Roan Teppler (Human, Male) – 16 years old, a slicer
Miri Teppler (Human, Female) – 38 years old, unknown
Neeja Plath (Hapan, Male) – 18 years old, a smuggler
Darth Thorn/Jaelyn Arbas (Human, Female) – 32 years old, famed Sith scholar
Darth Silla/Narcissa Dallow (Human, Female) – 66 years old, Chief Alchemist
Darth Venom/Ewane Dilbrun (Human, Male) 28 years old, architect
Darth Pike/Leah Giles (Human, Female) 56 years old, Grand Inquisitor
Darth Frost/Blair Praxeum (Human, Female) 44 years old, stateswoman
Darth Vail (Unknown, Male) 121 years old, Dark Lord of the Sith
Darth Scorpius (Human, Male) 63 years old, Supreme Prophet
Darth Xexas (Human, Male) 130 years old, Lord Regent
Lady Nebulus (Chiss, Female) Unknown, Fallen Coven
Lady Nova (Mon Calamari, Female) Unknown, Fallen Coven
Lady Ember (Human, Female) 24, Fallen Coven
Miron (Iridonian, Male) 16, Sith Apprentice
Darth Cryon (Bothan, Male) 83, Keeper of Holocrons
Darth Vitrius (Human, Male) 34, Prophet
"The line between fact and fiction in a world of yesterday is often determined only by the integrity of the person remembering it." - Darth Thorn
Emperor Shadow
The far distant past…
Kroprulu is on fire. People are running through the streets of the Blue District in the capital city, silhouettes dancing among the chaos and panic as heavy artillery and cannon fire gripping the scene. Bombers and fireships overhead, troopers on the ground, destruction at every turn – nowhere to run. The Sith Military has “quarantined” the area, explaining to curious passersby and HoloNet affiliates that the area is being “searched.” “Scorched” seems a more operative word. The Grand Inquisitor herself is on-hand for this operation. Darth Pike is standing placidly at a command station, relying on aids to issue orders, undoubtedly willing to speak up if misrepresented.
The Blue District in Kroprulu City is the second largest residential zone this side of Coruscant, and for some reason or another, the Sith Order is flexing its muscle tonight. In the years since the mysterious Sith Order indigenous to the planet reorganized into an empire, it has been spinning webs and casting shadows the likes of which the average Kropruluan remains blissfully unaware. But this, this show of force is unusual. Soldiers march as an impenetrable unit, people are leaping from their windows rather than face Inquisition. I watched tonight as my mother was dragged from her bed and beaten by armored officers who spoke the vaguely familiar High Basic tongue. Only powerful members of the Order were rumored to know the language. Tonight, three visited my home. Tonight, three killed my mother.
Kroprulu is on fire. I am out with the crowds, spilling into the streets, marveling at the efficiency of this military operation. I wonder how they skylanes were shut down so quickly only to witness the shooting down of a civilian speeder. Of course the Sith would not bother protecting innocent life. The speeder dropped to the earth below, a flaming hulking thing that took more than the owner with it upon impact. I run, panicked, avoiding soldiers and looters at all costs. I cry, cursing my lack of knowledge about the twists and turns of the Blue District. I work in the Czerka Sector, a very easy commute… Well, it was an easy commute. I chanced a look back, my home was being leveled by cannons.
Force users are still a minority on Kroprulu, and yet they hold all the power. The tightening of control over the planet occurred shortly after the death of the Order’s founder, a Darth Vail. The battle lines were quickly drawn, according to rumors from the Sith Temple, and there are factions dedicated to imperialism and those dedicated to concealment. Saner heads are not prevailing, at least from where I am standing now. Darth Vail ruled the Order he started for sixty years unopposed and not even a week of mourning has passed and several would-be successors have been toppled… the Sith are engaged in a civil war. Violent to no end, blood runs down the long steps of the Temple. In certain light, you can see the drying sheen on the top of the marble.
I was just glad that was not us. We had been living with full knowledge of Sith occupancy of Kroprulu for about a decade now; it was all a part of Darth Vail’s peaceful pursuit of knowledge. We had actually benefited greatly from advancements made at very little cost. All that was asked was our obedience and our commitment to honor the Order. How stupid we all were. Vail is dead, and now there is no telling what is prompting these attacks. My mother is dead. Kroprulu is on fire.
******
Five days ago…
The hallway outside the Dark Lord’s bedchamber was alive with activity. Set high in a tower overlooking the massive assembly area of the Temple, the private apartment had many at its gates. Sith from every discipline were in waiting, Darths Thorn, Silla, Pike, Frost, Scorpius and Cryon waited, speaking amongst themselves quietly. Darkness filled the inner sanctum of the Temple where the Dark Lord made his chambers. High windows looked out over the rest of the Temple. All had gathered below, standing vigil, awaiting some kind of sign. A sea of black cloaked individuals, humans and aliens, apprentices and masters, were breathing a little less easy on this night. The dozen or so people standing in the loft overlooking the entirety of the Order paid little attention to the below, for their eyes were fixed on the double doors they could never cross.
A pulse of Dark energy, a whimper, a ripple effect… Nothing. Nothing at all. And then, the doors opened. A stately man in crimson robes emerged, holding in his hands the Dark Lord’s ceremonial battle mask. Heads bowed, but some heads did not. The most hardened among them felt the chill in the air when the crimson robed man spoke. His name was Darth Xexas, and he had been the Dark Lord’s attendant for sixty years. Part right-hand, part confidant, totally unchallenged in his capacity, Xexas spoke for and acted out of interest for Vail’s wishes. “The Dark Lord has rejoined the Force.”
When the old man took another step without speaking, Darth Silla took step to corral him. “His wishes?” Darth Pike asked bravely. The mood of the antechamber to the bedchamber had changed from one of mild concern to… something else entirely.
Xexas scanned the group, making eye contact eerily long with each in turn. “He who finds and returns the mask of the Dark Lord to his chamber shall inherit that which lies before him.” Before the wizened man could take another step, a red blade was held aloft at his throat. The sentiment “surrender the mask” need not be verbalized. Xexas closed his eyes. A well of Force energy was torn open and the blade’s holder was hurled meters backward. There was a reason the Dark Lord trusted his counsel and his fury above all else.
With an almost theatrical swish of his cape, Xexas was gone with the mask. The sound of his boots on the floor below faded, yellow eyes darted backward and forward. No one dared approach the double doors to the bedchamber and the victim of Xexas’ repel was back on his feet, commanding attention of three Sith nearest him. An Iridonian pulled his hood over his head and pressed his fingers together, proclaiming Vail’s absence in the Force; confirmation from the Prophets. The room divided into four groups rapidly, murmurs and glances filled the space. Xexas’ victim, a strong jawed, darkly lidded Corellian, smiled. He also strode out, but not into the lift; the man- Darth Scorpius- stepped onto a balcony outside the quarters.
Thousands of heads below bowed, they knew what it meant. Scorpius bellowed, “The Dark Lord is dead. Long live the Sith Order!” A three-ringing cheer and Scorpius lifted his hands into the air. “Lord Xexas has given wisdom as to the rite of succession. A period of mourning shall commence immediately. One week of mourning begins tonight…”
Meanwhile, Scorpius spun his webs.
Emperor Shadow
Two days later…
Once again, the crash gauntlet made contact with Miron’s exposed back. The muscles rippling, his body taut, he deflected his master’s blow but could not muster the Force in time to spare his backside from the lash. At sixteen, Miron was one of the Order’s most promising young students, at least, according to Cryon, the Keeper of the Holocrons. The Iridonian had no memory of a home other than Space Station Scardia. Even in moments of training, the stars were visible. His master always reminded him that the job of a prophet was not to map a direction toward the stars, merely to say that there is one to be had.
Again, the crash gauntlet made contact; this time to his ribs. Miron buckled for an instant before resuming his aggressive offensive. His master, in full robes, still managed to be more nimble than he. It was an odd skill that he made note of as he blocked a rogue strike of the gauntlet. “Focus!” Darth Vitrius commanded. Grunting, Miron kicked his master square in the chest, sending him stumbling for a moment before regaining his composure. Outside the station, a nebula was coming into view. The Null Zone had such a unique makeup of stellar phenomenon that Miron found himself wondering why the prophets ever left. And in the distance, a light blue shuttle. Lord Scorpius was returning.
Vitrius had dropped his weapons, his eyes rolled into the back of his head; he was communicating with the Force. Miron had not attained this level of sensitivity yet, but with time and devotion, he believed he could be among the Prophets of the Dark Side within years. His master, shaken from his reverie, grew harsh. Shouting, he sent tiny green bolts of lightning from his fingertips at his apprentice. “Never hesitate! I was impaired, you could have crippled me!” He barrage continued, Miron writhed, he had been a fool.
Within minutes, the searing pain had become a habit, a source of energy, a unique tolerance that Vitrius was all too well aware of, perhaps the reason he had selected Miron in the first place to be his apprentice. “Lord Scorpius is coming to speak with me. You shall leave before you shame me. Your progress is dismal.” Bowing, Miron bent to gather the weapons on the floor of the chamber, but was kicked by his master in the stomach as he arched. “You will leave now!” A whoosh of the sealed door, a sudden bow by his master, the growing sensation that he was about to receive punishment, and Supreme Prophet Scorpius himself had entered the training facility.
“Little Miron,” Scorpius trilled, “you should kill him next time. Save us both the headache. Maybe you can have his job,” the Supreme Prophet amused himself.
The Iridonian bowed deeply before the Order’s head, “I would never wish to bring shame to myself, Excellency.”
“Nonsense. We have a longstanding tradition of killing our masters, isn’t that right, Vitrius?” The younger man merely glowered. “Did your master ever tell you that he was unable to best his own master in combat so he resorted to killing him while he slept?” Miron, to his credit, did not react. “His master was our father.” A silence hung in the air, no one reacted physically, but Miron’s master writhed with shame in the Force, so strong that even Miron felt it. “You may leave,” the Supreme Prophet dismissed him.
Bowing, Miron left the weapons on the ground and left the chamber. As the door closed behind him, he distinctly heard Scorpius say, “Vail is dying.” Miron shook, the Dark Lord… the Order’s guiding light, was near death? It could not be. He dared himself to press against the door, chancing a listen, using his advanced knowledge of concealment tactics to hide his presence in the Force, praying his master nor the Supreme Prophet could feel him little more than 10 meters away. “… Kroprulu is not prepared,” Miron heard.
“Milord, the Dark Lord has named no successor as of yet…”
His voice much harsher than with Miron, Scorpius rebuked Vitrius. “Of course he hasn’t, you fool. Vail would have been killed by that person ages ago if he had been stupid enough to have done that, use your sense!” Miron relished the tongue lashing his master was receiving. One day he would kill him, as the Supreme Prophet had suggested. “… and Xexas will be of no help to me.”
“The regent will be loyal after the Dark Lord’s death…”
Miron could have sworn he heard bones cracking, a thud, and a whimper from his master, but it all could have been in his head. But Scorpius’s voice was definitely raised, “You are trying my patience! Brother, I can trust no one else with this task, I need you to go to Ziost, you are to seek the counsel of…” the Supreme Prophet’s voice trailed off. Miron could sense his movement toward the door, daggers shot through the durasteel like flaming arrows. His breath quickened, Miron knew he was about to be killed for this treachery. To his surprise, nothing. “… the Fallen Coven.”
Vitrius launched a protest, “Milord, brother, you cannot ask me to… they have been banished!”
Scorpius laughed, “The Fallen are entombed. We have banished them to the underground because of their barbarism. But in this crucial instance, their insights outweigh their demands. They will know who is to rule after the inevitable passing of Vail. You must be prepared to make sacrifice, but I shall honor you above all else when a new day rises…” Miron got the distinct impression the Supreme Prophet was now talking to him. “Take your apprentice,” Miron’s heart skipped a beat. “It will be good exercise to get off Scardia for awhile.”
Footsteps, Miron ran down the hall. “When,” Vitrius asked.
“You needed to leave yesterday. I sense Miron is in the area…” He strode around the corner as if nothing wrong, “Yes, Miron, I have given a task to you and your master. I trust you will not fail me,” the older man placed his hand on his shoulder. Miron bowed. The Fallen Coven? What the kriff was that? Vitrius breezed past them, no doubt to make preparations for the coming journey. The Supreme Prophet pat Miron’s shoulder before walking in the opposite direction.
