Xevek Nekonis
From The Shadows
The face that stared back from within the water was both familiar and unfamiliar to the Iridonian that loomed above the gathered pool. Reaching up with a scarred, tattooed hand, he slowly brushed the rough skin of his fingers across the equally weather-torn skin that stretched across his skull like a macabre imitation of a face - a creature carved by a blind man guessing what a face must look like but, ultimately, failing; leaving behind jagged, unwanted marks and wounds. The right hand side of his face was a mess of deformed bone, pierced together haphazardly and healed imperfectly after the side of his face had been crushed inwards - an incident that had cost his right eye. The skin there barely felt like skin under his touch. Instead, it felt of a mass of scar tissue, created from numerous burns and blades and damage that had been inflicted upon him. In comparison, while the left hand side of his face did possess a mass of scars, there were sections where what had once been smooth skin could be felt; beaten and battered by sand and wind and general stress to the point it felt cracked, pockmarked and dry as it was. No longer was this the face of his youth, the face he had possessed before leaving his homeplanet and taking the first steps towards the Sith; but, even so, he could see that shadow of who he had once been.
It was present, however faintly, in the spark that still gleamed in his lone remaining eye, robbed of sight as it now was, the lines created by dark humour and curling smirks that could still be picked out amidst the lines of deep scars and, most obviously, the Jat'o that proclaimed his Blood and Kin. Despite the pain he had experienced receiving them, despite the effort, every time one of those tribal markings had been damaged he had sought to repair the damage, to revert them back to their unblemished state. And, thankfully, he had managed to succeed in some degree of success. Never would they be as well-done as they were when he had first received them from the Priestesses, but, they were done well enough that the poisoned ink clearly detailed a story.
For a moment, a small smirk pulled at dry lips, twisting and deforming the deep chasms of scars into something more horrifying, but, a moment only existed for a moment. The brief show of emotion across his face ended with a snarl and the destruction of the mirror-like smoothness of the water, a cybernetic hand clawing its way through the liquid with a harsh slash, leaving behind ripples and waves that served to only deform the reflected features. Soon, even that sight went as the Raven that had been perched on his shoulders took flight, leaving behind a trail of embers that dripped from its smoldering form as it soured across the room, stealing with it his sight as he tethered the connection forged between his mind and the Raven's crimson gaze. Once more, he was locked within a world of blindness, forced to rely on the sight granted by the Force to see.
What was the point of him wallowing in the past? There was nothing for him to find there, no grand awareness that would reveal the Galaxy's secrets to him, no wonderful tale to be told. In the end, all that he had ever found by turning his mind backwards in time was that he had made mistakes, mistakes that he had forced himself to learn from, and that, in the end, nothing he had every done had had any meaning. The lives he had taken walking the Path of the Shadows, embracing the life of an Assassin as he had done so, had never had any world shattering change upon the Galaxy. If it had ever been anyone important that had fallen to his blade and skill, then an equally corrupt and ultimately worthless individual had come along to take their place. An endless cycle that had never stopped for one being before and would never stop for one being, an ordained continuum of lies become truths, truths becoming lies, reality being obscured and, ultimately, a woven tale of sin.
The tapestry of life was rotten, the ocean of the Force tied to it. Those of the Dark had proclaimed their purpose in Chaos and those of the Light had proclaimed their purpose in Order, but without one there was no other and, in the end, those that were stuck between the two extremes cared not about the differences, choosing to content themselves with meaningless lives, seeking their pleasure in fleeting moments so as to deny the worthlessness of their lives. A Universe of corrupt hypocrisy and underlying apathy - that was the story told by the tapestry of life. And, in the end, that would be the story his life would become lost within. He would become nothing, no one of note, just another speck of meaninglessness.
Snarling once more, a habit that he resolved to break soon, Lykos grabbed a meaningless item by his side and threw it across the room, paying no mind to the shattering of glass or the crowing of his Familiar. Forcibly pushing that line of thought from his mind, ignoring the whispers that curled around him like insidious spirits, Lykos prowled across the room on silent footsteps, navigating it with ease until he was able to sink into a leather chair with a groan of weariness, running a hand along his ashen grey hair as he did so, instinctively avoiding the sharpened edges of his orat horns. Even resting, however, the ache that curled through his bones did not fade, did not leave him be. Instead, it joined in with the whispers that prowled the edges of his mind, creating a cacophony of annoyances as Lykos tried to focus his thoughts.
It, perhaps, stood counter intuitive to his opinions of the Galaxy and her populous, let along the Shadows that he lived his life within, but the Iridonian did not wish to be nothing, he wished to forge a purpose and a tale that would be repeated after his death. Would it do anything? Would it achieve anything, change anything? No, but, he wished to be spoken of in whispers of Shadows and Oblivion, to be a shade that haunted the realm he had walked. He wished for the story upon his body to be told, the intricate Jat'i that covered the skin below his neck and spoke of failures and successes to become a rumour or tale; something to keep him alive beyond death.
A wish that would not be granted, true, but, then, just as his meaningless existence was brightened by moments of satisfaction and flickers of temporary joy, the wish served to be a drive that pushed him forwards, forced him to take the next step every day, urging him onward alongside his detest for surrendering and giving up. But even that was beginning to fall victim to the uncaring nature of existence, unraveling before him as he witnessed the Sith Assassins be drawn under the direct control of Ophidia and his name, his title, be dismantled. It was the Shadows he walked with that were to be his legacy and now, that was gone. A move that, however much it angered him, Lykos could not help but admire and respect. Just as she had done so when he was put an upstart of an Acolyte, the Rattataki had managed to prove to him her strength; re-affirming that she was worth the respect he bestowed upon her within the privacy of his own mind as well as the hatred and fear.
"Master?" The single word shattered the silence that Lykos had been so content sitting within, causing his teeth to clench together ever so slightly, even as he waved a hand to encourage the woman that had just spoken to continue. "You bid me to alert you when your Master was present at the Maena Compound during a time of low attendance... she is there now." No further words were needed and, as such, the women fell into quietness, still stood behind the chair that Lykos sat within.
For a moment, the silence began to reform, shattered shards sliding back together before, with a growling voice, it broke once more. "I see. I shall depart soon, you know your duty... dismissed." On quiet footsteps the woman retreated from the room, leaving Lykos to himself.
Pushing himself to his feet, Lykos strode forwards, stopping before what he knew to be a one-way glass window that looked out across the chaos of Nar Shaddaa. Leaning forwards, the Iridonian rested his forehead against the cold glass, relishing in the near-burning sensation of the cold seeping into and through his flesh. Finally his chance had come, a time in which Ophidia was at full strength and isolated; preventing any opportunistic upstarts from interrupting the dance that he wished to perform with his Master. Now was finally a time for him to prove that his wish and desire had not been fully unraveled, to see if he held any worth to himself, by attempting to continue the cycle of the Sith.
The respect, hatred and even fear that could be invoked within Lykos with his Master's name bubbled to the surface, pushing past the frozen river that were his emotions to itch and writhe beneath his skin. Now was the time to act upon them, now was the chance to fufill what was always going to happen at one point or another: The Apprentice and The Master, the final test to prove worth and strength, a fight in which one would walk away alive and one would be lost to history, relegated into the uncaring embrace of the cycle. Soon he would stand upon Maena and soon he would know, once and for all.
Soon, either Darth Lykos or Darth Ophidia would be dead.
[member="Darth Ophidia"]
It was present, however faintly, in the spark that still gleamed in his lone remaining eye, robbed of sight as it now was, the lines created by dark humour and curling smirks that could still be picked out amidst the lines of deep scars and, most obviously, the Jat'o that proclaimed his Blood and Kin. Despite the pain he had experienced receiving them, despite the effort, every time one of those tribal markings had been damaged he had sought to repair the damage, to revert them back to their unblemished state. And, thankfully, he had managed to succeed in some degree of success. Never would they be as well-done as they were when he had first received them from the Priestesses, but, they were done well enough that the poisoned ink clearly detailed a story.
For a moment, a small smirk pulled at dry lips, twisting and deforming the deep chasms of scars into something more horrifying, but, a moment only existed for a moment. The brief show of emotion across his face ended with a snarl and the destruction of the mirror-like smoothness of the water, a cybernetic hand clawing its way through the liquid with a harsh slash, leaving behind ripples and waves that served to only deform the reflected features. Soon, even that sight went as the Raven that had been perched on his shoulders took flight, leaving behind a trail of embers that dripped from its smoldering form as it soured across the room, stealing with it his sight as he tethered the connection forged between his mind and the Raven's crimson gaze. Once more, he was locked within a world of blindness, forced to rely on the sight granted by the Force to see.
What was the point of him wallowing in the past? There was nothing for him to find there, no grand awareness that would reveal the Galaxy's secrets to him, no wonderful tale to be told. In the end, all that he had ever found by turning his mind backwards in time was that he had made mistakes, mistakes that he had forced himself to learn from, and that, in the end, nothing he had every done had had any meaning. The lives he had taken walking the Path of the Shadows, embracing the life of an Assassin as he had done so, had never had any world shattering change upon the Galaxy. If it had ever been anyone important that had fallen to his blade and skill, then an equally corrupt and ultimately worthless individual had come along to take their place. An endless cycle that had never stopped for one being before and would never stop for one being, an ordained continuum of lies become truths, truths becoming lies, reality being obscured and, ultimately, a woven tale of sin.
The tapestry of life was rotten, the ocean of the Force tied to it. Those of the Dark had proclaimed their purpose in Chaos and those of the Light had proclaimed their purpose in Order, but without one there was no other and, in the end, those that were stuck between the two extremes cared not about the differences, choosing to content themselves with meaningless lives, seeking their pleasure in fleeting moments so as to deny the worthlessness of their lives. A Universe of corrupt hypocrisy and underlying apathy - that was the story told by the tapestry of life. And, in the end, that would be the story his life would become lost within. He would become nothing, no one of note, just another speck of meaninglessness.
Snarling once more, a habit that he resolved to break soon, Lykos grabbed a meaningless item by his side and threw it across the room, paying no mind to the shattering of glass or the crowing of his Familiar. Forcibly pushing that line of thought from his mind, ignoring the whispers that curled around him like insidious spirits, Lykos prowled across the room on silent footsteps, navigating it with ease until he was able to sink into a leather chair with a groan of weariness, running a hand along his ashen grey hair as he did so, instinctively avoiding the sharpened edges of his orat horns. Even resting, however, the ache that curled through his bones did not fade, did not leave him be. Instead, it joined in with the whispers that prowled the edges of his mind, creating a cacophony of annoyances as Lykos tried to focus his thoughts.
It, perhaps, stood counter intuitive to his opinions of the Galaxy and her populous, let along the Shadows that he lived his life within, but the Iridonian did not wish to be nothing, he wished to forge a purpose and a tale that would be repeated after his death. Would it do anything? Would it achieve anything, change anything? No, but, he wished to be spoken of in whispers of Shadows and Oblivion, to be a shade that haunted the realm he had walked. He wished for the story upon his body to be told, the intricate Jat'i that covered the skin below his neck and spoke of failures and successes to become a rumour or tale; something to keep him alive beyond death.
A wish that would not be granted, true, but, then, just as his meaningless existence was brightened by moments of satisfaction and flickers of temporary joy, the wish served to be a drive that pushed him forwards, forced him to take the next step every day, urging him onward alongside his detest for surrendering and giving up. But even that was beginning to fall victim to the uncaring nature of existence, unraveling before him as he witnessed the Sith Assassins be drawn under the direct control of Ophidia and his name, his title, be dismantled. It was the Shadows he walked with that were to be his legacy and now, that was gone. A move that, however much it angered him, Lykos could not help but admire and respect. Just as she had done so when he was put an upstart of an Acolyte, the Rattataki had managed to prove to him her strength; re-affirming that she was worth the respect he bestowed upon her within the privacy of his own mind as well as the hatred and fear.
"Master?" The single word shattered the silence that Lykos had been so content sitting within, causing his teeth to clench together ever so slightly, even as he waved a hand to encourage the woman that had just spoken to continue. "You bid me to alert you when your Master was present at the Maena Compound during a time of low attendance... she is there now." No further words were needed and, as such, the women fell into quietness, still stood behind the chair that Lykos sat within.
For a moment, the silence began to reform, shattered shards sliding back together before, with a growling voice, it broke once more. "I see. I shall depart soon, you know your duty... dismissed." On quiet footsteps the woman retreated from the room, leaving Lykos to himself.
Pushing himself to his feet, Lykos strode forwards, stopping before what he knew to be a one-way glass window that looked out across the chaos of Nar Shaddaa. Leaning forwards, the Iridonian rested his forehead against the cold glass, relishing in the near-burning sensation of the cold seeping into and through his flesh. Finally his chance had come, a time in which Ophidia was at full strength and isolated; preventing any opportunistic upstarts from interrupting the dance that he wished to perform with his Master. Now was finally a time for him to prove that his wish and desire had not been fully unraveled, to see if he held any worth to himself, by attempting to continue the cycle of the Sith.
The respect, hatred and even fear that could be invoked within Lykos with his Master's name bubbled to the surface, pushing past the frozen river that were his emotions to itch and writhe beneath his skin. Now was the time to act upon them, now was the chance to fufill what was always going to happen at one point or another: The Apprentice and The Master, the final test to prove worth and strength, a fight in which one would walk away alive and one would be lost to history, relegated into the uncaring embrace of the cycle. Soon he would stand upon Maena and soon he would know, once and for all.
Soon, either Darth Lykos or Darth Ophidia would be dead.
[member="Darth Ophidia"]
