On the Horizon's Edge (SYOC): Book 1

by Lawrence Cartwright

In years long past, as war once more encroaches upon the galaxy at large, both Jedi and Sith alike must stand tall or be swept away in a tide of chaos and bloodshed. Their survival is not guaranteed, but the stories they leave behind may yet stand the test of time. (SYOC)

3. The Sins of the Father

The Sins Of The Father

Kass City, Dromund Kaas, Esstran Sector, Outer Rim Territories

3653 BBY

Present Day

Dark boots plunged into a large puddle, sloshing water about as their wearer steadily continued forth down the metallic sidewalk towards his destination. It was still in the early morning hours of the planetary cycle and few beings at least in this neighborhood were up and at work but elsewhere, no doubt many other areas were positively buzzing with activity, especially those heavily saturated with Imperial establishments. As it should be, for perhaps the most audacious military strategy the Empire had ever formulated was about to come to fruition, and all would feel it's effects regardless of where they were in the galaxy by the time that it was over.

Nayve Kord, better known to some as Lord Vanqrin, shrugged as he pulled his shadowy robes tighter around him in a futile attempt to better protect himself from the wind of an intense rainstorm, face shrouded in darkness by the hood pulled over his head. And yet, despite the fruitlessness of his efforts, his pace never wavered and his face showed no signs of discomfort for Nayve had long since grown used to the violent weather of Dromund Kaas. Where others often struggled simply to breathe both due to the heavy moisture in the air and the miasma of dark Force energy which constricted the entire planet, Kord's attunement with the Dark Side and a hardy constitution common to all Zabraks ensured that he could take in the air quite comfortably, at least in comparison to the average Human or Near-Human. Born on a desolate planet, Kord had once hated the rain, but years spent in this biome had not just changed but almost completely flipped his stances on preferred climates.

Now he enjoyed vibrant planets and hated barren ones.

Oh, the irony.

He side-stepped one of the few pedestrians walking the street this early in the morning - a young human woman whose layers of clothes nearly swallowed her whole - and continued forward, eyes sliding off the walkway in front of him and landing on a foot sticking out of a little alcove up ahead.

Normally, such a thing would not have drawn his notice, for poverty and death were common occurrences in the slums of Kass City. Why, to run across either some down-on-their-luck individual sitting out in the rain and wallowing in their own pity or a corpse a patrol had yet to pick up were at times almost guaranteed encounters for those who lived far away from the grandeur and opulence as well as the relative safety of the Imperial Citadel. No, it was not simply the presence of a random leg which drew Kord's attention, but rather how stout it was. Wide, thick and as indicated by the presence of rips in the fabric of the rather scruffy-looking pants, orange-colored, no such leg could have ever belonged to a human.

The rainwater splashing around his feet with a renewed frequency as he quickened his strides ever so slightly, Kord was soon upon the object of his curiosity and within moments, found it sated.

There sat an old, weathered Besalisk male, dressed in battered brown and red clothing which did absolutely nothing to protect him from the elements. Propped up by a wall to his back, the Besalisk's dark eyes stared listlessly ahead at the opposite wall in front of him, the exposed scales which made up his skin showing no luster as raindrops ran across it. His lower pair of arms were laying uselessly in his lap while his upper pair were preoccupied, his two massive hands clasped around a ceramic cup which was almost comically small in comparison. His feet, just as large as all four of his hands, were bereft of footwear and thanks either due to the relative compactness of the alley or the length of the Besalisk, were almost touching the opposite wall. More commonly either overweight or muscular at least based on Kord's past dealings with them, this one seemed thin and weak in comparison, likely having gone without a proper meal in some time.

The Besalisk stirred as he sensed another person standing over him, arms moving the little cup upwards while his mouth opened to say something, but the words died on his lips as his eyes lifted just enough to spot lightsaber hanging from Kord's belt. At once, he froze, arms stopping their upwards trajectory while his once dulled expression contorted into one of fear and barely-contained panic. And yet, even so, the old Besalisk could not stop himself from gradually looking up at the face beneath the hood.

Kord imagined what he must have seen; a visage of natural red and tattooed black, bald and clean-shaven, two piercing yellow orbs ringed in red looking back at him out from under the hood, staring into his very soul. Despite this obvious manifestation of allegiance to the Dark Side however, the veins upon his face and especially around his eyes had not turned black, signifying a low-to-almost-nonexistent amount of Dark Side Corruption. The Besalisk saw that he had a sharp jawline, and that his teeth were bared just enough to reveal a slight point to each of them, lending a slightly feral quality to his appearance. And though he did not catch a glimpse of them, the Besalisk was positive a crown of horns rested upon his head, more than making up for his lack of hair. As he gazed upon this dark stranger, he did not detect rage, hatred, or a lust for blood from him, only apathy and, though some part of him was sure he imagined it, a very slight melancholy. All the same, the Besalisk was afraid of him for even aside from the lightsaber, this man gave off the unmistakable aura of a predator. Someone who could tear a typical person like him limb from bloody limb at even the slightest inclination and with next to no effort whatsoever, regardless of whether he needed to or simply because he could.

All the while, the gears in Kord's head were turning as he watched the Besalisk take him in. At first, he'd presumed the old man wouldn't care enough about his own life to be afraid of him, but now he could see that this very homeless individual wanted to live much more than Kord had previously thought. With that knowledge in hand, Kord then wondered how he could use it. The answer came to him immediately.

Rummaging around in his robes, Kord produced a small stack of credits and deposited them into the cup.

The Besalisk almost dropped the cup.

Barely managing to catch his newly received funds before they hit the ground, the Besalisk's eyes left the Zabrak in dark robes for but a moment as both of his extra arms came up to assist his first pair in clutching the little ceramic glass.

The money secured, the Besalisk paused then winced silently as he realized his visitor was now even closer than before, kneeling right next to him.

"Hello there," A voice whispered from beneath the hood, the voice was gruff and coarse, but the phraseology was smooth and hinted at a high-quality education. To the Besalisk, it sounded as though a beast had not just learned, but mastered the art of speech. "How would you like a new job?"

---

Naz Peron

3659 BBY

Six Years Ago

The explosion still ringing in his ears, Nayve Kord felt one of his work boots sink into the muck, courtesy of the storm which had only just stopped not even twenty minutes ago. Hastily pulling himself free, Kord resisted the urge to look back at the burning wreckage of the structure which had once been his home, the light of the flames helping to guide his way through the darkness of the night as he continued his mad dash into the field of crops he'd planted just a little earlier that year.

Over the blazing farmhouse, a heavily armed light freighter hovered, searching amongst the fire for a sign that they'd succeeded in destroying him.

Obviously, they wouldn't find him.

They might find the steadily charring corpses of his wife and infant daughter though.

After a few seconds more of looking, the starship turned and gently flew in the opposite direction of the way Kord was trying to run as quickly if silently as possible, but he doubted they were just going to up and leave so fast. He was proven correct a moment later when he faintly heard the landing gear engage and looked back just in time to see the ship begin to set down some ways away before the dense vegetation and the scorching ruins of his farmhouse hid it from sight.

As a strangled little sob reached his ears, the right of Kord's two occupied arms reflexively wrapped tighter around the elder of the two children in his grasp, a boy of three years old who was holding onto Kord with as much strength as his tiny arms could manage, too terrified to even so much as cry openly.

The left arm, holding an infant who was still practically a newborn, was almost completely silent. Kord was thankful for that, as the sound of a wailing baby would have run the risk of drawing that ship to him. He was glad he'd had the foresight to reach into the Force and calm the emotions of the younger child just as the light freighter had swooped in to obliterate his home. He was equally relieved that by the intervention of fate alone, he'd decided to take the children on an evening walk about his property only a little before the ship arrived.

Both children were Zabrak, but that's to be expected.

They were his sons, after all.

He sincerely hoped they didn't remember this.

He reached a small clearing and gently if hurriedly set his children down, only for the elder of the boys to lightly squeal and clumsily if desperately grab for his departing hand while the younger twitched at the loss of feeling but thankfully didn't immediately begin crying just yet.

"It's okay, Papa's not going anywhere." Kord reassured his older son as quietly as he could, still kneeling where he'd put them down, "He just has to do something over there," He gestured towards the center of the clearing," It won't take more than a second."

"Mama?" The little boy gurgled, eyes welling up with more tears.

"She's coming," Kord lied, knowing full well that telling the truth would just make things worse. "She'll be here soon."

His son seemed to accept that but only just, his arms transferring from his father to his younger sibling, watching his one present parent with watery eyes.

Kord moved no more than five steps away, took a moment to make sure he was at the right spot, and began digging into the earth with his bare hands. Ignoring the dirt which got in under his fingernails and dearly wishing he had a shovel, Kord spent the next several minutes like that, clawing at the ground while his children watched him in barely contained silence.

Just as Kord was beginning to question if this really was the correct location, his nails scratched against a surface much harder than mere soil, and he began to work at it as a fresh wave of desperation-fueled urgency overtook him. In moments, he'd dug out a handle and with not a moment to spare, he pulled as hard as he could.

A small shower of dirt fell as a metal hatch rose up from beneath the earth, the darkened interior of what looked not dissimilar to an escape pod which had been buried underground. Taking a cursory glance inside to make sure that it was safe, Kord turned back, scooped up both of his young sons, and dropped into the shadowy hole.

Metal clanked as his boots met the ground and wasting not a moment, Kord paused only to deposit his children into two vacant seats on his left before reaching up to shut the hatch behind him. For a few seconds, darkness blanketed the pod before Kord reached forward, gripping a lantern he already knew to be there and flipped a switch. Within seconds, a soft yellow light was illuminating his surroundings as Kord turned back to view it in full.

Even before his children had been born, Kord had taken this pod off his old ship and enclosed it under the topsoil where it was to exist as something of a makeshift safe room. Indeed, ever conscious of the old enemies he'd left behind, Kord had wanted options for keeping his family safe until the threat was gone or some manner of help arrived. Looking to a pair of shut eye-level compartments on his right which housed enough meds to adequately tend to injuries short of those which would require surgery and enough non-perishable food to last his family and himself a week if rationed, he had not been lax in guaranteeing the safety and survival of his family where goods where concerned. No, the oversight was that he'd grown too complacent in the past three years, expecting that his reflexes and Force Sensitivity would be enough to warn him of impending danger and give him enough time to get his loved ones to relative safety. And, for that grievous mistake, his wife and daughter had payed with their lives.

How did they find him? He'd been so careful, thought out every scenario over and over again months up to the actual execution of his plans. He'd left no loose ends, no clues to where he'd been going, he'd cut ties with everyone who knew him from his old life, had made dozens upon dozens of redundant shuttle rides and payed off more officials than he could care to remember before falsifying the records of his final destination which would have led potential pursuers straight into the Inner Rim. Finally, he'd chosen Naz Peron, a relatively obscure Agriworld in the Outer Rim as the place he'd raise his family. It was under the control of the Empire, but even that had been part of the plan. As an ex-Sith Warrior, they would have expected him to flee into Wild Space where many regions still yet remained unmapped or fully defect and head to the Inner Rim where the Republic and their Jedi allies held control. Instead, Kord had decided that he would eke out a living as a humble farmer in the last place they'd think to look; right under their pompous, oversized noses. So, how could this have happened? What went wrong?

He shook his head, there would be time for that later. Right now, he had other matters to attend to.

Just as he'd left it last time he'd been down here, the inside of this pod was still mostly in it's factory conditions, with no real furniture or decoration. Solid but not uncomfortable seats lined either side of the walls, with a thin walkway in between which went either to the exit behind him, though he'd sealed that shut long ago to prevent the possibility this room being flooded with dirt, and a cockpit to his front, the large synth leather pilot's chair with it's back to him. The walls were mostly metallic grey though the seats and certain parts of the floor were trimmed with a deep and harsh black, and as the system was currently without power, not a single light short of his lantern were to be seen amongst the variety of panels upon the walls nor from the console which spearheaded this craft. At the moment, it was dead silent, as even his elder child had temporarily forgotten his fear in favor of confusion and curiosity, gapping at this strange little location he'd never before seen. Meanwhile, his younger was growing more contented as it was quieter down here, far and away from so many sights and sounds an infantile mind would usually have no context for, and it had brought the very young boy a small modicum of peace. It wouldn't last, but Kord could think and move about in blissful soundlessness for the foreseeable future.

Slowly, Kord advanced towards the pilot's seat and gently, almost reluctantly, swiveled it around, revealing a rectangular black footlocker positioned in the chair, turned sideways to fit the furniture's confines. Kord released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, gazing at this box which he'd once hoped he'd never have to lay eyes upon again.

Aside from it's function as a safe room, this pod had one other purpose in it's existence; to act as a tomb for the man he once was, and who he'd promised himself he would no longer be. This footlocker, as unassuming as it looked, was both a monument to his sins and a coffin for his past, one which would have eventually been forgotten by all and in due time, rotted away to nothing, if he'd had his way. This locker's mere existence was a secret, one that he'd been hoping to carry to his grave with him. If he'd been successful, than for the most part, perhaps the memory of the person once known as Darth Vanqrin would have died with him.

But it was not to be.

Some years later, Kord would look back on this day and realize that however much many Sith and Jedi might dream of forsaking their Orders and going off to live their own lives in relative peace and quiet, retirement was a luxury almost nobody on either side could hope to afford, not without paying a very steep price at least the majority of the time. By entering this life, regardless of one's original intentions whether they be good or bad, it was an unassailable certainty that one would eventually make enemies through their actions and reactions. One way or another, the choices one makes in life has a way of catching up with them, often with terrible consequences. People like to think that they are always in control and so if they decide something should happen, then it is often with the expectation that they will have to face no serious repercussions whatsoever for anything they do. That they could just shut the door on a lifetime of war and then so arrogantly assume that the blood won't seep under the doorframe, that it won't ever stain the perfect the little picture one creates in the aftermath merely because they think it should be so.

But Kord knew the truth. One did not simply walk away from this life once they'd been chosen for it. One was in it until they died, in one way or another, even if they themselves failed to realize it. And if they should find that they have successfully abandoned their duties and begun a life of tranquility, it is not through any ability of their own, but only because the Force has willed it to be so. They have not escaped what they have wrought, but at most prolonged the inevitable and sooner or later, would be held accountable for their actions, most often with fatal consequences. Peaceful or violent, it did not matter the circumstances behind it, only that death and decay came all the same.

So, when one tries to run away from their past, they should not be surprised if it soon comes knocking, often with the intention of obliterating everyone and everything they love.

Kord was learning that the hard way right now.

With an air of reverence mixed with regret, Kord lifted the locker with a subtle heave and placed it right-side-up on a pair of the seats to right. Kneeling down, he gazed at the two latches keeping it shut and hesitated, already subconsciously aware that he opened it, there would be no going back. As if on cue, phantom pain shot up the entirety of his left arm, a reminder of what it had cost him the last time he'd chosen to embrace this life. Pausing a moment as he waited for the stinging sensation to fade out, he found himself staring at the digits of his left hand, and couldn't help but think once more of Atilla F'tah.

After losing his arm to Rho Korak on Ord Radama early last year, it hadn't taken him long to figure out what kind of replacement he wanted. As lean and strong as his former limb, but with an additional edge which could be of use in a life-threatening scenario. That edge came in the form of claws on the end of each fingertip, sharp enough to rend flesh and yet not so fine that it cut without an intentional appliance of force. Naturally, it had still taken him quite some time to retrain his new cybernetic left hand to keep from causing unfortunate mishaps but he now considered it almost as good as his original organic hand, and even better in some ways. Plus, he was right-handed to begin with, so he prowess as a dueler was not as greatly hindered as it would have been otherwise. He'd originally taken his inspiration from the claws he'd seen Atilla, a Zyggerian, use every now and again in her day-to-day. They were not only versatile but more importantly, they were weapons which she could never be physically parted with. Well, not without either some serious damage to her fingers or an invasive medical procedure, at least. She'd been flattered by his choice in a replacement and, or at least so he'd like to think, perhaps a little touched. He knows he would have been, if their roles were reversed.

As much as he'd like to think leaving the Sith behind was a call made without regrets, he would be lying if ever he were to claim that was the case, and Atilla was why. All his life, Kord was only ever told that much like a ruler, a Sith didn't have friends, only enemies and servants. Even so, there was simply no other word to aptly describe her in relation to him. She'd been his friend since they were both still apprentices and never once had she betrayed his trust in any way, shape, or form in all the years they'd known each other. Sure, they'd been mutually beneficial to each other and they both had secrets they kept from one another, but that didn't negate the warm nature of their relationship in his eyes and in some ways, spoke to how strong it was considering many others had regularily fallen apart around them over the most trivial of matters. He respected her just as he knew she respected him, and while Kord trusted next to nobody in the Empire, she was one of the few who had more than earned at least a little faith from him.

The notion that she might be behind this briefly crossed his mind, but he banished the notion within a split-second. Atilla no doubt would have been hurt by his sudden departure from her life, just as much as it hurt him in leaving, but he doubted that would be cause enough for her to hunt him down and endeavor to ruin his life. She knew better than anyone that he never did anything without a reason, and if he'd ghosted her as he had, it was no doubt due to circumstances of some incredible import. Plus, he'd gone out of his way to make sure that his disappearance would not in any way affect her ambitions for though he was gone, he'd ensured that he still had agents providing her with whatever information she needed to realize her goals. Obviously, he would need to get a closer look and possibly have a... very civil discussion with whoever had come to try and kill him before he could be sure, but his intuition told him that that she wasn't responsible for this.

Kord shook his head. No time for that now, not while what remained of his family was still in danger. He could worry about what came next once he'd dealt with this crisis at hand.

He refocused on the footlocker before him and with a deep breath, pushed it open. His eyes were immediately greeted by a shadowy dark robe, well-insulated to protect against harsh weather but not so heavy that it would slow him by any margin, and somewhat worn as a result of conflicts both long past and relatively recent but still nonetheless in fine condition. Just looking at it brought a wave of memories good and bad flooding back to Kord, but he decisively ignored them in favor of digging deeper, pulling back a layer of fabric in order to unearth what he knew laid beneath. There, cocooned within so as to provide an additional veneer of protection sat a cylinder of metal, just where he'd left it.

A lightsaber. His lightsaber.

Another rush of nostalgia overtook him as the fingers of his organic right hand gently brushed against the matte black body and continued down until they rested on the pommel which aesthetically resembled the head of a Morning Star, being a perfectly round metal sphere surrounded with vicious-looking spikes jutting out in all directions. Kord had grown up hearing of and meeting Sith who implemented actual daggers into the design of their weapons, often as a sort of blade guard which itself could be used as a blade, as was the case with Darth Malgus. Kord on the other hand had gone for a somewhat more brutal and less refined style which payed homage to his beginnings on Dathomir. Also, it's just Kord's opinion, but bashing someone's brains out always felt a little more rewarding than merely stabbing or slashing them. Unless it's with an energy blade, of course.

He reached in to take it but again hesitated, his hand hovering over the weapon as he came to term with the ramifications of what he was about to do. Three years he'd spent living as Nayve Kord the well-to-do farmer, hunter, and family man while the shadow of Darth Vanqrin wasted away to nothing, but now all that time and effort spent building a new identity for himself was about to prove pointless. This lightsaber wasn't just a weapon nor even his life, but also a symbol of the man he once was, of the power and influence he'd wielded. Putting it down the first time had been hard enough, but the love he'd held for his wife and his growing family had triumphed against his reluctance to let go. Now, he had no such anchor to keep him grounded, and so he knew that if he picked it up, there would be no walking away a second time. Simple, kindly, reclusive Farmer Kord would cease to be.

'Farmer Kord died when half his family blew up.' A quiet voice in the back of his head whispered, persuasive and yet poisonous, 'He's a dead man walking, he just doesn't know yet. Even so, he'll soon realize it when whoever has come to kill him realizes they missed him the first time around. Those children on the other side of this escape pod don't need a father right now. They need a guardian... No, they need a killer. They need... a Sith.'

Still, Kord stood frozen, for just as it had been hard to let go of the man he once was, so too was it difficult to stop being the man he'd become.

'Nobody is coming to save you.' The voice continued, 'You are all alone. And when they find you, it is not just your life that will be forfeit, it will be those of your sons as well. Failing them will be your very last act before you pass from this world.'

His own fear and desperation, that was what he was hearing. He realized that now, but that didn't make it's statements any less convincing to him.

He steeled himself and, with another breath, plucked the lightsaber from the footlocker.

Contrasting to all those fantastical holovids where the hero picks up an ancient, epic weapon and becomes surrounded in an aura of powerful energy which seemingly came from nowhere, nothing outwardly happened. There was no profound signal to let viewers know that the story was about to shift in tone as, after all, this was real life. Even so, Kord knew he would feel the change soon enough, likely around the same time that the sound of sizzling muscle and sinew met his ears once more.

It had been some time since he'd last held it but the feeling of smooth metal against his fingers was so familiar, it was as though he'd been wielding it only yesterday. He didn't need to check that it still worked. Lightsabers in general were built to be sturdy, but Kord had payed special attention to the durability of his back when he was still crafting it. This thing could get dropped from a flying starship, crushed by a massive boulder, and have a thermal detonator explode right next to it, all in consecutive order, and still work perfectly fine. Kord knew that because that's exactly what he did to test it.

He also didn't want to scare the daylights out of his kids nor give them any clues to who he'd been, lest they recall anything from this night. He'd worked hard to make sure they thought their father was exactly as he claimed to be, and he had no intention of stopping that now, even under these conditions. Truthfully, he was more worried about his elder son than his younger, as the latter was still a baby and they usually remembered precious little as it is. Still, he couldn't be too careful.

Speaking of which...

Deftly tucking his saber into his tunic, he returned to his sons, still sitting in their seats. His younger was looking more aware than before, and had been on the verge of crying upon seeing neither guardian in his peripheral, but immediately calmed down upon seeing Kord once more. His elder was still frightful, clutching anxiously at the bottom of his seat as he nervously looked around, like he was expecting danger to appear the very moment he relaxed his guard.

Kord knelt before his elder son, bringing them to eye level. "Son, I need to go-"

"You can't leave!" His son cried desperately, talking even before his father had finished, "I need you! We need you!" He gestured towards his younger brother.

"As do your mother and sister." Kord replied with an air of finality, using the tone seemingly every parent mastered when they were raising their children. Yes, it was another lie, but it was certainly more plateable to a small boy than 'Sorry son, there's some goons infesting what used to be our front porch who are in need of a brutal slaughtering.'

"But..." His son hesitated, his terror clashing with his obedience, seemingly forgetting the false reassurance Kord had offered earlier about the immanent arrival of his other parent. Kord didn't blame him. It was hard to remember everything said and done in a stressful situation, especially when you were young. "I'm scared." He finally admitted.

Kord leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you want to know a secret?"

His son nodded.

"The truth is, I'm scared too." Kord remarking, looking his boy in the eye. "But right now, I need to be strong for you, just as you need to be strong for your little brother, okay?"

"Okay." His son mumbled tentatively, "I can be strong." He then affirmed, as though saying it aloud would make it a reality.

"I know you can." Kord smiled gently, only to for it to rapidly fade as he felt a pang in the Force. His assailants had realized he wasn't amongst the dead, and were now probing for his signature. It would not be long now before they went looking for him, and if they came this way... "Listen," Kord refocused on his son, "I want you to know that no matter what happens tonight, your mother and I love you and your siblings very much. Not a day has gone by when I wasn't proud of you, and even though she isn't here to say it, I know your mother feels the same. I won't be gone long, but while I am, promise me that you will look after your brother."

"But...Father..." His son was thrown off by this sudden rush of urgency, and Kord could feel his anxiety rising up again.

"Promise me." Kord repeated, again in a tone which brokered no argument.

"...I-I promise." His son vowed shakily.

"Good." It was Kord turn to nod. Leaving his son, he climbed up the ladder leading out of the pod, opened the hatch back up, pulled himself out, and wheeled around to look back at his children one final time, burning their images into his memory in case this turned out to be the final time he saw them. "Now I want you to stay right where you are, and no matter what you hear, do not come out."

Kord firmly shut the hatch behind him, then using the still-burning remains of his home to chart a destination, he hurriedly marched back into the field of crops, his eye on the black plumes of smoke just visible against the starry night sky.

---

Now unencumbered by his sons, Kord made it back to what used to be his farmhouse at a much faster speed then when he'd been fleeing it, practically flying through the maze of unharvested vegetables, but with not a sound to herald his approach. Kord had always been a skilled hunter, and even after spending three years in hiding, it was clear that his capabilities had yet to desert him.

He soon found himself skulking amongst the vegetation a little less than thirty feet outside the clearing around his house, eyes fixed on a pair of figures loitering near to the destruction they had wrought, watching them like a predator studying their prey.

Sith, Kord hypothesized, judging from the ebony robe adorning one and the imposing mix of crimson and dark clothing both were glad in, confirmed when one of them turned towards him just enough to reveal a lightsaber hilt hanging from the belt.

Both women, the first and the further from him was a Human. Fair-skinned with a head of mid-length brown hair and wearing a suit of armor which looked as heavy as it no doubt was, with a pair of garishly large, spiky shoulder plates and knee pads to match. Perhaps it was meant to be intimidating, but Kord just thought she looked ridiculous. She was tall and seemed well-built, but Kord could not make at many more details about her at this angle. Even so, he was able to spot the end of a smarmy, pleased little grin on her face as the woman gazed into the fire, openly if silently basking in the death and desolation she'd just caused.

Kord felt hatred swell in his heart. That one would not die well, he promised himself, even as the beginnings of a plan formed in Kord's mind.

The second and closer individual, turned a little more towards him, was a Zeltron based her pinkish-purple skin and the lock of neon blue hair spilling down her face from under the hood. She was only a little shorter than the woman though obviously far more slender, and looked to be somewhere between her late twenties to mid-forties. Indeed, it tended to be rather difficult to tell as no doubt another part of their considerable appeal is that Zeltrons nearly always aged gracefully. Her robe was open, revealing that, well, she wasn't wearing much. Being a mix of cloth and leather, her outfit if it could even be called that quickly clued Kord into the style of fighting she might have preferred. Her midriff was slim if firm and well-defined, her legs looked lean and of course, maybe as he should expected from a member of a race renowned for being quite liberal with their physical forms and provocative in their preferred pastimes, she was physically endowed in a way that would often invoke yearning, jealousy, or a strange mixture of both depending on one's personal proclivities from most people. Like him, she appeared to use only a single saber. She seemed familiar to him, but her hood obscured much of her visage, denying him surety of who had come to face him. At the moment, in contrast to the subtle joy her partner was in the midst of experiencing, she looked more than a little annoyed as she tried to focus in on something. He felt yet another shift in the Force as a foreign presence brushed against his mental shields, and putting two-and-two together, had an idea of who he'd felt trying to locate him back in the escape pod.

Her face twisting in barely controlled vexation as her attempt failed yet again, the Zeltron pivoted in an angry swirl of cloth and began barking something at her companion. The Human woman tore her eyes away from the fire in order to face her comrade, revealing herself to be quite young, probably only in her late teens or very early twenties. She gave a slight bow as soon as the Zeltron was finished speaking and began moving closer to the crops, now scanning for any sign of another person in the area, whereupon Kord made note of the duel sabers attached to her belt.

She wasn't looking very well, as her eyes passed over Kord's location no less than three times in the span of a minute. Still, maybe it wasn't entirely her fault. Kord's tattoos blended easily with the darkness of the night, giving him natural camouflage. Likewise, Kord had been in enough fights to know a seasoned veteran when he saw one, and this girl wasn't it. Probably fresh out of the Academy, where her only real targets prior to this were kids half her age and with likely no real combat experience to speak of. Compared to them, Kord was a different animal entirely, one who'd fought and killed people who could have obliterated this muppet in seconds flat.

The prior exchange had given Kord additional information on their interpersonal dynamic, as he now believed them to be either Master and Apprentice, or maybe Lord accompanied by a Warrior, though he was personally leaning towards the former. Another factor he could make use of for if he killed the Master/Lord first, her underling would take fright, making her that much easier to deal with.

That, or she would fly into an intense berserker rage.

Or, it would do nothing to shake her the slightest, given how some relations between Sith could be.

Whatever the case, it was a calculated risk.

Her poor attempt at being a sentry complete, the woman turned his back on Kord and returned to the Zeltron, who was seemingly trying to locate him through the Force a third time. There, Kord saw a moment he could have easily taken advantage of, wherein Kord saw that he could burst from the foliage while the human's back was turned, killed or seriously crippled her without breaking stride, and then closed in on her companion before she knew what was happening.

Had Kord been a person with far less honor, that is precisely what he would of done.

Instead he waited, letting a golden opportunity pass him by without hesitation. Only cowards struck an oblivious opponent from the back and whatever else he was, Kord was no coward, especially not when it came to personal conflicts.

Within seconds, the Human was next to her apparent superior, but had only gotten a couple of words out before the Zeltron woman proceeded to rip into her. By that time, Kord was already stalking towards them, pace slow but purposeful. He'd only been here less than three minutes, but he already know precisely what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. "Useless!" The Zeltron fumed, "Why do I even bother with you-" She cut herself off, heaved a choleric sigh, before picking up where she left off. "He's here somewhere, you braindead moron. Spread out and find him!"

"No need," Kord stepped into the open, the low and soft tone of his voice shockingly clear in the wake of the woman's shouting, the seemingly tranquil sound belying the roiling storm which seethed beneath. "He's found you."

Both of them whirled towards him in surprise though the Zeltron was quicker to recover, her stilettoed heel pressing against the rich grassy ground as she stepped forwards. Impractical footwear for a fight, but Kord saw no need to inform her of such. If she felt the need to handicap herself for the sake of fashion, than who was he to interfere? "Lord Vanqrin, as pointlessly principled as ever, I see. It's just like you to face a threat head-on, even in spite of such dire circumstances. Brave, but ultimately futile." The woman threw her hood back and though it had been some years since their last encounter, Kord remembered who she was quite well. Basha Ruare, better known to some Darth Rypia, a Lady of the Sith ten years his senior and practitioner of Form IV. What she lacked in precision, she more than made up for it in unadulterated bloodlust. Like many members of her race, Basha most of her time trying to overwhelm her senses with as much pleasure as she possible could. That said, her particular favored flavor seemed to be the agony, sorrow, and horror of others. Naturally charismatic and carnal, but impulsive and prone to snap-judgements. She'd been more his Master's foe than she was his but when he died, she'd immediately transferred her vendetta onto him. Thusly, as with any other one of his old enemies, it makes sense that she would jump at the chance to try and harm him. Personally, he'd never much considered her to be any rival of his, as he'd never had anything of note against her. Obviously, after the events of tonight, it was to safe to say that was no longer the case. He didn't recognize the young human woman with her, so she was likely a new minion who'd been picked up during the years he'd been away. "Still, I suppose I should thank you." She continued, her voice sickeningly sweet, "As much as I love a good chase, you've saved us the trouble of tracking you down. At this rate, I'll be back on Korriban within the next few hours and for that, I'm immeasurably grateful." She flashed him an alluring smile, but it did not reach her eyes.

Kord shifted his stance even as he withdrew his lightsaber from the confines of his tunic, face impassive but yellow orbs blazing with malevolence. "You won't be in a minute."

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw her apprentice step ever so slightly to the side, an unbearably smug smile plastered on her face as both hands drifted down to hover just over either one of her sabers. Normally, Kord would have expected her to try and get in a word in by now, but she seemed content to let her Master do all the talking and wait for her next command like the good little dog she was.

Kord wondered if she knew how to whimper like one too.

Maybe she would get a chance to find out.

Lady Rypia giggled, an impressively lovely sound considering the malice twanging within it. She slowly shrugged off her robe, equal parts sensually and threateningly, as a hand slid down to her lightsaber and daintily pulled it out. "Ah, I'm going to enjoy this." She proclaimed breathily.

"Not as much as I am." With that, Kord thumbed the ignition on his lightsaber, and a crimson red blade sprang to life as he assumed the opening position of Form I.

In response, Rypia activated her own saber, producing a brilliant orange beam which meshed perfectly with the inferno raging behind her. By now, she'd stopped laughing, but she was still smiling dreamily at him, like he'd just promised to make one of her deepest wishes come true. Knowing her sadistic tendencies, there was a chance he had. Glancing back towards her apprentice like she was only just remembering the Human was there, she inclined her head towards Kord. "Take him."

The young woman obeyed eagerly, rushing Kord with reckless abandon even as two more orange blades flared to life to life in her hands. Watching her expression flip from arrogant and condescending to intensely homicidal, eyes alight with manic glee, Kord suddenly understood why Rypia had picked this one to be her apprentice. Not that it would do the girl any good in the long run. "Time to bleed, Xeno scum!"

Kord considered reminding her that they were using energy weapons, but ultimately didn't respond.

This engagement would not last long enough to merit banter.

Kord let her come, casting one last look at his steadily disintegrating former domicile before red and orange engulfed his vision.

---

The Drunken Dewback, Kaas City, Dromund Kaas, Esstran Sector, Outer Rim Territories

3653 BBY

Present Day

The Drunken Dewback was not, by any standard, an exceptionally good tavern.

Located in the lowest and most destitute of the Kaas City's six hubs, or districts, an establishment such as this would never have been tolerated in one of the settlement's more affluent sections, where wealthy socialites and all-powerful Sith Lords mixed and mingled from sunrise to sunset. Down here, it was practically guaranteed that nearly every business in the service industry was suffering from a positively staggering amount of health code violations, but most of their customers were too poor to be picky and often too desperate for a strong drink to care.

The air was musty, cold, stale, and stank of death stick smoke. The furnishings, while only just serviceable, were still nonetheless chipped and cracked quite deeply, indicating a desperate need for replacement at some point in the near future. The same went for the ripped and peeling black synth leather upholstery which dominated every one of the booths as well as the stools at the bar itself. Though owned by an organic humanoid, they rarely visited the place and most of the patrons who frequented the joint didn't even know their name though, again, some really didn't care. In fact, there were no organics physically working there at all, only a trio of service droids; a barman, a waiter, and a cook somewhere on the back. All three were extremely low-functioning models, programmed with only a limited subset of instructions to follow and a short set of stock phrases to utter. As such, they were mostly incapable of using sophisticated speech patterns or understanding complex orders, unlike more advanced synthetic individuals. Moreover, none of them were very well cared for and so regularly experienced glitches in their programming. The waiter droid for instance would frequently wipe over one table very intensely but neglect to clean any of the others while the bar droid could not compute a simple order for a glass of water and freeze in place until a new order was given. As for the cook, well, most customers familiar with the place would know not to order food here after that one time a standard meal chosen from the menu was substituted with the decapitated head of a vine cat, fresh blood still oozing from the stump.

How and when the cook was even able to procure such an item is to this day an unsolved mystery.

Still, it wasn't all bad for despite it's many, many flaws, The Drunken Dewback was one of the few bars in the lower-class districts which freely catered to clientele regardless of race, social status, or background. Here, individuals of any origin may well find themselves rubbing shoulders with folks they would never normally interact with in their daily lives, from dock workers and swoop bike racers to bounty hunters and even the odd Sith. So, deeply appalling though it's operating conditions may be, it's steady flow of predominantly non-human customers eager to gain a brief respite from the deep-seated speciesism present within the social strata of the Galactic Empire meant the business could keep it's doors open now and for the foreseeable future.

So, as a place where one could quietly drink in peace while avoiding the rather troublesome aspects of life for extraterrestrials in a distinctly pro-human government, perhaps it was only natural that the Dewback was one of Garrsk Klaas' preferred haunts on Dromund Kaas.

Sure, as a Sith he could have easily gained accessed to any number of the nightclubs and high-end restaurants in the more economically prosperous hubs usually frequented by members of his Order looking to blow off some steam, but just because he could enter those places didn't mean he was welcome. Rarely did he come across anyone who had the guts to spit in his drink when they thought he wasn't looking, much less tell him that they didn't serve his kind there even if he was part of the highest social caste, but it was practically standard fare to encounter contemptuous whispering, hateful glares, and ugly sneers almost as soon as he'd entered the building, often with a quick lapse in conversation heralding his arrival as well as a wide birth from the mostly human crowd who'd been enjoying their night before he came along. They hated him, he knew, but for the most part they were never so stupid as to let their distaste for him lead to the egregious violation of common sense that loudly and openly insulting a Sith to his face would be. Even so, there was always that one idiot who only saw a Trandoshan in dark robes and missed or otherwise willfully ignored the massive Greatsaber hanging from his belt. Yes, a quick swing of the blade was usually enough to put the fool in their place without much effort on Garrsk's part, but that didn't mean there weren't nights where he didn't want to enjoy his personal time without the interference of any rude and inhospitable parties.

That's not to say there were many of those, for the chance to rid the galaxy of yet another bigot was often the high point of his day. Likewise, the loathing he was almost eternally faced with did much in feeding his fury, which he could then turn towards his own ends as needed. Still, there were occasions when the prejudice was more wearying than it was outraging, and the Dewback was often the sanctuary he turned to in those times.

In fact, as a twenty percent shareholder of the business and partial owner of the land this building was built on, The Drunken Dewback was not just his sanctum but also his home, as he'd made a personal nest for himself in the nexus of rooms further back beyond the kitchen. Of course, he could have easily gotten himself a room at the Imperial Citadel which he was entitled to as a Sith Warrior, but that would have put him in close proximity with far too many colleagues eager to put a vibroknife in his back when he wasn't looking. Fortunately for him, many racists at least in this sector of the galaxy also tended to be classist, and would not be caught dead stepping into a sector they considered as a whole to be 'below them'. So, here amongst the squalor and filth, Garrsk had found a small part of the hub that he could carve out for himself, creating a territory in name if not in deed that was his to control; a kingdom of racial equality within an Empire infested by bias.

So, at the far end of the bar towards the back, nursing a dark orange drink which he had yet to actually make a dent in while listening to the heavy rain as it pounded against the window shutters, here is where Garrsk Klaus found himself sitting in the early morning hours of this fateful day. He sat alone at the counter with none to speak with save the bar droid and they were hardly a dazzling conversationalist, but that suited Garrsk just fine. He'd been around long enough to know that most conversations fostered a relationship, and relationships around these parts almost universally ended with betrayal and suffering. That's why he had nobody else truly in his inner circle, as he'd been almost killed enough times by people he thought he could trust to learn that nothing and nobody was truly trustworthy. Everyone was always scheming, always plotting, always thinking about the ways they could get a leg up even if it came at the detriment of someone else. There was not a single person in this life that he could rely on except himself, and to embrace any other ideal where people are concerned was to foster a childish fantasy that would end inevitably with death.

Some people would call him paranoid, but is it really paranoia if they are actually out to get you?

Perhaps suited to the ungodly hour, there was currently nobody else to be served at the moment. The last patron aside from himself, a grizzled looking Klatoonian with more blasters strapped to him than Garrsk could shake a stick at, had filed out the door and into the rain some hours ago. Garrsk did not know where he went, but he'd felt the energy of one getting ready to kill swirling around him, partnered with a stoic, cold look of grim determination on his dog-like face.

Probably a hired gun. Wherever he was now, Garrsk wished him luck.

Still, perhaps because it was manned by automatons who needed no rest save a short time to recharge, the bar never closed no matter the day. Maybe a good thing too, as it was at least once a week that a young, frightened Bith or Dug or Tarasin would bound in here at any given time to try and hide from a gang of humans looking to make sport out of them. An effective tactic, given that word had spread of the big, angry Trandoshan who lived around these parts.

The door leading outside slid open, and Garrsk turned his head to see none other than a fellow member of his order slog in, drenched in water and the darkness of their robes blending with that of the very early morning. Like Garrsk, they were adorned in the standard attire of the Sith, wearing a dark robe with the sleeves cut off at the elbow, hood up, and left open to reveal the steely grey suit of battle armor adorning their form. However, unlike Garrsk's sleeves, which were trimmed with red, this figure's robe was wholly black. A male, Garrsk presumed, but he could not yet see their face. Regardless, there was no mistaking the cylinder hanging from their belt closer to the left side, fully visible to the naked eye.

Then the door closed again, leaving but a few small lights in the walls which burned just bright enough for the average person to see the bar counter only dimly and the other side of the room not at all. But blessed with the ability to see in infrared as all Trandoshans were, Garrsk still had no trouble spotting the figure slowly approaching. Preparing for yet another assassination attempt, a scaly dark green claw slipped down to rest near his Greatsaber. But the attack never came, for instead the figure veered slightly to the left and took a seat one stool over, easily within Garrsk's reach but not so closely that there was any risk of him feeling openly threatened or provoked, something the Trandoshan himself immediately recognized.

"I'll have what he's having." A low, rough voice issued out from under the hood, and the droid behind the bar immediately moved to obey the command. All the while, Garrsk was watching him like a Hawkbat, waiting for any sign of aggression.

"I know that voice." Garrsk muttered aloud as the other Sith threw his hood back, revealing a bald red head patterned by black tattoos and topped by a crown of horns. It had been almost ten years since they last met, back when Garrsk had still been an acolyte. Still, despite the great period of time, Garrsk had a long memory and a head for names. "Vanqrin."

Slightly pointed white teeth flashed in the darkness, bared in a neutral smile, as keen yellow eyes met Garrsk's own analytical purple orbs. "Darth Ruoska."

Never one for pleasantries, Garrsk cut right to the chase. "What do you want?"

Vanqrin chuckled, "Oh, nothing. I just felt like taking a trip down to an old colleague's business. You know, have a drink," as if on que, the bar droid returned with Vanqrin's order, setting it down in front of him. "Take in the sights and sounds." Kord glanced off into the darkness. "Not much to see though, is there? You should really contact somebody about some of these light fixtures-"

"What. Do. You. Want." Garrsk repeated, cutting him off. "I'm not a fool, Vanqrin. I know that if you've hardly come all this way for a mere social call, especially with somebody you've encountered but once nearly a decade ago."

Kord's smile never wavered, but Garrsk saw a spark of amusement alight in his eye. "I never said you were a fool, Ruoska. If you were, I doubt you would have survived Korriban, especially after what happened with Zal-"

"Choose your next words very carefully." Garrsk have never told anyone about the events which transpired between him and Zal Onre nor, truthfully, had he ever been asked. If an acolyte should suddenly stop showing up for lessons one day, it was common for Overseers and peers alike to assume them dead. And so rarely did the majority of the Imperial populace spare even a second thought to consider the health and safety of beings they so freely labeled 'inferior', especially when those beings were undertaking training the likes of which most of them couldn't begin to comprehend. So, Zal Onre disappeared, and nobody ever bothered to ask how or why. It was a rare instance where the apathy and cruelty of the Sith had worked out in Garrsk's favor, for he had never needed to think much about her before today. Of what she did to him, and of how he'd eventually avenged himself upon her in response to it. Garrsk was not ashamed of what he did, for revenge was the way of the Sith, but he was nonetheless perturbed to hear a skeleton from his past so boldly pulled out of the closet.

He supposed he should have also been concerned how such information as personal as his involvement in Zal's disappearance came by the ears of others when he'd never even been directly implicated in her death. By itself, it would not have mattered any way, for the Overseers would have simply proclaimed her worthy of her demise and, had he been human or Pureblood, commended him for rooting out a weak link. No, the problem was that Vanqrin knew something which by all rights should have been impossible for him to learn by normal means.

Of course, it makes sense that it would be him of all people for just as his own master had once been, Vanqrin was a dealer and keeper of secrets. He heard everything that happened in this system and a great many other ones, knew all the gossip and could distinguish between fact or fiction for most of them. He had contacts and spies not just at every level of the Empire, but also in a cavalcade of Independent Systems and even in the Republic. Another Sith recently told him that meeting Lord Vanqrin was the worst or best possible thing that could ever happen to you because in the span of one night, he could either set you up for life or find and destroy everything you've ever loved. At the time, Garrsk had brushed it off because it sounded like a massive over-exaggeration. Yes, as the successor to the post of the late Lord Blas, Vanqrin would have access to all sorts of knowledge beyond that of the average or even exceptional Sith, but he was still just a person. A gifted person, as all Force Users are, but a person nonetheless.

Then he'd heard the rumor that Vanqrin was also a Seer. Again, he hadn't payed it much mind for it was only mere conjecture, but doubt had seeped it's way little by little into the back of his head.

Now, that doubt was becoming a certainty. That surety in Vanqrin's tone, that knowing look. He hadn't just been throwing out bait to see how Garrsk would respond, he'd been actively implying that he knew everything that took place in that hot, dusty Sith Tomb that fateful day, bringing up the answer to a question which had never been asked. For someone like Garrsk, that was troubling to say the least.

Garrsk also cursed himself as he reviewed his response to the invocation of the memory. By speaking so harshly so suddenly, he'd overplayed his hand, shown Vanqrin he knew exactly what he was talking about. Perhaps he hadn't put what happened with her behind him as well as he'd thought.

"Easy now, no need to shoot the messenger." Despite his words, Vanqrin didn't look or sound worried in the slightest. If anything, he seemed almost content. "Actually, I would really advise that you didn't, as the Dark Council would be most displeased if they had to send another runner."

"The Dark Council?" Then it clicked into place. "... So that's why your here."

"Indeed," Vanqrin confirmed, " I come bearing their tidings, along with instructions for your next assignment."

"'Bearing their tidings'," Garrsk scoffed under his breath, "And you couldn't have just messaged me? I have a comlink, you know."

"Too risky." Vanqrin lifted his glass, watching the liquid inside swirl around. "These days, all manner of third parties are watching the digital communications between members of the Empire. Freelance hackers, criminal networks, even Republic Intelligence, and this operation is too important to chance being compromised by a data leak. Sending runners seemed the safer option."

Now, Garrsk's interest was piqued. "Well? Out with it then. What's so urgent that you had to drag yourself down here to come and find me?"

"Not here," Vanqrin eyed the droid obliviously cleaning a glass on the other side of the bar, not with suspicion but a mite of curiosity. "Landing Pad C-37 at the Imperial Citadel, in one hour's time. Come..." He gave Garrsk a once-over. "Actually, what you are wearing now will suffice. There, you will be briefed on your next mission."

Garrsk stared him down, but didn't push him any further. He doubted that Vanqrin was planning to kill him. For one, the Citadel was a common space for Sith, Imperials, and even certain bounty hunters or mercenaries on the government's payroll, so a low profile assassination would be extremely difficult as long as one kept to certain passageways and rooms. Sure, there was the possibility of a high-profile attempt, but Garrsk to his knowledge was not currently embroiled in any sort of grab for power which would warrant the need to 'make an example' of him. Naturally, it would be another story if there was another variable at play wherein Vanqrin would benefit more if Garrsk were dead rather than alive, but he could not think of anything which would prompt him to want to make it so.

Garrsk lifted his head, opened his maw, poured his drink in, than snapped it closed, finishing his beverage in one shot. The bottom of his glass made audible contact with the counter as he looked back to Vanqrin. "And pray tell, for what reason would a Lord of the Sith and master of secrets be working as the Dark Council's glorified errand boy?" A small dig at Vanqrin's expense, but he did not look offended by it as some tiny part of Garrsk had hoped. "Is that not typically the job of some hapless guardsman or lowly acolyte?"

"Well, given how imperative it is that this information reach the correct sources, I thought it would be quite clear that the Council would want more capable couriers than usual. I'm not the only Lord who has been requisitioned for this duty. Even as we speak, there are others out there traipsing all over Kaas City looking for the recipients of their intended messages."

"Yes, but of all the messengers I could have received this morning, why is it you?" Garrsk rasped, narrowing his purple reptilian eyes. "And why me?"

"For me..." Vanqrin shrugged his shoulders. "And regarding you, do you mean for the mission?"

"No."

"Then I don't follow." Vanqrin smiled quizzically, looking confused.

"Yes you do." Garrsk wasn't fooled for a second. " A man like you isn't found unless he wants to be found, Vanqrin, even by the Dark Council. That means you weren't 'requisitioned' as you claim but rather, you volunteered. And with the means available to you, I'm sure you could have had your pick of the litter in regard to Sith assigned to this task. But, of all the ones you could have possibly chosen, you picked me."

Vanqrin listen to him speak impassively, giving nothing away by expression alone. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that a commission handed out by the Council would be the perfect cover for the undertaking of an ulterior, more personal task. An excuse to come down here without alerting anybody to the possibility that you may be here to do more than just what you were told to do, made that much more perfect because it's true. The will of the Dark Council is unquestionable to all save the Emperor himself, and I doubt he's partial to early morning walks around the city, so you would have free reign to move between points A and B without the use of more secretive methods as well as no questions as to the true nature of your visit. So let me ask you again more concisely; why are you really here to see me?"

Vanqrin was quiet a moment, and then chuckled very lightly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you." He took a sip from his own drink. " For starters, you were right; I did volunteer to be a 'glorified errand boy' as you oh so kindly called me, but before that I also volunteered to serve on this mission."

"You mean to tell me that you and I shall be participating in this together?" Garrsk questioned.

"Correct." Vanqrin leaned back a little, studying the bottles of liquor lining the walls in front of him. "You said it yourself, Garrsk, I'm a master of secrets. So, even as careful as the Council was in planning it, do you really think something as big as this would have escaped my attention for long? When I understood what was about to happen, I knew that I had to take part in it."

"So much for preventing a data leak." Garrsk interjected. "'I'm surprised they didn't have you killed for revealing yourself to be aware of their plans. 'No loose ends' and all that."

"They considered it, I promise you, but in light of my exemplary service record and previous wartime commendations, not to mention all the assistance I've freely given to the Council in prior years, they ultimately thought it best to make use of me as an asset in the field." Vanqrin looked back to Garrsk, "Ah, that reminds me. While I'm flattered by it, you've overestimated the liberty at which I may choose to evade or ignore their commands. Again, in your words; the will of the Council is unquestionable, and as independent as we Sith like to think we are once we've liberated ourselves from 'tutelage' of our old masters, the fact remains that when Council calls for us, we answer or we die. You know this. And so, even as capable as I am, if the Council desires my presence or the use of my particular skillset, then that is what they shall have."

Garrsk grunted. "And what about me?"

"I was just getting to that." Another sip. "You see, considering your background and unique talents, I believe that you and I would benefit from a partnership of sorts."

"Not interested." Garrsk answered immediately.

"Already?" Vanqrin raised an eyebrow, "You don't even know what this partnership would entail as of yet."

"And nor do I need to hear it because I know how it'll end; either you will kill me, or I will kill you first." Garrsk responded with conviction. "And I've always managed to kill first." He tacked on at the end, both a warning and a threat.

But Vanqrin was not so easily dissuaded. "You've never worked directly with me before, so how can you be sure that it will end the same way?"

"Do you call yourself 'Sith'?"

"Yes." Vanqrin answered honestly.

"That's how I know." Garrsk beckoned for the bar droid to refill his drink. "You can show yourself out."

Vanqrin sat there momentarily, but did not move from his seat. Instead, he turned right back to Garrsk. "No. No, I don't think I will."

"Ah, you've been declined, so now you're looking for trouble." Garrsk went for his Greatsaber, teeth bared. "Well congratulations, you found-"

"Why do you fight for the Empire?" Kord questioned abruptly questioned him.

Garrsk froze, paw hovering over his weapon, "... What?"

"You heard me. Why do you fight for a system which rewards your service with contempt and actively hates you simply for being what you are? How many times have you worked twice as hard and thrice as effectively as your human or Pureblood counterparts, only for them reap all the benefits of your contributions in addition to theirs? How often have you been ignored if you're lucky, punished if you're not, for no other reason than because you did better than those who claim themselves to be 'superior' to 'your kind'. All these years spent clawing your way up the ladder, one that started even further down than so many others and for most of it, the only thing you got in return for your suffering was the privilege of keeping your life. There were some who didn't even want to grant you the rank of Warrior when you'd so rightfully earned it, but the sheer amount of evidence to prove your success left them no other option. You didn't have much of a choice but to stay when you were a young Initiate and your chances to escape would have been limited as an Apprentice but now, with your master dead, you don't need to keep taking it. Either by going AWOL or even defecting to the Republic, you could go virtually anywhere else in the galaxy and invariably end up getting much better treatment than you do serving the Empire, so why are you still here?"

"You dare to question my devotion to the Empire?!" Garrsk growled.

"No," Vanqrin shot back, "I dare to question the source of your devotion to the Empire."

A tense silence pervaded the air as the two Sith starred each other down. Garrsk was glowering even as he debated whether or not he should just kill the man where he sat while Vanqrin simply stared at him with a great intensity, but a distinct lack of fury. To Garrsk, it felt like Vanqrin was looking through him rather than at him, as though he was peering into the depths of his very soul and unraveling his innermost secrets one by one. Naturally, it was a feeling he found deeply disquieting and not a little vexing.

"Perhaps..." Vanqrin spoke at last in a low, thoughtful tone. "You are going to tell me that's it's the only way you know how to live. That aside from being taught how to kill and survive, you've also been conditioned to do anything and everything others say without question, and to accept their abuse no matter how wrongful it is without retaliation in any form." Vanqrin tilted his head, still regarding Garrsk ponderously. "... But even if you were to tell me that, I wouldn't believe you."

"You wouldn't?" Garrsk inquired tightly, still internally debating on making his murderous sentiments a reality.

"No, I wouldn't," Vanqrin continued, "Because it would make you akin to an infantile child; incapable of knowing better and functionally unable to make your own decisions. That, or you feel you are trapped in a cage you cannot escape from and so you play along in the hopes that one day, somehow, the cage will begin expanding little by little until you finally occupy a world's worth of space. Of course, then you will have to coach yourself not to look up because whenever you do, the durasteel bars will still be there, looming overhead. You realize this problem from the beginning but you just tell yourself that it's something you can solve later, some part of you knowing deep down that you never will." A small pause, and then a shift to a tone laden with conviction. "But I believe that you are neither puerile nor compliant. More than that, I don't think, but know you want something better, something more than this." Vanqrin gestured energetically at their surroundings. "Let me tell you something, Darth Ruoska." Even now, Vanqrin didn't forget his manners. " I dream of making a more perfect and equitable Empire, one free of the discriminatory and obsolete policies that cultivates an ultimately counter-productive and self-destructive system. A social environment where 'superiority' and 'inferiority' is not decided by race or pedigree, but by one's own personal strength, intelligence, and sheer motivation to succeed. A government led by those who achieved their positions not because it was given to them on account of their origins, but through merit and competency. When I look around me, I see that for all it's supposed strength, the Empire is rife with cancers which continue to fester, weakening it with each passing day until such time that it will eventually collapse in on itself. The Republic may not beat us but sooner or later, they will not need to, Why? Because we will have already done them the favor of destroying ourselves. Some are content to ignore the signs while others continue to actively promote the very ideals which will see our demise in due course, but I for one endeavor to do neither of those things. Instead, I will help to plot a new course which will secure both the present and the future for us as well as all those who shall come after us, specifically those who prove worthy of inheriting what we leave behind."

For many hardliner Sith who championed the current order of things, everything Vanqrin had just said would be considered nothing short of blasphemous or even treasonous, Garrsk knew.

He also knew that it was utterly true.

In fact, it sounded too good to be true, which was why Garrsk's suspicions were not yet satisfied. "And your first step to enacting such changes will be to get yourself a seat on the Dark Council." He ventured. One of Garrsk's own goals, and apparently that of just about every other Sith he spoke with. Garrsk had learned long ago that one of the early warning signs for a betrayal already in the making was the immediate admission of ambition to earn a place amongst the twelve most powerful Sith in the Empire, excepting the Emperor of course. And after hearing it so often from so many people, Garrsk had grown used to getting the same answer time and again to this question. Perhaps that was why Garrsk was stunned and even a little horrified by Vanqrin's response.

"A 'seat on the council'? No, I think not." Vanqrin sneered derisively. "Forgive my lack of polite phrasing but quite frankly, that seat and everything it stands for can get blasted as far as I'm concerned."

"Blasted...!" Garrsk mind was struggling to filter in this new and provocative notion. Like most other Sith and indeed, some people in general, it was an opinion he'd previously considered inconceivable. "But...All that power...Imagine what you could do!"

"I have discovered it is an increasingly common fallacy amongst those who want to sit on the Council that simply by taking the seat, they presume they are automatically invested with power to reshape the Empire in whatever way they most desire, but that is simply not how it works." Still facing Garrsk, Vanqrin remembered the drink sitting to his side and picked it up but did not raise it to his lips. "First, going by traditional rules of succession, I need to kill a member of the Dark Council, all of whom are considered the twelve deadliest men and women in the entirety of the Empire. Obviously, this is a task that sounds simple when spoken but proves extremely hard and almost certainly guarantees death when put into action, something I feel most people don't consider or appreciate anywhere near enough. Then, even if I were to succeed and take a seat, it's still effectively eleven against one, given that many of the current members happen to be racist, classist, or both. Even if they aren't, it is nonetheless indisputable that as those who have benefitted most from the current structure of the Empire, they will oppose many of my ideas in favor of protecting their own personal interests. They are Sith, so this is as predictable as it is understandable, but it also works in opposition of what you or I would perceive to be 'the greater good'. Because when has a Sith ever placed 'the greater good' above 'my own good'?" Vanqrin sighed." So, I will have achieved the goal seemingly every member of the Order has set for themselves only to find that not even one of my motions makes it to the floor before it is dismissed out-of-hand. And it will go on like that for anywhere between a couple of months and couple of years until such time that I am killed and disgraced, though probably not in that order, and my now-vacant former seat is filled by either an upstart Sith with my previous starting ambition but almost certainly none of my overarching goals in mind, or a living, breathing meat puppet courtesy of one of my previous colleagues whose entire purpose on the Council revolves around parroting their benefactor's ideals and singing their praises. Thusly, the present cycle will continue, unhindered by my failed attempt at it's disruption."

"But what of the benefits?" Garrsk tried to rally, "What of everything you would have to gain?!"

Yes, I suppose there would be practical benefits besides the illusion of a voice in the Council's decisions, such as more lackeys to command, but many of those currently working under me are individually more skilled than the entire cadres of guards they would provide me with, so why would I bother making the trade? I would also have more responsibility in the everyday affairs of the Empire, but that would essentially double my workload. Say for instance, I manage to defeat Lord Baras and take over as Minister of Military Offense. If I were to do so, I would not only have to run my own personal network in my spare time but also assume all his duties in the wake of his passing. Yes, I could do it of course, but a lapse in my obligations to either for even a second could mean the stagnation or even regression of all my progress up to that point. I'd gain a considerable amount of notoriety and practically become famous all across the Empire, but being famous means being recognizable to almost anyone who is not living under a rock, and that actually works against me. For those who occupy positions such as mine, I am at my best when my influence is felt, not seen or heard. At least, not until it's too late for anyone to do anything about it. You know who I am because you've met me before, but you might be surprised to know that there are many in the Empire who've never even heard my name and others still who don't have the faintest idea what I look like. On top of that, there are still more who assume that I am dead or never even actually existed to begin with. And I personally quite like it when people with such contradicting viewpoints about me meet because the confusion as to who is right creates uncertainty, and that uncertainty breeds fear, which is one of my favorite weapons to use. If I become recognizable and acknowledged by the public at large, you would think they would have cause to fear me even more, but that is not a sure thing. Some people would be emboldened by their ability to put a face and name to a person because they will have been able to actively identify a recognizable threat to their own plans, and that courage makes them dangerous. On the other hand, what people can always be counted on to fear is the unknown, and as an entity that is nameless to some, faceless to others, and wholly unrecognizable to the vast majority of all, that is a source of power and influence that I can access readily and in great abundance. So, I'm sure you can understand why I'd like to keep things that way. Moving right along, I would have a greater degree of accountability as a member of the Council, but that is also not very appealing to me. My underlings, associates, and the other ministers would expect to be made aware of my location at any given time so they can update me on their progress concerning certain assignments or reach me in the event of an unforeseen emergency, but if they know where I am, that means my enemies can learn where I am. And let me assure you, with all the things stored up here," Vanqrin tapped twice on his left temple. "I have many enemies. But, just as some of them don't know precisely who I am, virtually all of them never know where I am aside from instances in which I deliberately let them know myself and even then, only because the situation as a whole is entirely within my control. Given the specifications of my current job description, my ability to operate covertly is of the utmost importance to me as is the flexibility and fluidity of my appearances to others. What I mean is that for all intents and purposes, I currently have the ability to disappear off the face of this planet at a moment's notice and reappear at a time and place of my choosing with most unaware of my arrival and a great many more heedless to the fact that I'd even left in the first place. By becoming a member of the Council, I am broadcasting my location at any given hour on any given day to the entire galaxy, all while painting a big neon target upon just about about every surface of my body, and repeatedly screaming 'Blast me!' to anyone and everyone who will listen. Needless to say, I am not especially fond of getting blasted. Finally, there is the constant social expectations I will be required to uphold, such as attending public events, going to fancy dinner parties, and just generally making nice with pompous aristocrats who wouldn't know the first things about running a government or waging a war if it slapped them square in the face. To put it bluntly, I would rather sit in a dank, muddy foxhole, and await death by an orbital strike as imminent as it is certain which in turn would reduce my entire physical form to ash. That is how much I detest the mere thought of sitting in the presence of such people for even one moment."

Before, Garssk had merely been bewildered. Now, he'd been rendered almost speechless by everything he'd just heard.

"So, in short," Vanqrin paused to finally take a swig from his glass. "I did not, do not, and will not have any designs on being a member of the Dark Council, ever. I am much more at home, not to mention far more effective, when I am at work in the shadows, not in the limelight." Vanqrin gestured towards Garrsk. "Ah, but you still want to take a shot at one of the positions, feel free. Please, don't let me stop you from-"

"How then do you intend to create the change you speak of?" Garsk broke in, having pulled himself together within seconds. "Do you plan to overthrow the Council?!"

Unlike rejecting a seat on it, purging the Council was not an unheard of concept. Already, such a measure had been taken once after it's now deceased members conspired to overthrow the Emperor. Despite this, it seemed it was Vanqrin's turn to be bewildered. "What? No. I'm idealist, not a revolutionary. Certainly not a traitor, contrary to what you may think." He finished pointedly.

"That doesn't answer my first question." Garrsk growled. "If you are not on the Council, how will you create change?"

Vanqrin chuckled, "Lord Ruoska, you are operating on the presumption that one needs to be a known member of the Empire's ruling echelon in order to affect the current status quo. Sure, I admit that is hardly untrue, but it is not the only way to exert some sway over the Council's decrees. As it happens, you don't need a nice seat or fearsome reputation to make your goals a reality. Instead, all you need is the right leverage as well as the knowledge to uncover what it is and the connections needed to acquire it. Fortunately, as the latter two fall within my fields of expertise, I have knowledge and connections aplenty."

"...Blackmail?" Garsk wondered aloud, very unimpressed. "That's it? That's the extent of your plan?"

"Not necessarily," Vanqrin refuted. "It's an option available to us, yes, but it is not the only card we have to play. While I understand how 'leverage' is most often used to describe something inherently unpleasant, I was actually loosely applying the term to all of the various ways in which we may attempt to complete our goals. For instance, despite what I just said about the current members of the Council, there are some who are not unsympathetic to our plight, such as Lord Marr or Lord Jadus. If we were to in some way curry favor with them, than perhaps we can also encourage them to... look more positively upon what we have in mind. Provided we manage to do that, it might motivate them to pass legislation we would deem desirable."

"Oh, so the actual entirety of your plan is to suck up to all the Council members you don't blackmail?" Garrsk began scratching a yet unknown design even to it's creator into the metal bar top, one amongst the already countless number decorating it's surface. The bar droid did not seem to care, much less notice.

"Will you stop with the blackmail? Truthfully, that's more of a last resort..." Vanqrin drifted off, "Well, mostly. The point is that I'd rather avoid using that tactic unless I really have to, primarily because I know others before me who have invoked such measures in the midst of their individual power plays, only to be met with results that are rarely positive, especially in the long term. It's too direct, too... 'loud'. I would advocate for a more subtle approach, one that will ensure we are not discovered and hunted down to the last man even if we fail. Success would be pleasing but survival is imperative, because if we live, then we can try again." He gave Garrsk a meaningful look. " As for 'sucking up', I just so happen to hate sycophants, and I'm inclined to believe that at least some of the Council does not look so benevolently upon them either. If we take that route, we will be approaching them from a position of subservience, and as the Sith only respect power, I'm sure you can see how that would not benefit us at best, hurt us at worst. I was thinking more along the lines of something quite daring. You know, battlefield heroics, foiling nefarious political plots, engaging in the kind of high-profile operations which make and break careers in a matter of minutes, that kind of thing."

"Sounds exciting." Actually, it really did. Garrsk loved combat, maybe more than anything else in life. That feeling he gets when he's in the thick of it... there was nothing else quite like it. "Which method do you intend on using to make a name for yourself?"

"Not one, but all of them, possibly multiple times." Vanqrin answered.

"Because that's so easy." Garrsk mumbled, finishing his tiny sketch. It looked a little like a flaming starship in the process of burning up as it entered the atmosphere of a planet. Nice, very jubilant, not depressing at all.

"It wouldn't be worth doing if it was," Vanqrin briefly looked over to the bar droid, still mindlessly toiling away at it's tasks. " And mock it as you like, but I'd remind you that what's good for the Empire tends to be good for the Council, and they know it. We just have to make sure they know who is responsible for their recent good fortunes." Elbows lifting up to perch on the counter, Vanqrin leaned forward as his hands clasped together, brow creasing in thought. "And then there is the matter of the 'Revolving Door'..."

"The what?" Garrsk had been living in the Empire nearly his entire life, and yet he still didn't know exactly what 'the Revolving Door' referred to.

The sound of thunder abruptly cut into their conversation, deafening even behind closed doors, but neither Vanqrin nor Garrsk were concerned. The storm was getting worse, but it was still weak compared to what either of them had witnessed during their years living here. "The 'Revolving Door', my own sobriquet for the phenomenon with reference to the frequent... 'modifications' to the Dark Council's roster."

"Ah yes, that. And it concerns you, why?" Garrsk enquired.

"Because it is a great source of instability and occasional self-defeat within the Empire." Vanqrin answered. "How many times has a new member been elected and managed to put a new bill up for ratification only to die before their wish can be fulfilled, upon which their new act is tabled and eventually forgotten? How often is that vacant position filled by someone with entirely opposing views who decides to roll back all the headway their predecessor made? I would bet the number is more than one. And what are we to do if the current members who are friendlier to our goals than others end up coming down with a nasty case of lightsaber through the bowels tomorrow or even as soon as today? We can't safely bank on whoever replaces them being essentially a clone in terms of political and social beliefs, and things get much harder if they should be hostile or perhaps even apathetic to our intentions."

A harsh snicker erupted from Garrsk's throat, "Oh, this just gets better and better. Not only do you seek to control the Council, but you also want to have jurisdiction over who gets elected."

"Everything you just said was completely wrong." Vanqrin countered, " We may not be fools, but that hardly means the Council is either, or at least some of them, anyway. And that doesn't even take into account the thousands of other players vying for their own piece of the pie. With that number of moving parts and uncontrollable variables at play, trying such a thing would be akin to signing our own death warrants. Plus, it's too obvious and so has a much higher risk of discovery and subsequent death than we would incur otherwise. No, we aren't going to control anything, just make things a little harder for some and easier for others, that's all."

"So the plan isn't foolproof?" Garrsk did not like that.

"Let me answer your question with a question; is there really such a thing as a foolproof plan?" Vanqrin asked, " Yes, failure is possible, but doing it this way minimizes the risk to us in just about every aspect as compared to attempting a pseudo-political coup outright. Still, even if things go pear-shaped, you should consider the personal gains, such as a greater respect amongst the Order in general as well as a potential ascension to Lordship-"

"Which I'm well on my way to accomplishing by myself." Garrsk interrupted.

"And what is the projected time it will take you to achieve such?" Vanqrin's hands broke apart as he reached for his glass once more. "Need I remind you they almost didn't grant you Warriorhood, even in spite of the fact that you successfully managed to kill your master? Knowing that, how long do you think it will take you to make Lord? At this rate, it wouldn't surprise me if they chose to deny it to you until you're well into your fifties and correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think many Trandoshans typically age past sixty. That's of course presuming you both survive long enough to reach that point and they find it in their hearts to even promote you that high at all, as I don't think you would be the first Sith to become stuck as a Warrior for life because of your race rather than ability or ambition. Following the plan promises a much faster result for you than the alternative, doubly so if everything works out."

"And so I should just ignore the ways in which this defies the traditions we live by?"

"How so?" Vanqrin cocked an eyebrow, "Everyone who is anyone with political interests around these parts has people they are backing and others they are opposing until such time that doing so stops benefitting them or they try to make a grab for greater power themselves. In that way, we are just doing more of the same. As for the ways by which we might try to limit the number of new members to the Council in any given stretch of time, we are simply one more obstacle for hopefuls to try and pass when it comes down to it, and is it not a hallmark of the Sith way to triumph over adversity through the sheer power at one's command? Even those who oppose us still have a chance to rise high and perhaps even make it to the top, that's why I said we are not 'controlling' anything, just tipping the odds in our favor a bit. Even if we can't get less discriminating members onto the Council, simply having a less extreme turnover rate can ensure that a greater number of policies beneficial to the Empire may be successfully passed, and that's a win in and of itself. Additionally, we would accomplish it all without ever revealing ourselves or the stakes we had in it, meaning we get to live long enough to enjoy what we've wrought. What more could you want?"

"One of those positions for myself." Garrsk declared.

"Well as I said before, if you want to take a shot at it, I won't stop you." Vanqrin rotated his wrist, watching the liquid inside swirl around. "But..."

"But?"

Vanqrin grimaced, "It's another risk we could do without. Sure, having you on the Council would help more than harm, but it also paints the same target on your back that I don't want on mine. Anyone else we might help along in their quest to lay claim to one of the seats is not aware of the bigger picture as we are, and so is ultimately somewhat more expendable. If you take a seat but end up losing it, on the other hand, your loss would be much harder for me to recover from. For one thing, I would need to scrub any evidence that we ever knew or interacted with each other beyond a couple of coincidental and inconsequential meetings, as I'm certain someone or another would be quiet curious to learn how you rose so far so fast, and I can't have them getting their hands on such information. If a direct link between you and I were ever to be established in conjunction with the Council, it would mean the end of our greater scope ambitions and most likely our lives as well as those of almost everyone who works with or for us on this." After a moment, Vanqrin thought to add, "I'm not trying to dissuade you, of course, it's just something I felt you would be wise to consider."

Another thought hit Garrsk, "Come to think of it, why initiate all this in the first place? Did you not say only a little earlier that your previous services to them was the one of the reasons they didn't zap you like a bug? Sounds to me like you carry some pull with them already."

"Once upon a time, that was somewhat true." Vanqrin admitted, "Not so much anymore. I did indeed earn some clout in return for the remarkable ferocity, decisive leadership, and brilliant strategic planning I displayed in the earlier battles of the war, but that was all years ago. Half the Council of that time has been replaced by new Lords who neither know nor really care about what I did and for the other half, well, there's only so many times you can bring up an old triumph before it begins to grow a bit... stale." Vanqrin glanced at him, and Garrsk could see in his eyes that his mind was threatening take him back to days long past. Before Garrsk could say or do anything, Vanqrin had already shaken himself back to the present. "Anyway, I still have good enough standing to extract small favors from the Council. Nothing that big, mostly just enough to pull myself and maybe others out of hot water as the result of one minor offense or another. And, if I can't repeal a punishment, I can at least change or reduce it to something more palatable. However, I know well that if I fail them badly enough or often enough, all that good will goes down the drain. And, I'll probably want to hold off on pushing it with them for the foreseeable future, considering how upset they were to learn of an outsider such as myself having such detailed knowledge about their plans."

"Alright, fine as all that is, what exactly does any of it have to do with me?" The most important piece of the puzzle for Garsk; how does he factor into all of Vanqrin's grand plans?

"Well, that's just it. For all the information within my grasp and all the operatives at my disposal, there is still one thing I distinctly lack."

"Hair?" Garrsk snarked.

"Ha. Very glib of you, but incorrect, I'm afraid." Vanqrin actually did sound quite amused, "Allies, Ruoska, I'm talking about allies. Much as it might pain a more egotistical person to admit, this is something I simply can't do alone. Sith more powerful than me have tried to do less and failed, so if this has any chance of working, I will need help. Frankly, there are certain things that I cannot do even with all my power, and that is where I have need of people with certain skills I lack. People like you, Darth Ruoska."

"And what happens if I refuse again? Are we going to resume what I'd thought would happen next?" It was almost common at this point for 'offers' Garrsk got to be the sort he 'couldn't refuse'.

"To answer your questions in order; nothing, and no." Vanqrin told him. "If you aren't convinced even after all that, then I will take my leave and you will never hear of this from me again. Simply put, it will be as if this entire conversation never happened." Vanqrin smiled to himself. "Well, to be fair, I was to treat it like it hadn't either way, but even so. Still, if you refuse, we both lose, but you more so."

Garrsk frowned. "Yeah? How do you figure?"

"Even if I leave here empty-handed, there are still others I can ask for assistance from, even if they aren't exactly my first choice. For you, when will an opportunity like this come again? A chance to truly change the Empire for the better, with help from perhaps one of the most adept information brokers in the Empire. Speaking of which, I'll have you know that I'm even prepared to give you access to my network in exchange for your cooperation, and I'm sure your aware of how hard it is to come by such a thing."

Indeed, it was said that Vanqrin offered his more... discreet services to only two types of people; those he personally chose, and those he couldn't refuse. And, amongst the people who could confirm his existence, the accuracy of Vanqrin's intel and the speed with which he completed some of his requests was borderline mythic in it's proportions, which spoke as to why the chance to have his backing was so highly coveted. Vanqrin had him there, as it was uncertain if not unlikely that Garrsk would ever find another way for Vanqrin to accept patronage from him.

But even knowing that, he hesitated. Sweet as this pot was, he wasn't the same naïve younger student he'd been back on Korriban. There was always some catch, whether it be a piece of information he was kept in the dark about or an alternate objective that was to be completed without his knowledge, and he'd end up entering a situation he'd thought to be win-win only to discover he'd been the loser all along. Zal had made an idiot out of him once, and he'd barely survived it. There was no way he would allow that to happen to him again.

Sitting there in silence, eyes on his glass, a war was waged inside the depths of Garrsk's mind as what he wanted clashed with what he'd been taught. All the while, Vanqrin watched from the sidelines, waiting for another question or an answer to his proposal, ready for acceptance, rejection, or even sudden violence, as the case may be.

At last coming to a decision, Garrsk turned back to Vanqrin and opened his jaw, only to be interrupted.

"Wait," Vanqrin beat him to it, seemingly having considered what he was going to say next himself. "I'm being too hasty. It was foolish of me to expect you to have a proper answer so quickly, especially considering your past experience with other Sith. While you know as well as I do that the benefits I offer are one-of-a-kind, I also know that you have no reason to trust me. Take some time, consider my words, and return to me when you've reached a proper resolution. I can assure you, I'm in no rush to hear back and considering what we have to do today, maybe it is better that I wait until you've completed your next task before I trouble you about the future."

Garrsk was put off by this sudden change in conversational direction, but did well in not letting it show on his face. "And how will I find you?"

"If you've determined what you are going to do by the end of today, than presuming I've not died, I will be around." Another smile, "If it takes you longer, than not to worry. I will find you." Vanqrin began to lift off his bar stool, "Now then, I do believe I've tarried here long enough." Vanqrin stopped to bow, surprising Garrsk. He'd seen Warriors bow to Lords before, but never a Lord to a Warrior. " I think you kindly for hearing me out, as well as allowing me to refresh myself," He gestured to the bar droid, "but it is time I return to the Citadel and begin making my final preparations." Within seconds he was at the door, only to turn back, "Remember, one hour, don't be late."

Garrsk watched him go, already reconsidering what he was going to say before. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Vanqrin had made the right call. This was something he had to stew on, to ruminate over. There was always danger in teaming with another who swore allegiance to the same Order, but he had to ask himself; if it was for the sake of a better future, what was he willing to risk?

The door opened, a figure stepped back out, and then it shut, leaving Garrsk alone with the bar droid once more.

---

Nayve Kord heaved a deep breath as he felt the rain wash over him much more.

He'd not been certain that conversation wouldn't end in a fight, nor was he sure that giving an unconfirmed party such sensitive details would pay off, but it was a chance he was willing to take. He was well aware that Garrsk Klaas had been burned too deeply before to take a leap of faith now, so Kord had taken it upon himself to do the leaping for him. With that done, he could only hope it would pay off.

There was the question of if he'd tell anyone what he just learned, perhaps try to stop Kord, but he doubted it. For one, he would be blasting himself in the foot, as Kord has been completely honest about everything he'd said back there. He truly did want to make a better and more perfect Empire, not just for himself, but possibly for everyone else as well. This wasn't just another half-baked scheme at grabbing more power or eliminating certain thorns in his side, but something far greater than that. Kord had never been much for the petty little games members of his Order liked to play, and he wasn't about to start partaking now.

On a more practical level, Garrsk had no associates and limited assets. Really, he only had his Greatsaber and a bar he partially owned. The outcome would be more uncertain if things devolved into a duel, especially considering Garrsk's impressive strength, but in a long-term conflict, the web of the spies, saboteurs, and contract killers under his employ gave Kord an overwhelming advantage. If he tried to do anything from here on, he would soon come to regret failing to kill Kord when he had the chance.

He'd also been telling the truth about leaving Garrsk alone if he were denied. The Trandoshan was no enemy of his, and refusing to aid him on this was not enough to change that. Kord wasn't one of those morons who treated refusal as an 'insult punishable by death' like some other hubristic halfwits who infested their Order often did. For one, it would mean an early death if whoever failed to side with him was also stronger than him. Second, it could rob him of opportunities further down the line where Garrsk might come in handy.

That was what set Kord apart from other Sith. This lifestyle emphasized immediate gratification and the accomplishment of short term goals while ignoring the concept of preparation for the future and the distinct difficulties that would accompany it. It was never about 'later' for the Sith, it was always about 'now'. Kord thought that was abject nonsense, the kind of thinking which would see him and many others killed as much by themselves as by the enemy. He was always looking at the bigger picture, always thinking ahead, always planning for the battles which had yet to materialize even before the one he found himself in was properly finished. It was why he was still alive when so many other Sith much more powerful than he was were dead.

It was also why he was extremely dangerous regardless of the context.

As he turned back the way he came and began his journey back to the Citadel, his mind drifted to more personal subjects.

Six years ago, his world was shattered before his very eyes, but he'd built it back up on the bones of those responsible.

Now, they were all reduced to nothing more than echoes of a distant, bloody past.

And yet, his revenge was not complete. There was still but one who had evaded him for all this years, laying just beyond his reach. He wondered if she knew what she'd wrought for him when she'd set those Sith on his trail, or who had died because of what she did. Perhaps, in the depths of her self-righteousness, she'd painted them all as 'collateral damage' inflicted in an effort to destroy the monster she'd made him out to be.

Either way, regardless of how things could have turned out back then, she must have thought she would be secure, living within the boundaries of the Republic, sequestered away within the Jedi Temple. Now, she likely believed she was safer still, believing him dead and that the repercussions of what she'd done, committed without the knowledge or approval of the Council, would never come back to haunt her.

He was about to prove her wrong.

Today is the day the Jedi Order dies, and Master Sadham Rem would die with it.

---

So... Been a long time, huh?

I do really apologize for taking so long, but I've been busy with so many things that I've just not had the time needed to upload recently. Plus, I had some personal things happen which took my mind off writing my own story for a bit.

Truthfully, I don't know when I'm going to get the next chapter out, but I plan to focus on introducing some of the Jedi. I don't know how long that's going to be, but I'm going to try and make it much shorter than this 19,000 + word long monstrosity. On that note, call such a lengthy chapter my own way of apologizing for such an extreme delay. The first half of the chapter was planned, but all of the second half and the entirety of the dialogue was created on the spot, then updated or corrected countless times before upload. I'm sorry if there's any errors I've missed, but if I spot any next time I'm reading back through, I'll be sure to correct them and then upload the chapter again.

It's a bit belated, but I would once again like to thank TheDapperCat for submitting Garrsk Klaas, otherwise known as Darth Ruoska, and the other submitter for giving me Nayve Kord, or Lord Vanqrin. For reference, Kord's submission profile was over 22,000 words long in total, and the level of detail absolutely blew me away. Other OC story writers would know me for my long character submissions, but that was still rather big for me.

I would also like to thank Dogtimus for reaching out to ask about my progress after so long. Their concern was the final kick in the pants I needed to get a move on with finishing this chapter once and for all.

Any who, if any of my original creators are still out there, I would like you to know that I am not dead and I have not forgotten this story, and I will try to get my next upload up as soon as possible.

In the meantime, please do drop a review if you aren't too busy. This was a long chapter, so I'm sure there's plenty to comment on.

Until next time.