Shadow Hand

The Nycthemeron descended upon the scorched dunes of Geonosis like a silent predator, its black hull casting an obsidian silhouette against the hazy, dust choked skyline. The vessel bore no overt markings that would name it of the Kainate, yet its very presence was like the herald of the unseen will that dictated the fate of world, nations, empires. The landing thrusters engaged with a muffled hiss, sending a thin cloud of sand curling away from the descending ramp as it touched down on the surface. Down from the yawning threshold of the ship emerged a single figure, Darth Vornoth, the Voice of the Dyarchy. The Umbaran Sith Lord stepped forth with the deliberate grace of a phantom, his pale form was wrapped in flowing layers of deep umbral black, fabric woven with whispers of dark sorcery, they seemed to shift and absorb the light around him. A man with a tall, wiry frame the robes themselves clung close to hm, their subtle patterns of shadow threading rippled unnaturally as he moved. The Voice's very presence was both subdued and suffocating, a creeping weight that pressed against the air, settling into the minds of all who beheld his form.
The Umbaran's face was a deathly pale canvas of cold precision, complete with high cheekbones and razor-sharp features that lend him the air of something almost inhuman in nature. His very eyes were sunken pools of abyssal grey, and they betrayed nothing about him, no rage, no cruelty, no desires. Only the boundless calculation of a mind honed to unravel the wills of others. The air around him carried no dramatic flickers of dark side energy, no overt power or presence, there was only a profound silence that devoured everything, an absence of presence that seemed even more terrifying than an overt display of strength. As he approached, the Geonosian honor guard stiffened. Even these hardened warriors, who were bred for war and steeped in the rigid hierarchy of the storied Stalgasin Hive, could not help but flinch beneath his gaze. They knew power when they saw it, and the creature before them was power incarnate, not in raw strength no, but in the way his very existence seemed to strip them of certainty, of will. The grips on their staves stiffened, tightened.
A Geonosian lieutenant chittered nervously before bowing deep, gesturing for him to follow deeper into the interior. The dim halls of the hive loomed ahead, adorned with gilded murals and spires of hardened resin. Stalgasin Hive towered above the landscape and long loomed as the ruling presence across the world, stemming before the turn of the age and the ancient wars of the past. Somewhere deep within, Archduke Ukvax the Gilded awaited, an ally of the Sith Order, a ruler desperate to crush his rivals in the Gehenbar Hive, and a being whose desperation could be sculpted into something far more valuable than mere victory. Darth Vornoth did not need to raise his voice. He did not need to wield a saber or summon the dark side in great, terrible displays like others who choked themselves on their pride. His weapon was far deadlier, his weapon was his voice. And before this meeting was done, Archduke Ukvax the Gilded would believe, with all his chittering heart, that what he desired most had always been what the Dyarchy willed.