Jump to content

Krath Inmortos

Members
  • Content Count

    18
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

0 Neutral

About Krath Inmortos

  • Rank
    Padawan

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. Krath Inmortos sat perfectly still within the confines of his sparse yet luxurious vessel. He did not need, nor did he desire, to see the amassed naval forces of the Sith Empire. Such trivialities were but a means to an end in the necromancer’s eye. At the helm, a partially decayed Quarren held the controls deathly still. It was good, for he was dead. The spark of life that powered him was a gift from the necromancer. He was little more than a mindless shambler, dedicated to the one task he was set to, in this case, docking. Elsewhere in the ship a baker’s dozen of other shambling dead Quarren and Mon Cal stood at the ready; armed with blaster carbines taken from the Mon Cal security forces and hodge-podged armor. The sweeping wave of darkness that Inmortos felt upon their arrival in the system was as unsettling as it was comforting. There was power here. It was Inmortos’ to tap and use, just like the life forces he could see across the orbit of the barren world. Pleasantries had been exchanged by lessers; pleasant being a strong word when one conversed unknowingly with the dead. Regardless, an offer to board the Krayt’s Fury was extended and in a short time both Inmortos’ craft as well as newly minted Apothos’ had docked and the Sith Lords of Mon Cal descended to the deck within. Inmortos’ grizzly escort had formed up in ranks at the base of his craft’s walkway heralding the black-swathed lord. The Sith lord’s skin was fresh havibg been regrown in a matter of days, the last telltale sign of Inmortos’ and Apothos’ profane rituals on Mon Cal. The skin, new and fresh, appeared pale and sickly yet. The dark side taking it’s toll against the being’s naturally increase healing rate. The man’s footfalls were nearly silent. Each one taken with a certainty that seemed to carry across time itself. The echoing thump, thump, thump of Inmortos’ Ithor wood based cane carried across the bay. Meeting with a lower commander, the duo of Sith were escorted along the same path Darth Akheron had followed shortly before. Inmortos could feel the tendrilled trail of evil that clung to the air in the Sith warrior’s wake. After several minutes of slow methodical walking, the Sith of Mon Cal joined the warriors within the command center. It had been a long and nearly silent trek through the ship; save for the whir of Apothos’ machinations and the hubbub of the ship itself. Once at the command center, Inmortos drew himself up a short distance from the warriors. He knew better than approach unannounced. He could feel the ragged spirit within the cursed blade that hung at his waist. It seemed to hunger for the warriors’ bloodthirst. Inmortos’ face cracked into a smile as one hand held the heavy dagger-pommel of his cane, the other patting the sword’s hilt like a parent silently reprimanding a child. He was the blade’s master and with it the malevolent spirit within. Shadowed beneath his deep cowl and flowing silk robes, Inmortos turned his eyes to the other Sith in the command center with a smile that revealed his blackened gums and yellowed teeth. “Our presence has been foretold. Bloodshed and death united. Ten thousand years of peace beneath the Sith rule. I am Darth,” the necromancer paused as he silently caught himself and corrected, “Krath Inmortos.” The eccentric cold lord of the dead introduced himself as if the third-world ancient pagan prophecy he spoke of was common knowledge; that all present had poured their lives into the most obscure reading of Dread Lord texts. From the furthest reaches of the Sith Empire, Inmortos had only just presented himself to the wider galaxy on Mon Cal. It was time to claim slaves, bodies to throw into the grinder; upon which to build his eternal resting place. Few may know of him, but it did not matter. After this campaign, once the galaxy was secured beneath the boots of the living Sith soldiers, all would know of Inmortos. His tomb would enshrine an entire world to his name. He would never be forgotten.
  2. As the winds whipped about the duo of Dark Side practitioners atop the seating spire, so too did the tendrils of dark side power. It manifested at first as a faint fog, but it grew exponentially. It expanded outwards until it seemed the whole of the ravaged sky across the city was one raging vortex of clouds, ice, and thunderbolts. It was enough to ground even the heartiest of ships trying to leave and turn back the most daring pilots on sea or air trying to approach. Amongst it all, countless faint strands of light and energy seemed to buzz forth, congealing and separating at whim. Life energies of the immeasurable dead lost to the expanses of seas and watery graves combined with the tendrils of life lost that hovered about relics of the dead scattered throughout the city. All of these energies rose upwards as if in sheer defiance of the maelstrom that buffeted the worldscape in every direction. High into the air the alien orbs streaked until they blended into haze-ish glow that enveloped the sorcerers. Inmortos let out a bone-chilling scream into the winds as he extended a frail filleted hand out before him, blood dripping from it before being torn away by the winds. Beginning to clasp his open hand into a fist, Inmortos drew the orbs, the streaks, the amorphous blobs of foggy ligjt and energy into his hand. The light extinguished in a blink as Inmortos hand closed into a knuckled fist. Raising his fist into the air, Inmortos sleeve fell to his shoulder. His newly revealed pale flesh was instantly set upon by the ravaging weather and powers of the transforming force. Forcing his fist as high as he could, Inmortos opened his hand casting the light upwards in a short burst of light into the crushing vortex. It vanished in an instant, the power being dispersed in the storm until it rained down as an indistinguishable fine mist across the city. Clinging to the spire, Inmortos felt the power of the force surge through him with unholy might. For an instant, Inmortos felt the power of every life that he had touched. It flowed through him. It touched his own life force. It ravaged his single life as it entered and exited his body in an instant. The vacuum left Inmortos destitute of all but the faintest glimmers of power. He pulled unnaturally against the force, willing himself to stay concision, to survive. With this energy he clung to the spire alongside Apothos. For hours he hung there, clinging to life as the storm ravaged itself into nonexistence with the rising of the sun. Below the city and seas appeared normal, untouched by Inmortos’ sorcery. Below the surface however, the Sith’s magicks took ahold. They bound the city itself to the energies of the dead. Trespassers, defilers, those who sought to overthrow the rule of the Sith, who would dispute their claim to the world, would be met by waves of undead hordes drawn from the seas and catacombs with no other purpose than to destroy they that dared to desecrate the hold of the Sith here. The spell was complete. Inmortos was spent. Reaching about the spire, Inmortos grasped for the hem of Apothos neck with a blood crusted hand. He pulled the Krath close. In a deathly whipser Inmortos hissed, “Geonosis. Take us to the gathering. Power beyond this world is within our grasp.”
  3. A gleeful evil radiated across Inmortos twisted face at the sight of Apothos rising up, his body contorted by darkness. The continued writihing and twisting that intermingled with the visceral pain that the newfound Sith Lord willingly subjected himself to only made the necromancer salivate, bloody phlegm running freely down his face. As the Nemodian spoke, Inmortos was struck by the sinister darkness that radiated on the man’s words. Gone was the sniveling businessman and his cowardice, his small desires of power to keep himself afloat in his cushioned lifestyle. Here before him now was a being that had overcome those chains and would do infinitely more given the time. “Like Nok Morliss used many names, so do I. Darth Inmortos strikes fear. Krath Inmortos is eternal. Study your histories as I and learn. Darths are tools. Show the semblance of service, as a darth. Seize power, true power, a Krath.” ”Come. The force is ripe.” Inmortos turned and gestured. His slow heavy footfalls echoing in the darkness. With a swipe of his hand, the ceremonial blade returned to it’s sheath within the Ithor wood cane. Thump. Thump. Thump. ________________________ Through the winding city the duo shuffled, a cloud of shadow followed them. The wind blew stiff and cold. Down alleys and streets, up stairs and lifts. Ascending the tallest spire, beyond the reach of the lift, up shaky ladders and out a rusted door, the two exited into the cloud-filled sky. The city was barely visible below. Here the wind buffeted them. The tallest spire in the city swayed precariously beneath them. “Fear. Wind. Death. Heights. Let the fear feed you. Embrace it.” Looking upwards, Inmortos began to climb between the waiving antennae and sensor suites. Hand over hand he climbed until he clung to the uppermost spire, designed to catch and ground lightning from the violent ocean storms the world was known for. Here, there was barely enough room for the two sets of feet that were the Sith Lords’. Placing his back against the icy spire, Inmortos howled into the wind. He grasped Apothos’ hand, helping him to the spire, his frail frame bellying a secretive strength. Hefting the Lord up, Inmortos hissed into the Nemoidian’s ear, Let us call down the vortex. With it, the city and world will be cemented in the tendrils of darkness, within your grasp, forever. The cities yours. The seas mine.” Releasing the Krath, Inmortosnstared out into the vastness, beyond the horizons. Here, high above the world Inmortos could taste the energies of life that radiated from the world. He also could taste the death energies waiting for eons to be mined by one willing to profane themselves. By binding his powers with Apothos, Inmortos knew they would exponentially power one another. What one could not control, two could not help but seize. The wind whipped the dark necromancer’s robes in a fury about him. Raising his hands to the sky, he let forth a blood—curdling screech that was torn from his lips before it could carry beyond his maw. It was then that he began to chant. Inmortos’ hands whipped about in the air tracing invisible sigils into the wind to be carried across the world. He felt Apothos’ power. He drew upon it, combining it with his own. The temperatures began tp plummet as ice formed about them on the spire and in the air. On the wind the crystals were whipped tearing at robes and flesh flaying Inmortos flesh until blood and ichor flowed freely. Still he writhed in his evil dance calling forth the energies of death from the deep, manipulating lives to spark the deceased back to an eternal servitude. Below the waves began to crash, whipped to a frenzy by the rising maelstrom of the force. Ice and snow tore through the air, coating the city below in a slick of ice. Those who were near death, the old and feeble, the sick and dying; they were pushed towards the maw of the open grave. Embraced by death before they were ready. The fell into the eternal rest of death, but inly for a moment. Their death energies pulled them back to the world, binding their carcasses to Inmortos will.
  4. From his tomb of a ship, encrusted in ice, Inmortos felt the irrefutable power of desperation, desire, and the festering of rage at being denied. It swirled together on the tendrils of the purest energies of the force. A twisted smile parted the Sith Lord’s mouth, ichor dribbling from the corners. He cackled quietly in the silence. Finally, the baron of Mon Cal had felt the truth. Finally he had traversed beyond. He could now learn the deeper truths that transcended mere life, time, space, and the physical worlds so many bound themselves to. Nok Morliss would be forgotten. In his place, an unforgettable nova of darkness would erupt. With a wave of his hand, the Firrerreo called his heavy Ithorian wood can to his hand, the metallic hilt smooth against his fragile flesh. It was time. With slow heavy footfalls the Sith left his ship, the icy encasements shattering at the necromancer’s touch, his heavy midnight robes hanging loose about his form. ______________________________ Thump. Thump. Thump. Inmortos’ cane fell heavily against the uneven floors that had once been Nok Morliss’ secure medical facility. An orb of entropic energy had been all it took to gain access to the twisted and warped hallways. Darkness reigned here. It was a presence that fell heavily upon the mind and soul. Pedestrians and passerbys gave the area a wide berth unsure of what was going on, but innately feeling the somber unholiness of the place. As if the cracked roadways and twisted building jutting upwards was not enough. The hallway was silent save for the spray of sparks that occasionally fell from a twisted fixture like a waterfall of yellow energy. These flashes of light were all that illuminated the Sith Lord’s way. They were unneeded. Each tap of his cane, each footfall carried with it a sense of eternal forboding. Each step was sure across the uneven jagged surfaces that had been twisted by the maelstrom of Nok’s fruition. Inmortos mind churned, a vortex of unfathomable depth. His conscious plodding mingled seamlessly with the numerous histories that were contained in his decaying mind. Reaching what had been the last secured door before Nok’s private medical chamber, Inmortos did not stop. The blast door that dangled by a power cord was of no concern; nor was the door that had been driven through the wall and lay crumpled in the hallway. Inside it was black. Electricity crackled unseen behind the walls. There was not a photoceptor to be seen. The mechanized temple of the Nemodian had been rendered void. Within Inmortos sensed one thing, one life; and it was devastated. It was unleashed. Moving forward, the Sith Lord slowly and directly made his way to the heaving Sithling. He poked the mass on the floor with the worn end of his staff. “Get up. You have been weighed by the force and found acceptable. Do not lie like the dead or be treated as such.” Inmortos waited until the wretched husk of a being slumped himself to a standing position. Then with a heave he pulled the neuranium ceremonial dagger from the end of his cane. The wooden haft tumbled to the ground with a clatter. The heavy weapon hung in the air, an unholy energy reverberating about the blade. Without a word, Inmortos lunged forward, ubtil his blade pierced Nok’s flesh. “O waed yn tywallt bywyd. o fywyd, marwolaeth. Mewn marwolaeth mae meidrolion yn cael eu hanghofio i ddifrod amser.” Inmortos chanted, his voice low and crackling with dark side energies. He drove the blade deep into the rotted flesh of the Nemoidian; the Sithling’s blood spurting and spewing forth in warm sticky gouts. “Goresgyn amser,” he growled. The energies of Nok’s lifeblood literally boiling forth into the air in a steam that the necromancer inhaled. Nok slid from the blade and fell to the floor in a puddle of his own blood. Standing over the once-apprentice, Inmortos regarded him in the dark, his voice booming through the still air as it swirled with mystic energies. “Cwympo marwol. Codi anfarwol. Krath Apothos! Gods do not bleed!” The Sith Lord fell silent, waiting to see if Nok would rise and fill his newfound name. It was not a Darth. It was more apt, more ancient, more befitting one of which Inmortos would stride beside for a time building his own sanctuary. This man would become like a god to these lessers. They would serve him and in the shadows, in their deaths, they would serve Inmortos. No, he was no darth. He was more. This wretched sorcerer before him was a Krath, not bound to serve and fall in battle, but to carry on his faithful charge unto eternity. “Rise!”
  5. It took hours for Inmortos to drive the spirit entirely from his mind and body. He never let go of the sword, even as he slumped to the floor. The Sith Lord’s limbs lolled to either side of him as he gasped for air in the still coolness of his ship. In the distance Inmortos could still feel the spirit as it beat a trail down the path of least resistance. It howled and slashed digging for freedom. The Sith Lord did not care. For a moment, the struggle was over. How long he lay there, the decrepit Sith did not know. It was hours more. Hours in which Inmortos’ hunger manifested. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the blade. With it, he knew he could stride forth with an edge to control the living. In death, he would be remembered forever. Carefully, Inmortos began to pick himself up from the frigid durasteel floor. His breath hung crystalized in the air. Adjusting his disheveled robes, Inmortos’ cast his gaze about for a place to secure his newfound weapon. The ship was destroyed. The power of the force had torn the nearly empty craft asunder. Arcing wires hung low, light panels flickered against the shadows, the smell of melted plastics and electrical burning hung in the cold. And then things changed, the calm was beset by an audible howling and a wind that whistled through the ship coming from nowhere and everywhere. The demanding spirit careened back along the expanse that joined Inmortos and Nok. It’s hunger, hatred, and darkness struck Inmortos’ mind like a jackhammer, sending the Sith Lord sprawling back to the floor with a crash. The sword nearly leapt from his hand, but Inmortos reached up grasping it with all the strength he could muster. With a new surge of vengeful power, the spirit drove it’s claws into Inmortos’ soul only to be met by an icy wall of hunger. The spirit’s claws raked the ice, opening wounds that sucked it in. Inmortos would consume it. There was nothing this long dead spirit could offend or offer, imprisoned within a vorpal blade, cursed to an existence of servitude to a worthy master. Inmortos was that master. He knew it. He would make it so. With a cry of anguish and anger Inmortos allowed the spirit to flow into his soul, to rake it’s vengeful claws against that which made Inmortos who he was, to taste life and inmortality. With a colossal heave that caused the temperature to drop significantly, freezing any moisture in the air, and drawing on the life forces in all directions for miles, casting a shadow of the reaper on any it touched, Inmortos grasped the spirit within the icy walls of death of his own soul and funneled it along a slippery slide. Back along his arms and into the weapon itself, the Sith channeled the spirit before slamming his mind shut against the call of the weapon imprisoning it back within it’s cage. Inmortos could feel the spirit rattling within the weapon, raging for release. It longed to rule, to destroy, it would not allow this weak sorcerer to contain him. Inmortos could hear the spirit screaming in the back of his mind. Eventually he hoped to tune it out; but for now, Inmortos was content to have conquered the blade and inhabitant within. Picking himself up from the floor again, Inmortos leaned heavily on the ravaged wall beside a jutting spear of twisted metal clung to by icy tentacles that crackled with electric energy. Regarding the blackened blade in his hand, Inmortos shoved the weapon between his belt and robe. It was not a deserving place for such a forbidden evil blade. It would have to do. His eyelids were heavy. Inmortos’ soul was ragged. The Sith Lord’s power was ravaged and hungering. He had won. That is what mattered. Even as he felt weakened, Inmortos was not defeated. Slowly the Sith extended his hand out into the air before him reaching along the drug-induced tendon towards Nok’s soul. He felt the power, the emptiness, the greed. He smiled darkly as he twisted the tendrils of life all about them, pulling them along towards death and driving that energy along their bond. Life and death blended together as it surged from Inmortos to Nok grinding against one another in a cacophony of gnashing teeth and a maw of destruction. “Morliss, this spirit is mine. Now taste the truth. Life and death stretch beyond mere things. Use them or be consumed by them; lost within their grasp.”
  6. Inmortos lay on the deck of his own ship panting. All about him the air swirled within invisible jetties, buffeted by the ragings of the dark side of the force. In his hands, he still clasped the hilt of the cursed rapier. He would not let go. He refused. Even if he could, the spirit within clung to him with such strength that he would not have been able to unwrap his fingers from where they were frozen about the hilt. Blue icy tendrils laced down the length of the weapon equally as they traced intricate lightning-like patterns along the veiny bulges of the decrepit Sith Lord’s arms. A combination of the dark forces that dueled for control within the void. Cold, dark, and devoid of life; the siege continued. The spirit’s anger surged against the inky walls of fear that Inmortos cast to meet it. He would not be forgotten. All would know his name. No damned spirit condemned to an eternity of servitude imprisoned within a single blade would stop it. He would die one day. Not today. He would die free and resting upon a throne of power, not whilst striving to achieve it. “Not. This. Day.” he snarled grasping the icy cold nothingness and hurling it against the attack. Icy winds surged from Inmortos’ mouth entering the maelstrom, lowering the temperature within several degrees. Ice and death held back the inmortal memory of the current fires of rage and lust. Even as the Spirit fought to keep the ground it had gained, it slipped against the slick freezing exteriornthst coated the core, coated the soul of Inmortos. The more it grasped, the more he pushed back. The spirit refused to be contained. It would not be driven back to his eternal prison. He had tasted freedom and knew he had but find a host to wield his power. A victim to carry forth his will until he could grow in strength, taking another host, then another and another until he could reform a body of his own. It would be one forged by hate, lust, desire, passion; sustained by the desire to lay waste to all in his path. The colossal clash of a titan of yore and the immortality of a life that existed in the present and would for eternity rocked the the ship, cracking the ice it was embedded in. Inmortos slowly backed the spirit from the recesses of his mind and body. He forced it backwards, condensing it’s power into a smaller and smaller space in his body. It held against being forced back into the sword. Eventually as it flailed and raged, rocking Inmortos’ body, causing his limbs to flail and the sword to slash against the walls carving deep furrows, the spirit began to bleed. It would not be crushed. It would not be contained. So it bled. Finding a way of escape from being pinned against the aura of the blade, the spirit found an opening. It surged forth. Distance did not matter, what mattered was that it allowed the spirit to escape the crushing press of crystalizing tendrils of ice and the darkness of death. At the other end, another maelstrom raged. It was different, defenses and attacks were thrown about with little concern for the newly arrived presence. The spirit followed the bridge that linked Inmortos to Nok, a creation of the elixir. Behind it surged the cold tendrils of ice and voids of death that Inmortos pushed after it. “You will not escape me!” Into the maelstrom, the spirit threw itself, his rage and desire mingling with the chaos of the storm as it sought a foothold from which to fester and grow. It would find a servant and with it, be it Nok, Inmortos, or another, he would rule.
  7. On instinct, Inmortos inhaled. It was as if he had been struck firmly in the gut by an unseen beskar fist. He would have doubled over but for raw fury that seemed to course from the aura of the blade through his hand and through his form. It was as if liquid fire boiled his blood within the prematurely-aged necromancer’s veins. Accustomed to cold, Inmortos cried out in pain. It was not in words, but a bestial roar of pain, of agony, of rage. The blade pulsed in the Sith’s hand. Through the fog of pain and smoke of rage that coursed through the air and his body, Inmortos tried to steel his own mind against the spirit contained within the blade. It fought him. It sought to contain the spirt and will of the wizard so as to use his body as a vessel to accomplish it’s unfinished will. Inmortos was no mere mind to be trifled with, possessed as a toy and cast aside when the fun was over. No. He was a master of more than his own physical form. He was a Lord of the Sith, a practitioner of the most profane arts, one who bent the force to his own will and was not controlled by it. If the force bowed to him, this spirit would be no different. Still, as he fought, every nerve ablaze, he was not victorious. Yet, he was not victorious yet. “You are not worthy. You are but a morsel; chewed, forgotten. Give me your body. I will give you a flash of worth before you die.” A masculine voice reverberated throughout the ship, rattling the walls and toppling anything not secured. It spoke with disgust and disdain. It’s formless words seemingly spat from unseen lips. It had measures Inmortos and seemed to have found him wanting. In those words, the presence of the ancient spirit entrapped in the blade surged, grasping at Inmortos mind. Inmortos could feel the spirit’s blackened tendrils of hunger clawing at the fringes of his mind. He tried to form words to respond. He couldn’t. All that escaped his mouth was a slurred “Guuuuuhhhhh,” as a strand of saliva drizzled downwards from his lips and dangled from his jaw. Even forming the words in his mind seemed lacking as Inmortos felt the spirit’s hold cementing. “Weak. Pathetic. A vessel to carry me to a more worthy slave.” the dark voice scoffed. The whirlwind of it’s power intensified within the ship. It tore at the icy walls Inmortos had crafted sending shards of glassy blades into the air before melting them in the heat of it’s rage. The words that emanated from the void before now fell from Inmortos’ own maw, the spirit having gained a foothold within the mind and body of the frail Sith. Inmortos could feel his control being torn from him. It slipped away, cell by cell, as the spirit claimed any recess of his mind not possessed by the power of the dark side. Any portion of Inmortos that he had not gilded in dark desire was endangered. He was not conquered; not yet; not by a long shot. Inmortos felt the spirit surging against his weaknesses. His physicality may have been his vulnerability; but where his form lacked and his mind was ravaged, his will would prevail. Inmortos buried himself in the darkness of the force itself. He called forth the darkness of death, the despair of life, and mentally threw it back against the warrior spirit. The spirit betrayed itself. Powered by passion and rage, it was a herald of death and destruction. Inmortos, on the other hand, was not a mere herald. He was a master of death, toying with the line and breaking it, shaping death and life as he saw fit. Most Sith reveled in destruction and that is where Inmortos would succeed. They tore down, he used the darkness, used death, to build. Visions of impregnable fortresses and frozen impassible tundras filled his mind, thrown up in defense to the destruction the spirit threw forth in unrelenting assault. As the battle for Inmortos’ mind raged, elsewhere within the city another battle was commencing. Nok Moriss had consumned the elixir. The mysterious draught had been crafted to Inmortos’ direct specifications. Amongst it’s chemical properties, it bound the consumer to the necromancer. It’s catalyst; the force itself, a poison beyond the realms of simple medicine and one that would prevail until it was purged in its entirety. In that moment, Inmortos felt the bond pull taught, like a chain of darkbess that linked Morliss’ soul to his own. It was a distraction. It was enough. As Inmortos’ attention was turned to the plan that he had all but forgotten within the maelstrom, the malevolent spirit sensed the recession of the tide and swelled against the momentarily weakened walls of Inmortos mental defenses. It was enough to pull Inmortos back to the battle at hand. Nok Morliss was unimportant now. This vorpal blade and it’s dark passenger were more than the Sith had expected. Something this powerful had been held in the collection of an unknown Sithling? How? What other secrets did the blind lizard possess? They were thoughts that passed briefly through Inmortos’ mind before being seized and consumed by the gnawing hunger of the spirit. It was taking more and more. Inmortos sank to his knees, both hands wrapped white-knuckle tight about the hilt of the weapon. Even it’s weight was too much as the blade fell to the floor, slicing into the durablast flooring several inches. Inmortos could not release the blade if he tried. The spirit willed it. It would claim Inmortos as it’s own. It would use his frail body to once again bring havoc to the stars until a more suitable warrior might be found. Inmortos mind continued to fall, secrion by section. The distraction had allowed it to breach the walls of dreams that had repelled it. The spirit began to sift, consume, weigh and evaluate Inmortos’ deepest secrets, his darkest desires. The Sith lord laid bare like a book of yore. Each a weapon in its’ own right to one that knew how to wield it. Words were unimportant now, all the spirit had to do was poke a memory, drag it to the surface and expose it and Inmortos did the rest. The death of his parents. The deaths of countless others, buried and forgotten. The initial concern with death before the galaxy returned to a normal flow. Each life snuffed out as if it were nothing. The corpses of the reanimated dead, stripped of individuality and purpose beyond the will of the necromancer. All of these memories swirled with countless others of rejection, failure, hopelessness. Each memory opened Inmortos up more, allowing the spirit to dig with impunity through Inmortos. It was almost as if the spirit took a sick glee in torturing the Sith. It’s laughter carried in the force itself, dark and evil and entertained entwined with hunger and rage. This continued for who knew how long. Inmortos’ defenses had been overwhelmed. His body was all but possessed. The spirit delighted in Inmortos’ suffering. It continued to dredge up painful memories, morph them, combine them, rewrite even happy ones all to destroy the man within and leave whatever remained a quivering mass of ethereal plasma that could not harm a thing. It was then that the spirit pulled forth the core that had carried Inmortos to this place. The fear emerged from the depths like a specter of yore, swathed in the billowing robes of death as it stared down into an unmarked grave. It was a grave that contained Inmortos himself. Alone on an uncharted world without a soul to be seen or sensed. Buried, dead, forgotten before he even cooled. No one and nothing to remember his name. Fear. It was palpable. It was everywhere. It was everywhere. Fear drove Inmortos even if he would never admit it. The spirit of the sword cackled in glee as it shoved the memory against the last vestiges of Inmortos’ being. Crippling fear thrown against a forgotten death. It was a fear that Inmortos had used to drive himself. It was his base. It was his core. Inmortos felt the fear. It was a fear he had sworn he would conquer. It was a fear that drove him and gave him purpose and power. It was that fear now that gave Inmortos pause as he fell back against the onslaught. He could not be driven any further. He would be forgotten in an instant. And so it was that fear that Inmortos clung to. It could not be twisted or morphed into anything worse. He had held it and nurtured it for years. Grasping this fear, Inmortos cast it onto the spirit in an effort to drive it back. He would not be conquered, not by this. He had seen fear. He did not fear this spirit. He only feared what would happen if he failed. He would not fail. Like a bludgeon, Inmortos flailed his core like a chained mace against the lesser weapons formed from his own shadowy mind. He had one fear that he had mastered and from it, all others would be driven back. The ancient spirit continued to fight, casting whatever it could grasp at the weapon Inmortos clung to within his mind. On the deck of the ship, Inmortos’ body flopped forward driving the blade deeper into the floor and the hilt into his own gut. The glowlamps surged and burst in a chain reaction one after another. The icy cold about them surged with the internal surge of Inmortos responsive assault to retake himself, bathing the darkness in an icy grasp that fought against the fiery rage of the spirit. Ever so slowly, the spirit gave up the mental ground it had claimed. It refused to be cast back into the blade. It refused to be imprisoned for eternity once again. So as it’s own power was forces back, it followed whatever lines of escape it might find, grasping, shaking, and manipulating whatever it could find. Memories, feelings, emotions all were weaponized and cast about in a maelstrom of destructive energy. The easiest means of escape: the phantasmal chain that bound Inmortos to Nok.
  8. Inmortos understood his host’s hesitation, even if it was masked behind an aura of excitement. He would have been shocked and disappointed if the self-proclaimed ruler of this world gad unstoppered it and downed the concoction without a hesitation. It would have made him just another pawn of the Sith, like so many mindless warriors that prowled Korriban and the like. This one though, craved power; yet was wary of it. He might go far if his love of corporeality could be realigned. Inmortos did not rise as his host left. In fact, he barely raised a hand in wave as some sort of casual dismissal. Both parties seemed to have what they had come for. For the cameras that undoubtedly watched them, it would seem so. There was more. These traded barbs of Sith machinations were but the opening piece exchange on the dejarik board of their relationship. It was only a matter of time before he was called back to deal with the piece Nok Morliss had claimed as his own. Surveilling the encased sword before him, Inmortos knew he had his own trial to undergo. Inmortos patted his bulging belly after Nok left. He diverted his gaze to the remains of the feast before him. He was full; full enough that the idea of another bite repulsed him. Calling his heavy-headed cane to his hand, Inmortos pushed his chair back. It’s ornate legs scraping loudly across the equally decorative inlaid floor. He rose to his feet, reaching out to cradle the wooden box and it’s dark blade beneath his free arm. He could feel the tendrils of evil grasping at their bonds, their hunger seeking an outlet, someone worthy enough to take on the mantle the weapon’s previous master once carried. He could feel it. Inmortos knew he was not the supposed worthy warrior the spirit sought. It did not matter; he had no doubt that he could master it. It was mind over matter. It was that simple. With the dark side as his weapon, he would master this dark dirk just as he mastered death. With his trophy tucked away and his cane in hand, Inmortos turned. He did not need Nok Morliss servants. They were no more than spies and pawns; spies and pawns that were living, not Inmortos’. The skeleton of a man shuffled out of the hall and down the walkways back towards his ship. It was the only place on this world that Inmortos felt that he could expose himself to the dangers of the sword. Inmortos had read and read, he academically knew what to expect; but he was not going to allow Nok or his henchmen to see him in such a way; not that Nok would not have his own turmoils to address. That concoction had been altered especially for the Nemoidian, not biologically, but for his soul. It would open him up to the faintest suggestions, make them real, plunge the Nemodian into a world of his own creation. All he needed was the right nudge and his deepest fears, innermost turmoils, and faintest neuroses would become a reality that bound the Sithling to his own soul. Inmortos would return to him when the time was right, to conclude his baptism of darkness. For now though? As the door of his ship sludged shut behind him, Inmortos heard the locks engage. It was a simple enough distraction to pull the heat from the air, and seal the exit amongst a tomb of permafrost inside and out. It took some time, but the ship was soon enough encased in an opaque crystalline tomb of stagnation made matter, frigid and lifeless. Only then, when he was sure that he was entirely alone did Inmortos set down the ornate wooden case atop a workstation table. Gently, with almost a holy reverence, Inmortos undid the clasps and opened the box. As he did, a wave of invisible lust poured over him, inviting anyone who felt worthy to clasp the carved hilt of the needled black blade. The Sith runes seemed to almost glow a soulless black that radiated as it drew in the light about them. Inmortos could almost hear the desire to destroy radiating from the weapon, all he need do was reach out and take it and the battle of wills would begin. Reaching out his knobby hand, Inmortos clasped the weapon. A surge of darkness pulsed from the weapon up through the Sith Lord’s hand. Inmortos’ veins bulged and vibrated beneath the tidal surge of power. He sharply drew his breath, inadvertently lowering the temperature in the ship by several degrees. Move number two was underway.
  9. A smile cracked across Inmortos face, the grease of his meal congealing in the corners of his mouth. “Goooooood.” he hissed gleefully as the force twisted and cracked in the air, the accursed blade coming into view. A dark glee emanated from the shrouded Sith Lord. His plan was beginning to come together. He could not take his eyes off the weapon. He could feel it’s evil desire contained within it’s form. All part of the grand plan. It called silently, subtlety on the force, for anyone who could hear it; any mind and body that it might control to wrought it’s original owner’s darkest most base desires. To control such a weapon would unfathomably escalate the Necropolis Lord’s skills in bringing about death, death upon which to build his legacy. He just needed to best it. Inmortos’ eyes stared at the weapon, regarding it hungrily, a predator pondering how best to take down it’s prey without being gored. With a raised hand, he carefully shepherded the gilded box the sword had lifted from out of the table into the open room, gingerly enveloping the weapon in it’s padded embrace. He then maneuvered the box towards him, gingerly depositing it on the table in front of him. He could not take his eyes off of it as he stooped close to take in the ancient intricacies of the filigree covered sheath and hilt. Even the ancient battle damage was in a word, “exquisite.” He breathed the word in awe. The closer he was to the blade, the more he could feel the still tormented soul within the weapon, it’s owner long dead, searching for a host. Inmortos licked his lips hungrily. He wanted to grasp the hilt of the weapon, to draw it from it’s sheath, to wield it in a flurry of devastation. Scanning the weapon end from end, Inmortos resisted. He knew the dangers. He would not expose himself or the power before him to Nok Morliss. If the Nemodian did not know what he was giving up, it was not up to Inmortos to correct him. They had a deal. Tearing his eyes from the weapon, Inmortos slammed the lid of the case shut, it’s latches swinging shut on a wave of dark power, sealing the sword within. It would remain there until Inmortos was in a safe location from which to combat the wraith within and master it. Glancing at the sloshing liquid in the aged vial, sealed with an unknown animal wax, Inmortos’ focus shifted again to Nok across the table. “They are the hallmark of our order, yet they may be your undoing.” He spoke a vague dark warning about the weapons he had just asked about as he tapped a gnarled and chipped fingernail atop the ash-infused glass. “The power you crave, the key to the doorway lay within. Drink it to the last drop Nok Morliss. But, only if you are strong enough to withstand the storm. Are you, Nok Morliss? Are you prepared to journey beyond the power you now have? To risk it all, to gain eternity? Take it, Nok Morliss, the power is at your fingertips to seize, if you crave it.” With that, Inmortos tipped the stoppered vial forward, but before it could clatter to the table it arced through the air. The Sith Lord gingerly deposited the vial in front of his host. “Take. Drink. Such a cordial has not been tasted by mortal man in millennia.”
  10. The Sith Lord gently leaned his cane against the table, the hilt of the walking stick and knife handle clunking heavily against the ornate table. With a raised hand, Inmortos readily tore a chink of flesh from the meatiest part of the massive beast, calling the still steaming massive hunk of meat to his own plate. As soon as it touched down, the man’s frail hands lashed out to pick up the flesh, seemingly ignoring the heat as he sunk his teeth into the fatty whale flesh. The melted fat ran down his hands and arms and coated the man’s mouth and face. He ravenously tore at the meat like a half-starved orphan who had not eaten in weeks and did not know when he would see food again. Finishing his meat, Inmortos reached for a foreign piece of shiny green fruit, the fatty juices dripping fro his hand as he loudly suckled the juices from his other hand. He only paused when the fruit was in hand and coming towards his mouth. With a sharp crack, he bit into the delicate fruit, chewing it aggressively and swallowing before taking another bite. Before the fruit was gone, the Sith Lord was wrenching another piece of meat from the carcass. That too he devoured ravenously. And so Inmortos’ continued to devour the food before them for the better part of an hour. His portions much more than a normal man ought be able to eat in one sitting. He only paused when his plate was again clear and he had licked every last bit of flavor from it. The man’s robes were stained with dried bits of fat, runs of drying liquids tattooing both his robes and skin about his face, hands, and arms. With a full belly that pushed against the flowy robe, Inmortos reclined in his seat with a sigh. “Excellent meal Nok Morliss. Now shall we to business?” The Firrereo fished a small stoppered flask, covered in what seemed to be fine ash that had set upon the glass so long as to obscure the jostling liquid within, from his robes. With an air of authority, he placed it on the table before him. “I bring you what I have offered. You just need the strength to survive the power that you seek. Did you bring the blade?” he queried, his hunger for the weapon palpable in the air. As if an afterthought he added, “Have you a lightsaber Nok Morliss?”
  11. Inmortos lay in a state between deep sleep and death for countless hours, his body temperature dropping to a level where it would barely register on thermal scans. Outside the storm ravaged and eventually blew itself into dissipation against the setting sun of the following day. The air over the city was cleaner, colder, and crisper than any could remember, the pollutants and particulates having been wrenched from the skies and thrown down beneath feet of powdery icy particulates. As his eyes opened, Inmortos’ eyelids cracked against his frozen skin, black bloody ichor beginning to ooze from his skin as it cracked anywhere it had been left exposed to the life-sapping cold. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Sith Lord stood and regarded the clear skies and setting sun. There amongst the lengthening shadows in his room, the darkness swirled beneath Inmortos feet, pulsing up through his body as he beheld the city below. Even now, the local government struggled to offload the drifts of snow into the endless expanse of sea. Turning, the sorcerer called his staff to his hand, the heavy handle of the half-concealed dagger smoothly finding rest in his hand. Leaning on the Ithor wood cane, Inmortos slumped forward as he shuffled from the room. It took him some time, but Inmortos made the grand dining hall of Nok Morliss just as the meal was being served. His gliding steps across the snowbanks carried the lord mysteriously over that which would have inevitably delayed him. As the ornate doors swung open on an unseen wave of death, they slammed into the walls; a herald to the arrival of the solitary being. The resounding echo announced Inmortos arrival. With careful steps, each taken with the finality of one walking to the executioner’s block, he made his way to the table, his robes swirling about him darkly. With a scraping screech, Inmortos drew back his chair and lowered himself into it, not a being of age approaching death, but a solitary beacon of dark power. Turning to face Nok across the table, Inmortos lowered his hood to reveal his cracked and bleeding face, his sagging skin and stringy hair marking the toll of darkness; offset by the intensity of his eyes. “The fish smells extravagant Nok Morliss. Let us sup and then get to business.”
  12. “. . . heh . . . “ Inmortos chuckled beneath his breath as he felt the force curl out from Nok. There was potential yet; and yet this man, this worm, made demands for that which Inmortos considered beneath him, even beneath a Sithling who was still feeling for his own power. Turning, Inmortos gingerly raised his legs to recline and rest on the frozen divan; the cushions cracking under the pressure of his stickly figure. He allowed the exhaustion from his display of power to sweep over him in a wave, his eyes fluttering shut. The room was filled with a stillness interrupted only by the swirling jetties that interrupted the glistening particles of snow and ice that hung in the frosty air. “My hands shall be staid from your holdings; but do you only desire equality Nok Morliss? Or do you desire more? A great many Sith lords are equals in the eyes of the empire and yet they are cut down, cast aside, and forgotten, contented to feed upon the scraps dropped to them from the table of the Spider. And for what price? An unattainable eternal demand of servitude and loyalty, to stay your hand at the order of one who knows not of the ravages we are capable to bear?” Inmortos eyelids slowly opened as he regarded the Nemodian in his room, an icy breath of wind from the storm outside sweeping in to flutter the bed curtains and pull at their robes before a shattering crack of thunder in the distance seemed to call it back. “I sense a greater darkness in you though Nok Morliss. It is a darkness that needs unleashed to blossom into true power. Equality is a desire of the weak. You are not weak. So I ask you again Nok Morliss, what do you truly desire? For this blade that you have fettered away, to augment my own goals, I offer to pay a price in riches or in power, dependent upon your desires.” Inmortos eyes fell shut again as he turned his head to point upwards, his body shrouded in his robes, the dark tendrils of the force swirling about him like icy serpents of death. With a deep sigh, the Firrereo’s breath bloomed into the air in a fog that crystalized above him. “Perhaps you can think upon it and we might dine and exchange our prizes and you can answer then. Such an exchange would be befitting a more noble locale. For now, my body desires rest.”
  13. The shattering of ice into shards of jagged razor needles that whipped into the storm accompanied the frozen doors of Inmortos’ room being forced open. The cold slick floors and walls sapped the life and energy out of the very air as it sent the dwindled surges of energy up into their master. Inmortos was aware of the breach. He had expected it to come as the storm reached it’s zenith and remained there; held in full white tempest by the intricate gestures of the deathly white knuckled hands and cackles of ancient words before they were swept up in the gale. As the snow continued to whip, drifting even in the open window, Inmortos slowed. The city was blanketed in an uncharacteristically heavy covering of snow. Doorways, even entire narrowed streets drifted shut buffeted by the winds that whipped off of the icy sea as it began to solidify and crystallize against the walls and docks of the citadel. Turning his whitened face towards the Neimodian as he took a chair, Inmortos frozen face cracked into a twisted smile. Black bubbling ichor ran from between the Firrereo’s teeth and across his rough colorless lips. He lowered his hands, his robes falling to obscure them once again. Outside, the storm suddenly began to slowly fall back into line with the laws of nature. It would continue for hours; but the winds bit slightly less and the storehouses of snow began to empty their overabundant warehouses in the clouds. The darkness that swirled around and through Inmortos tempered and fell off leaving in it’s wake the image of a frail being swathed in black nanosilk. Snow and ice clung to the robe, weighing it down, pulling at the man’s sleeves. Waves of exhaustion radiated from the Sith Lord as the sapping of his energies caught up with him. Even his Firrereo abilities could not keep up with the tac that the dark side demanded. Inmortos thin skin, bruised from within as his very vessels gave way to the taxman. Some of these bruises formed beneath the man’s frozen cracked skin, spilling forth dribbles of lightless black delicate ichor until it dripped with pops of hissing heat onto the frozen floor. Falling more than leaning, Inmortos caught himself on the couch within the cold room and less than gracelessly reclined into the crunching frozen cushions. Looking up at Nok, the Sith Lord blinked heavily. “Power comes with a price. Too many are unwilling to pay it fully. Peace may be a lie, but fear is not. Fear holds too many of our brethren back. You seek this power don’t you Nok Morliss?” Inmortos wheezed through clenched teeth, taking in a gasping deep breath before he continued. “I can help you find this power. You have sought it in many places, the most wise being the totems of past masters of the darkness. From that, I hope you have something that I desire; a sword, a dark evil sword possessed by a malevolent spirit that seeks to overthrow the user’s mind. If you have such a damned razor, I will teach you to overcome that which you fear. I will guide you towards freedom. Inmortos fell back in his chair, the darkness washing over him in waves as his soul fought to survive in it’s tattered vessel. Outside, the winds still buffetted the tower upon which Inmortos room topped. The broken window caught the raging blizzard and wafted glistening flakes of snow through the room. Against this nigh-heavenly sight the storm sucked any warmth the building fought to provide. Below, the storm clouded the entire city, leaving the exposed tower alone amongst the storm; a ship lost on the waves of the storm, anchored only by the unseen. As he lay there, tendrils of darkness crept along the ice grasping for Inmortos, seeking to draw him into the blackness of the eternal abyss of gloom and murk.
  14. Inmortos sat as he felt the ripples of Nok’s anger. It coursed after the Nemoidian like the train of an exotic cloak trailing behind it’s wealthy benefactor. The Sith Lord sat there unmoving, his emotions unstirred by the attempted show of power. ‘So many Sith are too content to show their power to claim the here and now, rejecting the powers of the ages, the powers that extended beyond time.’ A slow twisted smile crossed Inmortos face, his lips cracking to reveal his yellowed and jagged teeth. A soft chuckle escaped from his dark maw as he slowly stood, one hand on his knee to brace as he pushed his other hand against his cane and hefted his form from the chair. Inmortos shuffled after the droids. Their guidance was stifled and stiff, hurrying the ailing Firrereo forward at a pace that initially pained the wizened Lord. With each hurried step, a dark evil aura began to emanate from the black robed being; the aura darker than the midnight robes that swished about the thin form within. The darkness dampened the pain of his footsteps. It fed on something deeper, opened up by the decaying form of the Firrereo as his natural healing abilities fought against the inevitable darkness. It was as if the darkness fed on the very decay of the Sith Lord’s form, a form that every move of the dejarik board progressed one step towards the inevitable. It would be on his terms though. He would welcome death on his terms. This sureness and pride of purpose were dark and twisted and it was this that gave the swirling darkness it’s power. The dark tendrils crept from beneath the lord’s cloak clouding the area about he and his escort in a slight haze that darkened. In that cloud the spark of life was choked and death reigned supreme. Anyone they happened to pass hurried to get away from the shuffling Sith and his escort, spurned by the touch of cold death at their souls, an inexplicable fear that had them withdraw their breath in a hiss as they hurried for warmth somewhere else. Eventually, the droids deposited their ward in his room. Inmortos was left alone. He had come to this world alone. In fact, he was used to being alone within the passages of time. Yet, here, in his ornate fish-themed room, Inmortos knew he was not alone; not here, not in a room provided by another who desired the power of the Sith. Inmortos surveilled his room with little regard. The gently curving lines of the bedframe cradled the thick mattress. The smooth furniture blended in with the room as if it belonged. The window seamed effortless with the wall, providing a view out over the city at large; at least what was above the seas that stretched out into the inky blackness of the night. He surveilled the room and cast it aside at a glance. With a hiss of inhalation, the corners of Inmortos mouth drew in the air about him with a breath, the temperature dropping suddenly as the lights flickered and extinguished bathing the room in darkness. The pale glow of the city below the only light. It softly outlined the shrouded man within the room in a cold aura of blue. With a flourish of his hands into the air, a surge of cold laced forth. The sleeves of Inmortos robes falling back and exposing his thin bony arms. Icy tendrils laced forth through the air, crystalizing the floors, furniture and walls, as they zig zagged forward. The whole of the room was soon filled with his ritual chanting in a long forgotten tongue. Icy fingers spread out until the floors were solidified in a sheet of ice; and still he chanted, driving the ice onwards. Inmortos did not stop until the ice embraced the door in a thick sheet of life and energy craving ice. Only then did he lower his arms. The Firrereo’s breath escaped his lips in a clouded puff of moisture as the vapors crystallized against the frigid air. Here within the icy tomb of Inmortos own creation darkness crept. It did not swirl. It was too cold. Even the Sith lord’s robes stiffened against the cold. In this cold though, only one life remained, any other choked out in an eternal tomb of cold stillness. Machinery ceased working and energy was drained into the ice, lost against it’s cold embrace. And yet, the cold aura only briefly extended from the room, stopping when the chanting ceased; leaving Inmortos truly alone in a crypt of Nok’s choosing. Turning, Inmortos shuffled to stare out the window. He smiled widely. There was no joy in his twisted evil grin. His smile was one of power. The icy crypt a shield against the outside world for when, inevitably, Nok Morliss would come calling. “So you want to taste of the power and freedom that I offer.” Inmortos whispered darkly as he hefted his cane, grasping it by the smooth Ithorian wood length. The Neuranium handle had to but tap against the ice-embraced window to send arcing popping cracks along it’s length and breadth. A second tap shattered it into icy spears of death that rained down into the night below “See what I offer for the cold and dark places Nok Morliss.” Inmortos’ hands began to wave back and forth, his gnarled bent fingers twisting dark intricacies into the cold air. The force began to curl about his hands, drawing tendrils up from the ice in blue whisps of pure cold power. They twirled and wound about Inmortos form mingling with the vengeful darkness the Sith lord poured into his hissing incantations; “Ddyfnduffern, copa oeraf y mynydd, galwaf allan stiller amser yn dragwyddol. Chi yw fy ngorchymyn. ymchwydd ar bopeth a welir ac nas gwelwyd a'i flancedi yng nghofleidiad tragwyddol y gaeaf. O'r awyr rwy'n galw taranau'r nos allan. Ymchwydd gyda'ch pŵer. Ymunwch â dwylo gyda'r tywyllwch. Ymunwch â dwylo gyda'r oerfel. Blanced y byd o fy mlaen mewn cwsg tragwyddol. Rhwystro geiriau ein gelynion. Malu eu machinations i stop gan eich cyffyrddiad. Diffoddwch y fflamau sy'n disgleirio bywyd. Dewch â'r tywyllwch oer y mae bywyd yn ofni ei gydnabod” Inmortos chanted as his arms swirled faster and faster, even here in the cold lifeless dungeon he had constructed energies surged forth; regurgitated from their icy tombs. The dark skies above swirled as an icy wind blew from the sea increasing in intensity as the temperatures across the city began to plummet. A thunder clap shook the skies as the clouds poured forth the darkness they contained within their vorpal vortexes. If it was possible, the skies grew even darker blotting out the faintest edges of sunrise as it fought to break free from the horizon. Darkness was king here. Continuing his chanting, Inmortos gave himself over to the storm. His presence in the force surged out beyond his vision, calling the dark powers of nature to him. Icy winds twisted the blackened clouds as thunder and lightning raced across them. The temperatures continued to plummet until even machinery would begin to gum up and freeze. Through it all, Inmortos harsh force powered voice chanted into the gathering storm. Cold dark power poured into the storm giving it a life of it’s own; one even Inmortos could not control. Still, he poured power into it as the ice at at his exposed fingers turning them from pale gold to a blue-hued metallic. Darkness swirled and Inmortos pressed on until the first flakes of cool snow whipped through the air, icy razorblades carried by the force of nature. And they continued to fall, multiplying with each passing chant and incantation until even they blotted out the dark clouds above. Amongst the blinding swirl, lightning struck randomly, seeking out it’s own targets with no master to direct it. Thunder crashed in the distance and at the center of the storm stood Inmortos, his robes thrashed by the winds and his frail form rocked and buffeted in the jagged circular embrace of the broken window.
  15. Inmortos regarded the agent of darkness that now offered to take him from the platform. It was expected. From beneath his cowl, Inmortos saw that the Nemoidian still carried his physical being, a sign that he had not given himself over the the ravages of the dark side. Still, he regarded the Nemodian, there was a reason that this world had been placed under his watchful gaze. Silently and slowly, with a deliberateness that carried with it the same aura of finality as the pronunciation of death, Inmortos nodded his consent, his gnarled hands withdrawing into the folds of his oversized sleeves as he shuffled alongside Nok Morliss flanked by the clanking droids; their mechanized steps blending with the heavy dull thud of his Ithorian wood cane weighted by the concealed blade atop it. Inmortos did not move as quickly, but each step was made with finality and control as he set the pace without a word. Dark invisible tendrils of evil radiated from the openings of his robe, as if the nanosilk somehow contained the reaper within. Upon entering Nok’s ornate office, Inmortos leaned heavily on his cane as his head turned to the left and then the right, scanning the room. Silently he searched for the collection of ancient, cursed, and forbidden tomes and relics he knew that the Sith before him sought to collect. A veritable collection of immeasurable power in the hands of one that did not know what he had. It was enough of a thought to audibly make the Firrereo’s teeth grate and grind. As the mechanized chair was offered, Inmortos perched his spindly frame atop it, barely sinking into the plush cushioning. He was a perched like a rock-vulture prepared to swoop in at the first sign of weakness. Extending from his nightmare-hued sleeves, the pale gold hands of the wraithe within templed together; his long boney fingers barely intertwining at their tips. Their log cracked nails scraped against one another as the dark being regarded the lavish wealth and life of the one before him. As Nok spoke, Inmortos’ sickly cold yellow eyes bore down on him, staring beyond the green mottled skin and lavish trappings. He regarded the man’s soul, the darkness that swirled about them and urged to fill the room with it’s power; if only it had the proper receptacle. Nok Morliss had so much potential. It needed to be but released. The Dark Lord had different priorities for having appointed such a short-minded Sith to oversee such a potent world. It was a world that Inmortos sought to claim for his own use. A lesser informed being would have felt that the force had willed such a situation. Inmortos knew better. Nok Morliss appointment to this world was the herald to prepare the world for true greatness. “You have amassed a wealth that even you do not know the value of Nok Morliss. Your world, your baubles, I desire them. Not for the wealth and power Nok Morliss desires in his mind. For more. For eternity.” With a haunting gesture that seemed to stir the very air of the room with a faint cold breeze that seemed to emanate from everywhere but nowhere, Inmortos gestured to the bag of jade coins. “There is immeasurable more where that came from. From the depths, the last treasures of life can be seized and used to empower Nok’s machinations. If only you knew how to unleash that which desires release from Nok’s soul. If only, your fears did not stop you, Nok Morliss, you could rule this world as a true master, beholden to none.” Slowly, Inmortos leaned forward, the odor of death shedding from the shifting of his robes. In a voice barely above a breath he whispered, “Beyond the webs of the spider.” The warlock sat back, his body creaking like a rusted hing, his voice returning to his usual rasp, ”With me, Nok could be free of his fear and you could rule. All I require is the forgotten of this world. The industries and living wealth of the world are yours to exploit. The cold dark recesses mine. What say you?”
×
×
  • Create New...