He didn't know why he boarded the Chronic Bleed, his ironically named Firespray, which had yet to take so much as a scratch in combat. He didn't
know why he input the coordinates to the little backwater world known as Dantooine. All he knew was that something there was calling him, something dark but
somehow... familiar. It came to him first in his dreams, the sort of feeling a child might get from being held by its mother... then when he was awake, though
then it was more like a feeling of unbelonging. As though wherever he happened to be, even his luxurious home in the wealthy district of Etti IV, was somehow
wrong. He didn't know if it was just some deep seated issues, brought up in a most peculiar fashion by the ordeals he'd encountered with Omega, or if
it was the stress of Corporate existance finally catching up with him after all this while... but he suspected more. This odd pull had an alien feel to it,
despite whatever attempts at welcome were made, they still bore an intelligence to them. Almost reminding trite of the call sent out from the demon he and
Omega had only slain a short time ago. As if triggered by the thought, his fingers slipped into the pouch on his belt where the remains of that Jedi's
lightsaber were stashed. He withdrew the smooth handled weapon, remebering clearly the emerald blade, so like Omega's, that had danced and whirled
destructively against his own white training blade.
He'd tried to make it work again but, like the Jedi that had wielded it, the weapon was dead. Doubtless it had been some product of the lightning, launched
from the pure evil denizen of that damned station, which had fried the life from it. Stil, for yet another reason that he couldn't, or perhaps
wouldn't, explain, he could not discard the thing. By now the hatch had lowered, and Mal's eyes were forced to deal with the brightness of the
Dantooine daylight. He returned the silvery handle to its pouch... returning his mind to the matters at hand. He'd landed out in the gods forsaken boonies,
miles out from any spaceport. Barren fields stretched out from every side, broken by the odd rocky formation with only one exception. Burrowing into the
hillside, as though carved by a giant insect, was a circular cave, its sides smoothly manicured.
As Malcolm entered, he couldn't help but reach out a gloved hand and touch the wall, his warm hand sliding across the smooth cold stone sent a brief chill
up and down his spine, even if it was through the fabric of his armor. It was far too perfect to be natural. He countinued down, into the deep dark, feeling
oddly like the lone ant in a dark colony. the deeper he went, the darker in got, and that wasn't just to say that the light from outside was lacking. It
was a dark in every sense of the word, and it gave the armored warrior a sense of foreboding. The draw! The draw here was so much stronger than it had been
those lightyears away on Etti IV, and instictively Malcolm knew he was getting close. A part of him was frightened, that same part wished that Mal had kept a
clear enough head to ask Omega to accompany him, or at least inform his master where he was going. Another part was dead calm, and that part knew that what he
walked into was his to face.
Eventually the tunnel began to widen out into a broader passage, the walls retaining their smoothness to the bitter end. This end came in the form of a lit
chamber, nearly a mile under the Dantooine surface, and more importantly an occupied one. Malcolm felt the man before he was able to discern his shape in the
chamber's light. His back was to Malcolm, showing him a broad red coated back and silvery black hair cut close to he man's head. His face was angled
downward, trite could tell, perhaps bowed in some sort of meditation. Trite finally stepped into the light himself, entering the large chamber fully, noting
that there was about 20 feet between himself and the mysterious man. On cue, as soon as his first boot struck the light, the figure lifted his head, looking
straight forward for just a moment before turning in Malcolm's direction. It was then that Trite realized the man's face was partially covered by a
silvery metal mask. It was the twisted countenance of a man, his angelic face contorted in horrible fear, perhaps anger. No eye shown from beneath that mask,
but the one eye malcolm could see burned a yellow red. Burned with the dark side of the force. He slid one hand down to his belt, wrapping his fingers around
the hilt of one vibroblade. The other didn't make a move. For a few seconds, each simply stared at the other, sizing eachother up as if for a fight.
"My master welcomes you, Malcolm Trite." The man said, his voice somehow distant, as though he were only partially
paying attention to the young mercenary before him. Malcolm noticed for the first time too that the man's silvery hair was not a product of his age, but
rather seemed totally natural, his face nearly as young as Mal's.
"Then I am at a disadvantage, you know my name." Trite responded curtly, unnerved under his helmet. His head slowly
moved around the chamber taking in what other sparse things adorned it. A cot sat off to one side, and a side tunnel, smaller but no less smooth than the first
was at the back. At the center of the room, having originally been hidden by the turned back of the mysterious darksider, was a pedestal the centerpiece of
which Malcolm couldn't make out.
"I know many things about you." The darksider continued, taking a few steps to his right, a move that Malcolm mirrored.
After a few minutes the two were circling, neither daring to take their eyes off the other. "I am Arek Seyley, Sith Knight, though I
have been away from Dherik for a long while." The man said, finally naming himself. Dherik... It hadn't been the Sith homeworld in
quite some time, and obviously this man hadn't had any contact with the order at all. Trite decided to keep this to himself, instead pointing out the
obvious.
"So it wasn't you that was calling me?" He said, one hidden eyebrow rising questioningly.
"No, it was my Master. You are to test me, by ending you I will prove my worth to Darth Phyrus." Malcolm mentally took
note of that name, even as he steeled himself for the combat he now knew was inevitable.
"You underestimate my power, Seyley!" Malcolm said, drawing first one, then the other vibroblade. He twirled the weapons
through a little kata, his eyes never leaving Arek, his feet never stopping the circling motion. Again the man's one eye seemed distracted, inward as
though hearing something Mal could not.
"You underestimate the power of the Dark Side, Trite!" Arek said
suddenly, his hand disappearing beneath his tattered red coat and emerging with a lightsaber hilt. He activated the Crimson energy beam, then stepped forward,
taking a agressive position, then attacking before Malcolm knew what was happening.

