Dark Side Male Revan, Adventure/Action

I don't know how, or why, I've been brought into the KotOR Universe. I've been forced into helping Revan, who doesn't know who he is, stop Malak and the Sith. But unlike the crew of the Ebon Hawk, I know exactly what is going to happen. (Self-insert. Revan/Bastila. Changes to the main story. KotOR 1.) Chapter 24: ... It Pours

I don't know how, or why, I've been brought into the KotOR Universe. I've been forced into helping Revan, who doesn't know who he is, stop Malak and the Sith. But unlike the crew of the Ebon Hawk, I know exactly what is going to happen. (Self-insert. Revan/Bastila. Changes to the main story. KotOR 1.) Chapter 9: Out of the Loop... Sort of

Jarred embraces the dark legacy of his past and fights for his future. A Dark Lord of the Sith meets his fate and Revan comes closer to the surface of Jarred's mind.

Arravin grabbed hold of Juhani and threw them both to the ground as the Hawk plowed into the side of the ravine with a spectacular splash of sand, dust, rocks, and large clumps of orange clay. Covering her beneath him, he used his hands to protect his head against the flying debris while the ship continued to grind across the sand above, its nose crunching into the opposite side of the ravine and continuing forward until the whole ship lay atop the cleft in the ground.

The Sith were coming.

Bastila hazarded a look out to the street. She saw nothing, and was tempted to say "I sense a disturbance in the Force" but had a feeling none but she would appreciate such a seemingly vague explanation.

The port city of Anchorhead had fallen on hard times. A wave of mine closures had crippled the local economy, leaving nearly one-third of the workforce unemployed. With Czerka Corporation controlling nearly every aspect of port commerce and living, their offices were perpetually filled to the brim with desperate people looking for work. Only the very few could afford housing.

Anchorhead was a city of vagrants and beggars, delinquents and thieves.

War was a terrible thing.

Malak taught that there would be moments in her life such as these; moments when she would doubt the utter necessity of fighting the good fight, times when the path of virtue might seem indistinguishable from the evil they resisted. These were the times when her faith must remain absolute, a stalwart defense and stronghold against the foolishness of thought without belief.

Yuthura couldn't help the thought that Malak's prophesied Golden Age had never seemed further away.

War was a terrible thing. Terribly necessary.

A mysterious Jedi dreams a life he doesn't fully remember...and seeks an old friend for guidance

Bandon bowed his head slightly, in awe and reverence for the great man. "Greetings from Tatooine, Master."

"It's quite warm there."

"It is indeed, Master," Bandon replied, wiping collected sweat from his brow. He remembered when the presence of sweat could spell death--here its absence was dangerous. "I think it's something I am still getting used to."

"There are places in the galaxy hotter still, Bandon," Malak remarked.

Tempers flare and tensions rise between Revan and Bastila. In a battle of wills, who'll end up winning? 

She looked at him pointedly. He was tall, probably taller than her by at least six inches, with a frame that made him look like he could wrestle a rancor. He seemed friendly enough, though. What could it hurt, except for his foolish expectations?

She nodded her permission.

He gave a congenial smile. "I'm Alek."

Bombs dropped indifferently, not caring whether the things they torched were buildings of glass and steel or bodies of flesh and bone. The smoke alone was unmistakable.

It was like Taris all over again.

"It was my thought to show you the courtesy of an impartial death," the thing said in its terrible drone, "but you foolishly chose to reject your fate, even knowing well your sin. You forsook our sacred vow, turned against the Crusade; you corrupted the Sith, would have thrown away everything for which we bled in the vain pursuit of some new thrill, or whatever your vile Cathar blood would bid you." The thing that was Darth Malak clenched its fist, his glare seething with naked hate. "It is the duty of the faithful to destroy you and your ilk, all who threaten the Crusade. Just as we swore."

In which eating, dueling, and much conversation occurs. . . and an invitation is received.

Carth didn’t know how long it took for him to fall asleep, but when he woke,
she was gone.

The temple - for its impossible grandeur and overbearing sense of eminence marked it as such - rose to an imposing height above the countryside. Namenlos was made dizzy with trying to comprehend the magnitude of manual labor that must have gone into its construction, for it bore no marks of mechanized construction or pre-fabrications, as did every thimble and door hinge he'd ever run across on Taris.

“What is it?” he asked Juhani, staring in wonder.

"This is where Darth Malak first envisioned his plan to forever destroy the Jedi."

Once he would have sacrificed his life for them; now, they were just sacrifices to a cause greater than all their ruined lives, even his.

He caught sight of the flames when finally the tickling in his mind brought him to full attention. He regarded its warning with annoyance, trying not to think too intensely as his headache worsened with each second. Nevertheless, his hand slipped toward his knife.

Almost before he could even touch the handle, Namenlos heard a sharp rustle of branches parting and someone landing upright on their feet just behind him.

He whirled around to find a blue lightsabre blade erupting into the night in front of him.

Looking himself in the mirror, Carth was shocked to see how much he'd aged over the past few years. He was still in his early forties, but the image in the mirror made him look closer to fifty. With Dustil long gone, Morgana dead on Telos, and an unending vendetta demanding his every effort towards the war, always the war, life seemed to hold very little for him. He'd become an automaton. Driven by an implacable need and heedless of the cost to himself, he plodded ever onward to what would certainly be his eventual destruction.

Carth turned away from that depressing picture of himself, the countenance that spoke to a life wasted, and quickly changed shirts and threw on his jacket.

Having agreed to assist Atris in the teaching of Jedi younglings, Kai finds his situation not to be what he had originally thought. Quatra communes with Master Kavar, consolidating as to what their next plan of action should be. Whilst in the midst of giving a lesson, Atris has an unexpected visitor, whom forces her to realize a truth within herself that she cannot face.

Entering the estate, Canderous was greeted by the ungainly sight of the vertically-challenged Calo Nord, Davik's new golden boy. With the bright blue overcoat, puffy white hat, and rotund nose sticking out from underneath a comical pair of opaque goggles, Calo Nord looked more like a midget taxi driver than the right hand man of Davik Kang himself.

"What's this trash you're carrying, Canderous?" Calo asked snarkily. He sniffed with exaggerated gesticulation. "Whoo! Smells like rakghoul to me. Have you been mucking around in the sewers, Candy? Davik finally give you some real work?"

"Killing Saul didn't help, did it? No, it's not enough that you offed Saul, now you need someone else to kill, somebody to blame for all your failures!"

He stared dumbly at the Twi'lek girl who stood hurling the blunt words at him. He could hear her saying the words, but they didn't seem to match up in a way that he could understand. She might as well have been speaking gibberish for all the sense it made to him.

But then, it did. In a horrible sort of way, it almost did make sense.

Breathing heavily, he dashed through the brush, wet branches and slithery vines slapping against his face as he ran at a breakneck pace. The damp jungle air seemed trying to suffocate him, every outstretched root and overturned log on a mission to trip him, ensnare him. His heart was pounding with adrenaline, propelling him to ever greater effort.

It was more than a dream. He knew that beyond any doubt. It was... communication.

The world was ruled by pure mayhem. Bastila's twin amber blades were more than occupied turning aside the hails of blaster fire from Sith riflemen, and all her attention was focused on merely staying alive. She wasn't able to track Namenlos through much of the battle, but she could see quite clearly the trail of destruction he left in his wake.

The churning flow of bodies and transports rolled over against the steel and crete banks formed by the faces of thousands of buildings along each thoroughfare and boulevard, swirled and meandered within itself, but never deviated in its onrushing course.

Namenlos had at first wondered if it would be possible for him to disappear into that river, let the currents swallow him and bear him away from his captor. The more he thought about it, letting it simmer in his mind as he walked, the concept eventually brought on the pain from the collar. The wretched device seemed attuned to his very thoughts.

I don't think I really need to go through another interation of "this is yet another piece done for the indomitable Lord Zeuss as an announcement for an upcoming series of his", do I?

Didn't think so.

There were six startled Gamorreans, two dragging a cuffed and shackled Zaalbar by the legs, one with Mission slung over his shoulders, all heavily-armed. Mission, her mouth gagged with a filthy rag, saw him and immediately began struggling against her captor.

Namenlos snarled and leaped forward, drawing his knife.

She heard voices, angry, shouting voices, and nudged her way through the thick crowds sharing the sidewalk with her, trying to find the source of the disturbance, feeling a gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach. Shoving past gawking onlookers, she broke through the gaggle and found the commotion.

The shock of the sight raised a stunned whimper from her throat as she found herself back in her worst nightmare.

One of her arms was bent at an unnatural angle, she was covered in dust and debris from the fall, and every inch of her plundered Dark Jedi robes were soaked in blood, leaving thick red stains on the floor beneath her. One of her knees was swollen and twisted. Through incredible force of will, she struggled to her feet, limping upright.

"This isn't over, Malak!" Bastila cried.

My Life... For Yours - A critical mistake on the Exile's part results in Visas being poisoned. Desperate to save her, Kai is forced to turn to the one person among his companions with the means to do so - his Master. Ever adament in the greater good being acheived by the Miraluka's death, Kreia remains defiant of her student's call for mercy. And in the end, they will each show just how far they are willing to go in order to acheive their ends.

This is the last time I will see my friends in a long time, if ever. I wonder how they can stand by me after all I've done. That's what friends are here for I realise, they are your friends no matter what (or close enough).

Bastila gently holds my hand. She has come a long way since I first met her on Taris, and she has been through a lot as well. I gently squeeze her hand and smile at her. She smiles back, her eyes shining with barely contained tears.

Hungrily, the blue and violet blades bit into the armored doors, carving hot, glowing swathes through the thick durasteel. The ache in Kono's head beat almost as steadily as the humming of his sabre as he forced his arms to push the blade deeper and harder. The pain in his mind forced his vision to focus on the one thing before him; his blade. In that moment, his lightsabre was the only thing that existed. It was a part of him, and he a part of it. He had only one purpose: cut. That one thing meant everything, it was his hunger, his power. That purpose filled him with a deadly need.