Faction Frozen in Time || Sith Order

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not answer immediately. She let the smoke ring drift around them, watching its edge curl and disperse as Varin's question settled into her chest. A question like that—how did you choose your path?—rarely held curiosity alone. It carried ache. Regret. The smallest fragment of hope.

When she finally lifted her gaze to him, her eyes caught the lanternlight once more, turning the amber into something warm and reflective.

"Most Sith do not choose their hunger," she said quietly. "They are born into it…or broken into it. You are honest enough to admit you fall somewhere in between."

Her hand shifted slightly against his, not tightening, but aligning — a subtle correction of balance shared between dancers.

"Fire answers to passion. Shadows answer to choice. That is the only difference between us."

Her tone softened further, the edges smoothing into something almost contemplative.

"Fear never disappears. It only hides itself in more convincing shapes. I think that is why you speak of weapons and wielders. A weapon fears the wrong hand. A hand fears the weapon slipping free."

The smallest curve touched her lips—not mockery, but recognition.

"Most who stand before me wear a mask so tightly they forget it is there. You did not. You showed me the man beneath it without realizing. That is…rare." She let that truth hang only long enough to be felt before continuing.

"As for my path…"

Her gaze drifted upward for a moment, following the lanternlight as though tracing the memory of old constellations.

"I think," she began—deliberately using the gentler phrasing he had wanted earlier—"that I chose it the moment I realized I could not bear to be shaped by someone else's purpose."

A breath. A shift of shadow along her shoulders.

"The Jedi wanted me to reflect their light. The Sith wanted me to echo their darkness. Neither considered what I might become if left to find my own gravity." Her eyes returned to him—steady, unguarded in a way that only a controlled woman could allow. "So I stepped into the places they feared. Into memory, shadow, silence. And there…the Force finally whispered something that was mine alone."

Another small pause. The music swelled around them, and the dance shifted smoothly beneath their feet.

"I did not choose the path because it was easy. I chose it because it did not ask me to become anything other than myself."

And then, quieter—almost an invitation, nearly a challenge: "You asked how I chose. Now I wonder, Varin…what is the shape of the self you would choose, if no weapon and no fire were demanded of you?"

Varin Mortifer

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The smoke danced around them, darkening the shapes of the shadows that clung to and around her. It did not frighten Varin. It meant he was able to see her more truly to form. He kept his eyes on her and her alone, waiting as she digested his question, waited silently until she was ready to speak.

He let her shift her hand to a more comfortable state as she spoke, he did not interrupt, keeping with the movements with the music had almost become second nature at this point into the event. His eyes softened as she spoke of fears and masks.

“Some believe the mask gives them protection. Others are so deep into the mask that it forms to their face, then you have those who have adapted the mask to be a helm. Encasing their entire being. They become the lies, they forget what they were and believe themselves to be truth.”

He had seen evidence of all three, the third one being the most dangerous. Able to change themselves at times on a whim. To become a different person, constantly.

His attention came back as she spoke of her path.

The shift of shadows on her shoulders seemed to show a sense of feeling within her. Whether it was an ease of tension or a tightening of tension, he could not tell. He could see that whatever she was willing to say, she would say it.

“You forged your own path and your own destiny. A rare occurrence in the Sith and Jedi alike. The Jedi only want bodies who blindly follow their dogma, while most Sith just want mindless bodies to follow their whim. There is such a tight hold on both that it suffocates most, but those who resist tend to be more than the others.”

The music swelled again as she posed her next question to him. If he could choose his own fate, what would he do?

His hand drifted to her waist as they danced, without thought. It just happened before he could catch it.

A soft exhale left his lips as if this were an easy question to answer, until he found he could not find the words. He had a look in his eyes of questions, questions he was asking himself.

“I would be lost. If I were not a weapon or the flame then I would not have made it off of my planet alive. Likely would not have survived the ritual.”

His voice fell quiet for a moment.

“I don’t think I have a choice in that matter, or if given the chance it would be the illusion of choice.”

His hand slightly tightened around hers, not enough to hurt, but as something to hold, to stay with for but a bit longer. A feeling of a reality that seemed easier to live with than what he was used to.

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

Fatine squinted, bringing up a hand to shield her eyes from the snow glare. Painted lips pursed as she pushed her face just half an inch closer to the icy visage of a…lifelike statue? Frozen person?

Either way, it was unsettling.

She didn't quite understand the Sith. They'd sown destruction over Ukatis, but her brother had willingly joined them. And now, Acier. Maybe their power was the draw? Maybe it had something to do with the Force everyone was so hot and bothered about?

As she could divine the meaning of the eerie carvings no further, she whipped her head back towards Ace. The body of her hair swayed with sudden movement, dark curls bouncing.

"This place is pretty, but like, weird?"

Fatine turned back to the statue, scrutinizing it with less intensity than before. Beneath frigid crystals she could make out the turn of a masculine jaw lowered in imagined surprise. "These things are so creepy."

Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush, "Do you think they're real people??"

Acier Moonbound

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Tags: Madrona A’Mia Darth Strosius
Wearing: XXX​

The energy that A'Mia exuded never seemed to falter, she sustained a constant level of enthusiasm whether they were admiring ice statues, discussing politics or tearing apart crime lords. It never ceased to bring a smile to Lina's face. It made her want to spend more time with A'Mia, to observe her in as many different scenarios to see if it was possible for her to display any other emotion.

Where A'Mia had opted for evergreen to reflect her nature, Lina's gown of black and gold whispered over the snow covered ground. The cold air gnawed at her exposed shoulders but she didn't mind it, it was a welcome pain that sharpened her senses. Her hair pinned carefully away from her neck, save a few soft curls that framed her face.

Her emerald gaze slid over the statues with a hum of agreement. “Perhaps we can borrow one. Do you think they'd notice?” She paused studying a face twisted in terror. “I wonder if they can still see and feel.” She reached gently, running a finger over its cheek before tearing herself away and allowing herself to be swept along in the graceful stride of her companion as the linked arms.

As they swept towards the ballroom floor, Lina caught sight of A'Mia in the light that only served to accentuate her beauty. “A'Mia my dear, you are quite the beauty.” She said softly, smiling as her hand was kissed, her smile wide. “I would be delighted to.”

As they moved onto the dance floor she caught sight of Darth Strosius offering a smile and a wink as they were swept up in the music. “Hmm, and he says he doesn't like affairs such as these.”

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: [Redacted]

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace had noticed the statues long before they stopped in front of them. Still, it was Fatine who leaned closer, squinting against the glare, hand lifted to shield her eyes. He watched her study the frozen figure with open curiosity, with none of the careful distance everyone else here seemed to wear.

It made his jaw tighten. He hated that she was here. Hated the way the cold light touched her, the way the Sith aesthetic swallowed warmth and turned it into something ceremonial. Hated that this place... this Order... had already taken enough from people who didn't deserve it.

And yet… she was here. Her presence didn't belong to this place, and somehow that made it worse, and better, at the same time. When she turned back to him, curls swaying, he shifted without thinking. Just a half step. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be there.

"Pretty's… generous." He said quietly, eyes finally lifting to the statue.

The ice caught the lanternlight and sent it skidding across a face frozen mid-surprise. Ace felt the Force stir at the edge of his awareness.

At her whisper, his voice lowered to match it.

"I don't think they're fake." He said. "But I don't think they're meant to scare anyone either... which is, I guess, worse."

He let his gaze trace the line of statues, the expressions locked in time. Reminders, not warnings. Proof of endurance, twisted into art. His fingers flexed once at his side before he stilled them.

Ace glanced back at Fatine. The contrast hit him all over again. Her warmth, her life, standing in a place that celebrated survival through cold and silence. Selfish, maybe… but having her here felt like heat bleeding into a room he'd been holding his breath in for too long.

"We don't have to stay by these..." He added, not looking at her this time. "Just… figured you should know what kind of place this is."

It wasn't a warning. Just a reminder of what the Sith built their beauty from... and that she didn't owe it her presence. He didn't say go, but he made sure she understood what staying meant.

Fatine von Ascania​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

The smoke drifted lazily around them, shaping the air into something almost private—an unspoken boundary where only the two of them existed. Seren watched him closely as he spoke of masks and fear, the rhythm of the dance guiding their steps but not their thoughts. His words revealed themselves in layers, and she took in each one with a steady, unhurried attention that made the moment feel quieter than the music surrounding them.

When she finally answered, her voice was a calm thread woven into the cold air between them. "Most beings never realize the mask has fused to their skin until they can no longer remember the shape of their own face." Her gaze held his without flinching. "You are not there. You still question the shape you've been given. That alone means you remain yours."

The lanternlight caught the gold in her eyes as he continued, speaking of fear, of control, of a hunger that belonged to fire rather than shadow. His honesty was raw—rare even among Sith—and she regarded it with something almost analytical, but warm at the edges, as if she found value in the vulnerability he revealed without meaning to.

"You give fear more credit than it deserves," she murmured. "Too little blinds. Too much binds. But either way… only those who question their limits ever grow beyond them."

Their movements stayed aligned, fluid, but the moment he spoke of losing his mask, something shifted. She felt his hesitation before he voiced it—the sharp edge of uncertainty beneath words he clearly didn't share easily. When his hand slipped to her waist, not forceful but instinctive, Seren did not draw away. She stepped closer instead, a subtle shift of weight that brought their centers into smoother alignment. Her hand slid naturally to the place just above his shoulder, as though she had been waiting for him to claim that distance without realizing it.

There was no surprise in her expression, only a softening of the shadows around her, as if she were acknowledging a truth rather than indulging a gesture.

"The hardest part of being a weapon," she repeated, her tone wrapping around the words with quiet certainty, "is believing someone else must wield you at all." Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his knuckles, a deliberate gesture meant to anchor rather than soothe.

"You survived fire because you refused to break. You endured the ritual because your will did not yield. That is not obedience, Varin. That is a choice."

Her eyes lifted to his again, close enough now that the glow of her irises reflected faintly in his own.

"Weapons do not choose their shape. But they can choose their purpose."

The smoke coiled around their feet, warm air rising briefly before the cold reclaimed it. They moved together with a rhythm that felt almost instinctive now, two shapes framed in shifting light and shadow.

"You say you would be lost without the fire," she continued, her voice growing softer, more contemplative. "But I think the truth is simpler. You burned long before they ever tried to forge you."

A faint smile ghosted at her lips, the smallest acknowledgment of something she saw in him that he did not yet see in himself.

"You are not lost, Varin. You are deciding. That is the difference."

She held his gaze, letting the stillness stretch between them—not uncomfortable, but full, weighted with understanding rather than expectation.

"And if you choose to become more than the fire…" A beat, steady and deliberate. "…you will."

Varin Mortifer

 

[Ghruna]

FROZEN WALTZ

Ghruna was rather suddenly introduced to the fact that this ball was not like the feasts back home.

On Mylthal, a celebration meant noise and heat and bodies colliding until someone yielded. This place was nothing like that. The Winter Ball felt cold in more ways than one.

The music did not roar; it shimmered. The guests did not shove or challenge; they drifted in slow circles across the snow.

Ghruna stood at the edge of the courtyard, huge hands rubbing her bare arms. Her breath steamed in the frozen air.

Outsiders walked past in fine robes, giving her quick glances before looking away again. She did not blame them. A seven-foot Maldrani with the shoulders of a brawler did not blend easily into a dance hall. She thought she had dressed suitable for a formal event, but she had never felt more out of place.

She missed home. The simple brutality of her own kind.

She shifted her weight, boots crunching deeper into the snow than she intended. Someone glanced at her. She bared her teeth in what was meant to be a polite smile. She received a bemused stare back.

A server approached with a tray of crystal cups. Ghruna reached for one too quickly and the poor attendant flinched as if expecting her to grab him instead. The cup felt tiny between her fingers, like it might snap.

"Thanks," she muttered, though she had no idea if that was the right word for moments like this.

Yet she stayed where she was, jaw set, shoulders squared, trying to look as though she understood any of this. She watched the dancers with a frown that suggested deep thought, though in truth she was only trying to work out what they were doing.

If anyone approached her, they would find her standing rigid beside the pillars, clutching her drink like it might bolt, muttering under her breath.

"This would be easier if someone just started a fight."

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His hand guided hers as the music kept its hold on the two of them, her words leaving much to think about in his mind, the more he began to contemplate, the more the smoke circle began to take faint shapes. Shapes of its own rhythm with the music that began to cling to the shadow as if taking into its rhythm as well. It was not a wrestle of power between the two, but a syncing of two persons locked in a moment of understanding and vulnerability. His thumb gently curled around hers in his hand. Running his thumb slowly up hers without realizing it yet again as she spoke.

She spoke certain truths that he had never thought of. She was one of the few who had truly seen what horrors he had gone through, yet she helped guide him further while he was on Malachor. It built an unspoken trust to him. The dangers of trusting another Sith did not leave his thoughts, but something seemed different. She stepped closer to him. Still his gaze never left hers. He noticed the shadows around her softened, as if dropping some form of guard or walls.

Or at least that is what it looked like to him.

The smoke tendrils began to form soft silhouettes, claiming to dance with the shadow. The soft grays and dark blacks swirling with each other as they continued their dance around the two.

He thought hard on her words. Was he really more than he thought he was now? The freedom to choose that thought would be evidence enough to a small degree.

“I believe..”

He spoke with a slight hesitance.

“I believe I can become more. I believe I am on my way to it. But for now, I am but a soldier to be pointed towards the enemy. I am to serve. But I feel that is not the purpose of my life.”

He looked up at the branches above them as the light reflected off the ice that clung to them.

“I feel I am to be bigger than I am now.”

Seren Gwyn​

 

[Aerik Lechner]

WEARING: xxx | TAG:OPEN​

Aerik entered the courtyard alone, already aware that the cold would not be patient with him. It pressed in through stone and air alike, settling against skin in a way that demanded attention whether he wanted to give it or not. The cloak drew closer around his frame as he moved, not from habit, but necessity. Snow absorbed the sound of his steps and left the space feeling wider, quieter, harder to read.

The statues along the path pulled his focus immediately. Their poses felt interrupted rather than arranged. A figure caught mid turn. Another reaching toward something no longer there. Frost glazed every surface, blurring edges while preserving expression. Aerik did not slow, though his gaze lingered longer than intended. Standing still invited the cold too easily. Fingers flexed once beneath the fabric before stilling again.

Music carried across the courtyard and gave the night a shape. Lanternlight shifted across packed snow and armor, catching on movement and shadow. The dance circle had begun to fill, bodies moving in measured steps, cautious at first. Watching from the edge felt easier than committing to motion. Breath left him in a faint cloud that he chose not to acknowledge.

A thought surfaced, uninvited but persistent.

Lina Ovmar would have received the delivery by now. The companion would be with her, unsettled in the cold, seeking warmth it was never meant to lack. The choice had been deliberate. Not practical. He had known the creature would struggle here. That knowledge had not stopped him. Some things endured environments that resisted them simply because they had no alternative. He understood that instinct too well. Lina would understand why he had sent it, even if she said nothing in return.

The outer ring of the courtyard offered brief relief. Shielded fire pits cast a muted warmth that brushed against him as he passed, close enough to ease the tightness at his joints before slipping away again. Lingering would have drawn attention. Tonight did not feel like a night for that.

The ice maze loomed nearby, its walls catching the light in a way that made distance unreliable. Another time, perhaps. The cold demanded restraint already.

A glance upward found the balconies without effort. One figure stood apart from the others, familiar even at a distance. The sight steadied something internal, though it did nothing to ease the physical discomfort. Endurance had never required comfort. It required presence.

Aerik adjusted his stance, settled his breathing, and let the celebration continue around him. Arrival had been inevitable. What came next would be decided step by step.

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren did not answer him immediately.

She felt the shift in him before she heard it—the way his grip steadied, the way the smoke no longer pressed but moved with them, as though the space itself had decided to listen. His uncertainty did not unsettle her. If anything, it clarified the moment. Doubt, spoken aloud, was not weakness. It was the sound of something unfinished beginning to take shape.

She let his thumb trace along hers without comment, accepting the contact as naturally as the rhythm guiding their steps. When she spoke, it was quietly, deliberately, her voice close enough that it did not need to rise over the music.

"Most soldiers never ask that question," she said. "They convince themselves service is purpose, because it is easier than admitting they were made for something that cannot be pointed or commanded."

Her gaze followed his briefly as he looked upward, toward the ice-laden branches and refracted light, then returned to him—steady, searching, unafraid of what she might find there.

"You were shaped to endure," she continued. "That much is undeniable. But endurance is not an ending. It is a threshold."

The shadows at her shoulders shifted again, not withdrawing, not advancing—simply present. Seren stepped just close enough that the space between them felt intentional rather than accidental, her posture relaxed, assured.

"You say you are a soldier," she went on, "but soldiers are meant to be spent. They are given direction so they never have to ask why they burn." A pause—measured, thoughtful. "You are already asking."

Her hand tightened slightly in his, grounding rather than restraining.

"Being bigger does not mean becoming louder or crueler, Varin. It means learning when not to be pointed. When to decide where your fire belongs—and when it does not." She allowed the faintest hint of a smile, not indulgent, not amused—knowing.

"If service were truly your purpose, this question would never have found you." The music swelled again, the smoke curling higher before thinning, and Seren held his gaze without urgency or expectation. "You are not finished becoming," she said calmly. "And you do not need to be, not yet."

She did not promise him answers. She did not offer salvation. She remained there with him in the moment—certain, composed, and entirely unafraid of the shape he was beginning to grow into.

Varin Mortifer