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Korriban


Exodus

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Ailbasí strolled the academy grounds, for lack of a better term, now able to take in her surroundings without grim specters of fear and insecurity haunting her so heavily. The most eye catching trait was the contrast between reverent traditionalism and feverish innovation. It was almost like someone had melded the same location across two vastly different time periods together, or looking at a cyborg shark, a predator so effective that it never needed to evolve but ingenuity found means to do it anyway. Warriors from lost eras conversed with assault troopers in state of the art power armor, and venerated architecture was traversed by turbo lifts.

 

Underneath this striking disparity was an overwhelming sense of viscerality. There were some places that were so sanitized and disconnected from life that you could look at a holopic of them and know everything you needed to know about their feel. This was not one of them. The scents of bodily fluids permeated the air, along with earthen clay and machine shop oils. All around her were thrumming currents of activity as young Sith sought to either assert their dominance over each other or trained to find the edge they needed for tomorrow’s battles and position jockeying. This was a place of vigor and grit. Being here got under your claws and left its scent on your fur.

 

Hearing the sound of metal hitting metal at a rhythmic beat and hoping to maybe observe a sparring session or something, Ailbasí entered a temple room and was hit by a wall of heat so overwhelming that she actually took a step back in response. Her initial assumption had been wrong, this wasn’t students performing a martial sequence, it was a smithing forge where apprentices learned the craft through hands on training. Noticing her intrusion, the instructor’s voice carried out a booming warning.

 

“We have a visitor gracing our humble workshop, be sure to point and laugh at her if she does anything stupid and hurts herself.”

 

While Ailbasí had never been in a working forge before, she had been to active industrial zones visiting family on Kuat and knew those safety regulations from having them repeatedly being drilled into her head. She had thought her parents were just being overprotective until she saw her first machinery accident. Grabbing a thermal mask from the wall that wreaked of someone else’s sweat, she observed from a safe distance, taking in as much as she could. There was a sense of belonging here that she couldn’t explain, amidst the sweltering heat and molten metal. Something in the blood.

 

After what Ailbasí would later find out was a great deal of time had passed, the forgemaster approached her directly, like a migrating mountain of leather and steel. His face and body were obscured, but Ailbasí was pretty sure he was a Sith hybrid of gundark and rancor genes with the way he loomed over her. The man giant looked her over and brusquely grabbed her arm to poke and prod at her before addressing her.

 

“Visiting hours are over, either leave or pick up a hammer.”

 

A moment of anxious panic briefly flooded over Ailbasí, like the feeling of getting caught in a lie or with her hand in the jerky jar. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin, I’ve never smithed anything before…”

 

The forgemaster shoved a hammer into her hands and said, ”I don’t know how you expect to learn without picking the damnable hammer up. Learn by doing.”

 

Ailbasí grasped the hammer’s haft and felt the heft and distribution of the tool. A few months ago it probably would have strained her terribly to hold it, but that version of her was no more. “I mean, I can learn the basics but I won’t know anything about the best alloys or most effective designs. This would take considerable research to produce the best results. In sophmore year I did a paper on the Conclave of Jirakor, where the best smiths of five different systems debated over the best techniques of weapon crafting at the behest of the Baristahl Hegemony for their sixth great expansion. The debate lasted over fifteen years and started eighty seven blood vengeance feuds between the clans attending.”

 

The forgemaster looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before speaking, “Fifteen years of smithing knowledge, do you have that paper with you?”

 

“And the accompanying charts and graphics! I was a bit of a history nerd… let me see where it is in my files…” Ailbasí brought up her datapad’s holo display and began browsing through folders to find the file. When she located it and let out a triumphant “Aha!” a massive armored fist burst through the holo display and into her nose. The world spun, and she could feel sticky red blood flowing warmly over her face and down her chin, yet somehow she got the impression that she had been hit with only a fraction of the force that those fists could muster.

 

“Even if you find the perfect science and designs before you start, you won’t be able to reproduce them properly without any hands on experience. Worse, you were so distracted by finding the perfect method that I managed to strike you undetected in a place with no armor, which is all of you because you haven’t made any armor yet. Do you understand the lesson here?” said the forgemaster with a stern but on some level concerned tone.

 

“I will be working on a helmet with whatever junk scraps you give,” she said, wiping away the blood from her nose.

 

And so she began her education of fire and steel.

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One of the things Qaela enjoyed doing was stealing through the various hallways and rooms of the Bastion, observing and sensing what was going on within its stone walls. She usually did this incognito, concealing her identity or even her very presence from those around her so that she may better observe what was truly happening. Often, she made good notes of people whom she needed to watch to better determine if they needed promotion or demotion, teachers who were stepping out of bounds or were outright corrupt, or treachery against her or other Sith members that needed to be addressed.

 

Not all who came here were worthy of the Sith. Many were killed or seriously maimed in legitimate training exercises, others were culled by the trainers. Still, a few managed to make it through through dumb luck or skillful manipulation. These sub-par candidates were generally deluded to thinking themselves worthy of the Sith, but in truth were disgraces and unworthy of it. Worse, in her opinion, were those who merely preyed on other Sith, not working to self improvement or for the greater good of the Sith Order and Empire. Those beings were often strong enough to survive, but would do the Empire more damage than good were they to graduate.

 

For those, and any who were too unruly and undisciplined, she tended to cull them herself by giving them a meaningful and useful death. There was no point in outright executing or slaughtering these unworthy beings: they were far better suited for prey to those who were more worthy. She, and a small number of trusted Masters, would throw the weak or unfit into the Gher Muahal. The Gher Muahal was where she threw those that would never succeed and needed to be killed, but also still fit within her philosophy of not wasting things. Given a simple weapon and released either into special training grounds or into the Korriban wilds, the Gher Muahal were hunted by aspiring Sith as part of their final tests before becoming lords. If a Sith could kill their prey in a genuinely life or death struggle against the Gher Muahal, it was a good indication they had what it took to become a Sith Lord. Most of the time, these unworthy were killed, but in their death, they provided a valuable service to the Sith Order. In this, Qaela maintained the quality of the Sith graduating the Bastion without wasting those who might still contribute something worthwhile.

 

On rare occasion, there were those Gher Muahal who overcame their attackers and killed them. In light of this, Qaela offered them one more chance to prove they were worthy of being a Sith. For those who were simply not skilled enough, they were given extra time to improve their skills under the watchful eyes of the Masters and senior Lords. Those that were Gher Muahal due to their attitude or inability to accept the Sith beliefs, she herself monitored them. These beings were usually plenty skilled, but needed to seriously change their attitude in order to ever be useful to the Empire. Those that continued to refuse her direct education were killed by her in direct combat in the Grand Hall before the entire Bastion. She had killed three of them that way in the last months, all to prove the superiority of her philosophy to those who might question it. She couldn't say it was entirely effective, but there were plenty on the fence about her that were swayed as she defeated the unruly challengers.

 

The Gher Muahal who did manage to conform were allowed to become Lords, Lords who often were more loyal to her and her philosophy than not. In her opinion, that was only a good thing, and she was able to send those new Lords to the great Lord Exodus to serve in his war confident that they would be far more useful to the Empire than the self centered, arrogant, and conniving Lords that the old guard Masters often sent.

 

* * * * *

 

As Qaela was stalking the Bastion grounds when her path took her to the smithy, where Sith weapons and armor were made. This area, generally loved by those studying to be Krath, was one of her favorite places because it reminded her of more simple times from her childhood. As a primitive society, the blacksmith was an important part of her Clan village. Enchantments and other spells were often put on armor and weapons giving them some semblance of an edge in combat against the Witches. Though she herself hadn't remained in her village long enough to receive her first full set of armor, she was familiar with them and enjoyed seeing the glowing metal being worked into useful things.

 

There, she witnessed the aspiring smiths: both Force gifted and not. The Sith proper couldn't be expected to maintain all of the features of the Bastion, so many of the beings that provided the armor and weapons weren't Force sensitive at all, just skilled at working metal and materials. Still, it was those with the ability to use the Force who showed the proper aptitude in working metal and other magicks that were highly prized. Having some minor skills in enchantments and spellscraft herself, Qaela often took an interest in these beings, subtly or directly nudging them into more productive paths.

 

While watching these, she noticed a newcomer, one she hadn't observed before. Of a feline race, the female seemed eager to contribute, capable of learning, and willing to accept correction without arrogance. All three were of interest to her, so she accessed her datapad and pulled up what little information was available on this Ailbasi Zirtani.

 

Qaela watched for some time while the Cathar worked on a helmet until finally allowing her presence to be noticed. The forgemaster, knowing who she was, gave a quick nod of respect before returning to work, as did many of the others, but Qaela wasn't here to interfere just yet. She wanted to watch and observe the newcomer.

Qaela Sig

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Ailbasí could feel eyes on her as she worked, but it was to be expected, this entire place place was like a practical exam occurring over months, maybe even years. There were some here that thought themselves above the lessons being taught, and others who balked at the remorseless brutality with which the instructors delivered them, but Ailbasí had experienced first hand the nature of the galaxy beyond the temple walls, and the dark energy that ran through it like pulsing arteries. The wisdom of masters and an environment of relentless persecution were necessary to survive. She had been so fragile before, but every adversity, every broken bone, and every struggle just to keep breathing had seen her come out stronger on the other side.

 

The days faded away into weeks as a ruthless regimen of self improvement set in. Yesterday’s Ailbasí was trash, she always needed to improve over the past self and take it even further tomorrow. Each piece of armor she completed revealed flaws in the older designs that drove her to go back to the forge and start anew. Sparring classes were slowly turning the powerful but undisciplined blows that the krayt dragon soul inside her had favored into refined strikes. She supplemented what the instructors taught her with her university access to historically preserved fighting manuals of hundreds of cultures. At times this would be a source of frustration for her, as the texts were for weapons with physical blades, and as such there were techniques that simply could not be replicated with a lightsaber. Agility courses made sure that she wasn’t just powerful, but also precise and flexible with her movements.

 

In the Crucible she found a hidden talent that blossomed from the tribulations of her past. She had always thought of herself as being physically weak because of the chronic pain and sickness she had endured through most of her life, but that endurance had grown to astounding levels in comparison to others in the temple. The Crucible was a place to test endurance and study pain. Volunteers would submit themselves to the cruel ministrations of the instructors while other students, mostly sorcerers studying biomancy, observed with rapt attention. There were no scoreboards or grand metrics in the Crucible to know how she compared to the others in the temple, each session was unique in its miseries, but Ailbasí was always one of the last to collapse or black out. The Crucible was the first half of her “rest days” when she was giving her muscles time to heal. At this rate the meds she had been taking earlier couldn’t keep up on their own, so it was Crucible followed by bacta tank sessions, where she read Sith texts from a datapad through the clear tank wall.

 

Before physical training or after the bacta treatments, she attended open classes to expand her knowledge of the philosophy of the Force and her ability to control it. She knew that the Jedi worshipped the Force and sought its guidance, but she wasn’t even sure if she believed that there was a higher awareness within the Force. Perhaps the Jedi were just like savages worshipping volcanoes and rivers because they didn’t understand the science of them. The holonet could be a vast resource for information and an insight into the shared neural patterns of the galaxy, but it certainly wasn’t guided by some altruistic guardian spirit. It simply was.

 

In her quarters at the temple (She had moved in as her training regimen had intensified), Ailbasí regarded her latest attempt at armor as its fierce face mask stared back at her. It wasn’t full plate like some of the other suits she had seen, instead more of a leather and steel hybrid of sorts. Some of the other regulars to the forge had helped her make Sith steel. They were part of a Sith subsect of sorcerers called the Krath, and apparently the forging of sorcerous weapons was one of their renowned qualities, albeit they manipulated the steel with the Force rather than the hammer. They called her methods “quaint”. It may have been meant as a slight, but Ailbasí liked putting in the work. The mask, breastplate, bracers, and greaves were Sith steel, while the rest was leather dyed with a mixture of black pigments and norris root, a combination found by studying ancient scrolls. She had on order the materials for a sash of pure cortosis to cover her abdomen, Sith scrolls and fighting manuals alike agreed that a septic stomach wound was a terrible way to die.

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The temple had recently grew abuzz with a selective class dealing with unarmed combat, its teacher an unknown name amongst the more popular Sith Academy's teachers. But when class began the next day, an elder whom walked solemnly with a whittled stick would be present before the class. As he spoke, his voice seemed frail, shaking just as much as his form did as he stood, his back hunched and his stature nearly deformed by age.

 

"Welcome class"

 

The class its self took place within a dojo of an unseemingly high caliber. Roomy enough for at least twenty to thirty students, though it seemed that roughly ten had drew interest. There were no weapons adorning its walls, a caged mat nestled in the center of at least five surrounding mats, and there were no usual temple guards or assisting teachers about. Only the elder and the students that had came to study.

 

"More showed up than I would have thought." He spoke with a chuckle that soon grew into a coughing fit that many would think would have killed him on the spot. Yet he still stood, coughing up the flem and spitting it to the side as his gaze stared upon those that did show up attentively. "Perhaps you youngsters are beginning to wise up. There are more forms of combat outside the aid of the Force, and this is why I am here."

 

Stepping toward the class, the elder removed the cloak hiding his wrinkling face, as well as the robes that covered his scar ridden form, revealing more scars that most of the students had ever gazed upon before, his form muscular and apparently strong despite his original appearance. Tossing the cane aside with the cloth that hid his visage, he stepped upon the mat before him, a grin creasing his face and lifting the bags of skin that were once his cheeks.

 

Placing his right arm outward, its palm flat as it faced outward with his left arm craning behind his his head, his fingers arched, he spoke to the class through his toothless smile. "Who is the most eager to learn?"

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Not all of Korriban was desolate, dehydrated crags and valleys. The darkness-tainted planet was also home to dramatic, blasted badlands and foothills; its poles were covered in permafrosted tundras and wastelands; its equators were dominated by a band of deserts so scorched that they were scarcely survivable outside climate-controlled habitats. In a few temperate regions where the ravages of the Dark Side hadn’t whisked away every trace of surface water, there were even sun-scorched savannas where herds of reptilian traulentas would forage for vegetation during the days.

 

At dawn and dusk, when the reptilian herbivores were at their most vulnerable, predators would thin their ranks. There was the occasional Shyrack or tuk’ata, and there was also Zutia Lavell. She had spent more than a month in these dusty plains, moving from place to place occasionally with nothing more than her rifle, a few handheld electronics, and a collapsible habitat. Once every week or so, she would evacuate a dwindling pool of standing water and move on to follow the herds; when compressed, her survival gear was no larger than an overstuffed backpack, and considerably less dense. These days, when Zutia was as exposed as the quadruped reptiles that she preyed upon, were the most dangerous by far--the tuk’atas hadn’t yet learned to fear humans--but the sunrises and sunsets were spectacular in the haze of the dusty savannas.

 

After a successful hunt one morning, Zutia returned to her habitat, dragging the corpse of one of the scaley herbivores behind her by its tail. This single kill, with nearly a hundred pounds of edible meat, would replenish her stocks for weeks. She gladly dropped the corpse by the entrance to her habitat and brushed her frizzy hair out of her face. The Agamarian withdrew a canteen and splashed a handful of water into her eyes to wash away the stinging sweat, then took shelter in her habitat from the afternoon heat. The carcass could be butchered in a few minutes; the only predator in the immediate vicinity was her.

 

A blast of cold air answered Zutia’s entrance into the climate-controlled tent. It was a sparse dwelling; only an air-filled mattress on one side of the habitat, and a change of clothing, her survival gear, and a few miniature electronics on the other side. Her only link to the galaxy for the last month had been a datapad, and the Agamarian sometimes didn’t activate it a week at a time. The hunter swung her long-barreled rifle from her shoulders and leaned it against one wall. Today, however, she would allow herself to drain its dwindling batteries and listen to a few minutes of news updates a few minutes of listening to news updates. Throwing off the rest of her gear, Zutia unscrewed the lid of a second canteen containing standing groundwater and dropped a sanitizing tablet within. Absentmindedly shaking the canister, she listened to a broadcast as the tablet rattled within her canteen. There was a breaking news bulletin from Coruscant--Lavell only listened with half her attention. There had been numerous acts of mayhem on that blighted world in the last few months, all of which concerned unimportant Senators and other individuals of overestimated influence. This time, however, a strained reporter rapidly spoke, his voice on the urge of breaking from stress.

 

“It’s moving away now. The Jedi--by the Force--they’ve actually stopped it, they actually… they’re holding it just, just above the city--oh no, it’s crashing.” Zutia snapped to full attention and abandoned the canteen to seize the device seized the device in her hands, . The quality of the image was dreadful--she was in the wildlands of Korriban, after all--but it was clearly a view of Coruscant, with a great, hulking rock looming above the city. No, crashing into it. Hesperidium was falling. “It’s crashing terrible! Force, get out of the way, please! It’s falling on the city, and… this is one of the worst catastrophes in the galaxy. Oh, Coronet Plaza, and… the towers are crashing to the ground and the lower levels. Oh, the sapients and all the people screaming around here. Everything is… it’s just laying there, a mass of smoking wreckage.”

 

The reporter fell silent, unable to manage more than strained mumbles and stutters. Zutia forced herself to look away as the holocam zoomed in and focused on the gargantuan crater that the moon had left behind. She didn’t want to know what billions of dead looked like. The journalist eventually regained his composure and began his report anew.

 

“I… I’m going to fly away where I cannot see it. Char’lin, it’s terrible. I--I can’t. I--listen folks--I… I’m going to stop for a moment because I’ve lost my voice. This is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

 

Zutia dropped the datapad and sat down on her cot. Only seconds later, a violent spasm overtook her and an awful coldness spread from within her heart. Her head pounded with the rhythm of her heart and she jammed her thumbs into her eyes. It was all that the hunter could do to remind herself to keep breathing. A familiar tension grew within her belly and she hunched over, wretching miserably. Eventually, her morning meal vacated her stomach and she coughed it into the floor of her habitat. She knew that her hair had fallen into the vomitm but she didn't care--at least the throbbing in her eyes and temples was beginning to gradually withdraw. She eventually trusted herself to open her eyes and rise shakily to her feet, groping senselessly for her canteen.

 

Her sun-darkened hands shook as she forced herself to down gulps of lukewarm water. In her brief training under Haphaestus, she had had a vision of Coruscant under siege. The Empire, or the Sith, or some other invading army was bombarding the planet and had ravaged the surface, even blasting apart the Senate and Jedi Temple over the course of a battle of mythical proportions. Hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions of sapients had died over the course of that siege, but it had been conquest, the climax of a long campaign that ended with the collapse of the Galactic Alliance. This… was a waste. This massacre served no purpose beyond cruelty.

 

Zutia dropped the datapad and forced more mouthfuls of water down her throat. When she had abandoned her training and fled Almas, she had told herself that the time was wrong for her to join the Sith. Over the weeks of surviving on Korriban on only preserved meat and nutritional supplements, the hunter had told herself that she was waiting for a sign that it was time to learn to properly exploit her gifts. If witnessing the deaths of billions of people, the purpose of their death no other than to satisfy some barbarian’s sadism, wasn’t a message… then Zutia was blind, deaf, and foolish.

 

The Agamarian dug into her pack and withdrew the other of the handheld electronics that she had brought with her--a standard, civilian comlink. Her lips curled in frustration as she opened the device; this far from civilization, the comlink had no signal to Korriban’s communications network. Zutia went about collapsing her habitat. It was time to abandon this wilderness to venture into another.

So build that wall and build it strong,

'cause we'll be there before too long...

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“Perhaps today it will be you that learns.”

 

Ailbasí had the smallest stake in this moment, having agreed to the confrontation in exchange for training and out of principle. This was a place of learning, there was a sanctity to that which must be acknowledged. But she was also the most forward, and could feel the fearful hesitation miring the purpose of her momentary allies. She would have to take point if the others were to find their courage.

 

“There are very few rules here. Obey the Dark Lord. The weak serve the strong. The only justice here is what justice we make. Not the justice of gods or men, but of devils. We’ve come to deliver you to the hell of your own making.”

 

The teacher is both fast and skilled. This is known. This is expected. This is prepared for. The gathered students are not a collection of random seekers of martial skill, they are the wronged and a select few outsiders with necessary talents. An assassin to conceal their true motives. A warrior in case things got out of hand.

 

This master had been using his position to prey on the students in vulnerable moments. After he had violated and excruciated them, he used mental attacks to drive them to suicide through phantom shame and chimerical despair. For a time, no one noticed, but eventually former lovers and siblings became suspicious enough that inquiries were made to a necromancer, and the deception was revealed.

 

The plan was simple. Each student would use the Force to bind a part of the teacher’s body to rob him of his speed and skill while the killing blow was lined up. Tutoring in using the Force to manipulate objects was why Ailbasí agreed to help, and now her lessons were being put to the test.

 

The master struggled and railed against his invisible restraints to no avail. When he realized the futility of physical resistance, he turned to mental attacks, lashing out at his captors. Despite reducing many students to collapsed heaps on the floor, the binds still held for the most part, although Tsai’kara, the apprentice originally agreed upon to deliver the death blow, was clutching her crushed throat and slowly dying because of the master finding temporary release.

 

Ailbasí could feel his focus narrow in on her as he tried to incapacitate her with visions of torture with acid and barbed wire. If not for her time in the crucible it would have worked, but those sanguine days of nightmare had more than prepared her for this pain. She didn’t have a lightsaber like the other apprentices, but her hammer from the forge was in her pack. WIth forceful but clumsy will she used the Force to lift the tool and lob it from range, cutting her control of it early to make its approach harder to detect. While the toss had been aimed at the master’s head, her control was neophyte enough that it instead struck with bone shattering force on the master’s right knee. With a bestial growl, Ailbasí closed the distance with a pouncing leap and clamped her teeth down upon his throat before pulling away with a wet tearing sound. The master collapsed amidst ragged and blood soaked gurgling attempts at breathing.

 

Ailbasí stood up and went over to Tsai’kara, whose pleading eyes seemed to expect some sort of help. Instead Ailbasí rummaged through her robes as the sorceress’s breath failed her until she located a coin pouch with jade coins. The coins thrummed with unseen power and were of great use to Ailbasí’s future plans.

 

“You were supposed to make the killing blow and take the brunt of the burden, but instead you failed and I had to step in on your behalf. You will die a failure, but at least your debt is paid, Tsai’kara.”

 

Jade in hand, Ailbasí left the room to return to her familiar place at the forge. There was work to do.

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Though she had plenty to do keeping the Temple in order, Qaela began to grow restless. Constantly having to watch your back was wearying and she yearned to be somewhere safe where she could relax. She also was wondering how her daughter was doing. The sporadic reports she could find on the girl were quite confusing, as were the occasional flashes she got from the Force. Something was going on with her girl and Qaela wasn't sure she liked it. Still, she wouldn't be her overbearing and controlling mother: she would give Telperien her space and let the girl grow as she needed.

 

She was observing one of the classes of experienced Apprentices demonstrating some advanced Force techniques when one of the non-Force sensitive aides approached her with a datapad. "M'lady, there has been an incident," he said, before retreating. She looked over the quick report and sighed. It seemed that, in one of the sparring rooms, a group of students had turned on their teacher and killed him. The death of one of the teachers here was not going to go unnoticed for long through the Force and one of the Masters had sensed at least the end of the fight. Bodies had been found and a few of the survivors hadn't even been able to leave the room. The Sith never learned, no matter how much she worked on them. There were occasionally legitimate reasons to fight, but she had established rules and places to do that. Mass brawls and murder in classrooms were not part of that.

 

"Round them up," she said to her ever present entourage of acolytes and Sith Troopers. "Kill any who resist, bring the rest to me for judgment."

 

The Sith Troopers, aided by a cadre of full fledged Sith Lords were a presence to be feared, and one she had culled repeatedly to ensure loyalty. Any not loyal were sent to Onderon or Lord Exodus on the front. She had no need of rebellious or undisciplined teachers and enforcers here. Her program was working: fewer pointless or petty deaths meant more were able to graduate and fight, all without actually sacrificing quality or skill. Those who didn't make it were used in other ways, even if it was as cannon fodder for training their betters.

 

It didn't take long to create a list of those who were there. There were holocams everywhere and those who came and went were recorded. Even as others were being rounded up, names came to her datapad. One of them caused a frown to form on her lips. Ailbasí Zirtani. She recognized that as the name of the Cathar woman who had so taken to the forge. She had seen promise there, but was disappointed to see the feline's name on the list.

 

She had a suspicion of where to find Zirtani. Setting out to the forges, followed by a quartet of Sith Troopers, Qaela marched with measured haste, her black hair trailing behind her. When she arrived at the forges, she saw that she was right. Her quarry was busy working at her normal station.

 

She soundlessly entered the room, gesturing for the Troopers to stay near the door. With a measured look and a subtle hint through the Force directed at the forgemaster, he began directing all the other students out of the forges. When they were all out except the Cathar, Qaela approached and observed the scene. Clearly, based on the pieces adorning the station, the feline had improved her skills. It was a shame that she had been a part of this. Murder of a teacher without a proper cause or challenge was unacceptable. The punishment was most severe, usually ending with them in the testing arena, fighting to the death against experienced apprentices looking to become Lords.

 

"The days of the Sith slaughtering each other mindlessly are past," she said quietly at last. She kept alert and ready just in case the young acolyte decided to fight once confronted. It wouldn't be the first time one did, though none had yet been successful. "You were part of a cadre of students who decided to turn upon their teacher and slaughter him. Tell me, what made someone with such promise do something so foolish?"

Qaela Sig

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The question took Ailbasí aback a great deal. Not because of being accused of doing something foolish, in spite of everything she was still too young to know when something was or was not foolish. Instead it was the fact that anyone other than the Forgemaster had noticed her as someone of potential that she had trouble grasping. Sheog, the twins, the voices in the deserts of Tatooine, and most recently the woman that she had sparred with upon arrival had all abandoned her. She had begun to think that she was missing some vital quality needed for apprenticeship or possessed some off putting trait that drove away everyone around her. The time since her arrival on Korriban had been a process of sharpening herself like a razor blade, scraping away anything that could possibly be the source of her abandonment while honing an edge on her soul that could cut through anything. And none of it had seemed like enough.

 

“The teacher was abusing students and killing them afterwards to make sure that no one would find out. He hadn’t targeted me personally, but I was there when others who had lost lovers and kin used necromancy to confirm their suspicions with rituals of correspondence. The wronged parties had enough to offer me to procure my services, but their offerings would have been meager if not insulting to secure the strength of a master, and it is not the Sith way to rely on the charity of betters. I have no desire to see a student revolution, students tend to let their expectations govern their perceptions of reality, rather than wisdom or experience. But I do believe that students should have the right to defend themselves from predators like the late master.”

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For weeks after she woke up from her extremely brief coma, Keenava stole away to the Bastion to explore different facets of her research. Her pursuit to find the ideal poison for every occasion was proving to be quite complicated. First, you had to calculate the ample dose for proper use. To do that, you had to know how much your deader weighed, how old they were, how resilient they were and any of hundreds of other details. You could assume or work off of approximations, but it was impossible to tell what would happen if you didn’t know. The deader could just end up really sick or you could kill them outright and the subtlety would be lost. To truly control the execution and understand how to make someone’s death look like an accident, you needed to know all the details.

 

Second, you needed to figure out how to apply it. You could apply poison to pretty much anything, but would it last? Some poisons could stand the test of time and be potent for days. While other poisons would expire within the first few moments of application. Some poisons had to be mixed with others to be more effective and others had to be ingested to be useful at all. An addendum to the complication of how was where. Contact poisons were exceptionally effective, but different surfaces and substances had different permeable and impermeable properties. For instance, if you put a contact poison on the wood of a door, depending on the type of poison, it could absorb into the fibers and be lost quickly. But if you put it on the metal knob or knocker, it would last a bit longer.

 

Third, you needed to figure out the other variables needed to execute your deader. And by then you’ve already done leagues upon leagues of research. The act of killing was an art that no one fully understood. The more Keenava fought to learn, the more she began to understand the complexity of it all and the vast amounts of knowledge she had yet to learn. Adding the force to it added even more possibility. It was enough to give her a headache at times. But she was determined to learn it, so she pushed through regardless.

 

It was during one of these visits to the Bastion that she made a most peculiar discovery. One day, while she was out people watching, an activity that required very little physical strain when you were clothed as a lowly acolyte and studiously rubbing away at the same corner of a floor for hours, Keenava caught sight of a Cathar. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen her. But she seemed different. Her muscles were denser, her stride was focused and her body language was very tight. She was on her way from the forge holding some piece of metal she’d worked on with a fierce determination in her eyes; a determination that Keenava was very familiar with.

 

Days followed where Keenava would, in between her own study sessions, follow the Cathar on her excursions. She would stay to the shadows and suppress her own energy to match the residual force energy of those around her, but something about the Cathar’s determination was infectious. So, like a curious child, Keenava stalked her, albeit with a lot more grace and stealth than a child.

 

__________________________________________________

 

 

Revenge was truly sweet. It may not always end the way you want it, but there was nothing like the spiteful cathartic edge of wrath when it was cast upon those who deserved it. Watching it happen though, was interesting. Students, fearful and tense, looked upon their better with trepidation. Fledglings strove to clash with a titan. It was an admirable and rather stupid maneuver if some of the pawns were weak. The lynchpin, however, the controlling point of the entire scuffle, was the Cathar. Her resolve was hard and unforgiving; such efforts were hard pressed if one wasn’t focused. And it was only through her will that the master finally fell.

 

That one has fire...

 

Keenava’s arms tensed as she gripped the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling of the dojo. Her tight fit mottled grey-black outfit rustled a little with her movement, but she muffled it in the tumult going on beneath her. Her force signature was a whisper to the powers that were thrown around. But that was more due to training than anything else. She doubted any of the students would find her presence with their focus trained exclusively on the scarred master.

 

Looking at him now, from high above his head, as the students pushed to pull him apart, Keenava admitted she knew very little about the scarred instructor, nor did she fully understand what he did to earn so much scorn. She’d seen him pass through the halls, but he seemed like any other master; pompous, self-centered and haughty. Though, when she touched his mind and discovered the depravity that lingered beneath, it triggered an old trauma that she thought long healed. It was almost enough to bring her to blows with the man. But she refused to expose herself, especially since she had no way to explain away the situation she found herself in. No. She’d watch the apprentices prove themselves.

 

It didn’t stop her from severing the man’s head afterward and making certain… adjustments, however. But that was more for her own catharsis than anything else. The holo-cams weren’t easy to fool, but Keenava’s dress hardly made her obvious to identify. She rarely revealed her face to anything or anyone. And her lekku were fastened underneath the hood of her garment. It caused mild lightheadedness, but it was worth it not to be spotted.

 

Metal against stone pounded the base of her ear nubs. Boots, lots of them, crowded the pathways; loud voices and angry people. They answered this blood with their own. It was the way. Blood always answered blood.

 

With a step, Keenava faded into the shadows, flitting from point to point and following the Cathar’s steps toward the forge. With each breath, her heartbeat and steps matched with almost precise synchronicity. She was still getting used to training her bodily functions to mesh together and had had a few awkward moments controlling her stomach when she was hungry. But today, aside from a brief stumble as she avoided a cadre of marching troopers, everything in her body was working hand in hand. Even hanging on the outside of the forge, her muscles answered each other with consistent strength. They were starting to see the fringe of exhaustion, but she ignored them. Step by step, handhold by handhold, she pushed. And when there were no handholds, she improvised. But, by hook or by crook she eventually made her way to the roof of the structure.

 

A logical person would argue that going to the top of the forge would be silly; that It would be dangerously hot near the forge’s exhaust. Because metal was actively being melted and the hot air had to go somewhere. But troopers guarded all the exits, which meant there was absolutely no way to walk through the front door. Plus, what kind of assassin would Keenava be if she went through the front door?

 

She laughed inwardly at the sheer thought of it.

 

Still, with all exits covered, she had to find another way to follow the Cathar. Because after weeks of studying faculty and students, the Cathar seemed to be the only promising one at this academy; the only person she could find on Korriban that might be able to help her with her problem. Then she could get off this rock and try to find the others. She didn’t need them anymore, but she was feeling stir crazy here. She wanted to live and breathe again, not stagnate in libraries full of musty records and mustier people. She started to feel like flotsam and it bugged her. It had to end.

 

Keenava inched closer to the flue system, bracing herself for the sweltering exhaust the plumed uncomfortably close to her face, and sharpened her senses, picking through the sound of burning metal to find the voices within.

 

All she caught was the tail end of a question. But the voice was unmistakable.

 

Qaela…

 

There was a fire in the name that threatened to rekindle old differences. But Keenava squelched it. That was back when she felt attached to a lie and it made her do crazy things.

 

The rest of the conversation was vaguely discernible through gaps of banging and boiling, but it was clear that Keenava wasn’t going to get much without using the force. And she didn’t feel revealing herself was appropriate…. Yet.

 

 

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Qaela had encountered a great many lies and deceptions in her life. The Nightsisters weren't paragons of truth, neither were the Sith. Through her life, she had become adept at sensing deception from others and knew how to recognize it. In this case, she didn't pick up any trace of lies from the Cathar. That didn't mean what was said was true or real, but Zirtani believed it to be true. She would have to investigate, especially because the fact that there were students dabbling in necromancy could cause minor issues. Necromancy wasn't something to be trifled with and those turning to it needed to be monitored by experienced Lords or Masters or things could lead to chaos and some nasty effects on the unprepared students. Still, it wasn't something Zirtani seemed to be a part of, so it wasn't an issue with her.

 

"Those are serious accusations, ones that will be looked into," she replied calmly. "There are many who abuse power among any in authority. If what you were told is in fact the truth, then the Order is better off without him. In the future, should you come across issues such as this, come to my office. I am not a typical Sith: there is order and justice under my rule here. I will not see the Sith Order fall to corruption from within or to the waste that comes from it."

 

She reached out and ran the tips of her fingers over some of the pieces Zirtani had produced over the last few weeks and noted their work. Earlier works were simplistic but functional. They wouldn't amount to much, but what caught Qaela's eye more was the later works and what she was working on now. It wasn't that these were masterpieces, not at all. What was of note was the level of improvement in craftsmanship, the more pure metals and the touch of the Force energy from its maker that lingered in each one. No Force user could put such focus and effort into crafting things and not leave their mark. The Forgemaster knew how to coax that out of each of his students, even if they didn't know it themselves.

 

Qaela had never been a master crafter or dedicated her life to it, but she did know some things about it, enough to recognize that, if properly guided, this Cathar could produce some work that could rival the mighty Sheog. "Your record here is unremarkable in most ways," she said. "You do not fight, you do not engage in the petty politics to elevate yourself. You have not even caught the eye of any of the Lords seeking an apprentice. Normally, the Sith would relegate you in their minds to one of the seemingly ubiquitous Acolytes that tend to the menial tasks around the Temple."

 

With a gesture to the work laying about throughout the Forge room. "Most Sith view power in terms of martial prowess. I am, however, not most Sith. I understand that there is power in many ways including the ability to craft. Even in that, you are not unique. Many here are as good or better than you. No, what catches my eye and that of the Forgemaster in his reports is your willingness to learn. You came here thinking you knew what to do, but when disabused of that notion, you did not do what most Sith do and rebel or plot to undermine those above you. Instead, you learned and improved yourself."

 

She pulled out the simple looking wooden knife from her belt and placed it on the anvil. "This is precisely what it looks like: a simple wooden knife carved from a branch on my home planet. There is nothing special about the wood, but if you were to pound on this with your hammer for days or slash at it with a lightsaber, it would not break or splinter. Long ago, using the crafts of my foremothers, I imbued it with the Force to alter its molecular composition and make it almost impervious to any physical harm. In that way, you can make your work far more powerful and useful.

 

"If you wish, I can show you this skill. This ability is known to the Sith Order, but to most of them, it is generally a worthless skill they ignore in favor of dueling ability or more destructive abilities. Defense is rarely a thought in their heads, but I found that defense is the best way to survive long enough to utilize offense."

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For a moment waves of panic went through Ailbasí as the woman mentioned that she had not caught the eye of any lord. The woman from her arrival was truly gone then, and she was alone. She felt icy hands of despair embrace her with the realization that she would probably never have a master, at least a long term one, she was relegated to the ever changing background of the temple as others found masters through petty games of intrigue.

 

...But that hadn’t stopped her from learning here, or receiving training. True, she didn’t have the personal oversight of a dedicated master, but in some ways that meant more freedom to pursue what she wanted without any prestation or expectations. Her course was her own to plot.

 

“I would be honored to learn this technique, it opens up possibilities that I had thought unobtainable.”

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Qaela nodded and said, "Bring some of your work, it doesn't much matter which, and follow me."

 

She turned and exited the forge. Outside, the Forgemaster and other students were waiting, the former with a studied disinterested expression and the latter curious why the Headmistress was here. "You may return to your work. Your understanding and obedience is appreciated and shall be rewarded," she told the Forgemaster, then turned to leave with her escort and Zirtani.

 

Along the way, she punched in orders to have the Cathar's claims investigated. Even if the young woman believed in what she said, there had to be proof of the claims before she would completely dismiss the teacher's death. It could, after all, be part of a greater plot of some sorts and she wanted to be aware of it.

 

When they arrived at her office, the guards remained at the door leaving the two women alone. "The Force can be accessed in many ways," she began. "The Sith and Jedi use it through sheer will, in a way, through their mind and thoughts. They consciously focus their mind to manipulating and bending the Force to their will. At first, it takes conscious effort, but over time, it becomes reflexive much in the way the muscles in your arm can instinctively catch something thrown at you. This method has many advantages, especially in situations where speed is needed such as combat.

 

"There is a second way, one that you are familiar with even if you don't know it. Many who are untrained in the Force, and even some semi-intelligent creatures, can use the force intuitively, or even subconsciously. They simply do something and the Force works through them and bleeds into their work. This method doesn't really have much direct use in combat as it is usually not going to do something spectacular like move an object or unleash energy. However, it does bespeak of certain innate talents that not all possess. It gives a hint that someone may be inclined to a particular part of the Force. I do believe you possess some of this intuitive skill through how you forge and create objects."

 

She walked over to her desk and pulled out three small deep blue spheres of stone from a drawer and set them upon the surface of the desk. "There is, however, a third way of using the Force, one that has both advantages and disadvantages. My people, the Nightsisters of Dathomir, utilize a ritualistic way of channeling the Force. Instead of using the mind, we utilize the mind, body, and alchemy through a series of spoken spells, gestures, and chemicals that can produce different results altogether than the other methods. Yes, with a spoken word or gesture, I can utilize telekinesis or read minds, but I can also enter myself into a trance that enables me to contact the spirits, create potions and poisons, or imbue objects with the Force in a way most Sith Lords or Jedi Knights would never think to do. The Sith don't typically dabble in this form of using the Force, but those that do usually identify themselves as Krath. In using spells, gestures, and even chemicals, I direct the Force and my mind to my own will and utilize skills and things few in this Temple are capable of.

 

"I can show you how to do this, but you will need to open your mind to new ways of connecting to the Force that you may not have seen before and that none of your peers will use. Be careful, though, some may see this and desire to take it by force, so be cautious whom you reveal your abilities to until you are strong enough to defend yourself."

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“I studied the Dathomiri culture at Uni for a few semesters as part of my sociology curriculum. I wrote a thesis about how maintaining their cultural identity rather than allowing themselves to be subsumed by more technologically advanced peoples was a major factor in allowing them to preserve their way of life. As I recall it, Dathomiri are shamanistic animists that believe that everything has a soul, particularly natural flora and fauna. They use rituals to communicate with and awaken spirits in items and talismans.

 

In earlier classes we talked about the shattering of the divine truth, essentially the thought experiment that there was a singular truth was shattered at creation with shards landing across every populated world. Each culture sees their shard as the divine truth, and considers every other shard a fake. The truths revealed by each shard are valid, the only falsehood is that one shard is the entirety of the divine truth. The thought experiment goes on to say that academics are slowly reassembling that divine truth across a thousand worlds, because you know, hero complexes for EVERYBODY! But in short, I was trained to respect culture regardless of whether or not it was mainstream, and not to dismiss things because they were different.”

 

Talking about her curriculum felt like reading about another person from a dusty, long forgotten tome. Now she felt as shattered as the divine truth, fragments of herself spread across disparate life experiences that if combined together would probably make no sense. It was like halfway through watching a romcom someone had changed the feed and put on a snuff holovid.

 

When Qaela requested an item that Ailbasí had created, she proffered her mask. It seemed the most fitting thing to awaken, and many cultures had stories of masks with magical properties. Most Sith designed their masks off of monsters and demons from folklore, menacing designs that they found appealing, or personal fears that they wore like armor. Ailbasí’s mask had a stormy ocean motif, inspired by childhood night terrors of drowning.

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Sweat matted the exposed part of her forehead, which was impressive, considering Twi’leks ran hotter than most. Her lekku squirmed restlessly against their bonds in an attempt to flee the rolling smoke that continued to pour from the flue exhaust. But Keenava fought to keep still. Her chest began to rebel against its bonds, but she couldn’t afford to lose any part of her disguise. She was the roof. She was the tiling, the metal; the whatever it is that kept the roof up.

 

Close your eyes. Let it melt away.

 

Dipping quietly into the force with the smallest touch she could manage, Keenava used her minor inconveniences and channeled them into a steely focus. It wasn’t enough to make out the conversation taking place beneath. But it was enough to notice when the Headmistress and the Cathar walked out the front door and into the commons. Keenava smiled. She exhaled sharply letting out a breath she forgot she was holding and began to mentally approximate the amount of energy she needed for her next move. Her body mass was a little unpredictable at this angle and at this height. But this wasn’t the first time Keenava fell from anything. Granted, two of those falls led to death. But what’s life without a little danger?

 

With a nudge of force energy pushing at her back, throwing as much momentum as she could into one centralized part of her body, Keenava rolled off the roof, falling into the welcoming shadow beneath, and landing with a mottled thud on the ground. Her bones and muscles crashed together like rolling waves upon the cold stone walkway, sending chutes of red-hot fury into her mind. But conditioning and force padding kept her from serious injury. If you can stand, you can walk. If you can walk, you can run. If you can run, you can fight.

 

Her lekku throbbed slightly in their bindings, which caused her head to spin briefly. But it wasn’t enough to distract her. She turned her head in a full arc to check for needy eyes. And when she was satisfied, Keenava melted back into the shadows and flit from corner to corner, taking care to use as little force energy as possible. Qaela wasn’t a typical Sith. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up on Keenava’s energy just the same as any Sith could. But she also came from a society that utilized mundane stealth methods. So, despite the objections that her muscles made with every step, she made sure to suppress every bodily impulse.

 

Fatigue is natural. But it isn’t everything.

 

When she came to the end of a narrow corridor, pursuing her quarry with measured grace, a light bulb popped in her head. It startled her focus for a moment. But her muscles were already working. When Keenava came back to her senses, she found herself plopped against a nearby wall, nestled behind a piling, just out of sight from the two guards bookending the Headmistress’ office. Her heartbeat was like a swarm of angry mynocks. And her breathing came out in a hollow staccato instead of the steady rhythm she was practicing before.

 

The Assassin shook her head. She calmed the torrent that bloomed before it led to panic.

 

I could always knock the guards out. Keenava thought to herself. But what kind of message does that send? ‘Oh, hi Qaela, I know you hate me and I knocked out your guards but I want to talk to the Cathar.’

Keenava’s lekku wriggled in their housing beneath her hood, clearly uncomfortable with the lackluster idea.

 

Could I walk up and ask an audience? But why would I want an audience with Qaela? She and I don’t have anything to talk about.

 

Uncertain, Keenava curled her legs up underneath her and sat beside the piling, wreathed amid the shadows cast by nearby lamps. I’ll wait.

 

I am the shadow. I am the velvety blackness. I am one with the wall.

 

She repeated the mantra. Every repetition was another layer of stillness imposed upon the hive of pain and fatigue that she’d earned up to this point.

 

I’ll wait until the opportune moment.

 

 

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Qaela nodded, "There are those who are more religious who believe such as you said, though I am more secular. Even then, I have personal beliefs that the Laws of Nature are imperative to keep and when we fail to do so, the entire Galaxy can tilt into destruction and chaos. As far as the ability to preserve our culture, well, there is little left of the Nightsisters or the Witches. Several unfortunate purges by Sith and infighting amongst ourselves left us weak, and then Vigo Ca'Aran slaughtered and burned large portions of our territory. I do not know if there are survivors, but there aren't many if there are." She spoke matter of factly, not with any emotion one way or another. In truth, she didn't care if any of her kind survived, not after what had happened in her life.

 

"But yes, there is a belief that the spiritual realm is pervasive and in all things. You mentioned necromancy earlier, and that is a dangerous and very risky art to practice, as is any contact with the spirit realm. Many of those spirits are not kind and wish to do nothing but harm the living. Extreme caution is needed in dealing with them which is why the idea of students attempting such a thing is alarming to me and will be investigated later for the safety of all. That doesn't mean that all interactions with the spiritual are dangerous, quite the contrary. There are many things that tapping into or consuming the souls of living things can help accomplish, but that is for the future when you are far more developed in your ability to use the Force. Continue to show promise and perhaps I will teach you these things."

 

"Onto the task at hand, though." She walked to a stone cabinet and picked up a hammer and chisel. She gestured at the three stone spheres on her desk. "Observe."

 

Placing the chisel against one sphere, she quickly hammered it causing the sphere to shatter in half with a few smaller pieces flaking off onto her desk. "These may be stone, but they are not very sturdy stone, easily breakable and of little use in anything normal individuals would seek."

 

She laid down the tools and picked up another sphere and walked in front of her desk. "Sit with me, open yourself up as much as you can to the Force and what I am doing. It will take time to teach you fully how to use spellcraft such as this, but today will serve as a good start. You don't have to use spellcraft to actually accomplish this task: the Krath have been doing it without such for as long or longer than we have. Two paths may be different, but they can lead to the same place. I will use spellcraft as that is what I am most familiar with, though in time, you may be able to observe what I do and come to the same result via your own path."

 

Qaela sat cross legged down on the stone floor and placed the stone in front of her. She began slowly chanting, drawing upon the Force and focusing it into the sphere. Her hands began moving around the sphere in intricate patterns as though she were lacing an invisible spider web. As the minutes passed, her spell grew more fervent and the sphere began twitching with the layers of the Force being placed into it. Soon, the twitching became constant vibrations as the spell reached its climax. At the end, Qaela stopped chanting and froze her hands for three seconds, then reached down and touched the sphere with a single finger. A sound like a glass cup being gently struck by a metal spoon rang out and it was finished. In all, the spell took only fifteen minutes or so.

 

Qaela kept her head down for a few seconds, breathing heavily. When she lifted her head, she said quietly, "It is finished. With something as small as this, the spells are not too difficult. More complex items will take more energy, especially if you wish to layer them with other aspects of the Force."

 

She stood up and retrieved her hammer and chisel. Placing it upon the sphere, she once again struck it with all of her might. This time, the sphere shot to the side before being grabbed by a simple telekinetic thought from Qaela and returned to its original position, completely unharmed. She showed Zirtani the chisel which now bore a very small curved indentation where it had struck the sphere. "The sphere is not invincible, it can be broken, but not by any mere chisel. I could bat this with a lightsaber or blast it with a disruptor and it would remain unscathed. Now, imagine what such a skill could do to your armor. . ."

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((Word of warning: Animal lovers might not want to read the end of this post. I’ll have the section under spoiler tags.))

 

For all of its ancient connection to the Lords of the Sith species and the Masters of the Order, Korriban was a desolate, underpopulated. Rendered barren by centuries of warfare and decay by unnatural exploitation by unscrupulous Dark Lords, the planet had few natural resources besides a few mining complexes. Roaming as she pleased over the parched savannas beneath the plateau that housed the Valley of the Dark Lords and the Sith Temple, it had been weeks since Zutia Lavell had last seen a fellow human or any sapient, or an airspeeder or starship that wasn’t passing many kilometers.

 

She was the only speck of sapient civilization in the endless grassland sea, this suited her just fine. Journeying back to the Sith Temple, Zutia arose at first light and travelled until the height of the day when the sun would scorch her shoulders, then rested until dusk to continue the trek until nightfall. Moving from pool of groundwater to the next, the wandering apprentice was able to maintain this pattern for many days.

 

This pattern changed one morning with a shift of the winds. While collapsing her portable shelter, Zutia felt a subtle change in the direction of the blistering winds and the barest hint of humidity. She glanced away from her shrivelling tent and pushed her wide-brimmed hat away from her face, staring across the endless waves of grass and through the heat haze of the early morning. The dawn sky was so dark that Zutia could barely make out the shapes, but clouds had obscured the stars. Zutia dug her hand into the dusty soil and let it sift through her fingers--the wind was starting to pick up… and was carrying the clouds towards her. Then she saw a faint flicker in the inky sky--lightning.

 

Zutia was in a floodplain. That storm would break against the walls of the Valley of the Dark Lords and drench this savanna in rain--and that was discounting the risk of a lightning strike igniting a brushfire and setting an entire region of tinder alight. She needed to make it to higher ground.

 

Zutia glanced back across the horizon. She couldn’t yet make out the walls of the cliffs marked the plateau that housed the Sith Temple, but she decided that she might be able to make that distance before the storm was upon her. “Maybe six hours?” She pondered aloud to herself. The storm would be upon her before then, that was irrelevant. Her little tent wouldn’t protect her from a flood or a wildfire. It was unnecessary--actually a hindrance at this point. The survivalist allowed the little habitat to continue collapsing and gathered the rest of her supplies. Carrying nothing more than her rifle and food and water sufficient for a few days, she abandoned her shelter and set off at a slow jog across the parched grassland.

 

As Horuset rose over the cliffs and bathed the savanna in its scorching heat, so did the temperature. As the hours went on, waves of sun-scorched grass began to ripple with the growing wind. Zutia risked a break to catch her breath when the walls of the cliffs rose over the horizon. She pushed the brim of her hat over her head and wiped sweat from her brow as she gazed at the sky. The sky had become fully overcast with threatening clouds… and the barest trace of smoke wisping under the clouds. She glanced backwards to the stormfront and saw plumes of smoke rising under a set of lightning strikes that twisted to meet the parched plains.

 

Zutia felt her heart begin to race. She was out in the open in a dry floodplain in drought conditions… and she was downwind of a wildfire that had just been ignited by lightning strikes. There were no nearby pools of water in which she could take refuge from the blaze; her only option was to press forward and hope that there was some shelter within the cliffs--a cave or grotto or tunnel from which she could hide from the fires. Zutia took a gulp from her dwindling canteen and continued onward.

 

As the cliffs loomed closer and the stench of smoke grew stronger, the survivalist glanced quickly at her rifle--fully loaded. The waves of parched grass eventually receded into foothills and badlands, and Zutia passed the sun-bleached skeleton of a long-dead traulenta under the shoulders of the cliff walls. Its rib cage had been picked apart and individual bones had been broken off, and she eyed the markings of tuk’ata teeth--markings of different sizes, as though the dying animal had been set upon by beasts of different ages. As she expected, there was likely a nest somewhere within these cliffs, a safe place in which she could take refuge from the approaching wildfire. Judging from the age of the exposed bones, any markings would have long since been obliterated.

 

The survivalist approached the skeleton and grasped at the white femur, her fingers picking at the markings of the predator’s teeth. The rest of the leg was missing, likely having been dragged off to serve as a chew toy by one of the beasts. She knelt by the corpse as set down her rifle, willing her breath to slow and her heart to stop racing within her chest. Embers had begun to flicker downwards from the clouds and glow on the slopes of the foothills--but panic was a raw, animal emotion that would only get her killed. What would save her, as the wildfire was swept up by the growing winds, was purpose. Zutia needed to find shelter within the cliffs… and if it was in use, she would need to kill anything that lived within. Lavell closed her eyes and traced the striations of the teeth markings with her fingers. Her fright was irrelevant, she admonished herself--all that was relevant was the fire, the shelter, and a loaded blaster rifle.

 

Her breaths slowed to a standstill.

 

Some time later, Zutia’s eyes shot open and she gasped her waking breath--and sucked in a lungful of smoke. She had no idea how long she had lingered by the skeleton, but the fires had approached perilously close and she could make out their glow through a murky haze of smoke. Coughing as she collected her rifle, Zutia rose to her feet and ran into the rocks. Not quite understanding how, the hunter felt a guiding presence that led her to sprint towards a rough piles of boulders within the cliffside. As she approached, she felt a peculiar tickle trace down her spine--someone or something was acutely aware of her presence and was warily watching her approach. Zutia snapped the receiver of her rifle up to her shoulder, just in time to focus the sights on a pair of tuk’ata that descended from an unseen grotto within the cliffside.

 

The larger of the beasts leaped to the side, taking a perch on a boulder to the side of the grotto. Zutia’s eyes flickered between the hounds as both crouched on their haunches, displaying mouths full of fanged teeth and snarled threateningly--the larger of the beasts had a deep, dark coloration of consuming black, the only coloration the crimson of its eyes, and the smaller a dark gray with an earthen fringe around its facial horns. Her lips turned downward as the beasts snarled and growled at her--this was a mating pair, and she had just stumbled upon their nest. They would defend this hovel to the death. Zutia shifted her aim towards the male and waited for her heartbeat to slow.

 

Through the lens of her rifle’s scope, she saw its slit pupil widen.

 

Thunder rang out across the savanna as she pulled the trigger. Not sparing a moment to confirm the kill, she shifted her aim towards the female and quickly snapped away a pair of shots. Something monstrously heavy struck her and pinned her to the ground. Her ears ringing from the impact, she lifted her rifle in a feeble attempt to push away the beast--but she felt no struggle, no attempt to open her from neck to navel with one of those saberlike claws… just unfeeling gravity, and the wetness of blood trickling by the side of her face. She felt a heavy shiver above her body as the tuk’ata female groaned her last breath and sank into the dirt. Zutia forced the massive skull of the beast away and crawled out from under the enormous bulk and staggered up the rocks.

 

Following the barrel of her rifle, Zutia squeezed into the grotto, her nose closing at the scent of kills and animal waste. As she twisted through the passage, she bobbed her head to avoid outcroppings of rock from the ceiling. Her heart sank when her rifle led her to an opened chamber within the tunnel. Within were two tuk’ata cubs, both of which shrank from her presence as though they could melt into the walls of the walls of the grotto. Not even a quarter the size of their sire, Zutia estimated that they were perhaps six months old, perhaps younger. Neither male had developed the facial horns that were characteristic of a tuk’ata nearing adolescence… but both massed nearly eighty kilograms. Judging from their lack of aggression, however, neither had learned that humans were perfectly viable prey for a beast of their size--and neither had learned to attack invaders. Caught between the walls of their habitat and a strange invader, the beasts couldn’t even indulge their instincts to take flight--both hounds were shivering feverishly and shrank from fear when an overhead lightning strike was answered by a crashing blow of thunder. Neither had, apparently, had learned that thunder and lightning were only natural forces.

 

((Animal lovers probably should not hit the spoiler tab.))

 

 

She pursed her lips. At this age, neither beast had a chance of survival out on the plains; both hounds would have only started to eat meat; neither would have learned to hunt at this age. Both animals had just been sentenced to an early death. If nature was merciful, then another predator would find them wandering the plains alone--perhaps a carrion bird or even another tuk’ata. Otherwise, it would be several days or even weeks of scavenging, of cannibalizing their own sires and searching for abandoned kills, of scouring the plains for sources of water, until starvation or dehydration brought about their deaths.

 

Nor could Zutia risk sharing this grotto with two other apex predators, even pre-adolescents who hadn’t yet learned to hunt and were terrified by a thunderstorm. Zutia stared down the barrel of her rifle at one of the cubs and squeezed the trigger.

 

A metallic click echoed throughout the cave.

 

She glared at the firearm and set it against the wall. She withdrew her vibroknife from its scabbard and sat down, waiting as the two beasts shivered and startled with each crash of thunder. Smoke began to waft into the cave, and Zutia cut away a scrap of cloth to serve as a makeshift respirator over her mouth. She splashed a small amount of her precious supply of water and waited.

 

She gradually approached the tuk’atas, allowing the cubs to grow accustomed to her presence before creeping forward again. Zutia ground her teeth as slowly reached out, preparing to grasp the neck of one of the cubs as she activated the blade of the vibroknife.

 

She waited and tried not to look into the creature’s grey eyes.

 

Thunder shattered the silence and both beasts crouched in fright.

 

Zutia darted forward and seized the loose folds of skin on the back of the adolescent tuk’ata’s neck. In the same motion, her right arm dragged the blade of her vibroknife along the exposed neck of the beast as she pulled its had back. A gout of dark arterial blood sprayed over hand and the floor of the grotto and the tuk’ata thrashed about mindlessly in an attempt to escape.

 

The other tuk’ata might not have understood fire and thunder, but it understood the scent of blood that had just permeated its den. It scrambled away and nearly bowled over Zutia in its mad dash towards the entrance of the grotto. Whirling to block its escape, she grasped blindly at a rush of velvety black hide and stabbed the blade up to the hilt in its flank. A hideous, keening shriek filled the chamber and the beast collapsed. Her jaw tightening, Zutia clambered over the bleeding torso of the animal and slid the knife twice more into the beast’s back in search of its heart. Finally, as the body of the cub sank under her weight and its struggles seized, the hunter reached around its neck and dragged the blade of her knife along its throat.

 

Finally, silence. Zutia remembered to breathe.

 

Thunder interrupted the stillness.

 

Zutia climbed off the back of the fallen tuk’ata and wiped the blood-soaked blade of the vibroknife against the beast’s black hide. She rose to her full height and hit her head against the low ceiling of the grotto. Cursing, she sat to the side of the expanding pools of blood. As unpleasant as this was, it was still the kindest way for these cubs to die; the beasts wouldn't even have been fully weaned at their age. They couldn't hunt on their own. If they hadn't panicked and rush out to die in the wildfire, they would have survived only a few days on the plains before another predator struck them down or they wasted away from dehydration or starvation. A quick, terrifying, painful death was kinder than allowing nature to take its course.

 

The hunter pushed away the brim of her hat and wiped hair out of her eyes. Then she looked at her hand and saw the blood on her fingers. Her hand shaking, she reached for her canteen and felt water splash about the nearly-emptied container. Nothing could be spared, she decided.

 

 

Although the wildfire never managed to approach so closely that it threatened her shelter, it was a long day, sitting in the scent of the smoke and the filth and the blood.

So build that wall and build it strong,

'cause we'll be there before too long...

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You do realize that you’re being a weirdo stalker, right?

 

Your plan is to follow a duo of capable Sith and ask one of them to do you a favor when you know absolutely nothing about them other than Qaela probably hates you. How is this a proper foundation or plan?

 

You could probably find anyone else on Korriban to help you with this. You realize that right?

Probably. But I don’t want anyone. I want her.

So you’re a stubborn ass. What’s new? But what makes her better than the others?

 

Others would write me off. They know too much of who I am. That and their skills are mundane. This project is special. It requires interest and determination. It requires a lively fire. The Cathar has these attributes.

I love your gall. But let’s say that no one else can help you. Why haven’t you gone up to them both and just asked? Why do all this following and sneaking?

 

Practice.

 

Sithspit. You’ve been doing nothing but practice every day for months. You live and breathe training most days. What makes this different?

I’m bored.

 

Finally, the truth. Now, what do we do with that?

 

Nothing. Knowing the truth doesn’t hide the fact that I need to remain hidden and wait until the moment to act presents itself.

Well isn’t that peachy.

 

How come you don’t talk to yourself more often?

 

Because I’m my own biggest distraction. It helps not to dwell too much. But, unfortunately, long spans of silence are inescapably vulnerable to pointless internal ramblings.

 

Sucks, doesn’t it?

 

Eh… It has its moments.

 

 

Keenava Two Suns.png

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  • 2 weeks later...

“So essentially the Krath alter the materials before construction, and the Night Sisters alter the finished product after creation. How does the ritual achieve the hardening effect in scientific terms, does it alter the molecular structure or the nature of the bonds between molecules? Have there been comparative studies between the two methods? What about studying samples under an electron microscope? If so, are there spreadsheets I can study?”

 

Ailbasí’s mind was racing and she was eager to begin applying this new knowledge to her work. She departed for her quarters and began laying out a new project, combining her studies into Krath metallurgy, Dathomiri witchcraft, and ancient fighting styles to produce something that bridged the past and the present. There were many failed attempts along the way, miscalculated formulas that resulted in blades that shattered under the stress of the raw forces of creation. One made it all the way to the final quenching before being reduced to a frail piece of scrap due to the weakness of the last reagent, the blood of a hated enemy. The acolyte’s blood had irreversibly blighted the steel with its pathetic nature, leaving a pitted and flaky blade where there had once been promising potential.

 

Ailbasí’s solitary time here had led to few enemies, and certainly not any powerful enough to finish the blade. In what seemed like a lifetime ago at uni she had made what could be considered enemies amongst the more xenophobic imperial students, but their childish bullying had lost its sting in comparison to other torments that she had endured. It was a strange feeling, to be adrift and directionless because she had been too focused on her studies, on her future.

 

Seeking distraction, she turned on her datapad and started reading a mythograph like how she used to when she would hit her retention limit studying. Despite the compelling story and beautiful imagery however she kept coming back to the inescapable present. These tales lacked the grit and imperfections of reality, and until looking at them through her new perspective she had never had reason to see how false they were. She had been such a foolish and naive child, always running away from how the world was to hide in illusions of how she wanted the world to be. Finding no respite in the piece, she loaded up a holovid, but the upbeat songs and corny jokes only made her feel smaller, more childish. The harshness of Korriban and its visceral lessons had made her come to hate the girl she was.

 

But was the thing that she had become any better? Despite all her efforts to learn, adapt, and transform into something stronger, she continued to be left at the wayside and abandoned. Discarded by master after master, even with her eyes torn open she wasn’t able to find a way to be enough. Worse, this had been a one way trip. Part of her knew that from the start, that’s why she had left behind her connections to her normal life, better for them to think she had died. In a lot of ways the girl that they had known had died. Her goofy smile was a mangled wreck and her bright eyed intensity had transformed into smouldering coals.

 

Even her time at the university, all of the knowledge that she had collected, it was so sterile. Like looking at life through a thick glass pane and thinking that it would be enough to understand without touching, tasting, feeling, or doing. The ivory tower was filled with padded rooms so that the enlightened could rant and rave about truth without hurting themselves on the sharp edges and abrasive surfaces of harsh reality.

 

For the first time in her life, Ailbasí looked at herself stripped of distractions and excuses, and felt overwhelming loathing for what she saw. The childish immaturity, the collecting of hollow knowledge, the failure to push herself hard enough to become a worthy Sith apprentice, all of it came crashing down on her, constricting and crushing, denying her breath. She punched the mirror, shattering the accusatory reflection, but the pieces returned to their proper places and fused back together with sizzling ferocity. The darkness within her wanted her to see this. Surging around the room, she smashed and tore through what meager decorations and displays she had put up. Limited edition figures of favorite holotoon characters, posters of cherished mythographs, replicas of famous weapons from holovids, nothing was spared her fury.

 

Her room in shambles, revelation struck like a flash of lightning. The reverberating rumble that followed shook her between mania and melancholy. Overcome with sobbing laughter she headed to the forge with the dragon pearls from Tatooine. She shattered two and reduced them to a crystalline powder, which was then added to the molten alloy that she would use to forge both gauntlets and a new blade. Two were polished down into gleaming crimson orbs. One was inscribed with spells and names, half known, half dreamt. The crystals in the crucible attuned to her raw emotion and became conductors of the darkness in a molecular matrix permeating the gauntlets and the sword. Time passed as if under a strobe light, fugue states riddling the production process, but the work continued whether or not Ailbasí was aware of what she was doing. There was no calm serenity in the process, only a desperate, nerve rending dash to cross the finish line before exhaustion and sanity won out.

 

When the blade was ready for the final quenching, she latched onto that moment so tightly that it burned, and began running back to her quarters. The longer she held onto the moment, the more she felt like she had plunged her arms into acid. When she finally breached the threshold of her room, she slammed the door shut and fell to her knees as she let out an agonizing cry that was somewhere between a roar and a scream.

 

“A true Sith sword must be quenched in the blood of a hated enemy”

 

Lining up the tip carefully, Ailbasí plunged the blade into her stomach. The blade roared unnaturally as it drew upon the power of her blood and Ailbasí laughed deliriously as she finally heard the thrum of a properly forged Sith sword. The light in the room adopted a dark red hue, and Ailbasí felt herself torn between two moments, the present and her recurring nightmare. The walls of her room began cracking and through the gaps sprayed torrents of blood, filling the room at an alarming rate. But Ailbasí would not flee. Perhaps it was some combination of dark courage, sunk cost fallacy, and sheer exhaustion. She had been running so hard for so long that she just didn’t care anymore. The room continued to fill, alternating between blue ocean water and crimson blood, but she would not relent her prize to the rising tide.

 

The boiling surface rose up over her mouth, then her nose, and then it wasn’t long before she was fully submerged in viscera. The walls of the room drifted away and she felt herself drifting in a vast expanse of endless blood tides. The currents seized her body and tossed her about with hurricane force, but in this great void there was nothing to crash upon so she rode the wave. Sensations blanketed her with unabated intensity and she embraced them with naked abandon. There was fear, anger, and suffering, but also ambition, joy, and passion. Her nerves lit up with overwhelming agony and pleasure, rising in intensity until she convulsed uncontrollably.

 

Ailbasí became dimly aware of a presence in the murk, and felt the ensorceled dragon pearl she had inscribed drifting closer to her, drawn by a deep spiritual connection to the blade buried inside of her. She reached out to grab the glowing orb, and felt the incision on her chest creep upward on its own despite the blade remaining staunchly in place. Her ribcage peeled back as if it was made of gelatin and the Sith saw her own beating heart laid bare in her chest. Pausing only momentarily in hesitation, she tore it free and replaced it with the pearl.

 

Power surged through her as alchemy melded with biology in an impossible outcome. Her rhythmic heartbeat was replaced with a steady thrum of raucous energy. She understood now, what the pearls were and why the krayt dragons tended towards nesting in Dark Side nexuses. The pearls allowed a krayt dragon to digest Force energy when they consumed their prey.

 

Her immersion continued to stoke the fires of the roaring inferno of sensations, and part of her considered staying here, conquering the pain to lose herself in the pleasure. An eternity of raw, visceral experiences without any of in between moments. She wondered if journeying here was what drove Sheog mad. Before she could be further tempted, however, a gauntleted hand that she didn’t recognize seized her shoulder and pulled her back to reality.

 

Her eyes jolted open and she was back in her quarters. While the room wasn’t submerged in blood, a thick patina of red covered every surface. She pulled out the blade from her abdomen, the wound sizzling and crackling as it sealed shut. The pain would remain, the Dark Side did not give without cost, but the wound would not be life threatening. Ailbasí cradled the blade for a moment like a newborn child before affixing it to its handle and properly securing it. There was only one more part of the process left to do.

 

Ailbasí picked up a hobby knife that she used for building models and regarded its glinting edge peeking out from the layer of phantom viscera. She brought it closer but even in spite of everything she’d gone through, she still flinched now. There was something profoundly and deeply terrifying about having a blade near your eyes. She bit her lower lip nervously and stalled a bit longer before realizing a rather obvious workaround that avoided putting a knife into her eye.

 

Putting her other hand in front of her face and giggling deliriously at her own cleverness, Ailbasí used the Force to yank her eyes out of their sockets with a sound that would have been hilarious to hear out of context, and cut the optic nerves as they dangled. Fortunately there was nothing intact left to break on her desk as she fumbled about blindly trying to feel for the last two pearls. At last she laid hands on them and while reciting the spell she had found she inserted them into her now vacant eye sockets. A riot of colors and light returned as the orbs enmeshed themselves with her body and she marveled at her new profane vision.

 

She regarded herself in the mirror again, and found the rapture of the Dark. The person that she hated when she looked in the mirror, that person could change. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation, no longer being held at bay by imminent purpose, took the upper hand and her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the floor, hobby knife still in hand, and laughed joyously at the success of her transformation. She could feel her sword next to her and turned to regard it with new eyes.

 

“Was it good for you too?”

 

Her hysterical laughter grew louder until blackness consumed her and her mind descended into dark dreams.

NYRYS.png

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  • 2 weeks later...

Waiting is the hardest part...

 

Keenava rose to the balls of her feet, using light motes of force energy to prime her resting muscles, and keeping her hands at the edges of the pillar indentation she'd been resting against. Her meddlesome subconscious quandaries flitted away, leaving only the cold indifference of shadow that embraced her. She eyed the guards that remained vigilant but saw an opening when the Cathar left.

 

The creak of metal hinges that were well worn or the swish of an automatic modern threshold, hid all kinds of sound based sins while sneaking. The guards watched as the Cathar left, making sure that nobody used that moment to enter Qaela's quarters. Naturally, that meant that the rest of the corridor was less of a priority. It didn't mean that she could escape without completely avoiding notice. But, as she left her hiding spot, she drew her hood to make it look more like an Acolyte's. She loosened her sash and let her loose black tunic run down and hide some of her throwing knives. Then, with her head down, she continued quietly down the hall as another pair of acolytes further down the hall did the same. That way, when the guards resumed their watch a moment later, she was just another part of the milling, unimportant, drones.

 

When she was out of the main corridor, Keenava stole away to find some cover. A small alcove just outside the commons with short vaulted stone ceilings stood out to her as she continued. It was a little exposed, but it provided a measure of space. And for her purposes, it was dark and private. Keenava took a deep breath. Her lekku squirmed awkwardly in their cloth-bound prison. When she knew she was alone, she tied up her hood and tunic once more and embraced the shadows, following the Cathar's footsteps all the way to her quarters. And from there, Keenava... waited.

 

It was clear the Cathar was working on something. But, aside from bright flurries of movement, the Cathar seemed to stall in her quarters. But was that a good thing? Was it time to talk to her?

 

Keenava contemplated crossing the distance and knocking on the Cathar's door. But before she could, a powerful force presence bloomed deep within the room. Darkness, deep and oozing, beat with the staccato rhythm of a dying heart. It was hypnotizing and just begged to be questioned. But who was Keenava to question it? She was a Sith Lord. She was powerful. But even she knew that she had no business walking up and asking about it. But if she didn't ask now, she'd never find the time.

 

Laughing inwardly at her own indecision, Keenava let the shadows fall and removed her hood, letting loose her lekku and allowing them to drape across her shoulders. Her red eyes gleamed with a dangerous curiosity as the tips of her knuckles rapped lightly upon Ailbasi's door.

 

 

Keenava Two Suns.png

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Ailbasí didn’t know how much time had passed when she woke up. The copper tang taste of blood was still on her tongue, but the once red veneer of the blood on her walls had turned… inert and still. She closed her eyes to rub them and realized that these new eyes could see unabated in spite of her closing her eyelids. Trying to find her pulse, she instead found the steady vibrating hum of the dragon pearl turned amulet. Her blood tingled with power as it coursed hotly through her veins, and her body vibrantly grew effulgent as the darkness surged into her nerves and lit them up like a riotous nighttime festival. Ailbasí had never done hardcore drugs but she was pretty sure this was what the really good stuff felt like.

 

Rather than feeling like she had reached some transcendent state, distant from the reality of the world, she felt hyper connected to her own personal experience. It was like someone put a metaphorical magnifying glass over her senses, intensifying and elaborating on the signals from her nerve endings. Chills ran along her back where naked flesh touched the cold stone floor… except Ailbasí was still wearing her smithing apparel.

 

A brief sense of disorientation followed the realization that the sensation wasn’t coming from her back, but rather entirely new senses originating from the newly forged blade. She reached out to it and it drifted into her hand before she even willed it to. Clambering to her feet, she found that the weapon had a natural buoyancy that kept it within her palm regardless of gravity and whether or not she released her grip.

 

The elongated hilt allowed for the blade to be heavier while still remaining balanced. Ailbasí had bulked up enough that she could have effectively wielded a bulkier weapon like a war maul or an axe, or even just sized up the blade to be a greatsword, but certain techniques that she was interested in could only be done with a proper sword. She casually launched into a flurry of mock strikes against the air, and pleasant chills ran through her body as the blade sang and danced at her behest. While the sword didn’t possess a sense of touch, it was acutely aware of thermal shifts and movement, Ailbasí could feel an exhilarating sense of anticipation when the blade moved. On a deeply instinctual level, she knew it would feel even better to drive into someone.

 

“Your name is… Gwn Marwolaeth.”

 

The name came to her lips as unbidden as the sword came to her hand. The sword’s name had always been Gwn Marwolaeth and Ailbasí had come to understand that, rather than naming the blade herself.

 

The moment was abruptly ended by a knock on her chamber door. The door itself, existing in the Force the way the way moons were illuminated by their neighboring stars, was only a diaphanous veil between Ailbasí and the unexpected guest. She looked like a white porcelain doll of a Twi’lek woman filled with black ichor that undulated and occasionally probed beyond the cracks as wispy finger length tentacles. Some of the cracks were sealed with gold, others were welded in a way that left black scorch marks around the seams. The ephemeral remnants of rusted chains forced her body into provocative poses despite being little more than phantom memories. Not all scars marked the flesh.

 

Gwn hovered languidly floated behind her as if sheathed on her back. Ailbasí didn’t recognize the woman, although she wondered if this was how the Twi’lek that had given her access to the academy looked in the Force. Composing herself as much as one could when covered head to toe in blood, Ailbasí opened the door with a gesture and called out for the woman to enter.

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“Well… you certainly look like you’ve had some work done.” Keenava said quietly as she smoothly drifted across the room, noting the blood covering the Cathar’s body and her, ‘adjustments.’ The smell of copper lingered, mingled with trace threads of force energy and what might have been… ozone? Hmm. There was something peculiar about the array of items strayed about the room and the floating sword. But questions were useless right now. She needed answers. As she scanned the room for a place to lean against, Keenava’s lekku squirmed a little on her shoulders. The tension that lingered in her braintails pressed against her thoughts like a handful of cotton swabs pushed against her face. But, with years of pressure applied to and taken away from her lekku, she learned to screen such minor inconveniences out. This was important. It required her full focus.

 

“Firstly, I’m Sith Assassin, Lord Ootunavi, former apprentice to both Master Furion and the Dark Lord.” Keenava paused a moment to let each name resonate with its appropriate significance. Though there was a slight acerbic spin to Furion’s name, hinting at something deeper. “I’d love to elaborate on what’s going on here aside from some interesting choices regarding interior decoration. But I’d rather cut to the chase. I’ve seen, through talents of my own, your prowess with creating things; I’ve seen the fire within you that burns as you push to create things of beauty. So, I wish to ask for your help in making or fixing something of mine. And, in return, I offer you a choice. One, I can owe you a favor of your own devise, whatever that may be. Two, I can find and procure something for you, whether it be money, tokens, ingredients, etc. Three, I can kill someone for you,” Keenava oddly preened at the thought of sinking steel into flesh. It had been too long. “Four, I can take you on as an Apprentice. No doubt another master has caught you in their web, knowing your potential. Or, five, you refuse and I take advantage of your current vulnerability and kill you. But I leave it up to you. The choice is yours.”

 

Seeing the machinations that pulsed within the frail Sith’s chest and eyes and the sword that floated languidly by as the Cathar weighed her, Keenava delivered her last lines with deliberation. Each syllable was cut off with precision and severity. Keenava’s own whip-knives were not hidden and flashed cold steel on her hips. They glinted in the low light of the room. Her lightsaber, freshly repaired, glinted under the dim illumination as well. Keenava’s ruby eyes lit with crimson flames. And her expression, betraying only the hint of a smile, was utterly pensive.

 

 

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A numbness, defined by its distant coldness seeped into Ailbasí, chilling her bones and stilling the features on her face. Why now? She could have been getting laid tonight… Surely there were some guys into the glowing red demon eyes look… A false patina of pleasantness honed from years of working retail during prep school and college calcified over her face as she responded to Darth Pfask Foiler.

 

“Let me change out of these wet clothes and then I’ll get your measure, I’m assuming it’s armor you want me to work on since you’ve come so well heeled.”

 

The spartan quarters of an apprentice did not offer much in the way of space, and Ailbasí just wanted to get this over with, so she changed in full view of the assassin. However, if the interloper was hoping for a show she would be disappointed, the warrior’s movements were quick and efficient. It wasn’t long before the soiled smithing gear was replaced with fresh warrior attire. Her sword found its place not long after.

 

A simple trade of favors for services would have been a reasonable ask, but the assassin had to complicate things by adding a threat. Even if the assassin had offered her something she deeply wanted, she couldn’t afford to appear to be cowed by threats, vulnerability was a death sentence here at the temple. Ailbasí gestured to the door and it closed and locked, creating a claustrophobic arena where the assassin’s stealth and mobility would count for nothing. The arrogant assassin had adopted a tactically unfavorable stance, leaning against the wall, and Ailbasí executed a piercing lunge that intentionally strayed right of center so that if the assassin took the easier dodge she would be boxing herself further into the corner of the room.

 

“Now I will take your measure, assassin.”

 

((Duel Post 1))

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With her head no longer shrouded by her hood and her lekku free to breathe the stale air, the Assassin’s eyes gripped every surface they could.

 

One step, two steps, three steps…

  • Small room, limited mobility.

The air is still, smells will linger; breathe carefully...

 

Keenava lengthened her breaths to retain as much air as she could. She flexed her hands a little as she moved. In what seemed like a flippant gesture, cavalierly moving across the floor with little discretion, touching only part of her shoulder against the wall, preparing the muscles in her legs to leap into action should anything go awry, Keenava committed an instinctive act of deception and survival. Because, A, everyone should be prepared for violence at a moment’s notice. And, B, Keenava was predisposed to assuming everyone had violent tendencies. After all, even among people she cared for, her history suggested that they did. The Cathar’s tone, the shift in her fur, and her painted smile touched violence before blows were drawn. Keenava even began to assume the apprentice’s next moves. But assumptions and plans were fallible. Assuming she would attack left would leave Keenava open if she didn’t and vice versa. So instead of exposing her realization, Keenava watched, readying her muscles and conditioning herself to the limited arena.

 

When the Cathar changed clothes, Keenava’s eyes drifted to the floating blade. It surged with power similar to the Cathar. And while she didn’t quite understand what had transpired, it seemed logical to assume that they were connected somehow. Then the Cathar, gripping the hilt of her blade, sneer apparent in the glare of her eyes, attempted to cut her off and attacked her with a piercing lunge. It was a nice move. The Cathar was clearly trained and her body was built with big muscles. A cut with the blade would be vicious. And, in a room this small, a three-foot blade seemed a little precarious. But it worked both ways. Provided her connection didn't add extensive mobility, playing with a long blade in a room that couldn't be bigger than three hundred square feet was... daring to say the least.

 

 

  • The image of fullered steel slicing the thin layer of flesh at her midsection flittered through her head, capturing the breath in her mouth; the familiar feeling, the icy cold steel that brushed her warm flesh, splitting the only border between life and death... ... ...
     
    stop...

 

Silly girl…

 

Then again, how many Sith would truly understand the compliment and vulnerability implicit in stating a threat instead of - or before - actually carrying it out? The Sith were taught to believe 'might makes right.' Thus, this episode was nothing more than a reminder of Keenava's time as Lallu; a crazy time to say the least. But, what kind of assassin would Keenava be if she told her marks she was going to kill them before she actually did it?

 

Regardless. I can’t actually kill her. I need her. And it would be a shame to answer potential with death.

 

A thin veneer of purplish residue glinted on the edge of her knives. It smelled vaguely fish-like. And, if not used soon, it would destabilize and prove useless as anything other than colored gunk on her blade. Yet, Keenava didn’t touch the hilts of Clotho or Lachesis - not that they would be of any use here - despite the apprentice's implicit demand for armed combat. Even the Spark rested gently across her hip. No, hands only.

 

Instead of jumping out of the way, she let the blow continue toward her and inched just enough to the right to avoid the bulk of the blade. She saw the cunning of Ailbasi's ruse and smiled. Her focus changed, her root shifted from her center-of-mass to her calves and feet. While the blade whistled next to her, the world slowed in a moment of brief clarity. Colors took on a rosy hue as Keenava let the force ripple through her. And, after the sword passed, tearing Keenava's tunic and biting at the skin of her stomach, the Twi’lek grabbed at Ailbasi's arm, intending to continue her opponent's momentum toward the wall. With a slight lift, aided through the force, Keenava would use Ailbasi’s own kinetic energy to try and slam her against the back wall of the room. Afterward, taking care to observe any interference from Ailbasi's sword arm, Keenava would roll backward toward the middle of the room to ready her hands; each fist tight with the index knuckle protruding just a little further than every other.

 

If she made it to the center of the room, exposed as she would be to the oncoming barrage of Ailbasi's rage, it would put the Cathar's sword arm at a severe disadvantage. The size of the room would compromise her elbow, blocking it in, making it harder - though not impossible - to strike with ease. In a knife fight or a sword fight, your objective was always to control the blade arm.

 

Mutely, Keenava smiled and awaited the next bout.

 

((1))

 

 

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Ailbasí expected white dots to be dancing across her vision as she recovered from the impact to the back of her head courtesy of the wall, given that armor did not magically stop physics. Aching pain spread throughout the back of her body, but surprisingly Ailbasí’s vision grew sharper and the force of the impact lingered in the crystalline matrix she had crafted, glowing an otherworldly crimson.

 

Had Ailbasí been wielding a lightsaber, her ability to attack in the tight quarters would have been limited severely by the walls, but a Sith sword allowed for techniques that a lightsaber did not. Her opponent had not drawn any sort of weapon, despite having close quarters weapons prominently displayed on her hips. It was a strange decision, perhaps she thought to establish dominance through displays of unarmed prowess, as if Ailbasí wasn’t worth her drawing her weapons? Another insult that would not go unanswered. And a tactical blunder that would not go unpunished.

 

The assassin’s roll had taken her into the center of the room… right next to Ailbasí’s bed. The sheets were lighter than other objects Ailbasí was used to lifting, and they launched off the bed like a tidal way of linens to entangle and blind the woman. Despite having only done minor Force use in the duel, Ailbasí was still feeling the strain on account of her earlier ritual and self mutilation. A weaker person would have been overwhelmed by the strain, but both heavy physical conditioning and pain endurance training had prepared Ailbasí for pushing past normal limits.

 

While the sheets launched through the air, Ailbasí spun her blade into a mordstreich grip, turning her sword into a mace and shortening the reach to allow for fuller swings in the tight quarters. While the sheets wouldn’t incapacitate a Sith, they would serve as enough of a disruptive influence to reduce the opponent’s ability to react. Ailbasí used this opening to swing savagely with Gwn Marwolaeth in a flurry of blows, giving herself enough reach to outrange the assassin but not not enough to foil her own attacks.

 

((Duel Post 2))

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Waiting, testing her breath against the still air filled with sweat and exertion, Keenava watched the apprentice. The Cathar’s cheeks were shallow, mired in the color of poor health. The only light that bathed the small room they fought in was wreathed with dried blood; Ailbasi’s blood. And yet, here she was, determined to strike Keenava down.

 

That desperation reminded her of Umbara; survival beyond reason. Touching that memory with cotton fingers, seeing the rosy hue of colors accented through force sensitivity, Keenava extended a field of negative energy, sapping what little vitality remained in the room. It required concentration, which left her open to the shift of force energy that passed her by, yanking the sheets from the apprentice’s bed and pulling them into the air. But Keenava was unconcerned. Her hands shot to the sheets as they descended. Each hand gripped an end and wrapped part of the length of cloth around her arms, bracing the sheets with both arms and forming a line of cloth between both of her hands.

 

A hint of amusement curled the edges of her lips. It was an interesting ploy. With a flick of her index finger toward the durasteel walls, followed by a powerful ripple through the force, she cut the wires connecting the lights to their power source, blanketing the small room in darkness. It meant little to Keenava. She trained to fight in darkness. But there was a chance it could give her a hand in this fight.

 

Sweat broke out on her forehead as she continued her aura, feeding off the energy in the room. It was intoxicating. Every color continued to magnify. Moments slowed ever so slightly as her eyes bloomed with a predatory fire. Ailbasi's flurry slowed to an observable strike, allowing Keenava to avoid most of the damage by maneuvering herself around it, catching one or two grazing blows as she moved. After she finished wrapping her arms, she saw Ailbasi prepping another strike and watched as the apprentice began her attack. The Cathar's arms were taut with exertion as she lunged forward to pop Keenava with the pommel of her blade. And Keenava matched the apprentice’s new assault with something of her own. Using the blanket that was meant to incapacitate her, Keenava attempted to catch the weapon by the crossguard as it swung by. Her intent was to sideline Ailbasi’s mace and sidestep to Ailbasi’s left side. Succeeding in that, Keenava would release the sheets, enhance her muscles through the force and strike at the Cathar’s throat using her index knuckle to find the soft spot between her helmet and breastplate.

 

Then, following the success or failure of her maneuver, Keenava would prep her groaning muscles to dart away from reciprocation.

 

((2))

 

 

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Mordecai sighed as he was ordered to do the task again. To him, it was pointless, the exercise of an ability that he felt he had already demonstrated his competence with. As he stood to place the age-old hilt where it was before, to repeat the test, his eyes lingered on the crystal at his feet. It was beautiful, the blue shining ever so softly in the dim lighting of the chamber. The battery, brand new in comparison with the ancient weapon in his hand, the metallic sheen reflecting the crystal’s glow. He looked away, placing the hilt back in the sand.

 

He moved back to his prior position, returning to sitting.He breathed in, picturing the hilt in his mind, the memory of its owner still fresh in his mind, even if it was no longer present in the weapon. He could see her hand tightening around the hilt, bound by a leather that had long since eroded away. Before the sith’s fall, it had been simple, a chrome hilt with a simple brown leather, but after she fell, the weapon had changed to match. The guard and pommel of the hilt

had received intricate etchings, filled with gold, which had rusted away over the years. The engravings had faded as well, though were still visible in places. The simple leather had been replaced with a high quality fabric that was unknown to him, though that too had rotted away to time.

 

He reached out again, commanding the Force to obey. It was a tool, and he was the one that wielded it. He molded it into tendrils, reaching out towards the hilt. Slowly, they wrapped around the lightsaber, lifting it into the air. He pulled it towards him, much the same as before, his frustration at the repetition fueling his command more than his meditation before had. Much more quickly, the weapon floating to in front of him.

 

He honed his frustration into a tool unto itself, guiding the battery and crystal off the sandy ground beneath him. The crystal seemed to hum in response to the Force, but he paid it no mind. Slowly, the weapon began to assemble itself, a presence pressing against his mind, guiding his actions. He had never learned to make a lightsaber, but the force guided him.

 

With a soft click, the process completed. He opened his eyes, and the newly completed weapon dropped, sending a small puff of dirt into the air. He reached down, lifting it. It didn’t look any different, but he knew that appearance was a deceptive one, that if he simply pushed a button…

 

With a loud hiss, the blade sprung to life. The soft glow of the crystal had given way to the brightness of the lightsaber’s blade. He stood, giving the weapon an experimental swing. It was weightless, but dangerous. A single swing could end a life, a capability that he relished owning. He looked to the Sith Lord.

 

“What now, my Lord?”

 

 

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As Ailbasí attacked she felt an odd sluggishness in the air as the assassin tried to siphon energy from the Force through distant and faded memories. The energy here was different though, frantic and close, manic and visceral. But most importantly, it was her energy. The air and her opponent filled with color as she watched the currents of the Force pulse and surge in waves and eddies of electric neon, a map telegraphing intent before execution was realized. The assassin gestured to the wall and the electrical cables severed, cutting off the electrical flow to the lights. If the room had gone dark, Ailbasí wouldn’t have known, her new eyes didn’t see in terms of light and reflection.

 

A plan began to formulate as the currents of the situation came into sharper focus. Each movement would play its part, like brush strokes coming together to form a painting, or dancers performing carefully choreographed steps to convey the emotion of a scene in a musical. The difference in energies revealed the nature of the assassin, who was focused with laser intensity on detached control. Her opponent’s natural state was distance and avoidance, and she channeled energy sterilely, afraid of touch, of connection. Of harm. It was the fundamental philosophical difference between warriors and assassins, confrontation versus avoidance. Accepting that you will be hurt versus trying not to be hurt.

 

Ailbasí saw the shifts in energy and allowed for her blade to leave her grasp when it became entangled in the sheets, nudging its course subtly so that it embedded in the wall touching the active part of the power line. As her sword drank deeply, her crimson eyes turned a throbbing scarlet, but she wasn’t done yet. The energy in this place was her energy, attuned to her distinct frequency through the blood rituals she had performed. Through will forged by harrowing tribulation Ailbasí seized back the energy that the assassin had tried to steal, while simultaneously maneuvering her gauntlet to block the depowered strike. Her eyes blazed effulgent and the walls began to bleed again with fresh blood as Ailbasí tapped into that primal darkness once more.

 

When her opponent disengaged, Ailbasí also withdrew, but for different reasons. Gwn Marwolaeth returned to her hand and she pressed the flat of the blade down her body, while bracing her body flat against the wall, pressing against it to endure what was coming. The final step was incredibly risky, but she was far better equipped to survive it than her opponent.

 

“You have no claim to anything in this pfasking room, most of all me. You came in here with threats but no armor, and despite being well armed, you’re fighting like a kath as if this were a practice match. I used to think that I was weak, and that’s why I had trouble finding a master, but you’ve shown me what true weakness looks like. You reek of someone who always had a safety net and a choice. Oh, I’m sure you think of yourself as a survivor, desperately, pathetically clinging to some past version of yourself, or a dream about who that waste of flesh would become with the help of your black magic sugar daddy, but you’re in the real galaxy now, locked in a room with me, and guess what kath? I PFASKING EAT PEOPLE!”

 

“I’ve shattered EVERYTHING I was to become the kind of monster that would excel here, not because I had to, but because I wanted to be something greater than what I was. I’ve been evolving while you’ve been “surviving” and leaning on the pedigree of your masters. I’ve sacrificed things that you will never understand, through my own choices, to build my bed of bones here. Tell me assassin, are you ready to see what a sacrifice looks like?”

 

Incandescent rage overflowing, Ailbasí released the energy that she had been collecting throughout the fight in the crystalline matrix that connected her body, her armor, and her weapon, shaping it into a concussive blast that detonated a few feet ahead of her. If she hadn’t already been braced against the durasteel door it would have been lethal even with her armor just from collateral impact, but the risk was necessary, because on the other side of the blast was a room full of shattered toys, failed prototype swords, and broken collectible holovid weapon replicas that had just been turned into an improvised fragmentation mine, rocketing towards Keenava’s general direction at lethal velocity.

 

((Duel Post 3))

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Eyes glowed crimson under a helm of charcoal black. The eyes observed silently, judging the abilities of the acolyte and were only obscured by the vaporous darkness that every so often crested over the crimson. It was that darkness which Valinor scattered about himself which hindered the eyes of foes and allies alike. But for now the eyes watched the young man work on his sabre.

 

When the acolyte looked up he was now deemed an apprentice, he had passed the first test. The building of a weapon of war. Valinor pushed against the wall at his side and the wall slid open to show three individuals, beaten and bloody.

 

All three were in their teens, both males in their late teens and the girl, whose cheeks reflected the red blade from the tears that traced down to her chin was in her early teens. Imperials all, and taken from Kuat during its fall. All of them had been in the junior flight academy there and the tattered remains of their uniforms still still showed the white imperial crest against the crimson fabric.

 

You have built a sabre and with that comes the power of apprinticeship. Now you decide their fate.

 

((You don’t have to be graphic, but this would be a good time to reflect on any old friends from childhood or sisters/brothers your character might have. Then kill or free these ‘innocents’ ))

Commander Valinor - Sith Lord

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Admiral 3rd Felix Legions

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Mordecai had expected many things when he decided to come to Korriban and train as a Sith. Pain, both physical and mental. Difficulties on a level that were previously unknown to him. He prepared for even more. His death when he arrived, failure to complete his training, even the possibility that he was shot down before ever reaching the cursed planet. What he hadn’t prepared for was seeing familiar faces.

 

He recognized one of men, Fal, a friend of his whom he hadn’t spoken to since he left. They had grown up together, but Fal had left for Kuat a year ago. Immediately, he called out. “Mordecai! What are you doing here?” Fal grew silent, glancing at the ominous sith lord that was wreathed in shadow, then back to Mordecai. “It doesn’t matter. You can help us! Just-”

 

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence before his head tumbled to the ground, severed with a single cut. The other male gasped, and tried to move away. Mordecai stopped him with a single word.

 

“Stay.”

 

He grinned. Before, the youngest of his family, the heir to nothing, his word was next to meaningless. His older brothers always trumped him. But here… He stared at the weapon in his hand. He held the power of life and death now. There was guilt, of course. One does not kill a lifelong friend on a whim and come away without the feeling of guilt, but it would pass. An Imperial claiming association with him after being captured would do him no good in the days to come. He had no room for weak blood in his midst.

 

He could feel the fear radiating from the two others, though mostly from the other man. He stepped in front of the cadet. “Where were you when Kuat fell?” He received no answer. He frowned. Surely, this whelp of a prisoner didn’t defy him? No. It was the fear. Even he, as unaccustomed to the force as he was, could feel it. Too timid.

 

This death was not as clean. He stabbed the man through his heart, and let him die in pain. There was but one more. The Sith Lord had told him the only way to build a legacy was to kill more than the previous sith before him. This was a good start. And yet…

 

There was one more. He hadn’t even come to a halt before she uttered her words. “You’re a coward, and a traitor. You kill shackled prisoners and think yourself mighty. But you’re weak.” He breathed in, his momentary anger fading. She was stronger than the other two, a fact hidden by the tears that marred her face. He doubted she would survive if he released her, so he did the next best thing. “She would make a good sith. She may have the will for it. But if she lacks a connection to the force, or if you disagree, she will be my slave.”

 

 

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Keenava felt the energy she built moments before, siphoning from the muscles in her arm as her fist met Ailbasi’s gauntlet with a disappointing thwump. But Keenava’s energy-well hadn’t been exhausted. And the lack of energy available in the room simply helped her change targets. Keenava continued drawing energy, but from the planet and the Academy instead. Acolytes milling about their day, wandering about the halls, would feel slightly light headed as they passed. Apprentices, hard at work, training with their instructors, would start to feel sluggish after every blow. Generations of Sith, who fought and died in the wastes of Korriban, whispered to her as their dark power slithered from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers.

 

The shift of potential violence in the room was noticeable. But Keenava was allowed the freedom to disengage. She noted the blood on the wall, the fire brimming in her opponent’s eyes and the Sith blade floating back to Ailbasi’s hand. And, while she continued to feel the hideous claws of ancient Sith energy raking the inside of her carcass, she patiently waited while the Cathar took her position against the door and started monologuing.

 

But, for the Cathar’s wordy troubles, silence followed.

 

In the string of time that followed Ailbasi’s blast, an icy realization struck the practiced calm of Keenava’s mind. She barely noticed Clotho and Lachesis - her twin whip knives with barbed chains - rising from her hips, extending to their full forms, and dangling lethally by her side, the purple-colored fishy smelling paralytic still glistening on their blades.

 

Every catalyzing syllable, every goad, every arrogant, self-serving, slanderous sleight kept piling on and on and on. It was a noxious slime that eagerly waited to crush Keenava beneath its odious girth. But deep within the fog of ooze and slime, alone and unafraid, memories fought to surface.

 

 

  • A small girl cried. Her little brain tails, scarcely more than nubs, were scarred and burned. Her body was soaked with various unknown liquids. And she lay amidst the sludge, in a fetal position, bawling floods until all that remained was desiccation.

 

  • A larger woman lay on cold steel, her life a murmur in the dark.
  • Another, hunched and alone, sat on the dead ground and bellowed raspy tones of vacuous hunger.

 

  • Two more replaced them, streaks of desperation etched into their face, with bloody hands and terrible smiles.

 

Rows upon rows of cold flesh rest beneath the surface of Keenava’s mind. Every trial; every tumult; every hurdle; and every mark was one more step on the Assassin’s journey. And every syllable from the Cathar’s wretched throat was an acrimonious admission of ignorance; her tirade was nothing more than an excuse to showboat. It was something all young Sith did. It was something that Keenava had done years ago. The vivid recollections of her anger and pride manifesting in explosive fireballs brought phantom tingles to her skin where burns used to be.

 

 

  • But… Sacrifice? All Sith know sacrifice. All people know sacrifice.

 

Every molecule in Keenava’s body boiled. Her flaming crimson eyes slipped into an intense blue that burned the delicate skin of her caruncula. Copper filled her nostrils as gore began to flow from the corners of her eyes. Her cold expression, stolid in the face of the Cathar's raving mania, stared daggers at Ailbasi from a few steps away. Her fists tightened.

 

Her whip blades blazed with the same blue as her eyes.

 

But she refused to explode.

 

And, when the Cathar's concussive blast built to its fantastic crescendo, Keenava backhanded it, popping the explosive energy like a harmless soap bubble, sending countless items back to where they came, clattering against the stone walls and floor; an orchestra of junk. There was explicit care taken in the gesture to avoid any excess force being pushed toward Ailbasi. She was spared, while her junk and idle knick knacks were not. Vicious ethereal knives pierced the side of the Assassin's arm that came into contact with the blast. A grotesque crack emitted from her left forearm; skin broke, cloth parted, and blood seeped.

 

Her eyes remained fixed on Ailbasi. The Cathar amassed an impressive display considering how weak she was when the fight started. But it was hard and foolish to pretend that Ailbasi was anything less than a competent, cornered predator. Letting Keenava disengage and the boisterous monologue -- she'd been baited like this before. She had Fynn Relmis to thank for that. Sorry... Baron Kern

 

Quicker than Keenava imagined, Clotho and Lachesis, their barbed chains taut, slammed toward the door where Ailbasi waited, perpendicular to the Cathar's ready stance attempting to secure her arms to the durasteel door. Their gnarly barbs glistened in the cool blue flames that wreathed them; a lethal incentive to prevent resistance.

 

Ancient power clamoring through her veins, peeling the ebony skin from her hands and breaking the fragile capillaries at the ends of her fingers and toes, Keenava stepped forward until she was face-to-face with the Cathar. Her eyes, burning azure flames, accented by the blood dripping from porcelain cracks in her ebony face, creased. Her eyebrows knitted together while she attempted to remove Ailbasi’s Sithsteel helmet and mask with the force. Following that, Keenava would backhand the Apprentice across the face using her undamaged hand. The blow’s intent would be to leave a scorching red mark instead of inducing any lethal consequences.

 

Then, after a moment of silence passed between them and tears of blood continued to fall on Keenava’s face, the Twi’lek would bend a little closer to the presumably restrained Ailbasi and say: “you talk too much.”

 

((3))

 

 

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