Ascension

[Darth Empyrean]

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Two stepped forth into the forest, two there for the ascension.

On one hand, the architect. A young man with endless potential and a knack for creation, a boy so blinded by his success that should his ambition ever fail so too would the galaxy around him. In his hand, he carried a staff that let brutality leak off its very essence, one so thick in The Force that simply breathing around it felt like a task, even the slightest lack thereof attention to its power may drown you in its invisible ichor.

It was most likely the reason the forest stood so quiet. Animals often knew to remain silent when death was so close.

On the other however, was a fallen god. His mask and limp betraying the greatness he once stood at, the immortality he so desperately deserved; and craved. Although he didn’t carry with him an artifact that ascended the most powerful of lords, he carried with him the same unholy driven ambition, fueled on jaded passion few could ever hope to understand.

Together, the two were easily one of the most deadly duos in the galaxy, even if it didn’t know; but today was not to enact some hellfire infused revelation upon their unsuspecting masses, but to recreate the throne one of them deserved to sit on. Rebuild the body, establish the regime, and change the future.

A grin broke through The Slave’s placid expression before twirling the eldritch weapon in his hand, glancing over to Antherion with a corrupted gaze;

“I think we found it.”, he said teasingly. It was often his way, afterall.

Before them stood one of the pools of creation, an artifact made from eons previous for just such a subject; though it never would have met the touch of such an abomination as The Darkstaff under any normal circumstance. As the two walked towards it, a faint glow began to form as the darkside energy fell over the area in a would-be thick fog.

It seemed it was waiting for them.

“How do you want to do this?”, The Slave said with his eyes now transfixed on the dull waters before them.

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[Ras'kala'han]

The ugly secret of ascension is simple - if you need to ascend, you have descended. If you need to rise above something, then something is pressing down on you. What strength is there in ascending that could possibly go beyond never needing to ascend? This was why - above all else - Antherion hated [member="The Slave"]. He hated the lean youth's rakish grin, where once he might have flashed a similar smile at seeing his own now broken designs fall into perfect place. He lived when the Darkstaff rested in the Emperor's Arcanum, yet never did it occur to him to try to seize it - yet still, he once had his own audacity. No, now even to smile was simply to peel back flesh to expose jagged, sharpened teeth. Once, he shined. How could his noble heritage, his perfect lineage be reduced to this? Beneath a hedonistic slave to whim?

It was the hate of envy, admiration, and fascination that drew him to this strange, teasing creature.

He stayed silent, at first, not answering but instead letting his mask fall to the floor, gazing into the misty depths of the pool, searching for his own reflection. What, he thought, have I become? How far have I fallen? Here, in this place pregnant with life, death's shadow also loomed large: how easy it would be to let his rotting skin fester and his spirit drift away on the currents of the Force. His unmasked visage gazed up at him, unrecognizable.

"First - we set the scene." He reached into the folds of his robes, feeling for a tightly-wrapped package. He drew it forth, casting aside whatever wrappings it had, revealing his own relic. The Seed of Rage, the legacy of the Slave's own Sith progenitor, and a device from his own time. "Now -"

He flicked his wrist, and the Seed drifted out on a current of telekinetic Force, floating here, then there, searchingly. At the center of the pool, it paused, turned sharply, then plunged downwards into the pool, and for a moment there was a sound of shifting water. Then, a thrum of shadow, and a bubbling, and the luminescent green of the cloudy primordial soup began to change, and stain as though a drop of blood had fell in, then another. It spread, a contagion, and soon the whole of it was a vibrant crimson.

"Now... let us give you something to work with." A second item glinted from the once-man's sleeve. A dagger, curved, polished to a reflective sheen. Extending his left hand above the pool, Antherion cut downwards through flesh and bone. It fell in with a thud. "Darkness, blood, bone... this should be enough to begin, no? Let me see what this Darkstaff of yours can do."

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“Let me see what this Darkstaff of yours can do.”, he asked; ignorant of its power.

The Slave would enlighten him. No, infact The Darkstaff would enlighten him, show him what true unadulterated power could be. It was no miser, no crippled fiend hiding in the shadows; for it bore in its phrik lined grip the power of a God, a god that deserved to be worshipped. Infact, it deserved not only worship, but obsession.

It demanded attention.

Not of love as a mortal, but of fear for its whims. As The Slave lifted it in front of him, just what was meant by that would come to fruition; a maelstrom of energy being released in a moments notice as both were engulfed in a painful pressure of Dark Side energy. The turning point was left behind for the uninitiated, and the forest around them seemed to realize its own situation; animals on animals rushing from the scene in droves of biblical proportions.

Yet, as intense as it began, it only ramped up; be it for that attention it sought from Antherion, or because it simply hadn’t found a happy place to plateau. No, only when it was ready to begin would it cease its acceleration into the boundaries of known power, letting loose its cruel aura in droves of intoxicating metaphysical ichor. If this ‘Darth Vesper’ wasn’t careful, he’d suffocate in its mere presence, leave alone if it sought to turn on him.

A grin, however, crept on the lips of The Slave; the hierophant of its majestic prowess wrought tight in a man no larger than a cripple himself, the perfect tesla coil for its endless might as he’d soon find out. Yet, there was the issue of ability as The Slave began to show signs of temporary corruption from the absolute massive amount of force rushing into his body.

Veins turned purple, nearly glowing beneath the slowly ashing skin while eyes of molten gold turned black and empty. His hands had tightened, a good sign he was in some moderate amount of pain; yet a secondary sign that he did this not out of his enjoyment, but need. Be it The Slave’s need to prove himself to Antherion, or simply to push himself to control The Darkstaff to a better degree. It couldn’t truly be known as to which was meant in the moment, but it wouldn’t matter.

Voices began to fill the void around them, whispers that spoke too quietly to be understand, but far too loudly to be ignored. It was the victims of past incursion from the staff, each a mortal crying in terror as it let loose it wraith once more; its omnipotent nature enough to startle the immortal spirits that were forever trapped in its torturous prison. Yet, as they sat and the staff accumulated its power, each voice seemed to call out to Antherion separately, hoping to gain his attention, hoping he’d listen to their grievous council.

“Do not trust it.”

“It’ll kill you.”

“You deserve to die.”

“You’ll never be as great as your sister.”​

“Your father made a mistake.”

“Go back to your prison.”

Where it may have started as helpful, even compassionate, it descended into malicious turmoil meant to unsettle him. The Darkstaff was a cruel mistress, and whether it saw the two sith as allies or not didn’t change the fact that it would seek to kill them just as it would anyone. It was no friend, and should they not be able to handle it, then they didn’t deserve its power. If it could smile, it’d be ear to ear bearing fangs.

Still, while much of the atmosphere had taken a turn for something far worse than Darth Vesper likely imagined it might, the blood that dripped into the pool soon began to bubble and form just as he had requested. Bone and sinew met in a dark marriage beneath those metallic waters, its grey nearly opaque surface allowing only faint hints at the form that was created beneath the wake. Whatever it was, it too began to give off the power of the staff, not in full but reflected it either through its artistic stroke, or from the power that was being infused into it; neither could be known.

The Slave grinned, electricity beginning to fill the air as the staff finally hit some sort of point of hesitation. A snap, crackle, faint pop later, and he spoke; his voice littered with the fallen that sought to break Antherion’s confidence only moments before, each overlapping and repeating just close enough to be understood.

“Get in, Antherion. Your new body needs you.”, they spoke in unison.

The body beneath the waves head turned towards Antherion as the light began to fade around them. Darkness threatened them now, to rob them of their sight, but the glow of the figures eyes beneath the abyss seemed to be ever present, ever calling.

Now it was Antherions choice, to give in to his dreams, or back out for protection. It couldn’t be known what The Slave, nor The Darkstaff wanted now; only that they had put in the work. Now Antherion would pay the price.

[member="Darth Vesper"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

What stared up at Antherion from within the depths of the Genesis Pool? No, no alien form, nothing like the monster he might have imagined his ally would bring about, not even a simple reflection of his old self. He saw something new shining in those cold eyes, a certain paleness to the silk-soft flesh, and the way its hair floated around it like a halo in the illumination of the misty fluids. It opened its mouth, pursing its lips for a moment, briefly as though to speak its name, and effervescent bubbles of air made there way to the surface.

"Come to me." . It seemed to say

He stepped forwards, and fell to his hands and knees. His body sang with pain, resonated with it, he could hear a sound like a silent roar, and perhaps the release of true death that followed with it. The presence of that blasted artifact, its damnable deific power, was overwhelming him. It was, well, destroying him. No - it was forcing him to realize that he was already destroyed, destroyed in mind, body, and soul.

And indeed, the pressure on his on thoughts tempted him to turn away, to flee, to reject this chance at new life before the darkness swallowed him. Uncertainty - it was all uncertainties. The future, to him, for this one moment, was invisible in this knot of probability and possibility wound too tightly to unravel with any power. And all the whispers, the worst part was that he knew they were all true.

I am, he thought, a mistake. Born wrong, twisted, unsuited to continue the family line. My sister reached heights of power effortlessly that I can only dream of, and she should have killed me. I deserve to die, and I betrayed all my principles and values and it bought me nothing but a delay of my humiliation. I am too weak... to broken. This rebirth will consume me. That much is all the Galaxy has said to me.

"There..." He inhaled, hard, sucking in air, turning his head up to face the storm of gathering power. "There was a question - a moment when I doubted - and it nagged... nagged at my mind. It - ah - it nearly... killed me."

Was he wrong about his place in the Galaxy?

"No! It was the world that was wrong!" With the last strength, the strength that could have pushed him to flee and continue his phantom existence, that could propel him into a life of unlife, the strength that could have saved him, he stood, and dove forwards, to his body, and with tattered arms, embraced it, and with it, his destiny.

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Two would become one as Antherion fell into the water to embrace his new body. In turn, the body embraced him; releasing the first waves of energy that would inevitably change the landscape as they saw it. Malicious, malignant, melancholy; all emotions that littered the small area they now stood in, most notably from this Darth Vesper himself.

The Slave however, grew wild with enjoyment. Pressing the staff forward, the genesis pool began to bubble and boil, burning the body of old in favour of nutrients for the new; letting Antherion feel the full pressure of his choice. He was to be taken apart, piece by piece, before being allowed to enter his new vessel; a choice not made by him, but by The Slave. This wasn’t a part of the price he’d pay, only a passing joy brought about by cruel intentions.

Cruel intentions that would see him reborn, it would seem.

As the last pieces of Antherion’s body tore from their joints, dissolved in the darkness, and built the rest of his new body; The Slave finally forced the transfer of the soul into his new form. Soul to body, body to a new life; all steps in the overarching plan he had for him. Yet, despite his all encompassing attention, something seemed to writhe and slip behind the the ascension that happened below the water; a careless seed he forgot about.

It stirred and sloshed off the energy he forced into the pool, feeding and filling as it prepared an explosive growth he didn’t expect. Finishing the transfer, The Slave let his prowess now focus on self retention; stopping the growth from finishing with him so close.

In the blink of an eye, the seed stirred to a tree and began to grow from sapling to tower; easily visible from the sky above. The Slave however, forced an opening to be had directly around him, then around the pool and the area around them. It was only a moment, but the Darkstaff allowed him to hollow out its interior and look about, yet something was amiss.

Where was Antherion?

[member="Darth Vesper"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

As if a mass of twisting serpents, the fibers and bark of the tree twisted and moved to release their prisoner even as he realized he was captive, making a winding tunnel to lead outwards for bearer of the divine weapon to lead outwards, to the exterior of the area. Within, the tree - no, the Dreadroot - shifted further, forming organic tunnels to wind, labyrinth-like, all throughout its structure. Bulbous pustules blossomed to fill what later would be store-rooms, menagerie cages, and laboratories with faint, ruddy light. Branches twisted outwards like spines, ready to pierce at the uninvited intruder.

Outside, hanging from a low branch, a single seedpod. Veined with red and black, it pulsated like a heart, once, twice, thrice - each time growing in intensity - before a hand burst out of it. Gesturing sharply, the seedpod exploded outwards, and a newly-christened Lord of the Sith stepped out from it with surprising delicacy, the foliage withering black under his footstep rather than a single twig or thorn piercing his newborn, perfected flesh.

He glanced upwards, regarding all the stars that would soon be his, clad in only a film of luminescent fluid slicking his body, and spoke as though to address the thoughts of his creator. "Dead. Antherion iv Koroosi is nowhere. He is gone..."

He inhaled. His heart beat in his chest. Cold air cut the inside of his lungs like daggers, and he shivered with potential, ecstatic. He turned to the slave, his eyes glowing with piercing light. "I am Darth Vesper now. Lord of Avarice."

He flicked his wrist, calling from the inner chamber of the tree his own black, tattered robes to cover himself with, regarding briefly his own body with idle curiosity. It was confirmation of his suspicion: no child of his family was he. Now, and always, he was a child of the Force. His flesh was the Seed of Rage, the Genesis Pool, the Darkstaff, the very void of the Netherworld - more nexi than most sentient beings would ever hope to touch had converged in the act of creating him.

"You have made well. Better, perhaps, than I could have with even the same tools. The Dark Side rises within you like no other... I can sense it. And behind it, something else. Something sinister. Elusive. There's more to you than meets the eye, Nameless One, isn't there?"

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave grinned as the power that fell off him in droves began to cede and lay by the wayside. Electricity once rolling across his skin, crackling with power, moved to nothing more than silence while the blackness in his eyes allowed white through once more. He appeared back to normal once more, if not tired from the exertion.

He offered his own words, exhaustion filling each syllable with just enough to signal his weariness following what had been done;

“Maybe. Maybe not.”, he jested.

In truth, The Slave only knew glimpses of his past; details about his creation and what came about to make him. To form him. He wasn’t the synthetic weapon so many force users experimented with in their labs, nor the genetically augmented super soldier created to serve as some empire’s scalpel. No, he was not created by any understandable logic; but the endless void that was Lotek’k and his infinite will. He was created by a god, not a man, to serve as his divine judgement in this plane.

Something he didn’t care to admit.

“I’m just me. Whatever that is.”

[member="Darth Vesper"]