(The events of this thread follow Xionation, Cataclysm and It, Which Lives Below)








A dungeon, it held.


A labyrinth, it contained.


A warren, it housed.


The Crimson Emperor, bequeathed him by the Palestar, was perfectly appointed. It was excellently equipped and boasted the most astounding accouterments. Half star-ship, half space-station, the monstrous construct was suited the needs and the desires of Lord Silk as though built for him, which it had been. For all his sacrifice, in the face of all he had done for the Palestar, this had been his reward and though it reminded the Lord his services had been bought and paid for the inescapable fact remained; that the Palestar had truly sought the perfect gift with which to repay Silk.


In its construction he saw himself; a testament to the old ways yet armed to the teeth with the most modern and powerful weapons. In its use he saw himself; a fortress temple of the deepest solitude which, at a moments notice, could become a machine of war. In its grandeur and its opulence he saw himself; a reflection of his teachers, of Xion, of Maim, of Palpatine. In its simplicity he saw himself; a product of his past, his present and his future.


In it he saw himself.


And yet he knew that for all its possession gained him, the Crimson Emperor was just a thing. It was just a possession and though its ownership gave to him a sense of satisfaction he refused to allow himself any attachment to it. Like everything else, it was merely a means to an end. In application it had brought others in to the fold, brought under his command new assets, new possessions but these too could only be regarded as temporary. Even life was not ever lasting.


A temple, it supported.


A species, it grew.


A seat of power, it represented.


On Xa Fel he also saw himself, saw himself as king, however; the duties of rule, the constant need to manage and micro-manage, consumed him. His studies of the force had fallen by the wayside, his focused meditation becoming increasingly infrequent. It was not enough to simply delegate responsibilities to his subordinates, as was true of the Temple and Crimson Emperor alike. Attention was required, constantly.


Xoverus, priest of the Unspoken, was a frequent voice in his ear. The man, for all his prowess and use, was a going concern and, though loathe to admit it, Silk understood his concerns; Xoverus was just like any other being of ambitious desire, even if that ambition was not his alone, and speaking for a considerable power he was powerfully motivated to see that progress followed. Yet for all his pestering Xoverus was impossible to satiate and again Silk understood why but understanding was not enough to quell his distaste for the way things were. Of the Unspoken converts faith he could not even be assured. Their loyalty was not to him, not to Silk, but to the godly power of the Unspoken.


And then there was the Crone, though she was less of a concern. A witch at heart, her interests lay within the realm of magic and the occult. Silk had, for a time, been able to suffer her ramblings and when that had grown intolerable he had further purchased her patience by offering her the young girls and women of the Xa Fel to induct in to her misguided ways. For now she was quiet, for now she was occupied with whatever malicious ministrations she practiced on her inductees but there was no telling how long that would last.


Even his brothers, the men of the exiled Royal Guard now dubbed Crimson Brotherhood, pushed the limits of his tolerance. They had been loyal to him the longest of anyone he maintained current contact with, had stood by his side on Yinchorr and followed his commands even before their forced isolation. Much of that loyalty, however; had been bought and paid for through the very banishment that had fomented them as brothers. Now that things had changed, now that Silk was in a position of authority, they now sought payment of a more tangible sort. And so, to buy their continued obedience he had given them vast tracts of land, given them titles and ownership. But the soil was toxic and little would grow and knowing this Silk wondered how long it would be before their desires overwhelmed their loyalty... or fear.


Last, but certainly not least, were the ghosts of his past, Xion and Maim. For spiritual manifestations, often taking possession of a physical body when the mood struck, their needs were increasingly bizarre and worrisome. The reborn Necros was, at best, problematic as well though less of a concern and in time Silk imagined he would perhaps even be able to trust the reincarnated knight.


In fact, of all his many minions and their many factions, only those he had truly created could be trusted; his alchemical constructs. But they, as with his droid legion, had needs also. They demanded sustenance and maintenance respectively both of which required sources outside of his direct influence.


The duties of maintaining his kingdom were stealing from his growth in the force. He was, he realized, no Emperor.


“Was it all a mistake?”


His only answer was the silence of his focusing chamber. He half expected either Maim or Xion to interrupt his reflections but detected neither spiritual presence here.


The monolithic slab of onyx loomed before him, judging him.


Where had he gone wrong? Was it in taking Xa Fel, in returning to the planet as conqueror? Perhaps it was earlier. Perhaps it had all started with the initial attack, the dream of Palestar to make a name for himself by putting fear in the hearts of the feared. No, he realized, it had to have been before all that. Before he had taken possession of the Crimson Emperor he had been free of this responsibility, hadn't he? No, again he faced the truth. Before the Crimson Emperor there was the Crusade and before that the instruction of young Palestar. Further back, he gazed, and saw himself leading the band of exiled guardsmen on Yinchorr. And before that? Before that was the Crimson Empire, and Maim.


Had he ever truly been free of responsibility, free of attachment to material possessions and ambitious desire?


Raising from a sitting position he contemplated this even as he strode without purpose from his focusing chamber in to the deep, labyrinthine halls of the Crimson Emperors lower decks. With a slithering hiss and clattering of claws one of his serpent-bred monsters. It sidled up to him as a loyal pet might and, brushing its body against his leg, emitted a sound which might have been pleasant, like the purring of a cat, before Silk had twisted the creature to his own bent vision. With a hand he stroked the creature atop is scaled, wedge-shaped head careful to avoid the barbs dripping with their poisonous ichor.


Walking the halls, alone with his pet, Silk further considered the present.


The corridors of the ship were largely deserted. Most everyone was on the planet now leaving the ship to care for itself in a stable geosynchronous orbit. A mere skeleton crew and host of tireless droids were left aboard along with his bestial manifestations. This, he realized, was something he could get used to.


“I could easily spend my days up here, removed from the tedium of the planet,” he spoke to the creature at his side and it growled in reply.


“You're right,” Silk said, anthropomorphizing the creature. “It's only a stop gap.”


The pair rounded a corner finding a winding, narrow spiral staircase. Pausing, Silk regarded his erstwhile companion.


“Shall we?” He gestured to the coiling darkness and the two started down.


Throughout the Crimson Emperor were many archaic pieces of architecture including spiral staircases, vaulted ceilings, gargoyle-like moldings and so much more. Where modern appointments were installed they had always been camouflaged so as to blend with the Gothic aesthetic. Turbo-lifts were hidden behind seamless walls or menacing tapestries. Power conduits were tucked away, kept out of sight at the cost of easy access in favor of a concurrent theme. Such had been the attention to detail demanded by its commissioner, Palestar, in its preparation for presentation to Silk.


Round and round, further down the stairs wound. Silk, his footfalls almost silent, moved in stark comparison to his many legged friend who, with no need for stealth, bounded down the stairs on his many talons.


Silk realized, watching his pet wind its way down, that with every passing event the halls and corridors, indeed the very core of the Crimson Emperor, were increasingly imbued with the dark energy that was the dark side of the force. In its dungeons the creatures, of which his pet was just one among many, had been constructed. Laboring with Sith spells of the oldest know sort he had built a wide array of alchemical apparatus. Delving in to the darkest depths of his knowledge he had summoned up the incantations that would allow him to meld science and magic through the force, to bend the very meat of life to his own will. In its halls the converts of the Unspoken had walked, had prayed and had gone about their daily business ever adding to the tide. Their church, which rose from the base of the ship through many decks, focused their prayers and spread their dark touch further throughout the ship. The Crone and her coven of witches, her brood of occult women, further added to the mix though the impurity of their misguided rituals lessened the effect. Further and further, the Crimson Emperor was falling in to darkness.


But what of that now?


With most everyone on the planet would the effect begin to ebb? The Temple, built of the same stone that had stood on that very spot prior to the attack, lay along the nexus of the galactic ley-lines which made up the spider-web network of force energy spread across the stars. Perhaps by virtue of its proximity the Crimson Emperor could feed on that.


Silk caught himself.


He was doing it again; thinking like a consumer, thinking as a man who longed for power through possessions and he chided himself for it.


At the bottom of the long, perilous staircase Silk paused again. The creature, its long neck craned around to track his movements, watched him. They had found themselves among the dungeons in the very bowels of the immense ship. Here the radiant power of the dark side was practically tangible as though Silk could reach out and grab it, wrap it around himself as he did his robes. Such things, unspeakable in proper society, had taken place here in the depths of the darkness.


Silk smiled inwardly and, meeting the creatures stare, said, “Home. How does it feel?”


The creature shook its hackles, started off down the row of barred cells, and howled at the top of its lungs. Its piercing howl was enough to make Silk cringe, clutch his ears and try to drown out the sound. They had been engineered and their cry, one of their many weapons, had been brought about by the man now plugging his ears with his thumbs. He smirked at the irony of it.


After a moment he followed.


Passing row upon row of cells, he remembered the many creatures, sentient and otherwise, that had once filled the many chambers. He imagined he could still smell the stink of their fear, he imagined their faces screwed up and sweating at his very glance. These beings, supposed pinnacles of natural evolution, were nothing compared with what they had become under his guidance, his force. What nature had created, he improved on. Where weakness existed, he quelled it and replaced it with strength. And so what if these things, his pets, could not breed? Who cared if their offspring would be either still born or so badly mutated as to be of no use? Certainly he did not. When they died, when age or violence took them from him, he would simply create more.


“Others,” he spoke aloud. “They need tomes, libraries and books to even dream of achieving what I have wrought. Ha!”


“My library,” he laughed. “My tomes and books are all up here!”


He jabbed a finger at his temple, “What good is learning if you have to keep it all in books? Information can be lost, destroyed. But me, as long as I live it will all be up here. This, Maim taught, was the very foundation of knowledge; not relying on archives but relying on your own ability to remember everything, everything that truly matters.”


His laughter carried him through the dungeons, carried him all the way to the turbo-shaft running the length of the ships keel. Locked in that box, zipping along at tens of meters a second, he again found himself stroking the creatures awkwardly shaped head.


“I read once,” he recited to the beast. “That in order to ever truly create anything you must destroy everything.”


From his belt, beneath his robes, he retrieved a small communicator disk. Tapping it with his thumb, the holographic representation of an interface program sprung to life. A compiled image of some long dead and forgotten computer programmer looked up at Silk.


“Please state the nature of your request,” it suggested in a polite tone.


“Message to High Priest Xoverus,” Silk replied. “Meet me in the grand hall in one hours time. Come alone.”


“Message relayed,” confirmed the hologram. “Would you like...”


But Silk was not interested, deactivating the unit and tucking it back on his belt, he smiled at his pet.


“How would you like to take a trip?”





One hour later, alone save for the cold presence of Xoverus, in the grand hall Silk stood with the same monstrous serpentine beast at his side and a large sized rucksack on the ground. His black robe, hood up, masked much of his face in the dark shadows caused by the cowl. Clearly the strange and sudden summons, coupled with Silks odd demeanor, had Xoverus ill at ease.


“I am leaving, for a time,” Silk offered flatly.


Xoverus, for his part, contained any emotional response.


“While I am gone, you are in charge. You are utterly in charge of affairs here, in the Temple, on the planet and for everything else. I will be leaving the Crimson Emperor here to ensure your safe keeping and to which end you will return the full force of my brotherhood to active duty aboard ship and standing at fully readiness should anyone unwelcome pop by.”


Xoverus simply nodded.


“Do what you will as you wish but know that I will return and when I do the state of things will affect how I reward your diligence in my absence. The Crimson Emperor will be tended by the brotherhood, though under your direct command. As to the rest...”


Silk shrugged, “May the force be with you...”


He turned, hefted his bag, and made to depart adding as he went, “... and the Unspoken too.”


And then, just like that, he was gone.


Xoverus, truly alone, contemplated this and, at length, a toothy grin spread across his face.






Silk released the control yoke of his shuttle, leaned back in the pilots chair and kicked his feet up on the edge of the center console. The great endless infinity of space stretched out before him.


With a worry-free smile he turned to his traveling companion and, still smiling, patted the creature on its wedge-shaped head.


“Where to, you ask?”


The beast, for its part, salivated earnestly.


“First star to the right,” he pushed the hyper-drive throttle ahead. “And straight on 'til morning.”

At that moment, Xoverus knew that he wanted to kill Dioan Silk.

When first they had met, when first the Sith Lord's power in the dark side became apparent, both the High Priest and the Unspoken had realized his potential in furthering their goals. Through Silk and the Palestar Crusade he had once faithfully served, the Unspoken saw the opportunity it had been longing for, to spread the Church throughout the galaxy and bend all life to the knees of the High Priest's God.

And so they had allowed Silk's delusions of grandeur. The Unspoken had not broken the little man to Its will, recognizing his greater value as an independent. Let the Sith Lord foolishly believe he could keep his aspirations from a God. Let the Sith Lord foolishly believe even the awesome power of the Unspoken could be bent to his will.

The folly of arrogance.

Silk had acted just as the Unspoken had intended for him. Blinded by his delusions, he had allowed the Church full reign within his forces. Only the Brotherhood itself remained independent of the Unspoken's will, their unerring devotion to their pathetic little Emperor too powerful for even a God to undo without permanently damaging them mentally. And they, like Silk, were more useful to Him as they were than as mindless zombies. Perhaps one day, when the Armies of the Unspoken had spread so fully throughout the galaxy that there was no more need for such additional strength, He would break them.

But for now they, just as Silk, could serve the Unspoken's purpose as unwitting pawns.

Such was the desire of the Unspoken, and so Xoverus was bound to serve. He swallowed his pride, allowed the so-called Crimson Emperor to believe himself the Priest's master. The fool. A High Priest only has one master, one true King.

The foolish Sith saw that as a weakness, and in any other circumstance Xoverus might agree. In life, he would have agreed. But Silk knew not the terrible extent of the Unspoken's true power. Not even Xoverus could truly know that. The true folly of Dioan Silk was that he did not realize his own mortality, as much as he strived to fight against it.

All mortals have a master. Silk's was an abstract concept, the "dark side of the Force". He served it blindly and faithfully, just as Xoverus served the Unspoken. What the Sith Lord did not realize, could not realize, was that he had made an assumption that would prove to be his eventual undoing. He had made an error, blinded by dogma and everything he had been taught.

Silk had assumed that the dark side was more powerful than the Unspoken, but that was not the truth of it.

The dark side was the Unspoken!

All Sith know that the dark side corrupts absolutely, that it grants them, curses them, with a never ending hunger for power, an insatiable desire. But no Sith ever stops to ask why, to truly ponder the nature of the Beast they serve. If a hunger for power is an inseparable aspect of the dark side, then why do they make the mistake of assuming the dark side is selfless, that it grants them this hunger for their own sake?

No, the dark side makes them hunger because it hungers. The dark side gives them power that they mistake for their own. That just because they wield it, they conquer with it, they slaughter with it, that it is theirs. They are all, have always been, mere tools. Pawns in a war that has been going on since time immemorial. They are pawns of the dark side.

And the Unspoken is the dark side incarnate.

"He must die!" Xoverus roared to himself, alone in his quarters and seething with dark side energy. He feared no prying ears, for the Unspoken protected him, "I cannot abide it any longer! The fool! The shortsighted ingrate! He fancies himself a god!"

The High Priest spat the last word out as if disgusted by it. The last words the Sith Lord had said to him still reeled in his mind. It had taken every ounce of faith and will Xoverus could muster not to strike Silk down with the full power of the Unspoken within him.

A god cannot be a heretic, and only a god can create life!

Silk's shortsightedness astounded the lich. Only a god can create life...then the Kaminoans must all be gods! Science had proven that assumption wrong centuries ago. No, the only thing that made one a god, supernatural or otherwise, was power. Even Heir Raktus had understood that. But Heir Raktus, like Dioan Silk, were nothing compared to the true power of the Unspoken.

"Please, Master..." Xoverus whispered, his demeanor shifting from that of outrage to a more desperate plea, an anguished whisper, "Let me strike this heretic down in Your name. Grant me to privilege of carrying out Your will!"

Almost instantly, despite the lightyears between them, the Word of the Unspoken came to him. Its power washed over him, soothing his frustrations. It spoke of patience, of biding their time until the moment was right. It wanted him to wait but a short while longer, and all would become clear.

"Patience is for the weak!" the High Priest wailed, his voice a wretched noise to behold, "I cannot stand it any longer!"

It reminded him of the aeons It had waited, the untold millenia it had slumbered beneath Fangol, waiting for the Priest. It reminded him of the centuries the two of them had spent preparing until the God had reached out across the stars and guided Silk to their world. It reminded him that he could afford to wait but a short while longer.

"A short while..." Xoverus repeated, as if to himself, "And then I may destroy this...this infidel!"

To the lich's initial dismay, it told him that there was yet use for Silk and his Brotherhood, but It assuaged his protests as It let him know that the so-called Emperor's usefulness was not unlimited, that his delusions were quickly making him more an annoyance than a useful implement. Lastly, It told Xoverus that a time was quickly approaching in which they would both be free of the Sith, for a time. Free to continue their mission unhindered.

"I understand, my master," the High Priest assented, his head bowed low in pious reverence, "Please grant me the strength to continue this charade. Please stay my hand against this heretic fool until the time is right. I beseech you!"

He sunk to his knees and began to pray, and the Unspoken answered.







The urge to utterly destroy Dioan Silk had once again become almost overwhelming.

Xoverus staggered back to his quarters, intoxicated with rage, and slammed the door shut behind him, slightly cracking the foundation of the wall around it and nearly shattering the barrier in the process. The skin on his forearms began to bubble and blister, but the High Priest paid them no heed.

As he crossed the space of the room, his arms burst aflame with necrotic fire all the way down to his clenched fists. Lashing out in a rage, he slashed at the wall with his right arm, slicing through the stone like butter. The flame was a gift from the Unspoken, powerful enough to counter the energy of a lightsaber, and just as deadly.

The High Priest wanted nothing more than to drive his fists through Silk's chest and slice him apart.

"I CANNOT TAKE IT!" he bellowed, the room around him rumbling with the force of the sound waves.

Exhausted, not from the display of power but from continuing to put up with the infidel he was forced to serve, the lich sunk to his knees. The necrotic energy emanating from his arms slowly subsided and the boils on his arms began to sew themselves together with dark energy.

The pain was excruciating, and Xoverus reveled it, momentarily distracted from the cause of his tirade.

As his arms healed completely, the rage quickly returned to him. Even empowered by faith as he was, he knew he could not keep up the charade for much longer. Sooner or later he would snap, and it would not be over until either he or Silk lay dead on the floor.

"Master!" the High Priest cried out.

Once again, from across the galaxy, the Word of the Unspoken came to him, soothing him and reinvigorating his faith. It told him that it would be not long now. The time It had spoken of was fast approaching. Soon the Sith Lord would be out of the picture, and they would have much work to do.

"No! Enough! I cannot stand it! I must kill him now!"

He rose to his feet, but was quickly laid low by a pain more excruciating than anything he had endured. It was a reminder of who was in charge. He was the Unspoken's chosen, but even he was not above the Unspoken's Will. He would obey, whether he liked it or not, and he would be rewarded for doing so.

"Yes...master...forgive me..." the lich gasped out, and the pain subsided.

He began to pray, and the Unspoken answered.






There was one last, lingering urge to kill Dioan Silk as the Sith Lord left Xoverus's sight, possibly forever.

If they never met again, the High Priest would always regret not being able to see the agonized expression of Silk in his final moments before death. He banished the thought from his mind, instead pausing to contemplate what exactly had made the Emperor decide to abandon his Empire.

And then, unbidden, the Voice of the Unspoken came to him from the depths of Fangol. It reminded him of the gift of renewed youth It had bestowed upon the Sith Lord, and explained that such a gift had connected the two in a way Silk did not fully realize. It finally asked Xoverus again his initial question. What could possibly make a man such as Silk so discontent with everything he had built here, an Empire to rival that of Maim's.

What, but the power and influence of a God?

He could not help but grin.

"Get me the Crone!" the lich cried and then, in a whisper to himself and to his God, "There is so much work to be done..."

Xoverus had prayed, and the Unspoken had answered.

Now the True Crusade could begin.

Ahead and through the panoramic view-screen the planet, Yinchorr, loomed large and imposing.


Silk, momentarily paralyzed by the sight of his once prison, stared in stunned silence his jaw slack. His slavering companion, less enthused with the sight of the dull gray orb, paced the length of the cabin impatiently. Its rumbling yowl, surely in protest to its continued confinement, roused Silk to attentiveness. Blinking, he gripped the control yokes.


“Okay,” he conceded. “Okay.”


Pushing hard forward he pitched the slender shuttle down, in relation to the planet, and kicked his sub-light drives up to full ahead. The transition in to the planets rather diminished atmosphere went smoothly, his hull sensors barely registering the temperature hike. This planet, once a lush and green world, was dying. Silk, decades past, had helped to ensure its fate. Ironically as he rained doom down upon the planet, a fleet of star-craft blasting away at the planet from low orbit, he could not have known that soon after and for years following he would become a prisoner of that very same planet. Now, its atmosphere slowly bleeding away in to space, Yinchorr was truly without hope.


“There were people here,” observed Silk as he piloted the ship through the stratosphere. “If you could call them people. Reptilian, bipedal, they called themselves the Yinchorri. They are all gone now. The last of them died while I was imprisoned down there.”


Turbulence buffeted the small craft and though Silk was quick to react the ship turned hard in to an uncontrolled spiral.


“Hang on,” Silk gritted his teeth, fighting the controls. “This could get bumpy.”


The ground coming at him with alarming speed, the horizon spinning around the edges of his view screens, Silk resolved that he would either die or land clean; being trapped here, in the place of his long exile, was not an option. Try as he might the shuttle refused to come under his control. Snarling, spitting, his pet clawed at the walls to keep itself from being thrown about. Around and around the world spun.


“You are a fool, Silk,” observed an all too familiar voice. “You should never have come back here. Now you are going to be trapped only this time there will be no reprieve.”


A ghostly specter, the shadowy outline of Lord Maim occupied the co-pilots chair and despite the tumbling, spiraling fall sat undisturbed as though he were a part of the ship itself. His face was a mask and if he wore any expression Silk did not have the time or patience to interpret it. Thankfully, and though the presence of Maim was no relief in itself, the banshee of Xion was blissfully absent. This was a moment private moment, a private moment between master and apprentice.


“Give up,” suggested Maim. “You will not regain control in time.”


“You should make your peace with your past,” he added. “While you still can.”


“Shut up,” snapped Silk harshly.


From the rear of the cockpit his pet, still clutching the bulkhead with its many talons and claws, hissed.


“Not you,” Silk shouted, louder then he would have liked.


“Him!” He jerked a finger at the ghost.


“Your feeble creation cannot see me,” Maim laughed. “You are loosing your grip.”


Silk, fed up and infuriated, closed his eyes and breathed deep. And master of the dark side though he was it took him a few slow and steady breaths before he found the calm, peaceful center within himself. When he did everything, the very core of existence, seemed to slow down. Through the force he could sense the galactic center, the all consuming black hole within it, turning slowly like the point of a pin wheel. Opening his eyes again it was as though he were watching the crash in high definition slow motion. If a bird were to beat its wings he imagined he would see each feather bending, flexing, pushing. Yet, Lord Maim remained.


“It will not make a difference,” Maim said. “You cannot prevent this.”


“Perhaps not,” Silk agreed. “But I can prepare for it.”


Through the view-screen he judged the distance and as the ship slowly tumbled he counted the moments between each revolution. It was as though the future was stretching out ahead of him as though he were watching a artist, a painter drawing his long brush-strokes across the canvas, depicting his fate even as it was taking place. Vectors, like reverse contrails, stretching from the bow of his ship to the dusty soil below foretold his future, the moments to follow. If he was only strong enough, he knew, that fate could be shifted, could be redirected to account for a more favorable outcome. No amount of effort, he also knew, could prevent his crash landing now but maybe, just maybe, he could save the ship and keep it flight-worthy in the end.


Maim, as though reading his thoughts, chuckled.


“What then?” Maim asked. “Even if you can get this ship back in the sky, will you just leave?”


“No,” answered Silk in a most serene manner. “The force has brought me here. If it is the will of the dark side that I should perish on this rock, so be it. But if the force wishes me alive, which I believe it does, then I will do everything within my power to follow the path it puts me on.”


“You,” he said sparing the spirit a sidelong glare, “can either aide me on my way or, as you have always done, continue to seek only your own glory... even in death.”


Maim, smirking, vanished. Only his last warning lingered.


“You are Sith. Start acting like one.”


And then, with Maim suddenly absent, the natural speed of life returned abruptly. It slammed Silk in to his seat, sent waves of nausia coursing through his guts and wrenched terribly at his efforts to again grab for the stick. Valiantly he fought against the overwhelming inertia, aided by the force, its dark powers pumping through his muscles, he managed to regain his grip on the yokes and, tugging hard, redirect his vessel along the path he had seen in his moment of clarity.

In the next instant the nerve-grating sound of steel on stone tore through the pilots compartment. Belly down, his ship shot along the stone and sand surface tearing through the near-desert conditions as hundreds of kilometers an hour. There was far less bouncing then he would have anticipated, such was the nature of the surface; faced with the speeding force of his ships hull the brittle rock broke and the dunes gave way to his passage. For some time it continued like this, Silk simply along for the ride, until at long last the ship came to rest with equally jarring abruptness.


Smoke filled the cabin, though whether from fire or simple abrasion Silk knew not. Sparks shot from fuse boxes and control consoles went dark as the ships systems, one by one, shut themselves down to prevent any further damage being done. Before going utterly blank the central display flashed a preliminary damage report, most of which Silk missed, and what he saw was enough to give him pause. If the information was accurate then getting his ship airborne again, not to mention the vacuum of space, was going to be a challenge. Glancing over his shoulder he checked to see that his lone passenger was alive which, aside from being on its back, the creature was. It blinked at him once before righting itself with a snarl. Clearly it knew that it was not to blame.


“You are alive,” Silk said smartly. “Be thankful for that.”


Rising from his chair, unstrapping the belts that had held him in place, Silk slapped the hatch access panel and stepped in to the rear compartment of the shuttle. In the rear the situation was less grim. There was neither smoke nor sparking which probably meant that fire had not broken out behind the walls, that the smoke he had suffered in the cockpit was likely due to extreme heat not open flame. That was a good sign.


Hot on his tail, his pet paced ahead and pressed its large head against the airlock.


“Yes, your highness,” Silk said glad he could find some humor in all this. “After you.”


With a mock bow he slapped the release switch and, with a noisy hiss, the doors irised open.


The heat, the dry, arid air hit him like a wall. It sucked at the perspiration on his forehead and sapped his strength. Beaming rays of burning sunlight filled the rear cabin. Stepping outside, casting his eyes towards the sky, Silk was instantly reminded of the inhospitable conditions. It was, he realized, exactly as he remembered it. Perhaps, he pondered, it was worse.


His pet, following his gaze towards the beaming sun, hissed and sunk back inside.


“It is not as bad as it looks,” Silk spoke to the open hatch. “The rains come more often then one might guess. This whole plain will turn to sucking mud. The rain, it's acid. Nothing grows, only the lichen and mold that thrive deep under ground. The rains will come and everything will turn to mud and then, when the sun comes out, it will turn to rock and to dust.”


“Our ship,” he said placing a hand on its hull, which from the crash had been polished down to the bare steel. “If that happens, will never get up again. The mud and the sand, will eat it.”


From within the ship his pet hissed.


“No need for the dramatics,” he sighed. “You will last longer then me.”


Two, maybe three hours later, Silk was pressed under an access panel in the rear of the shuttle fighting with a jumble of wires. Open on the deck beside him was the ships tool and patch kit which ostensibly had all the base necessities to get the ships systems on line. It contained a hyper-spanner, lengths of various types of wire, replacement fuses and an array of diagnostic equipment which itself could be broken down and re-purposed to patch inoperable systems. He had already run a pressure check which, thankfully, had come up positive. At the very least he would not need to try and patch the outer hull.


“Most of the primary systems are functional,” he told his pet glad for the company. “But we have one big problem... the hyper-drive motivator is shot. I may be able to salvage enough from life support for one or two jumps but either way...”


Pulling himself out from under the deck plate Silk stood and stretched thankful for his young, resilient body. The creature was asleep in a corner, huddled up against the air circulation system which Silk had managed to get working early on and he was truly thankful for that. In this heat, without the air conditioning on, he would have been cooked alive in his steel ship.


He scoffed at the beast.


“Some nightmare you are,” he poked it with the toe of his boot. “If your brothers could only see you now.”


But the thought of the others, his pets still back aboard the Crimson Emperor, made the Sith nostalgic for the comforts of home.


Home, he thought. When had he started thinking of it as home?


“Maybe,” he said aloud, “I never should have left.”


“Maybe,” he added, “that kind of thinking is exactly why I had to.”


It was, he considered, evidence that even a Sith Master could become complacent, evidence that even a Sith Master should never think himself at the end of his instruction. Sure, he had just crash landed on Yinchorr, the planet of his exile, and sure, had he stayed back on Xa Fel none of this peril would have been laid before him... but at what cost? What would it have cost him, in the long term, to remain sequestered in his castles and temples thinking himself master of his domain? The domain of the force spread across the entire galaxy, perhaps even the entire universe. Any student of its ways, light or dark, should always remember this.


“There is no insult in making oneself the student. There is no dishonor in discarding title and ownership. There is no harm in the pilgrimage.”


Seeing that there was little more to be done immediately, Silk settled on the deck plating and closed his eyes. Calling upon the force, he sped himself in to a meditative slumber.






Yinchorr...

It turns. It burns.

Once alive, now dead. The Lord Silk has killed it.

Imprisoned on the rock he helped create, he learned the consequences of his actions. He learned them, did he not?

Lord Silk, stand upon a plain of lush grass and towering trees. Lord Silk, look with your eyes and hear with your ears the sounds and sights of life. Know this world, once a glowing testament to creation, and know of this world that its death, that the death of every living thing upon it, rests in your hands.

There is blood upon your hands, Lord Silk of the Sith.

What excuse do you make? That you are Sith, that acts of great evil are your bread and your butter? Do you tell yourself that because you embrace the dark you can drink only of the evilness of man?

What solace do you find?

Every Sith is not a sociopath, all Sith do not lack a conscience. You chose, as son of the dark side, to embrace the quest for power but power and evil acts are infinity intertwined. The boundaries between good and evil, between light and dark are for every man to decide. To be Sith means what you make of it.

You are not Jedi. You are Sith.

But do you really know the difference?

Do you truly know the force, do you even know yourself?

Lord Silk, look upon the people of Yinchorr. See them. Know them. Feel their pain, their homeland made inhabitable. Now ask yourself, Lord Silk, what power did their destruction gain you? Was your rape of this world only to one purpose; that you might gain strength through exile?

Look back, Lord Silk, with your years of retrospective insight and ask yourself; what lessons have you learned?

Lord Silk, leave this place and do not return.

This is place is dead.

It is dead to you.

It is dead.

Lord Silk, it is dead.

You, of the living, are not welcome here.

The living, Lord Silk, and the dead.

What have you learned?








He studied his control consoles.


“All systems nominal,” he read aloud to his pet. “Ready for take off.”


“But are you?” Maim, the ghostly apparition, asked.


“Are you ready to leave?”


Silk, his fingers hovering above the yokes, regarded the ghost of his former teacher. His eyes, those abyssal pools, turned down at the corners.


“You were right,” Silk admitted. “Maybe you always have been. I will, as you said, just leave.”


“What about your path?” Maim, with an intangible finger, poked at his chest. “You left everything behind for this journey of yours.”


“My path,” Silk began flipping through the power-up sequence, “is not on Yinchorr, not now. Nor is my path back on Xa Fel.”


“Your ship,” Maim reminded him. “How much farther can you make it go?”


Silk shrugged, activated the anti-gravity drive and hoisted the ship in to the air.


“I can make it take me as far as it needs to,” Silk pointed the nose towards the sky, glanced once over his shoulder at his still slumbering pet, and kicked the sub-light engines to full ahead. “And right now it only needs to take you home.”


Fading from sight, Maim grinned and said, “You are learning boy. You are learning.”

Look at the acts of your life and ask yourself; what have you learned? What have you learned?
- Ancient Proverb

The Herald of the Unspoken stared out the viewport of the massive Crimson Emperor. Although no human eyes could pierce far enough into the darkness of space to perceive the vessel that bore Silk far enough away from the planet's mass shadow to make the jump to hyperspace, Xoverus could feel the Sith Lord's presence strongly in the Force.

And then, in the time it would take for a still living creature to blink their eyes, that presence was gone. Silk had jumped away. The Priest did not move, did not take his unliving eyes from the duraglass as sensors began to register another presence within the system. Around him, Unspoken neophytes and crimson clad warriors rushed to and fro, attempting to discern the identity of the intruder that had arrived through hyperspace nanoseconds after their once Emperor had gone.

"Priest!" the call came from one the sensors. It was Nocturnal, Dioan Silk's second in command, "There is an unidentified-"

"I am well aware, brother," Xoverus snarled, his head snapping unnaturally to regard the man, "Make no move to intercept. Let it pass unmolested."

Nocturnal paused, giving him a hard stare, and then...

"...as you wish," he gave the order before returning once more to regard the lich, "What is it?"

"A gift, my brother," the High Priest mewed as he gave a twisted grin, "A gift...and a sign."

"A sign?" the warrior was very obviously perturbed.

"Yes, little man. A sign. A sign of whats to come. Has the order been given to your men on the planet?"

"Yes, Priest," Nocturnal nodded, making a point not to refer to Xoverus as his superior, "The Crimson Emperor will be fully manned within three hours."

"They have one," the lich snarled, his glare piercing deep into Nocturnal's core, "Give the command. Whatever it takes, and clear the Temple on the planet of all essential personnel."

"The Temple?" the warrior echoed.

"No questions!" Xoverus nearly bellowed, and then, almost whispering, "All will be made clear in time."

"As you command," Nocturnal nodded once more before taking his leave, all too eager to be out of sight of the abomination that he now served.


It was twenty minutes shy of an hour when the last member of the brotherhood stepped aboard the star destroyer, and Xoverus was forced to admire the sheer discipline of Silk's disciples. It almost made him feel gratitude toward the Sith Lord for leaving such capable servants for the Unspoken's cause. Almost.

The unidentified vessel was almost past the star destroyer now, making its slow journey through space toward the planet without any apparent intentions of stopping. The craftsmanship was...unlike anything any on board the Crimson Emperor had seen before, save perhaps Xoverus.

It was not quite as long as the super star destroyer, but to their amazement it was not far off the mark. Its width, however, was dwarfed by the bulky vessel of war they served on. Everything else about it was...underwhelmingly alien. It was precisely rectangular in shape save for the front which curved inward to a point, almost as if the vessel itself were a crude spear.

And, like a spear, it hurtled toward its target. Only that target was no man or beast, but a planet. As the spear-ship neared the atmosphere, some clever brotherhood acolyte had made the calculations to discern a more precise target. The results were astonishing.

The "gift from the Unspoken" was headed directly for the Sith Temple.

"Are you mad?!" Nocturnal demanded as he stormed toward the High Priest, "You plan to destroy the Temple!"

With a casual flick of his wrist, Xoverus sent the warrior hurtling away with the Force.

"Fool!" he crowed, horrid noises escaping his mouth that could only be his twisted form of laughter, "Only through destruction can recreation begin! Only through purging this galaxy of its misbegotten constructs can the Will of the Unspoken truly reign supreme! Behold!"

An image appeared upon every readout of the bridge, enhanced video of the spear ship's path through Xa Fel's atmosphere. As it hurtled toward the planet the rectangular hull began to break away until it became obvious that it was only an outer shell, a container to transport what lay inside.

As more and more pieces of hull broke away, all aboard the bridge could glimpse the true nature of the "gift". It was cylindrical in shape, not made of steel but some sort of stone, incredibly resilient nonetheless to hold together at such a velocity. The last pieces were breaking away now, and moments later the ship, now more fully a spear than it had once appeared, struck the Temple precisely at its center.

The result was a catastrophic sight to behold, made all the more menacing by Xoverus's constant laughter.

This was the beginning.


"Its a...a tower," Nocturnal managed.

"That," the lich said, grinning sadistically, "Is the first semi-intelligent remark I have ever heard you make."

It was a tower.

It had burrowed into the surface of the planet all the way until the very point where it had begun to curve, almost as if it had been, impossibly, constructed precisely for that point of impact. But that was not the only peculiar thing.

Shortly after the dust had settled, what could only be described as tendrils had lashed out from the sides of the tower, connecting to the shell of what had formerly been the Sith Temple and spreading outward, as if connecting the structure to the remains of what it had mostly destroyed. As if it were a living organism.

"Only through destruction can recreation begin," Xoverus hissed, repeating his earlier words, "Have the masses congregated?"

"All essential personnel are awaiting you in the Church," Nocturnal affirmed, no doubt still glaring holes in the Priest's skull. It had taken a considerable measure of self-control not to attack the lich outright after he had been thrown halfway across the bridge, let alone still carry out his orders.

"Excellent," the Priest's skin cracked around his mouth as his grin widened, "Service will soon begin!"



"As many of you are no doubt aware," Xoverus's voice, unnaturally projected, reached the ears of the thousands packed into the spacious Church, "Our...dear commander Lord Silk is no longer among us, for all we know indefinitely! He has left the inner workings of his...Empire, in my capable hands!

Know this, my brothers! There will be considerable changes from this point on! Starting immediately, all who are not members of the Brotherhood will be relocated to the planet, myself included! The Crimson Emperor was the domain of those loyal to Silk and it shall remain so! A sign of...good faith from the Unspoken for all the work you have done for us.

Those who answer to a higher power, however, will join me on Xa Fel! There is much work to be done, my brothers, and precious little time to do it! Make no mistake, the Word of the Unspoken will be carried to the core of this galaxy and all who stand against us shall face annihilation!"

He was met with deafening cheers from the neophytes and anxious glares from every crimson clad man in the room.



Xoverus had known the moment he had laid eyes upon the Crone that she hated Lord Silk almost as much as he did. This had made her and her witches the perfect allies. He had sent for her the moment Silk had left his sight and she, somehow aware of his plans to leave, was by his side moments later.

As the crowd within the Church began to disperse, she was by his side once more.

"It is, perhaps, a mistake to give Silk's men full reign of this ship," she said, whispering in his ear.

Xoverus gave a soft, horrible laugh.

"Oh Mother Crow, you know better than to think me a fool," he rasped in return, "I had my most faithful followers remove several key components from the hyperdrive, sublights, and weapons systems during service. And the shuttles that ferry us down to the planet will not be returning to their berth."

Her eyes widened and a grin slowly formed upon her aged lips.

"They are prisoners, Mother Crow," the lich said, returning the smile in kind, "And prisoners they shall remain until..."

"Until?" she pressed.

"Only the Unspoken can truly know."

They both laughed this time, the pair truly a terrifying sight to behold.

Sometimes the Galaxy is the kind of place where really big things can go completely unnoticed.


Whole star systems can vanish leaving no one the wiser. Stars can be born and die before anyone even takes notice.


So it is no wonder that if events of such massive scale can sneak by other, smaller and more trivial occurrences can also be ignored.


After all, the Galaxy is immense.




“How did I miss this?”


The quiet sounds of his spaceship offered no answer. His pet, slumbering soundly in the rear compartment, offered no reply.


But he knew the answer; Lord Silk of Xa'Fel had been so occupied with himself, so focused on his own goals and ambitions he had been totally unaware of the rest of the Galaxy. So wrapped up was he in his own affairs he had missed all the signs, up to and including the Empires own herald, the Viscount del Forza.


No longer could he ignore it, however; the Galaxy had changed.


“Artanis Daz Da Mar,” he repeated the name.


Moments earlier, seemingly broadcast throughout the known Galaxy, the alien had appeared on the Holo-Net and put forth a proclamation the likes of which even Silk could not ignore. No matter the importance of his own life everything had changed.


Reclining in his pilots chair, Silk contemplated deeply the implications of this... declaration.


“So, what now?”


Coalescent light, an ambient crimson glow, gathered in the co-pilots chair. It regarded Silk.


“Maim,” Silk sighed. “Have you nothing better to do?”


The spirit said nothing.


“Haunting children somewhere? Hiding under their beds?”


“How droll,” Maim observed of Silks wit. “Posing a question rhetorical only to answer it yourself? You are losing your edge.”


Silk shrugged, “Times change. So do people.”


“Are you going to abandon your pilgrimage then?”


Maim, seemingly disinterested with Silk, stared out the forward cockpit at the slowly rotating star-scape.


“No,” Silk confirmed, tapping navigational directions in to his hyper-space computer. “It changes nothing for me. The Jedi banned the ways of the Sith for a thousand years. Some upstart power takes control of Coruscant, dubs itself the new law, and suddenly I am supposed to change everything?”


He scoffed, “Hardly.”


“Now, if you would kindly piss off Maim, I have places to be.”


Pushing the throttle forward, his small craft made the jump to lightspeed.

They called it “paranoid self preservation.”

Who could blame them?

They lived in a galaxy of certainties. They lived in a galaxy of clearly defined boundaries. They believed in the status quo. And now their beliefs had been shattered, their preconceptions put to the challenge. Everything they knew and took for granted they now questioned.

They were scared.

Fear makes people do funny things.




“Captain, we've picked up a small vessel on long range.”

Captain Konrad, his head resting in his palm, quirked a brow. His elbow, propped against the arm of his chair, shifted slightly to give him a better view of his second in command. It was late in the evening, his coffee sat steaming on the opposite arm of the captains chair. He seemed disinterested, at best. After so many months skirting Reaver space, dodging the creatures whenever they popped up and trying to keep their heads down since the fall of Coruscant he, like most of his crew, was feeling disconnected from the galaxy they had once known. They had been running scared for so long.

The recent broadcast from Courscant had changed all that. Now, at least, the Captain and his crew had a purpose.

With a sigh the Captain ordered his helmsman to lay in an intercept course. The ex-Imperial combat courier put on a turn of speed, closing quickly. With their powerful scanners the crew of the courier could penetrate the small vessels secrets from considerable distances.

“Stand-by shields and weapons,” ordered Konrad. “And bring the capture claw on line.”

“Aye.”




Silk, somewhere between sleep and meditation, shifted in his chair.

From somewhere, distant as though across a desert plain, a bell sounded. He ignored it. Winds immaterial and imagined blew across the dream scape of his inner being and again the bell sounded, louder now yet still removed from his immediate world. This time he had to focus, to try and shut it out. A pale moon was on the rise. Again, the bell tolled. Something about it seemed familiar but he could not bring himself to dwell upon it. Instead the moon, still slowly on the rise, began to bleed crimson.

For a fourth time the bell rung but now he knew what it meant.

Suddenly alert, Silk opened his eye and sat abruptly upright. The atmosphere of his cockpit filled his vision swelling to replace the infinite field of the force. His gaze took in a status alert update flashing on the main screen of the pilots terminal but he did not need to read its complex data display to know what it was telling him for, evidence enough, the dull grey hull of another ship filled his view and blocked out the stars behind.

A moment he contemplated how he had allowed himself to become so complacent, how he had allowed another ship to get so close without responding earlier. It had been too long since he had piloted a ship of his own for any length of time. He had grown too accustomed to having a crew of underlings to steer him through the stars. Just another reason, he reminded himself, to get away from the duties of empire for a time.

Buzzing loudly, Silk realized he was being hailed and keyed open the corresponding frequency.

“... demand that you identify yourself,” the speaker was saying. It continued to babble on but Silk was not really paying attention. Working the controls of his ship with frightening speed Silk called up a transponder scan which tagged the ship as the Fast Runner. Sadly his extremely out of date shipping data-base did not have any relevant information on the ship but a quick primary scan revealed that it was bristling with weapons emplacements, powerful shields and engines, and an armour reinforced hull. Whoever they were, they meant business.

Another oversight, Silk realized, being that he had left his own transponder on. Normally that would not have been an issue, save for the fact that his skiff carried the tags of a Crusade envoy. Whatever their motivation, the crew of the Fast Runner had doubtless identified his ship.

He counted his options.

He could stand and fight, but his ship was no match for the Fast Runner and was badly out-classed. He could run and though his ship could boast considerable speed he doubted very much that he could outrun their weapons for long. For all his considerable force-based talents, in ship to ship combat, he was caught. Conceding defeat, at least for the moment, he tapped his own microphone open and replied.

“Fast Runner,” he spoke in his best monotone. “This is the shuttle Crusade X01. State your purpose.”

Still open to the force as always he was Silk pressed his awareness beyond the confines of his cockpit and stretching out with invisible fingers sought to pry his way inside of the other vessel. A flood of emotions rushed at him from numerous sources. Primary, and common, among them was trepidation verging on anger.

“Shuttle X01, you will come about and prepare to be boarded.”

Curious at their audacity, Silk demanded to know what authority granted them such presumptuousness.

There was a moment of silence and then, “This is Captain Konrad. You will comply for the following three reasons...”

“One, your vessel bears the transponder and insignia of a terrorist regime and will be summarily searched and impounded...”

“Two, you are transiting through quarantined space. If you or your ship are found to be carrying the Reaver plague you and your ship will be summarily destroyed...”

“Three, you will do as you are ordered because if you don't I will open fire...”

“So,” the arrogant, commanding voice added, “if you want to avoid impound or outright destruction you will do as I damn well say.”

Silk, smirking, powered down his engines.

During his brief but emotional rant the captain, this Konrad, had given Silk time to narrow his range of focus and, through the force, distinguish the man from the other beings aboard. Even with a kilometre between them, the vacuum of space separating them, Silk could read his adversary like an open book. This was a man verging on outrage, a presumptuous and arrogant ships commander relegated by duty or fate to the far reaches of civilization who spoke with an air of undeserved entitlement. This was a man who knew that he was totally unremarkable yet refused to accept responsibility for his own position in life, who sought to blame others for the outcome of his own actions. He was bored with himself, bored with life, but unwilling to admit that he was his own worst enemy.

This was a man, Silk knew, he could work with. Of the rest of the ships crew he was not so sure but, as Sith, he always had a plan for such eventualities.

However, due his own removal from galactic goings on, Silk still felt at a loss. This “reaver plague” previously mentioned meant nothing to him. Furthermore, though clearly an imperial ship, the captain had not identified himself as such yet he acted with the presumed authority of the same.

Powered down, Silk waited.




“His engines are down,” confirmed the ships second in command.

Nodding, Captain Konrad gestured, “Fire the claw.”

A moments hesitation from his subordinate drew the captains wrath.

“Whoever is aboard that ship is either an enemy of the Empire or has violated the quarantine. If not an enemy of the Empire then a thief and stole that ship. And if none of this is true, even if there is some sort of Jedi or Sith aboard that ship then we can sell him to Coruscant!”

“No matter who or what is aboard that ship, we are well within our rights!”

None of the bridge crew dared correct him, to tell him that the Empire they once served was broken and shattered, that their command structure had been so badly fractured they didn't know their own place in the galaxy. But, scared and disconnected as they were, the crew of the courier craved order and though many of them loathed their often-incompetent commander they would do as they were ordered so long as those orders came from a superior and made sense to their conditioned brains.

“Aye sir. The claw is away.”

“Secure the ship, connect the docking arm and have an armed guard waiting at the pressure lock!”

“Aye sir!”





Silk listened to the sound of clanging metal and he waited.

He listened to the hissing sound of pressure equalization beyond the hull of his ships outer door and he waited.

Sitting, patiently waiting, he stroked the jaw of his pet in the rear compartment watching the pressure gauge on his side of the hull slowly equalize.

And then, all at once, he acted.

Just before the light blazed green, indicating that a pressure seal had been achieved, he stood and moved to the door. Slapping the emergency release the doors burst open and near tore off their hinges as the pressure beyond the hull was still below that of the shuttle interior. The air rushed out of the shuttle, his ears popped, as the pressure abruptly equalized. Beyond, through the mesh and steel docking arm connecting his ship with theirs, the hissing sound of an airlock releasing was met by the snap-hiss of an igniting lightsaber.

Silk sprinted forward, his pet close on his heels.

Even before the airlock doors could fully open Silk was there, thrusting his weapon between the expanding slit and carving open the outer doors. Surprise, tangible through the force, met his sudden arrival as those beyond, their weapons at their hips, struggled to react to the blazing red shaft. As quickly as it had appeared the blade shimmered and vanished. Silk pressed himself against the hull of the enemy ship and, moving with uncanny speed, let his monstrous creation shoot past.

The sound of blaster fire repeated once, twice and then stopped only to be replaced by the ear piercing roar of his pet and then, as the echo died, it too was replaced by the screaming, pain-filled cries of those unfortunate souls first to encounter the many weapons of his alchemically altered pet. However Silk was not content to let his minion have all the fun and, sensing the immediate area secure, stepped aboard the courier.

A sight fit for the most grotesque scene met his eyes. Blood had been spilled across the deck plating, splattered from wall to ceiling and pock-marked by bits of gore which Silk could only guess were entrails and flesh.

He chuckled.

Turning to survey the scene he spied a camera, a domed lens, watching him.

Waving a hand he called upon the force to close the inner door of the airlock before speaking to the camera, “There is no escape, Captain. You, your crew... You are all going to die.”




The smell of death filled the ship.

Somewhere, decks below, the cries of those still alive and soon to be dead could be heard even from the bridge.

“My pet,” Silk informed the Konrad. “He will drag it out as long as possible. Still, I doubt anyone will survive long.”

Once aboard Silk had cut his way to the bridge leaving a trail of corpses in his wake his lightsaber making quick work of those he came across. His pet, the monstrous killer, had gone off in another direction. Between the two of them it had taken a matter of moments to sew the seeds of panic throughout the ship. Silk had taken the bridge singly, splitting the ships second in command clean in half with his crimson lightsaber before blasting the equal halves past the cowering captain with a force-push. With the others, the tactical officers and sensor crews, he had been less dramatic though just as efficient.

Pressing Konrad in to his commanders chair with the force and pinning him there with crushing force Silk closed with the other until he was standing with arms reach and, gazing down at the captain, drew back his lightsaber and lopped off his left ear.

“That,” he said, “was just to let you know that I am serious.”

“And before you die, you will answer for me some questions I have regarding the state of the Galaxy.”

Focused on the pain radiating from the side of his head, captain Konrad was not immediately complaint and so Silk, calling upon the force, forced his own will on him. He reached inside of the man, down to his very soul, and tore from within him any resistance. He pulled him down to the depths of the dark side, immersed him in a river of his own fears and fed off his paranoia. In short order he broke the already weak willed captain to his own.

Then, like a broken dam, Konrad spilled. And once he had told Silk everything the Sith wanted to know, about the state of the Empire and about the Reaver Scourge, about the alien invaders now in possession of Imperial Center, once he had told him everything, Silk allowed him the merciful release of death.

Pausing to take in his own handy work, Silk breathed heavily and sighed deeply.

“It feels good,” he said to his pet as it came striding confidently on to the bridge, “to be back.”

Laughter, mocking and malicious, joined the pair.

Silk did not need even look to know its source and greeted it as warmly as ever saying, “Maim, somehow I knew you would not be far off.”

“Would I abandon my student in his time of revelation?” The force-spirit of Maim asked. “Look at this gift the dark side has given you.”

“I have no need of this ship,” Silk scoffed.

“Not the ship, you fool.” Maim stalked towards Silk his ghostly footfalls utterly silent. “What a gift indeed.”

“Information?” Silk seemed incredulous. “Information is easy enough to come by though the timing, I will admit, was fortuitous.”

“Gah,” Maim, irritated, breathed. “Not that either, boy.”

“The gift of yourself,” he added. “For a moment I thought you might try and talk your way out of it, given your self-doubting weakness of late. But no, you did not disappoint. Look at this bloody mess. This, my boy, is the work of a Sith.”

Silk, nodding, said, “I guess it is. I guess it is.”




Shortly there-after the Crusader shuttle disembarked leaving the corpse filled courier to drift aimlessly among the stars.

Do you want to go home?

Silk, caught mid-sentence, stayed the stylus in his ink-stained fingers. His eyes, black as the ink poised and threatening to blot at the end of his quill, ventured lazily from the papyrus only to pause half way as though struggling to leave the page. Resigned to it, his eyes fell and he penned on.

I cannot be who I am, he wrote, without having been who I was. The dilemma; how to rationalize who I am with who I have been, consumed my existence. Throughout my life I have defined who I am by what I am doing and not what I had done. The first thing I ever really learned; how to live in the moment, or the next few moments. The second; how to forget the moments passed.

Carefully, he lifted the pen from the paper, deposited it in the well, and turned his gaze to regard his guest.

Upon a green hillock, their backs to a pastoral blue and cloud pocked sky, Silk sat with his knees neatly crossed and a tablet, with pages clipped on, trying to keep his papers together despite the gusting breeze. To his side, similarly poised, the ghostly spectre of Xion contrived to sit which, for a spirit, was technically impossible.

The scene, an evil wizard and his ghostly counterpart sat upon a lush hill amongst rolling and equally lush hills quietly contemplating existence while one pens his autobiography, was wildly ironic.

“Home?” Silk asked of Xion, whom he had quietly dubbed 'the other one' as if he had never heard, nor spoken, the word. “What do you mean?”

Home, the ghost of Xion did not speak, on Xa Fel?

Puzzling over this, Silk was not immediately responsive. Instead of answering he began leafing through his pages, snapped up his quill, tapped off the excess ink at Xion and in just such a way as to be rude about it, and began scribbling. Except, he did not scribble but rather wrote in clean and concise calligraphy. He did, however, try and seem hurried about it.

On another page, the previous caught between the fingers of his free hand to keep the still damp ink from smearing, he readily found his place. Where his writing left off, he picked up.

... conviction that it does not exist; home. It is not a place. It is not a person. It is not an idea. Home is not where the heart is. Forget home. What is home? Home is nothing.

“No,” he put flatly. “I have no desire to go there.”

Why not?

“Xion,” Silk sighed. “You wear on me.”

Why?

“The galaxy is in upheaval,” he ventured without much conviction. “Politics and religion. Let the dust settle.”

That's good. You should put that in your book about politics and dust. It sounded just glib enough to seem witty, if the reader doesn't know you better. Xion, a wispy astral projection, lacked the proper physicality to simultaneously snicker and sneer and so settled instead for giving Silk the finger.

Finger flying, or shimmering ghostly, Xion did not add the part about that being a tremendous pile of bullshit... but the point was understood.

The galaxy is in upheaval is it?

“Fine,” Silk put his hands up as though surrendering which was just another jab at Xion given his inability to... live. A man of few gestures, Silk employed exaggerated mannerisms when dealing with the petulant and often childish ways of his former, now dead and ghostly, masters Xion and Maim who, despite the peculiarities of the dead, were valuable wellsprings of information, inspiration and other in-words. “You called me out, you are so sage.”

The ghost, had it been able, would have scoffed.

Where is this place?

“Somewhere I remember,” replied the Sith nostalgia showing. “Though I cannot remember from when; my youth, perhaps.”

Before the Empire?

“Before the Empire,” he agreed.

The sun, a brilliant yellow orb riding high in the sky, vanished behind a cloud and all at once the mood became dark. Silk, glowering, fixed his gaze on the page. With the quill, in his neat scrawl, Silk began writing in a relative fury as though possessed by some deep and meaningful inspiration. Across the surface of the page, scratching as a mouse might, cut the stylus. Consumed for many long moments, Silk remained entranced with his work.

After another long pause, this one following his quickened quill, Silk studied the impossible-to-read visage sat next to him.

“The more I consider my past, the more I seek to rationalize who I am with what I have done in my life, the more displaced I become. What was certain, I doubt. Where I had no questions, I have many. How can I call myself a master of my own fate if I do not even know who I am?”

Feigning frustration, or feigning to feign, Silk turned his icy gaze away. His attention somewhere in the endless infinite distance, he sighed.

Xion, a twisted and evil spirit, broke character.

Judge yourself not. In judging yourself by the standards of others you do yourself a disservice. Your perspective is unique.

“You are suggesting,” Silk interpreted. “That I do myself no good in comparing myself to others. Yourself, Lord Maim... never once did I see either of you grapple with issues of identity such as I endure. If I am unsure of myself, how can I ever expect to achieve... more?”

Questions demand answers, Xion did not answer cryptically.

“Experience shapes personality,” Silk finished. “You have been unusually lucid and helpful today, ghost. I should thank you for that.”

But you won't.

“But I won't,” Silk concurred.

Xion, for all his power in death, longed only to be able to scoff at that.

Silk, dark lord of the Sith, closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, seconds later, he found himself sitting on the cold, steel decking of his skiff. The conjured world behind his eyes had vanished, replaced with the sterile and silent world of the real, the cramped quarters of his vessel. Where Xion had been, only the slumbering form of his pet, of Silks most loyal companion, remained. Pages, hand written, were spread across the deck, pinned to the walls and piled up, a dozen rolled scrolls, in the corners.

He sighed and asked, “Honey, I'm home?”

“What is thy bidding, my master?”

He knelt in the center of the circular chamber that lay deep within the bowels of the Dark Tower of Xa’Fel, as it had been named. The structure reminded him acutely of the Tower of Babel hidden within the frozen desolation of Fangol. Past agonies, his excruciating training under the tutelage of the Prophet, the stygian presence of the Unspoken always nearby. It was unholy bliss.

“The Unspoken has bequeathed a mighty gift to you, High Priest, for your faithful service to Its cause,” the dark presence of the Prophet seemed to surround him, coalescing into the smoking outline of a robed figure, not within the shadows of the chamber but a part of them, “And now it is your task to honor It with a gift of your own.”

Xoverus lifted his head slightly, peering at the outline of the Prophet, his corporeal form lightyears away on Fangol, in confusion.

“My lord,” he said, anguish in his voice, “What might I possess to give that might befit a god?”

“Fear not,” the shadow responded, its tone both horrifying and yet soothing, “The Unspoken has told me of what It requires. High Priest Xoverus, you are the leader of a Crusade, yet you possess too few crusaders. This will not do. Build an army worthy of the Unspoken.”

“Yes, my master!” Xoverus howled, cackling softly to himself, “There are several planets with populations suitable. It shall be done.”

“I have no doubt it shall,” the Prophet agreed, “Yet I fear you are not yet ready to begin your Unholy March. It has come to my attention that there are more suitable resources…closer to home.”

“My master, I do not understand-” Xoverus broke off, realization dawning and enraged horror etching upon his features, “Them? Surely you jest. They bear nothing but hatred for me!”

“And yet the Unspoken requires an army!” the Prophet boomed, his voice cowing the priest, “You will not fail It! Remember your place, Xoverus. You are chosen. It plucked you from oblivion and It can send you back!”

“Yes, my master!” the Priest cried out, flattening himself upon the stone floor in prostration, “It will be done!”

“Remember what I have taught you, Xoverus,” the shadowy figure of the Prophet said as it slowly began to recede, “Those who will not submit will be destroyed. If they will not fight for you, make them fight. There are many dark secrets buried beneath this world, and they are now all at your disposal.”

Moments passed, and the smoking remnants of the Prophet faded from the chamber, seeping through the cracks between the stones. At last, it was gone, but its presence lingered. Within the confines of the Dark Tower, the Unspoken always held vigil.

Xoverus shook violently, his form still prostrate upon the ground in a wretched submission to his dark master. Throughout the years of Sith dominion over the planet Xa’Fel, the devastated world had watched on as power over it changed hands. It was the nature of the Sith that a single leader of their ranks could never last for long. Even during the days of the Rule of Two, the place of Master was only as permanent for as long as that Sith could outwit their apprentice.

That was the way of the Sith, always in flux. Beautiful chaos.

Yet for as long as the Dark Tower stood, there would be no usurpation. Xoverus was no meager whelp serving a Sith Lord. What was his power, what could his power ever be, compared to that of a god? His continued existence was owed to the Unspoken, the necrotic Force energy that literally bound his skeletal structure together, the constant anguish that fed into his powers, all of it had a source in the black deity he served.

None on Xa’Fel could defy Its will. The planet itself was under Its sway.

Not even the foulest concoction of the Sith Order had any hope in matching its sheer power.

And that was when realization dawned upon the High Priest, and his shivering carcass lay still once more. A hideous smile formed on what was left of his face.

There are many dark secrets buried beneath this world, and they are now all at your disposal…



“Are you sure this is wise?” the Crone hissed, holding aloft the primitive torch and outlining the trio in shadows on the stone walls, “Your Tower’s impact may have destabilized some of the tunnels closer to the surface, and even if not, I hardly believe that this whelp will be of any use to you down there.”

“To us, my dear,” Xoverus corrected the old hag, cackling as he did so, “The will of the Unspoken guides me steps. No harm will befall us. As for this maggot, he damn well better be of use, if he doesn’t want to be flayed alive for wasting my time.”

“No, master! I mean, yes master!” the native was a pathetic sight to behold. The Xa Fel had not been a pretty sight before the arrival of the Sith Order, and their time in servitude to the Sith Lords had not been beneficial, “Old, I am! Know secrets, many Sith secrets! Will show you! Yes, master! Show you everything!”

“You seriously expect this…thing to show us anything of value?” the Crone hissed, spitting on the slave in disgust, “It’s quite obviously insane.”

“Perhaps,” Xoverus admitted, his grin making it clear that he relished the thought, “Yet the maggot’s right, it is old, by this pathetic species’s standards. To have survived all this time…including the invasion. Crazy or not, to have spent all these years surviving within the Temple, it must know something.”

“And if not?” the Crone asked, clearly not convinced.

Xoverus grinned even wider, “If not, then I shall thoroughly enjoy its screams.”

The trio; that was, Xoverus, the Crone, and the elder Xa Fel, stood before what had once likely been a grandiose archway that served as a gateway, the pitch black stone corridor lurching out in front of them. Markings were fading away upon the arch, the script likely an ancient Sith tongue no doubt declaring ominous warnings to those who stepped beyond. The arch itself had been split in half, its right side now no more than the remains of a pillar.

The Xa Fel insisted the damage had been sustained during Dacian Palestar’s assault on the world, no doubt in an attempt to appease those it assumed served the man, but the High Priest knew better. More than likely it had been that way for years, damaged in some long forgotten struggle for the dark ground upon which they stood.

“This way, masters! This way!” the Xa Fel motioned for them to follow as they started down the corridor, the miserable creature holding aloft a torch of its own to guide its steps.

There were precious few natives to the planet to be found left. The Sith had not been kind to them, and most of those that remained had thus far either eluded or been slain by the acolytes that now patrolled the Tower. Only a handful had remained in the vicinity of the Temple remains, even after the impact of the Unspoken’s gift, and nearly half of that lot were too far lost in the throes of dementia to be of any use whatsoever.

The others, their guide included, had likely stayed out of habit. If one suffered agony for a long enough time and didn’t break, they grew accustomed to it, even learned to enjoy it. The whelp was likely one of those few, considering how long it had survived on the poisonous world. And for that, the High Priest would have felt a kinship, had it not been so pathetic a sight to behold.

Xoverus could appreciate pain.

And so he had allowed it to live, a rare mercy that must have been the will of the Unspoken, for it turned out that the Xa Fel had been a trusted servant of the old Sith Order before they had been ousted from the sector. The slave knew every inch of the Temple grounds, and while on the surface there was almost nothing left of the monument to the Order, the Xa’Fel temple existed not only above the surface, but beneath as well.

A labyrinth that stretched miles underground, honeycombed with passageways, dead ends, antechambers, and a treasure trove of artifacts left behind during the Order’s hurried escape. Ancient Sith holocrons, rusted lightsabers, trophies of conquest long forgotten.

All of it now belonged to the Church. The Unspoken held sway over Xa’Fel, and it was not to be denied.

In time, Xoverus and his acolytes would strip the Temple catacombs bare of everything practical for their crusade. But for now, the High Priest ventured into the labyrinth with a single minded ferocity borne of religious fanaticism. Amongst the petty relics, he would scavenge something capable of granting the Unspoken’s desire.

He would build his army, deep underneath the surface of a world ruined by the Dark Side.



They had been scouring the labyrinth for what seemed like hours. Time was difficult to gauge this far below. Both Xoverus and the Crone’s patience had quickly begun to wear thin, but their Xa Fel guide led them deeper and deeper below, stopping at each crossroads momentarily as if to regain its bearing, and then plunging deeper still.

“How much farther, maggot?” Xoverus growled, his mind entertaining horrific new forms of torment for the miserable creature that hunched before him all the way.

“Not much farther, masters!” the Xa Fel crowed, giggling stupidly as only the truly insane could, “We are near!”

“Near to what?” the Crone cawed out, her quick gait belying her apparent age, “This is pointless, Priest. The whelp has lost what little sanity it ever had. It is as lost as we are!”

“I am beginning to suspect that you are right,” the lich muttered, his glare shifting from his compatriot to the slave, “Shall I flay him, or would you like the honors?”

Before either could decide, the Xa Fel came to a sudden halt. It began to shiver uncontrollably, before scurrying back to the two black-robed figures. The light of the flame flickered throughout the passageway as the slave’s hands trembled.

“We are here,” the slave gasped, utter terror in its eyes, “I will go no farther! Please, don’t make me go in! No one ever comes out! No one! Please, don’t make me…”

It trailed off as it dropped to the ground, hunching up into a fetal posture and trembling so violently that for a moment Xoverus thought it was having a seizure. Only its moaning belied its apparent catatonia.

“Get up, maggot!” the Priest roared, giving the slave a mighty kick that sent it flying down the corridor and sprawling it out, nearly out of sight of their torches. It hurried back to the light, its eyes manic with fear, as if suddenly afraid of the shadows around it, “You will go in! You will guide us, even if I have to drag you and beat you the entire way!”

“Promise you won’t let him kill me!” the Xa Fel sobbed, clutching tightly to the Priest’s leg even after a few vicious shakes, “I’ll take you, but promise! Promise!”

Xoverus grabbed the creature by its few remaining strands of oily hair, hoisting it up screaming to eye level. He roared, “If anyone is going to kill you, it’ll be me!”

“Priest,” the Crone interjected, drawing Xoverus’s gaze, “Whatever lies at the end of this tunnel, it fears far worse than you. Promise it.”

“Very well,” the Priest side, tossing the Xa Fel aside as he walked down the corridor, “Come along, maggot. You have my word, nothing down there will kill you if I have a say.”

They continued down the corridor, the slave shuddering at every sound, its eyes constantly wide and alert, terror etched upon its face. After a few minutes of walking, to their surprise, they could make out a faint light around the corner ahead, and sounds of a most unnatural nature.

As they drew closer to the source of light, they could hear mutterings, faint but amplified by the echoing of the caves.

They turned the corner, and beheld a sight that Xoverus had absolutely not expected. The tunnel came to an abrupt end, and beyond it was a large clearing. Stone was replaced with duracrete floors and walls, and all around was machinery of the most hideous design. The light came from several spotlights, cobwebs growing around many from lack of maintenance.

In the center of the clearing, there sat one of the most elaborate chemistry sets that Xoverus had ever laid eyes upon. Beakers of a multitude of liquids of many colors, some smoking, some bubbling. The laboratory was unlike anything either of them had known. And amongst the chemicals, frantically scribbling away on parchment and typing furiously at datapads, their hunched a man.

“Yes yes yes, very good, very good,” he muttered, and it was clear that his voice had been the source of the echoing down the tunnel, “A little bit more…excellent! Oh, excellent indeed! Simply marvelous!”

“The father of death!” the Xa Fel squeaked. It would no doubt have been a scream, if the slave had been capable, but the mere sight of the man seemed to have drained the creature. It’s face was even more pale than it had ever been, and it no longer shivered but gaped dumbly, “Don’t let him dissect me, oh please!”

“Enough!” the Priest hissed, giving the gaunt slave a sharp kick. He turned back toward the back of the man, and called out, “Who are you?”

“Fascinating, simply fascinating! Point three, would have never guessed…” the man babbled on, either ignoring Xoverus or simply so engulfed in his work that he had not heard, “Quite silly, makes perfect sense now. Oh, this should be quite promising!”

“Are you deaf, or just a fool?!” he bellowed, not used to being ignored, “Who are you, and what are you doing down here?!”

“Just a little bit more…aha!” the man had hurried over to a beaker, and was mixing substances, apparently oblivious, “I see…quite fascinating. Hmm, yes? Oh! Brought another native? Well, put it right over there, then. I’ll get to it, soon enough! Yes, soon enough…”

All the while, he never turned to acknowledge them, continuing his experiments. Xoverus was furious.

“He thinks you’re Sith…” the Crone mused, cackling softly to herself, “I doubt he even knows the Temple was sacked.”

“I must make a note! Point three indeed!” the man hurried back over to his datapad, typing away furiously, “What did you say, then? Not Sith? Sacked? I had wondered about the commotion, but when they sent no one down, I thought all was well. Couldn’t be bothered to take a look myself. So much work to be done, so much work…”

“Not deaf, then…” the old hag cackled even more.

“Do you not care, then?” Xoverus called out, shoving the frozen Xa Fel out of his way as he made his way into the laboratory chamber itself, “Are you not Sith?”

“Point three…must readjust variables…could change the calculations considerably! Increase potency…refine…yes, most definitely, yes…” the man scrawled frantically upon ancient parchment, “What was that? Sith? Yes…I suppose. Well, not anymore. Variables have shifted…who are you?”

“Who am I?” the Priest echoed, smirking, “I am Xoverus, High Priest of the Church of the Unspoken. I am this galaxy’s doom.”

“Oh really? Bad news for the galaxy, then…” the scientist continued to scrawl away, still not looking up, “Course, the Sith have been saying that for years. Church, eh? Never heard of it. Agnostic, myself. No time for metaphysical pontification, so much work to be done. But, I suppose that’s why we have priests…if you come back later I might find time to give you a brief tour, but for now I’m far too busy! So many calculations, so much work to be done!”

“If I come back…” Xoverus echoed, completely shocked. With a snarl, he crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, placing a clawed hand upon the scientist and wheeling him around, “Look into my eyes, fool. Behold, the coming fire!”

As the scientist was thrown about, his features finally came into view. It took Xoverus moments to place the species before he recognized him as a Givin, though that was difficult to tell. The scientist’s face had been so horribly scarred and disfigured to the point where the skull-like features were difficult to make out.

Xoverus pulled back his hood, revealing what was left of his face. Most of it was now skeleton, resembling a Givin more than the scientist did. There were patches of decaying flesh here and there, mostly around the mouth. A deep, glowing crimson fire burned within his sockets as the necrotic Force energy flared to life within him, the agony wonderfully excruciating.

To the Priest’s slight shock, the Givin showed absolutely no signs of terror whatsoever. On the contrary, the scientist’s eyes widened not in horror, but in shocked fascination.

“My word!” the scientist yelped, glancing at the clawed skeletal hands that grasped him, “Well this changes everything! Sit down, sit down, why don’t you! Why didn’t you mention…well this toxin will have to wait…absolutely fascinating! I’ve never seen a more perfect lich in all my years!”

“You know of what I am?” Xoverus gasped, his fury quickly shifting to curiosity and then slight bemusement.

“Know of?” the scientist cried, leading the Priest to a stool and then returning to his workbench to gather several tools, “Written several papers on the subject! But never seen…not like you…quite a few trials, yes, but…well. This changes everything!”

“Who are you?” Xoverus asked, suddenly more curious about this man than anything else underneath the planet.

“Who am…hmm, yes,” the Givin paused, before bustling back over, “Names not important. Too much data, too much information. Forgotten myself. Worked down here for years. Years and years. Sith let me, even put some of my inventions to use, the ones I had no need for. Not so much anymore…well, not at all now! Had a name for me, nickname. Called me the Good Doctor. Irony, I believe. Never had much use for it myself. Too many variables to keep track of, literary devices near useless in my work…”

“Yes, your work,” Xoverus mused, wincing as the Givin shined a light into his pupil, “My Good Doctor, I’ll tell you everything I know about my current state. Let you conduct all the tests you like. And perhaps, in return, we can discuss your work…”

“My work? You mean, you’re a man of science as well? Wonderful!” the scientist typed away on a datapad, somehow managing to juggle it and all of the devices he carried.

“Not exactly,” the Priest admitted, growing more and more amused at the strange man, “As I said before, where you are a man of science…I am a man of faith. But, I am also very curious about your research.

Very curious indeed.”

There are many dark secrets buried beneath this world, and they are now all at your disposal…

Xoverus grinned at the thought of his master’s words. Many secrets buried indeed, and he had a feeling that the Good Doctor had a few secrets of his own.

A figure, gaunt and ghastly, crosses a barren wasteland. Little more than a hazy outline blurry against an unfocused backdrop, its movements are urgent and yet.. impossibly slow. It jumps forward with uncanny speed, stalls and falls back intermittently. Anguished cries seem to usher from its gaping, painfully astonished, maw but no sound passes its strained and broken lips.

There is a fire burning in the sky, black mushroom clouds pierce the flames.

The figure, its arm outstretched, points. A structure is visible along the length of its arm. It is, perhaps, a church or a cathedral and it grows larger at an alarming rate until it fills up the world like some vast vista, an awe-inspiring panorama and then, all at once, time begins to spiral backwards. Buttresses fall, brick by brick. Walls tear themselves down, stone by stone. It continues until nothing is left but the crumbled and sun-bleached masonry of a forgotten ruin. These stones, however, do not belong to the other... they are older, ancient stones.

Across the landscape echoes the clap of thunder and the hiss of a distant, torrential downpour. Above, the clouds made of flame and fire belch and split open releasing their burden on the scorched soil; a thick, oily acid rain. It burns to against a sky filled with the star-burst flashes of low atmosphere explosions. Yet above the cacophony a raises another sound which booms and drones together. This is the sound of a hundred million footfalls, the precursor to their arrival. In the distance marches an army the length and breadth of the world itself. They, the faceless horde, are infinite and they march onwards. Towards a temple, towards a bastion the shape and form of an ancient keep, a towering tower.

In its defence stands one man, alone.

And in his standing against the tide, divides. Double his number they stand; two against a billion.

Then four against a hundred million, stand. Then more, eight to a million and then sixteen to a half...

... until there are none but one. One in many shapes, they raise their fists to the sky and hold the force of a universe between them.




Above the hidden world of Xa'Fel, aboard the Crimson Emperor, a man sits a work station, cloaked in darkness with only his face visible in the pale glow of the monitor. He taps at keys, scans the screen, and taps some more. At length, blessing his work with a satisfied half-smile, the man stands and pulls a key, a data drive, from the station before initiating a cold shut down.

He turns, passing the drive to another fully concealed in darkness but for its hand; a steely, a mechanical contrivance.

“Upload and deliver,” he commands of the other. Awaiting confirmation he adds, “Initiate memory wipe and core dump.”





A bell chimed.

The sound bounced off around the cockpit of the skiff before making its way down the gangplank.

It sneaked out of the ship to the swamp on which the space-craft had landed.

Finding its way to the ears of its intended recipient, a man sitting with legs crossed upon the stump of a long dead tree.

Silk, spreading his arms wide, stretched.

On the stump, stuck to the rotted wood, pages waited. Eyes open, he could not remember writing them but in scanning what was written, and the sketches he had drawn, knew the tale they told for he had lived it, in a dream, only moments ago.

Gathering them, he stood and pressed them in to his palm.

Dank and moist, the undergrowth was a mess of knotted vines, gnarled roots and loam. The cool, stagnant air felt welcome against his bare flesh, it soothed his irritated skin where it had become puffy and swollen around his mark, the scar-like tattoo that was the brand of the Unspoken. This place, its dark presence, soothed the stump where his arm, now gone, met with the steel and wire of its mechanical replacement which had been nearly stripped bare of its skin-like covering.

He turned his eyes, pools of black, toward the skiff.

With a single press he shot in to the air, his natural strength coupled with that of the force, easily clearing the half dozen meters of muck between himself and the more stable turf upon which the shuttle rested. He clutched at his cloak, slunk over one of the ships stabilizers and, pulling it over his shoulders ascended the ramp. Inside, displayed on the primary viewer, a message was waiting.

Reading it, he sighed and begrudgingly slumped in to the pilots chair. With its contents still displayed, and his mind still set to the reading of, he initiated the ships start-up sequence. As the engines hummed to life, before the ramp could seal, a creature seemingly built only of teeth and claws clattered aboard. It shot up the ramp and with a snarl planted its wedge-shaped head on the mans lap.

The two exchanged a glance.

“You may end up wishing you had stayed,” he said, stroking the monster between its barbed spines.

Snorting heavily, the beast turned about, curling up its long body behind the pilots chair.

He shrugged, “Don't say you weren't warned.”

With that, he gripped the ships yokes and tugged the skiff in to the air.





A spectre came in to being. It stood upon the stump occupied moments ago by the Lord Silk. Ghost like in appearance and mannerism, it turned its ethereal gaze to the sky following the departure of Silk aboard his ship. The dense canopy prevented a clear line of sight yet, with unseeing and sightless eyes, it saw. For a long time it stood motionless staring in to the infinite before tearing its gaze away.

Soon a second spectre appeared.

“He will need us if he is to succeed,” the ghost of Lord Maim, spoke.

Xion, his face empty, replied, “Fuck.”

They spoke for the rest of the night and into the morning.

The Good Doctor proved to be a font of information on hundreds of different subjects, but the man was frustrating to talk to, to say the least. More than once, the fire that served for the lich’s eyes flared up in rage at another of the scientist’s nonsensical tangents, but often times that only made things worse, as the only subject the Doctor seemed interested in discussing with any degree of lucidity was the High Priest’s physical state.

It did not take long for Xoverus to realize that calm, pointed questions produced much more satisfying results than screams and threats. He couldn’t help but wonder if the scientist was more stable than he let on. For all he knew, this could be yet another of his behavioral experiments, of which the Givin had attempted to perform many overtly before Xoverus had forbidden it.

Eventually he got the information he wanted, and when he did his face contorted into a terrible grin, only to elicit even more exclamations of amazement and a dozen more questions from the Good Doctor. Thankfully, it did not take much effort to convince the strange little man to show him what he sought. The Doctor seemed very excited himself about the High Priest’s intentions.

As they walked, they spoke about the logistics of what Xoverus had in mind, and the lich quickly began to realize exactly why the Sith had kept this man at work in the bowels of their most sacred temple. This Father of Death would no doubt prove a tremendous asset to the Crusade, and wanted nothing in return. He didn’t do what he did for a profit, or status, or even power over life and death.

The Good Doctor did what he did because he was curious.

“Ah, here we are! Yes, here we are!” the Givin exclaimed suddenly, cutting himself off mid-pontification and startling the Xa Fel native back another ten meters into the shadows, “You’ll have to give me a moment to remember the pass code, its been some time since I’ve had any projects in here. Every once in a while one of the Sith up top would get it in their head to keep a few spares lying around, but other than that they’ve remained mostly unused.”

“Really? Are these...spares, as you call them, still intact?” Xoverus asked, new ideas already forming in his mind.

“Now lets see, was it 853 or 358...sorry? Oh, some of them, yes,” the Givin bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically, “I purge the samples of those that fall out of favor with the Order, but those in good standing should still be on file. I suppose I’ll have to purge them all now that we’re under...new management, shall we say? Seems such a waste...”

“I agree, Doctor. I am sure there are many remarkable candidates stored within. I wonder...” Xoverus paused for a moment, as if in thought, drawing the attention of the Givin, “Perhaps we might not need to let them go to waste. The Unspoken could use such elite warriors within its ranks. Tell me, as a man of science, how does the prospect of witnessing first hand the subjugation of a Sith Lord’s will to an entity of the Darkside? Perhaps we might even make a few more liches of some of them, so that you might see the transformation process?”

For ten long blissful seconds, the Doctor’s rambling ceased, and he looked upon Xoverus with wide eyes.

“Lord Xoverus, I think I am going to like you,” he said at last, quietly, and then turned back to the door and exclaimed, “Aha!”

He jabbed at the ancient keypad, producing a quick flash of green light and an affirmative beep as the door slid open. Filthy spotlights began to power on, row by row, illuminating a massive chamber that stretched farther than the eye could see. Massive stone pillars stretched up throughout the cavernous room, surrounded by levels upon levels of walkways and lined with more metal tubes than Xoverus could have imagined.

“Will of the Unspoken, there are so many...” he gasped.

“Yes, quite a sight, is it not?” the Good Doctor beamed, “Back before their alignment with the Empire, the old Sith warlords used these to swell their armies. Not sure why the Order never had them torn down. Perhaps as a reminder of the ‘good old days’, or maybe as an Idiot’s Array up their sleeve in case they ever outlived their usefulness to the Emperor.”

“Quite the fallback,” Xoverus agreed, “How many are there, in total?”

“In total?” The Doctor thought for a moment, “Several million, I should say. Operational? Perhaps half that.”

“And what would it take to get the other half back up and running?” the High Priest asked, still awed by his surroundings.

“Not much, in all likelihood. Built to last, these old things are,” the Doctor answered with pride, “But it would take quite a lot of manpower. Perhaps if I were allotted a small percentage of the first batch, to program for my personal use...”

“The Unspoken is generous to those that serve to further its aims, Doctor,” Xoverus grinned, “Take as many as you need.”

“Your...our Master is most generous indeed, Lord Xoverus,” the Givin bowed, “I am afraid, however, that our current pool of samples seems somewhat...inadequate, for your specifications.”

“Do not worry about that, my Good Doctor,” Xoverus grinned, “I have the perfect samples in mind. I will have several of the most suitable candidates sent down to you this evening.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” the Givin bowed low once more, “Might if I have your leave, so that I might begin preparations?”

“Of course,” the High Priest nodded, and the scientist bustled off, leaving the High Priest alone.

Well, not entirely alone.

Throughout the cavern, several million Spaarti cloning cylinders kept him company.




As he ascended from the bowels of the Sith catacombs, the Crone fell into step behind him. The way she kept pace with him while somehow managing to maintain the shambling gait of an ancient woman would have been unsettling, had he been a living man unaccustomed to such garish habits amongst his peers.

But was she a peer? Xoverus had brushed against her aura with his mind on several occasions since they had first encountered one another, and yet he still got the feeling that he did not yet fully understand the extent of her power. That was what the High Priest found truly unsettling about her.

“The cylinders should serve,” he said at last, breaking the dreary silence of the tombs.

“Oh very well, but serve for what, priest?” the old woman crooned, her tone dripping derision. Xoverus knew not to take it personally, it was the practiced hate of one devoted to the Dark Arts, “We have a basement filled with clone tubes, but no suitable candidates, unless you intend to overwhelm the galaxy with the fearsome might of your drivelling preachers. So what then? My daughters? They would tear you and then each other apart before they served, even cheap copies.”

“Yes, I imagine they would,” the priest conceded, smirking.

They walked for a while further, and soon it became apparent to her that he had no plans to go on speaking.

“Well then who, you wretched thing?” she raged, hissing more than a little too viciously for a woman of her age. Then she gave another, softer hiss of surprise, and then laughed, “Them? You think they will serve you?”

“I will make them serve me,” Xoverus snarled with more pleasure than anger.

The Crone turned to give him a long stare.

“Yes, I suppose you will,” she said at last, “Still, it would be better if we had willing candidates.”

“And that, my dear Crone, is where you come in,” the lich grinned back at her.

“Me?” she gasped, laughing a brittle laugh, “What makes you think I can sway them?”

“Do not play the fool with me, Crone. It does not become you,” the High Priest gave a laugh of his own, “Did you honestly think I was unaware of the little tests you’ve been performing on my devoted? Tell me, were you impressed with what you found?”

“How...perceptive,” the Crone flashed him a dangerous smile, “Your lackwits did prove...problematic in influencing, but yours is a crude sort of domination, priest. It lacks finesse, and more importantly leaves them drivelling idiots.”

“How astute of you,” he deadpanned, grimacing, “It is not my control you speak of, but the Unspoken’s. Make no mistake, even a god’s power has limits. To control so many across such vast a span...it leaves much to be desired. Specifically, higher order functions.”

“You expect me to believe that this god of yours is dominating every mind under your banner from thousands of lightyears away?” the Crone snorted, but Xoverus saw through her facade. He felt the faintest hint of her fear, and let it wash over him in a wave of pleasure.

“I expect you to believe nothing, and be fortunate that I don’t,” he said, “All I expect from you is what I lack at my disposal. Namely, finesse.”

“You want them to pilot your ships as well as charge off into battle, I understand,” the withered hag nodded, “It can be done. The question is, are you truly fool enough to trust me? What is to stop me from bending them to my will instead of your god’s, striking you down, and conquering the galaxy for mine own sake.”

“Because you’re terrified of me,” Xoverus said simply and without hesitation, “and my god. Because you have seen what we are capable of, and it makes your skin crawl. But most importantly, because there will be a place for you in Its plan if you do, and it won’t be as a mindless thrall. My dear Crone, you are so valuable to me. Your gift in the Darkside is an art form, and the Unspoken values such a skill set as yours.”

“You flatter me, priest,” the Crone gave a mockery of a curtsy, “I accept.”

“Excellent,” Xoverus smiled wide, “If you had not, I would have flayed you alive personally.”

The Crone laughed, but he knew that she knew he was deadly serious, so he let it go. As they emerged at last from the catacombs underneath the crumbling archway, she stopped and looked back.

“Now whatever happened to that maggot of yours?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, that wretched thing? I gave him to the Doctor, a special experiment of my own devising,” Xoverus replied.

“Careful, Xoverus. You give me pause,” she said, laughing, “You promised that beast you wouldn’t let the Doctor kill him. Why should I trust you, as he did?”

“Oh, my lovely Crone, I always keep my promises,” Xoverus bowed low, laughing as well, “I promised Maggot that I would not let the Good Doctor kill him, and he won’t. He will turn him into something much, much more.”

Just then they heard it, so faint that it sounded as if it came from a hundred miles off. A scream so hideous, so wretched, so disgusting that they both gave an involuntary shiver. It was music to his ears.