Dominion CIS Mix Tape || CIS Dominion of Har Binande

[Darth Metus]

HAR BINANDE

While she awaited the answer to the question of what was bothering him this evening, the primordial woman spoke of the present. She had "learned" all about what the world was, at least in her opinion. Seen what his kind was all about - specially from watching holo-theater. And they were guilty of something quite heinous. Isley held his peace for the moment, listening as her head leaned back. Comfortably it seemed. It went without saying that they had intruded upon her claims on creation. That, either before her rest within the Vault or after, she was due to have a midnight circlet upon her brow. But the people of the present had taken those claims from her, albeit unknowingly.

Perhaps, if they stand down, I will not destroy them in taking it back. Her words were addressed to the ceiling. And, if the beverages hadn't been getting to the Sith, he might have noticed that she had spoken said words a touch softer than the usual. There was an out for a change. A chance to kneel instead of being destroyed. Normally it was a promise of utter annihilation. Unfortunately, the change went right over the man's head as she leaned her head forward. Onyx locks gently falling over her cheek. The expression, the voice - it was enough that Isley was thinking quite unsavory thoughts about his companion. And he was immediately called out on the fact.

Your body warms, she said. Finally, he simply admitted that she looked good enough to eat this evening. Not that she didn't always but, for some reason, it was difficult not to stare. She most likely took him literally - given the Unthinkable he earned in return. But she grinned and returned to leaning her head back comfortably. I will let you pretend that it is the drink causing you to lust after me, Vicelord. The Sith leaned back in his seat, shaking his head amusedly. "What can I say? I have a type." His reply was amidst a light chuckle on his part - though he remarked that the swill would inspire him to change her last name.

And unbidden, another nugget of her past came to the surface. She sighed, admitting that she did not have a last name to change. Ever the snarky one, he replied without missing a beat. "That makes it easy. You can have mine." She then suffered his point about how pointless holiday romance flicks were in his opinion. She was interested, insofar as there was something educational about the world within them. If nothing else, she was steady in her desire to learn more about the present. She had ambitions. She had claims. But she still wanted to know all that there was to know. As best as he could, he'd help in that regard.

After he concluded his bit, she asked. Why does she simply not take all she wishes? Then added: Gremlins are fair companions. They traevl well, though I would not call them younglings.

"My guess is, whoever makes those flicks wants to have all those things. The bumpkin and a bunch of kids, happily ever after. They're living that corporate, unhappy life. So they write movies about what they want. Or what they think whoever's watching wants." His shrugged, before annihilating the last of his beverage and motioning for more. He then asked a question, one that had been nagging at him ever so slightly. She spoke about the future so often that he wanted to know - just what was it like? Just how was he? The answer he received was...not detailed. As he had come to expect. Yet the glimpse was more than enough.

There were valuable nuggets. In but one sentence, she revealed the shortcomings of his present reality. He alone could sustain her, enough that she could live normally. Yet Isley now? He was the one drawing from her at times. Even a year later, she wasn't herself following Ryloth. She focused upon what their rule was like; but did not touch upon what the days and nights were like. She spoke about the present nations and their inevitable fall - but nothing on whether he brought her caf or tea when the sun rose. Well. With one exception. He had bought her a cat. As a companion, not for food.

The fact that she clarified made him chuckle.

His offhand reached out, not to her specifically, but to where her hair laid. As he often joked, her locks seemed to like him a lot better than she at times. And, as expected, he soon found his wrist the proud home of a tendril. "Seems I have some working out to do." came his reply. He, of course, was referring to the ability to sustain her solo. "I will say this much. Tomorrow is what we choose and how we make it. Time being all fickle and chit." The words were the furthest thing from elegant - he'd blame it on the beverages later. "Nonetheless...You're wanted. Here. There. Doesn't matter when. That will be in 'alignment', always."

Ah, just in time, a fresh round of flutes was promptly deposited between them.

Darth Elyria​

 

[Darth Elyria]

Tag: Darth Metus
​

Tendrils of raven hair fluttered in a gentle breeze while the sun-warmed pale skin. With her eyes closed, she neither knew the time nor cared. The mood-altering elixir they had been spoon-fed in their beverages had an uncanny knack of making her feel as if she were floating. Not like she couldn’t do so on her own, but it was freeing when the weightlessness wasn’t of her own making. Many of these Confederates would be furious when they found out they’d been effectively poisoned.

Elyria was amused.

She could feel the eyes of her delectable moor lingering and a delicate shake of her head and a wicked smile pulled over her features while she relaxed further. There was nothing comforting in that expression. It was that of the spider that had effectively caught the fly without any trouble. He was already wrapped up in her web. Struggling would only pull the silken threads tighter. “You’ve always had a type…Not all of you has changed.”

It wasn’t rooted in color, shape, or size. He chased partners that had a spine of steel and a mind to rival his own. It didn’t help matters when they were rare. The most unique flower among a bushel of plain, boring, weeds. The riff-raff were common. His lovers, never were.

When Isley offered her his last name her eyebrows knitted together while she thought it over. Did she require a last name? Was there some rule that stated it was necessary in this world? There wasn’t anything wrong with it, really, but it left her feeling decidedly strange. “Selene Verd.”

“Does that not sound strange to you?”

Perhaps it was because she had traversed this world so long as Darth Elyria that being without it, being something else, felt like a lie. For all of the many things, she had become. A mother of darkness, a widow to chaos, and bringer of night. Elyria was destruction incarnate. Greed, selfishness.

She was not a liar.

When he explained the point behind holo-films that documented pointless romantic comedy over the holidays her frown deepened further. “Why do not they go out and get what they want?”

“Why is every member of this galaxy so hell-bent on depriving themselves of that which brings them joy? Why are they content to become bystanders in their own short, silly lives, while watching pretenders through light projections have it all? Are their high walls so important?”

Elyria thought it was beyond foolish.

His question about himself was sobering. For the first time, she eyed the drink with full bore disdain. It was breaking her down, allowing emotion to flood, without her usual calm wit to quell and bury it. In the revelation of one simple memory, she recalled far more. The tendril of her hair that wrapped neatly around his wrist coiled up his arm more securely. There was an ache in her core. An emptiness that she had not recalled, before, she was prematurely awoken in her Vault.

Strange that the reason for the emptiness was the one who caused it twice over. One in absence. One in foolish hubris. “Time is not fickle. It is constant, living, and breathing…If you know the currents present. I was removed from my cycle. I was torn out of sync. It did not reject me. I was taken from it.”

His words caused her to open her eyes and stare at him for a long moment. The pleasing angles of his face that she knew so very, very well. When the beverages arrived before them her hair reached to pick one up but froze, before settling, down on the ground. “I do not understand this alignment.”

Her presence here was an anomaly. It had created a paradox, perhaps within a paradox, that would likely never find purchase and right itself in the previous timeline. Too many things had changed.

“Our time…It is peaceful, though, not without difficulty. I never lied to you before…In the vault. The survival of your white rabbit is only one of many things that have left the future to the mercy of the unknown. What was once so clear to me… Is now uncertain. Even if I killed her now…it would simply be an act of spite in which I longed to feel her neck crack. It would not right those wrongs.”, she murmured, quietly, and with an almost distant expression. As if she was looking for something he could not see.

“I never knew her, yet, I have hated her from the moment you spoke her name. You mourn her with all you are. Every day, you train alone. You fight someone I will never know. Never see. You may belong to me and I to you…But between you both is a bond that cannot be severed. Not even by death.”

“You read my mind as easily as you read a book. You know my heart. You know when her gravestone fills me with rage and you always come to put that fire out. To put it to sleep. To remind me that I am your wife, by choice, and not a consolation. I accept a father mourning his daughter and cannot say I would not do the same…We have breakfast. You make tea. We talk about…Everything. We retire…And when we retire…We love.”

And nothing else mattered. With the buzzing narcotics still ringing in her mind…It would be beyond obvious, now, that she missed him. As close as this Isley Verd was to the original—He was not the one who cherished her beyond comprehension. He was not the one who knew her. Loved her.

“My burdens are not yours, Isley. You are not him. I expect none of that from you.”

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Executive Formal Wear​

RELAXATION

If his mind had been clear, the grin might have been unsettling.

Between the concotion residing inside the glass and the alcohol itself, Isley's perceptions were not nearly as sharp. A lifetime of battle had provided the means to notice the smaller, finer details in a "mark." Small tells to discern whether or not things were about to go awry, such as sweat beading upon the brow. Yet, the flutes had muddied those waters quite considerably. Thus, Isley was practically lost in the moment. He had never once seen his primoridal partner lounging as they did now. Even within the confines of the Well, her presence was always so...deliberate. Yet here? Here, she leaned back her head and a smile claimed her features.

The wickedness flew right over the man's head - in the same way that logic flew over a fly's when zooming towards the web. You've always had a type...Not all of you has changed.

Ah, she spoke as though she knew him. And, frankly, compared to most at the evening's gala, she did. She knew who he was going to be. She knew facets of who he was. Time was an open book to Elyria - and though she claimed her was far different tomorrow than today, it was...heartening to know that he wasn't completely different. Perhaps it was all centered around on the clock. Perhaps, off, he was still, well, himself. Bah. Such thoughts made the man blink twice. "The question is, am I your type yet?" The reply fell from his mouth without his being able to properly filter. Thus, he punctuated with a swig of his beverage.

At least she didn't seem offended by the offer of his last name. Rather...more confused? "It sounds perfect to me." he replied. "As if that was who you were meant to be all along."

He could understand why it sounded off. It was the same reason his eyebrows raised slightly when he heard the name Isley. For decades, he had been known exclusively as Darth Metus. That was the name he had chosen - the identity of the warrior liege of the Southern Systems. But, when she emerged from the Vault, it was not this name that was on her lips. It took some getting used to. Perhaps saying the name of her birth was the same sort of strange. Nonetheless, they moved quickly onto the subject of holo-flicks; and his explanation about the potential motives of the creators caused the woman's frown to deepen.

The answer? "It's fear." he began. "The potential of failing. Or of abandoning current responsibilities. Or of the unknown. The list goes on. All these things keep people rooted to the spot. Fear is what prevents the overworked woman from walking away and finding something better. Fear is what prevents the miserable man from ending his drivel of a marriage. Fear permeates the Galaxy on such a level that watching the screen soothes the paranoia." And harnessing that fear was a source of true power - thus he had taken the name of fear. Metus.

Whilst he prattled on, he could feel the tendril advance all the more along his form. It coiled neatly about his wrist and ascended up his arm. His question about her had brought about this response. His glass was set down before him and his now free hand came to rest upon the onyx locks. When she spoke of being torn out of sync, a pang of guilt erupted in the pit of his stomach. Her manifestation on Kuat, saving his hide on that fateful day, hadn't been chance. Everything about that day had caused her entire world to come shaking apart. And what did she do as her first act? Save him. And by his side did she stand, still.

It was the first time he realized. He wanted to apologize, but how could he even begin. Instead, his fingers simply ran gently over her locks. He did mention what would be in alignment, regardless of what "era" it was. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. She'd find care in him, perhaps more. That would remain constant. "What I'm saying is...I know that things are out of sync for you in a horrendous way. But I'm glad that you're here. And, well, I want you."

But she knew that - the fact that there was a tomorrow told her as much, right?

She then spoke of what their life looked like on the morrow. Of how the passing of his apprentice, in their time, had dominated his character. And yet, he was able to love again. Able to find happiness again. He was able to build a life with the woman before her - and even called her wife during that time. Yet now, what was laid in stone was no longer concrete. As she had stated, what was so clear is now uncertain. Srina lived. And that driving force that colored so many different branches of history was no longer present. No wonder she had wanted to destroy her early on.

"...So you do end up taking my last name after all." came his eventual response. The man leaned back in his seat ever so slightly, still digesting the glimpses that had been provided.

"Tell me if any of this is accurate." His tone changed, his voice gentler than before. With liquid courage raging through his veins, the man mused. "In that time, where you are my wife...every morning you awoke to a cup of tea. If duty called and I was unable to rise with you, it would be waiting for you. But if we rose together, we'd make it together. Chat in the kitchen." He paused, lips curving into a smile. "And on the off chances where we don't see eye to eye, even if the sun goes down on our wrath, you still awake to that cup of tea."

Why would he know these things? Because they were in him. They were him. The passing of his apprentice would order his steps. Fill his soul with thundering fury. Inspire him to bring fire to the stars. Yet he was still himself.

"The future may be uncertain, but all those things you mentioned...that's me now. I don't wake up someday in the future and start wanting them, or doing them. I'm me."

Darth Elyria​