22 ABY, Corellian-Coruscanti Run, Mariner's Graveyard...
A visible wave of panic struck the pirate's features, as he clutched tightly to the yoke of his freighter. Only an hour ago, he had been traveling this particular patch of space with his mates, his cargo being a particularly large and rare form of spice, eagerly chattering away the automatic hyperspace route plotted... Until they were pulled out of hyperspace, and into a cold void between worlds, out in the dead of space. It was a very familiar graveyard too, of broken, twisted wrecks, the metallic corpses of ships now gutted and destroyed. It was the stalking grounds for a cosmic horror that was feared by most pirates... The Demagolka. It was a ghost ship, one that could not been seen, but could see you, one that couldn't be touched, but could touch you back. It would stalk you, until you were either dead, or free of the graveyard. Only a few pirates, merchants, and other shipfarers had escaped the graveyard, and even then, it was a common trade route, especially if one wanted to go to Coruscant the fastest way possible. Only an hour ago, were his ship and his mate's ships intact. Now, though? He was living on burrowed time. The Demagolka hunted from afar, as it would fire some kind of projectiles, torpedos, that would tear apart armored cruisers with the ease of a man ripping apart paper. He had caught only one glimpse of it, a slight shimmer and sign of gray, before it retreated back into the darkness, stalking him like a narglatch would stalk its prey.
Then, he could hear something, something that would curl his blood, even as it bled out onto the floor. A distortion occurred in front of him, as the Demagolka appeared. Was it mocking him, his inability to fight, with his guts spilled out onto the floor from a earlier torpedo striking one of his escorts, even as the atmosphere was slowly sucked out through cracks in the windows, guts pressed against it. A turret swiveled on the Demagolka, the black hole of the weapon seeming almost like a baleful void, upon which no light could escape. Closing his eyes, he wouldn't hear the mechanical-electrical rumble of the turret powering up, and then firing, the shell punching through his ship and the corpses of ships, before detonating upon the wreckage of an Action IV transport. He wouldn't hear the rumbling cheers of the Trandoshans inside either, as the Demagolka moved away to its resupplying station at the end of the maze-like structure of wreckage, several modified Munificents hanging around, acting as guardians for the submarine should it fire the signal flare. Docking, a small crew would depart the submarine, snazzy, buttoned uniforms appearing almost too stylish for the warship, coal scuttle-like helmets and cloth face-wraps obstructing most of their features. But from the eyes alone, it was easy to tell they were Trandoshans, as the leader, dressed with a warblade, walked up to the station's owner.
Kel'vun Gauma, the infamous Trandoshan Warlord who had once slaughtered a company of stormtroopers with only a small force of Trandoshans less then 1/16th the Imperial's finest. The same lizard-man who made Rebel and Imperial ships quake with fear. The infamous Demagolka of the Mariner's Graveyard. His blood-red eyes regarded the Human owner with a mote of amusement, before the albino spoke at last, voice exotically-accented.
"The pirates has been disposed off. Mariner's Graveyard still remains secure. Notify high command of our success, and then allow my men leave for the next three hour. We will begin our second patrol once leave ends."
The Human owner only nodded, before he walked off, heading towards the long-range comms station on-board the station. A small crew of Trandoshans arrived next to the leader, as they panted, for the submarine could get... hot, at times. Kel'vun merely waved his hand at them, dismissing them, as they chattered eagerly, heading towards the nearest bar on-board the station, the Chancer's Roulette. Meanwhile, Kel'vun marched to his personal quarters, and stared briefly at a framed picture, only one of three he had. Within it was a younger version of him, and of a figure in armored, yet unmistakably Trandoshan due to the digits. Tears welled briefly in his eyes, from the time he was a young soldier, from that battle on Trandosha's last fortress, the Bastion. Quietly speaking to himself, voice full of sorrow, as he rambled on to the picture, aware it wouldn't bring anything back, but nevertheless, he spoke.
"My Lord... I know you are in the Halls of Glory, but I wish you were yet still here. I wish thirty years ago, you had not fell to the Dark One, to the machine with a blood-stained blade, I wished that instead of sacrificing your life for us, you had preserved your own... But..." He would tearfully admit, weeping slightly at his own guilt, as he continued on. "I knew you would not accept that, my Lord. I knew that you saw us as your own sons and daughters, and that you would die for them, for me. Even now, your legacy lives on in our hearts and minds, for you became the Sacred One, First-Blessed of Gandussk. However... I beg for one last chance to see you, my Lord, to give thanks and express sorrows, for you were the one who gave us guidance. Now, I must lead on and carry the legacy that you died preserving. Please, allow Slekak to loose your soul from the Last Realm, if for only a moment, and to give me guidance."
Placing down the picture, he would continue to the bed, setting his alarm to two hours from now, before hanging up his uniform, and sleeping with the covers on, the clinking of light shutting off creating an eerie silence in the room. Pale starlight drifted onto the picture, as it revealed a set of names...
Xossk and his son, Kel'vun Gauma.