IC: Drakul Xarxes
The Royal Chambers, Castle Adasca, Adascopolis, Arkania
The Previous Evening
Theme:
Farewells: different than goodbyes in a colloquial sense. A goodbye was brief, rarely carried emotion, and often implied that the next meeting would come relatively soon. Farewells were far heavier, bore the weight of love and passion, and were a salutation to the last time for a while that interaction would occur at all or would occur in the same manner.
For Lord Amaunator Adasca, this was a farewell. His wife Alcina, currently nestled in his arms, panting hard from the effort she had been exerting, would not see him again for some time. Her golden eyes, framed by long, elegant raven locks, were locked on her husband. Her ruby lips were parted, too tired now to form words, to confess her undying love again to the titan who loved her so dearly. But Xarxes knew precisely how she felt. He could sense every emotion and hint of adoration, every fear, and desire that his beloved possessed.
And he thrived on it.
Until meeting Alcina, Xarxes never considered the ideal spouse an obtainable reality, yet here he lay beside such a bride. The Arkanian princess, now queen, had been the perfect match for him, and she had known it even before he had. Her adoration was great enough to cause her to turn on her own father and ensure the rise of Xarxes, masquerading as Amaunator, to the seat of the monarchy.
Now, over three years later, with a young son, the couple lived in bliss, outside of the pressures of the quarreling Sith Order. On Arkania, there was no conflict, no attempts at coups, no rising rebellions. Just peace. Since the couple had come into power, Arkania had been converted into a utopia for its citizens. Crime had ceased to exist, corruption had been uprooted and replaced with just and generous courts, and business thrived through controlled, heavily regulated trade with trusted systems.
Of course, this was all thanks to the Sith working undercover from Veeshas Tuwan. Though Arkania’s denizens did not know it, the ancient Sith city and library had become the haven for Drakul Xarxes’s cults of Sith fanatics, many of whom shared his desire to create the perfect world. Secretly they had done so and continued to maintain the well-oiled machine of Arkanian paradise.
Alcina’s eyes closed as she drifted into slumber, planting one last kiss on her husband’s neck before exhaustion overtook her. Xarxes reciprocated, leaving a kiss on her forehead before slowly rising from the bed and donning a crimson evening robe. Through the midnight curtains, the light of Arkania’s brightest moon shone a beam upon Xarxes, illuminating his alabaster skin and coal-black hair. His Mqaaq’it shone its own silver back to it, flashing its light before he turned away towards the adjoining room.
The chamber was smaller but no less grand, containing within it a small bed and a number of tools and toys. The bed was more akin to a cradle though it bore grand posts and curtains to block the light. Pulling one back, Xarxes gazed upon the sleeping face of his young son, Ladon. He looked, presently, similar to how Xarxes had as a child, with natural tattoos and small horns. At only three years old, the boy was still quite small, though his father had faith that he would grow up to have great stature as his parents did.
Letting the curtain fall back into place, the Sith strode slowly to one of the closest between the chambers, opening one of selecting a regal outfit fitting of his station for the feast.
…The feast.
Apollyon had called many of the greatest living Sith to join her on Korriban tomorrow. In all truth, Xarxes would prefer to be nearly anywhere else. There was bound to be a debaucherous, murderous, or otherwise troublesome uprising there, and he hated the thought of any of these possibilities, especially given the forebodings brought to him by the mysterious Lady Hesper. If it weren’t for his high status, he wouldn’t have even considered making an appearance.
But Alcina had insisted its necessity and convinced him to go, even against his greater instincts. Xarxes was aware that the coaxing of a wife could lead to the downfall of her husband, and yet he foresaw no death overtaking him while he was at this feast. Danger, perhaps, but not his own death. He placed enough faith in his own sight to trust his safety at this event.
***
Morning
“Sister Namira,” growled the Nightfather into a communicator, “have
The Apocrypha prepared for travel to Korriban and have it loaded with my necessary armament.”
“As you command, my lord,” replied the voice of the young Nightsister before the static overtook it. Xarxes stowed the device in the fold of his tunic, one of the few pieces of technology he would carry with him on this journey. He leaned on the balcony rail, watching as the sun rose in the distance, covering the sky in a warm orange gradient.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
Xarxes turned to see Alcina, a thin, loose robe draped over her shoulders, leaning in the doorway, smiling gently at her husband. He smiled back and gently shook his head. “No. I stayed up all through the night looking into the future, attempting to discern your safety and our boy’s.”
Alcina stepped lightly across the tile floor of the balcony to the railing. “You’re thorough, careful, and caring, all qualities of yours which I greatly admire. But you hurt yourself too much sometimes. Promise me you’ll at least sleep on the starship on your way.” Her eyelids fluttered slightly at him before her golden eyes locked with his.
“If I do,” he grumbled slightly, “it will be because I have determined that I must.”
“Darling,” Alcina intoned, “your iron will is admirable, but you mustn’t let it cause your body harm. Both mind and body must be in good health. Don’t get stubborn with me just because you want to maintain an image in my own head. I could never see you as anything other than perfect.”
The Nightfather sighed. His vulnerability was only ever exposed before a rare few superior individuals in the Order and his wife, though he was accepting of the latter. “Living as a god for my people is a good and noble goal, Alcina. But for you, I am only trying to be a good husband.”
“Then promise you’ll return safely to Ladon and me. Can you do at least that?” Her voice bore a hint of nervousness. Her powers of foresight were far weaker than his, but his attitude towards the future and the portents offered by the High Priestess had rubbed off onto her, and she feared ever-so-slightly for her beloved’s safety.
He turned to her, lightly grasping her shoulders as he looked down at her with a serene and kindly expression. “Dearest, I will not before returning. You have my word.” He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before pulling back. Alcina smiled, content at least with his response.
A light buzzed on Xarxes’s communicator. The ship was ready.
“That’s my queue,” he sighed. He dragged his hands along her arms as he pulled back until he reached her hands and distance pulled them apart. “I’ll be watching you, Alcina.”
“And I’ll be waiting.”
***
Xarxes emerged onto the landing platform to see his
Apocrypha awaiting him, sparkling like new. Clearly, Namira had cared for it well. In addition to his ship, a tall red Chagrian, decorated with the tattoos of the Sith, stood in the port entry, datapad in hand. A curved-hilt lightsaber hung at his side, carrels visible beneath the fold of his black and crimson Sith robes. As Xarxes approached, the figure smiled, a black serpentine tongue darting out past his silver fangs.
“Hail, Lord Drakul Xarxes, Ari of Adascopolis,” he said with a flourishing bow. “Your transport is ready, and the goods which you requested have been arranged inside.”
“Rise, Zyldek,” growled the Arkanian lord. “You have done well. We must leave at once if we are to arrive in time.”
“Of course, Master. Right, this way.”
The Chagrian led Lord Xarxes to his seat, a modified version of what had once been a simple cushion. Now, it was a half-throne fitted with casual comforts for long transport. Considering that Xarxes did not pilot vessels whatsoever, he saw no use for sitting in complete discomfort while he traveled as a passenger, though traveling in a vessel at all was wasteful.
Xarxes pressed a button on his communicator, alerting Namira that they were ready for departure. The sound of the engine igniting was enough to put Xarxes at ease as he rested his gaze soundly on Zyldek. “I can sense that you are nervous, apprentice. Do you fear the possibilities that await at the feast?”
The Chagrian nodded. “Indeed, Master. I do not have the foresight you do and thus can only suspect that violence and treachery will be ever-present at the banquet.”
Xarxes grunted in agreement. “You will have no problem refraining from consuming the food and drink, given your inability to enjoy either. I myself will refrain as well. I believe many here are aware of the possible consequences. Apart from that, do not engage in fruitless conversation and make no attempt at violence unless it becomes clear that we will not otherwise escape. I will not put it past Apollyon to use Ysalamiri to prevent violence, though I doubt such tactics will bear any sort of fruit.”
“Naturally, Master. I have not yet had the unfortunate experience of meeting Empress Apollyon, but I anticipate her to be well-prepared for our presence as she is oft to be.”
Xarxes reclined in his throne, bringing a finger to his chin and stroking it. The ship had just entered the atmosphere and was preparing for hyperspace. The Nightfather looked out of one of the port windows. Relatively nearby, he could glimpse the shadowy world of Mindor, a nearby neighbor of Arkania. Dark forebodings came from that cursed planet, though it was the least of his concerns at this moment.
“Stay close to me, Zyldek, and continue performing your scribe’s duties. Unless I give the word, you are not to speak with anyone above your station. This is a test of your tact and obedience. I trust you will not fail me.”
“My lord,” a female voice crackled over the speaker, “we are entering hyperspace to Korriban. Prepare yourself.”
“You may enter when ready, Namira,” he replied, checking once to ensure his preparation. There was a slight rock in the ship as the light around them bent and converged into a pinpoint, and then they were gone.
***
Korriban, The Sith temple
An Hour Ago
*CLANK…CLANK…CLANK!*
The sound of titanic metal footsteps echoed through the halls of the Sith temple as the Nightfather and his scribe walked along its outer walls. The feast was being prepared; Xarxes was now regaled in his evening wear: full armor. His sword, the great Ostrine blade dubbed “The Sword of Order,” hung at his side. While he had caught a glimpse and could sense the presence of many small, Force-dampening creatures, no doubt Ysalamiri, he highly doubted that no others would be carrying weapons tonight. At least his was on full display, a deterrent to any who would dare use this feast as an opportunity to strike at him.
Another precaution: the wineskin in his hand currently filled with a warm red liquid not meant for such vessels. He would consume no food offered him this night, nor would any drink served by another pass through his lips. The Dark Lord had no fear of poison, for his system was immune to such substances, but he still found meals outside of those shared with his wife and child to be boring and wasteful.
Zyldek would not eat either, though, for him, it was because he lacked tastebuds and had come to find consuming food outside of nutrition tabs as a tedious and time-consuming process which he had no need of partaking in. Zyldek, too carried a weapon: his simple curved saber. In conjunction with the fanatical tattoos he bore, he would blend in well as a Krayt loyalist, though this could not be further from the truth.
“Zyldek,” hissed the Jen’ari, “Leave me.”
The Chagrian bowed wordlessly, walking off a distance and giving the Nightfather time alone with his thoughts.
Xarxes peered into space, looking homewards to his wife. Presently, he saw, she was reading an Arkanian story to Ladon, who sat quietly and listened. He peered further, looking into the depths of Veeshas Tuwan, where Darth Eschaton, the Black Steward, oversaw brutal experimentation on unwilling subjects. All seemed in order.
Then he peered to Khar Delba and Bosthirda, both places where he had received powerful and haunting tidings. Nothing new. All was well enough.
A final thought drew him out of space and into time, peering into what lay ahead. The future was constantly shifting, never static until it became the present. His own future was hasty, and he saw several plausible outcomes of the night but not his own demise. This was sufficient enough to bring consolation to his spirit, though he had gazed at those same events half a dozen times by now.
A long sigh escaped him. Long had he worked to ensure the perfection of his own world, but if what he had been told not long ago by the High Priestess was true, it could be inefficient. The most fitting individual, in his mind, for the throne of the Sith had demanded a task of him, and meeting her expectations, while balancing the secrecy of it, was difficult. How would he fare should Hesper return? How would the Order react?
How, indeed, would Xarxes--and the galaxy--survive the unforeseen doom that was to come without their greatest Prophetess?
The All-Seeing-Eye was blind to all that. He only hoped for the best and acted in the most rational manner to ensure a safe future for himself and those closest to him. But one being’s sight, even when combined with the mightiest will of all, would not be enough to withstand the wrath of the Butcher of Coruscant if he let her down.
The Jen'ari turned away from the setting sun and towards the banquet hall, watching as Sith of various ranks filed into the temple.
They were on the precipice of doom, and none of them knew it.
***
The Sith temple
Presently
Theme:
Degenerates and fools. Blind, all of them. So few of a truly acceptable caliber and fewer still worthy of ruling the rest.
These thoughts ran through Xarxes’s mind as his Mqaaq’it shifted in a glance, one by one, across the significant faces present. The first he noticed was Darth Noxia, her ashen skin, and glowing violet eye, combined with her most regal attire, distinguishing her from the few other Togrutan Sith present. Next to her sat the supposed “Dread Heir,” Darth Voidwalker. Down the table sat Darth Xxys, the twin-bearded Sith, and the slimy weasel Darth Pravum. Ānhrā Māhnîu and Sedicious, both associates of the Nightfather, sat near to each other at the other end. He held both in high regard, though their views of the Force, the Sith, and the future all varied.
Across from him was seated the stern Darth Solus, Commandant of Carrion. The Ar’Adas had never spent much time in becoming acquainted with Solus or his apprentice, Reatith Blodraald, though he was aware of the former’s apprenticeship to Darth Wyyrlok IV, the tattooed female Chagrian next to him. Her true name, Saarai, meaning “truth,” had once fit her well back when she was a servant of her father. Now, however, she had sunk low to the stature of a Krayt loyalist.
Krayt…the Nightfather’s Mqaaq’it glowed purple as it darted in the direction of Lord Feros, the self-proclaimed reborn Krayt. Xarxes had been but a lowly acolyte when Krayt ruled, and he felt the same aura of power now that he felt then. Now, however, Xarxes felt no fear in his presence. Rather, he felt disdain. He knew he couldn’t be the only one thinking of how much he wanted to eradicate the Krayt loyalists here and now.
The Dragons weren’t the only ones Drakul could sense the hate for. Apollyon and Viscretus, both pompous women who thought far more highly of themselves than was merited, were also the subject of venom tonight. Apollyon’s idea to neutralize and unite the Sith via Ysalamiri had earned her no points. Apollyon was powerful, but the respect she commanded was nothing compared with that of the lost Emperor. Viscretus, though by far the most powerful individual present, was shamelessly displaying Imperial Knights, grey weaklings presuming to be competent in their philosophies and abilities. Why would she bring them here? Did she want to turn the entire Order against her?
A passing droid—no, chassis—caught his eye. Knight I-Ron approaching Apollyon to serve her. He noticed Sedriss Nathemus not far from him, red light seeping through the cracks in his skin. Nearby stood two figures Xarxes had seen fairly recently: Lords Catalyst and Kain, the latter currently turning to exit and get some fresh air. Hopefully, there would be time to speak tonight.
“Hail and well met, Lord Xarxes,” came a familiar deep voice. “Credit for your thoughts on today’s proceedings?”
The Nightfather turned to behold one of his closest allies, Darth Skyllan, bearing an odd, morbid attire for the evening. Their piercing eyes pierced through the eyeholes of Xarxes’s helmet, demanding attention from the taller Sith.
“Darth Skyllan,” the Ar’Adas said with a hushed tone of amusement, “I am unsurprised to see you here, though I wish I was not. These events bore me, though I am expected to keep up appearances by gracing the masses with my presence. I am hoping, at the very least, to avoid confrontation if at all possible.”
TAGS:
@Darth Dreadwar @Admiral Volshe @Darth Kain @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Nathemus @Darth Xirr @Darth Solus @DarthNoxia @Jihadi Quartz @Voidwalker @Ānhrā Māhnîu @Helkosh @G.Kn @Reatith Blodraald @Darth Thana @Sith_Imperios @Cardun Vrek @Darth Sedicious @DarthFeros @Darth Xxys @Metus
