Nothing about the man who awaits Dessel at the bottom of the shuttle ramp suggests extremes. Darth Vitiate doesn't give the appearance of a man who would merit his astounding bio.

He is tall, but not exceedingly so. His physique is mostly indeterminable beneath his voluminous robes, save for a pair of broad shoulders. His pale face is intelligent rather than truly handsome. It's wide at the temples and the cheekbones, with deep set eyes. Yellow, naturally. He sports a full mane of swept back grey-brown hair and a matching beard. The facial hair is a noteworthy departure from Sith custom. It makes him look like a colonial, and not a Dark Lord.

Zannah is right, Dessel realizes. This guy doesn't look very Sith. He's not even wearing black. No doubt it's a deliberate misdirect.

As Dessel walks down the ramp to draw closer, he sees that the man's face shows some effects of time, but nowhere near his true experience. He appears middle aged. Mid-fifties, perhaps. Old enough to be in charge, but still vigorous. Not the several millennia at least that this Sith Lord has actually lived. It's more sleight of hand, Dessel judges. He hasn't spent the last five years being a lackey to various factions of Dark Council members without learning to recognize deceit. But whereas most Lords posture to inflate their consequence, this man apparently chooses the reverse tactic. If he's underwhelming, that must be by design. This man wants to be underestimated.

It's intriguing, but unsuccessful. For damned if this guy doesn't emote gravitas. Standing here alone in the middle of nowhere with none of the usual Sith pageantry and throne room stagecraft, he still manages to look majestic. And intriguingly, he appears to have no Force imprint.

"My Lord Vitiate," Dessel immediately takes a knee in the traditional groveling obeisance to a Sith Master. Then, horrified at the implication that this man is anything other than a Dark Lord, he hastily amends, "Your Excellency." Dessel's eyes find the ground, but his Force senses see for him. Already, his heart beats faster and he can feel himself start to sweat.

The man grunts. "Found me, did you?" Vitiate dismisses him out of hand. "Go away. Whatever you have come for, you won't find it here."

"But my Lord—your-er—Excellency," Dessel gulps. He's determined to do his duty. "I have been sent by the Dark Council on Korriban. I am authorized to give you this." Dessel now offers up the ceremonial hilt.

This is the ritual repeated every time a new Dark Lord's reign begins. The incoming ruler accepts the sword of state, and with it the awesome privilege of being the Master of all Masters. This very act puts a Lord at the pinnacle of Darkness. Men lie, cheat, steal, and kill for this sword, and then they lie, cheat, steal, and kill to keep it. Much blood has been split through the ages by many great Lord who coveted this very moment.

But not Darth Vitiate. He just glowers.

Is he considering?

Could his silence be refusal?

Maybe contempt?

This man is very hard to read in the Force and his face is giving nothing away.

As long seconds tick by, the lack of response becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Perhaps Lord Vitiate does not comprehend the significance of this offer? Dessel feels compelled to explain, in case his audience has forgotten the custom he reenacts. "This is the sword of Marka Ragnos," he recites with reverence. "Every Dark Lord since has wielded it. It is the symbol of his authority." A Sith Emperor's go-to tool for both executions and courtly commendations.

"I know what it is," Vitiate responds with chilling calm. "I have foreseen this moment." With a twisted, annoyed face, the one-time Sith Emperor now grabs the saber and unceremoniously tosses it over his left shoulder. "Satisfied?" he snaps.

It takes a lot to shock a Sith, but Dessel is utterly scandalized. He is deeply offended on behalf of all good Sith citizens everywhere. "That's the sword of Lord Ragnos," he breathes out, staring at it lying meters away in the grass, discarded like refuse. That any Lord would be so cavalier with an heirloom talisman of Darkness is downright blasphemous. It's one thing to refuse, but quite another thing to make the refusal so insulting. "That is the sword of our forefathers. It is the sword of Empire." Dessel raises wide, questioning eyes and a gaping mouth to Vitiate.

His audience is unimpressed by the reaction. "I hate swords. I have no use for swords. I'm not a warrior."

Not a warrior? Dessel blinks again in confusion. "But you are the greatest warrior of the Empire," he protests. Under this man's guidance, the Empire's boundaries reached their farthest limits. Moreover, much of his over a thousand-year reign was peaceful. The war against the Republic was mostly a cold war back then.

But Lord Vitiate merely sniffs with disdain. "Wars don't make one great."

Dessel blinks at this statement. For war is the way of the Sith. Peace is a lie, after all. From his crouch, Dessel opens his left hand and calls the discarded weapon into his grip with the Force. Again, he offers it. This time with vehemence. "Take it! Take it, Excellency, and use it!"

Again, his audience is unenthusiastic. "For what? To kill you? I don't need a sword to kill you." Vitiate snatches the weapon and casts it aside once more with a peevish, determined look. "I could kill you now with just my mind before you could form the inkling of a thought to resist."

"Yes, yes!" Dessel seizes upon this boast. He absolutely believes it. "That's why I'm here. Excellency, we beseech you. We need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. The Dark Council sent me. The Jedi have become unstoppable. The Republic will control all the major systems within weeks. We need the Sith Emperor back. We need Dark Lord Vitiate." It's time for this guy to come out of retirement, or exile, or vacation, or whatever this is and kick some ass. He can start with the leaders of the main factions of the Sith elite to clean house. Then, once the Empire is in decent shape, they can trounce the Republic. They can make the galaxy great again.

Lord Vitiate watches him closely with eyes that seem to see what he's thinking. Dessel strives mightily not to squirm under the scrutiny. But damn . . . this guy is intimidating. He's everything an Emperor should be. And exactly who the Sith need to whip them into shape to resist the Republic's creeping onslaught.

But again, he refuses. Vitiate decrees, "You don't need me." Then, the grumpy Dark Lord abruptly turns on heel and begins walking.

Dessel scrambles to his feet to follow. "Did you hear a word I just said?" he demands, momentarily forgetting to show a courtier's fawning deference. There is undisguised indignation to his voice. "The Empire is crumbling! Our people are dying! The Lords are in complete disarray! The infighting is destroying us. We will never resist the Republic if we don't unify soon. Your Excellency, we are weak!" Dessel admits what none of the Lords on the Council will publicly say.

Lord Vitiate halts and shoots him a look. "It's not my problem."

"It is!"

The Dark Lord crosses his arms and digs in on his refusal. "You are wasting your time. I'm not who you think I am."

"You are Lord Vitiate are you not?"

The man looks away and hardens his jaw. "I was . . . once. Not anymore."

Huh? "It's the name of your true self—you've only forgotten!" Dessel yelps. He leans into the hard sell now. "You saved us! You rebuilt our fallen Empire from the ashes of defeat! Darkness was supreme!" His words leap out in a nervous rush of flattery.

The man just grunts. It's an ugly sound. Then, he glowers some more as he announces, "Darkness was never supreme. It was all a lie."

"It was not!" Dessel snaps back before he can stop himself. Then, he colors at his rudeness. "Your pardon, your Excellency, if I offend. But I will proclaim Darkness with my dying breath. Darkness is supreme and ever shall be," Dessel quotes a maxim of the Sith.

Vitiate smirks. "No, it's not. Trust me, I should know. I made up that lie and made every schoolkid memorize it."

"It's not a lie!" What heresy is this? And from a Dark Lord, no less?

"I live here because Darkness is not supreme." Vitiate sighs and grumbles as he looks away again. "At least, not the way you think it is . . . "

What's that supposed to mean? "What is this place?" Dessel wonders aloud in dismay. What's so great about this place that Lord Vitiate wants to remain here? Sure, it's pretty countryside but it looks wholly deserted.

"I call it Mortis."

"Death." Dessel translates the Kittat. It's an ironic name for the home of someone who's immortal.

Vitiate elaborates. He has a hurting and haunted tinge to his tone that is unnerving. "Here all is lost. Here nothing matters. There is no desire, no want, no time, and no consequence. Here you cease to exist in every way. But you persist nonetheless."

So why would anyone choose to remain here? Dessel doesn't understand that cryptic gibberish and he doesn't care to. It all smacks of Jedi asceticism.

"I don't live. I just am. Everlasting life, everlasting torment. Never a respite from my regrets. Never an outlet for my talents."

"You're bored of eternity?" Dessel surmises from this bizarre soliloquy of complaints.

"Yes and bored of power." Vitiate looks pained now. "I'm a god but I'm not THE god. The Force is the god. It punishes me now for having the hubris to seek to be it. And how does it punish? By making me like it-immortal. I am forever and that makes your petty fights and matters of state far beneath my notice." Dark Lord Vitiate shoots him a scathing look. "I don't care. Can't you get that through your thick head, boy?"

The Sith are nothing if not persistent. So, Dessel resumes his plea. Because if this guy is bored and needs to be needed, then Dessel has a job for him. "But Excellency, our way of life is at risk. The Jedi—"

"I don't care!" the Dark Lord overrides him. His lip curls and his pose is petulant. "What did you think was going to happen here?" Vitiate gestures to the twice discarded weapon lying in the grass. "Did you think that I was going to walk out with some laser sword and face down the whole Republic for you? Do you think I came to the most unfindable place in the galaxy for no reason at all?" Darth Vitiate shoots Dessel a stern warning look that makes his blood run cold. "Go away," he orders with a voice of steel resolve.

It's not wise to anger a Dark Lord, but Dessel dares, knowing it's risky but wanting to do his duty. "I'm not leaving without you, Excellency-"

"You had best reconsider, whoever you are. You aren't the first to come here. I didn't leave for the rest and I won't leave for you. I will leave for one man and only one man."

"Who is that? Tell me and I'll find him," Dessel immediately offers.

"He isn't a Sith."

"A Mandalore?"

"No. A Jedi."

"The enemy? You will come back for the enemy?" Dessel is flabbergasted.

"Yes. But he hasn't even been born yet. The Sith will have to manage without me in the meantime until the Chosen One arrives," Vitiate sighs.

Dessel doesn't understand this man's refusal any more than he comprehends his words. He's no fan of the Jedi and he doesn't care who this Chosen One is. Plus, Vitiate's baffling words have him feeling increasingly desperate. He senses failure looming for his mission. And that has him worried for his own future as well as the Empire's. "You were our only hope . . . " Dessel stammers, feeling equal parts foolish and outraged. "Without you, we won't survive."

Lord Vitiate grunts again and shakes his head. "Young fool," he sneers, "the Sith will endure. Darkness might not be supreme, but it is impossible to kill."

"How can you be sure? Have you foreseen it?" Dessel asks hopefully. He's looking for any silver lining now.

Lord Vitiate fixes him with a hard look. "I have lived it," he declares. "I am thousands of years old. I was there the last time the Empire was defeated and in chaos. A leader emerged then. A leader will emerge now." He gives Dessel a pointed look and then resumes walking away.

"No—no, that won't happen—" Dessel protests as once again he follows. He's talking to Dark Lord Vitiate's back now as he stutters, "That's why I—we—need you. You were that leader long ago once when we needed you-"

"Not anymore."

"Why not?" Dessel demands plainly. "You're turning your back on us!" he accuses the retreating figure.

"I told you-I don't care." Lord Vitiate's next words are truly shocking and terribly disappointing: "Besides . . . it is time for the Sith to die."

"No!" Dessel reacts reflexively.

Vitate halts and turns to raise an eyebrow at him. "You disagree?" he goads. "Then go save the Empire yourself."

"That's why I'm here. I'm saving the Empire by returning with you. Now, get on the ship, your Excellency," Dessel attempts to take charge as respectfully as possible.

It prompts an amused smile from the reluctant Dark Lord. He cocks his head and asks, "Who are you?"

"I'm Dessel Hurst, your Excellency."

"Not your name. Who are you?"

Dessel relays the humble truth. "I'm on the staff of the Dark Council. I'm the son a colonial miner."

"You have the Force."

"Yes, but I'm a random and untrained. I was identified as a conscript to the infantry—"

"There's no such thing as a random. Nothing about the Force is a mistake or an afterthought. And so, I ask you again," the Dark Lord grills him with yellow eyes that see right through him, "Who are you? Why are YOU here?"

Dessel blinks as they talk in circles. "I told you-the Dark Council sent me. We need your help. The Republic has become unstoppable—"

"No. Who are you, Dessel Hurst? What is your role in all of this?"

Dessel still doesn't understand the question. He furrows his brow. "I'm just a messenger."

"Is that so?" The Dark Lord again raises an eyebrow. Is he being mocked? Dessel isn't sure. "The Force is with you, boy," the great man observes thoughtfully.

"Yes. It brought me here to find you."

"You need a teacher," Vitiate tells him. But, shaking his head, he sighs, "I can't teach you."

"I don't want a teacher, I want a leader," Dessel grumbles. "We need Sith Emperor Vitiate back."

"I'm not leaving here." Vitiate's tone is final.

Dessel swallows hard and starts grasping for contingency plans. "Alright, then do you have a son somewhere? Someone to stand in your stead? I need someone with the imprimatur of your authority. Someone who can unify the ruling families."

Vitiate shrugs. "I had three sons. The twins are long dead. My oldest is still around somewhere, I suppose. I never sensed him die."

"I'll find him. Where is he?"

The Dark Lord shrugs indifferently. "Your guess is as good as mine. I had him encased in carbonite thousands of years ago. He's probably decorating someone's wall. By all means, find him and thaw him out. He'll rule your Empire. That's what he wanted many years ago." Vitiate's face is inscrutable as he recalls aloud, "That bastard was the only real threat I ever had. He had hate, he had anger, and he knew how to use them." The old Emperor's yellow eyes slant across to Dessel as he adds coyly, "Like you."

While Dessel shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the repeated focus on himself, Vitiate abruptly changes topic. "Who's the girl? I foresaw your arrival but not the advent of the girl."

Dessel follows his glance to the ship behind them and immediately answers, "There is no girl."

"You're a terrible liar. And a foolish one, at that. I used to execute anyone who dared lie to me. Remember that-it's a good habit to get in. So, I ask you again," Vitiate drawls, "who's the girl?"

Dessel gulps. "My sister."

"Is she pretty? Her Force is beautiful . . . just beautiful."

"She's my sister, and I'll kill any man who hurts her," Dessel growls. He's not about to allow Zannah to be offered up as tribute to this self-exiled Lord who probably hasn't had a woman in a thousand years. Dessel is here to fulfill a mission, and he draws the line at involving his sister.

Vitiate looks at him again like he can read his mind. The grumpy, recalcitrant Dark Lord decides, "I like you. Get someone good to train you when you get back."

"I'm a colonial and a random. No one will train me," Dessel mutters.

"So the Sith are still snobs? Does everyone still go around crowing about their ancestry and red skin?"

"Yes." Now, it's Dessel's turn to be bitter. He can't begin to compete in a society that reveres inherited privilege more than actual talent.

"Then, no wonder the Empire is failing. It's still being run by inbred idiots." Vitiate squints at him. "So, even in wartime, they won't train you? Because you aren't an aristocrat?"

"The Sith like their traditions," Dessel replies as diplomatically as possible.

Vitiate grouses, "They should like victory better."

"If I bring you back, my boss has promised to take me on as his Apprentice."

"Is that a reward or punishment?" the Dark Lord asks wryly.

"Does it matter? It's my only chance at advancement."

"Nonsense," Lord Vitiate instructs. "Power is not something you achieve, it is something you take."

"Is that so, Excellency?" Dessel turns the tables on that argument, "Because I'm offering you power now. Why don't you take it?"

"I'm not leaving here." Again, Vitiate's tone is final.

None of this makes sense to Dessel. But perhaps if he knew why Vitiate left in the first place, he would understand. Dare he ask that? He does. "Why did you leave us?"

The Dark Lord growls, "I didn't leave."

"Oh." Before Dessel can pursue that topic, Vitiate shoots him a quelling death glare. Dessel immediately decides not to go there.

The Dark Lord resumes his advice. "Power is something you take. Don't bother trying to earn it. Forget building a resume to impress anyone. Your birth ensures you will never be the equal of anyone's esteem you covet." It's typical Sith tough love delivered bluntly.

"So, you're saying I shouldn't bother trying?" Dessel sighs. He's heard that advice before.

But the Dark Lord has a different twist on the conventional wisdom. "No, I'm saying you should sidestep their standards and flout their rules. If you cannot succeed within the establishment, then upend it. Remake it as you see fit. Tell me, can you use that sword you made?"

Dessel's hand immediately finds the homemade unauthorized weapon at his waist. He confesses, "I'm not supposed to."

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes, I can use it."

"Do you need to use it? Can you kill with your mind?"

"N-No," Dessel admits.

"Work on that. You're going to need every advantage you can get."

Dessel is still unwilling to give up. He resumes his efforts to return with the immortal Dark Lord. "Please, your Excellency," he outright begs as he drops to both knees in the grass, "if the Empire ever meant anything to you—if you ever loved our people and the cause of Darkness-please, please," he urges, "return with me now."

"Kid—"

"You will be the hero of all Dark heroes, the savior of the Empire once again, and all glory and honor will be yours."

"Look, kid, I'm not leaving here." The man's yellow eyes find his. "Accept it," he commands.

Dessel stops talking as the message finally sinks in. He looks down at his clasped hands. Resigned, he climbs slowly to his feet. He shoots the thoroughly disappointing Dark Lord a hard look of reproach. "Then Emperor Vitiate truly is dead," he hisses.

Dessel's expecting Force lightning for that disrespect. But Lord Vitiate just nods at him sadly. Almost in agreement.

"It was worth a shot," Dessel mutters under his breath. Then, he turns and heads back for the shuttle ramp.

"Where are you going?" Vitiate calls after him.

"It looks like I'm going nowhere," Dessel shoots back peevishly as he kicks at the dirt in frustration. He's through pretending deference to this has-been who betrays his people when they need him most. Dessel has spent his whole life deferring to his betters and knowing his place in the hierarchy of authority. That's one aspect of the Empire he won't miss when it falls. "I'm not going home, that's for sure. There's nothing for me there now," he laments.

This answer does not please Lord Vitiate. "You need to go home. You must go home."

"Why? So I can be there for the end? No, thanks. I'm taking my sister and fleeing to wild space." That's not an idle threat. Dessel means it. Because in the battle between Dark and Light, one man can make a difference—if that man is someone like Lord Vitiate. But an aide to an aide to a Dark Council Lord won't make history. Dessel Hurst will be just one more name on a long casualty list. And his sister? Well, who knows what the Jedi will do if they find a young, pretty Dark Force-user unprotected by her husband or family? They'll probably induct her into their cult and indoctrinate her to become one of their nuns. Dessel refuses to allow her to be preyed upon like that.

"You must go back."

Seriously? Vitiate thinks he can lecture him on going back when he himself outright refuses? That doesn't sit well with Dessel. "I know a lost cause when I see one," he grumbles. "Even you know it, don't you? You've foreseen it. That's why you won't help us."

"Go back," Vitiate orders, "go back and return to me with the Dark Council. Tell the Lords that I will choose a leader from among them."

That offer gets Dessel's attention.

Vitiate continues, "I will not return as Emperor, but I will anoint my successor from among the candidates."

Dessel considers. "He will have the aegis of your authority, you mean?"

"Yes. The next Dark Lord will inherit my legacy," Vitiate nods. "My decision will confer legitimacy on him. Will that suffice? Will that save the Sith?"

"Is that your best offer?" Dessel counters.

Vitiate smirks. Then, improbably, he smiles. "I like you, kid," Lord Vitiate approves. "Now, go. Return to me with the Lords who would be Emperor and I will choose the winner."