The journey from Trian was long, and uneventful by the reckoning of Zel-Naktis. His father's orders were to keep the Derriphans a secret from prying eyes, lest someone recognize their venerable design. Every port, every world that the trianii guard had visited with their patrol ships, he could only have looked at with an advanced telescope. It was, the ekibban mused, probably for the best. After all, during the Great Hyperspace War, the dagger-outline of a derriphan once struck terror in the hearts of the Republic. Once upon a time they were mighty battleships, capable of going toe-to-toe with six ships their size at once. Now? Even with all the upgrades made with trianii technology, and the improvements in their hulls made by the alchemical runes burned into their sides, they were perhaps a match for a patrol vessel, a frigate.
The son of the Princeps of the Triumvirate looked briefly at one of the viewscreens, watching stars streak past in a rainbow of horizontal lines, the colors shifting so swiftly that it was hard to keep track of where one began and another ended. It cast an odd glow onto his red skin as he tugged on one of his cheek tendrils, a tic he picked up from his father. Shaking his head, he turned towards his ever-present trianii bodyguards, wearing the light armor of the Rangers, but done in the black and green of the Consul Guard, and waved them away. For what he was about to do, their presence would be an unwelcome distraction. A tribute to their obedience, they were gone before he finished turning around, back to his 'patient'.
The human had a flat nose, so similar to his own, but that was where the simularities ended. The captured pirate's dark eyes and mostly flat teeth were showing too much fear. Nothing like the dark amusement that twinkled in Naktis' own gold eyes, or shined with the points of his teeth.
The sorcerer had ordered this pirate, one with some latent Force-sensitivity, brought to his fleshcrafting chamber. The rest from the last aborted attack on their convoy would probably be used for sparring practice, or perhaps other projects, but none of them were fit for this ritual, as they were not gifted with the Force. This hapless individual therefore held a most honored position, strapped as he was onto the rune-covered and blood-stained altar. Just because one was sent off questing for a vision does not mean one cannot hone their skills, after all.
Zel-Naktis Teklan ignored the pirate's pleads for mercy, and focused on the fleshcrafting that was to come. He began running through the chants in his mind, preparing himself for what had to be done as he donned his protective robes. Red, trimmed in gold, with runes and enchantments woven into them in the old Sith language, they should protect him from most of the energies he would be channeling, funneling them into his spell. There were always risks, however. It was one of the reasons he demanded that the Saud Zirgas be outfitted with proper labs and alchemical stores. It cut down significantly on the space for cargo and passengers, but that's what the other ships were for.
Mimicking his home setup, the room was pyramidal in shape, and throbbed with a dull red light coming from the four sigul-covered walls. They were to contain the powers that would be worked as much as direct them to the altar. The altar itself was set upon a raised dias, and surrounded by three spellcircles burned into the floor with the bones of innocents killed in anger. It was a modest chamber, but it would have to do for now.
He settled the storm within himself and began to chant, the low intonations of the ancient Sith tongue echoing off the walls as he grabbed up his sword and talisman, pacing around the outer circle. The subject began to gibber incoherently, trying in vain to escape his bindings as he felt the darkness in the room begin to grow, to want, to hunger.
"Gesti jiso skystas vele, kaita jis kia zo vel grezmenes xuolis."
He let out some of the dark energy inside of him, empowering the first circle as he gripped his talisman to his chest, the stinger of the scorpion upon it digging into his hands. He focused his mind as he entered the first ring, his intent pouring through his words and his power, beginning the process of rotting away the weak-willed mind of this pathetic creature, and turning it towards his service.
"Eile savimi kia nuyak valia!"
The pirate screamed, trying to rip himself off of the altar with all of his strength as Zel-Naktis' voice and power wormed its way into his thoughts, dark, black smoke coming forth from the talisman and crawling into the human's nostrils, ears, and eyes. Mortal terror gave the man great strength, but worse things have tried to get out of those chains than he.
"Rieke del jiso dvasi, flomba zhol su sethi!"
Ambient energy began to spark off from his sword, the unsheathed blade seeming to ripple with waves of purple energy, and the screams of the subject grew quiet, turning instead to snarls and curses as the sorcerer amplified the victim's own hate and anger, riding along it into and through him, and with a force of will, he pushes himself into the second circle, the runes glowing red and hot. Sweat began to bead on his brow as his tendrils twitched, the power being worked becoming visible to the naked eye, like shimmers of heat coming off of the desert sands.
"Nuo jiso th'nusizen, fasona jis nuyak irankir! Uostija savimi je'as nuyak xarnait ir massassi!"
With each chant, the muscles on the man began to bulge, his jaw growing wider as his wordless curses increased in intensity, the full might of the dark side coursing through his veins and wiping away his memory even as it contorted his body. Zel-Naktis raised his sword into the air, holding the blade against his left hand as he continued the spell, lightning gathering at the pointed roof of the room and striking the tips of his fingers. He strode forward into the last circle, willing power into it as he cut open his palm, dark blood spilling out along the length of the blade and onto the altar.
"Dekomet dabar nuyak grotthu, pradzia! Pradzia! Pradzia!"
Now the subject's struggles were straining the chains, the once-human thing upon the altar screaming and thrashing as blackened blood streamed from every available orifice on its face. Ridges and spikes tore out of its body along its head, neck, arms, and legs, as its fingers and toes turned into talons. The chains holding it down were cast aside as it rose up, the once-man's personality and will being burned away forever, with only the nekghoul to remain. But Naktis was not done. The sorcerer raised his talisman at the creature, and let loose the storm within him, his hate etching itself into the spawn's skin, carving runes of control along its face and chest as it screamed in pain, the energy pushing it back down upon the altar.
And then, it was done.
"Pradzia."
Obediently, the nekghoul rose, stepping off of the altar and coming to some semblence of attention that may have been left over from its memories. Zel-Naktis walked around the creature as the leftover power of the spell he was working seeped into the floor, directed away from the door and circles. Not his best work, but the creature would serve as a decent golem, and far more controllable than a random sithspawn. His father would be pleasantly surprised at how far he had come.
He turned towards the door, opening it and stepping outside, only to feel himself being held up by a furred arm as the coldness of the outside hallway caused him to faint. Shaking his head, the sorcerer looked about himself and saw that the walls of the corridor near his fleshcrafting chamber were lined with frost, and he could see his bodyguards' breaths.
"Most curious. I believe I might have overstepped myself a bit with that."
At least, that was what he tried to say. What instead came out were several wheezes and a rather painful cough that ended with the taste of blood in his mouth, and the realization that all of the fingers on his left hand were charred black.
"Oh my."
The guards were silent, as always, and helped him to his personal chambers to recover. He would most likely have to take one of the prisoners and drain them of their essence in order to keep up his strength after that ordeal, but they had an excess of them, even after so long a journey. In the mean time he would reflect upon the vision that caused his father to send him to the core of the galaxy in the first place.
It was a curious thing, it came upon the Princeps one morning while he was crafting poisons, like a fever. He spoke on and on about strange, black droids and other strange machines grinding up red crystals into intricate, woven patterns of some cortosis alloy, a world pulsing with the power of the dark side, not as an echo, but from living, thinking beings. Most intriguing of all was the Woman in White. His father insisted that she, whoever she was, was strong in the dark side, but it was such an odd color.
A vision in the morning had sent them off into the furthest reaches of the galaxy. Naktis wasn't one to deny that Force visions were important, but sometimes he wondered if perhaps it was just his father showing his age. No matter, as long as his father was the Princeps, he would have to follow orders. One day, that would change, but the young sorcerer knew that it would be long in coming before he had the requisite knowledge and power to challenge his father for the position.
His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of the comm console next to his desk, the sith sorcerer stabbing the activation stub with his right hand.
"What is it?"
"We will be arriving soon, sir."
It was a rejuvenated, if not fully healed, Naktis that arrived on the bridge of the Saud Zirgas. His cheek tendrils curled up at their tips with his smile as he strode to the throne reserved for fleet commanders, raised above all others in the room. A gift from his father was currently sitting in it, growling at all who came near it. A jet-black tuk'ata, still young, no larger than a small hunting cat, with eyes glowing red with the power of the dark side, horns and bladed tail gleaming with the blood of some poor fool who had wandered too close.
"Kometa, Guleti."
The beast looked over to him, at him, and in some ways, through him, and Naktis felt it probing at his aura, 'tasting' him and making sure that it was the master giving the order. Satisfied, the tuk'ata jumped down off of the throne, waiting patiently for the sorcerer to sit down upon it before it lay at his feet, basking in the glow of the spell he had worked, and perhaps in the smell of his burnt flesh.
He hadn't been settled for very long when the alarms sounded. They were coming out of hyperspace, to the system called Beshqek, near the world of Byss. This was where the vision, and the force-seeking abominations chained into the ships sensors, lead him and his fleet. What greeted him when the viewscreens were turned on made his heart skip a beat. Though there was much to be seen, his eyes focused on the most massive ship he had ever laid his eyes upon. He had no doubt that they were being hailed at this moment, and that a single salvo from a ship that size could destroy their entire convoy, three derriphans not withstanding, and while the comms officer would be attempting to assuage those on the vessel that they meant no harm, it was a jeopardy to Naktis' mission.
Zel-Naktis Teklan closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, power coursing through him as he sought out the source of the darkside energy that excited his father so, sending out a small, simple message to the pulses of dark side energy, to the lady in white.
We are here, and We seek parlay.
