The Nyriaan Nightmare

[The Lurking Presence]

The ride in had been nothing short of rugged, there at the World of Nyriaan. A chassis wrought of metals and steels, bickering endlessly, and drumming loud; the sort of in-flight jouncing one could have expected on a pleasure cruise around Zeltros. But in one piece, miraculously, he'd found solid ground.

Through vast weeks, precursive present time, did Belphaegor toil. No stone unturned in his study, a slavish creature, chained to the smallest and most insignificant details of his work. The Alchemists Curse, as some may reference it. Constantly fawning over the tiniest scraps of lore and lines, seeking meaning where most, saw only waste and tedium. Each morsel devoured greedily, and meticulously recorded for the Saaraishash Databanks.

But such affairs of desire, were really less out of obligation, and quite more largely so, out of preference.

Under a certain shade of light, Belphaegor was quite unquestionably a loyal figure. Perhaps his color may have seemed disgustingly off to some, likely an outright treacherous hue - to most. But ask this: Had he ever betrayed Maena? Even now, laden with obligations, he brightly gleamed as a champion for his homeworld. Ambitiously dictating more than a dozen independent efforts, across countless, scattered ally bands, to see his goals met.

Men and women tasked with objectives that ranged from shaving every unique and individual flora from this planet's surface, to poaching, trapping and shipping innumerable fauna specimens. Soil collection. Stone abduction. Bulk Madilon removal. Nothing on Nyriaan was safe, while this hungering fiend resided there. All of it. All of it. . .

Prize for Maena. Payment, under the table, for his efforts.

But the plundering of a planet, was not what had brought the Pale Maenan here. Nor what curved his eye towards a particular sort of asset, far removed from the Halls of his fellow Inquisitors, of the Sith Empire entirely. She had become a figure of prevailing curiosity for Belphaegor, enlightened of her existence in the unraveling yarns of his Mother Master, [member="Matsu Xiangu"]. But through his intentness for analysis, crypts thought silent and unknowing, found the illuminating bloom of torchlight.

Sumiko Tanaka, that is how Matsu remembered her.

Atrisia, Coruscant, Csilla and O'reen. Inquisitions. Cults. Assassinations? What foul secrets did these shadows hold? Lords of the Fringe. The Omega Protectorate. The Fringe Confederacy. Torture! All fed his sour obsessions. Even when this winding trail of grandeur and ache grew so very cold. . . so very lifeless! His amber eyes refused to be deterred, Belphaegor never looked away.

Who were you now?

Where are you going?

[member="Darth Kharon"].

No lost, shiny, hideous thing could avoid his gaze. Thus he had sent for her, whether she answered, the only mystery.

There on Nyriaan he persisted, entombed under a shroud of vellum, adrift along the scratching songs of a very prized Quill of Fortune, gift from the Lord Inquisitor himself. Plotting madly, an itinerary of engagement; in equal measure, should he be required to go it alone, void aid. Or with this esteemed companion. By all woven narratives, the Inquisitor found this World rather pleasant. An enjoyable change of gait, when compared to what he regarded as frigid and half frozen worlds, he had found himself unleashed upon most recently.

But the days absent arrival twisted on, endlessly, longer and longer. Menace now abound, with mistral hatred woefully groaning. Ghastly gusts, so grueling and cruel, threatening to transform every city to but dust and stone. Rain ravaged the surface, rolling crazily, and far, terrorizing the flesh with pain and agony. Deafening blasts of thunder boomed louder than Orbital Artillery, ugly forks, of orange lightning turning entire hillsides to glass.

The grim Tricentennial Storm had arrived, nine months early. . . much to Belphaegor's displeasure.

There, in the ramshackle, Blue Chlovi Inn, which crouch forlornly beneath the punishing storm. Just three squares North of the Neutral Zone Starport in Locus City. Duracrete cracking, crying loudly, as if it believed itself the aged wood of an ancient Colonial Home. Belphaegor sat silently in the Dining Hall, wreathed by smoke which sputtered from a blackened fireplace and crackling logs. A flickering candle illuminating the smallest splash of a rough wooden table afront his silent frame, those pale features glowing grossly in the bloom.

All around him, every make of Alien and Human reside. Solemn and long-faced, wondering if this dingy refuge would survive night, let alone the entire length of this grand storm.

It seemed, Belphaegor pondered to himself, she may most definitely not arrive now. Luckily, he always had a Plan B.

 

[Darth Libertas]

[member="Belphaegor"]


This was not her body. Nothing about it felt right. There was a distinctive sense of wrongness about it. Her movements in it were sometimes jerky, as if her limbs rebelled against being commanded. These were not her eyes. They felt too sensitive.


Meditation offered a brief respite, but never for long. The overpowering, psychic pull was never far. The pull into a dark abyss of fear, suffering and humiliation. You do not belong here, the ghosts who had haunted her in the depths of the Netherworld seemed to say. She often awoke bathed in cold sweat, after her mind had dragged her into the pit.


It caused anger to surge through her. As she sat, trying to centre herself in the Force, she stoked the fire inside her. It was the candle in the dark when the walls seemed to close in. I am Sith. I have traversed the deadlands and grown stronger for it. These words were like a mantra.

Nwûl tash.
Dzwol shâsotkun.
Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk.
Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan.
Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha.
Ashajontû kotswinot itsu nuyak.
Wonoksh Qyâsik nun.


You're afraid.

Says the woman who's locked inside her own body.

For now.

Yes, because in due time I will flush you out and send you to Chaos.

If.

Illyria was never far from her mind. Her constant companion - and a reminder of the day she had failed, having let her hubris get the better of her. Her reward had been to be murdered in her sick bed and be cast into the void. Anger spread like wild fire. She was certain the accursed elf was laughing stoicly.


The ship shuddered violently, pushing her out of her meditation. There were great tremors within the Force. She got to her feet, stumbling, though she kept herself from falling. Her movements as she departed the chamber were awkward, but she forced her body forward. A great storm raged. This she could feel in her bones - and see with her own eyes as she reached the cockpit.


"Mistress...the storm..," her Xioquo slave, Qaen'Zaro, stammered.

"Do you have so little spine, girl?" the Sith Lady snapped.

"This place is cursed. I cannot feel the spirits here. We should...aaargh," then there was naught but a cry of agony when a mental shard pierced her mind. Not enough to seriously hurt the girl. Certainly not enough to leave any permanent brain damage. But sufficient to make a point.


"Only the meek are cowed by their fear. If you want to be drowned by yours, I shall oblige. Step aside." The Xioquo made room and Sumiko slipped into the pilot's chair. The drow was right. The Force seemed to elude her in this instance. She had read about the planet's atmosphere having this effect.


It was unnerving...but then freeing in a way when she realised that it meant she was alone in her head. Her fingers moved fluidly as she took the controls. Menace and danger abounded, as the storm raged with hateful intensity. The deafening roar of thunder was loud enough to put artillery bombardments to shame. Bolts of lightning slashed from the heavens, promising swift death to those struck. Darth Kharon, once Sumiko Tanaka, focused on one thing: her hatred of all things she found weak in herself, her hatred of being humiliated and brought low. It would see her through.

 

[The Lurking Presence]

The land trembled under a grieving sky. Monumental blasts of ear-splitting thunder, punished the air, and tempted mind-bending hysteria in all the lives it left witless and nearly deafened. Outbreaks of Lightning, so furious and beyond number, forked downward towards the land. Bursting with energy, their orange illumination seemed brighter than the heart of the most fiery Stars. Severe, fishtailing, gluttons. The sudden surge of these energetic beasts transformed full swathes of land in to fields of crackling glass.

Gruesome winds, to forceful to measure, lashed relentless sheets of rain. For most unfortunate enough to find themselves in the sky it was a death sentence.

Men and women swept aside in the ugly gale, never to be heard from again as they toppled to the ground, their Star Vehicle of choice left lifeless and smoking. Others, left molten, and with dead sticks. Fluttering through the darkness as glinting wreckage, hopelessly sobbing while they awaited their doom in some distant impact.

Mother Nature, more cruel and vicious than even the most vile specimens of sentient life.

A fact [member="Darth Kharon"] most assuredly knew, or was quite currently learning. As a Trident of lightning plunged down from the heavens directly in her path. It's blinding radiance giving only the briefest glimpse of sweltering wreckage that hung frightfully in aim of her descent. The hull torn asunder, engines rolling top over end, flailing bodies strewn across the ebon darkness.

Horrible end, for lives that had been led free of hate and crime. Sailing around up there, scourged by rain, flesh becoming ragged from the whipping rains. Praying to the Gods of whatever world they hailed from, pleading mercy to make the suffering stop.

But, in that same breath of angry incandescence, so too did the salvation of the Sith Lady show itself. The distance was immense, and against the tremendous storm, prospects of safely arriving, seemed small. But there on the ground, leaning with a haggard sort of bleakness, sat Locus City. Barely visible against the tidal waves of the down pour. Hardly managing to maintain it's grip on the foundations she clung upon.

But hope in this mirage, was fleeting. As another net of the Great Mother flung itself down upon the world, revealing the flotsam of that Passenger Freighter once more.

But where one found herself already in Battle, the other sat Besieged.

Belphaegor eyed slowly to his left, from where he sat in silence inside of the Blue Chlovi Inn. He had found himself tenderly thumbing through the alpine stacked notes and reports, carefully examining the patterns of passages. As the storm growled with fury and menace, threatening to tear this unkempt Inn away. Perhaps it was the Maenan in him, that afforded him such calm at a moment like this.

Maybe he just sank away in disappointment, his ambition to met such an esteemed figure, in Sumiko Tanaka. Capsized by the unwanted early arrival of this historic display of Nature.

"It's a Fine vintage, Sir. Not what you were lookin' fer, but it's the best we 'ave. " Said the rotund man that approached the seated Inquisitor. His flesh a deep sapphire color, his sleeves rolled up above worn elbows, and a stained apron stretched thin and tight around a large, bulging gut. "No sense in savin' 'er, I'd say. Place may not stay standin' t'rough the night. " With a gaping smile, that revealed little more than blackness and rot. The man deposited the bottle before striding off to stoke the flickering fire back to life.

Fine indeed, thought Belphaegor, stretching an arm over his work to fetch the unopened bottle. Nyriaan Honey Mead, fermented with Mire Nettles, sure to provide luscious euphoria. Perhaps, for now, he'd simply hold on to it. Matsu would raise him from the dead, only to strike him down again if she learned he'd fallen because the Inn vanished in the wind and he was left dazed beyond comprehension, wandering through a deadly storm.

 

[Darth Libertas]

[member="Belphaegor"]


Mother Nature was most displeased. She was a wrathful goddess. Often underestimated by the myriad sentient beings that populated the million worlds of the Galaxy. But when her anger was aroused, all felt it. And realised that their technological terrors and sorcerous powers would not avail them.

The land trembled. Thunder boomed, whilst lightning slashed from the heavens. Tremendous winds roared across the land, sweeping away all that stood in their path. Right before her eyes, a bolt of lightning struck, as if summoned by a goddess, leaving naught but smouldering wreckage in its path.


The ship jerked, shuddering. Winds sought to seize it and pull it hither and zither. Red warning lights flared angrily. With all the interference, it was difficult to make out anything. Likewise, the instruments were staunch in their refusal to cooperate. The Sith Lady grit her teeth.


"Emergency mode. Reroute power to the ship's shields," she ordered. "Do it, girl!" she snapped when she did not get an immediate response.

"Y-yes, mistress," the Xioquo stammered and did she was commanded.


Volleys of lightning poured down. So radiant were they that they almost robbed her of vision. Nonetheless, she steered the ship. It trembled violently when it was kissed by a bolt of lightning. The shields had absorbed the blast, but they would not last for long. Red lights beeped in alarm. The Sith Lady paid them no heed. She had died in her sickbed. She had been cast into the bowels of hell. Lost in the labyrinth of the dead, she had been driven to the brink of madness. But she had clawed her way out. She would not bend before the forces of nature and cower. In the far distance, almost completely obscured by the radiant lightning, she perceived a hole. The eye.


"This trip better be worth my time. Elsewise I shall flay the Sithling alive, no matter whether he is an emissary of the glorified throne ornament or not," she hissed, as she tried to force the yoke forward. The Xioquo grabbed the co-pilot's yoke and pushed forward, adding her strength to her mistress'. The turbulences intensified as the vessel shot through the air, seeking to defy the forces that lusted for its annihilation. A sudden jolt through a myriad items in the air. Sumiko could feel her stomach lurch into her throat, and her vision greyed for but a moment.


The turbulences intensified, growing stronger with each moment that passed. Striving to hold the ship in a vice grip and compel it to fall from the sky towards the far, far away ground. Another huge bolt was summoned by the heavens. Slashing downward from the sky, it barely missed the struggling vessel. Another hit home, and the shields gave up the ghost.

"Shields down. The Structural Integrity Field is coming apart. We won't survive a hard landing," the slave informed her. Sweat was pouring down her face.

Sumiko paid her no mind. Another jolt sent the ship into a clockwise spin. Locus City could be barely made out in the forward window. The Sith jammed her foot hard upon the port rudder pedal and thrusters shot out of the ship to stabilise the wild spin. "Close the throttle," she ordered curtly and Qaen'Zaro had the presence of mind to yank on the knobs to slow their descent. The pitch of the engines continued to rise as the vessel dropped down from the sky.

The ship ceased its wild, uncontrolled spin and Sumiko and Zaro pulled back on the yokes with all their strength. Every muscle and sinew was working overtime at this point. Sumiko's body ached with the effort. Zaro kept reading off their descent. Ten thousand metres, eight thousand, six thousand...four thousand, two thousand, five hundred...

"We must pull up!" Such was the Xioquo's anxiety that she momentarily forget herself.

Sumiko had other things to worry about than punishing her. The engines screamed in protest and the ship's computer warned. Her head felt like it weighed a 100 kg. Nausea washed over her. She shot a burst of ion through the ventral thrusters as she rammed the yoke back into her stomach. Her hand thrust the throttle forward as the nose came up. The engines roared, stopping the descent.

 

[The Lurking Presence]

"Seal it! Seal the Hangar! " A raised voice bellowed over the vulgar howl of the seething storm. Her footing nearly lost, as wind rushed inward with [member="Darth Kharon"]'s Ship, rain soaking clean through to flesh, through layers of heavy robes and a sagging overcloak. How this maniac had grounded that vessel, was astonishing. At this point, the remarkable pilot remained a mystery. But surely, surely, this had to be the Inquisitor's esteemed guest. The very one he had chartered this Private Starport Dock for.

Power was comatose across the entire City, all that fed energy to the massive Hangar Doors, was the hum of a single stand-by auxiliary generator; whose loud gasps, faded from ear as another boom of thunder aggressively bellowed through the sky. It was enough to work the mechanisms of the metal door, but little else found nourishment from it's meager electrical repast.

"Kill the Engines! " The cowled woman shouted, motioning the joint of her thumb across her neck, as she activated a large flood lamp with her opposite hand. Hoisting it from the floor, it's pale blue glow offered meager radiance through the shadowy ink of that pitch black Hold.

Thick soled boots throbbed over damp duracrete, twelve sets of eyes examining the steaming metal chassis of the occupying ship. Another two, barely visible at the furthest edge of the lamps illumination, were gently investigating the injuries of a downed mechanic. Unlucky Rodian, the sudden exhaust vent that stalled the vessel from an even more horrific fate, had lobbed him end over end in to a wall.

"Status? " Questioned the Hooded figure as she strode by, circling towards the Ramp of the Ship.

"Banged up proper, he'll need treatment. " A voice replied from the murky gloom, it's heritor barely more than an outline.

"Haul him to the Medical Bay, make quick of it, I'm sure by the time this fething storm passes there won't be a drop of Bacta left on his rock. " When finally she managed to make her way round the Ship, she halted, depositing the Lamp beside her feet. Waiting for this individual to disembark. "Keep it clean, boys. If this is the Inquisitor's Guest, we'll not want to offend her. "

"Comm's on the fritz, bleedin' Storm. Can't raise the Maenan. "

"Fasten your suck, Trooper! Find a work around! " Cool. Calm. Collected. She took a breath, and waited.

The Storm.

Raving with unbridled lunacy, the wild violence of nature, so cruel and indifferent. It's fury fogging the Force, dazing the mind with it's display of just how insignificant sentient life was in the grand scale of this cosmic battlefield.

Even an aberrant mind, like young Belphaegor's, it left him baffled and blind. Sightlessly groping for even the most subtle fragment of land to ground himself upon. But this ocean was relentless. Yes, even so attuned at spotting madness and sickness, he'd overlooked what was directly in front of him this entire time. Sat there in silence, a table lost under the scatter of notes and reports.

Every eye, in the dining corridor of the Blue Chlovi Inn, resided upon him. While his focused carefully on the Gifted Nyriaan Honey Mead, then, laggardly, his vision shifted over his shoulder.

"It woul've been easier had you drunk it. . . " Said the sapphire hued man, his fist clenched tight upon a stout fire iron.

The Pale Inquisitor migrated towards action, his left hand making a dive for Zelroth's Rest. But not even a breath passed before pain arrived, his white hair fluttering violently, as wrought iron kissed the side of his skull with ruthless force. The chair buckled sideways under him, his weight unable to find balance as he sprawled across the table. Sending paper fleeting off in every direction, as hot wax from the flickering candle absorbed and stiffened in to the fabric of his robes.

Another stroke lashed his back with an echo hollow, sending Belphaegor spilling down to the floor with the table in tow. "Don't kill 'im, 'is death is for the Dying Sun. " Said the round, greasy, man.

Blood drained unrestrained from a wound that had opened where the iron caught his head, blushing what was pale and white, a deep shade of dripping crimson. He could find nothing inside of himself to command his body upwards, instead his bewildered limbs floundered helpless as he tried to crawl up to his knees. Only to find a hard kick punt him between bent legs and wobbling arms; directly in to the side of his rib cage.

"Uumph! " He gasped, his lungs coerced in to huffing a painful breath through his mouth, casting a gentle mist of blood from the Maenan's lips.

Another foot assaulted him, stomping carelessly on his abdomen, which sent Belphaegor's body inadvertently in to a fetal position as more and more kicks and stomps crashed down over him. An endless wave under the detonation of thunder and flash of lightning from the world outside.

"Work the fight outta 'im! " the nameless man commanded. "Break 'im down! "

A rugged, Rancor Leather belt, looped tightly across the front of Belphaegor's neck. Lofting his sagging body out of a pool of blood. Choking, he climbed up on unstable legs. His arms stretching towards a wrist of the man strangling him. But his task was halted as something powerful and weighty clapped across his chest. Followed by a set of knuckles that slid across his face, once, twice, three times. Leaving filthy smears through his mask of blood that vanished hastily under the steady flow.

"Hnnngphh! " The Maenan wheezed out, sick and wet. His groin kicked, the sudden shock trauma of the blow leaving his legs lifeless once more as he collapsed back down to the floor, luckily, the jolt of it had let him slither out and away from the constriction of the belt.

But this beating was endless. He could not even calculate how many were thrashing his Maenan bones. He could feel only the ceaseless impact of feet, hands, and blunt objects bruising and battering him in to a bloody mess.

 

[Darth Libertas]

[member="Belphaegor"]


Against all odds, they had survived. Kharon lacked the self-control to resist breathing a sigh of relief when the ship came to a halt. She heard Qaen'Zero take a very deep breath, muttering something in her native tongue. Perhaps a prayer to the spirits. Silly girl.


Having endured trial upon trial in the depths of the Netherworld and suffered agonies she could not give voice to, Kharon knew that higher beings existed. However, it was folly to think that they would listen to something as prosaic as a prayer. The gods did not care. Nor did they need to. That was why they were gods. "Report!" she demanded.


"The ship will not be able to go anywhere for a while, Mistress. We will need to repair the main reactor and the ion engines," the Xioquo spoke. "And the weather will have to calm down. Another storm like this will destroy us," she added.


"I am aware and I have no intention of dying," Kharon said coldly. She could feel the Force returning to her, along with Illyria's presence. However, her unwilling host was silent. She could not even feel the Eldorai's usual smugness about her diffculties. This put her on edge. "Begin carrying out repairs at once. If the parts cannot be procured easily, steal them."


Without a further word, she undid her belt and staggered out of the cockpit. When the ramp lowered, her exit was less dignified than she would have liked. A cowled, authoritative looking woman and some goons awaited her. "Ma'am, welcome. The Inquisitor instructed us to expect you," the hooded women said respectfully. "Do you need aid? That storm was bloody..."


"My ship requires repairs. It is most urgent that they are carried out promptly," Kharon interjected, putting just a bit of Force in her words. "My servant has the details. Now before this journey becomes even more of a waste of my time, where's the Emperor's minion?"

The hooded woman kept her cool. Their guest was either another Sith or a Dark Jedi. Either way, they were a volatile lot. It was best to click your heels, do what they wanted and hope they departed with minimal fuss without Force choking anyone - especially you! "Yes, ma'am, sure. The Inquisitor is at the Blue Chlovi Inn, last we heard. Trooper?" she demanded from her subordinate.

"Not getting a connection, boss. Storm's frakked all over the comms," he said with an apologetic shrug. "Tried to work around it, but no give at this intensity."

The hooded woman suppressed a curse that was begging to leave her lips. "Sorry, ma'am. It will take a few hours at least."

"I do not have a few hours. I am here to go about my business and then leave this accursed rock. How do I reach this inn without walking into a storm?"

Time to think fast! "There's underground tunnels, ma'am. Bit of a walk, but they're built for this kind of chit. One leads from the hangar to the Chlovi's food cellar. I can give you someone to guide you."

"I appreciate your cooperation...and willingness to volunteer." Wait, that had not been part of the deal!

"Uh, ma'am...Lady, with all respect, I've got to oversee this hangar. But I've got capable men who can help you..."

"And I have decided on you. Surely you do not wish to disobey a guest of the Sith Empire?" Did suddenly feel like she was being constricted by an icy grip? And did it feel like ice water was filling her lungs?

"Right, of course. No need for...misunderstandings. Stan, you're in charge till I'm back. Marius, come with me."


Formalities duly handled, the party went on its way. Surely nothing could go wrong during a leisurely stroll in the tunnel. Above them a violent storm raged. As if trying to remind mundanes and Force-users alike that their technological terrors and sorcerous ways did not give them the strength to overcome Nature. On the grand scale, all living beings were insignificant. Even those whose domains spanned countless worlds and whose will was enforced by huge Super Star Destroyers. Sooner or later, everything and everyone died.


At first everything went well. Above them the storm roared with violent intensity...but everything was peaceful beneath, albeit damp and cold. Her two helpful aides carried glow rods to provide illumination. But the storm howled louder with each moment that passed. Then there were trembles. Premonition screamed inside Kharon's mind. Too late. The ceiling was torn asunder. Somewhere, inside the deepest recesses of Kharon's mind, Illyria stirred as a fethton of rubble bombarded the Sith.