Saber Forum

Before I begin, I'd like to express my gratitude to the following:
To Lord_S_Gray: For his awesome help both as a soundboard as well as the plot assists.  I know for a fact that he's one of the reasons that my writing has improved compared to when I first began.
To For Tyeth: For always, selflessly going above and beyond with his incredible visual renderings.  No matter the request, FT has ALWAYS delivered, exceeding my expectations, indeed my hopes, with every single ask.
To everyone reading this: Thank you for your interest!

And now, to begin...
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(https://i.ibb.co/n6TJxHw/20210504-113035.jpg)
Prologue
Then...
(https://i.ibb.co/JQX1znw/Lor-Riou-s-Gunboat-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/JQX1znw)
In a flurry of pseudomotion, the sleek, heavily armed ship re-entered normal space, advanced sensors scrutinizing the entirety of the area around the dark gunship.  Almost instantaneously, the information was relayed on the holoviewer, violet eyes cataloging every iota of data that came in while the lone occupant multitasked travel logistics, local space/time distortions, and his ship's combat-readiness.

He need not have worried.

Apart from a paltry few hydrogen atoms per cubic meter, the occasional black body object, and a galactic background radiation reading well within Republic Standard, the only exotic stellar event of note was a miniature collection of intwined dark energy filaments several micrometers in diameter.  Such was the state of the Marcol Void: a vast expanse of nothingness measuring 30 lightyears in all directions.  ...And a waste of my time... He thought, after dedicating a full two consciousnesses towards situational awareness...just in case...

Lor-Riou's smooth skin furrowed at his brow, the hint of blue in his melanin--courtesy of his mother--making him look as if he were still staring at the hyperspace tunnel he'd taken to transit the distance to...wherever precisely the hell this place was.  Unconsciously, the deft fingers of his left hand manipulated the three durasteel balls within his palm, a gift from his uncle, Raru.  He'd called them "stress spheres."  Whenever confronted with a seemingly unsolvable problem, or his Father's Curse, or the increasingly frequent bouts of agitation, Raru had suggested to focus solely on the three orbs, absently working his hand to give his mind an anchor with which to project all of his frustrations.  Lor-Riou smirked; sometimes it worked.

But not today.

With a snarl he sprang from his seat, pacing the deck of the cramped compartment while he ground his teeth in exasperation.  As it happened all too often now, he saw red as his fury threatened to overwhelm him.  Feeling foolish, he castigated himself: he was an addle-brained idiot for hoping that what he'd been promised could ever be possible.  ...Frell them...frell them all... He silently swore.  Temperance gave way to anger, all rational thought forgotten.  Transgressions--real and imagined--bombarded him, from his deep-seated hatred of his father, to the rudimentary machinations of tired, old men, to the friction between the Zilior military and his own Votarious.  Why would those fools not listen to him, to his plans, certain to guarantee victory and assure his supremacy?  Instead they vacillated from one unimportant point to the next, all the while doing nothing.  Nothing!

He knew better, his life's lessons learned in the forges of adversity's fires.  And now: a message telling little, saying less, and offering more questions than answers.  Who did he think he was, offering information about his mother... After all, hadn't his own bastard of a father tried for decad--no, centuries!--to help her?!  Which was laughable at best; his father had been the one to effectively kill he--

Suddenly, his conscious mind caught up to his emotions, the tightly controlled grip upon his baser nature...his Father's Curse...reasserting itself.  ...Calm dammit... His ragged breath smoothed, the words of Uncle Raru reminding him to always remain master of himself.  Raru had known of his tribulations, of the affliction that he bore and suffered... They both knew all too intimately what would happen should Lor-Riou forego his control, give into the Lust...

...Must I remain cursed... He pondered, not for the first--nor the last--time.

Like cool water dousing the fires of his anger, a small, almost innocuous sound caught his attention, Lor-Riou's head tilting slightly as he attempted to identify the source...

It sounded like...dripping liquid?

The answer came in milliseconds.  Looking down at his left hand, he saw the still-bright durasteel running from between his fingers.  Although his skin wasn't harmed, what remained of the stress spheres had melted as a result of his lost control, his fist still clenched tightly.  Uncle's words echoed across his mind, Raru's calming influence the lone balm in his life. 

But Uncle was no longer here... He had to maintain control!

Taking slow, deep, calming breaths, Lor-Riou finally felt the mantle of peace settle down upon him, the Lust abating, if slowly.  But he was again himself, not a slave to the imperative of his ancestry.  Once again, he was thankful for Raru's teachings, even if he was ultimately unable to fix that which ailed Lor-Riou the most.  Serenity returned as sudden as his previous fury had erupted.

And none too soon.  Mere milliseconds before the ship's proximity alerts sounded, Lor-Riou's own eldritch senses gave him notice of incoming company.

Stabbing up through the galactic plane, another ship appeared from hyperspace, coming to a sudden stop perpendicular to Lor-Riou's gunboat.  The other craft was larger than his but seemed to lack the armament of his gunship.  Unsurprising that; he had taken the Vhal'Dan--the true Vhal'Dan--and made them strong, harkening back to the time of Black Rikard.  Instead of those faithless academics constantly searching for meaning in musty relics of the past, his Vhal'Dan were warriors all. 

He let that thought comfort him as the other ship gave the correct IFF codes, his almost-smile not touching his eyes.  Now he would see to it that he got the answers that he sought, that he deserved.

The hollow metallic sound of docking clamps reverberated throughout the gunboat, red sensors switching to green indicating the presence of breathable atmosphere only confirming that which he already sensed.  Indeed, he could even tell that the other craft's hull had slight degradation in one of the cross-sections of the doonium plating, courtesy of heavy stellar bombardment.  Interesting; only constant proximity to the stellar objects of the Inner Core would produce such.

Still, even with his preternatural senses, Lor-Riou could only guess where the ship's occupant had disembarked from.  Such limitations frustrated him to no end...that, and the fact that he could not expand his mind further within the ship, almost as if...

No, not "almost"...he was being blocked!

Now that truly took Lor-Riou by surprise.  In his centuries of life, no one had ever managed to impede his Force Senses, much less to do so, so effectively...so completely. 

Unafraid, he made his way to the airlock where the blastdoor was already irising open.  Here Lor-Riou received his second shock: someone was already waiting for him outside!  How had he not sensed this person?!  Again, intrigued yet unafraid, he approached the robed figure, his lightsaber forgotten on his belt.  Not that he needed it; after all, he was the weapon.

"Greetings, Lor-Riou Herin nil’K’aval-Ovarug.  I am heartened that you accepted my invitation." The figure's face came into the light as his hood seemed to pull back, exposing not only his head but his broad chest as well.

Lor-Riou blinked.  Not since Uncle had anyone uttered his name, his full name that is.  "I have to admit that I was interested, Master Kadmaur." He replied without preamble.  And if Kadmaur was surprised that Lor-Riou knew who he was, he hid it well.  "I still don't see why we needed to meet way out here in the Void."  Surreptitiously, Lor-Riou expanded his Senses outward, focusing on the human in front of him.

...Feeling nothing, nothing at all.  Not even the presence of the Force around Kadmaur; it was as if he were standing within the center of a null-field, one of his own making if Lor-Riou missed his mark.  Incredible; he'd heard stories where certain powerful beings were able to perform such impossible feats but to see it for himself... His almost-smile widened into a sincere grin; it had been a long time since he'd been surprised by anything!

"Apologies, Lor-Riou Herin nil’K’aval-Ovarug.  I'm sure that you can appreciate the need for circumspection, especially given the situation." The human's face looked kindly, an emotion that never once touched his eyes.  Even though his long hair and beard were white, Lor-Riou noticed that there was not a gram of atrophy in his arms and chest, no perceived weakness of age--of anything--at all to be seen.

"Of course, Master Kadmaur.  But enough with the pleasantries; your transmission stated that you had information concerning my mother, something that I would be happy to trade my assistance for?  Know this: I will do nothing that I feel is detrimental to my...people."  He deliberately paused for emphasis.

Kadmaur spread his arms, palms up in a disarming gesture.  "You are correct.  Indeed, that is my offer and those are my terms."  Suddenly the human's eyes seemed to sparkle.  "And I guarantee you: not only will you help after I relate to you the details but you will do so eagerly."

For a third time, Lor-Riou found himself shocked.  What is it that this...human could ever possibly offer him concerning his mother?  Even while his face remained completely impassive, Lor-Riou could swear that Kadmaur's grin deepened, as if reading his very thoughts...

Once more his anger began to swell.  "Then tell me, and tell me quickly."  Lor-Riou's eyes flashed dangerously, blue-white lightening arcing between his fingers in a small yet potent display of power, Four of his five consciousnesses working in anticipation of battle.  "What do you know of my mother?"

As with before, if Kadmaur felt any concern he looked completely at ease.  "I know everything that there is to know about Saani Kaval ti'Ovarug."  He took a theatric step towards Lor-Riou.  "Including how to bring her back to life.  In fact, it is precisely the latter with which I require your assistance."  Suddenly Kadmaur's mask of amiability dropped, thoughts of avarice clearly painted across his face.  "That is your cost...but it is also your reward!"

Lor-Riou's face twitched involuntarily.  Again, how is it that this human knew of his deepest desire?!  Could...could it be true?  And after all this time...

All five of his consciousnesses focused on the possibility that Kadmaur could be lying to him.  But for what reason?  It was the human who had initiated contact, using eldritch means that even Lor-Riou did not understand.  He only knew that something of monumental import would be had by attending this meeting.  Mentally, Lor-Riou grinned.  More of his father's genetic inheritance: his ability to "see" portents in the Force.

He believed that Anzat called them the daen nosi, the so-called "lines of fate."

Except he never saw any lines; he never "saw" anything at all.  Only a sense of...presage, that to ignore it would be to his detriment.  Sometimes he wished that he could learn more about it but his Uncle Raru had been helpless to assist and he would sooner discuss military doctrine with Field Marshall Svante Rhul-Vinjaga than ask his father about it.

Besides, Raru was dead more than a century past, his great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter Svante sharing only his name but none of his temperament.

All of which was a concern for another time.

All of this went through his mind in milliseconds, Lor-Riou having arrived at his answer during the interim.  "I accept." He said simply. 

Kadmaur smiled, nodding as if he hadn't expected any other response.  "Excellent.  Let us begin then."

There, deep within the nothingness that consisted of the Marcol Void, the two men worked upon the solution that would benefit them both, if for two diametrically opposite objectives.  They held no illusions: they were not allies, much less friends.  They happened to be working towards similar goals at present...goals that would ripple through time.

And for both, the entire galaxy would pay a price rent in blood, misery, and ruin.

          <<<<< >>>>>

Now...
(https://i.ibb.co/L03frKL/Kazic-s-Holocron.jpg) (https://ibb.co/L03frKL)
Walking briskly down the hallway of the sleek yet organic Temple of Balance, D'Aylanna kept her gaze affixed firmly ahead.  Anyone looking at her would notice nothing amiss, her projected aura mirrored by the serene mask upon her face.

What she felt was another thing entirely.

After learning (behind closed doors) what she'd been told by Kage Oyuna Chand'n as the newly inaugurated 7th Speaker, D'Aylanna knew that she--and only she--could avert potential disaster.  ...Kazic had been right to do as he did... She thought.

Another thought made her miss a step.  With only the slightest of pauses, D'Aylanna was able to correct, resuming her fluid gait without any further stumbles.  But her mind worked furiously.  Could...could Kazic have known that this exact event would happen, that the ramifications of the past would inextricably lead to these precise outcomes?  And if he did, was it because of something that he had done in the past?

Ironically--or perhaps not considering Kazic--D'Aylanna thought that she could find answers at the same destination that she was already heading towards.

Kazic's residential apartments.

Avoiding contact with any of the Vhal'Dan currently in residence, the diminutive Hapan Master quietly made her way through the adjoining halls, lifts, and a quick bounce on one of the magtrains, where she finally found herself staring at a familiar door.  One that had been home for her for many years before she passed her Trial of the Dragon Cave and her subsequent promotion from teidowan to Gray Knight.

That had been a lavish celebration, her youth remarked upon by all in attendance.  Well, all but two: her Father and Master Kazic Ovarug and a wide teidowan, one who was always among the weakest in the Force but the strongest in determination.  Her Shakal.  She still remembered feeling his gaze upon her, those strange hazel eyes both intense...and compassionate.

D'Aylanna gave her head a small shake.  She was stalling.  And she knew that it had everything to do with Kazic.

Had it only been a few weeks ago that her father had died?  It seemed like years... No one--not even her Zearic, her Shakal, had been in these apartments since Kazic passed.  Calmly and inconspicuously she waved her hand over the biometric lock, the surgically-implanted micronode ensuring that none gained entry save by Kazic's invitation.

In an almost vulgar display of resistance, the doors of the sequestered room finally opened under the enumeration of a subtly unique embedded system-wide algorithm, the screeching sound incredibly loud...at least in D'Aylanna's ears.  Of course, as a Hapan, she possessed much better than average hearing.  Still, even as grating as the noise was, she doubted that many would've heard anything and those that had would almost certainly ignore or explain away the curious sounds.

Regardless, she would not take any chances.

Quickly stepping in, she shut and sealed the doors behind her, the expected squeal blessedly absent.  Waiting a moment as she projected her Force Senses as far and as delicately outward as they could go, she was alert for anything.  For several long moments, D'Aylanna waited.  And waited.

Nothing.

Satisfied, she let out a breath that she hadn't realized that she'd been holding.  Looking across the apartments, the Hapan Master brought up the illumination, dispelling her race's night-blindness, even though she knew the apartment's layout as well as the back of her hand.  Still, D'Aylanna kept the lights low so as to be as clandestine as she could though she needn't have worried; all of the transparisteel windows had been polarized, further obscured by the security shades that covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling.

For a moment she did nothing, motionless except for the slow breathing in through her nose, the comforting subtle lavender aroma of Home filling her lungs as well as her heart.  Thoughts of years past, living and growing under Kazic's tutelage and parenting inundated her mind, tears unshed as busy weeks filled her days immediately following his death finally poured forth, large droplets running down her full, dark cheeks, wetting her blue lips, and falling from underneath her delicate chin.  She hadn't wanted her Shakal to see her crying, not because of any embarrassment but rather she hoped to spare him further suffering by seeing her weeping in pain.

After several moments of allowing herself to unashamedly yet quietly sob, she took several calming breaths, wiping her eyes and cheeks before regaining composure.  It was then that she smelled a different scent amongst the lavender, one that D'Aylanna was vaguely familiar with.

Stepping into the Atrium, she saw arranged within one of the southern wall's niches a small bundle of joss sticks of simple Sandalwood, a common enough fragrance but one that Kazic had oddly only ever purchased from Dantooine.  She had only seen him use them every few years--perhaps every five if she recalled--kneeling before them.  Genuinely inquisitive, she had asked afterwards.  He had said it was to honor “an old Jedi friend” on the anniversary of “becoming one with the Force.”  It was a not a phrase she heard Kazic say often, even among his remembrances of the many beings he had met over the centuries who he referred to as simply having died so many decades ago.  It had piqued her curiosity, but his promise to one day tell her about this Jedi he held in such reverence had unfortunately been overtaken by his illness and the necessity to discuss, while he still had the time…far graver matters.

D'Aylanna smiled a sardonic grin.  It seemed that "gave matters" were mostly what she attended to lately, courtesy of her status as the new 7th Speaker.  ...Would that you could help me now, Father... She lamented, her teeth gritting in an uncharacteristic show of despair.  Sudden anger welled up.  ...Damn you, Father...not now...not when I need you the most...

But she knew the truth behind her wrath, that she missed the venerable Anzat more than she could ever say in life.  And now that he was gone, she was left gazing at the remnants of what he'd left behind, the apartments empty despite being full of furniture leaving two things: this house...and her memories.

Wistfully, she thought of the man who had been more a father to her than even her own paternal parent, seeing through his eyes as he would often look through these same windows, looking across a vast beautiful expanse of indigenous tampasi forest.  Kazic had often told her that the trees reminded him of better times, of friends lost, and of love's truth.  Every time that he did so, he would stare longingly at one of the rare picts that he displayed on one of the walls.  Of the eight portraits of various women artfully arranged, it was the picture of a young, beautiful green-skinned woman, her dark facial tattoos indicative of her Mirialan heritage, to which his eyes gazed at whenever he spoke of trees.

With a soft touch as D'Aylanna slowly strode through the adjoining solarium, her delicate fingers gingerly brushed up against the objects located about the room.  In over a millennia of life Kazic had collected, all things considered, surprisingly few personal affects, though D’Aylanna had no doubt those which he did retain were of the utmost importance.  Every single item--those both incredible and innocuous--she considered, their import underscored by the singular fact that her adoptive father had held them dear, one and all.

But in particular were those that she now recognized from the retrospective of Kazic's dying confession.  Knowing exactly where to look after having lived within these apartments for years, D'Aylanna soon found one of those objects that she knew to be of utmost importance.  And the source of danger that she worried over.

Approaching one of the niches in the wall, she gently lifted a small but heavy wooden container with silver edging, it seemed to be a jewelry box of some sort from the look, perhaps belonging to one of his wives.  Opening it she found an odd collection of items.

Looking at it, no one else would feel the constricting fear that even now D'Aylanna found herself fighting off.  A part of her detachedly wondered how such innocent items could ever be so hazardous to elicit such terror, but D'Aylanna was a pragmatist above all else.  What lay inside was anything but "normal."

Her dark eyes considered them, scrutinizing every detail.  

A simple hair brush, still featuring long strands colored red and auburn, a rolled up simple leather belt, and a wooden totem of three women….

...Ari… She recalled, the items Kazic had traded with the foundling on Yavin 4 centuries ago, kept all this time.  She lifted the wooden totem, the carvings still sharp to this day kept locked away, yet as D’Aylanna scrutinized the female forms and the precise faces she felt a strange discomfort rise in her breast as though the figures were…by some troubling means…observing her just as closely…

Perturbed, she placed the totem back, eyes lingering on the hair brush beside it, the strands so fresh they might’ve been lost the day before…the brush itself could easily contain skin cells…it would be so easy to provide to a Forensics expert to analyze, what they might learn from even an aged fragment of Ari--

“No,” She said aloud to dispel the temptation.  Kazic had been firm in his instruction that Ari’s kind be avoided at all cost; he had fallen prey to the temptation of their power and the Vhal’Dan had suffered immeasurably for it.

Quickly closing the box she resolved immediately to have it and its contents destroyed, next opportunity she would personally take Fenris' Dirge as close to an isolated star as possible and launch the box and it’s contents out of the garbage disposal straight into the nuclear inferno.  Whatever sentimentality the objects held died with Kazic, their existence now a grave threat.

Grabbing the wooden box by its sides, D'Aylanna lifted the surprisingly heavy container, removing it from the far niche in the wall.  As she did so, a muted sound clicked, one that only those with superior hearing would discern.  ...Such as a Hapan's hearing... She mused.  Carefully, she placed the wooden box on the table behind her and turned her full attention back to the niche.

She saw nothing.

Still, she knew that she'd heard...something.  Using the Force, she slowly examined the area...only to come up empty again.  Blinking, D'Aylanna knew that there was something that she was missing.  Closing her eyes, she relied upon her mastery in the Force to fine-tune her search, creating a special synergy between her Force- and physical-senses.  Time seemed to slow, her fingertips hyperaware while the Force flowed through her.  After several minutes, she sensed more than felt a discrepancy in the niche's bottom.

Arching an eyebrow, D'Aylanna considered before gently pulling with the Force.  Something seemed to move infinitesimally, but nothing that she could see.  Taking a moment to think, she tapped a finger on her full lips, something that her Shakal would recognize as a pensive tic.  Then, changing tactics, D'Aylanna reversed polarity within the Force, Pushing instead of Pulling.

With another almost imperceptible click, a small door revealed itself, a moment ago indistinguishable from the surrounding surface.  A small if satisfied smile playing upon her lips, D'Aylanna lifted the door, uncovering the object that it had hid.

It was a holocron.

D'Aylanna blinked.  She was unaware that Kazic had kept a holocron, much less fabricated one.  Could he have... But she didn't bother finishing the question.

Determinedly, the Force flowed through her and into the device, activating it, a soft, pleasant light emanating from within.  As the corners turned, a holoprojection shot out from the cube, solidifying a few meters from her.

Eyes wide open, D'Aylanna stood as straight as she could.  In front of her was Kazic, not as the old Anzat that she remembered but as a man in his prime: tall, muscular, his topknot, hair, and goatee deep black instead of the white she was used to.

"Greetings, Jedi.  How may I be of service?" The baritone voice was completely absent of the aged gravel that she'd been comforted by as a teidowan.  Instead, the tone was strong, clear, and full of vigor.

For a second, she said nothing, the knowledge that this ersatz projection was merely a construct courtesy of the holocron at odds with the love and happiness that she felt seeing Kazic again.  But quickly logic won over emotion; all holocrons incorporated slivers of their makers, either by virtue of the Force, advanced AI, or both.  Still: for D'Aylanna, it was a pleasant fiction for her to pretend.

"I require information.  Vhal'Dan martial history." She said in precise, soft clipped tones, Kage Chand'n's words loud in her ears.  D'Aylanna wasn't naive enough to think that she'd been told all of the Order's history--Kazic's deathbed confessions notwithstanding, she was a realist as well as a pragmatist--but what Oyuna had confided to her had helped her draw a line from that to what Kazic had admitted.

"Very good." Holo-Kazic smiled.  "Please state which period or event you wish to peruse."  His hands were folded in front of him, a relaxing gesture intended to comfort.

But comfort was the last thing on D'Aylanna's mind.  "The First Gray Jedi War." She intoned, butterflies in her stomach.  She wasn't certain what she expected but she knew what she hoped...

For two seconds, the holoprojection remained motionless.  Abruptly, the holocron clicked, the projection disappearing altogether.  D'Aylanna remained silent, again anticipatory.  A second later when the projection resumed, she noticed that Kazic's red eyes seemed more...vibrant.  Lifelike.

"Confirm genetic authorization." Even Holo-Kazic's tone had changed, from light and genial to restrained.  Stomach turning, D'Aylanna placed her thumb upon the holocron.  As she scraped epithelial cells on the surface, the holocron seemed to glow white.

For long moments, nothing seemed to happen.  Then...

"Hello, Nu'rus.  I've been expecting you."

Nu'rus.  Kazic's term of endearment for his adoptive daughter.  D'Aylanna.  Relaxing slightly, she gave a small smile.  "I thought as much, Father."  

The holoprojection was no longer backlit by the holocron; rather the image seemed to solidify, as if Kazic himself was standing in the room.  D'Aylanna had studied several holocrons, even learning about how certain masters had incorporated their own egos within, but never one that displayed such...personalized interactions.  That being said, she was unsurprised: Kazic had always impressed her with his knowledge and power in the Force.

And, apparently, he'd once again anticipated events in her life.

"So Nu'rus, you wish to learn about the First Gray Jedi War?" Kazic asked, his arms folded across his broad chest.

"I do.  The real facts, not what was recorded and 'served' to the Order.  What really happened." Her dark eyes flashed, Oyuna's last words to her burned within her memory:

"Three times the Vhal'Dan Order have endured oblivion; three times did we survive.  But always at a cost...a brutal, horrible cost.  The Civil War and both Gray Jedi Wars.  But it is the First that has the least information surrounding it.  And I, as Kage, adjure you as Speaker to maintain it remains so."

But Oyuna did not know what D'Aylanna did, could not know...not after what Kazic had done, working so diligently to erase.  For D'Aylanna, in order to ensure that she honor both Kazic's and her Kage's commands, she needed to know the truth, unvarnished, stark, and complete.

Kazic nodded, understanding radiating from him.  "Then get comfortable, Nu'rus.  It is a long story and I have much to tell."

Once again, D'Aylanna listened of dread times and incidents, learning the buried truth of the volatile history amidst the glorious victories told of the Vhal'Dan and the depth and reality of the Order's mistakes.

And so it begins!

We caught a moment of Lor-Riou at the Schisms Epilogue but this expands greatly.  It seems the only thing greater than his ambition, obsession and genius is his emotional instability, Raru clearly foresaw this with the balls...but perhaps underestimated just how deep his 'lust' goes - though i suspect said lust is not (or at least not completely) of the amorous kind given his parentage and the way it is termed his Father 'Curse'. And meeting with Kadmaur, well that never ends well for anyone, he is a figure with his own eldritch goals if it benefits Lor-Riou it is because that is a side effect of achieveing his true purpose.  Overall Lor-Riou reads already as fascinating potentially explosive personality, his control over his 'base nature'  is clearly tentative at the best of times can't wait to see how this moulds his actions and events around him.

And a great contrast in the two sections, Lor-Riou frenetic and impatient, D'Alyanna almost meditative.  Both take in all the details around them, but for very different reasons, Lor-Riou is using preternatural senses to find advantage and threat in a frantic way, D'Alyanna is introspective calm considered way, taking care to note each object she finds and spend time reflecting on its importance to her recently deceased father, and the traces lingering from his deathbed confession in Ari's hairbursh a potent link back to Schisms even as the narrative moves on - Kazic never forgot and nor does it seem did Lor-Riou, albeit what he knows of those times versus what actually happened will be interesting to see. 

Both have a story to tell, and we are lucky enough to hear get to hear it!
And absolutely a shout out to For Tyeth, a great contributor, highly skilled and generous with his time and abiltieis.   

Thanks for the kind words but I wouldn't have produced these renderings if both you and LSG hadn't come up with such great material as inspiration. We also communicated about each character (and in LSG's case the Star Destroyer) so I had inside knowledge to work with and integrate. I was just so happy you both liked the results!
I have to say the title plate for "Familicide" really stretched my skills and improved me as a designer/modeller - here is an early version...
(https://ftsabersite.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/test-image-pre-crop1.png)
And believe it or not I then made this picture into a 3D object adding the gilt frame and text (similar to a resin cast diorama) which I then composited on top of the hallway background image.

I would have learnt none of these techniques had it not been for the stories.

I had the privilege of seeing this version and was (then as now  ;)) blown away by the details!

But when FT came back with (what ended up being) the finished product, I was beyond impressed!  I certainly would not be able to do the incredible work that he's constantly and able to do^^

But that brings up a wonderful opportunity (for me, at the very least): more future collaborations featuring narrative characters with FT's visual artistry  ;D

Point for awesomeness  :)

Special thanks to LSG for the art: not only for providing the work but also the incredible idea!
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Chapter 1: Patronage & Portents, part I

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Vhal’Dan Congress
Baransu no Kage: Ryshhk K’rrmerii (Kage Emeritus), Wookie male
  Council of Balance:
  Arbiter: Q'eieha Jeseladai (Kage-elect), Arkanian Offshoot/Sephi hybrid female
  1st Speaker: Jaa Daivyk, Human-Epicanthix hybrid male
  2nd Speaker: Zala Våj Xondall, Cathar female
  3rd Speaker: Tanau Kodo-Hazs, Human male
  4th Speaker: Iaced Iragant, Verpine
  5th Speaker: Airex Hasheva, Human female
  6th Speaker: Anayese Vondall, Shifalen female
  7th Speaker: Nahn Sa'arem, Twi'Lek male
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[...Which brings me to my final act as your Kage: it is my honor to present to you your newly elected Kage, Master Gray Q'eieha Jeseladai!] Ryshhk's roar was drowned out by the surrounding cacophony of the crowd's applause, only further incited as the tall, willowy woman stood from the Arbiter's Seat to ascend the Kage's Dais.  Stopping in front of the venerable Wookie, Q'eieha bowed her head, a small smile playing upon her lips.  [Good luck, Kage.  I hope that you have more successes than defeats.] He spoke the ritual words while placing a genial hand upon the much smaller woman's shoulder.  Staring into her ice-blue eyes, Ryshhk saw the look of sudden surprise in Q'eieha's face.  Even he had to admit that he couldn't blame her; he'd never been so familiar.

If anyone noticed the break in decorum they said nothing, the clapping continuing well after Ryshhk had withdrawn, taking a seat in the front row of the auditorium of the Hall of Balance.  It wasn't until Q'eieha had taken her seat and raised a delicate, stark white hand that the applause subsided.  Ryshhk noticed the looks of triumph upon most of the faces surrounding him.  It just served as a reminder that his suspicions were valid.

Taking a moment to collect herself, Q'eieha stood, scanning the entire crowd.  It represented all living Vhal'Dan Jedi currently on Kewda, over 1,700.  A large crowd to be sure, but smaller than what Galactic birth rates had established as an average.  With everything that the Order had endured, one would've thought that the number represented a glaring success; Ryshhk certainly did.  But then again, he had been there through it all...

For Q'eieha, on the other hand, it was a bitter pill to swallow.  However, she was ever the politician, keeping her emotions to herself.  When she spoke, her tone was genial and relaxed.

"My fellow Gray...I am humbled by your endorsement and my election to Kage."  Her careful voice reflected the sincere gratitude of the gathered Jedi, if for a different reason than most would have guessed.  "While I will make the customary promises in the same bent as my predecessors, I feel that I would be remiss unless I did not first address a true hero of the Vhal'Dan, one whom has worked virtually ceaselessly and tirelessly for over 23 tenures in office, a record as unparalleled as it is extraordinary."  She paused theatrically, the soft metallic sounds from the multiple earrings lining her pointed ears the only noise in the Hall.  "Kage Ryshhk K’rrmerii has taken the Vhal'Dan from the brink of destruction--from the Lus'Phor Holocaust and the Great Galtean Diaspora through the Time of the Troubles--to the flourishing Order that it is today.  So it is that in the 230 years hence, we are now as the Maker intended: a people of peace, of serenity, of harmony."

Every eye was focused on the slender woman whom they'd elected as Kage, her short hair emphasizing her relative youth...that is, relative to the now former Kage: Ryshhk's fur had lost all of its brown and most of its black coloring, replaced by the gray and white of premature aging.  At over 300 years old, the venerable Wookie seemed a contradiction: his shoulders sagged with the weight of responsibility yet he was still as strong as he had been in his youth.  While part of it could be attributed to age, it was mostly the result of the fallout from the Lus'Phor Holocaust as well as the nine years that constituted the Troubles where harrowing ailments, sudden illnesses, and lowered birthrates had contributed to the decline in the Order's numbers.

However, under Ryshhk's leadership, the Vhal'Dan had been able to course-correct, the Sickness that had plagued the Order finally abating, the Vhal'Dan able to finally recover from the horrible symptoms brought on by the Vergence.  Yes, it had been a group effort, one prevalent throughout the Order.  But during the interim of two centuries, the names of Jorol Qui-Xot, D'arial Qui-Amhan, and hundreds of others just as responsible had been relegated to historical footnotes...whereas Ryshhk K’rrmerii still stood amongst them.

A stark reminder of what the Vhal'Dan had been.

Had anyone bothered to scrutinize the old Wookie Master, they would've seen a look of sorrow upon his face, a general sense of lassitude brought upon by a loss so acute, so...damning.  And that was the problem, at least in Ryshhk's estimation.

The Vhal'Dan had lost part of itself.

During the two centuries leading from the Lus'Phor Holocaust, the Order had been slowly yet inextricably heading towards an unnamed apathy demonstrating pacifistic qualities.  Part of the fault lay with those Gray that had lived through the Civil War: they were so determined to avoid another calamity so monumentally destructive that the Order had grossly overcorrected.  Oh, it wasn't immediately apparent nor was it overt but over the next 20 decades, the Vhal'Dan had transformed, their Jedi largely adopting scholarly duties, their martial prowess not considered a prime component of their training, their role as "Principled Defenders" no longer their prime attribute.

Again, there hadn't been just one event or one thing that Ryshhk could've pointed to as the turning point, no landmark incident to identify as the catalyst, but the Wookie Master had first noticed that martial arts, lightsaber-, and combat-training had been relegated behind academic studies and research beginning a mere few years after the Troubles. 

Introspective, he considered: the Civil War had been exceedingly costly, all of the Vhal'Dan's Blademasters had been lost, the Order's tacticians had been systematically decimated, and their military industrial complex had been almost completely devastated, to say nothing of their now lost once-Home planet of Galtea.  Yes, there had been many battle-hardened veterans, but instead of passing on their knowledge and--more importantly--their experience, their temperance, they hid behind sterile scholarly accounts and academic pursuits.

Of course, the fact that every single Cataphract had sided with Anson hadn't helped either.

Unfortunately, during his 23 terms as Kage, Ryshhk had never tried to reinstitute the Cataphract Battalion, always finding himself  too busy with the countless responsibilities of his Office, or deciding that there wasn't a suitable candidate for the role of Triarch, or that there was no need, no occasion that merited the re-emergence of the Cataphracts.  His excuses had been legion... But now Ryshhk admitted, it was because he too had been afraid of what such a decidedly militaristic group within the Vhal'Dan would represent...

...And what might again occur.

Mentally shaking his head, Ryshhk finally focused upon Q'eieha's announcements.  Giving a small, inaudible snort, he closed his eyes in capitulation.  ...Dammit... He sighed.  Unfortunately, he already guessed where the new Kage was heading with this pronouncement.

"...And it is to you all gathered here now that I announce that Master Gray Ryshhk K’rrmerii be recognized as 'Kage Emeritus' for the duration of his life!" Q'eieha's voice rang out like a clarion bell, the gathered crowd once again roaring in raised voices, cheering, and applause. 

Thought to Ryshhk's ears, it echoed with the hollow clang of insincerity and overwhelming patronization.  Looking at the Arkanian's face, Ryshhk ignored what he saw and instead focused upon his keen sense of smell, the incongruousness of the Kage's visage and the raw metallic scent that not only centered around Q'eieha but indeed flooded the entire room.  Knowing precisely what the smell meant, his face remained impassive.  He'd had centuries of experience in hiding his feelings and this was no different.

Still, he stood, towering over everyone within the Hall.  He had a part to play and he would fulfill his role...but he didn't have to like it.  Or, for that matter, accept what was expected of him.  It was times like this in which he was thankful that most sentients had difficulty deducing Wookie facial idiosyncrasies.

So, surrounded by a generation of Vhal'Dan that had known only prosperous times, peace, and goodwill, the Wookie Master--Kage Emeritus, he corrected himself wryly--stared at each face in the crowd, forlorn for every single one of them, the adversity that awaited their future.  It was not a Force Vision; Ryshhk had had no prescient sight (although he still experienced them with ever-increasing frequency).  No, this was merely the knowledge of one whom had lived a long and eventful life.

And that was the worst of it: in all of his time as Kage, his many successes punctuated by the breakneck progress of his beloved Order had led to...this.

The crowd forgotten, Ryshhk gave a small shake of his head, the irony threatening to overwhelm him: in his desire to save the Vhal'Dan, he might have instead set in motion its imminent destruction. 

Slowly squaring his shoulders, the venerable Wookie determined that he would do everything in his power to help Q'eieha lead the Order where it needed to go: not from one extreme to the other but rather towards moderation, an amalgamation of the two ideologies, one that possessed the best of both worlds, a true Vhal'Dan Union that would be secure, safe from the horrors that the galaxy had in abundance as well as protecting others from those same horrors.

His mood turned sardonic.  ...The best of both worlds... He mused.  What Anson and Kazic should have done all those decades ago.  What he should've done... Would that he had had the intestinal fortitude in his youth that he possessed now. 

Wistful, he guffawed quietly, chuckling an ironic laugh in remembrance of an axiom that Kazic had told him once, an old adage from the Anzat's own master and later Kage, Stryka Annix: "Youth is wasted upon the young."  Truer words had never been spoken.

But it helped to remind him of his duty, as well as a promise that he'd made almost three centuries ago to his Uncle Yshhrk when he'd reached the Second Age of Ascension.  Even now he could feel the weight of  his Uncle's massive paw, so strong yet gentle as Yshhrk had placed the Sapling of his Lineage Tree in Ryshhk's palms.  [Swear to always do right, no matter the hardship.  So long as you draw breath, promise to work towards what you know to be true.  And finally to always help those whom need assistance for a bundle of sticks can be stronger than a single branch.  Do this and you shall always find Shade under the Trees, Water within the Garden, and Peace from the Maker.]

His Uncle had been as wise as he was powerful.  Ryshhk knew what he must do, even if it meant enduring the cloying patience--almost condescension to be honest--of this new generation.  Eyes upon the new Kage, the venerable Wookie once again assumed his mantle of responsibility, this time for an individual instead of an entire Order.

Well...Q'eieha had been a good Arbiter and Ryshhk held out hope that she would be a good Kage.  With his help, he prayed that it would be so.  ...Maker send me an angel... He pleaded.  And though Ryshhk didn't know it, he would soon have his prayers answered, not in the form of one angel, but many.

He would later damn himself a fool for not specifying--good or evil--what kind of angel should be sent.

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Special thanks to For Tyeth for his awesome rendering of Kazic and Eriobe!
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(https://i.ibb.co/yFymdwj/Kazic-Eriobe-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/yFymdwj)

Chapter 1: Patronage & Portents, part II

Amidst the greens and browns of a myriad leaves, branches, and foliage, an organic set of apartments had been incorporated seamlessly with the surrounding environment in a genuine symbiosis between the forest and the patrons whose appreciation prompted their collective stay.

Or at least that was one reason for those who visited...

Within the airy comfort of the open rooms, the pleasant arboreal scents of the surrounding dalloralla trees reminded the two occupants of times both past and present, their shared fondness of this place one of the many treasured memories eliciting their current nostalgia.

That and the incredible sight of the sun setting through the thick forest leaves, the interplay of light and shadow momentarily forgotten by the two as they engaged in more...intimate diversions.  Green hued fingers scratched down a muscular back, the resultant welts rising on the pale gray skin, only to quickly disappear courtesy of enhanced hereditary healing.  Far from wounding, the now-healed scratches served to further incite.  Together, their unity transcended the physical, their emotional bond also amplified by their connection together in the Force.  So intent upon one another that it was well after the sun had completely set and the large moon filled the sky that they noticed anything besides one another.  Or perhaps, more specifically, they noticed more about one another.

Staring intently at each other's eyes--Kazic's red and Eriobe's green--they luxuriated in the time that they had together, their choice of a vacation upon Belkadan more than a mere whim.

They had been together for more than 20 years, each subsequent year deepening their relationship.  To celebrate, Kazic had surprised his Mirialan wife by bringing her back to the very same planet that they'd originally met, when they had worked together for months before admitting what they both knew to be true: it was here on Belkadan, among the enormous dalloralla trees, where Kazic had proclaimed his love for Eriobe and she for him, the beginnings of a profound, intimate marriage.

One in which had only grown stronger, the two of them ever closer.  In all their time together they had been one another's constant companion, virtually inseparable as they travelled the galaxy, both of them sharing a love of history, archaeology, and a powerful connection in the Force.

It was something that only Forceusers could truly feel and appreciate, where one's feelings (if they so allowed) could be laid bare for their partner to see.  For Kazic, it was as natural to him as breathing; for Eriobe...less so.  But that was more a consequence of her previous relationships rather than anything to do with the Anzat.  In fact, with him she had been more open than any other.  Eriobe appreciated Kazic's patient understanding; he respected her privacy.

As for himself, Kazic had allowed her to see himself absent his usual defenses.  So it was that Eriobe knew of the Anzat's past wives, yet never once did she feel the ghost of any of them within their marriage, testament to her husband's fidelity and love. 

Especially on this night, their anniversary.

Slowly, Kazic's strong fingers massaged the tender green skin of Eriobe's foot, both Anzat and Mirilian comfortably naked in the warm night, the moonlight bathing them in a soft, ethereal light.  Caressing her skin with his hands as well as his eyes, Kazic's gaze appreciatively took in the sight of his wife's languishing form, her long legs, slender arms, and small neck accentuating the femininity of her beauty.  Turning her head towards him, her lidded dark green eyes heavy from her exertions, Eriobe's shoulder-length dark hair obscured the facial tattoos that he found so enticing. 

He smiled, continuing to rub her foot, toes, and calf, contentment embracing him.  Once again, he thought of how lucky he was, that throughout the trials in his long life, he would find another companion who loved him as he did her.  His smile faltered, his hands pausing in their work, the darkness of his past creeping into the forefront of his mind. 

Maker knew that he was unworthy...

As his thoughts often did, they turned within himself, inward and downward.  Although he'd come to accept Saani's demise, even after all this time, the loss of his brother Anson and his home, Galtea, still weighed heavily upon his shoulders.  He'd known it then, was ever more certain of it now: he had been a bad Kage and a worse brother.  Kazic had already admonished himself concerning his actions against Anson, knowing what he should have done, but he'd rarely thought on the ramifications of his time as the Vhal'Dan's Kage.  He had never wanted the Office, never expected it...but once elected, he'd tried to do everything that he could to save those that counted on him, trusted him, needed him.  And that he could not forsake; to divest himself of his responsibilities was anathema to him...

Yet his pride had cost him everything: his home, his people, his family...Saani, Tsar, Corvus, Kasah, Anson.

...Ari.

It was still yet an open wound, the look of her disappointment...of betrayal stabbing through his heart like a lightsaber as her eyes and voice condemned him.  The worst of it was: she had been right, if for different reasons.

Which of course did nothing to alleviate the hurt.

...Stop this... A suspiciously familiar-sounding voice castigated him from the depths of his mind.  Involuntarily, a small smile of remembrance spread upon Kazic's gray lips, the dark clouds parting.  ...The Maker loves us one and all, forgives us our trespasses... The serene voice came from a tranquil face, the eyes belonging to a man much, much older despite his comparatively youthful visage. 

Kazic's eyes closed, the memory of yesteryear as clear as if it were yesterday, the owner of the voice possessing an aura of tranquility, a consonance between thought and action.  A man of infinite calm, even in the face of Kazic's dissident rage.  ...Soryu, I don't believe in the Maker anymore... The anguish raw from a confession that had until that very moment had remained unspoken. 

Even then, the human's face had not changed, his sharp eyes squinting in amusement with his reply.  ...Perhaps not, Kazic...but He believes in you...

So stunned by the conviction in the human's voice was Kazic that he had forgotten all of his rebuttals, the argument on his lips suddenly gone...like tears in the rain. 

But his friend had always remained constant.  The Anzat had thought him simple and naive at the time...but he'd been wrong.  So, so very wrong.

Even after all this time, the bittersweet emotions of happiness and loss warred across Kazic's face in the moonlight, his eyes glowing like the night-creature of myth.  Typically it was enough for a single glance to elicit fear in those that looked upon his face when he was like this.

But not for one who did not fear him.

"...What ails you so, Love?" Eriobe's lethargic voice broke through his rumination, surprising him, her soft tone concerned.

"My mistakes...my many mistakes, Love..." He answered, still pensive.

"I hope that doesn't include me." She said playfully.  Shifting in the bed, she sat up beside Kazic, laying a head upon his shoulder, her hands touching first his legs, then his back, and finally his neck.  But it was her caress in the Force that comforted him the most.

"Never, Love." Kazic replied immediately, meaning it.  Staring deeply into Eriobe's eyes, their heads drew together, both kissing one another passionately, their hands running over the other's body, all thoughts of the past once again forgotten in the passion of the moment.  When she grabbed his hand in hers, green fingers interlaced with light gray, the strong grip mirroring the intensity of their lovemaking.  Biting her full lip, Eriobe shuddered as she grabbed Kazic closer to her, both bodily as well as in the Force.

This time when they finally took notice of their surroundings, Belkadan's moon was approaching its zenith in the starry sky.  Both Kazic and Eriobe lay comfortably tangled amidst one another, each satisfyingly spent.

"Happy Anniversary, Love." Eriobe's sleepy smile turned the corners of her green lips while her breathing returned to normal.  Curling her toes as she stretched, she settled into her place atop the bed and comfortably within Kazic's arms.

"Happy Anniversa--" His sudden intake of breath between clenched teeth alarmed Eriobe, her lethargy almost immediately forgotten.

From her back, she stared intently at her husband.  "What is it, Love?" She asked with unfeigned concern.

After a few seconds, Kazic's blank stare broke, his red eyes looking into Eriobe's, his voice terse but otherwise calm.  "Sorry, Love." He ran a sobering hand across his face.  "It's the daen nosi.  They're back."

Concern and confusion gave way to patience and anticipation as Eriobe rose to one elbow.  "Oh, Love..." She calmly stroked Kazic's crown, the long, black hair of his topknot freed of his leather statim.  "Are you alright?"

Nodding, he looked down at his wife's face.  "Yes."  The daen nosi, or "Lines of Fate" as the Anzat understood them, was similar to Force Prescience, only often times much, much more cryptic.

But not this time.

"I'm fine.  But we must hurry to Kewda." All traces of sleep were gone from Kazic, his tone brooking no argument.  Not that Eriobe had any intention of doing so; she was closely acquainted with her husband's ability to see and interpret the daen nosi.  That and the consequences of ignoring them.

"What's going to happen?" She asked, controlled anxiety never once mirrored in her voice.

Kazic didn't immediately answer; instead, his eyes stared off seemingly into the distance for a moment.  But when he focused them once again upon her, Eriobe noticed a tightness in her husband's face that had not been there before.  "I don't know exactly, only that I must return to Kewda..."

His eyes stared straight into hers, intense and disturbed.  "...And that if I do not then something truly terrible will happen."

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(https://i.ibb.co/dBjbPxX/Q-eieha-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/dBjbPxX)

Chapter 1: Patronage & Portents, part III

Ryshhk entered the atrium of his apartments, the door barely having irised open large enough to admit his enormous frame, the shoulder of his burgundy robes catching a bit on the metal.  With a conspicuous rip, his tunics tore as he continued forward, not once glancing at the new hole, his long legs taking him into the solarium where his Lineage Tree grew, the thick branches now incorporated into the floor, walls, and ceiling.  It was a beautiful union juxtaposing the organics of the Tree with the fabricated structure of the surrounding rooms, truly a marvel of Wookie engineering and an awesome sight to behold.

One that Ryshhk completely ignored it, his attention solely on his desperate attempts to calm himself...and failing completely.  Opening his jaws wide, his deep-thoated roar reverberated throughout the apartments, literally shaking entire rooms.  After what felt like hours he quieted, his massive shoulders rising and falling as each heated breath was expelled from his lungs.  Closing his eyes, he fought to find his center, to assume the tranquility that he usually wore perpetually and was as much himself as his own fur.

At least that's what he tried to do.

Ryshhk had learned long ago to divest himself of the worst of his anger; it clouded judgment in the best of times and consumed all rational thought, leading to deadly mistakes in the worst.  However, even his patience had limits.

He glanced down, noticing for the first time the tear in his shoulder.  With renewed fury, he grabbed at the sleeve of his robe and, with one swift motion, ripped the entire sleeve free.  He was about to ball up and throw the tattered cloth when his logical mind caught up to his emotions.  Gold eyes blinking, his arms dropped to his sides, the torn sleeve falling from his huge numb paw.

...Maker grant me serenity... He prayed, his fingers tenderly stroking one of the branches of his Lineage Tree.  Between the two, Ryshhk finally seemed to divest himself of his rage.  Contrite, he strode through his apartments towards his Meditation Vestibule.  Once there, he removed his robe, outer-, and inner-tunics, folding them and laying them out on one of the tables on the side of the room.

Slowly he walked towards the center of the Vestibule where, in the center of the floor, several branches had worked their way through the flooring and walls, twisting inwards and creating a circle large enough for him to sit in.  Taking to his knees, his massive chest slowly inhaling and exhaling, Ryshhk cleared his mind, embracing the Force as he did so.

Finally peace found him, his conscious mind operating on multiple levels, viewing Past, Present, and Future.  Shifting his focus, he sought to concentrate mainly upon his Past, namely the most recent events transpiring within the Kage's Office just before Ryshhk's outburst.

He'd been in his old offices, the new Kage sitting behind the desk that he'd (until now) called his own for more than two centuries.  Gathered within the room was the rest of the Congressional members: the Arbiter and six of the seven Speakers (the position of 7th Speaker now open for election).  There they had spoken concerning the mundanities of the Order's logistical needs, from foodstuffs to imports to research expeditions.  Finally, after the tedium had been addressed, Ryshhk was able to get a word in edgewise.

[Excuse me, Kage.  I have a matter of some importance to discuss, one that concerns the entirety of the Vhal'Dan.  If I could trouble you for but a moment or two of your time, I feel that these concerns could be addressed forthwith.] His direct tone was concise but patient and while he had eyes only for the Kage, he kept his other senses--especially his nose--alert and attuned to the other Jedi as well as his surroundings.

Q'eieha's gaze did not once waver but Ryshhk noticed that the new Arbiter Jaa Daivyk shared a quick glance with his Kage, the Speakers uncomfortably silent.  That was what he had seen; what he had smelled...well, that was the most telling of all.

Beneath the collective malaise of discomfort was the sharp, burning almost metallic smell that he'd noticed within the Hall of Balance, almost caustic to his nose.  One and all, each Jedi--from the Speakers to the Arbiter and even the Kage--smelled...patronizing.

The newly installed Arbiter stepped towards Ryshhk.  As a human-Epicanthix hybrid, Jaa was taller than most, but compared the the Wookie he was absolutely dwarfed, at least in stature if not exactly presence.  "Master K’rrmerii...while our Kage appreciates your ideas, I think that you'll find that she wishes to pursue her own itinerary."  He put a hand upon Ryshhk's shoulder with the intent of leading him from the room, as if he were some whelpling who had yet to achieve the First Age of Ascension.  Jaa stalled in his step, Ryshhk immovable; the Arbiter might have tried to move the Lap'Idus Mountains for all of the effect that he had on the former Kage.

[Remove your hand, Arbiter.  Now.] Ryshhk had not so much as glanced down at the hybrid, his golden eyes locked upon Q'eieha.  [Kage, does he speak for you?]  Jaa slowly withdrew completely forgotten, at least by the Wookie.

Q'eieha's lips had pursed in consideration.  "You wish to do this now?  Very well." Her voice had been contemplative, quiet.  "Master K’rrmerii, you represent the last of a dying breed, a Vhal'Dan that should be extinct but for you.  Just as the Republic enters into a Golden Age, so too have we of the Order.  You are the past; we are the future."  The tall, pale white woman then stood, an imperious look transforming her face.  "We need not relics like you; after all, it was your kind that endangered the Vhal'Dan during the Civil War, a calamity brought on by the Usurper Anson D'Aklon and the failed Kage Kazic Ovarug." She had taken a step towards the gathered Speakers and Arbiter, self-importance radiating from them all.  "I concede that it was you that helped save our Order...but that was a time of war and constant struggle.  We are in times of peace...and have been for decades!"

Ryshhk had stood, arms crossed over his broad chest, incredulous at what he'd heard.  It was even worse than he'd supposed...

Carefully approaching him, Q'eieha had then placed a delicate white hand upon his furry, bulky forearm.  When her milky eyes stared up demurely from beneath a white brow, her soft voice sounded consoling.  "Ryshhk, we...I appreciate your sacrifices.  Please...you have earned your respite.  Take this time and allow yourself the retirement that you deserve."

He hadn't believed his ears, much less the rank smell of condescension that had almost choked him.  He'd thought ...so that's how it was: I am to be treated as a half-wit whose claws have fallen out, no longer able to climb the Wroshyr trees and forced to be carried on the palanquins reserved for the ancient...and the deficient...

He'd never felt so dishonored in his life.

Without any further words, he'd turned saying and expressing nothing, his anger a growing torment fighting to be unleashed, a raging river leading from the Past to deliver him to Now.

Another deep breath followed by a slow exhale helped Ryshhk regain his calm, his sense of Self passing from beyond Now to idle inbetween minutes, not quite the Present nor precisely the Future.  It was here (if such a term could be used in this context) that Ryshhk waded, his conscious mind shunted behind so as to focus more intently upon the Oneness that he so desperately wished to achieve.  With all of his being, he opened himself fully, his anger a thing only remembered.

Time held no meaning, an esoteric concept to be left behind while the flows of the Force took that which was Ryshhk where It may, Visions past, present, and future simultaneously inundating him.

He saw fighting--always fighting!--against the Sith of the Brotherhood, Black Rikard, Sarll Båz Rhadde, and Sulen Reu Lai leading the vanguard...only for his focus to shift; he saw fighting--always fighting!--against Anson's Cataphracts against Kazic's Black-armored Wraiths in familiar environs...Hephaestus Base(?), he thought...only for his focus to shift;  he saw fighting--always fighting!--against white armored Legions, an imposing, terrifying creature clad in black biomechanical armor killing Vhal'Dan by the dozens...

...Too much, too far, too painful... He thought, "pulling" himself back, almost to the Now, wher--

With a violent convulsion, Ryshhk found himself suddenly back within his body, momentarily stunned as his conscious mind attempted to assimilate the Vision his Force Precognition had pulled from the flow of Time.  ...How...in the...? But he knew that he would not find the answers to these questions here or now...

But he did know where and when he had to go.

Exploding in motion, Ryshhk grabbed his belt and attached saberstaff in one hand and his burgundy undertunics in the other, knocking his robe to the floor as he barely cleared the door.  Not even bothering to finish dressing, he ran from his apartments, heading towards a Future in which he must act...

...Or risk catastrophe of monumental proportions.

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(https://i.ibb.co/Tm1rQbS/d394wj2-a2a7e610-2fa2-4f0f-8355-3059dde21a51.jpg) (https://ibb.co/Tm1rQbS)

Chapter 1: Patronage & Portents, part IV

Casually, she move amongst the Vhal'Dan, no one the wiser of the danger that she represented, much less her objective.  Passing a group of Civil Defense troopers, their white and red riot armor fairly light, lacking a full complement of weaponry, the woman smiled disarmingly.  They nodded, one fool even raising a hand in salutation!

...the Magister was right: they are all deserving of our contempt...death seems almost too good for them... She thought, fighting to keep the sneer from her lips.  ...I should kill them all...

But she knew that she would not; she was Votarious, the duty to her Magister was her life.

Still, she anticipated that she would be able to let loose on at least some of these pfassks, perhaps she might even find one that might dispel the boredom of such a simple task for her mission.  Regardless, she held no doubts of her assured success.

After all, these pretender Vhal'Dan were nothing more than stodgy academics and weak politicians.

Within the enormous dome of the Directorate of Force Artifact Research--even their department names sounded lame and feeble!--the woman entered through a series of mechanical doors, leading to a small, almost innocuous hall, dead-ending in a surveillance box, manned by one distracted short-haired koawan and flanked by a pair of troopers.  Affixing a bored expression upon her face, the woman ambled up to the desk, the koawan's attention clearly on the Holofeed instead of the security cameras.

"Hello.  Transfer of item Usk-fiver, three, three, Forn-Nern, six, niner, eight from Repository to Research&Development.  Order of the new Kage." She handed the koawan a flimsi, her bona fides appearing alongside a holoprojection of her face.  Stifling a yawn, she smoothed her dark robes.

Scanning the flimsi, the koawan glanced at the monitor, her attention still mostly on the Holofeed as she gave the enumerated information the barest of scrutiny.  "Understood."  After a double-take, the koawan's brow furled.  "Oh, wait; this item is flagged.  You'll have to go in escorted.  It'll be a moment."  With that, she went back to the Holofeed.

Looking suitably disinterested, the woman passed the time rehearsing the various working offensives against multiple opponents--in this case, four--while simultaneously planning multiple points of egress, arriving at no less than three optimal solutions.  One of them even allowed her to cause maximum damage despite maintaining a level of acceptable concealment against the inevitable Civil Defense search nets.

After only a few minutes, the far wall opened, revealing a thick, heavy blastdoor.  A handsome koawan stepped out, wearing the white-and-red armor of the Civil Defense, except that he carried a lightsaber in addition to the twin blasters strapped to his hips.  Without preamble he calmly addressed the woman.  "This way, please."  Leading onward, he kept constant vigil of his surroundings, including--no, especially--the woman.

...Interesting... Perhaps she would face someone worthy of her prowess.  This was a man who had full situational awareness.  If only he wasn't one of the False Order's Jedi, she thought he could become a valuable addition for the true Vhal'Dan...

Pity.

Taking them between several towering, high-tech racked trestles housing all manner of containers, the koawan finally stopped along one of the long isles, indistinguishable from the others.  Suddenly three other koawans appeared as if out of nowhere, flanking the woman.  While her face remained expressionless, she felt her adrenal responses begin to efficiently pump hormones throughout her body.  The woman Sensed no danger from the four koawans; she surmised that this simply must be a directive that she had been unaware of.  Mentally she smiled, anticipation mixing with prospective gratification.  Intrigued, she wondered what would come next.

Taking his own flimsi from one of the several pockets in his armor, he slid it into the comparment's dataport, nodding his head.  Somewhat disappointed, the woman did likewise in a tangent dataport, a soft click sounding as one set of locks disengaged.  Part of the container opened, the edges only now appearing as a small, opaque receptacle silently slid forward.  She was about to move to open the lid when the koawan spoke.

"Ommin.  Amanoa." He said, tone crisp and expectant.

The woman's mind swam with possibilities.  Obviously it was some kind of Challenge Code.  She Sensed the three koawans at her back and flanks tense...but not the one in front of her.  Instead his eyes narrowed slightly, hand hovering towards the lightsaber at his waist.

"Ommin.  Amanoa." He repeated, more forcefully.

A wide innocent smile spread across the woman's face, her hands folded in front of her.  "Oh, frell it."

Faster than the eye could see, two red lightsabers snapped to life, each blade impaling the koawans flanking her.  In the same motion, the woman kicked out behind her, the heel of her boot taking the koawan right below the ceramic armored plate, stunning more than damaging.  Swinging her lightsabers up in a deadly arc, she bisected the two impaled koawans, stabbing one lightsaber behind, one in front.  The koawan behind her was caught off guard as the point of her blade went between his eyes, his face melting around the red plasma as it pierced through his skull. 

However, a yellow blade intercepted her strike from the koawan in front of her, further impressing the woman.  Knowing that each second that she lost would bring her closer to defeat, she leapt into a full offensive, intent on overwhelming the koawan.  As she thought, he was good, very good indeed.

He lasted 18 seconds longer than she had given him credit for.

Closing down one of her lightsabers, she went over to the extended receptacle.  Taking a small disc from her belt, she placed it on the side of the container, knowing that using her lightsaber was a fool's errand; it was a ceramic/cortosis alloy specifically manufactured to defeat a lightsaber's cut, preventing intrusion.  Pressing the disc, she quickly withdrew her hand, silently counting to three.

A small report, an arc of white-blue electricity, and a hiss of smoke was the only evidence that something had occurred.  Hurriedly, she flipped open the now unlocked lid and, reaching a hand into the container, withdrew a black orb.  With her other hand, she grabbed the koawan guard's flimsi.  Careful not to accidentally activate the device, she was about to place it into a stasis box when she Sensed more than heard an alarm.  Checking her mental chronometer, she felt irritated: the Civil Defense fools were quicker than she'd anticipated.

No matter.

Using an enhanced technique which incorporated Buried Presence, Force Speed, and DarkSight, the woman was able to swiftly navigate through the complex, avoiding large groups of troopers while scything through individual or paired defenders.  Before she knew it, she was at the blast door exit leading to the small surveillance room that she'd entered through.  Amused, she considered how to play the next few minutes.  Finally deciding on the most violent choice, she readied herself and slid the flimsi over the datanode, opening the blastdoor.

Like a phantom, she burst forth into the room just behind a potent Force Push that bowled everyone over.  She immediately cut down one of the Civil Defense guards, meeting only a token resistance from the other trooper and the distracted koawan.  With contemptible ease, she disarmed the trooper, stabbing her through the heart while overpowering the koawan, her blue lightsaber doing little to keep the woman's red blade from dispatching her.

Almost scornfully, the woman battered down the koawan's defenses, her Soresu sorely lacking against the woman's Djem So.  There was really no doubt, at least in the woman's mind, of the outcome.

Ignoring the still-warm bodies littering the hallway, the woman made her way through the halls, taking advantage of the chaos.  Ahead, she saw bright sunlight bathing the large, windowed lobby of the building, people hurrying towards the exit.  Smiling triumphantly, she pivoted, heading towards the entry foyer.

Senses alert, she abruptly stopped, her eyes widening in amazement.  ...How...? She wondered, feeling the tendrils of fear for the first time.  Striding towards her with an open undertunic, the teal twin blades of his saberstaff igniting, was the largest Wookie that she'd ever seen.  ...Ryshhk K’rrmerii ... She thought, naming him.

Full blown terror erupted in her stomach; she knew that she was now in trouble.  But worse than the fear that she felt for Ryshhk was the loyalty that she felt for her Magister.  Gritting her teeth, she brought both of her red lightsabers to bear.  She would honor her Magister, that or die trying.

Knowing the best defense was a strong offense, she attacked.

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/VNKtDWY/Ryshhk4.jpg) (https://ibb.co/VNKtDWY)

Chapter 1: Patronage & Portents, part V

Seeing the woman from his Vision, Ryshhk made certain that everyone was safe before advancing upon her, igniting his saberstaff only after he knew that no one else was in danger.  And none too soon; the woman in black took a flash-step towards him, savagely attacking with twin red blades.  He received a surprise of his own: this woman's saberstrikes were hitting much harder than expected of a human, even with the Force factored in.

Consciously, he mentally released the governors upon his real strength.  Ryshhk was always careful not to hurt those around him; Wookie physiology was amongst the most sturdy in the galaxy.  He'd always worried that he could do substantial harm to those around him, making him mindful of limiting his power.

But not now.

Roaring, he turned the red blades away from him, his saberstaff working with scalpel-like efficiency.  Incredibly, the woman followed up her riposte with another offensive, redoubling her efforts.  Spinning his teal saberstaff, Ryshhk's tight orbits created an impenetrable wall of plasma around him.  Try as she might, not one of the woman's attacks got through, though that did nothing to keep her from trying.

With experience born from centuries of combat, Ryshhk was able to deflect all strikes towards him, adjusting his own saberwork when he thought that he'd noticed something amiss.  The woman seemed intent upon protecting something hidden on her belt obscured by her robe.  Pushing his arms to leverage his much greater strength and weight, the woman sank to one knee has she ineffectually fought to keep her own red blades from her neck.  Twisting to the side, her movements inadvertently exposed a small, almost innocuous box fastened to her utility belt.

With lightning fast reflexes--surprising for one so large--Ryshhk's paw clamped down upon the box, claws digging in deep to secure it in his grip while he quickly pulled.  As the box tore free, half of the woman's belt fell to the floor, the other half attached by the leather hitches of her trousers.  Ryshhk then took advantage of her momentary shock, twisting his saberstaff in an unexpected downward cut that took the woman's arm off above the elbow, his upward riposte taking her other hand from just below the wrist, both red lightsabers extinguishing as they fell from now useless limbs.  A powerful, crushing knee strike to the woman's solar plexus finished her off, any fight left within her disappearing as quickly as the breath forced from her lungs.

Stunned, the woman hit the floor hard, the black, shiny surface reflecting the graceful organic stanchions above as well as her dazed eyes.  Lungs rattling, Ryshhk knew that at least one of the woman's lungs had collapsed, possibly both of them.  Closing down his saberstaff, he approached her, laying his large paws upon her.  As he had countless time in the past, he directed potent flows of Force Healing into the woman's broken body, his abilities amongst the strongest the Vhal'Dan had ever produced.

"...Wha...what are...are you doing...?" The woman wheezed, speaking between ragged breaths.  She suddenly coughed, spitting up blood even as her breathing seemed to normalize, at least somewhat.

[Healing you.  Then: turning you over to Civil Defense.  They will ascertain the meaning of this attack.] He said distractedly.  To Ryshhk's senses, there was just so much damage...

"...I...I guess...the rumors are...are true." Of all things, she smiled.  "...You...you are...all...all so...weak..." Again she spat.  With a loud crunch, the woman bit down hard on her back molar.  "'Fides non moriatur.'" She whispered.

Whether by the blessings of the Maker, the will of the Force, or pure luck, Ryshhk sprang as far away from the woman as he could, instinctively projecting a powerful Force Shield around him.  A split second later, a miniature baradium explosive device implanted in the woman's jaw detonated, the concussive explosion pulverizing the entire lobby of the building, immolating most of the windowed facade and the surrounding Grounds.

When the First Responders arrived on scene, the entire entrance structure of the Directorate of Force Artifact Research had fallen in upon itself, countless fires had ignited, and the explosion had wounded dozens yet, thankfully, there were no deaths.

However Ryshhk K’rrmerii, Kage Emeritus, was found insensate and unresponsive, suffering from a deep, unwakable coma.

Starting things with a Bang!.  Wow.

I really feel for Ryshhk, he worked so damn hard to rebuild the Vhal'Dan yet sill he is painfully aware he didn't do enough and the society moved with a momentum of its won to a more scholarly vision of Jedi life than he probably could've stopped.  Is he too harsh on himself, well the answer is Yes and No which makes his situation so real, he knows more should've have been done but can't be certain he could've, yet regrets it all the same...
One can't blame the Vhal'dan turning from their more martial arts (arguably most of the masters with that disposition were killed or on Ansons side anyway) but they have forgotten the terrors that lurk in the galaxy, Ryshhk never forgot.

Now his reward for his efforts is just insulting, he is the embarrassing anachronistic old uncle to the new leadership, a relic to be offered passing applause but whose ideas are no longer needed...yet ironically he seems in his visions to still see more clearly than they do.

The direct parallel here with Kazic is great - the failed Kage, guilty of so much is finding comfort and solace in the memory of Soryu and arms of Eriobe, while Ryshhk who picked dup the pieces is left in a coma after countering an unknown assailant, whose abilities are impressive as the Vhal'Dan's seem to be lax. 

The Shadow of Schisms is already clouding over this tale, but how could it not, the defining moments of the Vhal'Dan are what make them what they are and become.

Also some great little reflections for both wookie and Anzat, the call out to Yshrrk and Soryu, men of another age that these two equally seasoned characters still look to for guidance long after they've passed was very poignant.

Now what does the new Kage do with the old so suddenly and violently downed, and a device the object of a very concerted theft attempt 'collapsing in on itself' which initself is sinister...either way I doubt Kazic will get a warm welcome...

(https://i.ibb.co/KhsYnrb/Saani-Familicide.png) (https://ibb.co/KhsYnrb)

Chapter 2: The Only Refuge From Purgatory Is Hell, part I

...Not again...! She thought, the last of the charcoal-white engulfing her completely losing all hint of its hue, darkness blacker than black inundating her, until she felt--no, knew--that she was no longer alone.  Her anger, frustration, and panic all fought for dominance within her emotions as her perpetual nightmare cycled through its beginning.  Always she hoped that she would be freed from the curse of her fright; always she lamented the failure as the same dream--NOT a dream!--formed from the depths of her subconscious mind, leading to...this.

Furiously, she fought her ghostly opponent, his daemonic red eyes devoid of sentience, the hungry gaze of the Gaki, an Anzati vampire-daemon of myth, horrifying to behold, a primal lust transforming his entire face into a terror that would reduce most beings into sobbing, incoherent wrecks, the visceral fear of their own dread overwhelming their "fight or flight" responses.

But not her.

She was made of sterner stuff than that.  Confident in her superior abilities--she was amongst the galaxy's foremost blademasters!--to overcome her attacker, she fought on despite a nagging doubt buried deep in the back of her mind.  ...For good reason; I lost...! Came a small voice, one that she dismissed like the whine of a mosquito, slapping it away almost absently.

With her dual lightsabers she pressed her advantage, her blades casting violet and golden shadows as they battered against the deceptively bright blue lightsaber, each blade a flurry of motion.  She should've easily won... Instead, she knew that she was fighting as hard as she could but to no avail, the cost of failure more than just her life.

To fail was to lose everything that she loved in this life, namely her son.

...No...that's not right...I...I had--have--already given him over...for his own protection... Again that incessant whisper bothered her, a little stronger than before.

But not strong enough to break the shackles of her nightmare.

Suddenly, the Gaki did...something, a potent Force attack--a Force Thorn the voice whispered--that tore her mental defenses to shreds, not only halting her attack but effectively taking her completely out of the fight.  Her lightsabers dropped from numb hands, forgotten as she grasped her head in the vain attempt to somehow assuage the agony of the attack.  All logical thought gone, she instinctively grabbed at the Force, creating...something, a potent Force attack--Kinetite the voice whispered, this time louder--and then released it, not thinking about the consequences.

As a result of the Force Thorn tearing through her mind, the oppressive Telepathic Suppression of her opponent, and the proximity of the two of them, the Kinetite detonated mere centimeters from her instead of the several meters that she'd intended.  She felt as if she were suddenly riding a wave of durasteel, the unforgiving surface upon which she had broken several of her bones, rupturing a few organs as well.  With a sickening crunch, she heard/felt/sensed her spine shatter as she collided with one of the railings, only finally coming to a rest in a jumbled heap of rent flesh, snapped bones, and clouded agony.

Her world was now only those things: nausea, terror, and pain.  And when she thought that it couldn't get any worse...

The face of the Gaki came into view, his horrible visage mere centimeters from her face.  A wet, viscous sound assaulted her hearing as she tried to suppress the revulsion and fear that she felt upon seeing the twin proboscis swim into her line of sight, each one exploring, searching out that which it lived for: the Soup.  Slowly, the slippery appendages found purchase upon her cheeks, slithering into each of her nostrils.  Rough hands grabbed at her lekku and neck, the Gaki's face consuming her entire view.

...No...wait...that is not...that's not right...NO...! The whisper finally turned to a roar as her nightmare reached its middle, the visceral terror spiking as she felt the bone of her skull behind her eyes fracture, the greedy proboscis sinking into the cracks to burrow into the brain matter underneath.  Feeling herself falling away, knowing with absolutely certainty--and paradoxically disbelieving with equal conviction--that she was finished, breathing her last/living a fate worse than death, a waking death lasting an eternity...falling...falling...

She found herself surrounded by the familiar: an alien, completely white backdrop of nothingness that she knew nothing about, feeling the intimate assurance of having been here time and time and time and time again, knowing the dichotomy of her reality to be some kind of construct, one in which she lived an ersatz life of bland fear and an apathetic passion for an impotent attempt to escape.

...He did this to you...HIM...! The voice said, losing all of its soft hesitancy.  She knew that what came next would do so in a roaring shout.

She ran without moving her legs, swam without stroking her arms, planned without using her mind.  Always was it the same: the endless alien whiteness of panicked nothing.

Well, that and the events with the Gaki leading up to...here, to now.

As she always did, she would continue to search for a way out, some egress that would allow her to escape this hell.  But she knew that that was impossible, the creeping certitude finally inundating her as panic finally won over, enveloping her entire being.

...He did this to you...HIM...!

The only thing louder than the voice inside her head was the banshee's wail that ripped forth from her mouth, her lungs emptied of all air, her throat horse and raw from the scream--her scream--that echoed around her...only to slowly, incrementally lose its volume.  Simultaneously, the white of her surroundings finally did change: the white began to dim, eventually turning to gray, which in turn became charcoal.

...Not again...! She thought, the charcoal-white engulfing her completely losing all hint of its hue, darkness blacker than black inundating her, until she felt--no, knew--that she was no longer alone.  Her anger, frustration, and panic all fought for dominance within her emotions as her perpetual nightmare cycled through its beginning.  Always she hoped that she would be freed from the curse of her fright; always she lamented the failure as the same dream--NOT a dream!--formed from the depths of her subconscious mind, leading to...this.

Furiously, she fought her ghostly opponent, his daemonic red eyes devoid of sentience, the hungry gaze of the Gaki, an Anzati vampire-daemon of myth, horrifying to behold, a primal lust transforming his entire face into a terror that would reduce most beings into sobbing, incoherent wrecks, the visceral fear of their own dread overwhelming their "fight or flight" responses.

But not her.

She was made of sterner stuff tha--

...Mother...

This was new and anything new was better.

...Mother...

Like an itch that couldn't be reached, she searched around her in vain.  ...Who is that...?! She asked, knowing that no answer would be forthcoming.  She was wrong.

...Mother...It's me...

Panicked shock and, dare she say (?!), hope bloomed from within her.  "...please help me..." If she was surprised before, she found herself completely dumbfounded now: why was her voice so...quiet?  So...low?  So...weak?  It was as if she hadn't spoken in a long time...

...Mother...You must wake...you must open your eyes...

The dream that was not a dream, she remembered.  Or tried to; half of her refused to listen to the voice, the half that now took control of her voice.  "...can't...not...real..." But even that half must have recognized the veracity of what her subconscious knew to be true.

...Mother...You can, you WILL...now...WAKE UP...!

For the first time in over two hundred thirty years, Saani K'aval ti'Ovarug opened her eyes...and stared deep into the eyes of the angel that had rescued her, the deep purple color of his irises so familiar.  ...just like mine...

Pain beyond anything that she'd ever encountered ripped through her, threatening to drown her, to shred her entirely.  But even such agony could be endured...must be endured...all in order to finally arrive at her destination...

Quiet tears ran rivulets down her sallow blue cheeks as she cried--again for the first time in as long--while comprehending the realization that she was no longer enslaved, no longer insane, no longer doomed.  Gently, she felt as if she were floating upon pillows of the softest down, a relieved smile cracking her face in half.

She was free!

FREE!

     <<<<< >>>>>

Slowly the last vestiges of sleep--actual, biological sleep--released Saani from its grip, the remembered torment of her unending time imprisoned in the Mind Trap weeks ago still sending shivers down her misshapen spine.  As soon as she could, she grabbed at the glass of liquid next to her medcouch, her claw-like fingers stabbing at the stim-tabs and hormone supplements, finally clutching them in her hand.

Carefully, she placed the capsules in her mouth, slowly swallowing the liquid reagents together with the pills, the surgical injectors grafted under her skin taking care of the rest.  With agonizing slowness, the fire in her nerves finally doused, the unbearable burning of her body beginning to achieve a kind of equilibrium.

Or at least a kind of static numbness.

Saani smirked, the clouds in her head slowly yet surely dissipating, giving her access to most of her mental faculties, the agony still overshadowing much of her conscious thinking.

Who knew that rebirth would be so excruciating?

Still, considering where she'd been, she would take the pain, endure it until all of the galaxy's stars went nova or burned out... Anything compared to the constant hell of her time in the Mind Trap.

She only lamented the fact that her body was now a wreck, and that despite Lor-Riou's best efforts from his vast knowledge--both metaphysical and Force--Saani now found herself in constant pain, her body now twisted and feeble.  Once again, she merely needed to shift her frame of reference: this life full of pain OR the Mind Trap fabrication that had ensnared her...

Besides, the pain helped her to focus, gaving her a target, or rather it acted as a compass in which she could direct all of her hatred, all of her vengeance towards.  Even now as she thought of a name--his name!--Saani allowed herself to feel a kind of satisfaction in knowing that he would very soon know the kind of pain that he'd damned her to.

Pain that she would see visited unto him a thousandfold.

She thought of the Gaki during her time of imprisonment.  Instead of terrorizing her, she would turn the tables and take from him that which he held most dear.  Then, when he lay broken, body, mind, and spirit, she still would not kill him.  No...if her time in the Mind Trap had taught her nothing else, it was that an endless Purgatory was worse than an hour of Hell.

Well...his Hell would be never-ending.

Smiling a rictus grin through her agony, Saani thought of the one who had condemned her, his name a curse upon her blue lips, damning him for an eternity.

Kazic Ovarug.

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/Rch5rwT/Eriobe-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/Rch5rwT)(https://i.ibb.co/gmYVnxr/Kazic-6.jpg) (https://ibb.co/gmYVnxr)

Chapter 2: The Only Refuge From Purgatory Is Hell, part II

"How long will the coma last?" Kazic's tone betrayed none of the anger and sorrow that he felt seeing his friend battered and unconscious, his enormous chest rising and falling slowly.  The fact that the Wookie was in one of Kewd'Uldahv's premier hospitals did little to assuage the Anzat's worries, especially in light of precisely how Ryshhk happened to end up here.

Eriobe's soft fingers stroked his back, reassuring or at the very least attempting to comfort her husband.  Kazic appreciated her efforts, especially as she knew what a good friend Ryshhk was to him.

"Sorry, sir, I cannot say, although there is a 56.9% probability of the patient waking.  Observe the strong cortical function and synapse response." The medical droid's mechanical voice was programmed to be sympathetic and understanding.  To Kazic's ears, it was as disingenuous as the Arbiter that he'd spoken to when he'd first arrived.  Actually that wasn't precisely true; he knew that the medical droid was programmed to care for the patients in their charge.

The Arbiter hadn't given a damn as to whether or not the Wookie lived or died.

With Ryshhk's massive paw in his pale gray hands, Kazic said a silent prayer to the Maker, wishing his friend was awake.  Instead, he lay in one of the largest medcouches available in a clinical suite that was as advanced as any that had been found on Galtea.  To Kazic's relief, there were several dedicated medical droids per patient, giving each one the best chances for recovery.

Not for the first time, he wished that he could've called upon the aid of a Mak'Tor Singer.  In Kazic's estimation, there were no better healers in the galaxy.  Unfortunately, the relationship between the Vhal'Dan--Kazic's faction at least--and the Mak'Tor had become another casualty of the Civil War.  Not that the Mak'Tor Kage Li'I'Mack was to blame; even if she hadn't loved Anson, Kazic had done the Mak'Tor a disservice when he'd sequestered the Order following the events of the Lus'Phor Holocaust.  After a few years, a strained alliance had become a non-existent one.  

Kazic shook his head trying to dispel the memories of yet another one of his failures.  As much as he wished there was a Singer available, there was not...only the assorted medical droids doing a repetitive job.  At least they did them well.

Still, the entire affair felt...antiseptic and impersonal to the Anzat.  To wit: despite the entire floor having several patients, it was as quiet as the grave, the medical droids silent but for those instances when they interacted with people...which was infrequent at the best of times.  Once again, he was thankful for Eriobe's comforting presence but it did serve to underscore a larger issue...

Kazic smirked, the irony as delicious as it was infuriating.

Ever since he and Eriobe had made planetfall, they (well, more specifically he) had been treated with the barest of civility and attentiveness.  He hadn't been told about his friend's "accident" (that's what the Arbiter called it...Kazic's proboscis twitched at the thought of draining the pedantic prig dry, if not for his Oath), and wasn't given any detailed information concerning Ryshhk's whereabouts.   When he'd finally located him, not one person offered to help him.

Introspective, Kazic guessed that he shouldn't have been surprised; after all, the last time that he'd been on Kewda was almost 14 years ago.  In fact, he had missed his usual 5-10 year "update" when he would normally purge the Vhal'Dan database of precise details concerning the Civil War, especially where Ari and her People were concerned.  Normally, he never would have missed such as appointment.

It was just that...well, he was happy.

Truth to tell, after his self-induced isolation trying to help Saani, Eriobe had been a balm upon his broken soul.  Kazic had never expected to fall in love again after the loss of his K'anpa...but it had happened nevertheless.  He could not--would not--fault himself for savoring his time with his new wife, especially after almost 200 years of trying...no, of failing to help Saani.

However, the ramifications of his action had consequences, and those had now come due, and in a way that he had never considered.  The words of his old Master Stryka Annix were suddenly loud in his head: "If you want to make the Maker laugh, tell Him about your plans."  It was almost enough to make him smile momentarily.  Almost.

"Thank you, doctor." Kazic's voice was distracted, possibilities racing through his mind.  Who was responsible for the bombing?  What motives could the bomber have had?  And why now?  The Vhal'Dan had finally found peace, a goal that Ryshhk--indeed all of the Jedi of the Order--had worked unabated towards for decades...

Once again, the undulating, thick coils of the daen nosi swept at the periphery of his vision, reminding him of the urgency of his task.

As if reading his mind, Eriobe softly grabbed his elbow, a tender look in her eyes as she glanced up at her husband.  "Is there anything that I can do, Love?"  She was always his rock, a deep, full well of water in the Tatooine desert.

But Kazic shook his head.  "No, Love.  Actually, yes.  Come with me to the Hall of Balance.  I need to speak to the new Kage." He corrected himself, trying to discern the exact nature of the daen nosi.  They'd drawn him here...but for what reason?  Unfortunately, they were as enigmatic as the details of the attack on the Directorate building.

Had he known, it might've saved Kazic much of his later suffering.

     <<<<< >>>>>

"I'm sorry, Master Ofer-rung, but as I've already mentioned the Kage isn't in and won't be for some time.  Perhaps best to try later this week.  Or next." The maenowan did not so much as glance his way, most of his attention on the holoprojection spreadsheet that he was busy working on with one hand while trying to hide something else under the desk with his other.  "I can take a message instead, if you like." He said by rote, not meaning any of it.  Or caring, most likely.

With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Kazic loomed over the human who clearly felt as if the desk between them somehow gave him protection from the large Anzat and the only slightly shorter (but still much taller than him) Mirialan staring daggers from an otherwise impassive face half hidden beneath her hood.  

He shared a brief glance with his wife, her slight nod only conspicuous to him.  Giving a surreptitious wink, he suppressed a smile.  Eriobe knew what to do next.

"It's Ovarug." Kazic corrected, his tone sounding as if the last of his patience was spent.  "And that's no problem; I'll just wait for the Kage in her Office.  Don't worry, I know the way."  He was already half-way to the doors leading into the Kage's Offices before the maenowan could react.  But when he did, he stood so quickly from his seat that his partially hidden, half-eaten sweetbread hit the edge of the desk, exploding all over his work station, the datanode, as well as his official robes of office.

The scene was almost comical: from the height disparity between the two men (the gatekeeper/aid was only about 1.6 meters whereas Kazic was over 1.9) to the ignored mutterings of said gatekeeper/aid while he tried to insinuate himself between the Kage's door and an indomitable Anzat bearing down upon him, resulting in the shorter man backpeddling until he accidentally tripped over a large planter containing some chora trees.  Without breaking stride, Kazic waved his hand over the sensor located on the left side of the hallway, his deeply embedded exploit still active within the Vhal'Dan database allowing him exclusive carte blanche access.  The look on the gatekeeper/aid's face was nothing short of bemused shock.

Right behind her husband, Eriobe played her part to perfection, briefly helping the maenowan back to his feet while offering up quick sounds of a Benediction, her hand hiding the small smile upon her lips.  However, when she joined Kazic within the large, opulent Kage's Office, she looked just as intimidating as the Anzat beside her.  It was a trick the two had perfected from their first years together.

The Mirialan had been with Kazic for almost 22 years, and during that time they'd travelled to countless planets, moons, and stars.  However, she'd only been to Kewda a couple of times, each visit brief and always hurried and never once anywhere near the Kage's Office in Kewd'Ulhadv.  Looking around, she had to admit that the rooms were an impressive display of power, meant to elicit feelings of awe and respect.

One look at Kazic's face only reflected his determination to help his friend, the splendor of the setting wasted upon him.

"Hello, Q'eieha." The Anzat's voice mirrored his face: neutral and patient.  After giving the tall Epicanthix a weighted glance, he all but ignored the Arbiter standing beside him.

"It's 'Kage' now, Master Ovarug." Her tone was not quite supercilious...but neither was it humble.  She certainly sounded nothing like the great Kage that Arkady had been.  Still, Kazic had lived long enough not to be put off by the self-importance of others.

"Of course, Kage." He stated in the same, even tone.  "What is being done for Master K’rrmerii, and whom is investigating the attack?  Do you have any leads?"  Eriobe thought she detected a hint of disdain but with Kazic it was hard to tell.  Oh, he had shown respect due to the Office, always well within the letter of what was required, but she knew that, at least in this instance, her husband held esteem for the position rather than the person.

"I've determined that this was the work of a lone terrorist trying to abscond with intel of our cache of Force Artifacts." She stated matter-of-factly, slight irritation tinging her voice.  "The terrorist was unsuccessful and nothing was taken, although the Directorate was breached, the Civil Defense response prevented her from stealing anything.  The Council and I are in agreement with this." She nodded to the Arbiter.  Her last sounded slightly...petulant, at least to Eriobe's hearing.  Whatever it was that Kazic heard he either ignored or did not care.

"How can you be so certain, Kage?  I know that much of the holovid footage was either scrambled if not outright erased.  And there are too many deaths to just push the investigation aside."

"That is the purview of the Kage..." The Arbiter announced, adding, "...and the Council.  As you are neither, Ovarug, such decisions are not your concern."  Eriobe did not appreciate his condescending tone and thought that the slender man would look even funnier with half of his teeth missing.  However, she knew that if her Love could tolerate this kriffing fedejik, so too could she.

Saying nothing, the Kage affixed a patient look of barely concealed tolerance as she glanced briefly from Kazic to Eriobe and back again.  "Not that I need explain myself to anyone, but I would've thought that you of all people would recognize a Kage's prerogative when it came to discussing such matters, especially in front of those...outside the Order."  Her pause was deliberate, her "subtle" intimation anything but.  "But I forget to whom I'm speaking to... Tell me, Master Ovarug, do you know what history has recorded about you, of your...quality?" Her icy blue eyes had a glint about them that had nothing to do with Q'eieha's pale features.

The Arbiter smiled widely, his open contempt for Kazic apparent while the Arkanian continued.  "'The Failed Kage, Kazic Ovarug.'  Or so we're taught within the Temple of Balance." Her light tone was almost lilting.

Not rising to the bait, the Anzat spoke in a moderated tone.  "Kage, I'm telling you that this attack is the beginning of something larger.  More sinister."

Q'eieha arched an eyebrow, sharing a theatrical look with the Arbiter.  "Oh?  And how do you know this?"

"The daen nosi." He said immediately.  "As they have in the past, they are warning me about future calamities."

The Kage smiled behind her upheld hand, visible for all to see.  "And we all know how well that served you--and the Vhal'Dan--for you to entrust these so-called 'Lines of Fate' so implicitly."  The Arbiter audibly scoffed.

Eriobe's hand went towards her belt where she kept her lightsaber, casually hooking a thumb as she fingered the hilt.  If they were on Mirial, she would've offered The Challenge, backhanding the Arkanian with an open hand to show her the most disrespect possible allowable by The Edicts.  But as they weren't, she instead stared at the Arbiter while she addressed Q'eieha.  "I would watch what you say, Kage.  There is a difference between 'fact' and 'truth.'" Her green eyes were piercing, almost truculent.

Kazic's lips had the ghost of a smile upon them, but only for a second.  "Q'eieha, please, I don't care if you denigrate me until the sun goes nova but do not ignore this because of some personal problem with me.  I'm telling--begging--you: the Vhal'Dan are in mortal danger!" Even though Kazic remained motionless, his voice was passionate.  It hurt Eriobe's ears to hear her husband have to...to debase himself like so, especially in front of those so...unworthy.

But she could tell after a single look at the Arkanian's face that Kazic's words had not persuaded.

Tilting her head back and looking down her nose, Q'eieha's voice turned imperious.  "I shall have my people look into it.  Thank you, Master Ovarug.  That will be all." There was no mistaking the dismissal.

The Anzat stared straight at the Kage, his face unreadable.  "You are making a grave mistake, Q'eieha." He said quietly.  Without any further word, he turned on his heel and exited the Offices,

Eriobe stood staring at each, giving both the Kage and Arbiter each a pointed look while tracing a Malediction in the air at them before leaving without a backwards glance.

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(https://i.ibb.co/KWy7rZD/Eriobe-3.jpg) (https://ibb.co/KWy7rZD)

Chapter 2: The Only Refuge From Purgatory Is Hell, part III

Within their rented rooms, Eriobe replayed the events of the day while gently tracing her green finger along Kazic's deep chest, her Love finally asleep.  Good, it had only taken her an hour...that, and one of her Graces to help him achieve a Fourth level Contemplation.

Thankfully so too had she, if only by virtue of helping him first.  But it did allow her a certain clarity, especially given current events.  And people.

...That Q'eieha is one cold tralk... She wondered if the Kage used an icicle to "relax" herself, for all of the warmth that she'd displayed.  Absently murmuring an Imprecation against that white Arkanian quim, she was gladdened by the fact that she was no Vhal'Dan to be ordered about by her.  But as she thought upon the White Bitch, she felt the floodgate of her memories spill forth from the walls that she'd erected, now set free by the Contemplation.

Eriobe was not (nor had ever been) a member of the Vhal'Dan...but she was a Jedi.  Or at least, she used to be.  In fact, when Kazic had found her on Belkadan, she was actually in exile from the Jedi Order, only recently having been expelled from the Coruscant Temple two years prior.  Her crime?

She had dared love another Jedi Knight.

Verro Hamne had been a darkly handsome Jedi, confident, smart, and attentive, he and Eriobe stealing kisses in the darkened corners of the Temple even as padawans.  Through the years as they grew ever closer, it became more than stolen kisses until they finally consummated their relationship a year before their Knighting.  Eriobe had thought herself in love, that Verro would actually agree to marry her, his soft, intimate words promising that and more.

What a fool she'd been.

Like all Jedi, they knew that attachments were forbidden, marriage strictly proscribed as per the Order's mandates, but--convinced as she was by Verro's sweet nothings--Eriobe felt certain that they could keep their relationship a secret.  Of course, the Masters had suspected from almost the beginning, biding their time in order to collect irrefutable evidence. 

Needless to say, they got it.

It had been her own Master, Khoan Thoffe, that had caught them in bed, his intransigent, tranquil fury washing over the two recently Knighted Jedi.  He immediately threatened censure, demanding their contrite repentance and acceptance of harsh punishment.  Eriobe had been defiant, confident that she and her husband-to-be could repudiate such archaic strictures and that their relationship was stronger than mere doctrine.

Verro had capitulated almost immediately.

Viewing her (now former) lover with open disgust, she could not believe her ears when he ashamedly fell to his knees, begging Master Thoffe's--and the Order's--forgiveness, announcing that he would accept any penance the Jedi saw fit.  She and Verro had been dragged in front of the Council, objects of the Order's condemnation.  It was there and then that she'd denounced the Jedi and their hypocritical dogmatic views, tracing a Malediction encompassing all of them.  At the same time, the Council rebuked Eriobe as an apostate, expelling and exiling her from Coruscant.

And there amongst those embittered, old, useless masters who dared to chastise her was one whom she had learned to hate: Verro.  Even as she considered granting him an Exculpation, it was Verro himself who called out names like "whore" or "harpy" while standing shoulder to shoulder with Master Thoffe who had not just several hours before labeled him a reprobate forever anathema to the Order.

The only thing that made it worse was Grand Master Yoda's so-called offer of "mercy:" he told her that if she could demonstrate a year of "Jedi-like" behavior, then she might be allowed re-entry into the Order not as a Knight, but instead once again a padawan.  Enraged by what she saw as the old Jedi's falsity, she told the shriveled farbot what she thought of him and his precious Order.

Revolted, Eriobe had thrown off her robes, kneeling one last time within the Temple.  From her belt, she drew her lightsaber, holding it with sincere reverence.  And there, in front of everyone to see, she destroyed the weapon that had been her life and, in a display of utter dissent, she shattered the Kyber crystal using the Force.  That done, she traced an intricate Certitude to complete the ritual.  Standing, she walked away from the ruined detritus that had up until that moment been her entire existence. 

With that she left for Belkadan, eager to be away from Coruscant even if it was to be her home in exile.

Not realizing that she was gritting her teeth, she relaxed her jaw as the specters of her past began to loosen their grip upon her.  It was then that she noticed the pain in her right hand, now closed in a tight fist.  Tentatively, she unclenched her hand, unsurprised to she dark green blood oozing from the cuts in her palm where she'd buried her fingernails.  Kazic must have heard the sudden intake of air between her teeth because he stirred from his rest.

"...Love...are you alright?" Kazic's voice still held onto some of the lethargy of sleep but Eriobe knew that he could become fully cognizant at a moment's notice.

"Yes, Love." She soothed, tracing a Placidity while inundating her husband with calming flows of the Force.  Thankfully it worked, Kazic's breathing resuming its slow, deep cadence.  Directing Healing flows into the cuts, they slowly stopped bleeding and began to knit together.  She may not have her husband's natural Healing factor, nor a Mak'Tor Singer's facility, but she had a Force Talent for such...

Deciding to leave her worries for the morrow, Eriobe cuddled deep into Kazic's welcoming arms where, even asleep, he wrapped them around her protectively.  As she did every night, she took those worries that had perturbed her during the day and deliberately "burned" them away, their torment severely lessened.

As she came to the last one, the same one that she had lived with for over 22 years, the lie that she had kept--had to keep!--in perpetuity from Kazic, she swore--pleaded!--to his Maker (like she did every night) that she would be the best wife to her husband if...

...If he never found out the lie that would tear them apart.

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(https://i.ibb.co/d4xCZkz/Votarious-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/d4xCZkz)

Chapter 2: The Only Refuge From Purgatory Is Hell, part IV

As the turbolift doors opened, every person within the large compartment turned to face the lone occupant, each head covered with a dark hood that obscured everything but their eyes.  Slowly exiting, Lor-Riou strode forth towards the center of the gathered crowd, the sea of beings parting before him until he stood in the center.  Like him, they all wore differing iterations of his dark robes, indicative of their allegiance to him.  And while he may not be able to see their faces, he could see every set of eyes that looked upon him.

Lor-Riou slowly scanned the crowd, each time his eyes connected to another's, the bond that they had was strengthened, their relationship more intimate than most sentients would ever experience.  Which was as it should be; after all, he was their Father.  He could feel each and everyone of their emotions, from their love and loyalty to their trepidation and longing, just as they could feel his.

At this particular moment, he was furious...and contemplative.

He'd received a communique from his agents that Aumiyat had somehow failed, that the relic had somehow been lost, and that the pretenders had been alerted to their activities.  Surrounded as he was by his Votarious, he knew that they could feel his anger, that his frustrations would be theirs as well, and together they would become stronger.  The whole more--much more--than the sum of its parts.  As with times before, it helped to calm him.  Somewhat.

"Children.  I've received some bad news: Aumiyat was unsuccessful in her task.  Furthermore, she lost the holocron."  Mutters of disbelief echoed throughout the doonium plating of the chamber; there had been set backs to be sure, but never once had one of the Votarious failed.  Lor-Riou held up a hand, forestalling further discussion.  "However, even if her mission was a failure, she did not allow herself to be further dishonored by surrendering."  His violet eyes gleamed with unfeigned pride.  "She embraced seppuku, denying our enemy vital information."

Sounds of admiration resounded from the crowd, many of the hooded faces nodding.  Seppuku.  Its origins dated back to the Seigniory Discord on Anzat Prime, one of the few legacies from his father that Lor-Riou actually honored and embraced wholesale.  It was the ritual suicide of a vassal to protect the honor their Hansho, or lord.  But it also secured the prestige of the Votarious that enacted it, their honored presence among the Silent Voices assured.

Better death than dishonor.

"Fides non moriatur." Lor-Riou quietly proclaimed, eyes closed in remembrance.

One and all, 299 voices were raised together in unity as they echoed their Magister.  "Fides non moriatur." Their collective tone was solemn, respectful.  Aumiyat had proven herself Votarious to her last, honoring the Magister, honoring them, and honoring herself.

Of course, her botched mission was still an issue to be resolved, one that the entire Votarious would now be responsible for.

"Yes, Children.  We will never forget our comrade.  Aumiyat, say her name.  But we must deal with the ramifications of this failure.  Our enemies are aware.  They possess that which your Magister requires...I must have this holocron!" Lor-Riou's eyes shined, the promise of future glories written across his face.  Every single member stared from behind their black masks, rabid fealty radiating from their eyes.

When he lowered his gaze, his face had adopted the solemn bent from earlier.  "However, we can no longer accomplish this task with subterfuge, at least not according to my former plans...nor can we do so alone.  We shall require our secular allies in order to guarantee success." His deliberate pause spoke volumes.  They knew of whom he spoke, understanding while disliking the idea of such.

But following the Magister was their imperative; if he tasked them to forfeit their lives, then one and all they would do so willingly and immediately.  This command might be more onerous but it would nevertheless be unquestionably obeyed.

While he continued to lay out his plans, the Votarious clung upon every word.  Aumiyat's failure would not--must not!--be repeated.  As soon as Lor-Riou finished, he dismissed them all, once again declaring their Creed.

"Fides non moriatur!" His voice rang as clear as a clarion bell, the 299 members of the Votarious shouting their response as Lor-Riou stepped back into the turbolift, the voices echoing even as the blastdoors closed cutting off all sound.

"Fides non moriatur!"

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(https://i.ibb.co/jhrRGBT/Saani-11.jpg) (https://ibb.co/jhrRGBT)

"That's better, son.  Thank you." Saani's grateful tone was mirrored in her eyes, only slightly marred by the excruciating pain that she was in.  Standing above her large medcouch, Lor-Riou finally relaxed, the exertions of his efforts fatiguing even him.  If he could have, he would be sweating profusely, but his particular biology was much more efficient than needing sweat glands.  As it was, he dragged his feet over to the comfortable chair positioned around the other side of his mother's bed and slumped down into the cushions.

Lor-Riou's face was full of pain having nothing to do with the strain he'd just endured..  "Mother...I...I am sorry, but Aumiyat failed.  She was captured and somehow lost the holocron."  He tried to make out Saani's mood but her face was hidden by darkness that his imperfect infravision couldn't properly discern.  Yet another unbidden gift courtesy of his father, another facet of his Curse that he lived with on a daily basis.

His mother's silence made him uncomfortable.  Hurriedly, he continued.  "I have all of my other agents looking right now; I'm certain that they shall unearth the relic soon enough." He paused, worried that she'd passed out again from the pain but when he focused upon her pulmonary system, he could tell by her breathing that she was still conscious.  He thought that this was the opportunity that he'd been waiting for... "I've decided that now is the right time.  I've already contacted Arbiter Onasi and Field Marshall Rhul-Vinjaga; they've agreed to meet with me to address Kewda's response." He smiled conspiratorially.  "Both Orrell and Svante are under the impression that the Pretenders are massing their forces, having concluded that Zilior is to blame for the bom--"

Saani suddenly cut him off mid-sentence.  "What about...him?" She asked through clenched teeth.  There was no need for her to specify whom she meant.

Lor-Riou smiled widely, satisfaction radiating off of him.  "He made planetfall just yesterday.  It was as you said: she was with him."  Both he and Saani's faces beheld identical looks of anger and disgust.

"Good...good." She hissed, whether or not from pain or pleasure, Lor-Riou wasn't quite sure.  Stretching out her arm towards her son, Saani clamped down her claw-like fingers on his arm.  "Promise me: you will get both him and his bitch when you're done."

With patience and comforting, Lor-Riou stroked her atrophied hand.  "Do not worry, Mother.  He will suffer as you have.  And once he's lost everything, I shall ki--"

"NO!" Her shout surprised even him; she even sat up slightly.  "No..." She said much more quietly.  "Don't kill him; death is too good for him."  Saani's eyes...changed: one moment warm and violet, then next...savage and yellow.  "He will know what it is to lose everything...and yet be denied that which would bring him the only comfort left or afforded him..." Once again quiet, she sank back into the medcouch's softness, the strain of her outburst obviously exhausting her.

Lor-Riou stared at his mother, using his four other consciousnesses to peruse tactics and strategy for his overall plan.  Even given certain variables and unknowns, he calculated a 92.3% chance of success.  But only if he had the full might of Zilior behind him and his Votarious. 

Noticing that Saani was finally, blessedly asleep, he stood, kissing her forehead while gently stroking her lekku in comfort.  Taking a moment to ensure that she wanted for nothing--the med-droids would take over once he left the room--he entered the turbolift, absently thumbing one of the buttons. 

Considering that he was forced to pivot with his schemes, Lor-Riou felt a modicum of gratification.  In fact, this might actually work out better for him in the long run...

When the turbolift reached its destination, he felt better than he had since first receiving that communique.  Stepping out on the bridge, Lor-Riou scanned the officers and techs at their stations, members of his Votarious interspersed about the entire command center.  "Captain Drinna, fastest route to Zilior." He ordered.

"Yes, Magister." A neat-looking professional woman nodded, issuing commands.  As her voice rang out through the bridge, people hurried at their individual tasks.

Lor-Riou allowed himself a small smile.  After all of these decades, he was finally seeing dividends on his plans, if not precisely according to what he'd foreseen...but such was the Will of the Force.

It was the Will of the Force that had reunited him with his Mother, finally ending her torture.  It was the Will of the Force that had enabled him to finally locate his Father.  And it would be the Will of the Force that his Father face the restitution courtesy of his son...his son and his Votarious.

"Fides non moriatur."  He quietly repeated, confident in victory.

"Loyalty never dies."

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

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

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

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

Special thanks to LSG for the AWESOME Zilior rendering (and idea!)  This chapter is dedicated to him  :)
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(https://i.ibb.co/BwFdbxV/Zilior.png) (https://ibb.co/HX316sD)

Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, especially the Magister.

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

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

This was where Arage had told Tamet to meet her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vice-Commandant Deonis El'Harand!

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

It was the reason that the Hegemony thrived.

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

"Arage, allow me--"

"Tam!  Sorry I'm--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his Force-Aura...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/4V9ZzHv/Field-Marshall-Svante-Rhul-Vinjaga-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/4V9ZzHv)

Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part II

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

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

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

Not that she could blame him.

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

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

Her brother.

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

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

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

Svante smirked.  How wrong they'd been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besides: she had her duty.

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

It would do.

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

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

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

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

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

After all, proprieties must be maintained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, for that matter, Svante herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet again...his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/P99BFcD/Vhal-Ulhadv-post-Civil-War.jpg) (https://ibb.co/P99BFcD)

Chapter 3: Shadow Enemies, part III

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

And drowning many innocents.

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

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

Death and destruction.

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

No longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

The Arbiter's favored heir.

     <<<<< >>>>>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That and devastated.

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________
* Uji-Clan or House

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

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

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

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

(https://i.ibb.co/C7vXfcc/Hall-of-Balance-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/C7vXfcc)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in other instances, for the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soryu had been family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That much at least Kazic had done correctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/MRHLBS9/Eriobe-6.jpg) (https://ibb.co/MRHLBS9)

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he'd never once bested her.  Ever.

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

Even at times from himself.

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

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

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

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

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

They'd tried and died.

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

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

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

...The last would hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how best to ready herself for battle.

     <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/RHDkrvy/sunrise-frozen1hour20-by-jonone-d5ytg86-fullview.jpg) (https://ibb.co/RHDkrvy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And new, dangerous plans to be made.

     <<<<< >>>>>

The more things change the more they stay the same.

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

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

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

(https://i.ibb.co/BqhTrBC/gettyimages-1169187524-1024x1024.jpg) (https://ibb.co/BqhTrBC)

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part I

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

...nothing...

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

...nothing...

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

But not this time.  ...nothing...

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

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

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

...nothing...

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

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

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

...nothing...

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

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

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

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

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

...nothing...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

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

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

Or so they'd been taught.

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

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

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

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

For the Hegemony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     <<<<< >>>>>

________________________

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

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

(https://i.ibb.co/sW7pdPm/Crezhlepetl-City-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/sW7pdPm)

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With one notable exception.

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

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

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

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

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

Or at least at first.

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

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

The last thing that he did was smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kazic Ovarug.

For the Strategoi, it was the proverbial smoking blaster.

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

...Everyone except the Triarch.

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

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

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

___________________________________

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

(https://i.ibb.co/gDMzBB1/Zilior-medical-suite-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/gDMzBB1)

Chapter 5: The Inertia of False Knowledge, part III

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

And was shocked by what he saw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He felt better than he ever had before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was not alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving Tamet alone to the abyss of his loss.

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

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

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

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

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

All up a very well titled chapter False knowledge indeed

(https://i.ibb.co/sR5PX4D/d5afg9d-abf2d53c-301e-42a5-9f77-7e168bb4b1d3.jpg) (https://ibb.co/sR5PX4D)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q'eieha scowled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the Maker did her head hurt...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And dreams of the solace of home.

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(https://i.ibb.co/P5m2TPv/Ryshhk-old-5.jpg) (https://ibb.co/P5m2TPv)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the least that she could do to reciprocate.

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

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

Or the agony of shame.

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

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

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

The truth would only hurt him that much more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          <<<<< >>>>>

(https://i.ibb.co/0BWVgKJ/Kazic-14.jpg) (https://ibb.co/0BWVgKJ)

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.

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. 

Special thanks to LSG for the awesome poster (and original idea)!  This chapter is dedicated to him  :)
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(https://i.ibb.co/K9RMGvr/Lor-Riou-Muster.png)

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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.

Special thanks to FT for the visual rendering of D'Aylanna  :)
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(https://i.ibb.co/L03frKL/Kazic-s-Holocron.jpg) (https://ibb.co/L03frKL)(https://i.ibb.co/3T0wtYc/d-aylanna-armor-1-vers-1.jpg) (https://ibb.co/3T0wtYc)

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."

          <<<<< >>>>>

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.