Beyond Flesh

[Shade of Decay]

"Master, your guest has arrived."​

​

​

Blackened eyes slowly opened, peering inquisitively through the viscous blue liquid that their owner was suspended in. A droid stood motionless outside, awaiting some sort of command. A hand languidly raised, making a sharp hooking motion. The meaning was clear, even in such a simple gesture.

It is time.

​

Pull me out.​

​

There is work to be done.​

​

The fluid within the tank began to drain, and the occupant within could feel gravity begin to pull on him again; artificial or not, it pulled all the same, leaving him with the same feeling it had over the course of the last year. The sense that his limbs might spontaneously detach from his body, ligaments worn too thin and weak to hold them any longer. The imperceptible feeling that the flesh of his arms was slowly sagging down towards his fingertips, from whence it would detach entirely, leaving nothing but useless bone behind.

And with those sensations, pain. Constant pain. Nerves left constantly flaming as they slowly broke down into their constituent parts, nerves rendered hyper-sensitive to the breakdown of all the cells surrounding them as well. As his flesh began to be exposed to the air, even just the cold, sterile air that came into the tank as the bacta drained away, his skin seemed to explode as though he'd just been stabbed with thousands of needles at once.

He slumped, slightly, held aloft by the slowly-draining bacta and the other hoses and cables that left him constantly connected to other machinery. Needles, inserted intravenously, threatening to tear themselves out at a moment's notice. The pulse of his blood, a sluggish and lugubrious rhythm underneath the pads that constantly monitored his life signs.

The maddening conglomeration of it all, overwhelming the senses within moments; how easy would it be to give in? To let them carry the mind off where they would, to let the body fail, once and for all?

No.​

​

With the absence of the numbing, healing fluid, came something else.

Lucidity.

Drawn out of the depths of the Force once more by matters which he must attend to, he exerted the Force of his will over his own body, his consciousness expanding outward through the mortal material, holding it all together in an iron-hard grasp. The flesh that wanted to sag, to slip away and decompose into nothing but organic molecules and freed energy, was forced taut against the bones it remained connected to. Ligaments were reinforced with the power of the ephemeral, and the blood began to move faster, the heart beating harder.

This man would not allow his life to end so easily.

It was a careful balancing act, what he did. Too much power drawn, and his body would burn out despite his attempts to preserve it. Too little, and the sheer exertion of existing outside of the bacta tank, away from the alchemical medications he had prepared for himself, would render him nothing more than a bloated corpse on the floor.

But even then, he still couldn't do away with the pain. The pain was his tool of focus. And so, as he dressed, he wrapped himself in the rough zeyd-cloth robes that had been a tradition of the Sith for millenia; the cloth set his skin aflame anew with every shift it made over his flesh, leaving him in a perpetual state of near-agony.

He set his will upon the pain, centering himself in it; he transformed the sensation into one of anger, then rage, and hot, seething hatred. Then, from there, he passed into a sort of peaceful state; the pain and the emotion were kept hidden beneath a cool veil, the same personality he always wore. It was truly him, and yet, it was not. For through the pain, he was rapidly becoming something new.

He was still Tsisaar Taral, an inquisitor, sorceror, alchemist, and knight of the Sith.

Yet further beyond was a new name, one he would take when his transformation was completed, for he wasn't yet the Sith Lord he knew he would one day become. Yet, today, and the work carried within it, would bring him closer yet to that stage.

When he looked up again, after being fully dressed, no sign of the pain, nor the hatred, nor even the artificially-induced age of his body remained on his face. He was Tsisaar Taral again, not the creature of the bacta tank, that existed more in the Netherworld than it did in waking life. "Direct him to the experimental medical bay," he commanded, the rasping tones of his voice grating on his ears as they came back to him from the hard surfaces of his private medical room.

Not all signs of the degeneration could be hidden.

"[member="Khonsu Amon"] and I have much to discuss."

 

[LT-137]

“To say that I feared the consequences of my actions was a falsehood. I knew exactly what I was doing when I refused to bend the knee before the self-proclaimed Lord of Lies. For generations, there had not been a single Thyrsian - born of Thyrsus - who could forgive the Sith for their past transgressions against our people. Yes, my people gleefully took their credits in return for the promise of service as Sellswords. Yes, we fought alongside the spiritual descendants of those that butchered our ancestors. However, we did so at a premium price and on our own terms. We may have sold our swords and lives to expand the ever-growing borders of the Sith Empire, but our souls were ours to do with as we wished. We were free, and I aimed to keep us that way…”​

~ Excerpt from Lord Khonsu’s Private Datacron; Triple-Encrypted with Biometric Coding.​

Akin to the receding tides of a raging ocean, Khonsu’s actions following his secretive return from the Goliath II were swift. His plans were already in motion when the man returned to friendly shores, for a select group of trusted individuals were tasked with cleansing the ranks of the Sith’s corruptive influence. It began passively at first, with daggers in the dark. But, as the command shuttle touched down, their secretive efforts were violently forced into the light for all to see. There were several figures within the Golden Company, and the fledgling Hierarchy thereafter that found themselves severed from their mortal coils - with their remains kicked out the nearest airlock. Embraced by the darkness of the void, they’d be forgotten for time immemorial. Or, at least until they inevitably collided with some space-faring object and painted it’s exterior with their passing.

Those brave, and enigmatic few, would eventually found the Vigil Oculi and would be tasked to ensure that the Thyrsian people never again fell prey to the machinations of the Sith or those that sought their demise.

Despite the various safeguards that the Thyrsian Warlord began implementing, there were still mysteries that lay beyond his grasp. His accounts of Sith magic and sorcery were admittedly few - and while his greatest achievement writhed beneath his synth-flesh coverings - the man wasn’t a master of those dark arts. He would need the skills of another, especially if his dream was to ensure his people’s liberty. There would doubtlessly be consequences of entreating with another member of the Sith, but his own covens and cabals of mystics found themselves lacking the knowledge needed to move forward. Thus, Khonsu turned to some who he encountered aboard a medical station during the Sith Empire’s earliest expansions towards the Core Regions.

Tsisaar Taral.​

It was with that man’s name upon his tongue that Khonsu set off into the void once again. This time, however, the self-styled Reclaimer forgoed the usual ensemble that he often wore. His polished and gilded armour was sequestered away within his personal armoury - alongside the sword that would’ve made him a slave to the Lord of Lies. Instead, the Thyrsian wore something akin to the accoutrements that adorned his long-dead ancestors; darkened betaplast plates were clamped above a woven bodyglove of armourweave, and adorned with the nigh-invisible markings of the twinned suns. While visually distinct and striking in its own right, the suit of armour was easily mistaken for a suit of Beskar’gam - the warplate of the Mandalorian Tribes that still plagued the stars.

Khonsu needn’t worry about recognition adorned in such beguiling armour, as it was doubtful there’d be anyone along his projected path into the unknown that’d recognize him. Yet, in wearing the armour of his ancestors - the Warlord felt a measure of ease spread through his veins. Not only did the man feel closer to the original incarnation of the Sun Guard, but his lingering sense of paranoia was utterly quashed. His anonymity was regained, and it was an intoxicatingly liberating experience. Now, the man could traverse the stars in peace, ensuring that none of his Vigilant Eyes - nor the Spies of the Sith - could trace his movements. Like his incursion into the Hapes Cluster, the Warlord moved unseen.

It was only when he reached his destination, and transmitted a specialized access code, that the cloak of anonymity peeled back to reveal the man beneath. He stood in the heart of an automated shuttle - one that was bidden forth by the aetheric solar tides, and by the will of a slaved-synthetic mind. The man was alone, as to burden anyone else with this journey would have surely brought about their death. Even the slaved-synthetic mind wasn’t safe from the fate that would’ve awaited any would-be organic passenger, as it was fated to be bleached of all sensation and it’s memory chips wiped clean. No, the only thing aside from the man’s armour that accompanied him along this fateful journey was a crystalline dataslate - bearing knowledge stolen from far off conquests.

Khonsu needed to unlock those secrets. They would be crucial in his fight against the unstoppable tide of darkness that threatened to crash against the shores of his newly liberated homeworld. This… Sith would provide him with the answers he needed to move forward - or the Sun Guard would leave yet another vessel adrift amongst the stars…. rife with ghosts. When the ambient crimson lighting began to pulsate, signalling the end of his trek across the stars, the Warlord entombed himself within his armour as the helmet’s atmospheric seals locked in place. He needed to be prepared for whatever darkness awaited him aboard that ship, or for whatever foul sorcery seeped into the metallic bones.

While it wasn’t much, a sealed suit of armour would be enough to see this meeting through to the end.

The Sun Guard let out a heavy sigh and greedily sucked in a mouthful of recycled atmosphere, before moving towards the shuttle’s airlock. His muscles tensed as the pressurized jets of steam bathed his armoured form, starting the decontamination cycle. He stood, silently, for what seemed like an age until the twinned processes of sterilization completed their automated cycles. When the lights bathing his surroundings turned green, Khonsu tapped the mounted panel before him and watched as the doors retracted, revealing the extended ramp and the cavernous hangar bay thereafter.

“If the path to salvation lies through purgatory…” Khonsu began, before taking his first, thundering steps down the deployed ramp. “Then, so be it.”

Framed by the shuttle, and bathed by the jets of hydraulic steam, the Warlord found himself waiting in the muted silence with only his thoughts for company. He stood there for countless measures of time before a figure emerged from the shadows, seemingly drawing the shadows along with them as they approached the Sun Guard. Their face was shrouded, leaving only the lower portion of their face exposed to the dimmed ambient lighting. Their lips were ringed with blue, and the flesh below was pale - as if they were addicted to a narcotic consumptive.

“The Master has been expecting you…” They began, breaking the muted silence with their rasping words. ​

“Follow me.”​

Shade of Decay ​

 

[Shade of Decay]

Tsisaar quickly made his way to the experimental section of his ship, while another of his servants brought Khonsu Amon along to the same destination. It gave the Sith a good opportunity to examine and evaluate the hidden passages he'd had built into the vessel, a honeycomb structure of droid tunnels, private halls, and the like. Enabling him—and only him—to traverse the vessel entirely unseen, albeit at the cost of a loss of speed compared to the normal routes.

Still, given the plans he had set in motion with Darth Ophidia, these passageways would prove quite useful soon. Beyond him, the only ones who knew of them were his droids and other servants. Former students, who grew too curious and stumbled into the passageways on their own; some were wise enough to immediately exit, and do all they could to forget what they had seen. Other chose to continue their explorations.

All of them had made one crucial error: Tsisaar was the master of his ship. While submerged in his bacta tank, the ship might as well have been considered an extension of his body. All those who stumbled into that which they should not were taken, drawn away to the same location Tsisaar now approached, where they would be made into more loyal and obedient servants.

Having memorized the various routes when the ship was first being constructed, Tsisaar managed to find himself within his private laboratory relatively quickly; throughout the chamber were bodies in tanks. Some for cloning, as Tsisaar continued to refine his skills in that field; others were bacta tanks much like the one he resided in, though the beings floating in these were in considerably more distress. Others were confined to operating tables, in varying stages of various procedures. One's skull was pulled open, in the middle of decraniation; another appeared to be in the middle of vivisection.

Yet, all were unconscious, unmoving, entirely static; given the lack of droids and other beings, this appeared to be the most peaceful section of the ship.

When one of the other entrances into the space hissed open, Tsisaar turned to it, hands clasped, hidden with the sleeves and folds of his clothing. "Master," said the servant that brought him, kneeling low. "Khonsu Amon, as you requested." Tsisaar glanced down at the kneeling figure, giving a small nod. It rose to leave, before suddenly stumbling, slumping over; whatever the creature had once been, it was dead before it hit the floor, entirely drained of life as it once had been of knowledge and will.

The black, sunken eyes of the Khil looked up then at the armoured being standing before him. "Thyrsian," the rasping, uneven voice stated. "It has been some time." His eyes narrowed, hullepi twitching slightly as they seemed to catch some scent off of the still air. Tsisaar looked at Khonsu a moment more, quizzically. "You've changed, warrior. More than the passing of time would demand of you."

LT-137