Contained in this subject will be a a record of Clan fiction for Clan Naga Sadow. This record will begin in 37 ABY.
“So it falls to you again.” Bentre’s face evaporated in the swirl of holographic light, the projector dimming as he looked on. He turned briefly, black eyes falling upon the former Consul as he clasped his hands behind his back.
“Not entirely surprising, I suppose.”
Muz nodded, turning back to the device in front of them, a wounded bit of ancient technology, bleeding tiny nibs of crystals onto the workbench. He hadn’t really considered that Kojiro would retire so soon. Not that he blamed him. The scenario had changed so much, and the evacuation of their home system had taken a lot out of him. The counterstrike against Meridian station… Well, it was a good thing that Sadow had not gone alone. He picked up a non-conductive probe, gently prodding past the failing matrices, trying to nudge what seemed to be a poorly aligned power supply back onto the contacts as Locke stared on intently.
The warbling tone of waiting communication scraped across their ear. Then another. Then another. Locke smiled as the frequency changed, missives from the clan rerouting to the Lion’s datapad explaining and informing of the everchanging situation in the clan, the house. His house.
He set down the probe, turning to the datapad and keying in his access code. The datastream flew down the screen, his fingers stopping the feed suddenly. There were new names. He narrowed his eyes, reading the transcripts from the Shadow Academy. The man was a little old compared to some of those still studying at the academy, but the Brotherhood did not have the reach that the Republic, or even the Empire once had. Quentinshadows still had managed to make quick work of the lessons placed before him, and the reports showed an interest in some studies that would have flagged him for… inquisitorius attention under Pravus. Muz noted the dossier when the chirp came again. A new sensitive soldier, a Verpine with Force Affinity, already stacking up quite the kill count from the field reports. Hilgrif. Muz stared at the name, debating pronunciation options before the torrent of chirps came again. More names, familiar ones, unfamiliar ones. Finally, a live urgent. He thumbed the play key, the image flashing on the datapad rather than the holo.
Locke turned from the artifact, looking at the Lion, then at the datapad. “That code looks…” His eyes narrowed.
“It’s not fake, just very old.” Muz stared at it, his memory putting together the pieces. “The Mystics.” The words slipped from Muz’s mouth as realization hit him. The image shifted, the lines converting to a woman’s face, dark wavy hair and a half-smirk.
“Requesting Asylum, code Trill Aurek Resh three five nine.” The image broke up momentarily before reforming. Muz paused. Tarentum. It had been a while.
Muz tapped a command on his arm, the message sent to the bridge of the ship, telling them to prepare for a docking. “Situation?”
She paused, a hitch in her voice swallowed down before she continued. “My clan is gone. The castle is a ruin. The order has fallen. I am sorry, but the old alliance, we hoped that Sadow would honor it.”
Muz leaned forward. “Order?”
“Yridia was a waste, so we went to Antei. The Temple of Tiamat is a tomb. The Krath are gone.”
Muz stared directly back. “No, we are not.”