#and a crimson clone

[artbyblastweave]

The Worm Arcana: VIII. Strength- Golem

“ A two year wait - patience indeed.  To kill a monster, though he has no confidence - courage.  He's a character raised by the hateful who became caring regardless.  His crisis is one of an inability to find power, self-doubt (before and after he has powers) and a lack of training. “

[ominouspuff]

Fwoom (intimidatingly)

[lemon-and-lead]

Star Wars OC visual development drawings- from order 66 to when we see Maul again in Rebels is a fifteen year gap. Given that Maul is desperate for connection but doesn't know how to relate to people other than as master+apprentice, I think it's incredibly unlikely that he never tried to take another apprentice during those years.

The Apprentice in question was nine years old during the Jedi purge and escaped by crawling into a ventilation duct. Maul was guided by visions to seek her out, misinterpreting what saw as proof that Ahsoka was alive. Instead, he found Charnel half dead in the gutter. Charnel is not the most brave, athletic or force-attuned, and frankly would not have successfully become a knight if order 66 hadn't happened. However, she's the only force sensitive Maul's been able to find, so he's got no other choice.

[defective-and-effective]

I’m so incredibly rational about this piece of media, you have no idea.

[blackseakraft]

I read the Crimson Corsair book yesterday ;-;

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Something is hunting Darth Maul across the stars.

A presence he cannot touch, whispers that chase him from sleep. Answers seem to lay in a place he cannot go... at least, not alone. Before the Jedi and the Sith, before the Republic or the Empire, before the ancient Je'daii even, there were force users building temples and communing with the cosmic energies.

Somehow, even back then, there was a rule of two.

For Ben Kenobi, getting up each day is difficult enough, nevermind facing the past. He has one singular goal left to him: to be a guardian. A very distant guardian. Between the echoing emptiness of his cave and the war-torn memories that haunt him, he really just wants to be left alone.

Too bad for him that sleep-deprived sith lords aren't likely to take no for an answer.

[The long awaited sequel to Desertification is here!]

🔥🔥🔥 Read chapter 1 on Ao3, or scroll below the cut! Updates on Tuesdays.🔥🔥🔥

Bridges are a beautiful weakness. 

This one is massive. Natural stone that reaches across a wide span between stronghold and barren cliff. The architecture is sharp, angular, and modern, with little in the way of ornamentation. It is simply a functional pathway, the sole point of access for a utilitarian facility. The forces garrisoned here would have little trouble defending this chokepoint, under typical circumstances. 

A zygerrian guard rises off the ground, clawing at their neck, while the next shoots wildly, hollering for backup. Blaster bolts curve off unnaturally into empty air. The first alien loses consciousness and slumps, still airborne. Their rifle clatters to the stone. The second turns and manages to flee two steps before they are swept sideways off the bridge like a leaf in a storm. They plummet, screaming, twenty stories down and into the lava below. With a lazy gesture, Darth Maul sends their strangulated comrade tumbling after them. 

Lords of the Sith truly cannot qualify as ‘typical circumstances.’ 

He begins forward again as the next defenders rise to stop him. The formation they take is practiced, but he can see their quaking knees, feel their fear in the air. 

If these fools truly wished to challenge him, they would be far better served by calling their forces back and turning the compound’s anti-ship cannons on its own infrastructure. Burying him alive might actually slow him down… but the cannons remain fixed on the sky, and figures in golden armor pour out onto the wide, windy bridge. 

The price of such short sighted arrogance will be their lives. 

Maul finishes churning through the first of the stronghold’s defense forces. He scatters a forward line of pikemen, shielding himself from blaster fire using stones torn from the structure itself. The occasional bolt slips past these rocks, but he simply bats those away with his saber. 

The slaughter of their frontline gives the next group time to prepare. He is met with a more cohesive unit, backed by snipers. The cover fire does them little good. Maul ruins their formation by blitzing carelessly into the middle of it. His red blades lay into the panicking bodies around him and parry the long range shots back to their origins with impeccable soresu. 

While he picks off the remaining snipers in their nests with a few force-propelled rocks, a new line of troops with energy bows come forward, firing in rapid sequence. It is… quaint, he thinks. Few have the dedication to make such a weapon into a formidable challenge, and these guards could not have matched the skill or power of a dathomirian archer on their worst day. Perhaps it is because these soldiers lack an edge of desperation -for food or survival- whenever they practice their aim?

Regardless, their skill or lack thereof is ultimately irrelevant against a man who can predict where they will fire.

Maul reaches the halfway point unimpeded, and the zygerrians finally switch tactics to something more innovative. The remaining guards part, and a set of twins emerge to close with him instead.

Each wields a halberd tipped by shining blue energy blades. They fight together, resplendent in fanged grins and fine armor. Their movements, obfuscated by swirls of shimmering gold cloth, complement each other with the skill born of what must have been decades spent training in tandem. 

Facing such talent is the highlight of his efforts thus far, but even these warriors cannot match a sith. He tears their blades from them, and stabs each twin through the chest with their siblings' match. They die propped up on the hafts, slouching toward each other. 

Blaster fire starts back up, and Maul returns to working through the rest of the chaff. The air begins to reek of desperation so strong it can be smelt over the sulfur. Acetone-bright and cloyingly sweet. 

Quick as a lightning strike, an electro-whip cracks near his head with a sharp snap-fizz . A waft of ozone fills his nose, and the sith's forward momentum stutters to a halt. Resentful yellow eyes lock on the offender and he bares sharp, iron-stained teeth at them. The tall zygerrian only snarls in return.

Hatred rolls off Maul’s shoulders like heat waves in the force. That energy coalesces, and entropy descends on the whip-wielder. Their fur begins to dissolve as if they were being nibbled on by acid that simply does not stop, and the muscular form falls to the ground, writhing and screaming. They melt into naught but blackened ash under Maul’s baneful stare.

He turns to continue on, sunk too deep in the flow and lust of combat to examine the demise any further. 

Slaves are thrown at him next, driven out onto the bridge as his assault nears the stronghold's three-story double doors. An effort he hesitates to call a 'tactic'. Half of the scrawny chattel fall to their bellies before he has even reached them, quivering and silent as they choose the potential wrath of their masters over certain death upon his blades. 

Those who fight he kills as quickly as they come. Living and dead alike are left on the ground behind him, forgotten as soon as they pass out of sight. 

More guards, with flashier armor and even finer weapons are next. Insignia and marks of esteem decorate their shoulders; the royal guard, here to die for their liege. 

A sai cha strike with his saberstaff, and a head hits the ground before the body knows it is dead. Cho mok and cho mai, double-disarmed at the wrist. Their owner stumbles and falls off the bridge in shock, fixated on the remaining stumps. An angled shiak, down through the ribs just far enough to boil the blood in their lungs. Mou kei to the left leg, and another trips off the side to join the rest in immolation. Maul spins in a flourish of beautiful juyo at the gate.

Sai cha. Sai cha. Sai cha. 

Then there are no more guards. 

He pushes the double doors open with the force, and smiles to behold the reason he came here.

"Prince Trifenra," his croon echoes in the silence of the throne room, "I warned you not to cross me."

The lone zygerrian slams a button on the podium beside them, and the floor falls away with them on it. Maul gets to the edge in time to be stymied by a bulkhead closing the hole over. He sneers at it in annoyance, and starts cutting through with his lightsaber. 

Twenty seconds, and he completes a circle of molten metal. A kick with his cybernetic foot sends the cutout falling, revealing a web of catwalks over a field of lava. He jumps. 

The sith searches the platforms as he freefalls, but Trifenra is nowhere to be seen. 

Maul lands on a catwalk with a heave of force to lessen the impact. His eyes drift closed, chest expanding as he breathes in, swaying in whichever direction feels right, focusing… focusing…

The force whispers to him that his prey is that way .

Maul jumps the rail and bounces between causeways, reaching the correct one and pelting down it. The feeling ends at an arch built into the rough stone walls. Thick metal doors, locked tight.

He snarls and starts cutting again, a small circle just large enough to admit him. The sith punches this cutout, and somersaults through without touching the cherry-red edges. 

On the other side are holding cells. Row after row, multiple levels of hexagonal doors stretch out from the entry, each sealed by lambent red. Some are empty, some not. All the prisoners are exotic in some way. 

Maul glances over the occupants as he passes, walking deeper into the facility. Trifenra is here, he can sense it.

The chamber widens into a large, multilevel room around a center platform. A dead end. The prince's possible hiding places have multiplied yet become limited at the same time. Maul's mouth quirks at the corner.

"Come out, come out. Wherever you are~," he sings in a sardonic drawl, like this is a game of hunter and prey between younglings.

The airscrubbers hum through the walls, creating a deep resonance just on the edge of hearing. Despite what must be a robust air recycling system, this room remains steeped in the scents of the enslaved; bitterness and despondency, melancholia and hate. A multispecies cacophony of emotions that make his sinuses itch. 

He hears wheezing laughter, like the rattle of dry grass. 

"Ssssweet, ssssweet, ssssinger…" calls a hoarse voice from one of the cells. The force twinges, a plucked string.

The source is… across the room, on a higher level. Maul can sense the force warping in on itself somewhere nearby. Curious, he leaps closer to it, up a story and over.

The cell on the left is marked as 214, and it contains a nautolan in a rare carmine color. She is heavily pregnant, and pressed as far to the left side of her cage as she can be. 

The cell on the right is marked as 216. It holds a crab-like species he does not know, with a shell that looks like molten, living gold. It is quivering in the back of its container, in the rightmost corner.

In the center cell is a woman with wide pink eyes and an abundance of platinum hair. Her skin is white, like a palliduvan, but with an oily, iridescent sheen. She sits in the center of the room, naked, hugging her knees and shaking with that dry, rattling laugh. 

Her pink gaze zeroes in on him, and her smile grows…and grows… and- 

Lips spread like split meat as she grins from ear to ear, her teeth needle sharp. Conversely, her eyes are kind above the unnatural-looking maw. 

"Blesssssed sssssinger~" she croons sweetly, "the lit-tle king plays a trick  on you. Deceitful. Rude. Give him t-to me and I will blesss your path!" 

She shouldn’t be able to move her jaw like she is, with those facial muscles severed. The force perhaps, magic or alchemy of some sort. He considers her, and the offer, mildly. "I am not easily tricked.” 

She smiles still, and says nothing. Her presence feels like a tangle of razorwire, writhing and clingy. 

"Hm.”

Maul walks away, stalking the metal floors and surveying the open room with thoughtful eyes. The prince is here somewhere, but there are enough strange projections from the prison's myriad occupants that it feels… cloudy.

A mirialan glares at him as he walks past their cage. The man floats a foot above his bed, rail-thin and cross legged.

A dry-looking quarren ignores him in turn, crying weakly into their hands.

He laps the room, and finds himself at the center of this fusion of zygerrian and modern architecture. A control panel sits on a dias, with a map of the cell block and various monitoring systems running. 

"Hm!" he comments, "How convenient." 

He taps the icon for cell 216 and tells it to open. 

The sound of a ray shield powering down is shortly followed by more dry, wheezing laughter. He turns to see the woman step into freedom and launch herself across the room, trailing yards of platinum hair. 

She lands in front of 107, and presses herself as close to the ray shield as one could be without burning. 

"Knoc-kk knnnock!" she croaks. 

The cell's occupant shrieks, falling back in their terror, but then scrambles to the shield again to yell up at him. They appear to be a salenga, but something… something is off. Maul squints, trying to pinpoint-

"I will pay you whatever you want! Anything!"

He cocks his head. Curious. How would a slave pay- 

Oh. Interesting. 

"Put her back in her cell and I will make you royalty! I swear it!"

The unnaturally white creature hisses, no longer laughing.

It is Maul who chuckles, walking to the edge of the center platform and clasping his hands behind his back. "A marriage proposal is it, Prince Trifenra? Now that is a… curious bribe."

He waits for the hope to glimmer in their eyes, then waves a hand in a grand gesture. The console registers a command from a finger press that is not there, and obeys it.

All of the cells open. 

The salenga shrieks again, and melts into a clawdite changeling as they zip out and go streaking away. They make it all of three strides before disappearing under shimmering hair and vengeful pink eyes. 

The next few minutes involve teeth, tearing, and unhinged sobbing. Maul watches for a moment as dozens of aliens flee on either side of him for the exit, then grows bored and turns to his comm. Dryden's secretary answers for him, a softly spoken pantoran with a penchant for ancient art. 

"Hello sir. My apologies, Mr. Vos is in a meeting at the moment. Should I get him for you, or can I take a message?" Sochu asks.

Maul waves off the first. "Simply inform him that the treachery has been dealt with, and he has my permission to begin renegotiating with the other offer."

"Very good, sir. Anything else I can do for you?" 

"Mmno," Maul says and hangs up.

His timing is good. The room has cleared and the strange woman is levitating up to the central platform, slathered in blood all down her front. Something wet and purple is cupped in her palms. She lands daintily, and he raises a brow. 

"Ssssinger, c-c-clever son~ You figurrrred out the trick-k, denied the trick-ksster. Gave him to us ," she smiles sweetly, too many teeth in her mouth. 

Maul hums, watchful.

"A gift!" she declares, and holds out… it’s a liver, or part of one. 

He accepts it, amused, with the smallest of bows. “My thanks.” 

The woman giggles like rotten wind chimes and turns to leap off the platform. She lands below and goes padding toward the lava flows, leaving a trail of red footprints smeared by passing hair in her wake. 

Maul considers the slick bulk of the organ in his hand. Dense, warm, and evenly toned purple. He holds it up and gives it a sniff. It smells healthy- clean blooded and rich, and the fight did have him feeling peckish.

"Mm… waste not, I suppose.”

He chooses a corner and slides his teeth in. The woman’s sharp, clinging darkness in the force gives a final twist and melts away. Maul chews thoughtfully on his way out of the compound, disregarding the blood that drips off his chin. His robes are already too stained for a bit more to matter. 

[crimescrimson]

The Good Deeds Of Ada Wong: Saving Lives

| Ada Destroys Carla's Work |

[snapmite1998]

The Lethality of the Dawnbringers

The Dawnbringers are more than just a squadron; they are a highly efficient and lethal force within the ranks of Crimson Dawn's military. Once brothers in arms fighting for the Republic, they now fight under the banner of Darth Maul, serving a darker purpose. Under the leadership of Slick and his second-in-command, Shade, they had honed their skills in unconventional warfare, turning their back on their origins and embracing their new identity with unwavering resolve.

Their armor—repainted in black and red, adorned with fearsome designs and metallic horns—stood as a testament to their newfound allegiance. Each member, once a mere soldier, or rather in their minds, another expendable pawn, in an army of millions, had become a specialist in their field, transforming the squad into a unit of terror and precision.

The Dark Side Reinforcements

Adding to their lethality was the inclusion of several Jedi who had fallen to the dark side, now serving as part of the Dawn. These Force users, corrupted by the allure of power and freedom from the Jedi Code, brought an added element of fear to the battlefield. Their lightsabers hummed with crimson fury, cutting through the chaos with deadly finesse.

The presence of dark Jedi within their ranks was both a boon and a potential source of conflict. They wielded immense power, but their unpredictability and ambition often clashed with the disciplined approach of the former clones.

The Conflict

In the heat of battle, power struggles were not uncommon—a clash of wills within the dark ranks. One such moment arose when a particularly ambitious dark Jedi, hungry for greater control, attempted to assert dominance over the Dawnbringers. His name was Aldorin, a former Jedi Knight turned dark acolyte, known for his volatile nature and insatiable thirst for power.

As the Dawnbringers held their ground in a strategic position, Aldorin approached the squad with a malicious intent. His eyes glimmered with dark energy as he attempted to subdue them through sheer force of will, the air crackling with tension.

"You will serve me, or you will perish," Aldorin declared, reaching out with the Force in an attempt to bend them to his will.

Slick's Defiance

But Slick, the seasoned leader of the Dawnbringers, would not be easily cowed. He had faced betrayal before, and his resolve had only been strengthened by every challenge he’d overcome. His brothers looked to him now, trusting in his leadership and determination.

With a swift motion, Slick drew his blaster, his aim steady and unflinching. In a single decisive action, he fired, sending a bolt of energy straight through Aldorin’s chest. The dark Jedi’s expression shifted from arrogance to shock as he crumpled to the ground, his crimson lightsaber clattering uselessly beside him.

Slick stepped forward, staring down at the fallen figure with unyielding intensity. "We serve Lord Maul and his cause, not your ambition," he declared, bending down to retrieve the fallen lightsaber—a trophy of his victory and a symbol that no one, not even a force user, could dictate the fate of the Dawnbringers.

The Aftermath

The squad, emboldened by their leader’s bravery, regrouped, ready to face whatever came next. The acquisition of the crimson lightsaber served as a potent reminder of their independence and strength. The Dawnbringers were not just tools of destruction; they were an unstoppable force of allegiance to their own ideals and their leader’s vision.

With the battle still raging around them, they pressed onward, their lethal efficiency on full display. Together, they carved a path through the chaos, their reputation growing with each successful engagement.

The galaxy would come to know them not only as warriors but as a squad unmatched in both loyalty and lethality—a dark mirror of the soldiers they once were, now a harbinger of doom under the emblem of Crimson Dawn.

[crustybagelllmmmmm]

Now hold tf up

[eddasketch]

“You’re NOTHING without me.”

Crimson and Tord stand off! Who will win? My bets on Crimson.

I don’t draw my little version of the clone Tord theory enough and I think I need to appreciate Crimson more.

Image without text:

Just wanted to say again that my inspiration for my clone guy was from @/minkshame and @/salad-006

[sinisterexaggerator]

I need ya'll to see this. I plan to buy this figure one day, too. But every fucking toy / figure blurb seems to reinforce MY IDEA THAT BANE WORKED FOR THE EMPIRE at some point and I will die on this fucking hill, so.

Star Wars Gentle Giant Cad Bane Maquette

"Cad Bane could easily be called a veteran of his craft. He was a menacing mercenary and a ruthless Bounty Hunter. His notoriety placed him amongst the most vile of villains in the Galaxy, and thus a favorite freelancer of the Empire for many of their dirty dealings. "

*Freelancer*

Just like I said all along. Let me refer to an older post where I wrote about a headcanon I had:

Bane was always a Jedi hunter. The Empire eliminated a huge problem for him, technically. They were always getting in his way. It also created a surge of business. I know Bane is not a guild hunter, and that the Empire hired bounty hunter’s who worked primarily for the guild, but I always thought maybe in the beginning, before things got really, really bad … before people realized just how terrible the Empire was (including Bane as he was just after the money), despite being arrested by them for war crimes when they were called "The Republic", could have taken the really shady shit, the down and dirty jobs, the ones nobody wanted, and maybe one of those was going after the bounty on Obi-Wan Kenobi’s head ( possible fic idea?? of course he’s never successful as far as canon >D). This ties into him being unscrupulous. But maybe, just maybe, he encounters a job that’s too disgusting even for his palate. There was a moment where people thought hey, maybe this Empire isn’t so bad. It took the efforts of people like the characters in Andor to really start breaking through to others and exposing them for what they were. Just a thought. The general populace was still kind of oblivious, yeah? Of course, he sees the Empire does nothing to help Duro. Things get worse, more people suffer. Maybe he has personal experiences along the way that help shape his outlook. I love the idea of the pain and angst involved of realizing the choice you made was wrong, but that you can still make it right. Maybe he quits working for those types, and (imho) returns to work for Maul and the criminal syndicates. Maybe he works for Q'ira some after Maul dies, and she is 100% against the Empire. I can see it. Maybe that’s why he comments “Boba is a coldblooded killer who works for the Empire,” because he kept doing it even after they (the empire) were already established as actually evil. That, or he's mocking him straight up because he knows he's just as shitty a person (in the past, anyway ) as he is/was. But JUST LIKE ADMIRAL RAMPART hired a bounty hunter in the Bad Batch to take out Riyo Chuchi under the table against ANYONE’S wishes as he wanted to avoid a scandal, who says people weren’t going to Bane to “do something very discreet and under the table.” Doesn’t have to be Vader or Palps. People did stuff behind their backs all the time - Palps used Rampart as a scapegoat to pass the bill where the Empire created their own military versus keeping the clones. But, before that, who is to say he did or did not know Rampart’s secrets before they were blasted all over the viewscreens and Palps, being the smart ass he is decided, hey, this is a PERFECT opportunity, thus he appeared out of the floor and had him taken away!

In addition, it also mentions this on the Black Series Bad Batch figure, and I don't think it's a stretch at all that Bane would take jobs ( for the right price. ) from Imps, and he doesn't have to be a guild hunter to do so.

*He's a freelancer.*

“The rise of the Empire and the elimination of the Jedi creates a surge of business for the unscrupulous hunter.”

[lemon-and-lead]

That #relatable moment when you get bored and design an entire lineage worth of Jedi OCs... Haha, right guys?

I started out wanting to draw a specific preexisting OC as a Jedi, but then I got to thinking more and it kinda... exploded a bit. I got thinking about how the major lineages have names, you know? Like the Disaster lineage and the Shatterpoint lineage? I loved the idea of calling these guys the Hearthfire Lineage and kept that inspiration through the design process. I wanted to incorporate fire-themed elements through their designs, like Vero's shawl and Master Kalyani's wood branch necklace.

Edit: if anyone felt like sending me asks or comments about these guys, or doing anything involving their OCs interacting with them, please do! I think that'd be super cool!

[cgsketchbook]

Out now from DK, Lucasfilm's "Star Wars Dawn of Rebellion: The Visual Guide" takes a deep dive into the exciting era of the saga from order 66, through to the events leading up to the battle of Scarif, with plenty of content from Andor, Obi-Wan and Bad batch too - plus, there's a brand new cross section artwork from the amazing John R. Mullaney!

Very pleased with my cover design on this, and hope you like the styling for the spreads too - personally, I feel you can never have too much Rebel Orange in a Star Wars book!

[phoenixyfriend]

[knocks back a drink] gender-adjusted Crimson Peak plot, Mortis sibs as the impoverished patricians, Obi-Wan as the latest husband that Dot (Daughter) has taken for The Money

[uwingdispatch]

These were supposed to come out weeks ago but UPS lost the package and we had to do a whole thing and reprint them but here they are! New Star Wars x Taylor Swift shaker keychains! I think you’re gonna love them!

Bo-Katan is paired with "mad woman"

Qi'ra is paired with "Getaway Car"

Rey is paired with "The Archer"

Leia is paired with "my tears ricochet"

(I know. I'm crying, too.)

I also made this one for all the little score enthusiast gremlins. And the Ewok enjoyers. Because of course I did.

All of these shakers are available here! In my shop! Where they always are! And yes it is Droid Rights Weekend so I’m having a sale and these are all 20% off. Pls enjoy.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

~~Chapter 7: Welcome to Dathomir~~

Read live one chapter ahead on Ao3! Link at the bottom. This is the sequel to Desertification, so read that first if you're new to the series. Updates Tuesdays! Comment to be added to tag list. :3

Maul sits hunched over a tome from Mother Talzin’s library, breathing the scent of dust and old leather as words swim in front of his eyes. On the opposite page, a painting of two witches blurs as an oil-slick fractal blooms across his tired vision. The witches dance beneath inconsistent, wriggling lines that morph slowly into the impression of a many-legged arthropod.

The sith presses the heels of his hands to his failing eyes, growling faintly as he demands they continue to work.

For over a month he has not slept more than two hours at a stretch. His legs tingle, ache, and go numb in turns. Full supply crates stand empty, depleted as he burns through calories double-time. Regardless, hunger claws at his belly as he reads. As ever, he turns to the force, fueling himself with rage as he searches for some record of what could be hunting him. A clue, a tale, a rumor, a scrap.

The comm on his desk chirps with a new message. He ignores it. Attending meetings on holocall is a waste of time and risks embarrassing collapses, so Vos is contacting him at random hours with reports he barely retains. Planning his next move, planning anything, is an exercise in wrangling concentration for long enough to come to a point. Meals and habits are interrupted. Thoughts are interrupted. Everything is interrupted.

Clinging threads hunt him through the force, day and night.

Still, progress has been made, inch by miserable inch. The nature of his enemy continues to elude him, but his research has not been entirely fruitless. The nightsisters’ unique mastery of the force yet survives in their writings, and Maul has found himself improving very quickly at two things: the obfuscation of his force presence, and the use of a nightmagick cantrip which makes the user harder to perceive. Neither work as well as the sanctum’s wards, but together they have stymied his enemies’ attempts to hook their spell into his bones.

With two other practitioners, he would have been able to perform the same mistwalking ritual the sisters once used for assassinations. If only securing the help of other witches was not unfeasible in the wake of Sidious' massacre. If only the temple’s library held some tale of this strange affliction. If only its ghosts responded to his presence as though to a witch rather than a mere nightbrother.

If only, if only, if only.

Maul digs claws further between his horns and growls in disgust at his own thoughts. Pointless, pathetic speculation in the face of his failure to find answers.

Or more accurately, his failure to go get answers. The knowledge he seeks is somewhere out there, away from Dathomir.

His ability to withstand the attacks without sheltering in the sanctum is growing, but it remains an inevitability that without the wards’ aid he will, eventually, be overcome. Weeks, a month… perhaps two.

The hunters will persist— chasing him from sleep, interrupting his plans, dogging his every step. He can draw on the dark side to sustain his body beyond exhaustion, will do so without hesitation, but resisting the threads’ pull requires concentration. Closing his teeth on the power of the dark side is to be bitten and held in turn, to lose himself in its churning depths. Eventually his mind will unravel, drawn out on a riptide. In that one moment he would lapse, and the threads would have him.

He cannot risk leaving Dathomir without direction.

With no other options immediately available to him, Maul is left waiting on the mercy of Dryden Vos, stewing in the certainty that the wretched man is going to savor each and every moment of this miserable showcase like another one of his priceless Nubian wines.

Vos at least arrives swiftly after being summoned, sauntering down the ramp from First Light wearing incongruous white silk belted at the waist and a large silver pendant cut into the unmistakable crest of the Crimson Dawn. An AL-T model astromech trundles behind him, bearing a case upon the serving tray installed in place of its dome.

The near-human looks around as he descends, pale eyes greedily eating up his first look at the temple’s facade. But even his obsession with force nexus -of which Dathomir is a unique example- and ancient history -which the entire complex is a monument to- do not distract the man from giving Maul an unwelcome and thorough once over.

He knows how he looks. The inspection is unnecessary.

“My lord.”

White teeth flash in a honeyed smile and Vos bows smoothly at the waist, hand-to-heart with the other arm swept out to the side. It shows off a half cape lined in shimmering ivory, and the custom petar knives sheathed at his hip.

Maul gives him a narrow look.

The crime lord’s expression turns toward affected concern as he straightens.

“My, what circumstances the galaxy brings us.” The man’s outstretched hand comes to rest on Maul’s upper arm, steel blue eyes flickering down and up a second time.

Irritation burns in the sith’s chest.

“You look…“ Vos dithers long enough to bite a knuckle, then shrugs expansively, frowning. “Well, terrible, honestly. Are you eating?”

Fingers alight on Maul’s collarbone, then catch under his jaw, daring to tilt his chin up as Vos makes a show of examining his face with light, doting touches, his gaze far too sharp. “... Sleeping?”

Snarling, Maul grabs the man’s wrist and squeezes until he feels bones grind.

The scrutiny ends. Vos’ face goes flat as he meets the sith’s glare, exaggerated expressions and loose movements exchanged for focused stillness in a second. Good. Maul has little interest in playing at the moment.

Dryden’s markings flush a shade darker as he leans closer, brows lifting. His voice drops into a murmur despite their lack of an audience. Unless one counted the droid. “Tell me there’s been some good news since last we spoke?”

There is none, of course. Maul closes half the distance to Vos’ darkening face and lets his voice lower to a tense drawl.

“What have you brought me?” he asks slowly.

A muscle in Dryden’s cheek tics at the question, irritation and impatience swirling in his weak force presence. A blink, and it is all shuffled from view as the man disengages, showing his teeth in a smile. Maul does not so much as blink, but he does release fragile wristbones from his crushing grip.

Vos turns without a word to the gleaming white and gold astromech droid, finally letting go of Maul’s arm, and keys open the case it is holding. The seal breaks with a hiss, and he withdraws two books, flimsiplast and bound. One is simple and blue, the other is covered in what looks like nautolan skin.

"My lord, I am afraid that these are the only relevant texts in my immediate collection… but as promised I have assets hunting through a more robust selection for further options."

Maul accepts the meager offering and gives the books a cursory examination, ready to investigate any line of inquiry -no matter how thin- that might get him some fucking sleep.

Vos lingers at his side, but physically leans toward the carved redstone of the temple behind him. Manicured fingers idly trace the jagged markings at his throat. The lines begin to flush again, from pale pink to darker mauve.

It makes the desired compensation for this man’s help -hand delivered- abundantly clear.

"A start," Maul comments about the books, turning for the entrance. "Follow. We shall discuss these, and what else you might offer me, over tea."

"I would kill for some tea. Honestly, what a day," says the blonde, moving to walk with him, astromech in tow. A historian’s gaze explores the fallen remains of titanic Paecian architecture, the broken artistry laying scattered on either side of the entry it once guarded.

"Mnh," the sith replies. They both know it is not about tea.

Maul leads them through the central cavern and into a series of winding corridors cut into the stone beyond, all the way to the northern edge of the mountain.

The cramped tunnels open to a series of gouges in the cliff side. It looks like something unreasonably large had taken a swipe out of the rock, or that the mountain had withstood a glancing volley from a ship’s laser cannons long ago. It is here, in a bid to escape the reek of tibanna soot and decaying battle droids, that Maul has made his home. For however many years it had been just a peculiar set of overlooks. Now, the view of the northern swamp across the horizon remains, but the elements are held back by transparisteel.

He takes Vos directly into the open cavern that is his living room, a broad circular depression in its middle. The walls here are a work in progress, only partially smoothed. What was once a scattering of boulders are now various pieces of furniture arranged around a magnificent, man-sized hearth where burns a woodless green ichor fire. These were his idle projects, his distractions, carved when Maul wanted to think while his hands were kept busy.

The other man does not hide his curiosity any longer, although his face is a study in polite, inscrutable interest. His eyes linger most on Maul's decor. Cloth hangings and useful pottery he had recovered from the abandoned nightbrother village. Tapestries of fine weave from the nightsister's dwellings. A growing collection of trinkets gathered during his travels, and gifts from various sources, mostly given in tribute to Crimson Dawn and diverted his way by Vos.

Or perhaps it was Vos’ secretary who thought of him, given how the man in question pauses to examine a verne spine, coiled and bejeweled, like he had never seen it before. Some things are his own additions, lifted from sith temples or taken as trophies after an assassination.

The result is art both fine and rustic. Treasures and trinkets that range from sentimental to priceless. Hints of his tastes from living on Coruscant for so long, set right alongside banners for dead Night Clan bloodlines.

Seeing the figurehead of the Dawn in the middle of it -all bespoke white shimmersilk and silver accents- is odd in a way he cannot begin to define.

Maul shakes off the useless feeling and gestures Vos toward the sitting area. The man heads down into it with a nod, gracefully taking a seat."Wait here," he orders evenly, "I will return."

He can feel it, again. The build up before the threads come.

Dryden collects a datapad from the droid and gets comfortable, looking entirely too agreeable. “As you wish, my lord.”

Maul withdraws to the kitchen, setting the books down on the rock that is going to, eventually, be a dinner table. The sith takes a moment to cross the room and add water to his battered kettle, flipping it on to heat. It fails to start. He flips the switch twice more before the mechanism hums to life. Then, he goes to sit down while it boils, hands clasped on the rough stone slab before him.

There, he waits for it…

The whisper of claws and gossamer string come searching, winding, looking for him-

w,

h,

e,

r,

e

?

?

?

Maul uses the little twist of will he had worked out which empowers the cantrip. The edges of his hands grow blurry, fingers becoming like claws of smoke. He reels in his energy, his self, his senses, until the average force user would tell you that he simply does not exist. Not a gap in the world -like a droid- nor a living thing.

Nothing there.

Still the threads wind around him, this cloying sensation of being petted and cherished and-

The kettle begins to scream.

The sith hisses. Hiding, hiding, hiding-

Finally it goes.

There is a shake to his limbs as the smokiness fades, but Maul regains his feet without pause. A meager flush of victory runs through him. The war wages on, but this latest battle has been won, and won more skillfully than before. Every centimeter of progress gives him the will to carve out another.

The afflicted nightbrother inhales deeply once upright, refocusing as the tremors settle.

Maul finishes making tea, then returns to the social call with a tray. He brings two steaming cups and a bowl of nuts, none of which should be harmful to a near-human. Probably.

"My lord, I have a question."

Maul sets his burden on the roughly cut caf table, and offers Vos a glazed black mug, detailed with poisonous flowers.

The man takes it delicately, blue gaze intent on Maul’s face. The sith meets that look, recognizing hunger in any form it takes.

"What is it?" he asks, getting his own drink and drifting away to take a seat on a distant section of couch.

With a slow, delighted grin beginning to stretch his features, Dryden points at a wall hanging made of embossed metallic slats that sits by the door. "That, unless I am entirely mistaken, is over seventeen thousand years old. At minimum. A mirialan poem, from their third 'iron renaissance'?"

A glimmer of collector's lust sparkles in Vos' eyes. Hungry indeed, for history it seems. "An accurate assessment. It is."

The other man rises, drink in hand as he approaches the metal scroll, beginning to recite its words in their original language.

"As an imperfect actor on this stage,

Who with fear is put beside their part

Or some fierce thing replete with rage,

Whose strength's abundance outdoes them

So I, in my fear, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love's rite

And in this way my own strength decays"

Vos holds himself like he is trying desperately not to touch the thing. "What a little treasure you have here. The speaker… overcome by their own depth of emotion… they fail to express themselves to their love, and their confidence is then lost? Perhaps their position as a suitor entirely?"

Maul hums, "I would argue it is their self control, not the depth of their passion, that leads to their failure, whichever it might be."

The crime lord sighs, and takes a drink of his tea, lingering there. "Wonderful. If you have other such pieces I would be so interested in seeing them."

Maul considers it a moment. Letting Vos loose among his collection of artifacts has its drawbacks, but it would serve as plentiful distraction. The sith stands, takes a long pull on his own drink, then abandons the rest in favor of a handful of nuts. "Follow."

"Don’t mind if I do," Vos smiles, joining Maul as he leads the way down a set of stairs to the level below.

He brings them down to his treasury amid the unfinished stone walls, and gestures at the clutter. At the sea of clutter.

Vos’ takes an audible breath, lets it out in a little sigh and a barely-there huff of… something unclear. His faint force signature roils with many emotions at once, all of them intent.

Those jagged markings are going off again, flushing bloody as he starts forward into the room.

Maul puts up a hand to stop him, and the man walks right into it. Blue eyes- their whites gone pink in a pale mirror of a sith’s stare- snap sharply to his face, openly hostile for the barest moment before a veneer of affected warmth slides back into place.

It is Maul’s turn to lean in.

"Be wary,” he lilts. Glaring down people a head taller than him is an art and he has perfected it. “A third of these items might kill you at a touch, and no few are… seductive in their draw."

Vos grins at him and dares to take Maul’s hand off his chest, bowing to kiss the knuckles. "You spoil me, my lord."

Maul thinks putting up with him is the greater benevolence, but keeps that to himself. "Mnh."

The blonde starts exploring with the caution of a man who specializes in the forgotten and forbidden. Maul is content to munch on nuts and leave him to it, watching only to ensure that Vos is not ensnared by something desperate to escape its prison; or a bauble meant to test a fully realized sith and not someone with a mere iota of force training.

It is almost peaceful until the threads come cresting back in a rush, syrupy strings and insubstantial claws. New. The syrupy quality is new. Maul folds under the onslaught, stumbling back into the doorframe with teeth bared.

It sticks, it clings, it wants -

s

s

s

e

e

e

k

i

n

g

«

«

Maul roars at the searching threads, shoving them all away, away! They peel off and slither back, trying to find their way in to bind him. There is no time for the cantrip, he holds these at bay with rage alone.

He comes back out of his internal world damp with sweat and panting, hunched down on his knees. Green mist leaks from his mouth and nose, and the air smells of burnt things.

Vos is standing before him, very still. "My lord, are you… well?” the other man asks, eyes bright and lips slightly parted as though witnessing something riveting.

Maul rises, chest vibrating as a growl of frustration pours out of him, at the threads and the softly-spoken question alike.

A blonde head tilts, birdlike. "Perhaps… you should rest? I could not feel that as you do, merely a faint, mm… vertigo? But it did look…” the man finally inhales and blinks, body language relaxing out of a predator’s stillness into something almost normal, “…rather exhausting to overcome."

Another lingering once-over and pale brows turn up in an expression that does not match any aspect of how Dryden Vos feels in the living force.

Maul grinds his teeth and stands to his full height, forcing his voice steady, "I will go review the texts you have brought. Do as you will."

He turns to go, and hears Vos follow at his back.

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