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Vorin Blackmorne

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  1. Where he had expected to feel the slick rending of flesh, and the cracking and grinding of splintered bone, he felt only the jarring emptiness of a parry and the softness of the forest loam as his sword bit into the ground. Yellow eyes watched the bronze blade of the lightsaber fall useless, narrowing in disbelief as the Jedi gave up her weapon. Rain became frost as it ran down the formless darkness of Bloodletter’s blade. She didn’t deserve to possess a blade if she couldn’t hold onto it. He stamped down towards the lightsaber’s handle, intending to crush the offending light away. Pity… She didn’t die. Maybe, try next time. Rage sprang for a moment unbidden from the depths of his mind, fueled by Bloodletter's whispers, and Vorin channeled it into the cold, sociopathic determination that connected him to the Power of the Force. Perhaps it was for the best that the Jedi before him hadn’t died in his initial assault, such a quick death forbade him the study of his opponent, and the extraction of her terror. What use was a death if you didn’t see the hope fading to horror in their eyes? A grenade landed beside him, and his momentum faltered. He leapt backwards, landing on the forest ground, forming a deep furrow as he slipped. The Jedi’s grenade had robbed him of a proper second strike, and frustration formed within him, but only for a moment as second blade whispered to life above him, the world awash now in green. He attempted to steady himself, but the blade ripped into his armored shoulder, not deep enough to disable, but enough to wound him. Pain broiled up from beneath his armor, a roiling sickening thing. Such a feeling would have drawn a Sith Warrior towards the emptiness of berserker rage, but it was not so with Vorin. The rush of emotion became cold, hidden beneath that grim, determined smile. Frost licked at the trickle of blood that ran from beneath his armor, overrunning the pain, numbing it. The only sound that came from him was the groaning of teeth grinding together. It sounded like ice-sheets cracking and gasping as they ground against each other with the waves. On his belt, ice built up a second weapon, filling in the voids with the rain, built from his pain. She landed then, beside him. Scant a few hands-breadths away. He had expected her to flee, to gain distance, but she was here. Close enough to taste. To smell. To kiss and devour. In a single heartbeat, he could see the strands of grey in her hair, soaking wet within the verdant glow of her blade. She was far older than him, not the whelping pup he had assumed, but age didn’t matter in an opponent. The frost-mist of her breath lingered in his cold. His right hand ran down the blade of his Zweihänder, leaving his left hand, encrusted with ice, upon the pommel. The shine of her eyes was like the rainbow-gems of Gallinore, reflecting and mimicking the light of her lightsaber. But they were not nearly terrified enough. He would keep her eyes. This Jedi had closed into his realm, within the circle of the first and sword, the distance where strength and precision were most important. She would not escape it alive. The grim smile twitched with the dark glee of victory. Wrath moved, and Vorin channeled all of his determination into rebuilding his momentum. The blade was not the only deadly part of a sword. His left foot came forward, shifting his weight as he poured Wrath’s cold chill into his left arm and the Force moved with him. He brought his left hand up in a strike towards the Jedi’s throat and jaw, pivoting Bloodletter’s pommel and handguard into the strike, steadying the blade with his right hand. He would hit with the strength of a mountain, dashing her throat and brains with shattering ice, striking through to decapitate her with the strength of the Force and Bloodletter’s pommel. Don’t let her even breath. All we should hear is SCREAMING. He followed through with a shift of momentum, striding forward then with his right foot to cut back through his opponent with a precise blow. He ran his right hand down the flat of the blade as he cut, guiding its intent true. Pain shot up his right arm as he struck, a grim reminder of the wound he had taken, and his fingers twitched along the blade’s edge. The Warrior’s blow was aimed to cut through the gap between her neck and left shoulder and to leave the Jedi lifeless on the Temple’s purportedly blessed ground. She would pay dearly for her deception and daring to continue to live. ((2)) (Vorin attempts to crush the fallen lightsaber, leaps away from dummy grenade and takes damage with the lightsaber strike to right shoulder. Force-fueled pommel strike across the close distance, followed through with a force-fueled bisecting cut.)
  2. An amber glow woke the night, standing like a lighthouse in the storm, resolute, strong. The challenge had been answered. The Sith Warrior’s smile darkened as he reached out a tempted hand towards the light, feeling what stood behind it. There was a wash of femininity, strength, weariness of war. A veteran of combat then. A part of him cried out against following through with his challenge, for a predator sought out the sick and lame within the flock, but he quieted that whisper. The Force has brought us first to the shepherd, so that we might then slaughter the flock… Bloodletter’s whispers crystallized into its sardonic voice Mhm she’s tempting… Why don’t we… kill her? Yellow eyes rolled narrowed as the Sith approached, passing the primitive nature of the predator into the depths of his mind. The howling ceased from around the Sith, the wind-whipped air stiffening into bitter chill, reflecting the crystallization of his purpose and his mind. The smile faded further into a grim painting of determination. The water that beaded upon his skin began to crystalize, just as his conviction, flaking into shards of ice that ran in a pattern across his lamellar-plate. The warrior’s demeanor changed noticeably, drawing into itself, replacing the carefree lust and casual charm with the placid stare of a sociopath. Ahhh… There’s my Vorin…. I was wondering if you were coming. Ice crested footprints were carried away in the gale as the Sith began to run towards the amber light. When he saw the figure of the woman (Draygo), Bloodletter was unleashed from its bindings, falling into his hands. The Zwiehander was as dark as the heart of the Maw and seemed to drip with shadows. Frost formed on the darkness, giving the Flamberge twists of darkmetal a terrifying form. My… she would look… Lovely dissected… and displayed… Vorin pressed into his instincts, embracing the rush of his blood, passing it into his muscles. He breathed of it, feeling the coldness in his lungs. Wrath came to him then, his truest sin, his only friend. Ice began to form about his forearms and upon his belt, muttering and cracking like the great frost-lakes of Thyressa. Whispers became patterns of attack, hate into cold dispassion. The rain about him became frozen beads of hail, and the Sith leapt towards the Jedi in an arc. A kinder, weaker Sith would have taken the time to fence his opponent, cross blades and discuss philosophy, but that was not Vorin of the Court of Madness. There was no reason to talk to such a creature. What were the words of a Jedi to a Lord of the Warriors? She was an obstacle to power, and as such she would pass into the afterlife, preferably screaming. Vorin focused his wrath into the ground as he landed, shattering it towards the Jedi to break the roots of her defense, before drawing his power back into himself and rushing into the harsh momentum of war. He advanced in a flash with the shockwave of the shattered temple ground. Bloodletter whipped through the hurricane, cracking and whispering on the wind, shards of ice scattering about it. Yellow eyes, a grim smile, and long white hair would be all the Jedi would see of her killer. He would have far more time to study her after she was cold and bloodless. The Sith Warrior brought the darkmetal Zwiehander to meet the Jedi, behind that amber glow. He leveraged his weight into the blow, bringing the strength of wrath through his shoulders and ice-crested forearms, to strike down in an arc that would drive the undulating edge through the woman’s shoulder and exit through her pelvis. ((1)) Actions: Shattered the ground in order to weaken the defense and disrupt stance, and then cut at Draygo with a force-strengthened chop of the Two-Handed Sith Sword
  3. The hurricane blew across the surface of Lehon, buffeting the Warrior’s decent into the jungle that made up most of the planet’s landscape. Wind picked at his clothing and whipped his long hair free of its leather bindings as he leaned out of the shuttle’s gangway. They were still about three-hundred meters up, flying low to avoid any active or passive radar. Those that accompanied him had their orders, and had dispatched further into the jungle, pressing in a flanking maneuver towards the temple. The shuttle was close now to the Temple, and Vorin could feel the tension in the Force caused by the stirrings of war. He could feel his blood rise as he touched the Force, letting his emotions flow free. A smile came across his pale face as the wave of power crested within him, joining his emotions to drive a frenzy in his blood. Well… Jump. Get in there… He glanced back at Bloodletter, his smile widening, and he leapt into the storm. Yes, listen to the sword that lacks intelligence, what’s the worst that can happen? The wind swept him, carried him, disoriented him, but he kept his sulpheric eyes to the ground, driving himself down towards the outskirts of the temple. He channeled the wind, letting the natural chaos of it meld his frenzied blood into a Force-bidden rush. He landed in a roll, sending a gout of soft loam and dirt into the storm, as if thrown by a meteor. Coming to his feet, he howled like the Tuk’atas he had grown up around in the Court of Madness. Call to them, bring them to me so we might find glory… Vorin reached out, rumbling with the storm in his veins, calling to any Jedi that dared defend the temple to come to him. His hands ran across the leather-bound pommel of the Zwiehander, preparing to drag it from its sheath. He would have his victory.
  4. It always amused the Warrior how different each court of the Sith Masters truly was. That of the Sith Master before him was self-centric, only one chair which forced the others to stand like peasants, awaiting the whims of the Master. The Court of Madness had emphasized the comfort of its patrons, and that of the Spider had been full of shadows. Vorin squared his shoulders, his fingers tapping on the soft leather loops of his belt. So, this Sith was in Pride’s confidence. The Sith Master before him was a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in midnight blues, with eyes of a deep lavender. Vorin’s eyes glanced to the nightsister beside him and back at the Sith Master. They practically looked the same age, hard to imagine this Darksong woman bearing up such a child, had she been a child herself? A darker thought passed unbidden through his wrathful mind, bearing mind to deeper passions. Perhaps with enough power, he could have both mother and daughter. A small smile crossed his face, bringing a mirthful spark to his yellow eyes. Oh how the mind worked, bearing up the taboo and wicked on the platter of tantalizing imaginations. Bloodletter thrummed in encouragement across his shoulders, and he quieted his mind, listening to the Sith Master’s orders. The Sith Warriors that were to be under his command were known to him. He recognized Toth Quenervan, a Twi’lek who had joined the Court of Madness on many occasions during the Revels and Parties to honor Gluttony. A Berserker if he remembered the man’s skills. Vorin nodded solemnly to them all and continued listening Darksong’s words. It would most likely be a mad rush when the hit the ground at Lehon. Sith Warriors were the linebreakers, a hopeless vanguard who drank of death until the belly soured. He shrugged, passing a hand through his long hair, checking the leather strap that kept it from his eyes. He spoke when all the long words of the Sith were spent. “We kill as we always do. The Lords will head in first, followed by the apprentices…” He gave the Sith a broad smile of white teeth, highlighted by his pale skin “Vanguard deployment, as always. One of the apprentices will be in charge of communications, and stay apart from the bloodlust. There is a habit amongst my people of getting too deep into the Heart of the Revel, one free should keep lines of communication open. We will kill what we have to.” He bowed briefly, and as he turned he spoke over his shoulder. “I know this mission is for finding artifacts, so we will try and not destroy too many great archeological digs or something…” He smiled again to Telperien and followed his words with a wink “As the Jedi say, may the Force be with you, Sister. Or the songs of your people, or however you want to take that.”
  5. Vorin turned sobering, yellow eyes upon the Sith Lord who had answered his question to the Nightsister. He despised those that spoke out of turn, it was something he had learned in the Court of Madness, to never answer for another Master, or to interject, as this one had. Bloodletter thrummed against his shoulders, the twisting blade’s scabbard almost electric in his touch. Its unremitting, incomprehensible whispers coalesced into dark feelings of cold hatred. …Do we… Kill him? The Sith Lord breathed out a harsh tone, letting the exhalation blur the voice back into disjointed feelings. He smiled raggedly at the Sith, and then to the Nightsister, placing both shaking hands behind his back, looping into the belt that secured Bloodletter. “I’ll keep my false bravado to myself, and be as honest as a Sith can be, worry not.” His mind passed across the realities of life, his eyes taking in the young Nightsister as he followed her towards her mother. Honesty was the death of empires. Small lies turned diplomacy from an orgy of innocent blood into the sterility of a Dejarik board. What good would it do for him to casually announce his intentions, or bloodlusts, or passions to the court? His concentration was broken for a moment by the sight of another Sith apprentice stepping behind the Nightsister, he gave the man a curt nod. "I hear you trained for a time with my sister, Awenydd... How is she, other than her normal... Mental instability?"
  6. Her eyes… They were as the sunfalls of Bespin when the clouds took on the color of royalty. Vorin was taken in by more than their beauty, but by the defiant flame within that showed the strength of her soul. He pulled back his white hair as he stepped beside her, binding it with strip of black leather, a motion to disguise his unease with her presence. His own eyes opened wider as he realized she had been speaking, and he nodded sagely. “…Learn from a lesson from our failures, or” When she smiled, she reminded him of a coy predator, and she studied her teeth intensely. A memory rose unbidden to mind of his childhood, and of a mercenary that had been in the service of this Sith’s father. She had teeth of darkmetal, and bloody her smile had been scarred into his memory. The Sith Warrior took to step beside her, adjusting the Zwiehander on his back. Bloodletter thrummed with hidden words, whispering chaos into the fringes of his mind. He matched her smaller stride with his, being very careful to stay a hands-breadth behind her, as respect to her superior rank. “But, come” Vorin smirked, despite himself. “My mother is awaiting me, and I know she is in charge of this next great assault.” He nodded again in agreement, his voice taking on the Serrocoan accent of his youth as he responded. It held a lyrical inflection, with a clipped cadence which gave the words a poetic drift. Vorin’s tone always held the tone of Wrath, a common staple of those raised in the Court of Madness, and it reflected in his soul. “I will do what I can to bring victory, and it would be an honor to fight alongside a sister.” He spoke of the Nightsisters, but did so with caution. Awenydd had walked with this one, and had yet to return from her hunt. A joyous lilt played upon his tongue “Any advice for interacting with your… Mother? I’ve heard she isn’t one to offend, accidentally or not.”
  7. The caustic, burning stench of ozone filled the hanger-bay as the various ships ION-Engines burned away the breathable air. Vorin watched the comings and goings, slowly chewing a piece of dehydrated muja, savoring the taste even as it turned acrid in his mouth from the ozone. He could feel each life within The Force, the powerful ones like stars, and the weak whirling about them in their gravitational pull. Beyond the sourness on his tongue, he could almost taste them. Taste their power. Their Strengths. Their weaknesses. There were several here that had exceptional strength, the Darksong and the Ar-Pharazon girl. They practically stank of the muddy earth from which they had formed. Blood of nightsisters was rank upon the tongue, but they had beauty, which fascinated him. Perhaps one day, he would get the Telperian girl into his bed, taste of her sweetness. The Sith Lord took another bite of the tangy muja, savoring the crystallized sugar that coated it as he watched the world turn. He brought up a hand in casual salute to the daughter of Ar-Pharazon as she appeared down the landing ramp of one of the Sith Shuttles. He admired the longbow on her back, like most of the Dathomiri, she had a taste for weapons of the older days, which he respected. Bloodletter rested against his own shoulder, slung on his armor casually, without a proper sheath or the typical stylizations of Sith weapons. Vorin turned the salute into a brush of his hand, pushing aside a few locks of white hair from his eyes. He pushed himself from the wall, and nodded to the woman. “Cheers, Sister. Any news of deployment? Some of us are eager to turn the tide of Sith losses…”
  8. VORIN'S CHARACTER SHEET Identity Real Name: Vorin Blackmorne A.K.A: Lord Blackmorne, Child of Wrath Homeworld: Serroco Species: Akranian Offshoot (Genetically Modified by Sheog of the Krath as a child) Physical Description Age: 26 Height: 6'5" Weight: 280 lbs Hair: White Eyes: Sulpheric Yellow Sex: Male Equipment Clothing or Armor: Darkmetal Lammelar Plate, in the style of The Imperial Knights, Matte-Black with Red Filigree. Blackened Kama Weapon: Blackmorne wields his Sith Sword, Bloodletter, a Zweihänder with a Flamberge-style blade of darkmetal. The Sword is 84 inches (213 cm) in length from the pommel to the tip of the blade. Common Inventory: Armor, 1000 Credits, Bloodletter. Faction Information Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User: Force User Alignment: Darkside Current Faction Affiliation: Sith Warriors Current Faction Rank: Lord History Force Side: Dark Trained by: Sheog the Mad Trained who: N/A Known Skills: Skills of the Sith Warrior, Predator. Background: Vorin was Kidnapped as a toddler and raised in the court of Madness, used for genetic experimentation as well of Force bonding techiniques. He was originally designed for use in a suicide bombing attempt of the Senate, bound with the spirit of Wrath, but as the plan unfolded, Vorin was recalled for a higher purpose; to become a Lord of War, and to channel Wrath into world of the living. Genetic Modifications: Increased Intelligence, Longevity, Height. Impervious to Theta Plague. Ship Registration Name: Wrath's Obedience Class: Assault Fighter Model: Modified Aggressor Assault Fighter Manufacturer: Tenloss and Black Sun Length: 20 Meters Armaments: Standard Armor: Upgraded Anti-Personnel Defenses: Standard Modifications: Increased Sensor Package, Stealth Modifications, Flight AI for Air-Based Combat Drops Appearance: Black with Red Filigree
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