The Old Sith Trials

OOC: GM sanctioned post. 

IC: Darth Vassago
-Terminus-

“Yes,” the Agent replied in a labored tone. She gathered what little command of her body that she retained and deactivated the lightdagger. “I act on the authority of the Dread-King.” When she spoke, Vassago was able to see imagery behind her eyes, from the depths of her mind. Scenes flashed before him, notably a memory of her meeting with the eldritch Emperor. An ice-cold image, a silhouette seared onto her retinas, a powerful visage that Vassago could feel pressing against his own mind, his own power. This was not by the will of the agent, or any ability she held, but instead a mere shard of power that even just the echo of this image produced. Vassago did not show any indication of the presence, nor did he flinch at being pressed back. "He sent me here," the woman continued, forcing her eyes shut. She continued on, telling Vassago her reason for being on planet was due to a Force Storm that flashed overhead five standard years ago, and she was sent to investigate any activity that may have followed. Her instructions were to find someone significant, someone powerful enough to conjure a Force Storm that would garner attention off-world. Vassago silently cursed himself, as he knew the Force Storm would draw unwanted attention. He had hoped that by keeping a low profile years after would have dulled any suspicions that had grown off-world, but he underestimated the patience of this one.


"I'm guessing you're who he meant," the Agent straightened her chin as best as she was able, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Vassago. His senescent eyes narrowed under his cowl when he saw the move, but he allowed her to finish. "And I'm guessing you're coming back to Korriban with me…” she began again, starting to go on about the Dread King’s sacking of his rival Lords, but Vassago’s eyes drifted down a bit, to his right side, where Sabba remained. She was by his side, still on her knees with her face on the ground. Her back heaved a bit with her uneven breaths, her fear seeping from her pores without her even realizing it. Her red hair burned like bright embers in the suns of the planet, draped over her shoulders and down into her face. He observed her for a moment longer while the Agent continued, sensing her regret and her fear, knowing well this situation was completely her fault. He could hear the tears forming in her eyes, could hear the near silent current of warm streams beginning to flow down her cheeks. Along with her tearful regret, he could hear her thoughts as though she was whispering to him, directly into his ear. She was scolding herself for her actions in the marketplace, repeating over and over in her mind that she was wrong, that she should have left the girl to her fate, and that she didn’t want to disappoint him. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, pleasepleasepleaseplease have mercy, Master,” she repeated, like a fearful child, praying to her god. In this case, the only god that Sabba knew was Darth Vassago, and she was not only praying silently that he was listening to her, but that he would be merciful.


His eyes lazily turned back to the Agent. The woman was just finishing her words regarding the Dread King. “... But if you know his name, you have to know when the Sith Emperor calls... you answer,” she finished, her tone smug. Vassago found it odd that one would be smug in such a situation. He tilted his head, contemplating what exactly the woman expected to happen next. He ran over thoughts in his mind, thinking the Agent likely wouldn’t take no for an answer, nor would she take to the idea of Vassago simply promising to go to Korriban to meet with the Emperor. Still, perhaps this Agent of the Dread King expected Vassago to gather up Sabba and return to Korriban with her, so that she could then present him and his apprentice to the Emperor like trophies. How convenient, he thought. His next action would decide his fate, something he’d been firmly in control of for as long as his mind could recall. He knew this Agent wasn’t completely powerless, otherwise why send her to find him? The Emperor wasn’t a fool, he certainly knew of Vassago, and knew of his power. He weighed his next action carefully in his mind, knowing that it would not only affect him, but the girl beside him, as well.


“Please,” Vassago began, his voice calm and even. A small sigh slipped from his lips before he continued. “Tell the Dread King…” he paused for a moment, the Agent’s eyes widening, as it perhaps began to dawn on her that she would be returning to Korriban with her prize. Vassago began to twist his wrist slowly, bending with it the strings of the Force that suspended the Agent’s body. “Darth Vassago sends his regards.” With those words, he closed his fist and cut the air in front of him, clutching his hand to his chest. With the motion of his hand, the Agent’s eyes went wide, and she began to feel a pull, though the sensation would be short lived. Before she could comprehend what was happening to her, her ears filled with the horrendous sound of tearing from the inside out. The entirety of her skeletal structure was ripped from the flesh housing it with a vicious gesture of the Dark Lord’s hand. The sickly sound of sinew and muscle, among other bodily articles, sopping to the ground in a heap filled the air for a moment before the bones clattered to the ground in a pile, just a few feet in front of the husk of skin.



Sabba’s head snapped up at the sound of ripping flesh, her tear stained eyes nearly bugging out of her skull at the sight. Her jaw fell open and her bottom lip began to quiver when she saw the bones of the Agent hit the ground with a sickening clack. She began to feel her stomach turn and her head began to feel hollow from attempting to process something so unbelievable. In her time with Vassago she’d seen things die, men and women, but never in such a fashion. As a child, she was impressed by a spear being thrown straight and true, an arrow finding the mark, or a trap going off without any trouble. Never in her life did she think it was possible for someone’s skeleton to be ripped from their flesh in an instant. Truthfully, she’d never thought it was possible for living dead to suck the essence from all living things, nor did she ever fathom that it was possible to traverse space and time while inside a storm. These thoughts, and many others, all flooded her mind, giving her pause. She shuddered thinking what he was truly capable of, the true extent of his powers, and felt her heart sink wondering if she would ever bear witness to it.


It took her a moment, but she regained her composure as best she could, but she hesitated to look up to her Master. She was tremendously fearful of his wrath, knowing well that she had disobeyed him. Her heart rate had not slowed, and she could feel her pulse pounding in her neck. The young woman tried to contain her fear, but she was failing miserably; this was not like the marketplace, or even like the hunt with Renfelt, where she was unsure of the location of her prey. She had control in those situations because she had control of her emotions, of her fear. But when it came to her Master, she had not even the slightest measure of control.


“On your feet, child,” his commanded simply. The tone of his voice didn’t carry any sort of anger, he seemed incredibly calm for just killing another living being. Sabba hesitated, drawing in a long, deep breath.


“Master, please,” Sabba began with a shaky voice. She didn’t move more than an inch, refusing to find Vassago’s eyes in her shame. “Master, I—” her voice cracked, and she stopped herself. She sniffled, trying to clear her sinuses, still refusing to look toward him. She felt ashamed of both her tearful eyes, and her actions in the marketplace.

“Please, my Lord, forgi—”


“I will not repeat myself,” he interrupted her with a stern voice. When his words touched her ears, she swallowed hard and hurried to her feet, pushing off the ground. She brushed her knees off and wiped a hand under her eyes, clearing her face of any remaining tears. Still, she felt too sheepish to meet his eyes and insisted on keeping her chin down, her long hair streaking across her face; the fiery red strands contrasting with her ashy skin.


Vassago turned to face her, his cloak billowing around him, and could nearly see her fear radiating off her body. He was surprised she wasn’t trembling. He was silently pleased that she jumped to her feet so quickly, saving him the trouble of pulling her up against her will. He looked down at her petite figure and extended his slender hand toward her, palm up.

“The manuscript,” he requested simply.


In the commotion, Sabba had nearly forgotten her entire reason for being in the city was the damned book that she’d gotten from the Pantoran man and the Ithorian, back in the marketplace. She reached down into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled the bound book from it, putting it directly into her Master’s grasp. She knew it would be seen as a form of disrespect in her Master’s eyes not to look him in the face when dealing directly with him, and she was not aiming to displease him any further. When she extended her hand to him she gathered her strength and inhaled slowly, her breathing sputtered due to her fear, and looked up to the hooded countenance of her Master. She couldn’t clearly see his eyes under the shadowy hood, truthfully, she could only see a light glisten and the scar that runs down his cheek, but she could certainly feel the judgement of them. Her eyes trailed from the shadows to his long, white beard that was rustling softly in the breeze that was shifting across the plains. Her heart was still racing in her chest, and she knew all to well that his next words would not be praise…


“Do you see what your compassion caused today, girl?” Darth Vassgo’s cloaked silhouette turned slightly, using the manuscript he just received rather than his fingers, to direct Sabba’s attention to the gruesome display behind him. Sabba closed her eyes tightly and turned her head to the side, pressing it nearly against her shoulder. He turned to face her fully and took a step closer, his imposing figure towering over her. “Do you see? Your compassion cost five lives this day,” he continued. He laid the manuscript inside a pocket within his robes and began to pace slowly around his Apprentice, keeping himself within her personal space. He noticed her body stiffen at his words, her eyes shot open with a look of bewilderment. Her lips parted and along with it, a word formed on her tongue, but she was not foolish enough to question her Master. It meant nothing, since he could feel the question rise in her mind, and fall to her heart, wondering where he possibly came up with the figure of five deaths. He continued to pace, walking behind her, and nodded slowly under his hood. “Your actions in the marketplace, casting aside your anonymity, placing yourself in unnecessary danger…disobeying your Master, all in the name of saving a pitiful insect.” Sabba blinked slowly, pursing her bottom lip at his words. She believed he was only seeing things the way he wanted, refusing to see the potential good she did. She turned her eyes to her left, following the cloaked figure that came into her peripheral vison. He placed his staff before him, aiding him with each step, the gentle impact on the ground causing vibrations to travel into her toes. “Your act of mercy cost that girl her life. She was killed, not but thirty minutes later, by members of the same guild as those men you killed. You see,” he paused briefly, coming to a stop in front of Sabba. “They feared the girl was a Force user, a sorcerer, to their uneducated ilk, and that she was responsible for the murder of her would-be captors. The fools murdered her…because of you.”


The grim words hung heavy in the air. Sabba’s face fell blank and appeared to turn a whiter shade of pale. Her bottom lip began to quiver, and her chest heaved. The Dark Lord’s hooded head turned slightly to the side as he witnessed the girl before him begin to succumb to her grief. She began to speak, trying to formulate words, but the only cohesive bit coming through her lips was the word “but”, repeated over and over. With his head cocked to the side, Vassago raised his free hand, his slender fingers outstretched toward his Apprentice.


“Do you see? Your feelings, your compassion, will bring about your death,” he stated lowly, his voice hauntingly dark. Sabba could not believe her actions had such repercussions, she couldn’t believe the feeling within her. So hollow. She turned her green eyes, damp with tears, upward toward Vassago, then quickly toward his outstretched hand as he brought it closer. “Witness…” he hissed at her, and with that he placed his hand upon her forehead, wrapping his fingers to her temples.


With his touch, Sabba’s eyes rolled back into her head, exposing the whites of her eyes, and her jaw tensed, as did her entire body. A remorseless cold fell over her core, radiating outward, causing the horripilation of her porcelain flesh. Despite the frigid feeling of her body, her skin became lethally hot, the stark contrast throwing her inside into disarray. In her mind, however, something else entirely was happening. Behind her eyes, and throughout her mind, she could vividly see flashes of the young Togruta girl running, finding herself trapped by no less than a dozen gang members. Her mind flash, a thunderous crash, and she saw the young girl mercilessly beaten and killed before her eyes; the gang members burned the unrecognizable corpse in an open bonfire. Sabba’s eyes, still white, began to flood with tears, a silent scream of horror forcing from her cords. The veins throughout her face, down her neck, and across her entire body, began to swell, pushing up from her skin from the trauma. Vassago clenched his teeth behind his lips, pressing his palm harder against the flesh on his Apprentice’s forehead. Sabba’s retinas nearly burned with the images flashing, her body pulsing with the energy that her Master was channeling into her with the mere touch of his hand.


The image of the dead child faded, replaced with crashing lightning, fire, and smoke. When the smoke began to clear within her Mind’s Eyes, she could see a vision of what appeared to be her Master, laying on his back, gasping for air. A figure appeared over him, dark and foreboding, and within the vision, she saw herself. There, she ran to her Master’s side, knelt beside him, and began to beg, pleading. The sounds were muffled, echoing, and completely distorted; she couldn’t hear the words, even if she wanted to. The vision continued, and she witnessed the looming figure approach her downed Master, where she knelt, and decapitate her with the single swipe of a violet blade, a blade that appeared to be made of pure fire. The moment the tendons in her neck were severed, the vision exploded into a murky haze of contorted, tortured voices, and whispers from those living and dead.

The silent, breathy scream begging to escape her lungs became a very loud shriek when Vassago pulled his hand away from her forehead. The sudden removal of his channeled powers caused her head to snap back, like whiplash, and she was immediately reduced to her knees. She inhaled sharply, taking in all the oxygen she possibly could, and began to sob uncontrollably. The Dark Lord looked down at the shattered heap of humanity that he had effortlessly reduced his Apprentice to within two minutes. He looked down his nose at her, listening to her labored breathing, and uncontrollable crying and felt very little in terms of remorse.


“You will learn, or you will die,” he stated in a dead tone. With his words, he slammed his staff down, causing reverberation through the ground around the two, and in a plume of twisting dark energies, Vassago took to the air in the form of a raven. He circled over Sabba, still crying, and the remains of the Agent for a moment before breaking off and making for his dwelling beyond the plains, in the forested outskirts of the planet.



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Outside the hut, the winds had picked up, whipping against the wooden walls. The smaller bones, that were used as accents to the hut, clicked together, adding to the chorus of sounds coming from the deep forest. Inside the dwelling, Renfelt stirred calmly at a large pot of steaming soup, full of different ingredients he collected from out in the forest, or that Sabba had brought back from previous outings into the marketplace. He stood with a large wooden spoon, using both his hands to stir, while puffing diligently on a pipe held loosely between his lips. A small trail of smoke swirled around him, giving the dwelling a light haze.


“The meal is prepared, Voktys,” Renfelt said through his heavy accent. He turned his head to look toward the crude, spiral staircase that Vassago was descending from.

“Fine. Sabba will be returning soon. Ensure she eats,” he instructed. Around his shoulders, he wore a dark, tattered old cloak that reached the floor, covering his bare arms, but hardly any of his exposed chest. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped for a moment, standing beside Renfelt; he could feel the man’s questions hanging in the air without a word spoken. “I’ll not listen to a word of it,” he remarked, attempting to quell Renfelt’s words before they even formed.

“She is but a child, master. Your lessons may be too harsh,” the man shared, despite Vassago’s warning, taking the pipe into his hand from between his lips; in his ignorance, he took Vassago's words as more of an invitation to speak.

“Enough.” Vassago bit back, instantly.

“Leaving her like that? She needed your help.”

“She received it.”

“Master, she isn’t that strong, yet.”

“Enough. She is not your concern,” Vassago scolded. He put his back to Renfelt and began to walk away from the man at the dinner pot, meaning to end the conversation.

“But she is, and she needs care to grow, not harsh lessons!!” Renfelt raised his voice, but the way his own eyes shot open showed he instantly regretted it. Vassago stopped mid-step and shot a look of piercing ice at Renfelt, a look so cold the temperature of the dwelling seemed to drop.

“Hold your tongue, whelp. Or I will not hesitate to remove it from your skull.”

The words thundered from Vassago’s mouth, crashing over Renfelt like a thunderstorm. The aged Lord’s eyes flared yellow, losing their senescent coloring for a second. Renfelt swallowed hard at the threat and stiffened his upper lip. Offering only a nod, he turned his attention back to the boiling pot before him and replaced the pipe between his lips. He knew he’d overstepped his bounds the moment he said anything at all regarding Sabba, but his emotions seemed to get the better of him. He knew, when Vassago threatened to remove his tongue, it was not idle…and he was fortunate to remain among the living.

The subtle sound of a repulsorlift engine being brought to a stop, followed by the quiet whine of engine being switched off, could be heard outside the hut. A moment later the door of the hut was carefully opened, and Sabba stepped into the dwelling. Upon entering she was stopped in her tracks by the sinister silhouette of her Master standing just inside the door frame of the dimly lit dwelling. She lowered her head, hiding her face, and offered only a word: “Master”. She spoke quietly and stood before him, waiting to be dismissed. Without a word, Vassago took half a step back with his right foot, creating space for the girl to move by him unhindered. She took the cue and stepped by him, toward Renfelt and the boiling pot of food. Renfelt quickly grabbed a crude wooden bowl from a shelf behind him, filling it with the steaming soup, and offered it to her. With a soft smile pulling on the edge of her lips, Sabba accepted it from the man, and took a seat on the chair he was quick to offer to her.

Without another word, Vassago left the dwelling, letting the door swing shut behind him, and made his way to a staircase outside, similar to the one in the main dwelling. The staircase led up to a private meditation room, a place that Vassago would retreat to when he couldn’t center himself in the main room, or his personal chamber, above the main room of the dwelling.

Darth Vassago entered the room, latching the door behind him, and waved his hand through the air at the level of his waist. The room was all at once filled with a dim light, a number of candles set around the room coming to life with the Dark Lord’s influence. He pulled the cloak from his shoulders and tossed it to the ground, leaving it in a small heap at the door, and proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor. His meditation and communion with the Force, and furthermore, with Erietta, required silence and a focus that could not be achieved with any distractions. Even the presence of another being, not sitting perfectly still, could be enough to disrupt his connection. He was working, always improving, his connection and ability to commune with Erietta, but the perfection of such meditation would take many more years, still.

The aged Dark Lord began to center himself, steadying his breathing to the point that it would appear he’d stopped all together, and stabilized his heart rate. He rested his hands on his thighs and began to bend and contort his fingers in difficult, painful positions, a practice he learned from Erietta. The position of his fingers channeled different energies and would pull different nuances through the Force to his command. With his focus set, he began to rise from the wooden floor, levitating as he entered his meditative state. The tattoos spanning his bare chest began to glow, coming to life like conduits as different energies began to flow through his body and mind.

Darkness.

“You’ve returned, young one.” A familiar feminine voice carried through the surrounding blackness. Erietta offered a greeting to Darth Vassago as he reentered the astral plane of the Force itself…~

Tag: Darth Dreadwar ,