Shadows of the Aether

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 3 — Searches - Part 3

3947 BBY — Pallas Athena

Jittery and restless on the quiet of the ship Mira did her best to focus.

She was so used to the hum of life all around her. Activity, Aliens, people, refugees...a ‘noise’ she found relaxing that could not be substituted by the hum of the hyperdrive that rattled through the Pallas Athena’s walls.

“Alright Miraluka…Mira…Luka…heh funny…where are you,”

On Nar Shadda it was easy she got a holo or rough description of her target and would ‘listen’ to it, get a feel for him or her. Then start walking - following the flow of life without thinking about it much. 

Meetra had been the one to explain to her that sensation was the Force, and Mira’s talent was using it to hunt.

If you know your target, you can feel them, know where they're going to go. And sometimes, you know where they're going to be before they do. Mira was good at finding people. Because when they're lost or out-of-place... it's like something's wrong, inside them.

And that's why she hunted, trying to right the wrong…

”It could be because you lost your family, you understand what it means to be lost.” Meetra said in their discussion on the Ebon Hawk as another familiar hyperdrive hummed behind them

Meetra had awakened the nascent senses to something far deeper and more expansive, at first the sound was overwhelming, not longer just currents of life to follow, but raging tsunamis of emotions, but over time with Meetra’s guidance she had controlled it, focused…focus…focus like she needed now..

“Sooner I find some Miraluka sooner I get outta here…” she reminded herself  as her eyes closed in the small neat cabin.

She felt the life energies about her like she had on Nar Shadda,but more expansive, not just one planet, or even one system because…

”...all life is connected, and Malachor proved it - you know what the loss of family means, even to your targets.” Meetra said

That was what she zeroed in on, the loss of family and home, the grief she could most empathize with.

Billions of Souls lit in her mind's eyes, so many displaced by decades of war, she needed to be more precise, find the common thread…

It was only one deck above her in the form of Isas, the older Miralukan women's raw pain for the loss of Katarr was unique, that was the scent to hunt.

Billions dwindled to hundreds in an instant as she caught the feel of her ‘prey’.

Her palms began to sweat, her back aching, she’d never used her predatorial talents on this scale before, as draining as it was there was an intoxication to it, imagining what else she might be capable of. 

But not now, now she needed to pinpoint, cross reference against maps of the nearby sectors and then…then…

“Just start walking,”

<<<<>>>>

“....and there…” Mira pointed to the  third location her hunting instinct had sensed Miraluka feeling the same sadness as Isas on.

Clustered around the navigation console on the bridge with her were Isas, the Old Man, Varasian, Atris and a younger red haired woman introduced as Alixa.

“Thank you Mira,” Isas said warmly, her vacant eye sockets staring at the young woman.
“Your reputation is, if anything, undersold,”

“Well I’m not big on advertising,” she shrugged the synth leather of her jacket glossy in the white lights all around what would’ve been a spacious bridge were it not cluttered with scientific sensor systems and data-cabinets.

“Nez Peron, Draay 2 and Lantilles…” Alixa said contemplative,
“It’s going to be quite the trip,”

Varasian’s eyes had never left Mira, a fact she had not failed to notice.

“You must be tired after your exertions,” he said laying on the sweet concern,
“I’ll escort you to your cabin and bring some rations,”

She’d seen that look too often, and knew the best way to deal with the thorn of unrequited affection was set a plasma torch as soon as the shoot appeared.

“Pffft I do a hunt like that every day, no biggy,” she dismissed before he could finish lifting his foot toward her. 
“But unless you need something else I’m gonna get some shots down before we launch,”

It was a lie of course, ‘Hunting’ across a refugee camp or small moon was one thing, over a galactic span - well regardless of what Meetra said about ‘the only difference is in your mind’ with regard to size, it was a visceral fact it took more out of her.

Isas nodded appreciatively they were finished, Atris glare offered neither warmth nor ice.

“I’ll join you,” Varasian insisted, following her into the corridor.

She remained silent as she turned out of ear shot or what she guessed was ‘sight’ for the Miralukans.

“Your abilities are truly exceptional, how did you come to learn them, from Meetra or…”
Mira stopped dead spinning and stepping straight up to him.

“Look bud, you’re a nice guy and all, but I’m not interested, save yourself the time and spare me the embarrassment of shooting you down every time you take an inch.”

Varasian expression betrayed surprise

“I…I’m not sure what you mean….”

Arms crossed Mira glared incredulously up at him.  She couldn’t deny he was handsome, probably damn fit beneath that archaic armour he never seemed to take off - but this was business, and she doubted a guy like him would even survive her aggressive appetites.

“Come on, you’ve been drooling bantha eyed over me since we met, every chance you can to bring me something to eat or talk, you’re flirting with me but I ain’t into you, sorry Varasian, you’re just not my type, let’s keep it professional huh?”

“I..I understand…my apologies if I made you feel uncomfortable,” he shuffled embarrassed, confirming he was not her type, she was attracted to men who would double down and wouldn’t take anything short of a blaster to the guts as a deterrent.

With a clumsy nod and mumble he headed off down round the corner.

Mira exhaled, glad that was dealt with.

Turning back round she caught the edge of a face peering round the corner then vanish.

“Hey…” she yelled, jogging ahead, turning just in time to see a robed figure of some kind turn another corner.

“Hey!”  she snapped chasing after him, she could swear she saw a lekku trailing above the robe…but only one Lekku?

She spun and twisted through the large vessels empty corridors after the figure, she got a good view passing a cryo vat room, a synth silk like robe and yes one lekku, but not an amputated twi’lek!

Everyone else on the ship was human or Miraluka and she was certain she’d met them all.

Gaining on the weird figure she nearly crashed rounding a corner into Alixa.

“Mira can I assist you?” the unreadable young red haired woman asked. She knew Alixa the least, she seemed to rarely leave her room.

“Who the frell was that guy sneaking around?”

Alixa looked no plussed.

“Who?”

“Come on,” Mira growled

“Another guest, he will not bother you again,”
 
Mira met the aqua gaze for a few moments before deciding she was too tired to push further.

“Better not,” Mira replied, backing away only slowly.

<<<<>>>>

3947 BBY — Draay 2

Vast grass stalk swaying gently in the westerly wind were forced back by the brute repulsor backwash a ship that settled to crush the stalks to the ground..

Eyes covered in old cloth above an even more worn face Lucien Draay knelt awaiting the arrival he had seen coming.

For years now he had lived in relative peace upon Draay 2,  a private moon, isolated from the wars that ravaged the galaxy as he built a New Covenant, to replace the tainted and failed group of Force Seers his mother Krynda Draay had established. 

He was blind physically, yet had never seen so clearly, his Miraluka heritage coming to the fore in the years since the disaster on Coruscant, at which his tussle with Zayne Carrick and, in all honesty, himself and his mother had exploded…along with the Draay Estate on Coruscant.

“I see you…” Lucien said firmly as the figure approached.

“I see who you are…not your name perhaps, but what you have become and what you intend to create, all you came to ask, and the why of it,”

The figure stopped a distance away, hands on hips glaring at the blind man, Lucien felt the burn of his gaze and the twitch of his mouth to speak.

“There is no need, I know what you will ask and my answer is no…”

Bitterness creased the already aged face across from Lucien, a man, a warrior who had fought in the same war’s as Lucien's parents.

“Face the Future with humility,” Lucien said
“Those were my mother’s last words, words I live by now, and you should take heed of.”

The Old Man continued striding forward undaunted.

“Your compliance or refusal is irrelevant I will take what I need,”

A weary smile creased Lucien’s face
“You didn’t spare your sister's grave, why would you spare my mothers.”

At that the Old Man stopped. 

Only three people knew what he had done in the chambers beneath the sacred Mount on Coruscant where his ancestors and fallen sister lay - His brother, his niece and himself.

“Your powers are impressive,” the Old Man rattled with a voice that was grinding as the life he’d lived
“But don’t test them against me boy, if you can see what I’ve done - you know what I’ll do,”

Lucien nodded
“And that is why I won’t try and stop you...or the things that travel with you...my mother and the Covenant drove themselves mad trying to prevent the horrors they saw in the future.  I live in the now despite my sight.”

The Old Man simply sneered, if he wanted a lecture on morality he had an estranged brother more than willing…

If Hes even still alive…  The Old Man knew he was reaching the end, all the…things...he had done to extend his life long enough were catching up to him...but his brother was too much a purist - 'against the Makers will’ to undergo such rejuvenation…

“Is everything alright father?” Varasian radioed in his ear.

“Fine, bring what we need.”

<<<<>>>>

Crouched on a hill overlooking the simple huts, Mira chewed on a stalk of grass plucked from the field as she breathed in as much of the non recycled air as she could while she had the chance.

The Acolytes and apprentices went about the routines of a simple life, a warmth and familial bond between them almost tangible.

Mira envied it. Her birth parents lost, she bounced from Mandalorans to Meetra to Mical looking for a family that all her skills as the ‘red maned huntress’ could never find.

“You didn’t join the others?” The cold crisp voice of Atris intruded on her
“What others,” Mira replied not moving an inch
“Mical and his band of young Jedi…you didn’t feel you belonged there,”
“Pull off the throttle Whitey, I’m not your friend, I’m here to get a job done not share stories about why neither of us fit in with the new Jedi crew, and don’t want to,”

Atris remained silent for some time as the breeze through the fields carried the earthy scents of grain to them.

“They won’t succeed, none of it will,” The Former Jedi Archivist finally said
“There is something fundamentally irreparable in the Jedi, all their incarnations, that tries to control and guide the Force rather than letting it loose…I understand that now,”

“You’ve seen the Anarchist Light, good for you,” Mira sneered

“I understand it. I don’t relish that truth.” Atris looked up the next hill to the small marble building the Old Man, Varasian and a number of the Athena’s crew were heading toward.

“What do you think they’re doing there?”

Mira shrugged indifferent.

“I have no desire for a friend either,” Atris announced with typical arrogance to think she understood Mira
“But an ally, should things with our ‘hosts’ sour.”

“You don’t trust the ones who popped you from prison with bribes, what a surprise…” Mira noted dryly

“Nor do you,”

“I’ll admit there’s something off about all this…but finding Miraluka from Katarr is genuine, and their credits check out so I got no complaints…” Mira finally stood
“Still…I’ll keep my eyes open, if you’ll do the same,”

“Agreed,” Atris replied as her cold blue eyes briefly caught the Old Man’s on the next hill,  it might have been the wind and distance, but for a moment she thought she saw something akin to ‘guilt’ on his face.

<<<<>>>>

The Mausoleum was small but impeccably kept, cream marbles and tasteful sparing gold inlay.

With brutish armoured gloves that forever stank of dry blood he hefted the lids off the sarcophagi he needed.

Krynda Draay was the first, the woman’s body decayed through the white shrouds with gross brown splotches, fortunately it was mostly dry avoiding the stench as Varasian set to work prying the mouth open while the other two attendants injected ultra-thin mediscope needles into the abdomen for any ovarian tissue that might be of use, however the main focus - as always - was the teeth.

The Old Man watched over the morbid process with cold detachment.  Krynda had been a powerful seer, half human half Miraluka, his conversation with her quarter Miralukan son more than proved the prophetic power of her blood line,  with the pure stuff...what wonders the ‘Good Doctor’ could create.
 
Krynda’s miraluka father Noab Hulis in a sarcophagus opposite would be the next to be harvested.  The Old Man had known Hulis by reputation during the war with Exar Kun, a good Jedi by all accounts, apart from a tendency to nepotism as regarded his three daughters in the Jedi order.

The Old Man ran his hand over the smooth top of the sarcophagus.  A man who loved his family...now..with his genetic samples and that of his three gifted daughters - they would have an even larger family even after death.

He glanced to his own ‘son’ Varasian, the young man's focus on the task absolute and unwavering. 

Despite what he had said, the Old Man still harboured moments of doubt, guilt, disgust at his own actions...what he had done to the bodies of his sister, his sainted daughter…

But if Varasian and his daughter Alixa, and all the promise their future generations of more Perfect beings held was his reward for those sins he could rest easy in the grave.

<<<<>>>>

An uncomfortable silence fell as they walked past the small farm houses back to their lander, members of Lucien's Jedi colony giving them ugly looks.

Lucien was waiting for them on the path to the barren field that served as landing pad.

Varasian paused as he walked past, staring at the blinded three-quarter human, something passed between them in the force that made the Old Man quicken his pace.

“There are so few left…” Lucien whispered once Varasian was out of ear shot.

“My mother always identified as a Miralukan first - she would not wish to see her people vanish from the galaxy…she did not live to see what became of Katarr, mercifully, and would’ve done all she could to help restore the Miraluka…something I cannot…but still…”

Lucien nodded toward Varasian
“Is that truly the way?”

“Anything is better than hiding in exile,” the Old Man sneered

“From one exile to the another…” Lucien replied caustically

“I’m not hiding in exile, I am building something greater than even you can forsee,” the Old Man snapped

“I said I see who you are…” Lucien reminded him
“I see your obsession, the fear and grief that drives it…but creating children that cannot die before their parents will not help you accept the loss of your child,”

“I will never accept it,”

“And you will never know peace until you do,”

Bitter, The Old Man strode on.

At least he could have the last word.

“Where in this galaxy and when in a lifetime has anyone known peace, Draay?”

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 3 — Searches - Part 4

12654BBY — The Lek’un

“...but everyone is leaving on Tour this season,” Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox, shimmering like a jewel in a red silken Kimono leaned pleading toward her father who sat scrutinising a vast pile of accounts and missives detailing the costs of the occupation of the Vel-Ovarug lands.

From what Fallyn had glanced in his sideways observances bringing the Hanshõ and the Sínã their Armeniaca flavoured teas, the Hanshõ was losing incredible amounts to the guerilla forces of Lek’un still loyal to the long dead Vel.

“I should be shamed were you to deny me,” Faveah’s eyes glittered in the morning sun that clipped through the branches over overhanging citrus trees as the gentle trickle of the manicured garden - a representation of the continent Hokuriku in miniature with all attended mountains and rivers - competed with the light breezes for soothing background sound that settled the Wa.

“Now you speak foolishly,” Rannek spoke at last, Fallyn as always kneeling behind the Sínã awaiting her pleasure.

“Reputation at court is not gained by these excursions offworld, only my koku is lost,” his tone was hard, face stiff, the Sínã sank back, Fallyn’s heart with it.  They might never get another chance.

He prayed Faveah’s ability to charm was stronger than her fathers increasing parsimony.

Seeing her face sag, Rannek himself retreated in expression. 

Fallyn could never tell which was Hanshõ's true face, the vicious Gaki with blood from Anzat he had fed on dripping down his chin, the stern statesman that tried but ultimately failed to emulate his father the Honoured Jeshu the wise…

Or the father so wracked with guilt over his poor treatment of his twin's mother - such that she had died in childbirth - that he intended quite literally to give them the world, if not the galaxy, in recompense.

Perhaps it was none. Perhaps it was all.

“Misíta the Hyperlane Wars have left so many worlds ravaged, what would there be to see on another Tour?”

“That can only be discovered during the journey, “ the Enfanta did not miss a beat, her face full of light and wit as her eyes dazzled her father.

The favour he showed her was far greater than any other Hanshõ would his daughter, ironically it was similar to the affection which the late Vel-Ovarug had reputedly shown his daughter. 

As such rumours of an improper closeness between father and daughter had been circulated by Ranneks enemies among the mare numerous times.

Those gossipers caught in the act now resided miserably in the Pit, slowly turning feral awaiting the Hanshõ’s consumption as mercy from the endless torture of the lightless cage of sharp metals and stinking semi acidic peat bog that was their only water.

Fallyn well knew the rumours were false, as Kızlar Ağası to the Enfanta, he or his underlings attended her ceaselessly

It had not stopped Fallyn spreading the rumours himself when opportunity allowed.

“Please father, allow me this one last frolic before a suitor is found for my hand,”
Her voice was sweet as the honeyed dew of the crysp.

Breathing deeply Rannek exhaled his resistance to the winds.

“I will be campaigning in the Vel lands once more, these intransigent rebels vex me…I’ve half a mind to offer that ungovernable mountainous Yomi to the Trudenn, they covet it enough…” He shook off the burden of the games he must play to keep his preeminence among the great Kindes of the mare, and the mare above the other Castes. It was one thing to reach the top, another to stay there.

He raised a single finger

“One year,” Rannek said firmly “One Year,”

Faveah’s joy outshone the brightest of the Silent Voices.

<<<<>>>>>

Abyss of Memory

The last time he had walked the narrow path up the mountain - decorated in thick humid forest that sent rich green roots across the path making the journey a dance between patches of flat ground - he had been in full armour, fury born of desperation 10 years after his Misíta had…

Being a Clucir still meant something then, being mare meant something, now...from all he had seen and heard from his Druf ‘guest’ - whom despite his Efendí chaffing at the insults the Druf hurled, Rannek had ordered healed – that was no longer the case.

The Evokation was moribund, the Anzat scattered across the stars as they had been for millennia…each time he awoke to see another piece of their culture once seemingly as eternal as the mountains that dominated Anzat Prime, eroded away by Time…

Time…the blessing and curse of the Anzat ,especially those who had fed off their fellows. Time to live long enough to see economic and social change that rendered an empire he had striven so hard for become obsolete…

And the worst was to know he had begun the rot, his feeding on fellow Anzat so brazenly during the war with the Vel….or rather his first war with the Vel...had given permissiveness to others…then the space faring technology improved, trade and opportunities to flee Caste warfare were taken…

The latter was beyond his control admittedly…but when the Off-worlders began to come and trade in abundance…by his actions they had found a populace desperate to escape for survival, or hunt new flavours of Soup in other species.

Such was the Druf Vzin Kree who eschewed any Kinde or Caste in his name – so far was he from the old ways – a predator who had found himself the prey against some Metahuman species that proved too strong to manipulate or control.

Rannek’s foot fell uncomfortably between the ridges of a dew moist root…he had to keep his focus…

It was getting harder, over 60 years in meditation, and already after barely a week awake, he was slipping into solipsism every few hours.

Carefully, slowly he made his way up to the mountain shrine, the Torii – the gate between the mundane and divine, an off orange, unpainted for decades. 

The low shrine walls and out buildings were covered in flowering vines – another few decades and there would be nothing left.

Thick rounded tiles that made up the path were browned with the dirt of ages soaked into them.

He could almost see the shrine as it was, the sheltered walkways bordering rock gardens carefully tended to by blind Lek’un under the unwavering eye of the Abbott

A hunched old Anzat without a strand of hair, thin skin over weary 900 year old bones had a brown hue from the equatorial sun, he was in the seiza pose before the main altar holding incense sticks high above his head in honour of the spirits of the jungle of Hokuriku about him.

Rannek stomped up behind him as the other priests and nuns averted their gaze from him.  Kegare – unclean of soul and mind was what they had called him, not just for his Animopophagy – the consumption of other Anzat – but for a million other sins of covetousness, ambition, treachery, dishonour, murders…

Every conceivable sin he had proudly engaged in his long life of 500 years conquering and managing the Evokation from behind the scenes, fighting innumerable wars of conquest, re-conquest, uniting the Anzat when an external threat approached, and dividing them for his own ends just a rapidly afterwards.

500 years…no that wasn’t right…he was slipping again, his mind jumping between two visits several thousand years apart to this place…

Stepping past the ruined outer buildings and melange of rocks and overflowed bogs that were once cultivated gardens with carefully directed artificial water features that channelled water from higher up the mountain, he came upon the only building with any semblance of coherency – the old Cloister, and it's only occupant an ancient looking Nun with long striking white hair tied back over a once white now browned Abbots robe.

“Why have you come to this place Gaki?” The Nun and abbott asked across the aeons Rannek had lived.

Gaki that was the name they gave him all those years ago, a ‘Hungry Ghost’ that trawled the tainted Black Shore of the Endless Ocean for Soup, a gnawing hunger that could never be fulfilled.

He had taken the insult and made it his own, naming his inner circle of Aminopaphages the Gaki, twelve in the beginning of the First Vel War…hundreds of members over the years…those not killed in battle falling to the Kuru…all except him…

“You who know the Kami and the Gods, I seek their intercedence, not for myself,” - he was careful to make that distinction,
“But on behalf of my children, Síne Mardenes mare-Q'Atrox and Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox, lost to the view of the Silent voices for….”

100 years…or 10,000…which conversation was it…100 yes 100 with the Abbott, he had searched on his own, spread his Lek’un across the galaxy, recruited bounty hunters by the dozen, exhausted all his resources, nigh on bankrupted his Fief and his Vassals to the point many were openly rebelling forcing him to return from the Stars to secure his resources before continuing the search.

And now…10,000 years later he was still looking…

“They have no part in my crimes, my son…and my daughter, my Misíta…”

He righted himself, then and now…

“The Gods will not hear my pleas…but you…I do not do this lightly…” he knelt upon one knee before the Abbott and the Nun

“To you I plead Cleansed one, to plead to the Gods…for as of this day I’ve nowhere else to turn….”

The nun looked at him with more compassion than the Abbott had, or did…

“So many years Gaki, you must know they are dead,” she said

That he would not believe, not until he saw it with his own eyes…And even if they were - even if that horror came to pass…

“By what little honour and grace I once had…” he sneered to the Abbott confidently
“…I swear to the Silent Voices I shall slaughter all those responsible for taking my children and their every blood Kinde to endless generations,”

“You ask for my intercession then profane this place of Harae, of purification, by invoking such an Oath of Blood!”

At the time he still thought it possible that the criminals were fellow Anzat who had kidnapped his children for ransom or murdered them for one of countless grudges against him…

He had dozens of minor nobles and informers thrown to the Pit beneath the Stormhold, but nothing ever came of it.

Now in the Nun’s presence he was more certain it was a non-Anzat responsible…

When all options had been exhausted on Anzat prime he had gathered his Kinju and retainers, built a small flotilla and for over a millenia scoured the galaxy for them, ever more fruitlessly, extracting Soup from a thousands species to skim what intelligence he could and gaining only false leads and immense cost that threatened his children’s inheritance.

An inheritance they would never claim.

“Please...not for myself…” he whispered as contrite as ever he had been in 12,000 years of hubris.

“Your time is ending Rannek -Soma Mare-Q’atrox, First and Last of the true Gaki,” her voice was the rattle of old bones carved with runes tossed to predict the future on stone, finally dragging him fully into the present.

A gruff grunting nod was his reply, well aware his next ‘meditation’ may be one from which he never awoke.

“The Gods have little pity - for anyone, least of all you,” She turned and sat behind a small pedestal, an ancient copper wok upon it full of a dark green fluid she sprinkled ground leaves into, an acrid azure smoke rose curling perfectly toward her nostrils.

She breathed deeply as Rannek watched the ritual of a seeress.  He had seen such a dozen times before in his desperate search, always to no effect, the shambling answers of the prophets were largely vague jumbles of metaphorical nonsense.

“Upon the ruin of the Eyeless Seers, where the Man that was Hunger fed, there you will find where your children first bled, the Shinigami there will wait, and by your command bring you to your fate.”

Her voice was a hissing echo as insubstantial as smoke.  Rannek’s face once more curdled at the meaningless drivel, yet what else had he but this?

It was a mistake coming here again.

As he had done millenia before he left with a wordless sneer.

<<<<>>>>

[TheDutchman]

"I am Soron Varas, Founder of The Aethas Colony, Creator of the Aethan Species."

From such a simple statement to such a monumental result, Mili and Ari now know the man directly responsible for the impetus of their race.  Genius to be sure, visionary eventually proven, and madman to be determined.  But now that they know the "Who" will what remains of Soron tell them the "Why?"  Survival?  Legacy?  Perhaps something greater...or perhaps something more base.

From canon, we see that the Force is quasi-intelligent--certainly purposeful--since "The Chosen One" exists, although, ironically, Anakin's bloodline has helped shape events in the galaxy for almost 200 years in Legacy Era work.  But Soron's own plans run through the course of almost 4,000 years.  Unfortunately, he failed to take into account the destruction of the Sith and the Devastation of Aethas culture.  Of course, what is left leaves the question: from what remains, would Soron approve?

But from one nihilistic (the Sith) society to another (the Rhandites), our current Aethans recognize the irony in their adherence to the Dark, Ultimate Destruction: billions of lives with more being birthed every day.  Even. though the Rhandites seem to be contained in no small part due to the Aethan/Chiss Defenses, what happens if/when they decide to break through into the rest of the galaxy?  Even with the detonation of the Naqxium Bomb, only a small fraction (and even then not "True Believers") were eliminated.  A concern, but not the only one...

Two things from the past, the first the precursor to Aethan culture, the second related to the current "Shadow" obstructing the Aether, both offering some answers but also more questions.  How is Mira related to all of this?  What are the Old Man's intentions?  Has Alixa escaped one prison only to end up in another?  And who/what was that single lekku alien aboard the Pallas Athena?  What happened to Faveah mare-Q'Atrox and why was it necessary for her to journey off-planet?

Meta-note: I'm very much liking the 3-4 storylines, painting a general picture at first but then filling in the gaps as we go along.  Seeing the run up to proto-Aethan culture makes the events of the Devastation that much more poignant (and horrible).  Rannek MUST be INCREDIBLY powerful to have affected the Aethans across the galaxy; one wonders what happens when they confront him directly?
Also: awesome pics LSG 

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 4 — Remnants - Part 1

497 BBY — Aethas

Soron Varas, or the all too true to life rendering of him in wavering photons was ingenious as he was oleaginous. 

Over the sleepless days they worked through sequence after sequence drawn from the Gene Bank, postulating and trying to predict which were most likely involved in the malady, Varas would relentlessly praise his ‘daughters’ for their ‘insight and comprehension’.

Ari and Milaea -along with  Xani, Kassyndra, Adaea and Meraea - who had joined them - had no illusions Varas was in reality praising his own genius, a fathers self important pride in the magnificence of his own seed and how wondrous that must make him.

The annoyance would hopefully be temporary, under the guise of ‘ensuring the systems functions’ Adaea and Meraea were - after hooking up a backup power source and ensuring physical integrity of the circuits and critical boards - working to circumvent the interface behind the scenes.

But above all this the pressing need to lift the Shadow meant they had to work with the tools at their disposal.

“...ah you see if that were the case then engrams would fail to form, you would be experiencing loss of all short term declarative memory, which…by the fact you can remember my name and the topic of our research…is clearly not the case,” Varas blue glow smile rubbed salt into another failed path of inquiry.

There were tens of thousands of sequences critical to the interaction of their Aethenaea cortex and Telepathaeon lobe with the aether, the slightest variation on either side of that link - carbon helix or aether - would result in a cascade of neurological failures.

The precision of Varas creation was astonishing, but so was its fragility, a single piece out of place and their demi-god like prowess could come crashing down.

“..but if AC3356 was still being stimulated,” Milaea countered, knowing it was futile, but with each passing day as her nieces and nephews languished in unconsciousness her patience neared exhaustion.
“If such was the case AC3498 would have no error to cause the cascade,” Varas quickly countered.

The worst thing about him - he was always right.

If not desperate to save their children, and if the Hologram had been a woman rather than a man, they might feel less put off by his cutting accuracy.

Even so they still had no idea what was causing the Shadow and its biological flow on effects…or if the Shadow was a flow on effect from a biological problem.

But perhaps that was also the solution Milaea thought leaning forward on Varas main consol, the blue holo of his expectant self satisfied face casting her red hair a dull purple.

“Perhaps we need to reframe the porblem.  Varas, the brain's structures and genes that created the Aethenaea Cortex and Telepathaeon Lobe - they didn’t originally require the Aether to function properly in our ancestors did they,”

“No…” Varas said slowly - an intentional dramatic effort for a hologram interface
“No they did not…yes I see where you are headed my ingenious Daughter…”

“Then the problems must be in the additional genetic sequences you - and the Technocracy scientists after you integrated to enhance the cortex and lobe power with the aether,”

Milaea was careful to specify that, their species was not entirely Varas work after all, generations after him had enhanced his original designs and no doubt solved problems and added features he hadn’t anticipated, though it seemed all this work post his real death had been loaded into his Holocron..

“Delicious,” Varas smiled looking over to Kassyndra, the elder Aethan woman ever keeping a close eye on the Hologram
“You must be proud of your granddaughter my child, she is truly a marvel, as are you all,” 

“Very proud,” Kassyndra replied evenly, her face down cast from the necessary since the haunting process of having to place feeding tubes in her numerous insensate grandchildrens mouths.

“This limits the number of sequences we need to investigate from the hundreds to the tens of thousands,” he went on before anyone could speak further on Milaea’s idea.

“Tens of thousands, that few sequences likely only came from one or two individuals,” Xani managed to get in.
“Varas, how many of our ancestors contributed to the aetheric enhancement sequences of those brain structures” the energetic youngest of the Aethans present seemed less repulsed by Varas, but then the blonde-red haired young woman was friends with everyone and everything it seemed.

“Of your 26 Genetic ancestors only one, designated Miraluka - Female 2…”

“Then all we need to do is use her original brain samples to clone some living cells and see how they respond to the aether, it could provide valuable comparative data,” Xani said with excitement at genuine progress 

“A brilliant idea my child, but unfortunately those samples are among those degraded by time, only 18 Gene Banks survive in full…”

“And recreation from the digital map won’t create a cell connected to the aether,” Kassyndra sighed at another lost lead, so far as Technocracy studies went no cell that was produced from purely non living elements ever showed aetheric connection.

“There is a tantalizing possibility of finding a sample…” Varas interjected
“This particular ancestor had a desire to be interred on her home world, a quaint custom that was indulged in those years, it’s possible the body could provide some clues.”

Ari and Milaea shared a look, neither were novices in the arts of necromancy, still 3500 year old bodies were older than anything they had worked with.

“Some Sith have preserved forms that are workable far older,” Ari noted from her knowledge of ancient lore.

“Assuming some of the body is still even there…” Milaea replied, then glanced to her grandmother and Xani
“...we could manage something at least, a base profile of her aetheric connection to her cells to compare.”

“It is unlikely to be distributed, the planet in question was hardly visited often,” Varas

“Where was she buried?” Ari asked turning back to Varas,

“A former Miraluka colony called Katarr,”

<<<<<>>>>

References to Katarr were not hard to find.

Its location was.

Every woman in the quiet caverns where they nursed their drip fed children by the soft yellow glow of candles, scoured through ‘appropriated’ Vhal’Dan, Jedi and Lucovis Sith archives, even tomes ‘traded’ for with the Dathomiri for any reference, however oblique.

Featuring mostly as a handful of pages, perhaps half a chapter, in histories of the Mandalorian Crusades and Revanchist war and tumultuous period that followed it was noted to have been destroyed, the Miraluka of the world wiped out, only the handful off world at the time surviving.

Katarr was described as desolated, devoid of life, a lingering Dark side taint upon it from Darth Nihilus' consumption, the Jedi order that formed years after declaring the planet anathematized and struck from records for that purpose.

Much of the Vhal’Dan archive had the same source material from that era, before the Clans united, the Dathmoiri only one vague myth of an all consuming beast that fed on the blind tangentially related to the real events.

“Obroa-Skai, Lorrd, they might have records,” Ari suggested as they sat among the teetering ruination of their own people.

At roughly the center of the cavern they were joined by Karintha, Sofa, Lyaea and Kiraea seated around a single gormin rug while their children lay ‘sleeping’ nearby.

The distress of impending birth for Karintha’s fifth child was etched in the fatigue on her face, giving birth now with the infant unable to use its innate learning abilities was dangerous, she was using the Shadow dimmed aether to ‘pause’ the child's development as much as possible, Kiraea helping when the fatigue was too much.

“They’re also endless pits,” Lyaea countered “I went to Lorrd once, so much stuff you don’t know where to start, and their search systems are awful, based on their kinetic communication and mimicry, we’d have to mind control a bunch of them,”

From what they had heard Obroa-Skye was little better.

“There might be a faster solution,” Sofa said, she was still cradling her youngest Mari, the four year old artificially peaceful from the side, till her head drooped and the feeding tube could be seen.

“The Miraluka themselves, surely someone on Alpheridies would know,”

“Would they be willing to help, I’ve heard mixed messages about their opinion on ‘hybrids’?” Ari added

“You will not give them the choice,” Karintha finally spoke with Matriarchal certainty quickly assessing the most expedient option.

“Go to Alpherides, take anyone and anything you need…”  They knew she meant both from Aethas and from the Miraluka.

Her voice shifted to a mothers anxiety, eyes darting to the dreamless limp forms of her children as nutrient liquids were pumped into their stomachs to sustain the most basic functions, the mockery of life the Shadow had reduced their precious children to.

“...just be swift.”

Milaea nodded and stood, her hand, unnecessary but welcome, helping Ari up - they’d had so little time since this crisis began even the smallest affection held extra weight and urgency.

“You Goddesses had better help us,” Kiraea demanded to the deities around them.

<<<<>>>>

497 BBY — Nihil Retreat

“What do you mean you can read it but you don’t understand it?” he demanded of the little snitch Lodis as they stood before a work bench on the maintenance deck  covered in the Rhandites scrolls and books they had so narrowly escaped with.

“We learn how to read High Nahiri so we can chant it, but only the Sorcerers and Knell speak it,” the weasley Choirist pleaded encased in an EV suit while on board the Hecate to ensure the replicated atmosphere of Aethas replete with heavy elements didn’t kill the weak Nag’hi.

Taryn’s arms crossed in incredulity and annoyance, the aching loss of their Telepatheon Lobe to rip knowledge from the little Nag’hi’s head scratching once more.

“So every word you lot go around singing you have no frelling clue what it means apart from the handful of words that pidgin dren you speak borrows from it?”

Lodis shifted uncomfortably as he nodded.

“I can make out some of it,” Maekal interrupted beside them hunched over a scroll, the former God-King of his own Zealot-filled world knew how these kinds of fanatical texts and runes worked better than anyone.

“The words contain long compound suffixes, the whorls are references to other hymns that may, or may not be in this text, very specific in what they refer to, I can only guess at some of them,”

And getting the slightest detail wrong when it came to Aether Spells and Curses was unacceptable, Taryn well understood from his own wife's constant irritation at the minutiae of learning precision Malacia Hexes.

“So where does that leave us, what do we need to understand this arachnid script?” Taryn asked them both.

“I need more documents in the text, at least five times this amount to get an understanding on particular usages of certain suffixes and adjectives in different contexts to learn their more exact meaning….or one of the more senior cultists of the Knell could likely translate ‘High’ into ‘pidgin’ Nahiri then Lodis into Scrawl Basic,

Maekal was being uncharacteristically humble in even suggesting the use of an Outsider, no doubt the Shadow’s imminence weighing on him.

“Then we go deeper into the Nihil Retreat, and hope we can snatch another snitch on a Cathedral world,”

<<<<<>>>>>

“Bad timing…” Taryn sighed, but then what did he really expect he wondered as he scrutinized the zoomed in images from above the Rhandite Cathedral World.

Heading to the closest world designated ‘Sanctus Honorificus’ based on the navigational data captured during the battle at the Third Chiss Expansionary Boundary, they had dropped out of hyperspace at an extended distance from the stars furthest satellite.

Reaching the outer planet they activated their Stygium Stealth fields to cover their approach, unable to use their Sensory suite in stealth mode they relied on visual inspection of zoomed visual images around the planet.

A quick count added to over 300 Rhandite capital ships in orbit - three times the force that had breached the Fourth and Fifth Chiss Expansionary Boundaries, raised four colonies and broken two Chiss fleets before finally being stalled at the last major battle.

“It’s a bloody Armada…,” Taryn ran his hand down his long face slouching in his chair on the bridge of the Hecate as the situation added to the ache in his head from the Shadows itching effect on the Telepathaeon Lobe.

“They will be blessing the Fleet before its departure,” Lodis explained beside him, voice tinny behind his sealed helmet, the former Choir member and dedicated informer more than happy to help in exchange for decent food and the comforts of a cabin not leaking acid rain.

“How long does that take?”

“From the Chantry Hymns I’ve seen associated with a pre-Crusade blessing, a few weeks at least…assuming they have sufficient sacrifices”

No doubt they did Taryn mused leaning forward
“Who knows when they started…” he flicked the comm on his arm rest for a ship wide broadcast

“Can someone take a Transport and jump back to waypoint 3, send the Chiss everything we have,”

“On it,” Kyran replied from the lower decks, While cloaked they couldn’t send any long string transmissions necessitating a courier-like approach to communicating with the CEDF. 

The Chiss had at least been reasonably pleased - in their unspoken unsatisfied way with a Reply of [Action Noted] - with the irradiated wasteland the Aethans had left on the Factory world.

“Question is do we wait them out or try to reach the Cathedral World by stealth…”

“With this many ships the likelihood of detection is 5 in 6,” Aydyn noted leaning deep into his screens scrutinising the finest of details on the visuals.

“Never tell me the odds,” Taryn quipped back

There had still been no word back from Aethas via the Chiss couriers, indeed they doubted their first message regarding the Shadow had even reached home yet.

The annex door hissed open admitting Valens and Jarys, the air of authority on the bridge automatically shifting to the dominant brothers immense presence.

Supreme strategist and the tactician respectively, every one of the other 23 People aboard the three vessels would obey their guidance without question. 

Already well aware of the inability to translate the Nahiri texts precisely they quickly analysed the latest information.

The Armada needed to be destroyed, in all likelihood it was headed straight for Chiss space, and the CEDF already depleted and bruised would be no match for a force of that volume, especially without the Aethans to counter the Darksight.

“We take Transports to the planet, fan out to the least populated Temples and shrines, we work our way inward till we find what we need,” Valens stated bluntly

“Make the deaths look like mass suicides or sacrifices,” Jarys added, such events were commonplace enough among the variegated fanatics of the Rhandites that they would go uninvestigated if found, notably as the keenest minds were likely already among the fleet.

“How many ships do you estimate we can destroy?” Valens asked Arryn, quickly computing the optimal placement of Naquxium bombs via teleportation in the hope the Shadow was lifted before the fleet left.

“25 outright, severe damage to 18 more,”  It was nowhere near enough and assumed the Rhandite fleet remained stationary in geo-sync as it was now, and they only had four Naquxium enhanced Thermonucelar bombs left to stop a fleet that was almost certainly large enough to reach Csilla given the Rhandites utter disregard for casualties or establishing supply lines.

“Even if we had the aether, Terror Orbs and Malacia Weapons that could only add perhaps two dozen more to that tally if they don’t detect us, and there is virtually no prospect of turning the Rhandites against each other.”

“We do what we can…” Valens replied, pinching his nose as the gnashing of the hungry Telepatheon Lobe creaked in his head as well.

The Shadows effects seemed slightly different between the men and women, the women found it harder to regenerate their aether energy and a static ‘humm’ in their Aethenaea Cortex, the men suffered an itching hunger in the lobe. 

Both symptoms were getting worse with time, the ‘humm’ growing louder and the lobe pangs more frequent.

The Shadow unwelcome remained.

“...with what little we have,”

<<<<<>>>>

 

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 4 — Remnants - Part 2

3947 BBY — Nez Peron

Rank upon rank of off yellow canvas roofs sped under her gaze as the bulky science vessel cut through the blue skies of Nez Peron.

Mira let out a breath.

Thirteen years since the war with the Mandalorians ended and still millions were living in squalid camps like that below her.

“Something wrong?” Varasian asked in the pilots seat,

She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair behind him.

“Just figured we might be visiting somewhere a bit more picturesque you know, a week on the ship is depressing enough, this is worse,”

Varasian finally took genuine note of his surrounds

“It is not an aesthetically pleasing part of this planet…do you know anything of it,”

“A bit,” she replied leaning forward
“Agriworld, controlled by a bunch of uppity Nobles, they volunteered to take refugees right at the start of the war, ‘bread and shelter’” she sniffed incredulous
“All the Refugees who’ve mentioned it said the same, the Nobles are using the refugees as cheap labour in the fields in exchange for that ‘bread and shelter’, trying to make sure they never get up the credits to get off world - the only ones that do tend to be the gangs running ‘protection’ in the camps,”

“Despicable,” Alixa sniffed beside Varasian

“Everyone’s out for number one,” Mira countered with an old axiom that seemed lost on her.

They landed on a patchy field, dozens of workers on shambling smoke belching transport returning to the camp from work in the distant fields.  The fence around the camp was long since collapsed, the road a river of mud and the rain incessant.

“Here,” Varasian draped a cloak around Mira as they did final checks before stepping out, a crowd of onlookers and hawkers gathering by the ship.

A certain protective tenderness drifted from the young man.  Mira shrugged off the cloak.

“I’ll be fine, after the acid rain on Nar Shadda this’ll be refreshing,”

In only her usual leathers she began to regret the refusal as soon as the doors opened, but not wanting to backtrack she pressed on, shooing away the begging refugees who as soon as they realized they were not here to trade or interested in their wares largely vanished.

A few began pushing infants toward Mira and Alixa, as if hoping some maternal instinct would have them take them offworld to a ‘better life’ Varasian gently pushed himself in the way turning them aside.

“Degenerates,” Alixa sniffed, the dichotomy between how Alixa treated her family and friends and her palpable hatred of anyone else intriguing to Mira.

Plodding in the mud into the camp proper Mira began to feel the energies -thoughts and emotions of the place flowed through her - desperation to despair and despondency - but that’s not what she was hunting for, she focused on the particular threads of the thousands of beings around her.

The camp was vast, at least 200,000 refugees, most huddled beneath leaking prefab hovel roofs from the rain, plugging holes in sandbagged barriers by the paths between prefabs to keep the muddy water out, or huddling round flickering heater lamps that doubled as stoves to cook the raw grains they received as wages from the farms.

Alixa and Varasian followed Mira closely, all the while trying to discern how her hunting talent worked but not quite able to catch the knack of it.

“Here,” she finally said at a distant corner of the camp, a closed prefab door orange with rust.

Alixa stepped forward and knocked gently.

“We…we already paid this week…we have a token…” came a nervous voice.

“We’re not after money we want to talk,”

“Talk?”

“Mal’ri ara-sen covi Luka,” Alixa added in Old-Miralukan
“Sene’Luka?” was the response
“Sene’Arres,”

“What did she say?” Mira whispered to Varasian
“She said we’re fellow Miralukans, they asked ‘Sene’Luka’ it means roughly pure blood, she replied Sene’Arres, a hybrid,”

The door slowly opened.

<<<<<>>>>

There were seven families, 42 Miraluka all from Katarr, working in a refinery near Sullust they had to flee due to the war, unfortunately then word came that Katarr was destroyed, a series of misadventures landed them on Nez Peron, their already limited credits and valuables stolen, and the Nobles of Nez Peron making it all but impossible to get access to comms to contact other Miraluka.     

The heated claustrophobia of the tiny prefab crammed with the elders of each family and a few of the children was making Mira sweat as the humidity rose and Alixa spoke in Miralukan to them.

At Mira’s feet were two little Miralukans staring up with vacant eye sockets.

“What?” 

“wass dat?” one pointed at her saber

“It’s a…” Blood Moon she was no good with kids
“...a…”

“A special tool for adults,” Varasian intervened kneeling in front of them,

“Here,” he produced a stale nutri bar from the Pallas Athena stores

“They can see the different ‘colour’ of the sabers crystal in the force,” he explained.

“Senpa,” Alixa said loudly
“Senpa,” the elders replied, each grey haired and dirty from lack of hygiene and work in the fields, all sporting various cuts and bruises from hard labour.

“We’ll leave as soon as they can pack,” Alixa said triumphantly
“Doubt they have much,” Mira quipped looking around the rusted prefab walls

“They’ve sold most of what they did have to local gangs for ‘protection’...”
Alixa looked pointedly at Varasian
“...even their Shawls and Kin-Robes,”

The two half-Miraluka stared at each other for an extended time, Mira felt something pass between them in the Force.

“I’ll go,” he said with a grim darkness that made Mira do a double take.

It was so utterly uncharacteristic of everything she had noticed about him, he sounded just like…the Old Man.

Varasian swiftly turned, Mira about to follow after him, Alixa intervened pushing the two children toward her,

“Mira, why don’t you tell the Sene’Kindl’a a tale of Nar Shadda while we wait,”

<<<<>>>>

A ragged soaked red dyed banner clung wetly to the outer shell of a dozen pre-fabs pushed together into a defensive compound of sorts, the ramshsackle gangers going in with muddy boots and out with keen hunger to make their quota’s from the patsies.

Varasian, weighed by the soaked Neo-Nerf-Bantha cloak round him strode darkly toward the main door where.

“What you want,” the gruff fat Stereb growled at the puny human

“You took ancestral shawls and robes from the Miraluka, return them to me,” he said quietly eyes still on the muddy ground 

“‘da frell you chatter ‘bout”

“Go in and return them to me,” Varasian said once more, the air trembling round him.

“Go in ‘urn em to you…” the Stereb repeated, eyes milky and lost to the compulsion.

Moments later there were voices in the prefab, a scarred humanoid poking out from the doorway, looking Varasian up and down.

“Get lost quim,”

“Return them to me” Varasian insisted, the Scarred one wincing as his brutal survivalist mind resisted the Force Compulsion.

“Get Outta ‘here offworlder afore we put a spike through yer pretty face,”

“You took ancestral shawls and robes from the Miraluka.” Varasian repeated as if a sacred mantra, an itch he had to scratch, a dissonance and pain to his People he felt compelled to avenge.

“Give them to me now or…”

“Or what?” the Scarred one stood, arms crossed, half a dozen of his thugs behind him, more on the roof with dull green marker lights on Varasians back and chest.

Without another warning Varasains hand snapped forward as his body shunted ahead, grasping the Scarred one's face and tearing it free leaving the blood skull exposed as he drew his blade.

The rain soaked the sound and hissed on the blaster bolts that shot from above until Varasian was inside the doorway, Tremor sword plunging through a gangers chest, sliding clean through the side of one and bisecting another vertically.

An icy focus froze out the warmth of the young man as he fought to reclaim that which was stolen from his kind and avenge his species suffering at the Outsider gangers hands.

Spiked clubs, a handful of power mauls and vibro daggers were blunted by the rain soaked Neo Batha cloak, others scraped along the phirk plate of his Exar-Kun Era style armor.  His heavier limbs splintered bones with each impact, tremor sword effortlessly diced through scavenged pieces of armour from a decade dead war.

A handful of beskar pieces the Gang had stolen or scavenged from the Mandalorians that had caused them to flee to this backwater were the only flashes of genuine resistance and even then only by luck rather than skill as Varasian slaughtered them two at a time.

Blaster bolts struck along his left side, searing his ear, his hand stretched out gripping telekinetically tearing the esophagus from the shooter in a grisly burst of blood, his knee ruining a chest, he hurled the body off and threw his sword into the next, some began to scream and plead, it just made them easier to eliminate.

There was no thought or reflection beyond the immediate goal of purging the non-People.

By the time he slammed the last through a table he had forgotten why he was even here. 

The Cold Combat trance slowly died as his hormones rebalanced to a neutral state reset, his eyes witnessing the chaos he had left behind, blood and mud coated the floor and walls, limbs and heads rocked with the aftershocks of Force powered momentum that had severed them.

“Control…need more control in the next generations…” he muttered, wiping his sword clean on the least dirty clothes of his victims before ransacking the place for the Shawls and Robes.

<<<<>>>>

“What the fr…” Mira kept her language in check noting the nine children in the long bulky ship's hold as Varasian returned a chest under one arm, streaks of blood only half washed by the rain all over him

“What happened?”

He locked her gaze for a brief moment and she felt she was looking at a complete stranger.  Not that she knew him well, but all the gentleness and humility she had seen in his eyes before seemed gone, a ruthless murderer stared back at her.

The moment was lost as he turned to the Miraluka Elders, offering the chest to them.

“Not all…but most,” he said with a bow.

“Thank You Sene,” the eldest woman replied.

Mira would not let up as Varasian headed to the cockpit, Alixa already starting the engine.

“Hey I’m…HEY!” she grabbed his shoulders and spun him round in the annex between the hold and cockpit out of sight of the children…only belatedly did she remember they were Miraluka and could see all her emotions through walls via the Force.

“What did you do, whose blood is that,”

“It doesn’t matter,” 

“The Frell it doesn’t! We came here to find Katarr refugees not slice people up,”

“This doesn’t concern you. You’re not one of us,” Alixa said at the cockpit door firmly

“Oh no that’s not how this works, I’m not gonna help you if you go around killing people over what a few pieces of cloth?”

“Those are ancestral pieces from Katarr, passed down generations, irreplaceable…” Alixa protested then decided on a different strategy,
“Regardless Varasian would not have started the fight, only defended himself,”

Mira would’ve believed that two hours ago. Now though….

“They put a targeting laser on me first,” Varasian whispered, his demure tone returned only contrasting more starkly with his brutal appearance.
“I had to protect myself,”

Mira tried to glare him down, but where he had shrunk when she pe-emptively rebuffed his romantic advances, his posture was firm now, masculine, dominant.

There was nothing she could do about it, and really it wasn’t her business…but still..

“Yeah well let's try to avoid any situations where we need to ‘defend’ ourselves from now on huh?”

<<<<>>>>

12654BBY — The Lek’un

Choking smoke filled his nostrils. Filthy mixes of fluids and drugs soaked into the soles of his shoes with every step.

Kullat kept his robe high and tightly around his lekku as he walked the vile streets of Nal-Hutta.

If a Kinde was judged on the conditions of its most impoverished Lek’un - as some more progressive Scholars among the Evokation posited half in jest - then surely these Hutt Kajidics were of pure shame, less worthy than Druf to rule.

He had found himself here years earlier, painfully parted from his brothers in search of a way to fulfil the Nectrin Garden Oath.  Each brother had their role, Fallyn placed himself close to the Enfanta, Celeano likewise to ensure when the opportunity arose they could leap on it. 

Kullat, the oldest by mere minutes of the triplets, and the boldest, was to find the perfect method.

On Anzat Prime there were too many restrictions for Lek’un, no potential assistance…but here, among the Gaijin….

He turned into a ‘tap-caf’, a vile adobe of scum and villainy that had none of the refined discretion of the seediest red-light soju houses of the Topkai district of Azherri.

He feared he was failing his brothers, so long and he still had nothing.  The Nectrin Garden Oath had to be fulfilled, but despite his efforts he had little to show, the secret to truly enacting the vengeance for their ancestors and the glorious True Hanshõ eluded him.

Keeping himself meek and small he shuffled through the crowd of stinking huge spacers, raucous mercenaries and vicious gangers to the a central liqui-form dais that created image in a liquid crystal display of bounties on various creatures that had wronged the Kajidics, and more importantly for Kullat, lists of Hunters looking for work.

It had always been known among the brothers that merely killing the Anathema was not enough.  Their enemy, Rannek-soma Mare-Q’atrox had to suffer, and from all Fallyn had seen the most effective method was to strike at the Clucir’s adored Misíta.

He looked over the details of the hunters, seeking those experts in abductions…

His brother Celeano, pilot of the Sínã’s vessel could redirect them into a trap once Fallyn sufficiently stimulated the Sínã’s desire for yet another Grand Tour of the galaxy., but such a ‘treachery’ would only work once, Kullat had to be ready.

He would need warriors or weapons capable of facing the Sword Kenin of Kinde Q’Atrox, the most feared and skillful warriors of Anzat Prime, many of them Gaki - Animopaphage addicts with incredible Ninpo.  There were rumours of beings among the Gaijin with such Ninpo, but they were few and rare, and Kullat doubted most of the unrefined Gaijin had sanity let alone their skill.

He felt constantly soiled to be among their uncouth society.

“...and Then ‘e Say, That War 10 Yarr ago!” one spacer behind him blurted to ear splitting guffaws and raucous laughters proving Kullat’s point.

“Dat’s der way der Maw work’a too close you come out’a ten even twenty yarrs later” another fiendish creature with four bulbous eyes added.

Something in that twigged in Kullat’s ears, shuffling along he moved as close as he could to the conversation.

“‘ey say da Lun-a-lux got stuck in dar 50 yarrs, half a degree off, dinna recalibrate da stellar drift o Kessel’ai proper…”

Stinking and unkempt as they were Kullat did not at least doubt the spacefaring skills of these beings, to pilot Quantam-leapers near the ‘Maw’ a region of black holes he had heard tell of near a place called ‘Kessel’ai’ took great skill and precision.

“‘um ‘wun saw some Rak’Aka Ship come out of dere once…thousand yarr old it muss be!,”

Rakatta? The Empire that had enslaved the Lek’un till the Anzats glorious liberation gave their species purpose, meaning…time distortion field around the Maw

Kullat leaned back as he listened to the conversation for a few moments more before some ungainly overplump horror of a waitress brought them drinks and they took to speaking of shameful desires.

His mind turned in quick arcs drawing on memories of the Beloved Hanshõ gifted by his ancestors deep in his lekku, trying to scry what the most Honoured one would do with such information.

<<<<<>>>>

He wandered the Spice lanes as a piece-rate worker on docks and packaging houses, his spare hours spent in librariums and consulting what few resources he could on the Time dilation effects of the Black Holes of the Maw until a plan fully formed in his mind.

Carefully crafted, requiring absolute precision…if it succeeded…

By his ancestors - his Banu familial genetic memory line - by the Spirit of the Cherished Hanshõ it must!

He was patient, gradual in his approach, selling piece by piece the few remaining objects from the Treasury that were his families legacy.  It hurt him to do so, each carefully crafted, richly inlaid object was a work of love from the Lek’un to their blessed Hanshõ and the Kinde, gratitude for the joyous completion the Anzat had offered their ancestors.

Alas, Kullat knew he would never experience the rapture of a Ceremony of Completion, never gifted a second name, he would die far from the Silent Voices that looked down upon the rocky climes of Anzat Prime. 

But Service, Duty, was its own reward.  If the depths of the Bleak Ocean were he and his brother's fate, so be it, so long as Vengeance was had.

He purchased a small one engine Quan Jumper, his very last credits spent on the best navigational systems and most precise maneuvering thrusters possible. He was blessed to share the genetic memory of not only the Efendí of the Kinde, but also their Pilots. 

Normally the lineages would never dilute their skills by mixing in copulation, but the loyal Lek’un of the Kinde were so few there was no choice.  By the Providence of their Ancestors this was now a boon.

He sent to Celeano details, coded heavily, of his intentions, departing only as soon as his Brother had confirmed receipt and agreement of the scheme.

There was no room for himself in the cockpit of the Quan-Jumper, less for two precisely calibrated atomic clocks, one set to the ships real time, the other shielded from the distorting effects of faster than light travel showed Galactic ‘Real time’.

Normally in a Quan Jump, the faster than light travel would cause the Ships real time to pass slower than Galactic real time, typically for a one hour jump a minimal effect of perhaps two or three seconds. 

But if a vessel was caught in the time rending halo of a black hole…for each second the ships occupants experienced, years if not centuries could pass in galactic real time.

Breathing deeply, muttering the name of the Beloved Hanshõ he transmitted the final message to his brothers, knowing he would never embrace them again, alas the limitations of the expensive communications network meant it could only be the string of co-ordinates and his planned ‘time jump’ length.

An auspicious number was his goal, multiples of eight. The message sent he fumbled to put the communications tablet between his legs, then reset both atomic clocks to zero.

“Silent Voices, Ancestors guide me now as you have always done,” 

He triggered the Quan-Jump, the stars crackling into jagged lighting arcs around him.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 4 — Remnants - Part 3

Abyss of Memory

He felt doubly shamed.

Not just for defeat at the hands of the Beast, but now for being crushed into submission to the ancient Clucir…

Yes, Kree knew the name Rannek-Soma mare Q’atrox – every Anzat did. 

The mighty Rannek, son of Jeshu the Wise, the Undying and Cursed whom it was said could only be killed by a Shinigami – a Death Demon. He was Myth, legends, whisper, never imagined to still actually live. 

Rannek was rumoured the first to consume another Anzat’s soup, to commit the once egregious crime of Aminophage…

Kree knew he was not the first in aeons of Anzat history, but rather Rannek was the first to openly do so, and, due to his station, not be immediately put to death for it.

None of this knowledge mattered as he felt the Yokusei compel him to speak.

“It is adequate,” he could at least keep some condescension in his tone to the pathetic Lek’un.

He stood on the overly ornate bridge of the vessel Kitsune, named for the Canidae demons of myth; it was Rannek’s near thousand year old ‘Space Chariot’.  Built by Lek’un artificers in a brief flurry of economic growth after the Foundering, more palace than ship.

Shorea robusta panels, lacquered a rich red brown were interspersed with golden crests of the Q’Atrox Kinde Kamon in between delicate silver alloy controls, the chairs equally luxurious made of leathers and down feathers.  The oval shaped bridge featured thirty stations on the rounded rim, in the centre a raised dais where the Clucirs command throne sat alone, banners with the same elegant Kamon in ruddy bronze over black hanging from the panelled ceiling above.

Every effort had been made to hide the machine beneath to satiate the aesthetic whims of the arrogant aristocracy by their cowering slave race.

The Efendí Druhanne nodded, pleased he could report to his Lord that the vessel was still worthy of traversing the stars even after so many years.  Naturally he had ensured the vessel was maintained during his Hanshõ’s long meditation, with quarterly tests of its hyperdrive in system, however he was well aware over the centuries ‘Republic’ space faring technology had advanced.

“But…” Kree added a caveat with not a little glee

“It’s weapons and shielding systems are woefully underpowered, hyperdrive disgustingly inefficient compared to even average modern ships.”

The Efedni had feared such, with the Kinde’s finances only...adequate...for sustaining the Kinju, three Sonae and the palace staff there had been no provision for upgrading the vessel.

“Can it be upgraded?”

Kree sniffed indignant, the anxious tang of the Lek’un causing his proboscious to tingle with hunger, normally a Lek’un was the most bland of meals - yes they had generations of genetic memory, but it was all so much the same snivelling servile taste.

“Yes, the structure seems solid,” he stepped nearer the Lek’un who, hands folded over his aged hereditary silken robes stepped back in deference to the personal space of the Anzat, even of Druf caste.

As his body repaired Kree’s hunger had grown...he stepped forward again backing the Efendí against one of the station’s consoles, the lek’uns nostrils seeming to invite as they widened with the creature's increased heart rate and breathing.

“You have knowledge of what makes for an adequate vessel in this age?” the stern voice of Rannek was matched by a gut wrenching twist of the Yokusei that made Kree cringe and grab at his chest.

The Clucir swept in the room flanked by four Lek’un Kinju. All in full battle armour, Kree having to admit Ranneks Do-Maru plate was impressive if outdated, innumerable overlapping panels of darkened grey folded alloys, the symbol of his Kinde in burnished gold on the chest, midnight blue cloth and trim, under the Clucirs arm a ancient helmet that bore the face of a Gaki - a hungry ghost - folded steel teeth sharp as a katana seeming to ache for flesh.

Taking his Command Throne Rannek looked down upon the Druf who still did his best to resist.  Three times he had tried to escape using his - Rannek had to admit considerable - stealth abilities.  But the Yokusei could not be avoided or ignored, no shield known could block it, only distance - and cosmologically great ones at that.

“Speak,” Rannek demanded plying the threads of the Druf’s mind

“nnnh...the Midnight Sun...a ship I commissioned for my assassins...advanced as any...but too expensive for you...hundreds of millions of credits…” recovering slightly he glared at Rannek
“Your suppression will not help you achieve, that wretch.”

Rannek’s lip curled with a slight smile, a signal to his Efendí. 

Druhanne immediately drew the Rattan - a cane of Calamoideae species native to the Q’atrox fief dense jungle areas used to beat disobedient slaves - to be threatened with ‘tasting the Rattan’ was usually enough to force compliance.

“Kneel,” Rannek pressed his Amina upon the Druf forcing it to comply.

Druhanne tore the shirt off the Druf’s back and began the correction for insulting the Hanshõ, the welts from the previous correction still healing on the Druf’s back.

Druhanne had hesitated the first time his Hanshõ instructed him to strike the Anzat, but was reminded by Rannek’s own fist his role was to obey. 

Druhanne had treasured the disciplining touch of his Hanshõ’s knuckles upon his face.

“You will learn your place,” Rannek leaned back as he watched the flogging proceed
“If you are not Druf, then you are beneath even the Lek’un, outside the castes your life is without meaning, there was a time your caste would have given their very souls to be in my presence, you will taste the Rattan until you re-learn that humility and gratitude,”

With a creak and unsteady step Kree did not fail to notice amidst the metronome song of stinging whips against his back, Rannek stood once more.

“And you will not feed until I deem you worthy of such a boon,” Rannek added with spite as he left.

The Kinju, and eighty nine ‘tastes’ of the Rattan remained, along with Kree’s reaffirmed pledge to find some way to feed upon the anachronistic ancient Anzat.

<<<<>>>>

His teeth gritted as he pushed harder...he could feel the strength ebbing despite the hunger…

A gasp of frustration he sagged back pulling his proboscis from the Lek’un’s nostrils.

Rannek puffed out from the embarrassing failure as the Lek’un wordlessly shuffled back on her knees.

He could not gather the force needed to pierce the relatively thin bones and fleshy layers to reach the brain, despite a rush of blood to stiffen and thrust the proboscis they sagged just inside the cavity.

Frustration and embarrassment mingled as he cursed his aging form, recalling days he had consumed dozens of Anzat with far denser barrier than Lek’un in the space of mere hours.

“Place them back in the cells,” he ordered his mute Lek’un manservant, a burly creature descended from generations of tongue absent objects.
“I will feed later,”

The servants ushered the other four silent Lek’un out of the dim candle lit Completion Chamber, white flooring and banners inscribed with words of praise to the dedication and obedience of the Lek’un to be ‘honoured’ in this room.

Here he had performed hundreds of such feedings, here his son and daughter had their first taste of the soup….they had fed so lustily it made him proud, both had fed on three young Lek’un each.

He could see the joyful look in their eyes, the snap then suckle of the consumption, their faces bloodied afterward, it was always messy the first few times, he had laughed as he patted off the stain as a few lek’un twitched soulless on the floor before his Misíta finished them with her bladed hair pin, perfectly piercing their carotid artery.

The scents, the sounds of that day flooded his mind, dissolving the hateful now with the blissful then. 

He allowed it, indulged it, but their faces began to twist and writhe in his minds eyes, a shroud of dozens of other faces, Anzat and Lek’un mainly screaming and writhing…

No...no…
there were so many, his entire field of vision was clouded by a mosaic of terrified faces pressed close to his own, their horror leaching from their soup into his soul…

”NO!”

“Hanshõ!”

Rannek stiffened with the shock of the Efendí’s words, the maddening Kuru vision broken before it could drag him into insanity - this time.

“Mardun!” the Efendí called to the healer, always nearby.  Rannek waved the Lek’un in pure white, case open replete with vials of medicine, away.

“How long Efendí…” he growled, shaking off the echoes of his Kuru hallucination.

The Efendí knew the question without Rannek having to state it, how long had he been in his seemingly brief ‘meditation’.

“Three hours Hanshõ,”

Bad, but not terrible.

“I need to….keep moving...upgrade the ship and begin my search for this ruin of the eyeless seers….”

The Nun's vision, flimsy and vague, was all he had.

“Upon the ruin of the Eyeless Seers, where the Man that was Hunger fed, there you will find where your children first bled, the Shinigami there will wait, and by your command bring you to your fate.”

“We leave for Azzherri, prepare the Sonae,”

<<<<>>>>

[TheDutchman]

As more of the past becomes clear, the more we see how the current Aethans have been shaped, influenced, and genetically programmed.

Soron Varas--genius, madman, psychotic egoist--is absolutely everything that one could expect as a prime mover for the Technocracy, that and more.  It speaks volumes that even a fragment of the man (as seen by his faux-Holo-self) is a self-congratulatory, pedantic, passive-aggressive narcissist, now--ironically--living vicariously through his "children."

...But he's not wrong.  Consider that it was his vision, his agency, that was the impetus of the Aethans.  They are, effectively, the apex predator of the galaxy.  It comes as no surprise that Soron's brilliance comes with such a heavy cost; not to him, but to said unsuspecting galaxy.

To wit: we see in Varasian a proto-Aethan, his strength and unstoppable vengeance something that persists within contemporary Aethans, only as a cultural xenophobia and tribalism instead of...whatever it is that Varasian suffers from.  I guess even after 30 Gene-generations, things remain that even Soron couldn't have foreseen.  Certainly the Devastation is further evidence of such, and--arguably--the rise of goddess-worship.  Still, it seems for the Aethans that their deities do help out from time to time...

And in keeping with the double-edged sword of Answers-and-Questions, it looks as if the triplet Lek'un advisors of Rannek had actively worked in their betrayal to their Hanshó, taking the Enfanta to parts-yet-unknown.  The question now becomes: was she a player in this or did they abscond with her for their own reasons?

It also comes as no surprise that Kree would know of the most infamous Anzat in history: a living Time-Abyss with powers hitherto undreamt of.  One wonders just how extensive the Yokusei's sphere of influence is but if the Aethans' succumbing to the Shadow is any indication, then Rannek must surely be amongst the most powerful beings alive within the galaxy.

The fact that he is almost completely insane, deep within the throes of Force Psychosis, makes him that much more dangerous (and frightening).

Perhaps there is someone out there that can answer some of the questions plaguing the Aethans, someone with whom they have some history, someone somewhere...

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 5 - Departures - Part 1

497 BBY — Aethas

In every one of the thick walled wood and stone houses of the Valley of Aethas was a trap door, usually beneath a rug near the hearth that spread heat warding off the winter cold.

Upon entering the aesthetic change was galling.

Warm natural hues of leathers and lacquers, comforting furs and thick tapestries of the living areas were replaced with cold blue-grey panels over dura-titanium frames of the bunkers.

The Outsiders had come once and found a populace armed with little more than a dozen swords and bows for hunting wild game. 

Now every house contained an arsenal of Chiss-Aethan hybrid design weapons, Ari and Milaea’s own store featured 6 Hades Rifles, 6 pistols, two repeaters, two dozen implosion grenades and a Tartarus Missile Launcher with targeting systems capable of shooting down fighters in the Exosphere, and a collection of specialized Oblivion weapons and powerful Terror and Malacia Orbs. 

Among the racks and shelves were two suits of Mark III Oblivion armour, one pure light eating Blackstone, the other Bloodstone Red. It fused Chiss Orbital Drop Shock Commando designs for the body glove, internal power and sensory suites with imperfectly copied nano-repair, omni-utility and Stimm/Emergency Injury treatment systems based on the assorted but never complete pieces of Cataphract armour they had managed to get away with from the Vhal’Dan Civil War - merged and enhanced with Aethan ultra-dense ores, runic enchantments and blood magic.

Milaea stood undressed before the suits, knowing the Bloodstone outfit - perfectly crafted to fit her figure that age could not alter by a micro-millimeter - would not be removed until the Shadow in the aether had been lifted.

Perhaps it was a self deception, an attempt to deny a part of herself…when that armour went on any trace of empathy or consideration her early life as a Jedi, her friendship with Outsiders, and her father Soryu’s influence might’ve had on tempering her actions was gone, and she would use every ounce of her power to ensure the People's survival.

Moments like this forced her to acknowledge how she had changed since she left the Jedi behind. Things they would consider cruel, evil, manipulative, were second nature to her now.

She didn’t think twice to change memories, even those of her own People, to reduce the impact of their trauma’s.

She had watched every moment as those she once considered friends among the Extolled were rendered brain dead, then handed over to the Hutt Flesh Crafters as the price of a truce. 

The search for more survivors of the Devastation after the Flesh Crafter truce had uncovered nothing but more corpses.

She had not just helped find those responsible where possible but personally disintegrated several especially abhorrent Outsiders, or silently provided cover while Kiraea, Jarys, Maekal or one of the Verndari inflicted a far more visceral death.

Barely a year after the last signal from the devastation ended in another dead end her first niece had been born, Sofa and Valens daughter Sophi, the first in a flood of births that had rolled on since, Aephrodaea’s fertile blessing abounded…she and Ari had even been speaking of…come the next Spring….
 
Something that could not happen while the Shadow remained.

Ari’s soft footsteps came in behind her.  Her wife already jaded from her adoptive father Kazics treatment, and the absence of any contact from Saani since had likewise lost much of the sympathy her time on Galtea had once provided her.

“We’ll do whatever we have to,” Ari said, sliding her arms around Milaea, the rush of effort and utter focus on lifting the Shadow having made any quiet time together justifiably a non priority.

“I know,” she replied, turning into a last kiss before they helped each other to don the mantles of war once more.

<<<<>>>>

More than any other place on Aethas the Caverns of Aephroadaea felt more homely. 

Naturally formed beneath Mount Aelia they were outfitted with warm Obrio timbers for internal wals and floor covered in thick rug, tapestries that shimmered with unenjoyed Aether decoration covered the smooth rock face. Yellowed candle light wafted in gentle subterranean breezes the earthy natural tones were broken by the blue lights and metal glint of nutrient dispensers that fed tubes of saline and tasteless proteins, fats and cellulose into tiny limp bodies.

On every rug was a woman doing her best to touch each of her sleeping children, stroking their red to deep brown hair, rocking them gently, or carefully washing them working around the feeding tubes.

It was the latter task Sofa was helping her sister in law with, squeezing out the towel to pat little Yaraea down, Kiraea and Jarys second youngest, as Kiraea herself attended Karaea the youngest, her armour making the effort difficult. 

Sofa had been afraid for her own life before, but that seemed a speck compared to what she now feared for her own children - even the Aethans emotion cleansing neuor-hormones seemed incapable of relieving the tension and terror.

Shuffling the tiny smock back over Yaraea’s head, Sofa gently nestled the girl beside her older brothers and sister.

“Thank you,” Kiraea whispered, Sofa opting to stay on Aethas and care for all nine of their children while Kiraea joined the expedition to Alpheridies. 

She didn’t need to thank her, Aethan families being large collectives, they had both cared for the other's children frequently over the years and couldn’t be more loved if they were their own biologically.

“That’ll teach you for having to beat me so thoroughly,” Sofa joked best she could, a running gag - Sofa had the first child so Kiraea was determined to have the most with six against Sofa’s three.

As others flitted between rugs sharing food or offering help and hugs, more heavy footsteps came through the main entrance, gently pushing the tapestries that covered the cavern doorway aside, all the totems, balms and blood magic utterly impotent to rouse their little ones.

In full Mark III armour, Milaea and Ari arrived to bid a final farewell, the ominous weight of their task obvious on their alabaster features.

It was a common enough occurrence - The women bade most of the men and a select group of women farewell at least once a year as they went campaign with their Chiss Allies for months on end - the price the People paid for the advanced manufactures and weapons that kept them safe until their population reached a level of self-sufficiency - something that would take generations.

This time was different. 

Instead of wrapping themselves round legs trying to drag their aunts Milaea and Aresaea back to play with them, Sophaea, Vesaea and Maraea lay breathing softly.

Milaea gently took Bombo the Happy Stuffed Gowok, passed down from Sophi to Vesi, and cradled it under Mari’s arm before kissing them on the forehead feeling only the slightest warmth of thermostasis.

Sophi would normally set out a list of presents for anyone heading offworld to bring back for her - something she’d copied from Sofa who took every opportunity to collect on Hapan and Alderaanian art and furniture she would order via holo…as selfish and demanding as it was, how Milaea wished she had been presented with parchment covered in Sophi’s tiny precise writing now.

Milaea felt the disconcerting loosening of limitations, a cold trickling self awareness she would inflict any suffering and torment she needed to revive her nieces and nephews.

Ari took up Kiraea’s three sons, Kiraea pulling Ari’s Shatter-Sword from the sheath checking the enchantments she had long ago entwined into the Blackstone blade when she gifted it to her, but unable to recharge them for the Shadow.

Lyaea held her and Taryn’s two young ones as long as she could, entrusted to her mother Selaena, Xanaea without any children of her own yet visiting with Jenaea, and any intention to have any with Oran now set aside as she joined the Investigation.

“We won’t be long, I’m sure of it,” Milaea soothed as she embraced Sofa
“The Goddesses can’t allow this to continue…not after everything we’ve already lost…” she said with more hope than evidence, their capricious deities had been silent - whether the Shadow had overcome them too - or they were at work elsewhere - none could tell.

Sofa nodded glumly, noting a bitter look on Kiraea’s face, no doubt reminded of another loss so many years ago of her first pregnancy to the vile machinations of the Outsiders. That one loss, never forgotten, had nearly crippled her in grief. To lose all her children now….

Sofa laid a hand on her back as she questioned Milaea quietly
“How much can you do?”
“A half, probably less on foreign worlds,” Milaea admitted of her Shadow diminished aether powers

She had trained with Jedi, learned techniques of the Fallanassi and Dathomiri, even Mak’Tor briefly, more than anyone apart Ari she knew how to draw on multiple sources of Force energy, but no combination could compensate for the Shadow that blocked the Essentia and dimmed every connection they made regardless of method.

She was still Aethan, by design and selective breeding physically and neurologically superior to almost every humanoid race….still she felt she was going into battle with hands tied.

“Will that be enough?” Sofa asked a question she knew her younger sister could not answer. 

“It has to be,”   

<<<<>>>>

497 BBY — Nihil Retreat

The Acolyte creaked and groaned back into the murky brown of the sandstone wall after another violent thrashing.

A guttural grunt Taryn slammed his fist into the shoulder pulping the bone beneath, frothing more than speaking he yelled in its face pointing to the faded words carved into the walls.

“What does it say?!”

The self mutilated face smiled with joy at the pain and imminent Embrace of the Dark as the Aethans attempt to torture information out of the Nag’hi - a Nagai-human hybrid species that composed the bulk of the upper echelons of the Sorcerers of Rhand -  were met with frustration once more.

“bfffruktion off Eberbabl,” it muttered from broken teeth and bleeding tongue attempting the prayer Destruction is Eternal

With the Shadow across the aether he could not use his Telepathaeon Lobe to simply mind rip the lesser beings despite the incessant and vicious hunger of the brain structure to try and do so - a gnawing drive supplanted by ever more vicious means of ‘physically’ extracting information.

Taryn’s elbow smashed through the Acolytes skull.

Just over two days since they’d made planet fall and no progress, only three depopulated outer shrines on the fringes of a white sand desert to show for it. The Shadow and the heat was itching him all over, and the lack of any co-operation from the monks and renunciates further vexing.

He knew from his pirate days how to beat information out of someone - but only someone who didn’t want to end up a cripple or spaced - these damned Rhandites were so crazed they actually ran to the ground party pleading to be killed next and achieve ‘Martyrdom’ according to the strange rules of this sub-cult on the fringes that had likely never even seen a spaceship before.

Wiping the blood with the Acolytes robe he headed out.

Scratch marks in the sky were the distant evidence of the Armada. Whilst it hadn’t moved, it had grown by fifty Capital ships and hundreds of smaller escorts since they arrived, easily enough to take Csilla and have enough ships left to ravage hundreds of less well defended systems in the Galactic North.

The little he had come to understand was how variegated life under the Rhandites was, from the abhumans of the factories, to monastic communities serviced by helots in scorching farms on marginal land who spoke an entirely different variant of pidgin Nahiri.

The Rhandites ruled as distant lords over oblivious uneducated masses that toiled and developed their own quixotic beliefs only partially based on the Rhandites core religion. Some viewed the Dark as an actual Deity, others thought this life was a test for the next before rebirth into a pure ‘Void’ dimension - but the vast majority more were simply too exhausted from relentless slaving for their masters to pray for anything beyond their next meal. 

The Sorcerers in towering Cathedral Mountains didn’t care so long as manpower and material kept flowing, Taung troops occasionally suppressing any charismatic leader that deviated too far from submission to the Sorcerers who were viewed more as Gods than men - mummified corpses with ‘crimes’ tattooed on their chest over the blocky sandstone Shirne attested to the swift brutal efficiency that controlled a population of billions over scores of worlds.

“These are the dregs of the planet, we need to move to the Cathedral Mountains,” Maekal waiting outside concluded, his own experience as a ‘living God’ on a backwater world proving unexpectedly useful in understanding the cultural dynamics they encountered.

Maekal scrunched a ball of papyri written with the triangular ‘Desert Nahiri’ script and tossed it aside, the migraine pain of the Shadows effect twisting his usually indignant aloof features into that of a spite filled Storm God angry with his wavering flock.

“Pseudepigrapha and apocrypha, they spring up like weeds everywhere distance from the Divine Word allows it,” he spat
“True Rhandite texts - and those who can understand them - will not be found here,”

“Well there goes the frelling easy option,” Taryn seethed with unconcealed irritation, their attempt to find a translator in unguarded low population areas a failure. 
“Waste of gundark kriffing time,”
Taryn looked over the rocky foothills, just seeing the tips of the Mountains carved into yawning skulls crowned with blood soaked Cathedral spires on the horizon.

Entire Mountain ranges had been chiselled in centuries past into effigies to the Void, while military installations were nestled in valleys beneath shimmer shields. The wiry citadels of the Cathedral Mountains jutted to the sky as if inviting destruction to rain upon them, a trickle of ships heading up to the Armada from them - only perhaps a quarter back down.

“Jarys confirms they are taking sacrifices up there, most transited from other worlds, but some from the villages and factories to the north,” Taran explained rounding the corner and clipping the boxy Radio’s antenna to his belt - the low tech device scrounged from the locals, Arryn wisely calculating that the use of their own high tech Chiss burst-comms would be detected as far too anomalous to anyone observing planetary transmissions. 

Maekal performed quick calculations based on the rate of ships moving, his own knowledge of sacrificial systems and those gleaned from Lodis.

“They will sacrifice around 1000 to consecrate each vessel, put them on spikes on the hull like we saw in the last battle - they will be finished in three days assuming they use the ‘Invocation of Stellar Malignance’ in the Ghul’Sho Hymns properly.”

“Glad you understand that crazed dren,” Taryn shrugged “I’m all for sticking up corpses as a deterrent, but to make your ship fly faster?”

Maekal sneered
“You underestimate the power of Blood and Faith at your peril, Pirate,” 

Taran nodded well aware from their time on Dathomir how potent those things were. Yet under the itching annoyance of the Shadow and heat Taryn was less inclined to indulge such things.

They’d already been to one damn Rhandite world, he didn’t want to prance around another.

“Fine let’s just get the Tartarus outta this sun,”

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 5 - Departures - Part 2

Abyss of Memory

Azzheri, capital of the Anzat Evokation was split in two.

On the tops of the ancient peaks shrouded in the mists was the city Rannek had known. 

A rotting carcass of mouldy wood, fragmented stone and chipped tiles, populated by a scatter of Lek’un eeking out an existence on the refuse from the ‘Upper City’, trading what trinkets they could find in the old mansions and apartments of the greater Kindes for food and credits.

Above the mists hovering on repulsor drives the size of castles were the floating Spaceports.  Several kilometers wide and hundreds of meters deep the agglomeration of platforms had been built to allow the docking of vessels above the true city millenia past as the rocky overbuilt capital had no room for landing vessels of conventional size.

Rannek had seen these horrid things lift from the ground on the Rinke Mainlands just after they were built - indeed he had paid for a good portion of them. 

He stood on a specifically constructed dais of wood and stone overlooking the new shipyards with the greatest Lords of the Age from all across Anzat. How resplendent were the united sonae of a dozen Kinde’s that day, tasked to provide a unified Anzat police force upon the ports.

The Capugio of the time solemn in his dedication that this heralded a new dawn for the Anzat, their first step toward the stars. 

He had been horribly right and painfully wrong. 

These floating spaceports, designated safe zones for offworlders where they were not to be fed upon or abducted to ensure trade was not disrupted, became the catalyst for the Foundering. Low caste Anzati would journey to the Spaceports and leave the world, dozens then hundreds a day as space traffic increased.

The Space ports themselves became hives of villainy, smugglers and lowlifes from across the galaxy finding the Druf and masterless Lek’un on the port easy confederates. 

Now they hovered showing their age, administered by indifferent corporations and guilds who had purchased them from the failing Anzat Evokation, or simply by de facto power, they were a forgotten stop near the Perlemian trade route, favoured by those seeking a place to lay low, or looking to hire Anzat assassins and murderers - the planets only export.

It was to the upper of the two cities the Kitsune sailed. 

Vzin Kree gazed from the view port. he had left here centuries ago after his brief brutal childhood in search of the delicacies of the soup, returning under the power of another was a deep fall for one once called Sensei by near peerless assassins.

Rannek on his throne behind him felt every emotion and heard each thought of the broken Druf.

“How many of these...credits...will we need to obtain the machinery to improve the vessel?” he asked

“Millions,” Kree replied

“And how many do you have in your accounts?”

“None,” Kree sneered “The traitorous twins took them all…” his chest tightened and knees weakened

“Do not stretch my patience further by lying,”

“Fi...fifteen…million,” Kree gasped.

Murder was a profitable and delicious trade, Rannek knew, but he would need far more than fifteen he suspected. He turned to his Comis, ÇelÍk.

The Comis name was Berkant, none had the heart to correct the Hanshõ who simply used the name of the last Comis he could recall - the Lek’un wordlessly accepting the new naming as an honourific.

“Prepare one Sonae and the Kinju,” Rannek leaned forward
“Extract everything we need,”

<<<<>>>>

497 BBY — Nihil Retreat

The baking sun was preferable to the cloying humidity he decided.

A day's trip by stolen speeder, another four hours climb - snapping Taung necks at the entrance then throwing them off the drop - and they were inside the Cathedral Mountains of the Eastern continent.

This was the real Rhandite territory now.  The first network leading up had been servants passage ways, torture chambers, boiler rooms, huge fungal farms fed by water tainted with sacrificial blood to provide food for the Sorcerers above.

The enormity of the mountain Cathedral bowels quickly scuttled any hope of attempting to plant one of their few remaining Naquxium bombs here, the rock too thick and range too vast for even all four bombs to inflict the slightest damage.

The Second network was full of scriptoria, Maekal had grabbed one copyist relieving himself, but found the pallid white Nag’hi had no idea what he was copying.

There were thousands upon thousands of them copying precisely by hand the Rhandite texts onto cured skins, parchments and leathers used to decorate Cultists and Sorcerers armour, but none of them could actually read, their task to replicate the spidery script precisely did not require the ability to understand, indeed it was deemed a disadvantage - understanding could lead to questions, questions to doubts.

“It’s High Nahiri…” Maekal said looking under the dim light of Taryn’s hades pistol power cell.
“A slight variant to the Factory world, but not drastically…I can understand much more….”

“Anything of real use God-i-locks…” Taryn demanded bouncing on his heels at the delays and diversions.

“Pathetically simplistic nihilistic core belief system to be expected of such lesser lifeforms, all the effort has been placed into complex reasonings why they don’t commit mass ritualistic suicide and extinguish themselves…various subtle intricacies of how the ‘sin’ of being alive can be..shunted or perhaps shared -’Eaten’ even -, inverse salvific doctrine mixed with vicarious atonement…”

Maekal might find that dren interesting, Taryn did not, the pirates fingers strumming irritated on the cavern wall.

“…but these are not the texts we need, these are the aphorisms of the Eighth Aparaadhee...” Maekal finished

“The what?”

“Aparaadhee, it means roughly, criminal, or delinquent…a title of rank…” Maekal thought further for time, Taran keeping a lookout.

“If they consider living and Order an abomination, this title reflects a particular type of ‘sinner’, a leadership position…the Eighth…an inherited one, perhaps a ‘Pontifex Maximus’ equivalent.”

All the while he had been holding the Copyist by the throat against the wall.

“<What numeration of Aparaadhee Reigns>?” Maekal asked in a vowel heavy variant of the local Pidgin then loosening his grip, the copyist gasping for air

“<Hundred and twelfth…>”
“<Where is the nearest Sorcerer?>”
“<I don’t kn…>” His usefulness at an end Maekal crushed the throat and dropped the body. Beatings and deaths were so common here none would notice another corpse on the ground.

“Shavit we’re not getting any closer and this place reeks,” Taryn hissed - more importantly his skull ached and hungered for something the Shadow denied him.

“We head upward,” Taran suggested, the largest of them able to remain extraordinary quiet and unnoticed - the inheritance of years as the silent servant of the Queen of Dathomir
“No doubt most of the Sorcerers abroad the Armada,, but perhaps some remain on the Cathedral Spires,”

“Better idea, I just ask, nicely,” Taryn said with a predators smile, his patience wearing very thin as he pushed past Maekal in the narrow tunnel of dark granite barely lit by dull yellow lumen bulbs strung along the wall.

Making no attempt to conceal himself Taryn marched straight into the nearest Scriptorium, the Copy-Master engaged in caning a copyists hands for some minor inaccuracy. 

Engrossed in their work the starving copyists never looked up as Taryn walked straight to the Master and lifted him up slamming him into a bookcase full of the same bound codex of Rhandite drivel.

“Where are the Sorcerers,” Taryn demanded in the best Pidgin Nahiri he could work his tongue to pronounce in the face of the astonished Scriptoria Master.

When no response came he slammed him again and lifted him higher

“Where are the Sorcerers,” The one copyist foolish enough to look up had his head smashed in by Taran who seemed bemused at the ‘direct’ approach.

“The…the Holy Ones are not here…on their Chariots….” the Master stammered unsure if this was a Daemon summoned by the Knell, his eyes unable to make out the misty shadow of the Aethan’s Oblivion armour with any clarity.

In other words with the Armada

“Their books, texts, are they copied here, there must be someone who can read it accurately, someone in charge?”

“I don’t know Lord!” his eyes suddenly flicked a micro expression Taryn didn’t miss
“What do you know!”

“The Altars…A sorcerer oversees the sacrifices at the Cathedral top…Please commend me to him DarkSpirit!”

There was still nearly a kilometer of vertical distance between them and the mountain tops, and even then the Cathedral Range stretched for hundreds of kilometers in either direction across the continental uplifted shelf, with hundreds of summit structures.

“Which mountain, how far?”

“I…I do not…”
Rolling his eyes with frustration Taryn snapped the neck and dropped him.

Maekal and Taran followed suit ending the three dozen copyists with their own quills and knives - none resisted, many thought the Oblivion armoured warriors were manifestations of the Dark itself and begged to be ‘infinitely divided in eternal destruction’ - the Aethans obliged swiftly.

It would appear an irritating, but unremarkable mass suicide to any patrols - the Rhandites proclivity to destruction and indifference to violence and murder, and the fact anyone with half a brain would be conscripted to the Armada, made covering up their infiltration simple, but was still too slow.

“We find someone who does know.” Taryn hissed drawing his Katana the usually blazing runes of aetheric fire that Lyaea had imbued it with dull and listless without his full aether power to recharge it.

“And no more sneaking round, ain’t worth the frelling hassle with these death happy prats,” 

<<<<>>>>

Abyss of Memory

Flickering holovids in worn smoke encrusted stands warned visitors not to descend to the surface of Anzat.

There was, the static voice record several millennia ago repeated every 3 minutes, a significant risk of death should an offworlder be found outside the space port, but despite this, it insisted the majority of Anzat and Lek’un were ‘friendly welcoming folk proud of their culture and traditions’.

A morbid smile creased Ranneks wrinkled face as he booted the travel warning display over with a shower of sparks.

Around him offworlders scrambled on the grotty floors, slipping in their own vital fluids as his Pike armed Yari-gami cut the down, his Teppo-gami Las-rifles firing into the backs of all those that tried to flee leaving the double doorways and narrower streets of the Spaceports open air promenade choked with bodies.

The Comis orders were barked across the radio in Rannek’s helm as he bisected creatures with his ancient termorsword.

They had arrived an hour before, Druhanne had unfurled a parchment scroll in the midst of the main open plaza - a sickening sloppy dump of Gaijin stalls and scum -  and read out the Declaration of Annexure.

“By the Grace and Glory of the Honourable Undefeated Clucir of Q’Atrox, Rannek-Soma, mare Caste, First of His name, Son of Jeshu the Wise, Hanshõ of Kinde Q’atrox, Defender of the Evokation, Supreme Lord of the Circle of Nine, First Protector of the Echo Throne, Shogun of the United Armies of Anzat Prime, Benevolent Intercessor of the Grateful Lek’un -
I Druhanne 248th Efendí in devoted thankful service to Kinde Q’atrox declare this SpacePort and all its Beings, chattel and fixtures under the possession and exclusive use of my Noble Hanshõ for so long as it remains his pleasure in accordance with this Declaration of Annexure, by the Authoirty of the Echo Throne!”

Unsurprisingly, none of the Gaijin had the faintest idea what he was saying, and while the handful of masterless Lek’un fell to their faces in rightful submission, or ran like cowards in fear, the Gaijin ignored Druhanne and his escort totally.

Rannek would not tolerate such a slight on his Authority - the populace might have forgotten his Rights and Ranks - he had not.

The Q’Atrox were one of the few Kinde that retained any kind of army, a mere 4,500 Lek’un divided into three Sonae, it was one of these he had brought with him on the Kitsune. 

His rightful tribute denied, Rannek - fully within his antiquated authority as Shogun and Protector of the Echo Throne - instructed them to eliminate all non-Anzat and any Lek’un who did not submit on Space Port San forthwith.

Decades of underuse left the Lek’un soldiers rusty in spite of regular training and drills, a purging would stimulate their muscle and genetic memories, in addition to affirming the Q’Atrox as the pre-eminent Kinde.

Pre-eminent Kinde...only Kinde...no one cared any more…

He paused mid blow, a tentacle nosed creature cowering before him…reflections of the raising of the vessels, the gleam of the fresh polished marble floors, the intricate decorations on the finest manufactures to present the best of Anzat culture to the galaxy, the strike up a trade in luxury goods, the gems of the Hōseki mines and variegated spices and alchemical ingredients form the deep jungle, the scents couldn’t be contained by the Iron containers, intoxicating the Human traders as they….

The tentacle nose’s breathing steadied its hands lowered from protecting its face black wet eyes looking for succour from the Clucir.

He was slipping again…Rannek dragged his mind back to the present and remembered what he was and where - he had built these vast space ports with his blood and toil - everything and everyone on them was his by Ancient Right - refusal could not be tolerated lest he seem weak to the other Kindes.

He plunged his blade between the things eyes.

<<<<>>>>

Smoking carcasses tumbled from cover as promethium smoke tanged the air.  ÇelÍk strode forward kicking over the bodies, the top three levels of this space port had been cleared in as many hours, the worst of the offworld scum retreating to the lower areas already the habitat of gangs.

“Well done Abuud,” he whispered to the Flame trooper as the stream of fire turned to a dull flicker at the end of the nozzle attached to the oversized backpack.

“I will tell the Hanshõ of your bravery,” - pinned at the end of the wide under-level pedestrian walk Abuud had rushed into blaster fire hurling his incendiary grenades and using his flamer as a screen to round the cover and incinerate resisting Gaijin.

Abuud genuflected as best he could in his heavy fire resistant armour
“My pleasure is to serve! My dearest wish is to give my life for the Hanshõ!.”

ÇelÍk nodded and raised his voice.

“Let Abuud be an example to you all!” he shouted as they marched on, his Teppo-Gami snipers firing at anything that moved on the side alleys, Yar-Gami with Vibro Naginata slicing the head from every corpse they passed.

All were determined to serve, all felt blessed to witness the Hanshõ not only awakened but driven and active, their genetic memories were tainted by generations of ancestors for whom an entire life was spent in training and waiting, never seeing active combat.

It was a painful thing for a warrior to have no war to fight.

The older memories though were just a strong, centuries of glorious battle on the field against other Kindes, Coalitions, then the age of invasions when outside forces had disturbed the Wa of the grand Evokation - the Sith under Sadow, later the Krath and Exar-Kun, the Mando’a of Mandalore the Ultimate - the glorious Ashigaru of the Q’atrox had been at the front of driving them back.

ÇelÍk felt himself part of that grand tradition now, purging the offworlders and the Kinde-less Lek’un untouchables who catered to them.  He trusted in his Hanshõ’s millennial wisdom, that he had been planning this for many centuries...perhaps his Hanshõ had waited until the decrepitude reached a nadir before awakening…

Yes, that was the strategy, and ÇelÍk -a name he bore proudly now meaning ‘steel’ - would ensure his Hanshõ never knew defeat.

Hovels, hab blocks, warehouses and alcohol stinking tap houses were emptied of  degenerate denizens, by now most were cowering in hastily barricaded rooms, easily breached or simply set alight, others he had dragged into the main street and decapitated in long rows.

At the deeper levels the gangsters began to resist, aided by offworld smugglers who had not managed to flee in their Hypespace worthy vessels. 

The smugglers were usually better equipped taking a toll on the Sonae, but one gladly paid - to die for the Hanshõ was to embrace the Supreme Victory - never wasteful of their own lives of course, ensuring the enemy was suitably bled in return.

By the time the last of the fighting was over Rannek-soma Mare Q’Atrox stood master of a platform of 30,000 corpses.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 5 - Departures - Part 3

3947 BBY — Lantilles

The endless thrumming focus of the diligent Shipwrights of Lantilles was something new to Mira as she felt out the threads of her ‘prey’.

She was used to searching for a single sentient amidst millions, but the vast majority of places she ‘hunted’ lost family and friends were refugee camps, backwater trading orbitals, or slums like Nar Shadda and Socorro where the crashing tides of war had washed up so many of the desperate and displaced.   

Quad layers of Dry docks and ceaseless motion of tugs and construction droids with plasma welders were the visual accompaniment to the Lantillian ShipWrights innumerable workers. Located along the Perlemian Trade Route, end of the Randon Run hyperlane, it was a longstanding center of navigation and shipbuilding remaining neutral during major conflicts.

While not spared the Mandalorians crusaders wrath, the occupation was mercifully brief, damage limited to the outer planets factories and store houses, and the Republic victory over the Mandalorians swift here - the bitter after taste of war almost gone.

Apart from…Mira’s eyes tightened as she sat in her room on the Pallas Athena...apart from…there bitterness, regret, a deep sense of loss…

“I’ve found them,”

<<<<>>>>

She sat across from the red maned huntress, the two…curious…hybrids piloting the craft down.

Atris was glad to get off the ship for a while, she had her fill of cells a week into her imprisonment, still Varasian and Alixa’s Force presence never sat comfortably with her. 

There was nothing ‘Dark’, nor ‘Light’ about them…strange given the obvious parentage of Isas and the Old Man, who reeked of grudging Light and unwilling Dark Respectively.

No, these Human-Miraluka Hybrids were more a ‘Blood Red’, primal…and yet somehow unnervingly artificial - the colouration flat and uniform absent any gradation a normal being might be expected to have.

Alixa the sharper of the two quickly glanced back as if to stem Atris curiosity before returning to her careful navigation along the Lantilles Traffic Control approved route to avoid the swarms of craft moving to and from the dry docks and orbital factories.

“You seem more troubled after Nez Peron,” Atris noted of Mira in a whisper.

“Yeah well,” she looked around as if searching for a friend, all while knowing Atris was the closest thing she had.

“Space-Scout went to visit some gang who had taken the Miraluka’s ‘shawls’,” Mira leaned forward nodding toward Varasian who till that point had seemed so green and naive.

“Came back with a few cuts and a lot of blood that wasn’t his…there’s something not right about those two, they get this look, like everything human is shut off for a second and they just become…”

“Like they have no soul” Atris agreed with a nod 

“I was gonna say ‘a machine’ but yeah…I’m no expert in this stuff but have you ever sensed anything like it, is it ‘cause they are hybrids?”

“No,” the more seasoned Jedi woman replied
“I knew members of the Draay family, the combination of visual sight and Force sight could be maddening to such a hybrid, but nothing like this…there is another hand at work here,”

Mira thought briefly of the single -Lekku man in strange clothes she had seen lurking around the Pallas Athena, weird yes but her senses told her that wasn’t the ‘hand’ Atris suspected.

“Only two more stops after this,” Mira redirected
“Let’s hope they’re quick ones,”

<<<<<>>>>

Monuments of brutalist architecture and space minimalizing design, the Lowland Sector 4 Workers Hab Blocks stood in silent ranks connected at every 15 levels by the same predictable walkways, one of which the party now followed Mira through.

The red haired huntresses' tracking skills impeccable as ever, she could feel the sense of alienation and disappointment, and arcane power utterly out of place in this world of engineers and machinists.

Alixa envied that ability, and tried to emulate it while her brother looked on their hired tracker with a desire she had never sensed in him before.

Atris remained at the back with an air of indifference, as blank as the prefab walls that line every floor and corridor, till they reached a turbo lift and rail-sled junction.

“Somewhere on this block,” Mira explained, illuminated only by the constant stream of traffic through the transparisteel windows at this mid tier level where the sun already obscured by the orbital platforms and vast solar collector arrays could barely reach.

“Mira and I will look up, Varasian, you and Atris head down,” Alixa swiftly took charge.

<<<<>>>>

“It’s odd…” Alixa blurted as they walked one of a dozen identical barely lit walls lined with utilitarian apartment doors differentiated only by the colour of the name sticker planted atop a hill prior stickers.

The scent they were following was too diffuse to narrow, but Mira knew she would ‘know it’ when she was closer.

“What is,” Mira replied not overly wanting to indulge her, but sensing very unequivocally Alixa wanted to make a statement - better to get it over and done with.

“That at first you rejected my brothers interest as you thought him too naive and childish - unable to handle you - now you fear he is too much for you,”

“We’re not on a ‘Match-Made-on-Manaan’, I’m here to work not hook up,”

“Perhaps not, but my brother likes you, you are unlike the girls of the colony, geneticists and geologists, he finds that intriguing and is not able to hide it,”

“Not my problem,” Mira dismissed having already shot Varasian down preemptively
Alixa slid uncomfortably close behind her.

“It is mine though. You enjoyed seeing him blooded from battle, I smelt it.” her nostrils flared as if to emphasize the point, voice icy as the void.

“You’ve been alone a long time Mira, Varasian is a strong man, he takes after Isas, he would worship and protect you.”

What shocked Mira was not the words but the abrupt shift in tone, from bladed and hard as if against a bitter enemy to smooth and warm like advising a girlfriend on some holo-drama trope at a girls slumber party.

Mira bit back anything too virulent in her reply, Alixa wasn’t lying, there were moments Mira couldn’t help but feel an attraction to Varasian - she was only human.  but there was the problem, Varasian and his sister clearly were not.

“Look, your brother can jump start his own hyperdrive, I’m just here for the money,” Mira cut her off.

Seven levels below Atris took the first chance she had to speak to Varasian away from Isas, the Old Gray Knight, or Alixa.

“The Old Gray Jedi trained you didn’t he.” she stated as Varasian gently touched each door he passed, a rumble of something akin to a primitive form of psychometry in the Force.
“He is your biological Sire, but not your father,”

Varasian nodded, there was no point keeping these things from Atris, the former Jedi Master was key to his Fathers true plans.

“He contributed many genes to my creation,”

“And Alixa as well?” Atris asked

“That…is more complex.”

Any further probing Atris wanted was cut off as Varasian stopped dead before the next door, his hand ready to touch it hovering as if unable to make contact.

Suddenly he closed his eyes.

““Mal’ri ara-sen covi Luka,” he whispered pausing as if listening for a reply

“Sene’Arres’Katarr”  he said after a few beats.

The door gingerly opened.

<<<<>>>>

Lya Katas gently patted her grandfather's head with a wet towel, trying to cool him in the claustrophobic heat of the apartment that had been their home for the last three years.

Her guests, a young hybrid like herself, and yet…not like herself, and a tall white haired Jedi woman stood crammed in the entrance way.

“He will wake soon,” Lya said of her grandfather, his face bore a crease for every battle he had seen, a worry line for every crisis in a career that had spanned since before the war with Exar Kun, the Neo-Crusades of Mandalore, then the Coming of the Sith under Revan…and finally….

“Jaro and my mother will be back soon, their shift will have ended but the Levi-Trains are slow,”

Lya had the brown red hair of her mother, her own aquiline features etched with lines of her own experience of the latter of those two wars, her clear green eyes the inheritance of her human grandmother.

Gradually the old man roused himself.

“Lya…Lya what…” his eyeless skull looked straight at Atris
“Why…why do you cloud my Vision,” he snapped bitterly at her
“Sharp clouds, scars throbbing, you hate, you resent…not a Jedi now, were you ever?”

“Grandfather,” Lya placed her hand on his head
“Calm…she is our guest,”

“Jedi!” He spat like a curse
“They brought the Ruin upon us, we welcomed them, the Conclave…we…”

His voice trailed off in memory. Atris remained a statue of white indifference.  Years ago she would’ve cared, would’ve defended her dedication to the Jedi to the last.  Now she wore her dismissal of those times as a badge of pride.

Mira and Alixa arrived shortly after, followed by Jaro and Kera.

Jaro was obviously Lya’s sibling the features so similar, his hair shorter and build slightly stockier, an old blaster scar on the left side of his face, Kera their mother with the same colour hair greying with age, and like Lya and Jaro had eyes.

“Sene, you are welcome,” Kera said to Alixa and Varasian, then looked to, Mira
“And you Jedi,”
Then Atris
“I know you,” Kera said with bitterness
“And I you,”Atris replied cool and calm

“Please, that past must be set aside,” Alixa quickly intervened between the pair of older women.

“Can it though?,” Kera asked, slightly shorter than Artis she was far more muscular

“I accept what I did was wrong,” Atris said with the closest her voice could come to genuine remorse
“Yet here I am seeking to reunite the scattered of the world I doomed,”

Atris had many long nights alone in her cell to imagine what she had done, summoning the Conclave of Jedi to Katarr, intent on luring the being known as Darth Nihilus to his death there.

Instead Katarr had been consumed, the Miraluka’s hospitality betrayed in the worst possible way by Atris hubristic belief the Jedi could defeat Nihilus…that she hadn’t attended herself, perhaps the evidence of her unconscious awareness the plan would fail.

More so than simply freedom from prison, helping Isas and the Old Man was a means of - not redemption for such was never possible - she had long accepted that.  But some meagre restitution.

Kera left it to the side for the moment heading to her fathers side.

“Father, we have guests, Sene’Arres’Katarr,”

Once more Daro Katas stirred, age weighing heavily on his body as his mind.

For a rare moment Alixa showed something akin to respect as the old man came to his senses.  They knew who he was.

Daro Katas, Sene-Xowl of Katarr, a rank equivalent to a General among the Luka-Sene, he had lead the Luka-Sene in joint operations with the Jedi during the war against Exar Kun, been the first on the field of battle in the Neo-Crusade, and was father and grandfather of a dynasty of Luka Sene - Kera herself a Sene-Tinh, a high ranking officer and her children both Sene-Kel, non-commissioned officers in Republic terms, all veterans of the recent wars.

There were rumours that at the time of the Doomed Conclave of Katarr the Katas had been en-route to Alpheridies to try - again - to secure their sister Miraluka’s colonies assistance.

But the Daro Katas who now spoke was far from the man he had been.

“It grinds on me, rough and coarse, the cold heat…traitor!” he snapped at Atris
“Traitorous bitch,” he fumbled trying to stand

“Father,” Kera placed her hand on his forehead with a gentle firmness, calming energies flowing from her.

His eyeless face turned toward her, Mira certain if he had tear ducts he would be crying.

“She destroyed us…killed our People,” his voice was high like a young boy as he pleaded to his daughter who now took the role of mother to her elderly father.

“I know father, I know…but not all is lost…” she looked at Alixa and Varasian.

With a swallow Varasian knelt before the old legend.

“Sene, we have a colony far into the core, for others who were not on Katarr…it shall never be as it was, but there you can take your rest in comfort and peace, knowing from the ashes something grows,”

Daro searched Varasian with his Force Sight, seeing the earnest truth of his words, and…something deeper…a mere spark of an idea - a fevered dream of a man free of all constraints to create something beyond. 

His trauma-addled mind could not hold that piece for long enough before Alixa, joining her brother, emphasized the image of the Miraluka-Human colony in Vision - the true sight of the Miraluka.

“We would be honoured for you to join us Sene, and share your wisdom,” Alixa said,

Mira in the doorway felt an unexpected stab of envy to see this reunion, knowing all of her families - the biological one she never knew, the Madnalorian one that had half adopted her, and the brief one with Meetra, never could be regained.

Perhaps that was why she helped others find their lost relatives, a vicarious taste of what she would never have.

“Yes…yes…I…”

Once more Daro vanished into confused murmuring as Kera stood.

“We have had little funds to help him,” she admitted.
“We were enroute back from Alephridies when…when we felt it...he was not the same after…” like Isas she could not utter the word Katarr, the Miraluka’s love for their lost home so great, to contemplate its ruination brought overwhelming pain.
“...when we needed him most…”

“Why didn’t you go back to Alpheridies?” Mira asked, noting the comm system in the corner, old but functional.

Jaro’s eyes narrowed and met Mira’s
“Our family is not welcome there,” he sniffed indignant

“There are many on Alpheridies, mother has said, who consider human-Miraluka hybrids…abominations…” Varasian whispered stepping beside Mira,

“They offered to take in Father,” Kera added with some bitterness
“But we, as hybrids, were not welcome to reside there.  When he heard that his reply was…undiplomatic,”

“All are welcome at our colony,” Alixa insisted

“Sene’Luka, Sene’Arres, Sene’Sapien,” she listed Milraluka, Human-Miraluka Hybrids and Humans in turn. 

“You are leaving for there immediately?” Lya asked

“We have two planets to visit first…Our mother believes she might be able to convince the Ter Sene of Alpheridies to help us,” Alixa replied

“I doubt that,” Jaro snorted, “ - and after that?”

There was no reply, just grim stares from all, the name Katarr unspoken.

“My mother seeks her Niece there,” Varasian added gesturing to Mira
“Our tracker says she was last known headed there,”

Something about being labelled merely the ‘tracker’ by Varasian wounded Mira more than she cared to admit to herself,

Kera breathed deeply.

“I trust you have Vision in walking that road…this place is no home…We will join you,” she affirmed.

<<<<>>>>

12654BBY — The Lek’un

“Forgive me Enfanta…” Fallyn said with greatest regret as he knelt head to the floor smelling the deep Lavandula scent she left lingering in the air as she went to and fro between her cabinets packing for the Grand Tour, her white silken Kimono radiant and shimmering in the morning sun.

“My trouble prevents me from attending to you on your journey,” Fallyn admitted.   

As Kızlar Ağası it was most improper he should not attend the Enfanta in her travels, but a deliberate additional mutilation of his body to create an infection leant evidence to his excuse for non attendance.

“Egh I have no desire to hear of your troubles Eunuch, leave lest you befoul my gowns with the stench of your illness,”

A final kowtow of submission he quickly excused himself into the servants corridor that ran parallel to those of the Kinde to ensure the Anzat were not insulted or inconvenienced by the movement of the Lek’un about their tasks.

He bore his pains, his losses with patience and fortitude, for soon the Nectrin Garden Oath would be fulfilled, he needed to perform only one more small task for Celeano.

Through the long unadorned passages he wove his way to the chambers of the Alchemists of Kinde Q’Atrox, their rooms full of large shelves with glass jars full of all manner of bloods, seeds, saps, sinews and spices harvested from the rich forests of deep Hokuriku for their therapies.

The Chief Alchemist Atturn was slowly working his mortar and pestle on a sharp scented concoction that cleared Fallyn’s nose.

“Atturn, I wonder is the ointment ready?” he asked with a bow.

“I have been preparing the Enfanta’s oils and unguents,” the Alchemist dismissed, middle-aged ever occupied creased face a pallid green from all the time spent indoors. 

“Please, the infection is most unpleasant,” Fallyn insisted, knowing full well the Alchemist had no time, the need to prepare enough perfume for the Enfanta for a year already leaving many of his shelves bare.

The Alchemist ignored him.

“Perhaps…” Fallyn suggested, “...were you to assist me now…I could arrange for one of the young stable hands to attend your rooms tomorrow night.”

At that the Alchemist work paused, dedicated as he was, Atturn’s ‘appetites’ were known to get the better of him, it was rumoured that he was his own best customer for pastes that calmed ‘thigh sores’.

With a grizzled yield Atturn stood,

“A few moments…and three nights,”

Fallyn nodded appreciatively his eyes to the floor until Atturn had left into a store room.

Fallyn worked swiftly, rounding the desk with the small key in his hand, working the lock on a large metal chest out of place in the bamboo and wood room, humming with electrical coolant mechanisms.

The Neurotoxin Celeano would require could not be procured any more in advance, outside of a Cooling chest it lasted only a few days.

Frigid air hissing out Fallyn quickly scanned the contents seeking the small red vials, swiftly pocketing one and lowering the chest lid.

Just as the store room door reopened he rounded the desk, Atturn catching him moving.

“What are doing?” he demanded

“I was merely sampling the scents you were preparing, ensuring they meet the Enfanta’s standards,”

Atturn gazed at him suspiciously as he handed across a small wooden container with fresh ointment.

“33 generations my Banu lineage has prepared these perfumes for the Kinde, you dare insult my talents?  Or do covet the scents to beautify yourself as some Sonae fills you with his spear piluf?,”

Fallyn accepted the insult with good grace and decided to play along.

“You may have excess ingredients in the Enfanta’s absence for some oils…perhaps we could come to an arrangement?”

“We will see, eunuch…now leave I have much to do.”

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 5 - Departures - Part 4

Abyss of Memory

He walked down the center of the room, the weight of the finery upon him nothing compared to the weight of expectation and the gravity of eyes.

They all knew his fathers disgrace, did they know of his too?

The eyes of the Evokation were upon him! Destiny and doom circled and snapped at his feet, at any moment he could be assassinated for being the unworthy heir of the most worthy of Clucirs the Evokation had seen in generations.

He had to be strong bold….he…

Was slipping again. 

There were no nobles, gone were the Trudenn and the Niktonõ, even the Echo Throne had been looted from this place, decay bubbled on every surface of the grandiosity he had destroyed.

It was so long ago and yet so near to him, after that first sup of another Anzat, the Hamã, he had been afraid of discovery, rash youth turned it to unapologetic insolent wrath, feasting on more and more in defiance of his Father, defiance of the Nobility…

His step strengthened on the vast emptiness of the Processional of the Reminiscence a vast chamber that had been the crown jewel in a glorious world where wealth and power had glittered, now everything that could be torn up had been, sold and stolen, the dais where the echo throne had stood bare, all because of his shames.

Rannek would never apologise, what he had done he had done, never with pride, but a spite that never ceased to scratch.

“I am the failure you knew me to be Father,” he called to the emptiness

Somewhere above the Sonae were slaughtering their way through more offworlders who refused his Authority, accumulating the ‘credits’ and materiel needed before his journey began anew.

“Upon the ruin of the Eyeless Seers, where the Man that was Hunger fed, there you will find where your children first bled, the Shinigami there will wait, and by your command bring you to your fate.”

This was the riddle the Nun had given, this was the mercy the Gods offered - after 10,000 years of torment for his beloved twins.

Cradling them as their mother had died from the exertion and neglect had changed him, broken the rebelliousness of youth, the arrogance of solitude, his pleasure was for once found outside himself…what changes paternal feeling wrought in him…what terrors they unleashed.

“What a man I almost was,” he whispered to the images of the Silent Voices on the ceiling overhead. Age had faded them just as pollution had dulled the true beauty of the glistening lights of the luminous gas bands that had once danced overhead.

To see them in their glory, the kaleidoscope of colours, the pattern woven by the gentle brush of magnetic solar winds, the ever moving heavens where the ancestors resided in “...grand castles, from the greatest to the least each Anzat is attended by the dozens of Lek’un they have supped, forever they will serve the Anzat that fed upon them,”

Faveah’s violet eyes were full of the Solstice lights of the Silent Voices, her mouth slightly open with awe as they watched them from the peak of Mount Kami.

The sweetness of her young face dissolved the fear of what awaited Rannek in the next world - not just the countless Lek’un he had feasted on…but the Anzat as well - would their screaming hateful faces pollute his afterlife as they did those of his Gaki who with each passing year succumbed to the Kuru?.

“So the more Lek’un we sup the more servants we will have?”  Mardenes asked, formal Festival robes of autumn leaf orange heavy on his little son’s shoulders.

“That’s right,” Rannek agreed, enjoying the purity of a moment free of worry.

“Does mother have any?” Faveah asked inquisitive.

Rannek felt his chest seize, Zhoa…oh how horrid the reward he had given for delivering these treasures to him.

“Yes, all the Lek’un of Q’Atrox and the Niktonõ await her whim as she watches to see what great deeds you shall do my sweet Misíta…”

The joss sticks were in his hand ready to give to the children to place to honour their mother and grandfather on this holy night…his stained soul would never allow the incense he lit to reach the Silent Voices…

With a jolt he returned to himself, sunlight streaming in the cracks of the roof illuminating the vacant space where the Echo Throne once sat - its absence echoing over and over in his sight.  The warm thrum of Lek’un hearts behind him in silent patience.

“How Long Efendí,” he rasped throat dry.

“Two days and a night, if it please Hanshõ,” Druhanne replied in all patience for his masters ‘meditations’. 

“Three of the Space ports are secure, Gaijin vessels are being stripped of useful components under the Druf’s direction,” Druhanne explained of events that had passed Rannek by as he had stood imobile over these last two nights.

Regaining his composure the last of the Anzat Nobility nodded and left the Evokation behind him.

<<<<>>>>

12654BBY — The Lek’un

Glittering gold Zhoa’s Gift was truly the most resplendent of vessels upon Anzat Prime, the latest of the new Hyperdrive technology built with the grace and care of Lek’un rather than the clunky designs of the Gaijin.

It was the focal point of a vast ‘celebration’. Upon the mustering grounds 6000 Sonae and 500 Kinju stood in perfect ranks on gleaming hexagonal bricks each engraved with the same symbol that was stitched into the, back banners fluttering on the backs of the Hata-gami Standard bearers.

It was the symbol to which all the nobles and vassals who stood on the richly decorated stands - the Symbol of Kinde Q’Atrox the blossoming Tsubaki - that symbolized a noble death among Warriors, representing the loyalty of the Q'Atrox to serve the Evokaton unto the death, and their honourable way of war, treating their enemy with respect seeking noble deaths.

A symbol that seemed ever more ironic as the reputation of the Hansho of Q’Atrox as the first and most powerful of the Aminopaphage Gaki grew.

From the northern frigid Vel lands on Shivas, to the baking depths of the Sabaku nearly 300 Nobles - vassals, and ‘allies’ had come to witness the departure of the Clucirs children on a Grand Tour, a petty occasion to be sure, but Rannek would not lose an opportunity to remind his vassals of their oaths to him and his heirs, and display to all the wealth and martial power of the Q’atrox.

All stood in the ever dimming sunset, for there was only one seat, the throne of the Clucir which remained empty..

Almost the entirety of the Lek’un staff were in attendance on their knees, Fallyn among them at the back of the Household staff, Celeano near the ship’s ramp with his fellow pilots.

A mist began to build, increasing the humidity as evaporation blown in from the sea to the south hit the barrier of the jungle covered mountains to the north. Adding to the equatorial heat that backed off the bricks.

Those from drier and colder climates attempted not to show their discomfort as Rannek made them wait.

Finally the procession began.  500 more Teppo-Gami wielding the latest Tanegashima Rifles that featured the latest 10 rounds magazines, vastly superior to the typical las-arquebus and even the 5 Round rifles that Jeshu the Wise had used to conquer Hokuriku from North to South. Ruinously expensive to produce, only the Q’atrox could afford more than a few dozen. The Vassals and Tokaido Road traders who watched well knew it was their tithes and tariffs that were paying for it.

The Teppo-Gami fell lock step in with the silent Sonae already waiting as, flanked by more Sword Kenin, the Sínã and Sine retinue and personal servants proceeded between the ranks, forming their own lines beside, but never stepping on, the deep azure velvet rug to the ramp, the Q’Atrox symbol stitched in gold-thread across its entire 700 meter length.

Behind them the true jewels of the Q’atrox. 

Upon a fine white Orbak of the eastern Shivas plains - an extravagance given such bloodstock fared poorly in the tropical Hokuriku -  rode Sine Mardenes mare-Q'Atrox, in rich midnight blue armour, inlaid with silver and featuring on the back a Kine-shield, one of only three of the new technology on Anzat prime, his face far softer than his fathers, but eyes holding the same confident cruelty, his posture upright and proud, long deep black hair tied in a simple loose knot that would no doubt become the next height of fashion among young noblemen.

Those Vassals with marriageable daughters all looked at him with unconcealed ambition, they would each pay a million silver Ryo dowry to provide a bride for the next Clucir of Q’Atrox.

Yet behind him was the pinnacle of all grace and beauty.  The Enfanta Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox rode in a four post palanquin of the finest woods intricately carved borne by eight muscled Lek’un tattooed with the Q’Atrox symbol, the gossamer white curtains allowing the vassals to get a glimpse of her features but maintaining her modesty with concealment.

She wore sky blue silks, her hair tastefully held up in a fashion more typical of   Shivas, a nod to her Niktonõ Kinde mother no doubt.

At last behind them Rannek-soma mare-Q’Atrox strode on foot in full armour, the infamous Gaki helm under his arm, behind him eight of the Gaki, his closest allies, the aminopaphages whose mere name filled many with dread, for the Gaki would not merely kill, they would sup on their Anzat victims - a heinous crime that Rannek’s power enabled them to escape punishment.

No member of the Saikõ, the Judicial and investigative branch of the Evokation, would dare open an investigation into the Clucir or any of his warriors - not after what had occurred to the last who had tried decades before - some were rumoured to linger still in the Pit.

The Heirs of the Q’atrox proceeded to the ramp, the Clucir to the throne in the centre of the stands. 

He stood beside the throne as the mist built all but obscuring the view to the ship, a dark portent no one would dare mention out loud.  Rannek despised such events, not just the cost, but the annoyance of having to host the vipers that his vassals were for weeks after, but he yielded to the necessities of politics and power for the sake of his children.

While the nobles feared him and his Gaki none would dare lift a finger against his children.  And perhaps in their eventual ascent, the Q’Atrox Kinde would find redemption for his depravities.

“The Destiny of Anzat,” Rannek said, his voice echoing with a small touch of his anima, a power that grew with each forbidden supping - it was now said rather than the taste or thrill of transgression, it was growing the anima power that drove their depravity.

“...is to rule.  Not just this world, but every land upon which our feet step.  Today my children tour those worlds that in the coming centuries will provide rich new fiefs and vast resources for all my loyal vassals. The young races there will submit in obedience as did the wise Lek’un, or be dispatched.”

He gestured theatrically to his children even as the mist obscured his last vision of them - they were his hope, his one joy, they alone untainted by his egregious sins - and yet not just him, the whole Evokation. 

Trapped on Anzat prime the Kindes clawed at each other, their potential wasted.  Rannek was no philosopher, no Anzatist bleeding heart, but he did want his beloved son and daughter to know a life without fear of assassination and intrigue - only with the Anzat’s bone deep ambition and hunger turned outward on the galaxy could that be achieved. 

The stars and not the bloody soils of Anzat prime would be their inheritance, no matter how deep in sin he had to sink to raise them up.

“Go forth and find those lands of great riches that are your inheritance by right of blood and toil, for your generation shall be the one to claim them!”

While a Grand Tour was a young Anzat’s pleasure cruise around nearby worlds - Anzat considered curious wealthy visitors and welcomed on civilized worlds for their riches - his children would bring back valuable first hand knowledge of the weaknesses of the indolent comparatively peaceful worlds core-ward.

The speech was intended to divert the vassals from worrying about their present tithes and obligations, and instead focus on the enormous opportunity the galaxy presented, a united army under the Q’Atrox banner, conquering world after world, entire systems given as fiefs to those who proved their loyalty, their children inheriting not just a mere storm-hold and its surrounding lands, but entire continents that dwarfed even Shivas itself!

Fallyn tried to see his brother for one last time as the Sínã  and Sine ascended into Zhoa’s Gift. Fallyn hoped Celeano he had found the neurotoxin vial Fallyn had slipped into the freshly pressed pilots uniform as it left the steam laundries.

Whirring engines blew heated mist into the crowds as the vessel rose.

Silent Voices willing, Fallyn prayed, the Nectrin Garden Oath was all but fulfilled.

<<<<>>>>

[TheDutchman]

As Taryn, Maekal, and Taran dive deeper into the blood-soaked society of the Rhandites, more things become apparent (as well as obscured).  What becomes so fascinating is their culture of complete dedication to the dark while mitigating the dichotomy of an extensive populace (not to mention conquest) with something (or someone) to act as a type of avatar for their hypocrisy...a kind of...vice devourer...?  Interestingly, Maekal of all Aethans has been incredibly helpful given his own similar background with his status as a godhand.  Unsurprisingly, Taryn's answer acts as Occam's Razor: the simplest solution is the best (if death is what they desire, then that is what they'll have).

It's both saddening as well as expected that Mili and Ari--the two most "tolerant" of the People, courtesy of their experiences with their adoptive fathers--would retreat further into the xenophobic Aethan mindset as the Shadow continues to weaken them.  Still, it's hard to assign any blame for doing so, especially given that those most susceptible--the children--are rendered comatose as a result.  I find it ironic that as they both assume the mantle of war (and those of their goddesses), that even they voice the fickle nature of their own deities.

Once again, more questions arise as Mira's tale unfolds: clearly the proto-Aethans and the "Lost" Miraluka have commonalities but what is the nature of such?  The more Mira sees, the more invested she becomes, inadvertent or not.  And it's not lost that Varasian is interested in her, a strong, red-haired woman; meanwhile her own attention is piqued by the hybrid's dangerous nature (where before she held nothing of disinterest).  Perhaps this too becomes part of the genetic heritage in our current-day Aethans...

But now, thanks in no small part to Kree, the originator of the Shadow, Rannek, is no longer planet-locked on Anzat Prime.  His forces are both indicative of how powerful his is...and how far he's fallen.  One would surmise that the Anzat gods have a sense of humor: Rannek is undoubtably one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy...yet commands the dying remnants of a long-lost Age, one forgotten in the Fog of Time.  Yet he still lives.

A curse, I think, of unending sorrow.

His children--the only good thing left for him amidst the horror of his Aminopophagy--are lost, whether by their design or other's conspiracy remains to be seen.  But what will Rannek do once he finds (IF he finds) what he's looking for?  Will his love for his children Transfer to their descendants?  Are there even any alive from such a Legacy?  What does this mean to the unsuspecting galaxy at large?

Of answers, I'm only certain of this: there will be despair.

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 6 - Seers - Part 1

Abyss of Memory

The Kitsune sat at a dead float at the junction of the Triellus and Perlimian Trade routes, its new engines - installed with the skill and delicacy only Lek’un craftsmen were capable of - were little more than a gentle whispering humm through the vessel . 

Rannek sat corpse like in his Reclusiam, undressed his wrinkled aged skin dry like parchment bristled against his muscles and bone.

The Sonae had slaughtered their way through half a dozen orbital stations, blooding themselves three times over, the Efendí was cleaning the mess from Ranneks feeding outside the room.

A few humans, twi’leki and a zeltron were his meal. The blood rush of slaughter had given him strength at last to feed, but it was fleeting, gone as soon as the battle was over. 

Forcing the Druf Kree to watch had added to the thrill, the starving fool left to hunger until he earned Soup in Ranneks eyes - likely never.

Now he had the strength to continue his quest to find his beloved twins. And for that he would need more than Lek’un and a single Druf - he needed those with knowledge of the current state of the galaxy who might interpret the Nun’s riddle.

Seated in a rigid seiza he summoned from the depths of his being the lingering aftertaste of his feedings -

All of them

- from that first teenage Lek’un, the Courtesan house Druf who had been his first Anzat…the dozens per day in those years of war, his decades of ‘refined’ tasting, his centuries of gluttony, the first offworlders, the Massassi general during the Great Hyperspace War, the red blackness…

So many he could not remember yet each had imparted a fraction of the Anima that gave him millennial life and with it the strength to push his gravitas across the stars.

Like ink spilled on cloth, the black compulsion of the Yokusei flooded from Rannek through the neighbouring systems.

The range of nascent telepathy between Anzat was enhanced exponentially by Rannek’s Anima - the Force others called it.

On Belderone twin guns for hire armed in what trashy armour they could scrounge in the gang lands paused their meal. 

A svelte assassin on the Wheel stopped in her imminent dispatching of a mark.

Behind the Beskar of a Mandalorian an Anzat who had adopted the Creed for a few decades to pass the time - and cultivate a smorgasbord of meaty warriors to feast on when sufficiently seasoned with combat experience - slammed his jet pack in reverse to respond to the call. 

Feral Anzat living in the dregs of the prison camps of Wobani, forgotten creatures that fed on escapees and served as a deterrent to running, felt the strength of the call and brayed joyfully in their mindless savagery.

Across dozens of nearby sectors the scattering of Anzat all felt the instinctive pull to obey, a need that was as strong as their hunger for soup, and the more they had indulged in drinking the life of others over decades, or in some cases centuries, the stronger their skin crawled and legs twitched to heed the Yokusei’s simple command.

“Gather,”

Ships broke orbit without bothering to provide clearance codes, where they did not possess a vessel they stopped at nothing to murder their way to transport.  Feral Anzat on half a dozen worlds left their usual hunting grounds in a vain attempt to clamber up the highest peaks and leap to the Ancient.

62 Anzat felt the unignorable waves of compulsion - 61 complied.

Only one, unique among his kind, could resist.

The sickening twist made every cell of Kazic Ovarug’s body feel heavy, their nuclei seemingly dragging to the ‘left’ willing him to move toward something.

The Gray Jedi knew this feeling from only one previous experience as a child that centuries later still haunted his dreams. 

This was the Yokusei, the power of an Elder Anzat.

Trembling he leapt from the pilots chair as the Expiator sailed through space, breathing heavy he squeezed through the narrow confines of the vessel to his tiny room, tearing out the door panel on the inside he slapped the lock button on the outside to seal himself in his arm barely getting within before the bulky steel slammed shut - he could find a way out later.

For now he had to be away from the controls.  He knew the effect wouldn’t last, and shouldn’t affect him unduly...but he had to be sure…for Saani…

His body felt a gnawing need to heed the primal call, so much like those moments of horrific temptation to indulge in the Soup his race lived for. 

But as he had never given into that desire, so he was able to resist this - if only just.

Reason, logic, observation would distract his thoughts from slipping...yes an Ancient had awoken...Maker help the galaxy...Kazic was in an intersystem void...to affect him at such a distance the Anima had to be...one of the Oni, the Demon Lords, the Gaki the Hungry ones…

Kazic had vainly hoped they had all died out by now, he could not even try to guess at what this Ancients intentions were in summoning so broadly, the stories told of their inscrutable genius -though it was likely a cover for their indescribable insanity brought on by the soup Kuru of millenia.

He had to warn Ryshhk, Grand Master Yoda even...though in all honesty he knew there was nothing the Vhal’Dan Gray Jedi, even at their height, could likely do to stop an Ancient of this prowess…Force help him, even Ari’s People would not be enough!

Yes this was millennia of Anima built over feeding off millions of beings turned to pure dominance of ‘lesser’ Anzat.

Swallowing hard Kazic sat in a meditative pose, the drive was strong, but so was he, he could not have gone this long without consuming the Soup if he wasn’t. 

And yet he had no idea how long he could resist before his body and mind gave out from sheer exhaustion, his will was great, but still finite - he could only hope it outlasted the Yokusei wave. 

Then, perhaps, he could send warnings to all he could, and Pray to the Living Force, the Maker, Ashla, Bogan and every Deity he knew of in frantic desperation that the Ancient returned to slumber swiftly.

<<<<>>>>

The faces flew at his very soul, screeching red-orange eyes trailing oil dripping elongated fingers that struck his core and knifed through his body. 

This was the price of the Anima - the dead demanded a toll.

Rannek mentally ‘marched’ through the constant battering of his victims' haunted last moments that lingered in his mind and twisted knife like in his chest.

He felt the stabbing pain of the proboscis he had inflicted upon them, he endured his own tight grip on the side of the face that seemed poised to crush the skull.

A dozen per second he relived the consumption of his victims.  This was the Kuru, this was the curse of aminopophagy, to hear and experience the suffering of your own victims.

There were physiological explanations, the patterning of intense emotions on the brain from the victims soup - and none so intense as being fed upon - the over multiplication of neurons generated to try and record the information imbibed with the soup that ‘crowded out’ one's own personality and memories.

For Rannek it was always more, a torment of the Soul, a fire to pass through to use the enormous powers he had eaten with their essence.

His teeth chattered, muscles clenched…..he had done enough he needed to stop…but he couldn’t - the taste was too good.  And why should he? He was Clucir, champion of the Evokation, what were Isbasa for if not his pleasure.

There they lay life fallen petals upon their long since discarded silk kimono’s, blood trickling from their noses.

He mused on sketching the scene, there was something sadistically artistic about it.  Reclining he took another draught of soju staring over them.  A slight movement caught his eye. 

The face of one turned, dark blood still seeping out, her eyes opened pitch black…

I’m slipping Again…this is not what happened this…

They were dragging themselves to their feet, shambling toward him, the courtesans dead features twisted into hateful snarls.  He was bound in place, unable to move.

Like ancient paint their skin peeled off as their rotten proboscis rose seeking his anima.

No be gone! I killed you I…

They could not be stopped, drilling into his skulls they suckled on his soul, yet in sick response he was consuming them an hour earlier, the mutual defilement continued until all six had their way with him in death as he had them in life.

Crippled at last his body finally moved

With an exhausted crash Rannek dropped to the floor.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 6 - Seers - Part 2

497 BBY — Alpheridies

The dwarf star Abron cast scarlet morning warmth from the north, tingeing the refined handful of multi storey silver buildings with a sanguine hue unappreciated by any of the residents.

The largely infrared light was of little use, their eye hollows saw less and more than the mundanity of the physical world.

The Miraluka of Alpheridies saw a planet of luminosity, rainbow hued essences of their fellows, the undulating waves of Earthy Force from tranquil farm land, Cosmic Force ebbs and flow like a gentle tide dimmed by the The Veil - a vast molecular cloud on the edge of which Alpheridies was located - the Veils protective presence a significant reason this world was chosen after the Doom of the lost homeworld to geophysical and geochemical instability. 

The sister colony Katarr, lost to something far more consumptive

Guided by sound and touch over two dozen Miraluka came wordlessly together on one of the handful of space faring vessel landing pads just outside Alliphrae, the largest of the small cities that dotted the largely agrarian planet.

There had been no comms or messenger, the Luka-Sene needed no such corporeal summons.  They felt the call of gathering in their souls.

Among a species of seers they were the most attuned, a meditative and military organization dedicated to the protection of the Miraluka, from the Outside, and when need arose, from the Blackfall - what a Jedi might call, the Darkside - the plunge so many could take into the icy or fiery depths of emotions that crackled and scraped the Force with raw pulsing wounds.

Micha Baal, was first to arrive, patiently standing in half meditation as more seekers arrived of all ranks, from the grounded Sene-Ba, the more elevated Sene-Ka, and those of her own rank, the highest Sene-Xowl.

The Ter-Sene, the Farseer Conclave had felt the ripples wash against their fingers - a presence sticky as blood, warm and firm as iron, the Luka Sene heeded the soundless call to attend.

“Vision,” Sene Xowl Doran Kaav spoke to Micha, his fingertips upon his forehead, then extending his arms in formal greeting, the delicate folds of the Force woven shawl sweeping out around the crystalline armour beneath, the blade upon his hip a sharp point in her senses of the man's aura - soft and warm on the outside concealing the cool stone beneath. 

“Vision,” she replied, the welcome wishing the other Luka Sene clarity of view.

“It plies through the Veil with heat and speed,” he described of the approaching Entity
“Untouched and yet…”

“Joined,” she agreed, that which came to them was something they had not felt, yet felt bonded to distantly, a skein of thread taught and rough with age, but still holding on.  Almost of family.

Over thirty Luka Sene arrived, they were not an army nor even order like the Jedi - a Seekers path was bespoke, guided by their own Vision. Vision drew the threads together when a tapestry must be sewn.

“May that thread hold true,” He wished, the breaking of the threads between two beings was the instigator of battle, and while more than able - the Luka Sene desired no conflict. 

<<<<>>>>

The Aephrodaea cut through the Veil on a mission to protect her children.

Milaea’s eyes squinted slightly as she looked upon the dwarf star Abron and behind that Alpheridies itself, hoping that the Miraluka would help willingly.

“Two hours on sublights…” Lyaea noted from the command throne of the Aephrodaea’s bridge where they were all gathered, the blue-grey of Chiss interior design interspersed with flourishes of Aethan homecraft in the form of tapestries and small statues, the most notable of which was an image of the Goddess of Love and Fertility herself in pure blood stone ensconced above the main view screen.
“Should we signal?”

“No need,” Milaea replied eyes fixed straight ahead
“They already know we’re here,”

It took only a few more minutes for the rest of the party to sense the same. The majority of the People caring for the children or working with Varas and performing their own further tests.

Only six Women had ventured out, Milaea, Aresaea, Lyaea, Evaea, Kiraea and Xanaea.

“Neither welcoming nor hostile,” Ari noted of the disposition they sensed from the planet

There was a tangible sense of awareness toward the Aethans, not curiosity or anxiety, very deliberate neutrality.

“I’ll keep the current course and speed, no need to agitate them,” Lyaea said, capricious and vicious in her younger years, motherhood had partially dulled her sharper edges, yet still impulsive and cruel toward Outsiders as ever when she could get away with it. 

With her own children's health at risk she was being extra cautious.

“I’ll chat with the Extolled,” Xanaea added, they had 12 of the warriors with them, including 8 of the newly bred ones as the originals aged.  Aether dead bio-weapon wielding warriors would be a nasty surprise for a race that relied on the Force so heavily.

The Miraluka occupied a grey space in the Aethans Tribal-Xenophobic thinking, while humans were so abundant, culturally and genetically diverse as to be mere ‘Outsiders’ Miralukan cultural similarities and deep aether connection made them uncomfortably ‘familial’. Much like the Dathomiri the Aethans were forced to admit a grudging respect to them as being not completely abhorrent Outsiders.

That would not stop them unleashing every weapon they had should the Miraluka refuse to give them what they wanted.

Earthy iron tang filled their nostrils as Kiraea began to apply streaks of Vorynx blood to her face - a war paint that the Miraluka would be certain to see no matter how thick their Oblivion Mark III helms were.

Combined with the mother of six’s ferocious urgency to find a solution to her children's coma it too would deliver a blunt message to the Miraluka.

Give us what we need -  or we will take it.

<<<<>>>>

3947 BBY — Alpheridies

She had been dreading and eager for this moment.

Isas Marr had never been to Alpheridies, she was of the now devastated Katarr colony. 

Colonised after the Doom, the two colonies always had a fractured relationship, similar though they were, intent on preserving their race and culture.

Distance and time had seen paths diverge, Alpheridies behind the Veil insular and restrictive, Katarr outward looking to the Republic and Jedi.

Openness that led to the Conclave at Katarr. Already devastated by the war against the Mandalorins, then Revan, and finally the Purges a hundred Jedi had joined the Ter-Sene of Katarr, the Conclave of Miralukan Seers, to scry the future and determine the best path forward.

Instead Nihilus had arrived, the colony consumed, only one, her own niece was spared.

Isas brushed back her hair before binding it tightly in a formal style, her old robes, musty out of a chest untouched in decades - just fitting still over a body that had seen, after so much difficulty conceiving, the birth of three children.

Her hands worked swiftly, muscles remembering the sequence as she prepared herself, fastening the Marr Kin-Robe, clipping the multiple coloured layers heavy with Force weight, then lifting the delicate Tiara of the Marr Kin. 

She paused holding the cold silver-cryst weight, an heirloom of a family she had disappointed so bitterly. 

In her youth she had been marked out as candidate for the Ter-Sene, the council of Twenty Three seers of the Farseer Conclave of Katarr. 

As she grew so did her Vision, making her position there a certainty, a great honour for the Kin. 

And a fate worse than death for the individual.

The Ter-Sene were exalted as they were imprisoned. 

Trapped for the majority of their days in a slimy Mediation cocoon, linked to their twenty-two brethren in a melded mind, unable to part from each other for more than the briefest moments lest their minds become addled and twisted, eventually becoming trapped within their own bodies, slaves to the Conclave Mind, a battery of Precognition lingering for decades in service and suffering.

Her father, the Amide-Sene-Touh, administrative leader of the Luka-Sene, a noble and generous man, would not allow his daughter to suffer such a fate.  When the day came a member of the Ter-Sene finally escaped the torment of their existence through death, leaving a place for her vacant, her father had her smuggled offworld, bundling the Tiara in the hastily packed bag.

Just 19 she was sent to Coruscant, a refugee from the secret evils of her culture.

She made the best life she could, studying medicine and nursing with the funds her father had embezzled from the Katarr treasury. 

There she met her eventual husband, a genius married to his work, but with powerful connections that could protect her from the Luka Sene, and more than that when her hand first brushed his skin she received Vision - terrifying, exhilarating and - inevitable as the Stars themselves.

Her dear father, for denying the Ter-Sene and his thefts, was disgraced, stripped of his rank, ostracised from the rest of the Marr and imprisoned.  Whether he had lived to feel Katarr devastated by Nihilus, she would never know.

Placing the Tiara upon her head, the intricate silver smithing covering her vacant eye sockets, she took on the mantle of the last of the Miraluka of Katarr before she faced the Miraluka of Alpheridies.

Two goals steeled her spine - to find all survivors she could so Katarr was never lost…and ensure whatever followed for those survivors the abominable Ter-Sene tradition was never repeated.

An alert buzzed loudly and the ship shuddered back into real space. 

<<<<>>>>

497 BBY — Alpheridies

They were walking pillars, hard and coarse, soaked in slick blood denying the chance to grasp any substantive area to feel.

Twisted perversions with only the slimmest echoes of their Noble heritage remaining beneath the gnashing sharp teeth of carnivores.

Such was what the Luka Sene felt of the Aethan women that landed outside of Alliphrae.

Yet Micha Baal could not deny the strength of the familial bond, soiling as it might be.

Ari, Milaea, Lyaea, Xanaea and Kiraea could feel the undisguised disgust boil in the aether, Evaea remained on the ship ever watchful.

Fear from Outsiders as common, disgust was not - the eternal-youth of their perfectly symmetrical alabaster faces and radiant crimson hair made them aesthetically pleasing to almost every humanoid species - visual markers of beauty which had no effect on soul-sight Miraluka.

Sene Xowl Doran Kaav, bedecked in garish robes of yellow, blue, red, orange, and brown over silver armour stepped forward to greet them as the Luka Sene stood behind him in loose ranks, their seniority indicated by the number of vibrant colours on their robes, five colours for the Xowl, four for the Sene-Tinh and Three for the Sene-Kel.

“You think we’re ugly, you should see what you’re wearing!” Kiraea jibed without preamble ,the Sene Xowl not failing to notice the glowing red of some sacrificed animals blood painted in war-symbols on her body beneath the thick armour.
“They are colour blind to say the least…” Lyaea replied deadpan.

“Arrival is felt,” Kaav spoke with quick cadence ignoring the jibes
 “Why come?” the Miralukan’s tended to short sharp sentences with the definite article.

Ari stepped forward, Abron setting behind her casting the Miralukans in a subtle magenta, the conical bone coloured towers of Alliphrae in the valley below seeming to shelter from the Aethan intruders behind tall languorous trees with prickled purple leaves.

“We seek assistance in discovering more about our Miraluka ancestry, specifically we wish to know the location of Katarr, we are able to compensate you for time and resources.”   

“Heard,” Kaav replied, his fellow Luka Sene feeling the sharpness and deep tug of the Oblivion weapons the Abominant-hybrids carried, hearing the delicate rustle of leather and blackstone as hands swayed in an evening breeze toward hilts in readiness, the heady sweet scent of the five womens super-human pheromones inducing a retching nausea in the Miraluka.

They remained silent for some time.

“You will be escorted to Adytum,”

<<<<>>>>

3947 BBY — Alpheridies

“That’s a brave choice,” Mira whispered under her breath at the ‘bold’ colour choices of the Miraluka that had been waiting - less to welcome than arrest them by the looks of their crystalline armour and shimmering Psy-weapons.
“Beauty is without an eye of a beholder,” Atris replied deadpan

Varasian smiled even as he felt the probing touch of the Luka-Sene upon him - Alixa, Mira and Isas rounding out the party. It was not friendly, the Force equivalent of a frisk and cavity search.

Isas maintained her dignity, head held high, the sharp edges of the Tiara of Marr pricking the ephemeral fingers of the Luka-Sene.

“Absconder,” the Amide-Sene-Xowl Altra Cons - the primus inter pares of the senior Luka-Sene - sneered, his full regalia of seven colours on his clothes muted by the darkening rain clouds overhead, his words directed at Isas, a term that left the others perplexed. 

The Amide-Sene-Xowl knew she had fled the ‘privilege’ of joining the Ter-Sene, and that ‘cowardly’ act of refusal had been why she had not perished on Katarr.

“And Abomination,” he turned to Varaisan and Alixa

“Why Befoul?”

Alixa’s mouth twitched to reply with some equally vituperative but a gentle touch in the Force from Isas stopped her.

“Time is short, you will bring me to the Adytum,” Isas demanded.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 6 - Seers - Part 3

497 BBY / 3947BBY — Alpheridies — The Adytum

There was no window or viewscreen on the Miralukan Skiff - why would there be. 

The Aethan women relied on their mass/acceleration vestibular senses and thermal vision to feel the motion and view in shades of red the temperature of the landscape written by shadows from the dwarf stars' heat.

More considerate, if suspicious, of the human guest, Mira was provided with the only ‘window’ seat, able to see the mountains..

They passed two of the twenty three small city states of the Miraluka, each barely a few hundred thousand in population, the sense of desperate struggle to maintain even that small population palpable in both times.

The mountains were black walls in Mira’s time as the rain began to fall over forests of trees with three main trunks covered in conical leaves that acted like pipes to filter the water down to their own roots. 

For the Aethans they were dulled by erosion, the old trees cycled through, somewhat stunted and smaller.

Coming over a rise to the ground seemed to plunge into an abyss of a rock valley.

Aeons ago the site of a deep ocean trench, the Valley of the Seers had been lifted up from millions of years ago, hard quartz base resisting the comparatively petty efforts of seasons to freeze/thaw crack or rain to smooth the edges, the basin filling with water over time but only thin lifeless banks forming as a river wound to a distant sea.

The Skiff shuddered as decent thrusters engaged, Mira gripping hand rails as it bumped toward a small outpost bolted to a lower ridge.

Micha Baal noted the Aethans' concern as this happened in their time.

“The mountains of the valley interfere with mechanical navigational and propulsion systems, the Adytum is accessible only by Float,”

The ‘Float’ Mira Discovered was an out of time wooden ‘sail ship’, featuring vast leathery balloons filled with lighter than air charged helium, connected to the ship by wide beams. 

“You must leave your weapons here,” Doran Kaav and Altra Cons informed both parties, Mira and Milaea astonished they had allowed them to take them this far, Atris, Alixa, Xanaea and Kiraea resistant until Isas and Milaea insisted

“We will be safe,” they assured, sensing the Ter-Sene, whatever their distaste, bore no violent intent. Regardless as they placed their weapons in a thick Psy-seal chest the weapons and devices they did smuggle in were consciously ignored by the Luka-Sene.

The Float groaned under the weight of the Aethans dense bodies, Alixa and Varasian tentatively stepping on board, Isas confidently taking a seat along the side as the rain picked up, the Luka Sene careful to outnumber their guest two to one on the Float on each occasion.

Masts creaked in the swirling winds caused by the cross-current flows of the valley, cool air plunging down bouncing off the rocky crags and lower Mesa’s creating a tempest like atmosphere the pilots navigated with practised stern focus using the techniques and paths laid down over generations, sailors skin hard and crusted from wind, rain and sun.

The two Floats millenia apart bounced toward the same Mesa and the weighty structure atop it.

Plain to the eye - a single large grey rounded dome atop the deep brown mesa that deepend black in Milaea’s time, and shed the rain off its sides 3500 year earlier, the Adytum was a towering churning Psychic sun within the Force and Aether, the communal bond of the Ter-Sene within, the 23 joined minds hot and hard.



Even those Luka-sene who had visited for their Confirmation steeled themselves from the loud whispers of the Ter-Sene, the Conclaves Vision stretching across time and space, a taught and incomprehensible tapestry of awareness.

Sene-Tinh in red, brown, green, and blue awaited both parties as they disembarked, Mira feeling the absence of her wrist-grenade launcher keenly.

Miraluka had a stereotype of being wistful seers and drab scholars, the Luka-sene’s martial aspect was a disconcerting contradiction.

“Sene’Arres,” was muttered under the breath of a Sene-Tinh to both parties of five as they passed in lock step with each other. On Katarr Sene’Arres was a neutral term for hybrid, on Alpheridies it was laced with undertones of contamination.

The Amide-Sene-Touh, in his eight coloured robe awaited them both,
“Vision,” both administrative rulers of Alpheridies greeted them in the traditional manner, by genuine belief or practised protocol neither showed the disdain that was pungent off a good half the Luka Sene who continued to shadow the hybrids.

“Ter Sene awaits, expectant,” he continued gesturing for them to proceed into the thick heavy darkness behind him, whispers of too many thoughts for minds to hold pooling in the corners and recesses of the rune etched stone walls.

As Isas strode forward Mira held back
“Maybe I should wait outside,” Mira suggested, already deeply uncomfortable not wanting to venture in further as she felt the weight of the Ter-Sene focusing on her specifically.

“This is your thing after all,”

“You are helping our People Mira, you are welcome as any of us,” Isas replied knowing that was hardly much comfort.

<<<<>>>>

The innermost sanctum was a deep black-grey void through which a narrow, rail-less bridge led to a vast central dais that slowly pulsed with differing colours.
Aethans superhuman senses felt the mass and scent that marked the Dais, identifying it as a single enormous Kyber Crystal.

Painted in thin Force charged metallic layers was a ‘dock’ of sorts, where the summoned would stand, at some distance ahead were two figures.  Unlike every other Miraluka seen thus far these were in pure black and white robes, the left fully white, the right fully black.

Their faces were pallid with vestigial milky eyes in sunken sockets open to the world, overemphasised facial features spoke of generations of inbreeding, their hands nestled in the voluminous sleeves no barrier to the Aethans mass senses to feel six digits on each left hand, the extra finger a grossly bent protrusion.

In another time Isas Marr recognized these as the So and Sa-Sene, the mouthpieces of the Conclave, twins, always a male and female, bred from a dedicated lineage, often the pair themselves copulating, to maintain the rare gifts that allowed them to interpret what could be the overwhelming maddening ‘communications’ of the Ter Sene.

The Ter-Sene themselves were in small pods ten meters across and two above the dais connected to the wall. The seemingly lifeless Miraluka entombed within psychonic fluids, small tubes pushing nutrients into their mouth and removing waste beneath wet robes.  Their empty sockets stared into the domed roof, mouths moving wordlessly and quickly.

Isas felt the pressure of the Conclaves Unified Mind and disgust at their imprisonment, though relief at being spared that fate bolstered her confidence.  Varasian and Alixa drew on different sources, Varasian a fierce protective nature for his mother, sister, People…and...with a more passionate drive, Mira. Alixa’s indignant disgust showed in her sneer.  Mira was equally appalled but retained enough curiosity to hide it.

They took their place in the unseen ‘dock’, feet placed perfectly in line with where five Aethan women stood three and a half thousand years later on a more foot worn Kyber crystal.

At the back stood Atris and Mira, mirrored by Kiraea and Milaea, ahead of them Varasian and Alixa in the same space as Xanaea and Lyaea, and at the head, Isas, the obvious choice to speak in her own time, and Aresaea, who had the most experience dealing peacefully with Outsiders other than Milaea.

Emotions between ancestors and descendants paralleled in that moment causing a tremor in the Conclave.

Centuries on the So and Sa Sene were even more malformed, beaked noses and wide jaws that barely closed. 

Spreading their arms the So and Sa Sene were filled with the sanity tripping thoughts of the Conclave around them, the Force rushing through them.

For the Conclave was more than just an assembly of Twenty-Three, it was a single consciousness whose Vision and Awareness extended across Time. 

As one Ter-Sene passed they were immediately replaced with another chosen from the lineages of those with strongest Vision, the binding delved their mind into the united whole, linking them into an unbroken chain of thought that had lasted since the very founding of Alpheridies as a colony, with remnants of their old Homeworlds Conclave lingering still.

The Conclave constantly looked at the past, the future and the present using itself as a Temporal ‘anchor’ in each time frame as it continued to exist in some state across millenia. 

Its mind existed every-when at once - seeking not only the preservation of the Miraluka but the avoidance of their own distant Doom -the black whorl at the edges of the Conclaves omnipresent awareness whose exact place in ‘linear time’ was unknown.

For now the Conclave Consciousness dealt with the matter of the Ancestor of the Abominant-Hybrids and the Descendant of the Absconder.

A wet double voice echoed out of the mouths of the Black and White robed speakers who translated  the indefinable will of the Conclave into words

“Absconder, Abominant Hybrids.”

Both Lyaea and Alixa sneered at the blunt insulting welcome.

Isas and Aresaea ignored it and spoke.

“We have come to ask for your aid,” they said as one before their words branched

“The few who escaped Katarr need help and succour, I come here, begging for any assistance you can provide to find our lost people…” were Isas words

“Our children are suffering an unknown illness, we come beseeching your help in finding clues as to the cause, most likely in the form of our ancestor said to be buried on Katarr…” from Aresaea

“...our People are so few, we must set aside differences if we are to survive,” they said in unison.

“The line of Katarr is lost, there is no return,”

“Katarr is gone, but we remain,” Isas and Ari sternly objected
“carrying on, in some small way the legacy of that world and its traditions,” Ari added
“My home can never be regained,” Isas admitted “But like a pyrophytic Banksieae, the seeds left behind can yet bring new life, stronger for the fire forging,”

“Twisted perversions of the Sene, mingling unclean blood” the dead eyes of the Sa and So Sene were crossed in anger and disgust.

“Without new blood our species will rot, as you have already felt in your very bones” Isas focus clearly on the notoriously inbred So and Sa Sene whose serene stance belied their nervousness at being singled out.
she gestured to her children with the Force
“My children are strong, theirs will be stronger still, in body and culture,”

“We aren’t here to discuss the merits and meaning of our ancestry,” Ari countered, her gaze fixed on the deformed inbred So and Sa Sene
“Purity is not without its ‘uncleanliness’ either’”
Both women were taking a chance by hitting back hard and fast with their words, banking that the enclave would respect strength.

“And if you have already decided not to help, and find us so disgraceful, why give us an audience?”

This was a question the Sa and So Sene could - or would - not articulate an answer for, the complexity of the Weaving of the Tapestry of Vision beyond mere words. 

The Conclave had a role in the inevitabilities of these events, that, despite itself, it could not escape.

“We guide the Sene, we Defend the Sene’Luka.”

“We harbour no antagonism toward you,” was the echoed reply

“Admonishment.  That which you seek you shall find, but from the dead world no Benefit to Sene-Luka may come.  Your course may yet be altered - Heed us and proceed not - sever the road before more pain echoes”

“Even if you despise my plans for the continuation of the line of Katarr,” Isas said, the Tiara of the Marr glinting from the multispectral colours of the Kyber below them.
“At least do not deprive other survivors of help, send the Luka-Sene to find anyone who remains, offer sanctuary to Sene-Luka and Sene-Arres who you find,”

“Our answer is on Katarr, then? We ask only for a map to lead us there.” Ari replied before her voice deepened grave and unyielding
“We will bear whatever consequences come of it,”

“All that you seek are already found,” the So and Sa sene voice projecting something approximating sorrow or regret, Isas head hanging to hear that there were no more survivors from Katarr to be found so far as the Ter-Sene knew.

Aresaea was perplexed by the comment that meant nothing to her inquiries.

“Heed! Vision is True, if Abominations step upon the Dead World in blood shall ancestors meet and the founding Sin magnify.  Cease now, leave Katarrs bones to rest at last.”

Ari assumed this was the best the So and Sa Sene could do to verbalize the Ter-Sene’s extreme complexity of Prescience.
“You know we won’t do that, there is no point in asking.  We ask for the last time - instruct the Luka-Sene to give us the location of Katarr, or we will take it,”

“While my heart still beats I will never forsake the legacy of Katarr by supinely allowing it to die out when it can thrive and strengthen with each generation stronger than the next” Isas launched back, her will a harsh and unyielding smooth surface in the Force to the Miraluka, Mira behind her impressed. 

Isas had always seemed so motherly, empathetic and gentle, but then Mira figured ferocity was just as much a part of maternal instinct as caring when your children were in danger, your People on the verge of extinction.

“Vision is True” the Speakers announced. each taking a step back, a droning sound and mechanical whine, the Force and Aether dropping with sinister intent.
“Intervention - Necessity.  Impede”

Vast metal shields slid in quick circles to cover the floating Seers as retractable bridges telescoped out to the vast Kyber platform, lights on the walls of the enormous dome illuminating an assembly of Luka-Sene surrounding them, Sene-Tinh behind Crystalline Psyonic shields approaching down the bridges.

Hidden blades and hold out pistols sprang from Varasian and Alixa’s sleeves and armour only for their arms to be pinned in place as the full might of the Ter-Sene, for Mira it was a Dura steel vice pinning her feet to the floor and arms to her sides, Atris grunting as she felt herself imprisoned once more, only Isas retaining any measure of dignity, her lips tight and bitter.

3,500 years later the Ter-Sene’s telekinetic vice was less effective - Oblivion armour diminished its initial effectiveness, Aethan super-human reflexes allowed concealed weapons to be unleashed. 

Kiraea’s vong Thud bugs slammed into the crystalline metals of the Luka-Sene shields, the Force infusement irrelevant to the Extra-galactic weaponry, Xanaea’s hair thin needles launched into armour gaps, Lyaea unleashing glass shikkars while Ari snapped a shot from a six-shot micro-Hades pistol straight into a Sene-Xowl chest, Milaea’s flares of red energy slamming half a dozen Sene-tinh off the bridges and into the depths of the Adytums central dome.

Sene-Ba around the edge fired skin rippling Psy-bolts from their staff like rifles, the majority simply shattering against the Kine shield Milaea cloaked the Aethans with as the Ter-Sene pushed its relentless Will against them to submit.

The combined effect of the Shadow of the Aether and the Ter-Sene’s cross dimensionally multiplied power would inevitably be too much to resist, they all knew this - but they equally knew that a show of resistance would serve to taper any expectations the Ter-Sene had their actions would not have dire consequences.

The Aethans limbs became sluggish as their ancestors were led away with stilted motion, normally so much faster than petty humanoids Kiraea’s face scrunched in frustration at being limited to their slow motion even as her fist smashed a Sen-Tinhs helmeted head into unconsciousness, Ari spinning under a Psi-Shockstaff to knee the Sene-Xowl backward.

Alixa and Varasian both growled and snapped at the Luka-Sene, Alixa even managing to elbow one before Isas once more reigned her half daughter in. 

The Pressure was finally too much, the barriers Milaea had against the Ter-Sene broke, even at her full power she doubted she could’ve held off the weight of such an entity for long, entire limbs were stilled in time - but not before the Kyber platform was littered with aching beaten Luka-Sene, over a dozen more clawing their way back up from the bowl of Adytum below.

The vengeance was swift and clinical - frozen in space the Luka-Sene rammed their Psi-shock staffs into the Aethans to bring them to the ground, then one by one dragged them away.

The Ter-Sene pushed the sequence of events of what would occur if they resisted into their minds within an instant.

Kiraea and Alixa growled, Milaea and Varasian quickly taking their hands to avoid both still reaching for their concealed weapons.  Aresaea and Isas glared at the Speakers with pure Force sight, hard and drilling into them as what would be interpreted as a smirk wafted from the So and Sa Sense. 

“You shavit munchers,” Mira snapped her head reeling from the forced Miraluka vision, Atris staunch as always not wanting to show the psychic pain inflicted.

Both groups, painfully shown the futility of resistance, were escorted away.

<<<<>>>>