Familicide: The First Gray Jedi War

[TheDutchman]

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

The day had been long, eventful, and, dare he admit it, full of hope.

Kazic knew that he was on the right track; it wasn't just the daen nosi leading him, but rather a more...visceral feeling, one that felt oddly similar to contentment...

Yet despite his, Eriobe's, and Ryshhk's efforts--and as he'd mentioned earlier--they only counted as a fraction of the Order, and still a minority at that.  Yes, there were enough Gray Jedi that not only remembered Ryshhk's tenure in Office, but also his successes.  Unfortunately, those consisted mostly of the old guard, the youngest members of the Vhal'Dan benefitting from the previous generation's dealings with adversity, hard living, and work.  And while there were several young Jedi--ranging from teidowans to koawans--whom also valued their position, they were much fewer than those in Q'eieha's camp.

Kazic smirked at the irony: in working diligently to ensure the Order's survival, the old guard had unfortunately made things too easy for these new Jedi.  They'd become the Vhal'Dan's "lost generation," the "middle children" of the High Republic, given everything while toiling for nothing.  It was very much a case where the "sins of the father" had shaped their children, only resulting in the opposite: their parents had known war, hardship, and strife...and had tried to ensure that their descendants would be free from such.  Unfortunately, those plans had worked too well, resulting in...this.  He almost barked a laugh but caught himself just in time.

He looked next to himself in the bed, the relaxed form of his wife outlined in the soft synth-weave sheet draped over her, careful not to wake her.  Holding his breath for a long moment, he relaxed, convinced that Eriobe was fast asleep.

But Kazic's mirth soon soured.  It had been that...and the fact that the more...martial members of the Order had sided with Anson, such as the storied Cataphracts, leaving the Order bereft of most of its finest warriors.

And that was solely Kazic's fault.

Having categorically joined Anson, Maker knew what a thorn in his side the Cataphracts had been during the Civil War, more than living up to their reputation.  And he suspected that he'd only been told specific information concerning engagements between them and his own forces.  But he'd been so busy trying to keep the Order alive... At least, that was what he'd told himself then; now... Now, he damned himself a fool for not being more open, especially with his brother, for not even considering to meet Anson halfway.  Well, hindsight was always 20/20...

Regardless, the Order could really, really use the Cataphracts now.

...Dammit... Gritting his teeth, he ran through a calming technique, one that his friend Soryu had suggested during times like these. 

"You must remember, my friend, that if the Maker can forgive you, then you can forgive yourself." Kazic pictured his friend's deceptively youthful visage as he imparted wisdom seemingly beyond his years, Soryu's genial nature and tone both soothing and encouraging.  And helpful, even now, suddenly raising his spirits if somewhat.

Yet, Kazic knew that the facts remained unchanged.  Somehow, someway, he had to convince more of the younger generations that the Order needed to prepare, to--

This time, so as not to wake Eriobe, Kazic quietly laughed, an almost inaudible wheezing sound escaping from his flared nostrils. 

The Vhal'Dan needed to...to reintegrate with its martial roots, to... Kazic's head slowly lowered to his bare chest, the light gray skin appearing to glow in the low light of the evening moon.  To militarize.  ...The Maker and his delicious irony... He mused.  ...Such are the ways that we are taught humility... Came a small voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like Soryu.

...Soryu.

His friend.  Kazic laid his head back down on his pillow.  His friend had done much--so much!--for him in those years when they'd traveled together.  In fact, had it not been for him (and Eriobe), Kazic would most certainly be dead.  That was neither hyperbole nor embelishment; that was the literal truth.

Fondly, his lips twitched into a half-smile, memories of past times suddenly occupying his thoughts.  Those years had been...interesting to say the least.  Most of them difficult, many dangerous, and a few even deadlier still, but every day with Soryu had been one that he'd lived.  Scratching his closely shorn goatee, Kazic could still count the number of times that he had almost died...but for Soryu's timely (and welcome) interventions.

And their arguments...by the Maker had they disagreed!  By always there had been mutual respect and--although he didn't realize it until later--a special bond of friendship that most sentients only heard about.  Well...his human friend was one of his few confidants in his long life.

And in a life numbering over 600 years, a true confidant was a rare treasure indeed.

Looking down at the sleeping shadow of his wife, Kazic's smile deepened.  ...Just like Eriobe... He knew.  As with Soryu, his wife brought out the best in him while giving him another perspective to appreciate.  But then, he'd always been lucky in life about that; how he'd been blessed by the Maker for the incredible relationships that he'd had and all of the good that had come from them.

...At least, for the most part.  Kazic's smile faltered.  He still lamented losing his brother as well as Saani.  During the darkest nights, he wished that there was someway that he could change his past while the logical part of his brain berated him that wishing would never make it so, no matter the best of his intentions. 

"You must remember, my friend, that if the Maker can forgive you, then you can forgive yourself."

Again, Soryu's voice sliced through the black veil of depression and loss.  If his friend had taught him nothing else, it was that particular lesson Kazic could take most to heart. 

Wistfully, he was suddenly reminded of another maxim, one taught to him by none other than his old teacher, mentor, and later Kage, Stryka Annix: "Don't look back; you're not heading that way."  Damned if the Shifalan Master wasn't one of the wisest people that he knew.  Not for the first time did Kazic wish that he'd inherited his Master's wisdom. 

Slowly, he shook his head, dispelling the last vestiges of his regret.  He would do what he could now for the Vhal'Dan, no more, no less.

"...Love...are you awake...?" Eriobe's drowsy voice quietly pierced his contemplative mood. 

Smiling, he stroked her naked green back.  "Yes, Love but not for long.  Please, go back to sleep." He soothed.

Without opening her eyes, her dark green lips gave a small smile.  "You too.  Love you." She whispered, settling in.  By the Maker was he grateful for her!

Ultimately, Kazic was able to break the black mood that threatened to consume him, thanks to the love of his family, past and present.  He knew that tomorrow would offer more problems...as well as more solutions.  But here and now, he was nothing more than a husband spending time with his beloved wife.

Settling into the bed, he pressed up against Eriobe's back and circled his arms protectively around her.  Turning, she faced him, burying her face into his muscular chest.  Soon, sleep took both of them, and--at least for the night--they were content and safe.

Too bad it was the proverbial calm before the storm.

[Lord_S_Gray]

Such fallible and damaged characters, yet endearing and real because of that. Q'eieha with her migraines and lover Arbiter (Is there a rule against that I wonder, regardless seems rather unseemly for the office to be so...erm...attached) Kazic with his regrets mingled here with hopes and memories of what dragged him from darker times, Eriobe helping to carry that burden...albeit saddled with her own. All are trying to do their best, in a difficult situation, but the generational divide is clearly set out and difficult to bridge, conflict of some kind seems inevitable...as Kazic noted the irony of him pushing for re-militirization is great.

Even accounting for the generational shift Ryshhk must still take a large portion of responsibility for the reduced martial capability, he was Kage for 200 years, and it has taken the attack to really ‘snap’ him out of his own inertia toward changing the slide he presided over.  Better late than never, but still, one wonders what price the Kewda Vhal’Dan will pay it, either as internal conflict (though I doubt it would result in open fighting, political instability undoubtedly) or vulnerability to external attack.

Again the contrast to Zilior is made so sharp, the Kewda factions split, the Hegemony bands together – even though there is obvious tension among the Triune members [and Cataphracts and Votarious beneath them] they never let that personal antipathy break their united front, in that sense the Zilior Hegemony seems a far more stable political entity, or at least better to responding to external threats. 

[TheDutchman]

Special thanks to LSG for the awesome poster (and original idea)!  This chapter is dedicated to him 
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Chapter 7: "Ceterum Autem Censeo Carthaginem Esse Delendam," part I

As the sun rose in the crystal blue sky, wispy clouds circling quickly in the stratosphere upon currents of strong ocean gales, the entirety of the populace of Zilior seemed to be outside en masse.  Each Citizen wore some kind of uniform, almost all proudly displaying their individual honors and full regalia.  And that was just representative of the civilians; for the Hegemony forces, it was taken up by an order of magnitude.

Column by column by column, every single person associated with the Zilior military was arrayed in perfectly aligned rows, each body approximately a half-meter from the other as they stood in the morning sun, the light reflecting brightly off of so many medals.  Standing crisply, the multiple groups of amassed people took up the majority of space of the high-tech decking covering the various peninsulas of the archipelagos stretching across the global ocean.  However, as one, their attention was rapt upon a single source: a transmission straight from the Triune's Quarters. 

To say that this was uncommon was an understatement.  In the over 200 years since the Hegemony was established, there had been only three other occasions in which the entire populace had been gathered, and those had all been for civil ceremonies commemorating the success of the Hegemony; never for something so devastating as a bombing.  Still, it stood as stark reminder that the Hegemony was stronger because of their solidarity, made all the more evident by the fact that even those not in attendance (the sick, infirm, and those assisting them) were nevertheless live-viewing the procedure courtesy of the planetary holonet.

For those in attendance, one and all they stood proudly with their eyes, sensing organs, or whatever equivalent, facing the enormous holographic projection that showed the upper bodies and faces of each of the Triune: Majordomo-Arbiter Orrell Onasi, Field Marshall Svante Rhul-Vinjaga, and Magister Lor-Riou Herin.

This was expected; they were the leaders of the Hegemony.  However, though they said nothing nor moved, surprise radiated from many of those gathered and watching as the Magister and not the Arbiter or the Field Marshall stepped forward to address them, although both Svante and Orrell flanked Lor-Riou to either side.  Though the state-of-the-art holoprojection would occasionally glitch with miniscule digitized horizontal lines, the ersatz figure that now occupied the entire view was clear enough that the Magister's blue-tinged skin and purple eyes could easily be distinguished especially against the inscrutable blackness of his clothes, his handsome face unsmiling and serious.  Again, that wasn't unusual; the Magister rarely looked otherwise.  Still, he was instantly recognizable.

Of course, there was no one quite like Lor-Riou Herin, not among the Vhal'Dan or even the entire Hegemony.

"My fellow Vhal'Dan--Masters, Knights, & Apprentices, Personnel, Citizens, & Children--I have been chosen by the Maker to speak to you now in this, our time of grave adversity.  The Monolith Massacre will forever remain locked in our hearts and minds as a day of infamy, a horror visited upon us by the cowardly Kewda Pretenders."  He paused dramatically, allowing time for his words to settle over everyone.  It worked; even if no one spoke, eyes tightened, lips thinned, faces growing hard. 

His face became pensive.  "We all lost people...but it proved precisely what our Eternal Kage had warned us about: that we must be vigilant!  We must be ready!  We must always safeguard ourselves, our Hegemony!  Our enemies have struck, intent upon cowing us...but they have made a grave error!"  His bluish fingers wrapped into a fist.  "We will never allow our fear to dictate our future!  Especially in the face of a tyrant, an idiotic despot who has completely underestimated us, our resolve!"  The Magister seemed to calm himself, although nothing could extinguish the fire within his eyes. 

For a moment, he was silent, his eyes scanning around the gathered columns where every person in attendance knew that it was to them that the Magister was staring at and speaking to.  When next he spoke, his voice was calm, at least compared to his earlier invective.  "We have learned that the False Kage, Kazic Ovarug, has returned.  And that it is he that is responsible for this atrocity."

The cool ocean winds kicked up, the salt air mixing with the unobscured sunlight that bathed every member as they stood rapt at attention, each one hanging on every word that the Magister said.  But when he mentioned the False Kage's name, their were many voices raised from the crowds, their anger only punctuating their convictions.  Lor-Riou's face became genial, as if he were both commiserating--as well as including those watching--with information most vital.

Which, in a way, he was.

"The tireless agents of your Hegemony has learned that the Monolith Massacre was to be the tip of the spear for a planned invasion perpetrated by the Kewda Pretenders.  However, their offensive stalled as soon as they witnessed the efficiency and determination with which our people responded!"  Again, his purple eyes seemed to stab into the gaze of every being watching, his words intended for them particularly.  "It is because of you that the Hegemony was saved, the Honored Dead kept to a minimum while everyone else continued in their duty, despite their injuries!"

From the lowest of the enlisted to the highest officer, the youngest to eldest, from teidowan to Gray Master, they one and all radiated pride, both in themselves as well as for their Hegemony.  Nothing would break their solidarity, nothing.  They were Vhal'Dan; the Vhal'Dan was them.  The smile on Lor-Riou's face beamed with contented respect intended for everyone.

And they knew it.

When next he spoke, his face had once again adopted a stern visage.  "I know that we have not been given proper time to mourn our Honored Dead but now is the time for action, for justice!"  The Magister's face looked past them towards the horizon, his preternaturally perceptive eyes seeing what must be done for the good of the Hegemony.  "Just as our Eternal Kage strove to protect Galtea, we must ensure that Zilior is never again threatened!"  His voice suddenly became a whisper that everyone everywhere heard with absolute clarity.  "Lest our home succumb to a disaster the likes of which would make the Lus'Phor Holocaust seem tame by comparison..."

No one alive--not even the Magister himself--had witnessed the catastrophic events that had led to the Holocaust, the Vergence even now still a curse for those few who dared venture to Galtean System.  Despite the passage of over two centuries, Galtea still suffered as a result.

As did any Force-sensitive who even so much as came within proximity of the System.

But the Ansonite faction of the Vhal'Dan had impressed upon their progeny (for posterity!) the severity (the calamity!) of the Lus'Phor Holocaust.  And Then...just as Now...every single person knew that there had been one person responsible for such devastation...

Kazic Ovarug.

"Yes, the False Kage..." the Magister intoned, reading their collective minds.  "And like the Anzati Monster that he is, he has made his murderous intentions clear: he would rather see the Zilior Hegemony dead than as the free people that we are!"  No one said anything concerning the irony of Lor-Riou's attestations.

But then again, why would they?  Almost no one knew of the true motives and cause behind the Civil War, the actual reasons for the fighting... Certainly no one living on Zilior had been alive during the time of the Order's worst ordeal.  They only knew what they did from a lifetime of oral- and written-history instilled within each Citizen from birth, passed down through the centuries, every "detail" predicated upon the testimony of those whose perspectives were already influenced from incomplete information, propaganda, and confirmation bias. 

There was no reason to question, no doubt to be raised, no alternative perspective to consider.

The Magister's words washed over all, their weight supplemented by the passion in his voice.  "I am reminded of the story of our fearless Eternal Kage, the undefeated Gray Master whose name will forever be synonymous with greatness and glory...our Kage Anson D'Aklon.  He was our salvation, a man of such monumental honor, propriety, and selflessness to be the very example of what a Citizen of the Hegemony should be!  Indeed, it was only by treachery that our Kage fell, betrayed by the monster that he had called brother before..."  Lor-Riou continued to stoke the fires of the collective emotions of each person, adding more fuel to the now-raging conflagration.

Everyone that is save one.

Standing like hulking statues just right of center in the Grand Pentaza was the Cataphract Battalion, 405 members, 15 Troikas strong.  Each Troika was made up from three Tribus, each Tribus consisted of three Triads, each Triad's Primus, Secondus, and Tertius an armed&armored weapon of mass destruction even by themselves.  And at the head of the Cataphracts stood one of the largest beings in the Hegemony, Triarch Szammas Jål Rhadde.  As the ocean winds blew through his dark yellow salt-and-peppered mane, his face remained impassive, even throughout the Magister's speech, he remained motionless but for a slight twitch to his face.  Anyone looking might've mistaken such as indicative of the enormous Cathar's finely-wrought control in the face of overwhelming fury, and they'd be right.

But for the wrong reasons...

Still, Szammas said nothing, knowing that this was neither the time nor the place.  Instead, resplendent in his full, heavy Cataphract armor, the roaring lion device affixed upon the center of the cuirass of his chestplate, the sun reflected off of the highly polished copper sheen of each thick plate.  Meanwhile the Triarch kept his own council, a living example of the credo "For the Good of the Hegemony."

Uninterrupted, the Magister continued, finally having finished his anecdote.  "Which brings us now to the present; in order to secure the very survival of the Vhal'Dan that our Eternal Kage won for us, my fellow Strategoi and I have concluded: we must take initiative and bring the war to the Kewda Pretenders themselves!"  Cheers erupted as the words of Lor-Riou's proclamation left his blue lips.  Allowing the people their inspiration, he waited with a patient, satisfied look upon his face.  But as soon as the noise had quieted, he continued.  "I am honored by my fellow Triune members in that they have entrusted me to act as our Voice.  However, it is we three that shall direct the sword in defense of Zilior, our guiding hands that will crush our enemies, showing them the same 'mercy' that they demonstrated for us."  No one noticed the almost imperceptible tightening of Lor-Riou's eyes, gone almost as soon as it had occurred.

More cheering and applause crashed through the air as if each Citizen would ensure that they could be heard by their fellows across the planet, but none quite so loud as one particular group.

Gathered opposite of the Cataphract Battalion like a shadowed mirror, the Votarious screamed their excitement.  As one, they shouted their fealty, only not for the Hegemony but rather for their Magister.  Knowing that only the he and his Cataphracts heard the distinction, Szammas said nothing.  But it only served to further alienate the two groups that much more, their rivalry all the more embittered.  And though they kept their heads forward, many Cataphracts glanced sideways at the Votarious.  Again the two groups stood in stark contrast: the Cataphract's power-armor gleamed whereas every single member of the Votarious' reptilian-like blackscale techno-armor seemed to dim the light around them.  And where the Cataphract's helms were open, the Votarious' faces were always covered by the masks they wore.

Like a wildfire, the applause and shouting spread...though not everyone was excited (granted they were few and far-between): the oldest veterans who participated in the last uprisings of the Consolidation, the Cataphract Triarch, and the Field Marshall herself, Svante Rhul-Vinjaga.  For one reason or another, they were not entirely comfortable with what they knew, or more appropriately, what they did not know. 

However, they were loyal to their fellow Citizens, their desire to protect their people greater than the trepidation they felt.

For everyone else, the Magister's speech had the desired effect of enflaming the righteous anger shared by every Citizen as a result of the bombing into a tightly controlled if furious frenzy, one now deliberately pointed where the Strategoi...the Triune...the Magister...had directed the aggrieved rage of the entire planet.  They would initiate a preemptive offensive consisting of every single ship of the Zilior Hegemony Expeditionary Tactical Corps against their target with one, singular intent their objective:

The utter destruction of the Kewda Pretenders.

          <<<<< >>>>>

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 7: "Ceterum Autem Censeo Carthaginem Esse Delendam," part II

Despite the urgency of the Magister's commands, there was still much to do: from overall combat strategy to supply logistics, from troop deployment to ordnance prep, the lists were long.

But for tonight...tonight, the Citizens of the Hegemony would spend it however they wished, the entirety (save those who were still on shift) of the Expeditionary Force given a 26-hour liberty.

A whole day off, a true rarity.

One that newly-knighted Kateani Yån Alybir intended to take full advantage of.  After all, it wasn't every day that one graduated from the Academy, much less having been accepted into the Cataphracts!  She, along with her cadet-Triad Secondus Eryl Mañuchan and Tertius Evijall Thewhar, had much to celebrate...and avenge.

All three of the cadet-Triad had personally lost people in the Monolith Massacre.  Trying to blink back the tears, Kateani's fierce green eyes seemed to glow all the more in the darkening dusk as she remembered the little half-sister from Father's Third Pride.  Binta may have been from her Mother's Sister-wife, but she'd always been Kateani's favorite sibling.  Certainly the two of them hadn't cared; they'd been each other's best friends even growing up, Binta just a year behind Kateani.  They'd even taken their Dragon Trials together!  

Kateani gave her head a shake, trying to divest herself of the horrible tableau that she had had the unfortunate luck to witness, being one of the first responders on scene: Binta's beautiful furred face frozen with confusion, partially obscured by her half-shaved mane (a personal grooming choice, if one just on this side of regulations), the other side a gory morass of burnt hair, melted flesh, and exposed bone.  Even now she could recall her half-sister's one remaining eye as it stared unseeing straight into the setting sun.

She hadn't cried then, not even when she finally was in her cramped barracks, exhausted yet unable to sleep, Binta's face haunting her.  But now...

"Kat...are you unwell?" Eryl's concerned voice broke through her rumination, the big Devaronian lightly touching her shoulder.  Evijall had a worried look in her eyes, conveying her own worry.  Kateani almost laughed; even now Evi hardly ever spoke having never grown out of a childhood stutter despite hours of therapy.  But what the tall human lacked in words, Evi more than made up for with the Force: already Kat could feel Evi's comforting ministrations surrounding them all.  It was as touching as it was appreciated.

"It's...I'm OK." The Cathar cadet-Primus gave a reassuring smile.  "I'm just glad to be with you both tonight.  I just wish that Binta was here is all..." Her voice trailed off wistfully.

Eryl flanked Kat on the left with Evi on the right, both holding her and one another.  "By the Maker's blessing, Binta is looking down from above, as proud of you as we are, Kat." Eryl's melodious voice was almost incongruous with his daemonic visage, but his tone and words soothed.  It was one of the reasons that he made such a wonderful Healer; certainly those were the reasons that he was one of the Cataphract's medics.  The Devaronian continued.  "Soon we avenge those lost, but tonight...well, Kat, tonight we drink to their memory."  Evi's icy-blue eyes sparkled with commiseration and support.

Kateani smiled.  "Thanks, guys, you're both the best." She rubbed the back of her paw across her eyes, drying them.  Taking a sobering breath, she inhaled deeply, releasing it as well as most of her sorrow.  "OK, later's for payback; tonight's for us."  Taking them both arm-in-arm, Kat led them through the crowded causeways to the first of many places to kick off their evening.

And for this night, they did precisely that: laughing, celebrating, and living each moment.

As the night wore on, the cadet-Triad continued to revel in life while also giving remembrance to their Honored Dead.  By the time 02:00 passed on their chronometers, they were all fully inebriated.  As such they found themselves half-trudging, half-hanging off of one another as they made their way through the broad avenues leading to the Grand Pentaza.  On the far side, their destination: the blue, technological marvel that was the Cataphracts Pyramid; the nearer: the shadowed void of the Votarious' Kirk, the dark pyramid even blacker than the night.

Had they not been so intoxicated, they would have never strayed so close to the black structure, drunkenly staggering across the invisible line that belonged to the Votarious.

Of course, the small voice that reminded Kateani of that fact was dull and muted...much like her situational awareness.

A fact that she would regret having ignored.

"Looks like we caught some 'Thick Mind' interlopers..." Came a sneering voice as six dark forms materialized out of the night, their clothes as black as the Kirk that was their home.  Looking around, the cadet-Triad found themselves surrounded...

...Faceless... Kateani thought, now alarmed if not alert.  If only her head wasn't spinning...

"I think that they intended to...deface the Kirk." A deep, effeminate voice sounded behind them, her contralto tone laced with amusement...and danger.  "You 'Thick Minds' know better than to step foot on Hallowed Ground."  Despite the fact that all of their faces were covered by their black, featureless masks, Kat could hear the smile from the woman.

"I think that an example should be made here...that should keep any 'Thick Minds' off of Kirk Grounds." Came another voice, this one a male.

Kat stood the full height of her 1.9 meter body, her 134kg frame an intimidating silhouette against the cloud-filled Zilior night sky.  To her back, she felt both Eryl and Evi do likewise, both Cataphracts larger than any of the Votarious...but they were at a severe disadvantage: namely, drunk and outnumbered.

Besides: everyone knew that the Votarious were among the strongest of the Vhal'Dan Jedi...

"Oh, this is precious..." Came an extremely deep voice from Kat's left.  "The 'Thick Minds' think they stand a chance against us!"

"Maybe they think that we are the 'Shadow Warriors' from the Civil War... Didn't they win?" A reedy-voiced man spoke directly in front of Kat.  "Oh, that's right: the Shadow Warriors withdrew before the Cataphracts could finish them...at least that's what we were told."  Hissing laughter followed.  "I think that the 'Thick Minds' just made it up to cover their own incompetence and failures.  After all, weren't they the ones who allowed the False Kage and his Blue Temptress to ambush the Eternal Kage?"  Suddenly his voice lost all hint of mirth, an accusatory and dangerous tone cutting through Kat's haze.  "Or maybe--just maybe--it was the Cataphracts themselves who killed our Kage..."  The man's hand rested upon his black lightsaber, his thumb stroking the hilt.

"Frell you!" Came an unexpected voice, one spoken clearly and without hesitation.

Kat blinked and, looking from the corner of her eye, noticed that Eryl had a similar look of shock upon his face...one focused upon the tall human beside him.  Her face contorted with fury, Evi stared at each Votarious in turn, her hands balled into fists.  She'd said that!  True, it hadn't been very loud, but everyone clearly heard her in the night's silence.

But when Kat scanned the Votarious surrounding them, she could tell by their body language that any pretense of humor was quickly disappearing.

One of the black-clad Votarious crossed their arms in front of them.  "No, not just 'defacement'...but 'outright destruction.'" The woman with the deep voice purred.  "Too bad they died during said vandalism."  Her hands dropped to her waist, either one resting on a blaster as well as a lightsaber hilt.

The six Votarious slowly advanced on the cadet-Triad, each member fighting against their own intoxication and exhaustion.  ...This...this is my fault... Kat admonished herself, uncertain on what to do next.  Regardless, she would do whatever she could to get Eryl and Evi awa--

"Enough." Boomed a voice so deep that it seemed to shake the entire Pentaza.

As one, both Votarious and Cataphracts turned, looking towards the owner of the voice.  It took only a second for them all to recognize the speaker.  Their respective reactions were as different as could be.

"T-Triarch!" Kat sputtered, falling to a knee and bowing her head, Eryl and Evi quickly doing likewise.  Five of the Votarious cautiously backed away as if from a gundark.  The sixth though...

"You are on Votarious' Groun--" The reedy-sounding man began only to be quickly and unceremoniously cut off.

"You will address me with the respect due my station." Even though the enormous Cathar's voice was matter-of-fact, it curtailed all opposition from lone Votarious standing before him, who seemed to shrink in front of the Triarch.  Patiently, with crossed arms, Szammas stood towering over the Votarious, his face impassive but for a dangerous gleam in his golden eyes.

Bowing his head more from fear & petulance than shame, he muttered "Triarch..."  But then as he glanced up from underneath his masked brow, he seemed to find a bit of courage.  "You don't look so tough to m--" He whispered before his voice suddenly stopped, his suddenly limp body crumpling to the deck.

"Please, forgive Jevoc; I'm afraid that he's a recent recruit." The Magister's blue-tinged face was collected, an almost-smile upon his lips as he emerged from nowhere in the blackness of the night.  He leaned over the fallen Votarious, inhaling dramatically before giving him a deliberate slap across the face, one that seemed to wake him.  Jumping to his feet, the Votarious' chin remained on his chest, obviously cowed and afraid.  "And my personal apologies, Triarch.  I do try to instill upon them respect for their elders...but you know how Children can be."  His purple eyes looked pointedly at the members of the cadet-Triad.  "Of course, I'm sure that this can be chalked up as a misunderstanding."

"Of course." Szammas intoned neutrally.  For as tall as the Magister was, the Cathar towered above the him dwarfing him, yet both the Triarch and Lor-Riou seemed to emanate equal-yet-opposite auras of power, neither of them looking the least bit bothered by the other.  It was as awesome a display as it was frightening, Kat decided.  She inadvertently jumped when next her Triarch spoke, despite his voice barely above a whisper.  "Cadets, fall in.  I shall speak with you all in turn in the morning."  Szammas stared at the quickly retreating figures of the cadet-Triad, secure that they were now safe.  He turned back towards the Magister, his predatory gaze taking in the six Votarious before settling upon Lor-Riou.  "Magister."  He inclined his head.

"Triarch." The Magister gave an elaborate bow with his hands fanning outward, making the respectful gesture seem almost...mocking.  But if Szammas noticed, he said nor did anything.  Without changing the tone of his voice, Lor-Riou turned upon the members of his Votarious, a smile fixed upon his face, one that did not in any way touch his eyes.  But it was to Szammas that he spoke next.  "You should take better care of your cubs, Triarch.  One never knows when some storied shadows might materialize from the night and attack them.  Or the stories that could arise given such...improbable situations."  The Magister's eyes flashed, his smile disappearing.  "Children...I think that we've had enough excitement outside for one night.  Besides, we've our own to look after to for tonight."  He gestured towards the Kirk, his meaning clear.

Without so much as a word, the six black-garbed Votarious ran towards the dark pyramid, fear powering their haste.

Szammas remained rooted to the spot, his eyes glaring lightsabers where the Magister had finally disappeared into the Kirk.  He needn't turn to look at whether or not the cadet-Triad had left; he'd given them an order and knew that they'd unquestionably obey it.

Still, the unease in his stomach roiled like a tempest at hearing everything that had been said, not that his face nor body-language would betray him.  Slowly exhaling, the Triarch finally turned towards the Cataphract's pyramid, entering the structure and heading toward the Cadet's Barracks.

Amazingly quiet (especially for one so large), he looked in on his wayward cubs and, seeing them all asleep in their bunks, walked towards his own quarters.

Yet when he arrived, he strode by without so much as a sideways glance towards the door leading to his apartments.  No, tonight he had another destination in mind, a seed of anger now growing deep within as a result of tonight's verbal attacks from those Faceless bastards.

They knew nothing...

Even furious, his face remained impassive.  It was times like these that he was reminded of his duty, both as Triarch as well as a Rhadde.  But sometimes a more...cathartic event was required.  As the doors of the pyramid's innermost elevator closed, he keyed in his destination, one rarely--if ever--visited.

          <<<<< >>>>>

[TheDutchman]

Chapter 7: "Ceterum Autem Censeo Carthaginem Esse Delendam," part III

...What the frell am I doing here...?! Tam wondered, slightly shivering despite the comfortable temperate atmosphere within the room.

Under the shadowed light, the large dark chamber within the very heart of the Votarious Kirk looked especially ominous to Tam's eyes.  Aligning the walls and ceiling were countless blank Votarious masks, each one seeming to stare back at him, each one promising him a waking nightmare.

It only served to discomfort him more...

Kneeling nearly naked in the center of the high-domed room, Tam was surrounded by fifty or so black-clad Votarious, each member indistinguishable save for the disparity in height and size, although most tended towards being tall and lean.
 
It reminded Tam of a holopict that he'd seen once of a den of serpents as a child.

Ever since then he'd always been afraid of snakes of any kind.  Which, now that he thought about it, was probably one of the reasons that he possessed an irrational dislike of the Votarious.  ...What the frell am I doing here...?! He thought once again.

Not for the first time since he'd arrived did Tam feel pangs of regret.  Yes, he'd been invited--by the Magister himself!--but he in no way felt comfortable, much less that he belonged.

...But, with Arage gone...exactly where did he belong?

Tam's eyes closed, tears suddenly streaming from the corners of his tightly shut eyes.  And there it was, the real reason for his discomfort.

His Beloved was dead, killed by...by cowards who would use the Hegemony's own solidarity against itself.

...Damned Kewda Pretenders... His teeth were grinding so hard that it could be heard throughout the room.  Tam couldn't care less; if he could, he'd kill every single one of those bastards, twice even if he could...

...Which was precisely what the Magister had said...had promised him.

Just how in the hell he would accomplish that Tam had no idea whatsoever.  And wishing for the impossible was nothing more than a childish Fool's Errand.

And so too was he: nothing but a childish fool, for wanting...for believing.

...This...this is stupid... He admonished, waves of crushing sorrow threatening to overwhelm him.  Yet, something seemed to compel him to stay, to keep him kneeling on the hard, dark floor, surrounded by the Faceless.

...I...I probably shouldn't call them that... He felt the sudden irrational urge to run or hide, as if the nearby Votarious could read his mind, picking from his thoughts the derogatory term that many Citizens bandied about when gossiping (but always well out of earshot of any of the Votarious themselves).

To alleviate his chagrin, Tam thought instead of the instructions that he'd been given in a communique that he'd received just the very morning that he'd been released from the hospital.  There'd been no name, no identifier, and no preamble of any kind.  Just:

"Arrive at the Kirk promptly at 03:00 tonight.  Bring nothing.  Enter the bounce-tube and press "0009."  Enter the room and disrobe completely.  Kneel and await further instructions."

For as shocked as Tam had been to receive the invitation, the more he read, the more that he'd realized that he had indeed made the decision to take the Magister up on his offer.  However, now that he'd had time enough to think by himself, half-naked amongst the Fac--the Votarious--Tam was beginning to have second thoughts...

And third- and fourth-thoughts, to be honest.  ...What the frell am I doin--

Suddenly and silently the lights cut off, blanketing the entire room in darkness so complete that he could not even see his hand a centimeter from his nose.  Determinedly, Tam stopped himself from nervously looking around, instead focusing his ears on whatever he could hear.

Nothing.  Nothing at all.

Actually, that wasn't true: he could hear the quickened breathing of his own lungs as he fought to regain composure and control of his body, of himself.  Slowly, he forced his body to relax, inhaling, and holding his breath for a few seconds before releasing it.  It worked.  Somewhat.

At first, Tam wasn't certain of what he was seeing, or rather that he was seeing anything at all but after a few moments he noticed that the darkness was slowly retreating, the room soon bathed in a blood-red hue.

And there standing in front of him was the Magister.

As the dark red light reflected off of his blue-tinged skin, it looked to Tam as if the Magister had been possessed by one of Arage's daemonic Kami, the devil-spirit causing the skin to blacken.  However, that wasn't what gave him pause, or at least not only that...

The Magister was completely naked.

Admittedly, Tam had been raised by more conservative parents: they adhered to the Fundamentalist interpretation of the Maker and nudity--while not sinful in and of itself--was considered a taboo.  It was the reason that he still wore his smallclothes even now.  Quickly, he turned his head to the side, averting his eyes.

"No, Tam.  You have decided to leave behind your old life.  That includes outdated concepts and predilections." The Magister's voice was both stern and gentle.  He gestured with his chin.  "You must disrobe fully.  A child does not come into the galaxy clothed."

Tam blinked.  Still full of uncertainty, he stood and began to take off his smallclothes, shyly folding them up.  Glancing around, he suddenly noticed that his other clothes were no longer anywhere to be seen.  Alarmed and at a loss at where exactly to place them, he finally laid them to the side where his other clothes wer--had been.  Somewhat ashamed, he tentatively looked back at the Magister.

Lor-Riou stood with a friendly hand outstretched, a sincere look of welcome and patience radiating from his face, indeed his entire demeanor.  "It's alright, Tam.  You've nothing to feel shame over.  Shame is a thing of the past, one that you shall leave behind in your old life."  As Tam took the Magister's hand, he could feel just how warm his skin was, just how powerful the grip...yet also how tender his touch.  He didn't know if that should surprise or worry him.  

Guiding him to a place a few meters from where he was kneeling, the Magister indicated that Tam take a place at his feet.  As he knelt, Tam felt the Magister take a place behind him.  He suddenly felt simultaneously uncomfortable as well as serene.  Trying to settle in on his knees, Tam looked around the room, noticing that the Votarious encircling him never once moved.  

He started involuntarily when the Magister spoke.  "Please, Tam.  I know the pain that brought you here, the trepidation and fear that you've felt your entire life."  Fingers as strong as durasteel settled upon his shoulders.  "It is time to leave your old life.  You shall be reborn stronger...better.  You needn't feel fear nor worry.  You shall never, ever be alone again.  You will ever after be amongst Family."  Tam glanced up, seeing the Magister spread his arms wide.  "We are now your Family.  Or rather, will be after the Trials of Birth."

...Trials of...wha...? Tam wondered, both curious and bemused.  Still, he said nothing, remembering the Magister's promise.

"Good." Lor-Riou nodded, quietly impressed as if reading his mind.  The Magister's face changed, his smile vanishing and his eyes becoming as hard as quadranium.  "Unfortunately Tam, as with all births, yours will be full of pain, an agony that shall be your last but one that you must experience nevertheless.  This is your final chance to change your mind.  What say you?"  The Magister's eyes looked black in the blood-red light.

Tam never even once hesitated, his choice made even before he'd entered the room.  "I accept.  I will avenge Arage on those responsible." He said, meaning it.

The Magister's head softly nodded, understanding.  "So be it."

Surprised, Tam suddenly felt the iron grip of the Magister's durasteel fingers drilling into his head.  But he experienced real agony as Tam saw redish-purple lightning arc from Lor-Riou's fingers into Tam's head, shoulders, chest, stomach, and legs.  He was certain that the lightning also hit his neck, back, and buttocks if the excruciating pain was any indication.  He felt as if his entire body had been caught between two live power couplings, his muscles contracting so hard it felt as if they would rip in half and tear themselves from the bone.

And still the lightning continued.

Every single painful memory that Tam had ever lived--even those long forgotten--were suddenly thrust violently to the forefront of his mind, but this time all at once.  The pain was beyond anything that he'd ever experienced; in fact, he never even knew that such pain was possible.  His throat hurt so bad from screaming that he was certain that he'd torn his vocal cords as a result.

And still the lightning continued.

He felt as if every single emotion that he'd ever had--from crying to laughter, from humiliation to confidence--flooded through his entire body.  Tears of rage, of laughter, of loss, of relief streamed down his face, his body like a single, raw nerve suddenly exposed to the elements.  Every part of him, from his bones and organs to his skin, felt afire.  The endless ice expanses of Hoth in the deepest winter was warmer, the lakes of lava rivers of Mustafar colder by comparison.

And still the lightning continued.

Finally, when Tam (who?) felt that Death was closing around him (what?), his vision having turned black but for a small field of red-purple color in the very front of him, all stimulus ceased.  The silence was so complete, so utter that the difference was deafening.

...Except...

There.  A heart beating...or was it two?  Slowly, incrementally yet inexorably, that which was Tam began to return.  Only, he didn't feel like himself, not even his sense of self after the Magister had visited him in the MedWard.

He felt better--stronger!--than he had ever felt before.  ...How...?

"My Children, Tam Vail of the Vhal'Dan is dead." The Magister's voice dripped with exhaustion yet there was an undercurrent of exaltation and pride.  "We now celebrate a new Child, one that shall forever strengthen our Family!  I present to you: Tamet Herin of the Votarious!"  Cheers erupted all around him, giving him comfort and succor.  ...Family...

Even as he reveled in his rebirth, Tamet noticed something, something that he would have never thought possible: he...he was stronger in the Force--more connected and better attuned!--than he'd ever been!  Where before his Force abilities were middling, he could now easily be counted among the strongest, even compared to the Masters and Maenowans!  The question must have been written across his face because Lor-Riou answered.

"I told you: you shall have the opportunity to avenge yourself.  Revel in your newfound strength, especially in service of your Family.  Never forget: my Votarious are always the strongest."  He smiled.  "It is both my Gift as well as my Legacy."  He enfolded Tamet within his embrace.  "You, Tamet, are my newest Child, your fellow Votarious are your Sisters and Brothers.  Let no one ever come between our Family."

...I understand... Tamet thought.  Lor-Riou nodded knowingly.

As the rest of his Family surrounded him, he felt powerful yet tender hands dressing him, fitting him with a belt, boots, trousers, under- and over-tunics, and robes.  All of it was as black as the night, the shadows no longer a nightmare.  

They were his home.

Tamet squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden illumination within the chamber, the press of bodies lessening as his Family withdrew, a channel between his Sisters and Brothers creating a void as they stepped aside.  And there in front of Tamet, dressed in the full regalia of his office, was his Magister.

In his hands, he held a black mask.

...I understand... Tamet repeated, sinking to his knees.

Walking forward, the Magister stood above Tamet, a serene smile upon Lor-Riou's lips.  "Tamet Herin, you shall forever be my Child, now until the day you die."  As the last word was spoken, the Magister lowered the mask onto Tamet's face.  Wondering how he would affix it, Tamet stared into his Magister's eyes.

...So that's how... He thought, unconcerned.

With a brief flash of lightning, a puff of burnt flesh, and it was done.  Tamet finally had his Face, proof of his acceptance into the Votarious.

As cheers inundated him, the last of his idyl concerns seemed to wash away with the celebration from his Sisters and Brothers: what would Arage think?

Slightly shaking his head, he decided that it didn't matter; he would do whatever necessary to avenge her.

          <<<<< >>>>>

[TheDutchman]

Special thanks to LSG: with but a minimum of editing, this is his chapter in its entirety  
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Chapter 7: "Ceterum Autem Censeo Carthaginem Esse Delendam," part IV

Try as he might, the sting of the Votarious' jibe should not hurt Szammas so.

At just over two meters tall and 241 kilos the Triarch of the Cataphracts should be able to brush such petulant words, spoken in ignorance of true history, aside.

And yet here he was in the depths of the Cataphract's glistening Pyramid, cool blue beams scanning his golden eyes as an epithelial sampler took cells from his fingers while a whole body scan compared his mass, height, & composition to a variable homeostatic status database as part of the triple-factor genetic identity test.

This was of course after proving more conventional credentials at "lower" security checkpoints within the dark heart of the Pyramid.

Here past blast doors thick as a man's arms, sealed with its own self contained ventilation system, intranet and even structural repulsors--the whole Vault could be detached from the pyramid if necessary--were the Cataphracts most treasured, and feared, artifacts.

It was a superstitious excess the Cathar thought as he strode past the powered down GladX Droids, nominal Gladiator droids used in Corporate Sector high-end droid combat leagues.  They had been repurposed as 4 meter tall sentinels armed at every square centimeter.

Block-ended triangular doors lead to the various vaults; the one he sought was a secret within this secret place, a location whose access point was passed down to the Triarch and his Taxiarhos, or second-in-command, alone.

Before entering the Pre-Civil War Galtean wing he paused at one the blue hololiths of former Triarchs that flanked the corridor's ensconced hollows.

With unmoving focus of the Venerable, Nurhl Båz Rhadde, stared back at him.  His Great-great-great-great Uncle, who had been Triarch in the fateful years of the Civil War.  Theirs was a clan proud of their heritage and dedicated to continuing the tradition of serving the Vhal’Dan in every way they could, ever since the days of Sarll Båz Rhadde himself.

Indeed of Szammas' first litter, two were now serving Cataphracts, the third and even fourth--the runt of the litter--now in line to graduate into the Cataphracts.  Even in the litter from his Second Concubine, two of the three were already talking about following the trail he'd blazed.  He wondered whose armor and Beskar-Breakers they would inherit... Apropos of which, in the firm image before him was his own armor and sword, the mighty golden Durandal.  Since the time Nurhl had wielded it, it had been given the epithet "Hammer of the Shadow Warriors."

While the zweihander and Cataphract plate had undergone necessary maintenance, repair, and upgrade over the centuries, much of it was still the same, the blade and armor still holding the memory of the Civil war, and the darkness the Cataphracts faced in those abyssal times.

Szammas nodded respectfully to his ancestor's image before proceeding inside the gallery, where artifacts from the Bfpasshi Uprisings lay encased in transparisteel, images of the Cataphracts involved in the action adorning the walls or lit from floor.

He reached behind one podium containing a Bfpasshi "Death Rattler," a curious bolus-like weapon that, according to the blurb, made a hideous groaning shrieking sound when spun.

His hand passed over the innocuous secret activator to open the seamless wall just behind at the far end.  There through another genetic lock, red glare of hazard lights the only illumination, he opened the final door to the darkest of the Cataphract's possessions.

The Votarious' sneering disregard for the Cataphracts fight against the fabled "Shadow Warriors" stung because here was the tangible evidence those Shadow Warriors had been all too real.

In three large rectangular slabs of transparisteel, surrounded by Force Dampers was an assortment of broken discarded pieces of the black Oblivion Armor.

It had been in the Battle of Hephaestus Base that the Cataphracts as Szammas knew them today had been forged from the ruination of the Civil War.

There the Venerable Triarch Master Gray Nurhl Båz Rhadde had taken his Troika to war against the Shadow Warriors and--for all intents and purposes--won.  The Venerable’s failure to kill them forgivable in every sense as the victory had come literally bare moments before the Holocaust of the Lus’Phor Thought Bomb had erupted across the system.

After they had collected up the fallen scraps of armor the Shadow Warriors left behind, most sat in storage for years after as the Order was rebuilt on Zilior.  

When time allowed they were subject to study.  Initially it was believed they belonged to two warriors, a male and female, but further analysis based on predictive models of the wearers anatomy scrounged from the corrupted recording of the onboard sensors of the Cataphracts present at that bloody re-birth of their order indicated the left pauldron and shin guards of the female were in fact designed for a humanoid one centimeter taller than the associated breast plate and right upper arm and right thigh plate.

It only emphasized further the incredible precision of these bespoke pieces of wargear.

Thus they had three very incomplete, compromisingly damaged, but still fascinating sets.  

The material was a mineral whose density and composition was unlike anything conventional databases recorded, natural or synthetic.  Speculation was it could only come from the Deep Core, and its capacity to absorb and hold the Force was as good as the best Kyber crystals tuned by a Mak’Tor Singer, albeit the nature of the material made such comparisons impossible, comparing "Hubba" with "Juuba."

In addition to the armor were three damaged fist sized orbs of the same material but the function of which were unknown, along with a ruined pistol, believed to utilize MASER technology, unfortunately damaged beyond any hope of reverse engineering, and finally the broken tip of an Oblivion sword.

The founding Battle of Hephaestus the Votarious guffawed at as legend was before him; it was upon him in the Force-etched history of Durandal and his armor, as hard as Fact, as clear as Truth...

A Truth he could never share outside these walls.

Szammas was an awestruck and avid student of history, and the Cataphract Order had a rich Oral tradition passed with each Sword and Armor set, tales of the previous bearer's exploits going generations back.  Indeed, it was part of the ceremony handing over the mantle of Cataphract.

Those truths had been passed to him when he had taken up his ancestor's blade just as he would pass it on in turn within the hallowed confines of the Cataphracts Armory.  

Szammas found solace in these truths from the Votarious' ill informed quips, and yet also a burden.

While none knew the full truth of who the Shadow Warriors were, or whom they even served--if anyone--during the Civil War, that they had turned the war against Kage Anson D’Aklon was undeniable.

And while it was true that it had been the Blue Temptress that had ended the Kage's life, there was a deeper story.

The mighty Kage had been beaten to a bloody mess before that in single combat against the Lord of the Shadow Warriors before the Lus’Phor holocaust, a fact witnessed by a Cataphract present on Lus’phor, Chimi Mal-wel, who had then assisted with his escape and seen with her own eyes his broken body.  

It had been no betrayal, no trick, the brute fact was D’Aklon had been beaten in single combat by a superior opponent, an anathema the mythology of the Eternal Kage could never countenance.

The Kage's role in attempting to prevent the Vergence that followed was dubious at best.  The man that the Blue Temptress had murdered had not been the same D’Aklon as before the Vergence, but rather a hollowed wraith of his former self.

D’Aklon had not entrusted the Order to Master Gray Raru Vinjaga so much as Vinjaga had to assume the role of leader of the outcasts after witnessing the mad incoherence of D’Aklon, the Kage's death almost a blessed relief given his wretched mental state.

Szammas frowned.

To mutter the Renewal Oaths each Day of Memorial to this man, to hear D'Aklon's "grand sacrifice" lauded with such solemn intonation was uncomfortable at best, sickening at worst.  

While the Kage had never been a Cataphract himself, Szammas had collected in his passion projects recordings of the Oral Histories, enough tales of D’Aklon to know that he had been an astonishing warrior and as selflessly dedicated to the survival of the Vhal’Dan as Szammas was to the Cataphract Order, a man who would have balked at the hero worship and cult of personality that had grown around him.

He slowly shook his enormous head, his teeth grinding as he did so.

The Votarious' snipes sharpened the blunt weight of Truth he bore.

Here at least among the physical truth of the history that they derided did he feel a renewed sense of vindication and focus.

...How ironic... He smiled at the Truth before him...located here in the darkness of this deepest--and most secretive--vault.

Just as his Uncle, the Venerable Triarch Nurhl, and his centuries-past ancestor, the Immovable Triarch Sarll had done, Szammas Jål Rhadde sqared his shoulders, caring the weight of the entire Order...but not for the auspices of the idea that was "The Eternal Kage."  No, he did it--all of it, and gladly!--for one single, glaring reason, the same reason that he'd sworn on his Ancestors concerning the upcoming war:

To ensure the survival of his Cataphracts.

[Lord_S_Gray]

The hegemony is truly a different beast to Galtea or Kewda, global transmissions of stirring rhetoric, a single day off as a unique boon...and the magister at the centre conducting everything, Onasi seemingly still too grief stricken to take the lead.

The contrast and similarities of the two 'elite' factions of the hegemony are fascinating.

The Cataphracts are trained bound by oath. The Votarious are (re)made bound by something far more visceral in a very troubling fashion that involves cult like rituals of rebirth and renewal that I suspect some of the other senior hegemony members would be aghast at. Really one of the best pieces of subtle horror you've written there Dutch.
The tension between the two is understandable Zilior (arguably any system) doesn't seem big enough for the both of them.

Yet both have a fierce dedication to their own sect a 'family' unity in Troika or among the 'faceless'. One just hopes their common dedication to the hegemony and an external threat keeps those tensions from boiling over.

The way you structured this was very smart. The initiates on the one hand and the masters on the other, the youthful exuberance, competitiveness and follies showing the very much unfiltered opinion of the other...then quickly and mercifully tempered by the stern hand of their elders.

And as for those elders...
Szammas also strikes an interesting figure, he has some similarities to his ancestor Nurhl but Szammas seems far more intellectual and sentimental which makes him unique. Feeling the need to reaffirm the 'true' history of the Vhal'dan (though one suspects even that isn't totally complete, just more accurate than the myth) is evidence of this more emotive streak. Look forward to seeing more of him especially the tensions he feels regarding the true history against the mythology used (and one suspects not believed) by Lor-Riou in his rousing speeches. Still he clearly has the Rhadde iron in his core, and the physical and political dominance to go with it - someone even Lor-Riou is unwilling to directly antagonise, the magister is very quick yo soothe things over.

Lor-Riou himself is a bit of a cipher, hard to tell what his goals are - cloaked in smiles and seemingly reasonable steps given the situation. Can one believe his rhetoric? Does he actually have evidence of Ovarugs guilt? We don't know anything except the carefully curated selection Lor-Riou wishes characters to see.

[TheDutchman]

Special thanks to FT for the visual rendering of D'Aylanna  
************************************************


A Brief Intermezzo

"...So the Ansonite faction and the Zilior Hegemony were one and the same..." D'Aylanna mused, her delicate index finger idly tapping her blue lips as she often did when deep in thought.  "So that's what Oyuna was trying to avoid revealing..." The last came out as a whisper but Kazic (or rather his holocron) heard her anyway.

"Not just your Kage, Nu'rus.  It's what I had also done since the end of the Civil War.  You see, I had deliberately eras--" Kazic began, only to be cut off by the diminutive Hapan Speaker, a sardonic half-smile upon her lips.

"Yes, Father, you actually told me right before...you...died..."D'Aylanna's voice trailed off, her dark eyes watering.  However, with a quick shake of her head, she immediately regained composure.  "As I said: you admitted as much to me."

Kazic froze momentarily as the holocron made a clicking noise, but he spoke a second later.  "I see.  Yes, that makes sense.  And it seems that I anticipated doing so; I've been given access to new information, previously unobtainable.  Fortuitous timing as it relates to both the Vhal'Dan Congress of the era as well as the War itself."

"Yes?" D'Aylanna's interest was piqued anew.

"You see: the Congress was not only divided between Q'eieha's Faction and Ryshhk's.  There was a shadow player amongst the Vhal'Dan, one that was actually working from behind the scenes." Kazic's red eyes flashed.  "This information was discovered only after severe damage had been done, though."

D'Aylanna's pensive expression looked more thoughtful than panicked yet she felt both in equal measure.  "Yes...I had suspected as much."  She said, along with a name.

This time when Kazic's eyes flashed it was with unfeigned pride.  "Yes, Nu'rus, you are correct.  You always were my most clever and astute student."

"Thank you, Father.  But tell me, something else has been bothering me since you began: you said that the Hegemony was on Zilior and that it was an ocean planet?  Is this another one of your obfuscations?" As she cocked her head to the side, her eyes scrutinized Kazic.  However, he answered without pause.

"That is correct; everything that I said is true.  And no, no obfuscation." Kazic smiled tightly.  "But, please, allow me to answer that question in due course, Nu'rus."

D'Aylanna could sense that Kazic was awaiting her answer.  Slowly, she gave a brief nod.  "So be it."  She sat back in the comfortable aircouch that Kazic had kept in the apartment's atrium.  "So if I understand this correctly, the Hegemony was what became of the Ansonite Faction and the indigenous Zilior government..." She considered, her mind working through the so-called "history" that she'd learned growing up and what she'd just been told.  "Yet I recall reading that Zilior had gone through several decades of intra-planetary conflicts."

Kazic nodded.  "Again, you are correct.  Known as the 'War of Consolidation,' it was actually a long-lived string of internecine battles that favored the Ansonites almost from the beginning.  While direct intel is woefully unreliable and almost non-existent, I was able to deduce that the Hegemony was actually birthed from a war-hawk fronted retaliation after a Zilior 'patriot' tried to extricate--by violent means--Anson's followers, despite the Treaty between the Vhal'Dan and the planetary government."

D'Aylanna nodded.  "Of course.  Such would've been all the 'evidence' needed to push the already militarized faction towards what they would see as now a necessary response, probably under the language of being 'pre-emptive.'" She suddenly noticed the peculiar look in Kazic's eyes.  "Yes?"

"You never cease to astound me, Nu'rus.  You are more right than you know: from that single--and admittedly isolated--event, one perpetrated by a small, outlier group, the War of Consolidation erupted, but with the result that it polarized both sides."  As Kazic spoke, a holoprojection of a blue ocean world appeared, along with troop movements, one highlighted in green, the other red.  "But, as I said, the tide of war vastly favored the Ansonites."  As D'Aylanna's eyes followed the two colored factions, she could see the green shrink conspicuously.

She continued to scrutinize the actions, taking in everything.

Shaking her head, she spoke in a whisper.  "...Good strategy and tactics from both sides...and the Ansonites were fewer in numbers..."  Suddenly, her eyes latched onto Kazic's.  "There must have initially been a turncoat amongst the Zilior forces; here: even accounting for the Force powers of almost 1,000 Gray Jedi, the planetary faction had numerical superiority."  The red side continued its inexorable march across the planet, leaving only tiny green dots that would occasionally pop up only to soon be wiped off of the map.

Kazic's smile soured, assuming an ironic bent.  "In a way, you are right, Nu'rus, in that the Ansonites knew the opposition's war strategy.  However, it was not due to any traitor that the indigenous side always lost."  He paused, just as he would often do throughout his life whenever Kazic was teaching her, giving D'Aylanna the chance to develop her skills in deductive reasoning.  Absently, she tapped her finger on her lips.

Kazic waited patiently.

D'Aylanna blinked, the answer suddenly obvious.  "Lor-Riou.  He's the key.  Him...and his Votar--" She stopped short.  "No, that's not right; or rather, that's not all that it was."  She stared into Kazic's eyes.  "It was Lor-Riou, the Votarious, and the Cataphracts."

"Excellent, Nu'rus." Again, Kazic radiated pride.  "You are exactly correct."

D'Aylanna smiled for a moment before she suddenly inhaled sharply, her face falling completely.  "...By the Maker... If they were that successful against a strong and seasoned military..."

Kazic's face turned downwards and serious, the hair of his topknot bouncing slightly.  "Yes..."

D'Aylanna couldn't keep the horrified look from her face.  "...Against the unprepared populace of Kewda..."

Kazic's mouth tightened, his voice suddenly cold and quiet.  "Death and destruction."

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[Lord_S_Gray]

Again the Hegemony unique position and history emphasizes its military focus you've done well crafting it as an evolution of the Ansonites ideology mixed with an indigenous one. The Ansonites were on the run (or imagined they were), their leader gone... anxious already threatened with a second exile became something even more restrictive and domineering especially with flare ups of resistance. But the means of suppression Knights, Cataphracts and Votarious...well no wonder they won out. And with Kewda riven by in fighting...well "A great civilisation is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within" if that trinity within Zilior holds they will crush the 'false' vhal dan... especially in light of this third actor among the Kewda order.