Post by Zechar on Jun 5, 2013 9:13:10 GMT -8
The ship wasn't named yet; maybe never would be. Zechar certainly had no desire to do so; he'd never found a ship to which he was particularly attached. They'd stolen it, floating over Bakura. The crew were left intact, and though at first unwilling, after an 'interview' with Alkor, they all became quite compliant. Zechar still didn't know exactly what had happened, nor did he particularly care. Alkor's persuasive methods had proved perfectly persuasive, that was all that mattered in the end. The girl was... well, what was she? Her name was Kari, Alkor had picked her up in Gesco on their way up to seize the ship. The way she looked at him made it obvious how she felt. Even the Exile's impenetrable soul felt a small stirring. Novanna used to have that same look in her eyes when she looked at Zechar, and that score wasn't settled yet.
It would be soon.
They were in orbit over Abbaji now, readying to pack themselves into drop pods. Zechar could barely contain himself in his malicious glee. He wanted to be down there, feeling the dirt beneath his feet, watching the piddling occupants gawk at him in the instants before their annihilation. He had to feel the rush of the attack. Had to. It was a sudden revelation - he needed to feel somebody dying at his hand. It didn't bother him; in times before, he'd felt the urge to fight, practice, exert himself. For some reason, though, now he felt the specific drive to kill, slaughter, murder, and destroy.
In a sick way, it felt good.
Wrapping his scaly hand around Vedic's hilt at his side, Zechar prowled through a corridor. As usual, he was wrapped in a black robe that hid everything about him but his size. He came to the debarking deck, the place from where he and Alkor and Kari would go rocketing planetside. he'd never made a descent this way; it sounded interesting. He looked forward to it. A handful of technicians were fiddling with the pods: understandably, they stopped working when Zechar came into view.
"Keep working. Finish."
"We are just finishing, sir. Both pods are almost ready."
"Both? Only two pods?" It was a new voice, a woman's voice. She had come out of nowhere behind the Exile. He didn't care, nor did he answer. He had no answers. He just wanted to get in the pod and get to the surface and kill kill kill kill kill. He almost shivered as a fresh wave of blood-lust swept over him, tingling along his spine. Zechar's mind was slavering in anticipation, yearning to be the cause of another's demise. He ignored Kari.
* * *
Alkor stared blankly at the blasted black beskar hilt of what had been Absolution, alone and deep in thought within his sectioned off chamber of the "liberated" Corellian Corvette that had once been called "Freedom." Ironic. Each man who had been formerly crew on the ship had been brought to his chambers, most of them all too Corellian, and fully aware of the man they were speaking to. Ten years had passed, and still, the infamous Demon of Corellia was feared by the people of his world. That hate would never truly die. And Alkor accepted that.
He'd been an evil man in his youth, and a disillusioned one in his adolescence. He would, in truth, never be able to repay his debt to society. And he wasn't going to try. Not in the traditional sense.
Twisting his fingers in a rhythmic pattern, he unfastened the hilt and reached in, the dust of what had once been a Rainbow Gem falling in grains to the floor, as if the beskar were crying beautiful, glittering tears. The lightsaber crystal he had taken from the mauled blade of Ishmael sat in the open palm of his right hand, and he set it gently into place in the lattice, smiling softly as he heard the faintest of despairing screams howl in the back of his mind.
The former Dark Jedi pushed the compartment shut, until he heard a slight "click," and then he clipped the weapon to it's place beneath his flowing black robes. There was too much to be done for him to spend his time working on his lightsaber.
As he marched from his chamber, he could feel the bloodlust wafting off of Zechar in waves. Promises, he had made the man, of power, of things that he could aspire to, of the lives he could take. All words, and every one of them exactly what Zechar had wanted to hear. But worse, all things Alkor could absolutely help the man to achieve.
And why not?
All Zechar wanted to do, truly, was walk a darker path, even though he was not aware of what he was doing to himself. Alkor just had to show him the way. He had done it so many times now- the end of his mother's story, of Alicia's, of Alverion's... of his own as Jen'jidai... there was just one thing left to lose now, before Alkor could walk the path unfettered. Before he could truly lead Zechar down it.
Alkor saw Kari, but he never really looked at her. In his mind, she represented wasted potential, a being who had become so possessed with her love for him that she threw away the good she could have done. She represented a love he could never accept, and one that he would never dare to return. He couldn't bear to lose her... and he couldn't stand to have her. The words from her lips impaled his heart quickly and without a chance for him to steel himself. He just had to weather the storm of his anguish.
"You can't come this time, Kari," Alkor said gently, his voice not wavering only because he kept a tight grip on his emotions. "I can't allow it."
"You're leaving me again," she frowned, and the way she said it tore apart Alkor's heart. He wanted to tremble, to do anything at all to show her it wasn't like that. But he knew it was. The truth of the matter was, it had been like that for far too long now. He had lost everything he had with her, any chance he had of repairing it, everything he could possibly feel but his misery. It was almost as if she had walked away from him. The cold truth of it, though, was that he had turned his back on her. She would welcome him, if only he would turn back from the path, a path she could not follow him on. His ice blue eyes turned up to look at her, one last time, the ebbing love fading like the setting sun. But it was there, just enough that he could see her tearing up at the sight of it. He knew she couldn't understand why he was doing this, but there was so much left undone. So much he had to do, and so much that she could have no part in. Alkor's life had no room for Kari Lebrau, and she had no place anywhere else.
"No," he said quietly, closing his eyes, shutting her out, biting down on his lip as the darkness washed over him, taking his pain and wreathing him in it's cold embrace. It was no proper replacement for her arms, it couldn't bring him the joy her touch had, couldn't take away the pain as her kisses did. "I'm not leaving you." He believed it, only because it was true. He wasn't leaving, and she wasn't going anywhere. He would always remember her. She would always be a part of him. Even if it wasn't the way he wanted her to be. Unlike others who had walked the path, Alkor was not deceived into doing what had to be done, nor was he fully directed to do so by the force. He had realized it quite by accident. She moved forward to protest, and wrapped her arms around him, but when he opened his eyes, their violet glow was hardened upon the floor behind her, set like stone. They flickered back to blue after a moment, and he took in a deep breath, but Alkor knew that it was best for Kari. Sputtering rather than talking, she backed away from him with wide eyes, and he never looked up at her, rather staring at her feet. As she staggered backward, the question in her eyes "why?" haunted him, even though he couldn't see them. He felt blind now, the darkness blotting out reality as he turned away. The pain swelled up in his chest like a ravaging, crushing wave falling over him, and he looked to Zechar, the blood colored blade of his lightsaber slinking backward into it's hilt as Kari hit the ground, the light gone from her eyes.
"Clean that up," Alkor said quietly to one of the officers, who was paralyzed in fear by what he had just witnessed. He reacted quickly, of course, not wanting to meet the same fate as poor Kari. Looking at Zechar as Kari's freshly dead corpse was dragged off, Alkor pulled his hood over his head and gestured toward the escape pods. "Now then. Shall we go say hello to your friends?"
* * *
Too much. It was too much. She was so like his Novanna; his only woman. The Exile's jaw clenched and he turned away, letting Alkor deal with his woman on his own and retreating into his own mind. He focused on his anticipation of what was to come. Novanna's death, his own exile - it was about to be revenged. The bloodlust shook him again, writhing up and down his spine like an icy snake. Zechar closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to calm himself and contain - WHAT - Zechar spun, eyes inexplicably blazing at the sound of a lightsaber being ignited and unleashed. He watched in mindless fury while Kari slumped into death, taking a step forward with arms akimbo and ready to attack. In his mind he again watched Novanna slump before him as she bled out, and that made him furious. He wanted Alkor to die. He wanted everybody to die. He wanted to die- no, that was wrong. Wasn't it? The Exile was a shaking mass of emotion - rage at Alkor for killing someone that echoed Novanna, heartache at pseudo-losing her again, and bloodlust. So much desire for the kill, for consumption of life and mockery of death. It seized him by the spine and tried to throw him at Alkor, at the technicians dragging Kari away - at Kari herself.
Eat. What? The impulse came hard and fast. Consume. Zechar wanted to do it so badly; leap after the men, bat them aside as he could so easily, and sink his teeth into the dead woman's flesh. FEED. With a huge effort, Zechar fought himself back and wrenched his body back towards the entrance to the landing pods. Alkor's words registered, and with growling voice through grinding teeth and foaming mouth he hissed an answer. "Yesss."
* * *
Alkor punched the initiation sequence into the pods without much effort, not bothering to spare a look back to see if there was any conflict in Zechar. He already knew there was none. He could feel the drive, the impulses rushing forward, and he decided that further inaction and deviation from the plan would not bear any fruit. Zechar needed to be given a straight line to follow, not a series of twists and turns. He needed to be shown the way, not given the ability to choose a path. He had already done that, and handed the reigns to Alkor. Both of the entry doors slid open with a sinister hiss, and he took a moment, staring at the innards of the pod with a morose look on his face, hidden from Zechar by his hood, of course. The image of Kari's body slumping to the floor and pooling in blood had stuck with him. And it wasn't going away. Stepping forward through the threshold, Alkor called back over his shoulder, the door sliding shut behind him. "Then let's go." As the sequence rolled from 10 down to zero, Alkor found his place and strapped in, closing his eyes tightly. It wouldn't be long now before they were both bathing in blood, and he would be able to feel the darkness rushing up all around him. Zechar had promised that the people on this planet were all dark siders who followed the old path, all people who revered power and were bent on oppressing others. And that he was their outcast. It was going to be the most fitting sacrifice of all. And Zechar would be the knife. All of that blood would surely be the proper tempering that the other man would need. Once the drowning started, it was only a matter of time. And Alkor's lips turned up in a smile as the pod broke away from the ship, and lit up with sudden laughter. Surely, Kari would forgive the joke.
* * *
Zechar was almost shaking from it, this inexplicable raw frigidity casing his spine. It obliterated all other thoughts from his mind - avenging Novanna, Kari's death - he just wanted to end the existence of something. The Exile bundled himself into the drop pod, cramming his bulk into the tight space. It was small for Zechar's size, but not so cramped as to be uncomfortable. Then he was locked inside the place, nothing but Zechar and his memories. Oh, the memories. The bloodlust drained away as his mind went back; fickle thing that it was, coming and going at a breath. The reality of it clicked in Zechar's mind. He was going home, back to his origins. He'd see it all again, very soon. And then he'd destroy it. The pod was released and shot free of the ship; a moment of weightlessness, and then everything began to build. He was being squeezed, pressured. He was going home. It was all building. Zechar grinned.
* * *
Staring down at the orb of sentience as it slowly encroached and fully encompassed his view, Alkor pressed his hand flatly against the inner wall of the drop pod and leaned his weight against it to ease his burden. The laughter had melted away and his expression had turned to stone, and he found himself staring uselessly at the floor. It happened much more often now, that emaciated look, the force pushing its way into his head, showing him- telling him things of import. His entire body shivered as the feeling left him as abruptly as it had come, and he found his mind reeling, racing, writhing endlessly. But with answers to questions he had never asked, and with more questions he had never before considered asking. The force came together in a finite and inescapable way, and yet, it was so very fragile. One event after another, Alkor and Zechar were shaping history. And he had just seen another shatter before his eyes. Zechar's face contorted with rage and sorrow in his mind's eye, and Alkor narrowed his gaze, slamming the bottom of his fist into the wall. Nothing about the path the other Exile was on was right, but...there was no time for those thoughts now. They were rapidly approaching their destination, even as the countdown to arrival began to tick away with a robotic voice that seemed to echo through the entire pod without end. It was almost time.
* * *
The rush was growing, making Zechar sweat. It was hot inside the pod, almost stifling, and growing worse every moment. He ground his teeth and clenched his teeth, pushing outwards with all his force against the inflexible chamber that trapped him - no escape for now. For the first time in his life, Zechar realized that he absolutely despised small spaces, and that this one in particular was making him feel sick. The feeling swelled and festered in his chest, making him feel worse and worse, and thereby making him more and more angry. In a perverse way, he was gratified. This trove of raw emotion, while based from little more than annoyance, would be an excellent primer for his coming work.
There was a jerk as the pod's decelerators activated. The landing would be coming soon. Now knowing that release was coming soon, Zechar felt his itch for open spaces increasing, and his stomach turning more rapidly. He wanted out. Time blurred as Zechar focused in on the sensations, letting them swell and smolder. And then...
An impact, resounding and concussive, shook the pod. It dazed Zechar for a few seconds, until his head cleared and he realized that he was finally on solid ground again. His thick arm coiled back, more like a serpent than ever in its scaled glory, and thrust forward. The door dented, but did not give. The blow was repeated, ignoring the very obvious lever which would have opened the door in an instant. Zechar didn't notice it, but even if he had, he might have still beaten the door open. He enjoyed the release, venting his emotion on the containing pod. Finally the door broke free, rattling across the baked earth.
The Exile almost vaulted out of the small space, falling forward onto one knee and resting his scaled fist against the dirt. His breathing was rapid for a moment, but he regained control of himself and straightened up, adjusting his sword belt to its accustomed position. His eyes had remained closed since he had burst from the pod, and now they opened.
Alkor's pod had already landed, and the other Sith was just exiting, but that was peripheral information to Zechar. His eyes devoured every detail of the environment. It was a rolling savannah where they had landed; hard, packed red earth under their feet, thin grasses growing in clumps and patches, and jungles and undergrowth in the distance. It was early afternoon, and the sky was beginning to bear the yellow tint of an aged day. A beaten path trailed away towards the sun, disappearing into some low hills maybe a half a mile away. That was their road, the path into Jiaasjen. It was a game trail, a way out of the village to the hunting and farming areas of the locale. No doubt they would encounter some mild cultivation upon cresting the nearest hill. The claw brushed the hood back, revealing Zechar's head. He inhaled, dilating his nostrils and filling them with the air of his home planet. The breath released through his mouth, baring his savage teeth in a hiss. The Exile had come home. He addressed Alkor, knowing the smaller man would hear him. "We will walk from here. Come on." Zechar began the walk towards his village.
* * *
Alkor swayed from side to side with each step, the wind carrying his robes this way and that, unbidden by his motion. He stared blankly at the ground as he moved, his lips curled up in a cruel and inexplicable smile as he felt the swell of life in the distance, the way Zechar was leading him. They were all there, and they suspected nothing. Truly, his fellow exile had served him well. It was little more than a bonus that Zechar would be slaking his thirst for revenge here. Following Zechar with little more than humor radiating through his person, Alkor thought quietly back to what the other people he knew might think of this, his smile flattening out into a bland expression as the Jedi Master, Raven Alora's face appeared in his mind's eye. She would never approve of what they were doing here, but... Alkor was going to do what had to be done. Surely- absolutely, a Jedi would understand that. Even if it meant slaughter, even if it meant people were going to be made useless and turned into fodder for a Sith rite, even if it meant Zechar was going to start drowning in his own darkness, Alkor knew the truth.
Zechar had to fall as far as he had. Only then- only after they were at the bottom of the same abyss could his friend truly have the power it took to make a difference. His smile returned, though it was not a cryptic or humored smile. It was the look of a man who knew he had done right, and that his actions would benefit everyone in the long run. Sacrifices had to be made for the sake of the greater good. He had been the first. Now it was Zechar's turn. Looking at the other man approvingly, Alkor nodded slowly. "Let's be quick about it, then."
* * *
Alkor's words were only fleetingly acknowledged; Zechar was already walking, and his mind was roaming far away. He remembered everything. The tree on his right still bore the scar of the first time he had unleashed Lightning - he had been fighting with another Tyro, a large, brutish boy named Urois. The coward had gotten two of his friends to assist, and pinned Zechar against the tree. The boy had broken free, turned, and in a fit of rage had killed all three boys with his power. The tree had smoked so much that Zechar thought it was going to catch fire. Beyond that, at the top of the hill, was a boulder sunk halfway into the earth. He had placed it there himself as a boy, using Telekinesis. Ever since it had marked the starting and finishing point for his runs, when he would strip down to a loincloth and run at full speed for miles. And past the hill... Jiaasjen itself. Hidden in a depression of the land, surrounded by tall, gnarled trees. In the center would be the wreck of the spaceship that had brought them there in the first place, eons ago. The place that had been his home for over two decades, where he had grown into what he had been when he had escaped and met Ishmael on Mustafar. He had fought long and hard for his place of rank among them, and then in one morning he had been sent away like an unwanted dog. Driven away. Threatened. Now he has coming back - it could not be said that he was coming home. This was not his home anymore, nor would it ever be again. Nonetheless, he was undeniably excited to be coming back to his origins. He couldn't have prevented it if he had tried.
The Exile's face was almost nostalgic as he prowled forward, glancing from side-to-side as he took in all the old sights. They were just that, however - old. Dead. Meaningless now. This wasn't Zechar's home anymore. The old was passing away, and there would be nothing new to come after it. Zechar walked on in silence for some minutes longer. They were almost there - this last hill - beyond its crest... Jiaasjen. He could taste everything at once, the emotions rising all around, somewhere just beyond their range of visibility. In time with Zechar's tempo, the swell of their prey's thoughts and feelings followed the pair of hunters' scent and Alkor could sense that the trap was in order. All that he could do was let Zechar's plan play through to fruition. Cerulean eyes, deep and vast in their emptiness, lingered on his fellow exile for but a moment, and he let out a sigh. Let the games begin.
* * *
As he saw JiaasJen become something more than just a collective mass of thoughts and people's emotions, Alkor's lips curled upward in a smile. Could it be that all of Zechar's problems began and ended with a small speck of a settlement in the dusts of Abbaji? Could the man who had so much hate welling up within him have it all because he had grown up poor and outside the help of the Galactic Alliance? Alkor saw the shadow of doubt looming over Zechar's head. This man could have been so much more, had he been allowed the opportunity. There was so much possibility behind the man, Alkor could feel in the force, things that had been opened to him, only to slam shut as he walked through another door. But Alkor never dwelled on the past, and for the few instants he lingered there, he found nothing but pain. Pain, however, was fuel for power.
Extinction flared to life in Alkor's left hand as the crushing tide of darkness swallowed the small settlement, and he could feel danger looming before them. But Alkor Centaris had never backed down, not once in his life. Not when he was faced with the charges of genocide back home, not when Viscarious had made him fight for his life in the slave pens of Asgard, not when life had called him to take the life of a loved one... so, what was stopping him now?
Exactly, he thought, the smile never leaving his face as he pulled the darkness into himself. If all went well, he would be able to use these souls to spark his inner darkness further, and finally he would delve into the depths and seize his full potential, the way C'thulu always said he could, if only he embraced the truth. Now, Alkor knew, the truth was not in the "Vision" of the Dark Jedi Order. It was in himself. And the time was now.
It would be soon.
They were in orbit over Abbaji now, readying to pack themselves into drop pods. Zechar could barely contain himself in his malicious glee. He wanted to be down there, feeling the dirt beneath his feet, watching the piddling occupants gawk at him in the instants before their annihilation. He had to feel the rush of the attack. Had to. It was a sudden revelation - he needed to feel somebody dying at his hand. It didn't bother him; in times before, he'd felt the urge to fight, practice, exert himself. For some reason, though, now he felt the specific drive to kill, slaughter, murder, and destroy.
In a sick way, it felt good.
Wrapping his scaly hand around Vedic's hilt at his side, Zechar prowled through a corridor. As usual, he was wrapped in a black robe that hid everything about him but his size. He came to the debarking deck, the place from where he and Alkor and Kari would go rocketing planetside. he'd never made a descent this way; it sounded interesting. He looked forward to it. A handful of technicians were fiddling with the pods: understandably, they stopped working when Zechar came into view.
"Keep working. Finish."
"We are just finishing, sir. Both pods are almost ready."
"Both? Only two pods?" It was a new voice, a woman's voice. She had come out of nowhere behind the Exile. He didn't care, nor did he answer. He had no answers. He just wanted to get in the pod and get to the surface and kill kill kill kill kill. He almost shivered as a fresh wave of blood-lust swept over him, tingling along his spine. Zechar's mind was slavering in anticipation, yearning to be the cause of another's demise. He ignored Kari.
* * *
Alkor stared blankly at the blasted black beskar hilt of what had been Absolution, alone and deep in thought within his sectioned off chamber of the "liberated" Corellian Corvette that had once been called "Freedom." Ironic. Each man who had been formerly crew on the ship had been brought to his chambers, most of them all too Corellian, and fully aware of the man they were speaking to. Ten years had passed, and still, the infamous Demon of Corellia was feared by the people of his world. That hate would never truly die. And Alkor accepted that.
He'd been an evil man in his youth, and a disillusioned one in his adolescence. He would, in truth, never be able to repay his debt to society. And he wasn't going to try. Not in the traditional sense.
Twisting his fingers in a rhythmic pattern, he unfastened the hilt and reached in, the dust of what had once been a Rainbow Gem falling in grains to the floor, as if the beskar were crying beautiful, glittering tears. The lightsaber crystal he had taken from the mauled blade of Ishmael sat in the open palm of his right hand, and he set it gently into place in the lattice, smiling softly as he heard the faintest of despairing screams howl in the back of his mind.
The former Dark Jedi pushed the compartment shut, until he heard a slight "click," and then he clipped the weapon to it's place beneath his flowing black robes. There was too much to be done for him to spend his time working on his lightsaber.
As he marched from his chamber, he could feel the bloodlust wafting off of Zechar in waves. Promises, he had made the man, of power, of things that he could aspire to, of the lives he could take. All words, and every one of them exactly what Zechar had wanted to hear. But worse, all things Alkor could absolutely help the man to achieve.
And why not?
All Zechar wanted to do, truly, was walk a darker path, even though he was not aware of what he was doing to himself. Alkor just had to show him the way. He had done it so many times now- the end of his mother's story, of Alicia's, of Alverion's... of his own as Jen'jidai... there was just one thing left to lose now, before Alkor could walk the path unfettered. Before he could truly lead Zechar down it.
Alkor saw Kari, but he never really looked at her. In his mind, she represented wasted potential, a being who had become so possessed with her love for him that she threw away the good she could have done. She represented a love he could never accept, and one that he would never dare to return. He couldn't bear to lose her... and he couldn't stand to have her. The words from her lips impaled his heart quickly and without a chance for him to steel himself. He just had to weather the storm of his anguish.
"You can't come this time, Kari," Alkor said gently, his voice not wavering only because he kept a tight grip on his emotions. "I can't allow it."
"You're leaving me again," she frowned, and the way she said it tore apart Alkor's heart. He wanted to tremble, to do anything at all to show her it wasn't like that. But he knew it was. The truth of the matter was, it had been like that for far too long now. He had lost everything he had with her, any chance he had of repairing it, everything he could possibly feel but his misery. It was almost as if she had walked away from him. The cold truth of it, though, was that he had turned his back on her. She would welcome him, if only he would turn back from the path, a path she could not follow him on. His ice blue eyes turned up to look at her, one last time, the ebbing love fading like the setting sun. But it was there, just enough that he could see her tearing up at the sight of it. He knew she couldn't understand why he was doing this, but there was so much left undone. So much he had to do, and so much that she could have no part in. Alkor's life had no room for Kari Lebrau, and she had no place anywhere else.
"No," he said quietly, closing his eyes, shutting her out, biting down on his lip as the darkness washed over him, taking his pain and wreathing him in it's cold embrace. It was no proper replacement for her arms, it couldn't bring him the joy her touch had, couldn't take away the pain as her kisses did. "I'm not leaving you." He believed it, only because it was true. He wasn't leaving, and she wasn't going anywhere. He would always remember her. She would always be a part of him. Even if it wasn't the way he wanted her to be. Unlike others who had walked the path, Alkor was not deceived into doing what had to be done, nor was he fully directed to do so by the force. He had realized it quite by accident. She moved forward to protest, and wrapped her arms around him, but when he opened his eyes, their violet glow was hardened upon the floor behind her, set like stone. They flickered back to blue after a moment, and he took in a deep breath, but Alkor knew that it was best for Kari. Sputtering rather than talking, she backed away from him with wide eyes, and he never looked up at her, rather staring at her feet. As she staggered backward, the question in her eyes "why?" haunted him, even though he couldn't see them. He felt blind now, the darkness blotting out reality as he turned away. The pain swelled up in his chest like a ravaging, crushing wave falling over him, and he looked to Zechar, the blood colored blade of his lightsaber slinking backward into it's hilt as Kari hit the ground, the light gone from her eyes.
"Clean that up," Alkor said quietly to one of the officers, who was paralyzed in fear by what he had just witnessed. He reacted quickly, of course, not wanting to meet the same fate as poor Kari. Looking at Zechar as Kari's freshly dead corpse was dragged off, Alkor pulled his hood over his head and gestured toward the escape pods. "Now then. Shall we go say hello to your friends?"
* * *
Too much. It was too much. She was so like his Novanna; his only woman. The Exile's jaw clenched and he turned away, letting Alkor deal with his woman on his own and retreating into his own mind. He focused on his anticipation of what was to come. Novanna's death, his own exile - it was about to be revenged. The bloodlust shook him again, writhing up and down his spine like an icy snake. Zechar closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to calm himself and contain - WHAT - Zechar spun, eyes inexplicably blazing at the sound of a lightsaber being ignited and unleashed. He watched in mindless fury while Kari slumped into death, taking a step forward with arms akimbo and ready to attack. In his mind he again watched Novanna slump before him as she bled out, and that made him furious. He wanted Alkor to die. He wanted everybody to die. He wanted to die- no, that was wrong. Wasn't it? The Exile was a shaking mass of emotion - rage at Alkor for killing someone that echoed Novanna, heartache at pseudo-losing her again, and bloodlust. So much desire for the kill, for consumption of life and mockery of death. It seized him by the spine and tried to throw him at Alkor, at the technicians dragging Kari away - at Kari herself.
Eat. What? The impulse came hard and fast. Consume. Zechar wanted to do it so badly; leap after the men, bat them aside as he could so easily, and sink his teeth into the dead woman's flesh. FEED. With a huge effort, Zechar fought himself back and wrenched his body back towards the entrance to the landing pods. Alkor's words registered, and with growling voice through grinding teeth and foaming mouth he hissed an answer. "Yesss."
* * *
Alkor punched the initiation sequence into the pods without much effort, not bothering to spare a look back to see if there was any conflict in Zechar. He already knew there was none. He could feel the drive, the impulses rushing forward, and he decided that further inaction and deviation from the plan would not bear any fruit. Zechar needed to be given a straight line to follow, not a series of twists and turns. He needed to be shown the way, not given the ability to choose a path. He had already done that, and handed the reigns to Alkor. Both of the entry doors slid open with a sinister hiss, and he took a moment, staring at the innards of the pod with a morose look on his face, hidden from Zechar by his hood, of course. The image of Kari's body slumping to the floor and pooling in blood had stuck with him. And it wasn't going away. Stepping forward through the threshold, Alkor called back over his shoulder, the door sliding shut behind him. "Then let's go." As the sequence rolled from 10 down to zero, Alkor found his place and strapped in, closing his eyes tightly. It wouldn't be long now before they were both bathing in blood, and he would be able to feel the darkness rushing up all around him. Zechar had promised that the people on this planet were all dark siders who followed the old path, all people who revered power and were bent on oppressing others. And that he was their outcast. It was going to be the most fitting sacrifice of all. And Zechar would be the knife. All of that blood would surely be the proper tempering that the other man would need. Once the drowning started, it was only a matter of time. And Alkor's lips turned up in a smile as the pod broke away from the ship, and lit up with sudden laughter. Surely, Kari would forgive the joke.
* * *
Zechar was almost shaking from it, this inexplicable raw frigidity casing his spine. It obliterated all other thoughts from his mind - avenging Novanna, Kari's death - he just wanted to end the existence of something. The Exile bundled himself into the drop pod, cramming his bulk into the tight space. It was small for Zechar's size, but not so cramped as to be uncomfortable. Then he was locked inside the place, nothing but Zechar and his memories. Oh, the memories. The bloodlust drained away as his mind went back; fickle thing that it was, coming and going at a breath. The reality of it clicked in Zechar's mind. He was going home, back to his origins. He'd see it all again, very soon. And then he'd destroy it. The pod was released and shot free of the ship; a moment of weightlessness, and then everything began to build. He was being squeezed, pressured. He was going home. It was all building. Zechar grinned.
* * *
Staring down at the orb of sentience as it slowly encroached and fully encompassed his view, Alkor pressed his hand flatly against the inner wall of the drop pod and leaned his weight against it to ease his burden. The laughter had melted away and his expression had turned to stone, and he found himself staring uselessly at the floor. It happened much more often now, that emaciated look, the force pushing its way into his head, showing him- telling him things of import. His entire body shivered as the feeling left him as abruptly as it had come, and he found his mind reeling, racing, writhing endlessly. But with answers to questions he had never asked, and with more questions he had never before considered asking. The force came together in a finite and inescapable way, and yet, it was so very fragile. One event after another, Alkor and Zechar were shaping history. And he had just seen another shatter before his eyes. Zechar's face contorted with rage and sorrow in his mind's eye, and Alkor narrowed his gaze, slamming the bottom of his fist into the wall. Nothing about the path the other Exile was on was right, but...there was no time for those thoughts now. They were rapidly approaching their destination, even as the countdown to arrival began to tick away with a robotic voice that seemed to echo through the entire pod without end. It was almost time.
* * *
The rush was growing, making Zechar sweat. It was hot inside the pod, almost stifling, and growing worse every moment. He ground his teeth and clenched his teeth, pushing outwards with all his force against the inflexible chamber that trapped him - no escape for now. For the first time in his life, Zechar realized that he absolutely despised small spaces, and that this one in particular was making him feel sick. The feeling swelled and festered in his chest, making him feel worse and worse, and thereby making him more and more angry. In a perverse way, he was gratified. This trove of raw emotion, while based from little more than annoyance, would be an excellent primer for his coming work.
There was a jerk as the pod's decelerators activated. The landing would be coming soon. Now knowing that release was coming soon, Zechar felt his itch for open spaces increasing, and his stomach turning more rapidly. He wanted out. Time blurred as Zechar focused in on the sensations, letting them swell and smolder. And then...
An impact, resounding and concussive, shook the pod. It dazed Zechar for a few seconds, until his head cleared and he realized that he was finally on solid ground again. His thick arm coiled back, more like a serpent than ever in its scaled glory, and thrust forward. The door dented, but did not give. The blow was repeated, ignoring the very obvious lever which would have opened the door in an instant. Zechar didn't notice it, but even if he had, he might have still beaten the door open. He enjoyed the release, venting his emotion on the containing pod. Finally the door broke free, rattling across the baked earth.
The Exile almost vaulted out of the small space, falling forward onto one knee and resting his scaled fist against the dirt. His breathing was rapid for a moment, but he regained control of himself and straightened up, adjusting his sword belt to its accustomed position. His eyes had remained closed since he had burst from the pod, and now they opened.
Alkor's pod had already landed, and the other Sith was just exiting, but that was peripheral information to Zechar. His eyes devoured every detail of the environment. It was a rolling savannah where they had landed; hard, packed red earth under their feet, thin grasses growing in clumps and patches, and jungles and undergrowth in the distance. It was early afternoon, and the sky was beginning to bear the yellow tint of an aged day. A beaten path trailed away towards the sun, disappearing into some low hills maybe a half a mile away. That was their road, the path into Jiaasjen. It was a game trail, a way out of the village to the hunting and farming areas of the locale. No doubt they would encounter some mild cultivation upon cresting the nearest hill. The claw brushed the hood back, revealing Zechar's head. He inhaled, dilating his nostrils and filling them with the air of his home planet. The breath released through his mouth, baring his savage teeth in a hiss. The Exile had come home. He addressed Alkor, knowing the smaller man would hear him. "We will walk from here. Come on." Zechar began the walk towards his village.
* * *
Alkor swayed from side to side with each step, the wind carrying his robes this way and that, unbidden by his motion. He stared blankly at the ground as he moved, his lips curled up in a cruel and inexplicable smile as he felt the swell of life in the distance, the way Zechar was leading him. They were all there, and they suspected nothing. Truly, his fellow exile had served him well. It was little more than a bonus that Zechar would be slaking his thirst for revenge here. Following Zechar with little more than humor radiating through his person, Alkor thought quietly back to what the other people he knew might think of this, his smile flattening out into a bland expression as the Jedi Master, Raven Alora's face appeared in his mind's eye. She would never approve of what they were doing here, but... Alkor was going to do what had to be done. Surely- absolutely, a Jedi would understand that. Even if it meant slaughter, even if it meant people were going to be made useless and turned into fodder for a Sith rite, even if it meant Zechar was going to start drowning in his own darkness, Alkor knew the truth.
Zechar had to fall as far as he had. Only then- only after they were at the bottom of the same abyss could his friend truly have the power it took to make a difference. His smile returned, though it was not a cryptic or humored smile. It was the look of a man who knew he had done right, and that his actions would benefit everyone in the long run. Sacrifices had to be made for the sake of the greater good. He had been the first. Now it was Zechar's turn. Looking at the other man approvingly, Alkor nodded slowly. "Let's be quick about it, then."
* * *
Alkor's words were only fleetingly acknowledged; Zechar was already walking, and his mind was roaming far away. He remembered everything. The tree on his right still bore the scar of the first time he had unleashed Lightning - he had been fighting with another Tyro, a large, brutish boy named Urois. The coward had gotten two of his friends to assist, and pinned Zechar against the tree. The boy had broken free, turned, and in a fit of rage had killed all three boys with his power. The tree had smoked so much that Zechar thought it was going to catch fire. Beyond that, at the top of the hill, was a boulder sunk halfway into the earth. He had placed it there himself as a boy, using Telekinesis. Ever since it had marked the starting and finishing point for his runs, when he would strip down to a loincloth and run at full speed for miles. And past the hill... Jiaasjen itself. Hidden in a depression of the land, surrounded by tall, gnarled trees. In the center would be the wreck of the spaceship that had brought them there in the first place, eons ago. The place that had been his home for over two decades, where he had grown into what he had been when he had escaped and met Ishmael on Mustafar. He had fought long and hard for his place of rank among them, and then in one morning he had been sent away like an unwanted dog. Driven away. Threatened. Now he has coming back - it could not be said that he was coming home. This was not his home anymore, nor would it ever be again. Nonetheless, he was undeniably excited to be coming back to his origins. He couldn't have prevented it if he had tried.
The Exile's face was almost nostalgic as he prowled forward, glancing from side-to-side as he took in all the old sights. They were just that, however - old. Dead. Meaningless now. This wasn't Zechar's home anymore. The old was passing away, and there would be nothing new to come after it. Zechar walked on in silence for some minutes longer. They were almost there - this last hill - beyond its crest... Jiaasjen. He could taste everything at once, the emotions rising all around, somewhere just beyond their range of visibility. In time with Zechar's tempo, the swell of their prey's thoughts and feelings followed the pair of hunters' scent and Alkor could sense that the trap was in order. All that he could do was let Zechar's plan play through to fruition. Cerulean eyes, deep and vast in their emptiness, lingered on his fellow exile for but a moment, and he let out a sigh. Let the games begin.
* * *
As he saw JiaasJen become something more than just a collective mass of thoughts and people's emotions, Alkor's lips curled upward in a smile. Could it be that all of Zechar's problems began and ended with a small speck of a settlement in the dusts of Abbaji? Could the man who had so much hate welling up within him have it all because he had grown up poor and outside the help of the Galactic Alliance? Alkor saw the shadow of doubt looming over Zechar's head. This man could have been so much more, had he been allowed the opportunity. There was so much possibility behind the man, Alkor could feel in the force, things that had been opened to him, only to slam shut as he walked through another door. But Alkor never dwelled on the past, and for the few instants he lingered there, he found nothing but pain. Pain, however, was fuel for power.
Extinction flared to life in Alkor's left hand as the crushing tide of darkness swallowed the small settlement, and he could feel danger looming before them. But Alkor Centaris had never backed down, not once in his life. Not when he was faced with the charges of genocide back home, not when Viscarious had made him fight for his life in the slave pens of Asgard, not when life had called him to take the life of a loved one... so, what was stopping him now?
Exactly, he thought, the smile never leaving his face as he pulled the darkness into himself. If all went well, he would be able to use these souls to spark his inner darkness further, and finally he would delve into the depths and seize his full potential, the way C'thulu always said he could, if only he embraced the truth. Now, Alkor knew, the truth was not in the "Vision" of the Dark Jedi Order. It was in himself. And the time was now.