Into Darkness

[Kizaark]

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Barab I
851 ABY

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Darkness covered the land, the endless night of Barab I; such was the way of the planet. Death by day, life by night. The surface of the planet during the supposed 'daytime' was bare, a dead world though if one were to go underground... They would find the inhabitants alive and well, cowering from the merciless radiation that burned everything; wild, tribe or outsider. It was only when the red dwarf of a sun fell and the surface was plunged into murky shadow that life came to the surface once again, the game of predator and prey playing tug-of-war with both the Barabel tribes and the beasts that stalked the wilds; their lives placed upon the betting table.

Deep down in the depths, within a cavern surrounded by the arid landscape of the wilds, the sound of stuck metal echoed. A systematic strike of tool striking material to shape it into the desired form of its master. A low growl came from a beast within the cave, though this was not one of the typical beasts that roamed free to hunt as it pleased; this one was chained, at the service of the one that brought it to heel. A loyal pet, if having been broken time and time again to truly bring it to the state it served now; the wild things of Barab I were not ones to roll over and expect a rub on its underside, after all, they were beasts with blood on the tip of their tongues; to forge cooperation with a beast like a Shenbit, it took time, trust and blood.

The forge, as crude as it was, fell silent as the roars of tribesmen echoed from the surface down the cavern, reaching the ears of the hermit who resided there. Beasts were one thing, the hunt for food was a necessity rather than a luxury. His kin, no matter the differences between them, would be another matter entirely. He tried to avoid them, living in seclusion and letting his kin get on with their lives whilst he allowed himself to live out his. The rumors and folklore surrounding him were enough to keep many away, though tonight it seemed, this had changed.

They were coming right for him. Though for what reason, he couldn't tell.

The blade was still red hot, although dipping it into the crude coolant let steam rise up to the cavern's ceiling until it was suitable to loft and hold with a bare hand. Crude, tribal yet it wasn't formalities he would look for in the weapon, he had no concept of such. What he looked for was its capabilities on a hunt, how well it would kill. The hermit was not working with high quality materials, after all, he used what the land provided, what he could take from the land and from the beasts protecting it, though a raid on his kin would be suicide; survival instincts told him at least that much. Time was on his side, at least, and the newly-forged blade would soon have its test of worth.

Offense was just half the battle for survival; claws would rip apart, blades would plunge into flesh. Defense of the physical form was also a necessity. Fortunately, over the years, the Barabel had considered this well. The hermit took no time at all to move across his possessions, picking up the collective mass of crude armor that he had made by his own hand, attaching it to himself and making sure it was firmly placed and would remain as his shield against those that wished to kill him.

Kin or wild beast, the Fallen Son would be prepared.

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

This truly was a forlorn world.

Lark sat atop a small ridge, form shrouded by shadows darker than black. The obscure force he had sensed grew more potent, he was nearly upon his objective. He had been sent by The Sith Empire to investigate an unknown dark force, and depending on what the force was revealed to be, he had two options. Either destroy it, or potentially sway it to their cause. Lark had considering bringing his Svarrif, a Sithspawn he created. The beasts were birds of prey that served as his eyes in unknown regions, even in the most uncharted regions Lark could see all that they saw. But in this instance, he elected not to. He was familiar with the reputation the Barabel has as hunters. Even the dark feathers of the Svarrif, camouflaged against the black sky, they might risk Lark's presence being detected.

He knew he couldn't be here for long, Barab l was nearly inhospitable even compared to some of the other hazardous planets he had journeyed to in his travels. The barren landscape was reminiscent of a terrible war, craters and plains filled with lava were stippled around the place in unorganized patterns. A heavy rain had begun to fall, even under cover mist and drizzle sprayed against him. Yes, this was a feral place where chaos reigned and only the strong survived.

As far as Lark was concerned, it was just another day. Despite the mad world around him, he shied back not an inch. As a child he learned that chaos was natural.

In the shadows beneath the ridge a horde of Barabel warriors gathered, armed with savage weaponry and claws sharper than knives. They surrounded what looked to be a small cavern entrance, which was exactly where Lark had pinpointed the location of the dark source of power he had been tracking. He knew he couldn't just hop down there, the Barabel had an odd obsession with the Jedi and didn't take kindly to the Sith. He had no doubt they too were after the source of energy, only they sought to slaughter it. He couldn't let that happen, at least not before he knew what it was he searched for. He wrung out his long scarlet hair, a pointless act really. It would only get wet again. He threw up his hood, creating a veil that was pierced solely by his hellish orange eyes and a slight crescent of pale skin. He'd strike as a shadow as the Barabel ventured into the desolate depths below, and he'd find the origin of this mysterious dark power.

Whether it wanted to be found or not.

[member="Kizaark"]

 

[Kizaark]

Barab I
851 ABY

---

The heavy rainstorm echoed tranquility down into the deepest depths; if the dangers of Barab I weren't so apparent, one could sit and listen for hours to the rain striking the arid landscape.

Though, in the hermit's case, there was no time for that now. The pack of kin right outside his doorstep wouldn't allow him such luxuries. For a time, there was silence before they started to talk among themselves, wondering the plan of action. Some agreed that going in and doing the deed as quick as possible would be the best course of action. Others, perhaps some of the older, wiser of the kin within the hunting party, suggested trying to capture the hermit and hand him over to the Jedi. They all agreed that something had to be done about the Barabel; though methods were still up in the air. Their assumptions came from folklore and rumors yet had no real evidence to back their ideas on the hermit. After all, the isolationist had preferred to stick to himself and remain as far away from his kin as possible. Barabels were capable hunters, especially when it came to hunting wild beasts, fellow kin however was different. Family was a crucial part of Barabel society and whilst this one hadn't lived with a tribe since it were born, it was still kin.

Though in the darkness of the cave, dimly lit by various light sources but not enough to allow a full picture to be painted, the sound of what could only be described as the heavy stomp echoed out to the mouth of the cavern. This took many of the Barabel by surprise; having thought that the hermit would have simply kept in his homestead. The footsteps seemed to get louder and louder. It didn't take them long to notice the figure moving towards them, his loyal companion at his side giving off a variety of hissing growls at the presence of such a large party. The hermit and his pet soon emerged into the downpour, droplets of water clashing against his armor. His sword, newly forged sat in one hand whilst a hunting spear sat in the other.

The hermit, though untrained in the arts of war, knew that he was outnumbered and the playing field was put heavily on the side of his possible opponents. Yet in the tranquil rainstorm, the two parties simply looked at each other for a moment, until one Barabel piped up;

"Youz the Fallen Son?"

The hermit nodded, though offered no words. He had no talent for talking though his observations on his kin had given him something to work on. Short phrases and words that sounded to him like they would get a message across though if there was any academic meaning behind them, the hermit didn't know. Living isolated and surviving by himself had that effect, no mother or guardian to teach him the ways of his kin, everything he did he did because survival forced him to learn it, to master it or he would simply perish like the rest. This silent act caused the Barabels to look among themselves, weapons were already drawn yet none had bothered to take a stance that suggested aggression.

"Leave."

The rough sounding voice turned every head back to the hermit, the command had been firm enough however, the Shenbit kept itself low and growled. Perhaps it was this that caused one of the younger of the kin to strike, maybe it had been his idea all along. Whatever the case or the reasoning behind it, the Barabel rushed forward, blade raised, hoping to strike the hermit. Perhaps the young one thought that it would take no more than a single blow to bring the rumors of the Fallen Son to an end. He perhaps didn't expect the hermit to strike back, either. The newly forged blade wielded by the hermit connected with the blade and locked it into place whilst the spear was thrust forward and struck true right into the neck of the kin. It had been a lethal blow, though it was made only more savage when, after the defenses were down, the hemit's blade tasted its first serving of blood, swooping down like a bird of prey and carved straight into the neck, leaving a mess as the hermit withdrew his weapons in a sharp, uncaring manner and let the body slump to the floor.

That was the first of his kin that the hermit had ever killed. He felt something negative wash over his body; as if the death of kin by his own hand didn't feel right. When he killed an animal, he felt nothing, it was part of survival. This had actually left an impact, something that actually gave him a thought, a feeling.

There was a silence, a moment where everything froze, giving the body plenty time to sit there as the blood was diluted by the downpour. The silence was broken by the Barabels making a 'sissing' noise with their tongues before they all began their approach, weapons ready to plunge into the hermit for the killing of kin.

The Fallen Son and his pet stood ready, they would not go do without a fight.

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

Ah, there you are.

Two figures emerged from within the cavern, one standing tall and fearless, the other a hound-shaped figure following obediently by his master's side. The behemoth Barabel was the one that Lark was after, as soon as he stepped out of his place of hiding Lark knew. The Barabel wore a potent dark aura like a robe, strong enough to the point that even those who weren't Force sensitive could tell that something odd was afflicting the behemoth hermit. The aura felt familiar to the one Lark felt around himself years ago, back when he burned his home to the ground. Like a plague it afflicted him, causing unceasing, rapturous migraines that felt like a drill was digging directly into his skull. The pain persisted until Lark learned to control the Force, and since then he had become stronger than he had ever imagined.

As did the source of power down below, Lark too emerged from his small crevice, immediately drenched in an increasingly powerful storm. No matter. Lark barely felt the cold water as it slowly dripped down his exposed fingers. He was still about a hundred or so meters away from the Barabel horde, and as he ascended a small ridge directly behind the mass of hunters, he heard the sound of death over the torrential downpour. As he crested over the hill he saw the mangled corpse that lay broken beneath his target, and he noted that the hound-like pet wasn't a hound at all, but a lizard-like thing. Lark thought he recognized it from one of the encyclopedias in his orphanage, but he couldn't quite place the name of it.

Lark stood tall as the hunters approached their prey, if they looked back they'd see the silhouette of a lone Sith watching the events unfold below with intense curiosity. He would help the force-sensitive Barabel, in a moment.

First, Lark had to see what he could do.

[member="Kizaark"]

 

[Kizaark]

Barab I
851 ABY

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Hatred.

For a race that worshiped the Jedi and the light side influences of the force, the hermit could feel their rage, their anger. The Barabel he had slain was still a young one, no doubt his presence here was to be a part of the kin's teachings and experience within a hunting party. Whilst there would probably have been at least understanding if the young Barabel had been killed fighting a beast, this was different. For a culture so situated around family, the fact that the hermit had spilled the blood that belonged to a tribe was an insult, a nest's blood spilled by another. War was declared over these sorts of things between tribes but the wound was only salted by the fact that the hermit had no clan to call his own, no war or bad blood between them. Some might have called it murder though on Barab I, there was little to no talk of justice or law; violence was punished with violence and for the hunting party that had witnessed the death, they couldn't be happier to make the hermit bleed.

The downpour continued, heavily beating down upon the landscape with no real end in sight. To the Barabels, they knew that this conflict had to be brief before they went back into hiding down below, lest they wished to be washed away with the coming flood. As such, their tactics reflected their desire to be quick; instead of going one by one to try and attack the hermit, each member of the party went in at once, hoping to overwhelm and end the Fallen Son within a matter of moments. Quick and brutal, but entirely careless with their tactics and precision, no doubt thanks to their abandonment of the slow and methodical approach. The Barabels and their weapons went flying at the hermit and whilst he was able to block and dodge one, perhaps two, the rest would strike against the Barabel. To many, this would be the end, the sheer amount of wounds and damage done would have left nothing more than a single finishing blow to bring an end to the conflict.

The Fallen Son had endured much more, however. He had also come prepared; the crude armor being cut and sliced into by blades yet it had ultimately saved the hermit's life, given him a chance to fight again despite the blood seeping from several of the now obtained wounds. It was a brief moment to take the fight back to his kin, and he wasn't one for waiting.

The Shenbit rushed into the fray first, whilst the rest of the Barabels were distracted with the considerably tougher opponent. For a majority of the time, the pet had remained vigilant yet as soon as the combat had truly started, like a switch being flicked, the beast seemed to pounce up and bare itself down upon one of the kin; teeth and claws went to work like there was not a single thing to hold back on. Within the opening moments of the hermit's retribution, his pet had already torn one of the Barabel to shreds and took equal consideration to make sure that its prey was surely dead. In the meantime, the hermit brought his weapons to bare, the sword and spear being used in unison yet as individual armaments at the same time. With viscous swings of his sword utilized in both an offensive and defense manner accompanied with jabs with his spear when his target's defenses were occupied, the hermit managed to slay another two of his kin, the chilling after effects of each death caused by his own hand washed over his body. He didn't dislike the sensation nor did he actively enjoy it, it was simply there, something to take note of.

It was at that moment that the remaining of the party backed off, making plenty of space between them. At first, the hermit didn't know if they had enough, came to their senses or if there was something that they were preparing. The small area around the hermit was covered with dead kin, their blood mixing with the hermit's own on the watery ground. The hermit's mind was taken by a flood of questions;

Could this been avoided?
No.
Do they hate?
Yes.
Are we really same?

He hadn't the time to answer the last question as he noticed the one of the remaining Barabels reach on his person, withdrawing what seemed to look like some sort of weapon. He had never seen anything like it before yet there it was, being pointed right at him, the Barabel's finger placed firmly on the trigger. It was one of the older ones, one that seemed to have that hesitance in his eyes. It was like he knew something that the hermit did not, as if the kin recognized the hermit more than rumors and folklore. The hesitation lingered, as did the rain that covered the ground, the flood was closing in.

It was only a matter of time before the Fallen Son would meet his maker.

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

It truly was a sight to behold. The Barabels charged the hermit and his pet like beings possessed, their sole intention being to slay the one who exuded dark power. Was it because of some kind of fetish they had for pleasing the Jedi, or were they simply frightened of what he was, of what their lonesome kin could do? Lark supposed it didn't matter, in the end. If their focus wasn't entirely devoted to slaying their target they might notice a second sensation of dark power, just as strong but a bit more hidden, begin to fall upon them just as the rain did. The hermit fought with barbarity and pure strength that nothing Lark had ever seen could compare to. If that raw, dark potential could be tapped...

The rain felt like hail as it hit him, he wasn't fortunate enough to have the tough exterior the Barabels had. He didn't know how much longer he could linger here without putting himself more at risk than he already had, sneaking behind bloodthirsty hunters and all. As one of the Barabels pointed it's weapon at the hermit, Lark made his presence known. He slid down the hillside he watched from, and as he descended he reached out with the Force and took hold of the man's arm, preventing him from pulling the trigger. With precision that took months to learn, Lark slowly forced the hunter's arm upward, until the barrel was directly under the confused beast's chin. With invisible hands Lark gently guided the Barabel's finger to the trigger, and the man unloaded a shot directly into his own head. What beasts remained took a step back in shock, one nearly tripping into Lark. He drew his Sith sword, enchanted with the same properties as a lightsaber, and in one swift motion he took off most of the hunter's head. It was a messy cut, the beast was taller than Lark was and although the sword went through the armored exterior as easily as it would paper, the fatal wound was made at an awkward angle. Blood spewed into the air around them and fell as hard as the rain, and uncertainty filled the minds of those around him, even more fearful now that there were two of the creatures they detested do dearly.


[member="Kizaark"]

 

[Kizaark]

Barab I
851 ABY

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The hidden hand made his move.

At first, the hermit stood there, ready to take whatever the device pointed at him was about to shoot out at him, though it didn't come. Instead, he saw the struggle of the Barabel as the gun was slowly pointed upward and all before long the blaster shot rang out, the shooting looking like he had taken his own life as the body slumped to the floor. Furthermore, the figure that the hermit had felt off in the distance made himself known in a viscous yet decisive manner, nearly decapitating yet another of the few remaining kin that had come expecting a quick and easy execution but instead were turned into lambs sent to the slaughter. With the final blow delivered by the outsider, the remaining Barabel rushed off into the wilds, probably to try and seek shelter from not only the weather, but the two dark sided force sensitives that had turned a party of highly skilled hunters to nothing more than corpses on the floor. The hermit found it extraordinary, the prowess shown by the outsider that not only came to his aid but killed for him, growing up on his own, sense of survival and the Shenbit being his only companions, the fact that a person had come to his aid was strange, alien. The feeling he felt towards the outsider could only be described as such.

Was this what happiness felt like? Appreciation? The hermit hadn't felt an emotion like it before yet it felt good, positive. The rain picked up further, the floods were getting ever closer still. He lived alone, always had and not a single soul had ever entered his domain. Though, a thought crossed his mind; there was a first time for everything and the outsider, despite knowing nothing about him, had been of great help even if he had simply sat back and observed up until the very last moments. And now the outsider, who presumably knew little about Barab I and its geographical climate, they would ultimately need shelter for the time being to allow the storm to pass. It would give them plenty of time to become acquainted after all and explanations to be brought into the air. This didn't happen out of pure chance, the fact that the outsider had come along and his capabilities with the gift being far greater than his own... It being pure chance just didn't add up.

The hermit, not knowing all too many words, simply waved the outsider over, into the caverns so that they wouldn't be washed away by the flood. The Fallen Son did say a single word, an order.

"Come."

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

After a few moments of stunned silence, the remaining Barabel hunters fled into whatever chaotic domain they called their home. For a moment Lark intended to chase after them, if they had the chance to regroup they might strike again in the future. But he knew he couldn't risk being exposed to the harsh weather for much longer, he needed shelter while the storm raged. And besides, the hunters required such great numbers in order to challenge a lone Darksider. Now that there were two, both of them able to kill and the fact that the bulk of their forces lay dead at their feet, they wouldn't be coming around here anytime soon.

Ideally, Lark would be able to convince the hermit to come with him to Bastion and hone his powers. Lark's silver tongue was one of his greatest assets, but it would be of little use to a beast who has lived his entire existence with nary another soul to converse with. The simple enticement of power was enough for most who came to the Sith to train, perhaps it would be a similar case for the hermit.

With a simple motion and request for Lark to enter the caverns, he strode over under the cover of sturdy cave walls and threw back his hood that was as useful as a shower when it came to keeping him dry. Waiting to start his spiel until they were more situated, Lark accompanied the Barabel hermit into the mysterious depths.

[member="Kizaark"]

 

[Kizaark]

Barab I
851 ABY

---

The cavern didn't need any sort of lighting, considering the Barabel's ability to see in the dark just fine. It's hallways spanning for several minutes before hitting a large open space which had been filled with various trinkets and items of use. This was the hermit's domain, his home beneath the surface. The outsider was probably the first beyond the hermit to visit and see for himself the sort of home that the Fallen Son had built for himself. Perhaps the most interesting was the only source of light in the underground dwelling; a crude makeshift forge stood ready, surrounded by what could only be described as tribal apparatus surrounding it; he had no blueprints to work off, no prior knowledge of smithing to his name. A story could be told of the various pieces of junk surrounding the forge; failed attempts of craftsmanship used to advance his knowledge, his skill. If one idea didn't work out, the hermit simply smelted it down to rebuild it, reforge it. With the amount that remained, however, it was clear that there were more failures than triumphs.

The Shenbit growled in what could possibly be content as it returned to its spot within the cavern, albeit slightly muffled due to the chunk of meat within its mouth which was still connected to the body of a Barabel. The beast had its dinner, that was enough to keep it contempt for the time being. They were big beasts and needed a lot of food to sustain itself, much like the other inhabitants on the planet. There didn't seem to be any food stocks, no refrigeration in regards to the hermit's own sustenance; suggesting that whatever food he ate, he probably went out and hunted it each night. Despite how isolated and uneducated the Barabel was thanks to the circumstances, everything seemed rather tidy, everything had its place, its little spot in the roomy cavern that the Fallen Son called his home. Cleanliness was another thing entirely, if one were to look down to the floor, though hygiene was likely something that survival instincts didn't teach.

Setting himself down upon the furs that he called a place to sleep, the hermit began to remove the armor where the wounds had been caused, checking each one over carefully to assess the damage; they would heal with time and he knew nothing about medicine or treating himself. It was more his body healing him rather than the other way around as previous experiences had taught; this perhaps was not the most practical or the most wise but the hermit knew nothing about herbal remedies or beyond; he would let nature take its course.

"Who are you?" the hermit spoke, the rough tribal tongue that spoke very uneasy basic asked the outsider. Something had brought him to the Fallen Son, something powerful. Answers were his greatest desire.

He had a feeling he would get them soon enough.

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

Lark admired the den that the hermit and his pet called home, the dwelling displayed a level of organization and management far beyond what Lark expected of someone he identified as nothing more than a barbaric hunter. The forge that burned and provided a welcome degree of warmth was surrounded by husks of useless junk, but only in failure could true success be achieved. Such dedication was commendable. Yes, the Barabel was precisely what the Sith needed. If he could become acclimated with being around other people, his potential was great.

"My name is Lark," he said in response to the hunter's question. He knew that the Barabel had lived so long in isolation he likely wouldn't comprehend some of the more complicated words and phrases Lark normally used, so instead he spoke much more simply. Not to insult the beast's intelligence, simply to ensure comprehension was achieved. "I am of the Sith. We sensed your presence here, and I was sent to find you." He let his words settle in before continuing. "I would like you to come with me, to help you understand the gifts you've been given. We can train you. We can make you strong." To emphasize his point, he reached out with the Force and attempted to bind the man's wounds together. He couldn't heal the wounds completely, but he could stop the flow of blood and speed the process along.

This was but a taste of what the Sith could offer.

[member="Kizaark"]

 

[Kizaark]

Barab I
851 ABY

---

Sith. A word that he had only leaned in that moment as it rolled off the outsider's tongue yet it quickly drew connections to the dark side of the force, the twisted corruption of the shroud that hung over the force like a plague. Yet this was not an affliction, the feeling of power was almost intoxicating, it evident as the wounds were treated with what could only be described as magic. The herbal treatments bound with the magic of the dark, giving off an alien but not entirely unpleasant sensation, mixing with the slight pain of the wounds, a hiss leaving the maw of the hermit of pained discomfort. This pain would pass, ultimately leaving a mark of strength to bolster himself upon, another rung on the ladder of advancement. Everything he did, even if it failed, pushed him one step further to success, the failed husks of armor scattered around the floor to be re-smelted and reshaped time and time again until perfection.

Diplomacy, however, was not like smithing. Yet here was an outsider, telling the hermit about a group that would take him in, making him stronger and allow him to understand the gifts that he knew all too well that he could use. In truth, the hermit was surprised that by simply waving his hand the outsider was able to assist with the treatment of his wounds. There was power to the gift and if the outsider had it too, there was much to learn. It would mean having to leave the cavern he called home, entering an alien and possibly hostile environment but... Perhaps that was of use to a Barabel, the ultimate challenge of any hunter, to survive that of which is completely unknown. Despite all the unknowns, the call for discovery and the thirst for knowledge slowly turned the consensus within the brain to agreement. No questions could form in his head, not exactly trained in the arts of critical thinking and knowing what lay ahead. The Barabel simply nodded and replied with;

"Yes."

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

A smile etched itself on Lark's face as he heard the Barabel's reply. The call of power tempted the hearts of even the most destitute individuals, not that this was a bad thing. It was only natural to seek out one's true potential, one's true purpose. The hermit would have a great deal to learn, and it would be impossible for Lark to adequately describe all that the hermit would be expected to face once he arrived at Bastion. He'd have to learn and adapt on his own. On top of that, he'd have to become accustomed to a more civilized, social environment instead of this inhospitable, barren wasteland he's dwelled in for so long. Everything will come in time, he thought.

"Very good," Lark said. "Once the storm passes, I will take you to our home." He took a look at the hunter's lizard-like companion, the Shenbit. It was still gnawing on some flesh from one of the slaughtered Barabels on the surface. When Lark had arrived to the Sith, he had been alone, companionless. Perhaps having a touch of familiarity would help the hermit. There were far more dangerous creatures just wandering around the temples, so it really posed no threat. "If you wish," Lark began, "You may take the Shenbit with you. Or you may leave it here, if that's what you desire."

[member="Kizaark"]