<O:p</O:p<O:p
[font=Arial]The temple of the sith was quiet as night drew its blanket over the heavens… It had been a few months in since the Triumvirate had formed and a new Sith Empire was born. The Imperial menace still raged across the galaxy, the destruction that was around the galaxy only fueled the sith. Still, they laid in solitude over the galaxy, a rather diminishing belief among the young apprentices. War was brewing in the hearts of young warriors their continual thirst for blood was being noticed by many of the ranking members.[/font]

<O:p
[font=Arial]Recon Klain was now a battered old man in the galaxy, having only the will of the darkside to keep himself alive. Never praying for death. Only having his ever fading memory to keep, "they" had managed to brainwash his former comrade, Gash Jiren. The Jedi seemed to know how to twist the mental state of anyone… Recon Klain never believed Gash Jiren had turned himself in, a belief that was still strong in his mind. He vowed the day he would avenge the sith and finally destroy the Jedi. It was the Jedi who brought down the empires that he had worked to build… Eternal Rogue Order and The Ziost Empire. [/font]

<O:p
[font=Arial]And now the Triumvirate had the Sith Empire, and this was an Empire that the jedi would never destroy as long as he lived. His hatred for the jedi had been ever increased during the betrayal of his friends. Never willing to admit it… over the years he began to believe his lie, he believed that the Jedi were responsible for all his past. He blamed the jedi for his seven years of exile prior. Thus, a hatred born of arrogance was in the making.[/font]

<O:p

[font=Arial]Recon Klain stood at the balcony of temple, the stars were now visible to all on the planet… the aura was intoxicating. Inhaling and closing his eyes the Sith began to meditate… reaching out beyond the confines of the planet. He felt the force around the galaxy, rare was the force signatures in this day and age. Within seconds it felt like a two ton rock had slammed into the old man’s face as he fell back… opening his eyes in bewilderment he let out a single word…[/font]

<O:p
[font=Arial]Gash.[/font]

<O:p
[font=Arial]A series of thoughts just scrambled into his head. Could it be? Impossible! Now, a sudden surge of anger burst through the eyes of Recon Klain as he got back onto his feet. The Jedi had killed Gash. Yes, they betrayed him and murdered him in cold blood! The darkside will feed on the flesh of the jedi! Lowering his head and closing his eyes he composed himself for a moment…[/font]

<O:p
[font=Arial]I will destroy the Jedi for this atrocity….[/font]

Taking in a deep cleansing breath; the smell of fragrant night blooms filled the night air. The memory that haunted her, now sleep filled nights cascaded through her mind. She often dreamt of the time she was called here. Dehoir raised her eyes to the night. A blanket of stars covered the pitch black heavens. Each celestial body shone as bright as the morning suns. Another deep breath and a sigh and Dehoir’s thoughts surfaced once more.

The night she recalled finished abruptly, she and Gaarak’s evening went unhindered…



…Two weeks have passed by; Dehoir’s dreams still haunted her, but the light that the caller was a man…a corporeal body…something, someone, true…tangible…alive ate at the back of her mind. The man beaconed to her to come to him, but how…how would she make her escape from this…this hellhole that was her home. Nar Shaddaa was not usually the place to throw your thumb up at and call a cab.

This morning started like all the other before. The lithe tone form of Dehoir rose from bed, hair tousled from an unsatisfying sleep. In the two weeks since her epiphany, Dehoir had received only three nights of full rest.

This morning was no different from any other. The sheet dropped from her body revealing the darksider’s naked form. She stepped lightly to the bathroom and entered the shower.

She dwelled long and hard; her decision was made she would leave the following evening. The larger shuttles usually left late in the evening…there was less security late at night. This was it…she’d steal a shuttle and follow the voice. Her destiny waited. She smiled broadly as the she let the warm water rain down her slick figure.



Dusk ran into dark evening, this brought out the worst of the planet. Smugglers, bounty hunters, robbers, murders, were much more active when there was no sun overhead. She prepared to leave by donning her usual garments; a black bustier, black leather skin tight pants, and thigh high leather boots. From her belt clip hung the lightsaber that her departed master had gifted to her. The superb craftsmanship of the elegant weapon proved that Markef Thrakin was a superior Sith Master. The training he provided nurtured not only her mind but her body as well. The darkside truly was a remarkable study.

Now dressed, Dehoir donned her black cloak. The mantle engulfed her form in its deep darkened folds as she placed the hood upon her head. To her side stood Gaarak; her faithful pet would accompany her as she attempted to attain a ship…he would be the one to get the crew’s attention, while she stole the shuttle.

Taking one last look at her surroundings, Dehoir’s darkened figure left the warehouse that was her home for seven years.

On the docking platforms stood nearly a dozen shuttles to choose from; the acquirement would be a simple in and rocket out procedure.

Taking in the scene before her, Dehoir spotted the perfect craft. It was small, only large enough for a four man crew…and from the looks of it; there were only two on the ship.

Closing her emerald eyes, the darksider focused on the force surrounding her. She had practiced the force ability to make herself seem invisible for a month; within that time she had mastered that skill and many others. Her master told her early in their meeting that she was extraordinarily strong in the force, and with proper training she could go far….very far.

Encased in a shroud of invisibility, Dehoir escorted Gaarak up the landing ramp to the cockpit. She easily passed the dock workers and the fuelers; the concentration they had while working kept them from noticing the vornskr ambling around the shuttle’s interior. From the cockpit came the voice of the two man crew.

“I told you that them Hutts don’t care that we ain’t got the creds! They’re looking for our heads! Now what we gotta do is make this run and then take the creds form these blaster sales to clear our debt. I don’t know about you Starka, but I like my head right where it’s at.”

“Right, right, right. I know. It’s just…I don’t know…you sure the Hutts are gonna even let us land on the planet to make the payment?”

“You’re an ass, Starka. You really are. We’re already in Hutt space; therefore we’re already on a Hutt planet. Now sit down and shut up before you hurt yourself.”

It finally grew silent giving Dehoir the perfect opportunity to strike. She motioned for Gaarak to run amok throughout the cargo hold, thereby drawing the crew out into the open, where their demise waited.



No blood smeared the hull of the hold. No sounds emanated from the ship. No one would miss the two now lifeless corpses that lie on the laser burned and scorched floor….all except the Hutts, of course.

Not a word escaped her lips as she piloted the shuttle from its docking station to the outer reaches of space. It seemed that everything came naturally to the young woman, and finding the source of her sleepless nights would be just as easy; for the night before it was finally revealed to her that she was to go to Xa Fel; a hidden planet across the system. Her training would continue, and this time it would be under the tutelage of the Sith Master, Vance Jas; the man that haunted her dreams. A small smile creased her lips as she piloted it to her destiny.

Zarith sat on his bed putting his boots on. It was a fairly late hour in the Sith Temple, most of the other various apprentices or knights were asleep or absorbed in study. Zarith really had no idea what the Masters did at this hour; did they even need to sleep, he just counted on their lack of interest in his activities, and so far they had never interrupted him on his late night sojourns outside of the temple. As long as he was back and ready for duty when he was called upon, his time was mostly his own.

With his boots on, Zarith stood up, grabbing his cape from the bed. He carefully put it on, arranging it so it fell evenly over his shoulders and was straight. The cape was an odd affection of his, a way to stand apart a bit from the other apprentices, who all tended to favor the heavy dark cloaks and monk like robes that seemed to be the stereotypical outfits of force users. Zarith felt no need to hide beneath a cloak or to be like the other Sith. He had not come to Xa Fel to simply blend in with the other apprentices. The cape was also one small reminder of his past, of what he had lost.

Zarith had been the heir to a fortune. His family owned one of the major weapons manufacturing corporations in the galaxy. He had lived a privileged life, attended the finest schools, the most upscale parties. He had learned proper manners and etiquette and even the old art of fencing. He had balanced it with physical training, even taking the same training course the company’s security forces took. He did not want to simply be a child of privilege; he wanted to be his own man.

The news that his family’s company had been founded by the Sith and that in fact the Sith had intermarried with his family stunned the young man. The company was ruined, his family crumbled and the fortune disappeared. He was forced out on his own, in the cruel galaxy.

Zarith stepped into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. He smirked at his image, as he did cut quite the dashing figure. Many women had swooned over his good looks. There was only one flaw, a scar that ran across his nose diagonally from above his left eye and ending below his right. Zarith gently ran his fingers over the old scar and remembered….



Zarith staggered back from the blow, his hand going up to his jaw, checking to make sure it was still properly in place. Around him stood a street gang, the Bloody Talons or some such ridiculous name. Apparently his current residence, which was nothing more than a single room, was in their territory. They expected him to pay some sort of fee for living in their territory. Zarith had, of course, refused, partially do to his current lack of money, partially because he wasn’t about to bow down to some street trash.

Street trash would be a fairly accurate description of him right now though. His clothes were worn out, with scattered holes in them. Dirt and dust had accumulated over them as well, and his shoes were on the verge of falling apart. His hair was shoulder length and grimey, the beginnings of a beard lay on his chin and cheeks. He was perhaps only slightly better in appearance than the street toughs that were accosting him.

Zarith glared at the man who had punched him, apparently the leader of the little group. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his scowl deepened.

The leader glared back at him. “So, you gonna pay up now, or do we git to carve the payment outta your sorry ass, punk?!”

Zarith’s only reply was to spit out a glob of blood from his mouth and rush the man. He delivered a roundhouse punch to the other man’s face, knocking him down. A couple other members of the gang were quickly on Zarith. Two of them grabbed his arms and pulled him back while another one slammed a fist into his stomach. Zarith crumpled over, the men releasing his arms as the leader stood up once more.

“You got guts punk, I give ya that. Now I'm gonna spill those guts all over the ground!” The man pulled a small vibroblade out of his pocket, tossing it from hand to hand. Catching it in his right hand, he slashed out at the kneeling from of Zarith.

Zarith knew the attack was coming, knew right where it would go. It was almost as if things happened in slow motion. Zarith was quick enough to avoid a killing blow, as the blade would have easily shorn through skin, muscle and bone. He was not, however, fast enough to avoid it all together. The very tip of the blade slipped across his face, creating a cut on his nose and between his eyes.

Zarith scrambled back and got back on his feet. Blood began pour down over his left eye. He heard the laughter of the various gang members at his predicament, and he saw the leader walking towards him, knife still in hand. Everything appeared red to Zarith, but not from the blood. He was incensed, consumed by rage. As if drawn by a magnet, the dark side flowed into him.

With unnatural speed, Zarith lashed out at the leader, slamming his shoulder and body into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground. In the corner of his eye, Zarith saw the man’s grip on the vibroblade loosen. He was able to snatch it away from him. The instant after they landed on the ground, Zarith had the vibroblade buried in the man’s chest. Zarith sneered as he saw the leader’s look of pain, shock and fear as the life began ebbing out of him.

Zarith saw one of the other gang members move to attack him. With a swift motion Zarith was on his feet, knife in hand, and the man was staggering away, his hands on his neck trying to control the spray of blood from it. Zarith turned in a slow circle to face the other gang members, the rage still consuming him. A wind blew through the street, an unnatural occurrence on this low level of Coruscant. A nearby street light exploded in a shower of sparks. Zarith watched as the street gang ran away, fleeing from the brutal man who had just killed their leader, the strongest of the gang.

Zarith felt like chasing them, killing each and every one of them. He wanted to scream out his rage to the world, but he couldn’t. Others would soon be here, other gang members, scavengers and other lowlifes. He slowly calmed down, the red sheen covering everything he could see slowly subsided and his breathing returned to something more normal. He bent down over the body of the dead leader and quickly stripped him of all of his valuables and shoes. He darted back to his abode, vibroblade in hand.

The street gangs never attacked him again.

"Sad... so sad...."


She turned for what seemed like the dozenth, hundreth, thousandth time. She stared at him with the cold dead eyes he had grown to fear.


And hate.


"You reek of the sorrow of your times." She said to him with a blank look on his face.

He was unfazed. He had seen all of this before. And he certainly knew what was coming. He braced himself without really meaning to.


"YOU WILL BE KILLED BY YOUR OWN SONS!"

He didn't want to react, but his body was not his own. He recoiled, as if struck by a snake.

His wife, Keira Logan, laughed at his fear.

"Fear is all you will ever know! Fear and anguish!" She screamed.

He wanted to open his mouth to speak, but he could not work his mouth. He could not do anything.

Nothing but stand there and watch his dead wife with those cold eyes she never had.

He could do nothing.


Nothing.





Logan awoke in a cold sweat, his eyes nervously flittering open and quickly scanning the room before his wits took over and he laid back.

He took several deep breaths and remained motionless.

"Again?" A quite mewling voice asked from somewhere near his right ear.

He sighed but made no move, "Yes. The nightmares are more frequent."

He heard Mahk hiss thoughtfully, "Perhaps you should see someone about it."

Logan shook his head, "I'm not senile you know. I don't need a shrink."

"You are senile." Was the mewling reply. And Logan swore he could detect the slightest hint of a laugh in Mahk's voice.

He sat up and cast a venomous look towards his right, but as he expected, the Noghri was not there. He sat back and looked around the room, "Must you always do that?"


"Practice."


Logan scoffed.







"Here are the morning reports sir." His personal assistant droid, TRU-DE, handed him a stack of datapads.

"Thanks Trudee." Each of the pads had a header on it, mostly stuff from the Onyxian Commonwealth departmental heads like INTELLIGENCE, ECONOMICS, MILITARY.

He skimmed a few until he came to a report labeled "TOP SECRET".

Frowing, he read further. It was a direct report from the CIB and came with dire news.


GASH JIREN - DECEASED.


Logan found himself falling backwards into a chair as he read on. The CIB had done some digging. Apparently Jiren was killed while away from the Jedi haven of Ossus, on some sort of mission with another Jedi, someone Logan had heard of only in passive intel reports, someone named Hadul.


He felt Trudee place a metal hand on his shoulder, "I'll cancel your appointments for today."

"Better make it for the next week. Alert Captain Foster to prepare the Sentinel for my immidiate departure for Ossus."

Ossus was in mourning. For years the planet had been called home by Gash Jiren, arguably the greatest Jedi the galaxy had ever known. At least, in the days of the New Republic.

The Empire had since come to power, and the smear campaign against Jiren had been swift and relentless. He was painted a murderer, a Sith Lord who had hoodwinked an entire government and led the Republic to war again and again, costing tens of thousands of lives in the meantime.

Ariel Trinity knew the truth. Gash Jiren, whatever his values, had been a hero. When the Jedi Council had scoffed at his methods he had broken with them, and his Rogue Jedi Order had brought a certain measure of peace to a number of worlds, Ossus amongst them.

But he was, when it all came down to it, an enemy. Trinity's enemy. The Empire's enemy.

There would be no official Imperial delegation to Ossus for the funeral of Gash Jiren. INS had run a short story announcing the Jedi Master's death, but it had taken the usual tone.

No, to mark the passing of Gash Jiren the Emperor would throw a party, and raise a toast to outliving the man who was perhaps his most deadly enemy. Gash Jiren's death would give Daemon Hyfe a certain ammount of security - no longer was the greatest Jedi Master the galaxy had known since Luke Skywalker a threat.

The entirity of the Empire's presence on Ossus was limited to Ariel Trinity. She did not wear her uniform, nor her bars her rank. She was, to Ossus, simply another mourner, one of millions pouring into the world to pay their last respects to the great Gash Jiren.

She was an Imperial Observer, documenting the event for the Empire.

At the moment the body of Jiren lay in state in the grand entrance hall of the Rogue Jedi Temple, the throng of people waiting to see it growing daily.

Even the planet itself seemed to be weeping at the death of its son - upon Jiren's death the clouds had moved in and the Heavens opened up, and the rain had not ceased since.

A black green robed figure stood near a human length window with cold faces looking into the night in his thoughts, it was everywhere and no one missed the news when something like this was out. The Imperials knew it, the dragons knew it and the Coalition knew along with the rest of the galaxy, it was almost funny to Chardoc, but sad at the same time.

Jedi Master Gash Jiren was dead...

It was truly funny how one man could shake the whole galaxy by dying; he had shaken the galaxy in good way for the others and in a bad way for the others. For Chardoc the galaxy was almost the same, but it now missed one warrior less. He himself was a warrior, but even tough he never fought Gash Jiren he honoured the Jedi’s fall slightly with a moment of silence all tough his intelligent and cold side would never allow that. Chardoc was two like persons in one body, a warrior and an inquisitor, but neither ever gained the upper hand.

But now he had other matter to attend to

Kamon Vondiranach was free and the black dragon empire wanted his head, Chardoc himself had been looking for this man for a while and now wanted to be the one to see that he job would be done. There was also other things within the empire that were bothering him, but one seemed to care so why should he? Suddenly the door behind him opened and a smaller figure of a boy stood on the door in same kind of robes, the boy was his apprentice who he had taken under his teaches after his father had died. Chardoc hadn’t really respected his father because he had been an assassin, but believed that the boy earned a clean and fresh start as he was going to do himself.

Or had he deserved that second chance after the new order?

No, he never deserved it, but still stole it like a filthy thief and ran, but at least he could give another the same chance. Did he save the boy only to kill his own guilt that he had felt? The boy interrupted.

"Are going to stand there any longer master?"

Chardoc snapped totally to the reality and turned slowly at his apprentice with a tired face with a faint of sadness on them.

"How come?"

The boy shrugged innocently.

“You barely touched you meal today”

The boy pointed at the almost full plate on the table as Chardoc rubbed his tired face and walked to the door next to his apprentice, but as he was passing the boy he spoke with curiosity in his voice.

"Something is puzzling you aren’t it master?"

Chardoc stopped to admire the boy’s sharp attention skills and slapped him on the shoulder slightly.

"Nothing you should worry about my apprentice…“

Chardoc knew that he could lie to the boy, but not himself, which was the most painful thing all tough he wanted to believe in his own lies, but was afraid that they boy knew him too well. His apprentice shrugged with a slightly unsure face and left door his own room as Chardoc returned to the window.

Lies were so easy to tell, but the opposite to keep together and he had been amazed that he had apparently succeeded in lying to himself for the last 5 years.

Observer Order/ Alderaanian Guard

On visitation to the Jedi temple.

"Fate rings true by the day and into the forever night..."

Strands of hair block vontas vision. She was watching the end of an era as she knew it would happen. The Jedi Order falters and the sith rear their head towards an unprepared galaxy.

In these halls she had once been an apprentice. Before she was called on a different path. One that earned her the animosity of her first master. Organa Solo caste her out from these halls. But no, she left by the whim of the force.

No more no less then that.

Garbed in her feathered body armor, combat foot ware, and sleaveless jedi robe. She seemed out of place in her own way. An alien to these halls. She carries a light saber but it is longer then the average. Opposite of the saber is something that the order most certainly would have frowned upon. A medium blaster pistol. Custom made to conform to her specific grip and firing style.

She was beckoned away for what she thought of as a revitalization of the old ways. The Order stagnates while the empire and other evils spread. From first hand experience she knows that she sith order is far more powerful now than in any other time in recent memory.

With her allies from the Alderaanian guard, the Teepos, teras Kasi, and others. She knows of other evils that lurk in the shadows that could make the sith look mild by comparison. Could the Observers be the future of the Jedi. She has to sigh as she feels the very few force signatures in the area. Far less beings stood in the sactum today in comparision to when she studied here.

The Observers were many times stronger as an organizational resource.

It was a loss of strength she found difficult to stomach.

There were many threats that they Aing-tii could have refered to but this may be guiding her to the final stirrings of the pot. The rise of an unknown future. The danger of body less phantoms known as the Krath. They had griped her soul once so she knew the potency of their ways.

She had to move to the center of events and the key players would gather at the corpse of Jiren. That was where she had to go.

Perhaps she could finally make some amends with her old and new paths.

C4 was bound to attend. Irman may if he could make it. That being would never learn to fly a ship. With all the ships he hires to take him from place to place she has to wonder that he is not broke by now. Toryn would be near in his own way. The Alderaanian guard has it's own ways of operating.

It was high time to meet the galaxy head on again.

Much of the galaxy lowered its head in a silent vigil at the announcement of Gash Jiren's death. That is, the parts of the galaxy the Empire had not yet conquered. Inside that broad border bells tolled and cries of euphoria rang out. No obersver could deny that the reaction was tightly controlled and indeed devised by the brilliant propogandsist in the Ministry of same - nor could they deny the excellence and ruthless dedication with which they besutted the name of the last great Jedi.


Throughout the Imperial Fleet, many veterans could not control themselves, most remembering the friends they had lost to rampaging Force users or the mental torment they themselves had endured. From the bowels of battleships to the flying-bridges of frigates, COMPNOR and ISB men lead cheers of heart felt exhultation. Officers attempted to control their men on some ships, on others they competed with the mass of underlings in some sort of contest to catch the Emperor's ear.


Seated in his office at Imperial High Command, Grand Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria had received the news alone. In respone the gentleman refilled his glass and drank a toast to the fallen. He was very glad the Jedi was dead but secretly regretted not ever facing him in combat. Jiren had a reputation as a master swordsman and though not with a lightsabre, Desaria had been classically trained to cross blades with the best of them.


The Guard commander felt his thoughts drifting to the Inquisitoriate and its uncooth leader, the Viscount del Forza. He wondered what sort of debauched celebrations were occuring inside the walls of the Imperial Citadel only a hundred kilometers away. Then another thought struck him - the Red Menace may be jealous! The Grand Admiral enjoyed immensely the picture in his mind's eye of the High Inquisitor bawling uncontrollably at his desk. His men had failed to do what Nature had so swiftly accomplished.


And so the Jedi are struck down again. Soon there will be no impediment to the expansion of the Empire. Today, the Imperial Way of Life is more secure than ever.


The Grand Admiral finished the toast and returned to his work.