Taloraan Sith Hunt (Khendon)

[Gran Davrak]

Gran Davrak pulled his cloak a bit tighter around his body as he walked through one of the back alleys of the floating city of Riivia, near the southern pole of Taloraan. It was cold here - and with good reason. The planet was nearing its winter season, which was particularly cold in this area, seeing their great distance from the Taloraan equator. With the city hovering at such high altitudes, the colds were only intensified, with temperatures often dropping well below freezing at night. He turned a corner, pulling his hood over his head to hide his durasteel-clad head. The mask he wore gave him much the appearance of an assassin droid, leaving only his eyes, one of which had been lost in the same accident that forced him to wear these garments and had since been replaced with a digitally-enhanced version, open for view. Still, this strange appearance, hidden now by his hood, was a suitable alternative to the face that lay underneath.

As he turned the corner, a strange sight caught his eye. Less than a block away stood a pair of armor-clad soldiers, seemingly guarding some sort of private establishment. As he continued to move, he allowed his eyes to divert to the door outside which the guardsmen stood. Just above the door, barely noticeable, was a small circular engraving - the sign of the Empire. As he continued to study the outpost - possibly Imperial trooper barracks? - one of the guards nodded casually, noticeably shifting his grip on the large blade in his hand as he glanced to the echani vibroblade sheathed at Gran's side.

"Open weaponry is not permitted on Taloraan without a permit, civilian," the guard spoke up, his altered voice betraying absolutely no emotion.

"And I should give it to you? You have no proof of authority, why should I give up my weapons to you?"

"I am Imperial Stormguardsmen TR-32, and, by the authority of the Imperial Inquisitor, I must request that you show your permit before I confiscate your weapon."

Gran rose to his full height, well above that of the guardsman. "And I am Sith Lord Darth Malivous. Are you suggesting you could take a Sith Lord in battle?" Sighing, he lowered himself again. With a wave of his hand, he retrieved a small slip of paper from his pocket. "Still, I have no desire to defy the will of the Empire. Here is my permit."

The guardsman snatched the permit, giving Gran an obvious look of warning - though it was equally as obvious that the guardsman had no intention of battling the Sith. After a quick glance at the paper, he tossed it back at Gran, who returned it to his pocket.

"Very well, Sith Lord, you may go about your business."

As Gran resumed his path through the city, the Stormguardsman hastily receded into the outpost, as though there was something of great importance inside. Whatever it was, it was no concern of Davrak's.

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Gran sat in his makeshift tent in the outskirts of Riivia. He couldn't live in the city - his disfiguration had seen him shunned and exiled from society by some non-verbal contract, and so he had been forced to set up a home in a back alley near the city's main docking bay. It was getting colder every day, and it was all Gran could do to keep warm. As he huddled in his tent, trying vainly to sleep, he was distracted by the sudden flare of nearby landing jets.

Turning his attention toward the landing pad, he quickly found the source of the sound: a small shuttle, appearing to be of Imperial design, was landing on the nearby landing pad, along with an entourage of smaller support vessels. No doubt they were headed for the Imperial Outpost he had seen some days ago. It was of no consequence to Gran. He would join the Empire some day, and soon - the citizens of Taloraan who had so long mocked him would finally see who he really was! Perhaps then he would show them what it meant to mock a Sith Lord. Still, now was obviously not the time for such things. He turned his vision from the star-studded sky and went back to his huddled ball. Maybe now he could get some sleep.

[Khendon Sevon]

Being the Executor was a tiring job. It required hours of dedicated detective work, grueling, bloody fighting, and allowed little time for relaxation. In fact, there was rarely enough time for a course worthy of the title “meal.”

Khendon sat wrapped in his warm, heavy trench-coat and warily watched smoke curl away from his brownish-gray stew. The smell that wafted from the dull colored meat and disarrayed vegetables was enough to forego the day’s only nutrition. The Executor would have to operate on another empty stomach, and that meant one thing, he would be exacting wrathful vengeance on any that crossed his path.

To keep his mind off his growling stomach, the Sith reviewed the report that had brought him so far away from his warm destroyer and personal cook. The event wasn’t noteworthy, nor was there any evidence of Force user activity. Never the less, the grand warrior of the Empire now found himself in a newly fabricated room with lousy food. If this didn’t pan out, that stormguardsman would be paying the ultimate price.

Khendon stood and turned to the guard that had been waiting in the corner for the last long hour, “Show him to me.”

The Sith buckled his katana cleanly in its shoulder scabbard and followed the demonic soldier to where this Sith Lord could be found.


*************

“This bundle of rags?” Mused the Executor as he looked at the sleeping vagrant.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And what makes you believe he’s a Sith,” there was something of a serpentine hiss in the word. It had venom inherent in its flavor.

Khendon unclipped his scabbard and jabbed the form of a man in the neck with the wooden housing. “Wake up, Little Man.”

[Gran Davrak]

"You want this... don't you?" The Emperor, sovereign ruler of the galaxy, looked toward the young Jedi, Skywalker. "The hate is swelling in you now. Take your Jedi weapon. Use it. I am unarmed. Strike me down with it. Give in to your anger. With each passing moment, you make yourself more my servant."

The Jedi was in pure torment, torn between the two sides of the Force - between his friends, and his... father? No, Gran was not the boy's father - had only said he had been. Torment in an enemy is truly a great asset. Nonetheless, the Jedi had believed him - still believed him. Darth Malivous was his father.

"No!"

The boy was trying so hard to resist, but his soul was so weak...

"It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your father, are now mine!"

The Emperor always was a wise man, and he continued to prove it daily. Of course, the Dark Side was stronger - and the boy was already giving in. There was no way he could resist. Gran watched in silence as the boy continued to torment himself, staring out at the raging battle taking place just outside the Death Star's shield. The Emperor's plot was turning out to be a success - as they always did. Before long, Skywalker would be one of them.

"As you can see, my young apprentice, your friends have failed. Now witness the firepower of this fully armed and operational battle station." He pressed a button on his comlink. "Fire at will, Commander."

As the Death Star launched its assault, Gran had great difficulty withholding his own laughter. Skywalker's rage continued to boil - he could sense it!

"Your fleet has lost. And your friends on the Endor moon will not survive. There is no escape, my young apprentice. The Alliance will die... as will your friends."

The boy's rage had almost reached the boiling point now; it emanated from him like steam from boiling water. The Emperor let out a chuckle - internally, Gran allowed himself the same.

"Good. I can feel your anger. I am defenseless. Take your weapon! Strike me down with all your hatred, and your journey towards the dark side will be complete."

With that, the boy thrust out his right arm. The saber on the Emperor's chair flew into his hands with impressive speed, igniting on contact. With a burst of hatred and rage, the boy flung himself at Gran, swinging the lightsaber randomly, and... poked him in the side?

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Groggily, Gran Davrak began to come to his senses. But why did Luke continue to poke him in the side? He should give the boy a piece of his mind. Opening his mouth, he found that his speech didn't seem to be working properly. No matter, Skywalker would get the point.

"Skyraalkaar! We're supposed to be having a baatle, not poking..." He opened his eyes. "What!? Who the hell are you?"

"Wake up, little man."

The man was dressed in an Imperial uniform - an impressive one at that - but there was no way this man was an Imperial. Since when do Imperials randomly poke people with antiquated swords? For that matter, what manner of Imperial carries an antiquated sword anyway. This man, obviously, was a phony.

Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Gran stood up, coming to his full height - a good 6'8", he could hold his own against a wookie in a height contest. Looking down at the phony Imperial, he donned his most imposing voice, speaking in a moderate baritone.

"And just who is the little man here, Imperial?"

He took the time to peripherally study the other man with him - it was the same man who had tried to take his vibrosword, outside that Imperial outpost. A... Stormguardsman, was it? Gran had certainly never heard the term before. The entire outpost was obviously some sort of scam.

"Just what do you think you are going to accomplish by posing as a servant of the Empire, you rebel scum? Last time I checked, Stormguardsman was not an official rank."

He looked the man over. His uniform appeared to be standard issue - easy enough to replicate. There were no tell-tale signs of fraudulence, but he could also bluff.

"You could at least try a little harder on forging that uniform there - I've never seen that rank insignia before. Is there something wrong with your intelligence?"

The man still looked smug, not bothering to respond. The smirk on his face was unsettling - he was too confident in his disguise. Perhaps he needed a bit more to scare the lunatic away. Leaning forward slightly, so as to appear even taller, he placed one hand on the hilt of his vibrosword.

"Do you even know who you're talking to, Rebel? I am Sith Lord Darth Malivous!" He glanced at the phony Stormguardsman. "Are you here to take me up on my offer? I can gladly take that life off you hands for you."

[Khendon Sevon]

An imposter then. He’s posing as the wrong man on the wrong day. Something snapped inside the Executor, as it always did when he let the walls of his emotions break down. Brutal animal thought mixed and mingled with refined cruelty into one boiling pot of contempt and anger.

The rage grew with the impending doom of two storm fronts converging. Energy crackled in the air and it became dry and ionized. The wind laughed wickedly and rolled in cackles and menacing chortles.

“You insinuate that I am an imposter? A,” there was a bad taste in the Imperial’s mouth, “Rebel. A terrorist.” Looking up to the man had not phased the death-gazer in the slightest.

“Darth Malarkey,” his sly grin said it all. This man was a torturer and took pleasure in his occupation.

Khendon held his scabbard in his left hand. With a deft movement of his right arm he clenched the hilt and snapped the butt of the “antique” into the tall man’s chest just as if he were drawing the weapon. In a fluid continuation, he brought the steel reinforced structure into the man’s face.

“That’s Imperial Executor Sevon to you, Little Man.” Hatred seethed from every word. Khendon was enjoying this.

[Gran Davrak]

The man - Sevon, was it? - was attacking him - him, Gran Davrak, a Sith Lord! And, on top of that, he was insinuating that Gran was the imposter among them! No, Gran would prove who the true imposter was here!

Gran's bodily-support armor absorbed the brunt of the imposter's attack; nevertheless, the man's power was awesome. The force behind the assault sent Gran backwards, and it took two full steps for him to regain his balance. He looked up again, only to be struck again by the scabbard, full in the face. In response to this strike, his metal facemask - which he wore even in sleep - issued a soft "ting."

"Is that all you have, Rebel?"

He had yet to remove his hand from the echani vibrosword sheathed at his waist - he slept with it as well. It was just his luck that the recoil from the Rebel's attack had placed him in the perfect position for his first attack.

"Imperial Executor... did you come up with that title yourself? Surely Rebel Intelligence is smarter than that! You... are SCUM!"

With one swift motion, he unsheathed the vibrosword, using the momentum of the motion to launch the weapon at the Rebel's face. A soft hum erupted as the vibration cell housed in the blade sprang to life, announcing its deadly presence to the Rebel even while en route to his face.

"Die!"

[Khendon Sevon]

Khendon slipped into years of battle experience with all the effort of a businessman donning a suit. The fine silks of adrenalin responded instantly to the stimulus of action. With minimal effort, the Executor read the tall man’s intent and managed to slide beyond the deadly attack. A Force assist wasn’t even needed.

The severity of the assault caused the mirth in the Executor to flow out. His demeanor cooled. In a flash of silver the katana shed its skin of wood and appeared in its naked form. The razor edge caught the odd night’s light and demented it along waves of increasing sharpness.

Silence grew deafening in that instant and consumed all like water entering a drowning man’s throat. The blackness of night pulled close around Khendon as a cloak. The Force swarmed in one mighty torrent and imbued its caster in armor of the mind and body.

He wants to play, I’ll play. The Force carried its master forward in a blur of motion, a stiff bound brought a solid knee into the tall man’s chin and sent Khendon into the air. A spin and soft landing and the Executor was back on his feet, several steps behind the other combatant.

With weapon loosely held in both hands, the soldier of the Dark Side peered at his opponent. “You are weak, and will not win this fight. Bow down before your Executor now, and I will spare your life… if only for a moment.”

The stormguardsman took a step back, providing the two clear room to battle. Unless the Imperial officer commanded it, he would not partake in the joy of combat.

“You’re no Sith,” mused Khendon openly, “you’re just a street bum with a sharp knife and something to prove.”

[Gran Davrak]

For the moment, Gran didn't turn around. His armor was sufficient to deflect at least a few blows from an ancient weapon like that one, so there was little worry of being stabbed in the back. He chuckled softly as a few drops of blood fell from his chin.

"Impressive... for a Rebel. But if you don't believe me for who I am... Then let me show you!"

His voice was slightly metallic through his face mask - he had opted for an external speaker instead of letting even part of his face show. Spinning on his heel, Gran turned to face the Rebel - or was he truly an Imperial after all? At this point, it didn't matter.

"I am the only Sith Lord in the Galaxy, now that the Emperor and Vader are gone! The only thing I have to prove is the might of the Empire and the Force, and the futility of your little rebellion. I command the Force - you may be a good fighter, Rebel, but can you do this?"

Extending a single hand, he called upon the Force. Behind the Rebel, a small hunk of scrap metal rose slowly into the air. With all the speed he could muster - which was surprisingly little - he brought the scrap toward the Rebel's head.

While the piece of scrap moved, Gran took the opportunity to strike. Raising his vibrosword above his head, he brought it down toward the Rebel's face. With all his might, he slammed the vibrosword down. It would cleave the Rebel in half...

[Khendon Sevon]

With the Force working its ways into the Executor’s veins like a well engineer stimulant, it wasn’t difficult to detect the multi-pronged attack. In fact, there was something odd about the aura that, only now, Khendon sensed in the other fighter. Maybe he was holding back? There was a roughness around the lines of his control.

Never the less, the Imperial took action. His body flowed away from the striking dualities as he dropped and rolled on a muscled shoulder, pushed off, and regained his standing poise a meter and a half away.

In that moment of motion, Khendon had applied his own Force telekinesis to the flying fragment, accelerating it to lethal velocities.

Intrigue was beginning to perk up in the Executor. Could this man really be a Force user? And if so, what was holding him back?

“If you are so powerful, Little Man… show me.” The dark sider dropped his katana to the ground and, with a flick of the wrist, threw aside his trench-coat.

Steadily flowing adrenalin fought off the cold bite of the night as the Executor fell into a powerful stance. His naked arms’ tattoos spat the acrid Sith language into the darkness and seemed to absorb the night’s shadows.

“Do your worst.”

[Gran Davrak]

Gran watched as the Rebel casually evaded his assault - there was something odd about his movements, about his presence... It was almost as if...

Before he could contemplate any further, he was thrown back to reality by the sudden acceleration of his make-shift weapon. This was very odd indeed - he hadn't increased his pressure with the Force. Taking a leap, he threw himself into a low back-flip, the scrap metal flying harmlessly over his torso. Standing again, he looked back over at the Rebel, easily a meter and a half from where he had been before. Interesting...

Gran smirked behind his durasteel helmet. The Rebel had thrown aside his coat - he wanted a real fight now. Following suit, Gran tossed his cloak aside, his cold black armor reflecting the artificial light of Taloraan's streets. Holding his vibroblade under one arm, he wove his fingers together, popping his knuckles. It was time for the real battle to begin.

Grasping the vibroblade again, he lept into the air - not a Force leap, but the regular type - hoisting the weapon above his head with both hands. Free from the bulky cloak, he could finally bring out the peak of his combat skill. Technically, this was his first real battle - but he had been training ever since he had regained movement for just such a time as this.

The Rebel had asked for Gran's worst - the most devestating attack that Gran could muster. Perhaps it was a bit early in the fight for that, though - Gran still had much to learn of his opponent's tactics before he could launch such an attack. For an opponent such as this one, it was best to start with smaller attacks. Find an opponent's weak spot, and conserve as much energy as possible to exploit it. Still, if the Rebel wanted a display, he would get it.

Reaching out to the Force again, Gran employed the only Force ability he knew. With a flash of motion, the Rebel's katana flew into his hand. Raising it into the air, he added the katana to his assault, bringing the two weapons to convergence on the Rebel's throat in a wide V. Judging by the look on the man's face, however, this still wasn't enough...

Reaching further into the Force, he latched his mind onto the abandoned apartment building next to them. Through the transparisteel window, he could vaguely make out the shape of a small bedside lamp - perfect. Grabbing onto the lamp with the Force, he yanked it toward the window.

With a brilliant flash of reflected light and electricity, the window shattered, sending huge shards of glass - not to mention a lamp - directly at the Rebel's skull. Of course, they were heading for Gran, too, but his armor was sufficient to fend off broken glass. Keeping hold of the lamp with the Force - it was too difficult to hold all those shards of glass - he added its power to the velocity that gravity had already afforded it, giving it enough speed to easily knock a man unconscious.

"This is the power of the Sith!"

[Khendon Sevon]

A scream started in the cockles of Khendon’s dark heart. The emotional energy whipped the Force into shape, bit at its heels and dragged it into a tangible, controlled chaos. The Executor smirked knowingly and narrowed his gray eyes, “This is the power of the Sith,” he nearly spat the words.

In a single, focused assault of vehement thought, the darkest Imperial in the galaxy released a well of wanton destruction. Like a torrent, the energy burst forth from his human body and shook the very earth he stood on.

An unnatural wind, an unseen force grappled the meek shards of glass and floating objects and smashed them into a high, gray wall. In that same instant, the dark word descended upon the foolish would-be-Sith. Like a fist, it pummeled toward the dark, paved ground.

[Gran Davrak]

As Gran continued to descend upon the Rebel, he met no resistance. The man had finally given up, knowing there was no way to win. Still, he was intent on going out angry... not a good way to die, in Gran's opinion. Not that he cared.

With sudden anger at the Rebel's determination, he sliced through the air - this Rebel would... WHAT!?

Gran suddenly found his face held stedfast to the ground by some unseen force. Were it not for his armor, he would easily have broken a nose, if not other bones. Still the pain was immense - and the method was cruel. No Rebel had those guts; perhaps this man was truly who he claimed to be.

Picking himself up from the ground, he looked at the other man - could it even be that this man was a trained Sith Lord? If that were the case, Gran was fighting a losing battle. The only way he could continue life was either surrender or escape - and neither looked entirely promising. Surrender would no doubt see him killed on the spot, and running would find him hunted down like a womp rat.

No, Gran would not die a coward. He would stand and face this man, even if it killed him - he would not have it said that a Sith Lord ran from battle. Besides, there was a certain honor in facing one's own demise.

Taking a heavy breath, Gran rose to his knees, laying the two blades on the ground in front of him.

"I see I cannot defeat you - perhaps all that you say is true... Imperial Executor Sevon." He paused, straightening his body as much as possible. "If so, it would be an honor to die by the hands of a servant of the Empire - and a Sith."

[Khendon Sevon]

The dark runes etched on Khendon’s arms distorted as he reflexively stretched his muscles. The tall man’s sudden capitulation had thrown the Executor off balance. He had expected a drawn out blood bath.

The Sith looked at the armored man and smiled. From the mess of his discarded jacket, Khendon summoned his family saber. The ancient weapon hissed to life and sent its silver tongue of death cutting through the night.

The gray flood of energy painted the scene like a dramatic holo. There Khendon stood, tall and full of vitality, the muscles of his body rippling and ready for war, his mighty weapon raised, ready to strike. Low on the ground kneeled the armored knight, ready to receive his punishment for acting as something he was not.

Yet, the Executor stayed his hand. This man posed no threat to the Empire. He was not part of Khendon’s political crusade or personal war. Instead, he was a talented, if not raw and untrained, individual.

The Sith’s left hand tightened into a fist and the unseen powers of the Force wrapped their arms around the man’s throat. In a blur of motion, Khendon kicked the armored figure over and brought his saber’s tip over the man’s chest.

With fist still clenched and weapon ready to strike, the rough voice of the Executor lashed out, “You have one way to survive, and that is subjugation. You will surrender your life to me and do as I say. In return, you will know power beyond your imagination's limits.” Khendon wasn’t one for long orations on Sith codes and the ways of the foolish religion he walked the line of. Instead, he relaxed his Force hold on the man’s windpipe and waited to strike if defiance showed its ugly face.

[Gran Davrak]

Gran gasped for air as the Force hold was released from his throat. His mouth was dry and sticky, and it took great effort now to speak over his throbbing headache. He looked at Khendon, speaking through his gasping breaths.

"It would be... an honor... to die... by your hands..." The executor began to raise his lightsaber for a final attack, but was stopped as Gran continued. "But... it would be... an even greater honor... to serve them."

What a strange night this had been... Gran had been awoken by this man, had even initiated a duel with him. He had lost miserably, too, and had fully expected to die from this man's incredible rage - and it had seemed very much the obvious outcome. Now, he was being offered a position of service in the Empire? Things didn't usually come out this way - indeed, Gran had always longed for such a position, but his injuries had disallowed it. Now, he may be able to fulfill his dream...

[Khendon Sevon]

Again, thoughts of simply killing the man flooded Khendon’s mind. He weighed the consequences, found them to be nearly non existent, and held for a moment. Was there a point to killing this… confused individual? He had potential, that was the only thing the Executor was certain of.

“Sergeant, bring him to the barracks, show him where he can clean up. I’ll have a mission waiting for both of you by morning.”