Placeholder 04
Character
The Jedi ploy had failed.
He'd grown far too sure of his abilities. After the systematic destruction of the One Sith, Mephirium had thought himself to be untouchable. Through his willpower alone, the stage for the destruction of his rivals had been set. The Dark Lord's death had signaled the end of the One Sith and all their followers held dear, and the victory had gone to the Galactic Alliance.
Unknowing pawns, the lot of them. He had helped to bring them to their zenith, and soon, he expected, they would grow complacent. With his rivals dead and his enemies preoccupied with statebuilding, there was nothing to stand in his way.
To claim the seat for himself atop a crumbling empire would have been foolhardy. The One Sith had been a corrupt, rotting creature. The values its leaders instilled in the people were simply wrong, and one could not correct incorrect ethics and beliefs by sitting in a vacant throne.
No, their complete and total destruction had been necessary. Some of their leaders remained, but they were utterly irrelevant in the currents of the great ocean. Of his rivals that yet remained, Mephirium saw no equals: only cowards and old fools. That did not, however, mean Mephirium could discount them. He had attempted to do away with them using the remnants of the Jedi Order, whilst rotting the order from within at the same time. The latter had succeeded, the former failed.
Even still, the string of successes could not be discounted. For all that Mephirium claimed to be, for all his followers said of him, he was no fool. The iron was hot, and he would strike before an upstart tried to do the same.
The Chirikyât moved at a sluggish pace up the temple steps. It was an old, decrepit place. The skies were dark and full of angry gray cloud; the air sharp with the charge of a coming storm. The temple itself was a great ziggurat of obsidian and basalt, with two great statues of forgotten lords at its arched entrance. The steps were cracked and ruined, but held Mephirium's weight all the same.
A thin smile broke his pale visage as he reached the steps zenith. With a quiet sigh, he drew back his cowl, a face of patrician features with bright blue eyes, and short black hair. The smile grew slightly as his cybernetic hand fell toward the cylinder at his belt.
"Hello old ones. Can you hear me as I hear you?"
[member="Alecandria"], [member="Darth Praetorias"]
He'd grown far too sure of his abilities. After the systematic destruction of the One Sith, Mephirium had thought himself to be untouchable. Through his willpower alone, the stage for the destruction of his rivals had been set. The Dark Lord's death had signaled the end of the One Sith and all their followers held dear, and the victory had gone to the Galactic Alliance.
Unknowing pawns, the lot of them. He had helped to bring them to their zenith, and soon, he expected, they would grow complacent. With his rivals dead and his enemies preoccupied with statebuilding, there was nothing to stand in his way.
To claim the seat for himself atop a crumbling empire would have been foolhardy. The One Sith had been a corrupt, rotting creature. The values its leaders instilled in the people were simply wrong, and one could not correct incorrect ethics and beliefs by sitting in a vacant throne.
No, their complete and total destruction had been necessary. Some of their leaders remained, but they were utterly irrelevant in the currents of the great ocean. Of his rivals that yet remained, Mephirium saw no equals: only cowards and old fools. That did not, however, mean Mephirium could discount them. He had attempted to do away with them using the remnants of the Jedi Order, whilst rotting the order from within at the same time. The latter had succeeded, the former failed.
Even still, the string of successes could not be discounted. For all that Mephirium claimed to be, for all his followers said of him, he was no fool. The iron was hot, and he would strike before an upstart tried to do the same.
The Chirikyât moved at a sluggish pace up the temple steps. It was an old, decrepit place. The skies were dark and full of angry gray cloud; the air sharp with the charge of a coming storm. The temple itself was a great ziggurat of obsidian and basalt, with two great statues of forgotten lords at its arched entrance. The steps were cracked and ruined, but held Mephirium's weight all the same.
A thin smile broke his pale visage as he reached the steps zenith. With a quiet sigh, he drew back his cowl, a face of patrician features with bright blue eyes, and short black hair. The smile grew slightly as his cybernetic hand fell toward the cylinder at his belt.
"Hello old ones. Can you hear me as I hear you?"
[member="Alecandria"], [member="Darth Praetorias"]