False Prophets

[Meira]

Mim, high in the night sky, shone down on the barren wastes. It's soft glow, feeble compared to its sister Nerit, glinted faintly off the barrier that domed over the complex. With Nerit still lurking below the horizon, Mim's glow was trivial in the cold, toxic night of Ossus. For miles upon miles in any direction, only desolation and toxic air could be found. Three soldiers walked the perimeter of the barrier, the crunch of dirt beneath their boots and their processed breath through their helmets the only sound to be heard. They circled the single dome of the facility. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

"Master Morbus, I have the results you requested."

Within, and a level below ground, the Knight of Mysteries bowed her head. No, no longer beholden to that collar, that chain of a title. She was a Free Prophet now. Formida raised her head as Morbus took the datapad from her outstretched hand. She waited, barely daring to breathe as he read over the latest charts.

"The recovery rate has-" she began, but stopped as Morbus lifted a hand.

"Scale back the Kolto treatments. Our next shipment is likely to be the last. We must ration. Subjects are easy enough to come by, but supplies will not." Morbus said, handing back to datapad and turning his attention back toward his console.

"Yes, Master." she replied, bowing and quickly turning to leave.

"And Formida..." Mrobus called after her, stopping her in the doorway. "I will meet with everyone in ten minutes. Make the announcement."

Bowing again, Formida rushed to obey her master.

The Free Sanctum, as they had come to call it, was not a large room. Built as a general conference chamber, it hosted a long, oval table, chairs, and little else. But it was theirs. At least, it would be until tomorrow. One by one, the seats at the table filled. Situs and Requira took their places on the left side of the chair at the head of the table, while Teneo and Profera sat opposite them. Formida stood along the wall with Inedio and Aestuo. Morbus entered last, taking his seat at the table and activating the holoprojector in its surface.

"Twenty subjects." he said without preamble. "Fifteen already recovered from initial infection and five now stable enough to be transported. These will accompany us. The remaining seven subjects are immune and will be disposed of before departure. What are your updates?" Morbus looked around the table.

"All trace of the Archeri influence within the crystal has been eliminated." Requira said, sitting up slightly straighter in her chair. Across the table from her, Teneo nodded.

"We've had Inedio and Aestuo meditating around the clock. They have done well." Tenuo added.

Formida glanced sidelong at her fellow knights. The bruise-dark rings under their eyes and the way their robes hung so loose over their frames were testament to the truth of Tenuo's words. Formida did not envy their duties in the work they all shared.

"And the drills?" Morbus asked, turning to Situs.

"Subjects are more responsive. Time to submission is decreasing, and retention is up nearly twenty percent." Situs said quickly.

"We expect the trend to continue when subjects are fully recovered."

Morbus nodded. "Good. Good." He said, switching the holoprojector from statistics readouts to a schematic of the facility. "I have had word from Stilia that our transport will be ready tomorrow. She will pilot it herself. Our Garrison commander ensures me that, with all our equipment prepared, we can have the facility cleared in three hours. Tonight, we will power down all non-essential systems and pack away all our research and documents. The Commander will place charges in the morning to destroy all that we cannot take with us after we leave." Morbus stood, causing the other Prophets to also stand.

"With the dawn comes Freedom. Prepare yourselves, my Brothers and Sisters. With our new power, we shall gain true Victory in the Force."

"Through Victory, my chains are broken." The others said in unison.

"The Force shall free us." Morbus finished.

---

High above Ossus, The Caldera dropped from hyperspace. Immediately upon arrival, all comms to and from the planet were commandeered through she yacht's own security systems. It was not unheard of for Her Radiance to come to Ossus, but this visit required a higher level of security.

Within her chambers, Renata was roused from her meditations by the slight tremor of reentering real space. The programmed tone chimed several seconds too late to alert her. Rising, the Dark Empress made her way to her private shuttle. The others, selected for this mission with care, would board their own transport from the main hangar and meet her on the surface. Just outside her shuttle in the private hangar, four of the elite Adamant Guard stood at attention, awaiting their Empress. Renata paused as she neared them, reaching out to each mind. She felt the steady, unflinching devotion of each and breathed it in before continuing up the ship's ramp. One by one, they turned and followed.

The shuttle moved, swift and quiet down into the atmosphere and then across the night sky. As it landed, the small orb of Mim was just setting to the west, Nerit began her own climb into the heavens. The light reflected off the large moon was almost as bright as a rising sun across the surface of Ossus. Almost, but not quite. A false dawn, Renata thought, as she descended the ramp and moved across the landing platform.

The other shuttle had already landed and been emptied. As Renata had instructed, only one soul awaited her arrival, rather than the noisier ceremony of a full Imperial welcome. Stilia bowed low as Renata approached, informing her that the others had been taken inside and awaited her arrival, as had been ordered. Renata acknowledged the woman with a nod of her head, gesturing for her to lead the way.

[Rugs]

“And what is the situation, as we know it, on Ossus?”

Aurelius, Golden Pillar and High Archon for the Sith Order, stood with his hand clasped casually behind his back. Before him, at the center of a small briefing room in the heart of Dromund Kaas’ Sith Temple, floated a projection of the world of the ancient Jedi world, Ossus.

It was a Jedi world no longer, its surface turned to an irradiated wasteland during a cataclysm in the Great Sith War some few hundred years ago. For centuries, the Galaxy ignored Ossus; it was too inhospitable for any sane person, and what secrets remained in the ancient Jedi Library’s rubble and ruins couldn't be worth the risk.

Until the Sith Order and Empire reemerged. For years — and at great expense — the Sith labored not only to rebuild the ruins into a repository of some of the Order’s most valuable knowledge but to create safe pockets of livable space on the blasted, lifeless world.

It was no wonder that the Cult of Mysteries gravitated toward the world. In that, there was no harm.

“Rogue Prophets, My Lord.”

Lady Attour, Archon in the Cult of Mysteries and one of Aurelius’ most loyal underlings, stood on the opposite side of the holoprojector. Ossus’ projection, whirling slowly between them, blurred her face.

A red circle marked the site of the Great Library, with a fainter line marking the extent of the ray shield that kept the deadly radiation at bay. A smaller red triangle a few hundred kilometers away marked the site of a research outpost, built after the Library’s completion. As with the library, a faint dotted line marked the extent of the protective shielding around the facility.

"Less than ten of them, from what we know; some full Prophets, others Knights of Mysteries. They’ve limited communications with their fellows stationed at the Great Library since securing that Archeri crystal specimen.” Attour’s lips pursed in disapproval. “We are aware of the name ‘Free Prophets,’ my Lord. Whether they seek to limit this rebellion to their own or rally others to their cause is, as of yet, unclear. Our source could only send limited information.”

Aurelius snorted. “Free Prophets,” he muttered under his breath. “So free they tie their names to the legacy they want to leave behind. This source, Attour — coming from the inside?”

“Yes, My Lord. Likely seeking a favorable position for when their plot is crushed underfoot.”

“Of course they are.” Aurelius’ voice was flat. He wasn’t sure if the traitors or the coward irritated him more.

“My Lord, shall I assemble a task force of Archons to deal with these upstarts?”

“No,” Aurelius said sternly. “Not this time. Her Radiance will see to this personally, and is hand-selecting those will attend her.” Not for the first time, Aurelius wondered what was driving Renata so. This insurrection alone - to say nothing of the rebels on Dantooine - was cause enough for her wrath, but the Order had crushed uprisings before.

She hid it, but there was something about the crystal that seemed to draw her onward. What are you after? he wondered.

“Of course, My Lord,” Attuor missed a beat. A minor hesitation; here and gone, it might have gone unnoticed to someone who didn’t know the Kiffar well. Aurelius couldn’t fault her; the Empress’ attention added magnitudes of weight to any matter.

“Her Radiance wishes for this to handled quietly, Attuor,” Aurlius said. The Kiffar nodded, mouth tight. The words were enough. “You have done well. Now we will see to executing Her Radiance’s will.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Attuor bowed deeply. She would speak of this to no one; of that Aurelius was sure. Attuor was more loyal to the Empress than she was to even himself.

“Janse,” Aurelius said, acknowledging for the first time his apprentice standing beside him. “Let this be your first lesson in the duties of our Cult. The Order spares no patience for traitors.”

---

Lightning, so distant that only the weakest thunder followed, seared the horizon as Aurelius’ shuttle approached the landing pad ahead of Renata’s. “Don’t make a fool of yourself before the Empress, boy,” he warned Janse as the vessel sat down with a thud and settled onto its landing struts.

He wore an outfit that blurred the line between militaristic and the robes more commonly found among the Order. A black single-breasted armorweave coat, its gold buttons along the right side of his torso, with a kama that reached to the backs of his knees. Gold, the color of Ascension, accented the coat’s edges, and he wore a golden one-shoulder cape over his left arm with Ascension’s chevron marked in black in its center. His pants, boots and gloves were black, similarly accented in places as his coat, and he wore a pin of Ascension’s golden chevron beside his collar.

Hot, dry wind blew into his shuttle, tousling his shaggy blue-streaked-black hair as the front opened wide. He led the way onto the landing pad, sure that his apprentice — bubbling with excitement at a chance to see the Empress as he was — was in tow. The three lightsabers at his waist pinged gently against each other in rhythm with his stride. Ahead of them, the Great Library rose out of the desert, a monument to the Order’s resurgence. What the Jedi had abandoned for lost, beyond recovery, the Sith had built anew.

A darkness clung to Ossus, and not only from the Empire’s presence. The calamity that struck long ago during the Great Sith War — when the destruction of a nearby star cluster ruined the world forever — left an agony in the Force that permeated every rock, every dry root and branch on the world. It was still throbbing and raw, like a wound left to fester. “Do you feel it?” he asked Janse as Stilia approached them. “Old hurts linger here. Old wounds left unhealed.”

The traitor to the Free Prophets greeted them with a smile and niceties and ushered them inside the Library. Lightning from a distant storm lit the horizon as they were lead inside. There, Arelius stood at the ready for his Empress to arrive.

[caelum]

When he was a boy, a learner still, he had been taught to meditate. To find a silent corner of his mind, to construct a place filled with silence and light and to keep it within him. It would serve to balance him, to keep his center cleared of doubt and shadow, somewhere he would be able to retreat to if necessary. Nostos remembered that it had been difficult for the boy he was to achieve this, his mind was constantly racing, worrying over one thing or another, and true peace was difficult to achieve. He remember that boy's master suggesting to occupy his mind with creating a mental landscape, that where others achieve peace with a complete absence, the child could accomplish another way. The boy had imagined places close to him; The jungles of Onderon, the gentle plains of Dantooine, the warm glow of home, a vista emotionally resonant with him that tied him to the physical reality of the Force.

His vista was was no longer quite so accommodating.

He sat upon the sea floor, the surface a fine black sand, his body hovering above and around the pale white bones of ancient leviathans long extinct. Water no longer pooled on the ocean's surface, instead following a strange, surreal, logic that had the dark waters flow over to the edge of the slowly growing ravine. This water rushed up into the sky above, casting an oceanic curtain that cast a dark shadow over the desolate sands below. The water seemed to pool from these dark sands, draining up into the sky like the oozing juices of an overripe fruit, the waters draining away to reveal the death and rot of a million years, buried by the sea. Far above him, the sky was a dull red, the color of an endless dusk that would never pass.

There were lights around him, pale, silvery, lights that resembled aquatic life as they moved to and fro. A few of those lights were near him now, and a sliver of his volition slipped as his senses adjusted to the noises of the mundane world. He heard them speak.

"How much longer now?"

Lieutenant Nivix's voice echoed across the bleak expanse. It sounded as though she was underwater, though that wasn't quite right either. She seemed more hollow in this place, less present, and the one she was speaking to seemed even less so.

"We'll be landing momentarily." the voice responded, it's presence less than a ghost to him. "I must admit, I expected we'd have brought the ship down to the planet instead of a shuttle, it's rated for atmospheric landings isn't it?"

"It is." Nivix said. "But protocols do as protocols must, especially with an Empress in tow. I'll get him up."

The vista in front of him seemed to expand now, as they grew closer and closer to the surface of the planet. A widening of the sense, an expansion of the panorama. Even that didn't seem to fit. It seemed more like this place simply asserted more of itself, like it was always there, lurking behind his senses, a crystallization of the self, a magnificent desolation.

"My Lord? We're here."

Lord Nostos breathed, his senses falling away, the mindscape crumbling as he opened his eyes. A few seconds later, the shuttle landed upon the ferrocrete landing pad with a thud. Bright eyes took Nivix in for a moment before he nodded.

"And so we have." he said, his feet touching the ground. "Let us go."

There was a time for modesty and a time for grandiosity, meeting the Empress required a modicum of both. Nostos had never been a particularly extravagant individual, where other Lords and Ladies had drained their accounts in the pursuit of more worldly pleasures, Nostos kept himself distracted with books and readings into the legends of ages past. This, unfortunately, meant that his wardrobe had been rather depressingly void. Fortunately, Lady Eeyrie had used her resources extravagantly, and while the vast majority of her wardrobe was not suited to Nostos and thus arranged for trading and disposal, others were more useful to him.

Nostos wore a black side cape on his left side that reached to his knees, the fabric made of dathomirian spider silk. The cape's inner section, as well as it's edges, were lined in silver. On his left shoulder, atop the cape, lay the tempered skull of an adolescent tuk'ata. Beneath this cape, Nostos wore similar garments to his usual, a form fitting ensemble with a high collar whose robes cut a few inches prior the cape itself. His lightsaber was clipped to his right sise in full view, it's silvery components both drawing attention to itself and matching with the silvery belt that constrained the robes around him. Hidden from view beneath the cape was another lightsaber, held in reserve, a little bit of treachery hidden in a velvet curtain.

The Sith Lord marched off the shuttle, Lieutenant Nivix behind him as well as a handful of troopers acting as an honor guard. He had been particular about the markings they were to exhibit, that their left shoulder pad painted silver, as well as a silver marking on their helmets from their left brow over to their left cheek. It was important that they were clearly defined, that they were differentiated from others, their allegiance to the Order clear.

Nostos's gaze found the person that was supposed to meet him, a robed figure, his cloak lined in silver. Nostos pursed his lips as the figure approached.

"My Lord and Prophet." she says, a deep, respectful, bow. "It is an honor to meet you, I-"

"You were one of the sith here that formed the Ossus Cabal, correct?" Nostos interrupts, his words cold and unsympathetic. "That same Cabal that has made a mockery of our Order, embarrassing ourselves and our purpose?"

The girl stuttered. "I-I took no part in their treachery, my Prophet. I, as well as many others, fled as soon as we learned of their treachery."

"So your sins are incompetence and ignorance instead of treachery, how droll." he snaps back. "Enough of this. Bring us to the meeting hall, there is much to do."

The girl stammered her apologies and retreated with almost indecent haste, walking forward as Nostos and his retinue followed. The Sith Lord sensed a flash of emotion and turned, glancing over at Nivix.

"Something amusing you, Lieutenant?"

"Nothing at all, my Lord." she responded promptly. "Merely that it had been a long time since I've seen you angry."

Nostos considered that thought for a moment, even as the structure ahead loomed closer with each step, like a starving, desperate, beast. "I suspect that the Empress will not be in the mood for this kind of insubordination." Nostos finally remarks, as they step into the darkness. "Many will die today, and it seems appropriate to make ready my appetite for it. I suspect duty will compel me to see many of them die by my hand."

With that, he says nothing more, and the retinue passed into the installation with a sense of quiet purpose, interrupted only by the nervous stammering of their host.

[hugo]

The frigate called Render shuddered subtly a few seconds before the expected chime and flood of light indicated that they had arrived.  The silent darkness that was host to his meditations over the past several hours was suddenly no more, the sterile white lights of his temporary quarters painting every corner of the respectable chamber in stark detail.  His eyes fluttered open sleepily, struggling to adjust to both the brightness and his sudden reunion with reality.  He had been, moments before, far from the Render and further still from Ossus, in a far away and strange place for which there was no name, where he often retreated to ruminate the dark mysteries of the Force.  

He rose from his position near the room's center and sauntered toward the cabin's viewing port, his battered leg protesting with a light throb as he moved for the first time in hours.  Through the glass he could see his destination, the ancient Jedi world of Ossus, far below, a rust-hued orb whose devastation could be observed readily even this far above.  Just as he was beginning to wonder when his transport would be ready, the soft dee doo of the cabin's intercom sounded.

"My lord, we are entering orbit.  Your shuttle is prepped and waiting in launch port gamma."  Captain Syndra's measured tenor came across the speaker with the same mixed tone of fear and apprehension he had grown accustomed to from non-Order subordinates.  He couldn't be too flattered.  Visarion himself was full of apprehension, owing to the gravity of the situation on the surface below.  Taking another long look at the spoiled planet below, he turned to the wardrobe near his bed to find his best robes.  "Very well Captain."  

After Visarion had received his present orders back on Korriban, he decided to take along some of his better vestments, though only a couple pieces were of any remarkable value and none were particularly splendid.  Still, his formal robe and tunic would do well enough for their purposes.  It was cut slim, though it still hung a little around his emaciated body.  The tunic was a basic, dark affair, not very different from those seen so often in the halls of the Korriban academy, though it was clean and unwrinkled and that passed for fancy in the wardrobe of Knight Visarion.  The robe was a little more showy, with burgundy, Imperial-esque motifs sewn subtly allover and a thin crimson braid sewn in along the edges of the flowing black cape and the wide hood's brim.  He dressed quickly and attached a miniature datapad and the glinting silver hilt of his lighstaber to his utility belt, which was obscured by the airy robes.

Before his chamber doors slid open with a hiss, he took a long breath and searched for his center.  Not only was he about to enter a hive of probably treasonous heretics, indeed they could be permanently dealt with in one way or another, but he was en route for his first meeting with the most powerful woman, and arguably individual, in the galaxy: the Empress Renata.  He'd seen the monarch once before, when she'd given a brief address to a group of neophytes on Korriban, though they'd never spoken.  Why he'd been chosen as part of her cadre, he could not say, yet he was not there to question Her Radiance's methods.  He was there to execute her terrible will, whatever form it took.

Visarion never cared at all for politics, and kept as far away as could be managed from the intrigue and oneupsmanship that pervaded the Order.  That sort of power isn't what drove him to make Korriban home.  He was after something larger and altogether different: truth.  The dark side held many mysteries, and the Order was the only place he knew of that had the knowledge and resources to explore them satisfactorily.  That was, if these upstart fools below didn't burn the whole house down.  

~~~

All of this was on the Hapan's mind as his shuttle made its turbulent descent to the rendez-vous.  He was uncharacteristically coiffed, his coarse black hair fashioned into a mostly presentable comb-over.  He wore no mask today, so his pale face with its thin white scar was in view.  His bright blue eyes were flecked with unnatural yellow, and his face was twisted into its cold, distant grimace.  Before long, the shuttle touched down, and the little Sith rose and briskly exited down the ramp once the airlock doors had slid open.

The welcoming party was sparse, a single woman who commenced to blabber the expected niceties.  A little perturbed, he took in the scenery silently, only nodding at her words.  She led him into the facility, presumably to the appointed location.  

He was the third to arrive, immediately recognizing Lords Aurelius and Nostos.  With the Empress presumably en route, Visarion felt completely out of his element.  A lowly Knight of Mysteries, alongside the Empress and two of her closest lieutenants.  Fortunately, he had dealings with Nostos, who headed the Cult, on a few prior occasions.  The most notable of these was their rather recent misadventure on Ziost, another ancient world with a deep connection to the Force.  But the search for lost knowledge had brought them to Ziost.  Ossus was a different story entirely.  Here, much wailing and gnashing of teeth was to be expected, for this sort of danger to Imperial stability and Sith orthodoxy could be dealt with in only one way.  He understood the Empress herself would lead their efforts, and her lead was what mattered, but Visarion could not envision a scenario without bloodshed.  These Free Prophets of Ossus would have to be made an example, so that all they galaxy could witness them pay the terrible price of dissent.  

"My Lords," he said lowly as he bowed curtly, his faint voice carrying as if from a great distance.  From the countenances around the room and the tense aura permeating the building, Visarion apprised rather immediately that he was not the only one present who understood what was about to transpire.  

[Valcor]

Janse, ever since finding out exactly who this mission was for, had been preparing himself.  His clothes were pressed until nary a crease could be found in them, and his boots were polished until they reflected the lights over head to all those who could see.  For today, he was meeting the Empress herself... in the flesh.  To say Janse was giddy would be an understatement.  "Just wait until I tell father", the boy thought to himself with an amused grin.

Purple and white clothed his form, as formal regalia of his home world clung tightly to his body.  His chest was white, with golden buttons pinning the militaristic garb firmly in place as purple highlights lined the seams of the expertly crafted article.  Janse's pants were much the same leading down into light violet boots that would no doubt lose there shine the instant the sterile environment of the ship was left.  Finally a purple beret pinned his hair in place upon his head, a rather simple rendition of his family's coat of arms held stay upon it.  This truly was Janse Fashad in rare form, for despite his usual formal appearance, this was a whole other level of professionalism. 

From his place behind his master, Darth Aurelius, Janse stood out by intention among the drab colors of the crew and company.  The young noble only hoped this would keep when he meet the Esteemed herself.  As Aurelius exchanged words with Lady Attour, Janse watched the encroaching planet with an almost predatory gaze.  Of course he was hanging on his Master's words, but so too did he await his arrival to the mission that had robbed him of sleep for days.

When his own name was finally spoken, Janse's eyes were torn from the world below to meet Aurelius'.

“Janse, let this be your first lesson in the duties of our Cult. The Order spares no patience for traitors.”

The boy was all too eager to answer.

"Yes Master Aurelius."  Janse said with a confident smirk, his chin raised haughtily.

"You know Master... I'm no stranger to stamping out upstart rebels myself."  With this, Janse rubbed the knuckles of one purple clad hand against his breast.

"I won't disappoint." The Tarkan boy finished, turning his gaze back to the world beneath.  In time Janse would descend to the surface, trailing behind Aurelius the whole while, ensuring he was both behind and beside his master with every step the pair took.  Fashad knew his place, and took no small amount of pride in it as he walked from the bridge of the ship, to the hanger, onto the shuttle, and finally off of it.

When the pair finally set foot planet side, Janse's ears took in every word his elder teacher spoke once more.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself before the Empress, boy,”

Janse did not expect these words to sting as they did, causing the youth to pause in his steps and his jaw to drop.  As quickly as he was wounded, Janse healed himself, and caught back up to pace with his educator.

"Master, your words do me injury.  You know I would never allow you to come to shame by my action!"  With this Janse nodded to himself, sure his statement had assuaged the Firrerreo's concerns.  In the silence that followed, Janse began to ready himself for the Empress Renata.  He practiced his greeting mentally, banishing ones that sounded too chummy, as well as those that seemed like groveling.  It was always a balancing act when meeting someone of higher status, on the one hand, you had to give them their proper respect, while on the other, one did not want to come off as pandering lest you insult their intelligence.  No, Janse had the perfect greeting, one that would cement himself as both respectful and of distinction himself.

There's no way this can go poorly.

“Do you feel it?  Old hurts linger here. Old wounds left unhealed.”  

To this, Janse was not entirely sure how to respond, nor what exactly his Master was referring.  Yet, as Stilla approached, there was no time to probe further.  So the youth only gave an understanding frown-nod, and followed along.

The moment was near, and Janse's gut began to twist in anticipation.  This would surely be the most his family had ever been honored in their lengthy history... Meeting an Empress.

[Meira]

In the moments before the meeting chamber doors opened, a certain change in the air could be felt. Like a ringing in the ear, or was it a drop in the temperature? An almost imperceptible vibration of all things. The doors opened and two by two the four Adamant Guard filled the frame, Their near-black crimson armor was flat and reflecting no light from the chamber as they took position in the four corners of the room. As one, the weighted ends of their force-pikes thumped to the ground. In the void they left in the doorway, a much smaller, frailer silhouette then appeared. That thin specter stepped forward, the light falling across her hooded form. A pale, pointed chin, blood-red and thin lips, a slender neck; these were all that could be seen of the Dark Empress beneath that hooded robe, the color of blood in the moonlight.

She moved, without pause, to the seat of honor readied for her at the head of the room. This library was no palace, and while royal chambers had been created high at the top of the library years ago, this mission would not see them used. This day was vital to the Empire, but the Empress would not have it known. She sat upon the chair, the only one in the room, and allowed the silence that always followed her arrival to wrap around each being before her. It crept along their ankles, snaked their shoulders, and pressed into their chests. It coiled around their ears and down their spines. When it had enveloped them entirely, Renata lifted her hands and pulled back the hood of her robe.

Her red hair did not hang loose and wild in its usual way, but was pulled back, braided and coiled, pinned to her head. The sharp lines of her face were more pronounced now, the hollows of her cheeks shadowed. Her eyes, lined dramatically black and shaded, glowed yellow rather than their usual electric blue. Hanging from her neck A large ruby glinted with six black points radiating outward from it. It too seemed to glow, but not with the dim light of the room. No, the stone glowed by Her Radiance.

As her hands lowered from her hood back to her lap, Renata's eyes moved to each of the Sith she'd summoned. They fell first, as was only right, on her High Archon. Through that bond they shared, she reached out, sharing the sense of pride she felt at his strength and loyalty. Next, Lord Nostos, a stalwart and true Prophet. The Knight Visarion, unsure, but determined. For the acolyte, she spared only the most fleeting glance. He was here as a matter of Darth Aurelius' privilege. His would be the honor or shame of this apprentice's deeds.

"Our Order," she said, her voice not much louder than a whisper, "stands upon the unbreakable foundation of the Four Cults. When a soul is raised into the Cult, it is brought into Our Body." Renata gestured toward her own heart, her eyes on the Knight. "It is the responsibility of Our Order to ensure those inducted will serve Our Body, and the Empire with every fiber of their being. They are their own no longer." Her eyes passed over the acolyte as those last words were spoken.

"But when a cancer enters the Body, it must be cut out. Here, such a cancer has been allowed to fester. It has stolen pieces of Our Body and turned them against Us. Lady Stilia, come forward." Renata lifted a hand, beckoning.

Lady Stilia had pressed herself to the wall by the door, having entered unseen behind Renata. The woman, in simple black robes, took a steadying breath before walking the several paces to kneel before Renata. With both knees to the floor, Lady Stilia dropped her head low and raised her empty hands to the Empress. They trembled, but only slightly.

"Yours was the only voice to call out. In this nest of Vipers, you remain true." Renata reached out her own hand, placing it upon the woman's bowed head. Lady Stilia's shoulders slumped slightly, an audible sigh escaping her as Renata's presence overwhelmed her. "The Heart thanks you, but you have work yet to be done. Rise, Lady Stilia, and prepare the shuttle."

Stilia obeyed, practically leaping to her feet. She bowed quickly and rushed from the room. Another silence fell as the door closed behind her and Renata allowed it to settle once more before continuing.

"We will travel to the remote research station designated Site 3. The facility is mostly underground and currently houses eight traitors. The former Prophets Morbus, Situs, Requira, Teneo, and Profera, along with their three Knights Formida, Inedio, and Aestuo. Site 3 also maintains a small garrison of no more than a dozen guards. The subjects also housed at the facility and the equipment are to be protected. Lady Stilia will fly us to the facility aboard a shuttle the traitors are expecting. We will cut out the cancerous false prophets. The Knights might yet be saved, so be vigilant. Have you any questions?"

[Rugs]

One after another the others arrived, a Lord of Mysteries, and then a Knight. While policing the order fell under Ascension, and thus under Aurelius’ purview, he took no issue with two representatives of the now-leaderless Mysteries being present. Perhaps if the last Grand Prophet had paid more mind to her cult, they wouldn’t be here having to clean up the mess.

But Keres had a brief tenure before her disappearance in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. So here they were, cleaning up the mess.

The chambers they waited served as a meeting room for the library’s leadership. The walls were stately stone, smooth and polished and fit together with perfect, exacting precision. Two red Imperial banners hung from the walls, one on each side of the rectangular room. The ceiling arched slightly to a vaulted top.

While they waited on Her Radiance, Aurelius took a moment to study his companions. The Lord, Nostos, he was vaguely familiar with by name only. The Knight, he did not know. Janse, he noted with a passing glance at his apprentice, still buzzed with energy, clearly eager to meet the Empress.

It was, perhaps, the only bright spot in the grimly-determined aura that cloaked the room.

Before the doors parted, he felt a shifting in the Force, a presence that he knew well. A presence that could only belong to one other.

“She is here,” he muttered.

The doors parted and the Adamant Guard filed in, and the Empress after them. Aurelius bowed slightly, a bend at the waist that held until he felt her eyes on him felt her presence against his own. As he lifted his golden eyes to hers, he blinked — the only show of surprise to see the color mirrored in her own. It was rare that Renata’s visage changed such.

I stand ready to serve, he thought. Your Radiance. Under normal circumstances, he might have spoken the words aloud, in a display of formality. These circumstances were far from normal. A silence pressed at the air itself, and Aurelius dared not break it. Not for something Renata already knew.

But before her gaze moved on, there was a flash in Nieraan’s eye, a hunger in his presence. Even going back to his days as a Sith Knight, as Nieraan Onin, and hers as merely Darth Renata, he’d served as a hunter for her on occasion, to be unleashed to deal with loose ends and shadowed threats.

It had been too long since he was last given the chance to do so again, and he relished the opportunity before him.

As she spoke, he listened. As she called for Stilia, the turncoats’ turncoat, he watched in silence, though his wary gaze never wavered far from the Lady. It was in Sith nature to act in self-preservation. He could not fault Stilia for that, but was she truly loyal, or had she merely seen the coming doom and acted to save herself?

We will see.

As Renata named each of the traitorous Lords, Aurelius nodded. Three Knights with them. This party, this grouping of select Sith and Her Radiance, was outnumbered, but Aurelius did not consider the odds against them.

This will be a test for you, though, he thought with a brief look to his apprentice. For an acolyte, even the Knights might prove a stiff challenge. But Janse was capable.

And with the Empress present, the boy would have no choice but to succeed. If his vaunted honor counted for anything, Aurelius assumed.

“I have a request, Your Radiance,” he said as Renata finished and invited them to speak. “These traitorous Knights, should any of them survive what’s coming,” his voice left evident his doubts about that, “I would see them turned over to Ascension’s stewardship, for a time at least.

“As you say, a cancer has festered here.” He scowled slightly, showing the tips of his fangs. “I will ensure that whatever rot these Lords have subjected them to is cleansed away before they rejoin the whole of our Order.”

[Valcor]

Perhaps if he were of clear mind and direct of focus, Janse could have felt the proximity growing closer.  His desire for this one person would have made it all too easy.  Yet, Janse was not of clear mind, nor direct of focus.  He shook, against his will, as he waited and more Sith arrived to bolster the numbers.  The youth's mind was a whir of emotion and nerves with that terrible waiting, once again, driving him to near silent madness.  

To him, this was the culmination of years, decades even, of conditioning and training.  He had learned the words to speak, the placement of feet, the very exact location to rest his gaze, all for this moment.  Yet, no amount of preparation or tutelage could prepare him to hear those words.

“She is here,”

And the doors hissed open.

When the first boots of the Adamant Guard stepped in, the boy let out a long shaky breath he had not realized was held.  Only when he saw Her Radiance herself pass into the library, did the lost breath suck itself back into his lungs to be kept prisoner once more.  Were well disciplined muscles not in play, Janse would have stood dumbfounded in place.  Yet he was well drilled, and despite held breath and quivering gut, Fashad took to action.  When those eyes passed over him, beret was removed and a bow was offered.

His purple cover was hidden behind his back by one hand, while another wrapped formally about his midsection, the rest of his body bent forward to offer his respect.

One.

Two.

Three... and rise.

And he was back upright.  Much to the youth's relief, the Empress had passed her gaze over him in his display and had since taken her position at the head of the room.  Finally he could breathe normal once more.  He had passed this silent exam, if only for the moment, but small victories were victories none the less.

With a silent sliding of his feet, Janse settled in for the preparations.  His hands folded behind him to take hold of his beret that would bear the brunt of his anxiety from now until the Empress left, being twisted and torqued this way and that in the privacy of the small of his back.  Then... She spoke.

"Our Order, stands upon the unbreakable foundation of the Four Cults. When a soul is raised into the Cult, it is brought into Our Body."

Janse hung on every word, clenching and unclenching his jaw to give his mind some escape from the torment of his fluttering gut.

"It is the responsibility of Our Order to ensure those inducted will serve Our Body, and the Empire with every fiber of their being. They are their own no longer."

With this Janse steeled his gaze.  For once, confidence filled his being, abating all else in this moment, even a small haughty grin playing upon his lips.  "Traitors."  He thought to himself as he nestled into a familiar territory.  Even his chin ventured to rise at the thought of the honor it would bring to strike these petulant upstarts down.  

How could they dare to oppose her Majesty?  He thought with genuine confusion.  Yet... All thoughts were soon deleted when Janse's eyes were met with the piercing yellow of Renata herself.

Had she used the force to freeze him in place?  Janse's higher brain functions tried in vain to regain control, to move his form and keep his idiot jaw from going slack, and yet met a wall somewhere within his mind.  His eyes held hers in a kind of trance, even as they moved on without pause.

As Empress Renata continued to speak, and beckon Lady Stilla, Janse agonized against himself to regain control.  Words came and passed over pounding ears without recognition as the youth stood dumbfounded and slack-jawed.

Move.

Move you idiot!

Hands twisted beret until the fibers of the hat began to squeak under the force.

Do not embarrass yourself! He all but screamed within his own mind.

And finally, his jaw pulled itself shut with a snap.  Another small victory.  With painfully slow motions, the boy straightened himself once more, his muscles moved as if trapped in a nightmare, only for them to hold once again in form.

"Have you any questions?"

Shit...  At least no one noticed.  Right?  Aurelius will fill me in... Right?!

[caelum]

His footsteps echoed across the grey, lifeless, stone. The structure was typical of imperial constructions, though it had markers indicating it's ownership to the Cult of Mysteries. The interlocking entryways, the shrouded hallways, the rooms laced with traps both occult and mundane. It all spoke to a level of protection and paranoia, a marker of madness perhaps. Or was it merely an indicator of the eventual treachery of the Diocese of Ossus? In the event of treachery, the Empire could conceivably bombard and destroy their citadels, but not when it housed the lore of the Sith. Too much has been lost to the ages and the Jedi already, the loss of any further such knowledge was unacceptable. It would need to be reclaimed, and the Free Prophets would be capable of extracting a vicious toll as a consequence.

Nostos nearly snorted aloud at the name. Free Prophets. It was such a deluded sentiment, and spoke either of their whimpering need to be seen as righteous, or an even more pathetic belief in the concept, not realizing it's broader implications. Freedom was not a high minded ideal to strive towards but an ethereal poison, impossible to grasp but so easy to choke on. To be free is to act without regard of the consequences, to be free to do as one pleases and to think as one desires. To take upon oneself a journey for freedom is the same as walking the path to power, and to invite everyone along that path constricts it, diluting it, weakening it by the entrance of the self-indulgent and foolish. 

A mad philosophy. The collapse of hierarchy and order. The Free Prophets will die here for their insurrection, Ossus will be their tomb, and their libraries retaken for the Empire.

The Empress spoke and Nostos considered her words. The path they had chosen, that the Sith had chosen and that the Empire follows as it wills, was an unusual one. It was, strictly speaking, not in keeping with the Order as defined by Darth Traya, or by Darth Revan or by the ancient sith of Korriban even. It was an unusual thing, one that spoke of an evolution to the methods of the past, and Nostos was not entirely sure if it settled well with him. Nonetheless, he would serve.

And so would this Lady Stilia serve as well. A traitor to the traitors, Nostos wondered what else she had told the Empress in exchange for her life. What else she was given, to enforce her loyalty. Nostos was not particularly knowledgeable of the Ossus Cult, but he had a feeling that after this whole affair was over that this Stilia would be someone to note. A prominent loyalist, given leave to be the crux upon the plan to destroy her fellows. Nostos imagined she would be granted some significant position in the cult, should she survive. If she survived.

The fact that she alerted them meant that, when she died, Nostos would ensure it would be a relatively painless one.

"Have you any questions?"

Nostos was about to speak, but silenced himself as he spied Darth Aurelius beginning to speak. A bad start, if he would interrupt the Sith Lord, but he paid attention and listened. At the end of it, the Prophet spoke.

"This event reflects badly upon the Cult of Mysteries, for which I apologize on behalf of our Order." Nostos spits contemptuously, before giving Visarion a nod of recognition. "While it would be pleasant to reduce any surviving traitors to ash, the High Archon, of course, takes precedence in those desires."

A pause, before turning to the Empress. "I would wish to know more about these traitors. The Diocese of Ossus is not readily known to me, and understanding who they are, what they were trying to achieve here, as well as their capabilities, would greatly assist in this hunt."

[hugo]

Visarion wasted no time in taking his place halfway down the table, opposite Darth Aurelius and Lord Nostos. It was a long, stately room of some importance, a formal conference room, he supposed. Before seating himself, the Hapan stole another glance at Darth Aurelius, a scowling Firrerreo who appeared more youthful than Visarion realized he must have been. Indeed, all of them were young.



As if to underscore the point, he noticed for the first time Aurelius' apprentice, whom he acknowledged with a nod. The elegant but dark room was heavy, and little was said.  

Talking was always awkward for Visarion. He disliked talking in general, much preferring the company of books. Books did not talk, but people did, ergo Visarion liked people less than books. But even a lot as tight-lipped as the Sith had their formalities, though he enjoyed the periodic, erudite conversation of Korriban's archives to an extent. As far as impressions went, however, Aurelius and Nostos were not the main affair of the gathering. He remained standing, mindful of that fact.



Visarion was pondering this, wondering what the Empress was like, when he noticed the slightest adjustment to the room's energy. A feeling, nearly imperceptible, identical to the sensation of the hair standing up on one's neck.  The rhythmic marching of the Adamant guard could be heard a moment later.  The Pristine Heart was nearly upon them.

The Empress entered their presence with a determination.  Visarion was at first struck by how slight she was, a clear contrast to the terrible presence that permeated from her being.  Though he was aware formality was not among present company's top priorities, Visarion still thought it prudent to stand until she had been seated.  He listened, blue-yellow eyes fixed on Renata as she spoke.  He scowled as she hissed cancer.  Indeed, that is what they had been sent to cure: a terrible sickness.

When her eyes briefly caught his, he blinked, a little surprised.  So this would be an objective of both discretion and danger.  The numbers were slightly against them, but that was of little importance.  Fear was a powerful thing, and glancing quickly up and down the table, he could imagine few inquisitors more fearsome than those in his immediate company.

Aurelius' notion that the hypothetical survivors be given over to his custody caught Visarion's interest. In his view, the Order would be better served by relegating the abortive heretics to his own Cult's custody. But it was best not to belabor the point, particularly not before a Darth and Empress.

"Your Radiance, is it your will that, if possible, the Prophets be taken intact?"  he asked once his superiors had launched their inquiries following Renata's invitation.  

Considering the coming confrontation, Visarion was grateful to have had the opportunity to spend an extended period in his Grove.  He always felt most in tune with the Force, most wise, when he spent some time in solitude, alone and wholly in touch with the raw Force.  He would need all the focus he could get.

[Meira]

"As We are the Heart, Ascension is the lifeblood of the Order. If there is to be healing, if any are to be saved, it is right that Our High Archon should see it done." Renata said, affording Aurelius a slight nod of her head. You will protect Us. As you have before, and will again. She completed, for him alone. That fire had not been overlooked. She was pleased to sense it. She would need his wrath in the coming fight.

"Their work," she continued aloud once again, her eyes turning back to Nostos, "had begun as an extension of Our will. Morbus was one most praised by Darth Keres for his insight and skill in matters of the mind. A study of unity had been delegated to him and his fellows. But it seems Keres was too free with her praise, and Morbus to proud. He and the other traitors have perverted Our purpose, turning their research into the minds of Our people to their own ends." Renata's gaze moved to Visarion.

"There are no Prophets at Site 3. Only traitors and wayward Knights. If they surrender, the Knights will be relegated to the justice of the Cult of Ascension, as is the proper Order. Should their penance be true and their souls cleansed, they might yet find their place once again."

Renata stood then, content that they all knew as much as need be said. Two of the Adamant Guard stepped to either side of her as she shrugged off her cloak. Beneath, she wore a simple black shift dress, her thin arms bare and her only adornment the ruby pendant necklace. On a plain black sash, her two lightsabers waited. It had been so long since she need activate them. But she could feel the battle to come, and knew their thirst would soon be sated.

"Come." she said simply, and turned to lead the way from the room. Her Guard walked in close formation around her as they moved along a narrow back corridor toward the Library's hangar. The vast space had been cleared of all personnel, and was a ghostly silent shell of its usually bustling self. One shuttle sat, ramp lowered and waiting for them all. In the pilot's chair, Lady Stilia waited.

Renata boarded the craft, waiting only long enough for the others to be up the ramp before ordering it closed. They all stood in the large, open cargo hold of the shuttle, their only like the soft red glow above them. In moments, Stilia lifted the ship from they ground and they began their ponderous approach toward Site 3. As they flew, Renata closed her eyes. Her mind, her will reached out, blanketing each of them in turn. Whatever other mind or presence that might been seeking theirs out would be buffeted, turned away and unable to focus, to notice.

---

"Stilia approaches." Morbus said, his eyes opening and turning to his protege. "Take these." He handed her his datapad and gestured to the box of his belongings he'd just finished packing as he stood from his now empty desk and made his way from his office for what he knew would be the last time. As moved along the corridor, he reached out with his senses, feeling throughout the base. It seemed that all was prepared. They would be ready to load as soon as Stilia set down. If all went well, she would scarcely need to power down the engines before...

Something was wrong. He almost hadn't noticed it. But there was a strange blur to Stilia's approaching presence. It was as if... No. What was he thinking? She was the same as ever. More nervous, but that was no surprise. Stilia had always been rather cowardly. It was really no wonder she...

There it was again. What was that? Morbus furrowed his brow as he approached the lower control room for Site 3. At the security console, of the the Site guards monitored the holovid feeds from cameras positioned several floors above on the exterior of the building. The screen currently showed the feed for the landing pad, where the shuttle was just coming into frame. Morbus watched, though he found his gaze constantly shifting to other small things; the blinking of a light on the console, or the slight shift in the guard's shoulders as he pressed a few keys.

The console screen flickered.


"What was that?" Morbus demanded.

"Interference, my Lord." the guard replied. "From when we let down the protective field to admit the ship. It should-" the guard's response was cut short when the screen flickered again, and then blinked off entirely. "That's strange..." the guard mumbled.

---

The shuttle landed with a gentle thud and the hiss of struts settling under the weight of the vessel. Renata moved to stand at the large cargo door. Her Guard stood to either side, silent shadows to her every move. She turned to face her loyal, trusted few, eyes sweeping over them once again. They hungered. She could practically taste it. Good. she thought. You will be sated.

She turned back, and a moment later the door hissed open as the ramp lowered. Renata waited only a moment before she stepped forth. She was a single, slight figure, descending the ramp alone. But she walked with the straight spine and raised chin of royalty. The air all but vibrated around her.

Morbus. The name rang, painful in every ear. Her voice powerful and all consuming in the minds of each being within miles. There was no hiding, no avoiding the burning insistence of Her Will. Your names, your lives are forfeit. Come. Kneel and be cleansed.

[Rugs]

Aurelius spared a passing glance for his apprentice as Prophet Nostos, then Viasrion spoke in turn to Her Radiance. Something had the boy on pins and needles. Uncertainty echoed through his presence, and he seemed to be trying to strangle the hat clenched in his fists behind his back.

What bothered Janse so, Aurelius could not say. He’d been on the edge of fainting with glee earlier; now he seemed concerned about... something. The boy was a strange stickler for overelaborate bullshit that no real person actually cared about. Perhaps he’d put too much weight on his big toe and thought the Empress would notice.

Whatever Janse’s problem, Aurelius returned his golden eyes to Renata s she granted his request. He allowed a small smile as he inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Radiance,” he said simply. Should any of the wayward Knights survive to return to the flock, their examination and reeducation would be a fitting task for Janse. The boy was a powerful telepath - especially for his youth and relative inexperience - and, despite qualms about using his talents, Aurelius would see them put to use.

A shame that none of the Lords will be coming back with us, he thought as Renata ordered them to follow. It would be fascinating to know what could possibly have deluded them into thinking this little coup of theirs would succeed. Knights, especially those still in the infancy of the rank, could be led astray by their Lords.

But the Lords? They knew the risk.

As they boarded the ship, as it rose heavily from the ground and blasted away into the night sky, Aurelius took hold of the Force. As Renata stretched her presence across their own, he drank deeply of the Dark Side, focusing it into himself.

“Be ready, boy,” he said to Janse. “The fight we’re going to will be unlike any you’ve ever faced before.”

Aurelius smiled fully now, as lightning forked across the sky.

It’s been too long.

---

Aestuo leaned against a thick metal crate near the landing bay. An overstuffed satchel, fabric bulging against a pair of thin leather straps, sat on the ground near his feet. Where is she?

Stilia was two minutes late, by his judgment. Her work did require some discretion, yes, but the sooner she arrived, the sooner they could be up and off of Ossus’ miserable face. Away from the failings and blasphemies of Renata’s Sith Order.

The former Knight of Mysteries — now a Free Prophet with his brothers and sisters — waited with his arms folded over his chest. He was an Echani, tall, slender, and waifish — a natural trait that days of heavy meditation had significantly enhanced, and his oversized robes only served to emphasize. A long shock of white hair hid his left eye, leaving only the right — with a pale ring of violet encircling the powder-blue iris — exposed. He was a young Knight, new to the position in the wake of the Archeri Crisis.

That was, until Morbus saved him from the Plague ravaging his body and opened his eyes to a brighter future than any Renata could ever promise.

Rumbling, and not from the distant lightning storm, caught his ear. Aestuo raised his head at the sound, growing ever louder. Starship engines. An approaching vessel. “Finally,” he grumbled to himself, standing straight up. Were it not for Stilia outranking him, he’d have half a mind to give her a good tongue-lashing for holding things up.

His comm buzzed. A pair of guards approached from within, chattering about Stilia’s arrival and loading the base’s supplies onto the ship. Aestuo stretched, rolling his thin shoulders as he prepared to greet Stilia.

He tried, by habit, to reach out with his senses, to feel her as the bulky ship began to drift down toward the landing pad. That’s... not right. Confusion worked across his face. Where he should have made contact, his probing had simply slid off. Been turned away. He scowled and tried again, to the same result.

What is happening?

Dread twisted Aestuo’s gut as the ship settled onto the landing pad, though he could not place its source. He ducked behind the crate as the ramp opened up.

His blood turned to ice as he saw the woman walking down the ramp.

---

Aurelius was second behind Renata as she exited the ship. He heard her command, an offer for an easy — though perhaps not merciful — end to these “Free Prophets’” charade. So full of the Force, he could feel every flicker of life in the compound, from insects crawling unperturbed through the dirt to their traitors, shining like beacons in the darkness.

Hiding, are we? He turned his head to the side, curious at the person lurking behind a crate. They could hold the Force, unlike a handful of flickering presences within. A Knight, perhaps, if he gauged their ability correctly.

He unclipped one of the lightsabers from his belt.

---

Aestuo pressed trembling hands to his temples. She had come. Her presence consumed him, made him feel as if every inch of his body were aflame. It felt as though She saw him, her gaze piercing through the crate as if it were glass, into the very core of his being.

No going back. That was what Morbus told them. That was the risk they took when they dared seek freedom. We can’t turn back.

Stilia. Did she turn on them? Had she been forced to lead Her here?

Aestuo’s lightsaber was in his hand, blade yet unlit. If he could surprise her, strike her before any of her entourage could stop him...

I’ll die. How many where there? Too many. Too many for him to fight alone. Yet even if he died, if he could just reach Her, the Free Prophets might escape. Even if he fell, his name would echo through history.

It was that or let them kill him meekly. The Empire tolerated no traitors.

He’d already taken one leap in choosing to follow Morbus. What was one more?

---

The Force gave away the Knight’s game before the sound of the igniting lightsaber. The Knight came rocketing through the air like a missile, purple blade fashing for Renata-

-only to meet Aurelius’s golden lightsaber in a with a hiss and shower of sparks. The Knight, an Echani, struck at Aurelius as he landed, a scowl twisting his gaunt face. Aurelius casually turned one blow aside, then another. The third, a thrust, Aurelius sidestepped as he reached to catch the attacker’s arm by the wrist.

Bone shattered with a loud crunch as Aurelius’ Force-strengthened hold closed like a vice-grip on the Echani’s skeletal wrist. The lightsaber blade died as it clattered to the ground.

“Had you come out, you might have lived,” he said over the Echani’s howling. His voice was thick with the effort of holding back the Dark Side energies he’d gathered within himself on the trip over. “Had you struck at me, you might have found mercy, in the end.” The Echani writhed. Aurelius tightened his grip.

“You struck at our Heart,” he said, placing a hand on the Echani’s chest. He smiled cruelly. “So you’ll get neither.”

At once, he released a portion of the power he held onto. He loosed Destruction, point-blank, into the Knight’s body. Almost all of the Knight’s body, save the hand down to the wrist Arelius held, vanished as the Dark Side washed over it in an invisible wave from Aurelius’ palm. Blood splattered wetly on the ground, sprayed out in a cone from where Aestuo stood. Aurelius tossed the Knight’s hand and wrist aside with a snort. “A waste.”

He scooped up the fallen lightsaber and tossed it to Janse. “Never know when you’ll need a backup,” he muttered to the Acolyte.

The doors into the compound to the ship’s fore opened. Chaos erupted as the pair of guards opened fire.

[caelum]

The journey to the traitors's redoubt was uneventful, not that spending any amount of time within the vicinity of the Empress and Darth Aurelius was any kind of uneventful. Nostos imagined that if he was a younger man, he would feel more...uncomfortable. That he would feel anxious about being so close to the empire's heart, or anxiety about whether he would be able to hold himself up to their standard, or a hundred different thoughts. Distracting, unnecessary, thoughts.

But those were the weaknesses of a lesser man, weaknesses that Lady Eeyrie had drowned in her chambers. 

The redoubt below was a miasma of darkness, their descent in the shuttle like some primordial descent into hell. Though that in and of itself wasn't quite correct, not with present company. It was as though they were a dark star, descending upon the traitors below like a thermonuclear bomb. The Empress's force presence was significant, part her own native talent, but also it seemed a conscious effort to allow her presence to shine forth. An Empress does not hide, after all, and Nostos found the totality of her presence useful.

Nostos breathed. They didn't know what was coming, that was clear. Their efforts would be focused on the significant threats, that which brought the most attention. The Empress in her eminence, the High Archon as her executioner, the Sith that would throw themselves upon the enemy like a crimson tide....

But not him.

As the shuttle set forth unto the ground, Nostos cast his presence across the redoubt. The guards inside, the traitors within, the forces by his side and all the creatures with the unfortunate luck to find themselves within this wretched place.

Nostos breathed out.

He reached within himself, finding that dark, lonely, place. That desolate, lifeless, plane where only the dead and forgotten resided. It had always been there, even as a child, even as a Jedi, a black tumor so remarkably in touch with the psyches of others. His training had found it, harnessed it, sharpened it into a fine point from which none could be his equal. 

Outside, he heard the blazing ignition of a lightsaber, murmured words, a battle begun, and so he reached out.

Reached out into the minds of his allies, connecting them, unifying them, a part of himself fading away as he became a relay between the imperial forces here. An alien, unnatural, degree of coordination and shared cognizance, less a battle of a dozen individuals against half a hundred and more a single consciousness with a dozen bodies. 

Reached out into the minds of his enemies, pouring into their minds. Ruthlessly, he found their fears and doubts, dragging them out into the surface. The stronger ones would be hammered with anxiety and fear as they approached the party, while those weaker ones would be consumed by it, their inability to use the force resulting in the primordial fears he had concocted to drive them insane. A drooling, wide eyed, emptiness cured only by application of burning plasma into their frontal lobe, curing them of accursed sapience.

The screams outside were getting louder, and Nostos finally stood from his seat. His eyes were closed, the mundane reality paling in comparison to the richness of the minds he touched. The Prophet walked forward only until he stood upon the entrance of the shuttle, the last to leave the ship, as he surveyed the chaos ahead.

His mistress had always sought to reform him in her image. A dark, twisted, creature capable only of inflicting pain and suffering upon his enemies. In a manner of speaking, he had been both a breathtaking failure and a spectacular success. To be a Lord of Pain much like her held little pull on him, even when he was young.

But to be a Lord of Fear? That was most appealing.

[Valcor]

And just like that, the meeting was over.  Had it been hours?  Janse did not know, time had a funny way of behaving for him in times like this.  Luckily as the Empress rose and turned her gaze away, Janse felt bits of himself return, piecemeal was better than not at all.  With slowly stilling hands, cover was returned to head, and focus was shifted from one overlord to another.  Turning to his master, Janse opened his mouth to speak, only for Aurelius to seize the initiative himself.

“Be ready, boy, the fight we’re going to will be unlike any you’ve ever faced before.”

To this, Janse could only let his jaw drop and his head recoil.  Was that... Doubt in his words?  In spite of his current inner turmoil at the overwhelming honor that had been dumped on him, he was not going to let this concern go unaddressed.

"Master, your words do me injury!  Surely you have faith in my abilities... enough to justify your choice in me as your apprentice."

Yet, as Janse caught that smile that spread across Aurelius' lips, the reality of what the elder Sith said came into the fore.  This was not a warning, no this was an opportunity for Janse to truly prove his worth in the only place he could.  The field.  Turning so he stood both beside and mildly behind his teacher, Janse let his own unique smirk take hold in place of the trepidation that had firmly grasped him in the Empress' presence.

"In any event, it has been too long since I have graced a battlefield proper.  I will not disappoint."

With that, the boy followed; out of the meeting room, onto the shuttle and finally onto the landing platform to the traitor's den.  When he felt the change in temperature, Janse let the adrenaline of coming conflict fill him.  He could plan and prepare as much as he wanted but the agony of waiting on board of that transport did not abate until this moment, this final moment.  As he walked down the ramp to the solid ground beneath, trying his best to match his steps with his superiors', he felt that turmoil in his gut abate in an instant.  What came next was welcome focus and energy.  Now, it was time to prove himself to Aurelius, that other Sith lord, and yes... the Empress herself.  And he would not fail.

First Janse tried to find an opponent as he descended, reaching out with his mind into the motley bunch bellow, only for all his efforts to be dashed in a moment.  When Renata spoke, in that way only a Force user can, it tore Janse's focus asunder.  Perhaps he might have guessed at the true power she held within her form, but it was something else entirely to feel it this way.  Janse was a talented telepath, or so he told himself, but he still had yet to master the art, and as he reached forth for a mind to latch onto, so too had he opened himself to the waves of the Force around him.  Those same waves are the ones that rose to tsunamis of will radiating from the Empress that nearly knocked the boy to his freshly pressed ass.  

Luckily he froze at the bottom of the ramp, so at least his glassy eyes and distant stare did not draw too much attention, but for a moment, Janse was gone from his own mind, washed aside in the force of Her Radiance.  When he finally came to it was to the sight of... well an explosion of sorts.

Janse had been dazed throughout his Master's bout, and had not fully grasped his display in any sense, only catching the... culmination.  With a mildly slack jaw, Janse watched helplessly as the rebel turned from form to paste in an instant.  Perhaps the Tarkan noble would have commented or even complimented his master, had he not just been in the splash range of the show.  With a few hard blinks Janse came fully to the reality of his surroundings, and the fresh coat of red spatter that just ruined some poor cleaning person's hard work.  

"Pfft?  Gah!" the boy exclaimed.

As Aurelius retrieved the lightsaber from where it had fallen, Janse looked down at himself in disgust, making a mixed sound of disgust and shock.  When he finally wiped... or smeared the majority of the blood and bits from his face, he was greeted with the sight of a silvery cylinder being extended towards him.

Begrudgingly Janse smiled and offered his thanks, even if he wished to say more.

"My... thanks Master, I shall use this well." Janse said with an air of frustration, no amount of training able to hide the entirety of his current mood from being apparent.

Shaking himself and refocusing his efforts, the youth returned to his own hunt, wedging the new addition to his arsenal in his belt as he did so.  For a moment he scanned the minds before him, taking particular care to avoid even venturing his efforts anywhere near his allies, knowing full well how his probing would be received by his current company.  

Fear.  Fear. Determination.  Boring.  Boring.  Trepidation... yet, loyalty.  Hmm  yes you. Janse thought to himself as he felt hints of each mind before settling on one.  As he searched with his eyes for what his mind had already isolated, they fell upon what he could only assume was a knight.  Judging by the quality of her attire, and the youth in her appearance; yes she would be his opponent, and as they locked gaze it was clear they both knew this.  

Drawing his foil and walking into the hangar, Janse moved off to one side, ensuring he was clear of his allies for the coming conflict, not once breaking his gaze from the traitor's.

[hugo]

Visarion savored the restless energy of the shuttle's Sith-rich cargo hold.  It was not an anxiety of fear or doubt that vibrated through the Force around him, but that of eagerness.  There would be time for calm, for repose, once harmony had been restored to the Silver Pillar, its discorded cracks sealed with fresh mortar.  One day their proud Cult would stand as it had, a beacon of knowledge, fidelity, and dignity.  If Her Radiance was the Body's heart, Darths Aurelius and Viren Its hands and Solis Its mind, the Cult of Mytsteries was Its soul.  To them fell the responsibility of discerning the darkest, most ancient of truths: to keep the Body as pristine as its beating Heart.  But the Soul could not make the Body whole if tainted itself.  

And as the gentle shift of gravity indicated their descent has begun, the foulest taint was now below them.  The hold became only more tense still, the individual auras of Her Radiance's ad hoc inquisition reminding Visarion of the baying of caged Tu'kata, ravenous and implacable in sanguine anticipation.  

---

The mechanical parting of the cargo hold ramp heralded the beginning of the retribution the Royal coterie so craved.  Visarion joined the procession alongside the acolyte Janse, to whom he shot a serious, but not ungenerous expression.  He did not know how much of slaughter the boy had yet tasted, and the time was not ripe for verbal encouragement, but he imparted to him all the meaning and weight of a single word onto the acolyte psychically: Faith. 

The Sith were not always keen on the term, for all it's quasi-Light Side connotations.  Yet their general distaste did not dissuade Visarion from his belief in the Force.  The Hapan needed look no further than his own being to understand the power it bore.  Just under six feet, but wispy and only an adequate swordsman, he would be nothing without his faith.  His Hapan eyes often failed him in low light, his meager musculature often buckled, thus he had long learned to trust the Force to spot dangers and to guide his hand.

Great trials of strife awaited all of them, and none were more in danger than their youngest compatriot.  He sought not to comfort the boy, nor render to him a misplaced trust in the cosmic Force's influences.  Comfort and complacency would have only been a disservice.  This culling of the blasphemous was as much about quelling institutional discord as it was a test of might. 

They had proven compliance, their personal and philosophical fidelity to the Empire's Pristine Heart, but compliance was not loyalty until it was joined to ability.  Loyalty required not only mere compliance of will, but total devotion of being.  One's loyalty could never exceed the sum of his ability; his usefulness.  Their present inquisition's excising the tumorous discord--the so-called Free Prophets--was certainly their primary aim, but also, and in all such trials of strife affected under the Empire's crimson banner, the merely compliant would be separated to be truly loyal.  

But these extended ruminations were not to say Visarion underestimated any of the Sith in present company.  Even the acolyte must have shown talents to have come under the tutelage as the infamous Aurelius.  The Knight was more than familiar with what Nostos was capable of; though their metaphysical and historical pursuits had lead the two mystic Cultists on wildly divergent paths to understanding the Bogan's true power, Visarion had witnessed firsthand how trivially the Dark Lord entered and twisted the minds of others.  If enigmatic, Nostos was precocious, not much older than Visarion and poised to seize the reigns of their shattered Cult.  He had to admire the man.  

Renata herself Visarion continued to view with some disbelief.  He was, as a Knight of Mysteries, not so attached to the upper-level, political gongs-on to have had any meaningful interaction with the Empire's higher leadership, save his brief acquaintance with Keres before her disappearance.  Of course he'd seen the Empress once, as she addressed his 'class' of newly enlisted Knights several years prior.  But that had been two hundred feet away and in the most formal of circumstances.  This was the first time he had met Renata the person rather than the Dark Empress of the Sith.  Still, it paid to observe formality and he did his best not to catch her attention unnecessarily.  Still, he noted how naturally she wore power.  Of course, she was Sith, and by the definition of the law of might, the strongest among them.  Her presence in the Force was cold to him, but not a cold in the physical sense, like the lack of matter in a frigid vacuum, or like the chaotic whirlings of a blizzard's wind.  It was glacial: steady, sure, ordered.  The Adamant Guard that surrounded her surprisingly slight person reflected Her presence, amplified it across the increasing eagerness of the hold as the shuttle landed with a soft thud.

Visarion exited the shuttle, taking a glance back at Nostos as he prepared his meditations.  Perhaps the heretic Knights and former Prophets within could resist the psychological onslaught that he knew was coming, but the untrained would be defenseless.  He felt no pity for them.  The time for pity had ended and the time for force had arrived.

Underscoring that point, Visarion's hand was almost immediately on his lightsaber and dropped into a half-decent defensive Niman stance once he'd touched the ground.  Some unfortunate, now the gory remains of an Echani, had struck at the Empress, only to be eviscerated by Darth Aurelius' reflexive vengeance.  The Firrerro, whose presence clawed constantly beyond that gilded visage of youth and gold, a feral savagery so perilously muzzled, only to be unleashed in times, in places like these, stroke fiercely and decisively, and in so doing felled the first of many. 

It happened quickly after that, the defenders opening fire as the entrance before them opened.  Even before Janse had claimed his new trophy and rushed to meet one of the false knights, Visarion felt the Force flowing around him, disturbed by the tumult of the broadening violence, slowed and began to go still, gradually but noticeably harmonizing around him.  What senses the Force gave him were clarified, amplified by Nostos' Battle Meditation, particularly as to his fellow combatants.

With murderous determination, he advanced on the guardsmen, who'd been reinforced and were raining fire on the Sith assailants.  He barely watched the red plasma bolts as they whizzed towards and around him, his movements dictated by confidence in the Force's precognition.  He managed a brisk advance on the doorway as his crimson lightsaber danced before and about him, creating a sort of shield from the forward facing blaster fire.  

Once he'd adequately closed the distance, the Hapan Knight threw up a quick barrier, granting him an instant of respite to call deeper on the growing rage within him.  This insolence would not stand.  Not with the entire Cult's existence at stake.  With an arcane shriek that carried across the landing area, Visarion's free right hand sparked and flashed with white, crackling energy.  His heart swelled and the sparks grew, joining to a great arc of lightning that sprang forward and struck near the threshold, where it fragmented to find the legs of the four traitorous troopers.  Coupled with the unfathomable mental tortures Nostos was devising upon them, the excruciating sensation of the Dark Side's purest manifestation arcing suddenly up one's legs and torso must have created a truly nightmarish reality.  So surreal, so strange it must have seemed to them to then be snatched by the very same arcs of lightning, now suddenly mass, grasping them inescapably by the legs, and yanking their writhing bodies within range of their awful assailant's blood-colored blade.

The quartet of traitors tumbled limply as they landed variously around him, briefly stunned by the sudden surge of electricity.  Some of them even sparked, residual dark energy grounding from their soon-to-be-corpses to the durasteel flooring below.  Dismissing their loosely gripped rifles with a flick of his wrist, Visarion all but salivated as he reached out and touched the battered but still beating life essences of the prone men and women around him.  He grew still, for a half-second blind to the material world and fully immersed in the mystic one.

Channeling the unmatched sensation of conquest, of dominance, that he held over the stunned soldiers, Visarion no longer probed, but gripped tightly at their several essences, all at once seizing them.  What they had been as sentient creatures touched by the Force was now his own.  Their energies, their vitality, their power, however undeveloped, were his.  Force Drain, he reasoned, was one of the greatest manifestations of Sith morality.  One stripped from the broken, the useless, the non-viable, and made it himself.  It was often used as an equivalent to Jedi Healing, to use the Force to heal one's wounds and restore vigor.  But here Visarion chose to employ it to make a point.  Those who resisted their natural role as part of Our Body would be crushed, dismantled, and forcibly reintegrated to serve its purposes.

Sickly lightning, this time acrid in aroma and violet in hue, built slowly from each of the felled soldiers' still beating chests.  Their pleas for mercy, increasingly weak, went unheard as their respective life energies left them and flowed into the hooded Knight's outstetched hand.  The clarity and alacrity brought by Nostos' meditations seemed distant compared to raw power that seeped into him.  The Force felt as if it were as close to him as the billowing black robe that hung from his thin figure.  The traitors ceased to beg, ceased to move, their limbs and heads contorted at unnatural angles and their motionless torso withered.  

Suddenly sanguine and emboldened to continue their persecution, Visarion stood among the dead and surveyed the battle.  Before he could collect much information, however, he was struck by a sudden wave of kinetic energy and knocked him backward several feet.  The energy of his fresh kills still bouncing through his normally sedentary body, the Hapan was able to catch himself and stumble to his feet without losing grip of his lightsaber.  That was fortunate because before he could comprehend what had happened, a figure arced through the dark sky in a distinctive Ataru deathblow.  It was all he could do to block a pair of cobalt blue lightsaber blades from decapitating him before he realized he had been attacked by a lightly armored Miraluka woman.

It took all of his newfound, arcane vitality and natural strength to keep the twin blades at bay with his own.  With a great effort, he was able to break the lock a fresh arc of Force Lightning at the hooded duelist, forcing her to parry and allowing Visarion to put some ground between them.  As he entered again into his favored Niman, he wondered how the woman had evaded their detection.  Some Force users were gifted in lessening their presence to the extend that even talented seers could overlook them.  Perhaps she was one so gifted.  It hardly mattered, as she charged again, launching an impressive foray of tight bladework meant to push Visarion back towards the ship.

This was successful in some part, and Visarion heard the sound of his comrades fighting their on battles behind him as he tried to ward off the Miraluka's torrent of bladework.  This was no mere Knight; perhaps this Miraluka was one of the heretic Prophets, a ringleader in this rebellion.  She would have to be destroyed.

One parry after another, Visarion held his ground against the superior duelist.  He guessed the combination of the Force Drain energy and Nostos' meditations, in addition to whatever horrors the true Prophet was inflicting upon the rebel pscyches, were helping him to hold his own.  Perhaps it was fear (fear at the realization on her part that she faced truly impossible odds, even should she defeat Visarion), or fatigue, but Visarion pierced her impressively maintained veil and saw a small opening just before she made it.  Taking this advantage, he was able to make a favorable saber lock and lop off a few of her offhand fingers, causing the Miraluka to recoil in pain and drop one of her sabers.

From there, the fight was his.  He pushed her back, retaking the ground he'd loss with tight but aggressive jabs at the crippled opponent.  With a swift kick to the abdomen, he knocked her back once more, this time his crimson lightsaber swinging quickly to dismember her main hand and the lightsaber it held.  

Her cry of pain was cut short when Visarion bisected the Miraluka and sent her halves flying in either direction with a flurry.  Not one to relish victory, at least not openly, he pivoted instantly to observe the progress of his companions.  What blood had been shed so far was a mere fraction of what was to come, and with the first taste of battle on his lips, Visarion hungered for more.

[Meira]

"My Lord..." Situs began, rushing into the control room, but stopped when a sickening wave moved through him. He touched one hand to his temple, squinting his eyes as a voice rang through him. His lekku twitched uncontrollably and he ground his teeth together. When it stopped, he blinked several times before looking to Morbus.

Lord Morbus had not flinched. He had scarcely blinked at the invasion to his mind. He knew better. Instead, he allowed the voice, Her presence to wash over him. She was here now. If they... no, if he were to have any chance, he would have to conserve his energy now. The others were lost. He could see that now. Stilia's betrayal saw to that. Morbus closed his eyes, then pointed toward the door.

"Go." he said to Situs. "I will do what I can."

Situs turned, rushing back down the corridor. He nearly collided with Inedio along the way. Grabbing the zabrak knight by the collar, he practically dragged him toward the lift. At its doors, they were joined by Requira, her presence within the Force teeming with rage. The three free prophets entered the lift, quickly rising through the levels.

---

On the landing pad, the four Adamant Guard spread out, moving in quick, determined steps to take up position. But blaster fire was quickly stifled in the hangar as lightning and more sinister forces neutralized the garrison soldiers there. With the area clear, the Adamant Guard advanced, They formed a wide square around the Empress as she advanced across the landing pad and into the hangar. They gave the dueling knight and traitor a wide berth, their focus only on any immediate threat to Her Radiance.

Renata, for her part, moved through the scene as if nothing were amiss. The splatter of blood that had reached the hem of her dress had gone practically unnoticed. The scent of ozone in the air following Visarion's display passed over and through her. Renata's eyes and focus were forward. Somewhere, down below, Morbus closed his eyes. She could feel him gathering the Force into himself, preparing.

Good.

---

The lift opened and the three Free Prophets sprang forth. Situs and Inedio ignited their matching orange sabers and issued terrible cries of rage. The Adamant guard, in response, closed their ranks around the Empress. They moved as if with one mind, igniting force pikes to create an impenetrable barrier. Situs went left, while Inedio to the right. Each swiped at the Guard, but continued on, passing the Empress entirely as if she hadn't registered in their minds. Instead, they zeroed their advance onto the High Archon. Situs rushed forward with a burst of speed, while Inedio leaped into the air to come crashing down on Aurelius from above.

Requira opened her mind and all her essence to the Force as she stepped from the lift. She moved behind a stacked set of crates, reaching outward. Immediately, she was buffeted by wave after wave of sheer will. It pressed chaos, danger, and fear onto her in oppressive pulses of pure power. Had she been less prepared; had she been weaker, this incredible affront might have worked. But Requira was a Free Prophet, and she would not be laid low by some sniveling sycophant. She stepped out from around the crates. From her periphery, she saw that Renata had entered where she and the others had left. The doors and the Empress and Adamant Guard began to descend to the compound. Requira let them go. Morbus and Teneo could handle her. She, instead, sought out the one that was perpetuating a horrorscape on them all. When her senses drew her eyes to the old man still standing at the top of the ramp to the ship. Slow fool.

"Enough!" she shouted at the man, her own will blasting out from her in all directions, pushing back against his. She drew her saber, the crimson blade springing to life with a hiss, and stepped toward him.

---

The lift came to a sudden halt, jostling the Empress and her Guard. Immediately, the four armored figures prided the doors open. They were half way to a door, but not lined up properly to open it. Renata extended her hand, palm down, and pushed downward. With a groan of resisting metal, the lift lowered into place. The Guard pried the doors open and held them as Renata stepped through. The corridor ahead was lit by red emergency lighting and was entirely empty. Renata moved forward. She could feel that Morbus was still several levels below, but something here called to her. The Guard, after jamming the lift doors open, followed behind. Their ranks pressed into a tight square due to the narrowness of the corridor. At the end, the hall split to the left and right, with a set of double doors lined up with the corridor behind them. Renata waved her hand and the doors opened without a whisper of complaint, revealing a large container. It sat on a wheeled platform, alone in the center of the room. A transparasteel viewport was set into the top of the container. Through it, Renata could see a faint purple glow from within. That glow pulled all of her attention and she stepped softly into the room. Two of the Adamant Guard took up position in the corridor, while the other two quickly entered the room, sweeping the corners. They moved around the container, then turned back...

"Empress!" They shouted in unison, diving toward Her Radiance as a yellow-green glow suddenly ignited above and behind her.

[Rugs]

“See that you do.” Aurelius’ back was already to Janse as the boy took the offered lightsaber in hand. With the conflict erupting in earnest now, he had no time to watch the boy or waste words on him. Janse — the youngest of Her Radiance’s entourage by a fair margin — would have to tend to himself here.

Elsewhere, Visarion was locked in battle with one of the traitorous Prophets, while Renata and her Adamant Guard pressed forward into the compound. Nostos, lingering behind at the shuttle’s entrance was a nexus of exhilarating strength for those loyal to Renata and dismay to all who stood against them.

Aurelius advanced down the ship’s loading ramp, casually flicking away blaster bolts that strayed his way. The Force boiled and raged within him, yearning for release. Far from feeling exhaustion at his display to kill the overeager Echani, he felt more ready, more alive than he’d felt since battling the Archeri on Nar Shaddaa.

The fire within was lit. It wanted only for a target.

And so they come.

A sharp warning rang out through the Force, clear as a gunshot’s crack in a quiet field, even above the general chaos and disarray that engulfed the compound. Two of the traitors came for him, one lunging straight ahead out of the compound, the other taking the sky to strike at him from above.

Their attacks, intentional or not, were beautifully coordinated. They’d arrive at roughly the same time — a tough ask to fend off, for most.

Darth Aurelius was not most duelists.

He waved a hand skyward as his second, blue blade ignited. A rush of the Force, overwhelming despite Aurelius’ casual gesture, arrested the Zabrak knight mid-flight and sent him hurtling onward, flipping head-over-heels into the side of the boxy shuttle in the middle of the landing bay with a metallic thud.

Aurelius met the second attacker--this one, a true Prophet--where he stood, blades crossed before him as he intercepted the rushing strike that would’ve lopped his head clean from his shoulders.

“So nice of you to bring a friend,” he said at the scowling Situs. “Though I doubt a true friend would bring a man to his own slaughter.”

“Silence, Archon,. Inedio’s eyes have been opened. He already does better than you, wearing the name Renata dangles to keep you line.” Situs pressed fervently, hatefully against Aurelius’ lightsabers. They edged ever so slightly back, but Aurelius seemed as unconcerned with this as he did the faint flecks of blood on his sleeve from Aestuo’s death.

“Is that what you think?” He asked, amused. He glanced briefly back as he felt the Zabrak slowly rising from the ground, heard the sound of a lightsaber igniting again. “Well, I guess there’s some freedom in being put in the ground. At least make it entertaining first, eh?”

Aurelius shoved Situs away and turned as Inedio leaped again at him. He caught the blades, turned them away with a tsk and shaking of his head.

Then the three danced on. Aurelius gave ground, moving away from the ship and the Aestuo’s splattered remains as the kept the two traitors at bay. The Zabrak was the more aggressive of the two, despite the rings under his eyes and obvious frailty about his body.

Inedio tried to come at Aurelius from all directions, employing frenzied Ataru to try to catch him off guard while Situs pressed on from the fore, unwavering and implacable. Aurelius remained content to let them come, using a mix of Niman with subtle elements of Soresu as he retreated. He smoothly connected his blades, activating the maglocks on the end of each hilt to form a saber staff — one blade brilliant gold, the other dark blue — for easier defense. Yet his bladework, his movements were not those of a man pressed to the brink and unable to find a chance to strike back. They were that of a nexu, prowling, weighing and watching his prey, waiting for the opportune time to attack.

Such an opportunity arose, at Situs' invitation.

The prophet loosed a powerful push that almost took Aurelius off-guard. Yet as soon as he was airborne, hurtling back, he wrapped the Force around Inedio and yanked the Zabrak after him.

Inedio, to his credit, took the opportunity to make an attack, blades lashing out at Aurelius’ who’d separated his blades to two once more. Time seemed to slow as the Force overtook Aurelius.

His first action was to press down with a powerful push of his own. The force of the blast lifted him slightly, enough to avoid Inedio’s swipe at him. With his other hand, he swept below him and his golden blade met the Zarbrak’s wrist and severed it.

He rolled in the air, landing on his feet as Inedio carried on past him in a crumpled, screaming heap. Aurelius gripped howling Zabrak and threw him again, headfirst, into the side of the ship once more with a crack. Inedio’s body went limp as it hit the ground, and shallow dent marred the ship's hull where his head made contact. He was not dead — not yet — though the red slowly pooling beneath his horned head indicated his survival was no sure thing.

Situs screamed in wordless rage. Aurelius offered only a small smile. “I warned you,” he said as the ex-Prophet stalked forward, fury crashing off of him in waves. “Now let’s dispense with the nerf-shit, shall we? I know you’ve got tricks up your sleeve.”

This time it was Aurelius who lunged, blades whirring as the battle renewed again.

[caelum]

The Jedi taught that conflict was inherent to the Dark Side. It was true, completely and utterly, but few truly comprehended what that meant.

They told themselves that in defense of the helpless, targeted violence was necessary. That in order to defend the Order, to defend the Republic, it was necessary to bear arms against those that threatened it. They instructed their padawans techniques one could use to deny that thrill of pleasure in the fight, the panic and fear of one's life, to cleanse the mind of the natural and fill it with peace antithetical. They believed in an honorable fight, a clean battle, an honorable war.

This place would prove them wrong.

Nostos walked down the shuttle, breathing in the miasma of the Dark Side. The False Prophets ahead of them struggled, those lesser than he finding their concentration and mind breaking in the face of their assault. In one portion of the battlefield, he spotted Darth Aurelius and his apprentice engaged in battle. The pair did not fight in tandem, each seeking their own fight and own place in the flow of combat, though whether that was more or less effective than standing together, the Prophet could not say. The Empress was already gone, walking across the hangar straight into the elevator without nary a glance towards the rest; he wondered whether they were expected to follow or whether they were to spread out and subsume the rest of the compound.

He shrugged internally. If she demanded their presence they would go, since she had not it was not required.

A twitch, a whisper, as the flow of the battle shifted and Nostos found his lightsaber engaged as he turned, meeting a purple blade aimed for his throat. His eyes settled on the assassin, a young twi'lek woman who beheld him with a feral grin.

"A Prophet of the Blind." she spat, eyes yellow with malice. "A pity you stand with fools and the lost, I-"

Nostos's finger twitched, using the girl's momentary lapse in concentration to crush her kneecap. The girl screamed in agony, her form buckling as she went down to one knee, her blade desperately keeping itself locked to his to maintain her balance. The Prophet sidestepped, deactivating his blade for a moment, allowing the girl's inertia to cause her to stumble more thoroughly on the deck. A swish of his wrist resulted in her hand displaced from her arm, and a pull upwards allowed a more thorough bisection as he sliced the blade through her waist body, beginning at the waist and ending at her breast.

He spared her a final glance before twisting his hand, snapping her neck. His tone was contemptuous. "I don't waste time speaking with the dead."

The Prophet moved on from the momentary distraction. He had allowed the rest of the strike team to move on ahead, keeping himself to the rough back of the party to limit danger to himself. As such, a large portion of the hangar defenses found themselves engaged with his allies, with Nostos himself as a quiet influence on their success, though perhaps it was more accurate to say he was an influence on the failure of their enemies? He had never been particularly clear on whether the deleterious effects of his fear upon the enemy was equal to or less than that of the coordination from his battle meditation. He rarely had the opportunity to try, and when it did? Well, suffice it to say that such battles were rarely clear cut enough for him to determine which was the more useful.

Men from afar shot at him with blaster rifles, and Nostos took time to carefully reflect the bolts back. His mind was a heavy presence on theirs, confusing their vision with hallucinations and horror, such that when the bolts finally returned to mercifully burn away their throats they had not noticed when their visions of horror turned to reality. A glance towards his allies allowed another update as to the changing battlefield, and he altered his course accordingly, walking towards the walls of the hangar, his sight set towards another elevator.

An unlucky coincidence. As the elevator opened, he found himself facing a trio of the Prophets's servants. Lesser servants in any case, their lightsabers burned a cascade of purple and red as they charged him. He growled in irritation, using the Force to slam the doors of the elevator shut, trapping them their momentarily. He reached out with the Force, scanning the construction of the elevator. Recognizing it's make, it's design standard among imperial infrastructure of this type, he threw his blade towards his target.

The lightsaber burned through the walls easily, cutting through the elevator's support structure and dropping the trio down to the bottom of the shaft. Nostos called his blade back to him; he doubted they would die from it, but it would certainly slow them down.

Nostos turned, seeing the state of the battle and spying Visarion from afar. He was occupied with a woman, a miraluka, and the Prophet observed as the knight triumphed in his duel, cutting the creature in twain before observing the battle once more. Nostos's eyes met his, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

He wondered, for a moment, whether he should bring the knight. Doubtless his skill had grown, and it was likely that he could trust him to some degree. Despite that, he chose not to call out to him. He would either follow or he would not, and Nostos was capable of operating with or without him.

The deaths of the False Prophets was likely, yet that was not the only thing of value in this place. While the destruction of it's rulers would be carried out with haste, and the secrets buried in their mind dying with them, that was not the only prize in the redoubt. The Order of Silver kept it's secrets well, even amongst it's different sects, and those secrets would likely be centered along their library. Nostos would reach that place, recover what he could, and kill whichever of his former compatriots were in the way. If the research they were entrusted was important enough for the Empress to personally consign them to death, then it was doubly important for Nostos to learn. If he could do so, prove himself useful, then it would further strengthen his claim to lead the Silver in this dark hour.

A pause, as he reached the emergency stairwell, his eyes looking up the many, many, steps he would need to climb. He sighed, perhaps destroying the other elevator had been unnecessarily dramatic.

[hugo]

It was during his battle with the dual-wielding Prophet when Renata and her coterie made their descent.  A thin puddle of gore was before him, where he'd held his bisected opponent against gravity for a moment before discarding her pathetic remains in either direction.  Beyond his immediate surroundings, the other Sith carried on their persecution of the apostates with delightful prejudice.  

He had to admire the fluidity with which Nostos and Aurelius dispatched their assailants.  It was an ease, a professional comfort, that came only with an acute mastery of the Dark Side, which itself was only attainable after years of careful but voracious study of its mysteries.  He was sure that Sith, on the balance, were a physically capable lot, yet he knew that the fibers of their muscles and the salt of their sweat had little to do with the might the Dark disciples exerted.  No, that power came from their relationship with the Force.  

That truth was his saving grace, in more ways than one.  Once he'd learned to make his will and that of the Force one, and not in the manner of gaudy submission favored by the Jedi, all of his frailties and weaknesses were washed away and replaced with something immaterial and unworldly.  A weak leg and an unimpressive stature were nothing to him.  One needed only look further than the Empress, barely more than a shock of crimson atop a skeletal frame, to understand that.  

The blaster fire had stopped, all of the remaining guardsmen having been slain or routed.  He killed his lightsaber, no immediate danger in sight.  Even so, Visarion felt disturbed.  Of course the whole exercise was more than a little disturbing, but there was something amiss in the Force.  The treachery affected at this rancid breeding ground of heresy ran deeply, and only his confidence in Renata and her steadfast guard kept the ever-calculating Hapan from concern for what lay within.

Aurelius still dueled with Situs when he noticed Nostos making his way toward the stairwell, the only operative route deeper inside the apostate's layer after the mystic Lord had destroyed the remaining lift with a casualness that Visarion envied.  He was no neophyte in the Dark magicks himself, but Visarion did not make the same error called vanity that plagued his kind, and understood the value of humility.  Particularly when surrounded by such knowledge, such opportunity for more.  

It was as he moved to join Nostos (who himself had dispatched a pair of heretics with ease) that Visarion was struck with a sinister idea.  There was some distance between the dueling Aurelius and himself, but with a little focus he could touch the pre-occupied Darth through the Force.  He transmitted two words, a simple suggestion.  "Spare it."

The thought, a clear but quick one, would not take away from the Darth's focus as he fought viciously against a burly Twi'lek.  The "Free Prophet" was no dilletante, and as he and Nostos observed from near the head of the stairwell, the gaunt Hapan wondered how he would have fared against the apostate himself.  He had killed Jedi, and of course he'd literally just slain another Prophet moments before.  But every moment of the latter conflict had been up in the air, a mortal back and forth where either could have taken the advantage on the slightest opening.  

But Aurelius, whose blur of bladework convinced Visarion that his fearsome reputation was well-earned, had fought two of them.  And now that the Zabrak was in pieces and only one Prophet fought the Firrerreo, Visarion knew the fight would not go on long.

He shared his idea with Nostos, who by now was close enough to speak with clearly.  He explained that he'd grown quite skilled with Drain Knowledge--it had been instrumental to their success on Ziost--and wondered if one of the felled but very much alive apostates were host to useful information.  ". . . though I confess, my Lord, I have not yet had the opportunity to test the power on such a challenging, Force-strong specimen."

He imagined that the peculiar mental fortitudes bestowed by the Force--even on a misguided and defeated False Prophet--would make the task considerably more difficult, but with greater effort came greater reward.  Aside from any interesting or useful knowledge the heretics might hold, he figured the real prize would be information about their insurgency.  Perhaps they could identify some of the group's sympathizers, or more importantly, some hidden danger that awaited the inquisition within.  

The Twi'ek fought fiercely with his Darth opponent; Visarion thought the dancing Prophet was the most impressive of the string of opponents they'd yet faced.  But battle was a simple game, where all the technique and gusto were for naught if one's opponent found the slightest of openings, and as the Dark Jedi danced across the durasteel platform, it became clear that the fight was the Dark Lord's.  

It would have been child's play for either he or Nostos to join the duel and accelerate the inevitable, but Visarion thought that in poor taste.  It was the well-dressed Aurelius who had done the weight of the fighting, and it would have been a disservice to the Dark Side to rob his fellow disciple of his hard-earned glory, not to mention risking a personal affront to the High Archon.  He waited patiently for the fight's conclusion, leaning slightly on his good leg.  

He and Nostos took in the scene silently from near the stairwell, the relative calm giving him a moment to take in his surroundings more fully.  The Dark Side pervaded this place, and was heavy in the air, like dense summer humidity.  "All so beautiful, isnt't it, my Lord?"

[Meira]

Formida, bolstered by the confidence imbued in her by her Lord and Mentor, moved confidently across the hangar toward the too tidy man who dared meet her eye. She ignited her blade, a bright pink, just as his own red foil came to life. She drew ever closer until the two clashed, sabers locking as each tested their strength against the other.

Meanwhile, across the hangar, Requira pulled on the Force, drawing the dark tendrils of power that lingered in the air into herself. She focused that intense power, pushing it out toward the old man who so causally watched on as Darth Aurelius dueled her brother. She had no time, however, to worry about Situs. With a primal scream, she rushed toward Nostos, leaping into the air and bringing her own red blade down toward him with all the force she could muster.

Almost as if in concert with this attack, the stairwell doors burst open, issuing forth a stream of eight soldiers. The first tossed out a sonic flash-bang that detonated as soon as it hit the ground. From it, a series of five bright flashes and three sonic pulses engulfed the immediate area, allowing the eight to spread out. They set their sights on the Knight of Mysteries and began to open fire from multiple directions.

---

"Death to the despot!" Teneo shouted as he fell upon the Empress. His normally chalk-white skin was a blur of yellow as he moved.

Renata did not draw her lightsabers, but instead merely stepped lightly to her right, turning her body smoothly to face Teneo as his blade met nothing but air. The electric crackle of force pikes joined the lightsaber's hum in theroom, but she held up one hand to stop her guards from advancing. They complied, dutiful as ever, but stood at the ready. The two from the hall entered as well, ensuring that escape would not be possible.

Teneo did not pause as he landed, but carried through on his swing to bring it around in a diagonal slash. The saber scorched the floor before coming up and around and again Renata stepped just out of reach. Her thin lips pulled into a smile to see the rage building in Teneo's eyes.

"You have been neglecting your training." She taunted, stepping back just in time to narrowly avoid a thrust. "How terribly disappointing."

"Silence!" Teneo roared, slashing wildly.

Missing again, he growled and reached out through the Force. He found her through that connection and gripped, pulling her closer as he raised his blade high. Renata's smile widened, her eyes glowing yellow as she allowed herself to be pulled. She came to a stop, her throat in Teneo's grip, but even as he began to squeeze, she grinned. The Guard rushed forward, pikes raised to strike the man down, but it was unnecessary. To Renata, time seemed to slow as she made contact with Teneo. As soon as the skin of his hand touched that of her neck, all else seemed to dim and she dove into the connection. Through the Force, she flooded her own presence into his every fiber. She moved along his nerves to his spinal cord, and bombarded his central nervous system.

In an instant, Teneo's eyes widened, pupils fully dilated and his mouth fell open and slack. He remained rigid as a statue for one prolonged moment before his grip on her neck slackened and his extinguished as it fell from his other hand. Renata brought her own hands to Teneo's wrist as his body lost strength and crumpled to the floor. Maintaining that connection, she lowered herself to her knees beside him, drinking in the exquisite pain that flooded through him as he silently convulsed on the floor. She stroked a hand over the smooth dome of his head, like a mother comforting a child. When his eyes glassed over, she released his arm, knowing that she'd brought him into a stupor that he would not wake from for some time yet.

"Secure the container, and find the test subjects." she said to her Guard as she stood. She felt just the slightest sense of hesitation from the four. It was difficult for them to override their primary purpose, it was so deeply ingrained in them during their indoctrination. But her command superseded all, and they quickly recovered and bowed their heads before setting to the task. Closing her eyes and reaching out, Renata could sense that all but Morbus had gone to the surface. The rest would soon be subdued as well. Will you join us? The question went out through the Force to Morbus, deeper still in the compound.

As you wish. Morbus replied.

Smiling, Renata made a gesture with one hand, lifting Teneo's limp body and hovering it before her as she moved back to the elevator and ascending back up to the hangar where she sensed the others were just completing their task.