Ladies and gentlemen!

It is with great pride and enormous pleasure that Arcona, Plagueis and Tarentum announce our cooperative event -- Aftermath: A Threeway Event. Yes, we're engaging in a threeway. Wooooo. Read below for my portion of the opening story. But first. Read this report for the other portion of the Aftermath prologue.

And now. I present to you my humble offering. I look forward to an amazing, fun-filled event with our friends in Arcona and Plagueis. To the other four Clans, I'll be looking for some fun with you guys down the road.

The Aftermath Of Slaughter

Castle Tarentum
Yridia II

Castle Tarentum was a dark, forbidding place from the outside. Guarded by sharks, great whales and other beasts of the sea, the former home of Tarentum seemed impregnable. Nearly all of the castle was built under the waves. It was a model of Imperial resources and engineering. Inside, it was warm, hospitable and inviting. It was a bastion of strength. While it was a home for the Clan of Death, and the present fortress of House Mortis, it was also a work of art. It molded modern construction, but still had the dark, almost earthy feel of an old castle. It was built of durasteel and permacrete, but still gave the air of something ancient. The exterior was dry and temperature-controlled, but had translucent hallways that provided a magnificent ocean view. Yet, deep within, it became a prison. The lowest, central levels and rooms were closed off to the world, and were dimly lit, sparsely used. The castle was not the hotbed of activity it once was.

In the grand gathering hall, in the very center of the complex, a raised dais was the only feature of the room. It bore a single throne, the seat of the Sith King. Or his regent, the Consul of Tarentum. When the forces of Death itself met, all were expected to stand before their lord. Today, the room was silent, deathly still. It was a fortress of solitude, as opposed to a place of camaraderie. It was a place that one had come to think. And that was not something this beast often did.

Frosty Romanae sat upon the throne of Khyron.

The Dashade’s muscular bulk filled up the stone seat well. It was as though the throne had been made for the current Consul instead of Khyron, who had inspired the birth of Tarentum so long ago. Perhaps each Consul or Quaestor of the original Tau House had found the throne to their liking, but Frosty did not appreciate the throne. He was a warrior, a killer. He was no king or administrator. Nor was Frosty a general to lead from afar. He preferred blood upon his claws, feasting on the souls and the living Force of others. For today, however, he was king of the castle, lord of the manor. And, in truth, he was good at it.

Frosty had the respect of his Tarentae peers. He had the admiration of the warriors he'd fought and bled with throughout his years within the Clan of Death. People would follow him to the brink of Oblivion and stare into the eyes of gods and demons alongside the elder Romanae. Tarentum stood behind Frosty. The Clan of Death was a conglomerate of powerful egos and tyrannical warlords all in service of him as the overlord of Tarentum's goals. Frosty directed, and all of the individual beings of Death came together as a force behind him.

“But where do I lead them… That is the question…”

He kept voicing his own question to himself every few minutes. The Dashade was a killer, an assassin, and a beast. But now, as head of the Clan, he was forced to be a thinker. An analyst. Telona had been murdered. All signs pointed to Arcona. Wuntila had butchered her. The holorecording had been sent anonymously, but it was a very clear recording. It was a message, not a bystander trying to pass on the truth. Someone was trying to hurt Tarentum. Or the Tarentae personally. The Clan was in someone's crosshairs.

“What assassin seeks Death?”

The soft echoes throughout the hall were the only company the head of Tarentum kept. It was dark, only dim lights from high overhead. The Castle could be as brightly lit as any desired, but like many in Tarentum, Frosty preferred the shadows. Even beyond the abilities of his species to hunt and kill, Frosty simply preferred the dark. It was comforting. And in his state of heightened emotions, comfort was a rare commodity. There was little to calm him for now. One of his own had been cut down. And his emotions were bubbling, boiling to the surface.

It was frustrating. Enraging. In the past, he'd have simply lashed out and torn the arms off of… anyone. Everyone. He once had the luxury of not sending very clear, very official messages for the Clan. That had been the responsibility of others. Bloodfyre. Rekio. Spears. Welshman. Oberst. Anshar. Ronovi. Scion. Anyone else. If his actions pissed off the wrong person, the leadership would answer and deal with the consequences. But now...now it was his responsibility. If he made the wrong move, it could lead to war. If he angered the wrong person, Tarentum could be besieged, destroyed, or embroiled in a conflict for decades.

“You're troubled.”

Frosty looked up to the holonet receiver to the blue tinted image of Farrin Xies, the current Headmaster of the Brotherhood, and Consul before him.

“The Rat honors me with his presence,” the words rumbling from the Dashade’s throat. “Your timing, Rat. Very amusing, it is.”

“I felt you reaching out through the Force.”

“Lies. I did not reach.”

“Unintentionally, I'm sure, but you did,” Farrin replied. “I felt your questions, and I wanted to give you what information I have.”

“Vast were your networks while you were Consul. I imagine them greater with Council resources,” Frosty nodded slightly. “What can you tell me?”

“First, dig deeper. We've all seen the recording. Something about it seems suspect. Do not believe anything until you've ripped the truth from the throat of your true enemies.”

True enemies. The thought struck a note.

“Who then? What enemies? What fools stand against we who are Death itself?”

“We both know Tarentum has had the time to make many enemies. But we've also made strong allies. Do not be willing to give up alliances easily -- new or old.”

“If Arcona struck, then strike back we must! Our anger unleashed at them. Devastation awaits. Telona's death--”

“Is significant, yes,” Farrin finished his thought, “but there is always something more. Arcona had no reason to strike us. Was it Arcona, or just one of Arcona’s warriors on their own? Make sure you find out. But, for the present, our allies of Plagueis are also reeling. Stand with them. Strengthen our ties with them.”

Farrin's image ended suddenly, abruptly. Frosty was alone once more, but only briefly. The doors to the great gathering hall and throne room of Tarentum opened slowly. It had been months since the entire Clan Summit of Tarentum had occupied this room. Since the decision to become a mobile, separated Summit had been made, only one of the Summit had been here in the Castle at a time -- if at all. The Castle had been given to Mortis, and the throne room had sat empty. Yet now, here striding in confidently was his beastial Rollmaster Ranarr Kul, his fur looking splendid as prairie grass. Gliding along beside him cloaked in the wings of dark robes -- Sith Bloodfyre, the Ghost Dragon of Tarentum.

“Our fate moves us all together,” Frosty's voice rumbled with what passed for the awkward and fearsome sound of a Dashade assassin laughing. “First Farrin graces me, now do my friends and advisors.”

“We know,” Ranarr spoke. “Farrin suggested we meet with you. We're in a pivotal moment, and we need to respond to Telona's death, and the aggressions of our Grand Master.”

“What do the killings of Pravus mean to me? I am a killer, and so is he. I envy him. He murders at will, and no consequences exist for a Dark Lord. I yearn for the same,” Frosty mused. “Why should his actions be meaningful to us?”

“There are rumors,” Ranarr rumbled. “It sounds as though others have suffered loss as well. Not everyone has known their foes. Wouldn't questions be less likely if this all wasn't connected?”

“The Grand Master has struck other Clans,” Bloodfyre seemed to whisper, yet his voice carried throughout the entire hall. “His servant struck Plagueis. I've heard from Ramar himself. They've been in his crosshairs. We may be as well. We need to be prepared for anything.”

“We are at a time to prepare for war, or face doom,” Ranarr continued. “You know this. Whether our personal doom or the death of the Clan, who can say? But we must stand and face the future in a position of strength. Let us meet with Plagueis. We have the possibility of striking out before we are culled.”

“Caution, lest your words offend me, Ranarr,” Frosty's gaze shot up, and focused straight into his Rollmaster’s eyes. “Never speak them again. I will tear the heart from those who question us. We are strong! Tarentum is Death! We are not the dying, the sniveling or infirmed!” The words of the Dashade boomed throughout the hall, echoing as though choirs of harpies whispered the Consul’s words back at him. It was almost eerie in repetition.

“Nor did I suggest such,” Ranarr’s voice growled with returned anger as the echoes finally died down. “Do not mistake my warning advice for weakness. We will not be victims, so we must prepare and be strong.”

The Dashade stared into the eyes of the Rollmaster, then turned to his Proconsul. The two locked eyes. At least, Romanae assumed he was staring into the Shaevalian’s eyes. Bloodfyre's face was perpetually covered by the shadows of his hood.

“Consul you were,” Frosty's voice was low, growling. “On the Council you were. A pawn and a manipulator have you been. And all that have been within Tarentum know your legends. You have stood upon the edge of destruction. You are the Dragon of Death. Advise me. What course of action will send our message of strength? Do we make war upon Arcona for Telona's death?”

The Shaevalian ascended the few, simple steps, slow as a falling snowflake, towards the raised platform of the throne where Frosty rested. The two males were within a meter of each other, unmoving. Ranarr thought perhaps that Sith and Frosty might be sharing conscious thoughts not meant for him; but more likely, Sith was weighing the gravity of his words against the position Frosty held. Only one man could make the ultimate decisions for Tarentum, and the cost of knowledge and wisdom was having to make those choices with little or no information in the most grueling of times.

“My Consul and friend,” the Sith Master began slowly, “you will guide our Clan with strength, intelligence and lethality. You are a weapon. A living weapon. But you must also be the knowing lord, understanding when and where to strike, and when to call alliance and peace. I advise you to think clearly. I will seek input from the Shadows of Arcona. You will speak with their Consul and determine our course of action with her.

“But let me be clear that we do have a conflict ahead with the Grand Master,” Sith proceeded slowly, and stepped even closer to the Dashade. “We have enemies. Even close by to us, there are knives in the shadows. Be mindful of everyone. Tarentum will survive. It must survive if the Brotherhood is to live on through the ages. Even as we are the Clan of Death, so do we bring life to our symbiotic compatriots in the other Clans. We must learn what that means.”

Frosty nodded slowly, ever so slightly. For the first time in his memory, the Dashade Consul could actually see within the shadows of the Shaevalian's hood, and into the eyes of the man therein. For the few moments that the two men locked eyes, Romanae began to question everything. Every choice he'd ever made. Every life he'd taken. Every life he'd spared -- though there were admittedly few of those. He questioned his allegiance. He questioned his leadership. He questioned whether to remain on the throne, or to burn the place down.

There was knowledge within the Sith Master's eyes. Knowledge paid in blood, sweat, sacrifice and betrayal. Frosty knew in that very moment that every choice his Proconsul had made in his time as head of the Clan had changed the Shaevalian, much as Frosty's time as head would change him. Frosty respected the man, but in that moment, he also reviled him. The Shaevalian Master was perhaps the one person he could rely upon to do everything for Tarentum -- even betraying everyone who might be anathema to Death and the Clan.

“Would you kill me if our survival required it?” Frosty stood to his full height, straightened every muscle and looked the formidable opponent from every myth and legend. “Would you stand against me as Consul if I lead this Clan towards a future you do not agree with?”

Bloodfyre’s eyes disappeared back into the shadows of his hood, but Frosty had the opinion that a slight grin replaced those tortured, dreadful eyes.

“My friend and Consul,” Bloodfyre intoned, “I believe you are learning the truth of your position, and the weight of that throne. You will be the savior of our Clan, and one of the greatest pillars of our Brotherhood. Men will follow you to victory, even through and beyond death. Good luck, Dashade. We will speak again soon.”

Sith bowed low and turned away and quickly left the hall. Ranarr stood silently, awaiting the words of his leader. Frosty watched the Master depart, the doors shut, and then turned to his Rollmaster and stepped down off the platform. Ranarr’s boots clicked slightly against the floor as he moved to stand in a deferential position to the regent of the Sith King.

“Answers were sought, yet deny me he did, didn't he, Kul?”

“Yes, Consul,” Ranarr answered softly. “He didn't answer your question at all. And that worries me.”

“As it should us all,” Frosty growled, nodding his head as the darkness in the hall seemed to claim them from the light.

---

A droplet of… something splashed on his nose, and enticed him back to consciousness.

“You were there.”

Trevak blinked his eyes and stared out into the darkness. It was a man's voice. That was terribly obvious. His captor wasn't hiding anything about his gender. But his captor hadn't yet shown himself. He was still -- well, he didn't know where he was, but it seemed like he was still in that same, dark, musky prison he'd first woken up in. Time had lost all meaning at this point. The only senses he had were his hearing, and it was filled with his captor’s voice; his smell, and it was musky, dank, and smelled like mildew and body odor (his own, perhaps); and taste. Taste. It tasted like dirt. Like a cave. A cavern. Underground, maybe. It wouldn't matter if he was in a pit, or a subterranean fortress. He planned to escape.

“Look, as I've said already,” Trevak repeated himself hoarsely for a fourth time, “I have no idea what you mean. This time either. You keep saying I was there. Where was I? Who the frak are you?”

“You were there.”

Despite being shackled and imprisoned, Trevak was still free to roll his eyes and show his disdain. “Mew mer mare. You sound ridiculous. If you're trying to torment me with your hapless wit and drivel, you're succeeding. But whatever you think you'll get out of me, you're out of your fu--urk!”

A hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed his throat with a vice-like grip. It was strangling him. His arms instinctively tried to shoot out and grab his assailant, but they only served to clink the chains that held him to the wall. Trevak was securely fastened to the wall behind him. And someone was killing him from the front.

“You were there.”

The hand released him and snaked back into the shadows. Trevak coughed and gasped so hard, he retched and emptied his stomach. It slopped all over his feet, but he didn't care. He choked down each gasping breath. His throat burned. It felt raw. He was fairly certain the man's grip could've crushed his windpipe if his captor had squeezed just a bit harder.

“Tell me about Telona Murrage.”

Trevak coughed and sputtered for a few more minutes. He was actually sure he could breathe easily if he wanted to, but his mind was working on the details. On figuring out where he was. On formulating an escape plan. On anything except the helplessness of captivity. He was probably in the hands of Tarentum. He had been helping out with the resistance, and had been with Telona's group when she was murdered. He was going to be tortured to help someone find out more about it. Of course it was Tarentum. Who else would care about her death as much as her Clan? He finally started to breathe easy, and was working out a plan for freedom. Or escape. Or, at least to save his own butt by proving useful enough to enter his captor’s employ.

“You must be a friend of hers,” Trevak began, “one of the Tarenti. I get it. You want blood. You don't need to do things this way. I'll answer your questions and tell you what I know. And I'll even help you track down her murderer. I know his name. Wuntila of Arcona. I watched him do it--”

“Oh, I already know that much,” his captor interrupted. And now, the lights raised slowly.

The man was robed, covered in a heavy cloak. But Trevak couldn't focus on the man yet. Yet. His captor was holding the flaccid, comatose body of Shione. His daughter. Trevak’s child was a prisoner here too. Trevak felt his heart sink. And then his mind went to work. He was already trying to figure his way out of the chains. How to buy his daughter's freedom. How he could placate his captor.

“Ok, you win,” Trevak bowed his head. Best to appear submissive. “You win. I'll do whatever. Just leave her alone. She's not important.”

“Oh, but she is,” the man almost hissed gleefully. “You're not seeing the big picture here. Let me spell it out for you. You're already dead. You just don't know it. I'm going to rip your soul from your body. You're going to serve me for eternity. Your daughter is going to grow up in darkness. Literal darkness. She's going to be chained to your wall. She's going to grow up in this very room. She won't be taught to read, or write. She'll never bathe, or dress. She'll be covered in her own feces and filth. A true slovenly beast.”

“I hope you rot in hell.”

“Of course you do,” the robed man continued unabated. “And you'll serve me willingly because, if you don't, I'm going to heap torment upon her. The best case scenario is, I leave her here to rot. The worst case is, I let my other living servants treat her as entertainment. It's your choice.”

Living servants?

“Who are you?” Trevak couldn't help but wonder, entirely because no matter what, he had to know whose groin to cut off when this was over?

“Someone whose genitals you'll never be able to cut off,” the man answered his thoughts. A hand shot out and slammed into his chest. Intense heat immediately flared up on his skin. Trevak screamed in agony. He was being burned alive. Or was he? There were no flames, but he looked down and saw his clothes and skin melting away, leaving nothing more than bones and organs. The visceral contents spilled out onto the floor, and left Trevak’s bones behind. Everything went black.

And then Trevak gasped. No air filled his lungs. His eyes flickered open. Everything seemed a bluish hue. Everything seemed different. He looked down. There was a pile of goop at his feet. His melted body. He looked up. The man was visible now. His daughter was still in his captor’s arms, sleeping. Dying maybe. Unconscious. Who knew.

[You're a monster.]

His voice was different. It was hollow. Like a memory. It didn't sound like him, but he knew he'd been the one to speak.

“Welcome to your afterlife, Trevak Nor,” the man said, a smirk upon his face. “Welcome to an eternity in my service. How you choose to serve me will reflect upon your daughter from here out. Now. Telona Murrage.”

[I'm sorry, Shione.]

“Worry about yourself,” the man's voice was soft, but commanding. “Serve me well, and she'll be covered in feces. Serve me poorly, and my other servants will cover her in far more detestable fluids. Now. Telona Murrage.”

Trevak bowed his ghostly head. If the dead had tears, he'd have wept. But the dead have emotions, not tears. And Trevak would hate his master for the rest of eternity.

---

“We're in agreement then.”

“We are.”

“From this moment on, we'll need to maintain the utmost secrecy in this. It'll mean our heads if we're caught.”

“The Dark Lord must die. Many deaths will come in this, even if we manage to succeed. It will not be an easy task.”

“But Pravus must die.”

“Agreed. We will kill the Grand Master. Or we fail, and we all go down as traitors and criminals.”

“I'd rather die a traitor, than live a lie. I cannot support his rule any longer. We're targets, and I won't die at his hand.”

“Neither will Tarentum.”

“Plagueis stands with our allies in Tarentum then.”

The image of Teylas Ramar flicked out. For long moments, he stood in the darkness, soaking in the sheer excitement. They were going to commit regicide. They were going to kill the head of the Dark Council. The head of the very Brotherhood itself. A Dark Lord of the Sith. Pravus. The madman. The destroyer. The bane of the Undesirables.

“The tyrant,” he whispered to himself. His voice carried throughout the shadows. He was alone, but his words echoed back carried the image of others surrounding him. It was thrilling. It was glorifying. It was intoxicating.

He reached down, typed in a few coded words, and sent the message. The plan was in motion. It would carry him to his ultimate doom. Or toward ascension.

Fate would decide if he was a traitor or a legend. History is written by the victors.