Malice listened as Maim spoke. A bit of anger built up within as Maim mocked his knowledge of the sith history. But, Malice let it go, for today there was to be no fighting. Instead, he turned his attention to Lady Athena, as she now entered. Nodding his head to her, Malice turned back towards Maim.

*Well then, if it is agreed by all that the title be abolished, then so be it. No one sith will be held in greater regards over the rest*

Malice went silent. He wanted to see what other's had to say.

The Zabrak observed all that had been spoken in complete silence. He had his own views, and they were very much different from Maim's.

He wanted a unity of sorts, something the Zabrak thought would not be made to come true.

For countless years it had been Sith against Sith. It was always that way. Some got along, and some didn't.

Zeta had somehow always invited that idea.

True, Zeta did not get along well with Maim, he found the prospect of trying to change that a rather difficult one. Something he did not know if he could accept.

He didn't think the brethren of his order could do the same.

The Naboo had entered with change in mind, but now it seemed as if the order was more of a lost cause than anything else.

Zerxes Vondiranach approached Bast Castle only to be stripped of the darkside. It was, of course, ysalamiri. He ignored the creatures, and walked into the castle. He knew where to go by the Force Signatures in the area.

Walking down one of the halls he approached a room. The room held many signatures. Including that of his Master, Lord Maim. He pushed on the dorr and walked in. Seating himself, he spoke in a sinister voice.

"Sorry I am late, Masters. I was engineering the downfall of my accursed brother. What Have I missed?"

The prisoner had arrived, and the duty of escort came to Guardsman Silk. The duty was truly an honor.

The word came subtly to Silk, word of the prisoners arrival.
A crackle came over the Comm unit within his helm, informing him.

Moving almost unnoticed, the Royal Guardsmen backed away from view and vanished within one of the more secret entrances to the chamber.

Gone for but a few moments, he soon re-emerged through the main entrance.

A cadre of Royal Garde, six in total, entered the room led by Silk. In tow, they escorted a bound prisoner, a frail looking figure stripped of the Force by the lizards.

"My Lord, the Prisoner, as you ask."
It was always an honor to address the Prince Regent. Recognition carried rank.
"Jedi Master Teq Qu, at your whim, Lord."

Falling silent, Silk moved into primary potion, presenting the Prisoner before the Prince Regent.

The Prince Regent, who had been about to respond to the comments and questions before him, snapped his attention to the chamber doors. The guardsmen brought in a wrather old looking Cerean man, and the face was as familiar now as it had been over sixty years ago.

"Master Teq Qui, we finally meet again. The last time we were face to face, I was not yet ready for you.. however, I never forget a debt."

Lord Maim turned to Carnor Jax who had already produced a rather ancient looking box. Opening the lid slowly, he removed two almost medical looking instruments which strapped to his hands like gloves. One had a long spike which looked as sharp as a needle point. The other had what appeared to be a scooping device of some kind with a latch which closed the tip portion.

Turning, once he placed them upon his hands, he motioned for the man to be brought forward.

"These were my fathers.. you remember my father, don't you? The man you murdered in cold blood?"

The Sith's face began to show anger for the first time in quite some time. The Jedi failed to respond, almost looking as if he had resigned to his fate.

The Sith reached forward, slamming the spiked instrument into the man's throat and up into his skull. Slowly sliding it back out once more, he held a cup with the other hand beneath the opening to catch the blood. Quickly setting down the chalice, he slammed the other instrument into the man's chest. A metallic click could be heard as it latched closed and Maim pulled it free. The Jedi Master's body slumped to the floor, lifeless.

"I have waited most of a century for this."

Opening the catch over his mouth, he caught the bit of the man's heart which he had extracted. Picking up the chalice, he washed it down his throat with the man's blood.

"And now, it is complete. My vengeance has been extracted."

Turning to Dioan he nods, subtly.

"You and your men have done well, Sovereign Protector Silk."

Promoted...
This was not the time to revel.

"My Lord."

Sovereign Protector Silk nodded respectfully to the Prince Regent and gave a subtle gesture to two of his men.

Receding from central stage, Silk led his men, body in tow, out the main doors. Heedless of the smear of cerean blood trailing behind the corpse.

Beyond the chamber...

Without respect, the body was lumped into a corner and a servant was dispatched to dispose of the body.

The Sovereign Protector stood in silence. Around him stood six others who seemed the same as he. And until moments ago, they had been equals above others.

One spoke to Protectorate Silk, "Sir, the honor."

Another followed suit, "It is yours, Sir."

The first again, "Loyalty to Protector Silk."

Another, "To he and his master."

Swiftly, the six filed out ahead of their superior. A moment was left for Silk alone.

Just one moment.

Gone was the man he had been but moments ago. Dead to the galaxy, he had been reborn.

He spoke the title, "Sovereign Protector." and he spoke it only once.
-----

From a shadow, a concealed entrance....

He materialized behind the Prince Regent. Silently and fluidly, he retook his post as if it had never been left empty.

He took his post as Sovereign Protector.

Athena watched as Maim removed the heart of the man whom had taught him in a way so much. Then she looked over at Silk, interestingly he acted much different then the others who had been given the same title before. She thought most of the men whom had been moved up in rank never felt a difference, she would have to ask Kile after the meeting.

Bored she turned and retook her protectors arm and then smiled to her beloved. She was going to head down towards the library. She saw no importance here, unless her beloved wanted her there for something.


(Edit: slight change of wording)

(OOC: Excuse my roundabout methods.)

“Infidel!” Vakhar shouted, parading a metallic cylinder in a fist above his head. His free hand, marred with uprooted flesh and bone, pounded at the air in front of him. Beaten with the compulsion to remain stolid, finding it exhausting to repress the angers of ethical betrayal, Vakhar glared down upon the fallen figure at his knees.

I now see that pity deceives my purposes, he conceded to himself, for those who I have shown it have developed only weak, careless bonds with the Darkside. I regret having wasted my time creating such trash. More time would now need to be wasted in the purging of such defects, the products of experimental, “painless” instruction. Mercy truly was a weakness erroneously thought to be a virtue by the heathens; such filth could keep it.

“I’m saddened to see that blasphemy has succeeded in seducing you,” Vakhar continued, a tranquility beginning to calm his flailing, “for I now know that a portion of my energies were squandered along with your potential.”

A frown pierced Azkarel’s lips, a slight sigh emerging from between them. Time and energy were both truly irreplaceable despite their many false substitutes. And for so long he had devoted each of these priceless assets to the unworthy; to the ignorant and, even worse, insolent. “But all is not lost,” he thought aloud, “by so blatantly spitting in my face for relenting, I come to realize that garbage as yourself is without any inherent obedience or discipline. Solely through torment can you evolve. Even if only in the temporary presence of otherwise, all one is able to produce is…trash.”

“P-Please, my Lord, I…meant no harm.” Up to the time having been silent, dazed and physically torn, the one dropped at Vakhar’s feet pushed himself from the floor to speak. Bloodied flesh hung cleaved from his face, his once youthful, pale skin now resembling that of an elderly leper.

The younger man pressed on after heaving several stricken breaths, “My Lord, it was a mere-”

“I’m aware of what it was!” Vakhar interrupted, his tone shedding its composure. The hand that held the cylinder extended outwards, the metal gleaming as he rotated it among his fingers. “This…this is nothing mere! With this seemingly petty object you defied not only me, but the supremacy of the Darkside.” Drawing the hand clasping the rod back, Vakhar broke the cold metal through the boy’s face, his skull whipping backwards on impact.

The child shrieked as his head struck the stone below. A mix of blood and tears flooded his eyes and streamed onto his cheeks, saliva meeting the substance from his gurgled cries. “Please” was all he could muster, his head slumping back to the ground once spoken.

“Please?” Vakhar repeated, scorn tempering the word. “Do you feel that I owe you mercy? Compassion, maybe? What is it, I ask, that allowed you to make such a grave mistake? I don’t believe that it was strict, unflinching supervision that let you stray so far; you had none.”

“I strayed?” the other whined from the floor, “I-I’ve only obeyed…obeyed everything.” Gradually he squirmed up onto his knees, his head still sagging to the floor.

“Did you, my dear apprentice?”

“Yes,” he said, straining, “I…I hadn’t known that such a thing was to be shunned.”

“Foolish boy. ‘Not to be shunned,’ you say? I overestimated you even now.” Vakhar’s open hand eased to a hover above the other, his fingertips momentarily stroking the damp mop of hair beading with sweat. Cued by a gesture of Azkarel’s hand, the boy then rose to dangle above an open pocket of air.

Oblivion will serve him well, Vakhar mused, his hand sketching circles in the area ahead of the boy’s chest. In an instant the hand then receded, the other’s body accelerating in the opposite direction in a wisp of spatial distortion.

“Now,” Vakhar began after the collision, “I hear that a certain womprat has reared its head from the sludge.”

In the wake of his departing, the cylinder once grasped by Vakhar’s hand lay idle in the floor’s grit. It bore the likeness of a recording rod, and indeed was but for a few modifications. Inscribed upon its circumference were the words “To my family”.

Loki Somir stared blankly out the window of the small shuttle. These were not the accomodations he was accustomed to; and, though he was certainly not bothered by them -- a Sith knows no discomfort -- it remained as a sliver in his palm, reminding him of questions which needed asking.

To his left, Meschi Somir sat, piloting the craft. He, of course, was put at a fair amount of discomfort by the craft -- though, it was a voluntary discomfort, something he used to show his distain for those who had caused this set of events.

"How do you expect us to return to Coruscant, Meschi?" Loki asked, turning to his uncle. "Officer Crae won't be letting us back as Loki and Meschi. Perhaps your ID man on Nar Shaddaa?"

Meschi snorted. "Certainly not, Loki. We must never hide our names; they are our identity. We, as Somirs -- as brother and son of the Dark Lord of the Sith -- must always be proud of who we are."

"You don't have to be ashamed to hide something." Loki sighed. "And Crae is going to alert every authority on Coruscant."

"No, he's not." Meschi said. "He let us go, and left a mound of bodies on Coruscant. It's a matter of pride, and Xarrin Crae has too much of it to admit that he let a couple of what he thinks are low-level slave cartel assassins go. Plus, he'll be fighting court marshall."

"You don't think very highly of Crae." Loki observed.

"No. You do?"

"I thought he was quite a character." Loki said, smiling slightly. "Quite a character, indeed. For someone lacking any Force sensitivity, he gave better chase than could've been expected."

"Well," Meschi said. "I'll give you that."





"Meschi!" Zara greeted the man warmly. "Ah, Meschi, it has been far too long."

Meschi turned from his other guests, and smiled warmly at the woman. "Yes, indeed it has, Zara. And you too, Kile." He nodded at Zara's husband, who stood uncertainly -- or, perhaps, Meschi thought, uncontentedly -- behind her. "I'd worried you weren't coming."

"Oh, you know us better than that." Zara reprimanded him. "We were just held up a little too long at the Coruscant Royal Symphony."

"Ah, of course." Meschi chuckled. "They are very good this year, aren't they?"

"Quite. Except --"

"-- for the amplicellist on the far left." Meschi finished, taking Zara's coat. "Yes, I noticed too."

"As observant as ever!" Zara declared, walking past her host. Meschi looked over his shoulder as she passed, and she did the same. They shared one of their secret looks, before the slim, attractive -- and blatantly aristocratic -- woman slid gracefully away, followed by her husband.

Who also shared a look with Meschi. But, quite a different one.

Meschi only smiled, a hollow smile, back at Kile. He turned away quickly, and his false smile turned to a sour grimace.





Loki stepped lightly through the corridor, his footfalls nearly silent. At his waist were a blaster, a lightsaber, a vibroblade -- all untouched. "I know that you're here." Loki smiled slightly. "You saw what I did to your friend at Headquarters, Mr. Crae. And there, I had security cameras to deal with. Here... I have you all to myself."

"Y-your -- your uncle did that, Somir." A voice came, echoing metallically. "We know all about you. You'll never fool us with these child games -- one way or another, you're going to be caught. Both of you."

"You're not Crae." Loki began to frown. "And you're not fooling anyone with your bravado bullshit[/i]. The only ones who know about us are you, Crae and your dead friend. It's just you and me, Officer Hill." A choking sound from in the darkness. "Oh, yes, I know your name. And I know that this is Crae's own private war -- the beaurocratic Coruscant Security higher-ups would never seek to persue Meschi. He commands too much respect. You are all alone."

"Enough of your mind games, Somir!" The man shouted. "I know you and your uncle killed those people, and I know about the slave cartel -- and I'm tired of this bloody cat and mouse shit! Come out and face me!"

Loki was now frowning, thoroughly unamused. "You are tired of these games, are you?" He clenched his teeth. "Enough of them, then. Enough, indeed." Dark, flaming red energy of the Force balled in Loki's hand, anger fueling it's buildup. With one, sudden motion, he stopped walking, and threw the Force fire into the wall next to him, discintigrating the thing and melting a hole large enough for a man in it, the melted edges still red even as the Sith reached through, grabbing ahold of the Coruscant Security Officer -- where, of course, Loki had known he'd been all along.

The Sith Master pulled him closer, holding him around the neck, drawing his face only inches from Hill's. "I would've preferred to fight Crae, but I suppose Meschi will take care of that. Coming in the front way, is he, then, while you took the top?"

The man struggled, but couldn't even hope to match Loki Somir's strength. "Fuck yourself, Somir."

Loki nodded, smiling slightly. And then he thrust the man's head into the metal wall, crushing, obliterating his skull and spilling blood and grey matter over the wall. He dropped the beheaded corpse.

"Fuck me, indeed."





Kile Sinnar sat against the wall outside Meschi's reception hall, his lit cigarra in hand. He look another glance inside, spotting Meschi's smiling, suave face. That confident demeanor, that intelligent air -- those glances shared with his wife. He glanced over at the door guard, who was draped in ceremonial garb reminiscient of the old Imperial guard uniforms, the usual helm absent. "Sure I can't take this inside?"

"Very. Meschi was specific. Those things aren't good for you, anyway, Mr. Sinnar -- you should probably quit." The guard smiled, took one more look at Kile, and then turned to the sound of approaching footsteps -- to a man in a knee-length trenchcoat, and a plain shirt. A scruffy figure, indeed -- two days' stubble included. "Going somewhere, sir?"

"Yeah. Inside." The man replied. He looked familiar, to Kile; he thought he'd seen him somewhere, maybe on the Holonet. "Get the fuck out of my way."

The guard was taken aback, and his laid-back expression was replaced with a more cold, alert one. "If, sir, you're not on the list, you may not enter. Your name?"

"I'm not on your list, stupid." He spat on the ground, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of distain. "I'm officer Xarrin Crae, and I need to speak with Meschi Somir. Now, let me in."

"Oh, you. I've heard of you. You were the cop that brought down that crime syndicate." The guard scratched his chin. "Nope, sorry, though. I still can't let you in. Host's orders."

Kile looked curiously at the man. Now he remembered. An officer known for wild shootouts and personal vendettas, investigating Meschi Somir? What could be more perfect? "Excuse me, sir. You're looking for Meschi Somir?"

"Yeah. Seen him?"

Kile turned to the guard. "He's with me. I'm sure you can make an exception for a longtime friend of Mr. Somir, and let us in?"

The guard thought for a moment. "I guess."



"Ah, yes, my dear." Meschi said. "As a matter of fact, that same amplicellist should be in attendance tonight." The crowd gathered around Meschi to hear their host speak all laughed.

"Meschi?" The comm at the Sith Master's waist buzzed slightly, with the vibration of the words. "Our good friend is here to see you."

Meschi frowned. He took the commlink in his hand, and pressed the transmit button. "Delay him for a moment. And get out of here, Loki. This place isn't going to be safe for us, for a while. Quite a while, in fact." He put the commlink down. "Zara, I think you'd better leave."

"What?" She said, fixing Meschi with a seductive glare. "I thought you'd had... something special, planned for us, after this little suare."

"Yes, dear. I did. But... I really can't say. But this place is about to become... unsafe." She still looked unsure. The older man put his hand softly on her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes and smiling. That penetrating glare was, to Zara, perhaps his best feature -- it always felt as if he was looking straight into your soul. "Please, dear. Trust me; go."

She did. And from his belt, Meschi pulled a blaster. "Time to leave a little welcoming present for Crae. I wonder how he'll explain this one." He aimed the gun at the nearest man's head, and fired. "I guess we'll find out."



Officer Xarrin Crae and Kile Sinnar, preterbed by the pestering the guard had insisted on -- a pestering which had cost them five whole minutes -- rushed through the hall, down into the reception room of Meschi Somir's evening extravaganza. What they found, was not anything they'd expected. Certainly nothing Kile had expected.

The room was bathed in a thorough coat of blood, splashes and pools splattered about in the melancholy masterpiece of a horrific artist. The beheaded, stabbed, cauterized, and slashed corpses of the hundred or so party goers littered the room, strewn about in a way which bore the mark of a quick slaughter -- yet which, in another, seemed strangely artistic.

And, nailed to the nearest wall, to the right of the pair, was the corpse of one of the men. He was pinned to the wall by a vibroblade, driven through his chest, blood still dripping from it. "Fuck." Xarrin said. Kile only covered his eyes.

Actually, Xarrin recognized the man. He was playing amplicello that year in the Coruscant Royal Symphony. "Damnit, Meschi..."





"What, exactly, do you find so amusing, Loki?" Meschi asked his nephew, throwing a frustrated glare at the boy. "I wouldn't want to make that smirk on your face permanent."

"I was just thinking." Loki said nonchalantly. "You sent me to the upper complex, because you thought Crae would be coming in that way."

"Yes."

"And he wasn't." Loki smirked even more. "That's an unusual lapse in judgement, for you. And it cost you a hundred of your... ah... most intimate friends."

Meschi grunted. "Crae is famous on Coruscant. I thought he'd go in the covert way, to avoid being recognized."

"Obviously, you were wrong. Crae was perceptive, clearly -- he found out about the Telltree murders we carried out, and about your slave ring. Maybe he anticipated your line of thinking." Loki suggested.

Meschi took a deep breath and cast another withering glare at his fellow assassin. "You, Loki, are an extremely insolent boy."

Loki laughed. "Maybe, uncle, just maybe, Crae isn't the only one who takes pride in his name -- enough that he won't hide from the notoriety he's earned." Loki shrugged. "As I said. He was quite the character."

"Insolent boy." Meschi muttered under his breath. And so, the shuttled streaked off toward the planet which lay below it -- Vjun. And on to the future, past behind them all but forgotten. Such was the way for the Sith of old, and, perhaps, the Sith of new.

It had been a simple conquest. Far beneath the skills of Vice Admiral Sadow, but none-the-less, it needed to be done.

The planet had presented no opposition to the incoming fleet. It offered no resistance while landing crews began to establish a garrison. It offered no difficulties at all.

In fact, it had been almost as if the planet had welcomed them. A small jungle emerald of a jewel calling to the Sith.

Long ago, the planet had been pivotal in the conflict that tore through the Yinchorri and the Jedi. It had served as a secret compound for renegade forces and provided welcome to them as well.

Sadows forces had nearly finished erecting the prefabricated Garrison from aboard the Dark Shard before the locals had arrived. And arrive the had.
In small rivulets tribal Yinchorri had come from the shadows of the jungle. They had come with baskets of offerings and kind sounds of welcome.