Kordath Bleu sat in silence, cigarette burning in one hand, bottle in the other. He had a prime view from the out cropping he'd chosen as his perch for the battle below. Four armies had taken the field, three working alongside one another as best they could with the lack of trust between them. It was hard to believe a Clan of Dark Jedi wouldn't opportunistically stab an ally of convenience in the back when the time was right.

Not that it had mattered, assaulting the forces of the Iron Throne on their own ground had been daring, a distraction for those who'd been sent to confront the Grandmaster. Kordath wasn't a warrior and he wasn't an assassin. He sat and watched as the Iron Legion overran position after position, and waited for them to finish slaughtering the Resistance forces that had been arrayed against them. Eventually they'd reach him as well, he was certain. He intended to be good and drunk by than.

A lack of response from the team sent to hunt down Pravus was a telling sign. The Clans had overplayed their hands, this was the end.

He took a pull from his bottle, and waited.