Game Ancient Sith Trials: The Dark Lords

[...]

Year: 6789 BBY

Tulak Hord. Lord of Hate, Master of the Gathering Darkness, Dark Lord of the Sith. His rule had ensured that the fledgling Sith Empire had not only secured its foothold in the Stygian Caldera but also spread its influence to hundreds of worlds beyond. The capital of this young Empire resides on Ziost which is the most populous of the seventeen planets, though Korriban remains a powerful religious center of the Empire. Tulak Hord was a warrior of such great power and skill that none would have thought his death possible, yet death comes to us all it seems, at the height of his power he was murdered by the hand of his own apprentice.

Though the Sith Empire has existed for more than a century and consists of hundreds of worlds this time could not be more volatile, numerous political factions exist and seek to exert their influence on the Empire, the question that plagues everyone's mind however is if any one person could seize the mantle of Dark Lord and lead as Tulak Hord had, or would the Empire crumble now and splinter into warring factions? There were many Sith Lords within the Empire now who were capable, their houses and clans strong enough to make a claim for the throne, but were they brave enough to take advantage of this moment?

Even now the most influential Lords and Ladies from across the Empire were traveling to Korriban to attend the funeral of the slain Dark Lord, all in attendance would know the implications of his death, he alone seemed powerful enough to hold the numerous factions together. All were fearful that the inevitable fight for control of the Empire would lead to an uncertain future, that future was theirs now, what this Empire would become was in their hands alone.

Of the rival factions the three which were most influential were the military, religious, and allies of the former apprentice to Tulak Hord. Those who supported the former apprentice, Ortan Cela, felt he should be named Dark Lord. The military, led by Shadow Hand Drathen Omana, refused to accept Cela’s claim and called him a coward for having stabbed his master in the back. The religious sect, led by High Priest Dagon, wished to see the succession be decided by their interpretation of the Force’s will.

Who, if anyone, would become the next Dark Lord of the Sith?

The culture of the Sith Order would be as follows:

Rank and station is the most important thing in the world of the Sith, and ascension to greater power is their ultimate goal. On Korriban and Ziost assassination is the preferred method of eliminating rivals, though discretion is necessary, for to openly murder a rival will bring down the merciless might of Sith “justice”. None care about the act of murder itself, it is the appearance of order and civilization that must be upheld, if the Empire was to fall into chaos and strife all knew it would splinter and dissolve.

Outside of the center of Sith civilization however, might makes right, many unpleasant things can happen to an individual in the untamed worlds of the Empire. Even there however, it is a good idea to keep those activities secret, after all sometimes murder leads to revenge. It is not uncommon for Sith to have allies, however all must be careful to not be double crossed, everyone is suspect.

Character/s

Characters of this period are more like feudal lords, each building a base of power around themselves. As such each Sith should have their own house, or clan based NPCs ( who won't have powers, but can still pose as formidable warriors....and possibly be enhanced through ancient methods left unsaid at this time ).

This is up to you to create, but it is safe to consider that all Sith characters will be of the elite class, each with established lands and wealth.

These are characters of influence, and power, they are the people who make the Empire run and who have enough power to lord over the rest. Even the newest character in this game is still a master, and will have the ability to create NPCs.

The principle idea of this RPG is to give control to you, and to let players drive the game – while the GMs control the overall story and keep everyone in check, they are here to ensure the game is fun for all – while throwing twists in form time to time!


Character Sheet: Submit your completed sheet to Darth Cruor

Name: (We will be avoiding the use of "Darth" titles at this time)

Race: (Human, Sith (specify Massassi/Kissai), Hybrid, Zabrak, Devaronian, Twi’lek)

Age:

Affiliation:

Home world: (We will start the game on Stygian Caldera worlds only, mainly Korriban and Ziost. The Empire is much larger obviously, but this is where we will start and can expand from there.)

Physical Description:

Equipment/Weapons/Armor: (Note, no lightsabers at this time and remember while blasters exist they are in primitive form and consume vast amounts of power. Force Imbued Blade, Lanvarok, Massassi Battle Staff, Massassi Brand, Massassi Ceremonial Blade, Massassi Knuckler, Parang, Shikkar, Sith Lanvarok, Sith Sword/Dagger/Knife, Sith Tremor Sword, etc)

Powers: All will have Telekinesis, Athleticism (speed, reflexes, acrobatics, jump), Force Sense (basic precognition), Force Sight, Force Empathy, Force Stealth.

In addition each character can select one additional power at the time of creation. Not all powers will be allowed, be conservative in your choice of power, anything too extreme will be denied.

As you can see powers for starting characters are going to be basic core powers, additional powers must be earned via IC roleplay and can be tracked in the RPR library thread.

Bio:

Levels/Classes:

This game will have no levels, nor classes. Sith in this game are all considered Master level Sith at the point of character creation.

Every character (Sith Lord) will be striving to find their place in this fledgling Empire, some may seek to become the new Dark Lord of the Sith.

Each character can seek to find a niche within this order, some may be rewarded as they contribute to the overall experience of the game. These niche positions can be High Priests of the religious caste, Spymasters who specialize in espionage, Shadow Assassins, Battle Lords who lead Sith armies into war, etc.

Above all is the Dark Lord, whoever that is at the time, that is the ultimate goal for any Sith.

Might makes right, the strong will lead the Order. There is however a maximum duration for a Dark Lord, to make this work we need the succession of Dark Lords to continue moving forward. After one full year of being Dark Lord, the Dark Lord dies of old age, a legend among Sith and the ONLY characters in the game who can become a Sith Spirit.

Powers and how to earn them:

So we have no levels, but you might be asking yourself how will we determine powers for each character. Let me answer that.

All Sith in this game are considered Master level Sith and as such have been taught the basics, the basics are considered the commonly seen powers of the Sith from the films, starting powers are listed in the character sheet.

You might be asking yourself at this time...."Is that all we get?!" Don't fret, a vast number of powers are available. It is up to the player to tell us what they want. However they must be earned, and there are 3 ways to do that.

The 1st and most common way for a player to learn a power is to do a Power Quest. If Player X wants to play an assassin type of character, and would like to add the ability to add Force Concealment to his/her repertoire they can PM a GM.

The GM team will set up a quest, the difficulty of the quest will depend on the power of the ability the character wants to earn. Force Storm for instance will be a FAR harder quest than Dark Aura. The GM teams also has the right to determine that a power is broken in regards to this game, for instance, we will not be allowing Mind Control for the foreseeable future.

Power Quests will not be easy, nor should they be.

The 2nd way to earn a power is through an Item Quest. Items can be gained in the game that will give players limited uses of powers, these quests will be easier than the Power Quests. If Player X wants to gain an item that gives the ability to use Alter Environment, a quest can be set up by the GM to gain an item that will allow the player to use that power 1-3 times (depending on the difficulty of the quest). Once the item has been depleted it is useless.

The 3rd way is to learn a power from another character, if Player A wants to learn Force Concealment from Player B (player B must have learned the power through a Power Quest before they can teach another player), they can approach that character and barter for knowledge. Player B may require a favor, may demand loyalty, may only train an apprentice, or any other thing they deem necessary to come to an agreement. If a power is earned in this way GMs will require that multiple posts be made in game to show this transfer of knowledge.

The Kaggath: Character vs Character Combat and Death:

Characters will die from time to time. This is not personal. Making it personal won't be tolerated. This is character play. If a player versus player fight takes place and it is going to be to the death it will be judged as per proper role playing etiquette by the GM team.

Not all Character vs Character fights need to be death fights, some will be for dominance or prestige amongst their peers.

Death fights, or a Kaggath (an ancient battle of domination between two Sith Lords), may happen if the need arises. The only time a death fight is required is when a character challenges the Dark Lord, the Dark Lord cannot turn down a legitimate challenge (as determined by GMs), characters with weak in-game alliances, or few powers, won't be allowed to make a challenge.

Upon a character death the main character is considered dead, for good, we won't get into essence transfer. Their power base is considered dispersed. The player can create a new character, with GM approval.

At the end of the day we are telling stories, epic ones. For that to happen we all need to be mature and have fun with this, or it won't work.

Technology, while present, is limited in both scope and application. Space travel is done but it is treacherous and limited. Traveling to another world is a major endeavor and will consume resources. Remembering that we are playing 6000+ years before the films, so transportation and military equipment will be less advanced than what we are used to.

 

[dragonsith13]

“If you were to face an ancient Sith Lord in combat, you would learn that we are as children playing with toys compared to the prowess of the old masters.”
―Kreia ~ Darth Traya

~High plains, far east of the Valley of the Dead~
~Sunrise~​

With the faint light of a new day casting itself across the red sands, Horuset began to rise over the tall reaches of the mountains. The sunrise casting an early morning canvas of reds, pinks, and orange tints across the sky that was in the moment symbolic of the carnage below.

The sound of steel driving downwards through durasteel and into flesh rang across the blood soaked field, as a final blow was delivered to a usurper, impaling him for a brief moment into the red earth. A final thrust that was met with a chilly morning breeze, now making its way down over the mountains that were a very short distance away.

​

The High Sword of the Empire stood at last with no opponent around her. The heaving sign of warm breath from her lips hitting the crisp early morning air, her shoulders and chest rising to draw in deep breaths. Blood trickled down her face and blade, splattered on her shiny ornate silver colored breastplate and gauntlets, all of it the result of a two-day long battle that had gone straight through the night and into the now blossoming dawn. Allies still engulfed in their own waning and final gasps of combat were scattered nearby.

The final moments of the battle came to a close.

A Sith war beast, a behemoth let out an echoing groan as it was led off the plain, nearby a fallen one of the same breed lay dead. Its body littered with spears and pikes, scorch marks from blaster fire. As the massive saddled superstructure which acted like a mobile war platform for warriors was crippled and shattered.

In a short time an eerie silence embraced the field, with the roar of the raging battle being replaced by the low groans of dying men and women.

The vast rocky red desert sand was littered with fallen. Thousands of warriors, and beasts lay dying as the remaining beings that stood upright offered little relief. The injured that still drew breath crawling on their hands and knees clinging to life and hoping they could make it. The few that bore the banner of another side found themselves ripe for swift execution from the remaining force that wandered about after having defeated them. No quarter was given.

Bodies on pikes lined sections of the battlefield as trophies and taunts to the opposing forces, while smoldering fires bellowed out smoke that rose into the clear morning sky. High above the birds of prey had already begun to circle, anticipating the feast on the dead.

Let this lesson echo across the sands of this world, that those that opposed the Dark Lord would suffer the most horrible consequences.

It was a statement. It was Korriban.

The sound of hoofs clambering in the red sand grew louder as a formal band of three riders approached, mounted on Ungulate like war beasts, hooved horse-like animals with large horns. Each one adorned with ornate colors of the High Empire Court. The red, purple, green, and black fabrics showed that these were not ordinary messengers. The trio came to a quick stop, the faces of the helmeted riders clad in armor showed an earnestness that cut through the slowly fading fog of the battle. “Milady!” The lead rider nodded offering due respect to the High Sword of the Empire. Vina Caligra.

The sword of the Empire upon hearing her name was snapped out of the several day’s long focus and the dark haze that engulfed her. With her blade still in hand, she came about. Turning towards the just arrived riders. Her fiery red eyes shined through the half covering helmet she wore, a large pony tail of ornate brightly red colored faux hair cresting and protruding out from the top of it.

The lead rider quickly spoke. “High Priest Dagon sends word, you must make haste back to the temple.” The Ungulate with the rider on it raised up slightly as the rider adjusted in the saddle, holding onto the reins, as the beast settled and trampled slightly before becoming still again. “The Dark Lord…. has died.” There was no need to mention his name as there was only one such Dark Lord.

Delivering such a message was not a job one relished, as the riders all instinctively pulled their mounts back ever so slightly, giving room to the High Sword. “The High Council has been called and all Lords and Ladies summoned.” With that the riders left, fled in reality, as they were not going to remain further in the High Swords presence more than they needed to deliver the message.

Weakness. The emotion was not something one of her stations could afford to be shown, even to a court errand boy. Vina controlled her pain and sorrow, internally she had dropped to her knees, though she remained stalwart in her stance, acknowledging the message. The shock of it, truly an expected event. Death, one never could prepare for the finality and eventuality of such coming to fruition. Death… Opportunity…. Power.

~City of Dreshdae ~ Outside the Valley of the Dead~
~Gathering of the High Sith Court~​

Judicator Caan Arelius, the highest authority on the subjugated species and overseer of the will of the Empire stood in conversation with the High Marchioness Evicus Waarl, commander of all Sith force and second in command only to the Dark Lord Tulak Horde. An amicable debate on the implementation of recent acquisitions of technology on the system Dromund Kaas and their implementation into the Sith Empire occupied them both. Waarl, focused on his proposed strengthening the military industrial complex. While Arelius’ pushed implementation into certain areas of coercion, rule, and subjugation of the various systems.

The massive double doors of the Council chambers swung open, Vina Caligra pushing her way through them and stepping out into the open chamber, making her way to her seat on the table, the blood of the battle still staining her armor. The hall was lined with lords and ladies, chattering away… conspiring, scheming, plotting. This was in fact not the home of the council, that was on Ziost where the Grand Council Chambers presided. Each world had its own gathering places, its own ceremonious chambers for certain times of triumph, counsel, and inevitably loss.

Quickly aware of her presence, a lushly dressed noble lord, stepped forward almost impeding the High Swords way. His overt bravado and glaring eyes scorning the woman who had just entered the chambers. “High Sword Caligra, your absence on the council has brought in question your ability to hold your position.” The robed noble pressed with his words, Marchioness Dri Stalgren. Son of an original exile and now lord of the Sith slave districts. Council member and General to one of the Black Legions divisions.

“Shut you cuck mouth, you faithless squib.” The High Sword spat back, the woman not taking anything from the other lord, not letting the man continue. Enraged the General moved quickly towards the High Sword, drawing his blade. With a deft move the High Sword blocked the oncoming strike with one of her gauntlets and loosed a dagger right into the man’s ribs. Quickly twisting and driving the blade further. The General gasped for air as the strike punctured one of his lungs. “I was too busy slaughtering your army, you sack-less cur.” The High Sword spoke softly with a gentle feminine tone that was both demeaning and triumphant in his ear as she held the blade in his side. The sound of the blade scraping against armor and her confident voice echoing across the chambers to the ears of the others present. “Too busy loving your slave toys, to fight your own battles General.” The General gave his last gasp as the High Sword drove the dagger in further, the Generals face now pale and lifeless as he fell back slipping off the dagger, and falling to the floor.

Drathen Omana, the Shadow Hand of the Empire watched with amusement, that of the gutting of a fellow council member, as he sat with Marchioness Reem Trigan, commander of the Sith fleet throughout the regions. Both had been discussing the employment of one of the newly discovered systems Athiss and the application of the population towards further exploratory ventures. The Shadow Hand was always seeking to stay involved in all contacts, keeping his hands silently busy in the most promising of endeavors. The Marchioness Trigan wielded his influence within the fleet to hold his seat in the council.

Despite the many conversations and dealings throughout the chamber, the attention of the chamber was solely on the High Sword as silently all eyes were fixated on the dead General.

The silence was broken by the soft steps of another being at the head of the chambers. Ordained in a headdress of ornate markings and a flowing robe. The vestments were adorned with scripts and runes down the seams and a white and red stole signifying stature.

The High Priest of the Empire, keeper of the darkest alchemy secrets looked out across the chamber. A furrowed brow at the sight that unfolded in an instant, spurred from the High Sword’s actions.

A pool of blood formed on the polished stone floor beside the now dead Marchioness Dri Stalgren, his poorly timed and vain move against the High Sword, Lady Vina Caligra, costing him his life. The gross miscalculation, had prompted the entire room to draw and move upon itself as the facade of pleasantries moments before were cast aside, giving way to the true nature of the room.

Marchioness Trigan had drawn a short sword, holding it to the throat of Shadow Hand Drathen Omana, whom to the Marchioness Trigan’s surprise held a similar sword under the table pressing against his gut. Judicator Areliua stood silent, his hand on the hilt of his own blade on the cusp of being drawn. Only the sight of the barrel a blaster pointed directly at his head, nearly pressing against his temple by High Marchioness Waarl, as a result keeping him from drawing his own blade. Though the High Marchioness Waarl fared no better as he was surrounded by several Judiciary guards each with a blade pressing against the High Marchioness’ armor.

The room was on the brink, as the servants and guards from the top down had all in some fashion drawn weapons on each other. The entire chamber was in a standoff a mix of pikes, blades, blasters all pointing at each other.

Such exercises were not uncommon, though the patience of the High Priest was thin as he came about an obelisk within the chamber High Priest Dagon had been in reclusion meditating the last few hours, making preparations for the upcoming events. Stirred by the swirling energy and crass nature of the chamber to make his presence finally known.

They were all present now. Precariously at each other’s throats, yet summoned and ready to convene as necessary.

High Priest Dagon, Shadow Hand Drathen Omana, High Marchioness Evicus Waarl, Marchioness Reem Trigan, Judicator Ria Arelius, High Sword Vina Caligra, and Marchioness Dri Stalgren though the Marchioness lay dead in his own pool of blood.

They were the strongest, most influential, and first in line to take the mantle of Dark Lord. All of them vying for it given the Dark Lord’s death.

​

The High Priest after pausing and drawing upon a darker force, looked out upon the summoning of the council which had descended to the brink of a tap room brawl.

“Enough!”

A wave of energy spread throughout the large chamber, spanning out and jolting all of them suddenly. The High Priest’s anger and disgust with the scene unfolding boiling over. It was true that all those present had a deep affluence with the force, their own mastery of it and advantages. However High Priest Dagon held power above them all, the strongest of them all and favorite in succession to the throne.

“The body of the Dark Lord will arrive in the morning.”

“The Dark Lord’s Apprentice Ortan, will be arriving with the body.”

“Preparations are underway for ceremony and burial proceedings. The newly mined valley has been chosen as the resting place per the Lord’s will.”

“I expect all of you in attendance.”

“A three-day period of respite is enacted. With a week of mourning.”

“Should any of you raise a hand…the consequences will be severe.”

~Korriban Orbit~
~Fleet of Ortan Cela, Emerging from Hyperspace~

​

High above the red surface, a Naval and Transport fleet of several dozen ships had arrived, one ship had been lost during the journey. Succumbing to a drive meltdown in transit with its core exploding due to the stress of the jump.

The funeral contingent of the Dark Lord, led by Ortan Cela, Apprentice to the now deceased Dark Lord Tulak Horde, was in the process of reorganizing after having emerged from hyperspace. Soon the aerial procession would begin with the Dark Lord’s body descending towards the surface.

~Far to the West~
~Pre-dawn ~ Day of the Funeral~

​

The night still clung to the early morning with still a few hours before sunrise. An encampment of six rawhide tents, out in the wild of Korriban marked an assembled hunting party. Several fires burned with a single being standing, cloaked and wrapped in heavy warm clothes and a blanket as he stood nearby watching one of the campfires. Most of the camp was still asleep. Another hunter came up alongside him, taking a moment to draw some warmth from the fire.

“Their Dark Lord is dead. Horde.” He spoke with confidence relaying the news of the occupiers leader’s death. “We CAN move against them.” The man added, as the man he addressed, a chieftain, continuing to stare into the dancing flames taking in the news.

​

Offering a simple reply as he continued to draw warmth and stare at the flames. “Send word, to the tribes.”

 

[Xarxes]

~Ziost, Southern Mountains, The Temple Potentia Deum~

IC: Lord Zolkhest Dagon



Blizzards were regular in that region of Ziost. Forcing local inhabitants inside, preventing a day’s work or training, and general inconveniencing everyone, most considered the tempests to be a bother, despicable, and harsh.

Lord Zolkhest Dagon, on the other hand, enjoyed storms such as this immensely. Howling winds blew through the intentionally-placed holes and incisions in the walls of Potentia Deum, creating a whistle, or occasionally organ-like sound. The Archpriest of the Contemplative House of Dagon often found this naturally-made music to be reflective of the order in the world, of the Force’s will to create beautiful things. With this belief, he could cogitate intensely despite the wind, perhaps even better.

But that was not his activity for the day. Accompanying the whistling wind was the slow, meticulous turning of a screw and the cry of a man, far below the temple proper in a dungeon-esque location, the Sacristy of Dagon. Here, Lord Zolkhest resided. He cared not for luxurious visitations by commoners or well-to-do nobles, nor generals or pilgrims. In comparison to many others, such as his spurned opponent High Priest Dagon (no relation,) Zolkhest was humble in attire. He wore what was considered to be the trappings of his office, wrought by his own skills and abilities, simply to be the clothes he wore on his back. His weapon too was constructed of his own hands. He had no fanciful throne in the temple, but an altar of sacrifice before a statue of an eye, which he had long-considered an appropriate symbol for the Force.

To Dagon, the Force was the life-giver of all things. Without it, nothing would exist. The logician, therefore, saw no explanation for it to be an unintelligent being, and so the insurrectionists or heathens encountered by Dagon’s Zealots were brought in for cruel and unusual punishment, and execution if repentant they were not. Some may have called his methods unethical or cruel, but he liked to refer to them as merciful. Why would one who brought others into the truth, no matter how dramatic and invasive that conversion may be, be considered cruel? This was salvation. Liberation.

Another half-turn of the screw caused the heretic to moan again. The victim, a human, had both wrists bound in place in the desk in front of him, while his thumbs were in a cuffed vice which he was forced to hold onto. The thumbs rested on a plate, and each telekinetic turn of the screw forced another plate down further towards the man’s digits.

This method of torture was low, non-lethal, and would allow for the thumb to regrow in time. It would not cripple him long. However, this individual, Peschek, was not here to be converted but to be tortured before his execution, a reality which he was all too aware of. The purpose of the torture, rather, was to chronicle the thought-process of a heathen, so that Dagon could accurately depict it in his magnum opus.

“I’ll ask you once again, Peschek,” growled the Archpriest from his desk, quill at the ready above a sheet of parchment. “What was your intention in striking Minister Vivec?”

The man shook his head, refusing to answer. He was a commoner, for certain, and a rather mouthy one typically. Oftentimes, Dagon would hear word of a man such as Peschek spreading anti-Sith propaganda in a cantina or public square somewhere in the city. Oftentimes, these individuals were brought in, tried, and given light torture to confirm conversion. Yet that was not enough for insurrectionists and assailants. Those required a more thorough treatment.

At the shake of the head, Dagon, without looking up, lightly waved in hand, causing the screw to make a half-turn, finally contacting with Peschek’s thumbs. Another moan of dread emanated from the man, but no words.

“Was it, perhaps, to inspire others to rise against the Sith and our Contemplative House? Was it the initial feeling of the Force flowing through your veins?” Dagon knew, of course, that Peschek had no Force sensitivity, yet wanted to see what excuses the whelp could come up with.

Again, there was no response on Peschek’s part. Mildly annoyed, Dagon waved his hand again, causing the screw to place significant pressure on the thumbs. One joint popped, and Peschek howled incoherent words.

“What was that, Peschek,” inquired the priest after the scream. “I know it does not pain you nearly as much as you make it out. Thumbscrews are rather juvenile. Now answer the question before I squeeze them to a pulp.”

The man gasped before responding in a bitter tone. “He tried to silence me.”

The priest raised his head. With no other motion, the screw turned again. More joints went, one bone cracked. A loud gasp of pain emanated from the victim.

“Sir! He tried to silence me, sir!”

The priest smiled beneath his mask. Not the most favored response, but a work-in-progress. “Regardless, Peschek, you considered that sufficient reason to physically assault a Sith priest?” He wrote down the previous response and readied his quill for another.

“I…I was threatened—”

“By what? By his presence? By the fact that you were performing illegal activity by advocating against the Sith and the House? Is that what you were threatened by? Your own guilty conscience?”

He lowered his voice, having exploded rather much. Regaining his composure, he addressed the criminal again. “If that is what you were threatened by, Peschek, then you should have remembered what happens to those who assault hierarchs.”

Peschek whimpered, to which Dagon chuckled. “Look at you,” he taunted. “You’re so weak. You have no hope because you are adamant in your disbelief. But the Force would have been your salvation if you did have a heart of stone.”

Peschek retorted, probably the biggest mistake he could have made in the moment. “You and the others, forcing your beliefs on us, is what causes insurrections, but you’re blind to it!”

That was all Dagon needed to hear. He said nothing, yet continued to write down the statement verbatim before the screws twisted the rest of the way telekinetically. There were several loud pops, accompanied by a wet sound as both thumbs broke and then burst, spraying blood in all directions.

“Your mistake, Peschek, I’m afraid,” said the Archpriest with no tonal emotion as he rose from his chair. “I’ll send for someone to fetch you shortly for the execution this afternoon. You won’t have to wait long, I can assure you.”

Despite the moans in the room below, echoing up the spiraling stairwell as Zolkhest ascended, he was unfazed. The way was long, taking almost ten minutes to ascend, yet the Archpriest cared not. What he did care for was the messenger, bearing an insignia of the High Council, arriving at the doorstep of his Tower that afternoon.

The young Pureblood, Kissai, by the looks of him, was visibly intimidated by Dagon’s presence, as most Sith below him were. The Archpriest received the messenger in the “throne” room of his tower, just off to the side of the Temple. “You may speak,” said the reclined priest to the standing messenger before him.

“Lord Dagon, I come bearing ill tidings.”

“That should be obvious from your nervous demeanor and unnecessary prelude, both of which are ill and useless. Do your duty and deliver the message, lest your tongue be cut out so as to prevent you from wasting anyone else’s time ever again.”

The young Kissai gulped. “My Lord, the Dark Lord has passed on. He is dead.”

Though he showed no visible reaction, Zolkhest was inwardly thrilled. Normally, he would be somewhat sad at the death of a high-ranking Sith, but Tulak was not one of them, though his death would still receive the traditional period of mourning. After all, Dagon needed to keep public appearances good and healthy.

“I see,” was his response. He waved to a servant, a human girl, and pointed to the Kissai. “Ensure he is kept well for his efforts, and then send him on his way tomorrow. The period of mourning shall be announced tonight, and the execution that was planned shall serve as a sacrifice to Hord’s spirit. We are most distraught and shall show it.”

He rose to return to the temple, the full weight of Hord’s death bearing down on his mind. While it was true that the vast majority of the inhabitants in the mountain city region either believed or complied with Zolkhest’s philosophical line of thought and strong, militant leadership, he had wanted to overcome the rest of the Sith religion with it, believing it to be truthful. Hord had been apprehensive about his ideas and spurned them, potentially the reason that Zolkhest had not ascended in the same way as High Priest Dagon had. No doubt he would also be vying for the throne.

While Zolkhest primarily honed his wisdom, his wit and intelligence were not dull either. He knew perfectly well that every Sith in any prominent position of power would be racing for the throne, and the most likely candidate at the moment was his primary nemesis: High Priest Dagon.

There were other Sith, of course, who would stand in the way of the throne. While Zolkhest did not think revenge to be a just way of responding to this situation, both against Hord and against Dagon, he knew that becoming the claimant of the throne would grant him extraordinary power to spread his philosophy.

But would that be right? Would attempting to claim the throne not leave him hatable by the vast majority of the other Sith, and a fairly easy target for assassination? Zolkhest did not yet have many allies to protect him if needed, for the other Sith Priests at his temple, while powerful enough, were still outranked by himself and numerous others spread across the galaxy.

As he entered the great arched entryway of the Potentia, a realization dawned upon him. It wasn’t being the Dark Lord that made one powerful. No. It was being the Dark Lord’s dearest friend and ally. Surely, if there was a powerful Dark Lord at the throne who cared for the well-being of another in some way, he would be safe. Providing they were agreeable, they may even allow the spread of his philosophy.

This could work, of course, though it would require no small amount of care and caution. But let others take the throne. Let others plot and kill each other. The way he saw it, none was quite powerful enough to take the throne as their own. Instead, he would build power, find a powerful ally, and do all in his power to help them to the throne. He needed another to help accomplish his goal, while he would help them accomplish theirs. He had no wish for power directly, but through time as the founder of a philosophy.

Soon, he thought, I shall rise.

 

[G.Kn]

Laeloth was sat in her office sharpening her Naginata, running a large whetstone along its edge methodically. Fate's Cleaver, as she called it. She and this weapon had been through a lot, many long years of murder, of mayhem, and manipulation. Good times. Technically due to her use of the force, sharpening Fate's Cleaver wasn't necessary. But it was an intimate gesture she could share with a friend, one that she didn't have to pretend to be around. There was a knock on her door, it opened under her telekinetic administrations.

Brillion, her twi'lekian aide, came in in a bit of a state "Mistress Laeloth, we've just been sent word, from Korriban. The Dark Lord, Tulak Hord, he's dead." He told her, holding out a print out of the message.

"So I'd noticed." Laeloth responded mildly, to the panicked human, that was the other reason she was taking the time to sharpen her weapon.

"You- I'm sorry?" Brillion asked, confusion on his face. He wasn't strong in the force, but he was a good administrator. What's more is that he simply wasn't strong enough to form a coup. She took the moment to soothe his stress, her empathy nudging the less attuned man into calmness.

"My dear Brillion. I run a Enclave that follows the flow of the Force. Do you really think that the death of the strongest Force User in the Galaxy escaped my notice?" Laeloth asked with a raised eyebrow and an *almost* scathing tone. Just because the help isn't a threat, doesn't mean one should bait them unnecessarily.

"Ah, right of course." Brillion said, bowing his head. "I will see to a shuttle being made available for you." He told her, turning to leave and carry out his duty.

"Thank you Brillion." Laeloth called as she opened the door for him. He placed the print out on a side table before bowing once more.

"It is my honour, High Priestess." The Administrator told her simply, before moving away with his usual proficiency. Laeloth turned to her wardrobe.

Now then, what does one wear to the funeral of the era? An array of outfits began floating out of Laeloth's wardrobe, her usual kama and chest bindings might be considered primitive, or informal in this situation. Neither of which were useful, and could set people against her. But at the same time she was loath to restrict her movement. Even if this wasn't a gathering of Sith she'd be reluctant, as it was in fact a gathering of Sith… well, she wasn't suicidal.

In the end she settled on her formal ritual wear. A dark purple hakama with durasteel plate in the lining, in the divided or 'riding' style, and a black tunic under it. Laeloth swapped her slippers for boots, and hung a small pouch of sulfur around her neck and under her clothes. She turned to look at Fate's Cleaver. As per usual she would be carrying that in hand, or by telekinesis if she needed to sign something. However… the print out flew into her hand so she could scan it. A period for respite and a period for mourning had been outlined, one of those meant no violence. Unless proven otherwise she would assume the shorter one, but that meant having an unsheathed weapon in hand would likely be… frowned upon.

"I am sorry my friend." Laeloth told the naginata softly, feeling the force energy she had imbued in it over the years singing in harmony with her own as it floated before her. She was loath to cover it's blade, but formalities were to be observed. Just like someone showing up with their crotch exposed would likely be removed, if she showed up with the blade bare someone might attempt to remove it from her. "And we don't want that do we?" She said to the weapon, as if it had heard her train of thought. No response was forthcoming.

The wooden sheath of the staff weapon flew through the air to her from its wall mount. She slid it over the weapon's blade, and then called the silk cover to her. This went over the sheath and tied to the Cleaver's handguard. Securing the sheath in place. The silk covering was black, to signify it was sheathed to honour the dead. Laeloth had others for other occasions. But the one thing they all had in common, was that the bit of ribbon tying the covering to the handle was made of one of the flimsiest materials she could find. Now, lengthways it was strong enough, it would fulfill its purpose, but one could *very easily* tear it if you went widthways. Which generally meant she could unsheath the blade using telekinesis incredibly easily and quickly. Fate's Cleaver knew this, and it waited for someone to test her, its lust for action echoing in her mind.

Laeloth wasn't quite sure how the order of succession followed in cases like this, but she had a few gifts ready just in case. A new Dark Lord could in theory be announced that night after all. If so it would be smart to be prepared, and Laeloth did prefer to do the intelligent thing. She was sure the High Priest would want to follow the Will of the Force for a successor. If Dagon decided to dismiss her, then she supposed she would go to one of the other contenders and ask if they wanted someone to, well, make sure the High Priest wasn't lying about the Will for his own gain. Laeloth and her monastery listened to the Will and flow of the Force too after all. It was right there in their doctrine.

She received a notification that her shuttle was ready to take her to Korriban. In turn she alerted four of the top combatants of the Enclave that they would be serving as bodyguards for this trip. In theory Laeloth could have told them sooner, but if they were doing their duties correctly then they should have known to be ready to leave anyway. The Priestess began her journey down to the shuttle, Fate's Cleaver in one hand, and a briefcase in her other. Four figures in outfits similar to hers but in full black joined her as she did so, seamlessly falling into step around their mistress.

A female chiss named Rith'ann'abel, or Hanna took front left, her deadly sith warblade hung on her back. The dark blades covered in a similar way to Laeloth's, her races traditional red eyes had been married by the gold of the darkside resulting in twin pools of fire. A grey skinned nautolan took the back right, she went by Nadia and had two parang blades sheathed on her back. Her ability to sense pheromone changes had been a key early warning system for the group twice now. Front right was a human woman, an ebony beauty known as Lucinda. She wore a sith lanvarok on her right wrist with a sith blade hanging below it on her hip. Lucinda had joined them after being promised in marriage to a drug lord, she hadn't been a fan of the idea. Back left was the only male member of the group, a towering massassi known as Derraphan. The man was often teased for being the only male and the only one without a penetrative weapon, but his Battle Staff was just as dangerous as the others weapons.

These four were masters of a very specific form of meditation. Combat. Even with the ability to bask in the Ziost Nexus aiding them, there were some members of the Monastery that had trouble with traditional meditative techniques. Most had difficulty focusing or staying still. Thus combat meditation. These four would fight in the courtyard of the Enclave silently often with their eyes closed. A rhythmic pattern of furious strikes and blocks weaving nets of steel through the air as they gave themselves into the Dark Side and allowed it to guide them, feeling for the weak points of their opponents. It would be quite the artistic display, if it wasn't so brutally vicious. Laeloth often trained by fighting two of them at once.

There was a lesser master, an old Zabrak named Sakraa, but he served mostly to train newcomers in combat meditation. As the other four had become so in tune with letting the Dark Side drive their killing intent that most lesser combatants suffered extreme injury at best. While pain was not something Laeloth was adverse to her trainees learning, the deaths of people whose existence had been long enough to benefit her yet were irritating. What's more, she didn't want her guard to have to sully their skills with non-lethal techniques.

And so, Laeloth and her guard boarded the shuttle and headed to Korriban. To pay the respect of the Drah'vern Enclave to the fallen Dark Lord, and those who may be his successor. It was already shaping up to be the event of the century.

 

[Jen'nu]

‘’And so it begins’’
IC: Aûkrin Serash, young Lord of the Mountain.
—
Location: Fortress of the Call, Northern mountain ranges of Korriban.

Cold held the chamber. Night was coming, heralded by the scarlet flaring of the sunset; soon enough the chamber would be held by the darkness as well. Aûkrin Serash used the last seconds of sunlight to appreciate the most minute details of the true upper sanctum. The Fortress of the Call was less of a fortress and more of a mountain-spanning maze and his chamber would naturally be the uppermost one. For every other member of the Sith Order and Empire alike the upper sanctum was the cavern right below him. He himself would likely be forgiven if he forgot about his private chamber, given that it was essentially a smaller copy of his more official headquarters. The figures of the Immortal Gods of the Sith were hewn and carved into the walls, their hands lined with the chains and shackles that the meditating Massassi was hanging from. His limbs were burning along with his mind as the toxins made their way through his system. The blazing heat inside him made the cold around him feel even harsher. Yet the chill went deeper than simple temperature. The Force was changing, as if a spiral of black clouds had blocked the sight of Horuset, only to spread out and scatter storms of snow. Aûkrin Serash was no stranger to snow, after all he had established his temple in the north of Korriban; snowfalls were nearly constant in these mountain ranges and it was a long way to walk before it disappeared entirely. This time though, the snow carried unprecedented weight. As if to literally lighten the room and the mood new light appeared. This time it came from a set of artificial lights, signaling the incoming arrivals through a complex collection of signs. It seemed his senses had not failed him after all; this was of the highest importance.

On the way towards one of the temples he was met by the expected emissary. Both were dressed in identical rough black cloaks and for the meeting both had donned a facial mask forged in imitation of Massassi skulls. The only apparent differences between them was in height, he himself standing slightly taller and the spiked circlet that decorated his mask: the symbol of his leadership. He knew full well that every member of the Call would love to wrestle the mask off him and claim his place as head of the organization. All of them knew that no outsider would come to his aid, no Lord of the Sith would ever send their strength to regulate this remote bohemian sect. It was something that had been built by him and no one would touch it unless they could take whatever they could claw out of it. That would however be singularly challenging given that they held residence in an elaborate maze of tunnels stretching into and through the northern mountains, rendering it virtually unassailable by even an army. That had of course been the intent from the start. Aûkrin Serash knew full well that even with the support he had he would be significantly safer as a reclusive cult leader than as a warlord on a gilded throne; a sidelong glance was not nearly as deadly as a contemptuous stare signaling a future death. And so he had taken up residence here, the only visible signs of his existence being the temples that lined the outskirts of the mountainous complex. The lack of a massive suit of armor did not bother him, nor should it bother anyone else in his party. The Gods stood above all of it. That was both the truth and the front that the Call was putting forth: a set of fanatical religious recluses. That being said they were far from complacent. He had long since lost count of how many individuals from any rank or walk of life had approached them with the intent of unleashing death upon a bitter enemy. The Call never turned them away. And so they assassinated anyone for any reason, be it a bothersome neighbor or a feared and powerful rival, for a perceived slight and a threatened life alike. It was not done for free though: the gods would always demand a sacrifice. For only death could pay for life, and only life could pay for death. And yet despite the potential prize requests never seized, for the job was always carried out and the client was cleared of suspicion. The Force would set them free, both the slayers and the slayed. That was what ran through his mind as the scroll, sealed with the official colors and insignia of the Empire’s court.

‘’We are to leave immediately.’’ Those were the first words he spoke to his fellow adepts.
‘’The Dark Lord is dead.’’ No more words were necessary. His instincts had not failed him this time either.
‘’All Lords have been called back to the capital. We are to leave for the impending burial ceremony immediately.’’ Now commenced the time of mourning, to be followed by the time of morning. This would herald a time of ice and fire: upon the death of Tulak Hord the darkness he had gathered would disperse and grow cold, only to be reignited by the secret fires held in the hearts of those vying for the throne. The large tuk’ata ate the smaller ones and the Call kept on watching. Their services would be needed now more than ever, so they would keep growing.

 

[Dorrian Shadowsun]

"The Dawning"
IC: Rugon, Sun God
Location: Black Sun Temple, Ziost​

Sunlight filtered through the window as the first rays of morning light crested the hills surrounding the temple, the golden rays casting a warm glow upon the white marble floor. With the shades mostly closed, it cast a stark line between day and night that led from the open window all the way to the bed. The crimson, silk sheets looking like blood poured out stood in stark contrast to the white floor and black bed frame. The trail of light ended upon an already awake Rugon who was deep in contemplation. The only thing to snap him out of his deep, contemplative state was the incessant knocking at his chamber door.


“Enter!” He barked as he slid a simple robe on. His voice was deep and entrancing, like a storm on the horizon.


A slender young Rattataki woman quickly opened the door and scurried across the room to kneel before Rugon, forehead pressed to the ground.

“I am so sorry for interrupting your slumber, my Lord. Grave news has been brought to us. The mighty Tulak Hord has fallen. To none other than his own apprentice.” Her voice was ragged, presumably due to her running across the compound.


“So that's what that was.” Rugon stated flatly. As he spoke he walked to the window and cast the curtains open, washing the entire room with light. A still slumbering K'al stirred under the crimson sheets as a now very confused disciple looked up at Rugon. Seeing her face he continued.


“I know that he passed already, yes. I felt the tremor through the force the moment his life was extinguished.” He stared into the light for a moment before continuing. “Make preparations immediately. We leave for Korriban as soon as we are able.”


The girl bowed once more and hurried from the room, her voice echoing down the hall, informing the others. Hearing the commotion leave the room, K'al sat up and cast the sheets aside as she slid out of the bed. The light glistened off her flawless, pale skin as she silently glided across the room to her robes. The had been cast across a chair in celebration, the previous night, in joyous appreciation of the newest group of devotees arriving. She had scarcely gotten the robes fashioned before she was ushered out the door by a now determined-looking Rugon.


Walking through the halls the two were silent, the only noise heard was the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. No words need be spoken as both knew the path that lay before them. Neither easy or short was their task, though both would see it through to the end.


Coming into the main hall, they both stopped in the center. Before the two of them stood several dozen of the most devoted disciples, all dressed in matching robes. They had brought before them Rugon's personal robes and weapon locker. Also brought out was a lockbox for K'al, it contained the remaining parts of her clerical robes.


Rugon stepped forward and stretched his arms out to his sides and waited. Several of the devotees moved forward and began removing the simple robe that he was wearing and placing upon him his personal divine garment. Several more assisted K'al in placing the remaining symbols and accouterments upon her. Now dressed properly for their trip and arrival on Korriban the two headed out the front doors and into the morning light of Ziost. The banners fluttering lightly in the breeze as the hum of the nearby transport caught their ears.


“You twelve shall come with us. Grab your spare robes and board the shuttle.” Rugon commanded as he passed a group of devotees that had stopped to bow. They scurried off to do as commanded as Rugon boarded the transport, K'al in close tow.


Only a few minutes passed before a dozen devotees returned carrying a locker containing their robes and adornments. Behind them, several more were loading banners into the hold. A hand on the shoulder of the pilot signaled them ready to leave. As the shuttle ascended into the sky, the remaining devotees had gathered in prayer and song, for their swift arrival.


Rugon stared out the front view-screen as the shuttle left the atmosphere, unreadable and silent.


So ... He thought … It had finally begun.

 

[Darth Akhlyn]

IC: Priest Abbelus Srala

Location: Srala’s Korriban estate​

“Please, have merc-augck!!!”

The prisoner’s feeble pleas were cut off and the wretch left only able to gurgle helplessly as he felt some invisible force press upon his windpipe. The chamber was dark and cold, the metal chains digging into his wrists feeling as if they were turning his very flesh to ice. The chains forced his arms to painfully splay out, and he was knelt over a pit in the floor, the cavity filled with a dark churning liquid. All that filled his nose was the smell of death and metal, and his ears filled with the painful silence, broken only by his own sniveling. He had been in here for three days and had carried on like this for all of them. Whatever battlefield he had been plucked from mattered not. The only thing that mattered still was that this wildling was now property of the Sith.


“Mercy? I must say, I’m not familiar with mercy.”


The prisoner’s head shot up in terror at the voice. He scanned the room, trying his best to make out where it had come from. He saw nothing. He was alone. Then, a footstep was heard. Then another. The prisoner’s eyes widened in horror as before his eyes, a figure formed from the shadows themselves. It was covered from head to toe in armor, black as the night’s sky. The only exposed flesh, its hands and face, were both red as blood. Dark markings covered its cheeks and it held an outstretched hand toward him, as if it were gripping something. The prisoner quickly realized that was the source of his sudden silence. As it approached the figure lowered its hand and the prisoner found himself able to breathe normally once more, and he limply lowered his head as he gasped. Seemingly unbothered by this, the figure spoke again, in a cold even tone.


“Allow me to clarify. I know of the word, it’s the concept I’m not familiar with. My Master never saw fit to teach it to me in the many years I served him, and judging by your state I must say his wisdom was especially sharp in that decision. So let me dispense of any illusions you may have about why you are here. This is not some fleeting mercy by the Sith. You are not here for information, nor here as leverage in an exchange of any kind. No, in fact your very classification as our prisoner is a misnomer. You would be better described as a sacrifice. The last one I need for my ritual.”


The prisoner lifted his head again, his eyes widened once more. “Bu-” He found his breath cut off once more as the figure lifted its hand back into the earlier position.


“Shh, none of that, my child. Never again let your foul tongue sully the ears of the Sith. Never again let your rank breath putrefy the pure air of Korriban. Never again gaze upon our wonders with your heretic eyes. For on this day, your soul will be cleansed by our holy fire.”


As the figure spoke, it raised its other arm behind it, and from the shadows formed a massive hammer, and the prisoner saw the last thing he ever would.


“May you find wings to the kingdom.”


The figure swung its hammer down, and everything went black.


Abbelus lifted his War Hammer from the sacrifice’s corpse, the blood already pouring from the crushed remains of his cranium, flowing around the fragments of bone and pulp of brain to pour into the pool and join the others’ essence. The Sith Priest set his Hammer down upon its head and began removing his armor. Once he was fully disrobed he unsheathed the knife he had brought and made a single cut in his left palm. He held that hand over the pool to allow his own blood to pour, then entered the pit and laid down, submerging himself within it. He lay at the bottom and felt the crimson liquid flow around his bare from, reaching out into the aether to reach the dark spirits. ‘Souls of the Ancients hear my plea. Accept this offering of life so that I may build a bridge between the worlds of the living and the dead. Allow me to gaze into the rivers of time and see what our current course brings us to.’ Abbelus laid there in wait, trying to make contact with the spirits… and felt nothing.


He rose up from the depths with a sharp gasp for breath. Panting, he knelt in the blood seething at yet another failure. ‘Why does the ritual fail to work? What is different this day from the others?’


“Lord Srala?”


The Priest’s right hand shot back at that, dragging the voice’s source through the chamber and into his waiting grip. He turned to face the interloper, seeing it was only his servant. Keeping his steely gaze upon him, Abbelus relaxed his hold enough to allow the man to answer. “Why do you disrupt the ceremony?”


The old man gasped for breath, the shock of Lord Srala’s response taking its toll upon him. “My-my Lord. You’ve been summoned to the palace. All in the kingdom have.”


Abbelus’ brow furrowed and he tilted his head in confusion. He released the servant completely from his grasp and threw him backward. “What have we been summoned for?”


The servant pulled himself up to his feet and bowed. “A funeral. For Tulak Hord. He’s dead.”


Abbelus’ eyes widened.


*************************************************************************************************

The Priest stood in his chamber still dripping with the blood of the damned. Around him stood four handmaidens, each holding a large pitcher of water. They poured it over him to cleanse him for the occasion, leaving Abbelus alone with his thoughts. ‘No doubt Master Hord’s whelp of an apprentice is the cause of this. And no doubt he’ll vie for the throne now. No wonder the ritual has failed me, if he’s trying to take power then our Empire may very well be doomed.’ Once the handmaidens had cleaned him, they began tossing sand to his body, the granules drying the water that still coated him. They then re-encased him in his armor, and reapplied his facial markings, then presented his purified War Hammer. The priest made a stop to collect the rest of his armaments and then proceeded outside. There, a caravan awaited him, the lead carriage pulled by two Wraid, the driver a lesser priest adept in manipulating the minds of these beasts. Abbelus approached the carriage and his servant nearly tripped over himself to reach it before him, holding the door open to allow Srala to seat first, with his servant sitting across from him. Once they were both inside the servant turned around and let the driver know to get going. He chanted some indecipherable tongue and the Wraid began pulling the carriage along, the others in the procession right behind.


The ride was quiet for quite a while, both passengers stewing in their thoughts, until Abbelus’ servant piped up. “Sire, how are you feeling about the Dark Lord’s death?” Abbelus glared at him before answering. “Master Hord was a powerful leader, his death will send this Empire into a deep upheaval. That is the extent of my feelings in this matter.” His servant meekly nodded, seemingly accepting the answer, but then opened his mouth again. “That may be, but he did practically raise you after-” Abbelus cut him off with a dark glare. “That matters not. You think I hold some affection for him because of my training under him? Master Hord himself showed me the weakness of that sort of emotion, the lesson that you clearly have yet to learn yourself. After all, that’s why I’m here. Isn’t it, Karn?”


The servant flinched at the sound of his name and bowed his head. “Passion is one of our Empire’s core tenets, Abbelus. I don’t regret what I did all those years ago. And throughout these decades, I’ve still loved you as my son.” Abbelus’ eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that so? Let me clarify something I should have decades ago. You are responsible for beginning my existence yes, but you are absolutely nothing. A nothing in the eyes of the Empire as well as my own. And the moment I cease finding use for you, I will be responsible for ending your existence. Is that understood?” Karn nodded, fighting back the forming tears. Abbelus shook his head and looked out the front of the carriage, noticing the palace was upon them. He tossed a small, dirty rag from beside him to the old man. “Clean yourself up, you pathetic thing. We’ve nearly arrived.” Karn wiped his face off as the caravan entered the gates and once it had stopped, got up and opened the door for Abbelus. The Priest exited his carriage and motioned for the rest of his retinue to follow him, marching along toward the funeral site.

 

[Omegon]

IC: Zeiis Sha
Location: the desserts of korriban, in a temporary camp

Sweat trickled down the Kissassi’s neck as he waited, kneeling in the sand. The stench of sweat and dust mixed together and produced a fetid reek of filth, coating everything in the small tent. It’s thin layers of cloth protected him from the direct light of the sun, but only served to trap more heat inside, boiling the air and scorching his skin. He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, his hands and wrists chafing and blistering under the coarse rope bindings, but in return received only a swift kick to the back. He groaned slightly, before sitting up straight once more, his back aching in pain.

He was Zeiiss Sha, captain of the guard for the Nobleman Kaenor Tetsu. He had been sent to apprehend and execute the group of escapees- no, not escapees… they had become much more than that. They had become a movement. He had been sent, along with 49 Massassi warriors, just like every previous hunting party. And, just like every previous hunting party, he had failed. He had wounded but 4 of his enemies, in exchange for his entire force of soldiers. Almost a third had defected once the outcome became clear, taking the cowards path. Zeiis spat in derision. They were fools. Eventually, they would all be killed, and their betrayal would be dealt with through slow and painful torture, before their heretic souls were purged by Typhojem himself.

He thought back to the ambush; they had been miles away from where they had been expecting to encounter the revolutionaries, when the rear guard vanished, dragged down into the sand and murdered with cold, calculating precision. It was then, when the force spun to face where they thought their enemy was, that a volley of Lanvarok disks tore through their lead group , killing nearly 15 of them, and wounding more. As chaos erupted in the ranks, Zeiis had attempted to maintain order, directing the Massassi to take up a defensive formation in a ring around himself. But it was too late, as from the concealed pits into which the Massassi had fallen suddenly burst forth 5 assassins wielding knives, slashing at the unprotected legs of the larger Massassi, sending them crashing to the ground, and engaging those remaining in duels, swiftly putting them down. It was then that many had knelt and surrendered, offering their service in exchange for their lives, and as Zeiis had looked on in derision, he had seen their leader walk onto the field, seemingly without a care in the world. He had moved like a feline, casually slicing through Zeiis’s men with a pair of massive knives that seemed to move in a whirlwind, his strikes lithe and swift, but seemingly without effort. He had struck Zeiis on the head with the butt of his dagger, and that was the last thing Zeiis remembered before waking up here.

He was snapped back to the present as Madrass Avanasi, the architect of it all, threw aside the tent flaps, and stepped in confidently, smoothly. He moved smoothly, as if he were here for a simple bowl of blood soup, and not to torture and interrogate a prisoner. It was the same way he had walked through the battlefield, uncaring and with cold, uncaring eyes. He bent his knees, squatting beside Zeiis. “Well well well… the 11th group, and still you have not become wise to my methods. Tell me, Sha, why do you continue these fruitless efforts? How many men will be sacrificed before you realize your cause is hopeless? My strength grows daily, as does my knowledge of your operations, and yet your people continually act as though I am nothing but a peasant to be stamped out. I come from nobility, and it is to nobility I shall rise again. This is my path to ascendance, and it is inevitable. Give me what I want, and you may join me, or die painlessly. Withhold that which I seek, and your death will be as painful as it is drawn out, and you will be just another example to the people of Korriban.”

Zeiis swallowed hard, knowing to what Avanasi was referring: each captain of the guard who had failed had been found, cut to pieces with methodical precision, at the entrance to the city, left there in the dead of night. But he was no coward, and he straightened his shoulders, determined to die with honor. “I will not tell you anything, Grothu!” the last word was spat as an insult, a refusal to acknowledge the heritage that his captor claimed. But, seemingly, it had no effect.

Madrass knelt, calmly wiping spittle off of his face, and drew forth a small scalpel. “Very well; not an unexpected answer, but a disappointing one most certainly. Steel yourself, then, and be ready to face our great God.” He raised the blade, preparing to cut down, to sever tendon and bone, and remove extremities one at a time. “In pursuit of power, I will do-“ Madrass faltered, dropping to one knee, and drawing his hand to his chest. “gone,” he whispered… “Gone, gone at last.” He sat motionless for almost three minutes, Zeiis unmoving as a statue, hoping to be saved by whatever had just occurred. A servant rushed in, speaking in hushed tones to Madrass, but Madrass waved him away. “I know. I have felt it.”

He turned back to Zeiis; “Well, it seems you have been spared by fate. Consider it a blessing from the Gods. Your death will be slightly less painful than I had planned. Something far more important has come up, and I must bid you farewell.” He turned to leave, walking towards the exit, pausing on his way out. “But I would be remiss to leave you without a parting gift.”

His hand flashed out, and a glass dagger, a Shikkar, streaked through the air, burying itself up to the hilt in Zeiis’s gut, before snapping off and twisting the blade deep into his intestines. Zeiis screamed in agony, and Madrass smiled coldly. “Die slowly, captain. Die slowly.”

IC: Madrass Avanasi

Madrass stepped out of the tent, making his way towards his Sith Horse. “Pack up,” he said, gesturing to one of his lieutenants. “We’re moving out. I have a funeral to attend. Set up camp by the Bhelfa oasis, and wait for me there; I will return within the week.” And with that, he and 6 of his men were off, black cloaks fluttering behind them as their horses tore across the sand, leaving plumes of dust in their wake.

Avanasi knew that the death of the great Tulak Horde meant there was power to be attained, and positions to be filled. Whoever replaced him would need loyal and capable lords to serve him, and it was in such a place that he sought for himself. A way to prove himself, to show himself equal to his supposed superiors. He knew that he had what it would take, as surely as he knew there would be some level of violence at the funeral; They were Sith, and the funeral would be considered tame if there weren’t at least 5 deaths. Now, he just had to ensure he was the killer, and not the killed.

As they grew closer and closer to the capital, Madrass planned and strategized. Not one second could be wasted if he were to attain victory. No, he would have to work hard to ensure his ascension, but if it could be done, it would be of infinitely more value.

 

[dragonsith13]

Update:

~Korriban~
~Valley of the Dead~
~Funeral of the Dark Lord Tulak Hord~​

Towers of wood and dura-steel scaffolding, excavation and survey equipment littered the valley. It had been decreed many years ago that this would be the resting place for the most revered among them. Carved into the rock faces of the upper valley was the tomb of Tulak Hord.

Today the construction and excavation was silent as the funeral ceremony took over the valley. The very first tomb that had been commissioned for the Lord Tulak Hord, with only the first few phases of the tomb’s construction having been completed, and with the unexpected death of the Dark Lord they had little choice but to proceed in the burial. For the most part the internal structure was complete, with a majority of the internal features completed. The chambers and corridors carved into the valley walls, plunging deep into the rock.

The Dark Lord’s sarcophagi had been placed, the warriors carrying it backing away in unison as they came down to their knees. Several Sith priests were already kneeling and surrounding the Dark Lord’s sarcophagi The hardened coffin of black obsidian, was surrounded by an intricately crafted sarcophagus raised up on a wide base. Small obelisks rising a few meters, lined the room. Runes carved into them, and draped with banners of the Dark Lord. The dark priests were engaged in a low monotone chanting of ritual.

Drawn runes and idols surrounded the sarcophagus, chest overflowing with rare metals, gems, the finest fabrics. Crates of food overflowing with exotic fruits, salted meats, breads, and spices sat.

Intricately crafted incense pots burned along with countless candles lining the chambers and corridors. Nearly a hundred slave warriors lined either side of the long corridors, dressed in armor and burial robes they silently waited. They would be responsible for guarding and escorting the Dark Lord in the afterlife. Equally they were responsible for finishing all manner of ritualistic and mechanical defenses that the tomb held.

They would be sealed in with the Dark Lord, sacrificially offered up in service to their Dark Lord. Their spirits are equally bound to this place.

The sound of stone against stone echoed through the valley as the massive slab doors of the tomb began to slide down into place, the sealing of the tomb was underway.

Hundreds of Lords and Ladies were gathered, the most powerful within the Empire. Beyond them even more lesser beings, throngs of common folk, slaves, and servants were pressed against the far side of the valley. The mass gathering all kneeling, their heads down in a mix of both reverence and fear.

With a dull thud and crash the slab stopped. Impacting and sealing the tomb completely.

Near the entrance of the now sealed tomb stood the council, High Priest Dagon, Shadow Hand Drathen Omana, High Marchioness Evicus Waarl, Marchioness Reem Trigan, Judicator Ria Arelius, and High Sword Vina Caligra. All of them dressed in the finest ceremonial armor and robes they possessed. Among them was also Hord's Apprentice, Ortan Cela. Cela Prominently positioned and closest to the tomb and surrounded by an entourage of loyal followers and aids, Sith once his Master’s and now passed to him.

High Priest Dagon stepped out in front of the now sealed tomb, “Zhol kash dinora. It is done.” Ortan Cela’s dark eyes looked to his ever present companion, the Dashade Shadow Killer Veshikk Urk, the look was met with a nod and the two stepped forward into the space between the High Priest and the gathered masses.

“I!” He paused momentarily so all eyes would turn to him, “am Ortan Cela.” Numerous Dashade Shadow Killers were present and slowly began to spread out to encircle the onetime apprentice of Tulak Hord, tension was already high and the situation was rapidly degrading, violence seemed imminent. Two of the High Priest’s clerics came to Dagon’s side offering protection and the rattling of swords could be heard from the guardsmen of the Shadow Hand, each of those present had loyalists of their own; a fight here would be chaotic and deadly.

“Tulak Hord is dead, all that was his is now mine!” Few knew the true nature of Hord’s demise, while murder wasn’t frowned on getting caught in the act was something to be avoided, “justice” must be served. There was one who had discovered the truth, Drathen Omana, the power and reach of the there was little in the Shadow Hand were such that there was little in the Empire he did not know. “You are a coward,” Drathen’s deep and commanding voice boomed, “You and Urk assassinated the Dark Lord!” The accusation was met with gasps.

The shuffling of feet brought forward multiple priests loyal to Dagon, with them arrived an ominous and powerful aura of uneasiness, an oppressive shadow descended upon them as the collective might of the priests was brought to bear. Even the most powerful felt themselves hesitate as High Priest Dagon’s voice rose above the other voices, “Enough!” More of his priests were making their way closer to the now sealed tomb, some brandishing weapons, though each faction had their own entourage the High Priest was at a great advantage as the religious caste had shown up in great numbers. “I shall review the accusation against you, Cela.” None missed the anger in his voice, turning to the old warrior. “Send me your evidence, Shadow Hand, it better be convincing.”

Clear lines were being drawn as the various factions within the Empire collated and formed up. Not moments after the Dark Lord’s burial ceremony had concluded, they were already at each other’s throats. Vina Caligra’s hand slid down to her side, her fingers grazing the pommel and hilt of her sheathed blade in anticipation. Judicator Ria Arelius’ bodyguards were quickly upon him as well creating a wall and show of force. The two Marchionesses Waarl and Trigan, while the leading figures in the Sith fleet and warrior cast, it was known that both supported the Shadow Hand.

Dagon was pushing the boundaries of his stature, knowing that while he held sway over the majority of the subjects of the Empire, the Shadow Hand had more support of the Marchionesses and the military, this combined with Cela having the full weight of the now dead Dark Lord’s house and following, which included the loyalty of Urk’s Shadow Killers, made his position and current holdings extremely vulnerable. It was the High Priest's only hope that the power and influence of the Kissai would be strong enough to call the rest of the council to heel and end this power play. At least for the moment.

The High Sword’s eyes darted back and forth falling up Cela at last, her blade was calling her to drive it through the murderous bastard. There was no doubt in her mind Cela was responsible for this, and while High Priest Dagon was considered the wisest among them, she held no real love for the sorcerer. This along with her loyalty to the Shadow Hand, as essentially the most exalted warrior within the Sith, held strong sway in standing by vigilant at the side of Omana. If left to the moment a bloodbath was sure to ensue, the tension from the council chamber and that of the day before still present and only amplified with the finality of sealing of the Dark Lord’s tomb.

Despite the bloodlusted nature of this world and the Empire, it was known that by decree and through tradition that a respite to claims and plays to grab power after the burial of a Dark Lord was to be observed. A period of mourning, which for all intents and purposes was intended for the Council to promote one of their own to Dark Lord. Under the pretense of mourning, they would all plot, scheme, and position themselves or the individual they sought to support, into the position of Dark Lord of the Sith. And when the period of mourning was over, the push for such, often resulting in the clashing of blades and all manner of politics, subterfuge, and dealings within the Empire, began with a furious and unrelenting wave until the most powerful among them, generally through a combination of things, finally rose and claimed the mantle.

Cela was already pushing the line of this, with his bid to claim the mantle of Dark Lord for himself directly after the sealing of the tomb. None of them on the council faulted him for doing so, they all equally craved such. Cela had just outplayed them in this manner, taking advantage of their sense of tradition and catching all of them off guard in his sudden push to seize power. If it continued Cela would have his way. There had to be a shift.

High Priest Dagon stepped forward, moving quickly past the rabble of Sith mentally at each other’s throats. With a sudden exuberance he raised his hand, his voice booming across the valley as he projected out to the masses.

“HAIL to the SITH EMPIRE!”

“HAIL THE SPIRIT OF OUR GREAT MAGNIFICENT TULAK HORD!”

Dagon moved to rile the masses and with his words and gestures he was doing so, the roar from the thousands of Sith subjects reverberated through the valley, like a warbeast battle scream.

“A new era for the Sith people is upon us! RISE MY FRIENDS!”

They rushed forward, to the point that the rising slopes of the valley allowed them to, a roaring vibrant mass of Sith. While in truth they were the lowest of the society, their numbers always held sway. The council knew that through fear and subjugation they maintained power. The High Priest knew this better than any of them and with his calling upon them he had roused a force that even the council feared en masse.

Cela’s bid to call upon the council and bourgeoisie of the Sith, was drowned out by Dagon’s riling of the proletariat.

Dagon spun on his heels, his arms outstretched continuing to call upon the throng, their now roaring praise constant and deafening. Staring at Cela and the council he seized upon the moment, to draw things back from the brink. Cela and the rest of the council would not dare commit to this play now, with the mass of the Empire looking upon it in the fevered pitch that it was.

“Kots Morna will be observed! All of these faithless plays will cease in observance of the Dark Lord’s death.”

Kots morna was a breaking of the mourning period, a symbolic letting go of the past era and moving into the new. Where the guise of celebration, depraved, and gluttonous behavior masked the plotting and scheming of the Sith in their bids to gain power. It was tradition and High Priest Dagon would see that it was observed, it was his only play in ensuring that the momentum Cela had tried to seize upon was culled.

“We are not done. Priest..” Cela sternly barked as he brushed up against Dagon to leave. Dagon offered a sinister smile back to Cela in acknowledgment. It was most decidedly not over.

 

[Darth Vesper]

IC:
Dyniana Da Res
Keres Sadow

Location: Ziost, Sanctum of Shadow

Dawn, Before the Procession to Korriban

--

--

A sacellum still stood, refurbished mostly, under the guiding desire and in the liking of Dyniana Da Res; within the sanctuary of the forests of Ziost. Humble, compared to the original Temple in which Dyniana was left upon dusty steps as a child. However, the sacellum set many paths to purpose once the Mind Witch took it over and breathed life into its very core. Chambers had been built on to the chapel, sleeping quarters for the priestesses, individual chambers for the high priestess, a rather lavish chamber for Dinyana, herself. In addition it boasted its own balnea for the priestess as well as another balnea for guests. The main thermae, for Dyniana and the highest priestess, consisted of the tepidarium (warm room), the caldarium (hot room), and the frigidarium (cold room). It also featured a steam bath: the sudatorium, a moist steam bath, and the laconicum, as well as a dry hot room. The main chamber of worship was used as a gathering chamber, the impulvium gracing the center to catch that which was gifted to the order from the heavens. The chamber was used for the priestess during worship and for that which the Mind Witch saw fit.

The thermae, formerly a low-ceilinged room was elaborately refurbished, the ceiling raised and the great stone tub repaired. To most only one entrance to the room was known. Yet it was here that Keres Sadow would bathe daily then escape beyond the walls Dyniana had built. There was no need for Keres to leave the walls with such stealth, she had freedom to come and go as she pleased. Yet, the feeling of being unseen was a welcome one. A well known priestess, she could easily be spotted in the crowd and she felt that her status as one of the Order should hold some sort of mystery...a spiritual reverence of sorts.

Keres stepped out of one of the stone tubs built into the ground, her bare feet leaving water prints upon the stone floor in her exodus. A scant-covered servant was waiting with a large bath sheet aiding her in covering her slender frame. As the material was wrapped around her, underneath her slightly raised arms and tucked, Keres moved her long dark hair behind her, the wet strands sticking to the part of her crimson skin that was still visible.

Dyniana’s eyes watched with great interest, running a path up the slender red skin and angles of the younger woman. No wonder she succeeded well within the order, she would become a most well renowned Mind Witch, much like Dyniana herself. As soon as the room was cleared Keres moved towards a small wooden bench that was used for the collection of items used for bathing and dressing. Untucking the bath sheet she let it drop to the floor and Dyniana’s brow quipped as she turned her gaze as Keres dressed.

“Tulak Hord, Lord of Hate, Master of the Gathering Darkness has passed to Shadow.” Gracefully the Mind Witch cupped the intoxicating water of oils into a hand and let it cascade over one shoulder and then the other, letting it trail delicately over her porcelain skin; seemingly no emotion for the death of one so great.

Keres exhaled as she stepped into a sheer, crimson gown. Lifting one bunch of material over one shoulder, the rest of the material draping at an angle over her breasts. She smoothed the textile over her waist and hips until the sheer material hit the stone floor about her feet. She pulled her dark tresses free from the beneath the material at her shoulder and let it fall back once more upon her back. She turned back to face Dyniana once again, “Shadows called to his spirit for some time, High Priestess. The gods merely chose such a time as now. Such a beast of darkness, one that can only be released to Shadow when the gods will it.” Her voice was but a soft whisper upon the silence within the great echoing chamber of the thermae.

“Indeed.” Speaking thoughtfully Dyniana rose, the fragrant waters dripping from her own coveted frame. She returned to silent thought as she too was wrapped by a servant who had returned with a fresh bath sheet.

“Your presence at the ceremony would not be seen as welcome.” Keres warned with caution. Dyniana was cast out from the main religion, yet the Mind Witch never did let that stop her. Over time she had built up her own reputation and was sought out for things some considered....against tradition. However, despite the pleasure that she was seemingly known for mystery still shrouded Dyniana’s religious sect.

“Your perception is as keen as the gods. Wonderful opportunities, however.” Dyniana mused her tone dripping with intent. “Pack your belongings. We set to path and leave for Korriban with the processional.”

“Yes, High Priestess.”


--

 

[Xarxes]

Korriban, among the gathering of Sith Priests at Hord's funeral.
IC: Zolkhest Dagon

His ceremony the night before he traveled to Korriban had been well and good. After all, it involved the slaughter and sacrifice of nearly fifty criminals, every one of them convicted of blasphemy against the Sith. These were Zolkhest's favorite kinds of bloodbaths, the one where his victim or victims were completely helpless, unable to fight back. This wasn't to say that he enjoyed combat particularly. On the contrary, he was skilled with a Sith Sword for someone of his age, and he relished the ability to play with the minds and life forces of those he fought. But he firmly believed that to defeat an opponent via proxy, someone they trusted shoving a dagger into their back, was altogether more satisfying than slaying them personally.

The sacrifice had been one in honor (if one could call it that) of Tulak Hord, the now-deceased Dark Lord of the Sith. Rituals such as these were a performance, both to satisfy the bloodthirsty crowds and to keep them afraid of disobedience, and this performance had been one of his best.

Still, standing there among the throngs of Sith priests and priestesses, looking out toward the hierarchs and prospective hierarchs, as well as the proletariat Sith, Zolkhest saw a performance far more enthralling and effective than his own. If he had been unaware of the power of spectacle and public persuasion, he himself likely would have believed the words of High Priest Dagon, his most hated foe.

Rather, Dagon expertly convinced, without saying nearly as much as others would have, the crowds and the other prospectives that it would be in their best interest to not take up arms and bloody the stage. The Archpriest was, needless to say, impressed. It was unlikely that he could have done the same, though he would have never gotten in Dagon's place at all. Ortan Cela was very obviously ambitious, and that ambition was dangerous to someone like the High Priest and the Archpriest. He certainly wouldn't be the cardinal Zolkhest would latch onto. Rather, let Cela and Dagon tear each other apart. Zolkhest had other ideas as to who he would become a leech on. Someone else gathered here today, yes. Someone strong who possessed both wit and intellect. These would be useful tools to abuse to his own ends.

Archpriest Zolkhest Dagon watched as High Priest Dagon invoked Kots Morna and then turned to exit the "stage" before others could interfere. A clever trick. One which would undoubtedly be used again. But next time, Zolkhest inwardly swore, he would be there to prevent its effectiveness.

 

[dragonsith13]

Game and GM update:

~ Sith High Temple - City of Dreshdae - sanctuary and font of power for High Priest Dagon​

The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon as a mix of cascading colors washed over the sky, the darkening night slowly creeping from one side of the land to the other. The cold chill of the approaching night pulled with it a stiff breeze that could be felt. Dreshdae, the largest city on Korriban, a mix of stone and metal, the convergence of the primitive past nature of this world and the conquering dark jedi was alive. Across the city and out into the surrounding lands, fires burned, lighting up the landscape like stars of their own as celebrations were well underway. The vain mask of mourning the dead hiding the debauchery and sinister nature of this place as wine and song carried across the night winds.

Deep within the sanctum of the main temple, High Priest Dagon stood in silence contemplating the day’s events after conferring with his highest priests and priestesses. The sounds of a vibrant celebrating city rising softly above the crackling temple fires burning in their raised metal pillars bowls. The smell of burning fragrant oils and incense within the temple mirrored the burning celebration fires across the landscape. The masses seized upon the period of mourning by opening food stocks, with wine and drink cellars flowing freely with libations. Slave, servant, and Sith of the order indiscernible for a brief moment. A useful distraction to keep the population and lower echelons of the Sith occupied and distracted.

Dagon slowly paced forward, approaching the far end of the sanctum, coming to an open view of one portion of the city of Dreshdae and looking out from between a pair of rising columns that flanked him.

Few out there would recognize the growing malice creeping across the night and even fewer would escape it. A creeping death. Ripe to bathe itself in blood.

The silence of the temple was broken as a priest of the Sith order approached, reverently pacing as he held a wicker container. Wishing not to disturb the High Priest’s contemplation, but knowing that he had no choice.

“My grace,” The priest spoke as he presented himself and bowed.

“This arrived.” The priest stammered out fearfully while placing the container on a nearby empty pedestal. With a turn Dagon, came about facing the container. Already knowing what it was and its intent without opening it. A wave of his hand and the wicker lid slid off and onto the pillar which held it.

Blood soaked and matted hair covered much of the face that was still wearing the face of horror when it was cleanly cleaved from the body of one of Dagon’s inner priests.

“It has begun.” Dagon mouthed.

~ The Night of Blood ~ early evening ~ Sith bastion of Marchioness Reem Trigan - Sith fleet commander​

“Is the fleet assembled?” Marchioness Reem Trigan inquired as they marched forcefully down a corridor that came to an open landing area. A shuttle and two fighters were already ready for launch, on the landing pad which housed one of his fleet squadrons. The flight crews were already onboard and prepping to lift off, while ground crew and slaves scurried about detaching couplings and fueling hoses.

“Yes Marchioness.” A helmet-less silver armored fleet officer replied as he kept pace with Trigan. The two of them flanked by a pair of armed guards in the same silver armor but wearing helmets.

The growing suspicion in his mind needed little confirmation as the Marchioness knew that Cela’s funeral flotilla needed to be contained immediately, as he doubted its purpose as a funeral procession to begin with. He would need to brief his officers directly though to prevent word from reaching Cela’s command.

“Marchioness,” the officer exclaimed after his comm-link chimed from an incoming message. “Shadow Hand Omana has requested your presence immediately.”

“Of course he has…” the Marchioness retorted.

Only the strong survive, because only the strong deserve to… ~ Bane

~ Shadow Hand’s high residence and fortress ~ Personal chambers of Shadow Hand Drathen Omana - Overseer of the Sith Empire​

The personal residence and stronghold of the Shadow Hand was among the richest and highest in stature, as figurative second within the Empire. The Empire had funneled much to the Shadow Hand, though the lavish luxury of the high residence was not to be mistaken for the deadly undercurrent of strength the position and this place held. IIt was the reason that the hidden figure bathed in the shadow of a nearby pillar stood, and why he was here talking to the Shadow Hand to begin with. He was needed, there was no going around that. As such both the Shadow Hand and he engaged in conversation about many things that needed discussing...

“What guarantees do you offer?” the Shadow Hand inquired in response to notions previously put forth as he paced in an ornate long evening robe, barefoot across an ornately crafted and carved balcony overlooking the city. Off to the side several servants stood, silent and holding goblets of wine and small samplings of food on platters. Omana plucked a grape off one of the trays, the attending servant holding his head down so as to not make any eye contact.

“Trigan is on his way here…” Interjecting before a response to his inquiry was made, the Shadow Hand offered up to a veiled figure in the shadows as if the additional information would sway or draw out an answer faster. It seemed to work.

“Good, make sure his arrival is dealt with. I will deal with his fleet and prevent them from interfering." The voice hidden beyond view confidently exclaimed while quickly adding. “Though you need guarantee the High Marchioness Waarl and his Black Legions purge the temple and kill Dagon.” The hidden figure sternly demanded, while offering the guarantee to which he would be held accountable.

The Shadow Hand placed the grape in his mouth, rolling it around for a moment before chewing and swallowing as he mused over the proposal. “Very well.” Omana agreed.

"And what of the High Sword?” Omana inquired, knowing that she clearly was a loose end.

In response, from the shadows of the nearby pillar on the balcony that the hidden figure continued to remain in, the voice spoke. “Eliminate her.” It was bluntly put. She stood the greatest threat to them.

The Shadow Hand smiled, taking a sip from his goblet. “Very well. Arelius… will move against the Sword.”

The Shadow Hand paused, the thought of Judicator Ria Arelius and his inquisitors moving against his most trusted, Vina, the High Sword of the Empire. Giving over the Sword was not a thought that he relished, but it was necessary. She was too idealistic to go along with everything. He was right, she had to die.

“And eliminate her.” Omana offered in a forced manner that confirmed her decided fate.

From the shadows Ortan Cela stepped forward pleased that they had an accord. He wondered if the Shadow Hand suspected anything. Though deep down he knew that the Shadow Hand was too blind with his own ambition and the proposed thought of Cela backing him with his support only served to blind him further in his lust for power. Thus in the eyes of the Shadow Hand, the proposal of the Shadow Hand using his influence with the army to eliminate Dagon meant Cela would back him as Dark Lord. And thus Cela would retain control of Ziost and gain governance over the newly discovered Athiss, while the Shadow Hand secured his rule by retaining Korriban, Dromund Kaas, and the newly discovered Dromund Fels. All of this worked, despite the fact the Cela had no intention of allowing such.

~ Shadow Hand controlled bastion and fortifications just outside the city of Dreshdae ~ High Sword Vina Caligra’s residence​

We take what we desire because we can. We can because we have power. We have power because we are Sith. ~ Ancient Sith Proverb

With a soft clang, she placed her helm down on the stone table and began unstrapping her armor, beaten and still painted in dry blood. Piece by piece removing the ornate war armor she had donned during the many previous days of battle. Her chambers were lit brightly by torch and firepits, her two aids both pure-blooded Sith slaves attending to aid her, bringing food, drink, and drawing a hot bath. She rather disliked the notion of such, but the Shadow Hand insisted upon her having a minimum of some slaves. Recalling as he put it. ”it was unbecoming of council members NOT to have slaves...” While the city offered itself up in celebration, the High Sword simply wanted to cleanse herself and sleep.

The cold night air upon her skin was contrasting to the warmth of the bath as she stepped down a series of carved steps into the large bath. Her toned figure showing blotches of black and blue from bruises all over her body with splotches of dried blood evident.

The heat of the hot water was soothing upon her skin and muscles as she settled in, a moment of respite. Closing her eyes for a moment she reached out to her surroundings to draw them in. She could hear the groan of the city, though the ongoing celebration moved on without her. She cared little for such as she knew that the upcoming feuds for power would be more arduous than battle.

~ Korriban Orbit - Fleet of Ortan Cela apprentice of the Dark Lord​

“All ships are reporting - prepared to fire.” a Sith officer spoke. At this close range the ships would have little warning or chance to raise defensive shields.

The assembled funeral ships of Ortan Cela’s fleet mingled alongside the main force of Marchioness Trigan’s main assembled fleet and without warning Sith vessels began firing upon Sith vessels. Dozens of transports carrying the funeral flotilla opened fire, revealing that they were disguised only as such, as high powered slug projectiles and blaster fire poured into several of the closest Sith frigates. There was no warning and two of the Sith frigates under Trigan’s command quickly succumbed and exploded. Fighters emerged from containers attached to the sides of transports, disguised as fuel and cargo cells and a ship exited hyperspace nearly on top of the Sith fleet.

The heavy dreadnought Pinnacle, flagship of Ortan Cela, emerged from hyperspace with fighters quickly pouring out from its bowels.

Aboard the Sith heavy cruiser Khan Stella, loyal to the Marchioness Trigan, there was chaos as the bridge erupted in a frenzy. The acting commanding officer buckled from an explosion as he attempted to maintain command and raise Marchioness Trigan on the surface.

Down on the planet's surface The comm-link of the Marchioness' officer aid chimed again. The man looking up and exclaiming in a clam but ardent tone. “Marchioness... The fleet is under attack, a heavy dreadnought has emerged from hyperspace and the fleet is taking heavy damage.” The full extent of the assault was still not known as the guised transports were in truth heavy assault ships laden with close range weaponry and they were tearing apart the unsuspecting Sith fleet marshaled in orbit.

Fighters swarmed, as a mix of scrambled fighters from factions crossed and entangled through a sea of flashing blaster and heavy cannon fire. The Pinnacle moved in on the Khan Stella which was exposed at the quick loss of two of its main support frigates.

~ Korriban surface ~ City of Dreshdae ~ Courtyard and landing pad outside the Shadow Hand’s high residence and fortress ~ Marchioness Reem Trigan - Sith fleet commander
​

"I have studied you and found nothing but weakness." ~ Sion

“That kriffing slack-slug!” Trigan cursed as he wheeled and began a walk, that was more akin to a run, down the landing pad of the Shadow Hand’s residence which he had only just arrived at. The Marchioness and commander of all Sith fleet forces now acutely aware of his being purposefully drawn away from rejoining his fleet. Betrayal.

Trigan felt a push and sudden force drive him forward. The older Sith hit the ground with force, rolling and catching out of the corner of his eye a glimpse of his officer aid who had equally had been thrust forward. An explosive charge on the landing pad had detonated. Trigan’s skin burned, as the flames from an incendiary burned all around them. A larger explosion and the shuttle of the Marchioness rocked the landing pad with an even more intense shock wave. One of the accompanying Marchioness’ guards was obliterated, splattered into pieces, while the second gained his feet though he himself was still badly injured and burned. The whole stunned party was quickly set upon by a group of shadow guards pouring out from the landing pads entrance, loyal to the Shadow Hand as the landing pad erupted in a melee. Within moments it was over the fleet commander was run through before having time to react. A flurry of blades piercing him, with a finishing stab through his heart. Marchioness Reem Trigan was slain.

~ Outside the Sith High Temple - City of Dreshdae​

"But there must always be a Darth Traya - One that holds the knowledge of betrayal. Who has been betrayed in their heart, and will betray in turn" ~ Traya

The marching of feet could be heard across city blocks and into the night air. Armored boots against stone resounding in a purposeful approach as two full battalions of the Black Legions, under the command of High Marchioness Evicus Waarl, marched forward on the main temple One splitting off into the city to create a perimeter, while the other advancing force moved into the temple itself. Warriors and soldiers fought sorcerers and priests as the chorus of death rose into the night.

~ The Night of Blood ~ Evening ~ Shadow Hand controlled bastion and fortifications just outside the city of Dreshdae ~ High Sword Vina Calligra personal chambers​

“Will there be anything else milady?” The voice of one of Vina’s slaves reverently spoke. The High Sword wrapped herself with her night robes while the second slave offered up a glass of wine to her. Taking the nightcap she quickly replied. “No, that will be all.” With that she took a long draw of the glass downing it entirely.

Leaning against the balcony rail she looked out across the city noting the celebration fires throughout. Her body craved rest, but she knew better as she placed the now empty glass down upon the rail. Despite the cold air she settled down on the stone floor, seated with legs crossed as she took in a long drawn breath to begin meditation.

~ Sith High Temple - City of Dreshdae ~​

“Do not hesitate. Show no mercy!” ~ Sidious

Smoke billowed out of the high temple, as its once polished and reverent appearance had been ravaged of the prominence it once held. The Black Legion battalions set upon it had suffered extensive losses at the hands of the priest and priestess caste, though ultimately they had moved through the temple eviscerating and purging those they came across. Coming upon the deep sanctum of the temple, the last upper vestiges of the Sith religious caste continued to put up what restsiance they could. Barring the large doors to the sanctum and bracing it as best they could with anything they could along with themselves. A large crash signified the pressing battering from the legion seeking to bash the sanctum door down.

It would not be long…

The sanctum door gave way, as the hinges and braces gave way, wood splintered and cracked. One of the priests was forced back, sprawling onto his back from the force of the ram that had breached the door. A surge of soldiers clad in midnight black armor flowed into the sanctum. One soldier, leading the advance surged forward drawing up his blade already stained in blood, preparing to slash across one of the few remaining temple guards. The soldier was hit by a massive invisible wave of energy which sent him sprawling back into the front wall shattering his back and killing him with the force of impact. A second soldier met a similar fate but in far gruesome terms as a vial of liquid broke upon his armor, corroding it instantly and melting through the metal causing his skin to bubble and boil. Another soldier pressed forward, making it to one of the priestesses, running her through with his blade, blood spurted from her mouth as she let out a painful cry. Another priest was run down, skewered by a spear thrust through him as the Black Legion soldiers continued to pour out into the room. One of the remaining temple guards clashed blades with several of the onrushing Black Legion, taking several of them down but ultimately he too was overwhelmed as several swords pierced his armor after he had been brought to his knees in battle. The remaining priests mounted a last defense but were quickly overrun. Dozens of soldiers were now moving throughout the sanctum hunting down the last priests and priestess remaining. Executing them down to the last.

The first waves of the flowing mass of soldiers eventually came to the far end of the sanctum, where the figure of the High Priest stood staring out across the city with his back to them.

The soldiers slowed, the sound of their armor moving softly echoing as they paced forward with measured steps. Weapons drawn and ready to cut down the High Priest as they slowly closed in on him.

Dagon whirled about, sidestepping one of the soldiers who thrust forward upon him. The man’s armor suddenly compressed as if under great pressure, crushing him within his own armor.

A wave of Dagon’s hand directed a blast of energy that caught several soldiers, flinging them backwards into nearby pillars while a stream of flame erupted from his other hand, engulfing several soldiers. Another soldier began clasping at his armor, frantically attacking himself as if his mind had been twisted in horror. This first wave of soldiers was nearly decimated in matter of moments as the High Priest brought his prowess of Sith magic to bear upon them.

More of the legion emerged, surging forward towards the High Priest, moving past their fallen brothers and sisters. Even as they surged forward, many more of them began to fall as they were caught up in the horrific display of the dark arts yielded by Dagon. However their numbers were just too many for the High Priest as a spear pierced his shoulder, followed by a blade cutting across his back. A mace struck him in the chest crushing his sternum as his legs began to give out and he fell to the floor. A cascade of metal boots stomping upon him as the soldiers of the Black Legion encircled him.

~ Sith High Temple - City of Dreshdae ~High Marchioness Evicus Waarl​

Flanked by his personal guard, the bashing of the sanctum door echoed down the temple corridors even as he approached. Waarl’s power hunger smile grew as he noted the lingering signs of the battle throughout the temple that his legions had wrought as they had moved through it purging all in its way. Blood stained the halls and floors and dead littered the temple.

Waarl strode into the temple's inner sanctum, the carnage of the purge even greater here. A pair of legion soldiers approaching him grasping the High Priest by the arms and dragging him forward. The soldiers stopped as they held the beaten and bloodied High Priest, near death before the High commander of the Sith. Dagon’s head hung, his whole body limp.

“Dagon…” Waarl spoke with a sinister glee as if he had been looking forward to this for a long time. ”You foolish old conjurer.”

With blood dripping from his mouth, Dagon mustered what strength he had left, coughing and straining to speak . “What did he promise you, Waarl?”

“What lies did he weave in your head to make you think a boot licking soldier like yourself would be.... Dark Lord of the Sith?”

The High Marchioness’ eyes grew narrow as his face flushed with visible anger. Both the Shadow Hand Omana and Ortan Cela had indeed promised him. Promised to back his claim to the mantle once he had eliminated the High Priest. Citing that his Black Legions would roll through the land with the backing of the aristocracy and resources of worlds.

“Omana seeks to claim the mantle himself, not give it to you…” Dagon coughed as he spoke about the Shadow Hand’s true intentions, his words continuing to weave doubt in the High Marchioness’ mind. Waarl was a soldier, not a politician and his naive understanding of such brought a growing rage at the thought of being lied to and betrayed. He had served honorably and without question for decades. And now it was his men and women that now lay dead in this temple.

“And Cela will betray you both.” Dagon spoke as he continued to drive the twisting doubt a blood pooled from his wounds on the floor in front of him.

“You foolish diviner, you know nothing of strength and might!” Waarl spat angrily. He would not believe the words of this man, there was no proof of any of this and it was just the twisting dying words of a fool.

Dagon smiled with what strength he could feel he had left, his bloodied teeth showing as he raised his head up. “You are a trained dog… nothing more.”

“And they hold the leash.” With his last few vestiges of strength and mind Dagon offered up a final goading insult to seal the enraged High Marchioness’ fate. Simultaneously the High Priest’s mind wandered out, he could see her laying on her bed. He could see the events continuing to unfold as he had foreseen throughout this evening. “VINA!” Dagon’s mind yelled the High Sword’s name through the force.

Waarl gritted his teeth, the audacity of this man. The sound of him unsheathing his sword echoed throughout the inner sanctum as he quickly brought his blade up. Dagon’s head was quickly severed from his body. The High Priest of the Sith was dead.

~ Shadow Hand controlled bastion and fortifications just outside the city of Dreshdae ~ High Sword Vina Caligra’s personal chambers

​

Vina’s eyes opened in a flash as she lay on her bed, she jolted up. A piercing call to her mind as she heard her name yelled across a void. She tensed upon the ready dagger held in her hand and clutched to her chest. She felt a spray of blood on her face, though there was nothing there. She could see the High Priest in her mind's eye, feel his thoughts and then he was gone.

“Milady?” There was an inquiry from one of her slaves, drawn to the sudden waking of her mistress. “Are you alri…?” The slaves voice was cut off as she cried out, the sound of a blade piercing her from behind, as a cloaked assassin emerged. Vina’s eyes darted around the dark room only lit from the intense moonlight seeping in from the open balcony and columns. Vina rolled off the bed, just as a second assassin plunged forward with a blade, missing her and driving it into the empty bed. Several figures now descended on Vina. Vina swooped under one of the assassins' attacks, spinning and clasping the back of his head while simultaneously drawing the blade deeply across his neck. She noted her sword across the room from her, two assassins between her and it. The dagger in her hand flew through the air as it struck one of the men in the forehead, killing him instantly as she sprinted forward. Her bare feet danced across the cold stone of the chamber, she pivoted with an expert elegance to avoid the oncoming blade of one of the assassins, sliding under him and tripping him to the ground. Another assassin set upon her as she brought her hand up, quickly forcing the woman assassin back with a forceful jolt and invisible push that sent her sprawling over her bed. Vina looked down as the assassin she had tripped threw a punch from his back which she deflected, bracing his arm which she quickly ensnared. With the assassin’s arm locked within her brace, she rolled over the top of him, the thin night robes she wore flowing in the cold night air. As she rolled into an armbar, a violent crack was heard as she snapped his arm, the bone breaking and protruding through his flesh. Letting go of the arm she could hear the man screaming as she whirled back up onto her feet. Instinctively she spun to avoid a slash from another assassin, the assassin’s blade grazing her night robe slicing through it and causing a slight cut across her side. Vina continued the spin and landed a barefoot kick to the back of the same attacking assassins’ head which sent him to the ground. With space between the remaining assassin in her chamber and her, she reached out with her senses. Holding out her hand. Focusing and within a moment she felt her sword in her grasp..

"As darkness covers the land, blood will flow…" ~ Unknown

Vina’s blade dripped in blood as she stood on her balcony, behind her nearly a dozen bodies littered her bed chambers. In front of her and on the stone floor one of the assassins was taking his last breaths as she plunged the blade down through his chest. She could see the light armor of the assassins set upon her clearly in the moonlight now. Armor of the inquisitors, under Judicator Ria Arelius. Her eyes seethed with rage.

She felt a push upon her body, a jolt that sent her forward into the stone balcony. The impact knocking the breath out of her and jarring her shoulder into the stone railing. Her head turned, and eyes focused on a being entering her chambers flanked by two inquisitors. It was confirmed with her own eyes as she recognized the ornate light armor of Judicator Arelius. The sound of a dagger whistling through the air alerted her as she brought her sword across her body, deflecting the dagger at the last moment. A clang ringing in the air.

“Vina, I underestimated you!” Arelius scoffed as he strode forward drawing a blade. “I was content to wait outside…” He scoffed once more. Vina had just regained her feet, when Areluis pressed upon her slashing down with his sword which she parried. She was pressed against the balcony rail and the two flanking inquisitors joined in with attacks of their own. The clang of blades echoing as Vina, fatigued, move to gain some distance. Again another parry as she fended off the three more attacks in rapid succession. Rotating and finally getting herself away from the rail, with a flourish she created an opening in one the assassin’s fighting stance and guard striking him in the face with the pommel of her blade and forcing him to stumble back. She felt her bare feet against the stone balcony and vaulted into a spin over the other assassin, landing with a refined precision that brought her spinning back around in a crouch. Gutting the assassins before he could react. His entrails spilling out all over the floor in front of him. Arelius lifted his hand grasping Vina through the force, ensnaring her neck in a choke. She felt her throat tighten as she gasped for air. She spun away pivoting on one foot while the other foot slid under a dagger loosely situated in the open palm of a dead assassin from earlier. The blade cut into the top of her bare foot as she lifted it up into the air. Her hand grasping it as she spun, she finished the spin with the blade flung from her hand catching Arelius in the shoulder. His hold through the force broken, Vina gasped, able to draw in air once again. The stunned assassin from before had regained his attack vector on Vina, though she still held her sword firmly in her other hand. With an expertise that showed why she held her title and position, she parried the attack, countering with a vicious flurry that batted the assassin blade about till he was completely disarmed. Vina slashed upward, nearly cleaving the assassin's right arm clean off while bringing the blade up and around in a smooth motion that slashed diagonally across his neck relieving him of his head.

Vina watched as the headless body of the assassin fell limp to the stone floor, heaving in breath she drew further upon her anger and drove her focus further. Her eyes and head turned with a sinister malice to finish this, her eyes setting upon Arelius who had stumbled back with a dagger impeded in his shoulder.

Arelius groaned as he forcefully yanked the dagger from his shoulder just in time to see Vina turn upon him. Aurelius raised his blade, to parry the High Swords attack. Though it was only a matter of time as she expertly dissected his defensive guard. Her blade came down across his sword hand after catching the Judicator in the leg with a glancing slice intended to open him to a fishing strike. Aurelius’ hand was cleaved clean off, and with another slice he was caught across his leg as Vina instantly reversed her grip and brought the blade back in a smooth reverse motion. The Judicators sword clanged upon impacting the stone floor as he himself fell to one knee. The High Sword was relentless and her blade came down once again piercing the Judicators thigh that had braced him from completely falling to the ground. Her sword went clean through with the tip of her blade impacting the stone floor beneath his flesh. A backhanded fist from the High Sword cracked Aurelius across the mouth as he was held in place by her sword.

Aurelius groaned, blood flowing from his mouth, his left hand clasped his now severed stub at his wrist as blood freely flowed from his thigh. Vina leaned over to reach down near her, her fingers slowly dancing across the hilt of the Judicators sword upon the ground as she lifted it and brought it up to his neck. With a quick flick of her wrist she used the Judicators blade to cut the strap which held his helm to his head. The helm sliding off his head and impacting the stone with a clang and thud.

“You snake…” Vina spoke with a betrayed rage. Levels of betrayal were expected… but this?

“Carrying out the will of Cela? Dagon? Waarl?” Vina spat her deep disdain for all of them. Though in her mind she could see the flash of the vision earlier of Dagon and his calling out to her. She shook it off, removing it from her thoughts.

“The Shadow Hand will deal with you!” She seethed, wanting to carry out vengeance right now, but knowing the Shadow Hand would want to know of this treacher directly. She would drag this betrayer before him as her loyalty to Omana was unquestioned and she would support him as the rightful Dark Lord.

Arelius chuckled while wincing in pain. Laughing openingly at her naivety.

“The High Sword…” he mocked her as he rolled his eyes.

“...so naive in your belief of your precious.... Shadow Hand.” The Judicator’s breathing was suffering as he heaved with his words. His eyes darted around the room noting the carnage she had produced.

Vina was raging, her eyes ablaze as she stared at Arelius. With a wretch she removed her sword from his thigh, the Judicator instantly falling fully to his knees. Blood trickled down her arms, face, and legs as Vina stood tall in front of him, her thin night robes slashed and stained with blood all over. The moonlight casting a scene of her blades raised to his chin in a cross as he swayed slightly with heaving breath.

"Who… was it?" Vina softly spoke with intent, seeking to draw from him the answer from her original question of who sent him. Arelius did not answer. Despite his maiming and body slowly succumbing to his injuries, he would not give her any satisfaction.

“WHO WAS IT?” Vina screamed, pressing the blades into him more, her voice angered and strained with pain as if she already knew and did not want to hear the answer. Though she needed to.

Arelius smiled mocking her as he spoke with a condescending ill repute of her. “Your precious Shadow Hand.”

“You lie, you kriff-filled shyrack…” Vina gritted her teeth and growled at him. She felt betrayed, she served Omana, he had taken her as a daughter, brought her along, and been a mentor to her.

Vina’s head lowered, her eyes catching and noting the seal of the Shadow Hand emblazoned upon a piece of parchment scroll that Arelius clutched in his remaining blood stained fist. The Judicator gripped it tightly, having removed it from his inner pocket.

“My leverage against him should he betray me…” Arelius forced out, knowing he had caught her attention. “It is yours if you let me go fr…” There was a ring of blades sliding against one another. Arelius’ mouth stopped and his voice cut off in an instant. A look of surprise upon the man’s face.

Vina’s wrists had moved ever so slightly and now she stood silent though filled with rage as the Judicators head slid off his shoulders, cleanly sliced off. The Judicator of the Sith was dead.

~ Midnight ~ Shadow Hand controlled district ~ Grand Cathedral and Banquet Hall of the Sith​

“Everything has failed you…” ~ Sadow

The grand cathedral of the Sith and attached lavish banquet hall which accommodated the festivities of the aristocracy and order, following their more revered ceremonies and traditions, stood atop a mountain ridge at the edge of territory controlled by the Shadow Hand. Standing tall above the landscape, overlooking it from high in a symbolic gesture of giving it more prominence than the district below. The cathedral was one of the most intricate of the young Sith Orders' existence. Signs of ongoing construction were evident, with another wing being constructed to mirror the large banquet hall adjacent to the massive central chamber. On the far side of the cathedral, the structure was bathed in scaffolding and stone works supporting the ongoing constructions. And beyond that a large cliff face gave way to a dark chasm within the mountain ridges which snaked along.

In the shadow of the cathedral, the celebration of the evening had turned to chaos as fires burned buildings and screams replaced the songs of celebration. High Marchioness had called in additional forces and in retaliation had released his Black Legions upon the Shadow Hands district. The legions moved through the streets burning and dragging Shadow Hand loyalists from their dwellings.

“I am the strength and might of this Empire!” Waarl spat pounding his fists against the table in anger. “Coward!” Waarl called out to Omana. “Fight me!” The High Marchioness demanded of the Shadow Hand. The Shadow Hand had gained his power through politics, scheming, and subterfuge. He knew he could not defeat Waarl in a fight. Waarl threw his arm across the table sweeping off several plates and goblets which came crashing onto the floor.

Omana dressed in a lavish robe of purple and gold, took a sip from his own goblet as he stood staring at Waarl, who was on the opposite side of the large banquet table.

“You think you can come into my house and threaten me with your brutish nature Waarl?” Omana retorted. There was a clear disdain for the soldier, whom in Omana’s eyes was nothing more than a dog. Guards for both men stood in the background prepared to engage.

“Cela is the one you should be worried about. Notice his absence?” The sound of fighter craft outside was heard. Sith fighters, dozens of them swarming out of the clouds. The night sky erupted in blaster fire as fighters loyal to Ortan Cela, having dealt with the Sith fleet above, were now descending upon the Black Legions moving across the city. Waarl growled pushing himself away from the table with disgust and disbelief but clearly drawn to the sound of fighters outside. Needing to see it for himself. He rushed to an open balcony at the side of the hall that spanned the banquet chambers length. He could see a large segment of the reinforcements he had called up surrounding the Shadow Hand residence and district being caught in a hail of blaster fire from above. He screamed in rage, the sight of his legions being decimated by Ortan Cela’s fighter before his eyes, whirling around as he moved to draw his blade. The Shadow Hand had moved to face him from inside the hall. Staring at him as he took another sip from his goblet.

“I control Cela’s forces, kill him and you can take your place as my second as the new Shadow Hand.” The Shadow Hand spoke with a false sense of security in thinking Cela’s forces were in fact under his command. Nevertheless the High Marchioness was none the wiser and Omana would bring the man to heel for now and kill him in due time.

“I may even let what is left of your Black Legions survive…” Omana spoke as if offering him mercy.

“Though I would decide quickly, I’ve no reservations in reducing the city to slag and taking your legions with it.” Omana threatened, while taking another sip from his goblet.

A servant to the Shadow Hand approached, bowing and offering his arms out in a reverent gesture. “Milord Omana, Judicator Aurelius has arrived.” The servant stepped back fulfilling the request to inform the Shadow Hand of such when it occurred.

The large doors to the banquet hall were pushed open as the familiar silver and gold armor of the Judicator, highest judge and inquisitor among the Sith was seen. His head lowered slightly forward as he strode into the chambers.

“Ah Judicator Arelius.” The Shadow Hand exclaimed, thankful for the well timed arrival of Arelius. Arelius had already given his loyalty and backing to the Shadow Hand in exchange for claim to Ziost which had been promised to him, in-fact nearly all of Cela’s holdings had been promised to Arelius, once Cela too was eliminated.

“I trust your meeting with the Blade is concluded.” Omana spoke eluding to his dispatching of the Judicator and his inquisitors to eliminate the High Sword, of which Waarl had also been privy to.

The High Marchioness and Judicator stood beside each other, Waarl still yearned to run the Shadow Hand through, though his mind was ill focused to recognize the Judicator standing in very close proximity to him now.

Waarl’s head cocked, his eyes narrowed as he looked upon the sword at the Judicators side. It was not Arelius' blade, it was the High Sword’s. Waarl’s eyes grew wide but before he could even react the gargling of blood was the only thing he could hear as a dagger was thrust through his neck and up into his head. Blood spurted out as the blade was twisted and withdrawn in a flash. Grasping at his throat in a vain attempt to cover the gaping wound in his neck, he collapsed in a pool of his own blood dead. The High Marchioness of the Sith was dead.

Conveniently the High Marchioness was no longer in the way. The Shadow Hand looked on with equal fear and intrigue, that quickly turned to full on fear as the helmet of the Juidicator came off revealing the face of Vina, staring at the man in pure rage.

“Vina?” Omana stammered out.

“You most decidedly got my message, that the High Marchioness was just threatening to unleash his legions upon us, I knew you would rise to defend our House.” Omana sinisterly smiled while taking another sip from his goblet. Trying to play off his fear.

“And with that our claim as me as the Dark Lord and you taking my place as Shadow Hand can be fulfilled…” Vina slammed the table, cutting him off… drawing her hand slowly away to reveal a near cumbled scroll covered in blood onto the table.

Omana recognized it clearly, the parchment given to Arelius. His eyes widened.

She knew.

“The twisted web of darkness that we weave…” ~ Unknown

Omana felt the piercing of his own flesh, both the High Marchioness’ and his guards had been dispatched by Vina before she quickly turned her attention to him. The dagger used to kill Waarl now lodged into his back as he tried to slink away. With a flailing cry he fell, as he tried in vain to grasp the dagger lodged in his back.

He could hear her footsteps as she approached.

She grabbed him by the scruff of the lavish robes he wore as she proceeded to drag him like a beast out onto the grand coronation floor in the adjacent room. The place where in a fews days time the mantle of the Dark Lord would have been placed upon his head. Her boot struck him in the back of the head, his face smashing into the polished obsidian stone floor and breaking his nose, blood trickled down his face. She reached down grabbing the dagger embedded in his back, twisting it. Omana shrieked with pain as Vina drove it deeper, twisting once more before she withdrew it. Her rage burned and even as he mentally tried to mount a defense she broke through with sheer rage and overwhelming willpower. Omana was again slammed into the floor, this time through the force as Vina’s sheer stare caused him to be pummeled again and again. He struggled upon being released, crawling forward to the massive steps that surrounded the coronation throne which sat upon them.

His fingers grazed the base of the ornate throne as he tried to pull himself up further on the steps.

Vina stepped forward, grabbing the man around the neck in a choke hold as she came down on her own knees behind him. Her eyes ablaze as she leaned into his neck, her lips right at his ears.

“Die knowing that this is as close to a throne that you will ever get.” Her soft voice filled with hatred, bellowed with an unbridled rage. Omana felt a stabbing pain in his gut as Vina worked the dagger across his gut, disemboweling him right at the base of the coronation throne of the Dark Lord of the Sith. Omana gurgled in pain, his eyes wide as Vina worked the blade back across and up into his chest. His last moments being that of him being eviscerated while staring at the throne. The Shadow Hand of the Sith was dead.

A soft clap was heard from behind Vina, as Ortan Cela emerged having watched Vina slay Waarl and now Omana.

The entirety of the Dark Council, all of the potential successors to the mantle of Dark Lord of the Sith had been killed, save these two - Ortan Cela Apprentice the the Dark Lord and High Sword Vina Caligra

“I would take you as my second, though I do not know if I would survive your wrath in due time…”

“nor if you are inclined to share at the moment…” Cela condescendingly spoke.

She was tired of games. She rose up, casting the dagger in her hand, bathed in the guts and blood of council members, across the floor. “I want no further part of this Omana, do what you want…” As much as she was a cold killing machine, she loathed these games and schemings. Her shattered loyalties weighing upon her, the betrayal.

The Dark Lord Tulak Hord was the only thing she still had faith in and yet he was gone, buried and sealed in his tomb. It was true that the Dark Lord Tulak Hord had instructed her personally, mentored her like an apprentice. counselled her as she rose. She needed to cling to that, cling to the Lord whom had mentored her just as much as he had mentored his Apprentice that stood before her, Cela. Everything was in doubt, and she wondered if the Dark Lord had truly died naturally as it had been told as her eyes suspiciously settled upon Cela.

Cela could sense her feelings for the late Dark Lord. He could also sense that she was strained, weakened from a full nights battle that was on-top of the days of battle she had been subjected to. He could not let her leave this hall. Vina stumbled down one of the steps, fatigue showing. Ignoring Cela as she slowly walked by him with a measure distance.

Cela’s eyes followed her, as she passed by. “Do you want to know how the Dark Lord died?”

Vina stopped in her tracks, drawing in a series of long breaths.

“He told me who was to be his successor… not his own apprentice.” Cela spoke in a visibly angered tone… as he tried to control his disdain for the decision that did not favor him.

”..but you.” Cela spat with a vitriol that showed in his face. Disgusted at the idea that Vina would be chosen.

Vina’s eyes darted, she had never asked for nor wanted such. He thought you would be able to unite the Empire and purge it of the squabbling and scheming of the dark council.

“He was right.” Cela’s eyes looked over at the body of Omana at the feet of the throne. Silently admiring her handy work of eliminating several of the dark council “But I could not let you take what was rightfully mine…”

“He underestimated me, even while I was carving out his heart.” Cela sinisterly spoke about the killing of his Master by his own hand along with the weaving of the elaborate lie of his death to gain the mantle for himself while also pitting the entirety of the council against itself in a bloodbath that left only him.

“And that leaves just you Vina…” Cela spoke with a malicious intent to finish what he had begun.

Vina heard an unfamiliar sound, something like an energy beam firing, a hiss and distinct hum. She turned looking at Cela who now stood with a sleek hand held cylinder in his grasp, and what could only be described as a beam of energy emanating from it. She had heard stories of the first dark jedi to this world, tales about antique weapons but never gave them any weight. A sword of light, its blood orange and red colored blade humming and crackling in the air.

Cela paced forward raising the blade up to strike, she reached to her side drawing her own blade out of its scabbard with a violent speed to deflect the glowing orange-fire blade at the last instance. She pivoted and regained her guard, Cela pressed and in a flash struck a series of slashes across her guard. Vina had no choice, quickly recognizing the speed at which Cela was able to manipulate the weapon he wielded, giving her only one choice but to give ground as her parries could not keep up with the quick attacks brought upon her.

Again another flurry of attacks as she gave ground, the hall was large enough to accommodate such, but the fatigue from moving her own blade in a manner that strained even her skill was already showing.

Giving ground, she had put enough distance between Cela and her, her hand jolted forward. Cela was caught in an invisible wave that sent him backwards rolling onto the ground. Vina seized upon Cela’s loss of footing, and vaulted forward bringing her blade down with a violent force. Only able to come to a single knee, Cela raised his blade up to deflect the blow. The energy blade twisted around Vina’s blade, responding differently than one made of steel. She felt a searing pain as the tip of Cela’s blood orange blade made contact with her thigh. It burned like that of the heat from a furnace as she could smell her flesh sizzling. The energy blade pressed further burning through her flesh with no effort. She jumped back breaking the guard as she was unable to control and manage the pain inflicted by the weapon any longer.

Cela fully came to his feet. Twirling the blade about him as he stepped forward once again, he brought the blade around again in a rapid strike, she was caught by a glancing slice into her shoulder. Vina screamed. The burning pain from the blade was unlike anything she had felt before. Gritting her teeth she once again came up into her guard, raising her blade in front of her as she again moved to parry a strike of Cela’s blade. However this time she allowed him a false sense of breaking her guard. His footwork was good but not as good as hers, he slid forward and her free elbow came up cracking him in the face stunning him for an instant while she brought her blade back across in a twisting manner that sliced into the small of his back.

Cela swung in a rage, his form suffering as Vina ducked under the blade. Stepping forward she caught him in the shoulder with a long range thrust before she quickly recoiled to avoid his blade coming back around a second time. Vina spun away, again creating distance. Her thigh and shoulder were both throbbing in pain and she could feel the mix of melted and seared muscle not responding as it should.

She had little choice, Vina moved back through the entrance of the hall, which brought her to the outside of the large cathedral. Visible before her was a ribbon of path which slowly creeped alongside the massive cliff face and chasm of darkness below. She was succumbing to fatigue and despite her best defense she could find no manner in which to counter the weapon Cela wielded.

​

Cela emerged chasing her, stopping for a moment and scanning about for her as he sensed her close. Vina limped around the side of the cathedral attempting to catch her breath. Her hand pressed against the wound on her leg, she suppressed a scream, ripping a portion of cloth from part of her undertunic which she tied off around her leg wound. Vina could hear the hum of the lightsword that Cela wielded as he approached.

Cela slowly paced down the pathway, only a few meters wide, his eyes scanning for Vina. “Come now Vina, tell me how is it… that the High Sword is on the run?”

“Hiding like a scared pup…” Cela chided her while he continued to pace forward, still unable to locate her.

“My Master was a fool for thinking a coward like yourself could hold the mantle…” A flash and hum of the lightsword caught Vina’s eyes as she lunged forward to avoid it. The glowing blade slicing into the hard stone outer cathedral wall where she had been standing, carving a glowing heated gouge in the stone. Vina whirled about into her guard as Cela came crashing down upon her with his light sword. Parrying the attack from a high guard, Vina batted away the blade, but like before Cela was able to bring the blade around in a much faster fashion than she could offer in defense. Vina darted away as Cela once again swung down upon her catching the side of the cathedral and again gouging a large glowing mark into the stone. Cela’s blade for a moment flickered as if the energy flowing through it was disrupted. Vina braced herself against the side of the cathedral, though she purposefully held her position for a moment that caused Cela to think he had an advantage to strike. Cela raised his blade slashing down as Vina spun away and pushed off from the cathedral, her blade catching Cela in the leg. Another glowing gouge in the stone side of the cathedral and the blade Cela held seemed to again flicker with more frequency until it seemed to completely shut off. Cela back peddled and reached down to his side.

Vina stood near the cliff edge drawing in breath. The lightsword had a weakness it seemed, the energy to create it was finite. She raised her blade, emboldened. Though it was short lived as Cela drew out a coupling cord that was connected to a cylinder on his hip, connecting it quickly to the butt end of the light sword’s hilt. With a flash the weapon activated again with the full energy it displayed in the beginning.

Cela stode forward arrogantly confident and intent to strike Vina down where she stood. Vina braced drawing up her guard one last time. Cela slashed forward, but not like before. His reach was shorter, limited, more constrained and tethered. Vina brought her blade across parrying the strike, as she sidestepped, her footwork outmatching Cela’s and giving her the advantage. Cela came about again to strike, again his swing limited, unable to flourish the weapon in the manner that he had before when he had been unencumbered by what Vina could only observe as being a power source of some kind now attached and feeding the weapon its energy.

Again Cela slashed, frustration evident on his face as Vina even with her injured leg continued to out maneuver him with her far superior stance and footwork. He was unable to break her guard and Vina countered with a vicious press as she brought her blade back around and then down. Cela reeled backwards as Vina continued to press him, Cela coming about with a heavy swing that Vina avoided. She stepped forward into his guard slashing upward at his exposed side, her blade slicing through the power cord sending a shower of sparks into the night air. She would wear him down once again. The light sword flickered, Vina’s eyes raged with satisfaction as she came across with another slash. Cela screamed in rage and frustration as he met her attack.

Vina and Cela’s eyes met, Vina felt her blade shutter as the light sword cut through her own sword, searing off the top quarter of the blade. Despite such, Vina’s more precise strike slashed into Cela’s shoulder, carving a deep gouge. Vina was not without a mark though, as she felt a searing pain in her cheek, the energy blade having grazed her face after slashing clean through her own blade.

Vina staggered forward, falling to one of her knees as the fatigue from the burning wounds and strain was becoming too much. For a moment she stared upon the white hot glowing edge of her blade where the energy blade carved through it. The metal it seemed finally succumbing to the energy blade. Cela’s blade flickered. She had no means of knowing how long Cela’s weapon could last.

“Your head will be a fitting center piece to my coronation Vina.” Cela goaded thinking that he had finally broken her. She stared back at him in silence from over her shoulder, a sideways glance of her pure hatred for him emanating from her eyes. Cela stepped forward intent on ending this. His blade was brought up to cleave her head from her body. Vina’s eyes flashed with a focused hatred, as she spun on her knees away from Cela’s heavy and badly formed execution swing. Her broken blade slashing across his calf, slicing into tendons and down to the bone causing him to fall almost instantly. Vina was on her feet, drawing in a strength from her rage and absolute will to not let this bastard rise to Dark Lord. Cela swung about from his knees, his form now that of a raging beast, unbalanced and driven with fear. She could sense it. Vina avoided the swing, her broken blade slashing across his torso as she continued to spin about him. Before Cela could react again, Vina brought the blade up catching him across the arm. The white hot edge of her broken blade severing muscle as it partially cauterized the inflicted wound. Cela’s hold on the light sword broke and the energy blade deactivated, the metal cylinder falling to the ground.

Cela tried to rise, the tendon in his calf preventing him from standing as he crashed back down to the ground.

“You kriffing vench!” Cela spat insulting her womanhood. Vina paced silently, her limp evident... though she ignored all of the pain racking her body as her eyes glowed with an eagerness to take his head.

“I am the one to rise, NOT YOU!” Cela screamed.

Vina was ignoring him, his vain words were only met with her stone cold silence as she stepped forward, dragging her leg behind her as she brought her blade around taunting him with its sight as she readied to strike. His words meant nothing… and then suddenly she felt a searing pain unlike anything she had felt before. The pain in her fatigued muscles and the burning wounds from the light blade disappeared, replaced with a new agony. A stream of energy flowed from his hand, like lighting brought down from the sky, it struck her in the chest. A searing burning sensation as she was forced onto her back.

She felt her vision blur, as she could smell burnt flesh, her flesh. Cela had forced himself up onto his good leg, putting all of his weight on it while dragging the other behind him. “You know nothing of the secrets of darkness!” Cela spat.

“I alone know the secrets of the Dark Lord’s… passed to ME alone!” Cela raised his hand again, as another stream of lightning hit her, cascading wildly as Cela attempted to control it. It was true he had a raw knowledge no other Sith possessed, knowledge only imparted upon him as the Dark Lord’s apprentice and handed down from Dark Lord to Dark Lord since their origins, which made the Dark Lord’s selection of Vina as his successor all the more insulting to him. The power that Cela wielded was unknown and foreign to Vina as she writhed on the ground in pain from another jolt. It was always known that the Dark Lord possessed knowledge passed down the lineage, making Cela privy to knowledge that only the Dark Lord processed, things that sects like the priest caste knew about in theory but lacked the true refined knowledge to wield.

She could feel her life slipping away. Vina’s eyes focused on a large stone pillar that bore the weight of a large portion of the scaffolding on this side of the cathedral. With what she had left she reached out sending yanking with every last mental fiber she held. The pillar swayed slightly, enough to break free of several wooden supports.

Cela’s attention was drawn to the sound of the wood and stone breaking and crashing with part of the cathedral wall itself giving way.

The resulting cascade of falling scaffolding came down upon them both, smashing onto the narrow path between the cathedral and cliff edge with much of it rolling and cascading off the edge itself. Burying Cela in a mass of debris, crushing and sweeping him like a wave out off the cliff face and into the dark chasm.

Vina’s bloodied hand clung to the side of the cliff as she dangled above the dark abyss. Her muscles strained despite the firm hand hold she had, she could see the silver hilt of Cela’s weapons dangling off the edge near her. Her eyes closed as her hold finally gave way. The cylinder flew off the edge towards her, both of them engulfed in darkness as she fell.

“My life ends only when my rage has been vented, when my need for vengeance is satisfied. It will be a long life.” ~ Maul

~ City of Dreshdae ~ Dawn

​

Where the groaning sound of the awakening of Korriban’s largest city would normally greet the morning, there was an eerie silence. The morning sun offered the first vestiges of light of a new day, illuminating and giving way to a view of smoke from smoldering fires across the city rising into the morning air. Silence filled the temples and residences as the morning light broke through the pillars and open windows of them.

The streets, halls, and chambers of the city were saturated in death. Throughout the city from the cobbled streets to the most lavish of residences, bodies littering everything as blood flowed through the street in literal small trickling creeks of blood where some of the carnage was the most intense.

Those that remained, slowly ventured out, to see the carnage that the night had wrought. It was discovered that every member of the Dark Council lay dead aside from two being unaccounted for. This along with nearly the entirety of the upper echelons of the order, meant that nearly every main power based had been shattered.

Judicator Caan Arelius’ naked body had been found beheaded in the chambers of the High Sword surrounded by dead inquisitors.

Shadow Hand Drathen Omana had been found disemboweled at the foot coronation throne in the cathedral.

High Priest Dagon’s body was found bloodied to a pulp and headless in the Sith Temple, while his head was found on the main banquet table in the cathedral.

High Marchioness Evicus Waarl was found with his neck slashed open laying in a pool of his own blood in the cathedral’s banquet hall.

Marchioness Reem Trigan was found dead, fragged from an explosion and run through by many a blade along with his entire entourage slain.

Marchioness Dri Stalgren had been killed days earlier rumored by the High Sword herself, though no one on the council was alive to confirm such.

There were reports of Ortan Cela, Apprentice to the Dark Lord of the Sith and expected heir to the mantle, along with High Sword Vina Calegria having been last seen at the collapsed side of the grand cathedral, yet there were no signs of them beyond that.

It did not stop there, throughout every one of the Dark Councillors houses and power based, a wave of death was seen. The hardened loyalists to each wiping one another out. Nearly the entirety of the upper echelons of the Sith order was gone. Generations of Sith, knowledge, skill, and power erased in a night of blood. Both the Sith fleet and army were in complete disarray with many of them breaking off and disappearing. Among the casts, those that managed to escape death were mired and consumed by chaos and fear, as those that remained scattered for fear of a continued purge.

There was no Dark Lord... no dark council... no successor alive within the Sith Order. The deepest secrets and knowledge supposedly lost with their deaths, leaving a vacuum of both knowledge and power.

Those few that remained, had no one above them.

No one to give them orders.

No one that held sway over their future.

It was theirs to mold if they were brave and bold enough to seize it.

 

[Darth Akhlyn]

IC: Abbelus S'rala
Location: Korriban
​

Billowing smoke. Pouring blood. The festering stench of death. All across the city, that was all that remained. All around Abbelus, that was all that remained. The priest and his retinue had remained at the fringes of the previous nights festivities. Abbelus hadn't trusted the funeral and so had ordered those with him to avoid its epicenter. The choice now seemed all too precient as Abbelus surveyed what lay all around. Bodies. Those of the enemy and his retinue alike. "Strewn all about like so many toys from an infants pram." He muttered to himself. The bloodbath had taken its toll on his forces. So many had fallen in the night, apparently includ-

"My Lord! My Lord!" Abbelus couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sound of that voice. "Why do I fail to be surprised by your survival, Karn? One would think you'd have the decency to fall over and die amongst the slaughter, yet here you stand amongst us as a cockroach." He winced and held his side a moment, nursing a slash mark he had earlier received. Karn stumbled forth towards Abbelus and clumsily knelt before him. "My Lord, you are injured. Please allow us to aid you." Abbelus was about to respond when he froze. Something was coming. He held a hand up to Karn and the others. "Stand back." From around a corner came three surviving marauders, two breaking into a sprint the moment they saw Abbelus and his group. The priest gripped his war hammer and strode forward toward his foes. The first came with blade raised and was met with a thrust of the hammer head to his ribs. As he was thrown back his compatriot tried to swing at Abbelus from the side. The priest merely spinned his body away from the blade and struck his right knee with a full force hammer swing. The blow shattered the bone, nearly taking the leg clean off. The first tried getting up but Abbelus simply placed a boot upon his cracked chest, pressing down upon it to bring further agony. He held his hammer pointing down at the mans head and uttered a single word. "Mediocre." An instant later the weight dropped down, splattering the skull as if it were a simple fruit beneath him. Abbelus left his hammer where it lay and turned back to the second man, still cradling the shattered limb. Another single word from the priest. "Sloppy." His arm shot out and gripped the marauders throat, utterly crushing it in his grip. Letting the corpse fall to the ground, the priest faced the last one. "The city is drowning in blood this day, and I will not hesitate to add yours to the deluge. You have one path that leads you away from that fate. The choice is yours." He raised a hand and summoned his hammer back to it to accentuate his point. The marauder stood there, still as a statue. Then slowly but surely, knelt down to Abbelus in deference. The priest nodded and turned to his remaining forces. "Good. Surround him on our way. If he makes a single move against us, cut him down. Now, lets move out." Abbelus began marching toward the city center, his retinue falling in step. Karn and two other priests came to walk astride Abbelus. As they marched the trio began weaving dark magicks upon their Lord, repairing his sustained injuries.

The march to the Cathedral opened Abbelus' eyes to just how badly the city had fared. The gnarled streets choked with the dead, those few remaining fleeing the moment they saw another living soul. "Such a waste" Abbelus muttered "All of this, and for what?" The group soon reached the Cathedral, and Abbelus paused before entering. Karn turned to him in confusion. "My Lord?" Abbelus didnt bother facing him in return. "I am trying to feel if anybody awaits us in here, but I sense... nothing. It is absolutely quiet in there. Yet still..." Abbelus trailed off before finishing the sentence, but his thoughts still raced. He sensed nobody within, but he still felt that something awaited him. He steeled himself, then entered the structure.

The moment Abbelus entered the banquet hall, he found the source of what he had been feeling. Perched upon the banquet table, as if it were a mere decorative centerpiece, was the head of High Priest Dagon. Close by lay the body of the High Marchioness, killed just as brutally. Abbelus said nothing. He simply walked forward and closed Dagon's eyes. Some of his followers had broken off, examining other rooms, and as if on cue Karn came running in from the coronation floor. "My Lord! My Lord! The Shadow Hand! His body lies dead at the foot of the throne!" Abbelus soon confirmed that with his own eyes. Some of his retinue lifted the corpse and carried it to the banquet hall to lay by the others. As this happened Abbelus closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath. "This is why." Karn turned towards him. "Why... what, my Lord?" The priest opened his eyes and finally faced Karn. "The ritual. The lack of visions. This is why. I havent been able to gaze into the future of the Empire because it had no future. Cela saw to that last night." Karn gulped nervously. "How can you be certain it was him, my Lord?" Abbelus grit his teeth and finally exploded upon his servant. "Look around, you blithering fool! There's no other it could be! Cela coveted the throne, and his unchecked ambition led him to burn down everything that has been built in his quest for power. Those who had the power have been cut down, and the Empire has been cracked to pieces." Karn shakily looked around. "In that case my Lord, is it wise that we are here? Cela may be along any minute." Abbelus just shook his head. "No. He's gone. If he or any of the Council still drew breath, they'd have already marched their armies through the streets. They'd have come here to the coronation throne." Karn chuckled a bit. "It seems somebody has done that in his place." Abbelus glared at him. "What did you say?" Karn yelped and knelt down. "Forgive me, I meant no disrespect! I simply intended to make a small joke, what you just said roughly describes what you've done this day, hasn't it?" Abbelus' eyes widened as a realization struck. "Yes. I have, haven't I..." His gaze wandered to the throne as his thoughts raced once more. Karn had meant the statement in jest, yet it rang true all the same. Those who had claim to the throne all lay dead, and the Empire needed somebody at the reins now more than ever. He began slowly walking to the throne. "Congratulations, Karn. You've just received a promotion." His servant bolted to his feet in alarm. "My Lord, what do you mean?" Abbelus chuckled. "Why, advisor of course" He turned around and sat in the throne. "To the new Dark Lord." Karn's mouth gaped. "My Lord, I only meant-" "I know what you mean, you sniveling worm. That doesn't make it any less right, however. The Empire needs a guiding hand to see it through these dark days. I will be that hand." The rest of his retinue had by now entered the chamber, now joined by an assortment of civilians that had wandered to the structure themselves. Stunned, Karn knelt down, others following suit. Abbelus nodded and addressed the room at large. "Find the bodies of the rest of the Council. Gather them outside, they shall be interred as one. Today we bury the past and begin moving on into a new future." He pounded his hammers handle to the ground, and those gathered began to disperse, a handful remaining behind to stand guard. The rising sun began to shine into the chamber, bringing a smile to Abbelus' face. In the very ancient times, many believed that each rise of the sun was the start of a whole new universe. Today, that story held some truth. Today was the start of a brave new world of the Sith.

 

[Jen'nu]

‘’The Primed Drops of Bottomless Waters that lead the way to Life and Death’’
IC: Aûkrin Serash, young Lord of the Mountain.
—
Valley of the Dead, Korriban.

Theme:

It would always be a peculiar comfort to stand amongst a massive crowd. In all other circumstances Aûkrin Serash would need to find some way of avoiding sidelong glances. That fact tinted the otherwise somber occasion with an air of pleasant satisfaction. For now he stood by himself in the middle of the crowd, clad in the black robes of mourning. His followers, similarly clad, had dispersed into the streams of the commoners. He would rather have them hidden in a swarm than draw too much attention. That was not to say he was going to leave himself exposed though. The gigantic gaggle of onlookers made for quite the cover, but their cloaks were not merely decorative. Within them were held weapons, easily accessed and lightly lethal. Yet only in the worst of danger would they be drawn; revealing a cache of weapons in the middle of this crowd would merely make for a nightmare of a scene. As such he could only wait, the plain wooden scepter of a religious leader resting against his palm.


It only took a few minutes for the hands inside the robes to reach for the weapons inside. He hadn’t expected Cela to make his own bid for power quite this early. It had only taken minutes — seconds, for open hostilities to open. Without swift mitigation, a bloodbath would ensue.
Thankfully the High Priest had the common sense and support to delay the inevitable. As Kots Morna was called upon, Aûkrin Serash could relax his posture marginally. For all his cowardice and sanctimonious ambition Cela was not a complete fool.


Looking conspicuous was singularly unwise in this environment, so as Kots Morna was commencing the Lord of the Mountain let himself be swept up into the crowds. The gluttony and lusts of this celebration was not something he would allow himself to be overtaken by, but it presented many unique opportunities. Even as the opulent banquets began, earthquaking quantities of food rolling across table after table within the halls, none of the sound rang louder in his ears than the words of Ortan Cela. It was indeed not over. He would have to delegate quickly and establish his own cobwebs of influence going forward.
As a result he took full advantage of the time he had been given. As it turns out, incessant noise could make for a remarkable cover. Thankfully he had been able to meet the vast majority of his accompanying followers. It had taken far too much time and it would take even longer for them to contact all of their potential clients. He was not particularly worried at this very moment. Far greater was the risk of some elite discovering a connection between the various assassins that came offering services. It was unquestionably a risk, given the amount of clients they were seeking out.
There had been an unquestionable aura of questioning, unspoken or otherwise, to the orders he had given. The numbers and allegiances alike would be rather puzzling. The High Priest; the Shadow Hand; Ortan Cela and their closest, most powerful allies. It was quite the large endeavor, one that could easily put them all at risk. Yet without risk there was no reward.


NO! This could not possibly be the case! The High Priest and High Marchioness dead and gone both. Judicator and Marchionesses dead and gone. The Dark Lord’s apprentice and assassin, vanished alongside the trusted High Sword. There was little doubt in the spymaster’s mind that Ortan Cela had indeed murdered his Dark Lord and Sith master, and he would not be surprised if this was his work as well. The age of impending twilight, he could feel, had just become so much darker. The first strands of sunlight had begun to appear on the horizon when the news of all the deaths had struck him, beginning the trickle that would eventually bathe the planet in an orange and yellow glow. Yet all that could be seen in the eyes of the Caller was the long night that was about the begin, the dark gods lingering beyond, always watching. Those would be the only beacon that could guide him further, as the stability of the Empire would become his task.

 

[Xarxes]

~†~Potentia~†~
~Korriban, The High Temple~
IC: Lord Zolkhest Dagon
Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08SYC3VWD_E

It had not been the intention of Archpriest Zolkhest Dagon to share a conversation with the High Priest, also named Dagon, but they did exactly that. Dressed in his usual dark robes, accented by gold and bedecked by pointed, carved pauldrons and a belt buckle, he stood before the High Priest briefly that night, gazing at him with bright, fierce eyes through the slits of his tentacular mask, hiding his deformed and mutated visage. The conversation had been brief, regarding ritual, and had been undertoned by a mutual desire, so Zolkhest believed, to kill the other.

But the unpleasantries lasted not long, for neither Dagon would dare act overly aggressively, especially given the current political climate among the Sith, and the relations of these two in general with one another. They parted ways, with Zolkhest returning to his fellow Ziostan priestly caste, and Dagon sojourning with those from Korriban.

The evening was relatively empty, given that most priests kept to their own regional and planetary groups and refused to socialize with others. Zolkhest particularly wrote down on a tome, carried by a servant Kissai named Ermion Morz. Ermion was shorter than Zolkest and was just a child, his slender teenaged frame being just high enough to mount the tome upon his back, held from the bottom by his hands, tucked behind him. He wasn’t Force-sensitive and had no mind for sorcery, so he was often pushed about as a lackey, but was yet afforded the respect deserving of a close servant of the Archpriest.

Just now, the Kissai Sith was finishing up his thoughts on the importance of cunning in a national or theocratic leader. Inserting the feather quill into a satchel at his side, Zolkhest snapped his fingers. “You may close the book now, Ermion. Don’t drop it.”

“Yes, Lord Zolkhest,” said the servant timidly.

A subtle fury pierced the servant, emanating from Zolkhest’s eyes. “What did you just call me?” His fingers extended towards the servant’s face, a telekinetic grip closing over his throat. The boy attempted to squeak a response, but the priest cut him off, hissing at him. “I do not care that we are in the temple of High Priest Dagon, you will refer to me as I am: Archpriest Dagon!”

If only because of their location, they were not overheard as the servant was released, collapsing to his knees but still clutching his master’s tome obediently. He knew what more would have happened if he had dropped it in his attempt to preserve his own life. The tome was bound in a red, somewhat scaly leather of sorts, identifiable as the hide of a Kissai. “Yes…yes, Archpriest Dagon. It will be as you command.”

The Sith was, perhaps, incapable of properly smiling due to the large cluster of facial tentacles covering his mouth, but he was certainly pleased by the stroking of his ego. Though Dagon believed in virtue, he had his own vices which plagued him, pride being the first and foremost, followed by envy. It was true that in this place he felt immense insecurity at his proximity with High Priest Dagon, even conjuring up imaginary plots his foe must have in his mind to kill him. The paranoia had helped him against others, lesser Sith who had wanted his place on Ziost, but it had never once aided him in his conflict with Dagon, and had perhaps even been detrimental.

He had plotted the proximate death of Dagon for some time now, but he hadn’t had a proper chance to execute him. Often, climbing for power in his position would require at least the assumption in the minds of others that there was possibility for doubt of committal. His presence on Korriban made such an achievement difficult, as it could technically be traced back to him. Additionally, not only had Dagon invoked Kots Morna, but there were many, presently, celebrating in the halls of the temple. It would be difficult for any movement around the most important person present to go unnoticed.

Zolkhest was not one to celebrate things. Bodily pleasures were not, fortunately, one of his vices, and he had no hesitation to stay above the festive priests on the lower levels, instead practicing Sith ritual, attempting to scry, on the upper floors of the temple.

~†~

The sounds of screaming men, women, and children were the first things to set him off. It began as low and distant, and the priest figured it was merely some activity distant in the Force, either in spatiality or time, but as it grew he realized it was near in both of those senses. The suffering of Sith outside of his current location, the sounds of bladed weapons whirling through the air, thick smatterings of blood landing on the cobbled streets outside of the temple, it was music to his ears.

And yet there was undoubtedly a fear in Dagon, not of death, but of uncertainty. What was happening? In the eyes of the great part of the Empire, Zolkhest was hardly a significant character. If nothing else, he could find solace in his relative insignificance, for it meant no one had placed a target on his back. Even though it was possible that the killers outside the temple killed indiscriminately, it wouldn’t be him they were after.

Then he picked up an unmistakable signature in the Force. Evicus Waarl, the High Marchioness, was here. He was still a ways away from entering the temple, but with the combination of screams from inside the temple, beneath him, he could tell that the Korriban priests below would be having difficulty in fending off the horde descending upon them.

Some of his comrade priests detected the same as he and immediately moved, using their telekinetic abilities to flee the building, jumping down to the ground outside of the temple. They would hide. Yes, they would hide because they could not win the day, and would certainly be wiped out otherwise.

Ascending the temple, cloaking his Force signature (rather weakly compared to others,) the Archpriest remained largely undetected by the soldiers flooding the lower levels where dwelled the High Priest of the Sith. Even still, Zolkhest could feel his presence in the Force, once strong and hardy, becoming weaker as he faced hordes of opposing Sith. Treachery had always been in the nature of their caste, but murder, betrayal, such as this was a rare sight indeed, and had not been a staple occurrence in Zolkhest’s lifetime.

“Quickly, my Lord,” called Ermion. “The Black Legions, they’re—!”

“I know, whelp!” barked the Archpriest, his hand on the hilt of his wicked Sith Sword. “They’ve invaded the lower levels, no doubt where the High Priest will meet his doom.” There was a relish in his words, a sort of scandalous enjoyment of the knowledge of what was to come. “We must make haste. They will spare none of us. Jump, boy!”

Ermion hardly had time to look before he was pushed out by Zolkhest, who followed his jump just behind. They fell a couple of stories, landing smoothly thanks to the cushioning of telekinetic force. Ermion, however, was clumsy and fell, dropping the book. It took all of Dagon’s mental strength to not end the boy there. “Pick up the book now, boy!” He hissed quietly, not wanting to draw undo attention to them from the commotion at the front of the cathedral. Without further words spoken, he extended his hand, calling the skin-bound tome to himself, and dashed for safety. There were catacombs on Korriban aplenty, certainly in areas away from the city of Dreshdae, in places where the Black Legions were not currently invading.

He didn’t check to ensure that Ermion was behind him. Why should he? The boy was but a tool, an underling. If he was smart and strong, he would get up and follow.

The priest did not stop to look behind him at the burning temple he had so long desired, but he felt the exact moment that High Priest Dagon’s life was cut short, ended, likely, but the blade of Marchioness Waarl.

~†~

~Dawn, in an undisclosed priestly hideaway…~

They had barely made it. The sounds of destruction had seemed to grow even as the distance between the temple at Dreshdae and the catacomb hideaways had grown. The fires burning there, the void left in the wake of the deaths, was astronomical and felt by all on the planet.

It was not uncommon for someone such as Zolkhest, possessed of ambitious desire, to have to adjust his plans due to the cunning or slip-ups of others. It was exceedingly rare that he wouldn’t go through with a plan because someone else solved all of his problems. This, however, was the case he was presented with now.

“The Council…dead? All of them?”

“Yes, Archpriest Dagon. The entirety of the Council and all higher beings have been slain. We still lack confirmation on the High Sword and the Dark Lord’s apprentice, but all reports indicate that they were last seen near the fallen cathedral, but nothing absolute.

The priest presenting the information to the Archpriest remained silent, stepping back. Very few Ziostan priests of Dagon’s Contemplative House had been lost, most that had come to Korriban having stuck with him for the duration of their stay. There were seventeen of them here, apart from Dagon himself, and a dozen servants. Six had been lost in total.

With the whole Council gone, it was unlikely that anyone would be hunting anyone else in particular, and now Zolkhest did not have any significant enemies left out there. He could safely come out of hiding now that the conflict was ended.

Yet ascending to power was dangerous now. The now-deceased High Priest would soon have a successor, but if he were chosen, then he would get a target on his back, especially if he would be held in scrutiny as someone striving to be the Dark Lord. No, what Zolkhest needed was an ally, someone to take the spotlight, someone that he could manipulate. They would need to be strong, clever, cunning, but also prideful, enough to where his own whisperings would not alarm them.

He needed time, a commodity they all had precious little of.
​

 

[Darth Vesper]

IC: Dyniana Da Res, Keres Sadow
Location: City of Dreshdae

--

(stop at 0:20)


The two women arrived with the procession in honor of the late Dark Lord. Making their way through the City of Dreshdae, cloaked and within the shadow of the procession, Dyniana stopped in her tracks, the procession continuing on leaving the two women in its wake. It was as if a sudden feeling of emptiness washed over the senior priestess which had cause her sudden cease. Keres stopped beside her mistress, placing a cool hand on the woman’s bare arm. “High Priestess?” Trance like for a mere moment and then at the sound of her protege’s words she came too and placed a finger upon Kere’s lips sending a shudder down the young Kissai hybrid’s spine. All was silent except for the low chanting of the processional, the insects that crawled the earth in darkness and the large clay bowls that held the flame that gave light within the dusty streets.


“Cease chatter and hold tongue, unless death come to us this night.” Dyniana spoke the dire warning in hushed tones, her eyes wide, the hairs on her arms bristled sensing that which was to come. Finding her bearings once more, she turned down an alleyway, her pace growing faster with sandaled step that took to the sand. Occasionally her head spun and checked to be assured Keres was still close, at what seemed like the final second, Dyniana took them through a doorway hidden from years of unuse. Once inside, her hands firmly pressed upon the wooden door, closing them inside. Not even a full moment later the thunderous footsteps of the Black Legions stormed through the city. Dyniana pressed her back firm against the door, eyes closed for a moment as she caught her breath, as the first footfalls of the first battalion ceased, she threaded her fingers within the dark silk of her hood and pushed it back, revealing a head of fiery red curls. The junior priestess stood in shock, skin clammy, beads of perspiration upon her brow. Dyniana had known, how did she, Keres Sadow not?

“I should have known.”

However there was one thing Keres did know, her mistress not only knew what was to come, but she would know the aftermath. Dyniana looked up sucking in the musty air once more, her brow quipped as the two women stared long and hard at each other, the second battalion’s footsteps and begun.

There was one thing the two now knew for sure.

Blood would spill this night…

(stop 0:54)

 

[G.Kn]

IC: High Priestess Laeloth
The Outskirts of Dreshdae

---

The night had been full of pain and death. Laeloth had simply sat there, with her Force Sense and Force Empathy stretched out, and basked in it. Her bladed staff, Fate's Cleaver, lay across her lap, the High Priestess' yellowed fingers dancing across it as she and the staff reacted to the disturbances in the Force. At one point someone had stumbled into the small building she and her guards had been staying in, which actually surprised her companions - which irritated her immensely - but her Cleaver had shot from her lap and put a hole in the fools head regardless before returning to her lap. The blood seemingly flowing off the force imbued weapon instead of sticking to it.

From that moment, her guard were on high alert, then next few people that stumbled in seeking shelter from the carnage outside were cut down immediately. Most were people trying to evade the Black Legion, but a few of those soldiers in question. Regardless, they were dispatched all the same. No one was permitted to disturb the High Priestess, and her guards were most apt at dealing with such individuals. They surely would have dealt with the first intruder too - if Laeloth had waited long enough to let them. Meanwhile, Laeloth did not move so much of an inch from her position.

On a world such as Korriban, one so saturated in darkness, death was hardly enough to stain the land. That being said, by outstretching her own presence, Laeloth could feel the fear and anger as people were cut down, she could feel their force signature depart their body and sink into the world around them, joining with the nexus of Korriban. She felt the deaths of countless lesser sith that evening, and several more prominent ones. The High Priest Dagon was one such individual she was able to properly identify, as a religious sect herself, she was more familiar with his than most on this world - barring her own guards.

High Priestess Laeloth simply sat there, immersing herself in the Darkness of the events, the sheath for Fate's Cleaver lay at her side abandoned. The blade itself thrummed with violent intent as it - like it's mistress reacted to the ramifications echoing through the Force.

---

As the dawn broke, Derraphan and Nadia left the building the five had been waiting in, leaving Hanna and Lucinda as guards. They went to gather news, to see if there was anyone taking charge in the wake of the carnage. No clear answer emerged, but Laeloth did raise an eyebrow to hear the entire council was unaccounted for. Typically in a slaughter like this, the victor should at least still be standing afterwards. For them to be so universally absent was.... underwhelming.

Laeloth thought as they are the flesh of the intruders from the night before. Her devaronian teeth tearing into it easily as her free hand caressed the blade of Fate's Cleaver. Cannibalism was hardly a preached about practice of her Enclave, and on the whole it wasn't one. But she and some of the higher ranking members of her clergy - like those with her on Korriban - partook in it if the meat was good. Various manners of death could spoil it after all, the lower classes tended to be to filthy to bother with, and the higher ones too potentially useful to kill without cause. So all things considered, the events of last night had brought about quite the banquet.

After breaking their fast, Hanna and Lucinda disposed of the remains, crushing the picked clean bones into dust with a bit of combined effort before removing even that. Nadia and Derraphan standing guard still as this happened. Laeloth however was performing a different task. Once more the High Priestess was meditating, stretching her Force Sense out across the city feeling for the Force Signatures of those who remained, specifically looking for those who could be said to possess a degree of true power. There were no councillors left, but many sith had come to commemorate the death of Marks Ragnos, and amongst them were several with a portion of strength.

With a deliberate, but gentle touch, Laeloth brushed their force presences with her own. Imparting a rough desire to come and meet with her via her force empathy. No doubt some would ignore it, thinking it was a trap, some would likely be unable to follow the notion back to her - they wouldn't have been suitable anyway, but some... those who may even be classed as contempories of hers in power, they would be able to find her from this. Or at least, so the High Priestess hoped.

After all, she had come to Korriban with gifts for a Dark Lord who has failed to emerge, perhaps they would be better put to use in attaining allies during these troubling times. That being said, the sheath for Fate's Cleaver would remain off for now, and the blade hummed in approval.