Dark Jedi the dread architect of the Hundred-Year Darkness had corrupted to his will. Typhojem, god of the ancient Sith. Typhojem,
god of Dreadwar, god of a rationalist who possessed not the slightest inclination towards religion or superstition. For the second time that day, Apollyon’s heart seized in fear.
Typhojem.
Arach closed her eyes as fear ran down her spine. The chaos and destruction of Mortis flashed in her mind. Also, a sense of déjà vu.
The question asked by Xarxes closely mirrored the question she had asked in a half remembered dream state. Her brow furrowed as she focused on the memory.
‘After we defeated Malkuth in Lord Insipid's quarters, I heard a title in my head. The Left-Handed Lord. You called him Typhojem. Who was he?’ It was the voice of her younger self. And the memory came back. She remembered who she had asked and her heart twisted in a mixture of rage, bittersweet, betrayal, and sadness. She had been asking Haretisch as they waited for a couple apprentices to free them and the spirit of a long dead Sith Lord.
Arach opened her golden eyes and she repeated the words that were spoken to her. “‘Typhojem, the Left-Handed God, Pomojema... He is known by many names in many cultures across the galaxy. A deity, birthed by Tilotny in the Bedlam Pulsar, he has been worshipped across the ages by the ancient Sith, the Mimban natives, and countless others. He is Chaos in the flesh, the very embodiment of the void. He is sentient and distinct, and yet formless and infinite.’” Her golden gaze, mirroring her sadness, shifted to Xarxes and she held his gaze unblinkingly.
“He was the master of Cruor. He had been shackled for a… very long time. Until Darth Haretisch,” her gaze slid to Hesper, “freed him by performing a sacrifice on Mortis.” Her gaze flickered back to Xarxes. “He is no myth. If he is back, then we need to run and pray he never finds us.”
Her brow furrowed once more. There was something else that was mentioned, but what was it? Oh, yes! Her jaw slackened to speak, but she closed it again. A sharp warning in her gut cut her off.
Hesper was grimly quiet; Arach had described Typhojem with accuracy. And her mind was ablaze with the emerald eye she had seen in the Vergence Scatter:
the Eye of Typhojem.
She bodily shuddered, the howling memory of that terrifying
scream ripping through her mind.
"Mortis… the place where we fought against Him. The place where I received this scar; the place where the first vanguard against Him was defeated." She glanced towards the others, scarred eye glinting with opalescent intensity, fear and horror echoing within it. "We cannot fail this time, or there will be no galaxy left in His wake. He
must be destroyed."
Xarxes felt a shiver in his spine, slowly spreading throughout his body. Despite the natural heat of the armor’s interior, he still felt goosebumps crawl across his alabaster skin. They were all afraid of something far more powerful than even the might of the former Emperor. The mere thought of such a being existing was enough to fill the stoic sentinel with dread. This talk coming from Hesper, this adamant hope against all odds, seemed completely foolish. Destroying such a being would be… impossible, to his mind, and this other individual she spoke of, Tilotny, the Left-Handed god’s mother, could she also be real? Powerful and destructive as a force to demolish the galaxy?
Yet Hesper’s words also brought an invigorated spirit to the Nightfather, comparable to the effects of one skilled in the art of Battle Meditation. If they had but to hope, to escape and survive, even if only for the sake of these notions, it was worth fighting for. When faced with hopeless death and the needle-thin glimmer of hope, Xarxes chose the latter.
“Then we best get moving, Darth Hesper. We haven’t time to waste here. I’ll search forward once we enter the tunnels. I don’t want any unseen obstacles or Sith traps surprising us. Lady Apollyon, would it please you to join me at the front?” The venom usually reserved for Apollyon was not present in Xarxes’s words now. There was no time for that, no room for conflict among them if they wanted to get out alive. All hatred needed to be directed at the enemy.
The aforementioned hatred amongst fellows was on full display for Xarxes as he watched Xiannarr raise his blade against another overseer (Marcus, he believed the name was). The latter was quite obviously wounded, but the immediate assumption, given the spell of the now-choking jester-looking fellow nearby, was that the quarrel was petty and unnecessary. Without waiting for Apollyon’s response, the armored lord extended a hand, reaching for Xiannarr’s mind, and attempted to wrest from him his memories of the last half-hour and eliminate them completely. Hopefully, this would put an end to whatever petty squabble was going on.
“Cease this foolishness,” he growled, his voice resonating through the enclosed space. “There are far more important matters to attend to then whatever poppycock your squabble concerns.”
Quietly, as Xarxes directed his focus elsewhere, Hesper reached for the sleeves of Arach and Apollyon, pulling them aside to discuss in hushed voices what was no doubt on all their minds: the betrayal of their master, the former Emperor Dreadwar. Leaning her head close to her two fellow apprentices, Hesper whispered: "What shall we do about Dreadwar?" Her voice was fraught, quivering as she pitched it low.
Arach considered Hesper’s words. She considered what she had felt and the fact that Dreadwar hadn’t even responded when her attack nearly hit him. She met the Priestess’s gaze and admitted, “I’m not even fully sure it is Dreadwar. I tried to contact him, but he never responded. Nor had he responded to my attack.” The assassin paused for a second, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I have been feeling that something was off, but I’m not sure of what, yet.” she turned toward the Inquisitor. “You knew him best, Apollyon. What do you think?”
“I think we have been deceived,” Apollyon said. “I think this entire order… the order of Vassago and Cruor, of Insipid and Krayt, was but a crude weapon, forged from the remnants of the Galactic Empire, to be discarded when our purpose was exhausted.”
A bitter scowl twisted her countenance. “It is he. He closes his mind to me, but I sense his presence, and see in our history the hand of his cunning. If Cruor… If Cruor, you say, was a servant of this Typhojem, Dreadwar must be as well, for I found a statue of Pomojema in his tomb, a tomb built seven thousand years ago. I believe he rides with the enemy not because he has turned his cloak, but because he was never one of us to begin with. I believe… I believe this enemy is that of the ancient Sith. Somehow, our histories spoke false. I fear the Sith species, the true Sith, survived, all these millennia, in the darkness of the Unknown Regions. I fear all of Dreadwar’s actions, all of his manipulations, served their purpose.” Force, if the New Sith Order had been an unwitting vassal, what of the Sith cult entire? Did not every incarnation of their order trace back to the Second Great Schism? Just how ancient was this adversary?
“I do not know how we can prevail against him,” she whispered.
I do not know how we can survive.
"I think you're right, Apollyon," Hesper said. Her mind was turning over Apollyon's words, considering their meaning and weight. "About our master's true allegiance. It burns me." She ran her fingers through her hair, raking her nails against her scalp. Her brows were furrowed as she thought, her countenance dark. "I fear what may come to bear should we come face-to-face with him." She tried to imagine it: Dreadwar, in all his phantasmal terror, backing them into the proverbial corner, stygian gauntlets raised to smite them. Her skin crawled, raising gooseflesh on her arms.
Arach watched Hesper’s face and added with a slight smirk, “It would be a bloodbath.” She rubbed lightly at her chest over her heart and tried to ignore the sinking feeling that stabbed her. She recognized the feeling, but restrained the intense sadness. She couldn’t afford to break down. It wasn’t the first time she had been betrayed so deeply.
Arach quickly turned her head away to watch Xarxes’ progress ahead of them, before the other two could see her own heartbreak in her eyes. Hesper’s own heart was heavy—almost as if the last conversation she had had with her Master had been erased, and the shock of his disappearance on Empress Teta was renewed, burning her with a fresh pain. Ah, she had not expected to feel so crushed! She also moved her eyes to Xarxes, putting her hand on Arach's arm as she turned. Her eyes slid from Xarxes, to the quarreling Overseers, to the apprentices, to the door behind them, framing stairs that led deep into the tunnels below, and the blackness it held therein… like the blackness of their master’s ever-empty hood. Cold seized her bones.
"We should go."
Apollyon nodded, and hurried her pace, moving to the front of the impromptu entourage as Xarxes had suggested; the end of the dungeons’ long passageway was only meters away, stairs leading away from either side, up to the former Emperor’s Tower on the left and down to the tunnels on the right. Catalyst was there, near Xarxes and the two overseers, and a weak smile crossed Apollyon’s lips as the Inquisitor placed a comforting hand on her back.
She remained silent as Catalyst chastised a pale-skinned Myke, and then leaned in. “I solved the prophecy, you know,” she said quietly. “That prophecy of apocalypse, from the tomb.” She wasn’t even sure whether Catalyst remembered its exact wording; their quest for that missing fragment, for that unsatisfying answer of
Mitth’res’pheie, felt like a lifetime ago. “Mitth’res’pheie. It wasn’t a Chiss. It was an anagram.
The Sith Empire.” She laughed, a quiet, sad thing. “I don’t know what good it does us now. But I solved it. The outward riddle, anyway. The deeper meaning…” She trailed off, thinking, replaying the words in her head.
“Arach,” Hesper said, giving Arach’s arm a squeeze. “Stick with me; we’ll funnel people into the tunnels as they come. And prepare yourself. It may yet be a battle, our passage through the tunnels.” Her voice trailed off, and she turned, seeing Sorin where he stood so patiently behind, listening and following as the three apprentices of Dreadwar, and Lord Xarxes, had made their way down from the battlements to the dungeons. She nodded grimly to him, and he returned the gesture, knowing without speaking that it was now his duty to take up his place at her side as her sword and bulwark.
Hesper rocked on the balls of her feet, feeling the building tension that always seemed to precede a battle. Such wild and dark revelations… they weighed on her, but it was a heaviness of purpose, a war-mantle which could fortify her. She briefly closed her eyes, again delving into the vision-memory of the path she had seen through the tunnels… the sliver of hope at the end of it… and the band of Sith surviving through to the end. She clung to this glimmer of hope, desiring it deeply. Gathering her power to herself, she began to will faces into her vision, exerting her determination to see her comrades and friends live another day. She flexed her sway, pushing and shaping and sculpting the future she
wanted to see. It would manifest as a niggling feeling in those who had not yet thought of retreating to the tunnels—suddenly they would know it was where they needed to go, abandoning their fights to find their way to where Hesper and many others had begun to gather. And when all were collected up, Hesper would be their shepherd, urging them through darkness to find a new, better chance to achieve that long-awaited victory… to defeat Typhojem.
TAG:
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@Darth Nathemus,
@Voidwalker,
@Jihadi Quartz,
@skira,
@Nacros_Telcontare,
@Hadzuska_The Jester,
@Darth Solus,
@Cardun Vrek,
@Reatith Blodraald,
@Keres Dymos,
@Kielor,
@Undying Master Xiannarr,
@Reiis Invadator,
@Grievance Vexx,
@dragonsith13,
@Darth Xxys,
@Helkosh,
@G.Kn,
@Darth Thana,
@Darth Kain ,
@Darth Dreadwar,
@Catalyst,
@Volacius,
@Darth Xirr,
@DarthFeros,
@Darth Cruor,
@Drakul_Xarxes,
@Zareel Jhenan´doka,
@Arach,
@DarthNoxia,
@Metus,
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Powers used (Xarxes):
Memory Rub - 4
Powers used (Hesper):
Darksight - GOD-TIER - 10 (to will those who are not at the dungeons to head towards them and gather, so we can enter them as a group)
Special tag just for 
