Khoengh was bound to have a busy day. He understood this as he prowled through the long, slate charcoal shaded halls of the Martyrdom-class vessel he commanded, he understood this as he passed by posting after posting of plasteel coated soldiers as he kept on his pilgrimage to the hangerbay. He understood this as he nervously thummed at the Dolovite hilt's pommel at his side, twirling the point around the rounded end before flicking the nail against the crimson shaded metal. He stopped at the last door to the hangerbay, standing a few steps away from the trooper posted next to the door. The man was clad in the post-signature armor of the previous Sith. The helmet consisting of a bell-shape that fell close to the head, nearly fully encapsulating it before giving way to a simple octagon section of transparisteel over the eyes, just under that hanging a clunky looking, apparently by design, section of an ash-grey respirator that held from the nose down to the lower chin, with a single three-holed vertical filter, set into the plate, dominating over airways. Plain, sloping armor held the better parts of anatomy, shin guards, leg plates, shoulder, chest, bleeding into a background of a black jumpsuit, the entire design slapped with a coat of polished silver paint. It was cut down and cheaper from the designs of Sith Lords past, but enough to stand out. Khoengh always had enjoyed the design, but he hardly had a moment to truly appreciate it as he stood there, more weight on one foot giving his stance a cocked appearance, slicking a hand backwards through thick, unruly mane that sat ontop of his head.
"Is my Procession prepped?" Khoengh's voice came as a smooth relaxant.
"Yes, my Lord, ready to be outbound whenever you are." Came the reply, shuddered through the mechanics of the helmet, an otherworldly tune filtered through.
"While I'm out, Commodore Nonva has the run of this place."
"Of course, my Lord."
Khoengh gave a moment, letting his eyes zone out in the space of the bulkhead directly behind the soldier. His mind wandering if just for a moment, giving himself just a moment to take in the next couple steps he would take. Beats of refocusing, the monotony of the ship was scratching at him, running his mind into the same hallway, the same routines, over and over again. This was a welcomed break from the norm.
Without another word to the man, save a hearty pat on the shoulder as he passed by, Khoengh took the steps to the hangerbay door, the durasteel oscillating in front of him, opening up to the space offered by the Martyrdom. It was far from a dedicated carrier, but it was able to make due with what it possessed. It would have been easy, if it was not for the wide branching sections of black and slate silver durasteel, the red banners hanging and flowing in artificial winds, and the dozen military designed Kovenant-class fighters, twin weightier Ruiner gunships, and the sole D-28 bomber, one could easily have mistaken the hanger for one found on a semi-busy commercial space station if for it's size alone. The Martyrdom was determined to be a support vessel, a Star Destroyer technically, Khoengh rarely understood exactly what support role that such a spacely specialized craft could do well. The hanger was pitiful, the turbolasors were hardly anything to write home about, the engines were adequate at sublight at best, it always seemed that the best the Martyrdom could do was draw fire.
There were a scattering handful of mechanics running through the hanger, taking looks at different vessels simply parked on the reflective floor. Their scans, their checks and worries, part of a daily routine that never returned anything. Occasionally, a pair of Kovenant fighters would take off to do routine patrols beyond the flotilla, arching off for nearly half an hour before turning back and returning home. Doing nothing besides wasting fuel. Fuel that those Fleet Engineers, in their jumpsuits and scanner-visors, were all too happy to replace the moment the fighter craft landed.
Amongst the lot of starfighters, the Procession hardly seemed noticeable. If not for it's archaic quad-winged design, there was hardly a reason to look at the craft twice. The cockpit was already open, the six-plated design having snapped from the top, a mechanical emplacement on the top of the cockpit sliding the transparisteel utterly out of the way of the pilot. Only requiring a small climb from the hanger floor in order to seat oneself into the captain's chair of the vessel. Two chin mounted blastercannons. No hyperdrive. Minimal shielding. However, the proton torpedo launcher underslung on the craft was a nice after-market addition, something that Khoengh insisted on.
The man maneuvered through the assortment of vessels, making headway to the front of the hanger, mouse droids scurrying about, engineers leading power-droids from vessel to vessel, their lumbering steps and signature call outs echoing through the rather empty facility. He found himself at the cockpit, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the edges of durasteel exposed from the open cockpit, his boot trying, and failing, several times to find purchase on the chin of the vessel. Stopping for a moment, letting his body fall from the minimal progress he had made, looking down at his feet before virtually throwing himself at the durasteel hull. Smacking into it with a jangling of the man's effects, the hilt clacking against ship as he used the momentum to scrawl his steps against the hull. Inching himself up before nearly falling into the chair that marked the command. Shifting about in the chair as he pressed his thumb to the sensor, blowing a flock of blond hair from his face that fell free during the scrap. The sublight engines starting to gently rev to life, the loud hiss of the mechanical arm swinging the transparisteel back down before sealing the cockpit once more. The array of buttons, switches, and levers in front of Khoengh suddenly coming to life, his eyes glancing across each of them as green was seen across the board. He caught his golden eyes in the reflection of the viewport as he glanced up to flick some miscellaneous knob above his head. The humming of the engines grew louder, before his stomach dropped as the vessel picked off of the ground. The viewport suddenly came to life with and endless array of messages and information from the HUD. The engineers on the floor watching the starfighter slowly turn in the air, the gentle blue hum of the sublight engines suddenly flaring to a bright red as the vessel accelerated from the hanger at nearly max speed. Khoengh's laughter nearly full enough to be heard over the modified sublights.
His starfighter pitched and yawned out of the hanger, arching over the entire bow of the Martyrdom before shooting right past the nose of the vessel. The endless rows of windows and lights blinking across the vessels, each of them a sign of life, each of them one of the men and women under his stead. As if he stood as a diety, overlooking the clouds on a sleepy night in some forgotten city lost in the waves, smiling, proud of his kith and kin. There was a beauty to the ship in the pure-nothingness that surrounded it, nearly uncanny, as when hovering, if for the briefest moment, one could easily forget that the cruiser was moving at all. Looking like shoddy effects in some Core Systems Union holovid.
His head recentered out his viewpoint, three other massive vessels hung directly in front of his eyes, seemingly not more than a cast away, but in reality being much, much further than he would care to imagine. One of them, a reverse tear-drop design, was a Jehavey'ir desendent design, a Fett-class, a vessel utterly designed to sling as many turbolaser rounds in the direction of whatever it was pointed at as possible. Even now, he could see the arms brimming with a latent, untapped energy. He wondered what could be going on the vessel? Perhaps the endless training regime that he was always told that Mandos adhere to, maybe they had decided to celebrate Life Day early and were passing around presents just this very moment. For Mandos, it was difficult to honestly tell if that would be out of character to them. The other craft, an antiquated Imperious-class, battered to the brim with ancient damages and battles that the current crew had never seen. Chips were taken, seemingly at random, out of it's dagger shaped design, and a section of the center seemed to had been sealed off, as a large portion was blasted through, showing off dozens of hallways that intersected before the engagement that struck the blow. The hole hammered clean through the ship.
The sensor array of his vessel blinked steadily, registering two other craft of roughly a similar size to his starfighter had departed both vessels, directly on time. Thankfully, with that, he pushed forward the controls, the ship catching speed that was nearly unnatural for even an interceptor class vessel. The prongs of the wings slowly coming to point, shifting and framing the gargantuan feat of Sith engineering directly in front of his viewscreen. The Royal Wredd-class Star Dreadnaught. Worthy of being a space station in it's own right, a crew capacity of a small moon, and enough weaponry to fry a continent if organized well enough. More starfighters and military personal than the other three vessels put together. It was long enough that the back-end of the vessel vanished beyond the veil of dark, nearly past reasonable sightlines. A bridge, multilayered, built from the back, that nearly looked like several Martyrdom vessels bent at the center and spot welded on top of one another. Point defense weapons that could rip and tear through anyone attempting a trenchrun. The mark of the entire design was a four sectioned hanger, each the size of a standard Destroyer's, arranged in a square, possessing the capability to launch an impossible count of vessels at the call. This Wredd-class stood as the only one in existence, a prototype turned escape craft, nothing more than an over glorified resource dump, but Hell, if it didn't bring a tear to Khoengh's eye. A true display of ship-work.
He glanced over, taking his sight away from the Dreadnaught if for a second, to see that the other two starfighters were already well on their way to the vessel, quite a head start. There's a way to fix that, and Khoengh intended to do exactly that. With one hand broadcasting his landing code, his other pushing the thruster forward as the ship bucked and spurted for a second or two as the sublights attempted to process the power increase, the entire starfighter suddenly kicked forward at the speed of a shooting star.
By the time the owners of the other starfighters would make their way to the northeastern most hanger on the Wredd-class, the Corellian would be leaning against a wing of his Procession, draining a cigarette out of what looked to be his second during his wait. His head tilting up from a datapad he was scowering as a lugged together Buurenaar styled fighter, flanked by a much more well crafted and maintained Sith designed Sphacelia, entered the hangerbay. The Buurenaar fighter's wings suddenly rotating on an axis from the cockpit, laying flat horizontally, as the vessel came to a land not far from it's entry into the hanger, the Sphacelia settling down not a few paces shy of the Mandalorian craft. Flicking away the remains of his smoke, both of the cockpits of the craft, as two figures emerged from each. From the Mandalorian craft was a man that seemed more armor than flesh, clad head to toe in Ultracommando plate, the beskar dragging on his form, clanking with every step the man took as he made his way in the direction of the Corellian. The armor was painted a hue of grey, with accent lines of a deeper black, the slit visor as distant and bleak as the space directly outside. A hilt, composed of uncolored beskar, hung at the man's side. The other figure, much leaner than the built Mandalorian, much more stereotypically feminine as well, strolled along side the Mandalorian. Blue skin was harshly contrasted with the rolling cloth of a black-slated tunic, it hung nearly to the woman's knees, with military designed boots with an undertow of plain black pants making up the rest of the look. A shoulder cape hung at the right side of the woman, not visibly armed. Her skin looked similar to a rough ride in a landspeeder, shaded navy, with large dark eyes blinking into the new light of the hanger.
"Olarom, burc'ya!" Came the throaty call from the Mandalorian, his arms going wide as he gestured to the Corellian, earning a chuckle in response.
"Come on now, Arasuum, we're in the Prime Sovereign's ship, speak Sith." The sentence began bluntly serious, but fell apart into a laugh as the Corellian stepped away from his starfighter, taking the approach from the Mandalorian as a welcome. Reaching out and taking the much larger man's hand, before pulling forward and bumping chests, something that nearly threw Khoengh to the ground. Anything to keep the big man smiling, never wanted to be on his bad side. The greeting earned a muttering in Mandalorian from the Sith.
"Nice to see you too, Khoengh." The Rodians' voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"I was getting to you, calm down, Ghest. How's the crew doing?"
"Restless, as always. Though I confiscated a wonderful book from one of the infantryman's holds. Hoping it holds my sanity."
"Oh, yea? What's it about?"
"A smuggler falling in love with a moisture farmer."
"There's always the Fighting Pit over on the Fett, if books bore you." Arasuum said.
Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth as the gathering slowly began to make their way down the expansive hangerbay, much more than just a casual walk, taking nearly five minutes to even get to the turbolift at the end of the path. Entering the lift, the blinding light that always seemed to be the standard in them nearly sending the Corellian stumbling when they first entered, the group continued to pass exchanges during the transit. Relating tales of what was the recent news on each of their respective vessels, and other such normalities. Rattling off resource distribution statistics, before the conversation changed it's tune rather brashly as the pair found themselves moving down the long path in the direction of the inner sanctum of the vessel.
"We've been skirting in empty space for too many cycles to count. Running fuel for what?" Khoengh complained, nearly to the open air.
"The Prime Sovereign spoke of a plan. I thought we were waiting." Arasuum responded.
"For the True Sith? It's fiction, a fantasy the Prime can use to lure us." Ghest said.
"Fantasy, fiction, I could care less if it was written in the fine print to the deed for this damned ship. Damned tired of pretending to be pathetic. We're wasting out here…"
Their conversation carried them to the hefty doors that marked the entrance to the inner sanctum of the Prime Sovereign, the ruling authority between the Sith Sovereignty, the loose gathering of vessels that Khoengh and the rest called home, for now. Standing just in front of the door was a single soldier, similar to the design of those on the Martyrdom vessel, but their armor holding a rusted gold persuasion instead of the edged black. He held a SIW-3 blaster rifle in his grip, a simple weapon, stripped down design from the last of the New Hyperspace War, missing a proper stock, the barrel snubbed, made to stay cheap. He brought himself to a near attention as the gathering of Sith approached, his heels clicking together, but the rifle remaining lack and slumped in his grip.
"I'm sorry, my Lords, but the Prime Sovereign requests that none may enter his sanctum." The trooper spoke.
The gathering of Sith looked between one another, before the Rodian took the initiative.
"We outrank you as Sovereigns and as Sith, stand down. Let us pass."
"Again, I am sorry, but I cann-"
The response was suddenly cut off by the man's head jolting backwards harshly, slamming into the durasteel door behind him, sending a resounding echo through the hall and into the chamber beyond. The man's form crumpled to the ground, a dent in the back of his helmet as well as the door itself. Unseen forces shifted the body to the side, slumping it into the corner in a crumpled mess. The Rodian and Corellians eyes both turned to the Mandalorian, who's hand was ever so slightly extended from his person.
"That's works, sorry, kid." Khoengh said as he walked over to the door controls, tapping a key.
The door slid open, shuddering as the indented piece tried to find itself home, the right most part of the door sticking slightly out from the frame, something that would have to be repaired. The inside of the sanctum was an endless black, pitch, as far as the eye could see. The sound of the door opening itself reverberating far into the endless expanse in front of the group. There were glances given between the three, before offering up a shrug the Mandalorian took a heavy step inside, followed by Ghest, and soon after, a much more cautiously footed Corellian.
The first thing that settled into the Corellian, wearing scant more than a basic button up, comfort slacks, and a bomber's jacket on his person, was the absolute cold that enveloped the entire room. It dared to soak through his boots, it was all consuming. It was as if Hoarfrost personified had taken up residence in the depths of this Star Destroyer, as if the night itself was a welcomed guest of the Prime Sovereign's. Each step was nearly misplaced as tremors cycled their way through the man's body, his breathing frosted, nearly crystalline as it left his lungs.
"Prime, we request a council." The Rodian began, Khoengh suddenly taking a few bolder steps, shaking his head.
"None of that, we demand you speak with us!" He yelled, into the dark, the depths, nothing in return, only the staring abyss. His eyes daring to dig through the nothing in order to fabricate a face, some new reality, something that made more sense than this. Envoys were the only form of communication they had with the Darth, never face to face, this fleet simply placed in it's command during a period of time that always failed to come to the Sith, a point that never clicked fully, but they all always agreed, it had always been their leader.
"We are better than this, we are Sith!" Khoengh continued. "We are burning resources, we are dying out here! We have contacts, places, names, we have warriors, we can be more than this, some Black Fleet, some whispered boogyman. We are Sith, we are the Last, we ar-"
The Corellian went silent, rolling to a stop, a jumble of words that were never properly born or given thought. His eyes and swagger suddenly dropping to the floor. The other's felt it too, shifting and writhing, a presence that scratched at the insides of their skulls, a scream that brought the most horrendous taste. A sight that would make your ears bleed. It was all consuming, rolling through the active reality that they held, a deep and all purposeful existence. It held them, while at the same time they felt ages away from this singular spot they occupied in the ship, and for the briefest moment, the Force felt the furthest away than it ever had. A coldness that strained the eyes, nothing else announced It's arrival besides this, nothing else came as warning besides this, the Spectre had fully entered the room. However, if they were able to focus on anything else, for the briefest moment, it would have felt as if It had been there the entire time. his was His voice, the absence of one. The meaning transcribed across purpose and concept, it was loud, ear-deafening silence, begged for your attention as it drew you through every note and every bow, as the dance wandered off of the cliff face and into the endless void. Khoengh felt his mouth filling, metallic, blood. He reached up, touched his lips, they were coated. He coughed, splattering it, somewhere in the background he heard the others join him, retching up a biologically impossible amount of sanguine nightmares. He fell to his knees as his hand reached to his hip, fumbling with his saber, unable to unclasp it. Hand reaching out, into the dark, for something, and origin of this unreality. Something to center his universe. He shuddered, the Pain was It's voice, this was how It spoke. They understood now.
"Your will be done…" Khoengh barely managed to sputter out before he fell, his face smashing into a puddle of his own life. Black consumed him.