False Prophets

[Rugs]

Aurelius fell on Situs with the untamed fury of a maelstrom. The time for japes and testing and toying was passed. If the traitor Prophet had some inkling of this truth, it didn’t show as his advance broke to abrupt backpedaling. The prophet struggled even to keep his footing as Aurelius pressed relentlessly, mercilessly onward.

An overhead blow of blurring blue and gold crashed onto Situs’ orange lightsaber like a surging tide to a shore, nearly ramming the Prophet’s own weapon into the front of his chest. Situs gave ground. Hissing strokes from the left, below, right, one that feinted into a false thrust with the gold blade so that blue could come cutting in from afar to nick the shoulder. On and on, Aurelius battered Situs’ defenses. For the blows that Situs fended off, whether borne of the High Archon’s gold blade or blue, the other lurked, always threatening.

Aurelius pressed on furiously, pushing Situs ever back. The Prophet’s injuries mounted. One shiim touch could be enough to end a duel against a weak-willed opponent. Situs took the first on his shoulder, then another on his leg and a third across the front of his abdomen after a swipe from Aurelius nearly opened up his belly.

But Situs fought on, sweat dampening his pale brow, as he glared at Aurelius. Finally, he tried a counter after a twisting parry nearly put Aurelius out of position. The sunset orange blade darted ahead, seeking to thread around Aurelius’ golden blade and strike at his heart.

No such luck.

Aurelius drew back in a smooth motion, catching Situs’ saber cleanly on with his golden blade. The blades locked, throwing flickering light and sparks. Situs pressed desperately with two hands, trembling from the effort. Aurelius held the false Prophet’s blade at bay with one steady hand.

“My, but you are a disappointment.” Aurelius smiled toothily, baring his fangs for his foe. “The Zabrak was more fun than you are.”

Situs bellowed his indignation and Aurelius found himself airborne again, hurtling toward a metal crate. He reached behind him with the Force and hurled the crate aside before he would have slammed against it. Instead, he came to the earth in a roll, jamming his lightsabers into the ground to arrest his motion as he slid back a pace or two.

Before him, SItus stood in the middle of a shallow crater the eruption of power had scooped out of the floor. The Force boiled around Situs as he ripped free metal beams and panels from the hangar wall behind him. They creaked and groaned as the Prophet bent them into makeshift spears — all pointed at Aurelius.

“There it is!” Exhilaration rode Aurelius’ every word as he stood, lifting his golden blade to Situs. “Show me that strength that yearns for this freedom, Prophet!”

The air around Aurelius flickered as Situs howled again and hurled his arsenal. A thin protective shield, misty white, sprang into around Aurelius as a sinister smile pulled at his lips.

Every last bit of metal, from the largest to smallest, stopped before reaching Aurelius. The High Archon’s hair and shoulder cape rustled as though blown by a breeze as Situs’ the metal thrown in Situs’ onslaught began to twist and swirl around him — ripped free of the prophet’s control and brought squarely under his own. “It was a good try, Prophet.” Lightning crackled along the surface of the bubble, arcing out to the metal swirling around him. “But not good enough.”

For a single heartbeat, the shield around Aurelius grew opaque, seemed to grow solid to the touch. Then everything exploded.

While maelstrom was normally employed as an omnidirectional technique, Aurelius was cognizant of his allies, of the crumpled Inedio, for whom they might find future use. And so he directed the full weight of his might — the force from the exploding bubble, the surge of lightning, the stolen projectiles — forward. At Situs.

The turncoat never stood a chance.

A beam caught Situs flat across the chest and threw him against the wall as lightning ravaged his frail body.

With the deed done, Aurelius stretched his senses out toward to the turncoat. Unconscious, and badly hurt. But not dead.

Not yet. Another plaything for Janse, perhaps. Or Visarion, he thought, turning his eyes to the Knight of Mysteries.

Whatever fate befell Situs would have to wait. The lift doors opened to admit Renata, and Aurelius moved to approach her, extinguishing his sabers.

[hugo]

There were at least a squadron of them, Visarion realized a half second before the doors of the stairwell seemed to explode into a cloud of thin smoke and terrible thunder.  The Knight felt the approach only seconds earlier, but had not been able to distinguish one gust of the Force from another in the maelstrom they found themselves surrounded by.  A cyclone.  That was what it was like; fear, anger, triumph, suffering, all of it raged violently around them, obscuring the individual auras, that which could be seen and felt.

It was only by virtue of his half-second forewarning that the Hapan saved himself from the rush of sonic force that charged in all directions when the flashbangs detonated, with a hastily but ably constructed barrier around his face and torso.  Still, he could feel some fraction of the impact on his surprised face, and his ears rang painfully.  There was no time to adjust, though.  The soldiers, at least a half dozen, his somewhat rattled senses could tell, began their coordinated barrage, the first few bolts flying astray before the squadron adjusted their aim and began peppering the Knight from three sides.  

The fog-like miasma produced by the grenades had spread more fully around the area, painted pink by the ignition of Visarion's crimson lightsaber and the hail of blasterfire that filled the space around the stairwell.  Niman saved him for a few moments.  He deflected the quickly honing-in blaster bolts with some difficulty in the thinning haze, the impulses of the Force doing what his stung, weak eyes could not.  Yet he was increasingly forced to summon tiny barriers to augment his deflections, the fire increasing in volume and precision, and now coming evenly from seemingly every side.  Calling more deeply still on his desperation, and his inquisitorial resolve, Visarion summoned enough of the Force's energies to dart in the only direction free of hostiles, in the direction from which they had come.  

With some distance and change in perspective narrowing the arc from which the red, searing bolts called for his corpse, Visarion twirled around, the bumness of his left knee evident as it lagged in the altogether ungraceful maneuver.  The red blade, glowing as angry as the Hapan's ambering blue eyes, moved deftly to answer the somewhat reduced blaster fire, deflecting the odd bolt back to its sender only to be absorbed by her armor.  This was unsustainable, the Hapan thought as the whining in his ears went unabated and sweat pooled under his tunic. 

The thin smoke from the initial flash bombardment had largely cleared, and he could see them, more or less behind cover in a spreading semi-circle, a beast widening its gullet, trying to more completely encircle the Knight.  It seemed these troops, whatever their prior value as living things before their unforgivable apostasies, were at least well-trained in fighting Force users.  He might find that encouraging in other circumstances, the legions of the Empire honing their anti-Jedi capabilities, but here, it was a frustration.

A small vehicle, presumably a repulsofork for unloading the light cargoes that came and went at any facility, entered his awareness, parked neatly alongside an equally neat series of large crates.  That would do.  A bolt severed a stray lock of his dark, uncharacteristically coiffed hair and the resulting aroma sickened the Hapan, most of whose senses had in one way or another been offended by the treasonous barrage.  

The Hapan Knight's dominant left hand remianed tightly gripped around the plain argentium hilt as he freed his right.  Four more bolts, two misses, two nearly striking but for the practiced whir of the Sith weapon.  Visarion upturned his right palm, and the energy that seethed within his being became power, and power jolted down his spine and to his finger tips.  It gathered, danced, and coalesced, jolting urgently down his outstretched limb and manifesting as white sparks that skipped from the Hapan's shoulder and down through his arm before gathering in his palm.  Clinching the burning hand, Visarion closed his eyes and faded into the Grove, returning in the same instant and releasing his mystic grip.  

Force Lightning, not a famished scattering of searing tendrils, but a bolt of one form, was born out of the Force and shot from Visarion's palm.  The sound was that of a tear, like the Force had torn down the physical laws of sound and matter, and replaced it with its own queer law.  Like the collective thundering of a trillion storms, the bolt could be heard, but only by those who knew how to listen.  The single bolt of energy grasped the vehicle like a toy, and tossed it as easily toward a trio of guardsmen taking cover behind a low durasteel barrier.  Visarion, his attentions momentarily freed from blaster fire by the disturbance, surged the collected energies and the repulsofork, in an instant, became flame and shrapnel, the meager fuel empowered by the charged lightning.  

The explosion killed the three men nearest it, and burning fluid spread by the blast was splattered all over, catching another of the sentries, whose blast-resistant armor did little to protect against the searing liquid that dripped through its gaps, nor the tiny, molten bits of shrapnel that tore at its softest parts.  Visarion, greatly depleted, turned his attention to another, unharmed adversary, this one closest to him, when she ended the ensuing pause with a barrage of well-placed shots.  Lessened, but not done yet, the Hapan evaded or dismissed the plasma bolts with a flick of his lightsaber.  

Soon the surviving soldiers too recommenced firing, but by then, the Knight was upon her.  Visarion caught the soldier just as she was trying in earnest to replace the rifle's spent energy cell.  She was quickly relieved of her arms, his crimson saber lopping the limbs off cleanly and casually, singed flesh further polluting his senses.  Lightning, by now familiar to his comrades, arched from the Knights hands, this time purplish, and consumed the dismembered traitor, replenishing Visarion's spent energies and leaving a withered, aged corpse where life had been.  As was right and just. 

Newly empowered, Visarion was almost delightful as he hunted the remaining three.  Two came easily, and were just as easily consumed, but the third fought, and fought, and finally, died a hero's death.  How impressive, he thought.  

The Knight, the sickness in his stomach and weakness in his limbs cleansed by the Force he'd rightfully seized from the felled traitors, was standing alone among the spreading, smoking fires he'd borne, and took a moment to breath and observe as they consumed the corpses that had also been his making, or unmaking.  He had little time to be impressed with himself, however, as Renata's presence hinted her return to the surface battleground.  Visarion stood still and solemn as the Heart's tiny frame emerged from the now smoky entrance.  She seemed to step through the fires, their licking flames catching neither her notice nor her body as she passed through them flanked by the Adamant Guard.  It was a fine a symbol as any of Imperial Radiance, the Heart rising from the smoldering remains of that which had threatened Our Body.  Visarion, his own robes singed and sweat caking his fair, even sanguine, face, bowed low, the carnage around him replacing the necessity for words. 

[caelum]

Conflict bred conflict, hate and pain bred hate and pain, and as Nostos strode across the hall he breathed it all in. He was no master assassin, capable of carving an opponent's heart with precision and darkness. He was no battlemaster, virtuoso of lightsaber combat, to adapt and overwhelm any fool that dared to face him in a duel. No, Nostos had been trained to be something more than that. A Heart of Darkness, staring deep into the void of the Force, changed by the experience but no lesser for it.

Fear echoed from him in waves, the minds of lesser creatures collapsing upon itself in dread as he made his presence known across the battlefield. From a purely practical standpoint he realized that this was perhaps less than preferable if he was to gain access to the Libraries, surely a more subtle hand would have been better suited for the task. Alas, upon hindsight, such a strategy was never going to work out well was it? The Empress was not a subtle force upon the battlefield, and if he was to show himself to be valuable then he couldn't pull his metaphorical punches.

The familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber, a momentary burst of bloodlust and violence behind him, and Nostos moved. The burning blade missed him by inches, bright eyes snapping away from the elevator and towards the treacherous Free Prophet. He jumped back, the Force assisting his motion as his crimson blade snapped into existence; a burning wound upon reality.

"My apologies." Nostos murmured, a slight inclination of the head in her direction. "I had not noticed you."

She snarled in contempt. "You will."

With that, she moved again, a burst of  lightning that alarmed the Prophet as his hand moved to intercept the blow. Her strength was surprising, not quite overwhelming yet, but combined with her speed and ferocity would have made her more than a match against most. Despite her treachery, she had earned her title well.

"You are weak, old man." she spat contemptuously, eyes set against Nostos's own. Where her visage burned with a berserker's rage, the audacity of the Empire's attack and fury at their invasion an endless engine, Nostos's bright gaze was cold and impassive. The barren tundra of Ziost to the girl's burning sun.

"Quite possibly." Nostos conceded. "My physical form is ruined and atrophied, I am certainly no blademaster-"

A brief flash of dark power, the girl's rage interrupted by the sudden warning of danger, and she broke the kiss of their blades. Pale lightning flashed from Nostos's gloved hands, spearing the space the Free Prophet had been mere moments ago. Wild arcs of power shredded itself against the floor, carbonizing all in its path as Requira dodged and blocked in equal measure. Finally, the well of power from which Nostos drew upon ceased, no sign of physical exertion from his power visible upon his slight frame.

"-but if one judges power by physical strength alone," Nostos concluded, his tone containing the slightest hint of contempt. "then one blinds oneself to the greater mysteries. I will not fall here, Free Prophet. It is not my time."

Requira snarled. "Oh, such certainty in your words. Now who is blind? Your arrogance is astounding, to think that once we were colleagues."

Nostos shrugged. "It is not arrogance for those who have the sight to see. Your fortresses and libraries will fall. Your research returned into the hands of my Order. Your rebellion will be crushed and none shall remember your names. That is a certainty, that is an indelible truth."

His voice grows soft, almost compassionate, though the contrast between his words and the sheer maelstrom he represented in the Force was almost obscene. "You could surrender. I would try my best to ensure your judgement be swift and fair. If you surrender, you need not die. If you lay down your arms, he may not die."

The Free Prophet's eyes widened, a sense of realization swiftly swallowed by outrage. A moment's distraction, more than enough for the Sith Lord. Something in her facade cracked, a realization, an outrage, as he glimpsed into her mind. Nostos's head tilts ever so slightly.

"In love with your Master, Requira?" Nostos murmurs quietly. "It is a common enough thing, but I stand by my-"

"I would prefer that you fall instead."

And with that, there were no more words. Requira burned with fury, her lightsaber cutting across the space between them with hyperlethality. Nostos does not move from his place, his lightsaber brought into a familiar makashi opening. The Free Prophet adjusted her blow, her weapon skillfully cutting Nostos's hand as she twirled to strike at his neck.

But something was wrong.

Where she expected a decapitated corpse, instead the view beyond her was....muffled. Smeared, like a painting ruined before it's time. The crimson light of her blade had smeared itself across Nostos's neck like a finger painting, infecting the world with a virulent crimson. She looked down, and that same smear affected the Sith Lord's hand as well. Bright eyes stared down upon her impassively, walking to the side and revealing Nostos to be safe.

Which was impossible. Truly impossible, he should be dead, he should be-

You will not die here, Requira.

Nostos's voice echoed out across the hangar, and for a moment the Free Prophet felt small. Vulnerable. The lights around the hangar flickered, darkness enroaching upon the scene as the sounds of combat from afar grew more and more muffled.

You must answer for your treachery, and unlike the Order of Bronze, our Order recognizes that there are worse things than death. 

The shadows grow larger, encompassing more and more of the hangar. Her crimson blade grew dimmer, some tenebrous force draining the life out of it as that calm voice continued.

You will survive. Alone. Severed. Broken. Your Master will call and you will not hear it. A blade not broken, but forgotten and lost.

"No!" Requira snarls, even as the darkness stands triumphant. Her blade dies, the final sputter of crimson light damning her to the dark.

Mordus dies, because of your failure, I tried to be merciful.

And after that, there was nothing else.

Nostos stared down at the catatonic body of the Free Prophet. Her lightsaber disabled, her form lying on the floor in a heap, her body collapsing like a puppet without it's strings mid-leap. Her eyes are open and yet they see something beyond even him, her gaze twitching as her nightmares are made manifest. She murmurs something, a name perhaps, but it is too quiet for Nostos to hear.

He disengages his lightsaber, the blade retreating with a hiss, as he informs what soldiers remain on the platform to retrieve the Free Prophet. Darth Aurelius would have his prize.

And with that, he continued on his way, the blinking lights of the elevator beyond a tempting sight, reminding him of the knowledge beneath.

[Meira]

"Come." Renata said softly to Aurelius as she stepped from the lift. "Stand by me. Be ready, but do not act unless you must."

Teneo's pale form floated just behind the Empress as she stepped through the now quieted battleground of the hangar. His limbs hung limp, fingers dragging lightly on the ground as he was moved. Renata guided his body to an empty space in the center of the hangar and set him down gently. She lowered herself down next to the man, rearranging his arms and legs into a position more resembling sleep than the pain induced catatonia he was actually subject to. Satisfied, she stood again, glancing around at the handiwork of her faithful. Golden eyes stopped on each in turn. Aurelius, with the sheen of combat upon his brow and an aura of dark rage still pulsing from him; Nostos, stoic as ever standing over the still breathing body of one of the traitors; Visarion, vibrant and so alive in the midst of a crowd of drained corpses; and Janse, Aurelius' apprentice stood with one of the underling traitors writhing at his feet. Renata allowed the pride she felt for all of them to spread outward and envelop her faithful followers.

"Bring them." she said, gesturing for the still living traitors to be groups together beside the one she brought. She then gestured for Janse to also bring the broken body of the other traitorous knight over.

When all were lined up, Renata noted them each. Requira, Teneo, Formida, and Inedio. Two Prophets and two Knights of Mysteries... so much potential, wasted. Of the four, only Formida remained conscious. She was clutching the stump of one arm close to her chest, the cauterized smelled of the flesh burned away. Renata stood over her, but the girl would not meet her eyes. Through the Force, Renata pressed her own consciousness into the girl's. There was a frightened, weak resistance, but it did not last long.

"Morbus has done you wrong, child." Renata said, her voice soft and gentle. "He has held you back, for his own gain."

"No!" Formida protested, but her voice quavered.

"Your loyalty is commendable, my dear, but misplaced." Formida shook her head, silent tears streaming down her soot-stained face. "But never fear. There is hope for you yet. You might still serve Our purpose."

The lift emitted a clear tone, signalling a new arrival. Renata stepped around her line of captives, turning to face the lift as the doors slowly opened.

Morbus stepped from the lift, the first rays of light from Adega Prime glinting off his meticulously polished horns. The Elomin's rust-orange form was clad in simple, deep black robes. But where one might expect the silver accents of the Cult of Mysteries, Morbus' robes were adorned by a bright red that no Cult dared to take for their own. His eyes, all black, were trained on the Empress as he walked with perfect posture. He stopped, several paces away from Renata and her entourage. His arms were held casually at his sides and he exuded the nonchalance of a man totally at ease in his own body and power.

"Kind of you to join us, Morbus." Renata said, a pleasant smile stretching her thin lips.

"You left me little choice." Morbus replied, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "As is your practice, Empress." He spoke the last word with venom, giving Renata a bow that seeped with contempt. "But you have failed to realize the power we have discovered here. Your hubris shall be your undoing."

As Morbus lifted himself from his bow, he reached his arms out to either side. The air vibrated with an energy that seemed to come from all around. There was a rumble, and through the bond Renata had formed with her guard, she could feel the surprise and confusion of those she dispatched to find the test subjects. They were...dying. One by one, Renata saw them drop through the eyes of her guard. Shaking away from their consciousness, Renata came back to her own, in the hangar. She watched Morbus with curious eyes as he seemed to draw on his connection to... the other prophets and... the subjects?

No... not directly...

"You see now?" Morbus asked, his skeletal features pulled tight with effort. "And this is only the beginning! Soon, my power will be-"

In a sudden burst of speed, Renata dashed forward and was right at Morbus' side. Her hands reached out, clasping his head at either side. As she made contact with his skin, she felt the power he'd been drawing on. Her eyes widened at the sheer energy that he was channeling.

"MINE!" she bellowed, her voice augmented and hollow as the Force surged through her. She unleashed all her might onto Morbus, overloading his nervous system.

For a moment, Morbus went rigid at the invasion of his very cells. After a moment, however, he began to push back. He was no mere Knight. No, he was no Lord either. Morbus was a Darth in all but name. He'd earned that right, but had been spurned by this petty woman. She was jealous, hoarding the power to herself, dosing it out in small, pathetic amounts to the sycophants who would belittle themselves as her lapdogs. But Morbus refused to cower for scraps. Not now, not ever! He pushed back, intent to deny Renata any authority she might claim. He had power beyond her understanding now! he would kill her, take the Empire for his own! He shifted his stance, his own hands moving to grasp Renata's wrists. He moved as if through a thick liquid, slow and with great effort. She was terribly strong, beyond what her frail frame might suggest. But it was all an illusion. He just... had... to break... her hold...

"Nostos!" Renata called out through gritted teeth. "Execute Teneo! Now!" The unconscious prisoner was being siphoned of life force at an alarming rate. She could feel it. Requira's stupor had her disconnected from Morbus for now, and the Knights were much weaker wells. Teneo, however, was a powerful man. His energy fed into Morbus as much as all the subjects combined.

"Aurelius!" she called next. "Cut him down!" It was time to end this, once and for all.

[Rugs]

“As you wish.” Aurelius fell in just a step behind Renata, lightsabers silenced but still in hand, still ready to act at a moment’s notice. As she stepped into the hangar, Aurelius turned his gaze to the aftermath of the battles that’d raged around him. What Renata’s retinue lacked in numbers, they’d made up for in strength; now all stood victorious, from Visarion, surrounded by a wreath of fire to Janse, battered and weary, but victorious over his foe.

Aurelius took pride in his student’s work. Janse had the potential, had the raw strength and skill already to be a Knight in all but name, but lacked the experience, the temperance that came with diving again and again into the fires against the Empire’s foes. Now he’d stood alone, against a foe that — by rank, should have bested him — and emerged victorious.

You’ll go far, Aurelius thought as he reached through the Force to drag Situs’ limp body from the pile of metal debris at Renata’s command, if you have the will for it.

Situs received none of the gentle treatment Renata afforded her broken traitor. Aurelius pulled his body free with all the care he might give to prying a sack of grain free from the bottom of a pile and dropped him off in the hangar’s middle with about the same care. He snorted through his nostrils as he clipped his lightsabers back to his belt. “A waste,” he muttered to Renata as he began the same process for Inedio.

Aurelius extended a modicum of mercy to the Zabrak; he was not yet dead but clung feebly to the life that leaked out of his horned head in thick, red drops. The wayward Knight might be reclaimed. If he survived. Though Aurelius felt no compassion for the boy, he was in no particular hurry to usher him off to the afterlife.

A ping from the lift drew Aurelius’ focus back, over his shoulder, to a cold presence spreading like poison gas into the hangar. His lips drew back in an animalistic scowl, baring his fangs as Morbus finally revealed himself.

“At last,” he growled, the words rumbling from deep in his throat, “the ringleader comes out of hiding.”

He held his tongue as Renata confronted the traitor, confronted the man who had turned his disciples against the Her Radiance — against the Order. Blue-green lightning split the sky overhead, followed by crashing thunder. The Force, full of dark energy, twisted and writhed among them. It seemed at first a natural thing— turbulence from so many powerful Force users in conflict confined to such a small space, but no. Aurelius’ eyes shot to Morbus as the red-orange man raised his arms. This was coming from him.

His body tensed, powerful muscles coiled and ready to launch him at this new enemy, at the heart of this betrayal. His lightsabers were once more in hand, shining gold and blue as Renata instead engaged Morbus, entering some terrible battle of wills to stop the man before he could suck dry the power from his fallen followers.

Whatever technique Morbus employed was foreign to Aurelius. It bore some similarities to Force Drain and its more advanced form, Death Field, both of which he was intimately familiar with. But it wasn’t quite the same.

Morbus’ lackeys groaned and writhed on the ground, shocked by to glossy half-consciousness by the power flowing over them. Though their twisting motions, backs arched and fingers clawed on the hard floor, seemed agonizing, their faces — eyes rolled up so the whites showed — bore rapture.

What is this? Aurelius wondered at the power on display.

“Cut him down!”

No time to wonder. Aurelius sprang into motion at his Empress’ words, leaping over her and Morbus. He twisted as he came down, golden blade slashing out at Morbus’ hip-

And found himself thrown back into the wall with a crash as a blast of power erupted from the Elomin. He grunted as his back and head slammed into the wall, but managed to catch himself an in an unsteady crouch. As he pressed his forefingers to the back of his head, he felt warm, thick liquid dampening his blue-black hair.

“No!” Morbus grunted with obvious effort. “You will... not!”

Aurelius might have been impressed at the raw power Morbus commanded, to battle Renata while keeping him at bay, if he wasn’t so suddenly pissed. “I will,” he yelled back at Morbus, rising to lunge forward again.

This time the Force surged through him as he extended a hand before him. As he approached, Morbus once again issued a blast of power that tore loose pieces of the ground and sent them flying past. Aurelius resisted with his own blast of power and kept his footing, but only just. The effort halted his advance, allowing Morbus more time, more precious seconds to siphon energy away from his Free Prophets. The man’s presence was nearly overwhelming, shadowing even Renata’s as it swelled to bursting.

I can’t waste more time. Head-on attacks would just be met with more delaying blasts. Morbus didn’t need to kill or defeat Aurelius; he just needed to delay him enough to gather his power, to overcome Renata and drain her strength away.

“Alright then,” Aurelius growled, extending his hand. Red energy danced around his palm, around the back of his hand and fingertips. “If that’s the game you’re playing, let’s play it.” The Force erupted in branching, weaving red from Aurelius’ outstretched fingertips. It crashed into Morbus and webbed out over his body.

The False Prophet shrieked rage as power — the very same he’d leeched away from his loyal followers — began to flow away from him and into Aurelius. “NO!” Morbus yelled. “You cannot-”

Morbus shrieked again and staggered as his source of power faltered, as Teneo’s well was cut off and silenced. His skin began to grey and sag from his frame as Aurelius pulled the life from him, as he lost control in his battle with Renata.

Aurelius cut off his assault, nearly trembling from the overflowing power within him. Now.

He lunged forward again, and this time, no blast came to meet him. Gold and blue arced forward as one and separated Morbus’ legs from his body at the hip. Again, his blades danced through the air and the turncoat lost his arms at the shoulder.

Morbus fell to the ground, a screaming stump of a man, and Aurelius extended his hand. The same dark power with which he’d eradicated Aestuo — more potent now for the strength stolen from Morbus himself — filled his body. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he struggled to withhold it.

“I will finish him, Your Radiance,” he said, voice tight with strain as he looked to Renata. “If You will it.”

[caelum]

The Prophet watched on quietly. In times past, a Court would have many voices, many roles, to speak through it. The Fool to be sneered and speak truths none would utter, the Knight to be used as a blade both beautiful and terrible, the Empress to dictate and rule. Nostos was aware of his own place in this, and what with this affair coming to a head here and now, he knew better than to interfere between the two.

Mordus was Grand, as expected. Perhaps the true heir to Her legacy, but too blinded by his own avarice and greed. Even as they spoke, Nostos saw through more than just the flesh, more than just the words spoken between the two.

The dark side flared between them, and it is here that he is disappointed. He had grown familiar with the Empress's presence, but the thing hat was Mordus? For all that he was power made manifest, for all that his technique in the dark side was foreign and unusual to him, Nostos was disappointed. It did not matter that he had found some new technique in the dark side, some manner of draining life from the force more similar to that of Darth Nihlus than any contemporary use of the technique. His star was as bright, terrible and short sighted as Nihlus's was in the end, and far less successful. Power without Foresight was Power wasted, the application of force via the proper means and location an integral aspect. The False Prophets were truly that, False, and to even imagine for a moment that they held wisdom that Nostos had not was a foolish delusion at best.

He bowed at the Empress's command, as he should. "As you will, your Majesty."

Nostos's eyes snapped towards the fading creature. It was an intriguing observation, to see Mordus drain the life out of Teneo. The subject himself was unremarkable, nothing but a particularly energetic battery for Mordus to feed on, but what was intriguing was the technique itself. He had been hyperbolic when describing the technique to that of Nihlus, but perhaps it had not been so hyperbolic at all. 

Ideally, given time to observe the phenomena, he would have liked to study it further. Alas, that was not an option, not with this creature feeding Mordus so. Nonetheless, it wasn't so bad. Power could be claimed, could be reclaimed even. He would need to satisfy himself with what Mordus had shown, and hoped that his notes deeper in the redoubt could hold more clues.


The Prophet's hands reached out. The order itself was clear, to kill Teneo, but the intent was much more important. That the creature was being fed upon by Mordus to feed his power meant that simply killing the creature wouldn't be enough. The burning plasma of a lightsaber could kill the creature that, but the billions of organisms that made up Teneo would still be alive. Still rich in the Force and capable of feeding Mordus regardless. More extensive methods were required.

Lightning, deep and terrible, arced out of Nostos's fingers. Deep and terrible, the sangrian hue bathed the surrounding area as the Prophet commanded Teneo to die by medium of electrocution. The False Prophet's skin sloughed off upon contact, the unconscious creature defenseless to his power, as third degree burns inflicted in an instant. It took Teneo moments to die, and seconds more until every cell in his body had spontaneously combusted. 

The lightning died, leaving behind a dehydrated husk of a person. Nostos stared for a moment, studying the sight, before moving on.

Just in time, as it turned out. Aurelius had been busy, besting the Mordus in combat while Nostos had been in deep contemplation. He allowed himself a final glance at the prisoners, before moving forward.

He did not move too close, to dare to stand as such to the Empress invited castigation, and so Nostos settled for being close enough to observe the unfolding drama. Of Aurelius, blush with triumph, his blade held over the False Prophet. Of Mordus, completely and thoroughly defeated, as more a stump of a man than anything else. Nostos couldn't help but speak.

"Be well, Mordus." the Prophet said quietly. "Your demise is nothing less but a valuable lesson, one that our Order will not forget."

[Meira]

The world faded as her focus closed tight onto the man. She let her trust rest in Aurelius, Nostos, and the others as she fought to wrest control from Morbus. It was no easy task, even in the best of circumstances, to subvert the control that a being held over their own body. Such control was the most natural thing in the galaxy, and to interrupt it required great concentration. In the end, it came down to the power of her will against those she wished to overcome. And hard as it might be, Renata had yet to meet her match where will was concerned. But Morbus was drawing on more than himself, and without the others, it was likely she would have lost the battle. As it was, she felt the sudden loss of Teneo's life force like the snap of a cable pulled taut then suddenly cut. She felt the pain that Morbos felt at the loss, and she felt the overwhelming sensation of unfocused power.

As Morbus panicked, Renata pushed deeper. Through him, she saw a flood of memories, thoughts, and emotions. It all moved too quickly to process. But she knew that, with meditation, she would be able to sift through it and come to understand his technique. It was the... As sudden as a bolt of lightning, the only sensation was searing pain. Renata's eyes snapped open, reflecting the expression Morbus' own features held as his lower extremities were severed. Another flash and his grip on her arms loosened. The man fell to pieces before her and Renata fingertips still burned as he fell to the ground. Aurelius was there, the Force pulsing around him like some dark and terrible storm. She wanted desperately to reach out, to pull that power from him and into herself. But she did not. Instead, the Empress pulled herself back upright and once again affected the cold indifference of her station as she looked down at the broken false prophet.

"Do it." she said, and turned away.

Her eyes swept over the hangar once more as Aurelius completed the work they'd come to do. The last of the traitors lie in heaps at the feet of her faithful. Below, only a handful of subjects survived. But they, and the container, were secured. All that was left was to take away the surviving traitors. Requira, Formida, and Inedio. The first would likely be killed once her interrogations were complete. She had been a full Prophet, after all. There was likely no method to bring her fully back within the body. There was hope yet, however, for the knights.

"Load them onto the shuttle." Renata instructed Visarion and Aurelius' apprentice. She turned to Nostos. "You will stay. there is much to study." Then, finally, she turned back to Aurelius. "Our High Archon," she said, stepping back over to him, "Our most loyal. You have done well. Take your prisoners, do as you will with them. We will send for you soon." Renata touched her hand to Aurelius' shoulder, her pride evident through the connection. More was gained here today than lost. Leaving him with that thought, she stepped away, gesturing for Nostos to follow her back into the compound.

[Rugs]

“Do it.”

Aurelius needed no other urging; he’d only waited to allow Renata to claim the final victory over Morbus, if She willed it. His lips curled into a brutal smile, baring his sharp fangs like a predator poised to play with its prey. “As You command.” Though his voice was strained from the considerable effort of holding back the terrible power gathered within him, there was no feigning the malevolent joy that rode his every word.

As Renata turned away to take in the aftermath of their short, vicious battle, Aurelius turned his full attention to Morbus. The leader of the so-called “Free Prophets” lay on the ground, separated from most of his limbs, mouth writhing in wordless agony. Glossy glaze covered his eyes — Aurelius could only imagine the damage wrought in the clash of will between Renata and himself.

“You were so close,” Aurelius mulled aloud. “So close to glory, to writing your name across the stars. But rather than bow so low, you turned away.” Dark power, held so long within him began to gather under his open palm. It was invisible to the naked eyes, save a subtle distortion to anything viewed through its swirling lens. Aurelius’ clothes rippled as though wind were blowing from his hand. “And now you’ll be a footnote. If you’re lucky.”

The power swelled at once, beyond what he’d unleashed into the unknowing Aestuo. Aurelius unleashed Destruction--the Dark Side itself made manifest--in an eruption of strength that nearly overwhelmed his own senses. His perception shifted, and to him, it seemed that Morbus was torn apart, molecule by agonizing molecule until nothing remained.

In reality, the leader of the Free Prophets was undone in an instant, disappearing in an eruption of dust and debris as Aurelius’ blast slammed through him and the hangar floor beneath. When the dust settled, the only trace of Morbus that remained was bloodied stump of his ankle and left foot, spared from total atomization by the raw kinetic that threw it carelessly against the hangar’s far wall.

It’s done.

Aurelius lifted his head to gaze at the sky. Lightning tore through the air overhead, followed by thunder’s heavy rumble. He turned away from the crater rock-littered crater he’d torn into the ground to see Renata approaching once more.

At her praise, he smiled boyishly, for once looking as young as he was for one of his people. “I live to serve, Your Radiance.”

She had changed him, for better or worse. Only a few short years ago, Nieraan Onin would have bristled at such a statement, but for Aurelius, it came naturally. Renata had elevated him, granted him access to more power than he could have ever dreamed of holding a decade ago, running with gangs on Metellos’ grimy streets.

Still, he lingered as Renata withdrew into the compound, wondering at her final, silent message. The destruction of the splinter group was victory enough, to say nothing of the recovery of their stolen Archeri crystal. But he could not help but wonder what Renata had gleaned, what she’d seen and learned in that battle with Morbus.

Time will tell, he told himself as he began to move to oversee gathering up the prisoners. As he passed Visarion, he spared the Knight of Mysteries a passing glance and subtle smile. “You’re strong, Knight,” he said simply. “Keep it up and you’ll go far.”

As they parted, Aurelius made his way towards Janse. His apprentice had performed more than admirably in the face of stiff competition, and Aurelius intended to be sure he knew it.

[caelum]

Nostos watched with cold apathy as the would-be-free Prophet met his end. He supposed that in times past he would have felt concerned over such an end, the death of an erstwhile ally at the hands of a current ally. But then it had been years since that part of him ever truly had a say in his thoughts, nevermind his actions. Morbus and his pack of fools were always meant to fall, their own hubris propelling what would have been their slim chance of success into the dustbins of history. They would be forgotten, as was proper, but that was not the only important thing to happen here.

The Order of Silver had rebelled. Only a portion of it true, but one of it's Prophets had turned against the Empress. That it was crushed with impunity was only a matter of course, but what was ultimately unusual was the Empress's involvement. The Empire's borders were not so secure, the Orders within not so obedient, the Nobles within not so pliant, that Renata could easily afford to allow such a rebellion to take up such a significant amount of her time. Yes Morbus was powerful, but his strength in the Force alone was not the sole reason the Heart of the Empire was brought to this lonely planet.

Bright eyes flicker to the elevator, to the libraries, and there is a moment of consideration.

Why was it that of all the people here, the Empress had requested his attention first and foremost? That while a handful of Sith remained, only he was called forth?

A moment of reflection, of Morbus's final actions, the strange powers he wielded. 

No, there was a mystery in this place, one that the Prophet had thought important enough to rebel over. To take that knowledge and use it for his own. That he was told to study this place was a gesture of trust, for the Order of Silver's mandate to take control of this place despite their failure. In a way he was flattered to be rewarded so, but he knew well the price of failure. He'd seen to it after all, which was just as likely another of Renata's ploy. To reward with one hand and promise retribution in another.

Nonetheless, he was well used to such dynamics at this point. The Lady of Pain had taught him well.

"Of course, your Excellency." he bowed, before raising himself up and following after her.