Dark Hall
Eos
20 years before

Upon a dark throne sat a much younger and lively Zoraan. The doors to the former Hall on Eos flew open wide with the aid of the Dark Side, and Chi-Long and Jac Cotelin entered the Hall with ignited blades. The tension in the air was palatable as the coup was finished.

The former Grandmaster arose from his seat and ignited both his own weapons, and a roar of power blasted the scene.

“The Rebels, they cast me from my throne….”

Around on the planet a vast Force Storm blasted the hapless bodies of many. Dark clouds, hurricane winds, and red lightning tore at the land with angry claws. Devastation was everywhere.

“They should have died with me. My death should have ensured theirs. I knew I would return..”

Throne Room
Dark Hall
Antei
Now

Sparks shot from the main door to the Dark Hall as Zoraan’s lightsaber slowly cut through it with burning red lines. He had already liberated the Skin from its guardians, and now longed to face his enemies. Cawel and Narg stood beside the demonic Zoraan. Zahsim and Mylah followed.

Behind them an intense battle raged as their minions fought other Dark Jedi and Grandmaster’s Royal Guard. A holoprojector of a cloaked figure followed him with angry chatter. Zoraan turned and crushed it brutally with the Force. “I have no more need of you,” spat the Grandmaster. The massive door sundered with a crash. The seared circle of metal dropped to the floor with a dull clang as the chamber was breached by force.

Codei Prison
Antei

“You’re a nasty little frackin’ bug,” chuckled Macron as he peered into the quantum-scope. “Yes, nasty but well-engineered. Very nice little protein mechanism you got going there, multi-phase forms, encystation… mmm hmm.” The madman dropped a bit of a fuming greenish fluid into the test plate. “No reaction with any known antidote. Alpha Red and Violator antidotes are ineffective.” His hands moved towards another tool. “Sonic inundation ineffective, resists vacuum, cold, and pressure… at least extreme heat does finish it off.” A puff of smoke rose from the test plate. “Live Violator does the trick too, but not useful on the living, however. Hehe. I guess. Although it would be very exciting to see people melt. Hee hee, hehehe.”

Macron rose with a groan as the giggles died away. “My knees. By the Dark Side.” His hands touched a comlink. Only one person might have the insight he sought. The Voice was well-attuned to the Force and had an interesting point of view. “Vodo, Macron here.”

The channel opened with silence, only the crackle of ions in space making any sound. Finally the Dark Councilor spoke. “Yes, Goura. Surely you want to understand this plague.”

“Indeed. I’ve done everything in the usual routines, but nothing works.” The Warlord’s IT-3 droid Blinky continued to monitor the test samples behind him with a quiet whir of repulsors. “I could use some insight. For all of us. I’ve got to find a cure before this thing tears the Brotherhood apart.”

“Try the unusual. It has a Dark Side component obviously. Isolate that, and then the virus can be destroyed. An approach of either ancient or modern technology alone will not be successful. Try synthesis of a new idea.” A few moments passed as the image flickered. “I’ve heard you’re unaffected.”

“That’s right,” agreed the alchemist as he tapped new data points into the floating display.

“Many Sith would consider this a shatterpoint. A grand time, to be in your position- you could easily eliminate enemies more powerful than you are.”

“Then you don’t know me well. My interests lie in all of us remaining control of our collective Brotherhood. And alive. Not that beating a few people to death didn’t cross my mind already of course.” The Warlord grinned evilly. “It’s not a challenge when they are weak.”

“I understand.” The comlink rudely clicked closed.

“Heh,” giggled the madman. “Always speaking in circles. But the he does have a point.” The Alchemist withdrew a phial from a cold storage cube. “Ysalamiri serum…. And my own cells.” He dribbled them together into the test plate and added a new dose of viral material. “Interesting! Interesting…. Yes, I think we have a winner!” Before his yellow eyes the antibodies and enzymes within his blood attacked and neutralized the Horizon plague cells. But there was little time for digression of thought.

One hand fairly flew across the comlink switch and the other deposited the serum vial into a portable cryo-box. “I have it, Grandmaster Ashen. Dishes are done. I’m delivering it to you right now. Once the leaders are inoculated, their own blood can be used as serum, in fact it’s an infectious cure. ”

“Excellent,” came the curt reply. “Get it to some Elders and they can distribute it to the rest of us.”

“Good, good. Can’t catch foxes if I don’t have hounds, you know?” The alchemist giggled madly.

“I’ll work that out somehow. Just get moving. Once it’s on the way, you’ll be moved to the Library. We’ll need your blade more than your mind at that point.”

Macron literally ran to the shuttle bay clutching the box like a cackling bat out of Hell. “Gotcha.”

We all assumed we had been abandoned

Triumvirate Library
Adas, Antei
Antei System

A blast of Force energy coalesced in the empty library.

Every Quaestor, every Consul stood now in the ancient hall, plucked from their place in the galaxy a moment earlier. Some paled, the shock to their system enough to roil their stomachs. Others just blinked away the disbelief.

Wuntila bristled with weaponry, a grenade snatched quickly from his belt and lifted to thin blue lips to pluck the pin. Tra'an adjusted his stance, putting both DL-44s on the Arconan, calculating if he could shoot the grenade away before it was armed. Blasters and slugthrowers filled hands, the clacking of weaponry and the high whine of charging blasters filled the air.

We fought amongst ourselves so fiercely for so long…

“Calm.” The Grandmaster’s voice resounded in the room. Barrels lowered a fraction of a degree, but it was enough. The warm embrace of rage filled their hearts, in ways that they had longed for. The trickle became a stream, and the sensation flooded them, threatening to sweep them away in the tide. They had crossed the Horizon.

“I have it solved. Nasty little bugger, better than a vaccine.” Macron chuckled. “Self distributing.”

“An infectious cure?” Tra'an asked quietly.

Halcyon spoke. “Send me to Karufr. I’ll spread it, as I am nearly replenished now.” His fingers tightened on his green marbled lightsaber hilt. “They have gone too far, and this madness must stop.”

Vodo stopped him. "Allow me, Lord."

“And we’re all carriers, now.” Macron giggled again. “Pretty damn devious if you ask me.” The cackling that followed was throaty, abrasive.

“Go. Spread it. They’re expecting you.” Muz gestured, and some of them vanished, a subtle hum vibrating through their senses. “I’m needed at the Throne.”

Korriban
Sith Space

The robed figure stared at the umbral pool of black, oily fluid. Within its chthonic density the mercuric metal held the secrets of the galaxy, if one was steeped enough in the Dark Side to use it. The thousands of agonizing deaths had been felt by the shrouded man. Many deaths, and the horror of the Plague… it knew no family, no Ancestors, and had no mercy or friends. It was a danger to every Force-user in the entire galaxy if allowed to spread like cancer within the stars and dark matter between. Cancer was something he knew intimately. Something you had to cut out of yourself if you were able. Unchecked growth was a chain of finality to be ultimately broken. And it had been, as he had foreseen. As he had planned.

The figure rose slowly and walked down the hall that was filled with ancient carvings of death and conquest. With the Brotherhood ruined, he would be the clear heir. All as he had planned.

** Redacted
Dark Hall
Antei**

The music of the spheres faded from his head. The rush was from either the endorphins, the change in temperature or the Force that the Dark Lord used to move him there, Halcyon couldn't tell. It took him a moment to get his bearings, to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the chamber.

Why here?

Why not the battle?

The Sith Lord grimaced as his mind dissected the scenario, tried to piece together the impromptu lesson. There was always purpose behind the Lion's actions, and he was explaining them less and less. Even so, deep in the bowels of the Dark Hall, in one of myriad spaces cautiously omitted from the blueprints, he wasn't looking for yet another test. As the others faced a mad Grand Master was not the time for such a test.

Madness. It wasn't just Zoraan. The man was buried deep in the dust of Korriban, locked beneath the artifice of the Oracle. Dead and dreaming forever, forgotten. Someone had to know.

It clicked for him. The Oracle's apprentice. Halcyon snarled. He never liked the Falleen, and near as he could tell, the sentiment was returned. Those fools spun their wheels in vanity, searching for godhood wherever they could find it. Anywhere, provided it was easier than earning it the way that all grand masters had.

All except one.

He had felt their plots before, the unsubtle words shared in what was thought to be confidence. There was little that Kaek's old information network wouldn't lay bare to him. They were old men, plotting in games that had long since passed them by, left them irrelevant and bitter, abandoned to play the game of houses with the equites. Finally, there was more to their threat. Finally, he'd be loosed on them.

Halcyon moved slowly, feeling along the rough stone walls, gloved fingers slipping into the grooves carved there millenia ago, when the hall was a temple. He could sense the antique suffering, the blood from sacrifices used to tint the carvings crimson and azure.

Crimson and azure.

The heavy stone rolled from in front of him, the threads of Force singing from his fingertips into the weavery of the world to inflict his own will.

The barracks was full, armor gleaming from the hours of busywork spent polishing them, loading blasters instead of training with sabers as they felt the Force wane days ago. He raised a hand, letting the Force flow from him. They stared at him with empty eyes. Fear, an acrid stench rolling from them as they raised weapons before the power flowed across them.

The Royal Guard.

Halcyon smiled.

Throne Room
Dark Hall
Antei

As the energy of translocation cleared, several defenders stood before the near-complete crescent of metal as Zoraan cut through the chamber door.. Lord Ashen dominated the scene with his presence as flickers of bluish energy flitted back and forth across his warcoat. Beside him stood Shikyo Keibatsu, Fremoc Pepoi, Vodo, Ashia Kagan, and Macron Sadow. The circle of smoking metal hit the floor with a clang, and as the smoke cleared the shapes of the Invaders stood in the rough-hewn circular doorway.

“Mine.” snarled the now slavering Zoraan as his eyes burned with psychotic fire. His left hand raised the ancient Sword of Lysu Thren, and his right hand bore a deep golden-bladed lightsaber with an ornate handle.

Ashen spoke with a voice that sounded like a funeral bell with it’s clarity. “Prove it.” The Six lesser Dark Jedi ignited their lightsabers simultaneously as the Battle Meld washed over them.

The chamber erupted in a flurry of vicious combat. Lightning flowed from Muz’s blades as he directed at Zoraan, a twisting cable of scalding blue power. It was reflected from the former leader of the Brotherhood’s crossed weapons to blow a hole in the chamber’s vaulted ceiling. Both moved too fast for the eye to follow and collided with a thunderous clap of power in the middle of the room.

A snaking tentacle of hungry black energy leapt from the Sword of Lysu Thren in reply as Zoraan screamed with a chorus of moaning voices. The vile energy clawed, ate, tried to drink the Keibatsu’s life. A thousand tittering voices echoed in his mind as the Bogan weapon ate at his flesh and soul. Infinite hunger, cold, blackness, the depths of space... loss, hurt... clutched at his body. The multitude of damned souls that had been eaten by Thren’s Horizon Plague fueled the vicious weapon’s emanation. It was an unbelievably powerful attack- even for a Grandmaster.

Darth Ashen’s will would not be denied. His mind was strong, his will focused, and his purpose clear. As his flesh boiled on the outside from the weapon’s assault, his mind had perfect clarity. Ironically, his former training as a Jedi before becoming a Lord of the Sith served him well. He focused the power of the Force around him and provided a shell of energy to cocoon his body. The writhing cable of dark energy split and wrapped around the sorcerous shell as Muz responded in kind.

A massive, potent, body-shredding vortex of telekinetic power ripped out straight toward Zoraan. Around the target the floor and walls of the chamber buckled and blew apart under the intense overpressure of the assault. Duracrete vaporized and everything was destroyed into ash and hot ions around the revenant. However, the shade given form was unfazed. Between the Sword, his own power, and the Skin the assault had no effect at all.

Muz lifted an eyebrow in disbelief as Zoraan howled in hideous insane laughter.

The battle meld pulled them away, leaving the Lion to his prey. There were others to slay, other deaths to slake their thirst, to recompense for the hell of the past few days. Macron counted them as they followed their Drad Lord through the ruined door. Nightsister, White Current Adept, Seyugi Dervish, Fallen Jedi, Matukai, Zeison Sha. The Mad one had somehow amassed a veritable catalogue of Darksiders. Macron chuckled as his helmet sealed him in with his own chemical cocktails. It would be a buffet of pain.

The Lady of the Brotherhood smiled, the black and white war paint across her face distorting with the wild grin as she recognized the witch not far from her. It had been too long since she had faced another Nightsister, and this one would be no easy fight. She relished the thought as she brought her blades to bear. She felt the pull of the old days, back on Dathomir. Her death would rise to the Dark Side, a sacrifice to the ancient powers.

Ashia’s own silver and amethyst blades snapped and crackled against the ripping red dual-bladed weapon borne by the intruder. They were evenly matched, Ashia’s mastery of the Niman twin-blade form holding off Zahsim’s strong Shii-Cho attacks with her own crimson saber-staff. Both women were flush, drowning in the Force. Both sought an opening, a shatterpoint to disable their hated foe. Whichever one lived in the end would have the loser’s skull to decorate their Nightsister shrine.

**
Dark Tower
Kapsina
**

The hissing sound seethed through their ears for a moment before the beast tore him to shreds, elongated fingers seemingly crafted from mist and hate. The howling as the slender beast splayed his entrails across the wall and floor burned Unus in ways he hadn't thought possible. The Weequay knight watched as the Archpriest was spread thin across durasteel.

He had missed the evacuation call, missed the last shuttle to Morroth. He thought it was luck at first, watching as the shuttle was incinerated in orbit by the enemy fleet. That was before the drop pod crashed down came, before the front gates were destroyed. Before this thing started screaming.

He fell backwards, tripping over corpses that stared mouthlessly at the ceiling. The impact was hard, knocking the air from his voice and jolting his mind. His mind, even as it was addled by the loss of control, of power, knew the gravity of this demon, this beast with white hair and scraps of cloth. Stories from his youth of the restless dead, of angry ghosts filled his mind as the wild eyes turned on him.

He responded with easy violence, the reaction hardwired into him by years of practice. The slugthrower stirred in his hands, so different from the blasters that they already emptied. He aimed again, squeezing the trigger.

Nothing.

He howled as the slugs from his weapon passed through the thing harmlessly. He bellowed his rage, his fear. The rage was gone, gone beyond where he could touch. It drew closer, and he pulled the trigger more frantically, less focused. Desperation held his aim true, but to no effect. He could smell it, feel it's breath. It was sweet with rot. With death.

Unus Domus felt the scraps of ephemeral cloth that draped the creature before he felt the cold itch of dagger sharp teeth.

When his hand fell from the wrist, it was still pulling the trigger over and over again.

Throne Room
Dark Hall
Antei

Fremoc and Shikyo fought against Cawel, the Zabrak White Current adept. Both men were masters of combat. They had fought together before and knew each others paradigm. The Obelisk Fist and the Krath Adept were some of the best in the Brotherhood, and yet they still had yet to regain their full power in the Force as the cure took hold. And a White Current Adept was something neither had seen. His power was slippery, swift, focused.... a challenge.

Shikyo shouted, “Hold him… be wary!” Purple and turquoise blades stood ready as he reached out with all his senses. The Dark Side warned of danger... it warned him even as the Current twisted to hide his Zabrak foe.

Fremoc replied with blasting force-imbued haste as Cawel appeared next to him. The Equite had not sensed or felt the White Current Adept at all, in any way. Cawel struck with a hot white-bladed lightsaber, intending to destroy the Fist with one blow. Cawel’s blade arced down towards Fremoc as he turned and swung in Dark Side driven defense. Fremoc blew it off with a saber strike and collected himself.

Shikyo’s Adept’s pure-essence swing deflected the attack and cut though nothing as the illusion dissipated. Neither of them had actually engaged the still-hidden White Current Adept. “Frack!” The Equite sought within him-Shikyo-for the Force for the signature of his target. He had shown the essence out.

The earlier Battlemeld showed him the Final Way. Fremoc in an instant of clarity struck Cawel with all of his hatred, as Shikyo worked on the White Current Adept with the pressure of the Dark Side. Shikyo worked a Krath Orison. Cawel sought refuge as his carefully crafted illusions broke. He was power unseen, sight personified. Today Shikyo and Fremoc had too much presence. Today, Cawel’s moves had been laid out for all to see. The White Adept had lost his focus as the Dark Side writhed around him.

The razor hum of lightsabers erupted through the door as a sea of crimson and azure armor crashed against the remnant's troopers, the froth of death splashing across stone and duracrete walls, the dark green armor of Darth Vires flashing beyond the dozens of silver guard-issued lightsabers as they tore through the interloper's ranks.

The brilliant green blast of energy erupted toward the Iridonian's head. He moved quickly, instinctively, intercepting the blast from the Sith Lord’s custom bryar without thought, redirecting it at one of his enemies. It cursed the air with vibrating oaths as it crashed against the Fist's saber. Fremoc moved instantly, his blade passing the blaster bolt to Shikyo, who angled it back at the Zabrak in half a moment's time. It was too fast for him, the green scorching through his armor, exposing bloody and charred flesh beneath. It was the only opening necessary. Both men struck.

Cawel could only evade one.

The verdant blade of the Fist drank of his flesh, his heart. The Zabrak winced at the pain even as endorphins numbed it. Vitriol seethed past his teeth, spit flying from his mouth at his murderer as he dropped his weight, the motionless blade burning through his lung, his spine, his skull.

Halcyon wasted no time, storming over the dead and dying. The Twi'lek Mylah stared him down, her robes cut to distract men. She invited him in with a sway of her hips, lekku enticing him to a different sort of combat than the rest of her body seemed to tell. Different, but just as vigorous.

It was wasted on the Sith Lord. He stepped closer, saber held almost casually, the burning green leaving a trail in the dead that he stepped through. She let a half smile come across her face, shifting her weight, her mind reaching into the Force. Halcyon watched with eyes uncolored by reality, sensing the patterns she built before she had the time to launch them at him.

His blade battered away the corpses she threw with her mind faster than she expected. Mylah cracked the floor beneath him, using the fault drawn by his own weapon as leverage. The sandstone fragmented, a massive slab creaking up, piles of the dead sliding off like rain off of a giant hood. He grew closer, his weapon spinning high to crash down on her unarmed form.

The saber screamed in opposition as it caught against her arm, brilliant light erupting from the contact as she used the Force to create her own weapon. Zeison Sha Halcyon snarled to himself. I should have guessed.

The thought was only momentary as the world went sideways. The shadow of what the slab held above him grew darker. Mylah's mind couldn't maintain the Weapon and the tons of stone. Halc rolled to the side, slipping to her side and letting his blade burn cloth as he moved, the stone crashing down where he just stood with a finality only disbursed by the cloud of dust that erupted.

*ISD II Eye of the Abyss II
Dajorra Space
*

The Dragon of Selen walked through the bay silently, despite the armor. They were cold, tired. They managed to put up a valiant effort, despite the encroaching madness. It was all the training. The discipline. It kept them together even when all fell apart. But even now, they were at a breaking point. The normal pilots were dying in droves out there, outnumbered and without their normal advantages. Even Pravus's Battle Mind was weakening under the extended strain.

Wuntila saw their despair, and though he would never admit it, he felt his heart ache to see it. These were his brothers, his sisters. The crowd was beaten, bruised, battered. Used to so many of the advantages being on their side recently. They had the better training, the best ships. Not since the Vong were they so tested in space. He saw the intel, Arcona had gotten off light as far as the invasion forces were concerned. He shuddered to think what would have happened if the travesties visited upon Tarentum, upon Sadow had been laid at his doorstep instead.

He moved through them like an avatar of Rage, letting his essence boil out from him. He felt their essences light once more, their sensitivity pouring back over them. Legorii bit back a curse as he felt the Force return. Cethgus grinned, stowing his blaster and unhooking his saber from his belt. Wuntila kept moving, stopping to put his hand on Nadrin, another on Andrelious, looked at both of them.

Words were meaningless, forgettable.

So he used none.

The tide had shifted.

Throne Room
Dark Hall
Antei

Macron's cackle came across above the din, the vocabulator trying to synthesize his insane titterings from behind his sealed armor. He wove between the Matukai's attacks, the alloys of the woman's polearm resisting the angry light of his twisted weapon. The orange was fury given form as he pounded at her, each blow compensated for, each defense calmly measured. The Matukai was toying with him, letting him wear himself out. It was textbook.

He planted the polearm, the wan-shen cracking the stone as it supported his weight, lifting himself from the ground, focusing the energy into a flying kick, pivoting around the planted spear to plant a boot into the Alchemist's chest. The clack of bootleather against the Sith's cuirass resounded, vibrating his teeth as he connected, knocking Macron back, staggering to land on his haunches. He shook his head, flipping to his feet with unexpected grace.

There was no time. The Matukai launched at him, the blade of his weapon glistening with the blood of guardsmen. It lunged through his bicep, the fumes pouring through the tear in the black corrugated bodysuit. Bloodshot eyes, crowned with the gold of power regarded the mess at his arm, the trickle of blood.

A quick adjustment on his saber made it somehow angrier. The blade flickered, pulsed with the added energy, the focusing array within his weapon twitching into place. He brought it back to bear, letting the pain fuel his strike. The seething orange burned atmosphere, snarling rage at the Matukai man before abruptly turning off.

_All too easy, Sith. _

The Matukai ducked below the blow, intercepting his closed fist and twisting it over his shoulder, letting the Force amplify his muscles. He dropped his weight, ready to use his deep knowledge of body mechanics to launch him into the wall. But something was wrong... something was off. The saber ignited again, seemingly erratic, burning through his left shoulder before switching off again.

A firm hand grasped the back of the Matukai's neck, forced his face into the crook of the elbow he held, into the rip in his prey's bodysuit. Eyes went wide as he saw the blood, saw the fumes that poured from within the madman's leaking system.

"Tasty, tasty..."

Lightning crashed against Ashia's blade, and she drew it to the side, drawing a thick line of ruin across the Nightsister's cheek. Teeth glinted beyond the curtains of burnt flesh, framed by war paint. Zahsim scowled at the smell, the taste of cooked meat even as she redirected energy to close the wound.

The crack of power erupted behind them both, distracting them. A stream of brute energy flowing from Zoraan's hands coruscating against Muz's sabers, grinding down on him, pushing him back and up into the air. It flowed like a river, tearing at his armor, whipping his hair. A crimson blade tore at Ashia's thigh, and her mind knit it without thought, her blades swinging wide into forms unfamiliar to her.

It took half a second for the wound to mend. It took another quarter second for her trap to be set. One saber held out lengthwise, easy pickings. Red plasma bisected the hilt, the electic static hit resounding in her ears. Hundredths of a second for her other weapon to maneuver into place.

It took another full second for Zahsim to know that she was dead.

Ashia's blade drew across the Nightsister's throat at the choker that she wore. Feathers and other charms burned at the violet embrace of her weapon. The cut was perfect, leaving a flap of skin at the nape of the neck to hold the corpse together. Her face fell forward, her head nodding forward without anything to support it as she fell.

Mylah slunk sideways, her half naked body avoiding the backfist and the blade from the Deputy Grand Master. Halc continued the motion, spinning his body to draw his pistol and squeeze the trigger in her direction in one smooth act. She caught the bolts, absorbing the energy and redirecting it to the faint beam of blue that poured from her right hand. The color matched her skin, tapering to a fine point a meter away. It caught the edge of the Sith's green blade, the crackle of energy buzzing silently without the corona of brilliance that normally erupted from saber duels.

She spun her weapon, drawing the Prophet's blade off center, off-balance, her other hand erupting with faint light, solidifying into another extension of her will, lunging it at Halc's face.

There was a pulse, and the world paused. She smelled the smoke before she felt the wound. Eyes cast downward to see the barrel of the Taldrya's marbled green blaster. It scorched between her breasts, the course of the weapon's bolts through her body splashing thick cerulean blood to run down her stomach.

Macron dropped the Matukai, watching him struggle to find his feet. Brown eyes dilated too far and muscles languid, he poured from the Alchemist's grasp more than fell. He tried to use the wan-shen to stand, but his muscles just laughed at him, joining in the cacophony that emanated from Macron's vocabulator. The cocktail of self-invented toxins, pheromones and whatever else the madman pumped through his body on a regular basis was virulent, to say the least. He coughed, falling to the stone below them.

Macron crouched, a few feet away, quick hands removing his helmet, a wild cloud of striped hair following his tattooed face. He watched the martialist carefully before swinging his saber at him, the blade igniting at the last moment then evaporating back into the hilt just as quickly.

The waves of pressure came without portent. They turned as best they could, thrown from the chamber by concussive force, ears throbbing and lungs burning. The Dark Lords stood against each other, the vulgar display of lightning pouring from Zoraan countered by the adumbrative eddies spreading from the Lion's mane. The shades rose, protean forms of shadow and hate, biting and clawing at the madman with myriad mouths.

They tore bits of his crimson robe, his smoky essence snared with each piece. Confusion distracted him. He hadn't seen this before. He redoubled his efforts, the power pouring from him, a personal thunderstorm for the Kyataran. Muz refused to move, letting the jolts of violence serving as fuel for his own assault, pouring the absorbed power into the shatterpoint he knew would come.

A green blade severed the golden hilt in Zoraan's hand, the crack of interference shocking the phrik alloy into collapse. The retort was quick, immolation coursing from the point of the madman's ancient sword. The sword of Lysu Thren.

The shatterpoint.

The sword rebelled against Zoraan, drinking the energy instead of allowing it the chance to burn the Taldrya. Zoraan poured more into it, the strain evident in his eyes, the veins at his throat. The sword drank it all, and wanted more.

The claws of the lion burned through the arm that held the sword, separating it from his body, the hand and sword evaporating into the ether, displaced to ...somewhere else. Fury built up over twenty years bloomed from Zoraan, rage pouring from his mouth, concussive waves threatening to tear them all to shreds as the Force Storm began to form. Winds tore at them, lightning striking at random, their skin burning from the power.

Now.

Halcyon drove his saber into the man's leg, the knee shattering as it burned. Zoraan dropped to a knee, hand crackling with havoc and war as it continued to build the ending of them all.

Muz moved without thought, the blades tearing through Zoraan's eyes, into the soft meat beyond. The storm erupted into a full scale maelstrom, then condensed just as quickly, seething back into the Grand Master's dying form even as the last ragged breaths flew from him. The body laid still, the skin of fire vacant save for the ash grey skin of resurrected flesh.

Power coursed through the Keibatsu's form, eyes burning white hot as he executed on the shatterpoint. He could see the man's final breath, the escaping spirit, trying to find it's way into the darkness, to find another way back. It was only a thought that commanded them. His thought. The howling spirit of the Mad Grand Master was torn apart by shadows on the other side.

It was more than death.

Muz could hear Halcyon speak, but couldn't make out the words. He refused to look away. This is what control meant. One day, it could be him.

"It's over." Halcyon repeated, briefly looking back at the others that were picking themselves up.

"No." Muz paused, letting the word hang in the air. "Not yet."

So long as one of us fights, we all fight... in the name of Brotherhood.

Fin.

Brethren,

So closes the Vendetta: Horizons. We all hope that you have enjoyed yourselves, and we hope for your patience as we work through the piles of submissions and medals to be awarded.

Over the next few weeks, you will see not only the results of your submissions, but also the ramp-up for Feuds that will be taking place soon. These feuds will be where the clans and houses team up to rid their home systems of the remnants of the invasion fleets. These feuds will have the benefit of higher-than-usual rewards due to the tie-in with the Vendetta, so it will be fertile grounds for those looking to earn nice awards.

Look to your Consuls and Quaestors for more as this develops.

For now, thank you all for your work, your time, and your energy. We hope that you had fun.

--Muz