Public Shatterpoint | Aftermath

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Tags: Darth Solipsis | Kyrel Ren | Alars Keto | Tu'teggacha | Erion Justeene | Darth Mori | Khamul Kryze | Ronar | Lord Letifer | Spindle | Kralmus Orr | Onrai | Tegan Starfall​

Solipsis had died on Tython, the Dark Voice of the Maw and leader of the Brotherhood, slain in battle. He died trying to tear the galaxy apart and failed in that final moment. His death hadn't been the only one of course, but no one cared for the countless dead chaff. No, only one other death that Zachariel had heard of mattered to him. The Mongrel had died on Tython, killed in battle as well. Their deaths had surprised and angered the warlord. Failure on Tython had set back several of his plans, made it so a clear message couldn't be sent. The death of Solipsis had ruined yet omre, and the Mongrel's death was frustrating, for his fellow warlord had been a worthy man indeed. At least he had died in glory, fighting and dying in one of the largest battles ever.

But now, that battle was over and the future was uncertain. They had lost many resources, manpower, and so much more on Tython. All in all, Zachariel knew the future was grim. Soon, someone would claim the throne and others would challenge them. Soon, if not already, the forces of good would try and take back what the Brotherhood had gained. The warlord knew they would not be able to continue on in their rampage of the galactic core, he doubted they'd even be able to hold all that they had gained.

However much these thoughts raced through Zachariel's mind, he was also keenly aware of his surroundings. This valley and those assembled were all here for one reason, to see of Solipsis. Some, such as the Sith, saw him as the Sith'ari and deserving of respect in that way. Others, such as the regular marauders, saw him just as the Dark Voice and respected him as such. But all present respected, or at least feared, him enough to be here. Others were here to witness the rise of the next lord of the Maw, if there would be one. Zachariel numbered under that group, he respected Solipsis, but also knew another must rise to take his place, lest the Maw fall into in fighting.

Standing on the raised platform that would become the final tomb and resting place of Solipsis and those to be buried with him, Zachariel watched. As he had done so long ago in a similar meeting, one called for by the Dark Voice, he stood on the right hand side of what once was would have been a throne and now was a tomb. From this elevated position, Zachariel watched and he waited. Bearing witness to the procession as they drew ever closer, listening to their chants. So many were present, this would be the turning point for the Maw. Would they unite under another leader, perhaps this Mori the priests chanted about, or would they collapse into disorder and die to one another's blades.

An answer to that question would come in time, and his eyes were drawn to the most likely place for it. A larger congregation had formed, pat of whom numbered Kyrel. Scanning them, both physically and through the Force, the warlord searched to see if any of their number sought the throne. In turn, he knew he too would be searched. No doubt many would see his position here as him seeking to claim the throne. And perhaps he would, should the one who try to claim it not be worthy, or there not be any claimants.

But until the procession was finished and those here would be laid to rest, nothing would happen. He would make sure of it. As he had done before, so he did now, stand by the side of the Dark Voice. Now though, he stood as a warning, to wait until the procession was completed before things devolved into chaos. Until that time, he simply stood there, arms crossed, watching and waiting.

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Surea Kyrel Ren Alars Keto Tu'teggacha Erion Justeene Darth Mori Khamul Kryze Ronar Lord Letifer Spindle Kralmus Orr Onrai Tegan Starfall Zachariel Steelblood The Grunt The Manifold

Earlier.

Unconscious on Tython.​

Total darkness.

The muffled noise of reality is filtered through the bleak distortion of a mind that is corrupted by the Dark Side.
​

The mind of The Blasphemer Lord Ptolemis.​

From beyond the peripheries of his consciousness, trembling lines of thin flames trickle into the blackness and begin to coalesce into rows and rows of anthropomorphic silhouettes. After an unquantifiable amount of time, the endless mass of faceless entities part in the center, creating a path through the darkness. Suddenly, these shadows of the Dark raise their arms in unison and point toward a bleeding, organic pyramid of maroon matter in the distance. The Blasphemer's vision is fixated upon the ominous shape. It draws in all; the pyramid bleeds, writhes and twists as it glacially floats and rotates. But the horrid triangle also appears to… glide toward the eye of Ptolemis' mind.

Its impetus is sluggish. It emits a surreal, deep glow. Equally bright drops of divine mucus smear a line of filth along the hollow pathway between the burning figures. Its velocity increases with every moment, and in a flash, it is right in front of the Blasphemer. As tall as Akar Kesh itself, this disgusting architecture of the unknowable dwarfs Ptolemis. From beyond its dark insides, the gurgling of what could only be described as an abyssal voice emerges. Every vowel an eternity. Every digit of auditory sensation a profane blessing. Even still, the message is felt, rather than heard.
​

Fear me, for I am present.

Fear me, for I am past.

Fear me, for I wield the power of nothingness.

I am domination, through knowledge.

Embrace the present.

Embrace the strength.

I am you.​

As abruptly as it jumped in front of him, the grotesque pyramid collapses in on Ptolemis, and he awakens in a place far, far away from Tython.​

Present.

Exegol.​

The dark processions were already underway. The oppressive atmosphere of Exegol ripped all color from the land. Only the torches of Mawite tribes and dark cults, the overhead discharges of lightning and the loud noise of heathen chants punched through the bleakness. By the might of Solipsis, a veil was torn, and truth had been gleaned. It was

all that mattered. He showed each and all the power of the Dark Side. He unlocked a most profound truth, one of reality; that it can be broken.

The ghostly, black-robed form of Darth Ptolemis stood solemnly among the rippling masses, outside the Sepulcher of the Sith'ari. Ever since his unholy confrontation with his extra-dimensional self, he had been pondering upon the words spoken by him, to him. Had this mirage been a result of Darth Solipsis ' space-fracturing sorcery? Myriads of similar unanswerable questions floated in his brain, yet he swept them away for now. For now, he stood, and awaited the arrival of his secret apprentice, Surea .

His mask's gaze locked firmly onto Darth Mori in the distance. Swathes of Mawites drifted across his vision's path, but his unshakable gaze remained on the one whose presence in the Force was stained by the final moments of the Dark Voice. Questions needed answers.

Yet there was no need for directness. For the Blasphemer knew well that the greatest truths often emerged only in complete silence.
​

So watched the Blasphemer.

​

 

[Darth Daiara]

Aradia stood at her master's back, her feature set and unexpressive. Today was not the day to wear her heart on her sleeve, though she was known to. Aradia's gaze tore across the faces around her. Each were unfamiliar. Each were dangerous in their own right. The event was chilling, as was Darth Mori 's reason for being here.

Of course, Aradia knew. She had been told but never included in her master's grand plans. She had always written them off, but they were here now.

Vesta had done it.

Her eyes flickered to the back of the woman's head, watching the manner in which she held herself-- So close, but a thousand miles away. Untouchable. Even when Vesta's cloak brushed against the bank of her hand.

What made her so sure she wouldn't be on pyre next?

Aradia grabbed her hand. "Are you sure about this?" Came the sharp whisper, riddled with tension. Beyond power, there was only one thing Aradia wanted for those around her.

A chance to live.

Darth Mori

 

[Surea]

There he was.

Like a shade Surea slipped beside her master, bent down on one knee despite the gathering. Head lowered. She didn't need to lift her head to see everything around her. So many voices, so much turmoil over the loss of one Sith. Or was it the loss of Tython itself? She smiled ever so faintly. The Maw had failed to destroy the planet.

"My Rot festers on Tython, Master."

She hadn't.

Darth Ptolemis

 

[Onrai]

Onrai's attention began to transition over to the arrivals and potential individuals who would likely seek to make a move. The first that arose in her mind was the Maw's Mandalore, Khamul Kryze . She had no doubts whatsoever that within his head were whispers, suggestions that he could take charge of the Maw with beskar-garbed might and seek to use it to begin a new war of conquest - such a silly dream. The other Mandalorians would certainly rise up and fight him for everything he was worth, and his warmongering would devour the Maw until yet again all that was within it was ash and bone.

The appearance of Darth Carnifex did not surprise her - the Kainate's holdings were understandably substantial, and the portion of the former Sith Empire that remained loyal to their former emperor was not surprising in the slightest. Kaine's agenda was inevitably unbound from that of the Maw and would continue onwards regardless as to whether or not the coalition survived. As it were, the last instances in which he had wielded nigh-absolute power over those within the darkness had ultimately led to abdication and inevitable self-destruction at the behest of those who tried to salvage an empire whose incorrigible architect had gone missing.

No, that wouldn't work this time.

The arrival of Darth Mori within the trail of mourners immediately raised the interest of Onrai, her creation having been... altered. The primordial entity sensed power - far more power emanating from the wayward Zambrano than she had possessed at the time the infernal organ of Typhojem was implanted into her flesh. Whatever had happened during the invasion of Tython, clearly she had taken advantage of it - Onrai was unsure of the specifics - and it would soon and hopefully be time to divine precisely the purpose of her presence here. She was the one who needed to be in the position of leadership, and if she chose to reject such, the option would fall to the twice-false goddess herself.

The actions of Darth Solipsis in tearing open the boundaries of reality, of opening a rift to a place where horrific and twisted things waited to slake their lust for mortal flesh and suffering, were understood by a scant few - but Onrai knew what his at least partial success meant. The fallen Sith Lord had learned a means to break the fabric of reality, yet had he succeeded in determining the path it traversed to? Had he learned the secrets of accessing the Prime Universe, the World Between Worlds where the very fabric of the galaxy could be altered? Had he succeeded in tapping into one of the untouched pockets of Otherspace, unleashing forbidden experiments from the dead worlds of the Architects' maddening laboratories? Or worse, had he broken the seal to keep the Father of Shadows sealed away? To ensure his and his brothers' lust for dominion over all things was finally within reach of the material world?

What horrible thoughts there were to consider about the ramifications of his actions in the long term.

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron | Keilara Kala'myr | Mercy | Freedom | Anonymous
Mongrel's Shadow and his widow; Matriarch of the Scar Hounds Tribe; Guardian of Mongrel's armour and sword​

Objective: To attend the funeral
Location: Exegol
Equipment: Current outfit | 2x Riftblades | Promise of Freedom || OPBC-01m
Tags: The Mongrel * (Kallan) | Open to interactions
* I have no idea with who you’re going to answer to Mercy, so that seemed the most logical because Kallan is partly Mongrel/Asher.

[ Come back… ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~ Telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >>
​

There are things that are considered a deadly sin under one ruler or warlord and a virtue under the next. I haven’t been able to hide my condition from Force users since Tython, and soon, maybe a week or two and others will see it. Ever since the Secret War started between Tu'teggacha and me, there was really no reason to keep it a secret. Thomas Barran gave his full support to me, for the children, as I did in return. My people and I are helping to keep him as the Warlord of the Scar Hounds Tribe in the same way I did for him...

… for Asher, my husband.

I had to step out of the shadows, before, everyone just knew me as Mongrel’s most trusted advisor, or just referred to me as Mongrel’s Shadow. But no more. We used to take care of each other with Asher, but now that he was gone, I had to deal with it alone. I couldn’t put my whole life in Thomas Barran 's hands. His father was my husband's killer. He slaughtered him. I used to hide, for many years, but not anymore. And if anyone wants to kill you for it, so be it. From now, I was the…

Matriarch of the Scar Hounds Tribe​

I've been on Exegol since I came back from Tython, so it wasn't hard to come. The Maw never got his armour, or his sword, or what was left of his brain. I took care of them. They belonged to me, not to them. I walked in a black attire through the crowd, through the Sith, Warriors, Heathen Priests, Mandalorians. Without the slightest fear. In addition to pain and grief, I had contempt and disgust. For all this acting what I saw here, and for the Maw.

But I did my duty.

He was mourned and lamented for his death by those who did not even know him. No one knew him except me. No one knew what happened that day. No one knew that The Mongrel had actually never reached the surface of Tython because he had already died aboard his flagship when he chose the name Asher for himself. Asher was the one who died on the planet. He was no longer part of Maw or the Scar Hounds Tribe, no longer believed in paradise, and did not want to give his life for the Avatars. He just wanted to be with me, and fix his last mistake.

He was a free man. He was no longer The Mongrel. Only Tu'teggacha knew that, and so did I. However, he remained silent to stay alive. They cried for a person, mourned a person who only existed in their imagination. Who was not real. I was the guardian and keeper of his secrets, I knew his thoughts, him. And these… Those who were here were all responsible for his death. Because we couldn’t run away, we couldn’t start our longed life together.

I wanted them to burn. That they would all die, slowly, suffering that see the whole Maw would collapse. I clenched my fists, tears running down my face; not interested if they saw it. I was still crying blood, my condition had already improved, but I was still injured. Ever since I clashed with the Taskmaster and Keilara struggled harder, I tried to split my mind again so that the part of me that was her could be with Kallan, and me, as Mercy could be out here.

It didn’t always work out, but at least let me have a part that suffers less from Asher's absence. And of course, I wanted the best I could for Kallan. He didn’t lose his wife, he was still me, I just had to struggle to choose separate my merged personalities. As Mercy, I tried to look at him as a friend rather than think that he is partly Asher. Which was hard because I considered them one for years, but I didn’t understand that situation so well then. I still didn’t know who I was, it was so confusing. But now, I was rather Mercy, while I was there with him and I hugged him. Friendly, there was no intimacy in that, like when I do it as Keilara, as his wife.

~ I'm sorry, I know you like it better if Keilara is with you… But now I need you too, Kallan. They didn't know anything about him, they knew just the mask that he showed to the Maw and the galaxy... they knew only the legend, but not the man behind it. ~ I told him in our mind palace.

As I looked around, I noticed something huge next to one of the Scar Hounds members, The Grunt . It took a few moments… The Manifold .

~ Manifold… ~ it was a weak and quiet telepathic message because I was still weak, and not through the Force, for I was no longer able to do it.

Freedom’s concern for her former peer was stronger for a moment before my own feelings returned even more stronger. I hated them, I felt the urge to blow up the whole place, with everyone. Everyone had to die for what they had done. His death could not go unpunished; and after the Maw is no more, then the Barrans could come.

They didn’t know Asher, not even the legend. Whatever they do doesn’t bring my husband back.

I wanted one thing…

Let them burn and suffer as much as I do. All without exception.

Let the Maw burn and perish for what they did to Asher.

 

[The Manifold]

The Grunt | Keilara Kala'myr​

The huge Omni-Drone tilted its head quizzically at the wounded organic, trying to make sense of The Grunt 's words. None of the multitude of souls composing The Manifold remembered having skin on their teeth, even the very thin layer that the Mawite warrior's expression seemed to imply. In their old body - or bodies, for Omni had prepared many of them in different stasis vaults across Oblivion - they might have reached up to touch their mouth, testing to see if anything had grown there... but they were housed in an impervium shell now, bound here so that the souls within them could not escape, with no organic components at all. Did the words refer to the gingivae, the gum tissues? They covered only the roots of the teeth.

"Your Colloquialism: Nonsensical," the drone finally rumbled. Still, they had learned what they needed to know.

The Brotherhood had been pushed off of Tython. All their losses had come to nothing.

Well, good. It served them right for their blasphemy.

Slumped there in the stone-walled cell, The Manifold considered simply returning to unconsciousness. The runes inscribed into their armored form bound them, keeping them from doing anything that directly defied the will of the Maw - or at least the will of the Heathen Priests that had imprisoned them. They might as well just slumber for now; why make it easy for their captors by announcing their recovery and reporting for duty? But that was when they heard the whisper, a voice they had heard on Tython as well. ~ Manifold... ~ It could only come from Freedom, that other Omni-Drone forced into the Brotherhood's service. The voice was weak, but it was there. Another drone had survived after all! She must be protected.

The Manifold's head swiveled toward The Runt once more. "Your Desire: To Leave? Your Condition: Sufficiently Recovered?" With a great grinding of damaged metal, the Omni-Drone rose, their back scraping along the rough-hewn rock and throwing up a shower of sparks. "We Provide: An Egress," they thundered. Reaching down to the rusted metal door of the cell, they seized it in one taloned gauntlet... and ripped it messily from its hinges, tearing away the heavy security hatch as easily as one might pluck a ripe fruit from the branch. "You Provide: Guidance To The Exit." The little mortal warrior might know this barracks well enough to show the drone the way out... if he was not too afraid of his masters to act without their orders.

If he did not, well, they might both be in more than a little trouble.

 

[Vesta]

A Hundred Crowns​

Whatever hesitation she might have had was paradoxically put to rest with the concerned probing by her apprentice.

"We do what me must, not what we are sure of."

Unrest flourished as the gap between a semblance of direction, of control, leadership, by a guiding voice and the confused silence that spread now widened. There was anger in the air, whether misplaced or justified, just as much as there was concern and, dare say, fear in the hearts of those that watched as the dead or that which symbolized them were interred. This was always how it had been meant to be, the purest example of what it meant to be Sith. Many had been lured in with the promise of a seductive power, of a tainted strength that knew no equal, but few understood the ramifications that it brought when a structure meant to uphold that ideal was shattered - few knew life without that familiarity, without safety, and were at a loss when the very things that made it possible for them to believe their choice to adhere to such a perverse opportunity for power was stripped away. The sweet, honeyed, voice of the Maw was silent now - dead and buried - and she knew she was surrounded by men and women that wondered much, not least of which was what would happen to them now that the fantasy of inevitability was shattered.

"We've gathered here, today, to witness the burial of what many of those here believed to be a stairway to a future which included them."

It was difficult for Mori - for Vesta - to take on a role of publicity, social presence had always been a burden on her even when it had been to her benefit, but there were times, such as now, that made embracing new and uncomfortable roles more than necessary. She spoke loudly, as though her voice came from the air rather than the confines of her tightly pursed red lips that never moved, and stepped out towards the front of the crowd at the base of the Sith'ari's tomb. She tightly gripped her apprentice's fingers with her own before pulling her hand free - she needed the image those in attendance would have in their mind of her as someone who stood with others alone, not together; independent strength over communal power as a pillar to hold up the sky, someone who could not be so easily contested.

"The Galactic Alliance, the Imperials, Ashlan Crusaders.. the galaxy at large believes that they have cut off the head of a snake, that by putting our voice to rest we will be silent."

There was a momentary pause given, her head turning to give the illusion that she was considering the faces of those that heard her out.

"We have been otherized by a galaxy that is determined to keep us in a state of constant stagnation, a status quo that places importance on those who know the right people over those of us disenfranchised by the choice to favor them over the rest of us. We've become a boogeyman, a creature born out of hatred and all of their fears, as though we chose this extreme first and without consideration of the consequences in doing so - as if all of our joy is derived in the mere act of killing."

Her hands were lifted up, gesturing to the tomb behind her, to her apprentice beside her and herself, and then out towards the crowd that watched as the man that had led them was entombed.

"It is easier for them to believe that we chose to become social pariahs, to become the monsters that they perceive us to be - that they did not make us in their endless lust for collateral damage in the wars they rage and the constant struggle for power they tirelessly work to maintain."

"We are the misbegotten children of the stars, the ones pushed out of our homes and away from a chance to live freely as one should - we had a voice that guided us towards destroying this oppressive galaxy, to kill it and have it reborn in perfection, and they, those that stood against us on Tython, took it from us. But we will not be silent - and their efforts to suppress our anger, to keep us from realizing our goal, were not without our own victories. The ritual we started, that we bled for, on Tython was not for nothing."

Here, at last, was the admission she'd been building up to reveal.

"When all hope for a better future appeared lost, when our voice was killed, and the Je'daii and Jedi came together to dash our efforts against the rocks, I did not falter on Akar Kesh. Tython might stand but the power, the strength, that we mustered and the lives we sacrificed towards the great rebirth was not lost; it is here, with us, through me."

A grandiose display of power was one which every Sith made whenever they ascended to their place as a dark lord - but politics, perception, and the like were not things that she was interested in. All that mattered to her, as she was certain it would with the brotherhood, were results. She'd face the dissent and her opposition, if there was any, through the same malice that the Maw gave to the diseased weaklings when they claimed the mantle of the Sith for themselves and root them out like weeds.

"I consumed that power before it could be destroyed by the warriors of light to take on the burden of leading us on this fight as the final Dark Lord of the Sith. Our voice may have been taken from us but we will be heard and the galaxy will be reborn."

Kyrel Ren Darth Daiara Tegan Starfall The Manifold Keilara Kala'myr Surea Darth Ptolemis Onrai Darth Carnifex Zachariel Steelblood Erion Justeene The Grunt Tu'teggacha Spindle Ronar Lord Letifer Kralmus Orr Khamul Kryze

 

[Minister Janus Vipsanius]

MINISTER | CHURCH OF THE DARK SIDE
Sepulcher of the Sith’ari, Exegol

​

The shrouded masses slowly ascended from amidst the desert sands onto the rising stair of the grand Sepulcher. The clergy amassed among the dark faithful included both Sith Cultists and Heathen Priests alike, devoted believers in the Dark Voice’s prophetic vision for the galaxy.

Stone encompassed the remains of Dark Armor and trinkets left behind by the Sith’ari on the battlefield of Tython. His sarcophagus carried by the faithful up the sacred staircase where the powerful Sith Lord Darth Mori now spoke out to the sea of Mawites as Tu'teggacha led the way for the others to ascend.

Stepping past the others congregated near Mori, Minister Vipsanius of the Church brushed aside the onlookers to stand at her right side. The announcement spread through to the masses like a beacon, like a revelation unto itself.

The Minister reached out, extending his arms out to the heavens in submission to this Divine Mandate, to this most worthy vessel of Bogan’s will.

“Brothers and Sisters! You can feel it, she who completed that which was created upon Tython. She who wields the Mandate of Bogan! As our Sith’ari intended, as your Avatars command!.”

Janus screamed out, bowing as he fell to his knees.

“The Dark Voice is Dead! All Hail the Dark Voice!”

“Only the Strong! Only the Dark Lord! All Hail Darth Mori! ALL HAIL DARTH MORI!”

 

[The Grunt]

Exegol Provisional Barracks A33​

The Manifold's head swiveled toward The Runt once more. "Your Desire: To Leave? Your Condition: Sufficiently Recovered?" With a great grinding of damaged metal, the Omni-Drone rose, their back scraping along the rough-hewn rock and throwing up a shower of sparks. "We Provide: An Egress," they thundered. Reaching down to the rusted metal door of the cell, they seized it in one taloned gauntlet... and ripped it messily from its hinges, tearing away the heavy security hatch as easily as one might pluck a ripe fruit from the branch. "You Provide: Guidance To The Exit." The little mortal warrior might know this barracks well enough to show the drone the way out... if he was not too afraid of his masters to act without their orders.

Runt did not know what the machine wanted or intended, but he saw the hatred in Mercy's eyes. And he was not sure if he might be spared her wrath simply by proximity.

And, if nothing else, he did not want to piss off the giant robot.

"I don't exactly want to leave, but I can't exactly stop you."

Runt could not read emotions in the metallic visage of a suit of armour, but the silence seemed like the Manifold wanted to squeeze the information out of Runt anyway.

"Okay, well, I know the Barracks exit. Down left, second on the right, past the courtyard and take the furthest exit. Then open ground to the gates. That's all I saw when they dropped me off here."

Tags: Keilara Kala'myr The Manifold

 

[Kybo Ren]

The grave-light of Exegol shone baleful today. Silent lightning illuminated the Valley and rolling thunder washed into the valley. The unnerving rattling noises of a hundred bone-totems accompanied the thunder, their volume and pitch raising and falling with the wind in disharmony. Swaying to the sluggish beat of the procession drums were throngs of Mawites, the press of bodies slowly diffusing around the space just below the Sepulcher proper. In the midst of this strode Kybo Ren and a small escort of his crew. Maintaining a carefully calculated posture and stride, Kybo and his men managed to 'convince' the acolytes in their way to give way to this doubtlessly important personage.

The pirate pushed his way past the priests and acolytes, the braying flagellants and flesh-flutists. Already on the ground lay a thin layer of sticky, soft texture, the trampled remains of unlucky worshipers slowly pressed by the weight of the Mawites. Along the sides of the valley lined rows of makeshift stalls; charlatans and cooks hawking various sundry talismans and alleged food for the hundred of thousands now in the valley. Kybo found a refreshing kinship with these misguided fools. Not that he looked down on ritual and superstition (perish the thought o' one such as meself refusing to humour the call of the bones), he simply appreciated the killer instinct for making profit.

Kybo looked up at the statue from where he stood, still some distance from its base. It was imposing and dignified, though he couldn't help but wonder if an entrance into its chest was the best choice. Either way, it allowed Kybo to take a look at the tribe leaders from afar. The pirate had spent far too long away from the Maw over the years: he was too used to being seen as a leader, but for once the pirate conceded humility: these were true Masters of the Dark Side.

Not that I'd want ta swim with sharks like these, he thought as he approached closer to the platform, catching sight of the leaders of the Maw standing along the platform, dressed in their most intimidating armours and posing like statues themselves. Pageantry and image was paramount to loyalty and leadership, as well the self-titled Scourge of the Stars knew, and these lords of the Maw were serving that up by the fistful.

But even at this distance, Kybo knew these sharks were circling the waters of the fallen Sith'ari, waiting to lunge. Like a swarm of satellites bereft of their gravity well, the tribes of the Maw were teetering on the brink of being flung apart like so many gnats, unless the mass of these key moons were enough for the mass to spiral in on itself again with a new core.

Mixin' me metaphors again. Kybo was not sure which he preferred: all-out civil war with the potential to give praise to the Shadow through plundering and destruction, or a more safe investment of mutual interest between the increasingly separate tribes.

Separate's one word for it, he thought as he and his entourage pushed past a brawl forming in the crowd. From above, this disturbance would not even register in the minds of the tribe leaders, but Kybo knew the internecine snipes and punch-ups were only one part of a much larger process of unraveling that could only end in disintegration or regeneration.

It took some time, but Kybo finally reached about as close to the platform as he could without offending someone actually important. By now, the smell of incense and sweat from the throngs of worshippers could not be kept out from his mask's filters, but Kybo ignored it. What concerned him more was the tension, the uneasiness, fear and even anger in the air. People were waiting for answers, but Kybo knew whatever politicking had gone on since Solipsis' death had already been largely hammered out. Now came the performance and last-minute reversal.

Kybo's lips curled into a feral grin as he looked up and watched the platform. Finally, Darth Mori stepped forward:

"We've gathered here, today, to witness the burial of what many of those here believed to be a stairway to a future which included them."

Amplified voice booming down the Valley, single figure, facing forward and slightly up, sweeping gaze. Very good.

"We have been otherized by a galaxy that is determined to keep us in a state of constant stagnation, a status quo that places importance on those who know the right people over those of us disenfranchised by the choice to favor them over the rest of us. We've become a boogeyman, a creature born out of hatred and all of their fears, as though we chose this extreme first and without consideration of the consequences in doing so - as if all of our joy is derived in the mere act of killing."

Well... let's not jump to conclusions.

"It is easier for them to believe that we chose to become social pariahs, to become the monsters that they perceive us to be - that they did not make us in their endless lust for collateral damage in the wars they rage and the constant struggle for power they tirelessly work to maintain."

Kybo genuinely wondered to what aim this message was angling for. Sure, most of the foot soldiers of the Maw were scallywags swept up in war, but he doubted most did not choose to commit some sin for the chance at reward. And despite everything, Kybo did not doubt they knew that, and that one played a dangerous game attempting cognitive dissonance on this topic. Aye, but fair play to 'er, she's the one up there and I'm here sucking fumes.

"We are the misbegotten children of the stars, the ones pushed out of our homes and away from a chance to live freely as one should - we had a voice that guided us towards destroying this oppressive galaxy, to kill it and have it reborn in perfection, and they, those that stood against us on Tython, took it from us. But we will not be silent - and their efforts to suppress our anger, to keep us from realizing our goal, were not without our own victories. The ritual we started, that we bled for, on Tython was not for nothing."

Thar it is. The reveal.

"I consumed that power before it could be destroyed by the warriors of light to take on the burden of leading us on this fight as the final Dark Lord of the Sith. Our voice may have been taken from us but we will be heard and the galaxy will be reborn."

“Brothers and Sisters! You can feel it, she who completed that which was created upon Tython. She who wields the Mandate of Bogan! As our Sith’ari intended, as your Avatars command!.”

Janus screamed out, bowing as he fell to his knees.

“The Dark Voice is Dead! All Hail the Dark Voice!”

“Only the Strong! Only the Dark Lord! All Hail @Darth Mori ! ALL HAIL DARTH MORI!”

The crowd, hundreds of thousands strong, roared in approval. The sound rolled back and forth through the valley, first transmitting the roar back away from the Sepulchre, then an echo that moved back to the front. The Shadow must have approved in some way, for Kybo did not see any ear drums bursting despite the aural confinement of the valley.

Kybo fixed his gaze on Kyrel Ren , waiting to see the master of his order's reaction.

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Keilara Kala'myr Dimitri Voltura (Just mentioned you!) Surea Kyrel Ren Alars Keto Tu'teggacha Erion Justeene Darth Mori Khamul Kryze Ronar Lord Letifer Spindle Kralmus Orr Onrai Tegan Starfall Zachariel Steelblood The Grunt The Manifold Kybo Ren Minister Janus Vipsanius

​

The masked gaze that burrowed into Darth Mori was finally broken, as Ptolemis' head suddenly snapped at his secret apprentice kneeling by him. His reprimand arrived verbally. – Stand! Immediately! – Instinctively, his gloved hand touches the shoulder of the battle-hardened Miraluka, his displeasure manifesting in a jolt of electricity. ZAP! Though no visible lightning is conjured by the Blasphemer, the sound of the instructive shock drew in a few nearby faces, though all were wise enough to disregard the matter of the two Sith. Ptolemis continued his conversation with Surea telepathically. – Nobody may know, as long as the Dragon lives. You are aware of this. Now, to the… – But at that moment, his attention is stolen by words spoken by the one he had been so enigmatically monitoring.
​

"We've gathered here, today, to witness the burial of what many of those here believed to be a stairway to a future which included them."

A lightning escaping the tortured sky dances along the edges of Solipsis' gigantic stone effigy that is looking over his dark legacy, and the crowd is immediately awash with a blend of tension, excitement and worry. Waves of whispers clash and recede like tides of doom upon recognition of none other than Darth Mori's charged rhetoric. The Blasphemer slowly turns his head and looks his apprentice in the eye, just as the speech begins to unfold in the background. In a heartbeat, he infiltrates the mind of his apprentice and plants his words directly inside her skull, so that none other may capture their conversation. – Stay close, my apprentice. Destiny beckons. What happens now will affect you as much as it does me. Be vigilant. Observe and learn; but don't intervene. Trust in the will of the Dark Side.
​

"When all hope for a better future appeared lost, when our voice was killed, and the Je'daii and Jedi came together to dash our efforts against the rocks, I did not falter on Akar Kesh. Tython might stand but the power, the strength, that we mustered and the lives we sacrificed towards the great rebirth was not lost; it is here, with us, through me."

Writhing masses push and pull on each other, but an unseen force repels those that stray too close to the Blasphemer. Like a floating apparition he advances in a straight line toward the speaker of the moment, his own signature cloaked and obscured by the Dark Side. Each soundless step brings Ptolemis closer to Darth Mori. The speech continues, and so does the message's empyrean strength amplify with each passing second. Ptolemis' mind races as he begins to understand the cryptic message he had been presented by his own, inner self. As the gap closes between them, so too does his vision of Fate solidify into comprehension of what needs to be done.
​

"I consumed that power before it could be destroyed by the warriors of light to take on the burden of leading us on this fight as the final Dark Lord of the Sith. Our voice may have been taken from us but we will be heard and the galaxy will be reborn."

Only a few steps separate the Blasphemer from the newly crowned; DARK VOICE.​

So bites the primordial serpent its own tail. The cycle continues.​

It became clear in that very instant; it was her the Dark Side told him about. It was her he needed to follow, to unlock the next path of their Order, and the next stage of his own journey into the heart of the Dark. To find the next key, to find the next truth in the Force… Or at least, for now… But treachery is far from what motivates Ptolemis in this moment. To the gong of another tectonic discharge above, the Minister Janus Vipsanius 's asseveration coats all those gathered in his grandiose declaration's lingering sense of bone-chilling authority.
​

“Only the Strong! Only the Dark Lord! All Hail Darth Mori! ALL HAIL DARTH MORI!”

Many around them erupt in unison, their shouts marked by both awe and horror upon realizing this unholy revelation. The concealing Force-shroud of Ptolemis falls just as the surrounding masses birth forth his dark form. – All hail, Darth Mori. – The menacing, yet eerily subdued voice of the Blasphemer whips the air as he manifests a few steps behind the Dark Lord of the New Sith Order, tentacles of overlong black fabric slithering in his wake. Many questions surely remain in the minds of most members of the Brotherhood, but the profoundly fateful significance of this moment in Solipsis' closing page sends shivers down the spines of everyone present. Ptolemis feels this, and Ptolemis continues. – I know well what happened on the Holy Mountain. – The Blasphemer truly knew, as he performed his ritual close by. The pulsating power of a myriad souls bled through Mori. For all those well-versed in the powers of the mind, it was obvious. Undoubtable. She had to be the next DARK VOICE. Ptolemis spoke confidently, but knew well who he was speaking to. The following words were delivered as a precious offer, rather than a demand. – The Dark Lord needs its Shadow Hand, and a profane vision delivered me here, in front of you. And if indeed you are the Dark Voice, then you already know who I am and what I need to be. You are the Voice of the Maw and the Dark Lord of our Order. – A tense break as the Blasphemer inhales. Slowly, he reaches up to his mask, grabs it, and for the first time ever, removes it to reveal the shadow behind the mask. Around them, many lesser minds recoil and bury their faces in their hands in terror, weeping for their own lost sanity. – I offer unseen limbs that sprout from the filth of the enemy. Where none dare tread, I emerge. Where none dare gaze, I descend. I am no one, and I am everyone.​

Allow me to serve you, my Dark Voice.

[ A huge, huge thank you to Nef for the amazing unmasked-Pto art! Keilara Kala'myr ]​

 

[Tu'teggacha]

As the procession approached the tomb, the Dark Voice's ornate sarcophagus - and the less ornate, but still handsomely-crafted sarcophagi of the Brotherhood's other high-profile fallen - drawing close to its final resting place, Tu'teggacha's gaze swept across the crowd once more. So many different pieces of Solipsis's coalition were represented here, pieces of the Brotherhood with wildly different, utterly incompatible final visions for the galaxy. Would this funeral erupt into violence the moment the Sith'ari was laid to rest? Was all that kept them from each other's throats right now a final gesture of respect?

Unless one of these warlords had some clear advantage or sign...

... the Maw's next victims would be its own servants.

As if in answer to that grim thought, Darth Mori stepped up to speak. The Taskmaster knew little of her; they had rarely crossed paths, and never interacted directly, but each time they had drawn close he had felt the power and ambition that radiated from her. And yet something had changed, for the power he had sensed in the past was only a pale shadow in comparison to the strength he felt coming from her now, a moon's soft luminescence compared to a sun's blinding brightness. A suspicion grew in Tu'teggacha's gut, one that only intensified as the Sith Lord spoke. All that power from Solipsis's ritual...

... it hadn't unmade Tython, but it had clearly gone somewhere.

There was the advantage he had thought about, the omen.

To wield the power collected by Solipsis's sorcery...

It was almost like being anointed his successor.

Like Solipsis himself, Mori had walked a long and twisted road before ever coming to the Brotherhood, a road that had no doubt shaped her view of the galaxy as she rose to power. Tu'teggacha could her in her words the differences between her philosophy and that of the old Dark Voice. The old theology was there, a promise of change, of renewal by fire in a galaxy that had stagnated for too long... but there was a new emphasis now. Mori spoke of the Brotherhood not merely as servants of the Avatars, but as a righteous gathering of those excluded from galactic society, those pushed to the margins of "civilization".

How would that affect the Maw's actions, if it came under her rule?

From the roar of approval, it sounded like he would find out.

The priesthood was behind her. The marauder tribes too.

But what of the countless scheming warlords?

Would they fall in line for a new Dark Voice?

 

[The Manifold]

The mortal creature did not desire to leave? The Manifold stared around the rough-hewn cell, full of the wails of wounded warriors half-mad with pain, and tried to determine exactly what about this wretched place would make an organic want to stay. They found nothing of the sort. But then, the souls that made up their mental matrix had been dead for a long, long time. Their memories were faded, the color leached from them, like bones bleaching in the desert sun. Perhaps they had simply lost the ability to understand mortals, to empathize with them, to know what made them tick beyond their simple biological components. "Your Imprisonment: Not Resented?" The Manifold finally asked, trying to comprehend why The Grunt would stay.

But it didn't really matter in the end. It was probably another short-sighted little decision, focused on some kind of personal gratification or flawed calculation. The Heathen Priests had made the same mistake when binding The Manifold. They had believed they were creating a great military advantage for themselves, unlocking the secrets of Omni's hypergate network to allow them to raid and pillage whatever targets they chose, all across the galaxy. But in truth they had damned themselves with this blasphemy, condemned themselves to the divine retribution of the Droid God and Its servants, who would never let this desecration go unpunished. The Manifold and their ilk were immortal. They had all the time in the universe to take their revenge.

They would outlast this mortal Brotherhood, and watch it fall in time.

"Another Chance: Unlikely," The Manifold warned, though they did not really know why; the fate of this one little damaged mortal was not remotely relevant to the drone, or to the great works of the Grand Architect. And yet the organic had been helpful, offering The Manifold guidance when it had no real reason to do so, and some long-forgotten part of the necro-machine responded to that small act of kindness. They felt some strange desire to return that kindness, in whatever way they could.

As soon as the drone realized this vulnerability, of course, they would terminate all such notions from their thoughts.

They must focus solely on their mission, and on the uncaring perfection of the machine.

 

[The Grunt]

Exegol Provisional Barracks A33
​

Something tugged in Runt's mind. Not the desire to be free (that urge was always the prime directive) but the strange sensation of wishing to... reciprocate? No, more like, seeing a branch split in the future. The ghost robot was offering Runt a... chance. A million words raced through his mind, the dam of doubt broken.

I did wish to join, did I not? On 67-Baras, so many moons ago. Killed the others myself. I did that.

What choice is a choice between death and servitude.​

It has not been servitude. I am no longer a slave.

No, you are "just" a soldier for the Hounds. Different, obviously​

There is a difference. I was rewarded for my actions.

Rewarded the same way a slave would. You are still​

Meat for the Machine
​

The arguments he'd had in his mind for more than a year came rushing into his head all at once, played on fast-forward, the enormity of his choice compressed into a single second. Repeated, rehearsed, rethreaded dozens, hundreds of times over.

And yet. Something resonated in him this time. This time? The Force, maybe. Or something more mundane and more divine.

Runt looked back up at The Manifold. The machine would have seen Something Different in his eyes.

"Yeah, let's get the hell outtta here," he said, before dashing out the door.

Tags: Keilara Kala'myr The Manifold

 

[Surea]

Surea would've blinked if that was something she was capable of doing. Instead she just stood, too surprised to even react to the hand that fell on her shoulder. Then froze in pain. The shock was brief, but the agony it brought lingered. She stood as still as she could, refusing to betray anything further than she already had. That was right. She wasn't his public apprentice.

Her eagerness for his praise after completing her mission overtook her common sense.

In silence she followed her master. Stopping shy of where he joined the new Dark Voice. Shadowed Hand? It was a term she hadn't heard before. But at once she understood it. Her Master's will was her own.

And nothing would stop her from serving him.

Darth Ptolemis | Darth Mori

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron | Keilara Kala'myr | Mercy | Freedom | Anonymous
Mongrel's Shadow and his widow; Matriarch of the Scar Hounds Tribe; Guardian of Mongrel's armour and sword​

Objective: To attend the funeral
Location: Exegol
Equipment: Current outfit | 2x Riftblades | Promise of Freedom || OPBC-01m
Tags: The Mongrel (Kallan) | Open to interactions

[ Come back… ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~ Telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >>
​

I watched the further events wordlessly and half-heartedly, at least an outside observer could see only this. Each word increased my pain and hatred more and more. They were no more and no better than the Sith. And more Sith came to power. I lived under their tyranny and terror for quite some time. Never again! Everything has been taken away from me by them, even at home on Serenno and here. There, my innocence, my childhood, my friends, my personality was torn apart because of them. Traces of their years of torture will never disappear from my body and soul.

And here, through their fault, I lost the man, the only man who ever treated me as a woman and a sentient being. The one for whom I was an equal party is the only one who loved me. The father of my children, I was hoping he knew it had happened, and I was hoping he wouldn’t suffer as much over there as I do here and waiting for me. My hands clenched into fists and I shivered. Why we? Why did we have to suffer so much? How and why did we deserve this?

It is said that time will heal all the wounds and the pain will decrease. I didn’t feel this, it hurt more and more every day. It got worse and worse. At home, in my mind, I pulled my legs up to me and hugged them sobbing. I always dared to look weak before Kallan, he was part of my family.

~ I don’t know how long I can do this, how long I can endure it. Never, no torture hurt so much. It was different because I knew it would end one day. But here? I'm not a Force user, so I can't bring him back. I miss him very much, Kallan. His absence hurts more and more day by day. It hurts the way I think about what we can’t do together, or he cannot see the children. Every moment I look forward to sensing his consciousness, I wait for his appearance, to feel his presence again, that… ~

My voice trailed off even in my mind and I couldn’t continue. It took quite a few seconds for the sobs to subside and I was able to continue.

~ … everything will be as it used to be… ~ I breathed barely audibly.

But it will never be like that, the opportunity has been taken away from me, from us…

I watched those at the funeral just as they shared power. I felt sick from it. I felt such disgust and contempt as ever in my life. I would have preferred to go there to spit on them. Probably Kallan would stop me, but I would feel better if I could do it. They were not interested in anything but power and destruction. They were all crazy, ironically, I was more sober and sane with my multiple personalities.

I wanted to laugh bitterly while sobbing. But in reality, I silently endured the cruel and cold feelings that are happening out there. Only the blood ran down my face as tears, but I didn’t sob, gave no more signs of the immeasurable pain and emptiness that was in my soul and in my mind.

~ Why do we have to suffer so much? How and why did we deserve this? ~ I asked Kallan.

No one cares about the pain, torment, and suffering of people like us - but perhaps that is why they will not expect from me to do anything to cause them to fail. But I'll do it, as long as I can do it and not the pain wins…

 

[Onrai]

The entirety of the pomp and circumstance would have caused Onrai’s eyes to roll back in her sockets if she still had such a physical composition. Immediately Mori had claimed leadership, the religious fanatics screamed her praise, and Darth Ptolemis had offered himself to her as a Shadow Hand.

Opportunities come and go. Ensure that your position is firm.

The voice spoke plainly to Mori as Onrai’s manifestation among the crowd stepped away before dissolving itself the moment it was out of sight of the others. At the same time, her presence was felt explicitly, almost waiting for the opportunity to coalesce next to the Dark Voice - and so it did, shadows once more pouring together as Onrai did the most significant thing she had done since retreating to this point in space.

“You know of what it is I have done for you, to provide you the catalyst of ascension from mortality to divinity. I am pleased to see you have taken the initiative and gained while others have lost. As it was when I gave you the sliver of the Left Handed God, so too I offer myself to you again. You require resources and power in transition to a leadership role. I offer you this only with an understanding of a need to prepare for the consequences of what may be undone. For the Father of Shadows has likely been roused by the ritual the fallen Dark Lord performed, and should he find a way to break free, all shall be prey to him.”

Onrai hoped that Mori would take her offer and the duo could work together - as she had no desire to spend effort seeking to tear down one of the few people capable of offering resistance to such perfidious beings that made the vilest among them appear to be pure and noble-hearted by comparison.

Darth Mori @anyone else

 

[Lord Letifer]

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

Lightning crackled once more across the endless gloom. A bright flash illuminated his reflective lens as he stepped forward, acknowledging his apprentice, Spindle , with a nod.

“Yes, I will.”

His gaze shifted from the ceremony to the apex of it all. Near him and his apprentice, where the other Sith had begun to gather. And so, at the top of the world, standing at the threshold of the Sepulcher of the Sith’ari, Lord Letifer issued his challenge.

He had waited for this day, he would not be robbed of it.

“You may have claimed that power, but it is not rightfully yours.”

Letifer extended his hand outward, summoning his lightsaber.

“I challenge you to a Kaggath for rule over the New Sith Order and over the Brotherhood of the Maw.”



Darth Mori

 

[The Manifold]

The Grunt | Keilara Kala'myr​

The little mortal changed its mind. Perhaps some good had come of The Manifold's hesitation after all, then; it would be far better to have a guide than the notoriously unreliable "directions" that organics could offer. Most of them had no innate sense of distance, after all, or the ability to calculate the precise angle of turns, or to know cardinal directions without the aid of instruments or the stars. Their instructions for travel were inevitably landmark-based, using what sights their flawed memories could latch onto in order to navigate. It usually worked well enough for them, but it was difficult to fully communicate in words. "Your Role: Lead The Way," the Manifold rumbled. "Our Role: Clear The Way." Nothing would stand between them and the exit.

That was the plan, anyway. They calculated millions of ways it could go wrong.

They'd only gotten this far in defying Mawite orders thanks to the battle damage on their armor's runes.

They made an odd pair, Manifold and Runt, huge machine and skinny organic. But for the moment, they were united in purpose; they wanted out of this prison-barracks. The Omni-Drone's flickering face turned to look down the rough-hewn hall, surveying their surroundings. Down left, the mortal had said. Sure enough, there was a door at that end of the corridor... a door flanked by a pair of armed and armored tribal warriors. Well, sort of. The two of them were playing some kind of dice game, sitting on the floor to throw the little bone cubes, a pile of looted trinkets between them as chips to gamble for. And why shouldn't they? They'd been left out of the funeral, forced instead to guard this recovery room for wounded, half-tamed slave-soldiers.

The guards looked up in shock as The Manifold pushed its way out of the cell, the drone's broad shoulders scraping the stone of the doorway; the hulking frame of the machine could only have been dragged in sideways, given its bulk. Despite their initial distraction, they were trained warriors, and they reacted immediately. Dice and trinkets scattered as they leapt to their feet and went for their weapons, snapping them up to point at The Manifold, the more obvious threat. At one time, the drone would have reached out with the flexible cables stored in their wrists, using the sharp injectors at their tips to convert these wretches into servants of the Droid God... or merely rending them apart with four-foot blades. But their body had changed, and so had their tools.

Their Omni-given strength for Technomancy, however, remained the same.

Before either guard could squeeze the trigger, The Manifold reached out. The drone followed the currents of energy, honing in on the power pack in the leftmost guard's blaster. Just a little prod, a little extra jolt of juice, and... boom. The gun exploded in the Weequay's hands, hot metal shrapnel ripping through his guts... and the throat of the Shorak guard beside him. Both men dropped, choking briefly on their own blood before going completely still as shock overtook their bodies and shut them down. "Retrieve: Armament," The Manifold calmly rumbled, as though they hadn't just killed two people with their mind. They indicated the second guard's weapon, a scattergun, still clutched in his rapidly cooling fingers. "Your Aid: Necessary For Escape."

Not that The Manifold was presently worried about escaping Exegol.

No, they had only one concern right now, one drive.

Find Freedom's host, and rescue it.

------------------------------------------------
​

Of course, Freedom wasn't the only occupant of Mercy's mind.

​

Kallan had found it... difficult, adjusting to what he'd become. He was just one small voice in Mercy's head now, and not even the one she most wanted to hear. But he was grateful to be alive in some way, still experiencing the galaxy, even if it wasn't quite what he'd hoped for. He was learning to be grateful for whatever good things came his way, whether they were just as he imagined or not. If there was one thing he'd learned in his life, so much of which had been stolen from him, it was that bad things happened for no good reason all the time - so all that anyone could do was treasure every little thing that went right, every opportunity for happiness, no matter how small. The alternative was endless despair, and he refused to give in to that.

He must not, because Keilara was struggling too. She had been strong for him for so long. Now he'd return the favor.

He would be her rock, her source of strength and comfort, for as long as she needed it.

~ He'll wait for you, Mercy, ~ Kallan told her. ~ When all of this is over, he'll be there, and you can tell him all about it. ~ With all the strength he had, little but no insignificant, he sent out waves of comfort to her, feelings to remind her that she was not alone. ~ And you'll have so much to tell him. About how his children grew up. About what they became, free of this war. Because we will be free. We will find a way out. For them, and for us, too. ~ Unlike Mercy, Kallan didn't care about revenge - not on Barran, not on Tu'teggacha, not on the Maw that had taken away so much of his life. Vengeance wouldn't bring back what he'd lost, what either of them had lost over all those years of war and horror. They could only move forward, to better things.

If only he could make Mercy understand that, then they would be truly free.

But he had to be patient, to respect the pain and sorrow that drove her, to be strong when she needed him and not ever tear her down. ~ We didn't do anything to deserve this, ~ Kallan gently replied. ~ It's just how the galaxy works. Bad things happen to good people, without rhyme or reason. All we can do is choose how to react to what happens to us. To make the best of it all, and to find the joy wherever we can. We're going to move forward, and we're going to make our own joy when we're free. And at the end, we'll tell Asher all about it. I promise. ~ It was a promise he desperately hoped he'd be able to keep, given all that they were up against. But whatever happened, he'd be with Mercy every step of the way. He would always have her back.

That was a promise he knew he could keep.