A Life-Line in Hard-Times [BK hmu boo/Closed]

[Slade Xandir]

Everything had happened with such swiftness that the severity soon followed. While Tormentous’ dragon had scourged and wrought disaster to Blood’s pack, he appreciated what had come of Wrath’s determination to atleast keep the damned monster distracted. And should it come to need be, sacrifice would be made.

Wrath had eyes Raphael’s dragon as it farted to and forth, considering it’s worth versus his own potential. It was leveling and soon one or the other would surmount.

Soon such decision came from Blood. Sacrifices would need to be made, and soon. But as to who and what, all would be unclear until either such opportunity rose or such chance fell. Watching the cataclysm of events, the Thought Bombs perishing away as the Force shook in and around itself. Time rushed forward, as though it was being held back by some selfish tyrant... and it was clear who had lost their course of victory. He felt it in his chest, deep in the underpass of scale, sinew, bone...his Master, former and only, had fallen.

But because of this time rush, Blood had to set things of his own into motion immediately. Newly wrenched-free wings were capable and unfolding them he tested them out with something akin to a young bird trying its first flight. It took much more terrible mind power than what he wanted to use at the moment, and instead he decided to run his way up the stairs. There would be time for practiced flying later.

The throne was left in terrible condition, or as he saw it to be, as Silas had already made his way up and toward the Jedi Master. But upon seeing the Jedi Master near the body of his own Sire, Blood had stiffened as something thin and scandalous took his mind, something familiar like a voice from his past. It was possessive, very possessive, and it crawled directly across the front of his will like a serpent with ire. He didn’t want the Jedi touching what was his.
But what had directly taken his attention was what the Jedi Master was doing, as everything in him recoiled at the beam of brilliance that surged from the Jidai. But his mind knew what it was, and recognized it properly- the man was saving Tormentous.

Yet Silas took the matter into his own hands, dealing a severing blow to the Sithian Lord. It was then Blood conjured his scheme. Because it was clear he would have to make purge of the pompous.

His voice hit the mic with quiet murmur, the growl within it silencing for need of clarity to Doren. “Our next target will come as soon as it takes Tormentous’ body. Free up as much arsenal as you can to take them down as they run with your prize.”

Either Silas would take the body for his own means or the Jedi would take it for possible prevention purposes. Why else would a legend’s body be left upon this planet of historical woe? And whoever had come to take it would be unexpectedly attacked by the Empire’s vengeful spite. Doren has requested the Sith Lord’s body for proof of execution. That private meeting had sealed much of what today was meant to end up being, and regardless of who his allies seemed to be, he felt that serpent coil around his judgement to eliminate any as discretely as possible.

As he finalized the majority of his plan, he caught the glimmer of Kraujas Ntima who seemed to have watched something silently hunker down in the shadows, as the Hydra of Torment seemed it not a threat to its current affair. However Blood fell into curiosity and sought who the silent shades were. Nearly silent even in the Force, the Sithian crossed the Force’s scent trail of a band of beings who’s siege lay waiting on that who slay their own Master, their guidance, their confused but clear lives. They knew only one being, and that was Tormentous. And with Sense, he could picture this rough but regal party of beings, and they mirrored the Echani. Echani, but full of calculations and murder where it needed to be dealt.
Their eyes lay on the representative of Eshan, and their intent was far from appreciation. He had murdered their ruler, and their hearts burned with fire.

Blood threw his Force across the floor, flooding the area just before them with an image of Tormentous, the same man who lay slain and degraded on his own throne floor, standing as majestic as he usually had. That resilient and demanding gaze he commanded them with settled upon Blood, and a nod set his ‘demand’ in motion. In even more precise effort, Blood illustrated Tormentous flipping the blade of the Jidai Maras and have the hilt point at the draconian, as opposed to the tip. He was passing his authority to the monster meant to take his throne, and this was his final testimony, a revelation to the Echani Assassins. Dissipated in a swirl of dark smoke, Blood withdrew the Illusion, hoping the mirage worked. If not, then the Echani would certainly be after the man who had murdered their educator, as well as possibly coming after Blood for attempting to elude them. He had gambled quite a bit through this parley with Fate, but had he not gambled, he would not have gotten Tormentous gone.

In truth, Blood wanted pieces of his former Master; particularly his brain. If he could preserve it, and obtain that Holocron, he could take knowledge that the Sith both needed to know, and knowledge they needed to stay away from. If he could have that brain, much could be accomplished, as Alchemy and soon Sorcery would be achieved by him. He needed things done, and Tormentous’ afterlife, not his current life, were the key to it.
Yet what he wanted most,

Was that sword.
It held within it experience that required a Master to wield, and while he was a Master in the Force, he was not yet a Master of it. For Tormentous to have gartered a Masterful Power under his reign, it was clear what his status was. He needed this to rule the Sith.

Another plot came into the picture.
And it had better work.
Because otherwise, he would be dead.

And he wasn’t banking on dying so soon.

Approaching the pair, Blood refused to look at the body that everything in him craved to scurry to a solace somewhere. Instead, the draconian looked directly at Silas, feeling out the Echani with curt knowing. Words hadn’t been addressed to him, however. The Jedi Master instead was addressed.

“I’ve seen the aftermath of this man’s butcher of my entire populace of Arcane Teachings of Knowledge. He’s decapitated the body and kept it for himself to do whatever sorcery he’s found fit. And they’ve had nothing to do with him... yet it was I who sought you out to finish the tyrant as needed.” He May have been at the edge of the pedestal when the exchange was given, but they were all gifted in the Force; and the Sith had a knack for sniffing out backstabbing where it could be found. He had been crossed and abandoned so many times, he had learned the times to chose his fights or not. “I look for simplicity in my doings. Even gave a padawan to a Jedi Master, a Verpine, for him to raise as he saw fit, just to issue peace betwixt our two sides of fence,” he stated as clear as the rumbles of his voice would allow. “So far I have showed you truth.”

Considering he was the one who had escorted the Jedi Master here, he wasn’t up in the space plane to scope whether the Jedi Master had brought reinforcements or not. But would a Master be so defenseless? The two Knights the Master has brought with him; he couldn’t sense them either. And it didn’t help how he had seen them fall to Silas’ surge he needed to hold bay the Thought Bombs. Blood had relied on the Force within the Weather, the Heavens of this horrid planet - he hadn’t touched the Jedi’s stores of power as it was their own. No doubt the Jedi Master was too unable to feel his compatriots in Life, as they had joined the Void. “This senseless killing is no spring of my hand, whether in consequence or not. But your own have paid the price, and the one who collected is he who speaks to you of culling someone with sense.”

Malice had wrestled into his heart as he thought of this mess, but his words were even, honorable despite his lack of, and only just subtly hinting to the Jedi what Blood was attempting to prove. Should he perish, the Sith will continue to be molded into the image of carnage, useless murder to no end, and the face of it would be the Echani. Blood simply wanted to look out for his faction, take when needed, and kill when necessary. It seemed Slade had influenced him, even underneath his clawed boot. Bitterness leapt in his forking tongue at such thought, but the Dragon King turned to face Kraujas Ntima, a sigh leaving his lips as he watched the majestic and horrifying dragon finally snatch the unprepared slender silver dragon of Raphael’s out of the air and rip the youth in half with a macabre hunk of hot and bloody meat and scale in both maws. Another one down, and Wrath took distance between he and the terrible foe. But the Hydra hadn’t launched into an attack immediately, as it partially feasted and played with the silver’s corpse.

Blood was gambling a lot. But what would the Jedi decide? “Power is not what is meant to take the throne of the Sith. As we can see what all it does to the faction and the galaxy as a whole. Intellect is the era which comes. He knew this,” Blood stated with a nod of his dual horned crown to his fallen sculptor. “hence why I am not molded directly like him. There is no glory in strength, anymore. There is however, survival in smartsss.” his lispy hiss curtailed the smartass remark to the Echani. But ultimately, the most powerful of the pair here was the Jedi Master, and should he decide to smite them both, then this conversation could have been saved. But should he heed Blood’s words, bloodshed can be avoided here.

Finally done saying what he needed to, he pulled his garnet and gold eyes back to the Jedi Master, before turning and walking throne he was meant to be atop. Should this scheme work, should he collect all of the artifacts he needed, he would have properly fit into the title he was meant to hold. As he fought and gained, taken those steps to achieve what he needed to get there, and survived. With Apprentices or not, with a legion behind him or not, he was who stood here now. Not them. The others had gone, fallen away into the grains of time, and here he was. Still standing...still breathing... and still doing this faction the defense it needed to keep standing and calling itself Sith.

Not until he had gotten all of these things, the sword, the brain, and the holocron, would he call himself Darth. And not until then, would he sit on this throne.

[Professor Mors]

Second to second, Doren was outwardly unaware of himself. He no longer felt the warmth of his breath, nor did he feel the pulse of his heart beating against his chest. His gaze had become totally enveloped in the curved viewport of the XM-1, and indeed, Vassyl felt as if the starship and his person were one in the same. Right on the heels of the remaining Black Lances, the Captain had kept his grip wound tight around the Proudclad's firing mechanism. Volley after volley, the small, tight-knit band pressed on through enemy warheads and turbolaser fire, until at last, Doren's allies strafed off to one side, leaving their commanding officer with the mother of all kill-shots well within his sights. Though it had cost far too many lives, the endgame had finally arrived.

Now, time too was lost on Vassyl, as the entire contents of the cosmos were fixed into the singular figure of the Malevolent's bridge. Despite the distance between the two parties, Doren could just barely make out the occasion shadow and silhouette of enemy personnel, no doubt running through their nigh exhausted options for continued survival. How fitting that this Sith thralls appear no more than mere ghosts, specters of loyal servicemen and women that, by way of fear or greed, had opted to join with the unscrupulous Dark Siders during the famed ISB coup. Here, at the end, Vassyl pitied such lost souls, but swore that he would never forgive them for their transgressions. Yes, both Doren and has opponents had made their choices, and consequences were fast approaching.

Inhaling softly, Vassyl primed two of his four remaining missile pods, and centered the reticule right over the command bridge's primary viewport. Moving to depress the secondary weapons' trigger, the young officer recalled an old Onderonian drama, that dealt with a similar dilemma of soldiers' loyalty. Recalling the play's final line as the firing mechanism came to life with a click, Doren observed the ion stream of his payload shoot out from the ventral hull, and coldly proclaimed, "Thus die all traitors". The Captain had nary a moment thereafter to jerk his craft and out of the initial concussive, flames lashing out of the fresh, gaping hole bored through the head of the opposing vessel. Arcing up into a vertical u-turn, the Captain had to avert his gaze from the blinding chain of events down below.

Those that were not immediately reduced to ash cried in panicked anguish as the upper decks were wreathed in a swift cyclone of fire. Superheated metal blistered flesh and melted the soles of the enemies boots. A horrific chain reaction was now in full swing, and primary and secondary systems began to fail one by one. Engines sputtered and died, whole magazines burst from within their firing chambers, and as the devastation reached the central hangar, the armageddon reached a fevered pitch. As countless fuel canisters and volatile oils made contact with the smoky procession, a massive explosion swept across the landing zone. The blast tore the twin-peaked bow from the Malevolent's midsection, which further fragmented as the wreckage began to sink into the lower atmosphere.

For a brief interlude, the cruiser's crumpled aft section hung limply in the stratosphere, embers hugging at the exterior hull. Then, in a flash even more dazzling than that which had consumed the bridge, the reactor could bear its integrity no more, and instantly vaporized what remained to mere dust. The magnitude of the shockwave was so great as to buck Doren's vessel off of its desired course, and sent the Captain into a nauseating spin cycle back out and way from the system. What little breakfast Vassyl had consumed that day was quickly lost, and yet, as he looked upon the scene once more, he was mildly comforted by the fact that the dread warship would never threaten Imperial lives again. This day, victory firmly belonged in the hands of the Empire.

[Ben Kenobi]

Uncertainty was ended in an all sudden moment. Ben was studiously tending to the beaten form of the Dark Lord, his concentration was exact in that moment in order to establish blood flow once more. It was not an absolute cure for this devastating injury for the heart and lungs of the patient were artificial and would need to be properly tended in an actual medical facility, of which was either deep in the bowels of Tormentous’ own temple or Ben would have to spirit the wounded away from this place and seek the appropriate help elsewhere, the latter option was obviously the course in action he’d be taking.

The toiling work continued for only a few lengthy moments, each was a moment where Ben could feel the last semblance of consciousness begin to shred itself from the body. He remained calm though he knew Tormentous’ life was measured in moments. Then with the blazing speed of a rifle, a blur of motion filled Ben’s eyes and he flinched away from its brightness, so concentrated was he on the near-cadaver that he’d not sensed the ill intent of Silas Karn.

Humming with brutal power the lightsaber of Karn was impaled through the neck of the prone form of the warrior lord in a maneuver of violence and pure vehemence. It was the action of a coward… but most of all a fool. Ben stumbled backwards from the sudden strike, removing his hand from the singing heat of the blade as it was extracted from the corpse and returned to its owner. Ben removed his gaze from Tormentous and stared upon the High King of the Echani in utter disbelief at the lowly attack. He swallowed hard as he rose to his feet, calling his lightspear to his hand and facing the Echani with great disappointment on his eyes.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ben questioned, though he snapped Silas’ answer off just as fast with another pointed chastisement. “Fool, are you so short sighted to see the truth? Tormentous is within his very own sanctum, there is no other place in the Galaxy in which the Dark Lord is more attuned with his own element of power. If anything you’ve cut away the physical form and released something far worse. If you’d have only taken a moment and had some Force-loving patience, you’d see that removing him from this setting would have weakened him immensely. Why do you think the Wall of Light didn’t work? I am alone surrounded by Darkness on Moraband of all places, but away surrounded by Jedi, Tormentous would have been no more.” He glanced back to the cadaver, shaking his head. “Now, once the spiritual form consolidates, mark my words that you’ve not seen the worst that bastard can do.”

Away he turned, it was time to go while they still could, for once the Sith recovered they’d be coming for the Jedi with vengeance on their minds and even Ben Kenobi couldn’t take down the entirety of the Sith Order. He looked down upon the body again and saw the sword glistening in the firelight. He licked his lips as an ever so slight and odd sensation fell over him. “That weapon cannot remain. It must be destroyed.” Walking over to the prone body, kneeling down he accepted that dreaded leather bound hilt, its blade scraping the floor as Kenobi picked it up. Immediately as he set his hand on it he could feel an icy shadow haunting just behind him, he spun about to confront it and he saw nothing but Silas standing where he’d left him. But as he looked on the Battlemaster he suddenly felt the urge to strike him for his foolishness… no… that wasn’t punishment enough… he’d do it again, something worse yet, he was a danger to the Galaxy just as I was…….. I? No, that’s not right; just like Tormentous was…

He felt slightly uneasy and not as sure footed as normal, leaning on his staff he took a step forward, his hand tightening on the grip and the leather creaking in response. He started to squint his eyes, the lighting in the temple was getting dim despite their nearness to the hearthfire that still roared in the center of the chamber. Another step forward and for some reason his next glance wasn’t at Silas… but it fell upon a certain chair. It was surrounded by bones… it was adorned with skulls… it was made of iron… He swallowed again, a lump in his throat. ‘There is no emotion…’ he began to whisper. But as he did, he beheld an answer from somewhere in his mind. ‘There is peace… but you can make peace a reality. Take Karn up on his offer, strike down Blood now, the Sith will crumble. Then, the Galaxy will truly have peace.’

Shaking his head as if sopping wet, he denied the demons their purchase. He started walking to the doors of the antechamber, leaving this world was a priority and the sooner the better. His index finger played over the smooth steel of the guard, it was perfectly smooth and cool to the touch. It felt good in his hand even though it was rather heavy for a conventional weapon. ‘Wielding this, it would send a message to the Sith that even their greatest could fall flat. Isn’t this what the Jedi are duty sworn to do? Kill the Sith or send them into conformity… This is not a sinister weapon, it is but a tool! A tool in which I could use to do good and see them low.’

Gritting his teeth he looked back at Silas, his voice low with gravel in it, “Where is Blood?”

The doors swung open and the shadows ascended on this place once more as Blood himself entered with the swagger of one who owned the room… but his words were silk and honey. Sharp and cunning. Ben took a breath and returned himself to the moment, allowing himself to think clearly once more. Blood delivered a tender speech of possibilities but it was the icy grip around that leather bound hilt that was most tantalizing of all and once Blood ascended the steps of the dais to seat himself upon the throne of skulls did Ben find no stronger desire to surge forward and impale this awfully dangerous foe before he got too comfortable.

Though as he turned to deliver Blood an eye that promised him his own head on the very throne in which he sat, he was reminded; Blood had been true to his word thus far. Ben’s grip lessened, so did the burning at the back of his mind to do harm before he left this world. Silas was in turn vying to turn Ben into a puppet, and in that turn Blood was also vying to obtain Ben as nothing more than a willing pawn in a grander scheme.

He needed clarity of thought. Hewing both Silas and Blood… that was just cause for their ruthless nature. If left alone they’d see the Galaxy in flames like their predecessor. ’No!’, he lowered the sword and its tip touched the cold stone floor, ‘The Jedi are not tools of the Sith.’ he looked down to the sword and suddenly he found the clarity he needed so. ‘And this is no tool of mine.’ With a thrust of his arm he sent Jidai Maras spinning and the weapon of Darth Tormentous landed within the crackling flames of the hearthfire. Hot coals burst and a shoal of fire erupted heavily as the sword was swallowed in the fire.

Ben Kenobi looked to both Silas Karn and Blood. “Enough!” His repulsed shout silenced the demons in his mind also, he would not be swayed today. “I’ve no further purpose here. If you two choose to shed your blood further then it is of your own choice.” He turned away and moved back to the fallen Sith Lord, hoisting the body up and shouldering the cadaver with great effort; the tyrant was far heavier than Ben had anticipated though the purity of the Force flowed within him, washing away his previous fatigue and lending him the strength he needed to make away from this place.

As he took steps away from the Throne of Skulls he glanced back once more. “Learn from this moment, both of you. If you follow Tormentous’ example, take heart in my word that I will be back.”

[Jacobi Wylcott]

---Moraband - Orbit

Fires blossomed in the skies as the death of the Sith Harrower Dreadnaught Malevolent broke in half and then the echoes of thousands of crewmen screamed in terrified unison when the hull erupted and the detonation sealed the fate of that dreadful battleship. If this was anything, this was a strategic victory as much as it was symbolic - both hard won by the valiant men and women pilots of the Imperial Navy.

Heroes - the lot of them.

---Moraband - Valley of the Dark Lords
Fortress of Blood

Searing flames erupted from the heartfire when Jidai Maras was tossed within the heated core. Though Kenobi must have known it was just as in orbit - symbolic. For the weapon of Jedi’s Bane could not be expunged by the heat and simple touch of a fire’s kiss. It could only be undone in the same manner in which it was forged, through the blood of three - the one that wielded it, the one most loved, the one most hated. It was the only way aside from something cataclysmic. The Master of the Jedi likely knew this, though he bought time in the eyes of those that coveted the blade for they would seek to secure it and leave the Jedi uncontested in his own escape.

What would befall the sword however was that which was not bound by sorcery and alchemic deviancy. The leather bound hilt twisted and shriveled as it was victimized by the heat of the flame. It was alight quickly enough to trick the undiscerning eye that perhaps supposed the entire blade would be ruined by mere flame. Even the wire binding the leather would pop and melt to the heat, but the shining blade of Jidai Maras would deny the fire purchase.

Within the shadows of the pillars, the shade itself began to move. Liquid and unsettling, a score of lithe warriors bled out from the depths of the temple, all borne with black body gloves and all masked to the eyes save one female at their head, a platinum haired temptress with eyes as clear as the skies of Eshan itself. Short blades and claws of vibro weaponry emerged from the lot of them, all painted with matte finish that they’d not give off reflective light. They moved with absolute unnatural silence though with the speed of wind, surrounding Silas Karn though remaining well out of the lethal swordsman’s reach. They would keep the High Lord of the Echani isolated while they introduced themselves to their sworn liege.

The singular assassin touched upon the dais with grace, facing Blood with cold eyes to regard the dragonkin. Her edged weapon was longer than the rest and spun with brilliant green lines in the steel. She aimed the tip of the weapon at Blood’s heart, near disgust in her frosty gaze. But she glanced into the fire where the Sword of Moraband was given to the flame, knowing her place. Returning her gaze to the Throne she inverted the katan pattern sword, blade tip held high yet hilt higher that Blood could easily accept it. She fell to one knee and bowed in absolute supplication.

Tormentous had been her liege and master, now, Blood was the Heir of the Demon and so to was he now to become her new liege and master. Blood was now free to decide, if the assassin was to be put to the sword then she would not oppose it, such was her devotion and if it befell to her execution then the other assassins would not tire their master’s sword arm and they would fall upon their own blades. Otherwise, they would serve Blood to the end.

If only their Master would will it - the like of the Brotherhood would see it done, whatever the cost.

[Silas Karn]

Silas turned to carry on with his new schemes when a tremor pulsed through his armor, igniting the core of his being. With a jarring snap Silas looked back at his fallen foe only to make a new realization. Likely beyond the keen senses of the Jedi Master who had not yet ceased his attempt to preserve life, was a crest forged in the realm of the unseen that only now illuminated. It would only hold another moment or two before the soul of the great tyrant dissipated but its presence worried the Sovereign.

This sentiment was affirmed by a very vocal dissemination of Silas’s actions by the aged Jedi. It was immediately clear that Kenobi’s warnings had shaken the Sovereign’s composure as the final attack had been delivered as an instinctual reaction rather than the cold methodology he lived by. ‘Was I perhaps was too swift in my judgement? This could spell as great an ill for my people as any form of Tormentous released by the Jedi.’ Further complicating matters was Blood’s arrival alongside ill aimed aspirations of his own. Beyond any possible outcome Silas could have foreseen the result of this interloper’s speech was the Jedi Master lifting the broken form of the all-but dead Tormentous.

With a loud clap Silas brought his hands together and once more brought forth the gate to the domain of the Sith’s greatest strength (Sith Sorcery). Still greatly diminished by his earlier efforts the renewed touch of the dark side energies pained Silas. This action likely stunned both Blood and Kenobi, though Blood was very likely baited by the Jidai Maras, only to be further bemused as Silas lifted his left arm and denied the Jedi the fallen Sith’s body (Telekinesis). As the body levitated off of Ben’s shoulder and began to move back toward Silas the Echani Sovereign spoke, “He…he can yet be saved.” The turmoil of Silas’s internal struggle was clearly visible on his face as he fought against his own instincts.

The Lord of Eshan’s mind was still very much ablaze as he acted perhaps as a stop gap to allow further deliberation, ‘Few moments in life have I ever wavered over a decision as I have on this one and no truer a result than frantically attempted to undo my own efforts as now. Yet, if his death did not result in a horrific specter unbound by flesh and vindictive beyond mortal imagination all I hold under my dominion would be place in jeopardy.’

It was clear that Kenobi would not simply accept the Sith at his words but a swift follow-up would allow the pair another opportunity to see eye to eye. Extending his right hand toward the Dark Lord, righting the body as if to stand it up, Silas brushed aside the anguish of his renewed connection to the Force. Crimson light leapt from his fingertips and buried into the hole left by his own efforts. Tearing the cauterized flesh and ripping the severed veins from their rest before forcibly being fused with no regard to the almost torturing levels of agony his efforts were causing, Silas mended the wound (Repair).

This action was sure to startle the old Jedi but Silas attempted to quell his concerns, “Tormentous must be expunged whatever the cost. I’ll risk no retribution upon my people as a result of some ethereal entity’s lingering malice.” With his free hand Silas telekinetically drew a measure of the Dark Lord’s blood before channeling the fluid into a small gemstone to serve as a focus. “I suppose in doing this we three may meet once more in battle. Yet, I cannot shake this feeling. Though I do not know your name, we’ve met before. The empress, another avatar, consumed by the very power they sought to wield. Despite the horrific casualties she inflicted on the Jedi you granted her mercy.”

Silas exhaled slowly as the very mention of his half sibling pained him. Once more Silas made a motion with his right hand, this time directing a new bond of sorcery toward Tormentous, shattering the fledgling craft that had bound Jacobi’s spirit the first time the Mandalorian fell. ‘This may have allowed him to gain some measure of resistance to the Wall of Light and through training granted immunity. Alongside dwelling in the heart of his power as the Jedi said, it is quite possible.’ Silas mused as he channeled his own craft into the small gemstone hold the great Sith Lord’s soul in place as he forcefully mended the body.

With the crude un-remorseful yet powerful manipulation of the Dark Side art of Repair the greatest threat the galaxy had known in an age was denied death. Stabilized the Dark Lord was laid to rest on the ground, without the need to forge any unnatural ties between soul and flesh. With a heavy sigh Silas relaxed his connection to the ‘gate’ and spoke a final time to Kenobi, “Take him, and purge him, what happens after that is not of my concern.” It seemed upon Silas’s finished words a great wind carried a new menace to the scene.

All of Silas’s efforts were immensely superficial and soon to be wasted as no craft of repair could properly heal and without proper attention Tormentous would still expire. With the blistering speed and agile grace a score of assassin’s bearing the Silas’s own heritage reached the scene. Stunned Silas could not but watch as he was singled out and separated him from both Kenobi and Tormentous’s broken body. It then became immediately clear who these Echani served, and it was not the Lord of Eshan.

[Slade Xandir]

As if he were simply a nuisance, he had been largely ignored by the platinum before him, and silenced by the Jedi who had been so close to bottling the essence of terror, but as Blood watched these scenes play before him, he was more so concerned of the blade which seemed to inhale the flames rather than be expelled by them. The Jidai Maras nestles snuggly in the bristle of fires, and it called to him with that reason that swore he alone understood it’s language. But Blood and Slade both had trained against this blade; he knew better than to indulge it’s carnal desires. If wielded, ones mind needed to be level. Even the slightest tip of selfishness would lead back through the revolver of awful tides.

As he calculated his plans with this ordeal, those shadows he had tried to reason with were both now afront him and around Silas with swiftness that Blood couldn’t have possibly imagined. But the outcome was positive for him, whereas for Silas, the assassins were unmoving as he were prevented from working his magic on the mutilated carcass of Tormentous. All were silent in this terrible place as Blood was silently regarded and then given rulership over this band of Echani. They were capable, flexible, and possibly the final work of Tormentous, himself. Taking in the sight of the submissive woman and her regally deadly weapon, Blood was moved. Had it worked? Apparently. But whether it were by his prowess or the Echani’s own call, the Draconian now has atleast some sort of protection should this all go to madness between he and Silas, or even he and Ben should he change his mind about sparing the pair.

Just as he had assumed he knew all the eggs in his basket, he felt something almost suffocatingly dark lay itself across his own Force reach. He knew it’s vile and unforgiving scent, and he turned to see Kraujas Ntima state a dreadful dual pair of eyes in his direction. But the feeling from the Hydra wasn’t in ill-will at him. In fact, it wasn’t imposing on Blood’s own front at all; the massive beast seemed to take in the newly reigning Sithian as though it awaited an order from him. Though it hadn’t trusted Blood fully yet, he surmised his connection with Tormentous hadn’t been lost on the sithspawn, and thus after its original Master’s demise, it looked to find out what Blood was made of in its Master’s stead. A new pack was made in absence of Warvanus and the rest of the Sith who had come and gone; a pack much more worthy and trialing his responsibility. A battle Hydra, a coven of Echani Assassins, an Arkanian Dragon, and his own dark prowess in the Force.

Whether Silas like it or not, all of these being claimed him, while none were here to defend the Echani. The same Echani who had ended the life of Tormentous. The ivory haired sorcerer was outnumbered, outgunned, and had no place here in this room anymore, as his prior ally remained dead.

Whether Ben chose to strike out against the Priest or not, Blood paid no attention to. He took the ebony and emerald blade from the Echani woman, grasping it gingerly in giant hands from smaller ones, and he accepted the weapon as it was. His teaching methods had obviously failed him, he mused as he met the gaze of the kneeling woman as he bid her rise. It seemed the only way to continue success was through familiar brutality; and he would not tarnish what Tormentous had instilled in these Assassins with his slight care for their well being.

Turning to the fires which held the terrible blade, Blood began his trial by the element he had found himself most attune with - Fire.
Leaving the Assassin woman to return to her stature and awareness of the situation as hand, whether she chose to watch him or keep that frigid gaze to Silas, Blood heeded none of. Instead, the Sith Lord knew his first hurdle be within the screaming fires which held his weapon. His future, and the Sith’s redemption from this mess of a Hell it was reduced to. The Jidai Maras felt him near as he stared into the scalding pyre. And it sang to him, screamed to him, screamed FOR him. But he acted not on its whims; he acted on his own.

The pyromancer could have easily banished the fires to leave the blade free for him to grasp, but then nothing would have mattered. He needed a bond with this sword for it to become his own. He refused to numb his mind for this sake.
And into those horrible fires, Blood pushed a massive arm within. Immediately, orbalisks latched to his scales, to the tender strands of meat and flesh between the ditches of hardened skin and scales. They cried and fury and madness of his agony to them, and though they were immune to the flames, he was not. His pain brought ill of their purchase, and they defiantly held through his agony, only burdening his mind more as their poisons were released. The small places the orbalisks hadn’t chosen to occupy were soon blistered and oozing sweat before curling and peeling layers of flesh followed. Sizzles sounded softly as within the flames the Sith dug for his Former Master’s blade. The Sith who loved the man dear enough to do anything for him, but loathed him enough to betray the man out of jealousy and defense of their faction.
The smell of burned meat crisped intoxicatingly pungent in the chamber, and Blood knew his seconds of feeling torment were nigh climaxed to irreparable damage, if it hadn’t crossed such a threshold already. But he blanketed his mind with the intent, the reasons, the lessons he had gathered from this, and he craved this blade more than even his arm. He could learn to wield by left hand, he didn’t need the right! Gritting his daggerish teeth together in a strict vice, he submitted to his own will to see this trial done, knocking bleached and burned bones out of the way, ash flurrying in a haze. And through the storm of heat and soot,

His glawed grasp found a handle cooler than space itself.
And just like that, the flames of which the sword burned within, vanished. The awesome level of pain he has endeavored for this weapon had ghosted away as well, and flecks of scale dropped away from that used arm as the less damaged bits grew to replace them, but this sorcery was not of his own doing. He had passed this trial, and the smoke rose from the hearth as he pulled the blade free with an arm he hadn’t expected to keep. This was power, he thought to himself. He had take the steps necessary to get it, and his progress lay heavy and sharp in his right hand. His victory. His hard work.

This sword was the direct link he had between he and his former teacher, a tool which he would use to both learn from, and manifest power with. Combined with the holocron...
The Dragon King would know dominion. Not just survival, but disaster upon those who he hid his own from. Torment upon those who wrong him in their disappearance. Death to all who found him weak.

His own arm felt lighter as it held the blade, as though with a swing or slash, the galaxy could bend way to his craft. He could destroy Silas, could end Ben, and soon the entirety of both opposing factions. He would be able to watch them writhe and mourn their dead before they joined the horde of carcasses which piled mountains for his feet to rest upon. And even that would not be enough to sate his ravenous quest. He hungered for this conquest, to bring glory to himself, to the Darkness which he was fueled. To purge all from the face of ALL.

His grip on the blade had tightened, thick coils of muscles blending rigid under the thick hide of scale and shell. His hand fit the hilt perfectly; this blade was made for him.

And silently he turned and made his way from the chambers of his new dwelling, secreting his way to the halls of stone and brimstone metals while garnet and gold trimmed loincloths flourished his departure. He said nothing to the Jedi not the Echani who played with the cadaver. Let him enjoy his time with the body.
The head would be his, one way or another.

Patience was not lost on Blood...
But his sanity began to drip free as an old tick returned, something his human form had a knack for being victim of as Dark Side overpopulated his body - a snake of dark ruby trickled free from his eye’s bed.
He had work to do,
And a body to retrieve.

The Echani stayed where they were other, or so they seemed as they seamlessly interwove a circuit between and around Silas with callous gazes. Ice blue here, garnet there, but the trademark ivory hair of all swept around them like a cloak of ghosts while they ensured the Sorcerer could not get his way with their former Master’s corpse. More hid silently through shadows and this fortress, all too willing to indulge whoever crossed their newest Overseer with death of the Eshan manner - swift and flawless. Vibroweapons of all were active, and all were direct at Silas. They would not move until Silas surrendered his goals and let the Jedi leave with his prize.

Kraujas Ntima overlooked this transaction, hunger already gnawing at the bottomless belly of this foul creation again. Obsidian scales flecked with rot and revenge glimmered a glisten of ceaseless liquid which would kill any mortal within minutes if they were unlucky enough to touch it. Thick prongs and spines hung ready through a marvelously thick tail and hide, taunt as they were forever ready to be released and spear the next meal. Both heads stalked Silas’ moves, while Wrath’s own gaze was split between both the Hydra and the Echani man.

The woman who relinquished her own self to Blood threw a wintery gaze to the Jedi. And as she silently moved to face the Jedi, she gave a pointed gesture to the old human and Tormentous’ body. It was a clear sign for Tormentous to be taken from here and depart with the Jedi.
Without regard to the Light Sider’s choices, she turned herself to be with her her kind while continuing the aspect of keeping Silas in place.