Private The Crestfallen and the Togruta | Rhen Var | NIO

[Atsá Vyshraal]

DEAR FELLOW TRAVELLER
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
EXILED SCION

"Judicator" Adaptive Battle Rifle | Theta-class T-2c shuttle

Rhen Var

Bastard

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Two years ago, the New Imperial Order lost one of it’s most stalwart defenders. Ravraa Vyshraal, the Moff of Shili and Corsin, was shot down in the streets of Bastion. His passing ushered in change within the New Imperial Order, the voices of reform, of democracy, and of hope fiddled out into nothing more than the scrying of the desperate against a gilded iron cage. Rurik Fel took control of the New Imperial Order not long after, and with his rule also came change for the New Imperial Order. The Iron Fist, that for ten years was leveled against the Sith, against the enemies of the New Imperial Order, was brought to bear upon it’s citizenry for the first time to such an extent. The influence of organizations such as COMPNOR began outreach programs, to silence voices of dissent and opposition against the new policies pushed through by Fel. The term New Imperial Order slowly gave way to the unanimous voice of Empire. The term that Ravraa Vyshraal had dedicated his entire military career to fighting against. Authority, oppression, religious fundamentalism, all things that the Sith Empire stood for, all things that Ravraa sacrificed his personhood to at the foundries of war, became synonymous with the New Imperial Order.

Fear became the way of the Tingel Arm, and with time, this reached even the lands of Shili. Jeresen Alverm-Vyshraal, the husband to the late Moff Vyshraal, was silenced in the night. His disappearance was never commented on officially by any state sources, all plausible deniability made. Shili was under direct Imperial Rule, under the gaze of Rurik Fel. The Legacy of the Vyshraals was melted away. The amnesty given to Sith-Imperial Remnant forces, dismantled. The carefully strung friendship between the Galactic Alliance and the people of Shili, devastated. The Akulheart Memorial, dedicated to the memory of both sides of the First Togruta War, toppled.

Shili was nothing more than practice for what would become the norm for the New Empire. Throughout the Tingel Arm, scenes like this played on repeat. Men and women torn away from families for misplaced words or sympathies. Prisoners rounded up and executed, or sometimes, vanished into the worst corners of the Empire. Even death was no longer something they were offered, as the state had other desires for the future.

Atsá Vyshraal has no idea that the government was responsible for his father’s death.

Even then?

He has plenty of reasons to hate the Empire.

​

The distant, ice-cold world of Rhen Var was a far cry from the ecumenopoli that Atsá commoned. It was a forgotten hunk of rock that was rolled over by empire after empire. The Sith had trudged their way through it early into the crowning of their first Emperor. The Lord of Conquest, the Monster of Myrkr, and even Carnifex himself had turned the world upside down in slaughtering those that had made it home. It was reclaimed, before the assault, and made into a home for the Jedi once more. This was the original purpose of settlement on the planet, it was one of the beating hearts of the Jedi Order. A world that cycled back through it’s history time and time again.

When Atsá’s shuttle made contact with the planet, it looked as it had thousands of years before. The collapse of the Sith Empire, and the ensuing fight between the various Remnant groups left the world in the same state that the New Jedi had found it in. Nothing besides desecrated war machines and ruins left for those daring enough to discover. This Outer Shell of conflict, however, was not what drew Atsá to this world. It was all too new, too recent, the bodies still dared to reach out from the snowbanks and claw to the light above. That was not what the Blackguard were interested in. The Sith Empire’s entire knowledge could be gleaned from the holonet with how proudly they displayed their corruption.

What he sought, lay beyond the Sith of this Age.

The whispers of the Blackguard had taught him that the divisions of the Light and the Dark were ideas made by Sentients so they could better understand the Force. That didn’t mean that those divisions were right, they had said to him. They wanted knowledge of the Sith, of the Jedi, of the people in between and those removed from the binary. They paid Atsá a pretty credit chip for everything he had been bringing them, especially since Rurik issued his new isolationist policy. Movement for those that strong in the Force, especially with their hard bend to the darkside, made it easy for the Imperial Knights to pick them out like a flame in the night.

He hoped that stench hadn’t washed off on him. Or that his own wasn’t powerful enough to attract unwanted eyes.

He had trudged through miles of snowfall once he made his way to the doors of the Rhen Var Temple, blown wide open. What once were magnificent displays of the craftsmanship of the ancient Rhen Varites now lay in shambles beneath layers of snow. Some large bore artillery piece seemed to have knocked the massive stone doors down from their steeple. The defenders left behind many pieces of evidence that they put up a staunch defence on this world. Blaster score marked rattled across the entire temple’s surface like rainfall on a puddle. Portions were decimated and caved in, and crushed pieces of startships were scattered like playthings across the snowbanks leading up to the entrance. Several walkers were fallen here and there. The old emplacement guns and squad positions were left empty. Even at the entrance, not far beyond the fallen door, were gunnery positions where the bravest of the Sith Remnants would have held the line against the former comrades.

Nothing but bodies and ghosts now.

He drew his blaster rifle. The stories of the undead that Ravraa used to frighten him with shuddering through his spine as he flicked the flashlight on. Shining it down the hallway that lay ahead.

Ravraa…

Atsá wondered how many battlefields he had left, exactly like this in his service of the Empire.

He pushed forward, moving deeper into the Temple proper.

​

 

[Bastard]

Snow.

Blindingly white, snow.

It cut through black-plated armor, wholly ignorant of the thick cloak that fell around Errant's body. He huddled away beneath the shadow of a ruined building. Vermillion light seeped out from a dying fire. Lifting a hand, he took up a thin metal rod and prodded the remnants of the flames. Logs shifted. Cinders fluttered into the air, doused quickly by the omnipresent chill that hung over Rhen Var. The fire fought a bitter battle against the wintry winds to keep the cold at bay. Errant shifted closer to the flames in hopes it would be enough to warm his frosty bones.

It wasn't.

Always the worst assignments in the most hostile, most uncomfortable planets. Never a short vacation somewhere beautiful, like Corellia or Alderaan. Errant cursed his luck and prodded the flames once more, huffing out a cloudy breath between cracked lips. While his desire for redemption had not waivered, his patience for such conditions slowly crept further and further away from him.

A nearby beeping caught his attention. He dug deep into a pack propped up against the stone rubble beside him, searching for the communicator that wouldn't stop its incessant noise. After nearly a minute, Errant freed the comlink from his bag and activated it.

"Crestfallen," a voice belonging to his handler greeted him. "The shuttle should be arriving momentarily."

Errant's gaze shifted from the device to the skies. "Have we confirmed my target's identity?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" the Albino perked a brow. "This is not how I operate."

"You don't have a choice in the matter, Crestfallen filth," his handler reminded him matter-of-factly. "While we are unsure what they expect to find within the ruins of Rhen Var, this is the best opportunity for you to end their life and return to Bastion. The Imperator has received word the Maw is expected at Nirauan within the week. You will join him on Bastion, journey to Nirauan with the Imperator, and take your place on the battlefield."

Sighing inwardly, Errant nodded once. "Very well."

Errant lifted the sheathed, two-handed weapon from beside him and tied it into place over his cloak. He tossed the device back into his pack and climbed to his feet. With nothing else to go on, he set out at a brisk pace over a nearby hill. The shuttle he was expecting settled down perhaps a mile north of his position.

Atsá Vyshraal ​

 

[Atsá Vyshraal]

Bastard

​

Atsá was aware that the New Imperial Order was searching for him. He had run into agents, troopers, and other military forces during his stays at the various planets throughout the Tingel Arm over the past two years. He had done what he needed to in order to survive. He had learned, through these various encounters, that he couldn’t exactly hide from the New Imperial Order.

He could only buy time.

That time was bought in distance, not discrecion. That time was bought in movement, not shadows. That time was bought by never remaining in the same place for too long. Never in one place enough to develop friends, connections ,or a purpose outside of survival. His stop on Rhen Var was thought of the very same thing. The shuttle landed on the most comfortable flat of land he could find within walking distance to the temple. Nothing done to hide the vessel in the flanks of snow that blasted throughout this wasteland. It was just left in the open air. The engines still nearly warm with how recently he had departed.

The flashlight cut through the darkness in a beam. Illuminating the depths of the hallways as he moved deeper into the temple. The light drug itself across the walls, following the curving and dancing engravings leftover from the Jedi that made this place their home from Pre-History. Symbols and logographs that only bared the smallest similarities between any known writing system of the Modern Galaxy. Though, Atsá didn’t have many to compare it to. Basic, Huttese, and Togruti, not a large list to pull from. The greater meaning of what those carvings meant was lost on Atsá.

But, the set of doors he came too, baring scorch marks and what looked like to be old welding scars across nearly every last inch of the surface. It appeared like the Remnant troops had done everything they could to get this section of the hallway to breach open. His light followed up the trail of corpses set up at various positions around the doorway, what appeared to be an engineer running wire and some form of powerpack laid a couple feet away from the entrance.

Leaning against the doorway itself was a droid, a utility model from the looks of it. Fingers dug into the crease in an attempt to pry it open.

Oddly, it seemed to be devoid of the same score markings that were on the rest of it’s comrades.

What this could have meant, also, was lost on Atsá. To be frank, he was unsettled from how far he was willing to delve into this graveyard for a couple of extra credits to make enough for food come the end of the month. It was cold, biting to the bone. He had several layers on more than needed, but even that, he couldn’t keep the cold from wrapping it’s fingers around his nerves and tugging them about. He felt like he had a whole Wookie pelt slung over him and it still wasn’t enough.

The whispers of the dead, their blood calling out, certainly didn’t help.

The Force was there, everywhere in the air. It was thick and drug him down nearly like the snowfall. It was the hot fire to conflict with the hoarfrost. It tasted of metal and apocalypse.

This world had know desecration too many times.

He didn’t like dipping into his power, he knew it was like firing off a flare into the air for anyone on the hunt for him, but still…

It called him onward.

He put a hand on the droid and gave it a tug. Once. Twice.

It twisted around, snapping it’s hands off in the door where they were left, eyes flickering alive as the powercell tried to fire up. A step was taken in the direction of Atsá before he slammed the stock of the blaster rifle across it’s face. Again. The droid crumpled to the floor.

<Ani tuti tadti!> it screeched in it’s wiry mechanical voice. It was shrill and echoed off of the walls of the chamber.

Atsá stepped back, slapped the safety off of the rifle, and dropped three rounds into the droid’s chest. The screaming died, overtaken by the sharp report of the rifle. The noise reverberating down the hallway, echoing out of the entrance to the temple.

The droid ceased it’s spasms.

Atsá stared. He looked at the door, steeled himself, and stepped forward. He gave a wave of his left hand and the stonework shuddered to life and parted, leaving the disembodied hands of the droid to clatter on the floor with the frost covered cobwebs that had formed upon them.

“Where are you taking me…”

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