Osarian's Open Orbit

The Jen'jidai glowered down at the small, Jedi controlled planet with vague interest. There had never been much for him to gain from an operation involving asserting control over a planet before, but a blow to cripple control by a governing body was certain to send a message. While it was quaint, removed from large commerce, and utterly pointless as a target, it was a stepping stone. Once the Republic lost control of one planet, they would begin to doubt their control over others.

Likewise, others would begin to doubt how "protected" they really were under a regime that couldn't even retain control of a small world. It was a simple, yet complex plan that months of planning had been afforded for. When the Mandalorian Priest, Faust of Clan Skirata, called out to Alkor in a voice that was familiar enough to sway his attentions, the Corellian's violet gaze slowly turned one hundred and eighty degrees to hold the mercenary with their regard.

Faust shared his hatred for those who subscribed to the myriad dogmas devoted to the Force; what he did not share was the deathmark of bearing the curse himself. Alkor envied him in that. Without the genetic lottery afflicting him with a perception of the entire universe outside his own mind, the Mandalorian no doubt found time for quiet introspection. As it was, Alkor knew little of peace and wanted even less of it.

The slow movement of a hand over his chest formed a quick salute, the skeletal appendage rattling as he bent it to his will. "Skirata," came the terse reply. Neither man had ever been one to mince words. Their first meeting had been proof enough of that.

Alkor turned back to Osarian, so far below, and closed his eyes. A casual wave of his right hand changed the vast transparisteel window before them into a holographic projection of real space outside of them. Scaled down hundreds of times, the Ashen Tide showed them an accurate visual of all the relevant planetary defenses, compounded with their own positions relative to all imperative targets. "My communications officers are working on encrypting these and distributing them to all of your pilots and strategic officers," Alkor informed Faust. "Osarian has a largely peaceful populace, though I've heard whispers that it can get..." the Dark Jedi hesitated, turning the words over on his tongue before continuing. "...interesting, to say the least, when they dig in."

He knew Faust would not be interested in a quick, easy battle. In truth, Alkor found even the sound of that dissatisfying himself. They would both welcome the coming battle. It would be a terror for onlookers to wince at. Those who survived and remembered would wish it from their minds. It would be their message, and it would be succinct.

"Cripple or destroy all of their orbital defenses," he told the pilots who had assembled on deck, and they saluted in response. "They can put out a call for aid to the Republic or the Jedi if they feel the inclination. If a being leaves this system, they do so in a body bag."

"Yes, sir!"

Turning his gaze back to Faust, Alkor let his lips turn up in a slight smirk. "First things first. We need a foothold planetside."

The crewmen on either side of Alkor glanced up at the mention of leading the initiative personally. From their experience with the the Dark Jedi, they knew it was an opportunity he would not only seize, but revel in. They spared short glances at Faust, then one another, and finally looked back to the screens in front of them. If they were to speak, there may have been some sarcastic comments about the company that Alkor kept being pretty consistent. Fortunately, they had learned better than to speak too freely.

"I have a few thoughts on the matter," Alkor responded in a casual voice, gesturing toward one of the officers in the control ring that sank into the floor. The man saluted, then gave a series of barked commands. "Doubtless we'll be seeing some force sensitive resistance. You've thought the same thing, I can see."

They stood in perfect, sinister silence for what felt like hours. When the door opened behind them, Alkor turned his gaze to the prisoners who had been marched in. "These are Jedi and Sith I've taken the time to liberate over the past few months." Each one looked emaciated, some far worse than others. The ones with hints of corruption and the telltale golden hue to their eyes had been tortured to such a point where their gaze was frantic, out of focus. Whatever torment had befallen them, and Alkor revealed nothing about it, had left them with little but the last fringes of their sanity. 

"The Jedi prisoners are less willing to do battle, regrettably," he told Faust with a contrived pain in his voice. "But, as a token of my goodwill, I'd like to offer them as tribute to your Destroyer God." Alkor smiled as the horror ripped through several of the prisoners, screams of "traitor" and "psychopath" ripping through the deck. Several stun bolts brought back calm. "Let it never be said that I was an irreverent man."

The Demon strode to one of the Sith, a woman who's eyes darted over him uncertainly. Her hair was long and deceptively well kept, though he face remained almost skeletal. He placed a hand gently on her cheek, and she winced, both eyes clamping shut. "You know," Alkor spoke over his shoulder back to Faust. "It is said that fear later to anger, and anger to hate. So many of those who subscribe to the dogma of the Sith forget the roots of their cult." Alkor slapped the woman gently, then pulled her by the face to stand before the Reaver Mandalorian. "I restored the pillars of her faith."

Alkor let the woman go, and she fell to her knees before Faust. The Jen'jidai turned away. It was a stunning display of the Corellian exile's ruthlessness, but also a grim reminder of what happened to his enemies. The woman shivered as she looked up at the Priest, words lost to her. Her hands moved over his feet as if worshiping him.

"I will lead," Alkor replied dryly. "I will lead your faithful and mine as one."

As he spoke those words, the collective of Sith looked up at him as one. Their eyes lit up and an inane glee gripped them. "Do you know what I told them?" He asked Faust. "I told them that everything they had, everything that they were was gone. I stripped them of it, reminded them of it. I pried it from their corpses until they accepted it."

"This is the destiny of those who hold dear the Force," Alkor said. "This is what those who willingly submit themselves to a supposed "greater power" deserve."

Faust's worshiper moved quickly over to Alkor, hugging him like a woman might her lover. "There is only one freedom from the curse," Alkor whispered. She shook violently, kissing his neck. His eyes slid shut, and he snapped his fingers. The communications officer nodded and sent off the command. Ashen Tide opened fire with its heavy turbolasers on the planet's orbital defense platform.

Alkor shoved the woman off him, to Faust. "My shock forces are already loading the drop pods. Let's hurry so that there's something left to kill."

How long have I been down here? Words echoed in the black, and he couldn't tell if they reverberated in the space of his own mind or in the empty cell where he sat. It had all faded together a long time ago, and now there was only darkness and waiting.

"Waiting for what?" Those had been spoken words, probably. He'd felt the passage of air in his mouth, heard the crackle of his parched throat. Thirst was a way of life now, maybe as much as a way of death. The limb was being sapped of strength, unpruned yet left to die and fall away in its own excruciating decay. Something pounded against a metal panel, and there was a sudden throb in his fist. The walls never budged, not since he'd been put down here. Where am I? Sightless eyes rolled as he attempted to recall. There had been a man who walked like a corpse, dressed in black, who offered him a chance at meeting judgment. Then there was a ship, and then this blackness. This darkness that he had requested. Yes, came the sudden recollection, I asked for this.

Another slow shudder reached the cell as the ship did... something. It was impossible to discern.

Will the judgment ever come? Time had lost relevance. No light, no sound, no real sensation except the six solid walls of this storage room. His legs were stiff and there was an ache in his back and neck, doubtless from sitting propped against this wall for so long.

He had been lost. Set adrift by his own will, by his own memory, and in that drifting, his identity had slipped as well.

Will the judgment ever come? A man without identity had no need of the comforts of a real man. He had no needs at all, nor wants, nor deserts. He was nothing except a living body.

The judgment will never -

With an awful blast, light flooded the room, and his eyes immediately screwed shut and began to water.

"Trull Ordo?" a flat voice inquired.

Trull was bedraggled, unkempt, wearing his armor and propped against one wall. His helmet and arms lay strewn about him. A man adrift.

"It's time." The well-groomed junior officer turned and took a step back, indicating Trull's path. My 'path.' The warrior smirked through cracked lips and painfully stood. His armor showed signs of neglect and his kama was tattered. The shield he slung at his back was dented, and the scabbarded sword at his hip was battered. Even his beloved spear was in disrepair. A decaying warrior.

Slowly gathering his arms, the former priest winced and limped forward slowly, resting the stump of his left wrist on the hilt of his sword. The officer noticed the maiming but made no remark, to his credit. He'd already known; most likely word had spread among the crew of the crazed Mandalorian in the hold who had cut off his own hand.

"This way, sir," the officer said softly, and led the way forward. Trull hobbled after him, grimacing as his body slowly worked the stiffness from its depths and came back to life. Sounds began to filter through to him; engines rumbling, men moving, orders given - the sounds of preparation. They were unmistakable. The judgment was coming.

Trull would have nothing but a blurred remembrance of that walk, passing through identical halls and traveling on identical lifts to more halls. This ship was so sterile and unadorned, he would certainly have been lost without the officer's guidance.

Then at last came a moment when the final door slid opened, and Trull realized he was at the ship's bridge. He followed quietly, watching the floor as the officer stepped forward and addressed himself to his superior - the corpse-man who had taken Trull up in the first place.

"The priest, as requested, sir."

A YT-2400 light freighter, the Geheim Masjien, exits hyperspace near Osarian, selecting an infrequently used exit point that its captain believes will be out of the range of any orbital defense fleet's patrol routes. After slowing to ahead dead slow and taking some time to plot an entry strategy that will avoid any official record of their arrival, and then a bit more time to be as sure as possible that there are no patrol ships or other in or outbound planetary traffic to be concerned about, the light freighter increases speed and begins its descent for a secluded, lake front rental property far away from the planet's capital city . . .