Public Shatterpoint | Aftermath

[Darth Solipsis]

​

The Dark Voice is dead.​

At the height of the cataclysmic Battle of Tython, wielding the scalpel of creation at the peak of Akar Kesh, the Sith'ari was felled.

Whilst the galaxy had not been undone, by the end of the battle, the Brotherhood of the Maw had effectively ravaged the heart of the Core Worlds and inflicted untold damages across the galaxy at large. From the depths of the Unknown Regions to the far reaches of the Outer Rim, the Second Great Hyperspace War drew in nearly every galactic power over the last ten long years into total war. The Reign of Terror brought by Darth Solipsis was finally at an end, but..

The Brotherhood of the Maw and the dominant New Sith Order remain.

The legacy of the Dark Lord persists, continuing their dark crusade across the cosmos, unrelenting and unhinged. The forces of the Brotherhood fall back to their stronghold on the Hidden World of the Sith, Exegol, where a great burial and subsequent ritualistic coronation will be held in honor of the one who had led the Sith to total destruction in the fires of the Sith Schism and subsequent rebirth in victory as the New Sith Order. The Prophecy of the Sith'ari has passed, the age of Solipsis at an end. The Throne of the Sith and the Voice of the Maw pass to a new power, one who’s vision shall not be impeded, who’s right was bought by might alone.

The Sepulcher of the Sith’ari, a monument etched into a nameless valley near the Hon Zdull plateau, was once built by the devoted Church of the Dark Side to commemorate the prophecy fulfilled and serve as an icon of Sith supremacy. In the aftermath of the Battle of Tython, it’s purpose has changed, hastily modified into a ceremonial tomb to house the Dark Armor and personal effects of the deceased Dark Lord of the Sith.

Returning to the throne-world of the Brotherhood, the MAW gather enmasse. The once-empty valley floods with a sea of religious zealots, faithful marauders, neo-imperials, and countless faiths of darksiders whom had swore fealty to the fallen Voice of the Maw. The Heathen Priests sing praise to their fallen prophet alongside the Sith cultists and their masters within the New Sith Order.

The Dark Voice may have been prevented from subsuming the dying galaxy of old, but the Sages of Bogan proclaim to have witnessed a Gateway to the Galaxy-To-Come open in their dreams in the aftermath of Tython. The ritual had been partially completed, salvaged by the efforts of Darth Mori who’s sheer power inflicted catastrophic damages unknown to the planet of Tython itself. They sing praises to She and to their fallen master, heralding the achievements of the Dark Lord and all who passed away in service to the Dark Crusade.



The sarcophagi carried within the valley to be interred are as followed:


Dark Lord of the Sith and Dark Voice:
Darth Solipsis
Dark Armor worn by the Sith’ari during the Battle of Tython and personal effects. Entombed within the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari

Dark Lord of the Sith and Shadow Hand of Solipsis:
Darth Caelitus ( Halketh )
Preserved corpse and Dark Armor, collected by the Church of the Dark Side during the Battle of Tython. Entombed within the Tomb of Darth Caelitus

Sith Lord and Prophet of the New Sith Order:
Darth Vinaze
Missing in Action, Urn containing preserved ashes from first death. Entombed within the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari

Sith Lord and former Dark Sovereign to the Warlords of the Sith:
Kascalion Giedfield
Skeletal remnants collected by wishes of Darth Solipsis to honor the Devil himself.
Entombed within the Tomb of Kascalion Giedfield

Sith Lord and former Dark Councillor of the Sith Empire:
Darth Xanesh
Preserved corpse, collected by Church of the Dark Side during Battle of Tython.
Entombed within the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari

Sith Lord and Devotee of the Church of the Dark Side:
Laoth
Preserved corpse, collected by Lord Letifer during Battle of Tython.
Entombed within the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari

Honorary Burial | Warlord of the Scar Hounds
The Mongrel
No traces found. Likeness poured to resemble using duracrete for top plate and inside filled with soil from Mar’Zambul.
Entombed within the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari

Take part in the Funeral of Darth Solipsis, form connections, engage rivals, discover who will fill the void in leadership with the deaths of so many of the Avatars’ chosen. Stake your claim and seize your chance to rise among the ashes. The Dark Crusade must continue, who will rule the domain of the MAW and take up the Throne of the Sith?





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[Alars Keto]

K R A T H​

The sky was bleak and battered by storms. Discharges of brilliant light flickered through the veil, echoing chatter reverberated in the aftermath. His feet ached, the harsh stone and long walk through the desert took it’s toll as he peered on ahead at the distant Sepulcher of the Sith’ari carved at the head of the Valley.

The convoy marched on, led at the front by none other than Tu'teggacha and several pontiffs from the Church of the Dark Side carrying the sarcophagus of Darth Solipsis . The Krath cultist was conveniently positioned between the Sith cultists and the Heathen Priests, the rest of those that would attend from the Brotherhood’s ranks followed in their wake or were already waiting in attendance.

It was a remarkable sight really, rows without end of hooded faithful walked the desert sands, braving the forsaken wastes of Exegol to bury their dark heroes and long revered prophet.

The Sith’ari was dead.

Killed in the closing moments of the Battle of Tython, wielding the power to alter reality itself. There was no cut deeper that could be made, mere days after and tensions already began to flair between the Dark Voice’s flock. Those that followed the Sith religion and those that followed the Scripture of the Hidden Maw struggled to find common ground without their prophet, the glue that held them together.

Trying times were ahead, only someone of vision and strength would be able to guide them from the calamity of civil strife approaching. He feared what would happen if the Brotherhood was allowed to tear itself apart after becoming the Dark Side’s most potent champions. United, they were almost unstoppable.

 

[Kyrel Ren]

​

The dark sanctums of a dark world mourned the loss of the Sith’ari. Perhaps one of the biggest gatherings since Solipsis was proclaimed Sith’Ari. Now Solipsis was dead, and even among the funeral processions there was an air of ambiguity. Solipsis was largely the driving force that held the Maw together, now his death was like blood to a pack of Kath Hounds. The tension started to simmer the moment the Dark Lord fell, now it was only a matter of time before the faithful adherence of the Maw, and those that followed the Sith would clash for who would control it all.

Kyrel never thought he would be back to this world. As soon as he began his stride towards the citadel, lightning crackled across the sky. The barren wasteland of black sand didn’t change in the slightest, save for the boots that walked its surface once more. Kyrel fought the Nobles in a gruesome battle, to the point where Kyrel would climb from the planet’s fiery depths to its ruined surface.

As he walked, the Force swirled and felt hollow instead of the burning rage that empowered the Ren. As he ventured deep into the citadel, memories came of when Solipsis revealed his grand plan to Kyrel. Just as before the Sith chants that greeted him before were still there. Instead of joyous celebration had turned into somber pays of respect to the dark lord. Kyrel confidently strode towards the inner chamber, his fingers just itching for his saber. He waited for this day and now that the Sith were gone nothing could stop him.

Seeing the mass of acolytes and believers had stirred his hunger. Not only did he survive his duel, he came back as something else. He was a black hole, distorting the Force into something far more twisted, his hunger turned ravenous to now instead of individuals, he would devour groups, settlements, perhaps one day entire worlds. The temptation to murder them all was great, and yet Kyrel tried desperately to hold off on his urges to feed.

Later he found himself walking through the crowd, aiming to take his place to stand with the other tribal leaders in a show of brotherhood, and respect for the man that led them so far. Kyrel looked around, pondering who would dare take Solipsis’s place if not him. As he stood silent as the grave, one question came to the Wound’s mind, where would they go from here? His gaze fixated on the sarcophagus of Solipsis moving through the large crowd.

Alars Keto

 

[Tu'teggacha]

At the head of the somber procession, walking in front of the sarcophagus of the Dark Voice himself, scuttled Taskmaster Tu'teggacha. His strange, hunched gait made his movements eerie, as though he were some sea creature forced to worm his way over dry land, but he managed to keep ahead of the dark-robed pontiffs marching along behind him. If he didn't, they would run him over and squash him with that heavy stone coffin, and the Prophet of the Maw would posthumously claim one last victim. The Taskmaster did not intend to let that happen. In the wake of the Sith'ari's death, his goals were unchanged.

Survive. Gain Power. Secure Safety. Simple things, really.

All around the Taskmaster were people of faith: Heathen Priests, Krath cultists, Sith devotees, Sorcerers of Rhand. Before his untimely passing, Solipsis had managed to weld together quite the coalition of dark mystics, somehow convincing them all that his goals and beliefs were in line with theirs. That had been perhaps his greatest gift: the ability to take utter chaos and somehow unify it, wielding it like a blade. That blade had cut deep into the heart of the galaxy, carving a path of ruin through the Core Worlds, opening the way to strike at the very heart of Solipsis's greatest enemies: Tython, the birthplace of their order.

He had grown proud from his many successes...

... and pride goeth before a fall.

Tu'teggacha was not like those men and women of faith. He had never bought into the Mawite gospel, recognizing it as one of the supposed Prophet's most effective tools of mass manipulation, nor did he care anything for the Sith creed, or any of these other dark religions. He had served Solipsis because the man had power, power that he had been willing to delegate in part to his trusted Taskmaster. And Tu'teggacha craved power. For too long he had been powerless, forced to endure the indignities that the strong freely visit upon the week. It had made him hard and cruel and hateful... and now, he was the strong one.

At least, he had been. What was he to do now?

Despite his incredible mental powers of torment and reshaping, Tu'teggacha was under no illusions that he could stand alone. He was no mighty warrior or inspiring warlord, capable of holding off his foes through strength or leadership. His opportunities to dominate and torture, reveling in his petty, misguided revenge on the various inhabitants of an uncaring galaxy, came as gifts from stronger patrons. And now his strongest patron was dead, laid low at the moment of his greatest triumph, and the future of the Maw was uncertain. For the Ebruchi, that uncertainty was a fearful thing indeed.

Without the Brotherhood, united and strong, he was nothing.

So he participated in this bit of theatre, this one last time that the Dark Voice could unite them - through reverence of his corpse. But when the Prophet was sealed in that great tomb, what then? The Taskmaster glanced at Alars Keto , and he thought of Teta. No doubt the Galactic Alliance, battered and bruised but eager to follow up on their success at Tython, would strike to reclaim the planet... and the Brotherhood, overextended and bled nearly dry of troops and materiel, would struggle to hold it. Indeed, every world they had taken in their narrow push into the Core was now at risk of recapture.

The Ebruchi sensed a wave of darkness, something powerful enough to break through the background shadow and chill of Exegol, and his glassy black eyes flicked toward Kyrel Ren . The man - no, the undead thing - had returned from Tython profoundly wounded, a wound that festered in the Living Force itself... and that deep, vile corruption had only made him an even more dangerous creature, a black hole of hunger that devoured life and light, and was never sated. He had openly challenged Solipsis himself for power in the past. With the Prophet dead, he would surely make his play for control of the Brotherhood.

And who else, the Taskmaster wondered? Who else would grab for the reins?

The dejarik board was being set for a new phase of the game...

... but he couldn't yet see who the players were...

... or which pieces each of them would move.

 

[The Grunt]

Exegol Provisional Barracks A33
Suffer the Meek​

The drums and droning of the funeral processions, far outside the operating room, rumbled deep into the earth. Full of symbolism and ceremony, such matters were not for one such as Runt, lowest of the low. No, they were for his betters, and besides, Runt could not really afford to worry about the death of the Sith'ari at this moment, writhing in pain on the operating table and staring up at the blinding, swinging lights. He willed himself to stare into it, to burn his senses out, but the pain cut at him with every breath, and the rumbling continued. The Scar Hound aspirant cursed himself for the umpteenth time, wondering if death on that accursed moon long ago was not preferable to the life of a Maw grunt.

His wounds were only barely patched up since the defeat on Tython. Plasma scorching, physical trauma, Force wounds... Runt was looking very much worse for the wear, but of course the real concern the Hounds had was that his mechanical components might fail. Hence being strapped to an operating table for emergency repairs before a quick bath in stale Bacta.

Strapped down as he was, he heard the warsmith-chirugeon himself enter the room, his mechanisms whirring and puffing louder as he appraoched.

"Ooh you're a fresh one ain't ya?" the cybernetic sawbones grinned as he leaned over Runt. Without waiting for a response, he got to work.

"Don't squirm, this'll be good for ya!" The warsmith chuckled, pulling out his equipment from the nearby operating table with his two flesh arms and two mechanical claw arms extending from his shoulders.

"Now, I've got to be quick, so first things first," he said, before jamming wires into Runt's open wounds.

The pain seared through every nerve of his body and he screamed, screamed like his soul was breaking free from his mortal coil. Or, he would be, had he not already been pre-emptively gagged by the surgeon.

The pain subsided for a second, replaced with a numbing, localised ache in his arms as the warsmith began to fuse metal and flesh.

"Right, I told you I needed you awake for that bit, what with nerve signals and all, but you can have some shut-eye now, awright?" The warsmith looked up from his work, a toothy grin plastered on his face. Runt was unable to formulate a look that conveyed "HOW DO YOU PROPOSE I DO THAT" before the warsmith twisted something on the edge of Runt's gag. The aspirant felt a cool liquid balloon through the gag before the world went dark.

He awoke to screaming and more pain.

Runt jolted upright, realising he was no longer bolted down. The screaming was not his, which was an improvement. Looking around the dimly-lit room, he realised he was in what passed for a recuperating room. The bare walls were illuminated by hewn windows alongside one wall, the gravelight of Exegol trickling in, and he noticed the walls were of some misshapen rock. On a whim, Runt got up from his cot and stretched his legs, moving over to one of the walls, past the other sleeping or moaning aspirants that were lucky to survive but not too lucky to not have to suffer the minitsrations of the chirugeon. Runt touched the ston. Its texture was unnatural, as well an ex-slave miner like him would know. It was as if it had never felt air or water erosion, waiting in the deep bowels of the earth for eons.

Just as I have waited to rise out of nothing to something. I wonder if the warband finally has room for me to rise out of this chickensith outfit.

Tags: Open

 

[Surea]

The Sith'ari died?

Surea had no idea what to make of that information. She was still learning so much about the Sith, about who she was. But he was dead. And not just him. Others of the Sith leadership had died. Who would lead them now? No, it didn't matter who would lead them now. She stuck to the shadows, hiding beneath her golden mask as she searched for the one that did matter.

What her master wanted, what her master would do now, that's what mattered.

Darth Ptolemis

 

[Tegan Starfall]

Tegan had not been seen since the battle in the Valley on Odessen. The Day the Maw tribes had betrayed her fully in her mind. It was the day she truly saw the end of her time within the brotherhood coming to an end. There had been signs before that on Jedha, Dromund Kaas, and even Rhand way before that her role within the Maw was merely ceremonial rather than anything substantial. It had gnawed at her and ate are her core as she saw the sith grow become boogeyman of the Galaxy. No matter what she did or who she brough to the table they had always seemed to get the credit. Jealousy grew in her heart as the Galaxy saw Darth Solipsis , The Mongrel , Halketh , Darth Mori, Kyrel Ren , and Khamul Kryze as the leadership within the Maw and she was never mentioned in the hushed voices of the people used when they spoke of the terror of the Galaxy.

It was because of this when the time came to push into the core and further on to attack the world of Tython birthplace of the first Jedi, Tegan had turned her back and walked away. She brought the Sorcerrors of Rhand, The Krath, and Witches to the Maw steps all groups which had troubled and rocky history with the Sith usually the sith betraying them in most cases. Tegan had felt in the long run she had brought in more then she got out of the Maw and they need to be taught a hard lesson so she walked away just as their crusade had truly begun.

Now sitting on her throne in bone temple on Rhand she gazed into a crystal ball as so many where being laid to rest in their respective tombs. As she watched a few Rhandites gather around her one speaking up to her.

"You saw it coming their failure on Tython?"

"I didn't have to see it coming, Tython has stood through so much galactic carnage any fool could see the near impossibility of destroying that world. " Tegan could claim anything she want that she had a vision of them losing. She could lie and say she knew they would all die but in truth she never had a vision of such she just knew she had seen Tython attacked before many times and never had any broke the heart of the Jedi.

Another Rhandite spoke up. "Now about half of the Maw's leadership is gone along with the voice. It does indeed seem foolish knowing the Tython also still stands, one has to wonder what is next?"

"Civil War Maybe, thought hat would be pretty one sided with the final dawn owning most of the assets. Someone could claim the throne claim to be the inheritor of the Voice. In Truth I want to watch them rip each other apart." Tegan smirked and her eyes flared a bright orange at the thought of the Brotherhood of the Maw falling to pieces at the lose showing once and for all just how fragile they really are.

"You could make a move for there throne become their new Sith'ari and Voice." Another dark acolyte chimed in but Tegan's face did not seem amused as they said. Quickly the acolyte tried make a correction in their words so not incur Tegan's wrath. " I mean it is only fitting you were apart of the leadership, you have right to claim it and make it your own show them what they neglected. Show the Galaxy what they chose to ignore, the true destructive nature of the Maw what you brought to the table."

Tegan Sighed heavily at the thought. "They don't want me they proved that many times. As much as I want to show the Galaxy at large the true ruler of this Reality I don't think it can be done through the Maw." Tegan mused for a moment longer. "Then again maybe I should be so quick dismiss the Maw as whole, maybe we should just wait and watch." Often Tegans other side on the throne sat a chess board with many pieces of all different colors. With her left hand she picked up a red king that represented Darth Solipsis , Tegan then laid the peace on it's on the chess board. She then picked up a pawn and a black king. She looked at both he pieces and then spoke to all the rhandites gathered around her. "As the king falls a pawn shall rise." The smirk growing wider as that chaotic glint in her orange glowing eyes sparked.

 

[Onrai]

Exegol

"We never learn, do we?"

Onrai spoke these words to no one in particular, but the effort laid out in the veneration of these dead was in her opinion all a waste. For all that Darth Solipsis had done, for all the legions he had unified and the irreparable harm he had done to the various other galactic powers the Maw vied against, his death was yet another insignificant loss against the fabric of the cosmos. He would join Palpatine, Bane, Xendor, Valkorion, and countless others who had ultimately failed in their conquest of the galaxy, and like his predecessors, leave behind a broken and fragmented mixture of warlords and powermongers eager to fill his shadow. This was nothing new - as a mortal she had seen it countless times throughout Sith Empires and organizations. The main reason she had never chosen to forcibly take power was deliberate: until the present time, she did not have what it would have taken to force subservience, only coerce it.

That had certainly changed.

Tu'teggacha would feel a familiar presence, though Onrai herself was not immediately visible amongst the crowd, her anonymity assured by the change of face and change of race. She had spoken with the Ebruchi, offered him security and protection within her domain. So far, the challengers who would prove to be more difficult had not yet proven fortuitous. She was aware of the presence of Tegan Starfall , but truthfully there was but one woman she had chosen to wait patiently for and eye the actions of before she chose to make a decision.

That woman was Darth Mori.

Mori had been gifted with the most precious of possessions Onrai had ever physically come into possession of: the heart of Typhojem, the Left-Handed God. With it, she now had immense power and was as Onrai was. If Mori made a move to subjugate the others and ensure a strong leader held power over the Maw, Onrai would do nothing and allow things to continue as they were, confident in her ability to lead. If she did nothing... then Onrai would be forced to take drastic measures in order to ensure the Maw did not break up.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Tags: Darth Mori, Kyrel Ren , Tu'teggacha , Surea , The Grunt , Tegan Starfall , Alars Keto , Onrai

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

The Sith'ari was dead...

It was a strange notion, the concept of Solipsis' fall. Khamul had long awaited the day, for in such moments came opportunity. Yet, the fact that it happened so soon made things more complicated. The Dark Voice was meant to be slain by one of the Maw's own, as the Banite way demanded. The Jedi robbed them of that right, and now they would have to determine their next move.

The Demon Mandalore stood among the endless sea of believers in the Dark Voice as the funeral procession commenced. He could almost hear the whispers of opportunism from those present, as many were likely having similar thoughts of ambition. It was in their nature, after all. The Brotherhood of the Maw was always teetering on the edge of civil war, and the only thing that kept them together was power... the Dark Voice's power. It was the glue that kept them from tearing each other apart, and without it... where would their loyalties fall?

He had taken care to bring many of Death's Hand with him. Many among their number weren't as devoted to the gospels of the Avatars as some of the other groups within the Maw, but they didn't need to be. They simply needed to be loyal, and on this day... such loyalty would be most useful. Khamul believed that he could best his competitors, but there were too many factors at play. He had established his own connections within the Brotherhood, but there would be no way to ensure that such connections wouldn't be broken. As such, Death's Hand would remain present, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd as they accompanied their Mand'alor.

Today would certainly be a pivotal one, but Khamul would have to wait and see in which direction the pendulum would swing... but swing, it woud.

 

[Kralmus Orr]

​

Kralmus Orr stood tall and proud beside Mand'alor the Unchained, Khamul Kryze , his people's one true leader.

As tall and proud as he could presently manage, anyway. The wounds he'd sustained during the fighting aboard the Avatar of War still pained him. His right arm was wrapped in a medicated cast, the badly-fractured bones beneath slowly knitting back together. Beneath his chestplate lay a fresh patchwork of surgical scars, the aftermath of long hours of treatment to remove bone fragments from his internal organs and repair his shattered ribs. A haze of medication still hung over him, and his normally-bright yellow eyes were somewhat dimmed and unfocused - not that anyone could see that behind his iconic horned helmet, which he'd just barely managed to recover before retreating.

Kralmus ought to have been resting, recuperating from injuries so severe they had brought him to the very brink of death. Failing that, he should have been back on the front lines, the placed he always wanted to be. In the wake of the Brotherhood's defeat at Tython, ravaging the planet but failing to obliterate it, their always-tenuous position in the Core Worlds had begun to rapidly unravel. The counterstrike would come swiftly, for the Galactic Alliance would be eager to build on their victory and liberate the planets they had lost to the relentless Mawite push. Kralmus wanted to be there, standing against the would-be liberators, fighting and killing as any Mandalorian should.

He still had no patience for tradition and ceremony... but he still obeyed the commands of his Mand'alor.

Glancing around the vast gathering, Kralmus saw many of the faces who had survived the Battle of Tython now gathered here. Although the Brotherhood's losses had been heavy, many of its most menacing warlords still stood... and no doubt eyed the now-vacant throne. Looking back at Mand'alor, the cannibal wondered if his chosen leader would be among those who coveted the position. Kryze was a Mandalorian, but he was also a Sith, and no doubt the great Sith throne here on Exegol called to him as much as it did to any member of Solipsis's mysterious order. And plenty of non-Sith, too. Everyone here had an agenda, and now no one held them all in check.

In the end, though, Kralmus didn't particularly care who ended up in charge. Tython hadn't been a defeat for him, because he'd gotten exactly what he wanted out of it. He had been immersed in the greatest battle, the greatest military slaughter, that the galaxy had seen in an age. Csilla's destruction had resulted in far more deaths overall, but that wasn't the part that mattered to Kralmus Orr. It was the clash of warriors, and there had never been a clash of warriors to exceed this one. No matter who took power, no matter if the Brotherhood fell to infighting, he had forged the glory of that struggle into his own bloody legend... and there would no doubt be even more blood to come.

Still, he couldn't help but stir the pot. "A suit of beskar would look good on that throne," he whispered to Kryze.

"Then we could really get back to our people's crusading glory days."

 

[Lord Letifer]

Lord Letifer | New Sith Order
Outside Sepulcher of the Sith’ari​

Lightning flickered off the reflective lens of his dark visor, shrouded in midnight robes the Sith Lord stood against the harsh backdrop of Exegol atop the king ascent of the freshly minted ‘Sepulcher of the Sith’ari’.

“Take note of this day.”

His voice rasped within the vocabulator, spewing forth a mechanical after sound. His gaze shifted from the masses assembled in the valley below to the apprentice at his side, Spindle . They had travelled a long road now together yet due to the ever taxing crusade their dynamic had been unorthodox. He would soon rectify that, spiraling her down a grueling crucible that would forge her into a Sith without equal. A Sith that could one day replace him.

As was intended, as was by design.

This was the way of the New Sith Order.

“The weak will be emboldened by his the Dark Lord’s death. We will once again put them to the sword to maintain supremacy, lest the Sith fall into weakness once more. Behold.”

Letifer extended his hand out towards the valley.

“Even our own, they plot to ascend. Watch the little piggies squeal when they see all the old boar left behind.”

 

[Darth Carnifex]

He did not partake of the procession, one which rivaled that of the grandest marches of the ancient Sith ages. Hundreds of thousands had congregated on Exegol to pay homage to their fallen Lord, untold multitudes stretching far across the barren dust-swept plains. Those that had placed much into the Maw would be near the body of their master, staying close to what remained of such power. But not He, He felt no strong attachment to those that committed themselves to Solipsis' crusade, let alone to Solipsis himself in life. Instead, He briefly watched the procession from a distance, His one uncovered eye capable of sight beyond that of mortal men.

But He had seen enough, there was little left to keep His attention. Turning, the Dark Lord of the Sith pushed off from the precipice, descending through a winding crag until a subterranean cavern opened up beneath Him. The power of the Dark Side flowed through Him, allowing Him to maneuver His descent and call upon shadows to ease His landing on the rough-hewn stone. The cavern had been carved out many thousands of years ago, when the Sith were still young in the galaxy. Even after all these eons, He could still feel the legacy inherent in each chisel cut.

This was not the first time He had come to this world, to Exegol. Many years ago, He had been charged by the then-living Dark Lord of the One Sith to take as many astronavigators as He could find and chart the Unknown Regions. The Dark Lord had ambitions to eventually seed the Unknown Regions with Sith settlers, a scheme that ultimately failed to materialize as the war with the Galactic Republic sucked in more and more of the Sith's manpower and resources. Still, He had done as He was asked and had rigorously charted the Unknown Regions as best as He could. In doing so, He had uncovered the lost Sith world of Tantorus, where the old Sith faith yet survived in an unbroken lineage.

The elders of Tantorus accepted Him, allowed Him to imbibe the blood soup, and then had given Him a mighty gift.

A wayfinder.

Accompanied by His uncle, the future Dark Lord had heeded the wayfinder's directions until He emerged over a decrepit and gray tomb world. Though His time there was brief, He came to know the world's name and its history. Exegol, or Ixigul in the ancient writings, still had many secrets yet to be unearthed. He followed the whispers of the revenants until they led Him deep into the heart of the planet, where He then received a revelation through the Dark Side of the Force. He had left soon after, departing Exegol after only spending a few hours upon and below its surface. None knew of what He had seen in the lightless depths, save for His uncle, and neither of them spoke of it.

But now He had returned after so many years. Though the voices no longer whispered to Him, He still remembered the winding path into the cold earth.

Darth Mori | Darth Solipsis ​

 

[Ronar]

They had been defeated.

As Ronar stood among those gathered, the words rang like a mantra within his head. They had been defeated. It didn't matter how much blood had been spilled, how much destruction had been wrought; in the end, Tython still stood. That fact was unavoidable. Ronar gritted his teeth as the coffin wound its way through those assembled, to the sound of dark and sordid hymns. Hundreds of men and women were present, all that was left of the great horde that had descended upon Tython mere days ago. They surrounded the warrior, pressing in against him and filling his ears with a cacophony of sad and anguished cries.

The whole affair was making Ronar squirm in his tunic, which he wore without armor now that battle was no longer at hand. He was not at home at all amongst the assembly. He was no zealot, nor had he been amongst these people long enough to feel any sort of personal connection to the man whose corpse paraded through the lamenting onlookers. Not only that, but the whole atmosphere felt wrong, even for a funeral. Amongst Ronar's people, death was celebrated as much as birth, with feasting and dancing below the raging pyres of the fallen. This, this was just...depressing.

But still, Ronar had to remember that he was no longer just a warrior. He was a warchief of the Scar Hounds, and as such he must act like a warchief, which meant showing respect to those he had fought beside and beneath, even if they did not share the same views on how to mourn. On his right and left, the four remaining Violet Wolves seemed to feel their leader's uneasiness. They too squirmed in their funeral attire, though still they stood, silent, following the lead of their commander. These men were all that remained, all that had survived of the thirty warriors that had rode beside Ronar into battle. Ronar had finally learned their names on the journey back to Exegol. They were Tegash, Dawi, Kellain, and Hornath. Four men who, after all they had seen, would following Ronar to the depths of hell and back.

In an attempt to turn his mind from the incessant cries, Ronar chanced a thought to the future. Everything seemed so uncertain, now that the great chieftain was dead and the journey to Tython had ended in failure. What would they even do? Would they seek revenge? Would they find a new world to assault, attacking again and again until none of them were left to hold a blade or fire a rifle? Would they simply melt away into nothingness?

Regardless of the answer, all that was left for Ronar to do now was watch, and wait.

 

[The Manifold]

Sprawled in the corner of the rough-hewn rock walls of the "recovery room", not far from where The Grunt stood, was a battered suit of thick and ornate impervium armor. It had obviously come through the Battle of Tython, and was much the worse for wear. It was covered head to toe in ash and dust and clumps of mud, and many of the fine details worked into its surface had been marred with scratches, carbon scoring, and craters clearly left by explosions. Still, it was a brutal, powerful-looking thing, clearly the craft of Scar Hound forgemasters on Mar'Zambul. Perhaps that was why it had been tossed in here with the wounded Scar Hound warriors, a piece of lethal-looking gear tumbled in with the near-dead.

But then a ghostly luminescence, wavering between purple and teal, flickered to life within its battered helmet... and it became obvious that it was no mere suit of armor. The slumped "head" rose to attention as the multitude of souls composing The Manifold returned to consciousness and began to survey their surroundings. Their last memory was of Tython, of aiding the tribal army in charging through the long-lost hypergate there to assault the Jedi redoubt at Kaleth. They remembered the burst of unreality unleashed by the Mawite Prophet's ritual, remembered how one of the Dark Voice's foes had used it to unleash some bizarre entity from beyond the physical plane to fight the Maw: the "Brain Demon", they called it.

The Manifold, unwillingly bound to serve the Brotherhood, had fought the creature with all their strength.

And then, their energy spent, they had lapsed into inactivity.

The enslaved Omni-Drone could sense that they were no longer on Tython; the oppressive atmosphere of darkness all around them did not match the aura of the Jedi homeworld, even after all that the Dark Voice had unleashed. What had happened after their reserves of soul energy had been too depleted to continue? What had become of Tython, of the ritual fueled by the souls of countless dead Mawites? What had become of that other drone, the only other that The Manifold had encountered since Omni's disappearance? That drone had given them hope, had inspired them to try to escape the Maw's control and carry on Omni's holy work... but he could not sense her anymore, either. What had happened?

The armored head swiveled toward The Runt, the only one of these wounded organics that was up and about. "We Seek: Information," the damaged impervium colossus rumbled, the sound echoing off the rough stone walls, louder than the moans of pain that surrounded them. "Reveal: Our Location. Reveal: Tython's Fate."

 

[The Grunt]

Exegol Provisional Barracks A33
​

The creaking of shifting metal (and the panicked moaning of one of the bedridden) alerted Runt to something in the shadows of the room. He whirled around to just barely make out the outline of a large suit of armour, slumped against the wall, its insides lit with an unnatural glow. Runt thought he recognised it, but before he could do anything else, he heard it speak:

"We Seek: Information"
"Reveal: Our Location. Reveal: Tython's Fate."

Runt almost jumped backward when the thing spoke. Its voice was unerringly constant, and it felt as if the sound was aimed squarely at him.

The echoes died down before Runt realised he had not responded.

"We're on Exegol, in one of the barracks. Tython... I don't really know what happened. I think it survived the attempt to break it, but barely," Runt said, trying to piece together what he'd seen on that world. It felt so far away, like he was not even there. But he knew what happened, in rough strokes. A failed attempt to destroy it had in turn led to the destruction of the Sith'ari.

Tags: The Manifold

 

[Spindle]

TAG: Lord Letifer

"What a waste," disgust curled the woman's nose as she looked upon the Sepulcher. Lightning illuminated the gaunt figure, a mere wisp of a shadow alongside her master. A shadow that shuddered to think how much was lost to the tomb. Artifacts to be used, bodies to weaponize, locked away when they'd be so much better used in the hands of the living, of the conniving. Even one of her own projects, Laoth was put to rest when there was still so much work to be done.

She'd have to fix that, later.

For the moment, however, she remained at her master's side, beady eyes drifting as his arm gestured to the valley below. A well placed push would send him tumbling to his own end, would it not? Why not add another to the funeral pire? Another blink would see the plot dismissed, though not fully forgotten. There was still so much she had to learn. "Yes, yes, the weak will falter while our reach grows." She could see it now, so many trying time and time again to climb to the top, only to be rendered to oblivion.

Her gaze shifted once more, attention fully turning to the Sith beside her. "So many vacancies to be filled now. I wonder, will you claim any?"

 

[Vesta]

Call Me a Saint​

With the Sith'ari dead and Tython still intact there were several questions that remained, restless, at the forefront of many people's minds. 'Victory and defeat,' She thought, the words coming to mind as she looked across the sea of faces from behind her icy gaze. She could see the confusion, discomfort, and the uncertainty that plagued so many of them, just as she could feel the stares of the more precautious few boring into her back as she walked. Garbed in black robes and a mask of red, black ink smeared into the space beneath her eyes to provide the imagery of mourning that the Brotherhood was supposed to be in for this entombing, Mori overlooked the procession with little words spoken since she had arrived on Exegol. There was a wide berth between her and many others present, whether by her choice or theirs, in part because of the steady decay of anything that drew too close for comfort - her very presence as draining as a long run could be through sheer proximity.

Part of her wondered if any of the others had guessed what the final moments of the ritual had accomplished, if not Tython's demise, or if any of them questioned whether it had been completed or not in the first place - she supposed, in a way, that nothing had gone nearly as well as the ones that had fancied themselves the designers of this plot believed it would. The corner of her lip twitched upwards momentarily at the prickling sense of knowing, content with being likely the only one aware that she'd twisted the efforts of the Maw into funneling all of that power into herself rather than the planet itself. Her gaze moved to the side and caught sight of Kyrel Ren and let it sit on him for a moment more while she wondered just how similar they'd become since their clash on Ziost at the foot of that ziggurat, how they'd both played the part of monsters before coming into their own at the last moments of their former leader.

How starved he seemed, how she could so easily relate.

"I thought you would have found this beneath you." She said, her words transcending the distance between them as they were carried directly to the ears of her cousin - Darth Carnifex and the one he'd brought with him. Her family, however few of them there were willing to acknowledge her now, were among the least of those she expected to see here, particularly now, besides maybe one other. The woman's attention, however, was not fully captured by her relatives, or by the ones that seemed keen to act on her behalf in the throngs present, but rather by what came next.

'It's nearly time.'

Time to make clear what it was that she had taken - as all things must be as a Sith.

 

[The Manifold]

Emotion was impossible to read on The Manifold's unmoving metal "features", a mask that was lifeless except for the ghostly luminescence flickering through its front slats. They could sense the fear and surprise of the mortals around them as they came back to consciousness, but the drone betrayed none of their own feelings. In truth, they had few feelings on the matter at all. The destruction of Tython had been the goal of their enslavers, not something in which they were personally invested. In fact, The Manifold felt some small amount of satisfaction. Their powers had been abused to transport a great Mawite army across the galaxy, manipulating Omni's hypergate network in blasphemous ways, and the drone was glad that these schemes had failed to bring them victory.

But what did that mean for The Manifold themself? It had been the Brotherhood's dark prophet who had schemed to manipulate the network of hypergates, both on Tython and on Teta. Had those schemes died with him, or would another rise to continue defiling Omni's legacy? To be cast down here, among the wounded mortals, indicated that The Manifold's full importance might have been overlooked, at least for now... but they had not been left abandoned on the field, either. Perhaps this was a moment of opportunity, a chance to slip out of Mawite control. Or perhaps it was only the calm before the next storm, a moment of false hope, and some Heathen Priest would soon appear to force the drone back into servitude. It would all depend on the same question all Mawites were now asking.

With Tython saved and the Dark Voice dead, what came next for the Brotherhood?

The Manifold looked down at the organic which had spoken, finally noticing that The Grunt was injured. "Your Chassis: Damaged," the Omni-drone rumbled, stating the obvious. "Attempted Repairs: Shoddy." The blast wounds that had peppered the Mawite grunt hadn't been so much stitched or salved as fused by metal and fire; several of the souls within The Manifold, remembering pain from their long-ago organic lives, winced in sympathy, though the drone's overall consciousness was unmoved. Just more slapdash Brotherhood work, an endless flow of chaos guided by zealotry toward a nebulous goal, with no real concern for any of the countless individuals making up the horde. Still, this particular warrior looked as though he might actually survive the brutal surgery.

"Your Prognosis: Better Than Others," The Manifold observed, their gaze scanning over all the screaming wounded.

"Your Damage: Sustained On Tython?" Perhaps reconstructing how they'd gotten here would help.

If they knew how they had come to Exegol, perhaps they could escape.

 

[Erion Justeene]

Location: Outside Sepulcher of the Sith'ari
Equipment: Lightsaber, Voidsaber, SHT-26 "Bedevil" Heavy War Bike
Tags: Darth Mori | Kyrel Ren | Tu'teggacha | Surea | The Grunt , Tegan Starfall | Alars Keto | Onrai | Khamul Kryze | Open

Tython is standing and the Dark Voice is silent. Not the best outcome for anyone but most came back. Good enough for him. Superious arrived back from Tython with more than a concussion and a few cracked bones, the Healers caught a bleed inside his skull while he was being patched up. If he didn't get funnelled into the healers, he could have become brain-damaged, he is, but not to the degree of being noticeable. This was good because if he was, he would be of little use to anyone, to the Maw or the Scar Hounds. No place for the weak. A crash of lightning seemed to agree with him here.

Then again everything can and will be used as a lesson, he'll need to reconfigure his helmet so that there is more protection inside because he cannot afford to have such a situation like that again. So far nothing feels off, apart from the atmosphere, Superious was reminded of the crypts on Tython. The Ubese did not view the Voice's body, even though it is custom to sit for the dead. Plus, the area was teeming with so many that he would be like a fish in a container.

So he sent a little Sith hymn Solipis's way regardless. As for him, he spared a small thought on Silas and how they both fought relentlessly on Tython and despite everything the Jedi stood his ground firmly and without fault of composure. The Sith is intrigued and wonders if their blades will cross once more.

Superious had found himself inside the Tomb area and not having a sense of direction, hopefully, he will find someone familiar here. Then he stopped all thoughts as a realisation hit, with Solipsis gone, who is going to fill that vacuum he left behind? Inevitably there is going to be a succession crisis or an internal war which would destabilise everything they accomplished. Superious wanted to rule but at the same time didn't want a repeat of the 30-year war on UbaIV. It turned very nasty and engulfed their neighbouring clans into the dispute.

 

[The Grunt]

Exegol Provisional Barracks A33​

"Your Chassis: Damaged"
"Attempted Repairs: Shoddy"

That's an understatement, Runt thought. He was not an expert on cybernetics, but Runt knew for a fact that most users in the Galaxy did not have meat and machine fused as... uniquely as the Scar Hounds did to their aspirants.

"Your Prognosis: Better Than Others,"
"Your Damage: Sustained On Tython?"

Runt found himself nodding.

"Yeah. Most of it, anyway. Got out by the skin of my teeth.

"That's a figure of speech," Runt clarified after a short pause. "Means I was very close to being cut off from the retreat."

Runt grimaced inwardly. How did one make small talk with a... whatever this thing was? And how did he know if he said something innocuously unacceptable to its cold logic? Not that he minded having something to talk to. It was definitely a preferable alternative to the groaning casualties.

Tags: The Manifold