“Amicus Club,” in Basic, Huttese, Rodian and a host of other languages, was what the hanging sign said. It was simple without being hidden, elegant without being extravagant, rich without being lavish. The sign, like the club, was a subtle display of grace, class and poise. It’s not like the sign was needed, though. Everyone who could get in knew where it was – hell, those that couldn’t get in knew where it was. The place was no big secret. In fact, it was very popular with those that held the money and power on Caesar.

In the rain, the club stood out even more. The way the place was built, the water sheeted off of it, making it appear as if the liquid never even touched the exterior walls. The lay observer would have speculated that is exactly what was happening, considering just how rich the walls looked. Stories had spread throughout the city of the horrifying demise that met those who attempted to steal one of the ornate carvings or bas-reliefs that decorated the outside. No graffiti marred the beauty of those carved stonewalls either. It was well kept. During the day, when the Club was not open for business, armies of servants were hard at work scrubbing the building, inside and out. The windows of the place were so well kept that many a drunken patron had walked into the thick glass panes, believing nothing to be there.

The row of sleek, armored speeders pulling up to the covered walk did nothing but reinforce the illustrious image of the club. Each vehicle waited in line to pull up and vomit forth its passengers into a dizzying and continuous display of gross wealth. Each patron attempting to outdo the one before – the cut of their clothing a bit more precise, their jewelry shining a little bit more, their head held just a little bit higher, the escorts a little more handsome and beautiful.

A frown crossed Lucius’s face as he stared out the window of his office, located on the fourth floor of the club, onto the gross debacle below. He hated these huge parties: the arrogance of the clientele arose exponentially with the number of Council members present. In about an hour’s time, he and the Oracle would have to make their way downstairs and play the part of “good host.” Mingling with the crowd, making sure the many and myriad needs of their gluttonous guests were taken care of, ensuring that none of the servants lazed about, and most importantly – making sure no one started a fight. It wasn’t that Lucius feared having to separate these people. They were nothing to him. He had served longer than most, and was schooled by some of the greatest warriors and even a Sith. Where their knowledge exceeded his, he made up for with brute force. And those force users who had attempted to wield the Force found themselves unable to. He thought back with a sneer to the time a certain former Sith had flown into a drunken rage and nearly popped a blood vessel attempting to summon the force.

Before the club had opened the Oracle, Lord Drexus, and Malice had acted in concert. Binding hundreds of ysalamir and other ritualistic voodoo to the spot to ensure that no one used the Force on the public levels of the Club. This made sure that a level playing field was present for the games of intrigue and realpolitik that took place. Those who attempted to call upon the Force found their access blocked, the creatures greedily and hungrily leeched the very essence of the Force away, like water spilled upon parched earth. And if a patron decided he had the brute strength to take on any and all comers, half the wait staff was trained, personally, by the Field Marshal to ensure that the troublemaker would be subdued in a painful fashion.

Turning away from the large window, Lucius turned back to his desk and the journals that had been deposited there by the Oracle. Picking up one of the datapads with a heavy sigh escaping the his lips, he imagined the rage his King would fly into upon learning of this account of very private matters.

Long have I stood in the shadows, my hand recording what my eyes see. A silent witness to my King’s rise to power. I have watched his power grow, and I have trembled. For I fear. I fear him above all else. His power is unmatched, his cruelty knows no boundaries, and his vengeance is swift. I serve him now, out of respect and fear, for if I do not, my existence shall surely end – either at his hand or that of his most feared servants. I serve The Great King, Sereno.

Few know the true scope of my King’s powers, the wealth of countless peoples plundered at his whim, the innocence crushed by his fancy, under the boot heels of his servants. So much blood wantonly spilled among the stars, yet a pale introduction of the acts to which I have been fortunate enough, doomed to bear witness. Those who have attempted to breach my King’s security ultimately fail – falling to one of his most trusted agents, or intricate plans. The lucky are killed outright. Most still wish they could die, allowed to slip from their hell without end - their nightmare without waking.

And yet, King Sereno is a man whose physical appearance masks the twisting and endless darkness within. His slim and athletic build, coupled with his blond locks draw many admiring glances. It is his eyes that command respect. Eyes that take in his surroundings coolly and casually, like a General surveying the field he must fight upon the following morning. Eyes that burn with an intensity and heat, boring straight into the soul of those who meet his gaze, stripping away every layer until the victim is left a naked, quivering mass. It is in these eyes, that one begins to see even a hint of the power and darkness within the man, at his beck and call. Eyes that so shrewdly take the measure of everything and everyone that one could very well mistake training with the force mystics. And his eyes are those that belong to the true King.

The party was in full swing, the music playing, alcohol flowing, waiters attending to whatever fancy the guests might have, and the guests themselves gorged their appetites. Whether it was food or spice, alcohol or vice, the Oracle prided himself upon knowing the pleasures and weaknesses of his guests. As he mingled with the crowd, greeting his gluttonous guests, he kept an eye out and quietly informed the servers if one happened to be running low on wine, or informing one of the prettier girls in the club that the Lord of the Crimson Isles was looking a little lonely, his side turning cold.

Malice couldn't help but wrinkle his nose as he walked the floor. Some of his damned guests had the audacity to show up in ceremonial robes. He felt a headache approach as he noticed that a verifiable thorn in his side wore not only his dress robes to this soiree, but also openly carried his lightsaber. So much for working hard to keep our "Order", those of the Crimson Isles, a secret, Malice thought to himself. The delicate flute in his hand snapped and shattered, bubbling, honeyed liquid dripping from his hand as he slowly willed himself to calm down. The purpose of this party was to celebrate a trade agreement with three of the outlying colonies not immediately under the control of Sereno and his Order, and that man had the immitigable gall to hint that the Crimson Isles was anything other than a religious organization.

His rage so focused, he nearly jumped out of his skin when one of the waiters tapped him on the shoulder. The waiter did not even flinch as the Mad Scientist turned a violent eye on him as he started, "My Lord, your presence is requested in the large room on the third floor."

At this, Malice raised an eyebrow, wondering who would be in that very private room, reserved only for the most august of guests who wished for a private room to take a break from the festivities. The Mad Scientist made his way towards the stairs, pausing to exchange pleasantries with guests, but always affecting an air of urgency so that he would not be stopped for too long. Sometimes, he thought to himself, I would just love to brush these plebes off.

As he ascended the first flight of stairs, he took the chance to briefly scan the room. The second floor of the Club afforded a view of the first floor, with the grand stairway up directly in opposition to the main entrance. Tables near the banister allowed those seated to gaze down upon the revelers upon the main floor. Here couples and small groups talked amongst themselves. And standing out amongst the crowd the openly armed guard of the Marshall took up positions on the second floor – all armed as well as they were dressed. Calmly they watched the sea of bodies below, waiting to respond to the first sign of trouble that the plainclothes guards could not handle.

Arriving before the double doors of the private room, a cold feeling seized his gut…

My King fully used and exploited his burgeoning prowess with the Force to help advance his standing with the Fleet. Those that were jealous of his quick rise in the ranks could do little but watch as he became one of the youngest to ever make flag rank. His most vocal critics were quickly silenced, one by one. Found either dead or disappearing altogether from the ranks. With few exceptions, all strong and vocal criticism of My King in this time ceased. With none left to oppose or impede his progress within the Fleet, his rise culminated with his appointment as a member of the Fleet Command Staff and the rank of Fleet Admiral. An exceptional officer, with a keen eye for detail, Admiral Sereno helped in securing many fronts for the Crimson Isles.

During this time, too, My King carefully cultivated his skill and knowledge of the Force. His dedication and perseverance won out when finally My King was appointed a member of the Tof’s Royalty as the Commander of the Navy. After insanity consumed former King Teleron, Calamus would be chosen by the mysterious Crimson Isles to serve as King and he would appoint My King to be his closest attache.

Eventually King Calamus would vacate the Throne. For a period of time all awaited the decree of the Crimson Isles, to say who would succeed Calamus. When My King was named Calamus’s successor, few were surprised. More were annoyed with the Crimson Isles’s need for dramatics. King Sereno’s ascension to the Throne was quickly punctuated with action. The nascent noble houses quickly found themselves embroiled in battle against one another. The reasons for the First Tof Civil War, as the battle came to be known, were many, but the two greatest reasons were to weed out weakness within the ranks and to weaken his greatest rivals...

It was a dark and stormy night. The cliché was not lost on any of the men who walked down the narrow streets of Nivah City. Calling it a City was little more than a courtesy. It was not large, but it had a spaceport and it acted as a trading center of sorts. The majority of its residents were employed upon the large estate that sat atop the cliff. There they toiled to maintain the gardens, the lawn, the windows that were so grand that some were twice as wide and three times as tall as their own homes. Those who did not directly work upon the estate loaded and unloaded the ships that ferried supplies to the planet, worked the farms that surrounded the areas or trained the young men and women who would serve as "decorations" in the manor.

Seven total, six members of the King's personal guard. The seventh, the man in front, was not a member of the Guard. They passed few on the streets, so late in the evening it was. The second moon had already reached its zenith; dawn would not come for several more hours. They all knew that sound. It was a macabre symphony, those familiar boots on the streets, the sharp percussion of hardened soles against stone, its tempo dictating the heartbeats of the citizens in their beds. Each step caused their hearts to beat double-time, twice for every footfall, fear fading to relief for those who heard the steps fade, building into a crescendo of terror for those whose fate was sealed by the approaching soldiers. The few people they did pass shrank quickly away, huddling in whatever alley or crevice they could find, hoping to hide before the guardsmen saw them. They knew well the black uniforms, and they knew why they walked the streets at night. Their King was displeased, and someone was to be punished.

The leader stopped, holding up a hand. The guardsmen halted, booted heels grinding into the gravel and stone. Time seemed to hold its breath. The guards tensed, ready to dive into whichever home their leader pointed them at. Each second seemed to stretch out into an eon.

The sound of rain was all that ruled the night for that pregnant moment. When the leader pointed, the heavens themselves seemed to give some divine signal as lightning flashed in the sky, followed quickly by the rumble and boom of thunder.

One…two…three…The men rushed the home. Seven…eight...nine…Two smoke grenades found their way into the home before the first man reached the door, kicking it in. Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…A high scream pierced through the sounds of wind and rain. The men rushed in quickly. Twenty-three…Twenty-four…Twenty-five…The sound of blaster fire filled the air. Loud thumps could be heard as some of the guardsmen rushed up the stairs. Thirty-six…thirty-seven…thirty-eight…More shots sang in the night air. Then everything was silent again.

The lone figure left standing in the street made his way towards the house. The sound of gravel crunching cut through the air as he tread upon the primitive road. As he reached the threshold he heard one of the Guardsmen report, "Sir, we have subdued all 5 individuals. They will be ready for transport back to base for questioning within the next few minutes."

"Lucius said that you were fast," Corvus dryly started, "I will have to inform him that you have been slacking off."

The bobbing of the Guard's Adam's apple was the only response that he needed or wanted.

War would not be the only hallmark of the King’s reign. Sereno formed, under Royal Decree, the Royal Guard – a body with the singular purpose of defending the King, but with the hidden intent to make it more difficult for any to come close to usurping his wealth and power.

Even before My Lord ascended to the Throne, he gathered together a cadre of allies and servants, ready to execute his will unflinchingly. Included amongst them are: the quiet Master Corvus, Lord of the First Noble House during the First War. The psychotic Adept Malice, at My King’s command the demented scientist would drive even the strongest willed to insanity and suicide. The cavalier Drexus, with Master Corvus, these two men of the noble Houses acted as nearly impossible guardians. The cold Lord Misakan, it is easier to force open a crocodile’s jaws than to lose this relentless hunter and warrior. And I, the sadistic General Lucius, My King lays claim to the fact that he is the only one with a true grip on the leash of this vicious and rabid beast.

These are but a slim few of my King’s lieutenants, yet we are the ones who have served him best. To have one set upon you means you have raised Sereno’s ire. To have more than one means that no deity, no divine intervention, will be able to spare you countless and unspeakable horrors. My King’s most favored method of dispatching his foes was to hunt them down with his private army and then turn the poor soul over to the less than gentle ministrations of the Mad Scientist and the Sadistic General. In comparison to their methods, any death is a mercy. Rumors abound of rites and rituals that would keep their victim at Death's door for as long as they were entertained, or even bringing people back after they have crossed that particular threshold.

"Wake up, Nicolas," the steel edged whisper cut through the haze of semi-consciousness. "Come on, Nicolas, we have been waiting." A stinging slap was delivered against the middle-aged gentleman's face, cutting through the thick fog clouding his mind. A second blow, harder than the first, landed on the opposite side of his face and brought his brain out of its sluggish daze. As he opened his eyes, seeing the hard, sneering, face of his King's soldiers before him, brought his thoughts back up to speed. The events of that horrifying evening came back to his mind. The guardsmen rushing into his home. Watching as his wife and two daughters were quickly stunned. Rushing upstairs with his son, the youngest, to grab the blasters that were kept in the house to ward off burglars or worse. Turning as his son cried out, when a bolt from a blaster, on stun, slammed into the back of the boy who had only seen nine winters. And then feeling the intense searing of his own chest when a blast hit him, so distracted was he by the sight of his son's fall that he did not notice the guards training their blaster rifles on him.

A third blow, this time a closed fist, brought him out of his reverie. The sick, wet crack of bone breaking under bone, flesh bruising under flesh, reverberated throughout the room. Nicolas jerked to the side, but the manacles about his wrists kept him from falling. His left cheek was on fire. It felt like someone was pushing a hot iron through his face from the inside. The hot tears falling from his eyes only added to the pain, as the salty tears mingled with the blood from the broken flesh where a part of his cheekbone had broken through.

"Daddy!" the high-pitched voice broke through the cloud of pain wracking Nicolas' mind. He attempted to open his eyes. He succeeded with his right eye, but his left eye wasn’t functioning. It wasn't responding to the mental command. The adrenaline coursing through his body from the pain and from hearing his daughter's voice kept him from panicking. Nicolas raised his head to see his family before him, all kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their backs.

A sharp tug on his hair lifted his face up, his eyes widened in horror as he was greeted by the maniacal grin of his King's most favored interrogator – The Mad Scientist Malice. Laughter bubbled up past the lips of that rictus grin. Malice, taking exceptional pleasure in the horror his presence provoked, did nothing to hide the mirth in his voice as he asked, "Missed me, Lord Castellan? Ah, but wait. You resigned as Castellan, didn't you? Went off to raise your sons and daughters, and your eldest son became the new Lord Castellan of my King's Household."

Behind the demented scientist, he could see his family kneeling on the ground, their arms bound behind their backs. Collars around their necks were attached to chains hanging from the wall. His wife's eyes met his briefly before falling down upon the floor again.

A soft hiss and the loud clank of metal from behind told Nicolas that the door to the chamber had opened. And two sets of footsteps approached. Nicolas noticed the renewed mirth that lit up the scientist's face and fear filled the very fiber of his being. The fear intensified when the two figures came into view. One, the quiet Lord, Drexus. A calculating mind guiding the desires of a dark soul. The other, his King's enforcer, Marshall Lucius sneered at Nicolas. The gentle swish of cloth could just barely be heard over the louder staccato of boots on stone.

"I hope my troops did not cause too much damage to your home, Castellan?" Lucius stated. "I had actually told my prodigy of the skill and efficiency of the Black Guard. You remember them, do you not? The troops I hand picked and trained personally to execute King Sereno's will? He was most excited. He wanted to see them in action, so I sent them along. I believe they successfully delivered Lord Drexus's message?"

"Enough," Drexus's voice commanded, "Where is your eldest son, Nicolas? He is the only one who still had access to King Serenos household that we cannot find."

Nicolas' eyes widened. "My Lord, I do not know. Joshua went to Tof with a missive for you, but he has not yet returned?"

Drexus held the old Castellan's eye, before looking at Lucius and then nodding. The larger man grinned and pulled an iron spike from his coat. He stalked towards the old man's family, twirling the iron spike in his hand. The flat, dull metal attracted the attention of everyone in the room. He stopped behind the young boy before Drexus asked once more, "Where is Joshua, Nicolas?"

"I do not kno-," the response turned into a scream as he witnessed the large iron spike driven into the skull of the young boy. The women in the room quickly echoed the scream as they saw the small boy executed before their eyes. The tears that flowed from Nicolas' eyes burned like lava as they streamed. His scream slowly died out as he recognized laughter. He looked up swiftly, hatred filling his soul to see Malice’s head thrown back and laughter issuing forth from his mouth. Nicolas attempted to lunge at the man who dared to find merriment in this horror. Forgetting that he was bound, he did not get far and deigned only to scream in outrage.

"I will ask you once again," Drexus began as Lucius moved quickly behind the younger of Nicolas' two daughters. Her honey colored hair fell forward around her face. It could be told that she was crying by the shaking of her body. The shoulders twitched with each convulsing sob. "Where is Joshua?"

Nicolas' eyes turned to pleading, "Please, My Lord, spare my family. They had nothing to do wi-." Nicolas' plea was cut off by his wife screaming as she saw Lucius place a new spike upon the youngest girl's head and then swiftly drove it in with the palm of his hand. Her young body still convulsed, this time in the throes of death.

"Lucy, Lucy," Malice began, joy filling his voice, "I thought you had perfected this technique? They're supposed to die instantly, not go into convulsions, froth blood and then expire like that one did." Lucius glanced up from the body, annoyance clearly written upon his face as he glared at the scientist. Lucius made his way to stand behind Nicolas’ eldest daughter. He pulled another iron spike from within the recesses of his coat.

Nicolas bowed his head and cried, as the process was repeated two more times.