On a small landing pad, a shuttle descends on hissing engines. Hydraulic skids compress and the craft's frame groans under its own weight. Ground crewmen in stained coveralls surge forward to service the old shuttle while the ramp slowly lowers. A figure draped in an artfully stained cloak walks down the ramp taking great care to keep even their legs concealed beneath the cloak.
Slumped down and careful to keep from looking anyone in the eye they could easily pass for a simple fugitive running from some no name backwater planet. Of course, to the truly dangerous people that bother to look up from their cups that falsehood is stripped away faster than an unlocked speeder on Tatooine. The figure moves through the piles of suspicious slime and the press of unwashed bodies with a predatory grace. The cloak keeps anyone from seeing what they do with their hands beneath that artfully stained, blaster proof cloak.
The figure reaches out with their senses, all six of them. Searching. Searching. Hunting. Failure is not an option for one such as her. Her eyes slide shut for a moment when she finds what she is searching for. The dim lights and pale shadows of the majority of this steaming dung heap's inhabitants pale before the majesty of her target. A swirling mass of darkness and barely repressed anger...no. Not repressed. Harnessed.
Ironclad control keeping the fury at bay and leaving a shell of reason and ambition. Oh, she found her target. Her eyes slide open once more to reveal hungry silver orbs. She doesn't break character. Slipping from huddled group to group and shadow to shadow. Steadily making her way to the Darkest Shadow. One far darker than her Master.
Blood red lips curl beneath his mask as a familiar feeling washes over his senses. The faintest touch of corruption combined with the softest whispers of the Dark Side creating a heady tonic of challenge. The barest caress of his own reserves brings the Dark Side roaring into his mind and swirling through his veins. HK and the Devaronian are already on the ship, the droid has very specific orders of what the Devaronian is allowed to touch and with what part of his body. Namely the deckplates can only be touched by the soles of his boots and his actions are restricted to breathing and blinking until such a time as the Sith returns.
Best way to keep the unruly outlaw in one place if his ancestor is anything to go by. At the moment, the ship is far away in the same hangar that he landed it in while he stands at the center of an abandoned and empty warehouse. Dust and various animal droppings cover the floor and watery sunlight shines through gaping holes in the roof after years of neglect. But he remains waiting. Still as a statue. He would wait for as long as it would take.
Patience is something that most Sith lack and has led to many of their downfalls. A cardinal sin in his eyes. Patience is the leash on his rage, the lock on the kennel's door. The shock troops use by the Sith Empire were little more than mindless automatons sent en mass at the Jedi to drown them in numbers and rage. A way to create a crack not only in the defenses of the Republic but in the psyche of the Jedi by forcing them to do the one thing that runs counter to their oaths and beliefs. Take life.
No matter their claims to the sanctity of life, their love of peace, and their supposed control over their emotions the act of killing weakens them. And strengthens the Sith as a whole...but none of those raging lunatics gained any true power or knowledge. They were taught to swing a blade, to harness the rage boiling in their gut to gain strength, and some rudimentary telekinesis. Nothing more.
Not what they should aspire to, not what prestige the title of Sith gives one. Nothing but the location of the enemy. A Sith harnesses his rage and bends it to his will. It becomes another weapon in the armory of the truly powerful. And he has harnessed it like a plough horse directing it every which way according to his whims.
He can sense her coming closer and closer. Her anger and self-loathing throbbing like a bruise at the edge of his senses. A small kernel of pain lingers at the edge of her fury and ambition. Oh...such ambition from one so unaware. It's precious. And so, he waits like a spider at the center of his web savoring every taste of her psyche that drifts across his senses. The old door, sagging on its hinges as it is, remains open and filled with light. The figure of the would-be-hunter appears in the narrow gash of light cloaked in a soiled cloak.
The corner of the Sith's mouth twitches at the deception. Memories of assassins attempting the same trick to gain a slight upper hand play through his mind for a half a breath before he shakes it off. No use wishing for the good old days now.
"You didn't make it very hard for me to find you Jedi," the stranger's sultry, low voice announces. The Sith smirks at the derision and disappointment dripping from that last word. That tone is one far too familiar to him after his years fighting the Empire's war. That kind of hatred for the Jedi Order can only come from one who was once Jedi themself.
"Two misconceptions my dear…the first is that I was trying to hide. The second—!" His explanation is interrupted first by a sudden surge in the Force. And then by the ignition of a hissing crimson blade and an enhanced leap through the air. The Dark Side sings at the pure aggression inherent in such a move and the Sith grins savagely under his mask. Instead of drawing his own blade he simply shifts aside just enough to dodge of blade's descent.
Fast as thought he lashes out with a kick that sends her skidding away with a startled, pained gasp. Now he draws his blade from the voluminous folds of his robes. The weapon almost sings to his soul in his palm. The wrought iron worked to form the hilt inlaid with pure silver is a comforting weight. A piece of his soul clicking into place.
The hungry blade leaps from the hilt with a blood curdling hiss sending a thrill up his spine. Over three thousand years without a proper sword fight? His ancestors would be ashamed.
"The second assumption is that I am, or ever was, a Force damned Jedi!"
Asajj Ventress curses under her breath at the throbbing pain in her cracked ribs. This cloaked bastard must have a cybernetic leg to kick that hard. She can sense his power swirling around him like a cloak of freezing cold shadows. It whispers at the edge of her mind both mocking and seducing her. Her own power rails against the darkness made manifest, banishing the probing tendrils. And then he draws his own blade and it all gets worse.
It feels as if she were thrown into a vacuum without a void suit. Sucking the breath from her lungs and robbing her limbs of strength. She snarls and her own power pushes back for a single instant.
Until he starts moving again.
Smooth and quick as a jungle cat he charges. His blade is suddenly everywhere with a savage strength and blinding speed. His body flows through the refined movements of Form II and the more savage strikes of Form V without pause or hesitation. Hissing crimson plasma ignites her cloak in place of opening her stomach, a barely deflected strike nearly taking every toe off her right foot. With a savage snarl Asajj musters a weak Force Push to gain some breathing space then rips her second blade from her belt and ignites it.
Instead of apprehension at the sight of the second humming blade she feels amusement coming from the strange being.
"Ah…Jar'Kai! Such a limited style."
"I'll show you limited!" Ventress hisses and charges again. Her red blades dance in great humming arcs each meant to kill. None come close. The taller being switches seamlessly into Form III using the tight movements to eliminate wasted time and counter the twin blades of the assassin. He stands unmoving like a pillar of stone.
Anchored against the storm of her assault. Her anger rises and she puts more strength into her blows. Strength that unbalances her. A strange sound joins the chorus of screaming lightsabers. Laughter. A cold sound that sends shivers down her spine. A sound that reminds her too much of her master's master.
"Yes, limited! With both hands full you can't use the Force very well—!" Too late she sees his free hand forming a claw and the swirling ball of power in his palm. The bolt of pure kinetic energy slams into her gut and bodily throws her across the warehouse. Instinct extinguishes her blades before she begins rolling across the floor and slamming up against a half-rusted metal shelf. Pain wracks her frame and she struggles to find her breath while the cloaked stranger takes sedate steps towards her. Blade humming hungrily in the palm of his hand.
"—like that," he finishes, his satisfaction dripping from his voice. She pushes back the pain and gains her feet with pure will power, reigniting her blades and taking her stance. The stranger tilts his head and assumes a traditional Makashi stance. The Force screams in warning a moment before his blade darts for her head. Asajj barely sways back from the humming tip and spins away to the right hoping to enter his blind spot.
By all rights the mask he wears should have been enough to restrict his line of sight…but a Sith doesn't need to see to fight. The Force is a sense all on its own. Without turning his head, he spins in the opposite direction as Ventress to bring his lightsaber down in a vicious arc nearly taking her arm off. With a growl of frustration, she leaps back and then kicks off once again. Spinning in the middle of her jump to bring both of her blades around one after the other.
The stranger deflects the first and ducks under the second before driving an armor-plated knee into Ventress' gut followed by a haymaker that drives her into the ground. The air once again flees her lungs yet this time there is no opportunity to recover. As if lifting a dead leaf, the stranger marshals the Force in a telekinetic grip and forces Ventress to rise. Pinned in place and unable to break free of his durasteel grip she struggles mightily and uselessly. Only growing angrier.
"If you wouldn't mind relaxing my dear…?" the stranger's question seems more of a command. Ventress merely huffs angrily and snarls at the intricate mask, ignoring the cut dribbling blood on her cheek. A nasty bruise is already spreading across her cheek. He smiles inwardly. One could almost see the imprints of the script carved into his armor in the bruise.
"Let me go!"
"Hmm, no. You'll try and hit me." The Force thrums around her in a frankly amateur attempt to break his hold.
All brute strength and no finesse. Someone has done her a crime by not honing that power into the edge of the blade it should be. As she is now, she wouldn't have made it through her first duel in his time.
'Is the Force so much weaker now…or is it the lack of competition that has stunted the talent and power we once took for granted?' he wonders and tightens his grip, hardly straining with the effort.
"Such waste…do you even know how you have been wronged my dear?" Ventress snarls and thrashes.
Nal Hutta Upper Orbit
'Kill them, to direct traffic, would it!?' the Grand Master of the Jedi Order wonders in his mind as his ship skillfully weaves through the madness of the disorganized orbitals. Below him he can feel the distracting whispers of the Dark Side warring against itself. It makes him thankful that he chose a Clone Pilot to get him here allowing him to fight off its predations without worrying about a fiery death in space.
The compensators of the modified Consular-class cruiser whine with the strain of keeping them from becoming smears across the bulkhead and the entire crew breathes a sigh of relief when they finally manage to breach the atmosphere. The descent is much smoother in atmosphere. It would appear that the Hutts prefer their towns and villas to be safe from the threat of mid-air collisions between freighters.
All thoughts of the madness over the world is swiftly banished from the old master's mind when the first tendrils of shadow begin to spread from the dueling Sith below. The small green Jedi staggers to the side, his clawed hand grasping at the wall as his mental barriers are sorely tested. The Dark Side presses in on his mind. Joyous whispers tickle his senses while the slick tendrils slide across his mindscape. Then it disappears almost as quickly as it began leaving him breathless. The concerned eyes of the pilot peer down at Yoda, questions obvious behind those dark brown orbs.
"To the surface, swiftly, we must go."
Nal Hutta Surface
Master Yoda hobbles into the age worn warehouse alone. His large green ears droop in disappointment at the lack of occupants within or even the slightest clue. Collapsed and half rusted frames lay scattered across the ground, cracked concrete offers nothing. His still keen eyes zero in on a small blood spatter, like that of a split lip or a small cut. The Dark Side clings to the battered structure like mold.
The old Jedi can feel the raw power that was exerted here from the remnants soaked into the ground and walls. The fury, pain, rage…joy? Yes, a savage joy. A joy of battle soaking into the stone is tangible to the ancient Force adept. His cane taps against the stone, echoing against the walls. It stirs the one presence he can detect: one that is quickly growing angrier.
"By the strange presence, bested you were Ventress?" The small green alien has no doubt the muffled screech would be laced with expletives without a gag balled up and shoved into her mouth.
YT-1210 "Profit Rocket"
Deep Space
The cargo hold is cold and silent but for the humming of the starship. Meditation is the only time one sees a Sith kneel for they need to center themselves just as Jedi do. The Dark Side is a harsh mistress always attempting to lead a man astray with sweet promises. Meditation helps repel her corrupting touch. Objects float about in the grip of the Force by his will.
And who is he?
'Foolish boy, messing with things beyond your meager understanding…'
'—an't do this my son! The Emperor—'
'Will support my move! I'm sure of it…'
The feeling of the Force enchantments sucking the strength from his limbs is akin to stepping into the middle of a Hoth blizzard naked. A leeching pain that swiftly turns to numbness while his sight fades. The final sight of his betrayer leaving the chamber sears itself into his brain. A man once called brother now named traitor.
His breathing remains steady through the visions, though the floating objects spin faster and faster around him. With a great exertion of will he reins in his anger and releases the tension across his shoulders. A low rumble reaches his ears through his trance and he smiles softly. The weak bond leading to the Tuk'ata he hasn't got around to naming radiates affection from the deadly creature. Through it he can sense the presence of Rennow on the other side of the sealed door, waiting anxiously for the Sith to emerge.
His bare fingers caress the leathery texture of the normally savage creature, rubbing at the base of the horns sweeping from its head. Glowing red eyes close in pleasure and it purrs quietly.
"Shall we let the Devaronian in?" he asks the creature with the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. The beast chuffs and circles around behind him to lay on the deck, long tail curling around him possessively. The barest exertion of the Force opens the door allowing Idraf Rennow to slink into the cargo bay. Of course, the alien's narrow eyes zoom in on the ferocious creature lurking behind its master. Fear leaks from the red skinned alien in tantalizing waves. The Sith maintains his silence beneath his hood and mask, enjoying the way Idraf's fear is fed by the low lighting and his faceless host.
The Devaronian was allowed on the ship for one simple reason: he knows people. The Sith can sense it and the greed brewing in the lanky alien. A greed for credits and power. Things that he can work with. The twenty million credits the spice shipments fetched are only enough for a starting point. The Sith's plans extend far beyond the walls of the small freighter and require further funds; funds the Devaronian are going to assist him in acquiring. His plotting is interrupted by Rennow's reedy voice.
"I uh…wanted to…thank you for helping me off of Nal Hutta. What do you want in repayment?" The Sith arches a brow under his mask.
"What makes you think I did it expecting payment?"
"Listen I know what you are: either a Dark Jedi or a Sith. And neither one of them are known for their charity work."
The Sith chuckles and reaches for his mask. The ancient device has been his face to most organic beings for as long as he can remember. Passed down through his family for generations and steeped in the Force it is probably worth as much as a cruiser to the right collector. Not that he would ever sell it. The environmental seals pop and hiss as they uncouple from the segmented cowling that extends from his armor over his head and neck to connect with the mask. The cowling recedes with a chorus of sharp clicks around his neck. With the mask and hood lowered the Devaronian is treated to a sight no one has had for thousands of years: that of a Sith Pureblood.
Skin the color of a fine wine is devoid of scars. Strange tentacle-like growths spring from his lip to wind down like a long mustache combine with shorter growths like a goatee, and sprout from his brow like hair on a human. His eyes are dark red like fresh spilt blood and sharp as a vibroblade. Those eyes…they stare into the veteran swindler's soul like a predator scenting prey. Those wine-red lips twist into a fearsome approximation of a smile revealing brilliant white teeth and sharp canines.
"You're going to help me build a ship."