Saber Forum

Small men with smaller minds had stymied his research and experimentation in the Republic.

Arbitrary restrictions called ‘Law’ and archaic taboos termed ‘Morality’ were the delusional self-imposed limitations of mortals who preferred to crawl in the primordial mud than stride toward the stars.

Fees, industrial espionage and intricacies of the Plutocracy were irritants that de-listed the Corporate Sector.

As for Hutt space...well...the less said about that bulbous decaying empire the better.

Soron Varas needed freedom - True freedom.

In the Deep Core he found it.



Tiny warm fingers threaded through long loose crimson hair.

Curious and needy, a sparkling little aura peeked out from the shelter of her mothers Aetheric presence looking for protection and guidance from the Aunt that cradled her.

Milaea held the cooing swaddled bundle of her first Niece, barely a month old, and offered a cushioned comforting place in her own Aether aura for the infant's instinctual outreach to nestle, promising all that the baby girl sought from its adult guardians - safety, support, sustenance - her Niece settled contentedly.

The cumulative fatigue of decades of toil and blood became an irrelevance in the instant Milaea had beheld the first of the new generation - forgotten completely with the birth of her second niece a mere three days after the first. That second bundle of limitless potential and inquisitiveness dozed in the gently rocking arms of Aresaea.

The couple held their nieces close.  For all the joy and excitement, both knew from bitter experience the galaxy was not merciful to their kind. 

Born in the spring of prosperity after a long winter of hardship, these two glimmering beacons of hope for the Aethan People - and all the nieces, nephews that followed by the score in the handful of years after - could rely on this - there was nothing within their power their Aunt’s wouldn’t do to keep them safe.

 

White pin prick stars were misted in sickly ice yellow nebulae, comets on millennia spanning ellipses burned toxic white lines through the gas, slow but inevitable in their motion.

Faster bolts of yellow and green screamed across the backdrop slamming into shields and hyper-steels blooming into plumes of radiation heavy detritus appearing purple to the eye.

Over a hundred ships surrounded six Chiss Expansionary Defence Forces Dreadnoughts, elongated vessels in hues of grey blue, sleek curved plating concealing batteries of microwave amplification cannons, plunging toward cathedral spire and butcher hook decorated enemy.  
Chiss boasted to incredulous visitors there were hundreds of threats lurking in the Unknown Regions to make soft fat civilizations of the Republic’s blood freeze - Tof giants, Nagai raiders, the sickening Mggnal-Mggnal, Ebruchii and Vagarri piratical slave empires -  every culture in the Galactic South and East owed them a debt of gratitude for holding the darkness back.

Most dismissed it as exaggeration.  It was an understatement.

Covered in the flayed corpses of Chiss Soldiers and civilians, the warships of the Sorcerers of Rhand moved in steady formation using their incredibly vast numbers to encircle the CEDF, the Rhandites guided by their Darksight.

Long pincer winged Clawcraft tore apart the less bulky Rhandite Night-Crawlers fighters when they could get on their flanks with hell fire red MASER weapons.

Night crawlers, shaped and coloured like the decayed sharpened bones of a giants ribs used suicide runs, the Knell of Muspilli pilots drawn from all manner of species cared nothing for their lives, extolling the creed etched on the metal of their craft and flesh of their bodies -

“Existence is fleeting. Destruction is eternal.”

The largest of the three sects that formed the Sorcerers of Rhand, they Embraced the Eternal with virve.

Yellow tipped torpedoes struck flanks of Chiss Frigates, orange flares of superheated energy soaking outward, baking occupants alive, Mega-maser counter fire shredded totemic bodies and metal from the larger Taung vessels - the second of the Rhandite union the all Female, Taung Warriors of Shadow were their hardiest shock troops and tacticians.

Taryn ignored it, eyes on the prize, he sat one leg over the Hecate’s Command Thrones armrest - Chiss would consider it unprofessional, but on the Spear tipped abyssal black Malefic Class Super Destroyer he was among People who valued his unconventional piratical style.
“Keep us quiet Stalker, Megamind pick targets,” he ordered the only other occupant of the blue white spacious bridge made homely by tribal rugs and tapestries

Arryn, the former Pyke slave and technical genius Taryn nicknamed ‘Megamind’ sat with an eight limbed Control Crown on his head, linking his superhuman mind directly to the Hecate and its escorts the Aertemisaea Class Destroyers the Alixaea and Lyssia.

Two decks down in the belly of the Hecate, Stalker as Taryn called the Anzati trained assassin Evyn used one of three Aether Nexi to conceal all three ships from any form of detection, the ‘Veil of Mist’ Aether power amplified from the Blackstone spherical chamber.

The CEDF could handle the suicidal Knell, tough it out against drua-steel toothed Taung - they couldn’t deal with ‘Kanzer Exiles’ - the eponymous Sorcerers of the Rhand whose power of Darksight had allowed them to breach as far as the Third Boundary of the Chiss Expansioanry Exlcusion Zone, destroying four colonies and Two Retaliatory fleets on the way.

The Sorcerers Philosophy - The Way of the ‘Dark’ saw Destruction as the unavoidable and unchangeable fate of the universe ending in the Void.

The Void was the foundation of truth.  ‘Dark’ to them was not the Sith amalgam of selfish emotion, but the utter absence of existence that despised creation as aberration and set man against man, star against star into conflict to birth destruction and return to true Void.  

To Taryn it was all metaphysical self indulgence.  They were petulant dren-heads who wanted to smash up the place as much as they could - He could understand that well enough, in his day he hadn’t cared about anything either - wrecking ships and people was the only way to keep himself from looking to hard at the grubby little frellick he had been.

That was before old Melron had brought him home, before Lya had smashed him upside down against a tree fifty times a day for getting too hands on, before he found his place among the People.

Unconsciously he spun the necklace locket dangling on his chest that held the pictures of Lyaea and their two children, his ‘little Jump-Jets’ Lylaea and Lyndan. He fought to Protect what he and his People had built against creatures that would shred the universe molecule by molecule - frell - he might almost be here out of principle!

<They’re closing in>  Yorna spoke directly into his mind the Telepathaeon lobe of his genecrafted species allowing instantaneous understanding from the Obelisk Array as they all felt the growing pulse of the Darksight.

The Sorcerers version of what the Aethans called the Seior let them ‘realize’  futures by looking at all the possible outcomes and choosing the one that best aligned with whatever spread the most Void - the unnatural prescience had been the reason why the CEDF had fallen foul of the bastards twice.

They wouldn’t let it happen a third time.

<Confirmed nearly in range, you ready Nerf-Herder?> he called across the group mind.

<Ready,> Lydan replied, muscled arms across his chest squeezed into the metal casket of a Torpedo.

Taryn waited for the last possible moment, the barest fraction of a second before the Darksight efforts of the Sorcerers locked in a future that guaranteed them victory.

“Fire,”

Hell cascaded from the Aethan vessels, 48 crimson Megamaser turbo cannons overwhelming the Void Chariots shields by sheer enormity of energy and kinetic power hitting in the same millisecond thanks to Arryn’s precision, followed by a launch of twenty eight shikkar torpedoes, 11 containing cramped Aethans.

Decloaking they took the Chariots escort by surprise, Arryn, Jacyn and Narys manually guiding point defence turrets, Phirk projectiles cutting apart counter-missile locks, Kadyn, Kyran, Davys and Daryn led by Maeson in blade shaped Vorynx fighters to further smooth the torpedoes path.  

Facing an enemy whose Aether skills matched their own the Rhandites fared poorly in the shock - their Darksight suddenly awash with the blazing hate filled inferno of a Xenophobic Group Mind that was hell bent on sending them to the Void they worshipped.

Bounced through the countermeasures and defensive fire by the Aether the Torpedoes of ultradense blackstone native to the Aethan homeworld struck fast and deep into the Chariot, dragging vacuum behind.

Three decks in, momentum stymied by grinding damage the first pod was kicked open by a simple shepherd encased in Oblivion Mark III armour wielding a Naginata crackling with lighting.

In void capable suits, brown and glossy overlapping plates of macro-bronze festooned with feathers and skulls fetishes, Taung Banshees and Harpies rushed to intercept through the sparking wires and ruined metal - they were slammed to their faces on the broken floor by an invisible hand then stomped or decapitated with indifferent sweeps.

Lydan advanced straight into the flock of fanatics, Talon-Blades swift but ineffectual against Oblivion plate, scratches rapidly repaired by nanite tech from Vhal’Dan Cataphract designs. Lydan had only grown larger and stronger in the fifteen years since that tech was stolen from the Grey Jedi, lifting 150 kg gormin calves and wrestling 400kg vorynx daily made the Taung brittle in comparison.

It was still their ship, heavy armour Gorgon units slowed his advance, working round the torpedo damaged sections to surround him, needle darts lodged in his armour after Flux wave cannons weakened the molecular integrity.

Switching to his Hades rifle, Rune etched by his Wife adding kinetic power and preternatural accuracy, three shots in quick succession hadn’t even reached the Taungs Shimmer-shields when the wall burst open on them.

<DIE Infidel!> Maekal cried with zealous fury, his Shatter-Sword was shredding them limb from limb allowing Lydan to turn on those behind.

Never the strongest or quickest, a brutal thrashing at the hands of the Vhal’dan Kage Anson D’Aklon had inspired Maekal to train damn hard, becoming the most skillful duelist, his blade found Shatterpoints in armour and flesh cracking beings along invisible lines till he was surrounded by corpses.

With a nod Lydan joined him in the advance.
All eleven Aethans had arrived with some injuries.  The Rhandites had never faced them, their boarding countermeasures anticipated Chiss Shock Troops - the Aethans exploited the temporary ignorance to the full.

In moments Lydan and Maekal were slaughtering a group of Taung protecting a circle of Knell, the Death cultists muttering words from their Taurannik Codex trying to summon Aether Entities to aid them in battle - bargaining their own souls to the semi sentient pure Force creatures that even Dathomiri witches avoided.

Banshees screeches and Harpies' talon blades slowed them until a vicious cry out did them all - Lysan charged straight into their rear - Taryn's nickname of ‘Berserker; apt for the speed at which Lysan delved into their most primal hormonal combat state.  

The Knell chanting circle was savaged by a wild animal in technologically advanced armour, Lysans three pronged Oblivion Claws on each forearm crackled with his Wifes enchanted Fire, burning already halved beings in eldritch flame.

<Area cleared, watch out for the Knell>

<Too late> Taran replied deeper in the ship - the ‘Varagnian’, former thrall of the Witch Queen of Dathomir, now husband and protector of Aethan Matriarch Karintha swung his mighty Claymore at an amalgam of mystically bonded limbs and torsos - the physical manifestation of the Shard of a Being from Beyond the Veil, the flesh unnaturally rotting around the gash in space time.

Kisaea and Candaea were with him, their Oblivion arrows striking the phantom like creature whose form was a shifting morass of energy and flesh, it could not be killed only drained until it exhausted energy absorbed from the Knell that had plucked it unwillingly from the Beyond the Veil.

Aether energies of the enchanted arrows damaged the creature till a blow from the weary Taran finally cut its connection to the material world.

<Zone secure we need to link up, Taran has been injured>  Kisaea spoke across the species bio-telepathic link buried in their Telepathaeon Lobes as the Varangian waved it off despite bleeding profusely from wounds he couldn’t hide.

<Sector 3B> Varan, once a thrall of the Ailon Nova Guard confirmed <We’ll clear a path>  flanked by Elyn and Maryn, they used Ailon tactics of overlapping fields of disciplined fire from their Hades rifle, mingled with controlled Aether lighting blasts to methodically work through the Taung Gorgons.

<Rolling> Maryn warned hurling a Terror orb down the corridor, it detonated as seething mist visible only to their Aether-sight - metaphysical black smoke that formed into needles stabbing non-aethan minds nearby inflicting nightmare hallucinations on them, Taung, Tarro and other near human species flopped to the floor gripping their heads, clawing eyes trying to rip out phantom enemies - the Aethans mercilessly felled them with knife and fist as they passed.

In the belly of the ship the Brothers, Jarys and Valens plunged their blades to the heart of the enemy.  

First in and last out of any battle they cracked necks with thoughts and effortlessly spun beneath bolts and blades, slicing Elite Taung Medusae apart.

Ahead was the Sorcerers Coven where the Darksight was manifested.  Resistance mounted, the others arrived to flank their attack.

The wide circular corridors became charnel houses as the endless tide of Taung and Knell were joined by Kanzer exiles, the full trinity of the Rhandites a far more efficacious force enabling them to slow the Aethans dramatically.

<Go on ahead> Lydan grunted under the barrage of bolts from Gorgons while he clashed with an elite Medusae, the tall thin creature covered in nanospike and tattoo covered flayed flesh.

Moving into a full run the Brothers cut space time ahead of them with Aetheric knives, sonic displacement knocking Taung over, knives plunged into seemingly static Kanzer Exile Acolytes.

Perfectly synchronized they turned shoulders to the large intricately carved door ahead, the Three factions of the Rhandites praying to the Empty Void etched upon it.  Shatterpoint enhanced strength crashed it inward.

Two dozen emaciated sorcerer's, near naked, eyes burnt deep into sockets, hands heads rolling madly, linked to robbed acolytes by flesh tubes and arcane biomechanical devises to transmit their Darksight visions were spread across seemingly randomly arranged elevated rusting platforms in the cavernous room, cables hanging like vines from a ceiling lost to black vastness.

Around them Nag’hi - human-Nagai hybrids - naval cyborg helots - lower bodies permanently enmeshed beneath pink screen consols that dotted the edge of the cavern - translated Darksight visions into tactical instruction for the Rhandite Fleet.

The Brothers returned to ‘real’ time hurling Implosion grenades, each burst with a wide shockwave of inverted energy  -sucking in every molecule within its radius.  Metal and man were compacted into vile amalgams of compressed matter blobs, entire tiers of the Sorcerers Darksight Choirs fell, dozens helots died in an instant.

Jarys rifle and Valens arrows shredded unarmoured bodies of sorcerers, acolytes rupturing as the Aethans leapt tier to tier stomping them.

(https://i.ibb.co/NZ8Dywp/C1-Brothers.jpg) (https://i.ibb.co/6YHj85Y/C1-Sorcerer.jpg)

Taryn saw the change immediately, the prescience guided maneuvers wearing the Chiss down stopped - no new orders were coming through, Chiss repositioned to take advantage where they could.

Taung captains were no fools, quickly taking active control, but their eldritch co-ordination had been blunted.

Sublights roared as Taryn went on the prowl away from the Chiss dreadnoughts all cannons blazing, one frigate shredded by the Hecate, the Lyssia taking a corvette sized ship as they pushed straight for the largest concentration of Rhandite ships nearby, a strong defensive formation in concentric circles around a Battle-Cathedral - nearly 10 kilometer long vessel of twisted architecture seemingly plucked from its terrestrial foundations and strapped to engines.

<Give em a bad taste Ghost Girl> Taryn ordered

Yorna smiled, the nickname referencing her resurrection - technically soul transfer across time to a regrown body regrown - switching her focus in the Obelisk array from sensing the Darksight to an ovid object with rounded handles and blinking lights Coryn placed before her.

Seated in a circle at the center of Nine, 50 meter tall Blackstone Obelisks, each crackling with aether power, Yorna’s eyes closed as she drew power from aether sinks beneath, into and through the Obelisks, Coryn feeling his lovers eldritch calculations switched the timer of the Naqxium bomb - a combination of the hyper fuel Coaxium with the energy multiplying naquadah - it was 10 times more powerful than Chiss Void Silencer nuclear missiles blasting Rhandites vessels into irradiated chunks that very moment.

The forward shields took a beating, ionization reactors pushed to their limits as Taryn closed in, Nightcrawler fighters swarmed, needle darts dug into the unshielded rear hull.

Yorna flowed the concentrated energies into and around the Bomb, linking her mind with the Aethan pilots Arryn, Jacyn and Narys to pinpoint the place.  A gush of displaced air and the bomb vanished, Yorna fell back into Coryns waiting arms.

On the Battle-Cathedral at the centre of the formation, the Taung Admiral was certain she would destroy these overly confident Oblivion vessels, she had a ring of cruisers clustered tightly near her, a huge overlapping field of fire.

For a brief second every console on the bridge flickered, power indicators turned white, red, then dead. She had no time to wonder before the teleported Naqxium bomb arrived in her ship's Plutonium Generator Core, the explosion atomising her the in teal fire of a Micro-star.

Support ships caught in the wave deflagrated, tides of eroding microparticles ate the hulls of cruisers nearby as the radiation and thermal waves from the Naqxium overwhelmed their shields - Taryns smile board as his megamaser shots punctured undefended hulls, targeting bridges and shield generators . 

The linchpin Battle-Cathedral gone, the Chiss counter-offensive was merciless as the Aethans pulled back to support with telekinetically guided missiles, trasnports moving to pick up the boarding party.

In the Void Chariot Rhandite fanaticism ground against Aethan Oblivion resolve  Arrows and Hades shots crisscrossed with flux waves and needle bolts, Blackstone swords scraped against Medusae Serrators, Knell Veil rifts blasted closed with Aether Lighting.

Within the Choir more able Sorcerers rose to hurl metal and flesh as the Aethan Brothers slaughtered through the Taung Medusae and Kanzer Acolytes, individually only an irritant, sheer numbers made them a threat. 

Valens shikkar dagger wove into one Sorcerer's throat, Jarys shouldered a Medusae into a wall, needle bolts covering his back plate, he hurled his sword into three acolytes before summoning it back through another Sorcerer.

The last, most emaciated, facially deformed Sorcerer rose up, his flesh bound acolytes withering in death as they gave their life to infuse him with power.  Black holes that had once housed eyes locked on the Aethan brothers, now back to back spinning death through the ruin they had caused.

The Rhandite saw this impediment to the Way of the Dark - creatures driven by the futile primitive instinct to survive and reproduce, denying the greater truth of the Eternal Void.

Summoning power from the depths of the Dark emptiness to which all blessed destruction leads he crafted his attack in swirling mists of shadowed smoke.

Fluid and precise beneath the Lacerator Whips of the Medusae, Valens detached a Null orb from his hip for Jarys to knee up like a ball, then Valens to smash with the pommel of his swords before a Lacerator whip wrapped around his arm.

The null orb  screeched through the Sorcerer's Shadow mist, striking at mach 1 into the Sorcerer's face, his Force defences irrelevant against a Null-field projectile it exploded out the back of his head.

Jarys and Valens growled into the Medusae’s faces as they abandoned their whip locked weapons and smashed into them with fists, knee and dagger - pinned in place by the Taung women as the scattered energies of the dead Sorcerer's Shadow Mist attack struck them.

Bones cracked and broke under the Aethans strength ever renewed by fission power mitochondria -  but the flow of Aether energies constantly renewing their power faded in the instant the Shadow Mist touched them.

A Shadow fell across the Aether.

Telepathic bonds vanished, the crystal clear Group Mind now a darkened stagnant pond, Arryn’s aim failed, Lydans lightning efforts sputtered, Maesons head and fighter spun out of control, Taryn’s tactical comprehension slipped.

For a brief moment the Rhandites had the Aethans defenceless, their daggers, projectiles and powers bashing them until hyper-reflexes and honed skills returned, their super human biology masking the loss of the aether.

The Shadow did not lift.

 

Bright, lush spring weather greeted their run through the well-worn pathways of Ravines End, a village of thatched roof houses on the South eastern side of the Valley, tall Obi-pine trees heaving with new growth.

Pivoting at the new cut stone bridge Lysi leapt to the side, easily crossing the 30 meter gap landing into a sprint with a giggle ahead of the sour faced Sophi who took the more conventional path over the phirk structure.

Weaving seamlessly through thicker woods Lysi felt completely at home.

Braying Goyurts watched and equine Govenison scattered as the air breezed over her face, a mirror of her mother at the same age.

Vorynx pelt over gormin leather tight on her body as the braids that kept her long deep red hair in check, on her back a small bow and quiver her father had made, strapped tight to her thighs twin short swords, all etched in runes invoking Aertemisaea’s strength, a small golden band stamped with Aethenaea’s owl around her head, a necklace with Aephrodaea, as Mother about her neck.  

A simple outfit compared to the elaborate frilled Gossypium fibre clothes Sophi wore.

Taking a ridge in three quick leaps Lysi rolled down the hill toward the rear of a farmstead, a large workshop out the back, Sophi still at the top taking a more measured approach, hoping slow and steady won the race.

Selaena smiled looking up from her sewing, the girls like their mothers were always playfully competing. Sofa and Valens daughter Sophaea - named, more than a little self indulgently, for her mother - had been born a week before Kiraea and Jarys daughter Lysaea - named for Jarys and Valens mother.

The nine year old cousins dressed like their mothers, Sophi in the more refined style of Sofa, Lysi the more practical outfits Kiraea favoured. And like them Lysi took more chances in leaping and weaving off the main road, Sophi doggedly stuck to it.    

The pair turned through the neat semi circles of long houses of Ravines End, the younger children, Selaena and Lysans adopted girls and son - the three children clones of former guardians - along with Evyn and Nyaea’s eldest son rushing after them, still too young to join.

Lysi and Sophi ruffled the younger children's hair as they passed.

The new generation was sheltered beneath the might of Mount Aelia fortress, and the watchful presence of the Valkyria -  Malefic Class super Destroyer, a black triangle just visible in the sky, supported by the four Aertemisaea Class Destroyers dotted throughout the system that comprised the small but technologically advanced Aethan Fleet.

Sophi’s face scrunched as Lysi pulled ahead on the final stretch that would take them past the caverns.  She consciously imitated her fathers expression when he needed a second wind when competing in the Spring Games.

The constant thrum of the waterfalls of Aephordaea’s Tears began to over take the padding of their feet, Sophi catching up.  

Lysi would laugh at Sophi’s outfit - just because it had some frills and lace didn’t mean it was any less comfortable, as if to prove the point Sophi pounced and ran sideways on the jagged mountain face to her left to overtake her cousin.

Lysi scowled like Kiraea when frustrated and with a gnash of her teeth sped up with a little boost from the aether.

The cousins ran neck and neck along the well worn path toward the falls, the leader shifting with every step.

They passed the geothermal pools near the Sacred Caverns, a handful of women with their youngest babies splashing about in the warm waters, the large rain smoothed boulders covered in blankets and furs that exuded calming energies of the Voursus from which they were made to settle the babes.

Heels dug into fresh laid gravel on the paths as they took a hard right by the Bloodstone monument to the Victims of the Devastation carved into a niche in the mountain, the Goddess cradling the fallen, melt water from the mountain snow poured through her eyes as endless tears, a reminder of events long before the racing girls were born that was ever present in the darker moods of their parents.

Lysi regained the lead by the Cavern of Friends, founded by Aunt Mili and Ari, where memorial busts of Noble and Worthy Outsiders were kept, the First Yhum, Keison of the Sons of Kessel, Lyr’Ca’Njo, but none larger or wreathed with more Dianthus garlands and the stubbed remains of honey scented candles than those of Omma Saani and Afi Soryu.

The last straight to Aunt Karintha’s house opened up before them, Ryza-grain crops swaying yellow and plump with grain in the wind.

Lysi’s eyes narrowed as she locked on the finish line, the gate to the outer yard, Karintha spying the pair from hundred of meters away with genehanced sight opened the gate for them with a smile on her flushed face, belly large with her fifth child.

The warmth of the aether filled Lysi’s limbs doubling her speed, the use of the deep powers as effortless and instinctual as breathing.

Sophi’s nose scrunched like her mothers as she fell behind, Lysi pridefully glancing back with a smile, Kiraea’s daughter distorting the passage of time in a small bubble around her to go even faster, a new trick she was finally getting confident with, the aether swirling tightly and thickly through her.

Sophi was no less adept at drawing on that power, eyes steely as her father she pinned a point in the middle of the gate.

Lysi was barely five steps away when a blast of displaced air slammed her in the face, Sophi appearing in a dusty mess, the aether bleeding off her as Lysi stumbled to a stop seething.

“You cheated!” she snapped

Sophi’s face and clothes were covered in dust from her messy teleportation, feet in a scooped out portion of vanished dirt she steadied herself before replying, the drain on her power far greater than she had expected from the ability she had seen her father use in training.  

She’d never tried it before now, but had utter certainty that here, on their homeworld, the Goddesses would ensure she never harmed herself experimenting with her powers, she had no reason not to try - especially to beat Lysi.

“I won, isn't that all that matters?” Sophi huffed, hurling what Lysi would always say when she cheated back at her as she brushed off her arms and top best she could.

“Hmmm is it?” Karintha laughed at the bickering pair as she headed inside to get them some food and water.

Plonking herself down on the ground Lysi pouted for a handful of seconds, till annoyance at being out tricked draining away.

Sophi strode over still unsteady, her stomachs feeling oddly bouncy unused to the sensation of teleporting, stretching out her hand to Lysi.

Their competition done, Lysi quickly took her best friend's hand, their smiles returning in a mirror of their fathers grasping arms after a hard training session.

“How’d you do it?” Lysi asked Sophi as they headed toward the house hand in hand.

As they had a hundred times before with each other or their parents Sophi ‘Thought’ the technique into the ‘shelf’ of her mind that was the Aethenaea Cortex even as Lysi’s own Cortex quickly tingled the telepathic connection neurons to establish the link that would let the knowledge flow seamlessly between their minds.
Perhaps the greatest of the long fallen Aethan Technocracies biological boons, it enabled rapid precise transfers of procedural and declarative memory.

Lysi felt the first trickle of memories that appeared as visual and tactile sensation just under her immediate senses, the aetheric information about to flow when.

Darkness

A Shadow fell across her senses dimming everything, a weight flopped on her shoulder as Sophi collapsed onto her.

“Soph!” Lysi managed to scream before the Shadow that had encompassed her friend's light subsumed her as well.

Bursting out of the door, pitcher and bowls of steaming sticky rice stew cast aside, Karintha’s arms caught the pair before they fell but had no power to break them from their somnolence.

Panic and distress filled the valley as the Children of the Aethas, by three’s and fours fell limp and silent.

Scores of adult fingers and eyes burst with red-shatterpoint healing energies that dimmed flat and brown as the Shadow in the Aether overtook them as well.

The primal energy they relied on more than the Heavy Element rich air, withering gamma radiation of the deep core, or the metallic salt filled waters of their home world to sustain their meta-human bodies was dimmed.
Metaphysical limbs clawed in a bleak forest seeking the burning life filled red energy that had been so conspicuous it was only now known by its absence.

Desperation forced innovation, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and the handful of grandparents drew on every source of energy they could, the White Current, Dathomiri Ichor, the Mist Realm, even the Pure light and Dark side itself - rivulets within the Force they usually only touched as part of research or training.

It was not enough.

48 children, the flourishing youth of the first generation after the Devastation, from the oldest Sophi at nine, to the youngest Cassaea at barely six weeks were left withering in unconsciousness.

 

She wasn’t angry at Meetra, not at all.  

People came and went in life, that’s how it was.

Still of all the people and places Mira had known, the Ebon Hawk with Meetra Surik had been one of the best – wise cracking Atton, homely Bao Dur…Mira even missed the crotchety old woman at times.

But she had to keep moving -  Meetra had opened Mira’s eyes to a larger universe, shown her how to embrace life instead of hunting it, and given a name to the feeling she’d always had in her gut – the Force.  

It was only on Dxun in the Tomb of Freedon Nadd where she had really started to feel it, the potential within herself to be more than just a hunter of life – maybe that was why Meetra had chosen her to lead the attack while she fought on Onderon…and then on Malachor…she would’ve let Hanharr live if she could, a way to prove she was – not above her former ways but…moving on from them.

Course none of that paid the bills.

After Malachor they went their separate ways, Meetra with Caderous to look for Revan, Atton, Mical, Brianna and Bao Dur off to be ‘Jedi’, and Visas some vision quest.  The last, especially ironic, Visas was a blind as a pharbat Miraluka.

Mira didn’t know what she would do only that those things weren't for her – so here she was - hunting

She’d been the best bounty hunter on Nar Shadda, now she was the best Private investigator on the Rings of Kafrene - a vast failed mining complex that now served as a sort of way station for the lost and confused – almost too fitting she mused looking out of the apartment window on the crowded streets full of pickpockets, hagglers, hawkers and refugees who had lost family…

Family…

She had been raised on Mandalorian ships during the war, taught to fight, steal, think and hunt like a Mandolorian…culturally she supposed she was one  – that family died at Malachor V, another family with street urchins on Nar Shadda lost as her nascent abilities brought her more and better work, then finally the attention of Surik…now

Alone once more.

Shaking it off she looked back to her small desk, cluttered with her equipment and bits of flimsi detailing her next target.  Mira had never been fond of killing, feeling too much empathy for others, but was too good at hunting not to use that skill to keep herself fed.  She found a compromise.

The pict showed her ‘prey’ an elderly Twi’lek desperately missed by his two sons.

Her business was reuniting families separated by the Mandalorian and even Exar Kun wars for a small fee – nothing came for free after all – it was safer work and made use of her growing abilities.  

She had a few leads on this one, none of them especially positive – a Besalisk recognized him from a Sith labour camp that had been abandoned when Malak was slain by Revan, but noted he had died of starvation a few weeks before the slaves got out, another former slave corroborated the story more or less word for word.

She would still try the third contact, just in case.  

If she could bring just one more family some happiness she knew it would make a difference….and maybe just maybe bring her some peace of her own.

“Alright time to go hunting,” she said to herself strapping on her wrist mounted grenade launcher and clipping her sentinel yellow sabre to her side.


Hooded beneath a thick leather robe - the first cured from the Neo-Bantha Mark II – he moved silently through the crowded streets of the Asteroid, another lost traveller to all outward appearances.

His pace was slowed slightly by his new armour – once more the first of its kind – dense and strong beyond belief – the material they now mined exceeding all expectations to the point he no longer carried a sabre, but blades made of the stuff, thin so he could lift it.

Checking the area was clear of any immediate threat he tapped out a signal on his comm in a battle cypher known only to a handful of a type of Jedi in a war forty years dead.

His two companions moved up through the crowd while he kept a focused gaze on them for any possible danger.

By instinct he reached for the comforting presence of his saber...but the Force touched only the absence of a heritage discarded and a family lost.

He bit down on the feeling, he had a new family now…a better one - a home in a Valley farm, surrounded by fields of genehanced-crops and Neo-Nerf-Bantha hybrids bred to thrive on the high gravity and radiation laced world.

His companions caught up to him in front of the apartment building that seemed to slant dangerously over a short hab block.  

The Garindan informer had best been right about this, credits didn’t matter, but time did.

Stifling a cough he knew his time was running out.  

Tightening his cloak he guided his two charges round the corner weaving them through, avoiding the gazes of the beggars beside the doorway that shuffled open with a tired drone.

His brother would not have ignored them, always caring more for the stranger by the roadside than his own kin -  he was not his brother.

“This is the place,” his voice harsh as the years he had lived as they stood in the lobby scanning the names on the intercom

He could taste her in the force…she had been here recently...his companions sensed it too and between the three of them they narrowed her echo, ascending the stairs to the fourth floor room.

A flick of his wrist brought out the shimmering white and grey slicer, as new and perfect as everything the cabal of scientists of his new home made.  A quick swipe of the aged key lock and it flashed green.

“She’s not here…we wait.”


Her third contact’s story was the same…old twi’lek giving up the ghost a few weeks before it all fell apart…those few days too late…

She headed back glum wondering if she should do this particular job gratis and return the deposit…the smell of rich spices from one of the street vendors caught in her nose and reminded her how hungry she was.  

Hand reaching between her breasts she pulled out one of only three 10 credit chits she had left…

“No freebies…” she had to concede – closure had to be worth something anyway.

“Hey three of those!” she called to the multi armed…actually she didn’t know what species that thing was…

<Beerchoodin!> it said unintelligibly, handing her three meaty sticks dripping in a spiced red sauce as she slapped the chit on the unwashed cutting board that served as a counter.

It wasn’t bad, a little more citrus taste than she expected, but she’d eaten far far worse.  That wasn’t what caused her to slow her pace.

Someone was waiting for her…a presence…not shady like Kreia, nor dark like Hanharr, not even bright like Meetra…this was…just different…it had a strange rhythm to it, a flow that seemed at once intense and focused yet concealing a deep sadness.

She toyed with the idea of making a run for it…it wasn’t like she had much in that apartment of value…

Running wasn’t her style anymore.


As the old door hissed open a blaster barrel peeked in

“I’ve got a thermal and a shock grenade ready to go, which is it?” she yelled knowing full well she would never use the thermal for the collateral damage - they didn’t know that.

Red hair, black leather, big attitude – just as she was described the Old Man mused.

“Talk,” he replied exuding calm in the Force
“We are here to discuss a job, didn’t want to wait on the street.”

She couldn’t blame them for that.

“You wanna talk, let’s talk.”


Leaning back against the curtain on the wall – which of course concealed a quick get away, Mira eyed her guests.

The Miraluka seemed unexceptional, mid to late sixties.  She didn’t wear a veil across the absent eye sockets proud of her heritage and species, despite the discomfort the obvious absence caused other races.  

Mira respected that.

The young man looked…Green…right off the docks, the kind of kid that would get rolled within five minutes on Nar Shadda.  But that was only in the face, his body, and his posture indicated he knew how to handle himself.

Then there was the Old Man.  

The armour of the two men was an old style but new material – pre the wars of the Sith Triumvirate and Revan, even before the Mandalorian Crusade - Exar Kun era, an antiquated bulky feel.  

Mira could see in the Old Man's scarred worn face he had seen that war with his own cold eyes - and every war since.

“So what is this about,”

“We’ve heard you help people find lost relatives and kin, separated by the decades of war and upheaval,”  The woman explained

Mira gave a short scoff

“Yeah it’s true I’m the best tracker in the sector, that’s not me boasting its fact,”

The Miraluka nodded

“So we have heard.  As you may know after, Katarr,”

the name of the world seemed to cause the Miraluka physical pain to say out loud - having heard of what happened there from Meetra, Mira understood why.  

The entire Miraluka Colony had been host to a Jedi delegation to try and use the Force sighted species powers to look into the future - the details were scarce because no one there survived the consumption of Darth Nihilus, the Force-Eater who consumed all life across the entire world - apart from one Miralukan woman, Mira’s former companion Visas Marr.

“...Many were scattered, lost while offworld…we have a colony,” she gestured to her companions.

“Deep in the core, peaceful, safe, I want to try and find as many of the lost Miraluka of Katarr as possible…my People...and take them back with me.  You have access to networks and a level of goodwill among the refugee communities we lack.  Of course you will be compensated very well for your assistance…but I hope kindness rather than credits sways you,”

She paused breathing out a grief that still lingered in the eyeless face.

“I know many millions of others are suffering, entire species scattered, perhaps they are no less important or urgent than the Miraluka, but still I ask.”

There was no doubting the Miraluka’s sincerity, she glowed a subtle blue in the second sight Mira had learned from Visas and Meetra, the luminosity had dimmed noticeably when she spoke of Katarr - this was a woman who bore her grief on her soul.

And Stars knew, Mira could do a lot with some credits…but there was still something withheld which gave Mira pause.

“Look you sound on the level, but you need to be totally upfront with me, what else are you looking for,” Mira said firmly, arms crossed over synth leather jacket, idly flicking the toggles on her wrist mounted grenade launcher.

The Miraluka shared a ‘look’ with the Old Man who nodded.

“While we want to find any Katarr Miraluka…” she began
“I hope to find my niece… and you may be the only one who can help.  My name is Isas…Isas Marr,”

Mira straightened like she’d been hit with a stun blaster in the small of the back.

“…I have heard that my niece, Visas Marr was once a travelling companion of yours, I haven’t heard of her since Katarr was…”

The woman stopped again the thought of the atrocity the ravenous Darth Nihilus had perpetrated upon the Miraluka colony - painful to hold in her mind even for a second.

“…I’d lost all hope until I heard from another woman that she had survived and travelled with a woman, the Jedi Exile Meetra Surik, we tried to find her first but…”

Even Mira didn’t know where Surik had gone after Malachor.

Mira could feel Isas was telling the Truth, she briefly probed the Old Man, finding only an aura of doonium, and intensity about something she wasn’t skilled enough to discern -  the younger man a more earnest feel.  They were obviously Isas protection, though she felt a familial thread connecting the young man and Isas.

“I don’t know where Visas is,” Mira said honestly
“I only know where she was going after Dantooine,”

Isas leaned forward as Mira sighed

“But you’re not gonna like it...Visas mentioned she needed to go back to Katarr to ‘see’ something for herself or something like that,”

Isas head tipped toward the Old Man whose lips tightened.

“Look,” Mira finally sighed

“I’d like to help but...I have people to help, then places to go,”

She had to keep moving and it was hard enough for Mira to find where she belonged in her own head at times without getting caught up in Visas’ issues.

Isas smiled sadly

“I understand, you must be busy with so many displaced after the wars, but please, we Miraluka are so scattered now, and with what we are prepared to offer it could help you expand your ‘business’ upon your return.”

Mira pursed her lips

“And what is your ‘offer’,”

“A flat fee, 500,000 credits, 10 per cent deposit, Republic Stamped, untracked, for three month’s work, whether we find Visas, any Miraluka or not.”

The red haired huntress chewed on it for a moment.

“I’ll go as far as Katarr, see if I can get a sense of where Visas went from there, but after that I’m out,”

The door hissed open to reveal nothing but the most spartan of accommodations deep in the ship almost hidden beneath the drive core, the thrum of the turbines endless.

The sole occupant cared not for such trivialities.

Its single minded, one might say obsessive, focus precluded all else.  

The creature had black eyes and a heavy brow that folded back into a single lekku thick with memories of his ancestors engraved in neural networks laid like ever building strata of sands over millenia.

There thousands of humanoid species The Old Man had never seen in person, twi’leki were a substantial minority across many worlds, but he had never seen a single lekku humanoid or even heard of such till he was drawn to this one during his search for a key Sample.

The clothing was also strange, even though only moderately priced it was immaculate in presentation, the way the creature moved in a way more suited to a royal court than the confines of a space sport, as if it had stumbled from a period- holo-drama into the real world.  

Though many said the same of the Old Man’s attire.

Armour he had trusted in since the war with Exar Kun.  

He was a different man back then.

Perhaps a better one.

“Katarr,” the Old Man said without preamble

The Lek’un gazed at him in silent stillness, then withdrawing an elaborate hand crafted Micro-burst transmitter nodded.

The Old Man withdrew.




With attention to detail that went well beyond what most sentients would consider pathological, Druhanne, Efendí of the Great and Noble Kinde of Q’atrox, Mare caste, inspected the latest repairs to the third inner ring of the Great Storm Hold.

His deep black eyes as exacting as any laser measure - for in the depth of his single thick Lekku streaming from the back of his head, tinted a similar pale green to his skin, was the memory of the Acacia screens carvings properly oiled glistening in the diffuse light of the sun through the steaming jungles of the equatorial Hokuriku continent.

What he saw now was far from that memory.  

Time, pollution and decay had taken their toll upon the Stormhold, the once great Kinde - and one of the few that remained - puttered along like Coal-blecher ferries between Hokuriku to Sabuku, whenever it seemed to be on the brink of capsizing another shovel of coal pushed it on just in time to reach the port.

The Carpenter looked expectantly at the Efendí, the woods used were the best that could be found.  Although the jungle was thick, overtaking many buildings with it’s creeping vines, the quality of the wood was poor, infested with the rotten gases of a brief age of Industrial expansion that had settled into the soil and left too much of once workable wood mushy and moist.  

Without a word or expression Druhanne moved on.  

Like all Lek’un the Carpenter possessed genetic memory passed from his ancestors at conception, he knew how wretched the timber and he himself were, face thin and lined with stress.

Druhanne’s feet were light and silent amidst the dull red lanterns of the smoggy dawn, all was silent as it had been for decades while the Hanshõ, their Lord and Master remained at his Meditations.

Built nearly 13000 years before by The Venerable and Honoured Jeshu mare Q’Atrox the Wise, Druhanne knew every tile, eave and crenellation of the vast Fortress Palace with such exacting precision and how it had once been that to see the state of it now was heartbreaking, emphasising his unworthiness as the 248th Efendí in an unbroken line of service his lineage had given to the Kinde Q’Atrox.

He bore the majority of his predecessors - 131 Druhannes and 117 Druhanni’s - memories of the Glory of the Q’atrox, the days of excitement as the Kinde was forged in war and revelled in Victory and wealth against the other Castes and Kindes of Anzat Prime.

The Stromhold’s second expansion after the current Hanshõ, his Lord and Master, Rannek-soma mare Q’atrox, son of Jeshu - after defeating the Cursed Senior members of the Vel - had been a time of such glory followed by three centuries of prosperity - the Hanshõ’s youthful rebelliousness giving way to wisdom and restraint as he managed from his Palace the affairs of the Evokation, the Capugio on the Echo Throne in distant Azherri a puppet of the Q’atrox…

Rannek seemed poised to lead the Anzat into a Diamond Age as Hyperspace lanes were charted and new technologies made stellar travel safer and less costly, the Kindes of Anzat Prime with their Loyal Lek’un armies ready to step onto the Galactic stage, marital prowess so long turned inward in the Seigniory Discord had sharpened and hardened the entire Evokation to a force that seemed destined to conquer and colonise a vast swathe along of the nearby trade routes.  

But then…

He shuddered as he moved through the upper galleries devoid of life and warmth. On a wall tinged with the stain of mould valiantly removed but evergrowing were square patches lighter than the rest of the wall where two portraits had once hung…

The Great Sorrow, and the Millennial Search that followed....The Anzat had followed Rannek into the Stars but not as conquerors - except to create staging posts - but in a vain quest that….

Druhanne stopped the thought, by the Voices! How had his ancestors coped in such dark times…

Duty...yes, perseverance and loyalty to Hanshõ without judgement or question, that was the path of the Lek’un, selfless service was their joy until their Completion.

Alas, Druhanne thought somberly, his own Mother, Druhanni, Efendí before him, had passed during the Hanshõ’s present Meditations, like so many these last few centuries, no Anzat could perform the Ceremony of Completion in which the Soul was removed from the body and united with the Anzat Lord to be carried to the Silent Voices on the Anzat’s own passing, binding Lek’un to Master for Eternity in joyful Service.

Gazing across the overgrown yet limp tree line Druhanne could only despair at the fallen state of the Stormhold, the Demesne, the Entire Evokation since the Great Sorrow and the Foundering burst the Anzat species across the galaxy in search of new ‘Soup’ to sample.

And to his shame, many Lek’un too had abandoned their glorious purpose of service, when their Lords left. Rather than patiently remain and attend their Kindes lands and ancestral shrines - they had left to planets unknown, some even claiming in their heretical madness that the Lek’un were enslaved on Anzat!  

Truly they were the most vile and wretched creatures.

Druhanne would serve as best he could until his dying day, he would sire a successor and teach the True Path.  

He managed the Demesne best he could, ensured the Sonae - the Lek’un army, was equipped and fed, but a Lek’un could only do so much in the name of their Lord, and less still when the entire planet was so sparsely populated outside the monstrous floating space ports.

Continuing his Cycle of Inspection - a different path every day to ensure the cleaners were not lax in their duties he kept the Rattan at his side - the brown cane prominent against his formal Blue and Black Kimono - to administer correction upon the backs of those who showed any sign of indolence, Druhanne allowed himself to partially settle into the solipsism of his genetic memories of better times - it was a soothing balm and a way to check the standards of the Stormhold were maintained to the Hanshõ’s liking by comparison.

Lifting a near thread-bare tatami mat he noted it needed replacing and found tiny rocks and a smattering of dirt beneath it.

Every servant of today's roster would ‘taste’ the Rattan cane for this!

“Efendí!” came a huffing spastic teen Lek’un, wearing only his Yukata informal wear not even tucked into his Hakama trousers, the bingata dyes stained by dust and wear
“Efendí!”

Druhanne calmly rose and folded the Tatami mat exposing the shame of the uncleanliness.

“What is the meaning of this ruckus, do you desire to taste the Rattan for a month! Uncouth creature!” Druhanne chastised raising the Rattan.

Stumbling the youth banged his head to the floor in obeisance, Druhanne feared it would cause a dent in the polished cypress boards.

“Oh Efendí, discipline me later but heed me now, The Hanshõ, He Stirs!”


Inky black waves of dreamless sleep delved into deep blue memories, a weight that pushed the Dreams up at the fringe, peripheral lights that were soon drowned by the black again.

But the Inks pressure bubbled more up in response, a cycle ever repeating.

Now, then, past, present, his own, others, all the memories were compressed together beneath the black weight, becoming cloudy and united, like waters pressed into deep ocean trenches by the immense pressure of their own size.

Flickering lights came through the fringes, through the carefully carved screens of homoni wood, the floral patterns millimetres thick separated by waif like wood, a decades work by an artisan long forgotten, perfection had been reached, there was no more reason to pursue the art.

It triggered thickening thoughts of that time, bubbling memories at last finding purchase in light against the black of blissful empty somnolence.  A shadowed reflection of when the artisan had brought the screens before him, scents of myrrh, the touch of silken grey-white skin beneath auburn hair of two new borns, beacons that pushed the ink further and further back.

Twins were almost unheard of among Anzati, the only well known ones the creator deities Inzanagi and Inzanami, male and female, like his twins.

They were a new creation in themselves untainted by the soiled world about them, the only truly pure he had ever held, how they gazed at him then without judgement or avarice - so innocent to the crimes he had committed.

He had been…happy?...content?...yes some combination of these things then.

But no longer.  

He held to those few sweetened moments so long dissolved in the enormous vat of his own history, as long as he could keeping the endless Dread Oceans of Other memories not his own, but the screaming terrified maws of his victims at bay.

Still his own reminiscence salted then soured that such joy had been shattered.

His eyes opened fully to the sun through the lattice work, the tatami fresh as the servants went about their cleaning amidst his indifferent mediations,

How long had it been this time…one year, five…dozens?

Creaking old bones lifted him from the seated position, stirred once more to seek out that fine grained sugar that was the only taste in all the stew of his life worth holding onto.

The tendrils of the Daen Nosi intruded as they always did - perhaps it was they, the cursed chains of his existence that had dragged him from the empty cell of nepenthe…usually he would ignore them callous to the price of doing so…

yet this time there was a - change

this time the path was almost – almost – unidirectional.

Psychic weight quaking intangible plains, the emaciated Hanshõ stood.

Rhandites, pre-Aethan galaxy-movers, the Jedi Exile, and an Anzati Eldar...

Looks like we're finally getting some backstory on the Aethans and their origins, not to mention that it seems to involve the Jedi Exile herself.  Now a bit clearer on how the Aethans came to be: with the conflicts surrounding the Old Sith War & Exar Kun, one can see why Soron Varas would go to such lengths to ensure survival.  Of course, his fanaticism has its own consequences, especially in light of a very Gray-on-Black moral compass.  Then again, a quarter of the galactic population has been killed; Soron has some compelling reasons to feel the way that he does...

Thankfully, the post-Devastation Aethans have begun to rebound, albeit slowly and not without adversity.  Nevertheless, children are now growing and Aethas has a burgeoning community where scant decades ago it was so much wasteland.  One wonders if these children e.g. "Sophi" are the selfsame Aethans seen in "What You Leave Behind" given the long-lasting lifespans.  Then again, naming conventions being what they are, they could also be descendants with legacy names.

We also see why the Unknown Region is so dangerous.  With the expansionist views of the utterly nihilistic Rhandites, it's a good thing that the Chiss Ascendency (and Aethan allies) are their to contain them.  But even with Aethan support it's a close-run victory.  One shudders to think what will happen when the Rhandites stage a large-scale offensive.  Hopefully by that time, our Gray factions will be in better positions to do something about it.

But then we finally see one of the enigmatic Anzati Eldars.  Given the timing, one might think that he is part of (if not directly responsible for) the eponymous "Shadow" that the Aethans experience.  This may yet be something that even they cannot deal with, at least not directly, and not yet.  Worst part still: the Hansho has awakened...

Meta-note: LOVE how LSG tied in some SW:TOR story into the Legends comics as well as some truly incredible original work^^  And the pics are absolutely top-notch  :) 
Special mention for LSG's incredible contributions for the history of the Anzati!

FANTASTIC beginning!

“For a cult all about how ‘Destruction is Eternal’ these yobs sure build a lot,” Taryn quipped as the Aethan trio strode through the favelas soaked in endless rain that stretched beneath the glaring monolithic tower factories and Temples to the Void.

Quickly glancing around the cramped streets, the patter of rain on sheet metal that served as rooves incessant, they realised even after an hours walk from where they landed in the over exploited muddy tailing piles they were not dirty enough, and stood too upright.

The slaves of the Sorcerers of Rhand numbered in their billions across the twelve stellar clusters known as the Nihil Retreat, which surrounded the Perann Nebula rim in the Unknown Regions at the distant edge of CEDF Long range probes. 

On this planet beset by an endless downpour of polluted rain were motley millions of abhumans with bovidae features, narrow nosed sleek subhumans and only the occasional 1.6 meter tall Tof-Human Wretch-Breeds. 

All three of the Aethan ground party stood 179 centimeters or taller, earning looks from the bleating abhumans till they hunched themselves more.

“Perhaps they take the long view,” Coryn suggested to Taryn's observation
“To maximize their destructive potential they must first create weapons of war,”

He could barely hear him over the braying abhumans and the rain. Taryn, Coryn and Evyn had been selected to head to the surface for three reasons: firstly they were experienced using ‘other’ types of the Aether as the Shadow denied them most of their regular pools, second they were the most competent in dealing with outsiders, and third…

They were the least injured after the battle six days earlier.
***
The extraction had gone poorly.  The Shadow’s effect diminished everyone's ability to draw on the aether by half in an instant. 

Relying on brute force Valens and Jarys smashed their way out of the Choir, Taran and Lydan slowly pushing to the outer hull. The Rhandites were in disarray following the death of their Darkseers and the Chiss counter attack, a third failed the test of faith running for their lives, the rest embraced the chance to sow as much destruction as possible before uniting with the Void.

Maesons wing of Vorynx fighters were scattered, two forced to eject uanble to regain control, Arryn’s shots on the Chariot meant to open up an escape for the boarding party missed badly, the vessels integrity compromised.

Yorna wasn’t recovering from the teleport exhaustion, Coryn couldn’t draw any more energy than what he had in his own body to help her. 

Suicidal runs of Nightcrawlers ruined one of the Lyssia’s engines, all forward cannons on the Alixaea were blasted by vengeful Taung vessels, the belly torn open and stores scattered into the sea of debris.

The boarders were a mess, Maekal was carrying Taran, Candaea dragging Varan, Kisaea deliberately breached the hull to allow vacuum in to give them breathing room from the Knell and Taung, Valens and Jarys staggered out of the Choir, needle darts and talon daggers in their joints, all their heads reeling, telepathic links wavering they relied on helmet to helmet text to coordinate a retreat.   

Scraping and cutting for every inch they leapt from the Rhandite Chariot far worse for wear, barely slamming into the Hecate hull Taryn had just pulled into place before a Chiss dreadnought delivered the coup’d’gras.
***
“There,” Evyn pointed out a ramp upward past two slouching Taung. 

The Assassins main focus was on keeping a diversionary aether mist about them to avoid attention - but it was damn draining with the Shadow cutting so much Aether off.

Keeping hunched they moved past rotting flyblown bodies of the abhumans left in the gaps between four or five storey favela’s, one could only imagine the smell if the rain didn’t keep every micro particle mixed in slimy patina upon the ramshackle structures. 

Section by section they worked through the damned servants of the Rhandites, avoiding the occasional street gang and even rarer Taung patrol, toward the vast lines of creatures standing in line for the ‘privilege’ of working in the monolith factories, the only source of food for the vast populace was rations, mostly paid over to local gang protection rackets, the Rhandites caring nothing for the exploitation among their helots.

Sickness was endemic from pollutants spewed from towering smoke stacks or vomited from refuse pipes straight into noxious rivers that ran between ghettos, a patch of swamp ground dividing sprawling plains of poverty from the towering buildings that turned the sky blue with chemicals that rained back down.

“Still no damn sorcerers…” Taryn huffed his lungs, closed since arriving,

“They must be in the towers…”

Relying on anaerobic cellular respiration fully, he felt tainted drawing breath to speak…yet what choice did they have.
***
“The Shadow is disrupting our Aethenaea Cortex and Telepathaeon Lobes,”  Oran said in the Hecate med-bay Taryn, Valens and Jarys watching on as Maekal grimaced from being used as the ‘test gobril’. 

“I don’t have the equipment here to investigate further and the Shadow itself makes aether shatterpoint Healing analysis difficult…” He had a kindly face marred by carbon scoring and cuts from having to eject his fighter during the battle, bouncing off a Nightcrawler and then being hit by debris till picked up.

“Perhaps a null attack, to disconnect us from the aether,” Jarys suggested
“The null orb we hurled at the Sorcerers attack reducing its impact,”

“Possible,” Valens said quietly, the Sorcerers of Rhand were renowned for their Destructive powers…but the underlying issue remained, even if that were the case why hadn’t they recovered? And why was the effect so strongly correlated with specific brain organs?

Their Aethenaea Cotrex was almost non functional, Telepathic ability drastically reduced in range, making use of Link Orbs back to Aethas impossible.

“I would caution correlation is not causation, but it's hard to ignore the timing,” Oran added looking up from his datapad once more
“We need to get back to Aethas, Xani, Mili and the other healers need to examine us…hopefully by then we will have recovered.”

Taryn and Valens shared a look, they had a meeting with the Chiss admiral in the next few minutes, they doubted a return home was possible.

They were right.

“...data recovered from the battle has located a weak point in the outer edge of the Rhandite dominion, you will infiltrate their power base and cripple as much of their military infrastructure as possible with your Naqxium bombs,” Admiral Al’Tla ordered across the holo in the Strategium minutes later, her voice indifferent and indignant as always, she had no sympathy for her non-Chiss auxiliaries.

They could show no weakness before the Chiss - ever - they could not know about this Shadow, refusing the order was out of the question.

“We will leave in three hours after repairs are completed,” Valens replied, knowing it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Two hours, I will not let this chance slip while we have the upper hand,”

Any other Outsider making such a demand of the Aethan Warchief would have their Carotid and Vertebral arteries sutured by micro-aetheric lighting - the politics of the Chiss alliance denied Valens that pleasure.

“A problem Auxiliary Commander?” Tla asked, noting Valens pause.

“No, we will be transmitting a data package to send onto Aethas with the next communications run,” Valens added.

With the Link orbs unworkable due to the Shadow they had to rely on the Chiss to contact Aethas by conventional means - trying to transmit from this far into the astro-navigational labyrinth of the Unknown Regions to the radiation and gravity storm wracked Deep core was an exercise in futility, the Chiss would take the data package to Csilla, then a CEDF courier would take it direct to the system.

It wouldn’t reach Aethas for five days at best, more likely over two weeks.

“Very well. Yssarmong Over and Out.” Tla cut off abruptly as always.

“Frell,” Taryn sighed out of view of the Admiral.
“We’ll barely be airtight by then, half the teams got something broken healing at a quarter speed, can’t use our fanciest Veil of Mist, Ghosty Girls still out of it, and our best powers are shafted.”

Valens gave looked at him half glare half curious

“Hey, I’ve gotten out of tighter scrapes before,” Taryn added almost apologetically “...but ain’t keen on knowingly going into one,”

“There isn’t another choice,” Valens said darkly
“The Chiss track all our ships, we can’t send anyone back to Aethas without them becoming suspicious, I wouldn’t if we could anyway, Oran suggested a possible risk of transmitting this ‘Shadow’ via the Aethenaea Cortex or Telepathaeon Lobe to others. 
Regardless this presents an opportunity to accumulate intelligence on these Sorcerers powers, find out how they did this to us. We place our bombs in a more conventional way without the Obelisks,”

“It’s a plan,” Taryn shrugged “Shavit filled, but a plan,”

“Glad you like it…” Valens replied with the closest thing his adamantium features came to a smile - well except when he was with his wife and children back home, the only time Taryn ever saw the Slayer of Masters laugh. 

Valens stepped round the desk to pat him on the shoulder.
“...You’ll be implementing it,”
***
The air was hot and soupy through the workhouses, they kept to the shadows, Evyn needing to rest his Aether powers for a while.

The Factory towers were tall as any Coruscant Skyscraper, crammed at every inch with workers and machinery producing slug pellets, shimmer shields, Hunter-Killer Missile warheads. 

Dead workers lay slumped in corners rotting atop oozing piles of decaying bodies, hobbling Taung - those unfit for the front lines due to disability from injury or birth - patrolling, brutalizing the workers in their frustration for true combat.

“This’ll do,” Taryn whispered to Coryn as they passed through the Labyrinth on their way up by an enormous catwalked expanse full of abhumans inserting Volkite cores into deflagration grenades.

The slightly shorter Aethan swept through to a pile of cores left rolling on the floor, it was astonishing there hadn’t been an explosion before.  Beside the pile Coryn placed the fist sized Naqxium detonator, the combination of Naquadah and Coaxium was rabidly explosive and would level this entire section, with a volkite amplifier it might bring the whole tower down.

Working their way up the conditions improved with the complexity of the manufactures.  Each level was miles wide, packed with beings moving, there was a constant river of motion of workers they could slip into at any time. 

The majority were moving ‘up’, very few down. Who would ever want to go backwards here, Taryn thought.

Scurrying half meter tall rodentia creatures serviced the workers needs with water tanks stapled on their backs, some seeming to dump refuse pans straight in before serving the tainted water to others.

“No frelling wonder they want Destruction Eternally,” was Taryn’s attempt at understanding as they placed the Detonators as close to structural supports as they could.

“Who would want to keep living like this?”


“That one,” Taryn whispered, hunched over Coryn.

One of the first things Taryn had learned living among the Runts of the Pirate ship Kyala was how to pick a snitch, even without the aether there was a certain look they all shared, darting eyes above down cast face, often physically weaker, watching as they licked their lips looking to get a payoff for their intrigue and observance.

The weasly faced thin Nag’hi humanoid he picked out at the back of a group of robed adepts would sing for them just as much as his throat warbling did to their Dark now.

On the upper levels harsh winds of the lower atmosphere mingled with needle rain as Taung in heavy cloaks huddled under scant shelter on the catwalks between the Monolithic factories. 

Radiant warmth from the forge fires was snubbed by high altitude freeze as small groups of the Adepts walked in seemingly random patterns, hymns continuously bellowing from their throats.

Evyn was scouting round a far edge as they signalled each other with finger-cant, only their genehanced eyesight picking digits through rain.

Abducting a snitch wasn’t hard - there was abundant casual violence, they’d seen half a dozen Acolytes pushed to their deaths by others, bored Taung randomly tormenting helots - it was getting their target somewhere quiet to interrogate.

Normally they could use the Telepathaeon Lobe to rip memories straight from most any semi sentient species, but that critical ability seemed lost to the Shadow.  Instead of a waiting calm in their brains it was an uncomfortable gnawing hunger that itched at the front of their skulls.

They’d have to extract information the old fashioned way.

Waiting as the column of 13 - a sacred number, all numeric systems of the Rhandites used base 13 - proceeded along the unrailed path over the deep gorge between buildings, acrid smoke mingling with the verdant green pouring from censers the adepts carried swinging in time to their deep chant.

Padding quick and low through the rain Coryn rushed behind the Choirs march as Evyn pulled a stolen MAG pistol to fire in the opposite direction and draw the guards attention.

In a single swift sweep Coryn grabbed the ‘Snitch’ and leapt with him off the ledge following the rain down Taryn just behind shouldering three more down to give the appearance of a general brawl before a slide tackle through the confused throng, sending two more down.

Evyn flipped gracefully into a descent as Taryn rolled into his.

Toxin filled air rose up to meet them as they outpaced the blue tinged rain in free fall, twisting their super human bodies toward the vast rust pitted sides of the towers, their fingers and boot tips sparking as they gouged in to slow their descent, ultradense blackstone holding against the comparatively soft Cerama-steel.

His vestibular system sensing the elevation Taryn triggered the explosives they had hidden around the Towers. 

Teal blooms unfolded around white hot cores as the Naqxium detonated, blasting enormous chunks from the Monolithic towers, disintegrating thousands of Helots, the enormity, and obdurate age of the Factory towers kept them from buckling.

The Aethans slammed into the grimy Sludge of Ages as debris rained down.

“It was built near the pole for temperature regulation….” Seventh explained as the Black diamond shape of the Karintha Class Transport cut across the glass calm white blue ice of Aethas southern pole, his overboard face beneath military cut short hair reflected off the viewscreen.

The Gene-Bank was one of several dozen Technocracy facilities the People simply hadn’t had time to explore in depth amidst more urgent rebuilding needs. 

Now though….

“...So far as we are aware the Sith never reached it, the facility itself was locked down and evacuated before the Collapse.”

The vast Verndari looked cramped in the Assault Transports cockpit doorway, even the cargo hold struggled to hold Fifth. Neither giant complained.

“Then the only concern is erosion,” Ari elucidated in the pilot's chair,her dark red hair swept back neatly, dark leather jacket contrasting soft alabaster features.

Abandoned for 700 years most of the Technocracy facilities built underground or into mountains had suffered cave ins and flooding, computer systems and data drives that used old Pre-Sith Wars tech exhibiting varying degrees of corruption.

“It looked largely intact during our survey seven years ago,” Seventh added, sensing Ari’s thoughts.

Milaea in the co-pilot's chair had been unusually quiet the whole time, emerald eyes staring somewhere beyond space and time looking for answers, creasing slightly her classically beautiful yet too-symmetrical features, the product of genetic design and selective breeding.

“Hey,” Ari touched her arm
“Something wrong?”

“Apart from the obvious,” Milaea tried to laugh despite the weight of the Shadow across their minds.

For Two. Long .Weeks.  They had sought answers while the children remained unconscious.
***
“Neuro-Anas-Dorn,” Milaea had said, eyes red from days of intense Shatterpoint and conventional investigation, the drawn despairing faces of mothers sisters and aunts around the entrance to Mount Aelia fortress looked at her with expectation but not panic.

Aethans didn’t panic in a crisis, the Technocracy designed them better than that, they became clinical, efficient, taking a scalpel to any impediment.

This was a problem that could not be sliced away.
“...neuro-relaxant that stimulates neuroplasticity of the Aethenaea Cortex to allow memories to write.  It starts producing when a telepathic signal from another Aethan indicates they are about to communicate information via the cortex.  And Children are taking in information all the time, they can’t control it like adults.  But the protein hasn’t stopped producing,”

Three days after the Shadow appeared Kassyndra and Kartintha stood beside her, Xani and Nya holding Holo-Recorders to transmit the briefing to the mothers cradling their children who were being sustained by intravenous fluids and nutrients in the looming Mount Aelia’s overcrowded medical bays.

She activated a Holo projection showing the cross section of the Aethan brain, zooming on the Aethenaea Cortex, yellow curls of Neuro-Anas-Dorn building up in the cortex until it began seeping into nearby cortices and lobes, triggering the coma.

“The Neuro-Anas-Dorn is flooding their brains, we can clear it with shatter point healing or enzymes that break it up, but it doesn’t stop the production - every time they use the Aethenaea Cortex it starts again,”

And as every Aethan knew from the constant tickle on their own Cortex, ever inquisitive children could not stop using it - it was pure instinct.

“This Shadow we’re sensing is triggering All of our cortexes to produce the relaxant, our adult brains put the cortex cells into a rest state, and that seems to be in turn what is diminishing our own connection to the Aether,”
***

Ari’s smile was forced. Her mind was understandably elsewhere, one level of thought piloting the vessel, five more desperately trying to find answers for her beloved Nieces and Nephews.

They knew the symptoms, but so far no one understood the cause of the disease.

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” Ari said hopefully, eyes fixed on the expensive white plains broken by grey rocky escarpments, gouges left by the slow slide of glaciers pushing out to the ocean.

“We have to,”

***
”Our QuadHelixNucleiAacid for the cortex is unvaried,” Xanaea explained after Mili. The youngest of the Aethans to survive the Devastation, Xani had grown into a vibrant and highly intelligent young woman with a keen knack for Aether-Gene interaction

“Somehow this shadow is activating natural functions in the cortex, all the QHNA sequences being activated have always been there so far as we can tell, but are being over activated by something and the sequences that trigger shut off of production are being dampened, Nya…”

She stepped aside for Nyaea, along with Kassyndra, Oran and Xani she was one of were the four full time healers, a role far greater in scope than any conventional doctor or gene-surgeon, the interaction between aethan QHNA and the aether was incredibly complex and fundamental to Aethan life.

“...the Shadow is also affecting the Telepathaeon Lobe, albeit not specific functionality, just the Aetheric connection that allows us to expand telepathic range over planets” as always the demure young woman took a little time to find her feet speaking to large groups.

“We’re still analysing but can’t determine which side the problems are on. Is this Shadow in the aether is causing our gene’s to express themselves erroneously? Or our genes are activating in ways that make the aether appear to be in a Shadow…Or maybe both in a feedback loop…”

It was six days since the Shadow had fallen, and it was clear the healers alone couldn’t find a solution.

“We need…we need everyone to help - testing, experimenting on using the Aether and different brain regions to try and work out which it is…”
***

The ship's repulsors melted the snow beneath exposing rock as they touched down, diminutive black and white sleek feathered Goguins nearby tilting their beaked avian heads in curiosity before shuffling to dive into small pools in the rock for fish indifferent to the Aethan visitors.

Boots crunched toward the craggy rock face ahead, Ari checking her hand drawn map.

Milaea’s wife's love of history and new discoveries had taken them on many expeditions to Technocracy ruins across the system when time allowed - Ari’s expertise in archaeology supplemented by Milaea’s ability to flow walk for extended periods bringing the past to life. 

More personally, their expeditions gave the couple ‘alone time’ they indulged to the full.

The dread urgent need of this expedition weighed upon them.

Eyes still on the map as they walked, Ari stretched out her free hand to take Milaea’s squeezing tightly to comfort each other.

All their time was dedicated to rebuilding the villages and the system defences, let alone being called up for Chiss campaigns, most Technocracy ruins had gone unexplored for simple lack of time and manpower.

“There should be an illusionary wall here…” Ari said her breath misting in the polar freeze as they reached the 40 meter tall, nearly 20 kilometer wide escarpment of almost pure phirk
“...somewhere…”   
Methodical and relentless they set to work.

***
”No Change in the condition,” Adaea said, her face forlorn as she transmitted, not via link orb, but regular hologram from Prakith on Day 12.

They had hoped perhaps the Shadow was limited in range, Adaea along with Evaea and Third had left on the Aertemisaea to see if they could find it’s ‘edge’.  Nearly burning the engines out over four days of ceaseless navigation and taking measurement they had found the Shadow was universal and constant in every sector to at least the edge of the mid-rim.

“Nothing from the observation logs,”  Taraea added on the interlink with dour resignation, having scrupulously gone through every signal the three full Obelisk Arrays they possessed had detected for the last 50 days for any sign of a change in the Aether that could explain the Shadow. A single blip or anomaly, even the most subtle gradual trend in fluctuations of different strands of the all encompassing life energy would’ve been something.

There was a resounding nothing.

“And still no contact from the others, Csilla claims they can’t reach them,” that was Lyaea, as flippant a relationship as they seemed to have it was clear she desperately missed Taryn, as they all did their husbands, bothers, father and uncles.

It was the worst possible time for such a crisis, twenty-two men and three women on campaign with the Chiss, leaving twenty women and the Six Verndari to care for 48 unconscious children and try and find what was causing that unconsciousness

They had no idea if the Shadow was affecting their family in the Unknown Regions.

“Keep looking,” Karintha said firmly, concern for her own four children mingled into the need to guide the People as a whole in this dark hour
“No stone unturned, I want everything the Technocracy knew of the QHNA and aether interactions found,”
***

Before them was a vast ancient rounded door wide enough for two speeders to enter side by side with no obvious means of activation in the otherwise sterile cavern.

Seventh had found the outer entrance, their connection to the aether dimmed, thermal and mass senses remained sharp, and though the escarpment was wide it was finite.

Brow furrowed Ari looked about the walls of the entrance cavern, cut marks seeming as fresh as they day they had been made. 

The technocracy structures were 700 years without use or maintenance, simply cutting the door open was a risky last opinion. Finally then under her feet, a glint pulled her mass sense.

Exactly one thousand tiles the size of a thumb sat jumbled beneath a dust covered glass barrier in the floor, all etched with seemingly random lines of white on the black.

“A Puzzle lock…” Ari quickly discerned brushing more of the dust and snow aside.

“One only an Aethan could solve…” Milaea realized in turn.

To any other being it would appear a crazed jumble, for an Aethan designed mind it was plain what had to be done. 

Using the Whitescar lines on the Blackstone tiles they had to levitate the entirety of the mosaic telekinetically, rearrange it to form an image of Triquetra, all four worked in sequence slowed by the Shadow on their powers.

The heavy door groaned with the inertia of centuries unmoved stalling half way, but more than enough to allow them in.

“Fifth, make sure this doesn’t close behind us,” Ari ordered the Verndari escort.

The enormous Aethan patted the door assessing its weight and strength if it should slam shut.

“As You Will it,” was his cool reply as the red haired women walked cautiously past him, Seventh following lighting his torch into the blue-black depths.

The air tasted of wet rock, tiny fragments floating past their lights as they wandered the halls and peered in the laboratories. 

The dark silence of the Gene-Bank was punctuated by stabs of despair when they found caved in sections blocked by long since stilled rubble.

“Here…” Ari called at last after an hour.  Long lines of cabinets with antiquated Archival Disk Drives stored within each shelf, the Cabinets all engraved with a numbering system.

“15.2.6…perhaps the gene generation?” Milaea wondered
“It would match the archival system in other ruins,” Ari agreed, stepping past her and winding through the ranks of frozen witnesses to a lost age.

“27.1….28.3…Pro…” she stopped at the corner where rubble covered and crushed the last three cabinets.

“Project Aethenaea…” she knelt brushing the old rock away
“Valance…Aethena…hmmm…” the third was too damaged to read, carefully plucking out a disk she inspected its archival coding, the disk itself cracked beyond recovery.

“This looks promising, I think these are old gene sequence indexes…if the samples are anywhere they would be here…”

Leaving the ‘library’ they continued on for another half hour they found the only illumination still active at the far end of the facility above an nondescript heavy iron doorway with rounded locking seals.

“Lights still on, Seventh wait here just in case and let Fifth and the others know our progress,” Milaea ordered the ever faithful Verndari

“Here goes,” Ari said, waving her hand in case the motion sensor worked, unsurprisingly it didn’t the wives each gripping one side to pull the door gently open.

Air even colder than the rest of the frigid facility blew out along with the humm of working electronics.

Their steps echoed on metallic floors as they descended further and further down, Ari checking the Chiss Handheld Omni scanner as they reached the end of a long set of stairs.

“Ten storeys under, in the heart of the glacier…radiation profile consistent with a Naquadah generator, it must be one of the most powerful the Technocracy could make,”

Milaea’s eyes narrowed at the door ahead, innocuous and utilitarian.  She couldn’t sense anything behind it, yet a dread feeling still crept up her spine, something her wife did not fail to notice.

“Something bad?” Ari had long experience of comforting Milaea after dreadful future flashes of her Seior powers.

“Something…better left undistributed…if we had the choice” Milaea noted grimly, Ari annoyed in their armour she couldn’t touch her properly to offer support.  Whilst the children's suffering was cause enough for anxiety, Ari knew Milaea having not sensed it coming despite her often traumatizing Seior powers was even more troubling.

Was this Shadow able to evade even their most powerful Seeress vision?

Milaea worried she knew the answer, that this Shadow was not something that had suddenly fallen upon them and could be seen from afar - rather it was something that had always been there, within the People and their Past, only now rising from the dark.

Pressing on, this door did open as they approached.

A wide semi circle of frost white glass greeted them above an arcing set of consoles interspersed with thick blocky machines with cradles from containers of some kind that fed via pipes somewhere behind the frosted glass.

Blue and white lights flickered as they approached, soft beams scanned over their faces.

“At Last…” A disembodied voice echoed around the chamber, static and droid like

“I feared you weeeeeeerrrrre lost,” it stammered as dust blew from the speakers unused for centuries.

In the center of the semicircle of consoles was a large rounded holo-lith station that began to glow blue in the concave center from a large light ensconced within.   

“Who are you?” Milaea asked

“I...Am Your Father”

The Strider came down on the deck with a clank encircled by off white walls broken by panels and pipes.  The needle shaped vessel wasn’t the fastest, newest or best armed ship in the galaxy, but it had been affordable and got Mira where she needed to go.

Just outside the viewport the young man she had ‘met’ with Isas gave a thumbs up.

His name was Varasian, and was meant to show her around the Pallas Athena - a 400 meter droplet shaped parchment coloured science vessel into which she was now docking.

Worming through the narrow corridor to the side hatch Mira hopped out onto the Pallas meticulously clean deck, Varasian already waiting for her as the mag clamps locked her ship in place, the only other vessel in the wide bay a six seater bulky transport festooned with antennae and ponderous metal spheres - likely another scientific exploratory vessel.

“Welcome aboard the Pallas” Varasian said,  Mira had to admit he was handsome, dark brown neck length hair, short stubble and a well defined curve to his face.  But shavit he seemed green, the outdated armour sat ill upon him and he just didn’t seem the type to wield a tremor sword like the one on his hip.

“I will show you to your quarters,” he said with a deferential nod.

Wandering the neat corridors Mira found the place eerily empty, this was a ship made for at least three maybe four hundred crew. 

She only saw a handful.  Devoid of staff or equipment, she passed empty room after empty room.
“Most of the equipment,” Varasian explained,
“Was taken onto the colony, this was actually the ship that discovered our new home world, after this mission it will be retired.” he patted one of the walls with affection
“Over 40 years of service back and forth provisioning the colony with everything we need,”

“Fascinating,” Mira said disinterestedly, turning into another corridor toward the center of the ship lined with small pot plants between each of the blue lit white doors. 
At the far end was a picture of a woman with glowing golden red hair holding a book in one hand, a spear in the other and a strange bulbous eyed avian creature on her shoulder.

“Pallas Athena herself,” Varasian smiled
“A symbol of wisdom , progress and discovery - an inspiration to us,”

“Whatever you say,”
He didn’t seem to understand she had no real interest in anything but getting her job done quickly as possible.

“This is your room,” he handed her a small carefully folded piece of flimsi
“Instructions to change the door code, if you require anything there is a buzzer by the door, the kitchen is one deck up,,”

“Great, hope the food is better than the fittings,” she said curtly, his reply seeming stunted

“Isas will be down to visit you after lift off, she is not feeling herself at the moment,” he finished

“Something wrong,” Mira idly asked

“Not unusually so, my mother suffers migraines from time to time, ever since Katarr,”

“I can imagine...but wait you said mother, but you have eyes, so you’re half Miraluka?”  Mira asked interest finally piqued,

“Mostly, you see she and,”

“Varasian,” a voice like a wave cold water came down the hall, there was the Old Man in his archaic armour staring at the boy with a look that said ‘shut the frell up’.

He bowed slightly to Mira again with a deference that made her uneasy.

“Enjoy your stay Lady Mira,” he finished heading toward the Old Man.

Weird, Mira thought. But not her problem.


The ship lifted without incident, Mira tinkering with her wrist mounted launcher most of the time till hunger finally drew her out into the crisp white corridors that echoed with the thrum of the hyperdrive and the whirr of the air filtration system.

A scent of chlorine hung over everything, all the doors had pliable rubber seals to allow for a total air lock. 

Exactly what kind of science was this ship doing she wondered.

Everything about this just seemed a little off - not in a dangerous way, but, there was a sense she got, especially from the Old Man, of a kind of transgression - he was doing something he knew was somehow ‘wrong’ but not truly evil.

She shook it off, she would be out of here with a fat purse soon enough.

As the savoury scent of food reached her nose on the stairs she felt a sense of deja-vu.

The galley, like the ship was largely empty, a handful of crew on one of the tables near the buffet behind which a bored looking chef poked at the three filled hot trays sitting defiant beside seventeen empty ones.

Mira’s eyes were drawn to one table near the dead center of the room where a solitary figure in a cream jumpsuit sat, long white hair tied into a tight bun.

“You are frelling kidding me,” Mira whispered.

At the table, Atris, Former Jedi Master and Archivist, Traitor to the Jedi at Katarr, betrayer of the Republic at Telos IV, defeated and arrested by Meetra Surik, looked up with cold blue eyes.


Blue eyes stared cold beneath loose white hair unkempt from the indifference isolation engenders. She knew this was not the normal time for visitors.

Led from her tiny cell down the row of shimmering red force cages a few of the other prisoners still awake glared at her, one with a grin that showed he had only half his teeth intact blew a kiss.

She did not give him the satisfaction of looking as he began screaming vile statements of what he intended to do with her body should he ever get the chance.

The maximum security wing of the Asteroid based prison had been her home for three years since Mical, Brianna and the other ‘New Jedi’ had judged her for her actions on Telos IV and Katarr, drawing Darth Nihilus to both locations.

Those petulant upstarts had no right to judge her, no true understanding of what it was to be a Jedi, no concept of the sacrifice she had made to preserve their history and archives in the face of the chaos wrought by Revan and Malak.

She was processed through the various checkpoints, enduring with silent stoicism the invasive unnecessary searches of her person.

Finally taken to a cell not large enough to spread her arms and placed in a seat.  The door sealed behind her as a heavy one in front lowered to reveal three layers of transparisteel intersected by blue shimmering force fields.

On the other side her visitor sat, face distorted by the excessive layers between them.

“Who are you and what do you want,” she snapped, irritated at the inconvenience of the whole thing, knowing the taunts she would be subjected to from across her cell for weeks on end.

“Atris, Jedi Archivist, and traitor to the Republic,” the old man said slowly
He had a battle worn face and hard presence in the Force - this was a man forged by the fires of war and grief.  There was something familiar about him.

“I’ve come to set you free,”

“Free me? Why? Who sent you, Mical?”

He hissed a sneer
“I’m not of the these petulant new Jedi, I represent something better, something new - beyond all the delusions of orthodoxy and morality,”

With each moment she gained a better sense of him, she knew him - not personally but of him, something from long ago, Force even before the Mandalorian War What was it!

“What foolishness is this, have you dragged me out here to preach nonsense,”

He ignored the retort

“You’re a leader, an organiser, plotter and schemer, you need more than this existence, I’m offering it…giving you a chance to go somewhere you will be all but worshipped, your skills put to use, where you can restart the movement you created with those Echani girls with a new vigour and focus.”

Whoever he was, he was very well informed.  Her training of the Echani sisters to resist and counter Force users was known only to a handful of the ‘new’ Jedi and senior Republic officials. 

He was neither of those.

“You know the Jedi are dead to you, but you can make something better, more perfect”

“Your voice is familiar,” she said ignoring his prattle
“The way you sit, the way you feel...like a Jedi but murky, distorted…”

He tensed and leaned back

That was it!

“Gray...yes one of the so called Gray Jedi,”

Now his face showed signs of true anger

“I cast that title away decades before you allowed yours to be stripped through arrogance,”

Rage, good, she must be correct.

“Why would I join the likes of you?” she asked after a pause.

“Because anything is better than being imprisoned for your so called crimes, and you will not get a better offer than this,”

“What is the poison of it then? How are you able to get me free” she asked

“The group I represent still has influence among the Political class of the Republic enough to set you loose on condition you leave the Republic and never set foot in it’s systems again, my group is creating a new colony far from their laws and moralising…”

“And why me then? What can I have that you want so much,”

“Knowledge, experience, talent, and…” his voice carried an undercurrent of urgency as if his life was measured in days rather than years.

“We both know what it is to see what he held so closely destroyed and betrayed, to feel the hollowness of failure, to chafe at the limits imposed by beings of less vision...”

“I recognize you now,” she leaned forward, matching him.
“An old story - Two Gray brothers, who fought in the war against Exar Kun, one had a daughter who died, but he kept her in a cryo vat, wouldn’t let her be buried or cremated, went insane they said trying to bring her back from the dead until the other brother put a stop to it….” she had to stretch her mind back many years
“What was the name...Sandar? Zanir?….”

“Enough!” he snapped, drawing the ire of the Guards as the sound proof transparisteel shook with a tremor of the Force.

“That is...finished with, your future is what we are discussing - make your decision, rotting in prison another 50 years...or….”


…anything was better than prison.

“Who let you outta juvie?” Mira asked staring at the blue eyed former Jedi

“Do I know you?” Atris asked, annoyed at the interruption to her meal, she was still relishing the ship based rations which were only a grade above the prison slop.

“We got a few common friends,” Mira said
“And I find it hard to believe any of them would let you go free, I mean Mical is a bit of a pansy, but even he isn’t that generous,”

“You are one of Surik’s foundlings,” Artis realised
“Interesting,”

“Is there a problem?” Varasian seemingly out of nowhere appeared having sensed the spike of tension between the two guests.

Atris looked Mira straight in the eyes
“Is there?”

Mira raised her hands to avoid catching the issue
“Hey it’s your ship, so long as we don’t end up singing from the Sith song book, or getting tailed by a life sucking mask wearing shadow I’m good,”

Atris offered only a withering smile at the unconcealed stab.

He smiled at the lowly teen that peeled tubers, recalling having done the same forty years earlier.

The young lek’un offered a chaste nod of appreciation to be recognised by the Kızlar Ağası - the Chief Black Eunuch of the Q’Atrox in direct service to the Enfanta, then returned to his work.

Fallyn strode past through the rear entrance to the servants quarters, his tasks in service to the Enfanta for the day complete.

He passed through the neatly kept dormitories to the small quarters where the more senior Lek’un made their abode within the Q’Atrox Stormhold.

It had taken many decades of faithful service, and many very personal sacrifices, to attain a position in the Enfanta’s service and thereby assist his brothers in gaining positions within the Kinde.

Sliding the paper door open his room comprised only a small bench, mirror and tatami mat bed, he unclasped his robes and hung them on the back of the door.
 
Fallyn’s possessions were few, his duty robes, a small carving of himself and his brothers, and a brine filled jar in which sat the greatest sacrifice he had made for his family, for the Kinde he served.

The only full men that could enter the Enfanta’s apartments were the Hanshõ and the Sine Mardenes mare-Q'Atrox.

A bitter smile always came at the thought of that price. He had sworn with his two brothers Nectrin Gardens as they bloomed with fruits on their thirteenth name day to give their lives to serve the Kinde. Their bodies forfeit to duty, he simply had paid a part of his flesh earlier.

A soft knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. 

“Enter,” he already knew who it was.  Fallyn could never mistake the presence of his brothers.

Kullat, Fallyn, and Celeano were triplets, born in that order, they were each other's strength during the long hard years of gaining position through degrading work, emotionally and mentally bonded as one soul in three bodies.

Celeano slid the door open and shuffled in on his knees, closing it behind him.

“Ancestors bless you brother,” Fallyn said, “What brings you here from your duties?”

Celeano had always been the most skilled with his hands, quick and dexterous. 

Fallyn had first managed to gain him a place among a vassal Kinde of the Q’atrox working on Repulsor-mounts. 

From there he had worked his way through sleepless years of study and practice to becoming the pilot of Zhoa’s Gift the space faring vessel the Hanshõ Rannek-soma Mare Q’Atrox had gifted his twin children.

Unlike Fallyn, Celeano was not as adept at concealing his feelings, making him ill suited to a position too close to the Kinde.

“I dreamt of our brother last night,” Celeano said.

Kullat, the oldest and boldest of them, so far as the Kinde Q’Atrox knew, had died of consumption some five years before.

His brothers knew better, but all their conversations were kept in the cipher of traditional Lek’un spiritualist beliefs.

“He spoke to me of a place he is Traversing within the Deeper Dream…”

Fallyn raised his hand
“Do not speak more brother, such sacred things are meant only for the ears of the receiver,”

In other words Don’t tell me the location Kullat has informed you of, lest I possibly reveal it under torture in the future

“My sleep is restless brother,” Celeano replied

We need to move quickly

“I can have a tonic prepared for you by the Enfanta’s Master Alchemist upon the morrow when I see him,”

I shall press immediately with the Enfanta

“He is an honourable Lek’un, a persuasive speaker, I’m sure the Enfanata will permit the use of his skills to assist her pilot,”

The Hanshõ will not long refuse the Enfanta, such is her influence

“My thanks brother,” Cleano said with a bow, remaining on his knees the whole conversation in deference to Fallyn’s relatively exalted position in the ranks of the Lek’un.

“May you sleep well under the guidances of the ancestors and the honoured Hanshõ’s of the past till then,” Fallyn finished

Like so many children of the Nobility, The Sínã and Sine had taken to the fashion of going on Grand Tours of the Galaxy during colder decade cycles of Anzat Prime, taking with them a throng of their friends and young vassals, often hundreds if not thousands of Lek’un on their elaborate barges, visiting innumerable worlds of the Republic in search of exotic experiences and novel Soup.

Fallyn recalled vividly the last such expedition, nearly two decades ago, before the latest outbreak of war between nearby systems.  It was just after he had entered the Enfanta’s service, his main tasks were seeing to her wardrobe and toilet.

One experience would stay with him, the Enfanta had…’procured’ a creature called a Givin - a queer lanky thing with a skeletal face, to ‘taste’. 

The creature's thick bone was however too strong for her proboscis to penetrate...Fallyn had to hold the head while Ammud drilled holes into the skull to allow ingress to feed upon.

The Enfanata had found, however, the Givin was not to her taste, vomiting and suffering a headache for days after. 

Fallyn had taken the opportunity swiftly...a small potion slipped into the previous Kızlar Ağası’s’ tea rendering him quite ill, allowing Fallyn to care for the Enfanta in those days sequestered on board Zhoa’s Gift. 

It had gained him the Enfanta’s trust and ensured his position as next in line for the position...Kullat had ensured the position became vacant a year after the return to Anzat Prime.

“Enfanta if I may…” he whispered as the Enfanta gracefully stitched careful fractal lines into the rarest of the honey-azure Bombyx silk for a new Kimono in the Sun Room, her favoured place, the hexagonal top of the South West Tower of the Great Q’Atrox Stromholds Second Wing, expanded in the years after the Hanshõ’s great Victory over the Vel two centuries before.

“Speak eunuch,” she replied not looking up, eyes more purple than red on her craft, they contrasted pleasingly with white-grey skin and aquiline features of good noble breeding, thick glossy dark hair in the torobin shimada style, wide looping wings on each side of her head, fine fabrics bridging the gap threaded with diamonds from the Gojome mines of the deep Sabakau.

“I have heard from the traders who provided the Chandrillan Rubies last month that the wars between the Gaijin systems have been in abeyance for some years now...perhaps it is time to remind the Hanshõ of your desires?”

The Enfanta was always keen to explore the Space lanes, but the Hanshõ was protective of his twin children beyond all measure, and the Wars had seen him refuse her request to travel so many times she had not bothered to ask for some years, contenting herself with Winter trips to Azherri along the Tokaido Road each year to enjoy the Winter Balls of the Mare as they exalted in their corpulence.   

“hmmmm….It is true I have not heard of any more battles...perhaps peace has returned at last…”

“If so the Hanshõ could hardly refuse such a request for another Tour, after so long in between...if I might speak so boldly,” Fallyn pressed gently as he absently plucked strands of languorous black blue hair from her favoured brush lying cast aside on the floor, then sealing it silently into the wooden box of her toiletries he carried with him at all times.

“You speak too boldly servant,”

His face drained even as he bowed his head in submission immediately, a glint of the Terror that beamed from the Hanshõ's eyes now in hers too.   

A touch of mirth tickled at her lips making her pale features all the more radiant as she giggled.

“See what other talk there is from the traders and speak to me of this again in a few days,”

With inward relief and feeling of assuredness Fallyn bowed.

His heavy eyelids lifted like a languorous sunrise, the scent of what could only be the Efendí before him. 

There was always the Efendí…

His Meditation chamber was sealed to all but the Efendí after all. 

After each mediation there was a new Druhanne or Druhanni with a more sickly hue to their skin, he paid no attention to the differences anymore.

Octagonal with ancient banners of the Kinde Q’Atrox that had once been carried into battle before him and his father on every side, the columns of akamatsu timber hid discrete sensors that would’ve detected his awakening.

Rannek-stroma Mare-Q’Atrox, First of his Name, Clucir of Hokuriku, Defender and First Champion of the Capugio of the Anzat Evokation…and a hundred other titles of honour…and millions of denigration…took his time in coming fully to himself once more, slowly opening his dry mouth to take up the water from the ewer the Efendí had placed before him in readiness.

Sipping slowly he spoke at last, voice still gravel.

“How long Efendí,”

The Lek’Un bowed his head to the floor, the chamber still near lightless.

“65 years, 2 months and 13 days if it please Hanshõ”

65 years…had he been at…meditation so long?…he thought it only a decade at most…. 

In truth Rannek knew it was not mediation…but...hibernation.

At over 13,000 years old he was, as far as he was aware, the eldest Anzat alive. 

There may be older among the renunciates and aesthetics in the high Polar mountain monasteries, or the desert caves of the scorching arid Sabaku, but they barely merited mentioning having long since left material concerns behind.

For the last four thousand of those years he had required…extensive periods of ‘meditation’ to order his thoughts and centre his mind as the…as the…

”The Kuru…” Rannek said standing over the corpse of Isho Mare-Ry’ce, face twisted and eyes backward in the head, madness had overtaken Isho in the final days as it had all the first generation of Gaki – Ranneks inner circle of Anzat warriors who had feasted on their victims soup, Anzat and Lek’un alike…

“Burn the body,” he ordered the Comis, the head Lek’un general of Isho’s Kinde, even if vassalage was not enough to compel obedience against burial custom, the need to hide the disgrace of his master would see the Lek’un obey.

They had not known, not cared in those early days, the Taste of the soup of other Anzat was all that mattered, the richness, the depth, so much more than Lek’un…but after a few years the first side effects of what would be known as Soup Kuru appeared…

Emotional instability, memories of those they had eaten intruding on their thoughts, inability to think in linear time, moments of deep solipsism, and worst of all a frenetic mania as the death scream echoes of their victims repeated in their head driving some Anzat to try to remove the screams by various often gruesome means…

Isho had attempted to carve them out with his wakizashi….

The Kuru threatened to take him too; for some it was less than a decade before the degenerative effects became irreversible…for Rannek it had been Millenia.  Whether by luck, strength or curse he knew not…though he suspected the latter.

“What is the state of the Evokation…” he asked, voice trailing off necessitating another drink before he sniffed the broth before him, it would be weeks before he could eat solid food again.

“Hanshõ the Evokation…is in a period of…somnolence…”

“Who is Capugio…” Rannek asked, staring into the water at his reflection, the gaunt tainted nobility of his face familiar as it was repugnant to him.

“Perhaps my Hanshõ you should regain your strength be….”

The slightest twitch of Rannek’s lips in annoyance and the Lek’un began to gag on the pressure of Rannek telekinetic power.

Why had he consumed so many Anzat risking the Kuru?
At first it was the taste, the thrill of defying all laws and morals but later…

Later it had been the power. 

With each victim some of their Ki was gained allowing the nascent Anima or ‘Force’ power as off-worlders such as Jedaii called it, all Anzat possessed to strengthen.

With hundreds of victims per year - thousands in his prime - Rannek accrued enormous power.

Sensing the Efendí had realised his error, Rannek allowed him to speak.

“The Evokation has been…absent a Capugio for some years now…the Anzat on world are few and have little interest in establishing or holding any court…”

The Foundering….

Once Space travel had become safe and affordable the lower Castes had fled the planet in droves…from the incessant wars between the Kindes yes, but more to escape their despised lot and the ever present risk of being consumed by another Anzat as Animopophagy – the consumption of one own race – became more common place.

The outside galaxy offered a veritable garden of delights for a skilled Anzat whose innate hunting and telepathic abilities made them superior to most humanoid species that in turn offered novel and intricate flavours of Soup the Lek’un could not compete with even accounting for the Genetic memory – the force wielding Jehda’i  in particular….

He would watch every day from his balcony as the grandeur of the Kinde estate fell down while the population that once supported them flew up through the Silent Voices – the clouds that crossed the Anzat sky, breaking their serenity with the glow of engine and exhaust. 

He could feel the sinking certainty that he was witnessing the death of the world he knew, a world of great and noble houses he had helped destroy with his rapacious wars and vicious animopophagy….

Once more Rannek realised he was slipping…

“Something disrupts my Wa Efendí and drew me from my meditations…Has my Misíta arrived?”

Druhanne swallowed hard…65 years of sleep - had his Hanshõ forgotten completely!

Misíta was the name the Hanshõ gave to his beloved daughter, the Enfanta Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox….

In the depths of his ancestors memories Druhanne saw her, radiant, and gleefully capricious playing in the gardens about the Stromhold, the Hanshõ’s countenance of vicious predation only broke when he looked upon her, then…then…

Druhanne felt tears well.

“Hanshõ…the Efanta remains….” He barely had the heart to speak it, the pain that had befallen the Kinde and sent his Hanshõ into a rage and fury that had lasted the better part of a Millenia, nearly ruined the Kinde financially and driven the Hanshõ and his retainers to every imaginable system in the Galaxy rapaciously consuming and torturing beings for information that simply did not exist.

Rannek remembered the events of…when was it now…9, 10 thousand years ago?

“…something else disrupts my Wa…” Rannek whispered, relieving the Efendí of the need to speak of the Great Sorrow.

He sniffed their air and felt the surrounds with his powers…there were the Lek’un repetitive and mechanical as any…what was the word…robot? 

Not an Anzat near except…

Slimy, disgusting, beneath him…

“Druf…”


*See Remanant of the Aether: Rage and Shadow for Vzin Kree http://www.saberforum.com/index.php?topic=44181.150 (http://www.saberforum.com/index.php?topic=44181.150)*

Wet rotted wooden supports flecked with traces of ancient lacquer stood weary sentinels as what was once a decorated opulent hall was turned to a hovel of scuttling impoverished lek’un who gazed at the being in the centre of the room with awe and terror.

The old mansion, one of hundreds, on the edge of Q’ohna, the capital of what was once the jewel of continent of Hokuriku, seat of the almighty Clucir Rannek-soma Mare Q’Atrox, had long been abandoned in the great migrations that saw the Anzat race flee their homeworld escaping the rigid caste system into the arms of opportunity.

One such son of Anzat lay on a gurney, attached to a dozen different antiquated IV’s and Medicae devices that beeped blue and green into the dank room languidly lighting the faces of the Lek’un gathered about.

For many it was the first time they had ever seen an Anzat, their genetic memories notwithstanding.

The Anzat had stumbled here some months ago, barely alive, hideously wounded and emaciated. 

Under Ancient Rite of Reparation  it was a Lek’un’s duty and privilege to assist any Anzat in need regardless of caste or Kinde (assuming another Anzat they served to had not ordered otherwise) - thus honouring the race that had freed their ancestors from the Rakatta and by their charmed Ceremony of Completion could elevate a Lek’un to the Silent Voices that hovered overhead in the quiet night sky to join their ancestors.

Said Anzat’s eyes began to open, a sneer already creeping across his face as the stench of decay filled his nose.

Vzin Kree had little choice in coming here.  Broken and shattered in body and mind upon Dypseth as his decades long plan to cultivate the two foundlings that called him Sensei – Evaea and Evyn – was crushed by the ferocious fists of a Beast of their unusual metahuman species.

Thrown from the Fortress Monastery to his death in the noxious gas filled ravines below, what bones the beast hadn’t broken with his fists were crunched by the impact.

But then…for reasons he could not comprehend he was…healed…given just enough to live by a woman glowing red.

It had taken him months to crawl and climb back to the fortress monastery, time and again falling down rock faces slicing his skin apart, digging a path with bloodied fingers, so starved he licked the acidic algae that grew in the deep ravine for water and energy.

He gorged on recklessly when he reached the monastery but controlled himself eventually leaving barely a year's worth of emergency rations - in the end it had to stretched Twenty six years…

Twenty.

Six.

Years.

Trapped alone in the monastery, his body never healing, bones and organs out of place - to breath was to suffer, to move agony…he hunted the gomp rats for food, and waited…and waited…and waited…for someone to finally come to the Monastery.

His stealth skills were still incomparable, even if his mind was wrought with semi-madness…and his hunger for Soup….well….

The small party of archaeologists who alighted into the ruins, in any other situation beneath his palate to even consider consuming, were the sweetest most delicious souls he had ever drunk, their flesh he ravaged with gummy, weakened teeth. 
 
Barely lucid he took the ship to the one place he knew he would be welcome, after a fashion – the only planet the Anzat were not a cause of riotous terror when seen in public….

So he found himself on Anzat prime, a place he’d forsworn centuries before, relying on the drivelling automata like Lek’un that eked out a pointless confused existence, driven by genetic memory that instilled obedience to now completely absent masters.

The mansion was one of the few still attended by the hereditary servant race in the once great city, a microcosm of the planet itself, it was a pitiable decayed caricature of its former grandeur, its owner long since dead or vanished, the servants wary but so desperate for a new master they took his stumbling self in without question.

He would remain until fully restored – the selectively bred Lek’un healers understood Anzat biology far better than any republic droid, their genetic memory of treating thousands of maladies and war injuries unmatched – then return to Azherri to find a ship off….

Barely awake, the booming opening of the halls' large once gilded, now rusted, doorways ushered in mid-morning light that seared his eyes.

Garbled yells and then the banging of heads on the grunge covered tatami preceded them.

Warriors that could only be Kinju – the Lek’un personal guard of a so called ‘noble’ based on their ornate plated armour - took position at all points of the chamber, the Lek’un of the manor bowing in obedience at their presence. 

While it had been many centuries since the Lek’un had been engaged in any real warfare, genetic memory of battles millennia ago and selective breeding to enhance those memories kept them as deadly as ever.

Kree raised himself up best he could amidst the sea of fluid lines and Bio-sustenate devices clamped to his limbs just in time to see the entrance of the first Anzat he had seen in the better part of two hundred years - so solitary was their existence now.

“Druf…” Rannek sneered, Druhanne and his Comis in tow.  It was the first time he had left the Stormhold in decades.

“How was this creature allowed to defile this Manor without your knowledge Efendí…” Rannek snapped but never took his eyes from the defiant Druf.

“Forgive me Hanshõ…There is no excuse for such failure,”

“There is not…” Rannek agreed observing the wretched state of the Manor itself, he had been here before…many millennia ago…This was the Hall of Resplendent Prosperity belonging to Kinde Mare-Ouichi, vassals of the Q’Atrox, administrators for the most part, but able ones…how far it had fallen…

And yet astonishingly the most decrepit thing in this place was not the ruined family banners or barely nourished Lek’un servants who waited for masters that would never return – but the Druf before him.

The lowest of the Anzat castes it was a stain upon him to even look upon a Druf, intolerable for such to squat within such a noble Kindes manor…no wonder Rannek’s Wa – his sense of tranquillity and peace – had been disrupted.

“Speak Druf what reason have you for this insult to the Kinde Ouichi?”

Kree blinked groggy unable to comprehend anything more than a few words of the archaic old-Anzati Rannek spoke.

“You will answer the Clucir!” A Kinju demanded smacking Kree’s head to floor with his staff.

“I don’t know what you’re saying…” he spat out with an already rotten tooth now let free.

Rannek’s face twisted in annoyance to befoul his mouth with the uncouth language of Basic that was this Druf’s seemingly only tongue. He gestured for the Efendi to repeat the question in his stead.

“Translate Efendi,”

“Speak Druf what reason have you for this insult to the Kinde Ouichi?” Druhanne repeated in stilted Basic, archaic but just comprehensible.

“Ha…” Kree simply chuckled with wistful semi-madness, far fallen from the controlled Sensei he had once been, pain throbbing along his still only tentatively set ribs with each word,
“Kindes…castes…what an anachronism you are,”

Druhanne’s eyes nearly exploded from his head to hear a Druf insult his Hanshõ so, had a Lek’un said such he would’ve had them thrown in the Pit!

Rannek brushed such aside, he had hardly cared much for the old ways himself in his youth, and he would certainly never forget his…his…fall? Damnation? Curse?  Had begun with a Druf Courtesan and his Father.

“You will respect me Druf,” Rannek stepped forward, his limbs were stiff but his Anima  strong as ever.  This he pressed outward.

It had been long known that Venerable Anzat, those who aged over 900 years or so gained a measure of power over younger Anzat, a derivative of their nascent telepathic prowess that suppressed the will of prey when hunting soup, lulling them into a stupor for the Anzat to feed. 

That had been in the days before the Animopophage…

As Anzat began to live several millennia it was found this power, the Yokusei or suppression, grew ever stronger, enabling the most ancient of Anzat to completely dominate and compel the obedience of those younger than them.

Kree felt the sick black of the Yokusei vibrate in every cell, far worse than the beating and torment over these last years was the indignity of his freedom being curtailed by the archaic Anzat before him. 

“Why are you here?” Rannek asked again, well knowing he need not ask a third time.

“To recover from my injuries…” Kree gritted out, the Yokusei compelling understanding in his very blood.
“…to hide from the…the creatures that crushed me…”

“You thought you could come into any Manor or city and be attended to?”

“Why not…everything is empty, I care nothing for the Old Ways you foolishly cling to…these dolts…” he gestured to the Lek’un
“serve us still,”

“The Daen Nosi twist across the Ocean of Dreams, you Druf amongst it…” Rannek’s gaze narrowed as he observed the lines of fate which showed, past, present and future an indecipherable and malleable path that could lead one to glory or destruction…and yet follow them all Anzat must nonetheless.

“…I will learn why,”

Continuing the disparate-yet-related threads from the previous chapter: from our "current" Aethans (c. 500 BBY), to the pre-Technocracy group (including associates of the Jedi Exile), to the children of Rannek, and finally to the Hansho himself, we see the connective tissue throughout.

No surprise that, given the events that have occupied the Aethans, not to mention their own extremely limited personnel resources, those now occupying Aethas were/are unaware of the secrets hidden within their own planet.  The Devastation--true to its name--effectively erased all knowledge of the Technocracy's bastions and data centers.  That Mili and Ari have found one is both lucky and incredible; of course, just what knowledge the repository holds has yet to be seen.  One wonders if this will help to fill in the monumental gaps in the Aethans' history...or just create more questions for them.

As Mira continues her (canonical) search for the Jedi Masters, we see one of the gaps of her own story filled in: it seems that she was amongst the first to join/ally with the very much nascent proto-Technocracy.  Not only that, but we see a few other familiar faces, namely Atris the Archivist.  Just what their contributions are still remain a mystery, but given that they both fought in first the Mandalorian Wars and then the Dark War.  Perhaps their powerful connection to the Force is what the Old Man needs from them (but I suspect it's more than just that).

This time we're treated to a bit of Anzati history, the Hansho's own children.  Given the timing--before the mass exodus of Anzat Prime due to the Foundering--we see a glimpse of the might of Kinde Q'Atrox and Rannek's own daughter (and heir), Faveah and her attendants (once again, more secrets and questions).

Which brings us to Rannek.  Just what was it that awakened him?  Was it the encroachment of Vzin Kree?  Or perhaps a Disturbance in the Force/Aether?  Or just a cycle of lucidity symptomatic of the Soup Kuru?  One would assume that he is responsible for the eponymous "Shadow" felt across the galaxy, but how?

Meta-note: Awesome world-building here made even better with the inclusion of canon stories.  SO MUCH going on yet--at least for the moment--there are many more questions than answers.

Yet another shout-out to LSG for the pics: the attendant art looks fantastic (Faveah in particular...just perfect)!

“Our Father?” Milaea replied, arms crossed in incredulity as a humanoid figure took shape before her sonic wave deflectors causing the voice to seem to emanate from the hologram rather than the ceiling cornice speakers.

“In a conceptual rather than genetic sense of course…” it replied as the image finally formed fully

He was slightly above average human height, 1.83 meters, a fatherly smile on a face just past human middle age, short hair swept back and, unusually, thin frameless glasses, an anachronism for the last two millennia on the majority of worlds at least.

“...I conceived the notion of you, by my hands and mind, forged your ancestors and laid down the path that led...after so many trials...to you my precious child.”

His arms spread widely as if to embrace her with his cold formlessness.

Ari and Milaea stepped around to either side of the projector, scoping out as best they could the unlabelled control panels behind him and trying to see behind the vast frost-covered glass wall.

Seeming to dislike the silence the hologram spoke on.

“How wonderful it is to see you at last, I feared, briefly after reactivation something had gone amiss, it seems to have been over 700 years since I was last visited, but now, in your precious visage I see my work has lived and thrived...tell me what are your names my daughters?”

“Are you an AI? A Virtual interface?” Ari asked in reply mentally shrugging to Milaea, she couldn’t discern the control panel's functions; the Hologram seemed to stand sentinel before them anyway.

“Curiosity, my dear, must always be indulged” he replied as if in response to his own query, but then explained.

“The means of extending my consciousness or at least what can survive was accomplished by a modified Jedi device known as a Holocron, appropriately expanded and tailored to remove the more...eldritch weaknesses.”

He paused in a fashion unusual for hologram but in keeping for a more faux emotion capable Holocron.

“You don’t recognise me child?”

“Should we?” Milaea kept her cards close.

“My dear, I fear what has transpired, not for my own sake but yours child, to lose one's past is a terrible thing.”

His already arrogantly dominant posture straightened further as he spoke.

“I am Soron Varas, Founder of The Aethas Colony, Creator of the Aethan Species,”



“The breeding pens,” Lodis said, sickly pallid hand over his face to keep out the musky stench.

Taryn was more concerned by the sounds coming out of the thick metal walled enclosure, a mix of grunting and the wet break of bones punctuated with ecstatic howls.

“The Taung males are all feral,” Lodis went on

“When they wish to procreate, the Females enter…the strongest males must physically overcome each other, then the female herself to mate with her…”

There was another screech this time of pure pain

“Once impregnated she must try to escape the pen, the other males will try and ‘remove’ their competitors seed - violently…perhaps a quarter do not escape…it ensures only the strongest lineages bear pups,”

Lodis was the rat Taryn had suspected, a Choirist of Ghul’Sho and member of the Knell of Muspilli. A thin Nag’hi by birth - the Human Nagai hybrids that made up much of the Sorcerers upper echelons, Lodis paid only lip service to his religion. Rather than ‘embracing destruction’  he had squeaked and squealed at the first sight of Evyn’s Needles after abduction.

Far behind them were the still smoking mountain like ranges of the Factory Towers, every few minutes another explosion as the rest of the Aethans set to work in the chaos, Valens and six others had moved in once the snitch was secure, sliding through the throng of rabid terrified helots to set off even more grenades - somewhere Jarys and Taran would be setting up the big boom of a Naquadah enhanced thermo-nuke in the towers underworks.

At this point it seemed the Rhandites still thought some kind of accident had occurred and the explosions were due to cascading reactions rather than sabotage.

Even so hundreds of Taung were trying to wrest control of the bovidae faced Helots who had turned wild, leaving the vast Ziggurat like edifices of the Umbra-Soroitas Barracks - the Taung Warrior sisters of Shadow - relatively unguarded.

There were far too many orbital defences to risk a bombardment, and they had nowhere near enough guns for the vast expanse of buildings, the sabotage for the Chiss had to be subtle - their investigation into the powers of the Sorcerers that likely caused the Shadow that diminished their Aether Powers even more so.

Once more Evyn took point, his poisoned shurikens and Needle pistol at the ready, Coryn held the rear, Blackstone crossbow taught and primed beneath stolen robes.

Even here there were more than enough menials carting foods, polishing weapons and seeing to the Taungs needs to hide amongst labyrinth like servants passages beneath each ziggurat, Taung runic text faded in the dim yellow light that the abhumans seemed to prefer.

As they reached the edge of the ‘Mating pits’ a huge crash in the wall beside him made Taryn nearly jump - a snarling Taung muzzle gnashed through a tiny gap in the worn steel.

“Shav, don’t even brush their teeth first,” he scrunched his nose at the rotten meat scent of the maw, his face then twisting into a grimace as the unquenchable hunger of his aether starved Telepatheon Lobe bit - it came in waves of starved need in their brains, disconnected by the Shadow to their Aethenaea Cortex the lobe seemed to send surges of demanding neural signals that received no response.

“You come here often?” he asked, biting back the itch in his skull, Lodis carefully walking forward, Taryn's knife ever a millimeter from his neck.

“The Choir walks the full length of the Domain in thirteen rounds per cycle, I see, I hear…except the Inner Kanzer Temple…” Lodis gulped
“What happens in the Temple?” Taryn pressed the cold Blackstone against the mulatto mix of abs humans skin

“The Choirs called there…embrace the Dark for the Sorcerers…they say it's even worse than to be given over to the Knell Summoners…”

The Knell summoners gave up their bodies and souls to draw out Force Entities into the physical world, their flesh tortured and twisted into incomprehensible but still living distended forms by the utterly alien Force beings. Taryn didn’t want to imagine what would make the Temple worse.

And yet that was exactly where they had to go.  Lodis had confirmed the scant intel of the Chiss, that the Kanzer Exiles were the ‘Primus inter pares’ of the Rhandites, their Darksight and Destructive powers incredibly strong.

“Is it well guarded,” Taryn asked

“Yes,” Lodis replied
“The Medusae are on constant vigil, they will strip every Choir before they enter…some they eat at the steps if they think them unworthy…”

“Party central,” Taryn, noted dryly,
“Guess you’re not keen to die for the cause?” Taryn added as he ducked in the increasingly cramped servants tunnel.

“I volunteered for the Choirs…it seemed better than the factories…we are fed, dry - mostly -…but I soon learned what was expected once my voice ‘no longer pleases the Dark’....”

“And by then you’re stuck…”

“Many throw themselves from the catwalks of the Towers, I thought of it often but never had the boldness…when you took me I felt relief for the first time in my life…”

“Get us where we need to go and I’ll cut your head off clean and quick,” Taryn promised

“Thank you, Master,”
 
Creeping through the servant choked underworks they came to the edge of the Temple district, the distant boom of explosions and creaking crash of towers following their footsteps, Taryn checking  the Quantum-Comm, a message from Taran the bomb had been placed and countdown begun, Arryn confirming the Rhandite ships on patrol were getting edgy.  

Taryn had 45 minutes.

“Now my children, what are your names?” the holocron image of Soron Varas, or so it claimed, asked.

<Soron Varas, find what you can,> Milaea telepathically signalled Fifth nearby, though the connection was increasingly difficult. He would transmit the instruction conventionally to the others with access to the Mount Alixaea archives.

“I’m Aresaea, this is my wife Milaea,” Ari replied

“Ah, delicious!” Varas clapped his hands together untold glee on his face

“And how does the Technocracy fare, do you hold Directorates?”

“The Technocracy…” Milaea explained cautiously
“..fell some 750 years ago, replaced by a new Aethan Society, meritocratic beneath a mutually agreed Matriarchal Head of state.”

“Ah, I suspected that might occur...not the fall of course...but a matriarchy, AEO-983 on the male olfactory system would always tend to activate AEN-1174... toward deference of the Feminine pheromones. But Dear Milaea, what caused such a collapse?”

“The Sith, they invaded Aethas, devastated the planet, it’s taken centuries to recover,”

“The Sith…” Varas sighed
“A pest always, some had vision and creativity...but so many more mere brutes, I trust you’ve extracted a heavy toll from them?”

“As heavy as we can,” Ari demurred before turning to their true purpose here.

“We came looking for information on our genetic history, the location of this facility had been lost for some time, and we didn’t have the time to explore it until now...this..”
She gestured to the vast frosted glass wall, the crackling ice behind seeming to intentionally obscure the contents.
“Is this the Aethan Genetic Archive?”

“More than that dear Aresaea, this is my Laboratory, I stood in this very place when I had hands of flesh and crafted your first ancestors, placed you on the course to the heights you have attained, then guided those that came after, truly this is the very forge of Aethan life, my Garden of Creation,”

“And you remain the only interface to the Genetic Archive?” Ari asked swiftly

“Alas now I am...as you can see the other access terminals have all degraded over the centuries…but my child you need not fear, I would never hide anything for you,”

Milaea could feel the tinge of disgust Ari felt every time Varas said ‘child’...because she felt the same. 

There was a cloying sickly tone to the Holograms voice that they both sensed had captured the living man’s tone all too accurately.

“You seemed distressed my child, what troubles you?”

<Can we trust it?> Ari asked knowing what her wifes answer would be

<Do we have a choice....I think so long as we stroke its ego it will co-operate, this technology is too old and fragile to risk trying to override or hack, Goddesses only know what safeguards a self important quim like that put in place if we try to go round it. > Milaea replied

<Agreed...we need to get Adaea and Arryn down here to see what they can manage. Still if he calls me child one more time…>

<We’ll just smile and nod my love> Milaea encouraged

“We are facing a problem,” Milaea said candidly

“The Aethenaea Cortex in our children is over producing neuro relaxants, and our Telepathaeon lobe has diminished in functionality.  We are also sensing a kind of dimming or ‘Shadow’ in the aether, but can’t wok out if it is cause or effect of the neurological problems,”

Varas nodded

“A perplexing malady indeed, the interaction of those brain structures with the Aether is among the most complex of my designs…and, I must apologise, among the most fragile with only three redundancies in place - a necessity to ensure the brain structures fit within your skull…are you aware of any evidence of this Shadow independent of the effect on your brain?”

“None, no flora or fauna seem affected -  that is why we came here, we need information on how the Aethenaea Cortex is meant to interact with the Aether so we can isolate the trigger of the affliction.” Ari replied
“If you can provide access to all records on its design and operation…” she gestured to the frosty glass behind him.
   
“Oh my dear Child I can be so much more help to you than just reaming off data!” Varas jumped in
“I possess all my expertise in genetic design and chromosomal crafting, peerless in the galaxy in my own time, tell me everything and I can save you months of tedious comparative analysis…”

<Smile and nod> Milaea reminded her wife.

“Thank you, Father, We would appreciate your help,” Ari said sweetly as possible.

Varas patronizing and victorious smile sickened them.

“I don’t think this will work…” Evyn whispered at a high frequency past most humanoids hearing as they stooped low at the back of the choir that walked toward the Temples vast frontal stairs, the insipid acidic rain beating down from a blue black night, lit orange from by distant burning factory towers.

Valens and Jarys teams had done some serious work, of the 40 or so skyscraper sized factory towers 21 had spot fires, three had collapsed taking another two with them, one falling on a vast section of the favela’s, and in 13 minutes the rest would have their foundations turned to glass by a Naqxium enhanced Thermo Nuclear bomb.

Evyn’s doubt came from the need to pass by the Medusae up ahead, more elite of the Umbra-Soroitas than the regular Banshee’s and Harpies, they were likely to notice that two members of the choir were not singing and much too broad beneath stolen robes.

But they didn’t need to get far…just to the altar at the top where, according to Lodis, the resident Sorcerers kept their tomes of spells in flesh bound books.

Maeson and Maekal were hovering in a Transport nearby using the explosions as cover to remain hidden, they could cut in and pick them up in just over seven minutes at full speed.

“Just Sing-along,” Taryn replied behind the Assassin trained Aethan, the former pirate's hands on his Hades pistols in the robes folds.

As they ascended the worn steps, blood trickled down channels carved along the stairway in intricate geometric patterns mixed with the acid rain in vile chemical reactions to produce an acrid smoke.  Taryn’s jaw shifted in uncertain worry hoping Coryn was moving up at the same pace.

To increase their element of surprise Coryn had ‘joined’ a group of ‘Joyful Ones’ - sick, elderly and otherwise unwanted abhumans and Nag’hi being pushed up the opposite side of the Temple pyramid to keep the blood flowing in the Sorcerer's endless rituals to the Dark.

While the Shadow in the Aether prevented any telepathic communication, the dark pall was at least stable, getting no worse, but certainly no better.

The Choir leader reached the Medusae, eight in all at the first checkpoint, their shimmer-shields active not because they expected combat, but to prevent the acid rain consuming their armour and skin after hours of exposure.

Oblivious to the fact the last three members of his choir were now dead in a gutter and replaced by two Aethans and their informant Lodis, the leader of the Ghul’Sho bowed to the Medusae who sniffed the Nag’hi then allowed them to proceed.

Taryn and Evyn kept their eyes down muttering the chant as best they could, Lodis helpfully expounding the guttural tones of the Chant louder to cover for them, the Taung’s slitted yellow eyes observing each chorister in turn, but flicking constantly to the glare of the fires burning in the towers,

Just a little more… Taryn willed as the Taung’s large nasal slits opened sniffing each in turn, the aethan hoping the stench of the fuming blood was strong enough to cover the foreign material of the Aethans armour and weapons - every aether means of concealing themselves long worn out as the Shadow and the planets own blood soaked ugly feel had long since used up their aether stamina.

The gassy yellow eyes of the Taung, pivoted and fixed on the two tall members of the Choir.

Shavit The slightest change in the Medusae’s posture, a micro expression on the hideous face, was the signal he feared.

Even with the Shadow darkening their aether powers, the demi-gods' physical reflexes were still far quicker than the Taung.

The Rhandite warriors hand moved toward their blades or raised their Needle rifles up as Taryn’s Hades pistols were already firing off their first rounds, Evyn’s rifle blasting through the Choir Master and into a Medusae ahead.

Another distant explosion behind them masked the sound of Needle Rifle fire as chaos erupted.  Concentrated radiation from Hades pistols sizzled in the acid raid leaving a strange solid of pollutant from the reaction with the energy before they struck shimmer shields with a satisfying shatter before puncturing halfway into Taung armour.

Taryn’s pistols moved quick and fired faster as he kicked down the panicking choir singers.

Coryn added to the mess among the ‘Joyful Ones’ his crossbow and short sword making quick work of the Harpies while Evyn grappled with the more heavily armed Medusae whose Barb-whips wrapped round one of his arms trying to bring him down.

Taryn ran backwards up the ziggurat to the Sacrificial altars at the top firing down.

Croyn was already inside, taking two of the priests, their hands covered in viscera from the endless offerings to the indifferent Eternal Destruction, an Oblivion bolt pierced the lone Medusae to a bloody stone pillar on which two bodies were flayed, Coryn finishing the creature with a swift cut through its neck. 

The chanting had already begun, unable to tell the priest from Cultist the Knell Summoner reached into the depths of the Dark to turn the newly dead into re-living engines of pure destruction.

The Zombie like revenants thrashed at Coryn with wild abandon at the Aethan as his companions faced a stiffer resistance on their way up.

“God-i-Locks get us outta here!” Taryn demanded over the Comm, he juggled his Pistols to grab Lodis up from where he was cowering,
“Not done with you yet,”

He pounded up the stairs to where Coryn was breaking free of the Zombie creatures, the Knell cultist crafting in the air an amalgam of blood and broken limbs to summon a Force Entity into it.  Evyn wasted no time overcharging his rifle to blast the nascent creation and then the Cultist apart.

“Under the altar!” Lodis pointed at the heavy slab of stone intricately carved to capture and trickle every last drop of blood into the lower pools, Taryn kicked it hard breaking it open revealing the Tomes and Sacred scrolls kept beneath, Coryn likewise sweeping up those on lecterns currently in use.

Evyn rummaged over the Cultists body recovering a half dozen Prayer parchments used in the Knells summoning, a few damaged by the shots that had killed the cultist.

“How long?” Taryn demanded as the distant towers began to flare even brighter with unnatural blue fires.

“Four minutes,” Maekal replied from the Transport.

A hideous piercing shriek outside of most humanoids range, but well within Aethan sounded, Taryn’s comprehension of Taung’et’Tay was rudimentary at best but it sounded something like ‘Attack,’

“Get down rat, positions we have 240 seconds till our ride gets here,” Taryn ordered shoving Lodis half into the Text Chamber under the altar with the documents they had come to claim, the Aethan Pirate praying to his Goddesses the solution, or at least the means of generating, the Shadow in the Aether was among those spells and incantations.

Helped by the fact most of the Taung were hundreds of kilometers away keeping the abhuman helots under control at the Factory towers the counter attack was two minutes in coming and small in number…

…that was still nearly twenty Harpies and half a dozen Medusae, and the Aethans no longer had the element of surprise.

Forming a back to back triangle the three Aethan men waited - they could just sense the Taung gathering, positioning, they wouldn’t come in a trickle, but a Tsunami - let them plan Taryn thought, it just ran the clock down faster for him.

Finally numbering just over 40 the attack began with 120 seconds remaining.  Gorgons fired screeching iron mortars up the ziggurat stairs, Coryn and Taryn shooting them out of the air, the Harpies winged their way up, Serrator Blades and Lascerator whips at the ready.  Evyn fired down into their heads where he could, the Medusae coming up the other sides.

The first wave hit with bloody fury, the Taung rabid and screeching, the Altar platform became a cacophony of Hades Fire, Oblivion Blade, Needle Rifle shots and Lascerator whip cracks.  They kept their back to back positing denying the Taung a chance to get them on the flank, but inevitably meaning they were quickly surrounded.

Bloody and rain mixed as Taryn’s Katana swung through limb after limb, or more frequently bounced off shimmer shields, though stronger and faster than the Taung - absent their Aether powers the risk of being ground down by sheer numbers was real.

Hateful red blasts the size of a man's chest cut through the rain from a region of air that seemed to deflect the constant acid droplets - the space warfare grade maser shots deflagrating the Taung they hit as Maekal and their pick up finally arrived.   

The Karintha Class Transport moved in closer as Taryn, Coryn and Evyn felt a second wind buoy them up, the transport spinning round to reveal the open rear ramp, Maeson standing mag locked to the end, vast Hades repeater primed.

10 shots per second burst from the cannon with Aethan god like precision shredding through the Taung and creating a straight path, Taryn dipped under a Serrator blade, Evyn sliced the Taungs arm off over his head as the former pirate grabbed Lodis who was clinging to the tomes beneath the altar for dear life.

Dragging the snitch chorister Taryn crab walked as close as he could before throwing Lodis into the ship, the Nag’hi’s weight childlike to the Aethan.  The Taung were taking cover, calling in air support - but everything was dedicated to the increasingly burning factories.

Evyn leapt in first, Coryn firing his last crossbow bolt point blank into a Medusae head as a Serrator blade sliced into his side, staggering as he leapt to the ship, Taryn deflected Needle-Thorns with his Katana as he jumped, Maeson’s covering fire slicing down two more Harpies on the body strewn altar that would ironically no doubt please the Destruction loving Sorcerers more than their usual program of sacrifices.

“Punch it!” Taryn yelled as the ramp lifted up, Evyn already shoving the half forgotten ‘Outsider’ rebreather on Lodis head so their native air didn’t poison him.

Maekal hit full acceleration, pings from the others indicating all the Aethans were retreating, a timer flicking on the main HUD just as Taryn entered sopping wet with acid rain and blood, still in his cut and blaster burnt choirist robe, it read a mere 30 seconds.

“Shav that’s cutting it close,” Taryn grunted, unhappy having to trust in Maekals piloting skills to escape the blast radius.

“Clear” Jarys Signalled
“Clear”  Valens Team added
“Close enough,” Taryn sighed looking at the predicted radius
“Clear!” he added pressing the comm.

The timer stopped at 12 seconds, the remote detonation activated early.

The Long range scanner sweep turned to a mush of static as somewhere behind them the Naquadha enhanced  Thermo Nuclear bombs detonated in the  bowels of the factory towers, water logged soils evaporating to dry dust, then molten glass in an instant, dozens of the monolithic basements cracking in the miniature star which rose fifty storeys high till the explosion dissipated and the tops of the huge towers fell to the ground.

The shockwave sent a searing thermal radiation wave outward that bounced the Transport on its ascent to the cold of space, annihilating the favela’s and the millions of abhumans within, baking the Ziggurats and Taung barracks.

The Chiss would surely have to be happy with that Taryn thought, sinking back into the co-pilots seat as the atmosphere vanished into the purple red of the Unknown Regions space view.

And hopefully between the tomes and Lodis they could finally lift the Shadow of the Aether.

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.
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?”

“...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.


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.

"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  :)

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.



“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,”
 

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?”


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.

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,”

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...

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,”   


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,”

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,”


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,” 


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.

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.


“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.”

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.



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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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,”
“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.

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.

(https://i.ibb.co/ZBqHqGK/C6-Adytum.jpg) (https://imgbb.com/)

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.

“Efendí…” the Comis said once more, as he had every three hours for the last six days.
“We must breach the door,”
Druhanne shook his head
“If the Hanshõ requires us he will call,” he insisted despite all logic as they stood outside the Reclusiam of the Hanshõ’s apartments on the ship.

ÇelÍk - who had been Berkant until the Hanshõ failed to remember his name and gave him another - was not convinced
“Efendí, the Hanshõ…” he paused, unable to speak ill of his master.
“...you know as well as I…the Hanshõ’s Wa is…troubled.”

Everyone knew, yet none could speak of it. 

The Kuru was slowly poisoning the Hanshõ.  By the Voices it was a slow process, and the Hanshõ had survived longer than any other of the ancient Gaki by millenia…yet it was inevitable - one could not consume the legions of Anzat Druhanne had seen through his genetic memory that the Hanshõ had and avoid it.

“Another day…the supplies are running low with our…guests…” Druhanne conceded

A scratching sound at the door removed the need to wait.


As variegated as the vessels they had come on,  61 Anzat stood on the decks of the Kitsune. 

There were tattooed bouncers with tree trunk arms glaring, near feral predators with elongated maws almost naked hunched and sniffing, refined noblemen and scholars in the finest robes and shimmersilks.

Mercenaries. Assassins.  Professors.  Simple bloody handed murderers, and everything in between had obeyed the primal pull of the Yokusei, stealing, buying or piloting their own vessels across the sector, from single engine barely functional fighters, to luxury yachts, and motley blocky tugs, even a handful of military vessels.

After three days of recovery following six of drawing deep on the Yokusei - or rather the Kuru drawing on him - Rannek sensed only disgrace and miscegenation, only five were pure caste, all smelt of weakness and the taint of Outsiders, were they Lek’un he would have not hesitate to cull them as ill bred wretches.

How some had not been drowned as infants by their parents in the old tradition of disposing of unfit offspring he would never know.   

“I understand now why the Caste system and Kindes collapsed,” Rannek whispered as he paced before them, his words in the Pure Anzati tongue translated by the strength of the Yokusei forcing meaning into the Anzat’s minds.

“No Kinde would accept such filth!” he screamed into one’s face, the filthy female - she showed less of the grace and refinement of the gentler sex than his cold dead Father did - her face marred by tribal tattoos and blue ink eye colouring.

“Beneath druf,” he stabbed a finger at Kree, then trailing it past the assembled crowd to the Efendí

“Less than Lek’un...you should have been aborted in the womb rather than disgrace the heritage of Anzat, you do not deserve the name that once meant ‘Emperor’,”

The enormity of the insult was lost on the majority of them, born too late and too far from Anzat prime, raised and exposed to cultures too egalitarian.

A mercenary commander scoffed at the old Clucirs anachronistic blathering.

It was a foolish mistake.

“You are not Anzat,” Rannek sniffed indignant
“Even the lowliest druf shared in the dignity of our culture...you creatures have our blood but possess no souls, no caste or Kinde! Efendí!” he pointed at the sneering mercenary

“Correct this one to the fourth degree!”

Druhanne stiffened
“Hanshõ I…”

“You fear you are not strong enough, then have the Sonae perform it!” Rannek demanded, Druhanne complied, summoning the burliest nearby Yari-gami to strip, beat then humiliate the Anzat mercenary in deplorable ways before the others, the Yokusei ensuring there was no protest.

As Rannek watched the ‘correction’ a deep well of self hatred bubbled in his chest, knowing he was, if not solely responsible for the Foundering, then certainly sharing at least a third of the blame - while economics and soup hunger might’ve pulled many Anzat offworld, the aminopaphage excesses and dangers he had instigated by normalising the once taboo practice created a push factor.

The glory of what had once been the Evokation slipped through his mind, the parades of armoured warriors past the Palaces of Azzheri in the midday sun that softly pushed through the clouds, the banners of a dozen noble, proud Kindes each bearing the mare crest as drums beat tales of victory against the vel.

How short sighted they had been to quarrel among themselves when the galaxy lurked with hungry eyes and soft tasteful brains to consume...they could’ve had an Empire, he was preparing for such, martialing the Kindes, the castes, building new vessels...his Children would inherit such power as had never been seen...

Instead….The Great Sorrow’s black hooks embedded in his thoughts once more.

“By the Voices I did this...I had more power than any Clucir, the Capugio was my puppet and I squandered it all...centuries searching for my Misitia...I…”
….
….
He returned to his present, the collected dregs that called themselves Anzat staring confused at him, the punished one bleeding naked on the floor.

“How long, Efendí…” Rannek whispered regarding his latest slip from reality

“An hour, if it please, Hanshõ,” was the whispered reply.

Rannek nodded and stretched his hand to take water from a patient Lek’un servant girl, her eyes puffy from fear and horror from having witnessed the Fourth Correction.

“Amboniable though you are, you will serve me,” Rannek continued as if no time had passed at all.

“You will not sup until I know the secret of this parable told me by a Nun of the Old Way -

‘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.’”

The assembled Anzat showed the astonishment the Lek’un could not express.  He had used the enormous power of the Yokusei to summon Anzat across the quadrant to solve a riddle.

“Well speak! Or are you dumb as well as impurely born! I will wait no longer for my Misitia,”

Anzat and Lek’un alike stood dumbstruck, incapable of complying with the mad Ancients' wish.

Rannek stared across the line of disgraces once more.

“The Rattan will loosen your tongues, Efendí have them all Corrected to the Third Degree,”

None of the ‘young’ Anzat had any notion of what the Third degree was - whether worse or ‘better’ than the fourth  - and none wished to know.

“Master!” one elderly Anzat in a scholars white and brown robes spoke

“Honoured One, my Lord!…please…we need time to consider the parable…”

“You shall have your time.”

Rannek almost smiled, they didn’t understand - he intended to punish them for what they were regardless.

“After your correction,”

With Rannek off-planet, we see firsthand the power of this Elder Anzat with his absolute control over "lesser" Anzat, dominating them via the Yokusei.  Poor Kazic; amidst his search to resurrect Saani he now needs to fight over the very control of his agency, only JUST able to do so given the fact he'd never participated in giving into his biology and ingesting the Soup.  But as for the other 61, they are but thralls to Rannek's whim...not to mention his insanity.  Therein lies the truth to just how dangerous he is: between moments of lucidity and drowning in the past courtesy of his Force Psychosis, this 13,000 year old Time Abyss is amongst the most powerful of the galaxy's beings.  Just what happens when he finally finds out what happened to his children or, perhaps instead, their legacy?  Will such a revelation completely break his tenuous hold on his sanity or will he simply succumb to the Kuru that even now grips his mind?

Now that the women of Aethas have donned their battlearmor, the road upon which they find themselves seems even more dangerous than they could've even suspected: from a nigh-invulnerable Anzat Elder to the depravations of the incredibly secretive Luka-Sene, Mili&Co must navigate an uncertain future half-blind (at least for them) while following clues that stubbornly resist their best efforts to produce answers.

Interesting connection through the Force, perhaps a mechanic of Flow-Walking or Force Sight but the parallels between Mili, Ari, &Co and Mira, Isas, et al. travel down eerily similar yet divergent paths as they seek the knowledge of the Luka-Sena, learning perhaps for the first time in a LONG time that MIGHT will not get them the objective they so desperately need.  Indeed, the harsh treatment with which BOTH groups are subject to just illustrates that the Luka-Sene is a force to be reckoned with...and perhaps a source of intel that may provide answers.

But until then, Rannek's sphere of influence is only beginning, growing stronger daily.  With his Sonae and the 61 Anzat, I suspect that this campaign will see much more bloodshed before too long...not to mention a collision between the Elder Anzat and our Aethans.

Meta-note: Spectacular world-building here as the threads seem less and less disparate.  And the accompanying renderings look spectacular!  Great stuff here.

...And IS the "Third Degree" of punishment better or worse than the "Fourth"?!?

The air was thin and steadily rising. 

Overhead wisps of rich yellow wove intricate patterns at solar emissions stripped the atmosphere off. 

Another visitor from his world might observe a similarity to the Silent voice of Anzat.
Rannek had no time or interest in such irrelevances.

It was claimed among the sages and mystics that this was a planet full of Seers and clairvoyants. 

After nearly 2000 years of fruitless searching, the Clucir would leave no potential resource unexploited to find his children.

“Let us see what these Hutt’s have to offer,” Growled Maatek mare-Nyru his loyal Kinju, plated in armour that had long since been worn of any paint or decoartion on the overlapping plates leaving a burnt steel and washed thread colouring, the Gaki helm alone retaining some red around the fangs.

Rannek ignored the error of Maatek, they had not visited a Hutt world for some 50 years. The Clucir was growing ever more used to the slips the Kuru induced in his companions,

Maatek’s slips were not so frequent as to require him to be ‘retired’ - yet.

They were one of the few ships arriving on Lu’Ka’Selah, the homeworld of the Mir’Sen’Luka near human species, varying in skin tone from light ivory to dusky brown, all had, to Ranneks sight, perpetually squinting eyes as if trying to stare at something past the mundanity of the physical world.

He could understand why - though this planet was mere years away from being uninhabitable due to atmospheric degradation, indeed many regions around the poles were devoid of all life, exposed completely to the relentless pulses of the Stars emissions and background radiation beyond, unfiltered by any magnetic repulsion - it was still rich with Anima, Magicka - or as the Gaijin more often called it, the Force.

Small teardrop vessels made round trips ferrying goods and people off the planet to larger bulbous vessels headed to some unknown colony world further into the rims, braving the Pirate empires that led nomadic existences occupying one planet then another before moving onto to loot and conquer again.

Rannek had encountered far too many of the Raider-Lords of late, an engagement off Duro depleting his forces he was forced to return to Anzat prime for more Lek’un, his journey further delayed as he was forced to put down an uprising in the Sabaku on his return.

Striding through the largely abandoned town built into an island at the far western side of vast lake in the midst of a mountain range, likely created by an ancient meteor impact and filled by rains down the grassy mountain sides when the planet still had a functioning weather system before the merciless sun stripped it of all fecundity.

The Mountains now were covered in yellow dead grasses, the lake a stinking foetid swamp slowly evaporating off, the retch worthy stench of dead organisms wafting off in green waves to the skies.

Death seemed to greet him everywhere in the Nightmare of his existence.

When he could sleep he dreamt of placing his Tremor-sword into his Son’s strong arms, then running his fingers through his daughters mist like hair…yet he woke always to the same nightmare - the Great Sorrow of their absence.

Such introspection did not assist him, he approached the gaudily clad seers ahead, their obnoxiously coloured robes over silver armours.

“Travell’or Arr’ival For’Tell, Seers Witness Petition,” The most colourfully dressed of the guard spoke as they stopped before the last seeming occupied building, circular with a large dome on flowing white columns  supported a wide portico into a black whorl of a rounded doorway.

Indifferent to their permission Rannek and his Gaki walked forward pushing the blackened door open, the reliefs carved more in the Force than the Onyx ignored by the Anzat as mere curiosities of uncouth Gaijin art.

Within was a vast Chamber under a process of deconstruction.  Internal walls had been removed, cranes, hoists and scaffolds were in place with more of the Mira-Sene-Luka working upon them pulling off large slabs of the interior walls that appeared made of some kind of multi-spectral crystal.

This world was being stripped of anything of worth before its Star ended it completely.

In the center of the room were two figures, male and female handsome so far as humans could be, pale skinned in black and white robes. behind them large beds chiselled in carefully placed balcony nooks in the wall in which seemingly sleeping Mira-Sene-Luka were having fitful nightmares.

“What is this perversion…” Maatek grunted his slab like features criss crossed with battle scars, the scent of Lek’un brain fluids on his breath.

“Seers of the Mira-Sene-Luka, If you truly are what the stories claim, you know who I am and why I have come!” Rannek boomed his still full hair swept back into a topknot.

“We See Thee Soul Eater,” the two black and white clad beings, male and female spoke in unison, the lack of hair on either made both look like chattel stripped ready for the sale yards.

“And We see the Children you seek,”

“Then where are they!” His voice trembled with the power of a thousand consumed souls, the workers nearby cowering as their scaffolds shook.
“Lead me to them and the wealth of the Evokation, Gold, Slaves, Silks, will be yours,”

“The Ghosts of your Sins have taken them from you, to the Blackest Abyss into which Vision is blind to us - Our Own Future.”

“Senseless riddles,” Maatek sneered
“Let us consume them, that will yield as much,”

The Ter-Sene of the era were reaching a branching point. They would be split between the two colonies Sona-Ale’ph and Sona-Kat’ahh making their Vision fractured.

Yet always in motion was the future, there was a real chance the Anzat might attack.  Distressed and fleeing there would be little resistance to the hardened veterans of 3000 years of war across Anzat Prime.

“I’ve no time for this foolishness, speak plainly this filthy Gaijin tongue already befouls my lips!” Rannek yelled back.

“You shall see your offspring, yet by foot you must walk to them across Times fabric,” the So and Sa Sene replied with what little information they could interpret from the Ter-Sene, hoping it was enough.

Rannek’s scowl twitched in time to his flexing finger on the hilt of his sword, contemplating slaying them all for their obtuse ramblings.

“I give you one last chance…” Rannek growled, his Kinju eyeing the positions of the small number of guards, the workers quickly shuffling away as the Force rippled with his displeasure.

“...if you know where they are tell me now and be rewarded, prevaricate again and you will be punished,”

“Other than that you will see them once more we know not, the dark threads of our own Future are intertwined, the forset through which our Vision can never see,” the twin voices replied from the Sa and So Sene as their eyes glanced at Maatek who was pacing around them at a respectable but slowly closing distance.

“They’re lying,” the Kinju hissed
“They either know nothing and enjoy trifling with us…or they know something…”

“I will drink the truth of it,” Rannek decided and with a flick of his finger unleashed his warriors.

The Lukata-Sentai, antecedents of the Luka Sene were swift to react, armour with Crys plate and wielding Psionic weapons, both bulky and ungainly compared to latter era’s, but not less effective.

The Gaki, forged by decades of war across Anzat Prime and on their Lords journeys across newly charted hyperspace lanes seeking his Children were swifter.

Psi-charged bolts missed all but one of their mark as the physically superior Anzat swept at the Lukata -Sentai with ravenous open mouths curious to experience this Anima strong races soup - Hallowed Psionic Halberds clashed swiftly against Sabaku Steel Tremor swords hand crafted by Master Lek’un, pulsing screeching drawls through the air.

Tanto and Shuriken grazed off Crystalline armour with a glass breaking shriek, Psi-daggers heated folded Ō-yoroi plates.

Rannke left the fighting to his Kinju, striking forward at the So and Sa Sene, the Lukata–Sentai Xowl intercepting him with a Psi-Sword, the Anzat pivoting to avoid the stroke with ease. 

The Xowl thrust three more times, Rannek, considering the style clumsy and blunt compared to the Blademasters of Anzat prime, did not even draw his blade, only at last deigning to back hand the Xowls Crystalline helm, cracking it into her weather face, shards lodging in her wan eyes.

Still the Xowl fought as if nothing had happened, the loss of physical sight not a great difficulty for the increasingly non-visual Miralukan ancestors.  Relenting to the inevitable Rannek gripped his blade as he sidestepped a Force powered strike, drawing his blade in and through the Xowl’s arm at the elbow, following through with a quick flip round to cut into her thigh join between glass like plates.

Falling he caught her in a tight embrace, face to face she stared confused then bloody eyes widened as his proboscis delved into her.

Savoury and thick the taste was not unpleasant on the surface, but the grief for the loss of their dying homeworld gave it a sour note as he imbibed her essence into his own, feeling his Anima grow by another small fraction as some small part of her connection to the Force was appended to his own.

She slid off trailing blood from her unnaturally stretched nostrils, his Kinju likewise supping on those they took alive, only a few moderate injuries sustained. 

All this occured in the space of seconds, the Sa and So Sene scrambling round the edge of the Seers caskets to a secret exit.  With an annoyed flicker of his anima Rannek grabbed the woman in the white robe with his mind dragging her toward him, her nails clawing at the Kyber floor.

Anzat strength lifted the So Sene as easily as a porcelain doll to Rannek’s still hungry proboscis that shattered into her nostrils, jetting blood out as he supper her.

A cacophonic bluster of the 23 Voices of the Ter-Sene pushed against him, even with 2000 years of Anima he could not breach through the mental gravitas to pluck any memories of use - only feel the utter helplessness of the petty Seers afraid they would die along with their decaying world.

Ripping his face free from his victim, Rannek experienced the sickly cold stilted discomfort of a disrupted feeding as the sky groaned and ground quaked with another athenosphere tremor induced by the gravitational instability of the nearby star alternately gripping then releasing its hold on the semi-solid heated interior.

The planet had little time left, the Anzat no desire witness it’s atmosphere finally sheared off.

“There is nothing here, we leave,” he cursed spitting on the Sa Sene as the bald black robed humanoid wept over his dead partner.

With rapacious bloody feedings and indifferent crushing murders the Anzat left, the Ter Sene conclave bitter and resolved never to allow such an affront again. 

Few Sene had died all told, but the So-Sene…one of only two women who bore the chemical and Force genetic heritage that granted the So and Sa Sene their gifts of interpreting the Conclaves group mind…was a loss the Ter Sene had not foreseen…

It’s consequences would haunt them on their new colony worlds.
 

Mira and Atris sat in the utter pitch dark on a cold bench not knowing if the cell was large, small - lighting superfluous to the eyeless Miraluka - the Force, while present ‘ended’ at the walls, a bubble cut off from the rest of the Cosmic and Life Energies.

Closing her eyes Mira reached out with the Force, trying to ‘see’ as Visas and Meetra had shown her to detect something. There was Isas, a dull grey rather than blue with frustration, Varasian and Alixa a mix of grey and a bloody red, primal rather than dark…and then there was the heartless white of Atris.

The former Jedi master also focused on her other senses with Jedi techniques of observation, reflecting on the exact words of the So and Sa Sene.

There was an undercurrent to it all, something more than just trying to stop Isas goal of revising, in a new form, the culture of Katarr.

“It’s a stitch up,” Mira whispered to her nominal ‘ally’ seating herself beside her after a cautious wobbly walk.
“Those Seers don’t want to stop Isas, they want something from her…”

“Yet what can a woman who creates ‘abominations’ have to offer them?” Atris wondered

Ari and Lyaea sat upon the same bench, Kiraea pacing the same path as Alixa, Varasian and Xanaea running fingers over the same thin braille lines on the wall, Milaea near the door, like Isas staring outward wondering why the Ter-Sene would take such an uncharacteristically interventionist approach.

They would not have to wait long, in 98 minutes their check in with Aethas was due - without any contact Evaea and the Extolled on the Aephroadea would sound the warning via Villip, within an hour the Verndari - six 3.5 meter tall revenant Aethans of the Technocracy era led by the single minded Ninth and 30 Extolled warriors would be on their way to liberate them with the Aethanea and Persephaea.

A small force, but the ruthless Verndari and suicidally vicious Extolled would inflict immense damage on civilian targets in very short periods of time having no compunction in using their arsenal of Naquxium and Vong-biological weapons from orbit. Even if the Luka Sene could respond against the Verndari the Force blank Vong weapons and ships, utterly invisible to Miraluka who relied on the Force so heavily, would prove a devastating surprise.

The doorway opened to admit the Amide-Sene-Touh Lenns Dahn in Milaea’s time and Senb Touv in Isas’, the administrative leader of the Miraluka flanked by Sene-Xowl.

“Remanded,” both said thousands of years apart
“Until Circumstances Ter-Sene Vision warns imperill Sene-Luka pass uneventful,”

“It must be a circumstance of great benefit to our cause if the Seers fear our presence there so much they would inter us,” Atris noted, understanding more, the Ter-Sene wished to ensure whatever critical moment they had foreseen did not occur.

“You don’t have that long,” Milaea replied firmly
“In less than two hours our People will send a force to retrieve us, if they can’t this world will suffer immensely until they do,” her tone was increasingly clipped and bitter, Ari recognised it as Milaea’s normally abundant patience wearing thin.

The  Amide-Sene-Touh shifted uncomfortably, the eight colours of his robe scrunching visible to her Aether sight as he folded his arms defensively.

“Communication possible, Avert,” Lenns Dahn replied as if seeking a solution - something was clearly not right about this situation, the Amide-Sene-Touh seemed embarrassed by it, following instructions from the Ter-sene he did not agree with.

“We’ll tell them to bring twice the soldiers,” Kiraea verbally jabbed at him, pouncing on the scent of fear, something absent in his predecessor Senb Touv.

“You’re exceeding your authority by holding offworlders indefinitely,” Isas noted, well aware of the limits of the Administrative rulers power, her father having been one - the whole situation seemed forced and strange.
 
“Ter-Sene Command, Amide-Sene-Touh and Luka-Sene Implement,” was his rebuff.

“Nourishment forthcoming,” Touv said dismissively before leaving.
Lenns demured
“Agreement to avoid escalation,” he offered

“No negotiation,” Ari added stepping up beside Milaea, all the Aethan women now in a row before him to show a unified front, in the Aether if not visually.
“Release us now or suffer the consequences,”

“Counsel I will seek,” Lenns said with a bow before scuttling out the door clanking with a heavy lock behind him as if to contain the damage it the dark cell.

“How long before the real puppet masters show up?” Mira and Lyaea asked.

“Not very, they know we are not bluffing,” Ari replied irritation unconcealed in her voice.

The sense of urgency was transmitted across time. 

Twenty minutes later as the Amide-Sene-Touh waited for an audience with the Ter-Sene, a secret door slid open at the back of the cell from what appeared a seamless block of the natural granite from the valley, admitting two figures in plain Black and white robes - the So and Sa Sene.

“I knew there was something off about those freaks,” Mira whispered to Atris
“You sneaky kreslugs,” Kiraea snapped at them.

“Time is short, proposal,” the inbred twins spoke alternating words, Isas, her children and the Aethans quickly realising the twins were not simply parroting the words of the Ter-Sene anymore.

“You’re not just mouth pieces of the seers are you,” Ari noted
“Your Freedom, expedited, in exchange, we require items of sustainment.”
“What items,” Isas and Milaea asked.
“Your Vision True, excessive consanguinity a weakness to So and Sa Sene, revitalization required. Luka-Sene, Ter-Sene, unable to countenance modification required,”

Understanding dawned on both trapped parties, the So and Sa Sene needed what the Aethans and Isas had, and the Miraluka of Alepheridies despised.

“You need fresh blood, genetic rejuvenation,”
“Temporary measure for sustainment…” the So and Sa Sene replied, well aware that their request of Isas bought them only time, 70 generations later in Milaea’s day the consequences of inbreeding had caught up to them once more.

Mira laughed aloud “This whole thing is just a stick up! Blackmail, we never spoke to the ‘23 Seers of the Miraluka’ did we, or only what you pallid faced freaks allowed us to hear,”

“They think you’re just mouth pieces…if you asked them direct you’d give the game away…,” Lyaea noted “Clever,”

“What exactly do you want?” Isas and Ari asked

Here the response of the Speakers differed according to their needs between times.
“Unique gametes,” they requested first of Isas
“Regeneration according to your ability,” the second of Ari,

“That is frelling gross,” Mira said, nearly gagging on the thought, then realizing it was slightly less disgusting than what they had no doubt been doing to lead to such a recessive state.

“Male or Female” Isas less squeamish asked
“Both,”

“We can’t heal other species,” Milaea cautioned “Only transform them to become more like us,”
“Sufficient,”

“We will need time and equipment, and more than just ‘freedom’ in exchange for agreeing to this farce,”

“Our powers are limited at the moment, but you know that, and we will want more than just ‘freedom’ and the location of Katarr.”

Isas then Ari bargained

“Explain”

“You will claim the Ter-Sene has Vision that all those of Katarr heritage should join my colony,” was Isas demand

“The location of Katarr, Luka Sene equipment -Psionic weapons, Crys armour and associated blueprints and designs, and copies of anything we consider valuable among your collections of prophecies and texts to be collected at our convenience.”  was Ari’s

“Consideration given” the So and Sa Sene said before quickly departing leaving both groups with much to contemplate.


“OK I get these freaks need to keep the fact they aren’t just mouth pieces a secret, it’s very obvious they need some fresh genes…but why don’t they just declare the Seers told ‘em to hook up power couplings with someone here?” Mira asked, messily eating in the pitch dark from the bowls of thick gruel provided.

“That is their true secret,” Isas replied
“My father, Jaran Marr was Amide-Sene-Touh of Katarr, he knew the Speakers did not always transmit the will of the Ter-Sene verbatim.  He also knew the heritage that allows them alone to comprehend the will of the Seers is not so pure as they would have others believe.

Their ancestry harkens back to a time before we lost our electromagnetic eyesight, and our original birth world - but that was thousands of years ago.  To sustain their bloodlines without complete collapse they need occasional infusions, but only of a particular sort…you noticed their vestigial eyes…”

“Hybrids…” Atris deduced “Something the Luka Sene of Alpheridies would never believe was the true Will of the Seers to demand, exposing the speakers”

“Correct,” Isas confirmed
“No doubt the Amide-Sene-Touh is aware, but his power is limited, hybrids are rare, even my own children were not naturally conceived, fewer still would ever donate to help the So and Sa Sene maintain their hereditary stranglehold on the Ter-Sene.”

“Never thought of the Miraluka as having grimy brother-sister hookups at their heart…” Mira added

“I will not force you,” Isas said, turning to Alixa and Varasian, the only ones who could provide the genetic material needed, the Katas family would never agree after their treatment.

“If this is the fastest way out,” Varasian resolved, turning to Alixa,
“And gives us something to hold over the Speakers if we ever need them again,” Alixa resolved as always seeking advantage for her People

“I sincerely hope never to return here,” Isas mulled.



“Can we even do it without killing them?” Lyaea asked

“Would that be a bad thing?” Kiraea giggled

“A small amount of shatterpoint healing, half an hour, maybe less,” Xanaea considered, her expertise in healing arts, traditional and conventional more in depth, and her innate curiosity making the chance to ‘experiment’ on the speakers appealing

“But Lya’s right, they are already so wretched, we would have to be very careful,”

“With the Shadow there is little else we can be…” Ari noted

“It seems strange though,” Lyaea went on

“With all the Luka Sene here, and Jedi on Coruscant, Singers on M’Tzigon, who would love to have the Luka-Sene owe them one -  why would they need us to help them specifically? Especially risking so much.”

“They know something we don’t,” Kiraea sniffed “And they won’t tell us…unless we make them,”

“And we will make them,” Milaea finally spoke with cold unforgiving tones, they had come here peacefully for help from their ancestral species, and been dragged into the machinations of the So and Sa Sene instead.

Moments later the secret door slid open again, a slight light illuminating the utter darkness in both times.

“Agreed” the Black and white robed twins announced.


“Shielded from Ter-Sene,” The So and Sa Sene explained after following them through winding narrow passages within the thick walls of the Adytum to a clinical icy room of harsh sanitized metals and thick scent of bleach.

“For our recovery after Communing and health care…”

Isas, Varasian and Alixa in one time, Milaea, Xanaea and Kiraea in the other, whilst Artis, Mira, Ari and Lyaea waited in the Adytum Archive to receive their reward and communicate to Aethas there was no need for an ‘intervention’.

“All equipment is here, Our physician may be summoned,”

“No need,” Isas and Milaea insisted
“We know how to perform the operations, simply show us where all the necessary equipment is,”

Isas Marr had worked as a nurse for her husband's fertility business before events demanded she take the mantle exemplified by the tiara she still wore.

The implements all featured Miraluka haptic feedback systems to communicate to the surgeon what they could not see, the sensations transmitted via small electrical pads Isas applied to her eye sockets - the thin sensitive skin there could experience highly acute sensations that were mapped to what the instruments were touching in the patient. 

Learning the patterns took years, and she was somewhat out of practice, but the procedures were not complicated, the routine tasks of sterilisation, insertion, suction and placement in slow cooling containment fields coming back to her swiftly.

That it was performed on her own children was less unnerving than the blind vestigial eyes of the So and Sa Sene watching on.

They didn’t realise what they were truly getting with this ‘donation’, Isas children were more than just hybrids, and while certainly this would buy the Speakers quite a number of generations - if used carefully in their incestuous reproduction - one day they would need more.

A suspicion proven true as Milaea and Xanaea gently slid IV’s into the arms of the pallid, weak Speakers, their flesh was near translucent under the robes, veins thick and purple.

“This will provide raw components with which to build new cells in addition to those we alter…” Xanaea explained forcing herself to adopt a kindly bedside manner despite her disgust of the malformed outsiders.
“...hopefully you will gain some physical resilience as well,”
Kiraea was counting on the fact.

As gametes were taken in one time, energy was given in the next.

Alixa curled her lip as the micro incision was made, Varasian clenching his teeth, all cells harvested directly from inside their bodies to avoid any possible contamination - they could feel nothing and yet experienced everything.

Tingles on Milaea and Xanaea’s fingers lit the air a crimson red as they gently pushed their ‘healing’ onto the Miraluka, instinctively trying to ‘correct’ the vastly erroneous bodies at the most fundamental levels, the infinite precision of the Force allowing hundreds of imperfect DNA sequences to be rewritten at once, the IV bags rapidly draining as the Aethan womens stamina as the Shadow limited even this minor act.

The Sa and So Sene could only take so much, the pressure within Milaea and Xani to change ever more, to do away with the backward double helixes and replace them with quad helixes like their own hard to resist.

In thirteen minutes both operations were complete, thousands of years apart, the Speakers given a temporary stay on their final genetic degradation.

The Sa Sene rose first, skin taking on a pinkish hue - far from healthy but now closer to living than rotten.

“Feeling better?” Kiraea asked, seated on a bench.

“Renewed Invigorated”

“Good…” 
In a flash the Aethan woman grabbed the Sa Sene, Xanaea pinning the So Sene to the gurney, Kiraea pressing a scalpel to the neck at the just visible artery.

“Now you’re going to tell me you white faced dren licker why you needed us, or I will spill your shiny new new blood all over your little sister-wife here then laugh as we turn your cities to glass from orbit,”

As she had in the last few missions seeking survivors that turned into punitive expeditions, Milaea stood by while Kiraea threatened and tormented, taking more pleasure in it than she liked to openly admit. 

Every minute they had spent here was one minute longer her nieces and nephews would spend in a coma.

Milaea would neither forgive nor forget that.

“You…Would…Not”

Kiraea slammed her fist down on the Speakers foot, undoubtedly breaking it causing him to howl.

“The blood lines, strong, dominant traits, a boon at first, countered our recessive ones, but unique, unnatural, twisted…we never sensed the like…until you reached Alpheridies…the Seers knew…told us our Doom was nigh…we refuse our fate…”

“What blood lines?”

“Your Ancestors…gave their seed and eggs, we planted it within ourselves piece by piece to sustain…never knowing until it was too late it left us with less choice than before,”

Xanaea sneered, Milaea shook her head - once more outsiders had tried to use Aethan genetics to benefit themselves - and as with every other attempt doomed themselves.

The promise of Aethan demi-god like physiology blinded outsiders to the costs and complications of using the tainted creations of Soron Varas. 

The ingenious Doctor had created a proprietary system almost completely incompatible with other living things - after all anything not of Varas ingenious design could only be ‘inferior’.

That was why Aethans could not heal lesser beings, only transform them, an internalised specificity that was one of the many sources of their Xenophobia.

“And now you need Us more than we need you…” Kiraea smiled
“Oh you silly little kreslugs…the price just went up,”

When the Amide-Sene-Touh returned an hour after they returned from the sojourn to the So- and Sa Sene’s rooms - both of them appeared more humble.

“Ter Sene confirms the time of danger has passed, you are released,”

With Sene-Xowl escorting the Administrative leader neither party dared to reveal the secret deal done with the Speakers, yet undoubtedly both Amide-Sene-Touh suspected such had occurred. 

The secret of the Sa and So Sene manipulation of the Ter-Sene’s Vision, made possible as they were the only mouthpiece, needed to remain or risk a fundamental breakdown in Miralukan societies trust in their Seers to provide benevolent leadership and guidance.

“Compliance Appreciated,” the Miralukan leader added, not at all meaning it.


“Well that was…weird…” Mira exhaled on the ‘Float’ back, the Luka Sene noticeably absent since the deal with the Speaker had been fulfilled.

“They really didn’t seem to like you two…ironic” she nodded to Varasian and Alixa, the pair seeming quiet since leaving the Adytum.

“They are afraid of what they represent,” Atris noted in her ‘all knowing’ tone
“Something worse than simple dilution of their society into the larger human population of the Republic - an alternative culture that takes the extremes of the Miraluka, without any of the temperances of traditional rules.”

Neither Varasian nor Alixa spoke, both staring idly at the floor or wall.

“Hey…” Mira quickly swapped seats to plant herself beside Varasian,
“You two alright?”

“Disappointed,” Varasian replied “I had hoped that we might find welcome, help…kinship even…not…”

Exploitation, confusion, insult, Mira could fill in the gaps for him, unable to help herself feel a tug to comfort him, but she couldn’t let herself be drawn in like that.

“There is no place for us among those Miraluka, nor them among us,” was Alixa’s bitter conclusion, bolting the doors against the last possible ‘outsider’ ally.

“Alpheridies has abandoned us fully,” Isas confirmed, the older woman in her regal tiara standing staring at something only she could see

“We are on our own - their lack of Vision will doom them to stagnancy and decay,” Isas said with not so much bitterness as grim certainty.

A truth that Micha Baal of the Luka-Sene felt millenia later as she gently removed the ancient Star Maps written in a Luminous ink on parchments, visible only in the Force eschewing the normal braille of Miraluka texts. 

These beings that she was to provide the maps to Katarr for were so like them, astonishingly more, and hideously less. Was the inevitable fate of all those who tried, through blending with other species, to sustain the Miraluka’s blood lines and culture?

It felt to Micha as if whatever ancestors these beings had, did not know when to stop in their enhancements and selective breeding - almost the mirror opposite problem the Miraluka of Alpheridies faced.

Best exemplified by the horrific visages of the Sa and So Sene, one could legitimately wonder if Miralukan ‘purity’ was any less a cause for revulsion than unfettered dubious ‘enhancement’.

The ultra cold of the Archive within the Adytum didn’t seem to bother the Aethans at all, even their breath remaining unmisted as they waited in the ‘reading room’ surrounded by glassed off racks of scrolls that Kiraea eyed with unconcealed covetousness.

“This map, location,” the Sene-Xowl said with a nod unfurling the thick imprinted vellum before them.

There remained two Sene-Xowl and seven Sene-Tinh escorting them, further Sene-Ba were collecting documents the ‘Ter-Sene’ had ‘instructed’ be provided to them to ‘help educate the Hybrids on proper use of their unfortunately inherited gifts of prophecy,’

Aresaea quickly began running her fingers over the dimpled map suited to the braille system of the Miraluka texts, more knowledgeable on ancient star maps than anyone else.

“Does it have what we need?” Kiraea asked, eyeing each of the Luka-Sene in turn, as if trying to intimidate them - they made no response but she was certain she made at least some of them feel uncomfortable.

“Yes, the chart is not too old, highly detailed and the galactic drift easily quantifiable for surrounding systems, we should be able to get a lock on the system's star easily, then just drop over the orbital and run on sublights in.”

What interested Ari more were the Aether echoes of the authors - they had included Katarr with a sadness and a sense of warning. 

The historic devastation had a profound effect on the Miraluka on Alpheridies, traumatising them deeply, an echo that could explain much of their subsequent retreat from the galaxy.

It was almost a perfect replication of what had occurred on Aethas in many ways - near annihilations making their species more insular, less trusting, and increasingly vicious toward outsiders.

How similar they were, Ari felt. 

Perhaps it was something even deeper in their common ancestry - the loss of the nameless Miralukan homeworld millenia even before that haunted even their distant Aethan descendants. 

All those losses and trauma’s were etched in their respective DNA and QNA as deeply as the lines in the thin metal sheets that comprised many of their legacy books.

“We’ve no time to waste,” Kiraea added as she scooped up a number of bound scrolls ensuring the People got the absolute most out of the unedifying arrangement with the So and Sa-Sene.

Ari took up the sheets and put any thought of the intergenerational trauma of Miraluka and Aethan behind her - the current and future generations needed her now.


”Fire!” he was screaming as volleys of flash red Las-Arquebus shot through the mottled red and brown Massassi warriors.

One with more civilized features stood at the head of the army of the invading Sith, beside him his Illusion-Mages conjuring falsehoods to confuse the Sonae.  But Lek’un learned quickly, Anzat even faster.

He blinked smoke from his eyes and he was face to face with the half Massassi lord, the hallowed Tremor Blade of Q’Atrox screeching against the Sith Crystalline Force-sword, the black oil of the Siths powers a deep well, stronger with each Anzat he had slain in the invasion.

Rannek smiled wondering what he would taste like.  This Sith had power from his dozens of victims, the Gaki had power from thousands.

Their blades danced, the Clucir of Q’atrox, First Defender of the Evokation, toyed with his enemy, amused at the novelty of the ham fisted aggressive style that lacked the elegance of his own blade work. 

Gliding under a heavy swipe that had the strength to slice off his head, the unkillable Rannek disappointed those in his own ranks who had prayed these Sith were the fabled Shinigami sent at last by the Gods Mercy to end him.

With a deft upward sweep he cut the Sith’s arms off at the elbows, sheathed his sword through the chest plate, then grabbed the sides of the Siths face and drew him into to be supped.

The World spun in the frenetic fear and astonishment, his palate then peppered with rage and deep hate, coursing ambition of a petty lord of a backstabbing kingdom, so much like the Evokation he mused as he fed ever deeper on the memories of a scorched world, a child of a Lord and one of dozens of Massassi concubines brutalized into the hardened lord he had slain…

The face of the child stuck…this wasn’t right, it had moved on to the teen years as Rannek ate the Soup of Memory…its deep black eyes standing from pallid red skin convicted him with a constant question - Why Why Why….

His breathing almost stopped Ranneks eyes opened to the ever familiar image of the Efendí kneeling before him.

“How Long Efendí…” he asked with a dry croak

“Four days if it please Hanshõ,” Druhanne replied, Rannek grunting as the Lek’un brought forth water and thinly sliced Koi-Trout.

“Hanshõ, the impure ones you summoned believe they have discerned the meaning of the Parable you gave them,” Druhanne advised tentatively after such long…meditations…

“I will receive them after my ablutions,” Rannek replied

Those he completed on his own, spurning the Lek’un maids’ assistance, though it took him longer, before entering his audience chamber on the Kitsune. There amidst the Sword Kenin three of the shameful excuses for Anzat awaited him on their knees, foreheads to the floor.

It seemed the ‘corrections’ and Yokusei had at last yielded the respect Rannek was entitled to.

Stammering and still showing the bruises from his correction, one Scholar raised his head from the floor long enough to speak.

“Honoured Clucir…the Parable, the first part ‘Upon the ruin of the Eyeless Seers, where the Man that was Hunger fed we believe refers to a planet known as Katarr. The Eyeless seers are the Miraluka race, the Man that was Hunger a Darth Nihilus, whom nearly 4000 years ago destroyed the colony there, it is said in the Myth that he was an embodiment of the ‘hunger’ of the Dark side of the Force.”

The Scholar paused as Rannek remained silent, even his robes still as death, the banner of the Q’atrox behind him looming as the Clucir reclined on his throne, his Ancient Tremor sword an inch from his fingers.

“As to the rest of the Parable we are not yet certain,”

Rannek did not care, the remainder - “there you will find where your children first bled, the Shinigami there will wait, and by your command bring you to your fate.’” held no mystery for him - it was his long awaited death.

“Efendí, have the pilot set course for Katarr at once,” Rannek ordered.

The Anzat scholar looked troubled

“Mighty Clucir...forgive me but…the location of Katarr has been lost for millennia,”

Rannek rolled his eyes, then gestured a mere two fingers to the Efendí, Druhanne quickly struck the back of the Scholars head with the Rattan for his impudence.

“The only thing forgotten is the utility of Lek’un!” the Clucir snapped “Efendí summon the pilots,” he ordered, Druhnne quickly sending a page boy to fetch them.

“What other names had this world Katarr? Speak!”

“Kar’Tar and in the Miralukan tongue Sona-Kat’ahh,” the Scholar gulped.

The pilots bowed in due deference as they entered

“Pilot, know you the co-rodiatess of the world Katarr, Kar’Tar or Sona-Kat’ahh, speak!” Rannek granted leaning forward

“Hanshõ, we are honoured to serve!” the elder pilot replied, his pale greenskin unsuited to the Kinde Q’atrox regalia he wore, a moment later both pilots eyes rolled slightly back in their heads, the Lek’un drawing on hundreds of generations of genetic memory from a time when Katarr was not lost, and when Lek’un were bred properly to specialise in their chores.

“We do Hanshõ,” the older now replied

Rannek offered a grim nod, once more the Lek’un genetic memory proving its utility, the enforced learning of navigation coordinates by rote over generations bearing fruit, but no solace.

“Pilot,” Rannek continued his voice blackening the room with intent.

“Set course for Katarr, inform me when we reach a suitable waypoint that I might summon more…” he didn’t call them the noble title of Anzat, he could not bear to as he looked at the refuse his species had allowed themselves to become

“...servants,” that was being generous.

“Your will be done Hanshõ!” the pilots echoed, turning swiftly to their duties. 

“Leave,” Rannek added all to depart that he might contemplate in solitude.

So many years, so much blood and frustration…at last…at last he would learn what had become of his beloved Daughter and Son.

The triple layered Transparisteel shuddered against its gold inlay frame as Zhoa’s Gift, a bulky Hyperspace capable vessel, one of only six on Anzat Prime, shuddered into low orbit casting off a trail of the once sacred gases that comprised the Silent Voices of the Anzat sky.

Space travel and science made ever more cherished thoughts of the Heavens so much more myth.

Celeano sat in the right pilot's chair, Q’Atrox Sword Kenin watched over them as they made slow progress to the lower plane of the system.

The majority of the sparse space traffic was comprised of Quan-Jump vessels, able to create a micro Quantum breach and ‘leap’ between points instantaneously. 

Such technology however had two disadvantages, first it was much more dangerous, up to 5 per cent of jumps ended it catastrophic molecular collapse, and secondly its range was limited, barely able to jump to the next Solar System, generator capacity limiting most vessels to 4 or 5 jumps.

The new, or rather rediscovered, Hyperspace technology, while more limited in the routes it could traverse, was far better at long range travel, completely bypassing the dying network of Quan-Jump Stations. A few hundred years and Quan-Jump vessels would be obsolete.

Once satisfied none of the Jumpers would attempt to hijack Zhoa’s gift the Sword Kenin left the two Lek’un pilots to plot the jump to the Perlimian Trade route before heading coreward.

As Burak, the second Lek’un pilot ran navi computations on the cogitator Celeano pressed a rewired distress button beneath his console sealing the blocky bulkhead door to the rest of the vessel behind them.

“I have detected an error…” Burak noted “It seems the Z axis is inverted, this will take us away from the trade ro…”

The green skinned Bruak went bug eyed, hands grasping round the needle now pointing out of his throat a small trail of blood mixed with neuro-toxin trickling onto his Q’atrox emblazoned flight suit.

Celeano calmly stood and holstered the dart gun he had carefully brought in - piece by piece, over the months during routine maintenance under the Sword Kenins gaze among his tools then quickly reassembled this very hour, the final component, the neurotoxin, supplied by Fallyn at the last minute in his freshly pressed flight suit.

He caught Burak before he fell and dragged the body behind the chair.

Burak had been completely correct, the jump would take them far from the Trade Route, straight to the Dark Wells, a group of Black holes near a sector known as Kess’ial, also known as the ‘Maw’.

His breathing was utterly calm as he drew on the memories of his ancestors and pledge of the Nectrin Garden Oath with his triplet brothers.

Reaching over he pressed both levers forward to enter hyperspace.

As the whorl of blue surrounded the vessel he began reassembling the second of his secrets, the micro-burst transmitter tuned to his Brother Kullat’s.  The eldest of the Triplets had ventured first to seek a path to fulfil their Oath in such a way that the Gaki filth would be denied any possibility of preventing it.

The comm device remained inoperative, it would be for a long time.

He waited patiently as the ship ploughed hyperspace, the Sínã  and Sine in their apartments excitedly planning their adventures outside of what they had promised their Father they would do, until he was certain none of the Sword Kenin would check on him.

Carefully Celeano opened the Acacia panels to the left where two atomic clocks were located, the polished panels gently placed on the floor beside the stiffening Burak.

The long digital face showed two differing figures, for one clock was kept in a Gravity-Seal isolation field, thus maintaining Anzati ‘Real Time’, the other exposed to the slight warping effects of Hyperspace and Interstellar travel was already behind by a few seconds.

He recalled with perfect clarity the sequence Kallut had Transmitted to him before he began the Long Voyage.

The ship shuddered as it crossed an invisible threshold into the rim of the Maws Gravity well, his eyes darted to the Atomic Clocks as the process began. 

The Shielded Clock began to speed up, now an hour ahead of the Unshielded.

The drives pushed on as he viscerally felt the tug of the Black Holes seeking to unravel the fabric of the ship. 

How much easier to fly the ship into a Star, or at max speed into a rocky moon, but the Oath was clear beneath the Spring sky.

The Nectrin Gardens were replete with peach flowers velvet to the touch, Celeano closed his eyes and delved his Lekku allowing the moment to wash over him fully as the ship buckled and time spun out of reason.

“We Three brothers from this day forward, shall pledge our lives to the fulfillment of our Beloved Hanshõ’s Curse upon the Anathema, the Gaki Rannek-soma MareQ’Atrox - You shall not die till every ghost you have made has had is fill of vengeance upon you.  Silent Voices Harbouring Our Ancestors in the Great Sea of Souls Bear Witness, and cast our Souls to the Depths of the Bleak Ocean should we ever waver,”

They had sliced their hands with the broken Tremor Sword of their true Hanshõ’, plucked from the Ruins of his stormhold decades before the triplets birth, they three the great grand children of, Obdullah, the Last Efendí of the Kinde, their Banu’s - Ancestors - memories and devotion their own, treasured within their Lekku.

No suicidal crash was enough for the Anathema, he must suffer beyond sanity.

And so it was Kullat, hearing of temporal anomalies experienced by specie runners, had devised the means to use the Time Dilation effect of the gravity bending Maw black holes to push the Children of the Anathema over 8000 thousand years into the future, a year after Kullat’s intended exit day. 

There they hoped Kullat would obtain whatever most horrendous new weapons and technology of torture existed in the future to use upon the Anathema’s spawn.

At the very least the Sina and Sine would be trapped an infinite distance from their home.

The Anathema would sense by his Anima the death of his children were Celeano to crash the vessel into a star - their deaths would cause the Anathema to rave yes but ultimately he would endure.

But to kidnap his children, hide them in the far future, that would cause the Anathema centuries of torment denying any form of resolution a known death might bring.

So deeply did Rannek love his Misíta, the Brothers knew the Culcir would ruin his Kinde searching for her, rage and bluster in utter indolence, and die Mad of the Kuru never knowing what became of her - that was true vengeance they prayed was worthy of the Beloved Hanshõ’s curse, honouring their ancestors Obdulla’s Spirit.

Celeano opened his eyes to see the Unshielded clock had barely moved a minute - the shielded however showed nearly two Millennia had passed.

With the precision his race was valued so highly for he began the delicate maneuver out of the Gravity well, the ships engines groaning with effort. His calculations were precise to the gram, nano second and millimeter to ensure he arrived at the time Kallut had given.

When apprised of the plan Kallut had told them the time lap he intended, 8888.888 the most auspicious of numbers should be the leap forward.

Celeano had one eye on the consoles, one on the two clocks digits.

They were already victorious, Oaths fulfilled, each had played their part, Kullat had taken the stride into the unknown, planned the kidnapping, Fallyn had sacrificed his flesh to access and influence the Enfanta to lure her out, and Celeano had the piloting skill and position in the Kinde to snap the bladed jaws shut. 

Finally the gravity alerts died down, he heard the banging on the door as the Sword Kenin tried to enter. 

He had very little time.

“Ancestors Please,” he pleaded as the disparity between the flickering digits on the clocks slowed and they re-entered Galactic Standard Temporal progression, the final variance to the shielded digits was 8889.565, roughly a year and  half after the target - though he well knew the nature of such a device was anything but precise when subjected to such enormous gravity distortions - he could be millennia once side of the other -  but he knew Kullat would do everything in his power to be ready.

There was nothing on sensors, no ship awaiting them, for all he knew Kullat may already be dead, who knew what horrors existed in this time!

May they come for the Spawn of the Anathema! he gleefully invoked his Ancestors.

Then the Miracle.

His Micro-burst Transmitter pinged a gentle chime against the now vicious chainsaw like cranks against the door.

Celeano’s eyes were heavy with tears, his chest beating furiously as he saw a string of numbers on the digital screen of the transmitter that must be navigation coordinates.

As quickly as he could he entered them, disabling the overrides as the Astro-cogitators plotted a course.

The Bulkhead burst open, the Sword Kenin moved swiftly as Celeano himself - the Lek’un tore the underside of the consoles open, ripping out the wires and circuits with his bare hands, his arms quickly blistering with electrical burns.

He struggled for nearly thirty seconds as the Sword Kenin dragged him out, inadvertently damaging more of the wires that linked the controls to the drives, ruining any chance of preventing the Hyperspace jump.

Celeano bellowed with gleeful laughter as the Kenin rammed his face to the ground, the dark of the Maw replaced by the white of a Hyperspace tunnel.

And so now we see the effects of Rannek's desperate obsession, the inviolate need to find his beloved children, the one thing--the ONLY thing--to bring him peace in his life, one especially poignant given both the enormous extent of his prolonged existence but also that his offspring are/were the Hope and Light of a wasted life of indulgence, apathy, and betrayal.

Flying like an arrow into the future, Rannek's decision to cull the So and Sa Sene has more than merely far-reaching implications for the proto-Miriluka, indeed the fate of Mira's Group as well as Mili's is directly tied to the Luka-Sene long road towards deterioration and quasi-renewal (the first all-but-temporary, the second something more permanent yet altogether different).  Was it their Vision that led the Luka-Sene or instead does it blind them from the Changed Future that they themselves cannot correctly discern?  Can it be the Will of the Force...or is this merely another "effect" of Rannek's insane fixation?

Regardless, the metaphysical questions are moot for our Aethans: the Tribe is threatened, the danger real, the consequences dire, and the solution at least hinted towards a particular location, much like a compass cannot show a destination but rather a way to get there.  Furthermore, the actuality of the matter has resulted in Mili hardening her heart, giving into her People's xenophobia and intransigence, something that we know can result in a much, MUCH darker future than what the "galaxy far, far away" has recorded.  One wonders if Mili's descent will have even worse and far lasting repercussions, even IF the Shadow is taking care of and her children healed...

Now we finally see the Triplets' plan executed, their fidelity to their True Hanshõ and Lord the impetus for such drastic matters, their actions quid pro quo for the atrocities paid to the lost children of their Banu's Kinde.  It is precisely this act that serves as Dante's contrapasso, apropos sentiments given Rannek's crimes...and punishment befitting them.

...But will the arrow that was shot in the past hit its target in the future, or will it instead be the harbinger for something even more sinister?

Meta-note: Excellent weaving together of the disparate threads here, the realization of the Triplet's plan as well as their true pedigree  :)

As always, the attendant pics are perfect, adding to the ambience of the scene^^ 

Brilliant work, LSG  8)

Whatever echoes of the screams of the Devastation of Katarr had once been present were long since faded to barely a whisper that the Blackstone Hull of the Aephrodaea cut in half again.

Through the view screen Milaea looked on the curving surface as it grew with their approach, blinking away a strange after image of a verdant world of blue seas and yellow mountains to the reality of a barren grey and brown pitted sphere.

At first she thought it unconscious Flow-Sight, yet the Shadow in the Aether meant that was impossible - this was a memory of something she had never seen intruding on her present.

“I see it too,” Ari said coming beside her as Lyaea, Xani and Kiraea each occupied the three main command chairs on the triangular bridge whose focal point was the large view screen, data on the planets atmospheric composition, magnetisation, radiation profiles and gravity scrolling past from the auto-scans.

Unsurprisingly there were no detectable signs of active technology or energy sources.

“It’s like remembering a dream,” Milaea added as they ship decelerated, cloaking systems still fully online, the world might be dead, but that didn’t mean it was without danger.

“I feel like I’ve been here before, felt the earth under my feet…and…” Ari paused trying to articulate the grim sensation.

“And we saw it die…” Milaea finished for her

The sensation was unnerving, the implication that within them was somehow a memory of a Devastation nearly 4000 years before that of Aethas troubling.

With a final deep breath Milaea straightened, rolling her shoulders feeling the comforting weight of her Bloodstone armour.

Even if the Shadow in the Aether denied her the expansive boost to her Aether connection it’s enchantments usually provided, she would be well protected from virtually any known physical danger.

“The answers are on that planet,” she said with utter certainty

“if Abominations step upon the Dead World, in blood shall ancestors meet” Ari repeated the Ter-Sene words
“We will find what we need here,”

“But not what we want,” was Milaea’s dark final word before they headed to the Transport Evaea was prepping.

Their Aetheric senses dulled but the Shadow, and Katarr barely holding a whisper of the Aether after so many years a lifeless unvisited rock they flew to the largest, and only still semi visible, settlement. 

Built along the sides and plain of a rock valley, virtually every structure of any height was now lying fallen on the ground covered in a thick layer of dirt, crusty patina over faded murals and carvings, mouldy wetness seeping up from the ground as a river, likely once diverted, had established its course through what was once the main plaza’s and open spaces creating a murky swamp of ankle high water, old pavement beneath slowly accumulating silts. 

Milaea, Ari, Kiraea and Lyaea walked in a wide search pattern, eight of their Extolled retinue led by Evaea prowling the edges and upper levels sniffing for any threat to their Avatars while Xanaea remained on the Aephrodaea providing orbital scans and as a back up in case of intrusion or conflict..

From Ari’s archaeological kit they released two spherical scanner droids. 

“Doesn’t look like anyone has been here for centuries,” Ari explained after half an hour and halfway into the city.

“If the tomb was hidden it could take years to find without the aether,”

The Ter-Sene were certain they would find what they needed here, but the twisted Choir of Seers notion of time was fluid at best, a day or a thousand years likely held no differential to the unbroken chain of the Conclave Group Mind.

An hour in they had reached what seemed to be a central plaza, granite tiles under swampy waters, decayed fountains, administrative buildings mouldy and moss covered, edges dulled to rounded curves by erosion.

Perhaps most troubling was the utter lack of anything living. No moss or algae, nor even micro-orgnaisms.  The Devastation of Katarr had been complete to the point the Aether was utterly absent apart from a thin aura around themselves….and yet…

Yet with each glance their vision flickered to an image of the same features upright and bright at their apogee, the ghosts of beings walking among them, dressed in the multi-coloured shawls and robes the Miraluka favoured - bright spots at the periphery of their vision, images that vanished each time the Aethan women tried to catch them.

Without the Aether, these could only be memories within the women themselves, how and why they possessed these a question that buried itself ever more uncomfortably deep in their minds.

One incongruous object stood out - remains of an old ship in what had once been a botanical park, now a muddy wasteland, it appeared to have crashed, the scar it left in the ground just visible beneath foetid water.

“Never seen a ship like that before,” Lyaea noted as she headed over to it, scrutinising what few outward details remained, it seemed of opulent manufacture, and certainly old but somehow too old.

“A relic vessel?,” Ari said, it was incongruent with the aesthetics of the rest of Katarr they had seen.

“Perhaps they crashed after the Devastation here…”

As she stared more she saw an after image of the vessel in its prime, glistening and perfected by craftsmen bred for that purpose…a symbol of status and expertise fitting for the most powerful….

“Another of those flashes,” Lya guessed correctly, somewhat unnerved by the growing frequency.

They went deeper into the bare ruin that was once a verdant playground, a vast expanse of nature on the fringe of the city.

After images plagued them all, growing stronger the deeper they went, the ghosts of the Miraluka at play, rest and celebration.

“This must be the place,” Milaea deduced “These…memories…are coming stronger and stronger…”

Bleak and featureless in the now, they trudged mud and dust filled air toward the one remaining  landmark - atop a gently sloping hill was an assembly of large rectangular slabs in concentric circles.

Stepping across some invisible threshold Ari nearly doubled over.

The Weight of the Shadow in the Aether seemed to double with her foot fall, the blackness deepening.

Lya about to catch her faltered as she felt it as well, Kiraea and Milaea too.

“The Shadow…” Ari gasped even as she pressed forward.  “...is this the source…” she took another step helped by Kiraea the others headed toward her.

“Secure this area!” Evaea called to the Extolled, the Yuuzhan Vong ghola’s, regrown versions of the first that had called the Aethans Avatars with duplicated memories, rapidly obeyed their Sacred masters who had given them a touch of immortality at the unseen price of effective slavery.

“I’ll stay here with Eva,” Lya added, there was no immediate danger, but they would take no risks by committing all their forces on any one search area.

Ari nodded as she pressed forward, Kiraea and Milaea just behind, the Shadow didn’t increase further with each step, but it was now at a critical level, she could barely lift a rock with what Aether energy was left to her.

She looked carefully at the large slabs, noting faded paints on the front of them, and whilst the surface was flat, they were not single pieces, but carefully assembled conglomerations of varied colours of natural rock, age having faded and blended them together.

“I think these are caskets of some kind…no words as the Miraluka are not visual…but they would’ve had paints, and the stone work energised with the Force so they could ‘feel’ who the occupant was…”

Each step forward was becoming harder, but at the farthest to the circles her superhuman eyesight and impeccable sense of mass scried one Stone Casket that stood out, being of a slightly greater mass than the others and ever so slightly less eroded.  It had been built about 60 years after the next oldest.

“That one…” 

The three Aethans stepped forward, Ari repotining her scanner droids to sweep over it, their initial scan indicating it was air tight.  The Caskets were all 4 meters long, 2 wide and 1.5 meters high, the scans also fed detail to her HUD that the stone was nearly 40 cm thick all round, whatever was within it should be very well preserved.

Located mostly in the open it wouldn’t be difficult to get on a ship so it could be unsealed in a controlled environment.

She reached out to gingerly touch the casket hoping for just a glimmer of the name to come to her through the ancient Miralukan masonry.

The Shadow in the Aether fell hard and Deep around them.


An unco-ordinated amalgam of random vessels burst into the system, led by the ornate and clunky Kitsune. 

Amidst the lacquered gold inlaid panels, Clucir Rannek-Soma Mare Q’atrox oversaw his Lek’un, while the pathetic excuses for Anzat - now numbering 153 following a Siren call burst of the Yokusei days before - piloted their variegated ships around him, the tethers of Yokusei thick around their souls.

His plate armour smelt of fresh Lavandula, a perfume once added by his daughter, now done in unthinking memory by his servants.

As the stars turned back to pinpricks and the ships glided on sub-lights toward the fourth planet of the system the scent took him backward, to when his children were young in the high walled gardens of the Stormholds new extension, the rich veined marbles mined from the conquered Ovarug lands, brought to his power base on the Hokuriku continent as a witness that He, Rannek, had done what no mare before him, even his father, had -  bringing the Ovarug to heel.

His children had eschewed the trinkets and mechanical toys for the grasses and carefully manicured streams of the garden that emulated the landscape of the upper Shivas continent in miniature.

He watched them as he stood in full plate, then as now, about to enter battle to defend his gains as the Seigniory Discord, true to its name, brought mare against mare fighting over the Ovarug spoils.

Favea stared up to him, her kimono of fine red silks wet up to her knees from play, her violet eyes looking expectantly, yet without fear despite the gnashing maw of the Gaki battle helm he wore into battle.

“You are going father?” she asked, he nodded.  A resigned sadness spread over her face momentarily, then she plucked a handful of Lavender, reaching to squeeze it under his belt

“Then you should go with a favour, like the Kenin of old!” she chirped

He smiled then, an expression his face never seemed to be able to replicate since…since….

“...sho….Hanshõ…”

Rannek blinked, hating the return to reality from his beautiful moments of solipsism.

“How long Efendí,” he growled

“Four hours if it please Hanshõ…we have arrived above the planet of the Eyeless Seers, there are no other vessels,”

Regaining his full sense of the now he expanded his mind to seek any hidden creatures, his Anima a black storm cloud that obscured the stars that once seemed so heavenly from below, until travel and knowledge made them just another soiled battlefield.

“Then your observational devices are faulty, I sense them…” he drove deeper at the creatures he sensed, a handful were on the planet, one in orbit.

“Hanshõ, are you certain you…” 

Rannek glared Druhanne down.

“Pilot set your heading to 338-192, there is a being there…” he focused solely on the lone one, it was…familiar yet…distant…

On the Aephrodaea the Shadow in the Aether closed in around Xanaea, the Anima of the Ancient Anzat choking her.

There Rannek felt it, the yielding softness of a mind…
Submit

“Hanshõ there is no vessel on any of our ship's scanners…”

Xanaea fell forward, loose crimson hair falling over her face, skull aching as her fingers gripped the console, the Chiss style controls blue lights becoming blinding beacons piercing into her eyes.  Resistance impossible against the inundation, a flood of power beyond reckoning from an Aether presence that was larger as a HyperGiant Star.

Reveal Yourself

Teeth chattering, her hand moving of its own accord, Xani pulled the glistening platinum plated lever down, a string of lights beside it falling to black as the Stygium Cloaking field was deactivated.

“There,” Rannek declared as the de-cloaked ship appeared on their scanners, the plates of his armour clanking with stern resolve as he stood.
“Comis, have the Sonae secure the vessel,”

“It will be done Hanshõ,” the Comis bowed   

“I will descend to the surface, with the rabble,” Rannek decided.


Lya held her head, in one hand, the comm in the other
“Xani? Xani?”

The Shadow had intensified exponentially for a handful of seconds then receded back.

Now she could not raise Xanaea.

“Yhum III, contact the others,” Lyaea demanded of her Extolled Retinue leader, the third ghola to bear the title Yhum. If conventional and aether comms didn’t work, the Yuuzhan Vong villips were a redundancy virtually no entity in the galaxy could interfere with.

After a few brief moments speaking to a leathery miniature of Ghosk II, Yhum called to her, his ritually scarred face showing genuine concern, his amphistaff creeping over voduun crab armour hissing out the anger he would not show till battle was upon him. 

“The Avatar Xanaea is unwell…Ghosk II had detected vessels attempting to board,”

Xani was alone with only six Extolled on the ship, nowhere near enough to repel a concerted effort…but then why was the cloak deactivated in the first place?

A crack in the clouds signalled a more immediate threat. 

“Six…no seven ships…all headed this way…” she whispered, her face twitching from the Shadow’s pressure that grew as the vessels closed in.

Grabbing her Hades rifle she felt the satisfying thrumm of the ionization cell charging, hoping it would be enough.


The slave races of the Anzat and the Aethans fought bloody and hard through the Aephrodaea.

Rannek’s power ensured Xani had not only downed the cloak, but shields, weapons and opened the hangar doors as well. 

Unable to override an Avatar's system commands, the Extolled Mahuk IV - a particular favoured bodyguard Vong-Ghola they had nearly a dozen copies of -  guarded her fiercely as she crumpled into a submissive ball.

The Sonae felt the resistance of equally fanatical Slave soldiers as soon as they entered in their out of date vessels. 

The two Vong Yarek cannons fired magma balls into the first ships, splitting them apart into heated chunks, a handful of Teppo-gami leaping to the floor to fire back, Thud bugs soon cracking their skulls open.

If The Vong had home ground advantage and more advanced bio-tech, the Sonae had numbers and equal zealotry. For the Lek’un death in the service of the Hanshõ was second only to Full Completion, and after so many years awaiting their Masters awakening they revelled in it.

Comis ÇelÍk would not fail the Hanshõ, this vessel would be secured - on the Fourth effort they finally pushed the Vong back, their laser turrets blasting the Yarek cannons apart as the Bioweapons slowly ‘reloaded’.

“FORWARD!” ÇelÍk demanded of his Yari-Gami, their Vibro-Naginata keen as they rushed into the larger vessel..

The Vong sprang on them from all sides, blorash jelly pinned the Lek’un limbs, Bael Gas rotted their amour, Amphistaffs cut though their chests, but the Lek’un would not be denied, slicing ferociously, frantic to take the life of the Hanshõ’s enemies, the Genetic memory of their Warrior ancestors allowing them to adapt swiftly. 

The First Vong fell to the peerless co-ordination of Las-rifle and Vibro-Naginata, Flame thrower Sonae burning a second to death after cornering him.

Each Vong yelled glory to their Gods as they died, a harsh cry overtaken only by the Oaths of Moment belted by the Sonae to bring glory to the Hanshõ, Kinde Q’atrox and their Banu.

ÇelÍk kicked over the charred corpse noting with some interest the novelty of the creature - but also the utter incongruence between its hideous aesthetic and that of the vessel.

“These beings are servants of the True masters of the vessel,” he informed his subordinate officers.

“Find them,”

“Avatar! Avatar!” Mahuk IV whispered as he pounded through the central maintenance corridor of the Aephrodaea carrying her on his back, the pipes and structural beams still and cold in black metallics that reflected little of the stabbing blue hued lights.

“Wha…what…” the Shadow was still full upon Xani, but it’s icy ‘Gaze’ seemed to have drifted away for the moment.

“Avatar the ship is lost you must flee…they will find us soon,” he stopped beneath the ladder that led to a hatch under the main hangar.

“I will hold them,” his vast form that the voduun crabs ligaments could barely contain turned round, pinprick biot augmented eyes in deep skeletal sockets telescoping to see the pursuing Lek’un raise their carbines and shot-pulvers for close quarters fighting.

Xani began climbing immediately head still foggy from the Shadow’s intense ‘gaze’, sparing no more thought for the Extolled gohla that would sacrifice himself for her than the Clucir did for the Lek’un that would do the same to claim his prize.

Lek’un and Extolled were equally replaceable and disposable tools.

Yet to them service was their very existence.  Shot pulver blasts echoed against the pipes and tight packed dark grey walls, the micro flechettes searing into the voduun crab as Mahuk charged, coufee in each hand, amphistaff round his neck springing out to bite a Lek’un in the neck. 

As three versions of Mahuk had before him, the enormous Extolled thrashed determined to die for his Avatars.

As their ancestors had before them the Lek’un valiantly strove to further their Hanshõ’s glory.  Mahuk smashed two Teppo-gami apart, a burly Yari-gami only slightly smaller than the Vong himself, thrusting his Vibro-naginata into his side then leaping on to take Mahuk to the floor.

Both Coufees pierced the Lek’un Narduu’s chest, still Narduu did what he could to pin the beast's arms in place with more Yari-gami finished the creature, both confident they were earning favour in their master’s supernatural sight, both died assured of finding their rewards in the after life.

It made no difference, barely had Xanaea lifted the access hatch open than she was met face first with a half-charge las-arquebus shot to the face, searing through the hyper keratic of her cheek, flash flaking her teeth and tongue before a Lek’un boot kicked her in the forehead.

His boot sploshed into the thin water of Katarr, cloak sweeping behind from the repulsor lifts of the various vessels that cluttered the few open areas.

200 Teppo and Yari Gami swiftly took positions at high and hard points securing the landing area, scout parties landed on the upper hills nearby to maintain a look out for the approach of enemy by ground or air.  The Lek’un Sonae typically efficient and enthusiastic for the slavish inconsequential race.

The rabble Anzat spewed forth from their motley collection of vessels, pathetic and slovenly. 

Rannek didn’t even begrudge the Lek’un’s disgust of them, but to ensure proper hierarchy was maintained issued quiet orders to the Efendí to punish those Lek’un who looked too far down their nose at the master race at a later time.

Whatever city this had once been, built into the side of a valley, it was long dead, the wreckage of the civilization casually reminding him of Anzat prime itself, but steely focus prevented him from slipping into the Kuru induced fog of his own memories.

He could feel them out there as he stood amidst the ruined buildings, water and salt damage crawling up the columns and walls.  Five of them. Watching…waiting…

“Where. Is. My. DAUGHTER!” his voice boomed off every surface, the water rippling round him as if unwilling to touch the tainted Gaki, consumer of so many Anzat souls in the abhorrent practice of aminopaphagy.

The tumble of rubble signalled not a slip in concealment but a deliberate signal that Rannek did not miss.

Turning to look at the top of a small tower a shadowy figure - not due to any trick of the light but the nature of their strange apparel emerged.

To Rannek she was something from a fevered dream. 

Her armour was rich blood red, almost black, hair vibrant crimson, eyes a glistening emerald green set in skin of pearlescent white. 

It recalled images of Daemons on Temple walls. The oldest illustrations in ancient caves upon Shivas showed the Shinigami as women of pallid rotten skin, blood pouring from their loins - death from where life should come - their nakedness covered by locks of crimson hair.

She seemed a technologically modernised embodiment of the myth.

“Aephrodaea captured, all Extolled lost” Lya whispered via Milaea’a earbud as she looked down on the strange force before her.

Milaea well knew from Ari that Anzat were solitary, to see 67 assembled in one place was astonishing, a haphazard accumulation of hissing hunched creatures - save for one.

He wore archaic plated armour held together by seemingly delicate leathers and cords, a fearsome helm in the face of a hungry animal of some kind on his head, a cloak of deep blue with a symbol of two blossoming red camellia that seemed familiar in the same way this whole planet was to her - a memory of another life she never knew she had.

His armour matched that of the large body of soldiers, armed with Vibro-naginata or Las-Carbines they looked roughly like Twi’leki’s, but unusually had a single very thick lekku and wore head armour designed to keep it well protected.

But more than all this, the Shadow in the Aether seemed to spread from the leaders body, a walking sentient blot within the Aether, the eye of the invisible storm that had darkened their power and sent their children into coma’s.

The Shadow was almost absolute, the only Aether energies they could access were through the ‘light side’ techniques they could imperfectly emulate from Temple Jedi, a power that resented Aethan touch at best.

Goddess and Gaki viewed each other with equal suspicion as Druhanne stepped forward, unfurling a parchment scroll -  a 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 planet 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.”

The words of a dead language trickled into the Aethans minds, understanding flowed from depths of their Eidetic Cortices. 

They had never heard the strange complicated tongue of Old Anzati, and yet somehow they knew the words even if they understood little of the meaning  - only Ari by virtue of her adoptive father Kazic Ovarug, understood any of Druhannes references from an old small book the Vhal’Dan Anzat had kept on the Seigniory  Discord, Aethan eidetic memory and hyper-neuronal linkages ensuring it was brought to mind.

The words were arcane, Rannek was a name she knew, the feared Gaki of Anzat, but those were half mythologized tales of events 10,000 or more years ago. Surely such a being, had he even existed, live to this day?

He stood - the Shadow in the Aether personified.

“Now you will tell me Shinigami,” the Hanshõ spoke, removing his Gaki helm, the Efendí retreated, the Sonae marked the Aethans and Extolled where they could find them in preparation.
“Where are my children,”

Milaea stared back in utter incomprehension, her intention to introduce herself as simply part of an archaeological expedition stillborn in the hate filled eyes of the gaunt Anzat, the corrupted nobility of his features somehow more fearsome than the carved metal monstrosity of his fanged helm.

“We don’t know who you are, let alone your children, We…” Milaea’s reply in an old tongue that felt familiar yet new in her mouth was cut short as she spied among the Anzat an unwelcome face.

“....Vzin Kree…” she whispered through gritted teeth. 

The Anzat that had purchased Evyn and Evaea, raised them as assassins, intending to feed on their ‘Soup’ when they were sufficiently ‘ripe’.

Decades ago her biological father Jarys had freed the twins and beaten Kree to death on the arid, noxious moon of Dypseth.  Her single act of mercy had been to give Kree enough energy to live, a repayment for sparing the Twins till adulthood.  Her vow was if she ever saw him again she would turn him to dust for trying to consume them.

Rannek glanced at the petulant druf, the least useless of the scum that called themselves Anzat.

“The Shinigami speaks your name druf not mine, Why?”

“This is no Death Demon you superstitious old Fool!” Kree snapped, his tongue free even if the Yokusei chained his body.
“This is a meta-human creature, not to be trifled with, even by you,”

Rannek ignored the druf

“Be done with the druf for all I care, Shinigami, and my Fate also, but not…” his eyes hardened Anima building, the Shadow in the Aether intensifying, Milaea doing all she could to show any discomfort. now utterly certain this Anzat was the source of the Shadow.
“...not before you bring my children back to me!”

There was a momentary expression on his sin twisted patrician mask that perhaps only the gene crafted senses of an Aethan could see - the genuine hurt and longing of a father desperate to find his children.

“We don’t know who your children are, or where,” Milaea repeated with genuine empathy drawn from the fear she held for her own nieces and nephews.

“But we may be able to help, to work with you…We have skills in using the ‘Force’ as you might know it to look back in time, to read objects…but at the moment some kind of power you are using is stopping us from accessing it fully,”

Milaea tried her best to be reasonable, not only because with the Shadow so strong she had no real alternative, but she felt a deep sympathy for this being, almost a connection, as if they shared some trauma that, while never healed, could at least be lessened by coming together.

Rannek’s mouth tightened - What kind of Death Demon makes bargains?

“It seems you are correct druf,” the Clucir sneered
“This is no Shinigami, merely a Witch….,” he drew deeper on the Anima pulsing through the throng of Anzat thralls to both tighten his leash on their Will and grant them some modicum of extra power to face this ‘meta human’ the cowardly druf seemed so frightened of.

“Seize her,”

Fingers on taught bows and carefully aimed Hades rifles released as the last syllable left his lips.

Three Oblivion arrows and two Macro-maser Hades rounds sped straight at Ranneks head and neck with the precision of the Demi-god Aethans genecrafted reflexes, Sonae quickly took firing positions raising antiquated maroon blocky square defensive shields from bulky projectors.

Rannek dismissed the projectiles aimed at him with a mere twitch of his mouth dissolving the arrows and energy round with sheer force of his anima. He was a Lord not a mage, but he knew well how to harness the vast power he had consumed from the souls of millions over the millenia. 

The backwash of the Clucirs power hit them all as he summoned more of his Anzat powers, the leash of the Yokusei about the accursed impure excuses for Anzat slightly lessened

“Feed, if you can,” he sneered.

Added to the ranked fire of the teppo-gami the ravenous Anzat were unleashed, rushing toward the Aethans with slavering proboscis after being kept starving for so long. 

They were a mix of heavily armoured mercenaries, lightly equipped pirates and gangers, robed scholars flailing their arms, all their eyes red to purple losing any sense of sentience as they sought to feed, bounding on arms and legs across the muddy corrupted ground. 

They were quickly savaged by thud-bugs and yorek-launchers of the Extolled retinue, the Clucir showing only slight puzzlement at why he could not sense the extra galactic creatures, but trusting in the Sonae to dispatch them.

Knowing only the ‘Clucir’ mattered, Milaea drew forth all the power she could as the Aethans positioned themselves for an attack, the Anzat noble striding forward behind his quickly dying co-species with indifference before the attack was launched in full.

The slave races clashed all around them churning the mud of the swampy gardens and splattering the memorial plinths with blood and dirt -  Sonae Carbines cut into Voduun crab armour, Vibro Naginata  yielded to amphistaff, blorash jelly pinned Lek’un legs, Yari-Gami Tantō plunged into Vong necks.

Lyaea leapt over the chaos firing her arrows into the Feral Anzat to thin their ranks as Milaea hurled bolts of deadly disintegrating energy at Rannek head on.

The Crimson flares bounced off as he continued his slow approach, Milaea leaping down from the ruins as Kiraea and Aresaea flanked, breaking through the Sonae and Anzat with Sword and saber, culling four each.

Kiraea with dual Oblivion short swords still fully charged with Pyrokinetic energy and Aresaea with her immaculate Purple Sabers respectively leapt and slid at the Anzat Lord as Milaea concentrated another blast of deflagrating energy straight at him.

The three pronged attack occupied a fraction of a second, was immaculately aimed, delivered with incredible strength by their super human limbs to drive eldritch infused weapons through the few gaps in his thick plate anticipating his likely defensive motion - and more than that was the true death blow - Evaea using what little energy she had to use the Veil of Mist to round behind the Anzat with her Phase blade to plunge the weapons that phased in and out of the baryonic universe into his back.

How many living humanoids in that moment could survive a simultaneous attack by four Aethan women was likely numbered on one hand. 

Rannek was one of them.

With the fluid grace and elegance of a Kabuki performer, Rannek drew his Tremor-Katana, the mercurial steel shining blood red and hissing black smoke around him. 

With a light nonchalant grip Rannek-Soma Mare Q’Atrox drew on the shadowed memories of thousands of Sword-Kenin and Dozens of Blade-Sages he had supped on, Anzat for whom mastery of battle was a century long pursuit.

All five blades were turned aside, he stepped through every attempt to entrap him, idly deflecting Milaea’s razor sharp hair thin disintegrating beams with his open hand.
Ari’s purple sabers sparked ineffectually against his rapid blocks, Kiraea was shunted aside by riposte that nearly sliced into her throat - Evaea’s attempt at a killing stroke was ended as he suddenly flipped round to grip her by the throat.

Lifting Evaea up he continued to deflect the storm of slashes and thrusts Kiraea and Ari pumped out, Aresaea blasting a heated wave of her own disintegration energy, the purple luminosity bubbled against an invisible shield around his body, then flew back into her breast sending her flying. 

Kiraea took a running leap to bring both short swords powered by the aether into the back of Ranneks neck.

Notching his Katana under his arm, blade reversed, he crouched then rose into her attack, the Katana slicing straight into her abdomen, Blackstone cracking under the weight of his anima, the blade slicing deep into and through her first stomach and the plate-like bones that shielded it.

All while he crushed Evaea’s neck till the outer bone plates finally cracked, casting her aside as Milaea’s next fatigued blast came for him in hues of blood red.

Her own saber alight Mialea rushed him as Ari recovered, Kiraea and Evaea pushing themselves back up, genecrafted bodies able to withstand the damage inflicted thus far with grudging resilience.

All four surrounded him in a vicious sword dance, six blades against his one.  The strange women’s skills were a trifle to him, their enhanced dexterity and unnatural joint range a mere novelty to one who had centuries of skills infused into his muscle memory.

Ari could see the dismissiveness on Ranneks face as he flicked off another charged slash, reminded of how Jarys might ‘rough-house’ with his young sons - they were fighting at the limits of their demi-god capacity - the Anzat was humouring them.

Rannek’s only meagre curiosity was in the women’s obdurate resilience, they seemed to have some internal bone structures protecting muscle and organs close beneath their skin, unusual dexterity and no visible signs of fatigue despite the speed at which they moved.

They posed no threat to him - the only thing that did were the blackened silhouettes of armoured Anzat warriors in his peripheral vision that came slowly toward him. 

Each deflection and parry that drew from skills and power consumed, the victims of that hunger's ghosts closed in, their bloody noses and vacant eye sockets convicting his unnatural hunger for Anzat soup.

These revenants, decaying and emaciated, forced Rannek to end this play swiftly.

Basking in the oil depths of his Anima he pulsed waves of Yokusei power that smashed the Aethan metaphysically, all but rupturing their connection to the Force. 

The demi-gods bodies remained upstanding, their weapons continued working, but their power was rapidly fading.

Lyaea sliced off the head of one Anzat, now alone as the last of her Extolled fell to fury of the feral Soup drinkers, proboscis ramming into the nasal slits of the ritually scarred Tsang II. 

The Gang-Enfrocer Anzat that fed vomited from its mouth at the sick ‘flavour’ of the Yuuzhan Vong, their lack of any connection to the Force making the Soup not just ‘thin’ but an actual negation. 

The extragalactic creatures strange amalgam of unheard of proteins and bio-fluids made the overall taste disgusting.  Yet the Anzat persisted, the starvation Rannek had imposed made even this disgusting Soup source desirable.

Shouldering off an Anzat twice her size but half her weight Lyaea snapped an arrow into the Gang-Enforcers head before the Teppo-Gami surrounded her, using the Anzat’s feral charge to take strong positions in the swampy algae covered ruins, firing on her from every side.

Evaea fell first, Rannek spinning through Ari and Kiraea’s attempt to trap him in a Checkmate between their swords to let Evaea’s drive her Phase blade in, instead Rannek released his own blade to swiftly grab her thrust and turn the blade back into her - Evaea only just able to ‘limit’ the baryonic phasing weapon to slicing into her right breast.

Another Yokusei wave rushed through Ari’s mind, a blizzard of darkness that she pushed through to drive her sabers at his leg, Kiraea at his head - the Anzat’s speed was beyond anything she had seen, he seemed almost static, as if she caught frozen glimpses of a broken holo-vid, never seeing fluid motion,

A snapping motion and his Tremor sword was between her blades, his other fist slamming into Kiraea’s bleeding wound - his mistake was thinking Kiraea, or any Aethan could feel pain as he understood it, Kiraea’s swords forced his head to snap back - but he expertly interlaced his sword with Ari’s saber, a rapid strong flick and she lost her grip on both.

Before the lack of tactile sensation from the sabers flying from her fingers could register the Tremor sword sliced up in her armour's inner left thigh gap, stopping only when it ground against her near diamond strength bone.

Rannek was already withdrawing to slice it once more into Kiraea’s neck, again the irritating creature's armour and unusually strong bone allowing them to escape a fatal blow.

It hardly mattered, Ari fell hard and Rannek deftly twisted to elbow her head down then cut into her back, Kiraea retreating away in indolent rage gripping two wounds waiting for Aethan clotting and vascular constriction to take effect.

Milaea tried to buy them the time, alone the Goddess tried to ‘duel’ the Gaki. She fell back on her earliest techniques, the stances and motions Soryu had taught her, a nearly impregnable defensive form of his own design that was as much meditation and as motion.

The Clucir of Q’Atrox smashed through it in three quick strokes, crushing her arms back into her shoulders, his Anima enhanced strength forcing her to the ground.

All round the Lek’un soldiers were now on the Aethan women, the Vong wiped out.
The Lek’un rammed Vibro-naginata at Kiraea, Ari, and Evaea’s already open wounds.

They resisted hard, killing the comparatively weak Lek’un with each fulsome blow they could manage, but numbers overwhelmed them.

Following the Q’Atrox tradition the Lek’un broke limbs on opposite sides of the body of every Aethan woman, then slammed hands and feet against fallen columns and broken walls - hammering them over and over until the super-human bone relented and cracked at last.

Milaea could do nothing to stop the physical demolition of her sisters, of her own wife, the Aether utterly subsumed beneath the Ocean of the Shadow that spewed in waves from the corrupted creature that now kicked her into the muddy waters with the strength of a mag-train.

Cold and rotten the murky swamp soils filled her mouth and nose as she fell, a foot crushed between her shoulder blades, a sword pierced her in the small of the back and twisted as she gagged on the muck.

The Aethans remained defiant but impotent, red waves of an awareness of damage filled their somatosensory cortices, the Lek’un respecting their opponents did not cry in pain, unaware Aethans had been crafted not to feel any.

The feral Anzat fought over eating the nausea inducing Vong, stale Lek’un, and slightly richer Anzat dead, killing more of their own in the competition for Soup.

They tore each other off bodies to feed on already half supped dead and nearly dead, eeking out what flavour they could.

For Rannek it served only a reminder of the inevitable reversion to bestial primitivism his own aminopaphagy had set in motion.

The ghosts of dead warriors of forgotten wars and fallen houses crowded round him resenting his use of their memories and experience to win so many duels and battles over the millennia, hungering to drive him into the depths of Kuru madness.

Grimacing against their intrusion the Gaki pushed the ghosts away with their own stolen Anima. Beneath him the Red-armoured witch still tried to rise despite his sword in her back.

Stomping between her shoulder blades, then on the back of her head driving her further into the muddy ground ceased her writhing.

The Gaki sheathed his blade, reached down, and lifted the bleeding Goddess by the neck.   
     

The aptly named chapter, "Collisions," couldn't be more true.

Our Aethans have come face-to-face with the Shadow, not only to their detriment but indeed their regrets.  With Rannek's Herculean control of the Force, they find themselves de-powered to "merely" superhuman...yet within the Hanshõ's incredible repertoire of Force abilities, one believes that he'd be more than a match for even a peak-powered Mili.  Worse still: he has now focused his entire wrath upon the Aethans, convinced as he is that it is they who have (or know something about) his children. 

And like the myths of old, we can see how and why the gods weep.

Now we see that the function of the Yokusei IS (or at least precedes) the Shadow...which begs the question if it is but a part of the problem, why are the children still catatonic?  Could it be that Rannek's very Force Presence, the enormity and entirety of his Anima, is so strong, so STYGIAN, that it has now become a permanent effect of his existence?  The next question becomes: how can one fight against such when even Force-savant demigods are crushed underfoot by the mere whims of the Anzat Eldar?  Perhaps more information is needed before even a token resistance is attempted (and even then, only after true preparation has been enacted).

It is not lost that the two client species--both Extolled and Lek'un--are the charnel ground between two godlike forces, convinced they will find glory and self-worth in death in the service of their respective Masters.  How does one gain advantage when both combatants are more than willing to die for their beliefs?  Perhaps in that lies some of the answer in the strategy against Rannek.

One facet that should not be forgotten: there is a familiarity that the Aethans and Rannek sense in both sides, something felt but elusive, perhaps not even tangible.  Or maybe it's that power recognizes power. 

If that's the case, then Rannek may prove the victor given that in a war such as this, power is the most important capital considered.

Meta-note: Excellent battle scene(s); THIS is how to do brutal fights right!  It also proves the age-old adage that there is always someone stronger, faster, better than you.

Also: FT's rendering of the Aephrodaea still looks as incredible as it did the first time I saw it  :D

Chapter 9 PLEASE  ;D

*Excellent Fan Film showing the Desolation of Katarr*
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Fl48HXJhSg# (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Fl48HXJhSg#)
She sat at the heart of a dead world.

Winds howled through the rounded buildings, colonnades and arches twisting the breeze into screams that carried the horror of the degrading bodies to her ears even as it whittled those bones into dust.

She had returned here to at last have True Vision. 

To Witness what had eluded her ever since she was left broken and alone, the last survivor of Nihilus Hunger that rendered her planet lifeless.

Meaning.  Purpose.

Not a meaning to the destruction itself, that was impossible, but the meaning and purpose that the Future would give the Devastation that had already come to pass.

Face held against the bitter wind that spat the dust of decayed bones against her skin, pooling in the absent whorls of her vestigial eye sockets, she at last had Vision as vessels Now and Then Approached each bearing their own unique and inextricably linked Doom.


The Paper Shoji gently slid open, dull light from lanterns illuminating the hunched form of Rannek-soma mare Q’Atrox as he poured over his missives and correspondence, gentle scents of Lavandula that reminded the Clucir of his beloved daughter.

Fallyn smiled gently to imagine these scents were all that remained to remind Rannek of his precious Misíta.  The Lek’un serene as he closed the door behind him, small droplets of blood on his robes of office, the dagger in his cloak wetting his shirts.

“What is it Efendí,” Rannek grunted, shifting uncomfortably, even beneath the Q’atrox blue robe he wore personal armour, the threat of assassination by another another Kinde, even within the mare ever present.

“I bring a message from my Hanshõ,” Fallyn replied, kneeling in the Seiza pose to honour not Rannek but his True Hanshõ.

Rannek snapped up, noting immediately the voice was different from the latest in the abundant Druhanne and Druhanna’s that served as Efendí.

“Kızlar Ağası? What is this?” Rannek’s hand was quickly on his tanto, the Anzat’s eyes hardened as the words trickled past the immediacy of the surprise

“Who is your ‘True’ Hanshõ assassin,”

With a brutal kick Rannek sent his seated desk flying, drawing his Tanto in one hand summoning his Tremor-Sword with the other.

Fallyn remained in his kneeling pose, he knew he could not kill Rannek, and had no wish to, he had slain only those Lek’un he had to to gain access to this room.

Rannek stilled his breathing as the Chief Eunuch remained unmoved, fearing a poison gas attack was the means of murder the Lek’un scoundrel intended.

“Sword Kenin to ME!” Rannek yelled with his last breath before closing his lungs.

“My Hanshõ sends his greetings from among the Silent Voices,” Fallyn said nonplussed,

“And reminds you of his curse - You shall not die till every ghost you have made has had it’s fill of vengeance upon you.  This day, my brothers and I have fulfilled some small part of my Hanshõ’s last command.  You will never see you Son or Daughter again.”

Rannek’s face fell bitter and hateful as he stepped forward, gesturing to the Sword Kenin, who now tore through the door, to hold back.

“What have you done,”

Fallyn smiled, locking eyes with the foul Gaki, an incredible breach of decorum and protocol, but the Soul Eater was less than even Lek’un!

“I delivered the message, that is my task, my brothers have done the rest, never informing me in the slightest. I welcome the Pit, I will embrace the Five Corrections and glory in the Three Humiliations - my screams will praise the name of my True beloved Hanshõ Tyrell-Vel-Ovarug, for whose vengeance I have dedicated my life,”

With a bitter sneer Rannek nodded.  Vel, would he never be free of them!.

“Take him to the Pit, put him to the Question - spare no instruments” Rannek ordered the Sword Kenin who gripped the unresisting Fallyn, slamming him to the floor and twisting both arms around to break them with wet pops.

The legs followed, knees crunched in to ensure there was no possibility of escape.

“Hanshõ, I will send immediately for our Astro-Transmitters to contact the Sínã  and Sine’s vessel,” The Prime Kenin bowed.

Rannek closed his eyes, surely if his twins had died he would have felt it…he sought through the growing power the Anima so many feedings had gifted him across the expanse, but his strength was limited, barely reaching beyond the system.

It was eminently possible the Lek’un was simply lying, a game by Nobles to divert his attention - certainly the kind of petty trick the Trudenn or Goachi might play.

Regardless he nodded his assent.  He would contact his children and ensure all was well with their Grand Tour of the Galaxy before they were wedded on their return.

Yes, surely this was a conspiracy designed to unnerve him, a handful of Lek’un could not possibly harm the Son and Daughter of the most powerful Lord on Anzat Prime, First of the Gaki - Rannek-Soma MareQ’atrox.


The intense gravity of the nearby planet nearly tore Zhao’s Gift asunder as it crashed out of hyperspace on an uncontrolled helix, the 137 occupants, the Sínã  and Sine Q’atrox, their guard and attendants, thrown about as internital dampers and grav-rebalancers failed.

The Second pilot team now in control of the craft following the arrest of the saboteur Celeano did their best to repair the damage the triplet Lek’un had done in his efforts to enact the vengeance he had sworn in the Nectarin Garden.

Sine Mardenes mare-Q'Atrox could hear the traitors screams from the Bridge as the Sword Kenin enacted corrections of the First Degree to extract information from the Lek’un.

Another jolt and the ship spiralled once more, the Sínã  bending his knees and gripping the pilots chairs to remain standing and stable amidst the storm, he would not be seen as weak or yielding to such triviality as this.

His crimson eyes took in the fast working hands of the Lek’un pilots, his visage reflected back in the Dura-glass, his fathers harsh nose with his mothers reputed softer eyes.

While trained to fly smaller skimmers he had a passing understanding of the more complex vessel, from the indicators and dials he could see the situation was dire.
Structural integrity of the hull and frame had been compromised by the extreme gravity fluctuations, all dampers were burnt out trying to compensate.

Forward stabilisers were offline, port thrusters had been sheared off as they were vomited out of hyperspace making righting the ship almost impossible.

Worse, Celeano had disabled life support, air was no longer circulating, the carbon dioxide scrubbers offline, members of the Sonae were attempting to reroute and reboot the systems urgently.     

Mardenes briefly noted the two atomic clocks tracking Ships real time versus galactic nominal time were wildly different, over 8000 years in fact, but in light of the other immediate concerns he paid it no heed, it seemed the least of the fiendish Lek’un’s sabotage efforts.

“Lord, we cannot stabilize the craft, our current velocity will spiral us unceasingly,” the Lek’un pilot to the right informed him.

“Long range scans detect a planet ahead, we may be able to use the friction against its upper atmosphere to slow us down, however it risks the integrity of the hull further.”

There were no good options Mardenes understood, and he had to protect his beloved sister.

“I order it so,” he confirmed.

The next hours were spent a flurry of nausea inducing motion, Mardenes alternating between trying to comfort his sister who remained in the escape pod, and overseeing the pilots and getting updates on the interrogation.

Celeano gloried in the pain inflicted, screaming the sacrosanct name of his True Hanshõ, Tyrell Vel-Ovarug like a mantra.  Mardenes spite and understanding of the sabotage growing with each repetition.

Finally nearing the planet their scans indicated it was habitable, not only that but a vessel was in orbit.

Desperate, Mardenes issued the orders necessary.

“Signal that ship, if we must request assistance we must,”
The Lek’un complied

“No response Sínã …our short range communications seem to be working but…wait..” he turned up a knob to increase volume.

All that came through was garbled static.

It was too late anyway.

“Take us to the surface, the ship is forfeit, the atmospheric friction should slow us enough to land,” Mardenes ordered with assuredness for no Noble of the Kinde Q’Atrox would die so pitifully as from the intrigues of mere Lek’un. 

“SHOW ME WITCH!” the voice sent ripples through the stagnant waters of dead Katarr, the thick nutrient rich blood of the witches coven upon his face, splattered up from the wounds he had so easily inflicted.

A crumpled splash followed as Milaea was hurled to the ground once more, throat red from Rannek’s grip. 

They were stripping the other Aethans after having broken their limbs, hands and feet - standard Q’Atrox treatment of all prisoners to make escape virtually impossible. For those especially dangerous even more mutilations would be administered. 

For now Rannek withheld that instruction preferring to keep the threat of it as a tool.

Feeling like a rag doll covered in lead, Milaea was lifted once more by her neck,rotten water dripping from her face as he pressed it close to his own.

“Show me what happened to my children!” he demanded, the frustration of centuries unleashed on the witch,

She still had no idea who they were, or what evidence he had these children had ever been on this world.

Feeling her thoughts, still holding her by the neck he turned her to face the anachronistically decorated ancient vessel they had seen earlier, slowly sinking into the mud of time near the Miraluka Memorials.

Rannek had recognised it immediately- Zhoa’s Gift, the vessel he had commissioned for his children's first Grand Tour, named to honour their sainted mother, the least he could do to honour her in death, after causing her such suffering in life.

Milaea’s tears, poured over his fingers like Zhoa’s had after he indifferently and aggressively ‘favoured’ her, desperate to obtain an heir as quickly as possible he wasted no time and spared no opportunity.

“Please…Lord…” Zhoa pleaded, her purple eyes glittering like amethyst in the crystal of her tears.

He sneered at her,

“You complain to perform your duty as wife, as bearer of the future heir of Kinde Q’Atrox!” he emphasised the words by slapping her face again, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her toward him, his proboscis tickling at her nostrils.

He had not hidden his Animopaphagy from her, why should he be ashamed of supping such deliciousness!

“You will bear me heirs or…”

Would he truly consume his own wife, the daughter of a noble, if impoverished Kinde of his own Caste?  Zhoa certainly believed it, his reputation for depravity was already…

A knee slammed into his chest as Milaea took the Anzat’s bizarre trance-like stillness as a chance to attack.

Coming back from his Kuru induced solipsism he gripped her harder and slammed the hilt of his sword into her head.

“Strike me again and I give your coven to the Abominations that think themselves Anzat for supping!” he growled, ensuring the strange female humanoids still had something to lose he could bargain with if needed.

“This was their ship Witch,” he trust his sword at the skeletal rust and moss covered remnants of Zhao’s Gift
“Show me what happened with your Magicks,”

He threw her to the ground once more.

Milaea coughed blood as she struggled up, looking through matted hair and slick water to Ari and the others, dragged behind the Lek’un soldiers, legs and arms broken, stripped now to their body suits, exposed skin purple and black.

“I can’t…” Milaea half vomited
“...without…Force…”

Rannek looked down on the wretched witch he had thought, almost Hoped was a Death Demon at last come for him.

“Then use your powers witch, but only to serve me…” he pulsed the Yokusei power at her that she seemed, inexplicably, influenced by - not in the same way as an Anzat, her resistance was proof of that, but partially at least.

Like a warm wind the Aether rushed through Milaea, as if Rannek by will alone could allow her to breathe.  Instantly her aether attuned biology began working to heal her without conscious effort, allowing her to stand despite the cut in her back, lacerations and bruising itching with repair.

Glancing to the others she saw the effect was not shared by Ari, or anyone, only her. 
Rannek could pick and choose who suffered the Shadow in the Aether when he willed it.

How?, Why? she wanted to know…but for now could only…
“Obey” was Rannek’s Anima laced command.

Righting herself as best she could, Milaea gripped the threads of time in her shaking hands, the Clucir stepping close beside her in the crackling Crimson aura of her Flow Sight, and hard as she could she pulled the Veil of Space time back…

...back…..





The dust of desiccated bio matter was the shroud that concealed the dead face of Katarr.

As soon as they stepped out of the Transport the raw emptiness of the lifeless world clawed behind the eyes of those who were Force sensitive, dry, sharp, as if to drag them into the lifeless chasm the once verdant city had become.

Isas Marr led the grim procession, followed by the Old Man, Varasian and Alixa, then and Atris, Mira.  Jaro, Lya and Kera Katas were close behind, the elderly Daro already too traumatised by proximity to attempt a landing remained on the Pallas Athena.

Their feet made imprints in the flakes that had once been Miraluka, flora and fauna, and now pooled and swirled in dust devils through empty streets and buildings. 

Banners of vibrant colours that had once exuded Force meaning visible to the sightless Miraluka fluttered in the wind stained by the dust, dead of the energies that had so carefully been infused into them.

Not even the smallest microorganism was spared Nihilus gluttonous consumption.

Of the whole party Atris seemed the most affected, to see, and indeed taste and smell, the results of her intrigues as the carbonized particles of the dead unavoidably filled her nostrils, was a sombre lesson.

“And people wonder why I don’t like killing,” Mira whispered as they trudged on following Isas,
“Whatever reason you think you had vanishes the instant its over, and this - this is what you’re left with,”

Her white and blue robes quickly stained, Atris could only nod, for this moment at least, in full agreement.

Isas steps were delicate but potent in their intent as she walked the boulevards so familiar to her toward the Haven Gardens, the ghostly quiet of the plaza’s and streets only heightening the discomfort.

She had feared she would break, that she would crumble. 

Instead she felt a buoyancy that urged her on, a certainty in her childrens presence that horrific as Katarrs fate was, it was not the end.

More than anywhere else the Haven Gardens emptiness struck her.  It had been the heart of the city, gardens, forested areas, memorials, theatres.  How many times had she walked its paths, felt the hard timelessness of the large Ob’rist trees that sheltered all, drawn in the scents of Fuch’sia nectar, heard the trill of the Mylil on the branches…

Now silence, absence except for the empty arbours and stepped terraces, and at its center the silent Sarcophagi of the Honoured of Katarr.

A single dull light filled her mind.

“Visas!” she cried, rushing forward, Varasian and Alixa chasing after her.

Visas Marr gently slid back to the present as her aunt rushed to her with unbridled joy, the pain of the past, and the anxiety of the future forgotten in the glee of reunion as Isas Marr grabbed her niece tightly, almost toppling her to the ground.

”This means nothing to me,” Rannek hissed at Milaea “Do not test my patience further,”
Grunting with effort Milaea pushed past the images of astonishment, joy, introduction, question, and answer….

Visas was not surprised Isas had found her, welcomed the Katas’, Varasian and Alixa warmly, acknowledged Mira and Atris.

Behind them the Old Man kept his distance, wary and cautious as a strange figure who had remained alone in the transport till now approached him.

The Old Man stared at the sky as the Miraluka spoke, Isas explaining how she had been scouring the galaxy for survivors, the new colony, the unwillingness of Alpheridies to genuinely help.

“The time is nigh,” The Lek’un passenger said to the Old Man, his ancient transmitter now vibrating as his triplet approached closer and closer.

Lek’un…Rannek’s vision narrowed on the interloper, recognising the face of his daughters Chief Eunuch…and yet not…a twin or triplet. 

“Did you see what you came to?” Isas asked her hand never releasing her nieces for a moment.

“I…I saw that this…” she nodded to the Sarcophagi of the Honoured caked in the dust of those Nihilus had consumed 
“...was the Doom of Katarr, but not the end of its blood line,”

She turned her face to the wind-storms of flaked bio-matter swirling in the distance, the acrid scent in her nostrils.

“This Devastation will be given a meaning,” she squeezed Isas hand a sadness flowing through her aura as her aunt smiled
“But what you create will never escape the echoes of what happened here.”

“Every generation will feel the Shadow of Katarr,” Isas acknowledged
“But that we will have future Generations is, if not consolation, then purpose enough for me to live on,”

Varasian and Alixa’s eyes suddenly snapped skyward as the roar of a Lion and the screech of a Banshee ripped through the sky with a tail of flame and smoke.

Hurtling toward the surface was Zhoa’s Gift, speeding as if aimed straight at them.

The pilots hit full reverse thrust, slammed the landing fins open and deployed drag parachutes to slow it as much as possible.

The ornate vessel in the grip of Katarrs gravity seemed to have a will of it’s own, pushing through the soot clouds, the Lek’un pilots trying to keep it from scraping the hills as long as possible, Mardenes gripping the back of their chairs as Celeano cried out in agony ,the ‘Questioning’ of his treachery not ceasing for something as trivial as the ship crashing.

The first dorsal fin scraped the cracked earth below, plumes of dry soil burst up, Zhao’s Gift another touch and the fin was sheared off flying into the port drag parachute, ripping the glimmering fabric apart.

The belly bounced one the surface, scraping through the protective paints and lead layers to the bare steel beneath, ricocheting the occupants within. 

A brief respite came as it hit stagnant filthy water filled with the rotten micro fragments of what had been abundant fresh water life forms.

The spear tipped prow of the Anzat vessel crashed into the lip of the Dam’s edge, an vast earthen back that held the water from nearby mountains in a freshwater inland sea that had provided for the nearby city.

As Zhao’s Gift flew free once more into the valley below the sudden impact sent cracks down the earthen dam wall.

Varasian immediately grabbed Mira hauling her entire weight up with seemingly no effort, Isas and Visas leapt to the top of the Sarcophagi to join them as the first trickles of the stagnant water that their descendants would be beaten bloody in streamed along the ground.

Seconds later as the ship plunged to the new ground level, a wave of black silt and rot filled water crashed after it.

The Anzat ship tumbled over itself as the Miraluka, human and Hybrid party took refuge where they could, the flood waters fortunately only knee high, but the tumbling ship kicked up chunks of rock, stabiliser fin’s and filigree flying off at dangerous velocities as it buried itself into the dry soil of Katarr, now wetted by the draining lake.

As soon as the Ship had stopped its rolling, Mardenes was ordering his men to cut the hull open, the vessel was lost. 

Triggering the emergency distress beacon he was certain his father would soon send aid.  For now he had to comfort his sister - the Enfanata sheltering in the escape pod with her handmaids, her Lek’un having offered themselves as living cushions to ensure her dignity was not offended  by being tossed about like the ship, many breaking limbs gladly in the process to keep the Daughter of their beloved Hanshõ upright and stable.

Mardenes own tremor sword sliced into the lacquered panels as the main hatches were beneath the water, First Sword Kenin cutting the other half of a circle, a rush of Anima power to telekinetically hurl the plug of metal out, Mardenes leapt out first, his hand quickly back in to assist his sister as the Kenin ushered her out clutching her Jewelry box.


As the Kenin, hand maids, servers, then finally Lek’un were pulled out Mardenes took a moment to survey the world they had crashed upon.

Ahead was a city shrouded in a lifeless dust, around receding murky waters draining across the plains till they were only ankle deep.  The air was full of tiny particles that stank of unnaturally charred flesh, like the burnt offerings of a Temple Sacrifice.  All around he felt the echoes of recent death like the blood misted ruination his father left after another victory on the Battlefield.

But there was no sound here, no cries for help, no groaning injured, no bodies, no blood, just the emptiness of a massacre that had killed in a way he could not understand.

His boots splashed into the waters that ebbed and flowed as the dam gave up its last waves. Ahead he spied gently rising mounds covered in large rectangular slabs, moving beings upon them.

“Kenin to me!” he commanded, pointing to the place ahead.
“Natives, secure the site and scout,”

“Thy will be done Lord!” was the echoed response from his Sword Kenin and the Lek’un Honour Guard.

Mira watched with growing dread as the crash survivors, after piling out, began establishing what seemed to be a perimeter, the vast majority armed with bizarre antique weapons.

The speed and precision of their movements was comparable to the best Mandalorian Super Commando squads she had seen.

“I’m not sure these guys are friendly,” she said aloud as the party tentatively came down from the Sarcophagi.

“You fulfill promise now,” the strange sentient with the single lekku accompanying the Old Man spoke in broken Basic. 

Mira hadn’t even seen him on the ship to the planet, but what she saw now was something even more perplexing - the weird sentient resembled some of those that had just crashed.

“We will,” the Old Man said grimly taking his saber in hand,

“This isn’t a coincidence…” Mira realised, understatement of the millennium she knew as it left her lips.
Nothing, she had come to learn, ever was. Not her losing her birth parents, not her being raised by Mando’s, then found by Meetra, then hired by Isas, and not the downing of this weird vessel and its strange occupants.

“Stay here,” Varasian said unfastening his cloak and casting it aside revealing the heavy Exar-Kun era armour beneath, Alixa doing likewise

“We will handle this,"

Already a group of Sword Kenin and Lek’un were approaching, among them a particularly effeminate one in now soiled formal robes, who ran ahead and shouted.

“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 Bramnid  acting as Kızlar Ağasıin in devoted thankful service to Kinde Q’atrox declare this planet 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, his Son and daughter acting as Regent until his arrival!”

Only one being understood the archaic tongue.

Kullat stared with unconcealed hate as he approached behind the Old Man and his hybrid creatures, Atris, Jaro, Lya and Kera Katas with them.  Everything had proceeded as he had hoped, the Anathema’s children delivered by Celeano on time, Fallyn’s plotting bearing fruit, the Nectrin Garden Oath moments from being fulfilled.

“Ready yourself niece,” Isas warned Visas, “These creatures are not peaceful,”

Behind Bramnid came Sine Mardenes mare-Q'Atrox himself observing the humans, some of whom strangely lacked eyes - but all of them….

All of Them! smelled rich and sweet in Soup, thick flavourful souls ripe for consumption. 

So delicious he could barely focus on the single Lek’un among them.

“You, Servant! What Kinde do you belong to!” Mardenes demanded, the Lek’un was wearing simple travellers cloaks that were practically ornate to Mira’s view, absent any insignia.

Kullat stepped forward, hands tightly gathered then threw open his outer robe.

Beneath was a large rounded carefully stitched symbol of leaves - the trefoil leaf design of the Kamon of Kinde Ovarug of the Vel caste representing the valuable Acer leaves of their demesene. 

At last Kullat could stand before Anzat and proudly reveal his true loyalty, praying the Silent Voices heeded it though distant from Anzat prime.

“Vel!” Mardenes snapped enraged to see his fathers old enemies agents here, the Sword Kenin drawing Katana instantly, Lek’un raising rifles.

The party responded, the Old Man and Atris sabers snapping on, the Katas Crystalline blades shimmering with Miralukan Force energies, Varasian and Alixa’s own sabers snap hissing on.

“What the hell is he saying!” Mira demanded catching up to them
“What the hell is going on here!”

“Stay out of this Huntress,” the Old Man growled

Mira had closed her eyes to this circus long enough - no more.

She stepped between the two groups just 15 meters apart, the soil soggy beneath her feet as it ate the flood waters up.

“You just crashed, you really want to pick a fight?” she glared at Mardenes, the Anzat noble insulted a Gaijin dared meet his gaze, let alone a female one!

“And you,” she stared at Kullat
“Is this what you’ve been sneaking around doing, plotting to bring down their ship? Why, what for? What the frell could possibly be worth more death?!”
She spread her arms as if to embrace all Katarr

“Isn’t this entire damn planet a reminder of how shavit stupid killing each other is? You can all feel it, don’t pretend you can’t!”

She looked fixedly at Isas
“We Found Visas, we found the Katas’ and the other families, you got everything you wanted, what more is there,”

Isas didn’t reply, no one except her husband back at the colony of Aethas understood the full extent of her plans to create a new, stronger, smarter generation of Katarr’s descendants.

“What are these?!” Enfanta Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox interrupted having approached.

“Beloved Sister, for your safety stay back!” Mardenes advised

Faveah was unconcerned as only the daughter of the most powerful warlord of Anzat Prime could be - no sane being would risk her fathers ire after all.  She joined Mira between the two groups

“They smell delicious…” Faveah noted as Mira stared at the Anzat, none of them had ever seen Anzat before, so rare were they by that era.
Gently reached out to Mira’s red hair, taking a loose wet strand round her finger
“Fascinating…brother I hunger…”

Mira could not understand her, she wondered if she wasn’t also trying to end hostilities before they started.

“Mira get away from her!” Varasian demanded “You can’t know how dangerous that species is!”  there was a masculine steel in his vice Mira had never heard before

“Sister that Lek’un accompanying them is loyal to the Vel this is the conspiracy, using Gaijin to assassinate us!” Mardenes explained

“If that were so they would’ve destroyed the ship outright,” Faveah countered turning to Kullat deigning to grace him with her gaze.

“No, they want something more…what is it you desire faithless cur?”

“I will see you suffer beyond reason,” Kullat replied

He had travelled billions of kilometers and thousands and years for this.  Found himself in a time when the Evokation was all but dead, Anzat scattered one in a trillion to find, seeking something to torment the children of the Gaki when Celeano delivered him.

By Fate or Doom the Old Man had been seeking Anzat and Lek’un for a reason that was beyond blasphemous. By Grace of the Silent Voices, he found Kullat instead. 

Kullat promised to deliver him not just one, but potentially dozens of Anzat - and so a deal was struck.

Faveah gave Kullat and his petulant Gaijin a withering look, never doubting the ability of her brother, Sword Kenin and Honour Guard - the most feared across the entire Evokation to dispatch with such riff raff.

“You will live many decades in the Pit,” she promised Kullat with vicious tones, then turned sweetly to her brother.

“Honoured Brother, do spare some of them for supping, their soup is so rich!”
Mardenes gave a crooked smile his own proboscis tingling.

Elegantly heading toward her brother she took a half dozen steps, Mira still completely in the dark as to what was being said.

Then Faveah paused.  After such a scare with the crash, and the delightful fresh scent of Mira…she just couldn’t wait.

Like lighting she leapt at Mira, her hands pressing the side of the red haired bounty hunters head inwards, pulling her neck back to expose her nostrils, the sweet musk of Mira’s soul so intoxicating Faveah’s proboscis were already rigid.

The Anzats telepathic anesthetic power flooded through Mira’s mind making her limbs fall limp, neck straining as only Faveah’s strength was holding her upright.

A shattering white force pierced her awake as Atris intervened. Her Saber cutting in, forcing Faveah to leap back.

Mira’s head swam back to full lucidity, the force flowing through her with Atris prompt, the red maned huntress nodding appreciation to the Jedi Master who was already engaged.

Much had happened in the intervening few seconds, Varasian and Alixa engaged with one of the Sword Kenin, the Katas’ siblings and mother likewise, the Old Man hacking a Lek’un Yari-Gami apart with unseemly ferocity.

Jedi, Luka Sene and Aethas Colonists drew heavily on the force and their training to counter the archaic armoured Sword Kenin and swift Lek’un, Visas forced to light her own red saber as she felt the ravenous hunger of the Anzat for their very souls, her mind retching backward to after tastes of Nihilus.

Isas less proficient in close combat sheltered but hurled waves of telekinetic energy to support her children and keep the Lek’un down. 

The Anzati had rarely encountered force wielders, even among the hundreds of battles they fought in the Discord only a handful wielded enough Anima to use such abilities, and even then the ‘Ninpo’ were largely only basic kinetic attacks.

Atris used her force enhanced speed and crisp Shien style to round through two Lek’un, her blue blade severing three limbs in less seconds, but found in the Sword Kenin an adamantium wall.

Elite soldiers of the most powerful Kinde on Anzat prime, the Q’Atrox Sword Kenin were all Blademasters, skills honed over decades of training and war, or gained through the consumption of their enemies, Lek’un and Anzat alike.

The O-Yoroi armor of hundreds of overlapping plated steels resisted glancing blows from the Lightsabers, weapons they had never encountered before, being barely existent in the past they had been wrenched from.

Kera Katas felt a mere apprentice again, she had fought two wars as Luka-Sene, yet the Anzat swordsman skill and grace was near overwhelming, only the constant chill and guidance of the Force through her limbs kept her from death.

Even Jedi Master Atris was retreating back, the Anzat far greater strength and speed more than offsetting her Force powers, her knees buckled blocking blow after blow that came at every angle, a brutal bladed knee lunging for her breast, she stumbled back exposed.

The TremorSword fell swiftly but was blasted at the last instant by Mira’s shot. 

Repaying Atris assist she fired her arm mounted grenade launcher straight into the Sword Kenin, the Sonic grenade sending dense micro-amps coursing over the Anzat, his ear drums bursting, head spinning, allowing Atris to recover and skewer him with her blade - it barely penetrated at first until a Force push from Isas helped cut into the body.

Only Varasian and Alixa seemed physically matched Anzat, the hybrid children used the Force to offset lower skill, Alixa bursting flares of Force lighting, Varasian kinetic tugs at the ankles.  They were still slowly losing.

Lek’un rushed to reinforce, Jaro and Lya struggled to deflect the shots the Teppo-Gami fired while at a full sprint as Visas entered the fight beside Mira.

Just like Dxun, Onderon and Dantooine the two fought side by side, drawing on all Meetra had taught, Mira’s hunting and Visas Miralukan skills.  Barely enough to keep the lone Sword Kenin that flurried blows interspersed with shurikens at bay. immolating a Shuriken against her Sentinel yellow blade Mira yelled
“Cover me!”
Visas stepped up red saber taking the brutal Kenin blade, her shoulders and elbow feeling they would give out.  Mira swiftly reloaded her grenade launcher and from a crouch fired into the Sword Kenin locked with Alixa.

The frag grenade sent sharpened splinters into his left side, Alixa capitalising to slice him down and run to Mira and Visas' aid.

Once eight Sword Kenin, six remained.  His sister retreating behind the Lek’un, Mardenes decided he must intervene against these witches and warlocks.

Wet earth splashed far as they cut and dogged, shot and struck at each other, Jaro down on one knee from a wound that had all but severed his leg, Atris bleeding from a cut at her perfectly white hairline, Visas back aching from muscle tears.

Mardenes aimed at the Old Man, the grizzled veteran dispatching another Lek’un - the human biting back the pain from his own wounds - blade and blaster shot - with a gentle hum of lips, techniques a life left behind, instinctively retreated to, despite himself.

BattleSong on his lips the Old Man locked blades with the Anzat, feeling the strength of youth and a High borns confidence bear down upon him, the Force alone keeping him up.

“Dammit use them!” he yelled back to Kullat, the sneaky Lek’un taking the first of four canisters from his voluminous robes now soiled by the sick waters of Katarr.

The first he threw where Lya and Jaro were protecting each other from the killing blow of a Sword Kenin, the massive armored warrior not seeing the glass beaker smash at his feet till it was too late.

Created with technologies and synth-organic compounds that did not exist in Mardenes era, by a genius of biochemical weapons, the expensive Species specific suppression gas caused the Sword Kenin to waver and fall, freeing the two natural hybrids to help their mother.

Another breaker broke into the combat of Atris and a Kenin, again he fell, relieving her instantly to help Visas. The excess gas, designed to incapacitate Anzat, at close range filtered through the air, dimming the senses of the others, slowing their reflexes by half.

Mira reloaded with a gas grenade launching it at a Kenin who sliced it apart mid air only to find enough of the liquefied contents expanding out to cause him to tremble and lose focus, making him easy prey for Alixa to kick down.

Snapping on her Sentinel Yellow saber Mira blocked the shots of the increasingly irate Lek’un as Kullat about to hurl his last beaker of the suppressive gas was shot in the arm.

Scrambling to try and reload her launcher with her last concussion grenade Mira didn’t see or feel the approach of Faveah.

The vicious starving Enfanta rammed her Tanto into Mira’s side, then spun her round.

Mira’s mind swam not just from the blow, but the telepathic soothing the Anzat woman poured into her, lulling Mira into submission.  The far stronger Favea lifted the human, proboscis instinctually seeking the rich unique soup within.

Mira’s eyes rolled into her head as her nostrils were pushed wide by the boring tips of the Anzat, sliding them up toward the bone and the delicious brain fluids behind.

Dragging his viscera clogged sword from a Kenin’s body, Varasian, himself bloody and aching, snapped his eyes to Mira as her life was millimeters from ending.

Cold waves of his genecrafted ‘Adrenal Boost’ took hold and raw Force energy poured from his hand even as his legs leapt under control of his hind brain.

Varasian tore Faveah off Mira with barely a second to spare,  gripping the Anzat noblewoman's hair and ripping it back, tearing chunks out,  the human tracker free of the Anzat’s potent anaesthetic power looking up groggy as the young man hammered Faveah into the ground, the daughter of Q’Atrox was not supine, stabbing back with a needle blade from her corset, plunging the thin dagger into his thigh through the armour gap. 

With a grunt he smashed her to the ground then kicked her in the ribs.

Mardenes broke from his lock with the Old Man to help his sister, fury overtaking the Anzat with feral ferocity that set him less running than loping at Varasian.

With a snarl Varasian responded in kind.

The two slammed together in a medley of blades, fists and knees, biting and gnashing chunks from each others flesh - the fulcrum around which the Jedi and Miraluka created a barrier of sabers deflecting Lek’un fire back at them, alternately slamming them to the ground with the Force, hurling fallen weapons to keep them down.

Against a normal Human-Miraluka an Anzat ought to win easily, but Varasian and Alixa were as the Old Man had always hoped - something far far more - the best of himself, Isas and his lost Daughter and Sister,  mixed together by the Genius of Soron Varas.

In his peripheral vision the Old Man watched his nominal grandson tear at the Anzat, two beasts seemingly shorn of any trace of sentience much less civilization as they each fought to protect the females of their kind - Mardenes for his sister, Varasian for his would be mate Mira.

Sweeping up the fallen beaker from Kullat, Isas hurled it with the Force at the Last Sword Kenin, weaving it expertly around his attempts to dodge till it shattered anaesthetic gases into his face, leaving only the Lek’un warriors who were far less challenging for the array of experienced Jedi and Luka-Sene to deal with. 

Mardenes began getting the upper hand, Varasian was strong, energetic, but still not perfect, the Anzat took solid blows to chest and grabbed the hybrids arm twisting it swiftly round, then kicking his feet from under him. 

Quickly rounding on Varasian, Mardenes put him in a head lock a fraction away from snapping the neck when Mira’s saber cut into the Anzat’s shoulder.

The ground was a mess of blood and scent stripping vapours from the gases as the Lek’un suicidally rushed to their Lord and Ladies side only to be beaten down by Atris, Visas, Kera, Jaro, Lya and the Old Man - Alixa joining her brother to put Mardenes down.

His face falling into the mud, Mardenes tried to push up seeing only his pained sister's expression beside him before something heavy and firm rammed into the back of his skull.

Faveah screeched, her voice listlessly echoing into the distance as her figure faded along with images of the bodies, only the glow of the sabers remaining as Milaea’s strength drained, unable to keep herself and Rannek viewing the past any longer.

“Not yet Witch!” Rannek demanded gripping her violently

“What did they do, where did they take them!”

Milaea’s face scrunched in effort as she pushed past the dying ebbs of the skirmish, the binding and tying of the captive Anzat as crew from the Pallas Athena arrived to assist them, the Lek’un survivors rounded up, Celeano found a bloody barely living mess after his ‘corrections’.

Finally she found a point where there might be a clue - Isas and Visas speaking before the ramp to a transport.

“...most will survive, we have adequate facilities,” Isas soothed her niece
“...come with us, to Aethas…”

 

Already on the edge, the word Aethas pushed Milaea into unconsciousness.  She had no understanding of any of the events she had been forced to Flow Sight to witness, no knowledge who any of the beings were or what they were trying to do.

Despite herself she fell back into Rannek’s painful grip, the Ancient Anzat catching her abnormally heavy body, her head dropping back over his arm.

As real time reasserted itself against the grudging tear Miaea had created he stared into the exhausted face of the Witch, a soft violet glow beneath her eyelids as her magicks diminished.

But he was not without his own fatigue. 

Suppressing the Witches will forced him to draw deeply on his Anima, an anima bled from each one of his millions of victims, the more he drew upon it, the stronger the mind rending effects of the Kuru became.

His body felt light, his head filled with images of gaping faces and bleeding noses, eyes wide in shock and horror as he tasted their souls in their last moments.

Yet he had seen his Children for the first time in 10,000 years, knew the name of the place where they were taken by their attackers. 

Aethas. 

He would reach Aethas, no resource he possessed would be spared...and yet somehow he knew the Witch would be his most valuable asset in reaching it.

Yet in his soul rotten flesh tumbled over him, disembodied spirits screamed bloody vengeance in his ears, his hands and feet felt heavy dragged to the Dread still Oceans of the damned, the Kuru building to the point of return.  He could use his vast Anima no longer.

Releasing her, Milaea crashed into the sodden ground exactly where Faveah had so long before, he bent to his knees over her, staring into her face as he fought to keep his thoughts from wavering.

The perfect features flickered from the alabaster white and red to the deep azure and svelte grey of his Misíta, the images of the fallen witch and Faveah blending in his mind.

“Hanshõ! Apothecary!” Druhanne called

“Take…her back to her rooms…” Rannek ordered

The Efendi was perplexed, so far as he and all the others had witnessed, his Hanshõ had grabbed the Witch, then for half a second a red glow had emanated around them, then the witch collapsed onto the Clucir. He, and every being but Rannek and Milaea were utterly ignorant of the Flow Walking and all that had been seen.

“Rooms Lord? Forgive me but I do not…”

This Druhanni irritated Rannek with her questions

“Take my Misíta to her rooms and have the maid servants attend her immediately!” he growled pointing at his daughter as she lay overcome on the tatami,

“Is it not obvious she is in need!”

The walls of the Stormhold were wavering around him like melting plastic, in their distorted recesses faces were peering out, screaming aching to consume him as he had them….

Druhanne stood astonished as the Hanshõ pointed to the witch, calling her Misíta.  The Lek’un knew this was likely the Kuru speaking, but he was bound to obey his Lords command - cogent or not.

“I must meditate…” Rannek gasped as he swayed in the rotten winds of a dead world

“I must…”

The Abyss of Memory took him.

They were hot, dirty, and angry.

For three days they had been carving a bloody path through the Cathedral mountains, hundreds of kilometers of tunnels, enormous underground factories and sickening ‘nurseries’ where caged force fed females produced offspring to supply the needs of Rhandite elite, vast lightless schools crammed with pallid children who openly murdered each other for scraps ensuring only the most devious and strong survived to adulthood.

That was for the Nag’hi species - far worse were the bestial Taung warrens where the rabid males roamed free braying and fighting so only the strongest passed their genes on. .

The Aethan’s Telepathaeon lobes now a near blinding scratch in their heads from the undiminished Shadow in the Aether, they had no patience for any being they encountered, brutally bisecting or crushing every sentient after the briefest of interrogations.

It hardly mattered. While the 18 Aethans on planet in groups of three killed perhaps 500 a day, it was nothing compared to the thousands that the twisted Rhandite societies suicidal, gundark eat gundark nature slew every hour and astonishingly less than the tens of thousands forcibly birthed to replenish the stock each day.

It was painfully slow trying to find the Sorcerer who oversaw this vast city beneath a mountain range, there were no maps or sign posts, only Collectors and their Taung Patrols moved about freely - a form of administrative branch they ensured critical areas had sufficient manpower by appropriating it from wherever they could, some even fighting each other for beings in ‘Appropriation Wars’ - more than once they had passed dead Collectors and their retinues slain by another.

The Rhandite society operated at the very edge of anarchy, the visceral fear of the Sorcerers powers the only thing that kept the lower beings in line, fanatical commitment to the precept Destruction is Eternal etched into the higher strata’s making improvement of the underclasses lot meaningless.

Taryn could feel squelching every time he moved, he had been in full armour for over a week and his undersuit was soaked, the humidity preventing any drying.

With Taran and Maekal covering he would relieve himself in corners on occasion, arguably only improving satiation,  trusting superhuman physiology to carry him through on dwindling rations, too deep to leave for resupply, unwilling to eat or drink any of the blood tainted food and water.

They pushed on, crawling, crouching, sneaking through the warrens, communicating with the others when they could to develop a broad map of the complex, thousands of kilometers of tunnels beneath a continent spanning mountain range.

Moon sized chunks of the mountain were hollowed out for raw materials and filled back with factories and living space.  Narrow rock walkways left behind by the miners served as thoroughfares of a sort, slowly worn by feet over decades, sharp falls off the sides into black depths, the echo of throat chanting heard every now and then.

It was this chanting they began to follow as soon as they heard it, knowing the Sorcerer's sacrificial needs included the ritual liturgies of the Choirs of Ghul’Sho.

The first groups were initiates, babbling painfully out of tune on their rounds, occasionally set upon by the vagabonds and robbers that were not part of some warren or enclave - cannibals and the mentally deranged these were ‘outcasts’ even of the dysfunctional Rhandite system that the Aethans and Taung alike killed like Kre-roaches when they bothered to notice them at all.

The Choirs they followed to the Collectors den’s, the administrative classes accommodations featured numerous caged ‘breeders’ at various stages of gestation and malnutrition producing ever more beings to feed the malefic machine of the Cathedral World.

Taryn tried to speak with one, a filthy ragged thing with bone white hair - she simply spat at him and gargled incoherently, her ‘children’ about her feet in the tiny cage eating scraps thrown by the Collector who now lay in a pool of blood outside the cavern he kept his chosen breeders in.

Taryn had seen vile, despicable things in his time as a Runt in the bowels of a Nar Shadda based pirate vessel - Aethan indifference to Outsider suffering was a genetic wall that soon ensured any traumatic image was filed neatly as data - still such scenes caused a brief moment of empathy for the Outsider, wondering if ending it’s life was more merciful than letting them live in these conditions.

Ignoring it they pressed on through rank caverns barely lit, ancient durasteel pillars holding a kilometer of stone over their head, some filled to the point of choking with gas from the factories.

They barely needed to hide, the air near black with carbon, the large industrial cavern thrumming with constant noise as weapons and ship components were produced by the thousand.

They twisted from conveyor to conveyor nonetheless, out of habit of concealment rather than need.  None of the workers if they saw them would’ve cared.

Taran took a moment to pluck a few items from the large bins of final goods waiting to be sent up on massive chain lifts to the surface docks. 

The components were of good quality, a puzzlement given the conditions until they found a section where the production was not up to standard.

There bodies were hung, flayed and in many cases partially eaten on silent machinery, a warning to all the others - adequate quality got you food, water, maybe some time with the ‘breeders’ - failure to meet the quota or the standard led to ‘Embracing the Dark’ and being replaced by the innumerable starving ‘unemployed’ that lolled around the fringes of the factory caverns.

“An effective motivation system,” Maekal mused “but one reliant on infinite pools of labour to draw from,” he sighed

“Not one we can replicate…yet…” his tone was regretful, the former ‘God-King’ of an entire world looked upon the Rhandite system (if not their philosophy which was childishly simplistic) with curiosity, occupying his mind with plans on how to increase efficiency and obedience as they pushed ahead, imagining how they might usurp the Sorcerers and convert their entire system to Worship and Serve the Goddesses of Aethas.

They went deeper and deeper into the complex, seeking out the Choirs hidden Convents.


“You’ll not take me…” he growled at the spectres that even now were trailing their bone thin fingers over his skin.

“Not Yet…”

The images swirled in his mind.  Mardenes, Faveah…beaten by despicable Gaijin, the Witch, or Shinigami, whatever she was or might be twisting into her place then out again.

And the faces kept getting closer.

“Not Yet…” he hissed standing in a ready pose, his Tremor-Katana above his head to strike down the Mandalorian invaders.

The ‘super commando’s led by the obnoxiously titled Mandalore the Ultimate were raging across the Republic once more, razing worlds for no seeming purpose but the thrill of battle.

They would find more than a match in the Anzat.  The Foundering was not yet complete, some houses still held on in those days.

Lek’un warriors manned mobile Ground-to-Space Cannons that sheltered in the deep mountain passes around Azherri, the rocky terrain serving to cover them as they fired at the blazing comets that were Mandalorian Basilisks.

He stood in the Great Lemniscate of Azherri, where in ancient times the Kindes gathered atop the peak before a city was built around it, he waited - waited for the Mandalorians, waited for the Hungry Ghosts of his own making.

In a flash they were upon him, his Tremor sword biting into beskar, disruptor rifles deflagrating his Sword Kenin beside him.

He hacked and tore the helm off one Mandalorian, his ebony skin a curiosity.  Without a thought Rannek viciously stabbed his proboscis into his nose, violently and quickly supping the surface knowledge - all that could be collected in a fast meal of Soup.

It was enough to help him understand the battle plan of his enemies to direct his troops.

He dropped the body to the ground.  But the Soul of the Mandalorian did not move.

This wasn’t what happened…he never thought of that ebony skinned warrior again.  And yet the Mandalorian stared at him, and began to rise on phantom wings apart from his body.

“Not Yet!” he hacked at the ghost he had made,
“To ME!” he demanded of his Kinju - but the battle was done now, bodies strewn about the Great Lemniscate, its mosaic paving that represented the Silent voices cracked and covered in blood, piles of bodies, Mando and Lek’un, Anzat with back banners scattered among them - the flower of a generation pruned in a single week.

But the Souls…the Souls remained.  Oily black they wafted toward him with outstretched rotting hands, their noses wide and dripping from where Rannek had fed on them, hungry for their revenge.

And at their head…at their head…

“No…Not Yet! Let Your curse go on Vel, I will not fall till my children are in my arms safe once more!” he yelled at the phantoms and slashed, bit, stabbed, fought.

He was so close to succumbing, closer than he had ever been!

They were dragging him down, the mosaics swirled into a whirlpool of Black madness, the Kuru mande manifest seeking to drag him down

He raged and pushed against its tides as the ghost leaped into the gluggy waves that surrounded him, spinning ever faster.

Above him was a light…he reached for it with his one free hand, the other sunk, fingers with long rotten nails clawed at his face.

It was red, it burnt, he felt its heat as it seared away the bile that ate at his mind, and in it’s centre were eyes….eyes of,,,,

***Thanks to The Dutchman for the original outline of this section***
Emerald eyes blinking, Milaea’s mind finally caught up to her blurred, groggy vision. 

Where was she?  How had she gotten here?  What had even happened to her? 

Memories came trickling back, if slowly.

Katarr, the wet dead world, the Anzat, the Flow Sight…the Miraluka hybrids, Jedi and Anzat fighting millenia before then utter exhaustion as the Shadow overwhelmed her.

Creaking up, she looked around the room as a diffuse orange light illuminated everything from square scones in the wall.

Her rapid meticulously crafted eyes surveyed every bit of furniture, every wall-hanging, every room decoration.  Then she looked down at herself, seeing for the first time what she had unconsciously felt since awakening.

She wore robes of the finest silk, although they seemed somewhat stiff with age. 

Vibrant colors of many birds that she did not recognize were set upon a backdrop of the purest white, all of it gathered by a wide, purple belt.  Upon her feet she wore comfortable socks that had splits between the big & first toes, probably to wear the thonged sandals set just inside the... She squinted in disbelief.

Milaea couldn't be sure but she thought that at least one of the walls was just simple softwood and...could it be, rice paper? 

Another wall displayed a large painting, one that she didn't recognize. 
Looking closer, she could've sworn that the figure seemed to be an Anzat in ancient lacquered splint-mail armor, swinging an old-time naginata.

Next to the armored figure was an ideogram of a language that she had never seen yet understood, it represented something imperfectly translated into Basic as ‘Q’Atrox Overcomes’ or ‘Q’Atrox Triumphs’. 

Somewhere deep in the back of her mind were memories of reading and writing that script with delicate brushes on fine papers, over, and over again, a hand not her own, indeed slightly grey hued, perfecting the art.

On the other wall were several shelves, ornate cha sets arranged what she assumed was artfully. 

But it was when her eyes fell upon the last wall that she felt her spine run cold...

Taking up the entire wall from floor to ceiling was a faded painting of a woman kneeling.  She wore a kimono--precisely like the one Milaea now wore--the large lavender obi holding a tanto, a closed old-style fan, and what looked to be a short length of bamboo-like wood. 

Feeling her own belt, she was alarmed to find all three items secured at her waist.  But that wasn't all...

Staring at the painting, Milaea saw that the woman's hair was arranged in the nihongami-style - a style she shouldn’t know the name of yet did, adorned with several willow kanzashi flowers. 

But that's not what had really given pause...

The face in the painting looked familiar, not in the exactness of the features but the emotion -  In it she could she herself, Ari, every Aethan woman in the assured playfulness the artist had captured so perfectly

“Forgive me Majo, there were no other clothes appropriate for your figure,” came a whisper from the corner, Milaea finally sitting bolt upright, hand seeking the Tanto that slid with a satisfying crisp sound from it’s sheath.

Druhanne bowed his eyes remaining closed as he gestured the serving women in to attend to their captive.

Again Milaea felt unnerved at understanding the language of the Anzati, but replied in kind, the words still unfamiliar on her tongue.

“Where am I? What do you want?”

“Majo, you are in the apartment of the Most Beloved Enfanta Sínã Faveah mare-Q'Atrox aboard the Space Faring Vessel Kitsune...as a…guest…of the Honourable Clucir Rannek-soma…”

“I remember,” she spun to sit on the bed, Tanto held in a reverse grip across her body defensively

Druhanne remained with his eyes closed as the serving Lek’un entered
“These servants will attend to your toilette, the Hanshõ has requested your presence as soon as possible…” he paused slightly as Milaea stood, far taller than Lek’un women and heavier with her ultra-dense cells the ladies had mentioned great difficulty in lifting her limbs to redress her - requiring the Sonae - naturally blindfolded to preserve the guests modesty - to aid them.

“...I am instructed to inform you, so long as you comply you will be treated with dignity and respect, and your companions will not be harmed - beyond the degree already inflicted to ensure their confinement.”

With the Shadow in the aether thick Milaea couldn’t sense any of the other women nearby, and as quickly as she might dispatch a few of the Lek’un with the Tanto and her superhuman speed and strength, it would be a losing battle once the Anzat got involved.

Lowering the blade she relented,

“I have no choice,”

When your species had faced obliteration twice, the vast majority of encounters with other cultures and factions ended in violence and every child of your race was currently unconscious and being fed by tube, no amount of additional security could be considered excessive.

So it was that every Aethan vessel was fitted with internal sensors that analysed thermal, mass and particulate readings in addition to the more typical visual to detect any non-Aethan or Yuuzhan Vong that appeared on board.

This sent an alert across the entire Aethan fleet and to the Fortress built within Mount Aelia. 

As soon as the first Lek’un boarding party had step foot on the Aephoradaea, rendered supine by the Anzat Ancients influence over Xanaea, distress signals had been sent, within seconds the Verndari - 3.5 meter tall products of the Aethan Technocracies Project Aertemisaea to create Super-endurance soldiers from revived dead Aethans - were planning a response.

It was Ninth’s duty to inform the Matriarch.

Descending the internal hand driven elevator - old technology to avoid any risk of hacking or disruption by EMP weapons - the vast warrior had to stoop through the labyrinthine cavern network to where the masses of mothers and listless children remained huddled together, hoping somehow proximity to the sacred spaces beneath the mountains could dampen the Shadow in the Aether that sliced their powers down to barely a quarter of what they once were.

Candles were burning low as the mood, the mothers and grandmothers, after no improvement to their children in a week, had rapidly established efficient processes for the bathing, tube hydration and feeding of all the children and continuing to work the fields, farms and equipment to ensure supply was maintained.

The immediate needs of the children were largely seen to by the women that were currently pregnant, Matriarch Karintha included.

The strain of suppressing her unborn child’s growth to avoid potentially deleterious impacts of the Shadow with limited aether energy was showing, her eyes dark in the yellow light of the torches and fireplace.

Ninth was aware she ought to show ‘sympathy’ and offer supportive gestures - but there was no time for such irrelevances.

“The Aephoradea has been boarded by armoured sentients of unknown species who appear to be of the Homo-Lekku genus - given the lack of response to our hails likely captured in high orbit over the world Xanaea indicated was most likely Katarr.”

In the midst of gently washing little Mari, Sofa’s daughter, Karintha’s face fell with the news.

“We are preparing the Aethenaea now to assist, 32 Extolled and 3 Verndari, are you able to spare any of the women?” Ninth did not pause.

“Still no contact from the Hecate?” Karintha asked hopefully of half their population fighting for the Chiss who had been out of contact for nearly two weeks now.

“None,”

“Send your force as is, then lock down the System,” Karintha replied sternly, any attack against the Aephroadea had to be relieved, combined with the men’s absence and lack of communication she could take no more chances.

“Confirmed,” Ninth replied, spinning quickly to enact her orders.

Karintha returned to her own tasks, brushing the hair from the sleeping little girl's face, wondering if she would ever wake.

“What. The. Frell.”

Mira pounded down on the console as Isas as the others sat while the Pallas Athena bumped in hyperspace.

“Who the hell were those guys with face tentacles in fancy outfits, clearly your one lekku buddy brought them there, you had that gas ready to fight them. Shav that psycho lady in the fancy outfit tried to eat me or something awful, I know they weren’t the nicest, but frell, it looks a hell of a lot like you set this all up.”

The Old Man’s lips tightened, Varasian looked away, Alixa defiant, all bearing fresh ruddy scars and antisept-patches. Isas replied.

“We knew there was a possibility of encountering them, but it was only the will of the Force they arrived at that exact moment,” the Miraluka explained 
“Even accounting for Kullat- the single lekku passenger - Lek’un by species - planning it was highly unlikely.”

“Who are ‘them?’” Mira demanded, Visas and Atris also on her side of the holographic projector table, the blue light beaming up in her face, the only illumination in the dark control room behind the cockpit.

The three semi and former Jedi could all feel the Anzat and ‘Lek’un’ captives in the large holds below, watched over by the Katas family and ship security. 

The Pallas Athena which had been so empty when Mira first arrived was now full of captives and Katarr refugees, headed back to Aethas.

“Anzat, a species of…soul consumers,”

Mira’s eyebrows raised
“Soul consumers? You’re going out of your way to ‘encounter’ these frellicks? They nearly did Maw knows what to us all!”  she was only getting more confused, her kolto patched injuries still biting, the marks of the fight still all over the others faces.

She shook her head, rich red hair heavy filled with the dried mud of Katarr still.

“You know what I don’t care, I did my job, found more Katarr survivors, found Visas, I want my money and I want to get off this ship,”

Isas nodded sadly

“I understand…we are en-route to Aethas now…once we arrive I will arrange for your payment immediately.  Thank you Mira, for your assistance, we could not have found anyone without you,”

Mira’s mouth curled with incredulity
“Yeah, sure, whatever,”

They were clever, Kiraea had to acknowledge that.

The Lek’un had divided the Aethan women between the vessels belonging to the enthralled Anzat, ensuring they couldn’t communicate or co-ordinate.

Their limbs broken, bound, gagged, blindfolded, heat increased and air limited in the cramped spaces they were kept in to ensure their bodies were suppressed beyond the hope of resistance - the Lek’un of Q’Atrox replicating as best they could the infamous Pit of their Hansho’s Stormhold where prisoners were alternately placed in blazing morning sun, then lightless humid boxes.

Effective enough on lesser beings,  Kiraea quickly realised they underestimated Aethan biology as so many outsiders did. 

60 degrees celsius was not even close to being uncomfortable, oxygen deprivation an irrelevance for nuclear fission based cellular respiration.

She could easily kill the fat-tentacle heads once she got at them if her bones were set. Genecrafted healing meant even now her body was alive with the fluid itch of repair, but vastly slower than if she had the aether to speed it.

Her physical confines dark as the Shadow in Aether that suppressed her power, she sought with thermal sight and mass sense her surrounds, feeling the vibration of beating hearts pulsing warm yellow blood through the squidgy mass of imperfect humanoid forms.

She felt them for a little while as the bruising from the breakages died down, making her squashed position beneath some piece of heat generating machinery marginally less uncomfortable as relative trace particles of metal, plastics, coolants and oils gave her an idea of the type of ship she was on.

The thought struck her suddenly. 

She didn’t have full access to the Aether…but the tentacle heads did - however repellantly limited their capacity was.

With what little aether power she had she sought the disgusting aura of the nearest being, avoiding the looming Shadow’s metaphysical eye by staying ‘small’.

She focused on the eidetically recalled image of the source of the Shadow - Rannek-Soma Mare Q’atrox as his little quim declared him in a language she didn’t know she knew till she heard it, buried in the depths of her Memory cortices.

He…HE was the reason her Blessed Children lay unconscious in the caverns, He was the reason their bodies fell limp in her arms, HE, HE HE would be Punished.

Latching onto the Lek’uns very essence she twisted her own eldritch energies into a conceptual ‘knife’ slicing into the amorphous barrier to leech the life energies within. 

Twisting her formless energy into two ‘hands’ she widened the incision, the Aether flowing freely in and out as the ‘cord’ that linked to her opened up to take in the energy of the Lek’un and the Force flowing through him at an accelerated rate.

The Sonae felt a sense of dread, an indefinable draining sensation that seemed to have no physical cause, though in his mind he sought one - the air filtration on this ship, some malady from their exotic prisoners, space sickness?

Kiraea left him to such ignorant speculation as she used the stolen power to send out another tendril, then another, and another, latching onto and feeding from all 12 Lek’un on board within minutes.

She channelled every ounce of aether energy flowing through them she could, red sparks criss-crossing her body as she gathered just enough from these insignificant pfsaaks to start some shatter point healing.

The aether through the lesser beings was bland, barely adequate for her needs, but it circumvented the Shadow in the Aether. 

It was not sustainable or undetectable, the Lek’un began talking, noting their respective fatigue and seeking causes for what could be affecting them all.

It took only minutes for the efficient creatures to rule out any environmental contaminants and whisper -  ‘Witch’


“Witch…” Rannek glowered down at Milaea from his throne, his Lek’un attendants arrayed perfectly about him according to their station, empty chairs where his children should be seated either side of him.

Milaea stepped forward uncomfortable in the sandals, musks and perfumes flowing from everywhere following the Lek’un ladies-in waiting administrations.

The Anzat elder sat in rich embroidered attire, his ‘court’ of Lek’un arrayed in robes and hats that would not look out of place at a museum of fashion, all meticulously maintained, if showing signs of advanced age.

Only a handful of Anzat attended him, her eyes fixed on one.

 “I told you what would happen if I saw you again Vzin Kree,” Milaea spoke out of turn, Druhanne about to correct the breach in protocol when Rannek lifted a hand to have him wait, intrigued how this would play out.

Vzin Kree was not the same patient, ingenious and considered ‘Sensei’ - Master Anzati Assassin - Evyn and Evaea had spoken of.  This was a pain wracked shell of the Anzat he had been, despising his enthrallment to the mighty Ancient - Milaea could read that in his face.

The Anzati Master Assassin offered a dismissive shake of his head, the Ancient Clucir might hate him, but he was still useful.

Or so he thought.
“I showed you mercy,” Milaea snapped, then nodded toward Rannek
“Is this your revenge?”

“Mercy, to starve for fifteen years breathing in the noxious fumes of a desolate moon that cut my lungs like knives?” Kree replied bitterly, striding forward enraged, he pressed close against her, his proboscis circling her face, again Rannek staying Druhanne and the Sonae’s intervention.

“You can’t feed, can you, He won’t let you,” she realised quickly.

Kree growled affirmative.

“And I can’t harm Him,” Milaea said with regret just before her eyes flashed hard and angry

“I promised you….”

Kree, like most Anzat, twice as strong as an athletic human, four times with the Force behind their blows, -

He struck first hard and fast fists hammering Milaea’s breast then side of her face. 

She smiled.

His blows were nothing compared to what she got training with her biological father Jarys, an Aethan who could push his strength to ten times that of a human Knight for hours on end.

Inhumanly flexible she pivoted round and under his kick, elbowing hard in his ribs to a satisfying wet crack, then raising into an uppercut smashing his lower jaw into his palate, his own teeth breaking each other.

“...If I ever saw you again…” she hissed flipping round him, placing his neck in a headlock
“...I would turn you to dust!” he bit and clawed against her tough skin as her lock slowly twisted the neck

“A Witches curse is not to be trifled with Durf,” Rannek taunted, finding this greatly amusing.

With a wet pop Kree’s head spun 720 degrees, spine clattering in his back as his body writhed in dying spasms

“...that will have to do,” she finished, her impotent rage at Rannek transferred to Kree, providing fleeting satisfaction.

The Clucir’s lips curled in the semblance of a smile, Kree’s usefulness was at an end, and that was…entertaining.

“Perhaps you are Shinigami,” he mused as Lek’un rushed to drag away the remains of Vzin Kree.

“You were at the site the Prophecy Foretold, Why…” he asked as Milaea stood smoothing back her hair, Druhanne slightly aghast at the blood stains on her Kimono.

He leaned forward slightly, patrician features stained by decades of depravity only showing cruelty.

“Your powers are great, yet are slave to the Yokusei, Why?”

Yokusei? that is what he calls the Shadow and his power over us, Milaea deduced.

It was clear from the Witches own Anima that she was no wiser than he as to the Mystery.  Perhaps she was a Shinigami somehow linked to him, her powers repressed until he found his precious children.

“Your companions will remain without further harm so long as you comply,”  he began outlining how her submission to his Will would be ensured.

“What have you done to them?”

“All prisoners of the Q’atrox have their arms and legs broken to prevent escape or resistance…it took some effort your species bones and flesh are abnormally strong,”

Milaea’ anger spiked once more, only partially dulled knowing that Ari and the others Aethan genetics meant such damage was rapidly fixed, this time the Yokusei kept her rage contained.

“You will take me to the world Aethas, spoken of in the Vision, and there we will find my Children.” Rannek insisted his commanding voice was scratchy from age but all the more grinding on her ears for it.

“Never,” she replied.

Rannek gripped her breast and throat telekinetically like a vice.

Milaea remained unmoved, mouth only twisting slightly as the Anima of millions of victims pushed at her to submit herself utterly.

Rannek held her gaze, strengthening his grip, driving ephemeral daggers of power into her flesh that yielded no response.  Just like the others of her species, they did not seem to feel physical pain making torture impossible.

She felt the red-haze of the damage, but no visceral sensation.  If Rannek wanted her to obey he was limited to crushing her Will.

That was not without cost, once more his mind rattled with the screams, gasps and pleas of his victims, ghosts of their faces flashed before his eyes as he delved the Anima collected from the gallons of Soup he had drunk over centuries.

“Submit,” he demanded as her face began to twitch, a modicum of success.

Milaea held out for another twenty three painful seconds - before she gasped crashing onto the deck.

“You are strong, Witch, but be wary - my patience thin,” Rannek conceded as her resistance snapped

“Now provide the coordinates of Aethas,”

The Lek’un pilots stood ready to write them down and memorise.

“It’s not that easy to reach, and you can’t get there…” she hissed on her elbows and knees, the Lavender scents from her belt filling her nose
“...not in this ship…”

“Why,” the Clucir leaned forward,

Milaea had realised a key fact.
She could not outright lie to the Anzat due to the Shadow or ‘Yokusei’ - but she could be careful in her replies.

Rannek lacked key information, he didn’t know her name or species, had no idea she was from Aethas so he couldn’t ask the right questions of her, giving Milaea crucial wriggle room.

And while Milaea was just as curious as to what her homeworld had to do with his lost children, she would never allow him near it. 

She would do anything to protect her vulnerable nieces and nephews.

“Aethas…is in a region of dangerous gravity and radiation fluxes, only the most hardy craft with specialised shields, hulls and navigation equipment can safely make the journey…”

“Then it is fortunate we have captured your Warship,”  Rannek replied, knowing she could not lie, and that her own warship would surely be capable of traversing such troubled waters.

“You won’t be able to fly it, your pilots wouldn’t be familiar with the systems, and controls are Gene locked and have Ultradense materials in them that only respond to my species Force Presence,”

“Then you shall pilot it yourself, or see your companions suffer” Rannek conceded with irritation trusting in the Yokusei and her own self preservation to prevent any treachery - unwittingly giving Milaea exactly what she wanted.

“Efendí, transfer all Lek’un and Anzat to the Captured vessel within three hours…I will retire to my chambers.”

Removing his more concentrated power Milaea felt a vast weight lift from her as the Clucir stood from his throne, passing the bowing Lek’un.

Milaea felt the sour taste of the backwash of being forced to use his power so much over the last few hours, the twisted Madness of the Kuru bubbling beneath the Anzat’s consciousness threatening to overwhelm him.

Just beside her she saw amidst the vacant clothes of Vzin Kree yet to be collected by the Lek’un a phase dagger.

As a Lek’un slid the paper-like door open for the Hanshõ Milaea made her move.

Fluid and smooth she rolled to grab the dagger, activate its Baryonic Phase blade and hurl it at Ranneks back, pushing what aetheric strength she could into the blow.

For a brief moment as it sliced open the back of his rich doublet she thought she’d succeeded in getting him at a vulnerable moment.

But the blade stopped dead, Rannek pausing. 

She had come closer than he dared admit by virtue of the Kuru still afflicting him.

Her face dropped with the dagger to the floor.

“Your viciousness is commendable, Witch,” he seethed, the Kuru biting - he needed to ‘meditate’ again.

“I will forgive this attempt as your dispatching the Druf was most amusing - but do not test me again or your companions will suffer the Second Correction.
Whether your species can feel it or not, they will not enjoy the inconvenience of being absent so much of their faces and extremities.” 

It had been unintentional at first.

Grabbing the Choirmaster from behind Taryn had instinctively sought to mind rip him for memories - the Shadow that suppressed their telepathaeon lobe denying him that…

But somewhere in the muddle of physical and aether assault he found a trace taste of something, a pool of energy to draw from.

Pressing the hapless servant into a corner he pushed further with what limited aether power he could muster to ‘latch’ onto the choirmasters aura and by extension the pathetic sub-beings connection to the Force.

In a rough analogy the Choirmaster was like a battery and he was hooking up a coupling to drain it.

The flow of Aether energy was euphoric, ice cold alpine water quenching a dry hot thirst, bringing such relief he did it again to the next chorist.

The entire Convent was chaos as the singers rushed to the only door of their drab shared bunk room only for Taran to smash them back, Maekal covering the entrance, Taryn had gone in to interrogate them.

All unarmed, most barely able to see or hear, and all universally malnourished and weaker than even average Naghi, they were brittle as dried twigs, snapping with the slightest touch of Aethan strength.

Knocking over bunks and small cupboards Taryn killed three by accident before ‘draining’ the next, then another and another.

With each consumption his strength regrew, his depleted Aether energies restored if only by a fraction each time - and more than all that when he fed upon them the itching pain in his Telepatheon lobe was dulled further as the feeding released pleasure hormones akin to, but still unique from, eating rich sugar and fat laced foods through his brain.

Taran and Maekal quickly noticed the difference.

“These little frellick’s aren’t bad feeding…you just push like you would to mind rip ‘em and sort of bite their presence,” Taryn tried to explain the more voracious method of consumption he had stumbled upon at the same time Kiraea was feeding with the same mechanism albeit with numerous smaller ‘mouths’ upon Lek’un souls.

With a nod to Maekal to watch the door, Taran grabbed one of his own, gently as the largest of the Aethan men could so as not to kill it outright - the pale faced singer’s deep black pupil’s frantically spinning in fear was quite comical to him as he replicated Taryn’s feeding imperfectly at first - they were still all learning, too much of what might be considered a ‘soup’ of their energy spilling out - but more precisely the second time.

The singers tried to hide, plead, even fight  -it did them no good, they were disposable morsels to the Aethans now, Maekal soon taking his turn to consume five, with each gnashing swallow they became better at it.

Relief and satiety however was temporary, the gnawing itches returning, the stolen power quickly diminishing - but it was still something - and with each consumption they got a little bit of knowledge from their meals just like they would if they could have mind ripped as normal.

Enough to grant them a few more pieces of the puzzle to the Sorcerers location.

Rolling his head eyes closed as he let the aether energies reinvigorate his limbs Taryn opened his eyes to a mess of bodies and fallen broken furniture, they had barely noticed how many they had consumed or killed in the frenzy, hands and boots all wet with blood, terrified gaping faces staring at them frozen in place by seized muscles.

“Tell the others how to do it, not much, but it gets us some power back,” Taryn ordered

“We’ll need every bit to face the Sorcerers - consume as we go, rebuild our stores of energy,” he kicked over one man in the simple burlap robe of the Choir, sneering back at the petrified face and eyes rolled back in its little Naghi head.

He was already getting hungry for more power and relief, the Shadows bite returning.



Seated in Faveah's apartment, Milaea only saw the briefest snippets of the work undertaken to decamp to the Aephrodaea, but what she did spy gave her much understanding. 

The Single lekku, ‘Lek’un’ were the servants of the Anzat, proficient and energised ones at that. Even the smallest actions they undertook with the utmost care and precision, their movements almost programmed to perfection. 

The maids had her undress from her soiled Kimono and wear another from the vast collection in the fine wooden chests, all the while Milaea could not stop thinking about where Ari and the others were, and what had been done to them. 

Assuming they were incapacitated it was up to her to find a way to subvert or eliminate Rannek, she hoped once he died the Shadow in the Aether would die with him, then Ari and the others would be able to use their full energy to heal, and she could shred the Anzat and Lek’un apart with her full powers.

She now had options to delay and obfuscate him.

And while she had no idea who those beings glimpsed in the Flow Walking heading to Aethas after fighting Anzat were, she felt certain the hologram of Soron Varas did.

She needed a way to get in contact with Karintha or the Verndari - a rescue had likely already departed - but they were unaware of the enormous danger that now travelled with the Aephrodaea.

Rannek could not be allowed anywhere near Aethas when all the women were caring for unconscious children, the Verndari and Extolled retinues were strong and could dispatch the Lek’un soldiers and Anzat thralls based on the numbers she’d seen, but Rannek himself was all but invincible.

The best way to destroy him was while in transit - blast whatever ship he was on apart - that he could likely survive with a kinetic shield - but sent hurtling into the void he only needed to be kept away from another vessel or pressurized oxygen source for a few minutes before his lungs exploded. 

Surely even Rannek could not survive the vacuum of space.

Alone with his compulsion Milaea knew she couldn’t attempt a suicide run with the Aephrodaea - but she knew exactly where to find help.


With a grimace Druhanne ordered the tasteless images that decorated the captured vessel to be put away, overseeing with all carefulness the redecoration of the Gaijin craft to meet, as best he could, his Lord's aesthetic tastes.

“Efendi,” the Comis interrupted with a bow
“Half the Sonae are on board, the others moving forthwith, the prisoners remain on the other craft about us, has the Hanshõ instructed what is to be done with them?”

“The Hanshõ remains at his meditations,” Druhanne replied as servants rolled tatami along the bridge of the vessel, the dead world of Katarr a dark blot through the view screen.

“Of course,” Berkant replied bowing as if to leave,
“Efendi…”
“Yes Comis ÇelÍk,” Druhanne replied with the name the Hanshõ had given the Comis - intentionally Druahnne assured himself, not as a result of a memory slip…
“...the Hanshõ’s strategy is…clouded to me - I fear I will not be able to serve him adequately,”

The underlying message was clear - the Hanshõ’s mind was not stable.  He had taken them to a strange world, fought then captured women of an unknown species and now was taking them to another planet none had heard of for reasons utterly unknown to the Lek’un.

“We must trust in the Hanshõ’s wisdom, he is privy to many secrets we are not trustworthy enough to share in,” Druhanne insisted, straightening himself.

Berkant’s mouth twitched with a reply, but he kept it sealed in his mouth, returning to complete his tasks.

The Comis gone Druhanne breathed out a heavy sigh, he too shared misgivings, the Hanshõ had always been forthright and energetic, but his meditations were increasing in frequency, his words becoming more jumbled, his wa clearly disrupted.

The Kuru…but…the Hanshõ was too strong to fall to such - wasn’t he?


A heavy thick fist slammed into her face for the fourteenth time.

“Your witchcraft will be punished!” the Lek’un repeated - they had already gagged her to prevent her casting ‘spells’ completely unaware with each moment she was feeding on more and more of their energy, her bones nearly repaired enough to walk.

Everything in Kiraea’s mind had been reduced to the simplest possible concepts and motivations.

All had to be set aside, her worry for her children, her husband, her many younger siblings to allow the full potential of her gene-hanced mind to perform the necessary functions to ‘solve’ the Problem of the Shadow in the Aether.

Each step was methodically set out for her to achieve that.  She was no longer Kiraea so much as an instrument of the Goddesses will.

The brutish Lek’un ceased his beating as another spoke.

“Commander, Orders have arrived -  we are to take the Prisoners to the Pit immediately, the Hanshõ departs on the enemy vessel imminently.”

“Hai! The Hanshõ’s will be done!,” he sniffed rising up from her seemingly broken form - they had mistaken Aethan’s greater range of joint movement for dislocations.

“Remove her tongue to ensure she speaks no more curses, then the eyes to prevent her hexing us,” he ordered as he headed to the cockpit.

Two Lek’un were left with her, one drawing his tanto, the other grabbing her head, and pulling her gag back.
Now come closer you tentacle headed pfsaaks

The Lek’un obliged pressing his blade to her lips - she spat in his face a glob of spittle laced with her pheromones - her dehydration ensuring it was barely diluted causing the scent to pound into the Lek’uns olfactory glands even as she slammed her head back into the other Lek’un.

Swinging her head forward she bit the Tanto ripping it from the briefly stunned coughing Lek’un, the aether swiftly moving the blade to slice the bonds on her feet apart.

All occurring in barely a second she launched up and on unsteady still partially fractured legs, managed to plant her unclothed feet into the Lek’un as the ship shuddered with the jump to hyperspace.

That was a complication she didn’t need - but it simply added another check on the list to accomplishing her goal.

The Lek’un’s armour couldn’t save them from Aethan superhuman strength -every kick she landed cracked bone and ruined muscles, and as they fell she used the Aether she had drained from them strategically to Life Drain what remained from them to accelerate her healing further.

It was a pathetic amount, but as their bodies decayed unnaturally fast, the life of the cells converted to pure Aether energy, her limbs repaired sufficiently to leap out of the small store room and at her next target.

Her shoulder rammed into him before he could react, her teeth ripped into his throat as surely as her powers were ripping into his soul, draining him in every way.

Her children were in danger - she couldn’t be Kiraea any more, individuality was a waste of precious limited resources.   

She was Mother - Protector - Assassin.

The Lek’un were impediments / resources.

Rannek was Target.

That was All.

It was astonishing what Lek’un could achieve in a matter of hours, the entire bridge of the Aephroadea had been redecorated beyond recognition apart from the main outline of the walls, Rannek’s throne transferred, tatami mats laid and banners of Kinde Q’atrox hung.

Milaea was ushered in by her ladies in waiting, no guards required while the Yokusei and the threat of torment to her wife and sisters compelled her to obey.

Rannek was waiting for her.

“Your companions have been sent to the Pit, there they will remain until I decide otherwise,” his patrician tone condescending and assured with only a hint of the anticipation he must be feeling to at last have a lead to follow.

“Any delay will only extend their suffering,” he added as if she needed reminding.
“Activate the controls, and tell my pilots how to enter the information required.”

With a bitter lock of his bloody red eyes she proceeded to the main control chair, pausing as she held the palm print scanners on the side of the main control console.

“I need the Force to unlock the controls, the material used to lock them down only reacts to my kind,”

Rannek briefly pushed a cold dart of Yokusei power to confirm she was speaking the truth, it shot in the back of her head like a knife confirming the veracity of her words.

“The minimum you need, no more,” he growled.
 
“It will take numerous hyperspace jumps to reach Aethas, we have to go fully around the Inner rim at least.” she explained as the scanner identified her prints and she unlocked the Blackstone dead-lock, then stood to allow the Lek’un pilots to take her place.

The interface was relatively straight forward, they selected their destination by zooming in on a galactic chart, then the navi-computer sought any updates from Navi-beacons along that route to compute the best routes.

Rannek was patient for the moment, allowing his pilots to thoroughly interrogate the machines to ensure there was no trickery, the witch did not seem the type to fly them into a star, but one could never tell.

The Lek’un were assiduous, cross referencing the vectors to their own navigation system on the Kitsune - a task made difficult by the fact the Aethas system was not on any of their maps and unknown even to their deep memory.

“The system was colonized only 4000 years ago, it’s population avoids attention,” Milaea had to explain regarding it’s absence in their memories and systems   

“Five jumps, estimated time 17 hours at maximum speed,” the Lek’un finally noted of the fastest route.

“Hanshõ, the route is valid, and as the Majo indicated is in a region of space the Kitsune is not equipped to transit through safely”

“Then proceed,” Rannek ordered his patience now wearing thin.

Milaea pointed out the critical controls for the Lek’un to begin steering the ship to the first jump point, the servants of the Anzat quick learners.

She had been completely honest to Rannek, she was taking them somewhere with dangerous gravity and radiation fluctuations as promised.

But the Anzat Nobleman had one critical weakness - his reliance and dismissiveness toward his reliable servant race - he had never instructed her not to manipulate the Lek’un.

A tiny mind trick, a scrambling of letters in their perception changing what they saw on the Galactic map - the indicator that read Aethas was swapped in their minds with that which read the name of the Aethans Super Destroyer, where she knew Taryn, once he sensed the source of the Shadow in the Aether aboard, would not hesitate to blast the Aephroadea out of the sky - even with her on it. 

She was sending them into the Unknown regions - straight to the Hecate.



Like Vorynx they leapt upon Taung and Nag’hi, bashing their physical resistance aside to suck upon their souls.

The dark warrens of the Cathedral mountains, endless tunnels and chasms were a hunting ground for the twelve Aethan’s, who had found, if not a way to avoid the Shadow in the Aether, then a temporary means of relief from it.

Their fists were caked in dried blood, their victims weren’t armed well enough to even need weapons to break. 

With every Naghi or Taung they consumed a small amount of power trickled back to them, the throbbing pain of their Telepathaeon Lobe reduced - but only ever temporarily.

The sensation was strange - new yet familiar as if they had unlocked some part of their god like biology that till now had been - not so much suppressed - as ‘hibernating’ - the Shadow that denied them the aether forcing them to pry open some primal ‘aura’ eating capacity deep within the nexus between the Telepathaeon Lobe and Aethenaea Cortex. 

The snippets of knowledge gathered from the feedings led them ever closer to their true target - the Sorcerer and his retinue who would surely have the texts for translation necessary to find the sorcery which had, to the best of their knowledge caused the Shadow what seemed a life time ago amidst the battle in the void.

Creeping to the mottled daylight shimmering through the wide uneven cavern, the ground worn by feet, gutters filled with dried blood to the side, Taryn knew he was close - he could smell it - the foetid stench of decay and the dead, the metal tang of blood - they were near a sacrificial altar.

He held his fist as they peeked round an annex, Choirs wandering past with censers that if anything made the putrid smell stronger, behind them Taung Harpies pushing drawn faced naked Nag’hi - a procession of sacrifices.

Pain scratching at him again he was tempted to leap out and consume the lot of them - how many had he ‘fed’ on now?  How long since the first?

His eidetic memory told him - it had been four solar days, 148 kilometers west and 861 meters deeper since that first one. 92 had followed since.

How long since the last? 163 minutes….

They had to be careful here, the Sorcerers and their guards were far more deadly and aware of unexplained corpses than the dregs that inhabited the lower levels.

Waiting till the procession had passed Taryn, Maekal and Taran swiftly moved in the shadows along the edge of the path, peering out at the end a predatory smile at last crossed Taryn's face.

This was it, the Sorcerer who ruled this Cathedral world was here, and with him the answers to breaking the Shadow in the Aether - and then…

Then they’d really show these bastards the price of messing with the Aethan race.

His eyes flicked to activate his Helmets Quantum communicator, blinks typing a message,
[Target Located. Co-ords linked.  Bring Hecate close. Ghost Girl on standby]

[Confirmed] Arryn swiftly replied from the Hecate

[Bomb positioned] Jarys confirmed [on our way] - he and Valens having gone deep into the mountains base to find the perfect location to plant the Naqxium bomb they had with them to cause utmost devastation.

[Moving from East] Melron added as Taryn’s location scrolled past his eyes, the oldest Aethan with Narys and Kadyn scaling over the ice crusted ruins of former mountain top temples, the growing Armada still looming over them visible through the frosty blue sky as cuts of black.

Taryn would wait till everyone was assembled and the Hecate in place, then the fun would really begin.

Hi LSG,

This was a fascinating read, I never thought about how this ship was gonna be piloted when I built it but this chapter set the procedures out! And it has a "Throne Room" now?

I do have to say the "Force Connection" idea takes me back to a group of non Jedi Force Sensitives I read about in the Thrawn novel (I think), who could sense and track electrical impulses in a ship's circuitry/engines then interact with the systems to enact repairs. Keep up the great stories.

The Mountaintop Altar was the pinnacle of sacrificial efficiency.

The tip of one peak on the Cathedral world had been cleaved off to a polished granite slab peppered with garnet that shimmered in the deep orange sun, surrounded by its craggy brethren that reached to the  flecks of the armada above. 

Nearly three kilometers in rough diameter, the artificial plateau was covered in multiple levels of altars, stairways bringing victims up from within the mountain after ritual preparation, drains carrying the blood they left behind into huge vats to be taken along with the bodies up to the Armada.

Thousands of beings fed the precise machine, every route carefully set out and repeated so there was no cluttering or intersections that could potentially cause a delay in the procession of sacrifice.

The altars were made of the stuff of the mountain, carved in Nahiri runes, Nag’hi Priests in blood stained robes chanted over each offering, Taung patrolling between faded yellow lines that was their own special route through the network of motion, occasionally ensuring those whose faith wavered ‘Embraced the Void’ no matter what.

There were at least 3000 attendants, acolytes, initiates and priests operating what the Aethan observers counted as 52 altars.

Overseeing all of this a gaunt Sorcerer of Rhand, peticules from his back linking him to eight feeder helots who variously transcribed text, recited from scrolls, or performed bodily functions the Sorcerers emaciated body seemed no longer capable of. The helots were themselves attended by aspirants who envied their linkage by blood and flesh to the Holy Nag’hi Kanzer Exile.

He moved on a large palaquin hefted by over muscled blinded slaves, Choirs of Ghul’Sho following both before and after him, their deep throat singing lending a sickening depth to the hellscape visual.

This was the Sorcerer's Philosophy manifested in perhaps its most pure physical form - the barely understanding illiterate masses fed into the grinder to bless the vessels that would spread Eternal Destruction to other Star Systems, onward, and onward.

In the throng it was easy enough for the Aethan infiltrators to hide, 12 in all divided into four Teams had made their way through the mountain complexes to here, Taryn with Maekal and Taran at the southern end. Lydan led Evyn and Varan, Melron, Narys and Kadyn to the east where they had linked. 

To the North were Kisaea, Davys and Maeson who were able to share vital intelligence regarding a particular class of Rhandites through their silent Quantum comms.

They had witnessed a mass suicide of Knell cultists when an especially self mutilated ragged ‘preist’ had fallen off one of the narrow walkways deep in the mountains.  curious they slit the throat of another near the Knell barracks, again to the same result. 

Maekal, his expertise in theological matters once more proving its worth, hypothesized these were the so called ‘Sin-Eaters’ mentioned in a few of the texts he managed to translate. He had previously assumed the ‘Sin-Eater’ was concept only - never put into practice - but as with so much of the Rhandite society the gritty reality and the letter of the texts did not align, this time to their advantage.   

At one of the vats of blood Cultists of the Knell bathed themselves, overseen by one such Sin Eater, from Maekals analysis the creatures role was to take on the sin of living for a religion that valued destruction above all else- a ‘vicarious salvific aura’ - so the others could continue to exist without maddening themselves by the inherent contradictions of their Philosophy versus praxis. Without the Sin eater of course they had to embrace the Dark swiftly or be punished with the ultimate anathema for the Destruction worshipers - rebirth into another life.   

They waited only for Valens and Jarys, the brothers diverted to plant the only bomb they had brought with them near to the heavily guarded Confessionor Barracks, close to a natural fault beneath the mountain chain they hoped to jolt into a catastrophic full slide, or at least an earthquake.

They would snipe the Sin Eaters first, hopefully causing mass suicides of their Cultists, reducing that threat. 

Their true target was the Sorcerer, the scrolls beneath his throne and his linked helots who could read and write High Nahiri - it was unlikely without the aether they could make them comply - only the most devoted were allowed near the Sorcerers - but it was worth a shot, and the scrolls and books would at least provide translation fodder, and hopefully include the Dark Severing power that they believed caused the Shadow in the Aether.

Taryn felt edgy, his fingers twitching to kill and consume, he couldn’t take the absence of his power much longer, the restlessness, the feeling of weakness and limitation abhorrent to a species that were closer to Divine than mortal.

The temporary relief from ‘consuming’ the lesser beings had worn off after a gluttony of deaths at their hand, only a scattered trace level of aether energy from it remained stored for the attack.

Only with their full power could they hope to deal with the Armada in any meaningful way - they needed Yorna and the other Teleportation experts back, their Terror and Malacia Orbs, the ability to mind control menials to sabotage ships engines and fire weapons at each other. 

None of this they could do while the Shadow in the Aether kept them dimmed.

The machine of murder continued as they waited in the shadows, score by score beings were sacrificed, drained and placed  ready for transit to decorate the Armada.

Finally the Brothers joined Kisaea, who tapped on the radio speaker to the others, if any Taung were on that frequency it would seem nothing more than random interference.

[Hecate moving into position] Arryn communicated via HUD text, the Malefic Class Super Destroyers Void shields active to absorb any and all forms of energy from the craft, even more effective than the Stygium cloaking system, it required four of the ships six Solar Ionization Reactors to power, making the vessel incredibly vulnerable should it be detected.

Everything had to be precisely timed - the Sin Eaters killed, the Sorcerer disabled, his helots and scripts captured and put on their escape ships as quickly as possible, then the Naqxium bombs detonated the meter they were out of range - link up to the Hecate, and hope the ship was not detected and then punch it to hyperspace…and only then…finally, Goddesses willing they would find an answer to lifting the Shadow.

Crawling forward they moved cover to cover, the noise of the choir and darkness of the dusk sky covering their abyssal armour and motions effectively as their careful approach.

Sin Eater’s were pinpointed, Kisaea, Evyn and Narys zeroing them with their Hades Sniper rifles from a distance as the rest moved to lock them with Rifles.

Tense moments passed as they got into position, minutes in which the procession of blood spilling continued unabated, two ships full of corpses from the endless supply of withered creatures bred in the mountains departed to adorn the fleet with its grim trophies.

[In position] Arryn typed - but before he could hit send in the cool blue-grey bridge beneath the mural of the Goddesses that guided their vessel an alert chimed, another Aethan vessel had sent an auto-hail to advise of its presence.

From seemingly nowhere Aephrodaea arrived.

Booming through a tear in space-time, contrails of blue following the Light Eating spearhead vessels exit from pseudo motion, utterly uncloaked and into the midst of the Rhandite Armada

Chaos followed.

The yellow shimmering field spliced open in a perfect rectangle as the Pallas Athena returned from its long journey.

Soron Varas watched from his rad-glazed window as it descended, the shield closing behind it. 

Powerful as the Magnetosphere of Aethas was, the relentless radiation of the Deep Core environment was stronger, necessitating not only the Radiation shield but thick walled lead lined structures, mostly underground, for the Human and Miraluka colonists to survive.

Turning back to his desk, he glanced over the screens of six high end Quantum-Skip Cognitors each to pursue different aspects of his Great Work - Genesis Deus he indulged in a brief fancy of the day in 8-9 Generations his creation, a True People of Aethas, could walk this world without fear of radiation - indeed it would be absorbed by photosensitive skin to rebind the waste products of nuclear fission in mitochondria he was designing - an almost unlimited source of nuclear cellular energy to power his Gods.

With a satisfied smile he clicked off the screen and went to meet his ‘family’.


The first thing that hit her was the gravity - at least twice the average Mira felt sluggish moving, the second was the thrumming ‘intent’ that was everywhere - this was a planet filled with beings on a mission.

The third was, among the security and ground crew busying themselves around the Athena a single figure that seemed to be the fulcrum around which the entire planet was spinning.

A tall, thin, bespeckled human, a slight smirk of self assuredness and superiority on his face.

Striding down the ramp Isas Marr walked to him first, a chaste kiss shared between them,
“My darling how I have missed you,” Soron Varas greeted his wife, behind him came Varasian, the young man’s gaze low, much of his face still purpled and cut from Katarr, but the 11 day trip to the deep core had caused much of the swelling to subside.

“And my son,” Varas patted Varasians arms, the younger man’s head bowed before his far shorter father.

“How strong you’ve grown, truly the Boy has left and a Man has returned!”

“Thank You Father,”

“And Alixa,” Varas strode forward to greet the rest
“Your beauty grows by the very hour!” he said to the red haired hybrid, then turned to the rest of the group that had come down the ramp.

“And you must be Jedi Master Atris,” there was no mistaking her glistening white hair and outfit

“To you, I extend the welcome of the whole colony and our appreciation of your choice to take up leadership of the Colony,”

That shocked Mira for a moment, she could piece the basics together, this guy had obviously sprung Atris from prison for her betrayal at Telos in exchange for helping them find more Miraluka - but taking over a colony? Why a disgraced Jedi Master?

Why not Isas if this was to be a new human/Miraluka colony for Katarr survivors?
What else was going on here?

“Thank you for the invitation,” Atris replied evenly well aware between Aethas and prison there was very little real choice.

“And this…” Varas turned to the young Miraluka whom Isas took the hand of

“Is my niece Visas,” Isas said triumphantly

“Delicious!” Varas clapped his hands in glee
“It is so wonderful to meet you at last, we had feared the worst, my deepest condolences on the loss of your Homeworld, I hope this reunion of our families can bring some solace, my wife has been tireless in her efforts to bring together the lost of Katarr, and I see you have found even more,”

He moved to the Katas family, the elderly Daro in a hover-chair pushed by Kera

“Honoured Sene, you are most welcome to take your rest here,” Varas deferred in words if not heart to the ageing Luka-Sene.

Varas greeted each of the other Katarr refugees in turn, his welcomes fulsome and warm, but Mira noticed how eyes behind those glasses were cool, clinical, as if dissecting each person he looked at to the very nucleus, seeking something of worth? Value?

“Welcome to Aethas, Mira,” Varasian interrupted her observations, the young man gesturing to the high snow capped mountains beyond the colonies rising buildings.

“My home, and it can be yours too,”

 

“You have out done yourself Xan…” Varas paused before he finished the name now anathema to the man who once bore it.
“Forgive me, but truly...this is beyond what I had hoped for…”

They stood on the observation platform of the largest of the underground laboratories - while most colonies prioritised agriculture or mining, the Aethas colony first buildings had been medical.

Below the heavily sedated Anzat captured on Katarr lolled in their suppression cradles, limbs pinned as numbing agents were pumped through their veins. 

“Pure bloods, Nobility even, the best of the Anzat genestock - not the tainted pollution twisted distortions of our own age..and these ‘Lek’un’...I had no idea of their existence…I wonder what treasures their lekku hold.”

At that the Old Man stiffened

“The Lek’un, Kullat, assisted us in capturing the Anzat…”

There were not enough chemical restraints for all the Lek’un, most were simply tied together at the neck, and were already proving problematic constantly attempting to escape to reach their Lords.

“What of it,” Varas replied coldly eyes already scrolling over a datapad with preliminary gene-sequencing from initial blood samples,”

“We are letting him leave?” the Old Man asked, knowing in his heart the answer

Varas chuckled

“Your deadpan humour never fails to amuse me…no these are much too valuable…”

He gazed down as the Lek’un waiting patiently on their knees in bonds were separated by sex, sorted into groups based on skin colour thereafter.

“The darker ones with flatter noses are less useful to us, we can start with them,”
Varas made a note to himself, the Old Man’s stomach turning at how Varas saw beings as mere ingredients, selecting for characteristics based on aesthetic preference as much as genetic potential.

“Varas…” the Old man’s gravely throat held some softness as old guilts bubbled from his gut.

“Have no fear my friend, all the pieces for Genesis Deus are in place, now is my time to work and yours to rest after such travail,”

The Old Man found neither solace nor comfort in his ‘friends’ words.


They had barely dropped from hyperspace when their tracers read they were too late.

The Aephrodaea was already gone, based on the readouts from the emergency tracing beacons coming through it was headed toward….

“The Unknown Regions,” Ninth scrutinised the proposed route, noting the location of their other vessels supporting the Chiss.

It could be headed nowhere other than to join theAethan Chiss-Auxillary strike force comprised of the Hecate, Lyssia and Alixaea. 

Yet why? A desperate attempt to seek help against the Homo-Lekku boarding party - they would’ve been better off waiting for the Aethenaea to arrive.

Ninth lacked sufficient information - turning to fifth grade causative probabilities she discerned with 87.3% certainty the Aephrodaea was under partial Aethan control - the Homo-Lekku attackers had nominal power and an urgent need to leave this system, but the Aethan crew had enacted a ruse, diverting them toward the Hecate for assistance, giving the illusion they were heading to the Homo-Lekku’s preferred destination.

“Commander, a transmission - unknown sender Ident, but it has passed all our authenticating protocols and was directed straight to Emergency Frequency Seven,” Third informed her, along with Sixth the other member of the Verdari deployed to relive the Aephrodaea along with the Extolled retinue.

Stepping round the war-rooms holo of the galactic map she took the data-tablet from Third, the message beneath the authenticator lines and various Aethan ciphers to confirm identity as being from Kiraea was a simple set of coordinates and dire tidings.

[A,X,L,E hostage, injured, M/Aeph abducted. Lek’un/Anzat enemy 500+, Prime Target Anzat SITL 300+]

Aresaea, Xanaea, Lyaea and Evaea were thus all injured, Milaea and the Aephrodaea taken - though obviously Milaea had diverted the enemy toward the Hecate as Ninth had suspected, and their enemy…with a Standardised Individual Threat Level of 300 would be difficult, even Milaea was only rated at 145.

Still her next step was clear, Milaea was already more than halfway to the Hecate, Ninth could not catch up in time, and Kiraea needed immediate assistance.

“We leave for those coordinates immediately,” Ninth ordered.