Public The Khe’Ruun-Tal Codex

[Liin Terallo]

LOCATION: Rakatan Prime

There are some discoveries that you publish. And some that you bury so deeply that even the Force itself forgets where you hid them. The Null Codex belongs to the latter.

Rakata Prime is steeped in the Force. The air itself carries echoes of domination, of an empire that once divided the galaxy into rulers and subjects, attuned and expendable. But beneath the jungles and shattered spires lies something far less triumphant. A final argument carved into the planet’s mantle by a species that understood too late, what unchecked imbalance inevitably becomes.

This world is what remains when no one wins.

The Rakata who created the Codex no longer exist in any meaningful sense. Their cities still scar the surface; great latticework spires half-consumed by mineral bloom and rot. But whatever ideology once sustained their empire finished devouring itself long before the jungle reclaimed the rest.

The Codex was not kept in a temple. It was entombed beneath a late-era research complex cut directly into Rakata Prime’s crust. A place designed for iteration and failure rather than reverence. Sealed chambers. Redundant countermeasures. Entire sections collapsed inward, as if even the architects no longer trusted what they had made.

Whoever authored it did not want it remembered. They wanted it contained. This artifact does not radiate power. It does not sing. It does not call. It subtracts. In it's proximity, the Force behaves as though it has encountered a conceptual error. Not resistance but absence. Sensitives report vertigo, nausea, a deep instinctive revulsion; like pressing one’s awareness against a void that should not exist. Non-sensitives experience something else entirely: pressure, stillness, a clarity so neutral it becomes unsettling.

There is no favor. No rejection. Just equilibrium.

The lattice structures embedded throughout the chamber; repeating geometries, isotopic anchors long stabilized suggest this was never meant to be a singular device. It was a framework. A model. One refined through generations of failure with each iteration pushing closer to permanence. Their final mistake was believing nullification alone would end the divide.

But I know better. I have spent the last few years of my life being hunted for attempting to add what the galaxy insists must be inherited. Synthetic resonance. Artificial access. A way to close the gap that breeds inequality, resentment, and wars disguised as destiny.

The Rakata attempted the reverse. A nullification process so complete that prolonged exposure does not merely suppress connection - it rewrites it. Cellular. Heritable. A silence that persists long after the source is removed.

If refined… it would change everything. Which is why I am not here simply to study it, but to expand upon it. The same lattice principles that strip resonance could, in theory, be inverted. Paired. Delayed. A failsafe embedded into power itself. A counterweight that sleeps until needed. Insurance, should my own work ever fall into hands less restrained than mine.

Power without consequence is what destroyed this world. I will not repeat their error. That is why I came to Rakata Prime. And why I know that I did not come alone. There are others moving through the ruins above me already - drawn by fear, by hope, by ideology, or by the belief that no one should be allowed to decide who gets to touch the Force at all.

They may be right. Because if the Codex is real - and all evidence suggests that it is - then my freedom, my research, and the lives of everyone who has set foot on this planet are already entangled with it's outcome.

The question is no longer what the Null Codex is. It’s who Rakata Prime will prove right. And who it will erase.

Tags: Persephone Dashiell Kiran Arlos The Lord of Hunger Xitli Sacul @anyone else wishing to join in.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

RAKATA PRIME

​

The lead about Rakata Prime came from her personal tutor. Rumors of a small group planning on hunting for a mysterious object only known as the Codex. From what was known to herself it was a valuable piece for Force Users. As usual, for those who didn't have the Force unique pieces always sold well with collectors.

Did Persephone hold any illusions about capturing the piece? Not in the slightest. However, if there was one valuable piece it meant other, slightly less valuable pieces may be in the same location. Ones that would be overlooked by the other groups digging through the ruins. Lucky for her, Zee had an old map of the ruins he was able to refer to in real-time.

As usual, the entrance went down quite sharply. She was moving quietly and with intention. Running afoul of some hot headed idiot looking to make a credit wasn't in her game plan. She was smart. Calculated. Let others go for this device and she could walk away with Rakatan technology to sell while others had their back turns.

A nice way to ring in the post Life Day holiday stretch.

"Remember, just be quiet. Let the others make fools of themselves."

Kiran Arlos | Liin Terallo
​

 

[Kiran Arlos]

Persephone Dashiell
​

Kiran Arlos gave the barest nod, keeping his steps light as the passage angled down.

"Understood," he murmured, voice low enough to vanish into the stone. "Let them shout. We'll take what they miss."

He slipped to the rougher edge of the stair, eyes tracking the dark ahead while distant voices echoed somewhere above, already too loud, already too proud.

Kiran exhaled once, slow and controlled, eyes scanning for seams in the wall, hairline fractures, old conduit lines that suggested hidden doors or maintenance access. The kind of places a group chasing a legend wouldn't bother to look.

"We stay quiet," he finished, the words more promise than agreement. "We let them make the noise. We take what they don't even think to see."

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

RAKATA PRIME

[ I am detecting life forms a good distance from us. The nature of the ruins does limit my range though Miss Persephone. ]

She and Kiran Arlos were on the same page. She would let the others duke it out for this item, a codex? Some type of knowledge bank she suspected, different than a holocron. Lots of cultures had codex-like devices with knowledge scattered about in academia or in museums. Rakata were known for their technology prowess so this was even more special.

Now if these idiots shot one another and she just happened to scoop it up in the aftermath? She wasn't going to say no. Which is why she had a plan in place.

"True. Now, we need to get close-ish to them." Flashlight bounced around, looking for anything worth stopping to explore. Nothing yet but they had barely started their journey downwards. "First, probably more good stuff. You know, the further away from the entrance the more valuable. Second, because if the others get into a shootout and kill one another, we can scoop it up. Always one of my contingency plans."

[ I suspect a high chance of betrayal among loosely aligned individuals given the amount of credits that can be obtained. ]

 

[Vexorion]

​

[]

Torture Me - Davey Suicide

​

Location: Rakata Prime
Objective: Ascertain the Truth of the Codex
Tag: Liin Terallo : Anyone


Vexorion descended through the planet's pearlescent cloud layers as if sinking into a dream that had forgotten it was meant to end. Rakata Prime unfolded beneath his ship in impossible beauty: emerald jungles braided with silver rivers, stone spires softened by moss and time, the air shimmering with a false serenity that made the Force feel distant and muffled. He set down on a stretch of blackened soil, the landing struts hissing as they met ground that remembered fire better than life.

When the ramp lowered and he stepped out, the planet greeted him with warm air and birdsong, an almost devotional calm. Vexorion paused, letting his senses widen, only to feel the rot beneath the splendor: ancient suffering fossilized into the bedrock, a history of dominion and collapse whispering from every leaf and stone.

He surveyed the horizon with open contempt, seeing past the surface beauty to the truth beneath; this world was not sacred, not lost, not misunderstood. It was a wound that had learned how to bloom. "If the Codex exists," he spat, voice swallowed by the jungle, "it will be buried beneath lies like these."

The Force here did not flow; it curdled, looping back on itself in patterns that suggested intelligence without mercy. Whether the Codex was a relic of power or merely a myth grown fat on fear no longer mattered. Rakata Prime itself was the evidence, proof that civilizations could master gods and still rot into irrelevance. To Vexorion, the planet was nothing more than blight on the backside of the galaxy, masquerading as paradise, and he advanced into it not as a seeker of truth, but as an executioner of illusion.

Vexorion moved through the jungle as though it recoiled from him, broad leaves trembling and folding inward, vines tightening in slow, nervous spirals as he passed. The air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient decay, each breath tasting of ages best left undisturbed. Ahead, the terrain rose into a modest outcrop of weathered black rock, its surface etched with half-erased geometries that made the Force itch and misalign.

Nestled against it was a lone encampment: too orderly, too alive; canvas shelters glowing softly under portable lights, sensor pylons blinking in patient rhythms. Archeologists clustered over dig sites like ants worrying a corpse, hired laborers hauled crates with weary obedience, and droids skittered and hovered, recording, scanning, cataloging things that did not wish to be remembered.

He stopped at the jungle's edge, unseen, watching them with something colder than curiosity. Their voices and machines formed a thin, defiant bubble of noise against the vast, listening silence of Rakata Prime. None of them felt the way the ground subtly flexed beneath their feet, or how the shadows leaned inward, attentive. Vexorion stepped forward at last, letting his presence leak into the air like a pressure drop before a storm.

"Well," he said softly, the words carrying with unnatural clarity through the camp, "this looks like a good place to start."

​

 

[Xitli Sacul]

Location: Rakata Prime
Objective: Retrieve the Codex
Tags: Liin Terallo Persephone Dashiell Kiran Arlos Vexorion

Notable Equipment:
Tlapixqui

---

Arrival

Rakatan, he knew the name, he knew their world. It carried much the same importance to them as Xak Tharakus did his species, a holy world, a paradise world but that was where the similiarites ended. The Trade Federation had once described his kind as a race of Shopkeepers, it was an apt but crude description of their culture. The Rakatan were conquerers, Avali weren't supposed to be, so then why was he here? Chasing Khan Terallo across the known universe like a raven chasing wolves.

"We breached atmosphere Great One. Should I prepare your retinue?"

"No, not this time." Xitli answered, his voice delivering a payload of authority that subdued Acalan from asking further questions. It wasn't subtle and made the Satorian's body flinch, as though he'd just been punched in the gut. Acalan's reaction made Xitli pause to consider his actions, he didn't like asserting his glamour to enforce his command but patience with the galaxy was wearing thin.

"Keep the Chico in low-orbit and await my command, I hope to conclude our operations here quickly."

"Yes. Great One." Acalan replied, his snout curling into a concerned expression, this was unusual.

------

Descent

Unfurled the winged-serpent descended down to Rakantan Prime, the canopy waving beneath him and the wind brushing against feather and scale until he struck ground. In the shadow of a stone monolith, the Avali admired the craftsmanship to had stood so long, and all without access to Novarium. It was a feat worthy of the people that once claimed dominion of this world. Tasting the air, he relished the tea-like aroma's that clung to the forest and surplanted the monolith with the amber spires of his home.

Alone. He could finally let himself loose, and relish in this opportunity to relive an experience that felt almost foreign to him. It had been centuries since he laid talons on the dirt of his homeworld, lesser races had children and died in that time.

Designed by Lossa Darcuhl​

 

[Liin Terallo]

I sit on the stone floor because standing feels optional. The chamber itself is older than symmetry, carved when mathematics still bled into faith. Latticework etchings spiral across the walls. They were crude at first glance; but deliberate the longer I study them. Ratios repeat. Angles correct themselves. Someone calculated here, not with instruments, but with conviction. I copy the carvings by hand, making slow, reverent strokes with my pencil onto paper in the same way that an art student might copy a master’s work in a gallery.

The Codex is close. Not close enough to see. But close enough to interfere. My synthetic abilities do not activate so much as they misbehave. A flicker behind the eyes. A pressure change in the air that never quite resolves. It felt like static crawling across my skin. I press my teeth together and breathe through it.

That is when I feel them. Not one presence. Several. Diffuse. Untrained. Above me - one level up, perhaps two - movement echoes wrong. Too light. Too careless. Voices drift faintly through stone conduits, young and excited and catastrophically optimistic. Treasure hunters. Children, really. The kind that mistake surviving ruins for earning them.

Elsewhere, further out, there is structure. Order. The careful footfalls of professionals. An encampment complete with canvas tents, portable lights, field tables. Archaeologists, I would guess; probably drawn here by the same holo-documentary that has been circulating for weeks now. “The Rakata: Architects of Absence.” Sensationalist title. But surprisingly solid research.

I shift my weight to stand and the world tilts violently to the left. Pain blooms at the base of my skull, sharp and punishing, as if the Codex itself disapproves of ambition. I drop back down to the floor with one hand braced against the stone, the other clutching my head until the stars retreat back where they belong. My notebook and pencil half-hazardly strewn about in front of me on the floor.

Right. Take it slow. I fumble for my canteen, the water warm and metallic but grounding. Drink. Breathe. Do not rush artifacts that predate the concept of mercy.

Somewhere beyond the walls, something changes. The sense of disciplined calm I felt earlier sharpens and narrows. A presence steps into proximity near the archaeologist camp, heavy with intent and ceremony. The air itself seems to recoil from it. I do not need to see crimson banners or hear declarations to know what that is. A Sith has arrived.

And further still; off-axis, almost deliberately avoiding the obvious paths - I feel another anomaly settle into place. Familiar in it's presence. Calculated. Observant. Xitli.

I let my head rest briefly against the wall, eyes closed, fingers still tracing the latticework I have copied half a dozen times now. And somewhere nearby, stone waits to be opened. It begins with a sound that does not belong to this level. A hollow clang like metal against stone echoes far too long for comfort. The noise rolls through the ruin like a question asked too loudly in a sacred place.

Then the latticework beneath my fingers warms. Not by heat but activation. The etched lines I have been copying respond first; faintly luminescent, as though someone has drawn over my sketches with light. The geometry does not glow uniformly; it propagates, jumping from cut to cut in a sequence that mirrors the calculations I had just finished sketching.

Above me, something heavy slides. Stone grinds against stone; ancient and reluctant, almost as if a seal long forgotten has been nudged out of tolerance. The teenagers - wherever they are - have found something they were never meant to touch. That must be it.

My synthetic perception flares in protest. The pressure behind my eyes spikes with a sharpness that steals my breath. The sensation is wrong; both directionless and unstable. I brace myself with both hands flat against the floor as the chamber subtly reorients.

Not a collapse, but a correction. Gravity shifts by a few treacherous degrees. Loose debris skitters toward newly relevant edges. A distant shout echoes, abruptly cut off as the sound is pulled somewhere it should not be able to go. Water sloshes inside my canteen without me moving it.

Across the chamber, seams I had not noticed before illuminate in staggered intervals like lattice responding to lattice; a planetary-scale circuit waking in pieces rather than all at once. Whatever the Rakata built here was never meant to be activated cleanly.

And the Codex while still hidden answers. Not with power but with absence.

For half a second, the flicker in my head vanishes entirely. Silence. Perfect, terrifying silence. Then everything rushes back at once, leaving me dizzy and blinking, my balance utterly compromised.

Somewhere above, the archaeologist camp erupts into urgent motion. Voices are raised, instruments scrambling to recalibrate, field lights flickering as the ruin decides which rules it still intends to obey.

And somewhere closer than I like, the stone wall to my right exhales dust. A narrow fracture opens along a line I had just finished copying - precise, intentional - revealing darkness beyond it that feels… unfinished.

The ruin has noticed us. And it is adjusting accordingly.

Tags: Persephone Dashiell Kiran Arlos Vexorion Xitli Sacul

 

[Vexorion]

​

[]

Torture Me - Davey Suicide

​

Location: Rakata Prime
Objective: Ascertain the Truth of the Codex
Tag: Liin Terallo : Xitli Sacul


Vexorion moved through the archaeologists' camp like a shadow given intent, his presence bending the spotlights and making the canvas tents seem thinner, more fragile, as though they might tear under the weight of what slept beneath the sands. Scholars hunched over crates of relics and half-cleaned stone fragments, their brushes whispering against ages of dust while generators hummed with a nervous, insectile pitch.

He observed them in silence; callused hands tracing symbols they did not understand, eager eyes glittering with the hope of discovery, each motion a small defiance against the vast, patient ruin rising from the ground nearby. The air tasted old, saturated with secrets that had waited millennia for careless minds to uncover them.

An archaeologist broke away from a worktable to walk beside him, a gaunt figure with ink-stained fingers and eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. They spoke of the Codex in low voices, as if volume itself might wake something listening beneath the stone. The scholar described fragments; references to a living text, a thing that did not merely record knowledge but remembered those who read it, altering them in ways subtle and irreversible.

Vexorion listened, his gaze fixed on the jagged silhouette of the ruins, and when asked whether he believed the rumors were true, he paused just long enough for dread to bloom between them. "Truth," he said at last, "is often the least dangerous thing hidden in legends like these."

As he continued his slow walk, Vexorion felt the Codex's absence like a pressure behind the eyes, a gravitational pull from somewhere below the shattered halls. The camp bustled on, unaware that their careful measurements and cataloged shards were brushing against a history that despised being known. He sensed that the Codex was not waiting to be found; it was waiting to be acknowledged, and it marked those who drew too close with a patience that mocked mortality. Around him, the archaeologists worked with hopeful urgency, while the ruins watched back, ancient and amused, already counting the cost of curiosity.

Vexorion ignored the stares and the half-swallowed whispers that followed him as he crossed the threshold into the ruins, their curiosity clinging to his back like damp ash. Ropes creaked above, lanterns swayed, and the laborers' murmurs fractured into uneasy silence as he began his descent, boots scraping against stone that had not known a living footstep in epochs.

The air grew colder with each step downward, thick with a metallic tang that tasted faintly of old blood and older prayers. Symbols carved into the walls seemed to recoil from the artificial light, their angles wrong in ways that made the eye ache, as though the ruin itself resented being seen.

Deeper still, the ruins pressed inward, narrowing into corridors that felt less constructed than grown, their stones fused like bone around a hollow spine. Vexorion felt the Codex's pull strengthen, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through his chest and into his thoughts, whispering promises of revelation wrapped in annihilation. He did not hurry; haste belonged to the fearful, and fear was nourishment for whatever waited below.

Above him, the world of camps and scholars faded into irrelevance, while ahead, in the waiting dark, something ancient seemed to inhale; aware at last that he was coming.

​