When the priest interrupted the imperious and sinister Lord Vader, the stomach of every living creature on the bridge inverted in their bellies and began to climb up their throats. Save for one.

Bedrovelse observes how quietly the officers and soldiers conduct their duty while waves of their discomfort and nerves lap against the shore of his spirit. The palpable tension is cause for amusement.

It gives Hevn no pleasure to gaze upon a familiar force of nature. There was something so primal about the priest with his rough visage and sulfuric eyes. Hevn could imagine the ground itself opening to regurgitate such a callous creature. The howling forces of Hell shaping every muscle and scar on the man out of molten dirt until the monster before him took its first steps out of the pit and into existence.

Vader’s whelps whisper with mixtures of shock and terror. Their eyes finding Bedrovelse strolling the rail and turning to square up with Darth Vader. He couldn’t help but wonder if the priest felt it too. Something creepy and soulless about the commander of this vessel. There was no vulnerability or weakness to the mechanical monstrosity save for that low hiss of his breathing.

That small weakness was all the comfort Hevn needed not to waver in confidence or strength. Keen to the fact that the dark side was sensitive to such emotions, he refused to feel any whatsoever. Bedrovelse kneels in his black robes before the Sith Lord. “ My competition, Lord?” The only cue given that Darth Vader even heard him was the soft sound of his gloves stretching to grip the throne before a low and heavy reply, “Indeed.”

Hevn rises from his kneel and turns from the Sith Lord. The door hisses open and claps shut behind him as his boot falls carry him toward security with sweeping strides. The storm troopers return his sword Phantasmagoria, which he attaches to his left hip. He welcomes the return of his specially crafted dragon hilt to his hand as though it were a lost child. With immense relief as it finds his palm and then it’s own place on his left hip in front of the sword. He straps forearm and shin guards, gleaming cortosis alloy etched with the runes of chaos that empowered them with greater durability and focus in the dark side of the force. Hevn fastens them comfortably before pulling his Sith mask over his face. It resembles the face of a krayt dragon. It’s gaping fanged maw where Hevn’s mouth is, and thin slits at the eyes to see through. Last but absolutely not least were his gauntlets. The dueling gloves critical to the training of the dark Jedi, but most importantly the artifact of one of his most powerful mentors. C’thulu Plaga, the dead man. The clawed relic slips onto his left hand and the surge of power feels like a hurricane ripping through the room around him as they unite. Hevn admires the gems embedded in the gauntlet, and finds the troopers gaze lingering on it longer than the other items returned. The weapon was known to drive the mundane and mortals of the galaxy mad with agony.

Hevn proceeds from security to the hangar door. It opens for a platoon of troopers who march by as he skirts their outer flank into the hangar. His opponent is seated on a crate, sharpening a blade undoubtably made of beskar.

Hevn marches with unparalleled regal posture. Almost painfully rigid as his strides pound the floor with purpose. He swiftly closes the distance between himself and the priest of war. Remembering well the warrior’s prowess in battle from Muunilinst, Hevn’s senses are set to high alert. He would have to dispatch this one cautiously.

When last they met, Hevn was more machine than man. This body has a heart beat. Muscles that he had been training incessantly to peak condition now that he was flesh again. What he lost in raw physical power he more than gained in speed and finesse. He had evolved from a wrecking ball into an entity of epic magnitude. Surviving the wrath of Hevn was an achievement that defined lifetimes, and now all of that planet smashing ire was focused acutely on one man.

“Skirata.” Hevn growls the name with disdain. Mandalorians tended to be a chore to kill, and this one was a cocktail of homicidal efficiency wrapped up in that neat little armored husk. “Let’s settle who gets to make the princess scream.”

Hevn’s icy blue eyes fixate on the mandalorian with a winter night’s gust. His cold fury meeting Skirata’s burning one.

Hevn’s eyes were fixated on Faust’s eyes until he acknowledged Hevn as his target. As Faust laughed and tugged on the handle of the ripper it was clear there would be less than ideal time to act.

Blaster bolts at this point in the dark jedi’s experience were almost child play. Slug throwers were more challenging, and especially at this range. Stopping them completely was out of the question, and getting out of the way would mean throwing away a perfectly good attempt to retaliate.

The many lives Faust had taken howled in the force around his aura. There were no shortage of volunteers to assist the sorcerer from beyond the grave against the hand of the Destroyer God. Their hate, their rage, it fuels Hevn’s power and he coils the well of their fury to his will. Bedrovelse opens himself to the darkness surrounding them both and as the shots begin ringing out. The force spreads floods over Hevn in less than a snap. The fallen demand vengeance.

Bedrovelse covers himself in a sheen of concentrated power. His selfish desires and arrogant heart never mastered the power of protective barriers, but his pride was more than capable of becoming untouchable to contact with most regular weaponry, and slugs had been high on the list to prepare against once the Reaping put the mandalorians in as good a position as they had ever been to win their crusade against the force. It remained one of Hevn’s personal theories that they were responsible for it to begin with.

The bullet at his hip shatters as it strikes the protective layer of will surrounding him. It pierces the robes and sparks as if hitting the hull of a cruiser. The following three punch into Hevn and fold into pennies of metal against his chest that fall to the ground jingling like lost change.

That’s when Hevn really bears his focus down. Reaching within as a well of fire opens in his heart. It was time to unleash hell and release the killer inside. This was the part where the chilling exterior began to fade and Bedrovelse reveals the beast within.

The sheen on his skin lets up as Hevn releases it’s hold on himself, and projects it toward Faust. The flick of his wrist finds the Grimhammer at the mandalorians hip, hanging there by nothing more than a belt. Bedrovelse wasn’t sure if gripping the head of such a weapon in the force would be enough to trigger it, but he knew the minimal effort of driving the head of that weapon into the nearest chunk of the priest’s body would result in nothing short of a ride across the hangar if he didn’t become absolutely crippled by his own armor crushing tool. Because it is fastened to Faust, the connection would be just a little more than a love tap against the shockwave conductor, but the spike on its head would be a danger to Faust with the upward jerk and turn motion Hevn applies to the force pull.

Surely, the only way to find the strength of the weapon was to try it. A bubble of concern spat out of the back of Hevn’s mind as the ripper reoriented toward his face. With another wailing shot he sees the Mandalorian stumble. The hammer had found purchase after all. Yet there was the issue of the incoming bullet.

Hevn’s focus was extended away from himself, and his proximity to the ripper left him momentarily vulnerable to its persistence. The bullet finds his upper left pectoral, blitzing through his robes and skin in a spray of blood behind him. There was no time for pain or weakness, and none will show.

With his left side recoiling, he opens his right hand and Hevn’s precious katana grip leaps from its sheath into his extended fingers. The mandalorian was already rebounding from the hammer’s strike to pounce. The beskad finds his katana blade in a horizontal guard to intercept. The incredibly sharp beskar blade shrieking against his own. With the clash he fortifies his weight to resist the charge without being overtaken.

Bedrovelse brought his fury to bear as the exit wound on his back screamed in agony. Hevn maintains the force grip on the hammer, repeating his first attack. Pulling it up and into the same exact spot it had just found to rattle the priest again. With the priest having chosen an overhead stroke, that flank was open for a second strike and Hevn made sure to give the force pull a little something extra this time as the fresh wounds demand he return the favor ten fold.

There was no better strategy against the savage before him than to ignore the hardened exterior of the warrior and hope that hammer would turn his insides to blood and jelly.

The truth was that Hevn was impressed. The Mandalorian carried through the second strike like a rampaging rancor. What Bedrovelse imagined was enough to bring men to their knees, or even their backs, made this creature cackle with glee.

This soldier didn’t carry on by the will of the force. Didn’t have the expansive mysterious power woven into his fabric as the dark jedi did. It was guts that pushed him through whatever pain he was experiencing. Rage that buried every ounce of doubt. This Mandalorian could not be defeated. There would be no subduing the rabid mongrel. Hevn would have to put him down.

A contortion of effort covers Hevn’s face as he braces the katana against the beskad. Was it blind rage that brought the mandalorian forward? Courage? Skirata was sprinting into the dragons maw. As sure of himself as any enemy Hevn had ever faced. The short and stout man maintained an awesome attack, and then quite suddenly reached for Hevn’s sword arm.

The ripper began to fall from the mandalorians grasp, and it would seem the two warriors saw their own moments of opportunity. Hevn’s left hand twitches, snatching the weapon in mid fall and gripping it firmly. It had been a while since Hevn has used one, but he was no slouch with a gun. It was just as important and effective as blades and sabers, no questions asked.

The task at hand required his absolute attention, and it was why Hevn missed Faust’s boot coming down fast and hard upon his own. The Mandalorian meant business. Pain explodes so quickly and viciously that the toes go numb, and the weight of his body shifts awkwardly to the heel to hold him.

His sword arm is steady against the beskad, and Faust would find his grip true upon the region of arm above the elbow. Hevn was all too aware of crush gauntlets. They were adored by mandalorian warriors and any other sentient being that could get their mitts on one.

His left hand holds the ripper just inches away from Faust’s body. Giving it the slightest tilt upward, Bedrovelse Hevn squeezes the trigger as fast as he can with everything left in the mag at Skirata’s throat.

Pain and anger.

The mandalorian has his bases covered. Beskar was as difficult an armor to deal with as any, and the extra personal shield was exactly what he needed to stop the bullets evidently. Pain was coursing through the smashed extremities in his foot. It had grown from a whisper to a howl in the gun shot wound. The front of his pectoral stung but the exit wound screamed as blood wept down his chest and his back. Anger courses through his veins. Thick as oil it’s sludge drips over his heart and poisons it. This was Hevn’s own failure. He did not think himself superior to Faust, he was certain of it, demanded it of himself always to be the pinnacle of indestructible. The frustration with himself to not have known better burned like embers on every nerve in his brain. Every synapse blames this continued conflict on his lack of tact and skill.

Agony and rage.

The crush gauntlets pulverize his arm in a horrific crunch. The bones splinter into the muscle and tissue, all of it ripping and twisting together in agony. The mass of pulped near-human flesh had skipped black and blue, and turned into a purple and green. Blood pours over Faust’s hands as he twists. The feeling of the tendons and muscle mashing with the bones gives his stomach a sickening churn.

Still, Hevn didn’t make a sound. Not a growl. Not a grunt. He screams on the inside. Pushing the pain down into a bubble in his chest, inside his putrid black aura, concentrating it, compounding it. Hevn’s pride would not accept defeat. Faust was a gun to be hired. A worker bee! Bedrovelse was a king! A God! Failure was not an option! Not even death was his equal, so neither would any thing that had to breathe, eat, or sleep.

Bedrovelse’s fingers open, and his katana yields to the force of Faust’s slash. The shattered arm could hold it no longer. The mandalorian leverages his arm down, and Hevn desperately wrenches his body weight toward Faust’s right side. The crush gauntlets hold so firmly to the arm that he dislocates his own shoulder and bends as blaster bolts punch into his collar where arm connects to torso. If only those fiery little bolts could have killed the nerve endings. It felt as though his right arm were suffering the hunger of a flaming trash compactor and Hevn’s training gave him the clarity of mind not to let it distract him. It would be used as power to kill this cur.

The last slug had left the clip and the beskad came down on Hevn. While maneuvering away from a throat shot from the blaster, his skull had leaned away from the path of the immediately dropping sword. Now the very arm the mandalorian held was in its way instead. The beskad thumps the air as it passes by his ears and tears through the robes, flesh, and bone without a hiccup. It’s razor edge cleaving him as easily as a lightsaber.

At first there was relief. That small breath before even more pain came. His arm hits the ground with a soft wet thud. Blood soaks his right flank as it runs down his ribs and legs to the floor where too the arm bleeds freely. The world fogs over for a second as Hevn gets lightheaded, and his stomach violently wretched with the feeling of severed limb.

A trophy, Faust. To you and your Destroyer. As hard earned as it was well deserved.

Torment and wrath.

There was so much to feel. So many roiling clouds competing for the dominance of his attention but the dark Jedi was far beyond in terms of clarity. He balls them together within the force. His aura fusing the black mass into the ultimate weapon of the sorcerer. The torment within his injuries and wounded ego escalate him beyond the limitations of adrenaline. The world stalls in one perfectly clear moment as he extends his left hand, ripper falling to the ground.

The ornate gauntlet of C’thulu extends toward Faust. Hevn releases a bark of unintelligible wrath and torment. It shakes the air with the raw power of his darkness and concentration. His palm explodes like a star fighter engine as a blast of red energy, crackling and roaring, races toward Faust’s staggering body. Energy composed of raw dark side force. This was Bogan unleashed. A bolt of infinite hatred. Quick as a slug and powerful enough to vaporize his foes in the past, nothing would satisfy Hevn more than reducing his enemy to a pile of ash.

The dark side coils and rumbles around Bedrovelse. He was in the storm’s eye of his own maelstrom of power. The bolt had taken the last ounce of fight from his body. His mind was ever clear and focused, but the husk his spirit inhabited could only be pushed so far. Collapsing to his knees, his toes bending in wailing protest, he releases a rasping and shuddering breath. The moment of reprieve had passed.

Hevn’s left hand reached toward his belt and the fingers coil around the throat of his dragon leather hilt. A pearly white blade leaps from the dragon’s opening jaws and with a flourish he spins it toward the hole where his arm used to be. His face trembles, scowling in pain as he cauterizes it. The smell was awful. The pain was sickening. His head swims as the dark side left him to endure the side effects from of such exertion.

So much blood.

It was running off of him still. Another flourish of spinning white energy kisses the entry and exit wounds with a hiss. His sleeve burns off in a carmelizing ribbon of blood and silk.

Hevn’s glowering blue eyes stare hard at Faust’s final resting place.

“Let’s get this bread, Skirata. See you in hell.” The words are hardly as whisper as his eyes close, and he folds onto the floor into the pool of his own blood.

Bedrovelse might have followed Faust into the embrace of the Destroyer if a thousand wailing demons didn’t get there first. Their claws dig into his soul. Dragging him into the rivers of the Chaos, where he would wait to be belched forth into life again. The revenants work was never done. Forever a champion of the dark side.