Halcyon stopped outside the huge doors, glaring at the intricate carvings in the exotic wood and the cortosis furniture that held them to the pitch stone of the Dark Hall. He glanced to each side, the crimson and sable armored guards unmoving, their visored helmets focused forward as if the Sith Lord wasn't there.
He reached out a hand, the exposed hand feeling through the Barrier of the Force, the hidden secrets that held the doors secure against those who had less skill, less power. They gave way, the heavy doors sliding with ease with less strength than normal doors of the same size would require. Torchlight bathed him from within, smoking from each side of the ancient and unadorned Iron Throne.
Halcyon Taldrya paused before stepping foot into the Throne Room, his boot hitting the lush carpet that stretched from the dais to the door. Emerald eyes moved slowly, adjusting to the dim interior, the torches casting shadows among the darkest corners.
The Lion had called, and he knew he had to come. His mind raced through everything, wondering if he had uncovered his agents in the Core, in the House of Revan. If Vodo had told the Dark Lord what he knew. If the Keibatsu knew what cards he was hiding.
He stepped further into the room, the doors closing behind him with an ominous sound echoing through the room. He moved slowly, approaching the throne with a measured gait.
There were others there. He felt them, trying to stay back. The Herald, the Master at Arms, the Headmaster, the Justicar. They barely moved, standing near the edge of his vision, backs to the polished stone walls, silent. The whole Council was here. That couldn't be good
Halc felt him long before he saw him. The Dark Jedi Master turned slowly, finding the inky eyes of the Lion of Tarthos staring at him, boring into his soul.
Halcyon felt his knee go weak, dropping himself to the floor in a mark of habitual obedience. He had faced the man in combat before, knew what he was capable of. It was not fear, although many felt that. This was respect, pragmatism. He looked up, a strand of green hair crossing in front of his eye.
A crescent of silver greeted him, the razor edge clipping his shoulders, the fabric of his robes falling in clean ribbons, exposing his pale flesh to the cool air of the Throne Room. His hands wanted to fill themselves with the comfort of his weapons, the emerald marble of his lightsaber, the grips of his pistol. His mind willed them silent. Whatever the man had planned, he would face it.
The blade moved in tiny arcs, drawing lines of ruin across his shoulder, the sword pivoting at incredible speeds, the marks left on his flesh biting deep into muscles that cried blood at the pain.
Oh yes, there was pain.
He clenched his teeth so hard his gums hurt. The blade kept singing the solo backed by the chorus of his nerves, the Grand Master frozen in place except the fine movements of his arm and wrist. It felt like molten metal pouring across him, drowning even the endorphin rush that pain brought. It was raw, sweet, and beyond any pain he had ever felt. The blade worked its way across his chest, the runes and sigils carving into the muscle at the end of the Dark Lord's steel.
Halcyon felt lightheaded as the blood poured from him, the tears in his muscles making his arms grow heavy, each inhalation burning in the dark. Halcyon knew what was coming. He'd seen it enough himself. He was being made an example. What happened here would resonate across the Brotherhood, the stories of his strength despite the onslaught on his flesh setting his legacy.
Halcyon felt the edges of his vision dim, the lids of his eyes drooping. He found himself drawing out his exhalations, trying to lengthen the time between inhaling, avoid the burning in his lungs. The throb of his heartbeat was all that filled his ears, drowning out the wet shearing sound of the sword as it traced the verbiage of his sentence, his death into the flesh while it still twitched with life. He was to become his own relic, the story of his life and death carved in ancient symbols across his corporeal form. He looked up, seeing Shikyo produce a small and ornate glass vial from the folds of his robes. He knew what that meant. This was all he'd have, no warm stone of a Holocron for him.
There was one final breath.
It left cold, chilled his teeth, rattling through his throat as his neck went slack, dropping his chin to his chest.
Halcyon Rokir Taldryan was dead.
Muz swung the blade wide, the blood swinging from the edge of the steel in a traditional maneuver from his homeworld before he guided it back into the scabbard as he watched the emerald haired man expire, still locked into a kneeling position.
Fremoc shifted uncomfortably. Orv closed his mouth, aghast at the will of the man to take the pain without so much as a gasp. Korras crossed his arms. Vodo bowed his head in reverence.
Muz stepped forward, laying a naked hand on the Taldrya's bloody shoulder.
The room grew warm, the stone of the room warping beneath the gravity of what happened next. the blood evaporated, the pool beneath his robes and feet shrinking as the haze swam around the two. Hushed whispers fell from the Lion's mouth, ancient words that only Kir had a vague idea as to the meaning of.
Muz put his left hand on the Sith Lord's other shoulder, hands clamping down and drawing him up to his feet, staring into the glazed eyes of his apprentice.
The air screamed in through tired teeth, filling his lungs with frosty air, eyelids widening as the greying of his eyes gave way to the bright emerald. Muscles burned as he tried to lock his knees to stand. His head spun, the brightness of even the dim torchlight painful.
Halc understood now. He had to be unmade to reach beyond what he was.
The runes seethed in his flesh, a deep green glow pouring from within him as if he was made of adegans. The flesh sealed slowly, the scars fine and leaving only a trace of the power within to eyes that recently fed on the Force.
Muz released the man slowly, letting him adjust to his own weight, keeping him from falling back to the floor. He was no longer a Dark Jedi Master. Halc had tasted the Force from a perspective he had only expected to see once. It sang to him now, whispered in his ears about everything. The Dark Lord knew. He could see it in his eyes, sure as he felt the Guards outside the door, the growing threat a few worlds away, the words that would come next.
"Halcyon, Dark Prophet."
We all know who Halc is.
We're all familiar with what he has done.
And today, we show him our appreciation.
Halcyon Taldrya is hereby promoted to the rank of Dark Prophet.
Feel free to check out the many pages of reccommendations that were accumulated for this.
Thank you, Halc. For all you have done and continued to do. The Brotherhood would not be the same without you.
Dark Lord of the Sith
the Lion of Tarthos
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