Cleansing: A Sith Trials Story
OOC: This story follows the adventures of Dath Cruor, Darth Draconis and Tarle in the time after the original Sith Trials II game and before the Old Sith Trials game. Writing these collaborations with Darth Cruor have always been a pleasure and fun exercise. During this particular story, we would also like to thank Darth Dreadwar for joining the fray, his time and contribution was appreciated.
If you would like to explore more Draconis and Cruor adventures:
https://forums.sithempire.net/index.php?threads/resurrection.84/
https://forums.sithempire.net/index.php?threads/delirium-a-sith-trials-story.256/
Horusut System ~ One of the moons of Korriban
The view of Korriban from one of its seven moons showed many of the endless red features of the ceremonial tomb world of the ancient Sith. Despite its tranquil appearance from the surface of the moon, the world silently radiated dark energy, enveloping one of its nearby moons. Their search had brought them to this moon, like many other places before it. With their arrival came only one thing. Death.
The smells of charred flesh, freshly spilled blood, and burning timbers filled the air. The aroma of battle combined with the cries and moans of those lingering to life so beautifully that it caused Darth Cruor to pause for a short moment and appreciate the horror of his surroundings, it was in these moments that the Gen’Dai was truly alive. Draconis had left the brunt of the cleanse to Lord Cruor, the few trained guards were no match and had fallen in the early moments, leaving the scattering screaming cultists to flee like rats down hallways and into chambers thinking they would somehow escape their fate. Some of them were not even force adepts, their lust for power and the cult’s twisted view of the force enough to employ and harbor them in their midst.
It was true that it was the place of any Sith to rule, dominate, and subjugate those weaker, but this was not the case in this place. This failed endeavor was a place where cast out and failed students, with a twisted and incomplete view of the force and the darkside, attempted to reign as lords over an already near pathetic following, save one. The one they sought.
The promises of power and a grander design, put forth by these fallen Sith was a sad attempt to keep this rabble together and following them, especially when they had neither power or strength to give. Most of the nearby villagers fought for scraps from the cult’s stores of food and supplies. The young women used as slaves, while the men were forced into labor to build this sad excuse for a temple, on what was actually and ironically a darkside source of power. Their inability to fully understand and harness it had created a twisted and perverted labor, which held no power or strength. The little conjuring of skill amounted to just enough to subjugate the nearby village and create a cult following over generations that merely served their own misguided interests and cravings for a power that they would never fully understand nor attain.
Thus a cleansing was in order, a cleansing in the line of many that had preceded it throughout the system and other nearby worlds.
Darth Cruor’s gaze swept over the group of false Sith as he walked toward them, the fear on the cultists faces plain to see. “Kneel.” The Sith Lord commanded, his deep voice filling the courtyard. Of the nearly dozen cultists left, only three fell to their knees, the rest continued to retreat into the courtyard.
Those who obeyed his command were not spared his wrath, one managed to let a yelp escape his lips before his head burst open violently sending gore flying. The two remaining were left to live just long enough for them to know their fate, just as their terror filled eyes met their heads they too suffered the same fate. Darth Cruor stepped over their lifeless bodies as he took command of the center of the courtyard, the remaining cultists kept their distance but were slowly encircling him.
He gave them time, let them feel confident, let them come to him.
Finally after they had found enough courage one of them yelled, at his call they rushed forward simultaneously. Darth Cruor did nothing until they had cleared half the distance, the first that did flew into the air and was ripped in two at the waist. The upper half landing on the ground at the Gen’Dai’s feet, the pitiful creature would live long enough to bear witness to the fate of his fellows.
The rest flew into the air as well, each suffering similar yet completely unique horrors. A fat warrior was folded in two at the waste, the crunch of his spine cut short his screaming. The short one with a stun baton was crushed into the ground as if by a large foot, the floor instantly covered in his gore. A tall Zabrak rushing him from behind burst into a fine mist of blood that covered those who were behind him, their deaths following quickly after. One was twisted into a spiral from head to toe, another watched his entrails burst from his midsection.
One remained, this one a coward, whom never found the courage to charge with the others. He stood now shivering from fear, blood and parts clinging to his skin and clothing. As much as he wanted to flee, his feet would not allow it. Darth Cruor inspected his work for a few moments, seemingly ignoring the terrified man. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the cultist, Cruor turned to him, only a second passed before his larynx was ripped from his throat.
Darth Cruor stood in the center of it all, surrounded by beautiful gore and violent death.
While the Gen’Dai was busy with his play toys, Draconis moved throughout the shambles of a temple, ferreting out the single being they had come here for. A cult member before Draconis, was attempting to crawl away from the scene of destruction. One of his legs was severed at the knee, while other wounds contributed to the trail of blood against the stone courtyard he had left in his wake. Draconis stepped over the suffering and dying being, with a contempt for the false Sith. Allowing the cur of a being to continue suffering, knowing that Cruor would find him eventually. Draconis moved into one of the attached stone corridors leading deeper into the complex drawing closer to what he sought.
Like a bird of prey, Tarle the Apprentice to Draconis, watched over the unfolding scene below. The whole scene was pathetic, how these beings were even able to scratch out an existence was beyond her, she mused as she continued to watch from a perched position high on a nearby and adjacent cliff face. It had been centuries since any known modern settlements held sway over this moon, and it was of no coincidence that this pathetic rabble was stuck here to lawd over itself in their own meager existence. She brushed the thought off and maintained her focus, Tarle’s eyes scanned the courtyard looking beyond the gleeful destruction wrought at Cruor, more affectionately Red to her, hands. With her lightbow in hand, she tracked a cultist moving against Cruor from behind, her reflexes kicking in and prepared to act. It was instinctual, though she really had no need to worry about Cruor handling himself. Red was in a particularly rare form on this day as she watched a cultist get turned to a spray of blood as he tried to attack him from behind. Her gaze returned to scan the whole of the complex and the paths approaching it. She caught her Master disappearing into a corridor at the far end of the courtyard before returning to continue to scan things from her vantage point high above.
Winding around corridors Draconis followed the signature of the one he sought, the darkness of the dimly lit corridors afforded none of them, including him, any protection or masking from his senses. Cursing whispers and bickering were simply noise heard as they truly betrayed their locations through their own silent projected fear. Draconis found several priests and priestesses trying to hide among a few cultists and slaves in a vain attempt to shield themselves within the hive of ceremonial chambers and personal quarters. The idea that drawing back to this area would grant them a viable place to avoid or mount resistance to their already cast fate was amusing to Draconis.
The main chamber, with a few adjacent rooms lit by torches and fires were adorned with jewels and polished stones, it was a stark contrast to the whole of the temple which was a shell and lacking any such splendid adornments. The ruling cast here drawing everything selfishly unto themselves. Ironically their accumulation was actually meager at best, another parallel to the failed state of this enclave which vied to be more than it really was. Despite such, it was a clear indication that the highest and most pompous among them hoarded all that was of significant value. Hiding it away from the whole of the cult, attempting to live in a higher luxury while all others suffered.
A single guard, two priests, and the head priest remaining, surrounded by a half a dozen cultists. ‘We cannot allow these false Sith to destroy our great order!” One of the priests exclaimed, in a fanatical manner, referring to Draconis and his confidant out in the courtyard. His voice condemning and pompous as if owning the cultists and their lives, their existence merely to feed their pursuits and sacrifices. “Kill the false ones!”
The priest’s voice became more shrill and fearful as he stumbled backwards into the chambers further while pulling one of the cultists between him and Draconis. The high priest in the background of it all was the only composed one, Draconis could feel that he alone was the singular signature of any worth in the whole of the enclave, marked as the one he sought.
“KILL THEM”
With the shrill words of the priest, suddenly one of the cultists was flung forward, partly pushed physically and propelled slightly in the force towards Draconis. The soul was unfortunately caught and wretched into Draconis outstretched arm to his side, the man struggling and clawing at Draconis grip to no avail as he was held up as Draconis walked forward, the life within him fading as his body began to dry up before the eyes of the other cultists as his life essence was sucked dry. Dropping the man, now a dead husk, Draconis continued pacing forward. Three of the cultist slaves, scrambled and ran for their lives passing Draconis whom paid little attention to them fleeing and being no threat. Though they ran back to a far worse fate of Cruor still in the courtyard.
The one guard pressing forward with a pike, looking to skewer Draconis, was horribly outmatched and spurred by crippling fear. Draconis avoided the attack altogether, swatting the pike tip away with his gauntlet-covered forearm, while disarming the guard in a deft quick move as the guard's grip on the pike was broken. The back end of the pike, now controlled by Draconis, swung around and smacked the guard in the back of the head, cracking the back of his skull wide open and sending him forward to the floor dead upon impact. Draconis gripped the pike as he stood, sensing one of the priests moving upon him, seemingly seeking to take advantage of what he thought was a distracted opponent. The priest brandished a vibro-blade from his robes and raised it to stab Draconis. The pike in Draconis’ hands whipped around with a flash and caught the priest on its end, the point driving through his chest and through the other side. Blood spraying from his back as the pike protruded out of it, stopping him in his tracks. The priest’s arm began to falter as his whole body went limp, dead. The dagger in the priest's hand fell from his grip and almost ceremoniously into Draconis’ hand as the priest died, silently passing the dagger to Draconis as if planned. Draconis nonchalantly gripped the falling weapon before raising it and throwing it forward with a furious velocity. The dagger caught one of the cult members in the head as she was pulled in front of the remaining priest whom had used her as a shield at the last moment, desperately trying to move past Draconis and escape. The woman fell dead, blood trickling from the dagger embedded in her forehead, the priest exposed with no further shields to call upon tripped, falling to his back as he stumbled, barely making it to his feet again as Draconis’ hand was placed upon his head. As if to ceremoniously “bless” him. The priest screamed in horror as his eyes burst into flames, and a searing heat began to consume him, his body itself catching fire as he stumbled forward a few steps trying to run, but only managed to fall after a few steps, fully aflame and burning alive.
Draconis’ menacing pace never broke stride as he continued to advance. The remaining few cultist slaves had managed to flee, for no other reason than them not being targeted. Which now left the High Priest alone, a former priest of Korriban and the only being here with any worth and the one with knowledge that they sought stood definitely in his glorious chamber or power, though now surrounded only by the carnage of his dead subjects while Draconis paced towards him with malicious vile intent.
The High Priest raised his chin, wearing haughtiness like the ostentatious robe that flowed from his shoulders. He eschewed asceticism; so far as he was concerned, if his followers were good enough to donate to him, it was his duty to repay their generosity by dazzling them with the finest silks and the most precious baubles. He would not let this unholy cur take it all away. "I am Bzuaszax," he said, as if his name alone were a worthy boast.
He did not wilt before Draconis' approach. His followers knew little of the dark side, but Bzuaszax was born in it, molded by it. Draconis would not find him so easy a foe. "Halt, Draconis," he said, raising his hand to forestall assault. "Yes, I know your name. I was born to the New Sith Order, although long after you. You were taught to me as a ghost story, a Sith who had been exiled to the wilds below, who would return one day to purge the impure." Bzuaszax tilted his hand, showcasing the glittering gemstone that adorned the back of his satin glove. The amulet radiated dark side power; it was a warning, as much as it was a claim to authenticity - to purity.
"I fled Korriban out of fear of Darth Krayt," Bzuaszax continued, referring, of course, to the Sith Lord who had assumed control of one third of the New Sith Order after Draconis' exile, after Vassago's fall from power. "While the Acolytes and Dominion of Darkness scattered to the stars, I alone recognized the folly of Darth Nemisis, of Darth Marvelous, and of those who taught them! I led my followers here, to this moon where ancient Jedi once attempted to purify Korriban's dark energy, and ever since we have meditated on the truth. That the Sith should not be led by a single leader, who imagines he holds the Force in his grasp, but by the dark side itself. We bend the knee to no one. We kneel only in prayer, in subservience to the will of the Force."
Bzuaszax smiled. It looked more sinister than beatific. "Come join us, Draconis," he said. "Break the chains of Sith dogma and join us on the dark side of the moon. Put aside the Sith Code, and accept the wisdom of your High Priest, who will lead the Sith to salvation."
Meanwhile, in a corridor near the central courtyard, three panicked cultists which had previously fled the shadow of Draconis raced to their doom. The first one, gasping for breath yet still racing at a breakneck speed, entered the courtyard and made it no more than a few feet before slipping on a bloodied stone. He landed flat on his back but immediately tried to scramble to his feet again, the terror of what he had seen earlier still fresh in his mind. Try as he might, he could not find his footing, the ground was greasy with blood and flesh.
The second slave rushed in only a few seconds behind the first, she had a clear view of her companion falling and deftly avoided the same fate by leaping over him, her feet never landed felt ground again. A short gasp was all that escaped before she was caught in Darth Cruor’s powerful grasp, he held her aloft with ease as kicked and struggled against him, her face quickly turning darker shades of red and her eyes widening in realization of impending death..
Vyld was shorter, and fatter, than his companions. They never passed on a moment to tease him about it, he hated them for it. Even more so now, he knew he was the slowest of the three. Death would catch him first. That knowledge did nothing to ease the sharp pain in the side of his chest, nor did it force his stout legs to move him faster. He would have cursed audibly if he could, but he wasn’t about to waste a good breath on them now. As he rounded the corner of the hallway into the courtyard the sight of what he saw made him stop in his tracks, fear freezing him in place. Darth Cruor roared as he threw a now lifeless woman at the fat, little, man. She struck him with such force that it caused them to both slam against the nearby wall, cracking a few bricks in the process, the fat man was no more.
The massive Sith looked down at the last of the wretched creatures, now covered in blood and having completely abandoned hope of escape. It’s pitiful sobs and pleas for mercy were not unheard, no, Cruor not only heard them but he savored them. Only for a moment however before Cruor’s massive foot came down upon the being’s head, it’s head crushed against the ground, brain matter and bone became nothing more than one large smear.
The words of the high priest are still fresh in Draconis' memory, with his proposition and call for the greater power that he had supposedly found. The whole of the high priests self-realized lesson in history and new found salvation that he wished to share with Draconis, cast aside by Draconis amusingly.
“Join us… join us..” Draconis mockinly spoke as he stopped dragging the priest's body. Releasing his hold on the priest’s leg and laying him at the foot of the false idol.
“Won’t-you-join-us-dear-priest!” Draconis chimed in an almost sing-song evil incarnation, his words dripped with playful mockery of the high priest’s championship-like speech about the follies of the Sith. It was clear the high priest was a bit delirious, rightly so the loss of blood was significant. Though not enough to put him in any mortal danger thus far as he began to come to and become more aware of what was happening and where he now was.
And within moments of the high priest becoming fully aware, Draconis whipped around to stare at him, crouched and eerily close to his level. The priest’s eyes snapping open, having heard the mocking words from Draconis moments before, as well as having felt the pain of being dragged out of the temple to the base of the sacred idol. Thinking it perhaps a delusion or dream, but suddenly realizing that such was not so.
Shockingly finding that his fine vestments were covered in the blood and guts of his disciples and slaves that he had been dragged through in the courtyard. Scrambling back slightly onto one of the idol's steps, his back pressed against the foot of the several meters tall idol and obelisk which shadowed over him. He had last only remembered speaking to the being in front of him within his chambers, trying to draw him in with his silver tongued speech and promises of new found power, so vainly unaware and blind to the evil that had descended upon this place in the form of Cruor and Draconis.
“Hello again.” Draconis stared at him, a blank and hollow look on his face as if Draconis in some overly dramatized manner was surprised to see the priest too, while over emphasizing the pronunciation of the greeting. The entirety of the situation being all the more a sadistic ruse than anything else.
The high priest stuttered and managed to begin to get out a phrase. “You desecrate this temp…”
The high priest was cut off quickly, his vocal capacity severed as his throat closed. Draconis remained still while staring at the being, invisibly zipping the man's mouth shut through the force while making his throat incredibly uncomfortable. ‘Not your turn.’ Draconis spoke in a stern and almost scolding tone, alluding to the high priest seemingly having spoken out of turn in this whole dynamic eventually releasing the priest from his figurative hand over mouth grip.
Breaking through the man’s mental shield within his so-called “sanctum” had been like a gundark ripping the arms off a drunk rodian. The veil the priest had tried to throw up unprepared for the speed and force in which Draconis exerted his will over the man in a mere instant. The priest's mind had been scrambling ever since, bouncing back and forth in vain attempts to mask his thoughts to which Draconis easily now delved into. The priest has marketable skill in the force, but he was nothing more than an adept barely rising to the level of a well trained apprentice. The amulet he coveted, and rightly so, clearly had been the only reason why he had been able to rise to the level of his station within the caste of priests and subsequently climb to the top of this coven of his.
Behind Draconis, Cruor was moving about back and forth throughout the courtyard gathering and pulling at the structure itself in a destructive rage as Draconis continued to speak. Draconis seemingly content and paying no real bother with whatever it was the Gen’Dai was currently doing.
“Tell me about this folly, dear priest.” Draconis’ tone became one of stern seriousness, as he eerily transitioned away from the previous playful intonations that he had verbally danced around, using the priest's own description about Draconis past to further mock him as if High Priest Bzuaszax’s enlightened view of Draconis’ exit from the late great orders of the Sith held truth. Draconis was curious to see where such thoughts went and learn more about what exactly it was the priest knew and what he thought he knew…
“Tell me about the others, those who share your view.” There had been no mention of others by the high priest, but Cruor, Tarle, and Draconis would not be here if they did not know otherwise. Draconis’ head cocked slightly. This had not been their first stop in their cleansing and it would not be the last.
Draconis shuffled a bit on the balls of his feet as he remained crouched, staring at the high priest whose eyes had wandered a bit beyond Draconis to follow Cruor’s brooding throughout the courtyard. Behind Draconis, screams of terror could be heard. The sight of mangled bodies being flung about in the air. Blood spraying, screams rising and being muffled out through what was an act of mere sport to the Gen’Dai. The occasional roar of triumph from Red as he drew upon the savagery of slaughter with a gleeful bliss that fed his lust for carnage.
“See, you are not even paying attention now.” Draconis’ eyes caught the priest’s attention wandering, Draconis allowed a moment for the fearful sight of Cruor’s handiwork to sink into the priest's mind. Fear poured into the priest’s mind, then a searing jolt of pain coursed through the priest's body, initiated by the rag-covered Sith Draconis holding his invisible leash. The jolt of pain snapping him back into focusing on Draconis.
“You see the others said the same thing…” Draconis spoke alluding to others. The others being the countless others like the priest, they had already visited. Descending upon them in the same manner of malicious and wanton slaughter. The priest’s silence was a poor attempt to adamantly hold to his view that he alone had brought salvation to all the corpses and or rather now at least pieces of corpses surrounding him at present in the courtyard.
“...that… they alone…” Draconis began to speak, recycling the priest’s own words to prompt and lead his mind.
“How did you put it?”
“Break away from the Sith dogma…”
“Was that it?” Draconis playfully inquired in a mocking tone.
Draconis leaned in a bit more, wondering when High Priest Bzuaszax was going to let go of his charade. There were more of them, many more priests like himself. The same ones who had interred Cruor and tried to destroy his body. The same priest that watched as Draconis had been cast out and broken. As the Sith order crumbled in the wake of the ominous invasion of their sacred world. These priests had abandoned the order, clinging to false teachings while scattering like beetles. Only to return as triumphant victors to sift through the ashes of a broken order only after all threats to them had vanished. Draconis did not admonish them for such tactics, they had been effective. However the limits of the teachings and falsities in the name of truth had led far too many astray through their bastardized dogma. They had hoped to not only erase the history of the orders of the past, but also the history of the Sith and claim themselves as the new bearers of salvation. Draconis knew this because High Priest Bzuaszax, was not the first they had encountered and would not be the last.
“You see when my friend gets back here,” Draconis glanced over his shoulder slightly alluding to Cruor currently brooding. “I will not be able to stop him… from doing… well whatever it is he is planning on doing to you lets say.”
A pool of blood was forming where the priest sat. Whether or not the priest had realized it, partially due to himself being in shock, he was missing one of his hands. The same hand, now sheared off slightly below his elbow, that has been adorned with his glittering gemstone set upon a meagerly fashioned metal and satin gauntlet like glove.
Tarle had displaced from her vantage point, quickly securing her light bow. Compressing it down into its stored state as she attached it to her back harness. She had made her way down into the compound and then into the temple, silently moving throughout the carnage as if it was not there until she arrived in the inner sanctum of the temple where the priest had made his failed stand. There had been no need for the use of her expert skills in tracking. Tarle has simply followed the trail of blood from the priest. The inner sanctum was painted in death, bodies strewn about, the screams and echoes of pure malice echoing in the wake of her Master’s hands. She paused to look about carefully, reaching out with the force until she located one of the items she had meant to retrieve. It’s singular retrieval not being her sole purpose for examining about the sanctum.
Her eyes moved from one object to the next, cataloging them, analyzing them with both her eyes and through the force, weighing their potential until she came upon a small and inconspicuous tattered book wrapped in fine cloth sitting on a side table and removed from the small altar that was adorned in fine treasures. The vanity of it all elicited a slight chuckle under her breath. The priest coveted finery. Vanity was his sin, as he lauded his followers to give up their items in a pursuit of power and false piety to feed his own greed. No doubt the cycle kept the priest constantly on guard for betrayal, forcing him to keep his inner circle only as close as necessary to maintain his control while subjugating the others through his spewing of a sacrificial and communal message. It was a message he merely spouted to maintain his own power over them, there was no meaning or truth behind it. He simply mouthed the empty words. Behind closed doors he resented them all, he held no belief in the words he said, he simply actively fed his “followers” falsehoods to keep his own power safe.
Tarle took her time moving about the room, her fingers gently passing over objects such as the book that had drawn her attention, before collecting it, and moving onto other items. Pausing at ones which raised her senses and offering them more reflection. Images coursed through her mind as she reached out with her senses upon such objects with her psychometry, processing what she drew from them and delving deeper as warranted.
It was not here… informative as her tour around the room had been, with tidbits of information gleaned, what they sought was not in this place.
Draconis looked up slightly to see Tarle emerge from the temple with a severed hand, the same one Draconis relieved the priest of inside the temple, in her grasp.
Tarle’s stern yet calm expression showed Draconis that what they sought was not here. Confirming what he already had suspected to be true, nonetheless another one could be crossed off the list. With slight disappointment Draconis eyed the severed hand which Tarle kept ready to offer to her Master. Draconis waved his hand slightly as the gauntlet was gently released from Tarle’s grasp as it passed through the force from one to the other, showing the instinctual connection between Master and Apprentice. The gauntlet-like silk and metal covered hand hovering in the air in front of the priest before coming into Draconis’ hand. A smattering of slowly trickling blood, that which was left in the body part, dripped onto Draconis’ own hand with him acting indifferent at both the sensation and sight.
The priest, as if suddenly brought out of a sensation of shock upon making the connection of seeing his own hand in front of him, reached over to his arm. Finally seeing the bloody stump where his hand had been, slightly dumbfounded as the shock wore off.
“Looking for this?” Draconis held up his severed hand with the guantletted jewel on it. Draconis waved at the high priest Bzuaszax with his own severed hand, as if holding and using it as a prop.
“You don’t know what this is?” Draconis inquired rhetorically about the jewel in the silk gauntlet, knowing that the priest had no idea. “How did you even stumble upon it?” Draconis mocked, inferring that the high priest in no way genuinely has acquired the ancient artifact. “Your meager understanding of alchemy seems to be the only useful thing about you.”
Bzuaszax stammered indiscernibly for a moment before he was able to form his words into a slightly coherent statement. “It… from.. Onderon.. Nadd…” The priest continued to struggle, unable to finish as only a jumbled mix of words came out as fear crept back into his mind. At least he knew where it was from, though its true significance and potential eluded the priest.
Draconis reached forward with the severed hand. “shhh shhh it’s ok…” Draconis calmly spoke, using the severed hand to caress the priest’s own cheek as if to console him, leaving faint trickles of his own blood on the priest cheek where his own lifeless fingers had trailed off.
“At least you know where it is from…” Draconis spoke as if mockingly trying to cheer the man up.
The gauntlet still adorned with the priest's severed hand is raised up through the force. Draconis invisibly passing it back to Tarle, who takes it under her command once more in the same manner in which it had been passed from Apprentice to Master, but now Master to Apprentice.
The gauntlet stops midair before shattering into dozens of smaller pieces. The bindings upon which the glittering gemstone was held shattered through the force by Tarle. The sever hand lifelessly falling to the ground with a dull thumb. Discarded as trash.
The pieces of the gauntlet are held suspended midair through the force by her as she with the gemstone drawn out of the mangled maelstrom of the gauntlet to her fingers where is hovered slightly above the palm of her hand, invisibly dangling at the tips of her fingers while the shattered pieces of the worthless gauntlet all simultaneously crashed to the ground. The faint sounds of metal clanking against cobblestone for a second.
“You don’t really even know how to use it, do you?” Draconis continued to mock.
“Would you like us to show you?” Draconis offered a chiding gulp that turned into a near gleeful grin of anticipation.
A sinister grin formed on Draconis' face. “Apprentice.” Draconis calmly spoke, implying for her to take the lead and inferring for her to demonstrate.
Tarle looked down upon the distraught priest, his once clean robes now covered in grime and blood. As she begins speaking in Sith. The words out of her mouth are unnatural, but the expression on the priest’s face shows he is clearly is familiar with it, recognizing it as the language of the ancients. She continues, being precise in her words through the use of chant. The gemstone hovering above the head of the priest now, begins to glow faintly, clearly responding to the chant from Tarle and dark energy she is now feeding it. Her mental will and the focus shifts from the gemstone to that of the priest, bearing down on him through the channeling gemstone. Suddenly the priest is jolted with pain, piercing his mind which travels down his spine in a torturific manner. The priest screams and collapses in on himself balling up as pain courses through him. Satisfied Tarle draws back, pausing for several seconds to allow the man to regain a semblance of reality and for the pain to subside. Sinisterly though Tarle is only allowing the man to level off in anticipation of what she knows is next as the initial act was but a taste of the gems uses. There are very few powers as sinister as draining someone's life force away. Instead of continuing to inflict pain on the feeble man, Tarle now draws upon him through the gemstone feeding on him in vampire-like siphoning of his life. The sensation is not instant, but more gradual. However the effect quickly builds from that of the feeling of being smothered to one of sheer helplessness in that the sensation of choking is felt across the entire body. The very connection to the world and sensations of the priest are pulled away, leaving him feeling as if he is in the center of a hollow void. The final drawing and leeching away of any sensation now flows from him, like a thread unraveling, leaving bare only emptiness and detachment from the force and life itself. The pain is not physical in any way, it is precisely that of pure dread and hopelessness of life slipping away. Though the priest has screams to put forth, he cannot scream. Though the priest wants to convulse in pain, he cannot move. He is simply imprisoned in a suspended state between life and a dark emptiness worse than death.
Tarle can feel the surge of life from the priest course through her body. The gemstone amplifying the effects of her own skill as she extracts the lifeforce from the priest. Tarle stops however, knowing it was implied that she was only to proceed as far as necessary. The gemstone still hovering under her control now showed a bright radiant glow after having drawn upon the essence of the priest. The gemstone residually capturing its own equal portion of the priest's essence and spirit while Tarle took her portion. Her eyes glowed in a fiery hue, emblazoned from the darkside channeling through her through the cold blooded yet exhilarating act.
Draconis’ eyes, who had been studying his Apprentice in an act of silent and meticulous tutoring through the observation of her emotions and technique which would be used as areas of improvement in a future lesson, moved back to focus on the priest who had been released from Tarle’s sinister hold.
The priest burst back into reality, as if having breached the surface of the water after having been held under and brought within inches of drowning. A cascading avalanche of sensations flooding back into him and all of them overwhelming his senses. He burst out with a single word as if knowing exactly what Draconis and Tarle wanted him to say.
“Ur”
Draconis instantly connects the ancient city of Korriban, drawing upon what he knew about it. Though its known location was not as clear to him. Draconis and Tarle’s eyes connect, registering it equally.
Tarle looked over towards the direction of Red, her gaze following the Gen’Dai still in full carnage mode but running out of beings to exact his bloodlust upon. With his dwindling supply of priests and priestesses Cruor seems to be having to find more entertaining ways of eviscerating them to keep his own attention. The sound of chains being dragged across stone is clearly audible as Tarle sees another priest suspended and held through the force against the ceremonial obelisk, used as an idol, near them. With a whip-like motion Cruor raises the heavy chain and flings it up around the obelisk, wrapping the unfortunate conscious but clearly battered man in several loops of the binding chain. The invisible grip on the man is released and he suddenly goes slack, however the newly wrapped chains hold him in place in an almost crucifixion-like manner up on the obelisk above the priest. With a crushing force the bones in the man’s body simply splinter, crushed into pieces as he is snuffed out in an excruciating final moment, the body going completely limp.
The screams of another fill the air, as Cruor is seen physically lifting a priestess into the air who had been crawling to get away, Red having marched up behind her to pluck her into the air. The woman’s shrill screams are cut off instantly with a dull thudding impact and spray of blood as he impales the woman upon the obelisk. A gruff sound of annoyance mixed with satisfying bloodlust emanating t from him as he stares at the man and woman’s lifeless bodies as if he now satisfied in thinking that both the now dead priest and priestess were now arranged in the proper order, showing them and everyone else what they truly were, weak and nothing more that some sort of art for Cruor to play with, like a child finger painting with entrails and bodily organs.
The high priest Bzuaszax, as if in some surge of defiance, regains a semblance of dignity. The prideful boasting that the conversation had started with rising once again. Though the priest is still delusional about his understanding of the darkside and the orders of the past. Bursting forth with a scathing remark about what he saw as the falsities of the Sith, nearly repeating his earlier sentiments. “Krayt was a fool, so was Vassago…. The Sith must be reborn and cleansed of these things…”
Draconis slapped the priest across the face with his own severed hand. “You said that already…”
Without warning, the hulking frame of Cruor casts a shadow upon Draconis and Tarle as he reaches over, plucking the high priest away the foot of the idol and obelisk and figuratively away from them both Draconis and Tarle. Grabbing the man by his head with the open palm of one of his massive hands while the other hand firmly holds the man around the waist. The resulting pulling motion pulls the priest's head from his body, tearing out his spine along with it as if drawing a sword out of a sheath. The splattering of blood upon both Draconis and Tarle’s already blood soaked visage the final act as the last living member of the false coven is torn apart. Without a thought Cruor tosses the limp body and the head and spinal column in opposite directions, discarding them both. A look of absolute terror frozen on the priest’s lifeless face as it is flung out of view.
“I wasn’t done with it…” Draconis stands up straight after directing his disappointingly scathing words at Cruor, as if responding to a toy having been taken away from him.
“I was.” Cruor replies, ending the debate.
The smoldering sight of smoke rising in the distance and the sound of birds of prey gathering in anticipation of feast are seen in the distance as the trio of Sith march back up the pathway they had come from. The silent bloodsoaked ground of the enclave reeks of death and carnage, the false coven having been completely and brutally snuffed out of existence. It was time to move onto the next destination, of which was yet to be decided. The information acquired, like so many visits of the same sort being a piece of the larger puzzle that was being revealed.
OOC: This story follows the adventures of Dath Cruor, Darth Draconis and Tarle in the time after the original Sith Trials II game and before the Old Sith Trials game. Writing these collaborations with Darth Cruor have always been a pleasure and fun exercise. During this particular story, we would also like to thank Darth Dreadwar for joining the fray, his time and contribution was appreciated.
If you would like to explore more Draconis and Cruor adventures:
https://forums.sithempire.net/index.php?threads/resurrection.84/
https://forums.sithempire.net/index.php?threads/delirium-a-sith-trials-story.256/
Horusut System ~ One of the moons of Korriban
The view of Korriban from one of its seven moons showed many of the endless red features of the ceremonial tomb world of the ancient Sith. Despite its tranquil appearance from the surface of the moon, the world silently radiated dark energy, enveloping one of its nearby moons. Their search had brought them to this moon, like many other places before it. With their arrival came only one thing. Death.
The smells of charred flesh, freshly spilled blood, and burning timbers filled the air. The aroma of battle combined with the cries and moans of those lingering to life so beautifully that it caused Darth Cruor to pause for a short moment and appreciate the horror of his surroundings, it was in these moments that the Gen’Dai was truly alive. Draconis had left the brunt of the cleanse to Lord Cruor, the few trained guards were no match and had fallen in the early moments, leaving the scattering screaming cultists to flee like rats down hallways and into chambers thinking they would somehow escape their fate. Some of them were not even force adepts, their lust for power and the cult’s twisted view of the force enough to employ and harbor them in their midst.
It was true that it was the place of any Sith to rule, dominate, and subjugate those weaker, but this was not the case in this place. This failed endeavor was a place where cast out and failed students, with a twisted and incomplete view of the force and the darkside, attempted to reign as lords over an already near pathetic following, save one. The one they sought.
The promises of power and a grander design, put forth by these fallen Sith was a sad attempt to keep this rabble together and following them, especially when they had neither power or strength to give. Most of the nearby villagers fought for scraps from the cult’s stores of food and supplies. The young women used as slaves, while the men were forced into labor to build this sad excuse for a temple, on what was actually and ironically a darkside source of power. Their inability to fully understand and harness it had created a twisted and perverted labor, which held no power or strength. The little conjuring of skill amounted to just enough to subjugate the nearby village and create a cult following over generations that merely served their own misguided interests and cravings for a power that they would never fully understand nor attain.
Thus a cleansing was in order, a cleansing in the line of many that had preceded it throughout the system and other nearby worlds.
Darth Cruor’s gaze swept over the group of false Sith as he walked toward them, the fear on the cultists faces plain to see. “Kneel.” The Sith Lord commanded, his deep voice filling the courtyard. Of the nearly dozen cultists left, only three fell to their knees, the rest continued to retreat into the courtyard.
Those who obeyed his command were not spared his wrath, one managed to let a yelp escape his lips before his head burst open violently sending gore flying. The two remaining were left to live just long enough for them to know their fate, just as their terror filled eyes met their heads they too suffered the same fate. Darth Cruor stepped over their lifeless bodies as he took command of the center of the courtyard, the remaining cultists kept their distance but were slowly encircling him.
He gave them time, let them feel confident, let them come to him.
Finally after they had found enough courage one of them yelled, at his call they rushed forward simultaneously. Darth Cruor did nothing until they had cleared half the distance, the first that did flew into the air and was ripped in two at the waist. The upper half landing on the ground at the Gen’Dai’s feet, the pitiful creature would live long enough to bear witness to the fate of his fellows.
The rest flew into the air as well, each suffering similar yet completely unique horrors. A fat warrior was folded in two at the waste, the crunch of his spine cut short his screaming. The short one with a stun baton was crushed into the ground as if by a large foot, the floor instantly covered in his gore. A tall Zabrak rushing him from behind burst into a fine mist of blood that covered those who were behind him, their deaths following quickly after. One was twisted into a spiral from head to toe, another watched his entrails burst from his midsection.
One remained, this one a coward, whom never found the courage to charge with the others. He stood now shivering from fear, blood and parts clinging to his skin and clothing. As much as he wanted to flee, his feet would not allow it. Darth Cruor inspected his work for a few moments, seemingly ignoring the terrified man. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the cultist, Cruor turned to him, only a second passed before his larynx was ripped from his throat.
Darth Cruor stood in the center of it all, surrounded by beautiful gore and violent death.
While the Gen’Dai was busy with his play toys, Draconis moved throughout the shambles of a temple, ferreting out the single being they had come here for. A cult member before Draconis, was attempting to crawl away from the scene of destruction. One of his legs was severed at the knee, while other wounds contributed to the trail of blood against the stone courtyard he had left in his wake. Draconis stepped over the suffering and dying being, with a contempt for the false Sith. Allowing the cur of a being to continue suffering, knowing that Cruor would find him eventually. Draconis moved into one of the attached stone corridors leading deeper into the complex drawing closer to what he sought.
Like a bird of prey, Tarle the Apprentice to Draconis, watched over the unfolding scene below. The whole scene was pathetic, how these beings were even able to scratch out an existence was beyond her, she mused as she continued to watch from a perched position high on a nearby and adjacent cliff face. It had been centuries since any known modern settlements held sway over this moon, and it was of no coincidence that this pathetic rabble was stuck here to lawd over itself in their own meager existence. She brushed the thought off and maintained her focus, Tarle’s eyes scanned the courtyard looking beyond the gleeful destruction wrought at Cruor, more affectionately Red to her, hands. With her lightbow in hand, she tracked a cultist moving against Cruor from behind, her reflexes kicking in and prepared to act. It was instinctual, though she really had no need to worry about Cruor handling himself. Red was in a particularly rare form on this day as she watched a cultist get turned to a spray of blood as he tried to attack him from behind. Her gaze returned to scan the whole of the complex and the paths approaching it. She caught her Master disappearing into a corridor at the far end of the courtyard before returning to continue to scan things from her vantage point high above.
Winding around corridors Draconis followed the signature of the one he sought, the darkness of the dimly lit corridors afforded none of them, including him, any protection or masking from his senses. Cursing whispers and bickering were simply noise heard as they truly betrayed their locations through their own silent projected fear. Draconis found several priests and priestesses trying to hide among a few cultists and slaves in a vain attempt to shield themselves within the hive of ceremonial chambers and personal quarters. The idea that drawing back to this area would grant them a viable place to avoid or mount resistance to their already cast fate was amusing to Draconis.
The main chamber, with a few adjacent rooms lit by torches and fires were adorned with jewels and polished stones, it was a stark contrast to the whole of the temple which was a shell and lacking any such splendid adornments. The ruling cast here drawing everything selfishly unto themselves. Ironically their accumulation was actually meager at best, another parallel to the failed state of this enclave which vied to be more than it really was. Despite such, it was a clear indication that the highest and most pompous among them hoarded all that was of significant value. Hiding it away from the whole of the cult, attempting to live in a higher luxury while all others suffered.
A single guard, two priests, and the head priest remaining, surrounded by a half a dozen cultists. ‘We cannot allow these false Sith to destroy our great order!” One of the priests exclaimed, in a fanatical manner, referring to Draconis and his confidant out in the courtyard. His voice condemning and pompous as if owning the cultists and their lives, their existence merely to feed their pursuits and sacrifices. “Kill the false ones!”
The priest’s voice became more shrill and fearful as he stumbled backwards into the chambers further while pulling one of the cultists between him and Draconis. The high priest in the background of it all was the only composed one, Draconis could feel that he alone was the singular signature of any worth in the whole of the enclave, marked as the one he sought.
“KILL THEM”
With the shrill words of the priest, suddenly one of the cultists was flung forward, partly pushed physically and propelled slightly in the force towards Draconis. The soul was unfortunately caught and wretched into Draconis outstretched arm to his side, the man struggling and clawing at Draconis grip to no avail as he was held up as Draconis walked forward, the life within him fading as his body began to dry up before the eyes of the other cultists as his life essence was sucked dry. Dropping the man, now a dead husk, Draconis continued pacing forward. Three of the cultist slaves, scrambled and ran for their lives passing Draconis whom paid little attention to them fleeing and being no threat. Though they ran back to a far worse fate of Cruor still in the courtyard.
The one guard pressing forward with a pike, looking to skewer Draconis, was horribly outmatched and spurred by crippling fear. Draconis avoided the attack altogether, swatting the pike tip away with his gauntlet-covered forearm, while disarming the guard in a deft quick move as the guard's grip on the pike was broken. The back end of the pike, now controlled by Draconis, swung around and smacked the guard in the back of the head, cracking the back of his skull wide open and sending him forward to the floor dead upon impact. Draconis gripped the pike as he stood, sensing one of the priests moving upon him, seemingly seeking to take advantage of what he thought was a distracted opponent. The priest brandished a vibro-blade from his robes and raised it to stab Draconis. The pike in Draconis’ hands whipped around with a flash and caught the priest on its end, the point driving through his chest and through the other side. Blood spraying from his back as the pike protruded out of it, stopping him in his tracks. The priest’s arm began to falter as his whole body went limp, dead. The dagger in the priest's hand fell from his grip and almost ceremoniously into Draconis’ hand as the priest died, silently passing the dagger to Draconis as if planned. Draconis nonchalantly gripped the falling weapon before raising it and throwing it forward with a furious velocity. The dagger caught one of the cult members in the head as she was pulled in front of the remaining priest whom had used her as a shield at the last moment, desperately trying to move past Draconis and escape. The woman fell dead, blood trickling from the dagger embedded in her forehead, the priest exposed with no further shields to call upon tripped, falling to his back as he stumbled, barely making it to his feet again as Draconis’ hand was placed upon his head. As if to ceremoniously “bless” him. The priest screamed in horror as his eyes burst into flames, and a searing heat began to consume him, his body itself catching fire as he stumbled forward a few steps trying to run, but only managed to fall after a few steps, fully aflame and burning alive.
Draconis’ menacing pace never broke stride as he continued to advance. The remaining few cultist slaves had managed to flee, for no other reason than them not being targeted. Which now left the High Priest alone, a former priest of Korriban and the only being here with any worth and the one with knowledge that they sought stood definitely in his glorious chamber or power, though now surrounded only by the carnage of his dead subjects while Draconis paced towards him with malicious vile intent.
The High Priest raised his chin, wearing haughtiness like the ostentatious robe that flowed from his shoulders. He eschewed asceticism; so far as he was concerned, if his followers were good enough to donate to him, it was his duty to repay their generosity by dazzling them with the finest silks and the most precious baubles. He would not let this unholy cur take it all away. "I am Bzuaszax," he said, as if his name alone were a worthy boast.
He did not wilt before Draconis' approach. His followers knew little of the dark side, but Bzuaszax was born in it, molded by it. Draconis would not find him so easy a foe. "Halt, Draconis," he said, raising his hand to forestall assault. "Yes, I know your name. I was born to the New Sith Order, although long after you. You were taught to me as a ghost story, a Sith who had been exiled to the wilds below, who would return one day to purge the impure." Bzuaszax tilted his hand, showcasing the glittering gemstone that adorned the back of his satin glove. The amulet radiated dark side power; it was a warning, as much as it was a claim to authenticity - to purity.
"I fled Korriban out of fear of Darth Krayt," Bzuaszax continued, referring, of course, to the Sith Lord who had assumed control of one third of the New Sith Order after Draconis' exile, after Vassago's fall from power. "While the Acolytes and Dominion of Darkness scattered to the stars, I alone recognized the folly of Darth Nemisis, of Darth Marvelous, and of those who taught them! I led my followers here, to this moon where ancient Jedi once attempted to purify Korriban's dark energy, and ever since we have meditated on the truth. That the Sith should not be led by a single leader, who imagines he holds the Force in his grasp, but by the dark side itself. We bend the knee to no one. We kneel only in prayer, in subservience to the will of the Force."
Bzuaszax smiled. It looked more sinister than beatific. "Come join us, Draconis," he said. "Break the chains of Sith dogma and join us on the dark side of the moon. Put aside the Sith Code, and accept the wisdom of your High Priest, who will lead the Sith to salvation."
Meanwhile, in a corridor near the central courtyard, three panicked cultists which had previously fled the shadow of Draconis raced to their doom. The first one, gasping for breath yet still racing at a breakneck speed, entered the courtyard and made it no more than a few feet before slipping on a bloodied stone. He landed flat on his back but immediately tried to scramble to his feet again, the terror of what he had seen earlier still fresh in his mind. Try as he might, he could not find his footing, the ground was greasy with blood and flesh.
The second slave rushed in only a few seconds behind the first, she had a clear view of her companion falling and deftly avoided the same fate by leaping over him, her feet never landed felt ground again. A short gasp was all that escaped before she was caught in Darth Cruor’s powerful grasp, he held her aloft with ease as kicked and struggled against him, her face quickly turning darker shades of red and her eyes widening in realization of impending death..
Vyld was shorter, and fatter, than his companions. They never passed on a moment to tease him about it, he hated them for it. Even more so now, he knew he was the slowest of the three. Death would catch him first. That knowledge did nothing to ease the sharp pain in the side of his chest, nor did it force his stout legs to move him faster. He would have cursed audibly if he could, but he wasn’t about to waste a good breath on them now. As he rounded the corner of the hallway into the courtyard the sight of what he saw made him stop in his tracks, fear freezing him in place. Darth Cruor roared as he threw a now lifeless woman at the fat, little, man. She struck him with such force that it caused them to both slam against the nearby wall, cracking a few bricks in the process, the fat man was no more.
The massive Sith looked down at the last of the wretched creatures, now covered in blood and having completely abandoned hope of escape. It’s pitiful sobs and pleas for mercy were not unheard, no, Cruor not only heard them but he savored them. Only for a moment however before Cruor’s massive foot came down upon the being’s head, it’s head crushed against the ground, brain matter and bone became nothing more than one large smear.
Part II
Dragging the near limp body of the High Priest Bzuaszax out into the courtyard, Draconis’ gaze was steady upon Cruor bathed in blood and bits of flesh. He had been equally busy and as expected. The dear high priest whom had sought to make a stand, was now dragged by his figurative bootstraps out into the open of the stone courtyard. Grossly overestimating his ability to withstand Draconis. A statuesque idol at the base of an obelisk pillar, very similar to something that might be found in the sacred burial temples or valleys of the planet in the sky, sat atop a small base of steps surrounding the whole of it acting as a focal point. However it was a very poor imitation. Poorly scribed runes and words, that attempted to follow the language of the ancients, were merely bastardized chattering of incoherence.
The words of the high priest are still fresh in Draconis' memory, with his proposition and call for the greater power that he had supposedly found. The whole of the high priests self-realized lesson in history and new found salvation that he wished to share with Draconis, cast aside by Draconis amusingly.
“Join us… join us..” Draconis mockinly spoke as he stopped dragging the priest's body. Releasing his hold on the priest’s leg and laying him at the foot of the false idol.
“Won’t-you-join-us-dear-priest!” Draconis chimed in an almost sing-song evil incarnation, his words dripped with playful mockery of the high priest’s championship-like speech about the follies of the Sith. It was clear the high priest was a bit delirious, rightly so the loss of blood was significant. Though not enough to put him in any mortal danger thus far as he began to come to and become more aware of what was happening and where he now was.
And within moments of the high priest becoming fully aware, Draconis whipped around to stare at him, crouched and eerily close to his level. The priest’s eyes snapping open, having heard the mocking words from Draconis moments before, as well as having felt the pain of being dragged out of the temple to the base of the sacred idol. Thinking it perhaps a delusion or dream, but suddenly realizing that such was not so.
Shockingly finding that his fine vestments were covered in the blood and guts of his disciples and slaves that he had been dragged through in the courtyard. Scrambling back slightly onto one of the idol's steps, his back pressed against the foot of the several meters tall idol and obelisk which shadowed over him. He had last only remembered speaking to the being in front of him within his chambers, trying to draw him in with his silver tongued speech and promises of new found power, so vainly unaware and blind to the evil that had descended upon this place in the form of Cruor and Draconis.
“Hello again.” Draconis stared at him, a blank and hollow look on his face as if Draconis in some overly dramatized manner was surprised to see the priest too, while over emphasizing the pronunciation of the greeting. The entirety of the situation being all the more a sadistic ruse than anything else.
The high priest stuttered and managed to begin to get out a phrase. “You desecrate this temp…”
The high priest was cut off quickly, his vocal capacity severed as his throat closed. Draconis remained still while staring at the being, invisibly zipping the man's mouth shut through the force while making his throat incredibly uncomfortable. ‘Not your turn.’ Draconis spoke in a stern and almost scolding tone, alluding to the high priest seemingly having spoken out of turn in this whole dynamic eventually releasing the priest from his figurative hand over mouth grip.
Breaking through the man’s mental shield within his so-called “sanctum” had been like a gundark ripping the arms off a drunk rodian. The veil the priest had tried to throw up unprepared for the speed and force in which Draconis exerted his will over the man in a mere instant. The priest's mind had been scrambling ever since, bouncing back and forth in vain attempts to mask his thoughts to which Draconis easily now delved into. The priest has marketable skill in the force, but he was nothing more than an adept barely rising to the level of a well trained apprentice. The amulet he coveted, and rightly so, clearly had been the only reason why he had been able to rise to the level of his station within the caste of priests and subsequently climb to the top of this coven of his.
Behind Draconis, Cruor was moving about back and forth throughout the courtyard gathering and pulling at the structure itself in a destructive rage as Draconis continued to speak. Draconis seemingly content and paying no real bother with whatever it was the Gen’Dai was currently doing.
“Tell me about this folly, dear priest.” Draconis’ tone became one of stern seriousness, as he eerily transitioned away from the previous playful intonations that he had verbally danced around, using the priest's own description about Draconis past to further mock him as if High Priest Bzuaszax’s enlightened view of Draconis’ exit from the late great orders of the Sith held truth. Draconis was curious to see where such thoughts went and learn more about what exactly it was the priest knew and what he thought he knew…
“Tell me about the others, those who share your view.” There had been no mention of others by the high priest, but Cruor, Tarle, and Draconis would not be here if they did not know otherwise. Draconis’ head cocked slightly. This had not been their first stop in their cleansing and it would not be the last.
Draconis shuffled a bit on the balls of his feet as he remained crouched, staring at the high priest whose eyes had wandered a bit beyond Draconis to follow Cruor’s brooding throughout the courtyard. Behind Draconis, screams of terror could be heard. The sight of mangled bodies being flung about in the air. Blood spraying, screams rising and being muffled out through what was an act of mere sport to the Gen’Dai. The occasional roar of triumph from Red as he drew upon the savagery of slaughter with a gleeful bliss that fed his lust for carnage.
“See, you are not even paying attention now.” Draconis’ eyes caught the priest’s attention wandering, Draconis allowed a moment for the fearful sight of Cruor’s handiwork to sink into the priest's mind. Fear poured into the priest’s mind, then a searing jolt of pain coursed through the priest's body, initiated by the rag-covered Sith Draconis holding his invisible leash. The jolt of pain snapping him back into focusing on Draconis.
“You see the others said the same thing…” Draconis spoke alluding to others. The others being the countless others like the priest, they had already visited. Descending upon them in the same manner of malicious and wanton slaughter. The priest’s silence was a poor attempt to adamantly hold to his view that he alone had brought salvation to all the corpses and or rather now at least pieces of corpses surrounding him at present in the courtyard.
“...that… they alone…” Draconis began to speak, recycling the priest’s own words to prompt and lead his mind.
“How did you put it?”
“Break away from the Sith dogma…”
“Was that it?” Draconis playfully inquired in a mocking tone.
Draconis leaned in a bit more, wondering when High Priest Bzuaszax was going to let go of his charade. There were more of them, many more priests like himself. The same ones who had interred Cruor and tried to destroy his body. The same priest that watched as Draconis had been cast out and broken. As the Sith order crumbled in the wake of the ominous invasion of their sacred world. These priests had abandoned the order, clinging to false teachings while scattering like beetles. Only to return as triumphant victors to sift through the ashes of a broken order only after all threats to them had vanished. Draconis did not admonish them for such tactics, they had been effective. However the limits of the teachings and falsities in the name of truth had led far too many astray through their bastardized dogma. They had hoped to not only erase the history of the orders of the past, but also the history of the Sith and claim themselves as the new bearers of salvation. Draconis knew this because High Priest Bzuaszax, was not the first they had encountered and would not be the last.
“You see when my friend gets back here,” Draconis glanced over his shoulder slightly alluding to Cruor currently brooding. “I will not be able to stop him… from doing… well whatever it is he is planning on doing to you lets say.”
A pool of blood was forming where the priest sat. Whether or not the priest had realized it, partially due to himself being in shock, he was missing one of his hands. The same hand, now sheared off slightly below his elbow, that has been adorned with his glittering gemstone set upon a meagerly fashioned metal and satin gauntlet like glove.
Part III
Tarle had displaced from her vantage point, quickly securing her light bow. Compressing it down into its stored state as she attached it to her back harness. She had made her way down into the compound and then into the temple, silently moving throughout the carnage as if it was not there until she arrived in the inner sanctum of the temple where the priest had made his failed stand. There had been no need for the use of her expert skills in tracking. Tarle has simply followed the trail of blood from the priest. The inner sanctum was painted in death, bodies strewn about, the screams and echoes of pure malice echoing in the wake of her Master’s hands. She paused to look about carefully, reaching out with the force until she located one of the items she had meant to retrieve. It’s singular retrieval not being her sole purpose for examining about the sanctum.
Her eyes moved from one object to the next, cataloging them, analyzing them with both her eyes and through the force, weighing their potential until she came upon a small and inconspicuous tattered book wrapped in fine cloth sitting on a side table and removed from the small altar that was adorned in fine treasures. The vanity of it all elicited a slight chuckle under her breath. The priest coveted finery. Vanity was his sin, as he lauded his followers to give up their items in a pursuit of power and false piety to feed his own greed. No doubt the cycle kept the priest constantly on guard for betrayal, forcing him to keep his inner circle only as close as necessary to maintain his control while subjugating the others through his spewing of a sacrificial and communal message. It was a message he merely spouted to maintain his own power over them, there was no meaning or truth behind it. He simply mouthed the empty words. Behind closed doors he resented them all, he held no belief in the words he said, he simply actively fed his “followers” falsehoods to keep his own power safe.
Tarle took her time moving about the room, her fingers gently passing over objects such as the book that had drawn her attention, before collecting it, and moving onto other items. Pausing at ones which raised her senses and offering them more reflection. Images coursed through her mind as she reached out with her senses upon such objects with her psychometry, processing what she drew from them and delving deeper as warranted.
It was not here… informative as her tour around the room had been, with tidbits of information gleaned, what they sought was not in this place.
Draconis looked up slightly to see Tarle emerge from the temple with a severed hand, the same one Draconis relieved the priest of inside the temple, in her grasp.
Tarle’s stern yet calm expression showed Draconis that what they sought was not here. Confirming what he already had suspected to be true, nonetheless another one could be crossed off the list. With slight disappointment Draconis eyed the severed hand which Tarle kept ready to offer to her Master. Draconis waved his hand slightly as the gauntlet was gently released from Tarle’s grasp as it passed through the force from one to the other, showing the instinctual connection between Master and Apprentice. The gauntlet-like silk and metal covered hand hovering in the air in front of the priest before coming into Draconis’ hand. A smattering of slowly trickling blood, that which was left in the body part, dripped onto Draconis’ own hand with him acting indifferent at both the sensation and sight.
The priest, as if suddenly brought out of a sensation of shock upon making the connection of seeing his own hand in front of him, reached over to his arm. Finally seeing the bloody stump where his hand had been, slightly dumbfounded as the shock wore off.
“Looking for this?” Draconis held up his severed hand with the guantletted jewel on it. Draconis waved at the high priest Bzuaszax with his own severed hand, as if holding and using it as a prop.
“You don’t know what this is?” Draconis inquired rhetorically about the jewel in the silk gauntlet, knowing that the priest had no idea. “How did you even stumble upon it?” Draconis mocked, inferring that the high priest in no way genuinely has acquired the ancient artifact. “Your meager understanding of alchemy seems to be the only useful thing about you.”
Bzuaszax stammered indiscernibly for a moment before he was able to form his words into a slightly coherent statement. “It… from.. Onderon.. Nadd…” The priest continued to struggle, unable to finish as only a jumbled mix of words came out as fear crept back into his mind. At least he knew where it was from, though its true significance and potential eluded the priest.
Draconis reached forward with the severed hand. “shhh shhh it’s ok…” Draconis calmly spoke, using the severed hand to caress the priest’s own cheek as if to console him, leaving faint trickles of his own blood on the priest cheek where his own lifeless fingers had trailed off.
“At least you know where it is from…” Draconis spoke as if mockingly trying to cheer the man up.
The gauntlet still adorned with the priest's severed hand is raised up through the force. Draconis invisibly passing it back to Tarle, who takes it under her command once more in the same manner in which it had been passed from Apprentice to Master, but now Master to Apprentice.
The gauntlet stops midair before shattering into dozens of smaller pieces. The bindings upon which the glittering gemstone was held shattered through the force by Tarle. The sever hand lifelessly falling to the ground with a dull thumb. Discarded as trash.
The pieces of the gauntlet are held suspended midair through the force by her as she with the gemstone drawn out of the mangled maelstrom of the gauntlet to her fingers where is hovered slightly above the palm of her hand, invisibly dangling at the tips of her fingers while the shattered pieces of the worthless gauntlet all simultaneously crashed to the ground. The faint sounds of metal clanking against cobblestone for a second.
“You don’t really even know how to use it, do you?” Draconis continued to mock.
“Would you like us to show you?” Draconis offered a chiding gulp that turned into a near gleeful grin of anticipation.
A sinister grin formed on Draconis' face. “Apprentice.” Draconis calmly spoke, implying for her to take the lead and inferring for her to demonstrate.
Tarle looked down upon the distraught priest, his once clean robes now covered in grime and blood. As she begins speaking in Sith. The words out of her mouth are unnatural, but the expression on the priest’s face shows he is clearly is familiar with it, recognizing it as the language of the ancients. She continues, being precise in her words through the use of chant. The gemstone hovering above the head of the priest now, begins to glow faintly, clearly responding to the chant from Tarle and dark energy she is now feeding it. Her mental will and the focus shifts from the gemstone to that of the priest, bearing down on him through the channeling gemstone. Suddenly the priest is jolted with pain, piercing his mind which travels down his spine in a torturific manner. The priest screams and collapses in on himself balling up as pain courses through him. Satisfied Tarle draws back, pausing for several seconds to allow the man to regain a semblance of reality and for the pain to subside. Sinisterly though Tarle is only allowing the man to level off in anticipation of what she knows is next as the initial act was but a taste of the gems uses. There are very few powers as sinister as draining someone's life force away. Instead of continuing to inflict pain on the feeble man, Tarle now draws upon him through the gemstone feeding on him in vampire-like siphoning of his life. The sensation is not instant, but more gradual. However the effect quickly builds from that of the feeling of being smothered to one of sheer helplessness in that the sensation of choking is felt across the entire body. The very connection to the world and sensations of the priest are pulled away, leaving him feeling as if he is in the center of a hollow void. The final drawing and leeching away of any sensation now flows from him, like a thread unraveling, leaving bare only emptiness and detachment from the force and life itself. The pain is not physical in any way, it is precisely that of pure dread and hopelessness of life slipping away. Though the priest has screams to put forth, he cannot scream. Though the priest wants to convulse in pain, he cannot move. He is simply imprisoned in a suspended state between life and a dark emptiness worse than death.
Tarle can feel the surge of life from the priest course through her body. The gemstone amplifying the effects of her own skill as she extracts the lifeforce from the priest. Tarle stops however, knowing it was implied that she was only to proceed as far as necessary. The gemstone still hovering under her control now showed a bright radiant glow after having drawn upon the essence of the priest. The gemstone residually capturing its own equal portion of the priest's essence and spirit while Tarle took her portion. Her eyes glowed in a fiery hue, emblazoned from the darkside channeling through her through the cold blooded yet exhilarating act.
Draconis’ eyes, who had been studying his Apprentice in an act of silent and meticulous tutoring through the observation of her emotions and technique which would be used as areas of improvement in a future lesson, moved back to focus on the priest who had been released from Tarle’s sinister hold.
The priest burst back into reality, as if having breached the surface of the water after having been held under and brought within inches of drowning. A cascading avalanche of sensations flooding back into him and all of them overwhelming his senses. He burst out with a single word as if knowing exactly what Draconis and Tarle wanted him to say.
“Ur”
Draconis instantly connects the ancient city of Korriban, drawing upon what he knew about it. Though its known location was not as clear to him. Draconis and Tarle’s eyes connect, registering it equally.
Tarle looked over towards the direction of Red, her gaze following the Gen’Dai still in full carnage mode but running out of beings to exact his bloodlust upon. With his dwindling supply of priests and priestesses Cruor seems to be having to find more entertaining ways of eviscerating them to keep his own attention. The sound of chains being dragged across stone is clearly audible as Tarle sees another priest suspended and held through the force against the ceremonial obelisk, used as an idol, near them. With a whip-like motion Cruor raises the heavy chain and flings it up around the obelisk, wrapping the unfortunate conscious but clearly battered man in several loops of the binding chain. The invisible grip on the man is released and he suddenly goes slack, however the newly wrapped chains hold him in place in an almost crucifixion-like manner up on the obelisk above the priest. With a crushing force the bones in the man’s body simply splinter, crushed into pieces as he is snuffed out in an excruciating final moment, the body going completely limp.
The screams of another fill the air, as Cruor is seen physically lifting a priestess into the air who had been crawling to get away, Red having marched up behind her to pluck her into the air. The woman’s shrill screams are cut off instantly with a dull thudding impact and spray of blood as he impales the woman upon the obelisk. A gruff sound of annoyance mixed with satisfying bloodlust emanating t from him as he stares at the man and woman’s lifeless bodies as if he now satisfied in thinking that both the now dead priest and priestess were now arranged in the proper order, showing them and everyone else what they truly were, weak and nothing more that some sort of art for Cruor to play with, like a child finger painting with entrails and bodily organs.
The high priest Bzuaszax, as if in some surge of defiance, regains a semblance of dignity. The prideful boasting that the conversation had started with rising once again. Though the priest is still delusional about his understanding of the darkside and the orders of the past. Bursting forth with a scathing remark about what he saw as the falsities of the Sith, nearly repeating his earlier sentiments. “Krayt was a fool, so was Vassago…. The Sith must be reborn and cleansed of these things…”
Draconis slapped the priest across the face with his own severed hand. “You said that already…”
Without warning, the hulking frame of Cruor casts a shadow upon Draconis and Tarle as he reaches over, plucking the high priest away the foot of the idol and obelisk and figuratively away from them both Draconis and Tarle. Grabbing the man by his head with the open palm of one of his massive hands while the other hand firmly holds the man around the waist. The resulting pulling motion pulls the priest's head from his body, tearing out his spine along with it as if drawing a sword out of a sheath. The splattering of blood upon both Draconis and Tarle’s already blood soaked visage the final act as the last living member of the false coven is torn apart. Without a thought Cruor tosses the limp body and the head and spinal column in opposite directions, discarding them both. A look of absolute terror frozen on the priest’s lifeless face as it is flung out of view.
“I wasn’t done with it…” Draconis stands up straight after directing his disappointingly scathing words at Cruor, as if responding to a toy having been taken away from him.
“I was.” Cruor replies, ending the debate.
The smoldering sight of smoke rising in the distance and the sound of birds of prey gathering in anticipation of feast are seen in the distance as the trio of Sith march back up the pathway they had come from. The silent bloodsoaked ground of the enclave reeks of death and carnage, the false coven having been completely and brutally snuffed out of existence. It was time to move onto the next destination, of which was yet to be decided. The information acquired, like so many visits of the same sort being a piece of the larger puzzle that was being revealed.