The descent was a long one, the dense sulfuric atmosphere of Velrahn pushing back against the shuttle as it wormed its way down, plumes of fire licking at its nose. The flames would eventually subside giving way to smoke and ash, the entire world permeated in an orange glow from the ever present streams of lava. Jagged mountains stabbed upwards at them, their obsidian surface as sharp as any dagger. Volcanoes both distant and all too close spurted lava and rock and ash.
Malfearak licked his lips, his grip knuckle-white on the shuttle’s yoke. He guided the ship downwards, giving mountains and cliffs a wide berth. He was a passable pilot on any regular world but this was no regular world and he had to be laser focused. He breathed deep through his nostrils, calling upon the Force to guide him onwards and steady his hands. The Sith at his side said nothing, her eyes never leaving the horizon. From time to time, he coul hear her long nails clicking against the armrest of her chair, from impatient or something else, he did not know. They flew for hours without a trace of civilization, just mountain of fires and rivers of lava as far as the eye could see. It reminded Malfearak of Mustafar, and yet, Mustafar now seemed like a quaint rolling plain on Naboo by comparison.
“We’re there,” Alaisy said, breaking the silence, the sound of her voice nearly causing him to jump.
He narrowed his eyes, looking for a sign, any sign, but he saw nothing. He looked at her.
“I can feel it.”
Sure you can, he thought bitterly.
She pointed onto the horizon, her long claw-like fingernail a compass arrow, and sure enough, he saw it. A spire piercing the horizon, slowly, rising from out of Velrahn, as black as the stone from which it had been carved, nearly invisible against the jagged mountains. As the shuttle drew closer, they could see the structure at its feet, a stronghold. Ashvroth. The Ashen Hall, in basic, home of the Black Hand and his dread legions, now long, long dead, all of them.
It would be abandoned, sure enough. Had to be. Though the Brotherhood had once been a guest of the Black Hand, the halls had been abandoned anew with the flight from Antei, and forgotten since. If anyone remained, it would be pirates or scavengers. Nothing to pose a threat to either to one such as Alaisy or Aphotis or whatever she deemed call herself nowadays.
He knew it in his heart, this place would lead him to the Black Hand.
A platform of rusted, half-molten metal came in view. The support beams appeared intact, but the surface was littered with debris of neglected and destroyed star fighters.
“Do you see the scaffold over there?” The pitch and volume of Tir'eivra’s modulated voice rose slightly as it was laced with enthusiasm.
“You’re not serious?” Malfearak exhaled sharply, but he already knew there was no changing this woman’s mind. He scratched his beard in annoyance.
“I trust your capability, Asvraal. The T2c can fit between those two damaged cockpits, pivot the ship and retract the wings.”
The Kessurian stayed quiet, already too far into the process of landing the shuttle any other way. The somewhat over-excited Sith made it sound so easy, but he knew there was a lot more to this. Not only did he not want to damage that flimsy, improvised heat shield, but they had to be able to leave this place too. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he lowered the landing gear. With some lightning-fast tapping of his fingers, he adjusted the thrust vector and directed the engine exhaust so he could swivel the hull.
A wicked grin formed on the archaeologists face as he used the momentum to disengage the wings. .
Clang
There was a sudden release in tension as he felt the ship touch down without blaring alarms or screeching metal. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Well done, I will clear out the wreckage,” Aphotis had already jumped out of her seat and slammed the red button to lower the ramp.
Still strapped in the pilot’s seat, Malfaerak raised a hand in protest, but slowly lowered it again. When he ran down the ramp after her, he could see that she had already disposed of the scrap. All that effort to land… She was testing him, he was sure of it.
What his gray-blue eyes saw next was a nightmare wasteland. Forgotten and neglected. There was such a heavy pressure and it wasn’t from the heat. The energy that radiated from the fortress was vile beyond belief. He jumped up as he heard the fiery depths swallow the metal, replied by the popping of bubbles of molten stone and the whisper of warm winds.
Hiss
The chilled pressurised air was a relief with each breath. The black-clad woman’s tail flicked from side to side in an effort to cool her body down. Electric-blue stared at the decayed corpses trapped in their armor, littering the path ahead. She felt at ease, despite the blazing heat and the imposing structure in front of them. The melancholy welcomed her like a shadowy embrace.
“This should be good,” her voice darkened as if to fit with the atmosphere.
Durasteel heels clanged and tapped on the stressed-out metal walkway, her weighted platform warping it with each step.
“Try not to linger in one place for too long, Asvraal, divide your weight over as much surface as you can, this whole place is on its last legs.”
As if Malfearak wasn’t already stressed enough. He kept a safe distance from the Sith woman, rather relieved that she would be the one to plummet first if anything went wrong.
They worked their way with meticulous attention down from the landing platform into the stronghold itself, the only sounds the howl of the wind, the distant thunder of volcanic eruptions and the click-clacking of Aphotis’ heels against ancient durasteel. The signs of ancient battle were immediately visible, collapsed buildings, craters left by explosions, the carcass of countless starships of a make which Malfearak did not recognize. Surfaces were scoured smooth by the merciless winds, blanketed by a crust of ash and soot. By all appearances the stronghold should have been buried by ash, swallowed by time, but Malfearak suspected geological storms of an immense power, capable of stripping all but the most ancient build up from these surfaces. He did not wish to be around when one such storm hit. At one time, the Ashen Halls would have been protected by a thermal shield dome but no longer.
Malfearak stopped in his tracks when he did recognize one ship carcass. He gasped and ran to it, a Jedi Vector, a starfighter used by the Jedi at the height of the High Republic, boyish excitement taking over his senses. Instantly, the stories of the Black Hand’s war on the Jedi Order flooded his mind. The Battle of Dantooine, the Sack of the Jedi Temple, then, the one that mattered most, the Fall at Ashvroth. It was here that Oscura had fought his last stand against the Republic, the Jedi forces obliterating his legions. To witness such history, virtually untouched by the cruel hand of time, Malfearak nearly forgot why his companion and he had come here. He traced his fingers along the Vector’s ruined wing, his breath hissing through his mask’s filtration system, wondering who might have flown it. Could it have been Agart Kiltho’s, the fabled hero who had defeated the Black Hand?
The fool who had failed to end him, he recalled in frustration.
“Impressive ship,” Alaisy said.
“Aye, built specifically for those able to wield the Force,” he explained, resisting the urge to launch into a lecture on the subject. “Impressive, indeed.”
He pushed the awe to the back of his mind and they pushed on through the shattered ruins of Ashvroth, working their way towards the great stone spire that loomed over them, a giant spear stabbing up at the fiery heavens above. As they drew closer a sense of dread blossomed in his chest, similar to the dark signature from the artifact, duller yet all the more foreboding.
His hand palmed the lightsaber hilt hanging from his belt though it did not comfort him. He peered at Alaisy, who seemed to have done much the same.
“You sense it too,” he said.
“Yes,” she responded. “I feel his presence.”
“Huh,” was all he could think to respond to that.
Every movement from the two was made with great care. It was as if the air itself reacted to each and every step forward, becoming heavier and heavier.
The hissing breathing of Aphotis’s mask was ragged, her teeth clenched and the nosecup pressing on her cheeks—her tail swinging in long arcs with the occasional twitch. Excitement mixed with anxiety. She could taste her own sweet, sweet fear. But the surrounding miasma was bitter and stale, making her wonder if she was the hunter here, or prey.
Malfearak kept reminding himself to stay sharp as they passed old, broken and long ago triggered defense mechanisms.
Shadows danced on the walls, clouds of smoke and sulphur obscuring star-light. Dirt and ash crunching under their boots. The further they went, the quieter it got. As if time itself feared to go on and stood still at the periphery. .
“This feels like death, do you feel that tightness on your chest too, Asvraal?” Aphotis’s modulated voice was still smoky and aristocratic, but it lacked a certain confidence. Her free claw was obsessively touching the glowing, crimson crystal on her neck brace.
“It feels wrong, there’s a scream that won’t stop, it’s as if a hand is peeling my fingers off of my hilt,” Malfearak replied between rapid hisses of his mask.
Every sound they made echoed on and on and on. The floor became sticky and tar-like. Yet it left behind nothing on the soles of their boots. What they saw ahead was like one dark portal, a cloud of thick smoke, swirling in a spiral as if tugging at life that was not there. A maelstrom of hunger.
If Tir’eivra had pores she would have goosebumps, if she could sweat she would, instead her alchemical skin tightened as if she dove deep into the ocean and the pressure was about to crush every bone in her body, making her blood boil.
The Kessurian could’ve sworn he was sweating, but the sheer void and heat made any and all shed moisture evaporate. He used the thought of a good drink as the distraction he needed to keep himself together. Something nice and cold, with the droplets of condensation forming on the glass. But even that did not stop his hands from shaking.