Dispatching the rest of the mob had been relatively simple.
Sofiel had destroyed most of the speeders, so only two remained, each filled with men armed to the teeth, brandishing blaster rifles and rusting weapons. Whereas most people would have balked at the sight of a Sith, these men at least had the spine to stand their ground. Which was great. There was no need to chase them down. All he had to do was cut through them like still trees.
His lightsaber sang with murder. When two men tried firing indiscriminately his way, Danton swatted the shots aside like flies, deflecting them into another poor fool, littering him with smoking holes. As a hulking woman charged at him with what looked like a titanium scythe, he leaned back and then, shooting forward, leveled her shoulders with a single slash, sending her head flying.
Death had long been Danton’s closest companion. He was accustomed to it, welcomed it even, and now, it was the only company he kept. Among the gods in the Maw, the Avatar of Death had always been his most revered, because it was the one he felt understood him the most. And, of course, perhaps because he enjoyed dispensing it.
By the time Danton was finished, he was covered in blood and smelled of burnt flesh. Like Sofiel, he clearly was not leaving this settlement without a few stains on his outfit. A part of him expected this, though. There would always be people out for him, for Sith, and for what they believed were monsters. But like the monster he was, Danton would not let them win.
So, with his performance complete, he turned to Sofiel and bowed.
Danton
