Exile .3 and .4

.3 and .4 .3 Darchind was strolling through the newly made courtyard behind his castle, just outside the jungle when his Sith Apprentices,(three of many and growing in number) interrupted him. They always mistake value for fruit on the teacher’s desk, Darchind mused darkly as he saw the three young men walk the obviously older, stronger man into Darchind’s sight. The four of them ducked under a sculpted archway brought in from the middle rim, made by the tremendously gifted wooden architects from Kashyyk. "Lord Darchind we have a prisoner for you to interrogate! He’s one of those nerfherder’s slinkin around like a mynock about those Jedi! We got him on the way—." "Enough." Darchind said, sighing. "Delegate Locke, I’m sorry for the inept attempt by my learners and fellow priests to curry favor, but they have obviously forgotten a good deal of their training. Let him go." He said, flicking his fingers at the young men. They did, scurrying out of the courtyard back through the archway as they went. "Lord Darchind, I’m glad I finally had the opportunity to meet you, although I thought it might be under a little better set of circumstances . ." Locke began. "Of course." Lord Darchind said. He came to a small bench and rested, leaning rigidly with the bench’s durrocrete form. "I’m glad someone finally wants to challenge my government and it’s benchmarks in a civilized manner." "Of course," Locke said quickly. "I thought it was an inflammatory situation the so-called revolutionaries drudged up. It didn’t produce any results for our side of the argument, or yours." "Indeed." Darchind paused instinctively, waiting for more. Locke was better then that though. "What did you think of the Jedi, Locke?" Locke shrugged his big shoulders. "From what I heard, there wasn’t much to think of them. Did they not all flee after killing most of your followers?" Forcing my hand? Clever, Darchind thought. "I’m guilty of ignorance in that respect. I was knocked unconscious during their slaughtering of my people. For all I know, they could still be hiding here in the shadows." Locke nodded slowly at this, scratching his shaven chin. "It was my understanding that a curfew was instigated to keep from these sort of situations from getting out of hand. Hasn’t it just . .fueled them?" Darchind smiled from the inside of the dark hood. "You are right. I was less then intelligible in that move—without knowing it I inadvertently gave the Jedi and their allies more casualties to inflict." "Through no fault of your own, I know." Locke commented. "You were trying to increase safety on the streets at night. Until that night, it had worked. Things sometimes simply need revisions. How sure are you that the Jedi planted the bombs, however?" Darchind sneered behind his dark hood but kept it at bay from showing in his voice. "Fairly sure. I’ve given the local holonet our security recordings of them and their allies setting up the bombs—." "Which inevitably leads the question of personal privacy—how many of Xolatis’ residents knew they were being recorded in their day to day lives?" Locke asked. Darchind shrugged, not even phased by the question. "We put them in place a few days before because we heard of an after-curfew burglary. It was merely a precaution." "Who are these we you keep speaking of, Darchind? I’m just curious to who you confide in." Locke asked. Darchind sighed behind his hood. "My followers are just that and nothing more—followers. They find solace in the fact that someone still wishes to cleanse the anarchy from the air of modern day life and replace it with order." Locke rubbed his back slowly. "They must." "Again, I apologize. For all their security they feel when under my charge, they become a little . .overzealous." Darchind said. "I understand." Locke said. Darchind could sense little understanding really coming from the man, just an overall sense of stalling time. "So was it an issue of pride that made you doctor the footage? If the rumors are true that you doctored such footage on the holovid?" Locke asked. For a moment, Darchind’s heart jumped a beat. It thumped madly in his chest after that moment, speeding to catch up what it had missed. "It was a matter of security, delegate Locke. I would have thought better of you then to believe in such rumors and misleading. Perhaps my own trust was misgiven . ." Locke shook his head. "Forgive me, I’ve probably overstepped my bounds. I know you endorse a good deal of personal freedoms here, I just let the overwhelming anger I’ve gathered from the residents over the attack cloud my better judgement." Better judgement, Darchind rolled his eyes. Laughable. This one is every bit pathetic as the Jedi. "I understand. Sometimes the consensus of those who follow me is that I work too tediously slow to incur any real movement or change, but perhaps competing against you or any other candidate might speed me up." Locke nodded appreciatively. "At the very least." "You wanted to know about the Jedi who were killed however, the ones who didn’t escape or hide?" Darchind offered. Locke nodded hesitantly. "I didn’t think you were prepared to release the information without a request or subpoena." Darchind nodded. "In light of your meeting, I’m fairly sure I can trust you with the information," he paused. "Your . .strength of character seems to have assured me that you can handle the information in a . .civilized way. Correct?" Locke nodded. Like a child being told a secret he will even lie to know and keep in his head. "The full list, is admittedly bare. Only four names come up, but they all did intend to attack me: Orsin Beserek; Jedi Master, Ikeeriot and Anduil; both Jedi Knights, and their leader, Alec Uban; Jedi Master. The two masters were killed when my bodyguards managed to take them by surprise and defend me and the others. The Jedi Knights were killed when a building collapsed due to their bombs." Locke nodded silently. "Very well. I thank you for the information that you could provide. Should I see myself out?" Darchind nodded. "My guards will see you to your home, if you don’t mind." Locke nodded and to Darchind it looked clear to him as if he was turning the information he’d just been given over and over in his head. "Yes, that will be fine." Darchind nodded and watched as Locke exited the courtyard. The moon started to show through the dusky clouds. Keep the dejarik pieces coming. Let them fall into line so I can play them as they come . . As Locke stepped into his apartment overlooking downtown and flicked on the light switch, he could think of nothing more then: Something is wrong here. A lot of things didn’t make sense in Darchind’s story, but one that stuck out like a wamprat in a medical nursery was that Jedi didn’t get surprised. Least of all Alec Uban, who would have noticed if a few tawdry bodyguards were clomping up behind him. His senses were more acute and attuned then that. Locke would just have to keep his eyes and ears open. He wasn’t distraught over Uban’s death. His resolve was hardened. "I’ll draw supporters here and there. Not en masse." He said to himself. He headed through the dimly lit room for the holoprojector, watching as the blinking light on it’s side told him he had a few messages. "Trickling like water down into a drain. And when it pours, we’ll flood out. Maybe I’ll even win the election—if Darchind makes one." He mumbled. Hopefully it would all ferment sometime soon into a flexible situation. In the meantime, I’ll work as attorney for the Paladins on trial—hopefully there will be a trial. He felt exhaustion sap his knees and he went for the couch just in front of the holoprojector. The messages can wait for the morning . . Maybe not. It wasn’t the Force—certainly not in him, but he had an intuition that late night. Something was pushing him toward the holoprojector. The soft blinking began to hypnotize him. Maybe just one message, he bargain with himself. He pressed the circular button and the blue image of a hooded man popped up and spoke to him. It would change his . .two dimensional view of the situation on Xolatis. .4 Briskly evading a group of Jedi Masters passing down the Coruscant Temple still under construction, an as of yet nameless brown cloak passed into the group meditation chamber. Making sure there was no one there, the Jedi sat, and took a deep breath, sending out placid waves of welcoming through the almost liquid grasp he had of the Force. With a deep breath, this Jedi let out a calm, unassuming call for young Jedi. No Masters. He had to hide his Force signature but he made it clear he was welcoming most. Four Jedi came right away, their curiosity getting the better of them. Three left immediately as they walked into the room, frowning as though they’d been pranked. One stayed though—a male Cerean. His cone like head was sprinkled with strands of golden hair, but nothing more then that. He wore a simply brown and gray tunic and leggings and he walked hesitantly up to the Jedi who was hovering serenely above the chair. "Good afternoon," the gravelly, quickly aged voice said. "Is that you?" The Cerean asked hopefully. "Anduil Siron? We thought you were dead!" The man behind the brown hood puckered his upper lip upwards in a frown. "In some ways, Narsayl Kendi, I might as well be." "What are you talking about?" Narsayl asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. "I am here on behalf of another. I don’t usually recruit for our little cause on this sort of level, but he was . .a little preoccupied." Anduil answered. "What do you mean, recruiting?" Narsayl asked, perplexed. Another frown on Anduil’s face, but it didn’t reflect in the Force. He was calm, a center rippling outwards. "I shouldn’t say here. I would like your help, if you’d give it." The Cerean Jedi paused, smirked and shook his head slightly. "Recruit me for an unknown cause for an unknown objective? You’ll have to do more then that for me." Shaking his head, Anduil Siron stood. He was no longer a Jedi Knight. "Sometimes the information given to us has to be enough, Narsayl Kendi." He stalked out of the room, brooding beneath the brown cloak but keeping pace with a group of Younglings starting down the main corridor to the great steps that led to the plaza below the Jedi Temple. Anduil was halfway down the stairs, passing over a flat between the next flight when he heard Narsayl call out behind him desperately, "Anduil, wait up! Siron! Wait up will you?" Anduil stopped but didn’t turn to address Narsayl. Narsayl had no problem with simply catching up to his old friend. "What’s the meaning of this, Anduil? Come on. Let’s go to the Council, we can brief them on . .however your mission went, then we’ll go against the Mandalorians." Anduil shook his head and took off his hood, watching the glaring orange sky and the menagerie of different ships and air-taxies filing through the air in their acrobatic, gravity-defying lateral columns. His thoughts drifted in the Force—a horrible stain glass image of a thousand horrible sights at precise, crystal clarity. Orsin Beserek. Dead. Alec Uban. Dead. Justice. Fleeing from the battle. The worst of them all: Ikeeriot, his eyes filled with rage while tears streamed down his cheeks as he sprayed white-blue Force Lightning from his fingertips, crying out in rage and forcing the Dark Side physically out of him, using it against Darchind and his Sith. The Sith. Resurrected. Anduil shook his head, cursing that he didn’t have better timing. He’s better at recruiting them then I am, he thought. I have to get back . . "If you really want to know what I speak of, then you will follow the Force." Anduil said this, waiting no more then another second to flip the hood back over his head and drift into the calming crowds of anonymity of the Coruscant populace. Narsayl was left on the Jedi Temple stairs, peering after his old friend fearfully. The sands swirled around the gasping shadowy figure. The twin suns baked the ground that swelled beneath his footfalls and every ounce of strength this other Jedi, farthest from the brightest part of the galaxy, was now dedicated to keeping his balance in the torrential winds. Of course, there was no rain to go along with the almost hurricane strength winds—only sand and grit, piling up in every crevice it could, threatening to overwhelm the former Jedi Knight. Go on, he thought dreamily. This is it. You have to keep going. Recapture what you lost, you failure. His conscience’s far from gentle prodding kept him going these days—not the faith in the Force had been so reliant on before the Xolatis debacle. Before you fell, you weak, sorry excuse for a Jedi, the voice said. The figure shook his head, trying to clear the voice away. For a moment, it seemed to work. He sank to his knees and forced out a few hoarse coughs. The wettest of the coughs spurted out saliva mingled with blood and the former Jedi felt his throat’s tender exterior. Have to go on. Have to find him. I have to learn more . .regain what I lost— The famously brutal Tatooine sandstorm was beginning to wind down. Sithspit—I don’t have enough time. Ikeeriot waved his hands out in front of him, finally able to see them for the first time in the past few days. He’d brought four canteens full of liquid and gone through them far too fast—now he was relying far to heavily on his decrepit physical strength; without the augmentation of the Force to help him through the storm. He had lost the will to call upon the Force the night he and Anduil had landed on Tatooine, but he could still fell the inky black taste of the Dark Side on his tongue. He’d lapped it up like a Bantha at a watering hole. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in between his shoulder blades and he was open to the Force once again. His face contorted into a gasping smile, one of a man trying to savor something he hadn’t had for a lifetime. A shimmering form appeared in front of him, one of his former Master, Alec Uban. The man was leaning on a cane, speaking to him, but Ikeeriot couldn’t tell what he was saying. The sandstorm was either far too loud or there was something wrong—it’s a mirage, rasped the conscience inside him. Ikeeriot fought that thought with all his heart and reached out at the image, "Please! Speak! Tell me what I did wrong! How can I make it right? How can I find the Force again?!" He rasped. The form of Alec Uban shook his head and smiled softly, continuing to speak. "I can’t TELL WHAT YOU’RE SAYING OLD MAN!" Ikeeriot erupted. He felt a sharp urge to strike out at the mirage. Or was it a ghost? What? That didn’t matter! Ikeeriot’s hand dropped to his hand and felt Alec Uban’s lightsaber. It was up in a white flash and Ikeeriot jumped at the ghost, but it simply vanished as the wind and storm died down. This left Ikeeriot standing atop a golden sand dune, looking out over a vast sandy alley that curved into a dead end. It was littered with Bantha and Dewback skeletons. Those who ever ventured out that far into the wilds of Tatooine knew it as the Krayt Graveyard. These skeletons too, of the great Tatooine Krayt Dragons, littered the valley. Ikeeriot left his—Uban’s—he thought, lightsaber on and watched the dying storm as he turned to regard it. His sense of the Force was again, completely stricken from him. He had some other intuition he was in trouble though. A deep rumbling growl uttered from beneath him and a huge lumbering roar snapped him out of his inattention to just where he was. That was, standing atop a dying but quite alive Female Krayt Dragon. He vaulted in a springing somersault off of the Krayt Dragon, nearly being snapped in half by it’s vice-dagger mouth. He held the white lightsaber out in front of him and glared fiercely at the thing. It lunged weakly at him and he darted under it’s attack, jabbing the lightsaber upwards through the roof of it’s mouth. It wailed in sorrow and fell the to ground, quivering minutely. Beads of sweat rolled down Ikeeriot unshaven, tanned face. The stubble he’d been growing was starting to grow out and become the itchy, scraggily kind of beard, but he didn’t bother with cleaning it off. Just a distraction in the main objective, he thought tiredly. To regain my control of the Force. Ikeeriot felt to the ground and sat against the still-dying Krayt Dragon, patting it on the rough ride stomach. "Sorry girl. I had to protect myself." The Krayt Dragon gave a muffled howl as it’s dying breath left her. "I hope you don’t mind if I take some of your stomach pearls. Poor girl." He thought absentmindedly that he might be able to get a crystal out of the pearl he might salvage from the beast’s stomach and use it in a lightsaber of his own. That’s all I need—a lightsaber. I can’t even feel the Force and I’m thinking about wielding this kind of weapon, he shut off the white lightsaber and clipped it to his warped leather belt. "First things first," he mumbled. He took out a small datapad and hit the ‘call’ button. In an hour he could hear the distant engine of his Sandspeeder, clipping off the tops of dunes and racing toward the beacon’s signal that was being sent from the datapad. Ikeeriot sighed and went to work at the Krayt, waiting impatiently for the Sandspeeder to find it’s confounded way to him. Blasted machines, he thought. Never did me any good as a Jedi, don’t do me any good now either—other then feed laziness. Either way the Sandspeeder came about an hour before he was done with the Krayt. When he was done salvaging what he could from the great beast he loaded it into the back of the speeder and hopped gloomily into the front seat. Back to the Outcaste settlement, he thought angrily, punching the accelerators.