Begeren. Once a prosperous Sith world, it has been the site of numerous battles throughout the millennia. Grand halls and monuments were torn down and re-purposed by looting Republic forces thousands of years ago, before they were driven from the planet. Isolated settlements still dot the planet's surface, but the inhospitable, craggy, and desert-like terrain, along with the beasts common to many desert and Sith worlds, have kept most humanoids from colonizing. Occasional skirmishes have left debris scattered throughout the desert, and battles were fought here as recently as the Galactic Civil War. The planet is now under the control of the One Sith and is rumored to be full of all manner of priceless, ancient Sith artifacts.

The Dark Council has pushed forth to Begeren and the Grand Master, on his quest for ever more powerful items, has decreed the Clans and Houses seize anything of value. The unity shown by the Brotherhood during the beginning of this Crusade is fracturing, with the Clans and Houses growing tired and frustrated with the seemingly endless succession of battles. Tempers are flaring between former allies, with outright aggression no longer uncommon. Despite this, you have responded to the Grand Master's call—though whether it's to actually seize the items for the Brotherhood, destroy them, or use them for your own purposes, only you know.

You have followed the call of the Force to a stretch of desert wasteland, seemingly unremarkable save for the various rock outcroppings that dot the landscape. These outcroppings, though, hide a subterranean cave network, known to be a den of wraids. Though the entrances to the caverns are typically narrow and dark, these tunnels quickly widen. Below the surface, bioluminescent plants and lichen provide limited light.

You know that, despite reaching this place first, you won’t be alone for long, as an ancient Sith tomb is located deep within the caves the wraids now call home. Exactly what you’ll find in that tomb, you’re not sure—but it is something of great power, that much you can sense. You know it is your duty to find it, whatever it is, before any others can locate it. What you do with it when you find it… that is up to you.

As you near one of the entrances to the caves, you think you hear the sounds of footsteps, or maybe skittering, down below—and above ground, you hear the distant crunch of rock underfoot as someone else has found a different rocky cave entrance as well.

Timeros vaulted into the cave system, scattering grains of sand as he landed smoothly on the dimly lit rock. Bioluminescent plants seemed to shy away as he approached, the deadened air a perfect mirror to the Entar’s own inner stillness. Somewhere ahead, a yawning chasm gaped, sucking away at the desert’s frail life like some monstrous void: the Sith Lord’s tomb, its treasures waiting to be plundered in the Shadow Clan’s name.

And yet, amidst the stale air about him, the Arconae could sense other things, points of light scattered in the craggy veins that led to the Sith’s final resting place. Most brightly lit among them was a form close-by, unrecognized but somehow familiar. And that light was not still. It moved about with purpose, circumnavigating the cave system’s bowels much like Timeros himself was doing.

Enemy.

The Adept quickened his pace, stepping through the anterior caves with unruffled haste. In the back of his mind, he could feel his unknown adversary do the same: no doubt his competitor had felt his presence as well.

Lichen-filled rocks sped by, turning into a dazzling blur as the Arconae sped up further, his sprint bouncing off of walls in a Force-boosted display of alacrity. His opponent - presence still unseen - seemed to respond in kind, moving further away, then closer again as rocky pathways spiraled, but did not cross.

The rock-hewn artery widened suddenly, heralding an abrupt stop as Timeros stepped into an abattoir. The tang of blood, thick and coppery, wafted across the cavern, perhaps fifty feet across. Bones and even whole ribcages were strewn about the opening as well, cracked from age or violence. They must have been leavings of the animals that lived here – wraids, the Entar had heard them called, though he knew almost nothing about them. Most disturbingly, the light-giving lichen had been assiduously scraped away. Light emanated from several other entrances, and the Arconae surmised that these ‘wraids’ must have used the location as a feeding ground.

Or a trap.

The sudden sound of footfalls interrupted his musings. Timeros turned slightly, just as an armor-clad figure stepped into the room. The man was tall and broad, his bronzed skin seeming to almost gleam in the vegetal light. He held the Entar’s gaze defiantly, approaching with the calm and steady gait of a seasoned warrior.

“Mirus,” the warrior announced himself, voice rumbling as he came to a stop some thirty feet away. “Warden of Odan-Urr.”

Timeros responded with a flat stare that nonetheless spoke volumes. “You should leave,” he said, voice as calm and cold as a sheet of ice.

The Warden did not deign to respond, other than to reach down for his lightsaber, unholstering the weapon and taking it loosely into one hand.

The Arconae’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Be careful, Jedi,” he warned, as he lowered his own hands towards his weapons belt. “I take no joy in the murder of children, but I will not hesitate if you fail to step aside.”

For a moment, the threat rang across the cavern, its blunt honesty only made worse by the Entar’s utterly frigid delivery. There was only one possible response.

Mirus exploded into sudden motion, pale blade sliding into existence with an echoing hiss as he bolted for the Adept. Moments later, Timeros raised his own blaster-clutching fist, spraying fire across the room.

Blaster bolts flew about the Odanite, momentarily staggering his assault as crimson light impacted his surroundings. Undaunted, the bronze-skinned Jedi reached into the Force, grasping one of the heavy ribcages and lifted it up, mind straining as he hurled the skeletal frame ahead of him, directly between him and the still-strobing blaster.

Bones cracked as the carcass took shot after shot, hurling chipped splinters across the cavern. Within moments, the remains were obliterated, eaten up by the Arconae’s fusillade. The next instant, Mirus’ saber came swinging through the air.

Timeros sidestepped the Warden’s first swing with composed grace, gliding lightly across the bone-strewn rock. He spun past his adversary, dropping his blaster; when it came up again, it was clutching his already-uncoiling saber, lurching viciously for the Warden’s back.

No such luck. The Force erupted in Mirus’ mind, and the armor-clad warrior vaulted into a forward roll, primal adrenaline surging into a burst of supernal agility. The Odanite hit the ground knuckles first, managing to somehow grab one of the ribs his enemy had previously scattered about the room and hurling it behind him as he flipped back to his feet.

Timeros’ saber darted out, neatly bisecting the bony implement and letting the pieces fall, harmlessly, to his sides. Yet, the attack served its purpose; Mirus had recovered his composure, and the Warden was now eyeing him much more warily. There would be no more chances for easy victory.

The Entar obliged the unspoken challenge wordlessly, reaching down for his second lightsaber and thumbing the activation switch. If the Jedi vermin lacked the sense to scuttle away he would be only too happy to oblige the man by crushing him.

He moved forward, determined to end the Warden.

Suddenly, the room fell into darkness. For a moment, the Arconae suspected some sort of trick from Mirus, but his worries abated when he noticed the Odanite seemed just as confused. And then, he noticed the wraids.

They were four, and each of them was large enough to block most of the cave tunnel’s light. They moved like nightmares, hopping about on over-large front legs set beneath sinister-reptilian maws.

The combatants turned, as one, to the single remaining tunnel: the one leading for the Sith Lord’s tomb.

Before Mirus could move, however, he felt a sudden, paralyzing sense of dread, hatred emanating from his enemy like a wave of vitriol and nailing him to his spot. And, in those precious instants, the Arconae did what the Warden wished he could do more than anything in the Galaxy.

Run.

The Arconae sprinted with the mechanical, clockwork precision inherent to his pedigree of training, his rapid pace carrying him through the cave with an smooth yet intense cadence. Timeros was no stranger to uneven footing, being a man of considerable training in the legendary lightsaber art of Sokan, an art wholly geared towards the analysis of terrain and its most advantageous use. Traversing this cave was child's play. This was a mere trifle, a miniscule drop in the bucket. Not only was he faster than the Jedi but he was, by and large, smarter than the Odanite that he had momentarily clashed blades with. That much was certain - he fought as brutishly as he acted.

To counter this simplicity, to prevent exerting himself unnecessarily, the champion's plan was rather simple: you didn't have to outrun the monster chasing you. You only had to outrun the other fool and let them get eaten. The Jedi had become little more than wraid-bait. An ignoble end, perhaps, but the Dark Adept had no time for such petty quibbles.

If the Jedi had the skill enough to defeat them-- if he could overcome the minor foible of mind-numbing fear-- then Timeros would turn around and crush the fool. Just like the rest. As the thundering stampede of meaty paws on stone echoed throughout the cave, he wondered just how well the fool would survive the oncoming horde.

The fool himself was staring down the visage of death, quaking in his boots at an inimitable feeling of pure, unadulterated fear. Darkness in his eyes and upon his soul threatened to overcome him, but he could not. What remaining vestiges of his spirit refused to allow him to surrender, to give up, no matter the cost.

Breathe, Mirus.

Odan-Urr needed this trinket of the Dark Side to destroy, to prevent the Brotherhood acquiring a new toy. The Shadow Clan certainly needed no such power boost. If it meant throwing himself against these wraids to prevent the darkness from gaining one more boon, then so be it. It was his destiny. If there truly was no death, only the Force, then he would meet it that day in the service of Light.

Determination became his ally, the feeling of protecting the greatest good of the Galaxy flooding his mind and becoming his power. He and his Arconan foe were not so unlike, in some ways.

Mirus raised his blade to a typical Djem So ready, sinking himself lower with bent knees as he held the humming aquamarine saber over his head in two hands, angling it up and away from himself. The Force flooded his being, knowing that he would have to act quickly while he drew upon his spirit to quieten itself. He had only moments to act before the wraids overran him.

With a moment of clarity, he conjured the Force to reach into the mind of one of the towering beasts, to give it just a single moment of calmness. It would not be enough to control it, no; Mirus did not seek control with his paltry skill. Instead, he needed but a distraction, giving it pause to slow its charge. One down. It was time to delve into the Force, to become one with its ebbs and flows, to read the movements of his enemy and let the Force drive him. His eyes shut and he gave himself over to the preternatural senses that he specialised in.

In the next moment, he struck.

The flow of battle followed him; one sidestep into a savage diagonal downswing to remove the first wraid's left foreleg, leading into a two-handed upswing into the second wraid's stomach. Both beasts toppled with shrieks of pain, their corpses colliding with the cold rocky surface below moments later. The third, following momentarily behind, was left to trample the bodies of its fallen brethren as momentum carried them with little consideration to the man that had stood between and cut them down.

With a flick of his wrist, Mirus tossed his lightsaber towards the beast with every intention of severing it, controlled with a precise application of telekinesis. His lightsaber carved a scything furrow into the back of the final wraid's skull before it returned to its master's outstretched hand, leaving the last of the gigantic beasts to cry out in terror. The monster that had been calmed before turned away, seeing its fellows cut down so easily - self-preservation won the day and it decided to turn tail, not to return. The light shone bright once more - both in his soul and into the cave, now that the obstacles standing in its way had been dealt with.

However, this posed him a new problem. His dark-side counterpart had a considerable head start on reaching the artifact first. It was very likely that he was going to make it to whatever it was in short order. This travesty simply could not be permitted.

With a momentary burst of the Force ramping his reasonable speed to the next level, Mirus gave chase to Timeros, praying with all that he had left in him that he could take on these lumbering beasts and a master of the Force all in one day. As the darkness encroached once more, the Titan of New Tython was not so sure of his fate. With the racket that the wraids had made, the Arconae surely knew that the Guardian was hot on his heels - and there would be a fight, or perhaps even a trap, waiting in moments. There was no telling what lay in store this time.

The Warden bounded through the cave system at breakneck pace, his soul ablaze with light and purpose, heedless of the darkness that awaited him. As the Guardian sped through the tunnels, a slow and subtle transformation became apparent to him. The stones became smoother, less roughly hewn as he progressed, replaced first by unblemished rock, then broken tiles and finally intricately carved murals. It was like watching a civilization crumble in reverse, order rising from chaos with every passing step.

The Warden ignored it all. His goals superseded mere archeological digs. He was an instrument of the light, sent to keep the artifact from the Grand Master’s gluttonous grasp. He operated on instinct, ignoring ornate statues and arterial hallways, turning left and right, always moving towards the roiling maelstrom of darkness he knew to be the Sith Lord’s tomb. Somewhere in the back of his head, the Warden felt the dark side’s whispered promises, a putrid paean to the Sith that was all the more loathsome for its familiarity. He crushed those feelings ruthlessly, pressing forward with lock-jawed determination before coming across a shattered stone door, its fragments pockmarked with telltale blaster scars. Mirus slowed, body heaving, before spilling into the Sith Lord’s crypt, his lightsaber held aloft like a talisman.

Crystals crept across the chamber’s sides, providing a patina of radiance that cast a flickering light over the sepulcher’s contents. For all the ostentation of the tomb’s outer chambers, the inner sanctum was surprisingly austere. Bare tiles stretched floor and walls, beneath a yawning ceiling that stretched indeterminably far into darkness. On its far side was the only object worth any notice: a stone sarcophagus seemingly carved out of the rock itself, marking a Dark Lord’s final resting place. It was surrounded by a half-moon pool of dark liquid and had had been callously defiled, torn open by a saber’s edge. Its contents had spilled across the floor, revealing a decayed figure draped in finery.

And there, standing stock still across the pool stood Mirus’ quarry, turning over the corpse’s desecrated skull in his hands.

|-o-|

With some effort, Timeros tore his sight away from the skull in his hands, forcing his attention upon the Warden. He had been too mired in thought to feel his foe’s approach, but his enemy’s presence was fitting.

It would complete the utter futility of this day.

“Alas,” the Arconae said, dropping the skull and letting it clatter across the ground. “He knew us well.”

The Warden regarded him blankly, face an uncomprehending mask.

“There is no artifact,” the Adept continued as he reached for the lightsabers at his belt. “And that means you are about to die for nothing.”

Timeros did not give his victim time to mull over his words. As soon as they left the Arconae’s lips, the dark side poured into him like a deluge. He cleared the obsidian liquid in a single bound, lightsabers unfurling in midair as he descended upon Mirus like a giant bird of prey.

The Warden’s mind exploded in sudden clairvoyance as he leapt back, narrowly avoiding being skewered by his Elder adversary. Timeros pressed the attack ruthlessly, his pulse singing with the dark side, driving away the lethargic chill that was normally so emblematic of his features. His off-hand blade rose, see-sawing back and forth to keep the Warden on the defensive. Only the Force, blazing in Mirus’ mind like a mad torrent of power, allowed the Jedi to survive those moments, auguring strikes with desperate brilliance.

The Guardian understood, then, the pedigree of his Arconan foe. Mirus was a warrior. Timeros was an executioner. The Entar moved like clockwork, every motion controlled, every particle of his will focused and marshalled towards the Jedi’s inexorable doom.

Mirus abandoned caution and leapt into the rancor’s mouth.

Primal adrenaline surged through the Jedi’s veins as he fell into a frenzy, blade leaping for the Arconae’s throat in a teal blur. Timeros, taken by surprise, only barely managed to block the Jedi’s uncontrolled strike, sabers colliding in a conflagration of sparks. Even then, the sheer strength of the Odanite’s attack ripped the saber from his hand, sending the weapon careening through the catacomb.

Pressing his advantage, the Warden unleashed a tempest of blows upon the Arconan. Timeros backpedalled immediately, trading ground as he dodged, ducked and weaved through his foe’s offensive. Then, just as he deflected another blow, the Arconan’s foot hit empty air, leaving him suddenly off-balance, teetering on the pool’s edge.

With a roar of victory, Mirus’ saber arced down at his vulnerable foe. And at that exact instant, the trap snapped shut.

Timeros’ entire demeanor changed. The Dark Side rushed into the Krath’s slender form, and his motions became swifter still. He regained his balance instantly, boots managing to find purchase on the black waters’ edge, then pirouetting past his adversary’s strike, saber scything down at his enemy’s unprotected back.

Mirus whirled, but he was already too late. As he tried to move, an invisible hammer slammed against his shoulder, fixing him in place. The next instant, all was pain, as a saber’s acidic bite incinerated flesh and bone, ripping through his chest.

Wordlessly, the Jedi toppled, face-first, to the stone floor, watching his blood seep into the obsidian pool before him. Behind him, he could hear the hum of a saber being raised.

And then, a pause.

“Apparently,” Timeros’ voice was cold, distant, and utterly bereft of empathy, “you will serve some purpose after all.”’

Confused, the Jedi tried to raise his head. In front of him, his blood had flown across the pool, forming blurry but recognizable images.

The tombs of Korriban, littered with dead

The True Sith, spilling out across the Brotherhood like a swarm of locusts

The Grand Master, locked in combat against an unseen foe

“Oh, yes,” Timeros breathed. As darkness closed in and swallowed Mirus whole, the final thing he heard was his adversary’s barely audible whisper.

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Steel-clad boots came to a skidding halt, the grinding of metal upon stone echoing throughout the cave. This deep into the tunnels, there was nary a flicker of light other than the illumination cast by the teal-bladed lightsaber carried in the Dathomiri's hand and, much to his chagrin, the amethyst hue of the saber owned by Timeros. Resting mere metres away from the Krath's' feet was the faint glimmer of a metallic object illuminated by a lightsaber's aura, shining dimly. It was the artifact they both sought to claim, which radiated with a dark power that neither could deny. However, the Arconan had been here first. Mirus was too late to claim the prize.

Holding his saber high, Mirus broke into an unhesitant sprint into the cave, making a beeline for the murderous scion of the Shadow Clan - until an unerringly accurate blaster bolt erupted at his feet, once more bringing him to a skidding halt.

"Not one step closer," called the blonde-haired Elder. It was devoid of emotion, a perfectly flat voice. He would have taken no thought in putting the next bolt through Mirus' face.

The Titan knew one thing at that point: he could take a few hits. The protection the Pride chest afforded him was no laughing matter. When he wore it; it transformed him into a true titan of warfare, able to shrug off a shot or two without feeling the weight of its encumbrance. If he advanced, so be it - and that he did, lightsaber still poised to strike with a smirk upon the man's lips. With a look of tired expectancy on his face, Timeros returned the favour, intent on shaming the Jedi on the field of battle that he chose.

The swirling maelstrom became an eruption of energy, with blaster bolts flying across the cave amidst the clash of lightsabers - three rounds splashed off the chest of Mirus' battle armour. Once Timeros was too close to efficiently use his off-hand Westar-34, it then became a duel of blades. What the Arconan dominated in technique and pure skill, Mirus compensated for with a sheer domination of strength, while he channelled the Force to become a whirling maelstrom. The innate powers that he specialised in became second nature to draw out that ever-present, primal adrenaline, bringing his strength to even greater levels. He picked a point and defended it with his life, taking three steps forward and a wide arc to the side to seize the high ground as the Entar danced around him, gauging every part of the cave that his omni-powerful Force senses could detect. Between his tactical genius and the analytical art of Sokan driving him, he knew that he could out-pace the Jedi. It was not a difficult thing - the height advantage offered by the slight incline was offset just behind his chosen point. Timeros too took a wide arc to circle around Mirus, lifting his saber for a horizontal slash that would sever his neck.

With immortal strength that the momentary battle-rage afforded him, Mirus could stop this blow - he knew it would take his life with an inspired flash shown to him by the Force. His lightsaber drove downwards in a vicious two-handed parry, so overwhelmingly strong that the Arconan's comparatively feeble muscles could not possibly resist it with a one-handed grip on his saber. The purple-bladed saber came back towards Timeros' arm, the Jedi intending to sever it and end the duel in that moment. What Mirus did not know was that, under the enforcer's robes, rested two trinkets of the Champion - lightsaber-resistant pieces of kit, hand-crafted for his use.

The blade stopped dead in its tracks, held up on the champion's bracers. This time it was Timeros' turn to smirk as Mirus registered shock upon his inhumanly blue eyes. He was trapped, like a wild beast, with his blade caught against the relief on the armguard.

In that moment, knowing that it was time to turn the tides now that momentum had forced Mirus' hand, Timeros called upon his second lightsaber. It darted towards the Odanite's chest in an instant, held by a telekinetic grasp tightly around its scholarly hilt, nestling against his heart. A moment later it blazed to life as the distraction of surprise proved to be his undoing, the bright purple blade piercing his chest. The air gasped from the Dathomiri's lungs, trying desperately to cling onto the last vestiges of life, to do anything about this - but there could be no response to having your heart carved from your chest.

The second amethyst blade dissolved into nothingness as it pulled away from the Jedi's chest, only to leave the Titan of New Tython slumping to the floor, that look of animal surprise still etched across his features in the darkness.

What a fool he had been, thought Timeros, as he leaned down to retrieve the artifact from the floor. Arcona had devastated the Odan-Urr homeworld once before. Now, as they sent one of their greatest fighters to match him, he knew that the Jedi were still not great enough to defeat the true First Clan of the Brotherhood. Glory would be his when he delivered the artifact to the Consul, when the Grand Master knew that it was the Red Right Hand who brought deliverance to the enemies of the Brotherhood.

Once again, victory was his and Arcona reigned supreme.