The Sith fled over the fields of volcanic rock, his feet racing over the treacherous terrain at a speed no normal humanoid could match. Twice the man almost fell into an exposed chasm of flowing magma, but his force-fueled premonition allowed him the insight to leap high and over the deadly surprises, landing hard on his booted feet and rolling over his knees, the reborn force user again had to fall back on his insight to roll hard to the right and avoid a sudden release of scalding volcanic gas from a fissure in his path near the last chasm. Rising from his knees, the man felt the hatred and adrenaline of the battle he'd just fled slowly ebb, giving way to exhaustion and heavy breaths.

"My brother …" He gasped, his mind struggling desperately to wrap around the distant and strangely elusive memories he had felt so strongly as he had faced the Mandalorian over the battlefield.

Pausing, the Sith instinctively reached out through the force to read the youth's movements, but felt only a strong feeling of hate and rage on the distantly familiar presence, and he mistook Jaster's battle-rage with his Master for his own dark feelings. Sighing, the Dark Jedi pressed on slowly, scanning the surrounding climate for some sign of civilization, or the Sith base the transport had carried him from. About an hour later, a very weary and extremely thirsty man clumped heavily into a deserted mineral mining colony along the outer rim of the massive volcanic area the Sith had hidden their headquarters in. Apparently deserted, the mine buildings bore the signs of a terrible explosion, most likely from some spontaneous volcanic explosion months earlier. A ship remained in the tiny, battered hangar, the only one with light-speed capabilities left intact by the massive cave-in of the heavy concrete roofing from the structure's demise. Strapping himself into the small cruiser's cramped cockpit, the weary Mandalorian Sith reviewed his pitiable situation; he was alone in the universe, even a stranger from his own past; to the Jedi he was a threat to be hunted and killed, and the other Sith on this planet would only seek to subject him to more mind-altering experiments to quell his newly arising independence, so he decided he'd best them all. Who needed a Master when you could have so much power for yourself?

Jaster Mereel stepped down from the starfighter hatch with a face set in grief and dismay; he'd attacked his master again, again he'd given into the dark side, and this time he'd only just been brought back before he may have done something terrible. A shudder ran up his spine as a distant corner of his mind told him he wasn't disappointed for having fought Azekel, but rather for having let him live …

Azekel Jakome strode down after his padawan from the starship, his face also set with the determination to face the council with news of the threat him and Jaster had uncovered; they had much bad news to bring to the Jedi Council. Jaster silently hoped his master would not tell the Council of his newest flirtation with the dark side, but inside he knew that at least Master Skywalker would find out by the end of the day, and that distant part of him seethed with anger at the prospect of being lectured to and further judged.

"By the gods, Jaster!" Lena's voice interrupted his thoughts as he looked up in surprise. "What's happened to your face?" Oh yeah, he remembered, that …

"It's nothing, Lena."

"Sithspit, look at you!" it was Renak this time, following Lena's running form closely, "Who'd they send to give you that? Darth Vader?" the Rodian exclaimed; he'd always been impressed by Jaster's sword skills; to see him come out apparently the worse was hard for the loyal roommate to imagine.

"I'll be fine, Renak." He sighed, his gloved fingers tracing the long, thick scar the Sith had given him, even as he fell beneath the Mandalorian's blade. The gnarled and burnt laceration traveled from his right cheek all the way up to his forehead just above his right eye; his melted and ruined helmet the only thing that had kept the Sith from ripping out his eye completely, or worse, killing him. Thankfully the scar would jump over his eye itself, the thick armor having protected the sensitive socket just enough to prevent serious damage, but for the moment Jaster was effectively blind out of his swollen right eye, but he let the force guide his right 'vision' as he made his way up the elevators with his friends. Jakome was going straight to the council, but had given his wounded apprentice strict orders to head directly to the infirmary. He decided it'd be best not to disobey his Master any more for the time being, and he went, his friends in tow, bickering over his minor wound.

By the time the sun had set on the Jedi Academy on Yavin 4, an unmarked ship had landed on the Corellian planet capital red light district; it's occupant walking resolutely into a bar a few blocks away from the hangars, leaving a dead customs official in a clump behind some storage boxes after the Corellian had tried to ask for the ship's identification and papers from the mysterious hooded traveler. On the flight over to the central-system, the Sith had decided to name himself Darth Diabolic, or, so as not to be detected by the Jedi, Juris H'layth, a name taken from a small shipping business whose boxes he'd hidden the customs official behind and the Juristice Gonorath gambling casino just outside the hangar he'd landed in.

Walking into the bar, Diabolic's force-tuned senses immediately picked up on the bustling life-forms sharing drinks, laughs, or threats across the main floor. He sidled up to the bar, next to a stunningly beautiful Twi'lek female with vibrant green skin, and her male counterpart, a rough, disheveled looking Twi'lek male with deep red pigmentation and a particularly altered force-aura; he was incredibly drunk. Ordering a tall glass of Rylothian liquor from the Ithorian barkeep, the Sith settled down to scan the room and it's many occupants; there were humanoids, a rodian, a few Ithorians, Twi'leks, a fe diminutive Sullustans and even a Nohgri, one of the aliens famous for it's keen senses and former service to Darth Vader as some of the galaxy's best assassins. His senses, however, kept drawing him back to the couple of Twi'leks next to him, who he settled to listen to with force-enhanced ears for a few minutes.

"Mya, Mya my love," the red-skinned male was addressing his companion affectionately, the Sith sensed a lot of affection came from the female, while the male was accented by apathy, "Why would I ever go to one of those awful brothels when I know that I have the hand of the most beautiful, wonderful woman in the whole of the galaxy?" The female, Mya, ebbed in her feelings, she was falling for that load of shit?

"I just don't know if I can trust you, Hanorak," she replied, though without much conviction; the Sith didn't have to use the force to see the drunk's mind, he was lying, and happy about getting away with it. The Twi-lek Hanorak stood unsteadily and smiled.

"Let me go order you another glass of Corellian wine, my dear, and we can talk more about this when we can be alone." He suggested, moving off. The female, astonishingly, smiled and nodded shyly. The Sith couldn't believe it, but, as the drunk's powerful aura waned with his departure, his Jedi-like senses picked up on another, more astonishing revelation; the female Twi'lek was a force-sensitive. He shifted in his stool, turning to get a better look at her. The alien woman was indeed quite beautiful, as most of her kind were known for; slender and curvaceous, gentle features belying grace and usually a cunning intellect; though Diabolic's observations told him this girl wasn't particularly clear-minded, though force sensitive. Twi'leks had distinct extra-sensory organs in the form of two long, thick tentacles emanating from the base of their skulls, yet somehow the race had always appealed to humanoids of all species for their outstanding grace and beauty. This female, Mya, sat alone and twirled her small finger around and around the rim of her half empty glass of wine; her thoughts betraying her still doubtful thoughts about her boyfriend, but she was ever-slipping towards relenting her suspicions.

"Ahem," The self-titled Sith Lord cleared his throat pointedly. The girl looked up, a curious expression on her face, but the Sith remained concentrated on his glass, his hood still up. She looked away, a slight frown played across her features at the interruption. "You know he's lying, don't you?" Diabolic finally said a moment later. Her head snapped back up to look at him.

"What?" Anger, probably at being interrupted, he sensed.

"Your boyfriend, he's lying to you." Diabolic offered her offhandedly, still not meeting her icy stare, sipping at the hard liquor as if it were merely water. "Wonderful drink, you know? A credit to your planet."

"Ryloth liquor? Yes, it's – wait a minute!" the girl flustered, distracted, "What do you mean he's lying? Have you been listening to our entire conversation?" She demanded; indignation, good.

"It's pretty hard not to hear you," the man told her, sensing her boyfriend's presence over by the wine rack across the bar. "You are sitting right next to me." The woman's hands went to her hips as she turned to face him with an angry frown.

"Well, I'm sorry we are bothering you, Mr. Eavesdrop!" She replied sarcastically.

"Please, call me H'layth. Juris H'layth." He said, turning to face her for the first time with a fleeting smile. Her boyfriend was flirting with another of the Twi'lek females seated around the dancing stage next to the wine rack now. "I just wanted to let you know you can't trust your boyfriend, that's all. He's going behind your back, even as we speak." Instead of looking around to see the alien's infidelity, the female just sat there, staring at the Dark Jedi; disgust and loathing written plainly across her face.

"And how, may I ask, do you know that he's lying?" She asked, "I suppose you're one of those drugged out psychics I can get to read my palm for twenty credits in a back alley?"

"No, I'm only a Jedi." He replied, looking back down at his drink nonchalantly before adding, "Well, not exactly …"

"A … Jedi?" The female asked, her anger giving ever so slightly to interest before disbelief settled back in. "Yeah, right." She rolled her eyes.

"I'm more like a force-sensitive who … knows what he's about." Darth Diabolic explained in an offhand manner. "A force-sensitive like you; only more in tune …"

Shock. The Twi'lek stared at him, her eyes and thoughts betraying her apprehension at his mention of the force-sensitivity that virtually enveloped them at the bar.

"How did you know …" She asked slowly, guardedly with a wary look. He smiled.

"Check out your boyfriend." He said, without even looking at the despicable Twi'lek over by the dancers. "He's quite the lady-killer, isn't he?" It took a moment, but Mya's cry of outrage and despair nearly stopped the bar completely. The Sith shook his head sympathetically as he slid closer to the Twi'lek woman after the boyfriend had been dismissed with finality.

"It's alright," He consoled, "How could you have known?" he patted her back gently as her slumped shoulder shook and tears rolled down her pretty face as she cried into her arms over the bar. She looked up as a wine bottle floated over to their seats and uncorked itself in midair, a phantom hand pouring the red liquid into her half-empty glass, which slid as if pushed by an invisible hand to rest against her thin, feminine wrist. Her tears stopped as she watched in astonishment and wonder.

"How do you do that?" She asked her companion in awe. He grinned, his eyes glowing in the dim of the poorly-lit tavern. The Ithorian barkeep searched in vain for the missing bottle of wine across the room.

"I can show you."