COMBO WITH DARTH VASSAGO
IC: Darth Vassago, Sabba and Emperor Edworion (Darth Dreadwar)
Travelling to the Star Forge, above the Gunninga Gap, Nihil Retreat, Unknown Regions
The Nihil Retreat.
The ghastly light of the Perann Nebula shed violent blood before Vassago's eyes, radiating the death of stars into the nuclear holocaust of the cosmos. The fire was of a shade of red so dark that it seemed impossible it could possess such intensity, streaked through with ascendant columns of gaseous darkness resembling stacks of smoke, and threaded with veins that surrounded the
Triumphant like the enveloping web of a waiting spider. Not even the bridge's viewports could blunt the withering glare of the unnatural light. Viewed through the eyes of the Force, however, the environ surrounding the
Triumphant was more spectacular still - and more ominous.
The singularity of the Gunninga Gap was impressive. But in geosynchronous orbit above the distant black hole was an empty spot in the Force incomprehensibly darker than its physical counterpart. While the Gap fed on matter and belched gases and scorching energy, this singularity was denser still, consuming the very Force around it and releasing nothing in return. It was cold. Not the cold of Ziost on a wintry day, nor the cold of interstellar space. It was the cold of death.
And it was waiting for Vassago.
It rose like smoke, the deep bellowing noise within the aged Lord’s mind, wordless but full of meaning; like a chant, carried by dozens of indiscernible voices carrying out a forbidden ritual. The pounding noise was unmistakable. But it was more than a noise, it was a feeling. An inescapable feeling within the marrow of his old bones, the feeling of a darkness so dense it could consume all life. Images crowded Vasasgo’s mind, interweaving and lying atop one another into glimpses of the future and past entangled. The images were jarring, creating what seemed to be new realities out of the tangled events that had occurred and events yet to come; images of his past on Korriban, Dreadwar’s tale of Nilrebmah XIII, flashes of cataclysmic events. All of this, yet within the approaching darkness bombarding him, he felt a familiar void, something like a wound in the Force; the same emptiness he’d felt during his first meeting with Dreadwar on the astral plane.
The time has come, Vassago thought to himself, cutting through the haze of visions. The Nihil retreat was set out before him, and Dreadwar awaited. Unfortunately, he was not so easily reached. The eldritch King was not going to come to Vassago, rather Vassago would have to go to him. Conventional travel was out of the question, he knew he’d have to conjure
another Storm to reach his destination and meet with Darth Dreadwar. His time aboard the
Triumphant had come to an end.
He shook his head lightly, attempting to further clear his mind of the intrusions; he’d require an immense amount concentration if he intended to reach Dreadwar, as well a larger space to conjure the Storm. His gaze lowered to the young woman at his side, his Apprentice, Sabba. He’d originally intended for her to remain ignorant to his dealings with Dreadwar, preferring to spare her the details of their arrangement, but he couldn’t leave her on the ship unattended. The vessel was never outright hostile to the two, but he could not risk leaving her and having to break his arranged meeting with Dreadwar should something arise. No, she would have to accompany him.
“
Sabba,” he commanded, breaking the young woman from the reverie she was in, peering out into the vast expanses of Nihil Retreat.
”We are leaving…” he paused, “
gather what you need and follow me.”
Sabba blinked herself back to reality as the assertive sound of her Master’s voice entered her ear. She patted herself down quickly, running her hands down her trappings, ensuring she had everything she boarded with; her lips moved softly, and a hushed, breathy whisper escaped her lips as she ran down a mental checklist. “
Okay,” she said, craning her neck back to find her Master’s eyes. “
I’m ready,” her voice sounding equal parts nervous and excited. She nodded once and reached down to grab the hide satchel she kept slung over her shoulder, the same satchel she’d had with her since Terminus.
“
We must reach the hangar,” he told her while turning on his heel from the viewport. He swept his cloak back with his free hand, allowing it to billow behind him with his brisk movement, exiting the bridge.
They began to traverse the winding corridors of the vessel toward the hangar, the only location on board that would allow for the most space to conjure the Storm. Any other area would have been far too small, and the risk of tearing a hole in the hull was too real. He was unsure how the meeting with Dreadwar would play out ultimately, and in the event of an escape, he’d have to Storm back to the vessel for safety. Or attempt to.
“
Master?” Sabba spoke first, breaking the plodding sound of foots steps down winding corridors.
“
What is it?” he snapped, more gruffly than he had intended. He was not anticipating questions, rather he was focused on the task of conjuring a Storm and getting to Dreadwar. Though, he could sense many questions swirling within the mind of his Apprentice. Questions pertaining to their destination, the hasty exit they seemed to be making, while others lingered on her vision of the Witch, something she still had not brought to his attention herself. While it simply wasn’t the time to have a discussion regarding her vision, he would not stop her from inquiring their destination.
“
Are we returning to Terminus?” She asked, a sliver of hope evident in her tone.
“
We are not,” he replied while breathing a quiet laugh. “
We are leaving the ship, but we are not bound for Terminus. Rather, we are going to visit…” he paused for a moment, attempting to find the correct word to describe Dreadwar, if such a thing even existed. “
An old associate. He is royalty.” He added at the end, a subtle smirk tugging at his aged lip.
He could see Sabba’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, the pale skin on her forehead wrinkly lightly. Her eyes turned to the ground and she began tracing back and forth, no doubt overthinking the entire situation.
“
I’ve never met any sort of royalty before, Master. Not since…you.” She smiled sheepishly to herself, her mind suddenly racing with many more questions. “
Well, and the Empress earlier…” she trailed off, remembering the woman’s warm voice and radiant beauty, the words she spoke ringing back in her mind. She looked up to her Master as they walked and quickened her pace, getting out ahead of him for just a moment. “
D-do you think I’m, well…do you think they will care how I’m dressed?” She asked, looking down at the brown trappings she’d been wearing since the Marketplace on Terminus; she could clearly see a few stains, dirt and the like, from climbing the elevator shaft and her tussle with the cultists.
“
Your clothing will suffice, I assure you,” he replied without turning his gaze. “
No further accoutrements are needed, and I trust you will be on your best behavior.” He noted, realizing she may lack the decorum necessary to stand before any royalty, let alone the Dread King. It had only dawned on him in that moment that he’d hardly gone over any types of behavior she’d need to greet those with any status or rank, whether above or below her; Vassago was quite renown in his time to show the utmost respect, even to his enemies. It was simply his way.
Yes, he thought to himself, lessons in proper etiquette would be a priority. Though, it would have to wait. They’d just reached the hangar, a crash course after the transfer with Storm would have to suffice for the time being.
Sabba’s emerald eyes scanned the hangar, but she noticed a distinct lack of vessels that could comfortably seat them both. She stopped at her Master’s side and posed the obvious question. “
Are we…taking a starship?” Another sheepish grin crawled across her pale pink lips, a hopeful glint in her eye.
“
No.” He stated plainly, stepping into the wide-open area of the sleek hangar. “
I will need absolute concentration.” He stated, closing his eyes.
Sabba sighed quietly a few paces behind her Master and whined a bit internally, knowing that it meant she’d be traversing the expanses of open space, rushing through the stars in a vortex. Just like on Makatak and Terminus. She pursed and twisted her lips a bit, pushing them out in a manner to convey her displeasure, albeit behind her Master’s back; she’d never mentioned it but she
hated traveling through the vortex, it left her brain and stomach feeling like they switched places, and her ears took
hours to even out. It was not a pleasant experience, but she didn’t risk voicing any displeasure with her Master’s preferred method of travel.
The Dark Lord’s eyelids closed lazily. All questions and thoughts of decorum, concerns with the passengers of the
Triumphant, any and all distractions were purged from his mind in that instant. He felt peace. Quiet. There was no mechanical moan from the hull, no rumble from the engines of vessel, no hum from the barrier that kept the vacuum of open space at bay.
Stillness.
When he raised his eyelids, the hazel iris of his eye was washed over with a milky white. His lips parted and he began to speak in a hushed tone, so quiet not even Sabba could hear him. The muscles in his shoulder and neck began to tense, the skin seemingly being pulled tighter against his bones, causing his veins to begin to protrude. His grip around the wroshy tree staff that he held tightened, his energy beginning to channel into a storm. The pigment of his skin began to change, falling pale before shining with brilliant luminescence. The hitherto-calm hangar began to swirl with unnatural air. Sabba stepped forward while heavy crates began to tumble, and barrels were thrown about like weightless refuse. The swirls of air began to feel more like harsh wind, and it shrieked like a child in pain. The young woman winced at the sound, coupled with the air whipping her hair into her face, and hugged her arms around herself, taking half-steps toward her Master; she knew the Storm was nearly conjured.
The Dark Lord’s cloak billowed around him, and his cowl struggled to stay upon his head in the harsh conditions now present in the hangar. He could feel the Force flowing around him, within him, coursing through his body like the blood in his veins, yet he had full control and command over it. His feet left the glossy hangar floor as he began to levitate, his entire body tightening with the strain from the concentration required to harness and conjure such power. The whispers on his lips turned to shouts and before long, he was yelling with an otherworldly power, taking full command of the forthcoming Force Storm.
Bolts of lightning began to sprout from the vortex he was conjuring, dissipating at the ground and dancing away as spark. Cords of the white-hot lightning formed on his body, wreathing his arms and enveloping his features. The sound was deafening. The force of the Storm had grown, and being inside a vessel, he knew he could not miscalculate the trajectory or the power needed; when out in the open world, as he was on Terminus, there was very little concern for the result of conjuring too powerful a storm. In the instance of the
Triumphant, he could tear the ship in half.
“
Now!” He yelled, though the noise of the Storm was deafening. He did not just yell to her physically, but mentally, and she answered, taking his hand at the final moment before a vortex of pure Force energy shot forward, through the port of the hangar, and out into open space. The destination was lit like a runway in the Force due to the potent void that emanated from Dreadwar. It was like a scar, or a wound, he’d hardly felt anything like it prior. The Force lead him, each of the strings he’d seen while on the astral plane was visible to his Mind’s Eye, and he precisely plucked each one, and with it the vortex of the Storm obeyed his every command.
The trip was over in the blink of an eye, though it would’ve felt much longer to those within the swirling funnel of energy and lightning. Master and Apprentice landed with a veritable crash on the deck of the Star Forge, a station inaccessible to most. There, within the station itself, awaited the great Dread King, Darth Dreadwar.
The wound the Dread King left in the Force was much closer now, gaping like the yawning maw of a black hole, bleeding excess energy and power. But the Dread King himself was not yet apparent.
Vassago and Sabba found themselves in a vast, cavernous hall. It resembled less the conventional interior of a space station and more that of a temple or palace; the floor could have been either gleaming black durasteel or obsidian, but the walls unmistakably bore a stone facade covered in hieroglyphs and symbols.
There were many statues dotting the periphery, all bearing vainglorious gestures and an uncommon height suggestive of the figure's importance, but none of them physically resembled the darkly cowled wraith that had intruded upon Vassago's meditations in the astral plane, nor the sallow-faced man whose skin it had effortlessly flitted into. Nonetheless, there was something familiarly imperious about the man depicted in the statuary, and that sneer of cold command was common to all the more human visages the Dread King had donned in Vassago's visions.
There was no doubt that these statues depicted the Emperor they were to meet, only in another form, another guise. Dreadwar had tempted Vassago with immortality. While Vassago himself had displayed suppleness in form, each invocation of his ritual smoothing wrinkles and diminishing liver spots as his physical aging was gainsaid, could Dreadwar have mastered another, greater form of immortality, changing not the substance of his face but his face - and body - entirely?
These were questions for another time, as the statues were not the only sentinels guarding the star-fuelled heart of the Star Forge.
Knights in golden armour, bearing long metal spears tipped with cobalt fire, moved to surround the intruders, barking out orders in a harsh, foreign tongue. Their faces were concealed by visors, but one of them lacked the brown leatheris gloves of his compatriots, betraying crimson-hued skin tightened in tension around the lightsaber pike. Rutian Twi'leks, perhaps, or Zabraks. Whatever they were, they were clearly strong in the Force.
At last, one of them spoke in Basic, whether chancing on the tongue while cycling through languages, or simply transitioning from addressing his comrades to accosting the intruders, being unknown.
"Who are you?" he said.
"How did you get aboard the Star Forge?"The Dark Lord, winded from the trip through open space from the
Triumphant, regarded the guards by simply inclining his head. He gathered his breath and stood upright, squaring his shoulders, and cleared his throat before turning his gaze toward the inhospitable guards. “
I am Darth Vassago, Lord of the Sith, the girl is my Apprentice.” As he spoke, Sabba fell to one knee. Though it may have seemed like an instinctual reaction to the commanding presence of the guards, in reality it was an adverse reaction to the Storm; she could feel her insides shifting from the velocity of the trip. She held her hand over her mouth, coughing quietly in an attempt to save herself any further attention. When Vassago turned his eyes to her briefly, she shook her head, waving her other hand to ensure she would be okay.
“
Your Master, the Emperor, will be expecting me…” his voice trailed a bit, carrying with it a tone of respect for the Knights. Afterall, they were just doing their job and the sight of a hooded man and young woman dropping into the middle of the station was certainly cause for alarm.
Sabba’s eyes widened at the sound of her Master’s voice. The Emperor? She thought to herself with widened eyes. It astounded her, nearly overwhelmed her, to think she’d be meeting both an Emperor and an Empress in such a small span of time. Me, she thought again, who just five years ago didn’t even know what an Emperor was. She shook her head slowly and pushed off her knee, getting back to her feet. She inclined her head toward the Knights, standing a step behind her Master, and awaited their instructions.
The Knight that had spoken to them, seemingly the commander, turned to his kin, and a brief, terse conversation in some bitterly harsh tongue ensued. The golden visors betrayed no hint of expression, but certain words reminded Vassago of the extinct language of the ancient Sith. They frequently used the word
"Ari," meaning "Lord," and
"Daritha," the Rakatan progenitor of the infamous "Darth" title. At last, the head Knight turned back, and said, simply,
"Come."There were certain interesting conclusions to be drawn from such a scene. Firstly, this isolated culture in the Unknown Regions, whatever it was, seemed to have a direct relation, at least etymologically, to the Sith of old - or perhaps the even earlier Rakata, who had forged an interstellar dark side empire before the Republic and the Jedi had even been twinkles in the eyes of the enslaved human race. Secondly, if this "Ari" referred to Darth Dreadwar, and if the knights were indeed bringing them to him, then it was apparent that the Dread King was so powerful his own guards had no problem escorting two complete strangers - with Force powers apocalyptic in their own right - into his presence without further vetting.
The hall the Dark Lord and his Apprentice were led down was massive; giant sculptures loomed over them, yet even these were dwarfed by the immense vaulted ceiling overhead. There was no natural light to speak of, only the small shafts of light from panels along the stone floor, breaking through the light fog that rolled at their ankles. The air was crisp, more so than on the Triumphant, as if the station itself was radiating an unnatural chill. He didn’t mind it, but upon inspecting the young woman at his side, he noticed her hugging her arms against her body.
“Pay attention,” he spoke in a hushed tone, moving his eyes to the detail of guards ahead of them. “When we meet the Dread King, you will be expected to carry yourself with proper decorum.”
“M-master?” Sabba stumbled for a moment, a quizzical expression across her face. “Is he a…King or an Emperor?” Uncertainty swathed her tone, she wanted to be sure; she’d heard him referred to as both.
“He is many things,”Darth Vassago replied quickly, “and you will address him as Dread King until told otherwise.” He angled his head toward her as the two walked, continuing her brief crash course in proper behavior before royalty. “You will not speak unless address directly, and you will not stare. Find a spot on the ground and fix your eyes upon it. Looking above the King is disrespectful, looking at him is staring, and is disrespectful. Find a stone, a tile, a speck of dust, and focus on it. When you are addressed, you will briefly look upon the throne and take only a second to rest your eyes on he that sits upon it.” His voice remained hushed, out of earshot of the guards, though it lost none of the characteristic command that one would expect from Vassago. “Upon entering, you will kneel. Once you are addressed, you will bow low and stand straight, with your hands at rest at your sides; do not fold them or hold them behind your back or fidget. Am I clear?”
Sabba nodded along with his words, trying to make a mental checklist of each thing she was being told. This is serious business, she thought to herself, can’t screw this up. She folded her lips inward, biting them lightly while running her tongue across, and nodded with her Master’s question. She turned to look to his shrouded visage within the dark cowl.
“Yes, Master. I’ll do my best.” She said, accompanied by a weak smile.
Vassago stopped mid-step and turned to his apprentice, putting his hand firmly against her shoulder, causing her step to come to an abrupt stop.
“Your best simply will not do, Sabba. You will follow my instructions to the letter…or you will be punished.” His voice was chillingly calm as he spoke, and his eyes flashed a cool white the moment the finale word left his lips.
Sabba swallowed hard and nodded at her Master’s words, doing her very best not to show that she just went from nervous to terrified in the span of .2 seconds. This was no time for forgetfulness, a single misstep could cost her everything. Suddenly, life on Terminus seemed a lot more appealing that life out in the stars.
The Dark Lord removed his hand and continued behind the detail, quickening his pace to makeup for lost steps. Sabba followed behind as quickly as she could without running; the fact she had shorter legs meant she had double the steps to make up for. Before long, the guards came to a stop before two massive doors of chalcedony, the likes of which the younger girl had only dreamed. This is it, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath.
Two more of the armoured warriors stood at either side of the great doorway. These knights, however, wore armour in the purest white, gleaming in the low lighting of the station with the unmistakable sheen of polished plasteel. "Miska," the one on the left said, raising his hand in a way suggesting the word meant halt, seemingly as much to the knights escorting the guests as to the pair themselves. "Ari terosk set ti miak nah tah Ari."
The red-skinned guard shrugged. "Ria tah mis nost ori Daritha Vassago te Jen'ari te Tsis. Konrask kintik muat nelban korrig test Ari."
The white-armoured guard turned to Vassago. "The Emperor is not to be disturbed. How dare you claim an audience with His Immortal Majesty? I was not notified."
“I assure you,” the Dark Lord inclined his head, a greeting to the guard clad in white that had halted their advancement, “the Immortal Emperor extended an invitation.” He paused a moment, his eyes slowly shifting between the two royal guards. “If you inform his Majesty that the Dark Lord Vassago has arrived, I believe you will find he is expecting my presence.”
While no exact time was specified for the meeting between the two, Dreadwar would have likely sensed or foreseen the arrival of the Triumphant, and it could be assumed that he was expecting the Dark Lord. A formality, he thought to himself. The continual interference of knights and guards was to be expected; no royalty allows himself to be so easily accessed. Vassago turned his eyes momentarily to Sabba. He found her emerald eyes flitting nervously between the detail of knights and guards that surrounded them. He could sense her discomfort; she was out of her element more now than she’d ever been.
The white-armoured guard nodded to his counterpart, who turned towards the door and bent at the waist, extending his gauntleted hands to push against the mighty door with his feet firmly planted against the floor. Taking several steps forward, he was able to open the door several feet, not allowing Vassago a glimpse within, but sufficient to slip into the crack himself.
After nearly a minute, the second guard returned, and nodded to the first. "You may enter," the first guard said, and turned inwards himself, joining the second in slowly pushing both doors wide open.
The revealed interior was not the throne room, that much was clear. There was no great chair of state perched at the end of the hall. That said, the chamber was cavernous, with silken curtains of gold and midnight blue and sheer veils of white voile rippling subtly as the opening doors disturbed the flow of air throughout the chamber. There were magnificent statues in each corner, and marble stairs winding sinuously upwards to resplendent interior balconies that led to archways and further rooms, and a single vast viewport showing the fiery light of the nebula beyond.
In the centre of the chamber was a naked man.
He stood with his dimpled chin arrogantly raised, eyes closed, beside a shallow, circular pool of water embedded within the polished marble floor. His arms were extended outwards to his sides, legs splayed. There was not the slightest hint of body hair, as if he too were made of marble, like some classical Naboo sculptor's vision of an ancient god.
Behind him stood a servant in simple robes, running a sharp, curved razorblade over the skin of his bicep, still slick from the bath. Half-way down his arm, the blade caught, nicking the skin slightly, and the man hissed in annoyance. "Careful, girl," he said, opening his eyes.
They shone yellow.
"Ah, Lord Vassago," he said, in a voice high and cruel, sulfuric gaze immediately falling upon the guests entering his stellar suite. "Welcome; I have been expecting you."
The man exerted a powerful pull upon the Force. Behind that vessel of dripping flesh was a singularity of darkness beyond darkness. There was no doubt this man, despite appearances, was the Immortal Emperor.
Immediately upon entering the room, Sabba was moved by the opulence on display in the space; she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander about, studying almost every inch of it. She’d only ever seen huts of branches, bone, and mud, small outposts on Terminus, but nothing of the enormity and luxury of where she found herself. She peered around curiously, walking alongside her Master, until her eyes laid on the frame of a nude man. She let out an audible gasp, the sound echoed throughout the spacious chambers, and her hands bolted over her mouth.
Her eyes doubled in size, widening involuntarily, and she dropped down to one knee; in the moment, it was the only thing she could think to possibly do. She lowered her head, hiding her face in the ember-red hair that fell from around her shoulders. She felt warmth in her face, embarrassment overtaking her and painting a light crimson swathe over her face. She could feel her heart racing and she had no idea what to think; she’d never laid eyes on the bare anatomy of another, and certainly not of a man. She blinked fervently, her hand still across her lips, and tried desperately to collect herself and her thoughts, so as not to embarrass her master.
The Dark Lord was unmoved by the display. Moreover, he was a bit perplexed at the man who stood before him. When they’d spoken, on the astral plane, Dreadwar appeared as an eldritch being, enveloped in a tattered robe and hood, and had an unsettling aspect. The bare man before him was much younger, with a statuesque physique, and looked nothing like the ancient Dreadwar that had presented the Dark Lord with the offer to meet with him. Even still, the aura that permeated from the man was unmistakable. Indeed…this was the Dread King.
Darth Vassago dropped to one knee, steadying himself on the walking staff that he held at his side, and inclined his head. “Hail, your Majesty,” he spoke loudly, his voice carrying throughout the great hall. He stood up, gripping the staff once more, and bowed low before returning to a vertical base. His eyes fell to Sabba, still kneeling at his side; he could see her back heaving as she struggled to keep her composure. It hadn’t occurred to him the young woman would be observing the nudity of another for the first time in her life; given her relatively sheltered upbringing, he should have expected as much.
“H-hail, your Majesty…” she echoed her Master’s words, her voice a bit muffled and shaky. She rose from her knee and bowed low, nervously chewing at the back of her bottom lip. Her Lord’s instructions echoed in her mind like a mantra. She dared not peer up to the Emperor’s form again, rather she found a spot on the floor before her that reflected a bit of light, and it was there she intently devoted her focus.
Darth Vassago breathed a small laugh, feeling a measure of empathy for the young woman, and regarded her. “You may take your leave, Sabba.” He leaned toward her when he spoked, turning from the Emperor for a moment. He’d expected for her to remain in the room for the extent of their dealings, but he could sense her discomfort, and did not intend for her to slip up in front of the Emperor.
Sabba nodded once, her arms pinned to her sides, and bowed low before turning to leave the room. The knights hefted the doors open again, allowing her to leave and wait in the grand hall. She walked with a quickened pace out into the hall; her face was still warm with embarrassment. The moment she heard the massive doors close behind her she exhaled an extensive sigh that echoed throughout the halls like a wind passing through the mountains.
She brought her hands up to her temples and dragged them slowly through the length of her hair, her fingers getting caught on the small trinkets within. She shook her head, and brought her hands around once more, leaving them to rest back on her temples, lightly rubbing. She walked a short distance from the door and leaned against the wall, slumping down into a crouch, and recounted what she’d seen. She couldn’t help but think of it all. She still felt embarrassment, a measure of shame, and an odd twist of something in her stomach, though she wasn’t quite sure what. Her heart had only slowed slightly, and she was…confused. Within all the feelings she felt, confusion was the only one that was clearest to her. Slowly, she rested her back against the cool stone wall, letting her eyelids drop as her head spun.
In the grand hall with the Emperor, the Dark Lord stepped forward slowly. Being sure to make no sudden movements, he lightly gripped the edge of his hood with his fingertips and brought it down to rest around his shoulders, revealing his bald head. He stepped lightly about, making no movements toward the Emperor, but cast his eyes upon the pool beside which the Emperor stood.
“I am grateful to be meeting with you, your Majesty,” he began, extending a due measure of gratitude for the audience. “As you know, I’ve traveled a great distance in pursuit of the promise of knowledge I’ve been seeking for a very, very long time…” his voice trailed slightly, his words referencing their previous discussion on Terminus.
The Emperor's lips quirked in a soft smile. There was amusement, there, but something subtly mocking, like a cruel parent dangling a favoured toy in front of a child, knowing how much they desired it - and knowing that they could snatch it out of reach without the slightest ability for the outcome to be affected. Yet, behind all the pomposity of the Emperor's vainglory, there was a certain affability evident; ultimately, the Emperor would not have pulled Vassago from Terminus if he had not respected the veteran Dark Lord, and believed there was mutual benefit involved. Vassago desired the keys to truly eternal life. What did Dreadwar desire?
"Robe me," he turned to the servant girl, speaking in calm, imperious tones that brooked no disobedience nor hesitation nonetheless. She bowed her head quickly, more resembling a nod than anything else, and placed the razor on the rim of the pool beside a wet sponge, folding it away into its wooden handle for the sake of safety. She had not finished her job, but knew she would have the opportunity again on the morrow. From a small rack atop a floating golden hoverbed, she pulled a towel, and swiftly began drying the Emperor off as he resumed addressing Vassago.
"Yes, I recall," he said, seeking to give Vassago the false impression it was a conversation he could have potentially forgotten. "You come here desiring the knowledge by which I am known as Immortal Emperor... by which raw spirit, afloat in the aether of the dark side," he inclined his head meaningfully, making clear his reference to the spectral form Vassago had spied in the astral realm, "might clad itself in whichever vessel of flesh it desires. Or, indeed, discard flesh entirely, to exist freely as dark side energy, able to transmigrate across the cosmos as an undying wraith."
That same smile still danced across his lips, as the servant finished towelling him off, avoiding his head and hair out of respect. "True immortality," he continued. "Not relying on the snippets of ancient rituals to temporarily undo one's aging, one wrinkle at a time. Not relying, even, on something so insipid as clones, cybernetics or other forms of technology. Eternal life in any form one desires. That is what I possess." He enunciated that last word curiously. "That is what I offer you."
The girl was not the only servant attending the Dread King. Other servants walked out of the shadows as the Emperor spoke, not all of them belonging to the human race; there were Twi'leks, yes, but also rarer species unfamiliar to Vassago, denizens of the Unknown Regions perhaps. A red-skinned male of humanoid proportions with strange tendrils protruding from a simian jaw and sharp cheekbones. An amphibian of indeterminate gender with grotesque eyes hanging from the ends of twin stalks.
Together, they began dressing their deity. First came the long-sleeved tunic of fine fabric, midnight blue rimmed with gold, bound with a cummerbund of the same brown bantha leather as the lappets that hung from his belt. Then came the white satin gloves, dark breeches, additional layers of golden, silken fabric that hung from the Emperor's arms, a white plasteel breastplate sculpted into the shape of a dragon, and knee-high boots of the finest rancor leather. All the while, servants, kneeling down, slid rings and amulets onto the Emperor's outstretched fingers, clicked golden bracers into place around his wrists and bicepses, and draped a necklace beaded with glittering scarab beetles around a popped collar that flared high and wide like that of an Anzati blood count.
At last came the cloak, silken and luxurious, clasped with a golden chain that was tucked below the necklace, with an additional scarf of white loth-wolf fur wrapped lazily, once, around the Emperor's neck and chest. He turned his head down to survey the outfit, and tugged gently on the scarf's trailing ends after a moment's appraisal, to make it even. The servants rose, bowed deeply, and stepped back.
Now shrouded in finery, the Emperor stepped forward. He raised his chin high, eyes glittering with analytical intelligence. "Of course, if I were to teach you such arts, my good Lord Vassago," he said smoothly, "I would expect something in return. Eternal life does not come freely, and I respect you too much to insult your intelligence and feign the gift of generosity. We are Sith, after all, you and I... and nothing we offer a potential ally is without selfish purpose."
