Abandoned and forgotten, the ruins of the Dark Temple have slowly succumbed to the erosion of time. In the central chamber—the walls have crumbled, the ceiling has caved in, and the jungle now flourishes within the once pristine halls.

Green light filters itself through the temple, mixing eerily with the dark, violet hue of Dromund Kaas’ sky. Lightning flickers overhead, the raw energy of the Force clashing high above. The floor is overgrown with flora, large plants and grasses that have swallowed the old stone. Wild creatures roam freely, skittering away from the presence of intruders while vicious predators hide just out of sight.

The main hall is lined on both sides by towering statues, heads bowed in supplication. They stand in deference to the sculpture of a pure-blooded Sith, which towers over the chamber with outstretched arms. The sculpture has been split diagonally down the middle, as if cleaved in two by a rusted blade, but the majesty in the stone still echoes to the past.

On either side of the main hall, remnants of branches to inaccessible parts of the temple remain. One might tilt their head to take in what is left of the mezzanine—the balcony overlooking the chamber—still held aloft by the great pillars standing behind the statues. Several of the pillars have fallen, providing a pathway up to the mezzanine for those willing to take the risk for higher ground. Spirits of the Sith are rumoured to still haunt the grounds—waiting for poor, misguided fools to walk blindly into their domain.

Abandoned. Forgotten. The ruins on Dromund Kaas represented an era of power and order that had long been forgotten. The pristine sanctuary had once served as the seat of power for the Sith Empire, but it had - like so many things - fallen to the test of time. Lightning forked through the dark sky and briefly illuminated the jungle floor. Strewn about the arena were great blocks of stone that had fallen from once proud buildings.

Here. Now. At the center of the ruins stood the Dark Adept. He rested casually in the center of the makeshift arena. The ceiling was open to the sky - the dome had since caved in. The green light that glowed throughout the building reached up greedily towards the storms raging above. It could not outstretch the reach of the statues that lined the courtyard’s entrance, though.

Thorn snaked between the pillars en route to the center of the complex. He jumped from shadow to shadow in a circumspect way as he approached the Quaestor of Galeres. His hood was raised, but his pure white skin and bright red eyes stood out in contrast to the deep black of his robes. He held a powerful carbine in his hands as he maneuvered towards the opening. He rested the barrel on an unearthed stone, lowering the targeting reticle over the still form of the Sith Elder. The red dot aligned with the form of the Juggernaut, he breathed in, he breathed out, and pulled the trigger.

The emerald bolt raced across the battlefield towards the still form of the Elder. Braecen felt as a chill raced down his spine, preparing him for danger, and raised his hackles in defense. Automatically, his hands fell to his sides and reached for a pair of ebony and copper hilts. He thumbed the activation buttons and the blades sprung to life - two pillars of bright, white flame in the dreariness of Dromund Kaas. He arced his blades through a series of tight twists - the blades fanned a basket of light. One, two, three bolts nipped at the defenses of the Quaestor as he swatted the perfectly aimed bolts aside. Two leapt into the darkness of night, but the third was drilled into the stone at Braecen’s feet.

Braecen, alert with adrenaline, opened himself fully to the Force now. A wave of nausea swept over his form and threatened to double him over in disgust of the heady, supernatural power. The wave crashed over his body and it teemed in his cells as they supercharged his synapses and filled him with awesome power. He had become a tempest of Dark Side power - a storm of equal parts rage and paranoia. Not even the brutal storms swirling about them could match his power.

Both blades burned brilliantly in the arena. The light cast the fallen pillars and remaining stone in a harsh, cold light from the white flames. Long shadows stretched throughout the immediate area and distorted the black of night and the shadows being cast. In these Elder-made pockets of darkness, the Zabrak darted forward towards his prey. He circled around the Adept as he swept back and forth in an erratic search pattern for his assailant.

“Come out,” Braecen said aloud. “I can feel your presence even if I cannot lay my eyes upon you.” Thorn froze in midstep as the piercing blue eyes of the Juggernaut passed over his form. He sighed in relief as the Elder continued the search pattern and passed over his current location. Thorn had made a life in the Brotherhood, and Arcona, by skirting through the darkness and taking the more circumspect route to eliminate his targets than the head-to-head approach others favored.

“Are you one of Atyiru’s Champions?” Braecen asked the darkness. “Fear not. You will not have to go back to report your failure at bringing about my demise.” The storm outside attempted to swallow his words, but the final ones froze Thorn. “I will drop your body before the Serpent Throne.”

The words crawled through the stormy night and settled into the mind of the Zabrak. This fight could result in his death. He paused to consider that for a moment. The Force screamed out to the Journeyman to duck. The Knight rolled to his right and narrowly evaded a downward chop from one of the Elder’s two blades.

With a wicked grin, Braecen yelled over the building storm, “Found you!”