OOC:

Just a little intro to get the juices flowing and get oriented to current events. If I've got my timeline right, this is set post-shatterpoint and post-destruction of Lotaith, around 21 ABYish (1-2 years before current time?)

.

Jegora wasn’t sure what woke him first. It could have been the light shudder as the ship reverted from hyperspace—to someone who had spent as much time aboard starships as Jegora had, that particular sensation never went unnoticed. Or it could have been the soft beeping of the datapad that rested on his desk across the room—the ship’s flight computer was programmed to page him automatically any time there was a proximity alert. Or maybe it was the soft knock at his door, a gentle rapping that echoed through the durasteel bulkheads that comprised the four walls of his little cabin—very few people on the ship had the nerves to interrupt his sleep, and for someone to actually come knock on his door was unusual enough to wake him quickly.

But while it could have been any of those things, Jegora knew the truth: once again, the dream had driven him from his sleep.

As he sat up slowly, swinging his long legs over the side of the couch, Jegora tried to calm his racing heart, but his blood was pumping and adrenaline was flowing freely. He took deep breaths and centered himself, willing his body back under control, and as always it responded slowly. He had been having this same dream for close to a year, and it always had the same effect on him, as if he awoke out of a desperate fight for his life that his body fully believed was real. At first the dream had come infrequently, once ever few months, but soon it came more and more often until now the dream haunted him every time he closed his eyes. It was good that he did not need much sleep—the dream rarely let him close his eyes for more than a few hours at a time, and it all but ensured his sleep was never peaceful.

In the background someone knocked again and the datapad continued to beep. Jegora grunted, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. He was nearing his fiftieth year, but his large frame was still packed with heavy muscle and it was clear from the way he carried himself that he still maintained the great strength and grace, natural and otherwise, of his youth. He was in prime physical condition for a man of his age, and his physical presence alone was often enough to inspire or intimidate. Still, he wore the marks of age and of a life spent at war. His face was worn and lined and seemingly carved from stone. His hands were terribly scarred, almost as if burned, and on his arms and chest we wore a variety of cut, stab, bullet, and blaster scars. As he pulled on a shirt, he grimaced silently at the stiffness in his left shoulder. He had caught a bolt from a repeating blaster almost ten years ago and the wound had never healed right. The pain was just a reminder that he was quickly becoming an old warrior, and old warriors always had aches and pains. At that moment Jegora felt every single one of his.

As he padded silently towards the door of his chamber, Jegora made a small gesture towards the datapad and it immediately ceased its beeping. He keyed the door and it opened to reveal one of his three apprentices, a young woman Jegora still only knew as York. He wasn’t surprised to see the young woman standing there. He had sensed York’s presence soon after he awoke, of course, but also she was probably the only person aboard the ship who would have interrupted his sleep. Even Jegora’s two other apprentices would have been reluctant to wake him, but York seemed to have very little fear of him. That either made her incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Maybe both. York had been with him almost two years, and she was a quick learner with no small strength in the Force. She was also an enigma, even to Jegora, but she followed orders and was dedicated to learning what he could teach. He chose not to pry into her past, deeming it irrelevant to his training. And secretly Jegora found her irreverence refreshing—it got tiresome when everyone was afraid of you, even when they should be.

York looked him up and down and shook her head. “The dream again?” she asked, her voice soft and concerned. Jegora scowled slightly and said nothing, catching her gaze with his own. His stormcloud-purple eyes flashed, and York quickly looked away and cleared her throat. While Jegora might have generally enjoyed her lack of formality, sometimes York had a tendency to get a little too familiar. It was a problem he would have to address later.

“We’ve arrived at the coordinates you provided,” she said after a moment, continuing on as if nothing had happened. “But this system isn’t on any of the maps. What’s here anyways?”

Jegora was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he sighed, and when he responded his voice was full of gravel and iron.

“Lopen,” he said. “Home.”

__________


The last time Jegora had been on Lopen, the fractured Order had been attempting to retake the great Citadel from the Reborn and their traitorous masters. That had been several years ago, and at the time Jegora had not been in a good place. His body had been weakened and injurred, his skill had atrophied, and he had been neglecting his training. After the Order failed to retake their home from the Reborn they had all split up once again. Jegora fled to the outer reaches of the Galaxy, wandering somewhat aimlessly. Slowly he began to recover himself, and in the process found York. He picked up two other apprentices along the way, and soon they had hired a ship and crew, making a living on the edges of civilization doing odd jobs for anyone who could pay. Business was good, and eventually Jegora and his apprentices hired a new ship and a larger crew. Soon Jegora found himself with his own corvette-class warship and a crew of nasty, highly effective fighters at his disposal, an accidental full-fledged mercenary lord.

Looking back it was almost comical how quickly and easily he fell into the role, as if it had been custom tailored for him. But it was ultimately just what he needed to get back on track. He resumed his own training, and as a result his powers had grown considerably since the disastrous attempt to take Lopen back from the Reborn. He had pushed the Order and its home out of his mind, choosing instead to focus on exploring the edges of the galaxy with his crew and thinking only of the next job. For once, he had thought himself content.

And then the dreams started.

Truth be told he never remembered the dreams. All he ever remembered was the sounds of fighting and the sensation of pain and the dim glow of a lightsaber. The only clear thing that he could ever recall from the dream was a single word, burned into his mind every time he awoke like a brand.

Lopen.

Initially he had tried to deny dream, had tried to ignore it, but even in the beginning he had known that course to be futile. Although his talents lay elsewhere, Jegora recognized the hand of the Force in this dream. Ignoring such a dream would not work, and sure enough it began to come more and more frequently until it was quite literally impossible to ignore. It had started preying on Jegora’s waking thoughts with such ferocity that eventually, and with great trepidation, he had ordered the crew to set course for the shadowy system. He had no idea what to expect upon arrival, but he assumed the Reborn were still operating on the planet. Still, he hadn’t been back in years, and he had no way of knowing that for sure and thus had no idea what was going to meet them when they arrived. On the approach to the plant Jegora kept an open mind, and he thought he was prepared for anything upon arrival.

What he wasn’t prepared for was for Lopen to be utterly and absolutely devoid of all life.

OOC:

Sorry Trick, this is a long one and still didn't get to the surface. Too caught up in backstory, laying little seeds for stories I might pursue later. Anyways, I'll try and get something else up tomorrow.

Jegora stood off to one side on the bridge of the ship, which the crew had name Charlotte…or Charolette. The spelling was in some dispute, culminating in the fact that the huge stenciled letters that spelled out the ship’s name on the port and starboard sides each used different spellings (the port-side letters spelled out Charlotte while the starboard-side letters spelled out Charolette). Despite the naming gaffe and the continued debate over which was the proper spelling, the ships was in surprisingly good repair for her age.

The Charlotte was definitely an older ship, a relic of the galactic wars that had been raging for almost a hundred years, but it was in good repair and posed no small threat to anything that decided to cross it. It’s turbolasers were strong, and the crew and retrofitted the vessel with military-grade ion cannons. It was almost two hundred meters in length, proving roomy for Jegora’s roughly eighty-strong crew. Their recent successes had ensured that ship’s powerplant, engines, and shields were all upgraded to modern standards. There was even room in the ships ventral hangar for a few starfighters and one or two assault shuttles. The end result was that although she didn’t look too much on the outside, the ship was deadly and effective, the perfect base of operations for a mercenary band. Or a Sith-in-exile.

The Charolette's good repair was due in large part to the crew and the man who commanded them. The core of that crew had been together when Jegora had first found them almost three years ago. At that time there had only been ten of them, led by a man named Stolk, and Jegora had hired them out of necessity. That arrangement had worked out well, and had led directly to the next job, which was also successful. The end result was that after several months of fighting and bleeding, the crew had grown to almost thirty men and women and Jegora and York had been adopted into the crew as de facto leaders. Stolk still officially called the shots, but the man was an old mercenary, and no one got be an old mercenary by being stupid. He recognized a good thing when it landed in his lap, and together Stolk and Jegora procured the Charlotte, grew the crew, and very quickly became very successful and very wealthy.

Jegora glanced around the bridge, observing the crew in action. He had slipped in unnoticed, which gave him a quiet moment to appreciate the ship and its crew all over again. Even when at general quarters, like now, the bridge only held five individuals at various workstations (two pilots, a gunnery officer, a communications and navigations officer, and an electronic warfare officer) plus the captain’s perch. There were also three droids plugged into various terminals around the outside of the bridge, but while at battle stations they only served to automate non-critical tasks and provide redundancy. The ability to operate the ship with such a small crew was another reason why Stolk and Jegora had selected it in the first place. There were auxiliary stations scattered throughout the ship, of course, but as long as five people lived aboard her the Charlotte could function at maximum effectiveness. And with a skilled and dedicated crew, like the men and women who now helmed her, the Charolette could prove truly dangerous.

Clearing his throat slightly, Jegora made his presence known. Stolk glanced over and then beckoned for Jegora to come closer.

"What’s the word, Captain," Jegora said, using the man’s formal title. Stolk and Jegora had quickly reached an understanding—when they were alone, they were equals, and Stolk often deferred to Jegora’s judgement. But on the bridge of the ship, or on the ground in the middle of a fight, the chain of command had to be preserved, and so some formalities had to be observed. That suite Jegora just fine. He had been a military man long enough to appreciate a clear chain of command.

Stolk shook his head, his long greying hair falling loosely around his eyes before being swept away again. The man probably wasn’t that much older than Jegora himself, but he had lived a hard life as well, and lacked Jegora’s natural talents that served to stave off the worst of time’s effects. The result was that Stolk looked considerably older than he was, but if anything it only added a certain gravitas to the man’s demeanor.

"It’s a strange place you’ve brought us to, Fal," Stolk said, handing Jegora a sensor report. "No signs of life anywhere. Trill is still completing a more detailed long-range sensor check, but no sign of any unfriendlies like you warned us."

Jegora glanced at the sensor report, but it seemed to verify what Stolk was saying. "What about the planet," Jegora said. "There’s really no signs of human activity?"

Stolk shook his head again, and this time he got a distinctly uncomfortable look on his face. "No signs of any life, Fal," he said. "No plant life, no animal life, and certainly no human life. The whole planet is dead. But there’s no sign of physical catastrophe, no asteroid craters, nothing. It’s just empty."

"That’s not possible," Jegora responded immediately, his mind flashing back to his memories of Lopen’s incredibly resilient flora and fauna. He knew from experience that things native to Lopen’s harsh environments were incredibly hard to kill—he had fought very hard to do so himself, often in self defense, on several occasions. "I know this planet," Jegora explained. "I doubt if cracking the crust would kill the native life. And I know the people who were in control last time I was here wouldn’t just up and leave."

Stolk shrugged. "Maybe Trill’s scans will tell us more, Fal, but I don’t have any explanations for you."

Jegora stared out the bridge’s viewport as Lopen slowly rotated into view. The dusty brown planet was just as he remembered, except for that apparently it wasn’t. The Force trembled, and Jegora felt it as a cold chill on the back of his neck. The memory of his dream echoed in his mind. Lopen.

"Atmosphere is in-tact?" he asked, lost in thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stolk hesitate and then nod.

"Prep one of the shuttles, and someone tell York to kick my other two apprentices out of bed. I’m going planetside."

Stolk opened his mouth to protest, but Jegora glanced at the man and caught the old captain’s gaze with his own. Stolk saw something there that would brook no argument, and was smart enough to realize that this was not a battle worth fighting.

"You want a squad to go down with you?" he asked instead, and Jegora was immediately reminded once again why he liked working with the man so much. Still, however well-intentioned the offer, Jegora knew that the entirety of the crew would be little help. Whatever was waiting for him on the surface he would have to face alone.

Well not quite alone. His apprentices would accompany him, although whether they would prove to be a help or a hindrance was anyone’s guess.

"That won’t be necessary, but thank you," Jegora responded, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment of the offer. "I would appreciate it if you would detach one of the droids, though—we could have need of its services."

Stolk nodded and keyed his comlink, relaying orders for the shuttle to be prepped and a droid brought aboard. Jegora turned and left the bridge, heading to his quarters, and as he did so he gathered his power around him before letting it pulse outwards in a wave that travelled the length of the ship in an instant. A few seconds later he felt the echoes that were his apprentice’s response. They would be ready.

Once back in his room, Jegora moved immediately to a lock box at the foot of the bed. The box was nondescript, but it nevertheless contained some of the most valuable things that Jegora owned. There were no external latches or locks on the box, no apparent way to open it from the inside. For Jegora, however, that was no problem. Reaching out through the Force, he deftly triggered the complex locking mechanism that was inside the box, and the lid popped open with a small groan.

Reaching inside, Jegora first pulled out a set of dark grey robes, tightly folded with military precision. Designed for maximum movement, they were at first relatively plain looking, but a keen-eyed observer would note that they were made entirely out of armourweave cloth, and thus were almost as energy-resistant as standard military body armor. They were also incredibly expensive, but they had been made for Jegora at a time in which cost (at least for the Order) had not been an issue. He hadn’t worn them in a long time, but had had them re-tailored only a few months ago, a time-consuming and expensive process that he had felt silly for pursuing. Now, however, he was glad he had listened to his instincts and had taken the time and the effort.

He pulled out a few more things, including a utility belt filled with all sorts of useful items and a communicator that had enough range to send encrypted communications anywhere in the system. At last, however, he pulled out a relatively small package wrapped in heavily waxed leather. Gingerly he laid the bundle on the bed and stared at it for a moment before slowly unwrapping it, carefully unwinding each leather strip with great intention.

Eventually the last strip fell away revealing two unassuming metal cylinders. One was wrapped in strips of worn leather and was a little shorter, flaring outward slightly on one end. The other was solid metal save for the twining grooves cut into its handle; it was perfectly straight and slightly longer than the first cylinder. Jegora stared at the devices for a long moment before gently picking them both up and clipping them to his utility belt. These were his lightsabers, the legendary weapons of Force users. It had been a long time since he had wielded them in battle, although he still regularly trained with the training versions he had constructed for his apprentices. He found the weapons’ weight on his belt strangely comforting, as if he had been missing their presence all along and had not even realized it.

When Jegora arrived at the hangar deck his apprentices were waiting. All three were dressed in lightly armored combat suits and wielded a various assortment of blasters and knives. They were dangerous in their own right, and becoming more so every day under Jegora’s tutelage. The finer arts of the Sith and Jedi might elude him, but if it was one thing Jegora could teach it was the martial skills. When Jegora arrived, the three were softly talking amongst themselves, but that ended as soon as they caught sight of their master.

The apprentices had never seen Jegora like this. Oh, they had seen him wield a lightsaber in training, and they knew that he had once been a member of an Order akin to the Sith and Jedi of legend, but they had never seem him dressed in the formal robes of the Order and wielding a real lightsaber. They stared openly at Jegora as he approached, mouths hanging open slightly.

York was the first to recover, falling back on her usual glibness. "Got any of those fancy robes for us?" she asked, her voice only quavering slightly. Jegora figured it was finally settling in that this might not be a walk in the park after all. The trio was used to danger, but they were also used to fighting with a whole company of men at their backs. This would be different.

"No robes," Jegora replied dryly. "But I have something else you might be interested in."

With that he drew the shorter cylinder from his belt and tossed it to York, who caught it by reflex. Now Jegora could really feel her surprise.

"This is a loan, not a gift," Jegora explained. "I want that back. But you’ve come far in your training and I don’t know what we’re going to find, so you deserve to be well armed."

Jegora nodded to his other two apprentices. They were twins, brother and sister, and were barely eighteen. They had been with Jegora not even a year, but they were learning fast. The boy, Atle, had a natural skill with the Force that Jegora had rarely seen. His sister, Prin, was less subtle in her skill but possessed more natural power. Despite their talents, however, they were not ready for real lightsabers. Jegora had doubts as to whether or not they should even accompany him to the planet’s surface, but he had kept them in training long enough. It was now they would sink or swim, and where better to have their first real test other than Lopen itself.

"You two stick close," he said, his voice full of iron and brooking no argument. "Follow orders and don’t do anything stupid and you’ll probably be fine." The pair quickly nodded, their faces growing pale as Jegora spoke. "We don’t know what we’re going to find down there, but I will tell you from experience that Lopen is full of surprises and is brutally unforgiving. Remember your training and you’ll survive. Do something stupid and you’ll regret it, at least until it kills you."

Convinced that the young apprentices got the message, Jegora turned his attention back to York, who was still admiring the lightsaber in his hands. "You, don’t get ahead of yourself. That weapon will just as easily be a liability as it will an asset. Keep your wits about you and, like I told the twins, try not to do anything too stupid."

York only nodded, and Jegora knew it was a sing of how nervous she was that she didn’t respond with some witty remark. Satisfied that his apprentices understood the risks, he motioned for them to board the assault shuttle and then followed them up the ramp. Once they were all aboard the ramp slid closed with a hiss, locking into place, and Jegora settled in behind the pilot’s console.

"Alright droid," he said, "plot us a course to the main set of ruins on the surface. We want to get in low and quiet." The astromech beeped in response and Jegora keyed the ship’s direct line to the Charolette’s bridge.

"Captain, we’re ready down here. Requesting launch authorization."

Stolk’s voice crackled to life, echoing throughout the eerily empty shuttle, which was designed to hold two dozen men and equipment but now just held four beings and a droid. "Permission granted, Fal. Happy hunting. We’ll keep you informed if anything develops up here.”"

Running his hands over the familiar controls, Jegora increased the power to the engines and the shuttle’s repulsers started to lift it off the hanger deck. "Much appreciated bridge. Fal out." Turning off the comms, he motioned to the astromech and said, "take us out, droid, nice and easy."

With another beep, the droid did just that, and the shuttle smoothly slid out of the Charlotte’s hanger bay and into the blackness of space. Jegora watched as Lopen began to steadily grow closer and closed his eyes, feeling the nervousness and excitement rolling off his apprentices. That was good. Nervousness would keep them alive, hopefully, and excitement proved that they had the courage to face this challenge. There was even a bit of fear, but that was okay too. Fear would make them strong. And truth be told, Jegora was a little bit afraid himself, although he had an iron grip on his fear and would have never admitted it. Still, it had been a long time since he had been to Lopen, and he had no idea what to expect on the surface. Stolk’s strange sensor readings only had him more wary. Add to the fact that his last visit to Lopen had led to the shattering of the Order and Jegora had more than enough reason to be cautious about returning to the planet.

But as the planet grew steadily closer, Jegora also felt his own excitement grow. His memories of Lopen were not all pleasant (in fact, very few at all even approached pleasant), but somehow, for some reason, it was still home. His dream had been driving him back here for months, and now he was finally here. The Force was churning, and although Jegora didn’t know what he would find, he knew it was going to alter the course of his life significantly. Tasting adrenaline in the back of his mouth, Jegora couldn’t help but grin. He suddenly realized that he had been on the sidelines long enough. Whatever he was going to find, whatever was going to happen, he was ready.

Or so he thought.

The course the droid plotted down to Lopen’s surface took too long for Jegora’s liking, but he couldn’t fault the droid’s navigational abilities. They came in on a shallow decay orbit against the planet’s natural rotation, skimming just over the desert surface at high speed. Watching out the shuttle’s front viewport, Jegora watched the empty horizon as the droid kept the ship just a few dozen meters above the ground. He was a fair pilot himself, but the crew had invested heavily in several state-of-the-art astromech/pilot droids, and he was more than content to let the machine handle the work. It handled the approach far better than he could have.

Suddenly the Citadel’s black spires pierced the horizon, rising up out of the desert like a clawing, black hand stretching out of a cold grave. Even at this distance it was intimidating, and Jegora was reminded that the Citadel was much, much older than the Order. Whomever had built the massive fortress had built to last, and his own Order had merely tenanted the structure for a time. The Citadel emanated such an aura of permanence that Jegora couldn’t help but be reminded of his—and his Order’s—own mortality, and he grimaced at the unpleasant thought.

But it wasn’t just the Citadel that was making Jegora uneasy. This close to the planet’s surface, he could feel the echo in the Force that belied the absolute and unnatural absence of life. The wrong-ness of it permeated everything, and the as the droid brought them closer to what was once the heart of the Order’s power, Jegora felt the tremors in the Force grow even stronger.

And then, surprisingly, he felt something else, something he couldn’t place. The feeling tickled the back of his mind, trying and failing to find purchase in old memories. It was like forgetting a word that was on the tip of your tongue, and that sensation too grew stronger as the shuttle drew closer to the Citadel.

The shuttle’s comlink beeped with an incoming message and York quickly moved to answer it. A miniature Stolt leapt to life on the console’s holodisplay.

“Be advised, shuttle, long range scans indicate you’re not alone. At least one fighter-sized craft hidden in the fortress’ shadow.” Stolt paused, hesitating slightly before continuing. “Trill says the structure is preventing his scans from getting any useful readings, so we have no idea what’s hiding in the structure itself. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Jegora was only half listening. As soon as Stolt had relayed the message about the parked fighter, the Force had started pulsing around him. “Too late, Captain,” he said after a long second, realizing that York and the twins were looking at him to respond. “We’re here.”

______


The droid brought the shuttle in for a smooth landing right next to the fighter craft. Thermal scans with the shuttles’ sensors showed that the ship’s engines were still hot, meaning that it hadn’t landed all that long ago. A few hours, at most.

“Droid, keep an eye on that fighter. If it sends a signal, powers up its main reactor, or even so much as twitches, blow it off the pad.”

The droid beeped happily in acknowledgement, and Jegora heard the shuttle’s heavy laser cannons spin around to focus on the fighter. Jegora tilted his head towards the back of the ship and the four of them made their way out of the cockpit through the crew hold. York hit a button on their way by and the ramp began to lower, revealing Lopen’s dusty surface. Seemingly without hesitation, although internally he was far less sure of himself, Jegora strode down the ramp and set foot within the Citadel for the first time in a long time.

If the sense of wrongness had been strong before now it was almost overwhelming. Even the apprentices gritted their teeth against the sensation, which seemed to emanate from the central tower in front of them. Jegora also noted that one of the stone doors leading into the central spire was open. Again a sensation of familiarity spiked through the Force, and Jegora let it wash over him as deeply as he could, drawing on all his power to try and decipher the meaning of the message. After another long moment he relaxed slightly and sighed, frustrated—despite his training over the last several years, such subtle interpretations were still beyond his skill.

Drawing his power in tight around himself, Jegora went through the once-familiar exercise of purging all emotion from his mind. He clamped down on his fear and uncertainty, even his excitement, with an iron will. He would harness those emotions, use them as fuel as necessary, but he would not otherwise let them affect his actions. This was a technique that Jegora hadn’t used in a while, and so it took him longer than he would have liked to achieve control, but he had learned that particular skill very early on in his training on Lopen and his Masters in the Order had been especially diligent in making sure that their students remembered what they were taught.

Glancing at his apprentices, all of whom were looking a little unsure of themselves, Jegora motioned towards the spire’s great stone door. When he spoke, his voice was cold as ice, flat and emotionless and full of steel. His eyes flashed purple-gray, the color of storm clouds at sunset, and he saw his apprentices start in surprise at the sudden change in his demeanor. This was yet another side of their master that the three young ones had never seen before.

“Be ready,” he warned. “This place is old, full of memory. Full of hate. It does not easily tolerate trespassers, if it decides we are such.”

York nodded and the twins followed suit. Jegora eyed all three of them one last time before sweeping forwards towards the open door. As he pushed his way across the threshold and into the darkness beyond, he felt something new from the Force, and itch at the base of his neck. He glanced around the shadows of the cavernous hallway, trying to figure out what his instincts were telling him now, but he was distracted by memories of his time on Lopen and at the Citadel. As an Initiate he had travelled this same path to the Citadel’s central audience chamber. The memory was so strong he could almost taste the fear he had felt then as a young man confronted with things beyond his understanding. He could almost see the other Initiates around him, being ushered in for an audience with the then-headmaster of the Order, the one they called Japheth. He could almost smell the sweat and dull odor of decay that had, at that time, permeated the entire Citadel. His mind reeled, and he started to lose himself in the memory.

He was a dozen steps inside before he realized what was happening, and by then it was too late. Drawing on his power, he banished the memory from his mind, reasserting his will and stilling his thoughts. At the same time he whirled, his lightsaber flying off his belt and into his hand in one smooth motion. With a thought he activated the weapon, revealing a dull blue blade slightly more than a meter in length. His apprentices, close on his tail and now between him the door, started in surprise, clearly uncertain what was going on. The ambush quickly became clear to them when the door to the courtyard slammed shut behind them. This time they spun around at the noise, just in time to see a second lightsaber flick to life out of the shadows in front of them. Nervously they glanced back and forth between this newcomer and Jegora, hands going to their own weapons. Jegora shook his head slightly, ordering them to stay still. All they could do now was get themselves killed.

“Ah, and the trap is sprung,” the newcomer who was now blocking their exit said softly. “And who, pray tell, are you all?”

Jegora didn’t respond immediately. The sound of that voice had triggered a memory. The Force nearly shouted at him, and the last piece fell into place. Jegora couldn’t see the newcomer clearly—the would-be ambusher was only half-lit by the wavering green/white glow from his weapon—but he had no doubt about the identify of his assailant.

“Sharpe’s lackey,” he said, not responding to the man’s question. His voice still lacked any emotion, but no one in the hallway missed the way his eyes flashed in the dull reflected light from the two lightsabers. “Tikarian. This is certainly a surprise. I suppose I have you to thank for that little trip down memory lane?”

Something on Lopen changed. The Force reverberated, turning Bloodhound’s red eyes outward, to the surface.

Fal.

An interesting change of pace, but one for another time. Here, in the darkness, there was no time for anything but the scents and sounds around him. The whole tunnel reeked of soap and sweat, and of food on heavy breath. Each sound of movement added to the picture, each shifting of weight, each foot fall, every muffled clink of metal and creak of leather. There were four, and they all smelled of fear and soft beds.

The Mongrel waited for them to make a move, to come closer, to ignite a lightsaber, to reach out with The Force, but nothing came. Just more of the same sounds and same scents, until he groaned and pulled The Force into him, wrapping his mind in a maelstrom of energy, of white hot power. The illusions disappeared, like a switch had been thrown, and The Mongrel made a mental note that this tunnel was no longer safe. His eyes turned again to the surface, and lingered.

He wondered if it was daylight up there, if he’d have to check, but this interruption was too significant to ignore. When he’d warded his mind, Fal had not left it. He was here, on Lopen. He itched a scab on his head until his fingernail peeled back, then shook his hand until the broken nail flew free. There were other problems to deal with first.

He reached out his left hand, feeling the stone wall, rough after so many centuries beneath the earth. He pulled The Force in, the heat and the sickness, and shoved it into his arm until the stone began to melt beneath it. He poured The Force into the handprint until it glowed, then until it glowed brightly, then a touch more until it continued after he removed his hand.

Then he set to work. His time on Lopen, however long it had been, had given him time to learn many things in his search for a way to dodge a death that he knew was coming soon. The ancient alchemies of the Sith were among the most valuable, and he set about his work, pulling from a small blood spattered satchel the ingredients needed to ward another tunnel. Once the powders and potions, things made to hold Force energy and manipulate it, sat in a semicircle before him, though, he stood and he paced.

It wasn’t the only tunnel that lead further down, but it was the most direct. He’d warded to few tunnels, and each was a calculation. He couldn’t risk the Reborn finding his safehouse, but avoiding this tunnel, now that the malignant presence knew he used it, would slow him. He could ward his mind, but only so much, and for so long. He chewed on a strand of black hair for a moment until it cut into his lips the taste of his own acrid blood reminded him of something.

He returned the ingredients to his pouch, and, from a smaller one on his belt, took forth a red crystal. The light began to dim, but the crystal refracted even that. He put it in the burning handprint, holding it in with his palm as he recited the words and poured Force into it. The words had no power themselves, but it was how they made the mind work, and the subconscious jump in circles, that affected the way The Force would be stored in the crystal. With that done, and the light finally fading, The Mongrel retreated down the tunnel, back to his safe house.

The safehouse could be called a cave, or a sanctum, or a hermitage really, Mongrel called it a safehouse because had been a criminal and that’s what they called safe places. Hideout was a bit passé. It was really more a cave though. Books sat piled on ramshackle tables, a chalkboard had been found, recovered, and set up in one corner. The walls were covered in writing and glyphs, many burned into the stonework and the tools for distillation and manipulation of alchemical components were arrayed against one wall. There was no bed, Mongrel hadn’t needed on in a long time, The Force sustained him and destroyed him. He was more aware of the rot now than he’d ever been, and at some point during his time in the darkness, he had realized it would kill him. The books were largely arcane in nature, most dealing with alchemy of the body, though they were difficult to understand when they could be understood at all and many were just the ravings of madmen. Mongrel hadn’t set up this safehouse, a blackened skull he kept on his main desk was all that remained of the original occupant, though what had happened to him was as mysterious as the visions and illusions that plagued the catacombs.

Mongrel could move freely below ground, but above ground the winds and the weather ripped at his decaying body, and so he returned to find protection. It was a mishmash of Reborn armor and clothes pilfered from above grounds. He’d found early on that wearing a helmet did more damage than good, so he wore a mask and goggles under a hood. Everything was scarred and patched, and what could be painted black was.

Fal will fix this, or he will die.

Mongrel felt into the pouch he’d pulled the crystal from, just one left, the important one. He closed his fist around it, feeling it under the thin leather gloves. The temptation to use it was strong, it was always strong, but Mongrel had a task to complete, and so, he dove back out of the safehouse, running, to the tunnels that lead to the surface, to that pinprick of hate, Jegora Fal. There was no quick way out of the catacombs, and Mongrel hoped, with no expectation of it being realized, that it was still day above ground.

Zev felt himself losing control of the situation.  Fal was getting angry, and Zev didn’t think he’d like the brute when he was angry.

He had to keep tempers contained for just a few minutes more.  Zev had been observing the curious quartet since they first arrived - with his physical senses and with his metaphysical ones - and his reconnaissance had revealed a point of weakness that he could exploit.  If only he had a little more time.

“I’m sincerely sorry Fal,” Zev said, careful to keep his tone earnest and conciliatory, and injecting a note of regret.  “It’s a terrible habit.  Sometimes I do it without even realizing.”  And sometimes I do it on purpose.

The three apprentices looked utterly confused, their consternation palpable.  The poor dears didn’t understand what their elders were discussing.  Indeed, at their stage of development it was even possible that they couldn’t understand.

But Jegora Fal understood.  He knew what it meant to penetrate deep into another’s psyche, to wrestle their soul into submission, and to subjugate their will.  His own talents may have lain elsewhere, but Fal had spent enough time in the Order to witness extreme acts of mental domination first hand.  He’d been forced to observe others succumb to thralldom as part of his training, as had Zev.  Forced to examine the unspeakable violation from close up, using all his physical and metaphysical senses.  Conditioned to feel both the victim’s fear and the assailant’s hatred.  And taught to feed off of the hurt and the horror to fuel his own dark power.

This place was one hell of a boarding school, Zev reflected.  He suppressed a sudden urge to shiver.  Memories were a distraction.

For his part, Fal simply folded his arms skeptically.  The gesture accentuated the man’s intimidatingly massive muscles.

Zev plowed on.  “We were peers once, Jegora,” he said, deciding on impulse to risk the use of the man’s first name.  “Comrades.”

The hulking Sith’s only response was another grunt.

Such a dazzling conversationalist, Zev thought, his inner voice charged with so much sarcasm that it was difficult not to betray his feelings through his body language.  But at least he seems a bit less… volatile.

Zev didn’t know whether Fal was responsible for making countless lifeforms disappear.  All he knew was that his Mistress had sent him to Lopen to confront a mysterious threat, and his investigation had uncovered nothing besides a hostile Sith who hated his Mistress, accompanied by three armed apprentices.

A confrontation seemed inevitable, and Zev wanted the odds a bit more even if and when the fighting broke out.  He had to keep working on the young twins, delving deeper and deeper into their minds until he could control them completely.

Zev preferred to face dangerous situations with allies - willing or not - at his side.

But his stamina was flagging.  Maintaining the psychic camouflage required to hide his thoughts and feelings from Fal was exhausting.  He couldn’t maintain the facade forever, but he dared not drop his guard.  It was a race against himself: would his offensive manipulations succeed before his defensive illusions sputtered and failed?

Only if he could keep Jegora Fal listening.

Everything happened all at once.

Zev broke the twins simultaneously, smashing through their last mental defenses and starting to dissect their internal sense of self.  But there was no time to celebrate, because in the same moment he lost his grip on Fal.  Instantly, Zev felt the man drawing in Force energy, preparing to attack.  He knew he only had moments.

But after years of practice, Zev knew that it would only take him moments to program his new automata.  He cut off their access to empathy and amplified their fear until it was all-consuming.  He prodded at old psychic scars and reanimated secret traumas long buried.  And with one final effort, Zev transmuted the twins’ every remembered hurt into white-hot rage.

“Enough!” Fal bellowed, and he released a powerful wave of telekinetic energy.  All three of the brute’s students were thrown to the ground, and Zev could barely keep his footing in the torrent of malevolence.

When the wave passed, Zev let himself rest.  He retreated from his mental attacks and abandoned his attempts at emotional concealment.  He allowed himself to appear as vulnerable and pathetic as he felt.

Because he wanted Fal’s attention focused on him, not his pawns. The twins were already starting to stand up, their eyes hungry and bright in the darkness.  Zev felt his anticipation building.  That’s right, Fal, he thought.  I’ve run out of tricks; you’ve got me beat.  Revel in my defeat.  Gloat a little!  Just pay no attention to the pair of animals I’ve unleashed, sneaking up behind you...

But Jegora Fal refused to play along.  He noticed the twins advancing on him, and Zev could see he meant to neutralize them immediately.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Zev threw himself back into the duel, lancing out with telepathic barbs and spinning up auditory and visual hallucinations summoned from the darkest recesses of Fal’s subconscious.  He felt himself beginning to sag - the mental strain was starting to add up - but his spirits were restored when Fal staggered under the barrage of illusions.

Fal spun back around and locked eyes with Zev.  “Try not to kill them, York,” he called over his shoulder, “but do what you must.”

The gambit had worked!  Zev had turned a four-on-one fight into a one-on-one duel.

The only teeny, tiny, weensy little insignificant problem was that the matchup still pitted him against one of the best duelists he had ever met.

As if on cue, Fal drew his lightsaber.  There was a loud snap-hiss and the blade extended, bathing the chamber in soft blue light once again.

Zev had to admit: Fal was downright scary when he wanted to be.  He flashed his fellow darksider a tired smile, and shrugged off the heavy robe he’d pulled on over his flight suit.  Here goes nothing, he said to himself.  He drew his own lightsaber and thumbed the activation button.  A green glow commingled with the blue.

With great effort Zev stilled his racing thoughts and slowed his heartbeat, readying himself for the challenge ahead.  He held his saber vertically in a traditional salute, and then flicked the blade down and away to indicate readiness.  Even as he did, he sensed Fal’s anger boil over.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and just as his foe shifted his weight to begin a charge, Zev winked at him.  Better to project the aura of a predator than the posture of a prey animal.

By the time Fal had taken a single step, Zev had already transferred his lightsaber to his left hand and drawn an elegant holdout blaster pistol with his right, all in one smooth motion.  He opened fire, hurling angry red bolts at his rapidly-approaching foe.  The first shot went wide, and Fal deflected the second and third.  But by then they’d both found their rhythm, and when Fal sent the fourth shot whizzing back at Zev, the latter didn’t even try to return the serve with his own lightsaber.  He simply dodged.  Zev contorted his body with unnatural flexibility and speed to avoid the shot, and his lightsaber swung wildly as he awkwardly tried to regain his balance.  But throughout it all, he kept shooting.

The constant pressure finally paid dividends: a single blaster bolt hit Fal in the shoulder hard enough to rock him back.  But the maniac kept up his advance, and Zev knew he was almost in melee range.

He had one last trick to try.  He kissed his blaster’s engraved laroon wood grip farewell, and lobbed the gun underhanded at Fal.  It was a pitiful toss, and the weapon sailed through the air in a slow, gentle arc.  Fal looked appropriately contemptuous, and easily batted the pistol away with his saber.

But when he did, the blaster’s power cell exploded.

Zev couldn’t tell whether the blast had inflicted any damage, but it didn’t really matter.  He was already taking advantage of the distraction to line up his first slash, aimed at the same shoulder he’d shot moments before.

But Fal’s blade was there to intercept.

And so the duel began in earnest.

OOC:

The beginning of this is a little long, just to recap stuff from a different POV.  I hope the last few 'graphs are enough for you to work with, Jeg (and Mongrel!).

Lightsabers flashed as Jegora smoothly intercepted and redirected Tikarian’s thrust. Good thing I wore the armorweave, he thought to himself, his shoulder aching slightly from the force of the blaster bolt. He had underestimated Tikarian and the man had proved more resourceful than Jegora had anticipated, but now that the battle was joined in earnest all of that was moot.

Rotating his weapon, Jegora tested Tikarian’s outer defenses, letting loose a quick offensive flurry aimed more at forcing Tikarian to expend energy deflecting Jegora’s strikes than at causing any real harm. The sequence was fairly basic, and Tikarian deflected or redirected all of Jegora’s attacks with ease, but as the Dark Jedi was forced to focus more and more on his blade-work the mental assault he had been maintaining on Jegora’s psyche lessened considerably. Jegora felt some slight satisfaction at that, but he had already underestimated the man enough for one day. He would not do so again.

Jegora kept his movements tight and precise, conscious that the corridor, no matter how large, really kept him from leveraging his superior strength against his opponent. His blade flashed again and again, constantly pressuring Tikarian’s defenses and forcing the man to react rather than take the initiative.

This is what Jegora was good at. He may have lacked the telepathic talents of some of his peers, and the skills of the mind often escaped him. He couldn’t look into the future or the past like the seers of the Order, and he couldn’t conjure illusions and manipulate emotions like Tikarian and his ilk. But with a blade, in contest of skill and strength, Jegora was formidable. And of course his telekinetic abilities were unrivaled save for the Masters of the Order.

After several seconds of back and forth, Jegora began to get a feel for Tikarian’s blade work. Unless the man was even more wily than Jegora thought, he was a competent but uninspired swordsman. His blade work was proficient, but relatively simple. He had learned the basics and had learned them well, but Jegora could tell his skills were rusty.

Jegora’s were not. He might not have dueled blade to blade for some time, but he had kept up a strict training regimen using practice sabers and an assortment of bladed weapons, going so far as to equip the Charelotte with a training room designed specifically to hone his skills.

Time to turn up the pressure, he thought dispassionately. Then he really began to move, his blade turning faster and faster as he poked and prodded, constantly forcing Tikarian onto the defensive. The Dark Jedi was forced to give ground in the face of Jegora’s assault, and the mental assault lessened further.

Jegora didn’t know how York was fairing, but he knew that technically the young woman was far ahead of either of his other apprentices. Combined, however, they would prove a challenge for her if they worked together, but Jegora doubted the twins were acting very rationally or collaboratively in their Force-hypnotized state. Jegora was focused on Tikarian, and now he had the man on the run. A few more moments and this fight would be over.

If he looked closely, Mongrel could see the exact moment the more experienced apprentice realized they were out of their depth. She saw him before anyone else, and held her composure even as he barreled into the male apprentice, grabbed him by the collar and flung him at her, but she stepped to the side and let him fly into his twin, the two of them sprawling across the floor in tangled limbs. She even managed to dodge a low kick and a jab, her stance unbroken. No, she didn't realize what was happening until she counter attacked. Mongrel saw so much of Fal in her stance, her defense, and her attack that it just enraged him. It was clear she didn’t know how to fight something like Mongrel though, his fighting style was nothing like Fal’s, there was no discipline, and no training, just passion and improvisation. Her counterattack was slow, so much slower and clumsier than Fals that Mongrel swatted the blade aside with contempt. It burned his glove, but the energy he held so tightly meant the silver blade did little more than singe a hand that already had smoke rising from it. That was when she hesitated, and that was when Mongrel gave her a wide haymaker in the jaw. He wasn't trying to kill her, but the force of the blow knocked her down and the kick that followed it knocked her cold.

The twins were untangling themselves; Mongrel didn’t know if they'd be themselves or not, but he didn't care, he didn't know who those selves were. He spared a glance for the Dark Jedi engaged in their asinine duel and shook his head. It only took a couple steps for him to reach the twins, but he already had a vial in his hand. He wasn’t sure if or how well this would work, but he pulled the stopper and, channeling the Force, used one finger to draw a symbol on the males temple, as he finished and energy poured into the symbol, the flesh bubbled and burned, nothing that wouldn’t heal, and the apprentice went unconscious. He copied the procedure with the woman, though she had more time to recover and was harder to hold down. He practically had to sit on her chest and hold her head still with his other hand, but it was done in a moment.

He wasn't entirely sure how the warding would affect a person; he'd never used it this way before. They didn't appear to be dead, so that was a start. No time to worry over trivialities though, he scooped up the lightsaber and two training sabers just in case and turned his full attention to the duel, though he could only hear the sounds of combat, it having moved around a corner. Combat was good though, it meant, for the moment, they were both alive. Mongrel doubted that would last much longer, Fal was a right bastard, but he was an excellent duelist, it was the only reason Mongrel hadn't killed him yet.

There it was again, the raw anger, tearing at what little remained of the wall he built between himself and The Force so many years ago. Every slight, every black eye, Fal had visited upon him came flooding back all at once and Mongrel ground his teeth keeping it in check.

He didn't hold it back completely, just enough to remain in control and pulled in as much as he could, filling himself again, heightening his senses and speeding his muscles. He launched himself again in the direction for the fray, letting the heat rising inside him propel him, the corner came quickly, and when it did, he grabbed the wall to help redirect his momentum, leaving a glowing red impression on the stonework.

He'd been right about the fighters, Fal was in his element here, the battle playing precisely to his strengths. Fal’s strikes were even, measured, each maneuvering of the blade so that even when he was attacking, there was blade and distance between him and his opponent. It was a fighting style that grated at Mongrel’s decaying nerves. An overzealous parry gave Fal all the opening he needed, a quick snap of his wrist and the blade would, at best, remove an arm, but Fal never got the chance.

Mongrel wasn’t quite in range to interfere, but he did have three lightsabers, so he pulled one of the training sabers off his belt and, activating it, hurled it at the back of Fal’s head. They might be oblivious to the fight outside them, but even if Fal didn’t turn to deflect it, it would distract him.

Mongrel smiled as Fal turned, only slightly, his saber lashing out and knocking the flying toy against a wall where it clattered and lay, still humming. It wasn’t the distraction that made Mongrel smile though, it was the flash of recognition on Fal’s face when he saw the charging half-chiss. Mongrel’s mirth was short lived though, as Not-Fal took advantage of the distraction to thrust at Fal’s midsection, tugging Fal’s attention in the opposite direction of Mongrel. Fal was a fast and canny opponent though, and wasn’t about to ignore a threat that had, on more than one occasion, made attempts on his life. Still, it was enough for Mongrel to slip past Fal, deflecting a horizontal cut with his forearm and settling Mongrel between the two fighters.

Mongrel had hoped that when he slid between the two of them and made no move to attack, they would both pause, and while Fal did, outnumbered now, Not-Fal took the opportunity to thrust under Mongrel’s armpit towards Fal, a blow that Mongrel slapped away, knocking the blade against the stone wall. So it continued, the two fighting around Mongrel as much as fighting him, though the Not-Fal seemed to have realized Mongrel had no intention of attacking them because he mostly sniped at Fal.

Mongrel grew more irritated with each failed attack and each new burned hole in his protective gear. He had one trick, well two tricks. He wanted to keep the first a secret, he’d been saving it for a long time to use when he finally fought Fal, something the other couldn’t have known was coming, still, he’d have to waste it on this petty disagreement. He’d been pulling on The Force for too long now, the skin under his armor was already charring. He needed to end things.

It took only a heartbeat for him to find his chance, two attacks, a lunge from Not-Fal and a vertical strike from Fal. Mongrel caught the blades, hard things to hold, but the energy he used to protect his hands and burn the things he touched kept them bound, then he felt the energy in the blades. A lightsaber contained an incredible amount of it, both what was in use and what wasn’t, he called on The Force, and he pulled that energy into him. His ability to feel pain was, now, limited, but he felt this, as though the marrow of his bones were bubbling. Flames shot up his arms as he pulled on the energy, added it to his reserves, and he kept pulling until, in a moment that felt like millennia, the blades sputtered and disappeared.

“Alright, assholes,” Mongrel yelled, “You want to die so bad, why I don’t I just blow us all up right here, right now? Huh? Give the gods damn Citadel what it wants?”

“You’d die too,” Fal said, voice flat.

“I’m dying anyway, Two-Fists, and I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, you know damn well I can do this, so why don’t we put our toys away and use our gods damned brains,” Mongrel said, breathing heavy with the effort of pulling as much Force energy as he could into himself.

The sabers reignited, really all he could do was buy a moment, but there was a pause. Until Fal’s eyes fell on the two sabers hanging from Mongrel’s belt, then a pale blue blade was pointed at Mongrel’s face.

“They’re alive. Harmed, but alive,” Mongrel said, “I could have stabbed you in the back at any time, or killed them, but I didn’t. As for this,” Mongrel patted Fal’s old saber, “don’t you think you owe your apprentice something after abandoning him on this tomb?”

Mongrel had no intention of keeping the saber, he had little use for one, but perhaps it would remind Fal who he was dealing with and that, perhaps, if Mongrel wasn’t trying to kill him, there might be good damn reason.

It was all quite a lot for Zev to process.

Jegora Fal had bested him.  But then he’d been saved when a disgusting undead-looking Chiss had intervened, out of nowhere.  And then the icy wind had blown by, and their desperate flight into the depths began.

The journey was long and arduous.  Which gave Zev plenty of time to think.

The corpse-Chiss led them through lightless passageways, shambling along with surprising speed and occasionally muttering softly to himself in the dark.  Fal had called the red-eyed creature “Hond,” and eventually the memory came: Zev remembered that Fal had once had a pathetic apprentice by that same name.

But the creature scurrying headlong through the warren of tunnels under the Citadel was anything but pathetic.  Moelik Hond had changed since Zev had met him last.

The man’s raw power was impressive - scary, really - and the fact that he’d managed to channel that power using some kind of alchemical compounds was superlatively fascinating.  Mistress Sharpe had taught Zev the wisdom of studying the occult practices of the ancient darksiders, and although their lessons had been focused on the sorceries of the Krath sect, Zev was more than passingly familiar with the history of Sith alchemy.

But he’d never seen the arcane craft practiced in the flesh, so to speak.  The display was grotesque: equal parts disturbing and captivating.

Curious to learn more about what he’d witnessed, Zev gently probed the mind of the unconscious woman slung between him and the apprentice Fal had called “York.”  A throbbing, searing sensation of existential pain radiated from the brand Hond had burned into her forehead, completely obscuring whatever thoughts might exist beneath.  Zev grimaced, and shifted the young woman’s body so her head lolled over to rest on York’s shoulder instead of his own.

Temporarily controlling another’s thoughts was one thing.  Indefinitely imprisoning a being’s whole consciousness was… something else entirely.

Zev suddenly wondered whether Mistress Sharpe had sent him to Lopen not to fight the Reborn, nor to confront her old rival Fal.  Maybe he’d been sent to learn more about this savage, Hond.

It was at that precise moment that Fal and Hond started talking, at the head of the ragtag column.  Fal wanted to know more about this “Life Eater.”

Zev did too.  He listened intently, trying to keep pace while simultaneously trying to keep in sync with York’s groggy steps.

Moelik Hond was the only survivor of the mysterious system-wide catastrophe, the only living corporeal being in this planet-wide tomb.  It was apparent that he had survived alone for years in these catacombs, somehow avoiding both the Reborn and whatever evil entity pursued them now.  And he could command the Force in a dangerous - and novel - fashion.

Oh yes indeed.  Zev wanted very much to hear more from Moelik Hond.

The apprentices were becoming a problem, and not just because they were slowing the group down. They were dividing everyone’s attention, attention better spent on the surroundings. The Life Eater wasn’t the only thing to fear in the dark, many ancient traps lay unsprung and there were areas where The Force misbehaved, or was absent entirely. Mongrel knew the lay of the tunnels, but he was always vigilant travelling them, there was no telling what one might find in some yet undiscovered room or corridor, secrets were the norm and surprises plentiful.

“Stop,” he hissed, holding out an arm none of them could see.

He turned to where he could hear Fal moving. His step was long, and his boots fell hard in the dusty floor, even with the apprentice weighing him down. The other three shuffled and grunted, and when they stopped, the Not-Fal and the apprentice sat the unconscious one down almost gently.

“I need to mar that ward,” Mongrel said, “they’re slowing us down.”

He could hear Fal stiffen, “You’ve done enough.”

They were impossible, these Dark Jedi, always wanting to do the wrong thing at the wrong time, talk when they should run, fight when they should talk, and mistrust when they should trust.

“Then wake them up, kick them if you have to, or leave them, but we’re not going to make it anywhere moving like this. There’s more here than that thing,” said, digging his finger into his arm as he absently chased an intense itch.

“What do you mean?” The Not-Fal asked.

“What I said,” Mongrel said, the idea of hiding the irritation in his voice never occurred to him.

Sound caught Mongrel’s ears, but not the expected ones, a soft groaning and the shuffle of movement from the floor, Mongrel tensed, then relaxed when he realized it was the apprentice they’d set down. That was a start, it was waking up.

“where. . .I can’t see,” the unfamiliar voice said, panic creeping in, “I can’t see, Master Fal,”

There was a shuffle of movement and the sound of a hand going over a mouth.

“Quiet,” York hissed.

There was a moment of silence, and Mongrel waiting for any sign of discovery, but there was none. He forced a sigh of relief a moment too soon. Down the corridors began a soft blowing of dust that began to pick up. The wardings kept it out of their minds and kept them safe from discovery in The Force, but it did not block out sound, and they were being loud in halls that had heard only silence and terror for millennia.

“What you hear can distract you, what you see can kill you. Follow me, stay silent, ignore the halls and turns, focus on me, and for all the stars: No. Light.”

Mongrel ran as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn’t bother sticking to the warded tunnels, it was impossible to stick to just them and move quickly anyway, but he’d been playing it safe with the large group. The time for safety had passed, speed was all they had left. He said nothing as he turned them down a corridor he’d left untouched. He pulled The Force into him to propel him forward, with any luck, they’d keep up.

It wasn’t log before the tricks began. They started with the old favorites, the sounds of his friends, The Mountain Dogs, baying at the moon, sounds from so far in his past that they were barely remembered, the sounds of battles followed, but no light from blasters or sabers made those illusions easy enough to ignore. He dodged to the left when he heard a club rushing through the air and cursed himself a fool for not ignoring it. He heard Fal and Not-Fal, and all of the apprentices call after him, demand that he slow, threaten him, tell him one had been hurt, but he ignored it. Even if it weren’t a trick, they were dead now if they stopped.

Based on the echo, they were in paths he travelled frequently, the layers of dust and dirt were thin. There were roughly hewn and build corridors in these catacombs, perhaps some were natural, but some were definitely made by someone, built of stone and mortar, and they ran through one of these. Mongrel couldn’t tell anyone exactly how he navigated, except maybe experience. He’d been powerless once, and hidden paths were the greatest boon to the powerless, and now he was powerless again. Whatever the thing was, it was a greater power than he and he despised that knowledge. So he ran, and he lead the others, by what he could hear, they followed at a jilted pace.

He was near his safehouse, but the wind was howling in his ears. Whatever was coming, was coming soon, and he couldn’t risk it finding the safehouse, if that meant leaving the others as bait, so be it. He wouldn’t hesitate, but he wasn’t there just yet.

Mongrel stopped dead, and as the others came to a halt behind him, he marched to the other side of them. He pulled one of the vials from his pouch, he didn’t need to see it to know it held green sand, made from infusing a crushed lightsaber crystal with his own Force energy and some rather unpleasant Reborn based ingredients. It took hours, at least, in a crucible heated by his own hands to make, and now he’d lose it all. A high price to pay for helpless help.

He poured the sand out on the ground in a line from wall to wall and put both hands on the ground, fingers touching it. Pulling on The Force, he pushed as much power as he could into it. Flames flickered on his shoulders, shedding a dangerous amount of light, but it only lasted a moment, the flames pulled into the sand and with a sound like thunder, a wall arose. Not something of stone or steel, but a wall no less for being invisible.

Mongrel let out a long breath, then returned to his feet, pulling The Force into him again to fill where it had been emptied. His head was light, but he pushed on. He would not die, not after wasting so much of something he couldn’t replace, and not for these people, not for anyone.

“Come, it’s not far,” Mongrel said, he stumbled once, but caught himself on the wall.

The well of Force Energy in him was almost refilled by the time they reached to steel door. He put his hand over the lock and the bars holding it shut slid out of the way. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“We’re here, inside,” He said.

They didn’t move, instincts of mistrust getting in the way again.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. Stay out here if you want, but when you’re pounding on my door, screaming, I won’t let you in,” With that, Mongrel stepped into his safehouse.

They followed, of course they did. What other options did they have? When they were all in, he slammed the door. The room was dark for a moment, until Mongrel found one of the lights and turned it on. It was a jury rigged thing, part flashlight, part lightsaber power supply. There were a few disassembled lightsaber’s laying around, captured Reborn things, largely primitive, but effective. Mongrel found the power supplied particularly useful, and crystals were capable of so many more interesting things than a glorified flashlight.

Mongrel inhaled, pulling The Force into him. The recently awakened woman looked around, her face lost. Fal looked around, searching for something, and, not finding it, laid his apprentice down on the ground with far more care than Mongrel had seen from the man in the past.

What mercy, was it a question, or a statement? Mongrel did not know. 

“We’ll be safe here for a time, but I fear you have exposed my safehouse,” Mongrel growled, “we’ll need to move soon.”

Fal barely looked over his shoulder at Mongrel, “they need rest.”

There was no time for rest down here, what about that didn’t they understand? Mongrel shrugged.

The outside threat set aside for a time, light restored, and the tensions rose again. They’d have questions, Mongrel didn’t want to waste time answering them, but he’d pushed his luck as far as he could.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Fal and Not-Fal looked at each other, then quickly away. York was trying to calm the awake twin, but Mongrel ignored them, they’d proven themselves useless. The Dark Jedi, though, them he needed.

“You two clearly know each other, but I’m afraid you have my at a disadvantage,” The Not-Fal said, “I am,” a considering pause, “Tikarian.”

“Mongrel,” Mongrel said, there was nothing to elaborate on.

“It might be easier to trust someone if we could see their face,” Tikarian said.

Mongrel had to laugh, a loud, brief cough of a laugh, “you want to see my face? Fair enough,” Mongrel said. Mongrel turned to the apprentices, “Tell me, little ones, did ole Two-Fists tell you what happened to his other apprentices? Where this path leads?” Mongrel smiled behind his mask, “why don’t I show you, show you what comes with following a man so cowardly that he’d leave his apprentice to die rather than face the consequences of his actions?”

He reached up and threw the hood back, revealing a skull wracked by open wounds, healing wounds, and infected wounds, the black hair still clinging in stringy clumps. He took off the goggles next, revealing more of his decaying blue skin and the red eyes, dim now and covered in inky swirls, eyes that should be sightless. The mask came last, and bits of rotten flesh stuck to it, revealing teeth blackened by corrupted blood and spittle, rotten, and lips that split and bled. Up one side of his neck ran recent burns, the skin charred and black, from pulling on so much of The Force so frequently. He rolled his neck, cracking it. He had to laugh at their faces. What had they expected? Then he shrugged, the mirth passed, and gloom took its place, he was dying and his body showed it.

“If you have questions, I’ll answer as I can,” he said, “but I need your help, and it might just keep you alive long enough to hate me.”

It took all the willpower Zev possessed to suppress his urge to smile.  The others would no doubt misinterpret his sudden feelings of relief and wry amusement.  Better to maintain the appearance of enigmatic aloofness for the time being.

But despite the foreboding danger that Zev perceived was closing in on the small company, he had finally regained a sense of control over events.

With the momentary respite from their desperate flight, the group members were beginning to talk to each other and make plans.  Zev knew all about talking.  And he knew all about making plans and seeing them through to completion. 

Fal asked the obvious question, and asked it directly: “Okay then, where do we go?”  Zev could appreciate earnestness.  Personally he preferred to deploy it strategically, but he knew that most people didn’t possess his own level of self-control.

But the response of the self-identified mongrel was even more transparently vulnerable.  “I… might know a place.  But it’s deeper.  Darker.”  The Force laid bare the poor creature’s all-encompassing fear.  “But it might have what you’re looking for.”

“What a fortuitous coincidence” Zev said, holding the being’s red-eyed gaze.  “Since it also has what you’re looking for.”

The rotting Chiss didn’t deny it.  He didn’t lash out with reflexive anger in a subconscious effort to redirect the conversation from the unexpected turn it’d just taken.

He merely squinted at Zev, and let out a quiet grunt.

Zev finally let himself grin, and turned to face the tired-looking little congery with arms outstretched, palms up.  “Isn’t it wonderful?  We’re all seeking the same thing!”

Fal was looking doubtful, arms crossed.  The York woman kept glancing between her master and Zev, uncertain.  The boy - Atle? - was comforting his sister - Prin? - and together they were fumblingly trying to reassert their individual senses of self, after the mind tricks and wardings they had endured.  Zev felt another small pang of guilt upon seeing the twins’ pathetic pietà.  But he wasn’t about to betray his own emotional weaknesses like the other two Dark Jedi had done.  He kept sweeping his gaze around the foul-smelling cell until he’d turned back to face the much-changed Moelik Hond.

It was time to deploy a little earnestness of his own.

“You’ve both been fairly upfront about your goals, and since we’re going to be working together I think it would be counterproductive for me to withhold my own reasons for being here.”  Notably, nobody objected to the bit about working together.  It seemed he had the floor for the moment, but that could change at any time.  He had to talk quickly and be succinct, but he also had to choose his words very carefully.

Given the circumstances, he was having entirely too much fun.

He backed up into a corner of the room so that everyone could see him properly.  “I’m here to solve a mystery, my unexpected comrades.  As we’ve all now seen for ourselves, something strange happened here.  Something bad.  I am responsible for protecting the lives of trillions of innocents, and whatever happened in this system could very well be a threat to those lives.  It warranted an investigation.”

“You’re here to play at being a detective, Your Majesty?” Fal’s tone was predictably incredulous and snide.

Zev’s smile never wavered.  “It’s ‘Your Imperial Highness’ actually, but it couldn’t make the least bit of difference - yes, I’m here to play detective.  Ruling an interstellar empire is less exciting day-by-day than renting myself out as hired muscle to a gang of ne’re-do-well nobodies..."

“...Oh stop, you brooding brute of a man,” Zev said teasingly as Fal shifted his weight and puffed up his chest in the universal sign of an insecure being sensing an insult to their pride and instinctively resorting to the threat of violence in response.  “I’m sure Stolk and the rest are lovely people once you get to know them.”

That stopped Fal in his tracks.  The realization that Zev had been able to read his mind to such an extent was no doubt unsettling.

“You’re wasting time!” Hond growled.

Zev’s eyebrows shot up, and he remembered the need to stay focused.  “Oh course you’re right,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

He went back to earnestness.  “My master is Mistress Kami Sharpe - you know her well, Fal - and she sensed this cataclysm from many sectors away.  She knew that something unnatural was happening here - she said the Force was being twisted somehow, ripped apart and sloppily stitched back together - and she sent me to observe the danger firsthand.  Her visions coincided with reports from my scouts and agents: reports of unusual activity by Thrawnist naval forces in this area.”  Zev couldn’t help but glance at Hond’s Chiss eyes as he mentioned the notorious Grand Admiral’s name.

“Define unusual,” the elder apprentice said.  Fal shot her a withering look.  Zev plowed on with his explanation, ignoring the sudden tension between them.

“Nothing has entered or left this system in months,” Zev said.  “Nothing.  My empire is at war with Thrawn’s, and we watch his fleets very carefully.  The man is a genius of strategic maneuvering: he anticipates threats and redeploys his assets ahead of time, to maximize the forces he can bring to bear in any conflict.  But he hasn’t redeployed anything to or from this system lately.  He’s fighting many wars on many fronts - he has had ample need to use the fleet he left here.  And yet the Shykar System stays quiet.  It even seems that his forces in the local area have withdrawn from Shykar's immediate surrounds, as if they’re engaged in a sort of quarantine-from-a-distance operation.”

He shrugged, as if the conclusion was self-evident.  “Thrawn is not to blame for what happened here, and a disturbance in the Force required something more subtle than a reconaissance-in-force action by my own navy.”  He smirked at Fal.  “So I came to play detective.”

“Anyway.”  The time for earnestness had passed.  He turned back to Hond.  “What’s down in the basement?”

Jegora and York had been together long enough that he felt the furnace of her white hot rage almost as an extension of his own emotions. He could only watch as the Mongrel tossed Jegora's own lightsaber back to the young woman and dared her to attack him, using the same taunt that Jegora himself had once directed at his former apprentice. The Mongrel hadn't taken him up on the offer all those years ago, but Jegora had a feeling that York was about to choose a different path.

He felt the rage spike in York, overwhelming her already tenuous self-control. York had been through some of the worst experiences of her young life, had been confronted with terrors and threats beyond her understanding. She had been forced to fight her friends, follow a verifiable madman blindly through dark catacombs, and had been chased by a formless terror that inflicted crippling hallucinations before eating you. Although he couldn't have said how, Jegora understood in a flash of insight that his apprentice had reached her breaking appointment. Instinctively he knew what his apprentice was going to do probably before she herself had made a decision.

York fumbled with the lightsaber for a brief second before she got a firm grip and her training kicked in. Muscle memory took over, and the young woman ignited the weapon with a simple flourish that belied her burgeoning skills. Still, Jegora knew that if she tried to attack the Mongrel, especially in her current state, things would end badly for her. Furthermore, the last thing they needed was to upset Jegora's former apprentice--like it or not, they were still reliant on the halfbreed to get them out of the catacombs alive.

So Jegora intervened from where he stood at the other side of the small chamber. He did so quickly, without conscious thought, and as a he result his response was harsher than any that York had suffered during her time as his apprentice. Some subconscious part of his brain recognized that this was just the type of response that Mongrel would recognized, but there was no time for subtlety.

From across the room, Jegora focused his will on his apprentice. He reached out through the Force and, with a finesse that few could match, plucked the lightsaber from York's hand and sent it flying into his own. At the same time, he lashed the young woman with the Force, driving her to her knees and holding her immobile.

York gasped as the air was driven from her lungs, her eyes wide and wild. Jegora watched carefully and saw the moment that reason returned to her eyes...along with something else that Jegora instantly recognized as the deep disappointment of one who feels they have been betrayed.

That look hurt Jegora more than he had thought possible, but as always he buried that emotion deep, fed it into the fire of power that burned at his core. He would have to deal with York later, and he knew that the young woman, already traumatized and unused to being treated so, would not be understanding. So be it. They had larger concerns.

Mongrel barked a laugh, a wet wheezing sound that reminded Jegora of an old man on his death bed. "There's the Master Fal I know and love," Mongrel chuckled, but Jegora could hear the edge to his words. How many times had the former apprentice suffered even more violent retribution for lesser offenses. Jegora cringed internally at the thought.

Jegora focused his gaze for a moment on the halfbreed but otherwise ignored the former apprentice's comments. The whole point was to avoid confrontation, and the Mongrel had proven himself not entirely unskilled and exceedingly volatile. Jegora wasn't scared of the creature as much as he had a burgeoning respect for the new dangers the halfbreed posed. Best, he thought, to continue on as if nothing had happened.

Jegora released his hold on York and spoke as calmly as he could. "See to the twins," he instructed, trying to brush past the altercation that had just taken place. He pulled a small canteen off his utility belt and tossed it to York. "Give them some water, see if they don't come around."

York caught the canteen gingerly and moved to obey, her previous rage now extinguished. But the look in her eyes as she did so told Jegora that there was going to be some work ahead to repair his apprentice's trust in him. The knife in his gut twisted, and Jegora's lips pressed into a thin line as he watched York turn away back towards the twins.

Glancing at Tikarian and the Mongrel, Jegora clipped the lightsaber he had taken from York to his belt next to his other weapon. "So you want to use their equipment," Jegora repeated, his voice completely lacking in emotion. "Why haven't you made use of it already? Seems you've been down here long enough to have the run of the place."

The Mongrel shook his head, setting the ruins of his greasy hair swaying. "Can't," the former apprentice said simply, and Jegora struggled to keep from grinding his teeth.

"Why not?" Tikarian followed up. "You seem like quite a capable fellow."

"Don't know," the Mongrel shrugged in response, and Jegora caught Tikarian rolling his eyes.

"What do you want to use it for?" Jegora asked, and again the Mongrel shrugged, this time not even bothering to answer. Or unable to articulate a viable answer. Jegora was becoming more and more suspicious that his former apprentice had gone even madder during his isolation in the catacombs below the Citadel than Jegora had previously thought.

Tikarian pushed away from the wall he was leaning agains, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck deliberately. "Seems pretty obvious to me: the Reborn were experimenting with ways to survive channeling large amounts of energy, and our friend here has a similar problem."

Mongrel growled, but nodded. Jegora thought for a moment. He was curious about the Reborn experiments, but he had already risked enough on Lopen. Not too mention what his apprentices had suffered. It had been a mistake to bring them to the surface, as ill-prepared as they were. He should force Mongrel to take them back to the surface right now, get on the shuttle, and rejoin the Charelotte. That would have been the perfectly sensible, logical thing to do, and Jegora was nothing if not sensible and logical.

Except not this time. Deep down he knew that he had to continue on, had to see these events through. If nothing else, the dream that haunted his subconscious demanded it. But as strange as it was, he also felt some sort of obligation towards the Mongrel. After all, the man had been his apprentice, his responsibility, and as such Jegora shared some blame for his current predicament.

If nothing else, Jegora knew he had to continue on simply to keep and eye on Tikarian--he didn't know what the other Dark Jedi was up to, but he suspected that the man would chase secrets through the ruins of the Citadel until the sun went nova. Jegora knew that someone had to try and keep things from getting too far out of hand, and he figured himself the only likely candidate.

"Fine," Jegora growled after a long, silent moment. "You think we can help you get into this lab?"

The Mongrel nodded. "Probably. You were always good at breaking things."

It was Tikarian's turn to snort a laugh, although the man had the decency to look surprised at his own reaction. "Sorry," he mumbled. "But you are good at breaking things."

Jegora shifted his weight and crossed his arms in front of his chest, choosing once again to ignore the side comments he didn't want to deal with. "And you can get us there? In one piece? The alchemy will keep that thing at bay?"

This time Mongrel hesitated longer before nodding. "Should work," he said, his raspy voice quavering slightly and not at all offering the reassurance Jegora was looking for. "If not, we won't last long."

Jegora closed his eyes. The Force help him, he may not have known what he was getting himself into, but he had a feeling it wasn't going to end well. Finally he nodded, and he thought that maybe the Mongrel looked a little relived. Curious.

"Well," Tikarian said, "you said this things hunts using illusions?" Mongrel nodded absently again, more interested in picking a scab on the back of his hand.

"Fantastic!," Tikarian cried, startlingly everyone in the room. With a big grin he continued, "good thing you have a master illusionist on your team."

Mongel stumbled.

These paths were well known, and he knew every sound and smell and touch of them, but still he stumbled. Now, running in the dark it was just another day, and now his exertions were catching up with him. He’d burned his arms, his neck, his torso, The Force had healed them, and he’d burned them again. The skin was charred enough that it was making moving difficult, not for pain, he’d long ago forgotten this kind of pain, just pure, mechanical, stiffness.
Could Fal hear it? Or, rather, notice its absence? There were only two sets of foot falls now.

Mongrel stumbled and crashed to his knees. He pushed himself up, but he heard Fal falter. That was probably for the best, Mongrel wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep up if Fal didn’t. Mongrel coughed and hacked until oil thick fluids and chunks spilled from his mouth, he was glad he couldn’t see them. One squirmed across his hand and he flicked it off. No time for trivialities.

“I’m fine,” Mongrel growled, pushing himself to his feet, “keep moving.”

The Force was slippery, and he was. . .tired? Is this what tired felt like? It had been so long. It was there, in him, powering him, the energy. He wiped his mouth with his burned glove and kept moving. Seven lefts, three rights, where the rough wall goes to stone and third one up is poorly hewn, then down, not up, but then down went up a bit first, and keep left at the five fork turn. Not far now. Just run.

At the first turn, Mongrel stopped, propping himself up on the wall. He heard Fal stop, but the older man said nothing. Mongrel was glad of that, he didn’t have the energy for more pointless conversation. It was taking everything to hold onto what he had. Fal was a brute, but not a dullard, he didn’t need to tell him they were waiting for The Tikarian.

“We need to wait,” Mongrel tried to cover up the wheeze with a growl, “if we do with just Sith,” wheeze,” I wouldn’t need both of you.”

Fal’s feet shifted in the sand, Mongrel could hear his heel push a loose bone to the side. He might not be at his best, but Mongrel knew they were on track, the bones would get more plentiful soon.

Mongrel was gasping for air, something he hadn’t needed much of in a long time. It was probably taking most of his well to keep the degradation of his body from consuming him. He might need to start eating soon and he wondered if he even still had enough anatomy left to do that. Wouldn’t matter anyway, there was no food on this tomb.

“You’re flagging,” Fal, so matter of fact.

Not such a secret, even in the dark Mongrel could hear Fal squaring up. It was no time for a fight. There had never been a time for a fight here. Another power filled Mongrel, rage. He had fought Reborn, survived these horrors, and now some jumped up soldier with delusions of importance was going start playing games with him. No.

“Maybe, if you two fuckwits hadn’t decided to start hitting each other with sticks,” his mouth was filling with blood and spit and he spit it all on the ground and a thick stream, “I wouldn’t have had to waste all this fucking energy on your fucking egos.”

A scream. Fal’s feet moved again, and, after a few seconds, Mongrel shifted his ears better. That might be the third, the Tikarian. Mongrel pulled on The Force, but it was barely coming. The anger, it did nothing, and it left with his next breath.

“Anything seem off to you, Two-Fists?” Mongrel hated this, but he would survive, “guard your mind as best you can, does anything change? Is the scream still there? Smells, the feel of the wall, anything, what is still there?”

He had expected a protest, but instead he just heard an inhale, and pause. Silence but for the scream. It was growing closer, footsteps. Mongrel listened for any repetition, any irregularity, but there were many, and that was a good sign.

“I smell rot, and. . .dryness. The scream is getting closer. The air moves, but it’s not wind,” Fal said, it wasn’t the normal hard voice he used, it was softer. He wasn’t filtering it. Mongrel didn’t know how someone like him tapped into The Force, but he knew Fal touched it in a very different way.

Mongrel nodded even if it couldn’t be seen, “then it’s real.”

Mongrel slammed against the wall, Fal’s hand shoving him, “what do you want, Hond?”

So he’d pushed his former Master too far now, “Through Victory, My Chains Are Broken. I just want my chains broken,” Mongrel said, wheezing, “Nothing more, nothing less.”

The grip tightened, but the footsteps grew closer.

Mongrel’s head was light, “flagging. If you break my chains, they’re no less broken.”

The hand didn’t let go, “can you move?”

“Yes,” the footsteps grew closer, “I can’t walk, but I can run.”

The hand released him. Had it been Fal? Mongrel couldn’t tell, but what was certain was Tikarian yelling “go, go, we need to go.”

So Mongrel went, left, he trailed a hand along the wall of the cavern, feeling the familiar bumps and breaks in it and, for a moment, it all felt normal.

The only Victory was survival.

He was alive.  Blood pounded in his still-ringing ears.  Afterimages of lightning flashes burned behind his eyelids.  The acrid smell of sweat and ozone hung thick in the darkness.  But he was alive.

Zev exhaled.  He was alive.

Jegora Fal’s breathing was ragged, but the man’s wheezing revealed: he was alive, too.

But just barely.  Zev heard the big man collapse, and he grimaced when he realized that the quiet sizzling sounds were most likely coming from Fal’s skin...

Without consciously decided to do it, Zev stepped up to the Sith in the blackness.  He reached out with his mind, offering to help as Fal wrenched his burned body back to standing.  The expected telepathic rejection flashed on cue, but the protest was weak; Fal’s rage was spent.

Zev took stock of his own emotional landscape: he catalogued relief, pride, residual fear.  And gratitude.

“Here, lean on me,” Zev said quietly.  The sizzling and the wheezing were the only response.

Somewhere over Zev’s shoulder, the mongrel grunted.

“Don’t be an idiot, Jegora,” Zev murmured as he gingerly laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.  The Sith’s armor was hot to the touch.  Zev felt Fal sway ever so slightly on his feet, so he slipped under his arm to prop him up, without another word.

From several paces away, the mongrel grunted again.  “This way,” the half-Chiss said unceremoniously.  “We’re getting close.”

Jegora drew in a breath through gritted teeth, took one halting step forward.  Zev put a hand on the bigger man’s chest, gently-but-firmly bringing him back to standing still.  A soft sound accompanied the return to stillness.  It might have been a sob.

“We’re resting,” Zev said to the mongrel.  “Join us.”  It wasn’t a suggestion.

Zev could feel Moelik Hond’s impatience, the spark of frustration.  He briefly considered a brute force mental assault to cow the blue-skinned weirdo, but dismissed the notion.  He needed his powers to patch up Fal.

“Or don’t,” he amended.  “But like I said, we’re resting.”  He guided Jegora down to a seated position on the floor.

Jegora was in a bad way. His labored breathing, the joints of his armor… there were a lot of wet noises coming from him.

Zev switched on his flashlight, cringed from the sudden brightness.  They were in a tiny chamber, little more than a wider-than-average length of tunnel.  He set the lamp down on the ground, ignoring the two skulls staring up at him from one corner.  And ignoring Moelik Hond’s red eyes watching him from the other side of the room.

Zev’s stomach turned when he saw the extent of Fal’s injuries.  He’d seen the Force channeled into lightning before, but this damage was extreme.  Suppressing a shudder, he plastered a smile on his face.  “Oh that’s not so bad,” he lied.  “A little TLC and you’ll be back to trying to kill me in no time.”

Jegora merely stared blankly.  Moelik Hond, for his part, leaned against a wall and slid down to a crouch, watching.

Zev let his vision blur into a soft focus, and narrowed his attention to his own breathing.  Three breaths in and out, and he was calm.  Clarity.  Moelik Hond, the chamber, the tunnel, the Citadel, Lopen, Shykar, the Empire, the Galaxy itself… all faded away.  There was only Zev, his breath, and the tortured presence that was Jegora Fal.

The medical interventions were straightforward.  Numb some of Fal’s pain receptors, strategically deploy clots in the blood, stimulate the production of various neurochemicals.  It was simple, though not easy.  The Force was pliant, but Zev was no master healer.

But the psychological interventions were an even more delicate matter.  Zev had to convince Jegora to trust him, over and over, throughout the entire process.  He pushed deeper and deeper into Fal’s subconscious, bending and swaying as the man’s psychic defenses groggily activated, one after another.  It’s me Zev, he said telepathically, but don’t let that alarm you.  I’m here to help.

Time passed.  Jegora’s breathing quieted.  His muscles relaxed.  And eventually, he looked up into Zev’s eyes.  “Thank you.”

Zev grinned.  “Back atcha.”  He stood up, held out a hand, pulled the Sith back up to standing, and turned to face Moelik Hond.  The Chiss was already standing, arms crossed.

Zev sighed.  “Yes, fine,” he said.  “Lead on.”