"Convince yourself of whatever you want," Xireon muttered, finally turning away from the path of his pacing, pulling his cloak tighter over the tattered rags he wore, and beginning to leave.

He glanced back for a moment, his facial expression the closest to a rattled one as it was possible to get from him, and narrowed his eyes. "But if you truly believe that, you know nothing at all about my mind."

With that, he strode from the chamber.



Hours passed before Xireon's cold, rasping voice crackled over the speakers of the Crimson Tide II. "You might as well get up here," he said. "We're there."

Heaving a long, overly drawn-out sigh as her Master's words filtered gratingly through the overhead speakers, Taja straightened her legs underneath her and planted her feet firmly on the cold floor, an expression of sheer bemusement -- confusion, almost -- marring her features. Despite the controlled environment within the ship, a shiver ran down the length of her spine... a foreboding of sorts, perhaps, but the Sith's mind was much too occupied with other, not-so-trivial (at least, by her definition) matters to bother concerning herself with this.

She sat there in silence for several minutes, awaiting further instruction from Xireon. When any such command failed to come, however, she stood up fully, digging her hands into the front pockets of her corduroys and following the route the Sith Overlord had taken past the outer halls. Once she'd reached the front of the ship, Taja stopped.

"... I'm up."

"About time," Xireon commented. Out the frontal viewport, the rust-colored ground below them slowly resolved itself into a clear view of the endless desert that covered Korriban, punctuated by jutting rock formations. In front of them, stretched a long installation, built of durasteel scratched by the harsh sandstorms of the Sith world.

"Set us down, in the closest landing bay," Xireon ordered the Achrion piloting the shuttle. He glanced back at Taja. "Let's go." The Wraith led her back, to the neck of the shuttle -- from which the cockpit was stille quite visible -- and waited. After the tell-tale clunk that signaled landing, the Achrion looked back and nodded.

The landing ramp in front of them depressurized with a hiss, slowly lowering itself to the ground below. Xireon set off down it, into the circular, roofless landing bay, made of the same durasteel as the rest of the installation. "I should warn you," he said, as a dockman approached them, "that I don't have a plan."

"Well, no surprises there," she scoffed, rolling her eyes before diverting their stare away from the advancing dockman and down to the sands underfoot. Tilting her head slightly to the side, she dug the heel of her boot into the ground; then, after a few moments of gazing intensely into some invisible spot on the desert floor, Taja knelt down where she was standing beside her Master. She trailed her fingers idly across the sand, tracing odd patterns and lettering from some long-forgotten script into the topsoil, all the while humming softly to herself under her breath.

All at once, the approaching dockman froze dead in his tracks. The deadening effect was, however, far more literal than to cause only a momentary paralysis, as the Korriban native's body heat was rapidly drained from his body and his respiratory organs slowed drastically to such a point that they stopped functioning altogether. All hints of colour on the being's skin faded to a deathly pallid shade as he suffocated, still held suspended where he stood by some unnatural force, until finally he fell limply to the ground, cold and dead.

The discoloured skin of Xireon's forehead, already creased into a permanent frown, wrinkled even further as he glanced questioningly over at his Apprentice, who merely rose to her feet once again. After taking a brief glimpse of the now emaciated corpse, Taja shrugged. "He was taking too long," she said, dusting off her hands on the back of her trousers, "so I got bored."

"Fair enough," Xireon growled, setting off forward once again and stopping to kneel by the corpse. Taking what appeared to be a small pin from his belt, he uttered a few words under his breath, finally pricking the deceased man in the neck with it. All the while he continued to chant in a monotone fashion, while his apprentice looked on.

The color drained from the face of the corpse in a most unnatural fashion, skin turning pallid and then gray as if all blood had been drained from it. Xireon stood, continuing to speak, placing his hand over the corpse and moving it in tandem with his growled speech. Internally, he focused on that old source of power; the golden fire which embodied the presence of the Blade of Klain that had returned him to his full strength.

Then, twitching violently, the corpse scrambled to its feet. It seemed unsure, at first, but quickly enough it gained its balance. The first spell had been one to embalm it, replacing blood and circulatory functions with dark side energy; the second had been Bone Dance, bringing to life the corpse as a servant of the Sith.

"Come on, then," he muttered hoarsely. Taja followed him as they exited the landing bay through a pair of durasteel doors, entering a complex series of equally metallic hallways. The Korriban settlement essentially comprised this installation, a large and twisting indoor market of sorts, and the surrounding small buildings, unconnected to the central structure. They marched down the hall, turning a corner and continuing forward.

Several beings paced this hall, either entering or exiting, or plying their wares. Some were soldiers, keeping an oppressive peace, clad in black Sith uniforms and armor. "Lord Xireon," one of them said upon sighting him, rushing forward and prostrating himself before the honored Sith Overlord. "What an honor it is to see you, my Lord. Please, if you will allow me to escort you to the Governor of Korriban I will..."

The wretched, sycophantic speech of the petty fool droned on, utterly fading into the background. Xireon's pale white eyes shot a look of pure venom at him. Another of Sedriss' sniveling, idiotic drones. How I ever came to be in his employ, I will never fucking know, he thought.

"Rise," Xireon said, doing his best to control his low, rasping voice. He glanced at Taja, and a look of significance passed between them. She reached for no weapon -- she did not need to -- but he could sense her readying herself. "What is your name, Sith?"

Startled, the man caught his breath and replied, "Sirul Evenei, my Lord."

"Tell me, Sirul Evenei, how many men have you killed?"

His eyes flashing with a gleeful malice, the soldier replied, "Seventeen, my Lord, rebels all of them."

Xireon sensed the mindless pride rolling off of the man. He felt the hate rise up in him, the golden fire of the Blade running throughout his Wraith form, dead muscles and ligaments wrought with an ungodly strength. No longer able to contain himself, he grabbed the man by the neck, easily lifting him from the ground as he choked and struggled.

As the corridor turned silent, the only sounds were the choking man's strangled cries and the three, sickly thuds as he was slammed repeatedly into the durasteel wall. On the final strike, his skull -- having withstood a disproportionate amount of force -- gave way, as did the durasteel. His body was embedded in the wall, a copious amount of blood from his head and various other wounds covering the ground and metal surrounding his final resting place.

Every soldier, merchant and civilian in the corridor now looked on with a combination of morbid fascination and fear. None moved; it was, of course, the Sith Overlord's right to kill any man he so desired. But the terror rolled off of them in waves, into Xireon's mind.

"What sort of fucking fool," he near-shouted, still rasping, "keeps a precise tally of the men he kills? What sort of arrogant, snobbish oaf is so rapt up in commiting acts of cruelty solely to sycophantically appease his masters that he does something so patently stupid?"

His voice rang and echoed off of the durasteel, and still, each man was silent. Then with the briefest of nods to Taja and the gray-skinned, animated corpse, he let them know their time had come.

The dockmaster rushed forward, ferally snarling, his posture that of a rabid primate, slashing and tearing at the nearest merchant with his fingernails, biting and tearing flesh from his face as he screamed.