The Unchained
A FATHER'S RETURN
THE UNCHAINED
Omen
Years... it had been years...
The flashes of the very fabric of reality warping itself upon Tython had subsided long ago now, but Khamul could still feel the sensation of Solipsis' dark magic flowing through him as if they were still fighting the allied forces upon the chaotic battlefield. The whirring of blades, the cries for dying loved ones, the force gathered with the sole purpose of destroying the man that once called himself Sith'ari... he could even smell the smoke from the distant eruptions from the ground below, engrained in his mind as deeply as the very hatred he held for his former master. It was those memories that he had carried with him, deep into the Unknown Regions of space. Fragments of a life he had once thought would lead him to power, and his people to true glory. Yet... when they had failed to secure victory, The Hellhound had begun to realize the error in their ways. Thus, he would need time...
He had never made it back to New Mandalore, for he foresaw the fate that would soon befall the Brotherhood of The Maw. Instead, he would find another source of power... one that he had long felt within the tome he discovered on the frozen lands of Helgard. Within its pages, he had learned of further knowledge to be had, hidden far away from the reach of Jedi and Sith alike. The sort that might bring his people back from the brink. So... he left, without a word, without a goodbye...
But now, his travels had come an end. It was time to return home... refreshed... empowered...
Unchained.
His ship touched down upon the ground of New Mandalore, its dark, hulking presence easily known to any that remained in the old citadel. The scarred, metallic surface had seen better days, still singed and war-torn from the fights it had endured before Khamul's departure. As it touched down, Khamul could sense a presence, coursing its way through the empyrean as if it were the blood in his own veins. A sinister grin produced itself behind his ancient mask as the Sarrassian Iron began to pulsate with a deep, red glow. Turning toward the doors, he stepped forth, ready to reclaim what was his. The remnants of his forces from Tython, both Mandalorian and Taung alike, followed behind, their weapons drawn as they marched forth, lining either side of the path upon the runway as they chanted the Hellhound's name.
The Mand'alor had come home.
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