There are some places in the galaxy which no light reaches. Black holes, deep and forgotten caves, the hearts of some especially dense nebulae - these places spring to mind easily, especially for the seasoned galactic explorer, who has often seen many of these up close.

For the hardiest and most daring explorers, however, there were a few more places light dared not touch. The Sith temple of Xa’Fel, the most shrouded recesses of the Imperial government, and the dark lanes between space itself plied by aliens to our galaxy - far beyond public knowledge, only the bravest and most determined would discover these.

Of all the dark and mysterious corners in the galaxy, there was but one place where both light and dark feared to tread. One place seen only by a few, understood by fewer, and mastered only by one.

On the dying world Symbol, amongst the fire and chaos, sat the fortress home of Dacian Palestar. A huge black and white edifice that rose out of the exposed molten core of the planet like an unnatural mountain, from it the most powerful being in the unknown region ruled his ongoing crusade.

Racks of turrets, hangars, communications arrays, shield generators, and command posts dotted the lower levels. Above it all rose a single pale white tower, the personal sanctum of Dacian himself. Devoid even of droids, only his greatest lieutenants and most loyal minions would ever be admitted inside.

On a day like today, that meant the Palestar Crusade’s grand strategist, Mr. Ridley.

The thin, sallow-cheeked man strode across the lone landing pad jutting out from the side the tower and into the residence of his master. Mr. Ridley dressed in a military uniform cut with a civilian suit. In another life, he’d called it ‘war-casual’. That was no longer how he approached it.

The main chamber of the tower was a huge throne room, with the appropriate vaunted ceiling and bay windows. Unadorned black stone and a plain metal throne made for a very spartan working environment, but neither Dacian nor his chief strategist were much for ornamentation.

The man himself was waiting for Mr. Ridley on his throne. “Report on the crusade’s progress.”

“All armies have met with success, master,” replied Mr. Ridley as he set a briefcase down on the conference table that sat at the far end of the room. “The remaining Alliance forces have been crushed. Our control of the unknown regions is now unchallenged. We may conquer it at our leisure.”

Dacian rose from his throne and crossed over to the conference table, taking a seat opposite from Mr. Ridley. “The unknown regions are of no further importance to me,” Dacian stated. “It will provide us an area to recruit from and train in, nothing more. Give me your report on the outer galaxy.”

Mr. Ridley nodded and popped open the briefcase. Inside were a stack of folders, files, datapads, and a small holoprojector that he threw on to the table. The projector lit up and a hologram of the galaxy appeared, different nations hanging as coloured space and stars. Palestar’s domain was shaded in black.

“The galaxy is much as you remember it, master. The Coalition has fallen apart, making the Empire now the uncontested power in the galaxy. Their fleet has occupied the Onyxian Commonwealth, thus eliminating their most outspoken and well-armed critic. With all other nations bowing to their superiority, several top Imperial leaders have retired and aspects of their warmachine have decelerated.”

“The Onyxian Commonwealth is very close to my own position,” Dacian muttered, tracing his hands through the hologram. “What of resistance?”

“The Onyxians have by and large accepted surrender and retreat,” Mr. Ridley replied. “The overwhelming force the Empire has sent north has ensured that to be the case.”

“Does this mean the northern part of the Empire proper is empty?”

“Well... without hard evidence I wouldn’t want to speculate, but being that the only known threat in that quadrant has been crushed it’s likely the bulk of their forces are with the Onyxians.” Ridley shrugged. “Our intelligence isn’t great, just basic low-profile scouting. The whole area is a death trap.”

There was a lull in the conversation, during which Dacian sized up his strategist. “Ask the question, Mr. Ridley. I know it’s bothering you.”

Mr Ridley’s usual impassive facade faded, revealing a moment’s unease. “Master, I can come up with a strategic solution to almost every situation, but only when I understand the parameters. Most of all, I need to know the objective.”

“You already have your orders,” said Dacian. “The crusade shall tear across the galaxy, burning worlds and shattering peoples in its’ wake.” A standard response Mr. Ridley had been expecting - it was the same one all of Dacian’s minions received, and it worked for most of them. They merely plugged in their personal motivation and found that it aligned with wanton destruction quite nicely. Mr. Ridley, however, needed to know.

“To what end, sir?” Mr. Ridley urged. “Who are we trying to eliminate? What is our overarching goal?”

Dacian was not prone to maniacal laughter, but even he had the barest of tells that Mr. Ridley had come to recognize. The slight hint of a smile spoke volumes. “Mr. Ridley, there is no we in this strategy. The goals I set you are but a part of the overall picture - it extends in fields that don’t concern you. And that is all you need to know.”

And it was, for Mr. Ridley nodded and accepted it as so. “So what is my current objective, sir?”

“The galaxy is settling into stability, order, and stagnation. There’s a desire for peace and predictability. Therefore, it’s my desire to see the galaxy thrown into disorder. With nothing left to do in the unknown regions, it’s time our armies sow chaos in known ones. The specifics of how this is achieved I will leave to your discretion, there is no limit to the force you can call on or direct towards this goal.”

“Understood, my master. And yourself?”

“Immaterial to your plans,” Dacian remarked with a dismissive wave. “I will be taking Lord Silk’s forces and the Void Knights to take care of... personal business. When I return, you will update me on the state of this new war. Now go.”

Mr. Ridley packed and left quickly, recognizing that his master wished privacy. Despite Dacian’s command, Mr. Ridley’s naturally strategic mind couldn’t help but analyze his curious statements. Since they had met, Dacian had never seemed to have any personal business to speak of. Certainly no family or loved ones, which of course left room for grudges. Dacian had no shortage of those.

This was but a temporary thought, however, as the activities of Dacian didn’t overly concern Mr. Ridley. His objective had been given, and the combined might of all the armies of the crusade were his to direct. Each would make war for their own reasons, but each was also the willing pawn of Dacian. There was a certain paradox to this way of thinking, but the logical kinks had long-since been hammered out. Sometimes with actual hammers.

Only one thing truly bothered the strategist as he reentered his shuttle and set off to plan a galactic crusade. The Empire had the galaxy at its’ mercy just as Dacian was poised to conquer the unknown regions, yet both had turned away seemingly at the moment of triumph.

Maybe that was it? Maybe to know that they had won was enough, a far greater reward than the toil of actual conquest? If so, then perhaps that was why Dacian was set on facing them - recognizing something of himself in them. If that was the case, then Mr. Ridley almost felt pity for the Empire. No one could beat Dacian at being him.



Dacian, now alone, returned to his throne. A casual observer would have thought him asleep, or perhaps frozen in time. The absolute silence of his inner sanctum belied the intricate inner workings of its’ ruler’s thoughts. Exactly what he was thinking, plotting, or scheming was a closely-kept secret, one which he laboured over in the dark.

When at last he reached a conclusion, however, the illusion shattered. He rose from his seat, and with a voice that reverberated through the mind of every soul slaved to his, Dacian murmured “It’s time for a homecoming. Summon Silk, summon the Void knights, bring me ships and warriors. The greatest threat to me must be destroyed.

“Xa’Fel shall burn.”

His voice carried in the dark stone chamber, carrying down the winding depths of the tower into the heart of his command center. There, men who could barely be recognized as such laboured unthinkingly for the designs of their master. At his command, orders were sent across the galaxy, arrangements were made, forces were marshalled, and the wheels of crusade began to turn.

In silence once more, Dacian followed the path of his strategist to the Crimson Wing that awaited him.



The Crimson Emperor was a terror of a ship. It never failed to inspire fear and awe in those who saw it, for it was of a different age than the sleek, professional warships favoured by states and corporations. It was savage, a temple to war and death. It bristled with heavy, uncompromising firepower and was filled with the darkest of disciples.

It was not alone, however. A contingent of ratty Lazik pirate ships flew in close formation around it, their sleek, deadly vessels marred with crude graffiti and the like. Nevertheless, their crude and disorganized appearance hid deadly strength and experienced crews. Fighters, corvettes, and frigates hugged as close as they dared to the foreboding black pinnacles of the Crimson Emperor.

Aboard the small fleet’s flagship rested the Dark Lord Silk and his brotherhood, all adepts of the dark arts. Joining them were Dacian’s thralls, the Void Knights, each a dead spot slaved to their master by terrible rituals. The man himself was aboard with his chief servant, the Maiden.

Yet if you walked the halls of the ship, you would not have found any one of them wandering. Nor were they commanding the ship itself, such duties were left to their lesser servants. The various force adepts, from the mighty Dacian and Silk down to the lowliest Crimson disciple, were in intense meditation.

As their fleet slipped through the shadows of hyperspace, the mass of Force users chanted as one, dark incantations imparted by their master. Silk knew many secrets, and having worked with the masters of Xa’Fel before, he knew their blind spots. Even as the crusade came towards them, they were masked in shadows that hid them from the prying eyes of their fellow Force Users.

The Empire’s own deceptiveness worked against them, for Silk also knew the secret lanes that would take them unobserved to the doorstep of their enemy. Having plied them himself once, the Empire’s desire to hide their unscrupulous alliance from its’ own people also allowed the Crimson Emperor to slip unnoticed towards the heart of the galaxy.

Such great power as existed in the souls of Dacian and Silk, however, wasn’t entirely tied down by this work. As their concentration held, Dacian listened to the thoughts of his own crew.

Strange orders, brooded the captain of the Lazik contingent, whose name Dacian hadn’t bothered remembering. Slaving our nav-computers to the Crimson Emperor? Don’t they realize if the enemy jams communication we’ll be stranded? Not to mention the directions to divert from Xa’Fel - if they get sunk, we’ll be without nav-coordinates, and get stranded in deep space. I better check the first mate’s got my backup nav-computer properly stashed.

Without breaking concentration, Dacian ordered a Void knight to find and eliminate the errant nav-computer. The escort needed to leave no evidence of their source in case of capture or destruction. Shortly thereafter, as the Lazik ships dropped from hyperspace, Dacian noted they were approaching their destination.

Indeed, mere moments later, the ship came to a halt. Stars went from streaks to points of light. Even as Dacian opened his eyes, so too were the eyes of the Sith opened to their presence.

The Crimson Emperor, now appearing quite suddenly over the planet, roared to life towards the Sith Temple. Guns bristled with deadly energy, armour gleamed in the darkness of the void, and the hereto hidden Force energy within burned like a fiery eye bringing judgement from above.

Rising from his sitting position, Dacian spoke aloud, the currents of the Force on the Crimson Emperor carrying his voice to all aboard. “I go now to the Crimson wing to prepare for the ground assault. Lord Silk, the attack is yours.”

Satisfied, Dacian Palestar set out for the hangar, the twilight darkness of the corridors filling with his black-suited minions.

The pale star had returned to Xa’Fel, and what a bloody reunion they would reap.

(Following “The Church and The Crusader” by Lord Silk & Xoverus)






The Sith conquered and they dominated.

The Sith calculated and they plotted.

The Sith were masters of all they surveyed and that which would not bend to them was broken.

But the Sith were not alone nor were they few.

In a galaxy of untold trillions they numbered perhaps in the thousands and in this fashion greatly outnumbered their long-time rivals the Jedi. But in their profusion the Sith, nefarious creatures inclined towards mistrust, slowly and inexorably exposed their singular, uniting weakness.

Not naturally cooperative, they adhered to edicts and writs that pitted them at odds against one another. Theirs was not a nature conducive to intra-faction communication, let alone cooperation. And so it went that throughout the millennia they would time and again turn on themselves and become their own greatest enemy.

And it was for this reason, this sole fact, that their enemies the Jedi continued to win conflict after conflict.

At Ruusan the ultimate undoing of the Sith, the creation and detonation of the Thought-Bomb, they demonstrated their own propensity for self destruction. Even before that prophetic and tragic event the emerging pattern of self-annihilation could be seen and a repeating trend but, due the prolonged course plotted by their people, the Sith would not allow for such heresy. So, as they had done before the Sith would doubtless continue along their path until evolution or fate finally deemed their time complete.

Above the humble planet of Xa’Fel that tendency was reasserting itself anew.

Though the players, changed, were not those same souls responsible for the demise of the Sith previous they would join their illustrious dead soon enough and in so doing complete another cycle, another turn of the clock.

The question stood, however; would the Sith survive this newest conflict or had destiny, the cruel hand of the force, decided their time finished?

It was upon this question that Lord Dioan Silk, Sith Lord, mused. He puzzled upon it while gazing with unseeing eyes on the battle-plans laid out before him.

It would, he realized, explain much. It would, he knew, go a considerable distance to explaining Dacian Palestar and his place in the galaxy. Perhaps this was the will of the force. Perhaps then it had been the force itself that bore Palestar ahead giving him the strength of character to manipulate those around him… many of whom, in the once-held regard of Silk, could easily be described his greater.

But then what of the Jedi? Did the force posses a dry enough sense of wit that in its divine vision would bear on to the Sith their ultimate demise in the guise of one of their own?

No, remarked Silk within the confines of his own conscience. That did not make sense either. The thoughts, the questions that plagued him now were not divined of the force but his own fragile attempts to explain away the guile that ate at him still when he thought of Dacian Palestar, the boy. Justice was not done him by considering such simplistic ideas and so, grudgingly, he dismissed them.

His eyes, youthful abyssal pools of onyx, strayed about the room around him and those present within it as his thoughts returned to his recent past…

Fangol had left him a changed man, literally. The Unspoken, it, had delivered on its promise of a body everlasting, or so it seemed. Years achieved literally faded from his physical form taking with it only the rigors of old age and the weary lack of clarity it bred within the mind. At his best guess whatever magic had taken him had restored him, in some physical sense, to what he best recalled from his early second decade of life. But such was not true of his features. Where his energy abounded with the vigor of youth his body had retained years beyond that sensation and when he looked in to the mirror it was upon the face of a mature man, much as he remembered himself, but somehow changed. Lines had vanished from his features taking with it the gray hairs of advanced maturity. His flesh was soft, bouncy and supple… not the dry, parchment thin stuff of before. In many ways he was the same, but in many ways he was different.

So too were his men, his family recalled.

That again had been part of their bargain and the Unspoken, it, had rewarded him beyond his imagination in this regard.

It was, considered the Sith, amazing what a little faith could do to change a man.

So too then he was neither shocked nor surprised that a lot of faith, in dosages almost fanatical, could literally re-create a man outwards from his inner most being. Now their devotion was assured to a fault, assured of Silk and assured of his powerful allies in the Church. They would not balk at the idea of running headlong to their certain doom if ordered by Silk, they would not hesitate in their duties to him or to their chosen god for it was not within them to do so.

Where his brothers from Yinchorr, his kin by the crimson cloth, had escaped subjugation alongside their leader, Silk had offered no safe quarter to the others upon observing the changes instilled within the first few to feel the touch of Xoverus, vassal of the Unspoken. They, as before, were his brothers by blood-pact and it was not their loyalty he questioned.

To assure the continued reverence of the others, thousands upon thousands as they were and berthed throughout the Crimson Emperor, a Church had been constructed within the ship and it was a monstrous, omnipresent reminder of the mystical energies that held them bound to itself. From the temple operated the minions of the Unspoken, Xoverus and those selected by him to become his servants, and it was their duty to spread the… word… of the Unspoken at all times. They rooted out dissent where it arose and quelled it within the very souls of those who dared entertain the thought of betrayal. The edifice itself was sizable, constructed of such proportions that rose within the very beast of the ship and spread from ventral deck to dorsal. It was the coiled spire, the heart of the Crimson Emperor.

And so the Unspoken and Silk, as emissary for the Crusade, struck a deal that would allow both the power they required.

No, thought Silk once again. Dacian is but a man, a man of vision yes, but just a man. The force directs him as it directs me.

But Silk recalled his alignment with the force, particularly the dark side of, and the clarity that had come to him first following his confrontation with Palestar and then again on Fangol wondering if perhaps those moments of pure understanding were, in fact, the guiding force, or his own mind operating beyond his control or comprehension… Such was his lot and such was the lot of mystics such as Silk.

He sighed, drawing looks from those gathered. Pressing shut his eyes Silk spread his palms across the diorama of Xa’Fel and took in the battle-map with senses beyond the mere five with which he was born. When he opened them, those swimming oceans of pitch, he smiled.

“Launch the squadrons,” commanded Silk, head bowed.

The squadrons of which he spoke were a mixed assortment of Sith interceptors piloted by fanatical devotees of the Unspoken and, in vastly larger numbers, swarms of ‘droid fighters which relied upon dual slave minds wired to a central data processor for independent action coordinated by technicians aboard the Crimson Emperor. At almost ten meters in length the former interceptors were a hybrid of old and new. They boasted superior armament and armor, but lacked for deflectors instead relying upon their considerable turns of speed and thick armor plates. The latter droid fighters were much the opposite. At less then four meters long, the tear-drop shaped automatons were dependant upon their maneuverability and deflectors to avoid damage (or destruction) and utilized joint fire tactics to best maximize their limited armament. Spread among this chaos lurked a number of Lambda-type shuttles repurposed as heavy bombers and boasting extreme anti-ground ordinance the likes of which had long been deemed illegal in use by countless galactic governments.

It had been a trick; training pilots and technicians to operate these systems. But thanks to the rigorous training regimen the soldiers of the Crimson Empire endured it had been a simpler task of turning their skills to new tasks. But these, in the regard of Lord Silk, were not prized assets and, in truth, anticipated a great many of them being lost in the opening stages.

Indeed as he heard the launch confirmations called out across the war-room noting the formations grouping up ahead of the fleet, he knew their notation now would be but a brief footnote in the annals of history. Regardless their task was vital to the overall and further reaching results.

Of course Lord Silk was no stranger to these proceedings.

During his long career as a member of the Crimson Regime, Dioan Silk had carried out the domination, acquisition and incorporation of numerous planets within the fold of the Empire. In fact it had fallen to him to secure the planet and surrounding system upon which he and his brethren would eventually be exiled. Beyond his days as Sovereign Protector he had commanded men in more conflicts then he cared to recount such was the necessity of a Stormtrooper and Royal Guard.

But even now Silk had to admit to a feeling unfamiliar to him, something elusive but clearly tied to this move against the Sith of the New Order. Perhaps, he toyed with the idea, he had picked up on something or had not picked up on it while moving the fleet through space under the cover of a cleverly conceived Force-cloak. The energies he had tapped were considerable and any lesser man would have been left weak, unable to stand, upon the completion of it. Fortunate for Silk his energies were not just his own.

The Crimson Emperor represented a great devotion to the force of such proportions that even the Empire’s Sith would stand and take notice. Each man and woman serving aboard the vessel was somehow tied to the force, be it through training or the touch of the Unspoken, be they adept or slave, each energy signature was his own to tap as he wished. Although, admittedly, there resided within him something beyond that expansive reach, something connected to the temple, connected to Fangol and connected to the Church. It felt to him as though a new resolve or confirmation of things from a being based in a pantheon beyond mere mortals. The Church and the crusader were one.

Ah, his thoughts coalescing in moments beyond the plodding pace of reality, what a boon this is!

Truth existed within those thoughts.

Where once Silk stood at the head of a many headed hydra unsure how in his limited remaining time he would carve a niche for himself in the galaxy he now commanded a bloody, deadly thing inspired of faithful fanaticism; in him as leader, in the Palestar cause, in the watchful grace of divinity.

His warriors were unlike anything he had commanded before or would likely behold since. Coupled with the touch of the Unspoken he had been able to see to it that his men, those with him from Yinchorr, instructed the rest in the ways of martial combat and were met with minds so willing to learn it was as though they had been brainwashed. But it went so much further. Proficiency, no matter the area of expertise, sky rocketed. The gunnery crews of the Crimson Emperor, incomprehensibly vast in their numbers, were unlike anything he’d the pleasure of directing; they toiled tirelessly without fear. Throughout the rank and file that trend continued. From the lowliest orderly whose mundane task was below any skilled personnel to the highest of the broken-ones, they worked as a single fluid body as though a hive of drones rather then a collective of individuals. Even there Silk had his questions. Personally overseeing drill after drill when not sequestered in meditative focus Silk had observed shocking creative reasoning emerge in those who had, moments earlier, seemed almost a part of the man next to them. He supposed it was the touch of the Unspoken that had changed him though Xoverus had indicated otherwise; hinting instead that it was Silk who had changed his men, that the Unspoken had but granted him the power to do so. Either way, he’d take it.

A man of many masters Silk had learned to take what he was given and perform miracles with it, whatever it may be. Such was true under Palpatine and Maim and continued to be true with Dacian Palestar. A very real possibility existed that the Church was but using him to its own ends and would one day turn on him for its own reasons but such was true of any alliance he’d ever undertaken. So for now, their aims mutually aligned, Silk would use the Church as it used him… would use Dacian as Dacian used him.

Whatever the outcome, the death of the Sith, the demise of the Crusade, Silk was committed.

As his mind moved through these thoughts, some his and others not, reality continued to collect itself outside.

Someone spoke; he recognized the aura as his starfighter Commodore. The man wore the off-grey uniform of the Crimson Emperor (a red-piped knock-off of the Nyxian standard) and was otherwise indistinguishable from the rest but for his task. He said, “All squadrons report ready.”

He, like the others present, were representatives of their respective branches throughout the Crimson Emperors functional capacities. In a chamber near were the many men and women who worked to coordinate the starfighters and they funneled their information to him which he in turn relayed to Silk.

Similarly and in time another similarly dressed man spoke. Upon his lapel was the mark of a gunnery man, chief obviously in his department. He confirmed, “All gunnery crews ready.”

It was an empty gesture given that no targets had been provided, that no firing solutions were available but it went a long way to reassure Silk that they could be turned to the task of obliterating a target within moments.

Others chimed in and Silk absorbed it all but his mind was not on these matters. His focus was some many kilometers distance, connected to that of Dacian Palestar and in deep communication with the same.

Through the many mediums available to him Silk began to paint a picture of the scene. Through the force he pressed outwards. In the flesh he listened and observed intently. And through his connection to Dacian, he added dimensions far beyond the third.

His battle-fleet, the issues of his prevue, was arranged to punch through in to the atmosphere above the Sith temple on the planet below. Pointed towards the tumbling globe below, his fighters were set to make a brute force punch through the outer defenses no matter the cost. Like a swarm of wasps ready to strike a nosy bear, the pointed themselves toward their foes most vulnerable points. Of course, much of this was known to Silk and he had his hand in the planning for he, as Dacian, had spent some time on the planet of the Sith and taken away from it the knowledge they now used against it. Behind the shifting screen was the Crimson Emperor and its host of guardians provided by the Lazzik pirates. It sat in position, unmoving, waiting for its swarm to push through with the majority of its many, many guns aimed squarely at the Sith temple.

Silk would have felt a terrible sense of irony at the situation had he knowledge of the events previous involving the Sith Order and what remained of the Jedi on Naboo. Alas, spared that knowledge, he did not.

“Once the starfighters break through,” Silk spoke in a soft but determined tone, “commence firing. Obliterate that temple if you can but your priority will be the landing. See to it a clearing is provided for our landing craft. For each landing craft lost, I will kill you.”

The last bit was spoken to no one in particular.

It was about to begin in full, he understood. And lo, he mused, pity those who face my warriors. And pity those who stand in my way.

“I want on to that planet. I want on that planet before Dacian so when I see him set foot on their damned soil he will know…”

“… I have done this.”

“Attack.”

Hatred.

A sudden rush of negative emotion.

A massive outpouring of the Dark Side of the Force.

They struck Skygge like a tidal wave, threatening to fling her from her seat and and across the room.

Ten minutes before, she had entered the library as was her custom. It was time for her to study more Sith lore so that she might, in the coming weeks and months, train the newest apprentices. It was a task that she had taken upon herself, gathering their loyalty, culling the weak and useless and sending them to Necros or Vicirus, who hastily dispatched them. Ever since her return from the Unknown Regions, not long past, she had been preparing herself for her ascension to Knighthood. It would not be long now.

She had also been training with the sabers of Asajj Ventress, which she had now made her own. The twin curved hilts fit her palms nicely, and the red blades had a glow about them that seemed to speak volumes about the skill of the wielder. Those blades had a history to them, a history that Skygge was still discovering. The revelations of her journey had taught her much about the nature of the Force, and even more about the insidious nature of the Light Side.

Now, her training took a new path. Vicirus had all but promised an ascention to the ranks of the Sith Knights, and she knew at that point she would have to choose her path. Of course, all Sith worked towards Mastery of the Dark Side, but there were several roads to that goal. The Sith Mauruder focused on training with the lightsaber rather than the intricacies of the Force, whereas those hoping to attain the status of Sith Lord often did the opposite. There was another discipline, though, one that focused on subtlety and stealth, and it was the one Skygge was prepared to take. It was the way of the Sith Assassin.

Everything in the last three years had brought her to this point. From her time in the wilderness of Dathomir, learning to hide herself in the Force and learning to suppress her Force presence to the point of undetectibility, to her conflicts with Ithron, to her taking of the name Darth Skygge, to her fascination with the Assassin Asajj Ventress, she had been focused on stealth and secrecy. She was already an assassin; all that remained was for her to claim the title. And that, if she were not grossly mistaken, would not be long in coming.

She had opened a book - the writings of some Sith Master long since lost to history - to the place where she had last departed, but something had not felt right. There was something out of place. She ignored the feeling and began to read, keeping her senses just a bit more alert than usual. It wouldn't do to have some weaker apprentice stab her in the back as she concentrated.

If you are reading this book, then you know by now that the Force is more than an ally. But what is it, really? That is a question that has been asked, and answered, by many Masters of the Sith before me. It is a question that will be asked and answered many times after I am dead. But I offer my opinion, to add to the weight of those that have come before, in the hopes that it might be useful.

The Force is a tool, of course, to be used by those who are strong enough to handle the power it contains. Those who cannot are to be destroyed, for that is the way of the Sith. But the Force itself is, I think, neither truly Light nor truly Dark. It is what it is, and no more. The Light Side of the Force, as it is called, is simply the Force displayed through the mindset of the Jedi, the idea that emotions are to be controlled. This kind of thinking weakens the wielder of the Force and thus is the cause of the wielder's self-destruction. The Dark Side of the Force, as it is called, then, is simply the manifestation of the Force through the mindset of the Sith or the 'fallen' Jedi, the idea that the Force is to be used in all its forms and all its power. Nothing but love and mercy are forbidden, and these only because they lead to weakness. It is this that is the cause of the mighty power of the Sith.
 
At that moment, the massive outpouring of the Dark Side washed over her. She thought it might be, as had been before, the remnants of the Sith Master's presence embedded in his work. But this flood of hatred did not leave. Something was wrong - terribly wrong.
 
Skygge tossed the book back on the table and whirled, hands reaching for her sabers as she did so. Nothing. No one in the room. And yet still she felt the hate. One presence, and one that she had not felt before. No, two...no, multiple presences, but all controlled somehow by the one. An interesting phenomenon. Something to ponder later, if she survived.
 
If I survive? she thought, beginning to head towards the door. Why would I not survive? Just in case, though, she began to trot, which quickly turned into a jog and then an all-out sprint as a feeling of foreboding grew stronger and stronger.
 
She flew through the doors of the temple into the mid-afternoon heat…
 
And there it was. Hanging in the sky like a gross manifestation of the Dark Side itself. Despite the daylight, the size of the ship made it easily distinguishable. There was one on that ship that was more powerful than any she had ever known, perhaps more powerful than Vicirus himself. And he had come to destroy.
 
How she knew this she didn't know. But know it she did, and she wasn't about to stick around to find out. She had slowed slightly as she exited the temple, but her pace once again quickened as she thought of where to run. Her first idea was to head for the starfighters - a lucky shot could bring even the biggest ship to destruction. But with that presence there, it would be impossible. Her next thought, and the best one she would have, was to head for cover of the trees. So she did.
 
Starfighters swooped overhead, a type she did not recognize. A few Sith fighters rose to meet them - apprentices, and new ones probably - and to her surprise they held their own against the incoming craft. But there were too few Sith and too many invaders. In only minutes the last Sith fighter exploded and sent debris raining over the temple area. The remaining invaders proceeded to systematically destroy the remaining Sith fighters on the ground. This battle would not be fought in the air.
 
Thank the Force that Vicirus insisted on keeping that extra hangar bay underground, Skygge thought. If we lose this fight, we're gonna need to hightail it out of here, and without ships that would be incredibly difficult.
 
Her thoughts were interrupted by the first turbolasar blasts from the orbiting ship. Fire rained down from the sky, incinerating a large area near where Skygge was observing. Several shots struck the temple, but whether from masterful construction or some manifestation of the Force, they simply glanced off and into the woods. The integrity of the temple structure remained firm.
 
After some time, the barrage lifted. Skygge, knowing from her studies what was likely to follow, quickly drew in on herself until she gave no hint of her presence through the Force. She then drew the shadows around herself until even her bodily form was only detectible by the most discerning eye. And she began to move, slowly and quietly, towards the landing zone.
 
Shuttle after shuttle entered the atmosphere as she moved, most escorted by starfighters, though there was really no need. The invaders' destruction of the Sith defense fighters had been complete; there was none to challenge the landing. At least, none to challenge it in the air. On the ground would be a different story.
 
As she moved, she caught sight of a few Sith running towards the cleared area. Four new apprentices. Perfect. Through the Force, she grabbed them and threw them to the ground, not too violently, but hard enough for them to know she was there. They turned and approached, sabers ready. Skygge almost chuckled.
 
"Put those away, it's me," she hissed. They complied, knowing better than to challenge her now. She continued, "We'll have a better chance of seeing what's happening if we work together. You four, stay close. Give me ten minutes to circle around to the other side of that clearing. At that point, we attack whoever or whatever has landed. Understand?”
 
They nodded and ran off. "Idiots," Skygge muttered under her breath. "Such fools deserve the death they'll receive. I can only hope it helps me.”
 
She moved around the clearing cautiously, still hidden from both visual and Force scans. It only took her seven minutes to get to the other side. For the remaining time she observed what was going on.
 
Shuttles were landing, spilling out Force sensitives and troops. Some she recognized - there were uniforms of the Royal Guard among the Force sensitives. No, not the Royal Guard. The subtle differences in the robes and helmets gave it away. They were from the Crimson Empire. She thought that had been destroyed completely. Either these people wanted a shock factor, or the history books she had read were wrong.
 
Either way, they could be killed. Skygge watched as the elites, for that was certainly what these individuals were, set themselves up in a circle, guarding the shuttles as they came down. As more landed, the circle expanded, widening the landing zone and allowing even more shuttles to land. This was going to be interesting.
 
By the time the ten minutes was up, the circle had expanded into the woods. It was time to move. Skygge felt the alertness of the Force sensitives go up and heard the hum of sabers from the opposite side of the clearing. She saw four sabers dancing through the ranks. Now three, and now the attention of the circle was on that battle. Slowly she crept up behind one of the elites. Her presence was so masked by now that he had no idea that death was only seconds away until the point when her hands grasped his helmet. A quick twist, and he fell lifeless to the ground.
 
With the aid of the Force, Skygge dragged his body into the trees and quickly donned his uniform. Whether it was luck or the Force, or simply some hidden skill, Skygge had chosen a target about her size. The fit was not perfect, but it would do. She quickly moved to take his place in the circle.
 
There was only one saber left now, and the Crimson Guard was toying with the Apprentice. They soon grew tired of the game and ended the fight, leaving him dead in a pool of his own blood. In the meantime, Skygge had moved towards the fight, feigning interest in the battle. In truth, she had only wanted to get near one of the landing shuttles. And she succeeded. Withdrawing a small explosive device from her belt, she surruptitiously slipped it into the engine of a shuttle as it landed. Timing it perfectly, she retreated to the edge of the circle just as an explosion rocked the area, destroying the shuttle, its passengers, and any unfortunate soul that happened to be close enough to catch the shrapnel. In the wake of the explosion, the elites searched for the culprit, but all they found was the dead body of one of the newest Guards with his uniform lying next to him. Skygge was gone.

Captain Fuller paced back and forth on the bridge of his flagship, nervous but also anticipatory. Whenever his master was in meditation, good or bad things could happen, but he found that it was easier to be worried that it was not to be worried. Not being worried meant that he would be bored, that it would take forever, and that he may not be prepared for the worst (although hoping for the best) when his master came out of his meditation chambers.

His pacing came to an abrupt end when the doors cracked, and the air hissed as the different levels of pressure between the two rooms fought to equalize themselves. The darkness of the room before him always left Fuller with a case of the chills, as a shiver now worked it's way up his spine. But he knew from past experiences that Necros did not like his subordinates to display fear or really any emotions other than neutrality. The captain steeled himself and prepared to possibly recieve the worst that his master could throw at him, including a possible horrible death like his pre-decessor suffered three months ago.

But fortune smiled on the captain, as Necros emerged from the chamber.

* * *

He had been meditating for two hours now, trying to find the central source of a new...stain in the force that he had first detected a few days ago. At first he suspected that it was tied in with the Galatic Empire, perhaps some new version of their vaunted Jedi Corps that they were experimenting on. However, this one was new, and different than the others from before.

Unlike the others, this one felt familiar in certain ways. When Necros had probed deeper, he felt something reach out torwards him. It was then that he felt images of fear, pain, destruction...and craving. This thing not only craved, but it craved for his blood.

Confused, Necros had pondered the meaning of this for several days. Was something hunting for him, him personally?

But no, the answer had come to him today. Today, he had finally located the source of the strange aura radiating within the force. Or rather it had found him, or his home. Now Necros had his answers. Or enough of them.

Whatever it was that was seeking him, it was of the dark side of the force. And it was not him specifically it was after, but rather, the Sith themselves were it's target.

Emerging from the meditation chambers, Necros turned to captain Fuller, and for the first time, offered him a genuine smile.

"Captain, set course for the Xa Fel system. We leave immediatly. Sound general action quarters, I want this ship prepared for combat the moment we leave hyperspace." ordered Necros, his cold voice radiating with a faint hint of excitment.

He seated himself in the captain's chair, and petted his lightsaber, the Hel-Hemarde, thinking of all the fun he would soon be having, as the ship came to life around him.

Leaving her home, an derelict star system, the Victory Mark II Star Destroyer Nightblade, formerly of the Crimson Fleet, ignited her thrusters. Soon she would be in hyperspace, heading for a known destination, but an unknown future.

What could one consider a typical day for a Sith?

Were it said to be a day filled with lessons, given through pain and suffering in an attempt to supplement the raging emotions that fuelled the Dark Side, then that would be as close a statement as any.

Apprentices, now long since having been culled and limited in number, were making progress. Each individual bore the trait of paced, though supervised, development in the Force, to bend the mystic energy to his will; and it was by the decree of the Sith Order that one forge his path through rivalry and competition, without the needless waste of jealous assassination smearing each being’s effort. It would do the Order no well to have it’s members destroying one another, and it would do no Apprentice well to be left standing alone in the wake of craving teachings gained through the ideals of the Sith Masters leading their leashes.

Needless to say, what the Sith lacked in number, they made up for in determination, willpower and explicit training in the Dark Side. Wisdom, while partial, was not lost on the Apprentices that were considered the pick of the brotherhood; and, indeed, it would be that handful that would serve as the backbone that drove the newer Apprentices onward, instructing them and leading them against the ominous foe that stood at the edge of comprehension.

Surely it was a ploy of great success in theory, that sinister knife that sliced through the Force shrouded in Dark energy; but it was just that: A theory, and was hardly the grand accomplishment the man who led it claimed. Many had tried melding slaves to his will, many had been able to do so. But, in the end, there remained a common element that could, and would, be exploited…

Dependency; no bonded slave, no single mind that was linked to another, could be considered wholly independent.

Like a large creature bounding through the jungle, surrounded and being devoured by a thousand leeches, so to did that sense of darkness approach Xa Fel. The living collective of the Dark Side were like a nova flare against the subtle currant of the Force, all connected and flowing in the same direction, seeking to remain understated and hidden. Yet, what with the separation of the Jedi, the lack of Force wielders even passing near the secreted planet, it remained that even a single Force Sensitive could be felt well beyond the immediate system of the Sith’s planet by one attuned to listening…

Especially when such a collective, as which approached now, was aimed directly at a sole target, sending a sinister tendril through the Force of unadulterated lust for destruction.

True, while the Force could be thought as infinite, it remained that such power gathered in such a centralized location could only lead to those of higher capability and knowledge to draw upon the source more plentifully than lower adepts. The pitiful beings that coursed with Force feeling would be of lesser import to the Sith than those that led them, and it would take considerable effort to protect their minds from being manipulated by one severely stronger than they.

Needless to say, it was of no real surprise when the Dark Side materialized overhead in the hulking forms of war machines and technological embodiment. Surely it remained a threat, yes, but now that the sinister enemy had been revealed, it remained something that could be confronted and dealt with as was most agreeably satisfactory.

Darth Vicirus opened his eyes, glancing upward as the first assault began. The thundering booms of command craft turret fire raining down through the sky were near deafening, while the earth-shattering impacts there after were near unbearable. The Sith temple, having been long since forged by Sith of old, was more than simply something that would succumb so easily to primitive weapons connected to further primitive ships. It remained the pinnacle of Dark power, the focus on the planet Xa Fel, and it would serve as the head point from which the Sith Order would repulse those who dared to attack them.

The battle would not be so clearly cut; but neither would it be so cleanly decided.

Phenrik appeared beside the Sith Master, his outsized eyes peering questioningly at the other man. There was concern on his face, surely, though it had taken Vicirus a long while to see such subtle facial variation. The Aing-Tii clearly understood the situation, his demure stance and sudden downcast of gaze were tell-tale signs.

“The enemy has shown one of his first weaknesses, Master Vicirus of Sith,” The Aing-Tii spoke, his voice low, his mandibles twitching expectantly as another thundering impact sounded upon the temple. “Yet perhaps we should make for the lower levels of the temple, sir? I feel that, despite this structures unique architectural design, it will not withstand much more of the laser fire from above…”

“Don’t be foolish, Phenrik,” Vicirus smiled, glancing to the small creature with uncaring eyes. “This temple was built when the Sith were legion, when they sought to dominate fellow Sith Orders beneath them, and used such forward tactics against fellow leaders of different brotherhoods. Such were other temples crafted, as objects made art, and they were designed for such punishment, the very stones of this temple acting as a dispersing element against our enemy.”

The history of the Sith temple had been long since discovered in the inner depths of the Sith library by Vicirus. The very stones were not solid constructs, in the sense that one would usually associate a material. In fact, through painstaking efforts on behalf of past Sith Lords using alchemy and compounding, each individual stone was a collection of pliable substances forged into a singular layered block. Each stone contained amounts of crystallized cortosis, and even phrink if the accounts were accurate. Not only did the impacts of the turbolasers above impact, but they spread and dissolved, as layer after layer of the pliable structure was chipped away, instead of deep chunks; this effect caused less of a pinpoint of brunt for the lasers, thus elongating the durability, and consequently protection, of the structure and those within. It would take days of near constant attack to penetrate the temple to full effect, if not longer.

Such had been the precautions taken by those afraid in times long forgotten, and it was not a fact commonly known to those in the Sith Order; as the tome containing such information had been one of the many removed from the library by Vicirus’ own hands.

“What is your decision, Master Vicirus of Sith? Should we seek to contact your allies and request aid?” Phenrik ventured, the muscles of his brows raising as he spoke slowly, not wanting to push the subject or incur unnecessary insult. It had long been the Aing-Tii’s understanding that Sith could be quite temperamental and prone to displays of pride and brashness.

“Yes,” Vicirus said simply, his eyes going distant as he sought out one individual on one of the lower temple floors. A Force-intoned message was sent, giving the young Apprentice order to contact Lupercus and inform him of the situation. As well as that the Apprentice was to imply that the Imperials should be notified also. The young woman keyed the communications and sent the message almost instantly.

“Lupercus has been informed, though I shall speak with him soon enough through the Force, once I see what forces we face. I see no point in needlessly wasting energy on speaking when I know his reply will be positive.” Vicirus said, pushing to his feet and moving toward the small cabinet beside his chamber door.

“Oh?” The confusion was evident to the Aing-Tii. “I believed Master Lupercus and Master Vicirus of Sith were commonly opposing the other, in an attempt to seize control of the Sith Order from the other…”

Vicirus smiled as he reached into the carved holding box, withdrawing his lightsabers. He clipped them to either hip, deciding that now would be the time to prepare beyond employing the Force; there was no shame in being overly organized.

“My dear Phenrik, many things remain secret from many,” Vicirus said, turning to look at the creature with a sinister grin, before returning his attention to the cabinet. “Needless to say, given the right turn of events, either one of us would willingly aid the other if required… and I do believe this is one turn of events where a unified Sith Order is, indeed, required.”

Phenrik bowed, willing to leave the cryptic answer at that. Despite the reinforcements that were to arrive, the Aing-Tii could sense something seething below the Sith Master’s surface, something that directly linked to Phenrik himself…

“I now call upon the second bond-promise you indebted to me, Phenrik,” Vicirus said suddenly, breaking the sullen silence with a low voice. He did not turn, nor look at the Aing-Tii now, and the Sith Master stood still as stone. “I seek to ask protection from the Aing-Tii from the enemy that now stands at our door… I seek to have your beings fight these enemies.”

For a long while Phenrik said nothing, his eyes closing as he looked downward. He had known such a request would be forthcoming, and he had known that he would not be able to do as Vicirus asked. It just wasn’t his species’ way, the Aing-Tii belief forbade such actions, despite the Sith being owed for saving Phenrik’s life…

It was a near impossible situation to deny, let alone approve.

“You know my culture, Master Viciru--” Phenrik began, but he was instantly cut short, the Sith Master turning upon the Aing-Tii like a suddenly discovered predator, filled with festering rage that threatened to flow like a river unchecked.

“These enemies are slavers, Phenrik,” Vicirus sneered, motioning to the roof and beyond, even as he felt the death of four Apprentices out in the clearing before the temple. “They seek to enslave my Order, to kill those who will stand against their desires, or to bind those that are not strong enough to resist. I do not need to implore you to see the breach of your beliefs, not when the situation is put so simply, do I?”

Phenrik slowly raised his head, opening his pale eyes. He took a laboured breath, clearly having made a decision.
“It shall be as you wish, Master Vicirus of Sith… I shall call the Aing-Tii to act as a blade to slice through slavers such as these that now threaten you, and through you, me.”

Turning to his chamber door, Darth Vicirus allowed himself a smile. While the Aing-Tii began to fall into his meditation, calling upon an aspect of the Force unknown to most, so to did the Sith Master stalk into the hallway beyond his quarters. He strode purposefully, knowing full well that the attack force had landed on the planet, had begun killing his students. Now was the time to reveal secrets long held from them; now was the time to allow them the chance they needed to prove their worth, their understanding, of being given such gifts…

Apprentices, Vicirus thought, sending his message through the Force to those closest to him, those in the brotherhood. Come to me. Meet me within the entrance of the temple, and remain prepared, for now we hold our enemy until events turn in our favour…

Taking a break from the daily workout that was as much a test of skill as anything else, Camiron ran his hand along the time worn stone of the column beside him as he considered all of those who had come before him and all that would come after. He could feel them, it, the force. It, like this place, called to him. They were connected. So much so that when he was away he wanted only to return, to learn more, to grow stronger. To come home.

The Apprentice thought back to the last time he had stood in this exact spot over looking the clearing that spread out before the temple. A handful of his brother's were out there now still sparing as he and the others who remained had done that same day. He'd felt the moment it had happened, there had been a warning, a feeling that all was not right. Initially he had been surprised to learn of his Master's actions. The news of the loss of half their number had at first been something of a shock. And then on the next breath an almost joyful feeling that he had not been chosen to be among them. Camiron was confident in what he had learned but he was no Knight or Master. Not yet anyway.

It had been the same, the momentary questioning of Darth Vicirus' motivations in dividing the Order and taking on Lupercus. How could it truly have been good for he and his brothers? He tried now to understand. He truly did. He wanted to accept that two men he had previously thought so in tune might truly be at odds. But it was an odd sensation, one that left an uneasy know in his gut, something akin to seeing two parents argue. He would pledge himself to either if called to do so. Pieces of that puzzle had begun to shift as the Apprentice was beginning to understand that now all was as it seemed. He had said nothing yet to either Master, he had more to learn.
For now he would test himself and grow strong. He returned to the fray, motioning for the Apprentice who was nearest to his level, if not slightly ahead of him. They were friends, or as close as could be considered such for the Sith.

"Xykarn," Camiron offered with a lift of his chin as the two approached each other.

The edges of his lips curled upward. He definitely understood the task set before him and so did any who sought strength through his defeat. That was a victory he would not easily offer. And yet, true victory was never to be his or so it seemed. It was frustrating to the young Sith. To come so close to taking and destroying and yet be unable to actually satisfy that desire to prove that you were indeed the victor!

His expression changed as his mood darkened. The young man's brown eyes shifted to gold as the emotion drew him even closer to the Force. He lifted his chin as he surveyed the grounds outside the temple. The two were so closely matched, so much so that Cam often found himself pushed to achieve success. He made a half hearted attempt to steady himself, though it was not patience he sought. A week ago, they had been training, sparring. He had nearly lost control and gone farther than was allowed. His fingers still lingered on the hilt of his saber. They were still itching to prove just how good he was. He still was tasting blood, just as he knew that his opponent would be out for his when they faced off next. And he could not blame the other. He would be the same, and he had been.

Victory came in many forms, he had begun to learn. And he had not won every test no matter now much he had desired doing so, he was young. It was a condition he could not change by simply drawing in the life around him and bending it to his needs. Perhaps in time, he told himself now as he struggled to step back from the welcoming darkness that wrapped itself around his soul.

The skin around his eyes was darkening with each test. He was once the type of man who attracted his fair share of attention from the whores in Coruscant but his last trip there had been marked by fear. A delicious sensation somewhat new to him as he had walked past beings nearly cowering in his cloaked wake. He had enjoyed it most, not minding that he elicited that rather than lust, largely because he rarely if ever felt true fear anymore. It was an all but gentle reminder of his childhood.

He wanted Xykarn to feel fear today!

"Your vacation is over," Cam called to the fellow, anxious to get this underway. He stopped though, glancing upward.

But that moment would have to be delayed, it seemed.

There was something wrong. He felt the ships arrive before he actually saw them appear. His eyes fell to those he had been training with, some of the newest among them and one of his own class, "Brothers!"

Two of the younger Apprentices began to taunt the other, using that ancient practice to somehow break the other's focus. A few of the others began to spread out as the attack began. A message came through to him from his Master and he did as required. Lupercus would come.

That accomplished, the Apprentice, ignited his saber and swung the red blade in preparation for battle. What came next was a flurry of movement and blood. And not all of it was the enemy's. The first of the four fell about fifty feet to his right. Crying out, an enraged battle cry as he let the emotion fuel his connection to the force. Slicing, parrying, jabbing, the Apprentice cut his way through the drones around him, mechanical or otherwise.

He had tried to touch their minds and found nothing there, or rather some strange oneness he didn't feel like delving into. He and his brothers did what the could to stall the first wave. And for a moment it seemed to work, until the next wave washed over them like insects crawling across the soil.

Three more fell.

Apprentices, Vicirus thought, sending his message through the Force to those closest to him, those in the brotherhood. Come to me. Meet me within the entrance of the temple, and remain prepared, for now we hold our enemy until events turn in our favour…

Snarling, Camiron turned toward the Temple entrance taking out another slave as he did so.

As the swarm of crusade ships circled the Sith temple, one silvery shape stood out from the others, hovering over the battlefield as a silent observer. Aboard the Crimson Wing, Dacian stood in front of an open airlock, letting the wind whistle around him while he watched their target.

A thunderous crash split the air as a fresh bombardment of turbolaser fire from the Crimson Emperor rushed past. The fire broke the ground it struck, leveling stray trees and obliterating everything in the target zone. Only the dark stone of the Sith temple itself resisted destruction, the ancient structure cracking but holding under another heavy barrage.

The Sith had no doubt barricaded themselves inside to escape the bombardment, for no Force power could hope to protect against such raw destruction. Nevertheless, the temple was stronger than anticipated. There was no time to sit and wait for it to crumble.

“Bring us down,” Dacian commanded, pointing to the edge of the target zone. Even as the Crimson Wing drifted through the air towards the treeline, Dacian never moved his gaze from the temple.

All around the temple, Crimson elites, Unspoken fanatics, Void knights, and a rabble of adepts and servants had surrounded the Sith. Combined with the fighters and bombers overhead that circled like vultures, and the enemy was truly trapped. For now.

The Crimson Wing touched down in the midst of one of the landing zones. Immediately, nearby soldiers stopped to nod their heads in respect as Dacian disembarked. Behind him followed dozens of men and women in black suits, each emblazoned with a red star. The Void knights were no Jedi or Sith, but Dacian’s personal agents were still rightly feared.

One above all others. The Maiden, who had been waiting for her master, immediately came up by his side. “The enclosure is complete. The ground between our men and theirs is tightly guarded by wings of fighters. Our position is entirely secure - except...”

Dacian glanced over to where the smouldering remains of a landing ship gently smoked out. “Except for what?”

“It is suspected one Sith is on the other side of our position,” the Maiden admitted. “We know not who or where.”

“Take four knights and track this wayward Sith down personally,” Dacian commanded. Without further word, the Maiden turned and set off deeper into the forest with four Void knights in tow. He needn’t have specified who - they acquiesced to his will automatically.

Dacian took the remainder of the knights and marched for the treeline, nearby troops falling in step behind him. Clearing the last of the trees, they could finally see the temple itself - just as another volley of turbolaser fire fell upon it, tearing afresh into the ground and sending gouts of earth into the air.

One shot managed to shatter an uppermost spire of the temple, sending a huge block hurtling through the air towards Dacian. He raised a hand and deftly ‘caught’ the stone before it crushed him, guiding the smoking projectile into the ground.

“Order the Crimson Emperor to cease orbital bombardment,” said Dacian to one of the Crimson brotherhood. “Send in the bombers to attack the temple itself, keeping the Sith contained while we cross the open ground.”

He waited patiently while the orders were relayed. When the soldier finished, Dacian moved to the edge of the clearing, standing before the Sith temple.

He had been here, had stood here once before.

How long had it been? Perhaps a year. Perhaps sooner, or longer. Everything that had happened to him before his first arrival was irrelevant, while everything since had drawn him inexorably to this moment, had brought Dacian to where he stood today.

The Sith had never been Dacian's fate, but they had been the enabler to his rise. Without the power of the Force he would never have been able to gather the crusade beneath him, nor threaten the galaxy at large. Dacian neither remembered nor cared about his parents, but it was the Sith that had made him who he was.

For that reason, for what they had created in Dacian, and for what it could create again, Xa’Fel and the Sith needed to be destroyed.

Dacian drew his saber from his belt, a pale yellow beam leaping eagerly outwards. Throwing back his ragged black robes, Dacian revealed the armour of Dius of Ukitan beneath, stained dark with his blood.

For a brief moment this terrible figure stood alone in front of the temple, the bombardment of turbolasers having gone silent. Then, all at once, the bombers came in where the Crimson Emperor left off, firing explosives heedlessly into the temple itself. The minions of the Palestar Crusade surged up on all sides, standing ready with rifles, blades, and even lightsabers drawn.

There were no bloodcurdling batteries, there was no roared order nor beating of drums nor sounding of horns. With calm determination and slow, purposeful steps, Dacian advanced towards the temple. The crusade followed in his wake.

From the untenable depths I strike at thee

The Leviathan cometh intending harm

Tentacles of black pitch

Cutting razor teeth

Its maw spreading

From the unfathomable deep cometh I



The poem, a work of Sith literature, came to Silk as he looked on. It came to him in the harsh voice of his tutor, Lord Maim. He remembered now those long nights when, slaved over books and tomes, he contemplated the wisdom of teaching him the mystic aspects of the dark side if in fact his master had intended him as a living weapon. Understand he did, however; and thankful for those tedious tasks was he now.

How much he had changed from one to the other? The breadth of his growth impressed even he, the bearer of such experiences.

A solider born, his hands had at times felt empty without a weapon pressed to them. A warrior, a battlefield veteran, he had long seen himself as just that – a dealer of death, a tool of war. That mentality played a significant role in his development, physically as well, and saw him accelerated beyond his peers to elite status. In all that time he had never considered himself a person of deep thought, quite the contrary; he had come to believe that such meditations were a useless expenditure of his time for they only detracted from his ability to do what had to be done.

Never in his youth did he recall a fancy for poetry nor for the soft things. Though vague his recollections of boyhood revolved around conflict, conflict with himself, with others. Games of war were the common course for he and his pals and more the one the results were near fatal.

So, to ask himself why, for instance, the sunset over a particular horizon was any different from another, would have been a waste of time. Indeed his likely response, for much of his life, had it not come at the end of a boot, would have asked in turn what did it matter? Was not the decent of one sun upon any planet equally special and there-for, mundane? And if so, why bother asking?

And that, for much of his life, had been the extent of his introspection.

Quite abruptly that had changed. The catalyst for said change was singular.

Lord Maim had taken up his instruction in the dark arts but was not merely content to culture in Silk a living weapon without recourse for self knowledge. Many would have deemed this a mistake, but only later would Dioan Silk come to realize that Maim had higher hopes for him then to simply and forever be his Hand, his Sovereign Protector.

It was like a drug that stayed with him to this day. That first taste of the world beyond his eyes, beyond his close-minded preconceptions, changed him forever. Never once did he look back. And so, as time wore on, he moved further and further from his martial arts. Rather, as he grew as an individual (already a formidable combatant) Silk became a devotee of the dark side – a path that often lead to the development of some of the greatest force mystics outside the Sith. But outside the Sith he was not for his mentor and master, Maim was a Sith as Palpatine had been… as Sidious had been.

His growth in the force was unique.

Never allowed to dispel uncanny ability to take life Silk still preformed the duties asked of him by his master but now considered the deeper ramifications of his orders as he went about his responsibilities to the Dark Lord of the Sith.

But then had come Yinchorr, and isolation.

By simple necessity combat became secondary, survival primary.

That barren rock forced Silk to rely on and develop techniques unfamiliar to him. Each man trapped with him was part of a brotherhood formally but would emerge a family and to that end Silk had taught them and taught himself. As part of their routine the men regularly engaged in fisticuffs and mock combat but Silk, often unable to engage, had to focus his energies on less defined areas of the force to continue their education and his own. Bathed in blood he and his ilk had left Yinchorr much changed since their arrival.

Since then Dioan Silk had barely picked up a weapon. Time he may have once spent playing with the blade he allocated for meditation and study with such intensity that Dacian, in the early days, had joked at the irony of the warrior turned mystic.

What then was a Sith Lord if not both, if not warrior-mystic… mystic-warrior?

Each successive Lord offered his (or her) own ideas on the matter. Some venturing so far as to record their wisdom for posterity but always the question remained the same though the answers varied considerably. For a time Silk had pondered the same but, recalling his youth, came now to believe that some questions were indeed not worth the effort required in discovering their answers.

Here, on Xa’Fel, were others like himself who asked the same question and what he wondered at, not the question, was how many down there assumed they knew the truth?

Hopefully, he remarked in unspoken silence, I will have my chance to discover for myself…

The first wave of starfighters had broken through, he knew without being told, but the costs had been heavy much as he anticipated. It was the cessation of loss, the wave of death rolling back upon him ebbing, which told him they had pushed through the meager defenses present. Moments later the call came up through conventional channels but Silk was already plotting the next move.

Without an utterance, simply an urging in the force, he signaled the release of the first landing barges. Within each barge, a thirty meter long (and half as wide) affair of boxy design lurked forty armed coverts clad in crimson blast armor and equipped with battle-rifles complete with fixed-bayonet. The men were fanatical, loyal to a fault, and would not question the commands of their leaders who in turn would do as demanded by Silk. Dozens of these crates tumbled towards the planet under the protective bombardment of the Crimson Emperor.

As they made contact, landing heavily on booster-rockets, the barges came down in a semi-circle perimeter before the temple. Dispensing their loads of armed soldiers the barges quickly took on a dual purpose. With their heavy armor plating facing outwards they revealed turret based mounts on to which the men began strapping weapons. Revealing their dual purpose, the first soldiers of the Crimson Emperor established an offensive perimeter.

Overhead roared the automated ‘droid starfighters, securing the air-space.

Even as this was unfolding Silk had departed the bridge aiming his footfalls towards his own landing craft. Moving swiftly though the halls of the Crimson Emperor even as its guns continued to thunder away, Silk was in constant contact with the events around him. Through the force he could hear Dacain who watched even now, preparing to land. And thanks to his escort, a handful of equipment-strapped soldiers, they could keep him appraised of any tactical developments while he walked. A paltry thing, but he endured it.

The last of the barges fell away as Silk strode through the arches that opened on to the ships main launch and recovery bay. Aboard would be a more potent mix of soldiery and they would await his arrival on the planet. Among them would be some of his elite brethren, though not so many as to leave himself exposed, and an assortment of soldiers recalled to the service of the Crimson Empire, to the command of its Sovereign Protector, who demonstrated abilities beyond the rougher recruits already present on the planet. And in two, a special cadre of Ordese as ordered by Dacain Palestar.

Climbing aboard his own shuttle Silk was abruptly privy to a subtle, yet important disturbance in the force. It was hard to distinguish among the storm but it had the slipper feel of a serpent about it, a seductive sensation that in its wake followed death. It came to him softly forcing him to focus deeply, to remove himself from the battle-field connection he shared with those present, but even so it fought his notice. Precipitated as it was by the sudden death of one of his brothers, Silk started to draw his own conclusions. A Sith Knight, perhaps… or a potent apprentice…

Expanding on that localizing sensation as his shuttle continued downward between a spray of crimson turbo-laser blasts Silk searched the force like a hound following one scent to another. From the temple there radiated a focused intensity that he had initially mistaken as inherit in the aged, imbued stone but now, coming closer, began to distinguish multiple clustered emanations of the dark side moving in the force. Confused, it was not until Dacian joined him in the force, informing him of the Sith withdrawal to the protection of the temple, that it made sense.

Receding in to himself Silk drew upon his own energies for a moment to replenish himself. Using those last few moments he turned himself inward…

An exploding landing barge roused him to reality again. Moments had passed. His shuttle was down, it’s doors open to the pollution-tainted air of Xa’Fel and looking upon the inner circle of their beachhead. A cluster of men scattered as the burning debris came down around them pressing Silk to investigate. A brother of the crimson approached him hurriedly before speaking in a calm, even voice.

“They’re fighting back, but not hard. We lost a couple on the flank and…”

“Never mind,” Silk gestured irritably. “I am aware. Where is Dacain?”

He pointed.

Silk cursed, “Leading the charge is he?”

A quartet of fighters shot by over-head.

It was all too easy. Silk knew there would be a counter-offensive soon and though they had planned to take the Sith by surprise this, he estimated, was a bit much. Where was the Empire? Where was Lupercus and Vance? Then did it begin to occur to Silk that something might just have transpired during his absence, that maybe, for once, the galaxy had not sat still… And if so, what did that mean for the Crusade?

He refused to contemplate it at any length and, drawing his Sith sword, turned towards the forward line. On cue a number of tracked vehicles, bristling with armor and weapons, pushed forward amongst the rest. Adding his own group of close-combat soldiers to the mix, Silk gestured for their advance on the left flank of the Palestar banner. To the right, charging as a thronging, surging mass, the Ordese headed at a headlong sprint.

Drawing a satisfied breath the once-warrior, once-old Sith allowed himself but a moment to drink it all in before leaping, the force driving him a dozen meters in to the air and twice that length, Silk too joined the fray. At the head of his men, helm glistening in the reflected fire light, he raised his sword to cut through what opposition may delay him and from the left flank saluted the Palestar.

Recalling the poem, and inspired of the moment, he shouted, “I spit thy death at thee!”

The Crusaders roared forth.

Something Skygge had come to realize over the past several minutes was that the Force was of little use when the person chasing you was just as powerful.

Ten minutes ago, she had killed several more rear-echelon Crusaders, one of them a captain of some sort. It had actually been fun. She had hidden herself well in the branches of a tree as they approached, apparently attempting to secure the perimeter. A futile effort, as it turned out. She dropped silently from above as they passed under her, her sabers igniting as she did. The red flames of the sabers twirled as she did, slicing quickly through the entire patrol. The entire fight lasted less than two seconds, and it left five bodies on the ground, all in multiple pieces.

At that moment Skygge felt the Huntress through the Force. She didn't know her name, or where she was from, or in truth anything about her. All she knew was that the Huntress was after her. And it would be a chase to the death.

What was interesting about this one, Skygge thought, was that her mind did not seem to be her own, at least not entirely. There seemed to be others with her, as well, but they suffered the same problem. They were slaves to another's mind. Who, or what, Skygge wasn't sure she wanted to discover, because the other thing Skygge knew about those in pursuit of her was that they were powerful, and that their power was supplemented in some way by the power of another. It was strange, and frightful.

And they were closing. So Skygge ran, using the Force to supplement her speed. She needed to get far enough away to be able to stop, to plan, to ambush. She knew she couldn't take all five at once; it would be a one-sided slaughter. But one at a time - now that was possible.

At that moment she received Vicirus's message and nearly turned to obey. But then her rational mind took control once more, and she sent a message back, No. I'm outside their circle, and I can do more for you out here than I can in there. I have five powerful Force users after me now. I'll run them around until I kill them, then come back for more. I'll do my best to create confusion and mayhem behind their lines, but to try to break through back into the Temple would be suicide. I'll see you when this is over.

She knew full well that Vicirus could kill her for this, but she also knew that if she obeyed the invaders would most certainly kill her. So she had, for the first time, disobeyed a direct order from the head of the Sith. She hoped it would not be her last living act.

Skygge reached out in the Force to feel for the Huntress, and she realized that the pursuer had gained. "Kriff," Skygge whispered to herself. The Force was apparently little good when the Huntress was just as powerful. So, Skygge decided, she would deprive the Huntress of her greatest ally.

It wouldn't be the first time she had done this. On Dathomir, she had hidden herself for a year from her Sisters. On Korriban, she had hidden from some of the awful wraiths and unmentionable creatures that seemed to have no other purpose than to kill her. She had hidden from Ithron before in this manner. And she had used it extensively on her quest for the sabers of Asajj Ventress. So now she did it once more, shrinking in on herself so that her presence in the Force was but a mere speck, a single grain of sand on a beach, indistinguishable from the forest around her.

She could still feel the presence of the Huntress, though it was much less clear now. She had stopped, confused. Good. She needed the Force to track. Now Skygge had an advantage over her.

Silently, the Sith slipped off through the woods. After two or three miles of jogging, Skygge came upon the grove for which she was looking. How they had gotten there, Skygge didn't know, but there were a number of trees imported from Dathomir. Their wood was unique in that it could easily hold a sharp point even under the weight of a full-grown rancor. The Nightsisters had used them as traps before, and Skygge was going to copy their methods.

It took only a short time to dig out a one-meter-deep pit, half a meter on each side. Four of these, spread across a trail should do. Then, activating her lightsabers, Skygge cut down a number of these trees and fashioned razor-sharp points on them. These she inserted into the sides of the pits, facing downward. Should a person step in a pit, their foot would go to the bottom without injury. One wrong move, or any attempt to extract it, and the Punji sticks, as they were called, would impale the leg. To be safe, Skygge inserted a number of these sticks at the bottom of each pit, facing upwards. When a foot hit the bottom, four or five Punji sticks would slice through the foot and leg, probably immobilizing the opponent.

When she was done, Skygge opened herself fully to the Force. She was surprised; the Huntress had done better than expected. She was less than a mile away, and luckily the pits were directly between them. Skygge smiled. This would be fun. She turned and ran once more, moving in a straight line away from the pit, making sure to keep it between her and her pursuers. Five minutes later, she was rewarded with a scream of anguish through the Force. One down. Now it was time for Skygge to go hunting.

Then something happened that she did not expect. The Huntress turned on the immobilized one and wordlessly cut him down. Skygge's eyes widened as she felt his death in the Force, and yet she didn't for very little changed. The pursuers seemed now only an extention of one will, one purpose. This was getting stranger by the minute.

Shrinking her Force presence once more, Skygge again slipped into the woods to plan her next move.

Scarcley five minutes ago...

A message had arrived, via text, sealed with orders for eyes only Commander Pyle Harkum.

With a raised eyebrow, he opened the message and browsed through the contents;

Admiral Darksword of the Corellian Protectorate orders you to gather all Imperial forces in vicinity and proceed with all due haste to the Xa'Fel system (coordinates enclosed), to prevent hostile fleet from taking or burning planet. Time is of the essence, failure is not an option.

Said raised eyebrow now twitching, Commander Harkum went about calling in the local Imperial warships and patrol craft.

Present

All Imperial vessels within five minutes of travel time in the local area had now arrived and were being fed the coordinates for the Xa Fel system. Commander Harkum's own vessel, the recently comissioned Imperial Star Destroyer Mark V Bellicose, was out for fitting trials when the call had come in. The crew was mostly green, a few veterans onboard to help train the recuits.

The other arrivals included a pair of Ferro class medium cruisers, the Tarpon and Fin, who were pulled from pirate hunting activities, and four Rapier-II class gunships, returning from an escort mission of a convoy through said pirate troubled space.

'Great, just great. One green ship of the line, and six smaller warships, and we're supposed to hold off an invasion fleet meant for a planet?'

Commander Harkum's eyes perused the message again, and came down to the bottom.

P.S., additional forces are en route, you are to hold them off as long as possible

'Great. Hold them off. Yeah, we can do that. Whatever we are protecting had better be damn important.'

"All units, proceed to hyperspace." ordered Harkum.

Less than a minute after his orders were given, the fleet entered hyperspace, for a short jump to the nearby Xa'Fel system.