First Steps (Karn/Open)

[hugo]

It was fortunate that, when it came to Academy Administrative Services, Visarion asked very little.  Many of his colleagues, their dark pursuits and vain natures ballooning from egotistical to insufferable.  He imagined they received all sorts of demands for this and that from the various Knights and Lords as they squabbled for the best quarters, offices, and facilities.  It was really quite jaw-dropping just how petty his brethren could be.

But he asked for very little.  As such, he'd cultivated enough good will and rank to eventually secure a relatively sumptuous suite near the temple's lower levels, where he spent most of his time on Korriban. 

It was not itself very nice, its walls hewn neatly from the same slate gray and obsidian that comprised the overrall structure, but served his purposes well enough.  In addition to a decent bedroom and refresher, he had a decent sized living and dining area (which the Hapan more practically repurposed into a meditation room, as he ate very little) as well as a large, front room he'd arranged into a sort of reception area (why he did not know, he never received visitors) and study, where a couple thousand volumes and other academic knicknacks adorned two sets of heavy, Ziost ebonywood shelves on either side of the large archway that lead into the personal area of the suite.  Above it was a silver sculpture, a piece gifted to him by a Mysteries friend, fashioned finely into a broken chain, the sundered link forming the center and being headed by an Imperial emblem painted crimson.  It had been her who had helped the vogue-less Visarion arrange his formerly cluttered office space into a presentable reception area befitting a Knight of Mysteries.  It seemed much more important to her than it had to him, but alas, that was women, at least in his experience.  They always saw room for improvement wherever they went, and left beauty where they touched. 

To the left was a sitting area, courtesy of the previous tenant.  If it had been left to him, there would have been spartan chairs and maybe a secondhand couch, but instead an elegant transparisteel java table, an admittedly comfortable loveseat, and a pair of ornate, formal chairs completed the left side of the large entry room.  That frugality was another boon to his relationship with the Sith bureaucracy, as he rarely had need for large amounts of funds, and having spent most of his life in one religious order or another, had never quite developed the taste for material things that drove so many of his fellow sentients.  Even so, he took pride in his little "office" area, to the right of the suite entrance, where he did most of his reading, writing, and thinking, as well as where he received meetings when the rare one came up.  He had a large, heavy desk made of durasteel and fastened to the floor, panelled with the same black wood that made the shelves.  It swung around in a gentle convex, offering ample desk space for the hodgepods of datapads, holodisplays were spread about messily, though the center area before two low-set chairs was clear now in anticipation of the acolyte and acolye-hopeful. 

Red, black, and silver accents helped somewhat to lighten the damper of the dark, stone walls, several Imperial banners, paintings, and a statuette of Ajunta Pall he'd excavated on Ziost were arranged variously throughout the room in a symmetrical, neat fashion.  It was very bright, so that his poor low light vision would not serve as an impairment to his readings or movings about; recessed lights provided clean, but not too harsh lighting throughout.  

Presently though, Visarion was far beyond the material realm.  He was silent as he hovered just above the floor mat on which he routinely began his meditations.  In this circular room, where less mystical tenants may have dined, he had assembled his most important artifacts: a sword from before the initial Dark Jedi invasion; a dagger used by a cult of ancient Sith for ritual sacrifice that he'd recovered during he, Karn, and Velten's little seminar; and a holocron borrowed from the archives among minor other things of relation to the Dark Side. 

It was early, and after his customary four or five hour sleep, Visarion took to his chambers to seek clarity about the coming day's events.  Clad in sweat pants and slender torso bare, he levitated higher still, eyes closed gently as he immersed himself in the darkness.  The boy, Hakk, had more potential than he'd admitted, and in truth, the Hapan was intrigued.  He had been a knight several years now, and though the Sith did not have formal requirements, he thought it well past due to seek an apprentice.  And Hakk, untested and naive, just may have had the potential to fill that role, to serve as a vessel for the dark knowledge he'd gradually and carefully assembled.  

But how should he go about ascertaining if the Zabrak, whose duel with Albrecht had been far more even matched than Visarion could have guessed, had substance beyond his seething passion and physical ability.  It was this that he pondered for sometime as he meditated, tucked away deep in the black, misty world of his Grove.  He resolved to test the boy in three ways: a test of might, a test of will, and a test of judgement.  

---

It was sometime after this meditation, once he'd showered and dressed ifor the day that the access panel chirped.  Ah.  Acolyte Albrecht had arrived on time.  He sensed the Arkanian's familiar aura even before the panel sounded, raw and impetuous.  He'd requested that Karn join him in apppraising the hopeful, if not for pedagogical contribution than for half-decent conversation.

  He remained seated behind the heavy desk, skimming the headlines of the Imperial News Network, as was his morning custom.  The chrono read 0750, he noted, his protocol-serving droid whirring steadily from his chores in the kitchen to answer the door.  Soon Darth Viren's apprentice was before him, and Visarion motioned for him to take a seat before the desk.  

"I trust the neophyte survived his first night in our little orphanage."  The droid by then had returned with tea, which it left on the desk and proceeded to pour a cup for Visarion.  He motioned his hand lazily towards it, offering the necessary caffeine to his new visitor, still reading the headlines.  

He explained to the Arkanian opposite him that he intended to complete the "trial" today, to quickly decide whether to cast Hakk out or to invest the time and resources into forging him into Sith.  "The first, a test of might, is simple enough.  A group of acolytes have taken it upon themselves to flee the academy and take a minor excavation site a ways east of here.  That particular site happens to be my responsibility, and I'd like operations to resume...immediately.  We will travel there first and slaughter the traitors. Should Hakk survive and in some way demonstrate a capacity for the schools of Destruction, we can proceed to the next two tests.  Beyond being prepared to fight once we depart, the rest of the day will require no special preparation on your part.  Any questions?"

A minute or so passed when they both felt Hakk's proximity.  He extended his hand, and with a gentle nudge through the Force, opened the door to allow the Zabrak access.  Though he coudldn't quite see them from the entryway, Visarion called out in a cool tone for him to enter.  

"Hopeful.  I've been expecting you."  Hakk stood the same, and walked the same, but there was something noticeably different in the way he rippled through the Force.  Something had changed.
 

[Rugs]

Karn rose early, before the sun yet broke over the distant mountains that threw the Valley of the Dark Lords into shadow. His quarters, buried deep within the heart of the Academy’s acolyte residences, were much the same as his peers’. The rooms were small, crammed together atop each other to accommodate the Order’s swelling ranks. A hard bed occupied much of the length of one wall, after a short entryway that also housed the door to his private refresher. A metal desk with a matching mirror sat opposite the bed, next to a small walk-in closet that was near to bursting with all of his clothes.

A narrow window looked out over the Valley. Karn was fortunate to have not only a room on the outside row to get a window but one that looked out into the Valley proper, instead of uninteresting stone or vast, empty desert.

The room’s floor was the same hard stone as the rest of the temple, though he’d secured a thin, fraying rug to cover the heart of it. A few bits and baubles sat on the shelves carved into or bolted onto the walls. Some were mementos from home: diamonds from the rolling tundra, a set of scales from an Arkanian dragon dug up near his family’s home some years before he departed for the Sith. Others were academic. Datapads, each stuffed with information on everything from starships to battlefield tactics were everywhere. Proper books — some of which were overdue for return to the Temple Archives — filled more of the space. One lay on his desk cracked next to a flimsiplast full of hastily-scrawled notes. Some ancient Sith warrior ballad. Karn cared little for the story itself but took any opportunity he could find to study the old language.

One bauble, nestled in a lockbox under his bed was personal. His former master’s lightsaber, recovered after her death at Nar Shaddaa. Karn hadn’t touched it since, but was keenly aware of it, of the echoes of her presence that yet lingered on it.

His thoughts drifted to it, and to Lady Colubus, as he sat up at the corner of his bed. He leaned forward, bare arms folded around his knees and closed his eyes in a moment of silent grief.

Then he rose. He had things to do, and that was before seeing Visarion.

—-

An hour and a half later found Karn, hair still damp from his morning shower after early saber training and exercise, standing before the door to Visarion’s suite. He was dressed neatly, in an outfit of light greys and black that fit close to his lithe figure.

The Knight had contacted him the prior evening to invite him to continue with Hakk’s assessment. Karn was eager to see that process unfold.

A roiling irritation that had followed him much of the evening returned as the panel’s access light lit green. He’d sandbagged with Hakk, toying with the runaway Jedi to taunt him instead of putting him down quickly.

How could he have foreseen Visarion’s intrusion? Their fight had been cut short, leaving unclear the question of which of the two was the better. Karn knew he claimed that position, but did Hakk? Given the chance, he’d prove it, by the day’s end.

Lightning arcs jumped between his fingertips for a heartbeat as the door slid open.

Visarion’s suite seemed palatial in comparison to Karn’s cramped room. The Arkanian suppressed a pang of jealousy as he walked through and into Visarion’s office.

“Nice digs. A bit bright though, don’t you think?” Karn smiled wryly as he arrived and settled into a chair at Visarion’s direction. He knew of Hapans and their shit vision in the dark. A biological failing, though perhaps made up for by their arresting beauty. Visarion was no exception, in that regard. “You don’t happen to share any of those books, do you?”

"I trust the neophyte survived his first night in our little orphanage."

Karn shrugged, taking the offered tea from the droid. He eyed it for a moment, wondering what sort Visarion favored. Karn was fond of Gatalentan tea — the real stuff, not the crap pumped out for witless buyers who wanted the name and none of the quality — but he enjoyed a range of them. “No real loss to us if he didn’t,” he said flatly. If Hakk couldn’t make it through a night, what could he have possibly offered the Sith?

Still, Karn listened silently, stirring his tea with a subtle nudging of the Force, as Visarion laid out the first of Hakk’s trials. “No, no questions. But don’t hold it against me if I decide to push him, some.” Karn smiled into his tea as he sipped on it. Ah, it was good, and a variety he didn’t recognize by taste. “Where’d you get this?”

No sooner had he spoken than he felt Hakk draw near. He kept drinking from his tea as Visarion admitted the hopeful. “Good morning, Jedi.” Karn turned his head lazily to Hakk, putting on the same too-sweet smile he’d worn when they parted. “Did you sleep well?”

No, something was different. Subtle, but unmistakable once he noticed it. Karn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you do?”

[Pres]

Hakk moved into the room as the panel to the door lit green. The doors slide open and he heard several greetings from inside the room. He was ready for what was to come. Hakk was impressed with the room of Visarion. Colors of red, black, and silver gave the room a bit of life even though the room still gave off a dark vibe. He notice several paintings and imperial banners hanging around the room. What stood out to Hakk was the statue of what looked like a fellow Sith of importance. Hakk knew that if he survived today, he had his work cut out for him in research. In Jedi training, he was never taught much history of the roots of the Sith. Hakk quickly took note of the statue and moved forward into the room.

Hakk was greeted by Visarion and Karn. Hearing Karn's voice, Hakk wanted to just ignore him at all cost but knew that would most likely get him in trouble. In his given situation, Karn had the rank above him. Hakk tilted his head to the right slightly and smirked a little. "Wasn't the best sleep but wasn't the worst sleep either.... I'm sure you will see soon enough." Hakk turned his attention to Visarion and gave him a slight nod to acknowledge his presence. "I'm ready. What do I have in store for today?" Hakk spoke with confidence and waited for an order from Visarion.

Hakk embraced the hate and anger. Hakk felt confident in what he wanted. Today was the day to show and prove that he was ready and able to be apart of the Sith. He could feel the hate within him begin to bubble with eagerness. The hate ready to unleash upon its mark. Honing into his hate, Hakk used the force to bring a sense of calmness within his body to hold his hate at bay. As he waited for Visarion to give orders, he questioned why Karn would be here. Regardless of the why, Hakk needed to focus at the task at hand.

[hugo]

The Iridonian hopeful was changed.  Still that intangible ingredient that was needed to become Sith was there, contained for now, but just as turbulent as before.  He thought Hakk's presence, uncommon as it was, was very much like that of magma.  From the vantage point of space, there was little light, little strength, yet below, once the rough crag of crust was removed, was a vast repository of chaos and fire, a mantle of hate.  Yet the dim surface was beginning to crack, it seemed.  The slightest of fractures revealed tiny slivers of dark power, peeking beyond the unassuming mask of a Zabrak youth ten years his junior.  Perhaps he'd headed the mystic Knight's advice after all, perhaps he'd finally shed the last vestiges of his Jedi crust.   They would see soon enough.  

"I've asked Acolyte Albrecht to join us for today's excursion, which will not be a problem."  He spoke coarsely once Hakk had time to absorb properly his surroundings.  He sipped the last of his tea, which had cooled just short of room temperature, and deposited the emptied mug onto the unruly desktop.  

"You will be subject to a series of, for lack of a better term, trials.  If you survive, and I deem that survival worthy, I will accept you as an Acolyte, and perhaps, I will consider taking you on as an apprentice."  Visarion rose, revealing his light frame and the black tunic that clung to it, and removed his robe, thin and frayed, from the back of the chair before donning it in a swirl of fabric.  

"First, we will travel to a place called Site 11.  A sort of disease has broken out there, and your first test will be an inoculation to it.  You will kill, or you will die, but you will not be alone. "  Visarion, easing around the awkwardness of the desk and chair, grabbed a rough satchel from behind the desk and hung it under his robes, its contents--essentials and academic materials that don't much merit mention.  

"This is your last chance.  You may leave now, or accept the uncertainty of your fate on Korriban.  You will, after today, either be Sith, or dead.  You will be mass, or you will be void.  If the possibility of either frightens you, then leave now and waste no more of my time.  Otherwise, we will depart shortly from the speeder bay."

---

Runa and the four other acolytes assigned to Site 11 were restless that morning.  The Force was disturbed around the site, and as the clear alpha of the young apostates, it came to her viscerally.  

The charcoal Twi'lek's pale yellow eyes were hard, those not quite of a slave or a prisoner, but that of one who knew such affliction and had tamed it and bent it to their will.  That achievement, and the years of instruction the young Acolyte had received since arriving on Korriban at 12 nearly a decade prior, a scared, broken little girl, and had become Sith.  And now, she had broken her chains.  She'd done that which she came to the Sith to do.  And now, she was Sith no longer.  

The Unchained, they preferred to call themselves.  Those whose diligent work under the Knight Visarion and the Cult of Mysteries at the place called Site 11 (a mesa a few kilometers north of the Valley that housed an elaborate collection of sarcophagi and scrolls composed in the Sith script) had lead them to truths before unknown by their Sith overlords.  Truths that pointed them toward a new identity, and a new purpose.  

Runa rose from the rough sleeping bag of her tent, and strode out to the campsite, which was nestled between a series of rock formations atop the mesa.  An uneven semicircle of pop-up plasteel tents, around a small cooking and social area, were situated a few dozen meters from the tomb's entrance, which was a mere hole in stone where a simple lift and lighting had been established.  

Around a glowing generator, two of her fellow disciples warmed their morning rations.  The boys were Gyero and Kemet, humans as different in appearance as they were in capability. Charming, fair, and attractive, Gyero was the typical giften son of some aristocrat, while Kemet was dark-complected and serious.  The latter, everyone knew, was the one to be reckoned with, and Runa was wary of any attempt on his part to challenge her new power.  

The swift but unmistakable bzzzt of a swinging lightsaber, and the sickly singing of flesh, took their attention away from morning chatter, of which there was little anyway, and over to a second grouping of larger tents, from where the sound had come.  A moment later, to the enhanced hearing of the Force sensitives, the felling of the decapitee thumped, and Sheena, the fourth and final of their brethren, emerged from one of the longer tents, which houses the civilian staff of Site 11.  Her veiled face, badly scarred by acne and ebony, was that of a Miraluka, and she frowned as she strode toward the trio of Unchained.  

She was carrying Janus' head.  The archaeologist was from Thustra, and had a great mind, even if it was now dangling between his pointed ears by the long silver hairs of his head from the grip of his executioner.  Drawing near, the dark, robed woman of twenty chunked the limp head at the generator, knocking it and breakfast over.  Kemet, his big black eyes full of rage, jerked upright and ignited his red lightsaber, ready to kill her.  He never liked Sheena.  

Runa, seizing her opportunity for dominance, slammed the distracted human against a nearby rock pillar, causing his weapon to fall to the dust and fall quiet.  "Listen, fool."

And listen they did, with disparate attitudes.  So the inevitable had arrived.  Bright Janus had a conflict of fear, it seemed, and his fear of the Knight Visarion, the silent and sneering Hapan sorcerer which Runa loathed had outweighed his more immediately appreciable fear of being slain by the newly independent disciples.  Apparently, he'd informed the Knight the prior evening of the previous week's developments, when weeks of quiet plotting saw Runa and her disciples slaughter or co-opt the entire personnel, lay and Sith.  Only one of the five Acolytes, Malen, a stout but witty Nautolan, resisted, and Runa had killed him while the others subjugated the archaeology staff and handful of guardsmen, some of which had to be killed to illustrate the point to the recalcitrant.  It had been swift, and quiet, and thus far, every external indication revealed only the status quo at Site 11.  In the last few days, they'd been earnestly excavating a particularly fruitful burial chamber, trying to exhume all they could as Runa sought escape off the world.  Now, the plan was changed.  Now, they would fight. 

The Force would test their resolve, as the new heirs to the true Dark Side, one without authority or government, but total chaos and official anarchy.  The Dark Side was destruction, and now, Renata had corrupted the Sith into striving for creation.  Jedi with different cloaks.  A Republic in another name.  The Unchained sought to return to that primitive, central tenet, seeking the undoing of the linchpins that held the galaxy in place, so that it could be undone, and consume itself, until all creation was no more, and destruction and void were all that remained.  These truths had become theirs through the writings they'd hidden from their Hapan overseer, secrets he now sought with a vengeance. 


"We must be prepared."     

[Rugs]

Karn’s eyes narrowed, just so, at the little smirk that bloomed on Hakk’s orange face. The hopeful was up to something — or had been up to something the night prior — and for once, was playing coy. “Is that right?” He made a show of seeming uninterested and dismissive, despite the hard gaze he’d given the Zabrak only a few seconds ago. “Well, let’s hope you don’t disappoint, Jedi.”

He fell silent as Visarion began to speak, explaining again the task before him, this time for Hakk’s benefit. Some acolytes, suffering from a change of heart, had taken it upon themselves to flee the Temple and seek their own path. Runaways were nothing new to the Order — just as the Jedi bled members into the Sith, so too did some of their number decide that the ancient ways of the dark were too harsh or challenging and flee from Korriban or Dromund Kaas.

Karn couldn’t help but wonder at this particular group’s intelligence. Everyone knew the Order rarely showed mercy to those that fled, and less still to those who took it upon themselves to actively interfere. The turncoats were lucky Ascension wasn’t getting involved. Or maybe not. Karn watched Visarion from the side of his eye as the Knight of Mysteries rose. The site was his responsibility, yes, and he’d never seen Visarion loose the fury that must surely lurk beneath his measured exterior.

“Fancy that,” Karn said after downing the last of his tea. He rose, straightening his coat. “Butcher’s work for a butcher Jedi.” He took a step closer to Hakk in an intentional invsation of his personal space, using his height advantage as a position of obvious superiority as he looked down on the younger man. A smile crossed his face, and there was nothing friendly about it. “I hope you haven’t lost your appetite for the work, friend.”

Karn started toward the exit and made a point to roughly brush into Hakk’s shoulder as he did. He paused, a half-pace out of Visarion’s office, to look over his shoulder back to Hakk. “Don’t worry, if you have. We don’t need you to see this done.”

He moved on, beginning the journey toward the speeder bay. Though he wanted to linger, to hear Hakk’s response and gauge his reaction, he resisted the urge.

The time for cheap talk was long past. Now the hopeful’s actions would speak, louder than anything he could possibly say.

[Pres]

Hakk listened to Visarion as he explained his first trial. In Hakk’s mind, it was a test of strength. A mind to grasp the will to kill his enemies. The moment Hakk stepped forward onto Korriban, he knew his life would be at risk. His actions would carve out the path of survival or death. Luckily, the first night he was able to survive the night. Today would be another fight for survival. Hakk internally was struggling to fight for his life. The hate boiled within his body ready to protect him from anything. The task at hand might seem easy at first. Simply kill everyone who were deemed traitors. Hakk needed to show his strength but not get himself killed by being reckless. Hakk took note and would make sure his hate wouldn’t blind him in his rage. ”Then this disease shall be destroyed.” Hakk spoke confidently. He had a chance to leave but Hakk was too far gone. He made his choice and that choice was pure hate. His past life with the jedi was over and it was this moment that he will live into. ”I will accept my uncertainty of what befalls me moving forward. I will purge this disease from Korriban.” With ease and confidence, Hakk gave a simple nod and was ready to leave to the speeder bay.

The smirk of Karn narrowed onto Hakk. Hakk wanted to smack the smirk off of his naïve pale face. The word jedi caused a sharp burst of anger inside Hakk. Every time Karn used the word jedi to taunt him, Hakk’s hate rage further. Hakk adjusted his face and posture to keep his own hate chained and controlled. In response to jedi, Hakk scoffed lightly with disgust, ”I’m no longer a jedi.” Hakk had made his intention back to Visarion to listen to the remaining details of what is to come. After Visarion was done speaking, Karn preceded to get into Hakk’s personal space to send another taunt of words. In response, Hakk grinned his teeth and gave a smile to Karn, ”Look at that, we went from fighting to friends. Maybe after all of this you can take me out for dinner.” Hakk spoke these words after Karn had pushed his shoulder as he left the office of Visarions. Hakk turned around and began to walk out the door to follow Karn to the speeder bay.

Hakk walked silently behind Karn as they approached the speeder bay. He noticed several speeders of different kinds all lined up. In his training with the jedi, he had experience driving some speeders from time to time so riding one wasn’t going to be an issue. Hakk approached a JA-3 speeder that had cooper metal with splashes of dark maroon throughout the speeder. As he examined the speeder closer to him, Hakk directed his attention to Karn,”How far away are we from Site 11?” Hakk asked with a curious tone.

[hugo]

Visarion felt almost popular.  It was not often that, scampering through the quiet, shadowy halls and capillary corridors of the Academy, that the gaunt Hapan, his glacial face--frigid, white, and of an unapproachable, natural beauty--often frozen in a pensive frown, had the benefit of an entourage.  The three Sith coterie drew some notice from the just stirring occupants of their Home, mixed glances, or glares, and whiffs of apprehension, resentment, indifference, and respect, as they made the rather dour promenade upward to the speeder bays, located within the temple's middle levels.  

The back and forthing of the acolytes was like the buzzing of insects to Visarion.  At this point, he'd grown to accept that Karn, for all his talents and, recently, accomplishments, was going to be Karn.  The word pugnacious came to mind, yet his baying at the runt cub was largely ignored.  Visarion knew that anger, insult, indignity; all of it was really an illusion. 

Our satisfaction, or dissatisfaction, with what another says or does to us, stems from that action's relation to our expectation.  Our sense of entitlement.  Coarseness brought ire when politeness was expected.  Insult brought fury when respect was entitled.  And no such entitlement, no such right to be treated as we so expect, existed.  The Force existed, the Force moved through living things and all matter, eroding here and depositing there.  It moved matter, and it moved men's minds and hearts.  But beyond Its supernatural effects, only suffering was entitled.  That was what drove us to harm, to conquer; to impose the suffering that gnaws one's own mass from within, to thrust it upon another, was a base impulse, one most thinking, sentient creatures were drawn to.  Hunger provokes the taking of life, animal or not, and pain provokes anger.  Weakness, subjugation, the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness that had pressed Visarion particularly during his time as a youngling, provoked an endless and insatiable grasping for power.  And that was just, for that was the Law of the universe.  A law of force, and of nature.

  Jostling and prickling was to be expected among boys their age.  He remembered how unkind even the Jedi Younglings could be, and how that alienation perhaps . . . were his first steps.  To what, Visarion admitted, was not yet clear.  

"Ah, the word Jedi."  Visarion noted finally.  They had nearly reached the relevant speeder bay when the continued back-and-forth use of the word began to irritate the Hapan, who, rather than acknowledge the pair of subordinates that walked a few steps behind him on either side, his flowing robe the only part of him that had thus far moved between the sparring acolytes.  "So casually used, and so ignorantly ascribed."

He turned for a moment and spoke to the Arkanian.  "Not Sith, yes, but do not call him what he is clearly no longer."  He was serious but subdued, the tone one of information rather than reprimand, whatever the volatile Acolyte received.  "One can have been Jedi, and become Sith, and do so without shame.  Not everyone has the courage and autonomy to break their ascetic shackles and to seek true power."  Of course Karn knew Visarion, potentially like Hakk, should he survive the rising day, was a Jedi Apostate, a convert to the Sith way.  Oftentimes, it was converts who made zealots.

"It is not far."  Visarion answered Hakk, continuing further down the bay as he stopped to eye a speeder bike.  The minds of the young were miraculous things, if their attentions fleeting. He lead the two acolytes to the conspicuous shape of a plain shuttle, engines primed and boarding ramp extended.  The craft was small, but easily the largest in the sparse bay, which largely housed speeders of various make and function.  But he'd asked for a shuttle transport to meet them here so as to waste as little time as could be managed in transit.  

Beside the extended durasteel ramp, which lead into the shadowy confines of the shuttle, which was an ordinary personnel transport with enough room for several passengers and a crew of two, was a tall and lithe Mirialan in her late twenties or early thirties.  Her uniform was a crisp charcoal, and bore the rank of Lieutenant.  

"Lieutenant Mako, we are prepared to depart."  The woman nodded curtly and clanged loudly up the ramp before Visarion did the same.  He liked Lt. Mako.  She said little and did as he asked, having been his pilot-escort on a few outings.  Soon, he'd buckled in one of a row of narrow seats that lined the semicircular cabin.  Before long, a gentle rumble and then a more noticeable jolt revealed they were airborne, southward to the accursed Site.  

A few minutes passed in silence before Lieutenant Mako's voice came over the intercom.  "We will arrive in fifteen minutes milord.  Should I land a few clicks out to keep quiet?"  

"No," came his answer.  He looked over the two younger men, the anticipation, the hunger practically sweating out of their pores.  "The time for discretion has long since passed."

[Rugs]

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Karn shot back at Hakk as he waited out in the hallway. The Zabrak was easy on the eyes, sure, but even the joke that Karn would consider ask him out to dinner was so preposterous as to be absurd. Karn smiled coldly at Hakk as Visarion arrived, last to emerge from his suite with the door zipping shut behind him. “I’d rather stick my hand in a blender than waste my free time with a Jedi.”

Visarion led the way through the Temple’s dim halls toward the speeder bay. For a time they walked in silence. Karn kept pace with Hakk, a step or two behind the Knight, and kept his hands in his coat pockets, lightsaber swinging at his hip in rhythm to his graceful stride. He thought the silence might last all the way to the speeder bay, but did not.

Visarion, drawn from whatever thoughts had occupied his mind to this point — Karn assumed the task ahead of them, but had no way of knowing for sure — spoke up. The Hapan, it seemed, took issue with Karn’s use of the title for Hakk. Karn’s ivory eyes narrowed slightly at Visarion.

The Knight of Mysteries was a friend, yes — as much as any Sith could be one — and one Karn respected, but he’d not take the rebuke, however gentle, in silence. Not with Hakk two feet away from him.

Not as Darth Viren’s apprentice.

“I will call him what I please,” he shot back, more venom in his voice than he intended. Visarion robbed him of the chance to assert his superiority over Hakk, the day before. Now he wished him to stop with his japes, when the Zabrak hadn’t done a thing to earn his respect.

Karn would have said more, were it not for the fact that they’d reached their destination. They boarded the small shuttle in short order and before long, were off and into the morning sky with the Temple fading quickly behind them. This time, a few precious minutes, afforded Karn the time to think and consider his next words. The infuriated outburst that might have followed faded, but the Arkanian still simmered.

“You,” he said turning to Visarion, “you were a Jedi, once. But you’ve left their ways behind, proven yourself as a Sith and risen to a position of prominence among the knights of the Order. Whatever you were, you are that no longer.”

“But he,” he turned to Hakk, his disdain for the young man palpable as he seethed, “what has he done? Spent a night on Korriban? Claimed a massacre? Big deal.” Karn’s eyes narrowed, but it was to Visarion he turned his ire, not Hakk.

“When he proves to me he can bear the title of the Sith, when he proves that he’s left his past self behind, then, I will stop calling him that name.” The shuttle banked, turning toward their destination. Karn spoke right on. “Until then, he’s a Jedi on a misadventure, as far as I’m concerned.

“And if he doesn’t,” Karn turned back to Hakk now, a dangerous heat in his eyes, “and if the test ahead doesn’t do it first, I’ll kill him myself.”

[Pres]

The response of Karn's words to Hakk's invitation to dinner was simply delightful. Hakk could only imagine Karn putting his hand into a blender. The blades swirling fierce and wildly as they tore through skin and bone. Imagining the pain that the sharp blades would cause Karn. The image pleased Hakk in many ways. Hakk was being sarcastic and he would never want to have dinner with Karn. Karn was too full of himself to think he was attractive let alone he tried to kill Hakk. Before Hakk reached the speeder bay, Visarion scolded Karn for using the word Jedi. Hakk mentally thanked Visarion with silence. He agreed with Visarion but it wasn't his place to say anything. They were on a mission and Hakk needed to prepare himself mentally if he was going to survive the day ahead.

Leaving the speeder behind him, he followed Visarion and Karn as the three of them boarded the small shuttle. Hakk sat against a seat that was closest to the entrance and exit door. He sat there in silence as he hunched his body forward. His elbows were kneeling into his thighs as he grasped his hands together. Karn lashed out with venomous words that wounded Hakk deep.The words were like arrows piercing into his chest. Hakk just repeated in his head that all he has to do is prove to Karn and then he would stop with the jabs. As Karn again with peircing words, he brought up the past with Visarion. Hakk didn't know Visarion was once a Jedi. If he survived today's activities, Hakk would have to ask him about his past. What brought him to the darkside?

Hakk felt the power behind the thrusters as they pushed the shuttle into the air. As Jedi padawan, he has had some experience with terrible pilots but this Lieutenant Mako was good at what she did. The flight southward seemed to go flawlessly. It was almost a peaceful feeling before Karn spoke out with more venomous rage and ruined the flight. The hate inside Hakk began to boil once again. His hate for Karn began to feel like a pot of boiling water at it's peak. He could only handle so much. Taking a deep breath he looked at Karn with cold eyes. He stared at him intensely, "I'll prove myself...just stay out of my way." Lifting his gaze, Hakk found himself staring at the ground again with his hands crossing together.

A smirk eased onto Hakk's face as Visarion made a comment about discretion had been passed. He could feel his rage inside him, speeding through his veins. The rush of his rage began to fuel his body as it called to be unleashed. His entire body was ready to explode. Hakk gripped his anger within like pulling on a leash that is attached to a pet. As minutes passed, he could feel the shuttle lower itself onto the ground, making a slight thud on the ground. Hakk smiled and stood up grabbing his lightsaber, "It's time." Hakk walked toward the door and turned his face to Karn, "I'd rather put my face in a blender than let you kill me." Hakk thought it was a nice touch to throw Karn's own insult back in his face. In seconds the door that lead outside opened. It was time to put people down. Stepping out of the shuttle, he noticed the sky was clear. No dust storms to be seen. "It seems like a nice day for a slaughter..." Hakk spoke softly to himself as he gripped his lightsaber tightly. Hakk was ready to unleash his saber that was filled with anger ready to make a killing blow. Hakk stood outside the shuttle to wait any further instructions from Visarion. As he waited his anger and hate were begging to release its chains. His fingers faintly hovered over the button on his lightsaber teasing it to be pressed.

[hugo]

In the shuttle, Visarion's patience, which he considered to be rather on the liberal side of generous for a Sith Knight of his stature and ability, nearly faltered with the Acolyte Karn.  The ivory neophyte may have been one of great ability--Visarion sometimes wondered just how much of a fight the younger, precocious acolyte would put up should one of them rot from the Body and be exorcised by the other--and the Knight had developed something of a frienship with Karn.  Yet, he lacked discipline, reverence.  He was cut perfectly from the Sith cloth of old, where outrage and endless strife were chief rather than a fraternal corpus informed by a unified and coherent mystical philosophy.  But the Sith of old were dead, and Renata was atop the throne.  Karn and his master, a titan of a man who Visarion had not really known, were wise enough to know that a new Order required a new kind of Sith.  What may have been, centuries before, a distinguishing brashness meriting encouragement, was no longer permissible within the Body if it was to survive.  

But before the Hapan, who leered through the dimness at the chalky silhouette which yapped at his coattails, could become too invested in the idea of discipline, he was reminded that the acolyte, whatever the Knight's opinion of him personally or his ability, was not at all his responsibility.  He was here as a professional courtesy really, and he was correct, the Knight of Mysteries was not on a perch so high as to direct his use or non-use of mere words.  "As you wish, Karn."  Yes.  It was there, and glancingly, passingly, it shined upon even Visarion.  It was that rage which inhabited all of them, that which was at once needed to make Sith and, noting the Zabrak boy, whose eagerness peeked behind his naive visage in a redundant betrayal, yet not alone sufficient to make Sith.  

Good.  Perhaps some of it could be directed at his former subordinates.  There were at least five, probably six or seven, he imagined, and at their head, he was without doubt, was Runa.  The charcoal Acolyte was not his student, but had overseen the excavation in his stead while the Knight was offworld.  He did not know the younger woman very well, but he knew that she was, not unlike the Arkanian who seethed across him, talented.  Of all the strange disciplines in which his Cult members pursued, few were more difficult and illusive than the art of illusion, and he'd heard rumors of the Twi'lek's uncommon affinity for tricks of the mind and eye.  She was the head of this desert serpent, and along with every segment of its traitorous tail, had to be severed and tossed to the clear, merciless sands.  Yet he did not imagine the girl so naive as to face he and the acolytes herself.  That would have certainly resulted in her death.  She and her lackeys, for their varying levels of skill, were mere acolytes.  In an open fight, he would have bet on himself and the pair of neophytes, who exited the shuttle on either side of him.  

Visarion pulled the black hood of his frayed, flowing robe low over his head, though the glare was a minor annoyance compared to the relief of open, natural lighting.  His eyes no longer strained, and an uncommonly clear Korriban day greeted his icy blue-amber eyes, which soon made a clear outline of the Site and the nearby pair of camps.  They were less than two hundred yards away, and were doubtlessly spotted.  He did not immediately detect the acolytes on the surface, as predicted.  They would retreat to the pathetic crater of an excavation site that had been the birthplace of their treachery.  The Cult would accept not less than their heads, or Visarion's should they somehow fail to retake Site 11.  

He began to walk, in no hurry, toward the nearest cluster of shelters, which housed the lay staff if he remembered correctly.  Housed was perhaps the better term, as Visarion sensed no traces of life as they neared it.  Apparently, he apprised after entering a long tent with the boys and investigating the corpses therein, the covert transmission that had betrayed Runa and her disciples had not remained covert for long.  How unfortunate.  Even with the vicinity as lifeless as the desert that swallowed it, the Force stirred, faint echoes of outrage and fear, duty and indignity coursed among the bodies.  

"Boy."  He spoke after a moment.  "Quiet your mind and forget the false lessons you have been taught.  Peer deeply into the nothingness that you sense, push beyond it, and reveal it for the distortion of reality that it is.  Beyond the silence, there is always the Force.  In the depths of a world's mantle, in the cold vacuum of space, in this void made by slaughter, the Force is never silent.  It is not substance, because it is beyond and above matter."  He added in Zabraki, "Remember this, Iridonian, nothing, nothing is impossible, and nothing is ever lost."  If the boy could touch the Dark Side at all, the faint remnants of struggle would be easily perceptible to him, like a sea-borne hunter who senses the most microscopic drop of life-giving blood a thousand leagues away.  If he did not seize upon it, in a way that had become habitual for both he and the sulky, older acolyte, then he lacked the desire to truly become Sith, and there was nothing they could do for him.

The following search of the other shelters was equally fruitless.  Once they'd withdrawn and were again bathed in the naked light of the harsh star, Visarion lead the couple towards the entrance, stopping abruptly to size up the structure.  It had been constructed to extend several stories above the surface millenia ago, but the sands had worn the rusty red bricks to a cracked and indistinguishable pile of stone, only revealed to be unnatural in origin upon closer inspection.  The Cult had constructed a platform above the rectangular outline of the old structure and installed a number of lifts, one of which was for personnel, to facilitate the excavation.  It fell several more stories below the sands, down a spiraling sandstone staircase the initial archaeologists had, before their untimely expiration, discovered to be heavily trapped.  This went on for several hundred feet, until a great hall, a sort of columned antechamber, lead into the tomb itself, which was uncommonly undistiurbed when their teams had unearthed it years earlier.  Further inside were a series of burial chambers and treasure rooms ultimately ending in the burial chamber.

This hide-and-seek was going to be a dangerous game, but that was partially by design.  A mere show of strength on the open sands would not be so difficult for plenty of adepts and jedi apostates.  However, to dive headfirst into a den of treasonous snakes lying in ambush and emerge alive was something else, and would suffice for his purposes to prove Hakk's ability.  He did not worry greatly about Karn, who he'd seen fight unarmed, with only the Force as his weapon, and had been impressed at the Arkanian's unlikely ferocity.  He did not need Visarion to worry about him.

"Shall we?"

[Rugs]

For a passing moment, Karn’s confidence — that airtight, arrogant self-assurance that set his hunger for ever-greater glory — wavered. He didn’t need to see any changes on Visarion’s face, or in his posture, though small, subconscious signs were likely there. Something changed in the Knight’s presence. Subtle. A breath of heat escaping from beneath Visarion’s icy, composed surface. Here and almost gone, but not quite.

A warning.

Tread carefully, a voice seemed to whisper within his mind. Karn was no fool. That Visarion kept his temper in check did not mean the Hapan possessed a boundless well of grace. He was Sith, after all, and Karn was very well pushing above his station with his flippant, acrid attitude. Even so, Karn’s respect for Visarion did not preclude the fiery Arkanian’s own pride. Nor did it mesh at all with his complete lack of respect for the orange Zabrak accompanying them.

Karn sniffed to himself at Visarion’s words and stood, content to let that be the end of their exchange. He gathered what little he’d brought; his lightsaber’s long hilt hung comfortably at his waist, and he stuffed a pair of goggles to protect his heat-sensitive eyes — if needed — into his jacket’s pocket.

As he prepared to leave the now-settled shuttle, he glanced up to see Hakk’s hard stare directed his way. Karn stared right back, pure white eyes meeting the Zabrak’s light green as tension thickened the air between them. “A blender, eh?” Karn snorted a half-laugh as he made to depart the ship. “A blender would be a mercy compared to what I’ll do to you if you fuck up in here.”

Were he more thoughtful, Karn might have felt sorry for Visarion, stuck babysitting two feuding young Sith. But as he was not, Karn instead busied himself with studying their new surroundings, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the searing sunlight.

The area was red, rocky desert, like most of Korriban, with a sparse scattering of buildings he assumed acting as temporary housing for whatever unlucky souls got stuck out in the desert on assignment. The histories and teachings of the old Sith fascinated Karn deeply, but Force willing, he’d one day set up resident on Dromund Kaas and never visit this forsaken rock again.

Their initial searches provided nothing of substance, other than to confirm that which they already knew — slaughter was in the air, echoing still in the Force, and the wayward Sith responsible where nowhere to be seen. But Karn could feel them, hiding deep within the Site’s recesses.

“Yes,” Karn said to Visarion’s invitation, “we shall.” Ever one to seize the initiative, Karn took point as they ventured into the ancient structure, down beneath the rock and windblown sand. The staircase wound around and around as it descended ever further, lit occasionally by dim glowrods anchored into the stone walls. The poor lighting bothered Karn little, though he wondered how Visarion fared.

“I can feel them,” he said after a while, losing count of how many circuits they’d made in their descent. He seemed more a hungry predator yearning to hunt than a man concerned about ambushes. “Hiding.” No, that wasn’t right. He glanced back over his shoulder, to the two Sith trailing him. “Wating.”

[Pres]

Hakk followed Visarion as they began to walk through the abandoned site. The dry heat of the desert roared with every second that passed. The forsaken planet’s red rocky terrain echoed with heat from the roaring sun. As they step closer to the buildings interior, Visarion spoke to Hakk. He embraced what the Sith Hapan had to say to him. Hakk took the moment to quiet his raging mind. His mind of countless lessons that were taught by the Jedi. He watched his mind wonder with images of his past. Several lessons from Jedi masters rambling on about the force and serenity. Each image was like a picture in his mind as they turned into tiny shattering pieces as Hakk pushed through his mind to forget the lessons that he was taught. This took a few minutes but eventually his mind stood quiet, even his rage was calmed. Hakk began to push beyond the emptiness of his mind to find the force. His mind was silent but Hakk could sense a tiny pulse of energy beyond the silence. It was faint but it was there. Hakk focused on that pulsing sound of the force. As he approached toward the sound, the faint sound was now a booming pulse of energy. The force began to boom all around him.

Visarion began to speak in Iridonian, which surprised Hakk for brief second. Visarion reminded him of his father. The words echoed through him as he listened to his father speak about never giving up and how things were never impossible. Then it clicked, his mind exploded from the silence. It felt like a breath of fresh air gave Hakk new life. Looking around, he could sense the remnants of what was before. The force was everywhere, it masked the outside with fear, anger, and power. Hakk could see clearly what had happened before they had arrived. After the slaughter, there is still the force. With understanding, Hakk looked at Visarion and nodded, Hakk began to respond in Irdonian, ”I understand now. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is lost. The force is never silent.

As the search fell empty outside, it lead to the entrance of the structure. Hakk could feel the traitors presences beyond. The Jedi would never risk going into a trap like this and would try to find another way to deal with the problem. For Hakk, it was going to be more dangerous then ever. Walking into the lions den full ware that the enemy lingers ready to strike. Hakk gripped his lightsaber as he began to fuel his hatred through his body. His mind opened up as he could feel the thumping sound in his mind echoing forward. The force is never silent. ”I feel them...fear...anger. They’re hiding waiting to strike. It’s time we purge the traitors.” Hakk spoke softly as if he was listening to the traitors with in the deep structure. With a short breath from the outside, Hakk moved forward into the structure that would eventually lead him to flesh out the traitors.

[hugo]

The three dark figures closed the distance between themselves and the entrance.  The Korriban sun stretched their shadows long and thin, as black in contrast with the inescapable light as the robes that cast them.  Waiting. Yes. That was more apt.  The dank aura of the chambers below seeped past the shadowy entrance and across the scorching sands; it was an old darkness, the common, latent energy that pervaded every corner of the Sith homeworld.  But there was more.

Slinking between the obscurity of the old was a newer, more savage darkness.  Individuals, uncertain in number or precise whereabouts, but unmistakably below, and desperate.  "Indeed.  Tread carefully, and . . ." he thought for a moment, "do not trust what you see."  Visarion spoke then vanished into the entrance, which would be revealed as a plain, short corridor leading inside once the glare had subsided.

The entrance chamber was much as Visarion remembered it.  Various smatterings of modern equipment betrayed the Cult's excavations, though he deduced in his blindness that the utility lights had been either disabled or destroyed.  He saw only the faint outline of the neatly cut if worn sandstone walls, his Hapan eyes failing to see what he remembered as ornate histories described eons before.  It was a rectangular construction, and housed odd archaeological equipment and artifacts deemed too insignificant to displace.  In the rooms center were two rows of columns from left to right which supported the obscured ceiling.  Between the rows, the light shining through the entrance revealed, was a wide staircase leading deeper within the complex.

Visarion moved toward the stairs with a careful pace, his senses opening and expanding as he began the descent.  It was terribly quiet.  The ambient Force was silent.  Yet, its silence was not the gentle repose of an ancient tomb.  No, the peculiar harmony that he sensed was more like that of sand on the ocean floor disturbed in violent flurry and only recently settled.  Visarion summoned the silver hilt hanging at his side to his hand in a moment, provoked by a thickening of the shadows and a sudden but subtle coolness in the air.

They had scarcely taken the first few steps when a rumbling, terrible and heavy, filled the senses.  If Visarion could see he would have noticed a great rupture travelling past the stairwell and climbing up the wall, dust and a thousand ancient groans thrown into the air.  A half second passed before the strain of the sudden crack was too much for the old stone, and it fell violently, the falling debris piling heavily onto the stairs below them and blocking their way forward. 


Visarion stepped back, but the force of the collapse staggered him.  Above and behind them, from between the great columns, violet and red pierced the darkness and faintly illuminated the inscribed supports before falling upon them.  Visarion's crimson was alive in time to repel the other's ambush, only just.  A human, his young face as twisted with rage as the contorted presence that had slinked past his senses and fell upon him with fury, grappled closely with Visarion, the brilliant combination of reds the crux of their struggle.  The Knight shifted his weight to break the lock, a Niman technique, but the other swordsman was quick and soon had the Hapan on the defensive.  Beyond his assailant, he saw the violet blade was in fact two, and each whirred fiercely as they fended off the equally relentless, two-sided response of the acolytes. 


He did not have time to observe Hakk, but he trusted Karn at the very least could hold the violet ambusher at bay until he'd dispensed justice to the boy in front of him, who now had the high ground and showed no signs of tiring.  As soon as Visarion had parried a thrust, a slash would come.  He needed to change the dynamics; Visarion knew he was facing a superior duelist. 


If the adrenaline which sharpened his movements was a mercy of physiology, the churning essence around them all was a blessing of the Force.  Darkness always festered within, fueled by fear or desperation, and of those there was some.  Yet Darkness also came from without.  Places of power, even forgotten, relatively minor ones like this, were so seeped in the essences of the Dark side that one, properly disciplined, could channel its ambient power to terrible ends.  Visarion minded this, biding and seething, his presence swelling like a gas to fill every empty space in the room, and also like a ravenous pack of Tu'kata, seizing and consuming what spiritual carrion was there.  This power was great, but useless if not properly channeled. 

But to a Knight of Mysteries like Visarion, who lived perhaps as much in the Force as in the real universe, such a dark mystery was mere child's play.  Metaphorical muscles and ligaments, commanded by synapses as immaterial, bent by dedicated rigor, and the energies of the Force were, for now, at his command.  The dark human, sensing his physical advantage, raised his saber above his head in an attempt to break Visarion's parry.  The Hapan seized the tiny opening and unleashed the building power behind his palm.  First a blast of force short forward like a projectile and struck the human in the torso, setting him off balance just long enough for the second barrage, this one a crackling torrent of blue-white energy that danced in tendrils from Visarion's fingertips. 

The hungry arcs of Force lightning caught Kemet on his torso and writhed through his body, causing him to jerk involunarily as agony and electricity took hold of his nervous system.  He was able to deflect much of it after a few crucial seconds, but in that time, Visarion was on him and forcing him back up the stairway toward the trio of dueling Dark Jedi.  Visarion could not help but be impressed by the boy's tenacity--and that he'd been able to deflect some of those searing arcs back at the Knight himself-- but his supernatural assault had done its part.  Kemet was off-kilter now, and even Visarion's mediocre swordplay was enough to push him back and onto even ground.  Even so, he could only spare a second to notice that the acolytes were holding their own well enough.  The dual-wielder seemed less solid than the darker Human Visarion fought, his technique acrobatic rather than brutal.   

[Rugs]

Down, down, down the three Sith went. Karn kept his eyes forward, peering easily through the dark and trusting that his companions would watch over his back. Visarion, at least, he trusted. The runaway Zabrak Jedi, he did not, though Hakk would at least be watching out for his own skin even if he didn’t care what happened to Karn.

The stairs wound around and around in their descent, which passed in silence, broken only by the sounds of their own movement. Karn tried to step as quietly as possible, but even that sounded grating to his ears in the dead air.

Eventually, they reached a landing that fed into an old entryway with a pointed arch. Visarion led the way inside, and the three Sith found themselves within a short corridor that seemed to lead to more stairs. Karn guessed it may have served as an antechamber of sorts, though he couldn’t say at a glance what its ancient architects may have intended.

That this place was better lit than the endlessly-spiraling stairs did not mean it was well lit, and though Karn’s eyes were suited just fine to such dim surroundings, he could see the all-consuming shadows overhead as the supporting columns stretched into the dark. Perfect place for a-

A sudden rumbling immediately jolted Karn’s thoughts to silence. He staggered back and away from the splitting ground, lightsaber hilt in hand and blade hissing crimson fire as spun on his heel to meet the presence he felt crashing down from above.

He’d just barely made the turn in time. A shaggy-haired Nagai, wearing a sleeveless robe that left his lean, wiry arms bare, scowled at Karn from the other side of a violet lightsaber. The combined force of his strike and downward momentum nearly pushed Karn’s own blade into his shoulder, and the Arkanian stumbled back to keep from falling over. His new opponent pressed on with his blade, forcing a lock that didn’t allow Karn to move his own saber until a hard, Force-powered kick sent him tumbling to the side and into a stone pillar.

Pain blossomed in Karn’s side, where the kick had landed and his back as it crashed into the unyielding rock behind him. He rose quickly, lightsaber again at the ready, to see Visarion fending off his own assailant and Hakk now engaged with the Nagai. Karn’s grip tightened on his lightsaber as a scowl crawled across his pale features.

You’re dead, he silently swore as anger burned within his chest, bringing with it a torrent of the Force.

He dashed forward, thinking to take the Nagai from the back while he was busy with Hakk, but to his surprise, the turncoat was again ready. The Nagai twirled away from Hakk, igniting a second violet blade, and met Karn’s attack with a sneer. Karn’s blade slide harmlessly past as the parry completed, but he quickly rebounded and began to attack in earnest.

His assault, combined with Hakk’s, at least kept the Nagai on defense, but the defense was solid, employing some form of dual-wielding Soresu that Karn had yet to encounter. Their opponent was smart, dancing out of the way to force the two Sith to stop attacks short or risk maiming each other and constantly moving to use the pillars for cover. He was fast, and strong, regularly fending off two-handed attacks that easily should have crushed through his single-handed defenses.

Karn realized as the battle slogged on that this foe must bear significant talent in bolstering his physical strength and speed with the Force. Rather than do the same to match strength for strength, he backed off, reaching to the Force to strip away the Nagai’s advantage.

The Force thickened at Karn’s command, condensing around their foe like jelly and slowing his movements to a crawl. As horror and rage crossed the Nagai’s face, Karn loosed a push, hurling the slowed foe toward Hakk.

[Pres]

Hakk ventured down in silence, listening to the force. His heart slowly began to pick up it’s pace as zealots continued to be silent and hidden from vision. Being on guard, Hakk’s right hand was close to his lightsaber, eager to ignite it of any signs of ambush. As they walked further down, they appeared to be in a room that had stairs and columns lit with light. Listening to Karn, Hakk’s eyes widened as he felt a burst of rumbling appear. Hakk dashed to the right, twirling around as he ignited his single lightsaber. A violent ruby of red glistened in the air, humming for battle. ”So it begins.” Hakk murmured to himself as he went toward the crazed zealot with a hissing violet saber. The color reminded him of his past self with the jedi which triggered Hakk’s rage. A roaring rage echoed inside Hakk's body as it broke it's chains from within.

His rage and hatred was unleashed causing energy of the force to swirl around him increasing his speed and strength. Hakk saw the shaggy-haired Nagai who wore a sleeveless robe, enter a saber lock with Karn. Without a second to think, Hakk dashed forward to release a powerful strike coming downward on the violet bladed user. The next few moments, Hakk used his form V to block the incoming attacks from hitting him. With each strike given, Hakk used the Djsem So to counter attack immediately, leaving the rugged man no room to breathe. As the strikes were happening, Hakk could feel a dance was forming between them. To Hakk’s surprise, the man ignited the other end of his violet lightsaber. A duel lightsaber filled the room of light as Karn came at him with the force.

Both Karn and Hakk danced together as they swept the Nagai with attacks. This man was no beginner and had done well to be prepared for the violent onslaught of attacks. He deflected each attack with ease. As the battle raged on, Karn and Hakk were continually stopping and attacking so they wouldn’t hit each other. At the moment, Hakk felt a wave of the force peel around them. Karn had moved out of range but continued to circle around them. Hakk could only imagine Karn with a sickening grin as he did this motion.

Karn used a force push on the zealot which sent him toward Hakk. Hakk was ready and with a pulse of his force rage he dashed toward the man with a powerful swing that aimed upward but then motioned toward the left then a straight slashed toward his right. Hakk wasn’t going to end his relentless attacks with each swing, his strength bolstered forcing the man to stay on the defensive. The man seized the opportunity to send a flurry of strikes that caused Hakk to lose his balance. With the moment of his off balance, the Nagai made a strike on Hakk’s left shoulder. The violet colored lightsaber grazed Hakk’s left shoulder that would indeed leave a scar if he survived the night. The pain he took coursed through his body but his adrenaline took over. His body beamed with fire and rage and Hakk unleashed a counter attack with a scream. Hakk went down for a strike but used his full strength in a circle the motion to send the man's lightsaber out of his grip. The Nagai's strength was impeccable and caused both him and Hakk to enter a dead lock with their sabers. Hakk’s eyes burned with fire as his force rage was raging. His veins in his neck were beginning to pop out from his neck. With a sudden speed, Hakk moved his foot toward the back of the main's leg. With a sudden burst of force, Hakk's kick collided in the man's back calf that forced the man to lose his balance. As his grip fell, Hakk sent a heavy push of the force toward the man. If his timing was correct, the push would toss the man’s body toward Karn for a piercing attack.

[hugo]

Visarion's Niman was adequate, but it was the unceasing barrage of telekinesis and lightning that pushed Kemet back, back, and back some more until they were not far from the dueling trio.  The bulky, younger man was showing clear signs of exhaustion, and the hope in his charcoal eyes was fading.  Fear and its cousin rage now took its place, burning intently behind the flurry of crimson swordplay.

Now at the head of the stairs, he and Visarion were now at an imperfect perpindicular to Hakk and Karn as they slashed away at the persistent Nagai between them.  It was really a shame, Visarion thought to himself; of Runa's traitorous peons, these two at least were talented Acolytes with great potential.  Their failing, heresy, was a kind of weakness though, a failing of conviction.  It was to be expected.  Defection and strife were so common in the annals of Sith history, conflict being a constitutional element of their existence.  Renata wished to change the Order so that it was not torn apart from within in a matter of a decade.  And those changes were not uniformly embraced.  Ideologues, primarily, perhaps like the young men Visarion and the Acolytes were about to slaughter, but also opportunists.  Runa.  

Hakk, to the Knight's mild surprise, held his own against the Nagai.  Even cloaked in the veil of the Dark as he was, Visarion sensed the pulling of its strings around the young Zabrak as he summoned real strength.  Karn too twisted the ambient energies to his violent whims, and between them, the dual-wielder was exposed, waiting for the Arkanian to deal the final blow.  Visarion supposed it was time he got on with his lot as well.

The Hapan was enboldened, and risked exposing his flank to go for a forceful jab at Kemet's heaving middle.  Perhaps due to his own exhaustion, or with the added alacricity of the Force's hand, the blow struck true.  The man recoiled and the rancid aroma of singed flesh steamed from his new wound, a shallow burn in the gut.  Not lethal, but enough of a distraction for Visarion's lightsaber to catch Kemet's at just the right angle, sparking angrily as the red blades met for the last time, and executed a swift turn, severing the tightly gripped hand and the gray hilt it clasped to the ruined floor.  

In the millisecond between Kemet's dismemberment and decapitation, Visarion met his eyes and saw the same dark and resigned look he'd seen too many times before.  Then it was gone, replaced by a distant vacancy which tumbled summarily to the ground, followed by the collapsing bulk of the dead traitor.  Now Visarion waited for the acolytes.  

[Rugs]

The Nagai staggered away from Karn toward Hakk. Caught in the rush of battle, Karn’s feet began to move, to give chase against his weakened foe and sate his bloodlust. But he paused, half-stumbling to an awkward stop after not really getting up to speed. No, he told himself, eyes narrowing as he watched Hakk engage their mutual foe, let’s see what you’ve got.

This was, by any measure, Visarion’s test for the Sith hopeful. The Knight of Mysteries was the one who would ultimately decide whether the Zabrak belonged among their order. And yet Karn could not — would not — let the chance to judge Hakk for himself slip through his fingers. He was no knight, but he’d been the one to find Hakk out int he desert, to bring him into the Temple before they fell to blows.

Besides, he wouldn't let the Nagai kill the boy. Not on purpose. Karn grinned darkly and twirled his saber in his hand, gouging a glowing scar into the stone ground.

Yet to his surprise--and, perhaps, disappointment--Hakk stood tall in his one-on-one contest against the turncoat who’d just held the two of them at bay. Sure, Karn’s use of the Force to slow the Nagai’s movement lowered the floor for success, but the Arkanian watched, waited for Hakk to slip or trip up so he could swoop in and finish the fight while admonishing the Zabrak for his fuckup.

So it was with a snort and a wayward glance to Visarion’s battle that Karn resumed his own as Hakk shoved the Nagai back toward him. He extended a clawed hand, and the Force with it, to arrest the Nagai’s backward motion. His crimson lightsaber plunged into the Nagai’s back and blossomed out of his chest. As the Nagai’s mouth worked a silent, wordless scream, Karn withdrew the blade and swiped lazily at his neck, severing head from shoulders.

Karn’s lightsaber fell silent as the Nagai’s body slumped to the ground. The disembodied head rolled along the ground until it stopped near Hakk’s foot. Karn stared silently at the Zabrak, expression subtly hostile. After a moment to judge the Zabrak, Karn grunted and turned to Visarion, who was now done with his own fight.

“Two down,” he said, sounding unimpressed and refusing to give the traitors — or Hakk — any credit. “If this is all we can expect from this group, this shouldn’t be any harder than one of my morning runs.”