Decay | Adron Malvern

[Malok]

Temple Grounds
Confederate Space, Local Time: 0017

Decay.

Of the countless words which dance upon countless tongues, only one suited the desolation before the Devil's eyes. The bones of the earth - stone and metal - had been ripped from the surface and hewn into a place of worship. But the hands of man knew only how to destroy. In their efforts to fashion for themselves a Wonder, they ravaged the surrounding land. The greenery was shredded. The wildlife was scattered. And all that remained was desolation. And, once the prize of the ambitious lot had been raised, others of their ilk burned it all away. War - the final shape of Mankind - descended upon their Temple.

All that remained was Decay.

So for what purpose had the Devil come? He was no scavenger nor vulture by trade. He had no desire to go picking through the ashes of what was in the pursuit of an archaic trinket at this point in his life. Nor had he any sentimental value or reverance to be had for the blighted land. In truth, if not for this sole purpose, Darth Metus would not have set foot upon the charred remains of what was. But...a torch was yet clutched in his hand. A torch that burned with the ideals and ambitions of the Sith holding it. A torch which would light the way for his legacy in the Galaxy. Though death was surely not his greatest enemy, there would come a time when Darth Metus was no more.

And the torch would fall to one of his successors. Whom it was - whether the Exarch, the Minister, or the Brawler - would be up to them to decide. But each needed their opportunity to learn his vision while he yet lived. Thus, he had brought [member="Adron Malvern"] along for this journey. Together, they had landed upon the accursed planet and braved the ashen remains of what was. For the most part, the Devil was quiet - lost in thought as he so often was these days. Always looking to the future despite living in the present. As for his Apprentice, well, Darth Metus could only assume where his head was. Where his heart was.

Their journey came to an end before the base of the Temple steps. The Sith raised his arm, barring the former Imperial from progressing any further. "This...is how Empires die." The baritone of his voice rumbled, just loud enough for the Apprentice to hear. "It was not for lack of strength. It was not for lack of determination or ambition..." His hand rose, indicating the Oblivion around them. "The Sith here were ancient and mighty, but they were laid low because they could not find the correct...Balance."

He turned, placing his burning gaze upon the former Imperial. He studied his face for a moment, continuing. "The same could be said for the Alliance. For the former Mandalorian regimes. For every power of the last century that has crumbled...they have all lacked the Balance that made the ancient Republic last millennia. It is not the absence of corruption. Nor is it worship of one spectrum of the Force over the other. No...the Balance is...to have the everlasting adoration of the people, but also the strength to inspire them to throw their lives at any given threat. To give up everything, happily, to maintain what you have built."

"There is no Empire that can claim they have done this. No bastion of light either. But...I believe we are coming close. Closer than any nation in recent history. Our people are happy. And we are mighty."

He paused, folding his hands behind his back briefly. A roll of his shoulders passed before he continued. "But there will come a time when it will be up to, and Srina, an...to maintain what I have built. So you must be mighty, but also capable of inspiring the adoration of not just one, but all."

From the rear of his belt, the Sith gingerly coiled his fingers about the hilt of his lightsaber.

"As you can see...there are no people to inspire here...and so, I will push you to become even stronger. I will push you harder than my children. I will push you harder than even Srina."

"Try your best not to die."

In the bat of eye, crimson exploded forth from the hilt of his saber.

In one deft motion, Darth Metus brought his blade crashing down over the head of his Apprentice.

[member="Adron Malvern"]

 

[Adron Malvern]

​

​

So the dark lord had brought him here, to this world which reeked of death and smelled of an uncertain ending. Adron's black boots crunched into the rock and dirt that was splayed under him. Glancing down to their path, he could see that the land may have once been crossed in green and blessed with life. That time was now gone and the land they stood on was a shallow memory of what it once was. His blue eyes did not stay focused on the ground for long, instead they turned upwards towards the mountainous ziggurat. His eyes locked on the dark structure and a cold chill crept up Adron's spine. The chill was one he recognized all too well and it welcomed him as if he himself had stood in the center of an arid desert.

This place is strong with the Dark Side. He mused, glancing over to his master who seemed entirely comfortable with the distant power that echoed from the structure.

[member="Darth Metus"] was mute to their purpose here, as he often was. In the beginning Adron believed the dark lords distancing was due to the Minister's former allegiance. Yet he had learned it was simply who the man was. He had come to accept this, in quick fashion. The two began to climb the steps to the temple and until Metus' hand was outstretched to block his path, he was silent.

This is how Empires die.

Metus spoke in a low tone, causing Adron to focus on the words for him to truly understand them. Darth Metus' lessons were treasured by Adron, regardless if he admitted it or not. "It's a habit of the Sith to become arrogant and overconfident. Is it any wonder the- our Empires do not seem to last." He stated, obviously realizing the flaws of the Sith who came before him.

Metus' eyes met Adron's and for a moment they exchanged a rather stoic expression before his mentor would speak once again. As the dark lord spoke he began to look around a bit, taking in the sights that surrounded them, of course he did not miss a single word that Metus spoke. Adoration. Truer words had never been spoken. Metus ruled the Confederacy through adoration and respect, as opposed to fear. He had created a people that would sacrifice everything for his dreams and wishes, while the other Sith across the galaxy crushed their people underneath an iron heel.

Adron nodded at the Vicelord's words, accepting the truth in them. It was believed that if he passed on then Srina would take the reigns of The Confederacy. It was not a disarming thought, it was something that had been in place long before Adron had taken a place in their fold. However, things had now changed. Srina was his friend and she had been the salvation of a life he forgot he had. That did not change who he was. Adron was practically placed in the inner fold of The Confederate government, which made him eager to advance, eager to command. Like a distant hunger he could feel the lust for power building inside him as it had in the Galactic Empire and like the failed faction, he intended to climb the ladder until he could climb no higher.

Try your best not to die.

Final words were replaced with action as a crimson blade sprung from Metus' lightsaber. The Force flowed through Adron as water flowed through a stream. Had he not had the protection and command of the Dark Side Metus' blade would have sliced him in half with no resistance. But there was a resistance, there was a loud snap as Adron's violet blade came to life, rising to meet Metus' blade it cut off his attack, locking their sabers together. His eyes narrowed as he drew from the Dark Side, the ocean blue slowly being replaced by a sunburnt orange signifying the corruption of the Dark Side.

Metus had warned him not to die, but Adron's training in the ways of the Sith led him to far more deadly thoughts.

"I'm not going to die." He muttered, tightening the grip on his lightsaber before his second hand fell to his waist.

"Because I'm going to kill you here." Adron pulled his second blade, the lightsaber that he had taken from Kei Raxis' dead body. As he activated the orange blade, he swung a wide arc aimed for his master's midsection, hoping to cut the fight, and Metus short.

​

 

[Malok]

Good.

The Devil felt his Apprentice before motion seized his muscles. Before [member="Adron Malvern"] twitched even the slightest muscle, the Dark Side had fallen mightily upon his shoulders. It seeped into every fiber of his being, whispering a sweet melody of corruption upon his soul. In mere moments, the natural splendor of his eyes was made sulfur - two Sith truly gazed upon one another. Then, he resisted. He would not go quietly into the night. The tale of Adron Malvern would not end upon the blighted dirt of a distant land. No, he would Fight with everything he had. Good. The former Imperial made manifest his resistance with crimson. The bloodshine blade exploded against his Master’s - a golden flash erupted between the battle began.

But Adron would not be denied. No, he would not settle for the temporary condition of survival. The corruption slithered into his tongue - vicious words spat from his lips. He was going to kill his Master. As if to add credence to this claim, his offhand moved far swifter than the average man. Empowerment by the Dark Side made his reflexes sing: his hand wrenched a second saber into his grasp and an arc was made towards the midsection of Darth Metus.

The Sith opened his hand to defend himself, seizing the blade of Kei Raxis flat on his palm. The divine contradiction in this motion was that the almighty power of the lightsaber was laid low by the hand of the Master. But closer inspection would show that the man, as per the usual, wore a pair of gloves. Seemingly harmless, these Crushgaunts of Echoy’la were but a remnant of his forsaken heritage. Therefore, the fabled Mandalorian iron had been woven as fibers throughout, creating a bastion against the impressive might of the Sith’s chosen weapon. What’s more, the grip of his weapon was phenomenal; enough so that it could crush steel within its grasp with ease. In this case, his hold upon the plasma was absolute - nothing short of losing his limb would see his grip relinquish.

But this defense aside, the Devil responded seamlessly. He made no words as a response. No vicious lyrics formed or fell from his lips. Rather, the Dark Side bled into his very throat. It corrupted each and every scrap of oxygen filling his lungs. It uplifted the tissue and blood which made every breath possible. And when he opened his mouth, his battlecry was uplifted to a mighty Bellow. The might of this attack was enough to heave over a fully erect Basilisk War Droid. Against the average adult, at point-blank range, it would be more than enough to unseat them and to send them careening back several paces. Yet Adron Malvern was no average man.

And therefore, the Devil never lowered his guard.

[member="Adron Malvern"]

 

[Adron Malvern]

​

It was as if a wicked storm had fallen over the lands surrounding them. Everything had fallen to the immense weight of The Dark Side of The Force, bending to the sheer pressure that it spread through out the area. Adron's skin burned as he felt the Dark Side wash over him in an almost scarring wave. He was forced to remember the truth of the Dark Side, only those with power could hope to have total command of it. The man who stood before Adron had commanded The Force in ways Adron could not dream, twisting it to it's most ultimate perversions to suit his own needs. A normal man, a sane man, would have been taken aback by this burning. Adron drew from it.

Pulling on this pain and the hatred that he had bottle up for so long caused the man's muscles to tighten and suddenly expand past their natural capacity. It was this strength and power that flew behind his secondary blade, so he had been minimally surprised when the Dark Lord seemed to hold it at bay so easily.

This was no work of The Force, this was technology being properly used to defend against Adron's blade.

There was a momentary shift in The Force that caused the hair on Adron's hairs to stand erect. It was a warning. The young Sith drew on the Force, calling on it to shroud him In a field to defend against what was to come. Everything happened so fast, even Adron was not completely sure how it had ended. He did not recall being thrown back, he did not recall the near deafening shriek that [member="Darth Metus"] unleashed upon him. Once his mind finally caught up to his body, he was planted on a knee after recovering from the throw that the Dark Lord had enacted upon him. His lightsabers were held to either side of him and his clothes were a tattered remainder of what they had been, The burning on his forearms had significantly worsened.

Standing to his full height he spared a glance to them, they had been stripped of their outer dermis and were extremely irritated. He must have blocked his face with them, trying to defend from the vicious scream his master had unleashed.

Cold, unyielding, eyes fastened themselves on the man before him. This was his final test. He realized it and as he did his lips curled up into a knowing smile. He was going to kill this man, or die trying. Adron brought each of his lightsabers up, holding his arms evenly out from his waist as he took a few steps forward. With each step he drew the power of The Force into his feet and legs. Springing from the space he had occupied, the man began to move with an inhuman speed that the average man would struggle to keep eyes on.

Step. Step. Step.

The soft taps of his feet could be heard as he impacted the ground, lifting off once again and flitting to his next destination. He encircled the Dark Lord, his blue eyes locked on his target, locked on his prey. He knew he could not keep this up for long, it was defying the barriers on his abilities that had inhibited him for so long. His stamina would not last, this had to end.

His final step brought him almost a meter out from the Dark Lord. Attacking his right flank, Adron's Amethyst blade would rise in a deadly strike for the man's torso, empowered by the momentum of the man's rapid movements.

​

 

[Malok]

He did not stay down for long.

Good. With each passing moment, the former Imperial proved himself to be a stark contrast to the regime he once served. Unlike the Galactic Empire, [member="Adron Malvern"] did not falter when pitted against his superior. He did not bend the knee or submit. But rather, he bared his fangs against the Devil and defied his mortality. As the shriek of empowered air collided with the former Imperial, his form skidded backwards across the blighted earth. He managed to defend himself against the spontaneous assault, raising his arms to bear the brunt of the blast. He, also, managed to rise back to his feet. For but the briefest of moments, a glimmer of pride burned within the sulfur depths of Darth Metus’ eyes.

Not for himself. Not for the assault that had forced a gap between the opponents. But for the alabaster woman who had brought them together - [member="Srina Talon"]. When his beloved Apprentice first brought the Imperial into his presence, Darth Metus balked at the notion of accepting his defection. But the Echani had seen something he had not during the Battle of Tatooine. She had witnessed the Defiance that now stood against her Master...and saw that it could be useful. There were times when the Sith simply did not give the woman enough credit.

There would be time aplenty to thank her. But in the here and now, Adron Malvern stepped forward. Once more, the Darkness began to fall upon his shoulders. The weight collided with his essence, empowering his body as it had the lungs of the Sith Lord. And yet, Darth Metus did nothing to interrupt the man’s advance. He simply drew a steadying breath and kept his guard raised. He wanted to see what the former Imperial was capable of. He wanted to know if his Apprentice’s instincts were as flawless as he thought. Step. Step. Step. Adron drew ever closer. His paces ever swifter. Before...he became a blur. The Sith’s brow tightened as his eyes strained to keep pace with the sudden elevation of his speed. Adron stalked his mark, encircling him at blinding speed until…

He struck. Amethyst ripped through the air at a dizzying pace. Momentum made the collision feel like a freight train. Darth Metus responded - raising his saber to defend himself from the assault to his midsection. This time, it was his turn to be sent skidding back upon the dirt. His legs screamed in protest, as did his spine, as the impact moved him backwards. Yet, he stood. Grounded by the Darkness.

The truth was, Adron Malvern was mighty.

And Srina Talon...was never wrong.

Darth Metus did not hesitate. Whilst his saber made a staunch effort to defend against the assault to his midsection, the Sith remained keenly aware of Kei Raxis’ saber. His offhand thrust forward, fingers splayed and curled against their foe, in order to project pure Wrath directly into the man’s face. A storm of lightning erupted from his fingertips, bearing with them concussive force as well as electric fury - enough to once more unseat his opponent and create valuable breathing room. As the Sith saw it, the Imperial had a choice - eat the lightning and be hurled away; or use his sabers to weather the storm. But those were what He would have done, should the roles be reversed. What would the former Imperial do?

[member="Adron Malvern"]

 

[Adron Malvern]

​

The feeling of Adron's blade slamming into his master's was welcoming. Now he was on the defensive and intent on bringing this fight to a close. The strike that flew from Adron had held the bulk of his power and still Metus did not waver against it.

So this is what it is to be a Sith Lord.

Still feeling the all too fresh sting of his arms, Adron brought himself to a place of darkness where his mind would ignore the pain that had washed over his limbs. It was the only way he could keep his mind on the fight before him.

Within Adron's mind he was truly fading from the fight. Darth Metus' stirring presence in the Dark Side of the Force was staggering as well as utterly distracting. The shadows that surrounded them reminded Adron of another time when he stood before a true Dark Lord of the Sith. It had been well over fifteen years when the Sith Emperor destroyed his home and burned the Serennoan from the very face of his homeworld. Beneath his nose Adron could still smell the faint scent of ash and blood that had led his homeworld into a new era of dominion under the foot of the Sith Empire.

The thought was momentary, but it was more than enough to leave Adron open for Darth Metus' attack. Wide eyes viewed the fingertips that had been set against him, yet before he could react to the gesture his vision was clouded by a haze of blue and white, his muscles tightening and releasing rapidly as he convulsed from the lightning wrapping around his body. A scream erupted from him, one that found it's heart in pain and anguish.

The lightning threw him from Metus and caused the blade he had kept in his offhand, to fly from his reach.

His body slammed into the ground, his lightsaber deactivating during the hard impact. Had Adron's concentration not been devoted to keeping his pained numbed, there was no doubt he would have laid on the ground in shock from the lightning. A hollow groan escaped him as he pushed himself up to a knee. He could feel the aftereffects of the lightning and it was almost more stirring than the scream the dark lord had unleashed on him. The Dark Lord was using a knowledge of the Dark Side that Adron had been mostly ignorant too, yet he was not without his own skills. Exhaling, he looked to Metus with an almost bored expression. "You didn't think that would kill me, did you?" He challenged, a prideful smirk falling from words born from a bluff.

Adron's lightsaber was moved to his opposite hand while he reached out to the side with his right. His breathing, which had been a labored mess, was coming under his control as he focused himself in the nether of the Dark Side of The Force. It danced around him like fire drawn to fuel, yet a Sith as powerful as Metus would feel it's concentration drifting to the palm of Adron's outstretched hand. The anger that was used to draw on such power could only come from one place. Not even the Sith Emperor could bring about enough rage for Adron to conjure this Sith ability.

Around his hand, soft shadows began to shift not unlike a mirage conjured by a scalding sun. In time these shadows would wrap themselves around Adron's hand and from them would come a single rod, born in the dark side and materialized into the physical world as a deep black, translucent spear. "Now you die." Adron muttered to himself, his corrupted eyes focused on the Sith Lord he faced.

Gripping the spear, Adron's amethyst blade would come to life in his left arm, but nearly as soon as it did the former Imperial flung it from his hand. The blade, guided by The Force, would fly towards Metus at a steady speed while Adron charged forward. The lightsaber was only a distraction, it only needed to be a distraction. Once the distance to Darth Metus was halved, Adron would cut his feet against the ground, his right arm shooting forward as the Darkshear blade flew at his enemy with a staggering speed and deadly intent. A weapon of the Dark Side would do only one thing with everything it came into contact with, destroy.

[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

Adron Malvern was Thunderstruck.

There were certain ways that the Dark Side chose to interact with the waking world. Quiet, gentle notions that its power and presence were very real to those who would listen. For some, they perceived the Deep as a blood-like taste which enveloped the mouth. Yet, there were other signs which pervaded the senses. Like an omen, one invaded the nostrils before personifications of wrath burned across a battlefield. And as the Sith Lord raised his hand against his Apprentice, the stench of burning ozone leapt into his nostrils. It reminded him of the simple truth: The Darkness was his Strength. The Darkness was his Ally. And this truth saw the former Imperial plucked from his assault and sent hurtling across the desolate earth.

But there was fight left within the warrior. There was that Defiance which had led him to this fate to begin with. There was that stubborn, unrelenting will that refused to back down - even when facing down God. For but a moment, the Sith was reminded of himself as he watched the man push himself upright. He was reminded of his first steps down the midnight path - where his own Master pushed him past his limits for the first time. It mattered not how many times the young Darth Metus was laid low, he always managed to scramble to his feet. And it seemed that Adron Malvern shared in this particular trait.

Yet there came a point where his Master had to unbridle his might and strike him as only a Sith Lord could. Where the gloves were removed. Where the Master fought as if he was truly in danger of being taken from this world. The former Imperial would taste this wrath - and in doing so, Darth Metus fully intended to crush the will to fight out of him. At first, he watched. Patiently. The sulfuric depths of his gaze waited hungrily for the Imperial to rise to his feet. As he did, the Sith flexed his fingers, feeling keenly aware of the Bones upon his shoulder and the Crushgaunts upon his hands.

Adron, once more, roared with Defiance. Momentum gripped his form as amethyst sliced through the air. Darkness clung to his hand, forming and shaping into - there was no time to watch. The Sith reacted first to the saber. He did not swat it aside with his own. No, rather, he ascended. His knees bent and a mighty leap sent him upward. But this was not the awe-inspiring feat employed by the former Imperial only moments before. No. This was the jump of a mere man. At the peak of his physical condition? Yes. Empowered by the Darkness for this task? No. Yet the Darkness was indeed with him, and his offhand quickly thrust down to the dirt. Telekinetic fury pushed him quicker than any leap could - forcing him into the air.

And it was by this ascension that the saber zipped harmlessly past.

It was by this ascension that the Spear would miss its mark.

Yet, before the laws of physics overcame the might of the Force, Darth Metus extended his dominant hand. The Bones upon his shoulders flared at his command. The Crushgaunt upon his hand sang with fury. In this instant, the Sith Lord bent the Darkness to his will one final time. He did not hold back in the slightest and placed the Weight of the entire world upon the former Imperial’s shoulders. He aimed at the man and the handful of feet surrounding him before utilizing telekinetics to Push down in the localized area. He sought to rob the former Imperial of his ability to move…by pushing on his form with enough force to crack literal bones. And there, Darth Metus sought to hold the bold Adron Malvern. He sought to exhaust the man’s reserves. Break his spirit. Break his ability to raise a hand against his Master.

And in doing so, his training could truly begin.

[member="Adron Malvern"]

 

[Adron Malvern]

​

[member="Darth Metus"]​

Adron's hand was balled tightly into a fist, an accepting glare covering his face from ear to ear. His shadowy spear had flown past Darth Metus almost harmlessly, almost as if the Dark Lord had given the attack no thought what so ever. The Force gathered itself around Adron, layer upon layer as his corrupted eyes stared at the man before him. He rose to the heavens as if he himself had forged them using the great powers of the Dark Side that he wielded. Even from his distance to Darth Metus, Adron could hear a loud crack as the speck that floated into the skies dug into the deepest parts of The Force.

His clothes were in tattered remains, his arms were come to a slow gradual bleed as his flesh was finally falling away from him, and his hair had become a matted mess. He was a sight far from the poised, refined man born and bred into the lavish lifestyle of Serennoan nobility. Here he was so far from his natural state that only the Dark Side remained. Now he was a being that had been stripped of grace and acceptance. He was an anomaly to the living Force and an enemy to all things in motion around him. In this moment he saw the galaxy in a different eye and it only deepened the scowl on his face.

All around him, Adron could see the terrain being peeled from the land around him. A type of pressure bared down on him and nearly forced him to his knee in one fell swoop. Clenching his jaw tight, he let out an bestial groan as the weight that Darth Metus projected began to crush through the shield of the Force that he had erected upon him.

The shield failed and Adron's muscles tensed and ached as he struggled to remain on his feet. His hair flew back while his mouth opened and he gave one guttural yell. It was born from a place of pain and anger, born from the Dark Side in it's most innate state.

He had survived his family's murder, he had survived the fall of Serenno, he had destroyed what remained of the Galactic Empire, and he had proven himself capable of sacrificing even his closest friend. This pain, this pressure, was nothing as it roared over him. In many ways it was a badge, an event that was fated to come long before he had even been born. He was a defeated man, he was a defeated Sith. The last defenses he had mustered fell, and Adron swiftly followed as he felt bones within his ribcage break and shatter from the weight that forced him to the ground. There was no more pain, only darkness as Adron was thrown from consciousness.

​

 

[Malok]

Searing agony would be replaced by Ice.

The former Imperial would find the Hell that had been unleashed upon his flesh replaced with a spontaneous, frigid sensation. Time would be a blur. An abyss of muted sounds upon the dulled senses of his person. Yet this - the Hoth of his lifetime - would send ripples of shock through his system. His muscles would, initially, scream in protest. His Force-swept skin would weep for only a moment. Yet. As the seconds rolled ever forward, his pain would be met with a swift conclusion. There would be nothing; no pain, no cold. Nothing.

For a moment, he might even begin to wonder if he had died. But that delusion would not last, for a piercing percussion would slam into his ears. The sound of...glass being impacted by the flat of a palm. If the former Imperial managed to creak open his eyes, his sight would be met with the sight of bubbles. Oxygen pouring from a mask that had been carefully placed upon his face. His mind and memories would immediately identify his submersion within a Bacta tank. And, the one responsible for his current state would be standing before him.

Darth Metus gave the tank one, final thud of his palm before placing his hands behind his back. He made no attempt to speak to the man verbally, as he doubted he would be fully heard in the current instant. From what the Droids told him, the scion of House Malvern had suffered a vicious case of tinnitus following the telekinetic finale. It would take more time than had passed for this particular ailment to go away. And thus, the Sith spoke directly into the former Imperial’s mind. His voice was not the same baritone that the public knew. But something guttural. Something born of the Darkness.

Adron Malvern is Dead.

The message repeated itself as a chorus of vicious voices, as if to drive home the reality of the moment. The Sith Lord did not mean that this experience was what laid beyond the gate of death; but rather...Adron Malvern, the identity, had ceased to exist. From the moment his sabers raised against those of his Master, he perished. From the moment his spear burned within his hand, his entire reality vanished. And the murder was carried out, not by the Master, but by the survivor suspended within the bacta.

Welcome, Darth Malphas.

It was said that a Sith Master gave his Apprentice only two things - their name and their teachings. And in this moment, Darth Metus made good on both of these expectations. With the utterance of his new name, he wiped clean the slate of victories that the Imperial had one. Now, he set upon him a crown that screamed to the Galaxy: “Challenge me, for I can best you.” Such was the mantle of Darth - a literal symbol of the survivor’s supremacy despite whatever the Galaxy could throw his way.

That understanding flowed within the newborn Sith’s mind.

All the while, Darth Metus watched.

[member="Adron Malvern"]