Game ⚜️ Knights of the Eternal Empire: The True Sith Trials ⚜️

[Helkosh]

IC: Darth Pravum

“To serve the Grand Lord is as much a terror as it is an honor. His mood grows increasingly erratic, and he becomes more violent with each passing day. The only thing I fear more than him? Whomever he serves.” - Personal diary of Orthos Randuel

“Come. It is of great importance.”, the Empress of the New Galactic Empire said to him. Pravum grumbled quietly under his breath. But… My cigarra isn’t finished!, he protested silently before extinguishing it on the table, leaving a large black ash mark and following her.

Eventually they came to a place where Volshe rendezvoused with a woman she addressed as “Cordé”, and she called for Darth Kain.

She then led him outside, and the entourage parked there.

“I hope this is worth my time. I had to waste half a cigarra for this.”, Pravum said, lighting another.

TAG: @Admiral Volshe
@Darth Dreadwar @Volacius
@Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus@DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald@Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek@Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys@Metus @skira @Loharr Talem

 

[Voidwalker]

IC: Darth Voidwalker
The Banquet Hall, Sith Temple, Korriban

Voidwalker has just barely made it back to his seat and sat the full goblet down in front of Lady Noxia, offering her the drink when he heard his name called out. “Come. It is of great importance, Lord Voidwalker." He'd barely managed to turn around to see Empress Volshe of the New Galactic Empire and her entire party passing by him, repeating the same phrase to noted other members as they heading for the doors they had entered through.

"What in the name of chaos was it now?" He asked out loud, more to himself but still in a general sense. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a figure passing by his line of sight, it was Darth Mavros also following the group. Then Darth Pravum made his way. Others were seemingly making their way without haste. Except for one, the young girl that had arrived with Volshe and Nihl. She didn't follow the rest of them out, she turned and made her way out the door that Lords Kain and Catalyst had exited through some time ago. What was going on? Voidwalker thought. Whatever it was it had to be important. Noticing Lord Xxys trailing at a distance, it put the nail in the coffin for Voidwalker, something was clearly going on.

He dropped his head and a long sigh fell from the rouge Sith. "Way to go Voidwalker! For someone who didn't even want to be here, now I'm being called away. Of course! Ugh how did I get involved in this?" This time keeping his comments to himself within his own head.

Picking his head back up and turning back to face Noxia, he feigned a smile as he addressed her. "My deepest apologies, Lady Noxia. It seems there's something urgent that requires my presence. I will return as quickly as possible. Please, do forgive me."

As the last of his words fell, Voidwalker arose from his seat, this time he stood with his back straight and head up. For the first time in a long time he stood with pride. Not pride cause he was called upon or because he thought he was all powerful. No, that was just Pravum level arrogance. He stood with the pride of knowing that for the first time in a long time he was free to make his own choices.

Giving a quick look down to the head of the table, he gave a respectful nod to Lady Apollyon and then to Lord Krayt. Voidwalker assumed they were as much in the dark as he was currently. Voidwalker made his way out the double doors that had been left open. Spotting Lord Xxys a few feet ahead of him, he simply followed on at his current pace, in no obvious hurry. He mumbled to himself as he made his way. "I swear on my ancestors that if this isn't important and just a waste of my time, someone is going to die. I don't care, even if I have to eat them like Dreadwar supposedly did that apprentice not far from here some years back."

TAG: @Admiral Volshe @Darth Dreadwar @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius @Metus

 

[Omegon]

IC: Omegon
Location: Trenches, Desrini District, Coruscant

Charred flesh. Vaporized bone. Screams of the dying and the scent of the dead. No sentient’s senses were designed to handle the absolute overload that was produced by battle, the chaos and destruction wrought by modern weapons of war. Men fled, fought, and died, their fates decided and lives ended in the span of time of a single heartbeat. The Sith foot soldiers, putting up what defense they could, were clearly no match for the ragtag group of Jedi, but giving up more ground was clearly not an option. That, Omegon knew, was why they were here.

The vanguard of a larger incoming Sith force, Rayge, Shadowsun, and Omegon were here to hold the line. Alongside them, Omegon had brought Obcisor Pythonus, a specialist in anti-Jedi combat and professional soldier. And so, these servants of the Sith Empire stood as bastions of order amongst the chaos, the tide of battle breaking upon them like waves upon rocks. Omegon and Pythonus knelt side by side, firing their weapons into the smog. Omegon wielded a disruptor pistol and Pythonus a Verpine shattergun. Blaster bolts streaked by, but any close enough to endanger them were deftly avoided by force enhanced reflexes, the shots flying harmlessly by.

The battleground was covered in rubble, bodies, and chunks of metal left from destroyed vehicles, droids, and buildings. It was hazardous ground to travel, but Omegon knew there was more use to the rubble besides trenches to hide within. Reaching out his hand, he watched as a dozen small rocks rose in response to his command, telekinetically lifted. Their size and shape varied, but they were all between the size of a large coin and a fist. A telekinetic shove sent them hurtling into the smog, aimed at the throats and heads of the insurgent soldiers at enough speed to crush throats and crack skulls. They were aimed not at the Jedi, but at the blaster wielding foes, who would have no lightsabers to defend against the attack.

As the rocks impacted on the other side of the battlefield, Omegon wished that the din of battle were quieter, so he could hear whether his assault were successful. Almost in response, as a defiance of his wish, a grenade detonated to Omegon’s left, on the other side of the Sith Officer who led the troops. Thankfully, Omegon’s armor protected him from harm, but he watched several others fall as shrapnel whizzed by. Inwardly, he cursed. Sometimes, it almost felt like the battle was a living breathing entity, fighting his attempts to bring it under control. But he knew that it was nearing its end. Reinforcements were on their way, and the insurrection had no actual hope of defeating a dedicated military assault. If it got that far, they could bombard the rebels from space, though it would cause much needless death and destruction. Better then to solve the problem here and now with boots on the ground. A far more personal touch to end the foolish rebellion. The last Jedi would not fall to an impersonal turbo laser blast, but to a Sith Sword held by their ancestral enemy.

Vaguely, Omegon realized the Sith officer was yelling at them. What was his name? Threntel, Omegon recalled. The noise of battle nearly drowned him out, but the meaning was clear. The rest of the Sith forces were on their way, and soon this force would be annihilated. They had just to hold out a few minutes longer before they would arrive, and then the inevitable destruction of this rebellion would be at hand. But… Omegon wondered how his superiors would respond to an ongoing battle. Perhaps they would be more satisfied with true progress?

He glanced over at Pythonus, who was firing away with his shattergun. Feeling Omegon’s eyes on him, Pythonus glanced over at his commander. Mentally, Omegon shared his plans with the Sith Slayer. Perhaps he could contact his ally Shadowsun, who was capable of tunneling through the earth as easily as swimming, moving himself and potentially Omegon’s Jedi killing specialist into the middle of the enemy lines, sowing chaos and destruction, before leading a charge himself upon the confused defenders. He could break the enemy lines and cripple their forces, earning his superiors’ respect and perhaps their favor….

Turning, he called to Shadowsun and Rayge. “Tell me, brethren! If I can make a plan to distract them, break their lines, will you charge headlong into the breach with me? As true Sith, warriors of the empire?” As he spoke, he batted another blaster bolt out of the air with his alchemized gauntlet, soaking up the power and fury of the battlefield as he did so. The fear, anger, and pain of every warrior on the field fueled him, and he smiled as he spoke. This battle would be theirs, one way or another.


Tags: @Dorrian Shadowsun @Rayge @Darth Dreadwar

 

[Metus]

IC: Metus Aurelius
Location: Banquet hall, Korriban

Recognition. Every face at that table was familiar in some way. In the case of some their names alone were infamous enough. For others, for very few rather, Metus had known particularly well. He could make a list in his mind and recount the deeds and achievements of them all, dwell on what was fact and what merely skirted along the edges of myth. He had no interest. The Corellian didn’t have the time nor energy to occupy his mind with concern over those who either weren’t aware of his existence or looked down their nose at it. He knew enough; for the moment.
Even though the very halls themselves seemed to suppress everyone’s connection to the force, there was an air of grandiosity that could not be dampened. A great deal of it self inflated, a small portion of it truly great. Metus could drown in the presence of many exalted Sith or he could tread water, keep quiet and wait.

Silence. It had been a hallmark of the ghost of Corellia for as long as he could remember. Nothing but the musing thoughts in his own head to keep him company. The fact he’d arrived with both a Master and a Dark Lady did nothing to quell that habit so deeply ingrained. He was in good company on some level. But the chatter of Sith around him, trading verbal barbs, cutlery clatter and sickening slurping upon wine and mead… It caused a fog to roll over his mind. Even if he were hungry he wouldn’t have been able to stomach any of the decadent spread laid before him. Instead he watched, as he always had. Flirting with the line between stoic and nervous. Better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and have it confirmed? Perhaps. This feast, one moment flowing from one to the next each as uncertain as the last. Within a melting pot of beings of power that adhered to the Sith doctrine, a powder keg just waiting to go off. This unsettled Metus the most. Uncertainty. A total lack of control.

Chaos. Unavoidable in a power vacuum. Dangerous when so many lines were drawn, sprawling out like a spiders web. The loyalties, friendships, alliances and personal motivations all connecting and conflicting somewhere along the line. It was all a grotesque mess. And yet as his eye lingered over the Sith seated around the main table, with fragments of conversations sifting through a calm washed over Metus. This night he could possibly die. Or a spark may ignite a wildfire that consumed all in its wake leaving only the cunning and the strong standing at the end. When ever that may be.
In this roiling sea of chaos that lay beneath them all, as much as he’d been enveloped in his own thoughts Metus hadn’t neglected to notice that the Empress Volshe had summoned a small council of Sith away from the table. ‘Curious’ he thought to himself. The first coherent and conscious word to form within his inner monologue all evening.

The one fleshy eye looked down at the goblet beside his plate. Then to the decanter of wine just within arms reach to his right. The risk of partaking in a poison chalice had lost its edge in light of things yet unknown about to unfold. ‘Kriff it’. He reached for the decanter, poured himself a drink. Looking up the table to place his eye on Lady Noxia and then Darth Mirtis, Metus sipped from the goblet. He lamented that there was one absent from the feast that in all darkness and cruelty, in a peculiar way made him feel at home. Her monicker made manifest was rife in the air. Betrayal. That would be the name of the game, the Knight was certain. But where? When? The who’s and how’s could not be seen.
All that he could hope right in that moment was to be able to see the end.

 

[Nacros_Telcontare]

IC: Apprentice Nacros Telcontare
Location: Training Room, Sith Temple on Korriban



Nacros started his training to become a Sith a few months ago. The days since were not necessarily the most exciting. There was a lot to learn, and it was an exceedingly long road ahead of him to becoming a Knight. One day that was notable in his time on Korriban was when Lord Nathemus had chosen him as his apprentice. This was a was a great honor, as he knew Nathemus to be a prestigious Sith Lord with much knowledge of the Sith and their ways.

His training did not change too drastically since he become an apprentice, but it was given more purpose. Nacros, in summation, was not to be bothered with other’s feelings. However, he did make an exception, to an extent, for his Master. He cared about pleasing his Master, as that would only further his training and aide his ever-persistent effort to become a Knight.

​

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

​

The day had finally arrived here on Korriban. Not too long ago, Darth Apollyon sent out a communication to all prominent Sith Lords and Ladies. What could be the purpose of gathering so many Sith all under one roof? Reunification. Well, at least that was the goal Darth Apollyon had in mind. Nacros didn’t want to doubt her so much as he could appreciate her intentions, but he couldn’t help it…. for two reasons in particular. The first was that he felt that too many Sith in one room would never end well, for anyone. The second, he never was very fond of grand parties with the goal of political gain (albeit in this case, beneficial he thought). He felt they almost never produced any kind actual progress in the realm of achieving efficient communication, well not anything that would be of use anyway. There would be plenty of conversing, the majority of which was sure to be a profuse amount of insults, contempt, and arrogance.

Training was the focus today for Nacros, nothing confusing about it. He always appreciated a simple, grueling day of training. In the training room with him were several fellow apprentices, Overseer Marcus, and Master Xiannarr all scattered around the room. Off to one side of the room, Keres was grappling with a training droid. Zareel, using a cortosis-weave vibroblade, was sparring with a training droid in another spot. Kielor was practicing with training remotes before being told to spar with Kira, who was studying at one of the tables nearby.

Nacros was sparring with Loharr, and though this was usually his favorite activity, his mind wandered on this specific occasion. As Overseer Marcus eyes came to them, he spoke to Loharr, “Don't be afraid to lunge when Telcontare's guard drops, Talem.” As he said this, Nacros snapped out of his thoughts and back to reality, but not quite soon enough. Loharr, upon hearing Overseer Marcus, pivoted on his right foot and went for a strike at Nacros. He was certainly not ready and brought his saber up to parry as best as he could. However, right before contact was made, a cacophony of noise met his ears.

Everyone stopped, “Halt, you dullards.”, Overseer Marcus barked. “Read the message, whatever it is.”, he demanded with a tone of annoyance. There was a brief moment of silence before Master Xiannarr spoke suddenly bringing everyone back to attention, “Well? One of you had better speak up! Now, what does it say?”. Keres responding, “Lady Apollyon has requested that we go to the dungeons and don the Sith torture masks there in order to spar hand-to-hand while our Force connection is suppressed, then to move to the unfinished tunnels beneath the dungeons to meet her for training, without our lightsabers.”, was the first to speak up. “This ought to be an interesting training session.”, Nacros thought to himself sarcastically. The other apprentices in the room suggested they get moving sooner than later as to not make Darth Apollyon wait any longer than necessary. Nacros agreed, and simply followed the others in the back of the group towards the dungeons. He was not exactly thrilled about the idea, but he was certainly not about to disobey Lady Apollyon.

As they were moving towards the exit, Loharr and Sol addressed both Master Xiannarr and Overseer Marcus, “My apologies, Overseer Marcus, Master Xiannarr. Perhaps you’ll have to see us fight some other time? We have other matters to attend to, from someone much higher up.” With the statement, they both proceeded to leave. “This can’t be good…”, thought Nacros to himself, “can’t imagine what they are mixed up in. No doubt it has something to do with the ongoing feast.” In any case, Nacros followed the rest of the group out the door.

TAGS: @Loharr Talem @Keres Dymos @skira @Zareel Jhenan´doka @Kielor @Undying Master Xiannarr @Darth Dreadwar

 

[Volacius]

IC: Darth Volacius, Scourge of the Jedi
The Banquet Hall, Sith Temple, Korriban

Volacius wasn’t especially surprised to see Volshe stand and leave, accompanied by her entourage. What he was not expecting, however, was to see several other Sith from the assembly leave with her. Darth Mavros joined them, offering a half-hearted excuse for a polite departure from the conversation, but the Mirialan Sith took no offense. I suppose that answers the question of his loyalty, the Mirialan Sith thought to himself, His and everyone else taking their leave of this gathering.

Whatever had been said between Krayt and Volshe had clearly set events in motion, and Volacius was intelligent enough to realize that it was now only a matter of time until the fighting began. The only question was: which side would he fall on? He knew now he would have to make a decision, unsavory as it was, sooner rather than later, but he didn’t view any of the choices present as ideal. Without more information to go off of, and knowing that regardless of what happened, he would side against Krayt and his supposed ‘Dragons,’ the Scourge of the Jedi decided that he would wait and see who Kain favoured. He trusted his former master’s judgement, even if they lead very different lives.

As he watched the Empress of the New Galactic Empire exit the banquet hall with her allies, his eyes were caught by several cages suspended above the countless guests. Briefly, he considered that Apollyon might have prepared a selection of ravenous beasts to unleash upon the assembled Sith, either as an act of betrayal, or as some crazed form of crowd control. But as his inability to reach out with the Force yet again reminded him that the Force was seemingly absent throughout the cavernous hall, he recalled mention of a certain innocuous creature that was uniquely gifted with that very ability, one that Grand Admiral Thrawn had used to great effect during his devastating campaign against the New Republic over a century prior.

Ysalamiri. Though Volacius was not certain that this was the ace up Apollyon’s sleeve, he had no better theories, and if that were the case, he would have an easy enough time eliminating one or two of them with his wrist blaster before anyone could realistically move to stop him.

Volacius was tugged from his thoughts by the approach of his former apprentice, Darth Skyllan. The S’kytri had become quite the formidable sorcerer since completing their apprenticeship under him, infamous for his cruelty with a bloodlust that surpassed even his own; but the two had fallen out of contact back when the war began, and as such Volacius wasn’t entirely sure where the two of them stood. He was anxious to find out, however.

Skyllan greeted him and Thana warmly, signalling to the Mirialan Sith that his former apprentice had likely worked with Thana before. Not something to be concerned about, at least, not as of yet.

“Hail, Darth Skyllan,” Volacius responded in kind, “it is good to see you as well. I feel it has been far too long since we last spoke. So far there have barely been any proceedings, however I am very much looking forward to watching the executions of Federation personnel, high-ranking or otherwise. I would happily perform it, should Apollyon be so gracious as to offer me that opportunity.” Volacius paused as his former apprentice continued. “The battlefield is very much my home, you’re right. I was just mentioning to Darth Thana and to Mavros how it’s a shame that we’ve fallen so far. When I’m out on the frontier, crushing those foolish enough to oppose the Empire, shattering their weak-minded hope that the Jedi are at all capable of saving them, that is when I feel most alive. I do hope that Apollyon is able to orchestrate a peaceful resolution to this pointless infighting,” Volacius added, feigning ignorance of the conflict that was drawing ever closer, “So many Sith, so many resources have been wasted fighting against one another when they could have been spent finishing off the wretched Federation and their decrepit Jedi protectors.”

TAG: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus

 

[Rayge]

IC: Rayge Vigör, the Avatar of Fury
Trenches, Desrini District, Coruscant

Sounds of war echoed through the surrounding region. The screeches of blaster fire led to the eruption of plasma and smoke upon the makeshift barriers as more and more smoke and dust obstructed the vision of any peering over it. Rayge found himself nearly pinned down, stuck in the trenches with 2 fellow Sith and a squadron of stormtroopers although their numbers seemed to be dwindling rapidly as the 3 Sith were soon to find themselves alone with Commander Threntel. Yet hope wasn't lost, reinforcements were inbound and all they needed to do was hold out a fraction longer. Amid the chaos, a flak grenade had found its way over the barrier releasing shrapnel as it thrashed the commander back into some rubble and maiming 4 of the stormtroopers making up the squadron while Rayge instinctively shrouded himself in the force creating a barrier deflecting the shrapnel. The commander was able to make it back to his feet while the others shrieked in agony at their injuries and once again reestablished faith in the reinforcements "The largest, most powerful ship in our fleet!" He exclaimed.

Scanning the trench, Rayge was able to make out several corpses and their weapons scattered about, he reached for the nearest blaster rifle and began blind firing over the barricade more for distraction and deception than to precisely hit any targets. He also noticed Omegon and his companion taking better-aimed shots at the enemy through a combination of blaster fire and the force. The Death Knight was just about to make the suggestion when Omegon spoke up "Tell me, brethren! If I can distract them, break their lines, will you charge headlong into the breach with me? As true Sith, warriors of the Empire?"

Ceasing the blind firing Rayge looked over to Omegon and let out a slight chuckle "I thought you'd never ask." He tossed the blaster aside and withdrew the extended hilt of his double-bladed saber from his belt but not activating the blades just yet, the Jedi were foolish allowing the glow from their sabers to give away their positions within the storm of dust and smoke but Rayge and his fellow brothers of the Darkside knew better. He scooted closer to the other Sith while maintaining ambiguity behind the barrier as to not reveal his specific position. "What do you have in mind, brother? I could go high and you low if that's what you had in mind or the 3 of us could bombard them with projectiles while we get in melee range." Rayge peeked slightly over the barrier, "Whatever we're going to do we better get on it"

TAGS: @Kint Dranlor @Dorrian Shadowsun

 

[Darth Thana]

IC Darth Thana
Korriban Banquet

Thana watched as Volacius smiled as if in response to her remarks on his foolish words. “Indeed,” he replied casually. “I am ever-grateful that Lord Kain saw fit to break me of that weakness when my apprenticeship under him first began years ago. I simply used the term in formality.” His words meant nothing if he had little use to how he meant them, the zabrak's eyes stalked his body for any indicators of truth in his words or they were just fillers. “Well, I doubt this evening will be uneventful,” Volacius said with a smirk, his eyes seemed to trail off the dread master and follow Volshe and the reborn Krayt.

“Wouldn’t you both agree? I for one, am looking forward to seeing who comes out of this assembly ruling the Empire—if anyone attempting to do so makes it out alive, that is. Incredible, isn’t it? One moment, the Sith as one force were grinding the Federation and their Jedi protectors to dust; we had them on their hands and knees, ready to be dealt the final, killing blow. The next, an infestation of pretenders lay claim to a title they can’t hope to realistically attain, and now we squabble over who gets the throne. Meanwhile, our true enemies wisely take the opportunity to rise from the ashes we had very nearly buried them in.” He paused for a moment, his contempt for Krayt only matched by his contempt for the Jedi. “Either way, the sooner I get to plunge my blades into what’s left of the Jedi Order, the better.”

"That does depend on who is willing to prove themselves and who has the best standing. Sure it will likely be a blood bath if one person or another takes things to heart." Thana said as she watched the New Galactic empress get up and begin to walk out as she called out certain sith to join her outside, one being Mavros who excused himself as he left. Thana didn't even pay attention to whatever he said as he followed the dramatic show and meeting outside. Just as she had bothered to ask Volacius, " If I'm not mistaken Isn't Skyllan your old apprentice?".

As soon as she had asked that question The winged Hesperian Skyllan appeared to the at the time pair. "Hail and well met Master Volacius," They began as they encroached upon their conversation. The use of the term Master wasn't one they'd enjoyed much as an apprentice, and one they still did not now, but here were certain protocols that Skyllan had agreed to follow when they joined the sith, this gathering wasn't really the right place to discard them. "And Darth Thana too, always a pleasure." Skyllan said, their words characteristically soft. But both of the people they were now speaking too knew the deadly potential within the False Angel. "Are you enjoying the proceedings? If Lady Apollyon's words are to be taken at face value, then some of the last remnants of the Federations' higher ups will die today." A slightly hungry look slipped into the s'kytri's eyes. "It's a rare thing that drags you from your studies Thana-" "-and a similar thing could be said for you and the battlefield." The Winged Sith had fond that 'crusader' was a very fitting word for the Scourge of the Jedi.

"Here's hoping we are all suitably satisficed by how the evening plays out." Skyllan stated simply, well aware that off the three of them, it was probably them that was the biggest recluse. What with their tendency to just leave and go explore random ruins and such places without really informing anyone.

The Zabrak turned slightly to include her fellow master and ally, "I was busy with studies when I received the invite from Lady Apollyon, to which I was intrigued by this evening. Although the same could be said about you my dear Skyllan, you seem like the busy S'kytri as of late." Thana's head tilted slightly to the doors that Lord Kain and Catalyst had disappeared and where Lord Xarxes and another passed through. After seeing them she looked towards Lord Nathemus, the shadow hand and lord of pain. The Zabrak knew the power that the lord could deal out without breaking a sweat, she had not had many interactions if at all with him.

"One could only hope that the superior will lead us correctly." Then Volacius began to talk about the battlefield when Thana caught his last sentence upon hearing her name when her eyes locked on the sedriss still. When I’m out on the frontier, crushing those foolish enough to oppose the Empire, shattering their weak-minded hope that the Jedi are at all capable of saving them, that is when I feel most alive. I do hope that Apollyon is able to orchestrate a peaceful resolution to this pointless infighting,” Volacius added, feigning ignorance of the conflict that was drawing ever closer, “So many Sith, so many resources have been wasted fighting against one another when they could have been spent finishing off the wretched Federation and their decrepit Jedi protectors.”

"You seem to speak more like an ordinary solder than a Sith Master, Perhaps you have too much time on the battlefield. Maybe you should think about adding to you lineage as well as your knowledge to better other sith. I will admit you did well with Skyllan here..." her voice changed moderately as she watched how he would react to such leading comments.

Tags:
TAG: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Volacius @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus

 

[Jihadi Quartz]

“HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.”

― Harlan Ellison, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream​

I-Ron was shaking, its metal feets firmly planted on the ground. A living earthquake detector he was, all the vibrations and motions and heartbeats of the room were being filtered by him. Advanced mathematical calculations, a direct link to the database of the Inquisitorium in the holonet, his medical scanner being used at full power.


There was no magic that he could muster now, everything had to be done manually and in binary. All the dialogues were being filtered as were being caught in his advanced hearing sensors, his photoreceptors moving at top speed as his head moved at neck breaking speed to gaze at everything and everyone.


A great monsoon befallen at him, the millions upon millions of droplets of water pushing and showering the chassis. A million and a billion voices and words shouting at his advanced sensors that were reeling in an abyss of desperation and trying to serve each and everyone at the same time while calculating the amount of information digested and the amount of words being used and the particular tone and speech cadence of said words.


I-Ron was exhausted beyond belief.


Using the force would have been easier for such endeavors. He never felt overwhelmed by the amount of information, and the amount of work at hand. Never felt he was choking and without air in his lungs.



Now for the first time in his life, he knew what it would have felt like not being able to breathe. And to want to cry of pure and sheer unrestrained stress that crushed the soul.


He shouted it all down. The presence of Imperial Knights was too much. The vainess of Volshe was too much to look at. So pretty and yet so devoid of anything worthy of showing, a complete utter lack of respect to the traditions, to the holiest of holy places. She was not one of them.


“SHE IS NOT ONE OF US, WHY IS SHE HERE?” I-Ron said to himself.


Verbal sparring with Krayt, the need for violence was in the air with sharks waiting for blood to be spilled. I-Ron would have loved it, shooting her in her pretty and vacuous face right then and there. The golden clothes and the pampered lifestyle of a noble, the imperial knights desecrating the Sith Temple, the quips against Krayt and the breaking off the banquet were, in I-Rons photoreceptors, not a substitute for a personality. He wanted to strangle her, to gutt her, to break her bones with twenty three fists to the face.


Her, and all the imperial knights that ignited all that violence that propelled so many illogical and animal thoughts, unrestrained violence that was expected from a total zealot, a true believer that prayed to an empty throne, and talked in his most private moments to a lifeless statue of the man that now was disappeared. Dreadwar was an atheist that fashioned himself to be a god, so ignorant people like I-Ron would do his bidding without question.


And that was the result of years of social engineering. One reap what one sowed.



He shutted all down. His photoreceptors, medical scanner and audio receivers now layed to a minimum, not capturing the entire chatter of the palace. He would have sighted from relief if he would have been capable of doing so. All the conversations were now resting in the base of operations of the inquisitorium via holonet that was connected to the special decrypter that the body had, to be reviewed in detail later.



A Shard needed to rest. That took a lot from him, more than moving a ship with just Mechu Deru. He was not even using the force. Never in his life a Shard felt so horrible, so many different feelings batling inside him, like a thunderstorm in the middle of the driest of deserts along a lonesome road.


Was his master, Lord Nathemus going with all of them? It was now time to act. He conjured up all his remaining forces, all his willpower to cast away the shackles of exhaustion. He pondered to himself. Without the force, without the Sith, without...with a yilsalamiry strapped to the backs of everyone around him, would all of the people present would do this kind of effort? Who amongst them were all pure talk because the genetic lottery gave them powers? With it they were gods, without it? Well, there were some Siths that did not wanted to be there and were getting away, that summed it up in I-Ron´ s mind.


He did not needed Mechu Deru to hack into things. He did not needed the force to be dangerous, to be him. The cibernetic world was his to command, with all the cyber security at the gala assuming he was a friend. Lord Nathemus, his dearest master, was carrying a communicator. That much he knew. I-Ron knew the password for it very well, because Nathemus was not a man of technology and so enlisted I-Ron to help him set it up. With a wave of the finger, he hacked into it, uniting the microphone now active to his audition sensors. He was connected. More than three hundred years sizzling into things the old fashioned way. He, of course, made it vibrate a bit to get his atention and sent a text to it, detailing what he had done, so his master could shut it of if he did not wanted it.


“Why do we allow this in the Sith Temple?” Using the secret sign language of the inquisitorium, I-Ron told Lady Caramel Phoenix. “I don't doubt any of your plans, but this is not what I expected. They are all leaving, clear disrespect, shall we start the war right now?” Catalyst was very far away, and so anyone that would have also understood the language, as far as I-Ron knew, was not present. “I crave violence, I crave the death of the infidels.”


There was no body language from I-Ron in his message. However there was no other way Apollyon could interpret the message, he hoped. I-Ron was artillery, and she was the one to aim and fire when ready.

Tags: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus @Volacius


OOC: The hack attempt, of course, pre aproved. dont worry, I play fair or I dont play.

 

[Darth Nathemus]

IC: The Sedriss
Location: Banquet Hall, Sith Temple, Korriban
​

It seemed that the conversations surrounding the Sedriss were devolving into proverbial mudslinging. Only there was no mud, and nobody was slinging anything. He could only hope there'd be a good fight soon. Volshe and Krayt kept going back and forth, but neither broke and began a fight. Though it did seem that the Imperial Knights and Nathemus' father were getting rather annoyed.

One such point of their conversation intrigued the Shadow Hand, however. The name she called him: A'Sharad.

//That is curious. Official Imperial records never stated what happened to Jedi Master A'Sharad Hett, but it does not seem far-fetched that he could have escaped Order 66 and lain low until the fall of the Order of the Sith Lords, then made his way to Korriban to begin training later.//

Another interesting development were the rings that adorned Lady Volshe's hand. She always wore ornate jewelry, but one such ring seemed to be a traditional engagement ring. He could only assume that his father, Lord Nihl, truly wished to advance their relationship and not only become her husband, but the new stepfather of the heirs. Nathemus knew what growing up without a mother was like, but he was glad for Primordius' and Deianara's sake that they never had to know life without a father. And Nihl surely was a great one. Perhaps even Nathemus could develop a brotherly relationship in time with the twins, should they desire such.

Voidwalker also arose from his seat after his quick response to the Sedriss' inquiry about his feelings on the Feast. He seemingly greeted Volshe, Nihl, and Krayt in a drunken stupor, but Nathemus knew him for years. He was clearly faking it. But for what reason, the Dread Lord couldn't figure it out. He simply let out a light chuckle and shook his head as his friend returned to his seat.

In the next few moments, there was a sudden haste in Empress Volshe's voice. She looked at him first when she beckoned a few Sith at the table to come with her. A request he could only oblige. He made sure that he had his Sword and Axe on him in case a brawl broke out, as well as his holocommunicator in case he needed to contact the Harbinger or his occupied Apprentice, Nacros Telcontare.

When the brunette rejoined the party she arrived in, the Sedriss greeted her fully. "Greetings, Cordé. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, it's been too long." He continued walking to catch up to Nihl and Volshe and quickly asked them, "My Empress, my Lord, what's our play here? If we do need to leave Korriban, I will need a quick moment to reacquire my Helm from my quarters on my ship. You have my word it will not be long should we do so."

TAG: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Volacius @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus

 

[Dorrian Shadowsun]

IC: Dorrian Shadowsun
Coruscant Trenches​

The scent of blood and fear loomed over the battlefield, drenching everything in its permeating stench as Dorrian crawled his way down the trench line toward the commander in charge. He had been holding the left flank relatively well using the collapsed building rubble as cover, paired with his unnatural strength and burrowing skill it was easy to harass and demoralize the enemy. The troopers that were with him had dug in well so he began to move along the trench, keeping to a crouched position and crawling on all fours to avoid being blasted as he made his way toward the commander

Through the makeshift barricades and rubble, he could see several lightsabers lit through the smoke and dust, defiantly standing their ground despite the fall of their temple.

“So be it.” He growled as he climbed over several dead troopers only to be met with a face-full of dirt as a grenade bounced into the trench before going off. Several troopers were severely injured, one of them landing square on Dorrian's back, causing him to huff from the impact. Glancing back he saw little more than half of a trooper, stuttering in shock as he stared at his missing pelvis and legs. Shifting his weight to one side to slide the trooper off of him, Dorrian moved forward to check and see that the commanding officer was alive as he stood back up. The trooper had begun to wail in agony as fear washed over him, so with a swift and smooth motion, Dorrian wrapped his tail around his neck and deftly snapped it, stifling the noise.


“I would expect the same from any of you. Now, hold this line or you face me.” His voice rumbled through the trench as he spoke, spurring a small volley of fire toward the enemy. Stopping nest to the commander he quickly dug down a short distance, giving them a bit more room and allowing him to crouch instead of crawl.

“Commander. The left flank is secure, for now. If we don't get help soon we are going to be in a world of trouble. Did I hear you correctly about reinforcements incoming?” As he spoke he began to stack pieces of debris at the front edge of the trench adding to their makeshift barrier.

TAGS: @Kint Dranlor @Rayge @Darth Dreadwar

 

[Darth Sedicious]

I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge or lustre or name.

Across the dead face of a swiftly disintegrating planet, ghastly demons and phantasmagoric monstrosities remain concealed beneath the tenebrous shroud of night, preventing the Darkdivers -- a colloquial Rhandite term for Sith seeking their dark knowledge -- from continuing their hastened travel to the designated hilltop, But light soon blasted away the camouflage of darkness, revealing hitherto -- or so their disturbed and incredulous minds would bid them believe -- unseen forms: knobby, pulsating slugs of gastric form; hideous skeletal figures puppeted by misty spirits, moaning still their songs of worship to the chthonic deities that birthed them; humanoid beasts with mucous-blanketed orifices gleaming with luciferase; and eyeless arthro-crustaceans whose chelipeds clawed the frail dirt maniacally. The former predators of Pius Dea Era Jedi, and the former prey of Old Republic Era Jedi Shadows: the Rozzum!, now baking in the light of day, scurried back to their shuddered dens of eldritch chaos, granting the Darkdivers minutes to run to their place of rendezvous with Rhandite “loremasters.”


Their guide, a gengh-noghri, whose delightful demeanor and opulent appearance was starkly incongruous with the atmosphere of the dark planet, walked toward distant ruins crumbling against the horizon. Atop the winding stairs of a decaying of tower did he watch not only the Rhandites elaborate their Nihilistic philosophy, but also his master -- the Sorcerer of Rhand, Entheos -- training a Sith apprentice by the name of Makarov Amit, teaching him the fundamentals of Darksight, Darkshear, and the Aing-Tii technique Fold Space. The gengh-noghri smothered the desire to cringe with anger at his master’s refusal to teach him the ability; he was comforted by his master’s choice to guide him into acquiring a technique of temporal clairvoyance. And thus he turned back to other Darkdivers, and noticed great carven megaliths that were not there before, and that the grey clouds began to twirl into a vortex above them. Shadow domes, a certainty wherever rozzum where were found, extended out and covered the celestial sphere of the planet. Streaks of plasma cut across the sky like lightning, thunderless and painfully bright. And from the obsidian heavens came down the entity hiding behind the astral gauze, the origin of the Darkdiver’s collective feeling that something was alive just above the inky blackness of the night sky and cotton veil of the clouds.


The gengh-noghri enacted the rare power of Battle Meditation and viewed with aetherial eyes the unfolding nightmare ahead. Not even with the limited precognitive awareness of his battle meditation could he have predicted the speed and force at which the spindly, turbid, spider-like legs would strike down and onto the hilltop. Its form was of nothing even similar to any creature known to the most knowledgeable of imperial scholars, and its size dwarfed even the most mammoth of the titavians of Naboo.

It looked like a nauseatingly bloated humanoid, so bloated as for its stomach to terminate not into its chest, not into its collar or neck, but unto its heads: the first head’s face was twisted into the form of repulsive, transfiguring terror; the second face was stretched into the rictus grin of the incomprehensible and perverse enrapturing euphoria; the third face was naught but a raw mass, with noctilucent maggots burrowing in and out of it. An intestinal mass of saturnine eels burst from its stomach, similar enough in appearance to the Sithspawn silan to garner confusion.




The gengh-noghri reached into the strangest corners of his deep erudition and pulled away nothing. Gnawing, indeterminate, panicking fear warred with the logical center of his being. But whether it was some horrible entity summoned from the cold, atramental vortices of Otherspace or the baleful spawn of powerful illusion magic did not matter, for all life here was in danger either way.

He reached out and struck the leader of the Darkdivers with a bolt of determination and ordered him to leave his companions to die so that he may escape. He then turned his gaze unto the ashen forest where his master and friend were, and found them gone. Entheos undoubtedly had used Fold Space to remove them, and so too did he the leader of the Darkdivers.

The fleshly, soaring gargoyles above screeched with unimaginable horror, as if some bit of their thought-extinguished sense of mortality reawakened and exploded like a spiritual supernova. He plunged wearily down the winding, granite stairs. Unable to maintain the illusion any longer, he shed his magic visage and shook off the spectral gossamer of visualization. A frozen sheet of sweat coated the zabrak’s face, though his pale-blue, taut flesh and transmogrified icy horns impels one to think this natural.


For quite some time had Darth Sedicious walked the sepulchral beacons of caliginous eidolons, the kingdom of Zeta Magnus, blessed by the Sorcerers of Rhand and their acolytes, the Rhandites. He had grown an indifference to suffering, no longer focused on the continual suffering of his kin at the illusory snakes of Darth Traya II. Nor he did care for life as he once did.But he did not see any reason to expedite the universe’s journey into nothingness. The only reason to live is to experience it all, for death comes to all eventually.


His personal journey into the abyss was over. Sedicious called upon his amulets for assistance and as he walked through the gargantuan halls of the ruins he atomized the Rhandites he passed. The gelid wind grazed against his robes, and he looked again to the cyclopean grotesquerie burrowing into the planet.
A soothing comfort, a smothering peace embraced him -- a peace so deep, so total, so effortless. It was like…




The Dark.



_________________________________________

IC: Darth Sedicious
Location: Banquet Hall, Korriban
Present Day​

There was no where he could send phantoms to to flow-walk and relive the memory. of the dark world's apocalypse. Perhaps it was just a dream, a phantasmal nightmare conjured by mind-twisting magic. Perhaps. He did dream of it: a great dead planet hurtling through the cosmos, interfering with the gravity of innumerable solar systems and hurling asteroids onto the course of planets teeming with life. Cuneiform tablets had been uncovered on his homeworld Dathomir. Perhaps the apocryphal carvings of incalculably ancient peoples mentioned such in their prophecies. What else could be more credible?


Forever beneath but always more relaxing than the soul-crushing horror of such encounters was politics. Sedicious could plan well and lie even better, which is often all that was necessary to be a name omnipresent in the corners of the cosmos. Though that was totally true for the republic and perhaps federation, such was only partially true for the Sith, for conflict was present in every facet of society and life. Conflict, it is said, is the crucible of evolution, and time spent among the troglodytes of the inner rim will punish one severely when returning. Sedicious was paranoid every instant he was near other Sith. He recognized this, but saw no reason to change, and certainly no reason would present itself at this feast, this gathering of the most detestable deceivers in the galaxy, with very few exceptions.


Flow-Walking broke the worrying news: ysalamiri were in use for the coming feast. Sedicious, clad in full armor and hidden weaponry, breathed slowly -- and stepped past the line of the ysalamiri’s Force-neutral bubble. It was not a draining of one’s connection to the Force, like the presence of a wound, nor did it induce any negative effects: indeed, it was much like relaxing a muscle that had been in restless use for too long. No one was ever safe with Sith, and the disparity in physical capabilities ensured a total slaughter if the worst came to pass. Fortunately, the most formidable among them were his allies. The Sedriss, the Ar’Adas, Anhra Mahniu, and I-Ron all were present.


He took his seat near the freezing, bloody inferno that Anhra Mahniu is, and made no effort to converse, as they both lived in their heads as often, or even more so, than their surroundings.

A smile snuck across his gaunt face upon hearing the greeting of the Sedriss, his oldest friend here and mentor.
“Hail! I’m no socialite, as you know, my friend, but I am very glad to see you!”
How could he not? Aside from being genuinely happy to see a friend, he knew the Sedriss could turn Sith into corpses with ease, a hidden shield against conflict.

A snorting laugh drew his attention.

Lord Pravum. He had seen his rise, and even helped to a small extent. He was no less weasel than when he was Helkosh. A Sith more deserving of the Dreadwarian lesson in learning-to-lose he had never met. Of course, Pravum was skilled enough to have not experienced the lesson organically; he was a master duelist, formidable Force-user, and possessed an intellect equal to his own.

He looked around to observe others present.

Lord Kain was present. He was perhaps the most worthy being to fear, for his true form would have torn Sedicious’ mind apart had he not succeeded the Eye of Typhojem gatekeeper trial.
Lord Catalyst, the being who the quote “I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but i see you are unarmed,” was likely coined for. Or by.
Darth Xxys, once an old friend and still a friendly acquaintance, whose experiences and overwhelming skills commands respect.
Darth Skyllan, perhaps most memorable to Sedicious for his presence on the dark world and unbreakable defense.

His scanning ended as soon as Lady Viscretus’ address had, and gave his thoughts his focus.

Tags: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Volacius @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus
@DarthNathemus

 

[Reiis Invadator]

IC: General Invadator
Sybill II, en route to Korriban

If they could see her eyes, they would tell no tales. If they could listen to her mind, where those tales lay bare and exposed, they could never understand. And Dark Lord Reiis Invadator, known to most as just 'The General,' wouldn't care to explain to those who didn't already know. She had come from a time that no longer mattered, though its effects on her and doubtlessly the others were not something that could be easily cast aside. As it stood presently, she'd lived more in her previous reality than in this one. To say she understood the time jump entirely would be a lie -- there were many questions she had yet to ask and many details that she had not encountered. So many questions she did not know to ask.

But here, at least, things were going well. Better than being dead, anyways.

Her gaze drifted to the swirls of hyperspace putting on a show in the viewport by which they stood. Sometimes, if she thought about it for too long, it seemed impossible that what they were seeing was real. Like someone went crazy with an old-school music visualizer, projected it on the walls, and the choice just...stuck. Yet her thoughts were not entirely taken by the display, for she was in the presence of others and their destination was not one to be considered lightly. Korriban. Blasted, damned Korriban. She'd been to one such gathering before, quite a number of years ago, as a young Sith apprentice. Perhaps it was the state of the galaxy at the time or her low-rank naivete, but Invadator distinctly recalled not being so....on edge. Much had changed, of course.

She turns briefly towards the Admiral who addressed the Priestess, trying to recall his name -- Ontos? That sounded right -- as he apologized for their delay. Personally, Invadator did not care if they were late, so he would receive no more than a polite nod of acknowledgement from her.

Something far more interesting than their current window scene flashed into her mind. Her apprentice. Not the dead one. Not the big one. Not the one she shared with Lord Vexx. Kielor. Her third, ever-diligent in his training and worthy of every ounce of praise she'd ever heaped on him. Their visit to Korriban had suddenly become more positive for the black-clad Dark Lord, who now went mentally AWOL for a moment to more fully react to her apprentice's presence at their destination. Through the Force, she would sense that he was occupied, and she did not wish to disturb him. Settling on sending a small mental wave of 'hello' and good will, she turned her attention back to the group of Sith with whom she was traveling.

There was Lord Vexx, of course, and Reiis cast a glance his way, wondering if she could read anything from his golden eyes. Not quite so, for his eyes did not meet hers, but the swirling torment of the etches on his armor told much -- he was tense, quite noticeably more than usual. And there was Lady Arach -- an absolute viper of a duelist that Invadator had once had the privilege of dueling. Come to think of it, she'd dueled every Force sensitive in this room, at least briefly. For that matter, she would much rather be dueling than on her way to a feast with food she could not and would not eat.

But of course, the presence that most dominated the room was that of the High Priestess, which was where The General's Sith loyalties lay. At least at the moment. And that thought, in and of itself, was not a silent wish for rebellion and power, because Invadator really did not care for power in the same way she'd seen others crave it, nor was she particularly skilled in political machinations. It was merely an acknowledgement of the nature of authority. It could never, would never, remain the same. Perhaps that was best, because she knew where she'd be now if that were not the case.

The Priestess seemed unconcerned with their delay, at least outwardly, as she turned to beckon the three of them to prepare for their arrival. Reiis was ready, mostly. She was wearing the armor that she would wear for the feast on Korriban -- cortosis-weave and midnight black, save for the crimson Sheelal insignia and details shimmering softly. Requiring a life support system meant you could politely attend a formal gathering in full armor, and Invadator wouldn't have it any other way. She stepped forward to follow the Priestess, sending a brief, vague tap to Lord Vexx. It wasn't a thought that had words or even a meaning....just a small acknowledgement. He was tense, she was tense...but so long as the quartet of them had each other's backs....well, hopefully that ensured some degree of success in what they were about to do.

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @corinthia , @Grievance Vexx, @Arach, @dragonsith13

 

[Darth Solus]

IC: Darth Solus, The Consulate of Carrion

Location: Banquet Hall, Korriban

The Commandant’s eyes continued to scan the room. Disgust seemed to surround him everywhere he looked. The politicking and false smiles filling the glorious hall. Solus’ eyes rolled behind his mask. Shows of power mixed with venomous words. Every utterance reminded him of why he had no interest in these events and why Apollyon was a plague upon the Empire. However, that did not mean Volshe was without faults. It simply meant that when choosing between two evils YOU always lose. Playing this was going to be difficult, perhaps not in action but in doing what is right. Doing what is right is always a challenge. Perhaps that is a lesson Reatith must learn. Solus turned his head, now realizing his apprentice had wandered off. The Consulate’s eyes narrowed. Who would he look for? Solus’ eyes caught Reatith moving for Darth Xxys. Interesting choice.



Movement pulled the Commandant’s attention from it’s current focus. Multiple had started their move. Another gathering? A play? Volshe moved first for the door. Stopping and whispering in Lord Nathemus’ ear and then… Her gaze turned and met the Commadant’s before she began her approach. Solus knodded slowly and looked for Reatith as Volshe approached.



“Come. It is of great importance,”



Volshe’s voice was commanding yet questioning. This was not a demand but a request disguised. Interesting. Solus’ mind considered the choices before him. Sadly, his attendance demanded action. If he left with Volshe an assumption would be made, if he did not, well another would be made and other’s would approach. The Consulate watched as she traveled and collected others. Some he knew only in name, Pravum, Mavros. Some in more… Voidwalker.



As Volshe passed through the doors, the same that Kain and Catalyst had recently left through, the decision was made. Solus’ boot uncrossed from his knee and clicked to the floor. His first move had to be to collect Reatith. The young man had moved to speak with Lord Xxys, at least that is what it seemed. His attention fell to the somewhat frozen Apprentice. The feelings he was having were well understood, this room was not simply a party, but truly a game of strategy.



The Commandant approached his Apprentice, his clicking boots marking every measured step and allowing Reatith to know of his approach even before his presence would have been known. Solus’ deep voice spoke gently to his apprentice to avoid attention being drawn.



“Reatith, come with me. Our presence has been requested and I feel this is an excellent moment for you to learn something.”



Solus turned without waiting for a response or even acknowledgement. The drunkard he had taken on was now more honed. He understood how the Commandant functioned and what his request meant.



Few others in the crowd seemed to move in the same direction as Volshe, but it was clear that specific pieces had been chosen and it was clear where they were going.


TAGS: @Admiral Volshe @Darth Dreadwar @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius

 

[Darth Dreadwar]

GM Update

IC: Necro Solaar
Communication chamber, Fountain Palace, overlooking Aurelia Chume'Dan, Hapes​

The private communications chamber of the Queen Mother of Hapes was an ornate affair. Circular in shape and some thirty meters in circumference, the chamber was generously lit by a singular skylight on the right-hand side through which the dawn sunshine streamed in scintillating rays, warming the cool grey table of gleaming songsteel–similarly circular–that crouched in the centre. The wraparound wall was the bruised shade of blossomwine, interrupted only by pillars of dark marble striated with veins of white, and down all its polished surface ran a gossamer-thin sheet of gently trickling water, pooling into a shallow basin.

Spines of green paan leaves splayed out from twin pots filled with finely misted earth on either side of the entrance; the clay vessels were threaded through with spiderwebs of gold, the cracks of yesteryear filled with long-cooled liquid metal to draw the eye to the beauty of their imperfection. Chandeliers of teardrop crystals, swaying gently in the well-circulated air, danced with the sunlight above.

The Fountain Palace was well-named.

The world of Solaar's birth had been dry and dim, the infrared glare of its crimson sun giving rise to bitter black forests of brittle wood and twisted thickets of jagged brambles hard as obsidian, evolved to scavenge for what little life-living light could be found in the low, lethal rays. The cities, twisted grey spires of coral and basalt, had corkscrewed into the radiation-saturated sky from ugly crags of sharply hewn rock, and the masters, red as the sun, ruled from castles of bleached white bone, a testament to the genocide of the chalk-skinned humanoids who had once called Pyriel home.

Not like here. Here, everything was feminine curves and rows of gilded breastplates, architecture of glass and gold flowing like water and molasses around columns of marble and brass. Not soft and gentle as Naboo, no; there was diamond in the thousand fountains of Per'Agthra, an imposing dominance to its lofty halls, but the ivory tusks of mastodon lining its vaulted archways and alabaster steam baths were a testament to the life of Hapes, its opulent hunting parties and bored nobility, not its death.

A shame it all had to be destroyed.

“I beseech you, divine Queen Mother,” a voice called out in lilted accent, arresting the Pyr assassin's dark ruminations, “do not enter.” Solaar narrowed his eyes and stopped short, positioning himself with practiced ease in the Queen Mother's shadow, a common courtesy expected of a male considered so unsightly.

Ducha Goledriel was an ethereal sight as she made her way around the table, passing through patches of shadow and pillars of light. Her hazel eyes strayed to the opaque outline of Solaar, barely visible in the corridor outside, before flitting back to the luminous Aurelia Chume entering the sun-soaked room.

Goledriel's own apparel was scarcely less exquisite than the Chume's bright white finery. Glittering rainbow gems hung like a bead of stars from a long, thin neck, the crystalline lifeforms of Gallinore radiating a soft warm glow in the Force. Then came a diaphanous dress of pale gold shimmersilk, veritably trickling with translucent chiffony, and a corusca-studded belt of burgundy leatheris cinched about a slender waist, folds of fabric cascading like a waterfall around knee-high gladiator sandals with heels of varnished greel wood. Her hair, honeyed as the candescdent currents of the Transitory Mists where the Chume's bloomed silver like the seven moons, was worn up in complex knots held fast by a gleaming constellation of aurodium pins.

So she has seen the message, Solaar thought, knowing the control console of the holographic projector was elegantly concealed on the far side of the table. As the ducha drew near, Solaar's fingers traced up his thigh, creeping towards the push-dagger on his belt, but Goledriel stopped short some five paces shy of the Queen Mother, and the agent shifted, thumbs hooking into the loops of his belt instead in a seemingly relaxed posture.

“My Chume,” Goledriel continued, bowing, “the transmission is not for your eyes, I fear.” Whether the Queen Mother had eyes was a matter of speculation, and Goledriel internally winced at her choice of phrasing.

In a culture that exalted beauty above all else, physical deformity was considered uglier than treason, and it had not escaped attention that the Aurelia Chume concealed the upper half of an otherwise attractive visage with her strange, gold-rayed crown. Although the nobility had suffered through the reign of a deformed Dathomirian before in the one-armed Tenel Ka Chume Djo, the gnarly mystery of what lurked beneath that eye-concealing helm had engendered enough dissent that Aurelia's supporters had been forced to turn to embarrassingly pedestrian arguments to defend the honour of the throne, pointing to that night of eclipse in which the Chume had perceived the presence and identities of her courtiers better than any Hapan.

And to think Goledriel had been on the other side of that divide, arguing that the Queen Mother had let many flawed and unbeautiful things–from the cracked pottery by the entranceway to the repugnant Necro Solaar beyond–proliferate in the Fountain Palace. And yet now... “This message is dangerous, my Chume, and I cannot explain why. It... You cannot see it. You cannot hear it. I... I feared it to be some trick, some trick of this vile agent,” an accusing finger wafted generally in the direction of Solaar, “for its contents seem impossible in every aspect, yet... Yet I think now of the guns of command with which we enthrall our male prisoners, and perhaps it is not so fanciful.”

Goledriel may as well have been speaking another language. “I think of the sorceries I hear in hushed whispers that you have taught a privileged few, the cursed objets d'art and occult books the other nobles swear by, and while I had assumed you were a witch, spreading the primitive shamanism of our sixty-fourth world,” she referred to distant Dathomir, brought into the Hapes Consortium by the century-past marriage of Teneniel Djo to Prince Isolder that had birthed the last dynasty and paved Aurelia Chume's path to power, “I suppose it is not so impossible that you are Sith.”

She raised her hands, as if in apology for breathing the word aloud; the murder of Elliah Fel at the hands of the late Darth Havok had incensed many Hapans, and antipathy towards the Sith had lingered for over two decades. “I do not mean to pry into powers beyond my means... but if you play this message, I fear it will be the destruction of the Consortium. We have had our differences, my Chume, but you have bound the nobility to you more skillfully than any Queen Mother since Ta'a Chume, and brought peace and stability to Hapes. Where you go, Hapes goes... and I fear if I allow you access, we will all go to our doom.”

TAG: @Darth Traya

IC: Teraktassi
Hangar, the Wrath of Vader, hyperspace​

“Rise.” The chilling voice of Darth Cruor reverberated throughout the twisted hangar, rumbling like approaching thunder. It was deeper than the bowels of the earths, guttural, the jagged edges of a rolling groundquake rippling with the mechanical modulation of the Hendanyn skull mask. “Adorn me in my regalia so I may bring death upon those who oppose me.” The voice, Teraktassi mused, of an incomprehensible god of war, a sovereign of grim reapers, the harbinger of destruction.

The lanterns of the alien's eyes, sulphuric in colouration and without pupil or iris, rose from his prostration to cast their feverish glow at Cruor's boots. “At once, my lord,” Teraktassi said, placing two forefingers of each hand upon the cracked deck, and with poise and precision, pushing off them from his knees to his feet.

He clicked his fingers, and from the shadows of the passageways leading into the hangar emerged a handful of slaves. Some bore Teraktassi's crimson skin and predatory profile, bare-chested and wearing black hunting skirts, while others were aliens of different races; a soot-stained avian of Mrrlst, hollow eyes staring above a scavenger's beak, a bruised and beaten Vagaari, twin vertical mouths cringing in fear, a female Chiss with a heavy bronzium collar held fast about her neck.

Each held a violet-coloured cushion in their hands, blackish and barely visible in the darkness, strange gleaming instruments or ebon shards of armour resting upon each. “My lord,” the Chiss murmured, “if you may raise your arms.” First came the spiked spaulders, each the breadth of a man, then colossal crush-gauntlets reaching to the elbows, joined to the former with rusted rerebraces and cruel couters. The breastplate was heavier than the iron of a blood-red moon, and black as midnight, with pointed tassets to protect the thighs. The greaves and sabatons were placed with care above Cruor's boots, while other slaves busied themselves with placing eerily glowing jewels upon Cruor's outstretched fingers, amulets of antiquity to serve their ancient master.

Finally, as the Vagaari fastened a metal device known as a lanvarok to Cruor's powerful wrist, the Chiss, the Mrlssi and Teraktassi himself presented the Dark Lord's weapons for his pleasure of choice. A dire warblade taller than the Chiss herself, held like a spear beside her with the tip of its sheath upon the deck. A gargantuan flail, with a striking head spiked as the Battlelord's black armour, hefted over the Mrlssi's diminutive shoulder like the beam of a yoke, supported only by the weight of its tip trailing upon the deck behind and a decade of muscle hewn from the quarries of Veroleem. In Teraktassi's outstretched hand, a black cylindrical rod, around which curled the bronzium figurine of a dragon, its jaw gaping open, its black throat the circular hole of an archaic emitter. The Soulsaber.

It was the last and most dangerous of these instruments of war that the Lord Cruor drew to him, and the Mrlssi bowed and withdrew with the practice bestowed by the perpetually bent backs of the porphyry mines, while the Chiss turned to attend Teraktassi. She replaced the sword in her hand with a canine helm sculpted in the shape of a Tuk'ata skull, placing it gently upon Teraktassi's fearsome head, while the Vagaari offered a long halberd with a jagged axehead and a strange tip resembling the lanvarok contraption he had placed upon Cruor's wrist.

“Lead me to the bestiary,” Cruor boomed, as the remaining slaves clasped the chain of a great black cloak around his neck, and then stepped aside and bowed. “Draa'zekyl awaits.”

“Yes, my lord,” Teraktassi said, warding the Chiss away from fussing with the sheathed scythe hanging at his waist. Tapping the tip of his polearm's shaft against the deck, satisfied with the echoing crack, Teraktassi led the way towards the far exit. The slaves dispersed in the two warriors' passage, scurrying like womp rats into the dark passageways whence they had come.

The Wrath of Vader was labyrinthine, and the path to the bestiary was one interrupted by a thousand twists and turns through the entrails of the beast, rusted turbolifts conveying the pair through decks of flickering scarlet lights and past strange, abysmal shapes raising feeble appendages in the blackness. Whispers beset them on all sides, the cruel rasping of machinery joined by the low, long moans and distant wails of nameless things, and for every footstep they took upon the cracked durasteel deck, they were joined by others, phantasmal, unseen, unquiet, pounding like the drums of war.

At last, the great star dragon Draa'zekyl came into view, its vast leathery wings folded against each distant bulkhead of a cavernous chamber dripping with unclean water, massive chains being pulled from its behemothic body by spinose metallic horrors in the mocking shapes of men. Into the squalid darkness, Teraktassi descended, clawed feet gingerly finding purchase upon each of the three steps before splashing in insalubrious puddles upon the deck. He glanced warily at the glowing eyes of the beast, the flickering embers of a Duinuogwuin's keen cunning glowering above him some fifteen meters ahead.

“A mount greater than a mountain, my Lord Cruor,” Teraktassi dared breathe. A tower fit for a tower.

TAG: @Darth Cruor

IC: Commander Threntel
Trenches, Desrini District, Coruscant​

“That's right!” Threntel shouted back at Dorrian Shadowsun, tearing a pair of macrobinoculars from his utility belt and peering over the edge of the makeshift trench, through a small hole between two sandbags. He cursed, and pulled the macrobinoculars from his visor, gloved fingers rubbing at the dust-covered lenses. The rain was too scant to help, a miserly drizzle that only served to splash mud on his white plasteel armour and conceal blood. Realising his efforts to clean the lenses were futile, Threntel raised his other hand to his plumed helmet, pulling it off and letting it drop to the rain-spotted rubble in a plume of duracrete dust, revealing an olive-skinned visage with a sharp jawline, two days of stubble, sweat and grit, and haunted brown eyes.

The centurion spat on the lenses and returned to rubbing the dust off, addressing the strange, copper-skinned Sith Knight as he did so. “We hold until nightfall,” he continued, voice no longer modulated. He pointed towards the sun's position not so far above the horizon, its feeble rays obscured by the barely visible grey silhouettes of starscrapers and the thick fog of battle. “Then we attack.” Replacing his helmet upon his head, he again raised the macrobinoculars, squinting through the manageably clean lenses at the enemies weaving around crashed speeders ahead.

Three soldiers in blue uniforms lay under shattered rocks, and Threntel smiled behind his visor. The Sith's sorcery could be as powerful a weapon as any grenade, and Knight Omegon had cleared out the Feds manning a small blaster turret. Now the Feds would have to rely on their rifles.

Threntel's smile dropped. Or not. “Incoming!” he shouted, dropping to his front at the bottom of the trench, macrobinoculars discarded as he slammed his hands to his audio sensors. A shoulder-launched RPS-6 rocket was screeching straight towards Omegon, Pythonus and Rayge!

TAG: @Kint Dranlor @Dorrian Shadowsun @Rayge

OOC: Omegon attacks three Level 1 Federation Remnant soldiers (10 HP each) with Telekinesis. His Attack roll (d20 + bonuses) is 15 + 13 + 5 (total 33), surpassing the target number (soldiers' difficulty class) of 10, and is a successful hit.

The three soldiers have no Defense rolls. The three Damage rolls (3 d6 + modifiers) for each soldier are as follows:

1 + 4 + 6 (total 11) + 2 Attribute bonus Damage Type: Physical
2 + 6 + 6 (total 14) + 2 Attribute bonus Damage Type: Physical
4 + 5 + 4 (total 13) + 2 Attribute bonus Damage Type: Physical

The three soldiers' HP are all reduced to 0.

IC: Ermir Marcus
Leaving the training room, Sith Temple, Korriban​

Xiannar was a bad influence, Ermir decided. It was difficult enough to instill discipline in the lower ranks without the other master's incessant snark staining his training room with disrespect. Middle-aged, easily fifteen years older than Marcus, the role of bored, pouting teenager did not come naturally to Xiannar, and Ermir would be sure to punish the Sith Master for his feigned disinterest; no, no, Ermir had no authority to punish one ostensibly of equal rank, but when had that stopped him before? A whisper in the ear of one of his... favoured students, and perhaps Xiannar would wake up one morn bereft of the luxurious long hair he appeared desperate to retain in remembrance of his youth. Or perhaps bereft of his head!

Keres' prompt response pulled him from his fantasies, and Ermir repressed the smile that tugged at the corners of his thin lips.

Apollyon. Interesting. A peculiar training lesson, to be sure, but who was Ermir to defy the word of the self-declared regent? At the very least, it gave Ermir more time with the Zeltron who had recently been recruited from some pleasure palace on Nal Hutta. Yes, yes, that would do nicely. The desperate hopefuls clung to every word, believing life in the Temple would raise them from their wretched lives of destitution, and where some overseers found pleasure in assuring hopefuls they would be accepted if only they stood outside the Temple for days on end without food or water, Ermir preferred deceptions involving misinterpreting the Sith Code's call to passion.

Certainly, there had been rumours regarding his methods, but in a culture that praised cruelty and raised up the monstrous, Ermir found it easy to excuse his... indulgences as intentional lessons to wring power from trauma. Oh, yes, for the good of the Sith.

“Well, off you trot, then,” Ermir said, shrugging his shoulders. He clicked his fingers twice at Zareel, gesturing at her to stop rummaging in her pockets and pay attention; a decade of training acolytes had made such corrections instinctual, and he continued without pause. “You have your instructions, and you know where to go. Master Xiannar will have to accompany you,” Ermir was all too happy to volunteer the other master's services, “as the path to the dungeons will take you past the banquet hall, which is currently off-limits to all those without a master's pass.” Explaining why was hardly necessary.

Kielor and Nacros were silent but attentive, and Kira and Loharr appeared all too eager to go about their training–Ermir would have punished them for their presumptuous tone if he did not have a certain Zeltron to attend to–so the overseer waved them off, content the apprentices were off his hands. He turned to the console to flick off the holographic projector, and was busy stacking flimsi when Kira's voice rang out again.

“My apologies, Overseer Marcus, Master Xiannar,” she spoke. “Perhaps you’ll have to see us fight some other time? We have other matters to attend to, from someone much higher up.” And then she was off, joined by Loharr. Yes, I know you have orders from someone higher up, Ermir thought to himself, confused. Apollyon just ordered you to... Wait.

Dropping the stack of flimsi back to the desk, Ermir whirled after the two apprentices, burgundy boots falling in quick strides upon the stone-tiled floor as he exited the room, turning his head left and right. “Where do you think you're going?” he shouted. “Will I need to escort you dunderheads personally to show you the bloody way? That is the stair to the banquet hall!” He pointed at the first downward stair on the left, where the passageway wall gave way to an indoor balcony above a large armoury; the two apprentices were making their way to the second, which curled away to a lower balcony on the right.

TAG: @Keres Dymos, @skira, @Kielor, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Loharr Talem

IC: Darth Apollyon
Banquet hall, Sith Temple, Korriban​

An alchemised guillotine awaited Catalyst, Cordé, Kain and Xarxes outside. The frame was over five meters tall, and the blade and mouton bore an eerie red glow, crackling with a faint electrical discharge just barely visible against the clear, blood-soaked sky. Beyond the stone landing upon which they stood, the sands of Korriban stretched for miles, terminating at the towering walls of the Valley of the Dark Lords and the distant, hazy outline of an ancient academy. Four obelisks stood at each corner of the landing, denoting its edges, and two shallow steps–a third buried–led down to the dunes.

White-robed slaves, grey-uniformed technicians and black-plated Stormtroopers bustled about, an overseer shouting at two men hefting alusteel stocks into place. Three prisoners, hands cuffed behind their backs, were being shoved to their knees by a bald, sweating jailor, guardsmen poking unlit lightsaber pikes against their bodies from all angles, warning them not to “do anything stupid.”

The three prisoners wore bags of roughly-woven zeyd cloth over their heads, obscuring their identities, but the one on the right was evidently female, a dirty white cloak hanging from bruised bare shoulders to pool around skintight leggings of white satin and broken heels. Although of approximately human height and configuration, the others were clearly alien, the prisoner in the middle twisting his wrinkled blue hands against his restraints, while the one on the left knelt serenely with furred, three-fingered hands barely so much as twitching. While outwardly at peace, Kain and Catalyst could sense a mixture of sadness and pity bleeding into the Force, as two laughing soldiers stamped upon a conical straw hat that rolled around the landing in the dusty wind.

Clearly, the stage was being set for a gruesome kind of show.

​

Inside the dining hall, Apollyon watched the proceedings with a practiced expression of boredom, nodding at Darth Krayt's insincere flattery, smiling curtly at Voidwalker's drunken compliments, and other than the barest necessary small talk with Nix and VaGhal, remaining as silent as Maladi, Nihl and Wyyrlok in the face of Krayt's barbed comments.

Her affectation was not entirely schooled. Events were playing out much as she had expected; the paranoid avoiding the illustrious platters of food and proffered goblets of wine, joining those physiologically unable to enjoy such in partaking of emergency rations, or simply sitting in a stony silence; others digging in with abandon, chattering amongst each other in the closest semblance to friendship as could be found among Sith, cups overflowing, cigarra smoke adding to the haze of the hall.

The extravagance of Empress Volshe's entrance was unsurprising, as were her poisonous exchanges with Krayt, although her abrupt departure for a supposed recess, alongside a handful of Sith too numerous to merely be using the refresher in coincidental simultaneity, drew Apollyon's eyebrows together in a frown. Surely Catalyst's tale of a treacherous alchemist plotting to give them all food poisoning could not be true? I-Ron's inquisitors had been supervising the kitchens all evening, she knew. “Vua,” she leaned over, “go after her and tell her, if she'd given me half a moment to speak before turning her ridiculous train on me, I'd have said half-an-hour is quite impossible. It would not do for my dearest friend to miss the moment.” Not one so carefully choreographed.

She was not the only one to notice the conspicuous withdrawal. I-Ron's metal fingers traced strange patterns through the air, and Apollyon was about to wave him away for the unwelcome intrusion into her elbow room, before realising the gestures were code. Ah, of course, the latest iteration of the inquisitorial sign language. “We'll find out what she's up to,” she murmured back, “but ending the civil war is our goal, not exacerbating it. So long as you did your job, and the blast doors and shields are secure, we can survive a siege, even a bombardment. Stop fretting so much.”

Apollyon drained her cup, and placed the goblet atop the table. She did not ask for another. Instead, as Vua slunk from her side, she busied herself with finishing her meal, placing her knife between the twines of her fork to cut the remainder of her bantha steak into neat cubes, placing each bloody morsel between her charcoal-painted lips and chewing thoughtfully. Every so often, she brought two fingers to the corner of her mouth, wiping away smudged lipstick, before finally dabbing her lips with a handkerchief, obsidian eyes checking out her reflection in her empty gold plate. Sauce and blood mingled with the caramel skin of a warped countenance, but the reflection was clear enough to tell not a hair was out of place. Satisfied, she lowered the handkerchief and straightened herself in her seat.

No attacking fleet had interrupted them, as Skyllan feared. No vomit poured from poisoned throats, nor did blaster fire suddenly pepper the attendants from a hidden ambush. By and large, the Sith were finishing their first course in peace. The second would be bloodier.

“Esteemed guests,” she spoke up. “While we wait for dessert, it is time we indulge darker appetites. Outside these gates,” she indicated in the direction of the grand archway, “the leaders of the Federation are gathered in supplication before the power of the Sith. Let us witness their heads fall from their bodies, and return with the taste of the sweetness of victory, and in the unity of triumph begin the formal negotiations for the throne over shuura and cream.”

She stood, raising the high collar of her crimson dress about her neck. “Come! Come, all of you! Let us witness the execution of our true enemies!” She extended her hand to Krayt, to Nix and VaGhal and all the claimants, nodding in encouragement. “Come along, I-Ron,” she muttered behind her, and Apollyon made her way back across the hall, towards the great entranceway through which she had come.

Darth Talon rose with her, gesturing for the Zabrak beside her to do the same, and placed a hand on Hadzuska's shoulder as she passed. Her lekku, grown longer in her middle-age and coiled around her neck like a python, slithered from resting comfort atop her shoulders to swish in irritation across her back. “Next time, clown,” she hissed, “don't attempt a mind trick in the presence of Ysalamiri.” Whatever Hadzuska had been attempting had clearly not worked.

She sashayed away after Apollyon, ignoring the stares of the drooling nerfherders who thought themselves acolytes. Her choice in apparel, however minimal, was strictly utilitarian; she had consulted the quartermaster of the Temple on armour that would fit her acrobatic mastery, and then-Knight Marcus had been most instructive. The fourth Wyyrlok joined her, casting her eyes about to reacquire Solus and scowling when she could not, and then as one the hall began to rise, the ranks of the Sith trailing after the departing lords in eager anticipation.

In a passageway leading away from the other side of the hall, Vua caught sight of Volshe and her impromptu entourage. They were gathering in the antechamber before the throne room of Dreadwar, a vast receiving chamber in its own right, where scores of Sith had once sat–for hours, days–on uncomfortable marble benches for the honour of being admitted beyond great stone doors sketched with statuary.

Now, those doors hung open. The throne room beyond was empty, and brighter than in Vua's memory, scarlet light spilling through the window on the far side, casting the spiked stone profile of the Dread Throne in silhouetted relief. The vast frieze that wrapped around the walls were as grotesque as ever, fingers and hands reaching from prisons of stone, but no longer did they ooze shadow and malice. If the throne room was haunted, it was haunted by memory.

For two years the throne had been unoccupied. Out of reverence for her master, or just clever politicking, Apollyon had preferred to sit upon the wooden stool to its left on those rare occasions she had held court, exactly where she had once stood beside her sovereign. Ostensibly, no Sith since Dreadwar had dared sit upon the true throne of the Sith, although Vua knew that to be a lie promulgated by Apollyon, for he knew the vile one Insipid had defiled the chair with his arrogance for the three weeks he had commanded the allegiance of half the fractured Empire. Allocated to protect the feast, not a veritable museum, the last of Dreadwar's Shadow Guard were absent.

Did simple curiosity bring Volshe to the old hall?

“My lady, my lords,” Vua called out, eel-like tongue flickering between needle-like teeth. “Lady Apollyon begs your attendance at the temple gates. The execution is about to begin.” Maladi stood with Volshe, Vua noted, and the Devaronian smiled, flashing teeth every bit as sharp as the Yuuzhan Vong's. “She must be quite eager to keep to her precious schedule to send her pet,” she laughed, and Nihl chuckled with her, turning his head to await Volshe's lead.

TAG: @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius, @Metus, @Catalyst

IC: Admiral Ontos
The Sibyl II, exiting hyperspace above Korriban​

The fabric of space tore asunder, and with the silence of a distant lightning strike, the Sibyl II abruptly reverted from hyperspace, snapping into reality some thousand kilometers sunward from the dusty orb of Korriban. The tip of its prow was pointed like a dagger towards the dark heart of the Sith Empire, sublight engines propelling it with inevitable momentum towards the planet ahead, hull catching the light of seven suspended moons.

As the Sibyl II approached, the flecks of distant warships, initially scarcely larger than the spattered pinpoints of stars, grew larger in the bridge's viewport, resembling a debris ring in low orbit. Star Destroyers far newer than the outdated Victory-class, of Imperious and Pellaeon class, and older lines as well; a Sovereign-class Super Star Destroyer, a smattering of pronged Gladiators, an Executor. Each behemoth drifted beside the Sibyl II in the eerie silence of space, the only signs of life the modulated voices crackling through the bridge's communicators bearing greetings and relevant positioning data, as Admiral Ontos followed Hesper out.

The trek to the hangar bay was mercifully short. Serving on the Auspex was exhausting in comparison; aboard the Sibyl II, it only took a few turbolifts and a brisk pace to navigate the 900-meter-long vessel and reach the primary hangar in a handful of minutes. A shuttle was waiting for them, technicians already disconnecting the fuel lines in preparation for departure.

“After you, Imperatrix,” Ontos bowed, arm sweeping ahead to indicate the lowered boarding ramp. “I have taken the liberty of dispatching two Sith Knights to the storage bay to transfer the prisoner to the shuttle's hold, as we cannot keep him aboard securely. Lady Apollyon has holding cells designed for dangerous Jedi captives. Unless you would rather he accompany us in chains.” Ontos intentionally left out a third option, that the prisoner not accompany them at all.

Truthfully, Ontos had little idea as to what Hesper wanted with Lord Draconis, and even less of an idea as to why he was imprisoned; he only knew that the danger to the crew was unacceptable, and he would fiercely advocate against the murderous Sith Lord's continued presence aboard the Sibyl.

When the matter was decided, and all was ready, the shuttle lurched from the hangar's deck, through the magcon field beyond, and arced in a graceful curve towards the surface of Korriban, plumes of ionised plasma following in its wake. A voice crackled in the cockpit. “This is Temple control. You are cleared for landing in hangar 13.”

TAG: @corinthia, @Reiis Invadator, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Arach

OOC: I have intentionally left it ambiguous as to who is aboard the shuttle and who is piloting it, so as to allow for players' (principally Hesper's and Draconis') decisions here, particularly regarding the imprisonment angle. Draconis, feel free to godmode the NPC Sith Knights referenced, if preferred. Players aboard the shuttle may proceed to make their entrances into the Sith Temple and/or the feast tagset, if they wish.

 

[Darth Cold]

IC: Hadzuska
Banquet hall, Sith Temple, Korriban


“Next time, clown,” Talon hissed, “don't attempt a mind trick in the presence of Ysalamiri.” Hadzuska had unfortunately been unsuccessful with his attempt to hypnotize her, which aggravated him, but he had to think of the long game. Oh well. Hopefully the suggestion still sticks in her mind at least, festering until ripe for fruition. But patience was key to this.


Hadzuska stood up and followed the congregation outside looking for any way he could find mischief to aid in his plans. This after all was the first time he had actually been in this temple, even if his memories said otherwise. Hadzuska trailed his hand on the wall as he walked, absently searching for hidden switches he might be able to use for later if things got out of hand.

Stepping outside, his first sight was of the guillotine in its magnificence. Or so that was what most of these blood thirsty heathens were probably thinking, however Hadzuska thought it to be a waste. A glorified inefficient tool to make you look like you have power. In truth, if he had his way he would use their heads in a different way. Breaking them and having the supplicants that serve them look upon them in fear and dread as their once great leaders drooled on, unable to tell the difference between a Loth cat and a member of the political fields, let alone an ally.


Madness was a key to everything. A factor to power. A fact of life itself. He breathed in the dry air, feeling his connection to the Force reestablishing, knowing he wasn’t the only one now. This was now dangerous. His hands now brushed against his tools, ready to defend himself if needed. He knew he had already angered at least one member of this congregation already after all.



TAG: @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius, @Metus @Darth Dreadwar

 

[Admiral Volshe]

IC: Empress Volshe and Cordé Venau
The Corridor

Vua spoke. As Maladi did.

There was a moment of contemplation. Her heart thrummed at the sight of the throne, bathed in light, coaxing and urging her into its resplendent seat. It called to her, the clawed hands of the walls reaching for her.

They chanted her name, in her mind’s eye. She could hear them, the legions of Sith, falling to their knees. Gazing to her with utter reverence. She had craved this, for what seemed to be aeons.

But the vision was shattered by a familiar call. She frowned, the voice of her daughter, frantic, ringing through the hall. Her head turned, headdress chiming with a soft symphony.

“Mother! Mother! Father!”

Her footfalls landed now on the stone, the slap of her sandals echoing around them. Her eyes were wild, a wildness she had not seen in a very, very long time. Instantly, she was as on edge as Cordé was.

“You must come with me. Now. Now! There is an execution. Of the Federation leaders!”

Volshe resisted the urge to run with her daughter, in that moment. Instead, her features curled into a deep distaste, even deeper than her prior frown, and she turned on her heel to face her. Her daughter was not easily spooked, she was never so wild or untamed. Her daughter was a woman of society, of elegance and reservation, who had spent the last seven years steeped in the highest echelons, aiding her in her stalemate of the Federation. But this...this was excusable.

An execution.

The entire Hall was going to be outside. Apollyon had clearly summoned them, Vua had pursued and spoken to them. Cold ice clutched at her heart.

They were going to cut the heads from the snake, allow it to writhe as they cheered victory. Nausea pricked at her throat at the thought.

It was precisely why she had not exterminated the Federation leaders of yet. Not due to her own incapacity, but precisely because the galaxy could not afford a writhing, dying animal. Not one that encompassed so much of the military force of the galaxy. Not when she knew what lie on the horizon.

There was no time for contemplation, nor elaborate plans to subvert what was occurring.

Her eyes were hardened. She brought herself to face her allies. Her gaze settled firmly on those of her entourage. Two in particular.

“Wait until her lackey has pursued me, then take the throne. Bring the children,” she hissed at Lord Nihl, words soft enough the Vong would never hear. She looked up to Lord Nathemus with the same icy, cold stare. “Lady Maladi, Lord Nathemus. Defend Lord Nihl, and my heirs. This is my will.”

Her voice lowered, a solemn determination rippling from her words.

“The rest of you, follow me. You will have to indulge your trust in me. I have trusted you for the last many months, I know we have common goal.” She took a moment to pause, to assess them. Her cloak tumbled from her arms as she undid the satin sash, and she left it there, lying in the hall. She leaned down, unlacing the straps at her ankles and beginning to pull her heel from her foot. “I know well you do not understand what I am about to do. That you will have desired to see the deaths of our enemies, as I would, in a different place and different time. But I assure you, it is for the greater good. I assure you, the Sith are always, and have always been my priority. Your survival, the survival of the Sith is paramount to me. And I implore you, now-“ One of the heels went flying, skidding across the floor. The next followed. “- in this moment of great importance both to the Sith, and the galaxy, to stand and fight by my side.”

She turned and followed Cordé, glancing back to see who followed her. As they walked, she spoke to the woman in hushed tones, though her words did not carry more than a foot or two, the hiss of the whisper did. As did the padding of her bare feet.

“Cordé. You will tell Lord Kain of my will. If this should devolve, he will save Sia, however he can. He will take her to Fondor.”

Cordé nodded as they walked. She understood, but she was anxious that the Beloved Son would not. He frightened her. She was wise to be frightened by him, she knew, but it still did not quell the lurch of cold waves that crashed against her and wound chill up her spine. She willed herself not to show it. Concern still leeched into her features.

~

As they made it to the doors - only a short distance away - she surveyed the terraced courtyard. The setting sun blinded her, for a moment, shards shattering from the glimmering obsidian that surrounded her. It was red, as her rage. Her skirt trailed the sands, her bare feet sinking step by step into the frigid dust. Her daughter broke away, glancing at her mother for reassurance as she approached Lord Kain, crimson glinting in her unsettled gaze. Viscretus nodded to her, once.

She inhaled. Her breath held, weighing in her chest. If she survived, this, well... Erastus would kill her.

It took a moment, two, for her vision to return to her. The blade of the guillotine grabbed her focus, first, visible through the doorway. The sheen of crimson glanced off just as the malevolent rays of Horuset had caught her daughter’s eye. The sun spilled blood on the sands, decadent ichor that she hoped was no portent for the next minutes.

She did not stop just past the doorway, nor at the gathering place of the rest of the crowd. She strode ahead, imperial knights trailing behind her, the rest of the entourage behind the crimson clad guards. Their armour shone with menacing glare. There was the soft click of their armour with every step as they approached their destination. It normally would have been soothing. But not now.

Now, it was nothing more than a reminder of what was to come.

Her feet touched sand as she stepped onto the terrace. A thrill ran up her spine, goosebumps settling on her pale skin. She was not afraid, no, but she was concerned.

Her eyes darted to the prisoner’s guards, caught by their movement. Three of them knelt to the stone. She could recognize them, now, she realized.

She was crowned in sunset, but only metres away, there were those crowned only in rags.

Her assumption - and her daughters word - had been correct. Her hand curled around the saberstaff that hung, glistening at her belt, and her lip curled into a snarl. Seeing them irritated her, deeply, stoking the embers in her gut to smouldering. It was not simply because they had been her enemy, locked in a seemingly endless, brutal war with her. Not simply because they had burned Theed, and deposed her from her throne.

Her muscles stiffened for an instant, making the careful steps across the sand more difficult. She could scarcely believe what she was about to do. There was a voice willing her to return to her throne, a greed driven demon that hissed divine temptation to the shadowed recesses of her soul. It stung. It ached.

To die was perhaps unavoidable, now. Her mortality had become a terrible, yet familiar friend since her visit with Lord Kain. But to die defending those who she had hated, just months ago? It seemed surreal. Though she knew well it was what must happen. The war was a pitiful thing, in the grand scheme of it all.

The Sith would not understand. They did not need to.

Her heart was in her throat, each slow beat painful, clawing at her breaths. Every inch she moved seemed to accomplish nothing, the sands and stone stretching before her.

The blade in her hand clicked as she unhooked it partly from her belt. She hid it behind her forearm as her arm fell, just as she neared the prisoners. For a moment she regarded them, head tilting to inspect them as if she were utterly innocent in her intents. “Cease,” she hissed at the guards, suddenly, her lip curling.

Then, she turned. She stood poised, her expression offering no betrayal of emotion. Her golden eyes caught the dying sun, her dress a thousand shards of light. She was swathed in rivulets of blood and radiance.

Yet, she was no less deadly because of her beauty.

Her voice rang out, over whatever noise might have contested her.

“I am Darth Viscretus, Empress of the Sith, wife of Emperor Dreadwar, and mother of his heirs. I carry another heir within me. I am the true Empress, Chêra Sith’ari, by issue and marital right, as well as my own right, and I command you all put an end to this spectacle at once.”

The Imperial Knight at her side gripped her ‘saber, as did the others. Not precisely unthreatening. She paid it no mind. She preferred their preparation to their being caught unawares.

She turned to Apollyon, utter disdain in her gaze. It was enough that her eyes may have well killed the woman there, should she have had the arcane ability of deadly sight. “They will not die, not now. I require them.”

The threat was clear. There was no room for negotiation.

As she awaited her friend’s response, eyes leveled on the woman of shadowed eyes in crimson gown, she began to focus her energy on one thing. Tendrils of ink, intended to surround the very prisoners they sought to kill in an esoteric cage of protection. She did not summon them, not yet, but the art of dark side tendrils was one of taxing effort and great expertise.

If they questioned her, she would simply show her power was as great as her will.



TAG: @Darth Dreadwar @Darth Kain@Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus@Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia@Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz@Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh@G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek@Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius, @Metus @Catalyst

 

[Darth Xxys]

(XXYS IC)
The Hallway

Xxys could see that the Empress and her entourage had stopped in the hall and were conversing amongst themselves. He was not with their party but wanted to keep both the Empress and the Lady Apollyon in his sight. Too much was at stake to let some stray blade tip the scales and send the entire Empire into chaos.
As he watched closely the woman that had accompanied the Empress and her guards ran to the hall. She was visibly upset and her words spilled out in a jumble.

"Mother, Mother, Father!" her breath ragged from her excitement.

"You must come with me now NOW!" she was in near panic

"There is an execution...of the Federation prisoners!"

The Empress became visablely angered and in hushed tones that Xxys could not hear from his vantage she spoke to her followers. In short order she then turned and leaned down to remove her footwear which she flung across the floor then stood with her bare feet on the polished stone.

The Empress turned a stalked down the corridor heading to the gathering crowd bent on seeing Jedi blood spilled. It was obvious to Xxys that she did not approve of the coming "festivities" but could see no reason for her to oppose thier killing. They were a stain on the galaxy, one that needed to be ...purged.

As she strode down the corridor another contingent of her entourage broke away and returned to the banquet hall.

Now Xxys was on the horns of a dilemma.
Follow the Empress, or stay with the group that was quickly approaching the hall?

"Ah Kriff." Xxys muttered.

He decided to stay with the Empress and followed her group at a distance.

The Force.
It washed over him like a wave of warm water as the effects of the Ysalamiri faded and immediately his senses flooded with the perceptions and thoughts of those around him. His head was a cacophony of voices, and a kaleidoscope of images rattled through his mind in an incoherent jumble. He halted for a few seconds to reestablish his ridged self control.
The voices faded and his mind cleared as the Empress began to speak to the gathering crowd.

She stood next to a massive guillotine nearly twenty feet high. The blades edge glinting in the final rays of Hourset. The intended victims, bound and on their knees, were unfamiliar to Xxys and he could see no reason to spare them. This spilling of blood could unify the Sith, if even just long enough to keep this party from developing into a bloodbath.

This was bad.

'I am Darth Viscretus, Empress of the Sith, wife of Emperor Dreadwar, and mother of his heirs. I carry another heir within me. I am the true Empress, Chêra Sith’ari, by issue and marital right, as well as my own right, and I command you all put an end to this spectacle at once.'

Her guards all placeud their hands on their weapons.

Very bad.

Xxys moved through the crowd like a serpent. He had already shed his cloak, handing it to a droid servant. Some moved to make way for the Lord, but most were locked on the glimmering beauty that stood before them, denying them thier spectacle. Xxys had made his way to the left side and just behind the dias where the dropblade stood. He was no more than a few meters from the Empress.

She turned and spoke directly to Apollyon though her words were intended for all.

“They will not die, not now. I require them.”

The air was electric with anticipation.



TAG: @Darth Sedicious @Darth Dreadwar @Volacius @Darth Nathemus @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Reatith Blodraald @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Darth Thana @Hadzuska_The Jester @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Admiral Volshe @Darth Xirr

 

[Darth Xirr]

IC: Darth Xirr
The ISS Brotherhood, Deep Space, One Week Before the Banquet

The two years following Dreadwar’s disappearance and the subsequent power struggle that followed had not been exactly kind to Lord Xirr. Never one with ideations of power grand enough to believe himself capable of leading the whole host of the Sith Empire, Xirr found that his place in this universe now wracked with unrest and strife, was as somewhat of a… freelancer. At least that is the title that gave the armored Lord at least some peace of mind.

He had spent the two years travelling the galaxy from seedy cantina to seedy cantina, picking up whatever jobs he believed would be thrilling. From the now decrepit streets of Coruscant where Xirr had been recruited to bring down one of the many street gangs terrifying the residents, or the Krykna nest he had cleared on some remote system of which he could not recall the name. It was all a blur to Xirr, one day bleeding into the next, one week into another. Though the Lord supposed those were the consequences of frequent space travel.

This day was winding itself down, Xirr believed anyway.

*chirp chirp*

The armored lord looked down to his flashing holocommunicator as his tarnished plate boots clicked a metallic rhythm on the grey steel floors of the ISS Brotherhood, he grabbed the fist sized piece of machinery and brought it near enough to his hooded face to see what information the comm unit brought him this time, but as he focused on the small silver disc to take in the message his eyes widened at the sight of a name he hadn't seen since before the collapse…

“Oh?” The lord asked himself, an eyebrow raised in an intrigued expression, “This should be fun.” he finished decisively before quickly pivoting on his heel, his destination changing quickly from his quarters to the bridge.





IC: Darth Xirr
Banquet Hall, Korriban

The festivities were already beginning when Xirr’s transport docked in bay 4, releasing clouds of steam that nearly obscured the armored Lord’s vision beyond the loading ramp. That was of no consequence to him, if there was to be violence tonight, Xirr felt assured that it would not take place in the hangar, of all places.
Xirr had taken the care to shine his battle-worn armor to the furthest extent he could manage, but many years of struggle and strife had worn away its once gilded sheen. His trademark cloak still hung on his back, now faded by exposure to multiple suns and various other corrosive elements, and tattered at the seams. Xirr’s hair had grown long and his beard scruffy, both of which he had groomed to the best of his ability before his arrival. Never one for fashion, and even less so now following a fractured Empire and years on the road, Xirr had managed to make himself… presentable.

The Armored Lord had been quiet for most of the feast, exchanging brief greetings with his long-lost friends… if he could call them that, but other than those few words he had kept to himself, listening to the mutterings of the others within earshot. In the presence of the Ysalamiri Xirr found himself feeling almost naked, even though he knew that his force sensitivity was not his most fearsome capability.

Poison, Eh? Xirr thought absently, noting that he should likely shy away from the food and drink being served. After all, this was a gathering of some of the most mischievous and conniving minds in the galaxy.

Suddenly Lady Apollyon stood from her seat and called the guests to follow her to the courtyard, through the doors that Lords Kain and Catalyst had slipped out earlier in the night.

An execution. Xirr rolled his eyes, the expression masked behind the shadow of his drawn cowl. No doubt the machination of Lady Apollyon as a show of force against the enemies of the sith. Or perhaps it was truly a show of force to any within the sith who would challenge the caramel-skinned Lady or her entourage. Xirr shrugged his shoulders at the thought, snapping out of his head, he stood and began to follow the crowd of sith out into the Korriban air, regardless of the true intention of this little display, Xirr was anxious to get out of the banquet hall and away from the suffocation brought upon them by those damnable lizards.

Minutes had gone by, Xirr was unsure how many, but he knew that the execution was nearly prepared, the alchemized blades that hung from the elaborate guillotines glinted in the sunlight, their sharpness could be seen without the need for touch, though Xirr knew that they would never grow dull, necks were nestled into their places and locked in, and the executioners were restless.

That was until Empress Volshe appeared in defiance.

“Cease,” The Dark Lady hissed, grabbing Xirr’s attention once more “I am Darth Viscretus, Empress of the Sith, wife of Emperor Dreadwar, and mother of his heirs. I carry another heir within me. I am the true Empress, Chêra Sith’ari, by issue and marital right, as well as my own right, and I command you all put an end to this spectacle at once.” She called out, seemingly focused on Apollyon

Xirr took the moment of commotion to reposition himself among the crowd, he had found himself near the rear, but he could make out the forms of Lords Kain and Catalyst ahead of him, nearer the guillotines and the new spectacle of the evening. Quickly and quietly as possible, Xirr weaved through the crowd towards his friend, approaching with a wide eyed expression as if to say ‘you see this too, right?’

“They will not die, not now. I require them.” Volshe finished. The silence that followed was almost deafening.

Xirr’s eyes flitted between Volshe and Appolyon, waiting with bated breath to see who would speak up. It was not Xirr’s place to offer words for or against the execution. He had been gone too long to know enough about this particular problem, and so, strangely for the talkative sith, Xirr continued to remain silent, though the muscles in his arms began to tense, ready to spring to the hilts of the dual lightsabers that hung on his belt.

Lord Xirr was not a raving fanatic of executions as spectacle in the first place, they tended to leave a bad taste in his mouth and he found them to be unfair and barbaric. He preferred the method of trial by combat, a ‘fair’ challenge to the death. Xirr had never lost.

And so, The Armored Lord had made his mind up, if the execution was to be halted, so be it. Though these were some of the greatest enemies of the Sith, fractured or not; Xirr wanted to hear the reasoning behind Volshe’s bold play.

TAG @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh@G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius, @Metus @Catalyst

 

[G.Kn]

IC: Darth Skyllan

----

Volacius made some good points about putting an end to their biggest opponent, though Skyllan couldn't help but agree with Thana. Then again, Bane had ultimately been a soldier prior to being a sith, and the Winged One would bet their ship that the man had retained that militant attitude throughout his shadow campaign against the Jedi. So there were definitely points in the warrior's favour when it came to maintaining his viewpoint.

"I like to equate raising an apprentice to cutting through a wall. The wall itself, is the same, but not everyone has the same tools to work with. Some apprentices are like swords, some like hammers, some like pieces of paper. All of which requiring a different amount of effort and style to successfully cut through the wall." Skyllan found themself saying in response to Thana's statement that Volacius had done well with them.

"In the case of myself, I can't help but feel my Master was equipped with a Plasma Drill." They said with a slight chuckle. Raising their eyebrow at Volacius to see if the mirialan disagreed. Skyllan didn't think the man would, but there was always a chance. As far as the Ashen Sith was concerned though, their success had been mainly due to themself. If anyone else went to take credit for that, even their former master, what followed would be an interesting 'conversation'.

Just as Skyllan finished speaking, the group's attention - live everyone else in the hall - was demanded by Lady Apollyon's speech. The Winged Sith wondered how Apollyon felt, knowing that those around her aren't just sitting around the table placidly, but lying in wait for their opportunity. For a single moment of weakness to pounce on. That is what it means to be the center of attention, what it means to stand near, or even at, the top of the Sith Order. None of this thought was visible on their face however.

"Well, I suppose we should go take a look at the treat that has been prepared for us." Skyllan murmured to their current conversation partners as they stood up. The sith began to leave, and although they didn't look to their sides to see, they could hear that Volacius and Thana were walking with them. It was rather unsettling to realise that they were being flanked by two people genuinely considered to be their equals, but be unconcerned about an attack.

Perhaps it was the apprenticeship bond, or the private conversations with Thana. But having them nearby didn't threaten Skyllan. Perhaps it was because both of them were more neutral sith than others, it would take a tad more to cajoal them into action then it would the crowd Viscretus left with, or Apollyon's disciples. If these two were to turn on Skyllan then it would likely be due to something the s'kytri had done, which the pair took offense to. That was something they could control. Regardless, the Ashen Sorcerer would have to examine these feelings later and decide if they were potentially problematic enough to be exorcised from their mind.

The sight of the great guillotines was certainly interesting, but in that same moment, Skyllan found themself a tad distracted by the screaming voices in their head, the crystal of the sceptre shifting to be just a shade darker. Almost unnoticeable except to those who knew to look.

---AITOROUS/ MONSTER/ BETRAYER/ CURSEOFMYFLESH/ OUTCAST/ EGGBREAKER/ LOATHESOMEBITCH/ SITHSCUM/ EGGBREAKER/ FILTHOFTHISWORLD/ EGGBREAKER/ WEAKLI---

Skyllan immediately silenced the echoes of Clan Acherjon by slamming their mind shield into place. Halting the hurled abuse with a moment's thought. Normally they left it so they could hear the hateful voices as to better draw on that loathing, but there were other things that demanded their attention much more prominently then this mental display.

The prisoners were all bound and restrained, with guards poised to kill them. An understandable set up. The ones laughing, though on the outside of things bothered Skyllan. In their mind, the only person allowed to criticise another, was one who'd proven themself their better. Looking at the prisoners, especially the calm one at the end, they couldn't help but feel a snarl spread across their face. As if these random troopers were a match for what Skyllan was quite sure was a jedi - likely a master given the beings rank in the federation.

Darth Skyllan had killed a master jedi before, it had been one of the hardest fights of their life, it was one of their prouder moments. The fact that these bottomfeeders treated such an opponent with such scorn was irritating. That jedi could almost definitely butcher any of the assembled troops here in one and one combat. The soldiers had no right to ridicule one above them. That was a task for Skyllan and their ilk, the other beings here with the title of Darth. Might makes right, and these troopers had none.

That being said, they had likely picked by Apollyon or the Inquisitors like Knight I-Ron. Furthermore they were, poorly or not, guarding the federation prisoners. Fetching more guards would not be difficult, but it would be unnecessary fuss if such a thing became needed. So for now, the sith master stayed their hand. The whirlwind of thoughts in their skull hidden as their face stayed mostly blank with a slight smile upon it. A product of the mind shield they were employing and a general desire to keep any negative thoughts obscured until verbalised.

Regardless of all that, Skyllan was actually quite looking forward to the Federation Prisoners being killed. While the Winged Artificer hadn't been involved properly in the war, it had affected them and their trips. Especially since the Celaeno was technically registered with the Sith Navy, and was occasionally called upon to fight in one battle or another. This would be a fun little way of bringing together the sithz putting a halt to some of the infighting.

Then Volshe showed up and called for a stay of execution, and referred to herself as the sith'ari. 'Well kriff.'

There were a number of ways Skyllan saw this playing out, but damn if they weren't all a tad messy. It seemed that, in truth, they really had chosen the wrong outfit for the occasion. Since no one was particularly paying attention to the Winged Sith given the Empress of the NGE's claim, they chose to correct their oversight.

It was like a ripple of Force down Skyllan's body, as their lovely dress, heels and eggshell necklace was replaced by their alchemised armour and talisman of transformation, the later hidden under the metal of course. Being able to turn into a dragonsnake on command lost some of its utility if it was obvious after all.

"Perhaps," Skyllan murmured, voice soft enough that only Volacius and Thana could really hear, "She is thinking in a similar vein to you master. You mentioned earlier about wishing you were out hunting down cells of resistance before correct? Maybe she seeks to keep these three to successfully lure out the remainders of the federation." The words were spoken as if thoughtful, but in truth they had a second purpose. Placating the master warrior. It would not do to lose someone actually useful in the disputes that would no doubt arise.

Ultimately, if Darth Viscretus and Darth Kain stood united on the matter, Skyllan doubted any dissenters would have much success if it came to contest of might. That was why Apollyon had spoken about a conversation as to who would rule, that was the battlefield were she best stood a chance against the Empress of the NGE. "Watch for the more idiotic claimants to the throne I have a feeling they might do something... idiotic." Skyllan suggested to the other neutral masters with them. They opened their senses to the force as they did so, leaning on the Nexus of Korriban to boost that sense even as they filtered out its presence from the feedback. The sith master thoroughly ignored the emotional resonance coming from the prisoners, readying themselves for someone to reach for the force with offence based intent.

Wait.

There was something else here. An incredibly faint presence at the very edges at their reach. It was almost familiar. Perhaps someone who had spoken directly to Skyllan through the Force before. There was only one person who had made quite the impact on the Ashen Sith, they would never forget it for as long as they lived. Could it be... Their eyes flickered skywards briefly before resettling on the scene. If they were right then perhaps the haze of this evening would finally be lifted and more important things could take precedence.

A small thought was whispered in the back of their mind 'Maybe Viscretus was why the Priestess had asked that of them?' which, if true, meant this was going to go to Chaos very kriffing quickly.

----

TAG: @Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Drakul_Xarxes @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Volacius, @Metus @Catalyst @Darth Xirr