Familicide: The First Gray Jedi War

[Lord_S_Gray]

Saani is Free! After centuries of a repeating living nightmare, pained in horrific detail by your words - but it's fairly obvious this isn't the Saani Kazic/Ari knew, not even the crazed one that Kazic was forced to all but kill. This is someone who is more pain than person, vicious and but for her egregious physical limitations (though s Saani rightly points out even that is preferable to her mental imprisonment) would be frantically seeking Kazic herself.

I think, all things considered, the new Kage was actually quite controlled after Kazic's interruption.  Consider that she is utterly unaware of Lor-riou's hand behind the attack, her position that what occurs on Kewda is no longer in Kazic's purview is utterly correct and her dismissal of him as a failed Kage is on point. Her facts are correct, but as Eriobe points out there is a difference between facts and truth.

As to Eriobe herself, another backstory showing how the dogmatic nature of the Jedi has grown over the years toward the peak pre-clone wars. One wonders if the council -or rather a certain senior member - isn't still haunted by the memory of another pair of 'knights' whose relationship cause the order much loss and himself much embarrassment. As to her secret from Kazic...well perhaps she has a far greater problem than that with Saani setting Lor-Riou and his Votarious on her trail.

Great job, with some great things are clearly coming as these lines start to intersect.

[TheDutchman]

Special thanks to LSG for the AWESOME Zilior rendering (and idea!)  This chapter is dedicated to him 
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Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part I

Tamet Vail hurried along the crosswalk perpendicular to the street towards the enormous plaza, conscious of both the groundcars and landing aircars as they wove their way around the hovertanks positioned at each major intersection.  Each time one passed, he tried to get a good look at the newly arrived occupants inside.  Whenever he saw a mane of luxurious brown hair, his hand tightened around the bouquet of Zilior ma'o flowers that he tried to keep surreptitiously hidden at his side. 

And each time he was disappointed when the face below the hair came into focus, clearly not belonging to his darling Arage.

...I hope she won't be late...she might have gotten stuck doing Drills... He thought idly, pulling at the lapels of his fatigues, thankful that he was only on "Standby" for this week.  Which meant that he didn't have to wear his full dress uniform with the high collar anytime soon. 

Regardless, he was thankful to engage in a brisk walk after sitting in a cubicle for hours, studying battle tactics, field logistics, and basic triage.  ...or maybe she's already at the Square... He mused.

As he continued walking Tamet crossed over one of the many canals lining the City, eventually entering into the restricted Tattvas Pentaza.  Here, he had to show his credentials, the vast plaza home to, among others, the pyramidal building of the Cataphracts' Quarters.  With the apex of the building climbing high into the sky, the silver transparasteel windows reflected the bright rays of the setting sun.  Tamet grinned, imagining great and glorious dreams where the storied Battalion fought off the Shadow Horde of the False Kage, or as a member of the vanguard during the Zilior Wars of Consolidation, or, in his most private thoughts, where he was admitted and installed as a Primus, leading one of the Troika to victory over some Sith Lord assailant come back to life. 

He shook his head.  To be sure, it was every cadet's fantasy to be assigned within the coveted billet--especially those who were on track for career military--but he would sometimes allow himself to dream the foolish aspirations of a certain young boy that had been so impressed by the parade of heavy-plated Vhal'Dan Knights, looking resplendent as the sun shone bright off of the polished nano-metal cuirasses of their power armor.  It had been such a sight to see, one that had stuck with him to this very day.

Suddenly the sun disappeared, a shadow that made the corona around the building's edges seem that much more muted.  Squinting, Tamet suppressed a sigh.  ...the Votarious' Kirk...

Stabbing towards the clouds, the dark building mirrored the Cataphracts' Quarters, only in obverse: where one was silver and awe-inspiring, the other was black and oppressive.  Where one always shone brightly regardless of day or night, the other always cast long, dark shadows across everything around it.  The Cataphracts' Quarters seemed to exist in harmony with the other structures outside the Pentaza down the archipelago; the Votarious' Kirk always felt as if it were dominating the surrounding architecture and causeways.  Yet, there they stood in opposition to one another, a structural yin and yang evident to all who looked upon them.

Certainly Tamet had always wondered why the two pyramids had been built so close to each other; he held absolutely no doubt as to which order he'd rather be inducted in...

Of course, there were many who felt otherwise, championing the necessity of the Votarious and their inclusion in the Hegemony.
 
One of the most vocal proponents was Tamet's cadet-classman (and friend), Beryl.  Point of fact, he was hoping that once he graduated, he would be accepted into the Votarious itself.  That the chances of such occurring were infinitesimally small was a fact that Beryl never once seemed to worry about.

For his own part, Tamet had never once denigrated his friend despite that he faced a monumental hurdle in order to achieve said dreams.

Regardless, the fact remained that Beryl's Force-abilities were only middling...and those of the Votarious were always the strongest Forceusers that Zilior produced; everyone in the Hegemony knew this!  Tamet smirked: every single Gray Master had admitted to him (and sometimes only begrudgingly) that those of the Votarious were able to do things that even they found difficult to accomplish.

No, Tamet was certain that Beryl would never put on the Black.

In secret--may the Maker forgive him!--he was glad: Tamet didn't want his friend to become one of those faceless, soulless freaks in black...no matter that they belonged to the upper echelon of the Hegemony.

Which, unfortunately, was something that Tamet himself had trouble reconciling: as a cadet-teidowan, he was expected to respect those above him...but those of the Votarious in general--and Magister Lor-Riou in particular--well, they... to be honest, they frightened him more than anything else... 

No, especially the Magister.

Not for the first time Tamet wondered just how he could truly respect those that he legitimately feared...

Unconsciously, he hurried on from the Tattvas Pentaza, exiting through another checkpoint before crossing another multilane-street/-causeway to pass yet more hovertanks.  Finally, he arrived at his destination: the even larger Citizen's Square. 

This was where Arage had told Tamet to meet her.

The Square was home to the gigantic monolith of the Eternal Kage, the structure towering above every single other building in the City.  Even after all of this time, Tamet was amazed by the sheer size of the statue, the protective hands spread wide as if to encompass the entire city itself, indicative of Anson D'Aklon's commitment to the Order that he'd saved.

Like everyone on Zilior, Tamet knew well the sacrifices that Kage D'Aklon had endured to ensure their survival, knew of the cowardly ambush that the False Kage and his Blue Temptress had laid, murdering Anson just as he tried to help save the Order from the Lus'Phor Vergence.  Even so, it had given the Order the time that they'd needed to finally escape, finding a new home at Zilior, the Kage's promise fulfilled.  He was a man of honor and integrity, a paragon that every Citizen of Zilior attempted to emulate.

The monolith was a stark reminder that the Kage had given his life for the Vhal'Dan, and that the price of freedom was bought from their continued vigilance.

With his attention turned towards the massive statue Tamet didn't notice until it was too late that he was about to run straight into someone.  Pulling up short and to the left, he still collided with the man who had suddenly appeared in front of him.  As his shoulder rammed into the arm of the man, it knocked him into one of the many rows of neatly manicured sea myrtle hedges lining the large Citizen's Square.  Tamet, by comparison, was completely thrown from his feet.

"Sorry, sorry, my fau..." Tamet stammered while trying to wipe the dust from his fatigues, looking around hoping that not too many people had seen.  Once he focused upon the man, his voice lost all volume.  Not that he knew the man personally; rather, Tamet saw the parade dress uniform full of ribbons and awards and, most specifically, the rank insignia.  Jumping to his feet and standing rigidly at attention, he barked.  "Sir, I apologize, Colonel!"

Straightening his immaculately-pressed jacket, the man--the Colonel--looked Tamet up and down, hawkish eyes scrutinizing every centimeter of him.  "What's the meaning of this, cadet?  Why were you not looking where you were going?  This is a quad, not a racing track."  The Colonel's eyes didn't waver from Tamet's, not even when he casually ducked down to pick up the now-ruined bouquet that had fallen to the ground.

"Sir, no excuse, sir." Tamet's crisp tone was respectful without being obsequious.  The Colonel approached him, face unreadable.

Standing immovable in front of him, the shorter man held out his hand.  "Your flimsi, cadet." His even tone was professional and absent even a hint of anger.  By rote, Tamet produced his credentials, thumbing the card for epithelial corroboration, all the while keeping his gaze affixed just above the Colonel's shoulder.  He couldn't believe his luck...

But his self-admonishment stalled when he noticed the older man's shoulders relax after a moment.  And he could've sworn that the Colonel had a ghost of a smile upon his lips.  "So cadet, why are you in such a rush today?"

The Colonel may have relaxed but Tamet's stature was still rigid.  "Sir, I'm currently on 'Standby' and was meeting my Prospective here, sir."  People around them went about their business unfazed by the event; after all, it was standard for someone to ask for their flimsi...and for said Citizen to produce them.

But, like Tamet had thought, such was the price of their freedom.

For a second longer, the Colonel stared unblinkingly into Tamet's eyes.  But then his demeanor changed completely, his shoulders relaxing while the edges of his mouth curled up in an almost-smile.  "At ease, cadet.  I take it that your Prospective called you here for a purpose?" He asked, handing the flimsi back to the young man.

Falling into Parade Rest, Tamet unconsciously smiled at the remembered thought.  "Yes, sir.  She and I met here in the Citizen's Square.  It was the first time both of us saw the Kage's Statue up close..." His voice trailed off when he remembered whom it was that he was addressing.  "Still: no excuse, sir."

The Colonel actually did smile this time.  "Nonsense, cadet.  Merely an accident."  His eyes suddenly regained their hawkish scrutiny.  "I'm sure that the next time you find yourself facing on-coming traffic, you will take all precautions to avoid colliding with a superior officer." Even though his tone was dry, the Colonel's face betrayed the humor that he intended to convey.

Grateful, Tamet nodded.  "Yes, sir.  Apologies, sir." 

With a gesture, the Colonel directed Tamet to continue walking, the older man surprising Tamet as he fell into step beside him.  "Well, I must meet this person for whom you apparently forget everything else for, cadet."

Tamet didn't know what to say, faltering in his step as his mind fought to catch up with the situation.  "Yes, sir." He finally said.  He found himself both elated as well as anxious: he--a lowely cadet less than a month from graduation!--was walking with one of the most influential and important persons in the Hegemony: Master Gray Deonis El'Harand, Vice-Commandant of the Zilior Communications and Signals Academy!

This was a Gray Master that shared an office at the Pentaza in a building directly adjacent to the Cataphract's Quarters!  ...and the Votarious' Kirk... The idea flitted across his mind as an afterthought, one that Tamet quickly crushed.

Vice-Commandant Deonis El'Harand!

As the two men walked through the impeccably manicured and maintained plaza of the Citizen's Square, Tamet answered any direct questions that the Colonel asked him, much to the amusement of Master El'Harand.  Still, the Vice-Commandant knew--just as Tamet did--that all proprieties must be respected and preserved.

It was the reason that the Hegemony thrived.

Suddenly, Tamet's face broke out in a smile, his eyes shining as he fixed his gaze in front of him: there was Arage!  Conspicuously respectful of the Colonel next to him, Tamet continued his measured step as he approaced his Prospective, their eyes on and for one another alone.

"Arage, allow me--"

"Tam!  Sorry I'm--"

Simultaneously they broke off, dual smiles fighting back laughter as they took a moment to collect themselves before beginning to speak anew.

Just as he was about to gesture that Arage should continue, he saw her eyes change, losing all mirth.  "Vice-Commandant!  Brevet-cadet Arage Takahashi, sir!" She barked, standing rigidly at attention after snapping a smart salute, the tip of her index finger motionless a centimeter from the brim of her cover.  Clearly she had recognized the Colonel much more quickly than Tamet had.

Likewise, it seemed, the Colonel recognized her.  Offering a respectful return salute, Master Deonis El'Harand gave Arage an approving nod.  "Brevet-cadet Takahashi.  At ease; I was the one who insisted on accompanying Cadet Vail after all of the incredible things he told me concerning his Prospective.  I see now that--if anything--he was understating the truth."  He smiled, projecting a sense of tranquility.  ...Sometimes decorum can be...relaxed... He told himself.  Instead, he continued: "How is your Great-Father?  And I understand that you two have plans?"  He inquired, the two cadets both amazed and excited at their luck as the Vice-Commandant spoke.

Speaking openly of their future plans--Arage aspiring to Joint Chiefs, Tamet hoping to become a Cataphract--the two cadets did most of the talking, punctuated by the Colonel's questions and advice.  This happened to include an "order" that they continue to uphold the proprieties of the Hegemony and the Vhal'Dan.

Eventually the shadows cast by the arms of the Monolith of the Eternal Kage began to grow long as the three of them conversed, an ambiance of professional familiarity settling around them.  So it was that both Tamet and Arage felt alarm when the Colonel's hawk-like eyes locked onto a lone figure standing near the base of the statue.  Feeling the familiar sensation that he'd had since his first days as a shave-tailed teidowan, the older man knew that something wasn't quite right...

"Stay here." He commanded, his Force-senses acutely attuned, a Talent that Deonis had come to trust through the six decades he'd been alive.  There was nothing remarkable about the man, nothing that anyone would even consider even slightly out of place.
 Outwardly, the man looked completely innocuous and normal.

But his Force-Aura...

Standing several meters behind the Colonel, Tamet may not have shared the Gray Master's Talent but he felt that something was definitely amiss... As the Colonel closed the distance between himself and the man, Tamet's nameless trepidation grew.  What should he do?

Looking on, his concerned eyes never left the Vice-Commandant's back.

Striding towards the man without trying to be conspicuous, Deonis felt...confused?  No, that wasn't it... It was suddenly as if his eyes kept wanting to...slide off of the man.  It took him a moment before clarity hit him, almost like a physical blow.  ...He...he's projecting an advanced form of Buried Presence...! He realized.  It stopped him midstep, cold.

That's when the man's eyes locked onto his.  ...How... He had only a moment to wonder when Deonis saw his face go blank, the man's shoulders simultaneously squaring as well as relaxing...as if divesting himself of some heavy burden.  But what happened next was witnessed solely by two people: the first being the Colonel, the other, Tamet. 

Both reacted instantly but in two very different ways as the man smiled and closed his eyes.

Deonis' own eyes narrowed in anger, a curse on his lips, the latent power of a potent Force Push a split-second from release.  Meanwhile, Tamet wordlessly grabbed Arage, pivoting on his ankle intent on turning her away from the man, a nascent Force Shield half-formed.

That's when the man disappeared, vaporized in the center of a violent explosion.

Tamet had only grabbed Arage's upper arms when the concussive wave hit the young woman's back squarely, propelling her directly at him, knocking the both of them tens of meters away in opposite directions: him along the ground, her airborne...until she collided hard with one of the durasteel sentry stations.

As Deonis was directly in front of the blast his entire body disintegrated, leaving no trace at all.

And all over the Square, death and mayhem reigned as the blast radius propagated almost a half-kilometer in every direction, destroying the Monolith and killing countless others.

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[TheDutchman]

Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part II

"...Exact numbers are difficult to ascertain, but the current reports estimate casualties in excess of 1,200, times three wounded."

Field Marshall Svante Rhul-Vinjaga closed her eyes for a moment, saying a prayer to the Maker in commiseration.  But when she opened them again, her hard face was all business.  "Understood.  I want 3rd- and 4th-Battalion sappers assisting Civil Engineers ASAP.  Also: a sitrep following Search&Rescue with concise numbers; both the Majordomo and the Magister will want those details."

The figure in the grainy, blue-tinged hologram nodded.  "Yes, ma'am."  Although she couldn't be sure, Svante thought she noticed a distinct redness around the lieutenant's eyes.

Not that she could blame him.

"That's all, lieutenant." Her quiet, subtle tone was deliberate enough that the lieutenant received her unspoken message loud and clear: "Take care of what you must as soon as you discharge your duty."  Nodding again appreciatively, he snapped a salute before the hologram faded away.

Which left Svante alone in her darkened quarters, the illumination from the holofeeds casting sepulchral shadows everywhere around her.  It was here that she could allow herself a moment to mourn.  With a tear rolling down her dark skin, she knew of at least one name that would inevitably appear amongst the dead: Sapal Rhul-Vinjaga.

Her brother.

She was supposed to meet him for dinner at the Square but had--like countless times before--had to cancel last minute, her responsibilities as Field Marshall once again taking precedent.  With crystal clarity, she could recall her brother's patient face, the face that looked so much like their father's.  As with every other time, he'd been understanding, reciting one of the Hegemony's Tenets for her benefit: "Vigilance is the price of freedom."

Of course, if one knew anything about Sapal, it was that he possessed a wickedly barbed wit, one that he'd used to tease her since childhood.  ...No... She thought, ...he HAD possessed... She corrected herself.

As twins, they'd often been lumped together, regularly accused of having only one goal in life.  Which Svante was forced to admit, could often seem to be the case: she'd known from almost the first that she would be career military.  Taken in conjunction with her little brother's (by a few minutes, at least) quiet nature, people thought that they would both pursue Hegemony posts.

Svante smirked.  How wrong they'd been.

Sapal had bucked tradition: instead of following in the Family's footsteps, he'd taken the path of the academic.  Their father had been...not exactly displeased, but certainly surprised.  Still: Svante's acceptance into the Academy and her subsequent graduation at the top of her class had been a high point for the family.

Including Sapal.  No, that wasn't precisely correct: especially Sapal.

He'd never once displayed any sort of jealousy, and absolutely none of the competition that many siblings seemed to partake in.  He had been as proud of Svante's promotion to Field Marshall as he had been of his own appointment as First Chair of Military History & Doctrine.  He'd even named his only daughter in honor of her!

...Dammit...Svanne... She realized; she must be in shock.  Her niece would need her Svante was sure, having lost her mother early in life, one of the many "training accidents" that invariably occurred on Zilior.  At least her quarters were near the Academy where Svanne was just now completing her second year, so the move would not be onerous.  Well, that is if she decided to live with her Aunt.

Large, wet tears rolled down Svante's cheeks, feeling momentarily overwhelmed.  For several more minutes, she allowed herself the luxury of sorrow, her jaw clenched as the waves of pain washed through her.  ...I love you, Sapal...

Svante was somewhat surprised that she could still cry; after everything that she'd been through--and lost--she had thought herself bereft of tears.  Good, she was glad to see that she'd been wrong.  Still, she wasn't one to sob or carry on.

Besides: she had her duty.

Cleaning her face and donning her formal robes of office, Svante checked herself in the old-style mirror that she'd kept, one of the few Family heirlooms that she possessed.  Looking deeply into the reflection staring back at her, the dark brown eyes assertive, intelligent, and dangerous, Svante took a final calming breath before donning her mental armor.  ...Whomever has done this will pay... She promised her reflection.  From below her brow her dark eyes saw that the face staring back was one that could break durasteel, inspiring those she led and terrorizing those who opposed her.

It would do.

Having collected herself, Svante strode forth, leaving her spartan quarters, soon entering into the personal hyperloop car that took her directly to ZHETaC Headquarters.  Once she'd sat down into the lone, oversized seat the car shot off into the bounce tube, her thoughts the only company that she had or required.

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"...Finally, total casualties as follows: 1,437 dead, 4,108 wounded, 126 still missing." The holographic face of the captain giving the report showed no emotion, an actuary reciting accounting figures.  His eyes though...

Svante knew that the glint within the captain's gaze had nothing to do with the imperfect hologram.

"Do you have any intel regarding who perpetrated this savagery?  Anything that they might've left: a manifesto, mission itinerary...any clue whatsoever?" Orrell's normally stoic visage was pinched, the Majordomo sitting forward in his chair as if to emphasize the importance of his question.  As Svante glanced at him from the corner of her eye, she could see the vein in the man's temple pulse, several errant gray hairs having escaped the topknot that he wore as tribute of his heritage.  Even though his chinstrap beard and full mustaches were neatly groomed, clearly this had unnerved him more than he'd let on.

That was truly disconcerting for Svante: she could see the cracks in the facade that the normally staid and composed Arbiter kept firmly under control.  Of course, if what she'd heard was true, then not only could she not blame him but indeed could personally empathize.  However, while she had an excellent working relationship with the Arbiter, Svante did not consider Orrell a friend.

After all, proprieties must be maintained.

Such was the strength of the Hegemony.  Svante need not be friends with the other members of the Triune to work well with them.  ...Truer words have never been spoken... She suddenly thought as her eyes fell upon the third member of their group.  As with anytime previous, Svante couldn't help but feel a slight sense of discomfort whenever she looked at Master Lor-Riou Herin.

The Votarious' Magister was a tall, handsome man, his slightly blue-tinged skin youthful-looking without appearing boyish, yet no one would ever make the mistake of thinking him too young for his position.  At least not after a single look of those dangerous purple eyes. 

Svante gave a mental shake of her head; what was important was now.  She gave the situation her full attention.

"Not at this time, Arbiter." The captain's tone held a hint of the frustration and anger that he kept under control.  "However, HIB has informed me that they have a solid lead that they're following." 

...Interesting... Svante considered, her face betraying nothing.  It wasn't unheard of that the Hegemony Intelligence Bureau would work in tandem with ZHETaC but still rare enough to elicit astonishment.  She supposed that such was the magnitude of the bombing and subsequent ramifications, an effective catalyst to be sure.  "Thank you, Captain.  The Triune has your report.  We will hear your follow-up sitrep at 16:00, local.  That is all."  The captain saluted to Svante before the hologram faded off, leaving the three members of the Triune in comparative silence.

Moving nothing but her eyes, Svante glanced at her two fellow Vhal'Dan sitting opposite her around a large, streamlined circular table.  It wasn't the elegant lines of the modern furniture that held her interest; no, the two men sitting there were infinitely more interesting.  They were as disparate as two beings could be: the Magister was young, boldly confident, clean-shaven, and tall; the Arbiter was gracefully older, his hair peppered with white and gray, quietly implacable and short.  But they were more alike than different.

Both men exuded an aura of poise and assurance, veritable bastions of conviction that inspired those around them, one look from their raptor-like eyes enough to quell even the most stalwart of opposition, excepting of course, from one another.

Or, for that matter, Svante herself.

But that was one of the many reasons why the Triune was so successful: they knew that their similarities reinforced their respective strengths while their differences counterbalanced and supplemented one another's faults.  And while there was no love lost between the three--especially between Svante and the Magister--they each respected the other and appreciated the expertise that their positions required of them.

As was often the case, the Magister spoke first.  "Arbiter, Field Marshall.  We're already well aware of the facts; the question now remains, what do we do now?"  He sounded as if he were giving a sermon to Svante's ears.  ...At least his tone isn't pedantic... She allowed.  ...This time... 

Saying nothing, Svante instead patiently waited while the Arbiter and the Magister collected themselves.  She was surprised when Orrell suddenly spoke.  "Svante, Lor-Riou...this travesty must be answered, and in kind."  Even though his voice was quiet and controlled, she could feel the passion behind the words, the emotion in his tone.

She now could see the unshed tears in his eyes.  And the fact that he'd addressed them both by their given names?

Svante now knew that--like herself--the Arbiter had lost someone close in the Citizen's Square bombing.  It had been right there in front of her... She felt an unspoken commiseration for Orrell, wondering just who it was that he'd lost...

"I agree." The Magister's voice sliced straight through Svante's ruminations, his voice uncharacteristically fervid.  "I have personally committed the Votarious to assist HIB and ZHETaC for anything that they need."  He paused, seeming to collect himself.  When next he spoke, he was noticeably more comported.  "My Children are helping Civil Services in the rescue efforts as we speak."

Svante always felt a certain measure of discomfort whenever the Magister referred to the Votarious as "his Children."  Still: she couldn't deny that their skills would be a boon for both the effort as well as for the individual victims.  "Thank you, Magister." She said, almost simultaneously with Orrell.  Smiling slightly, she gestured that the Arbiter continue.

Nodding, the older man's eyes looked hard enough to crack durasteel.  "Again: my thanks, Magister.  As more information becomes available, I submit that we continue our meetings outside our normal scheduling."  His shoulders seemed to suddenly sag.  "But for today, I'm afraid that I must attend to...personal affairs.  Excuse me."  The words had no sooner left his lips before he was hurrying towards the turbolift doors, his robes flaring out behind him.

Somewhat shocked, Svante's eyes watched the Arbiter's exit until the doors of the lift began to iris close.  But not before she saw a glance of his face, one in which he was trying hard not to weep openly.  ...Poor Orrell...

Surreptitiously, she pivoted only her eyes to look at the Magister.  Blinking, she was momentarily taken aback, uncertain if what her eyes had beheld is what she'd actually seen.  Even now as she focused, nothing seemed amiss.  ...Did I imagine...

The ambiance within the room seemed to plummet, like the cold of a deep Hoth winter.  "Excuse me, Field Marshall." Lor-Riou's tone was expressionless, his face equally as blank.

Yet again...his eyes.

As Svante's gaze followed the Magister's back into the turbolift, she noticed that he did not turn to face the doors.  Not for the first time, she questioned herself.  Oh, not her abilities nor her convictions; just her feelings where the Magister was concerned.

Shaking her head, she busied herself with the countless person-to-person holovids that she needed to deal with, yesterday.  Still, the memory of what she could have sworn that she'd seen would not be silenced within her head.  As she continued later into the night (and indeed to the early morning) her mind continued to consider--question(!)--if her memory hadn't, couldn't, possibly have witnessed what she had...

That the purple eyes of the Magister seemed to...exult at the mention of the bombing...

Or had she misread him?  Svante knew that she was a shrewd judge of character, even under the worst of circumstances.  But where the Magister was concerned... She knew of her own bias, her own antipathy towards him, and the Magister had never been an easy read during the best of times.  And these were hardly those...

Yet as she pulled on that thread, Svante felt other, more important concerns encroach in upon her attention, so that every time she tried anew, her focus would waver, until...

Until the events of the day inevitably blew such suppositions away on winds of chaos, anger, and sorrow.

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[TheDutchman]

Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part III

Looking down across the vast City, Orrell noticed that the damage had been localized to the Citizen's Square, but the explosion had been violent enough to destroy the Underworks, the surrounding canals already having poured into the resulting crater.  The rushing waters had been so swift and powerful that many of the structure's automatic doors hadn't been quick enough to seal the surrounding underground fabricated buildings, flooding many rooms.

And drowning many innocents.

As the aircar hovered down past the cordoned-off area, several of the Arbiter's Guard surrounded the car, creating a wall of power-armored bodies between him and the outside world.  Suddenly pensive, Orrell wondered that had Kage Anson D'Aklon had his own Guard, he might've survived assassination from the False Kage's Blue Temptress, her actual name and identity now lost to history.  Pausing a moment to take in everything that his eyes could see, Orrell let out a breath.  "Let's go." His clipped tone betrayed nothing of what he felt; he'd already wept during his trip here.

Careful of the crumbling deck beneath his feet, detritus everywhere he looked, Orrell negotiated his way through the rubble, large chunks of building material and the occasional body (or worse still, body part) strewn about.  The entire area had been pulverized.  Steeling himself, he forced his eyes to take in all that he saw...

Death and destruction.

Covering almost the entirety of the Square, the blast zone had radiated outwards from its origin point: the Monolith of the Eternal Kage.  For almost two centuries, the kilometer-tall white duracrete statue had stood tall, its vigilant stare gazing across the archipelago, tall enough that the countless people who'd visited the Monolith could look out from the room behind the statue's eyes and see the majority of Crezhlepetl City and the adjoining Bay of Crezque.  It was considered one of Zilior's marvels.

No longer.

Aside from the fact that almost the entire Citizen's Square was now a crater forming a small, dirty lake, the Monolith itself was gone, what hadn't been immediately destroyed had sank, disappearing to the bottom of the lake.  Several of the surrounding buildings had lost their entire facade facing the blast zone, the transparasteel buckling from the force of the concussive wave.  Still other buildings had developed structural faults that had to be immediately addressed and reinforced.  Those, thankfully, the Civil Engineers Corp (supplemented by their ZHETaC sapper counterparts) had been able to fix in short order.

The Monolith, however, would have to be completely rebuilt.

And Orrell knew that rebuilt it would be.  Still, all of that--even the state of the city--was nothing compared to what currently occupied his thoughts.  ...Maker send that the medics are mistaken... He prayed.  But he was too much of a realist to succumb to such childish fancies, never mind how much he wished otherwise.

Advancing to the larger of the three temporary fabricated bivouacs that had been set up to process the scene, Orrell's terse command left his Guards outside as he entered the structure.  Once inside, the sterile whiteness of the walls and furniture seemed an affront against the violence of the situation, the various collected bodies, limbs, and biomass scanned, collated, and kept in individual biohazard nylasteel bags.  Just the sight of such clinical detachment had Orrell's hackles up.

Approaching the nearest hapless nurse-technician, Orrell barked, "I need to see the most recent casualty reports.  Now."  He needn't flash any badge of office nor announce his position; his commanding tone brooked no argument.  After being handed a datapad, he thumbed the Ident function to gain unobstructed access to all intel.

His fingers flew across the interface, confirming from dropdown menus to narrow search parameters every time another truncated list stopped short of the necessary information he required.  Suddenly his hands stopped cold, an almost imperceptible tremor beginning in his fingers working its way down his arms, through his chest, and up his neck until it finally hit his head.  Slowly, the short man sank to his knees, the forgotten datapad falling from numb hands.  He thought that he was prepared.

He was wrong.

...no...please...no... He wordlessly pleaded, knowing that the Maker did not work in such an overt fashion, yet beseeched Him nevertheless.  Strong yet gentle hands surrounded him, attempting to support and comfort him but he felt none of it.  Even as his Arbiter's Guard gathered and escorted the unresponsive, broken man, the questioning looks of the gathered nurse-technicians turned from the Arbiter's retreating back to the senior doctor as he gathered the fallen datapad from the floor.

"Everyone, please, continue with your work." The doctor's quiet voice quelled the collective curiosity, everyone once again going about their business.  Except the doctor.  Staring down at the pad, the holodisplay had a lone name highlighted, slowly pulsing with a single epitaph.

A name that the doctor now recognized (indeed, one that almost anyone within the Hegemony would know), its relevance especially apparent by the Arbiter's reactions. 

Glancing down he stared at the name, the clinical blue-white aurebesh letters almost insincere considering the gravity of its message:
ARAGE TAKAHASHI-DECEASED

The doctor slowly shook his head.  Of course.  "Arage Takahashi."

The Arbiter's favored heir.

     <<<<< >>>>>

Slowly, ever so slowly, Koawan Esdaña Hanslau pulled on the slab of duracrete, careful of the bent rebar that was twisted around the surrounding detritus, sweat dripping off of her face as she exerted herself with the Force.  Yes, she was supposed to supplement the Civil Engineer's earthmovers, but sometimes the presser-fields from the vehicles was too cumbersome.  And in the here-and-now, she required subtlety.

Ignoring the pain behind her eyes, she tried not to think of just how long she'd been at this, of the constant strain of turbulent hours punctuated with intermittent breaks that were all too brief.  But every single person that she found alive, every survivor that she was able to rescue...it more than made up for the promised pain that she knew tomorrow would bring.

...Think of something else... She castigated herself.  But every time that she tried, Esdaña would always invariably circle back around to this tragedy.  Who had done it was immaterial to her; that it had occurred...well now, that was what interested her.

Once again she felt her attention wandering: the utter destruction of the Citizen's Square, the Monolith of the Eternal Kage razed...but the worst of it was all of the dead.  Structures could be rebuilt; lives, once ended, were the sole purview of the Maker.

A sudden shriek of metal dispelled her lamentations, forcefully bringing her back to the present.  ...Focus dammit...!  She slapped herself across the face, hard enough to leave a handprint.  ...The Hegemony is counting on you...!  That did the trick.

With a delicate manipulation of the Force, Esdaña was finally able to untangle all of the caught rebar and elevate the slab.  Just as the duracrete was able to crumble, she slowly set the large chunk of rock and metal down in one of the designated disassembly factory-cubes.  While rescuers searched, the droids within the cubes would take apart and analyze the detritus, looking for tell-tale signs of life, such as oxygen saturation, remnant epithelial tissues, or even just plain, deliberate scratches that didn't belong.

Sinking down to the ground, Esdaña let out a breath, her exhaustion now to a point that she knew that one more effort like the last one would drive her unconscious.  ...You need rest...there are other rescuers... She needlessly reminded herself, knowing that as soon as she was able, Esdaña would be right back in the thick of the search.  But for now, she grabbed at her canteen, pulling deep swallows from the neck as the blessedly cool water helped to revitalize her, at least for a moment. 

It was during times like these that she thought of her Ama, and how every time the ancient woman would persist at some problem, never once giving up.  Esdaña barked a laugh, sounding more like a croak.  The short, thin reedy woman was a study in contrasts: her Ama looked as if she'd be blown over by a middling wind gust but Esdaña knew that she was tougher than the duracrete strewn around the site, stronger even than the durasteel rebar that had hindered her efforts so often today. 

Wistful, Esdaña knew that the Hegemony would break before her Ama did, and that in no way impugned upon the strength of the Hege--

A quiet klaxon blared from the disassembly cube, demanding everyone's attention.  There were signs of life on the slab!

Her canteen forgotten, Esdaña began to carefully dig through the dirt and detritus that had been buried under the slab, eyes keenly searching while extending her senses through the Force outward.  For long seconds she sensed nothing, saw even less...

There!  A bit of dirt moved, not much...but enough.

"Here!  Here!" She cried as other rescuers carefully joined her, some Force-sensitive, most not.  But one and all they worked on extricating the buried being and getting them out alive.

Soon, they had uncovered a hand, then an arm, and finally partially unearthed a torso.  Carefully but as swiftly as possible, Esdaña cleared the dirt off the area that she guessed the head would be.  Thank the Maker that she was right; as soon as the person's lips were uncovered, a sputtering cough exploded from their mouth.  In short time, she could finally tell with certainty that it was a human male that she'd found.

"Can you hear me?  Can you tell me where you're hurt?" She calmly asked, slowly unearthing the man's remaining limbs.  Esdaña had almost uncovered the man's entire body, excepting his left arm...until she realized that, below the shoulder, there was no arm to be found.  As soon as she could, she began triage on the severed upper limb, using one of the smart-nylasteel lines as a temporary tourniquet.  Then she went to work with her Force Healing, the danger far from past.

"What's the last thing that you remember?  Can you tell me where you were going?  Who are the three leaders of the Triune?  What is your name?  Were you alone or with someone?"  The questions poured forth in a calm, deliberate cadence, the act of talking used more for focusing rather than conversation; indeed, for Esdaña, it helped her to concentrate on Healing the many contusions and lacerations that the man had.

With an intake of breath, she suddenly stopped.  "Sorry, would you please repeat that name again?" Esdaña started, now hyperaware of the situation while still aiding the wounded man with her Force ministrations.

"...Arage Takahashi..." The man whispered, the pain in his voice a match to the pains of his body.  "...My Prospectiv--" Violent coughing cut him off, each fit causing him to wince in pain as his opposite hand hovered uselessly over his missing limb.

Esdaña knew of Arage Takahashi--everyone did--but she didn't know the young woman personally.  Still: the young koawan had heard the recent rumors circulating camp: somehow the Arbiter had found out about his beloved 2nd-Daughter's death, not from any normal means, but rather from someone within HIB.  Just how that was possible, Esdaña had no idea, but all she had had to do when she did see him was take one look at the Arbiter's face to know that he was furious.

That and devastated.

After all, Arbiter Orrnell Onasi's 2nd-Daughter, Arage Takahashi had been heir-apparent of Uji*Onasi, the last surviving Gray Jedi of her Family.  Now with her death, Uji Onasi would descend into a time of chaos as internal conflicts would invariably erupt... Esdaña shook her head; no wonder the Arbiter had been so distraught...

Quiet sobbing recalled Esdaña back to the present, the man's--now her patient, she reminded herself--dirty face streaked with new tears.  "I'll get one of the medical droids to help you." She offered, feeling somewhat impotent.  Imagine her surprise when her patient politely but firmly refused.

"...No...no...send to...those who...need it...more...Ara...Ar..." Like his cognizance, his voice trailed off as exhaustion washed over him.  Esdaña was about to ask him again for his name but noticed that he'd lost consciousness.  Gently, almost tenderly, she used the Force to move the man onto one of the auto-stretchers, driven by a droid attendant.  Just as the droid was going to leave, she suddenly put up a hand to stop it, something having caught her eye.  Moving deliberately, she reached down and grasped the man's dog-tags hanging from around his neck, squinting in the darkening light as the sun continued its descent towards the far horizon.

"'Tamet Vail, senior cadet." She read aloud.  Well, she could now move one of the names off of the "MISSING" list and into "WOUNDED."  It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Unfortunately, as the rescuers would come to find out, the only victories to be had that day would be small ones.

_____________________
* Uji-Clan or House

[Lord_S_Gray]

Zilior, the world Anson would have made in his more security mined years based on the constant ident checks to move everywhere an ubiquity of the military. In that sense having a vast monolith dedicated to him is fitting, but in another a horrible irony in that I can't imagine he ever wanted to be the center of the Vhal'dan, just protect them.

Well played showing zilior through the eyes of the citizens, the contrast between Cataphract and Votarious, how the eternal vigilance is part of the their culture, and the mythologized re-write of D'Aklon himself, the history they think they know is not completely untrue, but it is seriously muddled, like a founding myth of modern nation states, the ideals of sacrifice and vigilance have overtaken the man himself.

To bomb said monolith is perhaps the ultimate statement of derision to the Hegemony, showing 'we can get you at your most revered site', undermining all the aforementioned security you have dedicated yourselves to creating. Whoever is responsible knew where to hit where it hurts, and I suspect that Sapal and Agare were both present was not a coincidence, this was timed to hit two out of three of the Triune hard as possible in a single blow.

As to who would have such intelligence and be able to undermine the doubtless innumerable levels of security to get a suicide bomber in such a place, and what the exact motive is beyond causing the Hegemony to become incensed and the Triune destabilized....that all remains to be seen, but you can be certain the Triune will spare no expense to discover the truth.

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 4: A Strife of Interests, a Contest of Principles, part I

"...And so this concludes deliberations within this Open Session of Congress.  Go in Balance."  The tall Arbiter intoned, the ancient, formal dismissal irritating Kazic to no end.

...Fools... He shook his head.  ...Bureaucratic fools...

Still seated, Kazic merely watched as the crowded Gray Jedi slowly exited from the spacious Hall of Balance, his thoughts turning inward.  He had hoped that the Speakers would, as per tradition, open the Panel for discussion and questions from the Floor, where he could voice his concerns or, at worst, point out the several fallacies of the "Official" position that both the Kage and Arbiter were trying to pass off as fact.

For one, Q'eieha insisted on calling the bombing "an accident," with no mention of either the saboteur or Ryshhk's involvement.
 She certainly made no mention of his Wookie friend's sacrifice...

Another circumstance that Kazic had experienced more and more often: he was definitely persona non grata as far the majority of Vhal'Dan he'd spoken to were concerned, to the point that even a newly knighted koawan had all but insulted him as he was using one of the countless training salles that had been reopened at the Old Jedi Temple, where the huge stone Guardian stood vigilant.  All he'd wanted was to help pass the time until the next Open Session was available.

Instead the young man hadn't offered his name or any hint of an apology for deliberately elbowing Kazic in the small of his back as he worked through one of his 30 minute saber practices using one of the Order's countless drones.  He was grateful that Eriobe hadn't been there to witness that; she would've undoubtably traced a Provocation or the like, smacking the young fool's face with that hard left of hers while challenging him to a dual.

Kazic's solution had been much more politic, and by far less...violent.

Clipping his silver lightsaber to his belt opposite of the identical black hilt he alwasy wore, Kazic turned towards the taller young man, the human radiating enmity from a barely concealed belligerent face.  "Koawan..." Kazic's voice had been quiet yet earnest, the entire salle immediately falling silent.  "Has your master failed so egregiously that you have no concept between representative danger and a hazardous mistake?"  Kazic saw the koawan's face change to confused uncertainty.  The Anzat's calm and impassive demeanor never once changed.  "I thought not; I'll educate you.  'Representative danger' is the promise of future ramifications following your mistake."  Nothing in Kazic's face changed, only the now very noticeable dangerous bent of his eyes.  "A hazardous mistake is one that you will not survive."  Despite their height disparity, Kazic seemed to loom large over the koawan, the human suddenly walking small as he made a hasty retreat from the salle.  Kazic said nothing more, finishing his workout in comparative peace.  But word spread, sometimes for the better.

And in other instances, for the worst.

What Kazic found most disconcerting was that the collective passive-aggressions against him were self-defeating, a distraction that further prevented him from helping the Order.  The fact that it seemed endemic throughout the younger generations spoke volumes to the Anzat.  From everything that he'd learned in his short time back on Kewda, it had neither been swift nor overt, but the Order's shift from militarism trending towards academia was--at least in part--a direct result of the violence of the Civil War.  Which for Kazic meant another one of his sins coming back to haunt him.

Arms folded across his chest, the Anzat slowed his breathing, closing his eyes as he went through a Calming technique.  As often happened whenever he meditated, he suddenly heard the comforting familiar voice of his friend, Soryu.

"So now you are responsible for thousands of lives, their decisions, actions, and fate?" The deceptively youthful looks of the old human had often distracted Kazic from the fact that Soryu had accrued more than a lifetime of wisdom during his century of life.  There was a big difference between a century for a human compared for an Anzat: where Anzati tended to think in long-scale terms--decades instead of years--humans actually lived each and every year.  Which was why Soryu's lessons would often strike so close to their target.  "Should I genuflect at your feet, now that you've taken the place of the Maker?" His soft, deliberate voice was almost always accompanied with a knowing smile, his valid point punctuated by his armor-piercing questions.  "No, my friend, last I checked, you've neither ascended to the Maker's station nor fallen from grace.  You are not to blame for anyone else; their actions are their's alone."

Which was how the countless discussions that they'd had would often begin.  Yet despite the two men's disparate perspectives, Kazic came to appreciate Soryu's optimism, how it was the perfect counterbalance to his own--and often times, darker--pragmatism.  During their years together and ever afterwards, it had served as a balm soothing Kazic's most acerbic self-denigration and doubts...

But moreover, Soryu's counsel had saved him from himself during an especially poignant juncture of his life when the Anzat had felt that he'd lost everything: Saani, the daen nosi, even his very connection to the Force itself.  Thanks to his friend, Kazic had learned to live again and, after 200 years of failure, to forgive himself.

With a slow smile spreading across his face, Kazic felt the bittersweet remembrance that only the loss of such a close confidant could elicit.  But it also helped buoy his spirits: it helped to remind him that nothing remained static.

"Bad times..." Soryu had told him, his almost constant smile on his lips, "...As well as Good change."  Kazic remembered the deliberate pause the human had took, knowing that his silence was the next step in convincing the Anzat of the fundamental truth of his words, only adding afterwards, "And will."

It was quite the trick that his friend did: regardless of Kazic's staunch realism, Soryu's own optimism was often contagious, even when it ran counter to the Anzat's centuries of experience, enough so that he would shake his head, questioning his own convictions.  What he'd taken at the time for naivete had been so, SO much more: a man whose Faith was greater than anything else in the galaxy.

Certainly greater than Kazic's own faith in the Maker...or himself for that matter during that point in his life.  No, Soryu had taught him a valuable lesson that not even Kazic's darkest experiences could usurp, not his loss of Saani & Anson, not the entire Civil War, not his years of enslavement by the Karazak Slavers Cooperative, not even when he'd been a bare-faced teidowan during the final years of the New Sith Wars.  Where there was Life, there was Hope.

At least that's what Kazic chose to remember...

His smile turned to a grin.  Perhaps it was as simple as that: he honored his friend by remembering his best qualities.  Soryu may have been an idealist; Maker knew that he and Kazic had had several disagreements revolving around existentialism, the Maker, the Force...everything it seemed.  But even the most pragmatic, died-in-the-wool pessimistic beliefs that Kazic would sometimes fall back on did little to dissuade him of the best of those memories. 

Sitting there in an almost empty Hall of Balance, Kazic knew that, ultimately, he didn't care: he would always be grateful to his friend, a person that throughout a life that would span over a millennia, would be one of the rare beings whom the Anzat considered more than just a friend and confidant.

Soryu had been family.

Gathering his dark robes around him, Kazic stood, walking absent any urgency as he exited the large building.  With the setting sun's light shining in his red eyes, the tall Anzat took a moment to appreciate the home that Kewda had been for the Vhal'Dan, if not so much for him.  But it did remind him of Ryshhk...

For another one of his close friends, Kewda was more than just the place where the Order had called home, it was the reason that the Vhal'Dan thrived.  Now as then, Kazic would do anything that he could to ensure the safety of them both: the Vhal'Dan Order and his friend, Ryshhk.  After all, the daen nosi hadn't just disappeared once he'd made planetfall.  It was incumbent upon him to find a solution, to show the younger Jedi like Q'eieha another way forward.

Kazic almost groaned.  Q'eieha.  Their last meeting had not gone at all as he'd hoped.  Besides, she was right; he was the "Failed Kage."

But the man that he'd been compared to the man that he was now was separated by an ocean of experience, enough to fill the interim with three lifetimes.  It was first Soryu and, later, Eriobe that showed him that his self-imposed exile had been a mistake.
 Kazic never should have shut himself off from others.  So he might stand at cross-purposes with the Kage, but he believed that--like himself--she had the Order's best interests at heart.  He knew that he must find some common ground.

Now, if only he knew of a way to do so...

For all of his insistence that the Kage do something, he found himself suddenly at a loss to provide for himself a path towards that goal.  ...Perhaps Eriobe would know better than I... He mused, ...after all, she is the social anthropologist of the two of us...

He guessed that today was one for nostalgia: if Soryu had turned him away from his path towards oblivion, it was Eriobe who had offered him an entirely new one, this path blessedly leading towards happiness and contentment.  Both his friend and his wife had given him renewed purpose but--and this was the most important distinction--also tranquility.  He couldn't help but smile at memories that represented his new normal: from exploring Rakatan archaeological ruins & discussing ancient tomes from the Infinite Empire to the new exercise regimen that Eriobe had designed, he found new promise with every day.  In fact, for the first time in over two centuries, Kazic had packed on almost 25kg of muscle as a result!

Then again, Eriobe was good at many things... And so the remainder of the day crept by, each second filled with the newest memories that Kazic had made.

As the sun sank behind the dome of the Hall of Balance, Kazic suddenly found that he could not draw his gaze from the busy cityscape that had grown into Kewd'Ulhadv.  Wistfully, he remembered the humble beginnings of what had been nothing more than a collection of prefabricated structures and dirt streets, the only airlanes established was the lone main approach vector that bisected the urban area that was not even yet a town.  But after 200 years, the Capital was now even larger than Vhal'Ulhadv had been on Galtea.

Kazic was suddenly surprised, not that he could still find amazement at such monumental changes in populations but rather that he was sincerely impressed at what Ryshhk, Jorol, D'Arial--hell, all of the Vhal'Dan!--had accomplished, and that had been achieved even despite the subsequent adversity of the fallout of the Lus'Phor Vergence and the Time of Troubles.  If nothing else, it was further proof that Kazic had made the right decision to abdicate, resulting in Ryshhk's unprecedented tenure as Kage.

That much at least Kazic had done correctly.

He was still in the middle of his recollections when his senses made him aware of three approaching people, their mannerisms a strange mix of conviction and doubt.  More curious than concerned, he squared his shoulders and with an impassive look fixed upon his face, Kazic stared at the foremost being, a large Shifalan female. 

"Master Overug?" Her tone was strong, just a hint of uncertainty underneath.  When Kazic nodded, she continued, "I am Anayese Vondall, 6th Speaker.  These are my confederates, Masters Gray Irvmek Tesspi and Casjadi Tianpri Vxi."

Nodding respectfully at each master in turn, Kazic focused his eyes on the Shifalan.  "What is it you want, Speaker?"  As the last syllable left his lips, Kazic saw the daen nosi twist around all three of the Jedi in front of him and then back on himself.  Whatever the Maker had in store for him, at least he knew this much: without knowing exactly what the future portended, Kazic suddenly had a direction to which to turn.

"I--we--need to speak to you." Anayese Vondall was not young but when she spoke she did so with authority and assertiveness, the Shifalan larger than everyone, including Kazic.  Yet despite her posture, her intelligent eyes were astute and open, a marked contrast to Kazic's recent experiences with the younger Jedi.  "Some of us, not many but enough, do not agree with the Kage or her apparent dismissiveness."

Kazic's eyes glanced from Anayese to Irvmek & Casjadi and back again.  "And you believe that I can do...what exactly?" He was now and truly interested.  Before, the only members of the Order that had spoken with him had done so either grudgingly or without the knowledge of precisely who he was.

Anayese made a noise, one that reminded Kazic of his old mentor Stryka Annix, usually whenever she had thought him obtuse.  However, his face betrayed none of his emotions.

"To begin with, you can help us prepare." She looked over her shoulder at the Hall of Balance, shaking her head.  "The new generation is...naive, obdurate even."  When next she fixed her piercing green eyes upon his, Kazic could feel the strength radiating from the woman.

...So much like Stryka... He couldn't help but marvel. 

"We have read about your exploits..." She said, taking a slight step forward, a knowing look in her eyes.  She dropped her voice to just above a whisper.  "More importantly, we learned about that which was not recorded.  We know that you and Ryshhk are of like minds, that you both survived the Civil War and saved the Order."  That last surprised him; outside of Eriobe--and Ryshhk--no one had ever told him that he'd "saved the Order."  Yet it was what Anayese said next that left him speechless.

"The bombing was not the first incident, nor will it be the last.  But it finally proves that which we of the 'Old Guard' had suspected for decades, something that your friend Ryshhk K’rrmerii told us about... The Vhal'Dan are weak and unprepared." Her pause was punctuated by the hard look in her eyes.  "We must become the warriors that we were again, like in the time before the War."

Anayese looked to both of the Jedi Masters flanking her, nodding to each before facing him with her fierce gaze.  "And it must be you who lead us."

     <<<<< >>>>>

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 4: A Strife of Interests, a Contest of Principles, part II

Sweat damp upon her brow, Eriobe spun her green lightsaber in tight controlled orbits, each pass deflecting another blaster bolt.  Unencumbered in a skintight dark gray & white jumpsuit, she lightly leaped from one end of the training salle to the other, multiple drones pursuing her in a pointless attempt to line up a shot.  Before two of the six drones could get into position, Eriobe's practice saber slammed into them, deactivating them as they were now "destroyed," all of this done while dodging the other four drones' targeting.

Whenever she'd needed time to think, she would often take up a practice session, the necessary Oneness with the Force allowing her to shed all of the trivialities bothering her.  Doing so usually allowed her to achieve at least a Second Level, if not Third Level, Contemplation.  Such Contemplations were always accompanied with memories.

Kazic had told her much of his previous wife, Saani, including how she had been one of the Vhal'Dan's premiere blademasters.  He'd also admitted that while Eriobe was definitely a better swordsman than he'd ever be, she still wasn't quite as good as Saani.

Eriobe had scoffed at her husband, her face scrunched up in mock irritation, only betrayed by the half-grin she wore and the gleam in her eye.  What he said next, however, caused her to drop all hint of her faux-wounded pride: Saani might be a better blademaster but Eriobe was the most natural fighter that he'd ever seen.  As a Mirialan, she was already amongst the most agile beings in the galaxy, but Eriobe in particular was especially quick and nimble.

She smiled, the memory of her husband's face radiating both pride and wonder as clear as the day that she'd lived it over twenty years ago, courtesy of the Preservation that she'd traced.  It was on that day that she'd decided to help train him, not only with his lightsaber but also her own unique martial arts (her Mother had never given it a name, simply calling it "The System").  Over the years he'd gotten good, quite good indeed.

But he'd never once bested her.  Ever.

For Eriobe, that was as it should be; she just gave thanks to Kazic's Maker that she was there to help keep him safe!  She'd known courtesy of a Discernment--almost as soon as he'd asked for her help concerning Rakatan artifacts back on Belkadan--that she was to become his Protector.  Not once had she wavered upon that commitment, her obligation her life, a duty that she would always safeguard...

Even at times from himself.

Pivoting, she sank to her heels, the blaster fire burning above her head in the spot that she'd until recently occupied.  Still in motion, she somersaulted over the two nearest drones, landing behind them but still in front of the two remaining.  In the second that in took for her to land, the two drones in front had her targeted, their blaster barrels already glowing from the bolts about to be fired.  Yet, somehow, Eriobe was able to duck to one side, jumping wide of not only the incoming fire but also the drones themselves.  Meanwhile, the fired plasma still found a target; in this case, the two drones that Eriobe had jumped over.

Scoring direct hits, two more drones powered down, not that Eriobe had waited to see.  She was already in motion, her green saber held in a reverse-Shien grip, her opposite hand steadying her as she jumped in quick succession from the floor, to the wall, to the ceiling, to the opposite wall, and finally behind the two remaining drones.  Her feet had not even touched the floor before her blade struck one of the drones, deactivating it.  She was in mid-stroke when the final drone surprised her.

Matching her speed and agility, the drone sped up and away, firing several bolts one after the other.  With economy of movement, Eriobe deflected each one, running close to the ground towards the drone, only to jump up, bouncing off of the near wall, the adjoining wall, the floor, and again the nearest wall, all the while effortlessly blocking incoming fire.

As Kazic had already observed, if any of the Vhal'Dan Shadows had been there to see, they would have been amazed at the acrobatic acumen that Eriobe possessed, her spatial awareness virtually unmatched.  So it was that as Eriobe began to swing her lightsaber to strike a hit on the final drone that her eyes widened, her intuitive Force Prescience warning her of danger. 

With inhuman speed and dexterity, her body...twisted, causing all four incoming blaster bolts to miss, two more drones suddenly joining the other six.  In a split-second, she ascertained the origin, calculating angles, force-vectors, and the requisite speed necessary to intercept while a small part of her smirked at the poor attempt by her visitor to throw her off of her game.  Or at least attempt to; as all of her past opponents had found out, they hadn't tried and failed...

They'd tried and died.

With celerity that even a Jedi would find remarkable, Eriobe felt the satisfactory pressure of her practice saber against the drone's armored plating, deactivating first one and then the other that had failed in their ambush.  With but a single drone remaining, it was a foregone conclusion concerning its demise.  With a flourish, she landed lightly in the center of the salle, green blade extinguishing as she stood.

Slow clapping filled the salle, Eriobe no longer the only occupant of the room.  Training her face to impassivity, she sauntered over to where she had neatly stacked her bag and personal items, all the while locking her green eyes onto the tall, pale woman who'd entered and, obviously, activated the other two drones to join the session.  Surreptitiously tracing an Aversion, she projected an easy tone in her voice.  "Besides trying to gage my abilities, what are you doing her, Q'eieha?"  Casually, she drank deeply from her canteen, the sweetwater rejuvenating.  Kazic would not want for her to slap this woman, to make her cry shamefully like the errant child that she was, no matter how much she deserved such...

Instead, she adopted an easy stance in front of the Vhal'Dan Kage.  Eriobe knew that from this position, she could execute five effective defenses: two would disarm with minimal contact, two would kill, and the last, well...

...The last would hurt.

Q'eieha, of course, noticed nothing amiss.  "That was truly impressive." She gestured with her chin, her tone one of unfeigned admiration.  "I've never seen anyone move that fast, not even our battlemasters."  She delicately folded her hands in front of her.

...And that's your problem, quim...no more Jedi warriors and fewer who're honorable... She thought, instead saying, "Thank you.  You didn't answer my question."  ...You white bitch... She wanted to add, but didn't out of respect for her husband.  Instead, she idly, almost lazily, traced a Malediction but did not add any spittle at the end.  Well...in this case, it would suffice.

At first the Kage didn't speak, moving deliberately closer.  But if she thought to make Eriobe uncomfortable, the Mirialan would prove to her just how wrong she was... "I think that what your husband wants is to help the Order."

Eriobe had to admit that she had not expected that answer.  "Of course he does." She quickly recovered.  "Why you Vhal'Dan refuse to listen beggars logic."  She said instead of the vitriolic, expletive-filled remonstration that she wanted use to dress-down Q'eieha with.  Proud of herself, Eriobe added, "All my husband has ever done has been for the best of the Order." She showed her teeth, hoping that Q'eieha would take it for a smile.

With pale eyes shining in amusement, the Kage soothed.  "Of course, of course... But tell me Mistress Ovarug, and answer me true: if you were faced with an ambiguous situation and offered an ambiguous solution by a person of questionable character, would you not first parse out the validity of said solution?"  She seemed to direct her full attention to one of the deactivated drones as she spoke.  "Or would you not at least consider alternatives as improbabilities increased?"  Suddenly, she was staring--not aggressively, but rather intently--into Eriobe's eyes, her pale, delicate hand upon Eriobe's light green wrist.  "Would you not listen primarily to those around you whom have been entrusted for several years, confidants whose rationality and loyalty is beyond question?"

Eriobe was about to refute what the pale woman was saying but stopped herself short.  Logically, she could not fault the White Bitch for her reasoning.  Instead, like with her choreography with the drones, she pivoted: "You make good points...but have shown that you are operating under a logic fallacy or two: your 'alternatives' do not carry the weight of the evidence that has been presented before you, that much more when you consider that my husband's reasons for returning underscore the import of such when he, himself, has admitted that he was a poor Kage.  A fact that would assuredly mark him as--how did you put it?  Oh, yes--'a person of questionable character.'  Yet, despite this, he has come to you, in the open and penitent."  That last wasn't precisely true but while Eriobe's tone had not changed, her words were heavy with meaning.  "Also: you must know enough of Anzat metaphysics--given your knowledge of the daen nosi--that to arbitrarily dismiss the 'Lines of Fate' is lazy at best, imminently destructive at worst.  I can attest that whatever my husband believes, whether one calls it the daen nosi, or Acts of the Maker, or the Will of the Force, it doesn't matter, whenever he has these premonitions, he has come off better for it compared to the alternative." 

Eriobe could tell that she'd made her point by Q'eieha's demeanor.  Oh, not that her face had changed--the White Bitch was much too good a politician for that--but rather her admittedly subtle body-language said it all: where before she'd had no doubts, now there was just the tiniest sliver.  ...That was for Kazic, you tralk...

Pushing aside the willowy pale woman, Eriobe grabbed her bag, the ghost of a self-satisfied smile upon her green lips.  "So: you'll either change what you believe now, or you'll go on believing whatever it is you want to."

Walking past the Kage, Eriobe saw the look of bemusement on Q'eieha's face.  Not able to help herself, Eriobe decided to twist the proverbial knife.  Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder.  "Oh, and you're forgetting one other distinct possibility, Q'eieha."  She paused theatrically, suppressing her smile.  She was certain that Kazic would forgive her her fun.  The Kage's face was blank but her eyes were expectant.  "...That your so-called 'rational and loyal people' are anything but."  Without a backwards glance she left the White Bitch speechless.

Even though Eriobe thought that her last statement was ludicrous, she hoped that it would take some of the air out of the Kage's pretentious attitude.

Walking out of the training salle and onto the Temple Grounds, she felt her spirits buoyed, absently tracing a Merriment to accompany her own amusement at the poleaxed look of consternation that she'd last seen of the Kage's face. 

Shaking her head, she laughed aloud, thinking, ...Take that you pale fedejik...!

Feeling satisfied, Eriobe walked through the airy Temple Grounds, the local flora beautiful and in bloom, a panoply of colors on display made all the more beautiful by the deepening blue of the dusk sky.  By the time that the looming form of the Guardian came into view, all of the details of the large statue were lost in the shadows.

Regardless, Eriobe sincerely enjoyed herself as she came to one of the hyperloop stations leading from the Temple to Kewd'Ulhadv proper.  Still under the influence of the Third Level Contemplation, she stared out of the panoramic windows of the railcar, appreciating the darkening landscape of the surrounding countryside and rural habitations cohabiting together in a synergy with nature.

Once again her memories crept up from deep within, the memory of Kazic's tight face full of pained anguish fresh enough to see minutiae--from the way his already pronounced brow furrowed to the way his red eyes dilated--as he described his beloved Galtea as it had been before the Civil War.  Just thinking about it broke Eriobe's heart, the staggering sorrow of her Love's pain...

Violently shaking her head, she castigated herself.  Such powerful memories in a Third Level Contemplation could be overwhelming, at least for the unprepared... Deliberately, she dismissed the Contemplation entirely.  It was for the best, really...especially this close to their shared apartments.  Indeed, less than a minute later, the hyperloop car opened its doors to the tall, ultramodern building that she and her Love were currently staying in.

Even surrounded by the thick throng of people entering and exiting the building, Eriobe felt blessedly alone.  She needed no one, save for her Love.  However, as Kazic's Protector, she had also adopted his friends as her own.  Like Ryshhk.  She hoped that the Wookie was recovering...

As soon as she entered her apartments, her spatial awareness told her that she was alone, Kazic not inside.  Cursing softly, she looked in her bag searching for her commlink.  Sure enough, it was flashing.  The White Bitch had perturbed her enough that she hadn't thought to check it...

Thumbing the device, she listened as her Love's voice filled her ears, giving her an update on his plans and whereabouts.  Once finished, she was glad that she'd returned to the apartments first so that she could use the sonic shower.  Not only would she clean herself from her exertions at the salle (not to mention the oily feeling she got from any politician) but it would also allow her to think on what he'd told her.

And how best to ready herself for battle.

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[TheDutchman]

Chapter 4: A Strife of Interests, a Contest of Principles, part III

"Sir, excuse me, end of line." Something in the droid's polite voice broke through Kazic's ruminations.  Blinking red eyes, he said something noncommittal while giving a quick, disingenuous smile, exiting through the door of the aircar that belonged to the private estate of the 6th Speaker.  "Have a safe day, sir." The droid pilot offered, sounding almost genuine, although Kazic had to admit that he'd always been fairly indifferent towards droids. 

It was a superstition that almost every Anzat held: absent any Soup, droids were just so much collected minerals and programmed enumeration and therefore not alive.  Which for any Anzat, meant "unimportant."  ...Even Lek'un were better than droids... He thought automatically, castigating himself when his conscious mind caught up to what he'd said to himself.  ...Even after all of these years, I can still revert to the Old Ways... His disgust oozed from the back of his mind.  He forced himself to acknowledge the Present: that this was not Anzat Prime, and the Seigniory Discord had been over for millennia...

Giving his head a final shake, Kazic found himself once again standing at the base of one of the tallest buildings on the outskirts of Kewd'Ulhadv, the twilight of dusk darkening the sky, yet the City itself continued to shine like a bright star courtesy of all of the lights.  Indeed, if Vhal'Ulhadv was--had been--the jewel of Galtea, Kewd'Ulhadv was the Corusca Gem, not only for Kewda but for all of the Order's history.  Kilometers-tall buildings were ringed by several halos of hyperloop magtrains, air- and ground-car lanes were delineated arteries throughout the city's footprint, almost every structure a gleaming wonder of architectural prowess merging seamlessly with the verdant abundance of nature peppered throughout the entire megalopolis.  Several kilometers off in the distance at the base of the Vrachódis Mountains, the fluvial plains cradled the ancient Jedi Temple and the Guardian, the last of the setting sun's rays glinting off of the dome of the Hall of Balance even at this distance.

But for all of the splendor that the nighttime cityscape offered (and it was spectacular), Kazic had only thoughts towards visiting his friend, Ryshhk.  While "Visiting Hours" had certainly come and gone, Kazic's deeply embedded algorithm throughout the Vhal'Dan database gave him virtual carte blanche throughout the Order's properties.  Waving his hand across the datanode, the doors restricting access to the public opened easily allowing him entry.

Taking the nearest turbolift, he bounced from the ground floor up towards the top within seconds, the inertial dampeners not quite mitigating the pressure differential as it both accelerated and then decelerated.  Mind racing with possibilities from his meeting with Anayese and her small group of Masters, Kazic completely ignored the problem with the turbolift as he strode through the quiet floor home to mostly comatose patients.  Heading straight to the largest suite, he was unsurprised to see that his friend Ryshhk still lay unresponsive upon the airbed.

"Any change?" He asked the medical droid by rote, shrugging out of his dark robes and neatly folding them before placing the bundle atop the backs of one of the comfortable chairs along the spacious room's perimeter. 

"Yes, sir.  Homeostatic processes continue to improve for the patient.  The doctor has doubled the protein-nutrient intake and both cardio- and neuro-functions are increasing.  This is good news." The medical droid's voice even sounded hopeful.

"Yes.  'Good news' indeed." Kazic muttered, only half-listening.  Taking one of the comfortable chairs by the arms, he moved it closer to the airbed and, taking Ryshhk's massive paw in his hand, sat down.  For several minutes Kazic did nothing but stare, his lips wordlessly moving as he recited a prayer to the Maker for his friend.

Sometime afterwards as the gravity of the situation weighed heavily upon his shoulders, Kazic found himself tired enough to fall into a state of quasi-sleep.  Then at the last minute, he consciously chose to transition his cognitive mind towards a Meditative trance, one that his wife would have called a "Fourth level Contemplation."  Good, it wasn't often that he could achieve said state, at least by himself.  Taking advantage of his luck, he slowly replayed the events of the day, starting first with his training session but soon focusing on his failed attempts during Congress, to finally the meeting that Anayese and her confederates had told him of their loyalty to Ryshhk and now by extension, him.

Anayese had voiced exactly what Kazic had experienced: the Order was adrift, rudderless.  They'd lost a certain vital component along their way through the Vhal'Dan's recent history, and could no longer be considered a strong, martial entity.  As such, Kewda had become an inviting target with only a weak Order to defend it... And while she claimed to have no concrete evidence, the Shifalan had voiced her opinion that such a trend had been deliberately done at the behest of some unseen enemy.

"One of which, Master Ovarug, I am now convinced is hidden among us, here." Certainly radiated from her.  "On Kewda."  She had stepped closer to Kazic.  "Master Ovarug.  You and Ryshhk K’rrmerii were the leaders that we needed during those troubling times, strong Kages that could deal head-on with the overwhelming adversity of the situations that you faced daily.  We feel that Q'eieha is just not up to challenge."

"I believe you." Kazic had told her.  "But even so, what you are suggesting will amount to nothing more than an Order-wide schism; trust me, I know exactly of what I am speaking of.  Has it truly become so bad in such a short time?" He asked with no hint of chastisement, merely curiosity.

Anayese traded looks with a few of the older Masters.  "A short time?  No.  But it has definitely become more...pronounced as of late." Absently she stroked her chin, yet another gesture that was eerily reminiscent of his Master Stryka Annix.  "The bombing has been the only overt proof of evidence that there is someone actively acting against the Vhal'Dan." Her low huff seemingly reverberated through the ground and through the air, Kazic feeling the bass vibrato in his lungs.  "Unfortunately, I've no other proof, if that's what you're asking, Master Ovarug."

"Speaker, 'Kazic' if you please." He gave a quick smile.  "I understand.  Besides, the absence of a negative does not mean that everything is right..." He crossed his arms over a well-muscled chest.  "Speaker, have you or any of the present Masters noticed anything amiss or suspect from any one of the other Masters or Maenowans?"

The Shifalan smiled pointedly.  "If you are 'Kazic' then I insist upon 'Anayese.'  And to answer your question: no, nothing definitive."

Stroking his goatee, Kazic had considered everything that he'd been told, weighing the reality of what his petitioning for Kage would entail versus what it would accomplish.  All he needed to do was think of Eriobe; the rest was easy.

Shaking his head, his voice was genial but succinct.  "To answer you all: no, I absolutely refuse to assume the Office of Kage." He smiled to try to take the sting out of his words.  "Besides, I was never a good politician anyway."  He saw several of the gathered Masters sag their heads in disappointment.  "That being said, I do agree that what we need is a strong leader."  That did the trick: those who had hung their heads suddenly perked up.  "And I believe that leader is Ryshhk K’rrmerii."  This time, they all looked at him as if he'd told them that he'd done the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs.

"...Kazic, not to state the obvious but Master K’rrmerii is currently catatonic." One of the Masters spoke.

Kazic gave a small smile.  "True.  However, that would not stop an emergency election if enough Masters and Maenowans called upon a vote of 'No Confidence' in Q'eieha.  In fact, it would allow us more time to do our own investigations while this was debated endlessly in committee...which I'm certain those gathered here could accomplish." He could see that his words had reached some of the gathered Jedi, such as Anayese, the Shifalan nodding slowly.  "Our goal isn't that we need to win, rather that we need to stall.  Then, with demonstrable evidence, we can make headway."  That time, almost everyone was nodding vigorously.

Of course, there had been more to it than that, but Kazic had found his consciousness suddenly shunted forward.  Something had caught his attention...  For several seconds, he focused his hyper-efficient hearing on his surroundings, simultaneously extending outwards with the Force.  He knew that he'd heard something ami--

[...If you're here then things must be worse than I'd imagined....] Came a quiet, huffing, muted roar.

Almost immediately, Kazic's full attention zeroed in on the one voice that he hadn't expected, yet had hoped to hear ever since he'd made planetfall.  Before he could respond, the huge paw in his hands gently squeezed, weak at first but stronger the longer the seconds ticked past.

Laughing, Kazic's eyes filled with tears of joy as he wordlessly sprang from his chair, wrapping his arms around Ryshhk's enormous hairy chest.  Or at least as far around as his arms would reach; Ryshhk was large even for a Wookie.

There, during the darkest of night on a floor virtually devoid of any human interaction, two life-long friends embraced, exhilarated by one another's presence.  There was much to discuss, too much for one night, but they used their time to catch up as only two true friends could.

Shortly thereafter, they were joined by a third party.  Looking beautiful, Eriobe was almost as happy to see Ryshhk conscious again as had been her husband.

While most of what they discussed was pleasant, some things outright hilarious, there was still far more important events that needed be addressed.

And new, dangerous plans to be made.

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[Lord_S_Gray]

The more things change the more they stay the same.

One of the interesting things about a character like Kazic with a millennial lifespan is, as shown here you can clearly see how some things about his personality remain the same, but are softened or strengthened era to era by experience, in this case out of the darkness of his quest to 'save' Saani which itself as coming off the bloody Civil war...Kazic seems better able to calm himself not rush into action...but still finds himself getting involved in politics of the Order despite admitting its not his strong suit, he won't be Kage of course, but he can't seem to help himself intervening in some way, though Anyese did approach him it must be said, I suspect his frustration and the heady pulse of the daen nosi would've made him do something regardless.

One things you've always excelled at is details, and Eriobes POV here was great with such a different kind of cultural background shown here, her terminology of Aversion, Malediction etc. in particular unique and gives here a real distinct feel, and her role as Kazic's Protector, even outside of being his wife is interesting.  One wonders though, she clearly knows about Saani especially given how they met, but how much does she know about Kazic's children and the circumstances of those 'schisms' within his family...

Between Q'eieha - whose approach to Eriobe is hard to puzzle out - was it an attempt at an olive branch, or just trying to get a measure of Eriobe as a threat independent of her husband...or both...a nice way to keep her Q'eieha's intentions masked - and Anayese things seem to be progressing down a dangerously familiar path for the Vhal'dan.  With Ryshhk awake, there are many directions this could go, few of them good.

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part I

Knees numb from kneeling on the synthcloth-weave tatami, Arbiter Orrell Onasi, Majordomo of the Zilior Hegemony, civilian leader of the Triune bowed again in front of his Family tamaya reciting the last line of the Fourth Certitude, the ritual finally complete.  ...nothing...there is nothing... A whisper of a voice floated in the back of his mind, as ephemeral as smoke during a typhoon.  

...nothing...

With a furrowed brow, his lips tightened.  Even the music of the sea-wrens seemed...hollow, meaningless, the song escaping their throats torturing him with falsity.

...nothing...

Before, whenever Orrell had completed the Observance of the Venerated, he would feel a certain tranquility settle over him, the ritual not only granting him acceptance but, indeed, catharsis for the loss of family.  He would usually be comforted with the thought of his Honored Ancestors shepherding the newly departed to assist in nurturing the Maker's Idyllic Garden, their deliberate ministrations awaiting those still in this life.

But not this time.  ...nothing...

Consciously forcing himself to relax the muscles of his jaw, his gritted teeth slowly opened as he worked his mouth to try to relieve the strain.  It was only after that ache had lessened that he noticed the sharp pain in his palms.  Slowly uncurling his fingers, he saw fresh blood on the tips of his nails and more on his palms where he'd buried them.  Taken as a whole with the burn of overtaxed muscles in his legs, back, and neck, his entire body was living testament of his anguish.

Yet that was nothing compared to the pain in his heart, a sand lizard next to an ancient krayt dragon.

Like the dragon, Orrell had a concretion lodged deep within his chest; however, unlike the dragon's valuable pearl, Orrell's was a stone of pure, agonizing hatred, the loss of his heir a thing that mere words would never be able to properly express.  How could those who retained even a sliver of hope ever say that they understood his lament, the abysmal depths of his loss?

...nothing...

Through his tears, his eyes once again affixed upon the old-time pict that now occupied the frame above the tamaya, the black-and-white faux-exposure deliberately done as an expression of art.  Like his father before him, Orrell had adopted a passion for the hobby, one that he was quite good at.  In fact, the pict was one that he himself had taken only a short time ago, one for which he had always looked upon with pride and joy.

There within the borders of the frame a young woman sat seiza-style, wearing the formal robes of Uji Onasi, an ancient tremorsword dating back to the Unification thrust through the obi around her waist.  She seemed at peace, one with the surrounding nature of the distant harbor in which she sat in front of, contemplative and full of the vigor of youth.  One morning Orrell had espied his heir performing one of the Rites of Ascension within the Family's water garden in their Bay of Crezque Estate and, without disturbing her, was able to take a photograph of Arage.  

It was a perfect moment in time, one that Orrell treasured far more than all of the countless accolades that he'd been awarded throughout his life.  But looking upon it now only served to remind him of the enormity of his loss.  Anger flared again, a now-familiar cycle triggered from the utter profundity that the loss of his heir was far, far worse than just a single death...

...nothing...

All four of his children were gone: one from sickness, two as casualties of training accidents, and the last... Molten fury filled him.  The last Orrell himself had disinherited, pronounced banishment for him from Uji Onasi and from Zilior.  Even now just thinking about...him, Orrell felt the anger and shame of the boy's cowardice, his utter selfishness!  The last had told the Arbiter--by the Maker he'd told everyone!--that he would NOT follow in the footsteps of his ancestors, that he would NOT take up the saber in defense of the Hegemony.  He'd even refused his Citizenship!

But one thing that the boy had done right was that he'd fathered a child worthy of Uji Onasi, a girl.  One that had grown into a fine Citizen and woman, one testament to the Hegemony's strength.  Orrell's Great-daughter and heir, Arage Takahashi no'Onasi.

When the boy had forsaken his Duty to the Hegemony, he'd given up any and all parental rights guaranteed under the auspices of the Creeds.  In other words: he was no longer her parent and guardian.  Orrell's lips sneered.  With that the boy had shown some backbone, bristling, yelling, and even threatening everyone that would dare take his child.  Pity that he had not shown the same commitment to the Hegemony.  

He'd taken up the sword then.  Yet another of Orrell's disappointments: not that the boy had been a poor swordsman--quite the opposite in fact, he was in training as a Blademaster--but rather that he was a savant...and wanted nothing to do with it.  Well, he'd brandished his lightsaber, against all of those that stood in his way...even his own father.  But Orrell would not be denied, not in answering his disrespectful former son and certainly not with his heir.

In the end, Orrell had had satisfaction for both.  He'd died...poorly.  The boy's name was stricken from Hegemony records and his Great-daughter became his heir.  Then as now, he never once regretted killing the boy because his Great-daughter was everything (and more) that Orrell had hoped for in an heir.  She was literally the future of the Family.  No, not "was," but had been...or was no longer...

...nothing...

Arage's death meant not only her own but that of the Uji.  

Once Orrell died, Uji Onasi would forever fade from existence, another footnote in history surely to be forgotten like so many others...

With a guttural scream, the usually comported Vhal'Dan Arbiter gave into his frustration, his rage, his sorrow.  Jumping up from his knees, he moved with a swiftness belying his age and defying expectation.  With violence of action, the short man pounded his fists against the wall, grabbing the tamaya with both of his hands before tearing the old lacquered altar to pieces.  Wrenching the frame from the wall, he tore the pict from it, smashing the wood and shattering the glass in the process.  Careless of the sharp slivers and shards, he wrung the pict within his hands, intent upon tearing it into the smallest possible pieces he could.

Yet he stopped, the slicing glass having nothing to do with his sudden inaction.  With silent, wet tears rolling down his face, streaks of blood running from both the cuts in his palm as well as those in his fingers, Orrell realized what it was he was about to do.  With deliberate slowness, he sank back to his knees, reverently placing the now wrinkled and blood-stained pict on the floor.  There kneeling over the ruins of the tamaya, he clasped his hands together, the blood from his shredded hands running down his arms and dropping all over the smoothed pict, his intent once again flaring hot from his anger and melancholy.

His voice no more than a whisper, Orrell recited the words from an ancient Rite of Imprecation, one not used since the days before Black Rikard, when the Order was nothing more than the loose confederation of the Seven Clans.  "By the Maker's Wrath I shall revenge thee/Ancestors of the Inferno, I offer to you mine enemies/Let their bones break and their flesh wither/I curse their eyes, their tongue, their heart, their limbs, their issue/Ancestors of the Inferno, avenge me and mine..." He repeated, each time smearing a line of blood across his cheek, then the other, and then his forehead until his entire face was smeared with dark, drying blood.

Whether in response to Orrell's Imprecation or as a result of the temperature differential between the land and the sea, fierce winds kicked up, blowing straight through the open doors of the tabernacle.  Buffeted by warm ocean winds, Orrell could feel each individual bead of sweat upon his brow, each drying rivulet of blood on his hands, every sinew of muscle straining with renewed effort.  By the time he bowed low, his forehead touching the wrinkled pict of his Great-daughter, his dried tears had made his blood-streaked face resemble one of the old Noh-masks representing the ancient daemons that haunted the Vhal'Dan even before the time of the Clans.

However, if the ghosts of those same Clans were to look upon Orrell as he was now, they would recoil in revulsion at the being of pure hatred that he'd become, that he would dare go as so far as to offer up as collateral his own soul in order to mete out the revenge burning like a supernova within his breast.

For quite some time, the Arbiter did not stir, so deep was he within his own lamentation, drowning amidst the unending sorrow that he had walled himself within.  Indeed, he hadn't moved from the spot one centimeter.

Orrell remained as he was for hours, not even reacting when the members of his Arbiter's Guard finally forced entrance into his apartments looking for him.  Had it not been for the mandatory meeting of the Strategoi, he would have still been rooted to the spot, his fanatical, haunted eyes staring at nothing, surrounded by a sea of dark red dried blood.

As they helped Orrell get cleaned up and redressed, no one said anything about the quiet mutterings that escaped his lips; it was neither their job nor their concern.  Their Arbiter was physically fine, unmolested, and presentable.

By this time Orrell had schooled his emotions enough that not even a Gray Master would be able to discern his pain.

Or guess the lengths that he would go to in order to enact his revenge.

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"No, Ami, I'm OK..." Svanne's face looked sallow and drawn even through the hologram's distortion despite the direct person-to-person connection.  "I appreciate the offer but...but I think that Baba would want for me to stay, to continue here at the Academy."  Her eyes tightened.  "He would want for me to do my duty.  For the Family."  Her face become as hard as durasteel.  "For the Hegemony."  Svanne either ignored the tear rolling down her dark cheek or pretended not to notice.

Svante could relate; she knew what it was to fulfill one's obligation: Hegemony first.  Even regardless of family...

Or so they'd been taught.

"I understand, Mpwa... But remember: should you change your mind, your old room is always available." Even though Svante's eyes were dry, her heart ached for her niece.  No child should lose their father before they were even yet 20... "I love you." She gave a curt smile.  "Remember: anything you need, Mpwa."

Svanne nodded, a grateful look upon her face.  "Love you too, Ami." She whispered before cutting the connection, the room all the more dark after the glow of the hologram disappeared.  For a moment, Svante sat motionless on her serviceable but austere couch, staring through the far wall, eyes focused on nothing in particular.  ...At least Svanne will be alright, especially surrounded by her classmates and friends... The thought gave her a little bit of comfort but did nothing to assuage her own anguish.  ...Dear Sapal...

She sat in the darkened room for a while longer, her disjointed thoughts flying everywhere.  But after a few minutes, Svante closed her eyes, burning each memory of her twin brother into her mind, like an old-time brand.  Every smile that she'd shared with Sapal, every argument that they'd had, every single moment together as family--the only family that they had left--that left an indelible mark in Svante's life... These were precisely the reasons that the Vhal'Dan secured itself from the depredations of the galaxy.  She made herself a promise, one that she would never renege on: she would forever search for her brother's killer and, once found, would bring the guilty party to justice.

Svante knew that she was dangerously close to putting her own needs before the Hegemony's...but she knew that her conviction to duty would also never waver.  She would do what was required, for the justice owed to ever Citizen, not just her family.

For the Hegemony.

With Herculean effort, she stood from her couch, the personal concerns and desires of the individual sloughing off of her.  Instead, she squared her shoulders as she once again assumed the mantle of Field Marshall.  She already knew what need be done, as much as she was loath to admit it...

And so Master Gray Svante Rhul-Vinjaga, Field Marshall of the Zilior Hegemony Expeditionary Tactical Corps strode to her private rooms and finished dressing in her official Robes of Office.  Once done, she looked at the reflective hologram at herself, scrutinizing every detail, from the smartly braided black hair to the pristine Hegemony uniform.  

Gazing deeply into her own light brown eyes, she gave a small, satisfied nod.

Thinking of her Eternal Kage, she made a solemn vow to be the harbor in the storm for her people, a symbol that they could look to for guidance and endurance.  She just hoped that she could be half the Jedi that Anson D'Aklon had been...

With that final iota of doubt, Svante's entire demeanor changed as she wrapped herself tightly in devotion to her duty.

Wordlessly, she exited her apartments, taking the private hyperloop vehicle that would take her straight to ZHETaC HQ, the first gathering of all of the senior Hegemony personnel since the bombing.

But for every point that she recited concerning the details of the tragedy, her mind invariably wandered towards Sapal and whomever had murdered him.

And by the Maker's Vengeance, she would be the one to assure that the guilty paid...

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________________________

*tamaya-a memorial altar dedicated to the spirits of deceased ancestors
  seiza-kata involving kneeling
  Uji-House or Clan

  Ami-term of endearment for aunt
  Baba-term of endearment for father
  Mpwa-term of endearment for niece

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part II

*******************************************************
Vhal’Dan Strategoi
Triune: Majordomo-Arbiter Orrell Onasi, Field Marshall Svante Rhul-Vinjaga, Magister Lor-Riou Herin
  Council of Seven:
  Naval Commander: Marias Eblyn Vasch, Shifalan female
  Marine Commandant: Darjus Bracort, human male
  Air Marshall: Tal'Jadbryo Thuhur, Fosh male
  Superintendent of Academies: Adedani Tanibrit, Epicanthix female
  Maritime Director: Jazt-jan Claels, Nautolan female
  Cataphract Triarch: Szammas Jål Rhadde, Cathar male
  Administer of Teidowans: Kreidyt ni'Bodshme, human female
*******************************************************

Forming over the vast waters of the global ocean, wild winds blew off of the pure blue waves that washed ashore along the numerous white sand beaches embraced by the organic metal&plasteel constructs and structures.  Creating a synergy between the enormous city covering the majority of the archipelago and the oceanic environment, strikingly tall buildings, broad roads, and elevated hyperloop railways ranged far and wide along the chained islands.  Floating stationary in the sky there were many more spherical complexes free of any moorings held aloft in the air courtesy of advanced antigrav units, these almost exclusively belonging to the Hegemony elite.  However, those of the rank-and-file did not feel neglected or, for that matter, in any way excluded.

Those same winds circled up and around Crezhlepetl City, the gleaming capital of the Hegemony, where Zilior's blue oceans made the planet a jewel in the galaxy, its inhabitants appreciative of their homeworld.  And while every single square kilometer of viable land had been developed on the many archipelagos crossing the planet, Hegemony engineers had also established countless manufactured cities floating around the world ocean.

Like Galtea of old it was a paradise, one worth defending.

The first line of defense was a virtually impenetrable planetary shield, controlled by orbital platforms stationed along Zilior's axial northern- and southern-poles.  Supplementing this was Zilior's immense navy, formidable top-of-the-line battlecruisers, each one a testament to the Eternal Kage's creed of "vigilance, security, and might."

But what truly made Zilior a power to be reckoned with were the people of the Hegemony itself.  The entire planet's populace lived, worked, and died under the strict auspices of Hegemony rule, dictates that every single Citizen believed in heart and mind.  It was that solidarity that bespoke of strength of will.

What did it matter that they had sacrificed some archaic and useless notion of "freedom?"  They were secure, Zilior a bastion of Vhal'Dan welfare.

As the winds were buffeted by the multiple kilometer-tall buildings lining the shores, it was suddenly free from any obstructions as it blew over the warm, crystal blue waters of the Bay of Crezqe.

With one notable exception.

Piercing the central waters of the Bay was one of the tallest buildings on the planet, hyperloop railways and a massive platform consisting of road- and walk-ways leading directly from the land over a kilometer away into the deep waters of the gulf servicing the enormous structure.  There were two large domes flanking the building, huge photoreactive transparisteel canopies reflecting the azure sky above.  Both structures were used for military purposes and subject to exceptional security protocols.  Point of fact, the entire platform was a veritable fortress given all of those said measures.

It was here within one of these domes that the senior-most members of the Hegemony assembled, this time in response to the horrible terrorist bombing that had devastated not only the Monolith of the Eternal Kage but had even shaken the safety of the populace of Zilior itself.  

Consisting of the Triune and the Council of Seven, these ten members--not counting Anson D'Aklon, the Eternal Kage--were colloquially known as the Strategoi.  Whereas the Triune was the governing body of the Hegemony, it was the Strategoi that worked tirelessly to safeguard Zilior.

And thanks to the bombing, they felt that they had failed spectacularly in that regard.

"...Corresponding with *HIB, we have finally ascertained both the cause and the perpetrator of the Monolith Bombing." A non-descript major gestured towards the large holoprojection behind him.  Still staring at the major, Svante could never recall his name...an advantage in his line of work: **ZHETaC Intelligence.  Was it...Trodon?  Trosgon?  Giving her head a small shake, she focused her eyes on the holoprojection, several windows simultaneously open.  "Observe this man." The major zoomed in on one of the digital windows showing an aerial view from low altitude, obviously from one of the countless observation drones that patrolled the entirety of the planet.  Although the picture had some minor distortion, it was otherwise clear: it showed another nondescript man in a voluminous gray, hooded robe, his face only partially obscured by the hood as he separated from the crowded foot traffic.

Or at least at first.

When he came to the base of the Monolith he stopped and, only moving his head, looked around.  Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked directly up at the towering figure of the Eternal Kage.   As he raised his head the man's hood slipped from his head, falling to his shoulders.  The image paused, showing a plain clean-shaven tan face, black eyes and hair.  The face could've belonged to any number of human or near-human races that populated the galaxy.  Certainly there were no distinct markers upon his clothes and person...

The man seemed to relaxed, casually looking around while his left hand appeared to be gripping something in his fist.  Then he did three odd things: he looked directly at the holofeed, as if he could sense that the drone was specifically observing him.  Then, the man's focus pivoted straight ahead, eyes intent as if he were staring at a specific person.

The last thing that he did was smile.

He then closed his eyes.  Svante thought that she saw a person approaching the man but then he suddenly disappeared in the middle of a violent explosion, causing a few of the members gathered to murmur as destruction and carnage propagated throughout the Citizen's Square, the blast wave utterly destroying the drone.  But not before the holofeed had been recorded.

The major dismissed the holofeed, instead zooming in on a still frame of the man's face from when his hood had fallen.  "This man..." He  held a laser pointer up indicating the man.  "Is not a member of the Hegemony."  He looked around the room.  "He had all of the correct credentials, in this case of one 'Stefjun Blunhen,' waste-management.  But we found that this information had been inserted in the database by an expert slicer."  Before he could continue, one of the members pressed a button, a holographic halo ringing their head.  "Yes, Administer ni'Bodshme?"

The incredibly beautiful human woman sat forward, the dark blue kumkum dot on her forehead standing out even against her dark brown skin.  "Major, how do you know that the information was the result of a slicer?" Her accented Basic bespoke of her posh upbringing, as did the fine imported Zsajhira-silk sari cut elegantly in the colors of the Hegemony.

"Our own slicers determined this from the disparity found in the underlying quantum enumeration." Saying this, the major pressed a button on his laser-pointer, zooming in on another screen.  There it highlighted a seemingly random bit of code.  "As you can see, this is not Hegemony coding protocol."  

Satisfied, the Administer nodded, indicating that he continue.  "From there, HIB and ZHETaC was able to run backlog checks on all associative datastreams, at least once unencrypted.  It yielded some...surprising results." The major dismissed many of the windows, zooming in on one in particular.  Containing some writing, the characters were remarkably different from Aurabesh.  "This...is a decrypted communiqué.  There is no visual or audio, merely a phrase written in Old Istic: 'This and no other is the root which a tyrant springs; when he first appears as a protector.'"  He paused for effect.  "That has been attributed to Black Rikard in the days leading up to the Unification of the Clans." Looking around the room, the major stared into each member's eyes.  "It was also a rallying call around which the Kewda Pretenders declared war upon the Hegemony almost two centuries ago."

That the writing was Old Istic was telling of itself; after all, the Vhal'Dan were originally from Istic III.

The major again highlighted an attached bit of coding from the message.  "This...is unmistakably Kewda coding enumeration.  We would likely never have found it but for a stroke of luck: the bomber was unaware that all correspondence--both incoming and outgoing--is mirrored and recorded on the de-centralized Hegemony Holonet; the original had been heavily redacted and then later deleted...but not enough for our slicers to rebuild enough of the source code to match it's 'mirror.'"

He was about to continue when Orrell spoke up, surprising everyone in the room.  "While this is good work and makes for fascinating conjecture, why would the Kewda Pretenders try anything now?  And why a bombing?"  While her face showed nothing, Svante was shocked: this was the first time that he'd spoken since...well, since he'd first learned of his heir's death.

The major took the question in stride but as Svante looked around the room, she could tell that every member of the Strategoi was thinking the same thing.  "From what we've gathered, Arbiter, is that there's new leadership in Kewda."  This time instead of a few muted exclamations of interest briefly filling the room, several members expressed outright disbelief.

"Are you certain?  The false Kage has headed the Pretenders for over 200 years..." General Darjus Bracort, Commandant of the Colonial Marines inquired, his closely shaved brown beard left his upper lip as bare as his bald head.  The hard man was an excellent strategist...and a horrible politician.  Thankfully, a Marine didn't need political acumen to win battles.

"That is unprecedented." Adedani Tanibrit, the Academies Superintendent's shrill voice sounded pedantic.  "Ever since his investiture, Ryshhk K’rrmerii has embarked on a government consisting of civic reforms and pedagogic exploration.  What does he gain by war?"  Even seated, the tall woman seemed taller still given how slender she was.  Had it not been for her race's typical dark skin, she might have been mistaken for a Kaminoan.

"Maybe the flea-infested bastard's dead..." Jazt-jan Claels smirked, the Maritime Director stroking her green-blue head-tendrils.  Exotically beautiful, her full blue (almost violet) lips pursed in thought...or perhaps it was hope?  They'd all heard about the Turncoat Wookie and his exceptional battle prowess.  Maybe Jazt-jan's family had fought against him during the Civil War.  Svante had heard that Nautolans had long memories...

"Perhaps he finally found the mivonks to do something besides babysit those effete academic pfassks." The Air Marshall cackled, Tal'Jadbryo Thuhur's feathers lay flat against his bill as the Fosh laughed.  The General had a penchant for vulgarity that would put a Nar Shadda slaver to shame.

A few members chuckled but went suddenly silent as a low growl reverberated through the table, the floor, and even the walls.

"K’rrmerii is many things, but a coward he is not." The deep bass rumble of the Cataphract Triarch, Szammas Jål Rhadde, silenced everyone else within the room.  With his massive paw balled into a fist, Svante thought that Szammas looked very similar to one of his most famous ancestors, another famed Triarch.  And like his great-great-great-great uncle Nurhl Båz Rhadde, he was utterly committed to his Cataphracts.  "It is a mistake to think otherwise."

Looking around the room, Svante could tell that the Cathar's words carried weight.  Almost all of the members seemed to recollect themselves, although she could tell that the Air Marshall wanted to say more, the feathers on his neck ruffled.  Almost every member...except the Magister.  

His purple eyes appeared to weigh the Triarch, a considering look that did not reach his face.

Like everyone else, Svante had heard the rumors of a rivalry between the Votarious and the Cataphracts, not bothering to invest too much time worrying about it.  But seeing the look that Lor-Riou gave Szammas... Well, she could see that it went further than just friendly competition or professional friction.  Giving her head a mental shake, she filed it away for later.

"Please, everyone, I think it best if we allow the major to finish." Like a cool balm soothing a burn, the Magister's calm voice penetrated the charged ambiance within the room as he stood.  "I understand how everyone feels."  His purple eyes suddenly flared.  "I myself lost two of my own Children in the Monolith Massacre, Aumiyat and Tallor."  Despite his quiet voice, the Magister's tone was vehemently passionate.

Svante shifted uncomfortably; every time that he referred to any member of the Votarious as "His Children," she felt a distinct sense of disquiet.  Looking around the room, she could see that she wasn't alone in that regard: several members uneasily looked askance about the room.   Of course, no one said anything, either out of respect or fear (or both).  But for Svante, she found such sentiments from the Magister to be...unnatural.

Taking his seat again, Lor-Riou continued.  "If you would, major."

The nondescript man gave a small nod.  "Thank you, Magister.  The latest intel is that K’rrmerii no longer occupies his office, and that the new false Kage is Q'eieha Jeseladai, a more...scholarly leader shall we say."  Svante was certain that everyone in the room could read the inferred truth: this new false Kage was not the warrior that Ryshhk K’rrmerii was.  She shook her head.  ...Had been... She corrected herself.

"So your theory is that this new Pretender is...what, trying to make a name for herself?  By bombing the Monolith?" Admiral Marias Eblyn Vasch surprisingly high voice sounded incredulous yet respectful, crossing her massive furred arms across her chest.  The Shifalan cut an imposing figure; she was almost as large as the Cathar Triarch.

"More than a theory, Admiral." The major stated, zooming in on another digital window.  "This is an intercept of a real-time data package originating from Kewda itself, confirmed by Gravitic Point-set Triangulation.  Upon decrypt, Intelligence was able to ascertain the before-mentioned initiation code and what HIB was able to determine as the activation of deep-cover assets and dissidents."  The major nodded towards Lor-Riou.  "That and thanks to the Magister's Votarious, we now have the evidence that concretely concludes that the Pretenders are behind the violence, further perpetrated by undercover agents."  His eyes locked onto Svante's.  "Finally, the coup-de-grace, Intelligence has just learned that the False Kage is on-planet."

Everyone heard the distinction.  Not "the false Kage" but rather the False Kage.

Kazic Ovarug.

For the Strategoi, it was the proverbial smoking blaster.

Svante had to agree that the major's (and more importantly, Intelligence's) conclusions were sound and valid.  ...So...the False Kage has finally acted...just as Kage D'Aklon had warned...  Looking around, she could see that almost every member was nodding in either agreement or the realization of...

...Everyone except the Triarch.

As the rest of the Strategoi began to collectively speak, Svante clandestinely stared at Szammas, the Cathar's face virtually unreadable, although she did notice that his golden eyes seemed to shine a bit brighter than usual.  But she also took note of the fact that he did not share in the conversation and, unlike the others, made no mention of his opinions one way or the other.

As the day turned to evening, the Strategoi began to finalize plans, intent on keeping Zilior safe...and to ensure that there would never be another atrocity like the bombing ever again.  This was what the Hegemony had been founded upon: the preservation and security of the Vhal'Dan.

Svante would later laugh...and cry...sardonically at the perfect irony of that fateful decision and the motives surrounding that day.

___________________________________

*HIB-Hegemony Intelligence Bureau
**ZHETaC-Zilior Hegemony Expeditionary Tactical Corps

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part III

Even as the fog of unconsciousness cleared, he could taste the antiseptic blandness of bacta lining his lips, the slickness of his skin courtesy of recent bacta immersion.  Slowly, Tamet Vail opened his eyes, seeing first the darkness of midnight through the wall-to-ceiling transparisteel bulkhead as well as the myriad of lights pushing against the blackness creating islands of well-lit structures swimming in the night.  Scanning the room moving only his eyes, he saw that he was in a large, private suite absent of most of the expected medical droids and machinery.  Blinking away his bleary vision, he looked down at his body.

And was shocked by what he saw.

Memory of the event erupted forth in his mind, replaying each individual element with crystal clear detail.  He remembered seeing the man, the look on his face, the smile on his lips.  He remembered grabbing Arage by her upper arms, he'd wanted to turn her from the danger, to protect her, with his own body--his own life!--if need be.

He remembered sensing...something wrong, something powerful.  He felt more than heard what came next: a shockwave that was too fast for him, hitting Arage square in the back, knocking her bodily into his chest hard.  He remembered being ripped from his feet, both he and Arage flying through the air, only to abruptly stop as they collided with one of the waist-high small garden walls arranged throughout the Citizen's Square.  Half-dazed, he had grabbed for Arage, his fingers touching her face as he tried to clear his head from the pain, confusion, and vertigo.  But even as he tried to wrap his hand around Arage, her head was no longer there.  Instead his hands came into contact with something smooth and hard, likely a large piece of ferrocrete ripped up in the blast wave.

The piece was large enough that it had created a triangular pocket, propped up on one side against the wall it rested upon, the other side had wedged itself in the ground, with Tamet's legs crushed between.  He must have been in shock at the time as his only worry was for his Arage.  He thought nothing of his mangled legs, his difficulty breathing (probably from a collapsed lung), or the fact that he could only see with one of his eyes.  Not even when the pocket began to fill with dirt and detritus did Tamet notice.

He knew--knew!--that Arage was in danger, that he had to help her...just as he knew that in all likelihood he would not live to see her again.

At some point he had lost consciousness, knew on some level that he was already dead, that his last thoughts, his sole concern being his Beloved...

...Only to wake up here, in this featureless medical suite.  Wherever "here" was.  But that wasn't what Tamet was so astonished about, what he couldn't comprehend.

His legs, his breathing, his sight...he felt fine.  No, not "fine"...

He felt better than he ever had before.

Bacta was a miraculous substance, able to heal many injuries, even grievous ones.  But not like this, not so completely.  Or swiftly.  Unless...

Tamet focused his eyes down at his body, really looking.  He was not wearing a bacta-suit or any bacta-braces...which would usually denote at least some passage of time.  As he'd been told: bacta was a miraculous substance.

...But if that were the case, then why did he still taste bacta residue on his lips, the slickness of bacta upon his skin?

Confused, Tamet rubbed his face with both of his hands, inhaling.  Again: how was it that he felt fine?

Well, physically at least.  Arage's face came crashing through the clouds of his mind, her delicate face, almond eyes, long black hair... Tears began to well up in his eyes.  ...Beloved... He thought as his heart broke anew.  He didn't know anything for certain, not logically at least...but he already knew that his Arage was dead.  He could just...feel it.

Or rather, he could feel the emptiness, both without and within.  Gritting his teeth, his hands furiously pounded the sides of the medcouch, his silent sobs the only sounds in the convalescent suite.  Exhausted--emotionally and mentally if not physically--Tamet sank back onto the medcouch.  

He'd awoken feeling whole...and completely shattered.

Why?  His emotional pain worsened, the confusion that he felt burning away in the growing fires of his anger.  Why would the Maker give him everything that he'd always wanted, to have every sacrifice that Tamet had endured in the service of the Hegemony...now born for naught, just to have everything taken away?  What kind of a Maker would...would allow such to happen?  

Rage, hotter than a blue hypergiant star flared.  HOW could this be the Will of the Force, the prerogative of the Maker?!

...And if it was...then why the hell should he honor a Maker such as that?  As if eaten by a voracious singularity, the blue-hot fury suddenly left him, a deep dark depression overwhelming his ever fiber, leaving his senses hyper-acute.

...Which was when he received his second surprise.

He was not alone.

Opening his eyes, he turned his head slowly towards the soft sound of hands being gently rubbed together, as if to dry them.  Tamet wasn't certain what was worse: to awaken to that strange sound or the fact that he had not seen or heard anyone enter the large open room at all.  Then his eyes locked onto the lone figure standing at the foot his medcouch.  It was far, far worse than Tamet could have ever guessed.  

Staring at him with unreadable purple eyes and a blank blue-tinged face was the Magister himself.

Tamet felt sweat break out on his brow, could feel a rivulet run down his spine.  ...How is it...why would...what could...? He wondered impotently.

His uncomfortable anxiety must have been radiating off of him because Tamet saw the Magister's lips turn slightly to give a small smile.  Spreading his hands as if to put Tamet at ease, the tall man walked towards the side of the medcouch, a look of sympathy appearing upon his handsome face.

"Hello, Tamet.  You know who I am." He stared intently at Tam's eyes.  "I will not waste either your or my time with useless platitudes.  I know what you are going through, the enormity of your loss."

Tam's face tightened, tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks.  Nodding, he said nothing.

The Magister leaned in, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.  "I cannot give back to you that which has been lost...but what if I told you that I could give you direction, a new purpose in life?  One that would offer at least some recompense?"

Tamet blinked.  Now this was something unexpected.  "What...what do you mean?" So surprised was he that he forgot to address the Magister properly.

Yet if he noticed, the leader of the Votarious said nothing; instead, he leaned closer.  "Just this: I offer you the opportunity to wreak vengeance upon those guilty for this heinous, cowardly crime.  Such is within my power."  He stood up, his eyes considering.  "You know the truth of my words."  He gestured with his head towards Tam's legs.  "Surely you've noticed the difference, what you expected after your ordeal?"

...Did...did the Magister, was it he who helped heal me...? Tam marveled.  He'd heard the rumors just the same as every other teidowan, that the Votarious were always doing miraculous things, as well as the Magister's impossible exploits.  Could he have Healed him that perfectly?!

"I have done precisely that." The Magister said quietly, answering his thoughts.  "And I can do more."  His eyes seemed to glow in the twilight ambience of the medical suite.  "Join the Votarious, Tamet."

Tamet was stunned silent.  Idly he thought of his friend, Beryl, his lifelong dream to do precisely what the Magister was offering him, freely here and now.  "But...I'm not...I thought that the Votarious took only the strongest?  Anyone who wears the black is among the most powerful..." He trailed off when he realized that the Magister was actually laughing.  It wasn't a loud, braying sound...more quite, respectful...

It put Tamet's nerves on edge.  Truth to tell, it frightened him more than any of the rumors that he'd heard of the Magister.

"Tamet, you needn't worry about that.  Now or ever again...should you decide to become one of my Children." The Magister's smile looked genuine.  "Actually, there's something else that I can offer you." He paused seeing that Tamet was holding on to every word.  "I can offer you secrets of the Force."

Tamet blinked.  For such an auspicious pronouncement, he thought that it would be accompanied by something more momentous than the soft thrum of medical equipment and distant droid talk.  Looking into the Magister's eyes, he had no doubt whatsoever that the man could accomplish everything that he claimed.

Childhood dreams of the Cataphracts blew away in the torrents of his anguish and loss...as did any of Tamet's fealty to the Maker.  After all, hadn't the Maker forsaken him first?  Instead, here--this man standing in front of him--was someone that offered Tamet not only answers to his questions but, more importantly, vengeance on those that had taken his Beloved from him.

Tamet remained silent, staring out the transparisteel wall.  Every single island of light seemed dimmer to him, the night encroaching upon them.  What he didn't say was that the darkness felt good, it felt safe.

"My condolences for your loss, Tamet."  The Magister nodded.  "I shall await your decision at the Kirk."  And without any further discussion, he was gone.

Leaving Tamet alone to the abyss of his loss.

[Lord_S_Gray]

Onasi cuts a broken figure here the cultural detail is astonishing as always and perfectly mingled with his emotional burn then reforging into a man focused on pure vengeance. Some of your best exposition and deep character dive in one section here Dutch. His Appeal to the old daemons and their 'response?' was especially intriguing and horrifying.

One would not want to stand in his way now... whether Arage death was intended for accident it has galvanized him.

There is also a clear parallel and contrast here. Both Zilior and Kewda have experienced an attack and their responses cannot be more different. Granted Zilior was far worse in lives but the breach in security at Kewda Directorate of Force Artifact Research was equivalent in scope in getting an enemy agent on planet and in a secure zone. The Kewda response is to sweep it under, on Zilior they spare no expense scrutinising every detail seeking every piece of intelligence from multiple sources and working with a single focus.

And the hatred the Hegemony leader
 express at even the thought of Kazic...if they needed any more reason to point the finger at an unsuspecting Kewda his mere presence is enough added with the Old Istic salt in the wound.

As for Tamet...well I think we'll be getting a fascinating insight into the cypher like Magister and his Children through Tamets eyes. That said Magister sneakily included Aumiyat in the monolith casualties is interesting to say the least...an off hand comment that indicates her mission on Kewda was not Hegemony sanctioned, instead her loss is hidden in the devastation.

All up a very well titled chapter False knowledge indeed

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 6: To Secure Peace Is To Prepare For War, part I

Strolling into her Offices, Q'eieha waited until the doors irised shut.  Finally alone, she allowed her shoulders to sag from both the weight of her position as well as the pure exhaustion that she felt even in the marrow of her bones.  Only within her sanctuary, here and alone, could the Kage fully relax.  Not for the first time did she wonder how Ryshhk had managed, nevermind that he'd done so for over 200 years!

"Secure shutters.  Polarize windows 30%." Her offhanded tone was not only indicative of her tiredness but also a measure of her frustration.  Damned fool Speakers!  She was trying to keep them from panic yet they seemed to take apathy to new levels.  In fact, had it not been for her Arbiter, she doubted that she would've gotten as far with the Council as she had.  Still, it seemed for every two steps she took forward, she was always taking one step backwards.

Grimacing, Q'eieha rubbed her forehead to assuage the migraine that promised dividends in pain tonight if she did not take care of the beginnings of the headache she was already starting to feel.  Shortly after she'd been invested as Kage, she found herself victim to these migraines more and more often.  It was a secret she'd clamped down on, hard.  There was no way that she'd allow herself to look so weak in front of the Speakers...

Smiling fondly, she rubbed her temples.  Thank the Maker for Jaa Daivyk!  Not only was he able to mitigate the worst of the dissension but it was due to him that she'd gotten the last three bills passed for the approval of defense and security expenditures through Congress.

Actually, it was thanks to Jaa that Q'eieha was even pursuing these avenues now, although he'd been against such to begin with.  Also, she'd been content to leave the investigation of the bombing to Civil Defense...but a day later her Arbiter had changed his mind and quietly suggested that she take a more...hands-on approach.  To that end she had discreetly sanctioned an independent task force, one that would operate without drawing attention.  And deep down she felt that it was more the right decision. 

Q'eieha scowled.

She'd just wished that doing so didn't feel as if she were acquiescing to Kazic Ovarug's requests, no matter how imploring his tone had been.  Yet, despite her personal dislike of the Anzat (and everything that he represented), she had to admit that the entire set of circumstances had been...odd, to say the least.

Besides there was something that she'd seen in Master Ovarug's eyes that had given her pause.

He was completely convinced that he was telling her the truth.  Q'eieha was no fool; she was both a student of history as well as galactic anthropology.  As such, she had at least a passing awareness of the Anzati beliefs in their so-called "Lines of Fate," or daen nosi as they like to call them.  Maker knew that with the Force many things were possible...

Put simply: there were too many instances of strange things occurring in the galaxy to allow the mistake of arbitrary scepticism to cloud her judgment.  Besides, there were too many stories of Force sages and Prescient powers to ignore.

That being said, if Kazic Ovarug's track record was any indication of how reliable his daen nosi were, then Q'eieha was forced to consider many other alternatives, and sooner rather than later.  Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she snorted in derision.  And immediately regretted doing so; the "promise" of a migraine had become a forgone conclusion.

...Dammit... Her gritted teeth looked preternaturally pale even against her white skin.  "Ping the Arbiter.  Request that he attend me in my offices." Even her own voice made her head hurt.  She hoped that Jaa would get here quickly...

Meanwhile, Q'eieha continued worrying about things, but always one concern above all:

Why after all of those decades of exile had the Failed Kage chosen this particular time to return to Kewda?

Was he trying to usurp her position, especially now with a Council of Balance that had a majority of brand-new Speakers?  Well, "new" relative for an Anzati lifetime since they could live up to a millennia (although there were persistent rumors of Anzat Elders who were thousands of years old, their monumental power in the Force overshadowed only by their rabid insanity...but she was sure that those were merely tales told to frighten Anzati children).

Or perhaps he thought to increase his power base by appealing to the more..."radical" element of the Order, almost all of them belonging to the older generations?  From there, Ovarug could institute a Vote of No Confidence, although Q'eieha doubted that he could install himself as Kage even then (especially given his history)... But he might be able to garner enough votes for a Speaker position.  And only the Maker knew what damage he could do from there...

...Stop this...! She castigated herself.  Q'eieha forced herself to calm down; this was precisely why Ovarug was so dangerous: as a literal living legend, his very presence--by the Maker, his very name!--was enough to cast doubt!  She would not give him that kind of power over her, dammit!  ...Why couldn't he have just stayed away or died quietly on some nameless planet... She wondered time and again.

By that time her head was hammering.  Distractedly, she considered that maybe the best course of action was to have Ovarug...disappear.  She was sure that he must've made at least some enemies among the galaxy's more notorious elements...

Inhaling sharply, Q'eieha barked a mirthless laugh.  As if she would ever give in to such base thoughts, knowing instead that those considerations were done at the behest of a pained and exhausted individual with no real intent of doing so...but sometimes it was nice to...to "indulge" herself.  But that's all that those thoughts were: indulgences and trifles.  Besides, Ovarug was many things...but he was no traitor to the Order, the only reason in Q'eieha's estimation that warranted such extreme ramifications.

She'd read as much as any scholar concerning the Vhal'Dan's history of the Civil War.  Ovarug might have been a poor Kage but he was an adequate if not outstanding general, leading the his forces to victory despite being vastly outnumbered.  Idly, she had always wondered how he'd done it, but all of the sources available were rather...vague.  Even those from Coruscant, M'Tizgon, and Obroa-skai had been frustratingly indefinite and short of facts.

But one thing was certain: the Anzat had fought hard to save those of the Order.  ...Damn the Lus'Phor Vergence... Q'eieha thought, convinced that the Holocaust was the main culprit for the decidedly lack of intel surrounding the events of the Civil War.

By the Maker did her head hurt...

She ineffectually rubbed at her forehead, temples, and neck, the throbbing pain worse.

By the time that the Arbiter had arrived at the Kage's Office and entered, Q'eieha felt as if her entire skull were going to explode.  "...oh...Jaa...help...please..." She whispered.

With an understanding and compassionate look fixed upon his face, Jaa Daivyk hurried over to his Kage, wordlessly applying his Force ministrations to soothe Q'eieha's pains.  It was one of the reasons that they were so close.

The other was that they were also secret lovers and had been so for years.

Gently stroking the Kage's white hair, the Arbiter patiently weaved the Force for Healing.  It was something that he'd done for a while now, the only one who could do anything...at least the only one that Q'eieha trusted implicitly.  She absolutely refused to give anyone any kind of ammunition to use against her, especially as a neophyte Kage.  "...yes...thank you...Jaa..." Her quiet voice was heavy with growing lethargy, Jaa's attentions doing their work.

Again, the Arbiter smiled, his eyes full of concern.  He knew that it was he and only he that could help his Kage with these horrible migraines.  Trying to find as comfortable a spot as he could, Jaa settled into his chair as he continued to quietly rub Q'eieha's head as well as directing his Force Healing into her.

As the afternoon sun finally sank under the horizon, the polarized transparisteel windows automatically switched to night-mode, the dark trees of the forest surrounding Kewd'Ulhadv a comforting velvet-green blanket.  From the wide panoramic view atop the Kage's Office, Jaa stared out at the Vhal'Dan capital, the darkness of night a consoling time for him.

It was only at night and alone (or effectively so, like now) that he need not worry about maintaining the veneer of his station.  With Q'eieha's pale face in his lap, her short, white hair flowing down his leg, he smiled wistfully.  Tenderly, his fingertips caressed the white skin of his Kage's face, her brow still furrowed.  Everything that he'd done for her...

Jaa was also worried about the appearance of the False Kage.  He wondered, exactly, what such portended.  He wasn't a deep believer in the Maker--never had been--but he prayed a small prayer that everything would be well.

In the meantime, he continued with his Healing, Q'eieha's pained countenance finally relaxing, much to his relief.  When everything was said and done, it gratified him to know that he could do this without fear of failure.  Slowly inhaling, he gently repositioned himself in the chair and, with his hand still stroking his Kage's head, he closed his eyes in anticipation of sleep.

And dreams of the solace of home.

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[TheDutchman]

Chapter 6: To Secure Peace Is To Prepare For War, part II

[...Because, one of the reasons that I voted for Q'eieha is that I believe that she is stronger than anyone thinks.] Ryshhk's low growls filled the large conference room, the gathered Masters and Maenowans looked expectantly at the Wookiee as he stood, arms folded across his enormous chest.  [That said, I do agree that the incidents surrounding the bombing should not be ignored or suppressed.]

As sounds of assent quietly filled the room, Eriobe saw Kazic share a look with Ryshhk.  All three of them knew that the bombing had been the beginning of something sinister, deliberately done and then downplayed.  By whom or what...unfortunately, none of them had evidence for either.

"I think that I can speak for everyone gathered here, Kage, when I sa--" Speaker Anayese Vondall began.

[Please do not call me that.] Even though he spoke just above a whisper, Ryshhk's voice seemed to shake the room.

"Apologies, Master K’rrmerii." The Shifalan Speaker barely missed a beat.  "However, we still believe that you and Master Ovarug are the two most important reasons that the Order has survived."  Gathering her confederates about her with a pointed look around the room, she continued.  "I know that I don't need to tell you about the history that both of you lived...but what has been recorded is clear for those of us that actually study it.  We know that Arbiter D'Aklon was wrong in deferring liberties while pursuing his security mandates, just as we know that the Vhal'Dan Order owes you both a debt of gratitude."

At mention of Anson D'Aklon's name, Eriobe saw her husband visibly flinch, could feel his pain in the Force.  Clandestinely so no one else would notice, she traced a Commiseration for Kazic.  Not that she'd let any of these supposed "learned Masters and Maenowans" know, but her Love had confided much in her, especially concerning his lost brother, Anson.

It had taken him years before he'd been comfortable in confiding in her.  Point of fact, she'd already been his wife for almost three years, yet she hadn't taken umbrage.  Eriobe knew the deep hurt of emotional pain and that other people dealt differently with it; by the Force she knew that she had!  But, just as she had been patient with him, Kazic had been for her: offering no judgment with her past as well as a sympathetic ear for all of her concerns.

It was the least that she could do to reciprocate.

Besides, their shared confidence had only deepened their bond, strengthening their marriage.  So it was that she felt true anguish for him when--late one night aboard their ship, Dharma's Knight, in the midst of a hyperspace tunnel--he finally divested himself of his mental armor, his emotions raw and unguarded.

"I killed him." She could still hear his forlorn sorrow in her memory, see the abject pain with which he still held himself responsible.  "I should've been a better brother..." He would ball his fists so tightly that he would often cut his palms open with his sharp nails.  Of course, the wounds would quickly close courtesy of his Anzati healing factor, but it did little to erase the rivulets of blood left over.

Or the agony of shame.

He'd laid himself vulnerable and open, absent his usual barriers; she had done likewise, admitting to him the circumstances of her own exile from the Jedi Order.  They'd both started the evening as two individuals but awoke the next morning as one.  Eriobe knew it then: it was the Will of the Force. 

To mark the occasion, she had added more detail to the cultural tattoos that decorated her face.  They were more than just mere markings; they were indicative of the individual Mirialan's growth, maturity, spirituality, and status.  She had finished the ritual by tracing a Transcendence, signifying her Awakening to the Fifth Level of Enlightenment.  It was a source of pride; not only that she had accomplished such, but more importantly, that she had done so after the events of her exile (she'd feared that she would never reach that pinnacle).  And her Love had been the one to help her.

From that day forward, there had been no secrets between them...except one.  And that, Eriobe thought, was one that her Love need not ever know.

The truth would only hurt him that much more.

Buoyed by her nostalgia, Eriobe moved over to Kazic's side, her delicate hands gently stroking the thick, black hair of his topknot and crown.  Looking over his shoulder, his eyes radiated both gratitude and love, his emotions mirrored in the Force.  He turned his face towards the Shifalan Speaker.  "I am confident that I speak for Master K’rrmerii as well as myself with our gratitude.  But if we are to save the Order then we must reach out to this new generation, convince them that their laxity breeds apathy."  He was going to say something else but then changed his mind, instead trying a new tactic, thinking ironically of Black Rikard and--most poignantly--of his brother Anson.  "They must understand the necessity of the Order's martial heritage and do more than adopt it; in this case, we must embrace it as the peacekeepers that we a--we were.  The Vhal'Dan are not warriors because we enjoy violence.  Rather, we must maintain our discipline to safeguard our liberties."

Many of those gathered nodded but Eriobe could tell that there were several members that still were not fully convinced.  Apparently, so did Ryshhk, the large Wookiee stepping forward.  [Before there was an Order proper, the Seven Clans upheld the primary tenets of freedom as sacrosanct.  And in order to preserve them, the Vhal'Dan followed the Warrior's Path, always as a means of defense, of honor.  It is those same ideals that this newest generation seems to have forgotten.] Without raising his voice, Ryshhk's tone was passionate.  [We must convince them, show them that what they have taken for granted all of these years is worth defending.  To the death if necessary.] He said the last in a whisper that could be heard clearly across the room.

One of the more vocal dissenting maenowans, Fidyos Pedjan, spoke forth.  "Even if it means war?"  Though he addressed the Wookiee, it was Kazic that answered.

"Yes.  War is preferable to subjugation." The Anzat never so much as blinked, yet he could not help but hear Anson's words in his mouth.  However, these were entirely different circumstances: instead of encroaching upon liberty, Kazic and Ryshhk were fighting for it.  "Remember: it was not us that started this.  What other motive would someone have when it is delivered by way of a violent, cowardly bombing?"  Squeezing her husband's fingers, Eriobe felt a wellspring of pride for her Love.  "It is important that we secure the Order, this time against a very real threat that has already taken the first shot." He emphasized. 

Eriobe could see that Kazic's words were making some headway, yet there were still those who's faces were painted with doubt.  She was about to remind the cowardly pfassks of their duty when Ryshhk suddenly took up the argument.  [What we do now is to secure the freedoms of the entire Order.  If we do not, then our enemy will be victorious, our people enslaved, murdered, or even worse.]  He seemed to stand taller, his voice projecting so that every single member within the large room could hear him clearly.  [We did not start this...but it would be foolish to ignore the threat out of some misguided attempt to ignore the hanging, dead branch above our heads, as if wishing it away was somehow going to change the outcome.  No, we need to deal with reality.]  Ryshhk looked around the room, connecting to every single person who looked at him.  [Sometimes that requires that we prune the tree...but by doing so, it shall make it stronger in the end.]

Now Eriobe saw that almost everyone was nodding in assent.  She could see why the Wookiee had been Kage for so long.  And why he still had many friends and those that believed in him.

Her husband spoke next.  "All of you gathered here make up the minority of the Order, yet we can still help those who are not.  And do not forget: our intent is not to overthrow the current administration."  His eyes glazed over, a look that Eriobe knew well.  However Kazic did it, he was now "seeing" the daen nosi, meaning that something momentous had occurred.  "But we will help Q'eieha and her followers." His voice sounded somewhat distracted, further proof (not that Eriobe needed any) that her husband was consulting his "Lines of Fate."

Once again scrutinizing the room, Eriobe could see that between the two of them, Kazic and Ryshhk had won over the crowd.  All that was left was to prepare for the conflict ahead.

Oh, not that her husband nor his Wookiee friend had said as much but Eriobe had been bred for battle.  As such, she recognized the signs and--try as they may to avoid it--the Vhal'Dan were heading for war.  It was a simple matter in this case, not so much a question of "if" but "when."  And she knew that her Love would do everything necessary to protect the Order that he loved so very much.

The first part was complete; now, they would do what they could to ensure security, bolster defenses, and hope that they could save as many lives as possible.

As she thought before, she didn't believe in Kazic's Maker.  But that didn't stop her from including him with her prayers, tracing an Incorporation for good measure...as well as a Preservation for her Love. 

He would need all of the help that he could get...and she would be the one to help him most.

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