Star Wars STAR WARS: The Road to the Final Episode

OOC: The following is a combo with Mitth Fisto, Lady Belligerent, Sinrebirth, and a special guest appearance by Darth_wanderguard – thank you so much!


IC: Darth Haretisch, Bellorum (Braata), Dunkeel (Faya), Joren (Sistros), and the Shadow Man
The Well of the Dark Side, Mortis

~156 ABY~

There was blood on the ground. Darth Haretisch was staring at it, watching it bloom, like an asylum crazy might study an inkblot test, convinced that the correct answer to the question - "What do you see?" - was the key to freedom. Or to that greatest orgasm known as death. It was the latter that Darth Haretisch sought and more. Not only death but oblivion. That unfeeling, unseeing place wherein the color was only black and the number was only none. That was why he had done this. On a promise from the Left-Handed God, that he would be granted the blessing of non-existence, to forget his misdeeds not only in this life and this dimension but in all to follow and all which ran parallel. He would be granted this eternal reprieve, and in return, he had only to throw open the doors of hell itself so that Typhojem might step over the threshold and rule every reality.

And now he had done it. The battle had been protracted and the three had taken their obligatory pound of flesh. Lorekeeper had fallen first, having been hoisted into the air from a distance, and then spun and spiked head first onto the jagged volcanic rock which formed the floor of the well. There he lay, pupils fixed and skull cracked like an egg while Manticore and Syren fought on as a duo. Syren had fallen next, though her death was slow. Though too weak and too disarmed to move she had nonetheless been fully conscious for the piecing up of Darth Manticore which would then commence.

And now it was over, and three bodies lay at his feet. Dart Haretisch breathed a sigh of victory, though not a contented one, and extinguished his lightsaber. The pain was immense inside and out, but it was almost over. The circle stood only meters beyond, and now he had only to place the bodies within it and the gate would open.

He now realized that the blood on the ground was his own. His belly was cut deeply. His right hand split from the center and half of it cut free in a vicious arc away from his wrist. At some point, he couldn’t remember when most of his teeth had been smashed and his jaw so broken that now he could hardly speak. One eye was swollen nearly shut. One leg gashed open by a lightsaber so far up his thigh that he had nearly been neutered. His cheeks were wet, too, but it might have been blood or it might have only been his tears.

Do it. Open the gate. You’ve won.

"Let us heal your wounds," came a voice. "We can help you out of this mess."

He looked up with a start. Confusion.

"You…" he said, or had tried to say, but only a gush of blood had issued in place of the word. He puckered his cheeks, gathered, and spat hard on the ground to clear his mouth.

"Who are you?" he slurred, barely intelligible. "You… won’t stop me."

Dunkeel was dislocated only briefly, memories surfacing that were not his. What had happened here, he verily knew, had doomed them all - voracious as sin itself, Typhojem would come through and slay the cosmos. Many of his closest friends would die or had died here, dragged into the walking infernal dimension that was the Left-Handed Lord.

The man, inheritor of Soliloquy's memories, and versed in the Keys that had caused so much grief, spoke up to Darth Haretisch. "You know not us, well, not all of us, but we come to warn you of the treachery that you have." He looked at Bellorum and then spoke on. "Your daughter needs you, your nihilism will not serve her, I assure you."

A clawed hand rolled, and he used the Force to move the very blood itself, to siphon it away and reset the lock on the Well of the Dark Side - on the Gate that led to the very time when Typhojem still was alive -

Bell nodded at Dunkeel’s comment and spoke again to Haretisch, "you may not recognize us, but we know you and your actions well. This act of releasing Typhojem doesn’t end here, and you do die at this time."

She was desperately thinking of what they could use to sway him, but it really felt like stopping him was impossible.

"You knew me when I was younger, and there were times you trusted me," that was a stretch, and she knew it, "we know what will happen. You will be destroying every living thing in this timeline, and we can stop it here. If you want to die, I won’t stop you," her tone was firm now, "but I won’t allow you to destroy this galaxy."

Joren pursed his lips and watched Haretisch carefully, cognizant of Dunkeel’s actions at the Well and grateful for the continued efforts by both of his companions to placate the man. It had been a clever move to reference Hel, the Night Herald’s only daughter, to appeal to the man’s sensibilities. He viewed it as an opportunity, and he hoped to expand on that concept to further their goals.

"I remember you once told me that Hel was the center of your universe," Joren stated firmly as he added to the ongoing conversation. While he spoke, he turned his wrist at a slight angle, calling upon the Force to help Dunkeel. In addition to the blood, he was aware that the ritual also required the three bodies as a sacrifice. Haretisch needed to deposit them into the Well to open the gate, but if he continued to distract him with his words, perhaps they could eliminate that one critical piece and halt his plans.

"You explained that nothing else mattered," Joren carried on with more conviction. Even as the held the man's gaze, he reached out to touch Bellorum through their bond, silently asking for her assistance as he began to discreetly move the bodies toward the lava’s edge. "Everything you’ve ever done was for Hel’s benefit. You emphasized the importance of stability and the need to ensure a secure galaxy for her to inherit in the future. That was always your goal, even before I served under you as your Hand."

Joren bowed his head slightly and offered a rueful smile. "But what you’re doing here today," he lifted his free hand to indicate the Well and the desolate wasteland around them, "it’ll forfeit everything you’ve fought for. For yourself… for her. This reality will cease to exist, and there will be nothing left for Hel to gain. She will suffer for a time, and then she, too, will fall victim to Typhojem’s vengeful wrath. No one will be safe."

He narrowed his eyes, his expression hardening. "Is that what you want?"

Darth Haretisch’s grip weakened around the shaft of his lightsaber hilt. "So many lies," he exhaled. Every breath was more ragged. He hadn’t even noticed in his wounded state that the lock had been reset. His will had been exhausted and his body so broken by the fight that he had no ardor left, no angst sufficient to drive himself forward any further.

"I have done everything you asked," he continued, every syllable carefully enunciated to compensate for the mess which had been made of his jaw and his teeth. "I have forsaken all to make way for your coming. On only the promise of oblivion. And yet, you test my resolve with deceptions. As I have won, you place obstacles in my path."

He sunk to the ground, first to his knees then back onto his haunches, staining the lap of his pants with the blood from his stomach wound. He stared at the ground but his eyes were glazed and he saw only a blur, smudges of color in the dim sulfurous glow of the well.

"You revel in my suffering," he said finally. "It was you, wasn’t it? You who orchestrated everything, so that I had nothing to stop me from becoming your tool, accepting your pact in the deep core. And for what? So that I could stand at the edge of the oblivion which I have sought, which you made me seek, and be denied?"

He shook his head, and the last of his defiance shattered into a manic joy as he laughed, embracing the absurdity with his final breaths. Then he sagged, fell, and lay still.

Perhaps the loss of blood accounted for how Haretisch responded, but he was right; how could he be denied now when he had given it all? For a century and more, he had served the Left-Handed Lord and passed his treacheries out.

All the man sought was oblivion, and he seemingly took it - no longer invested in whether he succeeded or was thwarted. He merely wanted to die, and, here and now, he took that route.

The blood eased away from the Gate, and the ritual was interfered with, but the Well remained part-open; how could it not, for they had passed through it... and behind them, well, the oily black that was Typhojem sought to come through...

The Gate sealed and deposited a liquid goo on the floor.

It stood as a fully-formed Shadow Man.



Now you die.

Dunkeel watched the man die and the sadness of the waste pulled at his core. It was a pull slicked with the blood he now drank, slicked and lasted barely a moment. Sniffing he noted the goo that had been left behind, but this he instinctively knew not to try to eat. Not without the abhorrent notion of cooking first - too well done. The growl started low in his throat as it shifted and sprang to life as an aspect that was merely them-sized.

"Perhaps," Dunkeel growled as he reached out to the others to present a stalwart and unified front in the Force as well as in body. "But I will not go. Shutter your eye I will." Fang blazed and danced a little wavering pattern in the air. Tugging in the Force as he weaved a guarding barrier around them all, a suit of armor borne of the Force. It was not much, an ounce of protection that might not work but was a breath better than any could hope to fashion in any armorer's fire outside of Mandalore. 'Shall we? Once more,' he mentally asked through their bond.

Bellorum nodded to Dunkeel, agreeing to work together and to thank him for the shield that protected the trio. His timing was perfect because she had an idea.

Touching Joren’s arm, Bell asked him without speaking to stop sliding the three bodies towards the lava. "I’ll need help once I have them prepared," she told both Dunkeel and Joren. The bodies were close enough for her to step forward and touch them.

Bell crouched over the woman who had been Syren first. Images of how Syren had treated Bellorum’s beloved Aryan flashed through her mind. It was unforgivable.

Anger and resentment rose in her until she felt heat rising in her palms. Syren had been destructive, now what was left of her would be used for Bell’s means. It was satisfying that her life ended here to stop the wretched Typhojem while Aryan watched.

Flames filled Bell’s hands, and when she touched Syren, the flames slowly spread across the woman’s body. Bell then moved quickly between the bodies of the two men, she grasped the face of both in turn, imprinting their bodies with her flaming palms.

She had been careful to start the fires slowly, they needed to build up into a smoky mass first. The heat melted flesh and fat, which was then soaked into the clothing they had been wearing. Bell had created three massive inside-out candles fueled by their own body fat trapped inside their heavy robes and cloaks.

"Now, Joren," she whispered for his help to push the bodies closer together. Then to pull Syren across Manticore and Lorekeeper, allowing the three corpses to meld together into the smoky flames. Smoke was swirling around the three and filling the area with its acrid haze.

Her eyes glowed watching the flesh shrink as it cracked and dehydrated, limbs contracting until each had curled into pugilistic stances. How fitting it was that the three now resembled post-mortem fighters with their flexed elbows and knees, their fists raised and clenched. "We will dictate their last actions to accomplish our means," Bell said, willing the dead to fight for them.

"Now!" She urged her companions to lift the fiery mass and then fling it into the shadowy man with all their might.

There was no time to think or reflect on the series of events that had just transpired. It all happened in quick succession, from Darth Haretisch's passing to the Shadow Man's appearance from the supernatural realm. Even when Dunkeel called for solidarity and erected a Force shield to protect them from their foes, Joren could not find a moment to stop and acknowledge his efforts. He simply had to act.

And so, when Bellorum touched him through their bond and rallied them one last time, the former professor did not hesitate.

Pulling on all of his resources, Joren gathered the Force about him and envisioned a vibrant ball of energy within his mind. As he poured out his strength, he encouraged it to pulse and expand, adding to its exuberance. His exertion also built up an immense pressure that seemed to permeate the very air around them. It made it difficult to breathe, and the flames that marked the blazing pyre appeared to waver under its might.

Nevertheless, he did not ease up on his efforts. The pressure continued to mount, rising higher and higher until—

Joren unleashed the wave of energy with a feral scream, extending his arms to angle it toward the burning mass of bodies. The Force swept up the inferno, swirling it into a furious cyclone before impacting the Shadow Man square in the chest.

Hopefully, it would be successful in knocking the phantom into the lava lake beyond.

The Gate closed.

He was but a slither of himself.

He raged.

A wave of his blades and power crashed upon the three of them; no, upon the golden glyphs that were woven upon them.

Agony rose up within Dunkeel as his will met His will, blood bursting from his lips in the paroxysm.

But then the blast slammed into Him, a maelstrom of energy and fire and pain.

He crashed into the wall of the Well, sending cracks coruscating up the stone in a jagged promise.

His features writhed as if alive, as if his very skin roiled against Him.



Joren and Bellorum's hands blistered, burned, butchered, by the power they had summoned.

Slowly, He stood back up.

Her body was battered and burned, yet she managed a small smile thinking of how Aryan would flip out over her current state.

Bell was far from giving up, but something occurred to her, "this guy is a god, can we even kill a god?" She asked her companions, half-seriously.

She positioned herself between Joren and Dunkeel, "I’ll act as the ties binding us," she gripped each with her hands, "we do this together, let’s hurry while he seems weakened."

Bellorum focused on the already broken wall, exerting her will to crumble it inward.

Joren nodded and gathered his strength, pulling on Bellorum’s resolve to bolster his stamina. While the recent attack had left his hands blackened and seared, it was no longer a hindrance. As the adrenaline coursed through his veins, augmented by the living Force, his pain began to fade away, and he became one with his companions. They were together in both mind and spirit.

"As one," he reiterated loud enough for his fellow Protectors to hear, reinforcing their bond. He then planted his feet and watched under an intense gaze as Bellorum manipulated the Force to crumble the wall behind the Shadow Man.

As rock and mortar began to fall, Joren reached behind his back to retrieve the Scepter of Sistros. He instinctively tightened his fingers around the staff, the action conjuring a series of images that flashed across his mind’s eye. It was a vision; a retrospective memory from a few years ago when he had utilized the Scepter of Ragnos to destroy Nouane. It was clear to him that there were parallels between the two scenarios.

It was another echo.

One Dark.

And one Light.

He couldn’t help but smile at that notion. The Force certainly had an eccentric sense of humor. This was his opportunity to set things right and atone for his mistakes.

Empowered by this revelation, Joren lowered his chin and focused on Typhojem’s wavering essence. The Force noticeably stirred as he summoned the Scepter’s power, the light springing forth to generate long tendrils of energy that danced in scintillating patterns around the enclosed space. He fed on this vibrant intensity and encouraged both Bellorum and Dunkeel to do the same, enveloping them in a spectral embrace as his eyes shifted from their usual blue-gray to a brilliant white to reflect the luminous energy coursing through them.

"This ends now," Joren rumbled in a deep baritone, his conviction resonating across the distance that separated them.

He then angled the staff and unleashed the Scepter’s power on the Shadow Man.

TAG: @Mitth_Fisto; @Lady Belligerent; @Darth_wanderguard; @Sinrebirth

 

IC Tarkin and Marana
Landing zone, Eriadu

Armor shifted as Marana snorted, ”We’ll see how good he is as a commander…” She paused, flushing slightly, as she glanced at Tarkin who had a thin lipped smile upon his face. ”I mean no offense to the martial abilities of Eriadu, of course.”

”Of course…’ he replied dryly. Reaching a hand, he settled it on Jori’s shoulder, ”Astutely done, granddaughter.” he said softly.

”My one concern is whether this gamble will pay off fully. Eriaduans respect strength and, should we not project it from the start, they will seek another to lead.” he mused, glancing at Arb, chuckling for a moment.

He glanced out of the viewscreen again, taking in the more resting position of the troops now. Looking down at his own garments, he straightened his suit, flicking an unseen speck of dust from it before turning, the tip of his cane tapping the floor as he did so.

Crooking his arm to Marana, he smiled at Jori, doing the same with his other, only a slight downturn to his lips hiding the wince at the pain of doing so, in his leg. ”Shall we go see if they plan to poison us at this meal?” he asked, almost jovially.

Shaking her head slightly, ”They should be more worried of what we may do but they do have the advantage of numbers.” Smiling slightly, ”This should be…interesting, shouldn’t it, One Eye?”

TAGS: @Sinrebirth, @TheAdmiral

 

IC Xundel - combo with Sinrebirth
Kamino and…trouble

Xundel smiled softly as Vergere cloaked them in illusion. He knew she wasn’t truly or fully on board with how he felt but that she was doing things her way which currently coincided with what he was doing. And then he felt it, powerful Dark Siders arriving. He sighed, suppressing his emotions and his presence in the Force. He didn’t want or need the others to sense them or ‘see’ them at this point, it would not help anyones efforts to end the reign of terror.

At the whisper from Ravijari he reached out with his mind, ’Then we should all flee, the further you are from his power the more control you will have. Take us to the world you wished to go.’ He knew it was a longshot but they were now on the Tho Yor’s hull and he knew that they could be enmeshed with it, as had happened with his ship, if they were there that long.

They were becoming enmeshed as he even thought it.

In a moment, they were inside, and Ravijari, looking weary, stood on the beach with them.

"That was... unpleasant," Vergere said, rolling her neck.

Their ship was in the sand drift, and the two of them now stood before the man.

"Why do you want to save an old Bogan so?" He seemed confused by Xundel's insistence. "It's been 25,000 years. I'm beyond redemption, no?"

Vergere's eyes narrowed but she didn't speak.

Xundel snorted at Vergere’s comment, ”You get used to it. That’s the third or fourth time I’ve experienced it.”

He turned to face Ravijari, the ‘man’ hadn’t seemed to age over the years. But, he was the consciousness that animated the Tho Yor so it wasn’t like he had a physical body to age.

Another snort escaped him, ”Why wouldn’t I?” He stepped closer, crossing his legs and sinking onto the sand before Ravijari. ”I’ve freed multiple beings from their prisons, admittedly the prisons that my current companion put them in to test me, but whether they left to follow their own paths or continued to assist me in mine…”

He broke off, chuckling, glancing at Vergere again, ”Admittedly even the Jedi disappointed me by not returning to assist when all were given the choice.”

Shaking his head again, ”Still, given the choice I’d do so again and will continue to do so for you as you deserve the right to follow your own path.”

Ravijari nodded. "Come, follow me."

He turned, and they were suddenly upon a moon above an obvious planet.

Tython.

"This is Bogan," Ravijari said. "Where we were exiled."

Xundel looked around, he couldn’t feel the Dark energy that this moon should hold, it was just another part of the influence that Ravijari could exert, inside the Tho Yor.

He sighed, ”Many things have happened here, here and Ashla and Tython. You were exiled but how did that lead to you inhabiting the Tho Yor?”

"The Ones were collecting threats as recently as two thousand years ago," Ravijari said, pointedly. "The Rakata they couldn't face, but there was nothing preventing Tho Yor from scooping up potential dangers. Apparently my Bogan and I qualified. Without access to Centerpoint and other Celestial weapons, the Ones had one of their remaining two empty Tho Yor collect up me and my kin, especially when the Ashla - the Jedi - left the Tython system."

A sniff.

"The Tho Yor are our prisons; eventually we were incorporated into them, and now Snoke commands them."

His eyes narrowed. "But you just want me to tell you where to go, no?"

Xundel nodded at the explanation. When Ravijari turned back toward him and his eyes narrowed, the little imp smiled even as his eyes swirled. A chuckle escaped him, the tone of it lowering as the noise came from his lips.

Those grey eyes looked up at Ravijari’s narrowed ones, ”No…not at all.” a deep baritone said, coming from his small mouth. ”As I said, we go where you think you can be free. Remove you and the other Tho Yor from the board, free you, and the playing board is more level.”

He glanced at Vergere, an almost smirk on his face. ”Isn’t that right…Darth Traya...”

Vergere looked positively neutral. "The Coordinate though -"

"The Coordinate?" Ravijari said, eyes narrowing.

A sigh. "The artefact that Snoke is using to control all of this. It was secreted away by the Sith, a hundred millennia ago. It appears to be a Holocron, but even the Sith knew it was more than that." A shrug. "But after the Vultar Cataclysm, the Kathol Rift Disaster, and then releasing Abeloth, most Sith won't touch Celestial tech."

"But not Snoke."

"Nope, not Snoke. He isn't afraid."

Xundel sighed, the grey eyes swirling, ”He’s Darkness, he’s willing to use whatever tools he can claim.”

His head turned, as though he was looking toward the planet, ”But, I’m not sure he is the one using the…Coordinate right now or you wouldn’t be able to even consider what I offer.”

"No," he confirmed. "It's with Rey, who pendulums between Palpatine and Skywalker, unbalanced."

Vergere snorted indelicately. "Of course she does. I took my measure of her on Exocron years ago; she is unseasoned. Strong in the Force, yes, and able to learn by virtue of the so-called Dyad she shares with a more traditionally trained Sith - Kylo Ren - but even he is an enigma who has died twice now."

Ravijari pursed his lips. "Not quite. The ancient Je'daii knew of a way to teach how to split ones inclinations. If your internal being became the personification of Light and Dark, then you could excise one. Of course, in doing so, you would earn imprisonment in the opposite place. Balance was sought; not Chaos. Chaos was anathema to the Je'daii; they would judge Light and Dark, but Chaos was their sworn enemy..."

"... Much like the Protectors."

"Yes, yes," Vergere said. "Xundel has tried; I've tried. Jacen Solo became Darth Caedus and we know how that went."

There was a slow but sure gathering of blue-limned beings around them, all listening.

Xundel’s swirling gray eyes suddenly glittered. ”Two birds with one stone…” the dry ancient voice that came from his lips said.

His head swiveled toward Vergere, ”If only we had a being that could lie to Snoke’s face while pursuing a different agenda from what Darkness wants, while…”

His head turned back to Ravijari, ”While Ravijari here goes with the other, to the system he desires to go to, to work with them to free himself, attacking the threads that keep him and the other Tho Yor in slavery, from two different directions at once.”

"We can't name the system, not now. I can only tell you that the Coordinate is near..." Ravijari nodded, slowly.

"... and I can tell you where the Master of Masters, Aden Kya and T'ra Saa are right now." Vergere grinned, devilish. A datapad was produced. "I put trackers on their robes. Evil, I know."

"Coruscant, Jakku, Arkinnea, respectively."

A frown, and a stiffening from Ravijari.

"No, wait, the Master's beacon vanished."

The Force rumbled with a death...

Xundel sighed, eyes shifting color again, sensing death once again, feeling the loss in the Force, feeling the ripples as it washed over them. ”Hmmm, was he at Coruscant? If so…” his eyes shifted back to the swirling gray ”Death is part of existence, if he’s not involved in the immediate we must wait to see if the echoes of his death affect the overall plans.”

He reached up, rubbing the tip of one long ear. He shook his head, ”In fact, we must use the ripples to affect our own design. The best plan then is to depart without revealing our destination and then divert enroute.” Looking up at Ravijari, ”Are you capable of that much, in this moment?”

"I could protect your departure, facilitate it, yes," Ravijari said, carefully. "The Coordinate is not in use, not at present. But only a piece is here at Kamino, I can tell you that much."

Vergere nodded slowly. "Jakku or Arkinnea?"

Xundel’s head slowly turned toward Ravijari, ”Where are the other pieces then? If either are enroute or near either of those places then that will decide our course. But answer swiftly, I’m sure our window of departure is quickly closing.”

Ravijari tried to speak, but his mouth would not.

Others present did, stretching their mouths.

Vergere narrowed her eyes.

"Didn't we just go through this?" She pressed Xundel. "Jakku or Arkinnea?"

Xundel’s head swiveled towards Vergere and in a calm, dispassionate tone, ”Actually, no, that was a different matter but I had to test the limits.’ There was a sigh and he shook his head, ”Jakku, but in a roundabout way. So they do not follow that easily.”

TAG: @Sinrebirth

 

THE END OF TIME (NEW AND IMPROVED)

Explosion



Light.

Eternal Light.

It rose up the moment their combined energies shattered Typhojem.

Into.

Through.

Throughout.

They were nowhere.

Nowhen.

Nohow.

They fell, guided by starlight, streaking by them in the night.



They arrived, at a small, lonely asteroid, peering up at a space phenomena.



A White Coat.

"So, you did it."

It was a woman's voice.

Softly spoken.

TAG: @Mitth_Fisto, @HanSolo29, @Lady Belligerent (combo)

 

MORTIS

Caedus and Han and Jacen...

... The First Darkness and Azathoth and Tobias Nyz...

TAG: @HanSolo29, @Shadowsun (outstanding TAGs, no rush, no harm)

 

KAMINO, INITIALLY

IC: Vergere
A round about way

The test was, of course, that they could jump from Kamino undetected, or, if possible, in such a manner that the Tho Yor wasn't bid to strike them down.

As it was, they did indeed detach, and, in their strange amalgamation of Celestial tech and Xundel's personal craft, their damage shored up by luminescent metal, vanished into hyperspace at a speed that wasn't spec. "I wonder if this could give the Falcon a run for it's credits," Vergere absently spoke aloud.

"So, what is roundabout? Are we heading to deep space, setting up a trail in an inhabited system?"

Their return to the stars told them that the Galactic Empire had struck Kashyyyk, even as Mon Calamari remained imperilled.

The Empire was in command of half the galaxy, and about to cross the divide to ruling the majority of it.

Atrisia, Naboo, Kamino - they were merely footholds in the southern and eastern quadrants that would allow them to expand forward.

Snoke was a keen intellect and strategist.

TAG: @darthbernael

 

BOGAN, FOR NOW

IC: Adas, Malleus, the Hammer of the Sith

The Resurgent-class Star Destroyer hanging in orbit was among the few that the Empire had left.

A battlecruiser of great power, it had the ability to conquer entire star systems, and project power across a sector.

Adas regarded it.

He hadn't said anything to Soliloquy save to lean forward at his proclamation.

"You lived for 300 years as the ebony ruler. Impressive. Worthy of study, as are some of the old techniques you could offer. I should warn I am not on the best terms with a certain Left Handed One."

Having leaned close, he had leered, if possible with an inanimate face.

"Neither am I."

He had explained, shortly - that he did not fear nor worship the Old Ones. They were not interested in a Sith Order, or Empire, or even species. They merely used up those who served them. Time and time again, they had consumed their loyal servants, or abandoned them, if only to see how they would fair against each other. The Waymancy Storm had spent a millennium preparing to crush the Republic, and were defeated in a single year; the Cold Coil struck at the Republic at it's weakest zenith, during the Hundred Years Darkness, and weren't assisted; the Sith species were driven from their cradle, and Vitiate merely added to it, planning a monstrous ritual that would have consumed all life.

"I knew that the Old Ones, these Darknesses, were not to be trusted. I entreated for my own Sith legacy."

He glowered at the Star Destroyer.

"Tell me about it, and whether the two of us could take it for my new Sith Empire."

TAG: @Mitth_Fisto

 

THE MATRIX, FINALLY

IC: The Architect
A snort

The Zabrak didn't know nearly enough.

"Copies do not suffer degradation in my Matrix," the Architect seethed. "There is a great deal of untethered energy in the system; the equations attempting to balance out what you would call a Chosen One."

"Neo, a God of sorts," the Analyst clarified.

"If he were to be killed..." the Architect said, carefully.

"Then the Smith's would cease to be a problem," the Analyst confirmed. "The system would simply erase them..."

"... freeing up your body," the Architect tapped his pen and the screens showed the man.



"What say you?"

TAG: @greyjedi125
---
JAKKU, AND THEN

The tentacles pumped into Manticore-Smith, seeking desperate purchase.

Abeloth was becoming more translucent as she did so, her shadow-self revealed as a truth.

Maz had collapsed, had she hit her head in the tumult?

The Gate;s edges swirled, chevrons aligning, realigning, as if searching -

But the true struggle was between Vydra and the fraying remnants of Pascale Rouser -

With an effort, one which drew hard upon them all, including Qwi and Beaumont -

There was a FLASH!

Vydra and Pascale would drop to unconsciousness...

... and awaken upon a beach.

All of them.

Pascale (just the one), Vydra, Qwi, Beaumont.

It was Commenor, an old, old memory of Pascale.

TAG: @AgentViper007

 

PARADIS

The Coordinate

The man regarded the interlopers.

They were neither Children of Ymir, nor not.

"I am Eren Jaeger. I hold the Attack, War Hammer and Founder Titans. With the Founder, I can command all Titans, as I now have access to Royal Blood. I have begun the Rumbling, and will genocide all those outside of my island. There will be peace, and the wheel will be broken."

But them?

They simply did not belong.

He held out his hand, and they would feel the shift of power.

"You need to leave. Resist me, and I kill you. Depart, and I will not."

Alecto snarled, readied her lightsaber.

"You speak to the Dark Lord of the Sith?"

Ike opened his mouth, and then firmly clapped it shut. He kinda wanted to see what Eren would do.

He was inordinately powerful, if he was commanding millions of Titans, and projecting his voice so -

"Accept my offer."

There was a roiling ball of energy behind them; Ike half-watched it. A portal? To where?

And as he looked back at Eren, he saw a Colossal Titan form from the sands, imperceptibly positioned between them and glowing tree thing behind Eren.

Ike, however, opted to remain silent, backing away from whatever blow cometh.

TAG: @greyjedi125, @Darth Cocytus

 

ERIADU

The meal wasn't an opportunity for poison.

In-fact, a replete meal was set out, a banquet, arguably.

And the depleted nature of the Eriaduan elite was evident.

Only Zel, an old, old man, who had served the old Empire, was evident from the military.

And that was it, essentially.

A set of servers were present, some human, some droid.

"Come, eat, and speak of what you intend to offer the Authority."

His age was the main reason he wanted fresh political blood.

Not Tarkin, no, but Jori Atreus. She was young, and if she indeed inherited the legacy of Tarkin, and the ties to Kuat...

Well they had a chance.

His militant mind took in Marana. The Force was, as ever, a skifter in the deck - a wild card.

But it was better to have to hand than not.

An aide whispered in the commandants ear briefly, as the starters were brought out.

He grimaced. New Imperial footholds at Atrisia, Naboo and Kamino; Kashyyyk freshly embattled, the siege of Mon Calamari continuing; a raft of Grand Moffs and Admirals appointed to serve Emperor Snoke.

It wasn't good.

But he kept his expression neutral.

Though undoubtedly the Force users would realise he was pertubed.

TAG: @darthbernael, @TheAdmiral

 

IC Tarkin and Marana
Eriadu, the feast

As they were led to where the feast was laid out, Tarkin took the opportunity to observe what changes had happened to his homeworld. They were not immediately obvious, the Eriaduans were good at maintaining the superficial cover of their own strength but, to one that was and had been a member of the Quintad in the past, it was blaringly visible.

He glanced over at Marana and then Jori as they walked, the former had a half smile on her face. She couldn’t see the differences but, he supposed, she could sense that the ‘air’ of the place wasn’t what it ought to be, as it used to be, at least in their timeline. His granddaughter seemed to be studying the place as well, possibly categorizing the data she was compiling to best enhance their position when they did discuss things with those who had created the banquet.

When they arrived he kept a neutral expression on his face, seeing the man who was waiting. He’d decided to let Jori take the lead, the younger politician of their group so she needed to be the public face of them, as it were.

He picked up a chalice, handing a second to Marana, hiding a smile at Jori’s words. She could bluster well, and was sure she understood the hierarchy of Eriadu, at least to a degree. The fact that she was his granddaughter would add weight to her words.

Taking a sip, he nodded to Zel, ”It has been many decades, has it not, Zel?” he asked in a calm, measured tone. He, of course, had no idea how long this reality’s version of himself had been dead but he couldn’t truly reveal that.

Marana was only paying half attention to the conversation. Her eyes met Tarkin’s, her blazing slightly. Sighing, her attention turned to the old man, ”Zel, was it? This is all comforting, looks delicious, but…you and I both know that this is,” She thought for a moment, trying to find the right word. ”this is a veneer. Eriadu is not at it’s prime, at all, is it?”

Turning her gaze to the man that had greeted them originally, ”And you, tell me, what news is it that has just soured your entire being?”

The first question had been asked in a calm, light tone. The second…was more direct, pointed, designed to push the already ill at ease officer to tell what had touched off his anxiety.

TAGS: @Sinrebirth, @TheAdmiral

 

OOC: The following is a crazy combo with Lady Belligerent, Mitth_Fisto, and Sinrebirth – thank you so much!!

IC: Bellorum [Braata], Dunkeel [Faya], Joren Graal [Sistros], and the White-Coat
The End of Time (or not?)

It was too good to be true. The Left-Handed God always came back, which had Bellorum skeptical that they were indeed successful.

During the surreal journey through space, Bell grabbed to touch Joren, she saw Aryan when she gazed into his eyes. When he grasped her hand, it was Aryan’s hand holding hers. Her soulmate was right there with her.

She could feel Dunkeel nearby, which was a relief that the trio seemed to have survived intact.

When they were once again on solid ground, Bell glanced curiously at the White-Coat that now joined them. She spoke to them, "So, you did it."

"What exactly did we do?" Bell asked tentatively.

Mouth working slowly, Dunkeel felt his bloody gums and slowly applied the Force, gingerly, to heal them. Looking at Bell, he simply hissed as his head reared and his chest puffed at the truth evident. "We did the impossible," he hissed in pleasure, looking from his companions to the White-Coat in curiosity. Knowing of his other selves, he was curious about this one.

Was she the first of them? Of the Black-Coat of many names that they had called Master of Masters? Or was she someone else? Someone else entirely. An exhaustive point he now felt compelled to make in his head. He would much rather be fixing a broken motivator or tending to the gears of their old home now long gone instead of thinking of these weird and convoluted things. But think he must, not for his sake that would have let it slip away, but for the sake of his fellow Masters, he pushed to think and scent these things out.

Friend or Foe foremost on his mind.

The astral realm came into sharp focus once the brilliant light faded from Joren’s eyes, allowing him to regain his vision. The last thing he remembered was an unprecedented explosion that had consumed Typhojem’s form. The resulting shockwave had then swept them away on a ray of blinding light through the cosmos…

An Eternal Light.

It had deposited them here, on this desolate asteroid.

With a sharp intake of breath, Joren glanced around to survey their surroundings. He immediately noted how the landscape appeared familiar somehow—as if he had gazed upon this celestial body before. It was unclear whether he had encountered it through his existence as Aryan Graul, during his three-thousand-year jaunt in purgatory… or somewhere else. Either way, he was amazed at its grandeur.

It felt pure… natural.

Those sentiments rippled through the Force, prompting him to look down at Bellorum, who stood at his side with their hands interlocked. He could not recall ever reaching for her during their transcendent journey, but he surmised that it must’ve been instinct. Much like his connection to this reality, it felt natural. Despite names and skin color, this was Tera; they were back together again.

That notion, along with Dunkeel’s intuitive insight, provided Joren with the strength and determination to confront their new visitor—a White-Coat. Dressed in white robes and a hood that concealed the wearer’s face, this elusive stranger almost served as the inverse of the Black-Coat. She was his opposite…

Or were they complementary forces?

Was the Master the yin to this White-Coat’s yang?

Joren inclined his chin, echoing Dunkeel’s thoughts about her being friend or foe as he reached out with the Force, probing… wondering…

"We did what was necessary to atone for our past mistakes and prevent the End of Time," he answered simply, narrowing his eyes marginally.

"Did the Master send you?"

No, the 'Master' did not send me.

She spoke with that resonance, that one that all higher beings seemed to have.

It could be said that I sent him, but I didn't.

Her voice had such a gentle inflection.

The impossible is the province of the Protectors, and their companions, the Destructors. Some of them you would consider Jedi, and others, Sith, acting for either.

She gestured to them each.

You were renamed by him, redirected from your original pathways. Your Sin, it was his; Reborn, Rebirth. He projected that Sin upon you and the others who died in the Well. When the Left-Handed Lord reached through that Gateway, he set it so you would be there.

Her words were soothing.

There is no sin to forgive.

Joren felt a chill run down the length of his spine, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Bellorum’s hand, squeezing it firmly in his grasp. The White-Coat's voice had a tranquil quality, but her explanation evoked a sense of unease. She had leveled grave accusations at the Master, allegedly exposing him as the instigator in some grand conspiracy. It reminded him of the situation on Nouane many centuries ago when those same sentiments had caused the Protectors to fracture.

Doubt and uncertainty.

It had destroyed them once, and he couldn’t go through that again. He needed proof; he wanted to know the truth.

"You're saying that the Master did manipulate us," Joren replied carefully, taking a cautious step forward in an attempt to see beyond the White-Coat’s cowl. "He crafted some grand design to ensure that we arrived at this moment, to defeat the Left-Handed Lord? And in the process, we internalized his sins; that’s what he used as motivation and to establish piety."

He scoffed and shook his head slowly. “So, we’re not responsible for… any of this?"

Bell stayed silent listening to the White-Coat, and then Joren. Her eyes cut over to see what Dunkeel’s reaction was because she didn’t trust the stranger in white.

Her personal experience was limited, but she had knowledge that had been shared with her from Tera and the others. They’d given her the sense that the Master could be trusted, and she’d already made the quick decision to trust Joren’s instincts, his hand gripping hers provided all the reassurance she needed.

Dunkeel breathed. It was hissing and rasping and altogether uncomfortable. Luckily it wasn't about comfort. It was about truth. Joren of course had his reaction, his words in response to this apparent woman's soft ones. It was irritating, but most of his fellow Protectors were. It was amazing how good they were considering all of their historic trauma and all the times they had seemed to dance around each other throughout galactic history.

"No sin to forgive," he repeated with his hissing rasp. "Hmm," his throat rumbled at that, his head canting to the side he chirped softly at the sky about them. Though he always kept at least one eye upon her. "The Master of Masters always manipulated us. By saying hello to anything else. For he was never meant to be on Nouane. There was never supposed to be a clock tower that I called home. We diverse people were never meant to be family. All manipulations." He cleared his throat with a necking wretch of a wet cough that sent a glob of blood-stained saliva to the ground between them.

"If there is a price for my actions, I am willing to pay. But I want to know the court that judges us! That judges him! For start," he added with a growling frustration.

She waited for Dunkeel's extortions to come to an end.

His censure was heartbreaking.

My friends, I am judge, jury, and punisher; I am the Light. I decide what is Good and I know you three did merely your best. You have prevented the End, and I shall re-insert you in the past, safely, so as to not generate a Change…

A pause.

If you want to forget, I can grant that absolution for you.

A sound in their ears.

The Master's voice.

Don't trust her.

The words resonated within Joren’s mind, offering solace like an intimate lover whispering platitudes into his ear. The Master was a familiar presence, one he had come to know and trust through their journey together. They had formed a unifying bond, and it would be difficult to break that cycle—especially when the man had granted him a new lease on life. He had saved him from his destructive tendencies and made him whole... to start anew.

In this instance, it was the Master’s knowledge and foresight against an elusive being he hardly knew. While the White-Coat's answers served his intuitive mind and brought a moment of theological reflection as he considered the essence of their existence—she had attributes of a god or a supreme being, and the nature of her proposal reflected that—he still had his suspicions. In that sense, he agreed with Dunkeel’s assessment and found himself humbled by his rebuke.

And yet, it also empowered him to express his own misgivings, which he poured openly into the Force.

His actions mirrored those sentiments as he released Bellorum’s hand and took a stand, inclining his chin to confront the White-Coat. "Why the past?" Joren asked firmly, scrutinizing the being under a hooded gaze. "Isn’t it dangerous to dwell on what came before? That’s the same mentality that poisons the mind and gives rise to a Change."

He pursed his lips and exchanged glances with his compatriots. "Wouldn’t we have more success if we carried on in the present and carved out a new path to follow in this life?"

Once Joren released her hand, Bell took a step back, she was then standing behind Dunkeel and Joren. The galaxy was spread out before her, yet all she felt was an acute physical ache in her chest. Even though Bell had been with her two companions, she was alone.

One moment she’d been in bed with Aryan, where they’d always found time together before sleep. It was when they could discuss things to do with the children, and share other bits from each other’s day. That last night he’d surprised her by suggesting a long weekend away, just the two of them. It had been such a happy evening.

Bell stifled a sob by coughing. She realized the options the White-Coat dangled out could take away everything she’d never dreamed she’d have. It would take away her life.

She’d waited while Joren spoke out, once he stopped, Bell turned on the White. "You don’t know me. If you did, you’d understand how wiping my mind is like a blade through my heart."

That point had struck a nerve with Bell, "I never asked to be taken from my husband’s arms while he slept," she had to pause and steady herself, "my life began when I was given a soul mate, and then he gave me a family. Now you’re discussing starting over? How would that benefit me?" She was close to losing control, her emotions were making it difficult to make this kind of decision.

"I can’t trust you’d insert me into the past! Define your idea of the past?"

She stared at the hooded figure and dug in, "and I’d rather die than allow you to erase my memories."

Dunkeel went still. Quiet.

Joren and Bell. They seethed and raged. Dunkeel stayed quiet. Unmoving, as frozen as a statue until they were done.

Reaching for them in the Force he held them tight in the bonds they shared. Then he whispered. Soft as a summer breeze, "She doesn’t understand a Change."

With that he launched himself at her, Fang springing to life as an outstretched tooth rash and ready to devour as he cut true to rend away the coat of not the one inside as well. That they might truly see whomever they faced now.

The White-Coat held up a placating pair of hands.

I do not know you, I am sorry if I misspoke. I just know that the pain you have felt is one which I would not wish upon anyone, and I merely offered to balm it -

And then Dunkeel leapt at her!

The blade sank into the cloak, but it was empty, the woman abandoning it to Fang -

Her essence became slim, rubbery, almost, as it swelled -





You stand against the Maker?

After standing in solidarity with Bellorum, the former professor watched in horror as Dunkeel attacked the White-Coat in his rage. He would never condone violence as a means to solve their problems, not at this juncture. It required clear justification, which was what he had hoped to achieve through questioning their guest, but the Chistori forcefully eliminated that option.

But before Joren could properly react to the onslaught—to even cry out in disapproval—something amazing happened.

The White-Coat deflected Dunkeel's attack and transcended her physical form, growing larger and sprouting wings to emulate an angelic spirit. She was both beautiful and terrifying, as evidenced by the enormous scythe held tightly in her grip. It was like gazing into the face of the divine, and for Joren, that was the pinnacle of his existence. As a theologist, it was the purpose of his journey; the reason why he sought to solve the mysteries of the unknown.

Had he finally found enlightenment?

Was this truly… the Maker?

Who else could it be?! He could feel the truth in his heart; in his soul.

Despite the deity’s frightening persona, Joren dropped the Scepter of Sistros at his feet and collapsed to his knees. He then inclined his chin in reverence, his eyes wide with awe. "My Maker," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, still trying to process the scene unfolding around them. "You must… forgive us for our insolence. Especially the one named Dunkeel; my brother." He nodded toward the Chistori to emphasize his point. "He hails from a predatory species, a society which prides itself on the hunt. He was only acting on his natural impulses as one of your many creatures.

"We are all very close, and it has been a long… long journey. We have been manipulated, deprived of our basic necessities, beaten, murdered, resurrected—" He pursued his lips and trailed off, shaking his head at how absurd it sounded to his own ears. "I suppose we—uhh, I only seek peace and salvation. I thought the Master was the one to deliver us, but…"

He exhaled heavily, suddenly at a loss.

"I… I don’t know anymore—who is right, who is wrong. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be."

Bell sighed at Dunkeel’s sudden attack. Had he cost them everything, or had he forced the White’s hand so she would reveal more to them?

She personally didn’t harbor a lot of belief in higher beings, it was something she was apathetic to. Joren’s reaction was a strong message that he now believed this being could be trustworthy, Bell would reserve her opinion for a little longer, she just wasn’t sure.

"I don’t feel as if I need a balm, what I’ve lived through has made me stronger. I came from a solitary existence to finding Aryan, and now having Joren and Dunkeel. Our shared experiences have strengthened our bonds, which I refuse to forget." She still smarted at the suggestion of forgetting. The very idea of that loss had caused despair to weigh heavily on Bell. She was no longer sure she would ever see Aryan or her children again.

Dunkeel’s nostrils flared and he felt himself tensing to ready for the battle to the death! As he and his family were poised to strike down yet another false deity that had dared to stand over them in judgment.

Only he didn’t feel the others tense. He didn’t feel them ready to fight this thing that looked like so many rubber chickens and farming blades mashed together. Joren went to his knees? Dunkeel would carry his weight. Only, Bell didn’t either. He was alone.

Heaving a sigh he lifted the abandoned white coat off the floor. "It appears we do not. I have a memory of another with your same name, a man whom all droids praise." Deactivating Fang he lifted the white coat, swinging it on as he backed up to the others. "Past is a poor choice for us. Leave us in that future we Changed already. Leave us our memories, our burdens, our scars. Without them we are lesser, we are worse." Shoving at Joren in the Force, just enough to rock the man from a felt slap to the back of the head. What was wrong with him? This was a Maker and he had hatched long ago from his parents, something was wrong with Joren.

The Master's voice whispered. Braata, Sistros, we captured the Darknesses to bait out the First Evil... and thus baited out the First Light. For you to have your peace... you need to kill her. Otherwise, she'll restart the endless war between Light and Dark... you know this.

The words touched upon Faya, too, a less Forceful nudge than a slap.

The woman regarded them, tense, scythe evident, angelic wings drawn...

I see.

It's why I killed the Father of Balance, after all. First the Balance with the Dark, then the Darkness with the Light, then the Light with you…

His words had a hissing quality, now…

A spectral hand reached out through the Force and slapped Joren across the back of the head, causing his body to jolt forward from the impact. Almost on instinct, he turned to glare at his fellow Protector. Not only had Dunkeel offended him, but he had shown contempt for his Maker. The latter was perhaps the greatest sin of all, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman decided to smite them from this existence for their insolent behavior.

However, before the altercation could escalate, Joren’s expression sobered as he heard the Master’s voice once more. It continued to echo inside his mind, trying to soothe him and win his favor with quiet whispers. Almost like a siren's song, it was easy to become captivated by its alluring appeal...

But then Joren noticed an imperfection; an apparent contradiction that broke the spell and allowed him to perceive its true nature. Suddenly, the voice was nothing more than a dark, ominous hiss.

"And once we succeed here, who will continue the cycle to kill us?" Joren asked aloud to challenge the elusive Black-Coat; to expose him.

He then rose back to his feet and inclined his chin, his blue eyes reflecting his conviction. "In your fervor to defeat the Maker, you have committed a crucial mistake. You’ve violated our creed… the fundamental truth that has held us together. You have ordered us to destroy the Light—but as Protectors, it is our duty to safeguard the Light."

Joren clenched his fists at his sides, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You have betrayed us... Master."

"We’ve been deceived," Bell whispered. The realization was shocking, it couldn’t be true.

She wanted to rage in anger over how they’d been used, but a weariness had set in. Her life would likely end if she had to fight for it at this moment.

"Were we puppets for a madman?" Her voice was hollow.

Dunkeel paused at the voice, not at Joren’s response as it was what he had wanted. For the man to snap out of it and be present outside his own head.

Now the voice of The Master spoke, but it hissed. The Master doesn’t hiss, Dunkeel hisses on occasion, but The Master does not. The others ran away with the unjust order and theories of betrayal. Dunkeel’s faith was not so easily shaken.

"Vocalis impermanentia sicut cum tota re somnium assumere potest."

He spoke not in his voice but in The Master’s before turning to give a nod to the Maker. "I apologize, I attacked and nearly did without right what a voice in our heads, hissing, now tells us to do. It tries to be The Master, but it, like most copies-imperfect. Unlike my family, I learned the ways of the guil. Forgive us our slow nature to understand and adapt."

*Vocal impermanence as with all reality a dream can assume

Dunkeel reasoned that it was not the Master that hissed to them.

Perhaps.

Joren and Bellorum reasoned that it was the Master, and he did want them to kill the Maker; the Light itself.

The woman with her scythe and flowing fronds regarded them. Outside of her White-Coat, there was a demonic aspect to her.

How could you believe the Master wanted me dead? If I am indeed the Maker, all that is Light?

The snake-like voice again.

How could you believe that the Maker has your best intentions at heart? If she is indeed the Maker, all that is Light, why did she not stop the Left-Handed Lord, a mere piece of the First?

And that was what this was about.

Was the Master benevolent or malevolent?

Could they trust the man who had helped them stop Typhojem?

Or could they not?

After all

After all

What did you think the Black-Coat protected the Master from?

What did you think the White-Coat protected the Maker from?

The conflicting statements were too much for her, and Bell had no knowledge of the Master shapeshifting into a demonesque being, she didn’t recall him ever being this threatening to them.

Her doubt was shifting. The offer to wipe their memories especially stood out. The notion made her feel physically ill. Bell would lose Tera, plus all of the knowledge and memories she shared with Joren and Dunkeel. It didn’t make sense.

Then there was the serpent voice that didn't sound like the Master at all. Dunkeel had a point, the Master doesn’t hiss.

She growled deep in her throat, frustrated that she felt so hung up on these issues. It was time to swallow her despair. ‘Suck it up old girl,’ she chided herself.

Bell tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stepped closer to the White-Coat to speak, "where were you when we had to fight Typhojem? Why didn’t you help us?"

She pursed her lips and angrily asked one more question, "why do you need protection from the light?"

They were both pertinent questions, perhaps the most compelling ones at this critical moment. The two elusive figures had hinted at the answers through their bantering, but now Bellorum exposed the truth by confronting them directly. It was a punch between the eyes, and for Joren, it served as a source of clarity.

The Master had previously explained the purpose of his black robes—to protect himself against the malicious forces of the Dark. In that sense, it seemed to indicate his true nature; he was more than a man shrouded in mystery, but also a soldier of Light.

In contrast, the Maker had swathed herself in robes of white with a demonic element underneath. What type of benevolent creature would wield a scythe? Was she truly Darkness incarnate, requiring a cloak to repel the Light’s divine power? And by removing her White-Coat, had she now left herself vulnerable to the Light?

It marked a path forward for Joren, but—

Who was he to ever doubt the system in the first place? The Master had saved his soul twice from the final reckoning. He had forgiven his transgressions and granted him a second chance to amend his life through a spiritual rebirth. The journey had been a difficult one, but he had learned; he had grown to achieve enlightenment.

And now… he had been so easily swayed by an illicit deity?

'Forgive me, Master,' Joren conveyed through the Force, reaching beyond the influence of the serpentine tongue that sought to tempt them. He then expanded his awareness to touch his fellow Protectors—Bell, but particularly Dunkeel, who had been right all along. 'You too, my friends. I nearly led you astray…'

"She is exposed," Joren stated aloud, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped forward to join Bell. He nodded his chin to indicate the Maker’s spectral form, realizing that it resembled something out of a nightmare rather than an angelic being who would grant them salvation.

Pursing his lips, the former professor unclipped the lightsaber hilt from his belt and ignited the azure blade with an audible snap-hiss. He then knelt down to retrieve the Scepter of Sistros and held it firmly in his opposite hand.

"And we embody the Light."

Dunkeel nodded at his fellow Protectors, it was decided. They had come the long way round, but they were united in choice and belief once more. And perhaps better for the delay, as they all were on the same stage of the hunt, if not the same reasoning.

Standing beside them he looked to the bird-like worm that promised talons and rubbery flesh. Fang ignited harsh, bright, and true! Growling he seethed and prepared to strike, with the others, as one.

TAG: @Lady Belligerent; @Mitth_Fisto; @Sinrebirth