The Rebel Faction

The creature bellowed. Its mournful cry, pained and enraged, filled the chamber. Bestial, inhuman, it evoked sympathy – an empathetic connection to its agony and to its anger. Reverberating low tones and high pitches, the noise refused to be contained. Walls of stone and steel echoed its anguish. Beyond those walls, barely audible above the ruckus, another roaring chorus went up and beyond that another. A symphonic cascade sung in beastly tenor filled the dungeon-like labyrinth.

Equipment and apparatus alchemical, both ancient and modern, loomed menacingly. Ominous sounds, imposing smells and intimidating sights roused the senses overwhelming rationality and inspiring fear, discomfort, anxiety. Containment capsules of various size and shape sat squat against the walls surrounding a barred, electrified quarantine cage.

Pacing, tails lashing and jaws gnashing, the creature stalked slow, predatory laps along the perimeter of its domain, its cage. Over four meters long and half as high at the shoulder, plus tails, spines and armored plates, the nightmarish monstrosity could barely be contained in the tight confines. Dark hues and the deepest tones shifted across its form. Viscous liquid pearled along the spiny ridges along shoulder and spine, dripped from razor fangs long and sharp. Eyes odd in number, small and squinting, studied its surroundings from behind bony ridges. On many legs, each brandishing talons menacing and chitinous, it clicked and clacked across the hard, steel floor.

At length it paused, curling its length against the bars, turned its wedge shaped head and fixed a knowing, penetrating stare at the robed figure standing just out of reach.

“Almost,” spoke the figure approvingly. “Almost...”


*


The Crimson Emperor was a gargantuan construct. It stood as a monument to the dark side, an edifice infused with the twisted force energy. Truthfully the galaxy had not seen anything like it in recent years, not since the grand dreams of the Dark Lord Maim – self proclaimed master of the Sith. It was in some ways ironic then that it should become the domain of one Dioan Silk, Sith Lord and one time Sovereign Protector; once pledged to Lord Maim and his Crimson Empire. Still he continued that tradition, upheld in his own way the memory of a bygone era and in many ways the Crimson Emperor was a testament to what had come before.

A prime example of that continuance; the Crimson Brotherhood. These were men, soldiers who had served alongside Lord Silk, who had served under him during numerous campaigns carried out in the name of their empire; men who had once been exiled and imprisoned, who had forged an alliance unbreakable and who had developed their burgeoning force powers under the guidance of Lord Silk. Many had died, had sacrificed their lives in pursuit of a new dream – that of the Palestar Crusade. On Xa Fel they had paid a heavy price, comparatively. Scores had perished, multitudes more lost but the brotherhood, near kin to the Lord Silk, were fewer in number and much harder to replace. The men of the brotherhood were no raw recruits. They could not be replaced.

Following the invasion and subsequent retreat a ceremony had been held, a recognition of their contributions and their losses. It was a singular celebration and was not shared among the other elements of the crusade, instead it was conducted by the priests of the Unspoken and confined to the cavernous halls of the Emperor. Dark priests, Xoverus at their lead, raised a prayer to their god far distant on the frozen world of Fangol and yet omnipresent at all times. Men of the former empire, men who espoused the values of their once leader Maim – their current monarch Silk – observed a lasting silence, clad in full dress regalia. Unlike the varied elements of the crusade, comparable only to the soldiers of Nyx in their adherence to military doctrine, the servants and guardians of the lost Crimson Empire respected and observed their losses, and victories, in droll fashion. The mood of the ship was decidedly morose.

Silk had endured his own trials in the Sith temple and while he had not spoken of his encounter with Lupercus Darksword, the last surviving Dark Lord claiming himself as director of the Siths fate, it was clear to those around him that whatever had transpired lingered in his thoughts. Only the medics, a motley mix of droid and surgeon, knew the physical details of their clash. On pain of death, due pledge of privilege, they were not speaking. He had been some time in recovery even with the aid of the force to mend his wounds. Upon returning from the planets surface, hoards of wounded in tow, Silk had ordered his ship in to retreat. Disappearing swiftly, the command cruiser vanished in to deep space.

Their arrival, days later, at Fangol was met with a feeling of relief, the all consuming presence of the Unspoken washing over the converted masses. There they had remained for over a weeks time effecting repairs and conducting battle triage. A number of days elapsed before the funeral ceremonies and yet another week before Silk had emerged, for more then a few hours at a time, from his focusing chamber. There had been no communication with the crusade proper, whatever link Silk shared with Dacian sufficient to convey an understanding. Well known was the fact that though faith in the Unspoken was widespread among the crusaders in general, Fangol was the domain of the priests and under the direct pervue of the Crimson Emperor. And so, because of this dynamic, Lord Silk and his forces were able to remain removed from the crusade spearhead even as, across the galaxy, the Nyxian and Mandalorian elements were making their push in to the Onyxian occupation zone.


“Lord Silk,” the voice, cold like the planet below, cut through the silence draped across the bridge. “A moment...”

Xoverus, chief priest of the Unspoken, appeared from one of the lifts on the the wings of the bridge. Alone and draped in his typical robes, dark toned fabric not entirely unlike those worn by the Sith, he approached the raised, throne-like dais upon which Silk was perched. Flanking the crimson clad Silk, working at two substations at the foot of the precipice, were two similarly dressed members of the brotherhood each of whom paused in their work to watch the approach of the wretched, yet revered priest.

Eyes diverted, observing some unseen event, Silk made no gesture of recognition as the priest neared, stopping and bowing formally at the foot of the stone worked construct.

“Alone, perhaps.” Xoverus suggested.

Only then did Silk turn his glowering, sightless gaze towards the speaker. For a moment he seemed to contemplate, saying nothing, before nodding subtly. “Give us the bridge.”

Slowly at first, progressing until they were left to themselves, the considerable bridge crew filed in to the lifts and in to the halls adjoining the bridge. Once they were alone, but for a single member of the brotherhood who lingered upon Silks request, the Dark Lord rose from his perch descending the stairs towards Xoverus. His robes swirled as he moved not entirely camouflaging the limp, the stiffness in his legs and the pain that still resonated in his musculature. Upon closer inspection a dark stubble could be seen shading his unshaven features and eyes, previously bright, surrounded by black bags bestowing a sunken, distant aura upon his visage. The lighting was by no means warm, the bridge perpetually gloomy but for the subdued hues disseminating from the various work stations, the pale yellow illuminations which shadowed the gargoyle-like statues which loomed above the same, and the far off radiance spilling down the halls and chambers which abutted the bridge. Uniform throughout the vessel was the Gothic, oppressive aesthetic.

“You would know my intentions,” informed Silk of Xoverus, clearly reading the desires of his high priest. “And so you shall have them – I have no desire to linger here any longer then you though I suspect your reasons differ from my own.”

The two men shared many common interests, many commonalities between them and even a shared history within the crusade but beyond that they were not friends, they did not share their feelings or speak lightly with one another. Xoverus knew enough about Silk and vice versa but while Fangol, home of the Unspoken had been a boon to Silk, a stop over on his path to greatness, it had been prison, home and monastery to the priest for untold years, decades even... or longer and as an agent of the Unspoken, Xoverus represented a pressing desire to spread the faith – something he could not hope to achieve here, only a few hundred thousand kilometers above the planet.

“Rest assured,” Silk continued, “we will not remain here long, that is to say; much longer. It is my desire to garrison an outpost here and move on.”

Dissatisified, Xoverus matched the Sith Lord with his own penetrating stare. “The Unspoken will not be delayed or lied to. I know of your,” Xoverus paused searching for the right word, “harvests from the planet and I know of your experiments. What I know the Unspoken also knows.”

Silk nodded appreciatively. For some time he had suspected the church of spying and though expected, the confirmation was reward in itself. “A mere side project, something to distract the mind and pass the time until the time is right. It will also become imperative to replenish our fighting numbers and as you know, I have only extracted creatures, beasts of various sort, from Fangol and not in sufficient number to...”

“The Unspoken is not concerned with the sort or number,” interrupted Xoverus dangerously. “Take all you like, bleed the planet dry if you require. The church has a singular ambition, you make take whatever means to achieve that end so long as you do not compromise our expansion.”

“Good,” Silk smiled a serpentine, slithering sort of smile. Pacing slowly, the brotherhood warrior remaining vigilant, Silk moved behind his priestly counterpart, extending an arm and placing the palm upon the shoulder of Xoverus. It was then that the priest noticed the mechanical nature of the limb. Though his shock was brief, quickly suppressed below controlled facial expression, it was enough. The message was clear; Silk had made sacrifices and would continue until satisfied. “The presence of the Unspoken will be returned to Xa Fel, its word spread. I promise you, like infection, the Sith will accept the church. It is my desire... my fate to return.”

This seemed to pique his interest. Xoverus turned towards Silk, “And what of your master, what of Dacian Palestar?”

Movement like lightning, so swift and powerful, so destructive and beautiful, Silk shot out his arm, his mechanical limb with velocity belaying his injured state and closed his talons around the next of his priest. Eyes dark like coal, darker then the abyss between stars, fixed on the other. In the absence of pupils it was impossible to know where his gaze was fixed but for the boring, not unlike an invisible screw being driven through ones flesh, sensation their focus brought was unmistakable.

“Know this, priest – I have no master. You, priest, have a master and even your master, powerful entity it may be, is not mine! My fate, my destiny is borne of the force, steered by the dark side, and like a juggernaut, immovable beyond its set path.” He released his grip, receded below his robes and softened his impossibly sinister features. “Dacian is busy on his own errand in the force, learning the lessons I learned long ago and his attention is thusly divided. His crusade, his Nyxian fools, his battle-heady Mandalorians, his thoughtless hoards and vapid Void Knights are occupied with the Empire, busy building and planning for their next push.”

“All that you see around you,” gesturing expansively, “is mine to do with as I wish. Your planet below, that is mine. This ship and all it holds, is mine and even your Unspoken... all mine. Everything I have brought together, everything the force has given me, they are but tools, the means by which I shall follow the path charted for me by the dark side of the force. You and yours will do well, I promise you that, so long as you remember that I am aligned with the force at its very core.”

Xoverus recoiled visibly, “Hersey!”

A snarling, hissing noise, sharp and malicious, filled the bridge, echoed down the corridors and slithered down the walls. All around them shapes moved. Long shadows detached themselves from the dark spaces between the gargoyles, from behind the dias, from the corridors and lifts. They swarmed and gathered. Drawing themselves towards Silk they pushed Xoverus back due their sheer numbers and considerable mass.

“A god cannot be a heretic,” spoke Silk with sinister laughter. “And only a god can create life!”

Xoverus departed soon after, returning to the temple aboard the Crimson Emperor to muster his forces. The Unspoken was clearly bothered by this development, but omnipresent and god like though it was, knew that Silk was still serving its ends. Gone, the creatures Silk had summoned also disappeared, slithering back to their alcoves throughout the ship. They would soon become the things of rumor, talked about by the ships crew though only glimpsed in the deepest, darkest parts of the Emperor. So too would the brotherhood redouble their efforts, training up new warriors from the numbers drawn back in to service and breaking the slaves captured and donated by the crusade, turning them to the task of driving the war machine forward. The kilometers long Crimson Emperor, repaired and set for battle, its towering precipices and flying buttresses boasting cannonade and statue menacing and deadly.

Four days later, leaving behind a detachment of Silks forces above and upon the planet, the Crimson Emperor jumped to hyperspace. Leaving the planet Fangol behind, hidden amongst the stars, and carrying with it a more powerful presence then ever before it set off for an unknown destination but one that was clearly directed by the force. The crusade was returning to Xa Fel, and this time it would not be retreating.

"It does not compute," stated the droid, typically monotone. "The navigational computer is not working with the ascribed parameters."

The robots counterpart, human for the most part, scratched his head. Unlike the android, polished to a dull shine, the technician, clad in his grease stained and much abused coverall, was not polished. He was however quite dull.

"Huh," he said conclusively. "What's wrong?"

Devoid of emotion and alien to the intricacies of biological expression, the droid none-the-less contrived to appear annoyed. "Logic would dictate that it is, for lack of a more complete response, broken sir."

"Don't that beat all?"

"I do not know," answered the droid. "Does it beat all sir?"

Meanwhile, on the bridge, a crew of technicians, less grease-monkey and more engineer, were grappling with the same problem though from a different approach.

"That should be Xa Fel," said one, his face a mask of confusion and aggravation, with a gesture to the main viewer. "According to these coordinates that is exactly where we are."

"I'm no astrogation expert," put another, younger and sporting the trappings of an officer, "but if memory serves Xa Fel is ostensibly habitable and that planet is clearly the farthest thing from."

Rotating slowly, baked a bright orange glow by the none-too-distant primary, the orb displayed in brilliant depth on the main viewer seemed to stare angrily back at them occasionally belching plumes of smoke in to the atmosphere. It was not Xa Fel.

"Those eruptions must be massive," he added with a grimace.

"If our sensors can be trusted," the elder enlisted man went on. "Those eruptions are in fact volcanoes, mountains the size of the Emperor burping sulphur clouds the size of..."

He looked to his officer and shrugged, "... of something very large?"

"We have a team checking the navi-comp at the source but I don't know what their diagnostics will be able to tell us that we can't see for ourselves." Calling up a summary on his own data pad, he fixed the engineer with a sarcastic smirk, "It's busted."

"Has Lord Silk been informed?"

"No," put the man with the rank. "I am not about to go to him with anything less then the whole story... I mean, you heard the rumours about Vader?"

Elsewhere on the ship, within the warren like catacombs beneath the temple, Xoverus of the Unspoken broke from his prayers. His features, hardly expressive at the best of times, were knotted up and a thin layer of condensation (lacking the ability to perspire) cast a sheen across his forehead. Previously genuflect, he rose so abruptly that his posterior connected with the pew behind him noisily.

"No," he spoke with a deathly countenance. "No!"


Half a million kilometres distant, deep beneath the surface of the burning planet, a consciousness awoke. Malevolent and malicious it turned its eyes towards the sky and the stars invisible through the thick, polluted atmosphere and found the shape of the Crimson Emperor radiating a force signature so potent it drowned out everything around it and drank up what little Light permeated this part of the galaxy.

Dead, unliving, and yet deftly aware of itself, the being that was not represented a direct challenge to the Unspoken and threatened what little loyalty Silk still possessed for it was directly connected to the man, to his past, and now to his future.

Deep within the rock and magma a voice disembodied spoke. It said, "My servant..."

Aboard the Crimson Emperor in meditative trance Lord Silk blinked once, spread his lips to scream and collapsed limply. Unseen and yet felt, a presence fermiliar and not filled his focusing chamber. A glow inhuman surrounded the prone figure radiating outwards.

Paralyzed, pained, immobile, the warlord known as Silk cried tears of joy and of fear. Thinking only two words he lapsed in to a state comatose.

Lord Maim, the words became his world and swallowed him up.



The Past


Hard rain, driving sleet saturates everything, makes movement challenging. It drags him down. Mud slides over stone stumbling footfalls and clings to boots. He struggles against the wet, the all consuming soak.

The pack on his back is heavy. It weighs on him like a planet tugging at his shoulders, his legs and arms, his body whole. Still he trudges on.

His robe is torn; but a tattered thing draped over his chest. Blood swells and streams from numerous lacerations, some jagged as if the result of torturous terrain while others boast clean, deep lines of like inflicted by sword and steel.

He ignores his wounds, ignores the weight, ignores the rain.

Below his feet and all around him is a planet lush and green. The ground is fouled by roots and vines winding between jagged rocks which themselves seem to swim in an ever shifting sea of muck. Even in the weather, truly foul, the cries and calls of various beasts can be heard over the rolling thunder.

His path has been a hard. One laid before him by his lord and master, this is a path he must follow. Failure is not an option. Knowledge is not required. Of the thing on his back he knows nothing and of the planet even less. Its locals, he knows, are harsh. They are tribal and territorial. Though inhuman these tall, dark skinned creatures seem to him as monsters. Their ways are strange and their societies alien but it is not his task to understand them or their ways.

Mountains have passed behind him. He has traversed more geography then he cares to recall and still his journey seems endless. Sleep has abandoned him, hunger becoming his constant companion alongside discomfort and loneliness. Through day and night he travelled without rest drawing instead on the force to sustain him.

Whether due exposure or worse he has begun to hallucinate. In declining health, physical and mental, he forges on. He is young, he is fit, he is trained and yet all his skills, all his ability, all his knowledge is not enough.

He is failing.

The last mountain, he recalls, should have been the last. The last valley, he remembers, should have seen him arrive.

High above, watching from his ship through sensor and sensory, his liege is waiting. Even over such vast distances he feels a closeness to his master unlike any he has known before as though the weight on his back were Lord Maim riding on his shoulders as though he, Dioan Silk, were some pack animal.

Why did he not ask? Could such a thing not have been accomplished much easier, delivering this thing, by ship? A courier could have been sent, one on hover-skid, skipping the long trek and riding the sky to whatever destination lay ahead.

No, he reminds himself through the haze of sickness. I was sent, this is my path.

Another day passes in to night his resolve ever faltering. The nights are the worst. There is no relief from the weather. It follows him as do the packs of hunters who pepper him with arrows, throw their spears from cover as it has, as they have, since his arrival. From the forests, in the underbrush and in the trees, even from the sky above, ferocious animals pester him.

The planet seems out to get him and drive him away broken.

Alone in the night his strength fails him. To his knees he falls. Collapsing spent he feels tears running down his face even against the rivers of rain that stream down him from head to toe.

"I can't," he groans his voice hoarse. "I cannot go on..."

In the darkness, clouds so thick overhead they blank the stars and hide the moons above, a figure coalesces from nothingness glowing an ethereal hue. It looms above him, it does not lurk. It mocks him, "You cannot?"

"My lord?" Silk pleads. "Spare me..."

"Only death will spare you," he mocks further. "I will not. Fail me now and even the afterlife will be no escape."

He thinks his lord speaking to him through the force, which indeed he is, but his error lies in thinking the source Lord Maim himself aboard a star ship above the planet. In his weary, haggard state he cannot focus through the fog and cannot feel the heat radiating from his back, through the force.

"You will complete what the task I have set before you. Failure is not an option, not for you. The thing you carry, that which you must deliver, will change forever the planet that has plagued you. Take strength in the knowledge that everything around you, which you have come to hate, will be destroyed for all time with the completion of your mission." The ghostly figure moved closer pressing an intangible hand to the top of his servants bowed head. "Now move."

"Yes," Silk spoke, rising. "As is your bidding, my master."

"She swims in the void," an elder, human and female, preached. "She is our guardian and she is our charge. We protect her as she sustains us."

"We do so." A chorus of young voices, all women, chanted.

Their voices echoed in the amphitheatre-like structure. Above them was darkness spared only by the glittering pinpricks of light which were far distant stars. The open maw, this yawning space filled with painted faces was a temple and of that there could be no mistaking for around its perimeter was a stone carved tapestry - one which told the tale of their cause, their people.

These women were a mystery. They were relics of a long forgotten world now split by cruelty of the universe; torn asunder by errant comets themselves spawned of a now dead, now forgotten planet. The star system from which they hailed had been the victim of a collapsing star and an expanding gravity well.

Once there had been men among them, a subordinate class as was typical of such matriarchal societies. Fate had not been kind to these males and in the face of inevitable doom, superstitious as they were, their final undoing had been dealt them in the form of mass sacrifice. The universe tended to disregard these tributes, the galaxy expanding regardless of their mythic beliefs.

Ingenuity prevailed, ignorance constrained.

In a stroke of irony a man, one of their slaves, had devised a plan that would be the preservation of their society... or a piece of it. Generators, powered by massive solar collectors which doubled as solar sails, projected a shield around a chunk of what had once been their planet. It preserved, on this tumbling debris, atmosphere and kept the sucking void of deep space at bay. In this way they were able to survive and grow food and sustain their way of life. Aboard their asteroid, a similar bit of irony given the cause, named for the man who had saved them, the tribe Crow eked out an existence espousing the values of a now near-dead civilisation.




"What is it?"

Lord Silk, upon the throne of command aboard the bridge of a command ship which was also his, studied the slowly tumbling object as it was projected in three dimensions before him. Perhaps 1/1000th scale, the hologram boasted considerable detail leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the gossamer wings on which it rode.

Slowly, as if to convey his consternation at such a pointless query, the Sith tyrant turned his empty stare on the questioner. In turn, lowly and aware fully of his place in the hierarchy of power, the information officer paled.

"It," he said, "is someone's home."

"Is there any indication that they have detected us?" Silk asked of no one in particular.

The Crimson Emperor was far larger then the asteroid, it had an energy signature the size of a small moon. Their reversion from hyperspace would be visible for light years.

"None," met a red-robed figure, speaking before the technician could further insult their lord. He went on. "We are detecting no noteworthy outbound or inbound projections."

"Noteworthy?"

"Yes, my lord. Their sensor bubble, that which we can detect, extends no more then a few hundred thousand kilometers beyond the object. The possibility of visual identification remains, however; at such a distance it seems unlikely at best." The crimson brother, obviously one of Silks elite, remained focused on his instruments tucked in an alcove at the base of one of the statues. "The sails are absorbing considerable solar energies even so far from any star. It is reasonable to assume that their sensors, if they have any beyond what we have documented, would be useless in the face of so much radiation."

At that Silk scratched his chin, thinking. "Have you ever heard of such advanced sail technology?"

The question was redundant but for the sake of those among the crew less educated in the ways of spacial tech, he answered, "Never my lord. Most space-going peoples abandon the pursuit of solar sail advancement with the advent of hyper-space engines or other forms of faster-then-light travel."

On his neck and along his arms Silks hair was standing on end.

"They know we are here."

Curious, but not so much that they dared ask, the bridge crew wondered how he knew.

As if to answer their unspoken quandary he said simply, "The force is strong with them."



The Past

In their caves deep below the mountains of Yinchorr the men of the crimson brotherhood, exiles all, knelt in silent meditation. Arranged in a circle with the Sovereign Protector at the centre they prostrated themselves with eyes closed genuflect before the awe inspiring power that was the force.

Though their eyes were closed they saw far beyond the sight of any mortal man.

"Do you feel them?"

There was no reply, at least none spoken, but Silk knew they felt it. Distant, somewhere on the edge of the system, was life. It was small by planetary standards but with their shared focus it glowed light a satellite moving across the sky across a backdrop of stationary suns and galaxies.

"A cruiser, perhaps. A destroyer even."

His own eyes open, looking round the circle of faces - his brothers in blood and arms - Silk was satisfied to see them nod as one.

"The force tells you; they are not friends."

Again, a unanimous nodding of heads.

"Who are they?"

Here logic played part. Yinchorr was on the fringe of Imperial space well within the patrol zone of the New Order. It would have been easy to assume that this was a vessel of the Empire but Silk could not have them defaulting to logic. This was a lesson in manipulating the force called Far-seeing. Not to be confused with a similar discipline, one used to glimpse the future, it was a tool employed by Sith and Jedi alike to detect friend and enemies alike over vast distances. Without their collective focus it would have been impossible for any among them, Silk included, to see so far but acting as one they became as a network of sensor arrays increasing their potential vastly.

This joining made them stronger then their individual parts. Battle melds were not that different from this practice though this discipline lent itself more to wizardry then to combat. In their isolation Silk had practised this with his brothers time and again, to the point that it became second nature. Often his men shared their thoughts without verbalisation, they were able to communicate with one another without relying on the meager forms of communication on which the non-adept relied.

As one they spoke, "Sons of Emperor Hyfe, sons of the Empire."

The answer came by way of the dark side and it pleased Silk to know this. It also pleased him to know that though the illusion of salvation was carried with this arrival none among his brothers were fool enough to dwell upon it. They were men of the Crimson Empire, men who had sworn fealty to the Dark Lord Maim and men whose loyalty to such a faction was deemed traitorous to the New Order. Bastards, the crew of that ship would call them. And then, insults exchanged, they would attack. Or, more likely, they would just attack - raze the planet from orbit and call it a day.

"Your skills are impressive, your judgement more so." He moved now, around the circle at a slow pace. "Every day I am glad to call you my brothers, every day I am pleased to know that you stand with me and behind me."

"One day we will be freed, our exile will come to an end. That day is not today and your strength, every one of you, gives me resolve and gives me patience."

"This lesson is at an end."

Silently, their minds working through what they had learned, the men of the Crimson Brotherhood filed out of the caves off to their various chores and obligations leaving Silk alone in the rock walled chamber with only the stalactites and stalagmites for company.

Their strength bolstered his own. As they learned and grew stronger so too did he, exponentially so. The force was with him. One day, he knew, his power would be such that he no longer relied on theirs while knowing also that they would rely upon him forever.



"Queen!"

Alarmed, a young woman cried out for her matriarch. She was still a child but one of considerable knowledge. Her post was the small, ill equipped room that served as the womens sensor and observation centre. She alone manned, or womanned as the case was, the antiquated computers which ran the sensor grid.

At the moment however she was not at her post. Instead she was running, sprinting through the corridors of their lair towards the queens chambers, her robes trailing behind in a flurry. On arrival, quite to her surprise, the queen was already awaiting her appearance.

"Hush girl," the old crone commanded gently. "Collect yourself. Now tell me your news."

After a moments respite, she did. "A ship... the sensor network has detected a small vessel closing on us."

"I know child," offered the elder in a soothing yet firm voice. "You have done well."

On the her face the younger woman wore a mask of confusion. "But... how? How did you know Mother Crow?"

Instantly the look of kindness faded from the old woman's wrinkled and aged features to be replaced by one of harshness, of obvious anger. In that moment her hand flew, drawing back and striking out. With nails like talons her calcified claws drew a trio of red streaks on the others cheek.

"It is the Way! You are just too weak to feel it!"

"Yes mother," whimpered the injured teen. "I am sorry..."

"Quit being sorry, child. Do as I command! Open the shield and allow the craft entry. Summon the sisters to the landing chamber. When you have done as I demand you will retire to your room, you will punish yourself until the Way shows you how to overcome the pain. Now go!"

Watching as the cowed young girl retreated the crone grinned toothlessly. "We will welcome Him for if we do not those who come behind him will be our end."




Silk, descending the ramp of his shuttle, gazed around the stone and steel cavern that served as a sort of berthing bay. A thousand or more faces studied him with impunity. Nothing in the force had prepared him for the way they looked at him, as though he were a petulant nothing. Even before his feet had touched the ground a dawning realization had formed.

Women, old and young, they glared at him. They wore painted faces, not like the make-up of the females with which he had been acquainted in his soldiering days but like the tribal peoples he had encountered on what he was now calling Maims World, and they saw him as a cat might a mouse.

Days of schooling returned to him, days of studying the various force traditions known throughout the galaxy and written of in various texts. He remembered like a flash all his reading and in particular a band of female warriors, witches from a planet called Dathomir and found himself wondering if he the force had brought him here, to this lost enclave of witches with a purpose.

"A man," one pointed out. She was old, much older then the rest, and she wore a robe of black feathers with a similar headdress. Though surprise was obvious in her declaration something told Silk she was faking which amused him some. "You are among the Crow!"

Her bravado was obvious to him. He surmised it was an act, not for his sake but for the others. Though the force was present, almost tangible, she radiated the strongest presence. This, he guessed, was their leader.

For the moment he would chose to play along.

"I am Silk, that is my name if you would hear it. I am a traveller of the stars. By chance I found your... home. I mean you no harm, I mean you no foul." At least part of it was a lie. "May I know your name?"

"I am Mother Crow, that is my name and you will hear it."

Silk barely suppressed a smirk.

"The Way has brought you to us. There is nothing else. I will speak to you, in private."

With that the old woman turned and departed in quick fashion leaving Silk to be surrounded by what he assumed were soldiers, or some equivalent of an honour guard. They were dressed as the Mother Crow had been though less opulent and they carried spears, primitive but effective. Then, with pointing gestures, they indicated him to follow.



After a perfunctory march through the halls of the asteroid, which was not unlike a warren or nest (fitting he thought, given the name of the tribe) and allowed him an opportunity to get the lay of the place Silk found himself in the amphitheatre in which, though he had no way of knowing, the sisterhood had lifted up their prayers to the Way only hours earlier.

The crone was waiting for him. Alone.

"Who are you, really?" She demanded though less threatening then she had been previously. "Why are you here?"

Her mood, he noted, had changed appreciably. She attempted to appear brave but visibly and through the force he could feel her fear. Easily in to her eighties, while she had seemed vibrant in the landing bay, her age showed more clearly now. Posture bent, weight resting on a dark and gnarled cane, she glared at him suspiciously.

"I am Lord Silk," he declared with emphasis on his title. "I am a master of the Sith way, instrument of the Force, and I am here because it has brought me to this place."

"What you call the Way is a misguided interpretation of what I know as the Force. Through it I can see that you and your sisterhood are implements of the dark side. And I am going to take your strongest and your best, I am going to take them from you and break them of their mistaken tradition. You and your women will become my subjects."

Now the outrage she wore on her face, contorting the painted lines and stripes in to a mask of horror, was real.

"How dare you! I should kill you!"

"You could try," Silk responded evenly. With a gesture, with a raised palm, he lifted the old woman in to the air closing his fingers as he would around her windpipe. "You would fail."

Her eyes bugged. If not for her own adeptness, given her age, she would have died outright.

"But I want you alive. Alive you will make the transition much easier. You may think you have a choice. You do not. Soon my men will come aboard your puny little rock, they will study and copy your sail technology which, I will admit, is quite advanced. For this they will need to work alongside your brightest and I do not need you witches making my people feel inferior because, let me assure you, they are not." Here, pausing for a moment, he lowered her to the floor and released his grasp. "But it will not be all bad. Through me your women will gain access to men, to procreation. Through me I can grant you considerable power... far beyond what this Way has allowed you."

She wheezed.

"What was that? I could not understand you."

Again, she wheezed adding a nod this time.

"I would like to study your Way, perhaps even preserve elements of your Crow way of life. I am on a path to greatness beyond the power I now wield. Your people will join me on that path."

He turned his back on her, moving towards the exit. "I will allow you some time, not much, to make your people aware of what is going to happen. I suggest you do not try to cross me - my vessel could destroy your home in a fraction of a second, turn it in to so much slag... but it won't. If you dare even dream of betraying my command there will be no quick death for you, or for your women. I will burn your souls slowly and one at a time."

"I will return," he said simply.

He left. None blocked his path, none tried to stop him - perhaps the sight of a lone male, walking alone out of the presence of Mother Crow was enough to keep them at bay.



Seven standard days later, the Crimson Emperor hanging ominously above the asteroid, Silk was making preparations for departure.

There had been some problems at first but nothing a few executions and displays of force had not been able to deal with. The Crone, he had dubbed it her new title, was actually very cooperative. In her he had sensed an all consuming desire for power, to prolong her dwindling life, and he had fed it. Some of the others, particularly those who had in the past tried to challenge her authority, were less inclined to do as they were told. Their skinned hides, pinned to the walls of what was to become their new home aboard the Emperor, served as a constant reminder.

His own crew had expressed concerns. The brotherhood ensured that everyone toed the line and the lurking presence of his new pets, skulking throughout the ship, kept the rest in check.

Now, roaming the halls in their warrior garb, packs of converted witches intermingled with converts of the Unspoken beginning to turn inexorably to the faith for answers. Lessons had begun post-haste as well. Designed to correct their thinking in regards to the Way, the Force and the Dark Side, their effects were already being seen.

Silk had decided to leave the asteroid intact, garrisoning a small number of his own troops with an equally small number of witches, priests of the Unspoken and a handful of his own pets. Mobile, after a fashion, and large enough to serve as a fall back point, the Crone had convinced him of its worth... only after his men had done detailed examinations of the solar sail technology that powered the rock. He had even gone so far as to leave behind supplies sufficient to arm and defend it.

All in all he was pleased with the outcome.

It was clear to Lord Silk that the Force had brought him here and no simple happenstance.

As the Crimson Emperor once again made the jump to light speed he found himself wondering what lay ahead of him and though his course was set, Xa Fel the destination, he half expected to find another fork in the road, another bend in the path.

Only the force could tell.