Hayato

[Malok]

Darth Metus had made his choice.

Before him laid a junction. Two paths to tread on the walk of life. One was that of a Tyrant: of a Vicelord who ruled with a fist of iron and a heart of Winter. The other...was the path of a King. Just. Strong. Loved. Power still would be in his hand, yet the people would serve not out of fear...but out of loyalty. Out of joy. Out of respect. It had taken the Sith Lord months to get to this point in his mind. On one hand, he could embrace was expected of one who carried the mantle Darth. On the other...he could strive to seize what it was that he truly wanted. Since his youth...since before his demise...all Darth Metus wanted was to be praised.

Not feared.

Loved.

And he spent his better years in pursuit of this ambition: to carve out a throne so that he might be loved by his people. He attempted thus on Mandalore. He attempted thus on Echoy'la. Yet the children of Manda'yaim would not bow, no matter how just or good his intentions were. No matter hard he worked...no matter what he sacrificed, it was never enough for them to embrace him. It was never ever for them to Love him. And so he turned his back one last time and ventured into the Southern Systems. There he found a need...a need of millions to feel safety, to feel sure. He found a fear of the nations that surrounded them on all sides. And he inspired them to act.

And so they loved him.

And so Darth Metus took the path of a King.

Yet this would not be without consequences. The Sith knew that it was only a matter of time before allegiance or submission was demanded by that power growing in Caldera. He knew that the Sith Empire would demand service in eclipsing the Light. He knew they would demand that the Haven he made for wayward Sith would cease to exist; that those of the fallen Dominion would be put to the sword or converted. Darth Metus knew what laid on the horizon...but with his choice made, submission was not an option. No, he would have to be strong enough to be worthy of the Love he now earned. He would to be strong enough to weather the storm of Imperial wrath.

And thus...he came before the mouth of Hell itself.

The journey was one without note - a mundane trip to Coruscant utilizing the most basic of covers. His identity was shrouded. His methods simple. And it was no enormous task to come before the remnant of Akala's wrath this day. With hood now lowered, he set his sulphuric gaze upon the Rift...but he did not enter. Instead, a crystal was produced from within the folds of his cloak: a flawless, fist-sized gem of white. Ancient words formed and fell from his lips. Power coursed through his veins and empowered the gem within his grasp, elevating it to more than just a product of pressure over ages. Now it would be a beacon to the Lost.

Now, it would be their Prison.

It was raised to the mouth of the Rift...and so began the Sith Lord's ritual.

[member="Hayato"]

 

[Atlas Kane]

The Jedi sat in silence as he pondered. He relaxed, legs crossed, back straight, hands folded one into the other, thumbs touching, held above his feet, arms resting on each leg respectively. His eyes were closed, shutting down his sense of sight, which only made all his other senses stronger as he allowed each one to flood him with information about his surroundings. The wind blew softly against him, carrying no particular scent, though muting that of sweat and old clothes. He felt each breeze create cold sensations against his skin, as the chill carried by the wind was amplified by the thousands of sweat drops. His breathing was slowing now, reducing its fast staccato to a relaxed legato rhythm. The sound of calm ocean waves filled his ears, quietly and softly did they meet the cliffside below. He extended his senses through the Force as well, allowing it to fill his being and deepen its connection to his surroundings even more. The feeling of peace all around him was even stronger in the Force. It poured through him, permeating his body with relaxing sensations that aided in the recovery of his muscles from their prior stress.

Yet it felt off. Everything felt off. The moment he had entered this realm alongside the Sith Lord who killed him it had felt off. Unreal, ephemeral, artificial. Whenever he meditated his being was left empty, unfulfilled. Where there had been true peace before, while he was still alive, there was only a faint echo now, barely above the deafening storm of the Force that seemed to pervade throughout everything within this realm. The ground he walked on felt unstable as if it were to break apart at any moment. The air he breathed seemed thin, barely able to sustain his lung's requirements. Every object he touched felt both hard and soft at the same time as if he could reach through it, yet his hand stopped itself before it reached inside. Everything his eyes laid their sight on felt like an illusion, as if it were there, yet not. Nothing felt like it had the same properties that he felt when he was still alive. It made his spirit uneasy, unable to rest.

The crushing loneliness didn't aid in keeping his peaceful mind either. The last person he had spoken to was the same man he watched butcher thousands of people over a decade of time. A Sith Lord, a devout follower of the Dark Side. Even that source of conversation as now gone, however, lost in the depths of the infinite Chaos burning deeper into this illusory dream.

He let out a long, resigned sigh, his eyes opened and he saw the endless ocean before him, disappearing into a white mist on the far horizon. Nothing but weightless illusions still. Another sigh. None of his meditation attempts had succeeded over the past two years. The closest he came to that state were his daily training routines, during which the sheer monotony of his actions and their habitual nature brought him to a state that allowed his mind to become nearly empty of thoughts, allowing time to pass by at a frighteningly quick pace. Quite frankly he was bored. Bored of being alone, bored of being stuck in this endless loop of mundane illusion, bored of being unable to act, bored of it all; And slowly that boredom had given way to annoyance, annoyance had turned to intense exasperation over his circumstances, which in turn led to a deeply-rooted anger that was only kept in check by his repeated attempts at freeing his mind and being from these dark emotions, yet, every time he did so they grew as much as he had suppressed them. It was an endless cyclical back and forth that left him feeling unbalanced and restless.

Creeeeaaaaak.

The sound of an opening door creaking behind him broke him from his thought. Its sound stood in stark contrast to the waves below. It had weight, it had depth, texture, tone, it felt real. He stood up, turning towards the door as he did. He took a step forward as the door opened to its widest point. There was a bright glow on the other side, distant sounds of civilisation. What weird sensation was this? A most elaborate illusion to further spite him, conjured by this most forsaken realm?

He took another step towards it and just as he did he was pulled inside as if a million hands were tearing at him, pulling his very soul into the door's frame. He attempted to turn away, trying desperately to break free as terror struck, but he inched closer and closer to the door, unable to free himself from the grasp. He struggled for a little while, but it was futile, for soon enough he was at the door, pulled into the whiteness before him. It was a feeling most weird, he experienced following the moment his body touched the door. As if he had broken through some barrier that had shattered the illusions all around him. He felt the weight of himself again for a moment, felt real sensations, he felt ... Isley?

But as soon as it appeared, it vanished. The Jedi found himself captured, unable to move. Crystalline walls all around him and the wailing of many others. He could barely hear anything over their deafening cries, barely orient himself. But he did know for certain, this was not an illusion anymore. Where am I? What is this place? Isley?

[member="Darth Metus"]