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Exodus considered her question inwardly, searching without prejudice to find if there was merit behind her words, but bravado was not the meat of this meal in the least; treachery, betrayal and convictions were some of the finer foretastes that drew him here and now. It took little to sweep them all into his ruse, yet the harvest yielded great and unexpected fruit. Sympathizers of their adversaries was a sickness inside of his Empire that would need to be burned out. For such weakness to be found in the bellies of his most trusted, meant that a cleansing of the powers that be would come next. Exodus smiled at the sentiment, the slight curve of his lips also mocking her her suspicion of boastfulness as she placed her own hand in his.

 

The three of them were now mounted. The creature trembled harshly; an exhausting shiver that trampled the muddied dirt beneath them. A peevish snarl escaped from the beast, while it’s wings unfolded outwards, largely batting against the winds and gaining leverage for the skies. Telperiën found herself thoughtfully to the rear of the Sith King, her mind seemingly distracted, but with what would be what her Master was most interested in. The abandoned Jedi was hoisted to perch herself ahead of the Dark Lord, her back nearly pressed against his chest. In this, fatigue must have played a part, or her wounds ran deeper than she could see.

 

 

  • "You know, if you're planning a second round, I'd prefer you stab me in the back and get it over with."

 

 

Exodus withdrew two small weapons from a hidden scabbard secured to his hip, nondescript blades illustrated with bone-bodied hilts. The bellow of turbulence that the creature used to lift off at last, echoed loudly into the night sky. The aggressive force of movement would be hard to balance with no proper harness secured on the Sithspawn, but the proximity that the three bodies shared would lend itself to their favor. The Drexl heaved a hard right and Exodus could feel his apprentice secure her bearings, her Dathomiri upbringing should have spared an abundance of experience in the handling of the wild. Exodus leaned forward, pressing against the back of his enemy, outstretching both arms until they angled comfortably on top of her inner thighs. “I’ve considered it.” The sharp of the blade in his right hand hooked beneath a coarse scale, dangerously close to her personal space, the beast was too large to acknowledge it but the Jedi wouldn't be as fortunate. His voice was much closer now, nearest the locks of her hair that fell by her ear. His left hand loosened instead and settled just inside the space her legs gave, readied with blade in hand, prepared in case his apprentice chose now to risk a double-cross.

 

 

  • "You have seen what I have seen, and you must prepare your kind for their slaughter. This is reason, and reason alone, that I haven't taken your life."

 

There is something much deeper than you and I, much deeper than the Jedi and the Sith. Her progress was uncanny; manipulating passion to submit the White Wolf into servility, stomached the toxicity of death that had moved to rot her body whole, and walked a tight line that would soon have her fall forever to the Dark Side. Her death would mean nothing here, and everything before the people that loved her, if they still existed. The Dark Lord had the briefest of moments in a storm of conflict to dissect the visions of Aryian the Grey as well. His findings were fair, but ever-changing. His primal strength was enough to control the chaotic forces of men and women that served him, but his mind alone superseded the warring alignments of the galaxy. He understood that iron sharpened iron, and that the Jedi were in no place to fuel the hunger of the Sith Empire. If the Jedi would burn out here and now, the Sith would fall to lethargy and a complacency that would ruin what they had begun to create here on Onderon. Excellence would be achieved, no matter the price.

 

 

 

 

 

  • =======================
    // Onderon, Eastern Wall.
    //// Magrin Mines
    =======================

 

 

The Drexl stormed from the entanglement of the forests and rushed towards the Eastern Wall, the contentious speed at which it traveled would be alarming for any that could witness such a thing. The skies were much clearer here, but the night sky still heralded many beasts, some quite larger than this. The three and their mount would no sooner land in front of the Magrin Mines, the impressive beast coming into the line of sight of several Deimos X-20s that stood watch. The Mines were outwardly nothing of note, unceremoniously built into the outcropping of a hill-side, but inside held what was needed to produce items of war.

 

The Trio landed.

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It was like something from a fever-dream of years past. The simultaneous dread and thrill that filled her as the massive beast winged over the Onderon wilderness recalled her youth among the rank and file of the burgeoning Sith Empire under Lord Ar-Pharazon. The tether that had sunk its barbs deep into her soul had never been dislodged, much as her earliest teachers among the Jedi had warned her. The old adages had proved true, but to the unlikely Jedi Master, the omnipresence of her own selfish and violent tendencies served as a useful reminder that she wasn't above the lure of what was simple or easy. And to her, it had never been about dominance or exhibiting her own prowess, or even recognition: the single greatest lure of the dark side that whispered seductive promises to her soul insinuated the power to control the fate of those whose souls, whose lives had up until now been bound to hers.

 

Perhaps the severance wrought by the alchemical poison had ruptured the last remaining lifeline that kept her from plummeting down the bottomless freefall into darkness.

 

And yet, she clung to the words of the Dark One that had recalled the tribe to which she had pledged herself: your kind. Her kind. They were her people, the Jedi: flawed, striving toward an unattainable perfection that embodied harmony and goodness, those to whom the galaxy looked amidst oppression or chaos. Always falling short, and always getting back up to try again, they would be the hope that would stand again and again after being knocked down to foolishly wage the wars that might bring peace.

 

But the vision that she had seen unfolding in the eternity within the Grey Oracle's mind was enough to sway her, even as her mind began to regain some of its former clarity--sharply assisted by the quivering nearness of the Dark Lord's weapon pressed nearly against her skin. Jaina's empty stomach turned as his susurration tickled her ear. She had no clever retort, no challenge to lay at his feet. For the duration of the flight toward Onderon's civilization, silence reigned. Whether by Exodus' own hand, or by some unknown force, she would bear witness to the destruction of her people.

 

Unless she, the harbinger, could see in the vision a way to turn the tide.

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...why are the pretty ones always the most hazardous to your health?

May the Forth therve you well...

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"Maker. They come."

 

In the heart of the forge, Haphaestus stirred at the report of the Deimos unit. Upon his craft its final embellishments he had wrought and now it awaited its new master. Flawless craft, the pieces stalwart expressed the aptitude of their maker in form and function with their mere existence better than words of mortals could relate. Haphaestus was not a fickle craftsman, discontented with even his greatest works and so driven to in fits of ire rearrange and reconstruct them to better reflect his vision wavering. No; his vision was immaculate and he bent the universe to realize it in metal or whatever medium, and the universe was better for having such creations indwell it.

 

"See the Dark Lord and his guests here, that he may survey that which has been prepared for him," he commanded.

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The night air was brisk as it bled past the dragon’s wings and buffeted the three passengers on its back. Though Onderon was a humid planet, the night air was beginning to whip a brutal winter across the treetops of the endless forests that stretched out for kilometers around Iziz. Telperiën took a deep breath of that frigid air as they took off and pain erupted in her sinuses, the thick taste of blood filled the back of her throat as she struggled to breath against the harsh cold wind. A flash of embarrassment flushed her cream coloured skin for a moment before she suppressed it. It was just yet another symptom of a body’s decay, the mucus layer in her sinuses was breaking down to spill blackened blood in drips down her throat. The ruptured blood cells tasted brackish in her throat but she did not deign to show the weakness of a cough in the presence of her master. So she simply swallowed the brackish blood and looked back at her hands in disgust.

 

Another symptom of the curse that had been placed on her by her sisters back on Dathomir. A killing curse that separated her forever from the joy of a single life. She was curse to become a devourer, a consumer of stolen flesh. Every time she touched the force that death crept back into her life. And so she would continue to consume and burn through bodies until she was either eradicated by some other curse or simply stopped using the force all together. And she would not be damned into the existence of a commonplace woman for she was the daughter of Kings. And so when they would reach Iziz, a young pretty thing would go missing out of a lover’s arms, or out of a house deemed safe by its father. And apprentice would return to master in the flesh of another.

 

That was the curse of the remaining Ar-Pharazon. And Telperiën let the sorrow of never bearing her own daughters roil past her and instead plucked a black feathered arrow from the bag on her hip. She glanced over the shaft as they flew, and upon seeing the bend in the ashen shaft she snapped the head off the arrow and dropped in into the leather bag and released the shaf to fall hundreds of meters into the misted treetops. She inspected every arrow as they flew, keeping her attention on the task instead of eavesdropping on her master's flirtation with the Jedi master. Then they were over the eastern wall and the drexl was settling before the mined of Magrin. Telperiën wet her lips with a black stained tongue and was the first to slide from the back of the monster.

 

She was the Apprentice of the Spider and she had a duty to do, She extended her hand to the Jedi Master and helped her descend the large beast. For now that there was no fight within the lady, she would be a guest of the spider.

 

It was then that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon spoke to the hastily assembled bodyguard which had formed on the hill and received news that brought a glint to her eye.

 

“My lord!” She called when he was on the ground beside his beautiful captive. Her voice was low and gravel like. “I have news from my father Ca’Aran the Blood Prince at Kuat. The Remnant has been destroyed there nearly to a man, and their empress is bound in iron awaiting your judgement.” She inclined her head in servitude to the Spider as her mouth again filled with brackish blood which she swallowed again. It was time to hunt again.

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A few active shuttles scattered the whereabouts, pockets of troopers and a unit of droids canvassed the entrance to the mines. All eyes hesitantly fell around the beast, and then that of the Dark Lord. The Drexl absorbed the atmosphere whole with powerful nostrils, weighing the scent of the prey that roamed free for miles. In that moment, Exodus released the mental bind he held on the creature since their departure from the wildlands. The reptavian drowned in a relief that sounded a full retreat body-wide, screaming a roar that shook the earth, wide-eyes catching the patrol of TIE Fighters overhead. In a hurried spur, the beast opened up and took to the skies before more time was spent surrendered to the dark.

 

When the apprentice approached, and shared news of Kuat, The Dark Lord broke his forward march towards the mines and looked her over once while she expressed her servitude. The crown of his dark emerald stare haunted her from behind his hood. Her vessel was blemished, and quickly lapsing. Her nails, and the discoloration of her tongue, telling symptoms akin to her last body. This affliction that she carried was becoming a nuisance, and would need to be trifled with, or at least slowed to a crawl. “Telperiën. Your hunger is outpacing you.” She knew what he meant, and the initiative behind his low voice expressed that he was none too pleased. The Remnant, and the little child that ran them was of little importance to him compared to the growing prospect of his apprentice. To admit such openly, would appear senseless, but there was deeper roots in his belief that he would share with no one. The enemies of the Sith Empire would continue to fall, and all of the forces of nature within the universe would beckon for a balance that would soon see them all challenged beyond measure. This was the inevitable misery, the endless war that Lord Exodus had become a champion for on the side of the darkness.

 

 

  • "..Keep your mind sharp. No room for distractions."

 

Exodus nodded attentively, this time strangely different than the others. In his change of expression alone, there was an inkling of an idea that the Dark Lord began to actually recognize the Dathomiri woman as a little more than just dead-weight, for there were many other acolytes and apprentices both far and wide that proved themselves to be just that. Telperiën Ar-Pharazon could claw a name out for herself that would surpass the notoriety that her father had claimed, nonetheless, a great deal of work was needed before she faced that mountain. Exodus returned to his full height, standing prominently while the brandishing of his dark robes swayed in the hillside winds. "Stay close, Jedi. Your Order has abandoned you. There are wolves that prowl the city who would see you and your kind finished, stray too far, and I may let them have their way." Exodus spared no attention to where she stood, and how her wounds suffered her. She would match his speed, or be left to the wayside. A chaperon of elite droids that Lord Haphaestus had presented the Dark Lord with, now made way for the mines, while Exodus followed with intrigue.

 

 

- - -

 

The crags and spurs of the cavernous walls were blackened by churning smoke, lighting was minimal and the shafts that kept the stability of the tunnels were provisional at best. The Magrin Mines was an infestation of the poor, with the lowliest of vermin clinging to the shadows for dear life, yet there existed large pockets of even territory within excavated by rivers of fire. Or so the folks told it. The formation of the mines were rushed, and harvested in a time of war, but beneath the surface of it all remained an engine of creation that sparked the minds of the craftiest of inventors. This is where the artificer now buried himself, and reveled in his own work. There was no polish to this place, just the smog and smudge of hard work.

 

 

"..Old friend. I trust you've made yourself at home?" The Dark Lord now stood before Haphaestus.

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Though the chamber at large had been raised to a great heat, the air around the metalsmith bore a winter's chill, its energy repurposed.

 

"Your facility is impressive, Lord Exodus, though its tools and forges are better suited to other laborers," Haphaestus spoke. His craft required not anvil nor hammer nor any tool more advanced. "But come, let us see if what I have created is with your approval met."

 

He led the Dark Lord to the back wall of the chamber, the chilled air that behind him trailed quickly warming. There displayed were the pieces six; breastplate and hauberk, gauntlet long, cuisses paired and spaulders banded. They were art and armor both, blacker than night and inlaid with silver, things brand new but seemingly out of their time, artifacts priceless from the moment of their fabrication.

 

"Though they are light to wear, no weapon I have yet encountered can defeat them," the artificer explained. "Take them up, if it pleases you, to measure their fit."

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Uneven terrain crumbled beneath his boots as he followed behind the artificer, the hardened leather they were made of, noiselessly treading the vetted path. There was an oddity about the atmosphere as he trailed Haphaestus, an uncertainty that crawled across the room in the form of instinct. Exodus could feel the faintest touch of the amended temperature, transformed from an arid heat to a chilled breeze that wafted before him as he echoed the steps of the Sith Master. "What have we here?"

 

The Dark Lord moved closer to the back wall, even steps ahead of the armorsmith. There was a dimness in this corner, but one that emphasized the subtle radiant trim of the blackened armor pieces that hung silently, and so he moved closer still. The set of metal dripped in a paint of shadows, darker than ever and with no equal contrast in sight. Exodus reached his naked hand out to lay a finger across the hauberk, his curiosity escalating with every breath that left him. The anatomy of this hushed dark metal finally unraveling before his eyes in true form. The moment his skin brushed the refined metal, a tantalizing shiver shot through his senses. An association between the power that pooled inside of him, and the affinity that the metal carried for the dark side was almost hypnotic. Exodus flattened his palm against the reformed alloy and closed his eyes to listen carefully, to feel loudly.

 

 

  • ".. Remarkable."

 

Exodus wasted no time in reaching across his own shoulder, and pulling the loose black cloak from his body. With his higher half exposed, it became a staggering point of reference with how the Dark Lord kept such physique, even superior to the once Warrior King. Thick aesthetic lines of black ink were etched all over his skin; primitive, ancestral, almost tribal in a sense. It was a language of transmutation impeccably drawn across his war-ready frame, a mural of chaos. Exodus lifted the hauberk above his head and let the dark metal mail slip over him. Piece by piece, he quietly fitted himself, completely immersed in the act. The light-weight moldings of metal felt organic as they bound to his body, innately ratifying to the power not just inside of him, but around him too.

 

Slipping the last of the pieces, an ocherous and highly-illustrated gauntlet, down his hand and forearm, the Dark Lord flexed to absorb the feeling of a natural fit through and through. Arcane smithwork, and runes inlaid throughout the set produced a foreboding impression as the Spider donned the raiment whole. The exalted metal subliminally endorsed the narrative of a forgotten King of the Sith, one who rose from the shadows where the rest of the galaxy had cornered and hunted his people into nigh extinction. The silver lining engraved in the black of the armor set, the omen of the dark side, Malacoda Syn.

 

 

"This metal is unlike any I've come across.. You have done well." Exodus leaned over and retrieved his robe, pulling it like a sleeve over the dark metal, unfolding the hood to cover his raven mane. "What comes next will be sure to strike a new fear into our enemies. Would you ask anything of me before I take my leave?" The words were menacing in the low tone that he spoke, and now he stared directly at the Artificer, almost staring through him.

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"Nay," spake the metalsmith. "All that I require with mine own hand shall be earned."

 

But then his masked countenance did slightly tilt. "But as metal sharpens metal, so should the Sith sharpen each other. Pray send word to me or my agents should in your conquests you encounter some craftsman's artifact or new material that into my forge I might take. There are yet mysteries to be unraveled, and in time the fruit of my studies may serve mightily the Order."

 

In truth Haphaestus desired little from Exodus. He cared not for any status that the Dark Lord might bequeath, for such things were perishable or indeed could earn the ire of his inevitable successor. Knowledge, however, would last until the end of Haphaestus' days, which due to his nature were uncountable.

 

"Now I shall depart, if our business is concluded."

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"Very well."

 

 

Of course, the creature and his answer were to be expected, for Haphaestus wanted little and favored the backdrop of the Order. His previous banishment had tallied quite the price in reputation, one even scarred with insurrection. Lord Exodus had found worth in this particular individual, found his conviction and opinion to be of value, even if the two did not share the same. The exile he had suffered had been lifted, but he did not move with the impunities that some may, he would be remembered for what he was. In ways, it would seem that the archaic creature underestimated what this Dark Lord would accomplish, which was fair in relevance to the leaders they've had prior, but for now the metalsmith and his services was what mattered.

 

Exodus carried his sight across the ragged enclosure they had met within and it dawned on him, how such a prosaic environment reminded him of the Broken Halls. The thought brought a smile to his face as he turned to leave this place once and for good. Tightening his cloak around the dark metal, his prominent figure appeared fiercely more imposing. He walked towards where he had come from, pushing passed the droids as they fell in line around him.

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As her master, the dweller in shadows, the Spider discussed his business with the darkmetal prince, Telperiën’s eyes drifted. Their amethyst pupils stained with the bloodshot of her disease. The disease that made they beautiful face she inhabited become gaunt with wasting. Her master was right of course, the distraction this disease brought with it was most inconvenient and no one hated the weakness of inconvenience more that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon. So this body would need to be disposed of, and another vessel found. And so as the master conducted his business, the apprentice lurched into the darkness of the hunt.

 

She clicked her heels together in salute and strode from the halls of the darkmetal prince, the force emanating from her in tendrils that slithered the halls of decrepit Magrin, lusting for flesh to be devoured by the force and stolen, for a time, until it would return to the dust of the stars.

 

That quest found her outside of the room of Natal Kirimor, a smithy apprentice who had worked a long shift the night before and who was currently meditating in the cramped quarters that were provided those apprentices that showed promise. Her presence carried purity, which was why it had attracted the attention of the Daughter of Ar-Pharazon. A purity of mind and thought that would not last in the Order of the Sith. It had to be plucked for the taking, snatched from the galaxy, by those with power.

 

The door slid open on its well oiled tracks, and the eyes, dark green in colour which reflected the light of the triangular holocron that levitating before her, opened in alarm. The alarm changed to confusion, then to resignation as she saw that it was just another apprentice. Likely there to bother her for some inane reason. Then her eyes saw the spider stamped in silver on the leather chest piece that Telperiën wore. Shock filled those pretty green eyes and stayed there until they closed for the last time.

 

When they opened again the green had become purple.

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Muscles bunched and twitched as Telperiën writhed on the floor of Natal Kirimor’s apartment. Sweat mixed with the decaying flesh of the discarded corpse as the very living Natal gave up her last breaths as screams that echoed throughout the hallways of dark Magrin. Pain from the final fight of the host flooded Telperiën’s senses, which she bled into the force, using its energy to bring every bit of the girl to her heel. With a violence rare to the force, she tore the spirit and being from its body, and thrust herself in its stead. It was not a precise thing, possession, and it required an immense amount of will and anger to even begin the process. Bodies were easy to animate with the force, even to keep alive for some time, but it was the mind that was the hardest to take. It required exploitation, desire, and a hard heart.

 

Mama?

 

Telperiën now stood on a beach covered in towels, next to which the white capped waves slid across the sand, melting a halfmade sandcastle into lumps of sodden sand. In the distance blurry children danced silently beside the waves, their parents fuzzier blops sitting in chairs below umbrellas. Sound was distant and muffled and the waves that supped at Telperiën’s ankles were warm. Amethyst eyes narrowed into slits as they looked for prey. For Natal had fled to memories to keep her sanity, and the hunt had begun. Memories that served as touchstones for sanity had to be severed.

 

Mama? There is a scary lady here and sh-

 

The words died into a wimper as a young girl stared up into the purple eyes, for hiding behind walls of sand would not save her, and as the moat of Natal’s castle filled with red frothing blood, the scene changed again. A landspeeder, a young love, a kiss, more blood. New scene. A father coming home, the excitement of daddy bringing home groceries, jumping on a couch to get his attention. More blood. Scene change. Mama reading a datapad and not looking as Natal snuck a cookie from a plastcine jar, more blood. Change. Daddy leaving for another deployment the smell of his uniform and the pipe that he smoked, tears, blood. Change.

 

Memories died.

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The echo of metal pounding against metal, stormed loudly from the maw of the mines. The racket drew louder and louder until dark mountainous droids marched boldly from the entrance, coming to a full halt once the darkness of the mines crawled off of their backs. Two large braziers filled with fire and smoke lit the entryway, and behind the six heavily armed X-20s, Dark Lord Exodus emerged. The cool air moved differently about him, felt strange beneath the texture of the dark metal that covered him. His curious gaze scanned the range of area before him through the long length of his matted hair, ignoring the symbiosis of the metal, and picking on the subtle differences he had left behind. Little Ar-Pharazon was missing, but he knew she moved like a serpent in between the shadows, marking her territory everywhere they went.

 

"M1-X20. Relay our position to the Spire." The assigned droid didn't make a sound, not even the slightest of movements to acknowledge the command, but immediately it was done. The war machines had spent their last few weeks integrating with command structure here on Onderon, linking their services strictly to transmissions involved with the harrowing Spire, but for what specific purpose remained unknown. They were a personal detachment, prepared and fitted to indiscriminately decimate any opposition that threatened the well-being of those they were ascribed to.

 

Exodus moved towards the dormant Jedi, watching her body cycle through struggled breaths. Her health waned and her idle movement exposed severe vulnerabilities on a world conditioned to exploit and capitalize on such things. She chose to take cover between the nest of two boulders, obscured by plain sight but at large to those with a scent for blood. She was fast asleep nonetheless, unconscious mostly as her body demanded recovery. The poison had rotted her mental capacity, her grip on the realities she had spent years developing, and then took a physical toll that had killed a great deal more than those it let live. Dark Lord approached casually, just as a nondescript shuttle broke free from the black clouds that hung extremely low, making landfall just before the two masters of their art.

 

“..Your Jedi have not asked for your ransom. Your Jedi have not come looking. The lies that you and your order abide by, have left you as nothing more than an ideal to be thrown to the wayside.” She slept, but his unctuous words would drown inside of her slumberous mind. “Jaina Jade Skywalker, you have been abandoned. Your kind brought war to my doorsteps, sacrificed everything, and for nothing. I give you my last mercy.”

 

Exodus cut his eye from his sworn nemesis, flashes of the incoherent prophecy etching itself into his mind. The armor buried beneath his cloak seemed to react, the silver lining that creased the metal seemed to sanction the moment, or perhaps it didn’t. This was not mercy, this was underlying purpose. Whether the call of the Sith would now seduce her, or she inspired the Jedi to be more, would both work in his scheme. He felt the cool of the temperature heighten, guessing that the star that heated these lands was now at the furthest point from where he stood. Combined with the heedless winds that the landing shuttle kicked up, Exodus began to sour in mood. “Escort this woman off-world. Her pardon has expired. Order the rest of her kind to be executed immediately.” The Dark Lord did not move his lips, but the words were spoken in mind, and someone close listened attentively. That someone now stood at the edge of the ramp that reeled from the shuttle, standing eight feet tall and fully bathed in a black tapestry of robes, with a plain red mask covering the details to exactly what it was.

 

 

Exodus lingered no more, he continued into the wilderness on foot.

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Then the thrashing stopped. Light returned to the room and the girl on the ground surrounded by a mess of black blood took her first breath. The air burned on lungs that begged for oxygen and breath turned to a gasp. The Apprentice sucked air greedily as she slowly brought tired and sore hands up to touch her own face. She rubbed at amethyst eyes and finally sat up, grimacing at the wet stickiness below her, smeared on the tiles in a black mess. The remnants of her past body disintegrated to viscous paste by the power of the force.

 

Tired limbs propelled Telperiën to her feet where she stood unsteady and looking into the polished mirror on the wall. Her nakedness did not surprise her, for the fight between her own form and Natal had been brutal. She ran hands over her muscles and body, familiarizing herself with the form and she admired how the body had begun to shift itself to her will. Already stores of fat and muscle were beginning to shift in rapid succession as her bodies cells worked overtime, fueled by the force and the darkness that dripped like blood from her form. Soon, she would look very much like her old self, and her muscles burned with the pain of it.

 

She stooped and collected the armour and leather that her old form had previously worn, it was naturally covered in dead person slime, so she carried it, and the rest of her equipment to Natal’s shower unit and began to wash herself and the armour at the same time.

 

When she was finally clean, she dried the armour and donned it. Frowning at the fit and pulled a long cloak from Natal’s closet. She slung the bow in its leather cover and bag of arrows over her shoulder and stalked from the disgusting room. It was then that she allowed her presence to seep forth, searching for the web of the Spider. She found a thread of its silk and followed, until her bare feet were no longer treading on tile, but thick fallen leaves of the forests surrounding Iziz. It was then that she found her master and fell into the shadows in his trail. She would wait for his orders, but for now she walked behind him.

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  • 2 weeks later...
  • (Co-written by Exodus & Tel. P1)

 

The footfalls of the Dark Lord eased forward quietly, stepping soundlessly into the depth of the forest. The trees here were vast in both width and size, the head of leaves and branches hanging questionably low. The terrain was uneven, and covered in overgrown patches of grass. Blanketing the pathways were thickets of underbrush, spillings of unkempt foliage and strange vegetation. All of this was difficult to navigate in the totality of the darkness that surrounded them, but the moon would peak out every now and again as the dreary clouds passed on by.

 

".. You left to feed. How did you manage this time?" Exodus raised his voice so that she could hear the hollow hue of his attitude, trying to understand the depth of her selfish curse.

 

The Apprentice was hesitant and waited but a moment before she spoke as her mind considered a myriad of lies before settling on the truth as best course. Her voice was low and carried her uncertainty in its wake.

 

“Through murder Lord, another young apprentice snatched from a profitable life by my desire to live and serve.” She shook her head slowly, licking her lips with a pink tongue as her black hair bounced from shoulder to shoulder. “I do not know how to stop it my Lord, I am afraid of it.” Regret stained her sentence, and a scowl marred her pretty face.

 

"Afraid." Such a powerful emotion, fear. Perhaps it was a poison that sank deep inside her mind, a paranoia that deluded her from the moral weight of each and every decision she made, each and every life she took. She was but a child, and her nonchalant narrative of murder did little to convince him of her innocence. Exodus took a second to remember what the first fruit of fear tasted like in his time. It is a feeling that ravishes your mind and your heart. Drowning, the air impatiently trapped inside of your mouth. It is unlike pain, for pain rules the body while fear is born of the heart. There are mere seconds to make a choice, and your mind betrays you with an overwhelming panic. The fear pounded scathingly at the door of choice, and on the other side is a voice that begs for surrender. The dialect of death was impossible to understand when he was younger, but now it was a language that he studied deeper than most.

 

"I will teach you how, come." Exodus slowed his pace, stopping in the middle of a small clearing. Only nature and darkness surrounded them now. "There is a place not far from here, a place where childhood began for me. It is.. uncultivated, primal in every sense of the word, far deadlier than the lands we now walk. Focus hard enough, and you can you feel the shadow of it looming over this planet." Exodus sat down, differently than what the apprentice was perhaps capable of, his entire body strangely suspended a few feet from the floor with his arms folded in and over one another. He had a knack for exemplifying fluidity in his every motion, transitioning as if the movement were as natural as leaning over to rest for a moment, seating himself upon a bench that was truly not there. He closed his eyes, and trusted the feral apprentice would make her way.

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  • 4 weeks later...

(Co-written by Exodus & Tel. P2)

 

The young Apprentice followed her master until he paused in the shadowed glen filling its spacious void with the darkness that emanated from him in billowing clouds. In her hand she carried a ash shafted arrow, its fletching red as blood and its point long and razor sharp, four inches of heavy durasteel designed to punch through armor weave or light armour with the strength of both the bent Yew longbow and the force that Telperien had bound together in each attack like a two headed kyrat. Telperien now held the Bodkin arrow by its head, her finger lightly running along the sharp tri point of durasteel, the calluses on her fingers stopping the durasteel from biting into her flesh.

 

The primal lands of Onderon closed around them as the pair settled the forested glen, made all too oppressive by the presence of the Spider in so close a proximity. The thickness of the air was suffocating as the old forest’s boughs covered any sight of the sky or feeble dxun orbiting overhead. And when the Spider sat, so did his apprentice. Though not in levitation, for she did not know that power. Sensing however, that she was due to speak, the last heir of the Ar-Pharazon line spoke, her voice piercing the musty silence of the forest with its harsh tones. As he had hinted at his childhood, so should she.

 

“This forest reminds me of home Lord, Dathomir, where we scratched our existence from the earth and wallowed in huts of mud, sod, and wattle. Though the clan was named Nightsong, we did little singing save to our gods who demanded sacrifice and blood. We were strong in the force, which was their gift in exchange for blood. And still the fates, sitting below the tree of life with their needles of bone, spun my yarn to sit here in the presence of a ‘God’ himself.” Her voice seemed almost wistful, “The illusion of gods is false I see now, for even you Lord, came from the blood and mire of birth, from a woman’s womb to a place of high praise among the warlords that rule this galaxy.” She planted the arrow in the ground beside her. “I have learned much in your presence, and much of the superstition that came with me out of Dathomir has been stripped away. Though I wish to learn all that you can teach me, to face those fears I have, and to grow stronger. Stronger than any of my sisters, or my Father, whose legacy is all but extinguished some mere ten years since he died.”

 

The world around him eclipsed into a blackness as he closed his eyes in meditation, listening to a mouthful of words draw on with purpose from the wild Dathomiri. She spoke of many things, of Gods and her people, of culture and family and of a womb. The indirect mention his mother caressed the strings of an old heart, stuttering with the imagery of a Human woman with beauty beyond comprehension. The visuals of her that brushed the shores of his memory banks were of wide-eyed smiles, enchanting laughter and an unbreakable innocence that was impervious to fear. Scouring the galaxy to recapture what was lost, was a distraction of the past, but the memories could always fuel a tempest of emotion inside of the Dark Lord. “.. Jedi would lead their people to believe that all of what you speak, must be forgotten and erased from the mind. These attachments, and these memories are moments in time that serve only to distract them from their self-righteous decree. They are weak and lacking, desensitized to the worlds and people they claim to serve. But we—” The bold and serpentine voice of the King darkened noticeably, and the oppressive undercurrent of his presence became heavier to breathe in, fouler for the lungs. “—are free.” He lifted the lids of his eyes to reveal bittersweet magma, passionate fire dancing in the core of them both. The rest of his body held a meditative full lotus poise, unshakably still.

 

“They meditate to search for a peace that will never come, where we do so to sharpen the winds of the war that resides in us all.” He spoke slowly, and at times, it would feel as if the words announced themselves inside of her mind before they could touch her ears. It was undeniable now, there was a shifting aura all around the pair, evolving as the seconds drew past. “What you seek is the vehemence of wild emotion. You must conquer yours, and claim a mastery that few ever achieve in their lifetime. Your history, your pain and even your fears— they are stirred violently by grief and love and the unknown. Focus, concentrate these elements inside of your mind and weaponize them. Your emotions are invisible, intangible and invincible, they are your blades. The power that they can grant you far exceeds your cursed constraints, use it to smother your afflictions.”

The apprentice nodded gravely, feeling for all the world that she was outclassed intellectually and spiritually in every form by her master. It was a humbling thing to learn. Her voice was harsh as she spoke, as if there was something bitter that she tasted and was trying to retch it out.

 

“But how do I even start to control this anger, these feeling that fly around my head like unwanted mynocks” Her idle hands found a patch of loose bark and began to pick furiously away at it as her amethyst eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing slowed as she forced herself to concentrate, not to violently lash out with the force through some iodem, but to still it within herself. She knew she mumbled as she did so. Her soft mutterings of dathomiri chants getting lost in the dense foliage around them. It was the curse of her people, to only be able to concentrate through such devices but soon, she was able to calm the seas of her mind long enough to just look above the waves of anger and emotion that she had kept in check for so long.

 

Love. Love for a father that she had never met, love for a mother's kind moments, love for a soldier who had loved her mother. But an emotion that had never been fufilled. She had never loved a mate, or even loved anyone in that manner.

 

Pride. The most caustic of the lot, which supported her beliefs with falsehood and left her roots shallow and without nutrition.

 

Loneliness at the lack of love. Lack of friends. That pained her, even at the site of it, the space between her eyebrows furrowed and her breathing quickened. There was so much loneliness, buried in her which fed the fires of resentment. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself but upon looking at herself, she had never had a single friend except in passing. No one wanted to spend time with her, even her own master was likely just going through the motions. It wasn’t like he wanted to train her, to build a friendship it was about power, it was about crafting her into a weapon. She was so alone and it ate at her.

 

Anger. Anger at everyone she had loved for leaving a young girl to be cared for by witches. Anger at a father for leaving her a legacy she could never fulfill. Anger at everything and everyone.

 

Fear. For herself, for the legacy she was to carry upon her thin shoulders, for the fact that she knew she would die without ever being loved and without ever accomplishing everything she had set out to do.

 

It was all there in her mind. Roiling to explode from heartbeat from heartbeat. Eating away at her like a disease. Perhaps it was the disease.

 

“...You turn it into power.”

 

Exodus spoke the truth of it, the only way the Sith could succeed underneath the pressures of the cards dealt to the aspiring. “Allow yourself to feel the anger. Do not fear the feeling, for anger is evolutionary. It prepares you whole, against any threat that may confront you. Harness it, and watch as your fear turns into fire. Your failure is that you see these feelings as unwanted. You must find a place for each of them, feed them and embrace them wholeheartedly. Before long, you will understand. They are all pieces of a puzzle too grand for you to see now, too complex for the eyes of an amateur. Concentrate, focus on these emotions and realize that their sources are external at best. You will stumble on your own strength soon enough, far greater than anything your lineage has seen before. Quiet your mind and wash yourself in the suffering of you.”

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  • [Awaken, Telperiën.]

Lives without a body, hears without ears, speaks without a mouth, to which the air alone gives birth.

 

 

His voice, a profound echo of the surreal. A kindling flame behind his impeccable diction, surely tantalizing to the naked ear. Yes, it was unmistakable that his indomitable presence could thieve the natural senses from man and woman, leaving them surprised by the environment that had surrounded them all along. And so here, amidst the trees and the dirt and the persistent calls of the wild, all was still before the Dark Lord. Lackluster leaves broke their watch as they surrendered to the stifling winds, falling in decoration around the pair of near-humans. Yet and still, the world hushed itself before the might of the dark side, the twin harnessing of vivacious emotion that the two embodied throughout their lifetimes. With their eyes closed, yielding their senses to the unpredictability of the dark, Exodus continued his teachings in the native tongue of his people. With the incarnation of his Anzati ancestry having never seen the light of day before the common Sith, this language would be foreign to most, but his words repeated telepathically in a language standard she would understand.

 

 

 

  • "Vrátiť sa domov,
    Return home,
    Bolesť je obetou, ktorá nás vyvíja
    Pain is an offering that evolves us
    a energicky sa naleje do našich prázdnych miest
    and vigorously pours into our empty places
    časti z nás, ktoré sme nikdy nevedeli, existovali
    parts of us we never knew existed
     
    úzkosť môže rodenie pravý účel
    anguish can birth truer purpose
    len so zloženou úctou
    only with a composed reverence
    rozjímanie meditácie
    a channeling meditation
     
    bez ohľadu na jazvu
    no matter the scar
    kľúč
    the key
    je ticho pred búrkou
    is stillness before the storm
     
    osamelosť, strach, hnev, pýchu a lásku
    loneliness, fear, anger, pride and love
    tancujú nad tvojím ohňom
    they dance above your fire taunting
    sú to vaše palivo
    they are your fuel
    žiadna ilúzia, žiadna dualita
    no illusion, no duality
     
    dokonca aj v tomto zdanlivom svete separácie
    even in this seeming world of separation
    uvedomte si, že ste teraz doma
    realize that you are home now
    a že ste nikdy neopustili
    and that you never left"

 

 

The Dathomiri child full of promise, and hollow where purpose was found, would be no more. The misfortunes of her people, of her kin and herself would be confronted anew. The stench of a wild animal whose sole purpose was to shed skin and live from meal to meal would need to die here and now. Exodus could feel the embryonic potency buried deep inside her broken shell, desperate for the one who would inflame her dormancy. Her perspective was askew, and her mind left to wander recklessly. With proper focus and command, Telperiën could become an iconic pillar of the Sith, a daunting firestorm of the worst kind. She would need to walk before she dare run, or risk the fall from power that most fools suffered beneath the whip of the dark side. "...Dathomir calls for you. Your trials await you when you return." The message was clear, and would wait until the conclusion of her meditation, but the moment her eyes opened up— She would be born again, and Lord Exodus would be nowhere in sight.

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  • 4 weeks later...

The Guilty Throne

_________________________________________________________________________

 

Council Hall, The Glass Spire

Iziz City

 

 

Grand majestic braziers, sculpted from the likeness of what appeared as mythological serpents of unmatched size, half encircled each of the six marble columns that lit the entire throne hall, and poured a showering warmth across the floor-bed. Large mirrors on the high fragmented ceiling, masquerade in the flickering light while haunting gargoyles carved from the black of stone, look down upon the slate floor of the most polished hall. A vermilion rug ran from the throne down through the center and split into two footpaths, leading outwards while pennant banners with golden embroidery covered parts of the walls. Between each banner hung a traditional lantern, none but a few have been lit and in turn illuminate the mosaics of powerful misshapen creatures below them. Overwhelming stained glass windows depicting many etchings of High Sith are concealed by drapes, colored the same vermilion as the banners. A noble throne of onyx sits atop a small rise overlooking the throne hall, and the proximity of a mammoth holo-projecter, adjoined by many other practical seats for those aiding the Sith Emperor in all affairs. The throne itself is covered in runic designs and fixed on each of the bedrock legs is an encrusted crest of the Spider. If further audience was to be expected, stone benches filled the outskirts of the gathering room as well, all of which face the throne in a half circle.

 

With a fleet of Sith warships retiring from hyperspace, myriads of other smaller ships came to a sudden halt alongside the rest. The journey had been a long one, and the time for rest and recovery would be dire. Emperor Exodus surmised the arrival of his fleet to coincide with the appearance of his Covenant in full, and the timing could not have been better. While most of the Forces deployed towards Kuat to sink the resistances of the turncoats, well positioned scouts elsewhere had reported back with intriguing developments to be heard from all across Sith-controlled space. Information packets would be rallied within the planetary defensive outfit, and would soon fall through the webs and into the ears of the Spider, most of which already had. The Glass Spire crawled with fresh blood, the lower levels now teeming with an influx of administration. Yet, the halls were sacred, quiet and proofed from the pandemonium of triumph.

 

Earlier than the rest was the Dark King himself, Lord Exodus, regally cloaked in robes of obsidian, leisurely moved towards his throne with the intimidating sway of a conqueror. In his follow were armed escorts, politicians, military officials, religious leaders and higher echelons of Sith convening in the Council Hall. Many House delegations were present, and most of those that would arrive comprised an unrealized council to advise the King of the Sith on all subject matter. Those that were enveloped in other matters, those that remained under operation in the corners of the galaxy could still be reached, and would find themselves exhibited in full on the massive round-tabled holoprojector. It was time, and the future of the Sith Empire was at hand. This dark tribunal was nothing short of ravishing, highly embellished with artistry from High Sith of ancient time, and with a stone architecture carnally washed in the power of the dark side. Temple Wardens lined these halls dutifully at every impasse, and brandished an exquisite glaive that was seemingly ethereal in design, helping to ferry the subjects and foreign dignitaries of the Emperor-King. While Exodus took his seat, several Wardens surrounded the throne, while four individuals cloaked in the coat of the Immortal Coven stood on either side of the Spider.

 

 

  • The Emperor King canvassed the audience with impatient deliberation.
     
     
    • • •

 

".. Much of the native landscape will soon be colonized by a plethora of requisite industrial facilities. Modern fields of technologies are being developed and enhanced to further our dominance over the natural world, and to assist in this inescapable path of evolution. With increased risk of predaceous threats from neighboring habitats, the majority workforce often carries out its duties from the confines of protective structures, limiting their readiness for war. The common Onderonian sentient has been biologically flawed to a degree, neglecting their physical prowess in order to shelter behind these walls they have erected, ignorantly bearing witness to their own fall from the food chain. We have the means and the research to course correct, to beautifully engineer their growth, as we have done on the Umbarans. Each pressing year, the civilizations here have closely resembled that of a people dying to their very own planet. You have changed that, my Lord, but I also advise that we now look outward." The shape of an old man spoke passionately, hunched over in the darkest of robes, with eyes as blue as the waters of Maanan and long silver hair that fell graciously from his hood. The curious voice belonged to Ezro Tinker, none other than the Sentinel of Creation, an Anzanti kinsman to the Sith Emperor himself.

 

The Sith King was silent, his brilliant eyes thinning as he considered the offering before him. His adviser kept a stone-face as well, extraordinary colors lining the facial contours of the mysterious Voss at his side. The two of them understood a plan that would supersede the need for resources here amidst the domestic front, but neither man willing to spread such news in open court. Instead, Exodus nodded his sanctioning of the idea, understanding the very depth of what the Sentinel had to say and leaving it at that. "The mockery that was the old guard has only just perished. They are too ashamed to show their faces now, and so, we must replenish our strength with fresh blood before we are to hunt." It was true, those that had claimed themselves as worthy, were nowhere to be found when the order crumbled before the weight of their collective enemies. Ezro knew this well, returning to his seat with a hint of shame, knowing he took part in the abstinence all the same.

 

A tall near-human, plated in heavy black armor, stood up from the stonebench where he sat. "Lord Wulfrid, you have news?" King Exodus leaned on the edge of the dark stone, surveying the men and women before him. His words called to the Augur of Protection within his unwavering coven, an Anzat Warrior almost unrivaled in build and strength. The rest of the congregation did not move, budge, or make but a whisper.

 

"Lady Ootunavi has fallen, my King. The Lotus have terminated their trace of the creature, for she remains no more." Wulfrid searched the face of his superior, perhaps to find a measure of emotion or reaction to the news of the former apprentice. In the time he has known the Spider, and the even greater time spent with others within the covenant, he already knew better than to search for something that simply did not exist. "A studied apprentice by the name of Ailbasí Zirtani, a Cathar as they tell it, was the one to take her life. She was last seen with the Blood Prince on Korriban."

 

"Brother Furion uncoupled her mind in more ways than she could ever understand. Perhaps death has freed her." Liaje Mekra, Elder of Death, couldn't help but flash a feverish grin as Exodus spoke the words. There were others that took the moment to look towards the fair Lady, mysteriously leaning aside one of the few staunch pillars, assuming that her hand literally played itself in all affairs concerning the demise of man. "This Cathar, I will have words with it." Just as the words left his mouth, the round table came alive with composite recreations of several individuals not particularly known to the Dark King.

 

 

  • "..My King, there are others that have taken rise where our veterans have fallen, allow me to show the room—"

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The last time Ailbasí had been to Onderon it had been the beginning of the Sith occupation, before the Dark Lord had begun to resculpt the world to suit his needs. A different feeling hung in the air now, like the sky was holding its breath before shouting in thunder and weeping in rain. The humidity made the air thick but did little to warm the clammy coldness of her anxiety. What could the Dark Lord want with an apprentice that couldn’t even keep a master?

 

A massive spire of black glass thrust skyward loomed over her, a perfect example of how men love to display their dominance. Ca’Aran probably had a tower too, although she could confirm that such a structure would be an accurate representation. Part of her wondered if the Dark Ladies of history had gone a different direction with citadel designs. Like maybe a chasm or two massive domes. She would investigate later.

 

With a peal of thunder the skies opened up and Ailbasí raised the cowl of her robes as she approached the council building. She could feel her every action under scrutiny by the watchful eyes of the spire guard, and a gauntlet of security protocols stretched out before her, hungry to eat up her time and patience. Ambassadors and service staff alike stood elbow to elbow in the queue, slowly shuffling forward after each deep scan and probing search was completed. In all honesty Ailbasí was unsure of how her sword would handle being separated from her, it was their first time apart, and the blade seemed to possess some level of autonomy.

 

They arrived at the end of the line… and kept walking. Her escort marched her down an open path adjacent to the line, and upon presenting the proper documents and multipart verification was allowed to pass through. The realization that even armed Ailbasí was no threat to the people she was meeting huddled in the back of her mind.

 

Eventually she was conveyed through massive double doors into a surreal throne room of shadow and flame. The looks of its occupants drilled into her with dreadful intensity, but that was nothing compared to the figure on the throne. Even without his eyes upon her his presence was like a thousand spiderwebs of monofilament wire tearing her apart and dissecting her every secret. The cold indifference of him flash froze her insides and she had to fight to keep from throwing up out of fear. She staggered into a position of kneeling supplication but said nothing because all words failed her. When he looked at her at last she felt small, smaller than a grain of sand being regarded by a colossus.

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The gods struggled in their heavens as the call of Níðhöggr disintegrated the roots of the child of the Golden God. Poison and magik stirred in the cauldron of the spirits as the Apprentice breathed, the force of the dark god before her entered through her breath, soaking into her lungs, past them, into her body itself. A battle between Gods and the poison of witches contended for the possession of the Daughter of the Golden one.

 

A lonely child cried in the arms of her mother as she watched her brothers and father disintegrate before her eyes in a flash of magik and turbolaser fire. That fear and terror turned slowly to anger and resolve, as the girl shed the flesh of those she had taken, the revenge in her eyes never faltered and as Níðhöggr in his shadowed glory stood behind her, the resolution turned to stone.

 

In the clearing beside her master the Apprentice cried out a word of command. The expulsion of air carrying the word brought with it a vomit of black bile, and as it dripped into the grass at her feet, the fertile land turned grey and ruinous. Another word of power, shouted through corrupted lungs, another stream of black destruction and Telperiën Ar-Pharazon tore at the grass around her with fingers flecked with black blood. Her shouts turned to chants that started slow and soft and built to a bloody crescendo. And with a shout of triumph in the force, the daughter of the golden god expelled the curse. Then she began to laugh as her face began to change, the clearing in the forest slowly igniting around her into blue flames as the sound of cackling laughter echoed through the silent forest.

 

And on the planet Dathomir, lightyears away, a witch at the head of a council of seven began to scream.

 

When Telperiën Ar-Pharazon emerged from the forest she was not the same apprentice that had gone in. She was young and lithe, with strong muscles, and her father’s chiseled cheekbones. Her brow was tall and stern, her red hair pulled back into braids and on her queenly brow was a crown of tangled vines, with flowers of red. Her clothes black as night, covering her in shadowed armour. She was no longer stolen flesh, she was born again in the image taken away from her, and she was now off to her homeworld, to tame and mould it, to bring her people under the sway of the spider. A herald of beauty, a herald of darkness.

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And then the entire audience fell eerily silent. Hours of deliberation cooled when the passages of the council hall peeled opened, and a stranger was introduced. The shadows that decorated the recesses of the auditorium shifted in position, and the audience as a whole turned to the Emperor for instruction.

 

  • “..Leave us.”

The articulation of his sinister voice came out spent, far-reaching and drummed out powerfully from his seated position, but worn out from the tedious endeavors that came with the throne that he was nested on. The Temple Wardens spotted all around the hall, slammed the pommel of their glaives into the floor synchronously, demanding immediate reaction to the command of the Dark Lord. The entire audience shifted, and feet began to shuffle more swiftly. Members of the Covenant were slowest to disperse, as they watched the others in attendance more diligently. The Cathar remained doubled over in reverence, while some of the most powerful and influential individuals to ever sweep this side of the galaxy, passed her by. When the last two were all that was left, and the heavy doors slammed shut, the flickering of flames lit on the wicks of the torches roared silently.

 

 

“Stand up, young Zirtani." Exodus leaned forward from the throne, hoping that this one at least lifted the dreariness that the administrations laid before him. The thrill of the hunt was what provoked him and provided him fulfillment, but the regime of the Sith would have suffered from extinction without his guiding hand, so these practices were necessary. "Illustrate for me, how it felt, the killing of Lady Keenava." Lord Exodus smiled, the shimmer of brilliant emerald inside of his villainous glare locked onto the Cathar, scrutinizing the flower of red that spawned from hers. There was no time to waste on pleasantries, and these two species were predators of the highest nature.

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It was a good thing that the Dark Side fed on fear, otherwise Ailbasí might not have had the capacity to come to her feet. Her rise was as much levitating herself with the Force as it was muscle movement. She chose her words carefully and put aside her normal preference for sarcasm.

 

“Affirmation. Affirmation of my training, of some small measure of control over my life, of the choices I’ve made. I’ve sacrificed a lot to walk this path, and as I was discarded by master after master, I began to wonder if I wasn’t cut out for this life. I still don’t know why I wasn’t able to consistently keep a master, but I don’t doubt my worth anymore. Although in truth, that was more how winning the fight felt than making the kill.”

 

“My first and most influential master was Master Sheog, who as I’m sure you know has certain peculiar appetites. When I first sensed them in him it distanced us on many levels, because I was naive and still clinging to traditional morality, but over time I’ve begun to develop kindred tastes. At first it was confined to my subconscious, only coming out during dervishing meditative states, but when I had bested Keenava it was on the forefront of my mind. At the time I rationalized it as wanting to make an example of her, to intimidate any that might try to succeed where she had failed, but I know better now. There’s a primal joy in hunting and consuming prey, and I’ve come to find the experience quite intoxicating. While I don’t pursue it with the same wanton abandon as Sheog, it is a vice I foresee myself continuing to indulge in the future.”

 

“So what I felt? Pride at overcoming an enemy. Disdain for how much she underestimated me. Hatred that someone so fragile could be called a lord. Visceral delight as her hot blood dribbled down the sides of my mouth and I tasted her flesh. Acceptance of the monster I’ve become, because if I had clung to my old self I would have been dead or enslaved.”

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The silken wire-drawn wealth mantled around such a powerful physique, shaped the appearance of an outlandish behemoth of a man weathered in the finest of luxuries. He was not of imperial decor like most would presume, this Sith was more akin to barbaric earldom, a barbarous conqueror embellished in the skins and leathers of his kills. As he leaned forward and rose from the harsh comfort of the stone throne, his ravenous locks of hair parted ways and revealed more of his evanescent face. The King of the Wicked held a darker skin tone that was most fair, and to all appearances, unsullied by the taint of time and the dark side all the same. Impassivity was painted across his headmost features, a frozen detachment in his eyes that was coined to the name of the Spider, deliberately in defiance of the toll that his unrivaled power would soon take. Stiff buckskin sewn into the leather of his boots pressed into the open floor quietly, unnaturally quiet as he moved towards the Cathar while her wild maw opened and closed with tale. Not a sound from him nor his dark raiment as he approached, her prudent words finding themselves a solid echo inside of his walls.

 

Her fear was quite surreal, he could taste the sour of it clearly from the crown of his mouth. Fresh currents of the emotion proved imperceptible but spilled nonetheless from her small form as fuel for the two to feast on. The Dark Lord of the Sith drew nearer, and so, the dread stirred feverishly alive by the step. Exodus could feel an immediate discrepancy between this child of the Sith, and most of the others he had come to know; the ignorant masquerade of fearlessness that the others wore, stifled their fear from flourishing in the face of the Dark Lord, such was not a skin that this Cathar chose to wear. She was unabashedly her, this creature that spoke of victory so fluently, poetic in how she navigated her experience and tallied each of her encounters. "..In hindsight, perhaps it was the Masters that could not keep you." His train of thought was rationed between his own mind, and that of the Cathar. She would be able to hear the words by means of Anzati telepathy, she would feel exactly what he meant, only because he willed it so.

 

"It was not Lady Keenava alone that had underestimated you, yet it would be the Twi'lek alone to pay the ultimate price." Exodus moved within feet of her now, stalking her in paces as he watched her closely. The warhorses of the Sith were failing in number, and efficiency. The educators of power, the higher echelon of the Sith were falling to the wayside as each day passed them by. The Cathar did not err in her assessment, but she would do well to understand that each of the masters misjudged her worth and birthed the monster that she now spoke of. This Sith Empire required more of what she had become, and even more of what was to come, for the failings of the old guard would have to be rectified. Closer now, Exodus drew for his blade Zveris with his mind, the ceremonial metal drawing from sheath without the need for his physical clutch on the handle. Passing the veil of his dark cloak, and slipping into the light of the neighboring flames, the brilliant craftsmanship of the Ancient Sith Warblade manifested before the young Cathar. It was in this draw, that the Allfather of Assassins caught wind of a familiar scent.

 

"Your journey, has little to do with the nuances of who or what imparts their experiences onto you. Their staying, or going is what you the hunter makes of it. You, are of the wild, as I am. Be reminded of what is was like to walk bare-foot in the most uncivilized of places. Heed the kind of unruly creature it would take to survive, and for no other reason than to witness the freedom of the trees and the meadows, vast rivers and the sweeping forests, the sharp blades of grass and the spilled blood that spoiled them between your toes. The memories are both persuasive and fundamentally powerful to these kinds of Sith. You are of this breed, free from conformity, and free from the fragile. It was to me, as it is to you, to feel this way as a creature of the wild. With your triumph, young Cathar, you have seized the title of another as your own. Henceforth, you will be known across my Empire as Darth Nyrys, Sith Lord and Lady of the Wild."

 

 

  • The sacramental blade brushed against her, christening her new prestige.

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Ailbasí’s bulwark of fear evaporated under the influx of joy and pride, and she nearly lost her footing without it to keep her stable. But standing she remained, her sacrifices transmuted into a title of power. The Dark Lord was undeniably displeased with his once favored agents, which meant there was opportunity to be seized.

 

“My King, if it pleases thee, I will create a crucible through which we can purify the Sith of weakness. I know of a place of blood hunts upon golden savannahs through which the weakness can be ripped and torn away from the Sith. I will make pilgrimage there and build for you a temple of steel and rage, thus all of true faith and worth will prosper.”

 

While Ailbasí certainly didn’t make use of such stilted dialogue often, her familiarity with historical documents made her conversationally fluent in it. A different, distant version of herself would have worried about the cost of bringing the Sith to Cathar, but in truth, it would elevate the strong and weed out the weak. Weakness had been what had led to Cathar’s near annihilation by the Neo Crusaders, while the Republic and the Jedi had sat by and done nothing. What survived had been easy pickings for slavers, particularly women and girls. The men were considered too difficult to control by the slavers, but given the prevalence of wookiee slaves, she questioned the validity of that. Perhaps the slavers just saw the value in giving the male Cathar an opportunity to look the other way safely.

 

Whatever the case, with the Dark Lord’s permission, she would reforge her people into what they needed to be to survive, and to be slaves no more.

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The powerful Anzati amassed under the power of their chosen one, Telperien now combed through her supernatural homeworld of Dathomir, and now this auspicious lady of the wild conspired to rein in the people and culture of Cathar. The seeds of expansion began to find their roots, sown farther and farther with the ripening of the Sith. The even temper of the Spider measured what patience would be required to defeat the promise of the mortal enemies that had once held the upper hand, his drapery of webs weaved deeply into the galaxy to break this hold.

 

  • "You have my leave, Cathar. The resources for your endeavors must be appraised by Lady Sensara, take what is necessary. You speak of prosperity, and a sanctum of steel and rage.. You work now with the imprint of my Empire, do not humiliate me."

 

Exodus hauled the burden of his people across the breadth of both shoulders, immovable against the pressures of their adversaries. His rule was undeniable, not one of two, but a rule of the strongest. When one of his own hinted their brilliance in these trying times, it was wisest to either fan those flames or smother them altogether. For now, he would watch for the intentions that this Cathar held closest to her heart, and weigh their worth against the rise of the Sith Empire.

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  • 2 weeks later...

“By your leave, my king.”

 

Ailbasí bowed before striding out with purpose. This wasn’t just a chance to prove herself, it was an opportunity to restore her species to a place of prominence in the galaxy. The Republic had squandered the Cathar, but the Sith would see the value in a warrior people with a need for vengeance.

 

Darth Sensara’s office was not what Ailbasí had expected, having more in common with a dean’s office than the lair of a supervillainess. There was not a single lavafall to be seen, and while Ailbasí’s academic background allowed her to appreciate the rarity and taste of the collection of texts and artifacts on display, the aesthetic emphasized refinement rather than power.

 

Oh pop culture, how you have betrayed my expectations.

 

Maybe one day she could have an awesome villainess lair with proper accoutrements. Was there a place for buying evil interior design elements? It was something to look into.

 

Darth Sensara herself was a pale vision of beauty, gossamer and transparent over a gaunt arachnoid frame, although Ailbasí was certain that was metaphor and not physical appearance. Sensara was human or one of the “near human” species, Ailbasí knew that from passing conversation that she had overheard.

 

While the conversation was dominated by the particulars of supplying her excursion to Cathar, there was an undeniable presence coming from Sensara, like that of a favorite professor or an older sister. She became aware of Sensara’s warm exterior enveloping her, but did not yet have the power or mastery to break the web. So she smiled like an idiot and spoke freely and openly with Sensara about all manner of things. Afterwards, she had little recollection of what precisely was discussed, but she felt used. Of course the influence was insidious enough that she literally was unable to bring herself to be mad at the woman. At the closing she could barely manage a “well played”, to which Sensara responded with a pair of sisterly pecks on the cheek before sending Ailbasí on her way.

 

She would accompany the supply train to Cathar and have her ship meet her there. She would also see if Ca’airan could join her out there, his advice would be useful and if everything went well this would be another feather in his cap. Not to mention other positions and benefits that he could fulfill. He would just need to downplay the pedigree of his training.

 

--------------

 

By the end of the day, Darth Nyrys and her ships departed Onderon.

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  • 1 month later...

There was a time when Malachi only ever came here in his dreams. Foreboding dreams, full of fear and an impenetrable darkness. It would always begin with him in the empty castle, searching for family. The ravens were gone from the rookery; the stables were full of old bones, whether human or animal he could never quite tell. Silence met his every frantic cry as he called out their names time and again. Their names would freeze on his lips as he remembered the bones. As always, in strange dreams, he found himself pulled towards the crypts with a compulsion, impossible to resist. He could see only the top few steps spiraling into the blackness of the tombs where the Anzati Kings slept forever more. Stone wyverns rendered mid-snarl, bared their granite teeth and their massive wings as he passed them by fighting the urge to scream. He always awoke, heart fiercely beating and gasping for air, in the safety of his own bed. 

But that animal fear had left him now. The people knew him as Exodus, a cold-blooded assassin and a conqueror of worlds. The boy that had worked his tiresome due in the slums, had carved himself into a King of the fearsome Sith. Fear was an ideology that worked for him now, an emotion synonymously enslaved to his name. The periods between conciousness and sleep were no more than blinking, turning the page to another chapter. And so, the Dark King rose from the folds of his bed, sleep quite obviously an awkward luxury in his schedule. In the moments he took to compose himself, and wash the idle from his face, the whispers of the blackened force crawled into his ear. They were the soft reminders that weighed heavily on his mind.

 

"After all you've done, they have abandoned you."

 

Glorified men and women that had called themselves Sith, creatures that mantled the title and whored the name, vanishing by the day. Exodus had burned the remnants of Old back on Korriban, burying the bones of them and those loyal to them far beneath the sands. Blatant heresy ran rampant within the brotherhood, and the lawlessness had proven to be one of the main ingredients to their constant failures as a powerhouse in the wars past. Now, with halves of the old empire in tow, the Sith Empire prospered more than ever. Yet and still,

 

"..Even the Hutt has left you."

 

Exodus leaned towards the porcelain basin and spit into the centerpiece of the cold vanity. Looking up, the large mirror reflected the unblemished face of the young King, long fiery hair rebelliously falling in folds over his skin. His face was unmeasured this time, there was no neutrality in his features, simply hate. The facecloth whipped to his hand on demand, and he dried the dew from his skin, pearly emeralds still stared directly back at him, burning with strangled concentration. He held onto these emotions for weeks now, dishing out unprecedented force in each of his combat exercises, removing the restraints of his lethality. The Anzati Blood inside of him burned differently, brighter and more true. Just outside of his quarters, the rest of his Anzanti covenant already lined the Glass Spire, waiting amidst royal visitors native to Onderon. The arrival of his family must've spurred a deeper nature inside of him, one that reminded him that the chess-pieces were nothing more than just that. He wished to have no further part to play in the ceremonies, or the pleasantries of customs, the others would fill those roles. He would continue the legacy, with his own two hands.

 

"You risk your life, skulking about in my shadows," Exodus spoke loosely.  

 

Lady Gethwine's hands were cupped around a candle that had long extinguished. Only a stub remained, with the blackened wick protruding from the molten pool. Nothing of her appearance revealed itself, but Exodus knew who she was. "You have quite the nose, my Lord." her voice honey-combed with curiosity and small laughter. She kept close to the walls, sunken and wrapped in the blackest of cloth. He remembered her from his home; a draught of air would sigh through the rib-vaulted ceiling or a chill would rise from the flagstones whenever she approached. "The reek of your enemies is unmistakable by now, yet they still tread carefully.." She was prying, but traveling such a distance for something she knew was unlikely for the Consul of Secrets. 

 

"They are little more than children, Gethwine. The one who calls herself Empress is an example of this, I will not entertain child's play. 

 

Not one of them had made contact with the Sith, and those that moved to Kuat on the heels of the Hutt had not returned. The betrayal from the White Wolf, and the incompetence from the rest was enough to scorn him deeply, for he had invested in the future of the Sith by those that sworn themselves. From inside his pocket, he withdrew an artifact. Black enameled, with a three headed dragon studded into the front with cloud-colored crystals, and the sprawling legs of a spider. He nudged open the filigree clasp to reveal a small inscription, carvings in High Sith that would be unrecognizable to most. Still, something was to be done.  

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"Dathomir as it was is a shambles of a once great community, its denizens subjugated and starving, and now with the aide of the Sith and the rule of a blessed patriarch such as the Spider we will see them return to greatness."

The Sith shuttle hurtled through hyperspace, Tel having quite consciously kidnapped the clueless Melodie and had decided to whisk her off into service of the Dark lord. A gift much as it was, alongside the news of the subjugation of the Nightsisters.  Telperien stood in front of the Melodie, her hands clasping hard the bow of yew that she held, destrung so that the bow did not follow the cord and thus become the weaker for it. A precurved bow being the weaker bow beside a bow as straight as its first forming. And Telperien was proud of that black yew bow and so carried it with her wherever she went. A powerful weapon besides being a talisman of sorts to focus through. She looked at the young girl, her smile carrying no joy. 

"We go to see the ruler of this galaxy, the Spider, the King Beyond the stars. You have potential within you, and I will exploit that to form you into a weapon as powerful as I am. But you must still choose." She withdrew a bodkin with its wicked point ground to a molecular edge and pointed it to the younger girl, the tip a mere inch from her nose. 

"You can choose the life of a weapon, or die. That is your choice, and you have no other.  Take the arrow or be taken by it. Embrace your destiny and or I will not let such a powerful tool find its way into the hands of the Jedi."

And as that horrible choice was presented, the sith shuttle arrived over Onderon. 

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A roiling hunger. Bitter in its chaos, a tempest of untampered madness. Lighting and smoke of crimson. Greed and Gluttony tore at the veil of the Force, allowing their master to enter physical form once again. A mountain of filth, never broken. Insane, but never disloyal.

<<Do you think I would ever… Truly… Leave you, Shadow Spinner?>>

The deep laughter of the Hutt, flecked and filled as it was with phlegm, held true joy. Mirth carried by insanity. A silver tiara landed at the feet of the Spider, tossed by the Master of the Krath. A gift for the Dark Lord.

<<Kuat and the Empress are yours. As promised.>>

The Hutt breathed in a deep, blubbering sigh. For a moment he gave himself pause. Had he come too far into the Spider’s web, to his very bedchambers? No matter, Such an entrance would have given even Ar-Pharazon enough time to disguise his whores. The Hutt snorted, clearing his nostrils and leaving such cares behind. The Force subsided, his entrance made. He had no need to impress the leader of the Sith, the Hutt knew grandiose entrances were mundane and cliché.

<<Did you think I would leave the Krath to Draken?>>

His staff dragged upon the flagstones as the Hutt bowed his form, what little resemblance he could muster to kneeling.

<<I am not Furion...>>

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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"Did you say Spider?" Eve question as the flames within her gaze blazed with anger, the Melodie's fear becoming tempered by her lust with vengeance. Even Lucif, who had remained calmly upon his ward's form hissed at the mere mention of the emblem. "Does his ships bear his marking upon their hulls?"

What luck. If this was the being behind her clan's destruction, Eve had fallen right into where she had wished to be, no matter how much this girl before he spoke of potential. Feeling Lucif's reel, Eve placed her hand up to calm the large snake and stroked his coiled form as it tightened around her. This was perfect beyond measure. She was heading straight to him, straight to her revenge for the lives one of his ships had claimed. And she was being escorted directly. She may have been born upon a backwater moon, but she was not as dumb as some would believe. There was only one path to follow now. Reaching forward, Eve grasped the arrow's form.

"Make me this weapon you speak of." Eve spoke as the first smile of many crept upon her face, deception in her eyes as she realized the opportunity before her. "I choose to embrace this potential you see."

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M A D N E S S

 

Furion, Quietus, and Draken, it made no difference in the who. There were other names, other identities that absconded their burdens and turned their backs. Keenava had downshifted, falling from grace and regressing into a mere hound of the Korriban sands. Now she lay dead, spirit just as lost as her fragmented mind was. Even the promise of pledging apprentices, rallying their weight towards the efforts of Kuat, and coming up short against their adversaries. Glory, and victory, escaped them all. Root and stem of the brotherhood was perforated with rot, but the Sith Empire remained supreme.; a balance barely held together by the strength and name of the Spider, and the hundreds of thousands he now commanded.

 

“My mind is, unclear as of late.”

 

Except that it was not, his lie was spun from  a retch of emotion that was born of anger, his mind was sharper than it had ever been. Allegiance was a shrewd notion among the evils of the galaxy, and the madness of suspicion was a thing unavoidable by all that swam within the dark side of the force. Ordinarily, the merriment of the Hutt would ease the fire inside of Exodus, but this fuel burned a different mettle inside his black soul. Exodus watched as the silver headdress clattered across his floor, staring from afar with no intention to move to recover it. A treasure from the child that presided over the remnants of the old empire, a worthless jewel borne of treasonous turncoats.

 

Exodus stood, his disinterest in the Empress was unmistakable. He focused instead on the readiness of his battle raiment, the aesthetics of which were shadowed from the swallowing darkness. Lastly was the form of a soot-covered half-skull helmet cradled inside the tuck of his right arm, while his infamous blade remained clutched inside of his left hand. The Spider was yearning the adrenaline of battle, for reasons that longingly churned his blood, and he would leave Onderon to enact death as he saw fit. However, the Hutt had come home at last, and the inkling of why was a curiosity he would have answered. Moreover, whispers ascertained that his apprentice had returned. Before all, he would measure the true intent of the Lord of Madness.

 

"Lord Sheog, what do you think of what the Sith have become?"
 

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