Muz rose slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, the sunset tones of his lightsaber blades retreating into their hilts with an electric slickness. The Huntresses lay around him, limbs strewn in a wild array, the handiwork of a few moments of the saberist's attention. The cold predatory eyes slid up, regarding the horizon, the blackened scarring of his eyes hiding what exactly, if anything, he was focusing on.

The wind tore through the valley, a rush of sand and rust particles sweeping across everything, flecking the Devaronian's black beard with bits that used to be important a hundred years ago. He grunted, raising his hand, the rocket screaming from the wrist launcher in a dismissive gesture. It spiraled toward his foe, a trail of smoke visible before the wind tore even that away.

The Lion tilted his head in confusion, the rocket exploding in front of him, the faint image of a violet tinged sphere appearing for a moment behind the flames. He stepped forward, pushing sabers into their holsters at his waist, a measured and steady gait as he moved toward the alien. It took a few moments before recognition bloomed in his eyes.

"Ashen." He said the name as if it were a malicious curse. The Devaronian bolted to the side, making his way toward an oversized pile of wreckage, the only sort of feature that the Badlands had to offer. Muz kept his pace, slowly walking toward him, as inevitable as death.

"I know you." he snarled, angling himself, worming his big frame through a narrow crevasse, backing himself up, trying to find a defensible position, a place that could funnel the famed saberist into attacking from only one angle while still giving him the room to maneuver.

The crack of shattering rubble filled his ears, the crack widening as the Lion approached, bits of debris cascading from the broken pieces like rain. "Kerwin Drake." The Lion spoke, his words reverborating in the Devaronian's ears and his head. There was no mistaking the green skin and black bearded alien from the dossier that the Consul had provided. Muz kept his pace, his head swinging to look at the narrowing gulch, the unstable earth and ruins before a half smile crept up his lips as his advantage crumbled.

Kerwin turned himself sideways, lowering his center of gravity as his electrostaff snapped to life. "You could surrender."

The snap of lightsaber ignition was his only response.

Kerwin reacted with rage, launching himself at the man, his staff snarling forward to catch the Lion in the chest, but finding himself short by a few feet. Ashen's feet carried him aside the strike, a fast metal hand crashing against the Devaronian's horn. The shockwave sent echoes of pain through his skull that he shook off, breaking backwards to give himself a little distance. Ashen kept moving toward him, the same steady gait, even as his saber rose to meet the illuminated end of his electrostaff. He alternated his strikes, some the man simply dodging, the others intercepted by violet blade. Kerwin was good, better with a staff than anyone he had ever met, and he could not find an opening in the Grand Master's defenses. He felt a bead of sweat on his brow as he moved, buying time and life with each strike, every step backward. He had seen the holos, he had heard the rumors, and he did not understand why the Keibatsu hadn't attacked yet. The thought raised his pulse. He had seen the holos, after all.

"You could surrender." Ashen repeated the words Kerwin had said, half a smile still playing across his face. He tarried a moment, his mind racing to the twins, Den tugging on Ira's horns as they chased each other through their home. Happier times, before the Lotus, before the Collective. He sneered at the Lord, pointed teeth bared as he contemplated options, his staff bouncing forward as if by rote. Who would take care of them? Who would feed them, make sure their clothes were clean, that they got to bed on time?

Kerwin bounded backwards, out of range, his hands slipping toward the power switch on the staff. Perhaps they would take him back, station him somewhere safe, out of the reach of the brotherhood's political backstabbings and open warfare. Perhaps he would be able to watch the twins grow rather than the angry blades of the Lion as he walked toward him. He shut down the staff, lowering himself to one knee, resting the staff on the rusty earth, averting his eyes in the old signs of respect. After all, if he fell here, who would take care of the twins?

The blade screamed through his neck, and he could taste the burnt blood on the back of his tongue as his head rolled forward.

Rath Oligard would.

This is using my main, and with the battlefield loadout if the attached snapshot does not come through.

I knew I should have stayed on the 'Spear.

I don't really blame the Consul for wanting me on his flagship, because it is exactly what I would have done, if the roles

were reversed. Having a Grand Master on deck is a big deal, and not just for morale. But the clever little bait didn't put

together that the same reason made us a priority target. And now I am trying to hold together a sorry escape pod as it is

trying to make what can only be classified as an 'extreme landing'.

Which is to say, something already basically shot it out of the sky, and I am trying to make it out of this thing with my

internal organs still internal. However many years later, and I still am not the best of pilots. I remember back in one of

the last Sith Rites of Supremacy where I...

And that'd be the ground now. The sound of a crashing spacecraft is not what you'd expect it to be, metallic and grinding.

It squeaks more than it grinds, the alloys crumpling against the rocks and whatever else in ways that set your teeth on edge,

if they weren't already there based on the not insignificant fact that you were hurtling at the ground at the speed of

seventeen cursewords a minute.

The stink of ozone, burning air, and crackling electronics are the first things you notice when the adrenaline slows down.

It's going to take me forever to get that smell out of my warcoat. And of course, the escape hatch is jammed, half buried

under debris and whatever other junk that the planet has lying about on it. Not terribly sure why this Collective set up shop

here, unless they have some sort of giant smelter that they can use to reclaim all of this junk. I suppose it's not out of

the question. Oligard was a resourceful man. Probably still is.

Twisting in my chair, I try to determine how bad the door is shoved in, wondering not so idly if the fool in the headhunter

had any idea who was riding in this pod, or if he was just stabbing at the low-hanging fruit. The way my luck has been,

probably the former, which means I can expect company, and soon. I go to release the safety harness and get up, but find

myself held back. The console to my left had collapsed down, pinning my arm to the seat, a pretty heavy gouge in the metal.

I'm not entirely sure of the provenance of the stream of profanity that rushes from my lips, not that it mattered anyway.

I go to move the fingers, my ear trying to tune into the sound of those tiny servo motors, the fine ears and electronics that

have quite literally been at my side ever since...That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that I can't hear them, and

the synaptic interface isn't giving me any feedback anymore. At the very best, the neural interface is fried. At the likely

worst, the whole arm is scrapped. I find the release at my bicep, detaching the failsafes and breaking free from the

wreckage. If I have the luck to come back and get it, I will. The last thing I need is to have one of these half-droids

bouncing around the galaxy with my arm strapped to them. I'd never hear the end of it.

I take a quick look around the pod, finding a few odds and ends that might make the next few minutes a bit more bearable

before trying to shove on the escape hatch. At least there was water on board. Someone was thinking. I try the door. It

doesn't even pretend to budge. I try a second time, then decide there's no time for any of this. The throb behind my eyes

tells me the door is gone before my eyes themselves do, the thick metal skittering across the ground a few paces away like a

kicked pet.

Brown. This planet is brown, there's no other real way to describe it. A thousand year old rust, dirty sand and filth from

what must have been a hundred wars just caked the entire landscape. It was not winning any awards for vacation destinations,

that was for certain. If I had to guess, this was what they called 'the Badlands'. Inventive.

It occurs to me that standing this close to a crashed escape pod is a good way to be found by things that would rather you

hadn't escaped, so I bolt toward a dune a few hundred paces away. A dune of what exactly, I am not entirely sure, but it at

least gets a little distance between me and the bullseye. Not that the black warcoat didn't make me stand out already in this

endless brown.

The whine of engines reminds me that this was not a sightseeing trip. I close my eyes for a moment, reaching upward, barely

into orbit, finding the point I recognize. Confused and worried beneath a veneer of bravado and a lifetime of callouses.

Kojiro.

I survived. Here.

I speak into his mind, then show him what I see as I open my eyes before stopping, the swell of pain behind my temples

growing. The landing must have rattled me more than I wanted to give it credit for. There would be time enough for that

later, because right now, there are a few things coming my way, and odds are pretty good they aren't trying to sell me a

holonet subscription.

The engines stop suddenly. I let their essences wash over me, reaching out, sensing my surroundings. Three of them. That

tells me that they don't know who was in the pod. Oligard is going to be angry when he figures it out.

The first one falls too easily, smashed into the pod, pulled back and pounded into it again, her neck going all floppy by the

third time her flesh met the metal. I let her go, then send the golden sabers from behind my coat take flight. They drop at

first, then scream toward them, igniting at the last moment, their golden light leaving the second girl in a neat and steaming

pile of what used to be angry. I step up, cresting the dune, calling them back to me with a thought. The third girl has some

spunk, lowering her center of gravity and raising a bow similar to what I had seen Ashia play with. Nightsister toys didn't

seem to make sense with what I had heard about the Collective.

She draws back the weapon and let loose, the frozen in the air in between us as I narrowed my eyes at her. Her boots dragged

at the sand and rust as she found herself pulled forward suddenly, the blast from her own weapon ripping through her as she

stumbled forward against her will. I watch her gasp for breath against the ruin of her lung and probably heart, trying to

place her race. The tattoos look Kiffar, which stands to reason with the skintone, but it was weird. The other two look like

clones. Did Oligard buy himself some crazy premium grade clones?

The dull roar of atmospheric entry focuses me for a moment, looking up to see a lambda-class. Good, Sanguinius did not decide

that he wanted to take advantage of the situation. I imaging that Locke would have. I reach into the bag of stuff from the

escape pod, finding the flare gun and using it, the wide arc of colored light and smoke letting everything know where I was.

It occurs to me how remarkably un-clever that was a moment after I pulled the trigger, throwing the flare launcher to the dirt

in disgust with myself. I watch the shuttle circle, then come in closer. It would only be a minute now, but with the roar of

the engines, I wouldn't be able to hear if any more of those clone whatevers were coming.

It took a moment for me to recognize the armor of the Black Guard, the black washing out against the gray of the shuttle,

surrounded by that fecal brown. He asks the normal questions, almost by rote. I barely answer him, as usual.

"Did you have any trouble, Lord?"

I gesture to the huntresses, then walk up the ramp past him. He laughs to himself. "Only three of them."

Yes. Only three of them. I could handle twice that number with my hand tied behind my... never mind.

attached for entry

so cold i have turned
was this what i wanted now
it should have been less

Loudly, we came.
Our heads held high, our hearts on display
as if to say
"here, do your worst"
And oh so quiet they stirred
Thinking we knew them, this, it all
Suddenly we're small
shattered, hurt
Taken from within, broken in grief
There is always a 'lie' in 'belief'

The damp scent of old rot filled the still air. Overcast grey skies filtered through the damaged walls and roof of the atrium to blur the fine details from sight. A hand reached out, fingers tracing the intricate carvings of the doorway, the spirals and curves smooth to the touch, fine craftsmanship polished by wind and sand. The sound of boots grinding ancient dust into the stone worked crisply into their ears as each of them moved forward. Something was bothersome, an itch at the periphery of their senses, the vague unease that originated from the deepest recesses of their minds, the unevolved lizard senses of fight or flight confused by the dead.

Motionless, they hung, their facial features blurred like a drawing made by someone who had forgotten what they looked like. Translucent, the dust and light seemed to waft through them. The dais ahead of them seemed like a loose prison, columns from the ceiling to the raised platform spaced out to allow passage but not much else.

When the Savant stepped through, the chill burned through them all as the howl ripped through their ears. Pain, loss, fear, all was as acrid on the tongue as the bitter cold twitched through their senses. The dead moved through them now, tearing bits of their willpower with them on each journey, leaving hollows where it once stood. Their own screams joined in the symphony, all singing the same song without words.

This place was theirs.