In his house below Katarr dead Abyss waits dreaming

[Darth Abyss]

Katarr, The Drowned Archives

The black sea was quite this night, the polluted waters idly resting above the drowned home of the Prophet.

Darth Abyss, Prophet of Katarr, and often only known as the Mindeater, waited quietly in the ancient halls of the archives, the tendrils of his endless mind reaching across his cities in lonely meditation. The emptiness was nearly all that was left of the hollow lord, and it was the emptiness that allowed him to oversee his realm without ever leaving his sanctum at the ground of the ocean. Nothing escaped his eyes and ears, and a lift of his hand was enough to change the course of his world in an instant.

Like his predecessor, Darth Nihilus the true Lord of Hunger, he had come to this world, even if it had been for an entirely different purpose. Hunger had cleansed the world, and Abyss came to build upon the ruins. The cycle continued.


Katarr, Defiance

The city of Defiance was a place of dirt and debauchery, a fortress of chaos build to fit the anarchic vision of the Prophet. There was no law, no government, no rules other then the survival of the fittest. It was no surprise that crime had become the very core of Katarr's new society, with the mind of the Prophet at its heart. While he wasn't in control over any cartel and any gang that ravaged the streets, his agents resides in every position that was relevant. They lived among the populous, making sure that the will of their Lord was respected, if the people knew it or not.

Despite the fact that Abyss had more then once risen to directly rule the Free Cities for the sake of war and survival, he was still more part of legends then a piece of common knowledge. They people knew he was there, always watching, always plotting, their dark guardian in victory and defeat. Yet only very few knew about his true nature, and trying to find prove of his power was an easy to quickly land in the crosshair of the Inner Eye.

That was of course, if one got so far. With the way the cities operated, there was always a chance that scum and lowlifes took up their opportunity and hunted those that asked a few questions to many, hoping to appease their dark lord and gain his cursed favor.

[member="Bjorn Heartholm"]

 

[Bjorn Heartholm]

Just so.

Malachor V had yielded nothing but information, a mere direction. But the resolute would not fail in this new goal, Bjorn would get what he needed, and he would find it on Katarr.

The city of Defiance was infested with the miserable, and orderless hive with little direction or purpose, save that their secret ruler who watched over them and they followed his rule to the letter, and that leader was exactly the person Bjorn was searching for. After his old master Krest had informed him about the secret organisation of Sith assassins he was apart of, Bjorn had seen an opportunity. So, after leaving the Sith Empire, and in turn his old master, Bjorn had set forth to recruit some meager mercenaries to accompany him in finding the location of the fabled Darth Abyss.

His search had brought him here, standing against a moderately sized gang as they sized him and his group up, already drawing various weapons. The alley was dimly lit, with nothing but a side door entrance and varying pieces of refuse lying scattered below there feet, were soon the thugs would also be lying. Bjorn seemed calm, his face the plaster of almost tranquility compared to the usual rage-induced personas of Sith at his skill. But he was fueled with something more, dark whispers filled his head once again as his eyes narrowed and his head craned from side to side, an intimidating stance for sure.

Not backing down, his opponents made the first move, rushing forward in an attempt to catch Bjorn and his traveling companions off-guard, not so. Bjorn drew his blade, the sleek steel and bone hilt done no justice in the murky light of the alley. His thoughts returned back to that of his old master as he moved to engage, the day they met, his blade sweeping upwards to meet serrated knife of his opponent, his sheer force smashing through his meager defense as his sword continued through to meet his chin.

Just like old times. The contest continued...

| [member="Darth Abyss"] |

 

[Darth Abyss]

Nothing happened on Katarr without one of the endless eyes of the Prophet looking down upon it.

It was no rare occurrence that those gifted by the darkness found their way in the grimy streets of Defiance. The Crimson District had earned its name by being a violent proving ground for those that had just begun their ascent, and there was always a pair of eyes that watched it for those with true potential. Most simply found death there, their arrogance and blind faith in themselves misleading them into the blade of a sword or the barrel of rifle. Most others found a lesson to remember, and another challenge overcome. The selected few that didn't fell into either group had a special faith waiting for them.

From the rooftops a pair of bright green eyes watched the battle unfold, the pupils quickly focusing on the man that commanded the small gang of outsiders. The agent hadn't been blessed by the poisonous power of the dark side, but he had seen its followers fight every time he marched on the battlefield on Abyss' side. It was an open secret that the warrior was more then the rubble that normally crawled through the streets.

His movements reminded him of a video feed he had seen years ago, depicting a sparring session between Darth Abyss, the Black Assassin and his superior Darth Ferox, the Red Assassin. While the movements lacked the raw finesse and perfection that marked the stylistics of the Red's bladework, it was still possible to at least suspect a connection, a connection to a Sith Lord who still stood at the side of Abyss' enemies within the Empire.

"My Prophet, here Pale Hand. I'm investigating a potential agent of the Empire at my transmitted location."

The pale skinned agents whispered into his comm, but there was no answer on the device. Instead the ring around his left hand began to glow in a dim red, while the words of his master spoke directly into his mind. Nodding in acknowledgment despite the physical absence of his Prophet the agents raised his rifle, quietly continuing his watch on the warrior who was occupied with pushing his blade into a random thug.

[member="Bjorn Heartholm"]

 

[Bjorn Heartholm]

Meanwhile, below in the streets the combat came to a sudden end when Bjorn unleashed a torrent towards his opponents, knocking a small amount of them to the ground, allowing Bjorn and his men to quickly execute them. He wasn't using his powers so brashly in an open area for no good reason, he was attempting to stir up as much commotion as possible, spread whispers and rumors n a calculated attempt to make his presence on this planet well-known, and as the last few stragglers, severely beaten by Bjorn and his men, attempted to flee, Bjorn would pull one of them back towards him, grasping the scruff of his neck as he was hefted back through the air and into Bjorn waiting grip.

Having sustained minimal damage from the untrained criminals, Bjorn's band of mercenaries went about looting the dead, attempting to pilfer anything of value from their warm corpses. Bjorn, meanwhile, turned the survivor towards him, crouching to his level as his icy blue eyes gazed at the captive's with an intimidating display of dominance as Bjorn opened his mouth to speak. "Your life here is meaningless, a worthless husk without direction. You value meaningless things, money, drugs, all in an attempt to discern some form of pleasure from your miserable existence." A cold chill seemed to fill the air, almost emanating from Bjorn himself as his grip tightened around the man. "However, there is mo-" Something moved out of the corner of his eye, a brief distraction, a shadow in the night. But it was more than enough to pique his interest.

Bjorn returned his gaze to the quivering man, a stern, compassionless look plastered upon his face. With two quick strokes, he dashed the man's head against the side of the wall, letting his motionless body crumple under him as he stood and regained his poise. The other survivors whom he'd let run would share the story of what happened, who knows, may by some slight miracle the man would survive and spread the word also, the events sending a bone-chilling message to the residents that heard it. However, he had a new target.

Whatever, or whomever, he'd seen on that roof had been spying on Bjorn and his group, and he was determined to find out why. With the snap of a finger, Bjorn drew the attention of his company, immediately halting the last of their looting as turning to face him as he addressed them, "Someone had been watching us, set up a small perimeter five blocks around here, keep it loose and don't draw attention to yourselves. Report any suspicious activity and it's location over the comm-link channel. I will give a rendezvous location when I am ready. Be sure to stay on guard."

With a slight nod, the mercs left, fanning out around the entire area to do what they were payed to do. Bjorn himself waited a moment, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth with determination. He started forward, running towards the wall in front of him as he gathered power in his palms. Just before hitting the wall, he splayed his palms, shooting forth power from his hands to propel himself upwards. Bjorn then proceeded to scale the wall, using a combination of the force and makeshift handholds to reach the top of the building. He reached the area he'd seen the movement beforehand, however nobody was here now. Wherever they'd gone, they'd taken off fast, so Bjorn would be faster. He reached out with the force, attempting to sense the presence of anyone in the area out of the ordinary. He could feel the people below, no doubt some being his mercenaries, however one was out of the ordinary, a faint whisper tugged Bjorn towards it, and Bjorn would follow.

| [member="Darth Abyss"] |

 

[Darth Abyss]

Outrunning an agent of the Inner Eye wasn't just possible, it was an task easily archived for those gifted with the force. Yet that was far from the challenge ahead of someone that meant to catch one. They were the best of the best within the Prophet's ranks, and each of them had a specific skill set to aid them besides their years of training and service in the wars of the One Sith Empire.

Pale Hand, the Prophet's most cunning con man, was an underwhelming fighter and sharpshooter compared to his peers, but he had other more obscure abilities that had made him an irreplaceable asset to the course of Abyss and his Tainted Chorus. When [member="Bjorn Heartholm"] reached the rooftops, he already had ended up in the center of crosshair again, this time aimed from below.

The agent had already left his large, easily noticeable sniper rifle behind as a false trace to follow, and was now making use of a personal handblaster outfitted with a scope attached on the barrel of the weapon. His clothes had already changed, the dirty rags and worn out boots making him indistinguishable from Katarr's common populous. His movement consisted of a perfectly faked limp, and even on closer examination the pale man looked nothing like a threat, let alone like someone that could get up and down on the building around in a matter of minutes.

He already knew that the unknown sith was onto him. The Prophet had warned them that this would one day come. Since Abyss deflection from the Empire they had lived under the constant threat of the Dark Lord's hounds coming to find them, and for that case they had agreed on a contingency plan. Masking Abyss' presence on the world had the highest priority. They lost one world already, and neither the Prophet nor his men were keen on losing another.

Would the Sith newcomer followed the clues left on the small datachip build into the interface of the rifle, he would find himself in a shady bar, The Deadman's Dive, only a few minutes away from the place of the battle. There the agent would already wait, shrouded by the similar looking scum around him while drinking water out of booze bottles.

 

[Bjorn Heartholm]

The dark rooftops huddled together in large clumps, allowing for easy access between them. Bjorn kept along his path until he discovered a large object, dropped atop one of the roofs he was striding across. He looked around, attempting to spot whomever had been spying on Bjorn and his men, with little success. It would appear that the perpetrator was long gone, leaving only his weapon, the object at Bjorn's feet, as a clue.

Realising that a continued chase would prove fruitless, Bjorn hefted the rifle into his arms, inspecting the sleek weapon. It was then he noticed what was clearly intended for him. The interface of the rifle had been modified with some type of data-chip built into the processing unit of the advanced weapon, constantly feeding a location with co-ordinates on the screen. It was more than a clue, it was a blatant invitation, and if he had already caused such a stir on this planet with his hunt for the Sith Lord, it was an invitation that was almost definitely a trap.

Nevertheless, Bjorn open his comms and asked for a read on the location of the co-ordinates given, a few moments later, one of his mercenaries coming back with a reply, "It's called the 'Deadman's Dive', boss." The merc spoke up, "It looks like a cantina a few clicks from where we last saw you."

Bjorn nodded to himself, content that if he was find this Sith Lord, he would have to walk head first into the devil's den, "Alright." He responded over the comm-link. "I will make my way there, you and the rest of the men are to disperse around the area while about half of you enter the bar after me at intermediate times. Some enter alone, some of you in groups. Do not sit together or communicate with one another unless you enter as a group, make it look like you plan on having a meal or drink and keep you heads down. I only want you there as protective insurance, not to start any trouble." Bjorn began to make his way down from the rooftops, leaping to lower hanging buildings and sliding down maintenance ladders. "I'm making my way way to the marked location now, whoever we're dealing with will most likely recognise my face, if you arrive at the cantina before I do, do not loiter out the front. Those waiting outside will make themselves sparse whilst covering all areas around the place, and will report any suspicious activity via their comm-link."

With that, Bjorn walked on silently, pushing towards his new destination.

| [member="Darth Abyss"] |

 

[Darth Abyss]

Pale Hand quietly rested on his seat, discreetly typing into the datapad placed on the table in front of him. His face showed the slightest hint of a smirk as his lightly blue eyes searched through the bar, waiting for any sign of the sith that followed him. It always amused him to no end that he was unseen in plain sight, one of the most integral parts of Abyss' operation and yet unknown to anyone but the Inner Eye and the Prophet himself. His Lord was a master of trickery and deception, and his elite had earned their shared trust by being as well.

While it was looking like the agent was merely another patron taking care of whatever business on his small device, the truth was that he was silently preparing a trap for the sith. On his command other members of the Inner Eye had made their way to the Deadman's Dive, and due to the countless sniper rifles aimed at the bars entrance from as much different angles, the area was now effectively a killzone. Yet it was not their intention to kill the sith, but keep him from fleeing the scene once chaos would unfold.

Newcomers rarely understood the truths of the Free Cities. The second anyone openly asked for Abyss, a silent death sentence was spoken. It was Katarr's only, albeit unwritten, law that Prophet was beyond anyone's reach, and that it was only his fragile interest in his creation that allowed the ruined cities to remain. Anything that risked to damage that interest was a equal to activity destroying the city, and therefore the home of those living in it, something the former Malachorians did not take lightly.

Another thing newcomers rarely understood were the Malachorians themselves. They might appeared to be malnourished, dirty rats crawling through their equally dirty streets, but below the surface waited a far darker truth. They didn't stayed in their cities out of fear, but because they loved nothing more then the chaos they offered. Violence was part of their very essence, and the chance of facing of against more then a few seasoned and skilled warriors form all walks of life in a bar was more a certainty then a possibility.

[member="Bjorn Heartholm"]

 

[Bjorn Heartholm]

Before the hour had passed, Bjorn had found himself strolling into what would most likely result in his death, but he would face it with stern determination nonetheless. Making his way into the depraved cantina, full of the filthy squalor of the streets who sought a drink or meal inside. Despite how vicious the people of this city had already seemed to Bjorn upon his previous observations, the air was thick, and the tension was boiling. This was a completely different atmosphere altogether than the primal, unthinking emotions of the locals, these people had an objective, and they would serve and fulfill it without question.

So he was in for a fight it seemed, good. Taking a seat, Bjorn called for the first drink his eyes found themselves resting on, a cloudy bottle of Correllian brandy, probably already opened and distilled to allow for more bottles to be sold. Bjorn called the bartender for a glass and took a seat at a nearby open booth, silently observing his surroundings.

Despite the tension, the patrons of the cantina seemed to be going about the usual revelries of any cantina, drinking and chatting whilst keeping to their own business, but then again, nobody would want to stand out on a planet such as this, and Bjorn knew that whomever had planted the coordinates on that rifle would certainly be observing him from somewhere, it was just a matter of who would reveal themselves first. A few minutes after receiving his drink and taking a few initial sips from the grossly distilled alcohol, Bjorn noticed a few familiar faces make their way into the bar and take various seats around the cantina, ordering drinks and chatting with their compatriots. However, anyone with a keen enough eye would notice their foreignness, notice the slight edge to their glances around the room and the firmness they held towards their sidearms holstered at their belts. No matter what would happen next, at least Bjorn would have trained backup.

| [member="Darth Abyss"] |

 

[Darth Abyss]

Barley noticeable Pale Hand looked up from his half empty glass, glimpsing through the room just enough to make out the shape of his target. With no reaction whatsoever the agent continued to boredly type into his datapad for a few minutes more to not make his next step all that obvious. When he was fake finished with his fake business the sickly looking man downed the rest of his drink, packed up his datapad and walked towards the counter of the cantina.

On his way he noticed a few others inside that clearly had the appearance of well armed foreigners, but considering what kind of place the Free Cities of Katarr were it wasn't a overly uncommon sight. Soldiers from even the more lawful groups in the galaxy occasionally came to Katarr in search of a cheap thrill and the best of the worst parties this side of the mid rim had to offer, and the Deadman's was as good of a place for that as any other in Defiance.

"Ay mate, you ain't from here right?"

The tone of Pale Hand's voice had little to do with the natural sound of his speech. Instead of the clearly pronounced sentences of a trained stage actor, it was a artificial, drunken slur, mixed with just a touch of a Corellian Pirate's accent. Slowly the blue eyed man reached for a chair besides [member="Bjorn Heartholm"], making sure to stumble a little to add to his intoxicated act.

"Two Malachor Screwdrivers, by decree of the Prophet please."

The barkeeper on the other side of the counter didn't even wasted a look on the apparently drunk man, placing two glasses on the counter right after receiving his pay. With a oddly elegant motion the agent pushed the second glass over to the newcomer, before indulging into his own drink.

"If I were you I'd stop wasting my time here. For a little fee I could show you the real good stuff, instead of the trash they sell you off-worlders over the counter. Everything you want, girls, weapons, spice, chems, all that makes men like us happy."

With the skill of a man that had perfromed everywhere, from Coruscant to the outer edges of the Outer RIm, Pale Hand continued his little act, letting out a dirty chuckle before giving the unknown sith his most deranged grin.

 

[Bjorn Heartholm]

It was him. The strange man who slowly approached Bjorn whilst calling for drinks for the two of them, Bjorn knew that this stranger had been the one on the rooftops from before. Whilst he'd never actually seen his face, and he wasn't altogether adept at tracking people with the force, Bjorn's instincts kicked in as he played along with the ruse.

Bjorn had no intention to indulge in what this man offered him, and he suspected that he didn't either, another trick to make the Valkyri vulnerable, to take him away from his men. But it was his only shot. So he sat, his drink untouched as he stared at the man before him, playing a most convincing role as he tried to indulge Bjorn in the hedonism of the planet. "I see." Bjorn would respond in turn, acting as just another mercenary enthralled in his offer, "And you would take me to this place of which you speak? Provided i provide you with enough compensation?" He questioned the man sat before him, the two surrounded by lingering hostility, just waiting to be unleashed upon the other.

At this stage, it would appear that both of the men where aware of who the other truly was, it was just a matter of whom would break character first, and when.

| [member="Darth Abyss"] |

 

[Darth Abyss]

"You're brighter then you look."

Pale Hand continued his grin after he spoke, but he could feel the hostility in the air too. Yet he wouldn't be the first to break character. Others had tried that, with everything from nice words and money to drugs and torture, and in neither of these cases he had revealed his true allegiances without being instructed to. In one quick motion he reached for the drink he had ordered, and downed it at once. Then his eyes fell on the one he had ordered for [member="Bjorn Heartholm"].

"You aren't drinking that right?"

Without leaving the other time to answer, his hand had already wrapped around the glass and downed it too. In stage school they had called that method acting. Finished with his little drunken act, the agent stood up from his chair and staggered towards the exit, waving towards the sith to follow him.

"Hurry up mate, time is money around here."

It was clear that both sides had an idea what was going on, but from what Pale Hand could figure out without asking the sith was searching for something or someone, most likely the being he served with absolute dedication. Even if he knew that going outside was a trap, he had the choice between following him, or asking around in the bar which would end equally bad for him.