Private The Rain That Falls in Monotone

[Marcel von Ascania]

Ukatis
Ascania Family Manor
Darth Nefaron
​

Spring was creeping through the Ukatian countryside. Brisk mornings gave way to the afternoon sun, bright and warm as it chased the chill of winter from the ground. The cycling of seasons would eventually thaw the frigid landscape, bringing with it rain and wind.

And, during a few unseasonably warm nights, thunder.

Lightning streaked across the night sky, and brilliant flash illuminated Viscount von Ascania's otherwise dimly lit study. From the high-arched bay windows, one could even see trees bending in the harsh winds. Their rigid, naked limbs bowed erratically before the storm as it tore tiny green buds from their branches.

Marcel observed none of this. His back was to the window, his attention pouring over the mess of paper documents on his desk. Rain storms this early into the season were an auspicious sign. Auspicious signs made for good harvests, but Marcel did not believe wholly in superstition. He was a traditional man, a harsh man, a man who put the well-being of his farmers and their crops above hokey religions and ancient weapons.

He was a man who, at one time, rebelled against the crown. The fact that both he and his family were still here, thriving in their own right, meant that he had won. Cholmondeley was on the throne. He'd opened Ukatis up to the greater galaxy, ushering in change that had received as much praise as it had criticism. It was unfortunate that they'd fallen out over the past few years.

Marcel was alone, accompanied only by the rain bearing down on ancient stonework and the scratching of his quill. The harvest season would be busy, but the preparations even busier. With his wife and many children asleep, he found it easier to work into the early hours of the morning. The Viscount never saw much rest.

He was a tireless man.

Another crack of thunder shook the Ascania manor. As the building's frame trembled in place, Marcel didn't flinch.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

“Kingmaker-“

It came as a whisper, soft as a mother's gentle lullaby

"But never King" ​

It might have been a ghost stalking the noble halls of the von Ascania's family manor. A cruel thing that sought to torment the Viscount in these early hours. In the days of superstition, when men feared the darkness that fell at night, it was said these storms stirred the dead, and even unleashed demons from the blackest hell to pillage the land and claim the souls of the wicked.

Nonsense of course, such stories were meant to frighten children.

Then again, the manor's security failed to stop the black-cloaked intruders. The storm, powerful as it was, provided abundant cover as these demons went about their work. Security went first, then the kitchen staff. Then they came for the guard posted to protect the Viscount's precious family. But they all slept soundly, for no sound could be heard aside from the crack of thunder or the quiet rustle of steps.

But the Viscount was not subjected to any of this. Instead he might simply notice a slight tickle in the back of his throat, as if he might be getting a slight cold. Still, it was little to worry about for such a busy man. Why would he bother examining the ventilation above his desk? It was not as if he could see the toxin that filled the room, for it was the latest creation of a demon, his heart black and his soul more so. This toxin was not the mind-shattering elixir that was used on Woostri, but a mixture far more tame, one designed to make a being more... cooperative.

He was ripe for molding now.
​

The wind lashed hard against the windows, the storm seemed to be right above the manor as a creeping chill filled the Viscount's chamber. Yet the door did not open, nor did anyone come to disturb his work. Instead, the whispers returned, the voice harsher than before.

"A fool sits on the throne, and you prop him up. This world would die without your tireless efforts."

A pause fell over the room, it seemed as if even the storm seemed to calm for a time before a withered hand fell on the Viscount's shoulder, a cloaked being leaning in to speak to the King-in-Waiting.

"So I ask again, Kingmaker but not King? The throne calls to you and yet you deny your birthright."

The Corpse Lord was a horrid thing, and yet he seemed almost... enchanting. Like an old friend returned from a long absence. It was as if this nobleman had known Darth Nefaron for decades, despite the fact his eyes had never seen the decayed Sith Lord even once in his life.

"Your people will die without you, noble King. Would you deny them a ruler as wise and fit as yourself?"

TAGS: Marcel von Ascania ​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

Whispered words drifted into the periphery of Marcel's mind, almost as if they'd arisen on their own. They were gentle. Unobtrusive.

A distraction he observed, then ushered away while clearing his throat.

Like a gentle the wind nudging leaves of wisteria, the thoughts returned.
This time, with more potency, more purpose.

A voice of their own.

"A fool sits on the throne, and you prop him up. This world would die without your tireless efforts.”

The Viscount let out a brief, sharp exhale. It was almost a laugh.

"He is a fool."

Cholmondeley had not always been a fool. He was a great man, once. They'd seen eye to eye. Or at least, enough for them to agree on the direction of Ukatis' future.

Marcel cast his gaze to the hand at his shoulder. There was a pause, perhaps a struggle of recognition, but he decided that it didn't entirely matter. Sure, some confusion still lingered around him, but he'd not been mired in it. The disarming ease of Nefaron's presence cut through any doubts.

His breathing remained steady, his heartbeat rhythmic. There was no cause for alarm, even though something at the edge of his mind trilled in warning.

There was a momentary pause of consideration. Marcel shook his head.

"My place is here. There is no one in my house who can yet care for the people of this province as only I can."

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

"Your house? My King, your world calls for you to lead and you would pretend to be content?"

What did one province matter? He could have the entirety of Ukatis, he could take the throne and reign over his people as was his right. His bloodline would reign for ten thousand years if only he looked beyond the walls of his home and aspired to greater things.

He would aspire to greater things. He had no choice.
​

"Cholmondeley has drawn your world into a war it cannot win. You have seen what has happened to the worlds on the edge of Alliance space who have fallen to the Sith. Millions dead, families butchered, all for a government that is more concerned with serving the needs of the Jedi than protecting its people. But it does not have to be so, noble King. There is a way to not only save your world but allow it to prosper."

Nefaron shifted then, his great shadow seemingly cast over the room as his hands moved to rest on the Viscount's shoulders. He would see the grand design the Corpse Lord had envisioned for Ukatis, even if it was all a fantasy to lure this nobleman to his doom. But he saw not his own doom, but instead, his head would grow heavy from the weight of a crown, and his chair would become a grand throne. The aches and pains that came with age would slowly vanish, including a particularly bad limp that would suddenly vanish. In its place was a leg, and a man, reinvigorated with life and a fire to rule over his world.

"Who would have the strength to stand against Ukatis, united with the Sith Empire in bringing order and peace to this galaxy? Your throne secure, Ukatis and its people saved, and your traditions honored?"

In this imaginary world, the banner of the Von Ascania family flew proudly alongside that of the Sith Empire. At his side was his ever-loyal advisor, Darth Nefaron, who would never steer him wrong. King Marcel Von Ascania would rule for a century, his power only further bolstered by his alliance with the Sith. He could have anything he desired, he need only cast aside his allegiance to the pathetic Galatic Alliance and show Ukatis its destiny.

"I can give you this, my King. You need only speak the words, tell me that this is what you desire, and we shall work together to bring it to life. We have the power to do so much, but alone you can only continue on as you are, the Viscount rotting away in his manor-"

Nefaron's hands withdrew, the ache and pain returned, and the leg that had bothered him for so long was once again a hindrance, a reminder of the Viscount's weakness and failure.

Only Nefaron could take it away. Only the Sith could propel him to power.

"What say you, my King?"

TAGS: Marcel von Ascania ​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

The Ukatian throne could be taken in one of two ways: rebellion or marriage. The first was treacherous, carried a heavy price, and could easily backfire. Whoever lost – the crown or the insurgent – would have their line wiped from Ukatis itself.

Marcel had chosen the latter.

It had been nearly four centuries since an Ascania sat on the throne. Their line was not known to produce many children, but the Viscount and his wife had been fortuitous in that regard. Nine children, nine chess pieces to play into the royal palace and surrounding noble houses. Nine chances to draw power into their family.

Marcel still tasted the bitter bile of defeat.

His eldest daughter, the fool that she was, had been on the precipice of the throne. It had taken years to skillfully maneuver her union to the crown prince, to sell her into the opportunity to become queen. Fragile and selfish, she'd thrown away that chance. Marcel blamed himself as much as he did her Jedi teachers. The greater galaxy was good for many things, but they refused to respect Ukatian customs in Ukatian matters.

Marcel often weighed the benefits against the banes of a more open Ukatis.

Yes, the Jedi, more concerned with with serving the needs of the Jedi than protecting its people. During his daughter's engagement party, one such Jedi had struck Marcel in a fit of rage. They did not understand. They did not want to understand. The Jedi, and even the Alliance, only cared to exert their particular ideals over a foreign populace.

Marcel had fought for the future, once.

He, Cholmondeley, and other like-minded noble houses rebelled against the crown nearly two decades ago. Ukatis had gone into isolation and suffered terrible famines. The people were starving. His people were starving. Before even his young family would have nothing to eat, Marcel rebelled. They had won. Cholmondeley took the throne and opened Ukatis up to trade and foreign dealings. Later, with the Alliance's help, they imported food and fed their people.

The king had since grown fat and greedy. A terrible lech, a corrupted ruler who diverted funds meant for the rural provinces toward his own luxuries.

Marcel would be different.

He could see it, too. The weight of the crown as it rested on his head, but his neck never bent, never ached. The chair of his study suddenly felt as if it were gilded, elevated on a platform of rich red velvet as he overlooked his court. A lingering war injury healed, his cane cast to the side. He felt strong. He was strong. Who could stop him now? Surely not the bloated, heir-less bastard that occupied the throne. Cholmondeley could offer Ukatis nothing more than pain and suffering.

Marcel could offer Ukatis everything.

A stalwart ruler who followed the old traditions. A man who would guide Ukatis to prosper on its own. A knight who would protect his people.

A king who would fix what had been broken for so very, very long.

Then, it all slipped through his fingers. The crown lifted. His chair was made of wood. That ever-present soreness in his knee flared back to life. Marcel gasped as if he'd just emerged from being held under water. He blinked, then raised a hand to rub at the weathered creases around his eyes.

Nefaron cast a long shadow over the length of Marcel's study. Suddenly, he seemed less like a specter conjured by his mind, and more like a seductive nightmare that lived in the place between sleep and wakefulness.

"What manner of creature are you," he hissed low. "How are you capable of such...grandeur?"

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

A low chuckle escapes the creature's lipless maw.
​

"I am a Dark Lord of the Sith. I wield the power that the Jedi, that your daughter claims to be foul and corrupt. In reality, I have simply embraced my own inner strength and seek to offer it in your service."

Without lifting a finger, the Viscount's chair is pulled away from the table and back toward the large bay window. The force cracks the window, but it does not shatter. In the space newly created, Nefaron steps in to reveal himself fully. Though darkness fills the room, the flash of lighting outside occasionally illuminates the Sith's ruined form.

"I wish to help you, my King. But we must have a relationship of mutual trust. I am no creature, I am the catalyst of your family's return to the throne. My appearance may be frightening, but let me assure you that both of us share a common enemy in the form of the Jedi. Just as you have suffered wounds, my current form is the result of a failed attempt on my life by one of those Jedi fools."

A blatant lie. But the future King didn't need to know that. All he needed to know was that the Jedi and the Alliance were his enemies, and in Nefaron he would find a being with a common cause.

"The Alliance makes us out to be butchers, that our Empire seeks to consume all and bring forth endless suffering. This is there great lie to keep worlds like Ukatis enslaved, to keep them from acting in their own best interest. All the Sith Empire seeks to show the galaxy is that those with strength, those with the will and knowledge to govern should be permitted to do so. We have seen the folly of democracy and cast it aside in favor of enlightened rule. But then again, the Alliance and Jedi would not let you travel to the Empire to see this for yourself, so why would you believe me?"

There it was. He introduced doubt into the Viscount's mind, but really Nefaron did not have to do much to turn the old man against the Alliance and the Jedi. In truth, the Sith Empire was exactly what the Alliance claimed it to be, but Nefaron's puppet didn't need to know that. He would be a good little vassal and serve Nefaron's needs until his purpose was fulfilled.

"I wear my wounds like a badge of honor, I do not cower in the face of those who would seek to oppose me. So I ask you, brave son of Ukatis, why do you hide away in this hovel when you could reign for half a century and bring prosperity to your people? Why do you bend to the Alliance and Jedi as your fat King continues to enslave his people to the will of distant masters?"

Nefaron moved close then, his hands planted on the chair's armrests as he leaned in, his broken face only a few inches away from the Viscounts as dead eyes seemingly drilled into his mind.

"The time has come to call up those who would seek to bring Ukatis to glory. You will rebel, you will bring glory to your family name, and you will defy the Alliance and the Jedi by aligning Ukatis with the Sith Empire."

Nefaron paused, his words falling to a whisper as he leaned off to one side, his words now directed toward the future King's ear

"Then your lost family will come home. The daughter that defied you will be brought to heel and acknowledge your will as superior to hers. She will abandon the Jedi and serve as but another pawn in your game as you always intended."

TAGS: Marcel von Ascania ​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

A Sith.

Sith were not welcome on Ukatis, which left Marcel to wonder just how this man came to arrive planet-side. That thought drifted away like sand falling through the Viscount's fingers. The toxin was still in his system, and it softened the edges of his iron will.

Nefaron's words were like honey, flooding Marcel's senses like sweet nectar. Still, his natural skepticism broke through the drug-induced haze. He even grimaced at the man's ghastly appearance, frozen in time by a flare of lightning.

"Do you fancy yourself some sort of untouchable prophet, dark specter? You come to me offering the crown, offering your backing, offering my failure of a wayward daughter."

The Viscount tightened both hands to his armrest, gripping the wood with intensity. His feelings towards Corazona were not singular. Grave disappointment and frustration were at the forefront, but behind them lived grief and something that could be construed as a longing paternal love.

"The courts of Ukatis are a dangerous place, and I have maneuvered through them for decades. No man would offer such service to another if he stood nothing to gain himself. What will you and your Empire take in return from myself, from Ukatis?"

Take in return, not seek in return.

Marcel knew who the Sith were. He was a student of history, and with two great galactic powers approaching either side of his home, the monarchy needed to make a decision with who to throw their lot in. The Sith, they'd decided, stood a strong chance of gutting what little resources the planet had and enslaving their people. What would they need from a poor, backwards agricultural world?

It was Marcel who'd pushed for Ukatis to fall under the Alliance's umbrella, instructing his daughter to join the New Jedi Order in a bid to strengthen their ties. Bloated and meddling as the democratic power was, they were not butchers.

What designs would the Sith have for Ukatis? Surely there were more strategic targets if they aimed to cripple the Alliance's influence along the inner rim. Marcel cleared his throat, finding that it still tickled faintly. His eyes did not show any more clarity, but they tightened on Nefaron's grotesque form all the same.

"You know who I am. I know not where you hail from, but on Ukatis, it is rude to plan a rebellion without offering your name."

Suspicions about this Sith's motive aside, Marcel could begin to feel the thrill of insurgency pumping through his blood, invigorating tired bones and sore muscles.

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

"Prophet?"
​

Even Nefaron considered the title. He might appear to be a prophet in many ways, but his flock would not follow him willingly. The mere idea of such a thing made his dark grin grow ever wider. These backward nobles had quaint ideas from a different time, but that only worked in Nefarons' favor.

"Untouchable? Not at all. I am flesh and blood just like you. Both of us have been broken, but it appears only I have picked myself up and moved forward."

Mockery to infuriate him. A challenge that this nobleman could not resist. But the Corpse Lord was careful, his manipulations might drive this man into a fury that he could easily lose control of. Better to let that anger bubble below the surface for a time, so Nefaron changed his tactics once more as he addressed the rather important question of just what the Empire would do with an outpost so deep behind the battlelines of the ongoing galactic conflict. It was true that Ukatis was not valuable in the traditional sense; its crop yields would only be able to feed a tiny fraction of the Empire's growing population, but that is not why this world had been singled out. But what did this puppet need to know of the grander goals of the Sith? He would receive a dash of truth, but only enough to string him along.

"Now what would I gain? Obviously, I cannot strip your world of all its resources, for your world is too far removed from the Empire's borders. Nor would I bother taking the throne myself, that isn't the kind of power I seek. What I want, my King, is for your world to become the spark, you will ignite a fire that will sweep through the core as countless worlds see the Galactic Alliance for what it truly is. One by one, they will leave the senate and declare independence, form their own power block, or even fold into the Sith Empire. It matters not, for each world that slips from the Alliance is one more that we need not waste time conquering. Our war, in the end, is with the Jedi and once their precious Alliance is gone..."

Nefaron trailed off. The implication is obvious: the Jedi would be nothing without the Galactic Alliance. Alone, the singular light of the Jedi Order could not stand against the might of the Sith Empire. This was only part of the plan Nefaron and his cabal had envisioned, but even now he had not told the full truth. Ukatis would not be a spark, it would be a cancer, a wound the Alliance could ill afford. One by one, Sith infiltrators would spark rebellion on countless worlds. This would no doubt please Darth Malum in his schemes, but Nefaron had his own goals here.

He would strike terror in the very heart of the galaxy.

Billions would know him. Billions would cower in his shadow.

He was coming for them. Ukatis would herald his arrival.
​

Marcel Von Ascania had already fallen under Nefaron's spell. For all his guile and false nobility, Nefaron senses within him the ambition to rule, to wield power over his world and ascend to the throne he believed he deserved. Even as he sought to know the Dark Lord for who he truly was, the claws of the Dark Side had sunk into his heart and made it treacherous. It was already cruel, now all Nefaron needed to do was give it one final push and it would belong to him forever.

"Who am I? Why, my King, I am-"

Nefaron cut himself off. He was about to provide some offhand platitude, some hidden identity to conceal his actions. But why should he? Why should he hide who he was in front of this puppet? No, Nefaron, at last, took this moment to reveal himself fully. His motivations, his desires, his grand scheme that would consume the galaxy.

"I am the one, true, Dark Lord of the Sith. I am Darth Nefaron, and you and I will claim our revenge together. You will have your throne, and I will be one step closer to achieving my destined place-"

Once more, Nefaron's shadow grew. Once more, Marcel was on the throne of Ukatis, his wounds healed and his head adorned with a crown. But now Nefaron was in the center of the throne room, his dark grandeur unmatched as his darkness consumed all. Marcel would revel in his power over Ukatis, but Nefaron would have the rest of the galaxy.

"I will be proclaimed Emperor. Terror and Fear will be shared amongst every living being."

Arms sprawled, Nefaron proclaimed his ultimate ambition.

"And at long last, the Sith will have their revenge!"
​

The room returned to normal, once more Marcel was returned to his feeble form in his chair, but Nefaron had now returned to the center of the room. Numerous other beings had slipped inside, black cloaks concealing their forms, but they all looked not to Nefaron, but to Marcel.

"I must ask one final time, Marcel von Ascania, would you take your rightful throne or wither and die, forgotten by history?"

Tags: Marcel von Ascania

​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

The jab to his ego was felt. Marcel scoffed - he hadn't kept his family prosperous by giving into schoolyard taunts.

Yet, he found himself swept up in the grand designs of Darth Nefaron. Nefaron. A name with a ring of familiarity to it, and an aftertaste of something vile. With the toxin seeping into his system, the idea of a grand Sith Empire, with Ukatis being its flashpoint, did not sound so heinous.

Marcel closed his eyes. Yes, he was so close that he could feel the weight of the crown upon his head again. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the peripheral recognition of this as an illusion - but one that felt very real, too real, real enough for him to give it consideration.

The Viscount drew in a heavy, stuttered breath. His gaze resettled on Nefaron, flanked by shadowy figures. Had he been in his right mind, Marcel would've written this man's ambitions off as insanity - but he radiated power, the dark kind that blanketed his study in an atmosphere that was both oppressive and seductive.

Marcel's hand moved. Quicker than Nefaron might've expected, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved an antique hand blaster. He pointed it at the Corpse Lord.

"What assurance would I have that you would not betray me once I am King? What assurance would I have that your empire would protect us?"

To hell with the rest of the galaxy. It could burn, so long as Ukatis could thrive.

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

There was a moment, a few seconds at most, when Nefaron thought he had misjudged this old noble. When he drew his antique blaster, the cloaked figures around Nefaron went for their own hidden weapons only to be stopped by the Corpse Lord, who motioned for calm amongst his servants.

"Assurances? You of all people should know that nothing is certain in this galaxy. You are no fool, my King, you know that the way of the Sith is to embrace treachery."

At last, honesty from the Dark Lord. But in truth, it was hardly a secret; the Sith would betray as needed, for the only person who truly mattered in the grand scheme of things would be the Sith themselves. But that was hardly a satisfying answer for the noble, so close to forever falling under Nefarons' spell. Instead, the would-be Emperor approached his future puppet slowly, arms folded behind his back as he sought to offer up logic in place of uncertainty.

"Make no mistake, there will be only one Empire in the future. No more Alliance, no more Jedi, no more resistance. But I have no interest in micromanaging every world in my Empire; that is a task I will leave to a capable being such as yourself. Ukatis will be yours, rule as you see fit. All that matters is that you embrace the coming regime and that Ukatis provide a safe harbor for our agents in the coming conflicts. Do not worry about being dragged into our war, my King, you will not see Sith battlefleets hanging over your world for as you and I both know, there is little here worth dying over, aside from your noble heritage of course."

Nefaront halted, a few feet from his puppet, before reaching out with the force to rip the weapon in his hand away. It came gently into the now extended hand of the Sith Lord, though he did not destroy it or seek to turn it on its former master. Instead, he began to approach once more, spinning the weapon around to offer the grip to the future King of Ukatis.

"Rebellion is a leap of faith, my King. You must decide if the cause I offer is a worthy one. If you are truly so loyal to the current regime, then strike me down here and now. But you and I both know that Ukatis is doomed without your guiding hand, so why continue to deny the people the leader they require?"

He wouldn't shoot. Nefaron was certain now that his claws had sunk in, ripping at his mind and offering false dreams in their place. In truth, Marcel would be required to rally local nobles to the cause and give a few speeches. Once Darth Malum provided further assistance, the Sith could begin infiltrating key positions on the planet and lay the groundwork for the coming civil war. What mattered was that they made enough noise to draw the Jedi and Alliance in, lure them into a trap that would see them humiliated and blooded regardless of the outcome.

Then she would come. She would have to.

Her home burned. Her people suffering.

Corazona von Ascania would have to face her father again.

She would give in to her rage. She would strike him down.
​

What happened then was outside of Nefaron's control. He would see her break, another murder added to her bloody tally. He would push and push until at long last she finally embraced the darkness that lingered within her.

Oh, what a day that would be. To see the Caretaker of First Knowledge fall to the dark side, to kneel before the Master of Fear. ​

The future was clouded, but Darth Nefaron felt confident in the outcome of the little war he had planned. All that remained was for this noble to agree to sign his fate over to Nefaron's control.

Tags: Marcel von Ascania ​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

Invisible threads wrapped around the blaster. Marcel could feel them - almost - as they snatched the weapon away.

Teeth ground as his jaw worked beneath fair skin. In truth, he found Force users to be frustrating, whether they be Jedi or Sith. No matter their alignment, they sought not to understand, but to impose their will upon the galaxy.

It was a power he'd almost wielded through his daughter, before life in the core eroded her loyalty to their family.

The Alliance looked down their collective, sculpted noses at Ukatis. They were a poor and barbaric backwater world compared to the galactic standard, their traditions mocked and interrupted by those who thought they knew better.

Darth Nefaron offered something a little different. He did not coddle, but rather laid plainly the reality of his plans at the Viscount's feet. Marcel would get the chance to guide Ukatis toward a more prosperous future, and the Sith would get the chance to disrupt faith in the Alliance.

Darth Nefaron offered him the blaster. Marcel wrapped his fingers around the wooden handle, then hesitated. For a few brief moments, they were connected by the weapon, and the Sith Lord's claws sank further into the core of his mind.

"A leap of faith indeed," he muttered. Marcel's rough voice almost echoed in the wide space of his study, contemplative. He took the blaster now, brushing his other hand over the ornate engraved designs over its body.

"This will require time. There is a reason that the Alliance has been able to maintain the largest sphere of power in the galaxy not seen in generations. Ukatis is of little import, but they maintain a presence here, however minuscule."

He thought to Hapes, and the mess that had been. He thought back further, to the rebellion he and several other noblemen had instigated all those years ago. It had been a calculated gamble, and he had been a much younger man. His instincts had only sharpened over the years, and right now they were pulling him in one direction.

Nefaron's words, Marcel's own discontent, and the toxin's potency worked together to create a cocktail of rebellion. Marcel drew the blaster back beneath his waistcoat. His hard gaze lingered on the hazy outlines of shadowy servants before turning back to the disfigured Sith.

"I know of several Lords who are…critical of King Cholmondeley's rule. A pity, really. He was once a great man who shared our vision for a greater Ukatis. His greed has not been our ally, but his army is larger than that which I may be able to rally. We will need resources."

Darth Nefaron