Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Broken Shards

Temp 2

Guest
T
Thunder shook the heavens as Harlon Wayde trudged across the plains of Nyriaan. A prospector and salvager, he'd been to a whole lot of miserable rocks in his forty years of life, but at the moment he couldn't think of a one of them he detested more than Nyrian. It was cold, squalid little rock, and pausing momentarily, he cast a sour glance up at the roiling clouds overhead, mentally evaluating whether it was about to rain. Again. It seemed a safe bet; he'd been on Nyriaan for three days now, and storms had raged for most of that. Of course, the onboard weather scanners on his shop had told him the storms would hold off for another day now, but he should, he realised with a bitter grimace, have known better than to expect them to be accurate. Spitting irritably on the ground, he fished a datapad from one of the many webbed pockets on his grubby, torn jacket and glanced at the map displayed upon it.

Three klicks out from his ship. No way he'd make that before the storm broke. About typical, really. He spat again, and lowering his gaze found them falling upon a marker on the map. It was a wreck, if he recalled correctly, just a burnt out husk of a ship. Worthless, really, but for the fact that it was a whole lot closer than his ship. "Any port in a storm," he muttered, thrusting the 'pad back into his pocket and stomping onwards, dark eyes now peering out toward the mist shrouded horizon in the hopes of spotting the wreck his ship had detected.

He almost made it before the rain began. It was there, mocking him, when the first droplets, heavy with the promise of the coming storm, fell from the clouds. But by the time he reached it, the winds were a howling gail tearing at sheets of lashing rain that stung the flesh and soaked through clothing in a heartbeat.

Force, but he hated this rock.

Stumbling through a gaping rent in the side of the wreck, Wayde slumped back against the side of the chamber - a cargo hold? - beyond. Tearing his soaking cap from his head, he flung it on the ground and dragged an arm across his forehead, wiping away the worst of the water that was running down across his leathery skin toward his eyes. "Blasted rock," he grumbled, glancing back out toward the plain where all but the closest of his footprints had been consumed by the raging storm, "It ain't bloody natural." Still muttering unhappily, he fished a ration bar from his jacket, peeling the packet from it with practised hands even as he let his gaze sweep over the interior of the hold. t was mostly empty; either looted long years ago or devoid of cargo when it had crashed. "Course it's empty," he muttered, tossing the packet down onto the corroded deck, "Can't have the galaxy giving ol' Harlon a break, eh? Still, might as well take a look while I'm stuck here." Flicking a switch on the luminator clipped to the front of his jacket, the salvager blinked in the sudden brightness before moving off into the darkness, loving a trail of rainwater in his wake.

At first, his search was fruitless. Doorway after doorway revealed just empty chambers or crushed sheets of hull, twisted and mangled from the ancient crash. But then, just as he was beginning to consider trying to trace his way back through the maze of corridors, he stumbled into another hold, one that was easily twice the size of those he had previously encountered. One that wasn't empty.

"Well," he whistled, scratching at his chin thoughtfully whilst his eyes drank in the sight before him, "Force be damned. They did miss something."

'Something' was right - it was a box of sorts, both taller and wider than he and crafted from a metal so dark it seemed to drink in the light from his luminator. And there was something about it, a silent siren's song that simultaneously set his teeth on edge and drew him forward on stumbling, unsteady feet. "What the hell're you?" came his whispered words as he pressed a bare palm against the metal, feeling it thrum beneath his flesh. Like it was breathing.

And then.... nothing. It was as though a noise he hadn't even been aware of hearing had suddenly been vanished. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and the gentle thrumming of the black metal box faded into nothingness.

"That ain't good," he noted, eyes flickering back a darkness that his luminator was now struggling to penetrate, before focusing on the box once more as a line of purest darkness, like a glimpse of the deepest void itself, appeared in what had previously appeared a single seamless piece of metal. "Oh hell, that really can't be good." He wanted to run. Force above, but he wanted to run. Only problem was that his feet seemed to have decided to stop listening to his brain. So he was stuck there, forced to watch as the line grew and the metal shifted, seeming to part without actually moving at all. And within...

Darkness.

No...

Not just darkness. There was something - someone - in the darkness.

"Uhh," Harlon Wayde mumbled, his throat suddenly a whole lot drier than should have been possible on a world as wet as Nyriaan, "Hey, I... uhh... I'm not lookin' to hurt nobody. Didn't realise this was your ship." He was shaking, entire trembling like a leaf before a raging hurricane, but still he couldn't move. In fact, suddenly, he couldn't feel his feet at all.

Looking down, he realised why.

"Oh," he muttered, raising one hand numbly to the hilt embedded in his chest, to the spreading patch of crimson that stained his clothes, "Oh, bloody hell."
 

Temp 2

Guest
T
Whilst Harlon Wayde trembled and gingerly prodded the dagger that still quivered in his chest, his killer sank silently to her knees in the heart of the Oubliette. Her throat was dry, and it felt like each ragged breath dragged a strip of sandpaper up her windpipe as she struggled to fill her lungs with fresh air for the first time in countless years. Mere feet away, Wayde toppled backward as his brain realised he was dead, but Siala didn't look up. She wasn't even sure if she could have. Instead she let her body do what it needed, sucking down great greedy lungfuls of air like a woman who'd just been saved a moment shy of drowning.

For long moments - the barest of heartbeats compared to the time she had already lost in that foul casket - she remained there, before finally shaking her head, shaking out the cobwebs that had formed in her mind over seven centuries of waking nightmares. Lifting her head just a fraction, she peered out through a fringe of coppery hair toward the body of the man she'd slain. A torch, apparently clipped to his jacket, was throwing its beam toward the ceiling like a mocking tombstone, so the witch had little trouble in spotting him, and after another moment of weary hesitation, she crawled forward across the now blood-flecked floor. There couldn't have been more than a few feet between them, but the effort of moving left Siala exhausted, and for another long moment she remained still beside the corpse, letting her body recover just a little more energy before she reached out to push aside the unkept fair that had fallen across his face in death. "You're not him" she whispered accusingly, as though she believed the man had fooled her deliberately. But course, the mere fact that her liberator was not the same person as her captor hardly guaranteed that they weren't collaborators in their vile scheme, did it?

"Light," she murmured to herself, "Need more light." That was a simple enough problem to solve; the conjuration of light was one of the simplest spells a Dathomiri Witch might learn, and Siala had mastered the talent decades before she found herself snared in the Oubliette. So she closed her eyes and cupped her hands before her, uttering the ancient words of the spell in a soft undertone as she reached out for weaves of the Force and...

Nothing.

The words of the spell died in her throat as her eyes snapped open in horror. The Force. The source of power, of spells. It was gone, and in its place there lingered only a hollowness, a mocking reminder of what once had been.

"This place," the Witch muttered, licking her lips as unease ran through her veins, "It has to be this place." It was supposition, but it made sense; the thrice damned tomb she'd spent what felt like an eternity inside had to be a creation of the so-called Dark Side, and certainly the foe who had trapped her here so long ago had wielding the Force with an intensity and anger any Nightsister would have envied. So what was to say he hadn't put some... some block, or somesuch into place in the years since? He had to have known she'd be released eventually, so he'd have made snares and traps, wouldn't?

Of course. That was it. It had to be.

Once she got away from this place, it would be fine.

Her thoughts reeked of desperation, but perhaps that was understandable. And regardless of them, regardless of how every facet of her being was screaming at her to run from this foul place, to find a place where she could touch the Force again, some infuriatingly logical part of her mind insisted on asking the terrible question - And where will you run? Where indeed? There were no settlements she knew of on this rainswept world, and surely her ship had been stolen by now if it hadn't been reduced to little more than a rusted hulk.

But the man... the man had to have come from somewhere, didn't he? And if he had a ship, it wasn't like he would be needing it any more. That realisation was enough to draw Siala's focus back to the corpse she still crouched beside, and reached for his jacket. Slowly at first, but then with increasing deftness as old skills awoke within the shadowed recesses of her mind, the Witch turned out the salvager's pockets, dumping their contents onto the metal deck just beyond the still spreading pool of blood. Credits. A spare power cell for the torch. A couple of ration bars. A datapad! Flicking the 'pad out of standby, Siala stared intently at the map that appeared. It was a familiar one, almost identical to the one that she had followed to this hellish place, but there was another mark on it. His ship? It had to be, for if it wasn't... well, that was just unthinkable.

"Thanks," she offered to the corpse, just in case its spirit happened to be nearby. It was a small gesture, given that she'd killed him in the first place, but she figured he'd have understood if she'd been able to explain it to him. This galaxy was rancor eat rancor, after all. Then, tugging her knife out of his cooling form, she wiped its blade across his jacket and slid it carefully back into her ankle sheathe, before slipping the rations and credits into a pouch of her belt and rising unsteadily to her feet.

It was long past time to be away from this damnable place.
 

Temp 2

Guest
T
Beyond the shattered hull of the ancient starship, the mighty storm raged on unabated, lashing at the ground with icy daggers of rain whilst lightning coruscated across the empyrean and thunder crashed like the wrath of hateful Gods. But to Siala Kai, this was paradise; the stinging kiss of rain on bare skin, the bite of wind as it tore through flesh and armour alike to chill bone, the roaring crescendo of the raging heavens... after so long sealed away from every sensation she welcomed them all. Even had she not, the Witch was a driven woman, and no mere storm would delay her departure from the foul prison.

Still, the journey to the scavenger's ship was not a short one, even at the hard pace Siala set for herself, and by the time she came within sight of the ship Siala's hair was plastered to her scalp, and streams of water raced across her skin and beneath her armour. In the fullness of time, she knew she would regret letting herself get so wet, but for the moment the sight of the battered, lifeless vessel was enough to stir a spark of elation in her heart, and she broke into a trot, covering the last few metres to the ramp in mere seconds. Fortunately for the Witch, Harlon Wayde hadn't bothered secure the vessel before his departure - why would he have? - and Siala clambered gratefully up the boarding ramp, ducking through the hatch without thought for any who might be waiting within.

Within, the vessel was akin to most such vessels; the boarding ramp led directly into a cramped cargo hold, where boxes of whatever it was that the late scavenger had felt worth salvaging from his previous operations were piled against the walls. Siala moved past these with barely a second glance, for whatever was in the boxes mattered not a whit to her, and stepped through an internal hatch into the central quarters of the vessel, where a small food preparation counter and a table awaited a master who would never be returning. Three other hatches led from this chamber - one on each wall - and Siala moved across to each, glancing through warily. Sleeping quarters. Another hold. And, exactly opposite the first cargo hold, the cockpit. All empty, and displaying not a suggestion that anyone other than the now deceased scavenger had been in them. This discovery allowed the daughter of the Dreaming River clan to release a breath she hadn't realised she was holding; killing another wouldn't have been an issue for her, but for the time being at least she was glad to avoid more bloodshed.

Moving swiftly back through the hold, Siala quickly found the ramp controls - that was one benefit of all these ships being built to roughly the same designs, she supposed - and set about sealing the ship. She wasn't expecting anything to follow her through the storm, but since when did the galaxy care what anyone was expecting? Harlon Wayde hadn't expected to find a Force Witch of Dathomir, and look where he'd ended up. No, it was better to be sure and safe than trusting and dead.

With the hold sealed, Siala retreated back to the cockpit and ran her eyes over the controls. They too were standard - a small mercy for which she thanked whichever spirits were watching - and Siala thumbed a few of them experimentally, letting a little power run into the engines and repulsorlifts, which answered with a health growl that elicited a relieved smile from the Witch. But there was one thing she wanted to do first - no, one thing she needed to do first - and after learning across to punch in a few commands to start the ship powering up for launch, she stepped back out of the cramped cockpit and into the mess. There, she scooped a stained metal jug from a counter and set it down on the floor, before lowering herself to sit cross-legged before it. "It was just that place," she murmured aloud, taking small comfort in the words as she fixed her piercing green eyes upon the battered jug and began to intone the words for a spell of lifting. The spell was as simple as the spell of light she had attempted previously, yet the familiar syllables stuck in her throat as though reluctant to be spoken aloud, and when Siala reached out for the weaves of energy to complete her arduous casting, she found nought but the void.

"No," she whispered, eyes falling to her hands as though she expected to see an explanation written there, "Why aren't my spells working...?"
 

Temp 2

Guest
T
Was it a crueler fate to have been freed from her prison and denied her connection to the force, or never to have been freed at all?

That question lingered in Siala's mind as she sat there, eyes fixed unseeing on her hands. She knew the answer. Logically, she knew the answer. It was obviously better to have been freed, even with the severance. Surely there would be a way to overcome the severance, just as she had overcome all other obstacles the whims of the fates had cast into her path. And even were there not, she still had her blade, did she not? All this was true. So why, then, did the answer ring hollow in her heart?

She knew the answer to that one, too.

Yet the answer to that last question was also the reason she could not sit and mope; she was a Witch of Dathomir, a daughter of the Dreaming River Clan. Her magic, her spells, defined her, but at the same time, they were not all there was to her. Her pride, her spirit, they were born of her heart and mind, and nothing about those had changed. That was why she could not simply surrender to the despair that welled up within her soul, clawing at her mind.

Shaking off the numbness that clung to her bones, Siala rose from her meditative pose. In doing so, her foot caught against the jug she had been trying to levitate, sending it skittering across the mess. She watched it go in silence, wishing for a moment she'd kicked it harder, before sighing irritably and stepping back into the cockpit. A quick glance at the readouts was enough to reveal that the ship was ready to depart. But to where, that was the question. It was all very well for the ship to be ready to leap across the stars themselves, but what good did it do if she knew not where she wanted to go? It wasn't as if she could simply go home - who knew how much time had passed while she was trapped in that infernal halflife, or how much the galaxy had changed? And even if it hadn't, what was the point? Her master had been long dead before she even though about setting foot on Nyriaan, and there was not another soul in the galaxy who might be able to help with her curse.

Well, excepting the elders of her Clan, of course, but she'd feed herself to a Rancor before going back to them to beg for aid.

But that wasn't the only option, was it? Omega was dead, true enough, but the Witch knew where he had lived. Where he had studied. Where he'd stored the relics of the ancient ways. Perhaps they too were gone by now, but perhaps not. And perhaps amongst them would be the answer she sought. It had to be worth trying. It had to.

Exis Station. That was where she would go.
 

Temp 2

Guest
T
It was no short journey from Nyriaan to Exis Station, from the northmost reaches of the Mid Rim to the fringes of the Outer Rim in the Galactic south-east, but while Siala - never a comfortable traveller - might usually have been impatient to reach her destination and set foot on solid ground once more, on this day the delay was a blessing. It gave her time to compose herself, to take hold of the churning emotions that raged within her heart - the elation of release, the despair of discovery, and the rage at the cruel trick the galaxy was playing upon her - and bind them away until such a time as they were needed. And, perhaps more importantly, it gave her an opportunity to access the Holonet.

What she discovered there horrified her.

Seven hundred years had passed. Seven centuries of warfare, plague and destruction. In the time she had spent trapped in the gulf between life and death, entire empires had risen and fallen. Worlds - whole systems! - had been destroyed, trillions of lives extinguished in moments. And she had felt not a whisper of it. Was that a blessing? Some small measure of mercy from the cruel galaxy? Or had it simply been the first, unnoticed, indication of whatever curse it was that had stolen away her ability to touch the weaves of the living Force and cast the spells that were her birthright? Regardless, it seemed she had emerged into a galaxy entirely unlike the one she had left behind; galactic powers she had believed unassailable had been shattered and broken, their remnants cast to the fringes of the galaxy or ground beneath the booted heels of whichever group rose to seize power in their wake, whilst others, those she thought doomed or even already broken had risen up to reclaim a place of power. And her home? Fingers flashed across the controls as she called up the latest information on Dathomir, dreading what she might discover. But no, her fear was unfounded; Dathomir remained, and the Witches too. By the grace of the spirits, they even seemed to have prospered.

That was a relief, for though she remained in self-imposed exile, Siala still cared for her distant home, and for the Clan she had left behind.

Slumping back in her chair, the Dathomiri Witch let a sigh escape her parted lips as she let her gaze drift up from the screen displaying the holonet up to the flickering blurs of hyperspace that streaked past the cockpit viewport. Soon, she knew, the cockpit alarms would sound, indicating that a reversion to realspace was imminent. And what would she find? The Holonet suggested that Exis Station still existed, at least, but would anything of what she remembered remain there? Was it even possible that anything of Omega, any hint of his power and knowedge, had lasted all this time?

She had to believe so, for what other hope did she have?

Right on cue, the reversion alarm blared out its warning, prompting Siala to lean forward and punch a couple of quick commands into the navicomp. Then, as the streaking blurs of hyperspace faded back into pinpricks of starlight and the ominous black mass of Exis Station seemed to fold out of subspace, she twisted to the sensors. They were only basic, able to provide little more information than her own eyes, but a quick check was enough to reveal one piece of information she'd been hoping for; the beacons on the station were still active. Someone was still there. Smiling with faint relief, the Witch returned her attention to the main panel, fingers dancing over controls as she set the freighter onto a course that was burned into her mind, before she reached for the comm and spoke, broadcasting her voice out to whomever might be listening; "This is Siala Kai of the freighter-" Hells, she hadn't checked the ship's name! "Of the nameless freighter on approach to Exis Station. Requesting landing clearance for Docking Bay 17. Please respond."
Docking Bay 17 had always been the one Omega had used, though Siala had never quite known why. Maybe he just appreciated the irony of using the bay the Jedi had once tried to reserve for themselves.
 
The station was quiet, much quieter than it had been when the engineers had been around repairing the damage it had sustained nearly a millennia ago. No longer in stasis, Tezla, Hardock and Harkin spent their time in the training halls with their brothers while Ghent ran the station, as he always had these past 700 years.

The long flowing raven hair had been cropped but splashes of grey still marred it. He was technically the youngest of those left but he looked twenty years older, not that you would have guessed from his healthy stride and keen green eyes as he patrolled the station, checking the various machines that kept the place running.

"Proximity alarm! Proximity alarm!" The station blared, its sensors detecting a hyperspace reversion within the empty space they inhabited. The clone turned on his heel and barrelled through the corridors, his brothers quickly strapping on the silver Mandalorian style armour that was their trademark and preparing for visitors.

The control room of the station was not reached by Ghent but instead Hardock, the volatile clone of Omega who had little in the way of etiquette or manners. The stations shields were on-line and with a few keystrokes the remaining operational turbolaser turrets came to life, zeroing in upon the ship as they attained a firing solution from the stations computer.

"This is Exis station," Hardock spoke. "Kark off or we'll blow you to bits!" It was at this moment Ghent entered the room, if he had any emotion whatsoever the late series clone would have sighed at the timing.

[member="Siala Kai"]
 

Temp 2

Guest
T
Alarms screamed in the cramped confines of the freighter's cockpit, warning of weapons systems locking onto the small craft and of the shimmering defence screens which had activated along its flightpath. Ever instinct should have been screaming at Siala to change her plans, to change course and to get the hell out of there, especially after the hard, threatening voice broke through the static on the comm. But that same voice was the reason she didn't, the reason why fingers that had already been reaching for controls suddenly froze in place, and why wide emerald eyes fixed upon the looming form of the station. She knew that voice. It was unmistakeable. But, at the same time, it was impossible.

Licking her suddenly dry lips, the witch leant forward in her chair. Her hands reached for the comm, hesitated, then flicked the switch. "Exis Station," she called hoarsely, eyes still fixed on the forbidding ebon station in the viewport, "I know you. Knew you. Seven hundred years ago. Let me land." The words were little more than gibberish, or at least that was how they would sound to anyone without a shred of knowledge of who Siala Kai was, but the man she spoke to would know their meaning. At least, he would if he was who he seemed to be.

And if he wasn't?

Well, there'd be time enough to think about that later, but for the moment the Witch's thoughts lingered on what to do if things were as they seemed. If the man in the control room was the one she had thought dead seven hundred years previously. The man whose apparent death had been the catalyst for the chain of events which had led to her being trapped in a realm without sensation for the better part of a millenium. For the chain of events which had led to her losing her ability to weave the spells of her kin. What should she say to him? What should she do to him for deceiving her so? Would she even be able to look at him without wanting to ram her dagger down his gullet? She hoped so; she wanted answers before she took her revenge from Omega's hide, and it would be so very difficult for him to provide them when he was drowning in his own blood.

On the other hand, that mental image was almost enough to convince her the inconvenience would be worth it.
 
Hardocks dark brows furrowed in immediate confusion, he wasn't the smartest clone in the tube. "Knew us? No one knows us, except the Major an' Norongachi." He spoke to himself as Ghent near shoved him aside from the controls. "Hey! Watch it pal, we're supposed to defend this station from anything that isn't a big black Star Destroyer. I'm doing my damn job!" The clone raged but Ghent wasn't listening or didn't care, not that he cared about much in life.

"The ship has no weapons," Ghent began, his voice flat and without emotion. "And if you were to use the senses you were gifted with, you would know she is alone, frightened and confused." He continued, his green eyes peering beyond the transparasteel toward the ship in the distance. "The threat is minimal, I do not feel the commander would be pleased if we happened to kill an old friend without at least confirming her story." Logic, reasonable cold logic, the late series clones had been stripped of everything else except that.

"Fine!" Hardock spat with a wave of his hand. "But I'm taking the boys down to Docking Bay 17, if she blinks the wrong way I'm taking her out!" With that he stormed off, muttering curses.

"Vessel, Exis Station, you are cleared to land in Docking Bay 17, it is advised that you leave any weapons behind in your ship and no threatening gestures be made. Exis Station, out." It was going to be an interesting day, he thought impassively.
 

Temp 2

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T
There was that voice again, exactly as she remembered it and yet, paradoxically, so very different than it had been only the breath before. Colder, less aggressive. It was strange. Beyond strange. Omega had been a mercurial man at the best of times - were not all males? - but to shift tones so abruptly without reason? No, Siala reflected, eyes narrowing as she stared across at the station, something was going on here.

Nonetheless, she deftly flicked the comm back on and spoke the requisite words of acknowledgement. There was no need to broadcast her suspicions, after all, and the only way she was going to get to the bottom of this infuriating little mystery was to do as she was instructed. Besides, were they not giving her exactly what she wanted? Access to the station, to Bay 17 specifically. Of course, it was fully possible, and perhaps even likely, that an ambush would be waiting for her in the docking bay, but that was a problem that could be dealt with if and when it reared its ugly head. So, for the moment she did as she was bid, keeping the freighter on its approved path through the maze of defensive screens which the man had quite pointedly left activated, ever aware as she did that the stations weapons were tracking her, just waiting for a momentary deviation from her approved course. It was nerve wracking, and the Dathomiri Witch, who was hardly fond of starships to begin with, had never been so glad to spy the gaping maw of the docking bay as she was on that day.

Smoothly, she powered down the engines, letting the craft's momentum push it through the shimmering field of the bay's atmospheric shield, before thumbing the repulsors to hold it aloft as the station's artificial gravity began to exert its pull. Yet she didn't land, not yet, but instead half-rose from her seat to stare down into the docking bay. It was much as she remembered; a little dirtier, perhaps. A little more corroded and run down. But still much as she remembered.

Except, that was, for then eleven armoured figures who stood waiting.

Ten were faceless guards, forms enclosed entirely in gleaming mockeries of the Mandalorian armour that Omega had favoured in combat. Each of them had a blaster pistol holstered on one hip, and from the other hung the cylindrical hilt of lightsaber. That would have been enough to catch Siala's attention in most circumstances, but for the moment her flashing eyes were fixed solidly upon the eleventh figure, one who wore the armour but no helmet. One whose face was all familiar to her, albeit a little more worn by the years than she remember. It was him. Omega.

"Feth drinking piece of male slime," she breathed, fury burning in her emerald gaze as she stabbed a finger against the repulsorlift controls and spun on her heel, striding furiously from the cockpit. Quickly making her way through the bowels of the ship, she slapped her palm against the ramp release in the very moment the freighter jolted down against the deck. It slid down slowly, agonisingly so, and Siala waited impatiently, each moment stoking the flames of her anger into an ever brighter inferno, until at last she was able to duck onto the ramp and drop lightly onto the scorched and blistered decking of Exis Station's seventeenth docking bay.

"You," she snarled, advancing on the gathered men, blind to how they fingered their weapons, "You bastard. I thought you were dead! You let me think you were dead!"
 
They watched the ship come into the bay. It had seen better days and calling it a tramp freighter would have insulted the numerous ships spread out across the galaxy. Two of them guarded the exit from the Docking Bay, the rest were spread out, each of them eternally thankful for the removal of the Ysalamari from the station that had kept their presence within the Force a secret while the Galaxy tore itself apart.

Ghent watched quietly as the ramp descended and a lithe, bronze skinned, woman stepped from it. The tension from his brothers receded slightly at the sight, they could all feel her presence within the Force but it was small compared to theirs. Then she spoke, anger and rage fired directly at himself. The words made little sense, surely by being here he wasn't dead?

"I can assure you my vital signs are nominal." He responded, in the only way he knew how. "I am unsure how I could have made you think such a thing, we have never met. I am Omega Series-207, Ghent. These ar-" But he was forestalled by one of the armoured soldiers at his side.

"What the hell are ya doing ya schmuck!" Hardock snarled from behind his helm and advanced forward before he found an arm barring his passage.

"You have your orders." Ghent spoke but that other only seemed to bristle at this.

"Orders? Frak your orders! I ain't having some triple digit robot tell me what the hell to do-" The Force became a typhoon at that, the calm form of Ghent pulling it around himself and battering against the senses of those gathered.

"I was left in command," He said quietly, once again devoid of emotion. "My orders are HIS orders, I have 700 years of training and practice more than any of you. Do not make me enforce my command, Hardock." The other clone took a grudging step back and fell silent.

"My apologies. These are troubling times. There seems to be some misunderstanding, who are you looking for?" Ghent asked, like nothing had just transpired.
 

Temp 2

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He wasn't Omega.

Siala had known that before he even spoke; his reaction to her fury made it all too clear. Where Omega would have laughed, the man - Ghent - reacted stoically, inclining his head fractionally before uttering a reply that would have made a droid proud. But that was ridiculous, for the man was as similar in appearance to Omega as to have been his twin, and Siala knew her onetime master had no siblings. Yet how else could this be explained? Sorcery? Illusion? No, this had none of the stench of trickery, and the man and his guard seemed far too solid besides. How, then? It was a mystery, but one which the men were kind enough to deliver an answer to with their argument.

Reflections... they're all reflections

She'd heard of Omega's cloning experiments, of course, although she had never understood much beyond the basics, nor had much of a desire to. They seemed unnatural to her, a division of the essence of life that was surely an abomination under the Force. Omega had accepted this view, if not understood it, and so had spoken of his pale reflections only infrequently. But she had known, for all that she had wished she hadn't. "You're..." Rancorspit, what was the word he used again? Ah. "Clones. His clones." The revelation swept away her anger, leaving only exhaustion in its wage, and Siala seemed almost to sag as she stared at the one who called himself Ghent. She'd been so sure that it was him, that she'd found him again. And yes she'd felt anger, and betrayal, but currents of relief beneath the darker emotions had also been present, and now all that was left was the hollowness once more.

"I offer my apologies," she murmured formally, falling back on rote when her mind failed to supply a course of action, "I just... I am Siala Kai, of the Dreaming River Clan. He - Omega - was my master, long ago. I came here hoping to find some trace of him."
 
Ghent nodded, they were clones of the template they called Omega and once they had numbered in the thousands. Now they were only eleven and their Elder, the original, had seen fit to destroy any data and cloning equipment pertaining to the creation of more. They were a dying breed, a relic of Palpatine and his experiments, and they all knew that the day might come when they would be no more.

"No need for apologies [member="Siala Kai"]." Ghent responded although if he meant it, none could tell. "The Commander, Omega, has not long left us. He has business with the Confederacy of Independent Systems that takes him away from the station for great lengths of time. I cannot say when he may return to us but you are welcome to rest upon the station until such a time as he does." The offer and her apology had put the other clones at ease, no longer did they teeter on the edge of combat readiness waiting for the moment to strike.
 

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Siala wanted to accept Ghent's offer. Truly, she did. Her body yearned for sleep, for real rest rather than the loathsome parody of it which the Oubliette had inflicted upon her. But how could she rest when the clone had just stirred up the maelstrom of swirling emotions once more by telling her in that cold, inflectionless voice that Omega was still alive. That he had stood here on Exis Station only a short time previously. And to tell her that he was now in the space of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, an area which the holonet had indicated to be put a few parsecs away? How was she supposed to rest knowing that?

So the copper-haired Dathomiri had no choice but to shake her head, explaining, "I am grateful for your offer of shelter, Master Ghent, but if Omega lives I must find him." There was more to it than that, but how could she explain it to the clone when she didn't even truly understand all of it herself? It was impossible. Beyond impossible; unthinkable.

"You said he was in Confederate space, yes?" she continued after a long moment's hesitation, "Then I will start there. And if he contacts you before I find him-" Hesitating a moment, she reflected on whether it would be best for him to know she was coming. Even if it wasn't, would the clones lie for her? Somehow, she doubted it. So perhaps then it was best to try and make an asset of this potential weakness. "If he contacts you, let him know I seek him. That I'll start with all the places we once knew." That didn't narrow things down a great deal, of course, but there weren't many options open to here at this point given that it seemed unlikely any elements of their old communication network had survived seven centuries of warfare.

"Safe travelling, Master Ghent," she finished with a slight smile, inclining her head to the group of clones before turning on her heel and heading back toward her ship. It felt good to have a course again.
 

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Leaving Exis Station again was hardly as easy as it might have seemed, especially when so many familiar faces awaited there. Or so many versions of the same familiar face, at least. But to remain, to sit and wait for Omega to come to her, that wasn't Siala's way. Besides, who could predict how long it would be before that insufferable man deigned to honour her with his presence? Ghent had said Omega's business with the Confederacy took great lengths of time, and the clone had the air of a man given to understatement so like as not she'd be waiting years before her onetime Master took it into his head to visit the station.

No, waiting wasn't an option.

Back aboard the freighter, the witch made her way back to the cockpit with an unhurried step. Her thoughts were focused on conjouring up the map of the Confederacy she'd found earlier, and on trying to remember if any of the worlds had held a particular connection to the man she sought. Many of the worlds escaped her memory - she'd barely glanced at the map, in all fairness - and most of those she could remember were little more than meaningless name. But one name struck in her mind. Roon. She had heard him speak of that world more than once, she was sure of it. Could it be that the world had been important to him? More importantly, was it possible that it was still important to him? It seemed unlikely - hah, it seemed absurd to even consider it - yet no more promising alternative presented itself before Siala ducked into the pilot's chair once more. "Well," she murmured, "The spirits favour those who seize the initiative, do they not?" Besides, if the worst came to the worst she'd at least be able to access some of the Confederacy's systems on the world to see if they had any further information on Omega.

Decision made, the emerald-eyed witch began to run the ship through its startup checks. Fortunately, the engines hadn't had time enough to go cold, so the actual startup process took little time, and before more than a handful of minutes had elapsed Siala was gently easing the craft out of the docking bay. Once that was done - and she wasn't close enough to the station to worry about clipping it with the unwieldy freighter - she began to punch the co-ordinates for Roon into the system. Instantly, warnings flickered across the screen, advising of pirates and asteroid storms and a handful of other threats that awaited the unwary in space around Roon. Siala dismissed them with a curt, irritated gesture; not a danger in the universe was going to keep her from tracking down Omega.

The only thing she wasn't sure of was what she was going to do when she found him.
 

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Whilst the nameless freighter speared through the entropic realm of hyperspace toward Roon, moving with a swiftness that belied its battered, ungainly bulk, its pilot slumbered uneasily in the cargo hold. She had considered using the bed, but only for the briefest of moments; the idea of sleeping in the bed of a man she had so recently slain sat badly with her, though not for any reason she could pin down. But perhaps that was for the best, for demons already tormented her in her sleep, and would they not have been worse in the bed of a murdered soul?

So Siala slept a fitful sleep between an appropriated scrap of tarpaulin and the cold, hard deck, and in her dreams danced visions of the abominations she had learnt about from the holonet, of monsters that ravaged worlds and the death of worlds themselves.

Eventually she woke, sweat dripping from her body despite the chill of the hold. Her hands clenched at the tarpaulin until the blood fled from her knuckles and her nails bit through the thin cover, but the Witch scarcely noticed as her eyes flickered this way and that, seeking a glimpse of the creatures from her nightmares in the waking world. Nothing. The hold was empty, her ragged breathing echoing faintly around the crates of detritus. "Just a dream," she muttered, but was that truly all that had been? The Force moved in mysterious ways, or so they said, so could it not be that it was sweeping in to fill the void left by seven centuries of isolation? Was it possible that the Force itself was showing her the darkness that had engulfed the galaxy? And if it was, why? Did it not think she had suffered enough?

Sighing, the Dathomiri shook her head tiredly, and ran a tanned hand through her coppery hair. "Should've known a night's sleep was too much to ask," she grumbled, flicking the edge of the tarpaulin aside and hauling herself reluctantly to her feet. Stretching, she glanced around the hold once more, still not able to shake the unnerving sensation that something lingered beyond the veil, before staggering out of the hold to check on the freighter's progress through the void. A detour into the mess on the way to the cockpit wasted the time necessary to brew a mug of caf, but soon enough she was slipping into the pilot's chair, fingers of one hand tapping at the controls while the other carefully nursed the steaming beverage. Maps and starcharts flickered across the screens, highlighting the freighter's course through the cold expanse of space that separated Roon from Exis Station, and Siala eyed them consideringly. She was almost there, with just enough time to do a little research on her destination. A gesture at the controls discarded the maps and progress charts, and another quick command summoned up a travel guide to Roon. It was a sparse entry, and in truth relying on another's information rather than scouting out the area herself rankled more than a little, but time was a valuable commodity for the moment, and what little information she could glean from the guide would surely be worth its weight in gold.

"Then again," she murmured, eyes drinking in the information, "Maybe not."

Roon was a mystery, it seemed, populated but relatively isolationist. Little information had escaped into the galaxy at large, and that which had only managed to paint a picture of a most peculiar world, one whose hemispheres were fixed in place, one eternally shrouded in darkness and the other bathed in light. It was a world of contrasts, by all accounts, and so seemed the perfect place to find her mercurial master.
 

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In years gone by, Roon had been shrouded by the Cloak of the Sith, a vast, near impenetrable region of space that had swallowed dozens of systems. Many an unwary traveller lost their lives there, lost and befuddled in the interference of the Cloak, wandering without hope until they found themselves crushed by a wayward asteroid or dying of starvation. It had a beautiful, mysterious jewel amongst the stars, made all the more fascinating for its deadly history. But them the relentless march of progress had led to a stable hyperspace route being formed, and Roon had become just enough world at the end of a trade spine. The danger was gone, and so too was much of the beauty, for it had been Roon's wild, untamed heart - so much like that of distant Dathomir - that had given it its allure.

At least, that was how Sialla's thoughts ran as she stared down at Roon from high orbit. Starships darted about her battered freighter, flitting between the planet and its innumerable artificial moons, whilst larger vessels hung ponderously against the darkness of space. But, she had to admit it was possible she was just a touch biased, for already now she had been stranded in orbit for three hours, waiting for the Confederate agents at planetary control to work their way through the queue of vessels waiting to land on the planet. More than once she had tried to hurry things along, employing every trick from bribery to threats in the hopes of being able to feel her feet pressing against solid earth once more, but her efforts had been in vain; the man running planetary control were clearly every bit as inhuman as the droids the original Confederacy had employed.

"Freighter Five-six-nine," a voice called through the commlink after another long delay. They'd assigned her the number after realising the freighter was declaring no name, and it was already starting to wear on the Dathomiri, "You're clear for landing at Nunurra Spaceport. We're uploading waymarkers to your navicomp now. Follow them exactly or you will be shot down."

"I'd have had a warmer welcome from a pack of vornskyr," Siala grumbled irritably, setting the ship's autopilot to follow the preset navpoints. That, at least, was one good thing she could say about the way that Roon had been tamed; the Confederates had done everything in their power to ensure that people would be able to come and spend their money on the world, and that including installing the very latest synch-and-slave navicomp override systems, which left the Witch free to turn her attention from the cockpit and return her attention to preparing for whatever it was that awaited below.
 
The Sanctum of the Obsidian Knights lay at the heart of the capital, a great fortress of stone and metal, peppered with defensive batteries ready to unload upon any hostile that dared breach its walls. The solemn black armoured Knights patrolled its high walls, guarded its gates and kept order where the Roon law enforcement were deemed inadequate.

In an office near the very top of the building was the Lord Commander, the highest authority the Obsidian Knights had. It was not filled with finery or pomp, it was functional with a desk, two chairs, a table lamp and computer built into the faded synthwood. Behind it was a wide bay window that looked out over the sprawling city. Norongachi had quarters elsewhere within the fortress but considering he never slept, they were rarely used.

Salem stood before the window, a cigarra in one hand and the coms device flashing a red light to show that there was an active connection. "-Siala Kai, she claimed to be your apprentice." The voice spoke, through bursts of static interference. The asteroid ring above and the distance between Exis and Roon made any lines of communication spotty at best.

"What did she look like, this Siala Kai?" Norongachi responded, not turning from the view.

"Dark hair, medium in height, bronzed skin. She wore archaic armour." The clone, Ghent, replied.

"And you told her where to find me?"

"Yes, Sir. I felt it best, considering your potential connection. My apologies for the lateness of this report, it was very difficult to raise you on Roon."

"Don't worry about it. Thank you, I'll keep my ear to the ground." With that he turned and flicked off the device before bringing his computer monitor to life and tapping out a message for the port authority.

'Any sentient registering by the name of [member="Siala Kai"] is to be brought directly to the sanctum and myself personally. She is not dangerous and should not be treated as such.

Regards,


Salem Norongachi, Lord Commander, Obsidian Knights.'

He sent it into cyberspace, if Siala was heading here he knew she'd find him even without the prompt of a port official but it never hurt to make her job easier. A smile played across his lips and smoke seeped from the crack, the Witch was back...Atretes was going to have a very entertaining time from now on.
 

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Whoever it was that had named Nunurra Spaceport as such was truly a master of overstatement, of spin and propaganda, for in truth there was little to the so-called Spaceport than a cramped, noisey warren of interconnected prefab docking bays and security posts the likes of which a soul might find on any one of a hundred backwater worlds.

Nonetheless, it sufficed for the task in hand, and Siala gratefully set her appropriated freighter down within the assigned bay. "My thanks to you spirits," she murmured, rising from the pilot's chair as the roar of the engines faded into nothingness, "For once again allowing me to survive where woman was not supposed to tread." The words were ritual to her, spoken whenever she found herself back on solid ground after a journey through the cold expanses of the starry void, but the gratitude in them was real enough as she departed the cockpit and made her way back through the freighter toward the boarding ramp. There, where the metal of the ramp touched the surface of Roon, a figure in the uniform of a Confederate functionary was already waiting, a datapad held tightly in one hand. "Greetings, madam," he began, catching sight of her at the top of the ramp, "I am Elcott Druer. I serve as administrator of this docking bay."

"Greetings to you and your clan, Master Druer," the witch replied formally, folding her hands together at her waist and bowing over them in the manner of her own clan. Of course, the intricacies of the gesture would be lost on the man - even Dathomiri males were hardly perceptive enough to grasp ever nuance of the gesture, let alone some offworlder such as this. And, indeed, the man blinked uncertainly and glanced down at his datapad as though to remind himself of something. "Yes, well, thank you," he managed to burble after an uncomfortable pause, "But I'm afraid we must still complete the paperwork, beginning, I think with your name?"

Her name. Even considering giving that up sat uneasily with Siala for a name was a potent thing, capable of being used for powerful magics of control and domination. Yet could she really refuse? Perhaps, but that would surely require her to leave. And nor was lying an option, for such was not her way. So, quite inevitably, she nodded after just a short hesitation, offering simply, "I am Siala Kai, of the Dreaming River Clan."

The functionary merely nodded as though he heard such names on a daily basis, and perhaps he did. Yet a moment later, when he input the name into his datapad and read the message that flashed across it in response, he paled. "Ah," he uttered, perhaps more to buy himself a moment's thought than anything else, "It would appear that... umm... that your presence is required at the sanctum?" Turning as he spoke, he peered at a distant building, a fortified spire that was entirely at odds with those buildings which neighbored it. The sanctum, no doubt. Returning his gaze to Siala, he regarded her with a mixture of emotions evident on his features, curiousity and concern most noticeably. No doubt he was wondering why a being such as she was being summoned to this sanctum, and simultaneously worrying that she might refuse. Fortunately for him, Siala had already decided that there was but one sentient who had any reason to issue such an order, and he was the selfsame man she herself sought.

"Lead on, Master Druer," she murmured, smiling a predatory smile, "Please, lead on."
 
"Listen," Norongachi began his voice showing more tension than he would have liked. "I don't care if you have to space walk the armour here, I need it now." He snapped into the com at the factory representative from the Techno Union.

"But such an order is simply beyond our capacity, in the time frame you desire Lord Commander."

"Beyond your capacity..." Norongachi spoke, his voice calm, almost understanding. "It might be beyond my capacity to ensure your factories and warehouses are adequately protected when the myriad of enemies we have pay us a visit."

"......Let me consult our manufacturing foreman and get back to you."

"You do that. Have a pleasant day." With that he hung up, as the door chimed the arrival of a visitor. Senses that were forever attuned to a world beyond felt a familiar stirring but...it was different, not as he remembered. His eyebrows fell in a confused frown and he stood, slipping on hand into his pocket and turning to face the window behind his desk.

"Enter."
 

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Somewhere between the spaceport and the Sanctuary, Administrator Druer who had been replaced with Senior Administrator Vance, a sharp faced woman who had in turn been replaced by the gaunt, skeletal form of Administrative Liaison Felton upon their arrival at the armoured bastion of the Sanctum itself. Siala barely noticed, and paid little heed to the gently probing questions each of them posed her, no doubt seeking to understand why a man such as [member="Salem Norongachi"] would seek the company of a savage offworlder clad in skins and hides. Alas for them, their curiosity would have to fester, for the witch provided they with not a single answer, emerging from her thoughts to speak only where necessary to keep them moving.

Eventually, they stood before a door on one of the highest levels of the towering Sanctum. It was cold and sterile, utterly nondescript in appearance, and yet, briefly, for a fraction of a moment, Siala could have sworn she felt something from it. Or from beyond it. Something familiar, but gone all too quickly to be sure of. Or to be sure that she hadn't imagined it. Felton hesitated a moment, offering her once last evaluating glance, before leaning forward to press a button on the panel with one long finger. Instantly, a chime sounded from beyond the door, somewhat muted by the layers of durasteel but still audible. A voice followed in its wake, calling for them to enter, but the Dathomiri suddenly found herself frozen in place. That voice... for all that she'd come here seeking Omega, she'd never really believed it was he. She'd thought she would never hear that voice again. Even from the clones, it hadn't been quite the same, for though they had shared the same vocal chords at creation they had been shaped differently by the years of conflict. And yet, there it was. Familiar. Unmistakeable.

And suddenly the paralysing surprise was washed away by waves of anger.

Pushing past the startled functionary, Siala stormed into the office, eyes flashing like laserbolts of emerald hatred as they swept across the chamber, seeking out the form of the man who had spoken. He wasn't hard to find, standing right behind the desk opposite the door, pointedly staring out the window as though unable to meet her gaze. But it was him. She'd have known him anywhere. "You," she snarled, fists clenching as she advanced upon him, "You festering pile of malkloc dung. I thought you were dead. You let me think you were dead!"
 

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