Day after day the Imperial Assembly chair reserved for the Warlord of Carlac had gone unoccupied as the internal conflicts boiled hotter, spitting and hissing upon the fires of those who had forgotten their places as servants rather than tyrants. The enigmatic sorcerer had not even the courtesy to send someone from his staff in his stead, or rather the energy to, it seemed in those dwindling days after Csilla. Rather than do anything to aid his recovery, thrown headlong into tumultuous thought, The Vulture had sat deep beneath the icy world in a chamber no living soul was entrusted with, in meditation. There was much for him to consider, so much to do, and not nearly enough time left in his bones for him to achieve it all at the rate he was going.
He had lurked in his darkness, allowing the mechanization of his world's day-to-day run itself as was always intended, whether helmed by his personal oversight or the hands of those to come after; he needed time.
Invoking the spirits of so many slain, wrathful souls at once had all but wasted him away after the grand show had ended and he had ultimately withdrawn his damned forces from the doomed world, retreating back to what was familiar in a galaxy which became everything but with every spiral. Times had changed. And yet, amidst his recuperation, the ever-present, watchful gaze of the hollowed, wounded ghost clinging to him had not departed. She never would.
And it was her who first murmured of ill-tidings at Ilum- a place he had struggled to forget with each passing year since his visit decades ago. He could not deny the threads that bound him back to that world, the place where so many bright-eyed padawans had ventured both before and after him, all of them blind and ignorant to what had preyed upon him in the crystalline caverns. He would be foolish to go, to commit himself to the world so soon after the heavy toll he had suffered, and even more so to dare face swelling Darkness there head-on. And yet, he was a fan of tragedy.
His own, perhaps most of all.
Decisively, he emerged from his darkened den and plucked pilots from their beds, giving the order to set off for the planet.
Stepping foot upon the precipice of fate was a deadly, consequential game, but it was he who tempted it time and time again with every overture of his life. He never would have brought his apprentice here, he decided in silence as he trekked downward into the murky depths of the caverns, escorted by a pair of uncanny, silent stormtroopers. The bloody red
symbol of his military across their armor revealed they were not his enlisted, but rather his own make- and amongst the dwindling number he felt he could trust as the shadows spurred his paranoia with hushed murmurings of failure encircling him.
He could
feel it, resonating through his icy blood and strumming the cords of his consciousness as he delved deeper, following the twisting lines of energy illuminating his path. Something terrible still dwelled here, its Darkness imperceivable, perhaps, to those who had not encountered it before. But it was here where he was first acquainted and here, he had chosen to go, to confront it once more. He needed answers. The undead marching beside him watched in silent indifference as he rasped and struggled to endure it, relying heavily on the walls of the cavern for support as he ventured forth down the same path he had wandered ages ago.
It beckoned him down through its depths, murmuring its siren's song as tempting as it had before. He, the one who dealt the hand of weakness upon others, felt it turn unto him. Each step forward, echoed by his soldiers', was harder and harder.
"You SHOULD NOT be here!" The voice in his mind shrieked louder than his conscience,
"Kezec, please! Just go back... go back... y-you can't-" The sudden, surprising silence from her raised warning in his mind as nothing had before.
All around him he felt the crystals scream with agony, a sentiment he soon shared, as their pain bled into him and boiled his blood- raising the blackened veins hidden beneath his scarred skin to the surface. Halketh winced, pushing his agonized breaths outward through his teeth, and clutched after the electrum-plated hilt of the blade clipped to his hip as if it could offer comfort. But it too felt the agony at the source, and only served as a conduit to further his torment.
He paused, leaning heavily against the wall of the cavern, trembling in the darkness with his vision closing upon him. Sweat stuck the cloth he had forsaken his armor for to his skin, and he took a moment to steel his resolve and choke down the sickness inching up his throat.
No resistance beyond tumult through The Force had met him here.
Rarely, was it a good sign.
"Nuyak ari, buti zhol viae kia niatezi?" "My lord, is it wise to continue?" the rasping, struggled voice of one of his escorts reached him, as the slain man braced a hand against his shoulder.
An echo of his conscience, nothing more, was that question. Doubt, a seed sown by an internal hand. It would go unanswered as Halketh righted himself with what little sense he had and continued in panting silence, venturing further and further past the point of return.
He emerged in the final chamber, the same which had haunted him in his nightmares for decades, and instantly, the undead by his side leveled their weapons at the Presence lurking central. Guttural growls, unholy and deconsecrated in nature rattled from their monstrous chests, though their trigger fingers stayed when The Vulture lifted a quivering hand in a silent order. His head tilted upward and he expanded his Sight beyond, allowing the fullness of what Dark, twisted energy had taken residence in this would-be sacred place to fill his senses.
All he saw was glowing, maniacal red- the color of blood, spewing from the source and resonating around him as the crystals wept at the mere Presence alone.
"It's you," He stated, fixing his scarred features towards The Voice,
Darth Solipsis
,
"the grand puppeteer behind The Maw." Despite his weakness, his tone was steady and apathetic, betraying his lack of surprise at the revelation. The troopers by his side stood steady, frozen almost, with their weapons leveled in the Sith's direction until Halketh slowly lowered his hand, and they followed suit.
"Why was it you who called me here?"
The blackened veins continued their rise, becoming increasingly evident as his discomfort rose and his chest grew heavier with the strain of his nigh-smothered breaths.