When he lands his borrowed starfighter on the plains surrounding Chateau Malreaux, it seems as though the planet itself shudders at his presence. Shudders and then strikes out in fear.

He sets out at an easy, loping jog as soon as he exits the cockpit. The rain, only a sporadic shower minutes ago, is suddenly a hissing torrent, spattering against his robes and upturned cowl, soaking into his first layer of protection and eating away at the tough materials as though they were mere sheets of flimsi. Though his cowl shields the bulk of his head, a few drops manage to land on his face and he winces at their slight burn. Flicking his eyes in a quick, sweeping glance, he surveys his surroundings, measures them against the many places he has traveled, and then nods once as he ups his pace.

I've found it at last.

The atmosphere had been a mottled mix of brown and gray and the cloud cover is no different down here on the surface. The ground he treads is covered in the acid-eaten remains of dead grasses and shrubbery. It is soggy and smelly, and his boots are soon caked in it. Jagged outcroppings of rock constitute the surrounding scenery and even they seem to represent some sort of dead, scraggled city that had at some point been subdued, looted, and left to waste away into nothing.

The castle he jogs toward resembles one of the skeletous outcroppings, but there are points of light marking windows and a pathway leading up to its massive doors. It is the only sign of life on this planet that died years ago from madness and foolish ambition.

I've found the land of shadows. Of hopelessness. Of despair…

He pauses in his musings, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a shell of a smirk.

So dramatic.

The brief moment of humor is dashed to pieces when he gets closer to the large mansion. A fresh curtain of acid rain batters him ruthlessly, bringing with it a heavy cloud of thick darkness that rumbles loudly in his ears and seeks to smother him into a senseless, brainless wreck.

The rangy giant of a man finally deems it necessary to speak. Another man in his chosen walk of life might have spoken out loud minutes earlier simply to keep himself sane. This particular man secured his sanity decades ago and now merely frowns in response to this insidious threat.

"Nice try." He speaks the two words slowly, deliberately, with emphasis. The darkness, along with the acid rain, shrinks away from him as he passes. He barely breaks stride as he does so, continuing on as if the acid rain, the threatening clouds, the looming mansion, and the dark, writhing currents mean nothing.

Because they don't. Not to him. But to the man he has come for, to the man inside of this sprawling mansion, they do mean something. They have always meant something.

Soon enough, the door is right in front of him and he hesitates only briefly before pushing it open. He knows there isn't much time before the other two get here. Yoda had barely been persuaded to let him come in his stead, but trying to persuade the old master to let him come alone had been a waste of time. Instead of wasting that time, he had left in a hurry, determined to be as far ahead of his old padawan and the Skywalker boy as possible.

He wagers he has about twenty minutes tops.

Stairs, he thinks. Where are the stairs? He finds them around the corner. There are blood stains on them, rusted and flaking off. Obviously old. Whoever had caused them apparently hadn't cared enough to clean them up. Madness.

The dark forces around him make a final valiant attempt to stop him, seizing the brief moment of distraction to slither inside of his defenses through hairline cracks that he hadn't thought susceptible. Immediately he staggers, faltering on the stairs, left foot tripping on a rusted stain and coming away crusted with the remains of someone else's stolen life.

You will die here, Jedi. Just like the rest of them.

"No," he whispers, head pounding, right hand white-knuckled on the banister.

We will take your soul and leave you empty. Only a shell, Jedi. Just a shell.

"No," he repeats.

YOU WILL DIE!

"Force blast it, NO!" he shouts, releasing just the tiniest of energy-blasts as he straightens. For a moment, he thinks he hears something screeching as it flees. "You have no power over me," he mutters. Ignoring the dried blood on his boot and the multiple stains on the steps, he continues on.

The mansion is old, ancient even, and there is a darkness here that he has only ever faced once before. It lingers in shadows and walks beside him at the same time, both terrified and unbothered by the fact that it hasn't beaten him, swayed him, corrupted him, or convinced him.

How odd, he thinks. I'm alone and yet I feel surrounded. Out loud, he only says two words: "Never again."

He will take this man with him. He must. He has lost too much, tried too hard, and hoped for too long to fail now. But it's not my fault, and if he refuses, then it won't be my failure. This he knows to be true.

There is something about the third floor that makes him hesitate and then step off of the stairs. The hallway he finds himself in is surprisingly short and exceptionally wide. It is no darker than the rest of the mansion and is lit by dim lanterns mounted on the wall. Within a few seconds he has wandered down the full length of it and stopped. The door in front of him is closed and yet the shady, flickering presence trapped behind it is so obviously there that it might as well be wide open. Steeling himself, he turns the ornate handle and pushes it open.

Dark tendrils of an achingly familiar signature lash out at him, stabbing and burning where they make contact with his shields, but he only closes his eyes and lets out a single, steadying breath. When he opens them again, he finds himself locking eyes with a white-haired, steely-eyed man sitting casually behind a rich, hand-carved desk.

There is yet another bloodstain directly in front of the desk. This one looks fresher than the rest. His brain registers this and then quickly dismisses it. Bloodstains, madness, and monsters can wait, because this old man in front of him is so much more important than they are. So much more relevant.

And very surprised. Good.

"Qui-gon?" Count Dooku's shocked utterance slices through the silence with little resistance.

The Jedi allows himself a tiny smile, albeit a sad one. "Hello, master."

Fifteen minutes, maybe less. Force help me.

If Qui-gon had survived and traveled to Vjun in Yoda's place, what then...? (what-if rendering of Qui-gon being present during the events of Dark Rendezvous)