Crimson Tides: Xionation




The story of Darth Xion begins with the death of a Jedi by the name of Ren Janggar.

On the acid washed plains of the planet Vjun, at the hands of a Dark Lord called Maim, one meets his end while the other, through the ministrations of same, is given life. It is a broken, cursed birth that sees the latter resurrected, reborn.

A body is given, it is imbued with the energies of Jedi Janggar but only those which suit the purpose of its creator, Maim, are given reign. A spell is woven, one of dark mysticism, over this alchemically altered shell which restricts the soul within trapping it in a world that is ever dark, in a world where no light shines.

And so he is, Darth Xion, a golem.



Two years later...


His name is Maxor Krath.

He is the student of a dying master.

“This is Maxor Krath,” he speaks in to his headset. “I would speak with...”

A long pause follows, the tight-beam transmission crackling with static.

“... Lord Xion,” he says at length.

There is another pause and then, “Roger that. You are cleared for docking. ISS Janus, out.”

It fills the cockpit view port. It dwarfs his shuttle. It is the Imperial medical frigate, Janus. It is the tomb of Darth Xion.

He clicks his microphone, pulls off the headset, and sags.

“You know your task?”

The voice is not that of Maxor Krath. It is not the voice of Lord Maim, nor is it the voice of any known Sith. It is instead the voice of one Dioan Silk, Imperial Royal Guard.

Krath is silent and his silence is answer enough.

“You are to tell the truth, as you know it. The council has dispatched you, and in that there is no lie.”

“He,” Krath starts, his voice cracking. “I could just kill you.”

Truth, harshly spoken, has no visible effect on the man, nominee for the role of Sovereign Protector.

He replies simply, “You could. I could not stop you and while I would gladly die in the service of my master it is he, the Lord Maim, who would be displeased by such an act. Perhaps you would care to join your former master?”

“No,” Krath agrees. He has his own secrets, this light bound hero. He has his own questions, his own opinions. Of late he has grown ever doubtful.

“Good,” adds the other and adds ironically, “may the force be with you.”

In the dimly lit cabin, the holographic rendering dissolves leaving Krath alone with his thoughts.

To his ships computer he says, “Begin docking procedures.”


“Master,” Krath speaks the honorific as though for the last time.

Prostrate, Darth Xion lays before him. Fluids pump through tubes winding their way from medical machinery to the prone figure only to vanish in to sunken wells in his sallow flesh. The quiet, disconcerting sounds of those machines fill the silence that falls between the two men. Yet, here at the very core of it, Krath knows only too well the hollow gesture of it all. The end is inevitable now.

He wonders, looking upon this pathetic shell, where are the spells which gave him life? Where now are his once allies? Why does the man responsible for all this, Maim, not save his creation from death? Through his darkest days, Xion pawn of the dark side, came to know many. When will they come out of the woodwork? What will be his salvation?

Only he, the apprentice Maxor Krath, had remained by the side of his teacher.

Krath, inwardly, feels the betrayal that his master does not. He feels the anguish for him, takes the pain of his discontent in to himself.

This creature, this thing is not the man Krath so revered, is it? How can it share the soul of Ren Janggar?

“Maxor,” Xion wheezes. His voice is but a jagged whisper. “Is that you?”

A chuckle, wet and weak, ushers from his cracked lips.

“At least you're still here my apprentice, my friend. The others have gone, but you, you're still here.”

Each word is an effort, each syllable a struggle.

“That I am,” Krath says loyally. “I could never leave your side, master.”

Xion, in his weakened state, sneers.

“You needn't coddle me, I know it was the council that sent you here.”

Startled Maxor replies, “But how, I thought you felt no part of the force?”

His fear is real, palatable. If indeed Xion still wields the force, he ponders, might he not see my deception?

Those fears are quickly placated.

“Ha!” The old man scoffs. “My hearing is not entirely gone my boy; I still hear these medical droids gossiping everything that happens around here.”

“Now I know the 'how',” he adds painfully. “I still do not know or understand the why. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“I,” Krath stammers.

“Out with it boy,” snaps the Sith.

It is enough to scare the words out of the other. Krath practically spews the words.

“The council wishes your immediate termination, sir.”

A slight nod greets his honesty, Xion smiling. “And you have been assigned this task I assume?”

“You assume correctly master but I,” he surges ahead, seeking to cover his lie.

“If you are here to end my life then I must ask you to do so now.” Xion is strangely lucid, strangely honest. “Death's shadow has hung over me for long enough. You need not delay its blade any longer with meaningless words.”

“Master,” counters Krath desperately as if the title alone could spare him the pain of this duty. “I do not wish to kill you... I know of something that will save you.”

“Bah!” Scoffing, Xion manages to spit. This close to the end, having shared the company of death for so long and become so comfortable with its presence, the idea of false hope angers him. “Nothing can save me now, you know that as well as I do!”

“That is untrue master,” Krath pleads, so dire in his wish to give the man hope. “The council has discovered something that will save you. However they see it as a reason for you to be destroyed, immediately. I had to come and let you know but it will not be easy for you to hear.”

His oxygen mask hissing inordinately loud, Xion demands Krath go on.

“It was around two months ago that I had become disgusted with the councils lack of effort to help save you. So I took it upon myself to find a cure.” He leans closer. “With some hired help I hacked in to the mainframe of the Sith database to scour for clues on a cure, however; I was unsuccessful. Though...”

“... it was searching through the database that I came across this information.”

Unfolding his betrayal further, Krath pushed on, “After Lord Maim posted you to the Naboo Sith Order a concerted effort was made to keep tabs on your growth, as it were. A number of Sith, including Lupercus Darksword, were concerned that through your inherent power you might become a hazard in the future and so they sought a way to reduce your abilities through Sith magic.”

On his withered face Xion wore a look of contempt, of out rage.

“Anyway,” Krath continued. “It was only recently in your weakening state that they discovered something quite startling. As your condition continued to spiral your connection to the dark side of the force began to fall with it. It is almost now gone completely. However... as they layers of darkness were peeled away they began to see something else in you, something that had until now been all but completely encased by a crust of dark energy.”

Irritated with the delay and wanting only for Krath to get to the point, Xion snapped.

“What are you babbling on about Maxor?”

“When you became Lord Xion, the Dark Lord Maim cast a spell to rid you of your connection to the light, however; instead he simply locked it away and for two years there it sat surrounded by darkness but alive none-the-less.”

“What are you saying?” Xion rasped.

“What I am saying master,” Krath smiled openly. “Is that somewhere in you Ren Janggar is still alive.”

Continued...



Of humanity he had none.

Sympathy, the idea of it, confounded him.

Darth Xion was not a nice man, never had been.

A Somir in body if not spirit, he had taken the name to new depths.

Lupercus Darksword helped.

In Dionysia, digging through the guts of some unlucky innocent, he looked perfectly at home. To him the idea of playing doctor, of replacing the girls guts with explosives, seemed a perfectly novel idea.
The humor they shared, Darksword and he, served to make others uncomfortable. Certainly the unfortunate subjects of his surgery and savage hobby did not share in it. Had they found in it something at which to laugh, for him, it would have ruined the whole thing.

And then, later in the same chain of events, he had taken some unhealthy measure of glee in detonating those explosives... killing the girl and so many others in a furious bath of flame and concussive force. The enjoyment he found in the act was almost comical and he shared it with a box of popped corn.

Darth Xion was a sick man.

His sickness, however; extended beyond his twisted sense of morality (or lack there-of). Xion, the last living incarnation of Ren Janggar, was rotting from the inside out.




Two years earlier...

On the road to redemption one often finds what one does not want to.

For Xion, Sith, it was the simple truth; that Ren Janggar was really and truly dead.

“Why,” groaned the stricken figure. “There is still hope...”

“No,” Xion stated flatly. “Not for you.”

Bleeding, his body broken and nearing the end, Maxor Krath lay on the cobble stones watching his life blood gather between the cobbles and drain away like a crimson river flowing through the stones.

As he looked down on his student, watching without an iota of emotion, Darth Xion resembled the sick, dying creature he had been not at all. Where his skin had been slack, sunken and sallow now his flesh was tight, alive. Eyes previously pits in the death mask that had been his face now radiated a yellow glow, the hallmark of the Sith.

In his hand was clutched a blade, a blade soaked in the blood of Krath.

“You were right,” Xion offered, giving the dying man some faint hope. “There was salvation for me, but not in the light.”

“Here, in this scared place where Jedi Janggar died, where I was reborn Xion,” he gestured widely encompassing the temple on Vjun with a single motion. “This is my salvation.”

They had arrived on Vjun only days earlier, Xion at deaths door. Leaving the Janus in orbit the pair had made for the surface with due speed. Medical droids accompanied them, regulating and overseeing the operation of the medical sled on which the Sith was forced to ride. From that moment, from the second he breathed the Vjun air, Xion had seemed more lifelike then he had in months. The energies that powered his 'new' body, while depleted to near desperate levels, slowly began to rekindle.

Exploring the temple, now devoid of occupation, Xion and Krath slowly began to uncover the secrets of force-transferral and the details of the alchemy that Maim had employed. Within hours Xion demonstrated the strength to move about under his own power.

“It has to be here,” Krath had said, referring to the clues he had uncovered in the Sith database. “The part of you that was Janggar still exists and the key, the key to finding it... it's here, somewhere.”

Xion, however; was beginning to believe differently.

Breaking from Krath, Xion had moved off to search another area of the temple and it had been then that he had uncovered the truth, or rather that it had been revealed to him.

“Lord Xion,” called the voice of Dioan Silk, Sovereign Protector.

The dying Sith practically whirled on the other. Ready to kill the guardsman without a moments hesitation he closed on Silk with alarming speed.

“I,” Xion seemed uncertain. “I know you.”

Silk bobbed his head, bowing before the Sith.

“I am the servant of Maim and we met here, in this very place, over two years ago.”

Xion remembered.

“You are here because Maim has brought you here,” Silk said evenly, without a measure of tauting or gloating. “Your student, the one who brought you here, has done so because Maim demanded it and I am here because he bids me bring you a message.”

“And that is?” Xion, despite his diminished self, imposed. “Talk fast. If I alone cannot force your mouth, my student can.”

It was true. Only a room away, Maxor Krath was easily Silks better.

“Lord Xion,” Silk began telling his tale. “There is no redemption, or rather, finding your way back to the light is no assurance of life. The Jedi would say, salvation. That salvation, for you Lord Xion, is death and death alone.”

“Life, however; can be yours if you only take it. Here, in this temple, are the keys to your continued existence. The tools you need are here, all of them.”

Upon the latter he put emphasis.

“The body you inhabit is dying. Your energies are consuming it. What you have come to feel as a disconnection is in fact just the opposite. The dark side has not abandoned you, your spirit is too powerful for such a thing. In your soul you know it to be true. Death comes not to you but to the body you inhabit.”

Xion moved closer, gripping the hilt of his weapon.

Silk, daring to show no fear, none-the-less spoke faster and more plainly.

“Your body is a shell, your soul within it is a battery.”

“You need only recharge.”

They had talked on, Silk explaining as it was explained to him the nature of Xion, of his existence. Time seemed to slow and not once had Krath or the medics bothered them. And so Silk showed him the devices, the alchemical apparatus left here by Maim, detailing the Sith magics as Maim had commanded him to. Xion probed, questioning the lesser being. Silk answered.

At last, before making good his escape lest he should be discovered, Silk had said, “This place replenishes you not because it is unique, but because it is strong in the force. And your student...”

Xion had understood.

And so, a time later, Xion stood over his crippled, languishing student.

“Do not worry Maxor,” Xion said unconvincingly. “You will not die. At least, not really. Your strength will live on in me.”

Eyes wide, Krath came to understand.

“No,” he pleaded.

But it was too late.

“Yinchorr,” the Sith snarled the word, demanding. “Best speed.”

Vengeance consumed his thoughts. Wronged by another, he thought. This coil, a prison and a tool, he contemplated.

To his lord and commander, the officer bowed, “As you command.”

Xion, master of the dark, glowered. In his chambers darkness prevailed and in his soul as well. He hated it, despised it. Yet, in typically dualistic fashion, the Sith fed on their own anger and to this Xion was no exception. Rage, the emotional influence of it, made him stronger. The more he hated himself, his situation, the more powerful he became. This alone was not enough, not for him. Blame and guilt, these emotions stole from him, made him weak, flawed. Naturally he, Lord Xion, could not hold himself responsible for his current existence for to do so would compromise his integrity. If he saw himself as the master of his own destruction then upon that he would dwell and morality would sneak in. If he saw himself as bound by such a flimsy construct as morality then too would the dark side see him as such and his power would wane.

Lord Maim was gone, passed from this galaxy on to whatever thing followed. As the instrument of his resurrection, the one truly responsible for the corruption he so reveled in, his hatred of Maim gave him focus but with that focus removed...

Xion required a new focus, one on to which he could pour his considerable mirth. And he had found that subject, traced the pathways of the dark side to the barren, isolated planet Yinchorr.

Home of the exiled Imperial Royal Guard, home to their exiled leader; Sovereign Protector Silk.



From “Blood Red Crimson”

“Has he gone completely mad?”

Governor Daroth, Imperially appointed, thumped his fist in to his palm. He wore his outrage like war paint.

“Governor Daroth,” Captain Aldridge countered calmly. “Lord Xion's clearance is one of the highest in the Empire.”

The good Captain had grown accustomed to the Governor and his sanctimonious posturing.

“I couldn't give a damn if his clearance belonged to the Regent himself,” Daroth snapped, whirling on the Imperial commander like a dervish. “The fact of the matter is that I cannot and will not put the defense fleet of this system in to the hands of a hermit Sith Lord who is nearing on the brink of death.:

“Sir,” Aldridge maintained his composure. “If I may...”

“You may not, Captain Aldridge,” cut Daroth, interrupting his technical subordinate. “I will simply not authorize such an action. Are you even aware of our position in the galaxy?”

“Indeed I am sir.”

“Well,” said Daroth his words dripping sarcasm. “It seems to me something must have slipped your mind since the last time you looked at a star-map.”

“We are on the fringes of Imperial space!” Daroth quoted unnecessarily. “We are the first defense for the entire Empire. It is our primary duty to defend these boarders with our lives and I will not have a Sith Lord with a death which commandeer my fleet on a treasure hunt that will yield nothing of benefit to the Empire.”

Your fleet, thought Aldridge incredulously. Instead he said, “Sir, I offer my apologies. I was simply relaying information from Lord Xion. I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course you didn't Aldridge,” he said with a sigh, calming some. “I understand you were simply trying to bring this matter to my attention. As my second in command, it is your job after all. I am just tired of that rotting corpse getting all the perks of a Grand Moff while barking orders from the infirmary.”

“We protect this space,” he finished. “And we get treated with nothing more than mild neglect.”

Aldridge nodded sagely. For all his posturing and political maneuvering, Daroth was genuinely concerned about his Imperial duty and the citizenry which fell under his command.

“Sir, what if this time he is right? About Yinchorr? What if there are resources still left over from Lord Maim's rule?”

“Whatever remnants of the Crimson Empire were left,” Daroth said matter of fact, “had been wiped out by us long ago. Yinchorr is nothing but sand and dust now.”

It was true, to the best of their combined knowledge. Yinchorr had been the subject of sustained orbital bombardment.

“I have heard Xion,” Daroth continued. “His words are nothing but insane riddles and double speak. I'd put no faith in his words if I were you.”

Aldridge, sighing, turned towards the door.

“I appologise Captain,” Daroth eyed the others back. “But as long as I am commander of this system I will not reliquish my command to him.”

His head drooped visibly. Aldridge paused mid step, “Then perhaps I will.”

Turning, the Captain extended an outstretched hand to his Governor. In a single motion, swift and alarming, Daroth gasped and clutched at his throat.

“Why,” he wheezed even as the sound of his jugular could be hear popping.

“You short sighted fool.” Aldridge, his eyes blazing, spat contemptuously. “You have no vision beyond the boarders of this Empire. An Empire which you blindly follow but which has grown so weak as to be a shadow of its former self. Lord Xion has a vision more true than Kain or Hyfe ever has and it shall be realized!”

“If you will not give Lord Xion this fleet, then he will take it for you.”

And as he breathed his last, eyes bulging, Governor Daroth saw the awful truth of it. The man before him was not his Captain Aldridge. The force illusion dispelled, he saw only the half bent form of Lord Xion standing before him.

“I am in command now, Governor Daroth.”



"The Darkforce unites us," spoke a crimson clad warrior in full ceremonial Royal Guardsmen armor. "The Darkforce keeps us apart."

From upon a raised dais the soldier threw his fist into the air as a chorus of affirmations flooded from the assembly of similarly dressed ex-Patriots of an empire lost.

"We are together in isolation," chanted numerous Royal Guardsmen, also throwing high their fists and giving up a might roar.

With a subtle change of posture the Sovereign Protector, foremost among the rank of the Imperial Royal Guard, called a firm silence across the room. As his arms vanished under a waving crimson cape each Guardsmen in turn fell to his knees, bowed in reverence before their leader.

Dozens of helmets, their sleek black lenses hiding the eyes of those men behind their masks, locked attentively upon the speaker. The sovereign leader nodded approvingly and started into a speech all too familiar. For the hundredth time he stood before his deadly warrior force and spoke the words that would give them hope enough to cling on another month or more...

"The Empire we served is gone and gone with it, the glory of the Dark Side. What stands now is but and empty empirical shell, a broken husk."

Ambient light seemed to fade from the opulent chamber, dubbed the Temple by the remains of the Imperial Guard. What little light remained within the high-walled dome focused around the speaker like pale moonlight.

"Dark Lord Sidious, the Emperor Palpatine created us of his own grand dream. He alone achieved the single greatest goal of the Sith and in his efforts created a force so deadly and so powerful that none would question. The Emperor crafted our unity from the tatters of weak and shattered infantry, a royal dispatch whose name has faded with time leaving only our iron fist!"

All light abruptly vanished from the Temple, a heavy darkness falling across the assembly.

"Sidious died, despite our efforts. We were unable to save him, but... we were not left long."

"For into the void came a new presence. A new power that could give us aim and direction. After debate and confusion, after internal strife... I speak of Kir Kanos and Connor Jax... the Dark Lord Maim came into our midst."

"While some of our tradition fell to the charms of the continuing empire... You and I stood strong and keep the faith of our mandate. The Dark Lord Maim gave us direction and purpose."

"And he too is gone. What I demand of you is this; where will you stand when the return is neigh?"

Illumination bathed the temple abruptly. Bright white light flashed through the chamber. As the glow abated the whole of the true Royal Guard stood at attention with weapons drawn.

And they chanted, "We will stand ready!"



Korad hated his post. He hated it with all of his passion but he also understood that no other Guardsmen could do the duty that was his own. Like all of his crimson brothers he knew the hardship that was their life intimately and accepted his burden willingly. He did not have to enjoy it, however.

The rain only made things worse. It soaked his gear and weighed down his armor. Even in light rigging the sheer volume of water and mud slowed him down considerably. Muck gathered in clumps around his boots and gloves while he struggled up the dangerous face of Mount Overlook.

"Curse this," muttered Korad when his boot slipped for the tenth time. "Just another two..."

Not high above he glimpsed his goal. A squat durasteel shack sat neatly atop the perilous climb. The shack served as the single point of contact for the few functional satellites that still whipped madly around the planet. It was their only contact with the galaxy and, coincidentally, their only means of watching the skies above Yinchorr.

Not that they had any reason to fear attack or discovery. Yinchorr had been a mud and dirt planet even before the arrival of the Guard. Now, this far forgotten by time and stranded without hyperspace capability, Yinchorr was not only home to the Royal Guard, but prison too.

Korad smiled inwardly at the end of his climb and, shoving the heavy doors open, stalked into the relative comfort of the shack. A myriad of bleeps and blips greeted him as he pulled the doors shut behind himself.

Peeling away the layers of his saturated uniform Korad found himself greeted with something he would never have expected.

Urgently signaling for his attention, a single display monitored the movements of what appeared to be a cruiser in high orbit above Yinchorr.

"Fuck me," snarled Korad, keying open his communicator.

"KayAreOhDee. Status; Initiative Seven. We have visitors. Data relay, active!"

For once, things were looking up.



The buzz of battle flew like an angry wasp through the halls. Warriors in red and black moved this way and that with fluid movements, the result of endless training, making ready for the inevitable. The Sovereign Protector had planned for just such an occasion.
When first stranded on Yinchorr the Sovereign had known that their biggest obstacle would be to overcome their isolation. From the moment that technicians had taken apart the last hyper drive in order to maintain the running capacity of the base he had accepted the responsibility. The crimson brotherhood would have to reduce themselves to pirates and take, by force if need by, whatever ship first stumbled upon them.

Lost beyond the inner rim, beyond the reach of the Hydian Way, Yinchorr had once made an excellent staging ground for the Empire's fleet. But now, without official garrison or apparent worth, the planet was like so many others... flung between the stars.

Probability for discovery remained low, the Sovereign knew, but he had to be prepared.

He moved like his namesake, like Silk, through the throngs of Guardsmen. He reveled in their silent determination and the grim resolve that marked those 'the best'. "Today, we will break free."

None of the soldiers responded visibly but through the force Protector Silk could feel their strength grow. Approvingly, he sent himself out into the Darkforce and touched the minds of his numerous warriors. Through the warren-like structure of the Temple and the network of caves that ran well beyond the perimeter of their home he could feel his army moving.

A sinister smile touched his lips.

"Liege," spoke one of his brothers, bowing as Silk stepped calmly into what served as the tactical command center and base of operations. "We have confirmation."

Silk nodded in the slightest of fashion, "Extrapolate."

"Transponders mark the intruder as an Imperial Cruiser with escort. Judging by speed and trajectory, they know where we are. Landing parties will come in here, and here."

A gloved hand tapped out points on an overlay map. The motion was needless, however; as Dioan Silk himself had chosen this position for its attack options. Furious cliffs and jutting ridges of bedrock made landing anything larger then a small freighter impossible anywhere within three hundred kilometers of the base. Layers of moving sand and mud caused a constant shifting the area's topography, father frustrating landings. Walkers and hover tanks would have similar problems in the rough terrain, only specialized equipment could even attempt to navigate the local terrain (such as the spider walker’s already in positions around the ridge). Even drop-troops would be wary attempting to make any sort of safe impact with the fluctuating density of the soil and rock.

The only safe landing sites, aside from their own hidden bay, were two moderately sized plateau's located ten klicks north and south of the base. A daring pilot could, at best, put down a keel of perhaps one hundred meters in these two spots. Depending on rigging, the first wave his Guards could expect would number no more then five hundred.

Silk and his brotherhood numbered almost that much itself and could easily dispatch a dozen regular-army stormtroopers each. The odds, for now, remained very heavily in the Guard's favor.

"Keep me appraised," ordered the Sovereign Protector, turning on a heel and departing the command area. "I want to know when the first wave is inbound."

No confirmation was spoken in reply; within the brotherhood... it was unnecessary.

Immediately out of the well appointed room two similarly clad Guardsmen, though equipped with light sabers rather then the traditional pike, feel into flanking positions behind Silk.

"You agree then," said Silk evenly. It was not a question.

"We do," they spoke in unison.

"It feels familiar. Ready my chamber. I will discover this... force."

They bowed, the soldiers at his sides, and departed without fuss.

Silk clicked his tongue once, his communicator clicked open in response. "Deploy the walkers and put our birds up. Stay within the shadow of the ridges and mountains and await my reply."



I can sense you; spoke the ethereal version of Dioan Silk into the force. You are familiar to me.

Strength welled up through the projected and corporeal aspects of the Sovereign Projector. One floated high in the space between stars, the network of the force. The other kneeled within a chamber of deep onyx black with walls that rose beyond sight into the darkness above.

You are nothing, came the reply. You are Dioan Silk, and you are nothing.

Pain shot through his body. Silk recoiled in response.

You cannot hurt me, screamed the silent voice of Dioan Silk but he didn't believe it. I am within the chamber of my Lord. You have not the strength!

The Sovereign Protector knew his words were in vain.

A face appeared to him in the darkness, a horrible face. A face Dioan Silk could not mistake.

Darth Xion, exclaimed Protector Silk before closing himself away from the force.

Sweating, he became intimately aware of his corporeal self again. In a second he was up and sprinting out of the chamber.

He had prepared... but would it be enough?

“What,” Silk struggled to ask. “What is this?”

Around him, within him time seemed to stand still.

Where was he? Where had he been? It seemed like a distant memory, as though waking from a dream.

Yinchorr was but a distant memory. The battle that raged, forgotten.

Now, in this place, there was only him and there was only Silk.

“You recognize this place,” Xion was speaking, his voice clear, though it seemed to Silk as though he were a statue, a thing carved of stone and unmoving. “You... saved me... in this place.”

Silk did.

Somehow, though he could not recall why or when he had arrived here, Silk was standing in the temple on Vjun.

“Xion,” confirmed Silk needlessly. His own powers, the tie which connected him to the force, was too weak to even hope to counter the will of his opponent. For the first time in a very long while Silk felt real, genuine fear. This was the kind of awe inspiring, crippling fear which had bred such hero-worship of his old mentor, Lord Maim. “Have you come for my life?”

There was laughter then, a mocking ridicule which filled the temple, gathered in darkened corners and assailed the lesser Silk.

“Your life,” Xion seemed to be moving though Silk could not be sure. His mind was sluggish, groggy. “Do not make me laugh.”

“Your life is worth nothing to me.”

Silk, confused, gawked, “Then why?”

“You brought me salvation once and I have come to repay the favor.”

Memories of exile flooded his consciousness. In a flash Silk remembered Yinchorr, remembered Lord Maim stranding him on that desolate rock with his brothers of the guard. An instant was enough, he remembered it all. The trials... the tribulations...

“The fleet,” Silk breathed the words. “You have come to liberate us.”

Again that mocking laugher reigned.

“Do not be a fool, boy. Surely Maim taught you better.”

Silk did. “A Sith does nothing for free.”

“Indeed, my boy.”

Xion was in front of him, breathing his deathly breath and flooding Silks nostrils with it.

“Your escape, your liberation, you must earn for yourself. The time will come, but for now I bring you only survival. Take what you want, kill those who invade your prison. Their goods will sustain you, and your men, until you are ready to free yourself.”

“Use this time, remember the teachings of Lord Maim. Grow stronger in the force and when you are ready there will be no obstacle which can keep you imprisoned.”

“And,” Silk asked, “what do you want?”

Xion, the statue face, sneered.

“I will take what I want, but for now know that your discomfort is my bliss.”

He did not understand. He doubted he ever would.



“Brother,” the word cut through the haze like a warm blade through butter. “Brother, you must awake!”

He was being shaken, jarred to alertness by one of his crimson clad counterparts.

Silk pried open his eyes gazing past his brother, gazing instead at the flat gray sky high above.

“The enemy is escaping! We must pursue!”

“No,” said Silk in a whisper. “We cannot escape.”

“But,” the warrior was begging. “We must!”

His impertinence gave him strength. Silk snapped bolt upright with the speed of a striking serpent.

“No!”

Resuming the role of leader, of commander, “Let them go. Have the men gather up all captured supplies, everything and anything we can use.”

“When you have done as I demand,” Silk stood. “You will gather the brotherhood in the caves.”

Unsure, but trusting in the word of the man who had seen them through so much, the guardsman complied.




“Feed of the Dark Side,” he told them.

They gathered around, kneeling on the floor of the Temple. Bare rock welcomed them and bare, unadorned rock surrounded them.

Lord Silk scratched a finger in his beard and, standing, moved among them.

“The Force is the source of all power, all strength. When the enemy comes you must be ready.”

A tension, the knotting of a shoulder muscle, gathered along the nape of his neck. Warned of dissension, a clear sensation of doubt echoing through the force like so much debris, Silk rounded on one of his followers, his subjects. Sure enough the object of his attention, a gnarled man in his early thirties, had just spread his lips to speak.

Set with the intense, studious and watchful eye of Lord Silk, the man froze.

“Yes,” Silk encouraged. “Out with it.”

Having cleared his throat, the man spoke. “You speak of the enemy who will come and the enemy we will conquer to return to the skies…. You speak of this thing often but it never came to pass. Year after year we waited but it never came and now, that it has, you turn your back on salvation. Still we remain in exile here!”

“The Force is a dangerous mistress,” offered Silk by way of a reply. “And visions of the future are rarely clear.”

“What would you prefer?”

“That we break off from this blasted rock before we are ready? Have I not taught you the ways of the Force, brought to you the touch of the dark side? Can you not see that I am your only hope for salvation? If I say that the time is not right then you know it to be true.”

“The time is not right.”

Of course no one spoke.

Time and the Force are cruel mistresses.

So many men with no women trapped on a desolate rock for a decade…

… the words painted a picture that was only so pretty.

Once upon a time, as the sworn Hand of Dark Lord Maim, Silk had been instructed in the ways of the Force and how to attune himself to the Dark Side. His mentor and teacher, Maim was a master of the Sith and had instructed Silk in the ways of that ancient, lost culture as well. Those teachings had transcended Silk alone and had turned his band of exiled Guardsmen into a formidable force. Had it not been for his considerable abilities, identified and exploited by Maim, it is likely that none of them would have survived so long. In many ways their isolation had initially been a boon to their development but, over time, that boon had become a bane that threatened to topple the precarious power structure imposed by Silk himself.

“So many men, we are so many who, despite the odds, have lived on this god forsaken rock for years. Tribes turn people like us into gods.”

The words ‘and this too shall pass’ came immediately to mind…

… and faded into an unforgiving abyss.

Dioan Silk smiled.

“I tell you that our liberation will come and it will.”

In truth his visions had been growing more acute. The time was coming ever closer. He knew this though not how. As they moved ever closer to the event his dreams became more clear. Most recently a new face had begun to resolve itself as an omnipresent force in his future, a powerful manipulator responsible for the things to come. He had not shared this secret with anyone. Nor did he share the name of its herald, Xion.

“We will begin construction of a new defensive line tomorrow. The men have too little to do and so you will keep them busy. Those not on duties will be running battle tactics. Keep everyone busy, focused.”

Devotionals followed. The men all pledged their loyalty anew and recited their traditional prayers. A melding, a guided meditation followed this and eventually, as with every meeting, Silk dispensed some new piece of wisdom. Trivial or pivotal, the men lived for these tidbits the way others lived for sports.

And then, alone in the Temple, Silk slipped into a deep meditation that lasted until the next day, dozens of hours later.

He dreamed of officers in white, of great angular shapes moving through turgid black soup and of a future both promising and terrible and he wondered how long he would be able to keep the truth a secret…


Time passed, much as it always did, and the words of Silk, of Xion, of Maim, came to fruition.

Old guard had met new guard, the forces of one Baron Admiral Telan Desaria.

Battle met, the two had shared in the bloodshed.

And at its close the man known as Dioan Silk was brought before his conqueror and his liberator.

A man of brilliant strategy and possesed of a stringent sense of honor, Desaria had deigned to deliver Silk and his men to the Sith, to the Empire's Sith Order as the once loyal guardsmen had asked. His logic, his reason for this request was diverse but included a value which, in recent history, had helped shape Silk much as Maim had shaped him earlier; Xion.

Alas, the dark side did not deliver Xion to him. The Dark Lord, absent from the Order proper, had last been seen in Hapan space, the domain of one Lupercus Darksword. But where the force closes a door, it opens and window.

So began the relationship which would become so pivotal to Silk and to the Galaxy, the union of student and teacher, the beginning of a campaign to burn the old Order to the ground; the Palestar.

In recent months Silk had been feeling overwhelmed by his responsibilities.

Or perhaps more acutely, underwhelmed by its returns.

Going strong, the Crusade labored on half way across the galaxy under the leadership of his pupil, Dacian Palestar. Silk had his planet, Xa Fel, he had the Crimson Emperor and all that entailed. Others had joined his cause, his little sub-sect of the Palestar Crusade, they had brought with them culture, technology, knowledge. His forces, his assets, continued to grow with prodigious pace and while he knew, felt it necessary, that to spread his will across the stars all these things, mere means to an end he found himself growing weary of micromanagement.

Increasingly he found his thoughts wandering.

The pursuits of the material world bored him. Beyond the physical proportions which confined and limited lesser beings was another world, a dimension in which anything and everything was possible. This, the realm of the Force, truly interested Silk. A master of the Sith arts, he contemplated, did himself a disservice pursuing the trivialities of a mortal shell. Silk was, in his right and by any comparative scale, a master of the mystic realm and yet part of him remained simply, merely human. Splitting his ambitions between the realms, he could not devote his full attention to either one.

History was rife with tales and failures of those, Jedi or Sith, who split their lives between the two disciplines and while a Sith, or Jedi, strong in the force could assure his or herself of a place in the annals of history, suited to rule those lesser beings, their power paled in comparison to those who, throwing off the coils of a mortal substance, instead threw themselves entirely in to their more ethereal ambitions. Those prodigious beings who used their strength to build empires, to shape the history of others, often rose to predominance quickly. However, as the saying went; the flame that burns the brightest is the first to burn out.

Contrary wise, the great masters whose attention remained focused, not split between this world and that, rarely achieved the sort of political or military strength of their counterparts. Their rewards, not vast empires or mountains of wealth, were a deeper understanding of existence and, in many cases, the opportunity to continue exploring the infinite even unto mortal death. When history remembered them, it was not typically as tyrants or great kings, but as deep thinkers and philosophers. Wide and far, their names were spoken only in circles of similarly inclined truth seekers.

History would remember Emperor Palpatine unto the end of the ages.

Others, such as Master Yoda, could be more easily overlooked.

For Lord Silk, in this time of self doubt, he was unsure how history would remember him or even how he wished it to.



“Silk.”

He spoke his own name in to the abyss.

Only the still, eternal silence answered him. Cold and unforgiving, the stone walled chamber with its dominating obelisk gave him no reprise.

“Maim,” he uttered.

Still nothing.

“Xion,” his voice echoed.

What solace did he expect? That from the black would come an answer?

No.

That's not how it works.

Life is not an answer, it is a question. Life is the question.

Living...

Living is the answer.

“Palestar...”

Stop stalling.

Stop stalling.

Stop stalling...

He stands, unwavering.

The plains of eternity stretch out in to the infinite endlessness.

“I feel a wind,” he observes.

His words are but thoughts, dreams of words.

This is the ghost of reality and he is but a specter.

He is but a spectator.

“The wind changes,” his guide agrees. “You know which way the wind is blowing.”

He nods, turns toward his guide and bows.

“Do not supplicate yourself to me. You know my face, my name.”

“Xion,” he speaks to the guide, naming it and giving it substance. “Aspect of Ren Janggar, Jedi.”

Darkness encroaches. It closes in, encircles him like a growing storm. And so it is; clouds manifest.

“You do me a disservice,” the guide, Xion, declares angrily. “Do I name you thus? Silk; aspect of Dioan Silk, servant or slave or soldier.”

“No.”

The guide, Xion, looks upon Silk and in his eyes sees the banshee, the storm, brewing.

“Why do I not?”

Silk, the dreaming projection, contemplates. His ethereal body wavers.

Hesitantly, he guesses. “I am only what I am now. You are only what you are now.”

“Good,” the Sith guide extends a claw like appendage which grasps the dreaming Silk by his shoulder. “We exist in this moment. In each moment we exist and in the next, are reborn.”

“This,” the guide teaches, “differentiates our doctrine from theirs. Where we accept that our past has conspired to bring us to a point in time. We accept that events passed shape who we become from one moment to the next. They, however; dwell upon it. They exist in the present yet they also exist in their past. We recognize that which has existed no longer exists. Time moves in one direction. The force moves with it.”

“Then, spirit, you suggest that while I was once different what I am now is truly important. Time cannot move backwards and so I weaken myself by letting that which has been affect what is now and will be?”

Spectral, immaterial, the ghost of Xion nods but only half.

“They exist in the past, the present and the future. Their lack of focus weakens them.”

Silk, watching the clouds recede, gazes in to the infinite abyss.

“Then what of plotting, of planning for the future?” He asks.

“The willful shape the future,” answers the ghost, the projected part of Xion. “They shape the future by accepting it will come and yet living entirely in the now.”

“Where do you dream we are now?” Xion inquires. “This place; is it simply what you see in your dream of the force or is it what the force dreams of you?”

“Which world is more real, Silk? The one which you inhabit in your daily routine or this, the dream-scape which exists between waking hours, when you meditate deeply?”

Silence follows.

Thunder comes next. It sounds a thousand miles away. The physical sensations, he imagines, feel much closer.

“The astral and the physical are both real,” Silk answers. “One cannot exist without the other.”

Xion, his helmeted gaze toothy and fanged, looms close. It swells up, consumes Silks vision, and becomes omnipresent.

“You are only half right, Silk.”

“You will understand.”

“You will understand when the time comes.”

“You will understand when the time comes for you to cast off your physical self and become one with the force.”

“But for now...”

Xion, the unreal, releases him.

“You must wake.”