Tunnels beneath Triumvirate Library
The thudding boots of Obelisk soldiers and the shouting of orders filled the hall as the men ran by, their weapons charged and ready. As they ran, they took no notice of the carbon scoring or deep saber wounds in the stone of the tunnel. They barely took the effort to step over the charred and mutilated corpses of the battle that had passed. They clearly thought the tunnel empty.
Battlemaster Kal di Plagia Vorrac allowed the illusion to dissipate, becoming visible once more. His senses had allowed him to know that no Force user survived, and so he was free to make his way out of the tunnel once more. His lightsaber specialization was Makashi; a tunnel full of angry troopers bearing repeating blaster rifles was a bad place to be caught.
Turning around the corner, he began to jog, knowing his escape from the tunnels was near. Part of a contingency plan to evacuate knowledge from the temple in the event of a raid, he'd been within the tunnels when they devolved into lightsaber duels, blaster bolts, and explosions. He was lucky he'd taken his usual route, evading the main combat and striking only when a kill was guaranteed, or he'd be a dead man.
As he neared the tunnel's entrance, his spine prickled with the unmistakable intuition of the Force. Skidding to a stop, his lightsaber flew to his hand, bursting into crimson life just in time to stop the green blade of his opponent. Dancing backward, he reacted as trained, throwing up elegant twirls as he parried to distract his opponent. Ending the sequence with an attempted stab through the chest, he was parried swiftly before the pair leaped back to reassess their foes. Within moments, both relaxed.
"Oh," Brent said, his face taking on a sour note, "It's you."
"Nice to see you too, Brent." Looking at the Palatinaean, he smiled as he sheathed his blade. "Perhaps now we have a chance to survive."
"Pity. I'd hoped you'd already be dead." Sheathing his own weapon, the Warrior glanced about the tunnels. "What the blazes happened here?"
"Obelisk ambush, if you must know." Vorrac replied, his tone amused. "Someone must have dropped a datacard somewhere, because we arrived to enemies at both ends."
"I see. Well, one end is clear, now." Looking back, the Warrior motioned to the Sith soldiers behind him, beckoning them forward. "The battle's nearly at a close, I think. The Elders are convening here and there." Smiling at his former comrade, Victae took on a bold tone. "Let's see if we can thin the ranks before the peace talks end. After those troopers!"
As the soldiers let out a cheer, Vorrac echoed it, inwardly cursing his luck. He'd hoped for a clean escape.
Brent found himself sighing inwardly. He preferred the company of his troops to that of his fellow Dark Jedi, most of whom he despised for their idiocy and lack of efficiency. Another deplorable trait in the Dark Jedi, especially the Sith and Obelisk orders, was their utterly inexplicable sense of dominance over anyone they encounter. Several Obelisk Dark Jedi had already crossed his path, and had underestimated his power, falling before him without much of a fight.
But this encounter with Kal had complicated things. His time in Clan Plagueis had colored his opinion of its members, in a negative fashion. As for the battlemaster himself, Brent had met him on the field of battle a few times in the past, but neither of their blades had finished the other. Superficial wounds were not enough to kill a powerful Sith.
As his troops charged through the darkness, Brent maintained a steady pace, lightsaber in hand but not ignited. He could sense all of his troops in the nearby area, most of them occupying the corridor ahead. Kal caught his eye just as a spark of recognition shot through the Force.
“Palatinae Jedi are up ahead” he stated, simply. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to face a former comrade of his in combat. He knew he could take almost any of his House mates, his strengths in the martial skills capable of overpowering those he could not finesse.
The corridor suddenly widened into a small chamber. Seven Sith troopers lay on the floor, smoke rising slowly from their chests. One Sith trooper, a Sergeant by the name of Garret, was twisted in an unhealthy manner. Only a Force user could have done such a terrible act.
“Archangel? Just wonderful” said a voice, almost smiling through the darkness. Another voice, slightly younger, perhaps more inexperienced, but no less dangerous, laughed humorlessly from the shadows. The voices were all too familiar to Brent.
“Kael and Reiden” he muttered under his breath to Kal, whose eyes were searching for the hidden enemies. Brent thumbed his lightsaber to life, his face emotionless.
“Come on, boys. Let's dance” he called out to the shade, goading the Obelisks who to a man hated being called a boy. He let out an angry roar, and dove into the darkness.