Sharp, cold winds whip in every direction as the hot sun falls behind the horizon of the desert world. Distant cries of injured soldiers and their attempted rescuers ring in the air like a mismatched choir, their ships lifting off or landing giving the punctuation of church bells. Accompanying these sounds are the drum beats of blasters and clean-up crews, killing whatever horrid beasts had survived the ordeal. It should be music to his ears, but instead, it is dulled agony. Agony caused by the pain throughout his body, and especially the ringing inside his skull which has yet to stop.
In fact, it has only gotten worse the more he tries to keep what is left of his blood inside his body. An act born of instinct rather than conscious choice, which he can barely muster beyond slowly worming his way across the sand.
As one hand clenches the wounds on his chest, his other sinks its claws into the desert beneath him. Hurried thoughts rush through his head, trying to keep himself awake out of a sense of self-preservation. It has been hours since she vanished - escaped really. He has no way of knowing if she survived or if the spear even hit her. He likes to believe that it did, but until he sees her again - if he sees her again - there will be no closure from that fight. This is perhaps the worst thing about it. Forgetting the rather embarrassing lack of superiority in the sword fight, or the complete and utter devolution into a blind rage which even he can understand was a bit of a mistake, he had possibly failed to kill the first Jedi foe since his entombment.
Sure, he completed his mission of destroying the monastery and whatever relics lay within, but the mere chance that the Jedi lived...that was a stain he had to remove.
"Maas Yedi," he growls as a twinge of pain jolts from the gash on his side. His free hand is quickly buried under his hulking form, pressed against the wound to out-pressure the internal pain. It does not help, and the feelings of blood seeping through his fingers results only in a disheartened sigh from the horned man.
Laoth stops his attempts to crawl and resolves to push himself onto his back. It is a slow movement, pained with every inch that he rotates against the scratching sand. Bones and joints crack from the exertion, giving him slivers of relief from the tension plaguing his body. His back aches as he completes his rotation and thumps down, legs crossed at an awkward angle, arms splayed out to his sides, and horns dug into the desert once more.
Breathing is difficult and comes in rasped efforts from the sand-scratched bronchial tubes and esophagus. A sudden cough brings up more of the sticky black substance from his throat - a conglomerate of the desert and his own blood, glopped onto his cheek. He brings one hand up from his side and touches his chest, trying to assess the damage one more time.
Against his hands, it feels like an ocean of internal liquids. It feels far too wet and far too broken for him to continue in his previous capacity. His wounds are grainy to the touch, oozing with as much sediment as they are black ichor. They are stretched like unsewn stitching, exposing the lower layers of flesh and the deep layers of muscle, almost exposing the bone in some areas. Yeah, too much has been lost, he realizes in a re-growing stupor. Not enough pumping from his heart and too much freezing in his veins as the cold of the night begins to settle down on him. Worse yet, the injuries are surely infected from whatever gunk resides in the desert surface currently leaking out of them.
"Aah ee ɕaʑ gi, bi a?" he asks himself in his mother tongue, his certain death growing more and more realized in his head. "Bu'gli. That is...funny. Guess...you will get away...sneaky mouse."
His eyes grow heavier by the second as ultimate exhaustion at last sets upon him. This is it. Revived by God, set upon his enemies, only to fall to the blade of a lone girl who did not even grant him the glory of killing him herself. A shameful end, to be sure, for a Devaronian. Darkness settles in his clouded vision, the night sky lighting up with stars that grow dimmer and dimmer until, finally, all is an abyss. Sounds of the dying battle fade out into the furthest distances. The thunderings of the final blaster file become little more than dulled shakes against his back muscles. The horned man's breathing slows ever so slightly, its raspiness becoming worse and worse as less oxygen is taken into his lungs.
This is the end.
Until the vibration of another ship landing opens his eyes. This one is closer than the rest - perhaps the only one that has chosen to investigate the destroyed monastery. Laoth cranes his neck as best he can, digging patterns into the desert surface with his horns as he searches for the ship or any sign of his proximity. He sees none, but the roar of its engines is unmistakably close. His heart begins to beat anew with adrenalin as the impact of footfalls grows closer against the shuddering sand. Will it be Alliance dogs? he wonders, clenching his fists in anticipation. Laoth cannot help but laugh at the thought of the Alliance coming to execute him for his crimes. It was far too hilarious to think that they would go out of their way to kill him when he was already as good as dead if they had just left him alone.
"Come to...finish th-the job?" he mutters with great pain as the footfalls suddenly stop, still beyond his craned sight. "Gonna...put a round in my head? Tell the Jedi you...put down a Sith for your...stipends?"
A robed figure is quick to stand above him - upside down to his vision - a gleaming vibrosword held in their left hand. Surprisingly, it does not pierce down onto the horned man as he expected. Instead, it is sheathed under the figure's robe who kneels down and places a gloved hand on Laoth's chest. The tips of their fingers gently brush the outlines of the largest of the man's scars, agitating the clean edges of the cut. Laoth says nothing. The figure then takes the gloved hand away, fingers dripping lightly with blood, and slightly bows their head. "My Lord Sith," they greet with no noticeably questionable impression or tone beyond it being quite high pitched. "We were informed of your whereabouts by the Order, but could not contact you. The fear was that you had fallen, but...apparently, that is not entirely the case."
"Ee cha...chag puw ź-zok," the horned man chuckles, spitting up one last string of blood from behind his lips. "Aaw Yedi hizh, ye?"
"We do not know, Lord Sith," the robed figure replies, turning their gaze to someone outside of Laoth's sight and snapping their fingers twice. As they look back down at the Devaronian, the shining silverness of their eyes is only now noticed by the injured Devaronian. Far too silver, in fact. As if they were almond-shaped Achroites. Two more figures appear in Laoth's vision, armored and robust in size. One moves to his feet while the other remains by his head. Before he can respond, the Devaronian is rapidly lifted off the desert with great effort and moved to the nearby shuttle as quickly as possible.
Onto a gurney, he is placed, strapped down with thick bindings while a second robed figure attends to a dubious selection of multi-colored vials and syringes. The first figure enters the shuttle not long after, sitting on a metal seat opposite the Devaronian. "Where...are you...you...taking me?" he asks faintly.
The figure is silent for a moment before answering plainly with: "Home."
