Spite Station- the Maw

[Yue]

Bravado. At least that this new Dark Lord was presenting a lot it. It was during his speech though it was not bravado, but logic and cold truth. While he was not here for the fall of the previous regime, his absence was as much to blame as if he was not present.

 

We feel freely, but we do not act upon those emotions without will! That is what makes us Sith. Not our emotion. Every being in this verse can feel emotion just like you, but it is our will that takes the very Force by the reigns! Without it we are nothing more than animals, fated to merely run our course and burn out like the rest of the pathetic souls in the galaxy!

 

Very interesting. He was citing the basics of their existence as if it was revaluations being offered as a means of salvation to the dammed. He was not full of bravado; he was full of wisdom and courage. He was asking those who dared to stand before him as Sith to rise to what was theirs from the beginning. In return he asked their service and their desire to answer to him. To acknowledge this man as Dark Lord by kneeing. Kneeing was a sign of weakness, you only kneed when in the presence of some one who held the power to make you fear them. Yue feared no man or being in this galaxy, and this one demanded him to kneel.

 

It had been many years since he keeled before any being in this galaxy. It would also be the last time for many years he would do it as well. With a harsh breath and bitter expression on his face he knelled. While he detested this action he still bowed his head. Even though the act of lowering to his knees was humiliating and disgraceful, for now the lord of the dead would pay his respects and dues.

 

The Dark Lord would accept no less, besides being on the good side of the Dark Lord was never a bad thing.

[Emily]

A few more women entered the room as the ceremony began, and Emily tentatively labeled them Nightsisters, although she couldn't be sure. One of them, she recognized. Although she had never spoken to Qaela, she had met Haphaestus' old apprentice at the Sith Temple. It had been her who had brought Nishant to her master, if Emily's memory served correctly. She also caught sight of Draken Shadowlord coming into the hall, and was glad to see him still around, although she wondered at seeing him without Alora.

 

Furion began to speak, first declaring himself the new Dark Lord. Emily raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Sheog. As far as she was aware, Sheog was still the Dark Lord. But the Hutt appeared to have no objections, something that Emily found a little strange. But it wasn't really any of her business. Furion went on, long and angry, waxing eloquent and simplistic in turn. She listened, and as she did so, her opinion of him improved. He seemed to be frustrated with the Sith who constantly acted for no purpose or reason, but were little more than animalistic in their thinking. That had always been Emily's biggest frustration with the Order as well. If Furion wanted to do what he could to change that, then perhaps she would find she fit in with the Sith better than she ever had in the past.

 

When he finished his tirade, he ordered them to kneel before him, and Emily hesitated only for a moment before sinking gracefully to one knee.

[Qaela]

There was no point in trying to draw attention to herself so Qaela stayed near the back of the collective of Sith. She made no attempt to conceal her presence, but neither would she flaunt it. Draken's reaction to her presence alone was sufficient to remind her that, despite their new leader's words, many Sith continued in their bigoted sense of superiority. She had never even seen the man before finding out he put a bounty on her head. The only time she had ever even spoken to him was after helping replace Haphaestus, something that the Sith lordling had also supported. Yet, he had decided to seek her out in the quarters she was staying in and all but attack her without provocation. He was hardly the only Sith to have attacked her, but people like him made it very hard for her to try to work with the Sith.

 

There were a few other Sith that she recognized, chief among them the oversized slug Sith who fancied heaps of armor. Most of the others she recognized were from her times in the Temple, but she couldn't put names to their faces. It was an interesting gathering, but that interest paled compared to the revelations that Furion delivered. She had no idea that the Sith had grown so. . . . few in number. The Sith she knew had thousands of black robed minions, now this seemed to be the remnant. She hadn't heard of any attack on Coruscant, but from what Furion said, the Sith took a major beating there and were forced to flee. That was a shock to her because she didn't think anyone would be able to take down that temple or all those Sith. Suddenly, it made a lot more sense as to why their Dark Lord would humble himself enough to seek out the Nightsisters as allies.

 

While the others, including Raia, began bowing to their new lord, Qaela remained standing. She could feel his dark power beckoning to them all in a demand for subservience and could feel a sense of grudging respect for his abilities, but she was not his servant. He was powerful, he was driven, and he had vision, but he was not her master. She wasn't attempting to defy him and was careful to keep her emotions and thoughts as shielded as possible, but she would not prostrate herself before him no matter how powerful he was.

[Rezjal-el]

The moments before the Dark Lord’s entrance were filled with little more than idle chatter and eavesdropping. Vaegir spent little of his time actually getting to know his peers, but rather attempting to gain a feel for just what he had been looped into. So much had happened since he had been released from his icy prison those two or so years ago. Sadly, the little information he gleaned by simply listening was hardly useful or of interest.

 

Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re just DYING to be a sith.

 

Oh, I’m certain you’ll surpass us all, you arrogant waste…

 

The boastful and naïve blabbering of the gathered crowd soon fell silent as a lone, hooded figure entered the room.

 

Furion.

 

Vaegir knew the man well enough without even seeing his face. That damnable human was the sole object of his hatred for such a long time that upon sensing him draw near, Vaegir’s hand shifted toward the blade on his belt. Not that he intended on rushing the Dark Lord and simply knifing him then and there… but the idea certainly did pass through his thoughts. Thankfully, though, common sense was a strong motivator for the young hopeful. That, and should he indeed succeed in shanking said Lord, the consequences might not exactly prove favorable.

 

For the time being, however, Vaegir was content to sit and listen.

 

Furion’s speech was filled with anger and spite, complete with flailing arms and gnashing teeth. Or rather, that’s what it appeared like to one who had little to no idea what the human Lord was talking about. The better part of the speech was spent suppressing a quizzical lofting of his brow and a thorough application of palm to face.

 

Yes, yes. Very little of this applies to me.

 

Vaegir had grown quite tired of hearing the line ‘you think you’re a sith?’ No, in fact he did not. He hated the Sith. He loathed the Sith. Their fate meant as little to him as that of the creatures he had to kill and butcher to survive. The meaning of Furion’s speech fell upon deaf ears, though the passion and power behind the man’s stage presence was not lost upon the Firrerreo.

 

He could notice the few gawking individuals who drew close to the seated Dark Lord, and for just a moment, he too could feel a small pull at the back of his thoughts. The urge to approach was ignored, however, leaving the young man standing defiantly with his arms crossed as more and more fools crawled on up to their master’s feet.

 

Now...kneel to your Dark Lord.

 

Kneel? KNEEL? What the bloody hell had Furion done to deserve such obedience? Another moment of temptation passed over the Firrerreo, wanting to remain standing (like a boss, mind you) while so many fell to their knees and groveled. That was, of course, until he noticed the powerful figures of the Hutt and so many other powerful presences give shows of supplication. If those creatures could give Vaegir such foreboding feelings and yet still choose to kneel to Furion, perhaps standing was not the wisest of ideas.

 

You win this round.

 

Vaegir slowly lowered to one knee, his head lowered, though his eyes remained focused on that most hated of men.

[Tobias Vos]

Kneeling... Such a trivial thing to feel empowered. Never the less.... Furion was a God-Sith. He would receive the respect he deserves. Tobias was going to support Darth Furion. He was going to be a better Dark Lord than Haphateteas. The last Dark Lord that Vos had seen. Slicer never counted...he was Dark Lord for all of a few days. Hopefully Furion would actually accomplish what he promised, unlike any of the previous

 

The giant Kiffar knelt. "I bow before your power, Dark Lord Furion." The man silently said. Tobias was in the back, so little chance that Furion would actually hear him, or even the person kneeling next to him.

 

Vos was excited for what Furion had in store for the Sith Order.

[Karys Narat iv-Adas]

The stench of wasting disease and mortality blossomed from the object of his attention, the scene might have been lifted from a campy, no-budget horror film. This was what Lucifer met as Sheog obliged him with the very vision he had thought upon. It brang a smile to his face as he saw the family, a young child and his mother and father burn alive along with what appeared to be a conga-line of clowns trapped inside the mansion, trying desperately to put out a never ending fire with both creamed pie and soda but to no avail. In the end their skin peeled off all the same under the heat until only corpses remained mixed with ash and coal as the timber gave way to the fire.

 

An irksome smile twitched at Lucifer’s lips; remembrance of a youthful bravado long past, the image bringing back memories of burning the clan. That was a good day. He still recalled the screams of his family, the curses. But in the end it did not save them only brought them closer to their fates.

 

The kiffar gave Sheog a nod in acknowledgement yet was fuly aware of a hint of annoyance from his voice, thus he would wait. The Hutt had earned such respect at least for now.

 

The Sith Lord responded to Furion's tirade with nothing more than a blank stare, and snorted at his insulting tone. Although he saw the Dark Lord's point he also did not think the campaign was a complete failure. They had afterall with his subtle help leveled the Gala Enclave to the ground and killed a few jedi to send the galaxy a clear message. The Sith would not be tamed like some common animal, domesticated.

 

Listening to Furion, Lucifer was compelled to listen, at least some of what he said was true. The Sith did indeed lack direction. However he knew now was their time for revenge. Soon the Sith would again rise up to challenge the galaxy. Slipping from anger to subserviance, the kiffar bowed in unision with the others that fell in line. His loyalty was now that of the Dark Lord's, he only hoped Furion lived up to his promise, in return he too would rise above temptation, rise up to his fate and control his primal desires with sheer will.

 

A new era had begun. And thus the kiffar spoke.

 

''You have my loyalty Darth Furion. Let a new era begin.''

[Hou-Jo Poleb]

The Fallen One's time for shadow dwelling had reached it's end. The Dark Lord had called for fealty and all had knelt (at least those physically capable of kneeling). The only way to not step out into the light would be not to kneel. But if he didn't kneel, he felt that he and Furion would come to blows again. Though he felt it almost degrading being forced to kneel to Furion again; he understood the need to show his loyalty in front of the rest of the Sith, rather than in private.

 

The man in white pushed off the back wall and made his way toward the throne. He produced a cane from his robes to assist his walking. The Dark Side was most certainly with him, as was the Force, that much most could tell. As far as he could guess, however, Furion and Exodus were the only ones in attendance who would recognize him from his past life. More perhaps might recognize his face, were it not for the plasma burns, leather mask, and hood concealing his face. He gave a subtle nod toward Exodus, hoping that Exodus would guess his intentions and not out his prior life as the Jedi Grandmaster.

 

The problem, however, would be convincing these people that he was some great and powerful Sith that almost no one had ever heard of. But that would be a trial for another time. He carried himself well for a man using a cane. It was almost for effect and appearances, as he could use the Force to eliminate the need for it. He had drained himself considerably leading up to his defeat at Furion's hands. Combined with the fact that he foresaw much before him, his intention was to limit his use of the Force outside of combat and meditation. He reached the base of the staircase underneath the throne.

 

He lifted the cane from the ground and gracefully dropped to one knee. There was still contempt toward the Dark Lord over the physical and mental bruising. He made a note to compensate for such so that he didn't sound disingenuous. "You have my blade, My Lord. I foresee a new period of Sith prosperity stemming from today."

 

[Keenava Dira]

The focus of her stare at Raia broke, and Lallu’s crimson eyes shot to Furion. His position at the throne was never a question, but the bubbling rage seething into his body was something Lallu could barely comprehend. She had seen Furion mad before, but nothing quite as potent. The ferocity of his words, bit at her with each explosive consonant. The piercing threat of his impositions weren’t directed implicitly at her, but somehow she felt damaged. Threads of consciousness wove through her mind and directed her thoughts into different patterns. One sought to cool his anger with whatever possible. Another sought to appease his lust for greatness. The next sought to resist his hold on her. And still another sought to succumb to his dominance and ignore the feelings growing inside her.

 

The warmth of Rose’s greeting fell on deaf ears. Lallu acknowledged the gesture with a silent nod and remembered Raia without ever acknowledging it. She had been here before. The utter attachment she had to Furion in a lecture was commonplace for her ever since they met.

 

The ambiguous but deliberate chiding in every word he spoke; the desire for something bigger than himself; and the want to bring out potential. The latter wasn’t entirely obvious in this speech, but in their interaction before, Lallu felt a recurring theme.

• Lallu
   
  
  • What do you want?

Seemingly enigmatic words at first glance, but with this context, they shone a brilliant white against the horrid backdrop of her past. He wouldn’t seek to educate the Sith if he didn’t see there was purpose to it. Furion never did anything without a purpose. The relative ignorance or acceptance of the others in the room was irrelevant. The lord of golden fury stood atop his throne and dictated that all would achieve to be the best they could, or would die trying. There was no escaping that truth and for the first time in a long time, Lallu felt a burning fire in her heart to match his.

 

Her eyes never left Furion’s and the fluid of her movement led her knee to the ground with little to no effort. She sidestepped Raia and Rose to give herself a little room and touched the cold floor of the ballroom with both of her knees, still sheathed in glittery red fabric. She let her doubt dribble through the floor and any confusion she felt submerged as an issue to be resolved later. Regardless of Furion’s feelings for her this was something she needed to do.

 

She needed to prove herself. For Furion…

 

For herself…

[Exodus]

• “...A legend and an inspiration you say, young Lord? Very well, be sure not to waste the muse I provide.”

 

Exodus nodded his appreciation before the bunch returned attention towards the principal orator. The air became tense and too thicketed for comfort, not that there was a stress in the matter but Exodus could see the reactions from all around. He took note of a man or creature that stumbled from the shadows just as he would—even more swabbed in juicy detail was that this creature with remarkable buoyancy in the force held a measure of familiarity. From where Exodus stood, he could almost inhale and identify the distinctiveness of who this creature was but the six or so years absent left that analysis with a broader number than expected until he spoke. When his voice carried, it wasn’t a voice rotten with insignificance but a voice that honed what we know as power and Exodus knew that voice well. “What do you hide beneath that mask, old friend?” The nod was returned. And soon they were all kneeling (or all the ones that could).

 

Men and women of all sizes and shapes bickered beneath the bridges of their minds as they did so. The room swelled with thoughtless behaviours, dripped with diffidence, and almost burst at the belt when all were commanded to kneel. Exodus synergized their fallow but feral emotions, tore the fraud masque of self-importance the lot of them carried and humored himself at how undressed and wretchedly afraid they in fact were. To him, they were a bunch of characters sprinkled into a story with no real purpose or identity.

 

The phantom stared deep into the reflective pool of hard brandy; a look so intent that it would’ve melted the hoary goblet in his hands, a glaze that captured an amorous transcendence within those storm-tempered eyes. You could almost swear the moment he blinked, the absolute second he blinked, his entire aura shuddered with unbelievable viciousness as if a God was bound between his very flesh and craved for someone to break shackles. All of the luminance within these chambers flickered to black, not just bulbs or lit candles but even incandescence of the heart. Humanity, sanity and all that even danced on the borderline of benevolence crawled up into a little ball and suffocated from darkness until it was relinquished of life just within that very same moment. You would've believed that this was the work of the Dark Lord himself that breached these confines of reality, I bet. You would swear your mental equilibrium just dared to leap out of your very bones but it was neither Dark Lord nor an illusion. This was real. However, just as fast as the sensation swept over, it all fell quiet and returned to normal—except the lights and the flames.

 

A sea of bodies littered around him, all moved to their knees. Exodus breathed in the sheer toxic within his glass and stood tall poised as a titan and stared up to the throne with cup slowly raising in ritualistic celebration. He didn't kneel. A devious smile slowly and artistically broke the darkness, piercing the quiet room as he remained resolute on both feet. It was a treacherous smile that continued to whittle a path into all of the assassin’s situations but a smile only few could comprehend or even appreciate. Julio would. And without a hint of cynical reproach to bear fruit, Exodus stared into the lore of the Dark Lord and spoke as if to his own blood kin.

 

• “A moment of darkness (silence), shall we?
   
  ...In dear tribute to our new Lord.”

[Sheog the Mad]

((The Actions of Gonzo Lockjaw, posted here, were with his permission))

 

With his crimson eyes, Sheog observed his old apprentice, the Barabel Sith Gonzo Lockjaw, take to a knee with the rest of the crowd. One figure seemed to still be standing, holding aloft a Cognac-filled goblet of silver, etched proudly with the insignia of the House Diresto; The Sith Master Exodus. Ever jolly, even in the face of adversity, Sheog smiled and watched cautiously, prepared to act, to defend Hayley and the crowd from any coming blowback. Hopefully, this was a pre-planned toast to the new Dark Lord, as a typical Sith took no pleasure from surprise.

[darth shadowlord]

Draken stood there for a moment watching the crowd during Furion's speech, he had been expecting the speech to follow a certain path and to a point he was correct and then he diverged from the path. Nodding slowly, Draken continued to survey the crowd pausing as he noticed Emily among the crowd. Catching her eye for a moment, he inclined his head to one side and smiled his normal sly little smile before returning his attention to the crowd and the speech being given. He didn't blame the Dark Lord for being angry and truth be told he wasn't all that pleased about it either, especially the loss of Courscant. Whoever had been in charge of that battle deserved to have their head lifted from their shoulders.

 

While you contest for transitory power, I will be transcending my very fate. Now...kneel to your Dark Lord.

 

As he heard those words, Draken arched an eyebrow hidden underneath the hood of his cloak before slowly bending a knee to the floor and waiting there. This was to be expected, every Dark Lord did it. In fact it was almost tradition for the Sith.

[Darth Furion]

Supplication....It felt amazing, empowering, right. That single act a symbol for so much more. As each knee touched the floor will bent and twisted in kind to his very own, every Sith in the room consciously submitting their power to the throne. Darkness swam through the room in totality , coalescing from their myriad passions through his ravenous desire. Be it complete conviction, spite, joy, or fear, their power became his in that very moment. All but one, yet that one's will could never be shared.

 

In a room full of servants many wanted desperately to stand out. Meaningless words uttered, longing stares, conceded wisdom, every single act to diverge from the rest of their brothers and sisters was akin to crickets chirping in the dawn star that was Exodus, glass raised, and that same self satisfied smile he always wore. That god damn smile. Many would feel the venerable assassin in defiance, or at least see it as such, yet the former apprentice knew better.

 

For nearly a full minute the Dark Lord kept them kneeling as he sat transfixed upon that smile, engorged upon coveted freedom. The beast ushered to the Dark Lord upon his shoulder, Strike him down!, while his humanity only smiled in return. Soon... it promised the longest burning coals in Furion's furnace heart. It was only with that most ancient vow that Julio was able to share that same satisfied smile to his brother killer.

 

Drunk on the moment gilded eyes fell from view, and the Dark Lord took focus for the task at hand. These Sith needed a reminder so that they may never again forget who or what they were. Something that would rekindle dark passion in the brightest of days, when they felt utterly disconnected and lost. More importantly, they should never forget who it was that put instilled within them the reminder in the first place. Julio withdrew from within the folds of his cloak a thin vial of translucent fluid, holding it out before the flock in the palm of his hand. The vial lifted softly into the air and the ushered silence finally broke.

 

Never forget who you are. The Dark Lord's voice was soft, yet spilled forth into every stretch of the wide ballroom, reaching the core of their souls. The vial held some five meters under the central chandelier, slowly revolving in a foreboding denial of reality. The vial exploded, casting the liquid in a fine mist above the kneeling, yet when it touched the air it grew quickly into a thick, viscous cloud. The chandelier rattled on its chain, and the rising tension in the Sith nearly caused some to rise and flee in confusion, but their minds and hearts were his if but for the moment. The chain suspending the light fixture fell a meter before catching on another ceiling support, and the hundreds of narrow crystals refracting light chimed in a cacophony of mayhem. The crystals pulled in every direction desperate to escape the ensnaring fate circling them. The cloud grew thicker, now full in substance but still held high above their heads. Any sense of panic or fear only served to fuel his motives, for how could they think him malevolent toward them after his words? He wanted nothing but for them to grow and become strong, not damage or destroy them. This was for their own good.

 

Suddenly every crystal in the chandelier shattered into long, thin strands toward the translucent cloud. As each sliver struck the liquid they broke path, straight toward one of the kneeling, imbedding just under the skin before pulling free back toward the cloud again. Despite the pain, the confusion, the rage, none could stir from their position, forced to simply endure. As more and more needle like crystals struck they each applied a slight bit of that clear fluid under the Siths' skin, continuing their work until their was nothing left of the cloud.

 

A wave of perceivable command washed over the room and the tiny needles carelessly fell to the floor. In a heartbeat the liquid under their skin burned fiercely like no other pain before, acidic and unending for the longest moment. As that pain rose in them so too did various pigments come to life over their hearts. Inescapably etched into every Sith was the symbol for 'one' in the lost Sith language.

 

Now, let us feast to our new found path while our hopefuls prove themselves and provide a little...entertainment. His smile was as wide as ever, no doubt utterly enjoying himself. They could hate him, they could curse his name in hushed breaths behind closed doors, they could spend their waking moments plotting for his death, but none of that mattered in this moment. This moment was his and his alone.

 

Acolytes began carrying in tables laden with multiple course meals from worlds across the galaxy, and some of the finest alcoholic beverages any connoisseur would feel privileged to sample. As the center of the ballroom began to clear out a row of twenty slaves was ushered in, set in a ring while hopefuls were pulled form the crowds to stand opposing them. Each would be paired to fight to the death before the entire order. If they wanted to join these mighty titans, they would have to first baptize themselves in blood.

 

((Your queue, A-Jax and Raia. Details on the tattoos can be found here.))

[Guest]

“Cling, clang,” his pounding heart echoed his fettered steps, “thump, thump, thump.” As his throat constricted, so did the thought of escape. Had he still been in the pen, the humanoid Clydesdale could find a way out. Previously enraged, his malignant outburst cost him that chance. Now the passion inside of him melted with the smells of a bountiful meal. A-Jax felt the weight of situation just like the chains. Although he pulled on the links between his wrists, his strength had quietly subsided. “Jus' need some chow,” A-Jax reassured himself, “must be exhausted.”

 

…

 

Following the wafts of fine dining through this corridor and that, A-Jax felt a little better knowing he wasn't going to be marinaded. The large room they entered reminded him of the cruise, because the floors were real nice and chandeliers lit the space. Along the walls were stunning paintings of horrible beauty with pleasant atrocities, and weapons from ancient wars, none like he'd ever seen. “Dis people...” Thought A-jax, shaking his head. These people, they were bad news. Smelt fresh--for mammals--but dressed for war in a galleria. This prevalent temperament shifted his mood. Not that he wasn't afraid, but A-Jax felt the pulse of confidence emanating from those vacating the area, and adopted it.

 

The wooly mammoth was arranged in a circle with the other slaves, while a large axe, if that's what it's called, was taken off its mount and placed at his feet. His shackles, of lock-and-key operation, were remotely released, obviously not lock-and-key. Facing him was a small zabrak woman in a crimson kimono. Her hair was tied behind her head with an array of needles. Without saying a word, she removed one made of bone and placed it between her lips.

 

A-Jax looked at her, then down at the axe, then back at her. "Crazy b****!" were the only words he could manage.

[Raia Montar]

The dark-haired girl was acutely aware that there were energies building around her. She'd witnessed and felt the same thing when the Witches were conducting rituals of their own, but this felt far more sinister and far more powerful than anything she'd witnessed the Witches do. Raia somehow knew that her own trepidation and will to do what she had to in order to survive was somehow being drawn from her to fan the climaxing flames of whatever was going on around her.

 

As much as she now suddenly felt like fleeing, she was also rooted to the spot. One by one the others had knelt, save Qaela and one other, who instead raised his glass to the Dark Lord.

 

"A moment of darkness, shall we? ...In dear tribute to our new Lord."

 

Not sure what was expected, Raia cast a furtive glance towards the white-haired man and waited so see what the others would do. When nothing further happened, she turned her gaze back towards Furion as he levitated a thin vial of translucent liquid high above the assembled masses' center point.

 

"Never forget who you are," his still-commanding voice softly reaching her ears, as though he were there next to her now. The sudden breaking of the silence, along with the nearness of the comment caused Raia to involuntarily flinch and a rush of chills to run down her back.

 

But I don't know who I am... her thoughts echoed back, as her gaze fell, mesmerized, to the slowly rotating vial just under the room's opulent chandelier. Suddenly the vial burst, it's contents becoming a fine mist above the crowd that grew into something more dense.

 

Trepidation once again overcame the young Dathomiri native as the chandelier made another horrible noise and dropped into the cloud, causing several of the assembled below it to practically crawl over one another to get away, before the falling object jerked to a halt, it's crystals refracting the sickly light that now became the hovering mass above them. The slight swinging of the fixture as it sought to restore it's own balance only served to further the visual entrapment of the spectacle.

 

The cloud drew in, as though feeding upon the light of the chandelier, and the wave of unsuppressed emotions around her fed the energy wave that she'd noticed before. Her own heart was beating fast aided by the adrenaline in her own system.

 

Furion had promised that no harm would come to her when she was still a Nightsister affiliate, had the rules changed now that she'd stepped forward and knelt before him? Raia couldn't believe that was true, but even her own instincts were screaming at her to get out of the ballroom.

 

As her own internal debate raged the semi-musical sound of the crystals shattering reached her ears almost as soon as the first sharp pain slammed her in the chest. For a moment, she looked down, quite confused as the crystal had not penetrated deep, but was instead making a return trip, again piercing the skin with artistic precision. She tried to reach up to shield herself, but found that she was quite powerless to remove her hands from her sides. She could only watch as the bombardment continued, until the cloud began to dissipate above them.

 

The reason for the crystalline bombardment confused her, but as the area affected began to darken, she became fully aware that there was no turning back now. Finally her arms were freed, and it was with a ginger touch that she traced the design now embedded in her skin.

 

"Now, let us feast to our new found path while our hopefuls prove themselves and provide a little...entertainment," their brander intoned mirthily.

 

Raia rose with the others, and looked at Rose for a moment, wondering what was going through the other girl's head. Furion was supposed to be her champion, or at least that's what Raia had been able to deduce from their short trip together. Why had she received the brand as well?

 

She'd understood little of the man's elevated speech, but could guess enough at the meaning behind his flowery and verbose words to follow along. Instinctively, she knew that she should be making for one of the exits, but a stronger sense of survival warned her that she would meet her death through those doors.

 

The rest of the hopefuls, including herself and Rose were congregated in the middle, as the rest of the Order took their already-earned seats at the feast table.

 

Raia felt herself roughly placed facing opposite a middle-aged man, hulking and muscular, easily more than twice her own weight. She swallowed as her opponent stared her down as the handlers placed a club in his hand.

 

The young girl stood straight, despite her fear, and could almost literally taste the hunger of this strange man for something that she. too, desired, freedom.

 

The air around them became heady with exotic aroma's as the dishes were brought before the ravenous Sith. The strange smells met her nostrils adding to the sensations that were bombarding the young Dathomiri.

 

She shook her head to clear it, knowing that if she lost herself to distraction, then she would fail to survive. Her assailant's roar and subsequent charge helped bring her back quickly.

 

There'd been no sound, no warning that signaled the beginning of the mortal combat. Things just exploded in to carefully controlled chaos around her. Immediately she was on her guard, but instead of holding her ground against the charging brute she ran towards him, a cry of ferociousness escaping her throat as she sprinted towards her assailant. His swing barely missed her as she dropped, and slid along the floor between his legs.

 

As she skidded to a halt she kicked out the back of his knee and he dropped to the floor in pain.

 

First lesson in Sithdom, always be on guard, she thought to herself.

 

She threw her weight into a backwards somersault that brought her to her feet again. Immediately she was moving quickly towards the weapons rack just outside of the outer circle.

 

Her hand had just barely closed on a spear when her instincts told her to roll right. Obeying them without question, she managed to turn to the side, just as the club came smashing in to the rack where she'd been standing.

 

For a second she looked at the racks and their attachment to the walls. They looked strong enough to support her, so she dashed up with both speed and grace as the slave returned to determine how best to kill this impudent child who clung to relative safety just beyond his reach.

 

A wicked grin blossomed on his face as he retrieved his club...

[Karys Narat iv-Adas]

Lucifer gave a nod in return to the man made myth, his own appreciation served for the one who deserved it. That was after his kneeling was over with. He would not waste the muse. It was once Furion began to speak again that the kiffar had reason for pause.

 

Never Forget Who You Are. What did he mean by that.

 

Lucifer crouched down at first when seeing the vial explode and the mist break out as he readied his sabre in his hand only to find he could not move as if forced by some unknown presence crushing on him. Pure primal instinct at work not out of fear as some might think. His breathing was slow and steady. He deemed the act as a threat and reacted in kind or at least tried. It wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked, nor the first time he’d have to spill blood because of who he was if he had too if necessary if he could indeed act. However after carefully scanning the area around him with his robotic eye, he breathed a sigh of relief despite his position. In this world, of murder and mayhem, fear and doubt was something that could easily get you killed and most who flaunted around here were brainless and dim-witted openly expressing such traits. Traits the Sith Lord deemed those who possessed them unworthy of being a sith. If one had fear they had weakness.

 

The Sith were master torturers and punished for such weakness. Most of their devoted minions were tortured into submission or simply abused for training purposes, and Lucifer had spent many years of his life and nights in the torture rooms simply studying the techniques at work to better perfect his own using such minions. It was truly fascinating sometimes how much you can learn from those who foolishly cling to existence despite the odds against them. As soon as the mist spread about the room and hit the chandelier, the kiffar felt something odd about it. It wasn’t like any mist he’d ever seen. It was more of an outline of his own will, a black tar outline that shone brightly in the night as the crystals shot forth once the mist had been deflected against the lighting fixtures. Though almost blinding, it did nothing to cast a shadow.

 

Having no other choice, Lucifer accepted his fate as the crystals leapt towards him. Each sliver of the chandelier appeared to shatter into these crystals before heading towards the black translucent cloud of mist, it reminded the kiffar of a black fog almost. It felt, invigorating to be in the presence of such power. It was then he felt pain. The reminder of life, that sensation that crept through his body to tell him he was alive and well. But this pain was different than the rest, it was empowering almost. As each crystal struck fire coursed through his veins, it was like he was on Almas again in the blazing heat of a furnace. A hated reminder of who he really was but longed to be rid of.

 

He took the sensation as it was in all it's acidic form, as unending as it was. He literally felt movement upon his body, like something was happening to the very pigments of his skin as the pain molested the area surrounding his heart. His skin appeared to be fighting for control in a losing battle with whatever it was. Soon enough the pain seized and he was left to contemplate what had just happened. Lifting his armor, Lucifer looked and was comfounded by what he saw upon his flesh. He had been marked, branded even. A sacrilege, none but he may mark his flesh. Who was this Dark Lord to think he could scar the flesh of his bones without a price to pay. Looking at the 'mark' he was given, the Sith Lord saw how it moved and how words were formed 'Kas'. This he understood from ancient texts was as meaning 'One' in the old language.

 

The Sith Lord thought on it.

 

Strangely Appropiate, Perhaps he is more than I thought. Time Will Tell.

 

It was then the festivities began as a wide array of exotic food and drink was brought in. Putting back on his armor, Lucifer looked to the middle of the ballroom. It seemed new blood was to be introduced through the age old method of blood and battle. Trial By Fire. It brought back memories of the kiffar's own experience when he first joined, truly he had been tested. Not like these, but tested none the less and against a full Sith Master no less. Yet he had no regrets, the empire may have hated him for it and still most likely did but he held no illusions about what he was given in return for his new service, he was free of the chains that held him down. Just as he had been promised he would be.

 

None but he would make his own destiny. He let a smirk catch his lip at seeing a brute of a man attempt to pulverise who appeared to be a Dathomiri Witch into a fine paste with a club. She appeared to be gaining the upper hand, however the Sith Lord knew the odds could still change in his favor, yet if he was weak he would simply die and be replaced. He also saw a strange sight, a abomination of some kind. A half what seemed like a man and a wampa, truly disgusting. Someone obviously had too much time on their hands if they created such a monstrosity. He nearly spat up a piece of steak he was chewing on at seeing him. Surely Furion could not be serious about taking that thing into the fold.

 

The beast didn't even go for a weapon but simply stood there and cursed. Lucifer could see his end meeting him quicker than he would want if that was all he could manage. However if he refused to act so be it, it would be his choice and prove his weakness. At least the weakness as perceived by Lucifer. No this would not do, the Sith Lord took to jeering the beast, it was the least he could do.

 

Calling over he spoke to Exodus and Sheog.

 

''Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic excuse for a...whatever it is. You would think, he would he would make a better wall mount than a combatant at this rate. Wouldn't you agree.''

 

While awaiting an answer the Sith Lord jeered A-Jax.

 

''Weak and absolutely pathetic. That is all you are, it makes me wonder why Furion even bothered to spare you if this is the best you have to offer. At least if you die make it entertaining for us.''

[Guest]

The crook didn't mind laying his hands on a girl...

 

As A-Jax stooped to pick up the ax, his opponent's flying kick knocked him off his feet.

 

...but that didn't mean he knew to respect her abilities.

 

“Grrrr,” was his stunned repudiation. He rolled backwards and onto all fours as the blond female kicked his ax out of the way. All the young wampa man could ponder was his mistake, making a vow to keep his eyes on target. Both circled around the other. A-Jax's focus returned like a shift in the wind, and a thunderous roar emanated from within.

 

The zabrak's unfazed gaze zeroed in on her prey's back paws. When his legs tightened to spring full force at her, she was more than ready. Diving headlong toward the wroshyr wood floor, the acrolyte had the utmost determination to reach it before the monster's claws reached her.

 

However much disappointed, A-Jax did not suspect the flash of carmine underneath him to become a well-timed handspring. Her sleek boots drove the nails sprouting from its souls into his scaled hide, tearing flesh and rupturing unknown organs. Instead of completing his lounge, A-Jax tumbled to the side. The zabrak woman's extended body gracefully curled together on the floor to roll back into a standing position.

 

Unaware of where A-Jax was, the kimono clad lady lurked her head around to find he had not even lifted off the ground. Instead of using the opportunity to literally strike when her opponent was down, she concluded her look around with a deep breath, resting her delicate hands on her head.

 

She wished to join the ranks of those sitting at the long tables of porcelain plates and unlit candles. Their eyes watched from behind shadows, impossible to tell where their gazes fell. One of those lords would take her as apprentice, there was no alternative.

 

The other fighting pairs had spread to the ballroom's walls towards the weapon mounts. Unlike her peers, she had come prepared--she was always prepared--but maybe she should reconsider, a quick end would still be an end.

 

The wampa man's head was in a daze, having taken the whole weight of his body when he “landed.” Forgetting the danger he was in, a memory came to life...

 

Weak and absolutely pathetic, that is all you are...spoken like a true drug runner. He was only 7 at the time; seven yearlings weren't check as thoroughly on that planet. When the customs agent walked over to him with ironclad eyes and smileless grin, the shaking ball of fur took off. His “handler” didn't take too kindly to a street urchin ruining his plans.

 

“...It makes me wonder why Furion even bothered to spare you if this is the best you have to offer. At least if you die make it entertaining for us.'' Die...DIE! He was in a fight! The wooly mammoth's bespin blue eyes sprung open to see his ax swinging unsteadily at his head. It stuck into his nose's bridge, gashing open his entire face. A retaliatory roar only made the blade sink deeper. If the ax had had a stronger bearer, or the bearer a normal sized ax, the wampa-man's head would have been ready to be mounted on a wall. But the fight was lopsided from the beginning.

 

A-Jax's claws lashed out at the zabrak's leather boots, slicing open the arteries massed around her ankles. Her body fell atop of her useless legs, waiting to bleed out. The acolyte tried ineffectually to crawl away, but the snowy predator terrorizing her last minutes slowly crept over her body, blood freely streaming off his maw and onto her crimson and carmine kimono.

 

Her screams awakened the beast within, all thought ceased as he sniffed the air and her blood-spurting legs. The humanoid wildebeest licked the blood pooling on the wroshyr. A-Jax's demented mouth managed to curl into a grin and his eyes dialated into black holes, absorbing her fears. After all, it had been hours since he had filled his stomach.

 

His head turned wickedly above hers. He placed his arms on her shoulders, inhibiting involuntary quakes. She never stopped screaming, but when A-Jax's savagely smelt her face, a needle appeared between her lips. It was only a pinprick, but defiance of fate demanded rebuke; a swipe of the claw slit her throat. He laughed at her foul attempt to fight him off, then his body began to go numb. The toxin was like an acid, targeting only his somatic nerves.

Edited April 3, 2012 by Guest

[Raia Montar]

The din of battle filled the ballroom becoming almost a background noise to the young Dathomiri who clung desperately to the top of the metal weapons rack. She was perched a little under twelve feet in the air, her head turned over her shoulder to see where her opponent now stood below her. It was for the briefest of moments that the girl's eyes locked with his, and she could tell from the look in his eyes he was just as desperate to win this as she.

 

As his arm drew back, she shook the thought away, because she couldn't afford to see him as a kindred spirit. He was her current obstacle to survival and feeling empathy for him would only make the act of killing him harder to bear. The basic combat lessons that she'd managed to drag out of her mother's champion, coupled with the rest of her training and hunting experience couldn't have possibly prepared her for what she was facing now. Qaela might have actually been on to something after all.

 

Just before he let the club fly, Raia had just a split-second to decide whether to jump down, or to swing to the side and remain from his reach.

 

She opted for the latter, pushing away with her right hand and leg, narrowly avoiding the hit as she pivoted so she now faced forward. As the club impacted into the ornate tiled wall and frame where she'd been, fragments flew away and bit at her skin, leaving a shallow cut above her eye.

 

The teen nearly lost her grip on the bar with her newly placed right hand as it grazed the tip of a spiked weapon that she couldn't identify, opening a cut in the palm. Her left hand still clung to both the spear and the metal, but the angle was odd and uncomfortable, not to mention gave her little chance to go back on the offensive.

 

You can't stay up here forever, she said to herself. You'll run out of wall at some point, or he'll get a lucky shot. The dark-haired girl looked down at her assailant again, noting that he didn't look the least bit tired. He could probably throw that thing all day, she woefully added.

 

The blood coming from the cut on her right hand slickened her grip, but she knew she had to get into a position where she could throw her spear. Just think of it as hunting from the trees of Dathomir...

 

Raia found that she was able to maintain her position decently as she let go of the metal with her left hand and brought the brought the spear up. All it took was a quick motion of her hand to bring the business-end about to the older man. The pain in her right hand, that now bore more of her weight, grew as she took aim with the short spear that closely resembled what she used to hunt with back home.

 

As she let the weapon fly towards her opponent, the cut on her hand tore open a little more with the sharp movement against the metal. Wincing, she replaced her left hand as a grip point, maintaining a three-point contact with the rack, and examined the bleeding and raw skin closely. The cries of pain below her echoed in the room, not just from her aggressor, but from the various mini-bouts that were all around her.

 

She glanced away from the other fights below her to see where her spear had met its mark. She was slightly disappointed that it hadn't hit her target, but legging him wasn't bad either. Her spear's intended target had been his head, where she'd hoped to make a quick end of this, but instead had embedded itself in the meat of his thigh.

 

Raia could feel the eager gazes of the observers on her situation, the height alone would have been enough to draw attention away from the mass melee that continued on the ground before them. Suddenly a thought occurred to her that hadn't before.

 

All they want is a good show, and to see how far we'll go for the right to be called Sith, How far was she willing to go in order to give a performance that would help her to survive from beyond her immediate predicament?

 

She needed to get down, and now that she had the attention of some, if not most of the assembled Sith, it was essential to show them she could survive no matter what was thrown at her.

 

With a resounding crack that brought her from her ruminations, he broke the shaft off of the weapon, and prepared to hurl the splintered end back towards it's origin.

 

Back she was to her earlier decision of where to move on the rack. Raia looked below her, and, noticing an opportunity in one of the other combatant's positions, pivoted again on the rack. Her feet braced against the wall in between the weapons and she pushed off the wall to land on one of the other hopefuls as the Brute's clumsy throw missed her completely.

 

Her landing came at the cost of a sprained ankle, however, and a rough kick in her side as the other hopeful cursed her.

 

Raia rolled away the hopeful trying to get her bearings in the chaos once more. A cry of rage brought her attention to her still-determined foe, who was still alive, though moving much slower with his injured leg.

 

"You will not best me child! I will have my freedom!" he called after her as she sought to disappear in the morass of slaves and hopefuls all vying for a prize that Raia was quickly beginning to wonder was worth all of this senseless violence at all.

 

What is the point in this? To test battle prowess? To prove we can submit to the brutal and violent nature of the Sith, as Qaela had warned? The girl thought to herself. She knew what drove her actions, surviving this rancor-pit that the Nightsisters had thrown her to. She wouldn't do Matala the honor of dying here and now.

 

The pain in her hand and ankle were distracting, but she knew that she had to focus. Her life depended on it. Despite being partially blinded from the blood seeping from the cut on her forehead beginning to drain into her eye, she knew her executioner was nearing, albeit a bit more slowly than before, but nearing nonetheless. Survival drove her on as she did her best to avoid or become an unwilling participant in the skirmishes around her.

 

Focus, she bade herself as she crawled into the mass of combat, trying to put as many between her and the male as possible, How do we heal? How do we do anything?

 

While she was distracted with her thoughts, the Brute had managed to navigate the group enough to locate the impudent child. He would not die at the hands of such a weak little girl, whose only real skill appeared to be running away. It had taken him a bit, but he finally found his quarry. A victorious smile on his face he reached out towards her plaited hair, jerking her towards him.

 

Raia felt his hand close around her braid before she sensed he was near. Silently she berated herself for letting her thoughts and environment dissuade her from the task at hand. She instinctively brought her hands up to grab at his, but she wasn't able to get the leverage that she needed to break free.

 

He laughed at her feeble attempt to break his hold on her hair and lifted her up as though he were displaying her to the assembled Sith. The look on his face the triumphant expression of a man who was assured that his ticket to freedom was, quite literally, in his grasp.

 

She was forced to grab the base of the braid as well to try to minimize the pain it was causing. He took the opprotunity to close his other hand around her slim neck, holding her aloft again, as her air supply slowly dwindled.

 

Panic began to rise within her as her feet dangled loosely in the air. You're better than this, you are Dathomiri!, an inner voice chided, and a determined rage began to fill her being, focusing on her opponent as she watched him with one eye.

 

She knew that there was nothing that she could do to break his in his vice-grip, but she had a fundamental advantage that she'd nearly forgotten about in her own desperation.

 

The magics! The realization dawned on her, helping drive her will to survive even further. The energy was there, ripe for the reaping, she only had to tap into it. Had this been their ploy all along? To see who truly had the gift and who was merely a pretender?

 

As his firm grip continued to choke the life from out of her she tried to remember what she'd learned from her lessons with the champion. Recalled now in her own desperate will to survive, she released her hold on her hair and raised her arms, attempting to break his hold on her neck.

 

It took her a few tries before she found the right leverage point and brought her clasped hands down hard just underneath his wrist as she drew her hands close to her body. His grip broke, but he quickly reached for her again, this time pulling her closely to his chest, attempting to squeeze the life from her by crushing her to death.

 

As the pressure on her own chest grew, she could feel a few of her ribs crack under the compression f his deathly embrace. The sound of her own blood rushing in her ears began to drown out the continuous sounds of battle around her. Raia's own pulse would be what serenaded her to death's door. Her eyes closed against the pain as she allowed herself to surrender to the Brute's will for only a moment.

 

His pulse! the thought struck her suddenly, renewing her strength and will to survive.

 

Her memory briefly flashed back to Dathomir, where she was at her mother's side as the elder Selik treated one of the clan elders. Raia's task had been to monitor the steady , while her mother worked, relaying the count back to the healer. There were many points on a body that could be used to track this vital function.

 

Raia could feel the Brute's pulse thundering against her back as his own blood pressure raised in exertion. Mentally, she honed in on the feeling of his heart, setting it apart from her own quickening pulse. She could feel the energies around her now, seductively calling her to use them for her own gain. This was far more powerful than the simple spells of the Witches, the young girl could feel it.

 

All creatures have vulnerable points in their anatomy, she remembered as her goal became clearer. Stop an animal's heart, she gave a mental pinch to the out-going artery as she sensed it's location, sealing it off from further flow. ...and it ceases to be.

 

Her gaze looked upward, meeting his as he glowered down at her smaller frame. For all appearances, surrounding carnage aside, the picture they presented could easily be seen as a pair of lovers, one holding tightly to the other, afraid to let go lest she leave him again.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, she felt his grip loosen as he looked down at her in sudden confusion, though, not misunderstanding the sudden knowing grin that curved the girl's bloodied lips upward. "What-are-you?", he gasped in between pained breaths, as he pushed her light form as far from him as possible.

 

Recovering from her stumble backwards, Raia advanced toward him with her own hand outstretched as she closed her eyes and felt the constriction around his heart. As he sunk to his knees, she did the same, though her purpose was to retrieve a weapon she'd forgotten about until now. Raia drew the hidden kitchen knife from her boot and lunged at him at the same instant she sensed his heart bursting. She raised the knife high as she began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and in the head, for she was determined that he would not rise again to take her life instead. Adrenaline rushed through her system, nearly blinding her to her own desperate actions, it was not blood-lust that consumed the girl, but rather a vengeance against the one who sought to steal her life away.

 

After a few seconds, a small degree of sanity finally set in that he wasn't going to get up again, and she finally found the strength to stand for the briefest of moments before the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

 

The teenage girl sank back to her knees, utterly exhausted, "Which one of us is free now?" she murmured to no one in Dathomiri. Blood spattered her clothes and exposed skin, but she made no move to wipe it away. The color seemed to off-set the slate hue of her eyes even more. Finally she turned to look a the mutilated body of the older man.

 

What have I done?, she asked as the reality of what had just occurred began to sink in as the rest of the world began to rush back to life around her.

 

You had to defend yourself, you swore you'd survive! she tried to reason with herself. You've killed predators in the forests that thought you were a meal. He would have killed you. It was no use; it hadn't been like killing an animal at all. At least with the predators, there was still a chance to harvest the meat. The death still served a greater purpose than just self-defense. She wondered if the Sith actively engaged in cannibalism, but the thought turned her stomach. The spiced and savory smells coming from the table weren't helping.

 

Victory won, her mind was still dazed but she managed to navigate away from the sounds of death, carnage, and clanging metal, resting against the weapons rack that had served as her perch earlier as the other bouts played out in front of her. She found her gaze not on the others struggling for their places, but at the host tabled on the dias. Somehow she knew that the game of survival just got harder...

[Qaela]

When the chandelier broke and rained ink upon those gathered, Qaela was intrigued to watch what it did to those in the room. She also took note that none of it fell upon her. Not that she minded, for this appeared to be a Sith only rite and she was no Sith. She stayed in the rear trying not to draw attention to herself and further provoke the Sith. This was their hour, and if she had any say in things, she would have been tucked away in the medical ward tending after her own kind. All it took was one brazen Sithling to decide that they didn't like her presence to slip a knife into her back from among the crowd. She might have precious little to live for at this point, but if she were going to throw her life away, she would do so making a stand of her own choosing. Her right side was aching from the last Sithling who tried to stab her in the back. That event had cost her a kidney and nearly her life. This time, though, she didn't have allies to deal with the threat.

 

That wasn't entirely true, though. The Dark Lord, the most powerful of them all, seemed willing to honor his word of safe passage and an alliance, at least for this moment. Perhaps it would be better to be nearer to him rather than farther. There were simply too many Sith here for her to keep track of, better at least possibly safe near him than certainly at risk in this crowd.

 

While the hopefuls, including poor Raia, battled for their lives to the amusement of the Sith, she worked her way nearer to the Dark Lord. She understood the value of pitting their potential members against slaves. Nobody could be a true Nightsister without having killed at least one being, slave or no. She had no problems with killing slaves, it was the Sith's normal penchant for killing each other that she found pointless and a waste.

 

She picked her way silently through the crowd. No doubt many noticed her, but no knife slashed at her. She drew near to Furion, she slowed down. She was hardly foolish enough to interrupt him unbidden in front of his entire following.

[Emily]

Emily watched the spectacle with disinterest. Furion clearly loved to make a dramatic statement. As the shards of the crystal pierced her skin, she gritted her teeth against the pain but didn't change her expression. It had passed in a moment, and closing her eyes, she saw the tattoo that had formed on her chest as a glowing sigil in the Force, connecting her with the group as a whole. She opened her eyes and glanced down, finding a black symbol the size of her fist over her heart. She knew from her studies that it was the ancient Sith glyph for 'one'. Appropriate, given his vision for us, she thought. Whether he succeeds in uniting is remains to be seen however.

 

The ceremony ended and a feast commenced. Hopefuls were battling in a kind of arena, but Emily had never had much taste for that kind of sport. Instead, she began to move around the room, heading for the buffet table. She grabbed a plate of something she couldn't identify but looked delicious and ate. It was as delicious as she had hoped. She also grabbed a glass of strong wine. She had never drank much, but this was a special occasion.

[Rezjal-el]

It was a moment of sheer and utter panic as the chandelier began its descent. Shards of glass, each flowing about the air as though of their own accord, filled the room with their glittering, shining promises of pain and death. Little could be done for those who kneeled before the Dark Lord. They remained frozen in place, unable to duck or hide from the oncoming points and slivers. Through the cloud and then down into the chests of the kneeling crowd, each bit of glass did its part to bind the gathered Sith together through blood and token.

 

Vaegir could spot his special sliver as it drew near. He stared the small needle of glass down, unwilling to close his eyes in the face of death. This is what his life had become, one near death experience after another. He refused to show fear, refused to let the Sith take yet another moment of pleasure in seeing him squirm.

And then it hit him. The needle dove into his skin, shocking him, feeling more like a heavy-handed fist to the chest.

 

And then again.

 

And again.

 

If Vaegir had held any manner of loathing for the puffed up human, it was now eclipsed with a sheer and ever growing hatred. That anger practically radiated from the young man as the ink within his chest began to take shape and mar his flesh with a dark, Sith emblem. Vaegir could see it as he unfastened the buttons on his jacket, working the cloth free of himself to see as the opaque mark took shape.

 

Much to his species’ credit, the wounds created by the needle-like glass sliver began to fade rather quickly, and with time the tattoo seemed as though it was already months old. The process of scarification and healing passed within only a matter of minutes, leaving Vaegir with only minor discomfort when he moved.

 

And that, quite simply, was that.

 

Now, let us feast to our new found path while our hopefuls prove themselves and provide a little...entertainment

 

The dark ceremony ended, leaving Vaegir kneeling until it became time to rise to his feet. The so-called ‘entertainment’ was about to begin and the sight of some manner of odd furry beast man going head to head with a zabrak was hardly enough to draw his attention. He had had enough of personal suffering and watching the way the Sith so easily inflicted pain upon other creatures. Not that he pittied them by any means, but the spectacle of bloodshed didn’t excite him as much as it did the other apprentices who scrambled for a better view.

 

There were far greater goals in sight.

 

Furion remained atop of his throne, unguarded and without anyone currently pandering for his attention. Now was the time to act. To confront the man who had taken so much from him.

 

Without a pause, Vaegir pushed his way through the crowed of excited hopefuls and adepts alike. His passing was almost entirely unnoticed, given the obvious distraction of man-beast awesomeness and teenage-girl battle wonder. Those who did not move willingly or could not be navigated about were merely shoved aside.

 

Suddenly he found himself standing before the still seated Dark Lord. The sheer hatred he held for the man burned even brighter with the increased proximity.

 

“Excuse me, but might I humbly ask the Esteemed Dark Lord for a moment of his time?”

[darth shadowlord]

Draken watched silently as the crystal etched a tattoo onto his body with a look of annoyance. This was not what he expected, and he was a little surprised and rather irritated although he had to admit the use of a crystal to form the tattoo was ingenious. He finished watching the Tattoo's creation before standing up as the Dark lord announced a feast and the traditional apprentice dueling. A feast at this time was disgraceful, this was a time for action not for feasting and drinking. So with a look of disgust on his face, Draken turned and headed toward the exit of the Ballroom, pausing long enough to speak to Emily. "Good evening.

[Emily]

Emily turned at the voice behind her. "Good evening, Master Shadowlord," she greeted him with genuine warmth. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I have to say I'm surprised not to see Lady Alora at your side. How is she?" It had been a while since she had seen her 'aunt'. But Shadowlord himself was one of the few Sith that she had genuine respect for; he had long been a friend of her parents, and she valued that.

[Hou-Jo Poleb]

Cadivus rose to his feet at the result of Furion's display. He watched the cloud expand among shattered glass in the sky. The display was only long lasting in the eyes of those who could observe the breadth and detail of it all. The Fallen One keenly watched every minute detail, making the showing last longer than it actually did. It was in actuality, quite quick in time. Before most anyone could truly appreciate the beauty and intricacy of it all, the "attack" began. An almost indistinguishable number of shards descended upon everyone in the room. A device largely unused by Sith in this generation, the brand was administered by the will of the Dark Lord; but it was ever so slightly influenced by each individual person. The mental anguish was probably uniform, but those less receptive received their mark in less painful placements on their body. Those who held more lofty aspirations and true iron will, allowed more severe physical scarring. Cadivus' stomach was shielded by his robes. His face was covered with hood and mask. In fact, the only real available target was the front of his neck.

 

The glass needles converged on the former Jedi's throat, introducing a toxin that induced much pain. Perhaps it wasn't his own subconscious that drew the "attack" toward a specific target, though. Perhaps Furion felt that the man once known as Hou-Jo Poleb required more pain. To be properly baptized as a Sith, having been spared the tribulations of training under a Sith's tutelage. The pain was excruciating. While some may have fought it, Cadivus let it all in. Something deep in his mind wanted to feel all the pain that was to be offered. Something foreign that had become a part of his psyche.

So, you're telling me that I will stand against the Dark Lord. After being gone for years, a man very much still a Jedi in the galaxy's mindshare will be defeated. Not only will he not kill me, but he will embrace me as one of his own. One of his generals, even?

.:The enemy of mine enemy is a friend. This does not mean his mercy will not be without pain. And there will be much of it.:.

 

 

The shards of glass stung his throat much like the feeling of forgotten words in his mind; fighting for dominance. A low growl escaped from his throat, allowing himself to be crippled by the pain. Saliva dripped from his mouth, as the pain was intensified. He did not fight it, his mind sought it out. At the end of the branding, the needles were allowed to fall to the ground. Not for Cadivus. Sensing the completion of their work he pulled them all in, keeping them lodged in his throat. He stood up straight, having been leaning forward from the pain. He slowly moved his right hand to his throat. His index and thumb began to bleed as he grasped the first piece of glass and carefully extracted it. One by one each piece of glass fell harmlessly to the ground. Blood spilling from both his neck and hand, staining his benevolent white robe. He pressed his hand up against his throat. The alchemy in the ink burned the blood, trying to seal the wound on his neck, it also cauterized his fingers.

 

He gazed upon his hand, seeing a mirror image of his mark for a split second before it faded from his palm. Free from his temporary torment he looked up to see a display at work. Two acolytes in battle. He looked around to see the ants mingle. He had observed from a distance before, but he decided it wise to enter the fray. He didn't know what Furion's plan was specifically in regards to him, or when he would act. Perhaps it were time he met more of his enemy's enemy.

 

He approached two of the beings he was watching earlier. His hand open and wide, a glass of wine found its way into his grasp. The man appeared to be on his way out of the ballroom. He wished the lady a good evening, but it did not appear he was in the mood (or stride) of exchanging pleasantries. The girl began to make conversation, however. Perhaps he was wrong. The Fallen One took a sip of the wine as his presence was no doubt close enough for the girl to know he was approaching. Not as fine a wine that a Hutt might enjoy from a day-to-day basis, but certainly better than the best the Jedi ever kept on stock.

 

"What a display," he said, to draw the combined attention of Emily and Shadowlord. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything. It's just that... the majesty of this room combined with the theatrics of our Dark Lord are almost enough to make you forget."

 

[darth shadowlord]

"You as well, she is no longer among us. We fell together at the last great battle along with the Empire, and a short time ago the Force saw fit to return me to life. Now I find myself disgusted at the current state of affairs in the galaxy and that is just to start with."

 

"What a display, I hope I'm not interrupting anything. It's just that... the majesty of this room combined with the theatrics of our Dark Lord are almost enough to make you forget."

 

"Indeed.... That display as you call it does little to improve our order. To say nothing for the resources that it wastes."

 

Draken's tone was one of detached annoyance as he turned to look at the man who had started to talk to them.

[Darth Furion]

One.

 

Standing side by side, one of many in a circle of twenty, the echo of her father burned in little Rose's chest. She was alone, and ultimately had always been alone in a certain sense. Just another individual in an infinite thrum of others, a mote of dust in the gale. The flow of time and fate brushed that little particle up against many others in the span of her life to gather together, clash violently, or meet together for but a moment before parting ways. This was but one of those moments, yet now she was aware of singularity in it all and her capacity to influence those changes. Years of lectures and lessons seemed to culminated into this very moment when those words fell upon her like a death sentence, like he spoke them specifically for her.

 

Coldly staring into the panic driven eyes of the tawny woman opposite her, the little girl stood perfectly still with her hands clasped passively in front of her. This was just another individual, swept up uncontrollably in something greater than herself. Where, now, the fate of the two brushed against one another was quite literally violent. Sadly unavoidable. Inwardly her heart fluttered like a bird's as the prospect of what that necessity really meant, but it changed nothing. Life must be sacrificed to prove devotion, ambition, that holiest of desires to live by any means.

 

The woman broke from her panic stricken frigidness, desperation found purchase in the small, frail form before her. Yet, as she advanced, with her long narrow blade in hand raised high, the girl did not waver in her cold, unwavering stance, equally cool sapphire eyes locked onto her own. The slave drove forward with her only hope at her own hands, but expectations fell array. Her blade didn't catch the still little girl. Screams of pain and a fountain of blood didn't signal her freedom. Instead her sword arm held still in air as in an instant the little statue broke and met it with unmovable determination. Before what little hope she held onto drained from her face pain exploded just where stomach and chest came together, seizing her body at once to obey autonomic reaction. Her limbs folded inward in response to the pain, and her upper half bent over in whatever way it could to shield from the pain. In the next heartbeat those same little hands were clasped tightly around her neck pulling her down faster than her reaction allowed. In one fierce jump Rose lept forward to plant her knee in the descending slave's face, but instead of letting go she held on and fell backward with her prey, straddling her and pinning her arms with her knees as they fell.

 

In a swift reach Rose's hand found the narrow blade held loosely in the slave's hand, unable to remain firm in the sudden, brutal assault on her body's sensitive nerves. Foil now switched hands, the daughter dragged the blade effortlessly across the woman's throat and quickly stood up, not willing to remain staring into her victim's face as life slowly ebbed forth from the long, narrow gash. This had all been much like practice with her father, only this time she felt the all too real difference between droid combatants and the fleshy thing at her feet. She cast a quick glance up at the throne and faintly smiled, knowing she had done well but for some reason not feeling the pride he surely did in herself.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Chaos erupted as skirmishes blossomed around the ringlets, quickly branching off into individual struggles intermingled like a massive battlefield. This would be the first time many of them killed, and surely their confusion and pain rang aloft in the high ballroom as it had for many in the past. Why had this come to pass? Any who thought it purely for sport as Julio had mentioned it to be would have been a fool. This was another lesson, rather the first real lesson in what it meant to be a Sith. Selfishness. One could not stand truly free unopposed for long. Inevitably someone or something would stand before them all, and they would have to make the demanding effort of appraising how much their ambition truly cost.

 

He offered his daughter only a curt nod, much more than he would any other hopeful, before turning to the edge of the staircase. Vaegir was quickly ascending, and Qaela held stoically at the bottom, both wanting their chance to make words. He waved them both up and rose from his throne to go to the false wall behind it. With a wave of his hand and exertion of will hidden locks and mechanisms within the wall fell free and the wall slid open, revealing a long narrow hallway that led back to his private library. Once the other two had passed beyond the threshold, the wall closed quietly and bathed the hallway in absolute darkness until Julio opened another door, revealing a large office like room with a wide wooden desk, a few chairs, and walls lined with bookshelves containing a wide collection of tomes, holo-recordings, holocrons, books, and manuscripts.

 

He reached out to Vaegir and ushered him patience, though it may not have been terribly necessary. The pup was furious, to say the least, but knew when to hold his tongue.

 

I hope you weren't terribly bored by my displays of grandeur, Madame Nightsister. I'm sure you understand certain obligations to a crowd such as this. Now, what did you wish to discuss?

[Qaela]

Qaela was more than glad to get away from the horde of Sith, even if she was beside another who seemed to be truly giving into the Sith's love of emotional recklessness. She eyed him cautiously, not knowing where that rage would erupt. She had more than enough experience with unbridled rage to know that it could be devastating. If he lost his cool, she wanted to be ready to react and protect herself.

 

She looked at Furion when he addressed her. "I understand that the Sith like their shows. We have our own rituals for certain times, including the rite of combat. As long as you are focusing your attention on slaves or true enemies instead of each other, combat is good and helps sharpen the strong and weed out the weak. As for what I wanted to discuss, it involves my Sisters that you ordered returned to me. Three proved themselves unworthy and will remain with the Sithling who captured them, but the other six will need eventual transportation back to Dathomir. It doesn't have to be now, but at some point. I may or may not go with them, depends on how things are here."

[Darth Furion]

That is, of course, entirely up to you. You are free to use the full functionality of this station to see to their every needs. However, before I...let you go, Lightly he placed the words, understanding their implication though not wanting to push them too hard. She understood that escaping the station would be quite difficult, and there was still an equation to balance. Promises for promises. I must ask how you intend to use your Sisters in support of the Sith. While I fully intend to uphold my end of the bargain with the children, both your own and others for your clan, what will you do to help us?

[Qaela]

So here it was. Qaela chuckled at what he said, all of what he said. "Beyond the fact that your numbers are no longer much greater than ours and that you need fellow evil beings to fight the hordes of Jedi and their lapdogs? The Nightsisters have for decades been cooped up on one little planet, scratching out a living for themselves and fighting the Witches--a group that far outnumbers us just like the Jedi now outnumber you. They have been stuck there wasting their potential and I think it is time they spread their black wings a little and start causing some Galactic terror and mayhem. There was a reason the Sith master Palpatine preferred to destroy an entire starbase, strand tens of thousands of his own men, and maintain a costly blockade of Dathomir for years and years despite a rather large scale civil war going on. He knew that should the Nightsisters come to the realization of their own potential, they would be a threat that could topple anything.

 

"You need help just as much as we do, Master Sith, and don't bother denying it. You no longer have the mass armies to throw away at your enemies. You can't snap your fingers and send a legion of mindless troopers led by equally mindless Sithlings to die in your wars. The Sith are great at straight up fights when they have overwhelming numbers and don't have to hide. They generally lost their ability to operate in the shadows a long time ago and you can thank Palpatine for that. What you need is to be able to fight smart, to fight from the shadows, and that is something I think your Sith have largely forgotten. They don't know the meaning of subtle, just brute force. This war has become what the Nightsisters fight best. We may have our weaknesses and our shortcomings, but in this situation, you are going to need more than your standard Sith approach.

 

"The Nightsisters don't have that problem. We never had the numbers or the brute strength. We had to rely on being subtle, crafty, and striking from where we were not expected. We are used to infiltrating our enemies just as I infiltrated the Sith and managed to get the Jedi Grandmaster to trust me so I could lead his murderer to him. We are the assassins that can kill your enemy's leaders so you don't have to fight their armies at their full strength. We can sow discord among our foes in ways your Sith can not. And, if need be and if your Sith would humble themselves to learning from mere barbarian witches, we could even teach the Sith a few things about how to fight without being seen. You have a brilliant mind, but you are limited by those whom you command."

[Darth Furion]

You speak of old Sith ways, Madame. Do not think for a moment you know mine

 

Preached to like a child, of his own people none the less. If there was one thing he could say about this woman, it was that she had a boldness to her.

 

Yes, the Sith you knew performed galactic surgery with efficacy of spoons. The Sith you knew had the guile of a jack-hammer. Now they act as I act,, much in the ways you claim your sisters to act. So let us agree that both of us have a level head about us and forget the past. You offer me assassins. What use are feral women on the worlds where my potential targets lie? How can you expect them do get about, or even function in cultures outside your own? You saw how they treated me simply because I was a man. Which, in all fairness, I understand is your way. But to send them off world, in the light of the full galaxy? I don't quite see that working. You were a special case, given time to adapt to the reality you were thrust upon by your mother, no? Indeed, its the trait that I find quite admirable in you. That...adaptability. But do you think your Clanswomen are as capable? As open to necessary change as you are?

[Qaela]

Qaela wasn't convinced. "Yes, the 'old ways' of the Sith that they now no longer practice. Sort of like how that Sith didn't attack me despite your new era of non-violence against Sith, eh? You may believe the Sith are different just because you command them, but that does not make it so. I do not believe you are that naive, so please don't assume I am. The Sith will need time to adapt to what you command because a lot of it goes against their instincts. The Sith Order that I knew just a few months ago was excessively prideful, prone to open displays of their power, and absolutely in love with stabbing each other in the back. You don't change that with the wave of a hand, no matter how powerful you might be at this moment.

 

"I don't claim to know you fully, but I do know the Sith Order as a whole and I don't think either of us believes that it has changed all that much in such a short time. If I am wrong about you, then please say so because that would mean I underestimated your wisdom."

 

She crossed her arms and looked at him in the eye. "You are right about my kind. We are not completely suitable for fighting at this very moment, but that doesn't mean they will remain so forever. It will take time to adjust them to technology and Galactic culture, just as it will take time for your Sith to adapt to not being the ultimate power in the universe. For now, I suggest that we both work together to strengthen the other. Have your Sith and your non-gifted minions start adapting the Nightsisters to the Galaxy and I will persuade my Sisters to start showing the Sith how to fight with more than just brute force. In the end, we will both be more powerful for it and both of us will benefit from having increased numbers. Right now, I don't think you can afford to throw away even a few dozen more potential allies simply because they don't offer immediate gratification. I believe you are a little more farsighted than that, but as I said before, correct me if I am wrong just so we will be clear."