Through the force he felt it. Through his connection to his men and through the battle meld he had established between them, he felt it.
Death washed over him via the dark side. It collected in the depths of his soul like grime in muddy corners and threatened to spread like cancer throughout the rest of his being. Every fiber of his soul burned fighting to resist the pull of painful, empty death; harbinger of the dark side of the force. The enmity he felt swelled up inside his belly like the bile of some monster, stained the back of his throat with blood and made him grind his teeth as though the bedrock of some continental drift pressing endlessly against nature.

In the distance, separated from him by the fog of war that permeated the inside of the Sith temple, a great disturbance in the force had just revealed itself with such ferocity that, in taking place, it sent ripples through the force radiating outward with the speed of a tsunami and just as much potency. At it center resided death. It moved outward through reality with the force of a thermal detonation incinerating anything, or anyone, unfortunate enough to be caught up in its wake.

Rending him asunder, Silk staggered. Urgently searching for the source Silk threw up his own defenses, cautious lest it spill over him, only to find the force faint to his touch as if withdrawn or drawn upon too heavily. Still he applied pressure and found himself rewarded as his own wards grew stronger.
Roaring aloud he commanded his men forward, those who remained, telling them to fill their lines and not fall back in the face of such unrelenting defenses. A small victory, gauged Silk, having lost so many to take down a single Sith Knight, one known to Silk previously as Darth Necros. His loss, though notable, had come a great expense to the Crusade.

“If they can die,” Silk decreed aloud, “then we can kill them!”

To support his claim the Sith Lord directed the attention of those near him towards the corpses of apprentices and initiates strewn about, those killed by the Crusaders, adding emphasis to the void left by the deceased Knight. In loss he found a victory and clung to it, dwelling upon that sensation before sending it outwards through his battle meld to the mind of his men, reassuring them that their fight was winning. Silk swallowed his doubts, shutting them away from contaminating the morale, the force-bolstered will, of his soldiers.

Advancing among a close guard of his personal elites Silk closed on a Sith student fighting valiantly to drive off the Crusaders, to save its own life from the death that was almost certain now. But even as he neared the student another sensation came to him, a premonition.

Silk had never been a powerful precognitive visionary. Though, with much strain and support, he could tap that aspect of the force he had always been a soldier first and as such his connection with the future was closely connected to the emotions of battle. During his time with Dacian in the Unknown Regions he had been forced to develop this talent but, in truth, the gift belonged to Dacian and it was only due the formality of their relationship that Silk could access it through his student.

Now, however; he felt with crystal clarity a sensation of pending dread. Try as he might, no direction would come to him. A moment of despair came upon him, an uncomfortable and unfamiliar sensation to be sure, in which he honestly feared that unknown future. It is, he realized, a remarkable feeling – to see doom in ones own future yet unknowing as to the nature of its manifestation.

Then, by blessing of force, fate, or coincidence, he happened upon a flurry of activity in the periphery of his vision. Where once Darth Vicirus had stood a flurry of swinging sabers existed now a void. As the combatants, Sith and Crusader, flooded in to the void, filling it as even now they flooded the carnage ravaged blast radius that had previous been occupied by the Sith Knight and gods know how many of his Crusader ilk.

Where had the Sith Grand Master gone?

And then, in a flash, he knew.

It might have been the temple walls, edifices imbued with the alchemy of the Sith. It might have been his own preoccupation with everything going on inside the temples. It may have even been the temple doors, now closed against the ongoing orbital bombardment, that had shut him off from his soldiers still outside the structure itself. More likely, it was a combination of multiple factors. Regardless of the cause, the source of his consternation sucked at his soul.

"Get back!"

Lord Silk was screaming.

Lord Silk yelled, he shouted. He did not scream.

And yet…

"Get back," he screamed, found himself straining his voice.

Something was very wrong.

Dioan Silk had seen a great many things in his years. His many years of training in the dark side of the force had exposed him to a wide variety of sensations. A lifetime of altered perceptions had left him with a very expansive grasp of reality.

Nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing…

Only once before had he felt anything like this. On Ziost, long ago, his old mentor Lord Maim had summoned a Force Storm to drive off the Sith lingering in his keep. Then, as now, the sensation had been overwhelming but to a different degree. Where, then but an apprentice in the ways of the dark side of the force, the resulting effect had made him sick to his stomach, this was far worse. Open as he was to the force, connected to his men through a faint but viable force-bond, the effect crippled him both physically and mentally.

To his knees, he fell. Palms pressed against the masonry of the temple he felt it echo through the walls and like lightning, pass through him. The edges of his vision turned black. He struggled, drawing on the force to fight off unconsciousness but it availed him not.

As the shores of consciousness began the slow fade towards the uncertainty of unconsciousness he realized that this was no small thing, that the event horizon looming before him had been precipitated through the force by the likes of himself. Representing a conduit between all those factors and as attuned to the force as he was, Silk succumbed to the blow back.

Like a fuse in the force, he was about to trip, to blow.

Vance Jas had escaped. He knew not how, he knew only that in his absence the Grand Master of the Sith had summoned a most ferocious aberration of the force that, even now, continued to wreak havoc among his men trapped outside the temple walls. A great devastation had been wrought against him, against his, and in his confusion the Sith Lord had failed to react until it was too late. In a flood the deaths of those unfortunate souls came to him, coupled with the losses clustered in the recesses of his mind, and spawned a mass of death which tied itself to him in the force.

Falling in to the bleak abyss, tumbling in to the dark, he cursed himself. He cursed Vance Jas and he cursed Dacian Palestar.

As reality faded, the noises distant and subdued, the smells and tastes like a forgotten memory, Silk found himself floating through the morass of the dark side. But this was unlike his previous sojourns in to the ethereal mists, it felt different as if the force were straining to support his presence, straining to support its own continuance. More over, while each voyage was different from the last, and the next, Silk had the distinct impression that this was no normal communion with the dark side.

His transcendence complete Silk stood, as he would in the world of the real, upon an endless plain that stretched in to infinity in all directions. This was, he realized, totally unlike any astral projection he had previously embarked upon or been privy too through his years of study and research. Every bit of him felt tangible, real. It was as though he had been removed, utterly, from the world of substance and placed in this, the swirling mists of the world between life and death, between reality and the force but this was impossible, he knew. No man, living or dead, could accomplish such a feat. No man, no woman. No alien. No one.

Heretic, blasphemer that he was, force-mystic that he had become, Silk wanted nothing more then to examine this riddle, to explain how he had come to be here, in this place. The dark side of the force had other ambitions, it seemed for as he stood unmoving in contemplation he found his flesh beginning to warm uncomfortably. The sensation quickly progressed to an outright burning spurring Silk to action.

Taking in his surroundings Silk was at first surprised to realize that he was not seeing this manifestation with his eyes, not looking upon it with his own piercing gaze, but rather seeing it through his minds eye and so, curious, forced open the lids of his eyes. They felt as if drawn shut by the weight of all the souls he had turned to the Crusade forcing him to draw deeply on his connection with the dark side to force them open. Immediately he regretted have done so.

He had not, he knew, been immersed in the world of the force. He was not projecting himself in to the force, nor was he between the worlds as he had one thought. Looking inwards and outwards he came to understand. Silk was standing in the center of the Force Storm turning itself over Xa Fel.

“This is not possible,” he remarked aloud and found his voice overshadowed by the cacophony raised by the summoning. “I cannot be here…”

All the same, in the face of his doubts, he could see the temple below. The storm had already consumed the majority of his forces beyond the temple walls and those that remained had clustered themselves in their barges taking refuge behind the temple by placing it between themselves and the Sith edifice. Swimming around him were the tormented souls of those whose lives had been claimed by the storm and they lunged at him as if blaming him for their tortured state, they clawed at his burning flesh tearing blisters open causing Silk to cry out in pain.

The storm hungered. It hungered because that was its nature and with each life thrown to it, the hunger grew stronger. A construct of the dark side, Force Storms were an inherently malicious conjuring. They were spawned by the most powerful Sith, spawned of the dark side and given life by the same and while each storm was unique, as was each summoning, they shared many common traits… or so he had been told once long, long ago by the Dark Lord Maim. Like a predator they could linger only as long as they had prey upon which to feed and like a predator they actively searched out sustenance. Worse, they behaved as wild beasts, as liable to turn on their master as anything.

The master of this creature, though lost to Silk, was connected to his creation through the dark side of the force and as with any who accessed the force, it carried the ‘fingerprints’ of its source. Pushing past the pain, his wards straining to diffuse the wrath being lumped on him, Silk found an immaterial thread glowing like a filament of the thinnest cerulean leading back towards the temple. It passed through the walls as though the were naught but air and continued deep inside, more, Silk found that he could peer along the strand like a cord of fiber optic cable and though it was like looking through a key-hole, he could espy Vance Jas, Grand Master Darth Vicirus, drawn and weak. As he looked upon the powerful Sith in his private chambers Silk felt a connection to the man, felt his own powers waning after such exertion. In that moment all animosity was lost and Silk found himself gazing upon Darth Vicirus not as an enemy to be overcome, but a peer, a student of the ever lasting dark side as he himself was. The moment passed quickly but it left Silk with a new appreciation for the task ahead of him.

An idea occurred to Silk, standing amongst the storms, but was quickly lost when a new presence, just as potent and powerful as Lord Jas, joined them in the force. It was a presence that Silk did not immediately recognize but one he had anticipated none-the-less.

“Lupercus,” he spoke to the storm.

Awed by the response to such a simple utterance, the storm seemed to shift around Silk. Suddenly, abruptly Silk found he was no longer in the eye of the storm, no longer at its epicenter. Indeed the eye of the storm, as if the disembodied eye of a gorgon, was focused elsewhere and though Silk sought to find the object of its obsession, could not discern where it’s attention lay. It was clear enough even from his vantage that the storm had shifted towards the temple.

Of course, Silk had no way of knowing of the feud between the Sith. He had no knowledge of the rift that had been opened between Vance Jas and Lupercus Darksword… but the storm did. It had been borne of, ushered in to reality, by Darth Vicirus and it carried inside of it parts of the man… his rage, his anger, and the objects there of.

In a flash Silk knew what he must do if he hoped to win the day. But first, a task seemingly impossible lurked ahead of him…

… first Silk had to extract himself from the storm.

Meanwhile, back in the temple, Silks men had clustered around his prone body forming a protective barrier the likes of which made the Maw’s black-holes seem like paltry doormen, bouncers. He had been down for less then a second before the first of his elites reacted, balancing over his body, rifle at the ready, set to absorb any errant attacks that might come his masters way. They were few, fewer now then when they had committed to the attack. Many of their brothers lay dead on the temple grounds. Enough remained however to mount an effective defense in the face of their Lord’s plight and they abandoned their squads to attend his needs.

Hundreds lay dead. The vast majority of those losses belonged to the Crusade for they had sacrificed great numbers to accomplish their ends, had thrown their superior numbers up against the few Sith living on Xa Fel and though they had laid low a goodly number of their enemies. However, if the tide of battle did not change, their advantage may well be lost.

Dacian, it seemed, had felt Silk go down. He too had broken off his attack to come to the Sith Lord’s aide. Though he continued to orchestrate the battle he knew that without Silk by his side the odds were against him and though the youth had goals that deviated from Silk’s, he responded quickly and in their best interests.

“Get him up,” snapped Dacian batting a blaster bolt away with his lightsaber. “Get him up now!”

Dumbstruck, a crimson clad brother looked upon Dacian with a blank stare. For all his training, all his courage and ability, he, like his brothers, was at a loss without their master to guide them.

Dacian was not prepared to tolerate this inaction. He clutched the man by the scruff of his collar, lightsaber still swinging defensively, and pulled him close. With eyes like swirling galaxies, Dacian stared deep in to the mans eyes and found, not fear, but confusion. In their years of exile, having formed such a close bond with Lord Silk, the men of his elite brotherhood were crippled without him. For all his mentoring Silk had never bothered to teach them how to continue without him…

“Selfish son of a bitch,” said Dacian in an even tone, speaking of Silk. “Was this man your Imperial Sovereign?”

The man nodded.

“Then get him up,” repeated Dacian. “Now.”

Urging the soldier through the force Dacian reached deep, probing the recesses of the mans mind, and found a memory, a reaction. Virtually raping the mind of his subject, Dacian turned that inclination, like a switch, to the on position and the reaction was instantaneous.

“Brothers,” the crimson-clad brethren turned at his voice, turned attentive to his directions. “Give me your strength!”

Through their connection to the force and their bond to their leader and mentor, the men of the crimson brotherhood poured their energy. In an act of dark side magic not employed since the days of Emperor Palpatine, and indeed because of his training in the technique, the men were able to give to their Lord Silk their own strength, their own presence in the force. One by one, the dozen or so men present closed their eyes and opened themselves to the force, to Lord Dioan Silk.

But, like a double edged sword, their devotion would be their undoing.

Those who retained consciousness, half of their ilk slipping to the ground unhinged, were soon batted down by the defending Sith and though Crusaders of other sorts rushed to fill the gaps left by the declining crimson-soldiers, their defenses would not protect the yet unconscious Sith much longer.

Dacian, cursing, knew it would not be enough and summoning a cadre of Void Knights to support his defenses, fell to his knees beside the Silk and, pressing his palms against the elder Sith, closed his eyes drawing deeply upon the force.

“You want to play rough,” asked the pillar of the Palestar, the father of the Crusade. “We can play rough.”

Acting as a siphon, Dacian Palestar, the man without rank or title, the man who would try to burn the galaxy, opened himself not to the force, but to the energies of those fighting around him. Crusader or Sith, Crimson Warrior or Apprentice Defender, he poured himself across the assembled fighters like a blanket of fog descending upon them and in that fog swam the tendrils of his influence which sought refuge in the beings on which they fell. Only once they found purchase did Dacian allow them to feed, like the hungry mouths of a thousand tiny force-storms they drew from their hosts energy, vast reserves of energy returning it to the man with galaxies for eyes who, in turn, poured the accumulated reserves in to the downed Sith, Lord Silk.

The effect was instant. Without fanfare or graphical illusions, Silk opened his eyes and sat bolt upright and as he rose, a dozen others, Crusaders and Sith, fell lifeless to the ground. Silk grasped the situation immediately and before Dacian could speak, Silk was up and on the move.

Sword drawn, moving to his own defense disregarding the bodies of his brothers who lay dead, Silk brandished his weapon menacingly. He paid no heed to the torn, bloody blisters that had risen on his flesh, wasted no time in contemplation. Silk simply sprung in to action. Wherever he had been, in the realm of the real or the abstract, he had learned, foreseen what must be his strategy. Whatever had downed him, Dacian’s quick response saw Silk rejuvenated, refreshed and ready to press the fight home.

“We have lost the landing zone,” Silk informed Dacian. “Our forces beyond the walls have been obliterated save a small contingent taking shelter against the construct brought forth by Vicirus.”

Dacian studied Silk as if weighing their options and for a moment Silk though he caught the vestiges of doubt showing through on the younger mans face. They were left with a number of troops, and though they still outnumbered the defenders, their vast advantage was quickly dwindling.

“Retreat is not an option,” Silk stated point-blank to reassure his partner in crime. “The day is still ours.”

The Sith temple rumbled punctuating Silks bravado indicating that their forces in orbit still maintained air superiority. The option to reinforce was ever present, as Dacian was clearly considering, but until the storm was dealt with they could not hope to land additional forces. Furthermore, the violent exchange of force-powers was limiting their escape options. Indeed, due the powers being brought to bear, the fabric of the force itself felt electrified and strained. There was no telling how much more it would sustain before something drastic.

“Vicirus is out of the fight, for now.” Sith engaged a trio of apprentices as he spoke, batting their attacks away and nimbly dodging the few that managed to break his defenses. He was fighting with renewed vigor. “But his influence will be our salvation.”

Dacian had his own objectives to achieve, their time pressed however; Silk did not have time to reveal the depth of his strategy to the lad though he hoped their connection would be enough to fill the gaps. “Go, now. Leave me to handle these… peons.”

In truth the remaining defenders were of little concern to Lord Silk. His sights were fixed on another target, a presence new to him but well known to the storm tearing across the temple. As the rumblings grew to a crescendo Silk wondered if it was not just his bombardment guns shaking the foundations. “The storm, it seems, hungers.”

Dacian, content, started off in another direction taking with him the Void Knights and leaving Silk to his own work. All that remained with Silk now were his handful of elite guards and a larger number of recruits, but it would be enough. Turning his focus towards that new presence lurking in the depths, Silk moved towards its source leaving the trio of apprentices bloodied and broken only to be stopped in his tracks by one of his own.
“Lord Silk,” called a communications officer. “The Emperor is under attack! The Empire has arrived!”

The Sith, in no mood for such paltry interruptions, scoffed. “Destroy them. If Baron Admiral Desaria has not sense enough to leave well enough alone, then his forces can share the same fate as these…”

“Now leave me be,” Silk started towards the catacombs instinctively. “I have bigger fish to fry.”

"Lupercus... I am coming for you and I am not alone."

They had gone. Fled, either into the shadows, or in the case of Vicirus, into thin air. The battle had gone from raging to over in a matter of moments, with only a handful of the most headstrong Sith having stuck around to fight the Crusade’s overwhelming numbers.

The Crusaders were suddenly, in a strange twist, entirely alone. This would not last, however, for Dacian had goals of his own to accomplish and now that the Sith had been brushed out of the way (albeit only temporarily), it was time to pursue them.

The Void Knights, though reduced in numbers, immediately formed up around their master. In the aftermath of the Force storm’s coming, Silk had taken the bulk of the crusader army to engage the remaining Sith wherever they had gone. Wether or not he succeeded, this would prove a useful distraction.

Whatever the Sith’s plans, or their thoughts on their own invincibility, for a moment the rulership of the temple had been usurped. Pausing in the center of the grand entrance hall, utterly unopposed, Dacian could sense a change in the atmosphere of the building around him. An illusion had been shattered, right there at that moment, and no matter what came afterwards, the Sith - and the galaxy, perhaps - would remember.

Satisfied some arcane purpose had been served, Dacian and his servants set off down the winding corridors of the temple.



Eyes unseeing. Feeling around in darkness, trying to find balance in an invisible infinity stretching in all directions. Purpose without direction. Desire without release. Form without matter. Such was the existence of the Maiden.

Where her pawns had fell one by one to the designs of the predator, the huntress had watched and learnt. Pouring her bottled malice and blind hate towards this new target, her long-bound frustrations found a new target. In her mind, predator became prey, so that when at last the Sith woman stepped out into the open, the Maiden was watching, ready to strike.

"Huntress, your allies are dead. It is you and me now, alone. Show yourself."

With a roar more bestial than that which she pursued, the Maiden came leaping from the treetops, lightsaber blazing in a purple arc that sliced through the sky. With a crash, the two sabers collided and the duel began.

There, in the heat of battle, the Maiden revealed exactly why she was Dacian’s right hand. The tiny knot of her former self spewed forth all its’ fury into every swing of her saber. Knowing her foe was a master of stealth and trickery, the Maiden focused every ounce of her hate through sightless eyes, staying trained on her target above all else.

“I’ll kill you!” she shrieked, keeping up her wild assault. An observant eye would have noticed how, even through her blinding anger, the Maiden was still driving her enemy towards the pit trap. Her foe was apparently such an observant person, however, for she deftly leapt to the opposite side of the pit to avoid falling. Briefly separated, the Maiden panted and growled across from her enemy.

“I’ll kill you...Dacian...” she seemed to mutter more to herself, before the surge of rage returned. Leaping recklessly over the pit before her target could escape, the Maiden continued the attack.



The sound of distant battle could be heard all over the temple, echoing so that it blended together into a dull roar. Some of the Sith apprentices had been found by offshoots of the Crusade forces, and even now their muffled screams were audible to Dacian and the Void Knights. Silk had not yet engaged the masters themselves, however it was only a matter of time before they would clash.

Things seemed to be going according to plan. Dacian strode with a purpose through huge and abandoned stone halls, the echoes of his footsteps mingling with the sounds of combat. The whole experience was not unlike when he had first arrived, slipping stealthily into the temple for fear of being caught. It had been the first steps on a long road to power, a road no one else must be allowed to follow him on.

His footprints would have to be washed away by blood and fire.

As Dacian walked the halls towards his unknown destination, the sound of fighting immediately in front of him caught his attention. The darkness before him parted and he saw a half-dozen Ordese wild men circling a pair of Sith apprentices. Lightsabers held at length to discourage the dumb beasts from lunging, the Sith seemed uneasy, glancing about at the circling men turned feral.

At first Dacian was unnoticed, but eventually one of the apprentices glanced up. He had the look of a Kuati, and his hair was thickly braided. Quite suddenly, a flash of remembrance lit his features. “You!” the apprentice hissed, causing his colleague to turn and give him a quizzical look.

This opening was all the Ordese needed, and three of them immediately jumped the second apprentice, dragging him screaming to the ground and wringing the life from him. Turning in terror, the Kuati apprentice tried to run, but quite suddenly the Void Knights accompanying Dacian came alive, running the unfortunate man into the ground. The rest of the Ordese were hot on his heels, going so far as dragging him out from under the Void Knights to rip him apart.

“Yes,” Dacian said flatly, staring into the young man’s dying, disbelieving eyes until the last. “Me.”

Getting to his feet once more, Dacian spared a moment to flick his head towards a darkened offshoot corridor. The Ordese eagerly bounded down in search of more prey, and Dacian and his troops continued on their own path.



The space above Xa’Fel had become the setting for a heated and bloody clash. With every blast from the Empire’s heavy guns, firing one after the other like a constant heavy rain, the shields and armour of the Laziks vessels buckled. Were it not for their fear of the black behemoth they were shielding, they would have certainly broken and fled in the face of such fire. It was a testament to how much the Crimson Emperor terrified them that they were willing to sit there and absorb fire rather than risk it’s wrath.

Nevertheless, the Empire’s reputation for martial skill was well earned, and it was clear the Lazik ships wouldn’t last very long. Even as they shielded the Empire’s heavy guns from attacking the Crimson Emperor, frigates detatched from the main group to chase the Lazik away. Advancing under covering fire, they would be on top of the Lazik in moments.

The enemy fighters, however, were still running up and down the body of the mighty Crusade capital ship, infuriating its’ point defenses. A mob of Lazik fighters came streaming after them, everything from clunky uglies to badly maintained Tie Defenders to rusted X-wings pursued the Imperial ships and trapped many between their mass and that of the Crimson Emperor. Those that remained had the good sense to back off.

Just in time, too, as the first troop transport barges came surging up from the planet with some evacuating Crusade ground forces, desperate to escape the Force storm below. Just a fraction of those on the ground, it nevertheless noted a change in the Crusade’s tactics. As the Lazik ships moved to maintain their shield, the Crimson Emperor oriented itself in preparation of departure.

As Imperial frigates moved to engage the Lazik line, a fresh flank of the Crimson Emperor turned to face them, its’ many huge and archaic-looking guns hurling very modern death at the Imperial ships, blunting their advances as well as their prows. If the enemy dared to move into the firing range of the great beast, it was clear, then they would pay in blood.

Perhaps more significant still, though, was the growing storm - now just barely visible from orbit, as a tiny, throbbing black speck. An ill omen indeed for all who laid eyes upon it.



The Void Knights and Dacian had managed to avoid any further confrontations with the Sith, though the occasional faint noise or flitting shadow suggested that their scattered numbers were waiting to strike the moment they had regrouped.

Here and there they came across bodies, victims of the fighting, but most disturbing were a few of a new sort. They were bestial and monstrous looking things that defied description, and Dacian did not doubt this was the new contender Silk had stormed off to confront. It seemed the newcomers killed Sith and Crusader alike, so far as the dead indicated, but whoever they are Dacian was not keenly interested to meet them.

At last the small knot of Crusaders reached Dacian’s target, a Sith library chamber and place of records. True, it paled in comparison to some of the famed depositories of Sith lore, or to the vast Jedi archives once housed on Ossus, but here the Sith kept the histories of this temple, recording what knowledge and discoveries were gleaned by the current generation of inhabitants.

Unsurprisingly, the Sith had neglected to guard their libraries, likely due to their poor defensibility and a desire to stay mobile and hidden. Entering unopposed, Dacian cast his eyes about the place, trying to recall faint memories of his brief apprenticeship. Satisfied that he was in the right place, he sent the Void Knights to their work with but a nod of his head.

Immediately, the Knights set out amongst the stacks, destroying records, logs, holocrons, books, scrolls - all the recorded history of the temple. All of the names of those who had studied here. All of the identities stored in secret. As fires took light and the small vault of knowledge was purged, Dacian looked about in satisfaction.

It was perhaps a strange goal, stranger still considering the massive sacrifices that had taken place to secure it, but it was just one of many they had set out to accomplish. The reasoning behind this decision might be made more clear if some of the destroyed texts could have been read before the coming of the Crusade. There, perhaps, an observant investigator would have found the only few pages linking Dacian to this place.

The last few strands of his past now before the Crusade cut away, and the bare few who recognized him either dead or converted, the man who had been Dacian before was gone. All that remained was Dacian Palestar, master of the Crusade.

Something nudged Dacian’s foot, causing him to look down. A single, battered, leather tome had fallen from a burning shelf unscathed. Without thinking much of it, Dacian lifted the book and slipped it into the folds of his robes. He had not intended to loot the library, nor did he take this as a sign from the Force that the book was important, it was simply a book, and he had taken it. He gave it no more thought than that.

Turning away from the spreading fire and devastation behind him, Dacian exited the library and returned in the direction of the temple, his Void Knights following quietly in tow.



The Force Storm that Vicirus had recklessly unleashed on his own world continued to grow. Gorged upon the souls of those Crusaders caught in the open, it rolled over the temple like a ghostly hurricane, battering the walls with more fury than even the orbital bombardment had managed in an attempt to get at those inside. Naturally unpredictable and dangerous, the anomaly hungered for those strong in the Force to feed upon.

As the ragged remains of the Crusade’s forces still outside had now fled in their ships, the storm had nowhere else to go. The Sith, who were now mostly in hiding, had some chance to avoid its’ effects, but the Crusaders and the deadly newcomers would soon both feel its’ wrath. Huge sections of the temple’s outer stonework fell away under the tearing, clawing grasp of the storm. The doors buckled and what few windows there were shattered.

It was the void at the very heart of this storm, however, the hole in the Force - the wound caused by the malice of the man who had struck it - that sucked most hungrily at those just out of reach. No matter the strength of will or devotion of those inside, this baleful eye of the storm spelt death for any it reached.

It was this baleful eye that transfixed those inside, turning it’s unnatural gaze upon the combatants.



Dacian felt the gaze of the storm upon him, as he stood in battle with a lone Sith apprentice encountered in the winding darkness. Immediately, Dacian and all of those around him shuddered as something which should not be stared into their feeble souls. Where others felt revulsion or horror, however, Dacian felt something entirely different.

All thoughts of the battle around him forgotten, Dacian turned to gaze in awe at the eye staring him down. Physical obstacles melted away, until he felt as if he were staring directly into a pinprick hole in the universe itself. Beyond was an absolute nothing, a true void, and as he watched the very souls of those who had been consumed by it were squeezed through this narrow aperture to an absolute oblivion.

Thankfully his servants managed to recover and slay his opponent, for it took Dacian a few moments more to snap out of the sudden vision. All thoughts of his myriad goals and plans were gone.

“We must find a way out of here,” he stated aloud, an unusual move considering he had no need of verbal communication. “The Sith can rule a throne of rubble. Our work here is finished.” With the temple now ominously rumbling from the damage it had sustained, this could very well be the truth.

The Void Knights were unable to feel uncertainty or curiosity about their master’s orders, and so simply fell in step behind him. The remaining scraps of the Sith and the temple could be dealt with by Silk - all Dacian felt was a desperate, burning need to look upon the storm himself.

Charging headlong into a knot of surprised Sith apprentices blocking his way, Dacian and his knights ploughed further into the temple.

" Are you watching this?"


" Sir?"


Commodore Handstin motioned to the main level of the bridge with a thick-fingered hand. Captain Odin mutted a few commands to the men around in the crewpit and headed aft to the steps. He made his way up and marched forward to where the task force commander stood, intently watching the battle unfold. At first, the Anariah's captain could see nothing out of the ordinary. Two squadrons worth of fighters remained near the enemy suprtship, firing off what munitions they had then contenting themselves to scurry about and distract the slow traversing heavy guns; two forces of frigates sparred unevenly halfway between the pair of heavier Imperial ships and the Super Star Destroyer cousin. If anything stood out, it was the bout between the frigates. The Imperial craft had been reduced to five but were maneuvering in two groups against their opposite numbers, giving off broadsides then splitting and running by broad arcs and swift thruster-aided turns like a ballet lit by fire.


" The frigates. Watch." The Commodore turned to the starboard crewpit and the extra crewman at the relay station for the super turbolasers. " Senior Chief, hold fire on both turrets. Turret One at full recharge is to fire in sync all three guns at the center of the enemy flagship."


Brown haired and bulky, Henrold Odin had always reminded new officers and men alike more of a barrel-chested Sergeant Major more at home in an Army or Fleet Assault Corps uniform than that of a Captain of the Fleet. Fitting the image many had of him, he was never one easily intrigued or amused. Try as he might, he strained to find something tactically significant about the moving ships in an unequal action: the one-less Imperial ships had destroyed all but five of the once nine-strong enemy formation.


The Seydlitz-class Heavy Cruiser running behind the mass of the Mark V Star Destroyer continued to fire its pair of STL-4s at the enemy with little success, one shot careening through the void and hitting with great force the forward shields of the slowly moving horror-craft that blocked Xa Fel with its masonry encrusted mass. Captain Odin watched the first blast and saw oddly enough one of the opposing frigates, this one with a tiny command section and bloated hull with a type of solar wing as a dorsal fin move towards the blast. The first shot missed the ship by a cruiser-length, the second, spaced out to preserve the steady-fire effect, hit the mismatched vessel square in the center. The bloated belly exploded, releasing what looked like grainish cargo into the stars; the fin vaporized and was torn free of the hull by such a terrible explosion in such a small space.


" Firing!" called the STL battery technician on the bridge, averting his eyes from the dying craft to the forward most turret on the battleship's centerline. Under his jackbooted feet, the Captain could feel the ship roll slightly on its axis when all three guns spat fire in tandem. Bathed in the light of their discharge, the turret looked almost impish with the three guns at full recoil. Odin quickly looked towards the enemy supership in time to watch all three shots slam into a speeding frigate which was heading directly into the path of the shots. The explosion was magnificent as its reactor was pierced and shields overloaded in one swift second, long tendrils of flame strehcing out to touch the weak shields of a Fire-class Frigate which coruscated blue at the touch and broke off as quickly as it could.


" What the hell?"


Handstin looked at his flag captain with a grin on his face. " I'm not sure why, but those frigates are moving into our fire-path. That's why only a shot or two has hit that battleship. Destroy those frigates and we can finally lock horns with that beast."


Odin shuttered. He would much rather let the STL's pound the frigates and let time be the factor - then Admiral Thomas would arrive, guns blazing. If that ship was as powerful as it looked, he might find only Imperial debris when he arrived. " Aye sir. Guns, target those frigates. Keep us at maximum STL range with the enemy battleship, deploy the cruiser forward to drive off those frigates."


The Seydlitz-class Heavy Cruiser was a powerful little ship, sporting a cylindrical hull before poweful drive engines and a nearly stem to stern reactor ro power to the pair of dorsal turrets mounting an STL-4 each. Of course, due to such power in such a small frame, she had only a few other guns, relying on the massive cannon for intimidation and firepower. It was confidence well placed. She fired off another shot before leaving her position behind the Destroyer, looking almost as if she was bating the frigates with her stately lines and angular command tower. The Fire-class Frigates, now down to four, joined her in formation and the menagerie of enemy ships swooped towards her to play. Bolts of every calibre rang out, though the two heavy guns needed to charge. A flurry of movement later, the only two frigates the enemy could deploy wer running at full speed away from the pounding the Imperials could dish out.


Captain Odin smiled - it had worked. He wondered why Commodore Handstin did not look pleased. A glance back at the holographic plott able at the mouth of the control corridor showed why, making Odin'ns smile vanish as well. The cruiser, triumphant though she was, was now within the weapons range of the enemy command ship.

It didn't take long for Skygge's words to take effect. The Huntress leapt from her tree, saber ignited, and rushed forward, screaming like an animal. In that one moment, Skygge had a thought. Perhaps she is not the Huntress - perhaps I am. And an animal cornered always fights. This thought caused her to smile, as did the thought that Skygge had one great advantage over the Huntress. She could control her rage.

Skygge quickly dropped into a Makashi stance, one saber extended and waiting. The Huntress's blows came quickly and powerfully, but they were without thought, without strategy. As such, it was easy for Skygge to predict them and to simply deflect them. She knew her strenght would not permit her to block the blows directly - the Huntress in her rage was much stronger than Skygge - but she could give the appearance of strength by simply turning the blows and dodging, both of which she could do well.

Still, the Huntress forced her to retreat, back towards the traps Skygge had set. A foolish attempt, thought Skygge. There are more traps than the one, and I know exactly where they are. She only has an idea, whatever the Force allows her to see. At that thought, Skygge's eyes narrowed. Ducking under a strike, she confirmed what she had initially thought. The Huntress is blind.

This was going to be fun. As the next blow came, Skygge backflipped over the pit, allowing the Huntress's saber to pass under her harmlessly. The Huntress stood on the edge of the pit for a moment, growling out the words, "I'll kill you, Dacien." With that, she leaped over the pit to continue the battle...

And felt the heat of a lightsaber slicing through her unprotected stomach. Skygge, spinning away from the inevitable first powerful strike, had done a number of things in that instant. From her belt the second saber had flown into her hand, and she had caught it in a backhand grip. At the same moment it had ignited, and Skygge's spinning action caused the tip of the saber to slice open Hestia's entire stomach, from one side to the other. It was not a mortal wound, but it would be without treatment.

The Huntress's eyes widened in surprise as her advance was momentarily halted. Unlike characters in holovids, though, Skygge wasn't about to wait and let her gain the advantage. Skygge's spin ended in a vicious sidekick that sent the Huntress flying back across the pit, landing hard on the other side. But the Huntress wasn't finished yet. She rolled to her feet, moving a bit more slowly than usual, and found herself facing her adversary once more. Skygge, knowing that she was now the dominant fighter, had walked around the pit, both sabers by her side. Bringing them up, she dropped into a Jar'Kai stance, though an unusual one it seemed.

Her first stroke evidenced why. During Skygge's recent journeys, particularly in the Unknown regions, she had developed a sub-form of combat that fit her style perfectly. It combined the artful form of Makashi with the twin-saber element of Jar'Kai. It was perfect for a girl of Skygge's size and ability who wanted to utilize the deadly advantages of twin-saber combat. Having Asajj Ventress's sabers made it that much more deadly.

The strikes came quickly, little strokes that were easily blocked by themselves, but the speed at which they came forced the Huntress to duck and dodge more than block. Thoughts of offense were almost non-existant now, as all her concentration had to be focused into stopping the linked attacks of her adversary. It seemed to be one continuous stream of attacks, never stopping, never relenting, each one potentially deadly.

Finally the Huntress saw an opportunity and took it. Blocking one of Skygge's attacks, and seeing her other saber not yet ready to swing, Hestia stepped forward and drove her saber point towards Skygge's stomach, intending to impale Skygge and Dacien had impaled her. But the Sith, thinking quickly, spun away from the jab, the saber barely catching the edge of her cloak. Skygge planted her foot in front of the Huntress and slammed her elbow into her back, sending the Void Knight flying forwards to land on her face.

And then Skygge heard it. The Force storm was expanding and shrinking unpredictably, and for the first time she saw the dark clouds in the sky. Knowing from her readings how dangerous these were, she melted away into the forest, leaving the Huntress to her fate. Skygge once again closed herself to the Force and, running, headed away from the storm, sure that the Huntress would be unable to follow her. As she ran, she meditated upon the one name the Huntress had spoken in her rage - the name 'Dacien.'

Lieutenant Rechnan was having a good day.


Alarms of every kind played upon his ears, screaching as best klaxons and audio-attenuators would allow; of course, the racket had to outdo the persistent flashes of glowpanels and the light of the monitors around that still worked. In he breathed, his young lungs filling with acrid smoke that made him half-cough with every breath, but even as he wretched he smiled. To the left and right he looked, and saw the body or remains of a fallen comrade, and in one spot two droids performed what surgery they could on one petty officer fighting valiantly against death and the odds. Yes, it was a good day, even with the bridge smashed to pieces around him.


He had survived.


" Report!" he called, grabbing at the remains of his jumpsuit-top and pulling them down to expose his grimy t-shirt. The Lieutenant wiped a dirtied hand across his brow then pulled it away, revealing blood. He was not entirely sure it was his own.


" We're still behind them, but the distance is opening up. Our reactor is operating at seventy-percent."


Lieutenant Rechnan growled something low and unintelligeble - not that anyone would have heard it over the klaxons. Instead he slumped down in his chair and watched the thrown-together ship that was roughly comparable to his frigate in size and speed. A look to his left out the upper viewports revealed the other frigate, GX 682, falling behind as well. Rechnan sighed. They had done their best, and no one could fault them for it.


" We've done what we can here," Rechnan said, almost at a yell. " Bring us back to the lines. Match our speed with 682."


The Lazik ship got away and its hunters called off the hunt. Battered and scarred though they were, the pair of Fire-class Frigates looked better after a fight than the running craft ever had. They turned from their prey and oriented their noses back to Xa Fel. Lieutenant Rechnan looked down at the world, much smaller in the distance that it had been. Even then, taken so far out by the pursuit, he could still make out the sclupted form of the enemy battleship and the smaller but still powerful shadows of the Imperial warships that remained behind.


The frigates picked up speed and made as much haste as they could. Then, for a moment, time slowed.


The enemy battleship fired.


A salvo washed away from the side of the gargantuan vessel, ornate cannon recoiling as they spat fire into space by both gun and battery. Bolts rushed out into the night pushing straight and true through the vacuum. It was a horrid sight, one Rechnan had seen many times. His entire bridge - when intact - had been washed in the lethal glow of countless cannonades but then those volleys had been fired from Imperial guns served by Imperial crews. It was a different experience, a gut-wrenching experience, to see one fired at Imperial crews.


Turbolaser fire travels fast through space, not giving time in its course for its victims to prey, a courtesy afforded by most higher-yield warheads. Rechnan had time only to swallowed hard against the lump in his throat before the wave of fire found home.


A few shots struck the Anariah but the rocking of the impacts on the shields was more violent than any damage to the armored carapace that gave the ship its intimidating look. Those shots were the mis-aimed ones, though. Those on target struck the Seydlitz.


Lieutenant Rechnan watched in horror as the wave struck home, piecemeal. The first shots slammed into powerful shields, tossing man and machine into bulkhead and brace. It was no time at all, perhaps the blinking of each eye, before the shields were overwhelmed and shot after shot brought fire to steel. Armor plating was vaporized as the impacts grew together into one inferno licking at the entire port side from stem to stern. Conduits exploded and even the port fuel-cells were breached shaking a great section of engine housing loose into space. Those shots that followed had neither shield nor armor to pierce before their package was delivered and it was these misfires, these latecomers, which sounded the death knell of the Seydlitz-class Cruiser Privadorn. She listed and rolled and fell from her spot on the haunch of the Emperor's battleship, the burning shell of a vessel shaking off lifepods and debris in equal number.


Rechnan collapsed back in his chair. He was having a bad day.

And there it was.


"What do I have to do?"


The aged Perrin almost laughed out loud at the pathetic platitude.


"What do I have to do?"


A voice of humility.


A voice for enlightenment.


The tremor of soft spokenness, of earnest expression, especially in the face of such awe inspiring sights, would have allowed one in Perrin's position to feel smugly secure in their knowledge but that was, of course, an illusion.


"What do I have to do?"


Laying bare each thread of the illusion that sat cloaked upon the voiced request was all to easy for the Sith Master.



It was not a voice of humility as much as it was desperation.

It was not a voice for enlightenment as much as it was a pleading of desire.



And yet Perrin stripped those strands further and was not disappointed for he found the banal and rudimentary lie within the request.


For it was also not a voice of desperation as much as it was of purpose.

And it was also not a voice of pleading as much as it was a demand.




What did this fool want?


What was he after?



Perrin withdrew his hand from the boy's forehead and the mixture of cold and warm from his Sitting Room within the Temple suddenly flooded their senses causing him to shiver slightly. He gestured and more wooden logs were added to the fire.


He was often suprised at the lack of certain modern facilities within a structure as large as the Temple. The builders probably felt that a little cold or hot would do the Temple's residents good... perhaps toughen them up. Yet he still cursed those ancient builders for if they had access to such building materials and they knew about electricity and other forms of power, surely they could have added automated environmental controls so he would not have to freeze himself to death with this fool of an aloclyte.

That the aloclyte, Dar, did not offer to lay more logs onto the fire told Perrin that his pennitant nature was merely a cloak. But covering what he had yet to penetrate.


"You are so thirsty for this tale of Dacian that you overlook the obvious." the old man remarked, trying to clear his throat before a fit of coughing.


"That the Palestar moved against you." the alcolyte answered directly, "That you actually fought against him."


The fool had so much awe in his voice that Perrin did actually choke. On a cackle. "What? No overwhelming awe for the great Crimson Emperor?"


The alcolyte frowned. "Who?"


In truth, the Crimson Emperor was the name of the ship that the person Perrin was referring too road the galaxy in and not the person himself, ironically.


"The Lord Protector of a Dead Dark Lord," Perrin spat out, "which," he concluded, "says something about his ability to protect..."


The alcolyte stared stupidly at him.


"Doan Silk!" Perrin snapped in anger.


"Oh... he was the Palestar's greatest servant," Dar replied as if history had somehow been rewritten to fit his foolish fancy.


Perrin scowled at the comment wondering what the Lord Protector would think of himself being thought of by posterity as Dacian's minion.


Dar interrupted his musings, "So you fought against the Palestar?"


When did the fool's name suddenly become a title?


Before the Sith Master could respond, Dar clarified, "I saw your younger self clearly attempting to traverse the mountain-side to get to the battle."


It was interesting to note that Dar's hand involuntarily twitched toward his saber hilt but there was no presence of purpose on the alcolyte's face.


The Sith Master supplied his own clarification of the account, "I was too late to join the battle proper. By the time I arrived, the Palestar was in full retreat." Perrin was delighted to see that his inflection of the fool's hero caused the boy's skin to twitch.


"The Palestar is no coward!" shouted the boy and with a wave of his hand, Perrin pushed the boy back.


"Spare me your hero-worship foolish boy," the Sith Master declared unmoved. "You think there is but one reason to retreat in battle which shows just how much of a fool you are! In truth, there are three reasons to retreat in battle!"


"In truth, Master?" the boy suddenly saw vindication for the reputation of his hero.


"Oh, now I am a Master am I?" Perrin snapped back sardonically. "There is, as I am sure you know, you being a coward as to why you might retreat from battle. The other two reasons are less thought of but are no less valid. You might retreat from battle because you are brave enough to swallow your pride knowing that to commit more to a foolish endeavor is to allow yourself to lose that much more. Or, you might retreat from battle because you have already done what you came to do."


As the boy pondered this revelation born from experience, Perrin remembered the tactical analysis given by Azrael Zell after Dacian's Crusade.


How does a mob leader get his mob? By pretending he's the biggest badass out there and throwing around useless phrases like 'the galaxy will burn'.. I mean, how the fuck can fire survive vacuum? Every fucking idiot that joins the cause thinks that they will die for something larger than them which is this great big fucking burning of the galaxy. But you can be sure that unless this Dacian Palestar is an idiot himself, he is not looking for himself to die in this great big fucking burning because if he is looking for death there are a lot easier ways to accomplish it than trying to lead idiots against our guns. Chaos for the sake of chaos is not a reason. It is an excuse that the stupid use with other stupid people.

Xa Fel showed that our little crusader had a fucking revelation. An epiphany of insight which would change the strategies of future attacks. Applying overwhelming force is great an all when you don't give a shit about the numbers you throw away. But Xa Fel showed us that, in the midst of that fight, our little Dacian suddenly found that he did care about how stupidly he was throwing away his only resource to make a name for himself.

His base, the foundation worlds on which his fucking crusade started from, was probably intended to be simply throw-away worlds. And like any warlord, he ran into that age-old fucking revelation that any holomap could have shown him. That space is fucking HUGE! And the small pittance of warriors taken from these worlds, though numbering in the thousands, are just not enough to fucking take the galaxy...much less burn it. Xa Fel taught him that!

The peckerwood thought he could unzip his fly and show the universe his dick. And when he got it lopped off he had to run away like the castrated eunich that he was.

Now the bastard is meaner for the lesson learned. And so now our young warrior conquering, crusading bastard finds that he must not only maintain his foundation worlds, but he must protect them for the pussies they are and add to his budding new empire to keep up with the constant resupplying his dipshit military leaders require.


Otherwise, his great big fucking galaxy burning will be nothing more than a fucking grass fire.


Perrin knew Dar would have had a heart-attack if he had felt the full brunt of Old Zell's cutting remarks of his hero. The Imperial had a way of turning even the most innocent of girls dressed in pretty white dresses into cheap whores and the beautiful flowers they held into pieces of shit.


"The Palestar also attacked the Imperial Occupation Zone," the boy remarked as if trying to justify a strategy of a bygone era that did not require the justification of the living anymore.


But that did not invalidate the strategy for history is the ultimate judge of such things and with the wisdom born to Perrin Descartes of hindsight, he did feel the move to attack in the Occupation Zone was a worthy one.


For was this not also the strategy he had used on Xa Fel?


Even as the Double Blind held sway over the fate of the battle or the fate of the Temple itself there was found much confusion sown within the turmoil.

Powers unleashed both from the starry heavens above and from the defending masses below smashed friend and foe alike.


It was into such confusion that Dacian penetrated the Temple and found himself standing not at the command of any Sith Master but by his own will and power.


It was into such confusion that Dacian's second attack of his Crusade upon the galaxy at large poured his armies setting their sights on the Imperial Occupation Zone.


"There is a quote," started the old Master, "that the Lord Protector Doan Silk liked to espouse: 'A Sith's worst enemy is himself, or his fellow Sith.'" Perrin's eyes narrowed as he tried to recall the old speech, "'This, we Crusaders, have overcome. Your will is our own, our ambitions a single goal; to see the galaxy burn! First on the altar of sacrifice - the Sith Order, pretenders to the throne.'"


The boy scratched his head in irritation and Perrin pointed a gangly finger at him.


"What I want from you, Dar, before you can stand before living Gods is to find the reality within that statement."


Once given a task that would allow him to cast his gaze once more upon the triumphs of his hero, Dacian Palestar, he asked for the Sith Master to repreat the quote and, with much contempt, Perrin did repeated himself.


The alcolyte grabbed at the first meaning he could, hastily saying, "He called the Sith... you! their worst enemy. He said that the crusaders had overcome you..But you are still here! So.." the boy trailed off confused not really knowing where his blabbering would take him.


Perrin clapped his hands as if a retarded individual had just counted to three and required the obligatory praise that would allow it to continue its lack of significant accomplishment.


"Their goal was to see the galaxy burn. They called the Sith Order a pretender of the throne." the old man muttered.


The alcolyte simply stared at him at a loss.


"THEY WANTED TO PLACE THEIR BACKSIDES ON A THRONE IN A KINGDOM OF ASH!" Perrin shouted.


Dar took a step back at the vehemence.


"They were not simply out to topple governments or rid the galaxy of competitors!" the old man snapped out. "Their purpose went much deeper. They wanted a Kingdom of Ash! They wanted to change the very essence of life in this galaxy!"


Perrin sank back into his heat, his bones feeling the chill that wsa not due to the winter winds outside. "To bring the world of myth into the world of reality." he whispered.


"Are you going to show me more?" the boy asked petulantly and at that moment, Perrin almost lost control. If he could have swept the fool away in a Force Storm, he would have but such displays were better left to those following in the footsteps of Darth Vicirus or Lupercus Darksword. He had not the patience for such displays and even though he was a Sith Master, his experience and skill lay not in those areas of brute power.


No, what he excelled at was a bit more specialized and he was unmatched in the field. Or so he liked to smugly believe.


"Come closer." he murmured, as he sagged even further into his seat. As if he feared what he was about to do.


The boy, Dar, shifted closer, within arm's reach and now he was too close to draw his saber if he so chose too. But Perrin could see that such thoughts had left the boy's gestures for there was a disgusting eagerness that masked his features, as if he would get to see his 'Palestar' in the flesh this time around.


The memory of what followed was not a time that Perrin liked to think about. For even while the telling of this tale would show his own rise and growing significance, he could not forget the sights he had seen and the vision of Dar's Palestar.


"Let me show you hell on earth.." he whispered and touched the alcolyte's forehead once more.

The now silent halls of the Sith temple tell testament to the battle fought within. The Crusade had come, they had fought, and then they had gone; simply disappearing as suddenly as they had arrived. Some would muse on the events that had transpired for years to come, some would retell the tale of the war of the Dark Side, but ultimately they would herald the truth according to their own perceptions. Such was the way of stories from long ago, such was the implication of any fabrications, but the truth of the Crusade would be forever viewed by all as fact: a mighty army, declaring thousands and desiring destruction, had been reduced to naught by a handful.

It mattered not that the Crusade wasn’t obliterated on the planet Xa Fel, but simply that they were left without victory over their thirst for conquest.

What mattered, to those that cared to think upon the aftermath of the battle, was that the Sith Order had succeeded where others had failed. Ambushed, attacked and given no clemency, the Sith had responded in kind, demanding the same of their enemies; and while the losses were far greater for the Crusade, the small Order of the Dark Side had been further diminished. According to either side, there had been no victory, though both still remained. The aftermath held the true tale of the battle of Xa Fel, and no matter any one individual’s perceptions, the facts told as such:

A few had held against many. And those few still remain...







The Crusade were fleeing, Vicirus could sense as much. They had moved through the temple like flame within a field, and following the path of devastation left in their wake, they were seeking to return from whence they came. Some still battled in the hallways of the Sith temple, while others were carefully concealed being content in the realization they would otherwise survive the encounter.

The Sith Master, the figurehead of a now ebbed order, reclined into the meagre comfort offered by his chair. The solid backing brought stiffness to his back, reigniting the pain that had become numb following the release of the Force Storm without. In truth, the man had reacted as he believed any would have in his situation. Even if Vicirus were to look back over the events on Xa Fel, he would have difficulty truly deciding where he could alter his actions.

There simply remained the present.

As the man, who would otherwise have been in his prime, stooped to retrieve a befallen tome from the cold stone floor of the chamber, he couldn’t help but feel the very real rumble that passed through the temple. Without requiring to sense the chaos outside the temple, Vicirus knew that the Force Storm had truly become a being of its own design; no longer did the ravenous eye heed any master, no longer did it follow the will of the being whom had created it.

“Master Vicirus of Sith,” Came a stammered voice, the small form of Phenrik crossing quickly into the open chamber from an adjoining doorway. The small creature held a collection of items, each of which posed some importance to the Sith on the chair. “We must escape this temple. We must leave like our enemy, so that we might survive the storm outside. We must gather what we can, and leave immediately.”
Absently, with a distance focus in his gaze, Vicirus comprehended the words spoken to him. The voice spoke the truth, though the Sith had trouble discerning the Aing-Tii from another that echoed faintly through his mind; a sense of beckoning, a sense of realization that told of power and knowledge beyond anything possible. It seemed such a pleasant thing, really. That so much could be gained from so little almost seemed beyond belief…

“Indeed, Phenrik. We must be away, before the temple is torn apart around our very ears,” Vicirus said, though his voice was still distracted, his thoughts venturing beyond his immediate surrounding. A revelation, a truth realized, a fleeting moment of enlightenment. “I require my tomes. You gather what else you can carry, and start down to the hanger bay. I will be right behind you, though I cannot suffer the loss of my memoires…”

The small alien nodded, turning on its heel, as it rushed quickly back into Vicirus’ personal bedchamber. After a few moments of scuffling and movement, the Aing-Tii returned with a number of items heaped into the confines of a tied blanket; the makeshift bag would serve its purpose, and allowed Phenrik to carry more than it otherwise would have. Peering about, the diminutive being searched for signs of its master, but all visual sign of Darth Vicirus was gone – however the faint footsteps of someone in the far corner of the library indicated his location soon enough.

Vicirus hunched over a removed portion of shelving, his gloved hands deep within a hole carved from the very stone floor. Within were a collection of papers, holo-recordings and other personal belongings. Each contained important knowledge on the Force, the dark side and powers attained through the study of the Sith; each had been composed by Vicirus, though the name on the items was as much separate from the declining status of the Sith Master compared to hours earlier. Something had changed, some inner decision had been made, and as such who Darth Vicirus had been, and who he now was, remained as comparable to similarities in two different individuals.

“Master Vicirus, we must be away!” Came Phenrik’s voice, the Aing-Tii nervous as the temple literally began to shudder constantly, being hammered from without by the storm overhead.

“Start to the bay, I am almost done collecting my possessions,” Vicirus called back, his eyes flashing in annoyance. He simply wished to retain his discoveries, to hold them when all was said and done, without having to worry over the possibility that others might follow his path. For in the moments after the storm, the Sith had realized that each followed his own destiny; that none should want to make another’s ideals, beliefs or truths his own, lest that individual lose what makes him exactly that – an individual.

Standing with an effort, Vicirus couldn’t help but feel that his body had taken badly to the use of so much power. He felt more an elderly man than a powerful Sith, and that fact only reinforced the truth of his decision.

A crack from above, followed by the distinct howl of the wind told the Sith that the upper floor of the temple had been ripped away. The chambers that had served as his for so long, which had been kept in such perfect order, were thrown into disarray as the storm reached further down. Vicirus began to walk from the compartment, down the length of the library shelves, before stepping out into the open area allocated for his desk and chair.

Phenrik had departed, more than likely due to the deafening wind that blew through Vicirus’ personal library. The Aing-Tii had always been more a teacher than servant, and it had always done well by the Sith Master whom had demanded its lessons.

“I only hope you were not as tarnished by my presence as I was yours,” Vicirus said aloud, though his voice barely rose above the wind around him. As even more roof was torn away, the shelving began to sway, odd transcripts of paper and tomes being spewed about the room in the steadily increasing grasp of the storm.

As a final demonstration to the storms fury, the library finally gave under the stress and power being displayed. Vicirus, held in place through sheer strength of will, looked to the stones above his head; he watched, eyes once again distant, as the last portions were claimed by the maw high above, blocks of black stone swirling up and away, to be swallowed by the void. With a downward glance, the Sith Master regarded the items he held…

With a smile, gloved hands lifted upward, releasing the tomes and writings of a Sith Master. Into the storm they were taken, twirling and flying up along with the upper levels of the temple. With a keen sense of belonging, a deep understanding of his place and what was demanded of him by forces beyond his control, Vicirus opened his arms wide. Closing his eyes, the Sith Master knew only that he would soon discover the knowledge, and experience the power, that he had longed for since his path down the dark side…

And as the grasp of the storm reached finally for its creator, it was Vance Jas that allowed the void to claim him.







Above the coursing hordes of the Crusade, above the toppled form of the temple, the dark mass of power that had swallowed so much within its waiting maw withdrew within itself. The mighty winds were sucked inward, the destruction suddenly reversed as though they had been a figment of the imagination, leaving only the chaos of its wake as a reminder that it had ever been.

The storm, only moments prior having been above the temple, was claimed by the void it had been; and with a thunderous crack that resounded across the battlefield, it was consumed by none other than itself. The wind, the destruction, the bristling energy of the dark side, all ceased; and in its place there came a deathly calm, as though the will of the ravenous beast had been sated…

And so it had.

…and so it was.







And of those that remained, of those few individuals who held true to whom they were and what they believed; with the power and deeply held resolve to move worlds; so to would they strive onward on an endless pursuit that could only ever truly continue…

~ Vance Jas

The relative silence that followed the collapse of the temple and the silencing of the storm was broken only by the low rumble of the remaining Crusaders escaping to the stars. Barge after barge flew into the sky, carrying their depleted compliments of minions with them. Hundreds - indeed, perhaps thousands - lay dead on the ground below, trapped under the rubble of the temple or scattered about the clearing around it. The very earth was scorched by both mortal firepower and eldritch sorcery.

Though ground zero, centered around the temple itself, was mostly abandoned, the surrounding woods were still the sites of brief yet bloody encounters. After fleeing the devastation towards escape, small cells of Crusaders, Sith, and the strange and monstrous newcomers clashed in small skirmishes. Even these were dying down as the last Crusaders made their way back to the ships, however, so that the post-battle calm and quiet continued to grow.

Dacian and his now much-reduced bodyguard of Void Knights surveyed the site of their struggle from a nearby hill, upon which the Crimson Wing rested. Dacian watched as the last barges lifted off towards the Crimson Emperor in orbit, leaving the battlefield totally cleared of the living.

Where he had first approached the temple with a little more than a hundred bald-headed, black uniformed bodyguards, the battle had cut their numbers terribly. By fighting Sith apprentices and masters in the central hall, the mysterious monstrous interlopers as they rampaged around the temple, and lastly battling free of the collapsing temple and through the woods to their landing site, Dacian had left many of his prime servants dead in his wake. Of this he cared little - they were replaceable.

One last barge marked distinctively with red caught Dacian's eye, reminding him of one ally who was not so easily replaced. It appeared Silk had escaped intact, for his companions would not had left him otherwise. Dacian could only guess if the old mystic had accomplished whatever private purposes had motivated him during the assault.

Now entirely alone, Dacian gave one last look at the site where mere minutes ago he had lead his followers in an apocalyptic battle. Satisfied that nothing more need be done, he turned his back on that blackened earth and mounted the ramp of his vessel. The Void Knights followed behind, and the Crimson Wing prepared for takeoff.

It was then that the Maiden came stumbling through the underbrush, collapsing in a heap near the landing gear. Compelled to follow her master, even in the face of pain, death, and futility, the pathetic creature clutched her ruined stomach in one hand while grasping the landing gear with the other. “Wait,” she tried to croak, but her lungs held no air.

The soundless pleading seemed to reach Dacian’s ear, as he murmured a command to his pilots. "Abort the takeoff." Knowing better than to disobey, they did so.

As the Maiden lay there, curled in an agonizing heap, the boarding ramp came down with a dull thud a few meters away. Dacian descended the ramp and picked the Maiden up from the ground.

The treeline nearby rustled with movement. Sooner or later someone was going to find their landing zone if they didn't leave quickly. Wasting no more time, Dacian carried the Maiden aboard his ship, the ramp slamming shut behind him.

He carried the wretched figure to a spartan room, a single medical droid and a table the only furnishings. Lying the Maiden down on the table, Dacian turned to leave when he felt a feeble tug on his ragged sleeve.

Turning to see what was the matter, the Maiden transfixed Dacian with a piercing glare from behind the cloth that covered her eyes. "Why didn't you let me die?" she muttered.

Pulling his sleeve free, Dacian turned to exit the room. "You're still useful," he replied, stepping out. The Maiden passed out, allowing the medical droid to do its' work.

Dacian returned to the bridge where the pilots were becoming uneasy. "Detecting numerous anomalous heat signatures approaching from all directions," one said aloud. "Your orders, sir?"

"Return to the Crimson Emperor," said Dacian. "Put me in contact with the ship's commander, I wish to be updated on the situation." Disdaining the command chair, Dacian stood before the ship’s main viewport.

Dacian looked down at the rustling treeline. The Crimson Wing began to rumble and roar as the thrusters came alive. As it began to lift into the air, Dacian saw a black-robed figure emerge from the woods. The figure was too distant to identify, but whoever they were stopped and stared at the Crimson Wing until it took flight, leaving Xa'Fel at last.



The Crimson Wing made good time back to the flagship, the dark woods and foul landscape of Xa'Fel receding in favour of the blackness of space that was filled with the flashes of heavy laser weapons roaring back and forth.

The Crimson Emperor was holding its' own against an Imperial fleet, its' Lazik fodder either fled or reduced to scraps. It waited only for the return of the Crusader forces, but as the Crimson Wing approached, Dacian saw that it couldn't wait too long. The Imperials were using range to their advantage in order to bombard the grander warship, and even with all power to the forward shields, the position of the Crimson Emperor was far from enviable.

As the first of the barges approached the hanger, the Crimson Emperor was forced to lower its' shields to allow the Crusaders aboard. The barges hurried into the hanger, jostling for position to avoid spending too long in the deadly fire corridor. The heavier Imperial ships were too far to target them, while the lighter ones were too busy avoiding the Crimson Emperor's heavy guns to hunt them, but every STL shot that rocketed near the tightly packed transports was a reminder to hurry up.

The Crimson Wing was the last aboard, and none too soon, for the latest salvo of fire from the Imperials crashed against the overwrought armour of the flagship. Damage was superficial, but symbolic, as statuary shattered and dark mosaics melted.

The shields sprung up once more to protect the Crimson Emperor on its' escape vector. With all of its' fighters, transports, and escorts either aboard, fled, or dead, the huge leviathan plodded away from Xa'Fel alone. Its' only company were the Imperial warships that hounded it, but the fight didn't seem in them and against the full extent of the Crimson Emperor's defenses they were as flies.

Dacian went straight from the deck of the landing bay to the bridge, arriving in time to see the vastness of space spread out before them as the Crimson Emperor left the last of Xa’Fel’s system behind. Silk’s various officers and lieutenants gave Dacian a strange glance, perhaps put out by his presence, but in the absence of their master deferred to his authority.

“Approaching the edge of the mass shadow, my lord,” a particularly grizzled ship master said, his eyes not leaving the screen worked into the fine black stonework. “Your orders?”

“Sever the databank connection between the Lazik ships and our nav-computer,” Dacian replied. “It will prevent their recovery by our enemy. Then jump towards the escape coordinates and keep jumping until there is no possibility of pursuit. Once we are free of pursuers, return to Symbol. These are my orders. Your master may come and find me on the Crimson Wing if he has need of me.”

The ship master accepted the command with a dutiful nod, relaying orders of his own in hushed tones to the other bridge officers. Silk kept his crew in the manner of a cathedral, the trappings of ceremony, reverence, and superstition heavily entrenched in his followers. Even the simple task of jumping to hyperspace they handled with religious vigilance.

Dacian turned on his heel and departed the bridge. Silk would be there soon enough to take charge, to order the surviving disciples to be reorganized and oversee the departure. Dacian’s presence was unnecessary. He retired immediately to his quarters on the Crimson Wing, recognizing the denouement of the battle.

Xa’Fel was over, and as Dacian watched space twist into the lights of hyperspace, he managed to suppress a smile of satisfaction until the turbolift doors closed.

Epilogue

Blasting its’ way free of the system, the Crimson Emperor leapt to hyperspace. Those Lazik escorts who had fled the battle were caught up with and systematically eradicated, limiting knowledge of the Crusade’s involvement in Xa’Fel to the dark brotherhood directly under the thrall of Silk and Dacian. After that, it was a simple matter for the Crusaders to slip back into the Unknown regions.

The Crusader force that returned to Symbol was much reduced from that which had departed. Apart from the loss of the Lazik, almost the entire Ordese contingent had been slaughtered (not that they much cared) along with many of the fanatical Unspoken cultists, Void Knights, and even some of Silk’s elite brethren. The cost had been high, and yet what exactly had been bought was unclear.

Though few cared to wonder at Dacian’s motives for launching such an attack (and none dared to inquire directly), Dacian himself seemed to consider the assault a success.

The Crimson Emperor stayed in orbit above Symbol to repair damage it had sustained before moving on, but Dacian himself set off at once with his remaining bodyguards for his personal fortress.



The Crimson Wing detached from Silk’s flagship alone, winging through the thick clouds of smoke that filled the atmosphere of the planet below. The great silver shard in the sky reflected both the burning fires of magma beneath as well as the rays of the sun above, making it the one blinding light in an otherwise unbroken sky of smog.

It touched down on the landing pad perched high above the great fortress, outside Dacian’s personal residence itself. Disembarking immediately, Dacian crossed the parapet and opened the door to his throne room, only to see Mr. Ridley already waiting for him.

“Welcome back, master,” said Mr. Ridley, in a tone characteristically lacking in warmth or welcome. “Your orders have been followed dutifully in your absence. What was the result of your mission?”

“Success,” Dacian replied. He walked straight past his chief strategist and made for his throne, raised a level above the rest of the chamber. “A full report of casualties and repercussions will be made available to you, adjust your plans accordingly.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Ridley, offering a bow. “If I may venture a question, sir, for the benefit of my strategies - what have you succeeded in doing?”

Dacian settled into his throne, seemingly noticing Mr. Ridley as though he had been nothing but a minor feature of the room until now. “Mr Ridley, though you are an unquestionable improvement over your predecessor - ” There it was, a barely perceptible flinch “ - You share one of his great flaws.

“You solve the problems I give you, you orchestrate the events I command, and you follow my orders, yet this does not satisfy you. You must know why, seeking to piece together patterns and connections that go beyond what is asked of you. This is unnecessary.”

Mr. Ridley seemed dissatisfied with this, however, and despite his master’s displeasure he pressed on. “My work, master, presupposes that actions and reactions may be understood and predicted. If I do not know the why of something, then I cannot predict the next move.”

“So you want to predict me?” Dacian asked, his tone still even and curious even as dark undertones floated around the question.

Mr. Ridley immediately paled. “Not so, master, just better understand your goals and how I might achieve them.”

“Mr Ridley, understanding my aims is beyond the scope of your work” said Dacian, his attention beginning to wander.

“Don’t think I’m blind to strategy. In material terms, the battle of Xa’Fel was a mess. We lost up to thousands of disciples, killing in return a few dozen or perhaps a hundred of the galaxy’s most powerful individuals. A temple of incredible age, along with a great deal of knowledge and power, was utterly lost. Fleet assets the Crusade currently has in short supply were lost for little appreciable gain. Many valuable and irreplaceable assets were destroyed, including Sith and Crusaders alike. The Maiden was almost killed, and that alone might be seen as too high a cost.”

At this Mr. Ridley seemed to twitch, and his voice held a strange harmonious quality as he asked “Is she alright?”

“She’ll live,” Dacian answered, clearly dismissive. “The point is that arbitrary distinctions about ‘victory’ or ‘defeat’ are labels that serve me no purpose. By simply going to Xa’Fel, fighting this battle, that was a victory unto itself, and that is what I mean when I tell you that I have succeeded. Every battle, every war we will fight will be a victory for me, simply because it takes place.

“Regardles of what people think about Xa’Fel, or the Palestar Crusade, or me, makes no difference. What will happen will happen, and no rationalization, no greater understanding or insight will change that. Learn to rise above the need for understanding, because nothing the galaxy believes will save it from us.”

Unaccustomed to such a long speech from his master, Mr. Ridley realized it was time for him to leave. Perhaps Dacian had a lot to think about, or the aftermath of the battle had left some sort of impression on him. Either way, Mr. Ridley quickly and quietly excused himself, leaving his master alone.

There Dacian sat, brooding alone upon his throne, when a dull thud broke the silence of his sanctuary. Glancing down, Dacian noticed the leather-bound book he had taken from the burning library in the Xa’Fel temple.

Despite his strong reliance on the Force, Dacian put little store in destiny or fate. Nevertheless, even chance could play a strong role in an individual’s fate, and through them the fate of a galaxy.

Even if it was nothing, a little reading always improves the mind. Taking up the book in one hand, Dacian began to read. He would continue to do so long after the semi-light of Symbol’s day gave way to the oppressive darkness of it’s night, and long after the dust and ash had finally settled on the ruined landscape of Xa’Fel.

The fires burned all around them as they stared at the toppled tower. Perrin remembered that time of disbelief, that the Crusaders had, by sheer force of numbers and stubborn insistence penetrated the threshold of the Sith Temple.


It was as if, all at once, stone and structure that for centuries sang the song of the Darkside had suddenly dried up, blistered and flaking off like flesh from burnt skin.


An aura of power seemed to suddenly vanish and Perrin remembered knowing then as he knew now that nothing would ever be the same. The Temple had been breached and the Double Blind held sway.


Only the worthy could claim the Temple and that worth was being contested. That worth was in question.


The fighting had diminished too various localized skirmishes on the surface and down within the catacombs but their fight was no longer serving the purpose of such martial terms as offense and defense.

Worth was now involved and a hunger resonated throughout world as echoes. Force users on both sides of the same spectrum pitting their best against each other to measure...


No!


..to set a new standard.


To be that defining standard that would direct the Sith for the next decade...Direct the very threads of destiny that seemed to bind the galaxy together.


As they approached the Temple, Perrin remembered his own approach decades earlier, seeing the bodies strewn across burned earth, the wind howling against broken stone and the Force Storm raging overhead as if the Sith Order itself raged at the Crusader's sacrilege.


He remembered stumbling over the vast sea of flesh discerning both their fallen foes and the price they exacted in Sith alcolytes.


The arguement would continue for years over whether such resources indicated waste or merely a trimming of the fat and ossification that permeated the inhabitants of Xa Fel of late.


The old man peered down, his bony hands feeling the smooth black cloth of the sightless enemy that lay in it's deaththrow underfoot.


"Is that..?" Dar intruded and Perrin felt a wave of irritation.


"A Crusader." was all the old man had said. It was amazing how memory sat inside the mind, a soft and faded presence when at rest. But tactile contact engaged those long dormant images he thought he was better off forgetting and his eyes closed.


A tear streamed down his face as memory came to the fore. The cloth even felt the same as his eyes raised to view the horizon of sprawled bodies.


What was your worth?


Lives discarded for purposes yet unknown, from regions unknown, by parties....unknown.


A young Perrin came into view moving silently among the bodies, stretching out trying to learn all he could from simple observation of an enemy now dead.


The younger version stopped and turned staring straight through Perrin and Dar not perceiving their existence.


"What is he?..What are you doing?" Dar asked and Perrin felt the young fool shift into a competitive stance which amused the old man.


"Learning about our enemy." the old man whispered noting the Sith Knight grabbing objects, running his hands over them, keeping some and discarding others as if their very nature would squeeze out the secrets of these invaders.


"And what did you learn?" Dar persisted.


"That the total sum of my knowledge about this enemy was zero." Perrin shot back sarcastically and yet quietly for he remembered the confusion of emotions running through his younger self. He was not here during the battle proper and it looked like the Sith took the fight into the Temple and catacombs but he had surrendered the surface. The toppled Temple spires a beacon to all who could see that the future was in question. Worth was in question.


And try as he might, the stripping of the enemy of what little that could be found still did not produce any revelations of value.


A decision needed to be made and Perrin closed his eyes, remembering the road that his choice paved for him that would ultimately carry him here once again.


Full Circle.


Xa Fel.


The Temple.


As if no matter what he did, no matter how much effort he put into the choices he made in life, no matter how much time had passed...he would find himself inexorably drawn back.


Here...


The Temple..



The surrounding of an enemy from the center...



Was the Double Blind at work even now?




"The Crusaders!" Dar shouted. "They are leaving!" and with a wave of his hand, their point of view shifted closer to the Temple.


There was still fighting going on beneath them but even so, the old man's eyes narrowed at the retreating forms of people who had only, just moments before, thrown their lives at the Sith with such abandon at the mere prospect of crossing the threshold of the Sith Order's stronghold.


A flutter of cloaks flashed and they caught a glimpse of Dacian Palestar passing through the Temple doors lost in thought.


"The retreat.." Perrin remembered.


Hundreds of enemy soldiers were leaving the field of battle...vast throngs headed back to the barges that had landed encircling the Sith position.


"They won't be so filled returning," the Perrin remarked, watching as his younger self left off his search and theft from the dead, knowing that his force presence had already been minimized ...


And that was when it happened.



The higher floors and upper crests of the fallen spires began to rise as the Force Storm gathered overhead as if preparing for a final blow that would dash all life against the surface of Xa Fel.


Even from his own vantage point with years of experience behind him, Perrin could not help but be impressed.


The calling of Vance Jas, Darth Vicirus... Where the Force was taking him... whatever calling the Sith Master had would remain a mystery for now.


But one thing was for certain....


He had relinquished his claim upon the Temple...


But, with the retreat of the Crusaders, so the Palestar also relinquished his claim..




And yet, they both took portions of the Temple... that which they both thought of as valuable for whatever their purpose.



The crumbling black blocks of stone continued to fall as the upper portion of the Temple had been ripped from the main structure taking Darth Vicirus with it... the Crusaders more intent upon their retreat than really watching the Sith Master's spectacle.


And, as fast as it had happened, the Force Storm turned inward and vanished, taking it's portion of the Temple and the man who had led the Sith Order.


The silence where so much wind, power and force howled once before was deafening in it's own right. But the point was clear...



The challenge of worth had been made and now all parties ventured forth to carry out each their destiny. To lay bare their worth upon the altar of the Force.



Dar seemed excited, his eyes betraying a lust that Perrin felt simmering just under the boy's skin but never saw. Awe at seeing his 'Palestar' in the flesh, perhaps?


The look...that look.. disturbed the old man but why, he could not yet say.



"This was not hell on earth.." whispered the boy. "This was.... this was wonderful!"


Perrin's hand went up to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the barges that filled the skies. Going back to the Crusader's capital ship in orbit...that was still engaged with the vanguard of whatever Imperial forces were in the area.


"You haven't seen anything, yet.." the old man whispered as he caught sight of one barge in particular.



"There is still so much more to see..."



His hand went back into the folds of his cloak, the Temple coming back into view and sounds of the crackling firewood snapped.


Dar looked around in sudden confusion, anger lighting his features. "What was that?!" he demanded hotly.


"I could show you no more of Xa Fel," Perrin rasped out, a wave of nausea overcoming him.


"Why not?!" the boy was indignant.


"Because, you foolish boy, I cannot share what I did not witness nor can I not share what I could not perceive."


"So was this your brush with the greatness that was the Palestar? This perception only?" Dar's voice became sarcastic and biting.


Perrin had had enough. A simple motion of his hand and Dar screamed out loud at the painful sharp end of his eyesight. The boy covered his face feeling the sticky slickness of his own blood and with another flicker of thought, the boy's lightsaber was thrown from his belt.

"Shall I remove your skin from your bones as well?" the old man's voice penetrated the searing pain stealing into the every crevice of conscious thought that Dar experienced.


The boy was sobbing and Perrin's voice was like a salve of cool water running through the cracks of sanity, soothing the burning of his mind.


"WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?!" the Sith Master shouted. "Do you think you can hide from me?!"


"I..," screamed the boy, "I-... I want to know the Palestar!" tears ran down his cheeks.


"WHY?" roared Perrin and at that moment, a part of him knew that despite his growing power and specialized abilities, he still lived in fear. He trusted no visitors and dealt with people only on his terms.


Every alcolyte that visited him to benefit from his...'insight' had mysteriously and suspiciously disappeared and after a while, no one came to visit him. It was as if others had tried to forget his very existence which served Perrin's needs.


Alone.


Until Dar had come.


Until Dar crossed that line which made his life forfeit.


Surely the fool has heard the stories. Of the mad Sith at the Frozen Temple?


And despite Perrin sending him away, he still came back sinking his fate further, testing and finally surpassing the Sith Master's patience.


The boy was going to die and the only matter left was the manner of death and it's time.


Curiosity stayed the old man's hand.


"Why?" he whispered, his sickened fear being drawn up from a well of suffering buried so long ago.





"Because he is my father!" Dar cried out and the old man reared back at the revelation.



"Impossible!" he hissed, losing his concentration and releasing the illusion that gripped the boy.


Shaking and weak, Dar removed his hands from his face finding the sight that had been denied and sobbing at the memory of pain the likes of which were unimagined mere minutes before.



"I... I wanted to know him..." the boy murmured between tears that Perrin ignored.



The Double Blind!


"It is still in effect.." he whispered in awe. "After all these years, the question of worth is still unanswered. The challenge still drawn!"


Dar shook his head uncomprehending and Perrin measured his sincerity satisfied at what he felt.



"Come, boy. It is time to leave.."



"What? Where? It's snowing!"



"It is time to go to Xa Fel. It is time to set the record straight once and for all.."


"Record?"


"Worth! Boy! Worth!" Perrin shouted in gleeful anticipation. Are we really the last of our kind? Me of the old Sith Order and this poor fool the Crusade's only legacy?


A look of confusion crossed the boy's face, the memory of his torture still fresh but not wanting to upset the old man in any way.


"A Double Blind! The surrounding of an enemy from the center! I should have known! I should have realized that I could not escape it that easily! Sooner or later I would be drawn...coerced...forced back into the center. As if I was surrounded with nowhere to go."



"And that center is..."


"On Xa Fel."


"But no one knows where it is.." the boy started and Perrin laughed.


"I used to live there, fool. Onward! A ship! A crew! Easily obtained and we can be there quickly enough..." and Dar followed the eccentric old man with both a sense of fear and a sense of hope.



For you, father...

It wasn't until afterward that Ithron found himself able to understand what had happened on Xa Fel.

Having teased a fighter escort from the Imperial forces around the planet, Ithron headed directly for the surface, his fighter barely dodging anti-air fire from the Crusaders on the ground. As he flew over, he could see the seemingly endless hordes ebbing and flowing around the Temple like the tide around a sandcastle. Like a sandcastle, the building seemed to be crumbling, the Sith acolytes at the doors unable to stem the flow.

Ithron knew that the acolytes of the temple - failed apprentices, mostly - would fight well enough in their own way, but it was the Sith Apprentices and Masters who would make the difference. He could sense that Mira, his old rival, was on the surface somewhere, but she had become far too good at cloaking herself for him to find exactly. In the temple itself, he knew he would find Darth Vicirus, head of the Order, and possibly even the third of the Triumvirate, Recon Klain. Also, and this confused him, he could sense the presence of Lupercus.

How did he get here before me?

With a smile though, he thought of the fate of any crusaders who encountered the Sith Masters.

Minutes later, he had ejected over a group of crusaders within sight of the Temple and allowed the autopilot on his vessel to take it to land somewhere safe. Cushioning his fall with the Force, he set to work cutting the nameless masses down as well as he could. Each one was weak, and easy prey to his sabre, but in their numbers they wore him down. No matter how many died, more kept coming.

What the hell is pushing them on that even the Sith aren't scaring them back to their ships?

Suddenly, Ithron felt a ripple in the Force. It was so powerful that even the untrained crusaders felt its effect - someone (Ithron had no doubt that it was one of the Masters) had created a Force Storm. In an instant, he realised that the use of such a crude weapon might mean that the fight wasn't going well. Disengaging himself from his opponents and cutting a path with his lightsabre, Ithron headed to the Temple as fast as he could.

Nearer the temple, he found the quality of his opponent had increased and he was stopped dead within sight of the doors by a small cadre of no more than five figures. Each was tall, bald and black-clad and around the group lay a couple of young Sith apprentices, in the early stages of their training. They were dead. Sensing Ithron's arrival, the group turned to face him and fanned out. Their movements seemed automatic, even droid-like, and he sensed almost no emotion from them.

"What the hell are you?" he muttered to himself as he lunged at the first one. His blow was deflected by weapons of this new group of soldiers. They were indeed powerful, but none of them seemed to have the ability to improvise, nor did they appear to have a level of proficiency in the Force to rival Ithron. Leaping into the air, he Force-pushed one of them and used the momentum to propel himself at another. His leg out, he kicked it in its chest. As it staggered backwards, he decapitated it with a lightsabre slice.

The Force storm wasn't far away now and it seemed to be growing and drawing in all the Force energy that it could. The effect was to dull Ithron's senses slightly, but the beings that he would later come to know as Void Knights were suffering even more. As he overpowered them one by one, impatient to continue onto the Temple, he became aware of a 'strand' of Force energy holding them, linking them to their master. Following the strand back to its source with his mind, Ithron saw a young man who he didn't recognise.

Is he a Sith? Who is he? Ithron's musings were broken off by his having to dispatch the last two Void Knights.

Sweating now, and uncomfortably aware of the raw uncontrollable power of the now-massive Force Storm overhead, Ithron reached the temple, only to be brought to a halt once more -this time by the sheer numbers of the crusading army. They were so densely packed that even force-pushing them would have been no use.

Dammit. We need numbers! Where's the Imperial Army when you need it? Or the Inquisition? Isn't hostile Force-users their thing?

As he tried in vain to cut through them, he faltered and staggered. Something was wrong. In a flash he realised what it was: Vance was missing. His powerful Force signature, calm and pulsing, had provided the undertone for all Ithron's time on Xa Fel. Now it was missing - and so was the Force Storm. It was only later that Ithron found out what had actually happened, but for now the silence was all that mattered.

"Because of you and your crusade, Vance Jas is no more. A great man is gone." He told his assembled enemies who had also noticed the absence of the Force Storm. "Don't think you will live to enjoy your victory. Not one of you will leave his place alive."

At that he threw himself into the fray, allowing the Dark Side of the Force to fill his limbs and control his actions, relishing the familiar feeling of endless power at his command.... and the Crusaders died: They died in numbers, they died fighting, they died running, but true to his word, not one of the crusaders around the Temple doors who had heard his words survived to escape.

It was later. Ithron had killed and killed. The Dark Side had left him for now, ready to be summoned again, and he was tired and his body ached. Only a handful of acolytes from this part of the planet had survived and they were wandering aimlessly, injured. Ithron knew that Skygge was here somewhere and so were a handful more Apprentices.

As he walked around the Temple, giving orders to the survivors, and felt an absence of power - it was as though Vance had taken the essence of the Temple with him when he had gone into the Storm.

"So the Sith Order is dead?" Ithron spoke to himself out loud but his words echoed in the Force. "No... That can't be."

Then he remembered the young man he had sensed controlling the Void Knights and spoke to him, though he knew there was no chance of him hearing, even through the Force:

"You will pay for this. Whoever you are, whatever you want, I will have vengeance in one form or another."

Before he left the planet, Ithron collected anything he felt was valuable from the ruins of the Sith Temple for his own use. He could find no trace of Lupercus, Skygge, or anyone higher ranking than himself, so he assumed command of what was left.

With no body of Vicirus to be found, Ithron could do no more than take what he could find of the Master's possessions and burn them outside, surrounded by Acolytes and some terrified surviving Apprentices. As he watched the flames rise high into the sky, Ithron spoke into the silence once more.

"Darth Vicirus and Darth Necros died here, for the Order. So did many others. We repelled the invaders, but this is no victory for us." He was saying it more for the record than for the benefit of those around him. "I'm leaving to seek vengeance on these people. I will return though."

At that, one or two of the more senior Apprentices begged to come with him but Ithron turned them down. "Stay. Train. Keep the Order alive here as best you can. If you are worthy when I return then you may be some use to me."

The burning nearly over and orders for the continuation of the Order given, Ithron, Sith Knight, headed for his vessel - and vengeance on the Crusade.