The Old Sith Trials

IC: Darth Solus
Location: The Citadel, Dromund Kaas

Deleritas made it. Solus’ only reaction seemed to have worked for both of them, but it was still not the path Solus wanted to take. He glanced over his shoulder at the glass tunnel and the still burning pile of rubber from Deleritas’ shoe. Nostrem’s whistling tone met him as Solus looked back, and Solus’ smug smile crept onto his face. He arched his shoulders and let the ice on his skin crumble away. The sharp shards didn’t even reach the ground. It was strange, but something about the tune seemed familiar. Was it a tune from Corellia? Perhaps a cantina tune? Either way it didn’t matter. Solus waited for Nostrem to approach and looked around the room slightly. The dust covered machines reminded him of the tombs on Korriban more than a high tech facility. Nostrem got closer and the tune got slightly louder until the spectre was in the room. His exaggerated breath was a shot at the mortal sith lords and their minor suffering in the heat, but it didn’t irk Solus. After all, I am alive and not forever trapped in my own creation.

“Ah, the beating heart of the citadel. Well, perhaps not anymore. Now it remains still after millennia of abandonment.”

Solus looked around once again and pondered Nostrem’s statement. The place had fallen into disrepair due to the neglect. Nothing looked too far gone or damaged, just run down and a little dusty.

“Tell me, Lords,”

Nostrem looked directly at Solus and something interesting appeared across his face. Despite his clear displeasure there was curiosity. He actually wants to know?

“Does the Emperor still use such inspired technologies? Does he still harness the very power of the world he inhabits to fuel the great engines of the Empire?”

“As a matter of fact, he still does.”

Solus’ mind immediately went to the Emperor. He was sure that the wraith used tactics similar to this. In fact there was an aura that Solus had noticed around the Emperor. It reeked of death and sacrifice. Solus was sure that if the exact tactic used her wasn't used that the Emperor had some way of using the life of a planet to fuel his machines, To fuel himself.

“While the concept remains the same, he has taken a new and innovative approach. Sadly, I do not have as much knowledge on the subject as I would like.”

Deleritas continued to search the room, just as Solus had hoped. Solus remained standing tall. He crossed his hands behind his back and took a breath.

“Perhaps you would be willing to educate me further?”

A chance to talk to Nostrem was finally here. Despite the heat, this may be a good time for Solus to learn a lesson. Wyyrlok definitely had her lessons that she hammered in. Enemies can be the best teachers. Every opportunity is a learning opportunity. If only she had learned before I cut her down. Solus’ mind floated momentarily to the death of his master. Her pleading eyes, the smell of her burning flesh, the raw power in the moment of her death. His eyes flickered with excitement. She may have been abusive, but her lessons were well received.

Deleritas , Darth Catalyst

IC: Darth Apollyon
Treasure Room, False Tomb of Naga Sadow, Korriban

Apollyon's words seemed to land on deaf ears, as Neoplix persisted in foolish bickering that distracted them from their task. "First I sacrificed my armor," his guttural voice rang out from the air somewhere near the pillars, "and the tomb graciously provided a replacement. But you were so kind as to keep me from the armor so clearly destined for me.” Sarcasm was evident in the Gen'Dai's tones. “Then, Jaina Kio freed the Dashade, bringing destruction down upon everyone here. But I, by using these cloths, was able to kill the feared Dashade, ending the threat. But somehow this is still not enough for you? You still stand in the way of fate, and seek to keep from me what is my right. I seek to be free of these tombs, and to travel into the depths, as do you. Let us leave it at that, and go. There is no need for this conflict.”

The sheer raw lèse-majesté of the apprentice's words took Apollyon aback for a second. The insolent fool, she thought, ready to order the entire team to back away, so that she might conjure a death field to suck the life out of everything in a ten meter radius around her. Letting a disrespectful and potentially treacherous Gen'Dai remain cloaked, with such a deadly weapon in hand, was simply too dangerous a possibility to be ignored. Before she could give breath to her command, however, Catalyst intervened in a less lethal manner.

“You speak of destiny, Neoplix,” he said, shimmering into visibility as he seemingly dropped his own stealth, “yet when we found you, you were barely cheating death in a gods-forsaken hole in the ground. Your armor was the price of your rescue and the price of your stupidity. Now, the treasures you hold, you would claim are destined to be yours? You were destined to die in this tomb, and we were kind enough to show you mercy. You should be ever grateful that we did not leave you to waste away on those spikes. Yet you seem to think yourself equal to those who saved you.”

It took Apollyon several seconds to realise this was not Catalyst. Her mental probes were acute, and the form of the Inquisitor beside her did not sing with Catalyst's now-familiar signature. It was an illusion, designed to coax Neoplix out of hiding - but not an illusion the Gen'Dai's less developed telepathic talents would detect. “Perhaps you’re no better than this denizen," the phantasm of Catalyst continued, "who sought to choke the life out of us one by one. Perhaps there’s still time to leave you to rot in a tomb that you don’t deserve. Or, you could at least make an attempt to fall into place and be reaccepted into the Temple proper.” Catalyst’s illusion turned its head back up, seeming to scan the room. “You don’t want to make an enemy of your superiors, Gen’Dai. I’m offering you a solution for peace between us. It would be most unwise of you to turn it down.”

"Well done, Gen'Dai," Viscretus added, crouching as she reached the pile of artifacts she had left behind, picking the chalice up and holding it daintily in hand. She radiated warmth and welcoming in the Force. "Your talents are beyond what even I expected. But Lord Catalyst is right in many regards. We have given you the chance to survive, a chance you should seize graciously. A chance to become immense in power and knowledge. You are not there yet. You are not where you suppose. But, Gen'Dai - you shall one day. Perhaps even as an apprentice..."

Apollyon very much doubted Viscretus' intimation was sincere. The Gen'Dai had proven to be a loose cannon, already, and Viscretus was notorious for keeping her apprentices on a tight leash. No, no, it was more likely, if the Head of Sith Intelligence were to take an apprentice from among the team, she would choose one that would complement the department she ran, such as one of the assassins. The more subtle one, perhaps.

“The first thing you did at the moment of new danger was disappear,” said more subtle assassin called, joining the opposition mounting against Neoplix's impudence. “You are unworthy. You merely dissuade conflict because you know that you will lose. Just hand the tattered thing to Catalyst. Or would you rather another skirmish? Surely you know that you would lose. Or would you rather shoulder humiliation on top of losing all of your goodies? It’s your choice, I suppose.”

Xirr, meanwhile, was electing to focus more on his own treasures, idly querying as he went about changing into the crimson armour set he had discovered.  "Your quest is to find the missing piece of the prophecy that tells where Naga Sadow is truly buried?" He scoffed slightly. "I wasn't aware that you were all on such an important mission. The Prophecy of Naga Sadow is, after all, one of the more well known and, important for lack of a better word, prophecies known in the Empire." The situation unfolding with Neoplix, however, had not missed the keen eye of the Sith Lord. "Oh, and Gen'Dai. Wherever you may be, I suggest you hand the poison blade over to someone more... well versed, than yourself before it gets you in trouble."

"Evidently not so well-known," Apollyon said, her black eyes flicking aside to Xirr, "given that you do not know the contents of the prophecy. The prophecy has nothing to do with where Naga Sadow is buried; that is a separate curiosity. But on the Gen'Dai you are quite right." She raised her voice. "Allow me to rephrase that as an order, Gen'Dai, an order from the Emperor's Hand. Reveal yourself!" She had not raised her hands, but if Neoplix's vision was as keen as his Gen'Dai physiology indicated, he might detect the subtle vibration of her fingers, and sense the malicious air of the tomb beginning to fold in on itself - the sign a powerful Force-user was beginning to exert a pull on the Force.

But that was not all that was exerting a tug on the Force. Despite her conscious effort to not draw on the dark side, Jania's amulets were rapidly growing warm - and Robyn, standing near her, would see them beginning to glow.

TAG: Darth Catalyst , gorzan , Volshe , Shira , Padawan4687 , @lordjania , dice

---

IC: Ermir Marcus
Dungeons beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban

"How many minutes until you shut your trap?" Ermir shouted over the roaring of the laser-borer, reminding Arcane of what a thoroughly unpleasant being the Sith alchemist was. Ermir's eyes softened slightly as looked down at the impatient Cathar, the Sith Master reminding himself what a help his student had been. We can't kick the kitten too much.

A shrug. "I don't know. Maybe another minute."

Ermir's prediction proved close enough to correct, as, less than a minute and a half later, a sufficiently large hole was gouged in the wall of the rock tunnel. Ermir coughed slightly on the dust saturating the air as he bent down and deactivated the laser-borer, before hopping off the vehicle's uncomfortable metal chair, joining Arcane at the threshold of what could only be their destiny.

As the dust cleared, the passageway became visible. Crimson lights, interspersed every few meters in wall sconces, providing eerie illumination of a stone passage that curved out of sight several meters ahead. Ermir stepped over the rubble into the new passage, turning behind him and seeing a dead-end, leaving only one way forwards: around the bend. "Coming, apprentice?" He called back.

TAG: Arcane

---

IC: Sulat Xon
The Mind of Nox Talus, the Triumphant, hyperspace

Sulat grinned with a mouthful of teeth. "Destroy me?" he mocked. His smile dropped abruptly as he raised a finger to his chin, eyes wandering off as though he was pondering the notion. "Destroy me? Destroy me..." His gaze levelled. "I think not, pathetic little Jedi."

He raised his arms to either side of him, inviting Nox to strike. "If I am a product of your mind, you would only be killing yourself." His arms dropped, and the smile returned. "It would be another fitting end. Nox Talus, death by suicide. Alisha Tano, death by Technobeast infection." His head shook in faux sadness. "Poor little Jedi."

TAG: Darth Voidwalker

---

IC: Darth Bellorum
Torture chamber, Sith Temple, Korriban

A scowl greeted Zul'tar's laugh.

If there was one word that described Bellorum besides envy, it would be pride. That pride underpinned the avarice that fuelled her quest to climb the Sith ranks. Crowns, tiaras and shiny push daggers did not satisfy it; only possessing all that others had, their wealth, their power, could. And her pride did not appreciate Zul'tar's impudence. How dare he not be quailing in fear and wailing in pain?

Perhaps it was time to remind this Dathomirian barbarian who was Sith and who was merely a pretender to dark power. "How cute," Bellorum sneered, her hand caressing Zul'tar's scarred cheek. "Such wit. Such vim. But that is not the answer I am looking for. And if you don't tell me what I'm looking for, then I'll have no choice but to tell Dreadwad," she referred, in her uniquely insulting manner, to the Emperor she begrudgingly served, "that I... misplaced you." She smirked. "Whoopsie." Lightning blasted from her palm at point-blank range - tearing into the bearded cheek she still held in her hand.

The sound of sizzling flesh filled the chamber.

TAG: darthkain7

---

IC: Doctor Lak
Medbay, the Triumphant, hyperspace

Lak blanched. Of course. His white coat whipped around him as he turned to the nurse, shouting, "Run her bloodwork for nanites!" While it was not unheard of for nanites to be found in the bloodstream of those who could afford the rare technology, such devices tended to be benign, often used among Mandalorians, Lak knew, to amplify the body's natural healing ability. A weaponised nanotechnological infection, on the other hand...

It would produce all the symptoms of a bacterial or a viral infection, in its early stages, but it would evade all but the most specialised detection. And its effects... Lak didn't want to speculate. The power of nanotechnology to alter organic chemistry on a molecular level was not unknown to him, and it was a lot easier, after all, to destroy than to heal.

It did not take long for the nurse to return, handing him a datapad with an urgent look on her face, and Lak's face paled, if possible, even further, as his eyes rapidly scanned the data readout. He engaged in a quick whispering conversation with the nurse. They were conversing at too low a volume for Alisha to catch all of what they were saying, but she did catch the tail-end: "Get Lady A'dola here at once." As the nurse scurried off, Lak placed the datapad on the bedside table, angled away from Alisha, and his voice was quiet and grave when he spoke again. "Lady Tano," he said, "your blood has tested positive for an unknown nanotechnological agent. Well... that is to say... I am afraid... that might be understating things a little."

He picked up the datapad again, turning it so that Alisha could see. Beneath lines and lines of Aurebesh, there was a picture of a petri dish. "This is where the blood drawn from you earlier had been deposited." Had been was the operative phrase, as not one fleck of red remained. Instead, there was a strange silvery substance that had seemingly congealed on the dish, from which sprouted the budding tips of electronic wires. "It... It... This nanotechnological virus... Lady Tano, your cramping, your nausea, might be stemming from this nanotechnological virus attempting to convert the organic tissues of your innards into the silicon of cybernetics, just as it is doing with the much smaller target of your blood sample. I... I fear this infection means to transform you into one of the cyborgs that was attacking the Triumphant."

The nurse barreled down the passageways of the Super Star Destroyer, almost colliding with an Imperial Knight as she turned the corner to the corridor where Shira A'dola stood, alongside Sabba, the avatar of Empress Volshe and a retinue of guards. "Lady A'dola!" The nurse shouted. "You need to come to the medbay immediately! It's Lady Tano, milady!"

TAG: Padawan4687 , Shira, Volshe, Lord Vassago

IC: Zul'tar
Location: Torture Chamber, Korriban

The brute howled in pain as the Sith Lord's lightning boiled his flesh, turning his cheek a grotesquely bright red as his skin began to retreat from the bolts of dark energy. He wanted to lash out at her, to tear her throat out with his bare hands. His imaginary fingernails biting into her skin and piercing through, the warm blood seeping past his fingertips as he pressed forward, deeper and deeper until he reached her imaginary spine. But he was powerless. Even with the Force he wouldn't be able to phase her. If only he had his axe...

Blast it!, he thought as she continued her barbaric methods of torture. He tried speaking through the pain, even as he felt the electricity pulsing through his teeth.
"You know damn w--well I have no idea what you're t--talking about! You're d--doing this f--for kicks.That's all you're going to get from th--this."

IC: Darth Viscretus / Empress Volshe & Særli
False Tomb of Naga Sadow / The Triumphant

Viscretus did not so much as indulge the insolent brat, who thought he could question even her feigned wishes. She turned away, towards the darkened passage that the group had yet to traverse. The political fall she would take would be far greater than any satisfaction she could possibly gain.
Neoplix’s time would come later. She certainly had an arsenal at her disposal to complete such a task.

She proceeded towards Jania and Robyn, prepared to give them her orders. Apollyon did not need them, but she could make use of them. The twin assassins as well, and so she prodded their mind rather urgently to join the band of peons she was assembling. Another tug exerted itself, this time on her mind. Not greater than that of the Triumphant, where she was awaiting response - some time dilation, some perception alteration triggered by the strain of the illusion and traversing space, she figured - but great enough. With a breath she focussed on the origin...beside her.

She was now well aware of the power siphoning into the artifacts Jania had claimed yet again.

“With me, all of you. Perhaps you first, Jania,” she instructed, motioning to the doorway ahead and waiting for them to file ahead of her. “Let us see what lies ahead.”

Once they were inside, she would deal with that which they had claimed that she desired. She proceeded to follow behind them, her breath suddenly leaving her, her mind suddenly pulled back by a jarring voice. A woman, even. Yelling. She stopped following the group she had assembled. Her attention did not even stray to the scene unfolding in the very same room - where Catalyst was dealing with Neoplix.

The urgent voice continued, pounding in her mind. Shrill, grating, a klaxon in the vast space cushioning her taxed neurons.

"Lady A'dola! You need to come to the medbay immediately! It's Lady Tano, milady!"

It was no trick of the tomb. Her focus waned from the tomb, the chaos of her mind centering on the nurse who had just rushed into view upon the Triumphant.

Særli interjected, just as her vision cleared and the whirring ambiance of her flagship became audible once more. "Tano? What's happening now?"

The question was futile, just a waste of time when she knew her physicians would not request Shira's presence for merely any reason. The Empress’ hand shot up, motioning to the knights surrounding them with quick, silent instruction. Her eyes locked with Særli's, then her Hand's. She did not give Shira even another moment to think, gathering her illusive taffeta skirts and hurrying ahead into the passage whence the nurse had come. 

TAG: Darth Dreadwar, Darth Catalyst, gorzan, Shira , Lord Vassago, probably Padawan4687 , dice, @lordjania, anyone else when I remember them
TAGSET: Triumphant/UR and TAGSET: Korriban

IC: Warlord Zhav'vorsa
Imperial Medbay, Sith Temple, Korriban

Zhav’vora’s snort of displeasure did not go unnoticed by Dreadwar, but his response was tame regarding what he could have done. A scream, a warning, throbbed within Zhav’s mind, causing him to lose focus, like an axe splitting through his skull. It didn’t cause him to fall to his knees, but the pain was blinding, incredibly distracting. His eyes went foggy for a time and he largely missed Dreadwar’s details on the hunt, and the subject of it. However, he was able to regain his composure enough to hear the follow-up from the robed figure, and the inquiry that followed did not have a simple answer.

The Warlord’s eyes fell to his brawny arms, the somewhat cracked warpaint that was emblazoned upon them, and his upper body, laced with scars. He drew in a breath while regarding the shadowed figure with a glance from beneath his brow.

Just the mention of his flesh, the markings upon it, reminded him of the cold, unsympathetic stone he was fastened to. And an equally callous Council standing sentinel around him as he howled in pain. He could feel the muscle and sinew ripping from his arms and shoulders and chest, his back and legs all over again. The ritual he endured, the one that transformed him from a normal Dathomirian into the brutish juggernaut that stood before Dreadwar, was agonizing. It was more excruciating torture than a ritual to him.

Reflecting on the events, he recalled being dead, or feeling as if he had died. There, tied down to a stone slab in a dreary cave on Dathomir, he felt himself pass into the next life. He drifted into what felt like a merciful sleep, though his mind was full of distressing, torturous nightmares. Visions of scourge, of war, of murder, rape, and death. Vivid visions of a winnowing throughout the lands of Dathomir, and beyond, seared his mind. Within this realm of death, he saw a foretelling of events to come, perpetrated by his own hand.

When his eyes shot open, he heard a voice within the cave, backed by a chorus of ominous hums. It was the Council, led by his mother; not his mother in the sense of the Nightsister Matriarchy, but his biological mother. The woman that bore him from her own womb. She stood over him, his body born anew, no longer just a man. But an instrument, and something much more terrible. “Witness, Sisters. Born from death this day, Vezhven Zhav’vorsa, the Lord of Terror on Dathomir. May he bring terror to those throughout the Galaxy in our name.” Her words rang, drenched with a hideous, lustful tone of the powers infused within him. She raised her hands above her head, stretching them out to present their creation; a pale serpent, slick and fanged, slithered across her shoulders, its body wrapped around her hand. The eyes of the serpent glowed red, as red as blood, and hers matched. Her son, her own flesh and blood, alchemically enhanced, infused with the dark powers of their Magick in a ritual to The Left-Handed God and the Mother of the Fanged God; he was no longer just a man at all.

“He will be the Champion of the Left-Handed God, of the Mother of the Fanged God,” she began again, speaking over the hums from the other Sisters of the Council present. “He will be our champion. And none shall oppose us.” Her lips curled wickedly, and she shook the staff in her left hand causing the skulls that adorned it to clank together in a dark symphony, like a twisted windchime.

And so was born the Lord of Terror on Dathomir, Zhav’vorsa.

It came as a slight surprise to Zhav that Dreadwar recognized the markings, not just the paint and scars, which would be obvious to anyone, but the actual tissue differences of his flesh. The fact the robed being noticed raised multiple questions in his mind. It implied more than just a trained eye or an acute sense. Much more. However, Zhav’vorsa was not the one asking questions at that time, so it would have to wait.

“A shaman in my Clan, Thu’ruk,” he began simply, taking a step backward, “he is an adviser of mine, and communes with the spirits on Dathomir.” The large man sat down, lowering himself onto a medical bed behind. He rested his weapon, the great blade, beside him, leaning it against the rail of the bedding. His eyes turned up to Dreadwar once more before continuing. “The spirits told him there is power to be had among the red sand…” He trailed off for a moment, thinking back to Thu’ruk’s counsel…


~Dathomir, 2 months earlier~

An aged man with long, dreaded hair entered the commodious tent. A massive fire, bordered by stones, crackled in the middle of the area; glowing embers and smoke escaped through a large opening in the top of the tent. The stars in the night sky, visible through the opening, twinkled above like small glistening jewels. A large table with a half-eaten feast was off to his right as the man made his way through the tent. The crunching of pebbles beneath his feet came to an end when he reached a stretch of large makeshift rugs, made from the hides and pelts of fallen prey. The pelts led up a single step to a throne, of sorts. The throne itself was crude, made of wood and bone, covered in tanned hides, manes, scalps, and other such trophies of the Clan. Half a dozen women surrounded the throne in various states of undress; some lay bare at the foot, while others, partially covered, hang at the armrests, and some leaned against the backing.

Thu’ruk approached the throne and turned his eyes to the man upon it, the Warlord Zhav’vorsa. He knelt beside the two bare women at the foot of the throne and looked up to his Warlord from under his brow. The paint under his eyes and along the bridge of his nose was beginning to crack from days of wearing it within the elements; when Thu’ruk communed with the spirits on Dathomir, he did so within the wilds, not the comfort of the tents.

“Great Warlord, Stacker of Corpses. The spirits have spoken to me from somewhere beyond,” he told Zhav, bringing his hand palm-up to show a small swirl of green energy.

“And what do they tell you, Thu’ruk?” The Warlord asked of his adviser, his mind only partially focused on the idea of the spirits speaking. Zhav’vorsa knew that Thu’ruk spoke to the spirits nearly daily, and often enough his communion would lead to nothing more than jumbled puzzles that bored him. While he listened, the Warlord’s hands wandered across the bare painted flesh of the woman closest to his throne, her bare behind resting on the arm of his throne.

“The spirits have shown me a world of red sands.” Thu’ruk told him.

“Red with blood?” He answered quickly, turning his eyes from the nubile flesh of the woman.

Thu’ruk inclined his head and his tone grew dark. “The powerful blood of the dead.” Zhav’vorsa chin lifted, his interest piqued with such a statement, and Thu’ruk noticed. “The red sands of Korriban. A planet home to the Lords of the Sith and their tombs.”

Zhav’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling beneath his unkempt facial hair. “Tombs? I have no interest in a world that is already conquered, Thu’ruk,” he answered with a sigh, his interest lessening with the mention of “tombs”. But Thu’ruk was not dissuaded.

“But Warlord, Korriban is brimming with power, surging with spirits. A planet where death has no real meaning. The tombs do not contain the dead, merely house their secrets. The sands are rich with knowledge and power that would rival even that of the Nightsisters. With this power, you could embolden your forces and the Howling Blade Clan could conquer worlds, realms beyond Dathomir.” He explained, watching the Warlord’s face swell with interest, and already anticipated the follow-up. “There’s a temple there, not like the others. The spirits have shown it to me. Many congregate there--”

“Then I will conquer it!” Zhav shouted, sitting up and slamming a fist down before Thu’ruk could finish. “Send word to the warband, we will make preparations to transport the Rancors at—”

Thu’ruk stood and raised a hand, stopping Zhav before he could continue. “No.” The Warlord’s eyes narrowed at the words, and he bore his teeth from behind his lips. “This is not a rival Clan or tribe on Dathomir, Battlelord. This is a Sith temple. There is no hope to conquer it, you must seek them out and appeal to them, to learn of their knowledge.” he paused for a moment, gathering his wits about him. He knew the Warlord was not fond of the idea as it was presented, having the mentality of a conqueror, asking for something was foreign to him. But that is why Thu’ruk gave his counsel; while he was of Dathomir and of the Howling Blade Clan, but he was not quite as savage as the rest.

“The spirits were explicit, Zhav’vorsa. You must go…alone.” Thu’ruk’s voice grew grave. He knew sending the Warlord alone would be a difficult idea to get through to him; the Warlord was not dependent on his Clan, but rather, they on him. He would see leaving as potential for the Clan to fail...

In the Medbay on Korriban, Zhav’vorsa turned his eyes to the dark cowl of Dreadwar, seeking any signs of sentient life.

“I have come to the red sands of your world with a thirst for power. Power to lead my warriors, and take my Clan beyond the borders of Dathomir,” he stated, answering the question proposed plainly. “Perhaps your hunt, for this…being, will prove to be a stepping stone in that direction?” He asked, though he did not actually expect a direct answer from the robed being.

TAG: @dreadwar, @darthcoatlec

IC: Shira A’dola
The Triumphant, hyperspace, en route to the Nihil Retreat

"Lady A'dola!" Shira jumped slightly in surprise, turning to the commotion with a frown. "You need to come to the medbay immediately! It's Lady Tano, milady!" The frown disappeared as her already pale face lightened a few shades more in shock. Her mind raced down the Bond she shared with Alisha, only to find it blocked. She panicked for a nanosecond before realising it was still intact. You would have felt it go, she chided herself, following Volshe’s initiative down the halls to the medbay.

“Sabba,” she called, distracted, but she didn’t want the young woman left behind. Her mind raced as she stalked into the medbay, grabbing the data-pad with a murmured apology to Doctor Lak, fingers swiping through the test results. The ball of anxiety shifted to horror and grew as she read the telemetry and blood reports. Pale eyes shifted to her bedded apprentice. “Alisha, you moron,” she murmured. The words fell harmlessly, a product of fear rather than anger, and her thoughts raced more. I can’t heal this, she thought. Threads of despair ran through her soul as she tried to keep her composure. I’m not this good.

White irises flickered back and forth between her best friend and her apprentice, thoughts and ideas flitting as fast as light. She was a good healer, and excellent one, but this was far beyond her ability and Alisha hadn’t the time for her to attempt and ultimately fail. She looked around the medbay, thinking quickly. A thought struck her and fear hardened to resolve. She walked to the other end of the medbay, loading another small canister of stim to a hypo, injecting herself quickly. The resultant wave of nausea and vertigo would have knocked her over if she hadn’t grabbed the railing of the bed beside her. Her knuckles whitened as she hardened her grip, letting out a small, inaudible gasp as she waited for the side effects to fade, her face facing towards the wall, away from any peering eyes. The effects faded, slower than she would have wished, and she knew she was likely creating a spectacle. But, as she walked back and faced Alisha again, she knew it was better to create a spectacle than the alternative she couldn’t face.

Her eyes lost focus as she called on her Darksight, her eyes absent as she stared not at what was in front of her, but the billions of possible futures stemming from right now. She lost focus of what was around her, concentrating as she organised the possibilities from least to most likely.

Shilo.

She came back to herself suddenly, jolting her back to reality. “I’ll be back,” she stated simply, and ran out of the room, heading for the barracks that had been assigned to the remaining Febrayasi refugees. She summoned her Vraeling counterpart urgently and he met her just outside the door, bowing quietly. She gestured impatiently, explaining the situation as best as she was able in rapid-fire Silmarin, the language so much more fluent and effective than the choppiness she found in Basic. Despite the urgency of the situation she found relief and comfort in communicating with her native tongue and she could sense the same in the man before her.

“My Lady,” he stated, voice faltering. “I am a renowned Healer, but I don’t know if I could fix anything like what you’re describing. This is not biological, if I understand you rightly. It’s not a healing so much as an ... eradication of machinery. This isn’t a natural illness.”

“I need you to try. If nothing else, you can persuade her immune system to fight the invading infection, something it doesn’t seem to be doing right now.”

Shilo frowned at her. “You could do as much,” he stated simply.

Shira hissed in irritation, aware that every moment was precious. “Not as well as you could, and you can additionally promote healing in the areas already damaged.”

Shilo’s silver-grey eyes stared quietly and she could feel him probing, but she slammed her shields into place. “You’re unwell, my Lady,” he stated simply.

“Do not focus on me,” she snapped. “There are larger issues to be handled than my fatigue.” She saw his disbelief in the twitch of his lips, the deepening frown in his brow, but he relented.

“Lead on,” he stated quietly, following her as she hurried down the hall back to the med centre. She pointed him Alisha and he took a seat next to her, smiling gently as Shira explained to the others what his intentions were.

“Shilo is a Vraeling and an extremely talented Healer,” she stated quietly, looking back and forth between Doctor Lak, Alisha and Volshe. “He is going to attempt to booster her immune system to help attack the nanites as well as boost her ability to heal what has already been damaged. What else can be done while he works?”




TAG: Lord Vassago, Padawan4687, @darthdreadwar

CHARACTER SHEET





Name: Darth Insipid, originally Aden Kya, occasionally Darth Malthus

Sex: Male, most of the time

Age: Spirit is in its twenties, and hundreds, and neither. Essence transfer is a thing.

Species: Human, always

Homeworld: Which name?

Occupation: Sith Lord, former Dark Lord of the Sith of the New Sith Order.

Height: Variable, in original body less than 6ft

Weight: Variable, in original body less than 11st

Physical Attributes: Prefers a more supple form than not, and the longer he holds a body it will assume his features; turquoise eyes when not golden yellow, paler skin, his spirit makes the body his physical mental image over time.

Clothing: Prefers a simple Sith robe upon a tunic, a holdout sleeve in both arms

Description of Abilities: A charismatic man who is just as proud of his abilities to manipulate someone as he is to kill them, Insipid is a cipher, constantly consuming those he approaches - not in the literal Force drain sense, as he would not partake in self destruction - but by using people around him to for his own ends. More of his kills are those he caused the end of, not his actual hand in the death. An adequate lightsaber duelist, Insipid prefers to wield many abilities rather than master a few, considering that an esoteric strategy or weapon (such as a lightsaber), will win the day rather than a battle of wills. Short version? A liar. But a brilliant one.

Weapons: Single primary silver bladed lightsaber, a single secondary Crimson modified lightsaber, and in one of his two underarm holsters a fletchette pistol.

Bio: Darth Insipid was born a slave. Abandoned by his insane mother, his father a footnote in the struggle after the Battle of Endor. But he found a Sith bloodline willing to uplift him, and he happily discarded the foolish teenager who he despised so, in a galaxy he despised for casting him aside as he emerged from the womb.

Everything was insipid, including he, and so he became Insipid.

In the chaos of the aftermath of the Battle of Endor, he grew strong between competing legitimate and illegitimate Sith influences, many who saw him as just a pawn, but in every instance he carefully cultivated what each Dark Lord or Lady taught to entice him to their allegiance, furnishing each with the information to keep the two from ever becoming true allies. Made a Darth in barely a few months to appease his loyalties - in name but not in knowledge - Insipid found that he had a skill for deception, and managed to manipulate the reigning Dark Lord into allowing him to infiltrate other Sith cults, all of which he kept to himself the knowledge of the treasures they held, and with every cult annihilated by the Dark Lord he seized more secrets for himself, knowledge he would not share with the Order, and even though his initial Holocron collection was of lesser Sith, he eventually broke from Darth Krayt and stole his collection, only to dangle them in front of his former Dark Lord. Having no desire to plumb the depths of a single Holocron and master it, which took more time than Insipid was willing to dedicate to any one teacher, Insipid discarded them all, repeating the process of offering Holocrons to groups with Sith knowledge to entice them to revealing their secrets and destroying them.

Until he found the Holocron of Darth Gorog.

Night Herald of a Sith lineage older than any he had ever encountered, until he met Darth Dreadwar, Insipid kept that Holocron for himself and plumbed its depths, finding a true master at last. From its depths he plucked the skill of Essence Transfer, and the germ of Celestial Instinct, splitting his conscious, unconscious and subconscious, becoming completely impossible to anticipate as to his intent; a skill bequeathed to Darth Gorog to turn against the Celestials - because even Insipid did not know what he intended.

(From its depths he could have plucked the secrets of the application of Celestial Instinct to his fighting technique, Shield of Doubt, and Old Wounding, but Insipid convincer himself that he knew all he needed to. Shield of Doubt he knew was concealed in the depths of Gorog, as Lomi Plo mastered it, but Insipid cared not for that skill).

Returning to a Sith group with a strength to it that had allowed it to survive a civil war in the shadows of Moraband, he manipulated the reigning Dark Lady into expending her energies on reunifying the Order and then usurped her place, before discovering power was boring; the game, the infiltration, the manipulation, was much, much more fun. Having frittered away at his support and the Order itself, it was only a matter of time before Darth Insipid found a more enjoyable past time; joint rule with three Dark Lords, seizing upon the older tenants of the Rule of Three and attaching himself to all the millennia of the Sith. Dreadwar was the Emperor. A third would have to be found.

However even this was fraught with peril.

As we would see.

"(Sith characters only)
Rank/Level: Level 9 Sith Lord
Class: Arcanist
Skills:
Force push/pull – 4
Force jump – 4
Force Avalanche – 4
Force Lightning – 4
Force Defence - 4
Mind Trick – 1
Form I – 0
Form II – 4
FormIII – 4
Form IV – 0
Form V – 0
Form VI – 0
(Arcanist only) Dark Side Healing – 1
Essence Transfer – 10

IC: Nox Talus
The Mind of Nox Talus, the Triumphant, hyperspace

Nox listened to the words that Sulat spoke before making a move, trying to peer through the lies and deceit of this dark conjuration. Still gripping his lightsaber, Nox lowered his weapon to a more relaxed stance. Even in the face of danger this Sulat made no attempt to defend himself or anything of the sort, he just talked. “You’re a fool if you think I believe you!” Nox shouted, as he finally deactivated his weapon. “I fought next to Alisha Tano against those technobeasts. I would have noticed or remembered if she had gotten scratched by one of those monsters.”

Even if Lady Tano did manage to somehow contract that Technobeast virus, how could he possibly know if I didn’t? What’s even more curious is his choice of words. ‘Death by Technobeast virus.’ He makes it sound as if she’s already dead. I seen her, she was alive!

As Nox quickly pondered upon his thought, he tried once again to pierce the veil of Sulat Xon’s deception. However, Nox couldn’t sense any form of deception coming from this mad man. Yet he also couldn’t sense the truth, or the actual truth anyway. Thinking quickly as to what his next move would be, Nox decided to try and keep Xon talking for as long as he possibly could so he could devise a course of action.

Stalling him should be fairly easy, however, convincing him that I’m not stalling would be the bigger challenge.

“You make your argument convincing, perhaps you’re not made up. Which would explain why you simply had no cares about being destroyed. You want me to believe that you’re not just in my mind. So let’s just say that I believe you. Besides how would you know about Alisha’s death when I don’t? So the real question is, if you’re not just made up from my mind, then what are you?”

TAG: Darth Dreadwar

IC: Karina
The Artificer, en route to Korriban

As the others spoke Karina kept her eyes on the gun charging up to seal their fate. Snapping back to reality she noticed voidwalker intended on using the force to keep the blast from destroying them. She moved to the copilot seat and took control pushing the engines to full power as she tried to put as much distance between them and the enemy ship. It was rare to find her behind the controls of the ship but everyone else seemed to shell shocked to handle anything at the moment. "Instead of holding the blast back why don't you crush the barrel of that gun? It should cause a pretty sizable explosion and bring quite a bit of damage to the hull. It might force them to move it giving us a easier escape route." She kept her focus on the planet before them trying not to worry about the dreadnought gearing up to kill them all.

Tags: Darth Dreadwar Darth Voidwalker

IC: Sabba Aeolian
Aboard The Triumphant, hyperspace, en route to the Nihil Retreat

A member of the ship staff, a nurse by the look of her, burst in and hailed Shira to follow her. She was frantically shouting about a Lady Tano. Sabba was unfamiliar with everyone on board, but Shira appeared immediately distressed at the news. Without hesitation she followed the nurse back to the medical bay, calling back to Sabba to follow. She didn't have time to think, rather she followed, trying to keep pace with the two while they ran to where the problem was. 

The room was cold, full of devices and apparatus that she’d never laid eyes on previously. Being from the primitive world of Makatak, the idea of ‘modern medicine’ was completely alien to her. She was so captivated by it all, she hardly flinched when Shira darted from the room again, stating she’d be back.

The young woman’s red hair seemed to glow in the incredible light of the medical bay, dramatically enhancing the contrast of her fiery hair and pale, porcelain like skin. The tribal paint and tattoos that crossed her skin played in the light as well, the subtle cracks in the paint against her skin beginning to show through more clearly than when under normal light.

Her piercing green eyes peered around at the different instruments, scanning over tables full of vials and petri dishes swimming with unknown substances. The remedies her people had were nothing like these; no vials, or stims, or shots to apply them. Simple herbs and plants mashed and mixed together, a few droplets of blood or nectar, even rain water, these were the medicines she was accustomed to. The medicine council made up of shaman in her tribe seemed to be able to cure most things with these simple remedies. If they failed, the stricken person either died, or they sought out Voktys…Vassago. His magic, his power, was revered above all and could cure ailments that the shaman could not.

She broke out of her wonderment for a moment, thinking that perhaps her Master could help the girl in need, Alisha. She turned to the table to tell the doctor she may have a way to help, but she stopped, the words freezing in her mouth before they'd fully formed. Her eyebrows raised when she laid eyes on the table, creating subtle lines in her painted forehead. The girl in trouble, she was an alien. Sabba was always taken when she saw a new species, being secluded to her home planet for so long, she never saw the species of the greater Galaxy. Her time on Terminus proved most intriguing, seeing all manner of alien races when she traveled to the marketplace within the spaceport. But there was something familiar about Alisha.

Her mind raced back to Terminus. The marketplace. The gangsters. The small alien girl she save was a Tog…Tugru…Togruta? Her mind sputtered while she worked out the proper name and pronunciation of the race. The small girl, who was being dragged off by the thugs was a Togruta, same as Alisha, and suddenly she felt a rush of emotion come over her. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Alisha on the ship before, and if she had, she’d been too occupied with other events to take notice.

She thought back to her Master’s response to her actions on Terminus, saving the young girl in need. “Pay her no mind,” he’d have told her if he was there, desiring not to pull any unwanted attention to them. But she had paid the girl mind, the girl that would not doubt be sold into some manner of hideous slavery. She acted, even when she knew her Master would disapprove, and she paid a price for it. The men she slaughtered, the girl she saved, had it been worth it?

Compassion.

Her eyes tightened closed and she swallowed hard, fighting back the memories of her punishment, of the disappointment she found in her Master’s gaze. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice…

Rather than seek out her Master – Voktys to her, and Darth Vassago to the rest of the Galaxy - she stayed. She could feel his eyes upon her, even with him nowhere near her person. She would not disrupt him, not for something of this nature…not even to potentially save the life of one in need.

Compassion.

He meant to drive it from her. And so, he would…one decision at a time.

She turned her back from the table where Alisha was resting and opened her eyes slowly. Warm, watery tears had formed, giving her eyes a glassy shimmer. Her head shook faintly, so delicately the ornaments and trinkets entwined within hardly moved. Her glassy eyes focused instead on the petri dishes in front of her; she did not touch them, but desperately tried to focus her mind on something else. Anything else…

TAG Darth Dreadwar ,Padawan4687 ,Shira , Volshe