"Fair enough," Xireon growled, setting off forward once again and stopping to kneel by the corpse. Taking what appeared to be a small pin from his belt, he uttered a few words under his breath, finally pricking the deceased man in the neck with it. All the while he continued to chant in a monotone fashion, while his apprentice looked on.
The color drained from the face of the corpse in a most unnatural fashion, skin turning pallid and then gray as if all blood had been drained from it. Xireon stood, continuing to speak, placing his hand over the corpse and moving it in tandem with his growled speech. Internally, he focused on that old source of power; the golden fire which embodied the presence of the Blade of Klain that had returned him to his full strength.
Then, twitching violently, the corpse scrambled to its feet. It seemed unsure, at first, but quickly enough it gained its balance. The first spell had been one to embalm it, replacing blood and circulatory functions with dark side energy; the second had been Bone Dance, bringing to life the corpse as a servant of the Sith.
"Come on, then," he muttered hoarsely. Taja followed him as they exited the landing bay through a pair of durasteel doors, entering a complex series of equally metallic hallways. The Korriban settlement essentially comprised this installation, a large and twisting indoor market of sorts, and the surrounding small buildings, unconnected to the central structure. They marched down the hall, turning a corner and continuing forward.
Several beings paced this hall, either entering or exiting, or plying their wares. Some were soldiers, keeping an oppressive peace, clad in black Sith uniforms and armor. "Lord Xireon," one of them said upon sighting him, rushing forward and prostrating himself before the honored Sith Overlord. "What an honor it is to see you, my Lord. Please, if you will allow me to escort you to the Governor of Korriban I will..."
The wretched, sycophantic speech of the petty fool droned on, utterly fading into the background. Xireon's pale white eyes shot a look of pure venom at him.
Another of Sedriss' sniveling, idiotic drones. How I ever came to be in his employ, I will never fucking know, he thought.
"Rise," Xireon said, doing his best to control his low, rasping voice. He glanced at Taja, and a look of significance passed between them. She reached for no weapon -- she did not need to -- but he could sense her readying herself. "What is your name, Sith?"
Startled, the man caught his breath and replied, "Sirul Evenei, my Lord."
"Tell me, Sirul Evenei, how many men have you killed?"
His eyes flashing with a gleeful malice, the soldier replied, "Seventeen, my Lord, rebels all of them."
Xireon sensed the mindless pride rolling off of the man. He felt the hate rise up in him, the golden fire of the Blade running throughout his Wraith form, dead muscles and ligaments wrought with an ungodly strength. No longer able to contain himself, he grabbed the man by the neck, easily lifting him from the ground as he choked and struggled.
As the corridor turned silent, the only sounds were the choking man's strangled cries and the three, sickly thuds as he was slammed repeatedly into the durasteel wall. On the final strike, his skull -- having withstood a disproportionate amount of force -- gave way, as did the durasteel. His body was embedded in the wall, a copious amount of blood from his head and various other wounds covering the ground and metal surrounding his final resting place.
Every soldier, merchant and civilian in the corridor now looked on with a combination of morbid fascination and fear. None moved; it was, of course, the Sith Overlord's right to kill any man he so desired. But the terror rolled off of them in waves, into Xireon's mind.
"What sort of fu
cking fool," he near-shouted, still rasping, "keeps a precise tally of the men he kills? What sort of arrogant, snobbish oaf is so rapt up in commiting acts of cruelty solely to sycophantically appease his masters that he does something so patently stupid?"
His voice rang and echoed off of the durasteel, and still, each man was silent. Then with the briefest of nods to Taja and the gray-skinned, animated corpse, he let them know their time had come.
The dockmaster rushed forward, ferally snarling, his posture that of a rabid primate, slashing and tearing at the nearest merchant with his fingernails, biting and tearing flesh from his face as he screamed.
