Hidden in Felucia’s jungle lies a two hundred meter expanse marking the ancient burial site of this world’s deadliest creatures and the location of innumerable remnants of hundreds, if not thousands of rancors. A circular enclosure of sun-bleached bones are arranged in the center of the cemetery—no doubt the former dwelling of a powerful practitioner of the Force. Cobwebs cling to the fallen beasts, a testament to the primordial age of some of the creatures.

Somewhat obscured by surrounding cliffs and the luminescent jungle, the dusted bones and carcasses are cast in a faint shadow, leaving just enough light to see by. The atmosphere is thick and stifling, with a strong overtone of dust and bone suspended in the still air. The taint of the Dark Side's influence has polluted the landmark over time, giving form to a dreadful aura that has scared off scavengers determined to sell off a rancor tusk or two. Unlike most of Felucia, the area is nearly devoid of life aside from ravenous predators dwelling within the hollowed-out husks of dead rancors.

“He has served Plagueis well, but he knows too much. We cannot risk his leaving and selling our secrets to the other clans. You know what must be done.”

“Of course, Dread Lord.”

Felucia, 34 ABY

Heavy boots rose and fell among the bones of Rancors, their march muffled by the layers of dust and decay. Small fibers clung possessively to the cloak dragging its way through the powdery substances. The entire area was awash in an oppressive miasma; a physical warning to the thick presence of the Dark Side. Scattered amongst what few dry-rotted trees remained, the white alabaster remains of more recent victims bathed beneath the few shards of light piercing the veil of putrefaction.

The boots’ owner took his elongated strides at a reasonable pace, allowing himself the opportunity to fully take in his immediate surroundings. The mercenary should be close by. Apparently requisitioned to acquire an artifact of relative minor import. An acceptable enough excuse to have him within the grasp of an assassin. If the mission had not hinted of deceit, however, the locale surely must have.

The Knight threw back his hood and let his senses guide him. His sanguine skin and deeply embedded tattooes stood out harshly against the pale backdrop surrounding him. If the mercenary did not know he was coming, one glance would be all he needed to pick out the Zabrak amongst the calcite-hued cadavers. Surprisingly, they spotted each other at roughly the same time.

Off to the Knight’s right side, where a gargantuan skull of some former alpha had made its last stand, a Pantoran sat upon the curve of the remaining tusk. He seemed to favor cloaks as well; his own billowed slightly in the incessant breeze. He did not seem to possess much in the way of arms, but it was never a good idea to underestimate a mercenary. Especially one trained to fight Sith. Their resourcefulness was exactly the reason the Clans employed them so readily.

The Zabrak approached, making sure to keep a cautious eye on the merc’s hands. Given the opportunity, the merc could make this a lot more difficult with the DC-17 pistol hanging from his double belt. Orange eyes held yellow as the Zabrak spoke.

“Uscot.”

“Drol.”

The mercenary seemed very relaxed for being in a graveyard.

“Was it that obvious?”

“One needn’t be Force-sensitive to feel the hostility radiating off of you. I saw your ship land and expected something was up. I only knew for sure when I saw it was you. For what else would the Dread Lord send a Shadow?”

“It’s nothing personal. I actually thought you had served Plagueis well.”

“It never is. Just business.”

Both couldn’t help but smile grimly at the thought. They understood their positions well enough. A strong silence arose between them. The shifting pressure in the air ruffled their cloaks and shrouded them in dust.

In the end, it was the mercenary who made the first move. Kul had failed to notice the arm-length sized bone Uscot had slipped his foot under. In a smooth transition from seated to rising, the merc flicked his foot out and sent the bone sailing towards the Zabrak’s face. Instinctively, Kul smacked it aside, but this had given Laren the time he needed to draw his blaster. The merc immediately began to flank the Knight, launching bolts of energy from his blaster as her ran. Kul managed to roll and avoid the first few bolts, but his cloak become holier than it had started.

Laren did not give the Shadow time to react, moving in closer to end it swiftly. As Kul reached a knee after rolling he felt the blaster press up against his skull.

“That’s the thing about Sith. You don’t have many defenses against a blaster, and the one you had you never used. You defeated yourself, Drol.” The Zabrak chuckled softly.

“Indeed. I never drew my saber. Do you want to know what your own weakness is, Uscot?”

Curiosity got the better of the mercenary, wondering what the Zabrak could be playing at.

“I’ll play along, Sith. What’s my weakness?” The blaster pushed harder against Kul’s skull, warning him of the cost of trying anything sneaky. Kul raised his hands slowly where Laren could see them, and extended a finger towards the Pantoran’s deep blue face.

“Your eyes.” Laren’s day became night. His training had prepared him for such encounters, but he could not help but feel that immediate response to the body losing an important sense. He reflexively took a step back, managing to get a shot off before Kul was upon him. The Zabrak toyed with his victim, driving swift, targeted strikes into unguarded soft spots while Laren struggled to defend himself. Kul dodged an attempt to counter one of his thrusts and returned the swing with one of his own, utilizing the claws extending from his left hand. Laren cried out as his side erupted in fire.

A sharp pain of his own began to conflagrate in Kul’s mind. He dropped the blackness surrounding them and took a few deep breathes as Laren began to catch his bearings again. He brought a hand up and smelled his own blood. He had not noticed the wound until now.

“So Laren...care to surrender yourself over, or will this just get nastier?”

“He has served Plagueis well, and his skills have fostered great power. You must test his resolve, and determine if he is worthy of further service.”

“You know he will try and kill me, right?”

Felucia, 34 ABY

“You call that nasty, Drol?” Laren replied through labored breaths, his own injury burning as strong as a Corellian wildfire. He held his side with a firm grip, attempting to hold the inevitable bleeding at bay. His wound wasn’t fatal in the interim, but a prolonged and direct exchange with his physically imposing foe would certainly spell doom for him.

Laren cursed himself for being so overconfident in his abilities. He had underestimated the Zabrak before him, having been carousing and swooning among the upper echelons of the Clan. He had lowered his guard and paid his due for failure, and though weakened as he was, he would not make the same mistake twice. “Pain breaks the weak and moulds the strong.”

Though Kul’tak was nursing his own wound, his composure was opaque. Laren couldn’t tell if he felt the pain of his injury, though the look of cold ice in his eyes revealed nothing.. “You’re tenacious, bounty hunter, I’ll give you that.” The Zabrak’s stance changed, his knees slightly bent so he could lower his centre of gravity. His arms were outstretched in front of him, his gauntleted hand stained with Laren’s dark blue blood. “Watching you dance in the darkness is sport in itself.”

“You may be able to blind me, Drol,” Laren replied, firing his blaster at Kul’tak wildly and unfastening the binding of his cloak. He was stepping back into the murky depths of the rancor bones, his figure slowly being shadowed by gargantuan rancor bones and dead soil. Kul’tak easily dodged his assault, channeling the Force to magnify his strength to be agile enough to dodge his blasts.

“But can your eyes find me among the ancient dead?” Laren let out a sadistic laugh as he faded into the shadows. Perhaps the blood dripping from his open wound would create a trail, but more than likely even the ground was too dark to notice flattened beads of Pantoran blood on the ground.

Kul’tak dodged the final bout of blaster fire with a barrel roll, but when he got up the Pantoran had disappeared deep into the depths of their battleground. His hand instinctively reached for his deactivated lightsaber and gripped the metallic hilt with such force that his knuckles were turning a faint shade of pink. He was frustrated he had allowed the bounty hunter to escape, but within moments, he channeled his rage into maintaining composure over his wound. Calm had returned, and the Shadow began to follow the Pantoran. The hunt was afoot, and his prey was more than worthy of his full attention. In another circumstance, the two would have been well matched as allies. Though the Pantoran had no natural ability with the Force, his prowess with nothing but his blaster, blade and fist had made him a formidable warrior among the upper echelons of their Clan.

The Zabrak slowly made his way into the grimy heart of the graveyard, where the bones were most numerous and the light was nearly nonexistent. Those who lacked the will to pursue the hunt would have felt soiled within the murk, as the dust being churned up by each step was the remnants of beasts long since forgotten. At times, Kul’tak thought he heard the Pantoran’s soft and sadistic laugh as he drew closer. He was being toyed with, now. Was he the hunter, or the hunted?

Thirty paces into the the heart of the graveyard, Kul’tak had finally sprung the next trap. Though he couldn’t see the the Pantoran, cerulean blaster bolts erupted from between the colossal remnants of a nearby rancor ribcage. To Laren’s surprise, the Zabrak didn’t activate his saber and deflect his fire, instead preferring to leap and roll with an adept grace into different points of cover. To counter this, the bounty hunter increased his rate of fire, trying to take the Shadow off guard. He hadn’t managed to break the immaculate composure of the immense assassin, though he did manage to put Kul’tak on the defensive as he channeled the Force to leap and dodge for his life.

Laren smiled through the searing pain as he dashed among the ruined rancors, satisfied his plan was proceeding well. His torso screamed for him to stop and rest, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was screaming for him to continue. It wouldn’t last long, so he had to use what energy he had to his advantage. He was going to close in and exacerbate the Zabrak’s wounds. He had seen the Shadow on the offensive, but now it was his turn to test his defensive skills. He has no idea this is a test, he mused.

Holstering his blaster, the wiry Pantoran charged his physically formidable opponent. Using the momentum of his vault, Laren sprung forward and struck the Zabrak in the knee. Kul’tak fumbled backward, his stance faltering, a surprised expression briefly flashing across his face. Laren continued the onslaught, his knees bent and his body rippling with the flowing strength of each strike, targeting the erratically moving Zabrak’s sensitive points in his torso, knees, and even his groin. His opponent managed to block many of his powerful strikes, though Laren chanced a few well-placed blows on the Knight’s waist and his knees. His groin was, for good reason, well protected, though it didn’t stop Laren from trying. Pressing his advantage, Laren was backing the Zabrak into a massive rancor bone. With a final, vigourous blow delivered with his left fist, Laren had backed the Knight into the corner.

Each were drawing exhausted breaths, but the look in each of their eyes spoke of an unshakeable will that would last beyond their physical limitations. If they could, they would fight forever.

“Your move, Drol.”

It was not an often occurrence that Kul found himself in such a cornered position. He had to give the merc credit where it was due. He clearly had earned his position on the Plagueis Summit, blurring the line for other Willing servants.

But.

While the mercenary had proven to be a warrior worth his salt, there was one thing he could not hide from a Shadow: a desire to kill. Or lack thereof. Throughout the engagement Kul had begun to pick up on subtle “mistakes” in Uscot’s aim. The Zabrak highly doubted the merc was that terrible of a shot. There had been plenty of chances for him to place the bolts closer to target. Sure, Kul was an athletic being, but he could not foresee every bolt path. It was not the darkness that blinded him, either. No, most of his shots had been before or after the light-devouring effect.

A test, then? They set me up? Even a Zabrak could not ignore the pang of betrayal that aroused in his breast at the thought. He found it insulting! Well, he'd been given his orders. He would follow them to the letter. Perhaps bringing them the heart of their precious mercenary would show them Kul was not a force to be underestimated.

Still, there was the exhaustion to deal with. Both Pantoran and the Zabrak were feeling the effects of excess acid building in their muscles, and a deprivation of oxygen to satisfy the debt. Kul blinked his eyes as he noticed a blurred edge to his vision. The fight would be decided by whomever managed to remain standing the longest.

“Your move, Drol.”

Kul drew a ragged breath, and struggled to steady his resolve. It had become difficult to think clearly. His right hand deftly gripped the hilt of his saber through force of will alone and he unleashed its blade in a burst of crimson light. His fury began to reach its apex as he mustered what was left of his strength. There was a brief interpose as Laren thought he noticed a trickle of electricity arc behind the Zabrak’s impassioned gaze. The area around them suddenly felt a lot more stifling than it had before. The merc was not sure what the Zabrak was planning, but his instincts flared with warning. I was sure I had the advantage? What is this feeling? Laren jerked a hand down to grab his blaster, but it was then that Kul unleashed his pent up wrath. Like an image from the deepest nightmare, the Zabrak roared as he leapt forth with a surge of amplified strength. His muscles, for a brief moment, felt as if they could move even the ground below him. Tendrils of raw energy coursed through his arms as he raised them. His left hand extended further than his right, and a pulse lit the area around them in voltaic current. Uscot’s eyes grew wide as he realized the implication. Kul meant utter destruction of the mercenary, even at the cost of his own life. His own training could not outrun the beast before him.

The Zabrak was dying. Or at least, he felt like he was. In all his years of training he’d never had to call forth his own willpower to bear so much as now. It felt as if he was being torn asunder, one cell at a time. Each felt as though it were plucked from his being and liquefied from trying to resist the cost of so much power from the Force. The pain racked his body as it swept through him with each burst of energy he poured out, the lust for power condemning him to a fatal fate. His eyes were the first organ to go. As the remaining light in his photoreceptors died, his last sight was the body of Laren as he rolled upon the dust, his own body wrapped in snakes of electricity. The Zabrak toppled forward as gravity took over, his mouth curved slightly before crashing into the brittle bones of creatures far older than he.

The Pantoran lay covered in scorching burns and his clothes were seared black. The smell of crisp flesh made him gag as he struggled to get back on his feet. Being unable to, he accepted his current position and peered to his left. The Zabrak lay still. Smoldering bits of cloth hung to his body as the air around them returned to normal in its dance of dust. The fool...the stubborn fool.

Laren did not remember when he lost consciousness, but he was suddenly awake and aware that time had passed. The howls of approaching predators spurred him to movement. Grasping a nearby tusk, he willed himself to stand and fought the screams of complaint in his body. He looked down on the Zabrak and sighed.

“I suppose you passed.” Kneeling down he managed to roll the Knight onto a shoulder before rising, albeit slowly, again. His back threatened to crack, but he knew his overlord would prefer having the Zabrak back, if only for the knowledge his mind might possess. He groaned as he realized the walk back to his ship would be arduous. As he stomped back to his fighter, he failed to notice the heartbeat that thumped in a frail staccato as a single heart clung to a wisp of life.

“I expect nothing less.” A menacing smile graced the Dread Lord’s face, though his cold and calculating eyes never changed. “Are you up to the task, bounty hunter?”|

The Pantoran’s scarred face twisted into something that could be considered a smile, though his own eyes were filled with molten rage.

Felucia, 34 ABY

“It isn’t wise to back a beast into a corner,” the Zabrak growled, his crimson face expressionless and hard as stone, all rough planes and edges. Perhaps a stone was softer, though there could be no doubt of the smouldering rage in his eyes.

Laren couldn’t help but to shiver. He had no intentions of dying today, whatever his Force-wielding friend thought. And though he currently held the upper hand having trapped Kul’tak in the curve of a large rancor bone, he couldn’t help but feel the tables were about to turn. He dare not reach for his blaster, for he figured the time it would take him to draw the weapon would be more than enough for Kul’tak to spit him like a pig. Yet that look - the Zabrak’s eyes were a raging maelstrom of hate and power, and he stood almost unnaturally still as he faced the limber Pantoran bounty hunter. Laren even took a few steps back, adjusting his stance. He had stiffened for a moment and expected the Zabrak to pounce, but the man still stood where he had been. But when had his eyes closed shut?

“You Sith types are always so dramatic,” Laren said, breaking the silence and attempting to goad the Shadow. His voice was gravelly from fatigue, and his mouth and throat were dry from excessive fighting amidst the timeworn rancor carcasses.

He had to get Kul’taks attention, or death might take Laren because of his own stubborn resolve and excessive blood loss rather than the Zabrak’s fist around his throat. Laren softened his stance, moving his feet closer together and presenting a more attractive target. A successful strike could lay Laren on his back or tip him off-balance, now. Yet the Shadow still didn’t move. Laren shifted some more, and once again there was no reaction. He touched the datapad he had kept safe in his pocket thus far, though his eyes never left his opponent. It was a simple datapad, yet made in such a way that only extremely excessive stress could cause its destruction. The datapad was his saving grace, the Dread Lord’s commands to the Shadow. He knew not what exactly the commands were, but he did know his life was not forfeit this day. Or did he know?

“Only cowards bide their time, Sith. Are you a coward?” Laren asked himself the same question. Maybe he was about to die. Perhaps.

It seemed that Kul’tak had taken the bait. His eyes shot open and from his mouth erupted a deafening scream. It was deep and primal, akin to a predatory wild beast rather than the man before him. He centered his vision on Laren, and the speed with which he traveled only confirmed to Laren that the Shadow had taken his moments of silence to harness the Force and his own aggression. The man had channeled his hatred into brawn, and that power was unleashed in a torrent of flustered fury. Laren noticed his opponent seeming to squint at times, and he quickly noticed he was trying to curtail his bloodlust to land a mass of accurate blows and strikes. His rage might have overcome his body, but clearly Kul’tak’s mind was somewhat sharp. Even his senses were made more acute by being full to bursting with the Force. It was all Laren could do to stay alive as he evaded the dangerously sharp claws his opponent wielded, using the momentum of his opponent’s other clawless strike to stay one step away from a gruesome death. Curiously, he hadn’t gone for his lightsaber.

The two seemingly moved in unison, their dance with death a perilous balance between the cerulean and crimson fighters. Kul’tak was clearly the lead of their duet, his stance ever-changing and dynamic, and his strength without question. Laren followed the man, watched where his feet led, yet he could find no pattern. Laren’s own blood had appeared on his cheek and his right shoulder, now, and sweat beaded his brow. He had made a mistake fighting Kul’tak head on, empowered as he was with his precious Dark Side. Though the Zabrak’s own skill wasn’t as refined his his own, he found that he could never predict where the next blow would land. Whenever Laren managed to land a blow on him, he was thrown back having taken two of his own.

A break in the fighting allowed the two to look at each other, their shoulders heaving with intense weariness. Laren openly grunted with each quick breath, unable to hide the extraordinary pain Kul’tak’s initial wound had caused him, along with the others he was graced with. Laren was pleased to see, from a moment’s glance, that he had caused the Zabrak a swollen left eye. Though he couldn’t see more, he knew the few deft strokes he had managed against Kul’tak’s nerves would be causing him some considerable pain. But when he looked back into the eyes of the Zabrak, he thought he saw respect glimmering behind an otherwise emotionless expression. Perhaps it was nothing.

The Zabrak laughed, now, his stance fading. Laren reached for his blaster to take advantage of his arrogance, but he had been duped. Lighting burst from Kul’tak’s pointed fingers and surrounded Laren in blinding pain and light. The sound of his own screams were drowned by the sound of the source of his torture, and he couldn’t think of anything except for an end to the onslaught. His entire body writhed in pain he had never felt before, and he wished with all of his being never to feel again.

Kul’tak laughed, now, staring at the feeble Pantoran on the ground before him with a look of mock pity in his eyes.

“You’re good, Uscot,” he said between bursts of lightning and the Pantoran’s screams. “I see now why the Dread Lord acquired your services.” More bursts, quickly delivered yet sending a torrent of pain that made even the darkest imaginations of torture seem utterly feeble and soft in comparison. “But in the end, you cannot match the power of the Force.”

Beyond the searing pain, beyond his simple thought to himself to stay alive, a break in the lightning appeared and Laren had to utilize it. Though his voice was hoarse and strained, he managed to scream, “WAIT!”

The Zabrak paused, curiousity overcoming him. They were both intelligent enough to realize that the Pantoran was essentially spent and quite nearly dead, though he was also no coward. Mercenary or not, bounty hunter or not, the Pantoran did not ask that which he did not need. And though Laren knew through the onslaught he still had a chance to land one last flesh wound upon the Sith, his message was more important than a cheap shot from the ground.

“Re - reach into my l - left shirt pocket.”

The Zabrak complied, and Laren moved not an inch. The Zabrak recovered the small datapad, the unencrypted red script mostly undamaged, though somewhat covered in warm, dark blue blood. His blood. Kul’tak read silently, his expression unchanging, and then dropped the pad onto the ground.

“Your life was mine. But once again, it is now the Dread Lord’s.” With an arrogant grin, the Zabrak turned and began to walk away, most likely traveling back in the direction of his former landing zone. Laren reached for the dagger in his left boot and expertly let it loose in the Sith’s direction. It embedded itself less than an inch from the Zabrak’s soiled face, and he stopped to turn, his expression as indifferent as it had been before.

“Never turn your back. You w - won the battle, but I would have won your life.” Kul’tak had no idea how close his life had been to being lost as his figure slowly winked out of sight.

“Here,” the Dread Lord said, handing Laren a simple datapad. “When the time is right, give it to him.”

“You don’t think I can win?”

“On the contrary, bounty hunter, I know you can’t.”