The Fall

[Laira Darkhold]

“From fear there is weakness. From their weakness I gain strength.“

The crystal was set with ease into the talisman and the warrior entered the final stages of crafting the item. He cast his essence into the item, and through great concentration and effort, his grey eyes closed from the world, he reconstructed its aura in the Force, infusing the fear of the talisman with the draining powers of the red crystal. Combining them into one object, one presence, one item, and then, he drew that power into himself. Through the talisman he cast out with the red lightning, channeling the Force through the Talisman and into the walls, carving furrows and deep gashes into the stone.

“It is done.” He said with a sigh, sitting and observing the little item he now had around his neck, staring at it through storm grey eyes. “But I am not. I have much more to do with the time I have been given. But Draco Vereen lacks the strength to go on.” He breathed in calmly. Though the Force raged through him and around him, there was no visible emotion. He was calm inward and out, eerily so. Deep within, beneath even his own gaze lay fear, loathing, jealousy, envy, and wrath, chiefest among them. These cowered beneath the guise of emotionlessness. Cold collection and clarity of purpose. And beneath these, trapped deep below, there was yet love. Yet good in the man that was the walking dead.

 

[Laira Darkhold]

“And so he was broken, and forged anew. No more will the galaxy know me by that name. No more will I identify myself by such a name as that. He was weak and he lost everything. I am strong and I will not lose. I will only conquer, only destroy.” The man breathed out deeply emptying his lungs of air, inhaling again, feeling the flames of the Force surge within him. “I am Darth Vulkan, a Sith Lord, as I was always meant to be.” His mind seemed at ease, the storm within calm. No more anger, no more fear. Devils did not feel such things, only men. Too long had he hid from his purpose, too long had he tried to fool himself with such niceties as a family.

The armored man walked from the Forge, soot and ash followed him from the heavy wooden doors, swirling behind him. Grey metallic armor, gold secondaries, and a red visor. The black terentatek leather covering the back and legs of the large man, the beskar he was wrapped in shining as though it had been freshly cleaned and polished, and the visor, eerily casting its gaze over the warriors standing in the hall. His voice, grating and course, a far pace different from its master’s normal voice spoke out from behind the mask.

“Draco Vereen is dead… Vulkan lives.”