Shira
Administrator 
.: Empress' Hand
Posts: 135 
Likes: 114
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Post by Shira on Feb 13, 2017 22:12:28 GMT -5
IC: Ladies Kevala and Scionica
Slippery Slopes Cantina, Nar Shadaa
"No," Beskaryc grunted, lazily pointing towards Scionica's pocket. Kevala silently quieted her sister’s mental outrage. "That datacube... It's more than just a hit sheet. It responds to the fingerprints of Volshe." His tone turned sour, lip curling in distaste behind his visor. "When you kill her, take her finger; the datacube will unlock, and give you the passcode for a safety deposit box on Mygeeto under the name Fukti Fujkta. You can ask the Bank of Aargau. The money is all there, it all checks out."
The twins glanced at each other and Scionica gave a faint shrug. It would be easy enough to confirm, even with the high rank Volshe had carried. If he was lying, well...Kevala was sure her sister would be only too happy to finish the Mandalorian off.
The female that had joined them, unsolicited, began to address their employer. They took a step back, making their discomfort and displeasure with the situation blatantly obvious to Beskaryc. As she proceeded to address them, as casually as comrades, they took another step back, their forms beginning to melt into the shadows, a warning to the man that their deal was in peril.
-I told you this was a bad idea.- Scionica’s mental voice was sour with irritation, but a moment later, wariness tainted her normally crimson presence with dull silver.
“...and I piss on you!" Tabb was standing, his voice quivering with fury and paranoia. A Verpine energy shield enveloped the Mandalorian as two mercenaries stalked forward, drawing sonic pistols.
“Kill them all!”
Swearing, Kevala shot a pained look to Scionica. “Fine, you were right! This was a terrible idea!” Drawing her twin katanas, she side-stepped a sonic blast and swung at the nearest merc. The shining alloy sang through the air as the blades flew towards his naked throat. Behind her, Scionica had extended her vibro-staff, the weapon snapping out to its’ full length. She swung it fluidly at the second mercenary, the ends humming and crackling, deadly threads of white electricity dancing around the tips. One touch to a being’s torso would not only send him flying, but stop his heart.
TAG: Darth Dreadwar , chunkeymodest ,
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Feb 14, 2017 2:58:44 GMT -5
IC: Admiral Tharsus
Bridge of the Triumphant
In the darkness of the Unknown Regions...Claxons blared in a cacophonous symphony of dire warning, deafening Admiral Tharsus to the screams of the crew pit as consoles spat sparks into the eyes of young officers desperately trying to work the Triumphant's controls in lumination that flickered from the blood red of emergency lighting to black pitcher than the void outside the viewport. He shook his head. Chaos. Absolute chaos. "Jump complete!" Captain Balial shouted over the din, quite superfluously given that Tharsus could quite obviously see that the fiery blue rapture of hyperspace had slid into the skid marks of stars, finalising into twinkling little pinpricks that seemed to mock the embattled Admiral with how impossible they were to reach. Not by virtue of their distance, oh no; the Triumphant possessed hyperdrive technology quite unmatched in the galaxy. But by virtue of the enemy that relentlessly dogged them. Tharsus started forward, navigating his way through the personnel rushing to and fro, some carrying tanks of pressurised nitrogen to extinguish the small fires that occasionally licked at the screens and shed ribbons of smoke into the recycled air of the bridge. Malfunctions, overloads and electrical fires were hardly rare results of pitched space battles, but when there was no time to repair a ship's systems between conflagrations, minor annoyances mounted to become serious problems. After many a shoulder to the chest and elbow to the ribs, he emerged from the crisscrossing streams of support staff to stand before the forward viewport, and the clear space surrounding Shira A'dola and Alisha Tano. How did they do it? he wondered to himself. Four years ago, the Senate Aflame Crisis had ended with the restoration of Empress Marasiah Fel - the Jedi puppet Empress, Tharsus thought - to the throne, and the disappearance of Empress Volshe after the armies of Mandalore, fighting on behalf of the Alliance to Preserve the Republic, had descended upon her palace on Naboo. And so had three years of uncertainty and conflict ended, the shape of the Galactic Federation being firmly established not as a new Galactic Empire and true monarchy as Volshe and her followers had wanted, but as the triumvirate Volshe had challenged for legitimacy and supremacy, the triumvirate that had come into being after the defeat of Darth Krayt: Jedi Grand Master K'Kruhk, Admiral become Chancellor Gar Stazi, and the ceremonial Empress Fel, presiding over a parliamentary, democratic monarchy that formed one government from the amalgamation of the Galactic Alliance, Galactic Empire and Jedi Order. Volshe's disappearance, and the shattering of her regime, bequeathed the titanic responsibility of leading her loyalists to her former Hand and Sword, Shira and Alisha. To Tharsus, that in of itself was quite the accomplishment, but that was not all they inherited from their matron; the Senate answering to Fel once more, Shira and Alisha were branded traitors and enemies of the state. Only the 13th and 7th Fleets had remained loyal to the cause of the 'True Imperials,' and under the command of Shira A'dola, fled the wrath of the restored Federation, their Star Destroyers knifing into the darkness of the Unknown Regions whence the military junta and political party that had become the New Galactic Empire - known as the Empire of the Hand before the splinter state became the dominion of the legendary Sage Sistros - originated. 
The Federation, scrabbling to affirm its hold on a galaxy perpetually confused and wearied by the dynastic conflicts that had rocked the galaxy since Lord Krayt deposed Roan Fel, had been surprisingly unenthused about giving chase. And no wonder. The Unknown Regions were an uncharted realm of terror, knotted into hyperspatial disturbances that made even a short jump through its periphery a tiresome and dangerous affair of months. For four years, the remnant nation-in-exile that was the 13th and 7th Fleets had pushed into Wild Space's depths, slowing to a crawl in the thicket of nebulae, globular clusters, rogue black holes and eldritch rifts in spacetime that was the primary astrography of the Unknown Regions. The stars had grown fewer in the viewport the further and more valiantly they pushed into the darkness, dodging the known polities of the Unknown Regions: marauding fleets of Vagaari pirate, and the forces of the Chiss Ascendancy, which now answered to the Federation.
They were far, far from the mysterious edge of the galactic disc. Indeed, they were not even a tenth-part of the way there. Yet one month ago, it had become apparent that they had gone too far into the Unknown Regions' depths.
That is when the attacks began. A triangular grid of utterly alien pyramidal spaceships had surged out of the gloom, and opened fire with bizarre weaponry Tharsus had never seen the likes of, chewing through the Imperial ships' shields like they were bantha's butter. The Triumphant, flagship of the New Galactic Empire and one-time interstellar palace of its Empress, was an excessively gargantuan Eminence-class Super Star Destroyer, three times the length of the legendary Executor and home to a million-man crew. Yet even its axial crust-busting superlaser had been no match for the strange attackers, and so the Imperial fleet had made an untraceable if perilously blind jump. The pyramids were waiting for them, as if hyperspace was meaningless primitivism to them. And so they had jumped, again, and again, and again, and for thirty days their only relief from assault were the few hours in hyperspace - there was only enough fuel for a few days faster-than-light at most - and the few minutes in realspace before the pyramids appeared.
And for that entire time, Shira and Alisha possessed the stamina and perseverance of demigods. Not once had their leadership slipped. But no amount of strength and Force-fuelled wisdom could escape reality. Supplies were low; the fleet never had time to survey, scout out and restock from some uninhabited but life-bearing world, nor spent enough time in realspace for the ionization reactor to recharge from solar energy. Half of the 7th and a third of the 13th Fleet had been lost, and the Triumphant's structural integrity was increasingly endangered; miles of the ship were open to vacuum or lacked life support and artificial gravitiy, the floating dead within sealed off from the habitable sections by blast doors.
It was worse. Morale was already terrible; the only reason the steely military crew did not revolt, Tharsus knew, was because they knew their misery and suffering was not something that could be changed with Shira's removal or death. The pyramids did not respond to hails. There was no surrender, no escape, no relief. No options. But it was worse still; over the last week, Tharsus' four or five hours of sleep had become fitful, every dream a nightmare writhing with squamous tentacles and horrifying visages strongly redolent of decay, maddening ecstasy and the orgasmic twitching throes of frothing, diseased death. And over the last few days, it had become obvious he was not alone; every ensign, every petty officer, every unmasked Stormtrooper had dark circles under their eyes, and there were strange reports throughout the fleet. Suicides. Psychotic breaks. Murders in the mess hall. Distorted reflections in the fresher mirrors. Visions of banshees screaming outside crew quarters' portholes.
They could not stand under the relentless assault much longer. If the pyramid ships did not get them, probability would. They had performed - gods, how many blind jumps had they made over the past month? His exhausted brain could not even recall... They had performed, let's just say, far too many blind jumps over the past month, and there was no sign of stopping yet. Blind jumps, even short ones like the Triumphant was making, were dangerous, and even moreso in the Unknown Regions. Any one jump could send them hurtling into a black hole, or an asteroid field, or a planet... And with each jump, their doom came closer and closer to a mathematical inevitability.
"Lady A'dola, Lady Tano!" Tharsus shouted over the background racket of the bridge. He did not bother to salute. They had no time for such useless gestures now.
"If the pattern from this week persists, we have about six minutes before we have to make another jump. The navigator is already drafting a course for the nearest blue star." Yellow stars, of course, were the most likely to have life-bearing or even uncharted agrarian planets that would provide supplies, but considering that six minutes was simply not enough to land on a planet and find and harvest enough food to feed thousands, Tharsus had ordered jumps to high-energy blue stars, so the ionization reactor could milk as much power from solar radiation as possible in the short window available.
"Shields are at 18%. There's more electrical fires, this time. We lost our thorium impulse cannon, we failed to re-modulate the zero-point storage batteries and the ventral nanotech prism chamber is offline. The temporal particle isotope rerouter is critical, which is causing a chain reaction in the sonic particle array which could cause a 9.1 gigajoule explosion in the starboard crew quarters in approximately four hours if we can't repair it in time."
He glanced at his chrono, and its timer counting down. 5:14.
His exhausted voice summoned enough strength to loudly bleat the question he had asked a thousand times over the past month. "Any new orders?"
A yellow star twinkled in the viewport.
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Darth Catalyst
Citizen
Dark Lord Immortalis & High Inquisitor
.: Chaos and Cunning
Handling the Hand
Posts: 248 
Likes: 276
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Post by Darth Catalyst on Feb 14, 2017 13:47:51 GMT -5
IC Lord Catalyst Library Grand Hall : Korriban Catalyst took great care to keep Lady Viscretus ' ornate dress from ever touching the dusty floor on the long walk to the library. Catalyst took great care to keep Lady Viscretus ' ornate dress from ever touching the dusty floor on the long walk to the library. It wasn't necessarily his duty to do so but he had after all made the offer. The library was not a favorable place for Catalyst. Too quiet. Too reminiscent of his time as a padawan. There was no action to be had. He was pulled from his thoughts by the uncharacteristically kind voice of Lady Viscretus. "Thank you, Lord Catalyst, it is evident now you are a useful addition to the Dread Order. A wise choice of the Emperor, I admit." Catalyst grunted in acknowledgement before taking his seat next to her. He knew all too well not to take this praise, sarcastic as it may have been, for granted and knew better than to allow his words to set him back.
"I summoned you from your work because your department recently discovered something of note in the imported Galactic Imperial Archives." Galactic Empire? Palpatine's Empire? "If Thrawn's archaeological deductions are accurate, this here is a hitherto unknown prophecy - or perhaps just a mad dabbling in fiction - penned by the ancient Dark Lord, Naga Sadow."Thrawn. Leave it to that stuck up Chiss to go digging for more of Palpatine's good graces. He was an excellent military commander but should have been nothing more in Catalyst's eyes. While Viscretus was reciting old Sith and translating more of the prophecy, he couldn't help but wonder what Thrawn was doing so far from Imperial Space. And what was this Ragnarok he was so afraid of? He absent-mindedly moved his hand to his shoulder and brushed the mark left on him by the spirits of Dromund Kaas. Savior? This seemed like another crazy religion. His mind continued to wander until he heard his name again. “I do apologise for my long-winded appraisal, Catalyst; I anticipate you are quite eager to share your own impressions of the late Grand Admiral’s curious findings.”
"I wouldn't say eager," he replied as she began rustling through papers, "just curious. If Sadow's Ragnarok is truly coming and a supposed savior is upon us then we must identify that savior and, if necessary, dispose of them." He glanced to the datapad and spoke to Apollyon directly, "What do we know for certain? Where does this event begin? All of these ancient prophecies have something that sets them off." He remembered the old prophecy of Vader bringing balance to the Force and chuckled before looking to Viscretus with an almost crazed look. "How do we bring about Ragnarok?"
TAG: Darth Dreadwar ,Volshe
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Feb 14, 2017 20:47:36 GMT -5
"He cares nothing for the Sith or its teachings… or the Jedi. And when the Jedi are dead, he will feed on the galaxy, the Republic, and eventually, consume the Sith as well." - Darth Traya, speaking of the Lord of Hunger, Darth Nihilus IC: Darth ApollyonSith Library“Ragnarök...Ragnarøkkr…” Viscretus murmured in reply, shifting the word to High Sith as she contemplated the writings before her. “The Twilight of the Gods, for many a Galactic civilization. The coming of great destruction and apocalypse, most commonly. For others, a trial of their merit by their pantheon. Not one culture can agree upon even the broadest of detail. Yet the word has been found in countless ancient texts, defined always as the coming of extraordinary power.” Apollyon nodded. She was familiar with the word as well, if only due to the fact such superstition had stood out starkly against the scientific principles of the Arkanian people during her studies in Adascopolis. To her recollection, the Myke believed in such an event, as well. Arkania had long been influenced by the ancient Sith, with the building of Veeshas Tuwan on its surface in 8,000 BBY. That library, destroyed by the Jedi in the aftermath of the Great Hyperspace War, would have put this humble hall to shame; it was said many a Sith Master had died in the labyrinthine depths of Veeshas Tuwan, lost in the subterranean maze of bookshelves. The Myke's language was inspired by the barbarous tongue of the Sith, as well, and their fleshy beards hinted at the most diluted drops of Red Sith blood. Between that and names that hinted at the ancient Sith King Adas, it was not a stretch to believe that the Arkanians and Myke alike had inherited some prophecy of doom from their one-time conquerors. “Well, we very well know there has been no true Ragnarøkkr,” Viscretus mused aloud, hands falling silently to her lap. Apollyon privately disagreed. The rise of Abeloth and the apocalypse she promised decades ago had only been stopped by Luke Skywalker, a plausible candidate for the prophesied Son of the Suns; for that chosen one and this saviour, for that foiled day of judgment and this prophesied doom, to be one and the same was not an unlikely possibility. “Yet, if truly written by Naga Sadow himself, and with proper intention, it would likely refer to something far beyond the fear of tiny minded beings as crazed Sith of yore claimed themselves Gods. As most Ragnarøkkr would be. I presume this saviour is yet to be marked, should this prophesy be true.” Another curious assumption, but a sensible one. So long as the prophesied apocalypse had not already occurred, how could one be marked by a Ragnarok that had not yet happened? “However,” Viscretus continued, ”I am hesitant to believe that this is any grand prediction for the moment, until we have further proof of its validity. I do apologise for my long-winded appraisal, Catalyst. I anticipate you are quite eager to share your own impressions of the late Grand Admiral’s curious findings.” "I wouldn't say eager," Catalyst replied as Viscretus began rustling through Apollyon's scattered papers, "just curious. If Sadow's Ragnarok is truly coming and a supposed savior is upon us then we must identify that savior and, if necessary, dispose of them." He glanced to the datapad and spoke to Apollyon directly, "What do we know for certain? Where does this event begin? All of these ancient prophecies have something that sets them off. How do we bring about Ragnarok?" Apollyon's fiery eyes widened. Bring about Ragnarok? Apollyon's network of allies and confidantes faithfully relayed their impressions of new Sith to the Emperor's Hand, but evidently their information was somewhat off the mark, if they had missed the fact this Inquisitor was a deathist lunatic! She cleared her throat, glancing over at Viscretus suspiciously as she responded, as if asking what manner of creature Sith Intelligence employed into its ranks. "I do not believe a Sith with a healthy self-preservation instinct would want to bring about an apocalypse, Lord Catalyst," Apollyon said. "The Sith were thankful to Meetra Surik, Jedi that she was, for striking down Darth Nihilus before he could devour the galaxy. We are thankful to our ancient forebears, who prevented the Sith Emperor Vitiate from cleansing his own followers in a bid for immortality. We are thankful to Luke Skywalker, for stopping Abeloth's quest to remake the physical realm in the image of Chaos." "If this prophecy is real, it is clearly not referring to some glorious rise of the Sith. When the nemesis devours ALL, it says. There is no exclusion for Sith made in its wording." Apollyon tapped her index finger on her shallow chin as she contemplated further. "Otherwise, you both raise the same questions I had. Is this finding valid, Viscretus? Thrawn was no archaeologist, but he was a prolific student of art and culture, and knew of Palpatine's Sith origins. I find it doubtful he would report a fraud." "What do we know for certain? Very little, Catalyst. What might trigger it? I cannot say... perhaps it has already been set in motion. I am curious about the where, as well... and the when. It is possible, if we assume this prophecy is true, that it has already been fulfilled, for there are various events that could fit the nebulous description. But prophecies, as best as I can tell, are merely muddled foresight into the far future, much of the sort Darth Traya performed before her death on Malachor, coded in verse and metaphor." "Think of the prophecy of the Chosen One, fulfilled by either Anakin Skywalker or his son. And in the time of greatest despair, there shall come a saviour, and he shall be known as The Son of The Suns," Apollyon recited reverently. "There are scholars who point out this ancient prophecy was fulfilled on a Death Star, a superweapon which was first tested on the planet Despayre. I do not believe Qui-Gon Jinn concluded Anakin was the One by his midichlorian count alone; he surely noticed that Anakin was a child of Tatooine, a planet with two suns, a child with no father except, perhaps, the Force that fuels the stars themselves." "This prophecy is of a similar pattern. There are words that identify the when, the what, and words that seek to identify the saviour. And in the time of greatest dread may refer to the present day or near future, the era of our glorious Emperor Dreadwar. Clearly, this torn parchment seeks to identify the saviour, but the relevant part is missing. If we are to unravel its mystery and prove its validity, we must find the missing piece." As Apollyon spoke, Viscretus found what she was looking for as she rifled through the files. Apollyon smiled as she glanced at the closest thing she had to a friend in the insidious politics of the Temple. "I see you found the blackened fragments of the Epistle of Marka Ragnos," she said. "Burnt to a crisp by Celeste Morne. I was reading what few passages are still legible only this morning. The only thing of relevance was that Naga Sadow's master was using the younger Sith for his prophetic ability, and sealing his secrets in hissss-" Apollyon's voice trailed off into a hiss. "In his... Of course! In his tomb. Naga Sadow's...? The Master's...?" She stood, purpose suffusing her every movement, the excitement of revelation in her voice. "Catalyst! Viscretus! Riddle me this. Who was the master? And where is the tomb of Naga Sadow?"TAG: Volshe , Darth Catalyst
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Volshe
Administrator
.: Empress
Posts: 229
Likes: 163
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Post by Volshe on Feb 15, 2017 1:33:25 GMT -5
IC: Darth Viscretus
Sith Library, Grand Room - Korriban"In his... Of course! In his tomb. Naga Sadow's...? The Master's...?" Apollyon stood suddenly, a rush of air fluttering the scorched parchments in Viscretus' hand. Her eyes danced with the elation of genius. "Catalyst! Viscretus! Riddle me this. Who was the master? And where is the tomb of Naga Sadow?"Viscretus raked over the text in hand once more before looking up, meeting the eyes of both Sith in turn. Her eyes paused on Catalyst, her mind still echoing the raving words that seemed to beg for their destruction. She looked to the doors beyond, posing herself in the way an esteemed scholar would instruct those under his tutelage. "Simus," Viscretus began, still mentally calculating the various potentials of the prophesy, culturing them carefully with Apollyon's added insights. " And Sadow... he rests on Yavin Four - unless one refers to his tomb here, in the Valley of the Dark Lords. I would assume such a prophesy would use the latter, being as it is the one most associated with him." In the quiet of the library, as echoes of her voice faded from dust-laden air, her communicator buzzed. She glanced down quickly, catching the sender's initials and silencing it swiftly with a small ripple of the Force. CM. She clasped the shreds of Ragnos' correspondences and instantly feigned the very same strokes of genius that Apollyon's eyes had burned brightly with moments before. "I will return momentarily," Viscretus nodded to them, "I believe the collections on the far wall will have something of use to us." She swirled to face them and strode across the floor, heels clicking her way to the furthest wall. Archives of holocrons, anthologies of their entombed secrets, all collected over centuries before they came to rest on stone shelves, towering above her lissome frame. She paused in shadow and scanned the area briefly, before unclipping her comm from beneath her cloak. Her fingers cupped around the small screen at its base, hiding the text from whomever would decide to lurk behind. 'The one whose bucket is bigger than his ego has been sighted. I suspect something most foul. Long live the Queen.'The message was vague, likely intentionally so. And yet...it told her everything she needed to know. He had been found, the notorious Mandalorian whose every move had plagued her reign, the one who had crippled her with vilest intention. Her lips pressed into a line, suppressing peals of laughter that would certainly echo to the highest balconies. Her reply was short. There was no need for anything more. "A reward most great for his demise. I await news. Jate’kara."With the message sent, she clicked away the evidence and turned back to the shelf, stowing it back beneath luscious folds of crushed velvet. Her eyes narrowed purposefully as she paced into view, fingertips tracing along the spines, tapping along metal and leatheris alike, reading the characters along their lengths. After a moment of searching, she spotted a relevant tome and plucked it from its home. A Compendium, the title read, etched in gilded Basic. She flipped to the first page to verify that it was indeed what she expected. A puff of air escaped her amused lips as she read the short note of its contents. A Compendium of the Compendium. How perverse. Further down the shelf she stepped, until she reached another - volumes cataloguing the Telos Holocron, all glowing a deep carmine before her. She picked two - the third and the seventh - recalling the relevant ones from her previous readings. Tucking the books beneath her arm, she returned to the table where Apollyon and Catalyst still discussed. She set them at the centre of the table and took her seat once more. an offering to further supplement their collective musings. She knew Apollyon was already aware of the contents, and hoped Catalyst would be. "Perhaps familiar words will enlighten us, now that we have a puzzle unsolved." TAG: Darth Dreadwar, Darth Catalyst, chunkeymodest,TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow
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Darth Catalyst
Citizen
Dark Lord Immortalis & High Inquisitor
.: Chaos and Cunning
Handling the Hand
Posts: 248
Likes: 276
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Post by Darth Catalyst on Feb 15, 2017 11:55:52 GMT -5
IC Lord CatalystLibraryGrand Hall : KorribanCatalyst's eyes narrowed as he heard the words that came from Apollyon. "I do not believe a Sith with a healthy self-preservation instinct would want to bring about an apocalypse, Lord Catalyst," Apollyon said. "The Sith were thankful to Meetra Surik, Jedi that she was, for striking down Darth Nihilus before he could devour the galaxy. We are thankful to our ancient forebears, who prevented the Sith Emperor Vitiate from cleansing his own followers in a bid for immortality. We are thankful to Luke Skywalker, for stopping Abeloth's quest to remake the physical realm in the image of Chaos." What had he just heard? Were the sith of this time really that afraid? The thought stunned him momentarily. As Viscretus and Apollyon continued to pore through the knowledge, he could only wonder how this Empire had lasted so long without anybody that felt a call to action. A moment of inspiration came to his mind as Apollyon's excitement came to a head. "Catalyst! Viscretus! Riddle me this. Who was the master? And where is the tomb of Naga Sadow?"
Catalyst merely smiled and mirrored the excited the women shared. He didn't know who taught Naga Sadow his secrets of course but lore was not his specialty. He had different gears turning in his head. He knew where Sadow's tomb lay. As Viscretus rushed off deeper through the halls, Catalyst mused at the lack of care she showed for her dress this time before turning to Apollyon. "Do you know what they called 'self preservation' in my time Apollyon? Weakness. Disobedience." He stood up and paced the room. "We may have had those to thank for the galaxy remaining as it is, but think about those cataclysmic events," he smiled as the word rolled off his tongue, "that united the galaxy. Our Empire is small. Weak. We bow to the triumvirate that makes a mockery of us. If an apocalypse comes around, they will come to us," He slammed his hand on the table, "and I'll be damned if we aren't prepared." His eyes rose skyward and he spoke more softly, "Tell me, do we have any initiates that require extra homework? Because I may have a perfect assignment. We'll see if their self preservation outweighs their loyalty." He turned his head as Viscretus came back into the room holding a pile of books. As she dropped them in front of him, he sighed and shook his head. This would get them nowhere. The true answers would only be in the catacombs of Sadow's tomb. He felt the burning of both brands on his arms. He knew what me must do.
TAG: Darth Dreadwar ,Volshe ,
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Padawan4687
Imperial Intelligence
.: Empress' Sword / Director of Intelligence
Posts: 133
Likes: 112
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Post by Padawan4687 on Feb 15, 2017 18:31:42 GMT -5
IC: Robyn Shaire
Location: Sith Temple catacombs, Alchemy classThere are no stupid questions, only stupid answers...and that wasn't even a question, that was an observation! Robyn bit her lip to keep from shouting, he isn't even making sense! You could be the strongest person on Korriban, but if the air is made toxic, brute strength won't save anybody! A long string of insults and curse words peppered her mind, but she couldn't stop the heat from rising in her face. Robyn's voice went dead in her throat as Ermir went on, even crackling a single spark of lightening between his fingers in a silent threat. Her eyes were wide and fixed on his bony hand, bracing herself to duck behind her desk. Oh, this was just wonderful, fighting your teacher...then again, this particular "teacher" had more rumors circling around him than lesson plans, each one more sickening than the last. At first she was loathe to believe a word of it, but just taking in the way Ermir was looking at her made her skin crawl! That feeling only intensified as he shot forward to grab her wrist, and Robyn was forced to stand before she could get her arm back. She held it close to her chest, rubbing it furiously as though actual slime had been pressed against her skin. She didn't bother to hide her expression of revulsion as Ermir was no longer facing her, and noted that it drew some amusement from the other students around her. "He asks the impossible," Robyn hissed under her breath, finally looking down at the dagbat in front of her. The little beast was pacing around in the cage, clearly agitated... For a few minutes, Robyn just crouched beside her cage's dagbat and watched her classmates behind closed eyelids. Nobody was having much, if any, luck, and Chakran was quickly reduced to looking down at the cage in frustration. "All right, what are you thinking?" he finally asked her. "He said to focus on the midichlorians in the nose..." Robyn muttered, running a hand against the bars. A little beak forced its way out between them as she continued, "I think focusing on the mouth would be a bit easier.""The mouth." Chakran repeated, his tone of voice, though hushed, was clearly incredulous. "Because...?" "Because forcing a reaction of fire is really, really advanced." Robyn explained without turning her head, "Weirdly advanced for a class at this level. Master Marcus either is hoping for a room full of prodigies, or just really wants to assign us 'homework'." Not that she'd call herself a prodigy, but... she eyed the dagbat and could feel nothing besides a fierce desire to make Ermir eat his words. Prodigy or not, she would manage this. She narrowed her eyes and focused on the dagbat's mind first, to quiet its fretting. I'm not going to hurt you... Instead of forcing a "toxic cloud" of emotions, Robyn preferred to sharpen her thoughts and zeroed in on the dagbat's jaws. She tried to imagine a "blueprint" of the animal's beak and salivary glands, as Chakran took over keeping it calm. Robyn found herself leaning forward in her crouch, with one hand resting on the roof of the cage and the other on the beak she was trying to mentally dissect. Something's happening! The Initiates opened their eyes in unison, and blinked. The little dagbat was vigorously shaking its head, growling in obvious displeasure...or perhaps pain? "Did, did it work?" Chakran spoke first. "I don't know..." Robyn shrugged her shoulders, resting her chin against a hand, "I mean, I know I felt something!"Chakran leaned forward against the cage, curiously looking down at the dagbat. The little creature reared forward on its hind legs, flapping its wings and opening its beak wide. "We'll have to test it someh--" his voice suddenly cut off, and the Nautolan boy entered a small coughing fit as the creature spat in his direction. He was hit head-on by a heavy blast of hot air and gasped out, "What the hell is that smell?" Robyn's nose quickly wrinkled, but she couldn't take her eyes off of the little dagbat. A string of saliva hung from its beak now, and as the pair watched, the drop fell and sizzled as it struck the bottom of its cage. "Did you see that?!" she hastily whispered, resisting the urge to cover her nose. " Acid!" Chakran didn't bother to resist, plugging his nose with a hand. "Acid... not fire." He shook his head and glared down at the cage, "Master Marcus wanted fire." "Fire burns, and so does acid!" Robyn protested, allowing some relief to show on her face. It wasn't quite fire, but the dagbat was still changed. That was better than just about everyone else in the room! And that was probably better than the nothing that Ermir was almost definitely expecting of her. Chakran didn't look nearly as happy as Robyn felt, and he looked ready to grab the dagbat by the beak. "Let's just try again before Master Marcus crushes us both in 'homework'! If we can get it to spit acid, fire ought to be just another step forward." "Hmph!" Robyn grumbled in reply, noticing the Master's pacing about the room and resisting the urge to smile. "Fine, fine. Just...give me one minute.""Huh?" Robyn's eyes were closed again, and she didn't grace her mildly curious partner with a reply. The dagbat was quickly lulled with her gentle influence, but then reared back again. It wrenched its little head back and forth, as though it wanted to spit again. Chakran tensed, ready to either duck or re-direct the incoming spray, but quickly noticed the creature beginning to shift and turn. "No, way...are you doing what I think you're doing?" Chakran kept his wide eyes fixed on the still-rearing dagbat, furiously fighting the urge to send a stunned stare Robyn's way. "Depends on what you think I'm doing," Robyn smoothly whispered back with her eyes still shut. "Just play along!"
Chakran mutely shook his head, even pressing a hand against his forehead. This was going to get them both in so much trouble! Master Marcus was coming around again, and was just about to pass the two of them when a small beak opened wide. Robyn's eyes flew open just in time for the dagbat to fire one more spray of its new corrosive acid. "Ohhh no!" she gasped, still crouching as the liquid flew in between the bars of the cage aimed for the clean white sleeve of her still-pacing "lecturer". TAG: Darth Dreadwar
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Feb 22, 2017 1:04:43 GMT -5
IC: Mandalore and the mercenariesSlippery Slopes Cantina, Nar ShaddaaHelis Vallix was born on Anaxes in 134 ABY, to a dentist named Gertar who won the bread for the family, and her husband Canjos, who stayed at home. Helis' upbringing was a modest one; his family moved a lot, first from the seventh floor of a duracrete apartment complex on the outskirts of Seeba to a subterranean house with three bedrooms that finally saw Helis' two adopted siblings have their own room. Helis was a gifted child, his natural mathematical talent being honed into prodigy thanks to the Vallixes' folkish religion which revered the equations that governed the universe, and when he was nine years old, he skipped a grade, much to his consternation - there was that girl with the pigtails who always stole his candy, but with it, his young heart. Like most first crushes, Helis quickly got over it, and his heart was indeed stolen and passed around by many a girl as Helis entered adolescence. Then Darth Krayt had fallen, and with it came crashing the economy of Anaxes; Gertar lost her job, and Canjos took to monetising his hobby of writing HoloNet articles to keep the lights on. It kept the lights on when Helis joined in, but in a small two-bedroom flat in the heart of Malnourax; his siblings were back in his bedroom, which was deeply troubling for a teenaged Helis, who was forced to fake contagious colds to chase his brothers out of his room for the very occasional night he managed to sneak a girl back to his parents' place. Helis' grades improved, admittedly, as a result, and by the age of 16, Helis was ready to graduate a year early, with a full-ride scholarship to the University of Procopia, reading Criminal Law and Forensics - mathematics played a surprisingly important role when it came to bloodspatter analysis and calculating the trajectory of blaster bolts. His dream was not to be. In the summer of that year, he fell ill, and after countless trips to the emergency room and second opinions and third opinions and fourth opinions, he finally discovered he had a rare autoimmune disease after saving the last of his savings from his part-time job to book an appointment with the specialists at Corellia. Prescribed metacycline and kolto, Helis steadily improved over the next year, but Procopia's offer had long expired, and his parents' own finances were strained after Canjos was embroiled in a libel lawsuit. Now 18, Helis, more comfortable with risk having stared death in the face and finally healthy enough to return to work, accepted an offer on the HoloNet's less reputable nets, to work promotion for the Kobod Speeder Bike Club. He had to pay his outstanding medical bills before thinking to continue with his career. Of course, involvement with a speeder bike club chained into involvement with glitterstim and death sticks, and from there into protecting trafficking thereof, from the Rim to the Core. By 20, Helis found himself on Nar Shaddaa, long having left the club but now working protection. Two months ago, though, he'd fallen hard for a beautiful Falleen, wildly out of his league. The girl was quite sheltered, really, and it didn't take much for her to convince him to leave the mercenary life. She was an academic, too, destined for a postgraduate degree at Procopia, and within mere weeks she had rekindled his intellectual passions. He'd actually applied again. Still, bills to pay were bills to pay, and while she had generously offered to support him until he found more conventional work - because she wanted to take it to the next level and move in together, he knew - Helis forced her to permit him one last job. It might have been far too soon for most, but he wanted to buy her an aurodium ring, and he'd be damned if he was going to scrimp on it. No, she deserved the very best, and one last job for Mandalore the Moderator would get Freyal the beautiful promise of marriage such a divine woman deserved. Helis Vallix's head fell off as Kevala's katana sliced through his exposed neck, and he died. Beside him, the other mercenary crumpled to the floor, electricity pouring from Scionica's vibrostaff singeing his heart into silence. The two corpses fell forwards, creating something of a barrier between the twins and Mandalore, while on the left and right, tables hemmed them in. Beskaryc Taab growled in frustration, a peculiar noise when modulated through his helmet. His hand darted to his belt, ripping a blaster pistol from a holster, but instead of firing it, he flung it down at the twins' feet in ignominious recognition of how badly outmatched he was. "I surrender!" he shouted, addressing the twins and the nearby Chek Mosth. "But don't kill me, please! Come any closer, and I'll blow us all up!" The threat was plausible; on his belt, hung the ominous metal sphere of a thermal detonator. TAG: chunkeymodest, Shira
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chunkeymodest
Gedyk Clan Leader
.: Mandalore the Undead
Posts: 25
Likes: 10
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Post by chunkeymodest on Feb 23, 2017 19:15:46 GMT -5
IC Chek Mosth Slippery Slopes Cantina, Nar Shaddaa Chek was decidedly distracted from the skirmish breaking out, if only for the message flashing across her buckets feed. Chek grinned a grin reserved for the scum of the rebels and angled herself near the Mandalire. As he began begging for his life she did something she tries not to do on a hunt, but she owed this bastard something. She signed again in Old Clone. "Force Pull Quick I Tackle" and readied herself. Absentmindedly she wondered how many drinks she could get for his backer. Smiling thinly she purred to the man. "Oh, mandalore, I owe my allegiance to those who deserve it. And believe me, you do not. But, come," she gestured "can we not negotiate the ending. I'm here for the sole purpose of a drink and a proper burial for my child. Surely you wouldn't begrudge me a toast to a life well lived and honored, even if short?" She rolled her shoulders. "Gedyk has rebelled because our sons and daughters are slaughtered, we wish to return to our Old Way not for glory and honor, but because we are dwindling off. Less and less don our armor and bare their iron hearts, because there's no soul, no meaning in what is going on. We are without home, without ground to bury our dead and wash our faces of blood and past. Surely we can unite, if only to gain what we once had. I hate you not for you, but for the Jedi you ally with. Was it not them who salted and burned our home? Was it not them who have tried to outlaw and undermine us? We fight for home and family, that is why we are separate. As much as I'd rather not, perhaps an alliance could be made. For the sake of our people and children." She offered her arm for a besket of reconciliation. It would put her in a bind to enter alliance, but damn would it be sweet to legally usurp him and hand him over to the old Empress. They might not agree eye to eye, but her contracts were sound and her honor in the right place. Hopefully this would distract those two to help, something was off about them. Either the force or they were boltheads. Check was pants at telling the difference and her analytical gear was cheap so her kids could eat. She readied to besket or tackle, either one would determine her people. She absentmindedly wondered if this was why her brother never took her to work. Things just went wrong around her. Ah well. @darth Dreadwar, Shira |
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Feb 23, 2017 19:50:36 GMT -5
IC: Darth DreadwarBalcony of the Dread Hall, Sith Temple, KorribanThe Dread Lord of Darkness surveyed his kingdom. Forever-unseen eyes scanned the heavens above as the empty cowl, rippling with a shuddering breath of wind, turned from star to star. How awfully amusing it would be, the Emperor contemplated in the privacy of his malice, for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.Pity was for the weak. It was not pity that had propelled his starcraft from system to system, claiming all those twinkling candles for his Empire. It was not pity that had turned streets to marble, forged gold into palaces and painted the sands of Korriban red with blood. Neither pity nor help would come to Darth Dreadwar, when the hour of doom came to claim him. No, the apocalypse was his to avert. His alone. Only he knew the prophecies, only he knew the nemesis that would devour all. Knew because he had spoken to Him. Knew because Ajunta Pall, first among the Jedi that Dreadwar had subverted to dissidence, had been heralded by the superstitious Sith as His incarnation. Knew because he had embodied Him, however briefly, at Mobus. And at that fateful battle nine years ago, his rival Darth Insipid had ensnared him for a time, and while imprisoned in the labyrinthine depths of a Rakatan Mind Trap, they had broken its starkness whiteness with shadowy whispers. Dreadwar had told Insipid the magnitude of the threat they faced. Dreadwar had told Insipid of Those-Who-Dwelled-Beyond-the-Veil, those who he had called Masters. And when Dreadwar had won free, his one-time rival escaped abeyance with him, and kneeled at once. Clamouring for a throne seemed so insignifcant, such child's play in the shadow of He-Who-Could-Not-Be-Named. But conflict was the way of the Sith always, and while Insipid had sworn himself to Dreadwar's service as his Night Herald, the addition of a third in the form of Darth Haretisch had resulted in Dreadwar's newfound Triumvirs recusing themself from Korriban and the business of governance to fight a ritual kaggath. It was play, leveraging army against army in much the same way as Darth Thanaton and Darth Nox had millennia ago, but play that would continue for three more moons at least, and determine something as petty but, to their simple, simpering minds, politically precious as who was his left hand and who was his right. And so the stately chairs on either side of Dreadwar's obsidian throne remained empty, and the Dread-king was left to stand alone on his throne room's balcony, suspended a hundred meters above the Valley of Carrion, separated from the gloomy hall by silky curtains that whispered in the breeze. Darth Dreadwar stood all night, until Horuset rose into the sky and shed brazier-light on the terrain. His hood, no less pitch in its utter blackness in spite of Horuset's radiance, lowered as his non-gaze shifted from his heavenly kingdom to his worldly domain. A mile from the dead city of Dreshdae, his Temple was thus nearly two miles from the Valley of the Dark Lords, nestled away in the mountains that formed a ring around the abandoned ruins of the necropolis. Cutting through those mountains, a valley considerably smaller than its more famous counterpart, but one home to so many more dead. The bleached bones were scattered all over the canyon, forming a plateau of calcium crushed by the emaciated weight of the more freshly deceased, darkflies buzzing around stringy straps of flesh and nesting in hollow sockets. Since time immmemorial, failed students - murdered studnts - at Korriban's academies had been taken to the cliff, and thrown unceremoniously into the mass grave below. There were no markings, no grand statutes, no tomb guardians save the marauding packs of Tuk'ata that gnawed on the broken bodies. Too weak to imprint a psychic bloodstain upon the Force, the carrion left no ghosts to haunt the abyss either... Save, perhaps, the wraith above. After twelve hours of stillness, the brooding spirit's reverie was broken. "My Lord Emperor," soft feminine tones interjected hesitantly. Roiling shadows briefly lapped around the Dark Lord's sillhouette, like an ocean curdling in a storm. A hiss of irritation, and the Handmaiden who had dared approach unbidden was stricken, her mouth falling open loosely and limbs trembling feebly in palsy, and with a thud she sank to her knees, wide eyes unable to wrench themselves from the ashen void that cursed her so. The void turned. The spittle of madness was already hanging from her frozen lips, when the void spoke. "Disturb not your Lord's cogitation, slave," the Emperor whispered, a spectral scream of a thing that echoed its imprint in the silence of her mind. Curt. Cold. And... well, not confident, exactly. Instead, there was an icy and thoughtful certainty behind the hissing voice that made confidence seem like the emotion of a lesser being. That tone didn't evoke a hateful enemy that might cut your throat: it was the indifferent knife in the enemy's hand, to which your blood had no meaning at all. With a titanic effort, the Handmaiden pulled her head downwards in acknowledgment, and as if the eternity of terror had been merely a split second of nightmare her Lord now permitted respite from, the violent twitches racking her frame ceased. Her laboured breathing could not be heard over the sinister rattling emanating from Dreadwar's hood. At last, she found it in herself to speak. "Forgive me, my Lord," she said quietly. The Handmaidens were extraordinarily competent beings, having been drawn from the ranks of the finest courtesans of the Core Worlds, but their social graces were ill-adapted to the archaic etiquette of the Sith. Dreadwar could have chosen maidservants familiar with the tradition of never interrupting their Master's meditation, acolytes from Dathomir, perhaps, but he had intentionally selected Handmaidens that one inquiring into the nature and secrecy of the reclusive Emperor's personal cadre might mistakenly think were purposed for more fleshly desires. Of course, Dreadwar had long transcended flesh and blood, but if one had to keep a band of servants close at hand at all times, then best to provide a plausible solution to the mystery of their presence lesser Sith could think themselves clever for deducing. Their true purpose, of course, was far less wholesome than a harem. One level higher.
Always.The Handmaiden continued. She reminded herself, unlike any other inhabitant of the Temple, she did not need to fear death by her Master's hand. Her body was far too valuable to him. "But please, divine Emperor, Lady Apollyon has instructed me to convey a message of great import..." TAG: No one
IC: Darth ApollyonSith Library, Sith Temple, Korriban" Simus," Viscretus answered Apollyon's query regarding Sadow's master with unsurprising haste. Lord Simus had been a powerful Sith half-blood who, alongside Sadow and the fearsome Marka Ragnos, had led an insurgency of the red Sith people against the deathless Dark Lords who had left the Jedi Order to declare themselves rulers of the barbaric race. Successful in their endeavour, Simus had fought Ragnos for the throne, and while he had lost his head, the arts of Darth Andeddu allowed him to retain his life. In true Sith tradition, Simus had been finally put to rest by his one-time protégé. "And Sadow," Viscretus continued, "rests on Yavin Four - unless one refers to his tomb here, in the Valley of the Dark Lords. I would assume such a prophesy would use the latter, being as it is the one most associated with him." Ah, yes. An astute observation that belied the frequent confusion of historians, even ancient archaeologists of the Sith such as Talos Drellik. In the Valley of the Dark Lords was a vast mausoleum that was referred to as the Tomb of Naga Sadow. It had been intended for him before Sadow had fled to Yavin and died at the hand of Freedon Nadd, and it bore his image, his statuary and his name, but unlike most tombs on Korriban, it had not been cut into the Valley walls when Naga Sadow first became Dark Lord. No, it had surely existed millennia before, for how else could have Tulak Hord, one of the original Dark Jedi exiled to Korriban, interred his Dashade servant Khem Val within? Yet the fact it held a Rakatan Star Map hinted it was older still. Naga Sadow may have expanded it, but the true builder of the most infamous and dangerous tomb on Korriban was an utter mystery. Nonetheless, Apollyon was willing to bet Viscretus was right; the hasty nature of Sadow's self-exile to Yavin had predictably meant few of his writings and artifacts went with him. Sadow's true tomb on Yavin had been surveyed by Tionne Solusar and her team of Jedi archaeologists, and besides the mummy that was now displayed in the Sith Antiquities section of the Galactic Museum on Coruscant, nothing of significance had been found. Of course, the tomb in the Valley had been even more thoroughly plundered over the millennia, by a hundred generations of Sith students across many an ultimately unsuccessful Empire. But Apollyon, thanks to the wisdom of an ancient Sith Lord who heralded from those days - the Emperor Dreadwar - knew something Jedi and Sith historians alike knew not. How come Darth Bane had sojourned into the Valley of the Dark Lords in his youth, and encountered nothing but sand and empty crypts already robbed of their worth, but Darth Sidious, centuries later, had rediscovered a Great Temple where the spirits of immortal Sith sat entombed in their thrones and lent him council? How come Darth Plagueis had encountered nothing but a dubious vision of Marka Ragnos, but Darth Krayt had wandered into a tomb that not even a single student, archaeologist or grave robber had broken the seal of over the course of millennia, finding a holocron and the spirit of XoXaan? There was a contradiction in people's experience within the Valley, and the answer was simple. Sith magic. Just as individuals could deploy Art of the Small to become unnoticeable, vanishing in significance from people's perception and memory, so did the runes inscribed into the tombs weave an insidious sorcery upon even the mightiest of modern-day Sith Lords. If the spirits within did not want to be found, the tombs would not be found... unless, perhaps, by a Sith of extraordinary power and practice, knowing this secret in advance. Apollyon did. And so she hoped that the tomb of Naga Sadow, while evidently not entirely cloaked from the senses and the Force as other structures, was still hiding a secret passage or section. "I will return momentarily," Viscretus nodded to them, "I believe the collections on the far wall will have something of use to us." As Viscretus walked away, Catalyst intejected. "Do you know what they called 'self preservation' in my time, Apollyon? Weakness. Disobedience." He stood up and paced the room. "We may have had those to thank for the galaxy remaining as it is, but think about those cataclysmic events," he smiled as the word rolled off his tongue, "that united the galaxy. Our Empire is small. Weak. We bow to the triumvirate that makes a mockery of us. If an apocalypse comes around, they will come to us," He slammed his hand on the table, "and I'll be damned if we aren't prepared." His eyes rose skyward and he spoke more softly, "Tell me, do we have any initiates that require extra homework? Because I may have a perfect assignment. We'll see if their self preservation outweighs their loyalty." Apollyon was surprised. Catalyst seemed to have rationalised insanity, and his case was quite convincing. It was true, what he said. The rise of Abeloth had propelled the rise of the Lost Tribe of Sith. Perhaps a similar apocalypse could be exploited for the Sith's advantage, but it was a gamble nonetheless. Viscretus came back to the table holding a pile of books. As she dropped them in front of him, Catalyst sighed. The Inquisitor was impatient. So was Apollyon. "Perhaps familiar words will enlighten us," Viscretus said, "now that we have a puzzle unsolved." "And perhaps those familiar words, or not, " Apollyon stressed the syllables, mocking her friend for bringing books which a quick glance told her was written in an archaic dialect of Sith none of them could read, "will enlighten us when we face an inscrutable puzzle in the Tomb of Naga Sadow," Apollyon finished, somewhat saccharine. "For this is what we will do, my friends. Lady Viscretus' assumption is good. We will go to the Valley of the Dark Lords, and seek the Tomb of Naga Sadow, to see if there are any secret passages or chambers not yet plundered, that may contain the answers we desire." She turned to Catalyst. "Lord Catalyst, I sense your line of thought," Apollyon said. "It would indeed be useful to have an initiate to toss to the hounds, if we should find ourselves surrounded by Tuk'ata. If I recall correctly, Master Marcus is holding an alchemy class. Go there now, and find us a student deserving of a field trip." Her smile was predatory. "We will prepare for," her lips twisted in thought, "let us say... an hour," she waved her hand airily. "After all, the Valley is dangerous, and deserves every precaution." TAG: Darth Catalyst , Volshe
IC: Ermir MarcusAlchemy Classroom, Sith Temple, KorribanIn the dungeons below the feet of Apollyon, Viscretus and Catalyst, a classroom was frozen in silence. No one dared speak. All eyes were on Master Marcus, and the dribble of congealed acid slowly burning a hole through his pristine white sleeve. The students idly wondered why Marcus had not instantly deployed his considerable telekinetic prowess to rid his person of the corrosive globs, yet instead he just stood as still as a statue hewn from ice, staring straight ahead unblinkingly with a calm smile on his face. The acid sizzled, right through the sleeve of his coat, then through the layers of his robes beneath, until finally, clear as Corellian day to the students' eyes, it reached skin. Ermir's skin bubbled into blisters, blood began dyeing the finery of his sleeve, and still he smiled, until at last the sizzling stopped. He slowly turned, fixing his eyes upon Robyn Shaire, and the dagbat that had sprayed him. "Congratulations, young Shaire," he said with unbearable slowness, in a voice so quiet it demanded the careful ear of all of her classmates. "Instead of surrounding your mind with a toxic cloud of emotions, you crystallised your thoughts into serene analysis, while Chakran focused on keeping... the dagbat... calm." His beatific smile remained, but no one could miss the vein beginning to throb on Ermir's forehead. "And so you performed alchemy. But..." a finger came to his chin, tapping in psuedo-thought. "B-bb-but wait," he stuttered in mockery, his smile now stretching. "That isn't what I taught you, is it? I said to surround your mind in a cloud of emotion, didn't I? YOU FILTHY JEDI WHORE!!" Ermir suddenly roared. His injured hand raised towards Chakran, and his fingers twitched. Chakran's neck spun one hundred and eighty degrees with a sickening snap, and the young Nautolan fell to the stone floor with a rustling of robes and a thud. Spittle flew like the dagbat's spray from Ermir Marcus' twisted mouth. "How DARE you use the techniques of a Jedi within these sacred halls of darkness. You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant pink dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your mongrel birth into this galaxy. An insensate, blinking bantha calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling Jedi beasts who taught you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done." Ermir was nowhere near done ranting. "If you had listened to my instructions, that dagbat would have breathed fire, and you would have been lauded with prestige. And your partner would still be alive, you snail-skulled little ash-rabbit. Would that a hawkbat pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks of Manaan with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble halfbreed blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs." His smile had long since turned into a snarl. That same murderous hand waved again, and the wooden door flung open. Another gesture, and Chakran's body catapulted over the desk and out into the hallway. "Your homework, you pathetic homunculus, is to feed Chakran's body to the Tuk'ata... in the Valley of the Dark Lords. You will wait outside this classroom, beside his cooling corpse, until a Sith Master finds you. Do not speak. Do not breathe a word to me. What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that whatever tiny-fisted tantrum you could make would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?" Grimacing to show his serpentine fangs, he reached his hand between the bars of the cage, and curled his hand into a fist around the dagbat's neck, stretching his burn painfully. He ignored the pain. He held the dagbat's trachea squeezed shut as he stared Robyn in the eyes, daring her to say anything, until the unfortunate creature choked out its last breath. "Get. Out. Of. My. Classroom."
TAG: Padawan4687
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Volshe
Administrator
.: Empress
Posts: 229
Likes: 163
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Post by Volshe on Feb 23, 2017 22:27:17 GMT -5
IC: Darth Viscretus
Sith Temple, Library and Halls"We will prepare for, let us say, an hour," Apollyon waved her hand, as if to summon the time itself, "After all, the Valley is dangerous, and deserves every precaution."
Viscretus still smiled quite sickeningly at her friend by the time she had finished her directions. Of course Apollyon would assume her plans were futile, she was surrounded by incompetent minions at every turn. Of course, they very well may be - the Hand was far from a floundering apprentice in the classes below. Yet Viscretus had one thing they did not. Rather, she lacked one thing - fear. Apollyon’s mockery only served to make her bolder, flames lit with irritation and fanned by her ego. “Of course,” the Sith Master returned, nodding coldly to Apollyon and taking the tomes under arm once more. Her voice lowered to ice-glazed velvet. “Although, I might find myself arriving late. I have a crucial errand to run, related to our mission. You, of course, know how things are. Any misstep could prove deadly.” With that, her smirk left her porcelain face. She gave a brief acknowledgement to Lord Catalyst, poised herself towards the door, and left. After following the winding corridor, she met an intersection. Three choices bathed in the glow of fire and challenged by shadow stretched out before her. Two led to familiar halls, yet another led to a staircase lit with miasmic glow - rising up to the deep unknowns of the inner Palace. She paused for a moment in contemplation, imagining what may lay beyond in dozens of labyrinthine halls gazing over the Valley of Carrion, untouched by the breath of anyone she left behind. She began towards the soaring staircase and the darkness beyond. TAG: Darth Catalyst, Darth Dreadwar, nobody else. Yet. TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow
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Darth Catalyst
Citizen
Dark Lord Immortalis & High Inquisitor
.: Chaos and Cunning
Handling the Hand
Posts: 248
Likes: 276
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Post by Darth Catalyst on Feb 24, 2017 0:18:04 GMT -5
IC Lord CatalystLibrary Grand Hall: Korriban
"Lord Catalyst, I sense your line of thought; it would indeed be useful to have an initiate to toss to the hounds, if we should find ourselves surrounded by Tuk'ata. If I recall correctly, Master Marcus is holding an alchemy class. Go there now, and find us a student deserving of a field trip. We will prepare for let us say... an hour. After all, the Valley is dangerous, and deserves every precaution."
Catalyst excitement showed on his face with each word that Apollyon spoke. Finally! Something that might yield actual results! “Of course.” There was something something new to Viscretus's voice. An almost unsettling coolness. “Although, I might find myself arriving late. I have a crucial errand to run, related to our mission. You, of course, know how things are. Any misstep could prove deadly.” Catalyst returned her quick acknowledgement with a nod. As she strode out of the library, he turned to Apollyon with a malicious smile. "I will see you in the hanger bay in one hour. Hopefully with an initiate or two in tow." He nodded his farewell to her and proceeded to make his way out of the library and down to the dungeons.
After the long and somewhat dull journey into the depths of the temple, Catalyst gazed upon a quite peculiar sight when he finally came to the classroom. The body of a Nautolan boy was flung out the door and into the wall before it fell in a crumpled heap on the ground. A smirk broke across Catalyst's face as he heard the ravings of Emir Marcus. "Your homework, you pathetic homunculus, is to feed Chakran's body to the Tuk'ata... in the Valley of the Dark Lords. You will wait outside this classroom, beside his cooling corpse, until a Sith Master finds you. Do not speak. Do not breathe a word to me. What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that whatever tiny-fisted tantrum you could make would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?" A charmer as always. At least he kept the initiates in line. If only by killing whomever didn't fit his vision of what a Sith was. Which apparently was this poor kid. "Get. Out. Of. My. Classroom." Oh good. A living one perhaps. Catalyst crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with amused smirk on his face, waiting to see who had irked Marcus this time.
TAG:Darth Dreadwar ,Padawan4687 ,
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Volshe
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.: Empress
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Post by Volshe on Feb 25, 2017 1:12:09 GMT -5
IC: Darth Viscretus
The Inner SanctumSome would see the Lady Viscretus as cold, uncaring, unattached to anyone beyond herself. Her eyes seemed to reveal such to anyone who so much as captured a quick glance into the churning greys and greens, sparked with blue. Those who looked deeper would see a landscape of ice, windswept glaciers and dying conifers subject to endless blizzard. Death, but not by darkness, by the cruelest of frost and vacancy of life. Yet some would be lucky enough to catch a blaze of red in the gelid, biting winter. A flicker of fire, distant, yet reaching through the hostile storm with sudden power. Passion. Lust. For what, or whom, nobody would know - these were secrets she kept, secrets for only herself. Desires she dreamt of in moments of deep meditation, in the furthest corners of her mind. It was these reasons that she still dressed as an Empress, barring the crowns she had once woven into her flaxen hair. It was the still burning flames that fed her cool persona, the embodiment of royalty. To many, she was an egotist - one who sought nothing but endless power. Who would manipulate her way to the highest echelons and do anything to taste status. A harlot, a witch, a harpy. Of course they failed to understand. Of course, they failed to question, to learn from those with greater goals beyond plotting behind the back of whichever Emperor stood before them, kissing his boots in hope he would not smite them for so much as implying him not worthy of his superfluous titles. Often she wondered why one would do such a thing. She had heard it all before. She had seen it all before. It did not bother her in the slightest. Her goals here were simple, a pull equated to that of ravenous hunger. Her survival only mattered because it would ensure the survival of the Galaxy, should she succeed. Her desires only mattered because they would forge a utopia that would long last any civilisation the Galaxy had seen. Her oath was to Eternity, and her every step measured towards achieving it. Absolute power was necessary, and thus she craved it. With the occasional indulgence, of course. She was not bland. And this...this was certainly not bland. She stepped back from the fire-lit mirror, pulling a deep burgundy hood over her tamed hair. Her face fell into shadow, an added benefit had she not already hidden her tattoos. The gilded seams shimmered in the light. The outfit was atypical - a golden corset with deep wine insets, skirts and elegant sleeves patterned with the same gold-edged velvet that shrouded her face. As a final touch, she clasped a firegem pendant around her neck. For a moment her eyes, though cast in shadow, flashed as though they too were firegems, catching the light of the sconces. It was an impeccable match for one of the Emperor’s handmaidens, and rightly so, for she had stolen it after charming the guards and spritzing a soporific beneath their masks. Her pale lips, tinged with the remnants of deep violet, turned into a smirk. She was past the point of no return, past the point of any easy escape - or possible escape, rather, as the guards would have metabolised the agent by now. As yet another slave passed through the small anteroom, she turned on her heel and bowed her head, hurrying with the posture of one who was not granted sight of more than stone floors and boots of passing Sith. She broke away from him as her mind mapped out the footsteps she had counted by map only a quarter of an hour prior. There were some hallways she knew. Some that she had seen sun filter through towering windows, before it was swallowed by the unbridled caliginosity of the inner sanctum. A handful of rooms she had seen, lavished with Sith artefacts and most elaborate furnishings. And on a sole occasion, she had seen the darkness flood the entire room around her, shadows lapping at her ankles and searing them as they rushed pass. Still, she was not here invited by any above her who knew these halls - she was no guest this time. Twenty two steps right, forty three left, then proceed to the furthest doors, where the bust catches light….It would be no challenge for her to find her way past that point, for she had been here before - though but once, years ago - with Apollyon. A treat, one might say, were it not for the threat of imminent suffering and a death that lasted eons before granting its final relief, if she so much as eyed an artefact the Dread Lord thought important. Now, she had witnessed more than mere months of the Empire’s workings. She had been granted a role as Director of Sith Intelligence - and her previous experiences perhaps granted her some sort of clemency. Either way, she had her reasons. Whether they were valid or not, she could not predict. According to Apollyon, and matching with echoing tales in vaulted halls, the Emperor was not one to ever attempt to predict. She slipped into the door beyond the bust, instantly feeling her skin begin to prickle with the burning ice of darkness. It was no wonder, for the shadow’s owner spent much of his time in the rooms now merely 50 metres away. She straightened, shutting the first door behind her as silently as she could manage. A wave of nausea, a prickling heat that turned to ice in her cheeks. She paused, and suddenly it was as if she heard her name in the crackle of torches. Deep burgundy skirts billowed around her as she spun to meet the noise, wondering if she had misjudged her chances of survival with a whirl of sudden fear. Only cold stone and dying flame greeted her. Not even the darkness shifted in her direction. She cleared her mind, leaving a trace of determination and her focus at the forefront. A plea of innocence, one might say, bubbling above the currents of darkness in her own mind. An amulet of translation. It was all she needed for now, and she would not dare remove it from the room it rested within. In fact, she would not need to even if she were to complete her ulterior motives. She allowed herself a faint glimmer of amusement at the thought. Her velvet-slippered feet glided against stone into the next room, and then yet another - all gloriously decorated and filled to brimming with what most would never see in their lifetimes. Parchments, tablets, holocrons, keys, scripts, amulets - the history of the Sith, of the Force, stretched before her. Yet with every room she entered the darkness grew closer, and soon even the glint of metal in firelight had faded, dulled by its ever tightening grasp. Her mind faintly boiled now in the pure coldness, as if it were liquified nitrogen. Her skin tingled, her hands grew chilled and the beds of her nails dusted with cyanosis. She stopped at the far corner, a sole amulet of translation upon the table. Her steps were gingerly now, one for every breath she took. Her hand reached into the corset and pulled out the parchments inscribed with scripts that even she could not read. Cold liquid seeped down her chest, over her pale breasts and into the corset’s skin-warmed fabric. She glanced down to her hand. Her pupils pricked in shock as she realised it was covered in black ink. The runes ran down the page, racing towards her fingers. A gasp escaped her lips, as faint as the steps she had taken seconds before. In a rush of fear, her pale hand rushed to the table and lay the parchments down, the ink smearing from the text in fat drops and ruining the very information she had sought. The amulet would never translate such a mess. She fanned it futilely, hoping that the drops would dry and leave it in some better state. Her hand reached for the amulet and grasped it in hand. The torch beside her hissed again. She turned, clutching the ruined parchment and the amulet as she faced the door. The torch bled smoke into near-blackness as its flame died. Darkness crept towards her, ebbing and flowing as if it could somehow breathe. A face appeared within the shadow, screaming. The room rocked and shuddered, dust crumbling from the ceilings, sunless windows shattering around her. For a moment, even, she was not even in the Sith Temple. Yet she could not comprehend the sickening emotions and swirling images she had seen. She backed into the table and dropped the amulet onto its surface. Cold fear seeped into her muscles and adrenaline tingled at her fingertips. The cold continued to surround her, bathing her in blackened waters. Memories and images flashed in her mind as lightning strikes on the horizon of glacial seas, distracting her from her inner thoughts. She blinked, clenching her eyes tightly and centering her mind on the task at hand. The ink would not run, for the Sith had forged the text long ago. It was a trick of the mind, nothing more. It wasn’t something she could say for the onslaught of vicious fear and poisonous blackness that filled the room around her. If she could not calm her pounding heart, than perhaps the Emperor would stop it for her. If she wished Eternity, than perhaps she would achieve it. If she would die, at least she would die with understanding of a great prophecy. Or perhaps, she thought with bold proclamation, letting it echo in her mind, he would stop hiding behind the ghastly creations. She grasped the amulet once more and laced it around her neck with shaking hand, then stared at the pages before her. With great effort, she relaxed her throbbing mind a mere centimetre, and hoped the words would swirl into some formation before her. TAG: Darth Dreadwar, TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow SIDE STORY: Ancient Artefacts
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Shira
Administrator
.: Empress' Hand
Posts: 135
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Post by Shira on Mar 1, 2017 0:08:35 GMT -5
IC: Shira A'dola
The Bridge of The Triumphant
Small flashes of light glimmered off of the chrome of the lightsaber hilt as it bounced off its owner’s thigh. The shudders and heaves of The Triumphant threatened to disrupt equilibrium as the battered ship groaned out of hyperspace. The crew rushed to and fro in a mad frenzy; assessing damage, taking reports and running diagnostics, the grim reality of their situation was seen in all of their faces. Some expressions testified of desperation and panic. These usually belonged to the newer, younger members of the crew. The faces of the senior officers showed only hopeless knowledge of their fates.
Shira was tired. Resignation had set in. She had tried everything with this bizarre opponent. She had first tried to hail them, both through the ship’s comms and through the Force, yet they had never responded. Their other-worldly weapons tore through their ships effortlessly. Despite her fleet’s advanced weaponry, they were no match for these strangers. When all other options had been exhausted, she had ordered them to flee. Yet that too had failed.
Four years of loyalty and promises for nothing. I have led them on a fool’s quest and have rewarded them nothing but a fool’s fate.
She had seen her men decline steadily in the month they had performed this hit-and-run escapade. The remainder of the Empire - the strength, courage and valour of the galaxy! - had deteriorated to hysteria, friendly fire and ever-growing unrest. A coup would fail, she thought grimly, merely because they would not survive the coming weeks.
"Lady A'dola, Lady Tano! If the pattern from this week persists, we have about six minutes before we have to make another jump. The navigator is already drafting a course for the nearest blue star."
Jumping, always jumping. This had been their life for the past standard month, jumping without ceasing to rest, only to refuel the ship and jump again. Shira kept the bitterness out of her posture as she regarded Admiral Tharsus with a calm composure. If her time with the Jedi had taught her anything, it was how to look utterly neutral. The only sign of stress was the durasteel-grey colour of her pupils. She thanked the Force that only a few knew what the colours of her eyes meant. Alisha Tano was one out of a handful.
"Shields are at 18%. There's more electrical fires, this time. We lost our thorium impulse cannon, we failed to re-modulate the zero-point storage batteries and the ventral nanotech prism chamber is offline. The temporal particle isotope rerouter is critical, which is causing a chain reaction in the sonic particle array which could cause a 9.1 gigajoule explosion in the starboard crew quarters in approximately four hours if we can't repair it in time. Any new orders?"
The last words were lost to the Vraeling, who had caught a twinkling in her peripheral vision. Turning to investigate the light more clearly, she saw an unremarkable yellow star in the viewport. Yet, as soon as she had it in her full gaze, there was a feeling she could not shake and her mind was elsewhere. There was a draw to the star, this star was -
-Master?-
Shira started inwardly as Alisha nudged at her mind and turned abruptly to the Admiral. “Head directly for the nearest blue star and begin refuelling immediately. As soon as we have the resources we need, I want you to head to that star.” She pointed to the yellow star that had drawn her gaze. “In the meantime, focus efforts on patching up the temporal particle isotope rerouter and the putting out the electrical fires. Don’t worry about the impulse cannon until we can ensure The Triumphant will last. We have enough weaponry that one impulse canon won’t make a difference.”
Shira registered the doubt in his eyes, but looked at him pointedly. The Admiral was a loyal man, one of her most trusted officers and she understood his concerns, but one or two assaults more and they would be finished. Something had to change. Tharsus nodded and the Vraeling woman turned to look at Alisha. Reaching for the scarlet presence of her student, speaking through their connection in the Force and directing Alisha’s attention towards the yellow star.
-Do you sense anything?-
Suddenly alarms screamed at her through the Force, warnings lighting up every synapse in her mind. She turned sharply back to Admiral Tharsus, her controlled voice holding an edge. “Admiral, we need to jump immediately.”
They were coming.
TAG: Darth Dreadwar, Padawan4687,
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Mar 1, 2017 2:00:22 GMT -5
OOC: DANGER WARNING. Your character is in a potentially or imminently deadly situation. Respond carefully.
IC: Darth DreadwarTreasury, Inner Sanctum
The black glyphs dug their barbs into the wetness of her mind, clawing at each vinegar-smelling neuron with the bite of a thicket. They hooked her consciousness, anchoring it in the howling abeyance of the rising void, and as the sea of shadow roiled around her, Viscretus fell into the book.
Putrid ink splashed across her mind's eye with the burn of a korr slug's acidic vomit, searing meaning into her unraveling thoughts as pictographs and thorny letters flew at her in the gale. He was close, very close, now.
The Shadow was approaching, the Force tearing asunder like a sea before the breath of a god. Gold glittered in the dark, the talisman straining to warp the furor of arcane energy to complete its task. To work its abstruse sorcery so close to the eye of the storm exceeded the design of its creators. Yet nonetheless, as the book held fast before Viscretus spat snippets of typography, the eldritch symbols that riddled the yellowed right page of the tome blurred briefly into successful translation.
She saw lines, jagged like the rapid beat of her heart. A bird. A hand, caramel like Apollyon's. A serpent. Knives? A hook? A cup? Birds and knives and lines and... High Galactic! A column of letters in High Galactic, the archaic predecessor of Aurebesh.
 Then the tumultuous roaring in her ears reached its zenith, and before her eyes, the book liquefied, running like ash caught in pumice-laden magma until the chill wind wrenched even the dust from her vision. This was no device of the talisman, which burned to scorching in her hand, nor trick of her battered mind. He was here. Out of the smoke-like ether that rendered the Treasury a spectral gloom came the Shadow, of black so pitch it cut a frightful silhouette in the gloaming about, achieving a new definition of darkness within darkness. The cloaked figure seemingly coalesced from the netherworld of the Force itself, the bloodshine of the Treasury's holocrons separating its outline from the whirling void beyond. A rapacious hand, clad in the claws of a stygian gauntlet, outstretched towards the woman in most dire warning, and the empty hood rippled as a blood-curdling whisper emanated forth, echoing as if from the depths of a tomb. "What is thy purrrpossse, Visscretuussss," the sibilant hiss silently screamed into the silence of her mind, bypassing the impossible volume of the hurricane around Darth Dreadwar. "Why do you dare breach my Inner Sanctum?" The Emperor's sepulchral voice was almost perfectly steady. Like a string stretched almost perfectly horizontal, despite the massive weight hanging from its middle, by a million tons of tension pulling at either end. Behold, he was here. The angel of her death. TAG: Volshe |
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Volshe
Administrator
.: Empress
Posts: 229
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Post by Volshe on Mar 1, 2017 21:03:04 GMT -5
IC: Darth Viscretus
Treasury, Inner Sanctum
"What is thy purrrpossse, Visscretuussss? Why do you dare breach my Inner Sanctum?"The hiss was as a shriek of death - earth shattering - and yet not even the most fragile of treasures stirred. Viscretus stepped backwards, with hesitant grace, masking the adrenaline that threatened to unsteady her. And yet still she shook, a fine tremor that she could not control. A side effect of the darkness that nipped at her grey matter and lapped against her ivory skin. Even as a master of her body, practiced for centuries in her art, she could not stop what was a product of pure malevolence. And she would not. In truth, she would be suspicious of anyone who could. It would be lying to say she did not fear the swirling mass before her, that her step backwards was not measured and calculated to give her even the smallest reprieve from her Lord’s display of billowing night and roaring silence. It would be, quite simply, stupidity to say that one did not fear a tempest threatening to rip away their very consciousness, who would consume them with a mere thought. But even more idiotic would be for her to show it. She perched herself on the table mere inches behind her, exhaling in a hope it would disperse the black tendrils that seemed to seek to suffocate her. In swift movement she removed her hood, and, as if it were merely an unwanted effect of the motion, tugged one sleeve away from her shoulder. A glint of pale snow, bones beneath the supple surface, piercing the ever-darkening room. She smirked coyly, an expression that melted into faux concern. “I am here for the tour.” She laughed quietly.“ Are you going to be my guide? Or are you the main attraction?” She paused and tapped a finger to her lips, suddenly feeling a wave of pressure against her chest, her breath almost escaping in a gasp. A rippled of electricity jolted across her skin, leaving a frigid cold behind that hooked deep into her bones as the runes had hooked into her mind. Her voice fell quieter, but still purred with exotic lilt. She had been here before, she had lived, and her plans still stood unfettered. Until he made the decision to destroy her, she would have her fun. Ultimately, she would succeed in more than just that. “I don't mind either way, of course.” She narrowed her eyes, a burst of energetic flame flitting across them. She slunk off the table with similar fire. Her gaze fixated on the hood towering before her, ignoring the blaring threats from every nerve in her lithe frame. A nauseating churn of insanity tempted her ever closer, as if she were standing on the edge of an endless chasm. It tugged at her, the urge to escape melting into her thrumming pulse and ringing ears - a siren's song towards Eternity. The call of the Void. She stopped her racing thoughts and distant plans, only for a brief moment, before taking a narrow step forward. Fear, hesitation - they did not suit an Empress. She parted her lips. “Ancient artefacts excite me.” TAG: Darth Dreadwar,TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow SIDE STORY: Ancient Artefacts
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Mar 2, 2017 3:32:53 GMT -5
IC: Darth DreadwarTreasury, Inner SanctumIf he but had lips, they would have twisted in the mocking facsimile of a smile, as the intruder fell back to perch on the table like a lady of the night. The most delicious touch of a shiver coursed through her frame, and what a frame it was. Tall, svelte and elegant, with a pale complexion hinting at Vahlan ancestry, just enough ice to cool the blush of her Nabooan cheeks. If he but had lips, the squamous tongue of a serpent would have wetted them with frozen droplets. But he had not lips nor tongue, and so it was his otherworldly power which tasted the air. Such a strong young heart to pulse such fear suffusing her delectable blood! Ivory skin, spiderwebbed with the faintness of adrenaline-carrying veins, seemed too thin a film, wrapped around scaffolding of calcium a flick of his mind could disassemble to constituent atoms, ensconcing meat good genes and a lifetime of exercise had cut into a delightful shape, protecting the wine of her blood from the icicle-teeth of his malice. Content the frightfulness of his form had inculcated its desired effect, those sharp tendrils of shadow withdrew, and Darth Dreadwar the Magnificent permitted himself the haughtiness of satisfaction. For you see, Darth Dreadwar was an actor of deliberate intent. He was an ancient and loathsome god, yea, but what few knew was that the Sith Emperor was little more than the mask of seething darkness which flooded his empty hood. The man Ku'ar Danar was role-playing the wraith. He could just as easily have clad himself in raiment that was not tattered, he could just as easily have claimed some unfortunate vessel and wore the flesh again that he had rid himself of in his great ritual. But no, he chose this phantasmal form, he willed the manifestation of his spirit speak with the voice of a rasping hiss, he let the aura of his power seep into the dark side around him with the smoke of black clouds. The Sith thought in fairy tales. They thought of legends and crypts. It seemed natural to them that an undead Sith of yore would not bid his servants bring him sturdy armour or even just robes that were not decayed. It seemed natural to them to be led by a figure whose mere presence instilled madness and terror, to be led by a monster that pointlessly executed his underlings and tortured his enemies. And it was this blindness to the higher plane of his cunning that Dreadwar counted on.
One level higher.The excesses of his cruelty cloaked the careful, clinical machinations of his conniving. His eldritch abomination provided the leadership of fear the Sith needed to unite and thrive. His inhumanity prevented his lessers from even attempting to ensnare him in tedious games or seduce his favour. Or rather, it had until now. There she stood, the woman who had ruled a galaxy. And despite the utter absurdity of the thing, she spoke to him words not of instant obeisance and sour humility, but of sweet poisoned honey. "I am here for the tour." Viscretus laughed quietly, exposing her shoulder to him much as she exposed her fate to the whimsy of his amusement. "Are you going to be my guide? Or are you the main attraction?"
It was so utterly preposterous, this playing the fool of a harpy, that it did amuse him, was the thing. To kill her now would just seem such a wrong punctuation to prematurely end so risible lyrics. And as he weighed her punishment in the scales of his malevolence, he could not help but feel that it would be sacrilege to do so. No, let her play a while longer."I don't mind either way, of course." She narrowed eyes of celestial fire as she sauntered towards him like the Empress she was no more. Like the Empress only he among the Sith knew she had been. "Ancient artifacts excite me."
A lilted purr? Did she seriously think the Lord of Darkness could be swayed by the longitudinal waves of the air's vibration? Or did she remember... No. No, it was impossible. The Curse of Ambria had scattered her seeming across the void like spilled ambrosia; there would be no reknitting that shattered spirit until the gates of Chaos opened and Typhojem rose again. No, this was Volshe being Volshe. And so Dreadwar would be Dreadwar. The pretty seraph rose into the air without so much as a wave of his clawed hand. He had planned to merely drop her at his feet with contemptuous swiftness, but almost without conscious bidding his power descended upon her throat, squeezing her trachea shut. Dreadwar stood, analysing his own unbidden thoughts, watching her gasps. Counting them. It was pleasing to him, knowing that he could keep counting until they stretched to infinity. But in truth, it was just pleasing to watch her choke. There was something profane about it. "Jest not with your Lord," Dreadwar whispered after a beat, clipping the invisible wings he had fashioned her to let her fall to the floor with a gentleness that belied his indifference. "You were here to use my talisman of translation," he hissed. "On some worthless parchment torn from a tome available to any library student."
He did not go on to ask the obvious question of why. It was immaterial. His perceptions were as vast as his mind was inscrutable, and he had sensed that blasphemous thought that had crossed her mind. A dare to reveal himself, rather than hide behind 'ghastly creations. ' "But there is mooooore......"She was verily here to talk as much as she was here to translate. They had crossed paths before, of course. It had been Dreadwar who had inducted her into his Sith Order, providing her sanctuary from the Mandalorian horde that dogged the deposed Empress' footsteps. But other than her friendship with his apprentice, Apollyon, Dreadwar had possessed little reason to interact with her heretofore. The fact she had forced such an interaction spoke volumes. And he knew, his decision to have mercy would speak volumes to her, anathema to the Dread-king who built his power on the perception of his ruthlessness. But as he looked at her form, fallen into humbling before his shadow, he found he did not care. In the instant she seemed so beautiful, so refreshingly different from the mundanity of the underlings he was accustomed to, that he could not understand why no one had been as disturbed as he by the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veil, why the entirety of the Sith Order did not go as mad as his many victims with the gold of her mocking laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures or defiant thoughts, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her, there splayed on the dead stone, for fear of destroying the spell. For she was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way the fires of Mustafar were beautiful: something to be admired from afar, not up close. His cowl twisted in curiosity. But there were ways of probing the flames without being singed. "Little dove, little dove, let me come in," he rasped, redolent of imminent violation, and like a spear of midnight black his unpareil telepathy tore into her mind. He found himself, quite inexplicably even for a being who prided himself on acquiring as much information as possible, wanting to know everything. He wanted to understand, from birth to whatever bold fancy had prompted her intrusion into his present, the scarlet-clad witch before him.
TAG: Volshe
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Volshe
Administrator
.: Empress
Posts: 229
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Post by Volshe on Mar 2, 2017 20:53:56 GMT -5
IC: Darth Viscretus
Treasury, Inner SanctumHer step was caught in midair, her sauntering frame swept into the deadly embrace of phantom gauntlets, clasped around her throat. A sputter of gasps escaped her, at first merely in shock. Though her mind expected the snapping of her spine with each second that ticked by, only her attempts at breath broke through the deafening silence. With no warning, as her eyes had began to flutter into dreamless meditations, he released her. Words hissing into her skull through the rushes of blood, a whisper that throbbed in time with her aching carotids. "Jest not with your Lord." Even with the sudden reprieve, she did not collapse to the floor with the harsh cracks of human frame against unforgiving ground. Her hands and knees met the stone with urgent yet gentle purpose, as though she had dipped herself into a bow before him. She swallowed, quietly, still playing her game, ignoring what felt an insult to her ego. Her burning throat lessened to a smoulder, the searing of dying cells fading to a tortuous ache. Was it warmth she had just felt? Curiosity? Emotion, somewhere in a void as crushingly empty as the very soul of a black hole? Or was it merely a fluctuation, a trick of her reperfusing neurons, some fluttering breeze escaping in from the sun-baked valleys?
"You were here to use my talisman of translation. On some worthless parchment torn from a tome available to any library student."She resisted the urge to laugh at his observations. As bizarre as it was to her, she knew fully well - even through the fading drowsiness - that he was entertaining her blasphemy laced intrusions with such a display of contemplation. He knew as well as she did the reasons behind her exploits. Blood flushed to her ashen cheeks as she glanced to the Emperor’s cowl, an enigma wrapped in gauzy fabrics, granting her clemency despite her brazen impudence. He was more like her than she ever could have guessed. She snuffed a sudden rush of satisfaction, knowing the miraculously twisted caritas would end should her game break the Dread King’s rules. "But there is mooooore......"His words began as a creeping frost, the nape of her neck tingling as intangible crystals burrowed into her skull and the soft tissues beneath. It was almost a soothing reprieve from the barrage of darkness upon her psyche. "Little dove, little dove, let me come in." It grew into absolution as his tone warmed, as if all at once he had forgiven her entrance and coquettish games. Her eyes pulled toward the hood, drawn to the irresistible velveteen whisper, a tantalizing mixture of sun and darkness emerging from the violent tempest around them. The words echoed in her mind, suddenly blazing into savage firestorm that surrounded her every conscious thought. It urged her to retreat into her subconscious, to flee with her mental barriers burnt to ash and her deepest thoughts left open to the Emperor’s whims. She could feel his lust for knowledge, for understanding as the torrent of fire grew ever hotter. This was not in her plans. Yet if she fought him, she would certainly fail. He was much too powerful to be deterred through sheer willpower. The only way to protect herself would be to allow him the freedom he desired, to welcome him - under her own rules. Through the searing heat, unyielding pressure against her faltering strength, she let him in. -- At once the heat faded into temperate breezes, the roar of flame melted into the trickles of gelid waterfalls. Golden light shimmered through, onto a pond of evening-darkened water, the shores latticed with ice and crystals of vibrant hue. She settled onto a rock, pale feet dangling mere inches above the water, trails of lucent fabric cascading over blue velvets and neck laced with golden filigree. It was all familiar, a memory she had plucked and twisted to suit the purpose. Something she would forget only in the final throes of insanity. The only Empire still her own. She peered around the ethereal landscape, knowing he was there somewhere, but tentatively - perhaps naively - hoping he would avoid ravaging her mind in his search for information. She would give it to him readily...mostly.
“And what do you wish to know of me, my Lord?” Her voice called out to the chilled landscape, echoing to marble spires visible far beyond the mountains she remembered so vividly. She traced familiar paths to the crystal pool, all of them empty. It was far too calm, too serene. For a moment, she worried this was all a trick of his own - that he had placed her in some purgatory while he completed his search without her interference. She waited until the last echoes of her query faded into the dusk, then reclined against the frost-laden stones around her. Only time would tell her fate. TAG: Darth Dreadwar, OOC:The dress in the latter part of the scene, inspired by this: pre15.deviantart.net/69d8/th/pre/f/2016/004/f/2/empress_of_the_elves_gown_by_lillyxandra-d9msv1x.jpgTAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow SIDE STORY: Ancient Artefacts
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Padawan4687
Imperial Intelligence
.: Empress' Sword / Director of Intelligence
Posts: 133
Likes: 112
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Post by Padawan4687 on Mar 3, 2017 16:47:49 GMT -5
IC: Robyn Shaire
Location: Sith Temple catacombs, about to be thrown out of Alchemy classThe only sound that could be heard in Robyn's classroom was muted sizzling. Seconds after the drops landed, Robyn expected her "lecturer" to telepathically toss them from his clothes and start shouting. She already had come up with two counter-arguments! ...but as the seconds dragged on she grew more and more alarmed. Ermir was still enough to rival a statue, but if he kept that up for much longer the acid might get to his skin! She wasn't exactly hoping for him to get hurt... Of course, moments after that thought occurred to her, the burned white sleeve blossomed into red. Does that not hurt?! Robyn's throat went completely dry as the sizzling finally stopped. She, as well as the rest of the room, stared at the still-growing bloodstain in Ermir's robes until he slowly began to turn his head. "M-Master Marcus, I...!" Robyn found herself struggling to recall what she'd wanted to say. " Congratulations, young Shaire," he began, speaking so unbearably slowly that Robyn was tempted to tilt her head back and yell, 'Get on with it'! "Instead of surrounding your mind with a toxic cloud of emotions, you crystallized your thoughts into serene analysis, while Chakran focused on keeping... the dagbat... calm. And so you performed alchemy. But..." Robyn could detect her partner's spike in fear clear as day. Ermir was smiling now, and her stomach sank further for every second it remained on his face. "B-b-but wait!" Ermir gave a mock stutter as he tapped his chin, "That isn't what I taught you, is it?" His smile was growing, and it started looking more like a sneer. "I said to surround your mind in a cloud of emotion, didn't I? YOU FILTHY JEDI WHORE!!" Robyn took an involuntary step back with wide eyes before they suddenly went completely blank. There was an unholy sound from right beside her, a heavy sickening crack, where Chakran was standing. It took all of her willpower not to scream or even turn her head at the thump moments later. A crack like that could only been a bone breaking...and there was no scream, or even a spike of pain in her classmate's aura. Robyn shut her eyes, switching on her Sight for only a second, long enough to detect the last traces of his aura already fading away. She didn't need her eyes to tell her that he was dead.
...what have I done?"...abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling Jedi beasts who taught you and then killed...." Ermir was deep in a rant by the time Robyn could start focusing on his voice again, and if not for a single word catching her attention she might have remained where she was, not moving. She could feel her hands and chest tighten like she couldn't get enough air, and wondered if Ermir was using the Force to choke her. If he'd wanted to, he would have just crushed her throat in one move... unless he just wanted to prolong her suffering. "If you had listened to my instructions, that dagbat would have breathed fire, and you would have been lauded with prestige. And your partner would still be alive, you snail-skulled little ash-rabbit!" Ermir was still going. Robyn decided to just file away his ramblings for later, because now she just wanted to beat back tears. Crying in front of THIS maniac would only fuel more ranting. "...ignoble halfbreed blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs." Robyn, and many of her classmates, flinched at the sound of wood slamming against stone from behind them. The door? A blast of wind to her side answered Robyn’s unanswered question, and a tiny gasp escaped her mouth as she jerked to avoid getting struck by a flailing limb. She was supposed to feed the Tuk’ata...with her classmate’s body?! Robyn willed her expression to remain still, with her mouth twisted in a frown at Ermir’s smirk. He now held her dagbat in his hand, strangling the poor thing between the bars. She was now staring at the little struggling dagbat as it furiously flapped its wings and attempted to claw at his hand. She turned around with shut eyes. The dagbat was already lost, but she wasn’t going to take his taunts lying down... She could hear the little creature coughing in Ermir’s deadly grasp, spraying droplets of acidic saliva as it fought for air. Robyn gritted her teeth and took a single step forward and the dagbat coughed a little puff of smoke. The puff became a dying ember by the time Robyn left the room, and she slammed the wooden door behind her with a yell and a raging aura. Her dagbat breathed fire in its final moments...and she still didn’t need to cloud her thoughts to do it. The door was shut now, but Robyn nearly leaned against it once she finally saw Chakran’s body for herself. He seemed to be staring at her with wide blank eyes...but the rest of him was facing backward. “His neck-!” Robyn hissed to herself, “He…Chakran…” She shut her eyes and took a slow breath before reaching out with the Force. She gently lifted her classmate’s body and let him hover as though he was just lying down to sleep. ”I’m sorry-!”Her throat was quickly closing, and there was no way in hell she was going to stay right here beside the classroom door where Master Slimeball could still detect her! The anger at Ermir’s “homework”, and guilt at causing a classmate’s death began to blend together, and she directed all of it to the door, past it, right to her “teacher’s” mind. Only after that did she realize that she wasn’t quite alone in the hallway. She didn’t know who was watching, nor did she care. TAG: Darth Dreadwar , Darth Catalyst ,
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Darth Catalyst
Citizen
Dark Lord Immortalis & High Inquisitor
.: Chaos and Cunning
Handling the Hand
Posts: 248
Likes: 276
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Post by Darth Catalyst on Mar 4, 2017 1:17:27 GMT -5
IC Lord Catalyst Alchemy Dungeon: KorribanCatalyst didn't have to wait long for someone to storm out of the room. A girl, couldn't be older than 16, pink skinned (Zeltron perhaps?) with long red hair. And she was furious. Catalyst watched her carefully as she talked to herself, observing curiously as she gently lifted the dead boy's body and laid it more comfortably on a cloud of her own willpower. A friend of his? Or perhaps more... well, not anymore. "I'm sorry-!" She showed remorse? Definitely a young lover. Catalyst reached out with the Force and felt her rage building. Promising. But not here. She would need this rage to fuel her when a real fight came. No sense in wasting all that potential over a dead boy. Catalyst pulled his hood back and stepped forward to address her.
"You don't want to do that," he said quietly. "You aren't going to prove anything by getting yourself killed like your boyfriend here. Besides," he motioned towards the door with a smirk, "you'll only be doing him a favor if you let him disfigure you too." Catalyst's face quickly returned to seriousness. "You were told to wait until a Master came along to deal with you were you not?" Catalyst didn't even bother giving her a chance to respond. "Consider today your lucky day. You just earned the chance to redeem yourself. I have some.. investigating," he grimaced at the thought, "to do in the Valley of the Dark Lords. You're coming with." He gestured towards the corpse. "Might as well bring him too. He might prove useful. If you need to prepare for this excursion," he glanced at the datapad on his wrist, "you have thirty minutes. You'll need a breathing apparatus. And probably a weapon. I hope you've been studying your ancient Sith. You might even be able to impress someone today." TAG: Darth Dreadwar , Padawan4687 ,
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Mar 4, 2017 1:39:49 GMT -5
IC: Mandalore the ModeratorSlippery Slopes CantinaMandalore smiled thinly up at Chek, as she rambled on about her pathetic people and some offer of unity. She even extended her hand. "I accept," his rough voice did little to mask his loathing for her, as his meaty, gauntleted hand grabbed hers. And yanked, hard. The pistol he had thrown down in surrender at the twins' feet was no ordinary pistol. It was the chassis of a BlasTech Industries DL-44 heavy blaster pistol, constructed around a Mier-Lang V-59 concussion grenade. As he pulled Chek off-balance with all of his strength, the grenade exploded. It was modified to have a low yield, lest Mandalore damage himself with the last-ditch back-up weapon, but even still, he scarcely expected the twins could escape unscathed. As white flashed in their retinas and a deafening bang overcame the combatants' senses, no one could see the glistening of the vibroknife in Mandalore's other hand. Still holding onto Chek with a cruel gasp, he stabbed towards her abdomen, and the exposed intersection between her beskar plates. But in pulling her towards him, Beskaryc Taab left himself in knife's range. And there was an intersection of his own, too, between his breastplate and the legendary visor of Mandalore he wore, leaving his throat all but bare, and with it, the fate of the clans' leadership. For in Mandalorian culture, whoever killed Mandalore, and claimed his mask, became the new Mandalore. TAG: chunkeymodest , Shira OOC: Feel free to deal a killing blow.
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chunkeymodest
Gedyk Clan Leader
.: Mandalore the Undead
Posts: 25
Likes: 10
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Post by chunkeymodest on Mar 5, 2017 17:10:00 GMT -5
IC: Chek Mosth Chek smirked when he went in for a besket, already palming her iron shiv in her other hand. Though not particularly popular, Chek preferred her enemies bleeding out as she took all they held dear. The fool didn't realize that in mandalorian culture, she had no authority to this union. When he went to grab, she leaned her head up. At the last moment, she head butted up, knocking his bucket askew. With the other arm she carved from ear to ear, going deep and ripping tendons. For good measure she stabbed deep, severing the spinal cord. Ripping his bucket from his head, she let out a yell of anger, grief, and joy. How many of her children had this man murdered? How many daughters raped? Sons forced to watch their parents and comrades die? Elders forced to send their children to battles they would not return from. Hoisting the scums body, she ran to her ship, fast, carrying her people's freedom. She got to her ship and loaded his slowly cooking carcass into the back. The area r reserved for bounties now held her enemy. She punched in warp speed to home, making sure to stop and cover her treacle. As she docked in her home base, almost a day later, she pushed the rotting corpse out onto the tarmac. As her family came out of hiding, she held his bucket high for all to see. She said one phrase, the old and whispered hope of her people. "Bal kote, darasuum kote. Jorso'ran kando a tome." Glory, eternal glory. We shall bear this weight together. A ragged and cautious cheer rose. She prepared a message to her new people, the corpse she f their former mandalore cooling at her feet. "Forget your forged hearts of old, fresh snow now adorns the ground. Your mandalore is dead. I killed him. You have 48 standard hours to reply, or I will come and free my children. Long live Deathwatch." The message ended and Chek nearly cried. Instead, she gathered her people. The war had just begun. Tag: Shira Darth Dreadwar |
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Mar 6, 2017 13:07:32 GMT -5
Presenting, our novel-length combo post...
IC: Darth Dreadwar and Darth ViscretusViscretus' mindAnd only fate, child, will tell your time.When the Old Gods returned as the prophecies foretold, she would know her true antiquity. Until such doom, Dreadwar alone would know Time. For he alone, out of all the Sith that had walked the sky, out of all the Sith that had aspired to such, from Darth Ramage to Darth Caedus, had subjugated it. When Nilrebmah had been unhinged from space, Ku'ar Danar had decoupled it from the time stream, catapulting his essence into the future. It had been the shockwave of Palpatine's death above Endor that had torn through his temporal prison, releasing him from abeyance, frozen in time, as surely as Silri had liberated his army and its catalyst frozen in carbonite. Kára Volshe had been a young woman when the first Galactic Empire fell. He knew that now, his essence unfurling within her mind and imperceptibly swimming through her past with an easy stroke that held contempt for her attempts to confound his telepathy. The imbalance between them was as great as the power differential between the Emperor Dreadwar... and the Left-Handed God.Do not even think of Him.Yet even as Dreadwar dipped a finger in the pool of her mind palace, and the rest of his being sifted through the salient significances of life, the stroke of his paddle became laboured. The vinegar-smelling lights of her neurons did not quiver with the knowing resistance of the resident soul. No, no, this was something else. The stream forked into confusing eddies left in perpetual darkness by the shade of forgetfulness. Violent whirlpools tempted him to enter, to test his acuity, but he recognised the wounds of insanity when he saw them. The cleft and warp of arcane magic, gossamer strands of silk interlaced between every brook and gulch, cobwebs of a past he could not breach. Her mind was an open book to him. A sister. Emiliana. A Master. A woman of many names. Darth Immaculata? Shira Brie? Lumiya?But her mind was an open book of unfinished chapters and unknown attribution, written in the indecipherable script of eldritch enigma, pages and pages, layers within layers. In some ways, it reminded him of his own mind. Levels and levels, wheels within wheels. If Dreadwar, truly prescient and ever keen to utilise his deductive genius to feign the aura of omniscience, played one level higher... Then Viscretus' mind was a subterranean lair of hidden levels unknown even to her. And within the wetness of her neurons, stygian claws dug deep, exposing the ember within her past until no deeper they could go. Serenno.The Ember of Vahl. It was that planet, home to palatial estates of ancient counts, temples hidden in icy mountain ranges, alpine forests and plains of grass broken by fjords, that her mind-palace resided on. The golden light of the dusk sun warmed the pale blue of the crystalline water, turning the waterfall to a flow of molten gold. Unspooling within its depths, the metal twisted into solidity, rising from the water as a figure of gilded armour. The water flowing off his shoulders coalesced into a lengthy cloak of black and red, held by a chain above a breastplate of two crisscrossing straps of gold-plated cortosis fashioned into the likeness of a Diathim's wings. 
And on the wings of imagining, Darth Dreadwar floated effortlessly to the rock on which Viscretus luxuriated. Catching a beam of baleful sunlight, his kingly helmet glittered, lighting the demonic red eyes of crystal chips embedded in the coiled figurine trailing over his crown, a golden serpent presiding over Dreadwar's venomous features: dead grey eyes, thin lips, twisted in a sneer of cold command, and high, sharp cheekbones. A countenance weathered not only by the passage of four decades but the unnatural aging of the dark side. Although she had no way of knowing it, Viscretus looked upon the visage of Dreadwar's original body.
He spoke with a man's voice, high and cruel. "There is nothing I need know of you, Viscretus," Dreadwar said, with the amused tone of someone who had successfully distracted her enough to violate the inner sanctum of her privacy, as she had suspected. "For I know you perhaps more than you know yourself."
She would take it as hyperbole. But to some extent, Dreadwar spoke literally.
"But there is something I would show thee." Dreadwar turned from her and walked past her, purposefully ignoring the fantastical clothing she had draped herself in. He looked to the forest behind her, placing his hands behind his back. It was the conjured forest of Serenno, but it bore an exact resemblance to the bygone forest of another world, before the ember of Vahl had grown to conflagration, and burned it all away.
And one of those trunks, extruding from the canopy by hundreds of metres, was no behemoth of wood. It was an obelisk of obsidian.
Viscretus rose slowly, taking measured steps through the frosted grass. The hairs of her neck stood on edge even in the familiar paradise, but it was not the chill of the air that caused it. It was the feeling as though the forests had been tread by his feet, bathed in darkness, the every stream and valley she recalled tainted with tenebrous touch. It was a sense of violation, the knowledge that her mind had been delved into, far beyond what she had anticipated. Of course he would have rejected her openness, for he was used to achieving his goals in his own methods.
She let irritation bubble to the surface, the sky above streaking with a deep crimson. A single flash of lightning arced beyond the obelisks’ pyramidion. It was the only attention she drew there. There was no need for her to indulge him if he would not so much as acknowledge her.
She stopped behind him, tendrils of cerulean fabric pooling at her feet. Her eyes ignored the towering monument now, focussing on him instead. Her eyes raked the form. Curiosity sparked in her eyes. Her steps continued until she circled him, ending nearly a metre from where he stood. She did not know this face, this gilded armour, these eyes of churning tempest. But it certainly enthralled her, drew her in - leaving her with vague familiarity, but nothing more. His features were set in pale stone, like the guardians of the Valley who spoke not the secrets of the Dark Lords.
Either he told her the truth, or he simply raised the stakes in their games. Yet there was no limit in sight for the Sith Lady, no loss beyond her means. She had already bet with the most valuable token she owned. And still she stood before him, bathed in dusky crimsons.
All at once she tilted her head in feigned curiosity and sauntered forth, narrowing the distance, endless second by endless second. She paused again a half metre away, still not wishing to push his boundaries, wherever they lie. The eyes of the seeming-thrall gave her no more information than cowled blackness would.
“One could expect that from a man of such legendary power and sagacity.” Her reply was toned with a misplaced warmth that the air lacked, unnatural and faintly oppressive. She let her annoyance melt in it, eyes blooming into a gilded myrtle. She took a half a step, eyes glittering now. "But if you know all, My Lord... then we can skip the dinner and drinks, I suppose?"
A quirk of a brow answered her question, as that cold gaze turned to a sky newly riddled with resplendent violence. So the brusque nature of his invasion had stirred anger.
Annoyance that bled into her sultry voice, discording with the jangle of her gold tassels as she sauntered up to him. Evidently she was not shy in expressing emotion from either end of the spectrum, even in the presence of an old, old being who eschewed passion in favour of austere, clinical thought and exacting rationality.
His head swivelled to regard her. She was clearly attempting to encroach on propriety; he would have been surprised she had not reached a hand for his shoulder, if he did not know she was wise enough to perceive such presumption would have resulted in swift limb removal. But that was the point of her game. To her, coaxing discomfort from the Emperor at her brazen advances would have been a victory.
Two could play at that game.
"Of course. I, knowing all, know the depths of thy desire." A gauntleted hand reached to caress the slenderness of her exposed back, digging gilded claws deep into ivory skin and sculpted musculature, drawing ragged marks of weeping crimson. The Dark Lord smiled thinly.
"So I will reward your desires by making you the Handmaiden you disguised yourself as, and in those times of fancy I wear skin," he referred, of course, to his habit of possession, "you will serve me in all manners of the flesh, as I bid thee."
The obelisk Viscretus had ignored crumbled as a woman's shrill, distant cry echoed throughout the landscape. From that collapsing tower of obsidian stone came a wave of dust and thaumaturgic power, carrying the scream of imminent doom.
Dreadwar smiled, blood seeping from splitting cheeks as his grin impossibly widened into a rictus gash.
The wave of power passed over and through them, the earth shaking.
"We shall make congress as I destroy the very stars in heaven, and all shall follow our example into a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom."
As Dreadwar spoke, the sun hastened its journey, whirling around the mental simulacrum of a sky, rising and falling and rising and falling in a dizzying dance. The forests wilted and died, the sounds of the waterfall dried to parched silence, leaving the pool they had climbed from a toxic lake of stagnation, and when at last Dreadwar's hand rose from the ravaged small of her back to grab her chin, the landscape had become an endless desert.
"As Ambria was scourged by the folly of the sorceress in her tower," he gestured around him, "so shall I ruin you."
The barren scenery receded below their feet. But the Hssiss dragons that stalked its arid surface only grew closer, their teeth nipping at Viscretus' exposed flesh, gnashing in the darkness of empty space they now found themselves in.
All semblance of humanity had fled from Dreadwar. Surrounded by the nuclear furnaces of creation, he seemed as a dark god, crowned by the gold of stars and wearing the blackness of the interstellar void for a cloak. Nebulae streamed from his hand like a bloodshine lightsaber, as voices roared in the darkness, accompanying a cacophony of imagery.
Tentacles. Pyramids. Blood and bone and stone and copper, stars winking out one by one, frothing insanity, hordes of rabid dead. A great hand of baleful green reaching, and a scream that rendered silent the Force...
"Is that what you want?" The fabric of the non-reality distorted. Dreadwar was gone, now. There was only horror without name, mammalian beasts breaching the amniotic sac of their birth, galaxies colliding, babbling incomprehension and the death of the cosmos. Resplendent celestial fire redolent of powers beyond compare. And that terrible voice that had resumed the serpentine quality of a hissing whisper in the void.
"Is that what you desire?"
In a flash, Viscretus was back on the floor of the treasury. The wraith Lord stood above her, simmering with amused cruelty.
For a moment there was only breathing, the whooshing of a chill wind rippling from his empty cowl, and Viscretus' own. "Impudent child." Footsteps receded from her impossibly ringing ears, as Darth Dreadwar walked away. But before he crossed the threshold of the labyrinth whence he came, that dark non-countenance turned to look upon her. And for the briefest moment, there was again that sense of curiosity, a lash of colour against a backdrop of colourless dearth.
She had caught the eye of the Emperor of all Sith.
Viscretus held back a glare to the Dread Lord, blood blazing in her countenance as gales of ice spilled from his. An impudent child...a servant...a handmaiden. A mere slave. A scoff caught in her chest. She rose from the stone with eyes to match the cool greys, flecked with a dulling gold. She quieted now, no more poisoned honey dripped from her words. They were frozen into resignation. Her skirts fluttered into a stiff curtsey.
"If that is what you wish, my Lord."
It could almost be a threat, were it not such a submissive display for the Sith Master. Though as he turned to cross the threshold, so did she turn back towards the displays of trinkets throughout the room. And mere steps ahead was a bust - one whose eyes betrayed nothing, whose lips had torn into bleeding wound, whose gauntlets had ripped into her skin with no regard for the cautious dance she had performed.
She glided over to it, bending to meet the vacant eyes directly, a rush of defiance warming her in the frigid room. Her spine bloomed fire where Stygian metal had gripped her, the room thawing into a blaze of mephitic emotion. A single finger, dipped in black, traced across the rippled stone of hair, down his jawline and to the corner of his mouth. She glanced back briefly to the hall where the Emperor's trailing shadows had not even had a moment to dissipate. The carved face was replaceable, the stone barely a century old.
He had not so much as given her a moment to speak, a moment of his time. She was no harlot, useful for nothing beyond her mortal body, no planet to be conquered and brought to damnation by his malignant desires. The mere thought was insulting.
I will ruin you.
She smirked, ever so slightly. As if she were some flawless paragon, not ravaged by darkness already, her mind not left as forsaken wasteland before as Ziost or Ambria had been. His ‘threats’ were almost irresistible to her dangerous ego. They dragged her in, hissing humiliation in her ear, purring urges for her to play one step too far. In seconds, she had thought of a million ways to lash out, each syllable he had spoken echoing silently in tortuous vexation as she let them slip into her subconscious thoughts. Yet she would not act on them. It was one thing to tempt, another to foment.
She may have known darkness, but she did not wish to know it unending.
Her mind flickered back to the visions. Searing destruction and endless death, burning and annihilation. Like the divinations of Serenno, endlessly pouring from the fonts and amulets of Vahl. As the priestesses shared with each new generation. Echoes of some past, fused in perverse fashion to the screams of the future, bleeding into each other as they faded.
It was not the warped, vile nature of what he had shown her that had caused it to stagnate in her mind's eye - she had seen far worse. It was the familiarity of everything before her. Even the stars still clung to her churning thoughts, as if she had lived a thousand lives in that moment, submerged in the immeasurable darkness for aeons. He was playing a game on every level, taunting her endlessly. It was not his touch she craved now, no, not something so simple, so...crude. That was a game she could win with little effort, were she to him what he had so flippantly stated. He knew that was far from her final goal. His mocking flirtation assured her that.
It was his mind she craved, his knowledge, his understandings. And he would not indulge her.
"What, no farewell kiss for your handmaiden," she whispered, the remark peppered with a childlike glee, as she tipped the bust to the floor.
The clatter of stone on stone echoed for a moment. She stepped back, her slippered foot glancing against a shard that had managed to escape. The nose of the bust lay between her and the pedestal, and the marble visage - now more fractured than his macabre visions - rested beside it.
Did she just -
Dreadwar turned. In a fit of childish pique, Viscretus appeared to have - no, she actually had knocked over a bust of his old body's countenance. No doubt she had recognised the previously unknown features from his appearance in her mind.
Relieving himself of the hawkish nose he had been born with had been a bonus of ridding himself of his body millennia ago, but he found the presence of its stone image on the floor somewhat insulting. My, my, she is a feisty one. As amusing as it had been to him, to threaten someone who had once held the galaxy by the throat with the ignoble fate of serving him as a slave, she seemed to have taken the jest more seriously. In all fairness, Dreadwar had little problem with her misinterpretation.
His Handmaidens were not a harem as he let curious Sith conclude they were. No, no, they were yet another stopper between Dreadwar and his ultimate fear: death. Many Sith Lords had pursued immortality; Darth Vitiate, Darth Andeddu, Darth Sion, Darth Plagueis, Darth Sidious, Darth Krayt, to name but a few. But all of them were wise fools, pursuing only one art of conquering death, rather than investing in an index of possibilities. An ageless body, as with Dreadwar's master Dathka Graush, had still been very vulnerable to the daggers of Dreadwar's elite assassins. A sorcerer who could save others from death, could not save himself from Palpatine's wrath while lost to a drunken sleep. Palpatine himself, dependent on shuttling his consciousness between clone bodies, had been left on death's threshold when his clone supply had been destroyed - and kicked over it, in a failed rite of essence transfer, by the spirit of that Jedi whose name was too long for Dreadwar to care to remember.
Dreadwar was not a fool. He had approached the issue of mortality with the ingenuity of paranoia, attacking the problem from every angle, along every line and intersection of potential demise, layering backup plans on backup plans. One such backup plan was the ritual of the Sith Battlelord, devised by Darth Rivan in the Draggulch Period to solve the problem of desertion and treachery on the battlefield. The Sith Battlelord ritual was a dangerous one, requiring a Sith sorcerer to drain themselves of blood until they were on the cusp of death, and letting - and trusting - their servants to ritually parade in the pool of their spilled blood, chanting in the Balc tongue, until a Force Bond of near-physical strength was forged. More often than not, this ritual killed the Battlelord, which is why even the few Sith knowledgeable of the sorcery attempted it.
Thanks to essence transfer, however, Dreadwar had been able to attempt and fail the ritual several times without risk, and after expending a handful of bodies, succeed. His reward was vast. The Handmaidens were the servants he had chosen to bound to him in the ritual, chosen from attractive females so as to mislead his enemies and obfuscate their true purpose. The Force Bond was of such intensity that they could not stray more than fifteen kilometers from Dreadwar without falling to illness and death. But the important part of the ritual was that any attack on Dreadwar - even by the Handmaidens themselves - could be magically transferred to them. Similarly, any attack on an individual Handmaiden could be distributed among the entire cadre; a lightsaber to one's breast would instead manifest only as mild burns on all of them.
Dreadwar was not altogether disinclined to utilising his art of possession for the purposes of the flesh - indeed, in the days of his relative youth he had abused his newfound power in many dalliances - but his Handmaidens were not for such base purpose. This Viscretus, however... She was a breed apart.
An object of true amusement, and indeed a much-needed break from the tedium of running a government while attempting to thread the fate of the galaxy through the prophesied eye of a needle. She knew how to play the game, and in a civilisation where only his fellow Triumvir Insipid, until now, had provided the sport of challenge, her daring was appreciated.
"Did your spying my true form addle your senses so?" Dreadwar answered her ridiculous question, his hiss warped in the strangeness of mirth. "I am shadow without flesh, and my hood as empty as the void between stars."
Viscretus spun at his re-entrance, shards of marble crumbling to dust beneath her feet. For a moment she expected another blow to her pride. That he would simply silence her once more. And in fact he did, for she found herself momentarily speechless at his remarks. Her thoughts collected themselves somehow, through the ever-thickening miasma and a surprise she could hardly mask. A glint of amused fascination behind slightly bowed head was all she could muster.
"And so you are, now. Yet shadow is no less captivating, when you think of all that darkness could possibly hold."
"Hold captive, perhaps," he returned. "In the daarknesssss of Chaossss... straining to be unleashed upon the galaxy once more."
"And I won free." A shadow cast by a greater god, he thought, but did not say aloud. "Holding knowledge and lore of shadow and flame, beyond even the wildest imaginings of the Sith of the present day."
She mulled his words over, with curious glance toward his vacant guise. An offer, perhaps, but surrounded with cryptic...prophecy? His true intentions were mystery to her. For what would he possibly hold in Chaos, a realm of the failed, a graveyard of endless torment? Her lips pursed in silent contemplation. It was senseless, she resolved, words of abstruse antiquity intended to pique her insatiable curiosities.
"I believe I can imagine such things, Lord," she replied pointedly, yet with subdued tone. "Yet, merely imagine."
"And you seek me out as the realisation of your imaginings," Dreadwar said. "The dispensary of hoarded lore beyond your ken." The whisper cleared itself of the harsh rasp, becoming more sibilant in pondering.
"Fallen Empress of numberless worlds... tell me. How were you initiated in the dark arts?"
She nodded, once, eyes flickering with the lust of knowledge - silver embers flaring soon after with his address of her.
"A woman found me, once the Galactic Empire had fallen, though I had left it long before it lay in deserved ashes." She paused. There was more, for her entire existence had been woven with darkness - but she did not know what truths he sought of her. Certainly he had seen everything in his search prior, for they were such menial things. "She knew of my past with startling accuracy, spoke airily of visions and riddles I had scoured the galaxy to solve. I met her but once, and spent decades following her instruction. To lead the Ember from Serenno."
"This I know," Dreadwar replied, "from my perusal of your palace." Viscretus would think he referred to her mind, but a being capable of propagating Force Phantoms across the galaxy would be foolish indeed not to have scouted and plundered her redoubt on Naboo. And Serenno... Serenno he had visited long ago.
"But my question is narrower. From one meeting with Lumiya, how did you master the darkness so, to be elevated above all fǫlna-eldr as the latest in the Viscretus line?" An invisible smile creased his spirit, knowing Volshe would be utterly caught off-guard at his knowledge of the ways of the Ember cult.
Lumiya? Her eyebrow quirked. There was no Lumiya. Lumiya had survived decades beyond their first and final meeting, life ended only by Luke Skywalker. And yet the Dread Lord seemed certain in his assessment. There was no probing behind his words, no urging for facts.
Most curious.
"She referred to herself as Lady Immaculata. Darth even, as though she belonged to some Sith Order. But she was deceased soon after, as was widely reported. No doubt as her limbs and entrails were found strung from banisters of a long abandoned maison." Should he have an explanation for such a tale that countered his seemingly cogent recollection, she would welcome it.
She allowed herself a smile at the query that followed, answering it with simple sweetness. "It is not about mastery, but potential. Destiny, if one wishes to be romantic about it."
"Darth Immaculata was the title I bestowed upon the woman born Shira Brie," Dreadwar explained, ignoring her suggestive word choice, "after her failure with Carnor Jax."
One of Lumiya's many apprentices - Flint, Jacen Solo and Volshe had been others - Carnor Jax had been far less of a failure than Lumiya thought; he had fulfilled Dreadwar's purpose in sabotaging Palpatine's clone supply, and it had been Dreadwar, and his undead Shadow Council in Korriban's Great Temple, that had guided Palpatine's spirit back to the tampered clone after his third death above Da Soocha. It had been Dreadwar whose frightful spirit Palpatine had consulted, and shown Palpatine the pathway to his demise in the Oracle Stone - an insane attempt to possess the infant Anakin Solo. Thus had Dreadwar machinated the fall of a potential rival.
The Oracle Stone had passed to Lumiya, and through psychic communion with her - an introduction that had shattered her mind and macerated her body yet further - Dreadwar had inducted her into the True Sith, and worked his will further upon the galaxy, readying it for the day of his ancient Empire's return. One of those designs had bore fruit in the woman before him.
"But it was not destiny that allows you to summon elemental storms at your whim. You are powerful, Lady Viscretus, and I would know whence your power flows."
She should have known. It almost seemed right to erupt into pealing laughter at his correction. The mysteries of existence always unravelled back to him, a god amongst lords, who had orchestrated even her rise through his moves of celestial dejarik.
The pieces fell into place now, one by one. His knowledge of her past was not simply skimmed from her mind - it was something he had witnessed himself, through his own allies.
"Of course," she answered both statements at once, with flattered expression hidden behind stately mask. "My power - derived from more than a century of study on Serenno, dedicated solely to fulfilling these prophesies of a chosen one. Kjósa, Viscretus...inamsi. One decided by the goddess Vahl herself, even through the endless labyrinths of Chaos. As many were in previous eras. I am not the first to wield the elements with such ease, such skills are far from unique to the Ember. And none survived in the end, for even the chosen are not guaranteed resilience. Though," she placed a finger to her chin, in thought, "I know of none other who has scorned death as I have. None who have viewed it as such an iniquitous plague upon the Galaxy, nor who delved into the tomes and holocrons with such intent to destroy it. None who have sought such immense power and wizened soul to aid in such heteroclitic goals."
"Except, of course, the Heresiarchs who founded the very Sith Order," Dreadwar replied, beginning to pace around her, "in their exile from the Jedi Order they sought to redeem, and set to the cause of conquering death. Of course, the Schism they wrought was prompted not by Ajunta Pall; he merely inherited leadership of the surviving pioneers."
He stopped after a half-circle, turning with a swishing of dark robes to face her. "Tell me, in all of your perusing of the tomes and holocrons, did you come upon the name... Ku'aaaar... Danaaaar?"
It was common practise amongst the Sith to defy death, and even the Ember - as distanced as they had become from the Orders - had used the knowledge of ancients to safeguard their identities against time. Most in a hope to rise again, to defy their final fates, risen from the dust by artefacts and rituals of old...she counted his steps, silently wondering if they would close the distance between them once more.
"Ku'ar Danar?" Her voice melted into accented velvet, and her eyes scanned the vacant darkness before her. "Indeed, a name without history, in its scarcity. Grand enough to be recalled, though never enough to be venerated. Lost to time as countless others."
"His name was not lost to Sli'hon Tahar," Dreadwar countered. "A great Jedi historian studying under the auspices of Kreia. He believed Ku'ar Danar had orchestrated the Hundred-Year Darkness, which would have made him, quite impossibly, a Sith Lord who predated the founding of the Sith Order some seven thousand years ago. More impossibly still, he believed Danar had tutored Naga Sadow, who reigned two thousand years later."
The Dread-king laughed, a horrid hissing thing of seething ridicule. "Clearly Sli'hon Tahar was confused about his dates. As confused as one of the predecessors in your line, an Inquisitor of the Cold War by family name of Kallig, who claimed her Dashade companion had been buried in Sadow's tomb by Tulak Hord... Sadow's predecessor by centuries." His cowl slowly twisted in mockery, as if to point out the absurdity.
The bloodshine aura of the chambers intensified, as a holocron in the corner suddenly blazed with scarlet fire. Dreadwar turned. He was not one to use holocommunicators, instead preferring to use amulets and holocrons as the Sith of antiquity, communicating through the technomagical lattice of ancient arcana. Only one other, well-versed in such lore, knew how to communicate in like manner.
It was Darth Insipid.
"It appears my Night Herald has finally finished his kaggath," Dreadwar said, approaching the pedestal on which the holocron glowed. "You may go, Viscretus," Dreadwar waved in dismissal, peering into the holocron's depths. "The affairs of the Triumvirate are beyond your station." |
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Volshe
Administrator
.: Empress
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Post by Volshe on Mar 7, 2017 0:06:56 GMT -5
IC: Darth ViscretusInner Sanctum, TreasurySli'hon...Tahar? The name was not familiar. Nor were his beliefs. In fact, his narrative matched no known historical account - not even the most controversial she had examined in her exile upon Serenno. Were he not the one recounting, she would have simply passed the tale as a lunatic's ravings. Instead she cradled the thought in the forefront of her mind, entertaining it as a puzzle with some impossible solution. A derisive hiss of laughter interrupted her contemplations, shattering the illusion of the historian's importance. The fading echo buzzed in the small of her back, a tingling embarrassment she thwarted from flooding into her pale cheeks. "Clearly Sli'hon Tahar was confused about his dates. As confused as one of the predecessors in your line, an Inquisitor of the Cold War by family name of Kallig..."And so he knew even more of her history, of the Ember and the thread they had woven through the tapestries of history. Yet she assumed the thread was no more noticeable than a drab brown, far from the vivid blood and ember clothing the walls. In The Emperor was a library more vast than the Great Veeshas Tuwan, a veritable Oracle resting between two crumbling valleys of sand, towering above her lissome frame. "...who claimed her Dashade companion had been buried in Sadow's tomb by Tulak Hord... Sadow's predecessor by centuries."The stark remark pulled her attention away from such inward views, back to the book of crumbling ash and stains of ink upon her flesh, to the stentorian darkness that ripped through her psyche with clawed gauntlets. To Apollyon, a faint glimmer of obsidian light at the edge of the storm, and the mission that lie ahead. A question caught in her throat - but was interrupted as quickly by a flare of red. "It appears my Night Herald has finally finished his kaggath. You may go, Viscretus." It was no suggestion, no matter of choice. His attention had waned from her, gaze locked into the artefact as it haemorrhaged crimson light. "The affairs of the Triumvirate are beyond your station." It was no suggestion. Her cravings for knowledge and endless questions would remain unsatisfied, at least for a time. She did bow, deeply, before taking her leave. As she stepped through thick tendrils of night to the doorway beyond, she pondered only one thing. For a tomb to exist before its owner, there must always be a reason. Something...or someone. --- HangarIt had been nearly an hour by the time the Sith Lady entered the hangar refreshed, the clandestine gowns now tucked away in her locked drawers amongst useless trinkets. For brief moment, she had wondered whether to return them. In her mind she still doubted the candor of Dreadwar's remarks. She did not bring much with her. Parchments, an amulet of fortification, simple alchemical tools, and datapad tucked into a small bag at her waist. A simple amethyst diadem was laced into her braided hair. Black fabric draped around her in simple skirts, stitched into a v-necked bodice ridged with thin armour. Though no one would see it, for it breached her intended image, the skirts were merely a facade - enforced leatheris leggings clung tightly to her skin beneath them. Her lightsabers had been hooked into her waist as an afterthought. Still she disliked the weight of the blades, as always colliding with her every step. Quite usually it was the tuk'ata she thought to worry about when passing into the Valley - yet this time she did not give a thought about the vicious hounds. Catalyst had already proved his deranged mind, and only kept supporting her cautions. Like all Sith, trust was best earned with mutually assured destruction. For those with cutting wit and brazen soul, it became eminently more important. She glanced about the hangar. Though sparsely populated she did not immediately spot Apollyon by sight, rather by familiar presence. Catalyst and his new friend - or more, if the beasts and demons of the valley were lucky - had not yet arrived. Viscretus closed the distance quickly with a nod to match the hangar's coolness. To her it seemed almost oppressively warm. Even so far from the Sanctum, her skin still burned with the death of frozen cells, her mind still ached where shadow had intruded. Even the din of the hangar seemed deafeningly plain. There was no tempest, no endless shrieking of silence. Only vague ripples of darkness whence she had come. One would expect it to be a relief, to escape something so malevolent, so absolutely pestilent, but her body simply grew more peaked with each moment. She swallowed, wondering if her brazenness had caught up to her only now, leading death to where she stood. Hoping that it was only some effect of the Emperor's infringing on her mind. "I hope you remembered the thermal detonators this time," she smirked through glazed eyes, attempting to clear the air - and her mind - with a reference to previous folly. She sat herself upon a stack of crates and detached from the scene around her, barely focussed on Apollyon. She clasped her hands in silent meditation, attempting to stave off the brewing illness. TAG: Darth Dreadwar, and potentially Padawan4687, Darth Catalyst, TAGSET: False Tomb of Naga Sadow SIDE STORY: Ancient Artefacts
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Post by Darth Dreadwar on Mar 7, 2017 15:07:09 GMT -5
IC: Roba Ledak
Spaceport tarmac, DrallRoba Ledak held a dubious honour. In the decimated clan of Gedyk, he alone was Mando Ori'ramikade. Beyond field marshals, above rally masters, a master of blademasters, a jester to make a mockery of mere commandos. One who laughed in the face of death, and whose resolute commitment to Resol'nare superseded their loyalty to Mand'alor, if the latter was not faithful in upholding the Six Actions held sacred in Mandalorian culture. Not the bread and butter of the clans, but the hot knife that sliced the flesh and spread the gore. A Mandalorian Supercommando. A proud smile creased his aged features, as Chek Mosth spoke - holodroids carried her message far and wide - to the new dawn of the Mandalorian people. Beskaryc Taab had not upheld Resol'nare. He had been no pacifist, no New Mandalorian, it was true, but he had certainly not aligned with the goals of the Death Watch, either. He had not been motivated by resurrecting the forgotten traditions of their culture, nor embraced the deification of war and the need to wage crusade. Indeed, Mandalore the Moderator had likely not even known who Kad Ha'rangir, the great destroyer god, was. The Moderator had been a greedy tyrant, nothing more, a mercenary made large by unscrupulous dealings with the Senate and made famous by his legendary enmity with the former Empress Volshe. In all his sixty years, Roba Ledak had been waiting for an opportunity to change direction. The helmet that Chek Mosth held high represented that opportunity. Chek had killed Mandalore, and claimed his mask. While the visor may not have been the same worn by Mandalore the Ultimate in ancient days, the symbol was a thread of tradition that had stretched back thousands of years, a token of power exchanging hands, from the cooling digits of Taab now clenched by rigor mortis, to the fresh young hands of the one who would hopefully be a worthy Al'Ori'Ramikade. Commander of Supercommandos. "She has slain the false Mand'alor," Roba spoke into the stunned silence that followed Chek's proclamation. "So she has led Gedyk, so should she lead all the clans!" Roba paused, turning to look at the crowd assembling on the tarmac. Turning to look at his clansmen, at his brothers and sisters. "I am Mando Ori'ramikade," he said reverently. "I only follow Al'Ori'Ramikade. Resol'nare demands it. Resol'nare demands Chek Mosth!"He pointed at Chek, nodding his head with fervor. "MAND'ALOR!" He pounded his chest with his fist, leading the Gedyk families in a chorus of beskar gauntlets clamoring against beskar breastplates. Roba turned, still beating his fist. He called again, and this time the swelling crowd called with him. "MAND'ALOR!""MAND'ALOR!""MAND'ALOR!"It would take a long time for the whooping crowd, newly overcome by the spirit of patriotism and pride, to calm down. But when they did, Roba Gedyk approached the one who tradition had anointed Mandalore. As the only Supercommando on-world, he was arguably the natural fit for her new second-in-command, and certainly of highest rank and honour besides her. "Mandalore," his gravelly voice was quiet. "If we may talk at once..." TAG: chunkeymodest
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