The greatest structure still standing on the volcanic moon of Oricon, the ruined fortress that once served as the headquarters of the Dread Masters, remains as a beacon of darkness. Impenetrable at its heart, the fortress is surrounded by a lava moat with a single bridge for access with walls two stories high and crafted of the hardest permacrete. Its walkways and open courtyards are decorated with eternally-burning braziers, hanging and broken chains, and even plaques and murals depicting acts of tyranny and strength. Statues, obelisks and pillars show signs of aging, crumbling, cracked and ruined, though their fearsome, ancient Sith visages still stand as a testament to the Dark Side and the imposing power that the masters of the fortress willed upon their visitors.

Down into the central palace and through one of the two sets of staircases lays the ruins of the atrium. It has long been looted for all of its artifacts and knowledge, left bare by the raiding and marauding of treasure hunters and researchers. Four side-chambers lead down, two to the left and right, deeper - these rooms, all abandoned, hold obelisks fused into the very stonework of the floor. Ancient Sith wisdom is etched into each one - messages of fear, of control, of domination and madness alike.

At the very rear of the palace is a large, tall stairway, leading up into what can only be considered the throne room of the wicked Council. A seven-sided platform sits atop a bottomless pit, with the walkway from the doorway taking up one side flanked by six green crystals. The remaining six edges are dedicated to walkways ending in a dais, resting upon which are the tall thrones topped with crystal where the ancient Masters of Dread once sat. Here, you can feel the twisted knots in the flow of the Force, plucked and pulled at with a more powerful grasp than you could ever hope to possess. As you approach the center of the massive platform, you hear footfalls behind you. The deathly silence is finally broken.

“So it was you who followed me here.” Solas Night-Thorn turned and stared down Mortis’ grey haired Quaestor. “So which one sent you, Farrin or Bloodfyre?”

“I came on my own directive. and you would do well to remember who is your superior.” Despite being shorter than his adversary, Scion’s stance and posture was one of power and status. Solas chuckled and walked over to the massive stone throne directly across from the entrance. Brushing his fingers along the dusty armrest, Solas spoke over his shoulder.

“You can feel it can’t you? The Force has been twisted and wounded here, it feels glorious.” Spinning on his heel he dropped into throne. “So tell me my dear Quaestor, why did you follow me here?”

“I came here to ensure the security of all of House Mortis. You and your syndicate threaten that security by trespassing on these grounds. So as the Quaestor of House Mortis I order you to pull your forces out.” Solas smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

“And if I don’t?” A blaster bolt struck the back of the throne. With a sigh Solas rose from the throne and ignited his crimson blade. “You know this is the second time you have been my Quaestor.” The white haired man slid his right foot back and twirled his lightsaber around into an inverted grip. “I think it’s time for us to see who is truly superior.”

Scion sighed and drew his twin sabers. Bending his knees as he deepened his stance. “I guess it is.”

The Quaestor twirled his crimson blades in slow, lazy spirals. His body was not tense and he paid special attention to his movements to avoid appearing rushed or nervous. The old man exuded confidence like the crash of the ocean over the top of Oberst's Tower back at the Castle. The two Sith did not advance toward one another for several moments as each man considered the most effective way to eviscerate the other.

"You realize I don't need either one of these to kill you."

Solas' blue eyes narrowed. The Quaestor's voice was not mocking. It was as if he had simply stated a fact; that it was cold outside, or that tomorrow was the Day of the Fox. The Force gurgled and writhed in this place, whispering and hissing through his mind. Scion could feel its black geometry pulsating, arcs and fissures forming between the two men as they faced one another. What if I...

A splintering crack formed in the Force's energy field, emanating from Scion and enveloping Solas in a void. The Knight's face went pale as he felt his connection to the Force disappear like so much steam. Seizing the opportunity he had created, Scion holstered his lightsabers and once again drew his blaster. He expertly unleashed several rounds, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger and forcing Solas to block purely with his mastery of the Shien form rather than the aid of the Force. One of the blasts reflected back at the Battlelord, narrowly missing his leg.

The Epicanthix had had enough at this point, running across the walkway back toward the center where Scion stood. The continued barrage from the DL-44 failed to slow or injure him at all but instead of the controlled deflections Scion knew he was capable of, the Force-less Knight scattered them all across the massive chamber. Finally, Solas drew near enough and leapt at Scion with a guttural roar, trying to grapple the shorter man and throw him to the ground. The old man stood his ground, dropping the blaster and twisting at the last moment to add to Solas' own momentum and hurl him to the floor. The Force rushed back into Solas' mind in a flood as he struggled to regain his feet.

As fast as he could recover from his fall, Scion was on top of him again. The shorter man grabbed at his hair with one hand and his shirt with the other and was dragging him fast toward the edge of the platform. Every time he caught some traction against the smooth stone, Scion stomped on his foot or hand until it slipped. He was poised at the edge, staring down into the bottomless abyss when he landed an elbow square in Scion's gut. The old soldier dropped him, and he scrambled back from the precipice. The Knight's red blade had disarmed at some point during the scuffle but now it once again flashed to life bathing the hunched, gasping old Quaestor in dim crimson light.

"I see that Master Hades has trained you well." Scion turned to his sibling student with a frown. "It's a shame that it came to this."

"This day was inevitable, as is the day when I will face him in battle." Scion sighed.

“Such is the nature of the Sith. But that day will never come, not if I have anything to say.” In a flash Scion drew his DL-44 and fired off a shot before Solas could even perceive it. The blaster bolt struck the Epicathix in the stomach, dropping him to his knees. The man stared at the puddle of blood that began to form around his knees.

Blood. Pain. This is why I fight!

Scion began to approach the man however he stopped as he threw his head back and began laughing. But not a joyous laugh, this laugh was hollow, raspy, chattering, it was the laugh of a madman. As he laughed the Knight’s body suddenly began to rise in a very unnatural manner. For a moment the two stood there in silence. Scion stood in a loose stance, uncertain of what was happening. Suddenly the white haired man’s body snapped into a proper posture and then he seemed to vanish. Only Scion’s connection to the Force saved him from losing his head to the blade of his enemy’s lightsaber. The greying colonel stumbled back but recovered quickly. Unfortunately he couldn’t mount a counter-attack as the Sith Knight set upon him with a barrage of slashes and strikes.

Scion still held only his blaster in his hand when the first few strikes fell upon him. Instinctively, he stepped back from them and raised his arms to shield his face. At the same time he focused the Force around him into a solid barrier, deflecting the onslaught just long enough to drop the DL-44 and retrieve his own dual blades from his belt. They flared to life just as the barrier shattered.

The Soresu master put up a vigorous defense, but Solas’ unusual Shien style was unfamiliar to him. It took his full concentration as well as a few timely whispers from the Force to stay ahead of the grand, sweeping gestures of the style punctuated with the Knight’s powerful off-hand strikes and sweeps. The Tarentae was slowly retreating under the pressure of the attack, and somewhere in the back of his mind he was counting the steps before he would topple over the edge into the bottomless expanse.

“You said you wouldn’t need those, old man,” mocked Solas.

“Even the Tarentae occasionally make mistakes,” Scion admitted. “But you have yet to understand yours.”

The Battlelord’s analysis of Solas’ unique fighting style so far had revealed several interesting facts. First, that the lightsaber was not the Knight’s primary weapon despite being held in his dominant hand. Second, that the movements were almost all large and thus time consuming. Functionally, they weren’t so different from the Soresu forms intended for blocking incoming blaster fire, but he had yet to see any of the quicker jabs or parries he would expect from a dueling style. The attacks that were penetrating his defense more often than not were low leg sweeps, beneath his typical lightsaber parries and in many cases forcing him to jump to avoid being knocked over.

Scion stopped retreating and pulled more of the Fortress’ twisted, ebon power into his limbs. His dual blades began to sing as their speed crescendoed into two wheels of shining red death. Solas was already on the brink of madness, his face painted with pure rage and moving as fast as he was capable, but the old man had only just begun to tap into his reserves. Now that he better understood his opponent’s style it was becoming much easier to defend. The increased speed allowed him to weave attacks and counter-attacks into his defense, putting a subtle end to Solas’ advance. The dual blades could present an attack impossible to block with a single weapon, and within moments the Knight’s offense had shifted to a harried defense composed both of blocks and parries as well as nimble hops and dodges.

After awhile the Quaestor scored a hit across Solas’ calf as he tried another sweep. Then he dug a deep gash along the Epicanthix’s side. Those injuries alone should have at least slowed the Knight down, but he appeared not to even notice. The madness had fully taken him, and nothing short of death would stop him now.

Exertion was beginning to take its toll on the old man. It was becoming clear to him that waiting for Solas to wear down and slip up was not going to be an option. He crossed his blades and locked the Knight’s own blade between them, shoving the larger man backward with all his weight. Solas reeled, giving Scion a moment of opportunity. He took off running toward the door, stopping to turn when he reached the beginning of the walkway. As soon as he did, a massive invisible force slammed into his chest and knocked him on his back. He heard Solas’ footsteps fast approaching as he tried to regain his feet. He didn’t try to stand up, but just rolled into a forward leap and flew, lightsabers first, into Solas’ torso. The chaotic tangle of three crimson blades slid across the smooth surface of the platform, leaving a wide streak of blood and entrails for four or five yards.

Scion lay gasping for breath. At least one of the lightsabers had punctured his chest and very possibly collapsed one of his lungs. He was a naturally fast healer and had some skill in using the Force to accelerate it beyond the natural, but getting up and out of the fortress for rescue on one lung was going to present him with a significant challenge.

On the other hand, Solas had fared far worse. The dual blades had disemboweled him on impact, and as the two tumbled to the ground the majority of his internal organs had spilled out onto the floor. Most lightsaber wounds self-cauterize, but the violent action had pulled the sides of the wound wide open instead, like popping a balloon. Their bodies had rolled and mashed most of the spilled innards into paste and many pints of his blood were now rapidly congealing all across the smooth floor of the chamber. Scion feebly wiped what remained of Solas off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, grimacing when he pulled it back and saw what he had smeared on it. He gave a long look at the door which now seemed impossibly far away, and began to contemplate trying to sit up.