Confrontation Litanies of the Dark Side: Bygone Era

[Dreadheart]

​

The Reconstituted Sith Empire, once a mighty hegemony across almost half of the galaxy, now lied divided between the warring Sith Lords that laid claim to the dying carcass of the Old Empire. After the treacherous acts of the Dark Crusade against loyalists of the Empire, and the failure of Dromund Kaas to respond to such a provocation, many among the Sith were disillusioned of the Reconstituted Sith Empire's most controversial dominion over the Sith Order. Across the Empire, conflicts sparked between rival powerbases, with each of them reaching out to claim what they considered rightfully theirs...
The old status quo collapses, as the Sith enter a new Dark Age of which none can foresee the outcome.

Apex on the food chain, the mighty Warlords perform their openning moves, capitalizing on the power vacuum created to gain the edge over their rivals prior to the larger conflict that will soon follow, as the Sith Worlds dive into a ruthless and unpredictable Civil War...
Many planets across the galactic rims are befallen amidst the clashes. Though small in scale, for the time being, the importance of each of them may determine the difference between victory and defeat in the coming months of carnage.
One of these planets is Vendaxa. A feral world of very few colonies, infested by painfully humid climate and savage beasts, of which many among the underworld hunt for either bone, carapace, or to throw them in the galaxy's notorious gladiatorial arenas. Alas, in such times, these beasts may serve as far more than mere entertainment for the masses...

​

Deep within Vendaxa's canopy-embraced bogs lie ruins of an era long forgotten, of a civilization of aeons past. Within such ruins, those few scavengers and treasure hunters who survived the trials of the grim labyrinths, brought out antiquate jewelry and artifacts of unthinkable value. It is such legends, that attracted once again champions and bounty hunters alike, to these ruins, in hopes of unearthing the item that shall elevate, or grant them the power to fight the coming war.
Delve into the dark bogs and make your way through the ancient ruins. Face what horrors, or competition, may lurk within them, and claim relics and loot from a Bygone Age!

​

The warlords of the Sith, knowing full well the strategic advantage gained by controlling the valleys of Beasts landed troops on Vendaxa, to hold off any rival faction attempting to claim pieces of their bounty. With the deep bogs and dense jungles crippling the ability of any an army to move and coordinate, individual squads of soldiers and warbands were unleashed in the wilderness, with limited air support and even less war supplies, tasked to engage the enemy in a blind guerilla war while escaping, or facing off the planet's most valued resource: Beasts.

​

Ever since its discovery, Vendaxa has been a planet for hunters, beastmasters and bounty hunters. Of all the dreaded beasts that lurked in the planet's dark jungles, none was more feared and hunted more than the Ackley. Six-legged monstrocities with enough teeth and size to cleave through any off-worlder with a single step. Feral, and, some, untamable, these creatures worth a fortune to the Geonosian and other gladiatorial arenas, now made trice their credits, as the Sith sough to capture such monsters to add them to their hosts of War Beasts...

 

[Ahalir Gafaron]

This war was anticipated by many for decades. It was the Sith who gave orders, and the Sith who ignited most if not all the wars the Empire had been involved. And yet, they never were those doing the dying. No, that was a priviledge of the Imperial Guard. Ahalir had learned that lesson many years ago. Ever since Veldara, back when he was but a mere soldier, to Ruuria, to Ossus, to Corellia, to Halcyon and now, Vendaxa. The true might of the Empire was the troops fighting under its banners. They, unlike their Sith overlords, did believe in a united Galaxy. And those who did not? Well... They knew better than contraddict the Imperial narrative...

General Gafaron cracked his neck as he approached the holoscreen map of the jungle sector. He was tasked with holding the frontier for long enough, for the other sections of the expedition fleet to secure their own objectives, before they all withdrew from this wreck of a planet...
To achieve though his mission, Ahalir was given a fraction of the required troops, and no naval units to support his ground forces. He had only a single Wing of the Air Force to call to, who had yet to deploy from their transports.

"This is how we do it on Halcyon" General Gafaron chuckled. He had long experience in jungle warfare, having faced the renegades and techno-barbarian tribes of Halcyon long enough to know guerilla warfare better than most of the Dark Crusade's officers.

"Have the squads deployed. Mark objectives on sectors A5, B2 and C7. Scan for lifesigns."

This was yet another warzone, for Ahalir. One of the many to come to what he perceived as a long career ahead, though his body's state hinted to the bacta and cybernetically over-extended lifespan of the man.
He took his sit on the highback chair and brought his palms together. His gaze fixated on the holoprojection of the scanned jungle sector. His mind spinned, silently carving potential paths hostiles could use to bypass, encircle, or ambush the several squads sent in the field.

All he had to do now, was wait...

 

[Darth Fauste]

Lyanna stood on the observation deck of the SS Machiavellian, her gaze lost in the swirling void of hyperspace. The stars stretched into thin, luminous threads, endless and indifferent. Somewhere beyond them, war brewed — a war unlike any she had faced before. The Reconstituted Sith Empire had crumbled beneath the weight of its own arrogance, its power fractured and scattered like shards of a broken blade.

She had seen it coming — the slow rot within the Empire, festering beneath layers of discipline and tradition. The Dark Crusade had only been the spark that ignited the inevitable. The old power structures had grown brittle, their foundations weakened by complacency and delusions of invincibility. For too long, the Empire had forced its grip around the Sith Order, suffocating the ambition and independence that had once defined them. Now, with no central authority to hold them together, the power-hungry vultures circled.

And yet…

Lyanna’s fingers curled around the railing. She knew better than to think the fall of the Empire would mean freedom. Chaos was not liberation — it was a tide that threatened to consume everything in its path. She had no illusions about what came next: war, relentless and all-consuming. The Warlords would make their plays, each vying to carve out their own dominion. Thousands would die — soldiers, civilians, innocents caught in the crossfire. Worlds would burn, their ashes swept away like dust in the galactic wind.

The Starborn Sect could not afford to remain idle. For too long, they had endured as wanderers — pilgrims seeking knowledge, seeking purpose. Knowledge was their foundation, but knowledge alone would not protect them. No longer. Now was the time to move, to act.

Knowledge is freedom, she reminded herself. The core belief of her Sect — a truth that had shaped her since she first stepped into the shadows. But knowledge unguarded was a fragile thing. Without power to preserve it, wisdom would be crushed beneath the boots of warlords and zealots alike.

The Migrant Fleet had grown stronger under her guidance — the exiled, the forgotten, the restless souls who had gathered beneath her banner. Their strength was not in the size of their ships or the firepower they carried, but in the minds that manned them. Engineers, scholars, visionaries — people who understood that power was not merely the strength to destroy, but the foresight to create and endure.

But will it be enough?

That thought lingered, unwelcome and persistent. She had no desire for conquest — no ambition to claim the broken remains of the Empire. Yet she knew that if the Sect did not carve out a place for itself in the coming storm, they would be swept away like so many others.

“We will survive,” she whispered aloud, as though speaking the words might give them weight. Survival was not enough, though. Not this time. The Starborn Sect could no longer afford to drift in the shadows of greater powers.

The galaxy was breaking — and this time, they would take their place not as scavengers, but as architects of what came next.

—



The wind howled past Lyanna’s ears, a deafening roar that threatened to drown her thoughts. The air tore at her cloak as she plummeted through the atmosphere, Vendaxa’s endless canopy stretching wide below — a tangled sea of twisted branches and shadowed bogs. The HUD in her visor flickered, altitude ticking down rapidly as she neared her mark.

Almost there…

The ship had barely slowed to let her leap, the engines flaring as it vanished back into the sky. Her subordinates had questioned her decision — even protested — but Lyanna knew better. Bringing a ship down into Vendaxa’s wilderness was a risk she couldn’t afford. This task was hers alone. Whatever lay in the ruins, it wasn’t something she was willing to gamble her people’s lives for.

A green light flashed in her HUD — five seconds to release. Her fingers flexed on the chute’s trigger as the trees raced closer.

Now.

The parachute jolted her like a hook through her spine, her body jerking against the harness as she slowed. Branches scraped against her boots, and she twisted her body mid-air, steering for a break in the canopy. She hit the ground hard, rolling through mud and tangled roots before springing to her feet. The chute caught on a low branch, tugging behind her like a tattered sail. With a sharp pull from her vibroknife, she cut it loose, letting the wind drag the fabric deeper into the gloom.

The air was thick — humid and clinging, each breath laced with the stench of stagnant water and rotting vegetation. In the distance, the guttural cry of some predatory beast echoed through the trees.

Good, she thought grimly. No one else would follow me this far.

Her map — cobbled together from fragmented star charts and old scavenger logs — showed the ruins deeper still, buried somewhere beneath the twisted roots and stagnant pools. Legends spoke of labyrinthine corridors, forgotten chambers filled with relics from a civilization lost to time. Trinkets and baubles were of no interest to her. What she sought was power — not for greed or ambition, but for survival.

The Starborn Sect would soon be swept into the coming war. And while her followers prepared for battle, she would find something to shift the odds — a relic strong enough to tip the scales.

The mud sucked at her boots as she pressed on, weaving through the vines and shadowed pathways. Each step took her deeper into the murk, where the air seemed heavier — thicker with unseen tension. It was as though the bog itself were watching her, waiting for her to falter.

Let it watch, she thought.

Lyanna pressed on.

 

[Bodyguards of Fauste]

The wind howled past as Tali’ra plummeted toward the dense jungle below, her heart thrumming with exhilaration. Few things compared to the raw thrill of a high-altitude drop—weightless for a moment, then a relentless descent, gravity pulling her down at terminal velocity. She tucked her limbs close, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sariah’s voice crackled through the comm. Even now, her tone was measured, completely unshaken by the plunge through the sky.

“Always,” Tali’ra responded, smirking under her mask. “What’s wrong, Voss? Need me to hold your hand?”

A short huff of breath came through the channel—Sariah’s version of a scoff.

“Three seconds to repulsor ignition,” Sariah announced instead of entertaining the joke.

Tali’ra rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. You ruin all my fun.”

The moment the HUD flashed red, both of them ignited their repulsor packs. Their velocity slowed drastically, and they plunged through the jungle canopy in perfect synchronization, weaving between branches and vines before landing in the thick mud below.

Tali’ra stretched, rolling her shoulders as she took in their surroundings. Vendaxa was as wretched as ever. The air was humid, thick with the stench of damp foliage and rotting plant life. The ground squelched beneath their boots, treacherous and uneven. The jungle loomed around them, dark and tangled, the perfect breeding ground for predators.

Sariah adjusted her gear, then turned to Tali’ra with a blank expression. “So. What exactly are we looking for?”

Tali’ra blinked. “Wait. You don’t even know what an Acklay is?”

Sariah crossed her arms. “I know it’s a large predator.”

Tali’ra let out a sharp, barking laugh. “That’s an understatement.” She gestured broadly. “Imagine a rancor, but with six legs, sharp claws that can punch through durasteel, and a mouth filled with enough teeth to make even a Sith hesitate.”

Sariah raised an eyebrow. “Sounds… excessive.”

“Oh, it is,” Tali’ra said with a grin. “And we need to capture one alive.”

Sariah exhaled sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Wonderful.”

Tali’ra clapped her hands together. “Glad you’re finally seeing things my way! Now, let’s track us a monster.”

The two Sith moved through the undergrowth, their senses attuned to the environment. Every shift in the foliage, every distant cry of an unseen creature, was cataloged and dismissed. They needed something bigger.

Tali’ra knelt, brushing her fingers over the damp earth. “Here.” She pointed to a deep indentation in the mud—a massive footprint, clawed and heavy. “Looks fresh.”

Sariah examined the tracks, her eyes narrowing. “Judging by the spacing, it’s moving at a slow pace. Could be heading toward water.”

Tali’ra nodded in approval. “Smart. Acklays need to keep cool in this heat.” She glanced up, scanning the canopy. “And they like to ambush. We’ll have to keep our guard up.”

Sariah exhaled slowly, adjusting her grip on her saber. “As if we ever don’t.”

Tali’ra smirked. “Fair point.”

They moved deeper into the jungle, following the massive footprints through the mud. The air grew heavier, the sounds of distant creatures falling into an eerie silence.

They weren’t just tracking a predator.

They were in its territory now.

 

[Empor]

The air was heavy with the stench of decay. Septic flesh and rotting branches drenched in stagnant bogs, perpetually remaining in a bastardized state of inexistence. It was perhaps the site, shallow and vast, with ravines of foaming water flooding the bogland around the ruins with mud and cadavers of the creatures of which the path was lost. Though the Nexus of Vendaxa had never been one to attract any an eye in the Force, this particular location broke every rule. The dense canopy hid the entirety of the complex from sight, and though some expeditions had uncovered its location, it had been by accident; A crashed shuttle in the near region leading to an extraction operation only to discover the strangest of events. A lost explorer befalling into madness, describing nightmares one could not fathom to behold without waking...

The strangest of tales were told, and yet, any a Force Sensitive could see, none of these was true... Or was it?

The bogs were covered by a layer of thick mist, barely tall enough to hide a standing humanoid from sight, yet thick enough to disrupt most visual elements. Electronics, perhaps, for some, the sole way to navigate the dense landscape, failed the closer one got to the antiquate remnants... An eerie sensation of cold developped over the waters. The Force was silent. Absent, as expected from a place without presence in the Nexus, and yet, the unnerving feeling of a myriad eyes staring was ever present, presistent and crushing to the very soul.

On occasion, black shadows of winged creatures disturbed the otherwise silence that dominated this part of the bogs. The flapping of their wings screeched like the choked cries of a dying soul, while their appearance vague like smoke, consumed always by the weight of the mist and dark long before they could fully identified.

The ruins were a scattered remnant of alien designs. Columns, large enough to have been over ten meters tall, now cut by time, violence or the wrath of Vendaxa's tempest. The curves remaining from those monolithic pylons were high enough to suggest the path of what once were arches. Any glyphic marks on the stone drained enough by the millennia of exposure to be unidentifiable. Whatever civilization, or fragment of thereof, once existed, had been lost for enough for the galactic records to have missed its entire existence.

Deeper amidst the scattered ruins, the main, or at least remaining, of the structure lied, half burried beneath the bogs, on enough pulp a soil to have sunk on an angle. Death, and decay, reigned on the once glorious site. Death and decay...

After climbing the few steps that remained above the water, the entrance could be reached. A frame sculpted into a large maw of some sort of alien creature. In place of the teeth, there was enough space for the portculis gate that once sealed the building, now broken, removed or simply corroded enough to be absent from the site.

By the entrance, the swollen cadaver of a Zeltron lied. His head had a blaster hole over the ear, from one side to the other, while the rest of the body had already started swelling due to exposure to the elements, and time. His uniform torn, too damaged to be identifiable.

The interior consisted of a single, very narrow corridor that led deeper into the complex, where no light reached through the carved stone and hollows. The sole sound echoing the rasping from the countless insects, all deformed and mutated under the influence of whatever held sway over the ruins...

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

The stench of the bogs hit his nostrils like a durasteel pipe. This was no world to conquer, for there were no cities to claim nor populations to enslave. This was no world to live, for all that was beneath the tempestus clouds befell in the withering of the planet's foul climate. This was no world to fight, for any a battle fought over bogs and poxy jungles such as these, was a battle not worth dying in. Desmundor Alcademon had no intention to die an inglorious death...

Though the Dark Crusade had made planetfall on several sectors of the planet, the Athysian Raider Fleet had not. It would indeed be in vain to convince the bloodlusting legions of Athysia to be wasten on a world of no value, or plunder. As far as anyone was concerned, this was for the beast tamers and the soldiers, who obeyed without question masters careless enough to waste troops in pursuit of what, according to Desmundor at least, was a vain task...

"Well, shit." he grinned, pushing away the throned branch the wind blew against him, entangling it with his hair. He would question the very purpose of him pursuing what seemed a quest irrelevant to the campaign, if he knew not from whence it had come. Though the Athysian fleet shifted off from the armada, splitting in pursuit of their individual agendas, an Eyerhea; Priestess of the Athysian Gods, that resided onboard his flagship, called him, claiming visions that urged him to pursue this most strange a quest.

And so, Desmundor found himself in the midst of the bogs, making his way to what seemed to be an unexplored land, for an unknown purpose, in arguable conditions. Part of him, perhaps more than he cared to admit, doubted the wisdom in such an undertaking. He had seen enough not to doubt divine intervention, and he knew better than to give in to such black thoughts. And yet, the cryptic ways of the Athysian patrons were something he saw little point in, especially after his time with who, soon after, was proven to be the master of Setrion. He obeyed, for he felt to reach in such a direct and perhaps fast manner, something was brewing of which he had no knowledge of... yet.

 

[Sith Master Veraxis]

Veraxis and his company descended toward the surface of Vendaxa aboard a Sith transport, the ship skimming just above the dense, mist-choked bogs of the old world ruins. The planet’s ancient forests and sprawling wetlands made traditional landings impossible. Instead, the transport’s side hatches opened mid-hover, allowing Veraxis and his small squad of stormtroopers to rappel down into the murky terrain. The moment their boots touched the ground, the air felt thick—not just with humidity, but with the weight of something far more sinister. The Force pulsed through the land, ancient and watchful, whispering secrets of the past while warning of unseen dangers ahead.

As Veraxis adjusted his dark robes, his crimson eyes flickered with awareness. The darkness of the bog was not merely natural; it was alive with the remnants of forgotten power. The ruins they sought were remnants of a civilization lost to time, a place where the Force had been twisted and shaped by those who had come before. It was no wonder that in this ongoing Sith civil war, all three major factions sought to lay claim to its artifacts.

The stormtroopers fanned out in a defensive formation, their blasters raised, though Veraxis knew their presence was largely ceremonial. He had no illusions about the true battle that awaited. Through the Force, he could already sense others—Sith of rival factions lurking beyond the dense fog, their presence masked but not entirely hidden. They were not alone in this decaying world, and the artifacts they sought would not be claimed without bloodshed.

Taking a deliberate step forward, Veraxis let the darkness of the Force flow through him. If the others wished to claim the old world’s secrets, they would have to face the will of a master who thrived in the deepest shadows of the Sith.

As Veraxis took his first step into the bog, the thick, soupy mud clung to his boots, and the air buzzed with the hum of unseen life. The stormtroopers moved cautiously behind him, their armor already streaked with grime from the damp environment. Their breaths were controlled, disciplined, but he could sense the unease beneath their helmets. This was not a battlefield they were accustomed to.

Veraxis stopped abruptly, turning his head slightly, his voice low yet commanding.

“Stay close. This world is not as dead as it seems,” he intoned, his voice cutting through the ambient sounds of distant creatures stirring in the murk. He turned to the squad leader, his burning gaze locking onto the trooper’s visor. “The ruins we seek are older than any empire we have ever known. The Dark Side lingers here—not as a remnant, but as a presence that watches, that waits.”

He took a few slow steps forward, the Force stretching from him like invisible tendrils, tasting the air, feeling the minds around him—both seen and unseen.

“We are not alone.” His words were final, leaving no room for doubt. “Weapons ready, but do not fire unless I command it. There are worse things than blasters in these ruins, and our presence has already been noticed.”

A deep silence followed his words, the air seemingly holding its breath. Then, in the distance, beyond the thickening fog, a shift—something moving, something aware.

Veraxis smirked beneath his hood. The game had already begun.

 

[The Obsidian Court]

As the Sith dropship roared through the dark skies of Vendaxa, the dense jungles below stretched endlessly, illuminated only by flashes of lightning in the choked atmosphere. General Xerxes, the towering Wookiee warrior, stood at the open bay doors, his crimson armor adorned with battle scars, his glowing cybernetic eye scanning the terrain below. This world was wild, untamed—perfect for the hunt Malvus had commanded him to undertake. The Acklay, a monstrous predator of the old world, would be broken under his will and made to serve the Sith war host.

Behind him, his battalion stood ready, equipped with repulsor packs and heavy rifles, though their weapons would mean little against the natural terror of the jungle. This mission was not about slaughter—it was about dominance. The strongest of these creatures would be brought to heel, and Xerxes would ensure that it was done with his own hands.

The command came, and without hesitation, Xerxes and his warriors launched themselves into the abyss. Rocketing through the thick canopy, they descended like obsidian meteors, their thrusters barely stabilizing their fall as they crashed through layers of vines and twisted branches. Xerxes landed with a thunderous impact, his clawed feet digging into the damp earth. Around him, his troops secured the perimeter, scanning the darkness that seemed to pulse with unseen life.

Xerxes inhaled deeply, the scents of the jungle filling his senses—predators, rot, and something else. The Acklay were near. But so were others.

The Sith were not the only ones who sought to claim these war beasts. Through the shadows, he could sense rival forces creeping through the undergrowth, their presence barely hidden.

Xerxes let out a low, rumbling growl, his voice like grinding stone as he turned to his troops.

“The hunt has begun. Stay in formation, watch the shadows, and be ready. The first Acklay we find is mine.”

Then, without another word, he pushed forward into the darkness, ready to face whatever monstrosities the jungle had in store.

 

[The Obsidian Court]

The descent into the Valley of Beasts was swift and brutal. General Zarak’s transport skimmed just above the jagged ridges of Vendaxa’s mountainous terrain, the valley stretching beneath them like the maw of a great, slumbering beast. As the ship reached its lowest point, the side doors hissed open, and Zarak’s battalion deployed with precision, repelling down the sheer cliffs and into the shadowed depths below. Their landing was silent, disciplined—just as he had trained them. This mission was not about direct engagement; it was about control, about outmaneuvering their enemies before they even realized they were losing.

Zarak knelt on the rocky ledge overlooking the valley, his red eyes scanning the wild expanse before him. The valley was a living thing, shifting with the roars of colossal creatures and the movement of unseen threats. But his focus was not on the beasts—it was on the other factions. They would come, just as Malvus had predicted, each one believing they had a claim to this land.

Turning to his officers, Zarak spoke, his voice sharp and deliberate.

“This is not a battle of strength. This is a battle of position. The fools who rush in with brute force will be the first to fall.” He motioned to a rough map displayed on his tactical holopad, detailing the valley’s ridges, natural chokepoints, and potential ambush zones.

“We will establish kill zones here, here, and here,” he continued, pointing to elevated ridges and narrow passes. “The enemy will come through these points—we will make sure they do not leave. Snipers will take position along the cliffs, ensuring that any who dare traverse the valley are cut down before they even realize the battle has begun.”

He then turned to his demolitions unit. “Rig the ravines with charges. If they attempt to regroup, we collapse the land beneath them.”

Finally, his gaze swept across his elite ground forces. “Once we have their forces divided, we will strike from the shadows. No prolonged engagements. No wasted energy. Hit them fast, disappear, and let them fight ghosts.”

The gathered officers nodded, their understanding absolute. This was not war—it was a calculated extermination.

Zarak rose, his crimson cape flowing behind him as he gazed into the valley below. “Malvus commands us to take this world before our rivals. By the time they realize the valley is lost, it will already belong to us.”

With that, the Sith general gave the final order. His forces melted into the terrain, unseen and waiting. The valley was theirs to claim—and soon, it would be a graveyard for all who opposed them.

 

[Darth Fauste]

The jungle was alive.

Every step Darth Fauste took was met with the wet squelch of mud beneath her boots, the tangled grasp of vines attempting to slow her path. Thick foliage hung low, shielding the sky, casting the world in a perpetual twilight of green and gold. The air was humid, heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation, the distant cries of beasts echoing through the canopy.

She moved like a shadow through the undergrowth, her presence barely disturbing the natural rhythm of Vendaxa’s wilderness. No ship to mark her arrival, no entourage to herald her presence—only the jungle and its unseen dangers. It was how she preferred it.

Pausing atop a moss-covered root, she took a slow breath and scanned her surroundings. She was close now. The ruins whispered to her through the Force, their ancient presence like a dull echo at the edges of her senses. But something else lingered there. Something familiar.

She exhaled, adjusting the strap of the pack slung over her shoulder. It was a sensation she had not anticipated but could not ignore—an imprint in the Force, unmistakable in its nature. Desmundor.

His presence clung to the land like a scar, unseen yet undeniable. It was not the weight of an active presence, not the same oppressive will she had felt when they had stood face to face, but rather something left behind. His power had seeped into the fabric of this place, an afterimage of their last encounter that refused to fade.

She ran her gloved fingers along the bark of a nearby tree, closing her eyes for a moment. The sensation was distant, but it lingered. An echo of intent, a stain of willpower.

“A lasting impression indeed.”

Fauste continued forward, stepping carefully through the uneven terrain. A misstep here could mean a twisted ankle—or worse, an unseen predator drawn to movement. The deeper she ventured, the quieter the jungle became. The beasts that ruled this world avoided the ruins, as if something within them was unnatural, beyond even their predatory instincts.

After another hour of traversing the terrain, she reached a clearing where a shallow pool of water had formed between the roots of an enormous tree. The surface was murky, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of an unseen creature beneath.

She knelt, retrieving a small canteen from her belt, and filled it with filtered water from the pack. She drank in measured sips, letting the cool liquid settle before taking another. Hydration was necessary in an environment like this—dehydration and exhaustion were just as deadly as any beast lurking in the trees.

Her gaze lifted to the horizon.

The ruins were close. The Force pulled her forward, an unseen thread guiding her to whatever knowledge lay buried beneath stone and time.

And yet, the lingering presence of Desmundor remained at the edges of her senses.

It was not a coincidence.

Whatever had drawn him to this world had now drawn her as well.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Ahalir Gafaron]

The dense canopy denied any of the sunrays to reach beneath, dipping the majority of the feral jungle in darkness. The ground was covered with dense flora, most of which balancing over deep bogs. In each of their steps, the Imperial troopers had to calculate their footing. They weren't few, those who lost their steps and found themselves in the sticky bogs, wrestling with the long pale worm-like creatures that lurked underwater, who were quick to slither inbetween the slits of the gear and feast on the fresh meat of the soldier, until one of their comrades planted a blaster shot into them, to silence the screams.

Vendaxa was a feral world. Those new to jungle warfare dreaded the consequences it brought. Alas, the men and women of the 88th Paratrooper Battalion were no greens, nor were they alien to jungles...

Hailing from the distant planet of Halcyon, the 88th consisted of elite soldiers, veterans of the several years of campaigns across the planet's feral continents. The wars against the Terror rogue cyborgs of the cursed Base V -A place that had gained a near legendary status in the eyes of the troopers who served on Halcyon- and the subsequent clashes with the techno-barbarian savages and the renegade elements of the Imperial Guard had nurtured the 88th into a mighty special forces unit.

"Move out"
Captain Lokien hissed through the commlink.

"Crawler at 2. 7 meters, and climbing."​

"Ignore it, Gelez. Stay low."

"Copy that, Captain."​

The troopers advanced in loose formation, trailing their path on three distinct columns, the inbetween lagging strategically farther back than the two on the flanks.

"Satvasas, report."
Satvasas remained silent for few moments. His specialized visor scanned the surrounding jungle, while the holographic cammocloak allowed him to blend with the dense branches around him, up the tree trunk he had latched himself on.

"Sector 3, clear. I am picking up life signs on Sector 5 and 8."​

Captain Lokien shook his head. He gestured to his troops, signalling for their attention in designated zones.

"We got skins. Stay alert, hug the trees. Sergeant Olog, you are up."

One of the troopers reached to his backpack. From it, he pulled small metallic orbs, which he activated before tossing. Mid-air, the orbs expanded into tinny probe droids, which then increased their altitude to reach the level of the canopy, and started flying around the unit, scanning the environment around them for life signs.

 

[Malsonike Clans]

Berecca’s golden locks cascaded over her equally golden beskar armor. She stood straight, poised, with her rapier firmly touching the ground, both hands resting atop its hilt as she listened to her brother speak. Beside her stood Lok, the youngest of their family, always ready to stir mischief.
Taller than Berecca, his posture lacked the same disciplined poise annoyance flickering across his features. Once again, they were being sent on what he considered mere errand work, running tasks for the benefit of others. He loathed it. But for now, it was necessary.
His black armor, accented with elegant streaks of gold, bore the marks of Alderaanian knightly design. As a child, he had always admired their aesthetic, and his armor reflected that reverence.


Before them, a holographic display flickered to life on the deck of the flagship, portraying their elder brother, Jahelli. His sharp features, jet-black hair, and formal attire set him apart from the rugged warriors of their clan.
He wore what the Republic called a three piece suit his, however, was fashioned from a fusion of cloth and beskar,
a statement of both war and refinement.


“I know both of you are displeased with our circumstances,” Jahelli’s voice rang through the chamber.
“But finding our brother, Kusla, takes precedence above all else.”
The hologram flickered slightly before continuing.


“Konembay was not pleased that we denied his mercenaries in favor of third party Mandalorians. Nifn and I decided an acklay would serve as an appropriate appeasement both a gift and a reminder of our capabilities.
Additionally, if we manage to secure a few for ourselves, it would be a welcome addition.”


Nifn the eldest of them. Though he held that title, in truth, he despised the very fact that he still drew breath. He carried on, not for himself, but for the hope that someday, he would finally meet a worthy death.


“Very well,” Lok responded coldly. “They’ll be delivered within the standard week.”
Without waiting for a response, he ended the transmission.
“So… we’re errand boys now,” he muttered, his irritation barely concealed.


Berecca wasted no time firing back. “Well, if you hadn’t been so quick to accept, maybe we wouldn’t be doing this.”
Lok smirked, his expression playful yet laced with venom.
“I thought you would be in higher spirits, but then again… I assume your admirer never messaged you back, did he?”
His grin widened, eyes filled with mischief as he turned to walk away.
Berecca’s blood boiled. Rage overtook her, faster than fire devouring dry leaves. A guttural scream escaped her lips as she let her rapier drop. But before it could even touch the ground, her hands twitched instinctively, and the weapon sprang to life.
With a deadly whistle through the air, it flew past Lok’s head, missing by a mere centimeter before embedding itself deep into the durasteel door.


She stormed forward, yanked the blade free with a flick of her wrist, and barked,
“Get the men ready! Once we hit atmosphere, we drop. I’ll prepare the Basilisk droids. We’ll need two, maybe three transport ships as well.”
Without another word, she turned and disappeared through the doorway.


Lok chuckled, clapping his hands before gesturing to a nearby soldier. “Make sure the ships have containment pens the largest ones we have. We’re transporting acklays, after all.”



The turbolift doors slid open, and Berecca stepped out, her helmet now firmly in place. Before her stretched a vast hangar nearly ten meters high, fifty wide, and two hundred long.
Rows of Basilisk droids lined the chamber, some resting while others engaged in mock skirmishes, their metallic bodies clashing with dull reverberations. Some lounged in oil baths, their circuits humming softly as they entered a dormant state.


She whistled sharply.


WHOOOOSH. WHOOOOSH.


A Basilisk droid shot into the air from the far end of the hangar, its binary screech echoing as it made a beeline toward her. It landed with a resounding thud, settling into a resting position at her side.
Berecca reached out, running her gloved hand over its reinforced plating. She had always been fascinated by these machines not just for their raw power, but for the way they evolved. She had noticed that the older a Basilisk grew with its rider, the more distinct its speech pattern became.


“Dilly,” she murmured. “I need you to gather a few fast ones and a few sturdy ones. We’re going hunting, love.”
As swiftly as the command was given, the droid let out a piercing binary war cry and soared into the air, rallying the best of their war mounts.



The fleet reached Vendaxa’s atmosphere. It was time.
Three starships took flight, each loaded with as many containment pens as their hulls could fit. But the real force would not land in ships.
The Basilisks and their riders soared through the void, free falling toward the surface below.
Comms remained open, though only a few brief orders crackled through. Each warrior knew their role there was no need for excess chatter.


“FORMATIONS!” Lok’s voice cut through the descent.
The Mandalorians adjusted their trajectory, the sheer pressure of their controlled descent pressing hard against their bodies.
It took practice.
Courage.
Will.


As they neared the ground, they decelerated in unison, their Basilisk mounts slowing their fall while the ships maintained a protective perimeter above.


“TO THE OPEN FIELD NEAR THE BOG,” Berecca commanded.


The landing was swift and practiced. As soon as they touched down, the soldiers disengaged their pressurized gear, letting Vendaxa’s thick, humid air fill their lungs.
The environment was hostile damp, pungent with the stench of rotting vegetation, and teeming with unseen dangers lurking beneath the murky waters.


Berecca remained mounted on Dilly, surveying the area from above.


“Set up positions. This will serve as our outpost and fallback point. Communications might be unreliable, so return is expected within the estimated timeframe. The droids remain here they are not to enter the bogs. Their job is to protect the ships.”


The orders were clear. No one questioned them.


But something gnawed at her.


Lok had removed his helmet and stood still, his gaze locked on the endless expanse of moss laden waters and tangled twigs. The mist rolled in thick waves, obscuring the depths beyond.


He didn’t speak.


Berecca narrowed her eyes.
Something wasn’t right.


She couldn’t put her finger on it, but for the first time in a long while…
Lok looked genuinely concerned.


And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

 

[Empor]

The bleakness of the bogs was consuming, gradually claiming any and all within it in a veil of mist that latched on to the water beneath. From over the canopy, flapping of ghastly wings disturbed the tense silence of the site; Their screeching a cacophony that tapped the very edge of the Force around them in a stroke of darkness.

Unseen claws extended from beyond the mist, craving to grasp on @Sith Master Veraxis own head as if to tear it clean off. As the tension spiked, the dense trees begun bending and twisting by the weight of the monster nearing from beyond. Arachnoid limbs long consumed by decay and rot, with black mold blooming from the gaping wounds suffered by time and exposure. Deafening cries of pain and blind desperation heralded the coming of the Ackley; A foul miscreation, remnant of once a mighty predator, now enthralled to forces so dark and perverse, little remained of the beast. The foul energy of the site beamed in the coming of the beast, as if the very ruins summoned the champion to remove the disturbance of their slumber.

The scent of Death and ptomaine tainting the air around the Ackley as its legs caused whole waves to the bogs on its wake. In a state of blind derangement, it jumped out of the jungle and thrusted itself against the Sith Stormtroopers, almost instinctivelly diving its cadaverous jaws to bite onto them; Maw large enough to swallow each of them whole with a single bite.

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

The place had already taken a toll on Desmundor. By all accounts, he did not see any wisdom in pursuing such blind quests; If it was not for his narrowminded and perhaps biased blind obedience to those he viewed as patrons, he would have never ventured to such a world, less so, without a preemptive bombardment to readjust the terrain to at least, his liking...

"This must be it..." he murmured, as his eyes finally made contact with the distant ruins. Half-sunk, buried beneath rot and vegetation, Desmundor knew the struggle it would take for him to make it inside; That, if there was any "inside" to begin with...
His doubts were soon cast from his mind, though, as soon as a piercing sensation in his chest, cold and familiar, caused his gloved hand to instinctively grasp onto his chestguard. He knew the feeling, the sense he felt in the fabric of the Force, as clear as he had done so in the first time he encountered the legendary champion.

"Lyanna-Fauste." he intoned.

His eyes quick to narrow, his muscles quick to tense. As he allowed himself to reach out through the Force, he aligned himself with the foulness of the site. There was presence here. Presence Dark and depraved. This was no ordinary quest, and now, he begun realizing the gravity of the situation. Be it fate, divine will, or sheer coincidence, the latter of which Desmundor believed not in, was now made irrelevant.

As Desmundor climbed up to the ruin, gradually approaching the entrance, the cacophony of cries and bestial screeching filled his hearing. They caused an reflective motion of his head over the shoulder, his hand reaching for the sword by his hip, pulling the crystal blade bare. He was not alone.

The very sight of the monstrosity in the distance rung horrors to Desmundor like few others. Though whether his presumption was correct, he knew not, though such vile miscreations, animated in winds of blight and Netherworld-summoned powers of oblivion were a most recognizable touch of the Black Lord, of which he had already been the vessel of once.

He knew then, his mission on Vendaxa was far different, and potentially, far more hazardous than what he had anticipated. The very attraction of Sith, to the point such a being was brought forth, meant his own role spiked in importance. He, as far as he was aware, was the will of the Black Lord made manifest. He could not afford to fail. Though Athysians summoned such forces ill-understood and cryptic in nature very rarely, in hopes of avoiding the inconceivable pacts made with them for the gift of their strength, Desmundor had been on a Red Path for long already.

Soon, he would have to pay the price....

 

[Lok]

From the moment they pierced the planet’s atmosphere, despite the pressurized seal of his armor,
Lok felt it a stench of dread, clinging to his tongue like the aftertaste of something rotten.
He focused on the descent, forcing himself to stay aligned with his bretherin,
but something in the bog below pulled at him, a silent gravity beyond mere curiosity.
Compared to the others, he was the most attuned to the deeper currents of the universe the unseen forces,
the whispers between reality’s cracks.

He despised their rigid ways.
But he loved their magick.


The spiraling wind howled in his ears as they fell, their trajectory set for a clearing near the bog’s edge. Yet his gaze remained locked on the swamp, its secrets coiling through the mist like unseen tendrils beckoning him forward.​

“Nilo,” he murmured to his mount, “follow the others and obey their commands.”

Then, he let go.
His senses expanded, stretching beyond the physical, sinking into the living force of the world beneath him.
The energies here were thick, not just alive but heavy, weighted with something ancient.


HUNGER.
FORGOTTEN.
THE NEVER MOURNED.


The words were not spoken, yet they formed in his mind, curling through his thoughts like smoke.
Were they a warning?
A mercy for the naive?
Or merely echoes of his own perception, twisted by the aura of this place?


Something was here.
Buried in the bogs, lurking in the shadows.
Something old.
Something forgotten.
Something still hungry.​

This may be more than a simple errand, he thought, his pulse quickening.

As Nilo touched the ground,
Lok dismounted swiftly, his boots sinking slightly into the damp soil.
Without thinking, he pulled off his helmet and took a few steps forward, his gaze locked on the rolling mist ahead.
The air was thick with power.

Not loud, not violent but waiting and mute.
It was like standing before a dormant war drum, just one strike away from shattering the silence.


He inhaled sharply. It smelled of decay, of something long dead yet lingering.
Above him, Berecca hovered on her mount, watching.
She, too, had hesitated. Even after their earlier bickering, there was no need for words.
On the battlefield, they understood each other. Rivalry could wait.


Always.
Until our last breath.​

He signaled for her to descend, and she did, her concern evident in the way she scrutinized him.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” he admitted, his voice lighter than the weight in his chest.
“Something is calling me. I need to find out what.”

Berecca’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Lok, your hand is twitching.”​

Lok blinked.
He hadn’t even noticed.
His fingers trembled slightly at his side, a rhythmic, involuntary motion.​

Was it the swamp affecting him?
Was something here, pulling at his body, his mind?
Or was it simply his own anticipation?
“Hah.” He forced a smirk, shaking off the unease.
“No need to worry, little sister. Probably just too much caf while listening to you ramble about your love life.”

Berecca didn’t laugh. Neither did he. They both knew he was lying.
But they let it drop.​

She exhaled, then nodded toward the swamp.
“Take some soldiers with you. We’ll manage without them until you return.”​

Lok smiled, this time genuinely, and slipped his helmet back on.
With a few quick hand signals, he selected a small unit of Mandalorians to follow him.
No words were needed. They understood.
Moving with practiced silence,
they reached the edge of the bog,
where the air thickened into a cloying mist.


As they crossed into the shadows,
Lok swore he heard something soft,
distant, weaving through the reeds and stagnant pools.


A whisper.


The hunt had begun.
But who was hunting who?

;Tag: @Dreadheart ​

 

[Hazdrabal the Cannibal]

@Darth Sylvia​

The Dark Crusade shall carve a path from Minos to Dromund Kaas, burning all the corruption of the Sith like charcoal for the forge on which the Dark Lords of the Crusade shall recast the Sith Order to their own image. This was what united the Sith under the banners of the Crusade, and it was such a cause that turned many to the treacherous path Darth Eosfor tore within the Empire; A wound long coming, in a State long overdue...

The Reconstituted Sith Empire was a shallow grave of opportunity, and a casket of lost values that once defined the very nature of the Sith. If to stand for what was true, what was the very essense of the Sith Order that had once ruled across the stars, was to be a Renegade in the eyes of the so called "Sith Masters" of Dromund Kaas, these weasling cowards that hid behind monuments of gold and excuses of their weakness...

THEN SO BE IT

The Dark Crusade was the spark. The Civil War to come, the cure. The Reign of Shadow, the goal. And the followers of the Dark Lord would see it through, or die by blazing skies and worlds burned red!

Many were the Marauder Fleets, the Warlords and the corsairs who rallied to the sinister call of Darth Eosfor. And indeed, it started in Minos Sector. In days of wrath, purges saw the false Sith exterminated by the Renegade hordes of the Dark Crusade, while the Republic domains in the region saw the eclipse of the mighty armada, last of all they'd ever behold...

As time went on, it became ever clear to the malevolent warlords of the Dark Crusade, they would need all assets they could get their hands on, if they were to carve the path of destructions they had vowed. And Vendaxa, was as good a place as any for the first strings of fate to be pulled....
Deep in the continents of Vendaxa, in unexplored and treacherous paths where the moldy bogs met the muddy shores, Ackley beasts emerged to hunt and breed...

Ackleys; The very legend around Vendaxa.

But Darth Eosfor's plans did not require mere war beasts... But something far, FAR deadlier...

To hunt for the great beast desired, a small contingent of the Crusade made landfall in a shallow plain, by the jungleline. The fact that several other Warlords of the Sith had already taken interest to the planet and had developped forces on the ground, by the Mandalorian, Doshan, and other opportunistic hunters, was irrelevant.

"Secure the shuttles. Their fate will be the same as yours."

The voice belonged to Hazdrabal "The Cannibal". One of the many warlords among the ranks of the Dark Crusade, and champion of Darth Eosfor himself. Though never dubbed a Sith Lord himself, his role had always been to slay and to command, to which neither he felt lacking of reward in and of itself. After a violent encounter with a Jedi Master, and the subsequent duel between the two onboard the very deck of Darth Eosfor's own flagship, Hazdrabal had been subjected to extensive enough modification, little of his past self remained to remind him what his thoughts once looked like. Every inch of him was now a weapon of war. His only thought, that of carnage.

His blade ever-craving to unleash the chaos that soaked his rotting heart.

This day, on this world, he was sent with a mission. A mission to serve as a hound, and see the mission through...

Knowing the individual he escorted, and her vile relation with his master, Hazdrabal knew well to restrain his urging for bloodletting, and his readiness to accept commands, were an insignificant sacrifice compared to what he would suffer in the hands of the she-fiend that led the mission, by the will of Darth Eosfor himself...

 

[Sith Master Veraxis]

Veraxis did not flinch. He did not reach for a saber, nor did he command his troopers to open fire. As the monstrous, decayed Acklay surged forward, its blind desperation twisting it into a force of pure destruction, he merely watched.

The stormtroopers reacted as expected—scattering, their blasters firing red streaks into the mist-laden air. But their weapons meant little against a thing so lost to death and corruption. Veraxis, however, was not here to fight like a brute. He was here to dominate.

Lifting a single hand, fingers splayed like the roots of a creeping vine, he reached into the decaying mind of the beast. Its pain, its madness, the echoes of a thousand deaths—all of it flooded into him as he bent his will upon it.

“You are nothing but agony. You are nothing but hunger. But I… I am the mind that will give you purpose.”

His voice did not need to be spoken aloud. It invaded the Acklay’s thoughts like a black tide, worming into the rotting corridors of its fractured mind. He did not force it to stop—no, that was too crude. He let it feel his presence, let it know the inevitability of his will. The Dark Side seeks freedom and thus gains control, it was reshaping the universe to his vision.

The beast staggered mid-lunge, its gargantuan limbs slamming into the wet earth as its attack faltered. A monstrous screech of torment split the air as it fought, its decayed instincts resisting even as Veraxis tightened his grip. Its suffering was endless—he could use that. He would twist its torment into obedience.

The stormtroopers hesitated, unsure whether to press their attack or flee. But Veraxis knew there was no need. The beast was already his.

“Kneel,” he commanded, his voice a whispered blade against the shattered remnants of the Acklay’s mind.

The bog trembled as the abomination let out one final, choked cry—before it collapsed, its ruined limbs folding beneath it in unnatural servitude. Its breath rattled, its hunger still clawing at its insides, but it did not rise. It could not.

Veraxis stepped forward, lowering his hand. He gazed upon his new thrall, a smirk forming beneath his hood.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now let us see what use you have left in death.”

Veraxis circled the kneeling Acklay, his crimson eyes gleaming with intrigue as he studied its grotesque form. The Dark Side had already begun its work—its body was long decayed, yet it refused to die. A perfect vessel for suffering. A perfect instrument for his will.

He reached out, his fingers barely grazing its rotting carapace. Through the Force, he felt the remnants of its agony—centuries of hunger, confusion, blind rage. A mind shattered by forces beyond its comprehension.

“How much more can you break before you truly collapse?” he wondered, his smirk deepening.

Perhaps he would peel away the last shreds of its sanity, forcing it to relive its most agonizing moments in a loop until it begged for his command. Or perhaps he would carve his will directly into its decayed flesh, warping its body further, twisting its pain into a weapon that lashed out in fury at his enemies.

The beast trembled beneath him, its breath rasping, as if some primal part of it could sense what he was considering.

Good.

Veraxis let his hand fall, already envisioning the rituals he would conduct. This creature’s torment was far from over. If anything, it was only just beginning.

 

[The Obsidian Court]

In the deep gloom of the valley, the 88th moved with practiced precision, their formation slipping through the dense jungle like phantoms. But they were not the only ghosts in the night.

From the shadows, unseen and unheard, General Zarak watched. The Obsidian Court did not march like common soldiers. They did not stomp through the undergrowth or leave careless disturbances in the foliage. They became the night, slipping through the terrain as though it welcomed them. The air barely stirred at their presence.

Zarak’s crimson visor flickered with information as he observed the enemy’s advance. The 88th were disciplined, experienced, and well-equipped. The probe droids sweeping the canopy posed a challenge—one he had already accounted for.

“Obsidian shroud active.” His silent command rippled through the comms. Around him, his assassins and operatives activated their stealth systems, vanishing into the terrain. The cutting-edge tech of the Obsidian Court blurred their forms, rendering them near-invisible to standard scans and the naked eye. The jungle itself conspired to hide them, the subtle shifts of the terrain masking any signs of their presence.

Zarak crouched low on a twisted branch, high above the enemy’s path. His troops mirrored his positioning, draped in the darkness like waiting wraiths. This was not a battle they would fight with brute force. It would be a death by a thousand unseen cuts.

Through the comms, he spoke, his voice a whisper of calculated menace.

“Let them advance. Let them feel safe. Then, when they think they own this jungle—”

A silent hand signal sent his forces dispersing like shadows in the mist.

”—we remind them they are already dead.”

 

[Empor]

@Lok
​

The mist latched on the bogs beneath, desperately craving for the wind that never blew, to meet the skyless void above. The very bogs themselves mirrored perfectly the blackness above them, though the pale shroud struggled to disrupt that, to no success. It was as if both above and below had the same bleak lifeless shade.

Against the reflection of the black shallows, the lifeless air grew dense, eventually becoming the grim figure of blur and Fear, before which even the shroud knew to make distance. The spectre moved on the bogs without causing the slightest disturbance, save for the almost instinctive motion of the shroud away from the entity.

In the distance, blurry condensions of ether formed in synchrony, as if summoned Shadows of a reality far and unreachable from this bleak Nether. The entity moved inbetween them, as one of the Shadows lowered, as if descending from something or someone, of which the mark in the Nether was negligible. The more the entity approached, the more the Shadow twisted and reformed, as if the spectre disturbed its very being with its very presence.

Its Existence Chained in Hunger.

Its Mark a Wound Forgotten.​

Its Chain never Wet of Tears.​

Cold swept across the bogs, as a sudden wind blew against the Mandalorians, a sensation that pierced through beskar and skin, as if the marrow lied naked exposed above it all. Wings flapped from behind the jungle canopy. Eyes many, creeping behind the rotting branches, leaving no sign of heat or motion, save from occasional cracks and cackling of the wild, easy to confuse with animalistic noises.

Too quick to explain.

Too ignorant to see.​

Too late to deny.
​

From beneath the bogs, cracks bubbled beneath the weight of the boot. The bones fossilized, dressed by thick coats of mold and caged beneath branching roots and vines running across the shallows in a vast network of decay; Of Life, struggling to overcome the ghastly touch of Death.

Beneath a blanket of hanging vines, over the edge of the bogs, a distant reminder of what once was, yet remained. Bent forth, by the gradual sinking into the unstabe soil, the stone sculpture carved in the shape of a reptillian face of bulky proportions, snugnose and three eyes rested. What once could have been a full body statue of the forsaken reptillian race that once might have erected what was now ruins, now sunk gradually, having already been consumed by the bogs from neck down, and yet, that little that remained stood over three meters over the bog, staring at it in unyielding defiance.

Linear marks of the lightblade, or some other similar energy weapon were in abundance on the statue, though filled with mud and hosts of plant life that had found refuge on its stone.

 

[Empor]

@Sith Master Veraxis

Any a beast had little chance to contest the will of a Sith Master. From the very beginning, any an Ackley would be broken still. The purpose of any a soldier in a location like such was less of a tactical value and more as a bait. A living sack of flesh tasty enough its scent would attract the feral predators who were never graced by civilization or self-awareness of any form. Unlike the Colicoids, the Ackleys were mindless creatures. And the chains with which the Sith would bind them, would be just that...
The Ackley remained knelt before the Sith Master, as if enthralled by the taint of his will, and broken by the corruption of its own mind. A most unnatural a state on levels so many, even one like the Sith would be late to notice the Nether, stirring around him like a preying Nexu...

The shroud over the bogs distanced from the enthralled Ackley. The bogs turned cold, as each of the stormtroopers became overtaken by a sensation of blind pain, as if the waters themselves drained them of their very life essence. Eyes turned grey, while the skin started swelling and tearing, no longer capable of holding against the ever-swelling black veins beneath it.

Like antibodies attacking pathogen invaders, the bogs suddenly took unlife. Worms that filled the spanse of the water in unnaturally aligned synchrony started climbing by the millions in the form of foul tendrils up to the stormtroopers, breaking in through any tinny gaps of armpits, helmet clips, sleeves or visors. Their bites like a myriad piercings of needles, their infectious poison quick to take effect, spreading the disease through the bloodstream in which they broke into.

Blind are those who slither to the Shallows.

The very voice, a cacophony of screams from unseen souls in enough torment for the pain to become physical in their very echo, twisted in sentances by the will of a nameless entity.

To invite Death is to invite Endless Night.

Cold awashed the body of the Sith Master when the voice rung in his mind. His surroundings blurring, as the stormtroopers betrayed their fate by their lamentations. Some willing enough to turn their own blasters to themselves and fire, in hopes the torment ended then and there, only for their own screams to be added to the cacophony the entity used to give itself a voice.

All Corruption ends in Fear. All Fear is Death.


The Ackley's long decayed mind leaked from the hole left by the fallen chunk of its skull where its hearing should be, revealing the level of decay within its long dead body, animated by invisible chains of Darkness and the gloom of the black realm that fountained beyond, from the ruins.

A world of Death.

A world of Chaos.

A Netherworld.