Smoke still hung in the air as Malfearak Asvraal filed through the cargo hold flanked by a procession of gang goons wearing the colors of the Shroud Syndicate. All of them wore breather masks, their rough features on full display, except for the Herald himself who wore his signature helmet. They marched through the hold unimpeded, the bodies of the ship’s crew strewn out all around them, the blue uniforms of the New Republic black against the red of auxiliary lights. They were alive for now, knocked out by an incapacitating agent the Shroud agents had pumped into the ventilation system. They would regain consciousness long after they were gone, assuming all things went according to plan. Hitting a Republic target was a risky endeavour at the best of times and fully prohibited by the Brotherhood. If they woke up prematurely, he would have to wipe them out.
It wasn’t long before the goons broke rank to rummage through the fallen’s pockets or set about claiming their due from the ship’s cargo. Malfearak ignored them, focused as he was on his own prize. Even now, it called upon him from across space and time, bid him closer, a dark presence in the Force. After a year hounding the artifact, he had finally tracked it to this one cargo ship. It had changed hands and moved so many credits that he’d lost count.
Now, it was finally within his reach. Yet, the closer he drew, the colder he felt. It was a strange sensation, terrifying in a way, unlike anything he had felt before. And yet, there was something about it that was unmistakably familiar.
He did not need to search long. Indeed, he was drawn to a small, unassuming box, the Force guiding his every footstep. The chest was made from a crude array of metals, now scuffed and rusted over. The locking interface was inert, its display scratched beyond use, its power source long dead. Dents and scratches betrayed past efforts to pry it open. Malfearak closed his eyes and with one hand on the box, reached out in the Force. Breathing softly, he visualised the locking mechanism and before long, there was an audible click, click, click. The then lock ceded.
He opened the box, eyes wide with anticipation behind his visor. He gasped as he was hit by the artifact’s raw power, like a wave of icy water smashing into his body and dragging him into the dark depths of the ocean. He snapped the lid shut, immediate relief washing over him. He realized he was panting when the Rodian slicer, Jakar, appeared by his side.
“You ok, boss?” the Rodian asked.
“Oh yeah,” Malfearak said, his excitement betrayed by a tremor in his voice. He regained his composure as he spoke for all his men to hear. “Pack it up, boys. We got what I wanted.”
“What about us?” asked another goon.
“Take what you wish, but do not linger. We leave soon,“ answered Malfearak before turning to the Rodian. "Wipe the security footage. Leave no trace.”
Clutching the box under one arm, Malfearak made his way back to the boarding shuttle without delay. As he moved he could have sworn he heard whispers, wordless, timeless. The artifact shimmered in the Force, its cold, dark aura dulled by its container yet omnipresent. Unlike anything… No. He had felt something similar before. That’s why it felt so familiar. Similar… yet different.
Somehow, he knew Alaisy was the key.
Her stomach dropped, making her feel weightless as she was enveloped by a throng of ice-cold hands that plunged the dark-haired woman into a deep dark void.
“Zaagnika, decloak the Scythe. Convince them I am coming aboard,” Aphotis’s eloquent voice demanded obedience from her ship and crew, yet it had an unsteadiness to it.
“I-I, don’t know how we’re going to convince them that we’re not ambushing them sitting here right next to them in secrecy, but yer the boss! Everyone on board, this is your Captain speaking…” Zag’s silvery voice was as calm as a Manaan cucumber, having been through this same ordeal time and time again. After all, the Zygerrian pilot was safe inside the cockpit of an absurdly well-armed Corvette, backed-up by some fancy, loyal to the bone task-force that calls themselves the Cohors Praetoria Taldryae.
The tall Sith could sense it through the Force, the freezing darkness surging, beckoning her. It was laced with fear, she could taste the distinct bittersweetness on her tongue. Her symbiotic skin squirmed over her body, in a way it had not done for a very long time. The hisses of air through her facemask shortened in anticipation. Unbeknown to her, her tail had curled around her thin waist as she space-walked towards the boarding shuttle in an almost trancelike state.
Perhaps it had been Umangi’s charm, the copious amounts of turbolasers, the military cohort aboard Osasdii’s Scythe, or a recognition of her allegiance to the Shroud and the Herald of the Brotherhood—it mattered not, they let her in. The black-clad woman made her way through the goons with mere gestures and modulated murmurs.
The click-clacking of her heels did not cease until she saw the Kessurian’s signature helmet.
“Malfaerak Asvraal, we meet again. I would ask that we leave mundane questions for later. We both know in our souls that there is nothing more pressing than the box you hold under your arm,” Aphotis pointed at the artifact with a twitch in her clawed finger.
Malfearak was grateful to be wearing his helmet. It masked the widening of his eyes and the curl of his eyebrow, though she likely felt his confusion in the Force. If she did, she showed no sign of it. Without saying a word, he motioned for her to follow him and made for his private quarters. The sound of her heels clicking on durasteel told him she was following. The Force worked in mysterious ways, indeed, to have brought her to him so swiftly. They would have to address the Happabore in the room in due time, but she was right. The box and what was inside, was all that mattered at this moment.
He reached his office and set the box down atop his desk as he moved around it. With his thumbs, he activated the pressure release on the helmet’s collar. He placed it next to the box, then sat down in his chair. He waited a moment, contemplating what he would say, how much he was willing to let on. He and Alaisy had a history of sorts, they were allies to an extent, but he didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust anyone, but it was all the more difficult to trust this black-clad enigma towering over him. Her presence alone was enough to make a Dowutin shrink in his boots, and he was no different. He may have been the Herald of the Brotherhood, he had no delusions about his own vulnerability.
“Tell me, Alaisy,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “How much do you know about the Black Hand?”
The Sith ran so many scenarios through her mind, yet Malfaerak asked his question in the most correct manner that she had calculated he could say.
‘The Black Hand.’
The mere mention of the name confirmed that she had been on the right track. Her dreams foretold it, even if this one had been particularly difficult to interpret. She had seen so many, all different from this one. There were nights in which she’d experience a hundred deaths, and even then this one stood out amongst them. Like a black bauble in the midst of tar, fog and swamp.
Her tail was no longer bound to her waist, but swinging from side to side in a curious, playful fit. Her facemask pressed out air with a loud hiss before she spoke up.
“Visions, a spectre of a man falling to pieces. How did you know its name? Documents and trails have led to dead ends!” There was a sense of urgency and impatience in her voice, as if someone withheld the winner of a hundred year long gamble from her.
Her claws almost led a life of their own, until she reigned them in.
“What did you find? And why now?” Her attention returned to the box, it was as if it taunted her.
This explained why she had been on his trail. It seemed they were both after the same thing and yet… more questions lingered. There was something in her words, her excitement, the mention of visions and the spectre of a man… Words he had heard from his master, Kereban. She didn’t know what she was looking for, only that she was searching for something. And this something was linked to the Black Hand. His question had clearly given confirmation to her own questions.
His silver eyes lingered on her a moment, more specifically, on the expectant sway of her tail.
“There are benefits to being Herald of the Brotherhood. That much you should know. As for this,” he said with a wave of his hand, “See for yourself.”
There was an audible click as the locking mechanism came undone once more. The lid loosened, all but inviting the Sith.
“You may want to brace yourself.”
If there was such a thing opposite to ‘bracing yourself’ Alaisy did just that. She lurched forward as the lid opened. What she felt was a bone-chilling cold—like a sheet of ice covering her second skin and freezing the flowing oils between the symbiotic ecosystem and her alabaster skin. She swore that she shivered—a biological redundancy that she had eliminated together with skin-pores.
But instead of rime, it was water, deep dark water, so pitch-black that it was akin to tar—even gloomier than the caxxquette-invested depths of Selen when the old gods made their final moves. In a way it felt like home, where she belonged, the abyss, a melancholic trepidation that washed over her—she and her symbiote, the spirit of Osasdii named themselves after the starless pit of the ocean, Aphotis.
The tall woman stood still on the tip of her platforms and marvelled at the artifact, gritting her teeth behind her domed mask.
“Astounding…”