Private The Rift Beneath

[Darth Prazutis]

The Force screamed. Not in pain. But in warning. Deep beneath the Sith Citadel of Dromund Kaas, far beneath even the sub-levels of dungeons and laboratories, beyond the sanctums where malevolent rituals whisper through the very stone, something had changed. Not with noise. But with utter stillness. A stillness so absolute it rang like a knell across the metaphysical layers of the fortress, it echoed through every shadow-veined wall and blood-forged glyph in the Citadel's depths.

The Dark Temple Passageway had gone silent. Silence in that place...was never a good sign. In the heart of the Citadel, seated atop his colossal throne within the Throne Amphitheater, Darth Prazutis lifted his gaze. The giants fingers twitched beneath the weight of his Qâzjiin'vraal, the living Sith warplate, which now clung to his body like a hungry living extension of his form. Each movement was precise, deliberate, a seamless fusion of Sith alchemy, dark sorcery, and eldritch horror. The armor pulsed with dark energy, its Zîrkaris plating, forged in the heart of Malsheem, responding to the call of its master. The Blood-Forged Aurodium inlays glimmered as if alive, feeding off the ambient fear that radiated from the Citadel itself. Against his chest, the Ka'ra'nazat amulet throbbed with its own hunger, amplifying the dark side energy within him and solidifying his dominion over the very shadows that crept around him. The Dark Lord rose without a word, his Xûl Qarnak lightsaber humming at his side, the dark blade crackling with an abyssal resonance that echoed through the empty chamber like a harbinger of doom, cravin death and soul shearing agony. Although it was absent, the vile runeblade was ever present, bound to its master and readily called at his whims. The obsidian-black armor subtly shifted with his every motion, as if it was more than just material, more than mere protection. It was a predator, a second skin hungry for the suffering of battle.

The Dark Lord began his descent without any hesitation. The shadows parted as if obeying a natural law, retreating before him and shrouding the giant as if it were protecting him in their coveted embrace. The Shikkari Death-Weave undersuit beneath his armor shifted with the fluidity of the Force itself, each movement adapting and flowing with the giants own, offering flexibility and strength. The Shikkari Shadow-Silk Cloak, woven from the very fabric of the abyss, draped around him like an extension of his own will. It shifted and rippled with the motion of his body, moving as if it had a life of its own, bending the light around him into nothingness, allowing him to fade into the darkness. Even in the dim corridors of the Citadel, the cloak absorbed the ambient light, leaving only the eerie, shifting contours of his form visible, like a towering nightmare made flesh. The Obsidian Steps, the Great Hall, the Sanctum's winding arteries. Deeper he went, past the ancient corridors where the very walls had been etched with blood, past the many sentinels and monsters who served at his whims, who defended this indomitable bastion. Past the Suffering Pits, past the laboratories where grotesque Sithspawn dreams twisted in unnatural slumber, where horrors are made reality. The Citadel's bones creaked in reverence to him as he passed, a monument to the dominion of their master, to the Sith Dyarchy. Then, beyond all of it, he found it.

The Dark Temple Passageway.

Here, the air was no longer simply cold, it was completely suffocating. As he crossed the threshold, the Zîrkaris plating around him seemed to absorb the very darkness in the air, amplifying his formidable presence, it fed on the pervasive dread that settled throughout the Citadel, permeating everything here. The shadows pressed even closer then, tighteing like a fist as he approached the Rift, and for a brief moment, even the walls of the ancient passageway here seemed to whisper in quiet anticipation. Before him, the twisted Rift pulsed like an open wound in the very fabric of reality. The dark tendrils of the Xûl-Karzaan helmet, buzzed in response to the growing power, its etched runes flickering with the same hunger that resonated from his very warplate. The edges of the Rift flickered with anti-light, devouring the illumination around it, it was an abyssal echo threatening to engulf all that entered. It hummed with a tone that matched the rhythmic pulsations of the Qâzjiin'vraal, and for a moment, the Dark Lord felt the hunger stir within himself.

Not the hunger of flesh. The hunger of the abyss. Without looking back, he extended a gauntleted hand. The Rift trembled, recognizing his will, responding to the beckoning call of the Dark Lord of the Sith. There was no hesitation, no fear, only certainty. He stepped into the Rift. Then? The shadows swallowed him whole.

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All at once, he felt it envelop him with a tangible wave of the dark side of the Force, heavy and oppressive, as though it were a living entity. It permeated the air in thick, malicious swaths of mist, curling around him like a shroud. The realm he stepped into was unnaturally dark, its dimness broken only by dull, dusky hues that muted even the faintest glimmers of light.

The sounds in the air were alien and unsettling. Eerie psalms of whispers seemed to bleed from the very shadows, echoing off the ancient trees that loomed overhead. The soft, sweeping sighs of rustling foliage were amplified by the odd breathing silence, forming a chorus of strange melodies that could chill any ordinary soul to the bone.

The temperature dropped immediately. A cold breeze breathed across the path, bringing with it a frigid nip that clawed at his form and drew visible plumes of vapor with every exhale. His presence seemed to be invited deeper into the gloom, as if the void itself reached out, pulling his essence inward.

Adjusting to the darkness was a terrifying experience. Each step felt like a descent deeper into the unknown, where the familiar warped into something sinister. Every soft creak of wood or flutter of leaves would surely send fresh unease crawling up the spine of any mortal man.

Strange, unfamiliar cries echoed through the thick underbrush before fading into silence, only compounding the suffocating atmosphere. These bestial sounds that emanated from all around him were raw and guttural, unfamiliar to anything he had heard before, rising from the depths of the blackened woods like a warning that he was indeed not alone in this pit of shadows.

The weight of the darkness pressed tighter with every passing breath, tugging at the edges of his mind, whispering to his fears and insecurities. It felt as though the very earth beneath him fed on despair, feasting on the shifting shadows that circled his steps. Here, in this place, the dark side of the Force lived, a pulsing heart of malevolence daring him to explore deeper... or... turn back.

And yet, for all its malevolence, the darkness did not repel him. No it had welcomed him with loving arms. Cloaked in dread though it was, he felt no fear. Instead, a strange and potent vitality surged within him, as though the very shadow that should have suffocated his will instead ignited it.

It was empowerment, untainted by hesitation. The Force—here—flowed not as a stream, but as a flood, untamed and glorious in its abandon. The usual chains of control, of self-restraint and tempered balance, were cast aside like brittle relics. In their place stood freedom—exhilarating, pure, and terribly vast.

Power no longer whispered from the horizon. It danced at his fingertips, eager and unbound. The impossible felt suddenly trivial, the forbidden... inviting. There was clarity in the chaos, a sharpness to thought and motion that no discipline had ever provided.

Was this corruption? Perhaps. But if so, it was the most seductive kind, a lie so beautiful, he could almost believe it true.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

Darth Prazutis stood still, his presence heavy and suffocating.

The Shadowed Realms of Twilight had responded to him, not with submission, but with an invitation. The air around him was heavy, thick, it grew and curled like great tendrils of metaphysical malevolence, reaching into him and fueling the dark power inside. The realm itself felt...aware, like it was on its own a living, breathing creature. Every shadow, every rustling of the trees above, everything seemed to bend towards him, seeking in equal parts to test, to challenge, and also to offer its dark embrace over him. The cold that surrounded him was no ordinary chill, no arctic wind blowing across the surface of some tundra world it was beyond that. It was the cold of something older, something ancient, this was a presence that not only chilled the flesh, but it shook the very spirit. It's touch clawed at the edge of the mind, attempting to pull at the marrow of what defined him. It didn't matter of the inherent mental shielding his biological gifts afforded him, nor did the additional wall the helm provided. It clawed ceaselessly to tear each down without end, and their assault fueled him.

Each step he took further into this darkened realm felt like a profound intrusion, but the realm itself was not hostile. It was a curious thing. It watched him closely he could feel its eyes on him, feeling him. While the winds continued to howl through the blackened trees, the whispers carrying through them seemed to take on a form of clarity, they spoke not in words, but in a language that danced through his senses like an eerie, uninvited song. It was a language of power, of darkness, of the great unknown. The Dark Lord didn't fight it. Instead? The giant eaned into it, allowing the shadows to envelop him, feeling their weight as they flowed like water over him. Long had the fear of the unknown been banished from his mind, the Maenan in him welcomed its touch.

The dark tendrils of Xûl Qarnak hummed beside him, its darkness like a funeral shroud, the resonance of its dark energy was a near perfect match for the eerie tone of the realm. Even in its power, Prazutis could feel the realm, feel it testing him, as though it were waiting for something. He could feel the pulse of the dark side as it surged through him, seeking to consume him utterly, drown it beneath its infinite waves. "This place will bend to my will." Prazutis murmured, though he knew that control over such a place would not come easily. The darkness here was not yet his to command entirely, but it was beginning to respond to him. There was a profound finality in his words as if it weren't a possibility, but the decree of a king, a conqueror's proclamation.

As he moved further into the gloom, his hand reaching out as though to grasp the realm itself, he could sense the creatures of the darkness, the beasts of the unknown, lurking just out of sight. Not yet fully under his sway, but they would be in time. The shadows, like all things, would not resist him for long. It would all be ground beneath the iron fist of dominion, its secrets laid bare. The realm was vast, untamed, but he could feel its pulse, could sense the hunger within it. "We are one." He whispered to the shadows, his voice was a low, commanding rumble, though soft in the vast emptiness. "Soon, you will serve the Kainate." Prazutius said as his words faded into the oppressive darkness, the weight of the realm grew heavier then, more suffocating, but no longer hostile. Not yet. But soon. First came understanding, and then he would twist it, and subjugate the very horizon.

Soon.

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THE SHADOWED REALMS STIR...

All at once, everything stilled. Not simply quieted, but ceased. Like a corpse no longer drawing breath, not just absent of motion, but bereft of intent. The ever-present breeze that had whispered through the twisted canopy came to an abrupt end, like it had been silenced mid-sentence. Leaves hung suspended mid-fall. Shadows froze where they clung. Even the ever-creeping mists seemed to hold position, reluctant to move.

It was not the calm of peace. It was the stillness of anticipation.

Even sound itself seemed to recoil, folding inward. The subtle chorus of distant murmurs, rustling branches, and unseen footsteps that had clung to the periphery of his senses... was just... gone. No fading, no tapering, nor cracking of twigs.... simply absent, as if erased.


The air no longer whispered.



It listened.


The silence wrapped around him like velvet soaked in memory, thick, heavy, and suffocatingly aware. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but watching. The kind that made even a being like Prazutis feel as though he stood beneath a gaze vast enough to drown galaxies.

Something had noticed him.

A pulse, neither heard nor seen reverberated through the shadow-veined soil beneath Darth Prazutis's feet, as if the Realm itself had acknowledged his decree.... and Something ancient had stirred in it's response to his words.

The forest around him warped subtly, as the darkness grew heavier, and more intentional. Ahead, crooked trees bent in unnatural angles, parting to reveal three distinct paths with in the darkness, each one lined by shadows that shifted and writhed, as though watching, waiting to see which aspect of himself he would choose to confront first.

The Heart of was listening.

A soft voice rose from the gloom as of ascended from the very Realm itself, low and layered, with a resonant reverberation of echoes stretched across the whole of eternity.


"Child of Conquest. You seek to rule that which has no crown...
Then choose your path.
Will.
Power.
Or Truth.
All are necessary. None are safe."

He would then feel the pull of three directions. None were illusions. Each beckoning to take him deeper.​

➤ Path of Will — The Bleeding Ground

The terrain ahead 'glows' with flickering veins of anti-light that pulse with his own heartbeat. The very earth seeks to drain him, to sap not him of strength—but of his certainty. The Hollow-Wrought walk this path, wraiths forged from forgotten fears.
Choose this if Prazutis seeks to endure and impose his unbroken will upon the Realm's challenges.

➤ Path of Power — The Maw's Throat

A canyon of living stone yawns ahead, a deep chasm breathing shadows like smoke. At its center coils something vast—the Yll-Tassari, a creature of prophecy and ruin, draped in memory and starlight.
Choose this if Prazutis desires to wrestle control from the Realm through confrontation and command.

➤ Path of Truth — The Mirror of Night

A still lake lies beyond a field of motionless trees. The waters reflect not his armor, not his body, but everything he is not, or refused to become.
Choose this if Prazutis is willing to confront the hidden truths of himself and the Realm. whether to deny, consume, or twist them.

The Realm waits with every passing pulse the pull grows louder.
The path you choose will shape what answers… and what resists.​

❖ Which path does Darth Prazutis take?

[ Will ] – Endure the Bleeding Ground
[ Power ] – Confront the Yll-Tassari
[ Truth ] – Gaze into the Mirror of Night

The shadows behind him that drink what little light pour forth from the prime material of the real space rift begin to close behind him, no longer an open and welcoming invitation.​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The Realm offered him a choice, but the Dark Lord of the Sith had not come to choose. He came to seize, to conquer. The silence didn't unsettle him, he welcomed it. The whispering void didn't beckon him. It waited, yes, but it didn't dare rule him. The realm listened, yes, but only because it had finally encountered something worth fearing. The Shadow Hand's eyes, those molten twin blazes of manifested apocalypse, surveyed the three paths with the weight of pure judgment, not hesitation. Will. Truth. Both had their equal uses, but only one dared to challenge him directly. Only one spoke in the tongue of dominance, of opposition that required breaking, required teaching submission.

Power. The canyon yawned before him like a wound in the world's very skin, it breathed shadow and memory with each pulse. The earth beneath it seemed to inhale and exhale slowly, with awareness as if it were truly alive, seething hunger. The wind carried no scent, only sheer pressure. Expectation. It was the breath of something vast. The Shadow Hand stepped forward. The very realm around him shuddered in his wake. The shadows didn't part. They withdrew, recoiling from the warplate that drank in the darkness around him. The Qâzjiin'vraal, bound to his very being, pulsed in rhythm with the power ahead, its runes tasting the distance like a serpent's tongue testing the air. Beneath its skin, Ka'ra'nazat throbbed, its ancient malice responding to the storm of hunger that lay ahead, thrumming like a beating heart.

Each footfall struck like a gong through the void, echoing down the length and breadth of the canyon. No stone cracked beneath his steps. It simply yielded in his wake. The deeper he walked, the more the Realm warped before him. The walls of the canyon seemed to breathe in slow contractions. Runes shifted in reverse, mocking known languages. The shadows that danced across its ribbed stone were not of his own. They moved too slowly. Too independently. The breath deepened then. Not his. Not the wind.

It was a breath so vast it bent the horizon. A presence so immense it made mountains feel like dust motes waiting to be inhaled. It was there, coiled in the dark, a myth without a face, the Yll-Tassari, draped in starlight and ruin. The canyon throbbed with its latent will. The very stones trembled in anticipation, unsure if they were altar, prison, or tomb. But the Dark Lord of the Sith felt no fear.

He did not slow. He raised his voice, not to speak, but to make a declaration.

"I am the Sovereign of Shadow. I do not come for peace. I come for dominion." Prazutis' voice struck the canyon like a thunderclap wrapped in silence. "I do not ask for audience. I demand obeisance." A beat. "Come, Guardian. Let the Realm see who truly rules."

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The canyon yawned. Not metaphorically. It actually yawned.

Like a low, ancient exhale that echoed up through the stone ribs like a sleepy god just waking from a nap, complete with a faint, echoing "mhhwuaahhh..." and a tectonic stretch. The earth didn't quite quake but it more or less... just… sighed. Long and slow. Like some how it knew what was coming and was already tired of it.

As he drew closer to the end of the canyon then came the shimmer.

From the chasm's mist rose a small, glowing ball of floof. A creature not too different from a fox with a velvety soft coat of bioluminescent hairs. The small creature was no taller than a loaf of bread. Fur like spun starlight. Tail the size of a weather pattern with oscillating light like the tips of a fiber optic lamp... Massive ears slowly swiveled in his direction like twin radar dishes scanning for nonsense. And then, those galaxy-wide eyes locked onto the towering mass of living armor.

"Oh no," the Yll-Tassari said in a small, melodic voice.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The Shadow Hand stood still. The canyon had exhaled. Not in protest. But in preparation. The sigh of stone, the tectonic yawn, it was not defiance. It was capitulation. This realm, alive though it may be, was already beginning to understand what had crossed its threshold. Then? Then…it came. From the mist, from prophecy, from myth, it emerged. The Yll-Tassari. A creature of reverence, of cosmic oddity, its bioluminescent coat shimmered with starlight and wonder. It was innocence and majesty, wonder and strangeness, a thing of ethereal beauty and harmonic absurdity. It blinked once. Ears turning like orbiting moons. The creature saw him. The moment its voice echoed, small, soft, apprehensive "Oh no." Something shifted in the air.

The Dark Lord moved, not with rage, nor haste, but with the inevitability of a falling star. Out of the void choosing its hour to feed. The giant stepped forward, and the very walls of the canyon convulsed, struggling to contain his presence. Armor of Qâzjiin'vraal groaned with metaphysical resonance, the blackened plates hissing in hunger. The Dark Lord's very amulet, Ka'ra'nazat, pulsed with ancient malice. Beneath the surface, something deeper stirred, an abyssal weight that thickened the very Force around him into pressure. The black warplate devoured shadow and memory both, its runes flickering in a forgotten tongue. Those molten eyes, those twin apocalypses, locked on the creature, and the Shadow Hand laughed. Not mockery. Not cruelty. But certainty. "This… is the guardian?" He asked, his dark voice like mountains cracking. "This is what the realm dares place before me?" The giant took another step, the force rippling outward in concentric waves, bending the world around him like glass beneath boiling water.

"You are ancient. I can feel it. Threaded with prophecy. Drenched in memory. But do not mistake age for authority." The Dark Lord's voice deepened then, becoming less sound, more gravity. "You have stood as sentinel of this power. You've seen empires rise and die like dreams undone at waking." The canyon darkened. "But you have never stood before me." Prazutis' right gauntlet lifted, and the void screamed as he called the Force to his grip, not to hurl, not to choke, but to command. The wind itself reversed. The stones groaned beneath his boots. "You are no test." He growled. "You are a threshold. A formality. The Realm's last, fragile dream of innocence." Prazutis began to circle the creature, not stalking it, but measuring it. "Do you fear me?" He asked quietly. "You should. Not for what I am. But for what I will do. For what I will take." Another step. Closer. "I am the breaker of seals. The walker between screams. I do not come to commune. I come to conquer." The giants voice dropped, a whisper beneath the world:

"You were meant to stop me. But you will kneel instead." The realm quivered. Let the Yll-Tassari speak. Let it tremble or shine. It did not matter. Because Darth Prazutis had come for dominion, and nothing in this world, or any other, would deny him.

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The moment Darth Prazutis circled the creature, the shadows did not recoil. They listened. And somewhere, very far away, and also impossibly close...something blinked.

Not the fox. Not the creature before him. But something using it. Something that didn't fit within the rules of shape or time or place.

The Yll-Tassari tilted its head. But so did the canyon wall behind it. And so did the sky. And so did the shadow beneath his own boots.

"Oh no,"

it had said. But not to him.

To itself.

A ripple passed through the Force, like a mirror cracking beneath pressure that had always been there. Prazutis would feel it before he saw it. Memories warping, contorting. The weight of a defeat he'd never experienced.

His own voice, somewhere distant:

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

He had never spoken those words. But he suddenly remembered saying them.

"Shall we begin?"

The creature blinked again. He suddenly remembered It saying this before. An unsettling semblance of dejavu washing over him.

"Ah," it said softly, voice a childlike chiming layered with ancient exhaustion.
"This version of you hasn't screamed yet. How quaint."

The mist shifted.

"Shall we begin?"

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

Behind the fox, something shimmered in suggestion.

A presence. Tall. Towering. Familiar. Clad in warplate shaped like his own……but older. Twisted. Rusted with centuries of forgotten pointless victories falling as all things eventually do to the infinite stretch of time.

"You always choose this path."

"Shall we begin?"

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"It's your favorite flavor of failure."

Prazutis reached for Xûl Qarnak—the soul-shearing blade, and the hum that answered was not its usual wrath. It was… uncertain. The blade buzzed with a foreign resonance, like it had struck something before it left the hilt.

"Shall we begin?"

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"You are not the first you to come here.... but... you are the loudest."

He gripped Qâztharûn, the runeblade, and its glyphs lit. With runic symbols he did not know.
One flickered backward. Another melted mid-syllable. A third formed a word in a tongue that felt like it knew him too well.

"When the stars forget your name," the Yll-Tassari asked,
"Who will you be then?"

The Xûl-Karzaan helm locked tighter to his skull. Its defenses surged, then spiked. For a moment, Prazutis could not feel his anger. His will. His hunger...Only silence.
A silence that whispered:

"We've done this before."

. . .

"You died screaming that time too."

The Force distorted again, thick as tar. Visions springing forth and fractured.
In one shard: a world bowed before him.
In another: he knelt in ash. Alone.
In another still: he screamed, in realization.

And the creature? Still smiling. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… tiredly.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"Shall we begin?"

Memory, and perception were collapsing into one another.

It was the stillness that betrayed him. He hadn't moved.

Not a twitch of muscle beneath the warplate. His hand still rested on the hilt of Xûl Qarnak, its weight familiar. Or—was it? It felt familiar. Too familiar. Like something repeated, not remembered. His gaze fixed on the fox-shaped thing. Still. Silent. Exactly where it had been a moment ago.

Exactly where it had always been.

And yet, his stomach turned.

A cold, hollow vertigo twisted in his chest like falling backwards without motion. As if his body had stayed rooted while some part of him had kept moving, through the moment, through the world, through time. The air was wrong. Not colder. Not warmer. Just… off. As if someone had taken the canyon, copied it, and pasted it back around him with one corner misaligned.

He blinked.

Was that the first time?

Or had he already blinked? Twice? Seven times?

How long had he been here?

It couldn't have been more than seconds.
It had to have been longer.
Hadn't the creature already said—

"Shall we begin?"

Yes. That. But… had it? Just now? Or again?

He remembered hearing it. He remembered hearing it again. The second time felt older. No...the first time felt newer. Which was worse?

He shifted his stance, or tried to. His legs didn't respond. They didn't need to. He'd already taken that step.
Hadn't he?

Had he even moved since arriving?

A flicker of heat pressed behind his eyes. A thin ache, like memory trying to push its way to the surface and finding only static. Something was wrong. Not with the creature. Not with the canyon.

With the sequence of things.

He was standing here.

But he also remembered standing here, not long ago.

He remembered hearing himself say—

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

He hadn't said that. Not yet.

Had he?

---

Nothing had happened.

That was the worst part.

No fight. No vision. No sorcery.
Just him. Just the fox. Just the moment.
But he could feel the weight of it like a bruise on the back of time.

It hadn't happened yet.

But it had.

---

Something about the mist looked different. Or exactly the same. Which was worse?
He couldn't remember drawing breath.
He was sure he had already.

Had he tried to speak? Had he spoken last time?

Last time?

There was no last time. There was only now.

Only now.
Only—

"Shall we begin?"

Again.

But he hadn't moved.

He was still just standing there.

Wasn't he?