The Old Sith Trials

IC: Darth Apollyon
Statue Chamber, Tomb of Naga Sadow, Korriban

“Xirr, I didn’t know your mother was a sculptor." Catalyst was, unsurprisingly, the first to speak up as the team, after duly admonishing Coatlec for his brush with death, filed into the chamber of the horrific and unhallowed statue. "She seems to have captured the details of her last sexual conquest quite vividly," Catalyst continued, provoking a chuckle to bubble unbidden from the slender throat of Apollyon, as she walked directly behind Catalyst, peering up at the statue he jested over. “Does anyone else recognize it?" he asked. "Because I have no clue what in the galaxy that is supposed to be.”

Coatlec, perhaps subdued in shame, or still in shock, was as silent over this puzzle as Scionica, but then, Apollyon didn't blame either of them. There was something about the statue that was highly unsettling, and to speak in its presence seemed like blasphemy. And of course, while Zelashiel might have been termed the Blasphemer in the annals of Sith dynasties, it was only fitting, she thought, that Catalyst broke the uneasy quiet with his silly but admittedly amusing jokes. Yet Viscretus seemed more anathemic still, veritably challenging the statue of the dark god to strike her down as she scaled it, perching herself near its left shoulder as she searched its tentacular countenance, before looking around the room from her perilous viewpoint. In her sweep of the room, Viscretus would see something the team would not have, without looking behind them and above. The arm she perched upon was pointing not at the entryway, but something above it: an irregularly shaped circular hole in the stone wall just below the ceiling, about three times the size of a human fist. How deep the hole went was unclear; in the gloom, it was a smudgy circle just as fathomlessly dark as the other, unexplored passageway on the opposite side of the room.

"Damn this is an ugly ass statue," Jania spoke next, seeming to join Catalyst in a quest to bring joviality to the group, soothing nerves frayed by the tomb's foreboding atmosphere and gnawing danger. "Hey, Robyn, you know anything about this statue..." Apollyon tuned out the initiate's flirtation, instead following Kevala's ascent with her onyx eyes as she contemplated Catalyst's question. The chemical test Kevala proceeded to administer would reveal that the composition of the statue was mimbanite, a mineral native to Circapous V that was detected by standard test kits only because the Force-sensitive properties of much of Circapous' rock made the planet somewhat infamous within the mineralogy circles that produced said tests.

Robyn, too, seemed to ignore Jania's flirtation, muttering something inaudible to Apollyon as she turned to look at the ground, likely in embarrassment. Robyn would notice, however, dark imprints in the dust and sand on the stone tiles that seemed to suspiciously resemble humanoid footprints - only much larger.

"The Kaiburr Crystal?" Xirr abruptly spoke up, if quietly, "what in the nine hells?" Apollyon cast a glance at the armoured Sith Lord, turning from watching Viscretus and Kevala. What a strange thing to say. But the legendary artifact Xirr mentioned wrenched Apollyon's thoughts from her previously nebulous lines of inquiry, instantly crystallising. Or... what a genius insight!

"Of course," Apollyon said breathlessly, "the Kaiburr Crystal." She turned to look around her at the group, raising her voice. "I've read the stories of this time; Grand Master Skywalker sought an artifact called the Kaiburr Crystal over a hundred years ago. He retrieved it from its resting place in a temple on some planet - I forget the name - from a statue just like this one. A statue of some minor god, from whichever planet's prehistory if I remember rightly, called... ah, what was the name... I remember seeing it in the Archives... Pytho- no, ah, Potho-Pomo... Pomojema, that was it." The Sith Lady turned back towards Xirr. "Brilliant deduction, Lord Xirr. Who knew you were such a historian?"

TAG: Volshe , Shira , Darth Catalyst , Padawan4687 , Sedriss Nathemus the Conqueror , dice , @lordjania

OOC: GM blessed post



IC: Darth Vassago
Aboard The Triumphant, Hangar


Choking. Splashing. Hissing.


In the few moments that passed since Darth Vassago’s arrival aboard The Triumphant, the tumultuous situation only escalated. The air was filled with a cacophony of death. Choking cultists, the splash of bile hitting the hangar floor, the hiss of final breaths heaving from the chest cavity, as death overtook those unfortunate enough to be caught in the yellow cloud of gas. The same cloud of deadly gas that was just meters away. The victims appeared to be cultists, though their origin was unknown to Vassago. Their lives meant nothing to him. No life on board meant anything to him, save for his own and Sabba’s. The purpose of the ship was singular; to reach Darth Dreadwar.


Still, no one on board knew that. No one on board knew who he was at all. He preferred that. What he did not prefer, however, was the situation unfolding around him. The Dark Lord began to step forward slowly. His senescent eyes peered around the immediate area from beneath his cowl, his gaze shifting slowly from one incensed being to another, rushing toward him. He turned his eyes up only for a moment; he could sense other life signs above him, in the rafters, no doubt survivors desperate to escape the dangers of the unpredictable enemies on the ground, and the grip of the approaching gas.


A shallow sigh slipped from Vassago’s lips and he shook his head from side to side slowly. Before boarding, he could sense the disarray within, but he didn’t expect to be met with it so soon. He looked back over his shoulder, toward Sabba, who hadn’t moved, and handed her the staff in his hand.


“Sabba,” he stated simply, her eyes snapped to him at the sound of his voice, “stay behind me.” His voice was as sure as it was calm. She nodded simply, her eyes wandering around the hangar, and took hold of the walking stick, clutching it against her nervously.


Time appeared to slow all around him, though it surely hadn’t, merely a side effect of his senses. In his mind, however, time was a flat circle. He’d found himself in situations similar to the one he was in in the past, and he’d handled them just as he would here. His mind worked in such a way that the actions before him unfolded much slower in his eyes, his senses were heightened and, as such, he had much more of a response time. To Sabba, or anyone else looking on, it simply looked as if Vassago was calmly, deliberately, and slowly walking into more than a dozen cultists charging at him.


Darth Vassago’s hands fell open at his sides. Slowly, with each step, he began to raise them, extending them outward, palms up. He lifted his chin and his eyes glazed over, suddenly turning a cloudy white. He began to open himself up to that plane of the Force he’d resided in with Erietta, that plane that was above just the spectrum of the Force that surrounded life, reaching higher into that plane of the Force that bound the Galaxy together. Behind the white fog of his eyes he could see the literal glowing strings of the Force around him, and those within the hangar. He brought his right hand up first, higher than his left, and pulled at a shimmering string. With the gesture of his hand, the cultist nearest to him, a crazed man who was rearing back to stab Vassago, was lifted from his feet and bent in half, his body cracking in two, then cast aside like refuse. Another cultist was lifted with a gesture of Vassago’s left hand, and another with his right. Each was met with a similarly horrific end, the screams of the contorted victims beginning to fill the hangar.


With each step forward, another cultist was ripped from the ground and folded in new and disturbing ways, then unceremoniously thrown away. Vassago began lifting three and four at a time, bending his fingers in inhuman ways to manipulate the Force around the unfortunate victims. It almost appeared as if the Sith Lord was simply a maestro, conducting a symphony of inescapable death around him. The strings of the Force were his instruments, and he plucked at each one masterfully.


The final body cracked and landed with a thud. Then…silence. Save for the hissing of the escaping gas, the whirring of the engines in Hyperspace, the hangar was no longer filled with the feral cries of the cultists within, or their agonizing screams of horror. Within thirty seconds, the cultists were all dead. Some to the gas, while others fell before Lord Vassago. Truly, he had no time for games. He stood tall among the bodies and reached a hand back, toward Sabba. With only the gesture of his hand, the staff was pulled from Sabba’s grip and found its way back into the hands of Vassago. Sabba stumbled forward when the staff was pulled from her hands. She was able to regain her balance after the sudden pull, and began to walk toward her Master, not wanting to fall behind in the hangar.


Vassago threw his cloak back and extended both his arms outward, producing a massive rush of power to push back the encroaching gas that crept about in the hangar. With the push, the gas parted like a sea, allowing Vassago and Sabba to walk through unhindered. Though, as he walked, a voice came to him. It was not Sabba, nor was it Erietta, or Dreadwar. In fact, it seemed to be someone entirely new, a voice he’d never heard. Not only had the voice entered his mind, but suddenly an image flashed before the hazy white of his eyes, then impressed on his mind. A sorcerer, by the look of it, and one that threatened the security of the vessel. He slowed his steps to a stop near a turbolift, and listened to the remains of the message projected into his mind. The words were simple enough to understand; reach the leader of the extremists before any others, or the ship and all on board were facing certain death.


A sigh slipped from his lips as his eyes returned to normal, no longer glowing white beneath his hood. Admittedly, he didn’t hold any love for the crew or whomever it was that was speaking to him, or any others on board the vessel; he had no obligation to assist. However, he did need the ship in one piece; he couldn’t use a Force Storm to pierce into Dreadwar’s location. The ship was required, and as such, he had little choice but to assist where he could.


A means to an end, if nothing else.


The vision of the sorcerer flashed through Vassago’s mind once more while he surveyed the dead; he was not among them. Clearly. He was on board, however traversing the ship though conventional means, such as the stairs or even a turbolift, meant his search would be slowed. Substantially. On his person remained his Talisman of Transformation, something he’d kept from ages ago, a relic of sorts that he’d picked up from the Witches of Dathomir, or the Nightsisters, as they were more commonly known. With it, he could transform into a Raven, like he did on Terminus, and traverse the vessel much faster. Still, he’d need some guidance to the man’s location.


“You’ll have my assistance,” he replied telepathically to the feminine voice in his mind. “Any further insight on his whereabouts will expedite my search,” he added. The thought was obvious to him, and he truly thought if the woman knew the whereabouts, she would have disclosed the information. But, any sort of clue would get him on the right path.


One thing was certain, a group of cultists had fled using the turbolift before him, and rather than wait for another, or use the stairs, he decided to seize the moment. With a deliberate gesture of his free hand, he crushed the doors of the turbolift before him, causing them to wither and fall into the shaft below with an echoing crash. The Dark Lord turned back to his Apprentice, the young Sabba.


“I trust you will follow me,” he told her, gesturing up the shaft of the turbolift, “remember your life on Makatak.” He leaned into the howling cylindrical tube for a moment, the rushing air caused his beard and the hood of his cloak to rustle, and turned his gaze upward, then down. He nodded to himself before turning back to his Apprentice. “It is not more perilous than the trees you scaled. You’ll be fine,” he assured her. He knew, as well as she did, that the stairs were an option, however he felt this would be a bit of a trial for her, something not so easily done. He held full faith she would not fail.


With his words to Sabba, he turned back to the turbolift shaft and focused his energy, channeling into the ring. His eyes fell white once more, clouding over, and he slammed his walking staff to the ground. A soot-colored haze swirled and Vassago took flight, soaring up the shaft, after the fleeing cultists.


Sabba, however, was left a bit stunned. She was given no time to process her Master’s directives, let alone suggest an alternate. She sighed to herself and nodded, knowing it would have made little difference. Her Master had full faith in her, and in her mind, Sabba understood; she’d made a mistake in the marketplace on Terminus, and he was furthering her punishment. It wasn’t so bad, though.
Just like the trees back home, like the old days with Merune, she told herself. A small smile pushed at the corner of her mouth while thoughts of her old life flowed back to her; she missed her life on Makatak. Truly, a simpler time. The smile melted away face and she was returned to The Triumphant, and the task before her…


“Just breathe,” her ears perked up and eyebrows raised at the sound of her Master’s voice within her mind. She nodded, his direction a slight comfort to her, and stepped forward, prepared to make the leap. She bit softly at her bottom lip, closed her eyes, and leapt forward with her arms extended. The cool air flowed up beneath her, sending a chill through her, but she latched on to the tangled wires of the turbolift shaft. It was, in fact, like the trees back home, the wires and cords acting as vines, giving her something familiar to cling to.

The neophyte smiled to herself, the warming feel of relief washing over here, and began to ascend the shaft of the turbolift. She intended to keep pace with her Master and follow him to his destination…


TAG: Padawan4687 ,Shira ,Darth Dreadwar ,Sedriss Nathemus the Conqueror , Darth Voidwalker

IC: Hjörþrimul and Særli
TIE Racks, Hangar Bay Aboard The Triumphant

There was no peace for them since they had arrived upon Odessen. Indeed, their unrest had started far before then. What started as pursuing a powerful vision and a mysterious mirror had become a journey fraught with peril and consequence. Not a day had passed in which danger did not find them in, at minimum, its most mild form.

Certainly they had learned of the Darkness. Certainly the Coven had known of the Galaxy’s shifting and the omens for centuries. Some would argue millennia had passed since the first sign from Vahl of what was to come. Yet, in typical fashion, the Galaxy had always moved forth. Chaos had come and passed, each time. The prophecies came and went, fulfilled by war and peace; birth and death.

Though usually traditional, staunch in his followings of the Ember, it had been Særli who had resisted once the Coven agreed to send them forth. He had never once faltered in his loyalty to their command, in his protection of Hjörþrimul on her missions of pilgrimage and exploration. This time he had. This time, he argued that no object of the Vahla’s, that no artefact of any power was worth what more than one of them had seen.

Hjörþrimul had seen more than merely a mirror. She had seen creations of pure evil, and the death of entire planets. Chaotic images that foretold a horrific fate, should she pursue the artefact and return it to the Ember. Another Chosen had witnessed similar. The birth of pure darkness, and the death of Vahla. Yet both had seen something beyond - the return of their homeworld. Knowledge of their past. A single, blinding brightness in the blackness of their visions.

They considered it their duty, as many Vahla do, to find their lost past. They considered his words but did not heed his warning.

The two Ember had seen malevolence, for they were led by the Dark Side. They had seen power, for many of them were granted with it. They had seen the unnatural - for they were specialists of the arcane.

Yet neither of them had witnessed such as they had moments ago. Neither of them had seen such unnatural, awesome power, such absolute horror, in anything beyond their visions. Even then, very little rivalled it. Only the Nexus and the pools within had truly given them a glimpse of such violent and terrifying power.

Hjörþrimul stood upon the racks, well within the safety of the storage alcove, yet her gaze almost insisted she would rather return. Her black robes fluttered slightly around her as others rushed by. Særli watched her from a few metres away, refugees scattered amongst the narrow catwalk between them. Some running, some staring back. Her brow remained furrowed, her palms tingling with sweat and a cold fear. She was rarely shaken, her mind thrilled by adventure and challenge, no matter the danger. Now, she felt as though her knees would bow beneath her.

She recalled her visions, the words spoken to her by Vahl and those passed on to the Force. Nothing had invoked such a feeling within her before. The prophecies, the future they were striving to avoid - all had settled upon her with a heavy dread, with a great anxiety she could only patiently wait upon to fade. Yet nothing had even given her such deep scars. Nothing had ever made her fear existence so much as a man crumbling to gore before her very eyes, as his jaw released such supernatural howl.

Her hands rubbed her face, sheened with sweat from a combination of mild cyanogen exposure and the unsettling gnawing of what they had witnessed. Særli walked towards her, his eyes scanning the crowd for more of the insane cultists before meeting hers. He dodged a few of the refugees rushing past just as he neared her.

“Let’s go,” he urged, quietly, motioning to descending catwalks that the others were quickly following. “I doubt it’s safe here.”

She nodded. A frown and soft huff of breath followed, her arms folding. “I want to know what they want.”

Særli merely shook his head. He did not disagree with her desire to know, but it was not the time to ponder those who threatened them all. The other, skilled Force users they had met would have to deal with them. He had already contemplated every escape. But for a ship careening through hyperspace, there were remarkably few options that did not invite their immediate death. Remaining with others would be the best choice, providing numbers to aid in distraction and defence. Until they could leave the ship at the next destination.

“Let’s go,” he repeated at last, motioning towards the path ahead. Only then did she relent, starting down the catwalks and heading towards a dimly lit corridor that the others had already reached.

TAG: Shira , Padawan4687 , Darth Dreadwar , Sedriss Nathemus the Conqueror , Lord Vassago , @voidwalker
TAGSET: Triumphant/UR

---

IC: Darth Viscretus
The Catacombs, False Tomb of Naga Sadow, Korriban


“Mimban. Lord Vader had travelled to the same planet to seek out the Kaiburr.I was much younger then, but I remember hearing of his assignment. And of the temple of Pomojema. The natives worshipped him as a healing god and used the close proximity of the crystal to amplify their own nascent Force powers to perform minor miracles. They were all but wiped out by the time Lord Vader made his way to the planet though. Are you suggesting this is connected to that? A tribute to an unknown healing god laying sealed beneath the tomb of one of the most renowned Sith Lords to grace the galaxy makes absolutely no sense. The only value I could see from it is if those who built this tomb were trying to replicate that amplification of power by adding an idol here. But without an actual Kaiburr crystal that shouldn’t work...”

The voices floated up to where Viscretus stood, her eyes focussed on what seemed to be an endless tunnel into the stone. Catalyst’s was the one she focussed upon to any degree, the others unsurprisingly lacking in any pertinent information. It was difficult for her to maintain focus anyways, the strange effects of the room still taking a toll. Most bizarrely, she had begun to feel some familiarity. A familiar evil watching her from afar, perhaps, preparing to pounce on her in a moment of weakness. A block of ice that sat in her chest, a presence she did not wish to turn and face.

She steadied herself against the lustrous stone that formed a tentacled beard, and examined the statue from her vantage point upon its shoulder.

There was no crystal within the statue. Perhaps, however, the idol’s missing piece was somewhere within the room. Unlikely it would be within the small tunnel she saw - and in fact, she figured it was for some other use or trap - but there was a high chance some sort of crystal was elsewhere within the room. The tomb was brimming with bizarre puzzles and the strangest historical findings.

She knelt down. Her mind probed throughout the room for some unusual Force signature - of any alignment - hoping to easily locate it wherever it may be. A thick fog clouded her mind, so far as to obscure the obvious signatures of the group below her.

“A healer god, worshipped by Force sects on Mimban. A pity I do not receive such worship for my talent,” she remarked, sardonically, silently hoping none of them would put themselves near death...and also vowing to let the next one die. She glanced about and probed again, ensuring she missed nothing. “Beyond this hollow across the room, I see nothing of importance.”

TAG: Shira , Padawan4687 , Darth Dreadwar , Sedriss Nathemus the Conqueror , Darth Catalyst , @lordjania , whoever else I am forgetting (sorry ) 

TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow

---

IC: Dynami
Western Ruins of Dreshdae, Korriban



It rested upon a mangled mess of rust and stone, an oasis shaded from sun and frigid winds. It did not require such rest. But at last the voices had quieted. For the longest time it had rocked in its sanctuary, plagued with their orders. Plagued by their shifting and swirling in its mind, the webs they spun for it to get caught in.

Dynami stood. Palms pressed together in bizarre reverence, impulsively flinging itself to the ground. An orb flashed before its eyes, an artefact of importance. It could feel its power. A tingle within its palms as it reflected upon it and the memory it had been given.

Its eyes rose to the sun as the voices unified in chant, the very only moment it understood perfectly.

Woqûoksh hadz Sith'ari. Won chwayat kintihâsk. Tsawak kintik’jenkut qorit.

Tsawak jenûqyâsik.

Tsawak jenûqyâsik.

It began to pace, murmuring the very same. Its hands plucked at its vibrant red curls, dust and debris twined in the strands. It was not yet sure of who it was. What it was. The voices told tales, but each one contradicted the last.

It was a great Sith. It was a peasant. It was a woman. It was a man. One voice spoke out, shrill yet feminine.

Dynami.

It was Dynami.

It had a name? It was given a name? For what purpose, if it was merely a slave to a master’s will?

Suddenly, the orb returned to its mind’s eye, trapped within a chest, inscribed with rune. Its independent thought fled. Insanity gripped it, hands clawing at eyes and breath hitching.

A vision of that same chest, within a dark room flashed before it again. And a man touching the chest, killed instantly. Pustuled and bloodied by the time his corpse had tumbled to the ground.

It laughed, until the vision intensified. Until it only saw horrors and the voices forced it to watch, even with muscles tightened in unbreakable fear.

If those in its mind buzzing about had not silenced the vocal cords it possessed, the Valley would have heard it scream. Echoing with violent intensity that no mortal soul could replicate. Its existence was unnatural, it knew such. It was not the one whose shell it possessed. The voices grew to a roar again. Whispers and shrieks of orders it could not comprehend. It would not learn any further for now. It would only see pain.

It knew few things, now. That it served the one both God and King. That he was awakened. That devastation was coming. That the message the voices spoke, that which they chanted with greatest conviction, must be given to the Sith and the Galaxy beyond. That it must retrieve what its mind desired to prepare.

Darkness lay upon the horizon, as a storm darkened the distant sky.

It was unmistakable.

It stumbled forth, away from the once-haven it had found. Not merely because the voices willed it, but because it now hoped that whatever lay ahead would gift it death.

TAG: Darth Dreadwar ,
SIDE STORY: Dynami

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IC: Relon Ka’a
Camp, The Forest Moon of Dxun



Relon leaned back in the makeshift hammock, fashioned from mismatched beast hide. It creaked and shuddered beneath him, the low branches struggling to bear the weight of his armoured form. The trills of some amphibious creature called out from the grasses nearest the camp, marking the end of twilight - summoning the dead of night. He grabbed a hanava from the rucksack beside him, stabbing it into the horns atop his head to check for greddlebacks. Only sweet nectar oozed out, splattering his red skin. He rubbed away a spot of now-sticky dirt and proceeded to take a bite.

A distant crash echoed in the forest, louder than he had heard yet. The jungle was filled with confused beasts, aggravated just as every other soul who set foot on the moon. It was not unusual for them to collide with the thick, twisted trunks of trees, nor for the aged ones to bend and break afterwards, toppling to the mossy ground with a reverberating crash. His wide-set jaw clenched, stopping his small feast. Thunder often roared through the air, at least one side of the small moon always lashed with perpetual storm. But this…this was different. Unnatural, he could have said, were he not quickly gulping down the honeyed pulp in his mouth. His eyes tracked first to the others, sleeping soundly still, then to the noise. The blackness of night allowed him no hint as to its source. The firelight barely cut into the darkness on the clearest days, but now, the endless night sky was covered in thick clouds, churning with rain and grumbling with distant thunder.

Then, another. Louder. Closer. He hoisted himself out of the hammock, the trees and his bones creaking the same. There was something on its way. Beast, man, droid…it didn’t matter to him. He was no fearful man, but he was no kriffhead, either.

“Davon, ey,” he called, throwing the soggy fruit at one of the sleeping forms, his crimson leatheris jacket dancing with the fire’s glow. “Getchour ass up.”

The man stirred before snapping upright, smoothing the pulp from his blue-streaked hair and glancing down at his wrist-chrono.

“What the kriff, man,” he whined, tugging his gloves on and glancing around his cot for the havana – which he merely knocked to the ground with a huff, “It’s half four standard. I got off watch at two.”

“Quit yer frotzing.” The Devaronian’s brow furrowed. He brought a single, grime-ridden finger to his lips, before motioning to the stirring jungle. “And listen.”

The whistle of wind, the chatter of beetles, the whine of the scaled beasts, the trill of distant pond-dwellers…but nothing else met Davon’s ears. A minute passed, only growing thunder permeating the din of the wilderness. He rolled his eyes. “What, one of those Iziz whores you stiffed come to find you?”

“Funny man, eh,” Relon replied with a growl, grabbing his cohort by his ebon bicep, “I’ve a mind to send you in there. ‘Least it wouldn’t see you comin’.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Davon jerked his arm away, breaking from the grip and giving Relon a light shove. “You deal with ‘it’.”

He walked towards the fire, plunking himself down and grabbing a canister brimming with meats they had finished curing the day before.

Relon growled, his fist curling into a tight ball. He was never a patient man. Nor was he now. He grabbed a sidearm from Davon’s bag and stalked towards the edge of the camp, just to where the firelight began to fade.

“Alright, you kriffing scum.” He brought the pistol up and steadied it. “If you wanna live, you’ll give it up. Otherwise, you’re dead. Thirty seconds to pick one.”

He began to count, each number swallowed up by the rustling forest and the wind. The crash echoed again, this time right beside him. He turned, snapping to face it with widened eyes. Only the clearing was beside him. His feet began to step back towards the camp, away from the forested edge. The crash came again, this time right behind him. He spun, startled by the absolute impossibility of it all. A voice pounded in his eardrums, animalistic, roaring, entirely incomprehensible.

A flash of green light overcame him just as he took in the sight. His camp entirely destroyed, Davon lying unconscious just behind him, a structure of crumbling black stone somehow planted where the fire had once been.

TAG: No one. Yet.
TAGSET: Dxun Cache

IC: Darth Coatlec
Location: Passage of Ku'ar Danar, False Tomb of Naga Sadow, Valley of the Dark Lords, Korriban


Viscretus could care less at the notion of Coatlec's thanks to her. That deed was done. It was time for the whole company to move forward with the quest at hand. Hmpf. Well, if she doesn't even care to simply say, "My pleasure," then perhaps I will not have to live a life of servitude under her. No, I am destined for far greater things than that. But there was something more to this. Coatlec was able to glean from her posture that something was troubling her. Perhaps she had caught a glimpse of the same vision he had moments before of her lying dead on the tomb floor. Should I speak to her about it? She seems to be able to handle herself unlike others in this company. But as soon as the thought shot across the bastard Lord’s mind, the Sorceress leaped into the air and onto the outstretched arm of the great statue. She leaped once more and found herself next to its carved stone face.


It was then that Coatlec's apprentice made clear that she would never gain control of her loins. She walked with the rest of the group before saying, "Damn this is a ugly ass statue.. Hey Robyn you know anything about this statue. You seem like the super smart type of student... plus I like girls that got a good brain up there." Coatlec had fawned over the naked corpse of Viscretus in his visions, but it was discreet within his own thoughts. It was not a continuous string of flirtatious comments. Jania would one day flirt with the wrong Sith and end up dead...or far worse. Coatlec then established a mental link with his apprentice as he was still cautious about talking audibly. He said, Jania, you're pushing too hard. The more you try to go for Robyn, the more you will push her away. You have to be more subtle and discreet with your flirtatious comments or it will bite you in the ass in the future. But Robyn, as expected, would have no part of the flirting. She simply responded by saying, "I'll... I'll need a better look at it, if I'm going to find another descriptor besides 'ugly.'" You see, Jania, you're only pushing her away. Try to be more subtle. She'll come around. 


Now the statue everyone was standing around was large, made of some kind of carved stone, and it had two red crystals for eyes. The ever snarky Lords Xirr and Catalyst would of course have a war of words over the great statue. Ugh. Things will never change with these two. By the fucking Gods. Catalyst would remark first saying, "Xirr, I didn’t know your mother was a sculptor. She seems to have captured the details of her last sexual conquest quite vividly." Not to be outmatched the headcase Lord responded with a quip of his own. "Indeed she was, though I must not have been aware of her true age, this monstrosity does strikingly resemble my worthless kark of a Father!" Coatlec would have said something right then, but it seemed Xirr was hit with another message from the voices he had discreetly mentioned to Coatlec earlier as Coatlec could hear him, albeit quietly, say, "The Kaiburr Crystal? What in the nine hells?" Coatlec then established a mental link with Catalyst and Xirr asking them, Must you guys always go back and forth with your quips? Catalyst is the most cunning linguist here. Xirr, well, you may get there one day. As for the Kaiburr Crystal, I'm sure that Apollyon will describe what it is. I know much of its history but seeing as I can't talk, I won't describe it. 


And so Apollyon did describe it. She said to the entire company of Sith, "Of course. The Kaiburr Crystal. I've read the stories of this time; Grand Master Skywalker sought an artifact called the Kaiburr Crystal over a hundred years ago. He retrieved it from its resting place in a temple on some planet - I forget the name - from a statue just like this one. A statue of some minor god, from whichever planet's prehistory if I remember rightly, called... ah, what was the name... I remember seeing it in the Archives... Pytho- no, ah, Potho-Pomo... Pomojema, that was it. Brilliant deduction, Lord Xirr. Who knew you were such a historian?" Coatlec established a mental link with Apollyon in order to corroborate her history, not that it was needed. He told her, You are exactly right, my Lady. You are quite the historian yourself. Catalyst chimed in with his own corroboration of the history regarding Lord Vader and the Kaiburr crystal in saying, "Mimban. Lord Vader had travelled to the same planet to seek out the Kaiburr. I was much younger then, but I remember hearing of his assignment. And of the temple of Pomojema. The natives worshipped him as a healing god and used the close proximity of the crystal to amplify their own nascent Force powers to perform minor miracles. They were all but wiped out by the time Lord Vader made his way to the planet though. Are you suggesting this is connected to that? A tribute to an unknown healing god laying sealed beneath the tomb of one of the most renowned Sith Lords to grace the galaxy makes absolutely no sense. The only value I could see from it is if those who built this tomb were trying to replicate that amplification of power by adding an idol here. But without an actual Kaiburr crystal that shouldn’t work." Indeed, Lord Catalyst, from what I have seen in my studies, you are right as well. 


Coatlec knew that the Kaiburr crystal would most likely be somewhere in the room, but he could not see the cavity in the rock face as he didn't have the vantage point of Viscretus. She said something else from the top of the statue, but it was inaudible to Coatlec. Excellent. A Kaiburr crystal would be of great use to me. If I could just get my hands on it. It would amplify my power a thousand times over. I could be a...a God. I would be all-powerful. Perhaps I could reverse this dumb aging that Viscretus put me through. But first, I'll draw out Xirr. Damn voices giving him the answers. It's ok. When I'm done with him, he'll have neither a mind nor a body. Nothing more than a charred husk. Oh damn. That's not very balanced, Coatlec. This tomb is either getting to me or these are my true intentions. We shall see...


TAG: Darth Dreadwar,Volshe,Shira,Darth Catalyst,Padawan4687,dice,@lordjania

IC: D’non Velkor
Location: Coruscant Underground train


D’non glanced over as the man started running. “Stang,” he muttered. “That makes things interesting.”

He turned to the large hitman confronting him. “My bad, sorry, I’ll leave you to your business.” While he was speaking, he slipped a tranq dart out of the magazine on his belt, using pressure on the tip to release about half the fluid. Then, in a swift motion, he patted the enforcer on the back, stabbing the short needle into his skin. The sedative would make it feel like nothing more than a mosquito bite, and Because it was only a half dose, it wouldn’t be enough to knock him out. Instead, he would simply feel a little woozy, and not be able to concentrate on anything, while feeling a need to sit down.

Then, D’non moved swiftly through the crowd, leaving the guard behind. He glanced at Gez’segi. “Girl, move to cut him off.”

then, he slipped the hood up over his head, and began swiftly striding towards the door, in pursuit of the Farghul. He made his way past him, staying concealed beneath his hood and cloak. Once the farghul was between him and Gez’segi, he turned back, so that he wouldn’t be able to run. He left his hood up however, and avoided eye contact, allowing the sith to handle the situation until things got out of hand.

In the meantime, he eyed the crowed, keeping his hands on the pommels of his pistols beneath his cloak, and frowned. He hated being in this confined a space and being unable to cut loose. Normally, on a freelance mission, his shapeshifting meant it didn’t matter what he did, since he could always just change his face, clothes, and identity, and walk away clean. Here though, he wouldn’t be able to gun down or tranq anyone who got in his way. It was more irritating than anything else.

He sighed, crossing his fingers. “Hopefully I’ll get to kill something today.”

Tags: Darth Dreadwar,
Volshe, patrickx31,

IC: Gafarl
Interrogation Chamber, Dungeons beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban
"Anyone?" Gafarl's pallid features creased in a frown, disappointment reflected in his cruel gaze as he surveyed the timid students. He had anticipated a sea of raised hands at his question, asking his class as he had for suggestions on how to interrogate the unfortunate Twi'lek workman within the cage to his right. Yet his reputation had evidently preceded him; the Sith Initiated had seemed to collectively decide to let a braver Sith Initiate answer the Rattataki jailor... which meant no one. "No one?" His frown deepened, as the students looked warily at one another, the only one to make so much as a pipsqueak being one mumbling to taunt a new Cathar student.

Gafarl shook his head. "How disappointing. I would have expected a group of Sith, even students, to be eager to--" Gafarl was interrupted by the sound of the classroom door opening, through which promptly filed six dark warriors. The stygian soldiers were dressed in the Vonduun crabshell armour of Yuuzhan Vong Slayers, yet with long, sweeping cloaks of midnight black and cruel helmets reminiscent of the long-dead Palpatine's personal Sentinels - or perhaps, the ancient Sith royal guardsmen of Onderon on which the Sentinels of Byss were based. As they quickly spread out around the classroom, taking up positions at each corner, by the door and beside the cage, it would become obvious they held inactive lightpikes in their gloved hands. Gafarl noticeably paled at their appearance, and at once dropped to one knee as students - recognising at once the frightful profiles of the Shadow Guard and what they signified - dove under their desks, lying prostrate with hands splayed and foreheads touching cold stone upon the floor.

Several seconds passed, in which the dread-stricken silence was broken only by Gafarl whispering a quick prayer, the Sith Master not daring to look up to see whether the Cathar newcomer was still sitting at his desk or not. And then a shadow fell upon the classroom, as the daemoniacal light cast by the braziers outside was blotted out by the dark apparition that filled the doorway. It glided into the chamber, its tattered cloak trailing behind it, its presence seeming to leech all warmth from the room, sconces flickering in its passage as its shadow billowed as a wake of dark side energy akin to eldritch smoke. To Arcane's undoubted shock, he would suddenly find himself unable to sense with the Force; it was not so much that he was wholly cut off from his power, so much as his mind's eye was being inexorably pulled towards the void in the Force that stood before him, a black hole in the fabric of the cosmic energy where the Force itself was dead. Not the azure warmth of the light side, nor the crimson fire of the dark side as familiar to any Sith, but wholly non-existent.

Cold.

The void was verily a physical thing, not merely spiritual, for within the specter's deep hood was only nothingness.

Darth Dreadwar, Emperor of the Sith, had deigned come to the dungeons of the Academy for the first time in living memory, and presently came to a stop before Gafarl. "Riiissse, jailor," the high, hissing whisper rippled from the empty cowl, echoing powerfully around the chamber. "Attend to your Empperoor."

Cold.

Gafarl stood, shakily, his eyes downcast, refusing to meet the abyssal non-gaze of the dread Lord of Darkness. Swallowing, he managed the ritual reply to the god-king he had never before met, "Hail Dreadwar;" a shiver, before continuing, "to what do we unworthy peons owe the privilege of your divine presence, Magnificence?" The empyrean Emperor turned his back, pacing over towards the cage, where the Twi'lek workman was shuddering so violently he seemed to be seized by some sort of epileptic fit, urine trickling down the legs of his trousers as he pressed himself against the far side of the cage. "To this tentacular plebeian," the Emperor rasped in return, "or rather, to the force that claimed him, prompting him to relieve his coworkersss of life." Without turning to look at the class, merely tilting his hood upwards, Dreadwar let a query bleed into the air. "Is there any among this rabble with the discernment to deduce the ssignificance of these murders, or have you enfeebled their mindss with ssspectacles of base sssadism, jailor?"

TAG: Arcane

IC: Garn Tarcrulus
Empty room, the Artificer, hyperspace

In the fifteen minutes Karina meditated on unlocking and opening the holocron of Darth Ramage, Garn Tarcrulus discussed Karina's suggestion to hide the relic within the stone wands with Captain Jacen Thilly. It was not a bad idea; if the secret hold was discovered, the Federation agents would likely think it was merely a place to stow unsavoury material away from the eyes of passengers, particularly if they hid a few porno mags and holos from Thilly's quarters down there as well. The agents would unlikely perform more than a cursory search of the crates, if they even wanted to touch the sex toys at all, and even if they brought on-board sensors of high fidelity, any electronic signature, if not concealed by the many stone instruments, had a high chance of being interpreted as merely an electronic sex toy.

Satisfied with the plan, Garn followed the path out of the hold Voidwalker and Karina had taken earlier, finding them in an empty room at the back of the freighter. Garn was surprised to sense Karina reaching out towards the holocron, as if infusing it with innate power, bidding it open and reveal its secrets to her. Her sensitivity had been muted, yet now, as she focused, the abundant flow of her instinctive power was clearer than Naboo's rivers to Tarcrulus... and he sensed the activation of the Holocron was imminent under her ministrations, giving him scant little time to deliver an impromptu history lesson.

"Darth Ramage, one of the Sith Lords of Bane's line," Garn spoke into the silence softly, hoping to not disrupt Karina's concentration overly much. "Followed the Rule of Two, he did, an old creed that there should only be two Dark Lords at one time, condemned as heresy by the Sith Empire. If legend speaks true, Ramage was in possession of an artifact of great power called the Wand of Rending, capable not only of carving runes to concentrate Sith magick, but overpowering any lightsaber used against it, slicing right through it like it was just a harmless ol' glowstick. But the Wand did not save Ramage, apparently; he was sealed in a Korriban tomb by his apprentice Darth Urmage, who'd become master to Darth Tenebrous, who taught Darth Plagueis, who taught the man who'd become Emperor Palpatine."

Garn chuckled lightly. "Ramage was left to turn to dust within his sept, a death surely as cruel as the living Sith slaves' sealed away with their masters' corpses in the tombs of the ancients. Yet wherever the sept is - I've been searching for it all over, I have - I bet it'd contain its fair share of Sith treasures. Not just the Wand of Rending, but all of Ramage's gadgetry of dark science. Maybe even the... wait, the holocron..."

Even as Garn spoke, the holocron was beginning to glow crimson, shedding dark energy in the Force as the crystalline matrices shone with scarlet power. And with a faint hum, it came alive, the miniature holographic figure of the holocron's creator shimmering into ghostly being above. Garn understood the Gatekeeper was merely an artifact of advanced artificial intelligence imbued with Force-fuelled personality scans of the owner; it was magic, but it was technomagic, not the disembodied soul of Ramage himself... although Garn was familiar with the stories - superstitious myths, in his book - that some Sith holocrons differed from Jedi teaching devices in housing aetheric shards of the creator's soul.

What Garn perceived to be the slightest whisper fell upon the room, then, a faint susurrus reminiscent of a coolant line flushing or perhaps just the cycling of the hyperdrive, before it crystallised into a low, grim voice. The Gatekeeper was speaking. "Have the Sith fallen so far?" The projection of Darth Ramage, merely a hooded shadow with indistinguishable features, asked aloud - not to the air, but directly looking down at Draven and Karina. "You are both as nothing; what has happened to our line?" The shadow opened its opaque palms, and between his hands appeared the holographic likenesses of his forebears flashing by in rapid succession like a holoreel, starting with Bane, Zannah and Cognus, all the way through Gravid, Gean, Vectivus and many others to Ramage's own master Darth Guile. All in greater fidelity than the spectre that displayed them.

As Ramage's hands returned to a steeple and the visages of the lost Lords dissipated, the hologram continued, disappointment suffusing his gruff voice. "How much time has passed... how many generations of Sith have there been?" The indistinct hood shook to and fro. "My apprentice was unworthy of the title; we must have fallen, for neither of you are true Sith. The line of Bane is dead. I will show the weak nothing."

TAG: Darth Voidwalker kurtishenschel

IC: Darth Ramage
Beyond Shadows

Various chimes and claxons sounded from The Namesake's sensor booth.
"Two contacts out of grid 027,090 Commander Teket, closing fast. Your orders sir?" A Rodian in a bright red Republic uniform asked. Commander Teket was a young human male with his first command out of the prestigious Republic officer school on Coruscant.

"Alert The Deliverance, and hail the Jedi on The Gambit to let them know our prey is making a run for it. Deploy our interceptors to close on them, request both Deliverance and Gambit scramble their Headhunters to our location immediately as well, Ensign."
"Roger that, Sir." The bug-eyed male replied.

 

"Master, four contacts closing on us ahead, and four more coming in fast from the polar region, but they wont make it here for at least three minutes."
Tenebrous warned his master over comms.

"You take the lead, apprentice. I wish to see if your ability with this ship is as great as you boast."
Urmage was no great helmsman, and he knew it. If not for his connection to the force, his skills would be less than those of many Republic aces. Rugess Nome, however, was an ace pilot as well as being the one to design these revolutionary new ships.

"As you wish, master. They will prove no challenge."
As the Bith pushed his throttle stick to full drive, he summoned the force. Power surged through him now, he remembered his master's teachings. "Through passion, you gain strength. Through strength, you gain power."

Tenebrous thought back on his first taste of power.

The Bith as a species were technologically adept, enjoying prominent roles as engineers, scientists and talented musicians throughout the galaxy as a whole. Tenebrous was no different. A Bith's reproductive organs atrophied over time, as did the portions of their brain governing such impulses. As such, Bith were unable to reproduce naturally, instead relying on artificial conception and gestation. Mates brought genetic material to a Computer Mating Service for analysis against prospective mates. Bith children were created from genetic material from two parents, which was combined, fertilized, and incubated for a year. 

Yet fate had different plans for Nome. The spawn of a talented midrim chemical engineer Harknet Nome and the most popular Quenk Jatz  musician of the era, known as Lera Jazz, Rugess was kidnapped during his incubation by an Outer rim gang in the service of Gardulla the Hutt. The Elder Hutt had become enthralled by Lera's music, yet was offended when the female Bith refused all service contracts offered by the space slug. Assuming the boy's parents would submit to her new terms, the gang smuggled the boy into Hutt space in a rusty cargo pod.



Surprisingly, his parents were unwilling to negotiate with the crime syndicate. Rugess was born a slave on a distant outer-rim desert plant. The boy was sold to a local techno-union always in search of talented workers, a Bith slave who knew nothing besides a life of servitude was valuable, indeed.
The child soon proved to be a wise acquisition for the company. By six years old, the boy had mastered the fundamentals of droid binary and had designed several advanced land speeders for his parent company. The boy was special, even for a Bith.

It wasn't until his 10th standard year that the monotony of the factory would end for Tenebrous. The banking clans canceled all contracts with the manufacturer over some petty trade dispute. Rugess was liquidated and sent to the slave markets of Nal Hutta. There he met his destiny.
Urmage had been sent by his master Ramage to the criminal system to purchase an unregistered freighter. For what purpose, the Twi'lek did not know, but as the Sith apprentice walked the teeming crowds, he felt darkness.

He felt the dark side.

Rugess was feeling stress unlike anything he had imagined. He was content to work on droids and speeder-bikes for the rest of his days, he had known no other life. Yet now he was naked, standing in a line with several dozen other slaves in the main promenade of the capitol's market district. Would he be sold to the pit? Perhaps a local cantina would be in need of a new bartender, he had learned such positions were very desirable for many free Bith, that might not be so bad.


BZZZZZZZZZT
The boy was stabbed in the back by one of the attendants with a stun baton. Electricity coursed through his nervous system. "Move, scum. You have been purchased by the Quarren in cream-colored robes, get out of my sight."
Nome fell to the ground, still writhing in pain. He felt his bowels loosen, feces ran down the back of his legs.
nearly a half of the passing crowd erupted in laughter, the rest scarcely even looked up.
There was ringing in his ears, the chorus of mirthful laughter mixed with his own shame was too much.

The Bith closed his eyes as a slave for the last time.

"NO!" The boy screamed. The human male before him was thrown back violently, a look of horror on his face as his limbs were folded in on themselves like a broken doll. The exposed mechanical right arm exploded into shrapnel as the second wave of energy struck the man who was now no more than a mass of hair, blood, and clothing embedded into the wall near where he once stood.
Two Duros in full armor, armed with pikes, rushed forward placing themselves in between the shit-stained boy, and their Quarren master. They both struck at the boy who was facing away from them in unison.

Tenebrous was suddenly hyper-aware. The nearsightedness that plagued all Bith was suddenly gone, The Bith could feel the air around him stirring. He could hear the breathless thoughts of the crowd around him, now suddenly terrified by the inexplicable events which had just unfolded. The child's mind was racing, a thousand possibilities were before him.
"Kill them all." said a voice from inside him, whether it was his own thoughts, or the will of the force, was irrelevant in this moment. The boy soon to be named Tenebrous moved like a marionette, blindly grasping both strikes from the incoming force pikes behind him, still facing the mass of flesh which had just struck him.

The pair of Duros were confused. Their attack was suddenly stonewalled in the moment of contact. Both men tried to activate the electrode on their weapons which was powerful enough to incapacitate a grown wookie, yet nothing happened.
A current of red electricity poured from the boy's hands down the length of metal connecting the three life forms. Both were cooked inside their armor instantly, their screams inaudible as their vocal chords melted like tallow.

Again, Urmage felt darkness. This time it was palpable. He had not felt a presence like this aside from his own master's power. Calling on the force, he reached out in search of its source, thousands of monotonous, lifeless, voices entered his head. Nal Hutta was the most densely populated system in the outer rim, yet he quickly found the source. Black lifeless eyes filled with fear and contempt came into focus in the Twi'lek's mind. "This is no Jedi." Urmage said softly to himself.



The sound of his ship's proximity alert broke Tenebrous from his momentary reflection. The Sith still felt that same hatred  coursing through his veins. The emotions envigorated the boy, he switched off his targeting computer. The dark side would guide his actions better than any machine could.

"Dagger-2 to Dagger-1, Two fighters of unknown make are heading straight for us Capitan, we will be in firing range in 30 seconds or less."
One of the pilots relayed to his wing leader.
"Ready weapons, I have a feeling this isn't going to end diplomatically." The Capitan told the other three pilots.

Suddenly the closest contact surged forward. "These ships are fast!" Capitan Juiqui said to herself. 30 seconds became 10.
Green turbolaser fire erupted from two oversized cannons, all four ships broke into evasive maneuvers, yet suddenly Dagger-4's Headhunter was vaporized. It was as if he had steered his ship directly into the oncoming fire.
"BLAST! Hart is down Cap! This guy is good." Dagger-2 broke in over comms. "Return fire, Dagger-2, Dagger-3 break formation, try to flank around and get an angle, I'll cover you Dagger-2."
"Copy that." was the reply from both, as they executed the woman's orders.

"Turbolasers on a ship that small shouldn't cycle again for at least 10 seconds, Dagger-2 let's smoke this flyboy while we have the upper hand." Juiqui said, drawing her state of the art Z-95 up next to her wingman both opened fire together.

Tenebrous was unconcerned, deftly juking his far superior craft allowing the crimson laser fire to pass harmlessly between his four engine pylons. The Sith then diverted power from both forward and rear deflector into his weapon system.

"Shit." The Captian thought to herself. "Not even a grazing shot."
The two contacts were now several clicks apart, the lead craft seemingly on a suicide run. Regardless of the pilots apparent ability, this went against all fighter doctrine. She was confident that her wing would be able to dispatch the first fighter before his friend could arrive. Both ships had launched their first volley and would be making tight maneuvers once they passed by each other in an attempt to "rubberband" the other ships into a compromised position. With Dagger-3 flanking around, they should have shots on the ship from both front and behind on this next pass. This was it.

Suddenly both Capitan Juiqui and her wingman saw green flame erupt just a few hundred feet before them.
Neither had any time to comprehend their mistake. Dagger-3 was alone.

Urmage smiled to himself. His apprentice was indeed a remarkable pilot. Engaging his own ship's sublight "afterburn" the Twi'lek closed the distance on the last member of the initial wave of Republic fighters. Dagger-3 had launched two missiles at his apprentice but had neglected to keep track of the second ship, blindly racing after Tenebrous. Urmage launched his own weapon from range, not at the fighter, but at the Consular-class frigate now closing on the hairball which had developed high over Korriban. Two small Ion Torpedoes streaked across space and struck their target cleanly. While not massively destructive in their own right, the interference they caused in electronic systems could not be more useful to small strike craft. Effectively disabling a  larger ship for several minutes.

Tenebrous sensed his Master's actions and continued his tear towards the picket ship, instinctively dodging the remaining fighter's intermittent attacks. Just as the Bith was entering firing range, two small blue explosions rocked the Namesake. Electricity traveled along the hull, and the ship's antigrav engines failed, pulling the bow subtly towards Korriban in a slow descent. The best course of action was suddenly clear to the Bith. He could have strafed the frigate's command tower, crippling the ship for hours, just as he had done on the surface moments earlier. Instead Tenebrous switched his weapon system from missiles to the single seismic charge loaded on the back of his fighter. Screaming along the hull of the Consular-class vessel, the apprentice finally released his weapon over the ship's three large engines.



An unsettling groan was all that Commander Teket and the crew of The Namesake heard as their ship was shattered like an mynock egg by the force of the blast. Such weapons were typically useless against a large shielded vessel, But the frigate was vulnerable. Red and white shrapnel was all that remained, pieces both large and small tore into the remaining Headhunter tailing Tenebrous, shattering the cockpit and immediately killing its pilot.

Master and apprentice regrouped in tight formation and entered hyperspace. Victorious.

The Deliverance and her own wing of fighters arrived minutes later, too late. Much of the wreckage from their sistership was already entering the atmosphere, pushed towards the planet with violent force. The remaining ship alerted Republic command of the incident and descended to the surface to aid the survivors of the Jedi's crippled ship, The Gambit.

"Something has gone horribly wrong here." Thought the remaining Capitan, bewildered by the scene which he had just seen unfold on his scope.



(Post 2)

IC: Darth Apollyon
The Chamber of Pomojema, Tomb of Naga Sadow, Korriban

“Mimban,” Catalyst recalled the name of the planet Apollyon had forgotten. “Lord Vader had travelled to the same planet to seek out the Kaiburr.” He looked over to Xirr. “I was much younger then, but I remember hearing of his assignment. And of the temple of Pomojema. The natives worshipped him as a healing god and used the close proximity of the crystal to amplify their own nascent Force powers to perform minor miracles. They were all but wiped out by the time Lord Vader made his way to the planet though. Are you suggesting this,” he gestured up to the statue, “is connected to that? A tribute to an unknown healing god laying sealed beneath the tomb of one of the most renowned Sith Lords to grace the galaxy makes absolutely no sense.” He looked up at Viscretus as she was performing her own appraisal. “The only value I could see from it is if those who built this tomb were trying to replicate that amplification of power by adding an idol here. But without an actual Kaiburr crystal that shouldn’t work.”

"Precisely what I was saying, Lord Catalyst," Xirr replied. "I find it hard to believe this," Xirr gestured to the statue with disgust, "monstrosity... houses the legendary Kaiburr Crystal. However, perhaps it is meant to house something else..." Xirr looked over to Lady Apollyon. "Another crystal perhaps? Though I don't suspect that whatever it is will hold the same power as the Kaiburr itself." He gestured up toward Viscretus. "Mayhaps Lady Viscretus has come upon something?"

“A healer god, worshipped by Force sects on Mimban," Viscretus' voice carried down from above, brimming with airy sardonicism, "a pity I do not receive such worship for my talent." Viscretus glanced about, but neither her eyes nor her mind's eye perceived anything further of interest, although her probe in the Force would convey a vague sense of danger emanating from the statue itself, and the disturbing sensation that she was being watched. "Beyond this hollow across the room, I see nothing of importance.”

Coatlec, Robyn, Scionica and Jania, who was even leaning casually against the wall as if signalling her disinterest in anything save for the pink-skinned initiate, all remained silent. Leaving the hard work to us, evidently, Apollyon thought sourly, her ill mood only lightened by Viscretus' jest. "There is a lot about this tomb which makes absolutely no sense, Lord Catalyst," Apollyon replied after a moment's contemplation. "The fact Naga Sadow was actually buried on Yavin, the fact it was allegedly built for him yet unused by him... yet within is interred a Rakatan Star Map, surely of far greater age than Sadow and of absolutely no connection to him, alongside, it is written, the personal assassin of Tulak Hord, a Dark Lord who predated Sadow by centuries, who was discovered here in stasis, and freed, by a Sith Inquisitor of the Cold War." Apollyon referred to events chronicled in the Archives that took place nearly four thousand years ago, when the Old Republic yet existed - and a long-dead Sith Empire struggled with it for dominance. "A statue of Pomojema may simply be another mysterious historical anachronism, because it seems Lady Viscretus has found no such crystal, either, Lord Xirr."

Apollyon glanced behind her, at the hole in the wall above the entryway that Viscretus had pointed out from her vantage point. "Only this... hole... Hm, maybe we should investigate it; there could be something in there...?" Apollyon looked back at the statue, a thought suddenly occurring. "Then again, maybe there is a connection... Pomojema... Pomojema... It's a stretch, I'll admit, but what if there's any linguistic relation to this... ah, mythical god I read about in the Book of Sith, a pagan god the extinct Sith species worshipped in their ancient superstitions? The Left-Handed God. Typhojem."

Apollyon blinked as she suddenly perceived the faint afterimage of green fire, yet it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, as vague as the hypnagogic imagery one saw when one closed one's eyes before sleep. Likely just an after-effect of the nanites repairing my eyes. Shaking her head, Apollyon called up to Kevala, who perched beside Viscretus on the statue's outstretched left arm. "ASSASSIN! Is that some sort of chemical test you're doing? What does it say?"

TAG: Darth Catalyst , Volshe , Shira , Padawan4687 , @lordjania , dice , Sedriss Nathemus the Conqueror