The Force is a common thread that unites us all.
The Force binds us.

The Force creates us. The Force sustains us. And in the Force, the Jedi found salvation. They found ever lasting life.

But what if…

What if the Sith could live forever, as the Jedi live always, but unlike those frail apparitions, would remain eternal – their bodies everlasting?

Others had come close, become ghostly spirits haunting the vestiges of their lives… but what if, just what if, one could live forever? Would that not be the ultimate achievement?

And if it could be done… who, who would make it reality?

Maim.

Silk.

Dacian.

Gods forgive us our arrogance.

Wake up.



Symbol, Home of the Crusade – Palestar

“Sith…”

Upon an open plain they stood, upon a broken plain torn asunder by the ravages of the machine, of the war machine. Hooded, black, their heads bobbed in time with their chanting and their chanting in time with their heads. Dark, brooding, they radiated hate, the would always dwell within a fountain of anger.

They chanted.

“Fear leads to anger.
Anger leads to hate.
Hatred leads to power.
Power leads to victory.
Let your anger flow through you.
Your hate will make you strong.
True power is only achieved through testing the limits of one's anger, passing through unscathed.
Rage channeled through anger is unstoppable.
The dark side of the Force offers unimaginable power.
The dark side is stronger than the light.
The weak deserve their fate.”

A dozen if one, they stood in the driving rain, the blood rain, their robes saturated through and bonding with the forming mud below. Faces black with soot, heads bowed against the sheer force of nature as it assailed them, they remained indistinct from one another. All around them were the cries of a planet doomed, lost in the throws of death, and like a beast of unyielding proportions, refused to go silently in to that dark night.

Even the sky was streaked red between the wandering giants, the black plumes of smoldering ash once cities and forests, towns and farms, now burnt in offering to the unspoken demons of hell.

“Sith…”

An army broke around them. Thick, hundreds of thousands of souls in parade, the campaign had claimed them and made of them servants of the machine, children of the crusade, doomed and bleeding crimson. Like nightmarish ghouls they decorated themselves in steel and leather, adorned their armor with the blood and skulls of their foes and painted their faces in the grime that was their work. With skin of sickening green and eyes sunken in burning sockets their jutting tusks climbed high above their jaws gnashing as they grunted along. They wore upon their faces their fates.

They chanted, a hundred thousand roaring, booming voices joined with the paltry few around whom they broke with respective distance.

They chanted…

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.”

“Sith…”

From a hundred miles away he watched, his lips moving in time. Sequestered in his chamber, a sphere of onyx stone bisected by an obelisk of the same, Lord Silk sat with knees crossed before the monolithic totem.

This was a meditation chamber, a space devoted to focus. This was Lord Silk, a man of crusaders spirit and this was the vision that haunted his dreams – a world of contrivances not his own and yet bestowed upon him.

Dacian…

He remembered…

Dacian, the student now long surpassed of his master in many ways, if not most, had confronted Silk, had faced the parts of himself that Silk could not face. The boy turned man, perhaps born more man then any had ever grown to become, had shattered his illusions. Illusions – he had thought himself a master of the force before, had considered himself the dominant force despite the facts, in spite of the future that Dacian would unfold for them all, but that illusion was long gone. The Palestar had stripped it from him and in so doing had allowed Silk to achieve the status that had long escaped him. It was ironic, he supposed, that the student should be the one to crown a master but it was well known, an adage among Sith and Jedi; with great comings there comes great change. For a time he had fought this simple realization; where Dacian shaped the Force, shaped his fate, he could not for Silk was and forever would be cut from a different cloth.

The name had taunted him, once. That time was long past and yet part of him remained that still harbored a deep and brooding yet undefined resentment. Since their confrontation on the planes of the ethereal upon which they had done battle Silk had meditated on this aspect of him attempting to explore it but for every examination he attempted it became more elusive and harder to grasp. For a time he suspected a thread, a thin line leading back to the earliest days of the Crusade at the height of his illusions during which Dacian had seemed to him dismissive.

Maim…

It had been in the guise of his old master, the Dark Lord Maim, that Dacian had faced Silk. Psychological warfare – it was the hallmark of all true Sith. The trenchant, fastidious approach he had employed against the others… he should have suspected it, anticipated it and plotted accordingly but in his mirth had become fixed, his vision tunneled, leaving Silk exposed. Thinking himself the superior, Dacian the student and submissive, Silk had bestowed upon the young man great powers at great expense to himself.

Power…

What was power but a means to an end? Was it the ability to shape reality, to bend destiny to ones own will? Or was it something else…

The flame that burns the brightest…

Dioan Silk turned his eyes, orbs consumed of onyx, over the gothic appointments that dominated his focusing chamber. Buried deep within the bowels of his ship, the Crimson Emperor, it was here that he found solitude, here that he had sequestered himself for many long weeks dwelling upon the providential changes that had been inspired within him. Initially, following their cataclysmic confrontation in the Force, Dacian had needed Silk frequently by his side leaving the elder Sith unable to allocate time for mediation. Recently, however, that had changed.

Symbol…

The planet below heaved. It was doomed. In a few centuries it would succumb to its wounds. But for now it was home to the Crusade, it was the seat of power for Dacian Palestar and a more fitting symbol there could not be. It had been named accordingly. Like some space borne fruit, it had been fed upon by a great force, a planet-eater, a god of the heavens, and now spewed it’s life blood, brilliant plumes of liquid hot magma spouting forth in to the abyss from mountains shorn up, tens of thousands of kilometers of concentric ridges thrust up against the crater torn deep to the planets very soul. It was poetry.

And that great force, the terrible power which did rend the celestial body asunder, was his to command, was the reward for his guidance – The Crimson Emperor had been commissioned by Dacian Palestar and bestowed upon Lord Dioan Silk in tribute for his assistance in making real the youth’s vision of conquest, of crusade. It was a testament to their power and a declaration. Kilometers long, kilometers deep, it was a monstrous creation inspired by a gothic aesthetic and while, in his career, Silk had commanded larger vessels at the head of bristling armadas this, the Crimson Emperor, was his own. Even this, however; was not enough to completely satiate his unease and had, in fact, caused that elusive feeling to somehow redouble itself, for he knew that in the mind of his once-student, Dacian, the ship was not a reward for guidance, but a payment for service rendered.

The word had acquired a disdainful taste. His life, his long life, had been one of service and devotion to powers greater then himself and though for much of it this had satisfied him he no longer took the same pleasure in it. Exile had changed him. On Yinchorr he had become a new man, a different man – he had developed in to a leader of men for it was by his resolve and his alone that they had endured their exile. He had learned lessons there, on that lifeless and blasted rock, which had only become crystal clear recently. Silk would have no masters any longer nor would he allow himself to be the servant of any man – only the Force, only the Dark Side would direct him now. On Yinchorr they had endured. His men, though fewer now then those glorious days, had persevered because of him and those that remained pledged to him not only their lives but their eternal souls. There was nothing they would not do for him; there was no questioning their loyalty. They had served him well, as he had served others, but they were too few to meet their new demands.

The Crimson Emperor was massive. A behemoth in the fashion of the oldest Sith lords, it did not incorporate the modern accoutrements common to modern warships. One of these shortfalls was in automation. Monumental were the manpower requirements alone. Within the Crusade there were millions, millions on the planet below alone, far more then he would ever need to crew the warship but none, not one of these broken and shattered souls would he allow aboard his personal property. They were bent, the subjects of the will of another.

Fortunately the Crimson Brotherhood was not alone in the galaxy. Under the banner of the Crimson Empire millions had obeyed the word of Lord Maim and by extension, his Hand, the Sovereign Protector Lord Silk. With the demise of that entity, inglorious though it was, Silk had been abandoned on the planet Yinchorr along a cohort of his Royal Guard but, and this had been key, others remained. Under Palpatine the Royal Guard had been numerous but their exact numbers were a closely guarded secret and had remained such for a very long time. Dark Lord Maim had sought to continue that tradition. Many, but not most, of the men loyal to Silk had been imprisoned on Yinchorr to assure they would not run rip shod across the galaxy. It had not been a simple matter to recall those men, but he had done it. His ship, partially crewed, was functionally mobile.

But he was not satisfied. Thousands more were needed. Worse still, while the loyalty of his fellow exiles was absolute, he could not be assured that those he had recalled were above reproach and for once he understood Dacian, understood the Void Knights and their maiden. He needed answers outside of the Crusade, outside of Dacian Palestar…

The Force was an ever present ally and he turned to it often but since the early days of the Crusade he had been withdrawn, less a presence in the dark side then once before. The reason for this was plain. Palestar had required vast amounts of power, power beyond his own grasp, power that Silk had been forced to supply. Hidden well, he kept his weakness cloaked in a veil of anger and deception. Even drawing strength from his men had not fully relieved his exhaustion. Only meditation, deep and thorough, granted him any reprieve.

He was, as they said, feeling his age.

Agelessness escaped him as it escaped so many. He had been a young man once, a virile and passionate. But that was long, long ago. With the rise of the Empire and the demise of the Republic, he was among the first Stormtrooper regiments formed up of raw recruits. Trained under the 101st, he had met first hand the clone troopers responsible for the Jedi Purge. That was where he had distinguished himself above all others, where the Force first touched his life. Emperor Palpatine himself had signed the orders that saw him become one of the elite, a member of the Imperial Royal Guard.

And then, Palpatine had died.

History is unkind to likes of the Royal Guard. Its own nature is even more unkind. Names like Jax and Kanos will live on in infamy.

Dark Lord Maim had sought to change that desperate fate but for all his efforts it had proved, by and large, futile. The Empire lived on. It deemed him and his Royal Guard bastards under a pretenders banner and reformed the Imperial Guard, the Royal Guard and the Imperial Royal Guard under various commanders all at various times. And though they would doubtless deem him the same, Silk clung to a tradition of his own.

He was a Sith Lord, a Dark Lord in his own right. He was the Sovereign Protector of a culture, a way of life. He was a crusader in crimson…

He closed his eyes and called upon the Force.



Wisps of unearthly fog drifted across the intangible infinity that was the Force.

In to it the spectral extension of himself was placed. Born of the Dark Side, he emerged from nothingness.

It washed over him like the concussive waves of a star gone supernova. It destroyed him, shattered his flesh as though it were glass, caused his being to flake away in the force of the onslaught. But he would not be put down. Welling up from within himself he met the destructive battering with increased resolve and for ever bit of himself it blew away he focused on re-growing it ten fold.

Pushing against it, he started forward.

This, he realized, was a vision.

Towards it he moved. His immaterial self ploughed through the tumult in the non-direction which, he perceived, was its epicenter. Slowly, inexorably forward, he pressed on.

Stars shot by him at light speed. He was moving through hyperspace against great pressure.

There, in the distance, a planet. A frozen husk, an orb of ice turning on a lazy axis, rotating about a distant half-dead star stared back at him. It blinked. It studied him, unspoken. It examined him, unspoken.

Unspoken…



Silk opened his eyes, black orbs of drifting dark, and studied his focusing chamber. Something was different, something had changed. He felt as though he were being watched. He felt… old.

On the floor before him, written in blood spilled from his own palm, were coordinates. Unsure, he formed them in his memory before wiping it all in to one bloody streak while still clutching in his left hand the dagger that had split his flesh.




It was watching him, waiting for him.

The harsh winds of the frozen wasteland whipped by all around him, obstructing his view to no farther than ten meters in any direction. Within a half a meter, however, no winds blew. He had tried enduring the constant pressure of the torrential wind his first few times out here, but it soon became too much for him to endure. He could not hold a steady ground…not for long, anyway. And he spent hours at a time, just outside the Tower.

The cold, however…the cold he let in. He felt it wash over him, chilling his bones to the very core and shriveling his skin. The cold enveloped him, plummeting his body temperature to levels so low that no normal sentient being could survive…no normal sentient being. The pain was blissfully excruciating. There was hardly a time when he returned to the Tower without frostbite on at least several extremities.

The maw that served for his mouth opened wide, cracking rather noticeably as it did so, and his ornamental lungs took in gulp after gulp of poison mist. The entire planet was poison. No being could walk its surface without aid of technology. The air itself was deadly, and the planet was a wasteland in the most extreme sense of the term.

All except for the Tower, that is.

All except for the Tower.

His eyes cracked open, and his head tilted upward (his neck cracking audibly as it did so). Through the wind and the snow and the ice it wasn’t visible, but he knew what was up there. The cold, black void of space. He knew it all too well. As he reached his mind out toward the void for the hundredth time since he had first sensed it, he touched upon what was out there.

It was nothing substantial yet…a long ways off. All there was for now were hints and whispers…shadows of what was to come. But it would not be too long now, in that black nothing, before hints and whispers turned into…well, something else. Something new. The tides of change, and he could sense that they would be washing over Fangol.

“If you don’t come back inside soon, you’ll freeze solid,” a voice called from behind.

“I doubt it would kill me,” he did not turn around, for he knew who it was. The only other person on the planet…person. He paused to consider his words, and then added as an afterthought, “Again.”

“Maybe so,” the voice admitted, “But you would still be a block of ice, and not very useful in helping me face what’s to come.”

This time he did turn, regarding the robed figure that stood just at the entrance of the Tower. The man never left, never ventured out into the wasteland himself. The first few times he had come out here, Xoverus had assumed it was because he wouldn’t survive, as he could. But Xoverus had seen this man, this Prophet’s power, and now he doubted it.

Now he assumed it was because the Prophet thought the wasteland beneath him.

“I can sense something coming,” Xoverus nodded, turned back to look up toward space, “But I cannot tell what. It usually helps to focus my mind, to see far and know much. This should be within my power to foretell, but…all I sense are whispers.”

“It helps you to know and see,” the Prophet agreed, “But only what It wants you to see. It does not show all, and hides much.”

“Why does It not wish for me to know what's to come?” Xoverus turned fully toward the robed man, “Have I erred in my services?”

“Who are we to question Its judgement?” the Prophet shrugged, “Know that if you have done all requested by It and myself and serve as a true Faithful, you cannot err. Be confident in your faith, be confident in Its plan. Whatever is coming will reveal itself when the time is right, but for now, come inside. You still have much to learn, and the time for worship nears.”

“Master,” his words halted the Prophet in mid turn.

“Yes, my son?”

“Do you know what’s coming?” Xoverus asked.

The Prophet regarded him for a moment, and just as he was beginning to fear punishment for his words, the man smiled.

“I know enough,” he said, “And what I do not know, I trust It to know. You need not worry, Xoverus. Nothing can escape Its grasp. You discovered that when It created you. Fear not, for the Unspoken is all knowing, and if what’s to come means ill will, then we will strike it down in Its name. Now come.”

“Yes, Master.”

He followed the man back inside the Tower, but not without taking one final glance toward the heavens.

This time, however, there was no fear in his heart.

Only faith.

The Crimson Emperor – Deep Space, Unknown Regions en route to... the unknown, the unspoken.


The Crimson Emperor was, in and of itself, a totally unique starship – a monument to a bygone era, a testament to powers once dominant and now forgotten. It had been conceived by a prodigy and made manifest by a cadre of crazies. In many ways it was a relic. In many ways it was the future.

Massive in scale, it’s sheer bulk defied description, the gothic aesthetic dominant throughout. A bow cut from solid stone, bonded with the strongest metals, rose up at its head almost a kilometer in height and half again as wide with its forward edge polished to a cut sheen; as though the blade of a behemoths sword. Rigid and jagged at once the spine of the vessel carried back thousands of meters, kilometers long itself and supported by a series of ribbed buttresses, of the flying variety. Down to the plated, armored steel that was its flesh, it carried the look of being cut from stone, the handy work of possessed masons working to fulfill demons madness. Through the inky blackness of the void it seemed to move space around it, bending the very fabric of reality to its twisted desires. Born of devotion to the Sith, constructed as a monolith, it was a signet of the dark side.

Everything true of its exterior was also true of its interior.

Silky and yet all consuming, within the vessel existed an abyss which saturated its every corner, slunk in to the smallest recess, and consumed, devoured all that came in to it. At its center sat the Lord Silk, crusader. Throughout the galaxy there are areas of great focus, locales in to which considerable energies had been poured, whether light or dark, and in the doing changed the places, forced them genuflect before the casters of such furious spells, the wielders of such immense powers. The Crimson Emperor was readily becoming one of these places, a hole in the Force feeding the dark side. Inside the feeling was tangible, palatable and the gothic aesthetic, carried throughout, added considerably to this sensation. Those who dwelled within its warren like corridors, made their homes within the labyrinthine caves seemingly cut from the ship itself, were inexorably tied to this darkness, to the dark side of the Force.

The bridge of the gargantuan construct was located at the vessels apex – a tower jutting from the supported, buttressed spine that leant itself to an ecumenical description. Tucked behind pillars of armored stone-seeming-steel, it rose up from the ships ventral axis. Within that tower, the bridge itself was reminiscent of ancient, sea-going ships of the long forgotten past. Bare but for the vital necessities, it was built not as a hub, not as a nexus for ship-based activities, it was designed for the ships commander, an opulent room spanning dozens of meters in every direction. At its center was located a command chair, more a throne then anything else, it resembled the one located in the temple on the planet Mandalore. And upon that throne was seated Dioan Silk, Sith Lord.

He gazed at the myriad star-scene that was hyperspace as it splayed itself across the viewing screen, a monstrous affair that dwarfed the silver-screens upon which the great Holo-Movies played out, and he sighed. Cast in that mysterious glow, his throne located upon a dais of carved stone stairs which raised him half the height of the screen itself, his murk-dark eyes swam in the reflected glow of hyperspace. Beneath the hood that had become synonymous with his appearing before others, in public, his sunken cheeks dwelled in pools of shadow, his eyes beset by crows-feet.

“We are moving too slowly,” he spoke in a somber tone, like the shifting of gravel, the grinding of sand upon a late night beach. “Why?”

Nocturnal, the officer of the night watch, a crimson-clad warrior of the Crimson Brotherhood, moved forwards from the shadows, appearing as might a specter, a harbinger of doom. His name, a bestowment and sign of recognition by Silk himself, had elevated him to favored status among the rest and signaled a new trend in the command structure, in the very order that was Silks rule.

“Uncharted,” answered the brother in red. “There are no maps for where we go. The fabric of space fights our progress. It pushes against us.”

And it was true – the Crimson Emperor was virtually slogging through hyperspace at a snails pace. Silk had, in his visions, felt that force pressing against them but had assumed, had dared hope that it had been the mere representation of adversity, not the physical indication of.

Silk gestured his understanding with a wave, at which Nocturnal bowed and receded to his own command terminal of which there were six similarly placed along the walls of the command bridge of which all of these were hidden in the shadows of great statues of Sith past and creatures mythical alike. The sphinx that loomed above the soldiers own seemed to grow larger as he returned to it.

His consternation pouring off of him in waves, Silks frown deepened. With a gesture and subtle manipulation of the Force he activated an internalized terminal in his throne which, at his command, unfolded from the claw-shaped arms of the throne, unfurling itself like some unholy beast summoned of the depths before him. Upon this he placed his open palm.

The Force fanned out around him. All at once he could feel the shadow that was his starship reflected in the Force as though it were but an extension of him. Rife with life forms, he could feel the souls of his men, of the Crimson Brotherhood, revealed to him through the nodes, the Force-amplifiers, located through the vessel. Furthermore, they like their ship represented cultured inclusions in the Force. Students all, some adepts, others mere initiates, their power in the Force spilled in to the walls, melded with the floors and filled the chambers to the ceilings. It all combined to paint a complex, dynamic tapestry before, or rather behind the eyes of Lord Silk, a tapestry more akin to a painting ever in a state of flux which he could reach out and affect as he so desired, as he so willed.

He urged. With his urging his thoughts spread throughout the vessel…

Fear leads to anger, he started.

Anger leads to hate, they answered.

Together, their voices shadows of the Force, they chanted, Power leads to victory.

We are the Sith.
We are the Crimson Brotherhood.
We are the Royal Guard.
We are Palestar Crusaders.

To us, the Galaxy bends. Below our heel, it burns.
To fight us is to know death. To know death is to know our wrath.

The Force powers us. The Force sustains us. We will not be held in check, over us none shall hold sway.

Give me your strength. Give me your anger that I will bend reality. Give it to me for it is what I demand!

A wellspring broke within him, a star going nova exploded within his soul. It burned like a righteous fire, it bored through like a furious furor. Boiling inside, Silk was a torrent of rage, the epicenter of a host and that host engorged of its own animosity. Within the command chamber was the taste of copper and of ozone. Against the brilliant lights of hyperspace Silk became a black hole in to which all radiance, all lamination was drawn and burned as fuel.

“I see,” hissed Silk through grated teeth. “I see you!”

“A name comes to me. A frozen rock, a toxic and barren wasteland…”

“Fangol!”

An explosion, an audible concussive expulsion, shot outwards from Silk. The walls of his command chamber shook and the stone of his throne glowed white-hot! It moved through the Crimson Emperor as a tremor in the Force that knocked men from their feet and caused the nodes, the Force-amplifiers, to explode in a brilliant shower of sparks… and deadly shards which cut in to those unlucky enough to be caught in the spray. And then, in a flash, it was beyond the ship itself – a shockwave inspired of the Force, of the dark side, and pouring in to that which was hyperspace.

There, free of the ship and caught in the ever shifting tides, it tore, with its concussive claws did rend open a hole in depths. Through hyperspace it folded, through normal space it folded, through subspace it folded. It folded and then, imploding as it had come, was silent.

Silk slumped, his energies drawn, his strength waning. All was silent throughout the Crimson Emperor but for the quiet hum that were the ships vital functions going on as though nothing had happened. For a long time, or so it seemed to Silk, nothing happened. Nothing…

And then, quite out of the blue, Nocturnal spoke.

“We have arrived,” he said from his darkened alcove. “We have arrived at Fangol.”

There, displayed a dozen meters tall and half consumed by darkness, was the planet, the frozen, toxic planet. Their destination reached, the journey over and yet just beginning, Silk blinked against the exhaustion that was pulling at his body. He wanted, nay needed to go down to that planet and see this thing through but… Age called to him, his physical self was beyond diminished and his weary self, the self that lived in the Force and beyond the crude matter that was his vessel, was too taxed to sustain him. He needed to rest.

“I must replenish myself,” uttered Silk in a quiet, small voice spoken from the very bottom of his being. “You will make preparations to land. Now, leave me.”

Nocturnal and his five identical brothers, emerged from their corners, bowed reverently before withdrawing from the chamber. They too had their energies consumed by the Dark Lord and though they longed to remain with their liege unto the end, the longer they lingered at his side in such a state the more drawn they would become.

Alone aboard the bridge of his starship, his monolithic conveyance, but for the planet rotating slowly before him, Silk allowed his eyes to drift shut. Closed, gazing only upon the back of his own eyelids, he drifted in a world between sleep and meditation, recuperating.

Soon a new chapter would begin but for now he was satiated, this chapter closed.

Aboard the Crimson Emperor, loyal unto the last, the men of the Crimson Brotherhood, of the Palestar Crusade, chanted aloud. Their voices echoed through the labyrinthine warrens, shook the cavern like catacombs and gave to Lord Silk a loud spoken resolve. They chanted.

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion…”

They chanted, “Through passion I gain strength. Through strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Through victory my chains are broken.”

They changed, “Lord Silk shall set me free.”

I am the voice of what you seek.

The cloaked man paced back and forth across the bridge…the throne room of the Crimson Emperor. His body was translucent, yet somehow sight did not continue beyond his semi-opaque form but was instead swallowed up inside it. All light ended as it reached him, swallowed up into his hood. The man was made up of darkness, an impossible sight to describe to anyone so accustomed to viewing darkness as producing a lack of sight.

You have traveled far, Dark Lord, and you have passed the first test. None save yourself have made it this far in many aeons.

To the crimson guardsmen, even with their force attunement, he was invisible. None save Silk could perceive him. This was a vision meant for only one man…the only one who had truly passed the test. The vision halted in mid-pace, and turned to regard Silk fully. To all outward perceptions, the Sith Lord was still ‘asleep’…somewhere between dream and meditation.

But Silk could see him. Silk was watching.

Will you pass the next, I wonder? You have received Its blessing to descend to the surface. Alone. Any who accompany you will be destroyed. Once you have arrived, you will face your second test.

I am the voice of what you seek, but to speak with me you first must face the hand.

And then he was gone.



***



His eyes opened.

It had arrived in the middle of worship, flooding his senses. He glanced upward toward the Prophet, who showed no signs of realization. The archaic words of prayer, long forgotten on all worlds but this one, continued forth from his mouth unabated. The power of the Dark Side filled the room…Its power.

He reached out, tentatively, his eyes cracked open to gauge the Prophet’s reaction. There was no change in his expression. His eyes remained closed, half shrouded in the shadow of his hood. The words still flowed freely from his mouth. More confident, Xoverus reached out again, and this time he felt them.

There were thousands of them, all attuned to the Force. His mind brushed past theirs, careful to hide himself from their senses. All of them were attuned to the Force…but none of them strong in it. None of them…save one. As Xoverus touched Silk’s mind he felt the raw power there, honed by years of training in the Dark Side. And all at once he knew that this was what he had been waiting for…training for.

The words of the Prophet ended, and Xoverus opened his eyes once more.

“Worship for today is concluded,” he said, turning to regard Xoverus directly, “Next time, my son, do make an effort to give me your…undivided attention.”

“You knew?” the apprentice’s eyes widened.

“There is little you can hide from me, my son,” the Prophet grinned viciously, “Now come…I have a task for you.”

As if awakening from a deep slumber, the Sith opened his eyes.

Lord Silk looked upon a desolate, frozen plain and felt a very real fear.

It has been too long, he thought in regard of the base emotion, too long since last we met.

Trained in the dark arts, trained to manipulate the force and bend it to his own desire was Silk and he had long ago learned to conquer his own fear, to choke it down – smelt it and like some corrupted alchemist draw forth of it a new thing; resolve… power.

Looking upon the world-turned-ice he felt it knot up inside him all at once striving to strip him of all his accomplishments, age, achievement, wisdom and knowledge, power. And it caused him to smile.

“There are powerful energies here,” he spoke aloud. “But I too am a great energy and I will not be turned away.”

He swallowed.

He remembered.

Then, much as he did upon the planet surface, Silk had risen from his entranced state and recalled his men to the bridge. A vision had come to him. No, it had not been a vision but a message… and there had been a messenger.

Recalling then as now he touched upon the mystifying sensations that had rippled through the force and realized with much satisfaction that the force, the raw energy that had called to him, it belonged to someone, to something. If indeed it, whatever it was, could be possessed then he, Dioan Silk, would have it.

“We are ready for landing,” spoke one of his adjuncts. “Two squads have been prepared for battle and outfitted for extreme environments. There would be more but…”

Silk had scowled unintentionally at his subordinate. The anger he felt was misplaced. “But we have not the equipment,” finished Silk in a mocking tone, “to outfit any more men because our benevolent lord Palestar did not see fit to…”

He trailed off.

Dacian, the name plagued him. It did then, it did now. It would for some time.

The youth had accomplished in his very short life everything Silk aspired to and he had done it because, unlike the aged Sith, he had not indentured himself to any man, indeed to any force. Their relationship had been one-sided in the Sith Lords regard. The boy demanded much and offered little in return but…

… if not for him then who? Dacian Palestar had been his ticket, a ticket for which he paid dearly. The rewards did not outweigh the cost yet. They would. One day.

“Never mind that,” the Sith had said. “I alone will go to the planet.”

“But,” began the crimson brother abruptly about to recount the many problems associated with the proposal only to be cut short by an abrasive bestowed upon him not only by his lord, but the others of the brotherhood within ear shot.

One did not question a Sith lord.

“The Force will protect me,” Silk had informed them. “Prepare a shuttle.”

With that, without further ado, the former Sovereign-Protector had departed, climbed aboard one of the primitive Nyxian shuttles and plotted a course for the planet. His coordinates were indiscriminate to the uninitiated, to the adept however; they radiated a deep, pure force.

Shortly after entering the atmosphere his shuttle had died. Lost power.

For a long time he fell until it had dawned upon him that his flight was as much horizontal as it was vertical. The shuttle was being pulled and for every meter it descended it moved two sidelong. Perhaps wisely he had braced for an impact that never came. Only upon extending himself beyond the shuttle, pressing his fingers in to the very fabric of the Force, did he understand that though stopped the shuttle continued to hover, to drift, slightly. Disturbingly he felt no hand holding it, nothing through the Force to indicate manipulation of the paranormal.

And then the omnipresent storms, a continual white-out that had spilled across his cockpit since entry, cleared. And then he looked, as if waking from a dream, upon the frozen world.

Again he opened his eyes. The storms had shifted.

Come, they begged, we have cleared a path for you. Come.

When his doubts resurfaced, how will I breath? He asked.

We will breathe for you, answered the endless expanse of ice, we will be your lungs.

The distant white-capped mountains glimmered and for but a fraction of a second he dared imagine a structure there.

“A church,” he gasped and gathered his robes about himself and came to stand before the air lock.

And then he pressed it.

And then his world exploded.

I am a fool, he thought. What a fool to be fooled so easily?

He succumbed to the forces of the planet.

When he awoke, unknowing of how long he slept, he was not immediately glad of his salvation. Hell had quite literally frozen over. Shocked to find his body responsive, he rose. Wishing he hadn’t, Silk rubbed the back of his head. The sheeting ice had cocooned around him diminishing any sign of the shuttle he was in. Something had sheltered him and as he moved out of the shuttle through the still gaping airlock he saw what extent that something had gone to in sparing his life.

For kilometers around him the storms had been kept at bay though regardless the ice had continued to encroach until it encompassed fully half of the shuttle.

You can feel, rumbled the distant storms.

Opening himself to the Force once again he found himself tapping a great reserve of power not his own yet open to him. It extended the length and breadth of the clearing before being consumed by the chaotic convergence that existed beyond.

“I can feel it,” he confirmed aloud.

As his voice came out, it froze. So cold was the air that sounds struggled to move through it, like syrup. Unnatural phenomenon of all sorts continued to reveal themselves to the Sith. Whatever mystical magic sustained him through his sleep kept him alive still. The continued protection caused the aged human to pause and once more contemplate his situation.

Trust, he had no reason to offer it. Yet, inexorably, he was compelled to give himself over. Each footfall lead him further down a path he knew not.

You can feel it, everything shifted around him. You must sustain it.

Just as swiftly as it had overtaken him that which kept him sheltered, fled. In a flash Silk was alone and as the effects of the harsh environment began to close around him so too did the storms begin their brutal, thundering return.

Survive, spoke the frigid planet. Or die.

Silk fell to his knees and cried out. His lungs felt like ice, were freezing inside of him.

“No,” he tried to shout.

I remember the storms held back by Maim, thought Silk. I remember the storms unleashed by Palpatine. I am greater.

He shoved. Expanded around himself, a bubble. He shoved.

Fancying the planet a marble, he closed his fist. Imagining the storms but the curtains of a shower, he cast them back and threw open his palm.

Now walk, demanded the shards of ice blasting through the air now held at bay. Get up and walk.

Breathing the breath of the frozen he exhaled into the subzero haze a cloud of crimson clarity born of his own blood.

Sacrifice everything for life, the drifting continents reminded him of his oldest teachings. Only once you destroy everything can you ever posses anything!

Throwing his feet forward like the Titans of old, like the Azguardian gods of new, Silk started ahead. With him went the storms, with his boot heels drove up impossible lines. He was moving through a dimension spawned of the Force and spawned of reality.

As he walked he thought and his thoughts were memories.

The Dark Lord Maim was yelling at him, drilling him in the basic techniques of manipulation – the school called Alter by the Jedi, called Chaos by the Sith. Hatred rained down upon him and through it and at its head like the spear point of a spiritual blitzkrieg came the tenements of the Sith, the testaments of the Dark Side.

Alone in the blackness of space, Silk remembered drifting through his first isolation, his first removal from his Lord Maim. Grappling with his own fears the Hand of the Sith had faced things inside himself forgotten until now.

He remembered the infantry. He remembered the Royal Guard and Emperor Palpatine, his first exposure to the sheer prophetic nature of the force. He remembered the death of Sidious and the dishonor, the disgrace bestowed upon the Royal Guard in the tumultuous wake that followed.

“Welcome,” spoke a voice after a long time.

Silk had slipped in to a meditative state as he walked, though he noticed it too late, in an unconscious effort to keep the storms at bay, to keep the blood moving in his veins.

A man stood before him and behind that man was a tower, a church. The man smiled and it said; relax. “You have passed a test, you have arrived.”

Silk did. The storms did not rush back in, nor did the substance of the planet assail him. Unconsciousness did.

Before he succumbed, however; Silk offered the man but one word.

He said, “Figures.”

“Fascinating,” Xoverus muttered to himself, “Absolutely fascinating.”

The acolyte hovered over the Sith’s limp form, studying the man. He was human, just as the Prophet was. But like the Prophet, there was something inherently different about him…he was not just human. The black pools that were his eyes were not the extent, but just a hint of his true difference. He was special. Just as the Prophet was. Just as Xoverus was.

“He has potential, this one,” echoed a voice from behind him.

Though he had long grown used to it, Xoverus could not help but flinch every time it happened. The Prophet moved completely soundlessly through the Tower. His presence, when felt, was powerful, but he had the capability to distort its location or disguise it with ease, and he often did.

“He survived the wasteland on his own, you say?” Xoverus did not turn to regard his master, his eyes too intently focused on the unconscious man, “Without Its grace?”

“Another few minutes and that would have not been the case,” the Prophet reminded him.

“But it was the case, and he is here before us alive,” Xoverus turned this time to face the robed man in the doorway, bowing his head in difference as he often did when his words flirted with insubordination or blasphemy, “Surely, that is not a sign?”

“Possibly…” the Prophet nodded, looking through Xoverus and at the Sith, “Or perhaps this one is merely very…resolute. We cannot be sure…not yet.”

“Agreed, Master.” the lich of a man growled in his guttural tone, “He shows promise, but we cannot be sure…not yet.”

“You are learning well, Xoverus,” the Prophet smirked, “Prepare him. He will awake soon. I hope I can entrust you with his interrogation?”

Surprised and eager, Xoverus arose and bowed low.

“Its will be done.”

The Prophet’s hand shot out and his hand latched onto the disciple’s forehead, his palm gripping the tattoo that was inscribed upon Xoverus’s forehead. A soft glow emanated from underneath the palm, and Xoverus could feel the Dark Side flow strongly within him, engulfing his entire body in energy.

“I will be watching, my son,” the Prophet reminded him, “Discover everything. He is a master of lies, but it is Its will that the knowledge will be gained, and so it shall be.”

“I understand, lord.”

“Do not fail me, faithful,” one last reminder, “Do not fail the Unspoken.”

“I will not, lord.”

Without another word, the Prophet disappeared from the doorway. For a moment, Xoverus wondered if he had even been there at all. Then he turned back to the altar upon which the Sith lay. It was the very same altar that Xoverus had been reborn upon. Smirking, he faded into the shadows and watched as the body began to stir restlessly.

Your entire life will be ripped from your mind, if it is necessary. The Unspoken commands it.

Lord Silk, a Sith, knew pain.

Lord Silk, a Soldier, knew endurance.

Lord Silk, a Slave, knew torture.

But for all his knowledge Lord Silk neared the breaking point.

Hours had elapsed, perhaps days. Time became immaterial, became an unquantifiable intangible and left him drifting in the nether. Lost, driven from his anchors, driven from safe harbor, he was reeling. Maybe he had but lingered here a moment. He could not know.

For, like a worm moving through the substance of his being, something invaded him seeking answers in the deepest reaches of his subconscious and for all his attempts to fight it he found himself unable. But something had come from the haze of confusion, a piece of information pulled from not but his own familiarity with the Force and it’s connection to him. He knew; whatever force sought to pillage the depths of his wisdom was not beyond mortal comprehension and for all of its power, was being fed by something far greater.

It was a repeating omen. This planet spoke to him and empowered mortals to its will but behind those fragile vassals lurked something that defied description and was indeed heresy to consider… to both Jedi and Sith. But for those rare examples which existed simply to prove the rules the idea that one could or would find such a mergence in the Force was beyond most to comprehend.

But here it was and it was trying to break him. Only, it wasn’t.

The power he felt first hand was that of a sentient being, a being of flesh and blood. To what end did those other energies support this invasion of him? He did not know.

As it moved through him Silk watched in paralyzed fascination. If ones life did flash before ones eyes before death, Silk imagined, it was something like this.

With each memory it touched upon Silk watched that moment in his life play out before him. Indeed a student of the human psyche as much as a master of the Force, Silk understood that these memories were his own and subject to the flawed recollections of man, the supplementation and alteration of the real affected by the subconscious.

Here they watched as he was enlisted in the ranks of the Imperial Stormtroopers. They watched as he moved through the ranks, images like a broken mirror reflecting a life he barely remembered, they watched him graduate to the elite status of Imperial Royal Guard in the service of the Emperor Palpatine.

Then pain, confusion. Loss.

Palpatine died, the Royal Guard fragmented. There were wars then and internalized feuds that, without the guiding hand of their Emperor, caused their formidable establishment to collapse. And then there was darkness for a time, a period of abandonment.

And then came Maim.

And then, something happened.

As it touched upon the name as if sifting through the dust a monster emerged. It reacted harshly. Silk knew that it was part of himself that rose up against the intrusion upon these private memories but he did not recognize its nature. He knew that this was a part of himself even he did not know.

And it snapped at the invader.

Recoiling, moving away, Silk felt his interrogators shock and observed in an ethereal fashion as the man (he had come to conclude that it was not human, though male) struggled to regain his footing within the mind of his subject, Silk. But, acting in swiftness, Silk moved to defend against him. Reaching out as the other had done he jumbled his thoughts, scattering his memories like a deck of cards but with the deft technique of a professional gambler and came up instead with an alternative.

Flashing before the eyes of his captor were images and memories more recent.

First there was Yinchorr, closer the warm core of the Galaxy. Then there was liberation, freedom and a man named Telan Desaria, an Imperial Baron and Admiral. Next there came the Sith of Xa’Fel and the students put before him under their guidance. And then, like a star gone nova, there was Dacian Palestar.

Even here upon the plains of un-reality, the boy was powerful. And again the effect was like touching upon his memories of the Crimson Empire, of Maim. From there everything moved with lightning progression.

Before them, opaque against one another, the events of the Crusade came together without any sense of chronology, they came together like a puzzle pieced together by an impatient mad-man; all a jumble of misaligned angles and overlap. Until, at its center, came a focus.

The Crimson Emperor. The warship burgeoning with souls loyal to Silk, a monstrous obstacle looming over the planet in worried fashion.

Silk spoke out connecting himself with his interrogator.

He said that there was nothing he would not more gladly tell, openly. He said that he had felt the power behind the man and would not be broken by it that he would tap it as had his captor and from it he would draw the power he demanded. This, Silk informed, was the way of the Sith, the way of a Sith Master.

Ah, replied the voice without words. But you do not believe they will sacrifice themselves for you. You fear that the men who you believe loyal to yourself will come to your rescue but you know deep within yourself that this is not likely, that these men will more likely abandon you and take your great prize, your great starship, as their own prize.

Silk burned.

You think that your paltry hundreds, the ones lost with you on that barren rock, will be enough to see to your will in your absence? I have touched your memories and know that thousands reside above and that of those thousands most would as soon kill you as help you given the chance. These are the subjects of your master… Palestar, Maim… not your own.

Out in the real world, where his body lay slumbering upon the dais while his mind became the ground of battle, a torrent of dark energies were swirling. An eddy tumbled around him and through it he found a connection.

What do you want? Silk asked.

But he knew it did not matter. He knew that was not the right question.

It is not what I want, reminded the interrogator. It is what the Unspoken wants.

The name again… Unspoken…

And, put Silk without words, what I can give. He did not say; and what I can take. But it was inferred and they both knew it.

Introspectively Silk wondered at what he did want? Since touching upon that power, the Unspoken, Silk had been pursuing a chaotic destiny that even he could not see. He was racing headlong towards something, but what? There was Dacian, there was Maim, and perhaps it was from them that he ran, so desperate in his need to flee their effect on his life that he would sprint towards a power such as this without thinking, without first planning ahead.

No. That, he saw, was not the case. As it had always been with him Silk was searching for the tools to shape his own future. Nay, to reshape his future if not his past. But as he aged, now a man of some advanced years, Silk felt his options narrowing. Furthermore, where Maim and Palestar demanded loyalty, Silk had only his handful of brothers to call upon and knew that if his dreams, more grand, were to be made reality he would need more, much more.

So that was it, and he came to know that the interrogator, his captor, was present in his introspectively alongside that something, that Unspoken, that he was fermenting a deal, a negotiation, without even realizing it.

But what did it want?

The Unspoken, informed his unkind host, wishes its word carried beyond this planet. The Unspoken demands you become as adjunct to this Church, that you the Crusader take upon your responsibilities the spreading of its power. You will create a temple upon your vessel which will be host to it’s follower, to myself and those who will serve as go between. In exchange the Unspoken will grant you what you desire…

The Unspoken will grant you a body ever-lasting…

The Unspoken will grant you the loyalty of those you conquer…

Silk corrected, the power to grant myself these things, and then interrogator agreed.

And, Silk came to demand, I will touch upon this power myself, I will see this Unspoken.

Then came a laugh that did not belong to the interrogator. It did not belong to the prophet he had encountered already. It belonged to something else but behind it were feelings of warning, of trepidation, and these emotions did come from the interrogator, they did come from the prophet and they said, “You will be broken by it!”

A touch, it offered. A touch, almost too much.

Silk felt his body burn. He felt his soul explode. Words could not describe… and so they did not.




The next days were beyond recollection. Then as he had once before, following his confrontation with Dacian, Silk had felt perfectly aligned with the Force. Thankful for the salvation that the Unspoken had granted him and thankful for the freedom it had spared him, Silk spent much of this time dwelling upon the events of the past short weeks. So absorbed was he with his meditations that the Sith Lord barely realized the reactions of his crew upon his return.

They professed that he had been absent for mere moments. They had lost communication with the shuttle shortly after it had entered the atmosphere. While the technically minded recruits, mostly professionals called from abroad the galaxy, struggled with the ships unfamiliar systems to try and rekindle that digital, laser, analog, connection, it had been his brethren of the Crimson that had turned to the Force for answers. Though proficient students they were nothing compared to true, mentored knights of the dark side, of the one-to-one tradition that had allowed the culturing of immense singular powers as opposed to the waning, spread-thin forces of the Jedi of the time. Ironic then, some would wager, that as the tide turned it would be the Sith and practitioners of various dark arts that would replace the Jedi. Regardless, they had poured themselves in to the Force uniting their not inconsiderable powers to the task of locating their Master and leader, imagine their shock then to be returned the safe, secure sensations that told them Silk was indeed alright, fit to continue. Stranger still that those sensations should continue until, quite mysteriously, Silk was reported, by the ships sensors, as in his Focusing Chamber.

Minutes, mere moments and yet…

Silk refused to focus on the past an instead trust in his connection with the Force and in his knowledge, singular as it was, that he was but a small fish in a very large, star-filled ocean. Admittedly he felt immediately rejuvenated, able to operate continually throughout those next days with the full vigor of youth. Decades ago, more, he remembered the sort of strength that possessed him to distinguish himself amongst his peers and now felt that flame rekindled within him.

He puzzled his men, stymied them with the idea that they would straight-away devote themselves to the task of a considerable reconstruction of a part of the ship… for the purposes of a church. Why, they asked, would they want to build a temple when none of them shared a singular religion? Silk answered quite simply that what they wanted was of no concern to him and that as to the matter of religion, at least in regards to their adherence to any, there would be one.

The many thousands that had been recalled to active duty most were outraged and their anger fueled Silk in a way he had never felt before. Conversely his brothers of the crimson cloth were similarly empowered by the proposal as they would have been by literally any mandate spoken by their senior. Silk called them together afterwards informing them that their less curteous cousins would have to be kept in line according to their style of order, their perspective upon rank and authority. Though their numbers were by far fewer it was their powers that made them stronger and they could spread themselves amongst the others with impunity and crush any rebellions where they might start. It worked for the first few days, but that was as long as they required for, following their forced obedience the temple, after a fashion, was completed. With some satisfaction he turned himself to the prospect of sleep and slumbered for a full day before being roused by a disturbance in the Force.

Too preoccupied was he with this new sensation that he made no pause to regard himself, simply slung his robes over his form while tugging up the cowl and made for the bridge. A brother was upon him in a moment walking astride his commander and speaking tales of a strange manifestation upon the bridge, a force-driven storm that had compelled he and the others to evacuate. He told the tale slowly, however; as if regarding Silk in a strange manner but again, caught up in his preoccupation to attend the bridge was Silk that he made no notice of it.

And so, quite storming on to the bridge, Silk was first shocked to discover no force-storm, nor any visible damage. He was then secondly, and considerably more shocked by the figure that detached itself from one of the console alcoves, entrenched in shadows as they were, and stated, quite bluntly...

“I am Xoverus,” it said. “And I have come to deliver the second part of your deal.”

So shocked was Silk that he utterly failed to notice the familiar sensations of this being, akin to one who had tried to pry away his secrets, that instead he asked, “The second part?”

His eyes, glowing softly, surveyed the bridge of the colossal ship coldly. There was not a trace of impression upon the figure which slowly clarified as a humanoid male garbed in heavy robes that covered his distinctive features. At the words of the Sith Lord, his eyes snapped back to the man, and their gazes locked.

“Yes,” he answered harshly, more than a hint of perturbation in his voice, “The second part. A deal was made, a pact was formed. Do not be so bold as to think It will let you fly away from this Holy place unscathed if you do not honor your end. We have delivered the first part, and now it is your turn. Quid pro quo, Lord Silk.”

“Delivered?” the Sith asked, at this point too caught off his guard to even respond to the condescending tone of the robed figure.

A sigh escaped the void that the glowing eyes peered out from, and a hand, covered in a robe slightly bigger than fitting, waved casually. The door behind Silk slid shut and locked, preventing any of his brothers from intruding. The figure began to pace back and forth, his gaze never shifting from Silk, his eyes never blinking.

“You desired a…body ever-lasting,” the figure’s voice took on an impossibly unnatural tone that harkened back to the wordless conversation Silk half-recalled in his dazed state, “How have you been feeling, my lord? Refreshed? Reinvigorated? Do you feel as if you were…young again?”

“You…you are responsible?” Silk demanded more than asked.

“Me? Of course not,” the eyes shifted for the first time as the figure’s head shook from side to side, “I do not possess the power to grant such a desire. Rather, It is responsible. The Unspoken has granted you a new youth, an everlasting youth.”

The Sith Lord pondered these words. He knew them to be true. The renewed vigor in his old bones was too much of a coincidence to be just that. A deal had been made; a pact had been formed indeed.

“And if I refuse to…deliver…as you…as it did?” Silk asked, his voice dripping with venom. The prospect of being indebted to such a strange entity was not entirely appeasing.

“The Unspoken giveth. The Unspoken taketh away,” the figure growled, his eyes glowing bright in anger, “Your new youth can be revoked, your old health can be sapped. You are as adjunct to the Church, whether you desire it or no.”

Another wave of the robe-covered hand and the fabric of Silk’s robe was torn away. The Sith Lord gave a cry of anger, but it shifted into one of startlement. On his bare chest there was a tattoo the likes of which he had not seen before, much less endured the application of. It was faint, as if worn with years, but before his eyes it took on a more defined color until it was very clear upon his skin.

“The Mark of the Unspoken,” the figure explained, letting out a guttural chuckle, “You are bound to it. If you fail to…deliver…then it will bring death unto you…or worse. Behold! The price of faithlessness!”

As he spoke those last words, the hood of his cloak was thrown back and Lord Silk beheld with a vague horror the visage of Xoverus, Herald of the Unspoken. The white, shriveled skin had by now almost completely rotted away, leaving only a skull. His lipless mouth was locked into a permanently hideous smile. The only hint of life was the steadily glowing, unblinking eyes.

“The Unspoken giveth. The Unspoken taketh away,” Xoverus repeated, “I faced an eternity of the afterlife, but the Unspoken gave me life once more, in this twisted shell. I had nothing to lose and stood to gain a second chance. What do you you stand to lose in exchange for a second chance in the eyes of the Unspoken, Lord Silk?”

The Sith Lord could not bear to answer the question. He instead changed the subject.

“You claim to have delivered your end,” he snapped, “Yet I possess only my youth. What of the loyalty of my crew? Will you grant me that as well?”

“No,” came the reply.

“No?” Silk growled, his eyes narrowing.

“I will not grant you their loyalty,” Xoverus answered, “I will grant you the power to gain their loyalty yourself. You were very explicit with that regard of the deal.”

“And how do you propose to do so?” Silk hissed.

“It is almost done already,” the lich cackled, “You have completed construction of the church, yes? You have given them the place of worship. Only one obstacle remains before their conversion.”

“And that is?”

“To secure their faith,” Xoverus’ already hideous grin seemed to widen.

“And I suppose that is where you come in?” Silk asked, eyes narrowed.

“What is a religion without its clergy?” Xoverus’ eyes glowed, “Yes, I will secure their faith. When they believe in the Unspoken, they will be ready for you to mold into whatever you wish. Without fear of mutiny, disloyalty, or dissention.”

“And I suppose now is the time when I tell you I accept your offer?” Silk growled.

“My lord, you do not understand,” Xoverus said, “You already have. There is no longer a choice involved. The Unspoken giveth-”

“And the Unspoken taketh away,” Silk finished.

Masters of fate… his fate…

The galaxy seemed to abound with them.

And yet, in that simple knowledge, Silk took solace.

He shared it now with Xoverus, bestowed upon him that simple knowledge as a parting gift.

As the acolyte of the Unspoken moved to depart the bridge Silk spoke and he said, “Everything has its place.”

“And so it does,” replied Xoverus evenly. The ease of his reply conveyed to Silk that Xoverus, like himself, was a master of such wisdom and prized secrets as granted those of their position. “We will speak soon. For now I will see your church.”

“Join me,” added he of It’s will, then sardonically quipped, “as best avails your busy schedule.”

Wordlessly the Lord beckoned one of his servants to attend the needs of Xoverus who, so appointed, departed with his charge in tow. Thankful for this brief respite in which to collect his thoughts Silk gathered himself upon his throne and, fingers tracing the mark seared upon his flesh with light fingers, allowed the force to coalesce within him.

His peace, short lived, was interrupted by the voice of one of his minions; the brother Nocturnal. “My liege,” he spoke from behind concealing helm, his energy ever known to the Master present, “the crew begins to digress, their progress amassing them about the temple. I and the rest of your peerless servants feel a pressure compelling them, though not upon us.”

Silk, pressing open his eyes against the unfolding of the force, studied the posture of the messenger but he did not have to extend himself beyond simple observation to know it was true. Though unnoticed by the Lord of the Crimson Emperor a presence had joined the priest and while in his confusion Silk had not detected this new unveiling he now saw it as omnipresent without his ship save in the souls of his closest elite and, again, his own. But from it he perceived no malice, only the familiar guiding hand of the Unspoken.

“Allow them,” Silk commanded. “Lead those who are resilient to its urging, I will be among you soon.”

Understanding, the crimson-clad figure bowed before leaving his master to his contemplation.

One alone again the Sith reached to the arm of his throne and called forth the interface panel that allowed him to spread his own will across the vessel and its crew but rather then turning it to the task for which it had been designed, he angled the flat-panel in such a fashion that, catching the light, allowed him to look upon his own image reflected in it.

What mendacious mysticism was this, he wondered.

A palm strayed to his chin, cupping his cheek.

The face he looked upon was his own, he knew, yet it was as though a face he had never glimpsed before. Where the tell-tale sings of age had caused his flesh to wrinkle, grow thin and crack, now he was presented with soft, supple and pink skin the likes of which he had not possessed for many decades. Gone too were the signs of silver that streaked his hair marked back from his temples ever increasing in volume with each passing year. Still, however; he retained his years – his features were not, he realized, regressed or replaced with their youthful counterparts but rather saw it akin to a refurbishing of what had been there before, hidden by age. Still his eyes, black pools of the abyss, were unchanged.

Turning the mirror downwards, he laughed.

“Youth, the panacea for old-age,” for the sake of hearing his own voice, he intoned.

He stood. Gathering his feet below him and upon the highest point of his throne, perched, the Sith leapt. He landed softly, rolled, and came up without trace of pain nor weary arthritis.

Only then did it come to him not to excuse his jubilation as a cause for his lack of tactics. Forcing himself to dispel with his illusions, the giddy feeling that overcame him at the prospect of the untold years that now stretched out before him, and instead apply his critical reasoning to the situation and to maintain appearances.

Moving swiftly the Sith stalked the halls of his vessel, by-passing entranced throngs of recruits as they made their way as if in a haze towards the edifice of the Unspoken, he returned quickly to his quarters his intention fixed. The hordes he passed, though they broke around him to grant him passage, paid their Lord and master no special attention as he moved among them, indeed they seemed not to notice him at all. Again searching the energy that compelled them though, Silk again detected the same presence as before and its intent, best as he could guess, had not shifted.

Within his chambers he located his prize. Unfurling a long crimson cape, blood-red tunic and charcoal painted helm, Silk collected and donned the ceremonial garb of the Sovereign Protector. Long since lost to the ravages of time, his original garb had been recreated on special request, to exact specifications, for Silk himself. Throughout the early days of the Crusade he had felt no inclination towards the fabrics. His task, his place in the galaxy, had been uncertain to him, but with his expanding comprehension and he now remembered…

The title of Sovereign Protector had been hard won and he, hard pressed to give it up. But without the Crimson Empire it seemed to Silk a hollow thing, a thing to be dispensed with lest dwelling upon the past, he should be consumed by it.

He knew then as now that the Crimson Empire was, in truth, a bastard regime and that his title an meaningless appointment. It was given him by Maim to keep him a loyal factotum.

Something Dacian had told him once came to him now.

“Titles are all empty to those who hold them,” the boy had been wise beyond his years. “They are not for us, they are for them…”

Granted the power to ensure the loyalty of his crew through the tool of the Unspoken, Xoverus, Silk saw for once his life coming together like some grand puzzle numbering infinite in pieces though, finally, coming to resemble a picture. The honorifics he had held in his life, rank and title, were numerous and varied but none had pleased him as this. It represented, to him, the highest level of achievement within an order now lost to time… almost.

He, a Sovereign.

He, a Protector.

Face, youthful yet distinguished, hidden behind the onyx face-plate that was the helm of such position, Silk set off towards the temple. Under his palm rested a pommel and attached to that a blade which was in turn strapped to the waist of the Sith. A dark energy radiated from it, the sword of Maim taken as prize, long ago, by Silk. A sword of Sith design, its alchemically hardened blade was the match for any light-saber.

As he moved towards the temple at the heart of his grand ship Silk was pleased to note the halls devoid of life. All, it seemed, were either within the temple of clustered in masses near-by awaiting entrance. The lord of the Emperor would not have to wait, his path took him around the rear of the gargantuan construct, speedily thanks to the aide of automated floors, to a private entrance which would allow him to access the church via a long winding staircase. Ascending those stairs he felt none of the strain of age that once tugged at his breath, made his feet heavier with each passing rung. Instead he felt rejuvenated and, coming closer the door that awaited him at the end of the narrow passage, he could hear a great roaring and realized with some glee that it was the chanting of his men. They were raising their voice to a thundering crescendo.

And then, stepping forth on to the dais, Silk was given pause.

Crammed like sardines in a can, the full volume of his crew was clustered around the many-leveled platforms that ringed the temple. To a man, he estimated, they turned reverent eyes towards him and immediately fell silent. His eyes reaching out over such vast distance to distinguish one face from the other, a feat not possible previous, he looked upon the red-painted visages of a quarter million transfixed men and women.

Xoverus was present speaking a wordless sermon but his presence in the force was distant to him.

What pleased the Sith most?

To an individual he could feel them tied to him. They were inexorably bound to the Unspoken and through the Unspoken, to him.

It had granted him the power to ensure the loyalty of his legions, but at a price he only now came to understand… perhaps one day to lament. They were bound to the Church, reverently loyal to it due a powerful manipulation of the force, but he as Adjunct to that Church, Adjunct to that Crusade, was their voice for the future and so they would look to it always.

Even if their souls are not my own, Silk conceded silently, their mortal bodies are.

Pouring himself in to the force his presence washed out over them.

Xoverus chanted, “Your leader, your liege…”

“Your Sovereign Protector,” completed Silk aloud, his voice booming.

All things considered, his future was shaping up nicely.




Epilogue

“What have you done?”

Dacain Palestar, the young master of the Crusade and a dominant power within the force, studied Lord Silk with eyes like two swimming galaxies. A host of Void Knights stood at his side and the Maiden not far off.

Upon returning to Crusade space, his absence noted by Palestar, Silk had welcomed his comrade aboard the Crimson Emperor very soon after his return. Their arrival was felt throughout the ship but had no progressed from the flight-deck upon which the Crimson Wing lurked. Dacian and his cohort had barely cleared the ramp before pausing, mid-step.

“I can feel…”

Silk gestured for the flight-deck to be cleared save a single crimson elite.

As the rest funneled out around the Palestar escort Dacian quipped, lightly, “New suit?”

Alone in short order, Silk doffed his helm. The surprise he detected in Dacian was palpable.

Again he demanded, “What have you done?”

“A great many things,” supplied Silk evasively. “But foremost – a new world joins our fold and it is called Fangol.”

Dacian glanced about, his mood dark. “Given the smell in the air, I would not think that that foremost.”

Regardless, the crimson-clad brother stepped forward, in his palm a data-chip which he proffered to one of the slaves. “You will find the location, composition and various other information regarding the planet…”

Silk cut him short.

“I have found and tapped a convergence in the force, born of the dark-side and likely conceived of divinity. It is on that planet and I have made a pact with it.”

“What pact have you made?”

Over the next half hour, still without having left the flight-deck, Silk detailed the events of the past weeks to his partner in as much detail as he cared to provide which, it turned out, was fairly complete. He told him of the power of Fangol, of the Unspoken and its desire for a Church. He told him of its power and ability to break the soul, a power he had not felt since plunging deep within the being of Palestar. And then he told him of the deal, of his body restored and the youth ever-lasting promised by the Unspoken. He told him of the power the Unspoken had unleashed, how it had brought the minds of so many to the heel of Silk.

He told him a great many things and then Dacian smiled.

“A mind, once stretched to a new idea,” spoke Dacian, “never regains its original dimensions.”

Cryptically he added, “One has to wonder about the body.”

But speaking no more on the subject, Silk not inclined to ask, said only, “Now show me this Church you have erected…”



The End.