Tra'an Reith limped out of the hallway, making his way towards the surface of the Dark Hall. Easing around a collapsed pillar, he slowly made his way for the dimly lit glow of the surface. His right arm cradled to his chest, barely able to hold itself in place from the damage he had sustained fighting the assassin, the ghost, that was Darth Necren.

The sadistic bitch was still out there, hunting him. He had gotten lucky in her last rush to finish him, and scored a strike across her right knee with his lightsaber. He only had one arm, but she was having trouble moving. It seemed fair to him since she had almost killed him from behind the first time.

He emerged into the dusty light of the surface of Antei, and blinked. There before him, perched on a pillar, was the she beast herself, Having discarded her robe at the start of the fight, she stood tall and regal, the cut on her leg from his sapphire blade having been healed enough to restore her mobility,

Against the background of a dusty, setting sun, it was an imposing sight that caused him to laugh.

"Really? Now, after all this, you try and intimidate me? Come finish the fight you bitch!" He barked at her. The return look she gave him was impassive, almost introspective, before she leaped at him, lightsaber swung behind her to ensure maximum power on the strike, Tra'an drew his disruptor and waited, knowing that timing would be crucial.

He partially depressed the trigger as she closed the distance, landing only a few meters in front of him. As she charged, he lifted the pistol just enough to fire into the ground she was advancing on, the blast forcing her to dodge aside to avoid it. He did it again, and again, forcing her into a pattern. The fourth time he feinted, and when she jumped, he did too,

Closing within her striking distance surprised her, and even as she pivoted to bring her lightsaber to bear, he slammed into her. As they tumbled down, he placed the disruptor between them, barrel nestled into their stomachs and pulled the trigger.

The Onderonian sighed to himself, glancing around the ruined halls as he adjusted the cloth mask over his nose and mouth to give his lungs some protection against the swirling ash and smoke. Somehow, the remains of this once great structure still burned as though the sacking of Antei were just yesterday. Acrid smoke drifted along the ceiling, escaping to the remnants of the upper levels through cracks and outright gaping holes in the stonework. Just from a glance, Celevon could tell that the ceiling was the furthest from being structurally sound - if anything, it could fall around his ears at any moment.

Normally, the Assassin would be the furthest he could away from the dangers of the crumbling and burning ruin. This, however, was not a normal situation. The former Quaestor of House Qel-Droma had been tasked with the mission of investigating rumors of someone close to Darth Pravus being spotted coming and going from Antei.

Celevon stepped around the remains of a footlocker half buried in ash and stopped in his tracks, listening closely. Just above the hissing and spitting of the smouldering wreckage, the Arconan could discern the faint echo of booted feet falling in a purposeful stride, occasionally muffled completely - his best guess would be the ash.

The Onderonian quietly drew one of his slugthrower revolvers, barrel aimed in the direction the footsteps were coming from. No one lived on this planet anymore, not since the former Grand Master had destroyed the surface. Antei was barren, barely capable of sustaining microscopic lifeforms. Therefore, it could only be his target.

The Assassin steadied his breathing as the booted steps grew ever closer, the trigger half-squeezed in preparation.

When the cloaked figure turned the corner, Celevon fired. The target seemed to blur as she dodged, only for an ominous rumble to respond to the sharp retort of the slugthrower going off. Within seconds, part of the hallway collapsed, spreading a cloud of ash toward him.

Momentarily blinded, the Onderonian listened carefully for any indication that his opponent was still alive. A *snap-hiss* and a blur of crimson, barely visible in the clouded corridor revealed that she was, indeed, alive.

And ready for him. Celevon returned the slugthrower to the holster on his thigh, pulling the green-hued Sith Dagger from his waist. His eyes stung, watering from the airborne ash cloud as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Nighthawk en route, Shadow Lady. We’ll land in two minutes. Talons, lock and load!”

The ringing voice of Rulvak Qurroc called out across the hangar deck of the Nighthawk. As the premier combat vessel of the Arconan military machine, it was being tasked with one mission: extract the strike team as best as they could. Having failed, unfortunately, the Nighthawk would have to take those that were left and bring them home.

Mateus looked to his allies, then sealed his T-visor helmet over his head. All around him everyone was clad differently: those dedicated Dark Jedi and Sith fought in their best battle robes or light armour. Some fought in proper battle armour, like him. No matter their preference, the team of the Nighthawk was allied in purpose: save this alliance. Bring their friends home.

Many had been cut down by the Iron Legion aboard the Suffering that day as things turned from bad to worse. Mateus was highly unsure that they could pull this off: board a Super Star Destroyer and extract the strike team deep within enemy territory? It seemed crazy. However, he was a professional warrior. There was nothing other than the mission now.

Mateus had already volunteered to be the vanguard, saber raised high, prepared to defend and heal and bond his allies. The Force weaved together meant that the battleteam was perfectly united now. That kind of unity was all that was left to save the three-way alliance, if not for the blood they were shedding together. It would bring the three Clans together for the future, at the very least.

The ramp dropped. All that were left now were bodies – battered, broken, some dead. And, at the far end of the hangar bay, the waiting rifles of the Iron Legion.

“Gather them! We’ll evac them now!”

A fireteam with a heavy repeater, brought on board by Major Kharoc Garrlan, laid down covering fire – the Legion scattered. Mateus could only think to himself that this had been suicide, as he picked up a fallen Tarenti. Suicide for the Clans. That was all this was.

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.

It was as though the gods wept crimson tears of blood.

It seemed to accumulate in the air and coat anyone that came within the vicinity. Bodies lay crumpled, wounded cried out but the uninjured weren't occupied with their well being.

By the time the Arconan's arrived it was difficult to ascertain friend from foe, those who attacked were cut down with prejudice. The rest were left to fight their battles. Mingled into the out cries of those dying were the battle cries, and the silent but equally felt relief of the Shadow Clan's arrival.

No pause was given, no ground and no mercy.

The acrid metallic tang invaded the senses and there was nothing left but rage.

For the dying.

For the dead.

And for the oppressed.

None could find hope here, the last stand, desperate and savage.