Bend the Knee

[Rugs]

Aurelius’ stomach shifted just so as the Charybdis dropped out of hyperspace. The swirling blue and white of hyperspace that had filled the view from the bridge only a few moments earlier was gone, as the Dark Lord opened his golden eyes. Normally a curtain of star-dotted black, or perhaps a lone world sitting in black expanse with a sun or suns to light it offered welcome upon arrival out of hyperspace.

Iego was different. The Extrictarium Nebula offered light here--a strange, eerie array of color that seemed to stretch out forever.

“We’ve arrived, Lord Aurelius,” announced Moff Tarion Varrus.

“So we have,” Aurelius answered. He strolled to the fore of the observation deck, hands clasped behind his back. Varrus eyed him, awaiting an order. He was on the older side of middle-aged, with white wings at his temples standing stark against the rest of his midnight black hair. While Aurlieus officially commanded the Charybdis, Varrus saw to the general operation and oversight of the ship.

He was a good man, whose loyalty to Aurelius was second only to his loyalty to the Empress. And smart — Aurelius generally deferred to Varrus’ judgement for most matters of tactics and ship operation. So long as the Moff remembered his place when they disagreed.

Aurelius paused the viewport, looking at the world beyond. Iego. The Planet of a Thousand Moons, they called it. It had 43, in fact, but that was more than plenty. Lit and warmed not by a star, but by the nebula that hid it from the Galaxy at large. A strange place, even for a Galaxy full of strange places.

And home to the Shadow’s Hand. Aurelius and his team of hand-picked Sith would be paying the little coven of Dark Siders a visit, and offering them a choice. Join the Empire, or die. It seemed a simple offer. But Aurelius knew Dark Side users well, after spending the last decade with the Order. The Dark Side bred stubbornness. It cultivated pride like rain did weeds, even at the expense of self-preservation.

If they refused, well, the Charybdis carried enough men and bristled with more than enough firepower to turn their little hidey-hole into a molten hole in the ground.

He almost hoped they did. Peace made for a boring life. It’d been too long since he’d tested himself.

“Prepare landing craft as we appraoch,” he said. “Keep us as clear of the moons as you can. Tell the others to meet me in the hangar.”

Aurelius turned on his heel, the waist cape of his black and silver armor swaying with his movements. He pause by the bridge’s entrance, where he’d left his helment sitting on a counter’s corner. “Once we’re away, prepare an assault force. You’ll know if they’re needed.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Varrus said with a deep nod.

Aurelius lifted his helment and walked out of the bridge. “You have command, Varrus,” he said as the doors slid shut behind him.

[sparrow]

Zarene exhaled slowly as the medical droid removed its cold metal hands from her shoulder, a slight tingling feeling permeating through her body as the neural interface between the cybernetic arm and her body came online.

She curled and straightened her fingers a few times before standing up. After flexing her shoulder to rotate her arm around in a circle, she threw a few quick punches in the air, readjusting her balance to compensate for the added weight. She handed the sleek white plasteel arm she had worn to Solis’s gala, now detached from the mounting interface on her shoulder, to the medical droid, who dutifully placed it back into a storage bin. In contrast, her “war arm” was ugly and gray, covered in overlapping metal plates, durable and strong. She would need it for this mission if things went south, and they were quite likely to go south. Aurelius was more than capable of doing the talking, and he would only have requested her participation in this operation if he was expecting combat.

Holding her arms up from her sides, Zarene closed her eyes and concentrated, feeling the Force flow through her. Her dark gray armor, which hung from the rack of the wall, floated up and towards her, the various pieces and plates aligning with her body, the straps and buckles securing themselves as if manipulated by sets of invisible hands.

As she was finishing one last check of her armor, the holoprojector in the corner of the room flickered to life, as an image of Moff Varrus appeared, bringing a message from Lord Aurelius to convene in the hangar. She nodded in acknowledgement, and Varrus’s hologram disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Showtime.

A few minutes later, she exited the lift to the hangar bay, where Aurelius was already waiting. She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod. "You've been keeping your plans close to the chest so far. Any last-minute reveals before we embark?"

[Blue]

Thrum, thrum, thrum. The heartbeat of the ship pulsed throughout his room as he sat on the floor, reminding him constantly of the living, breathing nature of her crew. All alive, all with eyes to see. Must be a shadow. Moor, recently elevated to the position of Knight and gifted a new name, had been... invited onto this mission by Darth Aurelius himself. Sink or swim. Survive or drown. The Sith assassin could feel his body tingling with the electricity of fear; would his first outing as a Knight prove to be his last? Was he strong enough? So many watching, waiting to see if I slip, yank me off the Chain. He needed more power. Always more. Every scrap he scraped towards himself helped ensure his survival. The new armour had been a good step. Made for stealth, it afforded him the ability to move unseen and undetected by eye and technology. Good. How useful it would be for this task, Moor was unsure. The group of Dark Siders on the planet below were to be given an ultimatum: join or die. Moor fervently hoped they chose the latter; fewer on the Chain to pull him down or kick him off. There was a hum as the holoprojector in the room came to life, and the face of a man informed him that he was to report to the hanger. Moor stood and gestured, bringing his lightsaber to his hand and strode out the door without a word. There would be others of the Order coming along. All stronger, higher on the Chain. If this errant group fought, he doubted they would survive the consequences. Maybe I won't, either... The thought sent a shiver of apprehension through his spine and the assassin pulled a cloak around him, lowering his presence in the Force to nothing as he stalked towards the hanger. When he arrived, Darth Aurelius was already present, along with another Sith. Female, armoured. With his current ability employed, Moor could not sense her power, but he knew she must be strong. The Dark Lord would not have invited her along if it were otherwise. The wiry young man silently padded towards the Darth, flinching slightly as the woman spoke. Under the blank visage of his helm's mask, Moor licked his thin lips. Do or die. Do or die. Do or die...

[Neology]

[googlefont="News Cycle"]

”Aw, crap. Not again.” Imago hung his head in exaggerated defeat, dropping a handful of Huttese coins into the pile on the floor, a colorful mix of Galactic currencies. The Knight of Truth was packed into a barrack with a couple dozen others, members of the ship’s crew, all crowded around a non-regulation pocket vidscreen. The device’s owner sat closest, providing a running line of narration that drowned out the tinny speakers. Imago was learning, slowly, just how little he knew about the art of swoop racing. And that betting on the bike with the most ostentatious paint job was not always a sound strategy, an early win be damned. He took a large bite out of the berry fritter he’d brought down from the canteen, considering the roster thoughtfully. His commlink chimed – after some slight juggling of greasy paper Imago fished the device out of his pocket. A terse summons from the communications officer greeted him, likely sent after someone more important found him not in his cabin. The epicanthix clambered to his feet, stooping slightly. This deck had low ceilings. ”Gotta go, but put me down for get six peggats on Jadeonar. Got a good feeling about her.” Last to arrive in the hanger, Imago glanced over his fellows and sketched a brief bow for Lord Aurelius. He didn’t know the ‘High Archon’ except by reputation, but he liked the ship well enough. The people weren’t piss-scared into uselessness and that counted for a lot. Besides, Sith that had been around as long as Aurelius had … Imago had to figure there might be something to learn here. Maybe. To be honest, he was a little sketchy on why he, in particular, had been requested for this operation. As far as Sith went, Imago was an indifferent warrior – that didn’t look to be entirely the case for the other two. Cult of Strife, both of them. That rather set the tone for the mission itself, didn’t it? ”Err. Howdy, guys.” Imago popped the last bite of berry fritter into his mouth, rolled up the napkin, and stuffed the piece of trash into his pocket.

[Rugs]

Aurelius leaned against a metal crate, armor’s helmet beside him, as he awaited the others. The Charybdis’ main hanger was a hive of activity as crewmen scurried this way and that, preparing not only the main transport the Sith group would take to Iego, but others to be on standby in the event of a ground assault. He closed his eyes, pulling the Force into himself as he stretched his senses out, beyond the ship and toward the planet hanging below them in space.

The Shadow's Hand’s presence on the world was a palpable thing, if he felt right — like a dark blister upon the planet’s face. There was some potential, Aurelius mused, to turn their little outpost to an enclave for the Order.

If it still stood by mission’s end.

Yin’s presence stood out above the crewmen hurrying around the hanger, drawing Aurelius attention back to his immediate surroundings. He opened his eyes with a nod in greeting for her. A quick touch of the Force signaled the other two’s steady approach.

“Last minute reveals?” He grinned slightly. “No, Yin, at least not from me. We’re gonna go on down, make a case as to why they should join our glorious Order and see how they respond.”

Kol — or Moor, as he was now named — walked in as Aurelius spoke, and Imago wasn’t far behind.

“Whether this is simple or bloody is entirely up to them,” he said, shrugging. “But you know how as well as I do how these types tend to be. Probably some cult led by a weirdo with a god complex.”

With the full group now assembled, Aurelius stood from the crate and picked up his helmet. He was pleasantly surprised to see them all in the hangar quickly. But he’d picked them for a reason. Yin, he had history working with from the war’s days. Kol, he’d overseen in training to some extent, and the boy had reported for him for several missions.

Imago, though — he was a bit of an enigma. Aurelius watched the Knight down the last bit of some desert and stuff a napkin hastily into his pocket. He’d heard things about Imago’s skills — that the Epicanthix had, in some way, caught the Empress’ eye.

Renata wasn’t one to deal with fools — and there were fools aplenty in the Sith Order. If there was more to Imago than met the eye, Aurelius wanted to see it for himself.

“We’ll be setting off soon as the shuttle’s ready,” Aurelius said to the group. A handful of Sith soldiers, in their black and shining silver armor, approached. They were to accompany the group on the way down. A show of force, primarily — though Aurelius had seen to it that they were equipped with sonic weaponry in case a fight broke out.

“Mission’s simple,” he said. “This cult on the planet joins us, or they all die. Do not show subservience to them, but do try not to piss them off them off unless necessary. I don’t expect this will end peacefully, but the Empress has charged us with trying before violence. Any questions?”

“The shuttle is ready, Lord Aurelius,” said an officer, poking his head around the vessel’s side form its open ramp.

Aurelius nodded and motioned the group onto the shuttle. They could ask questions on the trip down to the surface. No need to waste time sitting around.

[sparrow]

Zarene gave the other two a curt nod as they entered, recalling their names from the files that Aurelius had provided. First was a shifty-looking youth, face hid behind a featureless mask. That one must be Moor. This meant the other, tall and dark haired, was Imago. A member of her own species. Zarene wondered why they had never met before.

She tucked her helmet under her arm as the group boarded the shuttle. As they each took their seats, she found herself sitting across from the youth. He looked tense, as if he was about to leap to his feet and jump off the shuttle at any moment. Or attack.

“You can take that off here,” she said as she regarded at the blank face of his mask. “You look like one of Keres’s goons with it on. If I’m going to have to work with you, then I need to see what you look like.” That was half the reason. The other had to do with the mention in the files of Moor’s facial scarring, which she was curious to see for herself. It had only been a few years ago that she had had the surgery to repair the muscles in her cheek with cybernetics, now covered in a plasteel sheath.

Watching him as she spoke, she wondered if he really was going to make that jump.

[Blue]

Moor's featureless helm snapped to face the person approaching, but he had enough restraint not to reach for his lightsaber. Just. All high on the Chain, stay quiet. Watch them. Be ready. The new one spoke, casual, easy. All smooth lines, vocal, physical. Why was he here? They were here to kill- no, talk. Talk, then possibly kill. That was probably why. The wiry assassin's arm tremoured as Darth Aurelius began to speak, recapping the mission. Moor already knew this, but he listened anyway. He swallowed nervously. This was becoming real. Soldiers with weapons passed by. Real. I hope they reject us. I can't hear it yet, but I know the noise is out there. Discard the cloak and I'll be exposed to it. All that noise... I need the quiet. I need them to fight so I can make it stop; then the quiet will return. The Dark Lord indicated it was time, and Moor followed along silently, his tread making no sound as he crossed the metal flooring of the ship. Tension was coiling inside him, that old black fear rearing its head within his chest. The young Sith shuddered as he took his seat, then nearly leapt from it as the female Sith, Zarene, spoke. Spoke to him. How? She sees me? Nobody sees me!... No, enclosed space, stealth field off, I can be seen. The cloak is on, but I can be seen. That thought alone was terrifying enough; in a small space with a crowd, no way out. But she asked to see his face. Take off his helm. No. No, no, no. He needed it. Faceless to the galaxy, unheard, unseen. That was him. But she was possibly far stronger than him, and they were going to be killing near each other. Maybe killing. Antagonise, she might seek revenge. Though submission was not ideal either, it played to his strength. Beneath notice, beneath thought. Then strike. His blank mask stared at Zarene for a moment longer, then a shaking hand reached up and touched the visor. With a click and a slight hiss, it detached and came away from the bottom of the helmet, revealing his face. Pallid, dark shadows prominent under his dull grey eyes. And, of course, the scarification. The teeth on the right side of his face, the surface of which was unmoving due to paralysis, were exposed to the air through the rent in his flesh. The low-lighting in the shuttle was a gift on his eyes, but he had a hard time looking away from the one who bid him remove his visor. His thin lips began peeling back and his breathing turning ragged, saliva beginning to seep from the old wound as his shaking became worse. Then with a sharp motion, Moor jerked his head to the side and slid the visor back into place. As it sealed shut, and the mechanism within began working to drain the fluids once more, he sighed audibly in relief. "*Need quiet, end the noise. It will be silent soon,*" he whispered to himself in Deshadi, the voice module that helped him to speak tinting the guttural language with a robotic hiss. He tried to tunnel his focus, consume his fear. Find something. "Do we know their numbers, my lord?" Moor inquired of Darth Aurelius.

[Neology]

Imago ducked into the shuttle, considering the briefing – and it was brief indeed – with an abstract expression on his face. Convert a cult. Doable on his own, maybe, if he had half a year and deep pockets to draw from. But like this? Aurelius and his merry band were outfitted for more of a day trip. With luck, they’d be home in time to watch the latest holovid trash fresh from the censor board. That made sense, as far as he knew. Her Radiance was not known to suffer competition gracefully. Sith transfers of power were so rarely bloodless, her own included. One thing ordered, something else meant? Offering these others a chance to come around seemed the most incongruous thing. ”You’re an odd duck, ain’tcha?” Imago sank down into the bucket seat beside Moor. Covered head to toe, he could only really observe the other’s nervy, uncomfortable tension. Spooky. It reminded him of the bodyguards and trained killers kept by the ultrarich in certain social sets. Drowned to the gills in stims, force-blind but almost fast enough to make up for it. And, of course, metabolically crippled by thirty. A glance at Moor without his mask killed that line of thought quickly enough. Conditioning, not drugs. Poor kid could probably use some of those; that looked like it hurt. The Order really did a number on some people, Imago thought. He was glad to mostly dealt with the diplomatic side of things. ”What kind of cult are we talkin’? Like, monsters and magic?” He snapped his fingers for emphasis, just barely resisting the urge to conjure a puff of fire and smoke. Even a demure little drop shuttle like this was bound to have sprinklers or foam dispensers or something of the like. ”Or, you know, real freaky shit? Like multi-level marketing.”

[Rugs]

Aurelius watched with a carefully-maintained silence as Moor removed his mask to show the damaged, twisted flesh beneath. He’d seen it before. He’d seen worse before, on mutilated bodies littering war’s countless battlefields. But that didn’t make looking at the terrible scarring an easier.

He almost felt a pang of regret for the kid as the shuttle’s thrusters whoomphed and lifted them off the Charybdis’ landing deck. Almost.

We’ve all been through shit, he thought quietly. He’d suffered through an abuse-filled youth. Yin had lost an arm. Moor’s damages — physical and mental — were obvious. Aurelius’ yellow eyes flitted to each member of his team in turn but settled for a lingering moment on Imago.

And what about you? He wondered. Are you the only undamaged member of my happy crew?

He wasn’t unfamiliar with the Farazen business — that’d sent a stir through the Empire, what with a Jedi bombing a spaceport on Muunilinst after the family patriarch decided to defect to the Republic. Dear Lucas’ sudden change of heart had gotten the rest of the family offed at Novus’ command, if he recalled correctly, save for Imago.

Aurelius turned to the viewport as the shuttle, escorted by a quartet of fighters, lurched away from the battleship and on toward the planet beyond. He couldn’t speak to enduring his family’s executions, and while the finer details of Imago’s past eluded him, he could imagine the experience was probably sufficiently scarring.

No one comes here who’s not fucked up anyway, he thought.

“Not many,” he said, speaking for the first time in answer to Moor. “The best intel we have is about a dozen Force-sensitives. We expect most are poorly trained, save their leader and a few of his lieutenants. But there are more non-sensitives.”

That fed nicely into Imago’s question. “Much as I’d like to spend an afternoon glassing marketers, what we’ve got down on the surface is a case of a man who sees himself as a god,” he said. “Calls himself the ‘Shadow’s Chosen,’ or some crazy shit like that, and his Force-sensitive followers are his handpicked acolytes to lead the flock.

“The non-sensitives are worshippers, or brainwashed idiots, who are sworn to carry out his commands.” Aurelius snorted. “Whatever those are. But you can see why the Empress wants this little fire snuffed out.” His gaze lingered on Imago. “And with a god-crazed idiot leading that happy few, you can see why I expect things to get bloody.”

[sparrow]

Zarene looked over the boy’s face, tilting her head slightly as she observed the paralysis of his cheek, the thin strand of saliva formed at the exposed corner of his mouth. She had spent years hating her appearance, something she still hadn’t completely come to terms with. So she understood his need for the mask.

“I see,” she said finally as he put his mask back on. “If you need some prosthetics to cover that up, let me know. A Sith Knight should find death on the battlefield, not from some preventable infection.”

She listened as Nieraan went over the current intelligence concerning the cult, and they soon landed on the planet surface. A robed Devaronian was there to greet them as they disembarked the shuttle. He moved with a slight slouch as approached the group, until he came up to Moor and his featureless mask. Giving a slight bow, he spoke with a raspy voice. “The Shadow’s Hand greets Renata’s representatives. Ah, you must the one they call Keres. The Chosen is eager to meet you.” Zarene tried to stifle a laugh, which came out as a snort that drew a glare from the Devaronian, as she watched to see what Moor would do.

[Blue]

A dozen Force-sensitives. Unknown number of non-sensitives. Only a few Force users of concern. A finger tapped on his leg, a fast repetitive motion. The other leg jittered. His whole body ached, save for his face. He couldn't feel that; small mercies. I could go in quiet. They talk, I kill. One by one. No more cult, no more noise. Quick and clean... well, quick, at least. Darth Aurelius continued, explaining the way of things. Gods and worshipers; all fools. The only real truth in the universe was fear, the only real power was in the eternal climb. Hollow effigies of flesh and minds, claiming deitific status to hide from the fact that they were doomed. Doomed from the moment they walked out into the light and screamed "WITNESS ME! I AM THE MOST POWERFUL!" Silence. Fear and silence. That was where real power lay. He flinched again as Zarene spoke, offering him... aid? No. Offering weakness. Pain fuels power. To bend to it's whims is to be destroyed; to endure is attain strength. Moor said nothing in return. There was nothing to say. Anything spoken would reveal weakness, which was to welcome death. Unacceptable. They reached the planet's surface in short enough time. As the ramp descended, Moor ensured that he was not the first one out, allowing the Devaronian that appeared to be waiting for them to see the others before himself. I am nothing, nobody, a insignificant figure in the back gr- “The Shadow’s Hand greets Renata’s representatives. Ah, you must the one they call Keres. The Chosen is eager to meet you.” The world stopped. Cold, undiluted panic filled Moor's body as he was spotted, singled out... seen. A hundred terrified thought flashed through his mind, reducing it to a mental gibbering in which nothing could be understood. What was merely a second to the outside world felt like a lifetime to the younger Sith, as his mind strained under the simple concept of being addressed, until it finally snapped and he did what he normally did when he was noticed, when threatened with words. He silenced it. Moor dropped the cloak that was hiding his presence in the Force. All at once, he felt it; jagged pins striking his exposed nerves, the Force screeching out. He drew it into himself, let it feed him, energise him. The movement was a blur, his speed enhanced, the sound of a lightsaber igniting and then extinguished within the space of a heartbeat. Then the sound of a thud as the body hit the ground, followed by a smaller one as the head followed suit, rolling to a stop at Moor's feet. "Ahhhhh... Silence," the Sith assassin sighed, his relief clear in his tone and his relaxing body. He knelt down and picked up the Devaronian's head by one of his horns, looking at the slack face. "Better this way." He stepped back to rejoin the other Sith, dropping the head on the ground. "How do you kill gods?" Moor muttered, though whether he was talking to himself or the others was difficult to tell. "With silence."

[Neology]

”So I do.” Imago acquiesced with a slight jerk of his chin, leaning back in the drop shuttle’s bucket seat and pressed there by the descent. As far as motives went, arrogance was a disappointing one. There was much of that within the Order itself, a thoroughly homegrown sin, tended as carefully as the empress’ gardens. Less useful than ambition, it was largely self-serving. Save for where it served the Cult of Truth. And so the foolish and the disloyal announced themselves, screaming into the wind, and that was enough. It did seem rather unlikely that their leader, this ‘Shadow’s Chosen’, would come peacefully, though. Whatever indulgences the empress allowed would surely still be perceived as a step down from this pocket kingdom. The shuttle set down with a heavy thud and noisy disengagement of clamps. Imago unfolded himself and clambered down the ramp after the others, ducking his head. He had only a brief impression of the landing pad – new, tarry pavement, stinking in warm tropical air – before a lightsaber split the perpetual twilight. The greeter collapsed, cauterized meat, lightly misting their party with a ribbon of semi-vaporized gore. Imago shot the younger knight a concerned glance, then pressed a few steps forward. The Shadow’s Hand compound was an ugly brutalist brick of gold stone and thin dark windows. Double doors winked closed ahead of them. Though he could not see it, Imago felt there must be weapons taking aim. He combed a hand through his short hair and grinned. Nothing was sweeter than an adrenaline high, not drugs and not sex. The kid was now holding up the dead alien’s head – Imago briefly hoped that he was not the trophy-taking type. No one wanted to take a return shuttle ride with that accumulated mess. Thankfully, Moor dropped the head with a bizarre pronouncement. Imago licked his dry lips and pitched his voice to carry. Surely, this space was electronically monitored. Ah yes, we meant to do that. ”Truly.” He dipped a brief nod to Moor, projecting pious Imperial fealty. A show, and not for his fellow Sith. ”That alien was presumptuous beyond measure to speak the Pristine Heart’s name with a filthy, unworthy mouth. And yet, do our hosts dare offer further offense? I say it will only go worse for them.”

[Rugs]

The shuttle settled on the concrete landing pad with a thud. Aurelius emerged from the ship, followed by Imago. He left his helmet off, tucked under his arm. The way he saw it, showing his face was as much a courtesy as this lot of idiots could ever hope to expect from a Dark Lord.

Aurelius kept a sneer to himself as he took in their surroundings. Concrete landing pad that surely hadn’t been meant to be anything but a short-term clearing. A gold building that looked to be more concerned with merely staying upright than creating any sort of impression. And now, a Devaronian, slouching out to welcome them into the shit pit.

Why are we wasting our time with this? he wondered. His free hand’s fingers twitched, yearning for one of the saber hilts at his waist. But the Empress demanded an attempt before violence. Aurelius forced his face to neutrality as he walked to the group’s fore, expecting the Devaronian to address him.

And so it grew increasingly difficult to keep a blank face as the red devil-man spoke instead to Moor. His golden eyes began to narrow dangerously. A shift in the Force stayed his hand as he glanced at Moor. Fear surged through the young Knight and before the Devaronian could react a red blade had severed his stupid head from his now-lifeless corpse.

“Well done,” Aurelius said quietly as Moor rejoined the group. “It seems Strife suits you.”

Imago picked up on the situation quickly, projecting loud confidence in the wake of their unexpectedly deadly arrival.

“To think that our welcome managed a pair of insults in one breath,” Aurelius said as he slipped his helmet on. His voice temporarily deepened as the helmet sealed and his armor’s internal systems activated. “If you’re going to send a welcome,” he said, starting toward the compound, “you should know who you’re welcoming.”

To Aurelius, the last rankled more than the lack of Empress before Renata ever could. Oh yes, he’d show the proper deference to Her Radiance, but to assume Elar rather than himself, was leading the mission was a personal affront.

He walked straight ahead, stepping on the Devaronian’s corpse rather than over it. Let the cult see it — their arrival couldn’t possibly get any messier than it already was. He drew deeply on the Force, letting his senses stretch wide over the compound before them. The cult’s worshippers seemed to spread throughout, signatures melding together in a haze that didn’t feel quite right. Other presences were starker. The “Chosen” and his lieutenants, surely.

“Should they offer another offense, kill them,” he said. "If they offer resistance, kill them." He paused in front of the compounds main entrance — a set of heavy doors with a golden sigil of a hand, fingers clawing at something. The doors didn’t budge with their arrival, so he stood, reaching with the Force without moving his arms, to force them slowly apart and admit the Sith into the compound’s maw.

[Stephen]

Ethani watched a moment, the clip of their greeter being murdered in an apparent fit of pique. It was projected on a loop behind his podium. He stood just to the side, on hand lingering on the edge as it looped again. No more dress rehearsals, no more waiting. They'd have their expected audience now. The perils of success. He pivoted toward the podium and took a long slow look at his crowd. Anger, fear, confusion, they all appeared in varied concentrations in front of him, reflected in their brother's beheading glinting back to him in miniature orange and white off of each eye. He took a glance to his right. Grace was there, her face ashen and stone. He had probably gone to far with her, but she was still useful in her state. Deadly, brutal, loyal. She was almost gone. The only hint she was aware was her alloyed hands gripped around the butt of a fletchette cannon grounded barrel first on the stage. He nodded to her a moment and continued.

“We had quite hoped for a different reaction, but it seems we must move on again.” He took a pause, partly for effect, and partly to check the live feed of the compounds cameras built into his podium. “Each culture has it's own gods, and their own holy people. Each story is different, but each one contains these selfsame elements. These fragments of truth, given wings through the force and carried to each person here. There is an inherent truth, and a group of people bound to that truth. There are those who reject the truth, an adversary of no small power that you overcome. With strength, with guile. He stopped, clenching his hand before him. “With faith.” He stepped past the podium and toward the crowd. “We will fight, and we will fight soon. It takes no great faith to believe that. No great vision to see it. But what you must know is that this fight isn't happening here, on this land with it's blessed moons, but on every planet.” He took another break before continuing. “This battle his happening soon, but it also already happened, and it will happen again and again. This is the next stage of our truth, it is what always happens when you find something divine. You face a trial. This is ours.”

Ethani walked back to his podium. “I did not want this.” He looked down at the floor. “I did not want the sith to come here, to attack us.” He took a slow breath. “I did not want this burden of ineffable truth, I did not want to be a leader of men.” He over tensed the muscles in his arms as he gripped the podium, causing them to shake. “I did not want to bring this upon you, but I have.” He put his now still hand to his chest. “For this I am truly sorry. Unfortunately, we are without escape. The only way out is through.” He cocked his head to the side a moment, looking slightly down. “But there is a final part of the divine that is always the same. The Faithful always stand and fight. The Faithful always do the unthinkable and slay the giant. Those who carry the truth strike true through it.” He stared out back into the crowd again, his eyes straining. “If I have truly been strong enough to bear you the truth, use it to light the way forward. I follow you now my brothers and sisters.” He bowed a moment in humble obedience.

The crowd roared in approval, their blasters and scatter guns held aloft. Grace moved forward swiftly, organizing the mob into a militia. She had chosen this place for the fight. An open area with very little ceiling. They couldn't match them at the landing pad, but in a tight confines, where they could make their numbers count, they could make quite an impact. She split the congregation into to banks facing the doorway in, lined into rows flanking the stage. She and and a few others would stay with him. Those who hand undergone the transformation more thoroughly. It was a simple enough plan, do enough damage to get away, split into small cells and get lost somewhere, meet back up somewhere else in the empire, try again. Maybe they could have made some type of deal, but that no longer seemed in the cards. Still plans change, and there was enough explosives in the building to probably buy his freedom if his chosen failed in their charge.

[sparrow]

She quickly stifled the hint of the smile that touched her lips as Moor cut down the greeter, returning her face to a neutral expression. “That was stupid,” she muttered. Amusing to watch in the moment, but stupid. While she wasn’t exactly expecting a diplomatic outcome for the mission, they were supposed to at least make the attempt. Any possibility of that was as dead now as the greeter whose body lay at their feat.

Perhaps the man did deserve death for his disrespect, but Moor had acted too quickly. No chance of questioning him now, or using him as a hostage either. Wasteful.

What you been teaching them, Onin? she thought. The boy had raw power, that much was true. But power without discipline and control was no power at all.

She sighed. “We’re going the violent route already? Fine.” Putting on her helmet, she adjusted the straps and lowered down the faceplate. “I’ll take point then.” Perhaps the cult within would send out a new representative to attempt to reopen negotiations with Onin, but she doubted that would be the case. But unless they intended to stay standing on the landing pad all day, the only way was to advance.

Moving forward, she passed under the archway of the double doors that Onin had opened, from the sunlight that bathed the landing pad into the dark dank stone hallways of the compound.

[Blue]

Eyes on him again. They flickered: anxiety, amusement, excitement, annoyance. Two voiced approval. One sounded hollow, the smooth one, words spoken but not for him. The other, Darth Aurelius... proud? Satisfied? It felt alien to Moor to be the subject of either. The warrior woman spoke with frustration. Too reckless, now there will be violence... No. Had to be this way. There was no talking to be done here. They saw. They saw. Everything about this place was wrong, now that the cloak hiding him was down. Itching, scratching at my mind, something not right, something unseen, out of focus. The group moved towards the great doors, no obstacle to the Dark Lord. They opened before his might, the warrior striding forward brazenly. Let her go. Loud. Obvious. I have other works to do, my way. Moor stepped briefly behind the warrior as she walked, touching his gauntlet. It hummed gently for a moment, prying eyes behind their screens now scrambled by the device, allowing the young Sith to activate his stealth field unseen by the electronics as he cloaked his presence in the Force once more. "Cut off the head," Moor whispered, his electronically tinted voice now coming in through his internal comms, the sound not leaving the confines of his mask and giving no indication as to where he now stood. The lithe form of the assassin, now invisible and guarded from sight by the stealth field and thermoguard tech in his suit, moved to the wall and he pressed his hands against it. After a moment, ensuring the magnatomic grip pads in the hands were secure, he lifted himself up and scaled the sheer surface until he was crawling along the ceiling ahead of his fellow Sith. There was a bustle of activity. Ants, scurrying around, reacting to a threat to their nest. All dead. Numbers is all they have, now they are dead. Occasionally, Moor crawled above stragglers in ones and twos and the urge to strike rose in him. No, no, no. Death behind the lines, something hunting. Can't let them see, can't let them know. "Significant force, forming on choke points into a open area, several rows. Mostly small arms, only a handful of heavier ordinance. Dead, dead, dead," he uttered to his fellow Sith, making his way steadily inside the arena like place. He was forced to move onto the walls, as there was precious little in the way of a ceiling. His eyes scanned the place, falling onto the core of the so-called Shadow's Hand. "There's a stage they are protecting. Smaller group on it; possibly the cult leader. Something off, something wrong. Don't like the way they move." And so Moor waited like a spider on the wall. Waiting for the noise, the violence, to begin. Then the Quiet. That sacred Quiet. Time to make it stop.