Were it not for the threat of imminent doom lingering over their heads like a guillotine, it might have amazed the pale woman how much dialogue he could press into such a small amount of time. It was as long as any political speech she had ever heard. Her gaze lingered on his posture. On his injuries—On the way he held himself versus the way he spat obscenities. He was frustrated, tired, and angry. It made sense in the most basic notion, whether or not, he was a willing participant for the Brotherhood of the Maw.
If he had been forced into servitude?
That was obvious. Even if they had given him a position of “
power” amongst the rest of the rabble.
If he believed in the cause? Even that, could be understood. They left him behind. They would rather sacrifice all to make a point versus taking care of their own. It was mayhem, chaos, without any true point of direction except to further some notion of an intergalactic power struggle. The Mawites were in control. They destroyed Csilla. They took what they wanted, who they wanted, and without any regard for anything. Not even themselves.
They didn’t have time. No time to bandy about arguments, accusations. She could see fire raining down from orbit and it was skirting across the edges of the ciry and slowly moving inward. The ground shook. The air smelled of flame, smoke, and despair. She could have tried to force herself into the mind of
Ignatius Rausgeber
for a definitive answer but that would have just been one more violation in what could be his last moments of life. He lashed out like a wild animal. What more could be said? What more could be said that years of therapy and seclusion might not even cure?
“I don’t expect you to understand nor do I claim to comprehend your situation.”
Innocent or guilty. It was impossible to tell. His “friends” had abandoned him and should she invite him into their midst out of pity he could just as easily put a knife between their shoulder blades. She couldn’t put her crew at risk. There were too many unanswered questions. How had one shot at his feet caused so much damage? How had he survived the culling? Why was he one of the only slave-soldiers, or, the only slave running across the spaceport looking for an escape?
There were hundreds of thousands—But only a small handful slipped through the cracks? She could number each one from the fingers of her right hand. Only
they made it to the spaceport?
“You can stay here and accept your fate or you can leave of your own accord. I didn’t come here to sentence—”
She was interrupted as an explosion took out one of the smaller transport ships they’d brought with them. The heat from the blast burned her cheeks, chapped her lips, and she was forced to close her eyes. Her attention was stolen from Ignatius and for a moment she suspected that
Taiia Locke
had been reduced to ash. Seconds ticked, slowly as hours, but through the smoke, she could feel the Obsidian Lord still alive.
Breathing. It
wasn’t the only ship that Srina had on hand but it seemed that the red-haired woman was addled.
Worried. Flustered from being insulted while amidst the threat of orbital death from above.
It was a wonder they hadn’t all cracked.
Something moved in the Force and her hackles started to rise.
She resisted. It was wrong.
“Taiia wait—”
Taiia Locke
disappeared.
There was another way. Another ship, readily at hand. She had
already given
Ket Cros
leave to depart with his men but there was still one stealth ship not too many feet away. It was structurally intact even after the latest explosion. Silently, she was relieved they hadn’t landed on top of one another. Still. It would be dangerous to try and fly now. There were minutes, perhaps. There were only minutes left to decide what to do amongst the rubble and flames of a slowly burning world. The laser that struck wouldn’t be the last one. It probably should have killed them all. If it were a little closer—It would have.
Swiftly, she made adjustments to the protocol of the
Wolves Curse. She didn’t know if there would be enough time. She had to try. It wasn’t guilt that drove her to act but a simple sense of pragmatic justice. She had never been the “Exarch” of lies, of death, or hubris. When they returned to Naboo she would report exactly what happened.
In detail. On the chance that the Mawite soldier wasn’t lying…It was all she could offer.
“Ignatius—There is a ship right there. Ready and waiting and with a droid pilot that will obey your commands. Take it, if you want to live. Stay if you want to die. The choice is yours.”
It was a choice the Maw wouldn’t have given.
It was a choice that she probably
shouldn’t have given.
Darth Empyrean
stood tall. Stalwart and seemingly unbothered by the calamity that had struck in what should have been a far humble mission to disable a few generators. She sent a telepath memo to all ground personnel within her reach.
<<This is Exarch Talon. Withdraw all Confederate Forces from Port Sorrow. I repeat—If you aren’t in the air already you need to do so immediately. Withdraw all forces.>>
Direct comms to orbit were down, well and truly, but the Force had its usefulness. With
Ket Cros
and the rest of the reinforcements that had come to aid them against the necrotic creatures well on their way she could only look out at the burning landscape quietly. The voices of her loved ones had given her the strength to push forward, to do what needed to be done, but this Port of Sorrow, this bastion of depravity—Was in flame.
It really was hell.
She stepped closer to
Darth Empyrean
and her weapon tucked itself away. The rings they wore resonated, as always, and she barely had to speak the words before their combined ability pooled together. Mingling, merging. It was coming. Her visions were true. The end for Rhand
was coming.
<<Get us out of here…>>
Her arm wrapped around his waist and the world blurred into blackness. The heat faded away and was replaced by a blessed chill. She felt a startling sense of nausea, of being swallowed, while an unfathomable ocean rose up from the depths. It was a black pool that she could not name. She wanted to be where she was needed. Wanted, to be with her people, with those that fought the Mawites with every breath, every beat of their heart, until it stopped.
A small voice, familiar, and stricken with desperation called to her. It slipped between the cracks of the shift and pulled on her as few things could have. Srina was focused. Driven. Her attachments were few and far between. This stopped her, even with, all of the interference from transporting from one plane to the next. Then back again. It was full of static. The way a radio comm winked in and out when the distance was too great.
<<Quinn?>>
In a flash, she knew that her god-daughter (
Quinn Varanin
) was still on Rhand.
She could see that the draining of life had been done by the person who stood with her. This Vesta (
Darth Mori) that she cried for with all her heart. Srina could feel the sphere of protection against the body of the young princess as if it were her own. It was a cage. She wished, more than anything, that she could have made it better. That she could take away her pain. More that, however, the Exarch needed the young woman off of that planet and away from the Mawites and the Port.
<<It's not your fault. None of this is your fault. Hear me, not her.>>
Through their metaphysical bond she could feel the walls of the cage melting. It was a curse and blessing.
Rhand was under fire.
<<Go with him, Quinn. Use me as an anchor and leave immediately. Rhand is about to be glassed. Come to me. Come to me now.>>
When she felt solid ground beneath her feet her eyes opened. She did not know how long it had been. Only, that the surroundings were familiar. Where had
Darth Empyrean
taken them?
The Sentinel.
Glacier orbs settled on the familiar visage of a sable-skilled Sith Lord.
Darth Metus
. She glanced up toward Maliphant and wondered, quietly, if he had used her connection to the former Confederate Vicelord as a tether. By all rational thought, he should have taken them back to the Fortressa. But, they’d shifted through the glom and had arrived in the presence of the only one who could make Srina see reason. The only one who could bring her back to equilibrium.
Darth Empyrean
was no fan of
Darth Metus
simply because of what he represented. Simply, because she chose to remain an apprentice versus striking out on her own.
“...Master...”
She pulled away from the white-haired man and headed toward the nearest terminal. She didn’t know. Her stomach had sunk to the floor. Her teeth were clenched.
She had to know.
“Have they done it?”
Had the Brotherhood of the Maw truly wiped out the port and everything surrounding it? Quinn was still there. Quinn, her god-daughter, was still on that damnable world that was soon to be little more than ash and dust. Her gaze was full of nightmarish things when she looked back toward
Darth Metus
,
Amaya Cardei, and
Aselia Verd
. Surely, one of them would answer. One of them would know. ONE of them had to know what happened because for the life of her she was still trying to put the pieces together.
How had everything gone so wrong?
“Is it...gone? Is the port gone?!”
Her voice didn’t change in tone but the volume had risen. That was rare for the Echani, but, if they knew what she knew they wouldn't question it. Covered in soot and superficial burns it was plain to see that there was something unspoken churning in the young woman. Her legendary composure was threatening crumble beneath the quaking knell of darkness. She felt pulled by the essence of all whom had passed. All, whom had been destroyed.
Slain. Or used in barbaric rituals for little more than cannon fodder.
Several voices rang in her head. Whispers, at first. They grew louder with every moment.
[
X]
<<My Queen?>>
Did she (
Spencer Varanin
) know?
Did she know her daughter was on Rhand?
The voice of her mentor in her mind didn’t halt her ice-driven rage but it did give credence to the fact that the Confederacy was not yet done. They had not yet given in, nor, were they defeated outright by such devastating loss. They could fight on. They had to. For the very sake of the future, for the lives that had been lost, for their own sanity—They had to fight. Never, would she forsake those she brought into battle.
Never would she
willingly leave them on their own.
Not while she still drew breath.
The Exarch did just that. She breathed. In. Out. Once more. The glacier calm that most present would recognize began to settle over her once more. As if an invisible mantle had pressed down upon slender shoulders that pressed her spine straight. She’d let the words of one questionable man (
Ignatius Rausgeber
) get under her skin. They’d burrowed deep, if only because they weren’t completely false.
She couldn’t take back the past. But, she could act now.
Act and hope. Hope, that Quinn listened. Hoped that there was time.
Hoped that she would still be there when her god-daughter made it through. Because, she would make it. She had to.
“I require an update. What ships do we have at our disposal and what enemy targets have been marked?” 
Kyyrk
or 3. He leaves the whole Poodoo encrusted debacle altogether. The Ubese weighed all his options, he wanted to just leave but also stay at the same time. So, he took the controls and headed towards where he last saw Kyyrk’s ship. It was a gamble, but where is the fun in not leaping forward into more adventure?
