Absolution

[Kyrinov]

Mid Rim Space​

Krant - Undisclosed Location​

0147 Planetary Time​

[member="Darth Metus"]​

​

​

The forest stretched outward in all directions. Tame, wild, and consuming. As it always had on this world, the expanse claimed most of the surface unopposed by any other force save for the mountainous cliffs to the west. Even in that conflict, as it was with every conflict, there was one constant.

[SIZE=9pt]Change.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Many would say that it is inevitable. That, in time, everything changes. Some would say that those who are competent enough will adapt to that shift. Others will proclaim that such an unpredictable mistress cannot be appeased or embraced for any relevant period of perceptual time. But, altercations are often the hope or toxin of any being’s efforts. Organizations rise and fall when they become incapable of dealing with the shifting revisions that are enacted and forced upon their burdened shoulders. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Yet, in the epicenter of it all, there the pale man was. In the middle of a clearing, surrounded on all sides by giant, jagged teeth that covered the majority of Krant. It’s green and brown maw open to consume any who would venture into its vast body. And it did just that. The wood around him sought to trap him, chew him up, and swallow him within its depths. To drown him out entirely, condemning him to be forever lost within the hum of nature, the calls of birds, and the scream of storms. It was a warm, familiar, [/SIZE][SIZE=9pt]welcome[/SIZE][SIZE=9pt] sensation. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Coupled with it was the surge of fulfillment as he drew on the Force. This was a brief process. Concise as it was, it felt as though it lasted for a millennia. He found it to be a similar experience to the one he’d recently experienced during his final Academy mission on Dromund Kaas. There was the deluge of the Darkness that engulfed his very core and nearly devoured his sense of being and individuality, as before.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]And, as before, there was a vision. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Again, his surroundings faded. Trees and wildlife dripped down into Oblivion, as it were paint on a smooth surface, running down until there was naught but blackness that engulfed his shadowed alabaster figure. The ground disappeared, falling into a Void. Still, he knelt there, knees pressed against an imaginary grounding. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]A spark.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]A flicker, once more.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Flames ignited and swallowed all oxygen in the area that had once been recognizable as the serene clearing. There he was again, choking, gasping, clawing for air to fill his lungs as they struggled to do with the insignificant means within them. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Those invisible hands gripped his throat again, causing his breath to catch in the base. His thoughts became clouded and muddled. He could feel himself slip away, bit by agonizing bit. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]However, there was one change. Caligo wasn’t there. No, instead, it was the Kiffar’s booming voice that filled his ears in a forsaken cacophony of a simple reminder. It was whispered at first, soft and easily ignored. With time, it grew and grew until it was hammered into the bone of his skull. Over and over, time and time again, that admonition was uttered and then screamed at the Epicanthix. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]He couldn’t lose himself, not when he’d come to get away from it all and focus on himself. He had to rid himself of this current before the undertow drug him over and he was lost in the Void. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Fire is bright.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]The Knight screamed, shattering the dreamscape around him, forcing his mind to jolt back to reality. The trees bent slightly backwards as his right hand shot forwards and a bolt made of the repressed Dark energy scorched a swallow, burning line through the plant directly in front of him.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Fire is clean.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]He slumped over, hunched at the shoulders. His eye pierced into the heart of the flame, reflecting the light in his own yellow eyes. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Again, the admonition was spoken, clearly,[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]‘Remember,[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]451.’[/SIZE]

 

[Malok]

K R A N T​

When he was far younger, the Arbor had been home.

Though born upon the sandswept wastes of Mandalore, the Devil had claimed for himself a residence upon a distant world. By all accounts, Krant was unremarkable when compared to the legendary planets of the Galaxy. It was no Korriban. It was no Coruscant. But it was here that the former Mandalorian chose to hang his helmet. In those days, the home he had erected for himself was but a reflection of his ignorance. He was but a dabbler in the Dark Side, a Sith in name but seldom in practice. He was more a servant to his own whims than a dedicated envoy of the Darkness. Perhaps it was because of his ignorance that things transpired the way they did. Perhaps it was his own hubris which brought about the desolation upon all that he had built.

But in the end, the Arbor of Krant was set ablaze.

Darth Metus had found comfort among these trees. He had carried countless stones to erect for himself a monument to his own “greatness.” And, like a mortal attempting to climb to the realm of the divine, his home scraped the very heavens. Daunting in height. Brimming with his collection of trinkets and creations. What the Sith believed to be an impenetrable fortress had turned out to be one of the largest targets of his lifetime. His weakness had become exposed in that moment. Enemies arrived from all sides. And the peace which he had crafted for himself upon this unremarkable world was reduced to ash.

Yet Fire was never the enemy. Fire has always been a source of life and the beacon of change in the Galaxy. It was by Fire that the very gift of life first erupted across the stars. It was by Fire that each world is sustained against a frigid oblivion. It is by Fire that man innovates and uplifts themselves to new heights. Therefore, the trial of Darth Metus’ youth was but a Crucible. It was the inferno which melted down the inferior, would-be Sith and corrected his path. In the literal decades which followed, the Devil’s eyes and ears were opened. He would find for himself a philosophy which was rooted in something anathema to the most traditional Sith: Humility. Not to any mere man. Not to any mortal. Certainly not to any who dared challenge the Galaxy with the title Darth. But Humility before the Dark Side itself.

In his flight from Krant, Darth Metus learned that the Dark Side was more than an emotional response. He learned that it was more than just the fruits of fervent study and breaking one’s adversaries. He learned that it was very much Alive. It felt the languish of its children across the stars. It desired to see those who hearkened to its call ascend to the heights they desired. But like a watchful mother, the Dark Side wanted to guide them. To lead them to their Final Shape in such a way that it becomes everlasting. For this cause, visions infect the minds of the living. And, rest is stolen from the dead so that they might guide the future generation. Yet so few hearken to its whisper. So few recognize that the Dark Side is greater than any ambition.

It took the loss of everything for the Devil to come to this realization. And having now walked the twilight path for many years, he now returned to the beginning of it all. Though fire had razed the arbor to ash, the wood of the present was still home. He could lull his eyes to a close and walk freely, knowing exactly where he was. The songs of the avians and the rays of the sun were music to his very soul - not due to their beauty, but due to the yearning to return being so strong. Decades ago, his children were raised upon this world. His first attempt at an earnest family had been undertaken here. Yet now...having grown, perhaps he could start anew. Perhaps he co-

Darkness.

The lax expression of the Devil grew alert. A sensation claimed his tongue. A hot, thick weight which clung fast to his mouth despite nothing physically being present. Over the years, the Sith would come to recognize this as the Taste of Darkness. Something - or Something - was in communion with the Deep. Darth Metus slowed his leisurely pace to a deliberate stalk. His hand reached to his belt, where his lightsabre yet slumbered. With but a tug, the weapon came alive and exploded with crimson fury - its blade igniting with the iconic Snap. Hiss. Slowly, he advanced towards the epicenter of midnight fury, keeping his guard raised with each and every step.

A scream. A roar filled his ears. It was close now, enough so that the Sith could snap his head in its direction. His sulfuric gaze burned in the direction of [member="Kyrinov"]. His eyes bore witness to the young man for the first time.

Yet, as he raised his saber defensively...the weight seemed to multiply upon his shoulders. Something was telling him not to act. Not to strike. Not to defend this land which he interpreted as his own. That something was the source of the pressure upon his tongue. His finger gingerly slid over the ignition and the crimson wrath dissipated. Darth Metus, faithful of the Dark Side, then stood. He witnessed the ruination wreaked upon the vibrance by the young man, but held fast. He spoke not a word, until bid by the presence.

”Who. Are. You?

Whether he continued to obey was dictated by the young man’s response.

[member="Kyrinov"]

 

[Kyrinov]

Over the crackle of the fire and the roar of his own inner inferno, he heard it clearly enough. It was a sound that he’d heard hundreds of times. Now, it was crystal clear what weapon he’d be up against. His left hand reached over to grip the hilt of Amnesia and pull the sword from her sheath.

His posture straightened and his eyes closed as he listened and tuned into the noises beyond the popping of fire on wood. Fingers eased up to the top of the hilt, stopping only when his hand hit the guard on the vibroweapon.

He turned just as he saw a brilliant red light flickering to his right. It alarmed him slightly. What was a Dark Side practitioner doing on a world like this, at a time such as this? More importantly, what were their motives, if they had any? His feet shifted slowly so that he faced the person in question. Amnesia became an extension of his arm, outstretched and pointed towards the dark figure on the edge of the circle. The man’s knuckles were the color of paper as he gripped his sword, his nerves fried after the experience he just had.

The blade in his hand transformed into a kaleidoscope of white, grey, black, and orange as the flames snaked its rays up and down the length of it. Ebbing. Flowing. Breathing. As he breath came in pants, he examined the man before him. He had brown skin, a toned figure from what the Epicanthix could see. He also had black hair that was twisted in dreadlocks.

The saber’s radiant light died.

The two locked eyes and this mysterious man spoke.

For a moment, he said nothing as his weapon was lowered to his side. Nothing as he stared into those eyes that burned through his body. Not a word was muttered until the tension built up in the starved air and culminated. Then, a voice was attached to the face,

”Who. Are. You?”​

Who was he. The simplest question you could ask a complete stranger. In this case, perhaps, a trespasser. Yet, he found himself unable to speak. Mute. Blissfully unaware of the lack of air he was taking in until he was forced to take inhale deeply to both remain alive and to calm the frantic nerves in his hand.

He relaxed externally, shoulders slumping down and his arms going limp. He simply stared at the man. Lost in his gaze, finding himself suspended in the yellow raindrops. The man was staring back at his own miniature image in that penetrating look. The pale man himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if his eyes were two miraculous bits of amber that might capture and hold him intact.

Then, his gaze traveled down, to the saber. The world around he resumed and he found that he would breathe once more. Four seconds in, four seconds holding, four seconds out, four without breath. Repeat. It grounded him and his voice was returned to his throat.

“Kyrinov... My name is Kyrinov.”

A whisper as he let out another breath.

“And you are…?”

A question posed as he regained his confidence, as his gaze hardened and resumed usage of its normal steel hue. The man in front of him was obviously more powerful than he currently was, he could feel that much. Thus, he would bid his time and wait to see what direction this encounter would go in.

[member="Darth Metus"]​

 

[Malok]

His inquiry was a valid one.

As a creature marred by the lash of betrayal, the Sith was no stranger to deception. All those years ago, when the life he had erected on Krant burned to ash, it was the hands of allies which lit the first flame. Collaborators. Like-minded individuals. Partners. In those days, a younger Darth Metus looked upon those responsible as peers. Some, he had even begun to foster some semblance of trust. But this...ignorance...was truly a testament to how blind he was. Sith were creatures who first fed themselves; and thus, lowering one’s guard was anathema. In the instant that Darth Metus lowered his guard, everything worth having was taken away. Peace of mind was stolen evermore.

It was now impossible for him to look upon circumstances as coincidental. And so he gazed upon the pallid youth, sulfuric eyes blazing with an internal conflict. The overwhelming majority of his being wanted to probe - to know what enemy had enough foresight to send [member="Kyrinov"] to Krant. Was it the remains of the Galactic Empire? Was it a mercenary from the Mandalorians? Who would have known that he had set his sights on the place once called home? But...fighting an uphill struggle against this reflex was Faith. There was something about this boy...something that gave the Sith Lord enough pause that he did not immediately wipe his presence from the face of Krant.

At first, Darth Metus thought the Taste was the boy acting on his own...but as the seconds rolled ever by, the Deep fought against his instinct. The perversion of his conditioning was growing. He listened instead of interrogating. He took in every minute detail of the young man as he rallied himself against the Sith Lord.

And to this end, his weapon was drawn. The familiar grind of metal upon a sheath filled Darth Metus’ ears. His gaze fell upon the sword wielded confidently by the pallid youth. It stood as a sign of defiance. It existed as an extension of the boy - an answer to the challenge of Darth. Yet he, also, did not strike. He did not move against the Sith whatsoever; despite an inferno erupting about the length of his weapon. The display was enough to draw the lofting of Darth Metus’ brow. He took a well calculated step forward, marking just how much reach the young man had compared to him. Thinking in advance how to respond. How to twist the wrist of his sword hand. How to Dominate.

My name is Kyrinov.

With this answer, the breath of life filled the lungs of the pallid youth. Where once his expression seemed shaken...his world clearly rattled...resolve slowly burned within his eyes. And yet...Darth Metus took no initiative to lay the young man low. The Deep...that persistent weight upon his tongue...seemed only to intensify as he thought of ways to defeat the boy. With every plot came the punishing twang of fresh heat - as if he had swallowed a fresh mouthful of blood. The Deep was telling him…not to purge this Kyrinov from the face of Krant. But why?

And you are?

”I am Darth Metus.” came the thunderous baritone of his voice.

The hilt of his saber raised, along with his sword arm, but it was not pointed in the direction of the pallid youth. He used it to indicate the surrounding Arbor. To indicate Krant itself. ”And all of this belongs to me.”

The saber now pointed directly at the youth. His finger did not yet reignite the weapon.

”What are you doing in my domain? Who sent you here?”

Four seconds...the span of a breath...was all the boy would have to respond.

[member="Kyrinov"]

 

[Kyrinov]

A step in his direction and he was rewarded with an answer to his follow up question.

”I am Darth Metus.”​

For a second, nothing clicked with the exception of the man’s title. The word ‘Darth’ rung over in his head as he grounded himself with breathing and begun to give meaning to the term instead of empty repetitiveness. Darth, a term usually given to Sith Lords who have proven themselves extremely knowledgeable and equally lethal. As a way of proclaiming that they are superior to those around them, or rather, to those who could not match their power. Somewhere, in his studies, he’d read about the title. It was something along the lines of “...a challenge - a warning to bow down or be destroyed.”

Darth.

He wondered if the title held the same... weight as it had in ages past. Wondered if it was truly a testament to one’s power as opposed to a title given as a mark of ascension alone. Wondered more still as Amnesia performed a flourish inside of his hand so that he needed to reverse his grip on the weapon. The blade now ran along his arm, almost close enough to be pressed into his milky skin through the armor, though he knew that impossible. Still, the younger man knew that the latter was indeed the case. It was a trivial and frivolous title given to Knights now.

It sickened him. Far more than he could ever hope to express in this life or the next. He absolutely despised its current usage. Why would it be given initially to Knights of the Sith instead of Lords? It simply did not make sense to him? Was there some sort of flaw in the old system of the hierarchy that the Sith in more recent years reformed it to where a bloody fresh-out-of-training Acolyte would be given the inscription of Darth to add to their list of “achievements”. It was the very reason he had not taken such a title for he had not earned it yet.

It had been tarnished. Defiled by the False Sith that roamed about the Galaxy like they owned the pla-

But, then, his name clicked in the pale one’s mind. Darth Metus, the Vicelord of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. A Sith Lord whose philosophy, if rumors or whispers could be trusted to any degree, were unorthodox to most. One whom Kyrinov did not regard as one of those False Sith that ran around, unjustly claiming the title of Sith. Unlike that one guy, that supposed brutish Sith Emperor “Darth” Carnifex.

But, even so, the young Epicanthix would not bow to Darth Metus. Nor would he bow to anyone for any reason, not if it did not benefit him. Even then, his willingness to bend to the authority of another had its limitations. The weight of his saber, Dirge, multiplied on his left hip as his grip around Amnesia tightened slightly to secure her.

The Sith Lord motioned to the surrounding area with his saber, stating quite plainly that it was his. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. Well, he supposed that was correct since Krant was Confederate territory. The hilt then shifted down to point at him, yet remained unignited. His grip on Amnesia loosened, his mind swirling with the possibilities of this battle. This would not be a battle of the mind that he was more accustomed to, if they did indeed fight. It would be a battle of will and a battle strength and cunning.

Then, came the questions from the mouth of the older Sith,

”What are you doing in my domain? Who sent you here?” ​

One second.

He made no effort to respond. All he did was breathe. In and out. He thought, strategized how to escape with the least amount of injury possible. How to perhaps catch the Sith Lord off guard, if he could. How, perchance, to win this fight in one way or another.

Two.

Visualizing his opposite hand reaching down to grip and unholster his weightless saber that was hidden beneath the strand-like portion of his pants. Seeing the man before him step forward to engage him. Seeing himself do the same, sword arching, if it became absolutely necessary. He was rather determined not to charge in first in this instance.

Three.

Finally, an answer from the young man. “I came to heal myself. Meditate and repair my body. The forests of Krant appeared ideal as far as settings go.”

Four.

The second question and response followed narrowly by a soft chuckle. ”No one sent me. I’m not affiliated with anyone or any particular group. I came on my own volition. You will have to pardon my intrusion, Darth Metus.”

Five.

The man waited. Whether it was on himself or on the Sith Lord in front of him was still up for debate.

[member="Darth Metus"]​

 

[Malok]

I came to heal myself. Meditate and repair my body.

The sole divider between [member="Kyrinov"] and an untimely demise was Devotion. In a world where the Sith Lord did not hearken to the ebb and flow of the Deep, he would have been subject to his own impulses. His own destructive urges. As a man scarred, he held the opinion that it was sometimes better to decimate first than to ask questions - especially since the opportunity for honest had been wasted. You see, at his core, Darth Metus did not believe a word that fell from the pallid man’s lips. The excuse of a retreat for the sake of restoration was simply…too easy. This one was clearly a child of Darkness such as he - were there not “holier” worlds upon which to meditate?

Were there not darker worlds upon which to heal? Ziost? Korriban? Dromund Kaas? Even Kesh, despite the bastardizations that had happened over recent years.

And so, when the confident words reached the ears of the Sith Lord, it was the Deep which held his saber at bay. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the weapon, but its crimson wrath did not descend upon the pallid man. His gaze noted the defensiveness that he had taken - which was to be expected. But he, too, did not strike. The pair were locked in a quiet stalemate; silently watching and waiting for the other to make the first move.

The first move Darth Metus craved he would not take. But rather...the whisper of the Deep urged him down another path. Just this once...it bid him to take the words of the pale male at face value. Just. This. Once. And so, the Sith obliged. The “first move” was a deliberate motion of his arm, returning the saber to his belt in one fluid motion. His sword hand hung near the crimson armament; denoting that the danger to the pallid one’s life had passed...for now.

”You’ve chosen a dangerous place to restore yourself, Kyrinov.” he began, truthfully. ”In this age of strife, the Galaxy smites first and asks later.”

The Sith took a bold step forward. His dominant hand yet tarried a motion’s distance away from his saber, but he again made no attempt to seize it. Instead, he leaned - not towards the man’s face...but towards the weapon that he clutched. It was...a fine weapon. It did not belch a symphony of the Deep, much akin to the works within the Sith’s own forge, but it was made quite well. It was...exceedingly rare to witness a child of darkness bearing such a weapon; for it was a testament to the way things were. To the way the Old Sith had intended.

Now, alchemy was utilized in the most...disgusting of ways. The path of the Sith had been convoluted. Diluted. It was due to this that Darth Metus did not kneel before the so-called Emperor. He walked his own path, alone with the Deep. He forged the sword - he remembered the old ways. He remembered what it meant to be a Sith. And, apparently, this Kyrinov was stumbling in the right direction. Was this why the Deep had stayed his hand?

”This sword of yours...it was made by your own hand, correct?” his inquiry was simple and he paused only long enough to give the young man air to respond. ”It seems...balanced. Well made. But, it could be much more.”

He spoke, of course, of alchemy. Not the creation of sithspawn mind, but the less...dramatic...art of metallurgy. Regardless, he leaned back, ceasing his invasion of the man’s personal space.

”If there is truth to your words...then Come. I will show you a place where you can calm and quiet yourself.”

The Sith turned and began to stride in the opposite direction.

He was not taking No for an answer.

 

[Kyrinov]

Something in the elder man's stance, in his sulfuric fire, told the Epicanthix that he was not to be believed. At least, not that easily. The Sith Lord appeared to scrutinize every word, syllable, and breath given up as a subtle plea to not engage the pale boy. For all the Vicelord was concerned about, all he said was but a plastic promise to save his sickly hide and allow his lungs to hold off on becoming two newly weds holding hand in a crashing starship.

Oh, but, the boy was resilient. He resolved to stand straight and stare his superior in the eye and face whatever fate he deigned to attempt to bring the Knight. Kyrinov had never been one to cower, not since the day the inferno claimed everything that he once held above his own well being. He supposed that that had been his fault, his Achilles heel. He clung far too tightly to those times when he was starting out. Sometimes, even now, flickers of the events of his past came back to haunt him, persistent that he never forget them. Like a fool, he played along and danced to the rhythm of a fatal band. As a Kinght, however, he bite down the emotion, choked down the expression and forced it to the back of his mind.

​

”In this age of strife, the Galaxy smites first and asks later.”​

​

Right he was. Within his own meager understanding, he knew that what the cautious Sith Lord spoke of was quite true. More concrete and certain than the rigid metal cobras within their fleshy hands. They sought to waltz about the green foliage in a ballroom full of light peaks and evergreens. If it was willed of them, they would answer in kind, swinging its opposite around and around, toasting an adversary with a champagne made of light and plasma. The surrounding host of herb bystanders applauding over the music of the two man orchestra. The man in black would stand, hand outstretched to offer up a dance with a partner far more experienced than he.

The man would smirk while his arm remained extended, ever expectant that his partner may take his offer at any given moment, twirling him into an embrace unlike any other.

"Yes, well, you yourself proved that to me. Although, if there was a stranger in my home, I'd be quite concerned as well."

Yet, before the Vicelord himself spoke a single word, his saber found its holster. Kyrinov narrowed his shimmering eyes. The man stepped toward him, accepting his invitation while declining the terms. They would not step in time with the thrall of a ritornello composed of the swirl of two siblings guided by the same manipulative yet purposeful parent. It was a steady movement, certain and direct.

It became clear that neither would act for now, though the junior man still held his weapon as if he were expecting his opponent to lash out and descend upon him at a moment's notice.

The sword, Amnesia. The vital extension to his person, one of his only useful appendages. The man questioned him, asked if it were made by his own hand. Implored him to speak once more and speak with haste and truth about him. This reply would have to be quick. Yet, he hesitated for a moment's notice, caught up in the rhetoric nature of inquiry. But, he obliged to give a definite answer before the Lord moved on to a different matter entirely.

Vertigo gripped his vocal cords as he attempted to respond clearly. "Yes... I made Amnesia under my first Master. The first and only weapon I have that has been crafted by my own hands."

He thought that the man would simply move on now. But, alas, his pinkish ears were blessed with a short string of compliments that originated from the baritone of Darth Metus. His brow took a bow, lofting up and returning down as a sort of thank you, as his head inclined itself to further demonstrate his point. Well, color the man impressed. Truthfully, he was... flattered. A sense of child-like excitement rose within him for a moment. But, even that was consumed in his need to remain professional and alert in this situation.

Shortly thereafter, Metus turned heel. He began to stride away from Kyrinov. From a moment, he was reminded of Caligo. The Kiffar had done the same during their first meeting. Instead of shrubs and trees, all that could be seen around them was sand. A sea of shifting high and low tides of stagnant dunes that engulfed the flaming house that he could no longer consider to be a home.

Kyrinov was rooted to the spot, held fast by the invisible tangents and vines of a past that should have been long forgotten by now. His snow white head turned to stare at the smoldering hole in the tree to his left. The hole he left there would remain, far after the embers lost their ghostly appeal and all that was present was a single dead plant. A lone dancer in a shimmering ballroom packed to the brim with vibrant couples stuck in the chaotic dance of the Galaxy.

He stepped forward, whisked away from the center of the room by his dance partner. He chose to rely on the man which led their slow dance, pounding the ground with a sense of purpose and knowing, confident in his course. The pale man followed after him, clumsy and reckless in a parade that he did not know the route of. Yet, still, he followed the tug of a force larger than himself that bid him to trek behind the Sith Lord. It bid that he trust in its judgement.

And trust he would. Amnesia found her rest in the metal sheathe as he stepped only a pace or two behind Darth Metus. The trees would pass and every passage would become mundane and symmetrical. The evergreens stood tall as the two walked under the mask of night, the stars becoming the only light they required to see their way. For a brief moment, Kyrinov wondered where exactly they were headed. Wondered if it were indeed a sanctuary of the kind that he initially sought out in coming to this world. Nonetheless, he would accompany the Sith Lord to this place that he could use to quiet his own raging demons.

As their pace continued, the number flashed before his vision again.

451.

[member="Darth Metus"]​

 

[Malok]

The trek reminded the Sith of old traditions.

When Darth Metus was but a youngling in age, his childhood was as mundane as any other. His parents, for the most part, did well in raising the former Mandalorian. They did their absolute best to instill pertinent values and honor into the child who would one day lead a nation. Yet, alongside their timeless lessons came a few quirks. Namely, one focused around the close of every week. In those days, the Sith’s adoptive mother had company frequent their home in the afternoon. And in light of this, the mornings of every weekend were spent furiously cleaning their domicile from top to bottom. Under her strict guidance, the young Darth Metus learned to hide his way of life from the naked eye - veiling it all away under the guise of cleanliness.

And, as the proverb went, when he was old, he did not depart from this way.

In the modern era, Darth Metus did not personally busy himself by cleaning on the weekends. But he did take every necessary step to obscure his way of life from those he considered guests. Though he and House Vi’dreya took a vested interest in Krant, going so far as to assume Viceroyalship over the planet, the denizens would never be able to report anything malevolent. Unlike the ravages of Empires new and ancient, there were no fortresses hewn out of stone. No slavery. No oppression. No burning down of the endless arbor. At least, that was what the Vicelord wanted them to believe. That was the deception that he put up on the weekend mornings: a glamour meant to dazzle the eyes.

Yet as he and his newfound guest traversed the sprawling wood, the deception would become apparent. Above, the life granting sun made its final descent beyond the horizon - punctuating the conclusion to daylight with a dazzling splash of color at sunset. Yet once the masterpiece ceded to darkness, only the stars above lit their way. Darth Metus’ pace did not falter for the totality of their voyage, and he said not a word as they crunched through the fallen leaves. However, at a certain point, he raised his right hand in a casual manner. An incantation of sorts formed and fell from his lips and he waved his hand, as if to wipe away an invisible blemish in his path.

But as he wiped the empty air, reality itself seemed to waver. Ripples formed as far as the eye could see, as if they had both suddenly dove into the depths of the ocean. Finally, there was no more arbor surrounding them. There was no underbrush of fallen leaves under their feet, but rather cobbled stone of onyx hue. Above, the sky was a cacophony of hues: obsidian, emerald, and azure clashed in a dizzying display. And before them laid the Sith’s domicile. A citadel, hewn of midnight, adorned with the sigil of his House in the brightest emerald. Immediately, a flight of stairs was the sole obstacle between the pair and the mammoth entryway, which the Sith ascended just as casually as he had dispelled the illusion.

”Tell me, Kyrinov. What are your plans once you have restored yourself? Where will you be going from here?”

At this point it was evident that the Vicelord was not making idle conversation. The length of time they had spent walking in silence was evidence enough of this fact. There was purpose to every syllable which slithered down his tongue - but the pallid youth would have to answer to discern to what end the Sith was working. For now, his footsteps lulled to a halt before a rather imposing set of doors. Chains criss-crossed their immense form, with each link brimming with the Force. Even the uneducated or the Insensitive would be able to tell, entry into the Sith’s home would not be easy.

And yet, here Kyrinov was.

[member="Kyrinov"]

 

[Kyrinov]

In the past, in another life before he'd ever been Kyrinov, the enclosed feeling and passing of space genuinely frightened him. He did not like feeling trapped in any one place or area. He was not one to be confined, by any meaning of the word. This fear amplified as a teenager and multiplied through the circumstances that he met Darth Caligo.

But, the past was the past. The distaste for close and confined spaces faded so that now the enclosure around him was a simple wonder that stretched out to welcome the Galaxy around it. The arbor was... comforting. Inviting even. It did not appear prone to devastation, infestation, nor ruin. That was as it seemed. Though, he knew better than any being that everything certainly was never as it was made out to be. That would be folly, wouldn't it? It present all that one has and holds dear to the outside world and expect that it will not be manipulated or stolen for their own gain at the expense of another's misfortune.

He wondered if the same were true for the endless wood the pair trudged through. The Sith followed closely behind Metus, careful to pay attention to his focus and his steps as his head inclined slightly to gaze up at the passing stars. Kyrinov was fascinated by them or, rather, what they held in store. There was knowledge and skill abound that had yet to be attained by the young Epicanthix.

But, for now, he was content to wait for things that would come in the future.

For now, he required rest. True rest.

His thoughts stopped, cut off as his ears picked up words that spilled out of Darth Metus. His feet halted as well, shifting as if he were expecting something to happen. The words formed and fell as fluently and quickly as the Sith Lord's hand flew up. For a moment, he did not understand what the man was attempting to do. Then, the air shimmered. It faltered in its solidity and shone to the two as a mirage. It parted for them, directed by the gestures of a steady, practiced hand.

The trees and their fallen leaves dripped away, fading and disappearing. The change was abrupt and would have proved to be startling if he had not been paying attention. The earth beneath him became stone, the miles of trees gave way to a stone structure as black as night. He could make out the emerald crest on the door from where he stood. He took note of the colorful atmosphere above, enjoying the spectacle though missing the stars and their hidden meaning. Wonder and curiosity bubbled again, seething beneath his cool exterior. Kyrinov turned his head to glance at Metus and found that he was not at his side. He was atop the massive staircase.

He began the miniature trek of climbing the flight, allowing himself to relax to some small degree. The Knight discerned that if the Sith Lord truly wanted to engage him or even kill him, he would have done so in the clearing without the amount of hesitation and restraint he displayed at their initial meeting. No, he decided that he was somewhat safe from harm for now. The seasoned Sith offered him sanctuary and there was something inside of him that still bid him to trust instead of prepare and defend himself.

Thus it was on the basis of Trust that he lowered his guard to a degree. It was on Trust that he reached the top platform that stood before Darth Metus with a sense of utter ease. To his left, there was a massive door, chained closed to prevent intrusion. For a moment, he wondered exactly what this place was and what purpose it served to Metus and his endeavor.

”Tell me, Kyrinov. What are your plans once you have restored yourself? Where will you be going from here?”​

​

His plans... His destination were both undetermined.

"I, truthfully, do not know. I suppose I'll just roam some. Perhaps I'll just float or find a place to settle down."

He paused looking again to the door. "I'm assuming you know how to open this door or that you, at least, have a key of some sorts?"

[member="Darth Metus"]​

 

[Malok]

Location: Midnight's End, Krant​

Tag: [member="Kyrinov"]​

The Force did not make mistakes.

If one were to take a secular glance at the Galaxy, they would find nothing but true and utter Chaos. They would find no rhyme or reason in the way that war always seemed to grip the stars. They would see the avarice of mankind made manifest as rampant Empires and bloated Democracies. But. To those who ascribed to the higher calling, they would see the order amidst the Chaos. They would witness the hands which moved beyond mortal comprehension, tugging and plucking at the strings of creation. Everything that happened, from the most terrifying cataclysm to the most auspicious dawn, had purpose behind it. The Force did not dabble in frivolity. The Force did not make mistakes. And thus, when the pallid youth uttered his thoughts on what to do after he had restored himself, the Sith could not help but utter a light chuckle.

The young man had been led to Krant for a reason. The Dark Side had stayed the Sith's hand for a reason. And Darth Metus was perceptive enough to know that it was not to simply offer the young man a five-star stay at his residence. Rather. The Darkness had a purpose and plan for their meeting. Perhaps...something lasting. The Sith did not feel the soul shaking direction that had seen the alabaster [member="Srina Talon"] grafted to his reality. He did not feel an eternal bond forged between himself and the young man only moments following their meeting. So he was not certain that Kyrinov would become his successor. But. There were indeed things that the Sith could impart to the young man. Things that would elevate him to the place that he was meant to be.

Darth Metus resolved that he would be the young man's mentor. Not the master of his maturation in the Force, but simply a guiding hand which motivated him down productive avenues. He would be to Kyrinov what the Queen of Eshan had been for him. A guide. A source of boundless knowledge. And, should their personalities deem it so, a friend. All these things and more mused quietly within the Sith's mind as he awaited the pallid youth's arrival before the mammoth door. A light quip escaped him regarding knowing how to open his front door, to which Darth Metus made a mock motion towards his pocket. "Well, I do have the key right here." he said, in a bemused tone alive with snark. However, the way became clear with but another wave of his hand.

There was a thunderous creak as the wooden behemoth gave way to admit them. An icy draft blasted forth and washed over their flesh. Darth Metus seemed undeterred by this fact and strode confidently into the entry hall of his abode. Kyrinov would, for but a moment, witness nothing but darkness as the Sith walked forward. Yet, after a few paces. Torches began to ignite upon the various pillars. As if the presence of the citadel's master was a source of literal life, the way forward was beginning to be lit. "First." he said, calling behind him. "We'll see about getting some food in you. I would be a poor host if I didn't insist on getting you something to eat. Then...Then we'll talk."

 

[Kyrinov]

The “key” was not the material sort, it seemed. A mere wave of the Vicelord’s hand and the door creaked open. The air chilled him to the bone yet the senior Sith did not hesitate to step into the abyss. This darkness was void-like, causing the boy to smirk at a lesson from Caligo. That old Kiffar was probably living the hermit life he was wanted back on Ciutric IV, not that Kyrinov could blame him. His former life had been a hard fought victory against all odds, at least, that was how Caligo made it seem.

Before entering the Vicelord’s sanctum, he took a moment to recall the past yet he remained careful never to dwell too long.

837 ABY​

Kauf, Ciutric IV​

“Get up, boy. You’ve had enough training for one day.” A younger Caligo stood before a slightly younger version of himself,a boyish version. His face still trying to sharpen itself, his hair still black as midnight during that time, ever the impatient youth. He’d hesitated and he got the wind knocked from him as he was hurtled to the rough stone of the ground beneath their feet.

He rose to his feet, dusting himself off at clipping his lightsaber to the attachment at his side. The Kiffar gestured towards the seating at the edges of the courtyard. “Sit.”

He sighed heavily. “Another lecture? I’ve gotten 3 of them already just earlier.” The Kiffar chuckled, he always did find the boy’s endless loathing of the lessons amusing. A young Kyrinov dropped into the seat like a sack of potatoes, sagging and huffing, already tired of his Master’s voice before he’d even spoken.

“You already know that there is Light and Dark, you are a very extension of that balance. One cannot be without the other. You cannot snuff the Light in you if you tried, you showed that moments ago. You cannot because they are inseparable. Light is the absence of Darkness, just as Darkness is the absence of Light. Just as you are because I am. Light implies Dark and Dark implies Light. Other implies Self as Self implies Other. You must learn to use and temper both halves.”

Present, Midnight’s End​

Krant​

The darkness before him was welcoming. Even now, his eyes dilated to seek out any shred of light it could possibly find. Searched for any sign of its counterpart until his eyes adjusted for but a fleeting moment. Then,

Light as flames sparked to life in holders to light the way, breathing and responding to the presence of the Sith Lord. Kyrinov followed suit, taking everything literally one step at a time. The atmosphere, his host, was warm and inviting. His host was far more gracious it seemed, having offered him food and a place to rest.

Food. He wasn’t going to turn down food, he hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. Often, he found himself too tired to eat or make any other effort. Normally, he’d hide this from anyone or anything else about him. But, his shoulders slumped lower and lower, his breathing slowed, his presence in the Force seemed to sigh as he treated himself by lowering his guard. It was an exceptionally rare occurrence.

"Thank you."

[member="Darth Metus"]​