The Breaking Point [complete]

[Khendon Sevon]

Khendon sat at his desk. A tall glass of some oddly colored alcohol sat idle on the hardwood surface. Its silver swirls picked up the meager light and twinkled like a galaxy within the glass.

The sound of commands being punched into a datapad and the fluttering fingers of the malicious Sith were all that stirred in the shadow garbed room. In fact, if it weren’t for the man and his activities, it would have been as still as a tomb.

A large viewport exposed a wide chunk of space filled with shimmering diamonds and the gray hulks of vessels. Military destroyers plied the void in a display of anxious precision. That was what made the Empire great. Every soldier was a servant to a master. Each feared the fast whip of its mighty retribution. In turn, every would-be-master had their own superior to answer to.

Fear. Fear fed the troops, oiled the machines, and filed paperwork. It was a character that played on the grand stage of galactic politics. It worked its bone-white fingers into every crevice.

Something shivered in a corner of the room.

The dark eyed Imperial stopped what he was doing and looked up. He pursed his lips and wet his throat with the fiery silver liquid. It stung like battery acid and tasted like bitter berries. He grimaced and sucked air through his teeth.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he mumbled in a raspy baritone.

“Are you sure you want that,” spoke the haggard voice. “Are you really sure?”

Khendon smiled as his hand delicately worked its way down his leg. His fingers clasped the cool bone of his lightsaber and he drew it up from its holster.

“Of course.” In the back of his mind he wondered why he hadn’t already struck yet. Why wasn’t he screaming at this insolent fool!?

There was some understanding. Something was happening.

The shadows blurred and fell to the ground in a pool of oil. They bubbled and churned and grew into the shape of a man. He solidified.

Khendon let go of his saber and it fell.

“Now, now,” said the shape.

The clatter of the Sith’s fallen saber never interrupted. Instead, the Helladune family lightsaber floated lightly in the air as if on invisible strings. It turned and found its way into the stranger’s outstretched hand.

Was he a stranger? There was something in the details—or lack thereof—of his face.

The Executor stood and knocked his chair back into the transparasteel of his viewport where it made a dull thump. He threw his arms up and rage sparked on his face. Fires flared and he reached out with the force. Commanded it forward like an attack dog.

Nothing.

“Come, come… Grandson.”

“No,” it was a silent cry. “You can’t be..”

There was a smirk on the indistinct shadow, “Oh, but I am.”

[Khendon Sevon]

The form took a step closer. The pools of its fluid-like eyes drilled through the Imperial officer. There was a certainty to its almost indescript features that plagued Khendon. Cold fingers played piano on his spine and he shook visibly from the chill.

“Khendon Helladune,” whispered the ghostly image, “you’ve been a disappointment.”

The Executor looked indignantly at the shadow and growled, “Khendon Sevon.” Then, through a clenched jaw, “My name is Khendon Sevon.”

A thin quake. The beginning of a smile. “Oh, now it may be; but, once it was not, Grandson.”

“I am not your grandson.” He clenched his fist and the Sith tattoos that covered his arms swirled like coiled serpents.

“Sit,” there was a gesture and Khendon’s chair was beneath him. He sat with a heavy breath and reached for his glass. The bitter liquor bit deep.

The Imperial looked hard into the depths of his glass. He examined the glitter then looked up. His eyes quivered with emotion. A single, lonely tear fell. “I killed you.”

[Khendon Sevon]

Lips of black flesh pursed and the oil-colored head nodded curtly. “You did. You did.”

“That’s right,” Khendon cleared his throat and took a heavy breath, “I did.”

The form continued to walk forward. The shadow cloak it wore smoldered, bubbled, and hissed. It melted away. From beneath its thick layers of charred liquid emitted a crimson glow. The light grew in power and intensity as it lashed from the confines of the pitch.

Then, standing there in full view of Khendon, was the roiling, angry image of his grandfather’s ghost. His Sith robes were long and covered in icicles, beard tapered and grayed, eyes cold as a morning’s frost and black as night’s song. The Imperial could feel energy rolling away in powerful, tormented waves from the image of his grandfather.

“Young Helladune,” said the savage image of a long lost Sith, “you’ve been a disappointment.”

Khendon took another sip, “You’ve already said that.” He leaned back in his chair. His mind was in a haze. The Executor felt like there was something he should be doing or saying, an action to be taken, a path followed; but, he couldn’t discern it amongst the fog of his brain. What was there to do?

The dead has risen. His grandfather would exact his pound of flesh.

“And it’s Khendon Sevon.”

“Your mother’s name,” spat the Sith Master. “She, the demon that tainted your father.”

Khendon grunted.

“Foolish Sevons. You, Young Khendon, have been a disappointment.”

The Imperial pounded his glass into the table so violently that it shattered into a thousand fragments of sharp ice and cut deep into the wood. His face remained oddly placid.

“No, Grandfather, it’s you that has been the disappointment.” He stood again and began taking off his clothing. He threw his leather jerkin to the floor along with the rest of his clothing.

The Executor stood there, naked, in his office. Alone save for the glowing image of his grandfather.

He turned to face the window.

“Regale in the failure of your art, Grandfather,” he snarled with the putridity of the words. Memories stirred in anger. “See the failure of our house.”

Scars worked their spider webs over the Imperial’s spine. They were pink and raw, virtually unhealed. More strips of damaged flesh dotted his torso. They were sour reminders of his failure.

[Khendon Sevon]

The ghost’s eyes narrowed incredulously. “Those are not my house’s failures, Grandson. Those are yours.” The glowing apparition placed its hands upon the able and leaned forward.

Khendon turned with a sickening sneer on his face. “It is your form. The movements of Helladune were not sufficient to kill. Instead, I was nearly killed! An art forged for the sole purpose of killing Jedi was swept away. I am a skilled warrior! The only master of House Helladune left!”

Khendon’s grandfather smiled mischievously, lolled his bearded head backwards, and let out a disturbing belly laugh that shook the very walls of the room. “You may be the last practitioner left, Grandson; but, you are no master.”

The Executioner’s naked muscles tensed. He looked like a spring ready to lash out with all of its pent-up fury. “I absorbed you, Grandfather! All of your skills, your power, it’s all mine!”

The glowing figure spit on the ground. “You may have tricked me and taken my power, absorbed my skills; but, you have not yet mastered them. You wear sleeves of the Sith language. That is all.”

Khendon looked at the swirling, acrid tattoos that writhed as if alive on his arms. They were reacting to the old Sith’s presence. They had come alive.

“You never received your father’s blessing, Young Helladune.” The old man ran a hand through the strands of his beard thoughtfully then added, “Nor mine.”

The Imperial looked to his hands. “I killed my father.” Memories of chopping through the man’s torso with the family saber rushed back into his mind. They had been buried for a long time.

“And your mother,” added the old Sith.

Khendon looked up. “That was an accident.” He accusingly pointed a finger at his grandfather’s ghost. “An accident! You know it.”

Quiet.

“You know it! Tell me you know it!” There was a threat in his words.

“You wanted to do it, Grandson. You wanted to kill her, too.” He showed his ugly, yellow teeth. “You killed them because they were weak. They held you back. It’s the way of things.”

“No,” Khendon staggered backward with his hand clutching his head, “that’s not how it happened. It was an accident.”

“No, search your feelings, Young Helladune. It was no accident.”

“She was going to kill me! I, I only meant to push her aside!” His voice quivered. “I only meant to push her aside…”

[Khendon Sevon]

He had been young then Twenty, twenty-one? It didn’t matter.

He’d walked in. Sweat dripped from his muscles. He’d been climbing again. The family saber, so long lost, was wrapped in a piece of cloth in his pack. The smell of fresh cookies filled the kitchen.

Khendon had kissed his mom and gone to his room. There, he slowly pulled his ice axes and crampons out of his pack to reveal the black satin bundle. Knots were undone and the folds pushed aside. He’d examined the weapon for an hour before he heard the distinct swoosh of the front door opening then closing.

His father was home.

That’s when he’d done it. He leapt out of his room and ignited the saber. His father’s eyes had gone wide. He’d been searching for that very same relic his entire life. Khendon gave it to him, all right. He made short work of the dread man and plunged the bright beam of energy into his father’s heart.

His mother had been outraged. She flew at his crying and hitting him. He’d wanted her to stop. She needed to understand. She had to understand! He couldn’t live with his father anymore! He’d beaten Khendon, bloodied him up, left him on mountains to harden up or die. There was no way the young Helladune could stand another day of living with that tormentor.

Khendon had pushed her. Her head hit the side of the kitchen table with a thwack.

That was the end of that.

“Yes,” whispered his grandfather. “Now, young Helladune, you understand.”

Khendon shook his head. It was filled his a thick haze he couldn’t push aside. Had he wanted to kill her? Had it really been part of his plan all along? What had he expected her to do? Had he really thought she’d let him waltz in and kill her lover without repercussion?

He had been a fool. He saw that now.

“I…” Khendon swallowed hard and pursed his lips. He ran a hand through his hair then brushed strands out of his eyes. “I know the truth of it.”

“Young Helladune, you have been a disgrace to the house. You have followed in your father’s pitiful footsteps. Would I had a body, so that I might put you out of your pathetic misery.” His grandfather seemed to grow in stature and dwarfed the Executor.

“Grandfather,” he looked up at the powerful Sith, ‘give me the power I need. Provide me with the strength to get my revenge. Let me harness the mysteries of House Helladune and its ways. Let me become the master that I should be.

“You must do it. I need it. You need it. I will make you proud, Grandfather.”

The old Sith seemed to consider it.

“Give me your blessing, Grandfather.”

[Khendon Sevon]

He should have felt angry. He should have been confused by the sudden appearance of his grandfather’s long gone ghost. Instead, he couldn’t help but be consumed by anger. He had been disgraced. Khendon had been beaten in front of his troops by a lesser, a Jedi.

The Executor had never been a man of honor. Indeed, he still wasn’t.

There was something that could be said about Khendon: he didn’t like to lose.

The man would do anything within his power to escape defeat. Losing made him look weak. If there was one thing Khendon was not, it was weak. He was a man that tackled problems with full contact and bore down on them until they were not but dust in his wake.

Maybe that was why he so accepted the manifestation that had immerged from the shadows.

Never the less, it was there. It was tangible. He knew it to be real.

More importantly, it would give him his dreams.

The Executor looked to his grandfather’s ghost and examined it as it considered him.

Then, “You are the last of my line, Grandson. The only remaining blood of the House Helladune. In times past we were strong and many. We hunted down and destroyed the Jedi, Dark Jedi, and would-be Sith.

“We were the guardians of the true faith. Believers, all of us. We felt the call of the Dark Side, understood its animal cries and pounding pulse. We answered its pleading and brought structure and control to its chaos.

“The House Helladune mastered the Force.” He grew silent and looked out the viewport. The apparition licked its lips then whispered, “And so shall it be again. Kneel.”

Khendon walked around his desk and faced the ghost and viewport. He took a knee and looked into the cold eyes of his grandfather. There was a certainty in those cool, crisp eyes that he couldn’t discern. It was like looking into his own eyes in a mirror. He just knew there was something behind them… a soul.

“With all of the power invested in me, and by the blood of Helladune, I grant thee my blessing.” The shadow touched Khendon’s crown.

Indescribable pain followed.

[Khendon Sevon]

Ribbons of pain slapped against his flesh. Talons tore at his skull and pressed their incisors into his brain’s tissue. He felt as if his entire body were being torn apart.

The Executor clenched his head in agony. Veins bulged as his muscles involuntarily flexed and pumped. His face was a contorted grimace of unbelievable pain.

The Sith tattoos on his arms sizzled and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. The ink swam over his skin in ugly tendrils. Lines flowed from his arms and began to engrave new script across his chest. Blood trickled and the oily text seemed to drink it thirstily.

His scars grew darker and darker until they were black as the rest of the text. Then, Sith writing inscribed itself along the lines, formed ugly sentences and enlaced themselves into the flow of the scars.

Khendon fell writhing to the ground. He let out a primordial, animal scream from the very depths of his humanity.

“Embrace the pain, Khendon.”

“I,” said the tormented Sith through clenched teeth, “I. AM! DARTH.” A screech. “DARTH MALUS.”

A crooked smile worked its way across the ghost’s face. “That you are, Darth Malus. That you are.”

Through the excruciating pain came something else. At first it was a trickle. Then, it was as if the flood gates of the Force had been let free. Perception, energy, stamina, everything suddenly became heightened, boosted.

So did his awareness of the flames that wrought havoc on his nerves. He screamed until his throat was raw and dry.

Then, at the moment where his life stretched out before him as one agonizing nanosecond after the other, it all stopped.

He unraveled his body, lifted his hand beseechingly, and the Helladune family saber fell in his open palm.

His naked form stood. The acrid Sith tongue covered his entire body. From neck down was coated in black, putrid writing.

Khendon’s breathing was steady. His eyes cool and dark. His muscles flexed idly as he stood easily.

The door to his office slid open.

“Sir?”

[Khendon Sevon]

The apparition had vanished. Its glow no longer illuminated the darkness of the room in its frightening scarlet.

Khendon looked at the soldier that had entered. He was in a simple navy uniform with blaster firmly in hand. He was a simpleton, a peon, a man to be used for the Empire’s ends.

The Sith’s face remained placid. He could feel the shadows of lost ancestors’ spirits calling to him, feel their crawling presence and hear their whispered tongues. They were feeding him on raw, unfettered Force.

The power surged through his body like a tidal wave.

“Sir?” There was a quiver in the man’s voice.

Khendon could feel him in the Force like a collection of particles. He caressed the pulse of life gently. Then, with more intent, plucked his existence like a string.

The soldier looked around, clearly uncomfortable.

The Sith cut the life cord.

A thin line of blood dripped from each of the man’s nostrils. He put a finger to his nose and looked shock at the crimson liquid apparent on his hand. The Imperial soldier looked to Khendon and went to mouth “help.” Instead, blood welled from his mouth and out onto his uniform.

Those eyes. Their whites became bigger and bigger as fear and shock overtook his mind. He tried to take a step forward. It was no good. He collapsed and started convulsing.

He was bleeding out.

The Executor turned and went to his closet. He found a long tunic of crimson material and pulled the gentle garment over his body. Every inch of his newly tattooed skin ached and burned in a permanent reminder of what he must do.

Revenge.

[Khendon Sevon]

Khendon threw a leather bandoleer over his chest and fixed his saber’s holster to it. He mumbled to himself in some indiscernible language and stormed out of his office.

“Sir, we heard screams.” More guards.

“Rebels,” mumbled Khendon.

The sergeant cocked his head to the side for a moment then went wide eyed. He looked to his own men, pulled his blaster, and fired point blank into them.

The sounds of small arms fire withered away as Khendon turned the corner. It was followed by laughter then an eruption of heat and sound as a thermal detonator incinerated its owner and the bodies of his compatriots.

Officers and workers of all kinds stopped to look at their Executor. Then, for no apparent reason, each would hurry off to their quarters in search of a knife or barrel to bite.

He stopped off in the medical wing where nurses were administering to soldiers recently wounded in a conflict with actual rebels. Doctors turned to their patients and administered drugs without thought. Then, they turned the needles on their own arms.

Death was making his way to the bridge.

[Khendon Sevon]

Power raged through his body like unleash warhorses. His heart pounded battle drums in his ears and sent surges of blood shooting through his veins. The warrior within was stoked.

Khendon entered a lift. Everything was silent save for the gentle hum of the repulorsors.

Thoughts didn’t really cross his mind. He was a simple chemical reaction in action. Conscious decisions weren’t needed. Instinct was king, and it was ruling with an iron fist.

A ding sounded. The doors swept open.

“Executor, unexppp…” The officer’s face turned to confusion. “Is that blood? Are you hurt, Sir?”

The Sith’s saber was in his hand. Its silver blade hissed to life. Within seconds a charred line had been hewn from the officer’s flesh and the upper portion of his torso slid away at an angle.

The bridge’s usual buzz of activities instantly stopped. Eyes were wide. What was their Executor doing?! Was he mad! Would they be next!

Yes.

A guard seemingly decided Khendon was the enemy and fired a blast at him. It was deflected and sent into the skull of an unsuspecting sensor’s officer.

In a dance of death, Khendon twirled his blade above his head and brought it down in fluid, double-handed slices. Each sent limbs flying and bodies tumbling. Life was extinguished with as much thought as a candle’s dowsing.

Those that didn’t fight back retreated and cowered at the far of the room. They were shocked into sheep by the anger and brutality of their leader. It was like he’d snapped.

Soldiers, officers, technicians, and others huddled together, unable to blink, and watched as the carnage unfolded.

Khendon never spared a second glance at the men and women he julienned. He’d walk with blade low and everyone would think the worst was over. Then his hand would snap into the air and people would go flying into control banks. Sparks would rage in a wall of burnt flesh and wires, metal would crush and impale, and sudden fires would consume.

When he finally widdled his way to the cowering mob, he stopped. His blade became silent and he snapped it to his bandoleer.

“Oh, thank the Gods!”

“The Gods have nothing to do with this,” snarled Khendon.

The Sith’s hand shot out and crushed the man’s throat as he lifted him. As if throwing a rag doll, he tossed the twitching body away and moved onto the next soon-to-be-corps.

The Executor sent powerful punches into skulls and crushed bone, plied elbows to noses, and rained down ugly blow after ugly blow.

Then, it was over.

It was silent save for the steady drip of blood from computer banks. Crimson mush covered the ground in a graphic testament to the Executor’s brutality. The man had to be drunk on his newfound power. Khendon walked up to a station, pushed a body aside, and pounding in a command.

“Execute?” Questioned the console. He affirmed his order.

All around the star destroyer bulk heads opened and the ship was exposed to the cruelty of space. Bodies suddenly flooded the void.

[Khendon Sevon]

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

“Has he said anything,” said the man in the white jacket as he took another drag from his dwindling stim.

The gentleman in a black uniform shook his head slowly, “Not a thing.”

White Jacket exhaled a puff of nasty smelling smoke and gave a yellow smile. “Well, that’s to be expected, I guess. Rebels, eh?”

“Hmm?”

“Rebels killed everyone? That’s what they’re saying, at least.” You could tell by the man’s tone that he didn’t believe the official report. There was the slight hint of sarcasm. Enough to let the Uniformed Man know that he didn’t believe it; but, with enough doubt to not get him into trouble.

“That’s what it seems. Real hero, Executor Sevon. Only one alive. Covered in blood. Must’ve single-handedly fought them off.” The Uniformed Man’s black eyes were cold and said, And I dare you to deny it.

“Yeah, real hero. What happened to the bodies?”

There was a warning look. “Rebels must’ve taken their own.”

White Jacket didn’t push it. He liked being alive. It sure as hell beat being dead. Dead men couldn’t smoke.

He finished his stim then threw the butt to the ground where he ground it satisfactorily with the toe of his boot. “Alright, sounds good. Let’s begin, why don’t you introduce me?”

“This way, Doctor.”

[Khendon Sevon]

You couldn’t put an Executor in a white padded room. No, that wouldn’t do. Special accommodations were all that would do for such a man of honor. In accordance with this, Executor Sevon’s room was amply decorated with furniture of the highest quality. Large windows looked out over an auburn landscape of freshly tilled earth.

The agricultural planet that the small “mental health services” facility was located on provided all the seclusion its patients required. It housed the awry children of diplomats, famous stars of holovids, and political figures.

The Uniformed Man let White Jacket in and led him to the bedroom. “Executor?” He knocked on the closed door.

No response.

He palmed the control and it slid away silently. “Oh, Gods.” The Uniformed Man walked over to the bed shaking his head. Khendon lay on the ground covered in his white sheets with eyes open staring squarely at the wall. He hugged himself fiercely.

“He does this, sometimes,” sighed the Uniformed Man.

“Hmm…” White Jacket scratched the stubble on his chin. “We better help him to the livingroom. I’d like to question him.”

“Grab an arm.”


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

The doctor began his line of inquiry with, “Is there anything you can tell me about that night?”

No response.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he tried.

Nothing.

He coughed and looked at the Uniformed Man. What he wouldn’t do for a stim at that moment. “Do you think you could leave us alone? He might be more responsive to only me.”

The Uniformed Man frowned. He seemed to consider it for a moment then nodded lightly. “Fine. I’ll be right outside, though.”

“Very good.”

White Jacket watched the man leave. He then produced a pack from his jacket and slipped a stim out. “I’d offer you one; but, I have a feeling you wouldn’t respond.” He put his feet up on the coffee table and lit up. He talked between draws, “They leave you anything in here to drink?” Smoke billowed from his lips. “Don’t get up, I’ll find it.”

He stood and walked around. There was a bottle of some silvery liquor on a far table. He helped himself to a glass and returned to the chair in front of the Executor. The drink was bitter and burned all the way down. He liked it.

“Not bad. You’re a very important man, Executor. Very important indeed.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the Imperial’s face and watched the reaction—or lack thereof. “Not going to talk, eh?” He downed his glass. “Let’s try something simple. What’s your name?”

Those ghostly eyes looked up and found the White Jacketed Man’s own. The doctor startled and nearly dropped his stim. Then, a raspy, thick voice gargled free from the muscled body of the Imperial, “Khendon Sevon.”

[Khendon Sevon]

Khendon reached forward and grasped the Doctor’s face in his hands. He pulled the man forward and looked at him with wild eyes. “Khendon Sevon.”

Through his clenched jaw the man mumbled, “I kwow, swir. Ywer nwame is Khwendon Swevon.” The Executor’s fingers dug into the Doctor’s skin and he screamed.

Khendon grabbed his throat and stood, lifting the man off his feet in the process. “You have no clue what’s happened. Not an inkling of an idea. You’re bereft of the knowledge. No thoughts of what has happened have ever touched your mind.”

Not knowing what to say, the Doctor shook his head and made a gurgling sound.

It didn’t satisfy the Executor. He threw the man aside into the wall. The Doctor’s body slumped to the ground like a bag of broken twigs.

Khendon bent over pinched, two fingers together, and picked the stim up. He took a puff. “No idea at all.” He turned dramatically and looked at the dead man, “Khendon Sevon.”

Still billowing smoke, he looked at his hands. The tattoos had worked their insane poems over his knuckles and ran lightning bolts to his fingertips. He could feel the Force running along the bands of darkness that covered his human flesh.

He let out a sigh and felt it expressed in the human world and equally in ripples in the Force.

The door slid open.

“Sir?” The Guardsman looked at the slumped body and nodded. “You’re back.”

Smoke vented from Khendon’s flared nostrils. “I was never gone.”

[Khendon Sevon]

He undid the buttons of his dress uniform and threw them on the couch. Systematically, by rote, he removed his uniform.

“Sir?” The Guardsman frowned at the naked Executor. “Your uniform?”

“That is not my uniform.” Said Khendon as he flexed his muscles. He could feel the soldier’s eyes turning away from the tattooed form and the confusion.

“I ensure you, Executor, it is a uniform of your station.”

“My station?” He grunted in amusement. “It is not. Is the Death Advocate in orbit?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Khendon pursed his lips. “Have them bring down my trunk.”

“By your will,” the Guardsman pounded his chest and turned to leave.

“And, Guardsman?”

“Yes?”

“My saber,” it was nearly growled.

“Ah, yes. The planet does not permit—“

“—My saber.” Khendon narrowed his eyes and dared the soldier to deny him.

“As you command, Executor.” He clicked his heels together and saluted.

“You’re still here? Go!”


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

Khendon clasped the last buckle on his black, carbon-fiber, ribbed greaves. He adjusted the leather band that ran over his naked chest to connect his spiked spaulders. A quick tug snuggly secured his vambraces at his wrists.

He wore dark, loose leggings of synthetic material and an even darker cloak of midnight black secured at the back to his spaulders. The long shaft of his family saber hung easily at his hip while the smaller, thinner, single-handed saber dangled in a scabbard below his left armpit.

His shuttle docked and the Executor made his way to the bridge of his flagship.

All the faces were new. He grinned inwardly.

Everyone stood as he entered the room. “As you were,” he growled in a gruff voice.

He turned to his trusted Guardsman. “Get on the horn; I want a fleet amassed and running my colors as soon as possible.”

Normally Storm Guardsmen were the unquestioning type. They accepted Khendon’s orders and executed them to the letter. Still, this was a strange request. “Sir?”

“I supposed you want an explanation. Well, I don’t have to give one! I’m Khendon Sevon!”

“That you are, Sir. By your command, Executor. I will arrange a fleet.” The Guardsman clicked his heels together.

“Gather the Guardsmen together, too. Pull them from all of their assignments. Get every last one of the dark lot to meet us.” Khendon’s face twitched with drive.

“By your will.” The man turned to leave.

“Oh, and, Guardsman?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Find out,” Khendon ground his teeth, “where she is.”

“She, Sir?”

It was low and guttural, “Loklorien s’Ilancy.”