Remnant

Pain sears every nerve as consciousness is thrust upon him. His eyes snap open revealing blood red pupils that shine with his pain. His spine arches and every muscle contracts with the unimaginable pain. The Force writhes around his supine form making the symbols carved into the armor plates encasing his body glow dully. The shadows dance in joy as the being at the center of the time worn chamber finally sucks in a breath. Deep heaving breaths greedily suck in life sustaining air. Strength gradually replaces the pain flowing through his limbs with each breath. Slowly his breathing slows and loses the desperation. Black robes rustle quietly across durasteel plating as the figure sits up with an exhausted groan.

The dull light penetrating the singular crack in the chamber's ceiling illuminates a powerful humanoid form. Thick armor plates buckled over a skintight black bodysuit worn beneath loose black robes protect him from the myriad threats of the battlefield and his environment. The light fading from the symbols carved into the armor's edges reveal them to be a near perfect match for many of the symbols in the stone altar he was laying on. His tall form wavers for a moment with a sense of vertigo but steadies. Strong purposeful strides take him from the chamber leaving his prison behind. His senses stretch beyond the physical, embracing the cool darkness that shrouds the entire planet and making idle note of the darker patches. His steps unerringly avoid the various traps meant to ensare would-be tomb raiders...or those who would attempt to free him.

A familiar, warm feeling catches his attention just beyond the wall a few dozen meters from his prison. The Force leaps to obey him as he reaches out for the wall. A ball of raw power leaps from his fingers and slams into the fake wall shattering the ancient plaster and revealing his goal within. Resting, supported by two claw-like lengths of iron on a black stone plinth is the hilt of his beloved blade. The casing and grip imbued with powerful Alchemy calls to him and a soft smile tugs at his lips beneath his helmet in response. It knows only one master, and the man who trapped him hear obviously ever knew that a few loyal servants stashed the weapon here sometime in the past. The hilt leaps from the plinth and into his waiting hand snuggling into his palm like it was meant to be there.

A simple press of the black activation stud ignites the ancient weapon. Three feet of bloody crimson plasma surges from the port with a hiss of incinerated dust and air. The blade casts the dilapidated tomb-prison in a baleful crimson light making the shadows seem to dance in the corners of the chamber and the hallway where he stands. The Dark Side sings softly to him. As if it were a hound welcoming its master home.

The small group of smugglers and bounty hunters thought themselves lucky to get through the Commerce Guild's sensors. They thought themselves blessed to get to the tomb that their mysterious benefactor discovered from an anonymous source. They thought themselves kings when they saw the credits deposited in their accounts before coming to Korriban and the promise of the rest after they delivered whatever was in the central chamber. They landed their ship in the desert before the small cliff and disembark leaving their ancient protocol droid, a salvaged hunk of metal that has been repaired a hundred too many times, as the sole occupant of the YT-1210 freighter that brought them there.

Huttese curses are flung back and forth cheerfully between them. None of them consider the area to be dangerous. After all nothing is better than a good blaster at your side...right? Hunger stalks them from the shadows. Lithe forms of muscle, claws, and teeth flowing over the stone and sand of their home. Angry red eyes regard the intruders hungrily as the pack musters. But they hold back. Even when their prey strides not three meters away from one of them without noticing. They wait.

The group begins their ascent up the worn stone steps ignorant of the threat looming just beyond it. A pair of photoreceptors regard the coming violence with something approaching murderous glee brewing within their central processor. The robbers place small demolitions charges on the door and retreat to a somewhat safe distance before triggering them. The crump of the charges shatters the heavy silence of the desolate wastes. Hungry growls rumble in the chests of the creatures surrounding them, only now making their presence felt to the fools. A kernel of fear sprouts in their brains at the sound, now totally ignoring the yawning entrance to the tomb. A shadow appears in the entrance, battle worn robes swirling about his feet.

The first of the creatures appears over the crest of the small dune it was crouched behind. Long narrow jaws drool in anticipation of the feast before it. Claws like daggers knead the sand beneath it already imagining the flesh of its prey in its grip. Muscles like steel cables flow beneath the tough black hide. Long black horns sprout from the back of its skull like a crown and smaller bony ridges sprout over the glowing red eyes that burn with its hunger. Fear spikes in the hearts of the would-be tomb robbers at the sight of Korriban's most fearsome predator.

"W-what are these things?" a Rodian stutters as the small party forms a defensive semicircle around the base of the stairs. None of them face the entrance to the tomb to see the towering form of the, supposedly dead, tomb's occupant.

"They're Tuk'ata. Guardians of Korriban's sands and tombs." The booming powerful voice frightens the group even further. Their eyes leave the prowling predators for just a moment. A moment is all they need. Eight of the sinuous predators pounce on the raiders in a tide of claws and fangs. Blood and viscera soak into the sands to the screams of sentient beings. None of them manage to fire a single shot. The figure smiles beneath his mask, the meaning of it long lost to the galaxy at large by the passage of time. The eight Tuk'ata prowl around him. Blood dripping from their muzzles further staining the sands. The largest of them steps forward glaring at the two black eyepieces of the mask. Crimson bores into void.

The mighty Tuk'ata bows to the being of the Dark, its massive form mirrored by the smaller creatures following it. The figure nods to the Alpha and strides towards the light freighter...and a familiar figure standing beside the lowered ramp. The unfortunately ancient design of the droid has gradually given way to rust and the need for patching. The formerly gunmetal carapace is now streaked with rust and patched over with several different alloys. Exposed circuitry peeks between some of the plates and the left arm's shoulder joint has a visible hitch in it when moving. Yet it is the voice modulator that catches the being's attention.

"Greeting: It is a blessing from the Maker to see you once more Master. I am so glad that I managed to trick these simple meatbags into bringing this ship here for you Master. Query: shall we go kill something?" the scratchy, slightly homicidal voice brings a soft smile to his face. The Seneschal-series factotum droid is not the correct form for the memory core hiding within the frame.

"It is good to at least hear your voice once more Hk-51. I see that your frame has been...downgraded to say the least." The being's voice is smooth and calming. A wine for the senses. As seductive as a skilled courtesan.

"Regret: Indeed Master. Time has not been kind to this loyal droid. It became necessary to conceal myself within this inferior hardware in order to free you Master. It was a simple matter to orchestrate your release...after these meatbag confused my memory core for this droid's."

"The Force must indeed be with me for such a thing to occur. What are the odds that either your core or the frame would still be functional after...how long was I gone HK?" A sinking feeling forms in his gut at the realization that he doesn't recognize the equipment of the raiders lying in pieces behind him.

"It has been...approximately three thousand six-hundred and sixty-seven years since your internment...Master." Shock. Unadulterated shock slams into him with the force of a charging Gundark. Everyone he knew and loved is dead. Well...those he loved were dead before he was interred. And his love with them. Now however...is not the time to grieve, and so he pushes it all back beneath the mask he has worn since he learned how to forge it. Pushing down the fear, hate, and grief that assaults his mind and feeds the temptress circling his soul beneath an iron control.

"Very...very well. You can apprise me of the galactic situation on the way to... anywhere but here."

"Agreement: Yes Master. Cautious Query: And if I may Master...can we find a more suitable chassis? This is most disgraceful for my production line."

Jedi Temple

The Council chamber is silent around the Grandmaster. His students and friends are gone, all risking their lives in a great trap constructed by an unknown hunter. The Dark Side shrouds the future allowing only the murkiest of visions at the best of times. The small green alien sighs heavily and stares into the grain of his cane. The ancient wood carved of a branch from one of the Gimer bushes of Kashyyyk has served as his cane for decades. Longer than some of the beings within the Jedi Order have been alive even. The melancholy that descends on the ancient master is a grim reminder of his own age. Even now he hears the whispers and laughter of friends long past. Their spirits one with the Force as his will be one day.

A sudden ripple across the Force, like a pebble striking the surface of a lake, snaps him from his reverie. His long ears twitch in displeasure at the sudden surge of the Dark Side. The Force ripples once more revealing a single beam of Light at the center of the disturbance. In all his centuries he has never felt such a contradiction. Darkness bringing the Light. A small spark of hope flares in his chest, a chance to save his beloved Order from the trap they have no choice but to trip. The Master reaches out with his senses pushing aside the billions of souls on Coruscant and feeling for the disturbance. His awareness slams back into his body at the touch of the Dark Side enshrouding the source. It knows he was looking for it...and it knows where he is. The only question is...what is its intention?

A familiar presence beyond the door surprises the Grandmaster, the door to the Council chamber hissing open. Master Cin Drallig, Battlemaster of the Jedi Order, enters with a scowl firmly entrenched across his face. His blue eyes bear the exhaustion of sending friends off to die. In a way he is. War is unpredictable at the best of times, and no matter the skill with a blade or the Force you can't survive a direct hit from a cannon round or overwhelming numbers. As the man responsible for overseeing every Padawan's and younglings' training with a lightsaber he has just as strong of a connection as the Grandmaster himself with those going out to fight.

"You have felt it as well then?" Master Drallig asks as a way of greeting. The older Master nods in reply, his face even more wrinkled with his frown.

"Growing, the Dark Side is. Uncertain future the Jedi Order, has."

[A/N: Forgive my inability to write proper Yoda speak.]

"What can we do Master? Most of the Order is dedicated to this...Clone War. If this disturbance were to be a product of Count Dooku or his ilk then there's no telling the damage it could cause." The small green Jedi hums to himself before coming to a decision.

"To Korriban, go I shall. The Order in your hands, I leave."

Chancellor's Office

Chancellor Palpatine is a very busy man. Taking power in the Galactic Senate was enough work, but also maintaining the front he has to keep the Jedi off of his trail while orchestrating their downfall...that makes for mountains of digital paperwork and many sleepless nights. Now this new disturbance rips holes in his plans for the Jedi. The Rule of Two is clear: one master, and one apprentice. That is all. This new shadow can only be one thing. Another Sith. All that work potentially wasted. On the outside he is the grandfatherly Chancellor of the Republic reading over a proposal for a new trade route between Kuat and the mineral rich Core Worlds. On the inside he is plotting the downfall of Democracy and the Jedi Order.

He signs off on the deal and makes a mental note to send Dooku's pet assassin after the source of the disturbance. He cannot afford any anomalies to throw his plans out of alignment even in these early days of the war. With a heavy sigh he resolves to send word to his Apprentice at the earliest opportunity and then delves back into the ever growing mountain of paperwork.

Korriban High Orbit

The light freighter easily escapes the notice of even the warships in in orbit. The small craft and its single organic occupant accelerate towards the jump point. The red, dusty and tomb ridden orb shrinks against the backdrop of the heavens behind them. The droid dutifully manipulates the computer to calculate the first jump while his master relaxes in the seat beside him. A heavy sigh shakes his shoulders as he reaches up to remove his mask. The soft lighting of the cockpit illuminates his wine red skin and the cartilage tentacles forming a long mustache like structure that droops from his upper lip, and more that jut from his jaw forming a sort of pseudo goatee. Blood red eyes stare back at him in the reflection of the canopy. Black hair, cut high-and-tight decorates his crown.

As a Pureblood Sith in the Empire he was considered to be above the average Sith by right of blood alone. His power, as great as it is, was enough to earn him the title Darth and the command of his own infantry division. All of that doesn't matter anymore. Everything that he once fought for and was betrayed for is gone. The Republic remains in an even more corrupt form and the Jedi continue to defend it, willfully blind to what was occuring in the Rim until it was too late. As an unknown variable on the Galactic stage he has dozens of options and not all of them are appealing. First things first though...get this ship cleaned!

His nose wrinkles at the scent of various drugs vapors and body odor entering his nose now that his mask is no longer filtering the air. Of course the codes need to be exchanged as well and an engineer needs to give it a once over to be sure that the scum that owned it before him were up to date on the maintenance of the various systems that ensure their safe passage through space. A low growl alerts him to another concern. A narrow head settles on his arm prodding him for attention that he gladly gives. Half-lidded burning red eyes look up at him as the Tuk'ata purrs under his ministrations. The rather small example of the creature's species called to something in him before they took off and so on a whim he decided to let it come with him.

The creature surprised him by forming a Force Bond upon first contact with him, something that he never heard of happening in the past. Well...in the past no Sith was willing to spend the time considering a Bond with anyone for fear of it being exploited as a weakness. The pleasure flowing through the bond is enough to bring a small smile to the Pureblood's face while he thinks about where the best places to get his initial tasks accomplished would be. He sighs again as the hyperdrive spins up, idly noting that it happens slightly faster than the ones in his time. That's another thing that will take some getting used to: the advances and regression in technology. How such a thing managed to occur will continue to boggle his mind.

Inevitably, his thoughts drift to the powerful presence that brushed against him earlier. The unmistakable Light of a Jedi and a powerful one too. Another sigh. He seems to be doing that a lot lately.

"Set a course for Nal Hutta HK. We've got a date with the scum of the galaxy."